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Nobledark Imperium Primarchs

2020-11-26T14:29:05Z

2001:8003:D01A:2500:78E3:F6BA:DADE:20D4: /* Fulgrim */ added collapsible bar

'''This page is part of the Nobledark Imperium, a fan re-working of the Warhammer 40,000 Universe. See the [[Nobledark Imperium|Nobledark Imperium Introduction]] and [[Nobledark Imperium|Main Page]] for more information on the alternate universe'''

To Do:
* Finish Fulgrim and Angron
* Write up Dorn

[[Image:Astartes_Evolution_V2.jpg|thumb|History of super soldier augmentations in the Imperium]]

In his conquests of Old Earth and Sol, the Warlord created the title of Primarch and awarded it to twenty of his greatest generals, that they might become leaders of leaders. This was partly to maintain an ordered hierarchy but also to promote autonomy within his forces. The Warlord's long-term dream at the time was creating a system of governance so efficient that he would become obsolete. His short-term dream at the time was to free up enough time to spend all evening in the pub. Of the twenty awarded that rank, only eighteen are — by name and deed — remembered by history under that most magnific of titles.

Although all of the primarchs commanded a legion of super soldiers, not all of them were Astartes. Some primarchs were earlier types of super soldier, whereas others were incompatible with the proceedure. Some were too old to receive any kind of full-scale augmentation — though they were given rejuvenants, cybernetics and limited gene-forging. The Imperium experimented with many types of super soldiers before eventually developing the Mark III MP (Mass Production) Pattern. Each of these models can count at least one Primarch among their ranks.

Human(ish)
* Lorgar
* Roboute Guilliman
* Corvus Corax
* Magnus (Especially bizarre genetics made him incompatible with any augmentations save the most basic juvenants)
* Horus (Abhuman, member of the Void Born migrant fleet born on Luna)
* Ferrus Manus (Heavily augmented, but a Mechanicum Skitarii, not an Astartes or Thunder Warrior)
Early Thunder Warrior
* Angron
Refined (Late Stage) Thunder Warrior
* Perturabo
* Mortarion
Canis Helix
* Leman Russ
Mark I Astartes
* Rogal Dorn
* Jaghatai Khan (Maybe Mark II. Dorn was mentioned to be one of the last of the Mark Is and still had problems)
Mark II Astartes
* Fulgrim
Mark III MP Astartes
* Conrad Kurze
Mark III S Astartes
* Sanguinius
* Lion El'Jonson
* Vulkan

== Horus ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">''''' The King of Empty Space: '''''

[[Image:1484667029816.jpg|thumb|Primarch Horus Lupercal, King of Empty Space.]]

''"Somehow I thought he'd be... well... gold-ier"''<br>
— Horus Lupercal, speaking of his first impressions of the Warlord

The exact birth date of Horus is not easy to pin down, as the calendar used by the Void Born of Sol was one used by no one else, and didn’t use the Earth Year as the basic measure of time. The particular calendar used by Tribe Lupercal fell out of use, in any case, within a few generation of the death of Abaddon the Last and the disbanding of the Void Born as a unified nation.

What is known is that, by the final days of the Earth Unification Wars, Horus Lupercal was a man of renown and considerable accomplishment. His age was always difficult to judge, as up until his twilight years he remained spry, lively, and remarkable well preserved. When the Warlord first made contact with him he was described as being in his late prime to very early middle years in age. In appearance, he was much like all Void Born; freakishly tall and thin, pale, and in possession of large eyes and pianist hands. His face was much accustomed to smiling and his mouth contained three gold teeth; generally he evoked an image of a second-hand starship salesman in the people that met him.

The Void Born were not, in those ancient days, a unified people — though they were more cooperative amongst their own kind than baseline humanity ever was. They attributed this to the constant exposure to the bottomless depths of the inky blackness; space is vast and good friends are few. Yes, they would swindle, cheat, and engage in cutthroat business practices, but never to the point of death. Of all the myriad branches of humanity, in those days theirs was the only one willing to ply the starry sea. How Horus Lupercal, son of Maherpa, of the Lunar Lagrange Point rose from a humble bulk haulage transporter to representative of the Void Born as a unified people is the stuff of legends amongst the Merchant Navy and early Rogue Trader dynasties, and like most legends is almost certainly mostly bullshit.

Whatever the case, it was not long before the final defeat of Ursh that Horus found himself in a support harness on the surface of Old Earth, unsteadily approaching the Warlord’s tent a few miles behind the front lines. Exactly what they discussed that day is not in any recorded history, and the event itself was witnessed by only a precious few — Sigillite Malcador and Lord Guilliman among them. But beer was drunk and hands were shook, and Horus returned to his people and the blessed lightness of empty space.

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The nation of Ursh was brought to an end the next day, for all that their underground resistance would persist for nigh on twenty years after.

The Warlord — now Steward — appointed his twenty greatest the rank of Primarch. Among their exalted ranks was Horus, who soon after was crowned King of Empty Space by the unanimous vote of the great matriarchs and patriarchs of his people.

Some time after the King’s death, archived audio records revealed that the Olympus Mons Priesthood of Mars had also offered him vassalage — at not unreasonable terms — some days after the deal with the Warlord was made;

“So you're saying you'd rather be vassal to the Terrawatt apostate's flesh-smith than master of our every ship for perpetuity? You scorn the shipwrights of your forefathers! You scorn the smiths of time immemorial! What nerve you have, Lord-Admiral, what—”

“Nerve, is it? Certainly, it is nerve, magos. He promised me a partnership, as fruitful and even as the bargain you propose. He'd have me be his indispensable confederate until the end of my days, and as lord of my people. I made sure he stood as I knelt to the throne, and swore no oath he had not. I set the terms of my service, and I chose my mandate.”

“The gilt conqueror has amassed the treasures of man's eldest ruin, and he dotes mightily upon his subjects. More than that, he is unabashedly greedy.”

“Oh yes, his greed for self-possessed statesmen and commanders is vast, and his appetite for men wiser than he insatiable. I am the admiral of my ships, and of his ships, and all ships he might gain henceforth, and command his navy just as my own. He is steward of my people, and he is bound to them, each and every. Not just for as long as I hold them as one but instead in perpetuity, so long as his empire stands.”

And so was undone — with no small bitterness — an older arrangement between the Void Born and the Mechanicum, each feeling betrayed by the other. It was perhaps not such a heavy or saddening burden on the Primarch’s heart as it might have been, as he had never dealt with the Olympus Mons Brotherhood and so felt no real loyalty to them. In the days of his youth and in his father’s service, they had dealt with lesser — and less arrogant — brotherhoods. The Olympus Mons Brotherhood had subjugated them all, and thus felt they were entitled to take on their obligations and owed their respective loyalties. But Horus had shaken no hands with them.

It should be noted that, despite the public image of the unshakable trust and confidence the Steward had in his primarchs, Horus did worry him somewhat — and worried the other Primarchs rather more. Horus dreamed of an Imperium with almost no centralized authority and an almost non-existent hierarchy; each world independent and sovereign, united in mutual friendship but beholden to no one but themselves, and with no authority past their own bounds.

In Horus’ vision humanity would be, in some distant age, diversified into cultivated and pure abhumanism; a type of tool for every job and a type of human for every world, all united in a shared common humanity. Humanity was in its infancy compared to the Eldar, true, but unlike the Eldar we would not forget our roots. To him, the Imperium was not a final product, but rather a mere stepping-stone towards some strange utopia of a “Star Union”.

These visions did not sit well with the Steward at all. Nevertheless, though Horus was willing to privately challenge the Steward's vision for humanity, he never crossed the line and tried to aggressively implement anything to that effect. As the Emperor could wait and play the long game, so too could Horus. He saw his vision as inevitable; maybe it would start to take shape in some near century or some unimaginably distant age, but he could wait.

The great ships of the Migrant Fleets now stood with the Steward, whose eyes were fixed upon the warring states of the Far-Orbit colonies on the moons of Neptune and Uranus, the Jovian and Saturnine nations, the settlements of the asteroids belt and the Kuiper belt, and the ultimately to the distant stars. Suddenly, those stars seemed not so distant.

It would be Horus’ people who would take them there. His formidable ships would be at the forefront of the frontier, at the bleeding edge where the Imperium met wilderness space. At the place where profit, fame and fortune could be made and where legends were forged. In every way possible, his people were going to make a killing off of this deal.

The Void Born, though master sailors of the starry seas, made for poor soldiers. Upon their ships were placed bondsmen of the Imperial Army and the fearsome and awe-inspiring Astartes pattern Space Marines. In essence, Horus now had his own Legion on top of being a necessary participant in the operations of all the other Legions, as he was the one with the ships. There was not a war he didn’t have a hand in, not a victory his people not accredited with having done their part.

But of these victories, he would claim, none were a grand as those that came to the Imperium willingly — as he had, not so long ago. Deals were ripe for the making, trade could flow, riches could be shared and increased, and all the petty little worlds had to do was reach out a hand. Of all the Primarchs only Lorgar managed to get more worlds to join the Imperium bloodlessly.

Time wore on and the borders were pushed back. The Void Born soon found themselves with more — more ships made, more wars victorious, more trade flowing, more deals made, more riches pouring into their coffers, more fame and fortune, more stories and glories — than even Horus could have dreamed of, all those years ago in that far away tent on some forgotten battlefield. It was a golden age after the ten thousand years of the Long Night. It was in this golden age that Abaddon, nephew of Horus, was born.

Horus had no children (that he knew about) and so took the young Void Born as his heir and protégé, and tried to instill in the child the skills that had led him down the road to kingship and riches. But to Horus’ mixed shame and pride, Abaddon turned into more of an admiral than a salesman. That was not to say that he didn’t learn much from Horus — quite the opposite — as Abaddon was no poor diplomat and could play the part of the blunt-but-lovable old soldier to his advantage, and manipulate an Administratum requisitions committees as well as any royal court. It was just as well, as there weren’t enough Void Born to fill the Navy by that time — and hadn’t been for decades, if truth be known. The Imperium was growing faster and faster still, producing ships faster than his people could fill them, making it a necessity for baseline humans to fill the berths of the Imperium's voidships. Horus was Void Born to the marrow and had grown up in another time. A time that was all but gone now. Abaddon would be the sort to inherit Empty Space.

As the forces of the Void Wolves — as his forces had collectively become known by that point — were at the edge of Imperial Space, it was they that were first alerted to the arrival of The Beast.

The Beast’s forces, raised across a thousand star systems and launched simultaneously with disturbingly un-orky precision, swatted aside hundreds of ships in a matter of hours across a front twenty thousand lightyears long. After that, his people would need no incitement to vengeance — no rhetoric of Warlords or Stewards or hypothetical Emperors. Blood had been spilled in Empty Space, and for the Void Born — as has been since the days of the first space pirates — only one thing could wash away a debt of blood: more blood.

It says something of the presumptiveness of Chaos that they tried to deal with the Pale Primarch, at that point still believing that they had remained hidden. They believed Horus and his people to be degenerate mutants; too slow witted to realize that the Orks were not the orchestrators of this war.

They promised him dominion of the stars, the birth of his Stellar Union. They knew that he knew that the Steward would never allow it to be in his lifetime, but with their help all could be as it ought to be. He would be exalted from now to the day the last star went out. All he had to do was simply wait the war out.

Horus would have none of it;

"Your offer sounds interesting. But you forget one thing: I am a captain of the migrant fleet and a businessman. In this place, I am the one who makes the deals. Now get off my ship."

It would be disingenuous to say that Horus had not considered sitting out the War of the Beast; he was a merchant prince at heart, and knew first-hand the advantages of considering alternatives and making cost-benefit analyses. However, he realized that not coming to the aid of the Imperium, regardless of his own political opinions, would kill any hope of a long-term "Star Union" — a fact only reinforced by the attempted temptation of the Chaos Gods. Even if humanity survived the War of the Beast, brother would blame brother for a perceived lack of help and poison any attempt at a long term "Star Union". And, perhaps most importantly, Horus had sworn an oath to the Steward centuries past. To Horus Lupercal, a man without his word was no man at all.

The people of the Void Born were not as numerous as the baseline humans and for a time it looked as though, by throwing their lot in with the Imperium, Horus had doomed them to extinction. But Horus and the wise admirals under his command could be all too sure of one thing: Chaos would have come for them in time, Imperium or no. The War needed to be over quickly. It needed to be over before his people left the stars forever.

The King of Empty Space went to the Steward and proposed a plan. A desperate and needed plan. By misdirection and feigned weakness, the forces of the Imperium would funnel the hordes of the Beast to Old Earth. Orkish psychology would demand that The Beast himself be at the head of the incursion and there — deep in the heart of Imperial territory — they would close the trap and decapitate the WAAAGH!!! of The Beast. Without their leader the orks would fall apart and fight each other, and without their meat shields the Chaos Eldar would flee.

Horus was not on the surface of Old Earth to witness the death of the Angel-Primarch. He knew that none of the other Primarchs knew of his plan to force the end of the war. He knew that they would blame him; he could tell them that the war needed to be ended, a war of attrition against Orks was a slow walk into the grave and as relentless as a gravity well. He could have told them that this had been the only hope of victory. HE knew it all to be true. Maybe they would agree, maybe they would not. Maybe it didn’t matter in the face of victory. But it was a bitter victory, given the cost and the ruin the Imperium had suffered. The Golden Age was over, and now it seemed that Long Night had never really left.

In the subsequent years — and accompanying reconstruction and rejuvenation — of the Imperium, the Merchant Navy was instrumental in the rebuilding efforts, to the point of being equal to the forces of the Imperial Army in importance. Broken and scared worlds looked to the heavens and the Pale Men of the stars with pleading and love. Horus was old, now, and a little broken inside. But maybe helping the battered and bruised people of the Imperium, seeing their gratitude and their heartfelt smiles, healed something in Horus' heart, in some small way.

Many expected that Horus would launch a coup against the Steward around this time; the Imperium was on its knees, its allies were weary, and many of the generals and the old Mechanicum brotherhoods would have followed him without question. For all his faults — for all his trials and failures — Horus was still hellishly charismatic and could sell anyone anything, whether it be a used cargo hauler or a new dream.

The Imperium waited, and it seemed like all powers that be in the Imperium — the Primarchs and generals, the lords and their assassins, the movers and shakers and the influence-peddlers — all stood poised to spring in one direction or another at his word. That word never came. Maybe he had given up on his dream of a galactic union, or perhaps he saw it as something that could only be born from the Imperium. We will never know. But for three hundred years the Imperium waited for a rebellion that would never come. A man without his word is no man at all.

Void Born are fragile creatures by nature and their bodies can’t deal with alchemy in the blood well, making it is easy for them to overdose on drugs and medicines. The rejuvenant drugs that kept him in some manner of youth had to be of a lower dosage, and now even that was starting to fail altogether. His body was too frail for the longevity treatments designed for baseline humans. Primarch Horus Lupercal, King of Empty Space, would die soon.

An entirely plausible story — held as true by the Sons of Horus and official Imperial history — put forward this unusual reaction to rejuveants as an explanation of the Lord-Admiral's recorded vigor and mental acuity, even unto the last years of his life, as well as his ceremonious abdication to Prince Abaddon several years before his death. That the Lord-Admiral spent those years assembling an entourage of notable captains, as he flitted between the systems of the Imperium, has been relegated to obscure tomes of history. Around this time, Horus threw his considerable clout into numerous ambitious projects, and was often present in the orbits of Old Earth, Mars, and Jupiter, as well as the systems of Chthonia and Prospero. Of all his works in these last decades, he is recorded to have shown greatest interest in the creation of an Imperial capital upon the Chthonian ring, the work of the Martian explorator fleets, and the collaborations of Fulgrim and Ferrus Mannus. These projects are acknowledged to have laid the groundwork for much of the Imperial Navy's own capacity for independent logistics and development. The order that would become the Sons of Horus had its roots in this period, intended by Horus to see his vision of a humanity truly suited to interstellar civilization well into the future. Horus died nineteen years after his abdication and was entombed on his personal warship. Age took him quickly in the end, but he went into the Long Sleep knowing that he had served his people and the Imperium well, and that a good man would take up his burdens.

His tomb has never been opened, but upon that basalt slab still stands the Corona Nox. Waiting for a worthy brow to sit upon.

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== Leman Russ ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Great Wolf''''' - or ''The Lapdog:''

The story of Leman Russ starts in the land of Skand, among the Nordyc peoples. He was born to a woman called Ragna, who was considered to be wise, if not especially beautiful, by the clans and so her affections were oft courted. Russ’ father was Thengir, tribal king of the Kalararit people. That his mother and father were not married was seen as not particularly odd by the peoples of Skand. Especially when his father was Thengir.

Russ’ education was about as formal as it was ever going to get among a tribe of fishermen, semi-raiders and occasional traders. Although most Kalararit men did not become warriors as a full time profession, all were expected to be able to fight in times of need. It was in this pursuit that Russ found his calling, for the ways of war came easy to him. He grew tall and broad at the shoulders, with powerful musculature and boundless stamina. He became well-versed in the care and maintenance of his tribe's weapons, from autoguns to the humble war axe. He was peerless in the execution of ambush warfare on land and boarding actions upon the cold seas. Sadly, the ways of the scholar did not come as readily to his mind. Although by no means unintelligent, Russ did not — especially in his youth — have the temperament for understanding the needs of large-scale or long-term expeditions.

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In time, Russ grew to be the strong right hand of King Thengir — who had lost his own literal right hand some years previously, in a bitter and bloody dispute with the former King Clovis Fouché of Franj. This hatred of the Franj would never leave him, for Russ could be very stubborn.

The men and women of the Kalararit respected Russ — who could be quite charming, in a blunt sort of way. Russ did take his first wife by own choice, rather than at his father’s insistence. Linnea was probably the one part of softness in Russ’ life, and possibly the only thing in later years that held his bloodlust in check. Many of the Kalararit suspected that she possessed more wisdom than he. She certainly possessed great patience.

It was when Russ was still a young man that a foreigner in dusty grey robes came to his father’s thatched hall with offerings — of strong wine, silks, and laser rifles — in chests with lightning bolt heraldry upon them. His companions were strange, for their armour was of a sort not seen in the lands of Skand or its neighbours; they were silver and matte grey, segmented with face covering helmets. The foreigner walked with the aid of a stick with a metal eagle perched atop it, and was accompanied by a giant dressed in the manner of a common man. This was the first time that Russ saw the man who would soon be know to Old Earth as The Warlord.

Some time into the deliberations between the robed man and the king, another giant — this one dressed in the manner of a wandering shaman — strode into the hall, and was called over by the first giant to sit beside him. At the time Russ thought little of it, and just assumed it not unreasonable that a giant would have giant kin. This was the first he saw of Magnus the Red — and many times down the centuries he wished it had been the last.

Over the next few months, other tribal chieftains and kings found themselves drawn to the hall of Thengir the Cripple. Much was discussed, marriages were arranged, oaths sworn, and gifts exchanged. It was disconcerting for Russ; to the young warrior's mind, the world was changed by strong men doing great deeds — with blood and iron and sweat. But here he watched as old men and scribes carved up the world, and told the future how it was going to be.

This — he thought as he looked at the maps and the increasingly long lists being drawn — this was true power. One great warrior could do great deeds, but this was something rather more lasting.

There were some — tribes, clans, and petty little kingdoms — that would not entertain the notions of peace. They saw the plans of Malcador and The Warlord for what they were; the soft subjugation, capitulation, compromise, and surrender of the signatories. They had pride, they had their principles — for it was the strong who dominated the weak — and they would not roll over and submit. They left the great hall of the Kalararit, and never again would they be welcomed there.

Of the tribes that were incapable of seeing reason long enough to join this new alliance, all were left behind to die in their old world of savagery — by one means or another. Most simply withered and died, as the Nordyc peoples formed a true nation and they could no longer attract new blood — for all their young had left to find new work and new lives, in the rebuilt cities of Gamsta and Akershus and the reclaimed and prosperous farmlands that surrounded them.

Few were foolish enough to outright attack the fledgling Imperium. Few but still some. These tribal savages were brought to ruin by the Nordyc men who insisted — nay demanded — that it be they who dealt with this problem, for all that they were they had once been friends and brothers all. As with the Old Ways, the warriors and kings of the barbarian tribes were slain; their women and children assimilated into the more prosperous tribes to be cared for, and their lands given to young Skandish men and women looking to found tribes of their own. It would be the last time this old law of conquest would ever be practiced by the people of Skand. Russ was present at the closing of that era, smoking and pungent with the fresh blood of the slain though it was. It was not a thing in which he found any joy, but he knew it had to be done.

It was from some unremembered tribe — slain by his hand, no less — that he obtained his second wife. Febronia had been a court slave kept by a petty chief too lazy to learn basic literacy, and thus she was fluent in an improbably large number of languages — both written and spoken — and passable in many others. Not of the Nordyc peoples herself, but a former slave bought from exotic climes, Febronia's marriage was nevertheless at the insistence of Russ' aging father — Russ, after all, was a wealthy warrior of the nobility and it was his duty to care for the slain.

Linnea was, to her credit, understanding of the situation. It was the way of things for her people in that era, even though that era was drawing to a close. In time she and Febronia became good friends. It was often joked by Russ' companions that he preferred the battlefield to the hearth of home, as he felt less outnumbered. Between them, Russ and his wives had many children — but by some fluke of genetics and chance they had only birthed daughters.

It was at about this time that the Thunder Warrior program was being phased out. The two alternate branches of Super Soldier production that the Imperium was perusing were the Canis Helix project and the Astartes project.

The first test subjects of both yielded positive results, but ultimately Russ volunteered for the former as it would complement and enhance his own strengths. By pure chance, he was spared the crippling mutations and biological failures that plagued those that took this choice in the years that followed. Indeed, he was one of only a handful of successes, and the only other to have survived both the Canis Helix tests and the passage of time was Bjorn "Fellhanded" of Kraken Bay.

Although the "Dog Soldiers" — as the Canis Helix super soldiers came to be derogatorily known as — fought magnificently and ferociously, the failure rate and the nature of the failures was too much for the Warlord to accept. The whole project was scrapped, its resources given over to the more reliable Super Soldier branches.

As time and war ground onward, the Nordyc regiments earned both fame and infamy, for they were brutally effective but, The Warlord felt, with too much emphasis placed upon brutal. Much like the bloody antics of Curze and the calculated atrocities of Mortarion, this was permitted under sufferance. Victory was always afforded some leeway, and the wars were only ever a means to an end — and Russ's carnage was expediting that end.

The Skandish raised regiments — the newly minted Wolves of the North — in the final days of the wars with the Ursh-Pacific union, and were found to be more suited to harrying moving forces and preventing the enemy from receiving reinforcements, allowing a smoother and less costly victory for the other Legions. To their immense regret, however, the Wolves were never present in the major battles.

As Old Earth united and The Steward looked to the stars, Russ was elevated to the exalted rank of Primarch.

To the disgust of Russ, so were Lion of House El'Jonson and Magnus the Red.

The Lion, as a knight of Franj and a member of House El'Jonson, was both an ancestral and recent enemy; Lion's brother Luther was responsible for the late king Thengir's maiming. Magnus the Red was a warp dabbling mutant who confessed to having consorted with daemons. Both had personalities that were utterly incompatible with Russ' own — and the feeling was mutual. It was rare that Legion elements under their jurisdictions would work together.

Russ was the first to recruit warriors from beyond Sol into his superhuman ranks. The people of Fenris were excellent recruitment stock — even if they were from a barbaric and primitive planet and needed extensive education to learn the discipline necessary for war. Russ himself was from a discontinued line of super soldiers; though possessing savage fighting temperaments and heightened senses, the modifications of the "Dog Soldiers" were dangerously unstable, and the Canis Helix Project proved to be too untenable even for the best minds in the Imperium. If news of the monsters born from the project had become common knowledge on Earth, the Warlord's support would have crumbled. But on a distant world as remote and seldom visited as Fenris, the project could not only be buried but begun anew at Russ' behest. After all, any monsters arising from the Project were the problem of a few distant primitives, certainly not the concern of the glorious Terra. For his part, the Emperor at first claimed no knowledge of the new Canis Helix soldiers, and even when he did learn of it he trusted Russ' claims of the failure rate as being "well within acceptable parameters", thus leaving Fenris and its canine guardians well alone.

The Space Wolves, as the legion became known, quickly made up for their questionable origins by serving with great distinction during the Great Crusade, excelling at tracking a target and assassinating them — often in close-quarters combat. Regrettably, in the wretched days of the War of the Beast, a number of the wolves were tempted down the bath of bloodshed for bloodshed's sake, and forsook the Empty Throne of Terra for the one of brass and bone, where the Lord of Skulls held court instead. Of these oathbreakers, no name was cursed more by Russ than that of Skyrar of Caledonia — whom Russ once would have called brother.

Some measure of honour would be restored, however, to the ranks broken by turncoats and anointed in blood. Russ's Wolves made great speed back towards Terra, and seeing the home he had left a lifetime ago aflame in war broke the Great Wolf's heart. The wolves threw themselves into the inferno and fought like mad beasts, with neither thought of the past nor hope for the future; this was no thirst for vengeance but instead a plea for redemption. Russ himself was there at the Last Roll of Thunder when Arik Taranis, Bearer of Lightning, fell in battle in the great plaza before the Eternity Gate, and took up the tattered old Unification banner in his place.

When the last of the fires grew cold, none would ever again question the loyalty of the Space Wolves. For all that the shattered remnant of a legion was covered in blood and soot, each man felt truly clean.

The remains of the Space Wolves retreated to Fenris, licking their wounds, and quietly rebuilt their legion as the Imperium itself rebuilt. For no matter how enlightened or holy it may become, Russ knew that the Throne would always need its tame monsters. But the Great Wolf himself was not fated to fall in glorious battle, and certainly not to fall to the temptations of the Ruinous Powers. Instead, the legends say, some two centuries later Russ — now an old warrior and the King of his world — simply walked alone out into the snow. His brothers, friends, and servants all followed his tracks into the cold woods of the frozen north, but he was never seen again. Some say the Old King is resting, and will return to face the Old Night in the days when hope withers and the stars grow dim.

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== Ferrus Manus ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The One of Ice and Iron:'''''

The unimaginatively named Ferrus Manus was born in the manner typical of the Mechanicus enclaves of Antarctica — grown in a jar from anonymous genetic samples. Deemed free of malformation and unwanted deviations in his early development, which were rare and valuable assets in an age where clumsy genetic enhancement created mutants more horrific than radiation or plague ever could, he was permitted to be born rather than recycled. Being born and raised where he was at the time he was, Ferrus had no name at birth — although the markings on his tube did superficially resemble the name Gorgon in an ancient tongue recognised by one of the oldest Magi. This was adopted as his unofficial name in his youth; doubly so after it became apparent that he would grow up to be aesthetically displeasing.

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Ferrus was given a basic and general techno-ecumenical education until the age of twelve, after which he began training for full inclusion into the Mechanicus. By fourteen he had managed to achieve the rank of Technician-acolyte — escaping the the fate of Servitorhood that awaited underachievers — but a purely priestly life was deemed an inefficient use of his talents, and he was transferred to the Skitarii for training. By his eighteenth year he was a fully and mechanically augmented soldier of the Mechanicus priesthood, and was tasked with the defence of the Nuemyana Port, one of the few places where primitive outsiders were permitted to have dealings with the Terran Mechanicus.

As he rose through the ranks of the Mechanicus military, receiving all the augmentations appropriate to his station, Ferrus began to see the world in absolute terms — the black and white notions of Weak and Strong; that it was the duty of the Weak to serve the Strong, whose duty in turn were to rule and protect. It was as if his heart was slowly being replaced with machinery as much as his body was, beginning to see all humanity not a part of the Mechanicus as Weak. Perhaps this was merely conformity, however, as many of the Elder Magi shared similar views. And... '''enforced''' them. Regardless of their attitude to more baseline humans, the Enclaves soon came under threat from Hy Braseal. Though the nation could hardly be called a superpower Hy Braseal was close enough, and proved sophisticated and organised enough to push the Mechanicus Enclaves off the tip of South America, leaving their former holdings destroyed, irradiated, or captured.

Due to their perceived incompetence in the piecemeal defence of their lands many of the Elder Magi were deposed by those below. The ambitious and the popular soon rushed in to fill the power vacuum at the top of the hierarchy, whilst the new Elders had the few remnants of the old order servitorised. At the end of the reshuffling Gorgon found himself as General-Sentinel and Protector of the Northern border, a prestigious yet demanding job that commanded the first line of defense against the Braseali peoples — and would be the first to be servitorised, were the enemy to force their way onto the Antarctic mainland.

In spite of the Mechanicum's preference for function over form, Gorgon ordered for his new cybernetic upgrade to be encased in the toughest alloy known to the Mechanicum. True, it would serve no purpose; although the material was indeed potent armour, his position as General-Sentinel precluded any situation where that would be useful. Instead, it was a surprisingly perceptive move to bolster his stature in the eyes of others; the intimidating size and power of the modifications terrorized those who sought to mutiny as much as it did Braseali spies. Thus, the Gorgon was no more — in his place there was only Ferrus Manus.

Even as he rallied his Skitarii and began to forge them into something stronger, the generals of Hy Braseal had already raised a horde of relatively well-disciplined and well-armed soldiers, and were beginning to lead them into the cold Antarctic enclaves. Salvation came in the form of the Warlord, who sought the advanced technology hoarded by the Mechanicum. The Elder Magi saw their projections of survival in a total war scenario with Braseal jump over tenfold merely by being on friendly terms with the Warlord, and all the way to an astounding 93% were they to accept his offer. Which they did without second thought. Dalmoth Kyn — the leader of most of South America — and his descendents would never forget how the Warlord had sided with the Mechanicus, forever opening a rift between their people and those of the Imperium. In time, they too would eventually join — but not before a long and bloody war consumed much of the Braseali people.

As the Mechanicus Enclaves were assimilated one by one into the Imperium, Ferrus Manus once more found himself rising up the ranks of the military. His existing rank the Mechanicus — which were a few isolated enclaves that had fought valiantly against an entire continent — was prestigious and his tactical acumen formidable. So too were his legions of cybernetic soldiers, who could comfortably overrun any techno-barbarian on the planet and even go toe-to-toe with the Warlord's own biologically augmented warriors. The one who, as the Gorgon, had looked down on all flesh as weak was now beginning to find a grudging respect for it.

Years passed and wars were moved from the surface of Terra to the stars. Ferrus' soldiers — now known as the Iron Hands — became renowned for being able to resist the harshest of environments with ease, proving as comfortable in the cold vacuum of space as they were in the sand-blasted remains of Ursh. Thus, although often (and rightly) feared by many, the Mechanicus forces were respected by all and proved to be a key factor in cementing the Terra-Mars partnership, which would be a story repeated at each world they encountered more of their cybernetic brothers on their crusade into the depths of space. Perhaps it was this — securing the mighty forges of mankind — rather than the Iron Hands' martial prowess, that earned the old Gorgon his recognition as a Primarch.

During the War of the Beast, however, the Iron Hands lost much of their prestige and reputation by primarily seeking to defend their Forge Worlds instead of the Imperium as a whole. Perhaps this was simply because their Primarch had seen how hard mankind would fall if they once again lost the machinery that held its precious Imperium together. Or perhaps (as many others claimed), their loyalties lay more with the Fabricator-General of Mars than they did the Steward or Terra. For their part, the Hands never denied the accusations levelled at them, only defending them.

Of all the Primarchs, Ferrus Manus was one of only three who lived to see the Steward become Emperor; and he was the last of them to die, meeting his end on the fields of Armageddon before the gates of Hades Hive in the year 616.M39. In truth, his health — both biological and mechanical — had been deteriorating for centuries, and although he knew that there was little operational time left for his body he did his best to ensure that neither his Legion nor his Emperor knew of the fact. He took a bloody and glorious toll with him — one worthy of respect from any and all — but his passing marked the end of an era. Although he and the Emperor had never been friends, his passing was felt by the flesh-bound of the Imperium just as much as it was by his Mechanicus brethren.

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== Fulgrim ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Futurist:'''''

The Primarch Fulgrim, foremost of the Legion of Terra's Children, was conceived in a Merikan population expansion program. His parents were both loyal Merikan officers, and upon their deaths their genetic material had been saved — and eventually combined — for one of countless batch-grown children. In truth, this program and others like it were conceived and implemented as the early Wars of Unification rocked the Eurasian continent, if only to bolster the numbers of the Merikan guard should another high-technological joust of nations commence. Fulgrim was decanted twenty years before the fall of Ursh, in the facilities of the Moton industrial concern. By either random chance or the inevitability of mass production, Fulgrim could be said to have been born with a charming and distinct beauty, characteristics which he maintained through all his life — though accompanied by a vast and neurotic ego. In those days his name was Furis Doe, and shared a surname with all the other children created as he was. In his youth, he found success among the ranks or mechanists and the overseers of Moton, and became the commander of his own sub-workshop at a young age. Between his competence and the opportunity to demonstrate the success of their program, Furis' superiors were eager to fast track him.

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Furis matured steeped in the legends told by old mechanists — some even from the Arctic Enclaves — of the star spanning Mechanicus and the gleaming stelar empire they maintained — but also surrounded by the propaganda of the Merikan war machine, its edicts of the holy human form, and its pretensions to brutal meritocracy. In the years surrounding the Imperium's first truly overt offensives and then its brutal dismantling of the Despot of Ursh and all under his banner, Merika hardened for war against the Unification.

Between the saturation of muddled anti-Ursh and anti-Imperial propaganda and his own dreams of the stars, Furis began to recede into his mind just as the mounting war effort put the apparent prodigy in command of his own experimental workshop and staff. Placed under his command were Merikan mechanists and the tech-priests cast out of the polar enclave after it sided with the Imperium. Fulgrim — a nickname earned by his increasingly dry, cynical demeanor — mostly served as a director for the workshop, but was himself a decent scientist and tinkerer.

Furis began experiments with superhuman modification in response to the fabled Imperial Thunder Warriors, among other things. While these projects had successes, even creating subsystems superior to Imperial equivalents in some respects, they were few and expensive where other avenues showed far greater promise. Fulgrim did, however, upgrade himself in numerous faculties, spending not insignificant resources on improving his physical and mental capacities. He was said to be deeply interested in the lore he could draw from the defector tech-priests, though he never went so far as to make any of his personal modifications as overt. Fulgrim would eventually express an opinion that it was partially the Mechanicus' preference for skitarii and servitors that made progress on superhuman physiological enhancement so difficult. He traveled around Merika and Kalbi during this period, particularly exploring the borderlands and the deep mazes of vaults drilled through the western mountains where techno-barbarians still flourished. Fulgrim and his workshop were notably productive though this time, either creating or dredging up dozens of horrific technological marvels, but Furis Doe was only loosely tethered to his superiors' control and was rarely in contact with Merikan command. In some histories it is guessed that the Warlord contacted him around this time, but in reality the fabled approach would happen later.

Furis and his mechanists, notably cherry-picked from Doe production runs, returned from the wastes with a vast technological bounty and only a handful fewer men and tech priests than they set off with. Several important events occurred around this time; Ursh had all but fallen and the Pan-Pacific empire was on the defensive, Kalbi was in revolt under Military Governor Dorn, and Merikan high command contemplated alliance with Hy Braseal — though the prospect was unlikely. Fulgrim famously wowed the capital as he fired some of his more militarily applicable discoveries over the marching grounds, and excited the officers in the audience with promises of strategic archeotech and superhuman advancements to rival the powers in Europe. In truth, the director was unmoored from the war effort as much as the rest of terrestrial reality; between the unnerving horrors of the wastes, the gross violations of decency and humanity he witnessed undertaken by the great Merikan industrial core, and the Dark Age technologies he had tried to meddle with, Fulgrim had driven cracks through his pretty world. Fulgrim had long nursed a love for hedonism, and as he enjoyed his fame in the capital his old neuroses as Moton's prodigy layered into his drug-clouded state. In something of a haze, Fulgrim began to lay down his own base of influence. Seeking military office, he naturally needed to advance himself militarily. Thus, attaching his tinkerers and forces to the command of one honorable Major Lucius Doe, Fulgrium was bound for the Expeditionary Forces to engage the Imperium. The air assets under his command, long maintained by the Merikan high command as defense against Urshii invasion, were to be fitted for offensive war and launched from forward air bases built up on New Atlantis. Major and Dr. Doe were respectively ordered to force the Brasealian and Afrique garrisons from the island and to ensure the readiness of the Merikan air forces and drop troops that would be stationed there.

Lucius had cut his teeth in the Panama trenches, fighting Hy Braseal in the long border wars that burned along the isthmus. He was little more than a month Furis's senior, and likewise was held up as another triumph of the Doe program. His tactical virtuosity was said to match Fulgrim's technical art, and the prodigies had been introduced to each other during the revels of some mutual superior. Major Doe is said to have rescued the mechanist from the agents of high ranking officers, who were intent on compelling Furis to grant them immortality, and would years later go on to make that same request — a request which Fulgrim strove to achieve. The two Does, Major Lucius and Special Lieutenant Fulgrim, took up their commands on New Atlantis; the former beginning his campaigns against the Braseali forces in the heavily fortified south of the landmass and the scattered Afrique enclaves occupying its eastern half, and the latter rebuilding and updating the ancient Merikan air fortress and factories on the island. Backed by Fulgrim's advanced weapons as well as the ever increasing air power Fulgrim was building in the northwest of the continent — and occasionally supplemented by Fulgrim's enhanced soldiers — Lucius made short, mean work of the Afrique settlements and drove Hy Braseal back to a single, heavily entrenched garrison on the continent's southernmost point. The Major was known for leading from the front, sword in hand. Fulgrim — once his workshop was well-established, and when the conversion of the Ursh defense interceptor wings to dive bombers and escorts was under way — was characteristically preoccupied with personal projects; he and his corps of mechanists were busy preparing cybernetic enhancements and combat-ready super soldiers, in a rush to complete their longstanding mission of providing Merika with shock troops equivalent to the Thunder Warrior — themselves already replaced by Astartes.

Fulgrim was so bold as to fly sorties of cyborg drop troops into Imperial territory, testing his Merikanized Skittari against the Imperium and its Astartes under the cover of the brushfire wars that had sprung up around the holdouts of Ursh's conquests. In these raids — nominally advance scouting missions — he found that a single Astartes was worth about two of his own prized combat cyborgs. Despite many close calls, he succeeded in taking numerous Astartes and Thunder Warriors intact — though rarely alive — and began the process of reverse engineering their implants, if not outright stealing them. Very few outside of Fulgrim's mechanists — an increasingly honed band of enhanced Doe children and long exiled Arctic tech-priests — were privy to these hoarded acquisitions, but Lucius was one of the few who Furis included in his conspiracy. Both Lucius and Fulgrim were reforged with Astartes enhancements and the mechanists' own inventions, as best they could manage, alongside many of their cabal. The result was lesser in stature and might than true Astartes, but the Doe children were a match for second generation Astartes, refined towards Furis' aims for the unit. It was at this point that Fulgrim and his group caught the attention and interest of the Warlord's forces, and the Hydra in particular. With the artificial continent secured and the Merikan air forces ready to launch their newly fitted bombers and gunships, Merikan High Command moved into the fortress and Fulgrim's band returned to the continent. The lab that remained to produce Merikan cyber-legionnaires bore no trace of the Astartes experiments, but leaked rumors of new wonders saw Fulgrim returned to the capitol and his projects well-funded as war with the Imperium mounted, while Lucius was sent to reinforce the army sent to end the rebellion of Governor Dorn. Merikan bombers lit up the Imperium from Franj to Afrique and cyborg drop troops fell from the skies to the aid of recalcitrant lords and Urshii holdouts, destroying and sabotaging everything they could.

Fulgrim himself was attempting to engineer a coup; having seen the Imperium in his advance raids and equated it with the empire of old he had dreamed of, Fulgrim wished to cut down the old leadership of his nation while it seemed within his power, and steer Merika into his bright vision. He had surpassed even Lucius as a swordsman during his adventures in the New Atlantis campaign, and now Fulgrim planned to use his charm, fame, and the lure of technological enhancement to access necessary targets and ingratiate himself in the matters of succession before the planned decapitation. Though his early plan went well, Fulgrim overestimated his own and his agents' ability to manipulate a government in the mounting chaos of war with the Imperium, and it was not long before the self-styled superhuman was at the mercy of the Merikan secret police. He was saved by two plainly dressed men that introduced themselves as Ames and Ozzy, both of whom bore the sigil of a hydra. Under the aegis of these two Hydra contacts, the Doe cadre continued Fulgrim's strategy of building support in the mass produced populations of the manufactories further back from the coast, but Fulgrim himself was made to concede direct control over the operations in the capital. Fulgrim's laboratories in the capital became the futurist's edifice to a Phoenician Merika, to the wonderment of the officer class, and Lucius built up the manufactories of Moton into an advanced fortress city on the near edge of the Kalbi territories. Fulgrim had little contact with either project; these power bases were tended by the Doe Cadre's inner circle under the direction of the Hydra and Major Lucius respectively, and while Furis visited his old home when it was under the Major's command his work took him yet further from the center of the Doe conspiracy.

Under the cover of another exploratory mission to the bunkers and cracks of the western mountain line, Fulgrim and his mechanists traveled the length of the rocky spine and the loosely governed western territories beyond. It was true they again delved the chains of fortresses, redoubts, and sunken chambers under those lands for new relics of the golden age, but only the least of these fruits ever reached Merikan High Command. The rest became assets of the conspiracy, and some even found their way across the wastes of Beringia to the Imperium. More than this, Fulgrim secured the support of the enclaves whose knowledge had driven his successes years prior, and in the druidic labs of the Geno-Hippes (an ancient title) Fulgrim and his proto-Alpha Legion contacts established forward positions from which to build Astartes forces. The work done in these installations unified Fulgrim and the Geno-Hippes' cybernetically and biologically upgraded "Doe" Mk II Astartes with the Duscht-Jemanic genesmiths' Mk III pattern.

Through Fulgrim's promises and intrigues, much of the western territory would come to favor his succession, and for his technological efforts on their behalf they held him in better regard than High Command. The collaboration with the Geno-Hippes allowed state-of-the-art super soldier forces to be built in the mountain enclaves, stretching even into the heart of Governor Dorn's beleaguered territory. Less than a year since it nearly died with its indiscreet leader, Fulgrim's conspiracy was at its zenith.

The destruction and capture of the Merikan air bases on New Atlantis saw the top admirals and generals return to the capital, in turn seeing preparations for a counterattack to keep the theater of war on the artificial continent and the fortification of the Atlantic coast. Lucius had made dramatic use of the Doe combat cyborgs Fulgrim had premiered in Europe, aiding the hapless commander tasked with the re-conquest of Dorn's dominion — entrenched as they were in west and northern Kalbi. Showy hunts by air cavalry and drop troops had done more to lionize the cyber-soldiers, as they strode about in gleaming gold and purple, than they could ever have hoped to have done to weaken Dorn’s defense. The guns of the Imperium were turned squarely to Merika in the weeks that followed; the massive naval forces of Skand, the air forces of Europia, and the full war host of the Quadruple Alliance all gathered at New Atlantis. The ancient Merikan voidships that hung in orbit over the continent were moved in a careful dance across the Americas, for the dual purpose of denying space superiority to the heirloom fleet the Imperium brought to bear and remaining ever vigilant above the Panama fortresses for movement from Hy Braseal. Fulgrim returned to the capital as plans were being drawn up to leap back to New Atlantis and charge from Europia to Uralia — with Doe cyborgs leading the way. Other plans were being conceived to quickly stamp out Governor Dorn's decades long rebellion and annihilate it to the last — using the forces of the field marshal already engaged in the north backed by masses of advanced weapons deployed from Moton. Neither plan would ever see action.

As Fulgrim made to announce promises of support from western military governors with all due fanfare, he was accompanied by a brigade of what seemed to all a new generation of cyborg soldiers — as fair as their inventor and clad in bright ceremonial armor. Mere days after he had arrived at the capital, Merika and the Imperium began fighting in and above the Atlantic, west of the artificial continent; air forces clashed above the naval blockades and the coasts, and orbital assets made firing lines hundreds of kilometers long. Orders were issued to Moton to begin operation in Kalbi, and soon Doe-designed and Doe-piloted gunships and drop troops were buzzing northwest towards the Merikan position. Impenetrable havoc erupted in the Merikan capital and the first company of one hundred Terra's Sons — led by Fulgrim the Futurist — fortified the Doe laboratories and began conducting brutal raids on enemy factions within the Merikan command structure and officer class, who were also entrenched in the capital. The citadel of the high command had been raided by teleporter insertion of un-blazoned power-armored commandos in the first hours of the fighting, and subsequent clashes over the building saw it bombed to rubble by Merikan air assets. Fulgrim officially seized dictatorial emergency powers, and with a company drawn from his long-honed circle of mechanists he corrected his rivals in the capital, making a great show of the advanced forces those same officers and ministry heads had counted on in their grand strategies. The Futurist took Merika's reins, and with the nation’s purple and white still flying high, cowed the fractious military houses in the wake of what he called an opportunistic Hy Brasealian attack, enabled by the faithlessness of his enemies and the Imperium's assault.

Prior to the decapitation of the Merikan military, the Kalbi expeditionary force had embarked on a hard offensive against Dorn, counting on support from Moton's special forces as they drove for the pacific. Lucius lead the combined forces of the second company of Terra's Sons and cybernetic Moton drop brigades, smashing the confounded expeditionary force against Dorn's built up battle lines. The Merikan ship above Kalbi was quick to react with the the bombardment of the Moton citadel, and what few volleys it managed were devastating before it was crippled by boarding forces of Merikanized skitarii and mechanists. In the capital, there was stalemate between Fulgrim and the remains of the Merikan High Command, with most of the lower officers sided with the futurist or "removed" from the equation. But the campaigns in the north were fast concluded, and Lucius advanced southeast — some of Dorn's own forces following close behind. The Merikan Orbital Brigades and Navy were old institutions staunchly opposed to Fulgrim, and supported Merikan ground forces throughout the gulf coast and around the Panama fortifications. As Merikan reserves were mobilized by the panicking High Command, the Astartes company in the Rockies struck east across the continent — right at the head of the western governors' military forces — and made rapid progress securing the Merikan heartland despite the orbital bombardment from opposing factions. The machine-stubber, rocketeer, and armored fighting carriage battalions that had been the Merikan Junta's unbeatable scourges were hardly sufficient against their own colonial forces reinforced by Astartes and Skitarii. After a week of the stalemate in the capital, the Merikan Navy and Space Brigade retreated and shortened the blockade so they could both bombard the capital and keep Imperial forces from doing the same.

Fulgrim and Terra's Sons first company continued to fight for the capital, all under heavy shelling and the highest rate of lance strikes the capital's guarding geostationary starship could muster. They were supported by most of the remaining officer corps against the remaining High Command holdouts, the latter of whom were reinforced by Merikan marines and loyalist military regiments. Fireteams of Astartes in Imperial livery moved openly in the south and west, and Imperial soldiers landed in Newfoundland and the gulf; to be met by the advanced guard of the forces that started from the Rockies or Moton. Lucius and Dorn's forces combined with the Terra's Sons third company, the latter of whom had led the midlands campaign, marched on the eastern seaboard, pacifying or simply commandeering the remaining ground forces — nearly all of whom remained unclear on the state of affairs for the duration.

The Merikan Space Brigade was forced to retreat from the battle for the capital by subsequent attacks and abandoned the Merikan Navy to regroup with Merika’s remaining voidships over the Panama defenses, which had become the last stronghold of the remnants of the old Merikan High Command. In short order, the Merikan blockade was broken by the Imperials and the Merikan Navy suffered mutiny and folded. The Imperial Navy and Air Forces subsequently accompanied the battered Merikan Navy into the harbor of the capital. The cratered slopes of the captial's anti-fallout pyramid bunker-citadels were lined with Merikan officers and civilians, as Imperial engineers and officials of every land and discipline piled off amidst the columns of proud soldiers in the livery of Franj, Gredbritton, Achemedinia, and Europia. The Imperial delegation was marched to the Doe complex by the Futurist's own soldiers — equal in stature and clad in purple with emblems of raptors — who were themselves well-known to the capital from the past weeks. The Imperials had hardly arrived at what had become the de facto seat of government for a day before those same engineers and Furis' mechanists were seen together, drafting plans for reconstruction.

The battered Merikans that remained in the capital saw many astounding figures among the Imperial delegation — the gold giant that had been the subject of much propaganda, the Skandian warrior at his side, his tattooed sorcerer, his towering iron-fisted automaton, his cadre of princes, the vassal warriors he’d taken from Ursh and the Pan-Pacific League, and so on, and on — as they had disembarked. The transcripts of the meetings within the Doe laboratories were sealed with the mark of a hydra, and vanished after some select members of the officer corps were pointedly denied a chance to read them. In the inevitable announcement from the grandstand on the capital’s debris-strewn parade ground, Esteemed Dictator Furis Doe and ‘Warlord’ Oscar made their speeches; the former waxed poetic about the wonders of history and the wings of the Aquila, and the latter made a curt and businesslike statement sketching out the terms of Merika’s stake in the Imperium — which had already been decided. This was all very much in keeping with Merikan custom; the general impression among the Merikan junta’s officers and populace was that Fulgrim had brokered an alliance and won them an entry on the footing of equals. In truth, Fulgrim had met the Warlord in Sibar for the Astartes III hybridization project, long before the operation began, and the conference was in many ways a formality — though Furis took it as an opportunity to lobby for his future projects.

The remains of the Merikan Space Brigade took aboard much of the Panama garrison and its war materiel, but lingering as they were between the changed Merikan regime and Hy Braseal was not a long-term option. What remained of the Merikan Space Brigade never reconvened after that regrouping at Panama; the bulk of the small fleet dove for deep space and vanished from common histories, while about half their number mobilized to attack the Imperial ships above the eastern seaboard — of which two were disabled and one seized before it could be scuttled. The six voidships that remained over Panama held position for two months, and subsequently defected to Hy Braseal. Of those ships, one is recorded to have been used by Hy Braseal in the War of The Beast, further cementing their victory over their long term rival. They too could be considered the “winners” of the Unification Wars, and remained the last holdout of the old nations on Earth centuries into the Imperium.

Fulgrim made many inquiries into future endeavors to the Warlord — for potential avenues of research and for examination of technologies — which continued all through the last years of Unification, and he always seemed to give them precedence over the interim Merikan government run by him and Lucius. Lucius in particular — but Fulgrim as well — both showed a keen interest in the overtures the Imperium extended Hy Braseal, though they had the deference not to take part. It was worth noting, in Oscar's mind, that the Does had more or less copied the councils under which he'd arrayed the leaders of the lands of Europe and the remains of Ursh, to assemble and represent the various Merikan provinces north of the isthmus and south of Dorn's restored Kalbi, and had done it all without coaching on his part — though with focused and major alterations in some areas. Under the newly drafted agreement between Merika and the Imperium, there were provisions for continued cooperation with the Alpha Legion (nominally to ensure full and thorough reform and removal of entrenched corruption), for the continuation the Doe program — with the added practice of optimizing the babies after random sample combination (which Fulgrim had already started doing), and provisions for eminent domain over all samples of neutronium in the Merikan government's remit. For his part, Lucius was reorganizing the Merikan military and its many arms foundries, designing them to support his companies of Terra's Children, and glad-handing and encouraging as much of the old officer class to go on on grand world tours to enjoy the new Imperium. Fulgrim, meanwhile, was overseeing the expansion of the proud legion of nearly three hundred that had overtaken the Merikan war machine. And yet, Fulgrim's inquiries persisted, pointedly asking what his place would be in the Imperium.

The Futurist got his conclusive answer shortly after Oscar became Steward of the Empty Throne. He was named Primarch of Terra's Children, swore his oath before all assembled, and together they began the next stage of unification: that of Sol. With naught but some hasty organization of the new Council of Merikan Foremen, Fulgrim convened his legion in Moton. Fulgrim stood before his force of three hundred Astartes — each selected personally by him and bearing his modifications — and their backing of seven hundred Merikanized Skitarii. With his blades by his hip, his mechanists arrayed behind him, and Lucius by his side, Fulgrim drew up — in illustrious, impassioned words — his vision of the era before Old Night, one that the this new Imperium of unification would reclaim, with the Children of Terra at the fore to realize its mighty promise. He spoke of ships fleet and unstoppable, pillar cities vaster and more grand than any gilded Urshii ziggurat or Merikan pyramid-bunker, and of the great bridges indestructible; the Neutronium lines that tied worlds to the sea of heaven and thus to each-other. He envisioned his legion as the mighty “New Men” of this Imperium, more virtuous, more beautiful, more effective than any officer class or knightly order of the old provincial nations, the great poet warriors that would realize this Imperium’s truth. His speech was met with cheers of exuberance and tears of joy among his men, and in that moment every member of the Legion of Terra's Children knew they would follow their Primarch to the stars.

Furis’ new position on the council of twenty — the Primarchs, Malcador, and Oscar Steward — ensured he was now privy to the grand strategy of the Solar Unification without needing to trade favors with Ames and Ozzy. Already the pale and eerie, yet charming trade lord of the inner system had seized the initiative and taken up the Unification’s banner as its master of ships, and the famed Knight of Franj — the Lion ascendant — was bound on a mission of pacification to the outer Sol system aboard his flotilla. With some prodding, a contingent of Terra’s Children's best military virtuosos followed close behind, led by Lucius in a gold, purple, and white fleet of a half dozen restored Merikan warships.

In that same period of manic consolidation and activity, Fulgrim fell in with Horus, the esteemed King of Empty Space, and Ferrus Manus, the iron-fisted Antarctican Skitarii mastermind, on their mission of diplomacy to Mars. While the Steward knew Lorgar, the Holy Man that he was, to be the better diplomat than the preening Phoenician, treating with the dogmatic and hegemonic Brotherhood of Olympus Mons was a task ill-suited to the earnest preacher, and thus it was Fulgrim that bore the Standard of the Aquila to the red priests for that first time. It proved a wise choice, and between the guns of Empty Space encircling, the mercenary charms of Horus and guileful Fulgrim, and the proud imperatives of the Antarctic Brotherhood’s iron fist, the ruddy neighbor of Old Earth was drawn into the fold.

Fulgrim hardly returned to Merika after this, instead dwelling at the dockyards of the Lagrange with Horus, supervising the building of the dreadnoughts that would lead the coming interstellar crusade, and on Mars, aiding the designs of the Iron Fists he had long idolized from the stories of his Mechanists. One could hardly tell if his fondness for Horus was surpassed by his love for Horus’ ships, and though his obsession with the mighty Ferrus Manus was clear, it took many efforts and trials to prove the worth of his works, and thus himself, to the machine-man.

Fulgrim was often said by the remembrancers to be the more worldly mirror image of Blessed Sanguinius; created haphazardly — a happy accident that perfected himself — but grew imperious and mighty by his own ambition, if flying by roaring jet instead of graceful wing. And like Sanguinius, Fulgrim too was pale and fair, refined and elegant. Indeed this was very compelling image — the Terra’s Children’s fine armor was unmarred and unbloodied even through Fulgrim’s brutal raids and engagements, and Fulgrim struck where he pleased and retreated when it was advantageous — but the differences between the two came not from the body, but the mind; Fulgrim's blade was drawn in pride where Sanguinius drew his in duty. For all their contrasts, the aesthete and the prince were on good terms — so long as military matters were not broached between them. Likewise, he was compared to Guilliman — great strategos of Europia — as the Phoenician conducted great overarching campaigns in sector after sector, indomitable purple Astartes at the vanguard and unbreakable supply lines guarded by his shining cyborgs, advancing through the galactic west apace with the vaunted Ultramarines in the east. That said, Guilliman never leaned quite so heavily on the techniques of economic sabotage and proxy war that Fulgrim typically brought to bear, following on the heels of the shadowy Alpha Legionnaires he still held close from the days of the Merikan Coup. By all appearances, Fulgrim was as deft a diplomat as Lorgar, Vulcan, Horus, and Roboute — but for the fact that when he paraded his regal Astartes before the people of a world and charmed its leaders at Imperial-hosted galas, he was often hard at work cutting down their dissenting elements and special forces just beneath that pleasant veneer of peace.

Be it from their similar childhoods, shared archaic fantasy of the Great and Bountiful Human Dominion, or merely Fulgrim’s persistence, it was in this time that he finally endeared himself to Ferrus Manus. In Fulgrim, Ferrus saw a fitting disregard for the limitations of biology. In Ferrus, Fulgrim found an exemplar for the advancement of the holy human form and appreciation of its mighty heritage. Thus, and an unusual friendship had bloomed in the life of the Iron Fist.

'''The Contest of Smiths'''

It was in the forges under Olympus Mons, after the Gorgon had established his might over the heads of the resident Archmagos, that they held their famed Contest of Smiths. Among the great cogs and reactors of the forges in the heart of the red mountain, the cold Iron Hand was making demonstration of his mastery of artifice before the many venerable smiths of the ancient foundry. While the Gorgon beat cascades of sparks from adamant at the forge, another unfamiliar host of robed and augmented figures drew around the mighty Skitarii. At its head was Fulgrim, and about him were the Archaeo-technological Diviners and Warsmiths of the Terrawatt Clan that he had been asked to herald to the Martian Brotherhood, and with them came the Genesmiths of the Duscht Jemanic, the Geno-Hippes of the mountain enclaves, mighty Weapon-Wrights and Siege Masters of Macedonia and Achemedinia, and Furis’ own mechanists — the last of whom had already found favor among the Martians that held with the more creative interpretations of the Strictures Cybernetica.

It was in the midst of this gathering of the great masters in the forges of the Brotherhood of Olympus Mons — who had brought Mars to heel in a few scant years, who dared to say they were the keepers of the Noctis Labyrinth, who were protectors of the vast treasury of knowledge and art that were the assets of the Imperial Court, who were possessors of so many esoteric and mighty secrets and specializations that they could not be rightly remembered hence their passing — that Fulgrim and Ferrus proposed to settle the budding rivalry between Old Earth and Holy Mars. In the spirit of their great and blessed adventures to come — their Crusade of Interstellar Unification — Fulgrim proposed a tourney that would last seven days, and in that time all present would strive to see the arsenal of Man filled with wonders to match the weapons of old. It was Ferrus that added the terms that each master of his own forge should work for himself upon his craft, and that any that shrunk from the task — who would let servitors or adepts dither in their work — would show their lack of art. It was then that Ferrus Manus shed his robes and bore down upon the forge, like a tempest with his vast silver arms, and bid the adepts about him bring schematics and materials. Furis Doe likewise seized a forge, his Mechanists setting about the recalibration of tools and selection of designs. And all around Siege Masters and Genesmiths and Armorers rushed to heat Adamant and prepare the manufacture of fine mechanical filigree.

At the contest’s end, the forges and laboratories still and quiet, many gleaming wonders were brought forth to be seen by all. Kelbor Hal, esteemed host to those assembled, humbly presented a bright adamant power-javelin he named the Windlance, that flew unerring by means of grav-lifts in its shaft, and for which he received much acclaim. Vie Braur, Master of the Genesmiths, came forward with a pair of golden armbands that would regrow the arm on which it was worn in a matter of minutes if it was severed. This was followed by a cybernetic eye that saw across the spectrums and could glare a hail of lasfire as effectively as a heavy rifle, presented by Arton Luron of the Order Cybernetica. From the Geno-Hippes, a poison gland from which a modified creature could spit streams of strong corrosive marking agent. Put forth by the Skitarii armorers was a beautiful brassy jezail of ancient design and thunderous power. An ingenious system of actuated tread claws that would let superheavy tanks scale sheer cliffs was produced by the Macedonian envoy. The gift of the Terrawatt engineers was a gleaming reconstruction of an ancient tactical awareness computer, a golden pedestal that held an ethereally projected globe, then set to show much of the infrastructure and troop placement on Mars. Between all of these treasures and wonders — any one of them fit for royalty of the previous forsaken era — still none could rightly see its creator named champion, until together Fulgrim bore up a great black hammer, and Ferrus Manus unsheathed a burning golden blade.

The black hammer — Forgebreaker — glowered with un-light, cut as it was from a shred of neutronium Fulgrim salvaged from one of Earth's many equatorial scars, and he had struck upon a way to shape it only in the heat of the tourney. Though in the past Fulgrim had failed endlessly to work neutronium whatsoever, the modest lump of exotic matter was now a weapon to scatter the mass of mountains. The eye-searing sword thrust aloft by the Gorgon was simply named — Fireblade — and it burned with unreal white flames that enveloped its narrow golden edges at solar temperatures, forged as the unification of many of the ancient subsystem fragments and schematics Ferrus Manus' brothers of the Antarctic Enclaves had brought from Earth, and now possible to construct and piece together in the vast facilities of the Martian Brotherhood. The whole assembly of priests and artificers conceded the glory of these weapons above all others, but between them none could decide the better. Fulgrim was certain it was the Gorgon's that was the mightiest; he loved the sword from his first sight of it, and its swift and biting form taken from the ancient glory of man far surpassed the bleak, crude weapon he had been able to carve from the strange matter. Ferrus Manus was already transfixed by the very notion of working neutronium even on such a small scale — far better than his misassembled archeotech hunting knife, here was a step towards the rediscovery of one of mankind's greatest arts. No decision could be reached, for the mastery of artifice could be given neither to Old Earth nor Holy Mars, and the budding of that rivalry continued. But the tourney beneath the red mountain did fill the arsenal of the Unification of Sol and the long and glorious Great Crusade after, and much joy and mirth resounded in the forges of Mars on that seventh day, one that would be remembered as the unofficial, popular unification of Earth and Mars.

The tournament itself was said to end when the two Primarchs gave each other their own creations as prizes, and the countless Adepts, Apprentices, Magos, Forgemasters, and Artificers present saw fit to rejoice in their work and the coming years of war and production. As the Primarch inventors exchanged notes on their works of the past seven days, the huge convention of Imperial technological orders and leaders did much of the same, establishing much of the early relationship between the Mechanicus Orders and the myriad of other technological orders that The Throne would come to retain over the coming millennia. Fulgrim would never part with the Fireblade after this, taking it with him into the unification of the galaxy and bearing it back to Sol to strike at the back of the Beast — when all that bright, dreaming civilization shuddered and collapsed — and forth again in vengeance and beautiful rebirth. Ferrus Manus would never forsake the Forgebreaker, and even when the Gorgon finally fell on the fields of Armageddon, millennia after his weapon's maker, that same hammer had meted the ruin of many dozens of Meks and Bosses across the battlefield, and left its final enemy naught but broken atoms in the ground.

'''The Conquest of Laeran'''

The world of Laeran was, in all Imperial records of the Great Crusade and since, unique. A wonder brought together in the horror of Old Night, with technology from the brighter age — before the dusk of the Old Empire’s Fall. The space-based, sculptural colonies of the Laer were first encountered by the 28th Expeditionary Fleet of the Terra’s Children along a long arc across the fringes of the galactic west. At their eager initiation of contact with the third legion, the serpentine Xenos seemed the most advanced, cultured, and diplomatically forward the Imperium had encountered since Eldrad’s representation of the Craftworlders. Shared in these early encounters with the diplomatic cadres of the Laer, and confirmed by Imperial analysis of the distribution of known colonies, the Laer had fled their home in the regions of the galactic northwest to escape the collapse of the Old Eldar Empire they had evolved in the midst of. Absconding from their home star in a mass exodus and seeding new colonies along the path of their flight, they had fled the opening of the Eye of Terror.

As the next stages of diplomatic contact and positioning were prepared, Imperial assets from the Terra’s Children likewise began the far less stately work of intelligence gathering and the preparation of contingencies. The Laer’s description of their means of exodus — Laeran itself — was striking, both in their soaring reverence for the world and its technological significance as a gas giant and lunar system driven by torch drives to the point of warp transit capability, constituting a starship of utterly immense scale. Of similar interest were the trans-biological technologies the serpents employed, with many of their modifications matching — or even surpassing — humanity’s best Astartes or Skitarii implants and treatments. Fulgrim grew drawn by this wonder, and his personal attention quickly fell upon the Laeran matter. With his curiosity came his inquisitive pack of mechanists and genewrights, Captain Lucius and his force reconnaissance fleets, the Legions’ Blades, the Phoenix Company, the support brigades of heavily updated Merikan Shock Cyborgs, and the Mechanicus Exploratory attaché offered by Ferrus. Their Administratum observers, Munitorum bullet-and-bean-counters, Alpha Legion contacts, and the not-insignificant following of painters, sculptors, artisans, documentarians, writers, and veritable circus of other artists that had found Fulgrim as a patron and received stipends as Imperial Remembrancers, followed close behind. As elements of the Third Legion and their diplomatic entourage contacted more and more Laer colonies, the air of open artistic and diplomatic exchange persisted. In actuality, however, diplomacy had stalled, and deep tensions were building between the parties — veiled though it was by a pretense of aesthetic debate and politely contrasting paradigms for cybernetic development and genetic engineering.

Though more formal diplomacy between powers and a meeting on Laeran remained the subject of talk, in truth the planet’s location was not forthcoming from the Laer even as Imperial Naval assets narrowed down their deductions for its path and place. Within the week the elusive torchworld’s presumptive location was pinned down and confirmed, while a discovery made by Lorgar was delivered to Fulgrim by the hand of the Custodes that had accompanied the Preacher’s expedition to the brink go the Eye of Terror.

From any other Primarch, the aristocratic ones long in the Warmaster’s highest favor particularly, Fulgrim’s pride and nervous sense of inferiority would have led him to doubt the clear conclusion Lorgar’s report implied. He would have dared to think nearly any of his twenty peers would press such conclusions upon him merely to disrupt the handful of years he had sunk into cautious diplomacy with the Laer. But not of Lorgar — he had no doubt in the conqueror of naught but hearts and minds. The Mechanicus attaché, Lucius, Ames and Ozzy, the Mechanists, the Genesmiths, the Administratum observers, the Eldar Corsair captain Fulgrim had convinced to join them, and all the rest all of the Imperium's party agreed upon the necessity for decisive action. It was made clear that the path of Laeran had not taken it from its place amongst the Crone worlds along a direct path out of their midst, but rather that their path started at the Cadian Gate, that their passing had been marked with terror and rapine, and that their elder colonies were rocked by civil war against a monodominant cult of perfection. Fulgrim was insistent that he personally reaffirm to the Laeran delegation and accompanying fleet that the Imperium had truly negotiated with them in earnest, and that he had the assurance of one Mr. Ozzy that they would be transported to Ganymede unharmed and in perfect safety. Upon the seizure of their vessel and the Laer diplomats’ removal, Fulgrim returned to his flagship — the Pride of Imperium — and began the Astropathic relay of instructions to activate the contingencies, likewise prepared in earnest.

Codex entry not finished.

Additional Details

- This universe's version of an "Iron Cage" incident that leads most Astartes legions to follow Guilliman's idea of breaking into Chapters. Fulgrim tries to micromanage everything but gets ground down by attrition. Final blow was trying to clear a sector of an Ork infestation led by a Tzeentch-aligned Big Wyrd, which was so nuts it was impossible to account for everything.

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== Vulkan ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Promethean:'''''

Vulkan, son of the Afrique League, First Patriarch of the Prometheans, Defender of the People, Cleansing Flame of Earth and Primarch of the Steward was born in a mud and thatch hut in an arable farming village 8 days walk from Lanbarno, capital of that semi prosperous realm.

The nation itself was little more than a remnant of what it once was. At its height some 500 years previously it had been a super power the rival of any other on the Earth at that time with culture and technological knowlage beyond peer. But then the Ursh came and taught them that this was not, nor have it ever, nor would it ever be a time of peace.

But all that was history. The realm that Vulkan grew up in knew nothing of that save in dust old tomes of half forgotten lore.

Even a peace, a hard fought for peace, had been won against the Despots of Ursh and their vassal states.

Of all the peoples on the Earth at that time, they had come to the attention of foul xenos. Why they amongst all others? who can say. But there it was.

The only thing that was certain during this era was that the Dark Eldar were discovering the depths of their needs and thirsts, and they found the picking in Afrique League to their liking.

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It became a hated part of life. Shelters were dug by the prudent and the the foolish were left to die. It was an unhappy time. But maybe it was the xeno raiders and their attentions that made their lands less appealing to invaders.

It was in Vulkans 14th summer that he joined the military, against the wishes of his father and mother but with their blessing. It was customary for men to serve and protect the communities they came from for what was good for the people of a nation must surely be good for the nation as a whole.

Vulkan's parents had been adamant he not join the warriors, because they knew that his job would be to dissuade their tormentors so that they might find a softer village to attack.

One such assault was the beginning of Vulkan. The rest of his life had been merely a prelude to the man.

A brutal assault that seemed determined to abduct the while village befell Vulkan's home. The scant defenses were little more than tissue paper against razor blades. The pitiful few warriors of the Afrique League were tormented in the manner of a cat with a mouse and as inevitably snuffed out. All bar one. When the village bio-petroleum tank detonated Vulkan was inflamed. But up he rose. clutching his blacksmith fathers hammer, a halo of flame about his head and inferno wings upon his broad shoulders he was risen and he stood before the Archon, the chief tormentor of his people. His heart beat like a blast furnace and his eyes were holes into the hear of the sun and his fathers hammer he brought down hard. The Archon danced around him with inhuman grace, a nimble torture before an enraged giant. In later legends it was said they they danced from sunrise to sunset, but in truth there was a death far sooner than that. The Archons blades had been doused in poison most foul but the heat of the flame had cleansed them. Although Vulkan could barley land a single blow, he did manage to land one. And one was all he needed.

The simple smiths hammer struck hard and it struck true. It was said to have been heated by more than burning fuel but by the furnace heat of hate. The Archon lay crippled and in agony at Vulkans feet. He raised that vile man high above his head and brought him down hard over his knee and broke his back. The warrior held him up once more and with a dragons roar, dared all those who would look to see what ruin had been done before tearing out the raider kings throat.

And no more did those creatures come back.

When the Warlord came to the Afrique League it was Vulkan who met with him in the old and dying king Shatimuene's place. With the xenos gone, it would not be long before Ursh came back; The Afrique League could not endure alone when that day came.

As the now chief military commander of his nation and a hero of the people, Vulkan was taken into the confidence of the Warlord. In the name of the warlord he claimed back the old vassal states of Ursh for the Afrique League and built that broken nation back up on freed slaves and a noble sense of retribution.

Vulkan was one of the first of the final design of Astartes. All of the major flaws had been solved by that point and for that we can be grateful, the world did not need another Angron.

When the last tyrant fell and it came time to bring the Unification to the rest of Sol, Vulkan son of N'bel was raised high and called Primarch.

When the Great Crusade began it was Vulkan, second only to Lorgar, who showed that although the Imperium was strong and could be monstrous, it could also be noble and capable of true virtue.

When the War of The Beast came it was the the Salamanders that dedicated their lives to defense of the people above the defense of the Imperium, or what was good for the people of a nation must surely be good for the Imperium as a whole.

Vulkan did make it back to Old Earth before the Martyr Angel fell and he could not save his brother primarch, but no blame was laid at his feet as his Legion worked so tierlesly and gave their very lives for the people and always at the thickest of the the fighting, in the heart of the inferno was the Promethean with his hammer.

In the years that followed the rebuilding of the Imperium Vulkan's forces remained integrated most strongly with those of the Imperial Army. Vulkan served the Imperium for longer than any other primarch, save for Ferrus Manus of the Mechanicum. Time and again the enemies of man would rise to threaten the Imperium, and the Promethean would rise in turn to face them. Vulkan fought against the Black Crusades of Chaos, the Orkish WAAAGHs of Armageddon, and uncountable other foes, surviving against odds in which any lesser man would perish. Vulkan became known as Vulkan the Undefeatable, the Emerald Knight, the greatest of the Imperium’s champions.
Nevertheless, despite the Mark III S geneseed, the years began to take their toll on Vulkan. Vulkan’s body may have been young but his spirit was old, and he could no longer serve his Imperium the way he once did. The Emperor granted his steadfast champion the right to retire, only stating that he hoped Vulkan could find place to retire fitting for one who had served the Imperium as long as he.

Vulkan picked the humble planet Nocturne as his place of retirement. Vulkan was head of the Promethean Creed, its greatest missionary and, given how long he had been influencing it, probably the greatest factor in shaping it. During the Great Crusade, Nocturne had embraced the Creed completely and with great enthusiasm. As a result, Nocturne had become an important world to the Salamander Legion, and was the world the Salamander chapter held onto after the splitting of the legions, though the Salamanders built their actual fortress on the nearby moon of Prometheus, to ensure the civilians of Nocturne would not be made direct targets of any would-be aggressor.

By the time that Vulkan started to feel old nearly the entire population ascribed to the creed in one form or another. It had become their holy land, eclipsing even the old lands of Africa. Although Vulkan had intended to settle down and live a quiet life in his old age, the people of Nocturne recognized the Unbound Flame of the Promethean Creed, and petitioned him to rule. And so Vulkan became the High Patriarch of Nocturne, ruling as a wise philosopher-king, though more than once the former Emerald Knight had to pick up his old hammer to defend his adopted home.

Of all the Primarchs save perhaps Russ of Skand Vulkan's disappearance is the most odd. Shortly before Vulkan's disappearance there is a gap of approximately 200 years in the records of Nocturne and after that point it is generally accepted that he is gone. Before this gap Vulkan is recorded as the High Patriarch of Nocturne. After the gap a Triumvirate was ruling in Vulkan's place and apparently had been doing so long enough that such an arrangement was considered normal. The last known record of Vulkan is a statement by the Promethean that he had planned to take a trip around the far planets of the galaxy, but there is no indication of how long he expected to be gone and when he expected to be back. What happened during the Centuries of Silence, as the Prometheans call it, is a holy mystery. Some say he is dead, some say he will come back again in a great hour of need and some say he never left.

All that is known is that his children, the Fire Lords and the Black Dragons and the Salamanders, fight like lions for humanity and legion of them have laid down their immortal lives for mortal men and legion more and more have risen in turn.

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== Dorn ==
Note:
- Calbi born, early model astartes pattern. Desensitization problems.
- Odd friendship with Perturabo
- Died during 1st Black Crusades holding the battlements of Cadia

The story of Rogal Dorn starts in the garrison town of Onto Rontus in the not too long annexed land of Calbi. Born to a mother of the local tribes and an officer father of the Merikan army his start was not as tragic as it could have been. Often such half-breeds were not the result of consenting unions but Donovan Dorn held genuine affection for Kosa and was, unknown to his fellow officers, married to her.

Dorn was one of a large family and had many siblings though he was ultimately the only one to follow in his father’s footsteps. Dorn left his loving tribe and family and all he had known and travelled to the distant lands of Merika to begin his training, as his father had.

He learned much in those years and was an excellent student and would have been on the fast track to high station but for his circumstances of birth. No soldier of the greatest nation on Old Earth would gladly allow themselves to be given orders from a savage of the north. Despite all this his tutors could not deny his talents.

It was not a thing he took undue joy in but the ways of war came very easily to him. Despite the unfortunate circumstances of his birth he became the very model of a Merikan officer. He was well versed in military doctrine of all sorts and knew something of the history of his nation, at least enough to spot the revisionisms.

Although adept, or at minimum competent, at all aspects of war his true talents were found in siege warfare. In the tactical simulations and competitive VR matches Dorn was unbeaten.

Due to his knowledge of the locals and ability to speak at least one tribal language fluently Dorn returned to Calbi wearing a conquers uniform. He served as a lieutenant under the rule of Praefectus Adran, himself new to the post after the forced retirement of old Praefectus Stavart.

Praefectus Stavart had been very old and was unquestionably loyal to Merika but had dealt with the natives with some degree of fairness and even kindness when he could afford to. He was not loved by the locals, how could he be, but the elders were more than smart enough to know that his position as an intermediary between them and Merika was probably the best deal they could get in the circumstances.

For Stavart’s part he probably knew that as well. In his childhood Dorn had met him a few times with his father. He remembered him looking old then and unless he somehow genuinely had six sixty-seventh birthdays it was obvious that he had been lying about his age for a long time. In his way Stavart had cared about Calbi and it’s people as something other than a broken, subjugated state of Merika. He held on in the job until nearly ninety because he knew that Adran or someone much like him would succeed him. And he was right.

Praefectus Adran was not a nice man by any measure. His was the brutal rule of law and the authority of the Iron Fist. He wouldn’t be seen attending local festivals or events; they were there from the greatest to the least at his beck and call. They were savages and heathens and he was a man of the Greatest Nation and a paragon among them. Needless to say tensions between the conquered and conquerors increased.

At some point genuine tribal unrest turn into riots and Praefectus Adran orders mass executions.

Dorn is well loved by both the locals, who see him as their man on the other side and look to him to for salvation, and by the Merikan rank and file and quite a few of the officers.

There are a few days of communications black outs due to "faulty equipment" and some "regrettable accidents" that see some of the officers dead and Praefectus Adran commits suicide after a long period of depression. When asked how he managed to shoot himself in the back of the head with a shot gun acting Praefectus Dorn tells the investigators that Adran had been "Very depressed."

Nobody believes it but, due to the difficulties in the still mysteriously faulty communications equipment, it does buy him enough time to root out more Merikan loyalists, secure his alliances with the local tribes and when the order comes from the capital to stand down and come back for questioning he declares independence.

The next day he is met by an uncannily nondescript man of average height and build with no distinguishing features, hard to estimate age, unremarkable clothing and an oddly neutral and hard to place accent. He claims his name is Alpharius Omegon and he comes representing the Imperium. He tells Dorn that his timing is awful: had he been able to spin this out for a few more years, five at least, the Imperium would have been in a position to lend considerable military might to his Rebellion. As it is, they will offer what less obvious help they can but the Imperium can't get dragged into a direct and total war with Merika at the current time. Dorn and a few of his elites get what must be some of the very last Mk1 Astartes upgrades, administered by local bio-druids for reasons of deniability.

Recently Merika had been supplying and training terrorist organizations in the lands conquered by the Imperium and Oscar had found out who was behind the seemingly random attacks. The aim was to disassemble the Imperium back into little nations for Merika to "Manifest Destiny" all over and Oscar was most unhappy, most unhappy indeed. But his forces were all tied up dealing with Ursh and the Pan-Pacific Empire. So he couldn't act directly and was forced to use Dorn and his rebellion, and later Fulgrim, to fight by proxy.

Not that Dorn would know the specifics of this until quite a few years after Unification Day.

Dorn holds out for long enough for Fulgrim Doe to raise his rebellion and make contact.

By this point the Imperium is finishing off the last enclaves of Ursh, Lorgar is decapitating the Despot and Merika is in deep shit because of the multiple rebellions, the pissed off Imperium and the only neighbor it has left with whom it is not at war with is Hy Brasil who hate both of them and are just going to sit back and watch.

Fulgrim "negotiates a deal of inclusion with very good terms" with the Imperium after he is appointed President of Merika and "abandons the unprofitable campaign to uplift and civilize the northern provinces". Calbi becomes an independent nation, Dorn appoints an Assembly of Elders to govern the nation, steps down from and decommissions the title "Praefectus of Calbi". However, he does remain the head of the armed forces. The Elders and Dorn, or representatives of them in the case of the more elderly Elders, are present at the swearing of allegiance to the Empty Throne of Earth.

When Steward Oscar looks to the other worlds of Sol and to the stars beyond he names Dorn as one of his primarchs to the surprise of Dorn though not the people of his home nation who see it as only right.

And then Great Crusade, WoTB, Reconquest and death on the walls of Cadia during the 1st Black Crusade of which is WIP by Dornfag

During the Great Crusade he went slower than most of the other Primarchs bar Lorgar but his diligence over speed, though criticized at the time, proved it's worth in the WoTB as the worlds he brought into the Imperium weathered the storm consistently better than others that weren't the work of Perty.

At some point he gets it into his head to grow his trademark mustache. Some time later he has to have one of his eyes replaced and it sort of looks like a monocle.

Does not take part in the Raid. He was not the greatest personal combatant and also tended to be better at static defense than actually running around, so a quick Raid was not his strong suit. Also due to the buggy Mk1 enhancments he suffered from desensitization problems which gradually turned into a mild case of masochism.

Never married or had any children (that he or history knew about). Did have a large number of nephews and nieces and cousins and more distant kin. Quite a few of his family survived the WoTB, he was quite lucky in that regard.

== Roboute Guilliman ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Artist of War:'''''

Guilliman was born to a minor noble house in the great and relatively prosperous realm of Europia. His parents were able to afford him admittance to Parisiorum University, the most prestigious educational institution of that fair nation. By the onset of adulthood he was well versed in the classics of language, mathematics and the basic sciences; but it was in military theory that he truly excelled. Soon he was spotted by a visiting officer, and was quickly transferred to the Avelroi military academy. He was a more than adequate soldier, and a fairly skilled tactician, but it was in the arts of grand strategy and logistical planning that his brilliance was found. During wargames and simulations, his peers often managed to gain the upper hand on Guilliman's forces, flanking or encircling them only to find themselves critically short of materiel and facing positions prepared long in advance, thanks to his unconventional focus on interdicting supply lines. Thus, while he graduated with glowing recommendations from his tutors, he was somewhat resented by his fellow alumni who felt his tactics underhand or cowardly.

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Shortly after, he was assigned to the southern border where his nation rubbed shoulders - and often warred - with the Nord Afrik. Within a month of his assignment, the area was brought up to peak efficiency and combat effectiveness. Whole swathes of the border defenses were brought back up to standard, often exceeding them, becoming greater and more formidable than they were in the last border dispute; the semi-derelict Jibraltonius border fort seemed to change overnight from a ceremonial headquarters to an impenetrable bastion. And not a moment too soon, as before long the Nord Afrikaanus and their cyber-thrall army commanders were ready for war, instead of the brief raids and pillages that Guilliman's defenses had been blooded against.

The hordes of Nord Afrik, armed and armoured with most powerful technology they had recovered from the rotting corpse of the old world, charged with ferocity that would've shattered the defences of just years before. They played every hand they could; hit-and-run raids, armoured assaults, wave attacks and attempts at infiltration, yet in the end it did not matter, as their crusade broke upon the hardened shell of Europia. For every of Guilliman's soldiers, there were ten Afrikaanus barbarians - but in turn, there were a dozen shells, plasma charges or lascannon shots for each of '''them,''' and it is said that fresh reinforcements would arrive before their dead predecessors had even hit the ground. The counter-offensive orchestrated by General Guilliman was nothing less than a masterpiece of warfare, facing the Afrikaanus as if on his own home turf. The waves of techno-barbarians were bled white, their counterattacks shrugged off and shattered, their homeland burned to ashes from which nothing could ever recover.

The customary actions to follow in these conquests was for nations to incorporate the territory of the fallen into their own empire, lording over the few remaining broken people. This would have been the fate of Nord Afrik, too, but for Guilliman's address to the senate imploring them to let that foul place rot. This was perceived as weakness by some, yet his foresight would go on to frustrate the other neighbouring nations who were looking forward to invading a Europeia overextended and weakened by their subjugation of Nord Afrik. For his martial brilliance and wisdom, Guilliman was given the honorific title of Lord, a title that would not normally be bestowed upon him until his fathers death. Furthermore, in the time of relative peace the nation now found itself in, it needed an ambassador - albeit one with enough accomplishment and worth behind him for the leaders of neighbouring realms to sit up and listen.

It was during his time in the Kingdom of Franj that he met the relatively young Queen Yolande Fouché. The two had little in common at a personal level and neither ever completely trusted each other, but their respective governments deemed it imperative that they marry as a prelude to the unification of the two nations. Franj itself was deeply wounded and only slowly recovering from devastating attacks by the Unspeakable Tyrant of Gredbritton's horrific weapons, and would not survive even the most halfhearted of assaults from any of its neighbors - least of all the Dusht Jemanic, who were looking to settle old grievances. In turn, such an alliance would allow the people of Europia access to the produce of the huge tracts of agricultural land, which were sorely needed as using Nord Afrik as a psuedo-colony to feed their growing population was no longer an option.

When The Warlord came before the Senate of Europia, in the modest robes of a scribe, he came with open arms and a warm smile. Unlike elsewhere, the Senate of Europia saw this new "Imperium" as a macrocosm of themselves; their own well ordered nation merely taken to its logical conclusion. Thus, their inclusion was brief and painless, and allowed them representation in the decision and policy processes of such a regime, while the Kingdom of Franj was joined along with them as both realms were nearly dependent on one another at this point.

Lord Guilliman quickly rose through the ranks of the new Imperial Army, thanks to his history amongst one of the more civilised realms of the Imperium, as well as his unparalleled logistical prowess. Yet, when it came time for the Warlord to implement his super soldier project on a much expanded scale it was a sad fact that Lord Guilliman was biologically too old and would almost certainly have died during the implantation process. As consolation he was granted some limited gene-forging and rejuvenation procedures that his usefulness might be extended for centuries to come.

And down the centuries his usefulness would be proven.

When the Warlord became the Steward before the Empty Throne and looked to the stars, it was Guilliman amongst his generals who was deemed to be best suited to the task of preparing for interplanetary warfare, a feat considered logistically impossible by many, yet achieved through meticulous calculation and planning. His dedication and adaptability earned Lord Guilliman the title of Primarch, a leader amongst leaders and a legend amongst legends. When the eye of the Steward looked beyond the confines of Sol, he saw Guilliman was was needed more than ever.

The Primarch rose to the challenge, reorganising the Imperial Army into a force that seemed able to be everywhere at once yet, to its enemies, was truly endless, and giving the Steward's war machine efficiency more befitting a creation of the Mechanicus. Whole stellar clusters were brought under the Aquila by the old man of Europia, with wars that could fill a library - the greatest of which, he believed, were the ones not fought. He was and old man. He looked of middle years but he had lived, long long past his time. Memories of loved ones, their faces and voices, had become dim and faded. He had outlived his wife and his children and his grandchildren, his beautiful nation and even the greatest of its monuments. The old man had never relished war like the others, seeing it instead as an intellectual exercise - and by now he was so very tired of it.

When the War of the Beast descend like a hammer upon the still fledgling Imperium, it was Guilliman's reforms - from the optimisation of trade routes to the streamlining of military integration and combined arms - that allowed whole sectors to mobilise their forces fast enough to weather the initial shock. His well-disciplined and -equipped legionaries made the Beast and his horde pay for every parsec, every light-year, every '''metre'''. For every slain citizen under his care a hundred deaths were meted out, but all could see that the line was being ground back to the Sanctum Sanctorum of humanity: Old Earth. The Beast and his forces were defeated, just like all the others were, but the legions that struck the deathblow were glorified far more than the one that hamstrung a tide of Ork that would've otherwise swallowed them whole. Guilliman held no jealousy or resentment over that; he was old enough to understand that good men were seldom remembered as long as entertaining monsters, and had resigned himself to that fact long ago.

After the slaying of The Beast the Imperium began to rebuild. It was dirty work but it was good work, the Primarch relishing in the opportunity to rebuilding something after so long fighting. Those close to him claimed it soothed his aching soul and reminded him of the miracles he worked on the borders of his homeland, long ago - even when many of his fellow Primarchs outright refused his suggested reforms.

Guilliman endured for centuries longer than any thought possible - even himself - but In 014.M32 he began his long, dreamless sleep. His legacy, however, would endure for ages to come; remembered fondly even by those who thought him nothing but a glorified penpusher, and proving that the quiet administrators and quartermasters of the Imperium that they had just as much to be proud of as any other.

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== Magnus the Red ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">''''' The Arch-Psyker '''''

The story of Magnus the Red can be traced back to the previous Despot of Ursh, a remarkably unfriendly fellow by the name of Ganzorig the Great. Indeed he was great and conquered huge swathes of the Afrique League to add to the already great Empire his uncle left him. One of the contributing factors in his victories was his use of enslaved and potent psykers. For the most part these poor creatures, witch-kin as they were, were not highly valued as people by the Despot despite him being a follower of the dark gods.

One of his most prized possessions was a witch by the name of Ada of whom it was said could summon deamons and not so much bind them but direct them. In her youth, before he had discovered quite how valuable she was, he had whored her out to a navigator for imported weapons from far off worlds beyond Sol. That she had a child that she loved dearly was good news for Ganzorig as it gave him a means by which he could control her.

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Time passed, wars were waged, new lands were conquered and things continued to get worse on Old Earth much as they always had done.

In time the son, named Magnus, grew into a man. Like his father he was uncommonly tall and it was soon evident that like his mother he was uncommonly powerful. As such he was press-ganged into the psychic warfare and assault efforts of the Regime. Magnus' aptitudes were in wards and defensive measures and by age 15 could stop artillery fire and had done so on the front lines. By age 20 he could throw up a shield wall that covered almost a mile in either direction and was harder than the finest steel.

In his 35th year his mother died on the front lines against the Pan-Pacific Empire and the monsters created by it's mad science. Magnus at the time was half a continent away on the borders of Achaemenidia but he felt her loss. Although Magnus had always been Ganzorig's leash to ensure his mothers obedience so in turn had Magnus been kept obedient lest harm come to his mother.

Magnus seemed to vanish and the border was over run by the next morning. A few month later Ganzorig the Great was found burned to death in his bed.

Little is known of Magnus' movements in many years and the Ursh Succession war that followed. It is suspected that he fled to the cursed ground of the Himalayan Mountains. A place only whispered in dark legend, the one place nobody was strong or mad enough to conquer and from the fall of the Dark Age Empire to the arrival of the Warlord remained inviolate. It was unknown for sure what was protecting that high place but ████████████████████████████████████Data expunged by order of the Inquisition██████████████████████████████████████████████████and never again they promised on this hallowed ground, and so they faded in midnight clad.

Magnus emerged from that strange land some time in his sixties, although how much time in that place had passed was anyone's guess. Due to his inhuman heritage he looked still of early middle years but for his one remaining eye that held reflected horrors enough to last lifetimes. His skin once pale and soft like his fathers was now hardened by years of exposure to something approximating leather and adorned from head to foot in red wards and runes and holy script in some unknown letters tattooed and branded and scared across every inch of flesh. Save for the ragged bite mark that took up one side of his face.

By this time the Warlords armies were moving in earnest with expert precision across a dozen fronts, both military and diplomatic.

At first the tall man wandered in places he thought beyond the reach of any king or man or beast but as the Warlord progressed his psychic powers grew until Magnus felt them eclipse his own. He traveled to the very furthest reaches of Sibar and buried his talents that he might not shine out from afar.

But the Warlord could feel him and he knew it. Rather than wait to be hunted down or chained up as was in his youth Magnus set out for the burning light.

At the time the Warlord was busy in the Lands of Skand where the Nordyc people dwelt. The Warlord was trying to unify them into a cohesive nation that he could work with and absorb into the Imperium. Some tribes would remain independent and raid and pirate and maraud across the landscape and they would be crushed for it but his hope would be that this would be minimal in number.

Magnus strode into the great wood and thatch hall almost as tall as the doorway, draped in animal skins and weathered and wild looking. The great hall fell silent for a moment until the babbling of conversations returned. He scanned the rows of men and women through the hazy smoky air seated around the tables and staying warm by the great fire pit until he found him, the Warlord.

He was seated some way down the bench tearing into a slab of mutton whilst a man in dusty grey robes negotiated with the king in a jovial manner. To the surprise of Magnus the Warlord waved him over and offered him a seat on the bench next to him and poured him a drink.

It had not occurred to Magnus that the Warlord meant him no harm, it had always been his assumption that powerful men fought and that was the way of things.

In the years that were to follow the Warlord did offer Magnus a place at his side not for his battlefield prowess, although that was formidable, but for the forbidden and ancient lore he had ██████████████ █████ ███████Data expunged by order of the Inquisition███ ███████ although it troubled him greatly.

Eventually Magnus did walk the battlefield, but this time at the head of a small army of his own making. A band of psykers like himself, some liberated slaves or other nations and some born free in the Imperium. For the first time since the death of his mother Magnus felt at home. They won much fame and fortune in the wars of Unification primarily against the stain on the map that was Ursh. Though the Warlord trusted Magnus he put upon him the one condition that he have no more dealings from things beyond conventional time and space.

The other commanders were unsure of Magnus, he was not fully human and he was witch-kin steeped in forbidden magics and lore. Mortarion and Russ both had a particular dislike of him for this and despised his methods. For all that Magnus became Primarch Magnus the Red but unlike most of his fellow Primarchs he could not recieve any augmentations due to his strangely genes.

As the Unification slid gently into the Great Crusade the Legion of the Thousnad Sons held themselves well and despite being the smallest of the Legions in the Imperial Army held themselves as high as any other.

As the War of the Beast ground on Magnus' armies found themselves out matched but still unrelenting. The Beast had psykers of his own and the Chaos Eldar made his people die screaming.

As the Beast assaulted Old Earth Magnus at last broke his word to the now Steward. He called forth all the old spirits as his mother taught him and shipped up the warp into a howling gale and dashed the Beasts fleets upon impossible shores and almost pity them for where they now were. It was a gamble that was not wholly won for some Imperial ships were lost in the gale, their crews damned and lost forever. He was severely berated by the Warlord for this and they almost came to blows.

He was present on Old Earth in those final days of that war confounding and confusing the sorcerers of Chaos and slaying their deamons.

Eventually the Steward and Magnus did reconcile their differences though it took many, many years.

It was said that the Grey Knights were founded and trained by ancient veterans of the Thousand Sons, although as with all things to do with the history of that order the truth will never be known.

Magnus was one of the 3 primarchs that lived to see the Steward crowned Emperor, although only barely. He was as human as the day he was born, however much that was, and longevity treatments can only take you so far. His ashes were scattered to the winds on the tallest Himalayan mountain carried there by the Emperor himself.

Even unto the Dark Millennium the Emperor would not allow discussion of what he found in those mountains.

Was it wondrous? Terrible? Both? None may know now. Whatever was there was gone by the time Earth was all but unified. A few abandoned villages, some empty temples, a few overgrown fields and no sign of violence.

Whatever was there looked and acted like people to fool people, more or less. Whatever was there left of it's own accord.

What it is and why anything can never be known though The Warlord found neither joy nor sorrow in its departure.

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== Sanguinius ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Martyr Angel'''''

Duscht Jemanic was an old nation, a once great empire that spanned from the coast of the Atlazia Ocean in the west to the Besivik Ocean in the east, the lightning speed of its war machines crushing nations beneath their tread. Over the centuries its power and borders were slowly eroded by the Ursh hordes in the east and revolts in its Europian provinces, until it was left only with its core territories and forced into a humiliating alliance for survival as part of the Quintuple Alliance.

The Duscht were a dour, efficient people, obsessed with genetic purity above all else. In their great iron towers the famed genesmiths delved into the secrets of the human genome, while in the bellies of its ashen factories millions of enslaved “unclean” sweated and died to produce the materials for its armies. It was into this decaying society that Sanguinius was born, only son of the Kaiser.

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The Kaiser was a cold man, and over the centuries of his life had failed to produce an heir that satisfied his need for perfection. As he grew old, he grew desperate, and in his desperation he summoned his greatest genesmiths to do something never before attempted: to create a human life. To create his perfect heir, he opened the ancestral gene-vaults of House Baal, and sequences were taken from its greatest heroes: genes from generals and warriors for strength and bravery, from diplomats and statesmen for wisdom and intelligence, from courtesans and athletes for beauty and fairness of form. To this blend of genes, the Kaiser, perhaps in a final act of caprice or megalomania, added the genes for a pair of enormous, white wings to grow from the child’s back.

With the genome completed, the genesmiths retreated to their towers to perform their ancient biotech rites to attempt to forge the raw genetic material into a living fetus. Nine and ninety failed, ending as twisted, misshapen things, but in the hundredth the genes took hold, and after a year and a day of labor the genesmiths presented the baby boy to the Kaiser. As he wept, the Kaiser named the boy “Sanguinius,” for he was to be the culmination and greatest champion of the Baal bloodline.

As the boy grew, he was indeed as perfect as expected: tall and strong, brilliant and wise, golden-haired and beautiful to behold. His tutors were astonished at his genius, and the royal masters of arms soon found themselves outstripped by the stripling boy. Yet the Kaiser was still displeased. For the boy had always been a means to an end: the restoration of the old Duscht Empire, and two factors pulled his dream further and further from his grasp. The first were rumors and rumblings of an upstart nation, led by a feared Warlord, conquering and subjugating those in its path. And the second was something he could never has foreseen, something that surprised and confused and enraged him when he confronted it: Sanguinius had compassion.

Indeed, as a boy he had horrified his governesses and caretakers by sneaking out of the palace to play with common children in the street (wearing bulky clothes to hide his growing wings), and infuriated his father by speaking out against cruelty of the nobility and freeing the household slaves assigned to him. His kindness and strength of will drew the masses to him, yet in his gaze there was always a sense of melancholy, a sense that he was looking into the distance at something no one else could see. And it was so, for Sanguinius had dreams.

In them he saw the Earth and the suffering of its teeming masses, felt their psychic screams of pain: from a nomad child dying of radiation in the Calbian wastes, raw boils and weeping sores stark against her pale skin, from an old slave in a Duscht factory collapsing under the savage blows of laughing guards, from all the wretched of the Earth crying for salvation. And from far away amongst the inky blankness of the stars he heard similar, fainter echoes as people suffered and died on far-flung planets across the galaxy. Sanguinius wept for them, and for his own powerlessness, and as he did a great, golden figure rose from the darkness, benevolent gaze sweeping over the Earth. It reached its hands down and lifted the masses to the stars, and where there was sorrow there was now hope and opportunity. Yet it was here Sanguinius’ visions diverged: in some, he and the Duscht people were lifted into the stars with the rest of humanity to spread amongst the galaxy, his heart bursting with joy. In the others, the great golden figure drew his gaze to the cruelty of Duscht Jemanic, to its slave pens and pogroms and purges of the unclean, and Sanguinius felt only cold despair as the great hands turned to fists and ground the Duscht people into dust.

Though he was not much older than a boy, Sanguinius vowed this would not come to pass, that he would protect the Duscht people and pledge himself to the service of the great savior, and that he would march across the stars to save the scattered people of Terra no matter where they were.

So it was that the Warlord came to borders of Duscht Jemanic during Sanguinius’ seventeenth year.

By this time, Sanguinius was the de facto leader, having won over the court with his charisma and strength. The Kaiser was by now decrepit and spent most of his time secluded in his private chambers, emerging occasionally to make wild proclamations and rant about the lost glory of the Duscht Empire. Thus when the Warlord’s herald came to demand the surrender of the Duscht people, it was the boy-king Sanguinius at the head of the Duscht steel legions that came to parley with the Warlord.

When Sanguinius stepped into the Warlord’s command tent and saw his face, it took all of Sanguinius’ will not to fall to his knees, for he knew with certainty that this was the great golden man he had dreamed of. The Warlord, noting the young man’s hesitation, is said to have greeted him with a half-smile and asked, “Is aught the matter?” to which Sanguinius simply replied, “I dreamed of you.”

The beginning of the negotiations was simple enough, for Sanguinius was already willing to pledge fealty and offer the technology of the genesmiths to the Warlord. Yet when Sanguinius requested mercy for his people, the discussions grew heated.

The Warlord was benevolent but possessed of an iron sense of justice, and in his eyes the cruelty of the Duscht people demanded harsh sanction. The specifics are lost to history, but the argument is said to have stretched long into the night, with Sanguinius pleading, protesting, and threatening in turn, and the Warlord impassively countering each rhetorical thrust. Finally, Sanguinius offered his own life in return for mercy for his people, for he declared that as the culmination of the Baal bloodline, the sins of his house were for him to bear.

Impressed by the earnest conviction of the young man, the Warlord relented. The Warlord demanded that the slaves were to be freed and the possessions of the nobility were to be seized and distributed among them, and that each house would serve in the Warlord’s armies as penance. Sanguinius himself would be their general, and their duty would be to go where the fighting was thickest and lead the charge. Finally collapsing to his knees from relief, Sanguinius accepted without hesitation.

With the secrets and technology of the Duscht genesmiths, the Warlord perfected the final design iteration for his Astartes warriors, the Mark III augmentation pattern, of which Sanguinius and his fellow primarchs to-be Vulkan and Lion El’Jonson were the prototypes. On them, the Warlord ordered the genesmiths to lavish their full expertise and to spare no cost, pushing the boundaries of their arcane knowledge.

When the three men emerged they were indeed without any of the flaws and mutations that had plagued the earlier Astartes generations, with strength and abilities far exceeding those of their existing fellows. However, the cost was astronomical and the process too slow to be viable on a large scale, thus for the mass production Mark III pattern the improvements were mostly limited to eliminating the flaws in the Mark II, keeping a roughly similar or perhaps marginally higher level of strength. The prototype Mark III design was archived, and later used for the most elite warriors of the Imperium, the Custodes and the Grey Knights.

For the rest of the Unification Wars, Sanguinius and his legion served with distinction, winning fame for their lightning assaults against even the most entrenched of foes, the Astartes descending as streaks of crimson on wings of burning ash and flame as they followed their general into battle. With his purity of spirit and the oneness of their shared vision for humanity, he won the trust and confidence of the Warlord and became a close advisor, making his eventual elevation to Primarch a mere formality. Thus when the Warlord became the Steward of the Empty Throne and proclaimed the Great Crusade, it was the fleets of the IX Legion with Primarch Sanguinius at the helm that were in the vanguard, blazing a trail into the darkness.

Sanguinius’ legend grew as he and his legion pacified world after world, a magnificent sight to behold as he soared over the battlefield on immense white wings to slay the enemies’ generals and greatest champions. Yet it was not only for feats of arms that he was revered as the “Angel”. Worlds blighted by mutation that would have been purged by other legions instead found themselves welcomed into the safety of the Imperium by the IX Legion, and broken peoples barely recognizable as human for the first time experienced the warmth of kinship and camaraderie.

The IX Legion soon won the moniker of “Blood Angels,” for their nobility of spirit and devotion to the shared blood of mankind. Soon, tales of the great Angel and his warriors spread across the oppressed people of the galaxy, and many rose in joyous rebellion against their alien overlords when the great Angel and his red warriors appeared in the skies above their worlds.

Amongst his brother Primarchs, Sanguinius found comrades and friends of his own. Well liked or at least well respected by most of the Primarchs, Sanguinius was particularly close with Horus and Vulkan. In him, “Old Man Roboute” finally had a willing audience for his lectures on strategy and logistics, and Fulgrim found a kindred spirit with an appreciation of art and philosophy, the greatest achievements of man. Sanguinius’ relationship with Angron was complicated, troubled by Angron’s unpredictable madness. On good days, theirs was a friendly rivalry as each legion strove to claim the title of finest assault troops in the Imperium; on others, Angron viewed the Angel as an upstart pretender without respect for his elders and resented the Angel's pity, and they had to be separated lest they come to blows. Curze and Mortarion despised Sanguinius as naïve and foolish, and Sanguinius despised them in turn for obvious reasons, Mortarion in particular for he reminded Sanguinius far too much of his own father.

When the Steward with Eldrad at his side first proposed the idea of an alliance with the Eldar to his gathered Primarchs at the Council of Nikaea, Sanguinius was one of the first to speak out in favor, for he believed all sapient beings willing to work towards peace, prosperity, and the good of mankind had a rightful place within the Imperium. Later, he would be part of the great raid on the twisted realms of Nurgle, and nearly perished there in the stinking hellscape.

As the raiding party retreated to the portal with Isha in tow, they received word that Eldrad and his council of seers holding the portal open in realspace had come under ferocious daemonic assault, and that the portal was failing rapidly. As the allied forces rushed to the exit, Sanguinius lingered trying to save the lives of several wounded Exarchs and Astartes. It was only through the combined heroics of Lion El’Jonson, Jaghatai Khan, and the Phoenix Lords Asurmen and Baharroth that he survived, as they carved a path through the hordes of slavering monstrosities to drag the Angel through the collapsing portal.

The next few years represented the high water mark of the Great Crusade as the Imperium expanded at an unprecedented rate, fueled by their new allies and technology. World after world was brought into the Imperium, and Sanguinius dared to hope that his dream of a gentler future could truly come to pass.

Then the War of the Beast came.

The hordes of the Orks, Chaos Eldar, and Dark Eldar smashed through the fledging Imperium, plunging it into darkness, and where there was hope and opportunity before there was now only a desperate struggle against extinction. The Blood Angels fought as they always had, leading the attack in the most vicious fighting, the tip of the Imperium’s spear, and inspiring fellow troops through deeds of valor and sacrifice. Many a Warboss, Archon, or Chaos Seer met his end at the blades of a squad of Blood Angels, only for the Astartes to be surrounded and cut down by the enraged foe. The loss of leaders sowed disruption and chaos in the enemy forces, yet for all the Blood Angels’ sacrifice it could only slow the enemy’s inexorable advance.

Those within the Imperium who fell traitor learned that Sanguinius was not all kindness, and found themselves hunted without mercy by the vengeful Blood Angels. Perhaps it was because the traitors sought to tear down his cherished dream of a peaceful future, or perhaps it was because they spat on the mercy and acceptance of the Steward that Sanguinius and his Duscht people had sacrificed so much to earn back on Terra long ago. Whatever the reason, he reserved a special savagery for those who turned their backs on the Imperium. It is said that after witnessing the carnage wrought on an entire regiment of Traitor Guard by a single squad of Blood Angels, a shocked Imperial Army general called High Command to ask “Where are the Angels I was promised? Who are these flesh tearers?”

And so the war ground on. Peace was a distant dream, and for the Men and Eldar of the Imperium there was only cold, quiet determination, defying a cruel fate in the face of a hateful and malicious universe. Worlds burned, trillions died, and across the galaxy the Blood Angels could be found neck deep in the thickest battles. Many battles were on the most populated worlds of the Imperium, and the Blood Angels would fulfill their devotion to mankind as they fought in rearguard actions to save civilians and evacuees, these valiant defenses all too often becoming last stands.

Captain Malakim and his doomed 29th Company became everlasting symbols of this devotion when they gave their lives to the man securing the evacuation of hive-world Ancalagon. Ancalagon had been the greatest world of Subsector Urulok, and the invasion of the world was particularly savage, representing the greatest concentration of Ork and Chaos Eldar forces in the subsector.
The Imperial defenders led by the Blood Angels were inevitably pushed back to the walls of the last hive, with millions of civilians yet to evacuate. Primarch Corvus Corax, commanding forces in a nearby subsector, repeatedly ordered the remaining Imperial forces to retreat and regroup to conserve their strength, yet Captain Malakim refused, for doing so would have doomed the millions of civilians to butchery or enslavement at the hands of the invaders. The Imperial defense held just long enough for the final transports to clear the spaceport, and as the hive walls were overrun the Chaos Seer leading the Chaos Eldar touched Captain Malakim’s mind to taunt him and savor his despair. Yet the alien only found calm and peace, and in response Captain Malakim sent out a final vox transmission.

Across the ruined world and the Imperial starships high above the words rang out, “For those we cherish, we die in glory!” Minutes later, enormous explosions visible from orbit erupted across the planet as hidden Cyclonic Torpedoes detonated, remotely triggered by the cessation of the heartbeat of the last Blood Angel defender. The massive loss crippled the Ork and Chaos Eldar forces in the subsector, and the regiments later raised from the evacuees won renown as some of the fiercest in the Imperial Army with their warcry, “Remember the blessed 29th!”

Through it all, Sanguinius could be found leading his Blood Angels in the most perilous of missions, or offering a kind word to faltering Guardsmen and a gentle touch to traumatized refugees. He ignored the criticisms that his men’s sacrifices were wasteful and pointless, the sneers that they could have done much more had they only the wisdom to regroup and fight another day. For Sanguinius knew that each civilian saved was another who could fight, build, and carry on the legacy of man, a precious spark of humanity, and that in a war as horrific as this morale and hope were as powerful as any weapon or starship or fortress.

Yet his men noticed a change in their beloved Primarch, subtle as it was, a restlessness and grimness he could not always hide. For Sanguinius’ visions were growing stronger, and each night, pounding at his consciousness, he saw his own death again and again. He knew it would be at the hands of a great monstrosity as he stood between it and the Steward, and that his time was growing short. Death held no fear for Sanguinius, but it was the fate of mankind that gave him pause; humanity was balanced on the knife’s edge, extinction a mere slip away. Even if the gentler future of his dreams was realized, Sanguinius knew he would not be there to see it, but he would give everything to ensure it would come to pass.

In the last days of the war, as the unstoppable hordes of the Beast, Dark Eldar, and Chaos Eldar converged on humanity’s final bastion, the Primarchs and their legions raced home to Terra to fortify their homeworld for the coming onslaught. Across the soil of Terra, the Men and Eldar of the Imperium prepared for their last stand, standing side by side to shout defiance at the hatred of the galaxy:

Here, a squad of Guardsmen drawn from a dozen worlds of the Imperium place sandbags around a hospital in the shadow of a towering Wraithlord, pausing occasionally to marvel at the gleaming colossus;

Bonesingers weave armored shells around the frames of hulking Imperial tanks, as nearby techpriests chitter with anxiety;

In a long abandoned church a Word Bearer Chaplain preaches to a motley crowd of humans and Eldar, rainbow lights from ancient stained-glass dancing on his brow, fire and ecstasy burning in his breast;

A mother comforts her weeping child as they are shepherded onto an evacuation ship under the watchful eye of an Ultramarine, the boy still reaching for the picture he dropped of his fallen father;

At the edge of their camp, in an old garden under the light of the stars, a tall Aspect Warrior kisses an astonished guardswomen and smiles at her joy;

And far above in the night sky, the greatest fleets of Men and Eldar float amidst the gloom, blotting out the stars with their number, ready to stand and spit light and fire against the coming forces of the dark.

Secluded in the great halls in the Imperial Palace, the Steward with his Primarchs and Eldrad with his seers laid their plans for the coming invasion. Agreements were made and bitter arguments were fought. Many of the Primarchs requested the honor of defending the Imperial Palace itself, and the Steward heard them each in turn, from the impassioned pleas of Lorgar to the cold growls of Dorn.

Yet when the Steward turned to Sanguinius, expecting a fervent request for the honor from his old friend, he found only tranquility. Sanguinius rose from his seat, and said, “That I shall die before the walls of this palace is beyond doubt. My destiny comes and I go to it with peace in my heart.”

The Steward recognized the calm conviction in the Angel’s eyes. It was the same look he had seen so many years ago when he first met Sanguinius as the Warlord in his command tent, and Sanguinius had offered his life for mercy for his people. It was the look of a man who had wholly accepted and welcomed his death for a greater purpose, and would go to it without fear and regret.

Moved by his words, the Steward accepted the request. So it was that when the Chaos armada forced its way to Terra and its unending hordes began their assault on the Imperial Palace, they found the proud Blood Angels manning the great walls, with Sanguinius, his elite First Company, and the legendary Custodes defending the Eternity Gate.

The Beast was possessed of greater cunning and primal intelligence than most of his species, and began the assault by probing the defense of the palace, looking for a weakness. When none were found, he sent his the masses of his most expendable troops to overwhelm the defense with the crushing weight numbers.

But Dorn and Perturabo had done their work well. Automated defense turrets gunned down hordes of Orks before they even reached the firing range of the Blood Angels, and those that survived ended up in carefully designed killing fields with no cover and no escape. Overhead, Ork jets and stormboyz crashed screaming off the palace void shields, or were frozen by stasis fields to be picked off by lance batteries at leisure.

Yet for all of Dorn and Perturabo’s defensive genius, the palace was simply not designed to hold off numbers of this magnitude, for who could have predicted a Waaagh comprised of a full half of the Orks in the galaxy? After several days of fighting a flaw emerged: the immense piles of dead Orks were obscuring crucial firing angles for the defensive turrets, and had grown so tall in some places that the greenskins were using them to climb up the previously impregnable walls. The Imperial Palace was too vast to fully hold against so numerous a foe, thus Sanguinius ordered his forces to withdraw to the secondary defensive positions, cunningly designed to minimize the advantage of numbers and to funnel the enemy towards the entrenched elites defending the Eternity Gate. Thus it was the days after the breaching of the walls that the historians consider the true Siege of the Imperial Palace.

The first day of the siege consisted of more Orks, though now they included more than just mere boyz. In the Orkish hordes now came nobz and weirdboyz, flash gitz and kommandoz, all roaring for battle and eager to spill the blood of humanity.

The first greenskins to enter the Grand Plaza of the Eternity Gate were greeted with a magnificent sight before they were gunned down: the white-winged Angel surrounded by his warriors resplendent in red, while beside them stood the gold-clad figures of the Custodes with their Lord Commander Arik Taranis at the forefront, holding aloft the great Banner of Unification, its length equal to full five Astartes. Behind them, a giant Aquila spread its wings on the massive adamantium Eternity Gate, protecting the Throne Room command center where the Steward and Eldrad commanded the forces of Terra, telepathically linked with thousands of their commanders to coordinate with perfect precision and unison.

The two sides met in the middle of the plaza with a resounding crash, howling as their blades sought the blood of their hated foes. Chainswords tore flesh, power klawz ripped bodies, and the dead and wounded were trampled underfoot in the savage melee. Lord Commander Taranis won the greatest deed of the day, slaying the Warboss leading the Orks by impaling him on the Banner of Unification and lifting his still screaming body into the air for all to see, as Sanguinius held off the Warboss’ nob retinue.

By nightfall, the tide of Orks slowed, for their poor eyesight would have put them at a great disadvantage against the enhanced Astartes and the Beast would not waste his troops here. As the last Ork died gurgling with a sword rammed through its chest, the defenders found a moment of respite to pray for the dead, celebrate the deeds of the living, and prepare for the next day.

The start of the second day consisted of more Orks, though by mid-morning it was clear something was amiss. The Ork forces were in disarray, even for their crude standard of organization, and reports came from the secondary Blood Angel positions that an unknown force was attacking the Orks in the rear. When lithe figures in black cut down the last of the Orks and stepped into the great plaza, it became all to clear: the Dark Eldar had come. In their sadistic greed, they had seen a opportunity to capture the unfathomable prizes of the Steward and Eldrad at the same time, and believing the Blood Angels to be worn down they had come in full force to break the defenders.

The Dark Eldar were a deadly foe: Astartes and Custodes died screaming as the enemy weapons inflicted agony that overcame even their enhanced physiologies and mental conditioning. Yet the vile invaders had blundered in their greed and haste: for all their lethal skill and precision, the Dark Eldar were not assault troops, their equipment and tactics unsuited for the grinding attrition of siege warfare, and Sanguinius and his scions quickly showed them their error.

With no space to maneuver and dodge in the packed plaza, sculpted, graceful bodies shaped by the finest of Comorragh’s flesh arts were crushed under ceramite and steel as easily as any Ork boy. Three entire Wych cults were eradicated that day, with Sanguinius personally cutting down the three Succubi that led them. As night fell, once again the enemy withdrew, consumed by infighting as the ever-scheming Archons used the chaos to usurp weakened rivals or settle old scores. There was no levity this night for the defenders: their wounds and exhaustion prevented such efforts, and battered armor and weapons required their attention.

The dawn of the third day was unusually still, the Orks and Dark Eldar nowhere to be found. For a moment, the defenders wondered if the xenos had retreated to seek an easier target, but when the morning quiet was shattered by the pounding of unholy war drums, eldritch howls, ululating chants, and gibbering laughter, the xenos’ absence became clear.

The dread legions of Chaos crested the great stairway of the plaza in a screeching tide of twisted flesh: hordes of savage Bloodletters, sinuous Daemonettes, and rotted Plaguebearers, howling and eager to feast on the souls of the defenders. Beside them were mobs of cultists, cowardly, wretched things skulking in the shadows of their masters and chanting hymns of praise to their dark gods, hoping to gain a few scraps of favor.

Throughout the horde, the defenders glimpsed the Chaos Eldar, impossibly beautiful and perfect, their every movement liquid and effortless, their flawless faces belying the wild and fickle cruelty within. Ceramite gauntlets tightened around the hilt of swords and bolters as the Astartes gazed with hatred on a row of hulking figures, their fallen comrades the Traitor Marines. At their front strode the Arch-Heretic Erebus, once honored as First Captain of the Word Bearers and Living Saint of the Katholian Church, now reviled as the Dark Oracle and First Traitor.

Above the teeming corrupted multitude stood the four greatest servants of the Ruinous Powers, looming over their minions: Kairos Fateweaver, the ancient Lord of Change; Scabeiathrax the Bloated, the laughing and virulent Great Unclean One; Zarakynel the Bringer of Torments, the most favored Keeper of Secrets; and the mighty Ka’Bandha, bloodiest of Khorne’s Bloodthirsters.

Such a sight could have driven men to madness or despair; this was an army to crush entire sectors and devour the souls of species. Yet the Blood Angels and Custodes raised their blades aloft and shouted warcries and challenges at the dark horde, spitting defiance and insults in the faces of the dark gods. For they had armored themselves in faith and duty, purpose and loyalty, and there were no flaws upon their souls where weakness could take hold.

With the mournful blare of warhorns, the daemonic forces broke rank and thundered through the plaza. Astartes and Custodes had only moments to ready themselves before the wave crashed into their ranks. Daemonic hellblades tore through ceramite with unholy strength, impaling Astartes’ twin hearts in a single blow. Blasts of swirling warpfire incinerated men where they stood, armor and all, and still others were melted into puddles of festering ooze by hellish plagues and toxins.

Yet for every loss they suffered, the defenders retaliated tenfold. The searing touch of holy promethium and plasma cleansed corrupted flesh, and ancient power weapons sang their songs of death and lightning as the Astartes hewed through the enemy ranks. Vanguard veterans descended from on high, lashing out with bolt and blade and scattering the enemy before them, while Librarians wove great nimbuses of lightning and incinerated scores of demons with a gesture.

It is said that only in the crucible of trials and hardship does a man find his true worth, and humanity’s darkest hour also proved its finest. The Blood Angels fought with the fury of humanity itself, and their deeds that day would echo through history, to be sung of in the future even as the embers of civilization smoldered and the darkness drew near.

Chief Librarian Sandelon was the first to slay one of the Greater Daemons. As the battle swirled around him, the great librarian found himself facing Scabeiathrax, and without a flicker of hesitation he hurled himself at the massive, bloated daemon. The Blood Angel tore great gouges into the beast’s stinking flesh with his force staff and lances of crimson lightning, skillfully dodging between the beast’s cumbersome counterstrikes. However, for a heartbeat, the librarian was distracted as he turned to parry the strikes of a Chaos Astartes attacking his flank, and the momentarily lull in his defenses was enough: the Great Unclean One skewered Sandelon at the end of its massive, rusted cleaver, chortling to itself as its prey writhed on the end of its weapon. But Sandelon would not die.

With his rage and sheer force of will he anchored his soul to his dying body, and grasping the cleaver with both hands impaled himself further, bringing him within striking range of the daemon’s head. With a roar he rammed his force staff through the daemon’s skull, and focused all his pain and rage into a maelstrom of searing lightning through the staff.

The greater daemon howled and twisted in pain and fear as it burned from the inside out, slabs of flesh blackening and sloughing from its massive body, until at last it was nothing more than piles of charred, smoking meat, and its soul was sent screaming back into the realms of the warp. Only then did Sandelon close his eyes, a grim smile of satisfaction on his lips, and allow his soul to depart, his ravaged body at last going limp as he left to join his fallen brothers.

Elsewhere on the battlefield, Captain Azkaellon of the First Company, famed leader of the Sanguinary Guard, slew a dozen Chaos Lords in succession as they stepped forth to challenge his Primarch while Sanguinius dueled Erebus. Their weapons clashed for the better part of an hour, great bursts of light and warp energy erupted from the points of contact between the radiant blade of gold and the cruel mace of black. Finally, Sanguinius found an opening in Erebus’ defenses, and with a flourish he disarmed the Arch-Heretic, before severing both the traitor’s arms with a sweep of his burning blade.

Zarakynel was slain by Commander Taranis, the mighty Custodes parrying and dashing through the flashing, quicksilver strikes of the Keeper of Secrets. With a single blow of his right hand, the Commander bisected the daemon at the waist, all while firm grasping the Banner of Unification in his left.

Yet for all the deeds of heroism performed that day, the greatest was surely the Banishing of Ka’Bandha. The towering Bloodthirster was more akin to a force of nature, its great axe and nine-tailed scourge were streaks of blood as it cleaved through scores of Astartes and Custodes with contemptuous ease, and the Imperial defenders were forced to cede ground to it rampaged across the plaza.

Filled with fury at the deaths of so many of his men, Sanguinius rallied his Sanguinary Guard and together they crashed into the path of the berserk daemon. The blades of Astartes and daemon lashed out, slashing and hacking, as Sanguinius and his Guard pressed the daemon. As they fought, a score of the Sanguinary Guard were slain, each a mighty hero the Blood Angels in his own right. Yet not even Ka’Bandha could stand in the face of so many lethal warriors, and it was forced back, bleeding from dozens of wounds.

Flapping its great leather wings, it launched itself into the air seeking a respite, but Sanguinius followed, chasing the massive daemon into the sky on wings of white. In the air, they clashed and broke away, seeking greater height before clashing again. The nimbler Angel darted around the heavy Bloodthirster, swooping and twisting, dodging the daemon’s blows and inflicting a dozen more wounds on the beast. Sensing the daemon was slowing, Sanguinius pressed his advantage, and in a blur of speed, he slashed through the daemon’s right wing, sending the beast hurtling down to the plaza far below.

It landed with a thundering crash, crushing the granite and gouging a huge crater, and a few seconds later Sanguinius landed, driving his boot into the daemon’s head with all the force of his dive. As the daemon struggled to rise, faithful Azkaellon slashed through the daemon’s remaining wing as Sanguinius drove his sword through its throat. With the beast weakened, Sanguinius flung aside his blade and grabbed the Bloodthirster by its legs and throat, and with a heroic burst of strength lifted the beast above his head and dashed him against his knee, tearing the daemon in two with his force. The warriors of Chaos looked on in shock as Sanguinius flung the two pieces of the mighty demon into their ranks, while Ka’Bandha's soul was flung screaming into the warp to beg forgiveness at the feet of Khorne.

And so the battle raged on. Kairos Fateweaver was the last of the Greater Daemons to fall, screaming in rage and disbelief as it’s carefully laid plans were ruined, its frail body pulverized by the thunder hammers of a dozen vengeful Blood Angel Terminators.

Though their greatest champions had been cast down, the forces of Chaos did not relent. Night fell and there was no respite that evening, for daemons did not suffer from frailties like fear or exhaustion, and their mortal servants would never dare retreat lest they invite the displeasure of their fickle masters. Long into the night, the sounds of battle echoed through the darkened plaza, the shadowy figures of daemon and Astartes illuminated only by the brief flashes of power weapons and bolter muzzles, and the ghostly glow of plasma and warpfire.

Dawn broke as the last of the daemons were slain and banished to the warp, and the first rays of the sun touched on a hellish scene. The plaza was a mire of gore and viscera, so thick that the granite floor could not be seen beneath clotting pools of purple and red and brown, an accumulation of blood spilled over three days of ceaseless battle. Greasy tongues of black smoke reached into the sky from pyres of corpses fifty feet high, as alien, traitor, and daemon alike were fed into the fire. Amongst the dead stood the few survivors, lonely figures of red and gold, the proud First Company of the Blood Angels and the legendary Adeptus Custodes reduced to a meager handful. They knelt above the bodies of their fallen brothers, the dead outnumbering the living, and no words were spoken as each man offered his silent prayers to the fallen. The honored dead, who just a few hours ago had been friends, comrades, and battle-brothers, were now reduced to corpses, cold and silent, by the savagery of the xenos, the treachery of man, and the hatred of Chaos.

Yet even in this time of their greatest weariness and sorrow, there was no time for rest. Frantic calls came from the perimeter, voices raw from battle and disbelief as the scouts reported a monstrous Ork the size of a building advancing towards the Eternity Gate, surrounded by a horde of Nobz as big as Warbosses. The Imperial defenders gritted their teeth and gripped their swords, rising on legs worn from days of relentless fighting. The Beast itself had come. Yet when they turned to their Primarch for orders, they found that Sanguinius was still kneeling amongst the dead. They shouted but he did not hear, they shook him but he did not feel; for the visions had come again, stronger than ever before. They assailed his mind, overwhelming thought, a thousand variations and permutations of his impending death: crushed beneath a foot the size of a land speeder, impaled on the end of jagged claws, swatted out of the air to be hacked down by swarming Nobz, and a thousand other ends too brutal to imagine. Any lesser man would have been driven to madness by the phantom pain, but Sanguinius summoned all his will and forced the visions back, suppressing them until they were not gone but at least tolerable, and his mind was his own once more. He rose on unsteady legs to the relief of his men, and together the defenders pulled back from across the plaza. Sanguinius shouted orders as the Astartes and Custodes readied their weapons and gathered in a tight defensive circle before the Eternity Gate itself. Here, they would stand. Here, they would die.

The Beast announced its presence long before it reached the plaza, the ground itself dully reverberating with the weight of its steps. Steadily, the tremors grew stronger, until at least the Beast strode into view, granite cracking and splintering beneath its steps, its horde of hulking Nobz following close behind. Partway into the plaza, the Orks stopped, and for a few moments an eerie silence hung over the plaza as the two sides surveyed each other.

The Imperial defenders gazed for the first time on the monstrous Beast, whom before they had only heard of through hearsay and scattered reports. It was even more ferocious in the flesh: a towering monstrosity almost forty feet tall, defying all laws of nature and biology. Tusks as wide as a man jutted from its jaw and its gargantuan frame bulged with enough alien muscle to tear apart an Imperial Knight. It bore no weapons, instead grafting individual power field generators onto its jagged claws, and its crude armor was formed from the plates of destroyed Baneblades and Titans.

Even a spirit as pure and tireless as Sanguinius could be worn down. For days, he had faced the most terrible and nightmarish foes of humanity in endless combat, seen thousands of cherished friends and comrades butchered, resisted haunting visions of death and madness that would have broken any lesser man; and as Sanguinius gazed upon the overwhelming and terrible form of the Beast, for the first time he felt doubt.

What if it had all been useless?
What if all their struggle and sacrifice was for naught, and the light of humanity was snuffed out?
What if he failed?

Sensing an opening, the faintest blemish on Sanguinius’ soul, the dark gods of Chaos struck.
Creeping tendrils of dark thought seeped into his mind, offers and seductions, promises of power enough to fulfill all his dreams.

''Kneel before me,'' boomed a voice of hot iron and raw power, ''and I shall give you and your soldiers such strength that none may stand before you, and the whole galaxy shall know peace under the might of your legions.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius himself leading the invincible legions of the Imperium to victory after glorious victory, sweeping away the enemies of man until only an iron peace remained, enforced under his watchful eye.

''Join me,'' said a voice of chortling mirth and boundless life, ''and man will never again fear the blight of mortality or the frailties of flesh, and you shall be free to spread across the galaxy to spread life wherever you tread.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius saw joyous families, untouched by age or weakness, venturing forth on great journeys of discovery, colonizing virgin worlds and facing the challenges of the galaxy with optimism and camaraderie.

''Serve me,'' rasped a voice of eldritch cunning and ancient wisdom, ''and I shall grant you wisdom and foresight, and all the knowledge of the lost golden age of man.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius saw all the ancient wonders of humanity restored as man, filled with wisdom and understanding, walked among the stars to reclaim the galaxy with knowledge and technology.

''Come with me,'' said a voice of whispering silk and untamed passion, ''and humanity shall be made tall and strong and golden, shaped in your image and as perfect as you.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius saw golden men and women, as tall and strong as he, striding across the stars without fear, their wings carrying them over the skies of distant worlds

The voices grew louder, each clamoring to be heard, sometimes working in concert to sway him, sometimes working to undermine the others. But they agreed on one thing: the way forward was so simple, so clear, and Sanguinius only need reach out to grasp the power and opportunity offered to him. Sanguinius was granted one final vision: he saw himself in the Throne Room of the palace, warpfire dancing in his eyes, the power of the Warp overflowing from his body. Before him, a bleeding Steward kneeled at his feet, and to his side the headless body of Eldrad lay discarded, the blind eyes of the severed head frozen in an accusatory glare. Reaching down, Sanguinius hauled the Steward upright as the voices exulted and laughed, and with a leering smile shoved his golden sword through the Steward’s chest.

''No.''

In an instant the voices recoiled, and Sanguinius’ eyes snapped open. He had not realized they were closed.
''Only creatures as foul and debased as you would think that virtue could be gifted, that loyalty could be bought and bartered,'' he thundered in his mind. ''Strength does not come from might of arms, but from clarity of purpose and force of will. Joy does not come from a long life, but from a life well-lived. Wisdom does not come from arcane secrets, but from experience hard won in the trials of life. Perfection does not come through fairness of form and mind, but from struggle, sacrifice, and the will to better oneself, the noblest virtues of man.''
''Your pathetic entreaties have failed, false gods. Flee back to your twisted realms and think upon your failure, that for all your supposed power you could not sway this man to your cause. Know that though you have thrown all your greatest champions and sorceries and horrors against the bastion of humanity, we live on, and that man will rise from these ashes, stronger for having risen above such adversity. Know that man will one day conquer his baser self, that you will wither and starve, and far in the future when you have long disappeared, the light of humanity will continue to shine from the stars, until the universe itself comes to a close.''

And the voices howled and cursed, the Ruinous Powers swearing bloody vengeance upon Sanguinius and his kin. He took a moment to savor their impotent rage and smiled briefly, and then with a shout he banished the Chaos gods from his mind.

Though the dark gods had whispered their lies for what seemed like hours, only moments had passed in reality, and both the orks and the Imperial defenders were stirring. The horde of Nobz bellowed war chants and smashed their weapons together, raising a crashing din of guttural roars and ringing metal. The Beast itself was still motionless, its eyes surveying the Astartes with malevolent cunning.

Around Sanguinius, his men were springing into motion. Captain Azkaellon shouted for reinforcements through his vox receiver, calling for the secondary Blood Angel forces within the Imperial Palace to hurry to the plaza and for the assistance of any other Imperial forces in the vicinity. The few remaining librarians readied their powers, sparks swirling about their temples and fingers, as Astartes and Custodes checked armor and weapons battered from days of combat, adjusted sights, and muttered quiet prayers.

The ground shook as the Beast finally began to move. With slow, ponderous steps, it walked out in front of the horde, waving the eager Nobz back as they tried to follow; one Nob foolhardy enough to follow was pulverized into a smear by a casual swing of the Beast’s massive fist.

Across the plaza, Sanguinius did likewise, striding out alone against the protests of his men, shaking off Azkaellon as his captain begged him not to face the Beast alone. The Steward in the Throne Room had sensed the presence of the Beast, and as he touched Sanguinius’ mind he knew in an instant that the Angel meant to face the Beast unaided. The Steward urgently ordered his old friend to retreat to the Throne Room so that they might face it together, but Sanguinius refused, for to do so would have endangered the very survival of humanity.

The Steward was psychically linked with thousands of his commanders as he orchestrated the Imperial forces across Terra, and it was only through his military genius that they held, the armies of men and Eldar acting in perfect unison as they threw back wave after wave of fouls xenos and the forces of Chaos. Distracting the Steward would imperil all the forces of Terra and the survival of humanity, for even if the Beast were slain, Terra would fall should the rest of the planet be lost. Knowing he could not sway Sanguinius’ decision, the Steward could only powerlessly observe as Sanguinius bade him farewell, and met the Beast in the middle of the plaza.

Man cannot be brave without fear, nor can he have faith without doubt, and once again fear and doubt welled in Sanguinius’ heart as the terrible figure of the Beast grew larger in his vision. Not fear or doubt for himself, for death held no sway over him. No, it was fear for the future of man, for their fate hung in the balance, the existence of his entire species to be decided in the coming moments. It was doubt for the very meaning of his struggle, for while Sanguinius would gladly sacrifice himself a thousand times over, he wondered if even his greatest efforts could alter the cruel whims of fate.

But unlike before, when these weaknesses had gnawed on his resolve and allowed an opening for the whispers of Chaos, he now let them pass through him, accepting and facing down these unfamiliar feelings. And as they swirled inside them, he found a rock hard seed of hope deep in the core of his being. For Sanguinius believed in the spirit of man: in man’s resiliency, the sheer dogged stubbornness and will to endure; in his nobility, the greatness of heart and will to strive towards a better future; in his capacity for hope, the daring to dream even in the face of unfathomable darkness. And he believed in the Steward, his liege, his friend, his brother.

Thus from the dark waters of doubt did the great rock of faith rise, renewed and immovable. Sanguinius felt his fears for the future of man dissipate, for he knew that humanity would carry on and flourish far into the future even without him to protect it, and with fresh eyes, he gazed upon the Beast and knew that even such a monster could not stand in the way of humanity’s ascent. Fear became bravery and tranquility; his mind was his own, his will was pure. In the middle of the plaza, as the Beast loomed over him, Sanguinius took a slow breath and savored his last quiet moment.

The tension broke as Sanguinius burst into motion, moving so quickly he was a blur even to the enhanced senses of his Astartes. With all his righteous fury and strength he surged into the air and slashed at the Beast’s head, the massive Ork barely catching the strike in time with its armored fist. The Beast staggered back several steps from the force of the blow as the Blood Angels and Custodes looked on in awe at the power of the Primarch, and the Ork’s features twisted into a leering grin of approval, acknowledging Sanguinius’ strength. It struck back, faster than anything that huge had right to be, so fast even Sanguinius barely had time to react. The servos in Sanguinius’ armor whirred and screeched as mechanical muscle and his own superhuman frame struggled to parry the Ork’s counterblow, the power fields around the Beast’s claws crackling as they skimmed the golden relic armor.

And so the Beast and the Angel fought, the smaller frame of Sanguinius darting and striking between the Beast’s thunderbolt blows. The duel stretched on, with neither side seeming to take the advantage, and the Blood Angels allowed themselves to hope, to believe that their Primarch could win. Such hope was futile. Sanguinius could not have defeated the Beast alone even were he rested and at his full strength, perhaps fighting the monster to a standstill at best. But Sanguinius was not rested; he was wounded and weary from days of battle against the most savage foes of man, and as the duel continued blood trickled from his armor as days-old wounds reopened under the ferocious strain of combat.

A low rumble came from the Beast then, a sound of grating iron and gloating amusement, and the Astartes realized it was laughing. The Beast’s fist whipped forward in a blur, catching Sanguinius in a misstep as the massive punch caught the Angel in the chest, and he was thrown hurtling through the air, crashing through one of the few remaining statues in the plaza before tumbling to a halt on the shattered granite.

With a cry, the remaining Astartes and Custodes rushed forward to the aid of their Primarch, determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible, and from the other end of the plaza the horde of Nobz broke ranks as well, no longer able to contain their bloodlust. As Sanguinius struggled to his feet, armor cracked and blood matting his golden hair and white wings, he gazed into the mocking black eyes of his hated foe and he vowed that the Beast would not leave the plaza without bleeding dearly. In a moment, Azkaellon was at his side, pulling him to his feet, and Sanguinius joined his men in their final charge across the plaza.

Even as exhausted as they were, the Blood Angels each fought with unmatched valor: individual Astartes held off a dozen Nobz as others hurled themselves at the Beast, sacrificing themselves to try to force an opening in the monster’s defenses. The Beast was more than eager to oblige, roaring as it swiped left and right, crushing scores of Astartes with each blow. Before the unstoppable blows of the Beast and the crushing numbers of Nobz, the defenders were forced back across the plaza, until they were backed up to the steps before the Eternity Gate itself.

As his men died to the last around him, Sanguinius finally sensed an opening in the Beast’s defenses. He made a quick gesture at Azkaellon who understood immediately, and the captain flew into the air, flame roaring from his jump pack as he slashed at the Beast’s face, distracting the Ork.

As the faithful captain was crushed by the monster’s fist, Sanguinius summoned the final reserves of his strength and leaped with a great flap of his wings. Blinded by the smoke and flame in its eyes, the Beast was caught unaware as Sanguinius descended from on high and plunged his golden blade through crude armor plates, deep into its chest, seeking the heart that lay beneath. The Beast roared in pain as the sword carved open a massive wound, thick spurts of blood bursting forth, but as Sanguinius drew his sword from the Ork’s chest it caught in the sternum bone, and the momentary pause was enough. The Beast’s hand shot up and seized the Primarch from the air, pinning Sanguinius within the massive fist.

Outside the plaza, the other Blood Angel companies had rushed to aid of their Primarch and First Company upon hearing Azkaellon’s call for reinforcements. They neared the plaza as Sanguinius was dueling the Beast, but they found their way blocked by the horde of Nobz, and even with all their desperate strength, they could not break through the wall of hulking greenskins, for the Orks were simply too savage and too many. It was only upon the arrival of Leman Russ and Lorgar, the only two Primarchs close enough to respond to the call for aid, and their legions of Space Wolves and Word Bearers that the reinforcements were finally able to make headway.

Together, the Blood Angels, Space Wolves, and Word Bearers hacked their way through the Orks and crested the stairs to the plaza just in time to see the Beast grab Sanguinius in its massive fist, the plaza strewn with masses of dead greenskins and lifeless bodies clad in red and gold. As they looked on in stunned horror, Sanguinius turned his head to face them, and against all their expectations, he gently smiled. It was an expression of true warmth, forgiveness, and trust that shone from Sanguinius’ beatific face, a gesture that he did not blame them and that he placed his faith with them to safeguard humanity. In that final moment, as tears welled in their eyes, the Astartes could only watch helplessly as the Beast’s fist closed, and the monster ripped Sanguinius into shreds.

With cries of grief, the Imperial forces threw themselves at the greenskins in a blind rage. Leman Russ led the assault, tearing his way through the Nobz to body of Lord Commander Arik Taranis of the Custodes. There, he seized the fallen Banner of Unification and raised the great standard for the last time, rallying the Imperial forces forward. Yet for all their fury, the Astartes could not cut through the Orks in time, and were forced to watch, helpless once again, as the Beast smashed through the adamantium of the Eternity Gate to face the Steward and Eldrad within the Throne Room.

As the last Ork fell and the Imperial forces made their way to the ruins of the Eternity gate amidst corpses of crimson and gold, they found Eldrad perched upon the massive chest of the lifeless Beast, and the Steward kneeling over a red ruin, cradling the last few pieces of his old friend. Later, Eldrad would confess that they never could have defeated the Beast were it not for the great wound Sanguinius carved into its chest, and in his quiet moments the Steward, later the Emperor, wondered if his friend and brother might have been saved, had he only chosen a different Primarch and legion to defend the palace, or sallied forth from the Throne Room to save the Angel as he dueled the Beast.

In the aftermath of the Battle of Terra, as the forces of Chaos were defeated and driven back from the planet in disarray, the Blood Angels spirited away the remains of Sanguinius to the shattered land of what had once been Duscht Jemanic. There, in the garden of the old Jemanic Palace, they buried Sanguinius in his favorite childhood refuge, a solitary place with a creek, quiet and clear, and where the trees were very old.

As word spread of the Primarch’s death, cries rose from across the Imperium for a great state funeral so that all might participate in grieving and remembering the beloved Angel. The Steward agreed, urging the remaining Blood Angel captains that such gesture would help the survivors and citizens of the Imperium move on from the loss, but they stubbornly refused. Sanguinius would have wanted the resources and efforts of the Imperium focused on rebuilding and moving forward, not spent on lingering in the past, and besides, there was not enough left to fill a casket.

Today, Sanguinius is the most dearly loved of the Primarchs, revered as the Martyr Angel for his great sacrifice. Secrets do not last long in the Imperium, and upon his burial site, where Sanguinius was to rest undisturbed for eternity, there now stands a small chapel, built with reluctance by the Blood Angels when word of their Primarch’s resting place was revealed. It was, after all, better than erecting a massive cathedral there as many demanded. Pilgrims wait for years on end for a chance to enter and glimpse one of the holiest relics in the Imperium: a single white pinion feather from one of Sanguinius’ wings, miraculously untouched by blood or dirt during the four days of the Siege of the Imperial Palace.

Sanguinius is also honored in the yearly celebration of the Sanguinala; coincidentally, his death came three days after his birth on the Terran calendar, so for this span of time all are encouraged to celebrate the Angel’s life and great deeds, and to share in his spirit of goodwill towards all. Traditional decorations of red are hung in homes, and children are told that if they are good, the spirit of Sanguinius will visit them as they sleep and leave presents under their beds.

As for the Blood Angels, the fierce spirit of their Primarch still burns within their twin hearts as brilliantly as it did ten millennia ago. The First Company of their chapter is called the Death Company, in memory of the sacrifice of the entire company when they died at Sanguinius’ side long ago, and when veterans are inducted into this august group they swear the Oath of Black Rage, a remembrance of the helpless grief and fury they felt as they watched their beloved Primarch die.

Amongst Imperial citizens, they are celebrated for their compassion, virtue, and defense of the common man; the melancholy Blood Angel clad in red is a popular figure in Imperial media, most recently in the popular romance Eventide, where a young Eldar farseer is caught between the affections of a rugged Space Wolf and noble Blood Angel. Yet for all the adoration and honors rightly bestowed upon the Blood Angels for their undying defense of the Imperium, the old veterans have begun to wonder if the younger Astartes are becoming vainglorious, and if they are losing the true meaning of sacrifice. Pride is the surest road to damnation, and so they renew their vows of humility and loyalty, remaining vigilant not only in the defense of man but in defense of their own souls.

Beneath the romance of their devotion and nobility is the eternal struggle against the forces of chaos and entropy, the unending duty of the Blood Angels. Like Sanguinius before them, they fight for the dream of humanity even as it stretches before them into an uncertain future. For this dream, they fight and bleed and die to hold the darkness at bay, to halt the dying of the light, even if it is only for a moment.

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== Lion ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Black Knight''''' - or ''The Knight of Franj:''

The story of Lion El'Jonson began over a generation before his actual birth, during the Nordyc-Franj war. Clovis Fouché, king of Franj, had sought the aid of Skand against the invasions of the Tyrant of Gredbriton, and after the Tyrant had been repulsed the Nordyc sought payment for their services. However, King Clovis had proven to be rather miserly with the payment of the debt, and the men of Skand were worried they would never be recompensed. Chief Thengir of the Kalararit was nominated by the chieftains of Skand to travel to Franj to discuss the repayment of the debt with King Clovis.

For whatever reason, the meeting did not go peacefully. The exact nature of the quarrel has been lost to history. The Nordyc claimed that King Clovis tried to short-change them, offering only a pittance in exchange for the blood they had shed. The Franj claimed that Chief Thengir had acted arrogant and disrespectful, behaving more like a conqueror demanding tribute than an ally requesting payment. Whatever the reason, the meeting quickly escalated to violence.

Chief Thengir lost his hand. King Clovis lost his life.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Thus began the Nordyc-Franj war. In retaliation for the death of their king, Franj soldiers devastated huge tracts of Skand and destroyed entire Nordyc villages. The Nordyc responded by launching devastating raids into the heart of Franj territory. The war only ended when the new regent, 15 year old Yolande Fouché, Yolande the Clever, called a meeting with Chief Thengir, now known as Thengir the Cripple, to formally apologize and pay back the remainder of the debt along with a weregild for the lives lost. Nevertheless, a considerable amount of hatred remained between the Nordyc and Franj. Perhaps nowhere was this more pronounced than between the noble family of Jonson and the Kalararit house of Russ, both of whom had been involved in the thickest of the fighting.

As a boy, the Lion grew up with stories of glory and heroism, of knights and warriors. And yet not all of these stories were merely tales of fancy. The Lion grew up idolizing his older brother, Luther El'Jonson, who was at first a Knight of Franj and later, when Franj-Europia had been absorbed into the Imperium, a Mark I Astartes. Luther El'Jonson had won fame for his exploits as a mere squire of 16 in the Nordyc-Franj war, and had only risen in stature since. However, the Sword of Franj had a darker side which was not widely known. Although Luther was a loyal servant of Franj, he greatly disliked the fact that his country was consorting with weak allies, first with the Europia and then later the Imperium itself, when it turned out the Warlord was not as much of a warmonger as Luther expected.

From the moment he was born, it was clear that something was…different about Lion El’Johnson. Although he truly cared about his fellow man, he often had trouble reading people and came off as unempathetic. Despite being fiercely loyal to those he considered his friends, he was socially awkward and had trouble looking people in the eye. Nevertheless, despite his faults, he was groomed for knighthood by his brother Luther, who recognized his talents. Although Lion would often focus on a problem to the point of obsession, he was tactically brilliant. He also followed the old ideals of chivalry, to a degree that some would consider ridiculous. The Lion was an idealist at heart, seeing the world in terms of dragons and princesses as opposed to corrupt bureaucrats and politicians. This noble behavior won him the fancy of many a young woman’s heart, though throughout history there is no record of the Lion ever engaging in a romantic relationship.

It was for these reasons that when it came time for the Steward to name the twenty primarchs that would command his legions, the Lion was among that number. Such a nomination came as a surprise to everyone, least of all Lion himself. Before this time, the Lion was only known as the younger brother of Luther, or at best Luther’s squire. But the Warlord knew the evils that lurked in the hearts of men. Luther was a great soldier, but his mind had been corrupted by hatred and jingoism. The Lion’s heart was untamed, but it was pure, its idealism and love for humanity untampered. Along with Sanguinius Baal and Vulkan, son of N’Bel, Lion was chosen to be one of the three prototypes for the Mark III Astartes augmentation, which was to be the final model of Space Marine augmentation. Some say that this was the point that the seed of jealousy was first planted in Luther’s heart, with all his years of service to Franj and the Imperium being overlooked in favor of his untested brother. Lion, for his part, did not reciprocate the feeling and named his older brother second-in-command of the legion in gratitude for all that his brother had given him. Lion named his legion the Dark Angels after the legendary Black Knight of his country's folklore, who covered his armor in pitch and lived as a wild man rather than subject himself to an unjust lord.

If the Dark Angels were to become a proper legion, they would need a strong recruiting base. Fortunately, the Lion’s home country of Franj was almost perfect for the task. Franj was extremely healthy in terms of both health and population, and the only other primarch from Franj-Europia, Roboute Guilliman, did not seem that interested in recruiting from his home nation. Guilliman, ever the long term thinker, preferred to recruit from all over Old Earth instead of a single country, with the mind of forming an army that had no loyalty to any nation but the Imperium itself. The Lion, on the other hand, felt he needed soldiers he could trust, and so he recruited heavily from his home country of Franj-Europia. Compared to many of the other nations of Earth, the knightly orders of Franj were organized, well-trained, and well-educated militarily, making them ideal Astartes candidates. As a result, by the time the Unification of Sol was complete, the First Legion was bigger, better trained, suffered from fewer casualties, and could recruit faster than any other legion.

It was for this reason that the Dark Angels were picked to be the first legion to travel outside of Sol, acting as an expeditionary force to scout the galaxy ahead of the rest of the Great Crusade to see what of humanity had survived the Age of Strife. The Lion was enamored with the idea, starry-eyed at the prospect of meeting new peoples and reuniting with lost colonies of humanity. Luther, for his part, was not. He was growing increasingly dissatisfied with Europia-Franj’s increasing lack of autonomy in the increasingly peaceful Imperium, which was only magnified by King Gunthar Fouché, son of Roboute Guilliman and Yolande Fouché, turning over all military production and funding to the Imperium on the reasoning that there was no one left to fight. Perhaps in a bit of paranoia, Luther feared that his assignment to the expeditionary fleet was an unofficial exile as opposed to an award, and that the Imperium would completely gut his beloved Franj while he was not around to watch it.

Lion and the Dark Angels set out in The Rock, one of two super-battleships along with the Phalanx that were commissioned by the Steward to be the flagships of the new Imperial Navy, along with several ships of the Voidborn primarch Horus Lupercal (whose cartographers happened to be the ones that owned all the maps). At first the mission did not go well. The first sentient life the expeditionary force encountered was the orks, followed by the Dark Eldar, the latter of which in particular fostered a particularly deep-seated dislike of Eldar in the two brothers. Even the Lion, despite his general open-mindedness, never really felt comfortable with the Imperium being on good terms with the Craftworlders, as he had a hard time distancing the likes of Eldrad and Macha from the atrocities of their distant kin.

And yet despite these setbacks there were such triumphs. Despite the Dark Angel’s first encounters being with the orks and Dark Eldar, the Dark Angels encountered other races, such as the Diasporex and the Watchers in the Dark, who would prove to be loyal allies. And there were so many human colonies, many of whom welcomed the Dark Angels (and by proxy the return of humanity as a power in the galaxy) with open arms. After seeing Russ’ success at recruiting warriors from the planet of Fenris, the Dark Angels set up recruitment stations on many of these worlds, causing the Dark Angels to swell even larger. Nevertheless, many of the Dark Angels, particularly the officers, still came from Franj.

It was sometime during this period that Luther was contacted by Erebus, the Dark Chaplain, the First Traitor. The Ruinous Powers had seen the doubts that lay in Luther’s heart, and saw their opportunity to sow dissent within the forces of the Imperium. Erebus told Luther that he saw the nobility in Luther’s heart and his loyalty to Franj and humanity as a whole, and yet the Imperium was willing to get in bed with all the old enemies of Franj and humanity; the Duscht Jemanic, the Nordyc, the Eldar. On behalf of the Dark Gods, Erebus offered Luther a deal: Divert all Dark Angel reinforcement from the upcoming war, and in exchange Chaos would only target non-essential or non-human interests. Many have wondered, when it became clear that Chaos would never uphold such a bargain, why Luther would have continued to serve the interests of the Ruinous Powers. Captured members of the Fallen have said that Luther was never fully convinced by Erebus’ words, but merely planned to double-cross Chaos and re-establish Franj as an independent power, similar to Hy Braseal. Luther saw the Imperium as a noble ideal, but corrupt and rotten to its core. Better to burn it all down and start afresh, preferably with Franj as its center. However, as with all traitors whose minds have been warped by the influence of Chaos, it is difficult to say if they are telling the truth.

At first, it actually seemed like Chaos was going to keep its side of the bargain. The entire tone of the war did not shift, but many worlds that had been predicted to be in the path of breakaway warbands suddenly found themselves waiting for an invasion that never came, though this may have been more due to the actions of Horus and Guilliman than anything Erebus did. At the same time the response of the Dark Angels to crises became extremely variable and unreliable. The Dark Angels who fought alongside the Lion responded valiantly and with alacrity, but other groups replied to cries for help sluggishly if at all. However, it wasn’t before long that Erebus appeared beyond Luther again. He told Luther that the war against the Imperium wasn’t going so well, and while before the forces of Chaos were content to have Luther sit out the war now they needed help. There was a chance that the followers of the Ruinous Powers might actually lose the war, and if that happened, well, there was no guarantee that the Imperium wouldn’t find out about Erebus and Luther’s little bargain from captured traitors.

In retrospect, what Erebus said was clearly a ruse. Although Chaos and the Beast’s forces had lost some momentum on their blitzkrieg through the stars, the tide was far from turning, and even if the Imperium had found out about the deal from prisoners of war they would have had little reason to believe it was anything more than an attempt to sow suspicion among Imperial forces by traitors. Erebus had no evidence beyond his word that such a deal had been made. But in the heat of the moment, and due to his own guilt over having been tempted into making this deal in the first place, Luther was unable to recognize Erebus’ claim for what it was. Luther was enraged by this, Erebus was clearly altering the terms of their deal, but he didn’t see any way out of it.

Having made judicious use of the stick, Erebus then offered Luther the carrot. The Ruinous Powers didn’t require much in order to help their schemes succeed. All they needed Luther to do was burn down some Maiden Worlds. It’s not like Luther would be required to commit treason or kill humans. They were just eldar. Luther accepted Erebus’ terms with a snarl, before setting off to organize his forces to perform the deed. Fifteen Maiden Worlds burned before the relentless assault of Luther’s Dark Angels. Upon hearing this news, the Lion was horrified. Already irritated by the apparent lackadaisicalness of his forces, he immediately set out to find Luther and demand an explanation.

The Lion finally caught up to Luther in the ashes of the Maiden World once known as Tarsus. Already in a rather poor state of mind, the Lion made no attempts to try and talk his brother down or convince him to surrender. Instead, he marched his honor guard down the ramp of his ship, bolters drawn, before asking his brother what the hell he thought he was doing. Even though Lion didn’t like the eldar either, there was a world of difference (or rather, fifteen worlds) between merely disliking them and butchering the civilians of their nominal allies. Being fixed by the Lion’s withering, contemptuous glare, Luther found himself having trouble explaining his actions to his little brother. His tone low, and with a bit of shame in his voice, Luther told Lion that he had made a deal…for Franj. Upon hearing those words, the Lion long pent-up rage finally erupted and he struck Luther in his anger. It wasn’t a hard blow, but it was enough to knock Luther off his feet and escalate the situation to violence. Lion yelled that committing massacres in Franj’s name did nothing but sully Franj’s honor, and the country would rather die than have such blood on its hands.

Something in Luther snapped at Lion’s accusation. He declared him a traitor to Franj, willing to let his country be gutted and eaten by foreign powers rather than protect it, and in a fit of madness ordered the Dark Angels to kill him. Both brothers were enraged at the other’s perceived betrayal.

Luther’s order sent the Dark Angels into disarray. Luther had originally justified his orders to the Dark Angels by claiming that the eldar had turned on the Imperium, and the Lion had ordered the maiden worlds burned in retaliation. Most of the Dark Angels had obeyed, since they were used to Luther being the spokesman for the Lion and Lion’s poor personal skills meant he had trouble voicing a reasonable counterargument. Many were more loyal to Luther than Lion, being Franj nationalists. Others, particularly those who were with Lion or capable of critical thinking, realized that Lion had ordered no such thing and that Luther had completely lost it. Still others had no clue what was going on due to the contradictory sets of orders and were merely caught in the middle. When the Dark Angels loyal to Luther raised their bolters, those loyal to the Lion did so response. It was absolute chaos, brother against brother, with many not even knowing if they were fighting traitors or those loyal to their cause.

It was as at this point that one of the Lion’s biggest mistakes becomes clear. The Lion recruited much of his legion, including most of its officers, from Franj because he felt he needed people he could trust. Sadly, the officers of the Dark Angels were loyal to a fault, but not to him. Although many in the legion respected the Lion, and those who actually got to know him personally actually found him quite pleasant, if persnickety, the Lion often relied on his brother to motivate the legion due to his lack of people skills. The Lion had so much trouble reading people, and was so trusting of his brother, that he had not seen the viper in the grass before it bit him. Nearly two-thirds to three-fourths of the legion had been subverted by the Ruinous Powers. If it were almost any other legion, it wouldn’t be as much of a problem, but by the time of the War of the Beast the Dark Angels were by far the largest legion and so having two-thirds to three-fourths of the legion go renegade was the equivalent of having two or three other legions fall to the Ruinous powers.

In the confusion, Luther and many of his followers commandeered the Rock, the flagship of the Dark Angels, and escaped into the Warp. Luther’s madness only worsened as he mulled over Lion’s words and the fighting on Tarsus, leading him to believe that the entire Imperium including his brother had turned against him. Many of the Dark Angels felt the same way, seeing themselves as abandoned and betrayed by the Imperium they had once served, and resented it. After Tarsus, Luther’s Dark Angels began burning both human and eldar worlds indiscriminately. The worlds that had been “spared” after Luther’s initial bargain found themselves the target of Chaos, with interest. Besieged Guardsmen on many worlds looked to the skies in hope when they saw the famed Astartes legions come to reinforce them, only to be butchered when their “saviors” landed on the planet. Chapters of the legion devolved into civil war as former brothers drew arms against one another as they realized they served different causes. Many more Dark Angels turned to the service of the Ruinous Powers out of desperation and a desire for survival.

The Lion never returned to Old Earth during the War of the Beast to participate in the Battle of Terra. Many have criticized the Lion for these actions, however, in the Lion’s mind, his priorities were clear. His men were slaughtering one another, and it was his duty to put things right. Perhaps more importantly, it was his mistake, HIS mistake, and the universe would not be set right until he took pains to correct it.

Eventually, Lion tracked Luther and his inner circle to the world of Caliban. Getting to Caliban was easy enough. When the Dark Angels reached the planet Luther’s Fallen found themselves sandwiched between the loyalist Caliban garrison and the Lion’s reinforcements, forcing them to temporarily break their hold over the planet in order to regroup. However, when the Dark Angels found out from captured traitors what Luther was actually looking for on Caliban, they were stunned. Luther had learned from the entity known as Be’lakor ([[Nobledark_Imperium_Drafts#Be.27lakor_and_the_Alpha_Legion|which the Imperium had only recently learned existed due to the actions of the Alpha Legion, and only then at great cost]]) that Caliban was the site of the Ouroboros, a device created by an ancient xenos race, one even older than humanity, the Watchers, or the eldar, capable of warping the very fabric of space-time, which they had used to create the Webway. The Dark Angels realized the implications of this discovery, here was the potential solution to the issue of the fragile, unreparable Webway, and possibly a means to free the Imperium and the galaxy from the tyranny of the Warp, whereas the Watchers were shocked at learning the origins of their eons of suffering had been buried under their own feet. No one knew exactly what Luther planned to do with the equipment, but all agreed it could not be anything good.

The Dark Angels and Watchers were faced with a dilemma. Destroy the device that could potential prove the salvation of the entire galaxy, or leave it to fall into the hands of the Fallen. Although the loyalist Dark Angels could disrupt Luther’s control of Caliban, they could not hold the planet, as Luther’s forces greatly outnumbered their own. In the end, it was the Watchers who made the decision to blow up their own homeworld. They loved Caliban, it was their home despite being harsh and warp-tainted, but they realized the danger that Luther in control of the Ouroboros would prove. Better that no one have it than let it be abused. As the Watchers wired their planet to blow with Exterminatus-class weaponry, the loyalist Dark Angels launched a counterattack on the Fallen, with the Lion particularly eager to take the fight to his brother. However, when Lion reached what should have been Luther’s sanctum within the Rock, he realized he had been tricked. Luther had known where Lion would have looked for him, and therefore did the exact opposite, taking a small strike team to the surface of Caliban. However, he was quickly forced to turn around when he realized what the Watchers had done to their planet. Lion was also forced to retreat, realizing that he and his men risked being cut off and overwhelmed by the Fallen if they tried to wait to ambush Luther. No one had won at Caliban. Luther had lost the Ouroboros, but Lion had lost his brother.

There were reports of a “Cypher”-type character on both sides of the conflict. Based on reports either he could travel really fast or (more likely) there was more than one of him. Some say he was the court battle-wizard of the legion who had gone missing/presumed dead two years previously whilst fighting a Big Mek and his Orkblitorator Cyborks on a Forge World. Some of these Cyphers may have actually been Alpha Legion infiltrators covertly helping the loyalists and hindering the traitors.

What happened to the Fallen mostly depended on what they did immediately after the War of the Beast. Some of the Fallen, mostly members of the lower ranks who realized they had been fed bullshit for the whole ordeal, surrendered when the enormity of their error became apparent. They ended up being sentenced to serve in the penal legions until they were deemed to have sufficiently repented for their sins after the first Black Crusade, after which the survivors were scattered among the other legions. The remainder, which represented at least half of the surviving Dark Angels, were spirited away by the Ruinous Powers to the Eye of Terror where they formed the core of the Fallen as we know them today. Of the being known as Cypher no conclusive answers have been obtained. He still appears in Imperial records from time to time down the ages with no discernable pattern. He is either leapfrogging through time via cryo-sleep or it’s not the same man. Even a Mark III S Astartes should have aged to death by now. The Eldar allies of the Dark Angels are unable to predict his movements and, much like the tyranids, he acts as a travelling blank spot in their prophecies.

In the years immediately following the War of the Beast, there were many who criticized the Lion's actions, chief among them Leman Russ. At one point the Great Wolf said within earshot of El'Jonson that Luther's betrayal was a near certainty, because "that's what one gets for trusting a member of the house of Jonson". That was a fateful mistake, as while the Lion might have been distraught, he wasn't deaf. The Lion was enraged, although his brother may have fallen to the Ruinous Powers, the Lion had still remained loyal to humanity and had done all in his power to help the Imperium. At least one son of Jonson had retained his honor. In retaliation, the Lion turned and struck the Great Wolf on the jaw, knocking him out cold. In the aftermath of the fight, Leman Russ decided he had enough of witches and Jonsons and decided to relocate to Fenris entirely, nearly severing all ties with Old Earth. The Great Wolf would not set foot on his home planet again until nearly forty years after the Lion's disappearance, slightly humbler and wiser from his experience setting up the Fenrisian colonies.

As with all of the primarchs save Sanguinius and Angron, the Lion was active following the War of the Beast, though one would be forgiven for thinking he was not. Unlike most of the primarchs, who were primarily focused on rebuilding the Imperium, Lion was focused, some would say obsessed, with trying to recapture the Fallen. He split the remaining loyalist Dark Angels into knightly orders reminiscent of those once present on Franj and scattered them to distant worlds, with a program of frequent officer exchange between orders to keep them loyal to the Imperium rather than any one place of origin. He also instituted a mandatory position of Watcher within each chapter, held by a member of the Inquisition in order to monitor the chapter from the inside. These days, the job is usually held by a really old member of the Inquisition who refuses to retire despite being too old to chase anyone.

Finally, years after the War of the Beast had ended, the Lion received the news he had waited so long for. The Rock, and by extension Luther, had reappeared.

The Dark Angels and the rest of the Unforgiven fell upon the Rock swift as a flock of ravens, hounding it from system to system in a series of skirmishes until they finally cornered the Fallen Angels on a long forgotten feral world. Amidst the twilight murk and murmuring rustle of a primeval forest the once comrades faced each other after long centuries of hunting and waiting. The trees bore silent witness as loyalist and traitor slaughtered one another with a fury born of the void left by brotherhood and filled by hate, the quiet split by the roar of bolters and the scream of chainswords on ceramite. Bodies clad in green and black fell soundlessly to the mossy undergrowth, and the soil drank deep of rich dark blood.

Lion was unstoppable that day as he stalked the battlefield with his Deathwing honor guard, the Lion Sword flashing red as the Fallen fled before the Primarch. Yet the scum before him did not interest Lion; he had come with only one goal, and he would not be denied.

In the tangled forest the Primarch soon was separated from his honor guard and found himself alone at the edge of a clearing. He brushed aside the foliage in time to see a lone figure in black cut down the last of a squad of Dark Angels, carving through their armor with contemptuous ease. Lion did not need to see the golden fleur de lis on the horned onyx helm to know who the traitor was. His stance, the arrogant grace with which he moved, the way his sword danced in his hand like an extension of his arm. Luther.

Luther turned at the sound of Lion’s footsteps. The clearing was quiet as the eyes of the two brothers met behind the mirrored lenses of their helms, then Luther raised his sword in an old Franjish dueling salute, half mocking and half earnest. Lion did not return the gesture. Then sudden and swift as his namesake, he charged. The Lion Sword descended in a shining blur, faintly glowing with a pale inner light, and their blades met with a shivering clang as the Arch-Traitor blocked the Primarch’s savage strike, the Sword of Luther wreathed in a delicate corona of the void, tendrils of the Immaterium spilling forth from the edges of the blade. The sound of swords rang through the forest as back and forth the brothers traded blows, each unable to take the advantage as Lion’s cold ferocity and superior augmentations were matched by Luther’s consummate skill and the blessings of Chaos Undivided.

So bathed in the dappled light of the setting sun Lion and Luther did battle. Against the backdrop of the ancient giants of the forest, they might have been boys playfighting with sticks, swatting at each other with wild abandon; but this was no game, and these were not the familiar old oaks of Franj. Bright gashes appeared on the brothers’ green and black armor where they found openings in the other’s defense, and blood trickled out where the blades had pierced the flesh beneath before the wounds were stanched by their superhuman physiologies. Pressed by his brother’s assault, Luther eventually began to tire, yet Lion remained as unrelenting as ever. Sensing victory, he battered Luther with a flurry of blows, tearing off the helmet with a glancing slash to the head, and finally drove his blade into his brother’s leg. Luther fell to one knee, and before he could react the Lion Sword was at his throat, the tip pressed against his bare neck.

For a moment the two men were motionless. Then Lion removed his winged helm with one hand and let it fall to the ground, and for the first time in a century the brothers looked each other face to face. Under his matted blond hair Lion’s eyes were red and wet. Another moment of stillness, then the Lion Sword dipped, and lowered away. Sharp as a whipcrack, Lion said only one word: “Why?”

The accusation in his brother’s voice struck Luther like a hammer, and emotions welled up within him. Rage. Humiliation. Guilt. Shame.

How could he have lost to Lion? Never before had Lion bested him in their sparring, except the few times when he had allowed it. But he deserved this. He betrayed his brother, and the Imperium, and had nearly damned humanity to extinction.

No, no! His plan had been sound, and with a single stroke they could have rid humanity of xenos influences and secured a future for Franj among the stars. If only Lion had listened and followed. Lion had always sought his counsel and followed him in matters of import, never defying him until that fateful day.

Yes, with that once act of defiance, of betrayal, Lion had doomed his plan and consigned him to a life of furtive scavenging and raiding. It was Lion!

LION!

With a cry Luther burst upwards, his sword a malign black blur streaking towards Lion’s throat. Surprised, Lion threw himself back and raised his sword to parry, but it was no use; against foe as deadly as Luther, even an inch of an opening would have been fatal. But the Chaos Gods were not done with their servant yet. In a final act of malicious caprice, they lifted the scales of madness from Luther’s eyes and allowed him to see with a clear mind what he had done.

In that moment Luther saw: Lion as the solemn boy he had taught to swing a sword, who wanted so much to be like his famed older brother; as the young man he had personally knighted, a rare, sweet smile spreading across those stern features; as the man he had fought and laughed and bled with on the battlefields of a thousand worlds, side by side. And he saw the brother that he had just killed, the tip of his sword cutting smoothly through a pale throat, a thin spray of blood in its wake.

Something within Luther broke. Beneath the horror of this realization, his tortured psyche fell to pieces, and when the Deathwing finally came upon the clearing they found a screaming Luther kneeling over Lion’s still body. Their act of domination complete, the warp echoed with dark laughter as the Chaos gods spirited Luther away amidst a hail of bolter fire.

The Deathwing immediately recovered Lion, and in a battle barge in orbit the Chief Apothecary and his team fought to save Lion’s life. Indeed, it was a miracle that Lion had survived so long, made possible only through the astounding power of the Mk III S augmentations, for even a Sus-an coma would not have saved a normal Astartes from such a grievous wound. Yet while the apothecaries could stabilize Lion, they could not restore him. A slash from a mundane weapon would have soon been healed by Lion’s regenerative abilities, but Luther’s cursed blade had inflicted a wound that would not close, the treatments and medications unable to take hold on the tainted flesh. Lion was slipping away, and with no other options, the apothecaries could only seal Lion in a stasis-coffin, and hope that some day a cure would be found.

To this day, Luther is still a broken man, given to wild swings of mood as his mind flits to and from the scattered shards of his personality, from charming magnanimity to unbridled rage to brooding despair. Yet buried within the dark cage of madness lies the last piece of good within Luther’s heart, his nobility and honor and love for his brother. And once in a rare while that light emerges from its prison, and Luther awakens to the reality of the nightmare around him and the horror that is his life. He screams then, and as he slaughters the Fallen around him he weeps and begs Lion for forgiveness. Inevitably, that moment of lucidity is swallowed again by warp-fueled madness as the Chaos gods reassert their power over their servant. But that piece of goodness remains, perhaps as the last spark of hope for Luther’s redemption.

Lion still sleeps in his coffin, his features peaceful beneath the crystal cover, frozen in time on the precipice between life and death. He would surely perish were he removed to perform the canticles of purification to cleanse his wound, and so he remains in his millennia-long slumber. Entreaties to Isha have proved fruitless, for she has said healing Lion would be beyond ever her powers as the Goddess of Life; Lion is too far into the realm of death for her to exercise sole influence over him. Indeed, it would take another god, a God of the Dead, in conjunction with her powers to restore Lion to life, and surely no such god exists. But the Dark Angels are not deterred; they wait and dream, sure that one day the last remaining Primarch will return and lead them all to their long-promised salvation.

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=== The Lion Sword ===

Throughout his travels the Lion was known to use a red blade of excellent quality. When the Lion was put into his coma, his sword was put alongside him in the Rock, ready to be picked up again in the event the Lion ever woke from his coma. That sword is a Kinebrach blade. It was handed over in the ceremony to finalize the alliance between the young Imperium and the Interex. It was the last blade made by the venerable master Mez-Go-Bur. It is said and witnessed that he used no forge or hammer and the metal was taken from the hide of a fallen Cybernetica robot. He struck the metal with his fists and it started to heat up and become pliant and into that metal he beat all his sorrows (which were many) and his wroth (which was considerable). That cherry red blade was quenched in a barrel of ceremonial oil mingled with his own blood and on that blood he placed binding words. Daemons had made his life a misery, his blade would cut them and leave them maimed and that pain would follow them to their Hell and no matter if they healed they would never stop hurting as he would never stop hurting. But where he would die they remain immortal and would go on hurting for ever and ever and ever.

He smiled when the sword was handed over to Lion El'Jonson. He died not long later.

There are many Kinebrach blades in circulation in the Imperium and the art of making them is in no danger of ever being lost but few are as vindictive as the ones made by Mez-Go-Bur and that was his last creation and believed to be his best.

It has been idle for too long now. Too many summers under a shroud of dust despite it blade being razor sharp. There was a legend among the people of Franj; if an implement is left for more more than a year and day it will hunger for blood. If such stories are true then the Lion Sword is somewhat thirsty. It would take a man of iron will to tame that blade now.

== Perturabo ==

[[Image:1485738836578.jpg|left|thumb|200px|Perturabo, Primarch of the Imperium, The Mad Architect and Prince of Macedonia.]]

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Warsmith''''' - or ''The Mad Architect:''

Perturabo of the Macedonian Garrison was not a man truly cut out for the military life, although it is hard to say exactly what sort of life he ''was'' cut out for.

Macedonia was an odd case at that point in the constant wars of the Age of Strife. Barely a century and a half ago it had been a conquered territory of the Great Everlasting Tharkian Empire - an empire far less grand than its name would suggest - until the Tharkians were crushed by the relentless expansion of a Despot of Ursh, as so many others of the time were. The Urshii quickly swallowed up the valuable regions of the area, leaving only the ancient nation of Macedonia relatively untouched. By some miracle of cunning, guile, and luck on an incredible scale, Perturabo's grandfather Nestor made it appear that, instead of the meagre garrison it actually held, Macedonia was in fact home to Tharkian strategic reserves far greater than the forces the Urshii had already fought. This, combined with the seemingly unwavering defiance of the Macedonian people, convinced the Despot that conquering the region would overextend his supply lines and weaken his control over the greater Tharkia.

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With the immediate threat gone the cities began to drift apart and Nestor was old and wise enough to know that he had neither the forces nor the authority to hold them together. He did, however, manage to take and hold the ancient fortress city of Štip-Isar; and many rival groups joined him in seizing a city or hive and expanding from there. Thus, Macedonia ''did'' survive, to some extent, albeit as a collection of squabbling city-states that would only unite against greater outside threats; ironically, not unlike the Classical Greek counterparts who were conquered by the Macedonians themselves in the depths of history.

Perturabo's father Nikola had risen to be the petty king of the reasonably well-off fortress city of Štip-Isar after Nestor had passed away, and, recognising how inadequately ''he'' had been prepared for the job, immediately set about the task of trying to train his children in the arts of statesmanship. His daughters were fine women, just as dedicated to the nation as he was, but the other regional powers would have openly scoffed and secretly mocked the entire family if a queen were to rise. Thus the highest they would reach were hasty marriages to shore up the city's few alliances, leaving Perturabo as the heir apparent - albeit one rather psychologically unsound.

Countless years later, when Nikola and his nation were a mere footnote in endless halls of historical texts, Perturabo's peers would describe him as a spare Angron, minus the enthusiasm. This was unfair and inaccurate, but it was true that it would have been difficult to find a leader ''less'' statesmanlike than the unfortunate son of Nikola. Perturabo suffered from bouts of quite severe depression, punctuated by occasional flashes of intense rage with little to no warning. Although the rage would flash into incandescence and burn itself out relatively quickly, the depression was far more lingering. Nikola made no effort to hide the disappointment he had for his son, but little did he know that the heir's true talents would be more vital for the nation's survival than Terra's finest diplomats could ever be.

For Perturabo - in spite of his constant pessimism, or perhaps ''because'' of it - was supremely gifted at defensive planning. His dreams, haunted as they were by thoughts of his home being crushed by faceless invaders, merely bolstered his resolve to resist. He was not his father, or his grandfather, however; he was not a leader who could call the people to defend their land tooth and nail, for that would require hope and optimism that he himself so sorely lacked. Instead, Perturabo's defensive planning was that of grim determination, of strongpoints and counter-offensives instead of rallies and patriotism, of a hard shell around a softer peoples. Some would have called this paranoia, especially given how the petty skirmishes with other nation-states were the largest wars known for over a generation, but in truth it was uncanny foresight.

When the scum of Ursh came back it was as if a mighty hammer had struck the lands, driving all before it. Perturabo - indeed, all of Macedonia - was caught off-guard by the assault; by the time he was made aware of the threat, the most prosperous and powerful of his neighbours were little more than flaming rubble. Desperate for time, the heir withdrew his forces again and again, his generals raging and threatening mutiny for his cowardice, and he later claimed that in all his life he had faced no greater test than keeping his calm and concealing his plans from them (and thus, any possible Urshii spies) until the very last moment.

Nestor had fought a war - a war of armies and raiding parties facing each other in pitched battles - but his grandson had to stop a wave of slaughter that bore more resemblance to a swarm of locusts than any coherent fighting force. Isolated strongpoints were ground down horrifyingly quickly by sheer weight of numbers, and Perturabo had soon realised that the only chance he had of stopping the swarm was in a single, united defensive line. Even then, he knew he could not hope to stop the Despot's onslaught, only to give it a bloodied nose and hope it would back off.
The Urshii forces knew none of this, as all they saw were lands held by weak natives and abandoned by their defenders. Just as they were wondering if their grandparents' tales of the effortless conquest of Tharkia had some truth to them, they ran directly into Perturabo's hastily constructed kill zones. Metal, laser and superheated plasma alike rained down on the barbarians as if it were his own spite and pain made manifest, and the Urshii vanguard was left a pile of mangled bodies for their comrades to climb.

The Despot's humiliation drove him into such a rage that he eviscerated his own commanders, ordering their replacements to wipe Macedon from the face of Terra. Even with Perturabo's formidable defences and traps, the main Urshii force would raze the land without batting an eyelash - yet the Despot was so blinded by his rage that he was caught completely unawares by the true threat to his power.

When the scouts of the Warlord's army first trickled into Macedonia they expected a barren wasteland - or at best, a broken nation at its own throat. Much of their suspicions were confirmed, but amongst the dirt they found a diamond-hard shard of defiance that had prepared for the storm and, amazingly, was still weathering it. It was here, the Warlord decided, that the first (and perhaps the most important) true blow against Ursh would be struck.

After the smoke cleared. the plasma burns cooled, the shrieks of wounded finally fallen away into silence, Perturabo discovered that not only had he bloodied the nose of the Despot's assault, but he had broken its back completely. Caught between the swift hammer of the Warlord's armies and the unyielding anvil of the Macedon defence, Ursh's toughest veterans were shattered and scattered to the wind - and even the most zealous of barbarians were were beginning to question if there was a master greater than their own.

The Warlord entered Štip-Isar not as a conqueror, but simply as a leader, for he had great respect for the one who turned such a small nation into a devourer of armies. Yet the prince would do something that not a single battlefield or leader had managed so far, or quite possibly since. He ''surprised'' his guest, and not only with his young age (for, compared to his generals, he was little more than a boy), but with his mind. For when the Warlord looked into his psyche, he found something he had never seen before or since - and he wished he had not. It was cold. Bleak. A desolate landscape of steel and bone blasted smooth by an unrelenting gale of numbers, of angles, of shifting probabilities; while above, great roiling clouds of blackness drained away what little light and life lay beneath them. Even this was just a momentary glimpse, for in the blink of an eye he was locked out by an immense iron wall rising from the ground in mere instants, horizons wide and twice as tall. The Warlord found himself simply staring into dead, grey eyes, barred from what lay within by mental defences greater than all but the most powerful of psykers - and built simply from paranoia and distrust rather than to contain any unearthly whispers. But those eyes told him all he really needed to know about the prince. There was no fear there, no awe, and certainly no love. Just endless planning, calculating, searching for weakness.

To his credit, the Warlord still saw potential in the mad architect; something that could be put to use, maybe even turned to greatness. After long, distrustful negotiations (for the Macedonians were as wary of his arrival as they were grateful for it), Perturabo was offered a place in the Warlord's armies as a fortification and garrison specialist. For King Nikola's part... the sad truth was that he was glad to see the back of his son. After all, with Perturabo otherwise occupied - or out of the way, depending on your point of view - he now had grandchildren to train in inheriting his responsibilities.

Perturabo rose through the ranks of the Imperial Army with neither the speed nor grandeur of the other Primarchs, but he did indeed become great. Other generals captured huge swathes of land or routed vast armies, but it was he who ensured that any forces seeking to recapture their territory or avenge their fallen knew nothing but failure. He was never at the forefront of any battle or campaign, never the glorious conqueror or invincible warrior; and of course, he earned little respect from those who ''were,'' who saw him as an unstable freak barely fit to follow in their footsteps. This, however, suited him just fine, as he much preferred a legacy of impenetrable bastions safeguarded people than any number of songs or monuments.

Still, the Warlord quietly took note of his work, of how harmlessly the condescension of both his superiors and subordinates bounced off him, and none were surprised as Perturabo himself was when he was selected for late-stage Thunder Warrior treatment. Soon, as the remnants of the Old Night were finally purged and the dream of Unification began to spread across Sol, malcontents and partisans began to emerge from the woodwork; and it was here Perturabo's worth truly became evident even to his detractors. For old king Nikola's lessons had not, in fact, been in vain, and it was discovered that the Macedonian's lands were impenetrable to assault from within as well as without. For this, he was finally elevated to the lofty title of Primarch.

In the countless years that followed, the Unification became the Great Crusade; the Warlord became the Steward, and Štip-Isar faded into distant memory. Perturabo, however, did not change. Perhaps he could not. After all, his life had certainly not changed, for it still consisted of day after day of building meat grinders of horrific scale while planning yet-greater ones, all while hoping against hope they would never be needed. Or perhaps, just as was the case in his youth, his works were so brutally efficient because of the hope he - and they - ''lacked.'' But back in his homeland he still had the support of his people; or at least he had his father to soothe and comfort them at every turn. Here, on the frontier worlds, the deal of "harsh work and oppression for you and your children in the name of descendants you will not live to see" would've been a hard sell for Gulliman, or Sanguinius, never mind one as uncharismatic as Perturabo - and the hatred of the people was beginning to wear down even his iron resolve.

When The War of the Beast descended upon the worlds under his aegis, his worth was finally proven beyond any doubt. Wretched, base creatures assaulted his people, his fortresses, his worlds in droves - and time and time again they drowned in their own tides of endless green. His warriors manned their battlements and fired from positions prepared centuries ago in an eerie mirror image of the plains of Macedonia so long ago. The doctrine still remained identical, as well. No point would be defended to the last man, for such heroics were costly and unnecessary; instead, the defenders would fight until the back of the assault force was broken before retreating to their next set of positions, buying them precious breathing room while the enemy were forced to bring in a fresh wave of warriors.

It would be wrong to say that no worlds under his protection fell, or to say that his methods were flawless. Just as it was against the Urshii, he would never defend an untenable position; civilian conurbations and evacuation points were no exception to this, and his new subordinates labelled him a coward with as much vigour as his old ones had so long ago. But this cold, calculated strategy ensured that his armies lived - and more importantly, rested - to fight another day, where another Primarch would've allowed them to be slaughtered in a vain order to hold the line.

On venerable Olympia, one of the first colony worlds of the Old Empire brought back into the fold by Perturabo's Iron Warriors, the Primarch nearly met his end. His command headquarters was unexpectedly besieged by a force of Orks that, reinforced by a newly arrived Rok, had broken through a weakened flank, and he insisted he took to the field. Years later, he would claim it was simply a pragmatic decision; after all, as a Thunder Warrior he was fully capable of fighting to earn time for his command staff to be evacuated, all of whom were equally invaluable to the defense of the planet - but for many, this unexpected loyalty was a welcome reminder that there was still a human within the Primarch's iron shell. His psychological one, at least.

His physical armour, however, would be sorely tested by the warboss he would face; a great corroding creature of Nurgle's kin, leading the Orks of the Pox Dok in laughter and taunts even as lascannon and bolter blew off chunks of rotting green flesh. The fate of the world and every soul on it was decided in a burning cathedral; and while Perturabo was certainly not the unstoppable juggernaut other Primarchs were, his calculating mind was as much use here as it was fighting on theater or even planetary level. It merged with his Thunder Warrior instincts, making each move carefully planned and each attack predicted ahead of time, until the fight seemed to be a fluid dance akin to that of the Eldar Harlequins.

Still, in brute force he was outmatched, and for every hundred blows he saw coming, there was one he simply could not parry or evade in time. The mighty green leviathan and the smaller figure slowly but relentlessly tearing it down - a fitting reversal of their armies' roles - wore each other into the ground, until the Iron Warrior emerged triumphant over the Rust of decay. With the Warboss gone, his legion quickly broke the remainder of the Ork assault, reclaiming swathes of land and beginning the long and thankless task of resecuring it. Scouting parties quickly found their Primarch, slumped in the pews where the faithful once prayed for redemption, and almost as white as the pale stone dust raining down from the ruined cathedral.

Perturabo did not see that world retaken; he did not see the organised withdrawals from worlds and sectors almost turn to a complete rout without his immaculate planning.

He did not see the Battle of Terra, the desecration of his homeworld.

He did not see the death of first Sanguinius, then the Beast.

He eventually did awaken, but only after a year spent comatose, while his ruined body was slowly repaired by Thunder Warrior physiology where possible and Mechanicus cybernetics where not. Unbowed and unbroken; Iron within, Iron without. As soon as he was able to, he marched on with his legion, rebuilding worlds and shoring up their defences before moving onto the next. Still, many believed that the Beast's legacy still haunted him and that he blamed himself personally for each loss; for as the years passed he became more and more of a perfectionist, making demands of broken worlds that could not have met them in their prime. Eventually, his most senior Warsmiths agreed by unanimous vote to remove him from active service, after he demanded a planet's population be decimated for a single of its regiments' incompetence. Perhaps, like many others, he did not resist simply because he was grateful.

Perturabo's last days were spent back on Old Earth as an architect, away from the battlefield and doing what he loved. Many had forgotten that he could design anything but defensive lines and fortresses; and perhaps he himself had forgotten as well. Over time, the work began to heal him, and in turn he began to heal Olld Earth. The swathes of land destroyed by the Beast were given to him as a blank canvas, and upon them he built structures as grand and magnificent as any in the Dark Age of Technology ever were. Oddly enough, '''this''' would be his legacy to the common man; his military campaigns would be lost to the ages, but his designs would be copied and imitated across the entire Imperium, from his streamlining of Hive City layouts that every planetary governor desperately sought to the glorious palaces on Terra that, well, every planetary governor desperately sought. Such form and function would not be surpassed for millenia to come, and even to this day his influence is visible on almost every Imperial world.

Perturabo passed away soon after finishing his plans for the new Imperial Palace; remarking that only now he was able to discover his art, after war had taken all the joy and beauty from it. Some say that he passed with a gentle, childlike smile on his face - for after a thousand years of siege, Perturabo, Prince of Macedonia, Son of Nikola, was finally to be relieved.

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See Also: [[Nobledark_Imperium_Writing#Iron_Within.2C_Iron_Without|Iron Within, Iron Without]]

== Mortarion ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Vermin Lord:'''''

Mortarion was a born in the abject squalor of the slums of Gredbritton, in the aftermath of the fall of the Unspeakable Tyrant. His life was certainly not made any easier by the fact that his mother was the fallen Tyrant's daughter; and that many whispered that his unknown father was the Tyrant himself - and given the sheer depravity of that individual, these accusations were hardly baseless. When the hysteria was beginning to die down, his mother did her best to hide their shared heritage and instead made ends meet as a maintenance skivvy and lay-technician of the great Tintajus Hive, the capital of that broken nation. They never truly advanced in wealth or power - although perhaps this was shrewdness on his mother's part, as those of the upper hive would be more likely to recognise them - and as such Mortarion seemed almost permanently sickly, growing up pale and gaunt from lack of sunlight and food.

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Gredbritton was one of the earlier nations brought into the Imperial fold. Being part of a greater union of nations went some way to restoring order, as well as bringing strength and prosperity it had not seen since the nation itself had ruled great swathes of Terra. Like so many young men with no hope, Mortarion joined the regiments of the Imperial Army - not out of some sense of patriotism or desire to bring other realms into the Imperium, but simply for the promise of at least one meal a day, a pair of trousers he didn't have to share and perhaps even some money to send home to his family.

He served with merit (if not distinction) until he was in his 22nd year, in spite of recurring bouts of old childhood illnesses. At some point in this year he learned that the Warlord was looking for volunteers for Thunder Warrior conversion, known to be a procedure that carried considerable risks. The Apothocarium and the Biologicus warned both him and the officials administrating the project that his physical imperfections would likely render Mortarion little more than a twisted nightmare, yet neither side yielded. The project's overseers were unwilling to turn away one of the few volunteers they could find, least of all one so eager; and for his part, the would-be Thunder Warrior reasoned that his body was already almost constantly betraying him, and that both success and failure would finally bring him the respite he so desperately sought. At first he volunteered, then requested, then even ''demanded'' that they tear his body apart and put him back together, as the payout his family would get for his "death" in this manner would set his mother and younger sisters up for life.

By some strange twist of fate he ''did'' survive. Perhaps even the biotechnicians had failed to realise how far they had refined their own process - certainly, the success rate was easily an order of magnitude higher than it was when Angron was "upgraded" - or perhaps the trauma of the procedures was shrugged off by a body that had spent 22 years steadfastly refusing to die. In any case, Mortarion fought as hard as any other in the name of the Imperium and its warlord, earning rank after rank based on sheer weight of victories. These victories were costly, the battlefields brutal - for he was no tactical genius, and would often dismiss inventive but untried tactics and strategies in favour of the certainties of more proven ones.

Thus, while his superiors prized his methodical successes over the less reliable tactics of the more creative leaders, his men held no love for him, only a grudging respect. The latter was cemented in place by his willingness - no, his ''insistence'' - to lead from the front, forcing his way into the thickest fighting and risking death alongside his men. They saw great victories against the savage men of Ursh and the organised and equipped armies of Achaemenidia with equal ease, only stumbling when facing the Gyptoussian sorcerers who dabbled in things that should not be dabbled in. Indeed, it was in those desert campaigns that Mortarion developed a fear, almost a hatred, of all psykers. Never again in his long life would he employ them or even accept their advice or aid, even when it might have been advisable to do so.

Mortarion soon developed a reputation for being invincible, and while this struck fear into his enemies, it merely frustrated his subordinates. He would charge into battle alongside his soldiers, yet he would far outlast them even under the most withering fire; returning from the field of war alone, with shredded armour and spent weapons, sporting wounds that would have felled a lesser Thunder Warrior.

When the forces of the Steward looked to the rest of Sol, Mortarion's forces were assigned primarily to garrison duty due to the costly nature of his method of warfare. In these engagements they held themselves with distinction, as they would make an enemy's assault on them far costlier. By the time Sol was subjugated and the galaxy lay before the Imperium, the Emperor had named him Primarch for his sheer tenacity and list of victories. It was revealed in later years, however, that the Warlord/Steward disapproved greatly of Mortarion's methods of warfare - at least, according to a few unnamed insiders from the Imperial Palace. Mortarion had, by methods undisclosed, obtained the entire stockpile of biological and chemical weapons owned by his late grandfather and father. He had also obtained the ancient library of Gredbritton, the contents of which were hastily handed over to the Warlord's Sigillite.

When taking a city or hive, the Dusk Raiders would prefer to besiege if first, firing artillery rounds filled with a dozen godforsaken contagions over (or through) the walls and waiting a few months. When the time came for them to enter the city, anything that was still alive would be shredded with bolt, plasma and promethium; the only considerable obstacles in their way being the sheer number of dead bodies filling the hive. Only Curze's methods were deemed more detestable, but unlike his fellow primarch's claims that the horrors he committed were for the greater good he simply pointed out that a conventional assault would likely have similar civilian casualties, but would also take a heavy toll on his own legion. The Warlord was never satisfied with this defence, but the results of his campaigns were undeniable.

He would go on to take this method of warfare off-world; after all, the need to kill and conquer in the most efficient way possible was even greater when precious supplies had to be ferried across the depths of space. Many whispered that he was his father's son - but this was not the case. For while the Unspeakable Tyrant had done such things in the name of gods too terrible to contemplate, Mortarion did them in the name of his warriors, and so that they may live another day. For all that ''they'' hated ''him'', he did not hate his own men; although few would have believed that had he told them.

At the onset of the War of the Beast the Dusk Raiders were quickly established as the dirty, dirty hands of the Imperium. Instead of fighting heroic yet costly rearguards to save evacuees as so many others did, they would bombard worlds with flesh-eating diseases and exsanguination virii the minute they were lost. This, contrary to their detractors, was not to punish those left behind but instead to deny the enemy potential slaves - or food, for that matter - while leaving most material assets intact. Hundreds of billions, maybe even trillions died from these proto-Virus Bombs, and it did not stop the enemy, or even slow their expansion; it was only beginning to chip away at the rate at which the expansion accelerated. Yet this was still more than most other legions could achieve against the sheer size and speed of the Beast's initial assault, and it was done while preserving Mortarion's valuable warriors; indeed, it was then that they earned their moniker of the ''Death Guard'', for the ruination that followed on worlds they failed to defend was as if they were the guardians of the reaper himself.

Many of Mortarion's fellow primarchs, Sanguinius and Vulkan in particular, publicly decried these attacks, but he did not care. They called him a traitor, and he did not care. They called him a coward, a monster, and he did not care. They spat on his legion's banner; Dorn in particular calling his warriors detestable cravens - and only then did he warn the man who fought only from his precious entrenchments to mind his choice of words, lest one of the Unspeakable Tyrant's lost weapons suddenly "appear" in the skies over his beautifully crafted defensive lines. For his Legion were not cowards, and any who would make such a claim had not seen the mechanical determination with which they fought. Any who would make such a claim had not seen the way they ground the Beast's forces down into pieces, then into dust, breaking the back of the enemy's assaults so that other, more heroic, ''better'' men might earn the glory of beheading them.

When the smoke had cleared and the Steward and Eldrad stood over the corpse of The Beast, the remains of the Imperium cheered for years, for decades. The Death Guard did not, for they were pushing its borders outwards; rebuilding their legion and continuing their endless, tireless crusade. Never mind how the mighty Dorn and his warriors would not take one step back. The Death Guard would never cease marching forward, into the Dark Millennium and beyond. The only time they would ever falter would be to honour their primarch's passing, on the distant western fringe world known as Macharius' Rest. Where sickness, assassination attempts, Thunder Warrior treatment and thousands of orks had failed, time had won its final victory. Members of the Dusk Raiders, the Death Guard, and every crusader who had ever fought alongside them made the pilgrimage to the edge of the Imperium, to pay their grudging respects to the Man Who Would Not Die.

''"Even our '''allies''' believe us nothing more than scum, than vermin to be crushed underfoot. Then let us fight like them; with tooth and claw, dragging down the mightiest of enemies with our dying breaths. Let us scour their lands clean with pestilence, and leave nothing that can be used against man - '''for vermin always have the last word'''."''

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== Lorgar ==

Lorgar Aurelian was a child born in the theocracy of the Ynsdonesic Bloc and as all children born in that awful place was the result of a state designated union. Unions in that dysfunctional realm in that time usually being decided by perceiving omens be it from smoke patterns or entrails augury despite the degenerate unions that this often created.

As with all youths of that nation he was raised in the Kartharanite branch of religion. He was taught that only through suffering was any worth found be it inflicted on the self or on others and that the unbeliever must be cleansed from the world by fire and sword. It was not a faith of kindness that he was raised in.

His appointed mentor in matters of religion was Bishop Kor Phaeron of Jakurtana. Had he had any other master then history would have taken a decidedly different path.

Bishop Phaeron was secretly a member of the Katholian sect from which the Kartharanite had once sprung and in this more kind and just faith did Lorgar find peace and purpose.

The old faith spread through the downtrodden and the hopeless of society despite the brutal and cruel efforts of Cardinal Tang to suppress, contain and exterminate it.

Eventually the outrage and animosity of the people for their leaders reached a fever pitch and civil war ensued. As Bishop Phaeron was the highest ranking member of the hierarchy on the side of the people he was looked to for guidance. As the Bishop's right hand man Lorgar soon learned the ways of war. He learned to inspire and comfort. He learned to appeal for calm and how to whip peoples passions to a frenzy. Although not lacking in martial prowess his voice, his cunning and his keen intellect were his favoured weapons.

It was maybe just in time that the subversion erupted into open rebellion when it did. The forces of the Warlord were marching down from the North and the Ynsdonesic Bloc was well up on the "Burn it down and start again" list.

With the possibility of an unwinnable war on two fronts Bishop Phaeron went to the parlay with the Warlord in person, dressed in only a crude hessian robe, with only Lorgar Aurelian accompanying him.

An audience was granted to the Warlord in his tent, at the heart of the enemy war camp, surrounded by genetically modified super soldiers and heavy weapons.

Expecting some sort of zealous speech of defiance and martyrdom the Warlord was taken aback some what when the two got down on one knee and swore allegiance.

The cared deeply about their faith and the word of their God. But their God cared deeply about the people he had made. Their God would understand if he was to be forgotten but not forgive men who should know better leading children to the slaughter. They would rather their people be free and happy than pious.

Moved by their words the Emperor gave them grace time. Should they triumph over their oppressors they would be welcomed into the Imperium as any other member state. Should they would have the harsh treatment of conquest and subjugation.

By insurgencies, underhanded tactics, assassinations and a brutal 12 year war the Katholians claimed victory and Cardinal Tang's broken but still living form was dragged before the Warlord as a token of gratitude.

It was somewhat of a pyrrhic victory for the people of the Ynsdonesic Bloc. They nation was in a hundred pieces, each swearing loyalty to some tin hat despot with delusions of grandeur, some almost as bad as Cardinal Tang. It would not be long before the fighting for dominance began, to say nothing of annexation from another nation.

The forces of the Warlord prepared to march again and again Lorgar begged the Warlord to stay his hand. They were just sheep without a shepherd, lost children in a very dark night. Once more swayed by the strange kind passion in Lorgars voice the Warlord relented.

Over the next five years as Bishop Phaeron became Patriarch Phaeron Lorgar went to the isolated and the lost and the scared with open arms and promises of reconciliation.

For the most part he was well received and his homeland healed. It was only after the talking was done that those too stubborn or monstrous to come home again were removed. Great pains were taken to minimize casualties but it was not a wholly peaceful end to that bitter conflict.

Ynsdonesic Bloc was the first of the old nation states to disband it's own military completely and throw it's own might, such as was left of it, wholeheartedly into the Imperium.

Lorgar, now a Chaplain-General in the Imperial Army, was considered too old for conversion from human to superhuman but did receive some discrete genetic modifications.

It was a regiment overseen by Lorgar that lead the final assault on the Despot of Ursh's palace that signaled the unification of Old Earth, and it was Lorgar's blade who swung the sword after the Last Despot of Ursh was tried and sentenced to execution for war crimes. But Chaplain-General Aurelian considered all of his victories to be nothing but tragedies. The only true victory, he would often claim, was one where no war was to be found. For his valour and astounding levels of inspiring oratory skill he was declared the unlikely Primarch.

Of all the Primarchs in the time of the Great Crusade his forces brought more worlds into the Imperium peacefully than any other.

They didn't bring more worlds in, oh my no. They were quite slow and their tardiness was no end of frustration to the now Steward. But Lorgar was tolerated because the worlds he claimed were brought into the Imperium whole and undamaged and contributing.

In the War of the Beast Primarch Aurelian and his Legion struck back with an unexpected force. Many of the other war leaders of the imperium considered his Legion to be full of pacifists and weakness. Like many of the damned in the armies of the Beast they had mistaken the olive branch for a white flag and they were punished hard for it.

Across the breadth and depth of the burning Imperium, to the aid of human or xeno, the Word Bearers could be found holding the line and inspiring others to hold the line. Where they strode despair turned to hope and weary hands held firm blessed weapons and shaky voices roared the old battle hymns.

Lorgar and his forces were on Old Earth when Sanguinius died and ever afterwards Lorgar blamed himself for not fighting hard enough to have saved his brother Primarch.

Lorgar lived and served for many years. He eventually died of old age at near eleven hundred years old. A small but modest shrine was erected at the Jakurtana Seminary that is sometimes visited by Word Bearer chaplains even into the Dark Millennium.

See also [[Nobledark_Imperium_Imperial_Society_and_Culture#The_Book_of_Lorgar|The Book of Lorgar]]

== Jaghatai Khan ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Noble Savage:'''''

From an early age, it was clear to most people that Jaghatai “White Scar” Khan was going to grow up to be a troublemaker. Some might have doubted such a claim, but that would have been put to rest by the time Jaghatai was ten, when he was thrown from his vehicle during an accident while tending the flocks, giving him the scar that would later become his most identifying feature, only to dust himself off with little to no concern for the cut on his face. Unfortunately, “most people” did not happen to include the Despot of Ursh. For years, Jaghatai and his people had lived the way his people always had, raising flocks of livestock on the steppes with the help of motorcycles and off-road vehicles. It was this skill with motor vehicles that had brought the people of the steppes to the Despot’s eye. He saw a greater use for their talents than simply herding livestock, and so he pressed the people of the steppes into service. The people of the steppes were turned into shock troopers, raiding enemy supply lines, tearing into retreating battalions, and burning down villages that refused to completely subjugate to the Despot, becoming yet another boogeyman for the Despot of Ursh to use to scare his enemies and subjects into submission.

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Jaghatai’s father was the nominal representative of the steppe peoples to the Despot of Ursh, and so was given the title of Khan: a once noble title that had come to mean nothing in the years since the people of the steppes were enslaved by Ursh. Jaghatai's father pleaded with the Despot to try and make the lives of his people better, but the Despot had a heart harder than adamantium and had no love for people whose loyalty was not absolute. And so it was that at the age of nineteen Jaghatai was awoken one night by emissaries from the Despot of Ursh, who dropped his father's head in a sack on his doorstep and gave Jaghatai the same ultimatum the Despot had given his father. "Serve me absolutely, or die".

Faced with not only the threat of his own demise but the demise of his people, Jaghatai swore loyalty at the point of a sword. But privately, the new Khan swore another oath. He swore that if there was any justice in this world he would not rest until he had avenged his father and it was the Despot of Ursh who had his head put in a sack. And so it was that for several years Jaghatai served as the leader of the one of the most feared forces in the entire Urshii army. And he hated it. He hated seeing his people being turned into animals, being used as attack dogs to terrorize people whose only sin had been to ask the Despot of Ursh for a bit of mercy. He hated the pain and suffering he caused in every burned out husk of a settlement he left behind him. Even when his people were kept out of the fray of raiding and pillaging, his conscience still gnawed at him over the fact that it had been his support that had allowed the Urshii to win and allow this to happen.

This went on for several years, until reports began to come in about a strange new power known as "the Imperium" led by a most peculiar Warlord, which was pushing against the Urshii from the west. Fortunately for Ursh, much of the south and west of the Urshii heartland was bordered by near-impenetrable mountain ranges, with only a few major passes between them. Khan and his people were dispatched as part of a force to guard one of these mountain passes from incursion, along with several thousand elite Urshii troopers. The Urshii troopers had no love for the nomads, forcing them to set up camp far away from the rest of the army and making them do most of the scouting. It was because of this that the Khan and his forces were alone when they quite literally stumbled upon the expeditionary force of the Warlord one fateful day.

Coming around a corner in the bottom of a river valley, the Khan and his scouting forces quite unexpectedly came across some incredibly angry men holding some very imposing guns. After a few minutes of an intense standoff, the leader of the opposing forces called a ceasefire to try and figure out why either of the two sides hadn't begun shooting at each other yet. It was at this point that the Khan first met the Warlord. The Khan realized that this was his opportunity to get revenge on the Despot of Ursh and avenge his father. He told the Warlord the truth, the real truth he had carried inside him since the day his father died. Although initially skeptical, the Warlord was so impressed by the sincerity of the Khan's answer that he believed his story.

The Warlord and the Khan began to conspire as to how to defeat the Urshii army at the pass. At first, the Warlord suggested to the Khan that he simply had to "forget" to show up to the battle, but the Khan vehemently disagreed. The Urshii had denigrated his people, the Khan said, and blood had to be repaid in blood. Therefore, a new plan was formulated, in which the Khan's forces would change sides once the Urshii and the Imperium became locked in combat. Rather than being flankers as intended, the Khan's troops would tear into the Urshii army from behind, forcing them to fight a two-fronted battle. The plan worked, and the battle was a complete rout for the forces of Ursh, allowing the Imperium to cross the mountain passes into the core Urshii territories. The former slaves of Ursh were skeptical to see the Khan's people as liberators, rather than devastators, and this bad blood would persist for years even after the fall of Ursh. Nevertheless, being involved as the front lines of a massive liberating army went a long way towards alleviating such concerns. When the Despot of Ursh was toppled and that abominable empire finally fell, the Khan finally felt that his father had been avenged.

The Warlord had earned the Khan’s gratitude and trust, but the Khan made sure to let the Warlord know that his people would never again be unthinking slaves.

''“You have helped me avenge my father and free my people, and for that you have my gratitude. But remember, that gratitude makes my people and I your allies, not your slaves. For all that you have done, you have my trust, but if you abuse that trust, know that not even death will be fast enough to catch you before I do.”''<br>
- Jaghatai Khan, reportedly said to the Warlord upon the final fall of Ursh

Fortunately, the Khan never had to put his newfound trust to the test. The years of the Great Crusade were probably some of the best of the Khan's life. His people were no longer slaves, and they had a vast new galaxy that had just become open to them. He even fell in love, something he had been studiously avoiding under the reign of the Despot in order to avoid giving that monster something he could exploit him with. He caught the eye of a girl, a former Urshii woman who had worked in the fields as an agricultural serf. He showed her the ways of the steppes, and the two of them fell deeply in love. He was heartbroken when she died. She died at 110, a ripe old age by the standards of those who lived before the Dark Age of Technology, but from a disease that befell many who worked in the fields of Ursh late in life that no amount of juvenant drugs could fix. And yet the Khan had to go on, as the Imperium still had need of his services. It was this sense of duty that led Khan to become an Astartes. Khan spent most of the Crusade on planets that had problems with orks and occasionally dark Eldar, beings that the Khan saw as truly reprehensible and therefore had no moral problems with hunting them down.

Late in life, the Khan began to feel the age seeping into his bones, and looked back at what he had accomplished during his life. He had avenged his father, freed his people, taken them to the stars, started a family, and helped build an empire. It was "more than any man could hope to accomplish in one lifetime", as the Khan said in his own words. But there was still one last thing Khan had to do. The old warrior planned to travel the galaxy one last time, to say goodbye to the friends he made before he passed away. However, the Khan never finished his trip. Although most of the people close to him did report seeing him shortly before his disappearance, the Khan never made it back to Earth to be buried in his homeland, like he wanted. Many of the White Scars say that like many of the other primarchs, Khan did not truly die, and will return to lead them once more when times are dire. One can only hope.

Although the Khan got along well with many of the warrior primarchs like Russ, perhaps his strangest relationship was his odd friendship with Magnus the Red. Part of the reason for this is that Khan actually knew Magnus (though not well) before either had become known as primarchs, back when they had served under the Despot of Ursh. Khan knew firsthand that Magnus was a man, not a monster, and treated him as such. It was probably this friendship that lead to the Khan being so pro-psyker in life. Although he was not a psyker, he knew of the suffering psyker powers could bring to an individual, and so was a strong advocate for pro-psyker policies like the schola that would help psykers control their gifts. He was also not averse to the use of psykers in combat, though like most he drew the line at warp sorcery.
Outside of the Steward and the primarchs, the Khan often had trouble socializing with other people. Part of this was due to a lack of things he could talk about with other people, and part of this was that he never really got the hang of Gothic, always speaking it with a rather heavy accent, which he was embarrassed by. As a result, the Khan was often known for being taciturn at public appearances, and was well known for regarding actions higher than words.

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== Konrad Curze ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Unforgivable:'''''

Konrad Curze was a man that could politely be described as driven, and accurately be described as ''a frothing at the mouth lunatic.'' Of all the Primarchs appointed, none were more questioned than he.

He had grown up in the final days of the Age of Strife in the rambling under city Tordashimya in the Pan Pacific Empire, along with all of the horrors and excess that this entails. To say that this had an effect on the deepest levels of his mind would be a woeful understatement, and he saw the fledgling Imperium as only existing as a means of imposing some sort of order and some basic justice on a world that was in dire need of both and he saw it as his duty to make it happen. Sadly his means of doing so were as crude and brutal as those who he sought to bring to justice; after all, the quickest way to gain obedience is through fear, and and the easiest way to rebuild a society is to behead it and tear apart the body.

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Despite - or, some whisper in hushed tones, ''because of'' - the Steward's insistence that he change his tact, Curze became stubborn and resentful; his predations becoming ever more brutal. Realising the futility of bringing to heel, the Steward instead directed him instead to the worlds of no hope, worlds so broken that they could never be brought into the Imperium. Worlds he couldn't make worse. It was on one of these worlds, Nostramo, that the Night Haunter found some strange joy. If he could bring a world such as this, so broken, so unspeakably wretched, as this to the light of civility then he would be vindicated before the whole galaxy. If a world so cursed by both gods and men could be rebuilt, there was nothing that could not be.

The subjugation of that world was the harrowing stuff of nightmares. The Dark Eldar could barely have done better to make every day-cycle a new nightmare; indeed, some claim that they were there to simply soak up the suffering as a welcome break to their long campaigns of torture and enslavement. But in time Curze, now infamous as the Night Lord of Nostramo, was vindicated. His people took control of every position of authority, while the malcontents were quickly ''disappeared'', often winding up dead and mutilated along with their families and friends, whether man, woman, elder or child. Hideous as it was, order was brought - and order began to spread, as for each world his legion inflicted unspeakable horrors on, ten more surrendered without raising arms. Hideous, brutal examples were made of the worst, but through them the more virtuous were saved.

Soon enough, the dark whispers of Chaos began to tempt his mind, the fallen Eldar of the Crone Worlds assailing his dreams with tantalising offers of untold riches and endless power. Yet every offer was found wanting; every envoy cut down, every promise met with scorn. They had made the mistake of assuming that one such as Curze had become would revel in their depraved debaucheries, without considering that he would find them every bit as repulsive as other, better, people found him. He was a monster, this was true, but he was a monster who ripped and tore and tortured in the name of order; by the Emperor he was the ''Imperium's'' monster and nobody else's.

Some, of course, fell. Younger soldiers who had maybe joined the cause for glory, for strength, or even for mere self-gratification. But the vast majority of them were, like their Primarch, disgusted by the offerings of Chaos, horrified by the fall of their battle brothers, and insulted at the implication that they and the forces of Chaos served the same ends. For the entirety of the War of the Beast, the Lords of the Night could be found sowing discord and misery amongst the fleets and the armies of damnation. For every horror the invaders committed more was inflicted upon them, and for every innocent killed by the Ruinous Powers the Night Lords would swear vengeance on a dozen daemons.

Few of that despised Legion ever fought on the soil of Old Earth, and never were they allowed to forget this. But because of their actions the forces of damnation were weakened and poorly focused with one eye always over their shoulder. Even if their military successes had counted for naught; even if they had not managed to save a single soul, '''they had made Chaos fear ''them'''''. And that was an achievement beyond all others.

In the aftermath of that war, many small provincial worlds and systems tried to strike out on their own, away from the light of the Throne, often being brought back by force. None of Curze's worlds, however, had ever tried to secede - after all, they knew both sides of the Imperium's protection, and had seen first hand the wrath that the Night Lords could unleash. If that was what they would to in ''defence'' of the Imperium, what they would do to willing turncoats did not bear thinking about.

In his later years, Curze was well aware that he had become everything he had despised in his youth, and he sometimes derived black humour from this; that he had finally rediscovered across the galaxy what he had first learned in his youth on a small Terran kingdom: that the ends do not, and cannot, justify the means. In the year 243.M32 he had himself tried and executed for war crimes as the ultimate testament that none were beyond judgement. He had deemed himself to have outlived his usefulness, and to some extent he was right; although the Imperium could tolerate a useful monster, it should have no love for one.

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== Angron ==

Angron was a slave pit fighter in what was left of the Nord Afrik Enclaves.

He was liberated quite early on in The Warlords campaign. Signed on to join the Thunder Warriors.

Rose through the ranks and earned great fame and respect. Munched loved by his men due to his tendency to lead from the front and getting stuck in where the fighting was thickest.

Was one of the older generation of TW with all the damage and flaws this brought with it.

Due to his astounding aptitudes he was promoted to the rank of Primarch and given command of a batch of the new Astartes model Space Marines.

Plagued by health issues despite attempts to repair his faulty upgrades. Refused the retirement offer that many TW took to make lives for themselves. He wouldn't have been able to deal with a peaceful life.

Survived all the way to the end of The War of the Beast but not much longer. Died peacefully in his sleep. Probably the oldest TW.

Kharn the Oathsworn took over, new type of super soldier for a new era.

He didn't live a happy life, but given the nature of his childhood he could have lived a worse one and a statue of him stands outside the gate of the Carthisisa Hive Cathedral.

===His Early Life===

Some men are born into greatness, and carry it upon their brow with the natural ease of command. Others have greatness forced unwillingly upon them, and they suffer its burden for duty and honor. The Primarch Angron fell firmly into the second category.

Little is known about Angron’s early life. What is known is gleaned from his private writings, scattered public records, and a few of Kharn’s recollections; and it is little wonder that the Primarch did not speak of his youth, for it was a bitter and brutal upbringing so sadly common in the chaotic days before the Unification.

Angron was born to a humble family in a small town in Timbuk, the northern state of the Afrique League, along the border of the Nord Afrik Conclaves. The town sat on a trade route used by nomad clans and acted as a minor trade hub and rest stop for their caravans as they traveled the roads between the techno-barbarian conclaves of Nord Afrik and the settlements of the Afrique League. Angron’s family made their living as bakers; their fortified strongbread was particularly well-regarded in the area as a food of the road for weary travelers. Their lifestyle was modest but probably not unpleasant, and it was more than likely that Angron would have followed in his family’s footsteps and become a baker as well, living a quiet life, were it not for the Europian-Afrikaan War.

After the humiliating defeat inflicted by Angron’s fellow Primarch-to-be Roboute Guilliman, the Padishah of the Nord Afrik Conclaves needed victory and loot to pacify his rebellious vassal shahs and sheikhs, who were threatening a shahs-moot to elect a new leader or even open revolt should the Padishah refuse. Thus, the Padishah turned his gaze and armies towards the weakest of his neighbors, the Afrique League. The southern Afrique state of Nama Gola was cut off from Timbuk by the toxic coastal wastelands and the vassals of Ursh further inland, nor could they challenge the Afrikaan at sea, and so their northern brethren faced the rage of the Afrikaan utterly alone.

The Padishah’s regular forces had been decimated by the war with Europa, and in a desperate show of might he turned to the cruelest monsters and technologies hidden within the Conclaves. Upon the Afrique League he unleashed lumbering arco-flagellants, limbs replaced by electrowhips and hydraulic mauls; screaming berserker slaves, hippocampuses mangled by crude cybernetics to increase aggression; cackling Volkite cultists, who unleashed the terrible heat of their weapons to praise their Burning God and the Devouring Flame; shriveled moisture cannibals from the deep deserts, who ripped men apart to drink of the precious water in their bodies and harvest the fluids for dark rituals; and a hundred other varieties of horrors and monstrosities forgotten to history, each worse than the last.

The Afrikaan host swept over the border unimpeded as the scattered militias of Timbuk were blown aside before the Padishah’s storm of ravening terrors, the regular Afrique soldiers having long withdrawn to fortify the coastal cities. Angron’s town was one of the first to fall, and the Afrikaan marauders slaked their bloodlust on the terrified citizens through all manners of torture and slaughter. The details around what happened to Angron during this time are scarce: Angron himself understandably did not speak much of this event and the only written comments involve a short line in one of his final writings. The only clues are from the journals of a minor officer of the Padishah’s elite Janissor Corps who was assigned to oversee the sacking of Angron’s village, where he writes of an incident regarding a young boy who leapt from the rafters of a burning bakery and stabbed one of his men to death, and who then almost escaped on foot before being shot down by a stun dart to be taken as a slave.

From ruins of his village, Angron was taken to a loot caravan along with the few other survivors, mostly young children like himself who would sell well at the slave markets. They were taken through the scorching heat and swirling sands of the Afrikaan deserts until at last they reached their destination: Karthago, called Carthisisia in the Afrikaan tongue, oldest of the Nord Afrik city-states, seat of His Ascendancy the Padishah. Perched upon the western bank of the great God’s Eye Lake, it was a dusty city of brass and stone, its red stone walls a crumbling reminder of a long and cultured past, its glittering pyramids and temples casting long shadows over the slave bazaars reeking of blood.

In the auction houses, the fierce young boy drew great interest from the old gladiator houses, for a star pit fighter would bring great riches and prestige to anyone who owned him, and when the auctioneer’s hammer finally fell after a round of exorbitant bidding, it was the infamous slaver Nuceria, Queen of Flesh, who won the right to Angron’s collar. After the auction he received Nuceria’s slave mark, the inverted red triangle upon his forehead that marked him as her property, a tattoo he would have for the rest of his life.

The next twelve years of Angron’s life were a nightmare of the most brutal training imaginable, designed to break and beat him into a instrument of slaughter, a sadistic crucible to purify him into a weapon unhindered by morality or humanity. From sunup to sundown on the grounds of Nuceria’s palatial manor Angron was forced to train and fight until his entire body was a tight knot of agony, and every slight failure, misstep, or distraction was punished with beatings. In his first year he was given a puppy to raise as his companion, and on his birthday the next year he was ordered to strangle it with his bare hands. When he refused, he received the first of many electro-whippings. As Angron grew older, Nuceria used him as her headsman, forcing him to mete out the punishments to her other slaves, like cutting off the feet of escapees and executing those who disobeyed.

In this hell Angron grew into a man. At eighteen he already stood well over 6 feet tall, his dusky frame thick with corded muscle, and he was excellent with the sword, superb with the mace, and unmatched with the axe. During one sparring match he killed three of the trainers that had tortured him since his childhood with a blunted training sword until the others managed to intervene, and when Nuceria heard she laughed and said the dead men had done their jobs well.

Yet for all their efforts, they had not broken him. Beneath all the years of horrors and scars upon Angron’s psyche, there was still the core of the simple young boy from Timbuk, the son of parents he no longer remembered, born in a village that no longer existed. It would have been easier to break, to become the monster they wanted, or to place the blame for all the atrocities he had committed on Nuceria and the others who forced his hand. Instead Angron chose to face and accept all that he had done, and when he woke at night, gasping and sweating from the nightmares that haunted him, all he could do was swear to make things right, some way, some how.

When it was time for Angron’s first fight in the pits, to Nuceria’s fury it was to be against Tigris of Franj, a knight taken as a prisoner of war long ago and a long-time veteran of the pits. Nuceria had seen too many promising young talents cut down before their prime by facing wily old fighters before they were ready, and on this match she saw the mark of the other gladiator houses, conspiring with the gamemasters to kill her most promising fighter before he could bloom. For all her rage Nuceria could not challenge their combined authority, and so as Angron stepped out in the sandy arena to face the Franjish knight, she resigned herself to losing a decade of investment.
Angron won in less than 5 minutes. With dispassionate, overwhelming strikes of his axe he dismantled his opponent’s defense piece by piece before battering him down with a furious rain of blows. When the crowd called for Tigris’ death, in defiance of pit custom Angron refused to perform the traditional execution of disemboweling his opponent and strangling him with his own intestines. Instead, he cleanly decapitated Tigris in a single blow, leaving the crowd in a momentary stunned silence before they rose to their in feet in an approving roar to cheer the masterful performance by the young fighter.

Elated, Nuceria took Angron to her slave pens and allowed him to choose any of the slave girls to be his personal courtesan, a prize usually reserved for gladiators that had won ten fights. To Nuceria’s surprise he walked past the cells of beautiful young women to the cells of children. They were frightened, furtive little things, and there Angron picked up a little boy with dark eyes full of defiance and loss, so very much like his own, and said this boy was to be no slave, but his son. And so Angron had found the first of his children, Kharn.

In the next few years Angron became a legend, his matches televised throughout the Conclaves, defeating champion after champion in an unbroken chain of victories. The crowds called him the “Lord of the Red Sands” while Nuceria lavished gifts and privileges on him for his victories, and so Angron’s little family grew as he took several more children under his wing as his sons and daughters. Yet for all his successes and outward displays of obedience, Angron was still haunted by his sins, and the chance for his atonement finally came when he was approached by a group of fellow slaves who asked that he aid them in their escape attempt by killing the guards the protected the motor pool. In return, they would take him and his children with them to freedom in far off Franj. Angron agreed without reservation, and the preparations were made.

Yet rarely were things ever so simple. The night before the planned escape, Angron returned to his quarters after training to find his children’s rooms empty. Nuceria was sitting in her study when Angron burst through the door, his axe dripping with gore from the guards he had slaughtered outside, and froze when he saw his youngest son Macer upon her lap, the baby giggling as the slaver cooed and bounced him in her lap in a mockery of motherhood. Angron demanded to know where his children were. Nuceria replied that they were safe, for the moment, but only if Angron the revealed the names of the conspirators of his escape. Remain silent, she added, and his children would die screaming, and suddenly there was a stiletto in her hand, delicately tracing a line across the baby’s neck. Falling to his knees weeping tears of helpless rage, Angron made his choice, and Nuceria smiled. In the morning, there were dozens of new crucifixes in the courtyard, and the moans and cries of the dying escapees echoed through the manor. Angron could only look on at the new nightmare that would haunt his dreams, and swear a dozen new vows of bloody vengeance.

The chance would come sooner than Angron ever imagined. War came once again to the Nord Afrik Conclaves, but this time in the form of an overwhelming invasion from a mysterious warlord from the Terrawatt Clan. At first, the Afrikaan nobility was filled with bluster, boasting that they would crush this upstart and take him as a slave to be paraded in the streets, yet in only a few short months the main armies of the Conclaves were crushed. The shahs of the Conclaves had imploded into panicked infighting and blame, and whispers spread throughout the fearful streets of Karthago of invincible steel-clad giants who marched in the vanguard of the invading army who crushed all resistance under the shells of their mighty guns.

Soon the enemy army was at the gates of Karthago, and the siege was brief, the spirit of the defending soldiers already broken and the conscripted slaves unwilling to waste their lives for their hated masters. As the walls fell and the fighting neared the estate, Angron knew he would have no better chance to fulfill his vows. In the chaos he pushed his way through panicking servants and slaves to the motor pool, where he found Nuceria with a few guards preparing an armored car for her escape. The guards he swiftly killed before they even had a chance to draw their weapons. For Nuceria, Angron gave her the death she deserved: the gladiator’s death, cutting open her belly and strangling her with her own entrails as she screamed and begged for mercy she had never shown, a final act of irony he hoped would appease his fallen comrades.
With the deed done, Angron took his axe and retreated to his quarters with his children, barricading the door as the sounds of fighting grew ever closer. Soon, he could hear echoing footsteps inside the manor, and he gripped his axe tightly as they drew closer down the hallway.

The door exploded open in a cloud of splinters and dust, and a hulking armored figure ducked through the doorway with a massive gun in its grip. From behind, Angron leapt forward and kicked the back of the intruder’s leg, causing the giant to stumble forward slightly, and with a roar he swung his axe two-handed at its vulnerable head. The axe struck true and hard, and bounced off harmlessly with a clang. The giant turned, and in response drove its armored fist into Angron’s chest. Never in all his training, sparring, or duels had Angron been hit so hard, and he was flung backwards against the wall, vision flickering, gasping and coughing blood through broken ribs and crushed lungs.

The giant stood over him and leveled the gaping muzzle of its gun at Angron’s head, dim light glinting balefully from the red lenses of its helmet, when there was a sudden movement. It was Kharn, screaming and beating at the giant’s leg with his thin arms. The giant looked down at the boy flailing helplessly at its leg and turned towards the sounds of whimpers from the other side of the room where the rest of Angron’s children huddled weeping behind the bed. He looked back down at Angron, and wordlessly the giant plucked Kharn off its leg, tossed him aside, and walked out of the room.

The next few days were a haze of pain as Angron lay in his bed, tended by a few of the old healers who had remained. The city had fallen, they told him, and to their surprise there had been no looting or raping or murder. Instead, the corrupt of the city had been dragged into the streets and purged, all the old slavers and fat nobles and decadent priests, though the Padishah had long fled. So when word spread that the warlord that had taken their city would be coming to visit his new territory, Angron dragged himself out of his bed despite the agony in his chest, and limped his way down to the city gates to take stock of this Warlord who had conquered them so easily.

When the Warlord walked through the city gates, there was a murmur of hushed awe. He was young, his face unlined and dark hair falling to his shoulders, and he towered well above the steel giants beside him, his gold-armored frame standing well over 8 ft tall. In unison, the crowds lining the road began to kneel, an instinct drilled into each of them by their years of service to their masters. But as their knees began to bend, each person felt an invisible force seize them, holding them before their knees could touch the ground. A presence touched their thoughts, vast and overwhelming, yet somehow warm and protective, and it spoke in ringing tones that echoed soundlessly within their minds:

''Do not kneel, for I am no king or conqueror.''

''Do not kneel, for you are slaves and servants to the unworthy no longer.''

''Do not kneel, for though you know it not you are noble and good.''

''Instead, I bid you: STAND.''

And every onlooker felt the force around their bodies reverse, pulling them gently but firmly upwards, until even the most stoopbacked old men found themselves standing as tall and proud as they did in the flower of their youth. They looked up with wide eyes upon the golden stranger before them, and a cry rushed through the crowd as they called out in tongues from a dozen lands.

“Liberator!” “Breaker of chains!” “Savior!” And that is when Angron knew he would fight and die for the Warlord.

See Also: [[Nobledark_Imperium_Writing#Nails|Nails]]

== Corax ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Raven King:'''''

Towards the end of the Wars of Unification the Despot of Ursh and remnants of the Pan-Pacific Empire united out of desperation although for that desperation they were no less formidable.

In the lands of Sino were to be found huge tracts of the richest and most bountiful fields on all of Old Earth in that time and with their produce a seemingly unending number of fighting men and near-men and once-men could be maintained. Those fields though bountiful were tilled with the blood and sweat and breaking backs of a slave caste that knew nothing of war and cared nothing for conquest and whose eyes were cast firmly upon the ground as those that dared to look up were so often the worse for it.

It seemed the Warlord knew that any attempt to invade that place by conventional means would be bloody in the extreme; to his own men, to their men and more tragically to the people he was trying to liberate.

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Ursh had been pushed back and pushed back until it was now one diamond hard core of resilience. Conventional war was to be avoided and Curz's methods of unconventional war were not to be considered.

All that could be done was stand at the border and wait. Although the Warlord could not get in the Despot and his men were contained. Victory by weight of probability and time was assured but time for change to occur would be glacial and all the while suffering and death would be had among the downtrodden masses. Death by time or death by the blade, neither option was palatable.

And into this unhappy standoff Corax, the one who would one day be known as the Stormcrow, arose.

Uninformed and downtrodden as they were the slaves of Sino were far from stupid if only because stupidity was far from a survival trait in their harsh world. They had hear of the Warlord, they had heard of his new Imperium and they had heard of the freedoms it offered. They wanted that. Few would dare try to run the border because of what the Urshi would do to their loved ones left behind and what the foul men of the Khanate did to those they found running away.

Among them arose a man from the factories who had spent too long toiling for cruel masters and starving whilst his oppressors feasted. His family were dead by one means or another be it contagion, sport or ritual and he was left with critically little left to loose.

His job afforded him a basic but working knowledge of alchemy and reaction and he often handled equipment that was only considered tools rather than weapons because of how it was used. Corax was a very angry man but also a very cunning man whose anger was tempered by age earned wisdom and set for the long simmer rather than full boil. This was good as he was surrounded by a lot of other very angry people who also needed to be taught that patience and anger could work very well together.

By simple but time trusted methods of communication the words of rebellion spread. It was not without cost or casualty but those sufferings were just more fuel for the long burn of hate. It is possible that the rebellion would have died in it's infancy but for the forces and resources and attention being diverted to the borders where the Warlord circled, waiting for some weakness to show.

When the hammer finally came down it was like half the nation caught fire all at once. Caught unaware vast numbers of the fearsome warriors trying to out stare the Warlord at the border were frantically pulled back to keep the heartlands in good order. Perhaps this was a miscalculation on the part of the Generals responsible for the descision. Certainly the Despot thought so if the flayed and violated but still somehow living bodies of those generals adorning the palace walls are anything to attest to.

With the sudden depletion of massed soldiery on the borders the tables had turned sufficiently to make conventional invasion a realistic possibility. And at the head of the vanguard was Angron whose account of the first battles would have made historically important reading had he been persuaded to write anything down about it.

Caught between the forces of Corax and his merciless insurgency who knew all about cruelty and the forces of the Warlord that were as unstoppable as the sunrise the forces of Ursh were driven from the lands of Sino to their last strongholds where they licked their wounds and waited for the end that was not slow in it's arrival.

The people or Corax, freed for the fist time in time beyond living memory, looked towards the ordered and disciplined (except for Angron who had to be sedated) forces with wary eyes. They were not slaves now and would never bend a knee to a man again.

Corax, to his credit, did know that there was a world of difference between taking an nation and holding it. His people were brave and tenacious and could be vicious when provoked. But he knew deep down that they could not run a nation and all would soon descend into anarchy at best and re-enslavement or death at worse.

When the Warlord strode across the quietened field of victory towards the Stormcrow Corax could see in his eyes that it was one man greeting another as an equal, brothers in battle and free men.

Corax knew he would need to use what temporary authority he had as leader of a victorious rebellion to direct his people into a cohesive whole now that the immediate threat was removed and the Warlord knew that they were distrustful of outsiders and wouldn't take kindly to direct orders. A compromise was quickly reached. The most competent seeming of Corax's people would be given positions of authority in the newly freed nation but would also be provided with advisors and assistants from the newly formalized Administratum on loan for as long as they were wanted.

It was not long after that the weathered man that was Corax witnessed the final and lasting death of the Ursh and ever afterwards was he disappointed that he didn't get to deal the killing blow.

As Old Earth was brought to a new golden age the now Steward's eye turned upward to the inky black. To the far places of Luna and Mars and the Jovians and further, so very much further.

He knew he would need men he could trust in both loyalty and competence. People to act in his stead. Of these twenty most gifted and proven individuals Corax was one. When it came to covertly setting traps and ambushes he had no equal. Sadly he was well beyond the age when super soldier treatments become a viable possibility to say nothing of the two prosthetic lungs Imperium loyal tech-adepts had gifted him to undo the effects of thirty years of toxic fume inhalation in his old job. He did receive some discrete cybernetic enhancements and longevity treatments but nothing that wouldn't allow him to pass as human.

The skills he had learned and instilled in his new legion were of great use in the Unification of Sol. One of the earliest and most charictaristic victoris was when the dissidents breaking away after the Magi of Mars pledged alliance to the Empty Throne swiftly found themselves making considerable compromises as their air recycles all spontaneously exploded. Ever a man of the people Corax would always choose the path of least collateral damage over expediency or personal safety.

As the Unification of Sol turned into the Great Crusade Primarch Corax found that there were all too many kindred souls enslaved on distant worlds to terrible masters, some human and some xeno and some hideous beyond categorization.

Although the Raven Guard did posses Astartes soldiers (favoring a more refined version of the earlier model rather than the latter models) they were only typically used for the killing blow. The bulk of the Legion was mere mortal men who were far more adept at cover tagging of targets and walking among the downtrodden masses unobserved. When the Space Marines were called in and the fireworks went off the action was intense, devastating and brief. Quick decapitations with little mess were what his legionaries prided themselves in and it served them well. The people of the worlds they liberated loved them. The Men of Earth, that legendary birth world of humanity, had come back to save them and it was joyful.

But of Corax no rest was had in celebration or revelry. If his victories had taught him one thing it was that they were necessary and they hadn't run out of worlds to free. There would be no rest till they reached the edge of the galaxy and all the worlds in between.

The Raven Guard in their way operated in a manner mirror to that of the Night Lords in those hopeful days of the Great Crusade. The Night Lords would terrorize and scatter and slaughter but leave the technology and architecture of a world intact in preparation for a killing blow, the Imperium had no shortage of people and a replacement population could always be brought in. The Raven Guard preferred to destroy infrastructure but spare those who knew how to repair and maintain it in preparation for the final strike with the certainty that expertise could not be easily replaced. The Raven Guard argued that the entire endeavour of the Great Crusade was to save humanity, not slaughter it. The Night Lords agreed but saw no point is loosing sleep over the loss of individual humans sacrificed for the good of the whole.

Both rival primarchs despised one another, both raised good points, both were most effective when fighting in concert with a more direct Legion or similar fighting force and neither were openly brought to heel by the Steward because both were undeniably effective. Twice, in the days of the Great Crusade, the Crow and the Haunter came to blows although their Legions never went to war against each other. Barely.

When the Beast arose among the orks and the Great Crusade ran into it's equal and opposite the nature of the Raven Guard changed. Just as the Night Haunters were occasionally called in, to their disgust, to protect refugee convoys so were the Raven Guard called in to euthanize populations contaminated irreparably. To say that Corax found these orders distasteful would be a gross understatement. Out of all the Primarchs it was Corax who was first to outright disobey a direct order from the Steward. He would not bring nuclear fire down upon a civilian target. He and his men would not abandon their principles, not even in the face of annihilation.

It was upon the fate of the once thriving cultural hub that was the planet Azoth that the Raven Guard made their stand. The world was infected but they believed, they knew in their heart of hearts, that it could be saved. The force to retake it was led by the Stormcrow himself who needed to show the Steward that no such drastic steps needed ever to be taken.

Upon that world something in the heart of Corax died at what he saw. At the barbarity and the debauchery and the unholy violations he could never of dreamed of, not even the most depraved Despot of the Urshi could have dreamed of. ██████████████████████████████Data Expunged. -][- . Hydra Dominatus.████████████████████████.

Never again, the Stormcrow vowed, never again would he inflict such cruelty for the sake of human pity and the bleeding conscience of one old man. Indeed the primarch did feel old and in some way untouchable by rejuveneant treatments did look it now more than ever. Azoth was sterilized with atomic fire, a monument to all that should be reviled.

For the sense of well being that it cost one general the Imperium did at least learn of the Chaos Eldar earlier than they otherwise might have. Despite his disobedience Corax faced no censure from the Steward for showing pity and sorrow in his work, if he had shown joy then maybe things would have gone rather differently for him but the Steward would not punish a man for being human.

For the most part the Raven Guard served in the War of the Beast with great valor an uncommon cunning striking far harder than their numbers would suggest. Their greatest ally, they would claim in later years, was the orkish nature to infighting when their leaders were removed. Whole sub-WAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!s would grind to a halt as Nob after Warboss was subject to fatal ambush and inhumanly precise assassinations. Purely against the orks it is possible that the Raven Guard had no equal.

But it was not purely against the orks. Children of Chaos were abroad and of them the Raven Guard could not out maneuver readily. The forces of the dark gods reaped a heavy toll as hunts were turned inside out and the weakness of using so many mere mortal men was exposed. Astartes, it was often claimed, knew no fear, but baseline humanity did and that played right into the hands of the Croneworlders.

It is unknown how many of these sworn to service under Corax fell. Many who venerate the Stormcrow Primarch would claim that none did but they are blined by pride. The numbers are hard to tell in a legion that so loves the shadows and when they struck it was from a direction those in command did not see coming and so the wounds were felt all the deeper. Exact numbers may never be known beyond "too many".

Perhaps it was having to deal with these traitors, perhaps it was getting mired in a war of attrition against the orks or out outmaneuvered buy the fallen eldar or maybe some combination of all three but Corax and all save a token force of his vanguard, like his old rival, was not on Old Earth when Sanguinius died and the great Beast was slaughtered. Some blamed him but none so much as he himself did.

The wars of reconquest and the rebuilding of the Imperium was not a war that the Raven Guard were well sited for. Their primary means of warfare was one of carefully stalked targets and swift simultaneous executions. The reconquest of the Imperium with it's muddied waters and sliding scales of loyalty was something they found difficult to adapt to and in the years that followed they lost nearly as many as they did to the Beast's predations.

By the time the Imperium was stabilized and looking even anything like it had once done the Raven Guard was a shattered remnant of it's former glory and it's primarch was almost broken. Corax had seen too much he held dear despoiled, to many dreams crushed. The Steward tried to comfort him but his kind words fell upon deaf ears. In Corax's mind the Great Crusade, the greatest accomplishment of the human species, had failed and he had maybe played no small part in that failing.

To his credit he never let his sorrows interfere with his work. The Raven Guard was built up far more modestly in scale and in the place of a Legion a hundred Chapters were built in the centuries that followed. By the time that the last of the first commissioned chapters was declared ready for duty Corax was an old withered man. His early life had been hard and he had started on the rejuvenants relatively late in life and it showed.

Of Corax's ultimate fate the truth is unknown. He would, in those ancient times, travel between the newly minted chapters to inspect and advise and occasionally accompany on missions but like always he made few aware of his movements and would often drop in unannounced and leave abruptly. Which chapter he last visited is up for debate as many records are contradictory at best and nonsensical at worse but all is known is that one day he just vanished.

Some hold out hope, even unto the Dark Millennium, that the Raven King will return.

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== Alpharius & Omegon ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">''''' The Beginning and the End: '''''

"I am the Alpha and Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End." these are the last known records of the primarchs "Alpharius and Omegon". All documents and records pertaining to these individuals were deleted by Inquisition, those that were thought to be associated with the primarchs disappeared and all that was left was a parchment with those words and a small wax stamp beneath depicting the Lernaean hydra of old terran mythology. Now the only way to learn about the individuals and their legacy is by eyewitness accounts and rumours that have slipped beneath the inquisitions watchful gaze.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

One eyewitness report tells of two figures clad in dark robes standing next to the Warlord and his war council, they describe that the figures were much shorter than the other in the council.

It is unknown if these are the individuals known as Alpharius and Omegon because other reports say that they were tall men fighting battles and cutting down enemies. It is now even known if they are two persons and might in fact be one individual. This comes from a witness that said to have met a man dressed in the clothes of a highly revered official that presented himself as "Alpharius Omegon". All that is known that there was at one point one or more individuals called Alpharius and Omegon. But what is known is that he or they had a large part in the counterintelligence and espionage of the unification war. They were said to be masters of infiltration and supposedly had a deep network of agents and assassins so that the mysterious individuals could act at multiple places at once. This network is thought to become what we now know as the Inquisition.

"Cut off one head and two shall take it’s place."<br>
-Last words spoken from a prisoner before committing suicide.

A popular theory about the origins of the mysterious individuals, is that they were the members of the even less known ██████████ that were a secret society of old terra. It’s thought that that they joined the warlord after seeing the potential power that they could have they sent their most loyal and brightest two members to help the Warlord in his endeavours.

"You search the darkness, while we hide in the light. You see not the serpent lying in wait, you see only a brother. We witnessed your beginning and we will be your end."<br>
-Said to be whispered to an Imperial official before her assassination.

Another theory is that they originate from ███ ████ a group of Xenos set on destroying the "primordial annihilator" and thus sent their best human operatives to aid the Warlord and his future plans.

"Cut the head off the snake and the body will die shortly after"
-thought to be a direct quote from either Alpharius or Omegon.

Alpharius and Omegon are thought to be major members in the creation of the inquisition and that after the alliance with the eldar their influence has only increased. Acting as puppet masters, they are thought to be behind both the starting of wars and the ending of them, doing as they see fit for the better of the imperium.

It was around ████ that all records and documents of Alpharius and Omegon were deleted. Theories say that they had died and that their successors order the purge of information surrounding the primarchs so that their legacy and actions can be forgotten. Other theories say that the warlord declared them traitors and therefore got rid of all evidence of their existence.

But yet to this day there are whispers about legions of men and women walking among us, executing the orders of their puppets masters, killing the corrupt, eliminating the foe from the inside and bearing the brand of the hydra

"Hydra Dominatus"<br>
-Alpharius and Omegon, the Beginning and the End

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[[Category:Nobledark Imperium]]

Nobledark Imperium Primarchs

2020-11-26T14:28:27Z

2001:8003:D01A:2500:78E3:F6BA:DADE:20D4: /* Fulgrim */ added collapsible bar

'''This page is part of the Nobledark Imperium, a fan re-working of the Warhammer 40,000 Universe. See the [[Nobledark Imperium|Nobledark Imperium Introduction]] and [[Nobledark Imperium|Main Page]] for more information on the alternate universe'''

To Do:
* Finish Fulgrim and Angron
* Write up Dorn

[[Image:Astartes_Evolution_V2.jpg|thumb|History of super soldier augmentations in the Imperium]]

In his conquests of Old Earth and Sol, the Warlord created the title of Primarch and awarded it to twenty of his greatest generals, that they might become leaders of leaders. This was partly to maintain an ordered hierarchy but also to promote autonomy within his forces. The Warlord's long-term dream at the time was creating a system of governance so efficient that he would become obsolete. His short-term dream at the time was to free up enough time to spend all evening in the pub. Of the twenty awarded that rank, only eighteen are — by name and deed — remembered by history under that most magnific of titles.

Although all of the primarchs commanded a legion of super soldiers, not all of them were Astartes. Some primarchs were earlier types of super soldier, whereas others were incompatible with the proceedure. Some were too old to receive any kind of full-scale augmentation — though they were given rejuvenants, cybernetics and limited gene-forging. The Imperium experimented with many types of super soldiers before eventually developing the Mark III MP (Mass Production) Pattern. Each of these models can count at least one Primarch among their ranks.

Human(ish)
* Lorgar
* Roboute Guilliman
* Corvus Corax
* Magnus (Especially bizarre genetics made him incompatible with any augmentations save the most basic juvenants)
* Horus (Abhuman, member of the Void Born migrant fleet born on Luna)
* Ferrus Manus (Heavily augmented, but a Mechanicum Skitarii, not an Astartes or Thunder Warrior)
Early Thunder Warrior
* Angron
Refined (Late Stage) Thunder Warrior
* Perturabo
* Mortarion
Canis Helix
* Leman Russ
Mark I Astartes
* Rogal Dorn
* Jaghatai Khan (Maybe Mark II. Dorn was mentioned to be one of the last of the Mark Is and still had problems)
Mark II Astartes
* Fulgrim
Mark III MP Astartes
* Conrad Kurze
Mark III S Astartes
* Sanguinius
* Lion El'Jonson
* Vulkan

== Horus ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">''''' The King of Empty Space: '''''

[[Image:1484667029816.jpg|thumb|Primarch Horus Lupercal, King of Empty Space.]]

''"Somehow I thought he'd be... well... gold-ier"''<br>
— Horus Lupercal, speaking of his first impressions of the Warlord

The exact birth date of Horus is not easy to pin down, as the calendar used by the Void Born of Sol was one used by no one else, and didn’t use the Earth Year as the basic measure of time. The particular calendar used by Tribe Lupercal fell out of use, in any case, within a few generation of the death of Abaddon the Last and the disbanding of the Void Born as a unified nation.

What is known is that, by the final days of the Earth Unification Wars, Horus Lupercal was a man of renown and considerable accomplishment. His age was always difficult to judge, as up until his twilight years he remained spry, lively, and remarkable well preserved. When the Warlord first made contact with him he was described as being in his late prime to very early middle years in age. In appearance, he was much like all Void Born; freakishly tall and thin, pale, and in possession of large eyes and pianist hands. His face was much accustomed to smiling and his mouth contained three gold teeth; generally he evoked an image of a second-hand starship salesman in the people that met him.

The Void Born were not, in those ancient days, a unified people — though they were more cooperative amongst their own kind than baseline humanity ever was. They attributed this to the constant exposure to the bottomless depths of the inky blackness; space is vast and good friends are few. Yes, they would swindle, cheat, and engage in cutthroat business practices, but never to the point of death. Of all the myriad branches of humanity, in those days theirs was the only one willing to ply the starry sea. How Horus Lupercal, son of Maherpa, of the Lunar Lagrange Point rose from a humble bulk haulage transporter to representative of the Void Born as a unified people is the stuff of legends amongst the Merchant Navy and early Rogue Trader dynasties, and like most legends is almost certainly mostly bullshit.

Whatever the case, it was not long before the final defeat of Ursh that Horus found himself in a support harness on the surface of Old Earth, unsteadily approaching the Warlord’s tent a few miles behind the front lines. Exactly what they discussed that day is not in any recorded history, and the event itself was witnessed by only a precious few — Sigillite Malcador and Lord Guilliman among them. But beer was drunk and hands were shook, and Horus returned to his people and the blessed lightness of empty space.

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The nation of Ursh was brought to an end the next day, for all that their underground resistance would persist for nigh on twenty years after.

The Warlord — now Steward — appointed his twenty greatest the rank of Primarch. Among their exalted ranks was Horus, who soon after was crowned King of Empty Space by the unanimous vote of the great matriarchs and patriarchs of his people.

Some time after the King’s death, archived audio records revealed that the Olympus Mons Priesthood of Mars had also offered him vassalage — at not unreasonable terms — some days after the deal with the Warlord was made;

“So you're saying you'd rather be vassal to the Terrawatt apostate's flesh-smith than master of our every ship for perpetuity? You scorn the shipwrights of your forefathers! You scorn the smiths of time immemorial! What nerve you have, Lord-Admiral, what—”

“Nerve, is it? Certainly, it is nerve, magos. He promised me a partnership, as fruitful and even as the bargain you propose. He'd have me be his indispensable confederate until the end of my days, and as lord of my people. I made sure he stood as I knelt to the throne, and swore no oath he had not. I set the terms of my service, and I chose my mandate.”

“The gilt conqueror has amassed the treasures of man's eldest ruin, and he dotes mightily upon his subjects. More than that, he is unabashedly greedy.”

“Oh yes, his greed for self-possessed statesmen and commanders is vast, and his appetite for men wiser than he insatiable. I am the admiral of my ships, and of his ships, and all ships he might gain henceforth, and command his navy just as my own. He is steward of my people, and he is bound to them, each and every. Not just for as long as I hold them as one but instead in perpetuity, so long as his empire stands.”

And so was undone — with no small bitterness — an older arrangement between the Void Born and the Mechanicum, each feeling betrayed by the other. It was perhaps not such a heavy or saddening burden on the Primarch’s heart as it might have been, as he had never dealt with the Olympus Mons Brotherhood and so felt no real loyalty to them. In the days of his youth and in his father’s service, they had dealt with lesser — and less arrogant — brotherhoods. The Olympus Mons Brotherhood had subjugated them all, and thus felt they were entitled to take on their obligations and owed their respective loyalties. But Horus had shaken no hands with them.

It should be noted that, despite the public image of the unshakable trust and confidence the Steward had in his primarchs, Horus did worry him somewhat — and worried the other Primarchs rather more. Horus dreamed of an Imperium with almost no centralized authority and an almost non-existent hierarchy; each world independent and sovereign, united in mutual friendship but beholden to no one but themselves, and with no authority past their own bounds.

In Horus’ vision humanity would be, in some distant age, diversified into cultivated and pure abhumanism; a type of tool for every job and a type of human for every world, all united in a shared common humanity. Humanity was in its infancy compared to the Eldar, true, but unlike the Eldar we would not forget our roots. To him, the Imperium was not a final product, but rather a mere stepping-stone towards some strange utopia of a “Star Union”.

These visions did not sit well with the Steward at all. Nevertheless, though Horus was willing to privately challenge the Steward's vision for humanity, he never crossed the line and tried to aggressively implement anything to that effect. As the Emperor could wait and play the long game, so too could Horus. He saw his vision as inevitable; maybe it would start to take shape in some near century or some unimaginably distant age, but he could wait.

The great ships of the Migrant Fleets now stood with the Steward, whose eyes were fixed upon the warring states of the Far-Orbit colonies on the moons of Neptune and Uranus, the Jovian and Saturnine nations, the settlements of the asteroids belt and the Kuiper belt, and the ultimately to the distant stars. Suddenly, those stars seemed not so distant.

It would be Horus’ people who would take them there. His formidable ships would be at the forefront of the frontier, at the bleeding edge where the Imperium met wilderness space. At the place where profit, fame and fortune could be made and where legends were forged. In every way possible, his people were going to make a killing off of this deal.

The Void Born, though master sailors of the starry seas, made for poor soldiers. Upon their ships were placed bondsmen of the Imperial Army and the fearsome and awe-inspiring Astartes pattern Space Marines. In essence, Horus now had his own Legion on top of being a necessary participant in the operations of all the other Legions, as he was the one with the ships. There was not a war he didn’t have a hand in, not a victory his people not accredited with having done their part.

But of these victories, he would claim, none were a grand as those that came to the Imperium willingly — as he had, not so long ago. Deals were ripe for the making, trade could flow, riches could be shared and increased, and all the petty little worlds had to do was reach out a hand. Of all the Primarchs only Lorgar managed to get more worlds to join the Imperium bloodlessly.

Time wore on and the borders were pushed back. The Void Born soon found themselves with more — more ships made, more wars victorious, more trade flowing, more deals made, more riches pouring into their coffers, more fame and fortune, more stories and glories — than even Horus could have dreamed of, all those years ago in that far away tent on some forgotten battlefield. It was a golden age after the ten thousand years of the Long Night. It was in this golden age that Abaddon, nephew of Horus, was born.

Horus had no children (that he knew about) and so took the young Void Born as his heir and protégé, and tried to instill in the child the skills that had led him down the road to kingship and riches. But to Horus’ mixed shame and pride, Abaddon turned into more of an admiral than a salesman. That was not to say that he didn’t learn much from Horus — quite the opposite — as Abaddon was no poor diplomat and could play the part of the blunt-but-lovable old soldier to his advantage, and manipulate an Administratum requisitions committees as well as any royal court. It was just as well, as there weren’t enough Void Born to fill the Navy by that time — and hadn’t been for decades, if truth be known. The Imperium was growing faster and faster still, producing ships faster than his people could fill them, making it a necessity for baseline humans to fill the berths of the Imperium's voidships. Horus was Void Born to the marrow and had grown up in another time. A time that was all but gone now. Abaddon would be the sort to inherit Empty Space.

As the forces of the Void Wolves — as his forces had collectively become known by that point — were at the edge of Imperial Space, it was they that were first alerted to the arrival of The Beast.

The Beast’s forces, raised across a thousand star systems and launched simultaneously with disturbingly un-orky precision, swatted aside hundreds of ships in a matter of hours across a front twenty thousand lightyears long. After that, his people would need no incitement to vengeance — no rhetoric of Warlords or Stewards or hypothetical Emperors. Blood had been spilled in Empty Space, and for the Void Born — as has been since the days of the first space pirates — only one thing could wash away a debt of blood: more blood.

It says something of the presumptiveness of Chaos that they tried to deal with the Pale Primarch, at that point still believing that they had remained hidden. They believed Horus and his people to be degenerate mutants; too slow witted to realize that the Orks were not the orchestrators of this war.

They promised him dominion of the stars, the birth of his Stellar Union. They knew that he knew that the Steward would never allow it to be in his lifetime, but with their help all could be as it ought to be. He would be exalted from now to the day the last star went out. All he had to do was simply wait the war out.

Horus would have none of it;

"Your offer sounds interesting. But you forget one thing: I am a captain of the migrant fleet and a businessman. In this place, I am the one who makes the deals. Now get off my ship."

It would be disingenuous to say that Horus had not considered sitting out the War of the Beast; he was a merchant prince at heart, and knew first-hand the advantages of considering alternatives and making cost-benefit analyses. However, he realized that not coming to the aid of the Imperium, regardless of his own political opinions, would kill any hope of a long-term "Star Union" — a fact only reinforced by the attempted temptation of the Chaos Gods. Even if humanity survived the War of the Beast, brother would blame brother for a perceived lack of help and poison any attempt at a long term "Star Union". And, perhaps most importantly, Horus had sworn an oath to the Steward centuries past. To Horus Lupercal, a man without his word was no man at all.

The people of the Void Born were not as numerous as the baseline humans and for a time it looked as though, by throwing their lot in with the Imperium, Horus had doomed them to extinction. But Horus and the wise admirals under his command could be all too sure of one thing: Chaos would have come for them in time, Imperium or no. The War needed to be over quickly. It needed to be over before his people left the stars forever.

The King of Empty Space went to the Steward and proposed a plan. A desperate and needed plan. By misdirection and feigned weakness, the forces of the Imperium would funnel the hordes of the Beast to Old Earth. Orkish psychology would demand that The Beast himself be at the head of the incursion and there — deep in the heart of Imperial territory — they would close the trap and decapitate the WAAAGH!!! of The Beast. Without their leader the orks would fall apart and fight each other, and without their meat shields the Chaos Eldar would flee.

Horus was not on the surface of Old Earth to witness the death of the Angel-Primarch. He knew that none of the other Primarchs knew of his plan to force the end of the war. He knew that they would blame him; he could tell them that the war needed to be ended, a war of attrition against Orks was a slow walk into the grave and as relentless as a gravity well. He could have told them that this had been the only hope of victory. HE knew it all to be true. Maybe they would agree, maybe they would not. Maybe it didn’t matter in the face of victory. But it was a bitter victory, given the cost and the ruin the Imperium had suffered. The Golden Age was over, and now it seemed that Long Night had never really left.

In the subsequent years — and accompanying reconstruction and rejuvenation — of the Imperium, the Merchant Navy was instrumental in the rebuilding efforts, to the point of being equal to the forces of the Imperial Army in importance. Broken and scared worlds looked to the heavens and the Pale Men of the stars with pleading and love. Horus was old, now, and a little broken inside. But maybe helping the battered and bruised people of the Imperium, seeing their gratitude and their heartfelt smiles, healed something in Horus' heart, in some small way.

Many expected that Horus would launch a coup against the Steward around this time; the Imperium was on its knees, its allies were weary, and many of the generals and the old Mechanicum brotherhoods would have followed him without question. For all his faults — for all his trials and failures — Horus was still hellishly charismatic and could sell anyone anything, whether it be a used cargo hauler or a new dream.

The Imperium waited, and it seemed like all powers that be in the Imperium — the Primarchs and generals, the lords and their assassins, the movers and shakers and the influence-peddlers — all stood poised to spring in one direction or another at his word. That word never came. Maybe he had given up on his dream of a galactic union, or perhaps he saw it as something that could only be born from the Imperium. We will never know. But for three hundred years the Imperium waited for a rebellion that would never come. A man without his word is no man at all.

Void Born are fragile creatures by nature and their bodies can’t deal with alchemy in the blood well, making it is easy for them to overdose on drugs and medicines. The rejuvenant drugs that kept him in some manner of youth had to be of a lower dosage, and now even that was starting to fail altogether. His body was too frail for the longevity treatments designed for baseline humans. Primarch Horus Lupercal, King of Empty Space, would die soon.

An entirely plausible story — held as true by the Sons of Horus and official Imperial history — put forward this unusual reaction to rejuveants as an explanation of the Lord-Admiral's recorded vigor and mental acuity, even unto the last years of his life, as well as his ceremonious abdication to Prince Abaddon several years before his death. That the Lord-Admiral spent those years assembling an entourage of notable captains, as he flitted between the systems of the Imperium, has been relegated to obscure tomes of history. Around this time, Horus threw his considerable clout into numerous ambitious projects, and was often present in the orbits of Old Earth, Mars, and Jupiter, as well as the systems of Chthonia and Prospero. Of all his works in these last decades, he is recorded to have shown greatest interest in the creation of an Imperial capital upon the Chthonian ring, the work of the Martian explorator fleets, and the collaborations of Fulgrim and Ferrus Mannus. These projects are acknowledged to have laid the groundwork for much of the Imperial Navy's own capacity for independent logistics and development. The order that would become the Sons of Horus had its roots in this period, intended by Horus to see his vision of a humanity truly suited to interstellar civilization well into the future. Horus died nineteen years after his abdication and was entombed on his personal warship. Age took him quickly in the end, but he went into the Long Sleep knowing that he had served his people and the Imperium well, and that a good man would take up his burdens.

His tomb has never been opened, but upon that basalt slab still stands the Corona Nox. Waiting for a worthy brow to sit upon.

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== Leman Russ ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Great Wolf''''' - or ''The Lapdog:''

The story of Leman Russ starts in the land of Skand, among the Nordyc peoples. He was born to a woman called Ragna, who was considered to be wise, if not especially beautiful, by the clans and so her affections were oft courted. Russ’ father was Thengir, tribal king of the Kalararit people. That his mother and father were not married was seen as not particularly odd by the peoples of Skand. Especially when his father was Thengir.

Russ’ education was about as formal as it was ever going to get among a tribe of fishermen, semi-raiders and occasional traders. Although most Kalararit men did not become warriors as a full time profession, all were expected to be able to fight in times of need. It was in this pursuit that Russ found his calling, for the ways of war came easy to him. He grew tall and broad at the shoulders, with powerful musculature and boundless stamina. He became well-versed in the care and maintenance of his tribe's weapons, from autoguns to the humble war axe. He was peerless in the execution of ambush warfare on land and boarding actions upon the cold seas. Sadly, the ways of the scholar did not come as readily to his mind. Although by no means unintelligent, Russ did not — especially in his youth — have the temperament for understanding the needs of large-scale or long-term expeditions.

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In time, Russ grew to be the strong right hand of King Thengir — who had lost his own literal right hand some years previously, in a bitter and bloody dispute with the former King Clovis Fouché of Franj. This hatred of the Franj would never leave him, for Russ could be very stubborn.

The men and women of the Kalararit respected Russ — who could be quite charming, in a blunt sort of way. Russ did take his first wife by own choice, rather than at his father’s insistence. Linnea was probably the one part of softness in Russ’ life, and possibly the only thing in later years that held his bloodlust in check. Many of the Kalararit suspected that she possessed more wisdom than he. She certainly possessed great patience.

It was when Russ was still a young man that a foreigner in dusty grey robes came to his father’s thatched hall with offerings — of strong wine, silks, and laser rifles — in chests with lightning bolt heraldry upon them. His companions were strange, for their armour was of a sort not seen in the lands of Skand or its neighbours; they were silver and matte grey, segmented with face covering helmets. The foreigner walked with the aid of a stick with a metal eagle perched atop it, and was accompanied by a giant dressed in the manner of a common man. This was the first time that Russ saw the man who would soon be know to Old Earth as The Warlord.

Some time into the deliberations between the robed man and the king, another giant — this one dressed in the manner of a wandering shaman — strode into the hall, and was called over by the first giant to sit beside him. At the time Russ thought little of it, and just assumed it not unreasonable that a giant would have giant kin. This was the first he saw of Magnus the Red — and many times down the centuries he wished it had been the last.

Over the next few months, other tribal chieftains and kings found themselves drawn to the hall of Thengir the Cripple. Much was discussed, marriages were arranged, oaths sworn, and gifts exchanged. It was disconcerting for Russ; to the young warrior's mind, the world was changed by strong men doing great deeds — with blood and iron and sweat. But here he watched as old men and scribes carved up the world, and told the future how it was going to be.

This — he thought as he looked at the maps and the increasingly long lists being drawn — this was true power. One great warrior could do great deeds, but this was something rather more lasting.

There were some — tribes, clans, and petty little kingdoms — that would not entertain the notions of peace. They saw the plans of Malcador and The Warlord for what they were; the soft subjugation, capitulation, compromise, and surrender of the signatories. They had pride, they had their principles — for it was the strong who dominated the weak — and they would not roll over and submit. They left the great hall of the Kalararit, and never again would they be welcomed there.

Of the tribes that were incapable of seeing reason long enough to join this new alliance, all were left behind to die in their old world of savagery — by one means or another. Most simply withered and died, as the Nordyc peoples formed a true nation and they could no longer attract new blood — for all their young had left to find new work and new lives, in the rebuilt cities of Gamsta and Akershus and the reclaimed and prosperous farmlands that surrounded them.

Few were foolish enough to outright attack the fledgling Imperium. Few but still some. These tribal savages were brought to ruin by the Nordyc men who insisted — nay demanded — that it be they who dealt with this problem, for all that they were they had once been friends and brothers all. As with the Old Ways, the warriors and kings of the barbarian tribes were slain; their women and children assimilated into the more prosperous tribes to be cared for, and their lands given to young Skandish men and women looking to found tribes of their own. It would be the last time this old law of conquest would ever be practiced by the people of Skand. Russ was present at the closing of that era, smoking and pungent with the fresh blood of the slain though it was. It was not a thing in which he found any joy, but he knew it had to be done.

It was from some unremembered tribe — slain by his hand, no less — that he obtained his second wife. Febronia had been a court slave kept by a petty chief too lazy to learn basic literacy, and thus she was fluent in an improbably large number of languages — both written and spoken — and passable in many others. Not of the Nordyc peoples herself, but a former slave bought from exotic climes, Febronia's marriage was nevertheless at the insistence of Russ' aging father — Russ, after all, was a wealthy warrior of the nobility and it was his duty to care for the slain.

Linnea was, to her credit, understanding of the situation. It was the way of things for her people in that era, even though that era was drawing to a close. In time she and Febronia became good friends. It was often joked by Russ' companions that he preferred the battlefield to the hearth of home, as he felt less outnumbered. Between them, Russ and his wives had many children — but by some fluke of genetics and chance they had only birthed daughters.

It was at about this time that the Thunder Warrior program was being phased out. The two alternate branches of Super Soldier production that the Imperium was perusing were the Canis Helix project and the Astartes project.

The first test subjects of both yielded positive results, but ultimately Russ volunteered for the former as it would complement and enhance his own strengths. By pure chance, he was spared the crippling mutations and biological failures that plagued those that took this choice in the years that followed. Indeed, he was one of only a handful of successes, and the only other to have survived both the Canis Helix tests and the passage of time was Bjorn "Fellhanded" of Kraken Bay.

Although the "Dog Soldiers" — as the Canis Helix super soldiers came to be derogatorily known as — fought magnificently and ferociously, the failure rate and the nature of the failures was too much for the Warlord to accept. The whole project was scrapped, its resources given over to the more reliable Super Soldier branches.

As time and war ground onward, the Nordyc regiments earned both fame and infamy, for they were brutally effective but, The Warlord felt, with too much emphasis placed upon brutal. Much like the bloody antics of Curze and the calculated atrocities of Mortarion, this was permitted under sufferance. Victory was always afforded some leeway, and the wars were only ever a means to an end — and Russ's carnage was expediting that end.

The Skandish raised regiments — the newly minted Wolves of the North — in the final days of the wars with the Ursh-Pacific union, and were found to be more suited to harrying moving forces and preventing the enemy from receiving reinforcements, allowing a smoother and less costly victory for the other Legions. To their immense regret, however, the Wolves were never present in the major battles.

As Old Earth united and The Steward looked to the stars, Russ was elevated to the exalted rank of Primarch.

To the disgust of Russ, so were Lion of House El'Jonson and Magnus the Red.

The Lion, as a knight of Franj and a member of House El'Jonson, was both an ancestral and recent enemy; Lion's brother Luther was responsible for the late king Thengir's maiming. Magnus the Red was a warp dabbling mutant who confessed to having consorted with daemons. Both had personalities that were utterly incompatible with Russ' own — and the feeling was mutual. It was rare that Legion elements under their jurisdictions would work together.

Russ was the first to recruit warriors from beyond Sol into his superhuman ranks. The people of Fenris were excellent recruitment stock — even if they were from a barbaric and primitive planet and needed extensive education to learn the discipline necessary for war. Russ himself was from a discontinued line of super soldiers; though possessing savage fighting temperaments and heightened senses, the modifications of the "Dog Soldiers" were dangerously unstable, and the Canis Helix Project proved to be too untenable even for the best minds in the Imperium. If news of the monsters born from the project had become common knowledge on Earth, the Warlord's support would have crumbled. But on a distant world as remote and seldom visited as Fenris, the project could not only be buried but begun anew at Russ' behest. After all, any monsters arising from the Project were the problem of a few distant primitives, certainly not the concern of the glorious Terra. For his part, the Emperor at first claimed no knowledge of the new Canis Helix soldiers, and even when he did learn of it he trusted Russ' claims of the failure rate as being "well within acceptable parameters", thus leaving Fenris and its canine guardians well alone.

The Space Wolves, as the legion became known, quickly made up for their questionable origins by serving with great distinction during the Great Crusade, excelling at tracking a target and assassinating them — often in close-quarters combat. Regrettably, in the wretched days of the War of the Beast, a number of the wolves were tempted down the bath of bloodshed for bloodshed's sake, and forsook the Empty Throne of Terra for the one of brass and bone, where the Lord of Skulls held court instead. Of these oathbreakers, no name was cursed more by Russ than that of Skyrar of Caledonia — whom Russ once would have called brother.

Some measure of honour would be restored, however, to the ranks broken by turncoats and anointed in blood. Russ's Wolves made great speed back towards Terra, and seeing the home he had left a lifetime ago aflame in war broke the Great Wolf's heart. The wolves threw themselves into the inferno and fought like mad beasts, with neither thought of the past nor hope for the future; this was no thirst for vengeance but instead a plea for redemption. Russ himself was there at the Last Roll of Thunder when Arik Taranis, Bearer of Lightning, fell in battle in the great plaza before the Eternity Gate, and took up the tattered old Unification banner in his place.

When the last of the fires grew cold, none would ever again question the loyalty of the Space Wolves. For all that the shattered remnant of a legion was covered in blood and soot, each man felt truly clean.

The remains of the Space Wolves retreated to Fenris, licking their wounds, and quietly rebuilt their legion as the Imperium itself rebuilt. For no matter how enlightened or holy it may become, Russ knew that the Throne would always need its tame monsters. But the Great Wolf himself was not fated to fall in glorious battle, and certainly not to fall to the temptations of the Ruinous Powers. Instead, the legends say, some two centuries later Russ — now an old warrior and the King of his world — simply walked alone out into the snow. His brothers, friends, and servants all followed his tracks into the cold woods of the frozen north, but he was never seen again. Some say the Old King is resting, and will return to face the Old Night in the days when hope withers and the stars grow dim.

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== Ferrus Manus ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The One of Ice and Iron:'''''

The unimaginatively named Ferrus Manus was born in the manner typical of the Mechanicus enclaves of Antarctica — grown in a jar from anonymous genetic samples. Deemed free of malformation and unwanted deviations in his early development, which were rare and valuable assets in an age where clumsy genetic enhancement created mutants more horrific than radiation or plague ever could, he was permitted to be born rather than recycled. Being born and raised where he was at the time he was, Ferrus had no name at birth — although the markings on his tube did superficially resemble the name Gorgon in an ancient tongue recognised by one of the oldest Magi. This was adopted as his unofficial name in his youth; doubly so after it became apparent that he would grow up to be aesthetically displeasing.

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Ferrus was given a basic and general techno-ecumenical education until the age of twelve, after which he began training for full inclusion into the Mechanicus. By fourteen he had managed to achieve the rank of Technician-acolyte — escaping the the fate of Servitorhood that awaited underachievers — but a purely priestly life was deemed an inefficient use of his talents, and he was transferred to the Skitarii for training. By his eighteenth year he was a fully and mechanically augmented soldier of the Mechanicus priesthood, and was tasked with the defence of the Nuemyana Port, one of the few places where primitive outsiders were permitted to have dealings with the Terran Mechanicus.

As he rose through the ranks of the Mechanicus military, receiving all the augmentations appropriate to his station, Ferrus began to see the world in absolute terms — the black and white notions of Weak and Strong; that it was the duty of the Weak to serve the Strong, whose duty in turn were to rule and protect. It was as if his heart was slowly being replaced with machinery as much as his body was, beginning to see all humanity not a part of the Mechanicus as Weak. Perhaps this was merely conformity, however, as many of the Elder Magi shared similar views. And... '''enforced''' them. Regardless of their attitude to more baseline humans, the Enclaves soon came under threat from Hy Braseal. Though the nation could hardly be called a superpower Hy Braseal was close enough, and proved sophisticated and organised enough to push the Mechanicus Enclaves off the tip of South America, leaving their former holdings destroyed, irradiated, or captured.

Due to their perceived incompetence in the piecemeal defence of their lands many of the Elder Magi were deposed by those below. The ambitious and the popular soon rushed in to fill the power vacuum at the top of the hierarchy, whilst the new Elders had the few remnants of the old order servitorised. At the end of the reshuffling Gorgon found himself as General-Sentinel and Protector of the Northern border, a prestigious yet demanding job that commanded the first line of defense against the Braseali peoples — and would be the first to be servitorised, were the enemy to force their way onto the Antarctic mainland.

In spite of the Mechanicum's preference for function over form, Gorgon ordered for his new cybernetic upgrade to be encased in the toughest alloy known to the Mechanicum. True, it would serve no purpose; although the material was indeed potent armour, his position as General-Sentinel precluded any situation where that would be useful. Instead, it was a surprisingly perceptive move to bolster his stature in the eyes of others; the intimidating size and power of the modifications terrorized those who sought to mutiny as much as it did Braseali spies. Thus, the Gorgon was no more — in his place there was only Ferrus Manus.

Even as he rallied his Skitarii and began to forge them into something stronger, the generals of Hy Braseal had already raised a horde of relatively well-disciplined and well-armed soldiers, and were beginning to lead them into the cold Antarctic enclaves. Salvation came in the form of the Warlord, who sought the advanced technology hoarded by the Mechanicum. The Elder Magi saw their projections of survival in a total war scenario with Braseal jump over tenfold merely by being on friendly terms with the Warlord, and all the way to an astounding 93% were they to accept his offer. Which they did without second thought. Dalmoth Kyn — the leader of most of South America — and his descendents would never forget how the Warlord had sided with the Mechanicus, forever opening a rift between their people and those of the Imperium. In time, they too would eventually join — but not before a long and bloody war consumed much of the Braseali people.

As the Mechanicus Enclaves were assimilated one by one into the Imperium, Ferrus Manus once more found himself rising up the ranks of the military. His existing rank the Mechanicus — which were a few isolated enclaves that had fought valiantly against an entire continent — was prestigious and his tactical acumen formidable. So too were his legions of cybernetic soldiers, who could comfortably overrun any techno-barbarian on the planet and even go toe-to-toe with the Warlord's own biologically augmented warriors. The one who, as the Gorgon, had looked down on all flesh as weak was now beginning to find a grudging respect for it.

Years passed and wars were moved from the surface of Terra to the stars. Ferrus' soldiers — now known as the Iron Hands — became renowned for being able to resist the harshest of environments with ease, proving as comfortable in the cold vacuum of space as they were in the sand-blasted remains of Ursh. Thus, although often (and rightly) feared by many, the Mechanicus forces were respected by all and proved to be a key factor in cementing the Terra-Mars partnership, which would be a story repeated at each world they encountered more of their cybernetic brothers on their crusade into the depths of space. Perhaps it was this — securing the mighty forges of mankind — rather than the Iron Hands' martial prowess, that earned the old Gorgon his recognition as a Primarch.

During the War of the Beast, however, the Iron Hands lost much of their prestige and reputation by primarily seeking to defend their Forge Worlds instead of the Imperium as a whole. Perhaps this was simply because their Primarch had seen how hard mankind would fall if they once again lost the machinery that held its precious Imperium together. Or perhaps (as many others claimed), their loyalties lay more with the Fabricator-General of Mars than they did the Steward or Terra. For their part, the Hands never denied the accusations levelled at them, only defending them.

Of all the Primarchs, Ferrus Manus was one of only three who lived to see the Steward become Emperor; and he was the last of them to die, meeting his end on the fields of Armageddon before the gates of Hades Hive in the year 616.M39. In truth, his health — both biological and mechanical — had been deteriorating for centuries, and although he knew that there was little operational time left for his body he did his best to ensure that neither his Legion nor his Emperor knew of the fact. He took a bloody and glorious toll with him — one worthy of respect from any and all — but his passing marked the end of an era. Although he and the Emperor had never been friends, his passing was felt by the flesh-bound of the Imperium just as much as it was by his Mechanicus brethren.

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== Fulgrim ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Futurist:'''''

The Primarch Fulgrim, foremost of the Legion of Terra's Children, was conceived in a Merikan population expansion program. His parents were both loyal Merikan officers, and upon their deaths their genetic material had been saved — and eventually combined — for one of countless batch-grown children. In truth, this program and others like it were conceived and implemented as the early Wars of Unification rocked the Eurasian continent, if only to bolster the numbers of the Merikan guard should another high-technological joust of nations commence. Fulgrim was decanted twenty years before the fall of Ursh, in the facilities of the Moton industrial concern. By either random chance or the inevitability of mass production, Fulgrim could be said to have been born with a charming and distinct beauty, characteristics which he maintained through all his life — though accompanied by a vast and neurotic ego. In those days his name was Furis Doe, and shared a surname with all the other children created as he was. In his youth, he found success among the ranks or mechanists and the overseers of Moton, and became the commander of his own sub-workshop at a young age. Between his competence and the opportunity to demonstrate the success of their program, Furis' superiors were eager to fast track him.

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Furis matured steeped in the legends told by old mechanists — some even from the Arctic Enclaves — of the star spanning Mechanicus and the gleaming stelar empire they maintained — but also surrounded by the propaganda of the Merikan war machine, its edicts of the holy human form, and its pretensions to brutal meritocracy. In the years surrounding the Imperium's first truly overt offensives and then its brutal dismantling of the Despot of Ursh and all under his banner, Merika hardened for war against the Unification.

Between the saturation of muddled anti-Ursh and anti-Imperial propaganda and his own dreams of the stars, Furis began to recede into his mind just as the mounting war effort put the apparent prodigy in command of his own experimental workshop and staff. Placed under his command were Merikan mechanists and the tech-priests cast out of the polar enclave after it sided with the Imperium. Fulgrim — a nickname earned by his increasingly dry, cynical demeanor — mostly served as a director for the workshop, but was himself a decent scientist and tinkerer.

Furis began experiments with superhuman modification in response to the fabled Imperial Thunder Warriors, among other things. While these projects had successes, even creating subsystems superior to Imperial equivalents in some respects, they were few and expensive where other avenues showed far greater promise. Fulgrim did, however, upgrade himself in numerous faculties, spending not insignificant resources on improving his physical and mental capacities. He was said to be deeply interested in the lore he could draw from the defector tech-priests, though he never went so far as to make any of his personal modifications as overt. Fulgrim would eventually express an opinion that it was partially the Mechanicus' preference for skitarii and servitors that made progress on superhuman physiological enhancement so difficult. He traveled around Merika and Kalbi during this period, particularly exploring the borderlands and the deep mazes of vaults drilled through the western mountains where techno-barbarians still flourished. Fulgrim and his workshop were notably productive though this time, either creating or dredging up dozens of horrific technological marvels, but Furis Doe was only loosely tethered to his superiors' control and was rarely in contact with Merikan command. In some histories it is guessed that the Warlord contacted him around this time, but in reality the fabled approach would happen later.

Furis and his mechanists, notably cherry-picked from Doe production runs, returned from the wastes with a vast technological bounty and only a handful fewer men and tech priests than they set off with. Several important events occurred around this time; Ursh had all but fallen and the Pan-Pacific empire was on the defensive, Kalbi was in revolt under Military Governor Dorn, and Merikan high command contemplated alliance with Hy Braseal — though the prospect was unlikely. Fulgrim famously wowed the capital as he fired some of his more militarily applicable discoveries over the marching grounds, and excited the officers in the audience with promises of strategic archeotech and superhuman advancements to rival the powers in Europe. In truth, the director was unmoored from the war effort as much as the rest of terrestrial reality; between the unnerving horrors of the wastes, the gross violations of decency and humanity he witnessed undertaken by the great Merikan industrial core, and the Dark Age technologies he had tried to meddle with, Fulgrim had driven cracks through his pretty world. Fulgrim had long nursed a love for hedonism, and as he enjoyed his fame in the capital his old neuroses as Moton's prodigy layered into his drug-clouded state. In something of a haze, Fulgrim began to lay down his own base of influence. Seeking military office, he naturally needed to advance himself militarily. Thus, attaching his tinkerers and forces to the command of one honorable Major Lucius Doe, Fulgrium was bound for the Expeditionary Forces to engage the Imperium. The air assets under his command, long maintained by the Merikan high command as defense against Urshii invasion, were to be fitted for offensive war and launched from forward air bases built up on New Atlantis. Major and Dr. Doe were respectively ordered to force the Brasealian and Afrique garrisons from the island and to ensure the readiness of the Merikan air forces and drop troops that would be stationed there.

Lucius had cut his teeth in the Panama trenches, fighting Hy Braseal in the long border wars that burned along the isthmus. He was little more than a month Furis's senior, and likewise was held up as another triumph of the Doe program. His tactical virtuosity was said to match Fulgrim's technical art, and the prodigies had been introduced to each other during the revels of some mutual superior. Major Doe is said to have rescued the mechanist from the agents of high ranking officers, who were intent on compelling Furis to grant them immortality, and would years later go on to make that same request — a request which Fulgrim strove to achieve. The two Does, Major Lucius and Special Lieutenant Fulgrim, took up their commands on New Atlantis; the former beginning his campaigns against the Braseali forces in the heavily fortified south of the landmass and the scattered Afrique enclaves occupying its eastern half, and the latter rebuilding and updating the ancient Merikan air fortress and factories on the island. Backed by Fulgrim's advanced weapons as well as the ever increasing air power Fulgrim was building in the northwest of the continent — and occasionally supplemented by Fulgrim's enhanced soldiers — Lucius made short, mean work of the Afrique settlements and drove Hy Braseal back to a single, heavily entrenched garrison on the continent's southernmost point. The Major was known for leading from the front, sword in hand. Fulgrim — once his workshop was well-established, and when the conversion of the Ursh defense interceptor wings to dive bombers and escorts was under way — was characteristically preoccupied with personal projects; he and his corps of mechanists were busy preparing cybernetic enhancements and combat-ready super soldiers, in a rush to complete their longstanding mission of providing Merika with shock troops equivalent to the Thunder Warrior — themselves already replaced by Astartes.

Fulgrim was so bold as to fly sorties of cyborg drop troops into Imperial territory, testing his Merikanized Skittari against the Imperium and its Astartes under the cover of the brushfire wars that had sprung up around the holdouts of Ursh's conquests. In these raids — nominally advance scouting missions — he found that a single Astartes was worth about two of his own prized combat cyborgs. Despite many close calls, he succeeded in taking numerous Astartes and Thunder Warriors intact — though rarely alive — and began the process of reverse engineering their implants, if not outright stealing them. Very few outside of Fulgrim's mechanists — an increasingly honed band of enhanced Doe children and long exiled Arctic tech-priests — were privy to these hoarded acquisitions, but Lucius was one of the few who Furis included in his conspiracy. Both Lucius and Fulgrim were reforged with Astartes enhancements and the mechanists' own inventions, as best they could manage, alongside many of their cabal. The result was lesser in stature and might than true Astartes, but the Doe children were a match for second generation Astartes, refined towards Furis' aims for the unit. It was at this point that Fulgrim and his group caught the attention and interest of the Warlord's forces, and the Hydra in particular. With the artificial continent secured and the Merikan air forces ready to launch their newly fitted bombers and gunships, Merikan High Command moved into the fortress and Fulgrim's band returned to the continent. The lab that remained to produce Merikan cyber-legionnaires bore no trace of the Astartes experiments, but leaked rumors of new wonders saw Fulgrim returned to the capitol and his projects well-funded as war with the Imperium mounted, while Lucius was sent to reinforce the army sent to end the rebellion of Governor Dorn. Merikan bombers lit up the Imperium from Franj to Afrique and cyborg drop troops fell from the skies to the aid of recalcitrant lords and Urshii holdouts, destroying and sabotaging everything they could.

Fulgrim himself was attempting to engineer a coup; having seen the Imperium in his advance raids and equated it with the empire of old he had dreamed of, Fulgrim wished to cut down the old leadership of his nation while it seemed within his power, and steer Merika into his bright vision. He had surpassed even Lucius as a swordsman during his adventures in the New Atlantis campaign, and now Fulgrim planned to use his charm, fame, and the lure of technological enhancement to access necessary targets and ingratiate himself in the matters of succession before the planned decapitation. Though his early plan went well, Fulgrim overestimated his own and his agents' ability to manipulate a government in the mounting chaos of war with the Imperium, and it was not long before the self-styled superhuman was at the mercy of the Merikan secret police. He was saved by two plainly dressed men that introduced themselves as Ames and Ozzy, both of whom bore the sigil of a hydra. Under the aegis of these two Hydra contacts, the Doe cadre continued Fulgrim's strategy of building support in the mass produced populations of the manufactories further back from the coast, but Fulgrim himself was made to concede direct control over the operations in the capital. Fulgrim's laboratories in the capital became the futurist's edifice to a Phoenician Merika, to the wonderment of the officer class, and Lucius built up the manufactories of Moton into an advanced fortress city on the near edge of the Kalbi territories. Fulgrim had little contact with either project; these power bases were tended by the Doe Cadre's inner circle under the direction of the Hydra and Major Lucius respectively, and while Furis visited his old home when it was under the Major's command his work took him yet further from the center of the Doe conspiracy.

Under the cover of another exploratory mission to the bunkers and cracks of the western mountain line, Fulgrim and his mechanists traveled the length of the rocky spine and the loosely governed western territories beyond. It was true they again delved the chains of fortresses, redoubts, and sunken chambers under those lands for new relics of the golden age, but only the least of these fruits ever reached Merikan High Command. The rest became assets of the conspiracy, and some even found their way across the wastes of Beringia to the Imperium. More than this, Fulgrim secured the support of the enclaves whose knowledge had driven his successes years prior, and in the druidic labs of the Geno-Hippes (an ancient title) Fulgrim and his proto-Alpha Legion contacts established forward positions from which to build Astartes forces. The work done in these installations unified Fulgrim and the Geno-Hippes' cybernetically and biologically upgraded "Doe" Mk II Astartes with the Duscht-Jemanic genesmiths' Mk III pattern.

Through Fulgrim's promises and intrigues, much of the western territory would come to favor his succession, and for his technological efforts on their behalf they held him in better regard than High Command. The collaboration with the Geno-Hippes allowed state-of-the-art super soldier forces to be built in the mountain enclaves, stretching even into the heart of Governor Dorn's beleaguered territory. Less than a year since it nearly died with its indiscreet leader, Fulgrim's conspiracy was at its zenith.

The destruction and capture of the Merikan air bases on New Atlantis saw the top admirals and generals return to the capital, in turn seeing preparations for a counterattack to keep the theater of war on the artificial continent and the fortification of the Atlantic coast. Lucius had made dramatic use of the Doe combat cyborgs Fulgrim had premiered in Europe, aiding the hapless commander tasked with the re-conquest of Dorn's dominion — entrenched as they were in west and northern Kalbi. Showy hunts by air cavalry and drop troops had done more to lionize the cyber-soldiers, as they strode about in gleaming gold and purple, than they could ever have hoped to have done to weaken Dorn’s defense. The guns of the Imperium were turned squarely to Merika in the weeks that followed; the massive naval forces of Skand, the air forces of Europia, and the full war host of the Quadruple Alliance all gathered at New Atlantis. The ancient Merikan voidships that hung in orbit over the continent were moved in a careful dance across the Americas, for the dual purpose of denying space superiority to the heirloom fleet the Imperium brought to bear and remaining ever vigilant above the Panama fortresses for movement from Hy Braseal. Fulgrim returned to the capital as plans were being drawn up to leap back to New Atlantis and charge from Europia to Uralia — with Doe cyborgs leading the way. Other plans were being conceived to quickly stamp out Governor Dorn's decades long rebellion and annihilate it to the last — using the forces of the field marshal already engaged in the north backed by masses of advanced weapons deployed from Moton. Neither plan would ever see action.

As Fulgrim made to announce promises of support from western military governors with all due fanfare, he was accompanied by a brigade of what seemed to all a new generation of cyborg soldiers — as fair as their inventor and clad in bright ceremonial armor. Mere days after he had arrived at the capital, Merika and the Imperium began fighting in and above the Atlantic, west of the artificial continent; air forces clashed above the naval blockades and the coasts, and orbital assets made firing lines hundreds of kilometers long. Orders were issued to Moton to begin operation in Kalbi, and soon Doe-designed and Doe-piloted gunships and drop troops were buzzing northwest towards the Merikan position. Impenetrable havoc erupted in the Merikan capital and the first company of one hundred Terra's Sons — led by Fulgrim the Futurist — fortified the Doe laboratories and began conducting brutal raids on enemy factions within the Merikan command structure and officer class, who were also entrenched in the capital. The citadel of the high command had been raided by teleporter insertion of un-blazoned power-armored commandos in the first hours of the fighting, and subsequent clashes over the building saw it bombed to rubble by Merikan air assets. Fulgrim officially seized dictatorial emergency powers, and with a company drawn from his long-honed circle of mechanists he corrected his rivals in the capital, making a great show of the advanced forces those same officers and ministry heads had counted on in their grand strategies. The Futurist took Merika's reins, and with the nation’s purple and white still flying high, cowed the fractious military houses in the wake of what he called an opportunistic Hy Brasealian attack, enabled by the faithlessness of his enemies and the Imperium's assault.

Prior to the decapitation of the Merikan military, the Kalbi expeditionary force had embarked on a hard offensive against Dorn, counting on support from Moton's special forces as they drove for the pacific. Lucius lead the combined forces of the second company of Terra's Sons and cybernetic Moton drop brigades, smashing the confounded expeditionary force against Dorn's built up battle lines. The Merikan ship above Kalbi was quick to react with the the bombardment of the Moton citadel, and what few volleys it managed were devastating before it was crippled by boarding forces of Merikanized skitarii and mechanists. In the capital, there was stalemate between Fulgrim and the remains of the Merikan High Command, with most of the lower officers sided with the futurist or "removed" from the equation. But the campaigns in the north were fast concluded, and Lucius advanced southeast — some of Dorn's own forces following close behind. The Merikan Orbital Brigades and Navy were old institutions staunchly opposed to Fulgrim, and supported Merikan ground forces throughout the gulf coast and around the Panama fortifications. As Merikan reserves were mobilized by the panicking High Command, the Astartes company in the Rockies struck east across the continent — right at the head of the western governors' military forces — and made rapid progress securing the Merikan heartland despite the orbital bombardment from opposing factions. The machine-stubber, rocketeer, and armored fighting carriage battalions that had been the Merikan Junta's unbeatable scourges were hardly sufficient against their own colonial forces reinforced by Astartes and Skitarii. After a week of the stalemate in the capital, the Merikan Navy and Space Brigade retreated and shortened the blockade so they could both bombard the capital and keep Imperial forces from doing the same.

Fulgrim and Terra's Sons first company continued to fight for the capital, all under heavy shelling and the highest rate of lance strikes the capital's guarding geostationary starship could muster. They were supported by most of the remaining officer corps against the remaining High Command holdouts, the latter of whom were reinforced by Merikan marines and loyalist military regiments. Fireteams of Astartes in Imperial livery moved openly in the south and west, and Imperial soldiers landed in Newfoundland and the gulf; to be met by the advanced guard of the forces that started from the Rockies or Moton. Lucius and Dorn's forces combined with the Terra's Sons third company, the latter of whom had led the midlands campaign, marched on the eastern seaboard, pacifying or simply commandeering the remaining ground forces — nearly all of whom remained unclear on the state of affairs for the duration.

The Merikan Space Brigade was forced to retreat from the battle for the capital by subsequent attacks and abandoned the Merikan Navy to regroup with Merika’s remaining voidships over the Panama defenses, which had become the last stronghold of the remnants of the old Merikan High Command. In short order, the Merikan blockade was broken by the Imperials and the Merikan Navy suffered mutiny and folded. The Imperial Navy and Air Forces subsequently accompanied the battered Merikan Navy into the harbor of the capital. The cratered slopes of the captial's anti-fallout pyramid bunker-citadels were lined with Merikan officers and civilians, as Imperial engineers and officials of every land and discipline piled off amidst the columns of proud soldiers in the livery of Franj, Gredbritton, Achemedinia, and Europia. The Imperial delegation was marched to the Doe complex by the Futurist's own soldiers — equal in stature and clad in purple with emblems of raptors — who were themselves well-known to the capital from the past weeks. The Imperials had hardly arrived at what had become the de facto seat of government for a day before those same engineers and Furis' mechanists were seen together, drafting plans for reconstruction.

The battered Merikans that remained in the capital saw many astounding figures among the Imperial delegation — the gold giant that had been the subject of much propaganda, the Skandian warrior at his side, his tattooed sorcerer, his towering iron-fisted automaton, his cadre of princes, the vassal warriors he’d taken from Ursh and the Pan-Pacific League, and so on, and on — as they had disembarked. The transcripts of the meetings within the Doe laboratories were sealed with the mark of a hydra, and vanished after some select members of the officer corps were pointedly denied a chance to read them. In the inevitable announcement from the grandstand on the capital’s debris-strewn parade ground, Esteemed Dictator Furis Doe and ‘Warlord’ Oscar made their speeches; the former waxed poetic about the wonders of history and the wings of the Aquila, and the latter made a curt and businesslike statement sketching out the terms of Merika’s stake in the Imperium — which had already been decided. This was all very much in keeping with Merikan custom; the general impression among the Merikan junta’s officers and populace was that Fulgrim had brokered an alliance and won them an entry on the footing of equals. In truth, Fulgrim had met the Warlord in Sibar for the Astartes III hybridization project, long before the operation began, and the conference was in many ways a formality — though Furis took it as an opportunity to lobby for his future projects.

The remains of the Merikan Space Brigade took aboard much of the Panama garrison and its war materiel, but lingering as they were between the changed Merikan regime and Hy Braseal was not a long-term option. What remained of the Merikan Space Brigade never reconvened after that regrouping at Panama; the bulk of the small fleet dove for deep space and vanished from common histories, while about half their number mobilized to attack the Imperial ships above the eastern seaboard — of which two were disabled and one seized before it could be scuttled. The six voidships that remained over Panama held position for two months, and subsequently defected to Hy Braseal. Of those ships, one is recorded to have been used by Hy Braseal in the War of The Beast, further cementing their victory over their long term rival. They too could be considered the “winners” of the Unification Wars, and remained the last holdout of the old nations on Earth centuries into the Imperium.

Fulgrim made many inquiries into future endeavors to the Warlord — for potential avenues of research and for examination of technologies — which continued all through the last years of Unification, and he always seemed to give them precedence over the interim Merikan government run by him and Lucius. Lucius in particular — but Fulgrim as well — both showed a keen interest in the overtures the Imperium extended Hy Braseal, though they had the deference not to take part. It was worth noting, in Oscar's mind, that the Does had more or less copied the councils under which he'd arrayed the leaders of the lands of Europe and the remains of Ursh, to assemble and represent the various Merikan provinces north of the isthmus and south of Dorn's restored Kalbi, and had done it all without coaching on his part — though with focused and major alterations in some areas. Under the newly drafted agreement between Merika and the Imperium, there were provisions for continued cooperation with the Alpha Legion (nominally to ensure full and thorough reform and removal of entrenched corruption), for the continuation the Doe program — with the added practice of optimizing the babies after random sample combination (which Fulgrim had already started doing), and provisions for eminent domain over all samples of neutronium in the Merikan government's remit. For his part, Lucius was reorganizing the Merikan military and its many arms foundries, designing them to support his companies of Terra's Children, and glad-handing and encouraging as much of the old officer class to go on on grand world tours to enjoy the new Imperium. Fulgrim, meanwhile, was overseeing the expansion of the proud legion of nearly three hundred that had overtaken the Merikan war machine. And yet, Fulgrim's inquiries persisted, pointedly asking what his place would be in the Imperium.

The Futurist got his conclusive answer shortly after Oscar became Steward of the Empty Throne. He was named Primarch of Terra's Children, swore his oath before all assembled, and together they began the next stage of unification: that of Sol. With naught but some hasty organization of the new Council of Merikan Foremen, Fulgrim convened his legion in Moton. Fulgrim stood before his force of three hundred Astartes — each selected personally by him and bearing his modifications — and their backing of seven hundred Merikanized Skitarii. With his blades by his hip, his mechanists arrayed behind him, and Lucius by his side, Fulgrim drew up — in illustrious, impassioned words — his vision of the era before Old Night, one that the this new Imperium of unification would reclaim, with the Children of Terra at the fore to realize its mighty promise. He spoke of ships fleet and unstoppable, pillar cities vaster and more grand than any gilded Urshii ziggurat or Merikan pyramid-bunker, and of the great bridges indestructible; the Neutronium lines that tied worlds to the sea of heaven and thus to each-other. He envisioned his legion as the mighty “New Men” of this Imperium, more virtuous, more beautiful, more effective than any officer class or knightly order of the old provincial nations, the great poet warriors that would realize this Imperium’s truth. His speech was met with cheers of exuberance and tears of joy among his men, and in that moment every member of the Legion of Terra's Children knew they would follow their Primarch to the stars.

Furis’ new position on the council of twenty — the Primarchs, Malcador, and Oscar Steward — ensured he was now privy to the grand strategy of the Solar Unification without needing to trade favors with Ames and Ozzy. Already the pale and eerie, yet charming trade lord of the inner system had seized the initiative and taken up the Unification’s banner as its master of ships, and the famed Knight of Franj — the Lion ascendant — was bound on a mission of pacification to the outer Sol system aboard his flotilla. With some prodding, a contingent of Terra’s Children's best military virtuosos followed close behind, led by Lucius in a gold, purple, and white fleet of a half dozen restored Merikan warships.

In that same period of manic consolidation and activity, Fulgrim fell in with Horus, the esteemed King of Empty Space, and Ferrus Manus, the iron-fisted Antarctican Skitarii mastermind, on their mission of diplomacy to Mars. While the Steward knew Lorgar, the Holy Man that he was, to be the better diplomat than the preening Phoenician, treating with the dogmatic and hegemonic Brotherhood of Olympus Mons was a task ill-suited to the earnest preacher, and thus it was Fulgrim that bore the Standard of the Aquila to the red priests for that first time. It proved a wise choice, and between the guns of Empty Space encircling, the mercenary charms of Horus and guileful Fulgrim, and the proud imperatives of the Antarctic Brotherhood’s iron fist, the ruddy neighbor of Old Earth was drawn into the fold.

Fulgrim hardly returned to Merika after this, instead dwelling at the dockyards of the Lagrange with Horus, supervising the building of the dreadnoughts that would lead the coming interstellar crusade, and on Mars, aiding the designs of the Iron Fists he had long idolized from the stories of his Mechanists. One could hardly tell if his fondness for Horus was surpassed by his love for Horus’ ships, and though his obsession with the mighty Ferrus Manus was clear, it took many efforts and trials to prove the worth of his works, and thus himself, to the machine-man.

Fulgrim was often said by the remembrancers to be the more worldly mirror image of Blessed Sanguinius; created haphazardly — a happy accident that perfected himself — but grew imperious and mighty by his own ambition, if flying by roaring jet instead of graceful wing. And like Sanguinius, Fulgrim too was pale and fair, refined and elegant. Indeed this was very compelling image — the Terra’s Children’s fine armor was unmarred and unbloodied even through Fulgrim’s brutal raids and engagements, and Fulgrim struck where he pleased and retreated when it was advantageous — but the differences between the two came not from the body, but the mind; Fulgrim's blade was drawn in pride where Sanguinius drew his in duty. For all their contrasts, the aesthete and the prince were on good terms — so long as military matters were not broached between them. Likewise, he was compared to Guilliman — great strategos of Europia — as the Phoenician conducted great overarching campaigns in sector after sector, indomitable purple Astartes at the vanguard and unbreakable supply lines guarded by his shining cyborgs, advancing through the galactic west apace with the vaunted Ultramarines in the east. That said, Guilliman never leaned quite so heavily on the techniques of economic sabotage and proxy war that Fulgrim typically brought to bear, following on the heels of the shadowy Alpha Legionnaires he still held close from the days of the Merikan Coup. By all appearances, Fulgrim was as deft a diplomat as Lorgar, Vulcan, Horus, and Roboute — but for the fact that when he paraded his regal Astartes before the people of a world and charmed its leaders at Imperial-hosted galas, he was often hard at work cutting down their dissenting elements and special forces just beneath that pleasant veneer of peace.

Be it from their similar childhoods, shared archaic fantasy of the Great and Bountiful Human Dominion, or merely Fulgrim’s persistence, it was in this time that he finally endeared himself to Ferrus Manus. In Fulgrim, Ferrus saw a fitting disregard for the limitations of biology. In Ferrus, Fulgrim found an exemplar for the advancement of the holy human form and appreciation of its mighty heritage. Thus, and an unusual friendship had bloomed in the life of the Iron Fist.

'''The Contest of Smiths'''

It was in the forges under Olympus Mons, after the Gorgon had established his might over the heads of the resident Archmagos, that they held their famed Contest of Smiths. Among the great cogs and reactors of the forges in the heart of the red mountain, the cold Iron Hand was making demonstration of his mastery of artifice before the many venerable smiths of the ancient foundry. While the Gorgon beat cascades of sparks from adamant at the forge, another unfamiliar host of robed and augmented figures drew around the mighty Skitarii. At its head was Fulgrim, and about him were the Archaeo-technological Diviners and Warsmiths of the Terrawatt Clan that he had been asked to herald to the Martian Brotherhood, and with them came the Genesmiths of the Duscht Jemanic, the Geno-Hippes of the mountain enclaves, mighty Weapon-Wrights and Siege Masters of Macedonia and Achemedinia, and Furis’ own mechanists — the last of whom had already found favor among the Martians that held with the more creative interpretations of the Strictures Cybernetica.

It was in the midst of this gathering of the great masters in the forges of the Brotherhood of Olympus Mons — who had brought Mars to heel in a few scant years, who dared to say they were the keepers of the Noctis Labyrinth, who were protectors of the vast treasury of knowledge and art that were the assets of the Imperial Court, who were possessors of so many esoteric and mighty secrets and specializations that they could not be rightly remembered hence their passing — that Fulgrim and Ferrus proposed to settle the budding rivalry between Old Earth and Holy Mars. In the spirit of their great and blessed adventures to come — their Crusade of Interstellar Unification — Fulgrim proposed a tourney that would last seven days, and in that time all present would strive to see the arsenal of Man filled with wonders to match the weapons of old. It was Ferrus that added the terms that each master of his own forge should work for himself upon his craft, and that any that shrunk from the task — who would let servitors or adepts dither in their work — would show their lack of art. It was then that Ferrus Manus shed his robes and bore down upon the forge, like a tempest with his vast silver arms, and bid the adepts about him bring schematics and materials. Furis Doe likewise seized a forge, his Mechanists setting about the recalibration of tools and selection of designs. And all around Siege Masters and Genesmiths and Armorers rushed to heat Adamant and prepare the manufacture of fine mechanical filigree.

At the contest’s end, the forges and laboratories still and quiet, many gleaming wonders were brought forth to be seen by all. Kelbor Hal, esteemed host to those assembled, humbly presented a bright adamant power-javelin he named the Windlance, that flew unerring by means of grav-lifts in its shaft, and for which he received much acclaim. Vie Braur, Master of the Genesmiths, came forward with a pair of golden armbands that would regrow the arm on which it was worn in a matter of minutes if it was severed. This was followed by a cybernetic eye that saw across the spectrums and could glare a hail of lasfire as effectively as a heavy rifle, presented by Arton Luron of the Order Cybernetica. From the Geno-Hippes, a poison gland from which a modified creature could spit streams of strong corrosive marking agent. Put forth by the Skitarii armorers was a beautiful brassy jezail of ancient design and thunderous power. An ingenious system of actuated tread claws that would let superheavy tanks scale sheer cliffs was produced by the Macedonian envoy. The gift of the Terrawatt engineers was a gleaming reconstruction of an ancient tactical awareness computer, a golden pedestal that held an ethereally projected globe, then set to show much of the infrastructure and troop placement on Mars. Between all of these treasures and wonders — any one of them fit for royalty of the previous forsaken era — still none could rightly see its creator named champion, until together Fulgrim bore up a great black hammer, and Ferrus Manus unsheathed a burning golden blade.

The black hammer — Forgebreaker — glowered with un-light, cut as it was from a shred of neutronium Fulgrim salvaged from one of Earth's many equatorial scars, and he had struck upon a way to shape it only in the heat of the tourney. Though in the past Fulgrim had failed endlessly to work neutronium whatsoever, the modest lump of exotic matter was now a weapon to scatter the mass of mountains. The eye-searing sword thrust aloft by the Gorgon was simply named — Fireblade — and it burned with unreal white flames that enveloped its narrow golden edges at solar temperatures, forged as the unification of many of the ancient subsystem fragments and schematics Ferrus Manus' brothers of the Antarctic Enclaves had brought from Earth, and now possible to construct and piece together in the vast facilities of the Martian Brotherhood. The whole assembly of priests and artificers conceded the glory of these weapons above all others, but between them none could decide the better. Fulgrim was certain it was the Gorgon's that was the mightiest; he loved the sword from his first sight of it, and its swift and biting form taken from the ancient glory of man far surpassed the bleak, crude weapon he had been able to carve from the strange matter. Ferrus Manus was already transfixed by the very notion of working neutronium even on such a small scale — far better than his misassembled archeotech hunting knife, here was a step towards the rediscovery of one of mankind's greatest arts. No decision could be reached, for the mastery of artifice could be given neither to Old Earth nor Holy Mars, and the budding of that rivalry continued. But the tourney beneath the red mountain did fill the arsenal of the Unification of Sol and the long and glorious Great Crusade after, and much joy and mirth resounded in the forges of Mars on that seventh day, one that would be remembered as the unofficial, popular unification of Earth and Mars.

The tournament itself was said to end when the two Primarchs gave each other their own creations as prizes, and the countless Adepts, Apprentices, Magos, Forgemasters, and Artificers present saw fit to rejoice in their work and the coming years of war and production. As the Primarch inventors exchanged notes on their works of the past seven days, the huge convention of Imperial technological orders and leaders did much of the same, establishing much of the early relationship between the Mechanicus Orders and the myriad of other technological orders that The Throne would come to retain over the coming millennia. Fulgrim would never part with the Fireblade after this, taking it with him into the unification of the galaxy and bearing it back to Sol to strike at the back of the Beast — when all that bright, dreaming civilization shuddered and collapsed — and forth again in vengeance and beautiful rebirth. Ferrus Manus would never forsake the Forgebreaker, and even when the Gorgon finally fell on the fields of Armageddon, millennia after his weapon's maker, that same hammer had meted the ruin of many dozens of Meks and Bosses across the battlefield, and left its final enemy naught but broken atoms in the ground.

'''The Conquest of Laeran'''

The world of Laeran was, in all Imperial records of the Great Crusade and since, unique. A wonder brought together in the horror of Old Night, with technology from the brighter age — before the dusk of the Old Empire’s Fall. The space-based, sculptural colonies of the Laer were first encountered by the 28th Expeditionary Fleet of the Terra’s Children along a long arc across the fringes of the galactic west. At their eager initiation of contact with the third legion, the serpentine Xenos seemed the most advanced, cultured, and diplomatically forward the Imperium had encountered since Eldrad’s representation of the Craftworlders. Shared in these early encounters with the diplomatic cadres of the Laer, and confirmed by Imperial analysis of the distribution of known colonies, the Laer had fled their home in the regions of the galactic northwest to escape the collapse of the Old Eldar Empire they had evolved in the midst of. Absconding from their home star in a mass exodus and seeding new colonies along the path of their flight, they had fled the opening of the Eye of Terror.

As the next stages of diplomatic contact and positioning were prepared, Imperial assets from the Terra’s Children likewise began the far less stately work of intelligence gathering and the preparation of contingencies. The Laer’s description of their means of exodus — Laeran itself — was striking, both in their soaring reverence for the world and its technological significance as a gas giant and lunar system driven by torch drives to the point of warp transit capability, constituting a starship of utterly immense scale. Of similar interest were the trans-biological technologies the serpents employed, with many of their modifications matching — or even surpassing — humanity’s best Astartes or Skitarii implants and treatments. Fulgrim grew drawn by this wonder, and his personal attention quickly fell upon the Laeran matter. With his curiosity came his inquisitive pack of mechanists and genewrights, Captain Lucius and his force reconnaissance fleets, the Legions’ Blades, the Phoenix Company, the support brigades of heavily updated Merikan Shock Cyborgs, and the Mechanicus Exploratory attaché offered by Ferrus. Their Administratum observers, Munitorum bullet-and-bean-counters, Alpha Legion contacts, and the not-insignificant following of painters, sculptors, artisans, documentarians, writers, and veritable circus of other artists that had found Fulgrim as a patron and received stipends as Imperial Remembrancers, followed close behind. As elements of the Third Legion and their diplomatic entourage contacted more and more Laer colonies, the air of open artistic and diplomatic exchange persisted. In actuality, however, diplomacy had stalled, and deep tensions were building between the parties — veiled though it was by a pretense of aesthetic debate and politely contrasting paradigms for cybernetic development and genetic engineering.

Though more formal diplomacy between powers and a meeting on Laeran remained the subject of talk, in truth the planet’s location was not forthcoming from the Laer even as Imperial Naval assets narrowed down their deductions for its path and place. Within the week the elusive torchworld’s presumptive location was pinned down and confirmed, while a discovery made by Lorgar was delivered to Fulgrim by the hand of the Custodes that had accompanied the Preacher’s expedition to the brink go the Eye of Terror.

From any other Primarch, the aristocratic ones long in the Warmaster’s highest favor particularly, Fulgrim’s pride and nervous sense of inferiority would have led him to doubt the clear conclusion Lorgar’s report implied. He would have dared to think nearly any of his twenty peers would press such conclusions upon him merely to disrupt the handful of years he had sunk into cautious diplomacy with the Laer. But not of Lorgar — he had no doubt in the conqueror of naught but hearts and minds. The Mechanicus attaché, Lucius, Ames and Ozzy, the Mechanists, the Genesmiths, the Administratum observers, the Eldar Corsair captain Fulgrim had convinced to join them, and all the rest all of the Imperium's party agreed upon the necessity for decisive action. It was made clear that the path of Laeran had not taken it from its place amongst the Crone worlds along a direct path out of their midst, but rather that their path started at the Cadian Gate, that their passing had been marked with terror and rapine, and that their elder colonies were rocked by civil war against a monodominant cult of perfection. Fulgrim was insistent that he personally reaffirm to the Laeran delegation and accompanying fleet that the Imperium had truly negotiated with them in earnest, and that he had the assurance of one Mr. Ozzy that they would be transported to Ganymede unharmed and in perfect safety. Upon the seizure of their vessel and the Laer diplomats’ removal, Fulgrim returned to his flagship — the Pride of Imperium — and began the Astropathic relay of instructions to activate the contingencies, likewise prepared in earnest.

Codex entry not finished.

Additional Details

- This universe's version of an "Iron Cage" incident that leads most Astartes legions to follow Guilliman's idea of breaking into Chapters. Fulgrim tries to micromanage everything but gets ground down by attrition. Final blow was trying to clear a sector of an Ork infestation led by a Tzeentch-aligned Big Wyrd, which was so nuts it was impossible to account for everything.

== Vulkan ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Promethean:'''''

Vulkan, son of the Afrique League, First Patriarch of the Prometheans, Defender of the People, Cleansing Flame of Earth and Primarch of the Steward was born in a mud and thatch hut in an arable farming village 8 days walk from Lanbarno, capital of that semi prosperous realm.

The nation itself was little more than a remnant of what it once was. At its height some 500 years previously it had been a super power the rival of any other on the Earth at that time with culture and technological knowlage beyond peer. But then the Ursh came and taught them that this was not, nor have it ever, nor would it ever be a time of peace.

But all that was history. The realm that Vulkan grew up in knew nothing of that save in dust old tomes of half forgotten lore.

Even a peace, a hard fought for peace, had been won against the Despots of Ursh and their vassal states.

Of all the peoples on the Earth at that time, they had come to the attention of foul xenos. Why they amongst all others? who can say. But there it was.

The only thing that was certain during this era was that the Dark Eldar were discovering the depths of their needs and thirsts, and they found the picking in Afrique League to their liking.

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It became a hated part of life. Shelters were dug by the prudent and the the foolish were left to die. It was an unhappy time. But maybe it was the xeno raiders and their attentions that made their lands less appealing to invaders.

It was in Vulkans 14th summer that he joined the military, against the wishes of his father and mother but with their blessing. It was customary for men to serve and protect the communities they came from for what was good for the people of a nation must surely be good for the nation as a whole.

Vulkan's parents had been adamant he not join the warriors, because they knew that his job would be to dissuade their tormentors so that they might find a softer village to attack.

One such assault was the beginning of Vulkan. The rest of his life had been merely a prelude to the man.

A brutal assault that seemed determined to abduct the while village befell Vulkan's home. The scant defenses were little more than tissue paper against razor blades. The pitiful few warriors of the Afrique League were tormented in the manner of a cat with a mouse and as inevitably snuffed out. All bar one. When the village bio-petroleum tank detonated Vulkan was inflamed. But up he rose. clutching his blacksmith fathers hammer, a halo of flame about his head and inferno wings upon his broad shoulders he was risen and he stood before the Archon, the chief tormentor of his people. His heart beat like a blast furnace and his eyes were holes into the hear of the sun and his fathers hammer he brought down hard. The Archon danced around him with inhuman grace, a nimble torture before an enraged giant. In later legends it was said they they danced from sunrise to sunset, but in truth there was a death far sooner than that. The Archons blades had been doused in poison most foul but the heat of the flame had cleansed them. Although Vulkan could barley land a single blow, he did manage to land one. And one was all he needed.

The simple smiths hammer struck hard and it struck true. It was said to have been heated by more than burning fuel but by the furnace heat of hate. The Archon lay crippled and in agony at Vulkans feet. He raised that vile man high above his head and brought him down hard over his knee and broke his back. The warrior held him up once more and with a dragons roar, dared all those who would look to see what ruin had been done before tearing out the raider kings throat.

And no more did those creatures come back.

When the Warlord came to the Afrique League it was Vulkan who met with him in the old and dying king Shatimuene's place. With the xenos gone, it would not be long before Ursh came back; The Afrique League could not endure alone when that day came.

As the now chief military commander of his nation and a hero of the people, Vulkan was taken into the confidence of the Warlord. In the name of the warlord he claimed back the old vassal states of Ursh for the Afrique League and built that broken nation back up on freed slaves and a noble sense of retribution.

Vulkan was one of the first of the final design of Astartes. All of the major flaws had been solved by that point and for that we can be grateful, the world did not need another Angron.

When the last tyrant fell and it came time to bring the Unification to the rest of Sol, Vulkan son of N'bel was raised high and called Primarch.

When the Great Crusade began it was Vulkan, second only to Lorgar, who showed that although the Imperium was strong and could be monstrous, it could also be noble and capable of true virtue.

When the War of The Beast came it was the the Salamanders that dedicated their lives to defense of the people above the defense of the Imperium, or what was good for the people of a nation must surely be good for the Imperium as a whole.

Vulkan did make it back to Old Earth before the Martyr Angel fell and he could not save his brother primarch, but no blame was laid at his feet as his Legion worked so tierlesly and gave their very lives for the people and always at the thickest of the the fighting, in the heart of the inferno was the Promethean with his hammer.

In the years that followed the rebuilding of the Imperium Vulkan's forces remained integrated most strongly with those of the Imperial Army. Vulkan served the Imperium for longer than any other primarch, save for Ferrus Manus of the Mechanicum. Time and again the enemies of man would rise to threaten the Imperium, and the Promethean would rise in turn to face them. Vulkan fought against the Black Crusades of Chaos, the Orkish WAAAGHs of Armageddon, and uncountable other foes, surviving against odds in which any lesser man would perish. Vulkan became known as Vulkan the Undefeatable, the Emerald Knight, the greatest of the Imperium’s champions.
Nevertheless, despite the Mark III S geneseed, the years began to take their toll on Vulkan. Vulkan’s body may have been young but his spirit was old, and he could no longer serve his Imperium the way he once did. The Emperor granted his steadfast champion the right to retire, only stating that he hoped Vulkan could find place to retire fitting for one who had served the Imperium as long as he.

Vulkan picked the humble planet Nocturne as his place of retirement. Vulkan was head of the Promethean Creed, its greatest missionary and, given how long he had been influencing it, probably the greatest factor in shaping it. During the Great Crusade, Nocturne had embraced the Creed completely and with great enthusiasm. As a result, Nocturne had become an important world to the Salamander Legion, and was the world the Salamander chapter held onto after the splitting of the legions, though the Salamanders built their actual fortress on the nearby moon of Prometheus, to ensure the civilians of Nocturne would not be made direct targets of any would-be aggressor.

By the time that Vulkan started to feel old nearly the entire population ascribed to the creed in one form or another. It had become their holy land, eclipsing even the old lands of Africa. Although Vulkan had intended to settle down and live a quiet life in his old age, the people of Nocturne recognized the Unbound Flame of the Promethean Creed, and petitioned him to rule. And so Vulkan became the High Patriarch of Nocturne, ruling as a wise philosopher-king, though more than once the former Emerald Knight had to pick up his old hammer to defend his adopted home.

Of all the Primarchs save perhaps Russ of Skand Vulkan's disappearance is the most odd. Shortly before Vulkan's disappearance there is a gap of approximately 200 years in the records of Nocturne and after that point it is generally accepted that he is gone. Before this gap Vulkan is recorded as the High Patriarch of Nocturne. After the gap a Triumvirate was ruling in Vulkan's place and apparently had been doing so long enough that such an arrangement was considered normal. The last known record of Vulkan is a statement by the Promethean that he had planned to take a trip around the far planets of the galaxy, but there is no indication of how long he expected to be gone and when he expected to be back. What happened during the Centuries of Silence, as the Prometheans call it, is a holy mystery. Some say he is dead, some say he will come back again in a great hour of need and some say he never left.

All that is known is that his children, the Fire Lords and the Black Dragons and the Salamanders, fight like lions for humanity and legion of them have laid down their immortal lives for mortal men and legion more and more have risen in turn.

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== Dorn ==
Note:
- Calbi born, early model astartes pattern. Desensitization problems.
- Odd friendship with Perturabo
- Died during 1st Black Crusades holding the battlements of Cadia

The story of Rogal Dorn starts in the garrison town of Onto Rontus in the not too long annexed land of Calbi. Born to a mother of the local tribes and an officer father of the Merikan army his start was not as tragic as it could have been. Often such half-breeds were not the result of consenting unions but Donovan Dorn held genuine affection for Kosa and was, unknown to his fellow officers, married to her.

Dorn was one of a large family and had many siblings though he was ultimately the only one to follow in his father’s footsteps. Dorn left his loving tribe and family and all he had known and travelled to the distant lands of Merika to begin his training, as his father had.

He learned much in those years and was an excellent student and would have been on the fast track to high station but for his circumstances of birth. No soldier of the greatest nation on Old Earth would gladly allow themselves to be given orders from a savage of the north. Despite all this his tutors could not deny his talents.

It was not a thing he took undue joy in but the ways of war came very easily to him. Despite the unfortunate circumstances of his birth he became the very model of a Merikan officer. He was well versed in military doctrine of all sorts and knew something of the history of his nation, at least enough to spot the revisionisms.

Although adept, or at minimum competent, at all aspects of war his true talents were found in siege warfare. In the tactical simulations and competitive VR matches Dorn was unbeaten.

Due to his knowledge of the locals and ability to speak at least one tribal language fluently Dorn returned to Calbi wearing a conquers uniform. He served as a lieutenant under the rule of Praefectus Adran, himself new to the post after the forced retirement of old Praefectus Stavart.

Praefectus Stavart had been very old and was unquestionably loyal to Merika but had dealt with the natives with some degree of fairness and even kindness when he could afford to. He was not loved by the locals, how could he be, but the elders were more than smart enough to know that his position as an intermediary between them and Merika was probably the best deal they could get in the circumstances.

For Stavart’s part he probably knew that as well. In his childhood Dorn had met him a few times with his father. He remembered him looking old then and unless he somehow genuinely had six sixty-seventh birthdays it was obvious that he had been lying about his age for a long time. In his way Stavart had cared about Calbi and it’s people as something other than a broken, subjugated state of Merika. He held on in the job until nearly ninety because he knew that Adran or someone much like him would succeed him. And he was right.

Praefectus Adran was not a nice man by any measure. His was the brutal rule of law and the authority of the Iron Fist. He wouldn’t be seen attending local festivals or events; they were there from the greatest to the least at his beck and call. They were savages and heathens and he was a man of the Greatest Nation and a paragon among them. Needless to say tensions between the conquered and conquerors increased.

At some point genuine tribal unrest turn into riots and Praefectus Adran orders mass executions.

Dorn is well loved by both the locals, who see him as their man on the other side and look to him to for salvation, and by the Merikan rank and file and quite a few of the officers.

There are a few days of communications black outs due to "faulty equipment" and some "regrettable accidents" that see some of the officers dead and Praefectus Adran commits suicide after a long period of depression. When asked how he managed to shoot himself in the back of the head with a shot gun acting Praefectus Dorn tells the investigators that Adran had been "Very depressed."

Nobody believes it but, due to the difficulties in the still mysteriously faulty communications equipment, it does buy him enough time to root out more Merikan loyalists, secure his alliances with the local tribes and when the order comes from the capital to stand down and come back for questioning he declares independence.

The next day he is met by an uncannily nondescript man of average height and build with no distinguishing features, hard to estimate age, unremarkable clothing and an oddly neutral and hard to place accent. He claims his name is Alpharius Omegon and he comes representing the Imperium. He tells Dorn that his timing is awful: had he been able to spin this out for a few more years, five at least, the Imperium would have been in a position to lend considerable military might to his Rebellion. As it is, they will offer what less obvious help they can but the Imperium can't get dragged into a direct and total war with Merika at the current time. Dorn and a few of his elites get what must be some of the very last Mk1 Astartes upgrades, administered by local bio-druids for reasons of deniability.

Recently Merika had been supplying and training terrorist organizations in the lands conquered by the Imperium and Oscar had found out who was behind the seemingly random attacks. The aim was to disassemble the Imperium back into little nations for Merika to "Manifest Destiny" all over and Oscar was most unhappy, most unhappy indeed. But his forces were all tied up dealing with Ursh and the Pan-Pacific Empire. So he couldn't act directly and was forced to use Dorn and his rebellion, and later Fulgrim, to fight by proxy.

Not that Dorn would know the specifics of this until quite a few years after Unification Day.

Dorn holds out for long enough for Fulgrim Doe to raise his rebellion and make contact.

By this point the Imperium is finishing off the last enclaves of Ursh, Lorgar is decapitating the Despot and Merika is in deep shit because of the multiple rebellions, the pissed off Imperium and the only neighbor it has left with whom it is not at war with is Hy Brasil who hate both of them and are just going to sit back and watch.

Fulgrim "negotiates a deal of inclusion with very good terms" with the Imperium after he is appointed President of Merika and "abandons the unprofitable campaign to uplift and civilize the northern provinces". Calbi becomes an independent nation, Dorn appoints an Assembly of Elders to govern the nation, steps down from and decommissions the title "Praefectus of Calbi". However, he does remain the head of the armed forces. The Elders and Dorn, or representatives of them in the case of the more elderly Elders, are present at the swearing of allegiance to the Empty Throne of Earth.

When Steward Oscar looks to the other worlds of Sol and to the stars beyond he names Dorn as one of his primarchs to the surprise of Dorn though not the people of his home nation who see it as only right.

And then Great Crusade, WoTB, Reconquest and death on the walls of Cadia during the 1st Black Crusade of which is WIP by Dornfag

During the Great Crusade he went slower than most of the other Primarchs bar Lorgar but his diligence over speed, though criticized at the time, proved it's worth in the WoTB as the worlds he brought into the Imperium weathered the storm consistently better than others that weren't the work of Perty.

At some point he gets it into his head to grow his trademark mustache. Some time later he has to have one of his eyes replaced and it sort of looks like a monocle.

Does not take part in the Raid. He was not the greatest personal combatant and also tended to be better at static defense than actually running around, so a quick Raid was not his strong suit. Also due to the buggy Mk1 enhancments he suffered from desensitization problems which gradually turned into a mild case of masochism.

Never married or had any children (that he or history knew about). Did have a large number of nephews and nieces and cousins and more distant kin. Quite a few of his family survived the WoTB, he was quite lucky in that regard.

== Roboute Guilliman ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Artist of War:'''''

Guilliman was born to a minor noble house in the great and relatively prosperous realm of Europia. His parents were able to afford him admittance to Parisiorum University, the most prestigious educational institution of that fair nation. By the onset of adulthood he was well versed in the classics of language, mathematics and the basic sciences; but it was in military theory that he truly excelled. Soon he was spotted by a visiting officer, and was quickly transferred to the Avelroi military academy. He was a more than adequate soldier, and a fairly skilled tactician, but it was in the arts of grand strategy and logistical planning that his brilliance was found. During wargames and simulations, his peers often managed to gain the upper hand on Guilliman's forces, flanking or encircling them only to find themselves critically short of materiel and facing positions prepared long in advance, thanks to his unconventional focus on interdicting supply lines. Thus, while he graduated with glowing recommendations from his tutors, he was somewhat resented by his fellow alumni who felt his tactics underhand or cowardly.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Shortly after, he was assigned to the southern border where his nation rubbed shoulders - and often warred - with the Nord Afrik. Within a month of his assignment, the area was brought up to peak efficiency and combat effectiveness. Whole swathes of the border defenses were brought back up to standard, often exceeding them, becoming greater and more formidable than they were in the last border dispute; the semi-derelict Jibraltonius border fort seemed to change overnight from a ceremonial headquarters to an impenetrable bastion. And not a moment too soon, as before long the Nord Afrikaanus and their cyber-thrall army commanders were ready for war, instead of the brief raids and pillages that Guilliman's defenses had been blooded against.

The hordes of Nord Afrik, armed and armoured with most powerful technology they had recovered from the rotting corpse of the old world, charged with ferocity that would've shattered the defences of just years before. They played every hand they could; hit-and-run raids, armoured assaults, wave attacks and attempts at infiltration, yet in the end it did not matter, as their crusade broke upon the hardened shell of Europia. For every of Guilliman's soldiers, there were ten Afrikaanus barbarians - but in turn, there were a dozen shells, plasma charges or lascannon shots for each of '''them,''' and it is said that fresh reinforcements would arrive before their dead predecessors had even hit the ground. The counter-offensive orchestrated by General Guilliman was nothing less than a masterpiece of warfare, facing the Afrikaanus as if on his own home turf. The waves of techno-barbarians were bled white, their counterattacks shrugged off and shattered, their homeland burned to ashes from which nothing could ever recover.

The customary actions to follow in these conquests was for nations to incorporate the territory of the fallen into their own empire, lording over the few remaining broken people. This would have been the fate of Nord Afrik, too, but for Guilliman's address to the senate imploring them to let that foul place rot. This was perceived as weakness by some, yet his foresight would go on to frustrate the other neighbouring nations who were looking forward to invading a Europeia overextended and weakened by their subjugation of Nord Afrik. For his martial brilliance and wisdom, Guilliman was given the honorific title of Lord, a title that would not normally be bestowed upon him until his fathers death. Furthermore, in the time of relative peace the nation now found itself in, it needed an ambassador - albeit one with enough accomplishment and worth behind him for the leaders of neighbouring realms to sit up and listen.

It was during his time in the Kingdom of Franj that he met the relatively young Queen Yolande Fouché. The two had little in common at a personal level and neither ever completely trusted each other, but their respective governments deemed it imperative that they marry as a prelude to the unification of the two nations. Franj itself was deeply wounded and only slowly recovering from devastating attacks by the Unspeakable Tyrant of Gredbritton's horrific weapons, and would not survive even the most halfhearted of assaults from any of its neighbors - least of all the Dusht Jemanic, who were looking to settle old grievances. In turn, such an alliance would allow the people of Europia access to the produce of the huge tracts of agricultural land, which were sorely needed as using Nord Afrik as a psuedo-colony to feed their growing population was no longer an option.

When The Warlord came before the Senate of Europia, in the modest robes of a scribe, he came with open arms and a warm smile. Unlike elsewhere, the Senate of Europia saw this new "Imperium" as a macrocosm of themselves; their own well ordered nation merely taken to its logical conclusion. Thus, their inclusion was brief and painless, and allowed them representation in the decision and policy processes of such a regime, while the Kingdom of Franj was joined along with them as both realms were nearly dependent on one another at this point.

Lord Guilliman quickly rose through the ranks of the new Imperial Army, thanks to his history amongst one of the more civilised realms of the Imperium, as well as his unparalleled logistical prowess. Yet, when it came time for the Warlord to implement his super soldier project on a much expanded scale it was a sad fact that Lord Guilliman was biologically too old and would almost certainly have died during the implantation process. As consolation he was granted some limited gene-forging and rejuvenation procedures that his usefulness might be extended for centuries to come.

And down the centuries his usefulness would be proven.

When the Warlord became the Steward before the Empty Throne and looked to the stars, it was Guilliman amongst his generals who was deemed to be best suited to the task of preparing for interplanetary warfare, a feat considered logistically impossible by many, yet achieved through meticulous calculation and planning. His dedication and adaptability earned Lord Guilliman the title of Primarch, a leader amongst leaders and a legend amongst legends. When the eye of the Steward looked beyond the confines of Sol, he saw Guilliman was was needed more than ever.

The Primarch rose to the challenge, reorganising the Imperial Army into a force that seemed able to be everywhere at once yet, to its enemies, was truly endless, and giving the Steward's war machine efficiency more befitting a creation of the Mechanicus. Whole stellar clusters were brought under the Aquila by the old man of Europia, with wars that could fill a library - the greatest of which, he believed, were the ones not fought. He was and old man. He looked of middle years but he had lived, long long past his time. Memories of loved ones, their faces and voices, had become dim and faded. He had outlived his wife and his children and his grandchildren, his beautiful nation and even the greatest of its monuments. The old man had never relished war like the others, seeing it instead as an intellectual exercise - and by now he was so very tired of it.

When the War of the Beast descend like a hammer upon the still fledgling Imperium, it was Guilliman's reforms - from the optimisation of trade routes to the streamlining of military integration and combined arms - that allowed whole sectors to mobilise their forces fast enough to weather the initial shock. His well-disciplined and -equipped legionaries made the Beast and his horde pay for every parsec, every light-year, every '''metre'''. For every slain citizen under his care a hundred deaths were meted out, but all could see that the line was being ground back to the Sanctum Sanctorum of humanity: Old Earth. The Beast and his forces were defeated, just like all the others were, but the legions that struck the deathblow were glorified far more than the one that hamstrung a tide of Ork that would've otherwise swallowed them whole. Guilliman held no jealousy or resentment over that; he was old enough to understand that good men were seldom remembered as long as entertaining monsters, and had resigned himself to that fact long ago.

After the slaying of The Beast the Imperium began to rebuild. It was dirty work but it was good work, the Primarch relishing in the opportunity to rebuilding something after so long fighting. Those close to him claimed it soothed his aching soul and reminded him of the miracles he worked on the borders of his homeland, long ago - even when many of his fellow Primarchs outright refused his suggested reforms.

Guilliman endured for centuries longer than any thought possible - even himself - but In 014.M32 he began his long, dreamless sleep. His legacy, however, would endure for ages to come; remembered fondly even by those who thought him nothing but a glorified penpusher, and proving that the quiet administrators and quartermasters of the Imperium that they had just as much to be proud of as any other.

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== Magnus the Red ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">''''' The Arch-Psyker '''''

The story of Magnus the Red can be traced back to the previous Despot of Ursh, a remarkably unfriendly fellow by the name of Ganzorig the Great. Indeed he was great and conquered huge swathes of the Afrique League to add to the already great Empire his uncle left him. One of the contributing factors in his victories was his use of enslaved and potent psykers. For the most part these poor creatures, witch-kin as they were, were not highly valued as people by the Despot despite him being a follower of the dark gods.

One of his most prized possessions was a witch by the name of Ada of whom it was said could summon deamons and not so much bind them but direct them. In her youth, before he had discovered quite how valuable she was, he had whored her out to a navigator for imported weapons from far off worlds beyond Sol. That she had a child that she loved dearly was good news for Ganzorig as it gave him a means by which he could control her.

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Time passed, wars were waged, new lands were conquered and things continued to get worse on Old Earth much as they always had done.

In time the son, named Magnus, grew into a man. Like his father he was uncommonly tall and it was soon evident that like his mother he was uncommonly powerful. As such he was press-ganged into the psychic warfare and assault efforts of the Regime. Magnus' aptitudes were in wards and defensive measures and by age 15 could stop artillery fire and had done so on the front lines. By age 20 he could throw up a shield wall that covered almost a mile in either direction and was harder than the finest steel.

In his 35th year his mother died on the front lines against the Pan-Pacific Empire and the monsters created by it's mad science. Magnus at the time was half a continent away on the borders of Achaemenidia but he felt her loss. Although Magnus had always been Ganzorig's leash to ensure his mothers obedience so in turn had Magnus been kept obedient lest harm come to his mother.

Magnus seemed to vanish and the border was over run by the next morning. A few month later Ganzorig the Great was found burned to death in his bed.

Little is known of Magnus' movements in many years and the Ursh Succession war that followed. It is suspected that he fled to the cursed ground of the Himalayan Mountains. A place only whispered in dark legend, the one place nobody was strong or mad enough to conquer and from the fall of the Dark Age Empire to the arrival of the Warlord remained inviolate. It was unknown for sure what was protecting that high place but ████████████████████████████████████Data expunged by order of the Inquisition██████████████████████████████████████████████████and never again they promised on this hallowed ground, and so they faded in midnight clad.

Magnus emerged from that strange land some time in his sixties, although how much time in that place had passed was anyone's guess. Due to his inhuman heritage he looked still of early middle years but for his one remaining eye that held reflected horrors enough to last lifetimes. His skin once pale and soft like his fathers was now hardened by years of exposure to something approximating leather and adorned from head to foot in red wards and runes and holy script in some unknown letters tattooed and branded and scared across every inch of flesh. Save for the ragged bite mark that took up one side of his face.

By this time the Warlords armies were moving in earnest with expert precision across a dozen fronts, both military and diplomatic.

At first the tall man wandered in places he thought beyond the reach of any king or man or beast but as the Warlord progressed his psychic powers grew until Magnus felt them eclipse his own. He traveled to the very furthest reaches of Sibar and buried his talents that he might not shine out from afar.

But the Warlord could feel him and he knew it. Rather than wait to be hunted down or chained up as was in his youth Magnus set out for the burning light.

At the time the Warlord was busy in the Lands of Skand where the Nordyc people dwelt. The Warlord was trying to unify them into a cohesive nation that he could work with and absorb into the Imperium. Some tribes would remain independent and raid and pirate and maraud across the landscape and they would be crushed for it but his hope would be that this would be minimal in number.

Magnus strode into the great wood and thatch hall almost as tall as the doorway, draped in animal skins and weathered and wild looking. The great hall fell silent for a moment until the babbling of conversations returned. He scanned the rows of men and women through the hazy smoky air seated around the tables and staying warm by the great fire pit until he found him, the Warlord.

He was seated some way down the bench tearing into a slab of mutton whilst a man in dusty grey robes negotiated with the king in a jovial manner. To the surprise of Magnus the Warlord waved him over and offered him a seat on the bench next to him and poured him a drink.

It had not occurred to Magnus that the Warlord meant him no harm, it had always been his assumption that powerful men fought and that was the way of things.

In the years that were to follow the Warlord did offer Magnus a place at his side not for his battlefield prowess, although that was formidable, but for the forbidden and ancient lore he had ██████████████ █████ ███████Data expunged by order of the Inquisition███ ███████ although it troubled him greatly.

Eventually Magnus did walk the battlefield, but this time at the head of a small army of his own making. A band of psykers like himself, some liberated slaves or other nations and some born free in the Imperium. For the first time since the death of his mother Magnus felt at home. They won much fame and fortune in the wars of Unification primarily against the stain on the map that was Ursh. Though the Warlord trusted Magnus he put upon him the one condition that he have no more dealings from things beyond conventional time and space.

The other commanders were unsure of Magnus, he was not fully human and he was witch-kin steeped in forbidden magics and lore. Mortarion and Russ both had a particular dislike of him for this and despised his methods. For all that Magnus became Primarch Magnus the Red but unlike most of his fellow Primarchs he could not recieve any augmentations due to his strangely genes.

As the Unification slid gently into the Great Crusade the Legion of the Thousnad Sons held themselves well and despite being the smallest of the Legions in the Imperial Army held themselves as high as any other.

As the War of the Beast ground on Magnus' armies found themselves out matched but still unrelenting. The Beast had psykers of his own and the Chaos Eldar made his people die screaming.

As the Beast assaulted Old Earth Magnus at last broke his word to the now Steward. He called forth all the old spirits as his mother taught him and shipped up the warp into a howling gale and dashed the Beasts fleets upon impossible shores and almost pity them for where they now were. It was a gamble that was not wholly won for some Imperial ships were lost in the gale, their crews damned and lost forever. He was severely berated by the Warlord for this and they almost came to blows.

He was present on Old Earth in those final days of that war confounding and confusing the sorcerers of Chaos and slaying their deamons.

Eventually the Steward and Magnus did reconcile their differences though it took many, many years.

It was said that the Grey Knights were founded and trained by ancient veterans of the Thousand Sons, although as with all things to do with the history of that order the truth will never be known.

Magnus was one of the 3 primarchs that lived to see the Steward crowned Emperor, although only barely. He was as human as the day he was born, however much that was, and longevity treatments can only take you so far. His ashes were scattered to the winds on the tallest Himalayan mountain carried there by the Emperor himself.

Even unto the Dark Millennium the Emperor would not allow discussion of what he found in those mountains.

Was it wondrous? Terrible? Both? None may know now. Whatever was there was gone by the time Earth was all but unified. A few abandoned villages, some empty temples, a few overgrown fields and no sign of violence.

Whatever was there looked and acted like people to fool people, more or less. Whatever was there left of it's own accord.

What it is and why anything can never be known though The Warlord found neither joy nor sorrow in its departure.

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== Sanguinius ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Martyr Angel'''''

Duscht Jemanic was an old nation, a once great empire that spanned from the coast of the Atlazia Ocean in the west to the Besivik Ocean in the east, the lightning speed of its war machines crushing nations beneath their tread. Over the centuries its power and borders were slowly eroded by the Ursh hordes in the east and revolts in its Europian provinces, until it was left only with its core territories and forced into a humiliating alliance for survival as part of the Quintuple Alliance.

The Duscht were a dour, efficient people, obsessed with genetic purity above all else. In their great iron towers the famed genesmiths delved into the secrets of the human genome, while in the bellies of its ashen factories millions of enslaved “unclean” sweated and died to produce the materials for its armies. It was into this decaying society that Sanguinius was born, only son of the Kaiser.

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The Kaiser was a cold man, and over the centuries of his life had failed to produce an heir that satisfied his need for perfection. As he grew old, he grew desperate, and in his desperation he summoned his greatest genesmiths to do something never before attempted: to create a human life. To create his perfect heir, he opened the ancestral gene-vaults of House Baal, and sequences were taken from its greatest heroes: genes from generals and warriors for strength and bravery, from diplomats and statesmen for wisdom and intelligence, from courtesans and athletes for beauty and fairness of form. To this blend of genes, the Kaiser, perhaps in a final act of caprice or megalomania, added the genes for a pair of enormous, white wings to grow from the child’s back.

With the genome completed, the genesmiths retreated to their towers to perform their ancient biotech rites to attempt to forge the raw genetic material into a living fetus. Nine and ninety failed, ending as twisted, misshapen things, but in the hundredth the genes took hold, and after a year and a day of labor the genesmiths presented the baby boy to the Kaiser. As he wept, the Kaiser named the boy “Sanguinius,” for he was to be the culmination and greatest champion of the Baal bloodline.

As the boy grew, he was indeed as perfect as expected: tall and strong, brilliant and wise, golden-haired and beautiful to behold. His tutors were astonished at his genius, and the royal masters of arms soon found themselves outstripped by the stripling boy. Yet the Kaiser was still displeased. For the boy had always been a means to an end: the restoration of the old Duscht Empire, and two factors pulled his dream further and further from his grasp. The first were rumors and rumblings of an upstart nation, led by a feared Warlord, conquering and subjugating those in its path. And the second was something he could never has foreseen, something that surprised and confused and enraged him when he confronted it: Sanguinius had compassion.

Indeed, as a boy he had horrified his governesses and caretakers by sneaking out of the palace to play with common children in the street (wearing bulky clothes to hide his growing wings), and infuriated his father by speaking out against cruelty of the nobility and freeing the household slaves assigned to him. His kindness and strength of will drew the masses to him, yet in his gaze there was always a sense of melancholy, a sense that he was looking into the distance at something no one else could see. And it was so, for Sanguinius had dreams.

In them he saw the Earth and the suffering of its teeming masses, felt their psychic screams of pain: from a nomad child dying of radiation in the Calbian wastes, raw boils and weeping sores stark against her pale skin, from an old slave in a Duscht factory collapsing under the savage blows of laughing guards, from all the wretched of the Earth crying for salvation. And from far away amongst the inky blankness of the stars he heard similar, fainter echoes as people suffered and died on far-flung planets across the galaxy. Sanguinius wept for them, and for his own powerlessness, and as he did a great, golden figure rose from the darkness, benevolent gaze sweeping over the Earth. It reached its hands down and lifted the masses to the stars, and where there was sorrow there was now hope and opportunity. Yet it was here Sanguinius’ visions diverged: in some, he and the Duscht people were lifted into the stars with the rest of humanity to spread amongst the galaxy, his heart bursting with joy. In the others, the great golden figure drew his gaze to the cruelty of Duscht Jemanic, to its slave pens and pogroms and purges of the unclean, and Sanguinius felt only cold despair as the great hands turned to fists and ground the Duscht people into dust.

Though he was not much older than a boy, Sanguinius vowed this would not come to pass, that he would protect the Duscht people and pledge himself to the service of the great savior, and that he would march across the stars to save the scattered people of Terra no matter where they were.

So it was that the Warlord came to borders of Duscht Jemanic during Sanguinius’ seventeenth year.

By this time, Sanguinius was the de facto leader, having won over the court with his charisma and strength. The Kaiser was by now decrepit and spent most of his time secluded in his private chambers, emerging occasionally to make wild proclamations and rant about the lost glory of the Duscht Empire. Thus when the Warlord’s herald came to demand the surrender of the Duscht people, it was the boy-king Sanguinius at the head of the Duscht steel legions that came to parley with the Warlord.

When Sanguinius stepped into the Warlord’s command tent and saw his face, it took all of Sanguinius’ will not to fall to his knees, for he knew with certainty that this was the great golden man he had dreamed of. The Warlord, noting the young man’s hesitation, is said to have greeted him with a half-smile and asked, “Is aught the matter?” to which Sanguinius simply replied, “I dreamed of you.”

The beginning of the negotiations was simple enough, for Sanguinius was already willing to pledge fealty and offer the technology of the genesmiths to the Warlord. Yet when Sanguinius requested mercy for his people, the discussions grew heated.

The Warlord was benevolent but possessed of an iron sense of justice, and in his eyes the cruelty of the Duscht people demanded harsh sanction. The specifics are lost to history, but the argument is said to have stretched long into the night, with Sanguinius pleading, protesting, and threatening in turn, and the Warlord impassively countering each rhetorical thrust. Finally, Sanguinius offered his own life in return for mercy for his people, for he declared that as the culmination of the Baal bloodline, the sins of his house were for him to bear.

Impressed by the earnest conviction of the young man, the Warlord relented. The Warlord demanded that the slaves were to be freed and the possessions of the nobility were to be seized and distributed among them, and that each house would serve in the Warlord’s armies as penance. Sanguinius himself would be their general, and their duty would be to go where the fighting was thickest and lead the charge. Finally collapsing to his knees from relief, Sanguinius accepted without hesitation.

With the secrets and technology of the Duscht genesmiths, the Warlord perfected the final design iteration for his Astartes warriors, the Mark III augmentation pattern, of which Sanguinius and his fellow primarchs to-be Vulkan and Lion El’Jonson were the prototypes. On them, the Warlord ordered the genesmiths to lavish their full expertise and to spare no cost, pushing the boundaries of their arcane knowledge.

When the three men emerged they were indeed without any of the flaws and mutations that had plagued the earlier Astartes generations, with strength and abilities far exceeding those of their existing fellows. However, the cost was astronomical and the process too slow to be viable on a large scale, thus for the mass production Mark III pattern the improvements were mostly limited to eliminating the flaws in the Mark II, keeping a roughly similar or perhaps marginally higher level of strength. The prototype Mark III design was archived, and later used for the most elite warriors of the Imperium, the Custodes and the Grey Knights.

For the rest of the Unification Wars, Sanguinius and his legion served with distinction, winning fame for their lightning assaults against even the most entrenched of foes, the Astartes descending as streaks of crimson on wings of burning ash and flame as they followed their general into battle. With his purity of spirit and the oneness of their shared vision for humanity, he won the trust and confidence of the Warlord and became a close advisor, making his eventual elevation to Primarch a mere formality. Thus when the Warlord became the Steward of the Empty Throne and proclaimed the Great Crusade, it was the fleets of the IX Legion with Primarch Sanguinius at the helm that were in the vanguard, blazing a trail into the darkness.

Sanguinius’ legend grew as he and his legion pacified world after world, a magnificent sight to behold as he soared over the battlefield on immense white wings to slay the enemies’ generals and greatest champions. Yet it was not only for feats of arms that he was revered as the “Angel”. Worlds blighted by mutation that would have been purged by other legions instead found themselves welcomed into the safety of the Imperium by the IX Legion, and broken peoples barely recognizable as human for the first time experienced the warmth of kinship and camaraderie.

The IX Legion soon won the moniker of “Blood Angels,” for their nobility of spirit and devotion to the shared blood of mankind. Soon, tales of the great Angel and his warriors spread across the oppressed people of the galaxy, and many rose in joyous rebellion against their alien overlords when the great Angel and his red warriors appeared in the skies above their worlds.

Amongst his brother Primarchs, Sanguinius found comrades and friends of his own. Well liked or at least well respected by most of the Primarchs, Sanguinius was particularly close with Horus and Vulkan. In him, “Old Man Roboute” finally had a willing audience for his lectures on strategy and logistics, and Fulgrim found a kindred spirit with an appreciation of art and philosophy, the greatest achievements of man. Sanguinius’ relationship with Angron was complicated, troubled by Angron’s unpredictable madness. On good days, theirs was a friendly rivalry as each legion strove to claim the title of finest assault troops in the Imperium; on others, Angron viewed the Angel as an upstart pretender without respect for his elders and resented the Angel's pity, and they had to be separated lest they come to blows. Curze and Mortarion despised Sanguinius as naïve and foolish, and Sanguinius despised them in turn for obvious reasons, Mortarion in particular for he reminded Sanguinius far too much of his own father.

When the Steward with Eldrad at his side first proposed the idea of an alliance with the Eldar to his gathered Primarchs at the Council of Nikaea, Sanguinius was one of the first to speak out in favor, for he believed all sapient beings willing to work towards peace, prosperity, and the good of mankind had a rightful place within the Imperium. Later, he would be part of the great raid on the twisted realms of Nurgle, and nearly perished there in the stinking hellscape.

As the raiding party retreated to the portal with Isha in tow, they received word that Eldrad and his council of seers holding the portal open in realspace had come under ferocious daemonic assault, and that the portal was failing rapidly. As the allied forces rushed to the exit, Sanguinius lingered trying to save the lives of several wounded Exarchs and Astartes. It was only through the combined heroics of Lion El’Jonson, Jaghatai Khan, and the Phoenix Lords Asurmen and Baharroth that he survived, as they carved a path through the hordes of slavering monstrosities to drag the Angel through the collapsing portal.

The next few years represented the high water mark of the Great Crusade as the Imperium expanded at an unprecedented rate, fueled by their new allies and technology. World after world was brought into the Imperium, and Sanguinius dared to hope that his dream of a gentler future could truly come to pass.

Then the War of the Beast came.

The hordes of the Orks, Chaos Eldar, and Dark Eldar smashed through the fledging Imperium, plunging it into darkness, and where there was hope and opportunity before there was now only a desperate struggle against extinction. The Blood Angels fought as they always had, leading the attack in the most vicious fighting, the tip of the Imperium’s spear, and inspiring fellow troops through deeds of valor and sacrifice. Many a Warboss, Archon, or Chaos Seer met his end at the blades of a squad of Blood Angels, only for the Astartes to be surrounded and cut down by the enraged foe. The loss of leaders sowed disruption and chaos in the enemy forces, yet for all the Blood Angels’ sacrifice it could only slow the enemy’s inexorable advance.

Those within the Imperium who fell traitor learned that Sanguinius was not all kindness, and found themselves hunted without mercy by the vengeful Blood Angels. Perhaps it was because the traitors sought to tear down his cherished dream of a peaceful future, or perhaps it was because they spat on the mercy and acceptance of the Steward that Sanguinius and his Duscht people had sacrificed so much to earn back on Terra long ago. Whatever the reason, he reserved a special savagery for those who turned their backs on the Imperium. It is said that after witnessing the carnage wrought on an entire regiment of Traitor Guard by a single squad of Blood Angels, a shocked Imperial Army general called High Command to ask “Where are the Angels I was promised? Who are these flesh tearers?”

And so the war ground on. Peace was a distant dream, and for the Men and Eldar of the Imperium there was only cold, quiet determination, defying a cruel fate in the face of a hateful and malicious universe. Worlds burned, trillions died, and across the galaxy the Blood Angels could be found neck deep in the thickest battles. Many battles were on the most populated worlds of the Imperium, and the Blood Angels would fulfill their devotion to mankind as they fought in rearguard actions to save civilians and evacuees, these valiant defenses all too often becoming last stands.

Captain Malakim and his doomed 29th Company became everlasting symbols of this devotion when they gave their lives to the man securing the evacuation of hive-world Ancalagon. Ancalagon had been the greatest world of Subsector Urulok, and the invasion of the world was particularly savage, representing the greatest concentration of Ork and Chaos Eldar forces in the subsector.
The Imperial defenders led by the Blood Angels were inevitably pushed back to the walls of the last hive, with millions of civilians yet to evacuate. Primarch Corvus Corax, commanding forces in a nearby subsector, repeatedly ordered the remaining Imperial forces to retreat and regroup to conserve their strength, yet Captain Malakim refused, for doing so would have doomed the millions of civilians to butchery or enslavement at the hands of the invaders. The Imperial defense held just long enough for the final transports to clear the spaceport, and as the hive walls were overrun the Chaos Seer leading the Chaos Eldar touched Captain Malakim’s mind to taunt him and savor his despair. Yet the alien only found calm and peace, and in response Captain Malakim sent out a final vox transmission.

Across the ruined world and the Imperial starships high above the words rang out, “For those we cherish, we die in glory!” Minutes later, enormous explosions visible from orbit erupted across the planet as hidden Cyclonic Torpedoes detonated, remotely triggered by the cessation of the heartbeat of the last Blood Angel defender. The massive loss crippled the Ork and Chaos Eldar forces in the subsector, and the regiments later raised from the evacuees won renown as some of the fiercest in the Imperial Army with their warcry, “Remember the blessed 29th!”

Through it all, Sanguinius could be found leading his Blood Angels in the most perilous of missions, or offering a kind word to faltering Guardsmen and a gentle touch to traumatized refugees. He ignored the criticisms that his men’s sacrifices were wasteful and pointless, the sneers that they could have done much more had they only the wisdom to regroup and fight another day. For Sanguinius knew that each civilian saved was another who could fight, build, and carry on the legacy of man, a precious spark of humanity, and that in a war as horrific as this morale and hope were as powerful as any weapon or starship or fortress.

Yet his men noticed a change in their beloved Primarch, subtle as it was, a restlessness and grimness he could not always hide. For Sanguinius’ visions were growing stronger, and each night, pounding at his consciousness, he saw his own death again and again. He knew it would be at the hands of a great monstrosity as he stood between it and the Steward, and that his time was growing short. Death held no fear for Sanguinius, but it was the fate of mankind that gave him pause; humanity was balanced on the knife’s edge, extinction a mere slip away. Even if the gentler future of his dreams was realized, Sanguinius knew he would not be there to see it, but he would give everything to ensure it would come to pass.

In the last days of the war, as the unstoppable hordes of the Beast, Dark Eldar, and Chaos Eldar converged on humanity’s final bastion, the Primarchs and their legions raced home to Terra to fortify their homeworld for the coming onslaught. Across the soil of Terra, the Men and Eldar of the Imperium prepared for their last stand, standing side by side to shout defiance at the hatred of the galaxy:

Here, a squad of Guardsmen drawn from a dozen worlds of the Imperium place sandbags around a hospital in the shadow of a towering Wraithlord, pausing occasionally to marvel at the gleaming colossus;

Bonesingers weave armored shells around the frames of hulking Imperial tanks, as nearby techpriests chitter with anxiety;

In a long abandoned church a Word Bearer Chaplain preaches to a motley crowd of humans and Eldar, rainbow lights from ancient stained-glass dancing on his brow, fire and ecstasy burning in his breast;

A mother comforts her weeping child as they are shepherded onto an evacuation ship under the watchful eye of an Ultramarine, the boy still reaching for the picture he dropped of his fallen father;

At the edge of their camp, in an old garden under the light of the stars, a tall Aspect Warrior kisses an astonished guardswomen and smiles at her joy;

And far above in the night sky, the greatest fleets of Men and Eldar float amidst the gloom, blotting out the stars with their number, ready to stand and spit light and fire against the coming forces of the dark.

Secluded in the great halls in the Imperial Palace, the Steward with his Primarchs and Eldrad with his seers laid their plans for the coming invasion. Agreements were made and bitter arguments were fought. Many of the Primarchs requested the honor of defending the Imperial Palace itself, and the Steward heard them each in turn, from the impassioned pleas of Lorgar to the cold growls of Dorn.

Yet when the Steward turned to Sanguinius, expecting a fervent request for the honor from his old friend, he found only tranquility. Sanguinius rose from his seat, and said, “That I shall die before the walls of this palace is beyond doubt. My destiny comes and I go to it with peace in my heart.”

The Steward recognized the calm conviction in the Angel’s eyes. It was the same look he had seen so many years ago when he first met Sanguinius as the Warlord in his command tent, and Sanguinius had offered his life for mercy for his people. It was the look of a man who had wholly accepted and welcomed his death for a greater purpose, and would go to it without fear and regret.

Moved by his words, the Steward accepted the request. So it was that when the Chaos armada forced its way to Terra and its unending hordes began their assault on the Imperial Palace, they found the proud Blood Angels manning the great walls, with Sanguinius, his elite First Company, and the legendary Custodes defending the Eternity Gate.

The Beast was possessed of greater cunning and primal intelligence than most of his species, and began the assault by probing the defense of the palace, looking for a weakness. When none were found, he sent his the masses of his most expendable troops to overwhelm the defense with the crushing weight numbers.

But Dorn and Perturabo had done their work well. Automated defense turrets gunned down hordes of Orks before they even reached the firing range of the Blood Angels, and those that survived ended up in carefully designed killing fields with no cover and no escape. Overhead, Ork jets and stormboyz crashed screaming off the palace void shields, or were frozen by stasis fields to be picked off by lance batteries at leisure.

Yet for all of Dorn and Perturabo’s defensive genius, the palace was simply not designed to hold off numbers of this magnitude, for who could have predicted a Waaagh comprised of a full half of the Orks in the galaxy? After several days of fighting a flaw emerged: the immense piles of dead Orks were obscuring crucial firing angles for the defensive turrets, and had grown so tall in some places that the greenskins were using them to climb up the previously impregnable walls. The Imperial Palace was too vast to fully hold against so numerous a foe, thus Sanguinius ordered his forces to withdraw to the secondary defensive positions, cunningly designed to minimize the advantage of numbers and to funnel the enemy towards the entrenched elites defending the Eternity Gate. Thus it was the days after the breaching of the walls that the historians consider the true Siege of the Imperial Palace.

The first day of the siege consisted of more Orks, though now they included more than just mere boyz. In the Orkish hordes now came nobz and weirdboyz, flash gitz and kommandoz, all roaring for battle and eager to spill the blood of humanity.

The first greenskins to enter the Grand Plaza of the Eternity Gate were greeted with a magnificent sight before they were gunned down: the white-winged Angel surrounded by his warriors resplendent in red, while beside them stood the gold-clad figures of the Custodes with their Lord Commander Arik Taranis at the forefront, holding aloft the great Banner of Unification, its length equal to full five Astartes. Behind them, a giant Aquila spread its wings on the massive adamantium Eternity Gate, protecting the Throne Room command center where the Steward and Eldrad commanded the forces of Terra, telepathically linked with thousands of their commanders to coordinate with perfect precision and unison.

The two sides met in the middle of the plaza with a resounding crash, howling as their blades sought the blood of their hated foes. Chainswords tore flesh, power klawz ripped bodies, and the dead and wounded were trampled underfoot in the savage melee. Lord Commander Taranis won the greatest deed of the day, slaying the Warboss leading the Orks by impaling him on the Banner of Unification and lifting his still screaming body into the air for all to see, as Sanguinius held off the Warboss’ nob retinue.

By nightfall, the tide of Orks slowed, for their poor eyesight would have put them at a great disadvantage against the enhanced Astartes and the Beast would not waste his troops here. As the last Ork died gurgling with a sword rammed through its chest, the defenders found a moment of respite to pray for the dead, celebrate the deeds of the living, and prepare for the next day.

The start of the second day consisted of more Orks, though by mid-morning it was clear something was amiss. The Ork forces were in disarray, even for their crude standard of organization, and reports came from the secondary Blood Angel positions that an unknown force was attacking the Orks in the rear. When lithe figures in black cut down the last of the Orks and stepped into the great plaza, it became all to clear: the Dark Eldar had come. In their sadistic greed, they had seen a opportunity to capture the unfathomable prizes of the Steward and Eldrad at the same time, and believing the Blood Angels to be worn down they had come in full force to break the defenders.

The Dark Eldar were a deadly foe: Astartes and Custodes died screaming as the enemy weapons inflicted agony that overcame even their enhanced physiologies and mental conditioning. Yet the vile invaders had blundered in their greed and haste: for all their lethal skill and precision, the Dark Eldar were not assault troops, their equipment and tactics unsuited for the grinding attrition of siege warfare, and Sanguinius and his scions quickly showed them their error.

With no space to maneuver and dodge in the packed plaza, sculpted, graceful bodies shaped by the finest of Comorragh’s flesh arts were crushed under ceramite and steel as easily as any Ork boy. Three entire Wych cults were eradicated that day, with Sanguinius personally cutting down the three Succubi that led them. As night fell, once again the enemy withdrew, consumed by infighting as the ever-scheming Archons used the chaos to usurp weakened rivals or settle old scores. There was no levity this night for the defenders: their wounds and exhaustion prevented such efforts, and battered armor and weapons required their attention.

The dawn of the third day was unusually still, the Orks and Dark Eldar nowhere to be found. For a moment, the defenders wondered if the xenos had retreated to seek an easier target, but when the morning quiet was shattered by the pounding of unholy war drums, eldritch howls, ululating chants, and gibbering laughter, the xenos’ absence became clear.

The dread legions of Chaos crested the great stairway of the plaza in a screeching tide of twisted flesh: hordes of savage Bloodletters, sinuous Daemonettes, and rotted Plaguebearers, howling and eager to feast on the souls of the defenders. Beside them were mobs of cultists, cowardly, wretched things skulking in the shadows of their masters and chanting hymns of praise to their dark gods, hoping to gain a few scraps of favor.

Throughout the horde, the defenders glimpsed the Chaos Eldar, impossibly beautiful and perfect, their every movement liquid and effortless, their flawless faces belying the wild and fickle cruelty within. Ceramite gauntlets tightened around the hilt of swords and bolters as the Astartes gazed with hatred on a row of hulking figures, their fallen comrades the Traitor Marines. At their front strode the Arch-Heretic Erebus, once honored as First Captain of the Word Bearers and Living Saint of the Katholian Church, now reviled as the Dark Oracle and First Traitor.

Above the teeming corrupted multitude stood the four greatest servants of the Ruinous Powers, looming over their minions: Kairos Fateweaver, the ancient Lord of Change; Scabeiathrax the Bloated, the laughing and virulent Great Unclean One; Zarakynel the Bringer of Torments, the most favored Keeper of Secrets; and the mighty Ka’Bandha, bloodiest of Khorne’s Bloodthirsters.

Such a sight could have driven men to madness or despair; this was an army to crush entire sectors and devour the souls of species. Yet the Blood Angels and Custodes raised their blades aloft and shouted warcries and challenges at the dark horde, spitting defiance and insults in the faces of the dark gods. For they had armored themselves in faith and duty, purpose and loyalty, and there were no flaws upon their souls where weakness could take hold.

With the mournful blare of warhorns, the daemonic forces broke rank and thundered through the plaza. Astartes and Custodes had only moments to ready themselves before the wave crashed into their ranks. Daemonic hellblades tore through ceramite with unholy strength, impaling Astartes’ twin hearts in a single blow. Blasts of swirling warpfire incinerated men where they stood, armor and all, and still others were melted into puddles of festering ooze by hellish plagues and toxins.

Yet for every loss they suffered, the defenders retaliated tenfold. The searing touch of holy promethium and plasma cleansed corrupted flesh, and ancient power weapons sang their songs of death and lightning as the Astartes hewed through the enemy ranks. Vanguard veterans descended from on high, lashing out with bolt and blade and scattering the enemy before them, while Librarians wove great nimbuses of lightning and incinerated scores of demons with a gesture.

It is said that only in the crucible of trials and hardship does a man find his true worth, and humanity’s darkest hour also proved its finest. The Blood Angels fought with the fury of humanity itself, and their deeds that day would echo through history, to be sung of in the future even as the embers of civilization smoldered and the darkness drew near.

Chief Librarian Sandelon was the first to slay one of the Greater Daemons. As the battle swirled around him, the great librarian found himself facing Scabeiathrax, and without a flicker of hesitation he hurled himself at the massive, bloated daemon. The Blood Angel tore great gouges into the beast’s stinking flesh with his force staff and lances of crimson lightning, skillfully dodging between the beast’s cumbersome counterstrikes. However, for a heartbeat, the librarian was distracted as he turned to parry the strikes of a Chaos Astartes attacking his flank, and the momentarily lull in his defenses was enough: the Great Unclean One skewered Sandelon at the end of its massive, rusted cleaver, chortling to itself as its prey writhed on the end of its weapon. But Sandelon would not die.

With his rage and sheer force of will he anchored his soul to his dying body, and grasping the cleaver with both hands impaled himself further, bringing him within striking range of the daemon’s head. With a roar he rammed his force staff through the daemon’s skull, and focused all his pain and rage into a maelstrom of searing lightning through the staff.

The greater daemon howled and twisted in pain and fear as it burned from the inside out, slabs of flesh blackening and sloughing from its massive body, until at last it was nothing more than piles of charred, smoking meat, and its soul was sent screaming back into the realms of the warp. Only then did Sandelon close his eyes, a grim smile of satisfaction on his lips, and allow his soul to depart, his ravaged body at last going limp as he left to join his fallen brothers.

Elsewhere on the battlefield, Captain Azkaellon of the First Company, famed leader of the Sanguinary Guard, slew a dozen Chaos Lords in succession as they stepped forth to challenge his Primarch while Sanguinius dueled Erebus. Their weapons clashed for the better part of an hour, great bursts of light and warp energy erupted from the points of contact between the radiant blade of gold and the cruel mace of black. Finally, Sanguinius found an opening in Erebus’ defenses, and with a flourish he disarmed the Arch-Heretic, before severing both the traitor’s arms with a sweep of his burning blade.

Zarakynel was slain by Commander Taranis, the mighty Custodes parrying and dashing through the flashing, quicksilver strikes of the Keeper of Secrets. With a single blow of his right hand, the Commander bisected the daemon at the waist, all while firm grasping the Banner of Unification in his left.

Yet for all the deeds of heroism performed that day, the greatest was surely the Banishing of Ka’Bandha. The towering Bloodthirster was more akin to a force of nature, its great axe and nine-tailed scourge were streaks of blood as it cleaved through scores of Astartes and Custodes with contemptuous ease, and the Imperial defenders were forced to cede ground to it rampaged across the plaza.

Filled with fury at the deaths of so many of his men, Sanguinius rallied his Sanguinary Guard and together they crashed into the path of the berserk daemon. The blades of Astartes and daemon lashed out, slashing and hacking, as Sanguinius and his Guard pressed the daemon. As they fought, a score of the Sanguinary Guard were slain, each a mighty hero the Blood Angels in his own right. Yet not even Ka’Bandha could stand in the face of so many lethal warriors, and it was forced back, bleeding from dozens of wounds.

Flapping its great leather wings, it launched itself into the air seeking a respite, but Sanguinius followed, chasing the massive daemon into the sky on wings of white. In the air, they clashed and broke away, seeking greater height before clashing again. The nimbler Angel darted around the heavy Bloodthirster, swooping and twisting, dodging the daemon’s blows and inflicting a dozen more wounds on the beast. Sensing the daemon was slowing, Sanguinius pressed his advantage, and in a blur of speed, he slashed through the daemon’s right wing, sending the beast hurtling down to the plaza far below.

It landed with a thundering crash, crushing the granite and gouging a huge crater, and a few seconds later Sanguinius landed, driving his boot into the daemon’s head with all the force of his dive. As the daemon struggled to rise, faithful Azkaellon slashed through the daemon’s remaining wing as Sanguinius drove his sword through its throat. With the beast weakened, Sanguinius flung aside his blade and grabbed the Bloodthirster by its legs and throat, and with a heroic burst of strength lifted the beast above his head and dashed him against his knee, tearing the daemon in two with his force. The warriors of Chaos looked on in shock as Sanguinius flung the two pieces of the mighty demon into their ranks, while Ka’Bandha's soul was flung screaming into the warp to beg forgiveness at the feet of Khorne.

And so the battle raged on. Kairos Fateweaver was the last of the Greater Daemons to fall, screaming in rage and disbelief as it’s carefully laid plans were ruined, its frail body pulverized by the thunder hammers of a dozen vengeful Blood Angel Terminators.

Though their greatest champions had been cast down, the forces of Chaos did not relent. Night fell and there was no respite that evening, for daemons did not suffer from frailties like fear or exhaustion, and their mortal servants would never dare retreat lest they invite the displeasure of their fickle masters. Long into the night, the sounds of battle echoed through the darkened plaza, the shadowy figures of daemon and Astartes illuminated only by the brief flashes of power weapons and bolter muzzles, and the ghostly glow of plasma and warpfire.

Dawn broke as the last of the daemons were slain and banished to the warp, and the first rays of the sun touched on a hellish scene. The plaza was a mire of gore and viscera, so thick that the granite floor could not be seen beneath clotting pools of purple and red and brown, an accumulation of blood spilled over three days of ceaseless battle. Greasy tongues of black smoke reached into the sky from pyres of corpses fifty feet high, as alien, traitor, and daemon alike were fed into the fire. Amongst the dead stood the few survivors, lonely figures of red and gold, the proud First Company of the Blood Angels and the legendary Adeptus Custodes reduced to a meager handful. They knelt above the bodies of their fallen brothers, the dead outnumbering the living, and no words were spoken as each man offered his silent prayers to the fallen. The honored dead, who just a few hours ago had been friends, comrades, and battle-brothers, were now reduced to corpses, cold and silent, by the savagery of the xenos, the treachery of man, and the hatred of Chaos.

Yet even in this time of their greatest weariness and sorrow, there was no time for rest. Frantic calls came from the perimeter, voices raw from battle and disbelief as the scouts reported a monstrous Ork the size of a building advancing towards the Eternity Gate, surrounded by a horde of Nobz as big as Warbosses. The Imperial defenders gritted their teeth and gripped their swords, rising on legs worn from days of relentless fighting. The Beast itself had come. Yet when they turned to their Primarch for orders, they found that Sanguinius was still kneeling amongst the dead. They shouted but he did not hear, they shook him but he did not feel; for the visions had come again, stronger than ever before. They assailed his mind, overwhelming thought, a thousand variations and permutations of his impending death: crushed beneath a foot the size of a land speeder, impaled on the end of jagged claws, swatted out of the air to be hacked down by swarming Nobz, and a thousand other ends too brutal to imagine. Any lesser man would have been driven to madness by the phantom pain, but Sanguinius summoned all his will and forced the visions back, suppressing them until they were not gone but at least tolerable, and his mind was his own once more. He rose on unsteady legs to the relief of his men, and together the defenders pulled back from across the plaza. Sanguinius shouted orders as the Astartes and Custodes readied their weapons and gathered in a tight defensive circle before the Eternity Gate itself. Here, they would stand. Here, they would die.

The Beast announced its presence long before it reached the plaza, the ground itself dully reverberating with the weight of its steps. Steadily, the tremors grew stronger, until at least the Beast strode into view, granite cracking and splintering beneath its steps, its horde of hulking Nobz following close behind. Partway into the plaza, the Orks stopped, and for a few moments an eerie silence hung over the plaza as the two sides surveyed each other.

The Imperial defenders gazed for the first time on the monstrous Beast, whom before they had only heard of through hearsay and scattered reports. It was even more ferocious in the flesh: a towering monstrosity almost forty feet tall, defying all laws of nature and biology. Tusks as wide as a man jutted from its jaw and its gargantuan frame bulged with enough alien muscle to tear apart an Imperial Knight. It bore no weapons, instead grafting individual power field generators onto its jagged claws, and its crude armor was formed from the plates of destroyed Baneblades and Titans.

Even a spirit as pure and tireless as Sanguinius could be worn down. For days, he had faced the most terrible and nightmarish foes of humanity in endless combat, seen thousands of cherished friends and comrades butchered, resisted haunting visions of death and madness that would have broken any lesser man; and as Sanguinius gazed upon the overwhelming and terrible form of the Beast, for the first time he felt doubt.

What if it had all been useless?
What if all their struggle and sacrifice was for naught, and the light of humanity was snuffed out?
What if he failed?

Sensing an opening, the faintest blemish on Sanguinius’ soul, the dark gods of Chaos struck.
Creeping tendrils of dark thought seeped into his mind, offers and seductions, promises of power enough to fulfill all his dreams.

''Kneel before me,'' boomed a voice of hot iron and raw power, ''and I shall give you and your soldiers such strength that none may stand before you, and the whole galaxy shall know peace under the might of your legions.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius himself leading the invincible legions of the Imperium to victory after glorious victory, sweeping away the enemies of man until only an iron peace remained, enforced under his watchful eye.

''Join me,'' said a voice of chortling mirth and boundless life, ''and man will never again fear the blight of mortality or the frailties of flesh, and you shall be free to spread across the galaxy to spread life wherever you tread.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius saw joyous families, untouched by age or weakness, venturing forth on great journeys of discovery, colonizing virgin worlds and facing the challenges of the galaxy with optimism and camaraderie.

''Serve me,'' rasped a voice of eldritch cunning and ancient wisdom, ''and I shall grant you wisdom and foresight, and all the knowledge of the lost golden age of man.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius saw all the ancient wonders of humanity restored as man, filled with wisdom and understanding, walked among the stars to reclaim the galaxy with knowledge and technology.

''Come with me,'' said a voice of whispering silk and untamed passion, ''and humanity shall be made tall and strong and golden, shaped in your image and as perfect as you.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius saw golden men and women, as tall and strong as he, striding across the stars without fear, their wings carrying them over the skies of distant worlds

The voices grew louder, each clamoring to be heard, sometimes working in concert to sway him, sometimes working to undermine the others. But they agreed on one thing: the way forward was so simple, so clear, and Sanguinius only need reach out to grasp the power and opportunity offered to him. Sanguinius was granted one final vision: he saw himself in the Throne Room of the palace, warpfire dancing in his eyes, the power of the Warp overflowing from his body. Before him, a bleeding Steward kneeled at his feet, and to his side the headless body of Eldrad lay discarded, the blind eyes of the severed head frozen in an accusatory glare. Reaching down, Sanguinius hauled the Steward upright as the voices exulted and laughed, and with a leering smile shoved his golden sword through the Steward’s chest.

''No.''

In an instant the voices recoiled, and Sanguinius’ eyes snapped open. He had not realized they were closed.
''Only creatures as foul and debased as you would think that virtue could be gifted, that loyalty could be bought and bartered,'' he thundered in his mind. ''Strength does not come from might of arms, but from clarity of purpose and force of will. Joy does not come from a long life, but from a life well-lived. Wisdom does not come from arcane secrets, but from experience hard won in the trials of life. Perfection does not come through fairness of form and mind, but from struggle, sacrifice, and the will to better oneself, the noblest virtues of man.''
''Your pathetic entreaties have failed, false gods. Flee back to your twisted realms and think upon your failure, that for all your supposed power you could not sway this man to your cause. Know that though you have thrown all your greatest champions and sorceries and horrors against the bastion of humanity, we live on, and that man will rise from these ashes, stronger for having risen above such adversity. Know that man will one day conquer his baser self, that you will wither and starve, and far in the future when you have long disappeared, the light of humanity will continue to shine from the stars, until the universe itself comes to a close.''

And the voices howled and cursed, the Ruinous Powers swearing bloody vengeance upon Sanguinius and his kin. He took a moment to savor their impotent rage and smiled briefly, and then with a shout he banished the Chaos gods from his mind.

Though the dark gods had whispered their lies for what seemed like hours, only moments had passed in reality, and both the orks and the Imperial defenders were stirring. The horde of Nobz bellowed war chants and smashed their weapons together, raising a crashing din of guttural roars and ringing metal. The Beast itself was still motionless, its eyes surveying the Astartes with malevolent cunning.

Around Sanguinius, his men were springing into motion. Captain Azkaellon shouted for reinforcements through his vox receiver, calling for the secondary Blood Angel forces within the Imperial Palace to hurry to the plaza and for the assistance of any other Imperial forces in the vicinity. The few remaining librarians readied their powers, sparks swirling about their temples and fingers, as Astartes and Custodes checked armor and weapons battered from days of combat, adjusted sights, and muttered quiet prayers.

The ground shook as the Beast finally began to move. With slow, ponderous steps, it walked out in front of the horde, waving the eager Nobz back as they tried to follow; one Nob foolhardy enough to follow was pulverized into a smear by a casual swing of the Beast’s massive fist.

Across the plaza, Sanguinius did likewise, striding out alone against the protests of his men, shaking off Azkaellon as his captain begged him not to face the Beast alone. The Steward in the Throne Room had sensed the presence of the Beast, and as he touched Sanguinius’ mind he knew in an instant that the Angel meant to face the Beast unaided. The Steward urgently ordered his old friend to retreat to the Throne Room so that they might face it together, but Sanguinius refused, for to do so would have endangered the very survival of humanity.

The Steward was psychically linked with thousands of his commanders as he orchestrated the Imperial forces across Terra, and it was only through his military genius that they held, the armies of men and Eldar acting in perfect unison as they threw back wave after wave of fouls xenos and the forces of Chaos. Distracting the Steward would imperil all the forces of Terra and the survival of humanity, for even if the Beast were slain, Terra would fall should the rest of the planet be lost. Knowing he could not sway Sanguinius’ decision, the Steward could only powerlessly observe as Sanguinius bade him farewell, and met the Beast in the middle of the plaza.

Man cannot be brave without fear, nor can he have faith without doubt, and once again fear and doubt welled in Sanguinius’ heart as the terrible figure of the Beast grew larger in his vision. Not fear or doubt for himself, for death held no sway over him. No, it was fear for the future of man, for their fate hung in the balance, the existence of his entire species to be decided in the coming moments. It was doubt for the very meaning of his struggle, for while Sanguinius would gladly sacrifice himself a thousand times over, he wondered if even his greatest efforts could alter the cruel whims of fate.

But unlike before, when these weaknesses had gnawed on his resolve and allowed an opening for the whispers of Chaos, he now let them pass through him, accepting and facing down these unfamiliar feelings. And as they swirled inside them, he found a rock hard seed of hope deep in the core of his being. For Sanguinius believed in the spirit of man: in man’s resiliency, the sheer dogged stubbornness and will to endure; in his nobility, the greatness of heart and will to strive towards a better future; in his capacity for hope, the daring to dream even in the face of unfathomable darkness. And he believed in the Steward, his liege, his friend, his brother.

Thus from the dark waters of doubt did the great rock of faith rise, renewed and immovable. Sanguinius felt his fears for the future of man dissipate, for he knew that humanity would carry on and flourish far into the future even without him to protect it, and with fresh eyes, he gazed upon the Beast and knew that even such a monster could not stand in the way of humanity’s ascent. Fear became bravery and tranquility; his mind was his own, his will was pure. In the middle of the plaza, as the Beast loomed over him, Sanguinius took a slow breath and savored his last quiet moment.

The tension broke as Sanguinius burst into motion, moving so quickly he was a blur even to the enhanced senses of his Astartes. With all his righteous fury and strength he surged into the air and slashed at the Beast’s head, the massive Ork barely catching the strike in time with its armored fist. The Beast staggered back several steps from the force of the blow as the Blood Angels and Custodes looked on in awe at the power of the Primarch, and the Ork’s features twisted into a leering grin of approval, acknowledging Sanguinius’ strength. It struck back, faster than anything that huge had right to be, so fast even Sanguinius barely had time to react. The servos in Sanguinius’ armor whirred and screeched as mechanical muscle and his own superhuman frame struggled to parry the Ork’s counterblow, the power fields around the Beast’s claws crackling as they skimmed the golden relic armor.

And so the Beast and the Angel fought, the smaller frame of Sanguinius darting and striking between the Beast’s thunderbolt blows. The duel stretched on, with neither side seeming to take the advantage, and the Blood Angels allowed themselves to hope, to believe that their Primarch could win. Such hope was futile. Sanguinius could not have defeated the Beast alone even were he rested and at his full strength, perhaps fighting the monster to a standstill at best. But Sanguinius was not rested; he was wounded and weary from days of battle against the most savage foes of man, and as the duel continued blood trickled from his armor as days-old wounds reopened under the ferocious strain of combat.

A low rumble came from the Beast then, a sound of grating iron and gloating amusement, and the Astartes realized it was laughing. The Beast’s fist whipped forward in a blur, catching Sanguinius in a misstep as the massive punch caught the Angel in the chest, and he was thrown hurtling through the air, crashing through one of the few remaining statues in the plaza before tumbling to a halt on the shattered granite.

With a cry, the remaining Astartes and Custodes rushed forward to the aid of their Primarch, determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible, and from the other end of the plaza the horde of Nobz broke ranks as well, no longer able to contain their bloodlust. As Sanguinius struggled to his feet, armor cracked and blood matting his golden hair and white wings, he gazed into the mocking black eyes of his hated foe and he vowed that the Beast would not leave the plaza without bleeding dearly. In a moment, Azkaellon was at his side, pulling him to his feet, and Sanguinius joined his men in their final charge across the plaza.

Even as exhausted as they were, the Blood Angels each fought with unmatched valor: individual Astartes held off a dozen Nobz as others hurled themselves at the Beast, sacrificing themselves to try to force an opening in the monster’s defenses. The Beast was more than eager to oblige, roaring as it swiped left and right, crushing scores of Astartes with each blow. Before the unstoppable blows of the Beast and the crushing numbers of Nobz, the defenders were forced back across the plaza, until they were backed up to the steps before the Eternity Gate itself.

As his men died to the last around him, Sanguinius finally sensed an opening in the Beast’s defenses. He made a quick gesture at Azkaellon who understood immediately, and the captain flew into the air, flame roaring from his jump pack as he slashed at the Beast’s face, distracting the Ork.

As the faithful captain was crushed by the monster’s fist, Sanguinius summoned the final reserves of his strength and leaped with a great flap of his wings. Blinded by the smoke and flame in its eyes, the Beast was caught unaware as Sanguinius descended from on high and plunged his golden blade through crude armor plates, deep into its chest, seeking the heart that lay beneath. The Beast roared in pain as the sword carved open a massive wound, thick spurts of blood bursting forth, but as Sanguinius drew his sword from the Ork’s chest it caught in the sternum bone, and the momentary pause was enough. The Beast’s hand shot up and seized the Primarch from the air, pinning Sanguinius within the massive fist.

Outside the plaza, the other Blood Angel companies had rushed to aid of their Primarch and First Company upon hearing Azkaellon’s call for reinforcements. They neared the plaza as Sanguinius was dueling the Beast, but they found their way blocked by the horde of Nobz, and even with all their desperate strength, they could not break through the wall of hulking greenskins, for the Orks were simply too savage and too many. It was only upon the arrival of Leman Russ and Lorgar, the only two Primarchs close enough to respond to the call for aid, and their legions of Space Wolves and Word Bearers that the reinforcements were finally able to make headway.

Together, the Blood Angels, Space Wolves, and Word Bearers hacked their way through the Orks and crested the stairs to the plaza just in time to see the Beast grab Sanguinius in its massive fist, the plaza strewn with masses of dead greenskins and lifeless bodies clad in red and gold. As they looked on in stunned horror, Sanguinius turned his head to face them, and against all their expectations, he gently smiled. It was an expression of true warmth, forgiveness, and trust that shone from Sanguinius’ beatific face, a gesture that he did not blame them and that he placed his faith with them to safeguard humanity. In that final moment, as tears welled in their eyes, the Astartes could only watch helplessly as the Beast’s fist closed, and the monster ripped Sanguinius into shreds.

With cries of grief, the Imperial forces threw themselves at the greenskins in a blind rage. Leman Russ led the assault, tearing his way through the Nobz to body of Lord Commander Arik Taranis of the Custodes. There, he seized the fallen Banner of Unification and raised the great standard for the last time, rallying the Imperial forces forward. Yet for all their fury, the Astartes could not cut through the Orks in time, and were forced to watch, helpless once again, as the Beast smashed through the adamantium of the Eternity Gate to face the Steward and Eldrad within the Throne Room.

As the last Ork fell and the Imperial forces made their way to the ruins of the Eternity gate amidst corpses of crimson and gold, they found Eldrad perched upon the massive chest of the lifeless Beast, and the Steward kneeling over a red ruin, cradling the last few pieces of his old friend. Later, Eldrad would confess that they never could have defeated the Beast were it not for the great wound Sanguinius carved into its chest, and in his quiet moments the Steward, later the Emperor, wondered if his friend and brother might have been saved, had he only chosen a different Primarch and legion to defend the palace, or sallied forth from the Throne Room to save the Angel as he dueled the Beast.

In the aftermath of the Battle of Terra, as the forces of Chaos were defeated and driven back from the planet in disarray, the Blood Angels spirited away the remains of Sanguinius to the shattered land of what had once been Duscht Jemanic. There, in the garden of the old Jemanic Palace, they buried Sanguinius in his favorite childhood refuge, a solitary place with a creek, quiet and clear, and where the trees were very old.

As word spread of the Primarch’s death, cries rose from across the Imperium for a great state funeral so that all might participate in grieving and remembering the beloved Angel. The Steward agreed, urging the remaining Blood Angel captains that such gesture would help the survivors and citizens of the Imperium move on from the loss, but they stubbornly refused. Sanguinius would have wanted the resources and efforts of the Imperium focused on rebuilding and moving forward, not spent on lingering in the past, and besides, there was not enough left to fill a casket.

Today, Sanguinius is the most dearly loved of the Primarchs, revered as the Martyr Angel for his great sacrifice. Secrets do not last long in the Imperium, and upon his burial site, where Sanguinius was to rest undisturbed for eternity, there now stands a small chapel, built with reluctance by the Blood Angels when word of their Primarch’s resting place was revealed. It was, after all, better than erecting a massive cathedral there as many demanded. Pilgrims wait for years on end for a chance to enter and glimpse one of the holiest relics in the Imperium: a single white pinion feather from one of Sanguinius’ wings, miraculously untouched by blood or dirt during the four days of the Siege of the Imperial Palace.

Sanguinius is also honored in the yearly celebration of the Sanguinala; coincidentally, his death came three days after his birth on the Terran calendar, so for this span of time all are encouraged to celebrate the Angel’s life and great deeds, and to share in his spirit of goodwill towards all. Traditional decorations of red are hung in homes, and children are told that if they are good, the spirit of Sanguinius will visit them as they sleep and leave presents under their beds.

As for the Blood Angels, the fierce spirit of their Primarch still burns within their twin hearts as brilliantly as it did ten millennia ago. The First Company of their chapter is called the Death Company, in memory of the sacrifice of the entire company when they died at Sanguinius’ side long ago, and when veterans are inducted into this august group they swear the Oath of Black Rage, a remembrance of the helpless grief and fury they felt as they watched their beloved Primarch die.

Amongst Imperial citizens, they are celebrated for their compassion, virtue, and defense of the common man; the melancholy Blood Angel clad in red is a popular figure in Imperial media, most recently in the popular romance Eventide, where a young Eldar farseer is caught between the affections of a rugged Space Wolf and noble Blood Angel. Yet for all the adoration and honors rightly bestowed upon the Blood Angels for their undying defense of the Imperium, the old veterans have begun to wonder if the younger Astartes are becoming vainglorious, and if they are losing the true meaning of sacrifice. Pride is the surest road to damnation, and so they renew their vows of humility and loyalty, remaining vigilant not only in the defense of man but in defense of their own souls.

Beneath the romance of their devotion and nobility is the eternal struggle against the forces of chaos and entropy, the unending duty of the Blood Angels. Like Sanguinius before them, they fight for the dream of humanity even as it stretches before them into an uncertain future. For this dream, they fight and bleed and die to hold the darkness at bay, to halt the dying of the light, even if it is only for a moment.

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== Lion ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Black Knight''''' - or ''The Knight of Franj:''

The story of Lion El'Jonson began over a generation before his actual birth, during the Nordyc-Franj war. Clovis Fouché, king of Franj, had sought the aid of Skand against the invasions of the Tyrant of Gredbriton, and after the Tyrant had been repulsed the Nordyc sought payment for their services. However, King Clovis had proven to be rather miserly with the payment of the debt, and the men of Skand were worried they would never be recompensed. Chief Thengir of the Kalararit was nominated by the chieftains of Skand to travel to Franj to discuss the repayment of the debt with King Clovis.

For whatever reason, the meeting did not go peacefully. The exact nature of the quarrel has been lost to history. The Nordyc claimed that King Clovis tried to short-change them, offering only a pittance in exchange for the blood they had shed. The Franj claimed that Chief Thengir had acted arrogant and disrespectful, behaving more like a conqueror demanding tribute than an ally requesting payment. Whatever the reason, the meeting quickly escalated to violence.

Chief Thengir lost his hand. King Clovis lost his life.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Thus began the Nordyc-Franj war. In retaliation for the death of their king, Franj soldiers devastated huge tracts of Skand and destroyed entire Nordyc villages. The Nordyc responded by launching devastating raids into the heart of Franj territory. The war only ended when the new regent, 15 year old Yolande Fouché, Yolande the Clever, called a meeting with Chief Thengir, now known as Thengir the Cripple, to formally apologize and pay back the remainder of the debt along with a weregild for the lives lost. Nevertheless, a considerable amount of hatred remained between the Nordyc and Franj. Perhaps nowhere was this more pronounced than between the noble family of Jonson and the Kalararit house of Russ, both of whom had been involved in the thickest of the fighting.

As a boy, the Lion grew up with stories of glory and heroism, of knights and warriors. And yet not all of these stories were merely tales of fancy. The Lion grew up idolizing his older brother, Luther El'Jonson, who was at first a Knight of Franj and later, when Franj-Europia had been absorbed into the Imperium, a Mark I Astartes. Luther El'Jonson had won fame for his exploits as a mere squire of 16 in the Nordyc-Franj war, and had only risen in stature since. However, the Sword of Franj had a darker side which was not widely known. Although Luther was a loyal servant of Franj, he greatly disliked the fact that his country was consorting with weak allies, first with the Europia and then later the Imperium itself, when it turned out the Warlord was not as much of a warmonger as Luther expected.

From the moment he was born, it was clear that something was…different about Lion El’Johnson. Although he truly cared about his fellow man, he often had trouble reading people and came off as unempathetic. Despite being fiercely loyal to those he considered his friends, he was socially awkward and had trouble looking people in the eye. Nevertheless, despite his faults, he was groomed for knighthood by his brother Luther, who recognized his talents. Although Lion would often focus on a problem to the point of obsession, he was tactically brilliant. He also followed the old ideals of chivalry, to a degree that some would consider ridiculous. The Lion was an idealist at heart, seeing the world in terms of dragons and princesses as opposed to corrupt bureaucrats and politicians. This noble behavior won him the fancy of many a young woman’s heart, though throughout history there is no record of the Lion ever engaging in a romantic relationship.

It was for these reasons that when it came time for the Steward to name the twenty primarchs that would command his legions, the Lion was among that number. Such a nomination came as a surprise to everyone, least of all Lion himself. Before this time, the Lion was only known as the younger brother of Luther, or at best Luther’s squire. But the Warlord knew the evils that lurked in the hearts of men. Luther was a great soldier, but his mind had been corrupted by hatred and jingoism. The Lion’s heart was untamed, but it was pure, its idealism and love for humanity untampered. Along with Sanguinius Baal and Vulkan, son of N’Bel, Lion was chosen to be one of the three prototypes for the Mark III Astartes augmentation, which was to be the final model of Space Marine augmentation. Some say that this was the point that the seed of jealousy was first planted in Luther’s heart, with all his years of service to Franj and the Imperium being overlooked in favor of his untested brother. Lion, for his part, did not reciprocate the feeling and named his older brother second-in-command of the legion in gratitude for all that his brother had given him. Lion named his legion the Dark Angels after the legendary Black Knight of his country's folklore, who covered his armor in pitch and lived as a wild man rather than subject himself to an unjust lord.

If the Dark Angels were to become a proper legion, they would need a strong recruiting base. Fortunately, the Lion’s home country of Franj was almost perfect for the task. Franj was extremely healthy in terms of both health and population, and the only other primarch from Franj-Europia, Roboute Guilliman, did not seem that interested in recruiting from his home nation. Guilliman, ever the long term thinker, preferred to recruit from all over Old Earth instead of a single country, with the mind of forming an army that had no loyalty to any nation but the Imperium itself. The Lion, on the other hand, felt he needed soldiers he could trust, and so he recruited heavily from his home country of Franj-Europia. Compared to many of the other nations of Earth, the knightly orders of Franj were organized, well-trained, and well-educated militarily, making them ideal Astartes candidates. As a result, by the time the Unification of Sol was complete, the First Legion was bigger, better trained, suffered from fewer casualties, and could recruit faster than any other legion.

It was for this reason that the Dark Angels were picked to be the first legion to travel outside of Sol, acting as an expeditionary force to scout the galaxy ahead of the rest of the Great Crusade to see what of humanity had survived the Age of Strife. The Lion was enamored with the idea, starry-eyed at the prospect of meeting new peoples and reuniting with lost colonies of humanity. Luther, for his part, was not. He was growing increasingly dissatisfied with Europia-Franj’s increasing lack of autonomy in the increasingly peaceful Imperium, which was only magnified by King Gunthar Fouché, son of Roboute Guilliman and Yolande Fouché, turning over all military production and funding to the Imperium on the reasoning that there was no one left to fight. Perhaps in a bit of paranoia, Luther feared that his assignment to the expeditionary fleet was an unofficial exile as opposed to an award, and that the Imperium would completely gut his beloved Franj while he was not around to watch it.

Lion and the Dark Angels set out in The Rock, one of two super-battleships along with the Phalanx that were commissioned by the Steward to be the flagships of the new Imperial Navy, along with several ships of the Voidborn primarch Horus Lupercal (whose cartographers happened to be the ones that owned all the maps). At first the mission did not go well. The first sentient life the expeditionary force encountered was the orks, followed by the Dark Eldar, the latter of which in particular fostered a particularly deep-seated dislike of Eldar in the two brothers. Even the Lion, despite his general open-mindedness, never really felt comfortable with the Imperium being on good terms with the Craftworlders, as he had a hard time distancing the likes of Eldrad and Macha from the atrocities of their distant kin.

And yet despite these setbacks there were such triumphs. Despite the Dark Angel’s first encounters being with the orks and Dark Eldar, the Dark Angels encountered other races, such as the Diasporex and the Watchers in the Dark, who would prove to be loyal allies. And there were so many human colonies, many of whom welcomed the Dark Angels (and by proxy the return of humanity as a power in the galaxy) with open arms. After seeing Russ’ success at recruiting warriors from the planet of Fenris, the Dark Angels set up recruitment stations on many of these worlds, causing the Dark Angels to swell even larger. Nevertheless, many of the Dark Angels, particularly the officers, still came from Franj.

It was sometime during this period that Luther was contacted by Erebus, the Dark Chaplain, the First Traitor. The Ruinous Powers had seen the doubts that lay in Luther’s heart, and saw their opportunity to sow dissent within the forces of the Imperium. Erebus told Luther that he saw the nobility in Luther’s heart and his loyalty to Franj and humanity as a whole, and yet the Imperium was willing to get in bed with all the old enemies of Franj and humanity; the Duscht Jemanic, the Nordyc, the Eldar. On behalf of the Dark Gods, Erebus offered Luther a deal: Divert all Dark Angel reinforcement from the upcoming war, and in exchange Chaos would only target non-essential or non-human interests. Many have wondered, when it became clear that Chaos would never uphold such a bargain, why Luther would have continued to serve the interests of the Ruinous Powers. Captured members of the Fallen have said that Luther was never fully convinced by Erebus’ words, but merely planned to double-cross Chaos and re-establish Franj as an independent power, similar to Hy Braseal. Luther saw the Imperium as a noble ideal, but corrupt and rotten to its core. Better to burn it all down and start afresh, preferably with Franj as its center. However, as with all traitors whose minds have been warped by the influence of Chaos, it is difficult to say if they are telling the truth.

At first, it actually seemed like Chaos was going to keep its side of the bargain. The entire tone of the war did not shift, but many worlds that had been predicted to be in the path of breakaway warbands suddenly found themselves waiting for an invasion that never came, though this may have been more due to the actions of Horus and Guilliman than anything Erebus did. At the same time the response of the Dark Angels to crises became extremely variable and unreliable. The Dark Angels who fought alongside the Lion responded valiantly and with alacrity, but other groups replied to cries for help sluggishly if at all. However, it wasn’t before long that Erebus appeared beyond Luther again. He told Luther that the war against the Imperium wasn’t going so well, and while before the forces of Chaos were content to have Luther sit out the war now they needed help. There was a chance that the followers of the Ruinous Powers might actually lose the war, and if that happened, well, there was no guarantee that the Imperium wouldn’t find out about Erebus and Luther’s little bargain from captured traitors.

In retrospect, what Erebus said was clearly a ruse. Although Chaos and the Beast’s forces had lost some momentum on their blitzkrieg through the stars, the tide was far from turning, and even if the Imperium had found out about the deal from prisoners of war they would have had little reason to believe it was anything more than an attempt to sow suspicion among Imperial forces by traitors. Erebus had no evidence beyond his word that such a deal had been made. But in the heat of the moment, and due to his own guilt over having been tempted into making this deal in the first place, Luther was unable to recognize Erebus’ claim for what it was. Luther was enraged by this, Erebus was clearly altering the terms of their deal, but he didn’t see any way out of it.

Having made judicious use of the stick, Erebus then offered Luther the carrot. The Ruinous Powers didn’t require much in order to help their schemes succeed. All they needed Luther to do was burn down some Maiden Worlds. It’s not like Luther would be required to commit treason or kill humans. They were just eldar. Luther accepted Erebus’ terms with a snarl, before setting off to organize his forces to perform the deed. Fifteen Maiden Worlds burned before the relentless assault of Luther’s Dark Angels. Upon hearing this news, the Lion was horrified. Already irritated by the apparent lackadaisicalness of his forces, he immediately set out to find Luther and demand an explanation.

The Lion finally caught up to Luther in the ashes of the Maiden World once known as Tarsus. Already in a rather poor state of mind, the Lion made no attempts to try and talk his brother down or convince him to surrender. Instead, he marched his honor guard down the ramp of his ship, bolters drawn, before asking his brother what the hell he thought he was doing. Even though Lion didn’t like the eldar either, there was a world of difference (or rather, fifteen worlds) between merely disliking them and butchering the civilians of their nominal allies. Being fixed by the Lion’s withering, contemptuous glare, Luther found himself having trouble explaining his actions to his little brother. His tone low, and with a bit of shame in his voice, Luther told Lion that he had made a deal…for Franj. Upon hearing those words, the Lion long pent-up rage finally erupted and he struck Luther in his anger. It wasn’t a hard blow, but it was enough to knock Luther off his feet and escalate the situation to violence. Lion yelled that committing massacres in Franj’s name did nothing but sully Franj’s honor, and the country would rather die than have such blood on its hands.

Something in Luther snapped at Lion’s accusation. He declared him a traitor to Franj, willing to let his country be gutted and eaten by foreign powers rather than protect it, and in a fit of madness ordered the Dark Angels to kill him. Both brothers were enraged at the other’s perceived betrayal.

Luther’s order sent the Dark Angels into disarray. Luther had originally justified his orders to the Dark Angels by claiming that the eldar had turned on the Imperium, and the Lion had ordered the maiden worlds burned in retaliation. Most of the Dark Angels had obeyed, since they were used to Luther being the spokesman for the Lion and Lion’s poor personal skills meant he had trouble voicing a reasonable counterargument. Many were more loyal to Luther than Lion, being Franj nationalists. Others, particularly those who were with Lion or capable of critical thinking, realized that Lion had ordered no such thing and that Luther had completely lost it. Still others had no clue what was going on due to the contradictory sets of orders and were merely caught in the middle. When the Dark Angels loyal to Luther raised their bolters, those loyal to the Lion did so response. It was absolute chaos, brother against brother, with many not even knowing if they were fighting traitors or those loyal to their cause.

It was as at this point that one of the Lion’s biggest mistakes becomes clear. The Lion recruited much of his legion, including most of its officers, from Franj because he felt he needed people he could trust. Sadly, the officers of the Dark Angels were loyal to a fault, but not to him. Although many in the legion respected the Lion, and those who actually got to know him personally actually found him quite pleasant, if persnickety, the Lion often relied on his brother to motivate the legion due to his lack of people skills. The Lion had so much trouble reading people, and was so trusting of his brother, that he had not seen the viper in the grass before it bit him. Nearly two-thirds to three-fourths of the legion had been subverted by the Ruinous Powers. If it were almost any other legion, it wouldn’t be as much of a problem, but by the time of the War of the Beast the Dark Angels were by far the largest legion and so having two-thirds to three-fourths of the legion go renegade was the equivalent of having two or three other legions fall to the Ruinous powers.

In the confusion, Luther and many of his followers commandeered the Rock, the flagship of the Dark Angels, and escaped into the Warp. Luther’s madness only worsened as he mulled over Lion’s words and the fighting on Tarsus, leading him to believe that the entire Imperium including his brother had turned against him. Many of the Dark Angels felt the same way, seeing themselves as abandoned and betrayed by the Imperium they had once served, and resented it. After Tarsus, Luther’s Dark Angels began burning both human and eldar worlds indiscriminately. The worlds that had been “spared” after Luther’s initial bargain found themselves the target of Chaos, with interest. Besieged Guardsmen on many worlds looked to the skies in hope when they saw the famed Astartes legions come to reinforce them, only to be butchered when their “saviors” landed on the planet. Chapters of the legion devolved into civil war as former brothers drew arms against one another as they realized they served different causes. Many more Dark Angels turned to the service of the Ruinous Powers out of desperation and a desire for survival.

The Lion never returned to Old Earth during the War of the Beast to participate in the Battle of Terra. Many have criticized the Lion for these actions, however, in the Lion’s mind, his priorities were clear. His men were slaughtering one another, and it was his duty to put things right. Perhaps more importantly, it was his mistake, HIS mistake, and the universe would not be set right until he took pains to correct it.

Eventually, Lion tracked Luther and his inner circle to the world of Caliban. Getting to Caliban was easy enough. When the Dark Angels reached the planet Luther’s Fallen found themselves sandwiched between the loyalist Caliban garrison and the Lion’s reinforcements, forcing them to temporarily break their hold over the planet in order to regroup. However, when the Dark Angels found out from captured traitors what Luther was actually looking for on Caliban, they were stunned. Luther had learned from the entity known as Be’lakor ([[Nobledark_Imperium_Drafts#Be.27lakor_and_the_Alpha_Legion|which the Imperium had only recently learned existed due to the actions of the Alpha Legion, and only then at great cost]]) that Caliban was the site of the Ouroboros, a device created by an ancient xenos race, one even older than humanity, the Watchers, or the eldar, capable of warping the very fabric of space-time, which they had used to create the Webway. The Dark Angels realized the implications of this discovery, here was the potential solution to the issue of the fragile, unreparable Webway, and possibly a means to free the Imperium and the galaxy from the tyranny of the Warp, whereas the Watchers were shocked at learning the origins of their eons of suffering had been buried under their own feet. No one knew exactly what Luther planned to do with the equipment, but all agreed it could not be anything good.

The Dark Angels and Watchers were faced with a dilemma. Destroy the device that could potential prove the salvation of the entire galaxy, or leave it to fall into the hands of the Fallen. Although the loyalist Dark Angels could disrupt Luther’s control of Caliban, they could not hold the planet, as Luther’s forces greatly outnumbered their own. In the end, it was the Watchers who made the decision to blow up their own homeworld. They loved Caliban, it was their home despite being harsh and warp-tainted, but they realized the danger that Luther in control of the Ouroboros would prove. Better that no one have it than let it be abused. As the Watchers wired their planet to blow with Exterminatus-class weaponry, the loyalist Dark Angels launched a counterattack on the Fallen, with the Lion particularly eager to take the fight to his brother. However, when Lion reached what should have been Luther’s sanctum within the Rock, he realized he had been tricked. Luther had known where Lion would have looked for him, and therefore did the exact opposite, taking a small strike team to the surface of Caliban. However, he was quickly forced to turn around when he realized what the Watchers had done to their planet. Lion was also forced to retreat, realizing that he and his men risked being cut off and overwhelmed by the Fallen if they tried to wait to ambush Luther. No one had won at Caliban. Luther had lost the Ouroboros, but Lion had lost his brother.

There were reports of a “Cypher”-type character on both sides of the conflict. Based on reports either he could travel really fast or (more likely) there was more than one of him. Some say he was the court battle-wizard of the legion who had gone missing/presumed dead two years previously whilst fighting a Big Mek and his Orkblitorator Cyborks on a Forge World. Some of these Cyphers may have actually been Alpha Legion infiltrators covertly helping the loyalists and hindering the traitors.

What happened to the Fallen mostly depended on what they did immediately after the War of the Beast. Some of the Fallen, mostly members of the lower ranks who realized they had been fed bullshit for the whole ordeal, surrendered when the enormity of their error became apparent. They ended up being sentenced to serve in the penal legions until they were deemed to have sufficiently repented for their sins after the first Black Crusade, after which the survivors were scattered among the other legions. The remainder, which represented at least half of the surviving Dark Angels, were spirited away by the Ruinous Powers to the Eye of Terror where they formed the core of the Fallen as we know them today. Of the being known as Cypher no conclusive answers have been obtained. He still appears in Imperial records from time to time down the ages with no discernable pattern. He is either leapfrogging through time via cryo-sleep or it’s not the same man. Even a Mark III S Astartes should have aged to death by now. The Eldar allies of the Dark Angels are unable to predict his movements and, much like the tyranids, he acts as a travelling blank spot in their prophecies.

In the years immediately following the War of the Beast, there were many who criticized the Lion's actions, chief among them Leman Russ. At one point the Great Wolf said within earshot of El'Jonson that Luther's betrayal was a near certainty, because "that's what one gets for trusting a member of the house of Jonson". That was a fateful mistake, as while the Lion might have been distraught, he wasn't deaf. The Lion was enraged, although his brother may have fallen to the Ruinous Powers, the Lion had still remained loyal to humanity and had done all in his power to help the Imperium. At least one son of Jonson had retained his honor. In retaliation, the Lion turned and struck the Great Wolf on the jaw, knocking him out cold. In the aftermath of the fight, Leman Russ decided he had enough of witches and Jonsons and decided to relocate to Fenris entirely, nearly severing all ties with Old Earth. The Great Wolf would not set foot on his home planet again until nearly forty years after the Lion's disappearance, slightly humbler and wiser from his experience setting up the Fenrisian colonies.

As with all of the primarchs save Sanguinius and Angron, the Lion was active following the War of the Beast, though one would be forgiven for thinking he was not. Unlike most of the primarchs, who were primarily focused on rebuilding the Imperium, Lion was focused, some would say obsessed, with trying to recapture the Fallen. He split the remaining loyalist Dark Angels into knightly orders reminiscent of those once present on Franj and scattered them to distant worlds, with a program of frequent officer exchange between orders to keep them loyal to the Imperium rather than any one place of origin. He also instituted a mandatory position of Watcher within each chapter, held by a member of the Inquisition in order to monitor the chapter from the inside. These days, the job is usually held by a really old member of the Inquisition who refuses to retire despite being too old to chase anyone.

Finally, years after the War of the Beast had ended, the Lion received the news he had waited so long for. The Rock, and by extension Luther, had reappeared.

The Dark Angels and the rest of the Unforgiven fell upon the Rock swift as a flock of ravens, hounding it from system to system in a series of skirmishes until they finally cornered the Fallen Angels on a long forgotten feral world. Amidst the twilight murk and murmuring rustle of a primeval forest the once comrades faced each other after long centuries of hunting and waiting. The trees bore silent witness as loyalist and traitor slaughtered one another with a fury born of the void left by brotherhood and filled by hate, the quiet split by the roar of bolters and the scream of chainswords on ceramite. Bodies clad in green and black fell soundlessly to the mossy undergrowth, and the soil drank deep of rich dark blood.

Lion was unstoppable that day as he stalked the battlefield with his Deathwing honor guard, the Lion Sword flashing red as the Fallen fled before the Primarch. Yet the scum before him did not interest Lion; he had come with only one goal, and he would not be denied.

In the tangled forest the Primarch soon was separated from his honor guard and found himself alone at the edge of a clearing. He brushed aside the foliage in time to see a lone figure in black cut down the last of a squad of Dark Angels, carving through their armor with contemptuous ease. Lion did not need to see the golden fleur de lis on the horned onyx helm to know who the traitor was. His stance, the arrogant grace with which he moved, the way his sword danced in his hand like an extension of his arm. Luther.

Luther turned at the sound of Lion’s footsteps. The clearing was quiet as the eyes of the two brothers met behind the mirrored lenses of their helms, then Luther raised his sword in an old Franjish dueling salute, half mocking and half earnest. Lion did not return the gesture. Then sudden and swift as his namesake, he charged. The Lion Sword descended in a shining blur, faintly glowing with a pale inner light, and their blades met with a shivering clang as the Arch-Traitor blocked the Primarch’s savage strike, the Sword of Luther wreathed in a delicate corona of the void, tendrils of the Immaterium spilling forth from the edges of the blade. The sound of swords rang through the forest as back and forth the brothers traded blows, each unable to take the advantage as Lion’s cold ferocity and superior augmentations were matched by Luther’s consummate skill and the blessings of Chaos Undivided.

So bathed in the dappled light of the setting sun Lion and Luther did battle. Against the backdrop of the ancient giants of the forest, they might have been boys playfighting with sticks, swatting at each other with wild abandon; but this was no game, and these were not the familiar old oaks of Franj. Bright gashes appeared on the brothers’ green and black armor where they found openings in the other’s defense, and blood trickled out where the blades had pierced the flesh beneath before the wounds were stanched by their superhuman physiologies. Pressed by his brother’s assault, Luther eventually began to tire, yet Lion remained as unrelenting as ever. Sensing victory, he battered Luther with a flurry of blows, tearing off the helmet with a glancing slash to the head, and finally drove his blade into his brother’s leg. Luther fell to one knee, and before he could react the Lion Sword was at his throat, the tip pressed against his bare neck.

For a moment the two men were motionless. Then Lion removed his winged helm with one hand and let it fall to the ground, and for the first time in a century the brothers looked each other face to face. Under his matted blond hair Lion’s eyes were red and wet. Another moment of stillness, then the Lion Sword dipped, and lowered away. Sharp as a whipcrack, Lion said only one word: “Why?”

The accusation in his brother’s voice struck Luther like a hammer, and emotions welled up within him. Rage. Humiliation. Guilt. Shame.

How could he have lost to Lion? Never before had Lion bested him in their sparring, except the few times when he had allowed it. But he deserved this. He betrayed his brother, and the Imperium, and had nearly damned humanity to extinction.

No, no! His plan had been sound, and with a single stroke they could have rid humanity of xenos influences and secured a future for Franj among the stars. If only Lion had listened and followed. Lion had always sought his counsel and followed him in matters of import, never defying him until that fateful day.

Yes, with that once act of defiance, of betrayal, Lion had doomed his plan and consigned him to a life of furtive scavenging and raiding. It was Lion!

LION!

With a cry Luther burst upwards, his sword a malign black blur streaking towards Lion’s throat. Surprised, Lion threw himself back and raised his sword to parry, but it was no use; against foe as deadly as Luther, even an inch of an opening would have been fatal. But the Chaos Gods were not done with their servant yet. In a final act of malicious caprice, they lifted the scales of madness from Luther’s eyes and allowed him to see with a clear mind what he had done.

In that moment Luther saw: Lion as the solemn boy he had taught to swing a sword, who wanted so much to be like his famed older brother; as the young man he had personally knighted, a rare, sweet smile spreading across those stern features; as the man he had fought and laughed and bled with on the battlefields of a thousand worlds, side by side. And he saw the brother that he had just killed, the tip of his sword cutting smoothly through a pale throat, a thin spray of blood in its wake.

Something within Luther broke. Beneath the horror of this realization, his tortured psyche fell to pieces, and when the Deathwing finally came upon the clearing they found a screaming Luther kneeling over Lion’s still body. Their act of domination complete, the warp echoed with dark laughter as the Chaos gods spirited Luther away amidst a hail of bolter fire.

The Deathwing immediately recovered Lion, and in a battle barge in orbit the Chief Apothecary and his team fought to save Lion’s life. Indeed, it was a miracle that Lion had survived so long, made possible only through the astounding power of the Mk III S augmentations, for even a Sus-an coma would not have saved a normal Astartes from such a grievous wound. Yet while the apothecaries could stabilize Lion, they could not restore him. A slash from a mundane weapon would have soon been healed by Lion’s regenerative abilities, but Luther’s cursed blade had inflicted a wound that would not close, the treatments and medications unable to take hold on the tainted flesh. Lion was slipping away, and with no other options, the apothecaries could only seal Lion in a stasis-coffin, and hope that some day a cure would be found.

To this day, Luther is still a broken man, given to wild swings of mood as his mind flits to and from the scattered shards of his personality, from charming magnanimity to unbridled rage to brooding despair. Yet buried within the dark cage of madness lies the last piece of good within Luther’s heart, his nobility and honor and love for his brother. And once in a rare while that light emerges from its prison, and Luther awakens to the reality of the nightmare around him and the horror that is his life. He screams then, and as he slaughters the Fallen around him he weeps and begs Lion for forgiveness. Inevitably, that moment of lucidity is swallowed again by warp-fueled madness as the Chaos gods reassert their power over their servant. But that piece of goodness remains, perhaps as the last spark of hope for Luther’s redemption.

Lion still sleeps in his coffin, his features peaceful beneath the crystal cover, frozen in time on the precipice between life and death. He would surely perish were he removed to perform the canticles of purification to cleanse his wound, and so he remains in his millennia-long slumber. Entreaties to Isha have proved fruitless, for she has said healing Lion would be beyond ever her powers as the Goddess of Life; Lion is too far into the realm of death for her to exercise sole influence over him. Indeed, it would take another god, a God of the Dead, in conjunction with her powers to restore Lion to life, and surely no such god exists. But the Dark Angels are not deterred; they wait and dream, sure that one day the last remaining Primarch will return and lead them all to their long-promised salvation.

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=== The Lion Sword ===

Throughout his travels the Lion was known to use a red blade of excellent quality. When the Lion was put into his coma, his sword was put alongside him in the Rock, ready to be picked up again in the event the Lion ever woke from his coma. That sword is a Kinebrach blade. It was handed over in the ceremony to finalize the alliance between the young Imperium and the Interex. It was the last blade made by the venerable master Mez-Go-Bur. It is said and witnessed that he used no forge or hammer and the metal was taken from the hide of a fallen Cybernetica robot. He struck the metal with his fists and it started to heat up and become pliant and into that metal he beat all his sorrows (which were many) and his wroth (which was considerable). That cherry red blade was quenched in a barrel of ceremonial oil mingled with his own blood and on that blood he placed binding words. Daemons had made his life a misery, his blade would cut them and leave them maimed and that pain would follow them to their Hell and no matter if they healed they would never stop hurting as he would never stop hurting. But where he would die they remain immortal and would go on hurting for ever and ever and ever.

He smiled when the sword was handed over to Lion El'Jonson. He died not long later.

There are many Kinebrach blades in circulation in the Imperium and the art of making them is in no danger of ever being lost but few are as vindictive as the ones made by Mez-Go-Bur and that was his last creation and believed to be his best.

It has been idle for too long now. Too many summers under a shroud of dust despite it blade being razor sharp. There was a legend among the people of Franj; if an implement is left for more more than a year and day it will hunger for blood. If such stories are true then the Lion Sword is somewhat thirsty. It would take a man of iron will to tame that blade now.

== Perturabo ==

[[Image:1485738836578.jpg|left|thumb|200px|Perturabo, Primarch of the Imperium, The Mad Architect and Prince of Macedonia.]]

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Warsmith''''' - or ''The Mad Architect:''

Perturabo of the Macedonian Garrison was not a man truly cut out for the military life, although it is hard to say exactly what sort of life he ''was'' cut out for.

Macedonia was an odd case at that point in the constant wars of the Age of Strife. Barely a century and a half ago it had been a conquered territory of the Great Everlasting Tharkian Empire - an empire far less grand than its name would suggest - until the Tharkians were crushed by the relentless expansion of a Despot of Ursh, as so many others of the time were. The Urshii quickly swallowed up the valuable regions of the area, leaving only the ancient nation of Macedonia relatively untouched. By some miracle of cunning, guile, and luck on an incredible scale, Perturabo's grandfather Nestor made it appear that, instead of the meagre garrison it actually held, Macedonia was in fact home to Tharkian strategic reserves far greater than the forces the Urshii had already fought. This, combined with the seemingly unwavering defiance of the Macedonian people, convinced the Despot that conquering the region would overextend his supply lines and weaken his control over the greater Tharkia.

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With the immediate threat gone the cities began to drift apart and Nestor was old and wise enough to know that he had neither the forces nor the authority to hold them together. He did, however, manage to take and hold the ancient fortress city of Štip-Isar; and many rival groups joined him in seizing a city or hive and expanding from there. Thus, Macedonia ''did'' survive, to some extent, albeit as a collection of squabbling city-states that would only unite against greater outside threats; ironically, not unlike the Classical Greek counterparts who were conquered by the Macedonians themselves in the depths of history.

Perturabo's father Nikola had risen to be the petty king of the reasonably well-off fortress city of Štip-Isar after Nestor had passed away, and, recognising how inadequately ''he'' had been prepared for the job, immediately set about the task of trying to train his children in the arts of statesmanship. His daughters were fine women, just as dedicated to the nation as he was, but the other regional powers would have openly scoffed and secretly mocked the entire family if a queen were to rise. Thus the highest they would reach were hasty marriages to shore up the city's few alliances, leaving Perturabo as the heir apparent - albeit one rather psychologically unsound.

Countless years later, when Nikola and his nation were a mere footnote in endless halls of historical texts, Perturabo's peers would describe him as a spare Angron, minus the enthusiasm. This was unfair and inaccurate, but it was true that it would have been difficult to find a leader ''less'' statesmanlike than the unfortunate son of Nikola. Perturabo suffered from bouts of quite severe depression, punctuated by occasional flashes of intense rage with little to no warning. Although the rage would flash into incandescence and burn itself out relatively quickly, the depression was far more lingering. Nikola made no effort to hide the disappointment he had for his son, but little did he know that the heir's true talents would be more vital for the nation's survival than Terra's finest diplomats could ever be.

For Perturabo - in spite of his constant pessimism, or perhaps ''because'' of it - was supremely gifted at defensive planning. His dreams, haunted as they were by thoughts of his home being crushed by faceless invaders, merely bolstered his resolve to resist. He was not his father, or his grandfather, however; he was not a leader who could call the people to defend their land tooth and nail, for that would require hope and optimism that he himself so sorely lacked. Instead, Perturabo's defensive planning was that of grim determination, of strongpoints and counter-offensives instead of rallies and patriotism, of a hard shell around a softer peoples. Some would have called this paranoia, especially given how the petty skirmishes with other nation-states were the largest wars known for over a generation, but in truth it was uncanny foresight.

When the scum of Ursh came back it was as if a mighty hammer had struck the lands, driving all before it. Perturabo - indeed, all of Macedonia - was caught off-guard by the assault; by the time he was made aware of the threat, the most prosperous and powerful of his neighbours were little more than flaming rubble. Desperate for time, the heir withdrew his forces again and again, his generals raging and threatening mutiny for his cowardice, and he later claimed that in all his life he had faced no greater test than keeping his calm and concealing his plans from them (and thus, any possible Urshii spies) until the very last moment.

Nestor had fought a war - a war of armies and raiding parties facing each other in pitched battles - but his grandson had to stop a wave of slaughter that bore more resemblance to a swarm of locusts than any coherent fighting force. Isolated strongpoints were ground down horrifyingly quickly by sheer weight of numbers, and Perturabo had soon realised that the only chance he had of stopping the swarm was in a single, united defensive line. Even then, he knew he could not hope to stop the Despot's onslaught, only to give it a bloodied nose and hope it would back off.
The Urshii forces knew none of this, as all they saw were lands held by weak natives and abandoned by their defenders. Just as they were wondering if their grandparents' tales of the effortless conquest of Tharkia had some truth to them, they ran directly into Perturabo's hastily constructed kill zones. Metal, laser and superheated plasma alike rained down on the barbarians as if it were his own spite and pain made manifest, and the Urshii vanguard was left a pile of mangled bodies for their comrades to climb.

The Despot's humiliation drove him into such a rage that he eviscerated his own commanders, ordering their replacements to wipe Macedon from the face of Terra. Even with Perturabo's formidable defences and traps, the main Urshii force would raze the land without batting an eyelash - yet the Despot was so blinded by his rage that he was caught completely unawares by the true threat to his power.

When the scouts of the Warlord's army first trickled into Macedonia they expected a barren wasteland - or at best, a broken nation at its own throat. Much of their suspicions were confirmed, but amongst the dirt they found a diamond-hard shard of defiance that had prepared for the storm and, amazingly, was still weathering it. It was here, the Warlord decided, that the first (and perhaps the most important) true blow against Ursh would be struck.

After the smoke cleared. the plasma burns cooled, the shrieks of wounded finally fallen away into silence, Perturabo discovered that not only had he bloodied the nose of the Despot's assault, but he had broken its back completely. Caught between the swift hammer of the Warlord's armies and the unyielding anvil of the Macedon defence, Ursh's toughest veterans were shattered and scattered to the wind - and even the most zealous of barbarians were were beginning to question if there was a master greater than their own.

The Warlord entered Štip-Isar not as a conqueror, but simply as a leader, for he had great respect for the one who turned such a small nation into a devourer of armies. Yet the prince would do something that not a single battlefield or leader had managed so far, or quite possibly since. He ''surprised'' his guest, and not only with his young age (for, compared to his generals, he was little more than a boy), but with his mind. For when the Warlord looked into his psyche, he found something he had never seen before or since - and he wished he had not. It was cold. Bleak. A desolate landscape of steel and bone blasted smooth by an unrelenting gale of numbers, of angles, of shifting probabilities; while above, great roiling clouds of blackness drained away what little light and life lay beneath them. Even this was just a momentary glimpse, for in the blink of an eye he was locked out by an immense iron wall rising from the ground in mere instants, horizons wide and twice as tall. The Warlord found himself simply staring into dead, grey eyes, barred from what lay within by mental defences greater than all but the most powerful of psykers - and built simply from paranoia and distrust rather than to contain any unearthly whispers. But those eyes told him all he really needed to know about the prince. There was no fear there, no awe, and certainly no love. Just endless planning, calculating, searching for weakness.

To his credit, the Warlord still saw potential in the mad architect; something that could be put to use, maybe even turned to greatness. After long, distrustful negotiations (for the Macedonians were as wary of his arrival as they were grateful for it), Perturabo was offered a place in the Warlord's armies as a fortification and garrison specialist. For King Nikola's part... the sad truth was that he was glad to see the back of his son. After all, with Perturabo otherwise occupied - or out of the way, depending on your point of view - he now had grandchildren to train in inheriting his responsibilities.

Perturabo rose through the ranks of the Imperial Army with neither the speed nor grandeur of the other Primarchs, but he did indeed become great. Other generals captured huge swathes of land or routed vast armies, but it was he who ensured that any forces seeking to recapture their territory or avenge their fallen knew nothing but failure. He was never at the forefront of any battle or campaign, never the glorious conqueror or invincible warrior; and of course, he earned little respect from those who ''were,'' who saw him as an unstable freak barely fit to follow in their footsteps. This, however, suited him just fine, as he much preferred a legacy of impenetrable bastions safeguarded people than any number of songs or monuments.

Still, the Warlord quietly took note of his work, of how harmlessly the condescension of both his superiors and subordinates bounced off him, and none were surprised as Perturabo himself was when he was selected for late-stage Thunder Warrior treatment. Soon, as the remnants of the Old Night were finally purged and the dream of Unification began to spread across Sol, malcontents and partisans began to emerge from the woodwork; and it was here Perturabo's worth truly became evident even to his detractors. For old king Nikola's lessons had not, in fact, been in vain, and it was discovered that the Macedonian's lands were impenetrable to assault from within as well as without. For this, he was finally elevated to the lofty title of Primarch.

In the countless years that followed, the Unification became the Great Crusade; the Warlord became the Steward, and Štip-Isar faded into distant memory. Perturabo, however, did not change. Perhaps he could not. After all, his life had certainly not changed, for it still consisted of day after day of building meat grinders of horrific scale while planning yet-greater ones, all while hoping against hope they would never be needed. Or perhaps, just as was the case in his youth, his works were so brutally efficient because of the hope he - and they - ''lacked.'' But back in his homeland he still had the support of his people; or at least he had his father to soothe and comfort them at every turn. Here, on the frontier worlds, the deal of "harsh work and oppression for you and your children in the name of descendants you will not live to see" would've been a hard sell for Gulliman, or Sanguinius, never mind one as uncharismatic as Perturabo - and the hatred of the people was beginning to wear down even his iron resolve.

When The War of the Beast descended upon the worlds under his aegis, his worth was finally proven beyond any doubt. Wretched, base creatures assaulted his people, his fortresses, his worlds in droves - and time and time again they drowned in their own tides of endless green. His warriors manned their battlements and fired from positions prepared centuries ago in an eerie mirror image of the plains of Macedonia so long ago. The doctrine still remained identical, as well. No point would be defended to the last man, for such heroics were costly and unnecessary; instead, the defenders would fight until the back of the assault force was broken before retreating to their next set of positions, buying them precious breathing room while the enemy were forced to bring in a fresh wave of warriors.

It would be wrong to say that no worlds under his protection fell, or to say that his methods were flawless. Just as it was against the Urshii, he would never defend an untenable position; civilian conurbations and evacuation points were no exception to this, and his new subordinates labelled him a coward with as much vigour as his old ones had so long ago. But this cold, calculated strategy ensured that his armies lived - and more importantly, rested - to fight another day, where another Primarch would've allowed them to be slaughtered in a vain order to hold the line.

On venerable Olympia, one of the first colony worlds of the Old Empire brought back into the fold by Perturabo's Iron Warriors, the Primarch nearly met his end. His command headquarters was unexpectedly besieged by a force of Orks that, reinforced by a newly arrived Rok, had broken through a weakened flank, and he insisted he took to the field. Years later, he would claim it was simply a pragmatic decision; after all, as a Thunder Warrior he was fully capable of fighting to earn time for his command staff to be evacuated, all of whom were equally invaluable to the defense of the planet - but for many, this unexpected loyalty was a welcome reminder that there was still a human within the Primarch's iron shell. His psychological one, at least.

His physical armour, however, would be sorely tested by the warboss he would face; a great corroding creature of Nurgle's kin, leading the Orks of the Pox Dok in laughter and taunts even as lascannon and bolter blew off chunks of rotting green flesh. The fate of the world and every soul on it was decided in a burning cathedral; and while Perturabo was certainly not the unstoppable juggernaut other Primarchs were, his calculating mind was as much use here as it was fighting on theater or even planetary level. It merged with his Thunder Warrior instincts, making each move carefully planned and each attack predicted ahead of time, until the fight seemed to be a fluid dance akin to that of the Eldar Harlequins.

Still, in brute force he was outmatched, and for every hundred blows he saw coming, there was one he simply could not parry or evade in time. The mighty green leviathan and the smaller figure slowly but relentlessly tearing it down - a fitting reversal of their armies' roles - wore each other into the ground, until the Iron Warrior emerged triumphant over the Rust of decay. With the Warboss gone, his legion quickly broke the remainder of the Ork assault, reclaiming swathes of land and beginning the long and thankless task of resecuring it. Scouting parties quickly found their Primarch, slumped in the pews where the faithful once prayed for redemption, and almost as white as the pale stone dust raining down from the ruined cathedral.

Perturabo did not see that world retaken; he did not see the organised withdrawals from worlds and sectors almost turn to a complete rout without his immaculate planning.

He did not see the Battle of Terra, the desecration of his homeworld.

He did not see the death of first Sanguinius, then the Beast.

He eventually did awaken, but only after a year spent comatose, while his ruined body was slowly repaired by Thunder Warrior physiology where possible and Mechanicus cybernetics where not. Unbowed and unbroken; Iron within, Iron without. As soon as he was able to, he marched on with his legion, rebuilding worlds and shoring up their defences before moving onto the next. Still, many believed that the Beast's legacy still haunted him and that he blamed himself personally for each loss; for as the years passed he became more and more of a perfectionist, making demands of broken worlds that could not have met them in their prime. Eventually, his most senior Warsmiths agreed by unanimous vote to remove him from active service, after he demanded a planet's population be decimated for a single of its regiments' incompetence. Perhaps, like many others, he did not resist simply because he was grateful.

Perturabo's last days were spent back on Old Earth as an architect, away from the battlefield and doing what he loved. Many had forgotten that he could design anything but defensive lines and fortresses; and perhaps he himself had forgotten as well. Over time, the work began to heal him, and in turn he began to heal Olld Earth. The swathes of land destroyed by the Beast were given to him as a blank canvas, and upon them he built structures as grand and magnificent as any in the Dark Age of Technology ever were. Oddly enough, '''this''' would be his legacy to the common man; his military campaigns would be lost to the ages, but his designs would be copied and imitated across the entire Imperium, from his streamlining of Hive City layouts that every planetary governor desperately sought to the glorious palaces on Terra that, well, every planetary governor desperately sought. Such form and function would not be surpassed for millenia to come, and even to this day his influence is visible on almost every Imperial world.

Perturabo passed away soon after finishing his plans for the new Imperial Palace; remarking that only now he was able to discover his art, after war had taken all the joy and beauty from it. Some say that he passed with a gentle, childlike smile on his face - for after a thousand years of siege, Perturabo, Prince of Macedonia, Son of Nikola, was finally to be relieved.

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See Also: [[Nobledark_Imperium_Writing#Iron_Within.2C_Iron_Without|Iron Within, Iron Without]]

== Mortarion ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Vermin Lord:'''''

Mortarion was a born in the abject squalor of the slums of Gredbritton, in the aftermath of the fall of the Unspeakable Tyrant. His life was certainly not made any easier by the fact that his mother was the fallen Tyrant's daughter; and that many whispered that his unknown father was the Tyrant himself - and given the sheer depravity of that individual, these accusations were hardly baseless. When the hysteria was beginning to die down, his mother did her best to hide their shared heritage and instead made ends meet as a maintenance skivvy and lay-technician of the great Tintajus Hive, the capital of that broken nation. They never truly advanced in wealth or power - although perhaps this was shrewdness on his mother's part, as those of the upper hive would be more likely to recognise them - and as such Mortarion seemed almost permanently sickly, growing up pale and gaunt from lack of sunlight and food.

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Gredbritton was one of the earlier nations brought into the Imperial fold. Being part of a greater union of nations went some way to restoring order, as well as bringing strength and prosperity it had not seen since the nation itself had ruled great swathes of Terra. Like so many young men with no hope, Mortarion joined the regiments of the Imperial Army - not out of some sense of patriotism or desire to bring other realms into the Imperium, but simply for the promise of at least one meal a day, a pair of trousers he didn't have to share and perhaps even some money to send home to his family.

He served with merit (if not distinction) until he was in his 22nd year, in spite of recurring bouts of old childhood illnesses. At some point in this year he learned that the Warlord was looking for volunteers for Thunder Warrior conversion, known to be a procedure that carried considerable risks. The Apothocarium and the Biologicus warned both him and the officials administrating the project that his physical imperfections would likely render Mortarion little more than a twisted nightmare, yet neither side yielded. The project's overseers were unwilling to turn away one of the few volunteers they could find, least of all one so eager; and for his part, the would-be Thunder Warrior reasoned that his body was already almost constantly betraying him, and that both success and failure would finally bring him the respite he so desperately sought. At first he volunteered, then requested, then even ''demanded'' that they tear his body apart and put him back together, as the payout his family would get for his "death" in this manner would set his mother and younger sisters up for life.

By some strange twist of fate he ''did'' survive. Perhaps even the biotechnicians had failed to realise how far they had refined their own process - certainly, the success rate was easily an order of magnitude higher than it was when Angron was "upgraded" - or perhaps the trauma of the procedures was shrugged off by a body that had spent 22 years steadfastly refusing to die. In any case, Mortarion fought as hard as any other in the name of the Imperium and its warlord, earning rank after rank based on sheer weight of victories. These victories were costly, the battlefields brutal - for he was no tactical genius, and would often dismiss inventive but untried tactics and strategies in favour of the certainties of more proven ones.

Thus, while his superiors prized his methodical successes over the less reliable tactics of the more creative leaders, his men held no love for him, only a grudging respect. The latter was cemented in place by his willingness - no, his ''insistence'' - to lead from the front, forcing his way into the thickest fighting and risking death alongside his men. They saw great victories against the savage men of Ursh and the organised and equipped armies of Achaemenidia with equal ease, only stumbling when facing the Gyptoussian sorcerers who dabbled in things that should not be dabbled in. Indeed, it was in those desert campaigns that Mortarion developed a fear, almost a hatred, of all psykers. Never again in his long life would he employ them or even accept their advice or aid, even when it might have been advisable to do so.

Mortarion soon developed a reputation for being invincible, and while this struck fear into his enemies, it merely frustrated his subordinates. He would charge into battle alongside his soldiers, yet he would far outlast them even under the most withering fire; returning from the field of war alone, with shredded armour and spent weapons, sporting wounds that would have felled a lesser Thunder Warrior.

When the forces of the Steward looked to the rest of Sol, Mortarion's forces were assigned primarily to garrison duty due to the costly nature of his method of warfare. In these engagements they held themselves with distinction, as they would make an enemy's assault on them far costlier. By the time Sol was subjugated and the galaxy lay before the Imperium, the Emperor had named him Primarch for his sheer tenacity and list of victories. It was revealed in later years, however, that the Warlord/Steward disapproved greatly of Mortarion's methods of warfare - at least, according to a few unnamed insiders from the Imperial Palace. Mortarion had, by methods undisclosed, obtained the entire stockpile of biological and chemical weapons owned by his late grandfather and father. He had also obtained the ancient library of Gredbritton, the contents of which were hastily handed over to the Warlord's Sigillite.

When taking a city or hive, the Dusk Raiders would prefer to besiege if first, firing artillery rounds filled with a dozen godforsaken contagions over (or through) the walls and waiting a few months. When the time came for them to enter the city, anything that was still alive would be shredded with bolt, plasma and promethium; the only considerable obstacles in their way being the sheer number of dead bodies filling the hive. Only Curze's methods were deemed more detestable, but unlike his fellow primarch's claims that the horrors he committed were for the greater good he simply pointed out that a conventional assault would likely have similar civilian casualties, but would also take a heavy toll on his own legion. The Warlord was never satisfied with this defence, but the results of his campaigns were undeniable.

He would go on to take this method of warfare off-world; after all, the need to kill and conquer in the most efficient way possible was even greater when precious supplies had to be ferried across the depths of space. Many whispered that he was his father's son - but this was not the case. For while the Unspeakable Tyrant had done such things in the name of gods too terrible to contemplate, Mortarion did them in the name of his warriors, and so that they may live another day. For all that ''they'' hated ''him'', he did not hate his own men; although few would have believed that had he told them.

At the onset of the War of the Beast the Dusk Raiders were quickly established as the dirty, dirty hands of the Imperium. Instead of fighting heroic yet costly rearguards to save evacuees as so many others did, they would bombard worlds with flesh-eating diseases and exsanguination virii the minute they were lost. This, contrary to their detractors, was not to punish those left behind but instead to deny the enemy potential slaves - or food, for that matter - while leaving most material assets intact. Hundreds of billions, maybe even trillions died from these proto-Virus Bombs, and it did not stop the enemy, or even slow their expansion; it was only beginning to chip away at the rate at which the expansion accelerated. Yet this was still more than most other legions could achieve against the sheer size and speed of the Beast's initial assault, and it was done while preserving Mortarion's valuable warriors; indeed, it was then that they earned their moniker of the ''Death Guard'', for the ruination that followed on worlds they failed to defend was as if they were the guardians of the reaper himself.

Many of Mortarion's fellow primarchs, Sanguinius and Vulkan in particular, publicly decried these attacks, but he did not care. They called him a traitor, and he did not care. They called him a coward, a monster, and he did not care. They spat on his legion's banner; Dorn in particular calling his warriors detestable cravens - and only then did he warn the man who fought only from his precious entrenchments to mind his choice of words, lest one of the Unspeakable Tyrant's lost weapons suddenly "appear" in the skies over his beautifully crafted defensive lines. For his Legion were not cowards, and any who would make such a claim had not seen the mechanical determination with which they fought. Any who would make such a claim had not seen the way they ground the Beast's forces down into pieces, then into dust, breaking the back of the enemy's assaults so that other, more heroic, ''better'' men might earn the glory of beheading them.

When the smoke had cleared and the Steward and Eldrad stood over the corpse of The Beast, the remains of the Imperium cheered for years, for decades. The Death Guard did not, for they were pushing its borders outwards; rebuilding their legion and continuing their endless, tireless crusade. Never mind how the mighty Dorn and his warriors would not take one step back. The Death Guard would never cease marching forward, into the Dark Millennium and beyond. The only time they would ever falter would be to honour their primarch's passing, on the distant western fringe world known as Macharius' Rest. Where sickness, assassination attempts, Thunder Warrior treatment and thousands of orks had failed, time had won its final victory. Members of the Dusk Raiders, the Death Guard, and every crusader who had ever fought alongside them made the pilgrimage to the edge of the Imperium, to pay their grudging respects to the Man Who Would Not Die.

''"Even our '''allies''' believe us nothing more than scum, than vermin to be crushed underfoot. Then let us fight like them; with tooth and claw, dragging down the mightiest of enemies with our dying breaths. Let us scour their lands clean with pestilence, and leave nothing that can be used against man - '''for vermin always have the last word'''."''

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== Lorgar ==

Lorgar Aurelian was a child born in the theocracy of the Ynsdonesic Bloc and as all children born in that awful place was the result of a state designated union. Unions in that dysfunctional realm in that time usually being decided by perceiving omens be it from smoke patterns or entrails augury despite the degenerate unions that this often created.

As with all youths of that nation he was raised in the Kartharanite branch of religion. He was taught that only through suffering was any worth found be it inflicted on the self or on others and that the unbeliever must be cleansed from the world by fire and sword. It was not a faith of kindness that he was raised in.

His appointed mentor in matters of religion was Bishop Kor Phaeron of Jakurtana. Had he had any other master then history would have taken a decidedly different path.

Bishop Phaeron was secretly a member of the Katholian sect from which the Kartharanite had once sprung and in this more kind and just faith did Lorgar find peace and purpose.

The old faith spread through the downtrodden and the hopeless of society despite the brutal and cruel efforts of Cardinal Tang to suppress, contain and exterminate it.

Eventually the outrage and animosity of the people for their leaders reached a fever pitch and civil war ensued. As Bishop Phaeron was the highest ranking member of the hierarchy on the side of the people he was looked to for guidance. As the Bishop's right hand man Lorgar soon learned the ways of war. He learned to inspire and comfort. He learned to appeal for calm and how to whip peoples passions to a frenzy. Although not lacking in martial prowess his voice, his cunning and his keen intellect were his favoured weapons.

It was maybe just in time that the subversion erupted into open rebellion when it did. The forces of the Warlord were marching down from the North and the Ynsdonesic Bloc was well up on the "Burn it down and start again" list.

With the possibility of an unwinnable war on two fronts Bishop Phaeron went to the parlay with the Warlord in person, dressed in only a crude hessian robe, with only Lorgar Aurelian accompanying him.

An audience was granted to the Warlord in his tent, at the heart of the enemy war camp, surrounded by genetically modified super soldiers and heavy weapons.

Expecting some sort of zealous speech of defiance and martyrdom the Warlord was taken aback some what when the two got down on one knee and swore allegiance.

The cared deeply about their faith and the word of their God. But their God cared deeply about the people he had made. Their God would understand if he was to be forgotten but not forgive men who should know better leading children to the slaughter. They would rather their people be free and happy than pious.

Moved by their words the Emperor gave them grace time. Should they triumph over their oppressors they would be welcomed into the Imperium as any other member state. Should they would have the harsh treatment of conquest and subjugation.

By insurgencies, underhanded tactics, assassinations and a brutal 12 year war the Katholians claimed victory and Cardinal Tang's broken but still living form was dragged before the Warlord as a token of gratitude.

It was somewhat of a pyrrhic victory for the people of the Ynsdonesic Bloc. They nation was in a hundred pieces, each swearing loyalty to some tin hat despot with delusions of grandeur, some almost as bad as Cardinal Tang. It would not be long before the fighting for dominance began, to say nothing of annexation from another nation.

The forces of the Warlord prepared to march again and again Lorgar begged the Warlord to stay his hand. They were just sheep without a shepherd, lost children in a very dark night. Once more swayed by the strange kind passion in Lorgars voice the Warlord relented.

Over the next five years as Bishop Phaeron became Patriarch Phaeron Lorgar went to the isolated and the lost and the scared with open arms and promises of reconciliation.

For the most part he was well received and his homeland healed. It was only after the talking was done that those too stubborn or monstrous to come home again were removed. Great pains were taken to minimize casualties but it was not a wholly peaceful end to that bitter conflict.

Ynsdonesic Bloc was the first of the old nation states to disband it's own military completely and throw it's own might, such as was left of it, wholeheartedly into the Imperium.

Lorgar, now a Chaplain-General in the Imperial Army, was considered too old for conversion from human to superhuman but did receive some discrete genetic modifications.

It was a regiment overseen by Lorgar that lead the final assault on the Despot of Ursh's palace that signaled the unification of Old Earth, and it was Lorgar's blade who swung the sword after the Last Despot of Ursh was tried and sentenced to execution for war crimes. But Chaplain-General Aurelian considered all of his victories to be nothing but tragedies. The only true victory, he would often claim, was one where no war was to be found. For his valour and astounding levels of inspiring oratory skill he was declared the unlikely Primarch.

Of all the Primarchs in the time of the Great Crusade his forces brought more worlds into the Imperium peacefully than any other.

They didn't bring more worlds in, oh my no. They were quite slow and their tardiness was no end of frustration to the now Steward. But Lorgar was tolerated because the worlds he claimed were brought into the Imperium whole and undamaged and contributing.

In the War of the Beast Primarch Aurelian and his Legion struck back with an unexpected force. Many of the other war leaders of the imperium considered his Legion to be full of pacifists and weakness. Like many of the damned in the armies of the Beast they had mistaken the olive branch for a white flag and they were punished hard for it.

Across the breadth and depth of the burning Imperium, to the aid of human or xeno, the Word Bearers could be found holding the line and inspiring others to hold the line. Where they strode despair turned to hope and weary hands held firm blessed weapons and shaky voices roared the old battle hymns.

Lorgar and his forces were on Old Earth when Sanguinius died and ever afterwards Lorgar blamed himself for not fighting hard enough to have saved his brother Primarch.

Lorgar lived and served for many years. He eventually died of old age at near eleven hundred years old. A small but modest shrine was erected at the Jakurtana Seminary that is sometimes visited by Word Bearer chaplains even into the Dark Millennium.

See also [[Nobledark_Imperium_Imperial_Society_and_Culture#The_Book_of_Lorgar|The Book of Lorgar]]

== Jaghatai Khan ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Noble Savage:'''''

From an early age, it was clear to most people that Jaghatai “White Scar” Khan was going to grow up to be a troublemaker. Some might have doubted such a claim, but that would have been put to rest by the time Jaghatai was ten, when he was thrown from his vehicle during an accident while tending the flocks, giving him the scar that would later become his most identifying feature, only to dust himself off with little to no concern for the cut on his face. Unfortunately, “most people” did not happen to include the Despot of Ursh. For years, Jaghatai and his people had lived the way his people always had, raising flocks of livestock on the steppes with the help of motorcycles and off-road vehicles. It was this skill with motor vehicles that had brought the people of the steppes to the Despot’s eye. He saw a greater use for their talents than simply herding livestock, and so he pressed the people of the steppes into service. The people of the steppes were turned into shock troopers, raiding enemy supply lines, tearing into retreating battalions, and burning down villages that refused to completely subjugate to the Despot, becoming yet another boogeyman for the Despot of Ursh to use to scare his enemies and subjects into submission.

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Jaghatai’s father was the nominal representative of the steppe peoples to the Despot of Ursh, and so was given the title of Khan: a once noble title that had come to mean nothing in the years since the people of the steppes were enslaved by Ursh. Jaghatai's father pleaded with the Despot to try and make the lives of his people better, but the Despot had a heart harder than adamantium and had no love for people whose loyalty was not absolute. And so it was that at the age of nineteen Jaghatai was awoken one night by emissaries from the Despot of Ursh, who dropped his father's head in a sack on his doorstep and gave Jaghatai the same ultimatum the Despot had given his father. "Serve me absolutely, or die".

Faced with not only the threat of his own demise but the demise of his people, Jaghatai swore loyalty at the point of a sword. But privately, the new Khan swore another oath. He swore that if there was any justice in this world he would not rest until he had avenged his father and it was the Despot of Ursh who had his head put in a sack. And so it was that for several years Jaghatai served as the leader of the one of the most feared forces in the entire Urshii army. And he hated it. He hated seeing his people being turned into animals, being used as attack dogs to terrorize people whose only sin had been to ask the Despot of Ursh for a bit of mercy. He hated the pain and suffering he caused in every burned out husk of a settlement he left behind him. Even when his people were kept out of the fray of raiding and pillaging, his conscience still gnawed at him over the fact that it had been his support that had allowed the Urshii to win and allow this to happen.

This went on for several years, until reports began to come in about a strange new power known as "the Imperium" led by a most peculiar Warlord, which was pushing against the Urshii from the west. Fortunately for Ursh, much of the south and west of the Urshii heartland was bordered by near-impenetrable mountain ranges, with only a few major passes between them. Khan and his people were dispatched as part of a force to guard one of these mountain passes from incursion, along with several thousand elite Urshii troopers. The Urshii troopers had no love for the nomads, forcing them to set up camp far away from the rest of the army and making them do most of the scouting. It was because of this that the Khan and his forces were alone when they quite literally stumbled upon the expeditionary force of the Warlord one fateful day.

Coming around a corner in the bottom of a river valley, the Khan and his scouting forces quite unexpectedly came across some incredibly angry men holding some very imposing guns. After a few minutes of an intense standoff, the leader of the opposing forces called a ceasefire to try and figure out why either of the two sides hadn't begun shooting at each other yet. It was at this point that the Khan first met the Warlord. The Khan realized that this was his opportunity to get revenge on the Despot of Ursh and avenge his father. He told the Warlord the truth, the real truth he had carried inside him since the day his father died. Although initially skeptical, the Warlord was so impressed by the sincerity of the Khan's answer that he believed his story.

The Warlord and the Khan began to conspire as to how to defeat the Urshii army at the pass. At first, the Warlord suggested to the Khan that he simply had to "forget" to show up to the battle, but the Khan vehemently disagreed. The Urshii had denigrated his people, the Khan said, and blood had to be repaid in blood. Therefore, a new plan was formulated, in which the Khan's forces would change sides once the Urshii and the Imperium became locked in combat. Rather than being flankers as intended, the Khan's troops would tear into the Urshii army from behind, forcing them to fight a two-fronted battle. The plan worked, and the battle was a complete rout for the forces of Ursh, allowing the Imperium to cross the mountain passes into the core Urshii territories. The former slaves of Ursh were skeptical to see the Khan's people as liberators, rather than devastators, and this bad blood would persist for years even after the fall of Ursh. Nevertheless, being involved as the front lines of a massive liberating army went a long way towards alleviating such concerns. When the Despot of Ursh was toppled and that abominable empire finally fell, the Khan finally felt that his father had been avenged.

The Warlord had earned the Khan’s gratitude and trust, but the Khan made sure to let the Warlord know that his people would never again be unthinking slaves.

''“You have helped me avenge my father and free my people, and for that you have my gratitude. But remember, that gratitude makes my people and I your allies, not your slaves. For all that you have done, you have my trust, but if you abuse that trust, know that not even death will be fast enough to catch you before I do.”''<br>
- Jaghatai Khan, reportedly said to the Warlord upon the final fall of Ursh

Fortunately, the Khan never had to put his newfound trust to the test. The years of the Great Crusade were probably some of the best of the Khan's life. His people were no longer slaves, and they had a vast new galaxy that had just become open to them. He even fell in love, something he had been studiously avoiding under the reign of the Despot in order to avoid giving that monster something he could exploit him with. He caught the eye of a girl, a former Urshii woman who had worked in the fields as an agricultural serf. He showed her the ways of the steppes, and the two of them fell deeply in love. He was heartbroken when she died. She died at 110, a ripe old age by the standards of those who lived before the Dark Age of Technology, but from a disease that befell many who worked in the fields of Ursh late in life that no amount of juvenant drugs could fix. And yet the Khan had to go on, as the Imperium still had need of his services. It was this sense of duty that led Khan to become an Astartes. Khan spent most of the Crusade on planets that had problems with orks and occasionally dark Eldar, beings that the Khan saw as truly reprehensible and therefore had no moral problems with hunting them down.

Late in life, the Khan began to feel the age seeping into his bones, and looked back at what he had accomplished during his life. He had avenged his father, freed his people, taken them to the stars, started a family, and helped build an empire. It was "more than any man could hope to accomplish in one lifetime", as the Khan said in his own words. But there was still one last thing Khan had to do. The old warrior planned to travel the galaxy one last time, to say goodbye to the friends he made before he passed away. However, the Khan never finished his trip. Although most of the people close to him did report seeing him shortly before his disappearance, the Khan never made it back to Earth to be buried in his homeland, like he wanted. Many of the White Scars say that like many of the other primarchs, Khan did not truly die, and will return to lead them once more when times are dire. One can only hope.

Although the Khan got along well with many of the warrior primarchs like Russ, perhaps his strangest relationship was his odd friendship with Magnus the Red. Part of the reason for this is that Khan actually knew Magnus (though not well) before either had become known as primarchs, back when they had served under the Despot of Ursh. Khan knew firsthand that Magnus was a man, not a monster, and treated him as such. It was probably this friendship that lead to the Khan being so pro-psyker in life. Although he was not a psyker, he knew of the suffering psyker powers could bring to an individual, and so was a strong advocate for pro-psyker policies like the schola that would help psykers control their gifts. He was also not averse to the use of psykers in combat, though like most he drew the line at warp sorcery.
Outside of the Steward and the primarchs, the Khan often had trouble socializing with other people. Part of this was due to a lack of things he could talk about with other people, and part of this was that he never really got the hang of Gothic, always speaking it with a rather heavy accent, which he was embarrassed by. As a result, the Khan was often known for being taciturn at public appearances, and was well known for regarding actions higher than words.

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== Konrad Curze ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Unforgivable:'''''

Konrad Curze was a man that could politely be described as driven, and accurately be described as ''a frothing at the mouth lunatic.'' Of all the Primarchs appointed, none were more questioned than he.

He had grown up in the final days of the Age of Strife in the rambling under city Tordashimya in the Pan Pacific Empire, along with all of the horrors and excess that this entails. To say that this had an effect on the deepest levels of his mind would be a woeful understatement, and he saw the fledgling Imperium as only existing as a means of imposing some sort of order and some basic justice on a world that was in dire need of both and he saw it as his duty to make it happen. Sadly his means of doing so were as crude and brutal as those who he sought to bring to justice; after all, the quickest way to gain obedience is through fear, and and the easiest way to rebuild a society is to behead it and tear apart the body.

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Despite - or, some whisper in hushed tones, ''because of'' - the Steward's insistence that he change his tact, Curze became stubborn and resentful; his predations becoming ever more brutal. Realising the futility of bringing to heel, the Steward instead directed him instead to the worlds of no hope, worlds so broken that they could never be brought into the Imperium. Worlds he couldn't make worse. It was on one of these worlds, Nostramo, that the Night Haunter found some strange joy. If he could bring a world such as this, so broken, so unspeakably wretched, as this to the light of civility then he would be vindicated before the whole galaxy. If a world so cursed by both gods and men could be rebuilt, there was nothing that could not be.

The subjugation of that world was the harrowing stuff of nightmares. The Dark Eldar could barely have done better to make every day-cycle a new nightmare; indeed, some claim that they were there to simply soak up the suffering as a welcome break to their long campaigns of torture and enslavement. But in time Curze, now infamous as the Night Lord of Nostramo, was vindicated. His people took control of every position of authority, while the malcontents were quickly ''disappeared'', often winding up dead and mutilated along with their families and friends, whether man, woman, elder or child. Hideous as it was, order was brought - and order began to spread, as for each world his legion inflicted unspeakable horrors on, ten more surrendered without raising arms. Hideous, brutal examples were made of the worst, but through them the more virtuous were saved.

Soon enough, the dark whispers of Chaos began to tempt his mind, the fallen Eldar of the Crone Worlds assailing his dreams with tantalising offers of untold riches and endless power. Yet every offer was found wanting; every envoy cut down, every promise met with scorn. They had made the mistake of assuming that one such as Curze had become would revel in their depraved debaucheries, without considering that he would find them every bit as repulsive as other, better, people found him. He was a monster, this was true, but he was a monster who ripped and tore and tortured in the name of order; by the Emperor he was the ''Imperium's'' monster and nobody else's.

Some, of course, fell. Younger soldiers who had maybe joined the cause for glory, for strength, or even for mere self-gratification. But the vast majority of them were, like their Primarch, disgusted by the offerings of Chaos, horrified by the fall of their battle brothers, and insulted at the implication that they and the forces of Chaos served the same ends. For the entirety of the War of the Beast, the Lords of the Night could be found sowing discord and misery amongst the fleets and the armies of damnation. For every horror the invaders committed more was inflicted upon them, and for every innocent killed by the Ruinous Powers the Night Lords would swear vengeance on a dozen daemons.

Few of that despised Legion ever fought on the soil of Old Earth, and never were they allowed to forget this. But because of their actions the forces of damnation were weakened and poorly focused with one eye always over their shoulder. Even if their military successes had counted for naught; even if they had not managed to save a single soul, '''they had made Chaos fear ''them'''''. And that was an achievement beyond all others.

In the aftermath of that war, many small provincial worlds and systems tried to strike out on their own, away from the light of the Throne, often being brought back by force. None of Curze's worlds, however, had ever tried to secede - after all, they knew both sides of the Imperium's protection, and had seen first hand the wrath that the Night Lords could unleash. If that was what they would to in ''defence'' of the Imperium, what they would do to willing turncoats did not bear thinking about.

In his later years, Curze was well aware that he had become everything he had despised in his youth, and he sometimes derived black humour from this; that he had finally rediscovered across the galaxy what he had first learned in his youth on a small Terran kingdom: that the ends do not, and cannot, justify the means. In the year 243.M32 he had himself tried and executed for war crimes as the ultimate testament that none were beyond judgement. He had deemed himself to have outlived his usefulness, and to some extent he was right; although the Imperium could tolerate a useful monster, it should have no love for one.

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== Angron ==

Angron was a slave pit fighter in what was left of the Nord Afrik Enclaves.

He was liberated quite early on in The Warlords campaign. Signed on to join the Thunder Warriors.

Rose through the ranks and earned great fame and respect. Munched loved by his men due to his tendency to lead from the front and getting stuck in where the fighting was thickest.

Was one of the older generation of TW with all the damage and flaws this brought with it.

Due to his astounding aptitudes he was promoted to the rank of Primarch and given command of a batch of the new Astartes model Space Marines.

Plagued by health issues despite attempts to repair his faulty upgrades. Refused the retirement offer that many TW took to make lives for themselves. He wouldn't have been able to deal with a peaceful life.

Survived all the way to the end of The War of the Beast but not much longer. Died peacefully in his sleep. Probably the oldest TW.

Kharn the Oathsworn took over, new type of super soldier for a new era.

He didn't live a happy life, but given the nature of his childhood he could have lived a worse one and a statue of him stands outside the gate of the Carthisisa Hive Cathedral.

===His Early Life===

Some men are born into greatness, and carry it upon their brow with the natural ease of command. Others have greatness forced unwillingly upon them, and they suffer its burden for duty and honor. The Primarch Angron fell firmly into the second category.

Little is known about Angron’s early life. What is known is gleaned from his private writings, scattered public records, and a few of Kharn’s recollections; and it is little wonder that the Primarch did not speak of his youth, for it was a bitter and brutal upbringing so sadly common in the chaotic days before the Unification.

Angron was born to a humble family in a small town in Timbuk, the northern state of the Afrique League, along the border of the Nord Afrik Conclaves. The town sat on a trade route used by nomad clans and acted as a minor trade hub and rest stop for their caravans as they traveled the roads between the techno-barbarian conclaves of Nord Afrik and the settlements of the Afrique League. Angron’s family made their living as bakers; their fortified strongbread was particularly well-regarded in the area as a food of the road for weary travelers. Their lifestyle was modest but probably not unpleasant, and it was more than likely that Angron would have followed in his family’s footsteps and become a baker as well, living a quiet life, were it not for the Europian-Afrikaan War.

After the humiliating defeat inflicted by Angron’s fellow Primarch-to-be Roboute Guilliman, the Padishah of the Nord Afrik Conclaves needed victory and loot to pacify his rebellious vassal shahs and sheikhs, who were threatening a shahs-moot to elect a new leader or even open revolt should the Padishah refuse. Thus, the Padishah turned his gaze and armies towards the weakest of his neighbors, the Afrique League. The southern Afrique state of Nama Gola was cut off from Timbuk by the toxic coastal wastelands and the vassals of Ursh further inland, nor could they challenge the Afrikaan at sea, and so their northern brethren faced the rage of the Afrikaan utterly alone.

The Padishah’s regular forces had been decimated by the war with Europa, and in a desperate show of might he turned to the cruelest monsters and technologies hidden within the Conclaves. Upon the Afrique League he unleashed lumbering arco-flagellants, limbs replaced by electrowhips and hydraulic mauls; screaming berserker slaves, hippocampuses mangled by crude cybernetics to increase aggression; cackling Volkite cultists, who unleashed the terrible heat of their weapons to praise their Burning God and the Devouring Flame; shriveled moisture cannibals from the deep deserts, who ripped men apart to drink of the precious water in their bodies and harvest the fluids for dark rituals; and a hundred other varieties of horrors and monstrosities forgotten to history, each worse than the last.

The Afrikaan host swept over the border unimpeded as the scattered militias of Timbuk were blown aside before the Padishah’s storm of ravening terrors, the regular Afrique soldiers having long withdrawn to fortify the coastal cities. Angron’s town was one of the first to fall, and the Afrikaan marauders slaked their bloodlust on the terrified citizens through all manners of torture and slaughter. The details around what happened to Angron during this time are scarce: Angron himself understandably did not speak much of this event and the only written comments involve a short line in one of his final writings. The only clues are from the journals of a minor officer of the Padishah’s elite Janissor Corps who was assigned to oversee the sacking of Angron’s village, where he writes of an incident regarding a young boy who leapt from the rafters of a burning bakery and stabbed one of his men to death, and who then almost escaped on foot before being shot down by a stun dart to be taken as a slave.

From ruins of his village, Angron was taken to a loot caravan along with the few other survivors, mostly young children like himself who would sell well at the slave markets. They were taken through the scorching heat and swirling sands of the Afrikaan deserts until at last they reached their destination: Karthago, called Carthisisia in the Afrikaan tongue, oldest of the Nord Afrik city-states, seat of His Ascendancy the Padishah. Perched upon the western bank of the great God’s Eye Lake, it was a dusty city of brass and stone, its red stone walls a crumbling reminder of a long and cultured past, its glittering pyramids and temples casting long shadows over the slave bazaars reeking of blood.

In the auction houses, the fierce young boy drew great interest from the old gladiator houses, for a star pit fighter would bring great riches and prestige to anyone who owned him, and when the auctioneer’s hammer finally fell after a round of exorbitant bidding, it was the infamous slaver Nuceria, Queen of Flesh, who won the right to Angron’s collar. After the auction he received Nuceria’s slave mark, the inverted red triangle upon his forehead that marked him as her property, a tattoo he would have for the rest of his life.

The next twelve years of Angron’s life were a nightmare of the most brutal training imaginable, designed to break and beat him into a instrument of slaughter, a sadistic crucible to purify him into a weapon unhindered by morality or humanity. From sunup to sundown on the grounds of Nuceria’s palatial manor Angron was forced to train and fight until his entire body was a tight knot of agony, and every slight failure, misstep, or distraction was punished with beatings. In his first year he was given a puppy to raise as his companion, and on his birthday the next year he was ordered to strangle it with his bare hands. When he refused, he received the first of many electro-whippings. As Angron grew older, Nuceria used him as her headsman, forcing him to mete out the punishments to her other slaves, like cutting off the feet of escapees and executing those who disobeyed.

In this hell Angron grew into a man. At eighteen he already stood well over 6 feet tall, his dusky frame thick with corded muscle, and he was excellent with the sword, superb with the mace, and unmatched with the axe. During one sparring match he killed three of the trainers that had tortured him since his childhood with a blunted training sword until the others managed to intervene, and when Nuceria heard she laughed and said the dead men had done their jobs well.

Yet for all their efforts, they had not broken him. Beneath all the years of horrors and scars upon Angron’s psyche, there was still the core of the simple young boy from Timbuk, the son of parents he no longer remembered, born in a village that no longer existed. It would have been easier to break, to become the monster they wanted, or to place the blame for all the atrocities he had committed on Nuceria and the others who forced his hand. Instead Angron chose to face and accept all that he had done, and when he woke at night, gasping and sweating from the nightmares that haunted him, all he could do was swear to make things right, some way, some how.

When it was time for Angron’s first fight in the pits, to Nuceria’s fury it was to be against Tigris of Franj, a knight taken as a prisoner of war long ago and a long-time veteran of the pits. Nuceria had seen too many promising young talents cut down before their prime by facing wily old fighters before they were ready, and on this match she saw the mark of the other gladiator houses, conspiring with the gamemasters to kill her most promising fighter before he could bloom. For all her rage Nuceria could not challenge their combined authority, and so as Angron stepped out in the sandy arena to face the Franjish knight, she resigned herself to losing a decade of investment.
Angron won in less than 5 minutes. With dispassionate, overwhelming strikes of his axe he dismantled his opponent’s defense piece by piece before battering him down with a furious rain of blows. When the crowd called for Tigris’ death, in defiance of pit custom Angron refused to perform the traditional execution of disemboweling his opponent and strangling him with his own intestines. Instead, he cleanly decapitated Tigris in a single blow, leaving the crowd in a momentary stunned silence before they rose to their in feet in an approving roar to cheer the masterful performance by the young fighter.

Elated, Nuceria took Angron to her slave pens and allowed him to choose any of the slave girls to be his personal courtesan, a prize usually reserved for gladiators that had won ten fights. To Nuceria’s surprise he walked past the cells of beautiful young women to the cells of children. They were frightened, furtive little things, and there Angron picked up a little boy with dark eyes full of defiance and loss, so very much like his own, and said this boy was to be no slave, but his son. And so Angron had found the first of his children, Kharn.

In the next few years Angron became a legend, his matches televised throughout the Conclaves, defeating champion after champion in an unbroken chain of victories. The crowds called him the “Lord of the Red Sands” while Nuceria lavished gifts and privileges on him for his victories, and so Angron’s little family grew as he took several more children under his wing as his sons and daughters. Yet for all his successes and outward displays of obedience, Angron was still haunted by his sins, and the chance for his atonement finally came when he was approached by a group of fellow slaves who asked that he aid them in their escape attempt by killing the guards the protected the motor pool. In return, they would take him and his children with them to freedom in far off Franj. Angron agreed without reservation, and the preparations were made.

Yet rarely were things ever so simple. The night before the planned escape, Angron returned to his quarters after training to find his children’s rooms empty. Nuceria was sitting in her study when Angron burst through the door, his axe dripping with gore from the guards he had slaughtered outside, and froze when he saw his youngest son Macer upon her lap, the baby giggling as the slaver cooed and bounced him in her lap in a mockery of motherhood. Angron demanded to know where his children were. Nuceria replied that they were safe, for the moment, but only if Angron the revealed the names of the conspirators of his escape. Remain silent, she added, and his children would die screaming, and suddenly there was a stiletto in her hand, delicately tracing a line across the baby’s neck. Falling to his knees weeping tears of helpless rage, Angron made his choice, and Nuceria smiled. In the morning, there were dozens of new crucifixes in the courtyard, and the moans and cries of the dying escapees echoed through the manor. Angron could only look on at the new nightmare that would haunt his dreams, and swear a dozen new vows of bloody vengeance.

The chance would come sooner than Angron ever imagined. War came once again to the Nord Afrik Conclaves, but this time in the form of an overwhelming invasion from a mysterious warlord from the Terrawatt Clan. At first, the Afrikaan nobility was filled with bluster, boasting that they would crush this upstart and take him as a slave to be paraded in the streets, yet in only a few short months the main armies of the Conclaves were crushed. The shahs of the Conclaves had imploded into panicked infighting and blame, and whispers spread throughout the fearful streets of Karthago of invincible steel-clad giants who marched in the vanguard of the invading army who crushed all resistance under the shells of their mighty guns.

Soon the enemy army was at the gates of Karthago, and the siege was brief, the spirit of the defending soldiers already broken and the conscripted slaves unwilling to waste their lives for their hated masters. As the walls fell and the fighting neared the estate, Angron knew he would have no better chance to fulfill his vows. In the chaos he pushed his way through panicking servants and slaves to the motor pool, where he found Nuceria with a few guards preparing an armored car for her escape. The guards he swiftly killed before they even had a chance to draw their weapons. For Nuceria, Angron gave her the death she deserved: the gladiator’s death, cutting open her belly and strangling her with her own entrails as she screamed and begged for mercy she had never shown, a final act of irony he hoped would appease his fallen comrades.
With the deed done, Angron took his axe and retreated to his quarters with his children, barricading the door as the sounds of fighting grew ever closer. Soon, he could hear echoing footsteps inside the manor, and he gripped his axe tightly as they drew closer down the hallway.

The door exploded open in a cloud of splinters and dust, and a hulking armored figure ducked through the doorway with a massive gun in its grip. From behind, Angron leapt forward and kicked the back of the intruder’s leg, causing the giant to stumble forward slightly, and with a roar he swung his axe two-handed at its vulnerable head. The axe struck true and hard, and bounced off harmlessly with a clang. The giant turned, and in response drove its armored fist into Angron’s chest. Never in all his training, sparring, or duels had Angron been hit so hard, and he was flung backwards against the wall, vision flickering, gasping and coughing blood through broken ribs and crushed lungs.

The giant stood over him and leveled the gaping muzzle of its gun at Angron’s head, dim light glinting balefully from the red lenses of its helmet, when there was a sudden movement. It was Kharn, screaming and beating at the giant’s leg with his thin arms. The giant looked down at the boy flailing helplessly at its leg and turned towards the sounds of whimpers from the other side of the room where the rest of Angron’s children huddled weeping behind the bed. He looked back down at Angron, and wordlessly the giant plucked Kharn off its leg, tossed him aside, and walked out of the room.

The next few days were a haze of pain as Angron lay in his bed, tended by a few of the old healers who had remained. The city had fallen, they told him, and to their surprise there had been no looting or raping or murder. Instead, the corrupt of the city had been dragged into the streets and purged, all the old slavers and fat nobles and decadent priests, though the Padishah had long fled. So when word spread that the warlord that had taken their city would be coming to visit his new territory, Angron dragged himself out of his bed despite the agony in his chest, and limped his way down to the city gates to take stock of this Warlord who had conquered them so easily.

When the Warlord walked through the city gates, there was a murmur of hushed awe. He was young, his face unlined and dark hair falling to his shoulders, and he towered well above the steel giants beside him, his gold-armored frame standing well over 8 ft tall. In unison, the crowds lining the road began to kneel, an instinct drilled into each of them by their years of service to their masters. But as their knees began to bend, each person felt an invisible force seize them, holding them before their knees could touch the ground. A presence touched their thoughts, vast and overwhelming, yet somehow warm and protective, and it spoke in ringing tones that echoed soundlessly within their minds:

''Do not kneel, for I am no king or conqueror.''

''Do not kneel, for you are slaves and servants to the unworthy no longer.''

''Do not kneel, for though you know it not you are noble and good.''

''Instead, I bid you: STAND.''

And every onlooker felt the force around their bodies reverse, pulling them gently but firmly upwards, until even the most stoopbacked old men found themselves standing as tall and proud as they did in the flower of their youth. They looked up with wide eyes upon the golden stranger before them, and a cry rushed through the crowd as they called out in tongues from a dozen lands.

“Liberator!” “Breaker of chains!” “Savior!” And that is when Angron knew he would fight and die for the Warlord.

See Also: [[Nobledark_Imperium_Writing#Nails|Nails]]

== Corax ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Raven King:'''''

Towards the end of the Wars of Unification the Despot of Ursh and remnants of the Pan-Pacific Empire united out of desperation although for that desperation they were no less formidable.

In the lands of Sino were to be found huge tracts of the richest and most bountiful fields on all of Old Earth in that time and with their produce a seemingly unending number of fighting men and near-men and once-men could be maintained. Those fields though bountiful were tilled with the blood and sweat and breaking backs of a slave caste that knew nothing of war and cared nothing for conquest and whose eyes were cast firmly upon the ground as those that dared to look up were so often the worse for it.

It seemed the Warlord knew that any attempt to invade that place by conventional means would be bloody in the extreme; to his own men, to their men and more tragically to the people he was trying to liberate.

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Ursh had been pushed back and pushed back until it was now one diamond hard core of resilience. Conventional war was to be avoided and Curz's methods of unconventional war were not to be considered.

All that could be done was stand at the border and wait. Although the Warlord could not get in the Despot and his men were contained. Victory by weight of probability and time was assured but time for change to occur would be glacial and all the while suffering and death would be had among the downtrodden masses. Death by time or death by the blade, neither option was palatable.

And into this unhappy standoff Corax, the one who would one day be known as the Stormcrow, arose.

Uninformed and downtrodden as they were the slaves of Sino were far from stupid if only because stupidity was far from a survival trait in their harsh world. They had hear of the Warlord, they had heard of his new Imperium and they had heard of the freedoms it offered. They wanted that. Few would dare try to run the border because of what the Urshi would do to their loved ones left behind and what the foul men of the Khanate did to those they found running away.

Among them arose a man from the factories who had spent too long toiling for cruel masters and starving whilst his oppressors feasted. His family were dead by one means or another be it contagion, sport or ritual and he was left with critically little left to loose.

His job afforded him a basic but working knowledge of alchemy and reaction and he often handled equipment that was only considered tools rather than weapons because of how it was used. Corax was a very angry man but also a very cunning man whose anger was tempered by age earned wisdom and set for the long simmer rather than full boil. This was good as he was surrounded by a lot of other very angry people who also needed to be taught that patience and anger could work very well together.

By simple but time trusted methods of communication the words of rebellion spread. It was not without cost or casualty but those sufferings were just more fuel for the long burn of hate. It is possible that the rebellion would have died in it's infancy but for the forces and resources and attention being diverted to the borders where the Warlord circled, waiting for some weakness to show.

When the hammer finally came down it was like half the nation caught fire all at once. Caught unaware vast numbers of the fearsome warriors trying to out stare the Warlord at the border were frantically pulled back to keep the heartlands in good order. Perhaps this was a miscalculation on the part of the Generals responsible for the descision. Certainly the Despot thought so if the flayed and violated but still somehow living bodies of those generals adorning the palace walls are anything to attest to.

With the sudden depletion of massed soldiery on the borders the tables had turned sufficiently to make conventional invasion a realistic possibility. And at the head of the vanguard was Angron whose account of the first battles would have made historically important reading had he been persuaded to write anything down about it.

Caught between the forces of Corax and his merciless insurgency who knew all about cruelty and the forces of the Warlord that were as unstoppable as the sunrise the forces of Ursh were driven from the lands of Sino to their last strongholds where they licked their wounds and waited for the end that was not slow in it's arrival.

The people or Corax, freed for the fist time in time beyond living memory, looked towards the ordered and disciplined (except for Angron who had to be sedated) forces with wary eyes. They were not slaves now and would never bend a knee to a man again.

Corax, to his credit, did know that there was a world of difference between taking an nation and holding it. His people were brave and tenacious and could be vicious when provoked. But he knew deep down that they could not run a nation and all would soon descend into anarchy at best and re-enslavement or death at worse.

When the Warlord strode across the quietened field of victory towards the Stormcrow Corax could see in his eyes that it was one man greeting another as an equal, brothers in battle and free men.

Corax knew he would need to use what temporary authority he had as leader of a victorious rebellion to direct his people into a cohesive whole now that the immediate threat was removed and the Warlord knew that they were distrustful of outsiders and wouldn't take kindly to direct orders. A compromise was quickly reached. The most competent seeming of Corax's people would be given positions of authority in the newly freed nation but would also be provided with advisors and assistants from the newly formalized Administratum on loan for as long as they were wanted.

It was not long after that the weathered man that was Corax witnessed the final and lasting death of the Ursh and ever afterwards was he disappointed that he didn't get to deal the killing blow.

As Old Earth was brought to a new golden age the now Steward's eye turned upward to the inky black. To the far places of Luna and Mars and the Jovians and further, so very much further.

He knew he would need men he could trust in both loyalty and competence. People to act in his stead. Of these twenty most gifted and proven individuals Corax was one. When it came to covertly setting traps and ambushes he had no equal. Sadly he was well beyond the age when super soldier treatments become a viable possibility to say nothing of the two prosthetic lungs Imperium loyal tech-adepts had gifted him to undo the effects of thirty years of toxic fume inhalation in his old job. He did receive some discrete cybernetic enhancements and longevity treatments but nothing that wouldn't allow him to pass as human.

The skills he had learned and instilled in his new legion were of great use in the Unification of Sol. One of the earliest and most charictaristic victoris was when the dissidents breaking away after the Magi of Mars pledged alliance to the Empty Throne swiftly found themselves making considerable compromises as their air recycles all spontaneously exploded. Ever a man of the people Corax would always choose the path of least collateral damage over expediency or personal safety.

As the Unification of Sol turned into the Great Crusade Primarch Corax found that there were all too many kindred souls enslaved on distant worlds to terrible masters, some human and some xeno and some hideous beyond categorization.

Although the Raven Guard did posses Astartes soldiers (favoring a more refined version of the earlier model rather than the latter models) they were only typically used for the killing blow. The bulk of the Legion was mere mortal men who were far more adept at cover tagging of targets and walking among the downtrodden masses unobserved. When the Space Marines were called in and the fireworks went off the action was intense, devastating and brief. Quick decapitations with little mess were what his legionaries prided themselves in and it served them well. The people of the worlds they liberated loved them. The Men of Earth, that legendary birth world of humanity, had come back to save them and it was joyful.

But of Corax no rest was had in celebration or revelry. If his victories had taught him one thing it was that they were necessary and they hadn't run out of worlds to free. There would be no rest till they reached the edge of the galaxy and all the worlds in between.

The Raven Guard in their way operated in a manner mirror to that of the Night Lords in those hopeful days of the Great Crusade. The Night Lords would terrorize and scatter and slaughter but leave the technology and architecture of a world intact in preparation for a killing blow, the Imperium had no shortage of people and a replacement population could always be brought in. The Raven Guard preferred to destroy infrastructure but spare those who knew how to repair and maintain it in preparation for the final strike with the certainty that expertise could not be easily replaced. The Raven Guard argued that the entire endeavour of the Great Crusade was to save humanity, not slaughter it. The Night Lords agreed but saw no point is loosing sleep over the loss of individual humans sacrificed for the good of the whole.

Both rival primarchs despised one another, both raised good points, both were most effective when fighting in concert with a more direct Legion or similar fighting force and neither were openly brought to heel by the Steward because both were undeniably effective. Twice, in the days of the Great Crusade, the Crow and the Haunter came to blows although their Legions never went to war against each other. Barely.

When the Beast arose among the orks and the Great Crusade ran into it's equal and opposite the nature of the Raven Guard changed. Just as the Night Haunters were occasionally called in, to their disgust, to protect refugee convoys so were the Raven Guard called in to euthanize populations contaminated irreparably. To say that Corax found these orders distasteful would be a gross understatement. Out of all the Primarchs it was Corax who was first to outright disobey a direct order from the Steward. He would not bring nuclear fire down upon a civilian target. He and his men would not abandon their principles, not even in the face of annihilation.

It was upon the fate of the once thriving cultural hub that was the planet Azoth that the Raven Guard made their stand. The world was infected but they believed, they knew in their heart of hearts, that it could be saved. The force to retake it was led by the Stormcrow himself who needed to show the Steward that no such drastic steps needed ever to be taken.

Upon that world something in the heart of Corax died at what he saw. At the barbarity and the debauchery and the unholy violations he could never of dreamed of, not even the most depraved Despot of the Urshi could have dreamed of. ██████████████████████████████Data Expunged. -][- . Hydra Dominatus.████████████████████████.

Never again, the Stormcrow vowed, never again would he inflict such cruelty for the sake of human pity and the bleeding conscience of one old man. Indeed the primarch did feel old and in some way untouchable by rejuveneant treatments did look it now more than ever. Azoth was sterilized with atomic fire, a monument to all that should be reviled.

For the sense of well being that it cost one general the Imperium did at least learn of the Chaos Eldar earlier than they otherwise might have. Despite his disobedience Corax faced no censure from the Steward for showing pity and sorrow in his work, if he had shown joy then maybe things would have gone rather differently for him but the Steward would not punish a man for being human.

For the most part the Raven Guard served in the War of the Beast with great valor an uncommon cunning striking far harder than their numbers would suggest. Their greatest ally, they would claim in later years, was the orkish nature to infighting when their leaders were removed. Whole sub-WAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!s would grind to a halt as Nob after Warboss was subject to fatal ambush and inhumanly precise assassinations. Purely against the orks it is possible that the Raven Guard had no equal.

But it was not purely against the orks. Children of Chaos were abroad and of them the Raven Guard could not out maneuver readily. The forces of the dark gods reaped a heavy toll as hunts were turned inside out and the weakness of using so many mere mortal men was exposed. Astartes, it was often claimed, knew no fear, but baseline humanity did and that played right into the hands of the Croneworlders.

It is unknown how many of these sworn to service under Corax fell. Many who venerate the Stormcrow Primarch would claim that none did but they are blined by pride. The numbers are hard to tell in a legion that so loves the shadows and when they struck it was from a direction those in command did not see coming and so the wounds were felt all the deeper. Exact numbers may never be known beyond "too many".

Perhaps it was having to deal with these traitors, perhaps it was getting mired in a war of attrition against the orks or out outmaneuvered buy the fallen eldar or maybe some combination of all three but Corax and all save a token force of his vanguard, like his old rival, was not on Old Earth when Sanguinius died and the great Beast was slaughtered. Some blamed him but none so much as he himself did.

The wars of reconquest and the rebuilding of the Imperium was not a war that the Raven Guard were well sited for. Their primary means of warfare was one of carefully stalked targets and swift simultaneous executions. The reconquest of the Imperium with it's muddied waters and sliding scales of loyalty was something they found difficult to adapt to and in the years that followed they lost nearly as many as they did to the Beast's predations.

By the time the Imperium was stabilized and looking even anything like it had once done the Raven Guard was a shattered remnant of it's former glory and it's primarch was almost broken. Corax had seen too much he held dear despoiled, to many dreams crushed. The Steward tried to comfort him but his kind words fell upon deaf ears. In Corax's mind the Great Crusade, the greatest accomplishment of the human species, had failed and he had maybe played no small part in that failing.

To his credit he never let his sorrows interfere with his work. The Raven Guard was built up far more modestly in scale and in the place of a Legion a hundred Chapters were built in the centuries that followed. By the time that the last of the first commissioned chapters was declared ready for duty Corax was an old withered man. His early life had been hard and he had started on the rejuvenants relatively late in life and it showed.

Of Corax's ultimate fate the truth is unknown. He would, in those ancient times, travel between the newly minted chapters to inspect and advise and occasionally accompany on missions but like always he made few aware of his movements and would often drop in unannounced and leave abruptly. Which chapter he last visited is up for debate as many records are contradictory at best and nonsensical at worse but all is known is that one day he just vanished.

Some hold out hope, even unto the Dark Millennium, that the Raven King will return.

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== Alpharius & Omegon ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">''''' The Beginning and the End: '''''

"I am the Alpha and Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End." these are the last known records of the primarchs "Alpharius and Omegon". All documents and records pertaining to these individuals were deleted by Inquisition, those that were thought to be associated with the primarchs disappeared and all that was left was a parchment with those words and a small wax stamp beneath depicting the Lernaean hydra of old terran mythology. Now the only way to learn about the individuals and their legacy is by eyewitness accounts and rumours that have slipped beneath the inquisitions watchful gaze.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

One eyewitness report tells of two figures clad in dark robes standing next to the Warlord and his war council, they describe that the figures were much shorter than the other in the council.

It is unknown if these are the individuals known as Alpharius and Omegon because other reports say that they were tall men fighting battles and cutting down enemies. It is now even known if they are two persons and might in fact be one individual. This comes from a witness that said to have met a man dressed in the clothes of a highly revered official that presented himself as "Alpharius Omegon". All that is known that there was at one point one or more individuals called Alpharius and Omegon. But what is known is that he or they had a large part in the counterintelligence and espionage of the unification war. They were said to be masters of infiltration and supposedly had a deep network of agents and assassins so that the mysterious individuals could act at multiple places at once. This network is thought to become what we now know as the Inquisition.

"Cut off one head and two shall take it’s place."<br>
-Last words spoken from a prisoner before committing suicide.

A popular theory about the origins of the mysterious individuals, is that they were the members of the even less known ██████████ that were a secret society of old terra. It’s thought that that they joined the warlord after seeing the potential power that they could have they sent their most loyal and brightest two members to help the Warlord in his endeavours.

"You search the darkness, while we hide in the light. You see not the serpent lying in wait, you see only a brother. We witnessed your beginning and we will be your end."<br>
-Said to be whispered to an Imperial official before her assassination.

Another theory is that they originate from ███ ████ a group of Xenos set on destroying the "primordial annihilator" and thus sent their best human operatives to aid the Warlord and his future plans.

"Cut the head off the snake and the body will die shortly after"
-thought to be a direct quote from either Alpharius or Omegon.

Alpharius and Omegon are thought to be major members in the creation of the inquisition and that after the alliance with the eldar their influence has only increased. Acting as puppet masters, they are thought to be behind both the starting of wars and the ending of them, doing as they see fit for the better of the imperium.

It was around ████ that all records and documents of Alpharius and Omegon were deleted. Theories say that they had died and that their successors order the purge of information surrounding the primarchs so that their legacy and actions can be forgotten. Other theories say that the warlord declared them traitors and therefore got rid of all evidence of their existence.

But yet to this day there are whispers about legions of men and women walking among us, executing the orders of their puppets masters, killing the corrupt, eliminating the foe from the inside and bearing the brand of the hydra

"Hydra Dominatus"<br>
-Alpharius and Omegon, the Beginning and the End

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[[Category:Nobledark Imperium]]

Nobledark Imperium Primarchs

2020-11-26T14:25:42Z

2001:8003:D01A:2500:78E3:F6BA:DADE:20D4: /* Fulgrim */

'''This page is part of the Nobledark Imperium, a fan re-working of the Warhammer 40,000 Universe. See the [[Nobledark Imperium|Nobledark Imperium Introduction]] and [[Nobledark Imperium|Main Page]] for more information on the alternate universe'''

To Do:
* Finish Fulgrim and Angron
* Write up Dorn

[[Image:Astartes_Evolution_V2.jpg|thumb|History of super soldier augmentations in the Imperium]]

In his conquests of Old Earth and Sol, the Warlord created the title of Primarch and awarded it to twenty of his greatest generals, that they might become leaders of leaders. This was partly to maintain an ordered hierarchy but also to promote autonomy within his forces. The Warlord's long-term dream at the time was creating a system of governance so efficient that he would become obsolete. His short-term dream at the time was to free up enough time to spend all evening in the pub. Of the twenty awarded that rank, only eighteen are — by name and deed — remembered by history under that most magnific of titles.

Although all of the primarchs commanded a legion of super soldiers, not all of them were Astartes. Some primarchs were earlier types of super soldier, whereas others were incompatible with the proceedure. Some were too old to receive any kind of full-scale augmentation — though they were given rejuvenants, cybernetics and limited gene-forging. The Imperium experimented with many types of super soldiers before eventually developing the Mark III MP (Mass Production) Pattern. Each of these models can count at least one Primarch among their ranks.

Human(ish)
* Lorgar
* Roboute Guilliman
* Corvus Corax
* Magnus (Especially bizarre genetics made him incompatible with any augmentations save the most basic juvenants)
* Horus (Abhuman, member of the Void Born migrant fleet born on Luna)
* Ferrus Manus (Heavily augmented, but a Mechanicum Skitarii, not an Astartes or Thunder Warrior)
Early Thunder Warrior
* Angron
Refined (Late Stage) Thunder Warrior
* Perturabo
* Mortarion
Canis Helix
* Leman Russ
Mark I Astartes
* Rogal Dorn
* Jaghatai Khan (Maybe Mark II. Dorn was mentioned to be one of the last of the Mark Is and still had problems)
Mark II Astartes
* Fulgrim
Mark III MP Astartes
* Conrad Kurze
Mark III S Astartes
* Sanguinius
* Lion El'Jonson
* Vulkan

== Horus ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">''''' The King of Empty Space: '''''

[[Image:1484667029816.jpg|thumb|Primarch Horus Lupercal, King of Empty Space.]]

''"Somehow I thought he'd be... well... gold-ier"''<br>
— Horus Lupercal, speaking of his first impressions of the Warlord

The exact birth date of Horus is not easy to pin down, as the calendar used by the Void Born of Sol was one used by no one else, and didn’t use the Earth Year as the basic measure of time. The particular calendar used by Tribe Lupercal fell out of use, in any case, within a few generation of the death of Abaddon the Last and the disbanding of the Void Born as a unified nation.

What is known is that, by the final days of the Earth Unification Wars, Horus Lupercal was a man of renown and considerable accomplishment. His age was always difficult to judge, as up until his twilight years he remained spry, lively, and remarkable well preserved. When the Warlord first made contact with him he was described as being in his late prime to very early middle years in age. In appearance, he was much like all Void Born; freakishly tall and thin, pale, and in possession of large eyes and pianist hands. His face was much accustomed to smiling and his mouth contained three gold teeth; generally he evoked an image of a second-hand starship salesman in the people that met him.

The Void Born were not, in those ancient days, a unified people — though they were more cooperative amongst their own kind than baseline humanity ever was. They attributed this to the constant exposure to the bottomless depths of the inky blackness; space is vast and good friends are few. Yes, they would swindle, cheat, and engage in cutthroat business practices, but never to the point of death. Of all the myriad branches of humanity, in those days theirs was the only one willing to ply the starry sea. How Horus Lupercal, son of Maherpa, of the Lunar Lagrange Point rose from a humble bulk haulage transporter to representative of the Void Born as a unified people is the stuff of legends amongst the Merchant Navy and early Rogue Trader dynasties, and like most legends is almost certainly mostly bullshit.

Whatever the case, it was not long before the final defeat of Ursh that Horus found himself in a support harness on the surface of Old Earth, unsteadily approaching the Warlord’s tent a few miles behind the front lines. Exactly what they discussed that day is not in any recorded history, and the event itself was witnessed by only a precious few — Sigillite Malcador and Lord Guilliman among them. But beer was drunk and hands were shook, and Horus returned to his people and the blessed lightness of empty space.

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The nation of Ursh was brought to an end the next day, for all that their underground resistance would persist for nigh on twenty years after.

The Warlord — now Steward — appointed his twenty greatest the rank of Primarch. Among their exalted ranks was Horus, who soon after was crowned King of Empty Space by the unanimous vote of the great matriarchs and patriarchs of his people.

Some time after the King’s death, archived audio records revealed that the Olympus Mons Priesthood of Mars had also offered him vassalage — at not unreasonable terms — some days after the deal with the Warlord was made;

“So you're saying you'd rather be vassal to the Terrawatt apostate's flesh-smith than master of our every ship for perpetuity? You scorn the shipwrights of your forefathers! You scorn the smiths of time immemorial! What nerve you have, Lord-Admiral, what—”

“Nerve, is it? Certainly, it is nerve, magos. He promised me a partnership, as fruitful and even as the bargain you propose. He'd have me be his indispensable confederate until the end of my days, and as lord of my people. I made sure he stood as I knelt to the throne, and swore no oath he had not. I set the terms of my service, and I chose my mandate.”

“The gilt conqueror has amassed the treasures of man's eldest ruin, and he dotes mightily upon his subjects. More than that, he is unabashedly greedy.”

“Oh yes, his greed for self-possessed statesmen and commanders is vast, and his appetite for men wiser than he insatiable. I am the admiral of my ships, and of his ships, and all ships he might gain henceforth, and command his navy just as my own. He is steward of my people, and he is bound to them, each and every. Not just for as long as I hold them as one but instead in perpetuity, so long as his empire stands.”

And so was undone — with no small bitterness — an older arrangement between the Void Born and the Mechanicum, each feeling betrayed by the other. It was perhaps not such a heavy or saddening burden on the Primarch’s heart as it might have been, as he had never dealt with the Olympus Mons Brotherhood and so felt no real loyalty to them. In the days of his youth and in his father’s service, they had dealt with lesser — and less arrogant — brotherhoods. The Olympus Mons Brotherhood had subjugated them all, and thus felt they were entitled to take on their obligations and owed their respective loyalties. But Horus had shaken no hands with them.

It should be noted that, despite the public image of the unshakable trust and confidence the Steward had in his primarchs, Horus did worry him somewhat — and worried the other Primarchs rather more. Horus dreamed of an Imperium with almost no centralized authority and an almost non-existent hierarchy; each world independent and sovereign, united in mutual friendship but beholden to no one but themselves, and with no authority past their own bounds.

In Horus’ vision humanity would be, in some distant age, diversified into cultivated and pure abhumanism; a type of tool for every job and a type of human for every world, all united in a shared common humanity. Humanity was in its infancy compared to the Eldar, true, but unlike the Eldar we would not forget our roots. To him, the Imperium was not a final product, but rather a mere stepping-stone towards some strange utopia of a “Star Union”.

These visions did not sit well with the Steward at all. Nevertheless, though Horus was willing to privately challenge the Steward's vision for humanity, he never crossed the line and tried to aggressively implement anything to that effect. As the Emperor could wait and play the long game, so too could Horus. He saw his vision as inevitable; maybe it would start to take shape in some near century or some unimaginably distant age, but he could wait.

The great ships of the Migrant Fleets now stood with the Steward, whose eyes were fixed upon the warring states of the Far-Orbit colonies on the moons of Neptune and Uranus, the Jovian and Saturnine nations, the settlements of the asteroids belt and the Kuiper belt, and the ultimately to the distant stars. Suddenly, those stars seemed not so distant.

It would be Horus’ people who would take them there. His formidable ships would be at the forefront of the frontier, at the bleeding edge where the Imperium met wilderness space. At the place where profit, fame and fortune could be made and where legends were forged. In every way possible, his people were going to make a killing off of this deal.

The Void Born, though master sailors of the starry seas, made for poor soldiers. Upon their ships were placed bondsmen of the Imperial Army and the fearsome and awe-inspiring Astartes pattern Space Marines. In essence, Horus now had his own Legion on top of being a necessary participant in the operations of all the other Legions, as he was the one with the ships. There was not a war he didn’t have a hand in, not a victory his people not accredited with having done their part.

But of these victories, he would claim, none were a grand as those that came to the Imperium willingly — as he had, not so long ago. Deals were ripe for the making, trade could flow, riches could be shared and increased, and all the petty little worlds had to do was reach out a hand. Of all the Primarchs only Lorgar managed to get more worlds to join the Imperium bloodlessly.

Time wore on and the borders were pushed back. The Void Born soon found themselves with more — more ships made, more wars victorious, more trade flowing, more deals made, more riches pouring into their coffers, more fame and fortune, more stories and glories — than even Horus could have dreamed of, all those years ago in that far away tent on some forgotten battlefield. It was a golden age after the ten thousand years of the Long Night. It was in this golden age that Abaddon, nephew of Horus, was born.

Horus had no children (that he knew about) and so took the young Void Born as his heir and protégé, and tried to instill in the child the skills that had led him down the road to kingship and riches. But to Horus’ mixed shame and pride, Abaddon turned into more of an admiral than a salesman. That was not to say that he didn’t learn much from Horus — quite the opposite — as Abaddon was no poor diplomat and could play the part of the blunt-but-lovable old soldier to his advantage, and manipulate an Administratum requisitions committees as well as any royal court. It was just as well, as there weren’t enough Void Born to fill the Navy by that time — and hadn’t been for decades, if truth be known. The Imperium was growing faster and faster still, producing ships faster than his people could fill them, making it a necessity for baseline humans to fill the berths of the Imperium's voidships. Horus was Void Born to the marrow and had grown up in another time. A time that was all but gone now. Abaddon would be the sort to inherit Empty Space.

As the forces of the Void Wolves — as his forces had collectively become known by that point — were at the edge of Imperial Space, it was they that were first alerted to the arrival of The Beast.

The Beast’s forces, raised across a thousand star systems and launched simultaneously with disturbingly un-orky precision, swatted aside hundreds of ships in a matter of hours across a front twenty thousand lightyears long. After that, his people would need no incitement to vengeance — no rhetoric of Warlords or Stewards or hypothetical Emperors. Blood had been spilled in Empty Space, and for the Void Born — as has been since the days of the first space pirates — only one thing could wash away a debt of blood: more blood.

It says something of the presumptiveness of Chaos that they tried to deal with the Pale Primarch, at that point still believing that they had remained hidden. They believed Horus and his people to be degenerate mutants; too slow witted to realize that the Orks were not the orchestrators of this war.

They promised him dominion of the stars, the birth of his Stellar Union. They knew that he knew that the Steward would never allow it to be in his lifetime, but with their help all could be as it ought to be. He would be exalted from now to the day the last star went out. All he had to do was simply wait the war out.

Horus would have none of it;

"Your offer sounds interesting. But you forget one thing: I am a captain of the migrant fleet and a businessman. In this place, I am the one who makes the deals. Now get off my ship."

It would be disingenuous to say that Horus had not considered sitting out the War of the Beast; he was a merchant prince at heart, and knew first-hand the advantages of considering alternatives and making cost-benefit analyses. However, he realized that not coming to the aid of the Imperium, regardless of his own political opinions, would kill any hope of a long-term "Star Union" — a fact only reinforced by the attempted temptation of the Chaos Gods. Even if humanity survived the War of the Beast, brother would blame brother for a perceived lack of help and poison any attempt at a long term "Star Union". And, perhaps most importantly, Horus had sworn an oath to the Steward centuries past. To Horus Lupercal, a man without his word was no man at all.

The people of the Void Born were not as numerous as the baseline humans and for a time it looked as though, by throwing their lot in with the Imperium, Horus had doomed them to extinction. But Horus and the wise admirals under his command could be all too sure of one thing: Chaos would have come for them in time, Imperium or no. The War needed to be over quickly. It needed to be over before his people left the stars forever.

The King of Empty Space went to the Steward and proposed a plan. A desperate and needed plan. By misdirection and feigned weakness, the forces of the Imperium would funnel the hordes of the Beast to Old Earth. Orkish psychology would demand that The Beast himself be at the head of the incursion and there — deep in the heart of Imperial territory — they would close the trap and decapitate the WAAAGH!!! of The Beast. Without their leader the orks would fall apart and fight each other, and without their meat shields the Chaos Eldar would flee.

Horus was not on the surface of Old Earth to witness the death of the Angel-Primarch. He knew that none of the other Primarchs knew of his plan to force the end of the war. He knew that they would blame him; he could tell them that the war needed to be ended, a war of attrition against Orks was a slow walk into the grave and as relentless as a gravity well. He could have told them that this had been the only hope of victory. HE knew it all to be true. Maybe they would agree, maybe they would not. Maybe it didn’t matter in the face of victory. But it was a bitter victory, given the cost and the ruin the Imperium had suffered. The Golden Age was over, and now it seemed that Long Night had never really left.

In the subsequent years — and accompanying reconstruction and rejuvenation — of the Imperium, the Merchant Navy was instrumental in the rebuilding efforts, to the point of being equal to the forces of the Imperial Army in importance. Broken and scared worlds looked to the heavens and the Pale Men of the stars with pleading and love. Horus was old, now, and a little broken inside. But maybe helping the battered and bruised people of the Imperium, seeing their gratitude and their heartfelt smiles, healed something in Horus' heart, in some small way.

Many expected that Horus would launch a coup against the Steward around this time; the Imperium was on its knees, its allies were weary, and many of the generals and the old Mechanicum brotherhoods would have followed him without question. For all his faults — for all his trials and failures — Horus was still hellishly charismatic and could sell anyone anything, whether it be a used cargo hauler or a new dream.

The Imperium waited, and it seemed like all powers that be in the Imperium — the Primarchs and generals, the lords and their assassins, the movers and shakers and the influence-peddlers — all stood poised to spring in one direction or another at his word. That word never came. Maybe he had given up on his dream of a galactic union, or perhaps he saw it as something that could only be born from the Imperium. We will never know. But for three hundred years the Imperium waited for a rebellion that would never come. A man without his word is no man at all.

Void Born are fragile creatures by nature and their bodies can’t deal with alchemy in the blood well, making it is easy for them to overdose on drugs and medicines. The rejuvenant drugs that kept him in some manner of youth had to be of a lower dosage, and now even that was starting to fail altogether. His body was too frail for the longevity treatments designed for baseline humans. Primarch Horus Lupercal, King of Empty Space, would die soon.

An entirely plausible story — held as true by the Sons of Horus and official Imperial history — put forward this unusual reaction to rejuveants as an explanation of the Lord-Admiral's recorded vigor and mental acuity, even unto the last years of his life, as well as his ceremonious abdication to Prince Abaddon several years before his death. That the Lord-Admiral spent those years assembling an entourage of notable captains, as he flitted between the systems of the Imperium, has been relegated to obscure tomes of history. Around this time, Horus threw his considerable clout into numerous ambitious projects, and was often present in the orbits of Old Earth, Mars, and Jupiter, as well as the systems of Chthonia and Prospero. Of all his works in these last decades, he is recorded to have shown greatest interest in the creation of an Imperial capital upon the Chthonian ring, the work of the Martian explorator fleets, and the collaborations of Fulgrim and Ferrus Mannus. These projects are acknowledged to have laid the groundwork for much of the Imperial Navy's own capacity for independent logistics and development. The order that would become the Sons of Horus had its roots in this period, intended by Horus to see his vision of a humanity truly suited to interstellar civilization well into the future. Horus died nineteen years after his abdication and was entombed on his personal warship. Age took him quickly in the end, but he went into the Long Sleep knowing that he had served his people and the Imperium well, and that a good man would take up his burdens.

His tomb has never been opened, but upon that basalt slab still stands the Corona Nox. Waiting for a worthy brow to sit upon.

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== Leman Russ ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Great Wolf''''' - or ''The Lapdog:''

The story of Leman Russ starts in the land of Skand, among the Nordyc peoples. He was born to a woman called Ragna, who was considered to be wise, if not especially beautiful, by the clans and so her affections were oft courted. Russ’ father was Thengir, tribal king of the Kalararit people. That his mother and father were not married was seen as not particularly odd by the peoples of Skand. Especially when his father was Thengir.

Russ’ education was about as formal as it was ever going to get among a tribe of fishermen, semi-raiders and occasional traders. Although most Kalararit men did not become warriors as a full time profession, all were expected to be able to fight in times of need. It was in this pursuit that Russ found his calling, for the ways of war came easy to him. He grew tall and broad at the shoulders, with powerful musculature and boundless stamina. He became well-versed in the care and maintenance of his tribe's weapons, from autoguns to the humble war axe. He was peerless in the execution of ambush warfare on land and boarding actions upon the cold seas. Sadly, the ways of the scholar did not come as readily to his mind. Although by no means unintelligent, Russ did not — especially in his youth — have the temperament for understanding the needs of large-scale or long-term expeditions.

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In time, Russ grew to be the strong right hand of King Thengir — who had lost his own literal right hand some years previously, in a bitter and bloody dispute with the former King Clovis Fouché of Franj. This hatred of the Franj would never leave him, for Russ could be very stubborn.

The men and women of the Kalararit respected Russ — who could be quite charming, in a blunt sort of way. Russ did take his first wife by own choice, rather than at his father’s insistence. Linnea was probably the one part of softness in Russ’ life, and possibly the only thing in later years that held his bloodlust in check. Many of the Kalararit suspected that she possessed more wisdom than he. She certainly possessed great patience.

It was when Russ was still a young man that a foreigner in dusty grey robes came to his father’s thatched hall with offerings — of strong wine, silks, and laser rifles — in chests with lightning bolt heraldry upon them. His companions were strange, for their armour was of a sort not seen in the lands of Skand or its neighbours; they were silver and matte grey, segmented with face covering helmets. The foreigner walked with the aid of a stick with a metal eagle perched atop it, and was accompanied by a giant dressed in the manner of a common man. This was the first time that Russ saw the man who would soon be know to Old Earth as The Warlord.

Some time into the deliberations between the robed man and the king, another giant — this one dressed in the manner of a wandering shaman — strode into the hall, and was called over by the first giant to sit beside him. At the time Russ thought little of it, and just assumed it not unreasonable that a giant would have giant kin. This was the first he saw of Magnus the Red — and many times down the centuries he wished it had been the last.

Over the next few months, other tribal chieftains and kings found themselves drawn to the hall of Thengir the Cripple. Much was discussed, marriages were arranged, oaths sworn, and gifts exchanged. It was disconcerting for Russ; to the young warrior's mind, the world was changed by strong men doing great deeds — with blood and iron and sweat. But here he watched as old men and scribes carved up the world, and told the future how it was going to be.

This — he thought as he looked at the maps and the increasingly long lists being drawn — this was true power. One great warrior could do great deeds, but this was something rather more lasting.

There were some — tribes, clans, and petty little kingdoms — that would not entertain the notions of peace. They saw the plans of Malcador and The Warlord for what they were; the soft subjugation, capitulation, compromise, and surrender of the signatories. They had pride, they had their principles — for it was the strong who dominated the weak — and they would not roll over and submit. They left the great hall of the Kalararit, and never again would they be welcomed there.

Of the tribes that were incapable of seeing reason long enough to join this new alliance, all were left behind to die in their old world of savagery — by one means or another. Most simply withered and died, as the Nordyc peoples formed a true nation and they could no longer attract new blood — for all their young had left to find new work and new lives, in the rebuilt cities of Gamsta and Akershus and the reclaimed and prosperous farmlands that surrounded them.

Few were foolish enough to outright attack the fledgling Imperium. Few but still some. These tribal savages were brought to ruin by the Nordyc men who insisted — nay demanded — that it be they who dealt with this problem, for all that they were they had once been friends and brothers all. As with the Old Ways, the warriors and kings of the barbarian tribes were slain; their women and children assimilated into the more prosperous tribes to be cared for, and their lands given to young Skandish men and women looking to found tribes of their own. It would be the last time this old law of conquest would ever be practiced by the people of Skand. Russ was present at the closing of that era, smoking and pungent with the fresh blood of the slain though it was. It was not a thing in which he found any joy, but he knew it had to be done.

It was from some unremembered tribe — slain by his hand, no less — that he obtained his second wife. Febronia had been a court slave kept by a petty chief too lazy to learn basic literacy, and thus she was fluent in an improbably large number of languages — both written and spoken — and passable in many others. Not of the Nordyc peoples herself, but a former slave bought from exotic climes, Febronia's marriage was nevertheless at the insistence of Russ' aging father — Russ, after all, was a wealthy warrior of the nobility and it was his duty to care for the slain.

Linnea was, to her credit, understanding of the situation. It was the way of things for her people in that era, even though that era was drawing to a close. In time she and Febronia became good friends. It was often joked by Russ' companions that he preferred the battlefield to the hearth of home, as he felt less outnumbered. Between them, Russ and his wives had many children — but by some fluke of genetics and chance they had only birthed daughters.

It was at about this time that the Thunder Warrior program was being phased out. The two alternate branches of Super Soldier production that the Imperium was perusing were the Canis Helix project and the Astartes project.

The first test subjects of both yielded positive results, but ultimately Russ volunteered for the former as it would complement and enhance his own strengths. By pure chance, he was spared the crippling mutations and biological failures that plagued those that took this choice in the years that followed. Indeed, he was one of only a handful of successes, and the only other to have survived both the Canis Helix tests and the passage of time was Bjorn "Fellhanded" of Kraken Bay.

Although the "Dog Soldiers" — as the Canis Helix super soldiers came to be derogatorily known as — fought magnificently and ferociously, the failure rate and the nature of the failures was too much for the Warlord to accept. The whole project was scrapped, its resources given over to the more reliable Super Soldier branches.

As time and war ground onward, the Nordyc regiments earned both fame and infamy, for they were brutally effective but, The Warlord felt, with too much emphasis placed upon brutal. Much like the bloody antics of Curze and the calculated atrocities of Mortarion, this was permitted under sufferance. Victory was always afforded some leeway, and the wars were only ever a means to an end — and Russ's carnage was expediting that end.

The Skandish raised regiments — the newly minted Wolves of the North — in the final days of the wars with the Ursh-Pacific union, and were found to be more suited to harrying moving forces and preventing the enemy from receiving reinforcements, allowing a smoother and less costly victory for the other Legions. To their immense regret, however, the Wolves were never present in the major battles.

As Old Earth united and The Steward looked to the stars, Russ was elevated to the exalted rank of Primarch.

To the disgust of Russ, so were Lion of House El'Jonson and Magnus the Red.

The Lion, as a knight of Franj and a member of House El'Jonson, was both an ancestral and recent enemy; Lion's brother Luther was responsible for the late king Thengir's maiming. Magnus the Red was a warp dabbling mutant who confessed to having consorted with daemons. Both had personalities that were utterly incompatible with Russ' own — and the feeling was mutual. It was rare that Legion elements under their jurisdictions would work together.

Russ was the first to recruit warriors from beyond Sol into his superhuman ranks. The people of Fenris were excellent recruitment stock — even if they were from a barbaric and primitive planet and needed extensive education to learn the discipline necessary for war. Russ himself was from a discontinued line of super soldiers; though possessing savage fighting temperaments and heightened senses, the modifications of the "Dog Soldiers" were dangerously unstable, and the Canis Helix Project proved to be too untenable even for the best minds in the Imperium. If news of the monsters born from the project had become common knowledge on Earth, the Warlord's support would have crumbled. But on a distant world as remote and seldom visited as Fenris, the project could not only be buried but begun anew at Russ' behest. After all, any monsters arising from the Project were the problem of a few distant primitives, certainly not the concern of the glorious Terra. For his part, the Emperor at first claimed no knowledge of the new Canis Helix soldiers, and even when he did learn of it he trusted Russ' claims of the failure rate as being "well within acceptable parameters", thus leaving Fenris and its canine guardians well alone.

The Space Wolves, as the legion became known, quickly made up for their questionable origins by serving with great distinction during the Great Crusade, excelling at tracking a target and assassinating them — often in close-quarters combat. Regrettably, in the wretched days of the War of the Beast, a number of the wolves were tempted down the bath of bloodshed for bloodshed's sake, and forsook the Empty Throne of Terra for the one of brass and bone, where the Lord of Skulls held court instead. Of these oathbreakers, no name was cursed more by Russ than that of Skyrar of Caledonia — whom Russ once would have called brother.

Some measure of honour would be restored, however, to the ranks broken by turncoats and anointed in blood. Russ's Wolves made great speed back towards Terra, and seeing the home he had left a lifetime ago aflame in war broke the Great Wolf's heart. The wolves threw themselves into the inferno and fought like mad beasts, with neither thought of the past nor hope for the future; this was no thirst for vengeance but instead a plea for redemption. Russ himself was there at the Last Roll of Thunder when Arik Taranis, Bearer of Lightning, fell in battle in the great plaza before the Eternity Gate, and took up the tattered old Unification banner in his place.

When the last of the fires grew cold, none would ever again question the loyalty of the Space Wolves. For all that the shattered remnant of a legion was covered in blood and soot, each man felt truly clean.

The remains of the Space Wolves retreated to Fenris, licking their wounds, and quietly rebuilt their legion as the Imperium itself rebuilt. For no matter how enlightened or holy it may become, Russ knew that the Throne would always need its tame monsters. But the Great Wolf himself was not fated to fall in glorious battle, and certainly not to fall to the temptations of the Ruinous Powers. Instead, the legends say, some two centuries later Russ — now an old warrior and the King of his world — simply walked alone out into the snow. His brothers, friends, and servants all followed his tracks into the cold woods of the frozen north, but he was never seen again. Some say the Old King is resting, and will return to face the Old Night in the days when hope withers and the stars grow dim.

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== Ferrus Manus ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The One of Ice and Iron:'''''

The unimaginatively named Ferrus Manus was born in the manner typical of the Mechanicus enclaves of Antarctica — grown in a jar from anonymous genetic samples. Deemed free of malformation and unwanted deviations in his early development, which were rare and valuable assets in an age where clumsy genetic enhancement created mutants more horrific than radiation or plague ever could, he was permitted to be born rather than recycled. Being born and raised where he was at the time he was, Ferrus had no name at birth — although the markings on his tube did superficially resemble the name Gorgon in an ancient tongue recognised by one of the oldest Magi. This was adopted as his unofficial name in his youth; doubly so after it became apparent that he would grow up to be aesthetically displeasing.

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Ferrus was given a basic and general techno-ecumenical education until the age of twelve, after which he began training for full inclusion into the Mechanicus. By fourteen he had managed to achieve the rank of Technician-acolyte — escaping the the fate of Servitorhood that awaited underachievers — but a purely priestly life was deemed an inefficient use of his talents, and he was transferred to the Skitarii for training. By his eighteenth year he was a fully and mechanically augmented soldier of the Mechanicus priesthood, and was tasked with the defence of the Nuemyana Port, one of the few places where primitive outsiders were permitted to have dealings with the Terran Mechanicus.

As he rose through the ranks of the Mechanicus military, receiving all the augmentations appropriate to his station, Ferrus began to see the world in absolute terms — the black and white notions of Weak and Strong; that it was the duty of the Weak to serve the Strong, whose duty in turn were to rule and protect. It was as if his heart was slowly being replaced with machinery as much as his body was, beginning to see all humanity not a part of the Mechanicus as Weak. Perhaps this was merely conformity, however, as many of the Elder Magi shared similar views. And... '''enforced''' them. Regardless of their attitude to more baseline humans, the Enclaves soon came under threat from Hy Braseal. Though the nation could hardly be called a superpower Hy Braseal was close enough, and proved sophisticated and organised enough to push the Mechanicus Enclaves off the tip of South America, leaving their former holdings destroyed, irradiated, or captured.

Due to their perceived incompetence in the piecemeal defence of their lands many of the Elder Magi were deposed by those below. The ambitious and the popular soon rushed in to fill the power vacuum at the top of the hierarchy, whilst the new Elders had the few remnants of the old order servitorised. At the end of the reshuffling Gorgon found himself as General-Sentinel and Protector of the Northern border, a prestigious yet demanding job that commanded the first line of defense against the Braseali peoples — and would be the first to be servitorised, were the enemy to force their way onto the Antarctic mainland.

In spite of the Mechanicum's preference for function over form, Gorgon ordered for his new cybernetic upgrade to be encased in the toughest alloy known to the Mechanicum. True, it would serve no purpose; although the material was indeed potent armour, his position as General-Sentinel precluded any situation where that would be useful. Instead, it was a surprisingly perceptive move to bolster his stature in the eyes of others; the intimidating size and power of the modifications terrorized those who sought to mutiny as much as it did Braseali spies. Thus, the Gorgon was no more — in his place there was only Ferrus Manus.

Even as he rallied his Skitarii and began to forge them into something stronger, the generals of Hy Braseal had already raised a horde of relatively well-disciplined and well-armed soldiers, and were beginning to lead them into the cold Antarctic enclaves. Salvation came in the form of the Warlord, who sought the advanced technology hoarded by the Mechanicum. The Elder Magi saw their projections of survival in a total war scenario with Braseal jump over tenfold merely by being on friendly terms with the Warlord, and all the way to an astounding 93% were they to accept his offer. Which they did without second thought. Dalmoth Kyn — the leader of most of South America — and his descendents would never forget how the Warlord had sided with the Mechanicus, forever opening a rift between their people and those of the Imperium. In time, they too would eventually join — but not before a long and bloody war consumed much of the Braseali people.

As the Mechanicus Enclaves were assimilated one by one into the Imperium, Ferrus Manus once more found himself rising up the ranks of the military. His existing rank the Mechanicus — which were a few isolated enclaves that had fought valiantly against an entire continent — was prestigious and his tactical acumen formidable. So too were his legions of cybernetic soldiers, who could comfortably overrun any techno-barbarian on the planet and even go toe-to-toe with the Warlord's own biologically augmented warriors. The one who, as the Gorgon, had looked down on all flesh as weak was now beginning to find a grudging respect for it.

Years passed and wars were moved from the surface of Terra to the stars. Ferrus' soldiers — now known as the Iron Hands — became renowned for being able to resist the harshest of environments with ease, proving as comfortable in the cold vacuum of space as they were in the sand-blasted remains of Ursh. Thus, although often (and rightly) feared by many, the Mechanicus forces were respected by all and proved to be a key factor in cementing the Terra-Mars partnership, which would be a story repeated at each world they encountered more of their cybernetic brothers on their crusade into the depths of space. Perhaps it was this — securing the mighty forges of mankind — rather than the Iron Hands' martial prowess, that earned the old Gorgon his recognition as a Primarch.

During the War of the Beast, however, the Iron Hands lost much of their prestige and reputation by primarily seeking to defend their Forge Worlds instead of the Imperium as a whole. Perhaps this was simply because their Primarch had seen how hard mankind would fall if they once again lost the machinery that held its precious Imperium together. Or perhaps (as many others claimed), their loyalties lay more with the Fabricator-General of Mars than they did the Steward or Terra. For their part, the Hands never denied the accusations levelled at them, only defending them.

Of all the Primarchs, Ferrus Manus was one of only three who lived to see the Steward become Emperor; and he was the last of them to die, meeting his end on the fields of Armageddon before the gates of Hades Hive in the year 616.M39. In truth, his health — both biological and mechanical — had been deteriorating for centuries, and although he knew that there was little operational time left for his body he did his best to ensure that neither his Legion nor his Emperor knew of the fact. He took a bloody and glorious toll with him — one worthy of respect from any and all — but his passing marked the end of an era. Although he and the Emperor had never been friends, his passing was felt by the flesh-bound of the Imperium just as much as it was by his Mechanicus brethren.

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== Fulgrim ==

The Primarch Fulgrim, foremost of the Legion of Terra's Children, was conceived in a Merikan population expansion program. His parents were both loyal Merikan officers, and upon their deaths their genetic material had been saved — and eventually combined — for one of countless batch-grown children. In truth, this program and others like it were conceived and implemented as the early Wars of Unification rocked the Eurasian continent, if only to bolster the numbers of the Merikan guard should another high-technological joust of nations commence. Fulgrim was decanted twenty years before the fall of Ursh, in the facilities of the Moton industrial concern. By either random chance or the inevitability of mass production, Fulgrim could be said to have been born with a charming and distinct beauty, characteristics which he maintained through all his life — though accompanied by a vast and neurotic ego. In those days his name was Furis Doe, and shared a surname with all the other children created as he was. In his youth, he found success among the ranks or mechanists and the overseers of Moton, and became the commander of his own sub-workshop at a young age. Between his competence and the opportunity to demonstrate the success of their program, Furis' superiors were eager to fast track him.

Furis matured steeped in the legends told by old mechanists — some even from the Arctic Enclaves — of the star spanning Mechanicus and the gleaming stelar empire they maintained — but also surrounded by the propaganda of the Merikan war machine, its edicts of the holy human form, and its pretensions to brutal meritocracy. In the years surrounding the Imperium's first truly overt offensives and then its brutal dismantling of the Despot of Ursh and all under his banner, Merika hardened for war against the Unification.

Between the saturation of muddled anti-Ursh and anti-Imperial propaganda and his own dreams of the stars, Furis began to recede into his mind just as the mounting war effort put the apparent prodigy in command of his own experimental workshop and staff. Placed under his command were Merikan mechanists and the tech-priests cast out of the polar enclave after it sided with the Imperium. Fulgrim — a nickname earned by his increasingly dry, cynical demeanor — mostly served as a director for the workshop, but was himself a decent scientist and tinkerer.

Furis began experiments with superhuman modification in response to the fabled Imperial Thunder Warriors, among other things. While these projects had successes, even creating subsystems superior to Imperial equivalents in some respects, they were few and expensive where other avenues showed far greater promise. Fulgrim did, however, upgrade himself in numerous faculties, spending not insignificant resources on improving his physical and mental capacities. He was said to be deeply interested in the lore he could draw from the defector tech-priests, though he never went so far as to make any of his personal modifications as overt. Fulgrim would eventually express an opinion that it was partially the Mechanicus' preference for skitarii and servitors that made progress on superhuman physiological enhancement so difficult. He traveled around Merika and Kalbi during this period, particularly exploring the borderlands and the deep mazes of vaults drilled through the western mountains where techno-barbarians still flourished. Fulgrim and his workshop were notably productive though this time, either creating or dredging up dozens of horrific technological marvels, but Furis Doe was only loosely tethered to his superiors' control and was rarely in contact with Merikan command. In some histories it is guessed that the Warlord contacted him around this time, but in reality the fabled approach would happen later.

Furis and his mechanists, notably cherry-picked from Doe production runs, returned from the wastes with a vast technological bounty and only a handful fewer men and tech priests than they set off with. Several important events occurred around this time; Ursh had all but fallen and the Pan-Pacific empire was on the defensive, Kalbi was in revolt under Military Governor Dorn, and Merikan high command contemplated alliance with Hy Braseal — though the prospect was unlikely. Fulgrim famously wowed the capital as he fired some of his more militarily applicable discoveries over the marching grounds, and excited the officers in the audience with promises of strategic archeotech and superhuman advancements to rival the powers in Europe. In truth, the director was unmoored from the war effort as much as the rest of terrestrial reality; between the unnerving horrors of the wastes, the gross violations of decency and humanity he witnessed undertaken by the great Merikan industrial core, and the Dark Age technologies he had tried to meddle with, Fulgrim had driven cracks through his pretty world. Fulgrim had long nursed a love for hedonism, and as he enjoyed his fame in the capital his old neuroses as Moton's prodigy layered into his drug-clouded state. In something of a haze, Fulgrim began to lay down his own base of influence. Seeking military office, he naturally needed to advance himself militarily. Thus, attaching his tinkerers and forces to the command of one honorable Major Lucius Doe, Fulgrium was bound for the Expeditionary Forces to engage the Imperium. The air assets under his command, long maintained by the Merikan high command as defense against Urshii invasion, were to be fitted for offensive war and launched from forward air bases built up on New Atlantis. Major and Dr. Doe were respectively ordered to force the Brasealian and Afrique garrisons from the island and to ensure the readiness of the Merikan air forces and drop troops that would be stationed there.

Lucius had cut his teeth in the Panama trenches, fighting Hy Braseal in the long border wars that burned along the isthmus. He was little more than a month Furis's senior, and likewise was held up as another triumph of the Doe program. His tactical virtuosity was said to match Fulgrim's technical art, and the prodigies had been introduced to each other during the revels of some mutual superior. Major Doe is said to have rescued the mechanist from the agents of high ranking officers, who were intent on compelling Furis to grant them immortality, and would years later go on to make that same request — a request which Fulgrim strove to achieve. The two Does, Major Lucius and Special Lieutenant Fulgrim, took up their commands on New Atlantis; the former beginning his campaigns against the Braseali forces in the heavily fortified south of the landmass and the scattered Afrique enclaves occupying its eastern half, and the latter rebuilding and updating the ancient Merikan air fortress and factories on the island. Backed by Fulgrim's advanced weapons as well as the ever increasing air power Fulgrim was building in the northwest of the continent — and occasionally supplemented by Fulgrim's enhanced soldiers — Lucius made short, mean work of the Afrique settlements and drove Hy Braseal back to a single, heavily entrenched garrison on the continent's southernmost point. The Major was known for leading from the front, sword in hand. Fulgrim — once his workshop was well-established, and when the conversion of the Ursh defense interceptor wings to dive bombers and escorts was under way — was characteristically preoccupied with personal projects; he and his corps of mechanists were busy preparing cybernetic enhancements and combat-ready super soldiers, in a rush to complete their longstanding mission of providing Merika with shock troops equivalent to the Thunder Warrior — themselves already replaced by Astartes.

Fulgrim was so bold as to fly sorties of cyborg drop troops into Imperial territory, testing his Merikanized Skittari against the Imperium and its Astartes under the cover of the brushfire wars that had sprung up around the holdouts of Ursh's conquests. In these raids — nominally advance scouting missions — he found that a single Astartes was worth about two of his own prized combat cyborgs. Despite many close calls, he succeeded in taking numerous Astartes and Thunder Warriors intact — though rarely alive — and began the process of reverse engineering their implants, if not outright stealing them. Very few outside of Fulgrim's mechanists — an increasingly honed band of enhanced Doe children and long exiled Arctic tech-priests — were privy to these hoarded acquisitions, but Lucius was one of the few who Furis included in his conspiracy. Both Lucius and Fulgrim were reforged with Astartes enhancements and the mechanists' own inventions, as best they could manage, alongside many of their cabal. The result was lesser in stature and might than true Astartes, but the Doe children were a match for second generation Astartes, refined towards Furis' aims for the unit. It was at this point that Fulgrim and his group caught the attention and interest of the Warlord's forces, and the Hydra in particular. With the artificial continent secured and the Merikan air forces ready to launch their newly fitted bombers and gunships, Merikan High Command moved into the fortress and Fulgrim's band returned to the continent. The lab that remained to produce Merikan cyber-legionnaires bore no trace of the Astartes experiments, but leaked rumors of new wonders saw Fulgrim returned to the capitol and his projects well-funded as war with the Imperium mounted, while Lucius was sent to reinforce the army sent to end the rebellion of Governor Dorn. Merikan bombers lit up the Imperium from Franj to Afrique and cyborg drop troops fell from the skies to the aid of recalcitrant lords and Urshii holdouts, destroying and sabotaging everything they could.

Fulgrim himself was attempting to engineer a coup; having seen the Imperium in his advance raids and equated it with the empire of old he had dreamed of, Fulgrim wished to cut down the old leadership of his nation while it seemed within his power, and steer Merika into his bright vision. He had surpassed even Lucius as a swordsman during his adventures in the New Atlantis campaign, and now Fulgrim planned to use his charm, fame, and the lure of technological enhancement to access necessary targets and ingratiate himself in the matters of succession before the planned decapitation. Though his early plan went well, Fulgrim overestimated his own and his agents' ability to manipulate a government in the mounting chaos of war with the Imperium, and it was not long before the self-styled superhuman was at the mercy of the Merikan secret police. He was saved by two plainly dressed men that introduced themselves as Ames and Ozzy, both of whom bore the sigil of a hydra. Under the aegis of these two Hydra contacts, the Doe cadre continued Fulgrim's strategy of building support in the mass produced populations of the manufactories further back from the coast, but Fulgrim himself was made to concede direct control over the operations in the capital. Fulgrim's laboratories in the capital became the futurist's edifice to a Phoenician Merika, to the wonderment of the officer class, and Lucius built up the manufactories of Moton into an advanced fortress city on the near edge of the Kalbi territories. Fulgrim had little contact with either project; these power bases were tended by the Doe Cadre's inner circle under the direction of the Hydra and Major Lucius respectively, and while Furis visited his old home when it was under the Major's command his work took him yet further from the center of the Doe conspiracy.

Under the cover of another exploratory mission to the bunkers and cracks of the western mountain line, Fulgrim and his mechanists traveled the length of the rocky spine and the loosely governed western territories beyond. It was true they again delved the chains of fortresses, redoubts, and sunken chambers under those lands for new relics of the golden age, but only the least of these fruits ever reached Merikan High Command. The rest became assets of the conspiracy, and some even found their way across the wastes of Beringia to the Imperium. More than this, Fulgrim secured the support of the enclaves whose knowledge had driven his successes years prior, and in the druidic labs of the Geno-Hippes (an ancient title) Fulgrim and his proto-Alpha Legion contacts established forward positions from which to build Astartes forces. The work done in these installations unified Fulgrim and the Geno-Hippes' cybernetically and biologically upgraded "Doe" Mk II Astartes with the Duscht-Jemanic genesmiths' Mk III pattern.

Through Fulgrim's promises and intrigues, much of the western territory would come to favor his succession, and for his technological efforts on their behalf they held him in better regard than High Command. The collaboration with the Geno-Hippes allowed state-of-the-art super soldier forces to be built in the mountain enclaves, stretching even into the heart of Governor Dorn's beleaguered territory. Less than a year since it nearly died with its indiscreet leader, Fulgrim's conspiracy was at its zenith.

The destruction and capture of the Merikan air bases on New Atlantis saw the top admirals and generals return to the capital, in turn seeing preparations for a counterattack to keep the theater of war on the artificial continent and the fortification of the Atlantic coast. Lucius had made dramatic use of the Doe combat cyborgs Fulgrim had premiered in Europe, aiding the hapless commander tasked with the re-conquest of Dorn's dominion — entrenched as they were in west and northern Kalbi. Showy hunts by air cavalry and drop troops had done more to lionize the cyber-soldiers, as they strode about in gleaming gold and purple, than they could ever have hoped to have done to weaken Dorn’s defense. The guns of the Imperium were turned squarely to Merika in the weeks that followed; the massive naval forces of Skand, the air forces of Europia, and the full war host of the Quadruple Alliance all gathered at New Atlantis. The ancient Merikan voidships that hung in orbit over the continent were moved in a careful dance across the Americas, for the dual purpose of denying space superiority to the heirloom fleet the Imperium brought to bear and remaining ever vigilant above the Panama fortresses for movement from Hy Braseal. Fulgrim returned to the capital as plans were being drawn up to leap back to New Atlantis and charge from Europia to Uralia — with Doe cyborgs leading the way. Other plans were being conceived to quickly stamp out Governor Dorn's decades long rebellion and annihilate it to the last — using the forces of the field marshal already engaged in the north backed by masses of advanced weapons deployed from Moton. Neither plan would ever see action.

As Fulgrim made to announce promises of support from western military governors with all due fanfare, he was accompanied by a brigade of what seemed to all a new generation of cyborg soldiers — as fair as their inventor and clad in bright ceremonial armor. Mere days after he had arrived at the capital, Merika and the Imperium began fighting in and above the Atlantic, west of the artificial continent; air forces clashed above the naval blockades and the coasts, and orbital assets made firing lines hundreds of kilometers long. Orders were issued to Moton to begin operation in Kalbi, and soon Doe-designed and Doe-piloted gunships and drop troops were buzzing northwest towards the Merikan position. Impenetrable havoc erupted in the Merikan capital and the first company of one hundred Terra's Sons — led by Fulgrim the Futurist — fortified the Doe laboratories and began conducting brutal raids on enemy factions within the Merikan command structure and officer class, who were also entrenched in the capital. The citadel of the high command had been raided by teleporter insertion of un-blazoned power-armored commandos in the first hours of the fighting, and subsequent clashes over the building saw it bombed to rubble by Merikan air assets. Fulgrim officially seized dictatorial emergency powers, and with a company drawn from his long-honed circle of mechanists he corrected his rivals in the capital, making a great show of the advanced forces those same officers and ministry heads had counted on in their grand strategies. The Futurist took Merika's reins, and with the nation’s purple and white still flying high, cowed the fractious military houses in the wake of what he called an opportunistic Hy Brasealian attack, enabled by the faithlessness of his enemies and the Imperium's assault.

Prior to the decapitation of the Merikan military, the Kalbi expeditionary force had embarked on a hard offensive against Dorn, counting on support from Moton's special forces as they drove for the pacific. Lucius lead the combined forces of the second company of Terra's Sons and cybernetic Moton drop brigades, smashing the confounded expeditionary force against Dorn's built up battle lines. The Merikan ship above Kalbi was quick to react with the the bombardment of the Moton citadel, and what few volleys it managed were devastating before it was crippled by boarding forces of Merikanized skitarii and mechanists. In the capital, there was stalemate between Fulgrim and the remains of the Merikan High Command, with most of the lower officers sided with the futurist or "removed" from the equation. But the campaigns in the north were fast concluded, and Lucius advanced southeast — some of Dorn's own forces following close behind. The Merikan Orbital Brigades and Navy were old institutions staunchly opposed to Fulgrim, and supported Merikan ground forces throughout the gulf coast and around the Panama fortifications. As Merikan reserves were mobilized by the panicking High Command, the Astartes company in the Rockies struck east across the continent — right at the head of the western governors' military forces — and made rapid progress securing the Merikan heartland despite the orbital bombardment from opposing factions. The machine-stubber, rocketeer, and armored fighting carriage battalions that had been the Merikan Junta's unbeatable scourges were hardly sufficient against their own colonial forces reinforced by Astartes and Skitarii. After a week of the stalemate in the capital, the Merikan Navy and Space Brigade retreated and shortened the blockade so they could both bombard the capital and keep Imperial forces from doing the same.

Fulgrim and Terra's Sons first company continued to fight for the capital, all under heavy shelling and the highest rate of lance strikes the capital's guarding geostationary starship could muster. They were supported by most of the remaining officer corps against the remaining High Command holdouts, the latter of whom were reinforced by Merikan marines and loyalist military regiments. Fireteams of Astartes in Imperial livery moved openly in the south and west, and Imperial soldiers landed in Newfoundland and the gulf; to be met by the advanced guard of the forces that started from the Rockies or Moton. Lucius and Dorn's forces combined with the Terra's Sons third company, the latter of whom had led the midlands campaign, marched on the eastern seaboard, pacifying or simply commandeering the remaining ground forces — nearly all of whom remained unclear on the state of affairs for the duration.

The Merikan Space Brigade was forced to retreat from the battle for the capital by subsequent attacks and abandoned the Merikan Navy to regroup with Merika’s remaining voidships over the Panama defenses, which had become the last stronghold of the remnants of the old Merikan High Command. In short order, the Merikan blockade was broken by the Imperials and the Merikan Navy suffered mutiny and folded. The Imperial Navy and Air Forces subsequently accompanied the battered Merikan Navy into the harbor of the capital. The cratered slopes of the captial's anti-fallout pyramid bunker-citadels were lined with Merikan officers and civilians, as Imperial engineers and officials of every land and discipline piled off amidst the columns of proud soldiers in the livery of Franj, Gredbritton, Achemedinia, and Europia. The Imperial delegation was marched to the Doe complex by the Futurist's own soldiers — equal in stature and clad in purple with emblems of raptors — who were themselves well-known to the capital from the past weeks. The Imperials had hardly arrived at what had become the de facto seat of government for a day before those same engineers and Furis' mechanists were seen together, drafting plans for reconstruction.

The battered Merikans that remained in the capital saw many astounding figures among the Imperial delegation — the gold giant that had been the subject of much propaganda, the Skandian warrior at his side, his tattooed sorcerer, his towering iron-fisted automaton, his cadre of princes, the vassal warriors he’d taken from Ursh and the Pan-Pacific League, and so on, and on — as they had disembarked. The transcripts of the meetings within the Doe laboratories were sealed with the mark of a hydra, and vanished after some select members of the officer corps were pointedly denied a chance to read them. In the inevitable announcement from the grandstand on the capital’s debris-strewn parade ground, Esteemed Dictator Furis Doe and ‘Warlord’ Oscar made their speeches; the former waxed poetic about the wonders of history and the wings of the Aquila, and the latter made a curt and businesslike statement sketching out the terms of Merika’s stake in the Imperium — which had already been decided. This was all very much in keeping with Merikan custom; the general impression among the Merikan junta’s officers and populace was that Fulgrim had brokered an alliance and won them an entry on the footing of equals. In truth, Fulgrim had met the Warlord in Sibar for the Astartes III hybridization project, long before the operation began, and the conference was in many ways a formality — though Furis took it as an opportunity to lobby for his future projects.

The remains of the Merikan Space Brigade took aboard much of the Panama garrison and its war materiel, but lingering as they were between the changed Merikan regime and Hy Braseal was not a long-term option. What remained of the Merikan Space Brigade never reconvened after that regrouping at Panama; the bulk of the small fleet dove for deep space and vanished from common histories, while about half their number mobilized to attack the Imperial ships above the eastern seaboard — of which two were disabled and one seized before it could be scuttled. The six voidships that remained over Panama held position for two months, and subsequently defected to Hy Braseal. Of those ships, one is recorded to have been used by Hy Braseal in the War of The Beast, further cementing their victory over their long term rival. They too could be considered the “winners” of the Unification Wars, and remained the last holdout of the old nations on Earth centuries into the Imperium.

Fulgrim made many inquiries into future endeavors to the Warlord — for potential avenues of research and for examination of technologies — which continued all through the last years of Unification, and he always seemed to give them precedence over the interim Merikan government run by him and Lucius. Lucius in particular — but Fulgrim as well — both showed a keen interest in the overtures the Imperium extended Hy Braseal, though they had the deference not to take part. It was worth noting, in Oscar's mind, that the Does had more or less copied the councils under which he'd arrayed the leaders of the lands of Europe and the remains of Ursh, to assemble and represent the various Merikan provinces north of the isthmus and south of Dorn's restored Kalbi, and had done it all without coaching on his part — though with focused and major alterations in some areas. Under the newly drafted agreement between Merika and the Imperium, there were provisions for continued cooperation with the Alpha Legion (nominally to ensure full and thorough reform and removal of entrenched corruption), for the continuation the Doe program — with the added practice of optimizing the babies after random sample combination (which Fulgrim had already started doing), and provisions for eminent domain over all samples of neutronium in the Merikan government's remit. For his part, Lucius was reorganizing the Merikan military and its many arms foundries, designing them to support his companies of Terra's Children, and glad-handing and encouraging as much of the old officer class to go on on grand world tours to enjoy the new Imperium. Fulgrim, meanwhile, was overseeing the expansion of the proud legion of nearly three hundred that had overtaken the Merikan war machine. And yet, Fulgrim's inquiries persisted, pointedly asking what his place would be in the Imperium.

The Futurist got his conclusive answer shortly after Oscar became Steward of the Empty Throne. He was named Primarch of Terra's Children, swore his oath before all assembled, and together they began the next stage of unification: that of Sol. With naught but some hasty organization of the new Council of Merikan Foremen, Fulgrim convened his legion in Moton. Fulgrim stood before his force of three hundred Astartes — each selected personally by him and bearing his modifications — and their backing of seven hundred Merikanized Skitarii. With his blades by his hip, his mechanists arrayed behind him, and Lucius by his side, Fulgrim drew up — in illustrious, impassioned words — his vision of the era before Old Night, one that the this new Imperium of unification would reclaim, with the Children of Terra at the fore to realize its mighty promise. He spoke of ships fleet and unstoppable, pillar cities vaster and more grand than any gilded Urshii ziggurat or Merikan pyramid-bunker, and of the great bridges indestructible; the Neutronium lines that tied worlds to the sea of heaven and thus to each-other. He envisioned his legion as the mighty “New Men” of this Imperium, more virtuous, more beautiful, more effective than any officer class or knightly order of the old provincial nations, the great poet warriors that would realize this Imperium’s truth. His speech was met with cheers of exuberance and tears of joy among his men, and in that moment every member of the Legion of Terra's Children knew they would follow their Primarch to the stars.

Furis’ new position on the council of twenty — the Primarchs, Malcador, and Oscar Steward — ensured he was now privy to the grand strategy of the Solar Unification without needing to trade favors with Ames and Ozzy. Already the pale and eerie, yet charming trade lord of the inner system had seized the initiative and taken up the Unification’s banner as its master of ships, and the famed Knight of Franj — the Lion ascendant — was bound on a mission of pacification to the outer Sol system aboard his flotilla. With some prodding, a contingent of Terra’s Children's best military virtuosos followed close behind, led by Lucius in a gold, purple, and white fleet of a half dozen restored Merikan warships.

In that same period of manic consolidation and activity, Fulgrim fell in with Horus, the esteemed King of Empty Space, and Ferrus Manus, the iron-fisted Antarctican Skitarii mastermind, on their mission of diplomacy to Mars. While the Steward knew Lorgar, the Holy Man that he was, to be the better diplomat than the preening Phoenician, treating with the dogmatic and hegemonic Brotherhood of Olympus Mons was a task ill-suited to the earnest preacher, and thus it was Fulgrim that bore the Standard of the Aquila to the red priests for that first time. It proved a wise choice, and between the guns of Empty Space encircling, the mercenary charms of Horus and guileful Fulgrim, and the proud imperatives of the Antarctic Brotherhood’s iron fist, the ruddy neighbor of Old Earth was drawn into the fold.

Fulgrim hardly returned to Merika after this, instead dwelling at the dockyards of the Lagrange with Horus, supervising the building of the dreadnoughts that would lead the coming interstellar crusade, and on Mars, aiding the designs of the Iron Fists he had long idolized from the stories of his Mechanists. One could hardly tell if his fondness for Horus was surpassed by his love for Horus’ ships, and though his obsession with the mighty Ferrus Manus was clear, it took many efforts and trials to prove the worth of his works, and thus himself, to the machine-man.

Fulgrim was often said by the remembrancers to be the more worldly mirror image of Blessed Sanguinius; created haphazardly — a happy accident that perfected himself — but grew imperious and mighty by his own ambition, if flying by roaring jet instead of graceful wing. And like Sanguinius, Fulgrim too was pale and fair, refined and elegant. Indeed this was very compelling image — the Terra’s Children’s fine armor was unmarred and unbloodied even through Fulgrim’s brutal raids and engagements, and Fulgrim struck where he pleased and retreated when it was advantageous — but the differences between the two came not from the body, but the mind; Fulgrim's blade was drawn in pride where Sanguinius drew his in duty. For all their contrasts, the aesthete and the prince were on good terms — so long as military matters were not broached between them. Likewise, he was compared to Guilliman — great strategos of Europia — as the Phoenician conducted great overarching campaigns in sector after sector, indomitable purple Astartes at the vanguard and unbreakable supply lines guarded by his shining cyborgs, advancing through the galactic west apace with the vaunted Ultramarines in the east. That said, Guilliman never leaned quite so heavily on the techniques of economic sabotage and proxy war that Fulgrim typically brought to bear, following on the heels of the shadowy Alpha Legionnaires he still held close from the days of the Merikan Coup. By all appearances, Fulgrim was as deft a diplomat as Lorgar, Vulcan, Horus, and Roboute — but for the fact that when he paraded his regal Astartes before the people of a world and charmed its leaders at Imperial-hosted galas, he was often hard at work cutting down their dissenting elements and special forces just beneath that pleasant veneer of peace.

Be it from their similar childhoods, shared archaic fantasy of the Great and Bountiful Human Dominion, or merely Fulgrim’s persistence, it was in this time that he finally endeared himself to Ferrus Manus. In Fulgrim, Ferrus saw a fitting disregard for the limitations of biology. In Ferrus, Fulgrim found an exemplar for the advancement of the holy human form and appreciation of its mighty heritage. Thus, and an unusual friendship had bloomed in the life of the Iron Fist.

'''The Contest of Smiths'''

It was in the forges under Olympus Mons, after the Gorgon had established his might over the heads of the resident Archmagos, that they held their famed Contest of Smiths. Among the great cogs and reactors of the forges in the heart of the red mountain, the cold Iron Hand was making demonstration of his mastery of artifice before the many venerable smiths of the ancient foundry. While the Gorgon beat cascades of sparks from adamant at the forge, another unfamiliar host of robed and augmented figures drew around the mighty Skitarii. At its head was Fulgrim, and about him were the Archaeo-technological Diviners and Warsmiths of the Terrawatt Clan that he had been asked to herald to the Martian Brotherhood, and with them came the Genesmiths of the Duscht Jemanic, the Geno-Hippes of the mountain enclaves, mighty Weapon-Wrights and Siege Masters of Macedonia and Achemedinia, and Furis’ own mechanists — the last of whom had already found favor among the Martians that held with the more creative interpretations of the Strictures Cybernetica.

It was in the midst of this gathering of the great masters in the forges of the Brotherhood of Olympus Mons — who had brought Mars to heel in a few scant years, who dared to say they were the keepers of the Noctis Labyrinth, who were protectors of the vast treasury of knowledge and art that were the assets of the Imperial Court, who were possessors of so many esoteric and mighty secrets and specializations that they could not be rightly remembered hence their passing — that Fulgrim and Ferrus proposed to settle the budding rivalry between Old Earth and Holy Mars. In the spirit of their great and blessed adventures to come — their Crusade of Interstellar Unification — Fulgrim proposed a tourney that would last seven days, and in that time all present would strive to see the arsenal of Man filled with wonders to match the weapons of old. It was Ferrus that added the terms that each master of his own forge should work for himself upon his craft, and that any that shrunk from the task — who would let servitors or adepts dither in their work — would show their lack of art. It was then that Ferrus Manus shed his robes and bore down upon the forge, like a tempest with his vast silver arms, and bid the adepts about him bring schematics and materials. Furis Doe likewise seized a forge, his Mechanists setting about the recalibration of tools and selection of designs. And all around Siege Masters and Genesmiths and Armorers rushed to heat Adamant and prepare the manufacture of fine mechanical filigree.

At the contest’s end, the forges and laboratories still and quiet, many gleaming wonders were brought forth to be seen by all. Kelbor Hal, esteemed host to those assembled, humbly presented a bright adamant power-javelin he named the Windlance, that flew unerring by means of grav-lifts in its shaft, and for which he received much acclaim. Vie Braur, Master of the Genesmiths, came forward with a pair of golden armbands that would regrow the arm on which it was worn in a matter of minutes if it was severed. This was followed by a cybernetic eye that saw across the spectrums and could glare a hail of lasfire as effectively as a heavy rifle, presented by Arton Luron of the Order Cybernetica. From the Geno-Hippes, a poison gland from which a modified creature could spit streams of strong corrosive marking agent. Put forth by the Skitarii armorers was a beautiful brassy jezail of ancient design and thunderous power. An ingenious system of actuated tread claws that would let superheavy tanks scale sheer cliffs was produced by the Macedonian envoy. The gift of the Terrawatt engineers was a gleaming reconstruction of an ancient tactical awareness computer, a golden pedestal that held an ethereally projected globe, then set to show much of the infrastructure and troop placement on Mars. Between all of these treasures and wonders — any one of them fit for royalty of the previous forsaken era — still none could rightly see its creator named champion, until together Fulgrim bore up a great black hammer, and Ferrus Manus unsheathed a burning golden blade.

The black hammer — Forgebreaker — glowered with un-light, cut as it was from a shred of neutronium Fulgrim salvaged from one of Earth's many equatorial scars, and he had struck upon a way to shape it only in the heat of the tourney. Though in the past Fulgrim had failed endlessly to work neutronium whatsoever, the modest lump of exotic matter was now a weapon to scatter the mass of mountains. The eye-searing sword thrust aloft by the Gorgon was simply named — Fireblade — and it burned with unreal white flames that enveloped its narrow golden edges at solar temperatures, forged as the unification of many of the ancient subsystem fragments and schematics Ferrus Manus' brothers of the Antarctic Enclaves had brought from Earth, and now possible to construct and piece together in the vast facilities of the Martian Brotherhood. The whole assembly of priests and artificers conceded the glory of these weapons above all others, but between them none could decide the better. Fulgrim was certain it was the Gorgon's that was the mightiest; he loved the sword from his first sight of it, and its swift and biting form taken from the ancient glory of man far surpassed the bleak, crude weapon he had been able to carve from the strange matter. Ferrus Manus was already transfixed by the very notion of working neutronium even on such a small scale — far better than his misassembled archeotech hunting knife, here was a step towards the rediscovery of one of mankind's greatest arts. No decision could be reached, for the mastery of artifice could be given neither to Old Earth nor Holy Mars, and the budding of that rivalry continued. But the tourney beneath the red mountain did fill the arsenal of the Unification of Sol and the long and glorious Great Crusade after, and much joy and mirth resounded in the forges of Mars on that seventh day, one that would be remembered as the unofficial, popular unification of Earth and Mars.

The tournament itself was said to end when the two Primarchs gave each other their own creations as prizes, and the countless Adepts, Apprentices, Magos, Forgemasters, and Artificers present saw fit to rejoice in their work and the coming years of war and production. As the Primarch inventors exchanged notes on their works of the past seven days, the huge convention of Imperial technological orders and leaders did much of the same, establishing much of the early relationship between the Mechanicus Orders and the myriad of other technological orders that The Throne would come to retain over the coming millennia. Fulgrim would never part with the Fireblade after this, taking it with him into the unification of the galaxy and bearing it back to Sol to strike at the back of the Beast — when all that bright, dreaming civilization shuddered and collapsed — and forth again in vengeance and beautiful rebirth. Ferrus Manus would never forsake the Forgebreaker, and even when the Gorgon finally fell on the fields of Armageddon, millennia after his weapon's maker, that same hammer had meted the ruin of many dozens of Meks and Bosses across the battlefield, and left its final enemy naught but broken atoms in the ground.

'''The Conquest of Laeran'''

The world of Laeran was, in all Imperial records of the Great Crusade and since, unique. A wonder brought together in the horror of Old Night, with technology from the brighter age — before the dusk of the Old Empire’s Fall. The space-based, sculptural colonies of the Laer were first encountered by the 28th Expeditionary Fleet of the Terra’s Children along a long arc across the fringes of the galactic west. At their eager initiation of contact with the third legion, the serpentine Xenos seemed the most advanced, cultured, and diplomatically forward the Imperium had encountered since Eldrad’s representation of the Craftworlders. Shared in these early encounters with the diplomatic cadres of the Laer, and confirmed by Imperial analysis of the distribution of known colonies, the Laer had fled their home in the regions of the galactic northwest to escape the collapse of the Old Eldar Empire they had evolved in the midst of. Absconding from their home star in a mass exodus and seeding new colonies along the path of their flight, they had fled the opening of the Eye of Terror.

As the next stages of diplomatic contact and positioning were prepared, Imperial assets from the Terra’s Children likewise began the far less stately work of intelligence gathering and the preparation of contingencies. The Laer’s description of their means of exodus — Laeran itself — was striking, both in their soaring reverence for the world and its technological significance as a gas giant and lunar system driven by torch drives to the point of warp transit capability, constituting a starship of utterly immense scale. Of similar interest were the trans-biological technologies the serpents employed, with many of their modifications matching — or even surpassing — humanity’s best Astartes or Skitarii implants and treatments. Fulgrim grew drawn by this wonder, and his personal attention quickly fell upon the Laeran matter. With his curiosity came his inquisitive pack of mechanists and genewrights, Captain Lucius and his force reconnaissance fleets, the Legions’ Blades, the Phoenix Company, the support brigades of heavily updated Merikan Shock Cyborgs, and the Mechanicus Exploratory attaché offered by Ferrus. Their Administratum observers, Munitorum bullet-and-bean-counters, Alpha Legion contacts, and the not-insignificant following of painters, sculptors, artisans, documentarians, writers, and veritable circus of other artists that had found Fulgrim as a patron and received stipends as Imperial Remembrancers, followed close behind. As elements of the Third Legion and their diplomatic entourage contacted more and more Laer colonies, the air of open artistic and diplomatic exchange persisted. In actuality, however, diplomacy had stalled, and deep tensions were building between the parties — veiled though it was by a pretense of aesthetic debate and politely contrasting paradigms for cybernetic development and genetic engineering.

Though more formal diplomacy between powers and a meeting on Laeran remained the subject of talk, in truth the planet’s location was not forthcoming from the Laer even as Imperial Naval assets narrowed down their deductions for its path and place. Within the week the elusive torchworld’s presumptive location was pinned down and confirmed, while a discovery made by Lorgar was delivered to Fulgrim by the hand of the Custodes that had accompanied the Preacher’s expedition to the brink go the Eye of Terror.

From any other Primarch, the aristocratic ones long in the Warmaster’s highest favor particularly, Fulgrim’s pride and nervous sense of inferiority would have led him to doubt the clear conclusion Lorgar’s report implied. He would have dared to think nearly any of his twenty peers would press such conclusions upon him merely to disrupt the handful of years he had sunk into cautious diplomacy with the Laer. But not of Lorgar — he had no doubt in the conqueror of naught but hearts and minds. The Mechanicus attaché, Lucius, Ames and Ozzy, the Mechanists, the Genesmiths, the Administratum observers, the Eldar Corsair captain Fulgrim had convinced to join them, and all the rest all of the Imperium's party agreed upon the necessity for decisive action. It was made clear that the path of Laeran had not taken it from its place amongst the Crone worlds along a direct path out of their midst, but rather that their path started at the Cadian Gate, that their passing had been marked with terror and rapine, and that their elder colonies were rocked by civil war against a monodominant cult of perfection. Fulgrim was insistent that he personally reaffirm to the Laeran delegation and accompanying fleet that the Imperium had truly negotiated with them in earnest, and that he had the assurance of one Mr. Ozzy that they would be transported to Ganymede unharmed and in perfect safety. Upon the seizure of their vessel and the Laer diplomats’ removal, Fulgrim returned to his flagship — the Pride of Imperium — and began the Astropathic relay of instructions to activate the contingencies, likewise prepared in earnest.

Codex entry not finished.

Additional Details

- This universe's version of an "Iron Cage" incident that leads most Astartes legions to follow Guilliman's idea of breaking into Chapters. Fulgrim tries to micromanage everything but gets ground down by attrition. Final blow was trying to clear a sector of an Ork infestation led by a Tzeentch-aligned Big Wyrd, which was so nuts it was impossible to account for everything.

== Vulkan ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Promethean:'''''

Vulkan, son of the Afrique League, First Patriarch of the Prometheans, Defender of the People, Cleansing Flame of Earth and Primarch of the Steward was born in a mud and thatch hut in an arable farming village 8 days walk from Lanbarno, capital of that semi prosperous realm.

The nation itself was little more than a remnant of what it once was. At its height some 500 years previously it had been a super power the rival of any other on the Earth at that time with culture and technological knowlage beyond peer. But then the Ursh came and taught them that this was not, nor have it ever, nor would it ever be a time of peace.

But all that was history. The realm that Vulkan grew up in knew nothing of that save in dust old tomes of half forgotten lore.

Even a peace, a hard fought for peace, had been won against the Despots of Ursh and their vassal states.

Of all the peoples on the Earth at that time, they had come to the attention of foul xenos. Why they amongst all others? who can say. But there it was.

The only thing that was certain during this era was that the Dark Eldar were discovering the depths of their needs and thirsts, and they found the picking in Afrique League to their liking.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

It became a hated part of life. Shelters were dug by the prudent and the the foolish were left to die. It was an unhappy time. But maybe it was the xeno raiders and their attentions that made their lands less appealing to invaders.

It was in Vulkans 14th summer that he joined the military, against the wishes of his father and mother but with their blessing. It was customary for men to serve and protect the communities they came from for what was good for the people of a nation must surely be good for the nation as a whole.

Vulkan's parents had been adamant he not join the warriors, because they knew that his job would be to dissuade their tormentors so that they might find a softer village to attack.

One such assault was the beginning of Vulkan. The rest of his life had been merely a prelude to the man.

A brutal assault that seemed determined to abduct the while village befell Vulkan's home. The scant defenses were little more than tissue paper against razor blades. The pitiful few warriors of the Afrique League were tormented in the manner of a cat with a mouse and as inevitably snuffed out. All bar one. When the village bio-petroleum tank detonated Vulkan was inflamed. But up he rose. clutching his blacksmith fathers hammer, a halo of flame about his head and inferno wings upon his broad shoulders he was risen and he stood before the Archon, the chief tormentor of his people. His heart beat like a blast furnace and his eyes were holes into the hear of the sun and his fathers hammer he brought down hard. The Archon danced around him with inhuman grace, a nimble torture before an enraged giant. In later legends it was said they they danced from sunrise to sunset, but in truth there was a death far sooner than that. The Archons blades had been doused in poison most foul but the heat of the flame had cleansed them. Although Vulkan could barley land a single blow, he did manage to land one. And one was all he needed.

The simple smiths hammer struck hard and it struck true. It was said to have been heated by more than burning fuel but by the furnace heat of hate. The Archon lay crippled and in agony at Vulkans feet. He raised that vile man high above his head and brought him down hard over his knee and broke his back. The warrior held him up once more and with a dragons roar, dared all those who would look to see what ruin had been done before tearing out the raider kings throat.

And no more did those creatures come back.

When the Warlord came to the Afrique League it was Vulkan who met with him in the old and dying king Shatimuene's place. With the xenos gone, it would not be long before Ursh came back; The Afrique League could not endure alone when that day came.

As the now chief military commander of his nation and a hero of the people, Vulkan was taken into the confidence of the Warlord. In the name of the warlord he claimed back the old vassal states of Ursh for the Afrique League and built that broken nation back up on freed slaves and a noble sense of retribution.

Vulkan was one of the first of the final design of Astartes. All of the major flaws had been solved by that point and for that we can be grateful, the world did not need another Angron.

When the last tyrant fell and it came time to bring the Unification to the rest of Sol, Vulkan son of N'bel was raised high and called Primarch.

When the Great Crusade began it was Vulkan, second only to Lorgar, who showed that although the Imperium was strong and could be monstrous, it could also be noble and capable of true virtue.

When the War of The Beast came it was the the Salamanders that dedicated their lives to defense of the people above the defense of the Imperium, or what was good for the people of a nation must surely be good for the Imperium as a whole.

Vulkan did make it back to Old Earth before the Martyr Angel fell and he could not save his brother primarch, but no blame was laid at his feet as his Legion worked so tierlesly and gave their very lives for the people and always at the thickest of the the fighting, in the heart of the inferno was the Promethean with his hammer.

In the years that followed the rebuilding of the Imperium Vulkan's forces remained integrated most strongly with those of the Imperial Army. Vulkan served the Imperium for longer than any other primarch, save for Ferrus Manus of the Mechanicum. Time and again the enemies of man would rise to threaten the Imperium, and the Promethean would rise in turn to face them. Vulkan fought against the Black Crusades of Chaos, the Orkish WAAAGHs of Armageddon, and uncountable other foes, surviving against odds in which any lesser man would perish. Vulkan became known as Vulkan the Undefeatable, the Emerald Knight, the greatest of the Imperium’s champions.
Nevertheless, despite the Mark III S geneseed, the years began to take their toll on Vulkan. Vulkan’s body may have been young but his spirit was old, and he could no longer serve his Imperium the way he once did. The Emperor granted his steadfast champion the right to retire, only stating that he hoped Vulkan could find place to retire fitting for one who had served the Imperium as long as he.

Vulkan picked the humble planet Nocturne as his place of retirement. Vulkan was head of the Promethean Creed, its greatest missionary and, given how long he had been influencing it, probably the greatest factor in shaping it. During the Great Crusade, Nocturne had embraced the Creed completely and with great enthusiasm. As a result, Nocturne had become an important world to the Salamander Legion, and was the world the Salamander chapter held onto after the splitting of the legions, though the Salamanders built their actual fortress on the nearby moon of Prometheus, to ensure the civilians of Nocturne would not be made direct targets of any would-be aggressor.

By the time that Vulkan started to feel old nearly the entire population ascribed to the creed in one form or another. It had become their holy land, eclipsing even the old lands of Africa. Although Vulkan had intended to settle down and live a quiet life in his old age, the people of Nocturne recognized the Unbound Flame of the Promethean Creed, and petitioned him to rule. And so Vulkan became the High Patriarch of Nocturne, ruling as a wise philosopher-king, though more than once the former Emerald Knight had to pick up his old hammer to defend his adopted home.

Of all the Primarchs save perhaps Russ of Skand Vulkan's disappearance is the most odd. Shortly before Vulkan's disappearance there is a gap of approximately 200 years in the records of Nocturne and after that point it is generally accepted that he is gone. Before this gap Vulkan is recorded as the High Patriarch of Nocturne. After the gap a Triumvirate was ruling in Vulkan's place and apparently had been doing so long enough that such an arrangement was considered normal. The last known record of Vulkan is a statement by the Promethean that he had planned to take a trip around the far planets of the galaxy, but there is no indication of how long he expected to be gone and when he expected to be back. What happened during the Centuries of Silence, as the Prometheans call it, is a holy mystery. Some say he is dead, some say he will come back again in a great hour of need and some say he never left.

All that is known is that his children, the Fire Lords and the Black Dragons and the Salamanders, fight like lions for humanity and legion of them have laid down their immortal lives for mortal men and legion more and more have risen in turn.

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== Dorn ==
Note:
- Calbi born, early model astartes pattern. Desensitization problems.
- Odd friendship with Perturabo
- Died during 1st Black Crusades holding the battlements of Cadia

The story of Rogal Dorn starts in the garrison town of Onto Rontus in the not too long annexed land of Calbi. Born to a mother of the local tribes and an officer father of the Merikan army his start was not as tragic as it could have been. Often such half-breeds were not the result of consenting unions but Donovan Dorn held genuine affection for Kosa and was, unknown to his fellow officers, married to her.

Dorn was one of a large family and had many siblings though he was ultimately the only one to follow in his father’s footsteps. Dorn left his loving tribe and family and all he had known and travelled to the distant lands of Merika to begin his training, as his father had.

He learned much in those years and was an excellent student and would have been on the fast track to high station but for his circumstances of birth. No soldier of the greatest nation on Old Earth would gladly allow themselves to be given orders from a savage of the north. Despite all this his tutors could not deny his talents.

It was not a thing he took undue joy in but the ways of war came very easily to him. Despite the unfortunate circumstances of his birth he became the very model of a Merikan officer. He was well versed in military doctrine of all sorts and knew something of the history of his nation, at least enough to spot the revisionisms.

Although adept, or at minimum competent, at all aspects of war his true talents were found in siege warfare. In the tactical simulations and competitive VR matches Dorn was unbeaten.

Due to his knowledge of the locals and ability to speak at least one tribal language fluently Dorn returned to Calbi wearing a conquers uniform. He served as a lieutenant under the rule of Praefectus Adran, himself new to the post after the forced retirement of old Praefectus Stavart.

Praefectus Stavart had been very old and was unquestionably loyal to Merika but had dealt with the natives with some degree of fairness and even kindness when he could afford to. He was not loved by the locals, how could he be, but the elders were more than smart enough to know that his position as an intermediary between them and Merika was probably the best deal they could get in the circumstances.

For Stavart’s part he probably knew that as well. In his childhood Dorn had met him a few times with his father. He remembered him looking old then and unless he somehow genuinely had six sixty-seventh birthdays it was obvious that he had been lying about his age for a long time. In his way Stavart had cared about Calbi and it’s people as something other than a broken, subjugated state of Merika. He held on in the job until nearly ninety because he knew that Adran or someone much like him would succeed him. And he was right.

Praefectus Adran was not a nice man by any measure. His was the brutal rule of law and the authority of the Iron Fist. He wouldn’t be seen attending local festivals or events; they were there from the greatest to the least at his beck and call. They were savages and heathens and he was a man of the Greatest Nation and a paragon among them. Needless to say tensions between the conquered and conquerors increased.

At some point genuine tribal unrest turn into riots and Praefectus Adran orders mass executions.

Dorn is well loved by both the locals, who see him as their man on the other side and look to him to for salvation, and by the Merikan rank and file and quite a few of the officers.

There are a few days of communications black outs due to "faulty equipment" and some "regrettable accidents" that see some of the officers dead and Praefectus Adran commits suicide after a long period of depression. When asked how he managed to shoot himself in the back of the head with a shot gun acting Praefectus Dorn tells the investigators that Adran had been "Very depressed."

Nobody believes it but, due to the difficulties in the still mysteriously faulty communications equipment, it does buy him enough time to root out more Merikan loyalists, secure his alliances with the local tribes and when the order comes from the capital to stand down and come back for questioning he declares independence.

The next day he is met by an uncannily nondescript man of average height and build with no distinguishing features, hard to estimate age, unremarkable clothing and an oddly neutral and hard to place accent. He claims his name is Alpharius Omegon and he comes representing the Imperium. He tells Dorn that his timing is awful: had he been able to spin this out for a few more years, five at least, the Imperium would have been in a position to lend considerable military might to his Rebellion. As it is, they will offer what less obvious help they can but the Imperium can't get dragged into a direct and total war with Merika at the current time. Dorn and a few of his elites get what must be some of the very last Mk1 Astartes upgrades, administered by local bio-druids for reasons of deniability.

Recently Merika had been supplying and training terrorist organizations in the lands conquered by the Imperium and Oscar had found out who was behind the seemingly random attacks. The aim was to disassemble the Imperium back into little nations for Merika to "Manifest Destiny" all over and Oscar was most unhappy, most unhappy indeed. But his forces were all tied up dealing with Ursh and the Pan-Pacific Empire. So he couldn't act directly and was forced to use Dorn and his rebellion, and later Fulgrim, to fight by proxy.

Not that Dorn would know the specifics of this until quite a few years after Unification Day.

Dorn holds out for long enough for Fulgrim Doe to raise his rebellion and make contact.

By this point the Imperium is finishing off the last enclaves of Ursh, Lorgar is decapitating the Despot and Merika is in deep shit because of the multiple rebellions, the pissed off Imperium and the only neighbor it has left with whom it is not at war with is Hy Brasil who hate both of them and are just going to sit back and watch.

Fulgrim "negotiates a deal of inclusion with very good terms" with the Imperium after he is appointed President of Merika and "abandons the unprofitable campaign to uplift and civilize the northern provinces". Calbi becomes an independent nation, Dorn appoints an Assembly of Elders to govern the nation, steps down from and decommissions the title "Praefectus of Calbi". However, he does remain the head of the armed forces. The Elders and Dorn, or representatives of them in the case of the more elderly Elders, are present at the swearing of allegiance to the Empty Throne of Earth.

When Steward Oscar looks to the other worlds of Sol and to the stars beyond he names Dorn as one of his primarchs to the surprise of Dorn though not the people of his home nation who see it as only right.

And then Great Crusade, WoTB, Reconquest and death on the walls of Cadia during the 1st Black Crusade of which is WIP by Dornfag

During the Great Crusade he went slower than most of the other Primarchs bar Lorgar but his diligence over speed, though criticized at the time, proved it's worth in the WoTB as the worlds he brought into the Imperium weathered the storm consistently better than others that weren't the work of Perty.

At some point he gets it into his head to grow his trademark mustache. Some time later he has to have one of his eyes replaced and it sort of looks like a monocle.

Does not take part in the Raid. He was not the greatest personal combatant and also tended to be better at static defense than actually running around, so a quick Raid was not his strong suit. Also due to the buggy Mk1 enhancments he suffered from desensitization problems which gradually turned into a mild case of masochism.

Never married or had any children (that he or history knew about). Did have a large number of nephews and nieces and cousins and more distant kin. Quite a few of his family survived the WoTB, he was quite lucky in that regard.

== Roboute Guilliman ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Artist of War:'''''

Guilliman was born to a minor noble house in the great and relatively prosperous realm of Europia. His parents were able to afford him admittance to Parisiorum University, the most prestigious educational institution of that fair nation. By the onset of adulthood he was well versed in the classics of language, mathematics and the basic sciences; but it was in military theory that he truly excelled. Soon he was spotted by a visiting officer, and was quickly transferred to the Avelroi military academy. He was a more than adequate soldier, and a fairly skilled tactician, but it was in the arts of grand strategy and logistical planning that his brilliance was found. During wargames and simulations, his peers often managed to gain the upper hand on Guilliman's forces, flanking or encircling them only to find themselves critically short of materiel and facing positions prepared long in advance, thanks to his unconventional focus on interdicting supply lines. Thus, while he graduated with glowing recommendations from his tutors, he was somewhat resented by his fellow alumni who felt his tactics underhand or cowardly.

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Shortly after, he was assigned to the southern border where his nation rubbed shoulders - and often warred - with the Nord Afrik. Within a month of his assignment, the area was brought up to peak efficiency and combat effectiveness. Whole swathes of the border defenses were brought back up to standard, often exceeding them, becoming greater and more formidable than they were in the last border dispute; the semi-derelict Jibraltonius border fort seemed to change overnight from a ceremonial headquarters to an impenetrable bastion. And not a moment too soon, as before long the Nord Afrikaanus and their cyber-thrall army commanders were ready for war, instead of the brief raids and pillages that Guilliman's defenses had been blooded against.

The hordes of Nord Afrik, armed and armoured with most powerful technology they had recovered from the rotting corpse of the old world, charged with ferocity that would've shattered the defences of just years before. They played every hand they could; hit-and-run raids, armoured assaults, wave attacks and attempts at infiltration, yet in the end it did not matter, as their crusade broke upon the hardened shell of Europia. For every of Guilliman's soldiers, there were ten Afrikaanus barbarians - but in turn, there were a dozen shells, plasma charges or lascannon shots for each of '''them,''' and it is said that fresh reinforcements would arrive before their dead predecessors had even hit the ground. The counter-offensive orchestrated by General Guilliman was nothing less than a masterpiece of warfare, facing the Afrikaanus as if on his own home turf. The waves of techno-barbarians were bled white, their counterattacks shrugged off and shattered, their homeland burned to ashes from which nothing could ever recover.

The customary actions to follow in these conquests was for nations to incorporate the territory of the fallen into their own empire, lording over the few remaining broken people. This would have been the fate of Nord Afrik, too, but for Guilliman's address to the senate imploring them to let that foul place rot. This was perceived as weakness by some, yet his foresight would go on to frustrate the other neighbouring nations who were looking forward to invading a Europeia overextended and weakened by their subjugation of Nord Afrik. For his martial brilliance and wisdom, Guilliman was given the honorific title of Lord, a title that would not normally be bestowed upon him until his fathers death. Furthermore, in the time of relative peace the nation now found itself in, it needed an ambassador - albeit one with enough accomplishment and worth behind him for the leaders of neighbouring realms to sit up and listen.

It was during his time in the Kingdom of Franj that he met the relatively young Queen Yolande Fouché. The two had little in common at a personal level and neither ever completely trusted each other, but their respective governments deemed it imperative that they marry as a prelude to the unification of the two nations. Franj itself was deeply wounded and only slowly recovering from devastating attacks by the Unspeakable Tyrant of Gredbritton's horrific weapons, and would not survive even the most halfhearted of assaults from any of its neighbors - least of all the Dusht Jemanic, who were looking to settle old grievances. In turn, such an alliance would allow the people of Europia access to the produce of the huge tracts of agricultural land, which were sorely needed as using Nord Afrik as a psuedo-colony to feed their growing population was no longer an option.

When The Warlord came before the Senate of Europia, in the modest robes of a scribe, he came with open arms and a warm smile. Unlike elsewhere, the Senate of Europia saw this new "Imperium" as a macrocosm of themselves; their own well ordered nation merely taken to its logical conclusion. Thus, their inclusion was brief and painless, and allowed them representation in the decision and policy processes of such a regime, while the Kingdom of Franj was joined along with them as both realms were nearly dependent on one another at this point.

Lord Guilliman quickly rose through the ranks of the new Imperial Army, thanks to his history amongst one of the more civilised realms of the Imperium, as well as his unparalleled logistical prowess. Yet, when it came time for the Warlord to implement his super soldier project on a much expanded scale it was a sad fact that Lord Guilliman was biologically too old and would almost certainly have died during the implantation process. As consolation he was granted some limited gene-forging and rejuvenation procedures that his usefulness might be extended for centuries to come.

And down the centuries his usefulness would be proven.

When the Warlord became the Steward before the Empty Throne and looked to the stars, it was Guilliman amongst his generals who was deemed to be best suited to the task of preparing for interplanetary warfare, a feat considered logistically impossible by many, yet achieved through meticulous calculation and planning. His dedication and adaptability earned Lord Guilliman the title of Primarch, a leader amongst leaders and a legend amongst legends. When the eye of the Steward looked beyond the confines of Sol, he saw Guilliman was was needed more than ever.

The Primarch rose to the challenge, reorganising the Imperial Army into a force that seemed able to be everywhere at once yet, to its enemies, was truly endless, and giving the Steward's war machine efficiency more befitting a creation of the Mechanicus. Whole stellar clusters were brought under the Aquila by the old man of Europia, with wars that could fill a library - the greatest of which, he believed, were the ones not fought. He was and old man. He looked of middle years but he had lived, long long past his time. Memories of loved ones, their faces and voices, had become dim and faded. He had outlived his wife and his children and his grandchildren, his beautiful nation and even the greatest of its monuments. The old man had never relished war like the others, seeing it instead as an intellectual exercise - and by now he was so very tired of it.

When the War of the Beast descend like a hammer upon the still fledgling Imperium, it was Guilliman's reforms - from the optimisation of trade routes to the streamlining of military integration and combined arms - that allowed whole sectors to mobilise their forces fast enough to weather the initial shock. His well-disciplined and -equipped legionaries made the Beast and his horde pay for every parsec, every light-year, every '''metre'''. For every slain citizen under his care a hundred deaths were meted out, but all could see that the line was being ground back to the Sanctum Sanctorum of humanity: Old Earth. The Beast and his forces were defeated, just like all the others were, but the legions that struck the deathblow were glorified far more than the one that hamstrung a tide of Ork that would've otherwise swallowed them whole. Guilliman held no jealousy or resentment over that; he was old enough to understand that good men were seldom remembered as long as entertaining monsters, and had resigned himself to that fact long ago.

After the slaying of The Beast the Imperium began to rebuild. It was dirty work but it was good work, the Primarch relishing in the opportunity to rebuilding something after so long fighting. Those close to him claimed it soothed his aching soul and reminded him of the miracles he worked on the borders of his homeland, long ago - even when many of his fellow Primarchs outright refused his suggested reforms.

Guilliman endured for centuries longer than any thought possible - even himself - but In 014.M32 he began his long, dreamless sleep. His legacy, however, would endure for ages to come; remembered fondly even by those who thought him nothing but a glorified penpusher, and proving that the quiet administrators and quartermasters of the Imperium that they had just as much to be proud of as any other.

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== Magnus the Red ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">''''' The Arch-Psyker '''''

The story of Magnus the Red can be traced back to the previous Despot of Ursh, a remarkably unfriendly fellow by the name of Ganzorig the Great. Indeed he was great and conquered huge swathes of the Afrique League to add to the already great Empire his uncle left him. One of the contributing factors in his victories was his use of enslaved and potent psykers. For the most part these poor creatures, witch-kin as they were, were not highly valued as people by the Despot despite him being a follower of the dark gods.

One of his most prized possessions was a witch by the name of Ada of whom it was said could summon deamons and not so much bind them but direct them. In her youth, before he had discovered quite how valuable she was, he had whored her out to a navigator for imported weapons from far off worlds beyond Sol. That she had a child that she loved dearly was good news for Ganzorig as it gave him a means by which he could control her.

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Time passed, wars were waged, new lands were conquered and things continued to get worse on Old Earth much as they always had done.

In time the son, named Magnus, grew into a man. Like his father he was uncommonly tall and it was soon evident that like his mother he was uncommonly powerful. As such he was press-ganged into the psychic warfare and assault efforts of the Regime. Magnus' aptitudes were in wards and defensive measures and by age 15 could stop artillery fire and had done so on the front lines. By age 20 he could throw up a shield wall that covered almost a mile in either direction and was harder than the finest steel.

In his 35th year his mother died on the front lines against the Pan-Pacific Empire and the monsters created by it's mad science. Magnus at the time was half a continent away on the borders of Achaemenidia but he felt her loss. Although Magnus had always been Ganzorig's leash to ensure his mothers obedience so in turn had Magnus been kept obedient lest harm come to his mother.

Magnus seemed to vanish and the border was over run by the next morning. A few month later Ganzorig the Great was found burned to death in his bed.

Little is known of Magnus' movements in many years and the Ursh Succession war that followed. It is suspected that he fled to the cursed ground of the Himalayan Mountains. A place only whispered in dark legend, the one place nobody was strong or mad enough to conquer and from the fall of the Dark Age Empire to the arrival of the Warlord remained inviolate. It was unknown for sure what was protecting that high place but ████████████████████████████████████Data expunged by order of the Inquisition██████████████████████████████████████████████████and never again they promised on this hallowed ground, and so they faded in midnight clad.

Magnus emerged from that strange land some time in his sixties, although how much time in that place had passed was anyone's guess. Due to his inhuman heritage he looked still of early middle years but for his one remaining eye that held reflected horrors enough to last lifetimes. His skin once pale and soft like his fathers was now hardened by years of exposure to something approximating leather and adorned from head to foot in red wards and runes and holy script in some unknown letters tattooed and branded and scared across every inch of flesh. Save for the ragged bite mark that took up one side of his face.

By this time the Warlords armies were moving in earnest with expert precision across a dozen fronts, both military and diplomatic.

At first the tall man wandered in places he thought beyond the reach of any king or man or beast but as the Warlord progressed his psychic powers grew until Magnus felt them eclipse his own. He traveled to the very furthest reaches of Sibar and buried his talents that he might not shine out from afar.

But the Warlord could feel him and he knew it. Rather than wait to be hunted down or chained up as was in his youth Magnus set out for the burning light.

At the time the Warlord was busy in the Lands of Skand where the Nordyc people dwelt. The Warlord was trying to unify them into a cohesive nation that he could work with and absorb into the Imperium. Some tribes would remain independent and raid and pirate and maraud across the landscape and they would be crushed for it but his hope would be that this would be minimal in number.

Magnus strode into the great wood and thatch hall almost as tall as the doorway, draped in animal skins and weathered and wild looking. The great hall fell silent for a moment until the babbling of conversations returned. He scanned the rows of men and women through the hazy smoky air seated around the tables and staying warm by the great fire pit until he found him, the Warlord.

He was seated some way down the bench tearing into a slab of mutton whilst a man in dusty grey robes negotiated with the king in a jovial manner. To the surprise of Magnus the Warlord waved him over and offered him a seat on the bench next to him and poured him a drink.

It had not occurred to Magnus that the Warlord meant him no harm, it had always been his assumption that powerful men fought and that was the way of things.

In the years that were to follow the Warlord did offer Magnus a place at his side not for his battlefield prowess, although that was formidable, but for the forbidden and ancient lore he had ██████████████ █████ ███████Data expunged by order of the Inquisition███ ███████ although it troubled him greatly.

Eventually Magnus did walk the battlefield, but this time at the head of a small army of his own making. A band of psykers like himself, some liberated slaves or other nations and some born free in the Imperium. For the first time since the death of his mother Magnus felt at home. They won much fame and fortune in the wars of Unification primarily against the stain on the map that was Ursh. Though the Warlord trusted Magnus he put upon him the one condition that he have no more dealings from things beyond conventional time and space.

The other commanders were unsure of Magnus, he was not fully human and he was witch-kin steeped in forbidden magics and lore. Mortarion and Russ both had a particular dislike of him for this and despised his methods. For all that Magnus became Primarch Magnus the Red but unlike most of his fellow Primarchs he could not recieve any augmentations due to his strangely genes.

As the Unification slid gently into the Great Crusade the Legion of the Thousnad Sons held themselves well and despite being the smallest of the Legions in the Imperial Army held themselves as high as any other.

As the War of the Beast ground on Magnus' armies found themselves out matched but still unrelenting. The Beast had psykers of his own and the Chaos Eldar made his people die screaming.

As the Beast assaulted Old Earth Magnus at last broke his word to the now Steward. He called forth all the old spirits as his mother taught him and shipped up the warp into a howling gale and dashed the Beasts fleets upon impossible shores and almost pity them for where they now were. It was a gamble that was not wholly won for some Imperial ships were lost in the gale, their crews damned and lost forever. He was severely berated by the Warlord for this and they almost came to blows.

He was present on Old Earth in those final days of that war confounding and confusing the sorcerers of Chaos and slaying their deamons.

Eventually the Steward and Magnus did reconcile their differences though it took many, many years.

It was said that the Grey Knights were founded and trained by ancient veterans of the Thousand Sons, although as with all things to do with the history of that order the truth will never be known.

Magnus was one of the 3 primarchs that lived to see the Steward crowned Emperor, although only barely. He was as human as the day he was born, however much that was, and longevity treatments can only take you so far. His ashes were scattered to the winds on the tallest Himalayan mountain carried there by the Emperor himself.

Even unto the Dark Millennium the Emperor would not allow discussion of what he found in those mountains.

Was it wondrous? Terrible? Both? None may know now. Whatever was there was gone by the time Earth was all but unified. A few abandoned villages, some empty temples, a few overgrown fields and no sign of violence.

Whatever was there looked and acted like people to fool people, more or less. Whatever was there left of it's own accord.

What it is and why anything can never be known though The Warlord found neither joy nor sorrow in its departure.

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== Sanguinius ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Martyr Angel'''''

Duscht Jemanic was an old nation, a once great empire that spanned from the coast of the Atlazia Ocean in the west to the Besivik Ocean in the east, the lightning speed of its war machines crushing nations beneath their tread. Over the centuries its power and borders were slowly eroded by the Ursh hordes in the east and revolts in its Europian provinces, until it was left only with its core territories and forced into a humiliating alliance for survival as part of the Quintuple Alliance.

The Duscht were a dour, efficient people, obsessed with genetic purity above all else. In their great iron towers the famed genesmiths delved into the secrets of the human genome, while in the bellies of its ashen factories millions of enslaved “unclean” sweated and died to produce the materials for its armies. It was into this decaying society that Sanguinius was born, only son of the Kaiser.

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The Kaiser was a cold man, and over the centuries of his life had failed to produce an heir that satisfied his need for perfection. As he grew old, he grew desperate, and in his desperation he summoned his greatest genesmiths to do something never before attempted: to create a human life. To create his perfect heir, he opened the ancestral gene-vaults of House Baal, and sequences were taken from its greatest heroes: genes from generals and warriors for strength and bravery, from diplomats and statesmen for wisdom and intelligence, from courtesans and athletes for beauty and fairness of form. To this blend of genes, the Kaiser, perhaps in a final act of caprice or megalomania, added the genes for a pair of enormous, white wings to grow from the child’s back.

With the genome completed, the genesmiths retreated to their towers to perform their ancient biotech rites to attempt to forge the raw genetic material into a living fetus. Nine and ninety failed, ending as twisted, misshapen things, but in the hundredth the genes took hold, and after a year and a day of labor the genesmiths presented the baby boy to the Kaiser. As he wept, the Kaiser named the boy “Sanguinius,” for he was to be the culmination and greatest champion of the Baal bloodline.

As the boy grew, he was indeed as perfect as expected: tall and strong, brilliant and wise, golden-haired and beautiful to behold. His tutors were astonished at his genius, and the royal masters of arms soon found themselves outstripped by the stripling boy. Yet the Kaiser was still displeased. For the boy had always been a means to an end: the restoration of the old Duscht Empire, and two factors pulled his dream further and further from his grasp. The first were rumors and rumblings of an upstart nation, led by a feared Warlord, conquering and subjugating those in its path. And the second was something he could never has foreseen, something that surprised and confused and enraged him when he confronted it: Sanguinius had compassion.

Indeed, as a boy he had horrified his governesses and caretakers by sneaking out of the palace to play with common children in the street (wearing bulky clothes to hide his growing wings), and infuriated his father by speaking out against cruelty of the nobility and freeing the household slaves assigned to him. His kindness and strength of will drew the masses to him, yet in his gaze there was always a sense of melancholy, a sense that he was looking into the distance at something no one else could see. And it was so, for Sanguinius had dreams.

In them he saw the Earth and the suffering of its teeming masses, felt their psychic screams of pain: from a nomad child dying of radiation in the Calbian wastes, raw boils and weeping sores stark against her pale skin, from an old slave in a Duscht factory collapsing under the savage blows of laughing guards, from all the wretched of the Earth crying for salvation. And from far away amongst the inky blankness of the stars he heard similar, fainter echoes as people suffered and died on far-flung planets across the galaxy. Sanguinius wept for them, and for his own powerlessness, and as he did a great, golden figure rose from the darkness, benevolent gaze sweeping over the Earth. It reached its hands down and lifted the masses to the stars, and where there was sorrow there was now hope and opportunity. Yet it was here Sanguinius’ visions diverged: in some, he and the Duscht people were lifted into the stars with the rest of humanity to spread amongst the galaxy, his heart bursting with joy. In the others, the great golden figure drew his gaze to the cruelty of Duscht Jemanic, to its slave pens and pogroms and purges of the unclean, and Sanguinius felt only cold despair as the great hands turned to fists and ground the Duscht people into dust.

Though he was not much older than a boy, Sanguinius vowed this would not come to pass, that he would protect the Duscht people and pledge himself to the service of the great savior, and that he would march across the stars to save the scattered people of Terra no matter where they were.

So it was that the Warlord came to borders of Duscht Jemanic during Sanguinius’ seventeenth year.

By this time, Sanguinius was the de facto leader, having won over the court with his charisma and strength. The Kaiser was by now decrepit and spent most of his time secluded in his private chambers, emerging occasionally to make wild proclamations and rant about the lost glory of the Duscht Empire. Thus when the Warlord’s herald came to demand the surrender of the Duscht people, it was the boy-king Sanguinius at the head of the Duscht steel legions that came to parley with the Warlord.

When Sanguinius stepped into the Warlord’s command tent and saw his face, it took all of Sanguinius’ will not to fall to his knees, for he knew with certainty that this was the great golden man he had dreamed of. The Warlord, noting the young man’s hesitation, is said to have greeted him with a half-smile and asked, “Is aught the matter?” to which Sanguinius simply replied, “I dreamed of you.”

The beginning of the negotiations was simple enough, for Sanguinius was already willing to pledge fealty and offer the technology of the genesmiths to the Warlord. Yet when Sanguinius requested mercy for his people, the discussions grew heated.

The Warlord was benevolent but possessed of an iron sense of justice, and in his eyes the cruelty of the Duscht people demanded harsh sanction. The specifics are lost to history, but the argument is said to have stretched long into the night, with Sanguinius pleading, protesting, and threatening in turn, and the Warlord impassively countering each rhetorical thrust. Finally, Sanguinius offered his own life in return for mercy for his people, for he declared that as the culmination of the Baal bloodline, the sins of his house were for him to bear.

Impressed by the earnest conviction of the young man, the Warlord relented. The Warlord demanded that the slaves were to be freed and the possessions of the nobility were to be seized and distributed among them, and that each house would serve in the Warlord’s armies as penance. Sanguinius himself would be their general, and their duty would be to go where the fighting was thickest and lead the charge. Finally collapsing to his knees from relief, Sanguinius accepted without hesitation.

With the secrets and technology of the Duscht genesmiths, the Warlord perfected the final design iteration for his Astartes warriors, the Mark III augmentation pattern, of which Sanguinius and his fellow primarchs to-be Vulkan and Lion El’Jonson were the prototypes. On them, the Warlord ordered the genesmiths to lavish their full expertise and to spare no cost, pushing the boundaries of their arcane knowledge.

When the three men emerged they were indeed without any of the flaws and mutations that had plagued the earlier Astartes generations, with strength and abilities far exceeding those of their existing fellows. However, the cost was astronomical and the process too slow to be viable on a large scale, thus for the mass production Mark III pattern the improvements were mostly limited to eliminating the flaws in the Mark II, keeping a roughly similar or perhaps marginally higher level of strength. The prototype Mark III design was archived, and later used for the most elite warriors of the Imperium, the Custodes and the Grey Knights.

For the rest of the Unification Wars, Sanguinius and his legion served with distinction, winning fame for their lightning assaults against even the most entrenched of foes, the Astartes descending as streaks of crimson on wings of burning ash and flame as they followed their general into battle. With his purity of spirit and the oneness of their shared vision for humanity, he won the trust and confidence of the Warlord and became a close advisor, making his eventual elevation to Primarch a mere formality. Thus when the Warlord became the Steward of the Empty Throne and proclaimed the Great Crusade, it was the fleets of the IX Legion with Primarch Sanguinius at the helm that were in the vanguard, blazing a trail into the darkness.

Sanguinius’ legend grew as he and his legion pacified world after world, a magnificent sight to behold as he soared over the battlefield on immense white wings to slay the enemies’ generals and greatest champions. Yet it was not only for feats of arms that he was revered as the “Angel”. Worlds blighted by mutation that would have been purged by other legions instead found themselves welcomed into the safety of the Imperium by the IX Legion, and broken peoples barely recognizable as human for the first time experienced the warmth of kinship and camaraderie.

The IX Legion soon won the moniker of “Blood Angels,” for their nobility of spirit and devotion to the shared blood of mankind. Soon, tales of the great Angel and his warriors spread across the oppressed people of the galaxy, and many rose in joyous rebellion against their alien overlords when the great Angel and his red warriors appeared in the skies above their worlds.

Amongst his brother Primarchs, Sanguinius found comrades and friends of his own. Well liked or at least well respected by most of the Primarchs, Sanguinius was particularly close with Horus and Vulkan. In him, “Old Man Roboute” finally had a willing audience for his lectures on strategy and logistics, and Fulgrim found a kindred spirit with an appreciation of art and philosophy, the greatest achievements of man. Sanguinius’ relationship with Angron was complicated, troubled by Angron’s unpredictable madness. On good days, theirs was a friendly rivalry as each legion strove to claim the title of finest assault troops in the Imperium; on others, Angron viewed the Angel as an upstart pretender without respect for his elders and resented the Angel's pity, and they had to be separated lest they come to blows. Curze and Mortarion despised Sanguinius as naïve and foolish, and Sanguinius despised them in turn for obvious reasons, Mortarion in particular for he reminded Sanguinius far too much of his own father.

When the Steward with Eldrad at his side first proposed the idea of an alliance with the Eldar to his gathered Primarchs at the Council of Nikaea, Sanguinius was one of the first to speak out in favor, for he believed all sapient beings willing to work towards peace, prosperity, and the good of mankind had a rightful place within the Imperium. Later, he would be part of the great raid on the twisted realms of Nurgle, and nearly perished there in the stinking hellscape.

As the raiding party retreated to the portal with Isha in tow, they received word that Eldrad and his council of seers holding the portal open in realspace had come under ferocious daemonic assault, and that the portal was failing rapidly. As the allied forces rushed to the exit, Sanguinius lingered trying to save the lives of several wounded Exarchs and Astartes. It was only through the combined heroics of Lion El’Jonson, Jaghatai Khan, and the Phoenix Lords Asurmen and Baharroth that he survived, as they carved a path through the hordes of slavering monstrosities to drag the Angel through the collapsing portal.

The next few years represented the high water mark of the Great Crusade as the Imperium expanded at an unprecedented rate, fueled by their new allies and technology. World after world was brought into the Imperium, and Sanguinius dared to hope that his dream of a gentler future could truly come to pass.

Then the War of the Beast came.

The hordes of the Orks, Chaos Eldar, and Dark Eldar smashed through the fledging Imperium, plunging it into darkness, and where there was hope and opportunity before there was now only a desperate struggle against extinction. The Blood Angels fought as they always had, leading the attack in the most vicious fighting, the tip of the Imperium’s spear, and inspiring fellow troops through deeds of valor and sacrifice. Many a Warboss, Archon, or Chaos Seer met his end at the blades of a squad of Blood Angels, only for the Astartes to be surrounded and cut down by the enraged foe. The loss of leaders sowed disruption and chaos in the enemy forces, yet for all the Blood Angels’ sacrifice it could only slow the enemy’s inexorable advance.

Those within the Imperium who fell traitor learned that Sanguinius was not all kindness, and found themselves hunted without mercy by the vengeful Blood Angels. Perhaps it was because the traitors sought to tear down his cherished dream of a peaceful future, or perhaps it was because they spat on the mercy and acceptance of the Steward that Sanguinius and his Duscht people had sacrificed so much to earn back on Terra long ago. Whatever the reason, he reserved a special savagery for those who turned their backs on the Imperium. It is said that after witnessing the carnage wrought on an entire regiment of Traitor Guard by a single squad of Blood Angels, a shocked Imperial Army general called High Command to ask “Where are the Angels I was promised? Who are these flesh tearers?”

And so the war ground on. Peace was a distant dream, and for the Men and Eldar of the Imperium there was only cold, quiet determination, defying a cruel fate in the face of a hateful and malicious universe. Worlds burned, trillions died, and across the galaxy the Blood Angels could be found neck deep in the thickest battles. Many battles were on the most populated worlds of the Imperium, and the Blood Angels would fulfill their devotion to mankind as they fought in rearguard actions to save civilians and evacuees, these valiant defenses all too often becoming last stands.

Captain Malakim and his doomed 29th Company became everlasting symbols of this devotion when they gave their lives to the man securing the evacuation of hive-world Ancalagon. Ancalagon had been the greatest world of Subsector Urulok, and the invasion of the world was particularly savage, representing the greatest concentration of Ork and Chaos Eldar forces in the subsector.
The Imperial defenders led by the Blood Angels were inevitably pushed back to the walls of the last hive, with millions of civilians yet to evacuate. Primarch Corvus Corax, commanding forces in a nearby subsector, repeatedly ordered the remaining Imperial forces to retreat and regroup to conserve their strength, yet Captain Malakim refused, for doing so would have doomed the millions of civilians to butchery or enslavement at the hands of the invaders. The Imperial defense held just long enough for the final transports to clear the spaceport, and as the hive walls were overrun the Chaos Seer leading the Chaos Eldar touched Captain Malakim’s mind to taunt him and savor his despair. Yet the alien only found calm and peace, and in response Captain Malakim sent out a final vox transmission.

Across the ruined world and the Imperial starships high above the words rang out, “For those we cherish, we die in glory!” Minutes later, enormous explosions visible from orbit erupted across the planet as hidden Cyclonic Torpedoes detonated, remotely triggered by the cessation of the heartbeat of the last Blood Angel defender. The massive loss crippled the Ork and Chaos Eldar forces in the subsector, and the regiments later raised from the evacuees won renown as some of the fiercest in the Imperial Army with their warcry, “Remember the blessed 29th!”

Through it all, Sanguinius could be found leading his Blood Angels in the most perilous of missions, or offering a kind word to faltering Guardsmen and a gentle touch to traumatized refugees. He ignored the criticisms that his men’s sacrifices were wasteful and pointless, the sneers that they could have done much more had they only the wisdom to regroup and fight another day. For Sanguinius knew that each civilian saved was another who could fight, build, and carry on the legacy of man, a precious spark of humanity, and that in a war as horrific as this morale and hope were as powerful as any weapon or starship or fortress.

Yet his men noticed a change in their beloved Primarch, subtle as it was, a restlessness and grimness he could not always hide. For Sanguinius’ visions were growing stronger, and each night, pounding at his consciousness, he saw his own death again and again. He knew it would be at the hands of a great monstrosity as he stood between it and the Steward, and that his time was growing short. Death held no fear for Sanguinius, but it was the fate of mankind that gave him pause; humanity was balanced on the knife’s edge, extinction a mere slip away. Even if the gentler future of his dreams was realized, Sanguinius knew he would not be there to see it, but he would give everything to ensure it would come to pass.

In the last days of the war, as the unstoppable hordes of the Beast, Dark Eldar, and Chaos Eldar converged on humanity’s final bastion, the Primarchs and their legions raced home to Terra to fortify their homeworld for the coming onslaught. Across the soil of Terra, the Men and Eldar of the Imperium prepared for their last stand, standing side by side to shout defiance at the hatred of the galaxy:

Here, a squad of Guardsmen drawn from a dozen worlds of the Imperium place sandbags around a hospital in the shadow of a towering Wraithlord, pausing occasionally to marvel at the gleaming colossus;

Bonesingers weave armored shells around the frames of hulking Imperial tanks, as nearby techpriests chitter with anxiety;

In a long abandoned church a Word Bearer Chaplain preaches to a motley crowd of humans and Eldar, rainbow lights from ancient stained-glass dancing on his brow, fire and ecstasy burning in his breast;

A mother comforts her weeping child as they are shepherded onto an evacuation ship under the watchful eye of an Ultramarine, the boy still reaching for the picture he dropped of his fallen father;

At the edge of their camp, in an old garden under the light of the stars, a tall Aspect Warrior kisses an astonished guardswomen and smiles at her joy;

And far above in the night sky, the greatest fleets of Men and Eldar float amidst the gloom, blotting out the stars with their number, ready to stand and spit light and fire against the coming forces of the dark.

Secluded in the great halls in the Imperial Palace, the Steward with his Primarchs and Eldrad with his seers laid their plans for the coming invasion. Agreements were made and bitter arguments were fought. Many of the Primarchs requested the honor of defending the Imperial Palace itself, and the Steward heard them each in turn, from the impassioned pleas of Lorgar to the cold growls of Dorn.

Yet when the Steward turned to Sanguinius, expecting a fervent request for the honor from his old friend, he found only tranquility. Sanguinius rose from his seat, and said, “That I shall die before the walls of this palace is beyond doubt. My destiny comes and I go to it with peace in my heart.”

The Steward recognized the calm conviction in the Angel’s eyes. It was the same look he had seen so many years ago when he first met Sanguinius as the Warlord in his command tent, and Sanguinius had offered his life for mercy for his people. It was the look of a man who had wholly accepted and welcomed his death for a greater purpose, and would go to it without fear and regret.

Moved by his words, the Steward accepted the request. So it was that when the Chaos armada forced its way to Terra and its unending hordes began their assault on the Imperial Palace, they found the proud Blood Angels manning the great walls, with Sanguinius, his elite First Company, and the legendary Custodes defending the Eternity Gate.

The Beast was possessed of greater cunning and primal intelligence than most of his species, and began the assault by probing the defense of the palace, looking for a weakness. When none were found, he sent his the masses of his most expendable troops to overwhelm the defense with the crushing weight numbers.

But Dorn and Perturabo had done their work well. Automated defense turrets gunned down hordes of Orks before they even reached the firing range of the Blood Angels, and those that survived ended up in carefully designed killing fields with no cover and no escape. Overhead, Ork jets and stormboyz crashed screaming off the palace void shields, or were frozen by stasis fields to be picked off by lance batteries at leisure.

Yet for all of Dorn and Perturabo’s defensive genius, the palace was simply not designed to hold off numbers of this magnitude, for who could have predicted a Waaagh comprised of a full half of the Orks in the galaxy? After several days of fighting a flaw emerged: the immense piles of dead Orks were obscuring crucial firing angles for the defensive turrets, and had grown so tall in some places that the greenskins were using them to climb up the previously impregnable walls. The Imperial Palace was too vast to fully hold against so numerous a foe, thus Sanguinius ordered his forces to withdraw to the secondary defensive positions, cunningly designed to minimize the advantage of numbers and to funnel the enemy towards the entrenched elites defending the Eternity Gate. Thus it was the days after the breaching of the walls that the historians consider the true Siege of the Imperial Palace.

The first day of the siege consisted of more Orks, though now they included more than just mere boyz. In the Orkish hordes now came nobz and weirdboyz, flash gitz and kommandoz, all roaring for battle and eager to spill the blood of humanity.

The first greenskins to enter the Grand Plaza of the Eternity Gate were greeted with a magnificent sight before they were gunned down: the white-winged Angel surrounded by his warriors resplendent in red, while beside them stood the gold-clad figures of the Custodes with their Lord Commander Arik Taranis at the forefront, holding aloft the great Banner of Unification, its length equal to full five Astartes. Behind them, a giant Aquila spread its wings on the massive adamantium Eternity Gate, protecting the Throne Room command center where the Steward and Eldrad commanded the forces of Terra, telepathically linked with thousands of their commanders to coordinate with perfect precision and unison.

The two sides met in the middle of the plaza with a resounding crash, howling as their blades sought the blood of their hated foes. Chainswords tore flesh, power klawz ripped bodies, and the dead and wounded were trampled underfoot in the savage melee. Lord Commander Taranis won the greatest deed of the day, slaying the Warboss leading the Orks by impaling him on the Banner of Unification and lifting his still screaming body into the air for all to see, as Sanguinius held off the Warboss’ nob retinue.

By nightfall, the tide of Orks slowed, for their poor eyesight would have put them at a great disadvantage against the enhanced Astartes and the Beast would not waste his troops here. As the last Ork died gurgling with a sword rammed through its chest, the defenders found a moment of respite to pray for the dead, celebrate the deeds of the living, and prepare for the next day.

The start of the second day consisted of more Orks, though by mid-morning it was clear something was amiss. The Ork forces were in disarray, even for their crude standard of organization, and reports came from the secondary Blood Angel positions that an unknown force was attacking the Orks in the rear. When lithe figures in black cut down the last of the Orks and stepped into the great plaza, it became all to clear: the Dark Eldar had come. In their sadistic greed, they had seen a opportunity to capture the unfathomable prizes of the Steward and Eldrad at the same time, and believing the Blood Angels to be worn down they had come in full force to break the defenders.

The Dark Eldar were a deadly foe: Astartes and Custodes died screaming as the enemy weapons inflicted agony that overcame even their enhanced physiologies and mental conditioning. Yet the vile invaders had blundered in their greed and haste: for all their lethal skill and precision, the Dark Eldar were not assault troops, their equipment and tactics unsuited for the grinding attrition of siege warfare, and Sanguinius and his scions quickly showed them their error.

With no space to maneuver and dodge in the packed plaza, sculpted, graceful bodies shaped by the finest of Comorragh’s flesh arts were crushed under ceramite and steel as easily as any Ork boy. Three entire Wych cults were eradicated that day, with Sanguinius personally cutting down the three Succubi that led them. As night fell, once again the enemy withdrew, consumed by infighting as the ever-scheming Archons used the chaos to usurp weakened rivals or settle old scores. There was no levity this night for the defenders: their wounds and exhaustion prevented such efforts, and battered armor and weapons required their attention.

The dawn of the third day was unusually still, the Orks and Dark Eldar nowhere to be found. For a moment, the defenders wondered if the xenos had retreated to seek an easier target, but when the morning quiet was shattered by the pounding of unholy war drums, eldritch howls, ululating chants, and gibbering laughter, the xenos’ absence became clear.

The dread legions of Chaos crested the great stairway of the plaza in a screeching tide of twisted flesh: hordes of savage Bloodletters, sinuous Daemonettes, and rotted Plaguebearers, howling and eager to feast on the souls of the defenders. Beside them were mobs of cultists, cowardly, wretched things skulking in the shadows of their masters and chanting hymns of praise to their dark gods, hoping to gain a few scraps of favor.

Throughout the horde, the defenders glimpsed the Chaos Eldar, impossibly beautiful and perfect, their every movement liquid and effortless, their flawless faces belying the wild and fickle cruelty within. Ceramite gauntlets tightened around the hilt of swords and bolters as the Astartes gazed with hatred on a row of hulking figures, their fallen comrades the Traitor Marines. At their front strode the Arch-Heretic Erebus, once honored as First Captain of the Word Bearers and Living Saint of the Katholian Church, now reviled as the Dark Oracle and First Traitor.

Above the teeming corrupted multitude stood the four greatest servants of the Ruinous Powers, looming over their minions: Kairos Fateweaver, the ancient Lord of Change; Scabeiathrax the Bloated, the laughing and virulent Great Unclean One; Zarakynel the Bringer of Torments, the most favored Keeper of Secrets; and the mighty Ka’Bandha, bloodiest of Khorne’s Bloodthirsters.

Such a sight could have driven men to madness or despair; this was an army to crush entire sectors and devour the souls of species. Yet the Blood Angels and Custodes raised their blades aloft and shouted warcries and challenges at the dark horde, spitting defiance and insults in the faces of the dark gods. For they had armored themselves in faith and duty, purpose and loyalty, and there were no flaws upon their souls where weakness could take hold.

With the mournful blare of warhorns, the daemonic forces broke rank and thundered through the plaza. Astartes and Custodes had only moments to ready themselves before the wave crashed into their ranks. Daemonic hellblades tore through ceramite with unholy strength, impaling Astartes’ twin hearts in a single blow. Blasts of swirling warpfire incinerated men where they stood, armor and all, and still others were melted into puddles of festering ooze by hellish plagues and toxins.

Yet for every loss they suffered, the defenders retaliated tenfold. The searing touch of holy promethium and plasma cleansed corrupted flesh, and ancient power weapons sang their songs of death and lightning as the Astartes hewed through the enemy ranks. Vanguard veterans descended from on high, lashing out with bolt and blade and scattering the enemy before them, while Librarians wove great nimbuses of lightning and incinerated scores of demons with a gesture.

It is said that only in the crucible of trials and hardship does a man find his true worth, and humanity’s darkest hour also proved its finest. The Blood Angels fought with the fury of humanity itself, and their deeds that day would echo through history, to be sung of in the future even as the embers of civilization smoldered and the darkness drew near.

Chief Librarian Sandelon was the first to slay one of the Greater Daemons. As the battle swirled around him, the great librarian found himself facing Scabeiathrax, and without a flicker of hesitation he hurled himself at the massive, bloated daemon. The Blood Angel tore great gouges into the beast’s stinking flesh with his force staff and lances of crimson lightning, skillfully dodging between the beast’s cumbersome counterstrikes. However, for a heartbeat, the librarian was distracted as he turned to parry the strikes of a Chaos Astartes attacking his flank, and the momentarily lull in his defenses was enough: the Great Unclean One skewered Sandelon at the end of its massive, rusted cleaver, chortling to itself as its prey writhed on the end of its weapon. But Sandelon would not die.

With his rage and sheer force of will he anchored his soul to his dying body, and grasping the cleaver with both hands impaled himself further, bringing him within striking range of the daemon’s head. With a roar he rammed his force staff through the daemon’s skull, and focused all his pain and rage into a maelstrom of searing lightning through the staff.

The greater daemon howled and twisted in pain and fear as it burned from the inside out, slabs of flesh blackening and sloughing from its massive body, until at last it was nothing more than piles of charred, smoking meat, and its soul was sent screaming back into the realms of the warp. Only then did Sandelon close his eyes, a grim smile of satisfaction on his lips, and allow his soul to depart, his ravaged body at last going limp as he left to join his fallen brothers.

Elsewhere on the battlefield, Captain Azkaellon of the First Company, famed leader of the Sanguinary Guard, slew a dozen Chaos Lords in succession as they stepped forth to challenge his Primarch while Sanguinius dueled Erebus. Their weapons clashed for the better part of an hour, great bursts of light and warp energy erupted from the points of contact between the radiant blade of gold and the cruel mace of black. Finally, Sanguinius found an opening in Erebus’ defenses, and with a flourish he disarmed the Arch-Heretic, before severing both the traitor’s arms with a sweep of his burning blade.

Zarakynel was slain by Commander Taranis, the mighty Custodes parrying and dashing through the flashing, quicksilver strikes of the Keeper of Secrets. With a single blow of his right hand, the Commander bisected the daemon at the waist, all while firm grasping the Banner of Unification in his left.

Yet for all the deeds of heroism performed that day, the greatest was surely the Banishing of Ka’Bandha. The towering Bloodthirster was more akin to a force of nature, its great axe and nine-tailed scourge were streaks of blood as it cleaved through scores of Astartes and Custodes with contemptuous ease, and the Imperial defenders were forced to cede ground to it rampaged across the plaza.

Filled with fury at the deaths of so many of his men, Sanguinius rallied his Sanguinary Guard and together they crashed into the path of the berserk daemon. The blades of Astartes and daemon lashed out, slashing and hacking, as Sanguinius and his Guard pressed the daemon. As they fought, a score of the Sanguinary Guard were slain, each a mighty hero the Blood Angels in his own right. Yet not even Ka’Bandha could stand in the face of so many lethal warriors, and it was forced back, bleeding from dozens of wounds.

Flapping its great leather wings, it launched itself into the air seeking a respite, but Sanguinius followed, chasing the massive daemon into the sky on wings of white. In the air, they clashed and broke away, seeking greater height before clashing again. The nimbler Angel darted around the heavy Bloodthirster, swooping and twisting, dodging the daemon’s blows and inflicting a dozen more wounds on the beast. Sensing the daemon was slowing, Sanguinius pressed his advantage, and in a blur of speed, he slashed through the daemon’s right wing, sending the beast hurtling down to the plaza far below.

It landed with a thundering crash, crushing the granite and gouging a huge crater, and a few seconds later Sanguinius landed, driving his boot into the daemon’s head with all the force of his dive. As the daemon struggled to rise, faithful Azkaellon slashed through the daemon’s remaining wing as Sanguinius drove his sword through its throat. With the beast weakened, Sanguinius flung aside his blade and grabbed the Bloodthirster by its legs and throat, and with a heroic burst of strength lifted the beast above his head and dashed him against his knee, tearing the daemon in two with his force. The warriors of Chaos looked on in shock as Sanguinius flung the two pieces of the mighty demon into their ranks, while Ka’Bandha's soul was flung screaming into the warp to beg forgiveness at the feet of Khorne.

And so the battle raged on. Kairos Fateweaver was the last of the Greater Daemons to fall, screaming in rage and disbelief as it’s carefully laid plans were ruined, its frail body pulverized by the thunder hammers of a dozen vengeful Blood Angel Terminators.

Though their greatest champions had been cast down, the forces of Chaos did not relent. Night fell and there was no respite that evening, for daemons did not suffer from frailties like fear or exhaustion, and their mortal servants would never dare retreat lest they invite the displeasure of their fickle masters. Long into the night, the sounds of battle echoed through the darkened plaza, the shadowy figures of daemon and Astartes illuminated only by the brief flashes of power weapons and bolter muzzles, and the ghostly glow of plasma and warpfire.

Dawn broke as the last of the daemons were slain and banished to the warp, and the first rays of the sun touched on a hellish scene. The plaza was a mire of gore and viscera, so thick that the granite floor could not be seen beneath clotting pools of purple and red and brown, an accumulation of blood spilled over three days of ceaseless battle. Greasy tongues of black smoke reached into the sky from pyres of corpses fifty feet high, as alien, traitor, and daemon alike were fed into the fire. Amongst the dead stood the few survivors, lonely figures of red and gold, the proud First Company of the Blood Angels and the legendary Adeptus Custodes reduced to a meager handful. They knelt above the bodies of their fallen brothers, the dead outnumbering the living, and no words were spoken as each man offered his silent prayers to the fallen. The honored dead, who just a few hours ago had been friends, comrades, and battle-brothers, were now reduced to corpses, cold and silent, by the savagery of the xenos, the treachery of man, and the hatred of Chaos.

Yet even in this time of their greatest weariness and sorrow, there was no time for rest. Frantic calls came from the perimeter, voices raw from battle and disbelief as the scouts reported a monstrous Ork the size of a building advancing towards the Eternity Gate, surrounded by a horde of Nobz as big as Warbosses. The Imperial defenders gritted their teeth and gripped their swords, rising on legs worn from days of relentless fighting. The Beast itself had come. Yet when they turned to their Primarch for orders, they found that Sanguinius was still kneeling amongst the dead. They shouted but he did not hear, they shook him but he did not feel; for the visions had come again, stronger than ever before. They assailed his mind, overwhelming thought, a thousand variations and permutations of his impending death: crushed beneath a foot the size of a land speeder, impaled on the end of jagged claws, swatted out of the air to be hacked down by swarming Nobz, and a thousand other ends too brutal to imagine. Any lesser man would have been driven to madness by the phantom pain, but Sanguinius summoned all his will and forced the visions back, suppressing them until they were not gone but at least tolerable, and his mind was his own once more. He rose on unsteady legs to the relief of his men, and together the defenders pulled back from across the plaza. Sanguinius shouted orders as the Astartes and Custodes readied their weapons and gathered in a tight defensive circle before the Eternity Gate itself. Here, they would stand. Here, they would die.

The Beast announced its presence long before it reached the plaza, the ground itself dully reverberating with the weight of its steps. Steadily, the tremors grew stronger, until at least the Beast strode into view, granite cracking and splintering beneath its steps, its horde of hulking Nobz following close behind. Partway into the plaza, the Orks stopped, and for a few moments an eerie silence hung over the plaza as the two sides surveyed each other.

The Imperial defenders gazed for the first time on the monstrous Beast, whom before they had only heard of through hearsay and scattered reports. It was even more ferocious in the flesh: a towering monstrosity almost forty feet tall, defying all laws of nature and biology. Tusks as wide as a man jutted from its jaw and its gargantuan frame bulged with enough alien muscle to tear apart an Imperial Knight. It bore no weapons, instead grafting individual power field generators onto its jagged claws, and its crude armor was formed from the plates of destroyed Baneblades and Titans.

Even a spirit as pure and tireless as Sanguinius could be worn down. For days, he had faced the most terrible and nightmarish foes of humanity in endless combat, seen thousands of cherished friends and comrades butchered, resisted haunting visions of death and madness that would have broken any lesser man; and as Sanguinius gazed upon the overwhelming and terrible form of the Beast, for the first time he felt doubt.

What if it had all been useless?
What if all their struggle and sacrifice was for naught, and the light of humanity was snuffed out?
What if he failed?

Sensing an opening, the faintest blemish on Sanguinius’ soul, the dark gods of Chaos struck.
Creeping tendrils of dark thought seeped into his mind, offers and seductions, promises of power enough to fulfill all his dreams.

''Kneel before me,'' boomed a voice of hot iron and raw power, ''and I shall give you and your soldiers such strength that none may stand before you, and the whole galaxy shall know peace under the might of your legions.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius himself leading the invincible legions of the Imperium to victory after glorious victory, sweeping away the enemies of man until only an iron peace remained, enforced under his watchful eye.

''Join me,'' said a voice of chortling mirth and boundless life, ''and man will never again fear the blight of mortality or the frailties of flesh, and you shall be free to spread across the galaxy to spread life wherever you tread.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius saw joyous families, untouched by age or weakness, venturing forth on great journeys of discovery, colonizing virgin worlds and facing the challenges of the galaxy with optimism and camaraderie.

''Serve me,'' rasped a voice of eldritch cunning and ancient wisdom, ''and I shall grant you wisdom and foresight, and all the knowledge of the lost golden age of man.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius saw all the ancient wonders of humanity restored as man, filled with wisdom and understanding, walked among the stars to reclaim the galaxy with knowledge and technology.

''Come with me,'' said a voice of whispering silk and untamed passion, ''and humanity shall be made tall and strong and golden, shaped in your image and as perfect as you.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius saw golden men and women, as tall and strong as he, striding across the stars without fear, their wings carrying them over the skies of distant worlds

The voices grew louder, each clamoring to be heard, sometimes working in concert to sway him, sometimes working to undermine the others. But they agreed on one thing: the way forward was so simple, so clear, and Sanguinius only need reach out to grasp the power and opportunity offered to him. Sanguinius was granted one final vision: he saw himself in the Throne Room of the palace, warpfire dancing in his eyes, the power of the Warp overflowing from his body. Before him, a bleeding Steward kneeled at his feet, and to his side the headless body of Eldrad lay discarded, the blind eyes of the severed head frozen in an accusatory glare. Reaching down, Sanguinius hauled the Steward upright as the voices exulted and laughed, and with a leering smile shoved his golden sword through the Steward’s chest.

''No.''

In an instant the voices recoiled, and Sanguinius’ eyes snapped open. He had not realized they were closed.
''Only creatures as foul and debased as you would think that virtue could be gifted, that loyalty could be bought and bartered,'' he thundered in his mind. ''Strength does not come from might of arms, but from clarity of purpose and force of will. Joy does not come from a long life, but from a life well-lived. Wisdom does not come from arcane secrets, but from experience hard won in the trials of life. Perfection does not come through fairness of form and mind, but from struggle, sacrifice, and the will to better oneself, the noblest virtues of man.''
''Your pathetic entreaties have failed, false gods. Flee back to your twisted realms and think upon your failure, that for all your supposed power you could not sway this man to your cause. Know that though you have thrown all your greatest champions and sorceries and horrors against the bastion of humanity, we live on, and that man will rise from these ashes, stronger for having risen above such adversity. Know that man will one day conquer his baser self, that you will wither and starve, and far in the future when you have long disappeared, the light of humanity will continue to shine from the stars, until the universe itself comes to a close.''

And the voices howled and cursed, the Ruinous Powers swearing bloody vengeance upon Sanguinius and his kin. He took a moment to savor their impotent rage and smiled briefly, and then with a shout he banished the Chaos gods from his mind.

Though the dark gods had whispered their lies for what seemed like hours, only moments had passed in reality, and both the orks and the Imperial defenders were stirring. The horde of Nobz bellowed war chants and smashed their weapons together, raising a crashing din of guttural roars and ringing metal. The Beast itself was still motionless, its eyes surveying the Astartes with malevolent cunning.

Around Sanguinius, his men were springing into motion. Captain Azkaellon shouted for reinforcements through his vox receiver, calling for the secondary Blood Angel forces within the Imperial Palace to hurry to the plaza and for the assistance of any other Imperial forces in the vicinity. The few remaining librarians readied their powers, sparks swirling about their temples and fingers, as Astartes and Custodes checked armor and weapons battered from days of combat, adjusted sights, and muttered quiet prayers.

The ground shook as the Beast finally began to move. With slow, ponderous steps, it walked out in front of the horde, waving the eager Nobz back as they tried to follow; one Nob foolhardy enough to follow was pulverized into a smear by a casual swing of the Beast’s massive fist.

Across the plaza, Sanguinius did likewise, striding out alone against the protests of his men, shaking off Azkaellon as his captain begged him not to face the Beast alone. The Steward in the Throne Room had sensed the presence of the Beast, and as he touched Sanguinius’ mind he knew in an instant that the Angel meant to face the Beast unaided. The Steward urgently ordered his old friend to retreat to the Throne Room so that they might face it together, but Sanguinius refused, for to do so would have endangered the very survival of humanity.

The Steward was psychically linked with thousands of his commanders as he orchestrated the Imperial forces across Terra, and it was only through his military genius that they held, the armies of men and Eldar acting in perfect unison as they threw back wave after wave of fouls xenos and the forces of Chaos. Distracting the Steward would imperil all the forces of Terra and the survival of humanity, for even if the Beast were slain, Terra would fall should the rest of the planet be lost. Knowing he could not sway Sanguinius’ decision, the Steward could only powerlessly observe as Sanguinius bade him farewell, and met the Beast in the middle of the plaza.

Man cannot be brave without fear, nor can he have faith without doubt, and once again fear and doubt welled in Sanguinius’ heart as the terrible figure of the Beast grew larger in his vision. Not fear or doubt for himself, for death held no sway over him. No, it was fear for the future of man, for their fate hung in the balance, the existence of his entire species to be decided in the coming moments. It was doubt for the very meaning of his struggle, for while Sanguinius would gladly sacrifice himself a thousand times over, he wondered if even his greatest efforts could alter the cruel whims of fate.

But unlike before, when these weaknesses had gnawed on his resolve and allowed an opening for the whispers of Chaos, he now let them pass through him, accepting and facing down these unfamiliar feelings. And as they swirled inside them, he found a rock hard seed of hope deep in the core of his being. For Sanguinius believed in the spirit of man: in man’s resiliency, the sheer dogged stubbornness and will to endure; in his nobility, the greatness of heart and will to strive towards a better future; in his capacity for hope, the daring to dream even in the face of unfathomable darkness. And he believed in the Steward, his liege, his friend, his brother.

Thus from the dark waters of doubt did the great rock of faith rise, renewed and immovable. Sanguinius felt his fears for the future of man dissipate, for he knew that humanity would carry on and flourish far into the future even without him to protect it, and with fresh eyes, he gazed upon the Beast and knew that even such a monster could not stand in the way of humanity’s ascent. Fear became bravery and tranquility; his mind was his own, his will was pure. In the middle of the plaza, as the Beast loomed over him, Sanguinius took a slow breath and savored his last quiet moment.

The tension broke as Sanguinius burst into motion, moving so quickly he was a blur even to the enhanced senses of his Astartes. With all his righteous fury and strength he surged into the air and slashed at the Beast’s head, the massive Ork barely catching the strike in time with its armored fist. The Beast staggered back several steps from the force of the blow as the Blood Angels and Custodes looked on in awe at the power of the Primarch, and the Ork’s features twisted into a leering grin of approval, acknowledging Sanguinius’ strength. It struck back, faster than anything that huge had right to be, so fast even Sanguinius barely had time to react. The servos in Sanguinius’ armor whirred and screeched as mechanical muscle and his own superhuman frame struggled to parry the Ork’s counterblow, the power fields around the Beast’s claws crackling as they skimmed the golden relic armor.

And so the Beast and the Angel fought, the smaller frame of Sanguinius darting and striking between the Beast’s thunderbolt blows. The duel stretched on, with neither side seeming to take the advantage, and the Blood Angels allowed themselves to hope, to believe that their Primarch could win. Such hope was futile. Sanguinius could not have defeated the Beast alone even were he rested and at his full strength, perhaps fighting the monster to a standstill at best. But Sanguinius was not rested; he was wounded and weary from days of battle against the most savage foes of man, and as the duel continued blood trickled from his armor as days-old wounds reopened under the ferocious strain of combat.

A low rumble came from the Beast then, a sound of grating iron and gloating amusement, and the Astartes realized it was laughing. The Beast’s fist whipped forward in a blur, catching Sanguinius in a misstep as the massive punch caught the Angel in the chest, and he was thrown hurtling through the air, crashing through one of the few remaining statues in the plaza before tumbling to a halt on the shattered granite.

With a cry, the remaining Astartes and Custodes rushed forward to the aid of their Primarch, determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible, and from the other end of the plaza the horde of Nobz broke ranks as well, no longer able to contain their bloodlust. As Sanguinius struggled to his feet, armor cracked and blood matting his golden hair and white wings, he gazed into the mocking black eyes of his hated foe and he vowed that the Beast would not leave the plaza without bleeding dearly. In a moment, Azkaellon was at his side, pulling him to his feet, and Sanguinius joined his men in their final charge across the plaza.

Even as exhausted as they were, the Blood Angels each fought with unmatched valor: individual Astartes held off a dozen Nobz as others hurled themselves at the Beast, sacrificing themselves to try to force an opening in the monster’s defenses. The Beast was more than eager to oblige, roaring as it swiped left and right, crushing scores of Astartes with each blow. Before the unstoppable blows of the Beast and the crushing numbers of Nobz, the defenders were forced back across the plaza, until they were backed up to the steps before the Eternity Gate itself.

As his men died to the last around him, Sanguinius finally sensed an opening in the Beast’s defenses. He made a quick gesture at Azkaellon who understood immediately, and the captain flew into the air, flame roaring from his jump pack as he slashed at the Beast’s face, distracting the Ork.

As the faithful captain was crushed by the monster’s fist, Sanguinius summoned the final reserves of his strength and leaped with a great flap of his wings. Blinded by the smoke and flame in its eyes, the Beast was caught unaware as Sanguinius descended from on high and plunged his golden blade through crude armor plates, deep into its chest, seeking the heart that lay beneath. The Beast roared in pain as the sword carved open a massive wound, thick spurts of blood bursting forth, but as Sanguinius drew his sword from the Ork’s chest it caught in the sternum bone, and the momentary pause was enough. The Beast’s hand shot up and seized the Primarch from the air, pinning Sanguinius within the massive fist.

Outside the plaza, the other Blood Angel companies had rushed to aid of their Primarch and First Company upon hearing Azkaellon’s call for reinforcements. They neared the plaza as Sanguinius was dueling the Beast, but they found their way blocked by the horde of Nobz, and even with all their desperate strength, they could not break through the wall of hulking greenskins, for the Orks were simply too savage and too many. It was only upon the arrival of Leman Russ and Lorgar, the only two Primarchs close enough to respond to the call for aid, and their legions of Space Wolves and Word Bearers that the reinforcements were finally able to make headway.

Together, the Blood Angels, Space Wolves, and Word Bearers hacked their way through the Orks and crested the stairs to the plaza just in time to see the Beast grab Sanguinius in its massive fist, the plaza strewn with masses of dead greenskins and lifeless bodies clad in red and gold. As they looked on in stunned horror, Sanguinius turned his head to face them, and against all their expectations, he gently smiled. It was an expression of true warmth, forgiveness, and trust that shone from Sanguinius’ beatific face, a gesture that he did not blame them and that he placed his faith with them to safeguard humanity. In that final moment, as tears welled in their eyes, the Astartes could only watch helplessly as the Beast’s fist closed, and the monster ripped Sanguinius into shreds.

With cries of grief, the Imperial forces threw themselves at the greenskins in a blind rage. Leman Russ led the assault, tearing his way through the Nobz to body of Lord Commander Arik Taranis of the Custodes. There, he seized the fallen Banner of Unification and raised the great standard for the last time, rallying the Imperial forces forward. Yet for all their fury, the Astartes could not cut through the Orks in time, and were forced to watch, helpless once again, as the Beast smashed through the adamantium of the Eternity Gate to face the Steward and Eldrad within the Throne Room.

As the last Ork fell and the Imperial forces made their way to the ruins of the Eternity gate amidst corpses of crimson and gold, they found Eldrad perched upon the massive chest of the lifeless Beast, and the Steward kneeling over a red ruin, cradling the last few pieces of his old friend. Later, Eldrad would confess that they never could have defeated the Beast were it not for the great wound Sanguinius carved into its chest, and in his quiet moments the Steward, later the Emperor, wondered if his friend and brother might have been saved, had he only chosen a different Primarch and legion to defend the palace, or sallied forth from the Throne Room to save the Angel as he dueled the Beast.

In the aftermath of the Battle of Terra, as the forces of Chaos were defeated and driven back from the planet in disarray, the Blood Angels spirited away the remains of Sanguinius to the shattered land of what had once been Duscht Jemanic. There, in the garden of the old Jemanic Palace, they buried Sanguinius in his favorite childhood refuge, a solitary place with a creek, quiet and clear, and where the trees were very old.

As word spread of the Primarch’s death, cries rose from across the Imperium for a great state funeral so that all might participate in grieving and remembering the beloved Angel. The Steward agreed, urging the remaining Blood Angel captains that such gesture would help the survivors and citizens of the Imperium move on from the loss, but they stubbornly refused. Sanguinius would have wanted the resources and efforts of the Imperium focused on rebuilding and moving forward, not spent on lingering in the past, and besides, there was not enough left to fill a casket.

Today, Sanguinius is the most dearly loved of the Primarchs, revered as the Martyr Angel for his great sacrifice. Secrets do not last long in the Imperium, and upon his burial site, where Sanguinius was to rest undisturbed for eternity, there now stands a small chapel, built with reluctance by the Blood Angels when word of their Primarch’s resting place was revealed. It was, after all, better than erecting a massive cathedral there as many demanded. Pilgrims wait for years on end for a chance to enter and glimpse one of the holiest relics in the Imperium: a single white pinion feather from one of Sanguinius’ wings, miraculously untouched by blood or dirt during the four days of the Siege of the Imperial Palace.

Sanguinius is also honored in the yearly celebration of the Sanguinala; coincidentally, his death came three days after his birth on the Terran calendar, so for this span of time all are encouraged to celebrate the Angel’s life and great deeds, and to share in his spirit of goodwill towards all. Traditional decorations of red are hung in homes, and children are told that if they are good, the spirit of Sanguinius will visit them as they sleep and leave presents under their beds.

As for the Blood Angels, the fierce spirit of their Primarch still burns within their twin hearts as brilliantly as it did ten millennia ago. The First Company of their chapter is called the Death Company, in memory of the sacrifice of the entire company when they died at Sanguinius’ side long ago, and when veterans are inducted into this august group they swear the Oath of Black Rage, a remembrance of the helpless grief and fury they felt as they watched their beloved Primarch die.

Amongst Imperial citizens, they are celebrated for their compassion, virtue, and defense of the common man; the melancholy Blood Angel clad in red is a popular figure in Imperial media, most recently in the popular romance Eventide, where a young Eldar farseer is caught between the affections of a rugged Space Wolf and noble Blood Angel. Yet for all the adoration and honors rightly bestowed upon the Blood Angels for their undying defense of the Imperium, the old veterans have begun to wonder if the younger Astartes are becoming vainglorious, and if they are losing the true meaning of sacrifice. Pride is the surest road to damnation, and so they renew their vows of humility and loyalty, remaining vigilant not only in the defense of man but in defense of their own souls.

Beneath the romance of their devotion and nobility is the eternal struggle against the forces of chaos and entropy, the unending duty of the Blood Angels. Like Sanguinius before them, they fight for the dream of humanity even as it stretches before them into an uncertain future. For this dream, they fight and bleed and die to hold the darkness at bay, to halt the dying of the light, even if it is only for a moment.

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== Lion ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Black Knight''''' - or ''The Knight of Franj:''

The story of Lion El'Jonson began over a generation before his actual birth, during the Nordyc-Franj war. Clovis Fouché, king of Franj, had sought the aid of Skand against the invasions of the Tyrant of Gredbriton, and after the Tyrant had been repulsed the Nordyc sought payment for their services. However, King Clovis had proven to be rather miserly with the payment of the debt, and the men of Skand were worried they would never be recompensed. Chief Thengir of the Kalararit was nominated by the chieftains of Skand to travel to Franj to discuss the repayment of the debt with King Clovis.

For whatever reason, the meeting did not go peacefully. The exact nature of the quarrel has been lost to history. The Nordyc claimed that King Clovis tried to short-change them, offering only a pittance in exchange for the blood they had shed. The Franj claimed that Chief Thengir had acted arrogant and disrespectful, behaving more like a conqueror demanding tribute than an ally requesting payment. Whatever the reason, the meeting quickly escalated to violence.

Chief Thengir lost his hand. King Clovis lost his life.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Thus began the Nordyc-Franj war. In retaliation for the death of their king, Franj soldiers devastated huge tracts of Skand and destroyed entire Nordyc villages. The Nordyc responded by launching devastating raids into the heart of Franj territory. The war only ended when the new regent, 15 year old Yolande Fouché, Yolande the Clever, called a meeting with Chief Thengir, now known as Thengir the Cripple, to formally apologize and pay back the remainder of the debt along with a weregild for the lives lost. Nevertheless, a considerable amount of hatred remained between the Nordyc and Franj. Perhaps nowhere was this more pronounced than between the noble family of Jonson and the Kalararit house of Russ, both of whom had been involved in the thickest of the fighting.

As a boy, the Lion grew up with stories of glory and heroism, of knights and warriors. And yet not all of these stories were merely tales of fancy. The Lion grew up idolizing his older brother, Luther El'Jonson, who was at first a Knight of Franj and later, when Franj-Europia had been absorbed into the Imperium, a Mark I Astartes. Luther El'Jonson had won fame for his exploits as a mere squire of 16 in the Nordyc-Franj war, and had only risen in stature since. However, the Sword of Franj had a darker side which was not widely known. Although Luther was a loyal servant of Franj, he greatly disliked the fact that his country was consorting with weak allies, first with the Europia and then later the Imperium itself, when it turned out the Warlord was not as much of a warmonger as Luther expected.

From the moment he was born, it was clear that something was…different about Lion El’Johnson. Although he truly cared about his fellow man, he often had trouble reading people and came off as unempathetic. Despite being fiercely loyal to those he considered his friends, he was socially awkward and had trouble looking people in the eye. Nevertheless, despite his faults, he was groomed for knighthood by his brother Luther, who recognized his talents. Although Lion would often focus on a problem to the point of obsession, he was tactically brilliant. He also followed the old ideals of chivalry, to a degree that some would consider ridiculous. The Lion was an idealist at heart, seeing the world in terms of dragons and princesses as opposed to corrupt bureaucrats and politicians. This noble behavior won him the fancy of many a young woman’s heart, though throughout history there is no record of the Lion ever engaging in a romantic relationship.

It was for these reasons that when it came time for the Steward to name the twenty primarchs that would command his legions, the Lion was among that number. Such a nomination came as a surprise to everyone, least of all Lion himself. Before this time, the Lion was only known as the younger brother of Luther, or at best Luther’s squire. But the Warlord knew the evils that lurked in the hearts of men. Luther was a great soldier, but his mind had been corrupted by hatred and jingoism. The Lion’s heart was untamed, but it was pure, its idealism and love for humanity untampered. Along with Sanguinius Baal and Vulkan, son of N’Bel, Lion was chosen to be one of the three prototypes for the Mark III Astartes augmentation, which was to be the final model of Space Marine augmentation. Some say that this was the point that the seed of jealousy was first planted in Luther’s heart, with all his years of service to Franj and the Imperium being overlooked in favor of his untested brother. Lion, for his part, did not reciprocate the feeling and named his older brother second-in-command of the legion in gratitude for all that his brother had given him. Lion named his legion the Dark Angels after the legendary Black Knight of his country's folklore, who covered his armor in pitch and lived as a wild man rather than subject himself to an unjust lord.

If the Dark Angels were to become a proper legion, they would need a strong recruiting base. Fortunately, the Lion’s home country of Franj was almost perfect for the task. Franj was extremely healthy in terms of both health and population, and the only other primarch from Franj-Europia, Roboute Guilliman, did not seem that interested in recruiting from his home nation. Guilliman, ever the long term thinker, preferred to recruit from all over Old Earth instead of a single country, with the mind of forming an army that had no loyalty to any nation but the Imperium itself. The Lion, on the other hand, felt he needed soldiers he could trust, and so he recruited heavily from his home country of Franj-Europia. Compared to many of the other nations of Earth, the knightly orders of Franj were organized, well-trained, and well-educated militarily, making them ideal Astartes candidates. As a result, by the time the Unification of Sol was complete, the First Legion was bigger, better trained, suffered from fewer casualties, and could recruit faster than any other legion.

It was for this reason that the Dark Angels were picked to be the first legion to travel outside of Sol, acting as an expeditionary force to scout the galaxy ahead of the rest of the Great Crusade to see what of humanity had survived the Age of Strife. The Lion was enamored with the idea, starry-eyed at the prospect of meeting new peoples and reuniting with lost colonies of humanity. Luther, for his part, was not. He was growing increasingly dissatisfied with Europia-Franj’s increasing lack of autonomy in the increasingly peaceful Imperium, which was only magnified by King Gunthar Fouché, son of Roboute Guilliman and Yolande Fouché, turning over all military production and funding to the Imperium on the reasoning that there was no one left to fight. Perhaps in a bit of paranoia, Luther feared that his assignment to the expeditionary fleet was an unofficial exile as opposed to an award, and that the Imperium would completely gut his beloved Franj while he was not around to watch it.

Lion and the Dark Angels set out in The Rock, one of two super-battleships along with the Phalanx that were commissioned by the Steward to be the flagships of the new Imperial Navy, along with several ships of the Voidborn primarch Horus Lupercal (whose cartographers happened to be the ones that owned all the maps). At first the mission did not go well. The first sentient life the expeditionary force encountered was the orks, followed by the Dark Eldar, the latter of which in particular fostered a particularly deep-seated dislike of Eldar in the two brothers. Even the Lion, despite his general open-mindedness, never really felt comfortable with the Imperium being on good terms with the Craftworlders, as he had a hard time distancing the likes of Eldrad and Macha from the atrocities of their distant kin.

And yet despite these setbacks there were such triumphs. Despite the Dark Angel’s first encounters being with the orks and Dark Eldar, the Dark Angels encountered other races, such as the Diasporex and the Watchers in the Dark, who would prove to be loyal allies. And there were so many human colonies, many of whom welcomed the Dark Angels (and by proxy the return of humanity as a power in the galaxy) with open arms. After seeing Russ’ success at recruiting warriors from the planet of Fenris, the Dark Angels set up recruitment stations on many of these worlds, causing the Dark Angels to swell even larger. Nevertheless, many of the Dark Angels, particularly the officers, still came from Franj.

It was sometime during this period that Luther was contacted by Erebus, the Dark Chaplain, the First Traitor. The Ruinous Powers had seen the doubts that lay in Luther’s heart, and saw their opportunity to sow dissent within the forces of the Imperium. Erebus told Luther that he saw the nobility in Luther’s heart and his loyalty to Franj and humanity as a whole, and yet the Imperium was willing to get in bed with all the old enemies of Franj and humanity; the Duscht Jemanic, the Nordyc, the Eldar. On behalf of the Dark Gods, Erebus offered Luther a deal: Divert all Dark Angel reinforcement from the upcoming war, and in exchange Chaos would only target non-essential or non-human interests. Many have wondered, when it became clear that Chaos would never uphold such a bargain, why Luther would have continued to serve the interests of the Ruinous Powers. Captured members of the Fallen have said that Luther was never fully convinced by Erebus’ words, but merely planned to double-cross Chaos and re-establish Franj as an independent power, similar to Hy Braseal. Luther saw the Imperium as a noble ideal, but corrupt and rotten to its core. Better to burn it all down and start afresh, preferably with Franj as its center. However, as with all traitors whose minds have been warped by the influence of Chaos, it is difficult to say if they are telling the truth.

At first, it actually seemed like Chaos was going to keep its side of the bargain. The entire tone of the war did not shift, but many worlds that had been predicted to be in the path of breakaway warbands suddenly found themselves waiting for an invasion that never came, though this may have been more due to the actions of Horus and Guilliman than anything Erebus did. At the same time the response of the Dark Angels to crises became extremely variable and unreliable. The Dark Angels who fought alongside the Lion responded valiantly and with alacrity, but other groups replied to cries for help sluggishly if at all. However, it wasn’t before long that Erebus appeared beyond Luther again. He told Luther that the war against the Imperium wasn’t going so well, and while before the forces of Chaos were content to have Luther sit out the war now they needed help. There was a chance that the followers of the Ruinous Powers might actually lose the war, and if that happened, well, there was no guarantee that the Imperium wouldn’t find out about Erebus and Luther’s little bargain from captured traitors.

In retrospect, what Erebus said was clearly a ruse. Although Chaos and the Beast’s forces had lost some momentum on their blitzkrieg through the stars, the tide was far from turning, and even if the Imperium had found out about the deal from prisoners of war they would have had little reason to believe it was anything more than an attempt to sow suspicion among Imperial forces by traitors. Erebus had no evidence beyond his word that such a deal had been made. But in the heat of the moment, and due to his own guilt over having been tempted into making this deal in the first place, Luther was unable to recognize Erebus’ claim for what it was. Luther was enraged by this, Erebus was clearly altering the terms of their deal, but he didn’t see any way out of it.

Having made judicious use of the stick, Erebus then offered Luther the carrot. The Ruinous Powers didn’t require much in order to help their schemes succeed. All they needed Luther to do was burn down some Maiden Worlds. It’s not like Luther would be required to commit treason or kill humans. They were just eldar. Luther accepted Erebus’ terms with a snarl, before setting off to organize his forces to perform the deed. Fifteen Maiden Worlds burned before the relentless assault of Luther’s Dark Angels. Upon hearing this news, the Lion was horrified. Already irritated by the apparent lackadaisicalness of his forces, he immediately set out to find Luther and demand an explanation.

The Lion finally caught up to Luther in the ashes of the Maiden World once known as Tarsus. Already in a rather poor state of mind, the Lion made no attempts to try and talk his brother down or convince him to surrender. Instead, he marched his honor guard down the ramp of his ship, bolters drawn, before asking his brother what the hell he thought he was doing. Even though Lion didn’t like the eldar either, there was a world of difference (or rather, fifteen worlds) between merely disliking them and butchering the civilians of their nominal allies. Being fixed by the Lion’s withering, contemptuous glare, Luther found himself having trouble explaining his actions to his little brother. His tone low, and with a bit of shame in his voice, Luther told Lion that he had made a deal…for Franj. Upon hearing those words, the Lion long pent-up rage finally erupted and he struck Luther in his anger. It wasn’t a hard blow, but it was enough to knock Luther off his feet and escalate the situation to violence. Lion yelled that committing massacres in Franj’s name did nothing but sully Franj’s honor, and the country would rather die than have such blood on its hands.

Something in Luther snapped at Lion’s accusation. He declared him a traitor to Franj, willing to let his country be gutted and eaten by foreign powers rather than protect it, and in a fit of madness ordered the Dark Angels to kill him. Both brothers were enraged at the other’s perceived betrayal.

Luther’s order sent the Dark Angels into disarray. Luther had originally justified his orders to the Dark Angels by claiming that the eldar had turned on the Imperium, and the Lion had ordered the maiden worlds burned in retaliation. Most of the Dark Angels had obeyed, since they were used to Luther being the spokesman for the Lion and Lion’s poor personal skills meant he had trouble voicing a reasonable counterargument. Many were more loyal to Luther than Lion, being Franj nationalists. Others, particularly those who were with Lion or capable of critical thinking, realized that Lion had ordered no such thing and that Luther had completely lost it. Still others had no clue what was going on due to the contradictory sets of orders and were merely caught in the middle. When the Dark Angels loyal to Luther raised their bolters, those loyal to the Lion did so response. It was absolute chaos, brother against brother, with many not even knowing if they were fighting traitors or those loyal to their cause.

It was as at this point that one of the Lion’s biggest mistakes becomes clear. The Lion recruited much of his legion, including most of its officers, from Franj because he felt he needed people he could trust. Sadly, the officers of the Dark Angels were loyal to a fault, but not to him. Although many in the legion respected the Lion, and those who actually got to know him personally actually found him quite pleasant, if persnickety, the Lion often relied on his brother to motivate the legion due to his lack of people skills. The Lion had so much trouble reading people, and was so trusting of his brother, that he had not seen the viper in the grass before it bit him. Nearly two-thirds to three-fourths of the legion had been subverted by the Ruinous Powers. If it were almost any other legion, it wouldn’t be as much of a problem, but by the time of the War of the Beast the Dark Angels were by far the largest legion and so having two-thirds to three-fourths of the legion go renegade was the equivalent of having two or three other legions fall to the Ruinous powers.

In the confusion, Luther and many of his followers commandeered the Rock, the flagship of the Dark Angels, and escaped into the Warp. Luther’s madness only worsened as he mulled over Lion’s words and the fighting on Tarsus, leading him to believe that the entire Imperium including his brother had turned against him. Many of the Dark Angels felt the same way, seeing themselves as abandoned and betrayed by the Imperium they had once served, and resented it. After Tarsus, Luther’s Dark Angels began burning both human and eldar worlds indiscriminately. The worlds that had been “spared” after Luther’s initial bargain found themselves the target of Chaos, with interest. Besieged Guardsmen on many worlds looked to the skies in hope when they saw the famed Astartes legions come to reinforce them, only to be butchered when their “saviors” landed on the planet. Chapters of the legion devolved into civil war as former brothers drew arms against one another as they realized they served different causes. Many more Dark Angels turned to the service of the Ruinous Powers out of desperation and a desire for survival.

The Lion never returned to Old Earth during the War of the Beast to participate in the Battle of Terra. Many have criticized the Lion for these actions, however, in the Lion’s mind, his priorities were clear. His men were slaughtering one another, and it was his duty to put things right. Perhaps more importantly, it was his mistake, HIS mistake, and the universe would not be set right until he took pains to correct it.

Eventually, Lion tracked Luther and his inner circle to the world of Caliban. Getting to Caliban was easy enough. When the Dark Angels reached the planet Luther’s Fallen found themselves sandwiched between the loyalist Caliban garrison and the Lion’s reinforcements, forcing them to temporarily break their hold over the planet in order to regroup. However, when the Dark Angels found out from captured traitors what Luther was actually looking for on Caliban, they were stunned. Luther had learned from the entity known as Be’lakor ([[Nobledark_Imperium_Drafts#Be.27lakor_and_the_Alpha_Legion|which the Imperium had only recently learned existed due to the actions of the Alpha Legion, and only then at great cost]]) that Caliban was the site of the Ouroboros, a device created by an ancient xenos race, one even older than humanity, the Watchers, or the eldar, capable of warping the very fabric of space-time, which they had used to create the Webway. The Dark Angels realized the implications of this discovery, here was the potential solution to the issue of the fragile, unreparable Webway, and possibly a means to free the Imperium and the galaxy from the tyranny of the Warp, whereas the Watchers were shocked at learning the origins of their eons of suffering had been buried under their own feet. No one knew exactly what Luther planned to do with the equipment, but all agreed it could not be anything good.

The Dark Angels and Watchers were faced with a dilemma. Destroy the device that could potential prove the salvation of the entire galaxy, or leave it to fall into the hands of the Fallen. Although the loyalist Dark Angels could disrupt Luther’s control of Caliban, they could not hold the planet, as Luther’s forces greatly outnumbered their own. In the end, it was the Watchers who made the decision to blow up their own homeworld. They loved Caliban, it was their home despite being harsh and warp-tainted, but they realized the danger that Luther in control of the Ouroboros would prove. Better that no one have it than let it be abused. As the Watchers wired their planet to blow with Exterminatus-class weaponry, the loyalist Dark Angels launched a counterattack on the Fallen, with the Lion particularly eager to take the fight to his brother. However, when Lion reached what should have been Luther’s sanctum within the Rock, he realized he had been tricked. Luther had known where Lion would have looked for him, and therefore did the exact opposite, taking a small strike team to the surface of Caliban. However, he was quickly forced to turn around when he realized what the Watchers had done to their planet. Lion was also forced to retreat, realizing that he and his men risked being cut off and overwhelmed by the Fallen if they tried to wait to ambush Luther. No one had won at Caliban. Luther had lost the Ouroboros, but Lion had lost his brother.

There were reports of a “Cypher”-type character on both sides of the conflict. Based on reports either he could travel really fast or (more likely) there was more than one of him. Some say he was the court battle-wizard of the legion who had gone missing/presumed dead two years previously whilst fighting a Big Mek and his Orkblitorator Cyborks on a Forge World. Some of these Cyphers may have actually been Alpha Legion infiltrators covertly helping the loyalists and hindering the traitors.

What happened to the Fallen mostly depended on what they did immediately after the War of the Beast. Some of the Fallen, mostly members of the lower ranks who realized they had been fed bullshit for the whole ordeal, surrendered when the enormity of their error became apparent. They ended up being sentenced to serve in the penal legions until they were deemed to have sufficiently repented for their sins after the first Black Crusade, after which the survivors were scattered among the other legions. The remainder, which represented at least half of the surviving Dark Angels, were spirited away by the Ruinous Powers to the Eye of Terror where they formed the core of the Fallen as we know them today. Of the being known as Cypher no conclusive answers have been obtained. He still appears in Imperial records from time to time down the ages with no discernable pattern. He is either leapfrogging through time via cryo-sleep or it’s not the same man. Even a Mark III S Astartes should have aged to death by now. The Eldar allies of the Dark Angels are unable to predict his movements and, much like the tyranids, he acts as a travelling blank spot in their prophecies.

In the years immediately following the War of the Beast, there were many who criticized the Lion's actions, chief among them Leman Russ. At one point the Great Wolf said within earshot of El'Jonson that Luther's betrayal was a near certainty, because "that's what one gets for trusting a member of the house of Jonson". That was a fateful mistake, as while the Lion might have been distraught, he wasn't deaf. The Lion was enraged, although his brother may have fallen to the Ruinous Powers, the Lion had still remained loyal to humanity and had done all in his power to help the Imperium. At least one son of Jonson had retained his honor. In retaliation, the Lion turned and struck the Great Wolf on the jaw, knocking him out cold. In the aftermath of the fight, Leman Russ decided he had enough of witches and Jonsons and decided to relocate to Fenris entirely, nearly severing all ties with Old Earth. The Great Wolf would not set foot on his home planet again until nearly forty years after the Lion's disappearance, slightly humbler and wiser from his experience setting up the Fenrisian colonies.

As with all of the primarchs save Sanguinius and Angron, the Lion was active following the War of the Beast, though one would be forgiven for thinking he was not. Unlike most of the primarchs, who were primarily focused on rebuilding the Imperium, Lion was focused, some would say obsessed, with trying to recapture the Fallen. He split the remaining loyalist Dark Angels into knightly orders reminiscent of those once present on Franj and scattered them to distant worlds, with a program of frequent officer exchange between orders to keep them loyal to the Imperium rather than any one place of origin. He also instituted a mandatory position of Watcher within each chapter, held by a member of the Inquisition in order to monitor the chapter from the inside. These days, the job is usually held by a really old member of the Inquisition who refuses to retire despite being too old to chase anyone.

Finally, years after the War of the Beast had ended, the Lion received the news he had waited so long for. The Rock, and by extension Luther, had reappeared.

The Dark Angels and the rest of the Unforgiven fell upon the Rock swift as a flock of ravens, hounding it from system to system in a series of skirmishes until they finally cornered the Fallen Angels on a long forgotten feral world. Amidst the twilight murk and murmuring rustle of a primeval forest the once comrades faced each other after long centuries of hunting and waiting. The trees bore silent witness as loyalist and traitor slaughtered one another with a fury born of the void left by brotherhood and filled by hate, the quiet split by the roar of bolters and the scream of chainswords on ceramite. Bodies clad in green and black fell soundlessly to the mossy undergrowth, and the soil drank deep of rich dark blood.

Lion was unstoppable that day as he stalked the battlefield with his Deathwing honor guard, the Lion Sword flashing red as the Fallen fled before the Primarch. Yet the scum before him did not interest Lion; he had come with only one goal, and he would not be denied.

In the tangled forest the Primarch soon was separated from his honor guard and found himself alone at the edge of a clearing. He brushed aside the foliage in time to see a lone figure in black cut down the last of a squad of Dark Angels, carving through their armor with contemptuous ease. Lion did not need to see the golden fleur de lis on the horned onyx helm to know who the traitor was. His stance, the arrogant grace with which he moved, the way his sword danced in his hand like an extension of his arm. Luther.

Luther turned at the sound of Lion’s footsteps. The clearing was quiet as the eyes of the two brothers met behind the mirrored lenses of their helms, then Luther raised his sword in an old Franjish dueling salute, half mocking and half earnest. Lion did not return the gesture. Then sudden and swift as his namesake, he charged. The Lion Sword descended in a shining blur, faintly glowing with a pale inner light, and their blades met with a shivering clang as the Arch-Traitor blocked the Primarch’s savage strike, the Sword of Luther wreathed in a delicate corona of the void, tendrils of the Immaterium spilling forth from the edges of the blade. The sound of swords rang through the forest as back and forth the brothers traded blows, each unable to take the advantage as Lion’s cold ferocity and superior augmentations were matched by Luther’s consummate skill and the blessings of Chaos Undivided.

So bathed in the dappled light of the setting sun Lion and Luther did battle. Against the backdrop of the ancient giants of the forest, they might have been boys playfighting with sticks, swatting at each other with wild abandon; but this was no game, and these were not the familiar old oaks of Franj. Bright gashes appeared on the brothers’ green and black armor where they found openings in the other’s defense, and blood trickled out where the blades had pierced the flesh beneath before the wounds were stanched by their superhuman physiologies. Pressed by his brother’s assault, Luther eventually began to tire, yet Lion remained as unrelenting as ever. Sensing victory, he battered Luther with a flurry of blows, tearing off the helmet with a glancing slash to the head, and finally drove his blade into his brother’s leg. Luther fell to one knee, and before he could react the Lion Sword was at his throat, the tip pressed against his bare neck.

For a moment the two men were motionless. Then Lion removed his winged helm with one hand and let it fall to the ground, and for the first time in a century the brothers looked each other face to face. Under his matted blond hair Lion’s eyes were red and wet. Another moment of stillness, then the Lion Sword dipped, and lowered away. Sharp as a whipcrack, Lion said only one word: “Why?”

The accusation in his brother’s voice struck Luther like a hammer, and emotions welled up within him. Rage. Humiliation. Guilt. Shame.

How could he have lost to Lion? Never before had Lion bested him in their sparring, except the few times when he had allowed it. But he deserved this. He betrayed his brother, and the Imperium, and had nearly damned humanity to extinction.

No, no! His plan had been sound, and with a single stroke they could have rid humanity of xenos influences and secured a future for Franj among the stars. If only Lion had listened and followed. Lion had always sought his counsel and followed him in matters of import, never defying him until that fateful day.

Yes, with that once act of defiance, of betrayal, Lion had doomed his plan and consigned him to a life of furtive scavenging and raiding. It was Lion!

LION!

With a cry Luther burst upwards, his sword a malign black blur streaking towards Lion’s throat. Surprised, Lion threw himself back and raised his sword to parry, but it was no use; against foe as deadly as Luther, even an inch of an opening would have been fatal. But the Chaos Gods were not done with their servant yet. In a final act of malicious caprice, they lifted the scales of madness from Luther’s eyes and allowed him to see with a clear mind what he had done.

In that moment Luther saw: Lion as the solemn boy he had taught to swing a sword, who wanted so much to be like his famed older brother; as the young man he had personally knighted, a rare, sweet smile spreading across those stern features; as the man he had fought and laughed and bled with on the battlefields of a thousand worlds, side by side. And he saw the brother that he had just killed, the tip of his sword cutting smoothly through a pale throat, a thin spray of blood in its wake.

Something within Luther broke. Beneath the horror of this realization, his tortured psyche fell to pieces, and when the Deathwing finally came upon the clearing they found a screaming Luther kneeling over Lion’s still body. Their act of domination complete, the warp echoed with dark laughter as the Chaos gods spirited Luther away amidst a hail of bolter fire.

The Deathwing immediately recovered Lion, and in a battle barge in orbit the Chief Apothecary and his team fought to save Lion’s life. Indeed, it was a miracle that Lion had survived so long, made possible only through the astounding power of the Mk III S augmentations, for even a Sus-an coma would not have saved a normal Astartes from such a grievous wound. Yet while the apothecaries could stabilize Lion, they could not restore him. A slash from a mundane weapon would have soon been healed by Lion’s regenerative abilities, but Luther’s cursed blade had inflicted a wound that would not close, the treatments and medications unable to take hold on the tainted flesh. Lion was slipping away, and with no other options, the apothecaries could only seal Lion in a stasis-coffin, and hope that some day a cure would be found.

To this day, Luther is still a broken man, given to wild swings of mood as his mind flits to and from the scattered shards of his personality, from charming magnanimity to unbridled rage to brooding despair. Yet buried within the dark cage of madness lies the last piece of good within Luther’s heart, his nobility and honor and love for his brother. And once in a rare while that light emerges from its prison, and Luther awakens to the reality of the nightmare around him and the horror that is his life. He screams then, and as he slaughters the Fallen around him he weeps and begs Lion for forgiveness. Inevitably, that moment of lucidity is swallowed again by warp-fueled madness as the Chaos gods reassert their power over their servant. But that piece of goodness remains, perhaps as the last spark of hope for Luther’s redemption.

Lion still sleeps in his coffin, his features peaceful beneath the crystal cover, frozen in time on the precipice between life and death. He would surely perish were he removed to perform the canticles of purification to cleanse his wound, and so he remains in his millennia-long slumber. Entreaties to Isha have proved fruitless, for she has said healing Lion would be beyond ever her powers as the Goddess of Life; Lion is too far into the realm of death for her to exercise sole influence over him. Indeed, it would take another god, a God of the Dead, in conjunction with her powers to restore Lion to life, and surely no such god exists. But the Dark Angels are not deterred; they wait and dream, sure that one day the last remaining Primarch will return and lead them all to their long-promised salvation.

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=== The Lion Sword ===

Throughout his travels the Lion was known to use a red blade of excellent quality. When the Lion was put into his coma, his sword was put alongside him in the Rock, ready to be picked up again in the event the Lion ever woke from his coma. That sword is a Kinebrach blade. It was handed over in the ceremony to finalize the alliance between the young Imperium and the Interex. It was the last blade made by the venerable master Mez-Go-Bur. It is said and witnessed that he used no forge or hammer and the metal was taken from the hide of a fallen Cybernetica robot. He struck the metal with his fists and it started to heat up and become pliant and into that metal he beat all his sorrows (which were many) and his wroth (which was considerable). That cherry red blade was quenched in a barrel of ceremonial oil mingled with his own blood and on that blood he placed binding words. Daemons had made his life a misery, his blade would cut them and leave them maimed and that pain would follow them to their Hell and no matter if they healed they would never stop hurting as he would never stop hurting. But where he would die they remain immortal and would go on hurting for ever and ever and ever.

He smiled when the sword was handed over to Lion El'Jonson. He died not long later.

There are many Kinebrach blades in circulation in the Imperium and the art of making them is in no danger of ever being lost but few are as vindictive as the ones made by Mez-Go-Bur and that was his last creation and believed to be his best.

It has been idle for too long now. Too many summers under a shroud of dust despite it blade being razor sharp. There was a legend among the people of Franj; if an implement is left for more more than a year and day it will hunger for blood. If such stories are true then the Lion Sword is somewhat thirsty. It would take a man of iron will to tame that blade now.

== Perturabo ==

[[Image:1485738836578.jpg|left|thumb|200px|Perturabo, Primarch of the Imperium, The Mad Architect and Prince of Macedonia.]]

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Warsmith''''' - or ''The Mad Architect:''

Perturabo of the Macedonian Garrison was not a man truly cut out for the military life, although it is hard to say exactly what sort of life he ''was'' cut out for.

Macedonia was an odd case at that point in the constant wars of the Age of Strife. Barely a century and a half ago it had been a conquered territory of the Great Everlasting Tharkian Empire - an empire far less grand than its name would suggest - until the Tharkians were crushed by the relentless expansion of a Despot of Ursh, as so many others of the time were. The Urshii quickly swallowed up the valuable regions of the area, leaving only the ancient nation of Macedonia relatively untouched. By some miracle of cunning, guile, and luck on an incredible scale, Perturabo's grandfather Nestor made it appear that, instead of the meagre garrison it actually held, Macedonia was in fact home to Tharkian strategic reserves far greater than the forces the Urshii had already fought. This, combined with the seemingly unwavering defiance of the Macedonian people, convinced the Despot that conquering the region would overextend his supply lines and weaken his control over the greater Tharkia.

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With the immediate threat gone the cities began to drift apart and Nestor was old and wise enough to know that he had neither the forces nor the authority to hold them together. He did, however, manage to take and hold the ancient fortress city of Štip-Isar; and many rival groups joined him in seizing a city or hive and expanding from there. Thus, Macedonia ''did'' survive, to some extent, albeit as a collection of squabbling city-states that would only unite against greater outside threats; ironically, not unlike the Classical Greek counterparts who were conquered by the Macedonians themselves in the depths of history.

Perturabo's father Nikola had risen to be the petty king of the reasonably well-off fortress city of Štip-Isar after Nestor had passed away, and, recognising how inadequately ''he'' had been prepared for the job, immediately set about the task of trying to train his children in the arts of statesmanship. His daughters were fine women, just as dedicated to the nation as he was, but the other regional powers would have openly scoffed and secretly mocked the entire family if a queen were to rise. Thus the highest they would reach were hasty marriages to shore up the city's few alliances, leaving Perturabo as the heir apparent - albeit one rather psychologically unsound.

Countless years later, when Nikola and his nation were a mere footnote in endless halls of historical texts, Perturabo's peers would describe him as a spare Angron, minus the enthusiasm. This was unfair and inaccurate, but it was true that it would have been difficult to find a leader ''less'' statesmanlike than the unfortunate son of Nikola. Perturabo suffered from bouts of quite severe depression, punctuated by occasional flashes of intense rage with little to no warning. Although the rage would flash into incandescence and burn itself out relatively quickly, the depression was far more lingering. Nikola made no effort to hide the disappointment he had for his son, but little did he know that the heir's true talents would be more vital for the nation's survival than Terra's finest diplomats could ever be.

For Perturabo - in spite of his constant pessimism, or perhaps ''because'' of it - was supremely gifted at defensive planning. His dreams, haunted as they were by thoughts of his home being crushed by faceless invaders, merely bolstered his resolve to resist. He was not his father, or his grandfather, however; he was not a leader who could call the people to defend their land tooth and nail, for that would require hope and optimism that he himself so sorely lacked. Instead, Perturabo's defensive planning was that of grim determination, of strongpoints and counter-offensives instead of rallies and patriotism, of a hard shell around a softer peoples. Some would have called this paranoia, especially given how the petty skirmishes with other nation-states were the largest wars known for over a generation, but in truth it was uncanny foresight.

When the scum of Ursh came back it was as if a mighty hammer had struck the lands, driving all before it. Perturabo - indeed, all of Macedonia - was caught off-guard by the assault; by the time he was made aware of the threat, the most prosperous and powerful of his neighbours were little more than flaming rubble. Desperate for time, the heir withdrew his forces again and again, his generals raging and threatening mutiny for his cowardice, and he later claimed that in all his life he had faced no greater test than keeping his calm and concealing his plans from them (and thus, any possible Urshii spies) until the very last moment.

Nestor had fought a war - a war of armies and raiding parties facing each other in pitched battles - but his grandson had to stop a wave of slaughter that bore more resemblance to a swarm of locusts than any coherent fighting force. Isolated strongpoints were ground down horrifyingly quickly by sheer weight of numbers, and Perturabo had soon realised that the only chance he had of stopping the swarm was in a single, united defensive line. Even then, he knew he could not hope to stop the Despot's onslaught, only to give it a bloodied nose and hope it would back off.
The Urshii forces knew none of this, as all they saw were lands held by weak natives and abandoned by their defenders. Just as they were wondering if their grandparents' tales of the effortless conquest of Tharkia had some truth to them, they ran directly into Perturabo's hastily constructed kill zones. Metal, laser and superheated plasma alike rained down on the barbarians as if it were his own spite and pain made manifest, and the Urshii vanguard was left a pile of mangled bodies for their comrades to climb.

The Despot's humiliation drove him into such a rage that he eviscerated his own commanders, ordering their replacements to wipe Macedon from the face of Terra. Even with Perturabo's formidable defences and traps, the main Urshii force would raze the land without batting an eyelash - yet the Despot was so blinded by his rage that he was caught completely unawares by the true threat to his power.

When the scouts of the Warlord's army first trickled into Macedonia they expected a barren wasteland - or at best, a broken nation at its own throat. Much of their suspicions were confirmed, but amongst the dirt they found a diamond-hard shard of defiance that had prepared for the storm and, amazingly, was still weathering it. It was here, the Warlord decided, that the first (and perhaps the most important) true blow against Ursh would be struck.

After the smoke cleared. the plasma burns cooled, the shrieks of wounded finally fallen away into silence, Perturabo discovered that not only had he bloodied the nose of the Despot's assault, but he had broken its back completely. Caught between the swift hammer of the Warlord's armies and the unyielding anvil of the Macedon defence, Ursh's toughest veterans were shattered and scattered to the wind - and even the most zealous of barbarians were were beginning to question if there was a master greater than their own.

The Warlord entered Štip-Isar not as a conqueror, but simply as a leader, for he had great respect for the one who turned such a small nation into a devourer of armies. Yet the prince would do something that not a single battlefield or leader had managed so far, or quite possibly since. He ''surprised'' his guest, and not only with his young age (for, compared to his generals, he was little more than a boy), but with his mind. For when the Warlord looked into his psyche, he found something he had never seen before or since - and he wished he had not. It was cold. Bleak. A desolate landscape of steel and bone blasted smooth by an unrelenting gale of numbers, of angles, of shifting probabilities; while above, great roiling clouds of blackness drained away what little light and life lay beneath them. Even this was just a momentary glimpse, for in the blink of an eye he was locked out by an immense iron wall rising from the ground in mere instants, horizons wide and twice as tall. The Warlord found himself simply staring into dead, grey eyes, barred from what lay within by mental defences greater than all but the most powerful of psykers - and built simply from paranoia and distrust rather than to contain any unearthly whispers. But those eyes told him all he really needed to know about the prince. There was no fear there, no awe, and certainly no love. Just endless planning, calculating, searching for weakness.

To his credit, the Warlord still saw potential in the mad architect; something that could be put to use, maybe even turned to greatness. After long, distrustful negotiations (for the Macedonians were as wary of his arrival as they were grateful for it), Perturabo was offered a place in the Warlord's armies as a fortification and garrison specialist. For King Nikola's part... the sad truth was that he was glad to see the back of his son. After all, with Perturabo otherwise occupied - or out of the way, depending on your point of view - he now had grandchildren to train in inheriting his responsibilities.

Perturabo rose through the ranks of the Imperial Army with neither the speed nor grandeur of the other Primarchs, but he did indeed become great. Other generals captured huge swathes of land or routed vast armies, but it was he who ensured that any forces seeking to recapture their territory or avenge their fallen knew nothing but failure. He was never at the forefront of any battle or campaign, never the glorious conqueror or invincible warrior; and of course, he earned little respect from those who ''were,'' who saw him as an unstable freak barely fit to follow in their footsteps. This, however, suited him just fine, as he much preferred a legacy of impenetrable bastions safeguarded people than any number of songs or monuments.

Still, the Warlord quietly took note of his work, of how harmlessly the condescension of both his superiors and subordinates bounced off him, and none were surprised as Perturabo himself was when he was selected for late-stage Thunder Warrior treatment. Soon, as the remnants of the Old Night were finally purged and the dream of Unification began to spread across Sol, malcontents and partisans began to emerge from the woodwork; and it was here Perturabo's worth truly became evident even to his detractors. For old king Nikola's lessons had not, in fact, been in vain, and it was discovered that the Macedonian's lands were impenetrable to assault from within as well as without. For this, he was finally elevated to the lofty title of Primarch.

In the countless years that followed, the Unification became the Great Crusade; the Warlord became the Steward, and Štip-Isar faded into distant memory. Perturabo, however, did not change. Perhaps he could not. After all, his life had certainly not changed, for it still consisted of day after day of building meat grinders of horrific scale while planning yet-greater ones, all while hoping against hope they would never be needed. Or perhaps, just as was the case in his youth, his works were so brutally efficient because of the hope he - and they - ''lacked.'' But back in his homeland he still had the support of his people; or at least he had his father to soothe and comfort them at every turn. Here, on the frontier worlds, the deal of "harsh work and oppression for you and your children in the name of descendants you will not live to see" would've been a hard sell for Gulliman, or Sanguinius, never mind one as uncharismatic as Perturabo - and the hatred of the people was beginning to wear down even his iron resolve.

When The War of the Beast descended upon the worlds under his aegis, his worth was finally proven beyond any doubt. Wretched, base creatures assaulted his people, his fortresses, his worlds in droves - and time and time again they drowned in their own tides of endless green. His warriors manned their battlements and fired from positions prepared centuries ago in an eerie mirror image of the plains of Macedonia so long ago. The doctrine still remained identical, as well. No point would be defended to the last man, for such heroics were costly and unnecessary; instead, the defenders would fight until the back of the assault force was broken before retreating to their next set of positions, buying them precious breathing room while the enemy were forced to bring in a fresh wave of warriors.

It would be wrong to say that no worlds under his protection fell, or to say that his methods were flawless. Just as it was against the Urshii, he would never defend an untenable position; civilian conurbations and evacuation points were no exception to this, and his new subordinates labelled him a coward with as much vigour as his old ones had so long ago. But this cold, calculated strategy ensured that his armies lived - and more importantly, rested - to fight another day, where another Primarch would've allowed them to be slaughtered in a vain order to hold the line.

On venerable Olympia, one of the first colony worlds of the Old Empire brought back into the fold by Perturabo's Iron Warriors, the Primarch nearly met his end. His command headquarters was unexpectedly besieged by a force of Orks that, reinforced by a newly arrived Rok, had broken through a weakened flank, and he insisted he took to the field. Years later, he would claim it was simply a pragmatic decision; after all, as a Thunder Warrior he was fully capable of fighting to earn time for his command staff to be evacuated, all of whom were equally invaluable to the defense of the planet - but for many, this unexpected loyalty was a welcome reminder that there was still a human within the Primarch's iron shell. His psychological one, at least.

His physical armour, however, would be sorely tested by the warboss he would face; a great corroding creature of Nurgle's kin, leading the Orks of the Pox Dok in laughter and taunts even as lascannon and bolter blew off chunks of rotting green flesh. The fate of the world and every soul on it was decided in a burning cathedral; and while Perturabo was certainly not the unstoppable juggernaut other Primarchs were, his calculating mind was as much use here as it was fighting on theater or even planetary level. It merged with his Thunder Warrior instincts, making each move carefully planned and each attack predicted ahead of time, until the fight seemed to be a fluid dance akin to that of the Eldar Harlequins.

Still, in brute force he was outmatched, and for every hundred blows he saw coming, there was one he simply could not parry or evade in time. The mighty green leviathan and the smaller figure slowly but relentlessly tearing it down - a fitting reversal of their armies' roles - wore each other into the ground, until the Iron Warrior emerged triumphant over the Rust of decay. With the Warboss gone, his legion quickly broke the remainder of the Ork assault, reclaiming swathes of land and beginning the long and thankless task of resecuring it. Scouting parties quickly found their Primarch, slumped in the pews where the faithful once prayed for redemption, and almost as white as the pale stone dust raining down from the ruined cathedral.

Perturabo did not see that world retaken; he did not see the organised withdrawals from worlds and sectors almost turn to a complete rout without his immaculate planning.

He did not see the Battle of Terra, the desecration of his homeworld.

He did not see the death of first Sanguinius, then the Beast.

He eventually did awaken, but only after a year spent comatose, while his ruined body was slowly repaired by Thunder Warrior physiology where possible and Mechanicus cybernetics where not. Unbowed and unbroken; Iron within, Iron without. As soon as he was able to, he marched on with his legion, rebuilding worlds and shoring up their defences before moving onto the next. Still, many believed that the Beast's legacy still haunted him and that he blamed himself personally for each loss; for as the years passed he became more and more of a perfectionist, making demands of broken worlds that could not have met them in their prime. Eventually, his most senior Warsmiths agreed by unanimous vote to remove him from active service, after he demanded a planet's population be decimated for a single of its regiments' incompetence. Perhaps, like many others, he did not resist simply because he was grateful.

Perturabo's last days were spent back on Old Earth as an architect, away from the battlefield and doing what he loved. Many had forgotten that he could design anything but defensive lines and fortresses; and perhaps he himself had forgotten as well. Over time, the work began to heal him, and in turn he began to heal Olld Earth. The swathes of land destroyed by the Beast were given to him as a blank canvas, and upon them he built structures as grand and magnificent as any in the Dark Age of Technology ever were. Oddly enough, '''this''' would be his legacy to the common man; his military campaigns would be lost to the ages, but his designs would be copied and imitated across the entire Imperium, from his streamlining of Hive City layouts that every planetary governor desperately sought to the glorious palaces on Terra that, well, every planetary governor desperately sought. Such form and function would not be surpassed for millenia to come, and even to this day his influence is visible on almost every Imperial world.

Perturabo passed away soon after finishing his plans for the new Imperial Palace; remarking that only now he was able to discover his art, after war had taken all the joy and beauty from it. Some say that he passed with a gentle, childlike smile on his face - for after a thousand years of siege, Perturabo, Prince of Macedonia, Son of Nikola, was finally to be relieved.

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See Also: [[Nobledark_Imperium_Writing#Iron_Within.2C_Iron_Without|Iron Within, Iron Without]]

== Mortarion ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Vermin Lord:'''''

Mortarion was a born in the abject squalor of the slums of Gredbritton, in the aftermath of the fall of the Unspeakable Tyrant. His life was certainly not made any easier by the fact that his mother was the fallen Tyrant's daughter; and that many whispered that his unknown father was the Tyrant himself - and given the sheer depravity of that individual, these accusations were hardly baseless. When the hysteria was beginning to die down, his mother did her best to hide their shared heritage and instead made ends meet as a maintenance skivvy and lay-technician of the great Tintajus Hive, the capital of that broken nation. They never truly advanced in wealth or power - although perhaps this was shrewdness on his mother's part, as those of the upper hive would be more likely to recognise them - and as such Mortarion seemed almost permanently sickly, growing up pale and gaunt from lack of sunlight and food.

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Gredbritton was one of the earlier nations brought into the Imperial fold. Being part of a greater union of nations went some way to restoring order, as well as bringing strength and prosperity it had not seen since the nation itself had ruled great swathes of Terra. Like so many young men with no hope, Mortarion joined the regiments of the Imperial Army - not out of some sense of patriotism or desire to bring other realms into the Imperium, but simply for the promise of at least one meal a day, a pair of trousers he didn't have to share and perhaps even some money to send home to his family.

He served with merit (if not distinction) until he was in his 22nd year, in spite of recurring bouts of old childhood illnesses. At some point in this year he learned that the Warlord was looking for volunteers for Thunder Warrior conversion, known to be a procedure that carried considerable risks. The Apothocarium and the Biologicus warned both him and the officials administrating the project that his physical imperfections would likely render Mortarion little more than a twisted nightmare, yet neither side yielded. The project's overseers were unwilling to turn away one of the few volunteers they could find, least of all one so eager; and for his part, the would-be Thunder Warrior reasoned that his body was already almost constantly betraying him, and that both success and failure would finally bring him the respite he so desperately sought. At first he volunteered, then requested, then even ''demanded'' that they tear his body apart and put him back together, as the payout his family would get for his "death" in this manner would set his mother and younger sisters up for life.

By some strange twist of fate he ''did'' survive. Perhaps even the biotechnicians had failed to realise how far they had refined their own process - certainly, the success rate was easily an order of magnitude higher than it was when Angron was "upgraded" - or perhaps the trauma of the procedures was shrugged off by a body that had spent 22 years steadfastly refusing to die. In any case, Mortarion fought as hard as any other in the name of the Imperium and its warlord, earning rank after rank based on sheer weight of victories. These victories were costly, the battlefields brutal - for he was no tactical genius, and would often dismiss inventive but untried tactics and strategies in favour of the certainties of more proven ones.

Thus, while his superiors prized his methodical successes over the less reliable tactics of the more creative leaders, his men held no love for him, only a grudging respect. The latter was cemented in place by his willingness - no, his ''insistence'' - to lead from the front, forcing his way into the thickest fighting and risking death alongside his men. They saw great victories against the savage men of Ursh and the organised and equipped armies of Achaemenidia with equal ease, only stumbling when facing the Gyptoussian sorcerers who dabbled in things that should not be dabbled in. Indeed, it was in those desert campaigns that Mortarion developed a fear, almost a hatred, of all psykers. Never again in his long life would he employ them or even accept their advice or aid, even when it might have been advisable to do so.

Mortarion soon developed a reputation for being invincible, and while this struck fear into his enemies, it merely frustrated his subordinates. He would charge into battle alongside his soldiers, yet he would far outlast them even under the most withering fire; returning from the field of war alone, with shredded armour and spent weapons, sporting wounds that would have felled a lesser Thunder Warrior.

When the forces of the Steward looked to the rest of Sol, Mortarion's forces were assigned primarily to garrison duty due to the costly nature of his method of warfare. In these engagements they held themselves with distinction, as they would make an enemy's assault on them far costlier. By the time Sol was subjugated and the galaxy lay before the Imperium, the Emperor had named him Primarch for his sheer tenacity and list of victories. It was revealed in later years, however, that the Warlord/Steward disapproved greatly of Mortarion's methods of warfare - at least, according to a few unnamed insiders from the Imperial Palace. Mortarion had, by methods undisclosed, obtained the entire stockpile of biological and chemical weapons owned by his late grandfather and father. He had also obtained the ancient library of Gredbritton, the contents of which were hastily handed over to the Warlord's Sigillite.

When taking a city or hive, the Dusk Raiders would prefer to besiege if first, firing artillery rounds filled with a dozen godforsaken contagions over (or through) the walls and waiting a few months. When the time came for them to enter the city, anything that was still alive would be shredded with bolt, plasma and promethium; the only considerable obstacles in their way being the sheer number of dead bodies filling the hive. Only Curze's methods were deemed more detestable, but unlike his fellow primarch's claims that the horrors he committed were for the greater good he simply pointed out that a conventional assault would likely have similar civilian casualties, but would also take a heavy toll on his own legion. The Warlord was never satisfied with this defence, but the results of his campaigns were undeniable.

He would go on to take this method of warfare off-world; after all, the need to kill and conquer in the most efficient way possible was even greater when precious supplies had to be ferried across the depths of space. Many whispered that he was his father's son - but this was not the case. For while the Unspeakable Tyrant had done such things in the name of gods too terrible to contemplate, Mortarion did them in the name of his warriors, and so that they may live another day. For all that ''they'' hated ''him'', he did not hate his own men; although few would have believed that had he told them.

At the onset of the War of the Beast the Dusk Raiders were quickly established as the dirty, dirty hands of the Imperium. Instead of fighting heroic yet costly rearguards to save evacuees as so many others did, they would bombard worlds with flesh-eating diseases and exsanguination virii the minute they were lost. This, contrary to their detractors, was not to punish those left behind but instead to deny the enemy potential slaves - or food, for that matter - while leaving most material assets intact. Hundreds of billions, maybe even trillions died from these proto-Virus Bombs, and it did not stop the enemy, or even slow their expansion; it was only beginning to chip away at the rate at which the expansion accelerated. Yet this was still more than most other legions could achieve against the sheer size and speed of the Beast's initial assault, and it was done while preserving Mortarion's valuable warriors; indeed, it was then that they earned their moniker of the ''Death Guard'', for the ruination that followed on worlds they failed to defend was as if they were the guardians of the reaper himself.

Many of Mortarion's fellow primarchs, Sanguinius and Vulkan in particular, publicly decried these attacks, but he did not care. They called him a traitor, and he did not care. They called him a coward, a monster, and he did not care. They spat on his legion's banner; Dorn in particular calling his warriors detestable cravens - and only then did he warn the man who fought only from his precious entrenchments to mind his choice of words, lest one of the Unspeakable Tyrant's lost weapons suddenly "appear" in the skies over his beautifully crafted defensive lines. For his Legion were not cowards, and any who would make such a claim had not seen the mechanical determination with which they fought. Any who would make such a claim had not seen the way they ground the Beast's forces down into pieces, then into dust, breaking the back of the enemy's assaults so that other, more heroic, ''better'' men might earn the glory of beheading them.

When the smoke had cleared and the Steward and Eldrad stood over the corpse of The Beast, the remains of the Imperium cheered for years, for decades. The Death Guard did not, for they were pushing its borders outwards; rebuilding their legion and continuing their endless, tireless crusade. Never mind how the mighty Dorn and his warriors would not take one step back. The Death Guard would never cease marching forward, into the Dark Millennium and beyond. The only time they would ever falter would be to honour their primarch's passing, on the distant western fringe world known as Macharius' Rest. Where sickness, assassination attempts, Thunder Warrior treatment and thousands of orks had failed, time had won its final victory. Members of the Dusk Raiders, the Death Guard, and every crusader who had ever fought alongside them made the pilgrimage to the edge of the Imperium, to pay their grudging respects to the Man Who Would Not Die.

''"Even our '''allies''' believe us nothing more than scum, than vermin to be crushed underfoot. Then let us fight like them; with tooth and claw, dragging down the mightiest of enemies with our dying breaths. Let us scour their lands clean with pestilence, and leave nothing that can be used against man - '''for vermin always have the last word'''."''

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== Lorgar ==

Lorgar Aurelian was a child born in the theocracy of the Ynsdonesic Bloc and as all children born in that awful place was the result of a state designated union. Unions in that dysfunctional realm in that time usually being decided by perceiving omens be it from smoke patterns or entrails augury despite the degenerate unions that this often created.

As with all youths of that nation he was raised in the Kartharanite branch of religion. He was taught that only through suffering was any worth found be it inflicted on the self or on others and that the unbeliever must be cleansed from the world by fire and sword. It was not a faith of kindness that he was raised in.

His appointed mentor in matters of religion was Bishop Kor Phaeron of Jakurtana. Had he had any other master then history would have taken a decidedly different path.

Bishop Phaeron was secretly a member of the Katholian sect from which the Kartharanite had once sprung and in this more kind and just faith did Lorgar find peace and purpose.

The old faith spread through the downtrodden and the hopeless of society despite the brutal and cruel efforts of Cardinal Tang to suppress, contain and exterminate it.

Eventually the outrage and animosity of the people for their leaders reached a fever pitch and civil war ensued. As Bishop Phaeron was the highest ranking member of the hierarchy on the side of the people he was looked to for guidance. As the Bishop's right hand man Lorgar soon learned the ways of war. He learned to inspire and comfort. He learned to appeal for calm and how to whip peoples passions to a frenzy. Although not lacking in martial prowess his voice, his cunning and his keen intellect were his favoured weapons.

It was maybe just in time that the subversion erupted into open rebellion when it did. The forces of the Warlord were marching down from the North and the Ynsdonesic Bloc was well up on the "Burn it down and start again" list.

With the possibility of an unwinnable war on two fronts Bishop Phaeron went to the parlay with the Warlord in person, dressed in only a crude hessian robe, with only Lorgar Aurelian accompanying him.

An audience was granted to the Warlord in his tent, at the heart of the enemy war camp, surrounded by genetically modified super soldiers and heavy weapons.

Expecting some sort of zealous speech of defiance and martyrdom the Warlord was taken aback some what when the two got down on one knee and swore allegiance.

The cared deeply about their faith and the word of their God. But their God cared deeply about the people he had made. Their God would understand if he was to be forgotten but not forgive men who should know better leading children to the slaughter. They would rather their people be free and happy than pious.

Moved by their words the Emperor gave them grace time. Should they triumph over their oppressors they would be welcomed into the Imperium as any other member state. Should they would have the harsh treatment of conquest and subjugation.

By insurgencies, underhanded tactics, assassinations and a brutal 12 year war the Katholians claimed victory and Cardinal Tang's broken but still living form was dragged before the Warlord as a token of gratitude.

It was somewhat of a pyrrhic victory for the people of the Ynsdonesic Bloc. They nation was in a hundred pieces, each swearing loyalty to some tin hat despot with delusions of grandeur, some almost as bad as Cardinal Tang. It would not be long before the fighting for dominance began, to say nothing of annexation from another nation.

The forces of the Warlord prepared to march again and again Lorgar begged the Warlord to stay his hand. They were just sheep without a shepherd, lost children in a very dark night. Once more swayed by the strange kind passion in Lorgars voice the Warlord relented.

Over the next five years as Bishop Phaeron became Patriarch Phaeron Lorgar went to the isolated and the lost and the scared with open arms and promises of reconciliation.

For the most part he was well received and his homeland healed. It was only after the talking was done that those too stubborn or monstrous to come home again were removed. Great pains were taken to minimize casualties but it was not a wholly peaceful end to that bitter conflict.

Ynsdonesic Bloc was the first of the old nation states to disband it's own military completely and throw it's own might, such as was left of it, wholeheartedly into the Imperium.

Lorgar, now a Chaplain-General in the Imperial Army, was considered too old for conversion from human to superhuman but did receive some discrete genetic modifications.

It was a regiment overseen by Lorgar that lead the final assault on the Despot of Ursh's palace that signaled the unification of Old Earth, and it was Lorgar's blade who swung the sword after the Last Despot of Ursh was tried and sentenced to execution for war crimes. But Chaplain-General Aurelian considered all of his victories to be nothing but tragedies. The only true victory, he would often claim, was one where no war was to be found. For his valour and astounding levels of inspiring oratory skill he was declared the unlikely Primarch.

Of all the Primarchs in the time of the Great Crusade his forces brought more worlds into the Imperium peacefully than any other.

They didn't bring more worlds in, oh my no. They were quite slow and their tardiness was no end of frustration to the now Steward. But Lorgar was tolerated because the worlds he claimed were brought into the Imperium whole and undamaged and contributing.

In the War of the Beast Primarch Aurelian and his Legion struck back with an unexpected force. Many of the other war leaders of the imperium considered his Legion to be full of pacifists and weakness. Like many of the damned in the armies of the Beast they had mistaken the olive branch for a white flag and they were punished hard for it.

Across the breadth and depth of the burning Imperium, to the aid of human or xeno, the Word Bearers could be found holding the line and inspiring others to hold the line. Where they strode despair turned to hope and weary hands held firm blessed weapons and shaky voices roared the old battle hymns.

Lorgar and his forces were on Old Earth when Sanguinius died and ever afterwards Lorgar blamed himself for not fighting hard enough to have saved his brother Primarch.

Lorgar lived and served for many years. He eventually died of old age at near eleven hundred years old. A small but modest shrine was erected at the Jakurtana Seminary that is sometimes visited by Word Bearer chaplains even into the Dark Millennium.

See also [[Nobledark_Imperium_Imperial_Society_and_Culture#The_Book_of_Lorgar|The Book of Lorgar]]

== Jaghatai Khan ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Noble Savage:'''''

From an early age, it was clear to most people that Jaghatai “White Scar” Khan was going to grow up to be a troublemaker. Some might have doubted such a claim, but that would have been put to rest by the time Jaghatai was ten, when he was thrown from his vehicle during an accident while tending the flocks, giving him the scar that would later become his most identifying feature, only to dust himself off with little to no concern for the cut on his face. Unfortunately, “most people” did not happen to include the Despot of Ursh. For years, Jaghatai and his people had lived the way his people always had, raising flocks of livestock on the steppes with the help of motorcycles and off-road vehicles. It was this skill with motor vehicles that had brought the people of the steppes to the Despot’s eye. He saw a greater use for their talents than simply herding livestock, and so he pressed the people of the steppes into service. The people of the steppes were turned into shock troopers, raiding enemy supply lines, tearing into retreating battalions, and burning down villages that refused to completely subjugate to the Despot, becoming yet another boogeyman for the Despot of Ursh to use to scare his enemies and subjects into submission.

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Jaghatai’s father was the nominal representative of the steppe peoples to the Despot of Ursh, and so was given the title of Khan: a once noble title that had come to mean nothing in the years since the people of the steppes were enslaved by Ursh. Jaghatai's father pleaded with the Despot to try and make the lives of his people better, but the Despot had a heart harder than adamantium and had no love for people whose loyalty was not absolute. And so it was that at the age of nineteen Jaghatai was awoken one night by emissaries from the Despot of Ursh, who dropped his father's head in a sack on his doorstep and gave Jaghatai the same ultimatum the Despot had given his father. "Serve me absolutely, or die".

Faced with not only the threat of his own demise but the demise of his people, Jaghatai swore loyalty at the point of a sword. But privately, the new Khan swore another oath. He swore that if there was any justice in this world he would not rest until he had avenged his father and it was the Despot of Ursh who had his head put in a sack. And so it was that for several years Jaghatai served as the leader of the one of the most feared forces in the entire Urshii army. And he hated it. He hated seeing his people being turned into animals, being used as attack dogs to terrorize people whose only sin had been to ask the Despot of Ursh for a bit of mercy. He hated the pain and suffering he caused in every burned out husk of a settlement he left behind him. Even when his people were kept out of the fray of raiding and pillaging, his conscience still gnawed at him over the fact that it had been his support that had allowed the Urshii to win and allow this to happen.

This went on for several years, until reports began to come in about a strange new power known as "the Imperium" led by a most peculiar Warlord, which was pushing against the Urshii from the west. Fortunately for Ursh, much of the south and west of the Urshii heartland was bordered by near-impenetrable mountain ranges, with only a few major passes between them. Khan and his people were dispatched as part of a force to guard one of these mountain passes from incursion, along with several thousand elite Urshii troopers. The Urshii troopers had no love for the nomads, forcing them to set up camp far away from the rest of the army and making them do most of the scouting. It was because of this that the Khan and his forces were alone when they quite literally stumbled upon the expeditionary force of the Warlord one fateful day.

Coming around a corner in the bottom of a river valley, the Khan and his scouting forces quite unexpectedly came across some incredibly angry men holding some very imposing guns. After a few minutes of an intense standoff, the leader of the opposing forces called a ceasefire to try and figure out why either of the two sides hadn't begun shooting at each other yet. It was at this point that the Khan first met the Warlord. The Khan realized that this was his opportunity to get revenge on the Despot of Ursh and avenge his father. He told the Warlord the truth, the real truth he had carried inside him since the day his father died. Although initially skeptical, the Warlord was so impressed by the sincerity of the Khan's answer that he believed his story.

The Warlord and the Khan began to conspire as to how to defeat the Urshii army at the pass. At first, the Warlord suggested to the Khan that he simply had to "forget" to show up to the battle, but the Khan vehemently disagreed. The Urshii had denigrated his people, the Khan said, and blood had to be repaid in blood. Therefore, a new plan was formulated, in which the Khan's forces would change sides once the Urshii and the Imperium became locked in combat. Rather than being flankers as intended, the Khan's troops would tear into the Urshii army from behind, forcing them to fight a two-fronted battle. The plan worked, and the battle was a complete rout for the forces of Ursh, allowing the Imperium to cross the mountain passes into the core Urshii territories. The former slaves of Ursh were skeptical to see the Khan's people as liberators, rather than devastators, and this bad blood would persist for years even after the fall of Ursh. Nevertheless, being involved as the front lines of a massive liberating army went a long way towards alleviating such concerns. When the Despot of Ursh was toppled and that abominable empire finally fell, the Khan finally felt that his father had been avenged.

The Warlord had earned the Khan’s gratitude and trust, but the Khan made sure to let the Warlord know that his people would never again be unthinking slaves.

''“You have helped me avenge my father and free my people, and for that you have my gratitude. But remember, that gratitude makes my people and I your allies, not your slaves. For all that you have done, you have my trust, but if you abuse that trust, know that not even death will be fast enough to catch you before I do.”''<br>
- Jaghatai Khan, reportedly said to the Warlord upon the final fall of Ursh

Fortunately, the Khan never had to put his newfound trust to the test. The years of the Great Crusade were probably some of the best of the Khan's life. His people were no longer slaves, and they had a vast new galaxy that had just become open to them. He even fell in love, something he had been studiously avoiding under the reign of the Despot in order to avoid giving that monster something he could exploit him with. He caught the eye of a girl, a former Urshii woman who had worked in the fields as an agricultural serf. He showed her the ways of the steppes, and the two of them fell deeply in love. He was heartbroken when she died. She died at 110, a ripe old age by the standards of those who lived before the Dark Age of Technology, but from a disease that befell many who worked in the fields of Ursh late in life that no amount of juvenant drugs could fix. And yet the Khan had to go on, as the Imperium still had need of his services. It was this sense of duty that led Khan to become an Astartes. Khan spent most of the Crusade on planets that had problems with orks and occasionally dark Eldar, beings that the Khan saw as truly reprehensible and therefore had no moral problems with hunting them down.

Late in life, the Khan began to feel the age seeping into his bones, and looked back at what he had accomplished during his life. He had avenged his father, freed his people, taken them to the stars, started a family, and helped build an empire. It was "more than any man could hope to accomplish in one lifetime", as the Khan said in his own words. But there was still one last thing Khan had to do. The old warrior planned to travel the galaxy one last time, to say goodbye to the friends he made before he passed away. However, the Khan never finished his trip. Although most of the people close to him did report seeing him shortly before his disappearance, the Khan never made it back to Earth to be buried in his homeland, like he wanted. Many of the White Scars say that like many of the other primarchs, Khan did not truly die, and will return to lead them once more when times are dire. One can only hope.

Although the Khan got along well with many of the warrior primarchs like Russ, perhaps his strangest relationship was his odd friendship with Magnus the Red. Part of the reason for this is that Khan actually knew Magnus (though not well) before either had become known as primarchs, back when they had served under the Despot of Ursh. Khan knew firsthand that Magnus was a man, not a monster, and treated him as such. It was probably this friendship that lead to the Khan being so pro-psyker in life. Although he was not a psyker, he knew of the suffering psyker powers could bring to an individual, and so was a strong advocate for pro-psyker policies like the schola that would help psykers control their gifts. He was also not averse to the use of psykers in combat, though like most he drew the line at warp sorcery.
Outside of the Steward and the primarchs, the Khan often had trouble socializing with other people. Part of this was due to a lack of things he could talk about with other people, and part of this was that he never really got the hang of Gothic, always speaking it with a rather heavy accent, which he was embarrassed by. As a result, the Khan was often known for being taciturn at public appearances, and was well known for regarding actions higher than words.

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== Konrad Curze ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Unforgivable:'''''

Konrad Curze was a man that could politely be described as driven, and accurately be described as ''a frothing at the mouth lunatic.'' Of all the Primarchs appointed, none were more questioned than he.

He had grown up in the final days of the Age of Strife in the rambling under city Tordashimya in the Pan Pacific Empire, along with all of the horrors and excess that this entails. To say that this had an effect on the deepest levels of his mind would be a woeful understatement, and he saw the fledgling Imperium as only existing as a means of imposing some sort of order and some basic justice on a world that was in dire need of both and he saw it as his duty to make it happen. Sadly his means of doing so were as crude and brutal as those who he sought to bring to justice; after all, the quickest way to gain obedience is through fear, and and the easiest way to rebuild a society is to behead it and tear apart the body.

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Despite - or, some whisper in hushed tones, ''because of'' - the Steward's insistence that he change his tact, Curze became stubborn and resentful; his predations becoming ever more brutal. Realising the futility of bringing to heel, the Steward instead directed him instead to the worlds of no hope, worlds so broken that they could never be brought into the Imperium. Worlds he couldn't make worse. It was on one of these worlds, Nostramo, that the Night Haunter found some strange joy. If he could bring a world such as this, so broken, so unspeakably wretched, as this to the light of civility then he would be vindicated before the whole galaxy. If a world so cursed by both gods and men could be rebuilt, there was nothing that could not be.

The subjugation of that world was the harrowing stuff of nightmares. The Dark Eldar could barely have done better to make every day-cycle a new nightmare; indeed, some claim that they were there to simply soak up the suffering as a welcome break to their long campaigns of torture and enslavement. But in time Curze, now infamous as the Night Lord of Nostramo, was vindicated. His people took control of every position of authority, while the malcontents were quickly ''disappeared'', often winding up dead and mutilated along with their families and friends, whether man, woman, elder or child. Hideous as it was, order was brought - and order began to spread, as for each world his legion inflicted unspeakable horrors on, ten more surrendered without raising arms. Hideous, brutal examples were made of the worst, but through them the more virtuous were saved.

Soon enough, the dark whispers of Chaos began to tempt his mind, the fallen Eldar of the Crone Worlds assailing his dreams with tantalising offers of untold riches and endless power. Yet every offer was found wanting; every envoy cut down, every promise met with scorn. They had made the mistake of assuming that one such as Curze had become would revel in their depraved debaucheries, without considering that he would find them every bit as repulsive as other, better, people found him. He was a monster, this was true, but he was a monster who ripped and tore and tortured in the name of order; by the Emperor he was the ''Imperium's'' monster and nobody else's.

Some, of course, fell. Younger soldiers who had maybe joined the cause for glory, for strength, or even for mere self-gratification. But the vast majority of them were, like their Primarch, disgusted by the offerings of Chaos, horrified by the fall of their battle brothers, and insulted at the implication that they and the forces of Chaos served the same ends. For the entirety of the War of the Beast, the Lords of the Night could be found sowing discord and misery amongst the fleets and the armies of damnation. For every horror the invaders committed more was inflicted upon them, and for every innocent killed by the Ruinous Powers the Night Lords would swear vengeance on a dozen daemons.

Few of that despised Legion ever fought on the soil of Old Earth, and never were they allowed to forget this. But because of their actions the forces of damnation were weakened and poorly focused with one eye always over their shoulder. Even if their military successes had counted for naught; even if they had not managed to save a single soul, '''they had made Chaos fear ''them'''''. And that was an achievement beyond all others.

In the aftermath of that war, many small provincial worlds and systems tried to strike out on their own, away from the light of the Throne, often being brought back by force. None of Curze's worlds, however, had ever tried to secede - after all, they knew both sides of the Imperium's protection, and had seen first hand the wrath that the Night Lords could unleash. If that was what they would to in ''defence'' of the Imperium, what they would do to willing turncoats did not bear thinking about.

In his later years, Curze was well aware that he had become everything he had despised in his youth, and he sometimes derived black humour from this; that he had finally rediscovered across the galaxy what he had first learned in his youth on a small Terran kingdom: that the ends do not, and cannot, justify the means. In the year 243.M32 he had himself tried and executed for war crimes as the ultimate testament that none were beyond judgement. He had deemed himself to have outlived his usefulness, and to some extent he was right; although the Imperium could tolerate a useful monster, it should have no love for one.

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== Angron ==

Angron was a slave pit fighter in what was left of the Nord Afrik Enclaves.

He was liberated quite early on in The Warlords campaign. Signed on to join the Thunder Warriors.

Rose through the ranks and earned great fame and respect. Munched loved by his men due to his tendency to lead from the front and getting stuck in where the fighting was thickest.

Was one of the older generation of TW with all the damage and flaws this brought with it.

Due to his astounding aptitudes he was promoted to the rank of Primarch and given command of a batch of the new Astartes model Space Marines.

Plagued by health issues despite attempts to repair his faulty upgrades. Refused the retirement offer that many TW took to make lives for themselves. He wouldn't have been able to deal with a peaceful life.

Survived all the way to the end of The War of the Beast but not much longer. Died peacefully in his sleep. Probably the oldest TW.

Kharn the Oathsworn took over, new type of super soldier for a new era.

He didn't live a happy life, but given the nature of his childhood he could have lived a worse one and a statue of him stands outside the gate of the Carthisisa Hive Cathedral.

===His Early Life===

Some men are born into greatness, and carry it upon their brow with the natural ease of command. Others have greatness forced unwillingly upon them, and they suffer its burden for duty and honor. The Primarch Angron fell firmly into the second category.

Little is known about Angron’s early life. What is known is gleaned from his private writings, scattered public records, and a few of Kharn’s recollections; and it is little wonder that the Primarch did not speak of his youth, for it was a bitter and brutal upbringing so sadly common in the chaotic days before the Unification.

Angron was born to a humble family in a small town in Timbuk, the northern state of the Afrique League, along the border of the Nord Afrik Conclaves. The town sat on a trade route used by nomad clans and acted as a minor trade hub and rest stop for their caravans as they traveled the roads between the techno-barbarian conclaves of Nord Afrik and the settlements of the Afrique League. Angron’s family made their living as bakers; their fortified strongbread was particularly well-regarded in the area as a food of the road for weary travelers. Their lifestyle was modest but probably not unpleasant, and it was more than likely that Angron would have followed in his family’s footsteps and become a baker as well, living a quiet life, were it not for the Europian-Afrikaan War.

After the humiliating defeat inflicted by Angron’s fellow Primarch-to-be Roboute Guilliman, the Padishah of the Nord Afrik Conclaves needed victory and loot to pacify his rebellious vassal shahs and sheikhs, who were threatening a shahs-moot to elect a new leader or even open revolt should the Padishah refuse. Thus, the Padishah turned his gaze and armies towards the weakest of his neighbors, the Afrique League. The southern Afrique state of Nama Gola was cut off from Timbuk by the toxic coastal wastelands and the vassals of Ursh further inland, nor could they challenge the Afrikaan at sea, and so their northern brethren faced the rage of the Afrikaan utterly alone.

The Padishah’s regular forces had been decimated by the war with Europa, and in a desperate show of might he turned to the cruelest monsters and technologies hidden within the Conclaves. Upon the Afrique League he unleashed lumbering arco-flagellants, limbs replaced by electrowhips and hydraulic mauls; screaming berserker slaves, hippocampuses mangled by crude cybernetics to increase aggression; cackling Volkite cultists, who unleashed the terrible heat of their weapons to praise their Burning God and the Devouring Flame; shriveled moisture cannibals from the deep deserts, who ripped men apart to drink of the precious water in their bodies and harvest the fluids for dark rituals; and a hundred other varieties of horrors and monstrosities forgotten to history, each worse than the last.

The Afrikaan host swept over the border unimpeded as the scattered militias of Timbuk were blown aside before the Padishah’s storm of ravening terrors, the regular Afrique soldiers having long withdrawn to fortify the coastal cities. Angron’s town was one of the first to fall, and the Afrikaan marauders slaked their bloodlust on the terrified citizens through all manners of torture and slaughter. The details around what happened to Angron during this time are scarce: Angron himself understandably did not speak much of this event and the only written comments involve a short line in one of his final writings. The only clues are from the journals of a minor officer of the Padishah’s elite Janissor Corps who was assigned to oversee the sacking of Angron’s village, where he writes of an incident regarding a young boy who leapt from the rafters of a burning bakery and stabbed one of his men to death, and who then almost escaped on foot before being shot down by a stun dart to be taken as a slave.

From ruins of his village, Angron was taken to a loot caravan along with the few other survivors, mostly young children like himself who would sell well at the slave markets. They were taken through the scorching heat and swirling sands of the Afrikaan deserts until at last they reached their destination: Karthago, called Carthisisia in the Afrikaan tongue, oldest of the Nord Afrik city-states, seat of His Ascendancy the Padishah. Perched upon the western bank of the great God’s Eye Lake, it was a dusty city of brass and stone, its red stone walls a crumbling reminder of a long and cultured past, its glittering pyramids and temples casting long shadows over the slave bazaars reeking of blood.

In the auction houses, the fierce young boy drew great interest from the old gladiator houses, for a star pit fighter would bring great riches and prestige to anyone who owned him, and when the auctioneer’s hammer finally fell after a round of exorbitant bidding, it was the infamous slaver Nuceria, Queen of Flesh, who won the right to Angron’s collar. After the auction he received Nuceria’s slave mark, the inverted red triangle upon his forehead that marked him as her property, a tattoo he would have for the rest of his life.

The next twelve years of Angron’s life were a nightmare of the most brutal training imaginable, designed to break and beat him into a instrument of slaughter, a sadistic crucible to purify him into a weapon unhindered by morality or humanity. From sunup to sundown on the grounds of Nuceria’s palatial manor Angron was forced to train and fight until his entire body was a tight knot of agony, and every slight failure, misstep, or distraction was punished with beatings. In his first year he was given a puppy to raise as his companion, and on his birthday the next year he was ordered to strangle it with his bare hands. When he refused, he received the first of many electro-whippings. As Angron grew older, Nuceria used him as her headsman, forcing him to mete out the punishments to her other slaves, like cutting off the feet of escapees and executing those who disobeyed.

In this hell Angron grew into a man. At eighteen he already stood well over 6 feet tall, his dusky frame thick with corded muscle, and he was excellent with the sword, superb with the mace, and unmatched with the axe. During one sparring match he killed three of the trainers that had tortured him since his childhood with a blunted training sword until the others managed to intervene, and when Nuceria heard she laughed and said the dead men had done their jobs well.

Yet for all their efforts, they had not broken him. Beneath all the years of horrors and scars upon Angron’s psyche, there was still the core of the simple young boy from Timbuk, the son of parents he no longer remembered, born in a village that no longer existed. It would have been easier to break, to become the monster they wanted, or to place the blame for all the atrocities he had committed on Nuceria and the others who forced his hand. Instead Angron chose to face and accept all that he had done, and when he woke at night, gasping and sweating from the nightmares that haunted him, all he could do was swear to make things right, some way, some how.

When it was time for Angron’s first fight in the pits, to Nuceria’s fury it was to be against Tigris of Franj, a knight taken as a prisoner of war long ago and a long-time veteran of the pits. Nuceria had seen too many promising young talents cut down before their prime by facing wily old fighters before they were ready, and on this match she saw the mark of the other gladiator houses, conspiring with the gamemasters to kill her most promising fighter before he could bloom. For all her rage Nuceria could not challenge their combined authority, and so as Angron stepped out in the sandy arena to face the Franjish knight, she resigned herself to losing a decade of investment.
Angron won in less than 5 minutes. With dispassionate, overwhelming strikes of his axe he dismantled his opponent’s defense piece by piece before battering him down with a furious rain of blows. When the crowd called for Tigris’ death, in defiance of pit custom Angron refused to perform the traditional execution of disemboweling his opponent and strangling him with his own intestines. Instead, he cleanly decapitated Tigris in a single blow, leaving the crowd in a momentary stunned silence before they rose to their in feet in an approving roar to cheer the masterful performance by the young fighter.

Elated, Nuceria took Angron to her slave pens and allowed him to choose any of the slave girls to be his personal courtesan, a prize usually reserved for gladiators that had won ten fights. To Nuceria’s surprise he walked past the cells of beautiful young women to the cells of children. They were frightened, furtive little things, and there Angron picked up a little boy with dark eyes full of defiance and loss, so very much like his own, and said this boy was to be no slave, but his son. And so Angron had found the first of his children, Kharn.

In the next few years Angron became a legend, his matches televised throughout the Conclaves, defeating champion after champion in an unbroken chain of victories. The crowds called him the “Lord of the Red Sands” while Nuceria lavished gifts and privileges on him for his victories, and so Angron’s little family grew as he took several more children under his wing as his sons and daughters. Yet for all his successes and outward displays of obedience, Angron was still haunted by his sins, and the chance for his atonement finally came when he was approached by a group of fellow slaves who asked that he aid them in their escape attempt by killing the guards the protected the motor pool. In return, they would take him and his children with them to freedom in far off Franj. Angron agreed without reservation, and the preparations were made.

Yet rarely were things ever so simple. The night before the planned escape, Angron returned to his quarters after training to find his children’s rooms empty. Nuceria was sitting in her study when Angron burst through the door, his axe dripping with gore from the guards he had slaughtered outside, and froze when he saw his youngest son Macer upon her lap, the baby giggling as the slaver cooed and bounced him in her lap in a mockery of motherhood. Angron demanded to know where his children were. Nuceria replied that they were safe, for the moment, but only if Angron the revealed the names of the conspirators of his escape. Remain silent, she added, and his children would die screaming, and suddenly there was a stiletto in her hand, delicately tracing a line across the baby’s neck. Falling to his knees weeping tears of helpless rage, Angron made his choice, and Nuceria smiled. In the morning, there were dozens of new crucifixes in the courtyard, and the moans and cries of the dying escapees echoed through the manor. Angron could only look on at the new nightmare that would haunt his dreams, and swear a dozen new vows of bloody vengeance.

The chance would come sooner than Angron ever imagined. War came once again to the Nord Afrik Conclaves, but this time in the form of an overwhelming invasion from a mysterious warlord from the Terrawatt Clan. At first, the Afrikaan nobility was filled with bluster, boasting that they would crush this upstart and take him as a slave to be paraded in the streets, yet in only a few short months the main armies of the Conclaves were crushed. The shahs of the Conclaves had imploded into panicked infighting and blame, and whispers spread throughout the fearful streets of Karthago of invincible steel-clad giants who marched in the vanguard of the invading army who crushed all resistance under the shells of their mighty guns.

Soon the enemy army was at the gates of Karthago, and the siege was brief, the spirit of the defending soldiers already broken and the conscripted slaves unwilling to waste their lives for their hated masters. As the walls fell and the fighting neared the estate, Angron knew he would have no better chance to fulfill his vows. In the chaos he pushed his way through panicking servants and slaves to the motor pool, where he found Nuceria with a few guards preparing an armored car for her escape. The guards he swiftly killed before they even had a chance to draw their weapons. For Nuceria, Angron gave her the death she deserved: the gladiator’s death, cutting open her belly and strangling her with her own entrails as she screamed and begged for mercy she had never shown, a final act of irony he hoped would appease his fallen comrades.
With the deed done, Angron took his axe and retreated to his quarters with his children, barricading the door as the sounds of fighting grew ever closer. Soon, he could hear echoing footsteps inside the manor, and he gripped his axe tightly as they drew closer down the hallway.

The door exploded open in a cloud of splinters and dust, and a hulking armored figure ducked through the doorway with a massive gun in its grip. From behind, Angron leapt forward and kicked the back of the intruder’s leg, causing the giant to stumble forward slightly, and with a roar he swung his axe two-handed at its vulnerable head. The axe struck true and hard, and bounced off harmlessly with a clang. The giant turned, and in response drove its armored fist into Angron’s chest. Never in all his training, sparring, or duels had Angron been hit so hard, and he was flung backwards against the wall, vision flickering, gasping and coughing blood through broken ribs and crushed lungs.

The giant stood over him and leveled the gaping muzzle of its gun at Angron’s head, dim light glinting balefully from the red lenses of its helmet, when there was a sudden movement. It was Kharn, screaming and beating at the giant’s leg with his thin arms. The giant looked down at the boy flailing helplessly at its leg and turned towards the sounds of whimpers from the other side of the room where the rest of Angron’s children huddled weeping behind the bed. He looked back down at Angron, and wordlessly the giant plucked Kharn off its leg, tossed him aside, and walked out of the room.

The next few days were a haze of pain as Angron lay in his bed, tended by a few of the old healers who had remained. The city had fallen, they told him, and to their surprise there had been no looting or raping or murder. Instead, the corrupt of the city had been dragged into the streets and purged, all the old slavers and fat nobles and decadent priests, though the Padishah had long fled. So when word spread that the warlord that had taken their city would be coming to visit his new territory, Angron dragged himself out of his bed despite the agony in his chest, and limped his way down to the city gates to take stock of this Warlord who had conquered them so easily.

When the Warlord walked through the city gates, there was a murmur of hushed awe. He was young, his face unlined and dark hair falling to his shoulders, and he towered well above the steel giants beside him, his gold-armored frame standing well over 8 ft tall. In unison, the crowds lining the road began to kneel, an instinct drilled into each of them by their years of service to their masters. But as their knees began to bend, each person felt an invisible force seize them, holding them before their knees could touch the ground. A presence touched their thoughts, vast and overwhelming, yet somehow warm and protective, and it spoke in ringing tones that echoed soundlessly within their minds:

''Do not kneel, for I am no king or conqueror.''

''Do not kneel, for you are slaves and servants to the unworthy no longer.''

''Do not kneel, for though you know it not you are noble and good.''

''Instead, I bid you: STAND.''

And every onlooker felt the force around their bodies reverse, pulling them gently but firmly upwards, until even the most stoopbacked old men found themselves standing as tall and proud as they did in the flower of their youth. They looked up with wide eyes upon the golden stranger before them, and a cry rushed through the crowd as they called out in tongues from a dozen lands.

“Liberator!” “Breaker of chains!” “Savior!” And that is when Angron knew he would fight and die for the Warlord.

See Also: [[Nobledark_Imperium_Writing#Nails|Nails]]

== Corax ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Raven King:'''''

Towards the end of the Wars of Unification the Despot of Ursh and remnants of the Pan-Pacific Empire united out of desperation although for that desperation they were no less formidable.

In the lands of Sino were to be found huge tracts of the richest and most bountiful fields on all of Old Earth in that time and with their produce a seemingly unending number of fighting men and near-men and once-men could be maintained. Those fields though bountiful were tilled with the blood and sweat and breaking backs of a slave caste that knew nothing of war and cared nothing for conquest and whose eyes were cast firmly upon the ground as those that dared to look up were so often the worse for it.

It seemed the Warlord knew that any attempt to invade that place by conventional means would be bloody in the extreme; to his own men, to their men and more tragically to the people he was trying to liberate.

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Ursh had been pushed back and pushed back until it was now one diamond hard core of resilience. Conventional war was to be avoided and Curz's methods of unconventional war were not to be considered.

All that could be done was stand at the border and wait. Although the Warlord could not get in the Despot and his men were contained. Victory by weight of probability and time was assured but time for change to occur would be glacial and all the while suffering and death would be had among the downtrodden masses. Death by time or death by the blade, neither option was palatable.

And into this unhappy standoff Corax, the one who would one day be known as the Stormcrow, arose.

Uninformed and downtrodden as they were the slaves of Sino were far from stupid if only because stupidity was far from a survival trait in their harsh world. They had hear of the Warlord, they had heard of his new Imperium and they had heard of the freedoms it offered. They wanted that. Few would dare try to run the border because of what the Urshi would do to their loved ones left behind and what the foul men of the Khanate did to those they found running away.

Among them arose a man from the factories who had spent too long toiling for cruel masters and starving whilst his oppressors feasted. His family were dead by one means or another be it contagion, sport or ritual and he was left with critically little left to loose.

His job afforded him a basic but working knowledge of alchemy and reaction and he often handled equipment that was only considered tools rather than weapons because of how it was used. Corax was a very angry man but also a very cunning man whose anger was tempered by age earned wisdom and set for the long simmer rather than full boil. This was good as he was surrounded by a lot of other very angry people who also needed to be taught that patience and anger could work very well together.

By simple but time trusted methods of communication the words of rebellion spread. It was not without cost or casualty but those sufferings were just more fuel for the long burn of hate. It is possible that the rebellion would have died in it's infancy but for the forces and resources and attention being diverted to the borders where the Warlord circled, waiting for some weakness to show.

When the hammer finally came down it was like half the nation caught fire all at once. Caught unaware vast numbers of the fearsome warriors trying to out stare the Warlord at the border were frantically pulled back to keep the heartlands in good order. Perhaps this was a miscalculation on the part of the Generals responsible for the descision. Certainly the Despot thought so if the flayed and violated but still somehow living bodies of those generals adorning the palace walls are anything to attest to.

With the sudden depletion of massed soldiery on the borders the tables had turned sufficiently to make conventional invasion a realistic possibility. And at the head of the vanguard was Angron whose account of the first battles would have made historically important reading had he been persuaded to write anything down about it.

Caught between the forces of Corax and his merciless insurgency who knew all about cruelty and the forces of the Warlord that were as unstoppable as the sunrise the forces of Ursh were driven from the lands of Sino to their last strongholds where they licked their wounds and waited for the end that was not slow in it's arrival.

The people or Corax, freed for the fist time in time beyond living memory, looked towards the ordered and disciplined (except for Angron who had to be sedated) forces with wary eyes. They were not slaves now and would never bend a knee to a man again.

Corax, to his credit, did know that there was a world of difference between taking an nation and holding it. His people were brave and tenacious and could be vicious when provoked. But he knew deep down that they could not run a nation and all would soon descend into anarchy at best and re-enslavement or death at worse.

When the Warlord strode across the quietened field of victory towards the Stormcrow Corax could see in his eyes that it was one man greeting another as an equal, brothers in battle and free men.

Corax knew he would need to use what temporary authority he had as leader of a victorious rebellion to direct his people into a cohesive whole now that the immediate threat was removed and the Warlord knew that they were distrustful of outsiders and wouldn't take kindly to direct orders. A compromise was quickly reached. The most competent seeming of Corax's people would be given positions of authority in the newly freed nation but would also be provided with advisors and assistants from the newly formalized Administratum on loan for as long as they were wanted.

It was not long after that the weathered man that was Corax witnessed the final and lasting death of the Ursh and ever afterwards was he disappointed that he didn't get to deal the killing blow.

As Old Earth was brought to a new golden age the now Steward's eye turned upward to the inky black. To the far places of Luna and Mars and the Jovians and further, so very much further.

He knew he would need men he could trust in both loyalty and competence. People to act in his stead. Of these twenty most gifted and proven individuals Corax was one. When it came to covertly setting traps and ambushes he had no equal. Sadly he was well beyond the age when super soldier treatments become a viable possibility to say nothing of the two prosthetic lungs Imperium loyal tech-adepts had gifted him to undo the effects of thirty years of toxic fume inhalation in his old job. He did receive some discrete cybernetic enhancements and longevity treatments but nothing that wouldn't allow him to pass as human.

The skills he had learned and instilled in his new legion were of great use in the Unification of Sol. One of the earliest and most charictaristic victoris was when the dissidents breaking away after the Magi of Mars pledged alliance to the Empty Throne swiftly found themselves making considerable compromises as their air recycles all spontaneously exploded. Ever a man of the people Corax would always choose the path of least collateral damage over expediency or personal safety.

As the Unification of Sol turned into the Great Crusade Primarch Corax found that there were all too many kindred souls enslaved on distant worlds to terrible masters, some human and some xeno and some hideous beyond categorization.

Although the Raven Guard did posses Astartes soldiers (favoring a more refined version of the earlier model rather than the latter models) they were only typically used for the killing blow. The bulk of the Legion was mere mortal men who were far more adept at cover tagging of targets and walking among the downtrodden masses unobserved. When the Space Marines were called in and the fireworks went off the action was intense, devastating and brief. Quick decapitations with little mess were what his legionaries prided themselves in and it served them well. The people of the worlds they liberated loved them. The Men of Earth, that legendary birth world of humanity, had come back to save them and it was joyful.

But of Corax no rest was had in celebration or revelry. If his victories had taught him one thing it was that they were necessary and they hadn't run out of worlds to free. There would be no rest till they reached the edge of the galaxy and all the worlds in between.

The Raven Guard in their way operated in a manner mirror to that of the Night Lords in those hopeful days of the Great Crusade. The Night Lords would terrorize and scatter and slaughter but leave the technology and architecture of a world intact in preparation for a killing blow, the Imperium had no shortage of people and a replacement population could always be brought in. The Raven Guard preferred to destroy infrastructure but spare those who knew how to repair and maintain it in preparation for the final strike with the certainty that expertise could not be easily replaced. The Raven Guard argued that the entire endeavour of the Great Crusade was to save humanity, not slaughter it. The Night Lords agreed but saw no point is loosing sleep over the loss of individual humans sacrificed for the good of the whole.

Both rival primarchs despised one another, both raised good points, both were most effective when fighting in concert with a more direct Legion or similar fighting force and neither were openly brought to heel by the Steward because both were undeniably effective. Twice, in the days of the Great Crusade, the Crow and the Haunter came to blows although their Legions never went to war against each other. Barely.

When the Beast arose among the orks and the Great Crusade ran into it's equal and opposite the nature of the Raven Guard changed. Just as the Night Haunters were occasionally called in, to their disgust, to protect refugee convoys so were the Raven Guard called in to euthanize populations contaminated irreparably. To say that Corax found these orders distasteful would be a gross understatement. Out of all the Primarchs it was Corax who was first to outright disobey a direct order from the Steward. He would not bring nuclear fire down upon a civilian target. He and his men would not abandon their principles, not even in the face of annihilation.

It was upon the fate of the once thriving cultural hub that was the planet Azoth that the Raven Guard made their stand. The world was infected but they believed, they knew in their heart of hearts, that it could be saved. The force to retake it was led by the Stormcrow himself who needed to show the Steward that no such drastic steps needed ever to be taken.

Upon that world something in the heart of Corax died at what he saw. At the barbarity and the debauchery and the unholy violations he could never of dreamed of, not even the most depraved Despot of the Urshi could have dreamed of. ██████████████████████████████Data Expunged. -][- . Hydra Dominatus.████████████████████████.

Never again, the Stormcrow vowed, never again would he inflict such cruelty for the sake of human pity and the bleeding conscience of one old man. Indeed the primarch did feel old and in some way untouchable by rejuveneant treatments did look it now more than ever. Azoth was sterilized with atomic fire, a monument to all that should be reviled.

For the sense of well being that it cost one general the Imperium did at least learn of the Chaos Eldar earlier than they otherwise might have. Despite his disobedience Corax faced no censure from the Steward for showing pity and sorrow in his work, if he had shown joy then maybe things would have gone rather differently for him but the Steward would not punish a man for being human.

For the most part the Raven Guard served in the War of the Beast with great valor an uncommon cunning striking far harder than their numbers would suggest. Their greatest ally, they would claim in later years, was the orkish nature to infighting when their leaders were removed. Whole sub-WAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!s would grind to a halt as Nob after Warboss was subject to fatal ambush and inhumanly precise assassinations. Purely against the orks it is possible that the Raven Guard had no equal.

But it was not purely against the orks. Children of Chaos were abroad and of them the Raven Guard could not out maneuver readily. The forces of the dark gods reaped a heavy toll as hunts were turned inside out and the weakness of using so many mere mortal men was exposed. Astartes, it was often claimed, knew no fear, but baseline humanity did and that played right into the hands of the Croneworlders.

It is unknown how many of these sworn to service under Corax fell. Many who venerate the Stormcrow Primarch would claim that none did but they are blined by pride. The numbers are hard to tell in a legion that so loves the shadows and when they struck it was from a direction those in command did not see coming and so the wounds were felt all the deeper. Exact numbers may never be known beyond "too many".

Perhaps it was having to deal with these traitors, perhaps it was getting mired in a war of attrition against the orks or out outmaneuvered buy the fallen eldar or maybe some combination of all three but Corax and all save a token force of his vanguard, like his old rival, was not on Old Earth when Sanguinius died and the great Beast was slaughtered. Some blamed him but none so much as he himself did.

The wars of reconquest and the rebuilding of the Imperium was not a war that the Raven Guard were well sited for. Their primary means of warfare was one of carefully stalked targets and swift simultaneous executions. The reconquest of the Imperium with it's muddied waters and sliding scales of loyalty was something they found difficult to adapt to and in the years that followed they lost nearly as many as they did to the Beast's predations.

By the time the Imperium was stabilized and looking even anything like it had once done the Raven Guard was a shattered remnant of it's former glory and it's primarch was almost broken. Corax had seen too much he held dear despoiled, to many dreams crushed. The Steward tried to comfort him but his kind words fell upon deaf ears. In Corax's mind the Great Crusade, the greatest accomplishment of the human species, had failed and he had maybe played no small part in that failing.

To his credit he never let his sorrows interfere with his work. The Raven Guard was built up far more modestly in scale and in the place of a Legion a hundred Chapters were built in the centuries that followed. By the time that the last of the first commissioned chapters was declared ready for duty Corax was an old withered man. His early life had been hard and he had started on the rejuvenants relatively late in life and it showed.

Of Corax's ultimate fate the truth is unknown. He would, in those ancient times, travel between the newly minted chapters to inspect and advise and occasionally accompany on missions but like always he made few aware of his movements and would often drop in unannounced and leave abruptly. Which chapter he last visited is up for debate as many records are contradictory at best and nonsensical at worse but all is known is that one day he just vanished.

Some hold out hope, even unto the Dark Millennium, that the Raven King will return.

</div>
</div>

== Alpharius & Omegon ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">''''' The Beginning and the End: '''''

"I am the Alpha and Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End." these are the last known records of the primarchs "Alpharius and Omegon". All documents and records pertaining to these individuals were deleted by Inquisition, those that were thought to be associated with the primarchs disappeared and all that was left was a parchment with those words and a small wax stamp beneath depicting the Lernaean hydra of old terran mythology. Now the only way to learn about the individuals and their legacy is by eyewitness accounts and rumours that have slipped beneath the inquisitions watchful gaze.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

One eyewitness report tells of two figures clad in dark robes standing next to the Warlord and his war council, they describe that the figures were much shorter than the other in the council.

It is unknown if these are the individuals known as Alpharius and Omegon because other reports say that they were tall men fighting battles and cutting down enemies. It is now even known if they are two persons and might in fact be one individual. This comes from a witness that said to have met a man dressed in the clothes of a highly revered official that presented himself as "Alpharius Omegon". All that is known that there was at one point one or more individuals called Alpharius and Omegon. But what is known is that he or they had a large part in the counterintelligence and espionage of the unification war. They were said to be masters of infiltration and supposedly had a deep network of agents and assassins so that the mysterious individuals could act at multiple places at once. This network is thought to become what we now know as the Inquisition.

"Cut off one head and two shall take it’s place."<br>
-Last words spoken from a prisoner before committing suicide.

A popular theory about the origins of the mysterious individuals, is that they were the members of the even less known ██████████ that were a secret society of old terra. It’s thought that that they joined the warlord after seeing the potential power that they could have they sent their most loyal and brightest two members to help the Warlord in his endeavours.

"You search the darkness, while we hide in the light. You see not the serpent lying in wait, you see only a brother. We witnessed your beginning and we will be your end."<br>
-Said to be whispered to an Imperial official before her assassination.

Another theory is that they originate from ███ ████ a group of Xenos set on destroying the "primordial annihilator" and thus sent their best human operatives to aid the Warlord and his future plans.

"Cut the head off the snake and the body will die shortly after"
-thought to be a direct quote from either Alpharius or Omegon.

Alpharius and Omegon are thought to be major members in the creation of the inquisition and that after the alliance with the eldar their influence has only increased. Acting as puppet masters, they are thought to be behind both the starting of wars and the ending of them, doing as they see fit for the better of the imperium.

It was around ████ that all records and documents of Alpharius and Omegon were deleted. Theories say that they had died and that their successors order the purge of information surrounding the primarchs so that their legacy and actions can be forgotten. Other theories say that the warlord declared them traitors and therefore got rid of all evidence of their existence.

But yet to this day there are whispers about legions of men and women walking among us, executing the orders of their puppets masters, killing the corrupt, eliminating the foe from the inside and bearing the brand of the hydra

"Hydra Dominatus"<br>
-Alpharius and Omegon, the Beginning and the End

</div>
</div>

[[Category:Nobledark Imperium]]

Nobledark Imperium Imperial Forces

2020-11-26T13:44:14Z

2001:8003:D01A:2500:78E3:F6BA:DADE:20D4: /* Beastmen and Ogryn */

'''This page is part of the Nobledark Imperium, a fan re-working of the Warhammer 40,000 Universe. See the [[Nobledark Imperium|Nobledark Imperium Introduction]] and [[Nobledark Imperium|Main Page]] for more information on the alternate universe'''

TO DO:
*Finish arguments over how the military is structured
== Imperial Guard ==

=== Standard Imperial Tactics ===

The standard Imperial infantry composition is to field a battalion of Imperial Guardsmen combined with a detachment of Eldar Guardians as auxiliaries. Unlike previous mixed-forces regiments throughout galactic history, this arrangement tends to work rather well, as unlike those previous combined regiments both sides feel fairly safe that the other side isn't going to shoot them in the back. Both groups can and do fight on their own, but work spectacularly together. In theory, the regiment structure works by Imperial Guard forces taking the brunt of the enemy fire and the Eldar acting as flankers. In practice, the more fragile but heavier-hitting Eldar like this arrangement because it means they won't be the primary targets of enemy fire, whereas the Imperial Guard like this arrangement because even though they start out taking brunt of the blow the Eldar auxiliaries will tear through enemy forces fast enough that they never become the targets of focus fire. As with everything in the Imperium, this varies from world to world. Specialist forces like Catachans, Kriegers, Harlequins, or Aspect Warriors function differently, and follow their own rules.

If there is any weakness to this arrangement, it's that Eldar and humans tend to only take orders from their respective species, which causes there to be two people in charge of a given regiment. If the two commanders can't come to an agreement, the army sputters, which can lead to one or the other going in alone.

After the Tau Empire was absorbed into the Imperium, Imperial commanders were eager to try to incorporate Tau Fire Warriors into this formation. The Imperium had seen how effective the Tau were at long-ranged combat, and saw great potential in their ability. In theory, the idea was to have a third group of Tau Fire Warriors providing long-range support fire from behind the Guardsman infantry, and if all worked as planned then half of the enemy army wouldn’t even be able to show up to the battle in the first place. In practice, however, this did not work for several reasons. First, the Tau were essentially a combined-arms force already (save for close combat), and didn’t appreciate being shoehorned into a long-range only role, even if they were talented at it. Secondly, much like Eldar and humans, Tau like to be commanded by Tau, so in an Eldar-Tau-human battalion you end up having three arguing commanders instead of just two. Third, and perhaps most importantly, Eldar and humans have worked together long enough to trust that one is not going to shoot the other in the back. This is not true of the Tau, especially given their attitude towards the Imperium for much of their history. When you factor in that in this arrangement the Tau are supposed to be in the back of the formation, and thus in the perfect position to potentially shoot their allies in the back, the other soldiers start to get paranoid and morale drops. Eventually, it was decided to keep Tau divisions as their own separate forces, called in especially for any enemy that has started to work out a viable counter, however soft, to the traditional Guardian & Guard one-two.

Eldar opinions on human weapons, like just about everything else in the Imperium, vary from Craftworld to Craftworld. Craftworlds like Alaitoc would sneer if offered human weapon as a sidearm, whereas Ulthwé Eldar would take two in addition to their own weapon and then ask if you have any more. Most Eldar see human weapons like modern soldiers do knives; crude, simple, and inelegant compared to their primary weapon, but if you're stuck in the trenches in a do-or-die moment it's better to have the other guy get shot/stabbed rather than you. Therefore, Eldar that use human weapons use them as a sidearm or last resort weapon, if at all. It helps that many human-made weapons are based on STC designs, and therefore easily replaceable and about as fragile as a brick (being designed for maximum durability), in contrast to the more delicate and precision-made (though still pretty tough) weapons of the Eldar. Therefore, an Eldar can be less careful with their sidearm and make sure their primary weapon is functioning at maximum efficiency.

=== Imperial Infantry Command Structure ===

As the Imperial Guard does not prescribe specific organizational arrangements for anything below battalion level, the vastly different cultures and traditions that exist across the Imperium change the size of the smaller units as they see fit. Terra does set minimum sizes on how large units must be before the unit can be recognized as aforementioned self-declared units by the wider Imperial Guard, however.

The lowest level of the Imperial Guard is the squad size. Guardsmen often operate in pairs for specialized tasks to keep confusion as low as possible between other in the same squad. The smallest recognized size for these squads is 10 soldiers per squad, further broken into 5 pairs, although a command squad might only have 6 men. At least 4 squads form a platoon, with one squad being a command squad, bringing the total number of men in platoon to at least 36 Guardsmen. Some battalions, like the Kriegers, assign 7 squads to a platoon, bringing their platoon size to 76 Guardsmen.

Eldar squads attached to Guardsman platoons come in the smallest size of 5 Eldar per squad, but their size can be bigger depending on their world of origin. Notably, Maiden world Eldar tends to be organized into larger sizes as they experience more attacks on their homes compared to the Craftworlds.

For the platoons to form into a company there must be at least 4 platoons with a company command squad, thus bringing the number to at least 150 men. Again, these numbers vary; Cadian Shock Troops often deploy around 300 per company, whereas the Kriegers use 10 platoons per company then adding the Company HQ with at least 1 Grenadier squad totalling in at least 704 Guardsmen, not counting transports which they are often deployed with.

The smallest size battalion uses at least 2 companies and battalion HQ before being deployed, bringing the numbers to 306 Guardsmen per battalion. The expected regiment holds at least 3 battalions and 1 support platoon, which have 7 squads and 1 HQ, totalling to 1000 men. More often than not, regiments like the Vostroyans use 3 infantry battalions and 2 standardized (organized not by 7 squad and HQ but like the infantry 3 squad with 1 HQ) support battalions coming up to 1,536 men. The Krieger regiments far exceed these expectations by using 4 standardized support battalions and 6 infantry battalions, boosting their numbers to 14,146 men including the regimental HQ.

The corps used to garrison a world often use the smallest size, with only 5 regiments totalling to at least 5,000 Guardsmen, and these troops are used more to raise PDF than to actually keep the peace. If there are still insurgents who disrupt the peace and do not accept the Imperial Truth, these garrison corps can double or triple in regiments. This puts the tripled corps from at least a small 15,000 to a gigantic 200,000 Guardsmen. The PDF used to aid the garrison corps may number from around a low 400,000 up to millions at a time on heavily populated planets like on hive worlds.

In more peaceful systems, the lax Guardsmen armies deployed to ‘guard’ the place would only be using the tinniest size, thus only have 20,000 on-paper Guardsmen at any one time, with a majority of the corps in reserve. In the more active systems, particularly garrisoning systems not too far from a front, the numbers would go up to around 40,000 to 60,000 troops at any given time. When the Imperial Guard does deploy an army to the frontline the commanders always request at least 100,000 soldiers for the more daring, but preferentially use 180,000 men if they are fortunate enough that they can requisition such numbers.

- Additional info in thread XI, including number of troops in each Segmentum. Actual number of troops never agreed upon, left here as placeholder.

=== Forces of the Imperial Guard ===

==== Cadian Shock Troopers ====

[[File:Cadian.jpg|300px|thumb|right|Typical Cadian combat uniform.]]

Most 'Cadian' Regiments are not, in fact, from Cadia, nor do they even have a drop of Cadian blood in them. “So why name them Cadian?” I hear you ask. The Cadians were one of the few who proved themselves in the Great Crusade as versatile and adaptable enough troops that the Imperial Army could deploy them on most fronts. The organizational structures and equipment used by the Cadians were introduced to many different worlds as the original Cadian regiments toured the modern Imperium and beyond in the Crusade Era. The 200 year expansion period saw the diverse traditions of regiments being used all over the galaxy, as newly integrated worlds threw their armed forces into joining the Imperial Army and subsequently be sent to the far-flung reaches of the Imperium. The War of the Beast saw almost all Cadian regiments be recalled to the defense of either Cadia or, if they were close enough, Terra itself. With the absence of many regiments from Ultima Segmentum and Segmentum Tempestus, the worlds in these places were forced to raise totally new regiments from scratch for either self-defense or as requisition to be deployed to the fronts.

At the time, many of the Imperial, Hive and Fortress worlds saw the effectiveness in Cadian regiments as they fought against or with the Cadians during the Great Crusade, and the industrial capability to manufacture standard Cadian equipment was already present on many Imperial worlds. Forge, Argi, and Feudal worlds, on the other hand, used the local traditions, organization, and equipment of their planetary elite troops to form their own Guardsmen regiments, as the Argi and Feudal worlds typically lacked the industry to produce and equip a Cadian regiment and the Forge worlds refused to form Cadian regiments, as these worlds dismissed the relative lack of artillery and armored vehicles characteristic of the Cadian doctrine, and formed the Skitarii armies instead.

The adoption of Cadian regiments on so many different worlds shows the versatility and efficiency of the Cadian doctrine. After the War of the Beast, the original Cadian regiments would be sent to refortify the Cadian Gate. Many of the displaced Cadian civilians would be reorganized into colonist groups, leaving their homeworld to settle the vast Imperium. The same adaptable traditions thus carried over to Cadian colonies and frontier worlds when they raised their own Cadian regiments.

Cadian infantry regiments from Cadia proper are known as “Cadian Shock Troops”, while off-world or imitation regiments are known as “Cadian Foot Troops”. Cadian Shock Troops would often have at least two detachments from other branches of the Imperial Guard; the 203rd Cadian Shock Troop, for example, has self-propelled heavy artillery and armored detachments. Cadian Foot Troops often don’t follow this rule and only deploy with one such detachment.

In a Cadian infantry regiment, a squad is made of 10 people that operate in 5 pairs. The sergeant keeps up morale and plans out tactics with the lieutenant, the latter of whom typically operates as a vox-caster, though these officers can also be equipped with melee weapons. A heavy weapons team is included to allow long range suppressive fire on the battlefield - usually with a heavy stubber. A medic works to keep the soldiers in fighting condition with the help of an underling that tags along into battles. The rest of the squad is made up of two pairs of weapon specialists, normally Lasgunners, rounding out the squad.

The sergeant is equipped with a chainsword and Laspistol for leading charges or CQC. Alternatively, the sergeant can be armed like the lieutenant, who is given a las-carbine for self-defense. The heavy weapons team normally uses an offensive heavy stubber that fires 12.7mm rounds or a lighter defensive stubber firing 7.92 rounds. One member of the heavy weapons team carries and fires the weapon, while the other member feeds ammo, spots targets, guards the gunner, and act as a makeshift bipod. Both members are also equipped with a Lasgun and a Laspistol. The medic fights with a Lasgun and heals with a medikit, which comes with medicinal drugs, chemicals, surgical tools, sedatives, injectors, bandages, and a medical cogitator which can detect almost every aliment known to man. To help the Medic is the underling, who carries extra supplies, guards the Medic, or helps in surgery, depending on the conditions. The weapon specialists mostly carry Lasguns, although one or two of the four might have flamers instead. These specialists can be armed with just about any weapon that can be held by two regular human arms, and some can also serve a dual role of vox-caster as well. The specialists act as either a flanking force while the heavy weapon team suppresses the enemy, or as the center line that lays down fire.

==== Fenrisian Line Regiments ====

Seeing the effectiveness of Cadian troops after encountering them in battle during the Great Crusade, Fenris adopted the Cadian Doctrine and deployed Cadian Foot Troops of their own to the front. Yet The War of the Beast changed the Fenrisians' outlook regarding the Cadian Doctrine; when faced with the Ork threat, several Cadian Foot Troops were entirely wiped out within the first week of the war due to the Fenrisians' lack of mortal manpower. The Death world bred heroes for the Space Wolves, not the infinite manpower required for regiments of Foot Troops. The Fenrisians abandoned the Cadian Doctrine after the war and switched to the Fusilier Doctrine that the famous Mordian, Praetorian, and Scintillan regiments used.

Sacrificing quantity for quality, the Fenrisians can always request Space Wolves regiments to merge with a Fenrisian Line Regiment, to devastating effect. The Flak Armor of the typical Fenrisian Line Guardsman uses extra metal plates compared to a Cadian's. Infantry under the Fusilier Doctrine would stand shoulder to shoulder, forming into lines facing the enemy before firing. The Fenrisian Line Regiments took this tactic and expanded it with the introduction of self-propelled artillery to provide mobile defense and keep up with infantry during attacks. In Fenrisian regiments officers are encouraged to outgun the enemy via volley fire, and if that fails just charge them. Fenrisian line infantry are better trained than Cadians in melee combat, with some even wielding swords into charges.

Fenrisian Line Regiments often differ in tactics depending on whether they come from one of the Fenrisian colony worlds or Fenris itself. Old World Fenrisians are more wild and less coordinated in their approach, and typically operate in 5-10 man squads for the best kill-to-loss ratio. New World Fenrisians are more ordered and coordinated, though they are still wilder than anyone outside your average Death Worlder. The two groups work best together, with New Worlder regiments holding the line and securing targets and Old Worlders scouting ahead and harrying supply lines.

==== Armageddon Outriders ====

[[File:Rock_rider.png|300px|thumb|left|Common 'uniform' of a biker scout for the Outriders.]]

Everybody knows the Steel Legion. Reflections of their world in microcosm. Steel and fire and ash; unstoppable waves of armor, Basilisk barrages like monsoon rains, choking clouds of lung-burning gas. Less well-known is the fact that there are two parts to the Steel Legion. The first and largest are the heavy mechanized infantry they are famous for. The second is the Outriders.

The Outriders are all crazy. The infantry regiments of the Steel Legion recruit from inside the hives — the factory and forge workers — but the Outriders recruit from outside the hives, and there are only two ways to make a living out there.

The first is prospecting and wildcat mining, delving deep into ancient and much-abused Ork-built structures with jury-rigged and second-hand equipment in search of veins of valuable materials. Everything from gold electrical circuits to adamantine armor plate. Most valuable of all is components of the old teleporter system. The Mechanicus has decided it wants planetary teleporters more than it hates Ork 'technology', and pays staggering sums for the smallest scraps. This description alone should tell you everything you need to know about how difficult and dangerous the job is.

The second is Ork hunting. The Administratum and PDF will pay good thrones for Ork skulls. Two for a squig, five for a grot, and starting at forty for an Ork, more for larger or special types like Weirdboys and Brainboys. Reimbursement is included for promethium spent burning the bodies, and the PDF doesn't check too hard to make sure you're not claiming driving-around promethium as Ork-burning expense.

Outrider legends tell of Billy-Joe Hammerlord, who drove through an entire warband on his bike to take the head of a Warboss and earned enough to retire. The story grows wilder and more fantastic every retelling, thus by now the old stories claim the warband stretched from one horizon to the other, the Warboss carving paths through the rubble for his army to march through just by dragging his axe along the ground behind him, and Billy-Joe himself earned enough to buy himself a fleet, became a Rogue Trader, and went on adventures with Prince Yriel.

Officially, all the Orks on Armageddon are Feral. Most places, Feral means stone axes and weird squigs. But this is Armageddon. The world still remembers in her bones when she strode among the stars and slapped aside Battlefleet Solar like so many childrens' toys. A lot of the Orks are just waving around scrap-metal axes. On the other hand, depending on what armories they've broken into, they might be tossing around vortex bombs.

The point is that Outriders are all crazy. In some ways they sort of resemble Orks themselves. They move around in a wide assortment of walkers, fat-tire buggies, and motorbikes, made of scrap metal and spare parts. Most of these vehicles may have started life on an assembly line in a Mechanicus factory, but after generations of repairs and modifications nothing of the original vehicle can be found. Most of them are old - a good vehicle is a heirloom, passed down from father to son, with each generation adding a bit more to it. They stick spikes on the vehicles and stick Ork skulls on the spikes, and judge each other by how skull-laden their bosspoles are. When an Ork warband and an Outrider clan are fighting, it sometimes gets hard to tell which is which.

Outriders prefer las-weapons over slug, so there is that.

A common rite of passage among the Outriders is for the father to cripple an Ork with shots to its limbs, then for son finish it off with a knife. This marks the transition from childhood into adolescence. True manhood is often not considered to begin until the son repeats the ritual as the father. It is important not just to kill Orks, but to ensure that Ork-killing will continue into the far future.

The point is that Outriders are all crazy, but they are Ork-killing crazy so they make excellent candidates for the Imperial Guard. Sometimes entire clans get recruited into their own regiments. Sometimes restless young men come in on their own to the recruiting office and get incorporated into the regular Steel Legions as scouts and cavalry. Most of the time they insist on bringing their own vehicles, and most of the time the Munitorum lets them, though they insist that the Outriders repair their vehicles with standard issue parts. Since most of the time their vehicles are kitbashes of Sentinels and Chimeras, this is usually not too difficult.

For all their skill and lunatic courage, the Outriders are not famous for the good and simple reason that there just aren't as many of them as the normal Steel Legions. Armageddon outside the hive walls does not support high population densities. Thus, they just fade into the background as 'specialized auxiliaries' of the Steel Legion. But those who have met them have given rise to a proverb: “Armageddon has many faces, and all of them are lethal."

==== Elysian Drop Troopers ====

Elysium does, in fact, produce forces for the Guard beyond its famous Drop Regiments. There are Elysian tank regiments, Elysian artillery regiments, Elysian footslogger regiments. They are all, universally, nursing a mild grudge against the universe in general and the Drop Regiments in particular for the way everyone is continually surprised by their existence.

"I thought Elysium did, you know, drop troops." "FUCK YOU."

But nobody cares about them. [muffled FUCK YOU in the distance] Let's talk about the Drop Regiments.

The Elysian Drop Regiments are somewhat unique in the Imperial Guard for being descended from a naval boarding force. Elysium was, and is, a major trade hub in a sector unfortunately plagued with human pirates, Ork Freebootas, and a superfluity of places for them to hide. As a result, Elysium committed much of its PDF force to anti-piracy operations, stationing regiments on merchant vessels and escort ships for boarding and counter-boarding operations.

No war can be won with defense alone, however, and the Elysian PDF regiments assigned to anti-pirate duty began experimenting with methods of striking at the pirates in their lairs. Thus the modern Drop Regiments began to take shape. The first attempts were amateurish and improvised; in some cases regiments used civilian shuttles and Void Maneuvering Packs instead of proper assault ships and grav-chutes. Still, a couple of victories proved the concept worthy of further development, and Elysian high command invested in additional training and equipment.

The first battles of the Drop Regiments were void-borne affairs, fought in microgravity in and around hidden asteroid bases. As more and more pirate bases were expunged, however, they were forced to track down their opponents in ever more diverse locales, from fairly conventional planets to burning Mercurial environments to floating gas-giant bases. But, in the end, it was mostly done. The pirates would never be fully expunged from the sector — fucking Orks — but it was safer than it had ever been before. Trade was flourishing, new worlds were being colonized, and the Elysian PDF found itself somewhat underemployed. So, when the next Founding came around, the course of action was obvious.

The modern Elysian Drop Regiments distinguish themselves from the usual run of air cavalry in three ways.

First, they continue to train for operation in a very wide variety of environments: zero-g and vacuum, high gravity, extreme temperatures, toxic atmospheres, they have the tools and training to operate in them all. Most drop regiments only train to operate within the usual 'human-habitable' range of environments, giving the Elysians a distinct niche and edge.

Second, they have very good relations with the Imperial Navy due to their past as, essentially, naval armsmen specialising in hunting pirates. Thus, they have an easier time securing air and orbital support, and have the doctrine and training to make the maximum use of it. They are comfortable with inter-service cooperation in a way few regiments are. This includes good relationships with the Void Wolves, with joint training exercises being commonplace.

Third, general superiority of training and equipment. The Drop Regiments have become a point of planetary pride, and as a prosperous trading hub Elysium can afford to ensure they are equipped and trained to the highest standards. And with far more volunteers than they can accept, the training academies can accept only the best recruits.

Combined, this results in the Drop Regiments being frequently deployed to the stranger battlefields of the Imperium, executing their distinctive lightning strikes in environments an unprepared human could not even hope to survive in, much less fight in.

==== Lucifer Blacks ====

Humans in general have a tendency to survive in places where they aren’t intended to go. Such is the case of the Lucifer Blacks, one of the original regiments of the Old Hundred, the original one hundred regiments that were not disbanded at the end of the Unification Wars and would serve as the basis for the Imperial Army. The Lucifer Blacks were one of the last people on Old Earth to be discovered by the outside world, living deep underwater in pre-Strife underwater habitats at the bottom of Old Earth’s Great Ocean (also known as the Pacific Ocean) in a region controlled by the Pan-Pacific Empire. It is thought that these habitats were originally meant as simple residential habitats or research stations during the Dark Age of Technology. By the time of the Age of Strife, however, the Lucifer Blacks were cut off from the rest of the world until their rediscovery by the horrendous contraptions of the Pan-Pacific Empire. This lifestyle in the inky darkness, surviving off of mesopelagic fish and geothermal power from hydrothermal vents, is what gave the regiment their name.

Living underwater in an environment where literally one wrong seal could mean the difference between life and death tended to foster an extremely calm and measured attitude in people. To the Lucifer Blacks, a crisis was the absolute worst time to panic, as panic is what led to rash decisions and rash decisions are what get you killed. This led the regiment to be infamously known for their ability to be calm and clear-thinking under fire, as well as a very dark and (ironically) dry sense of humor. Additionally, living nearly 4000 meters below sea level in conditions where most light was artificial tended to make one very good at fighting in the dark. The Lucifer Blacks often used this to their advantage in battle, using smoke grenades and other implements to approximate the low-light conditions in which they had the advantage over their foes.

However, at the same time the Lucifer Blacks were not the most numerous people. When one lives in such a hostile, enclosed environment, the primary constraint on population size was not food or materials, but simply living space due to the number of habs present. When the Lucifer Blacks were first discovered and subjugated by Narthan Dume, Dume decided that one of the best ways to use the highly disciplined — but not very numerous — Lucifer Blacks were as elite shock troops. The calm, detached nature of the Lucifer Blacks in high-stress combat situations made them especially hard to break. The fact that the Lucifer Blacks preferred to fight in the hermetically sealed all-black bodysuits they typically wore for extra-habitat activities only added to their intimidation factor.

When the Pan-Pacific Empire fell and the tyranny of Narthan Dume finally toppled, the Lucifer Blacks were one of the first regiments of the Pan-Pacific Empire to pledge their loyalty to the Warlord. The Warlord was somewhat suspicious of the Lucifer Blacks at first, but as with the Assassins of the Salt Wastes he wasn’t fool enough to deny himself potentially useful resources. And the Lucifer Blacks more than delivered on their promises of loyalty, even serving in a secondary role alongside the Night Lords during the Vhnori Resurgence as the two fought against the attempted resurgence of the Pan-Pacific Empire.

Eventually, in return for their exemplary service, the Warlord — now the Steward — granted the Lucifer Blacks settlement rights on extrasolar worlds. The Lucifer Blacks mostly chose to settle on Ocean Worlds that approximated their old home. Even today, many people on Ocean Worlds have distant Lucifer Black Ancestry. As part of the Old Hundred, the Lucifer Blacks also still exist on Earth, living in the same oceanic trenches as their forefathers, though ten thousand years of gentrification and integration into Old Earth’s infrastructure mean that the modern Lucifer Blacks have lost a lot of their original culture and aren’t as incredibly stoic and tough-as-nails as their forefathers. Imperial nobles often like to have Lucifer Black bodyguards when they can’t get someone like a member of Terra’s Children, though in reality having a Lucifer Black bodyguard usually amounts to little more than a display of prestige.

==== Ohmsworld Regiments ====

===== The 12th Ohmsworld Armored Regiment =====

The 12th Ohmsworld was in the final stages of being reconstituted when the insurrection began, with the veterans of previous Ohmsworld regiments and even a junior Ulthwe Farseer combining their efforts to ready the troops. As such, it was not only at full strength when the Duke announced his secession, it also had expert — if not exceptional — leadership. With aid from the Skitarii, the 12th led the charge into Ohmsworld's primary hive and quickly overwhelmed the Ducal Guards, many of whom were Ohmsworld veterans themselves and subsequently defected to the Imperial forces. More importantly, they managed to seize the Guards' stock of Chimeras, giving Ohmsworld a powerful mobile army. With the easing of pressure on Ohmsworld as the Imperium advances, the 12th has even begun contemplating direct offensive actions, as opposed to the firefighting they had done before. Whether this leads them to glorious victory or fatally overextends their already undersupplied lines, only time will tell.

Home World: Hive World <br>
Commanding Officer: [[Nobledark_Imperium_Notes#Tabletop_Crunch|Psyker]] (Farseer Eldian Sylandriel, provisional/brevet Colonel) <br>
Regiment Type: Mechanised Infantry <br>
Doctrines: Survivalists: Ash Wastes, Scavengers* <br>
Regimental Drawbacks: Poorly Provisioned <br>

Characteristic Modifiers: <br>
Starting Aptitudes: +6 Agility <br>
Starting Talents: Warp Sense, Paranoia, Rapid Reload <br>
Starting Skills: Common Lore: Imperium, Deceive, Linguistics: Low Gothic, Psyniscience, Forbidden Lore: Psykers, Operate: Surface <br>
Starting Aptitude: Agility <br>
Tutelage of Mars (replaces Accustomed to Crowds): The Mechanicus has taken a great deal of interest in Ohmsworld's archaeotech, so while Mars would never officially sanction it, the local techpriests have given the people of Ohmsworld some basic training in technological mysteries to aid them in maintenance. Ohmsworld troopers may offer Aid in Tech-Use tests as if they were trained in Tech-Use, though this bonus goes away if they actually become Trained in Tech-Use. Those who ARE trained in Tech-Use gain +10 to all Tech-Use tests that involve respiratory or air filtration equipment... <br>
Hivebound: Hive worlders seldom endure the horrors of the open sky or suffer the indignities of the great outdoors. Whilst outside of an enclosed or artificial environment (such as a hive city, voidship or similar), they suffer a –10 penalty to all Survival Tests, due to their continued unfamiliarity with such places.
Wounds: Characters from this regiment reduce their starting Wounds by 1. <br>
Standard Kit: Universal Standard Kit, one M36 Lasgun and four charge packs per PC, one suit of flak armour per PC, two frag and two krak grenades per PC, 1 Chimera Transport per Squad, one respirator per PC, one micro-bead per PC, one survival suit per PC, one auspex per Squad <br>
Favoured Weapons: Autocannon, grenade launcher <br>

*Special note: Everyone on Ohmsworld knows that scavenging is necessary; as such, scavenging is explicitly allowed by Guard and Munitorum authorities. However, regiments are also under orders to deposit all scavenged materiel into a collective equipment pool; hoarding is very much frowned upon. This doesn't mechanically alter the Scavengers Doctrine, just modify its ingame usage.

===== The 3rd Special Defence Regiment =====

As with all things on Ohmsworld, the archaeotech comes first, and even the most vicious assaults often devolves into hand-to-hand combat as all sides struggle desperately to avoid damaging the precious filtration systems. As such, most close-combat specialists present during the rebellion had been consolidated into solely defensive forces. These specialists ranged from press-ganged hivers, to the few Arbites who had survived the Duke's initial purge, to any and all Ogryn on the planet, and — in the case of the 3rd Special Defence Regiment — even maintenance workers skilled at handling heavy tools. Indeed, the leader of the increasingly diverse regiment is herself an Ogryn Bone'ead; 'Boss Foreman' Mogda Gruk took to her implants exceptionally well, with her intelligence even rating slightly above Imperial average. Though astoundingly ugly even by Ogryn standards she is well-loved by the troopers under her command, especially since she seems little changed from her days as foreman for her hive's Ogryn workforce.

Home World: Hive World <br>
Commanding Officer: Maverick (Brevet Colonel Mogda Gruk) <br>
Regiment Type: Siege Regiment <br>
Doctrines: Hardened Fighters, Close Order Drill <br>
Regimental Drawbacks: Poorly Provisioned <br>

Characteristic Modifiers: <br>
Starting Aptitudes: +3 Agility, +3 Perception, +3 Toughness, +2 Weapon Skill, -3 Intelligence <br>
Starting Talents: Paranoia, Resistance: Fear, Street Fighting, Combat Formation, Nerves of Steel <br>
Starting Skills: Common Lore: Imperium, Deceive, Linguistics: Low Gothic, Tech-Use <br>
Starting Aptitude: None <br>
Tutelage of Mars (replaces Accustomed to Crowds): The Maechanicus has taken a great deal of interest in Ohmsworld's archaeotech, and while Mars would never officially sanction it, the local techpriests have given the people of Ohmsworld some basic training in technological mysteries to aid them in maintenance. Ohmsworld troopers may offer Aid in Tech-Use tests as if they were trained in Tech-Use, though this bonus goes away if they actually become Trained in Tech-Use. However, those who ARE trained in Tech-Use gain a +10 bonus to all Tech-Use tests that involve respiratory or air filtration equipment... <br>
Hivebound: Hive worlders seldom endure the horrors of the open sky or suffer the indignities of the great outdoors. Whilst outside of an enclosed or artificial environment (such as a hive city, voidship or similar), they suffer a –10 penalty to all Survival Tests, due to their continued unfamiliarity with such places. <br>
Wounds: Characters from this regiment reduce their starting Wounds by 1. <br>
Standard Kit: Universal Standard Kit, one combat shotgun with a mono bayonet and 8 shotgun magazines per PC, one suit of flak armour per PC, one respirator per PC, four empty sandbags and one entrenching tool per PC, two frag grenades and two photon flash grenades per PC, one auspex per Squad, one micro bead per PC <br>
Favoured Weapons: Heavy flamer, flamer (as delicate as the filters are, they are surprisingly heat-resistant)

===== Century Omega 7-13 =====

When the Duke announced his secession, the Mechanicus authorities on Ohmsworld immediately decided to move in support of the Imperium — not out of any real love for the Imperium proper, but out of fear that the resources they needed for further research would be cut off. Under most circumstances, they wouldn't even have gone that far — after all, no sane man would cross the Mechanicus. Problem was, the Duke was anything but sane; during secret negotiations between Mars' representatives and the Duke, the latter made it clear that he would brook no opposition nor equal (that Mars would be his superior never seemed to cross his mind). The fact that many hereteks had thrown in their lot with the Duke in exchange for independence and freedom of work only hardened the opinions of Ohmsworld's Mechanicus against them.

Even so, their insurrection was costly, with the already small Skitarii centuries being further depleted to the point where they were eventually consolidated into a single unit. Century Omega 7-13 now functions as a semi-independent organization within Ohmsworld's military; in general, the Magi's goals tend to align with Ohsmworld's, but sometimes they send Omega 7-13 detachments on independent missions, their actual agenda known only to the senior adepts of Mars.

Home World: Lathe Worlds <br>
Commanding Officer: Phlegmatic (Centurion/Magos Rho-1) <br>
Regiment Type: Grenadiers <br>
Doctrines: Cyber-Enhanced, Iron Discipline <br>
Regimental Drawbacks: The Few <br>

Characteristic Modifiers: +3 Intelligence, +3 Ballistic Skill, +3 Toughness <br>
Starting Talents: Bombardier <br>
Starting Skills: Tech-use (Trained), Common Lore: AdMech, Common Lore: Tech, Linguistics: Low Gothic, Linguistics: Techno-Lingua, Logic, Common Lore: Imperial Guard, Common Lore: War <br>
Starting Aptitudes: Willpower <br>
Tutelage of Mars (replaces Isolated by Machines): Gain a +10 bonus to all Tech-Use tests that involve respiratory or air filtration equipment...<br>
The True Flesh: Lathe World characters possess the Mechanicus Implants Trait. In addition, the potentia coil is specifically enhanced to meet the needs of integrated weapons.<br>
Soldiers of the Omnissiah: This regiment cannot include Support Specialists used in other Guard regiments; the Mixed Regiment rules must be used in those cases. Guardsmen from these regiments always count as Techpriests for purposes of prerequisites, regardless of current Speciality or Advanced Speciality.
Wounds: Characters from this regiment generate Wounds normally.<br>
Standard Kit: Universal Standard Kit, one Lathe lasrifle with an attached auxiliary grenade launcher weapon upgrade per PC, three krak and two frag grenades per PC, one suit of light carapace armour per Player Character, one deadspace earpiece per PC, one combi-tool per PC, two grenade launchers per Squad, Common bionic respiratory system, bionic heart<br>
Favoured Weapons: Integrated Weapons<br>

===Doctrines of the Imperial Guard===
In addition to the famed Cadian Doctrine, many regiments have also developed their own unique methods of fighting which have then spread throughout the Imperium. While this is hardly an exhaustive list, it provides a decent look into the sheer diversity of the Guard.

====Infiltration Doctrine====

Infiltration doctrine is a light infantry doctrine focused on stealth and mobility. It omits vehicles and heavy artillery from the TO&E almost entirely, relying on crew-served weapons for heavy firepower, which can be dismantled and carried by an infantry squad. On the offence, infiltration regiments use their stealth and lightweight equipment to close with enemy formations undetected and from unexpected directions; once all elements are in position, they launch an overwhelming surprise attack from close range, using their crew-served weapons and snipers to suppress the enemy and ensure they cannot mount an organized defence. On the defense, they use the same qualities for hit-and-run raids, whittling down the enemy and melting away into the night when the enemy tries to bring their firepower to bear.

Infiltration regiments are usually equipped with specialized equipment such as camo-cloaks and night-vision goggles, but these are less important than how the regiment is trained. The nature of their operations require that officers and NCOs be trained to a higher standard of independence than normal, as units as small as squads will often be trusted to maneuver individually in support of the overall objective. This usually cultivates a sense of being elite; combined with the looser chains of command infiltration regiments usually operate with, other regiments usually consider them insubordinate and undisciplined.

In combat, infiltration regiments are used to secure and move through terrain that mechanized regiments cannot. They are also used in combined-arms strategies to scout out enemy positions, assassinate officers, and destroy enemy strongpoints in advance of the main armored thrust. Infiltration regiments also maintain their effectiveness easier in the face of enemy air and orbital superiority thanks to their ability to fight while remaining hidden and dispersed. Finally, infiltration doctrines are popular among PDF forces incapable of maintaining large mechanized armies. As powerful as they are within their specialty, however, their lack of vehicles and artillery makes them perform poorly outside of it.

====Armageddon Doctrine====

Armageddon doctrine is a maneuver- and terrain-focused mechanized infantry doctrine. Developed by the Steel Legion in their endless battles against the Orks, Armageddon doctrine TO&E is extremely vehicle-heavy, with sufficient Chimeras to carry the entire regiment, strong organic artillery support, and at least a modest tank detachment. Mechanized scout detachments — Salamanders, Sentinels, and bikes (preferably jet-bikes) — are common, but can also be delegated to other specialized regiments. The Steel Legion itself uses the Outriders for this purpose, but other regiments have alternative solutions. Likewise, organic combat engineering support is common, as are air defense vehicles; Hydras in particular are valued for their ability to sweep aside Ork hordes in addition to aircraft. Soldiers are heavily armored in carapace.

In combat, Armageddon doctrine is often described as 'operationally offensive, tactically defensive'. Using the scout detachment to survey the terrain and enemy dispositions, the regiment seeks to seize vital terrain features before the enemy and fortify it, forcing the enemy to assault a fortified position on a terrain of the Imperium's choosing. To this end, Armageddon-style regiments usually carry copious amounts of barbed wire, mines, and other defensive implements; vehicles are equipped with dozer blades to dig out entrenchments. This is where the engineering detachment comes in. The scout detachment, if present, harasses the enemy on its approach, although this is not a vital component of the doctrine.

At the level of individual squads, Armageddon doctrine emphasizes close cooperation between infantry and armor; full mechanization means each squad has a Chimera, which they are responsible for defending from threats and vice versa.

Few worlds adopt the Armageddon doctrine in full. Although many other mechanized infantry forces adopt its emphasis on mobility, terrain, and forcing of the enemy to attack fortified positions, few worlds can afford to equip their regiments with the same weight of metal as Armageddon and thus do not adopt the full TO&E. In addition, the emergence of the Brain Boy caste has thrown the doctrine into flux; with the Orks no longer throwing themselves as eagerly into near-suicidal charges, the strategy has lost some of its effectiveness. Although the core of the strategy remains sound, the arguments at Steel Legion HQ about how to adapt to a changing galaxy continue long into the night.

====Fast Attack Doctrine====

A light-armor and occasionally bio-cavalry doctrine focusing on the use of speed and maneuverability as weapons.

There is no standard TO&E for Fast Attack regiments, due to the wide variance in equipment used. Salamander scout tanks, Sentinels, motor- and jet-bikes, a thousand varieties of armored car and riding beasts. A very few forge-worlds even have super-heavy fast-attack companies, equipping tanks as heavy as Baneblades with antigrav units to allow them to keep up with lighter forces.

Whatever the equipment, all Fast Attack units operate similarly: using overwhelming speed to strike at an enemy's weak points before an effective response can be mustered. The 'classic' pattern of attack is to punch straight through the enemy line and rampage through the rear areas, but that is hardly the only tactical possibility. Outflanking maneuvers, hit-and-run raids — speed opens many possibilities.

Fast Attack regiments are usually deployed as part of combined arms strategies, scouting for slower units or exploiting breakthroughs created by heavier ones. On their own, while fast and generally well-armed, they are also more fragile than a true tank unit and lack staying power. This varies, of course; the dynamics of a horse cavalry unit differ from Sentinels and Salamanders, which in turn differ from jet-bikes. But the general principle holds; as with so many other things in the Imperium, there is strength in diversity.

Fast Attack units, like Infiltration units, are often popular among PDF forces which cannot sustain heavy tank formations but can build light tanks and armored cars or breed horses, which contributes to the wide variance of regiments following the doctrine.

=== Scion Tempestus ===

==== Difference between Stormtroopers and Scions ====

The Tempestus Scion, also colloquially known (somewhat incorrectly) as Stormtroopers, are specialized heavy infantry regiments that are always broken down into smaller units. Once divided into battalions or companies, they are attached to other units within the Imperial Army but can also serve under the Inquisition or Sororitas. The Scions are known for their high dropout rates in the intense training period, but prove in combat at being the best CQC non-melee soldiers in the Imperial Army.

Scions and Stormtroopers differ in role and function within the Imperial army, and thus differ in their training and equipment as a result. Veteran Guardsmen or raw volunteers are first trained and deployed as Stormtroopers in the Imperial Guard. Stormtroopers are only trained to fight in ground wars and are equipped and assigned as such; Stormtroopers are often given the task of assaulting fortifications and clearing buildings. In contrast, Scions are volunteer veteran Stormtroopers who are retrained to fight inside void ships and infiltrate behind enemy lines. The Scions' weapons are unchanged for the most part, but their armor is a lighter version of Stormtrooper armor that can withstand the vacuum of the void.

==== Equipment ====

Stormtroopers are sent to the frontlines as the first ones to clear out bunkers, trenches, and buildings. Missions of that nature mean that Stormtroopers are given the deadly ‘Hellgun’ pattern Lasgun to eviscerate enemies at point-blank range. The Carapace Armor worn by Stormtroopers is the innermost armor worn by Diffusion squads. This armor can prevent shrapnel or shots at less than 50m from disabling the Stormtrooper, allowing them to clear tight spaces in relative safety from explosives and suppressive fire. Apart from these rather remarkable pieces of equipment, Stormtroopers maintain the same basic kit as the typical Guardsman — just with more explosives. The Scions, when first founded, noted that the Carapace Armor accelerated exhaustion and hindered the movement of the user. These two factors played an important role in crippling operators on independent infiltration missions. The Tempestus Scion thus developed the ‘Cephalon Armor’, which was a lighter version of Carapace Armor with the same bodily armor coverage while still being stronger than Flak Armor. Cephalon Armor also comes with a built-in antenna and shoulder mounted pic recorder that a commanding officer can use. Apart from an additional void survival kit. the Scions' basic kits are otherwise almost the same as a Stormtrooper’s.

==== Standardization ====

In terms of equipment, Scions all carry the same Scion basic kit and standard CQC weapons, though they can always carry extra things with them or swap out weapons due to their armor being lighter. This keeps all Scion companies mostly standardized while still maintaining enough flexibility to complete very specific missions. All Scion squads are expected to take on CQC & infiltration missions and equip themselves accordingly.

Stormtroopers, on the other hand, vary greatly from the world to world, just like the Guardsmen regiments they're attached to. All Stormtroopers are expected to be assigned the task of clearing cramped locations and fortifications. How they are trained and equipped to accomplish this changes from regiment to regiment. The Cadian Kasrkins, for example, are made for storming buildings in urban combat while the Cadian Guardsmen maneuver quickly in street fighting. Kreiger Grenadiers, on the other hand, charge at fortifications and trenches en masse before everybody throwing a grenade and jumping inside. Kreiger Grenadiers would hold even more extra grenades than Kasrkins. Hive world Stormtroopers might always carry Meltaguns or Flamers due to the importance of high damage in fast reaction time weapons in urban warfare. Stormtroopers from Feudal worlds, on the other hand, might only have a Lasgun and a single grenade while carrying a shield with several melee weapons. In short, each Stormtrooper detachment is as varied and differentiated as the Guard regiments themselves. The only thing standard is that they all wear some variation of Carapace Armor.

==== Notable Regiments ====

See [[Nobledark Imperium Scion Regiments| Scion Regiments]]

== Abhuman Subspecies ==

=== Beastmen and Ogryn ===

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Ogryn Project:'''''

As the Imperium spread its borders past the boundaries of Sol, it rapidly began to encounter new strains of abhumans. Some of these strains were familiar, such as the Navigators and additional tribes of Void Born. Others, such as the Ratlings, Felinids, and Nightsiders, were novel but genetically stable, having mutated through Dark Age of Technology genetic engineering and/or natural evolution - a testament to humanity's hardiness and ability to survive on almost any world.

For the most part, the Steward was unconcerned with admitting these abhuman variants into the Imperium. He already had one abhuman primarch, another nearly so, and he himself was only human in the loosest sense of the word. To him, the abhumans were just one more drop of variation in the great sea of humanity.

However, then the Imperium discovered the Ogryn. And the Beastmen.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Each race presented its own problems for the Imperium. The previous abhuman species were all genetically stable and essentially comparable to baseline humans in intelligence. In contrast, the Ogryn were clearly of subhuman intelligence — being comparable to a mentally handicapped human at best — and behaved and looked like shaved apes more than people, fighting each other with their enlarged canine tusks.

The Beastmen were slightly more intelligent, but more in the manner of an extremely cunning predator than a civilized being. Completely ruled by their instincts and prone to additional mutations, when the Beastmen were discovered by the Imperium their lives were brutish, nasty, and short.

Such was the Steward’s concern that he brought in his highest ranked geneticists and gene-wrights to consult on this matter. At this point in time, the Steward’s various groups of genetic engineers had been merged into Adeptus Biologis, but had not yet adopted the trappings of the Mechanicum of Mars. The nominal head of the Biologis — a former Genesmith — suggested the Ogryn and Beastmen were so unsalvageable that the Steward’s best options were either to wipe them out immediately and resettle the planet with humans of other stock, or otherwise to sterilize them and then resettle the planets in 60 years or so after they had all died out. These suggestions caused considerable consternation among other schools of thought in the Biologis.

The Steward made it abundantly clear that the suggestion of summary genocide on a world under the Imperium’s protection would not be tolerated, and doing so without the Steward’s knowledge was grounds for immediate and summary execution without appeal. The Steward argued the Ogryn and Beastmen were humans. Afflicted humans, yes, but humans all the same. Their ancestors were no different than any other group that Earth had sent to the stars, but were merely dealt a bad hand by the universe through no fault of their own. Eventually, the Steward and the various factions of the Adeptus Biologis reached an agreement. The Biologis would release carefully tailored mutations into the genepools of the Ogryn and Beastmen over thousands of years, until the devolution in intelligence and sanity caused by the Age of Strife could be undone.

As of M41, Ogryn and Beastmen can be split into two broad categories: Primeval and Nova. Primeval Ogryn and Beastmen are rare, existing only on planets that have been just recently rediscovered by the Imperium. They are little different from the Ogryn and Beastmen first encountered by the Imperium in M30. Nova Ogryn and Beastmen vary in intelligence from little better than their Primeval ancestors to levels deemed acceptable to the Imperium (generally comparable to standard human intelligence, or close to it).

Nova Ogryn have lost some of the strength and durability of their ancestors, but in general are much more intelligent (though less so than baseline humans, on average). Combined with external artificial augmentations, such as Biochemical Ogryn Neural Enhancement or “Bonehead Procedure”, some Ogryn officers are entirely comparable to the average human in intelligence.

Nova Beastmen are one of the greatest success stories of the Biologis, along with the Astartes and Necromundan eco-engineering. Out of all the strains of abhuman, the Beastmen benefited the most from genetic engineering — mostly because of how bad they had it to begin with. Some have theorized that the Beastmen were created via crude methods of genetic engineering by splicing in large amounts of non-human DNA (even moreso than other abhumans) during the Dark Age of Technology. When society collapsed during the Age of Strife, there was no way to correct the myriad mutations and glitches that cropped up over the following 10,000 years. Indeed, when the Beastmen were first discovered by the Imperium they were not even recognized as human-descended at first.

Although the Beastmen started off much worse than the Ogryn, their uplifting progressed much faster. The same shoddy genetic engineering that made the Beastmen prone to mutation in the first place meant that the new, more stable genes introduced by the Adeptus Biologis became established across the population very quickly. As of M41, all Nova Beastmen are essentially of average human intelligence and, as previously stated, any Primeval Beastmen in M41 are all from very recently discovered worlds. Nevertheless, despite their dramatically more stable genome, Beastmen still suffer a slightly higher rate of mutation than the rest of the Imperium. No one is sure if the tendency towards mutations is due to the Biologis trying a little too hard to correct the flaws in the Beastmen genome or the Ruinous Powers trying to taint any long-term victory on the part of the Imperium.

The Adeptus Biologicus might have gone a little overboard in trying to keep the instincts of the Beastmen in check; as opposed to their Primeval brethren, Nova Beastmen tend to be rather solemn and dour, though this may be because they know how far they have climbed and how deep the pit they were lifted out of was. Their sense of duty and debt is second only to that of Krieg, but thankfully for the Imperium’s sake the Beastmen are much less suicidal. Promethean beliefs tend to be widespread among the Beastmen. The Nova Beastmen have not lost all of the bestial instincts of their kin, however; Beastmen often speak of a “Weakness of the Beast” to refer to any behavior that seems to be driven by instinct or base desire, one of the few societal ideas they may have picked up from the Adeptus Biologicus. Nova Beastmen in general also tend to have much sharper senses than baseline humans, and are valued even in otherwise all-baseline regiments as scouts and trackers.

</div>
</div>

==== Beastmen and Ogryn Society ====

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">

Nova Ogryn tend to live under a tribal or clan-like structure of governance. There are perhaps dozens of worlds whose inhabitants come under the broad category of Ogryn, and each world can have a thousand different tribal groups, each with their own individual set of traditions. Nevertheless, there do exist some similarities. Common to most tribes are a leading Patriarch, some paternal ancestor of a large proportion of the tribe, and the presence of a Wise Woman. Sometimes this Wise Woman the chief’s mother, sometimes his wife, sometimes it's not a woman at all but just someone with good judgement. A priest/shaman position is also common in most tribes for matters of spiritual significance and dealing with supernatural phenomena (which usually boils down to “leave it alone and tell the nearest adept”). Sometimes the tribe might be blessed/cursed with a Witch/Warlock who has psychic powers. Psychic Ogryn do exist. They used to be rarer than in the baseline gene pool, but now exist in the same proportion as baseline humanity. This may be a side effect of the increase in cognitive ability or by using baseline human genes to uplift the Ogryn.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Although Ogryns are typically not as smart as baseline humans, they are generally smarter than people expect. The officers with BONE implants can fluently converse in High Gothic about all manner of matters both practical and philosophical, and are invariably literate. But that's because they were already the brightest of the bright even before the bio-crystalline Cortex Technology was inserted into their brain. The average Ogyrn can learn to maintain an extra-large laser rifle by rote, can understand contractual obligations (although they will sign said contract with an X), and has enough brains to follow orders and even understand quite complex strategy — provided it's explained slowly with small words and you get them to repeat it back to you just to make sure. Ogryn are also known to be fiercely loyal and honorable. It's a bloody strange day when an Ogryn breaks their word.

Nova Beastmen, on the other hand, tend to form rigid military hierarchies when left to form their own societies. This is not due to any intrinsic inclination to do so, as opposed to baseline humanity and the various cultures thereof, but more because any governmental structure that doesn’t encourage iron-hard discipline tends to implode within a few years. Their inner animal is still very close to the surface, and their increased cognitive faculties haven’t tamed it in the slightest. Beastmen societies are ruled by philosopher-kings called Brahmins, who tend to exemplify everything that the Beast is not. More of a high judge than a war chief, Brahmins are seemingly at odds with the otherwise militarized nature of Beastmen society, but a wise and solemn individual that will not give in to base desires and passions proves to be an excellent leader for those who may.

Another notable feature of Beastman society are Aurochs, the warrior-champions of Beastman society. These huge warriors are about the size and strength of Astartes, but overall tend to be much less effective for several reasons. First, Aurochs make up a vanishingly small proportion of the Beastmen population and thus cannot reliably be mass produced. Secondly, Aurochs lack all of the advantages beyond sheer strength that make Space Marines so lethal. Finally, Aurochs cannot use standardized equipment. Because of their rarity, armor and weaponry often have to be individually crafted; most Imperial helmets are unable to fit over their horns and even normal Beastmen helmets being too small for them.

</div>
</div>

=== Nightsiders ===

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''A Brief Elucidation of the Nightsider:'''''

The Nightsider is a catchall term for a grouping of sub-species adapted for a specific type of environment without any common origin beyond that of any other human group. They are native to many worlds of the Imperium, such as Praetoria, Calth (from the transplanted population of dead Posul), Equixus, at least one world in the Carcharodon recruitment area, and many others. Typically, they are a pale breed adapted to living on worlds either with no light or additional environmental conditions that make dwelling in the light substantially detrimental. Such reasons can include, but are not limited to, the planet having unusually harmful sunlight, extreme daytime predation or population pressure, or isolation in the dark lands of tidally-locked worlds. Worlds populated entirely by Nightsiders are rare (but not unprecedented), as they would require an environment where regular humans could not survive, and such worlds typically can't maintain global environmental conditions that would allow a population of humans or near-humans to survive at all.

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Although disparate in origin, the Nightsiders of the Imperium share common features which are partly necessitated by their environment and partly derived from a standardized Dominion era gene-template; Large dark eyes, a lack of pigmentation in the skin, hair and nails, the ability to synthesize vitamin D in the liver, and a very slightly lower optimal body temperature. Due to their native environments often being lower in available energy, Nightsiders often form smaller social structures based on extended family bonds, typically numbering no more than twenty or thirty individuals operating over a wide area dictated by availability of resources. To this end, the Nightsiders are also often fiercely territorial in nature. This borderline anti-social nature is assumed to be more cultural than biological, as they have been integrated into the Imperial Army with little additional problems after the first few months when they realize that the meals are regular and predictable, although even then they tend to form groups among themselves and disperse evenly within the regiment.

Nightsiders are as intelligent as baseline humanity and so have never qualified for AdBio uplifting like the Beastmen and Ogryn strains. Although they were often found in primitive conditions by the Imperium, this is typically a result of finding a long term equilibrium with their direct environmental needs; usually a lack of available food prevented work specialization and the larger social projects that result. In all cases, efforts of the Missionarius Galaxia, especially the Orders Sabine, have resulted in varying degrees of successful pacification and introduction to true civilization.

The introduction to the civilization of the Imperium's light has gone smoothest in places where the local populations could be persuaded to accept the tithe willingly. The Nightsiders are human; they do not gladly eat the slain of their own kind or kill off excess population in times of greatest need, but they did so nevertheless in the name of survival. The tithe offers a way out, as excess population is sent out into the galaxy and send their pay home in the form of nutri-paste and tinned foods, and when they return they have had the habits of good order trained into them, which they spread to the rest of their kindred. This cultural influence over the generations has resulted in them adopting Imperial technology willingly as barter and trade for their services, rather than as the recipients of charity. Charity they would not tolerate, as they seldom care for the pity of outsiders (a term typically used to mean anyone that is not part of their family group). By this helping hand, the Imperium reaches out to them rather than reaching down to them, and in doing so all may rise up higher as allies and friends.

In the Imperial guard, Nightsiders typically make very good target spotters for artillery and patrol squad removers. The ways of hunting are often a second nature to them, and all good commanders know how best to take advantage of this.

Despite long term introduction into the wider Imperium, the various Nightsider cultures have retained many of the more "primitive-seeming" rituals and customs of their ancestors, at least partly because, like all ab-humans, they maintain an "us and them" mentality based on the very obvious and noticeable differences between themselves and the teeming masses of other humanities. This is encouraged for the most part as it binds their social order, and so long as they retain pride in their social identity whilst understanding that the Imperium places due worth in them based on their skills and contributions, they are less tested by the whispers of more terrible things. Due to their extremely family based social structures the prevailing religious trends tend towards the worship of ancestors and ancestor spirits, although due to their disparate nature this is not always the case and great variation has been noted.

Many human strains, both baseline and abhuman, express apprehension towards Nightsiders, often because their strange habits and dark sclera give them an uncanny valley effect. Ironically, many xenos species find Nightsiders to appear more personable than regular humans (at least in appearance; their behavior often having the same off-putting effect), white sclera being virtually unique amongst humanity and its component subspecies in the galaxy, with some xenos even admitting that the white sclera of human eyes can be creepy in their eyes.
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=== Ratlings ===

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''Of the Ratlings:'''''

The Ratling strain of humanity — or Ornsworlder as many of them prefer to be called — is a variety of abhuman. Unlike many other abhuman strains, however, Ratlings are native to only one world: Ornsworld. The planet Ornsworld was founded sometime between the later years of M6 and the early days of M7, according to the radioactive decay of a can of irradiated waste on the largest moon and by the local legends of the mighty hero "Orn of Many Tales". Orn was a mighty warrior and fearless explorer of the First Stellar Exodus, so the tales tell, who headed a colony fleet and braved the uncharted deeps of space in early ships of imperfect design. Many places on the surface of the planet hold the name of Orn; the great mesa of Orn's Table, the immense cavern system of Orn's Burrow, the ancient water filled impact crater of Orn's Bath, and the escarpment of Orn's Headstone, the foot of which is reputedly the site of Orn's Grave. Due to the rarity of surviving records of this era independent proof of Orn existing remain undiscovered. All Ratlings claim descent from Orn, though if he ever did exist then it is inevitable that they are correct due to the passage of time and isolation during the Age of Strife. From this stage of development up until the Age of Strife it is believed that the Ornsworlders did not deviate noticeably from the baseline human form. The role of Ornsworld in the days of, and days prior to, the Great and Bountiful Human Dominion is unknown, as records of that era of Ornsworld have not survived.

At the onset of the Age of Strife, in the first days of the Iron War of which dark legends tell the fell deeds of, Ornsworld fared better than most. Some have suggested that the locals had slightly Luddite tendencies and thus did not trust thinking machines that thought as men thought. Others have pointed out rusted remains in the mountains of the south above where glaciers once roamed, where Iron Folk sat in the caves, their alloy shells still sitting where they died though their hearts have long since decayed beyond possibility of reanimation. Others again point out that human bones were found alongside them, and that there is no evidence that they died in violence. Whatever the cause or evidence thereof, it seems that the most sophisticated Men of Iron never made it to Ornsworld and as such Ornsworld had neither an Iron Mind nor a Man of Gold. There is also no isotopic residue in the soil layers from this time to indicate that the sudden Ice Age was anything but either a natural occurrence or a long delayed hiccup of the original terraforming efforts.

The Ice Age would have been correctable with the subtle application of solar reflectors and atmospheric tweaking that was common enough practice for Dominion era habitation, but although Ornsworld had been spared the worst of the Iron War it did not come out unmarred; the planet's industry was in ruins and beyond a few weather monitoring and communication satellites the planet had no space presence. The world slipped into the cold and its inhabitants could do nothing to stop it.

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There is debate in the leafy halls of the AdBio if the physiological changes that started in this dwindling age of isolation were the result of intentional engineering, to better survive the new and sorrowful age, or were a result of natural adaptation to the conditions of that age. Some point out that the alterations couldn't have occurred that fast across the entire global population, especially when considering the alterations to the digestive system and the bones in the hands and feet. Others point out that by the time that the Iron War started genetic tempering was already present in the population of the entire planet, bar a few puritan holdouts, and that with a broader pallet available the beneficial structures could have stabilized in a mere handful of generations (i.e. natural processes built from semi-artificial components). Whatever the cause, the result was a deviation that was sufficient to have them declared beyond the normal levels of variation found in the baseline population. Such changes include a hand with three fingers and two thumbs, a similarly structured foot, unusual neural architecture in the parietal lobe resulting in a high tolerance for physical pain, the stomach being divided into two separate organs, and a proportionally larger and more functional appendix. The shorter and on average slightly broader stature would not be enough on its own to have them classed as abhuman, as many pygmy populations are not classed as such. It is said that Ratlings have a better sense of smell, but this has been proven incorrect beyond normal human variation. Ratlings do, however, posses better hand to eye coordination, which slightly but measurably surpasses the human norm when the whole population is taken into account.

The deviations were ideal for them to have at least a little bit of an edge in the food scarce and cold environment that their world had become. As a society they could have gone two ways: increased competition or greater cooperation. In the case of the Children of Orn they would not forsake their bonds of common humanity and kinship, and did not turn on each other, preferring instead to ration carefully what they had and huddle together in the dark for warmth; they would die as people rather than live as beasts. In time what few technological artifacts they had preserved failed and they had not the skills or tools to repair or replace them. Thus the Ornsworlders became a rustic and simpler people.

No cold spell can endure forever, even one as soul crushing and lingering as the great winter, and spring came at last in the late part of the twenty-ninth millennium. By the time that the fledgling Imperium found them, the glaciers were retreating miles at a time each summer and regaining no ground in milder winters. The people of Ornsworld, long since accustomed to making do with little, were in an age of plenty and underwent a golden age of rapid expansion in those fresh green years, as miles of new farmland opened before them year after year and great joy was had that their old fairy stories had come true; the people Orn was born to had come at last again to their world, the Tall Folk of Earth. No age of expansion can continue indefinitely, and the Ratlings found an equilibrium in time with their new and verdant world, tending to its great green glacial valleys lovingly. They knew the value of what they, by the grace of their gods, had. By the time such stability was reached, they had already managed to acquire a little bit of a reputation with the Imperium at large; by their first impressions, of being fond of food and drink and prone to large families.

In the years after the Ornsworlders served the Imperium dutifully and provided many fine marksmen and regimental cooks, as well as food stuffs. They were a well-loved people, gentle and kind and full of good sense and down-to-earth wisdom. Their friends were many as they tended to be generous and always possessed a delightfully infectious laughter. The Imperium was their golden age.

The golden age did not last. Dominion records were found in the 12th Black Crusade by a Chaos Lordling — Eidolon Ever-Burning — of an artifact of on Ornsworld known as the Eye of Night. It was not an artifact of Dominion made but something far more ancient that they had unearthed, that was said to be able to destroy complex mortal technology great and small, fragile or robust. He descended upon peaceful Ornsworld like a great dragon made of fire, and like an inferno reduced all he touched to cinders and ash as he took the Eye from its hiding place in a deep and flooded cave. Hideous as his presence was, he vanished soon enough with his prize. But the resistance had been stiffer than expected, and the Children of Orn were weakened now. Like sharks to spilled blood, other creatures came to the weakened world as the Imperium was hamstrung and distracted by the rest of a greater war.

When the Imperium managed to scrape the resources to send a force to Ornsworld, it was far too late. Gone were the songs in the halls of the thanes, the laughter was silent, and all that was to be found were the bodies; arranged in great patterns of Chaotic offering, lying where they had fallen in the hunts, or mutilated and thrown on sacrificial heaps. Those joyful smiles were twisted into expressions of fear and pain. Only Chaos Spawn moved on the blighted and tainted land. The Ratlings had been exterminated to the last child.

There were Ornsworlders in the forces that landed in the fresh ashes. Their tears were bitter and sorrowful beyond words, and that sorrow was turned to a cold and terrible wrath. It might seem amusing that a branch humanity that seemed built for peace could be so angry, and maintain that anger — colder than the deeps of space — for so long. But they can, and it seems like it should be an impotent rage, but it is not. A call was put out by the head chef of one of the regiments that landed, a dreadful and terrible message whispered from astropath to scribe and passed on across the Imperium. All the sons and daughters of Orn were to come home.

The fields were made green again, trees grew again from the ashes on the mass graves, and from a distance perhaps Ornsworld would look like all was how it was. But those happy songs are now songs of war and retribution. The sons and daughters of that world look to the stars no longer in hope but in hate. The law of conscription has been restricted, as were it not too many would heed the war drums that beat in their hearts. People look at Ratlings and are unimpressed, and remain unimpressed until they start racking up a body count. A length of spider-silk, once sold to off-world merchants in bolts and dresses for princesses, is now carried by every Ratling soldier, and can cut a neck all the way to the bone. Those clever hands and keen eyes, once used to carve and paint things of beauty, now put those skills to a greater, bloody work in their service to the Guard and Ornsworld; Ratling marksmen are famed and feared across half the galaxy, as they move swiftly and quietly, and kill without hesitation or remorse. They are owed a blood-price. A price that could only be measured in the depths of their oceans of shed tears.

The world of Orn and its inhabitants are a very unexpected terror that stalks the stars in the dying of the forty-first millennium. Their roused anger is all the more terrible for how unexpected it was. Although the Eye of Night was undoubtedly a great boon to the forces of Chaos, it might not be worth what has risen against them.

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== Weapons of the Imperium ==

=== Lasguns ===

The first instances of las-weapon technology came from Terra itself. Thought to be a recreational weapon used in mock battles during the Dark Age of Technology, at that time these las-weapons beams had the power of 4mm stubber pellets, thus even thick cloth was effective armor against it. These relics were present on Terra and other worlds during the Warlord Era, but it was the Emperor who reshaped it to become a lethal weapon. The Emperor’s scouts had presented him with some prototype weapons while preparing for the unification with Mars. One such weapon was a proto-Lascarbine that was superior to stubber carbines in all but firepower. The Las beams still had the power of a 4mm stubber pellet, thus the Emperor - in his intelligence - recrafted the weapon so that it fired with the power of an 8mm stubber round. The Lascarbine first saw service as a replacement for the Autorifles, which were the standard weapon for the Imperial Army at the time, in the unification of the Sol system. Next were the Laspistols, which were designed to replace the stubber pistols. The mass use of Las-weapons found that Lascarbine barrels started to warp after ~5,000 shots, and the Laspistol barrels warped after ~2,000 shots. When these barrels warped, what would have been unmodified hitscan fire devolved into looser and inaccurate beams, such that Guardsmen had to fire two or more times in the same place to hit. Even worse, when the Laspistol barrels warped, soldiers had to fire at point-blank range to hit their targets at all.

The Imperial Army Handheld Weapons Development Bureau would develop the Lasgun in response, which featured a longer barrel and limited the power to 7.9mm stubber round strength. The iron sights of the weapon were changed to allow attachable optics, and a stock was added for increased accuracy. The first Lasguns were deployed to the front during the Hunting Era, where it was noted that these weapons had effectively the same firepower as the Lascarbines but the barrels didn’t warp until after ~10,000 shots. When the Apostasy Era started Guardsmen on both sides reported that Lascarbines and Lasguns in night-time fighting left noticeable muzzle flashes, thus making the shooter an easy target. The Weapons Development Bureau would again work on the Lasgun and Lascarbine just after the Apostasy Era, creating the attachable flash suppressor, for better night-time combat, and the light attachable stock for the Lascarbine.

=== Flak Armor ===

There was no such thing as a standardized armor used by the Imperial Army during the Great Crusade. The closest thing to such a concept came in the form of the Solar Pattern Void Armor, used widely by the Solar Auxilia, but that was a carapace-reinforced void suit rather than Flak Armor as we know it today. The first documented instances of what could be considered Flak Armor was when Cadian Shock Troops started equipping soldiers en masse with light anti-shrapnel armor near the end of the Great Crusade. Cadian officers found that when Cadian Guardsmen attacked entrenched positions on the battlefield, most of their losses sustained were from artillery or random bits of debris thrown into the air by artillery. The different regiments from Cadia phased out the traditional metal plate armor for Flak Armor, and thus all future campaigns used Flak Armor once manufactorums switched production lines right before the War of the Beast.

The breastplate, shoulder pauldrons, knee plates, and greaves all use the same material and layering. The fabric connecting the armor is much weaker and lacks any sort of plating. Most of the actual armor in Flak Armor uses an inner layer of shock absorbent gel, with metal plating between the gel and outer ceramic layer. All three of these layers are connected and interwoven with carbon-fibers, metal-fabrics, and nylon fabrics, forcing the layers to stay together under most conditions. The ceramic plate was designed to deflect shrapnel, or at least cause it to be stuck in the plate. The metal layer was emplaced to stop lasbolts or stubber rounds from fully penetrating through the armor, in case the shot passed the ceramic plate. The gel is present as either a last ditch effort to stop shrapnel from fully penetrating the armor or to prevent internal bleeding after receiving a direct hit. The fabric of Flak Armor is made from a variety of different carbon-fibers, metal fabrics, and thick cloths, to prevent shrapnel from cutting through or a blade from tearing it. Flak Armor helmets have considerably more armor, tending to have extra metal plating to ensure that not all shots to the head are fatal and random falling debris don't kill the Guardsman.

The first major combat test of Flak Armor was seen in the War of the Beast. On the front lines, Flak Armor proved to be basically ineffective in protecting against Ork weaponry; the Orks had used unusually large stubber rounds, up to but not limited to 10 or 12mm, that would slice right through Flak plating. However, what would otherwise be considered deadly Ork rockets would often fail to kill Guardsmen, even with flame ammo, as the Flak Armor was more than enough protection against most Ork rocketry short of city-block-levelling size. Crone Eldar and Dark Eldar weapons, of both Saw and Splinter ammo types, likewise had difficult times penetrating Flak plating unless there was a concentrated barrage of fire, as even the Flak plating can only protect against so much. When the Fallen first turned on Imperial Army elements, bolters were used for the first time against Flak Armor. The bolter rounds would often penetrate Flak plating, only to cleanly exit out on the other side and then explode. If the Guardsman was lucky they would still be alive after the ordeal. When a Guardsman was even luckier, the bolter round would be deflected off of Flak plating altogether and explodes prematurely in mid-air, meaning that unless the deflected round exploded in their face the shrapnel would be mostly harmless. The flexibility, simplicity, and cheapness of producing Flak Armor instead of Void suits led to many Imperial worlds adopting the Flak Armor. Production quotas meant resources were limited in the total economic mobilization that happened during the War of the Beast, making the simple and affordable Flak Armor even more popular.

During the Apostasy, Imperial Guard regiments openly fought against one another, resulting in the first use of Flak Armor against massed artillery. Regiments would launch massive formations to charge at entrenched opposing Guardsmen, who were themselves well prepared for such an attack. The defenders would fire blinding volleys of artillery shells to delay the charge. The Flak Armor proved a Guardsman could survive an artillery barrage, and short of a direct hit right next to their feet the Guardsman would be fine (if the shockwave from the explosion didn’t destroy their bodily organs, that is). Artillery barrages could now only slow down attacks from Guardsmen thanks to Flak Armor. Several field modifications were noted to have been used by regiments during the Apostasy, including extra cloth to prevent shrapnel from easily slicing the joints. Similarly, thicker ceramic plates are often used by veteran Guardsmen against Orks to at least survive glancing shots from Ork stubbers, and regiments constantly facing Crone or Dark Eldar are deployed with extra metal layered into their Flak Armor to prevent enemy fire from penetrating Flak plating.

=== Bolters ===

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All modern varieties of bolter, from the humble workhorse that is the mainstay of the Space Marine legions to the bolt pistol used by baseline humans, are at least partially influenced by a design created by the Emperor of Mankind himself. Believe it or not, bolters were originally not that important a part of ancient humanity’s arsenal. This can be seen in the nature of warfare in the 41st millennium, as warfare in the 41st millennium almost resembles that of pre-gunpowder humanity, with a heavy focus on armor and the viability of melee combat. Humanity’s weapons of choice during the Dark Age of Technology were Volkite guns and Adrathic disintegrators, neither of which armor offered much protection against. Military tactics during this period would have been more familiar to older groups of humans (potentially as far back as M2) than their descendants, with a greater emphasis on utilizing cover and avoiding fire than melee combat. Knowledge of how to make advanced armor survived the Age of Strife better than similar knowledge of weaponry, shifting the advantage to armor over arms and making melee combat viable again. Bolters only entered into the military sphere much later in the Dark Age of Technology, believed to have been a weaponized version of a power tool, after it was noticed how well they performed against Orks, other high-durability xenos, and rogue Men of Iron and other Silica Animus.

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The Emperor had contributed to the reinvention of the bolter back before he was the Emperor, before he was the Steward, even before he was the Warlord, but when he was merely Oscar of the Terrawatt Clan. The Terrawatt Clan was a technocracy, with societal standing and authority being based on one’s inventiveness and research productivity, and if one could not prove their mental ability there was no way for them to advance in status. Embarking on a project that advanced Terrawatt’s sum of knowledge in some way was a common coming of age ritual in the country, and although he saw himself as artificial and a shadow of humanity, Oscar wanted to be viewed slightly less as Malcador's trophy taken from the ruins of Chthonia and slightly more as a person.

Oscar chose as his project the reverse-engineering of an old ballistics weapon that had been uncovered some centuries before by expeditions from Terrawatt into the deserts of the former Tharkian Empire (specifically, the province of Anatolia). The weapon’s systems had been fouled by sand and half of its components were missing, but Oscar managed to piece together enough of its workings to construct a working replica sized to his frame, or at least fill in enough of the missing pieces to construct a model that actually worked. This would be the precursor of the Astartes pattern boltgun, and explains - among other things - why the prototype bolter was already built for someone of an Astartes’ size.

The Theologiteks were impressed, and Oscar was proud of his creation (not to mention happy to have a weapon that didn’t feel like a child’s toy in his hands), eventually taking the prototype as his sidearm when he embarked to reunify Old Earth. The gun faithfully served as his sidearm for many years, before finally failing some two hundred years after the Battle of Terra in about 700.M31. Oscar was saddened by the loss, seemingly one more aspect of his life that seemed to be eroding away, but the remains of the so-called ‘father of bolters’ survived and remains enshrined to this day in the museum in the Imperial Palace.

Originally, the Warlord’s armies of Thunder Warriors were armed with Volkite weaponry and autoguns, but as the numbers of augmented warriors grew and Volkite weapons were gradually lost to attrition, three-quarters of the Warlord’s soldiers were armed with bolters about the time the Thunder Legions were being phased out in favor of the Legio Astartes. Volkite weaponry may have been more powerful and autoguns were cheap, but bolters were reliable, relatively powerful (unlike autoguns), and more importantly their workings were well-understood and could be easily replicated (unlike Volkite weapons).

The Warlord was not the only individual to reverse engineer the secrets of the bolter. Other human nations during the Age of Strife had come to the same conclusion regarding the bolter’s reliability and ease of production, and the Imperium encountered other models of bolters on places like Mars, the Hubworld League, and the Auretian Technocracy, several of which were based on actual STC designs. Information from these designs was assimilated by the Imperium to create a syncretic design that improved upon the initial Astartes pattern (Oscar, to his embarrassment, [[fail|had gotten some of his assumptions wrong and had replaced several missing systems with slightly more inefficient versions he had created from scratch]]). However, not all bolter designs were equally optimal in all situations, with some performing better at certain tasks than others. Eventually, a wide array of bolter types proliferated throughout the Imperium, ranging from the numerous variants of the Astartes pattern, in which the initial kick from the propellant recoil is enough to break an unaugmented human’s arm, to the smaller bolt pistol commonly used by commissars, which trades caliber size and rate of fire for recoil to the point that it can be used by normal humans.

By approximately early M34, enough principles of miniaturization had been rediscovered to downsize the traditional full-size Astartes bolter to the Godwin-De’az Pattern. Nevertheless, despite this miniaturization the recoil still made it almost impossible for normal humans to use unless you were genetically enhanced, were wearing powered armor, or from Catachan or the Hubworld League. For many years the Godwin-De’az pattern occupied an awkward position for many years, being too large to be used by most Guardsmen yet too small in caliber to be an efficient weapon for Astartes. However, this all changed after the founding of the Adeptus Securitas and the Sisters of Battle in M36, who, with their enhanced strength, found this intermediate-sized bolter almost perfect for their needs. Indeed, the name Godwin-De'az came about as a reference to Sister De'az, the Nocturnean Sister who was the first successful recipient of the augmentations used by the Sisters of Battle. Before that, they were merely referred to as "miniaturized Bolters" due to their scarcity. Godwin-De'az bolters are much more common in the Imperium now, mostly due to their use by the Securitas.

The invention of the precursor to the modern bolter is perhaps one of the achievements the Emperor is most proud of. It was not something created by Oscar, the Man of Gold, nor Oscar, the Warlord of Earth, but by Oscar, the person, in the name of the betterment of his species.

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=== Leman Russ Tank ===

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''“We should've waited for the Fenrisian ale before rushing here just to find half a tractor. At least we'd've something that would lift the mens' spirits after such a disappointment.”''<br>
— Primarch Leman Russ, post-Imperial Compliance of Nova Borilia.

THE REGIMENTAL STANDARD: A HISTORY OF THE LEMAN RUSS TANK

In today's battlefield, almost all of the armed forces flying Imperial banners have either used or fought alongside the Leman Russ Battle Tank. Many view it with great relief, no longer having to be at the forefront of an advance on fortified positions. Others call it their “ride”. And some view the Leman Russ as an inelegant and ugly hunk of metal that conceals brutal effectiveness and resilience worthy of the name. Its treads have rolled over thousands of battlegrounds, and its guns have obliterated many a foe. Yet one wonders where the seeds for this venerable war machine were sown. If you have had the same question that we at the Regimental Standard did then read on, fellow historians, as we detail the venerable history of the Leman Russ Tank.

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The Leman Russ Battle Tank, and its subsequent and numerous variants, originates from the early days of the Great Crusades. The tank itself is not to be confused with Primarch Leman Russ, who discovered it on Nova Borilia when rumors of an STC for a tank dating from the Dark Age of Technology drew his attention to the campaign against the Noman xenos' planetary empire, which was already marked for destruction as Xenos Horrificus due to its brutal enslavement of the local human population and violent refusal of all diplomatic attempts. Fortunately, resistance was broken after a series of engagements that saw the Nomans and a disobedient slave army reeling from the hard hitting tactics of the Space Wolves and accompanying Solar Auxilia attachments. For the expeditionary forces, what they salvaged from the last Noman stronghold was an immense let down.

The STC was, in fact, the fragments of a blueprint for an all-terrain tractor that started production sometime before the Age Of Strife, not the weapon the intel had suggested. Presumably it had been mistaken for a valuable human relic, and so it was situated in the most secure collection in the Noman fortress.

But the Imperial Army would not be denied their tank, and in the span of a decade several components of the discovery were incorporated into a new design, christened the Leman Russ Battle Tank, Mark I. It set a gyrostabilized Battle Cannon turret on top of a ceramite and plasteel hull with a steel-sprung suspension, while a complex transmission mated to an enormous twin-turbocharged V12 multi-fuel HL230 engine gave it a top speed of 80 km/h and 40 km/h off-road (widely considered ludicrous for a tracked vehicle twice as tall as a Space Marine). This ability was used to great effect, as commanders swung behind enemy positions and unloaded rounds into petty tyrants and slavers.

However, as the Imperium expanded further and encountered tougher opposition, the Leman Russ proved inadequate. Its main gun struggled to defeat more heavily-armored horrors and what was left often outmaneuvered the Leman Russ, and breakdowns ranging from burnt out turbocharger components to transmission failures intensified a growing logistics headache. This led to the replacement of the Mk. I with the Mk. II-V, similar variants that traded mobility for protection and ease of maintenance by bolting on armor, dropping the forced-induction chargers, and, in the case of the Mk. IV and V, switching to a simpler transmission. This was deemed acceptable, as the Imperium couldn't afford the best equipment possible for all its soldiers in the immediate aftermath of the War of the Beast.

That is not to say desperation did not proliferate the loaded idea of 'innovation'. During and after the War of the Beast, new variants were hurriedly fitted with crew-operated sponsons to add anti-infantry firepower, and while still inferior to the Land Raider-killing Vanquisher Cannon, a long-barrelled Battle Cannon increased muzzle velocity and was easier to mass-produce. Later, more improvements filtered through, like a hydropneumatic suspension and lifted armor skirts that allowed the road wheels freedom of movement and together provided better acceleration and a more stable firing platform. Other changes included light, replaceable composite rectangles attached to the sides (sanctioned for Chimera variants and Salamanders after APC crew entrepreneurs decided they too wanted more armor) and a set of wide-angle optics that replaced the glass visor slit in the driver's hatch and made it possible to drive the tank and fire the hull weapon without switching seats or controls.

The Mk. XVII, created in the late 36th millennium, was supposed to use a scaled-down version of the Malcador Heavy Tank's electric drive system. You will never see this outside the Mechanicus' basements.

[[File:NobledarkLemanRussMarkXXIV.jpg|200px|thumb|left|Mk. XXIV Leman Russ with Imperial Guardsman and eldar Guardian for scale]]

The Mk. XXIV Leman Russ Battle Tank is the most recent variant (see Remembrancer's sketch at left), created in response to reports of a spike in Leman Russ losses due to an increased prevalence of Crone Eldar and Necron tank analogues. The Imperial Couple had put pressure on Mars and the Fabricator-General to either keep the venerable tank a viable part of the Imperial Guard armory or risk losing further contracts to Forge Worlds unaligned with Mars' branch of the Adeptus Mechanicus, many of whom were experimenting with unsanctioned tank designs. This was enough incentive to finally push the program into its final field tests and evaluation stage.

It carries over the extremely sloped frontal turret and glacis present since the Mk. XX, but replaces the original hull weapon's swivel mount with a ball mount in a smaller housing. To address the vulnerability of the Leman Russ to being flanked, particularly in urban warfare, the tank hull went from being 4.42 meters tall to a flatter profile 3.3 meters high. The front-facing plates of the widened and extended turret are angled to better resist side shots, and the Battle Cannon magazines were relocated to the back of the turret, so an ammo cook-off wouldn't be surrounded by critical systems and the crew. Blow-off vents further increase the chances a disabled Mk. XXIV can escape without Atlas recovery vehicles being put at risk, and two sponsons utilizing cogitators based off the Predator's and Tarantula Sentry Turret's are managed by a remote gunner seated by the driver. Lastly, a refined version of the Great Crusade's forced-induction setup and a weight reduction of 5 tons have allowed the Leman Russ to regain the nimbleness of the Mk. I, without the original's notorious mechanical problems.

While the newest Leman Russ might still be recognizable to an Imperial officer of the 30th millennium, it is not the same war machine your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandparents used. Keep an eye out for those shiny new Mk. XXIVs, and remember to report any issues to your commanding officer or a Commissar!
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=== Psycannons and the Psi-Disruptor ===

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[[Nobledark_Imperium_Xenos#Men_of_Gold|Justinian]] and Theodora were the Man of Gold and Iron Mind of the Sol System, based out of Earth and Mars respectively. When the Age of Strife happened, and the Men of Gold and Iron Minds were driven mad by seeing that which was not meant to be seen, Justinian and Theodora waged demented war on each other first in the grips of their madness. Ironically, the fact that the two of them killed each other off so early in the Iron War meant that the Sol System was spared the worst excesses of the Age of Strife, and thus had more working Dark Age technology lying around compared to a place like [[Nobledark_Imperium_Notable_Planets#Cthonia|Cthonia]], whose inner face was sterilized when someone induced the star it orbited to go supernova. Of course, this isn't to say that either Justinian or Theodora were in a healthy state of mind at the time; Justinian may have gone for Theodora first, but he was still psychotically insane and destroyed everything and everyone in his way to get to his goal, while concurrently Theodora targeted Earth with orbital bombardments and scrapcode. The descendants of the technicians that attended to Justinian and Theodora, in a very roundabout way, became the ancestors of the Terrawatt Clan and the Martian Mechanicum, though the Mechanicum accomplished this in a more indirect fashion in that the technicians of the Iron Mind were integrated into the general population whilst Mars more broadly devolved into technology worshipping cults (of which the future Mechanicum was but one of many) after the destruction of Mars' terraformed biosphere.

In order to kill Theodora, Justinian built a device known as the psi-disruptor, a device designed and optimized for killing Iron Minds. One can point it at a lesser mortal and pull the trigger to some effect, though said effects can vary from anywhere between a noticeable headache all the way up to total bodily disruption. The device draws on the psychic potential of the wielder, and so can only be used by an active psyker. The one made and used by Justinian was built to such a scale that it was only usable by Men of Gold. The higher end of baseline psykers could presumably wield Justinian's psi-disruptor to an extent, but the list of such talented candidates is very short, and as the Imperium only has one such weapon they aren't willing to risk the destruction of such a powerful device on such meagre speculation, so inquiries in this direction remain fruitless. This device would later be taken out of the doomsday vaults of the Mechanicum and used by the Steward to strike down the [[Nobledark_Imperium_Drafts#The_Rangdan_Xenocides_and_the_Slaugth|Rangda Abomination]] when it became clear that conventional options were just not enough.

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The original psi-disruptor gun is contained in the low-risk section on Ganymede. Psycannons are thought to be in some way derived from the study of the original device; a much cruder weapon, but one that can be made using currently available technology. Creation of the Psycannon is attributed to the founding of the Grey Knights, though to one of Magnus' students rather than the Primarch himself. Magnus the Red was without peer amongst humanity in terms of daemon-lore and warp studies, but neither he nor Russ were very good with machinery.

The downsides to Justinian’s psi-disruptor are that it takes a huge amount of time to charge up and is very easy to dodge, but if you’re fighting an Iron Mind — whose physical forms and central processing units are quite literal building complexes — both of these deficiencies are non-issues. The psi-disruptor also has quite a large “splash zone”; when Justinian fired the weapon at Theodora it didn’t just kill the Iron Mind but also horrifically mutilated and massacred every sapient creature within a few kilometers of the blast radius.

When Oscar fired the weapon at the Rangda Abomination, the only things in the blast radius were the abomination itself, some Slaugth and their bio-constructs, and members of various sapient species the Slaugth had taken as livestock and slaves (the latter of which nobody wanted to hit, but reasoned that a quick death was better than spending years living in the Slaugth's feedlots). The Imperium nevertheless ensured that all of their forces and allies stood well away when the disruptor was fired. The Eldar threw a fit over the possibility of Eldar chattel being in the blast zone — especially given those Eldar had no soul stones and would go straight to She Who Thirsts — but backed down when even they had to admit there wasn’t a better option. The best they could come up with was pulling one of their own doomsday devices out of Yme-Loc, which would probably blow up the planet and wouldn’t be much better. At least when using the mon-keigh device the Eldar slaves outside of the blast zone would survive.

The Steward also seriously considered using Justinian’s psi-disruptor on the corrupted Man of Gold back in M34, given how it was so insane that its path was easily predictable, before the Grey Knights managed to resolve that problem on their own. It is a horrible weapon built by a madman to kill a god, with a terrible history on top of whatever reality scarring power it might already direct, and tends to rack up a massive body count in collateral damaged whenever it is fired. It is little wonder the Steward is so reluctant to use it.

After striking the killing blow on Theodora with the psi-disruptor in the initial days of the Iron War, Justinian just kind of wandered off. The members of the resistance found him in the sands of Mars, sitting in a fetal position staring at something no one could see off in the distance, tears streaming down his cheeks. Mars’ carefully constructed biosphere had been stripped away by the Iron War, and the fourth planet of Sol had returned to the red wasteland humanity had first set foot on almost twelve millennia previously. Justinian knew why they were there, as he could see their minds. But one doesn’t have to be a Man of Gold to figure it out.

The resistance members knew their duty was to shoot and kill. Justinian was calm now, but who knew how long this bout of stability would last, and it wasn’t especially long ago that he was throwing around ships in Martian orbit like they were children’s toys to attack Theodora. At the same time, his executioners couldn't bring themselves to do it. Everyone there knew Justinian, possibly personally if someone like Tiberius was there, and Justinian had been there for almost every human on Earth since before they were born. The Justinian they knew didn’t deserve to die. And if he had to die, he deserved to go out in a blaze of glory. Demigods shouldn’t die like this.

There were no kine shields, no nuclear eruptions, none of the cosmic temper-tantrums that characterized the death of his kin across the galaxy. Just a simple question:

“Do you think... do you think she will be waiting for me on the other side?”

Weapons are raised.

[[*BLAM*|“Yes… she is…”]]

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=== Kinebrach Blades ===

See [[Nobledark_Imperium_Member_States#Kinebrach_Blades|Kinebrach Blades]]

== Adeptus Astartes (Space Marines) ==

''“A Space Marine chapter conquering a planet? Have you been watching those damn holovids again, boy? Let me be clear so I never hear this foolishness again. Could we glass a continent given space superiority and a Battle Barge? Yes. Could we decapitate a planet’s leadership and destroy their infrastructure, leaving them to wither on the vine? Yes, within an hour. [[Nobledark_Imperium_Notable_People#Kharn_the_Oathsworn|Could we shock and awe the enemy into a surrender if they are sufficiently cowardly or primitive? Perhaps.]] But make no mistake. If a planet has advanced to the nuclear age and the populace is intent on resistance, there is no way 2,500 men can hold it alone. I don’t care if you’re the damn Custodes or Grey Knights, you simply cannot be everywhere at once. Gather your strength, and they will simply rise up where you are not. Spread out, and they will overwhelm you with their numbers. Sometimes, quantity has a quality all its own.''

''Subjugation and garrison duty is not our purpose. We are Astartes. Space Marines. We were made to tread the stars and go where others cannot. We are the tip of the Imperium’s spear, striking swiftly and mercilessly at the enemy’s heart. We are the Emperor’s Angels of Death, descending from the sky to slay nightmares so that others may dream peacefully in their beds. Leave the business of conquest and subjugation to the Guard. They have their duty, and we have ours.”''<br>
— Scout-Sergeant Kohl Leibhen of the Raptors, addressing a group of Aspirants

The ideal age for Astartes augmentation is somewhere between 19 and 25 years of age. At this point, the individual is young enough that their body can recover from the trauma of the procedure, but old enough that the worth of giving them the enhancements is clear. In theory, older individuals could undergo Astartes augmentation, but the risk of complication is so high that the attempt would be severely impractical. By that same token, individuals younger than 19 might be able to handle the stress of Astartes augmentations better than older individuals, but at such an age the augmentations might affect their mental development. Ironically, the earlier and less stable versions of super soldier augmentation, such as the Thunder Warrior, Canis Helix, and Astartes Mark I augmentations, have a much higher compatibility rate and thus are viable for a much wider range of ages than the standard Mark III Astartes augmentations, in part because they are less invasive.

It should be noted that for all their similarities, the Space Wolves, Iron Hands, and their descendant chapters are not Astartes and therefore are both created differently and have their own strengths and weaknesses relative to Astartes. Canis Helix chapters like the Space Wolves are created by splicing large amounts of non-human DNA into the human genome (and therefore have no gene-seed), whereas Astartes are created by implanting artificially grown organs and glands into the human body. This means that despite being gene-locked to the Imperium's best efforts, a Canis Helix supersoldier could theoretically pass down some of their modifications to their descendants, which is something the Imperium did not want and one of the reasons the Astartes won out over the Canis Helix design. The probability of such an event is miniscule, but in a galaxy of scale such events cannot be discounted, as the inhabitants of the Fenrisian worlds demonstrate. Canis Helix soldiers are also noteworthy in their lack of the Black Carapace augmentation, which was one of the key features that led to the Astartes winning out over the Thunder Warriors and other super soldier designs. Instead, Space Wolves use a complex mind-to-machine interface designed by the Iron Priests. The interface is expensive and not cost-effective on a galactic scale, but it has allowed the Space Wolves to perform just as well as Astartes.

The Iron Hands and their descendants are modified Adeptus Mechanicus Skitarii, many of whom are possibly even augmented to the level of [[Thallax|Thallaxi]]. As a result, there are [[Female_Space_Marines|no real restrictions]] to who can join the Iron Hands or their descendant chapters beyond the ability to survive the augmentation procedure and being a part of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Skitarii also use a much wider range of augmentations and are often specialized for particular tasks, which means that the members of the Iron Hands and their descendants can be much more physically variable in their augmentations than the standardized augmentations of Astartes. Iron Hands and their descendant chapters do not have to worry about the Black Carapace issue, as their armor essentially is their body and thus makes an augmented connection between soldier and armor a moot point.

===The Breaking of the Legions===

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During the Great Crusade the Adeptus Astartes were organized into twenty distinct legions, each composed of thousands of Space Marines. By M41, however, the Adeptus Astartes have been divided into many distinct chapters, each about 1000-1200 strong and each descended at least in part from one of the eighteen legions that survived the War of the Beast. The reasons for this change in organization are complicated; many lay students of history often claim that the impetus for this change was Roboute Guilliman's Codex Astartes, published in 243.M31. However, like much of Guilliman's work, the Codex Astartes was meant to be a thought exercise in how the Adeptus Astartes could be more efficiently organized in a post-Great Crusade environment, and Guilliman would never have tried to shove his ideas down his fellow primarch's throats.

In truth, all of the legions split up for different reasons, and at different times.

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Several of the legions survived virtually intact for a little while longer under their new leaders, who would have probably been considered primarchs in their own right if they hadn't had to stand in their predecessors' shadows. Kharn found himself essentially taking over more and more of his legion's duties as Angron's health deteriorated. Abbadon was ambitious and charismatic enough to keep the Void Wolves in one piece for at least another generation. Leman Russ told Bjorn during a moment of mutual drunkenness to "look after the place while I step out for a minute". The next morning they realized Russ was gone and to make matters worse everyone had been just sober enough to remember what Russ had said the night before.

Other legions split up following the death of their primarch, or for simple matters of practicality. Old Man Khan called a meeting of the yabgu, despite not being dead yet, to make sure that whoever succeeded him would be competent enough not to run the legion into the ground. In a rare moment of humility, the yabgu compared themselves to Khan and realized that none of them could claim to have accomplished what Khan had accomplished by their age, and so the legion was split up. The descendants of the Thousand Sons, such as the Grey Knights, were already split up before their primarch's death (with the exception of the Blood Ravens), given that all were created to perform quite different, specialized tasks. The Imperial Fists found themselves splitting apart to fortify and garrison agri-worlds after the War of the Beast, on the basis that one cannot rebuild an empire if everyone is starving, and gradually drifted apart over the centuries. The same is true of the Iron Warriors and hive worlds and Iron Hands and forgeworlds. In these cases, Guilliman's Codex Astartes was seen as a natural framework for how to rework the legions into more autonomous units (though each legion implemented the Codex in their own way).

The Dark Angels are rather infamous for having split up before Guilliman ever wrote the Codex Astartes, after two-thirds of their number turned traitor during the War of the Beast. The Lion split the remaining loyalists into knightly orders and instituted the rank of Watcher to ensure that no one individual could ever subvert the entire legion. Guilliman may have actually been thinking of the Dark Angels when he wrote some parts of the Codex.

The Death Guard never really split up, even with the death of their primarch. Unlike the other legions, they have never truly stopped marching to war.

There were two real death knells for the concepts of a legion as a whole. The first was when Belarius the Abdicator refused to take up command of the full host of the Blood Angels after the death of Sanguinus, knowing full well that his entire reign would be spent in the shadow of the Martyr Angel. Instead, he took command of a much more reasonably sized contingent of Blood Angels, nearly all survivors of the War of the Beast, with Belarius giving the most competent of the remaining Blood Angels command of their own groups. This set the precedent for most legions of breaking up into chapters after the death of their Primarch.

The other was the “Iron Cage” incident that happened to Fulgrim sometime in early M31. Fulgrim had always been a micro-manager, and was one of the strongest opponents against breaking the legions into chapters. However, after the War of the Beast, the sheer number of small-scale conflicts across the rebuilding Imperium and a lack of local autonomy meant that the Empire’s Sons were ground down to about half the size of their prime merely by attrition alone, despite being one of the biggest recruiters of new Astartes. The breaking point for the legion was when the Empire’s Sons got caught in a trap set up by a Tzeentch-worshipping Big Wyrd. The Wyrdboy was never caught, and by the end of it Fulgrim was left with enough marines to scrape into a little less than three chapters. After that point, even the strongest detractors of the Codex Astartes (with the exception of some particularly stubborn cases like the Death Guard) had to admit that Guilliman had a point.

However, despite this, successor chapters have not completely caught all ties with one another. Most chapters still retain close ties with their former brethren in other chapters, and many chapters have officer exchange programs to encourage loyalty to the Imperium as a whole rather than a particular world or individual. Nevertheless, chapters are expected to be open about all inter-chapter interactions, and unofficial brotherhoods are officially banned by explicit decree of the Emperor to prevent the rise of another individual like Luther from fostering ties of soft power beneath the nose of the Imperium. One of the jobs of the Inquisition’s Ordo Militarum is to make sure the Adeptus Astartes keep to this decree.

Additionally, by his own admission, Guilliman’s organizational suggestions were designed for times of relative peace, rather than all-out galactic war. In times of great crisis, the First Founding chapters (who are considered first among equals among successor chapters, and whose original members were often some of the best soldiers of each legion) have the right to call for a Reformation of the Legion, where the successor chapters would temporarily unite to lock arms and march under the united banner of the old legion once more. This policy is sometimes called the Last Wall policy, as Guilliman reputedly got this idea based on suggestions by the consummate soldier Rogal Dorn, who understood that the War of the Beast was not going to be the last major war the Imperium would face.

Responding to this call is completely voluntary, but many chapters consider it shameful for a successor chapter to refuse to answer the call, particularly since a call for a Reformation of the Legion is reserved for only the direst of emergencies that threaten the entire Imperium. The only time a refusal of the call is ever considered acceptable is if a chapter is severely undermanned or if they are physically unable to respond due to being directly under attack themselves. For example, the Lamenters were unable to respond to a call for the temporary reformation of the Blood Angels during the 12th Black Crusade, due to suffering from severe manpower losses beforehand. The Lamenters still blame themselves for not being able to respond to the call, even if the rest of the Imperium doesn’t.

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===Current Chapters===
====The Minotaurs====
The Minotaurs are something of a boogeyman among Space Marines. They are a group that make even battle-hardened Astartes quiver, and are spoken of in hushed tones. The reason for this fear and paranoia is rather simple: The Minotaurs are Space Marines that hunt Space Marines.

The first recorded instance of a Space Marine considering tactics against other Space Marines was the Ultramarine Aeonid Thiel. During the Great Crusade, Thiel was dragged before Guilliman by his fellow Ultramarines for teaching the marines under his command tactics for fighting other Space Marines, which they saw as a sign of treachery. Guilliman asked whether this was true, and upon being told it was, asked Thiel to explain himself. Thiel said that as Ultramarines it was the duty of the legionnaires to be prepared for any possible eventuality. Although the idea of Astartes becoming traitors to the Imperium was an uncomfortable one that did not mean it was impossible, nor that Astartes could not be unwillingly brainwashed into turning on their battle brothers like they had during the Rangdan Xenocides. After hearing Thiel’s explanation, Guilliman asked the two Ultramarines who had brought Thiel to him to leave the room, and then congratulated Thiel for his ingenuity. He was willing to entertain possibilities no one else could or wanted to consider, and just because people didn't like the implications of such a scenario did not invalidate the utility of any such contingency plans. The Space Marines were created by the Imperium to be their finest warriors in the reconquest of the stars, and who is to say another, more hostile human empire could not have had a similar idea. Thiel would be rewarded for his ingenuity — though for obvious reasons not at that very moment. Thiel would finally be validated and his actions recognized during the War of the Beast, where the actions of Luther and his Fallen showed the idea that a Space Marine could turn traitor to be a frightening reality.

The Minotaurs were originally founded by a War Hound named Leon Kravidos, shortly after the Age of Apostasy, as a chapter dedicated to fighting against the Fallen. Kravidos knew that in order to fight other Space Marines his men would have to be at the very peak of their potential. Therefore, he created a downright gruelling training regimen by Space Marine standards, designed to make his men prepared for anything. Despite his job, Kravidos was actually well respected among the Astartes, and was deeply mourned when he died in battle. For thousands of years after that, the Minotaurs were rather unnotable among the Space Marine chapters. Their job of hunting down fallen Space Marines was well known, but they were seen as people just doing their jobs as opposed to someone to be feared. That is, until the latest Chapter Master of the Minotaurs, Asterion Moloc, took control of the chapter in 200.M41, after the death of his predecessor in the Badab War.

In contrast to many in the Imperium who spend much of their time in pursuit of a particular foe, such as Inquisitor Boaz Kryptman and the tyranids, Asterion Moloc does not feel a festering hatred for his enemy. Instead, he seems to take the attitude of a big game hunter hunting the most dangerous game. He seems to take a perverse joy in hounding his targets to the ends of their endurance before delivering the final blow. He spends hours reviewing all known records and tactics of his quarry, so that he knows every possible move his prey can make before even they do. He does this even for chapters that have not been assigned as his targets yet.

For obvious reasons, most Space Marines are uncomfortable with the Minotaurs, considering them to be, in the words of one Astartes scout who wished to remain anonymous, “team-killing frag-heads”. Indeed, the Minotaurs in recent years have been known to be a bit too eager in their desire to fight Space Marines, sometimes flying off the handle at an innocent chapter at the urging of some particularly radical or puritan Inquisitor. About the only people who feel comfortable around the Minotaurs are the Sisters of Battle, who often cooperate with the Minotaurs in operations involving the Fallen.

==== The Dragon Lords ====

The history of the Dragon Lords dates back to the founding of Praetoria, in the days of the post-Beast rebuilding. It was deemed that the military side of the endeavour would require the substantial presence and use of Space Marines to remove some of the more fearsome and prepared horrors that had moved in during the intervening years. As Primarch Vulkan was the overall commander in bringing the worlds of Wilderness Space back to the light of civilization, it was understandable when one of his newly minted chapters set up a way station alongside the more entrepreneurial efforts of the Gredbrittonic founding families.

The head of the space marines in this endeavour was Commander Xiaphas Jurr of the Afrique League, a former Chaplain. Commander Jurr never let the change in position from preacher of the Promethean faith to overall commander interfere with his missionary work and vice versa, and Praetoria's growth into a mostly Promethean world is largely his doing. This was not without practical merit, as the forces raised from Praetoria all held a faith in common, even as the years went on, and were all the closer for it. It has been speculated that the noble feuds of later years would undoubtedly have bloomed into minor wars without this vague sense of brotherhood.

As Praetoria grew from a minor service stop into a nation, the waystation he commanded likewise grew, such that in time it was declared a Chapter in its own right with Jurr as its commander — a rank he wore well. He and his newly designated Dragon Lords were now distinct from the rest of the Prometheans, as although he had been influencing the world he commanded, so too had it been influencing him.

As the population of Praetoria grew, the Dragon Lords soon found that they could recruit from the planet exclusively even with the introduction of the Tithe. Before the tithe, the military of Praetoria was predominantly composed of the house militias and private military companies of the nobility, with only the Red Coats — the mostly ceremonial soldiers of the Parliamentary Herald — representing the planet as a whole. At the time, the Red Coats were seen as a token force of no real concern and the butt of many jokes due to their lack of real experience and attachment to a figurehead rather than anyone with any real power.

This changed when the Imperial Army demanded its due. They didn't want soldiers loyal to any one city or lord in contest with their comrades of the same world. They wanted soldiers loyal to the Imperium representing their world as a unified whole. The imposition of a standard uniform was seen as a way to gently erode those mental barriers; they were one and all Praetorian. The distinctive green and black colour scheme of the Dragon Lords was surrendered not long after, coincidentally a few days after the death of Xiaphas Jurr, to their current red and ivory as a show of solidarity with the common soldier.

By this time, native-born Gernebern of Auchmouth — a progeny who rose fast but died a mere few centuries later — had taken command of the Space Marines and was the source of many reforms within the chapter. It was deemed prudent to have the chapter integrate even more closely with the common soldiery, splitting the companies up into squads and placing them on long term loan to the — at the time — 90 regiments of the Praetorian Guard as specialist squads. All but one company was split in such a manner, and the remaining company was to remain whole to guard their homeworld at all times.

Despite all the upheavals and political manoeuvrings — which could fill a very dry library in their own right — the contributions that Praetoria has made to the conquest, rebuilding, and protection of the wilderness worlds and beyond are often overlooked. Indeed, it was to this noble endeavour that Commander Jurr sacrificed himself. Were it not for the diligence, vigilance and sacrifices of the red coated Praetorians, the Orks, marauders, and worse would have just swept right back in, and the fates of those that called these places home would have been, at best, pitiable.

==== The Mortifactors ====
The Mortificators are a brother chapter to the Ultramarines, both being founded by veterans of the War of The Beast from Legion XIII in the days of The Rebuilding. The head of the force sent out that formed the core of the original Mortificators was commanded by the esteemed but eccentric — some would say slightly bonkers — Sasebo Tezuka. Tezuka was originally a child of the strange land of Strayllya on Old Earth, and had begun his military career in the earliest days of the Great Crusade. He was an accomplished man who commanded the respect of his men despite his oddness. One of these oddities was a seeming over-reliance on signs and portents that he used to make his decisions even though he himself was no psyker, and although he did employ them he didn’t use them for divination. Though he relied on what was essentially random chance, Tezuka seldom went irretrievably astray and more often than not followed a correct path. In more recent times people have wondered if the King of Clowns had anything to do with the roll of those bones, but no answer that any could understand has been forthcoming.

With the breakup of the XIII Legion, Captain — now Chapter Master — Tezuka was free to follow the omens as his cards and bones would show him and by a roundabout means, thirty years of wandering brought him to the world of Posul. If Posul was meant to be some sort of Promised Land it was not one given from any god that cared for its followers; Posul was dreary and dark, and by some fluke of topography and atmospheric composition it was eternally shrouded in a permanent and extremely heavy overcast lit only by two small, dim suns. It was a world of extremely dark nights and extremely dim days — and it was not unclaimed.

A hardy breed of man survived on that world, pale and slight of build with big dark eyes. They were primitive in those days, having in the time since man’s apex devolved to something that resembled Mesolithic era humanity. It was assumed at the time that their fall from grace, so complete as it was, was solely a result of an environment that was best and most politely described as very bleak. The plant life was typically sparse, with dark purple leaves to maximize the available energy from the dim suns, and the whole world had the general feeling of a deep-sea vent ecosystem on dry land.

Although that bleakness was almost certainly a contributing factor, it was not the whole story. The Posuli could fairly be described as the Death Cult of the Death Cults. They followed the faiths of the Deorum Mortuus Est, or at least adhered to the teachings of those who had slain their gods. Master Tezuka and his followers, dictated by omens to settle on this world, learned the stories of the eldest of the eldest priests and, backed up by their own findings in the Verboten Lands held by all tribes in inviolate sacrosanctity for time beyond mind, came to a startling conclusion: the natives — though not now — had once been worshipers of Chaos.

Their gods had been very real and walked among them awful and powerful, ordering great temples be built to them and demanding holocaust and sacrifice to feed them. Over the long years they had brought the Posuli low, to the point of being naught but cattle to the slaughter of unworthy butcher gods, until one day men led by the “dream-walkers” rose up, and were not struck down but instead did strike back with a righteous fire. Estimates by the off-worlders put the date of the uprising at approximately two centuries prior to the Posuli's discovery by the wider Imperium. The locals had no calendars and so none could know for sure, but it seemed that the gods of Posul were overthrown on or around the day of The Raid of the Mansion.

But the Posuli were by then a thoroughly broken people. Presumably their ancestors had been of the Great and Bountiful Human Dominion, stranded here in the early days of the Age of Strife, and presumably they did retain some measure of civility for some time, but if that is true none of that civility survived. The locals had nothing that they remembered of greatness, nothing to aspire to and no notion of lasting joy. They carried on much as they had, with cannibalistic rituals and constant wars of tribal slaughter. Tribal warriors would war and the victors would kill all of the men-folk and children and take the women as their own, and they would try to hold what land they could claim of the fallen’s holdings until displaced or the tribe split through internal unrest and warred upon once-kin.

It was into this savagery that Chapter Master Sasebo Tezuka of Legion XIII descended. His first interaction with a local was when a boy — barely old enough to grow his first chin hairs — stabbed him in the gut with a stone tipped spear. Sasebo had approached the nearest tribe unarmoured and unarmed, wearing a simple coarse jute robe with only a brother-psyker at his side, to show peaceful intent and appear as unthreatening as an Astartes can. The spear tip cut into his skin and stopped at the black carapace. The lad received a backhander that knocked several of his teeth out; it was extremely easy to follow him back to his tribe.

Some worlds welcome the Imperium as returning brothers from the stars. Some worlds react poorly to Imperial attempts to uplift them. Few were as reluctant as the Posuli, who by then had no notion of anything greater than a tribe and no understanding of any social order more complex than "the strong rule and the weak are food". Generally, the Imperium tries to keep as much of the substance of a culture as possible in its uplifting. Master Sasebo couldn’t really see much worth keeping, and as the days passed the other teams that had investigated other tribes reported much of the same. It was a long and bloody road to remake the Posuli into any sort of real society, and Master Tezuka had fallen to the unknowable things of The Harrowing long before then.

In the end the people of Posul were brought, reluctant every step of the way, into the light of civilization. Although their world could never be tamed it was made better than awful, and it was possible to live there rather than just be sentenced. In the end the Posuli were taken to the stars again and became a part of the Imperium, if only a minor part. The people of Posul were found, despite being classed as abhuman Nightsiders, to be compatible with the Astartes Mk III MP gene-seed, and in the intervening years were made worthy of it. In time they raised regiments of their own to aid the Imperium that had taken then from the dirt. But it could not be said that they did not affect the chapter as it uplifted them, especially once the Mortifactors started to recruit from Posul.

The cannibalistic rituals were replaced with haemovorous rituals, and human sacrifices exchanged with deep drug-induced comatose vision seeking. The Mortifactors adopted both of these rituals. Thus, down the long march of years, while the chapter had amended the beliefs of the locals for their own betterment, the Mortifactors had also ended up adopting these beliefs and took up the scriptures of the Dead Gods. As such, the Mortificators were never seen as desirable allies. They were unpleasantly weird and typically possessed a grim disposition. But they were valued and so were their people. It was not to last.

In the year 997M39 the Leviathan fell upon Posul. There was no hope of saving the world. All those dusty temples where man had slain their gods, all those strange tribes and wandering soothsayers, all the victories of the Imperium to make men out of monsters, all of those works of art carved into pale stone and lit pink and deep red by the dim red suns, were all washed away in a tide of chitin that were in turn washed away in nuclear fire. Basilica Mortis, the great star fort of the Mortificators, had managed to remain hidden by strange Eldar trickery, and in its vaulted halls were held the last hopes of that world. As many of the keepers of the stories and children to tell those stories to were kept as safe as could be in the hidden Astartes stronghold. On the surface of Posul, the men, women, and Space Marines of that grim, dark world gave their lives to draw the Hive to them, to trick the Hive into believing that it was winning. Lord Magyar ordered the atomics released at the last possible moment, transforming the time when hope should have been turned to despair instead into righteous wrath and retribution, and for a moment he beheld his home in sunlight before the fire consumed him.

And it was beautiful.

Posul is now a dead world, as perhaps is fitting. It is unlikely that the Adeptus Biologis will agree to terraform it in this age, as even in the old days it was never a particularly worthy candidate for such an endeavour. And as for the remnants of the Posuli and the Mortificators? They endure, barely. Hearing of their plight their distant kin in the Ultramarines petitioned the Imperium to grant them refuge, and they were granted a place on the basis that so few people would likely cause little disruption to any adoptive planet. The Mortificators requested long ruined Calth to settle upon and try and make a home. The people of Calth were initially unenthusiastic about the idea, to say the least, as their caverns and hollows were precious to them. When they learned that the Posuli wished to live in the wastelands of the surface, where none had dwelt since the devastation ten thousand years past, they were considerably more amenable. The Posuli, for their part, said that they could cover their eyes in the day and sleep and in the night, and sometimes they could pretend that they were home once more.

The Mortificators will rebuild. Death has not claimed them yet.

==== The Black Legion ====

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The Void Wolves are Astartes primarily used as boarding/anti-boarding specialists throughout the Great Crusade and 1st Black Crusade. The majority of the pre-split Void Wolves Astartes ended up in this chapter. They call the worlds of the Cadian Gate their home, and recruit from these and nearby systems. The Void Wolves still operate much as the Legion of old, in that they are massively represented in the boarding parties of the Navy assets in the Cadian sector, but with the emphasis put more on garrison duty.

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'''Lord Commander Corpulax was previous Lord Commander of Black Legion'''

Corpulax was born on Cadia in the year 446M41, and like all Cadians was inducted into the military and raised to be a good little soldier. It wasn't long into his adolescence that his physical prowess was recognized. As such, he was genetically screened and earmarked for the Black Legion. He trained well and hard as a Neophyte and learned deeply of the chapter's venerable lore. In his 15th year, he started to undergo the surgical alterations and augmentations that would turn him from human to Astartes.

His career as a Space Marine was noteworthy in his reliability. He was a very by-the-book soldier, who would have been overlooked for any measure of excellence were it not for his ability to exemplify everything the chapter's battle doctrines exalted. He was, in every way, the very model of a Cadian Space Marine. By age 176 he was a sergeant, by 239 he was a Marshal, and by 301 he was Lord Commander. And it was a role he excelled at — for the brief time that he held that rank, at least. In the year 775M41, a mere 28 years into his command, the Apostles of Contagion launched a sustained attack on the agri-world of Phagir. Phagir was one of the worlds that supplied the Cadian Gate with food. Presumably their goal — or at least the goal of their masters — was to inconvenience the Gate Worlds, as were they to succeed the Gate Worlds would have to import all foodstuffs.

The Apostles of Contagion launched a sustained campaign in their defensive style of land holding and attrition, supplemented by extensive biological warfare. In the end it was deemed an untenable theater by the Adeptus Biologis order stationed on the planet; they couldn't make cures as fast as the Apostles could make ails. The Cadian forces were instrumental in the evacuation of Phagir as the Zombie Virus finally took hold and the dead shambled across the blighted fields to add the living to their ranks.

The Black Legion held the line at the capital's spaceport until the last moment - to get just one more shuttle off of the planet. In the final stages of the withdrawal it became clear that Lord Commander Corpulax was infected with the Zombie Virus, for which there was no cure save a clean death. Wracked in pain and wroth with righteous fury, Corpulax spent his last moments sprinting towards a techno-abomination of rust and rotted flesh merged together into what might once have been a Baneblade. Its burning wreckage was his funeral pyre as the IEDs he had strapped to himself detonated.

By his sacrifice one more shuttle, containing nearly 2,000 civilians and the last of his brothers on the surface, made it safely off the launch pad. The planet was subsequently bathed in nuclear fire; it was lost but it would not be damned.

'''Lord Commander Zagthean the Broken'''

Zagthean was the son of a long-term "soup stirrer" of the algae vats and a sister of the Convent of Alabaster Maidens. Civilian jobs on Cadia are typically — though not always — given to individuals disqualified from front line service for reasons of either health or competence. As good 'ol Zaganath had been doing that job from age 12 to age 62, it can be safely assumed that he was given the job for being pretty useless at proper soldiering. This was not to say that he wasn't a dutiful man; he died in a Chaos raid with a Cadian weapon in his hands and Cadian honor in his heart, and he didn't go down quietly nor alone. Matylda was sister of the Alabaster Maidens, a widespread order with convents on several dozen worlds in the Cadian Sector that specialized in offering healthcare to the underclasses. On Cadia, they offered healthcare to the more broken veterans.

Despite his humble beginnings, Zagthean has proven a savage warrior — more of Angron's ilk than Horus'. He has charged into battles no man or Astartes should ever have hoped to walk out of, and has not only done so but done so victorious. Even in his earliest days he was dauntless, and he set into every task and training exercise put before him with an almost alarming ferocity. After his genetic screening there was no question of him being looked over for Space Marine augmentation, and the fire in his heart was not diminished even slightly by the alterations; if anything with fewer physical constraints he approached the status of truly unstoppable.

His will is adamantium and among his chapter his word is law. To the Lord Castellan's annoyance he insists on leading from the front; in the thick of the carnage, the blood and the thunder flowing past him. Roaring with laughter and wroth joy, all mortals who have stood against him have known one simple truth: they have come here to die and their gods — from the greatest to the least — have all abandoned them.

He is relatively young for a man of his rank, but he has lived hard and built up an impressive record. But the price of living so hard is that he has seen death many times, and they have danced ever closer. He has been broken down and rebuilt, torn apart and stitched back whole, burned, healed, cut, stitched, glued, grafted, and lashed back together. What's left is almost poured over, rather than connected to, an ever increasing number of cybernetics. He may have fallen many times, but he is still alive. He does not march, he charges; he wills Death to find him, to hold him one last time so that he may beseech her "let me take these bastards out with me". And always Death has returned him.

As the 13th Black Crusade descends upon Cadia, it may be that his wish could be granted. He may die, but he will take whole armies down with him.

'''Ygethmor the Trickster, Head of the Black Legion Battle Psykers'''

Of Old Earth stock and a resilient psychic of pristine physique, Ygethmor was initially destined for the Grey Knights. Though the tests of genetic compatibility showed positive, the artificial organs of the MK III S gene-seed would not take root in his flesh. Unwilling to just toss such a promising neophyte aside for such paltry reasons as a biological fluke, the Grey Knights ordered him to be tested with the MK III MP variant of the gene-seed. The MP variant did take and Ygethmor was posted to the Cadian Gate — typically they would have sent him to the Exorcists but he lacked their "straightforward" attitude to problem-solving. Steeped in ancient daemon lore learned in the halls of Titan and with a Nemesis Blade as a parting gift, Ygethmor has proven to be a boon to the Black Legion like no other.

He is fond of ambushes, illusions, misdirection and what he affectionately likes to refer to as "pranks". He is formidable in a straight-up and honest fight — if he has no option to make a dishonest one. He has no notions of fair play and considers the idea of "fair play" synonymous with "not trying". It is this underhanded attitude towards warfare that has won him the approval of the Lord Castellan (and few others). That and a well-refined and caustic sense of humour.

Despite his detractors, of which he has cultivated a great many, Ygethmor's effectiveness can not be denied. He is not the most powerful psychic among the Astartes — not by a great margin — but like his martial strength he makes the most of what he has. As he would say, "a stiletto atwixt the sternum is as good as a broadsword to the bonce".

'''Devram Korda, Marshal of the 1st Cohort'''

At approximately 230 years of age Marshal Devram Korda is on the younger end of the Black Legion's Marshals, but he is far from unaccomplished. His rank was attained in the Liberation of Sarora, an intense war on the hiveworld Sarora to depose the warband known as the Children of Torment; a nasty group of Crone Worlders with faux marines stitched together from the bodies of their victims and animated with lesser daemons. As the most senior surviving officer left after a particularly nasty assault, Davram was given temporary command over his brothers. This was made permanent at the conclusion of the campaign, when contact was re-established with Lord Castellan Jakren Stein and the rest of the Cadian 509th.

The things he saw on Sarora, the things he had to do for the sake of pity, still haunt him. He is a grim figure, with no sense of humour or good cheer. Just a seething, well-controlled, and bottomless grudge.

'''Marshal Araghast the Pillar, Marshal of the 2nd Cohort'''

Abnormally large for a Space Marine and phenomenally strong besides, Marshal Araghast lugs around a lascannon with the same ease as an experienced guardsman lugs around a Lasgun. His aim is exemplary, and for a creature so big he can move surprisingly fast. In his oversized suit of armour Araghast can withstand a punishing amount of fire and remains standing, carefully and calmly placing laser beams in the most inconvenient places. He rose to prominence in the Aurelia debacle that almost saw a world lost to the warp. He was the pillar of certainty around which the rescue forces rallied.

He has a calm and measured manner and an unflappable temperament, and remains — or can at least give the impression of remaining — relaxed in even the most bizarre and awful circumstances.

'''Xorphas Firestarter, Marshal of the 3rd Cohort'''

Xorphas is very good at pyrotechnics and incendiaries of all kinds, and possesses a fascination with fire that borders on the unhealthy. This has, however, made him and his Cohort extremely good at dealing with orks and Nurglites in particular, and anything else that resents being set on fire in general. He is also a low level psychic, though despite the rumours he is not a pyrokine. His "gifts", if one can call them that, manifested only after he attained the position of Marshal, and by then he was too far along the chain of command for it to be worth the effort and disruption of reassigning him to the Battle Psykers. He was given extensive instruction by the head Librarian so that he would be considered safe, but little in how to hone what he actually does have — which is not very much if truth be told. He has very good gut instincts that can be mistaken for inhuman reflexes (even by Astartes standards), an uncanny ability to determine if someone is lying, and some modest telekinetic ability.

He is a reserved and calm individual, meticulous and methodical in his approach to all things — be it war or mundane chores. Until you give him a box of matches and you can see the flickering flames reflected in his eyes.

'''Drecarth the Sightless, Marshal of the 4th Cohort'''

A veteran of the 12the Black Crusade who spent half the invasion stranded in the lower tunnels, hunted by Crone Worlders with knives for fingers. Those knives had cost him his eyes, but he cost them much more. Those tunnels were pitch black, but he was blind anyway. As such, although the Crones could see to some degree in total darkness, Drecarth could hear perfectly well and thus eschewed the corrupted Eldars' handicapped sight for a clear, inhuman hearing. Drecarth had yet another advantage, as those tunnels had been his playground as a child; they weren't just tunnels, they were home. The hunt quickly turned inside out, and the Chaos Eldar came to the realization that he wasn't trapped with them, they were trapped with him. When he returned to the light he was reborn, and his star was ascendant.

With two black orbs of technology replacing his ruined eyes and an unhealthily pale visage, Marshal Drecarth looks like a spectre from the old stories; some unhappy undead returned to get even. He has moulded his company into one of quiet killers, stalkers, and hunters, as he had been in the time of his epiphany. It is suspected that he is part of the secretive Cadian Death Faith, as it was prevalent in his patch of tunnels when he was young, but nothing can be proven. All that is known is that he is sober, diligent, humble, and quiet. All traits he tries to instil in his brothers.

'''Amalaxis Deamonslayer, Marshal of the 5th Cohort'''

Amalaxis is as close to a Chaplain as you can get without actually being one. He is a strong, almost fanatical, believer in the old Cadian tree gods. He offers prayers and devotion to them on the eve of battle, before setting forth on campaign, when another invasion is expected, and when it is peaceful because on Cadia — you have to be thankful for respite. Most of his Cohort are also adherents of his faith — the reason he was chosen as Marshal of the 5th Cohort — and to them he is a figure of great reverence. Some say he was a tree spirit in a stillborn child, like in the old stories of before war.

His method of warfare is very much in favour of the aggressive advance. Ideally after the first attack there should be no possibility of a retaliation. There must be something to his faith, as the hymns he roars as he charges into battle have daemons clutching their bleeding ears.

'''Valicar "the Graven" Hyne, Marshal of the 6th Cohort'''

Unlike Marshal Drecarth, Marshal Valicar Hyne makes no secret of his adherence to the Death Faith. Why should he? Why should he have to skulk in the dark and hide? This candidness has not won him many friends in the faith, all of whom agree that discretion has served them well since the Age of Strife. The rest of the Chapter just think he's a bit eccentric and the baseline Cadians just assume all augmented are a bit loopy — assuming they haven't actually met a Space Marine before.

Despite the implications of his religion, he is a bombastic man who loves the simple pleasures in life; pretty women, good food, and fine ale. Also jetpacks and air assaults. If the battle can be met hurling out of a speeding aircraft, it is a good day for Marshal Valicar. It is suspected that most of the 6th Cohort follow him out of morbid fascination.

'''Verzekh the Siege Engine, Marshal of the 7th Cohort'''

Verzekh has the distinction of being the only member of the Marshals to retain rank whilst interred in a Dreadnaught. Most Dreadnaughts become sleepy as a result of the painkillers and mechanisms that keep them in their half-life — not a good trait in a leader. Not so with old Verzekh. Whether by some incorrect implementation of his sarcophagus or a deviation in his brain, Verzekh has not slept in over 1,800 years and so far seems to be suffering no ill effects. Attempts to duplicate this miracle in others have had no notable success.

He is armed with two power claws with under-slung Meltas, with which he has obliterated the defenses of hundreds of bunkers and fortifications and uncountable tanks. His personality since his internment has actually improved, if the historical records are anything to go off of, now having a very pleasant and cheerful disposition. Verzekh puts this down to the painkillers. His favored method of warfare is the slow and unstoppable advance.

'''Kor Megron "Corpsemaker", Marshal of the 8th Cohort'''

Many times repaired and cybernetically patched up — though not the extent of the Lord Commander — Marshal of the 8th Cohort Kor Megron is a fan of going fast and going hard. Bikes, land speeders, jet packs, and anything else that can deliver high velocity death are his bread and butter. Standing still, he claims, makes you a target in a way that no additional fire power will compensate for. The rest of his chapter call him slightly manic. He calls them worse. In war — as in life — there is the target. You get target fast, find another target, get other target, repeat until target exhaustion or death. There is no stop, there is no slowing, until the job is done. To stop invites death.

The Cohort that he has assembled are all, like himself, lay-technicians. They need to be able to perform basic rituals of repair to their vehicles at a moment's notice. To lose the momentum is to invite failure. Possibly exacerbating these traits is his knowledge that he is indeed dying; some poison of Dark Eldar design — half-real and half-not — flickers through his veins. He has maybe a few years at most left. If the intent of this poison was supposed to debilitate him with despair or fear, it has failed. If anything, it's made him far more dangerous in the time he has left.

'''Troskzer The Elder, Marshal of the 9th Cohort.'''

Older than some of the younger dreadnaughts, Marshal Troskzer is old even by the standards of near-immortals. Given the time distorting effects of warp travel and the amount of time he has travelled through said warp, Troskzer isn't sure exactly how old he is. He was born in the year 998M40, but he could be as "young" as 850. That said, Space Marine biology and rejuvenant treatments can only take you so far, and he is approaching exactly as far as they can take him. What Troskzer has lost in strength and speed he has made up for in experience and animal cunning. He is without peer when it comes to the use of landscape and natural resources as a means of gaining an advantage. He can plan ambushes almost as well as the Lord Castellan, and his ability to smell weakness is bordering on the unnatural. If you have a place where you are vulnerable he will find it and he will hurt you. He is patient and will fuck up your day at the most inopportune time. This, combined with an inhuman ability to comprehend not just his battlefield but an entire planetary campaign, makes him far more dangerous off the field of battle than on it. But he is a Space Marine, he will not be shamed by staying where it is safe.

Despite his seniority — and to his relief — he was never considered for the job of Lord Commander. A Lord Commander has to have a sense of diplomacy and people skills. Troskzer has neither. He's a cantankerous, introverted, belligerent arsehole overly fond of sarcasm and seems to be staying alive just because it pisses people off.

'''Starkzahn, Marshal of the 10th Cohort.'''

Saviour of Darristen and ███████ █████████ ██████ ███ ██████ ██ ████████ ████ ███ █████████ ██████ ████████████ █████ ████. Known to have spent near thirty years in the Deathwatch and a further twenty five in the personal employ of a particular Inquisitor, neither of which he will talk about. It is suspected that he has travelled and fought as far as the Eastern Fringe — or at the very least near it — as he is well versed in the teaching of Aun'Va, though it is unlikely that he will be able to convince his countrymen of the virtues of the Greater Good.

His method of waging war is a combination of movement and fire, be it in the form of artillery or tactical squads that looks oddly familiar to anyone who has seen warfare in the Damocles Gulf.

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== Oficios and Adepta ==

=== The Assassins ===

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''Monsters Of Our Own Making:'''''

The Officio Assassinorum was one of the oldest arms of the Imperial Government, and its roots date back to the barbarity and cruelty of the Old Night. Perhaps it was fitting that, as the Warlord became the Steward and the Unification became the Great Crusade, the ancient orders of assassins were finally brought to heel and integrated into the Imperium proper.

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The Rebuke at Mount Vengeance is the common story of the Officio Assassinorum's founding. In those days, the young Imperium was mired in battles far and wide, but one particular front was facing opposition that none seemed able to counter. Here, commanding officers and vital figures were dying at an alarming rate, even in the safety of their secured rear; although their deaths were suspected to be the work of the enemy, all of them seemed to have died of natural causes. The Warlord simply appointed new generals and ordered veteran bodyguards for the ones already in theatre, but in response his loathsome foes only grew bolder. Ever more evidence of their activities was left behind, seemingly taunting the Imperium for their inability to protect their own; clean killings becoming vicious slaughters of officers and civilians alike. Many commanders were found butchered in their headquarters with a single bodyguard left alive, usually little more than a traumatised wreck stammering about technological sorcery beyond even that of the Warlord's Mechanicus allies.

Incensed at the atrocities inflicted upon his people, the Warlord made war on the Assassin Temples of the Salt Spires. Little is known about the Spires or their mercenary and heartless Masters, for many archives of their history were lost in the anarchy of the War of the Beast (although this may well have been Vangorich's objective all along). The Warlord did his best to spread his own view — that the assassins were little but cowardly shadows who thought they could behead the Imperium — but even his presence and words did little to bolster armies plagued by fear and paranoia, and so he began using the antithesis of their own doctrine to plot their downfall. There were no grand offensives, no bold strikes, nothing that seemed major enough to warrant the assassins moving against it; yet suddenly they found their supplies of everything from ammunition to promethium — and most importantly, water — were perilously low. In their weakened state, the Temples knew they could not face the Warlord's forces, and so they came before him to seek treaty.

At Mount Vengeance, the Temple Masters met to offer peace to the Warlord.
At Mount Vengeance, they received his full scorn.
The Warlord was not content with their mere offer of fealty. For the atrocities the Masters had inflicted on his people — for the lives they had taken so cruelly — the Warlord would not be content with a glorified armistice. He gave them an offer of his own: total surrender, or total annihilation. Those were their only choices.

Some of the Temple Masters, emboldened by hubris, unwisely struck the Warlord. They died. Some fled. They died, later. But on the mountain and around it — for many assassins had followed their Masters, perhaps out of loyalty or some morbid curiosity — others remained, bowing in total capitulation to the Warlord and the futility of resisting this god amongst men. For his part, the Warlord acted rather appropriately in that role, passing judgement on each Master and their assassins. Some were found guilty of crimes beyond forgiveness and were slain — often by their peers as a test of loyalty. Others were granted the "clemency" of banishment into the salt wastes. Only one was judged pure enough to be worthy of leadership — and, as the new Grandmaster of Assassins, he was assured that the temples that surrendered would remain intact, albeit in service of the Imperium under the watchful eye of Malcador.

Thus was formed the Officio Assassinorum. Malcador was pleased with the Warlord's mercy, for it showed no amount of fury would blind him to true talent. A few thousand years later, the assassins proved that such talent brought risks, especially from those as secretive as the assassins.

In 546.M32, the Grandmaster of the Officio Assassinorum attempted to assassinate the High Lords of Terra. The Beheading, as it has since come to be know, was shrouded in mystery; with events restricted to the Imperial Palace, motive, means, and for some figures even identity have been lost to the shrouds of time. All that has survived to this day is that the Inquisitorial Representative, the Master of the Astronomicon, the Paternal Envoy of the Navigators, and the Fabricator-General of the Adeptus Mechanicus were all killed before the Steward was able to stop Grandmaster Vangorich's terror.

Naturally, many asked how Vangorich was able to get as far as he did. Perhaps the sheer scale of the events already taking place at the time (especially the rising threat of the Beast) was responsible, since it was one of the few periods in Imperial history where the High Lords were forced to abandon their usual backstabbing and power plays that kept the Officios and Adepta in check, in favour of (relative) unity. However, others believe such planning and preparation had to have taken decades, and the timing an unfortunate consequence of Vangorich demanding so much care be taken to make the deaths of his fellow High Lords look like accidents.

All sources agree, however, that once his treachery was revealed Vangorich unleashed the assassins on the entire palace. The halls ran with the blood of the highest of Lords and the most lowly of servitors alike. Yet there was one figure the assassins would not touch, ''could'' not touch, out of fear of what he had done to their forefathers: the Steward, who had vowed to personally put a stop to the killing spree desecrating the home of the Golden Throne. Vangorich, infuriated at the apparent incompetence of his underlings, took it upon himself to do the job they would not, attempting to slay the Steward with a vortex grenade as he emerged from his personal transport.

This went about as well as one would expect.

Even less is known about the outcome. Historians have waxed poetically about the Grandmaster facing an agonizing death, eternal torture, exile into the depths of the Webway with nothing but the clothes on his back, or any other number of tall tales. The most reliable account, however — attributed to the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes — states that the Steward simply broke Vangorich's neck as comfortably as one would a twig, mere moments after his ill-advised attempt on the Steward's life.

For their part, the assassins were right to be fearful; for unlike their predecessors on Mount Vengeance the Steward gazed upon them with ''disappointment'' as well as fury. The Beheading had been undertaken by Vangorich, but the Steward noted with no small distaste that his orders had not been questioned by any under him. Malcador had managed to maintain the delicate balancing act between accountability and unflinching loyalty necessary in an organisation such as the Assassinorum, and without him it seemed the assassins were falling back on their bad habits.

Any other time he would have dismantled the Assassinorum then and there, but the Steward was more concerned with reinforcing the wider Imperium against the coming onslaught of the Beast. In a time when every second was precious, the Steward could only set aside a day to scour the assassins' much-reduced ranks. Those found wanting of moral character were incinerated where they stood if they had acted on Vangorich's orders, or pressed into a penal legion if they had not. One assassin that the Steward found was of solid loyalty, and aided him in his purge of the temples. They were declared the new Grandmaster. The first decree they were to issue, however, was a warning — a warning to be spread through every temple, to every assassin from the depths of the Imperial Palace to frontline fighting against the Orks. A warning that, if the Steward was ever forced to intervene again, he would simply dissolve the Assassinorum instead of wasting more time on leniency.

Four thousand years later, the Steward was once again forced to intervene — although this time it was because of a crisis of his own making.

To her credit, the Grandmaster the Steward had put in place had served honorably, loyally, and carefully. Within the temples, long overdue reforms were undertaken, training formalised, and generations of assassins raised to revere the Imperium as a whole more than their temple. The Grandmaster, when she felt her time came, passed the title on to one she felt she could trust; and he continued her work, standardising material provisions and improving survivability. When he was lost in a warpstorm, his successor was well chosen, and worked to streamline chain of command and requisition. This continued, the Officio slowly evolving into an organisation capable of keeping up with the rapid changes of the galaxy, until the reign of Goge Vandire. Emperor Goge Vandire.

Goge Vandire was, initially, the ideal servant of the Imperium. Intelligent yet humble, decisive yet wise, he was familiar with all the intricacies of every part of the Imperium's government — save the assassins. Naturally, he was curious. At his first meeting with the High Lords of Terra, they each took their own oaths of loyalty and explained their roles. The Grandmaster of Assassins, on the other hand, explained the history of the Beheading to the new Emperor, and explained why since then the Assassinorum has always chosen to swear loyalty to the wider Imperium instead of a particular individual. An explanation that would end up nearly tearing it apart.

"...hence, our loyalty is to the Golden Throne and its guardians rather than the one sitting upon it. A mere technicality, of course—" The Grandmaster offering a thin smile at this point, "since I personally doubt we will ever receive liquidation orders from the archaeotech itself... but still."

The other High Lords had long ago learned not to question inner workings of the Assassinorum, while Emperor Vandire merely gave a hearty chuckle. They moved onto other, more pressing matters, and it appeared that that was the end of that. And it was, for the most part, but there was a small corner of Emperor Vandire's mind where those words echoed endlessly. "The Golden Throne and ''its guardians''," the Grandmaster had said, but it seemed clear to him that there was only one guardian that mattered; the one who had appointed him to the position in the first place. Over the years of Emperor Vandire's reign — too many hard decisions, too many threats to the Imperium from within and without, perhaps too many treatments of juvenat — the echo rose in his mind until it was deafening, a mild irritation over semantics growing into full-blown paranoia.

Of course they were faithful to the Imperium, but the hypocrites chose the Steward to venerate as a figurehead! Even in the Palace, his own home, all the oaths in the galaxy would not change the fact that each soul's allegiance lay with the Steward rather than himself. They only trusted him because the Steward trusted him, had appointed him. Oh, yes, his reign and countless years of selfless service were all very good and well appreciated, but they were all nought against those of that living god. Everything he did was overshadowed by that ''guardian;'' his words judged against the Steward's, his actions compared to those of the Steward, the ''Steward'', the '''''Steward''''', who was never more than a moment away from the lips of Vandire's own people; as if he had been usurped before he was ever appointed to the throne.

Still, Vandire was still as talented as he always was, and soon managed to find an assassin willing to aid him; a Callidus by the name of Tziz Jarek. By that point he was in direct control of every aspect of the Imperium thanks to a thousand emergency powers and Imperial edicts; yet frustratingly, the Grandmaster remained steadfastly insistent on the stance that had tormented Vandire since their first meeting. Jarek, on the other hand, was simply angry with the Assassinorum's reforms, and made sure to stay well out of range of Vandire's spittle and foam when he began to rant — although over time she found herself believing in more and more of his firey rhetoric.

The assassination was textbook perfection; the Grandmaster's long list of security measures outdone by Jarek's longer-still list of fall-backs and contingencies. However, the lifeless corpse that was quietly fed into a plasma generator was only a body double of the Grandmaster — even as Jarek disguised herself with polymorphine and assumed the seat of Grandmaster of Assassins — had already made her getaway, rallying those loyal to her from Terra and beyond. With the Assassinorum now firmly under his thumb, Vandire used the shadowy assassins as another weapon with which to prosecute what was rapidly becoming a reign of terror; opponents political and military alike disappearing or found butchered in cruel and unusual manners.

When the reign of Emperor Vandire was coming to an end, he began to use his assassins more openly against rebel forces — and it was at that moment, when they emerged from the shadows, that the true Grandmaster struck. Jarek had used the forces of the Assassinorum masterfully, always knowing which figures to ''liquidate'' to maximise disorder and panic — yet she had no experience of the same tactics being used against her, and could do little but order her own assassins to focus on the new threat.

The resulting battles were devastating. Assassins loyal to Vandire and to the Grandmaster both used long-forgotten, forbidden technologies on the other side, for each was (rightly) convinced that the victory of the other would see them exterminated to the last. Gene-sympathetic nerve gases, neutronic warheads, entropic broadcasters, pan-chronal disruptors, and other terrors were all used; some dating back to the nightmare of the Old Night. These were the Wars of Vindication, and they would be repeated again and again from Terra to the furthest reaches of the Imperium as assassin turned against assassin to purge the ones they saw as traitors.

When the Steward finally returned to Terra from his self-imposted exile, the Temples were little more than smoking, hellish ruin. The palace, too, was scarred by battle; and there he found the Grandmaster — who pointed to her lifeless doppelganger and declared that the traitor was dead.

The Steward was unamused.

The Grandmaster offered her life by way of apology, and begged the Officio Assassinorum be spared. She knew all too well of the warning passed down from each Grandmaster to the next, and of the possibility of her and her own suddenly being abandoned by an Imperium that had no other place for them. For his part, the Steward was bitterly disappointed with Emperor Vandire's descent into madness — yet this time he could not truly fault what had historically been the most troublesome of the High Lords' domains. One Grandmaster had fought with unwavering loyalty for the Imperium, while the other had done so in the name of the Emperor. Perhaps he was a little ashamed of his own poor judgement, for he was merciful; the Grandmaster was allowed to disappear into exile, and the remnants of the Assassinorum were to return to Terra for their final judgment.

The Steward of the Golden Throne retreated into the Imperial Palace for the last time, and when the Emperor of Mankind emerged, first and final orders to the ancient Officio Assassinorum were as follows:

*All assassins were to be granted a window of clemency, where an amnesty would be offered regardless of allegiance. They were misled, but had still fought with ferocious loyalty to their superiors — against some of the best in the Imperium, no less. Any who ignored this opportunity would be declared outlaws of the Imperium of the Golden Throne, for both the Grandmaster and her doppelganger had kept close eyes on their respective assassins (lest they defect). Huge bounties were offered, of course, but the most sought-after reward was the opportunity for the hunter to take the place of the assassin they defeated, becoming one of the Imperium's shadowy elite.

*After the grace period, the Officio Assassinorum would be completely and utterly dissolved. The Temples would remain, but only as individual institutions with no power and little role; all masters would stripped of formal office and all survivors either absorbed into the reborn order: the Officio Tactitum. No more secret handshakes or shadowy meetings lit by incense, no unaccountable Grandmasters operating without question. Civilian control would slow the Tactitum, perhaps even hamstring it, but this was the price to be paid to avoid the mistakes of the past.

*Perhaps most importantly, the Ordo Securitas of the Inquisition would be formed to monitor not only the assassins but the other highest echelons of the Imperium. These Inquisitors would be the guardians of the guardians, watching each Officio and Adeptus for corruption and abuse, wary of another Vangorich or Vandire emerging.

*However, due to their power to render judgment of even the highest figures of the Imperium, the Sicarius were only permitted to advise and regulate, never taking direction — at least, in theory. In reality, many Securitas Inquisitors found rather...creative ways to circumvent the decree that they may not maintain "men under arms".

The Emperor had spoken, and these were his commands.

The Officio Tactitum is a far more modern organization nowadays. Though it primarily is still famed for its assassins, it also produces operatives specialised in sabotage and covert warfare far from home. They are often assigned to the command of the Astra Militarum or individual Inquisitors; and each lone assassin is still a finely honed killing machine, but they now serve as spectacular force multipliers rather as ends in themselves. The Ordo Sicarius is satisfied with this arrangement, as it avoids the high risk and cost of the traditional lone wolf operations, and allows them to keep an eye on any assassins deployed.

The Temples? They are far less superstitious and shadowy than they once were, although the name of "Temple" has stuck in defiance of every reform that has been attempted. Each of them has diversified, yet maintained their core roots in their quest to perfect the art of murder.

Temple Vindicare, who reach out far longer than all but the highest of psykers to deliver their kiss of death.

Temple Venenum, who can find a thousand toxins to kill a man from the gentlest of paradise worlds, each one exquisite to the palette in their own unique way.

Temple Eversor, who can scythe through men, orks, eldar and even Astartes with the horrifying ease of a power sword through flak armour.

Temples Culexus — who hunt down their prey with soulless eyes — and Callidus, who have no face to call their own.

Temple Vanus, which according to popular belief ha[EXPUNGED]oes not exist. The Ordo Sicarius has confirmed this, and will not allow any dispute.

The primary headquarters of the Tactitum, including the Temples, lies on Terra, although across each segmentum there are localised, lesser temples that train assassins, liaison with other Imperial Forces, and seek recruits from outside the Schola the Temples traditionally draw from. The Ordo Sicarius also work closely with segmentum command to permit proper coordination if Tactitum assets are needed, although on a smaller level they are surprisingly good at scouting talented assassin candidates. With proper Inquisitorial oversight, the assassins are kept well in check, and well out of politics.

The High Lords of Terra still retain a seat for the Grandmaster of Assassins, but it has been left vacant ever since the reign of Emperor Vandire. Few imagine it will ever be filled again.

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=== Adeptus Astronomica ===

“''We are the ones who give of ourselves so that others may walk in the light''”<br>
— Motto of the Adeptus Astronomica

Of all the professions available to psykers of the Imperial Schola, perhaps none is more honored than those of the Adeptus Astronomica. These are the people who make daily life in the Imperium possible with literally nothing more than their sheer force of will. The Astronomican represents one of the first major cooperative efforts between humanity and the Eldar. Although originally of human creation, its design was improved by the Eldar as a gift of gratitude for humanity’s participation in the raid on Nurgle’s mansion, greatly improving the efficiency of the Astronomican and strength of its beacon. Although original estimates based on the average ability of a human psyker suggested that twelve thousand people at once would be needed to power the beacon, Eldar modifications decreased the actual number of psykers needed by an order of magnitude, while drastically reducing the amount of stress on an individual psyker.

However, at the same time, no profession is more tragic than that of the Adeptus Astronomica. Creating a psychic “bonfire” that can be seen by the entire Imperium is taxing on the individual, even with twelve hundred other psykers to share the burden. As a result, the psykers of the Adeptus Astronomica are rotated out in shifts in an attempt to maximize their health, with a third of the choir being rotated out every four months. However, even this is not enough to prevent long-term damage. Few psykers live more than a year, and almost none have survived more than eighteen months. In the Halls of the Astronomican, right before one enters the Chambers of the Astronomican itself, there is a small, grassy courtyard, nearly empty save for a stele made of the hardest adamantium. On it is inscribed the names of every psyker who has died in the course of powering the Astronomican, a testament to their bravery so that the Imperium will never forget their sacrifice.

==== Origin of the Astronomican ====

''"Only humanity would think to solve the complex and intricate issue of interstellar travel by building a giant psychic bonfire"''<br>
— Finarion, specialist bonesinger from Biel-Tan sent to examine the Astronomican, circa M31.

When the Great Crusade started, there wasn’t any need for an Astronomican. The Steward was a Man of Gold, originally designed to link human worlds together during the days of the Great and Bountiful Empire, and as a result was a fairly effective psychic landmark in his own right. Combined with the fact that the Imperium had access to the Void Borns’ maps and the knowledge of the relatively safe Warp currents, it was possible to reach many of the nearby systems using short (but very slow) warp jumps.

Having delegated most of the Legion running and Great Crusading to the primarchs, the Steward was free to try and figure out a long-term solution to the navigation issue. The Steward made no secret of this fact, and the primarchs didn’t complain about it because they themselves were starting to notice as they were getting further and further from Earth it was getting harder and harder to navigate. Indeed, some of the primarchs were actually trying to convince the Steward to stay on Earth, because if the Steward got killed it meant no Astropaths and the nascent Imperium would likely tear itself apart over succession crises, especially after the Steward was taken by surprise and nearly killed by a super-Ork on the nascent Attack Moon of Gorro.

The Steward hit upon the idea of the Astronomican when the Imperium had at least several hundred worlds under its belt. He found that if he could get the beacon started other psychics can maintain the “fire”, but it would take a lot of them working together and they'd have to rotate in shifts. Thankfully the Imperium is big enough now to provide those numbers. Unfortunately, while it wasn’t as dangerous at first, as the Astronomican grew in response to the need from the Crusade it becomes increasingly lethal and difficult to handle. The warp-flow goes "lumpy" and the lumps are dangerous proportional to the size of the "flame” you are trying to generate. Given that the flame is bright enough to see across lightyears, the lumps are pretty lethal.

When the alliance with the Eldar happened, the Eldar sent their specialists to Old Earth as part of the deal with humanity to look at the thing. Then they backed out of the hall slowly at the sheer insanity of what these mon-keigh were trying to do. The Eldar started attaching shock absorbers and buffering jars and shit to it, and the lifespan of resident psychics jumps up dramatically. Nowadays, maintaining the Astronomican is considered an actual job rather than a death sentence, albeit one with a greatly reduced quality and length of life even compared to baseline humanity. Eldar and human technicians continued to tinker with the Astronomican, adding more devices to it, like lenses and spectrum filters. And that's where the Astronomican is at now. It can't be tweaked any more, having hit the hard upper limit on what is possible with a single, giant psychic lighthouse.

Theoretically other alternatives are possible, and in hindsight it would have been easier to just make [[Imperium_Secundus#Mustering_Forces_to_Himself|a bunch of small lighthouses]] instead of one big one, in a similar vein to what the Great and Bountiful Human Empire did with the Men of Gold and likely what many other races did back during the Dark Age of Technology. Such devices would not only be more efficient, but would greatly — though not entirely — reduce the issues with the potential lethality of the job. Unfortunately doing so would require resources that the Imperium doesn’t have, either in the form of Iron Minds/Men of Gold or psykers that are desperately needed by the big Astronomican on Old Earth. And it it not possible to simply put out the Astronomican and start over, because the loss of the Astronomican, even temporarily, would be catastrophic for the Imperium.

=== Adeptus Sororitas ===

==== Rough Notes from the Threads ====
*Formed in the aftermath of the reign of Vandire and the Civil War along with the Ordo Securitas
*They receive some cybernetic and biological enhancements, putting them roughly on par with a Spartan from Halo
**A group of 3 Sisters is roughly equal to 1 Space Marine, winning about 5 times out of 10. However, the Marine has a significant advantage in melee due to much better physical attributes and the Sisters are encumbered by their Power Armor due to lack of a Black Carapace. To win, the Sisters would need to leverage numbers and teamwork.
*I believe we said they mostly operate with the Inquisition, though their organization and exact scope of duties is unclear/undiscussed at the moment.

==== Daughters of Russ ====

The Daughters of Russ, better known as the Valkyries, are a organization similar to the Adeptas Sororitas unique for only recruiting from Fenris and the Fenrisian colonies. The Daughters claim to be matrilineal descendants of Leman Russ via his many daughters, but given the size of Leman Russ' family and the amount of time that has passed since Russ came to Fenris, it is likely that everyone on the Fenrisian Worlds can trace their ancestry back to Leman Russ in some way.

The Daughters of Russ are best known for their ferocity. Although the Sororitas are well known for their aggression and their single-mindedness, the Valkyries fight with a viciousness that seems almost inhuman. In addition, the Valkyries exhibit senses and other abilities that seem beyond standard Sororitas-level augmentation, leading some to suspect that the Sororitas enhancements either enhance the effect of the Canis Helix genes present in the general Fenrisian population or reawaken Canis Helix genes that were formerly dormant. Surprisingly, the Daughters are otherwise rather conservative for Sororitas, looking down on the sisterhoods who add additional augmentations like kill-glands. To the Valkyries, such additions mock and taint the skill of an individual in battle.

At the same time, the Daughters are also well-known for their talents in medicine. The Valkyries have close ties with the Sisters Hospitaller, and often find themselves being sent to reinforce flagging battalions and save as many of the wounded as they can. It is these practices that led the first leader of the Daughters of Russ to say “it is our job to look Morkai in the eye and tell him, ‘you will not touch them today’”, which eventually became shortened into the motto of the order.

Editor's Note: Needs to be seen how they relate to Sororitas. Are they actual Sororitas, the female equivalent of Space Wolves, or what? It was pointed out that the concept is good, but they don't seem to function like the Sisters (as internal police).

=== Navis Nobilite ===

See [[Nobledark Imperium Writing#The Saga of Fedor Jiao|The Saga of Fedor Jiao]]

== Adeptus Mechanicus and its branches ==

=== Adeptus Biologis ===

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''Gene-wrights of M41:'''''

''Without metal man is a beast. Without flesh man is a tool.''<br>
— Motto of the Adeptus Biologis

Despite being seen as just another branch of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Adeptus Biologis actually has very different origins from the rest of the Mechanicus. Instead of being derived from the Martian Mechanicum, the Biologis were originally formed from the various geneticists and biotechnologists living in the territories that the Warlord conquered, including the Geno-Hippie conclaves of western Merika, the Genesmiths of Duscht Jemanic, and the Genewrights of Luna. The Biologis were eventually folded into the Mechanicus proper, and centuries of cultural and philosophical exchange have greatly reduced the differences between the two, but the group still retains its own unique quirks.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Today, the Adeptus Biologis performs a multitude of services throughout the Imperium. They travel to newly pacified worlds to catalogue and study the native flora and fauna. They study diseases and synthesize new medications to constantly try to beat back the plagues of Nurgle. They try to engineer more efficient versions of crops to feed the burgeoning Imperium. They often oversee the augmentations of Space Marines and Sisters of Battle.

Perhaps the biggest difference between the Adeptus Biologis and most other divisions of the Adeptus Mechanicus is their stance on innovation. According to the Biologis, the Mechanicus’ prohibition on invention and innovation only applies to technology, not nature, a loophole the Biologis are happy to exploit. As a result, the Adeptus Biologis are much more willing to try new techniques than the Mechanicus proper, which is one reason why things like rejuvenant drugs and augmentation have improved over the centuries, even if it is only at a glacial pace. Of course, given that all of their equipment comes from the Mechanicus proper, the Biologis are often unable to build the kind of equipment they would like to use.

Another major difference between the Biologis and the rest of the Mechanicus involve physical augmentations. The Biologis are just as augment-happy as their brethren within the AdMech, but tend to prefer artificially engineered organs and genetically modified tissues over cybernetic implants. Even those Magos Biologis who do have mechanical implants often strive for a balance between flesh and metal, seeking to perfect the flesh before they involve the machine.

Like virtually every organization in the Imperium, the Adeptus Biologis can be broken up into a number of factions. The old rivalry between the Geno-Hippies and Genesmiths is still there, only under different names. The Emergentists believe that artificial biological designs must be “balanced” as part of an integrated whole much like natural designs, and that the greatest parts of a design often emerge via interactions that are not foreseen. By contrast, the Utilitarians believe the body is analogous to a machine, and must be treated as such. Any deviation from the perceived purity of a design is something not to be tolerated.

The Mechanicum — that is, the actual Mars-based organization who make up the majority of the Adeptus Mechanicus and primarily work with technology — do not like the Adeptus Biologis very much. They see the Adeptus Biologis as pretenders whose accoutrements are little more than aping the Mechanicum of Mars. They see the aversion of the Biologis to cybernetic augmentations as an affront to the Credo Omnissiah. Nevertheless, they begrudgingly acknowledge the Biologis despite seeing them as lesser, much in the way scholars of the “hard sciences” looked down on biology prior to the Age of Strife. Perhaps this is one reason why, at some point in history, the Biologis changed their apparel from dressing in robes of red to robes of dark green.

</div>
</div>

=== 'Tech-Heresy' and its definition ===

See [[Nobledark_Imperium_Imperial_Society_and_Culture#Hereteks_and_the_nature_of_.22Tech-Heresy.22|Hereteks and the nature of "Tech-Heresy"]]

=== The Last Ditch ===

On Mars, there are a series of missile silos. They appear on no map, save in the personal files of the Fabricator General and his inner circle. Hardcopy, not digital. Nothing about them has ever been committed to cogitator. Their locations are concealed beneath layers of bureaucratic subterfuge; declared off- limits zones, patrolled by guards unaware of what they protect. Onion layers of lies await the curious; the suspicious might continue digging past the first lie, but the second? The third, the fourth?

The bunkers themselves are manned by unaugmented humans; none possess even the simplest augmetic. Perhaps the only such in the whole of the regular armed forces of the Mechanicus. Everything is done with the simplest possible technology; even electricity is used sparingly. Steam engines drive complex mechanical assemblies. Everything is designed with physical, manually-operated lockouts. Everything requires human action to operate. From the air or orbit, they blend in perfectly with the environment.

Inside the silos, the crews are terribly isolated. Their only contact with the outside world is a single cable, through which the fire order will come. If it ever comes. None of them know of the purpose of their silo, or of the existence of the others. Each shift lasts a year at least. They play endless hands of cards, read books, and bullshit continuously. And wait for the order to come down. In ten thousand years it has not.

As for the missiles themselves? Vortex warheads. Currently the largest concentration of vortex weaponry in the entire Imperium. Over a thousand of the weapons, each capable of felling cities and Titans. Enough firepower to scour a continent clean, to say nothing of the possibility of daemonic incursion.

Arranged in a loose ring around the Noctis Labyrinth.

This is but one of the contingency plans the Guardians of the Dragon have prepared.

==The Inquisition==

===The Ark Ship===

As part of their duty to keep the Imperium safe, members of the Inquisition are often forced to consider possibilities that would be unthinkable to the rest of the Imperium. Contingency plans for disasters on the scale of which most people would be unable to imagine. The Ark Ship is one such contingency.

The Ark Ship is one of the biggest secrets of the Inquisition and Mechanicus. What little information that has leaked out to the public has been hilariously exaggerated.

It is the final contingency plan. The ultimate Plan B. Activated only in the unthinkable event that the Imperium falls and the galaxy becomes uninhabitable for sentient life. Due to its nature and the implications of its construction - even as a contingency plan - knowledge of the actual ship has been suppressed for fear of causing a panic.

It's a highly modified Omnissiah class ship, modified to survive for thousands upon thousands of years at minimal power and activity. The captain is the one Inquisitor of Ordo Desolatus, held in stasis. Its cargo is rack upon rack of genetic samples and frozen embryos, from every sapient species in the Imperium; humans to Eldar to Tau, and everything in between.

The crew are mechanically augmented up to the very edge of what is legally allowed before you start treading into A.I. territory. Metal can shut down cleanly and is far more efficient than flesh. The crew, like the captain, are in stasis.

If the Imperium falls, the Ark's orders are to take one of countless planned FTL escape-routes to the galaxy's edge, and burn hard into the intergalactic blackness, in hopes of eventually rendezvousing with the escaping craftworlds at an outlying star-cluster to resupply. And to begin the longest journey.

==Imperial Navy==

===The Five Flagships===

''Phalanx''. ''Nicor''. ''Mirabilis''. ''The Rock''. ''Terminus Est''. These are names that are instantly recognized by any scholar of Imperial history, as well as feared throughout history by those who sought to do the Imperium harm.

The Five, often colloquially referred to as the “Five Big Bastards” after a comment made by primarch Rogal Dorn, were a series of massive super-dreadnoughts commissioned by the Imperium in the last days of the Unification of Sol and the early years of the Great Crusade. Each of these ships were roughly 25 kilometers long and bristled with conventional weaponry. The five ships were roughly comparable in size and shape, though the ''Phalanx'' was perhaps a little larger and a little more heavily-armed than her sisters. In addition to newly constructed material mined from the Sol system, the Five were also constructed from the recycled remains of the numerous scattered shipwrecks throughout the Sol system (many of which came to the attention of the Imperium at the suggestion of the primarch Horus), making them packed full of whatever Dark Age-era technology could be salvaged from the wreckage.

The original construction of the Five was intended to be a show of solidarity between the newly unified nations of Sol. The ships were to be commissioned by the newly named Steward of Earth, constructed by the Mechanicum of Mars in the shipyards of Luna, and would be crewed by the Void Born of the Sol migrant fleet. However, because of the time and resource-intensive nature of their construction, only two of these ships — the ''Rock'' and the ''Phalanx'' — were ready by the beginning of the Great Crusade. The ''Rock'' was sent out as the flagship of the Imperium's first expeditionary fleet helmed by the Dark Angels, whereas the ''Phalanx'' remained in the Sol system to act as a deterrent to any potential force that would threaten Mars and Old Earth. Construction of the remaining three — the ''Nicor'', ''Mirabilis'', and ''Terminus Est'' — was not completed until much later in the Great Crusade, when the resources of additional systems could be brought to bear for their completion.

The Five were intended to be a long-term investment. In addition to building ties of unity between the major factions of Sol, the Five were meant to be a show of strength, on the part of the nascent Imperium, to the greater galaxy. The huge size of the Five meant that their internal workings could support much larger than average hydroponic bays, which meant they could function away from the Imperium for long periods of time without resupplying and be largely self-sufficient if they were ever cut off from Imperial supply chains. This made the ''Rock'' the ideal flagship to send out with the expeditionary fleet. Eventually, the plan was for the Five to be sent to the far corners of the galaxy, one for each major Segmentum, to act as flagships and command centers for the Imperial Navy. The ''Phalanx'', ''Rock'', ''Terminus Est'', ''Nicor'', and ''Mirabilis'' were to be sent to Segmenta Solar, Obscurus, Pacificus, Tempestus, and Ultima, respectively. Unfortunately, random chance and the whims of history ended up scuttling this plan. Although originally constructed as part of a set, each of the Five suffered dramatically different fates.

The ''Rock'' was infamously stolen by the arch-traitor Luther during the Chaos of the War of the Beast, only to be reclaimed by the loyalist Dark Angels after the Lion's final battle with his brother. Luther had not had his hands on the ''Rock'' long enough for it to be irrevocably tainted by Chaos, and the Dark Angels were able to repurpose the battleship for their own uses. To this day, the ''Rock'' remains the mobile headquarters of the Dark Angels chapter.

The ''Phalanx'', although heavily damaged in the War of the Beast, remains as it always has in the Sol System, an old guard dog ever-ready to fight those that would threaten the capital of the Imperium. Its [[Nobledark_Imperium_Writing#Ork_Diplomacy|legendary ramming action]] that repelled the Beast's attack planet Ullanor during the War of The Beast obliterated much of the original ship, as the relativistic impact vaporized almost all of the Phalanx, with only relatively small parts of the drive superstructure remaining attached to the ship's neutronium ramming prow and keel, which was later recovered from a highly elliptical orbit around Sol. Any conventional matter, including the body of Pius himself, would have been vaporized on impact, but neutronium is made of tougher stuff. The Phalanx was rebuilt from around this neutronium keel, missing many of the archaeotech systems originally contained within its frame but [[The_War_of_The_Beast#The_Fist_of_the_Imperium|the keel was enough of a plank in the ship of Theseus to claim continuity with the original ship]]. The Imperium doesn't like to take defeat lying down.

The ''Mirabilis'' remains active in the galactic East, still acting as a flagship of the Imperial Navy rather than commanded by any chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, perhaps the only one of the Five along with the Phalanx that is still performing the job the Imperium intended for it. However, the Ultima Segmentum is nearly an order of magnitude larger than any other part of the galaxy, and there is little the ''Mirabilis'' can do beyond putting out fires.

The ''Nicor'' fought valiantly for many years, but was presumed lost in the aftermath of the [[Nobledark_Imperium_Drafts#Second_Black_Crusade|Second Black Crusade]]. In late M40, the Carcharodons found the carcass of the ''Nicor'' floating out in the middle of the Segmentum Tempestus, and — after much friction with the rest of the Imperium — refurbished it into their new headquarters. Although the ''Nicor'' is probably capable of void combat once more, the Carcharodons prefer to keep it in a strategic location in the galactic South to act as a central base from which they can coordinate their attacks. Ironically, the ''Nicor'' in some ways is performing the job it had always been intended to do in the first place, striking fear in the hearts of any who would threaten the Imperium in the Segmentum Tempestus.

The ''Terminus Est'' served the Imperium through more military campaigns than any other member of the Five. After being sent to take back the Segmentum Pacificum when the Imperium set out to reclaim the Segmentum, the ship was commandeered in the aftermath of the war by Typhus the Pilgrim, who made it into the mobile headquarters of his breakaway chapter the Black Templars. For six millennia, the ''Terminus Est'' was a constant presence on the western front of the Imperium. Much like the Black Templars themselves, the ''Terminus Est'' was forever marching to war, never resting, never stopping, almost seeming to have an indefatigable personality of its own. If there is any truth to the Mechanicus' claim that ships have machine spirits, there is perhaps no better argument in support of this idea than the ''Terminus Est''.

However, no ship can fight forever. In late M38, the ''Terminus Est'' finally broke down after back-to-back fighting in an Armageddon War and putting down an assault on Necromunda. The ''Terminus Est'' managed to limp its mass to high Necromundan orbit before tidal forces tore the ship apart. Today, the ''Terminus Est'' is the closest thing the Black Templars have to a static headquarters. Like the ''Nicor'', the Templars claim the ''Terminus Est'' might have a few more battles in her, but so far none have been willing to put that claim to the test.

===Blade of Luna===

The Blade Of Luna is one of the first in a series of modified Mars-class battlecruisers equipped with oversized engines, the sensor networks of an Emperor-class battleship, and cutting edge vox warfare systems. Recently built by the shipyards based around Luna — not the orthodox masters of Mars — it is designed to serve as a support ship maintaining inter-fleet communications and tracking enemies for improved battlefield awareness.

This description vastly oversimplifies their role. While rebels and pirates who barely know how to keep a stolen ship's anti-gravity working are little threat to the pirate-extermination forces that a ship of this type would lead — the Crone Eldar, Necrons, Olamic Quietude, and Dark Mechanicus, to name the most infamous — all have their own foul brand of techno-sorcery.

Daemonic scrap-code can cut power to point defense arrays just long enough to let a barrage of boarding pods bite into the hull, secure encryptions can be cracked in milliseconds by machinery powered by broken star gods, crucial orders can be lost under a tidal wave of jamming signals, augurs that previously tracked micrometeorites from one end of the solar system to the other suddenly lose their visuals; the list goes on. The Imperial Navy has learned its bloody lessons over ten thousand years of war, and its more technically-minded factions are the inheritors of practices fine-tuned prior to the Dark Age of Technology.

Hence the limited production run of ships like the Blade Of Luna, testbeds for the latest electronic warfare systems to serve as sword and shield against the Imperium's enemies. Her higher decks are packed with banks of compartmentalized, EMP-shielded cogitators and consoles, each linked to a backup battery in the event the redundant power couplings to the Generatorium fail in battle. Augur arrays normally found only on the Emperor-class battleship cover the Blade Of Luna in a thin forest of sensor spars and domes, and in concert with the cogitators enable the ship's Techpriests to tune out false positives and home in on elusive cloaked enemies. Gellar fields, hexagrammatic wards, and crude automations of machine exorcism are present to fend off the more daemonic varieties of scrap-code. There are other technologies that are not so enthusiastically discussed by the rather open-minded Mechanicus builders, but they have risen to meet the monumental challenges of those who would challenge the Omnissiah's vessels of war.

===Deep Field Recon===

Knowledge of its many enemies is vital to the Imperium's survival, and quite hard to come by. Oh, you can learn some things on the battlefield. Weapons and tactics. But this is far, far from a complete picture. It tells you nothing of their logistics, of their politics, of their inner minds, of the deep knowledge needed to strike at the heart of an entire civilization. Fighting on the battlefield tells you how to fight on the battlefield, but not how to craft grand strategy.

Channels for gaining this deep knowledge are few. It is impossible to infiltrate the Silent Court, and there is no gossip there; likewise a tyranid cannot be bribed to turn against the Swarm, and even the smallest bribes in Shaa-Dome are far too horrible to pay. There is no trade with the Orks, and an embassy in Commorragh would be nothing but a buffet table. Intercepting the communications of Chaos is actively hazardous to the health of the reader's mind and soul, and any wire-tapping the thoughts of a dark God is wont to become a conduit for them into reality. All the tricks human nations have used to spy on each other since time immemorial are useless against the vast majority of the Imperium's foes. But ignorance is not an option.

Thus, the Deep Field Recon squadrons.

The Deep Field Recon squadrons are one of the few methods the Imperium has for investigating the inner reaches of enemy territory. Deep Field Recon ships are made to be as stealthy as possible, typically mounting multiple forms of concealment. Reflex shields and Eldar holo-fields are standard, as are various forms of passive stealth such as low-signature engines and auspex-baffling plating. Some are equipped with more exotic devices still; archeotech and xenotech cloaking devices salvaged from the far corners of the galaxy. An (un)lucky few bear psychic choirs on board, actively diverting the attention of possible searchers away.

The design of any two ships are often dissimilar; due to the incorporation of xenotech in the design, the main body of the Mechanicum refuses to construct them. Thus, their creation is left to the heterodox and other member states; the Hubworld League, the Eldar, the Interex, and increasingly the Tau.

With these techniques, they dive deep into the sanctums of the enemy, gathering information, inserting and extracting commando teams, and striking targets of opportunity. The Deep Field Recon squadrons are a vital part of anti-Ork efforts, providing forewarning of rising WAAAGGHHs and delivering kill-teams to eliminate rising Warbosses. Others ghost through the Silent Empire, mapping tomb worlds, counting World Engines, and watching for any preparations for an attack. This is one of the highest mortality duties among in Deep Field Recon; the Silent Empire guards its borders jealously, and its reserves of techno-sorcery are vast and deep. There are even rumors of ships covered in hexagrammatic wards operating under the auspices of the Alpha Legion, plunging into the Eye of Terror itself to strike at the Great Enemy in its lair.

Life in the Silent Service is frequently nerve-wracking. By the nature of their missions, they spend their time deep in enemy territory far away from any possible reinforcements. Often for years on end, as they slowly assemble a complete picture of enemy numbers and capabilities from telescope pictures and stray vox-chatter. At the same time, it is often quite boring, drifting through space with everything but stealth systems and passive sensors powered down, watching an enemy with no idea of their presence. When hunting, the nature of the wait and tension changes as they slowly glide towards their targets, moving into position for a single kill-shot and hoping their exit route remains clear.

Deep Field Recon squadrons usually operate under the auspices of the Inquisition. Typically, they are attached to various Watch Fortresses keeping an eye on specific threats or regions of space. Most Recon ships operate with an Inquisitor, or at least an Interrogator, on board, specializing in the specific threat the ship is operating against. Many Inquisitors use vessels of similar design as their personal vehicles, even if not specifically on Deep Field Recon duties; the class is well-suited to Inquisition duties generally.

There are few Deep Field Recon vessels. Due to the exotic equipment and demanding tolerances of the class, they are difficult to build; only a few thousand exist at any given time. But, in enemies of the Imperium ambushed and destroyed, and even more in vital knowledge gathered, each is worth ten times its number in conventional vessels.

== Eldar-Only Forces ==

=== Handmaidens of Isha ===

Just as it is the job of the Adeptus Custodes to protect the Emperor of Mankind and his wife, it is the job of the Handmaidens of Isha to protect the Grand Empress Isha and her husband. The Handmaidens of Isha are the Eldar side of the Imperium's praetorian guard, drawn from the ranks of her most devout followers in the cults that sprung up in her wake following her rescue from Nurgle's mansion. Compared to many other followers of Isha, the blessings of the Handmaidens are rather subtle; little more than an immunity to virtually all diseases and a seeming inability to sustain permanent damage from scarring or age. This allows the Handmaidens to perfect their physical training in a way that only one who does not have to worry about wear and tear on their body can. The Handmaidens are no pushovers; they are armed with swords known as "the Thorns of Isha" that can inflict wounds that do not heal. The Handmaidens are also noted to have a connection to Isha that borders on the preternatural, able to sense if their charge is in direct danger even if they are unable to see her directly.

However, the Handmaidens of Isha have an another job in addition to protecting their Empress. As the Imperial Couple travels from world to world, the Empress often sends her handmaidens to inspect the world beforehand to ensure that the world is as upstanding as it often claims to be. Although many worlds have their own dirty little secrets that they have managed to keep secret from the Administratum, few can hide from the gaze of the All-Mother. The Adeptus Custodes are likewise often posted in Imperial society to keep watch for potential threats against the Emperor and Imperium, though most of them are incapable of doing so without drawing attention to themselves. The Handmaidens of Isha, on the other hand, are capable of passing themselves off as just another Eldar, or even avoiding notice altogether. Because the two groups have essentially the same job, they often end up directly cooperating with one another.

=== The Avatar of Khaine ===

See [[Nobledark_Imperium_Notable_People#Khaine|Khaine]]

==== The Avatar of Biel-Tan ====

Biel-Tan hasn't deployed an Avatar of Khaine for nearly one hundred years. This wouldn't be surprising for a lesser or more peaceable craftworld, but this is Biel-Tan; the most well-known, influential, and martially famous craftworld. That Khaela Mensha Khaine hasn't made an appearance in a year, much less a near century, would provoke suspicion.

However, among the Eldar, it's considered a bit of a faux pas to ask about this. The Inquisition is another matter entirely though, and they already know the answer.

Biel-Tan's avatar has been awake this entire time. Biel-Tan summoned the avatar for the Ghoul Campaign to help a desperate sword wind against a siege of orks with daemon support. The avatar of war led the survivors — many of whom were wounded — to victory against the orks, culminating in the avatar decapitating the bloodthirster Yel'Grazruk and shattering the spirit of the enemy. The sword wind rejoiced.

Then they noticed the avatar wasn't gone. It had followed the fleeing enemy, killing as many as it could reach. The next day, the avatar was still killing. And the next. On the fifteenth day, it ran out of enemies to kill and came back, planted its sword at the center of the Biel-Tan fortifications, and waited.

After the twentieth day, the Biel-Tan forces found themselves very worried indeed. The burning avatar still smoldered, glaring out at the horizon. In the face of their persistent god, the Eldar finally attempted to psychically contact the avatar; a hazardous venture for even the most skilled warlock.

After the warlock stopped chanting in a dead language, she managed to sputter out "Khaine waits for his chariot". No one knew what that referred to. But when the autarch ordered the sword wind back to Biel-Tan, the avatar followed, marched through the craftworld, and returned to his temple, still burning.

The avatar has sat there since, waiting for his chariot.

===Craftworld Armor===
The Craftworld Eldar military forces are descended from, essentially, civic militia. Thus, their war machines were optimized for ease of construction, ease of maintenance, and ease of piloting; war machines a part-time non-professional volunteer force could use and maintain. The aftermath of the Fall, when the survivors were thrown back onto highly limited resources and the whole population had to be mobilized to survive, only reinforced this paradigm. 10,000 years of Imperium have loosened it; the number of super-heavy vehicles in the Craftworld arsenal has increased both in absolute number and proportionally as more resources become available. Likewise, more specialist designs for specific battlefield roles have become commonplace as the need for every tank to potentially fill every role lessens. Still, the typical Craftworld grav-tank remains a stripped-down (in terms of mechanical complexity, not necessarily weight) generalist.

== Tau Empire ==

=== Mont'Kau Battlesuits ===

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''Front-Line Defenders of the Greater Good:'''''

[[Image:Mont%27kau_Battlesuit.png|thumb|]]

As the Tau first expanded from their cradle of civilization on T’au into the greater galaxy, they began to realize that many of their opponents—including Orks, tyranids, Space Marines, and more—were devastatingly effective in close-quarters combat. Although the Tau preferred to avoid melee combat whenever possible, they realized that many of their opponents were not going to do them a favor and do the same. The Tau would have loved to use their auxiliaries to make up for this deficiency, but among their close allies only the Kroot were well-suited for close combat. And there were far more Tau regiments than there were Kroot to go around.

As a result, at the behest of O’Shovah (Commander Farsight) back before the Schism, the Tau Empire decided to solve this problem by building bigger and more durable versions of the Crisis battlesuit, specifically designed for melee combat. It has been suggested that O’Shovah was inspired to pitch his idea when he realized that battlesuits could be used to compensate for the Tau’s smaller physical stature and reluctance to engage in melee combat against foes, such as Orks and Space Marines, but the Tau vehemently deny this is the case. Unlike most battlesuits, which were designed as mobile platforms for heavy ranged weaponry, these suits were designed for close quarters combat. Like all Tau battlesuits these suits often carry guns, but more often than not these tend to be close-range weapons like shotguns, or tend to be a melee weapon first and foremost, like a giant bayonet to which attaching an actual gun is an afterthought. The Tau called them Mont’kau Battlesuits, named after a particularly terrifying species of predator from their homeworld of T’au. To the rest of the Imperium, who lacked the appreciation for the intricacies of the Tau language, these suits simply became known as Predator Battlesuits.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Compared to a Space Marine or an Aspect Warrior, Mont’kau battlesuits aren’t as particularly agile in close-quarters combat, as they lack the Black Carapace of a Space Marine or the flesh and blood agility of an Eldar. But like all Tau battlesuits they are lightweight for their size and—more importantly—easily replaceable. The purpose of the Mont’kau battlesuits is not to serve as shock troops, but instead to act as a bulwark to keep the close combat forces of the enemy away from the firing line. Mont’kau battlesuits are typically piloted by battlefield veterans, ones who are accustomed to the chaos of battle and have fast enough reflexes to fight on the front lines. As a result, although melee combat is still the Tau’s biggest weakness, at least the Tau now have an answer to the numerous close-combat specialists that dominate the galactic landscape and are not a complete joke about it. Nevertheless, the Tau claim that they are continually improving on the Mont’kau design, and that one day the Mont’kau battlesuits will be the equal of the front line combatants of the other major races.

One common addition to Mont’kau battlesuits is an outer layer of explosive reactive armor, made of an alloy similar to (but more brittle than) the traditional fio’tak, which is designed to fragment into a spray of ceramite-like shrapnel. This reactive armor can either be used to provide additional protection against anti-personnel ranged attacks or be command-detonated to act like a makeshift claymore mine. These reactive armor plates are actually capable of being added to a wide-variety of battlesuits, but are most often associated with the Mont’kau battlesuits due to their role in close combat. These additions, along with the directed flechette grenades that are now a common component of Tau infantry gear, were largely devised as contingencies against the Dark Eldar, whom the Tau held a particular hatred for after their repeated raids of the Tau Empire in the wake of the A.I. rebellion, the Tau Reformation, and the vanguard Hive Fleets. To the Dark Eldar, for whom speed was their primary protection, such devices would prove lethal.

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== Interex ==

=== Sagittars ===

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''A Fusion of Man and Machine:'''''

Although mankind had experimented with quadrupedal walking machines as early as M3, the use of these machines in warfare would not come into their own until much later, reaching their zenith just before and during the Age of Strife. The separation of the myriad worlds of the Great and Bountiful Human Empire during the Age of Strife resulted in each human world developing its own unique way of coping with the adverse conditions of the period, leading to an explosion of new technologies and new adaptations of old ones. Among these new weapons were the sagittars — a term used to both refer to the quadrupedal walking and the people who rode them — developed by the Interex of the Segmentum Pacificus. Although originally designed as scouts and heavy cavalry, sagittars would quickly become the backbone of Interex ground warfare.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Sagittars are primarily controlled by their rider, who would be neurally linked to their mount, in order to operate their mechanical limbs and onboard armory as if the machine was an extension of themself. Because of this, it often takes several years for a sagittar rider to fully learn how to control their machine’s limbs as if they were their own. When riderless, the robotic portion of the sagittar is controlled by an extremely simple artificial intelligence (about as simple, if not moreso, than those seen in Legio Cybernetica constructs), capable of standing still, returning to the rider’s side when commanded, or seeking cover in a firefight, and not much else. It is only when linked to their rider that a sagittar is capable of more complex action.

In addition to serving as a mobile mount, sagittars also function as a mobile armory for their rider. The rear portion of the mount contains a number of weapons, which can be switched between as needed. The most common weapon used by the Interex is the magnetic bow, which consists of a magazine of two-foot long spikes attached to a pair of arms, each of which contained a pair of electromagnets. A current is sent through the bow when the weapon is fired, accelerating the projectile to velocities high enough to penetrate ceramite armor. Adjusting the arms of the bow to be closer or further from the main barrel increases or decreases the power, accuracy, and recoil of the shot. Skilled riders can even turn their bodies around 180 degrees while retreating, to fire parting shots while their mount runs away from the battle. The armory will also contain lances, swords, or electrified throwing lances for other tasks. If an enemy attacks too fast for the rider to grab a weapon, the sagittar can strike out at its foe by kicking with its hydraulic legs.

In some ways, Interex sagittars act as highly mobile infantry as opposed to cavalry. Sagittars are stronger than a baseline human footsoldier, but their primary advantage over other elite troops — such as Astartes and Aspect Warriors — is their extreme mobility. Although sagittars can fight in traditional cavalry charges, the near ubiquitous presence of ranged weapons in the galaxy makes this a near-suicidal endeavor. Instead, the Interex use the superior mobility of their sagittars to outflank and outmaneuver slower opponents. This fits well with the general Interex policy of war, which was to dictate where and when a battle would occur such that battles would be fought under conditions that favored the Interex in order to minimize casualties on both sides. Although not as fast as an assault bike, under good conditions a sagittar can travel at speeds of up to 60 kilometers per hour, and unlike flesh-and-blood mounts sagittars do not get tired. Sagittar legs are also well-built to traveling over uneven terrain, as opposed to horses.

Because the sagittar’s mounts are an extension of themselves, rather than a separate animal, sagittars do not suffer from many of the typical weaknesses of biological cavalry; a sagittar cannot be startled as easily as a horse can because the only way to startle a sagittar is to startle the rider. However, sagittars do have some weaknesses. Because the rider of a sagittar has to be able to turn around to access the onboard armory, the armor has to be relatively light and flexible around the waist, making it a weak point. Since contact with the Imperium, the Interex have created models with heavier armor and more powerful weapons, but have never been able to fully eliminate this weakness. Additionally, because the rider sits above the fray of the battle, in close-combat conditions where the sagittar is unable to exploit its greater mobility, that same height which allows the sagittar to pick and choose its targets on the battlefield makes them an easy target for snipers or other high-powered ranged weaponry. If the legs are damaged, it is often possible to kill the rider before they can eject from their sagittar. Finally — and most importantly — although sagittars are good at offensive actions and hit-and-run attacks, they are not as effective when they are forced to stand and fight, whether they are forced into a position in which they cannot retreat or need to fortify and protect an objective. In the past, this is often when the Interex would call in the Kinebrach to supplement their sagittars as shock troops. Today this role is generally filled by other forces.

However, sagittar usage has never really caught on outside of the Interex and a few associated territories for a variety of reasons. First, sagittars occupy a rather awkward place in Imperial Tactics; sagittars are more expensive and more difficult to replace than flesh-and-blood cavalry such as horses, yet too slow for tactics used by heavy cavalry such as assault bikes and jetbikes. In some parts of the Imperium highly orthodox Mechanicus adepts will refuse to construct parts for sagittars, considering their machine spirits too close to A.I. for comfort (as they do the Legio Cybernetica), and since this simple intelligence is required for sagittar function no sagittars are made. Finally, sagittar fighting involves mastering an unusual set of tactics, including the ability to rapidly retreat and regroup from the battlefield when it becomes necessary. This is very different from typical Imperial tactics — particularly the Cadian doctrine, the most commonly followed military doctrine in the Imperium — which primarily focuses on the defense and holding of territory and aggressive action being undertaken primarily through artillery barrages. Sagittar fighting thus requires a very different mindset than is typically found among Imperial forces; one that is found only in groups such as the Armageddon Outriders or the inhabitants of the Pastoral Worlds. Nevertheless, a well-trained sagittar battalion is still a welcome sight for an Imperial commander on any battlefield.

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== Hubworld League (Squats) ==

=== Destroyermen ===

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''Heavy Infantry of the Hubworld League:'''''

Destroyermen are the heavy infantry of any squat army. The concept of Destroyermen originally derived from the squat custom of having people who would risk their lives as the first ones to enter an unexplored cavern or mine shaft, to see if it was safe to enter. Despite being clad in the best protective gear available, this work was extremely dangerous — as evidenced by the casualty rate — but at the same time it paid extremely well. However, being mostly collectivists, a squat clan would often not waste all of the earnings on themselves. Instead, they would put into upgrading and improving the protective suit, making it more likely that the individual performing this job would keep coming back intact. This bizarre method of technological natural selection went on for millennia, until eventually most squat colonies had numerous sets of masterwork craft powered armor scattered among various clans. From there it was a simple leap to go from using this armor for checking for gas pockets and occasional hostile xenos to using them in open warfare against threats like Orks. Destroyermen are often the “tip of the spear” in squat armies, fighting in areas where casualties are likely to be high. Destroyerman armors have often been in squat families for generations, and the living clan members are fiercely protective of them, seeing them as emblems of their clan’s glory and heritage.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Like most squat technology, the concept of Destroyermen and Destroyermen suits was developed during the Age of Isolation, the period in which the Hubworld League was cut off from contact with the majority of humanity. Destroyerman armor is often referred to as the little brother of Space Marine terminator armor, and there is a grain of truth to that statement; Destroyerman armor and Terminator armor actually spring from a common source: the environmental hazard suits used for working in hard vacuum or mining in inhospitable conditions during the Dark Age of Technology. However, whereas Terminator armor was retrofitted for military usage and has been increasingly refined for combat over millennia, Destroyerman armor is much more sedate. This is in part because Destroyermen were never expected to see combat on the level that most Space Marines do, and in part because the ability to efficiently manufacture some of the higher-end devices for the armors (like teleporters) was lost during the Age of Strife. In general, Destroyerman armor is more geared towards making sure the wearer and the armor survives, rather than making a more efficient killing machine like Terminator armor. There is also the issue of the armor wearer; although the armor may be high quality, the person inside the armor is still only human, thus lacking the genetic modifications typical of Space Marines or Sisters of Battle (particularly the Black Carapace of the former) and therefore limited what a Destroyerman is capable of.

</div>
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=== Desperados ===

Desperados are the scouts of the Hubworld’s military. Typically drawing their ranks from the young and impetuous members of Hubworld society, desperados are often hotheaded and eager to make their name. When on duty, desperados spend most of their time on the outskirts of Hubworld society, traversing the planet in search of undiscovered mineral lodes, making sure the machinery that keeps the hold functioning is still intact, and even acting as ranch hands on the few worlds in the Hubworld League capable of supporting grox herds. Desperados typically ride jet bikes, which have the easiest time traveling over the geologically unstable surface of many worlds of the Hubworld League, but wheeled vehicles are not uncommon. The Hubworld League has the largest collection of human-made jet bikes in the Imperium, lovingly passed down family lines for generations. In times of war desperados find themselves conscripted into Hubworld military actions, acting as raiding parties, scouts, and light skirmishers. Other, better-trained forces serve as more dedicated mechanized cavalry combatants.

=== Hubworlder Land Trains ===

Not all planets are so lucky as to have a breathable atmosphere, tolerable levels of radiation, and stable tectonic activity. The people of the Hubworld League near the galactic core know that better than most, as many of their worlds exist near the galactic core and therefore are under constant upheaval from tidal flexing in the gravitational pull of a gas giant, pulsar, or the core of the Milky Way itself. On many worlds it is not even possible to build the traditional bunker-like fortresses favored by Hubworld architects. Instead, the primary form of squat habitation is in the form of Land Trains.

Land Trains were originally developed on less hostile worlds, designed as caravans to bring raw ore and other goods between major settlements. On less stable worlds, however, land trains have been refitted to become settlements in and of themselves, ballooning in size to encompass the populations of entire cities. These trains are typically found on the less tectonically stable worlds and often contain large amounts of mining equipment, allowing Hubworlders to mine the ores that drive their civilization while still being able to move out of the way of newly formed fissures and tectonic rifts

Many who see Hubworlder Land Trains draw parallels with trains from other worlds. The comparison is better in some ways than others; a better comparison might be an armored trade caravan, albeit one with treads and an ability to mine its own raw materials. Hubworlder Land Trains are formed by linked cars much as more familiar trains do, but they do not follow tracks. After all, on these worlds sedentary or semi-permanent structures are a death sentence. Instead, land trains have treads, allowing them to climb over even highly angled surfaces.

As with almost every piece of technology they developed, the Hubworlders soon found that it was easy to repurpose their caravans for war. Armored sides designed to shrug off micrometeorite impacts and stellar radiation are equally well suited to deflecting enemy fire. Furthermore, the large size of the trains makes them ideal not only for housing troops and transport materiel but also supporting truly massive weaponry, potentially making them armored juggernauts when used correctly.

[[category:Nobledark Imperium]]

Nobledark Imperium Imperial Forces

2020-11-26T13:43:51Z

2001:8003:D01A:2500:78E3:F6BA:DADE:20D4: /* Adeptus Biologis */

'''This page is part of the Nobledark Imperium, a fan re-working of the Warhammer 40,000 Universe. See the [[Nobledark Imperium|Nobledark Imperium Introduction]] and [[Nobledark Imperium|Main Page]] for more information on the alternate universe'''

TO DO:
*Finish arguments over how the military is structured
== Imperial Guard ==

=== Standard Imperial Tactics ===

The standard Imperial infantry composition is to field a battalion of Imperial Guardsmen combined with a detachment of Eldar Guardians as auxiliaries. Unlike previous mixed-forces regiments throughout galactic history, this arrangement tends to work rather well, as unlike those previous combined regiments both sides feel fairly safe that the other side isn't going to shoot them in the back. Both groups can and do fight on their own, but work spectacularly together. In theory, the regiment structure works by Imperial Guard forces taking the brunt of the enemy fire and the Eldar acting as flankers. In practice, the more fragile but heavier-hitting Eldar like this arrangement because it means they won't be the primary targets of enemy fire, whereas the Imperial Guard like this arrangement because even though they start out taking brunt of the blow the Eldar auxiliaries will tear through enemy forces fast enough that they never become the targets of focus fire. As with everything in the Imperium, this varies from world to world. Specialist forces like Catachans, Kriegers, Harlequins, or Aspect Warriors function differently, and follow their own rules.

If there is any weakness to this arrangement, it's that Eldar and humans tend to only take orders from their respective species, which causes there to be two people in charge of a given regiment. If the two commanders can't come to an agreement, the army sputters, which can lead to one or the other going in alone.

After the Tau Empire was absorbed into the Imperium, Imperial commanders were eager to try to incorporate Tau Fire Warriors into this formation. The Imperium had seen how effective the Tau were at long-ranged combat, and saw great potential in their ability. In theory, the idea was to have a third group of Tau Fire Warriors providing long-range support fire from behind the Guardsman infantry, and if all worked as planned then half of the enemy army wouldn’t even be able to show up to the battle in the first place. In practice, however, this did not work for several reasons. First, the Tau were essentially a combined-arms force already (save for close combat), and didn’t appreciate being shoehorned into a long-range only role, even if they were talented at it. Secondly, much like Eldar and humans, Tau like to be commanded by Tau, so in an Eldar-Tau-human battalion you end up having three arguing commanders instead of just two. Third, and perhaps most importantly, Eldar and humans have worked together long enough to trust that one is not going to shoot the other in the back. This is not true of the Tau, especially given their attitude towards the Imperium for much of their history. When you factor in that in this arrangement the Tau are supposed to be in the back of the formation, and thus in the perfect position to potentially shoot their allies in the back, the other soldiers start to get paranoid and morale drops. Eventually, it was decided to keep Tau divisions as their own separate forces, called in especially for any enemy that has started to work out a viable counter, however soft, to the traditional Guardian & Guard one-two.

Eldar opinions on human weapons, like just about everything else in the Imperium, vary from Craftworld to Craftworld. Craftworlds like Alaitoc would sneer if offered human weapon as a sidearm, whereas Ulthwé Eldar would take two in addition to their own weapon and then ask if you have any more. Most Eldar see human weapons like modern soldiers do knives; crude, simple, and inelegant compared to their primary weapon, but if you're stuck in the trenches in a do-or-die moment it's better to have the other guy get shot/stabbed rather than you. Therefore, Eldar that use human weapons use them as a sidearm or last resort weapon, if at all. It helps that many human-made weapons are based on STC designs, and therefore easily replaceable and about as fragile as a brick (being designed for maximum durability), in contrast to the more delicate and precision-made (though still pretty tough) weapons of the Eldar. Therefore, an Eldar can be less careful with their sidearm and make sure their primary weapon is functioning at maximum efficiency.

=== Imperial Infantry Command Structure ===

As the Imperial Guard does not prescribe specific organizational arrangements for anything below battalion level, the vastly different cultures and traditions that exist across the Imperium change the size of the smaller units as they see fit. Terra does set minimum sizes on how large units must be before the unit can be recognized as aforementioned self-declared units by the wider Imperial Guard, however.

The lowest level of the Imperial Guard is the squad size. Guardsmen often operate in pairs for specialized tasks to keep confusion as low as possible between other in the same squad. The smallest recognized size for these squads is 10 soldiers per squad, further broken into 5 pairs, although a command squad might only have 6 men. At least 4 squads form a platoon, with one squad being a command squad, bringing the total number of men in platoon to at least 36 Guardsmen. Some battalions, like the Kriegers, assign 7 squads to a platoon, bringing their platoon size to 76 Guardsmen.

Eldar squads attached to Guardsman platoons come in the smallest size of 5 Eldar per squad, but their size can be bigger depending on their world of origin. Notably, Maiden world Eldar tends to be organized into larger sizes as they experience more attacks on their homes compared to the Craftworlds.

For the platoons to form into a company there must be at least 4 platoons with a company command squad, thus bringing the number to at least 150 men. Again, these numbers vary; Cadian Shock Troops often deploy around 300 per company, whereas the Kriegers use 10 platoons per company then adding the Company HQ with at least 1 Grenadier squad totalling in at least 704 Guardsmen, not counting transports which they are often deployed with.

The smallest size battalion uses at least 2 companies and battalion HQ before being deployed, bringing the numbers to 306 Guardsmen per battalion. The expected regiment holds at least 3 battalions and 1 support platoon, which have 7 squads and 1 HQ, totalling to 1000 men. More often than not, regiments like the Vostroyans use 3 infantry battalions and 2 standardized (organized not by 7 squad and HQ but like the infantry 3 squad with 1 HQ) support battalions coming up to 1,536 men. The Krieger regiments far exceed these expectations by using 4 standardized support battalions and 6 infantry battalions, boosting their numbers to 14,146 men including the regimental HQ.

The corps used to garrison a world often use the smallest size, with only 5 regiments totalling to at least 5,000 Guardsmen, and these troops are used more to raise PDF than to actually keep the peace. If there are still insurgents who disrupt the peace and do not accept the Imperial Truth, these garrison corps can double or triple in regiments. This puts the tripled corps from at least a small 15,000 to a gigantic 200,000 Guardsmen. The PDF used to aid the garrison corps may number from around a low 400,000 up to millions at a time on heavily populated planets like on hive worlds.

In more peaceful systems, the lax Guardsmen armies deployed to ‘guard’ the place would only be using the tinniest size, thus only have 20,000 on-paper Guardsmen at any one time, with a majority of the corps in reserve. In the more active systems, particularly garrisoning systems not too far from a front, the numbers would go up to around 40,000 to 60,000 troops at any given time. When the Imperial Guard does deploy an army to the frontline the commanders always request at least 100,000 soldiers for the more daring, but preferentially use 180,000 men if they are fortunate enough that they can requisition such numbers.

- Additional info in thread XI, including number of troops in each Segmentum. Actual number of troops never agreed upon, left here as placeholder.

=== Forces of the Imperial Guard ===

==== Cadian Shock Troopers ====

[[File:Cadian.jpg|300px|thumb|right|Typical Cadian combat uniform.]]

Most 'Cadian' Regiments are not, in fact, from Cadia, nor do they even have a drop of Cadian blood in them. “So why name them Cadian?” I hear you ask. The Cadians were one of the few who proved themselves in the Great Crusade as versatile and adaptable enough troops that the Imperial Army could deploy them on most fronts. The organizational structures and equipment used by the Cadians were introduced to many different worlds as the original Cadian regiments toured the modern Imperium and beyond in the Crusade Era. The 200 year expansion period saw the diverse traditions of regiments being used all over the galaxy, as newly integrated worlds threw their armed forces into joining the Imperial Army and subsequently be sent to the far-flung reaches of the Imperium. The War of the Beast saw almost all Cadian regiments be recalled to the defense of either Cadia or, if they were close enough, Terra itself. With the absence of many regiments from Ultima Segmentum and Segmentum Tempestus, the worlds in these places were forced to raise totally new regiments from scratch for either self-defense or as requisition to be deployed to the fronts.

At the time, many of the Imperial, Hive and Fortress worlds saw the effectiveness in Cadian regiments as they fought against or with the Cadians during the Great Crusade, and the industrial capability to manufacture standard Cadian equipment was already present on many Imperial worlds. Forge, Argi, and Feudal worlds, on the other hand, used the local traditions, organization, and equipment of their planetary elite troops to form their own Guardsmen regiments, as the Argi and Feudal worlds typically lacked the industry to produce and equip a Cadian regiment and the Forge worlds refused to form Cadian regiments, as these worlds dismissed the relative lack of artillery and armored vehicles characteristic of the Cadian doctrine, and formed the Skitarii armies instead.

The adoption of Cadian regiments on so many different worlds shows the versatility and efficiency of the Cadian doctrine. After the War of the Beast, the original Cadian regiments would be sent to refortify the Cadian Gate. Many of the displaced Cadian civilians would be reorganized into colonist groups, leaving their homeworld to settle the vast Imperium. The same adaptable traditions thus carried over to Cadian colonies and frontier worlds when they raised their own Cadian regiments.

Cadian infantry regiments from Cadia proper are known as “Cadian Shock Troops”, while off-world or imitation regiments are known as “Cadian Foot Troops”. Cadian Shock Troops would often have at least two detachments from other branches of the Imperial Guard; the 203rd Cadian Shock Troop, for example, has self-propelled heavy artillery and armored detachments. Cadian Foot Troops often don’t follow this rule and only deploy with one such detachment.

In a Cadian infantry regiment, a squad is made of 10 people that operate in 5 pairs. The sergeant keeps up morale and plans out tactics with the lieutenant, the latter of whom typically operates as a vox-caster, though these officers can also be equipped with melee weapons. A heavy weapons team is included to allow long range suppressive fire on the battlefield - usually with a heavy stubber. A medic works to keep the soldiers in fighting condition with the help of an underling that tags along into battles. The rest of the squad is made up of two pairs of weapon specialists, normally Lasgunners, rounding out the squad.

The sergeant is equipped with a chainsword and Laspistol for leading charges or CQC. Alternatively, the sergeant can be armed like the lieutenant, who is given a las-carbine for self-defense. The heavy weapons team normally uses an offensive heavy stubber that fires 12.7mm rounds or a lighter defensive stubber firing 7.92 rounds. One member of the heavy weapons team carries and fires the weapon, while the other member feeds ammo, spots targets, guards the gunner, and act as a makeshift bipod. Both members are also equipped with a Lasgun and a Laspistol. The medic fights with a Lasgun and heals with a medikit, which comes with medicinal drugs, chemicals, surgical tools, sedatives, injectors, bandages, and a medical cogitator which can detect almost every aliment known to man. To help the Medic is the underling, who carries extra supplies, guards the Medic, or helps in surgery, depending on the conditions. The weapon specialists mostly carry Lasguns, although one or two of the four might have flamers instead. These specialists can be armed with just about any weapon that can be held by two regular human arms, and some can also serve a dual role of vox-caster as well. The specialists act as either a flanking force while the heavy weapon team suppresses the enemy, or as the center line that lays down fire.

==== Fenrisian Line Regiments ====

Seeing the effectiveness of Cadian troops after encountering them in battle during the Great Crusade, Fenris adopted the Cadian Doctrine and deployed Cadian Foot Troops of their own to the front. Yet The War of the Beast changed the Fenrisians' outlook regarding the Cadian Doctrine; when faced with the Ork threat, several Cadian Foot Troops were entirely wiped out within the first week of the war due to the Fenrisians' lack of mortal manpower. The Death world bred heroes for the Space Wolves, not the infinite manpower required for regiments of Foot Troops. The Fenrisians abandoned the Cadian Doctrine after the war and switched to the Fusilier Doctrine that the famous Mordian, Praetorian, and Scintillan regiments used.

Sacrificing quantity for quality, the Fenrisians can always request Space Wolves regiments to merge with a Fenrisian Line Regiment, to devastating effect. The Flak Armor of the typical Fenrisian Line Guardsman uses extra metal plates compared to a Cadian's. Infantry under the Fusilier Doctrine would stand shoulder to shoulder, forming into lines facing the enemy before firing. The Fenrisian Line Regiments took this tactic and expanded it with the introduction of self-propelled artillery to provide mobile defense and keep up with infantry during attacks. In Fenrisian regiments officers are encouraged to outgun the enemy via volley fire, and if that fails just charge them. Fenrisian line infantry are better trained than Cadians in melee combat, with some even wielding swords into charges.

Fenrisian Line Regiments often differ in tactics depending on whether they come from one of the Fenrisian colony worlds or Fenris itself. Old World Fenrisians are more wild and less coordinated in their approach, and typically operate in 5-10 man squads for the best kill-to-loss ratio. New World Fenrisians are more ordered and coordinated, though they are still wilder than anyone outside your average Death Worlder. The two groups work best together, with New Worlder regiments holding the line and securing targets and Old Worlders scouting ahead and harrying supply lines.

==== Armageddon Outriders ====

[[File:Rock_rider.png|300px|thumb|left|Common 'uniform' of a biker scout for the Outriders.]]

Everybody knows the Steel Legion. Reflections of their world in microcosm. Steel and fire and ash; unstoppable waves of armor, Basilisk barrages like monsoon rains, choking clouds of lung-burning gas. Less well-known is the fact that there are two parts to the Steel Legion. The first and largest are the heavy mechanized infantry they are famous for. The second is the Outriders.

The Outriders are all crazy. The infantry regiments of the Steel Legion recruit from inside the hives — the factory and forge workers — but the Outriders recruit from outside the hives, and there are only two ways to make a living out there.

The first is prospecting and wildcat mining, delving deep into ancient and much-abused Ork-built structures with jury-rigged and second-hand equipment in search of veins of valuable materials. Everything from gold electrical circuits to adamantine armor plate. Most valuable of all is components of the old teleporter system. The Mechanicus has decided it wants planetary teleporters more than it hates Ork 'technology', and pays staggering sums for the smallest scraps. This description alone should tell you everything you need to know about how difficult and dangerous the job is.

The second is Ork hunting. The Administratum and PDF will pay good thrones for Ork skulls. Two for a squig, five for a grot, and starting at forty for an Ork, more for larger or special types like Weirdboys and Brainboys. Reimbursement is included for promethium spent burning the bodies, and the PDF doesn't check too hard to make sure you're not claiming driving-around promethium as Ork-burning expense.

Outrider legends tell of Billy-Joe Hammerlord, who drove through an entire warband on his bike to take the head of a Warboss and earned enough to retire. The story grows wilder and more fantastic every retelling, thus by now the old stories claim the warband stretched from one horizon to the other, the Warboss carving paths through the rubble for his army to march through just by dragging his axe along the ground behind him, and Billy-Joe himself earned enough to buy himself a fleet, became a Rogue Trader, and went on adventures with Prince Yriel.

Officially, all the Orks on Armageddon are Feral. Most places, Feral means stone axes and weird squigs. But this is Armageddon. The world still remembers in her bones when she strode among the stars and slapped aside Battlefleet Solar like so many childrens' toys. A lot of the Orks are just waving around scrap-metal axes. On the other hand, depending on what armories they've broken into, they might be tossing around vortex bombs.

The point is that Outriders are all crazy. In some ways they sort of resemble Orks themselves. They move around in a wide assortment of walkers, fat-tire buggies, and motorbikes, made of scrap metal and spare parts. Most of these vehicles may have started life on an assembly line in a Mechanicus factory, but after generations of repairs and modifications nothing of the original vehicle can be found. Most of them are old - a good vehicle is a heirloom, passed down from father to son, with each generation adding a bit more to it. They stick spikes on the vehicles and stick Ork skulls on the spikes, and judge each other by how skull-laden their bosspoles are. When an Ork warband and an Outrider clan are fighting, it sometimes gets hard to tell which is which.

Outriders prefer las-weapons over slug, so there is that.

A common rite of passage among the Outriders is for the father to cripple an Ork with shots to its limbs, then for son finish it off with a knife. This marks the transition from childhood into adolescence. True manhood is often not considered to begin until the son repeats the ritual as the father. It is important not just to kill Orks, but to ensure that Ork-killing will continue into the far future.

The point is that Outriders are all crazy, but they are Ork-killing crazy so they make excellent candidates for the Imperial Guard. Sometimes entire clans get recruited into their own regiments. Sometimes restless young men come in on their own to the recruiting office and get incorporated into the regular Steel Legions as scouts and cavalry. Most of the time they insist on bringing their own vehicles, and most of the time the Munitorum lets them, though they insist that the Outriders repair their vehicles with standard issue parts. Since most of the time their vehicles are kitbashes of Sentinels and Chimeras, this is usually not too difficult.

For all their skill and lunatic courage, the Outriders are not famous for the good and simple reason that there just aren't as many of them as the normal Steel Legions. Armageddon outside the hive walls does not support high population densities. Thus, they just fade into the background as 'specialized auxiliaries' of the Steel Legion. But those who have met them have given rise to a proverb: “Armageddon has many faces, and all of them are lethal."

==== Elysian Drop Troopers ====

Elysium does, in fact, produce forces for the Guard beyond its famous Drop Regiments. There are Elysian tank regiments, Elysian artillery regiments, Elysian footslogger regiments. They are all, universally, nursing a mild grudge against the universe in general and the Drop Regiments in particular for the way everyone is continually surprised by their existence.

"I thought Elysium did, you know, drop troops." "FUCK YOU."

But nobody cares about them. [muffled FUCK YOU in the distance] Let's talk about the Drop Regiments.

The Elysian Drop Regiments are somewhat unique in the Imperial Guard for being descended from a naval boarding force. Elysium was, and is, a major trade hub in a sector unfortunately plagued with human pirates, Ork Freebootas, and a superfluity of places for them to hide. As a result, Elysium committed much of its PDF force to anti-piracy operations, stationing regiments on merchant vessels and escort ships for boarding and counter-boarding operations.

No war can be won with defense alone, however, and the Elysian PDF regiments assigned to anti-pirate duty began experimenting with methods of striking at the pirates in their lairs. Thus the modern Drop Regiments began to take shape. The first attempts were amateurish and improvised; in some cases regiments used civilian shuttles and Void Maneuvering Packs instead of proper assault ships and grav-chutes. Still, a couple of victories proved the concept worthy of further development, and Elysian high command invested in additional training and equipment.

The first battles of the Drop Regiments were void-borne affairs, fought in microgravity in and around hidden asteroid bases. As more and more pirate bases were expunged, however, they were forced to track down their opponents in ever more diverse locales, from fairly conventional planets to burning Mercurial environments to floating gas-giant bases. But, in the end, it was mostly done. The pirates would never be fully expunged from the sector — fucking Orks — but it was safer than it had ever been before. Trade was flourishing, new worlds were being colonized, and the Elysian PDF found itself somewhat underemployed. So, when the next Founding came around, the course of action was obvious.

The modern Elysian Drop Regiments distinguish themselves from the usual run of air cavalry in three ways.

First, they continue to train for operation in a very wide variety of environments: zero-g and vacuum, high gravity, extreme temperatures, toxic atmospheres, they have the tools and training to operate in them all. Most drop regiments only train to operate within the usual 'human-habitable' range of environments, giving the Elysians a distinct niche and edge.

Second, they have very good relations with the Imperial Navy due to their past as, essentially, naval armsmen specialising in hunting pirates. Thus, they have an easier time securing air and orbital support, and have the doctrine and training to make the maximum use of it. They are comfortable with inter-service cooperation in a way few regiments are. This includes good relationships with the Void Wolves, with joint training exercises being commonplace.

Third, general superiority of training and equipment. The Drop Regiments have become a point of planetary pride, and as a prosperous trading hub Elysium can afford to ensure they are equipped and trained to the highest standards. And with far more volunteers than they can accept, the training academies can accept only the best recruits.

Combined, this results in the Drop Regiments being frequently deployed to the stranger battlefields of the Imperium, executing their distinctive lightning strikes in environments an unprepared human could not even hope to survive in, much less fight in.

==== Lucifer Blacks ====

Humans in general have a tendency to survive in places where they aren’t intended to go. Such is the case of the Lucifer Blacks, one of the original regiments of the Old Hundred, the original one hundred regiments that were not disbanded at the end of the Unification Wars and would serve as the basis for the Imperial Army. The Lucifer Blacks were one of the last people on Old Earth to be discovered by the outside world, living deep underwater in pre-Strife underwater habitats at the bottom of Old Earth’s Great Ocean (also known as the Pacific Ocean) in a region controlled by the Pan-Pacific Empire. It is thought that these habitats were originally meant as simple residential habitats or research stations during the Dark Age of Technology. By the time of the Age of Strife, however, the Lucifer Blacks were cut off from the rest of the world until their rediscovery by the horrendous contraptions of the Pan-Pacific Empire. This lifestyle in the inky darkness, surviving off of mesopelagic fish and geothermal power from hydrothermal vents, is what gave the regiment their name.

Living underwater in an environment where literally one wrong seal could mean the difference between life and death tended to foster an extremely calm and measured attitude in people. To the Lucifer Blacks, a crisis was the absolute worst time to panic, as panic is what led to rash decisions and rash decisions are what get you killed. This led the regiment to be infamously known for their ability to be calm and clear-thinking under fire, as well as a very dark and (ironically) dry sense of humor. Additionally, living nearly 4000 meters below sea level in conditions where most light was artificial tended to make one very good at fighting in the dark. The Lucifer Blacks often used this to their advantage in battle, using smoke grenades and other implements to approximate the low-light conditions in which they had the advantage over their foes.

However, at the same time the Lucifer Blacks were not the most numerous people. When one lives in such a hostile, enclosed environment, the primary constraint on population size was not food or materials, but simply living space due to the number of habs present. When the Lucifer Blacks were first discovered and subjugated by Narthan Dume, Dume decided that one of the best ways to use the highly disciplined — but not very numerous — Lucifer Blacks were as elite shock troops. The calm, detached nature of the Lucifer Blacks in high-stress combat situations made them especially hard to break. The fact that the Lucifer Blacks preferred to fight in the hermetically sealed all-black bodysuits they typically wore for extra-habitat activities only added to their intimidation factor.

When the Pan-Pacific Empire fell and the tyranny of Narthan Dume finally toppled, the Lucifer Blacks were one of the first regiments of the Pan-Pacific Empire to pledge their loyalty to the Warlord. The Warlord was somewhat suspicious of the Lucifer Blacks at first, but as with the Assassins of the Salt Wastes he wasn’t fool enough to deny himself potentially useful resources. And the Lucifer Blacks more than delivered on their promises of loyalty, even serving in a secondary role alongside the Night Lords during the Vhnori Resurgence as the two fought against the attempted resurgence of the Pan-Pacific Empire.

Eventually, in return for their exemplary service, the Warlord — now the Steward — granted the Lucifer Blacks settlement rights on extrasolar worlds. The Lucifer Blacks mostly chose to settle on Ocean Worlds that approximated their old home. Even today, many people on Ocean Worlds have distant Lucifer Black Ancestry. As part of the Old Hundred, the Lucifer Blacks also still exist on Earth, living in the same oceanic trenches as their forefathers, though ten thousand years of gentrification and integration into Old Earth’s infrastructure mean that the modern Lucifer Blacks have lost a lot of their original culture and aren’t as incredibly stoic and tough-as-nails as their forefathers. Imperial nobles often like to have Lucifer Black bodyguards when they can’t get someone like a member of Terra’s Children, though in reality having a Lucifer Black bodyguard usually amounts to little more than a display of prestige.

==== Ohmsworld Regiments ====

===== The 12th Ohmsworld Armored Regiment =====

The 12th Ohmsworld was in the final stages of being reconstituted when the insurrection began, with the veterans of previous Ohmsworld regiments and even a junior Ulthwe Farseer combining their efforts to ready the troops. As such, it was not only at full strength when the Duke announced his secession, it also had expert — if not exceptional — leadership. With aid from the Skitarii, the 12th led the charge into Ohmsworld's primary hive and quickly overwhelmed the Ducal Guards, many of whom were Ohmsworld veterans themselves and subsequently defected to the Imperial forces. More importantly, they managed to seize the Guards' stock of Chimeras, giving Ohmsworld a powerful mobile army. With the easing of pressure on Ohmsworld as the Imperium advances, the 12th has even begun contemplating direct offensive actions, as opposed to the firefighting they had done before. Whether this leads them to glorious victory or fatally overextends their already undersupplied lines, only time will tell.

Home World: Hive World <br>
Commanding Officer: [[Nobledark_Imperium_Notes#Tabletop_Crunch|Psyker]] (Farseer Eldian Sylandriel, provisional/brevet Colonel) <br>
Regiment Type: Mechanised Infantry <br>
Doctrines: Survivalists: Ash Wastes, Scavengers* <br>
Regimental Drawbacks: Poorly Provisioned <br>

Characteristic Modifiers: <br>
Starting Aptitudes: +6 Agility <br>
Starting Talents: Warp Sense, Paranoia, Rapid Reload <br>
Starting Skills: Common Lore: Imperium, Deceive, Linguistics: Low Gothic, Psyniscience, Forbidden Lore: Psykers, Operate: Surface <br>
Starting Aptitude: Agility <br>
Tutelage of Mars (replaces Accustomed to Crowds): The Mechanicus has taken a great deal of interest in Ohmsworld's archaeotech, so while Mars would never officially sanction it, the local techpriests have given the people of Ohmsworld some basic training in technological mysteries to aid them in maintenance. Ohmsworld troopers may offer Aid in Tech-Use tests as if they were trained in Tech-Use, though this bonus goes away if they actually become Trained in Tech-Use. Those who ARE trained in Tech-Use gain +10 to all Tech-Use tests that involve respiratory or air filtration equipment... <br>
Hivebound: Hive worlders seldom endure the horrors of the open sky or suffer the indignities of the great outdoors. Whilst outside of an enclosed or artificial environment (such as a hive city, voidship or similar), they suffer a –10 penalty to all Survival Tests, due to their continued unfamiliarity with such places.
Wounds: Characters from this regiment reduce their starting Wounds by 1. <br>
Standard Kit: Universal Standard Kit, one M36 Lasgun and four charge packs per PC, one suit of flak armour per PC, two frag and two krak grenades per PC, 1 Chimera Transport per Squad, one respirator per PC, one micro-bead per PC, one survival suit per PC, one auspex per Squad <br>
Favoured Weapons: Autocannon, grenade launcher <br>

*Special note: Everyone on Ohmsworld knows that scavenging is necessary; as such, scavenging is explicitly allowed by Guard and Munitorum authorities. However, regiments are also under orders to deposit all scavenged materiel into a collective equipment pool; hoarding is very much frowned upon. This doesn't mechanically alter the Scavengers Doctrine, just modify its ingame usage.

===== The 3rd Special Defence Regiment =====

As with all things on Ohmsworld, the archaeotech comes first, and even the most vicious assaults often devolves into hand-to-hand combat as all sides struggle desperately to avoid damaging the precious filtration systems. As such, most close-combat specialists present during the rebellion had been consolidated into solely defensive forces. These specialists ranged from press-ganged hivers, to the few Arbites who had survived the Duke's initial purge, to any and all Ogryn on the planet, and — in the case of the 3rd Special Defence Regiment — even maintenance workers skilled at handling heavy tools. Indeed, the leader of the increasingly diverse regiment is herself an Ogryn Bone'ead; 'Boss Foreman' Mogda Gruk took to her implants exceptionally well, with her intelligence even rating slightly above Imperial average. Though astoundingly ugly even by Ogryn standards she is well-loved by the troopers under her command, especially since she seems little changed from her days as foreman for her hive's Ogryn workforce.

Home World: Hive World <br>
Commanding Officer: Maverick (Brevet Colonel Mogda Gruk) <br>
Regiment Type: Siege Regiment <br>
Doctrines: Hardened Fighters, Close Order Drill <br>
Regimental Drawbacks: Poorly Provisioned <br>

Characteristic Modifiers: <br>
Starting Aptitudes: +3 Agility, +3 Perception, +3 Toughness, +2 Weapon Skill, -3 Intelligence <br>
Starting Talents: Paranoia, Resistance: Fear, Street Fighting, Combat Formation, Nerves of Steel <br>
Starting Skills: Common Lore: Imperium, Deceive, Linguistics: Low Gothic, Tech-Use <br>
Starting Aptitude: None <br>
Tutelage of Mars (replaces Accustomed to Crowds): The Maechanicus has taken a great deal of interest in Ohmsworld's archaeotech, and while Mars would never officially sanction it, the local techpriests have given the people of Ohmsworld some basic training in technological mysteries to aid them in maintenance. Ohmsworld troopers may offer Aid in Tech-Use tests as if they were trained in Tech-Use, though this bonus goes away if they actually become Trained in Tech-Use. However, those who ARE trained in Tech-Use gain a +10 bonus to all Tech-Use tests that involve respiratory or air filtration equipment... <br>
Hivebound: Hive worlders seldom endure the horrors of the open sky or suffer the indignities of the great outdoors. Whilst outside of an enclosed or artificial environment (such as a hive city, voidship or similar), they suffer a –10 penalty to all Survival Tests, due to their continued unfamiliarity with such places. <br>
Wounds: Characters from this regiment reduce their starting Wounds by 1. <br>
Standard Kit: Universal Standard Kit, one combat shotgun with a mono bayonet and 8 shotgun magazines per PC, one suit of flak armour per PC, one respirator per PC, four empty sandbags and one entrenching tool per PC, two frag grenades and two photon flash grenades per PC, one auspex per Squad, one micro bead per PC <br>
Favoured Weapons: Heavy flamer, flamer (as delicate as the filters are, they are surprisingly heat-resistant)

===== Century Omega 7-13 =====

When the Duke announced his secession, the Mechanicus authorities on Ohmsworld immediately decided to move in support of the Imperium — not out of any real love for the Imperium proper, but out of fear that the resources they needed for further research would be cut off. Under most circumstances, they wouldn't even have gone that far — after all, no sane man would cross the Mechanicus. Problem was, the Duke was anything but sane; during secret negotiations between Mars' representatives and the Duke, the latter made it clear that he would brook no opposition nor equal (that Mars would be his superior never seemed to cross his mind). The fact that many hereteks had thrown in their lot with the Duke in exchange for independence and freedom of work only hardened the opinions of Ohmsworld's Mechanicus against them.

Even so, their insurrection was costly, with the already small Skitarii centuries being further depleted to the point where they were eventually consolidated into a single unit. Century Omega 7-13 now functions as a semi-independent organization within Ohmsworld's military; in general, the Magi's goals tend to align with Ohsmworld's, but sometimes they send Omega 7-13 detachments on independent missions, their actual agenda known only to the senior adepts of Mars.

Home World: Lathe Worlds <br>
Commanding Officer: Phlegmatic (Centurion/Magos Rho-1) <br>
Regiment Type: Grenadiers <br>
Doctrines: Cyber-Enhanced, Iron Discipline <br>
Regimental Drawbacks: The Few <br>

Characteristic Modifiers: +3 Intelligence, +3 Ballistic Skill, +3 Toughness <br>
Starting Talents: Bombardier <br>
Starting Skills: Tech-use (Trained), Common Lore: AdMech, Common Lore: Tech, Linguistics: Low Gothic, Linguistics: Techno-Lingua, Logic, Common Lore: Imperial Guard, Common Lore: War <br>
Starting Aptitudes: Willpower <br>
Tutelage of Mars (replaces Isolated by Machines): Gain a +10 bonus to all Tech-Use tests that involve respiratory or air filtration equipment...<br>
The True Flesh: Lathe World characters possess the Mechanicus Implants Trait. In addition, the potentia coil is specifically enhanced to meet the needs of integrated weapons.<br>
Soldiers of the Omnissiah: This regiment cannot include Support Specialists used in other Guard regiments; the Mixed Regiment rules must be used in those cases. Guardsmen from these regiments always count as Techpriests for purposes of prerequisites, regardless of current Speciality or Advanced Speciality.
Wounds: Characters from this regiment generate Wounds normally.<br>
Standard Kit: Universal Standard Kit, one Lathe lasrifle with an attached auxiliary grenade launcher weapon upgrade per PC, three krak and two frag grenades per PC, one suit of light carapace armour per Player Character, one deadspace earpiece per PC, one combi-tool per PC, two grenade launchers per Squad, Common bionic respiratory system, bionic heart<br>
Favoured Weapons: Integrated Weapons<br>

===Doctrines of the Imperial Guard===
In addition to the famed Cadian Doctrine, many regiments have also developed their own unique methods of fighting which have then spread throughout the Imperium. While this is hardly an exhaustive list, it provides a decent look into the sheer diversity of the Guard.

====Infiltration Doctrine====

Infiltration doctrine is a light infantry doctrine focused on stealth and mobility. It omits vehicles and heavy artillery from the TO&E almost entirely, relying on crew-served weapons for heavy firepower, which can be dismantled and carried by an infantry squad. On the offence, infiltration regiments use their stealth and lightweight equipment to close with enemy formations undetected and from unexpected directions; once all elements are in position, they launch an overwhelming surprise attack from close range, using their crew-served weapons and snipers to suppress the enemy and ensure they cannot mount an organized defence. On the defense, they use the same qualities for hit-and-run raids, whittling down the enemy and melting away into the night when the enemy tries to bring their firepower to bear.

Infiltration regiments are usually equipped with specialized equipment such as camo-cloaks and night-vision goggles, but these are less important than how the regiment is trained. The nature of their operations require that officers and NCOs be trained to a higher standard of independence than normal, as units as small as squads will often be trusted to maneuver individually in support of the overall objective. This usually cultivates a sense of being elite; combined with the looser chains of command infiltration regiments usually operate with, other regiments usually consider them insubordinate and undisciplined.

In combat, infiltration regiments are used to secure and move through terrain that mechanized regiments cannot. They are also used in combined-arms strategies to scout out enemy positions, assassinate officers, and destroy enemy strongpoints in advance of the main armored thrust. Infiltration regiments also maintain their effectiveness easier in the face of enemy air and orbital superiority thanks to their ability to fight while remaining hidden and dispersed. Finally, infiltration doctrines are popular among PDF forces incapable of maintaining large mechanized armies. As powerful as they are within their specialty, however, their lack of vehicles and artillery makes them perform poorly outside of it.

====Armageddon Doctrine====

Armageddon doctrine is a maneuver- and terrain-focused mechanized infantry doctrine. Developed by the Steel Legion in their endless battles against the Orks, Armageddon doctrine TO&E is extremely vehicle-heavy, with sufficient Chimeras to carry the entire regiment, strong organic artillery support, and at least a modest tank detachment. Mechanized scout detachments — Salamanders, Sentinels, and bikes (preferably jet-bikes) — are common, but can also be delegated to other specialized regiments. The Steel Legion itself uses the Outriders for this purpose, but other regiments have alternative solutions. Likewise, organic combat engineering support is common, as are air defense vehicles; Hydras in particular are valued for their ability to sweep aside Ork hordes in addition to aircraft. Soldiers are heavily armored in carapace.

In combat, Armageddon doctrine is often described as 'operationally offensive, tactically defensive'. Using the scout detachment to survey the terrain and enemy dispositions, the regiment seeks to seize vital terrain features before the enemy and fortify it, forcing the enemy to assault a fortified position on a terrain of the Imperium's choosing. To this end, Armageddon-style regiments usually carry copious amounts of barbed wire, mines, and other defensive implements; vehicles are equipped with dozer blades to dig out entrenchments. This is where the engineering detachment comes in. The scout detachment, if present, harasses the enemy on its approach, although this is not a vital component of the doctrine.

At the level of individual squads, Armageddon doctrine emphasizes close cooperation between infantry and armor; full mechanization means each squad has a Chimera, which they are responsible for defending from threats and vice versa.

Few worlds adopt the Armageddon doctrine in full. Although many other mechanized infantry forces adopt its emphasis on mobility, terrain, and forcing of the enemy to attack fortified positions, few worlds can afford to equip their regiments with the same weight of metal as Armageddon and thus do not adopt the full TO&E. In addition, the emergence of the Brain Boy caste has thrown the doctrine into flux; with the Orks no longer throwing themselves as eagerly into near-suicidal charges, the strategy has lost some of its effectiveness. Although the core of the strategy remains sound, the arguments at Steel Legion HQ about how to adapt to a changing galaxy continue long into the night.

====Fast Attack Doctrine====

A light-armor and occasionally bio-cavalry doctrine focusing on the use of speed and maneuverability as weapons.

There is no standard TO&E for Fast Attack regiments, due to the wide variance in equipment used. Salamander scout tanks, Sentinels, motor- and jet-bikes, a thousand varieties of armored car and riding beasts. A very few forge-worlds even have super-heavy fast-attack companies, equipping tanks as heavy as Baneblades with antigrav units to allow them to keep up with lighter forces.

Whatever the equipment, all Fast Attack units operate similarly: using overwhelming speed to strike at an enemy's weak points before an effective response can be mustered. The 'classic' pattern of attack is to punch straight through the enemy line and rampage through the rear areas, but that is hardly the only tactical possibility. Outflanking maneuvers, hit-and-run raids — speed opens many possibilities.

Fast Attack regiments are usually deployed as part of combined arms strategies, scouting for slower units or exploiting breakthroughs created by heavier ones. On their own, while fast and generally well-armed, they are also more fragile than a true tank unit and lack staying power. This varies, of course; the dynamics of a horse cavalry unit differ from Sentinels and Salamanders, which in turn differ from jet-bikes. But the general principle holds; as with so many other things in the Imperium, there is strength in diversity.

Fast Attack units, like Infiltration units, are often popular among PDF forces which cannot sustain heavy tank formations but can build light tanks and armored cars or breed horses, which contributes to the wide variance of regiments following the doctrine.

=== Scion Tempestus ===

==== Difference between Stormtroopers and Scions ====

The Tempestus Scion, also colloquially known (somewhat incorrectly) as Stormtroopers, are specialized heavy infantry regiments that are always broken down into smaller units. Once divided into battalions or companies, they are attached to other units within the Imperial Army but can also serve under the Inquisition or Sororitas. The Scions are known for their high dropout rates in the intense training period, but prove in combat at being the best CQC non-melee soldiers in the Imperial Army.

Scions and Stormtroopers differ in role and function within the Imperial army, and thus differ in their training and equipment as a result. Veteran Guardsmen or raw volunteers are first trained and deployed as Stormtroopers in the Imperial Guard. Stormtroopers are only trained to fight in ground wars and are equipped and assigned as such; Stormtroopers are often given the task of assaulting fortifications and clearing buildings. In contrast, Scions are volunteer veteran Stormtroopers who are retrained to fight inside void ships and infiltrate behind enemy lines. The Scions' weapons are unchanged for the most part, but their armor is a lighter version of Stormtrooper armor that can withstand the vacuum of the void.

==== Equipment ====

Stormtroopers are sent to the frontlines as the first ones to clear out bunkers, trenches, and buildings. Missions of that nature mean that Stormtroopers are given the deadly ‘Hellgun’ pattern Lasgun to eviscerate enemies at point-blank range. The Carapace Armor worn by Stormtroopers is the innermost armor worn by Diffusion squads. This armor can prevent shrapnel or shots at less than 50m from disabling the Stormtrooper, allowing them to clear tight spaces in relative safety from explosives and suppressive fire. Apart from these rather remarkable pieces of equipment, Stormtroopers maintain the same basic kit as the typical Guardsman — just with more explosives. The Scions, when first founded, noted that the Carapace Armor accelerated exhaustion and hindered the movement of the user. These two factors played an important role in crippling operators on independent infiltration missions. The Tempestus Scion thus developed the ‘Cephalon Armor’, which was a lighter version of Carapace Armor with the same bodily armor coverage while still being stronger than Flak Armor. Cephalon Armor also comes with a built-in antenna and shoulder mounted pic recorder that a commanding officer can use. Apart from an additional void survival kit. the Scions' basic kits are otherwise almost the same as a Stormtrooper’s.

==== Standardization ====

In terms of equipment, Scions all carry the same Scion basic kit and standard CQC weapons, though they can always carry extra things with them or swap out weapons due to their armor being lighter. This keeps all Scion companies mostly standardized while still maintaining enough flexibility to complete very specific missions. All Scion squads are expected to take on CQC & infiltration missions and equip themselves accordingly.

Stormtroopers, on the other hand, vary greatly from the world to world, just like the Guardsmen regiments they're attached to. All Stormtroopers are expected to be assigned the task of clearing cramped locations and fortifications. How they are trained and equipped to accomplish this changes from regiment to regiment. The Cadian Kasrkins, for example, are made for storming buildings in urban combat while the Cadian Guardsmen maneuver quickly in street fighting. Kreiger Grenadiers, on the other hand, charge at fortifications and trenches en masse before everybody throwing a grenade and jumping inside. Kreiger Grenadiers would hold even more extra grenades than Kasrkins. Hive world Stormtroopers might always carry Meltaguns or Flamers due to the importance of high damage in fast reaction time weapons in urban warfare. Stormtroopers from Feudal worlds, on the other hand, might only have a Lasgun and a single grenade while carrying a shield with several melee weapons. In short, each Stormtrooper detachment is as varied and differentiated as the Guard regiments themselves. The only thing standard is that they all wear some variation of Carapace Armor.

==== Notable Regiments ====

See [[Nobledark Imperium Scion Regiments| Scion Regiments]]

== Abhuman Subspecies ==

=== Beastmen and Ogryn ===

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Ogryn Project:'''''

As the Imperium spread its borders past the boundaries of Sol, it rapidly began to encounter new strains of abhumans. Some of these strains were familiar, such as the Navigators and additional tribes of Void Born. Others, such as the Ratlings, Felinids, and Nightsiders, were novel but genetically stable, having mutated through Dark Age of Technology genetic engineering and/or natural evolution - a testament to humanity's hardiness and ability to survive on almost any world.

For the most part, the Steward was unconcerned with admitting these abhuman variants into the Imperium. He already had one abhuman primarch, another nearly so, and he himself was only human in the loosest sense of the word. To him, the abhumans were just one more drop of variation in the great sea of humanity.

However, then the Imperium discovered the Ogryn. And the Beastmen.

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Each race presented its own problems for the Imperium. The previous abhuman species were all genetically stable and essentially comparable to baseline humans in intelligence. In contrast, the Ogryn were clearly of subhuman intelligence — being comparable to a mentally handicapped human at best — and behaved and looked like shaved apes more than people, fighting each other with their enlarged canine tusks.

The Beastmen were slightly more intelligent, but more in the manner of an extremely cunning predator than a civilized being. Completely ruled by their instincts and prone to additional mutations, when the Beastmen were discovered by the Imperium their lives were brutish, nasty, and short.

Such was the Steward’s concern that he brought in his highest ranked geneticists and gene-wrights to consult on this matter. At this point in time, the Steward’s various groups of genetic engineers had been merged into Adeptus Biologis, but had not yet adopted the trappings of the Mechanicum of Mars. The nominal head of the Biologis — a former genesmith — suggested the Ogryn and Beastmen were so unsalvageable that the Steward’s best options were either to wipe them out immediately and resettle the planet with humans of other stock, or otherwise to sterilize them and then resettle the planets in 60 years or so after they had all died out. These suggestions caused considerable consternation among other schools of thought in the Biologis.

The Steward made it abundantly clear that the suggestion of summary genocide on a world under the Imperium’s protection would not be tolerated, and doing so without the Steward’s knowledge was grounds for immediate and summary execution without appeal. The Steward argued the Ogryn and Beastmen were humans. Afflicted humans, yes, but humans all the same. Their ancestors were no different than any other group that Earth had sent to the stars, but were merely dealt a bad hand by the universe through no fault of their own. Eventually, the Steward and the various factions of the Adeptus Biologis reached an agreement. The Biologis would release carefully tailored mutations into the genepools of the Ogryn and Beastmen over thousands of years, until the devolution in intelligence and sanity caused by the Age of Strife could be undone.

As of M41, Ogryn and Beastmen can be split into two broad categories: Primeval and Nova. Primeval Ogryn and Beastmen are rare, existing only on planets that have been just recently rediscovered by the Imperium. They are little different from the Ogryn and Beastmen first encountered by the Imperium in M30. Nova Ogryn and Beastmen vary in intelligence from little better than their Primeval ancestors to levels deemed acceptable to the Imperium (generally comparable to standard human intelligence, or close to it).

Nova Ogryn have lost some of the strength and durability of their ancestors, but in general are much more intelligent (though less so than baseline humans, on average). Combined with external artificial augmentations, such as Biochemical Ogryn Neural Enhancement or “Bonehead Procedure”, some Ogryn officers are entirely comparable to the average human in intelligence.

Nova Beastmen are one of the greatest success stories of the Biologis, along with the Astartes and Necromundan eco-engineering. Out of all the strains of abhuman, the Beastmen benefited the most from genetic engineering — mostly because of how bad they had it to begin with. Some have theorized that the Beastmen were created via crude methods of genetic engineering by splicing in large amounts of non-human DNA (even moreso than other abhumans) during the Dark Age of Technology. When society collapsed during the Age of Strife, there was no way to correct the myriad mutations and glitches that cropped up over the following 10,000 years. Indeed, when the Beastmen were first discovered by the Imperium they were not even recognized as human-descended at first.

Although the Beastmen started off much worse than the Ogryn, their uplifting progressed much faster. The same shoddy genetic engineering that made the Beastmen prone to mutation in the first place meant that the new, more stable genes introduced by the Adeptus Biologis became established across the population very quickly. As of M41, all Nova Beastmen are essentially of average human intelligence and, as previously stated, any Primeval Beastmen in M41 are all from very recently discovered worlds. Nevertheless, despite their dramatically more stable genome, Beastmen still suffer a slightly higher rate of mutation than the rest of the Imperium. No one is sure if the tendency towards mutations is due to the Biologis trying a little too hard to correct the flaws in the Beastmen genome or the Ruinous Powers trying to taint any long-term victory on the part of the Imperium.

The Adeptus Biologicus might have gone a little overboard in trying to keep the instincts of the Beastmen in check; as opposed to their Primeval brethren, Nova Beastmen tend to be rather solemn and dour, though this may be because they know how far they have climbed and how deep the pit they were lifted out of was. Their sense of duty and debt is second only to that of Krieg, but thankfully for the Imperium’s sake the Beastmen are much less suicidal. Promethean beliefs tend to be widespread among the Beastmen. The Nova Beastmen have not lost all of the bestial instincts of their kin, however; Beastmen often speak of a “Weakness of the Beast” to refer to any behavior that seems to be driven by instinct or base desire, one of the few societal ideas they may have picked up from the Adeptus Biologicus. Nova Beastmen in general also tend to have much sharper senses than baseline humans, and are valued even in otherwise all-baseline regiments as scouts and trackers.

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==== Beastmen and Ogryn Society ====

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Nova Ogryn tend to live under a tribal or clan-like structure of governance. There are perhaps dozens of worlds whose inhabitants come under the broad category of Ogryn, and each world can have a thousand different tribal groups, each with their own individual set of traditions. Nevertheless, there do exist some similarities. Common to most tribes are a leading Patriarch, some paternal ancestor of a large proportion of the tribe, and the presence of a Wise Woman. Sometimes this Wise Woman the chief’s mother, sometimes his wife, sometimes it's not a woman at all but just someone with good judgement. A priest/shaman position is also common in most tribes for matters of spiritual significance and dealing with supernatural phenomena (which usually boils down to “leave it alone and tell the nearest adept”). Sometimes the tribe might be blessed/cursed with a Witch/Warlock who has psychic powers. Psychic Ogryn do exist. They used to be rarer than in the baseline gene pool, but now exist in the same proportion as baseline humanity. This may be a side effect of the increase in cognitive ability or by using baseline human genes to uplift the Ogryn.

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Although Ogryns are typically not as smart as baseline humans, they are generally smarter than people expect. The officers with BONE implants can fluently converse in High Gothic about all manner of matters both practical and philosophical, and are invariably literate. But that's because they were already the brightest of the bright even before the bio-crystalline Cortex Technology was inserted into their brain. The average Ogyrn can learn to maintain an extra-large laser rifle by rote, can understand contractual obligations (although they will sign said contract with an X), and has enough brains to follow orders and even understand quite complex strategy — provided it's explained slowly with small words and you get them to repeat it back to you just to make sure. Ogryn are also known to be fiercely loyal and honorable. It's a bloody strange day when an Ogryn breaks their word.

Nova Beastmen, on the other hand, tend to form rigid military hierarchies when left to form their own societies. This is not due to any intrinsic inclination to do so, as opposed to baseline humanity and the various cultures thereof, but more because any governmental structure that doesn’t encourage iron-hard discipline tends to implode within a few years. Their inner animal is still very close to the surface, and their increased cognitive faculties haven’t tamed it in the slightest. Beastmen societies are ruled by philosopher-kings called Brahmins, who tend to exemplify everything that the Beast is not. More of a high judge than a war chief, Brahmins are seemingly at odds with the otherwise militarized nature of Beastmen society, but a wise and solemn individual that will not give in to base desires and passions proves to be an excellent leader for those who may.

Another notable feature of Beastman society are Aurochs, the warrior-champions of Beastman society. These huge warriors are about the size and strength of Astartes, but overall tend to be much less effective for several reasons. First, Aurochs make up a vanishingly small proportion of the Beastmen population and thus cannot reliably be mass produced. Secondly, Aurochs lack all of the advantages beyond sheer strength that make Space Marines so lethal. Finally, Aurochs cannot use standardized equipment. Because of their rarity, armor and weaponry often have to be individually crafted; most Imperial helmets are unable to fit over their horns and even normal Beastmen helmets being too small for them.

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=== Nightsiders ===

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''A Brief Elucidation of the Nightsider:'''''

The Nightsider is a catchall term for a grouping of sub-species adapted for a specific type of environment without any common origin beyond that of any other human group. They are native to many worlds of the Imperium, such as Praetoria, Calth (from the transplanted population of dead Posul), Equixus, at least one world in the Carcharodon recruitment area, and many others. Typically, they are a pale breed adapted to living on worlds either with no light or additional environmental conditions that make dwelling in the light substantially detrimental. Such reasons can include, but are not limited to, the planet having unusually harmful sunlight, extreme daytime predation or population pressure, or isolation in the dark lands of tidally-locked worlds. Worlds populated entirely by Nightsiders are rare (but not unprecedented), as they would require an environment where regular humans could not survive, and such worlds typically can't maintain global environmental conditions that would allow a population of humans or near-humans to survive at all.

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Although disparate in origin, the Nightsiders of the Imperium share common features which are partly necessitated by their environment and partly derived from a standardized Dominion era gene-template; Large dark eyes, a lack of pigmentation in the skin, hair and nails, the ability to synthesize vitamin D in the liver, and a very slightly lower optimal body temperature. Due to their native environments often being lower in available energy, Nightsiders often form smaller social structures based on extended family bonds, typically numbering no more than twenty or thirty individuals operating over a wide area dictated by availability of resources. To this end, the Nightsiders are also often fiercely territorial in nature. This borderline anti-social nature is assumed to be more cultural than biological, as they have been integrated into the Imperial Army with little additional problems after the first few months when they realize that the meals are regular and predictable, although even then they tend to form groups among themselves and disperse evenly within the regiment.

Nightsiders are as intelligent as baseline humanity and so have never qualified for AdBio uplifting like the Beastmen and Ogryn strains. Although they were often found in primitive conditions by the Imperium, this is typically a result of finding a long term equilibrium with their direct environmental needs; usually a lack of available food prevented work specialization and the larger social projects that result. In all cases, efforts of the Missionarius Galaxia, especially the Orders Sabine, have resulted in varying degrees of successful pacification and introduction to true civilization.

The introduction to the civilization of the Imperium's light has gone smoothest in places where the local populations could be persuaded to accept the tithe willingly. The Nightsiders are human; they do not gladly eat the slain of their own kind or kill off excess population in times of greatest need, but they did so nevertheless in the name of survival. The tithe offers a way out, as excess population is sent out into the galaxy and send their pay home in the form of nutri-paste and tinned foods, and when they return they have had the habits of good order trained into them, which they spread to the rest of their kindred. This cultural influence over the generations has resulted in them adopting Imperial technology willingly as barter and trade for their services, rather than as the recipients of charity. Charity they would not tolerate, as they seldom care for the pity of outsiders (a term typically used to mean anyone that is not part of their family group). By this helping hand, the Imperium reaches out to them rather than reaching down to them, and in doing so all may rise up higher as allies and friends.

In the Imperial guard, Nightsiders typically make very good target spotters for artillery and patrol squad removers. The ways of hunting are often a second nature to them, and all good commanders know how best to take advantage of this.

Despite long term introduction into the wider Imperium, the various Nightsider cultures have retained many of the more "primitive-seeming" rituals and customs of their ancestors, at least partly because, like all ab-humans, they maintain an "us and them" mentality based on the very obvious and noticeable differences between themselves and the teeming masses of other humanities. This is encouraged for the most part as it binds their social order, and so long as they retain pride in their social identity whilst understanding that the Imperium places due worth in them based on their skills and contributions, they are less tested by the whispers of more terrible things. Due to their extremely family based social structures the prevailing religious trends tend towards the worship of ancestors and ancestor spirits, although due to their disparate nature this is not always the case and great variation has been noted.

Many human strains, both baseline and abhuman, express apprehension towards Nightsiders, often because their strange habits and dark sclera give them an uncanny valley effect. Ironically, many xenos species find Nightsiders to appear more personable than regular humans (at least in appearance; their behavior often having the same off-putting effect), white sclera being virtually unique amongst humanity and its component subspecies in the galaxy, with some xenos even admitting that the white sclera of human eyes can be creepy in their eyes.
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=== Ratlings ===

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''Of the Ratlings:'''''

The Ratling strain of humanity — or Ornsworlder as many of them prefer to be called — is a variety of abhuman. Unlike many other abhuman strains, however, Ratlings are native to only one world: Ornsworld. The planet Ornsworld was founded sometime between the later years of M6 and the early days of M7, according to the radioactive decay of a can of irradiated waste on the largest moon and by the local legends of the mighty hero "Orn of Many Tales". Orn was a mighty warrior and fearless explorer of the First Stellar Exodus, so the tales tell, who headed a colony fleet and braved the uncharted deeps of space in early ships of imperfect design. Many places on the surface of the planet hold the name of Orn; the great mesa of Orn's Table, the immense cavern system of Orn's Burrow, the ancient water filled impact crater of Orn's Bath, and the escarpment of Orn's Headstone, the foot of which is reputedly the site of Orn's Grave. Due to the rarity of surviving records of this era independent proof of Orn existing remain undiscovered. All Ratlings claim descent from Orn, though if he ever did exist then it is inevitable that they are correct due to the passage of time and isolation during the Age of Strife. From this stage of development up until the Age of Strife it is believed that the Ornsworlders did not deviate noticeably from the baseline human form. The role of Ornsworld in the days of, and days prior to, the Great and Bountiful Human Dominion is unknown, as records of that era of Ornsworld have not survived.

At the onset of the Age of Strife, in the first days of the Iron War of which dark legends tell the fell deeds of, Ornsworld fared better than most. Some have suggested that the locals had slightly Luddite tendencies and thus did not trust thinking machines that thought as men thought. Others have pointed out rusted remains in the mountains of the south above where glaciers once roamed, where Iron Folk sat in the caves, their alloy shells still sitting where they died though their hearts have long since decayed beyond possibility of reanimation. Others again point out that human bones were found alongside them, and that there is no evidence that they died in violence. Whatever the cause or evidence thereof, it seems that the most sophisticated Men of Iron never made it to Ornsworld and as such Ornsworld had neither an Iron Mind nor a Man of Gold. There is also no isotopic residue in the soil layers from this time to indicate that the sudden Ice Age was anything but either a natural occurrence or a long delayed hiccup of the original terraforming efforts.

The Ice Age would have been correctable with the subtle application of solar reflectors and atmospheric tweaking that was common enough practice for Dominion era habitation, but although Ornsworld had been spared the worst of the Iron War it did not come out unmarred; the planet's industry was in ruins and beyond a few weather monitoring and communication satellites the planet had no space presence. The world slipped into the cold and its inhabitants could do nothing to stop it.

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There is debate in the leafy halls of the AdBio if the physiological changes that started in this dwindling age of isolation were the result of intentional engineering, to better survive the new and sorrowful age, or were a result of natural adaptation to the conditions of that age. Some point out that the alterations couldn't have occurred that fast across the entire global population, especially when considering the alterations to the digestive system and the bones in the hands and feet. Others point out that by the time that the Iron War started genetic tempering was already present in the population of the entire planet, bar a few puritan holdouts, and that with a broader pallet available the beneficial structures could have stabilized in a mere handful of generations (i.e. natural processes built from semi-artificial components). Whatever the cause, the result was a deviation that was sufficient to have them declared beyond the normal levels of variation found in the baseline population. Such changes include a hand with three fingers and two thumbs, a similarly structured foot, unusual neural architecture in the parietal lobe resulting in a high tolerance for physical pain, the stomach being divided into two separate organs, and a proportionally larger and more functional appendix. The shorter and on average slightly broader stature would not be enough on its own to have them classed as abhuman, as many pygmy populations are not classed as such. It is said that Ratlings have a better sense of smell, but this has been proven incorrect beyond normal human variation. Ratlings do, however, posses better hand to eye coordination, which slightly but measurably surpasses the human norm when the whole population is taken into account.

The deviations were ideal for them to have at least a little bit of an edge in the food scarce and cold environment that their world had become. As a society they could have gone two ways: increased competition or greater cooperation. In the case of the Children of Orn they would not forsake their bonds of common humanity and kinship, and did not turn on each other, preferring instead to ration carefully what they had and huddle together in the dark for warmth; they would die as people rather than live as beasts. In time what few technological artifacts they had preserved failed and they had not the skills or tools to repair or replace them. Thus the Ornsworlders became a rustic and simpler people.

No cold spell can endure forever, even one as soul crushing and lingering as the great winter, and spring came at last in the late part of the twenty-ninth millennium. By the time that the fledgling Imperium found them, the glaciers were retreating miles at a time each summer and regaining no ground in milder winters. The people of Ornsworld, long since accustomed to making do with little, were in an age of plenty and underwent a golden age of rapid expansion in those fresh green years, as miles of new farmland opened before them year after year and great joy was had that their old fairy stories had come true; the people Orn was born to had come at last again to their world, the Tall Folk of Earth. No age of expansion can continue indefinitely, and the Ratlings found an equilibrium in time with their new and verdant world, tending to its great green glacial valleys lovingly. They knew the value of what they, by the grace of their gods, had. By the time such stability was reached, they had already managed to acquire a little bit of a reputation with the Imperium at large; by their first impressions, of being fond of food and drink and prone to large families.

In the years after the Ornsworlders served the Imperium dutifully and provided many fine marksmen and regimental cooks, as well as food stuffs. They were a well-loved people, gentle and kind and full of good sense and down-to-earth wisdom. Their friends were many as they tended to be generous and always possessed a delightfully infectious laughter. The Imperium was their golden age.

The golden age did not last. Dominion records were found in the 12th Black Crusade by a Chaos Lordling — Eidolon Ever-Burning — of an artifact of on Ornsworld known as the Eye of Night. It was not an artifact of Dominion made but something far more ancient that they had unearthed, that was said to be able to destroy complex mortal technology great and small, fragile or robust. He descended upon peaceful Ornsworld like a great dragon made of fire, and like an inferno reduced all he touched to cinders and ash as he took the Eye from its hiding place in a deep and flooded cave. Hideous as his presence was, he vanished soon enough with his prize. But the resistance had been stiffer than expected, and the Children of Orn were weakened now. Like sharks to spilled blood, other creatures came to the weakened world as the Imperium was hamstrung and distracted by the rest of a greater war.

When the Imperium managed to scrape the resources to send a force to Ornsworld, it was far too late. Gone were the songs in the halls of the thanes, the laughter was silent, and all that was to be found were the bodies; arranged in great patterns of Chaotic offering, lying where they had fallen in the hunts, or mutilated and thrown on sacrificial heaps. Those joyful smiles were twisted into expressions of fear and pain. Only Chaos Spawn moved on the blighted and tainted land. The Ratlings had been exterminated to the last child.

There were Ornsworlders in the forces that landed in the fresh ashes. Their tears were bitter and sorrowful beyond words, and that sorrow was turned to a cold and terrible wrath. It might seem amusing that a branch humanity that seemed built for peace could be so angry, and maintain that anger — colder than the deeps of space — for so long. But they can, and it seems like it should be an impotent rage, but it is not. A call was put out by the head chef of one of the regiments that landed, a dreadful and terrible message whispered from astropath to scribe and passed on across the Imperium. All the sons and daughters of Orn were to come home.

The fields were made green again, trees grew again from the ashes on the mass graves, and from a distance perhaps Ornsworld would look like all was how it was. But those happy songs are now songs of war and retribution. The sons and daughters of that world look to the stars no longer in hope but in hate. The law of conscription has been restricted, as were it not too many would heed the war drums that beat in their hearts. People look at Ratlings and are unimpressed, and remain unimpressed until they start racking up a body count. A length of spider-silk, once sold to off-world merchants in bolts and dresses for princesses, is now carried by every Ratling soldier, and can cut a neck all the way to the bone. Those clever hands and keen eyes, once used to carve and paint things of beauty, now put those skills to a greater, bloody work in their service to the Guard and Ornsworld; Ratling marksmen are famed and feared across half the galaxy, as they move swiftly and quietly, and kill without hesitation or remorse. They are owed a blood-price. A price that could only be measured in the depths of their oceans of shed tears.

The world of Orn and its inhabitants are a very unexpected terror that stalks the stars in the dying of the forty-first millennium. Their roused anger is all the more terrible for how unexpected it was. Although the Eye of Night was undoubtedly a great boon to the forces of Chaos, it might not be worth what has risen against them.

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== Weapons of the Imperium ==

=== Lasguns ===

The first instances of las-weapon technology came from Terra itself. Thought to be a recreational weapon used in mock battles during the Dark Age of Technology, at that time these las-weapons beams had the power of 4mm stubber pellets, thus even thick cloth was effective armor against it. These relics were present on Terra and other worlds during the Warlord Era, but it was the Emperor who reshaped it to become a lethal weapon. The Emperor’s scouts had presented him with some prototype weapons while preparing for the unification with Mars. One such weapon was a proto-Lascarbine that was superior to stubber carbines in all but firepower. The Las beams still had the power of a 4mm stubber pellet, thus the Emperor - in his intelligence - recrafted the weapon so that it fired with the power of an 8mm stubber round. The Lascarbine first saw service as a replacement for the Autorifles, which were the standard weapon for the Imperial Army at the time, in the unification of the Sol system. Next were the Laspistols, which were designed to replace the stubber pistols. The mass use of Las-weapons found that Lascarbine barrels started to warp after ~5,000 shots, and the Laspistol barrels warped after ~2,000 shots. When these barrels warped, what would have been unmodified hitscan fire devolved into looser and inaccurate beams, such that Guardsmen had to fire two or more times in the same place to hit. Even worse, when the Laspistol barrels warped, soldiers had to fire at point-blank range to hit their targets at all.

The Imperial Army Handheld Weapons Development Bureau would develop the Lasgun in response, which featured a longer barrel and limited the power to 7.9mm stubber round strength. The iron sights of the weapon were changed to allow attachable optics, and a stock was added for increased accuracy. The first Lasguns were deployed to the front during the Hunting Era, where it was noted that these weapons had effectively the same firepower as the Lascarbines but the barrels didn’t warp until after ~10,000 shots. When the Apostasy Era started Guardsmen on both sides reported that Lascarbines and Lasguns in night-time fighting left noticeable muzzle flashes, thus making the shooter an easy target. The Weapons Development Bureau would again work on the Lasgun and Lascarbine just after the Apostasy Era, creating the attachable flash suppressor, for better night-time combat, and the light attachable stock for the Lascarbine.

=== Flak Armor ===

There was no such thing as a standardized armor used by the Imperial Army during the Great Crusade. The closest thing to such a concept came in the form of the Solar Pattern Void Armor, used widely by the Solar Auxilia, but that was a carapace-reinforced void suit rather than Flak Armor as we know it today. The first documented instances of what could be considered Flak Armor was when Cadian Shock Troops started equipping soldiers en masse with light anti-shrapnel armor near the end of the Great Crusade. Cadian officers found that when Cadian Guardsmen attacked entrenched positions on the battlefield, most of their losses sustained were from artillery or random bits of debris thrown into the air by artillery. The different regiments from Cadia phased out the traditional metal plate armor for Flak Armor, and thus all future campaigns used Flak Armor once manufactorums switched production lines right before the War of the Beast.

The breastplate, shoulder pauldrons, knee plates, and greaves all use the same material and layering. The fabric connecting the armor is much weaker and lacks any sort of plating. Most of the actual armor in Flak Armor uses an inner layer of shock absorbent gel, with metal plating between the gel and outer ceramic layer. All three of these layers are connected and interwoven with carbon-fibers, metal-fabrics, and nylon fabrics, forcing the layers to stay together under most conditions. The ceramic plate was designed to deflect shrapnel, or at least cause it to be stuck in the plate. The metal layer was emplaced to stop lasbolts or stubber rounds from fully penetrating through the armor, in case the shot passed the ceramic plate. The gel is present as either a last ditch effort to stop shrapnel from fully penetrating the armor or to prevent internal bleeding after receiving a direct hit. The fabric of Flak Armor is made from a variety of different carbon-fibers, metal fabrics, and thick cloths, to prevent shrapnel from cutting through or a blade from tearing it. Flak Armor helmets have considerably more armor, tending to have extra metal plating to ensure that not all shots to the head are fatal and random falling debris don't kill the Guardsman.

The first major combat test of Flak Armor was seen in the War of the Beast. On the front lines, Flak Armor proved to be basically ineffective in protecting against Ork weaponry; the Orks had used unusually large stubber rounds, up to but not limited to 10 or 12mm, that would slice right through Flak plating. However, what would otherwise be considered deadly Ork rockets would often fail to kill Guardsmen, even with flame ammo, as the Flak Armor was more than enough protection against most Ork rocketry short of city-block-levelling size. Crone Eldar and Dark Eldar weapons, of both Saw and Splinter ammo types, likewise had difficult times penetrating Flak plating unless there was a concentrated barrage of fire, as even the Flak plating can only protect against so much. When the Fallen first turned on Imperial Army elements, bolters were used for the first time against Flak Armor. The bolter rounds would often penetrate Flak plating, only to cleanly exit out on the other side and then explode. If the Guardsman was lucky they would still be alive after the ordeal. When a Guardsman was even luckier, the bolter round would be deflected off of Flak plating altogether and explodes prematurely in mid-air, meaning that unless the deflected round exploded in their face the shrapnel would be mostly harmless. The flexibility, simplicity, and cheapness of producing Flak Armor instead of Void suits led to many Imperial worlds adopting the Flak Armor. Production quotas meant resources were limited in the total economic mobilization that happened during the War of the Beast, making the simple and affordable Flak Armor even more popular.

During the Apostasy, Imperial Guard regiments openly fought against one another, resulting in the first use of Flak Armor against massed artillery. Regiments would launch massive formations to charge at entrenched opposing Guardsmen, who were themselves well prepared for such an attack. The defenders would fire blinding volleys of artillery shells to delay the charge. The Flak Armor proved a Guardsman could survive an artillery barrage, and short of a direct hit right next to their feet the Guardsman would be fine (if the shockwave from the explosion didn’t destroy their bodily organs, that is). Artillery barrages could now only slow down attacks from Guardsmen thanks to Flak Armor. Several field modifications were noted to have been used by regiments during the Apostasy, including extra cloth to prevent shrapnel from easily slicing the joints. Similarly, thicker ceramic plates are often used by veteran Guardsmen against Orks to at least survive glancing shots from Ork stubbers, and regiments constantly facing Crone or Dark Eldar are deployed with extra metal layered into their Flak Armor to prevent enemy fire from penetrating Flak plating.

=== Bolters ===

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All modern varieties of bolter, from the humble workhorse that is the mainstay of the Space Marine legions to the bolt pistol used by baseline humans, are at least partially influenced by a design created by the Emperor of Mankind himself. Believe it or not, bolters were originally not that important a part of ancient humanity’s arsenal. This can be seen in the nature of warfare in the 41st millennium, as warfare in the 41st millennium almost resembles that of pre-gunpowder humanity, with a heavy focus on armor and the viability of melee combat. Humanity’s weapons of choice during the Dark Age of Technology were Volkite guns and Adrathic disintegrators, neither of which armor offered much protection against. Military tactics during this period would have been more familiar to older groups of humans (potentially as far back as M2) than their descendants, with a greater emphasis on utilizing cover and avoiding fire than melee combat. Knowledge of how to make advanced armor survived the Age of Strife better than similar knowledge of weaponry, shifting the advantage to armor over arms and making melee combat viable again. Bolters only entered into the military sphere much later in the Dark Age of Technology, believed to have been a weaponized version of a power tool, after it was noticed how well they performed against Orks, other high-durability xenos, and rogue Men of Iron and other Silica Animus.

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The Emperor had contributed to the reinvention of the bolter back before he was the Emperor, before he was the Steward, even before he was the Warlord, but when he was merely Oscar of the Terrawatt Clan. The Terrawatt Clan was a technocracy, with societal standing and authority being based on one’s inventiveness and research productivity, and if one could not prove their mental ability there was no way for them to advance in status. Embarking on a project that advanced Terrawatt’s sum of knowledge in some way was a common coming of age ritual in the country, and although he saw himself as artificial and a shadow of humanity, Oscar wanted to be viewed slightly less as Malcador's trophy taken from the ruins of Chthonia and slightly more as a person.

Oscar chose as his project the reverse-engineering of an old ballistics weapon that had been uncovered some centuries before by expeditions from Terrawatt into the deserts of the former Tharkian Empire (specifically, the province of Anatolia). The weapon’s systems had been fouled by sand and half of its components were missing, but Oscar managed to piece together enough of its workings to construct a working replica sized to his frame, or at least fill in enough of the missing pieces to construct a model that actually worked. This would be the precursor of the Astartes pattern boltgun, and explains - among other things - why the prototype bolter was already built for someone of an Astartes’ size.

The Theologiteks were impressed, and Oscar was proud of his creation (not to mention happy to have a weapon that didn’t feel like a child’s toy in his hands), eventually taking the prototype as his sidearm when he embarked to reunify Old Earth. The gun faithfully served as his sidearm for many years, before finally failing some two hundred years after the Battle of Terra in about 700.M31. Oscar was saddened by the loss, seemingly one more aspect of his life that seemed to be eroding away, but the remains of the so-called ‘father of bolters’ survived and remains enshrined to this day in the museum in the Imperial Palace.

Originally, the Warlord’s armies of Thunder Warriors were armed with Volkite weaponry and autoguns, but as the numbers of augmented warriors grew and Volkite weapons were gradually lost to attrition, three-quarters of the Warlord’s soldiers were armed with bolters about the time the Thunder Legions were being phased out in favor of the Legio Astartes. Volkite weaponry may have been more powerful and autoguns were cheap, but bolters were reliable, relatively powerful (unlike autoguns), and more importantly their workings were well-understood and could be easily replicated (unlike Volkite weapons).

The Warlord was not the only individual to reverse engineer the secrets of the bolter. Other human nations during the Age of Strife had come to the same conclusion regarding the bolter’s reliability and ease of production, and the Imperium encountered other models of bolters on places like Mars, the Hubworld League, and the Auretian Technocracy, several of which were based on actual STC designs. Information from these designs was assimilated by the Imperium to create a syncretic design that improved upon the initial Astartes pattern (Oscar, to his embarrassment, [[fail|had gotten some of his assumptions wrong and had replaced several missing systems with slightly more inefficient versions he had created from scratch]]). However, not all bolter designs were equally optimal in all situations, with some performing better at certain tasks than others. Eventually, a wide array of bolter types proliferated throughout the Imperium, ranging from the numerous variants of the Astartes pattern, in which the initial kick from the propellant recoil is enough to break an unaugmented human’s arm, to the smaller bolt pistol commonly used by commissars, which trades caliber size and rate of fire for recoil to the point that it can be used by normal humans.

By approximately early M34, enough principles of miniaturization had been rediscovered to downsize the traditional full-size Astartes bolter to the Godwin-De’az Pattern. Nevertheless, despite this miniaturization the recoil still made it almost impossible for normal humans to use unless you were genetically enhanced, were wearing powered armor, or from Catachan or the Hubworld League. For many years the Godwin-De’az pattern occupied an awkward position for many years, being too large to be used by most Guardsmen yet too small in caliber to be an efficient weapon for Astartes. However, this all changed after the founding of the Adeptus Securitas and the Sisters of Battle in M36, who, with their enhanced strength, found this intermediate-sized bolter almost perfect for their needs. Indeed, the name Godwin-De'az came about as a reference to Sister De'az, the Nocturnean Sister who was the first successful recipient of the augmentations used by the Sisters of Battle. Before that, they were merely referred to as "miniaturized Bolters" due to their scarcity. Godwin-De'az bolters are much more common in the Imperium now, mostly due to their use by the Securitas.

The invention of the precursor to the modern bolter is perhaps one of the achievements the Emperor is most proud of. It was not something created by Oscar, the Man of Gold, nor Oscar, the Warlord of Earth, but by Oscar, the person, in the name of the betterment of his species.

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=== Leman Russ Tank ===

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''“We should've waited for the Fenrisian ale before rushing here just to find half a tractor. At least we'd've something that would lift the mens' spirits after such a disappointment.”''<br>
— Primarch Leman Russ, post-Imperial Compliance of Nova Borilia.

THE REGIMENTAL STANDARD: A HISTORY OF THE LEMAN RUSS TANK

In today's battlefield, almost all of the armed forces flying Imperial banners have either used or fought alongside the Leman Russ Battle Tank. Many view it with great relief, no longer having to be at the forefront of an advance on fortified positions. Others call it their “ride”. And some view the Leman Russ as an inelegant and ugly hunk of metal that conceals brutal effectiveness and resilience worthy of the name. Its treads have rolled over thousands of battlegrounds, and its guns have obliterated many a foe. Yet one wonders where the seeds for this venerable war machine were sown. If you have had the same question that we at the Regimental Standard did then read on, fellow historians, as we detail the venerable history of the Leman Russ Tank.

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The Leman Russ Battle Tank, and its subsequent and numerous variants, originates from the early days of the Great Crusades. The tank itself is not to be confused with Primarch Leman Russ, who discovered it on Nova Borilia when rumors of an STC for a tank dating from the Dark Age of Technology drew his attention to the campaign against the Noman xenos' planetary empire, which was already marked for destruction as Xenos Horrificus due to its brutal enslavement of the local human population and violent refusal of all diplomatic attempts. Fortunately, resistance was broken after a series of engagements that saw the Nomans and a disobedient slave army reeling from the hard hitting tactics of the Space Wolves and accompanying Solar Auxilia attachments. For the expeditionary forces, what they salvaged from the last Noman stronghold was an immense let down.

The STC was, in fact, the fragments of a blueprint for an all-terrain tractor that started production sometime before the Age Of Strife, not the weapon the intel had suggested. Presumably it had been mistaken for a valuable human relic, and so it was situated in the most secure collection in the Noman fortress.

But the Imperial Army would not be denied their tank, and in the span of a decade several components of the discovery were incorporated into a new design, christened the Leman Russ Battle Tank, Mark I. It set a gyrostabilized Battle Cannon turret on top of a ceramite and plasteel hull with a steel-sprung suspension, while a complex transmission mated to an enormous twin-turbocharged V12 multi-fuel HL230 engine gave it a top speed of 80 km/h and 40 km/h off-road (widely considered ludicrous for a tracked vehicle twice as tall as a Space Marine). This ability was used to great effect, as commanders swung behind enemy positions and unloaded rounds into petty tyrants and slavers.

However, as the Imperium expanded further and encountered tougher opposition, the Leman Russ proved inadequate. Its main gun struggled to defeat more heavily-armored horrors and what was left often outmaneuvered the Leman Russ, and breakdowns ranging from burnt out turbocharger components to transmission failures intensified a growing logistics headache. This led to the replacement of the Mk. I with the Mk. II-V, similar variants that traded mobility for protection and ease of maintenance by bolting on armor, dropping the forced-induction chargers, and, in the case of the Mk. IV and V, switching to a simpler transmission. This was deemed acceptable, as the Imperium couldn't afford the best equipment possible for all its soldiers in the immediate aftermath of the War of the Beast.

That is not to say desperation did not proliferate the loaded idea of 'innovation'. During and after the War of the Beast, new variants were hurriedly fitted with crew-operated sponsons to add anti-infantry firepower, and while still inferior to the Land Raider-killing Vanquisher Cannon, a long-barrelled Battle Cannon increased muzzle velocity and was easier to mass-produce. Later, more improvements filtered through, like a hydropneumatic suspension and lifted armor skirts that allowed the road wheels freedom of movement and together provided better acceleration and a more stable firing platform. Other changes included light, replaceable composite rectangles attached to the sides (sanctioned for Chimera variants and Salamanders after APC crew entrepreneurs decided they too wanted more armor) and a set of wide-angle optics that replaced the glass visor slit in the driver's hatch and made it possible to drive the tank and fire the hull weapon without switching seats or controls.

The Mk. XVII, created in the late 36th millennium, was supposed to use a scaled-down version of the Malcador Heavy Tank's electric drive system. You will never see this outside the Mechanicus' basements.

[[File:NobledarkLemanRussMarkXXIV.jpg|200px|thumb|left|Mk. XXIV Leman Russ with Imperial Guardsman and eldar Guardian for scale]]

The Mk. XXIV Leman Russ Battle Tank is the most recent variant (see Remembrancer's sketch at left), created in response to reports of a spike in Leman Russ losses due to an increased prevalence of Crone Eldar and Necron tank analogues. The Imperial Couple had put pressure on Mars and the Fabricator-General to either keep the venerable tank a viable part of the Imperial Guard armory or risk losing further contracts to Forge Worlds unaligned with Mars' branch of the Adeptus Mechanicus, many of whom were experimenting with unsanctioned tank designs. This was enough incentive to finally push the program into its final field tests and evaluation stage.

It carries over the extremely sloped frontal turret and glacis present since the Mk. XX, but replaces the original hull weapon's swivel mount with a ball mount in a smaller housing. To address the vulnerability of the Leman Russ to being flanked, particularly in urban warfare, the tank hull went from being 4.42 meters tall to a flatter profile 3.3 meters high. The front-facing plates of the widened and extended turret are angled to better resist side shots, and the Battle Cannon magazines were relocated to the back of the turret, so an ammo cook-off wouldn't be surrounded by critical systems and the crew. Blow-off vents further increase the chances a disabled Mk. XXIV can escape without Atlas recovery vehicles being put at risk, and two sponsons utilizing cogitators based off the Predator's and Tarantula Sentry Turret's are managed by a remote gunner seated by the driver. Lastly, a refined version of the Great Crusade's forced-induction setup and a weight reduction of 5 tons have allowed the Leman Russ to regain the nimbleness of the Mk. I, without the original's notorious mechanical problems.

While the newest Leman Russ might still be recognizable to an Imperial officer of the 30th millennium, it is not the same war machine your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandparents used. Keep an eye out for those shiny new Mk. XXIVs, and remember to report any issues to your commanding officer or a Commissar!
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=== Psycannons and the Psi-Disruptor ===

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[[Nobledark_Imperium_Xenos#Men_of_Gold|Justinian]] and Theodora were the Man of Gold and Iron Mind of the Sol System, based out of Earth and Mars respectively. When the Age of Strife happened, and the Men of Gold and Iron Minds were driven mad by seeing that which was not meant to be seen, Justinian and Theodora waged demented war on each other first in the grips of their madness. Ironically, the fact that the two of them killed each other off so early in the Iron War meant that the Sol System was spared the worst excesses of the Age of Strife, and thus had more working Dark Age technology lying around compared to a place like [[Nobledark_Imperium_Notable_Planets#Cthonia|Cthonia]], whose inner face was sterilized when someone induced the star it orbited to go supernova. Of course, this isn't to say that either Justinian or Theodora were in a healthy state of mind at the time; Justinian may have gone for Theodora first, but he was still psychotically insane and destroyed everything and everyone in his way to get to his goal, while concurrently Theodora targeted Earth with orbital bombardments and scrapcode. The descendants of the technicians that attended to Justinian and Theodora, in a very roundabout way, became the ancestors of the Terrawatt Clan and the Martian Mechanicum, though the Mechanicum accomplished this in a more indirect fashion in that the technicians of the Iron Mind were integrated into the general population whilst Mars more broadly devolved into technology worshipping cults (of which the future Mechanicum was but one of many) after the destruction of Mars' terraformed biosphere.

In order to kill Theodora, Justinian built a device known as the psi-disruptor, a device designed and optimized for killing Iron Minds. One can point it at a lesser mortal and pull the trigger to some effect, though said effects can vary from anywhere between a noticeable headache all the way up to total bodily disruption. The device draws on the psychic potential of the wielder, and so can only be used by an active psyker. The one made and used by Justinian was built to such a scale that it was only usable by Men of Gold. The higher end of baseline psykers could presumably wield Justinian's psi-disruptor to an extent, but the list of such talented candidates is very short, and as the Imperium only has one such weapon they aren't willing to risk the destruction of such a powerful device on such meagre speculation, so inquiries in this direction remain fruitless. This device would later be taken out of the doomsday vaults of the Mechanicum and used by the Steward to strike down the [[Nobledark_Imperium_Drafts#The_Rangdan_Xenocides_and_the_Slaugth|Rangda Abomination]] when it became clear that conventional options were just not enough.

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The original psi-disruptor gun is contained in the low-risk section on Ganymede. Psycannons are thought to be in some way derived from the study of the original device; a much cruder weapon, but one that can be made using currently available technology. Creation of the Psycannon is attributed to the founding of the Grey Knights, though to one of Magnus' students rather than the Primarch himself. Magnus the Red was without peer amongst humanity in terms of daemon-lore and warp studies, but neither he nor Russ were very good with machinery.

The downsides to Justinian’s psi-disruptor are that it takes a huge amount of time to charge up and is very easy to dodge, but if you’re fighting an Iron Mind — whose physical forms and central processing units are quite literal building complexes — both of these deficiencies are non-issues. The psi-disruptor also has quite a large “splash zone”; when Justinian fired the weapon at Theodora it didn’t just kill the Iron Mind but also horrifically mutilated and massacred every sapient creature within a few kilometers of the blast radius.

When Oscar fired the weapon at the Rangda Abomination, the only things in the blast radius were the abomination itself, some Slaugth and their bio-constructs, and members of various sapient species the Slaugth had taken as livestock and slaves (the latter of which nobody wanted to hit, but reasoned that a quick death was better than spending years living in the Slaugth's feedlots). The Imperium nevertheless ensured that all of their forces and allies stood well away when the disruptor was fired. The Eldar threw a fit over the possibility of Eldar chattel being in the blast zone — especially given those Eldar had no soul stones and would go straight to She Who Thirsts — but backed down when even they had to admit there wasn’t a better option. The best they could come up with was pulling one of their own doomsday devices out of Yme-Loc, which would probably blow up the planet and wouldn’t be much better. At least when using the mon-keigh device the Eldar slaves outside of the blast zone would survive.

The Steward also seriously considered using Justinian’s psi-disruptor on the corrupted Man of Gold back in M34, given how it was so insane that its path was easily predictable, before the Grey Knights managed to resolve that problem on their own. It is a horrible weapon built by a madman to kill a god, with a terrible history on top of whatever reality scarring power it might already direct, and tends to rack up a massive body count in collateral damaged whenever it is fired. It is little wonder the Steward is so reluctant to use it.

After striking the killing blow on Theodora with the psi-disruptor in the initial days of the Iron War, Justinian just kind of wandered off. The members of the resistance found him in the sands of Mars, sitting in a fetal position staring at something no one could see off in the distance, tears streaming down his cheeks. Mars’ carefully constructed biosphere had been stripped away by the Iron War, and the fourth planet of Sol had returned to the red wasteland humanity had first set foot on almost twelve millennia previously. Justinian knew why they were there, as he could see their minds. But one doesn’t have to be a Man of Gold to figure it out.

The resistance members knew their duty was to shoot and kill. Justinian was calm now, but who knew how long this bout of stability would last, and it wasn’t especially long ago that he was throwing around ships in Martian orbit like they were children’s toys to attack Theodora. At the same time, his executioners couldn't bring themselves to do it. Everyone there knew Justinian, possibly personally if someone like Tiberius was there, and Justinian had been there for almost every human on Earth since before they were born. The Justinian they knew didn’t deserve to die. And if he had to die, he deserved to go out in a blaze of glory. Demigods shouldn’t die like this.

There were no kine shields, no nuclear eruptions, none of the cosmic temper-tantrums that characterized the death of his kin across the galaxy. Just a simple question:

“Do you think... do you think she will be waiting for me on the other side?”

Weapons are raised.

[[*BLAM*|“Yes… she is…”]]

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=== Kinebrach Blades ===

See [[Nobledark_Imperium_Member_States#Kinebrach_Blades|Kinebrach Blades]]

== Adeptus Astartes (Space Marines) ==

''“A Space Marine chapter conquering a planet? Have you been watching those damn holovids again, boy? Let me be clear so I never hear this foolishness again. Could we glass a continent given space superiority and a Battle Barge? Yes. Could we decapitate a planet’s leadership and destroy their infrastructure, leaving them to wither on the vine? Yes, within an hour. [[Nobledark_Imperium_Notable_People#Kharn_the_Oathsworn|Could we shock and awe the enemy into a surrender if they are sufficiently cowardly or primitive? Perhaps.]] But make no mistake. If a planet has advanced to the nuclear age and the populace is intent on resistance, there is no way 2,500 men can hold it alone. I don’t care if you’re the damn Custodes or Grey Knights, you simply cannot be everywhere at once. Gather your strength, and they will simply rise up where you are not. Spread out, and they will overwhelm you with their numbers. Sometimes, quantity has a quality all its own.''

''Subjugation and garrison duty is not our purpose. We are Astartes. Space Marines. We were made to tread the stars and go where others cannot. We are the tip of the Imperium’s spear, striking swiftly and mercilessly at the enemy’s heart. We are the Emperor’s Angels of Death, descending from the sky to slay nightmares so that others may dream peacefully in their beds. Leave the business of conquest and subjugation to the Guard. They have their duty, and we have ours.”''<br>
— Scout-Sergeant Kohl Leibhen of the Raptors, addressing a group of Aspirants

The ideal age for Astartes augmentation is somewhere between 19 and 25 years of age. At this point, the individual is young enough that their body can recover from the trauma of the procedure, but old enough that the worth of giving them the enhancements is clear. In theory, older individuals could undergo Astartes augmentation, but the risk of complication is so high that the attempt would be severely impractical. By that same token, individuals younger than 19 might be able to handle the stress of Astartes augmentations better than older individuals, but at such an age the augmentations might affect their mental development. Ironically, the earlier and less stable versions of super soldier augmentation, such as the Thunder Warrior, Canis Helix, and Astartes Mark I augmentations, have a much higher compatibility rate and thus are viable for a much wider range of ages than the standard Mark III Astartes augmentations, in part because they are less invasive.

It should be noted that for all their similarities, the Space Wolves, Iron Hands, and their descendant chapters are not Astartes and therefore are both created differently and have their own strengths and weaknesses relative to Astartes. Canis Helix chapters like the Space Wolves are created by splicing large amounts of non-human DNA into the human genome (and therefore have no gene-seed), whereas Astartes are created by implanting artificially grown organs and glands into the human body. This means that despite being gene-locked to the Imperium's best efforts, a Canis Helix supersoldier could theoretically pass down some of their modifications to their descendants, which is something the Imperium did not want and one of the reasons the Astartes won out over the Canis Helix design. The probability of such an event is miniscule, but in a galaxy of scale such events cannot be discounted, as the inhabitants of the Fenrisian worlds demonstrate. Canis Helix soldiers are also noteworthy in their lack of the Black Carapace augmentation, which was one of the key features that led to the Astartes winning out over the Thunder Warriors and other super soldier designs. Instead, Space Wolves use a complex mind-to-machine interface designed by the Iron Priests. The interface is expensive and not cost-effective on a galactic scale, but it has allowed the Space Wolves to perform just as well as Astartes.

The Iron Hands and their descendants are modified Adeptus Mechanicus Skitarii, many of whom are possibly even augmented to the level of [[Thallax|Thallaxi]]. As a result, there are [[Female_Space_Marines|no real restrictions]] to who can join the Iron Hands or their descendant chapters beyond the ability to survive the augmentation procedure and being a part of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Skitarii also use a much wider range of augmentations and are often specialized for particular tasks, which means that the members of the Iron Hands and their descendants can be much more physically variable in their augmentations than the standardized augmentations of Astartes. Iron Hands and their descendant chapters do not have to worry about the Black Carapace issue, as their armor essentially is their body and thus makes an augmented connection between soldier and armor a moot point.

===The Breaking of the Legions===

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During the Great Crusade the Adeptus Astartes were organized into twenty distinct legions, each composed of thousands of Space Marines. By M41, however, the Adeptus Astartes have been divided into many distinct chapters, each about 1000-1200 strong and each descended at least in part from one of the eighteen legions that survived the War of the Beast. The reasons for this change in organization are complicated; many lay students of history often claim that the impetus for this change was Roboute Guilliman's Codex Astartes, published in 243.M31. However, like much of Guilliman's work, the Codex Astartes was meant to be a thought exercise in how the Adeptus Astartes could be more efficiently organized in a post-Great Crusade environment, and Guilliman would never have tried to shove his ideas down his fellow primarch's throats.

In truth, all of the legions split up for different reasons, and at different times.

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Several of the legions survived virtually intact for a little while longer under their new leaders, who would have probably been considered primarchs in their own right if they hadn't had to stand in their predecessors' shadows. Kharn found himself essentially taking over more and more of his legion's duties as Angron's health deteriorated. Abbadon was ambitious and charismatic enough to keep the Void Wolves in one piece for at least another generation. Leman Russ told Bjorn during a moment of mutual drunkenness to "look after the place while I step out for a minute". The next morning they realized Russ was gone and to make matters worse everyone had been just sober enough to remember what Russ had said the night before.

Other legions split up following the death of their primarch, or for simple matters of practicality. Old Man Khan called a meeting of the yabgu, despite not being dead yet, to make sure that whoever succeeded him would be competent enough not to run the legion into the ground. In a rare moment of humility, the yabgu compared themselves to Khan and realized that none of them could claim to have accomplished what Khan had accomplished by their age, and so the legion was split up. The descendants of the Thousand Sons, such as the Grey Knights, were already split up before their primarch's death (with the exception of the Blood Ravens), given that all were created to perform quite different, specialized tasks. The Imperial Fists found themselves splitting apart to fortify and garrison agri-worlds after the War of the Beast, on the basis that one cannot rebuild an empire if everyone is starving, and gradually drifted apart over the centuries. The same is true of the Iron Warriors and hive worlds and Iron Hands and forgeworlds. In these cases, Guilliman's Codex Astartes was seen as a natural framework for how to rework the legions into more autonomous units (though each legion implemented the Codex in their own way).

The Dark Angels are rather infamous for having split up before Guilliman ever wrote the Codex Astartes, after two-thirds of their number turned traitor during the War of the Beast. The Lion split the remaining loyalists into knightly orders and instituted the rank of Watcher to ensure that no one individual could ever subvert the entire legion. Guilliman may have actually been thinking of the Dark Angels when he wrote some parts of the Codex.

The Death Guard never really split up, even with the death of their primarch. Unlike the other legions, they have never truly stopped marching to war.

There were two real death knells for the concepts of a legion as a whole. The first was when Belarius the Abdicator refused to take up command of the full host of the Blood Angels after the death of Sanguinus, knowing full well that his entire reign would be spent in the shadow of the Martyr Angel. Instead, he took command of a much more reasonably sized contingent of Blood Angels, nearly all survivors of the War of the Beast, with Belarius giving the most competent of the remaining Blood Angels command of their own groups. This set the precedent for most legions of breaking up into chapters after the death of their Primarch.

The other was the “Iron Cage” incident that happened to Fulgrim sometime in early M31. Fulgrim had always been a micro-manager, and was one of the strongest opponents against breaking the legions into chapters. However, after the War of the Beast, the sheer number of small-scale conflicts across the rebuilding Imperium and a lack of local autonomy meant that the Empire’s Sons were ground down to about half the size of their prime merely by attrition alone, despite being one of the biggest recruiters of new Astartes. The breaking point for the legion was when the Empire’s Sons got caught in a trap set up by a Tzeentch-worshipping Big Wyrd. The Wyrdboy was never caught, and by the end of it Fulgrim was left with enough marines to scrape into a little less than three chapters. After that point, even the strongest detractors of the Codex Astartes (with the exception of some particularly stubborn cases like the Death Guard) had to admit that Guilliman had a point.

However, despite this, successor chapters have not completely caught all ties with one another. Most chapters still retain close ties with their former brethren in other chapters, and many chapters have officer exchange programs to encourage loyalty to the Imperium as a whole rather than a particular world or individual. Nevertheless, chapters are expected to be open about all inter-chapter interactions, and unofficial brotherhoods are officially banned by explicit decree of the Emperor to prevent the rise of another individual like Luther from fostering ties of soft power beneath the nose of the Imperium. One of the jobs of the Inquisition’s Ordo Militarum is to make sure the Adeptus Astartes keep to this decree.

Additionally, by his own admission, Guilliman’s organizational suggestions were designed for times of relative peace, rather than all-out galactic war. In times of great crisis, the First Founding chapters (who are considered first among equals among successor chapters, and whose original members were often some of the best soldiers of each legion) have the right to call for a Reformation of the Legion, where the successor chapters would temporarily unite to lock arms and march under the united banner of the old legion once more. This policy is sometimes called the Last Wall policy, as Guilliman reputedly got this idea based on suggestions by the consummate soldier Rogal Dorn, who understood that the War of the Beast was not going to be the last major war the Imperium would face.

Responding to this call is completely voluntary, but many chapters consider it shameful for a successor chapter to refuse to answer the call, particularly since a call for a Reformation of the Legion is reserved for only the direst of emergencies that threaten the entire Imperium. The only time a refusal of the call is ever considered acceptable is if a chapter is severely undermanned or if they are physically unable to respond due to being directly under attack themselves. For example, the Lamenters were unable to respond to a call for the temporary reformation of the Blood Angels during the 12th Black Crusade, due to suffering from severe manpower losses beforehand. The Lamenters still blame themselves for not being able to respond to the call, even if the rest of the Imperium doesn’t.

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===Current Chapters===
====The Minotaurs====
The Minotaurs are something of a boogeyman among Space Marines. They are a group that make even battle-hardened Astartes quiver, and are spoken of in hushed tones. The reason for this fear and paranoia is rather simple: The Minotaurs are Space Marines that hunt Space Marines.

The first recorded instance of a Space Marine considering tactics against other Space Marines was the Ultramarine Aeonid Thiel. During the Great Crusade, Thiel was dragged before Guilliman by his fellow Ultramarines for teaching the marines under his command tactics for fighting other Space Marines, which they saw as a sign of treachery. Guilliman asked whether this was true, and upon being told it was, asked Thiel to explain himself. Thiel said that as Ultramarines it was the duty of the legionnaires to be prepared for any possible eventuality. Although the idea of Astartes becoming traitors to the Imperium was an uncomfortable one that did not mean it was impossible, nor that Astartes could not be unwillingly brainwashed into turning on their battle brothers like they had during the Rangdan Xenocides. After hearing Thiel’s explanation, Guilliman asked the two Ultramarines who had brought Thiel to him to leave the room, and then congratulated Thiel for his ingenuity. He was willing to entertain possibilities no one else could or wanted to consider, and just because people didn't like the implications of such a scenario did not invalidate the utility of any such contingency plans. The Space Marines were created by the Imperium to be their finest warriors in the reconquest of the stars, and who is to say another, more hostile human empire could not have had a similar idea. Thiel would be rewarded for his ingenuity — though for obvious reasons not at that very moment. Thiel would finally be validated and his actions recognized during the War of the Beast, where the actions of Luther and his Fallen showed the idea that a Space Marine could turn traitor to be a frightening reality.

The Minotaurs were originally founded by a War Hound named Leon Kravidos, shortly after the Age of Apostasy, as a chapter dedicated to fighting against the Fallen. Kravidos knew that in order to fight other Space Marines his men would have to be at the very peak of their potential. Therefore, he created a downright gruelling training regimen by Space Marine standards, designed to make his men prepared for anything. Despite his job, Kravidos was actually well respected among the Astartes, and was deeply mourned when he died in battle. For thousands of years after that, the Minotaurs were rather unnotable among the Space Marine chapters. Their job of hunting down fallen Space Marines was well known, but they were seen as people just doing their jobs as opposed to someone to be feared. That is, until the latest Chapter Master of the Minotaurs, Asterion Moloc, took control of the chapter in 200.M41, after the death of his predecessor in the Badab War.

In contrast to many in the Imperium who spend much of their time in pursuit of a particular foe, such as Inquisitor Boaz Kryptman and the tyranids, Asterion Moloc does not feel a festering hatred for his enemy. Instead, he seems to take the attitude of a big game hunter hunting the most dangerous game. He seems to take a perverse joy in hounding his targets to the ends of their endurance before delivering the final blow. He spends hours reviewing all known records and tactics of his quarry, so that he knows every possible move his prey can make before even they do. He does this even for chapters that have not been assigned as his targets yet.

For obvious reasons, most Space Marines are uncomfortable with the Minotaurs, considering them to be, in the words of one Astartes scout who wished to remain anonymous, “team-killing frag-heads”. Indeed, the Minotaurs in recent years have been known to be a bit too eager in their desire to fight Space Marines, sometimes flying off the handle at an innocent chapter at the urging of some particularly radical or puritan Inquisitor. About the only people who feel comfortable around the Minotaurs are the Sisters of Battle, who often cooperate with the Minotaurs in operations involving the Fallen.

==== The Dragon Lords ====

The history of the Dragon Lords dates back to the founding of Praetoria, in the days of the post-Beast rebuilding. It was deemed that the military side of the endeavour would require the substantial presence and use of Space Marines to remove some of the more fearsome and prepared horrors that had moved in during the intervening years. As Primarch Vulkan was the overall commander in bringing the worlds of Wilderness Space back to the light of civilization, it was understandable when one of his newly minted chapters set up a way station alongside the more entrepreneurial efforts of the Gredbrittonic founding families.

The head of the space marines in this endeavour was Commander Xiaphas Jurr of the Afrique League, a former Chaplain. Commander Jurr never let the change in position from preacher of the Promethean faith to overall commander interfere with his missionary work and vice versa, and Praetoria's growth into a mostly Promethean world is largely his doing. This was not without practical merit, as the forces raised from Praetoria all held a faith in common, even as the years went on, and were all the closer for it. It has been speculated that the noble feuds of later years would undoubtedly have bloomed into minor wars without this vague sense of brotherhood.

As Praetoria grew from a minor service stop into a nation, the waystation he commanded likewise grew, such that in time it was declared a Chapter in its own right with Jurr as its commander — a rank he wore well. He and his newly designated Dragon Lords were now distinct from the rest of the Prometheans, as although he had been influencing the world he commanded, so too had it been influencing him.

As the population of Praetoria grew, the Dragon Lords soon found that they could recruit from the planet exclusively even with the introduction of the Tithe. Before the tithe, the military of Praetoria was predominantly composed of the house militias and private military companies of the nobility, with only the Red Coats — the mostly ceremonial soldiers of the Parliamentary Herald — representing the planet as a whole. At the time, the Red Coats were seen as a token force of no real concern and the butt of many jokes due to their lack of real experience and attachment to a figurehead rather than anyone with any real power.

This changed when the Imperial Army demanded its due. They didn't want soldiers loyal to any one city or lord in contest with their comrades of the same world. They wanted soldiers loyal to the Imperium representing their world as a unified whole. The imposition of a standard uniform was seen as a way to gently erode those mental barriers; they were one and all Praetorian. The distinctive green and black colour scheme of the Dragon Lords was surrendered not long after, coincidentally a few days after the death of Xiaphas Jurr, to their current red and ivory as a show of solidarity with the common soldier.

By this time, native-born Gernebern of Auchmouth — a progeny who rose fast but died a mere few centuries later — had taken command of the Space Marines and was the source of many reforms within the chapter. It was deemed prudent to have the chapter integrate even more closely with the common soldiery, splitting the companies up into squads and placing them on long term loan to the — at the time — 90 regiments of the Praetorian Guard as specialist squads. All but one company was split in such a manner, and the remaining company was to remain whole to guard their homeworld at all times.

Despite all the upheavals and political manoeuvrings — which could fill a very dry library in their own right — the contributions that Praetoria has made to the conquest, rebuilding, and protection of the wilderness worlds and beyond are often overlooked. Indeed, it was to this noble endeavour that Commander Jurr sacrificed himself. Were it not for the diligence, vigilance and sacrifices of the red coated Praetorians, the Orks, marauders, and worse would have just swept right back in, and the fates of those that called these places home would have been, at best, pitiable.

==== The Mortifactors ====
The Mortificators are a brother chapter to the Ultramarines, both being founded by veterans of the War of The Beast from Legion XIII in the days of The Rebuilding. The head of the force sent out that formed the core of the original Mortificators was commanded by the esteemed but eccentric — some would say slightly bonkers — Sasebo Tezuka. Tezuka was originally a child of the strange land of Strayllya on Old Earth, and had begun his military career in the earliest days of the Great Crusade. He was an accomplished man who commanded the respect of his men despite his oddness. One of these oddities was a seeming over-reliance on signs and portents that he used to make his decisions even though he himself was no psyker, and although he did employ them he didn’t use them for divination. Though he relied on what was essentially random chance, Tezuka seldom went irretrievably astray and more often than not followed a correct path. In more recent times people have wondered if the King of Clowns had anything to do with the roll of those bones, but no answer that any could understand has been forthcoming.

With the breakup of the XIII Legion, Captain — now Chapter Master — Tezuka was free to follow the omens as his cards and bones would show him and by a roundabout means, thirty years of wandering brought him to the world of Posul. If Posul was meant to be some sort of Promised Land it was not one given from any god that cared for its followers; Posul was dreary and dark, and by some fluke of topography and atmospheric composition it was eternally shrouded in a permanent and extremely heavy overcast lit only by two small, dim suns. It was a world of extremely dark nights and extremely dim days — and it was not unclaimed.

A hardy breed of man survived on that world, pale and slight of build with big dark eyes. They were primitive in those days, having in the time since man’s apex devolved to something that resembled Mesolithic era humanity. It was assumed at the time that their fall from grace, so complete as it was, was solely a result of an environment that was best and most politely described as very bleak. The plant life was typically sparse, with dark purple leaves to maximize the available energy from the dim suns, and the whole world had the general feeling of a deep-sea vent ecosystem on dry land.

Although that bleakness was almost certainly a contributing factor, it was not the whole story. The Posuli could fairly be described as the Death Cult of the Death Cults. They followed the faiths of the Deorum Mortuus Est, or at least adhered to the teachings of those who had slain their gods. Master Tezuka and his followers, dictated by omens to settle on this world, learned the stories of the eldest of the eldest priests and, backed up by their own findings in the Verboten Lands held by all tribes in inviolate sacrosanctity for time beyond mind, came to a startling conclusion: the natives — though not now — had once been worshipers of Chaos.

Their gods had been very real and walked among them awful and powerful, ordering great temples be built to them and demanding holocaust and sacrifice to feed them. Over the long years they had brought the Posuli low, to the point of being naught but cattle to the slaughter of unworthy butcher gods, until one day men led by the “dream-walkers” rose up, and were not struck down but instead did strike back with a righteous fire. Estimates by the off-worlders put the date of the uprising at approximately two centuries prior to the Posuli's discovery by the wider Imperium. The locals had no calendars and so none could know for sure, but it seemed that the gods of Posul were overthrown on or around the day of The Raid of the Mansion.

But the Posuli were by then a thoroughly broken people. Presumably their ancestors had been of the Great and Bountiful Human Dominion, stranded here in the early days of the Age of Strife, and presumably they did retain some measure of civility for some time, but if that is true none of that civility survived. The locals had nothing that they remembered of greatness, nothing to aspire to and no notion of lasting joy. They carried on much as they had, with cannibalistic rituals and constant wars of tribal slaughter. Tribal warriors would war and the victors would kill all of the men-folk and children and take the women as their own, and they would try to hold what land they could claim of the fallen’s holdings until displaced or the tribe split through internal unrest and warred upon once-kin.

It was into this savagery that Chapter Master Sasebo Tezuka of Legion XIII descended. His first interaction with a local was when a boy — barely old enough to grow his first chin hairs — stabbed him in the gut with a stone tipped spear. Sasebo had approached the nearest tribe unarmoured and unarmed, wearing a simple coarse jute robe with only a brother-psyker at his side, to show peaceful intent and appear as unthreatening as an Astartes can. The spear tip cut into his skin and stopped at the black carapace. The lad received a backhander that knocked several of his teeth out; it was extremely easy to follow him back to his tribe.

Some worlds welcome the Imperium as returning brothers from the stars. Some worlds react poorly to Imperial attempts to uplift them. Few were as reluctant as the Posuli, who by then had no notion of anything greater than a tribe and no understanding of any social order more complex than "the strong rule and the weak are food". Generally, the Imperium tries to keep as much of the substance of a culture as possible in its uplifting. Master Sasebo couldn’t really see much worth keeping, and as the days passed the other teams that had investigated other tribes reported much of the same. It was a long and bloody road to remake the Posuli into any sort of real society, and Master Tezuka had fallen to the unknowable things of The Harrowing long before then.

In the end the people of Posul were brought, reluctant every step of the way, into the light of civilization. Although their world could never be tamed it was made better than awful, and it was possible to live there rather than just be sentenced. In the end the Posuli were taken to the stars again and became a part of the Imperium, if only a minor part. The people of Posul were found, despite being classed as abhuman Nightsiders, to be compatible with the Astartes Mk III MP gene-seed, and in the intervening years were made worthy of it. In time they raised regiments of their own to aid the Imperium that had taken then from the dirt. But it could not be said that they did not affect the chapter as it uplifted them, especially once the Mortifactors started to recruit from Posul.

The cannibalistic rituals were replaced with haemovorous rituals, and human sacrifices exchanged with deep drug-induced comatose vision seeking. The Mortifactors adopted both of these rituals. Thus, down the long march of years, while the chapter had amended the beliefs of the locals for their own betterment, the Mortifactors had also ended up adopting these beliefs and took up the scriptures of the Dead Gods. As such, the Mortificators were never seen as desirable allies. They were unpleasantly weird and typically possessed a grim disposition. But they were valued and so were their people. It was not to last.

In the year 997M39 the Leviathan fell upon Posul. There was no hope of saving the world. All those dusty temples where man had slain their gods, all those strange tribes and wandering soothsayers, all the victories of the Imperium to make men out of monsters, all of those works of art carved into pale stone and lit pink and deep red by the dim red suns, were all washed away in a tide of chitin that were in turn washed away in nuclear fire. Basilica Mortis, the great star fort of the Mortificators, had managed to remain hidden by strange Eldar trickery, and in its vaulted halls were held the last hopes of that world. As many of the keepers of the stories and children to tell those stories to were kept as safe as could be in the hidden Astartes stronghold. On the surface of Posul, the men, women, and Space Marines of that grim, dark world gave their lives to draw the Hive to them, to trick the Hive into believing that it was winning. Lord Magyar ordered the atomics released at the last possible moment, transforming the time when hope should have been turned to despair instead into righteous wrath and retribution, and for a moment he beheld his home in sunlight before the fire consumed him.

And it was beautiful.

Posul is now a dead world, as perhaps is fitting. It is unlikely that the Adeptus Biologis will agree to terraform it in this age, as even in the old days it was never a particularly worthy candidate for such an endeavour. And as for the remnants of the Posuli and the Mortificators? They endure, barely. Hearing of their plight their distant kin in the Ultramarines petitioned the Imperium to grant them refuge, and they were granted a place on the basis that so few people would likely cause little disruption to any adoptive planet. The Mortificators requested long ruined Calth to settle upon and try and make a home. The people of Calth were initially unenthusiastic about the idea, to say the least, as their caverns and hollows were precious to them. When they learned that the Posuli wished to live in the wastelands of the surface, where none had dwelt since the devastation ten thousand years past, they were considerably more amenable. The Posuli, for their part, said that they could cover their eyes in the day and sleep and in the night, and sometimes they could pretend that they were home once more.

The Mortificators will rebuild. Death has not claimed them yet.

==== The Black Legion ====

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The Void Wolves are Astartes primarily used as boarding/anti-boarding specialists throughout the Great Crusade and 1st Black Crusade. The majority of the pre-split Void Wolves Astartes ended up in this chapter. They call the worlds of the Cadian Gate their home, and recruit from these and nearby systems. The Void Wolves still operate much as the Legion of old, in that they are massively represented in the boarding parties of the Navy assets in the Cadian sector, but with the emphasis put more on garrison duty.

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'''Lord Commander Corpulax was previous Lord Commander of Black Legion'''

Corpulax was born on Cadia in the year 446M41, and like all Cadians was inducted into the military and raised to be a good little soldier. It wasn't long into his adolescence that his physical prowess was recognized. As such, he was genetically screened and earmarked for the Black Legion. He trained well and hard as a Neophyte and learned deeply of the chapter's venerable lore. In his 15th year, he started to undergo the surgical alterations and augmentations that would turn him from human to Astartes.

His career as a Space Marine was noteworthy in his reliability. He was a very by-the-book soldier, who would have been overlooked for any measure of excellence were it not for his ability to exemplify everything the chapter's battle doctrines exalted. He was, in every way, the very model of a Cadian Space Marine. By age 176 he was a sergeant, by 239 he was a Marshal, and by 301 he was Lord Commander. And it was a role he excelled at — for the brief time that he held that rank, at least. In the year 775M41, a mere 28 years into his command, the Apostles of Contagion launched a sustained attack on the agri-world of Phagir. Phagir was one of the worlds that supplied the Cadian Gate with food. Presumably their goal — or at least the goal of their masters — was to inconvenience the Gate Worlds, as were they to succeed the Gate Worlds would have to import all foodstuffs.

The Apostles of Contagion launched a sustained campaign in their defensive style of land holding and attrition, supplemented by extensive biological warfare. In the end it was deemed an untenable theater by the Adeptus Biologis order stationed on the planet; they couldn't make cures as fast as the Apostles could make ails. The Cadian forces were instrumental in the evacuation of Phagir as the Zombie Virus finally took hold and the dead shambled across the blighted fields to add the living to their ranks.

The Black Legion held the line at the capital's spaceport until the last moment - to get just one more shuttle off of the planet. In the final stages of the withdrawal it became clear that Lord Commander Corpulax was infected with the Zombie Virus, for which there was no cure save a clean death. Wracked in pain and wroth with righteous fury, Corpulax spent his last moments sprinting towards a techno-abomination of rust and rotted flesh merged together into what might once have been a Baneblade. Its burning wreckage was his funeral pyre as the IEDs he had strapped to himself detonated.

By his sacrifice one more shuttle, containing nearly 2,000 civilians and the last of his brothers on the surface, made it safely off the launch pad. The planet was subsequently bathed in nuclear fire; it was lost but it would not be damned.

'''Lord Commander Zagthean the Broken'''

Zagthean was the son of a long-term "soup stirrer" of the algae vats and a sister of the Convent of Alabaster Maidens. Civilian jobs on Cadia are typically — though not always — given to individuals disqualified from front line service for reasons of either health or competence. As good 'ol Zaganath had been doing that job from age 12 to age 62, it can be safely assumed that he was given the job for being pretty useless at proper soldiering. This was not to say that he wasn't a dutiful man; he died in a Chaos raid with a Cadian weapon in his hands and Cadian honor in his heart, and he didn't go down quietly nor alone. Matylda was sister of the Alabaster Maidens, a widespread order with convents on several dozen worlds in the Cadian Sector that specialized in offering healthcare to the underclasses. On Cadia, they offered healthcare to the more broken veterans.

Despite his humble beginnings, Zagthean has proven a savage warrior — more of Angron's ilk than Horus'. He has charged into battles no man or Astartes should ever have hoped to walk out of, and has not only done so but done so victorious. Even in his earliest days he was dauntless, and he set into every task and training exercise put before him with an almost alarming ferocity. After his genetic screening there was no question of him being looked over for Space Marine augmentation, and the fire in his heart was not diminished even slightly by the alterations; if anything with fewer physical constraints he approached the status of truly unstoppable.

His will is adamantium and among his chapter his word is law. To the Lord Castellan's annoyance he insists on leading from the front; in the thick of the carnage, the blood and the thunder flowing past him. Roaring with laughter and wroth joy, all mortals who have stood against him have known one simple truth: they have come here to die and their gods — from the greatest to the least — have all abandoned them.

He is relatively young for a man of his rank, but he has lived hard and built up an impressive record. But the price of living so hard is that he has seen death many times, and they have danced ever closer. He has been broken down and rebuilt, torn apart and stitched back whole, burned, healed, cut, stitched, glued, grafted, and lashed back together. What's left is almost poured over, rather than connected to, an ever increasing number of cybernetics. He may have fallen many times, but he is still alive. He does not march, he charges; he wills Death to find him, to hold him one last time so that he may beseech her "let me take these bastards out with me". And always Death has returned him.

As the 13th Black Crusade descends upon Cadia, it may be that his wish could be granted. He may die, but he will take whole armies down with him.

'''Ygethmor the Trickster, Head of the Black Legion Battle Psykers'''

Of Old Earth stock and a resilient psychic of pristine physique, Ygethmor was initially destined for the Grey Knights. Though the tests of genetic compatibility showed positive, the artificial organs of the MK III S gene-seed would not take root in his flesh. Unwilling to just toss such a promising neophyte aside for such paltry reasons as a biological fluke, the Grey Knights ordered him to be tested with the MK III MP variant of the gene-seed. The MP variant did take and Ygethmor was posted to the Cadian Gate — typically they would have sent him to the Exorcists but he lacked their "straightforward" attitude to problem-solving. Steeped in ancient daemon lore learned in the halls of Titan and with a Nemesis Blade as a parting gift, Ygethmor has proven to be a boon to the Black Legion like no other.

He is fond of ambushes, illusions, misdirection and what he affectionately likes to refer to as "pranks". He is formidable in a straight-up and honest fight — if he has no option to make a dishonest one. He has no notions of fair play and considers the idea of "fair play" synonymous with "not trying". It is this underhanded attitude towards warfare that has won him the approval of the Lord Castellan (and few others). That and a well-refined and caustic sense of humour.

Despite his detractors, of which he has cultivated a great many, Ygethmor's effectiveness can not be denied. He is not the most powerful psychic among the Astartes — not by a great margin — but like his martial strength he makes the most of what he has. As he would say, "a stiletto atwixt the sternum is as good as a broadsword to the bonce".

'''Devram Korda, Marshal of the 1st Cohort'''

At approximately 230 years of age Marshal Devram Korda is on the younger end of the Black Legion's Marshals, but he is far from unaccomplished. His rank was attained in the Liberation of Sarora, an intense war on the hiveworld Sarora to depose the warband known as the Children of Torment; a nasty group of Crone Worlders with faux marines stitched together from the bodies of their victims and animated with lesser daemons. As the most senior surviving officer left after a particularly nasty assault, Davram was given temporary command over his brothers. This was made permanent at the conclusion of the campaign, when contact was re-established with Lord Castellan Jakren Stein and the rest of the Cadian 509th.

The things he saw on Sarora, the things he had to do for the sake of pity, still haunt him. He is a grim figure, with no sense of humour or good cheer. Just a seething, well-controlled, and bottomless grudge.

'''Marshal Araghast the Pillar, Marshal of the 2nd Cohort'''

Abnormally large for a Space Marine and phenomenally strong besides, Marshal Araghast lugs around a lascannon with the same ease as an experienced guardsman lugs around a Lasgun. His aim is exemplary, and for a creature so big he can move surprisingly fast. In his oversized suit of armour Araghast can withstand a punishing amount of fire and remains standing, carefully and calmly placing laser beams in the most inconvenient places. He rose to prominence in the Aurelia debacle that almost saw a world lost to the warp. He was the pillar of certainty around which the rescue forces rallied.

He has a calm and measured manner and an unflappable temperament, and remains — or can at least give the impression of remaining — relaxed in even the most bizarre and awful circumstances.

'''Xorphas Firestarter, Marshal of the 3rd Cohort'''

Xorphas is very good at pyrotechnics and incendiaries of all kinds, and possesses a fascination with fire that borders on the unhealthy. This has, however, made him and his Cohort extremely good at dealing with orks and Nurglites in particular, and anything else that resents being set on fire in general. He is also a low level psychic, though despite the rumours he is not a pyrokine. His "gifts", if one can call them that, manifested only after he attained the position of Marshal, and by then he was too far along the chain of command for it to be worth the effort and disruption of reassigning him to the Battle Psykers. He was given extensive instruction by the head Librarian so that he would be considered safe, but little in how to hone what he actually does have — which is not very much if truth be told. He has very good gut instincts that can be mistaken for inhuman reflexes (even by Astartes standards), an uncanny ability to determine if someone is lying, and some modest telekinetic ability.

He is a reserved and calm individual, meticulous and methodical in his approach to all things — be it war or mundane chores. Until you give him a box of matches and you can see the flickering flames reflected in his eyes.

'''Drecarth the Sightless, Marshal of the 4th Cohort'''

A veteran of the 12the Black Crusade who spent half the invasion stranded in the lower tunnels, hunted by Crone Worlders with knives for fingers. Those knives had cost him his eyes, but he cost them much more. Those tunnels were pitch black, but he was blind anyway. As such, although the Crones could see to some degree in total darkness, Drecarth could hear perfectly well and thus eschewed the corrupted Eldars' handicapped sight for a clear, inhuman hearing. Drecarth had yet another advantage, as those tunnels had been his playground as a child; they weren't just tunnels, they were home. The hunt quickly turned inside out, and the Chaos Eldar came to the realization that he wasn't trapped with them, they were trapped with him. When he returned to the light he was reborn, and his star was ascendant.

With two black orbs of technology replacing his ruined eyes and an unhealthily pale visage, Marshal Drecarth looks like a spectre from the old stories; some unhappy undead returned to get even. He has moulded his company into one of quiet killers, stalkers, and hunters, as he had been in the time of his epiphany. It is suspected that he is part of the secretive Cadian Death Faith, as it was prevalent in his patch of tunnels when he was young, but nothing can be proven. All that is known is that he is sober, diligent, humble, and quiet. All traits he tries to instil in his brothers.

'''Amalaxis Deamonslayer, Marshal of the 5th Cohort'''

Amalaxis is as close to a Chaplain as you can get without actually being one. He is a strong, almost fanatical, believer in the old Cadian tree gods. He offers prayers and devotion to them on the eve of battle, before setting forth on campaign, when another invasion is expected, and when it is peaceful because on Cadia — you have to be thankful for respite. Most of his Cohort are also adherents of his faith — the reason he was chosen as Marshal of the 5th Cohort — and to them he is a figure of great reverence. Some say he was a tree spirit in a stillborn child, like in the old stories of before war.

His method of warfare is very much in favour of the aggressive advance. Ideally after the first attack there should be no possibility of a retaliation. There must be something to his faith, as the hymns he roars as he charges into battle have daemons clutching their bleeding ears.

'''Valicar "the Graven" Hyne, Marshal of the 6th Cohort'''

Unlike Marshal Drecarth, Marshal Valicar Hyne makes no secret of his adherence to the Death Faith. Why should he? Why should he have to skulk in the dark and hide? This candidness has not won him many friends in the faith, all of whom agree that discretion has served them well since the Age of Strife. The rest of the Chapter just think he's a bit eccentric and the baseline Cadians just assume all augmented are a bit loopy — assuming they haven't actually met a Space Marine before.

Despite the implications of his religion, he is a bombastic man who loves the simple pleasures in life; pretty women, good food, and fine ale. Also jetpacks and air assaults. If the battle can be met hurling out of a speeding aircraft, it is a good day for Marshal Valicar. It is suspected that most of the 6th Cohort follow him out of morbid fascination.

'''Verzekh the Siege Engine, Marshal of the 7th Cohort'''

Verzekh has the distinction of being the only member of the Marshals to retain rank whilst interred in a Dreadnaught. Most Dreadnaughts become sleepy as a result of the painkillers and mechanisms that keep them in their half-life — not a good trait in a leader. Not so with old Verzekh. Whether by some incorrect implementation of his sarcophagus or a deviation in his brain, Verzekh has not slept in over 1,800 years and so far seems to be suffering no ill effects. Attempts to duplicate this miracle in others have had no notable success.

He is armed with two power claws with under-slung Meltas, with which he has obliterated the defenses of hundreds of bunkers and fortifications and uncountable tanks. His personality since his internment has actually improved, if the historical records are anything to go off of, now having a very pleasant and cheerful disposition. Verzekh puts this down to the painkillers. His favored method of warfare is the slow and unstoppable advance.

'''Kor Megron "Corpsemaker", Marshal of the 8th Cohort'''

Many times repaired and cybernetically patched up — though not the extent of the Lord Commander — Marshal of the 8th Cohort Kor Megron is a fan of going fast and going hard. Bikes, land speeders, jet packs, and anything else that can deliver high velocity death are his bread and butter. Standing still, he claims, makes you a target in a way that no additional fire power will compensate for. The rest of his chapter call him slightly manic. He calls them worse. In war — as in life — there is the target. You get target fast, find another target, get other target, repeat until target exhaustion or death. There is no stop, there is no slowing, until the job is done. To stop invites death.

The Cohort that he has assembled are all, like himself, lay-technicians. They need to be able to perform basic rituals of repair to their vehicles at a moment's notice. To lose the momentum is to invite failure. Possibly exacerbating these traits is his knowledge that he is indeed dying; some poison of Dark Eldar design — half-real and half-not — flickers through his veins. He has maybe a few years at most left. If the intent of this poison was supposed to debilitate him with despair or fear, it has failed. If anything, it's made him far more dangerous in the time he has left.

'''Troskzer The Elder, Marshal of the 9th Cohort.'''

Older than some of the younger dreadnaughts, Marshal Troskzer is old even by the standards of near-immortals. Given the time distorting effects of warp travel and the amount of time he has travelled through said warp, Troskzer isn't sure exactly how old he is. He was born in the year 998M40, but he could be as "young" as 850. That said, Space Marine biology and rejuvenant treatments can only take you so far, and he is approaching exactly as far as they can take him. What Troskzer has lost in strength and speed he has made up for in experience and animal cunning. He is without peer when it comes to the use of landscape and natural resources as a means of gaining an advantage. He can plan ambushes almost as well as the Lord Castellan, and his ability to smell weakness is bordering on the unnatural. If you have a place where you are vulnerable he will find it and he will hurt you. He is patient and will fuck up your day at the most inopportune time. This, combined with an inhuman ability to comprehend not just his battlefield but an entire planetary campaign, makes him far more dangerous off the field of battle than on it. But he is a Space Marine, he will not be shamed by staying where it is safe.

Despite his seniority — and to his relief — he was never considered for the job of Lord Commander. A Lord Commander has to have a sense of diplomacy and people skills. Troskzer has neither. He's a cantankerous, introverted, belligerent arsehole overly fond of sarcasm and seems to be staying alive just because it pisses people off.

'''Starkzahn, Marshal of the 10th Cohort.'''

Saviour of Darristen and ███████ █████████ ██████ ███ ██████ ██ ████████ ████ ███ █████████ ██████ ████████████ █████ ████. Known to have spent near thirty years in the Deathwatch and a further twenty five in the personal employ of a particular Inquisitor, neither of which he will talk about. It is suspected that he has travelled and fought as far as the Eastern Fringe — or at the very least near it — as he is well versed in the teaching of Aun'Va, though it is unlikely that he will be able to convince his countrymen of the virtues of the Greater Good.

His method of waging war is a combination of movement and fire, be it in the form of artillery or tactical squads that looks oddly familiar to anyone who has seen warfare in the Damocles Gulf.

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== Oficios and Adepta ==

=== The Assassins ===

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''Monsters Of Our Own Making:'''''

The Officio Assassinorum was one of the oldest arms of the Imperial Government, and its roots date back to the barbarity and cruelty of the Old Night. Perhaps it was fitting that, as the Warlord became the Steward and the Unification became the Great Crusade, the ancient orders of assassins were finally brought to heel and integrated into the Imperium proper.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

The Rebuke at Mount Vengeance is the common story of the Officio Assassinorum's founding. In those days, the young Imperium was mired in battles far and wide, but one particular front was facing opposition that none seemed able to counter. Here, commanding officers and vital figures were dying at an alarming rate, even in the safety of their secured rear; although their deaths were suspected to be the work of the enemy, all of them seemed to have died of natural causes. The Warlord simply appointed new generals and ordered veteran bodyguards for the ones already in theatre, but in response his loathsome foes only grew bolder. Ever more evidence of their activities was left behind, seemingly taunting the Imperium for their inability to protect their own; clean killings becoming vicious slaughters of officers and civilians alike. Many commanders were found butchered in their headquarters with a single bodyguard left alive, usually little more than a traumatised wreck stammering about technological sorcery beyond even that of the Warlord's Mechanicus allies.

Incensed at the atrocities inflicted upon his people, the Warlord made war on the Assassin Temples of the Salt Spires. Little is known about the Spires or their mercenary and heartless Masters, for many archives of their history were lost in the anarchy of the War of the Beast (although this may well have been Vangorich's objective all along). The Warlord did his best to spread his own view — that the assassins were little but cowardly shadows who thought they could behead the Imperium — but even his presence and words did little to bolster armies plagued by fear and paranoia, and so he began using the antithesis of their own doctrine to plot their downfall. There were no grand offensives, no bold strikes, nothing that seemed major enough to warrant the assassins moving against it; yet suddenly they found their supplies of everything from ammunition to promethium — and most importantly, water — were perilously low. In their weakened state, the Temples knew they could not face the Warlord's forces, and so they came before him to seek treaty.

At Mount Vengeance, the Temple Masters met to offer peace to the Warlord.
At Mount Vengeance, they received his full scorn.
The Warlord was not content with their mere offer of fealty. For the atrocities the Masters had inflicted on his people — for the lives they had taken so cruelly — the Warlord would not be content with a glorified armistice. He gave them an offer of his own: total surrender, or total annihilation. Those were their only choices.

Some of the Temple Masters, emboldened by hubris, unwisely struck the Warlord. They died. Some fled. They died, later. But on the mountain and around it — for many assassins had followed their Masters, perhaps out of loyalty or some morbid curiosity — others remained, bowing in total capitulation to the Warlord and the futility of resisting this god amongst men. For his part, the Warlord acted rather appropriately in that role, passing judgement on each Master and their assassins. Some were found guilty of crimes beyond forgiveness and were slain — often by their peers as a test of loyalty. Others were granted the "clemency" of banishment into the salt wastes. Only one was judged pure enough to be worthy of leadership — and, as the new Grandmaster of Assassins, he was assured that the temples that surrendered would remain intact, albeit in service of the Imperium under the watchful eye of Malcador.

Thus was formed the Officio Assassinorum. Malcador was pleased with the Warlord's mercy, for it showed no amount of fury would blind him to true talent. A few thousand years later, the assassins proved that such talent brought risks, especially from those as secretive as the assassins.

In 546.M32, the Grandmaster of the Officio Assassinorum attempted to assassinate the High Lords of Terra. The Beheading, as it has since come to be know, was shrouded in mystery; with events restricted to the Imperial Palace, motive, means, and for some figures even identity have been lost to the shrouds of time. All that has survived to this day is that the Inquisitorial Representative, the Master of the Astronomicon, the Paternal Envoy of the Navigators, and the Fabricator-General of the Adeptus Mechanicus were all killed before the Steward was able to stop Grandmaster Vangorich's terror.

Naturally, many asked how Vangorich was able to get as far as he did. Perhaps the sheer scale of the events already taking place at the time (especially the rising threat of the Beast) was responsible, since it was one of the few periods in Imperial history where the High Lords were forced to abandon their usual backstabbing and power plays that kept the Officios and Adepta in check, in favour of (relative) unity. However, others believe such planning and preparation had to have taken decades, and the timing an unfortunate consequence of Vangorich demanding so much care be taken to make the deaths of his fellow High Lords look like accidents.

All sources agree, however, that once his treachery was revealed Vangorich unleashed the assassins on the entire palace. The halls ran with the blood of the highest of Lords and the most lowly of servitors alike. Yet there was one figure the assassins would not touch, ''could'' not touch, out of fear of what he had done to their forefathers: the Steward, who had vowed to personally put a stop to the killing spree desecrating the home of the Golden Throne. Vangorich, infuriated at the apparent incompetence of his underlings, took it upon himself to do the job they would not, attempting to slay the Steward with a vortex grenade as he emerged from his personal transport.

This went about as well as one would expect.

Even less is known about the outcome. Historians have waxed poetically about the Grandmaster facing an agonizing death, eternal torture, exile into the depths of the Webway with nothing but the clothes on his back, or any other number of tall tales. The most reliable account, however — attributed to the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes — states that the Steward simply broke Vangorich's neck as comfortably as one would a twig, mere moments after his ill-advised attempt on the Steward's life.

For their part, the assassins were right to be fearful; for unlike their predecessors on Mount Vengeance the Steward gazed upon them with ''disappointment'' as well as fury. The Beheading had been undertaken by Vangorich, but the Steward noted with no small distaste that his orders had not been questioned by any under him. Malcador had managed to maintain the delicate balancing act between accountability and unflinching loyalty necessary in an organisation such as the Assassinorum, and without him it seemed the assassins were falling back on their bad habits.

Any other time he would have dismantled the Assassinorum then and there, but the Steward was more concerned with reinforcing the wider Imperium against the coming onslaught of the Beast. In a time when every second was precious, the Steward could only set aside a day to scour the assassins' much-reduced ranks. Those found wanting of moral character were incinerated where they stood if they had acted on Vangorich's orders, or pressed into a penal legion if they had not. One assassin that the Steward found was of solid loyalty, and aided him in his purge of the temples. They were declared the new Grandmaster. The first decree they were to issue, however, was a warning — a warning to be spread through every temple, to every assassin from the depths of the Imperial Palace to frontline fighting against the Orks. A warning that, if the Steward was ever forced to intervene again, he would simply dissolve the Assassinorum instead of wasting more time on leniency.

Four thousand years later, the Steward was once again forced to intervene — although this time it was because of a crisis of his own making.

To her credit, the Grandmaster the Steward had put in place had served honorably, loyally, and carefully. Within the temples, long overdue reforms were undertaken, training formalised, and generations of assassins raised to revere the Imperium as a whole more than their temple. The Grandmaster, when she felt her time came, passed the title on to one she felt she could trust; and he continued her work, standardising material provisions and improving survivability. When he was lost in a warpstorm, his successor was well chosen, and worked to streamline chain of command and requisition. This continued, the Officio slowly evolving into an organisation capable of keeping up with the rapid changes of the galaxy, until the reign of Goge Vandire. Emperor Goge Vandire.

Goge Vandire was, initially, the ideal servant of the Imperium. Intelligent yet humble, decisive yet wise, he was familiar with all the intricacies of every part of the Imperium's government — save the assassins. Naturally, he was curious. At his first meeting with the High Lords of Terra, they each took their own oaths of loyalty and explained their roles. The Grandmaster of Assassins, on the other hand, explained the history of the Beheading to the new Emperor, and explained why since then the Assassinorum has always chosen to swear loyalty to the wider Imperium instead of a particular individual. An explanation that would end up nearly tearing it apart.

"...hence, our loyalty is to the Golden Throne and its guardians rather than the one sitting upon it. A mere technicality, of course—" The Grandmaster offering a thin smile at this point, "since I personally doubt we will ever receive liquidation orders from the archaeotech itself... but still."

The other High Lords had long ago learned not to question inner workings of the Assassinorum, while Emperor Vandire merely gave a hearty chuckle. They moved onto other, more pressing matters, and it appeared that that was the end of that. And it was, for the most part, but there was a small corner of Emperor Vandire's mind where those words echoed endlessly. "The Golden Throne and ''its guardians''," the Grandmaster had said, but it seemed clear to him that there was only one guardian that mattered; the one who had appointed him to the position in the first place. Over the years of Emperor Vandire's reign — too many hard decisions, too many threats to the Imperium from within and without, perhaps too many treatments of juvenat — the echo rose in his mind until it was deafening, a mild irritation over semantics growing into full-blown paranoia.

Of course they were faithful to the Imperium, but the hypocrites chose the Steward to venerate as a figurehead! Even in the Palace, his own home, all the oaths in the galaxy would not change the fact that each soul's allegiance lay with the Steward rather than himself. They only trusted him because the Steward trusted him, had appointed him. Oh, yes, his reign and countless years of selfless service were all very good and well appreciated, but they were all nought against those of that living god. Everything he did was overshadowed by that ''guardian;'' his words judged against the Steward's, his actions compared to those of the Steward, the ''Steward'', the '''''Steward''''', who was never more than a moment away from the lips of Vandire's own people; as if he had been usurped before he was ever appointed to the throne.

Still, Vandire was still as talented as he always was, and soon managed to find an assassin willing to aid him; a Callidus by the name of Tziz Jarek. By that point he was in direct control of every aspect of the Imperium thanks to a thousand emergency powers and Imperial edicts; yet frustratingly, the Grandmaster remained steadfastly insistent on the stance that had tormented Vandire since their first meeting. Jarek, on the other hand, was simply angry with the Assassinorum's reforms, and made sure to stay well out of range of Vandire's spittle and foam when he began to rant — although over time she found herself believing in more and more of his firey rhetoric.

The assassination was textbook perfection; the Grandmaster's long list of security measures outdone by Jarek's longer-still list of fall-backs and contingencies. However, the lifeless corpse that was quietly fed into a plasma generator was only a body double of the Grandmaster — even as Jarek disguised herself with polymorphine and assumed the seat of Grandmaster of Assassins — had already made her getaway, rallying those loyal to her from Terra and beyond. With the Assassinorum now firmly under his thumb, Vandire used the shadowy assassins as another weapon with which to prosecute what was rapidly becoming a reign of terror; opponents political and military alike disappearing or found butchered in cruel and unusual manners.

When the reign of Emperor Vandire was coming to an end, he began to use his assassins more openly against rebel forces — and it was at that moment, when they emerged from the shadows, that the true Grandmaster struck. Jarek had used the forces of the Assassinorum masterfully, always knowing which figures to ''liquidate'' to maximise disorder and panic — yet she had no experience of the same tactics being used against her, and could do little but order her own assassins to focus on the new threat.

The resulting battles were devastating. Assassins loyal to Vandire and to the Grandmaster both used long-forgotten, forbidden technologies on the other side, for each was (rightly) convinced that the victory of the other would see them exterminated to the last. Gene-sympathetic nerve gases, neutronic warheads, entropic broadcasters, pan-chronal disruptors, and other terrors were all used; some dating back to the nightmare of the Old Night. These were the Wars of Vindication, and they would be repeated again and again from Terra to the furthest reaches of the Imperium as assassin turned against assassin to purge the ones they saw as traitors.

When the Steward finally returned to Terra from his self-imposted exile, the Temples were little more than smoking, hellish ruin. The palace, too, was scarred by battle; and there he found the Grandmaster — who pointed to her lifeless doppelganger and declared that the traitor was dead.

The Steward was unamused.

The Grandmaster offered her life by way of apology, and begged the Officio Assassinorum be spared. She knew all too well of the warning passed down from each Grandmaster to the next, and of the possibility of her and her own suddenly being abandoned by an Imperium that had no other place for them. For his part, the Steward was bitterly disappointed with Emperor Vandire's descent into madness — yet this time he could not truly fault what had historically been the most troublesome of the High Lords' domains. One Grandmaster had fought with unwavering loyalty for the Imperium, while the other had done so in the name of the Emperor. Perhaps he was a little ashamed of his own poor judgement, for he was merciful; the Grandmaster was allowed to disappear into exile, and the remnants of the Assassinorum were to return to Terra for their final judgment.

The Steward of the Golden Throne retreated into the Imperial Palace for the last time, and when the Emperor of Mankind emerged, first and final orders to the ancient Officio Assassinorum were as follows:

*All assassins were to be granted a window of clemency, where an amnesty would be offered regardless of allegiance. They were misled, but had still fought with ferocious loyalty to their superiors — against some of the best in the Imperium, no less. Any who ignored this opportunity would be declared outlaws of the Imperium of the Golden Throne, for both the Grandmaster and her doppelganger had kept close eyes on their respective assassins (lest they defect). Huge bounties were offered, of course, but the most sought-after reward was the opportunity for the hunter to take the place of the assassin they defeated, becoming one of the Imperium's shadowy elite.

*After the grace period, the Officio Assassinorum would be completely and utterly dissolved. The Temples would remain, but only as individual institutions with no power and little role; all masters would stripped of formal office and all survivors either absorbed into the reborn order: the Officio Tactitum. No more secret handshakes or shadowy meetings lit by incense, no unaccountable Grandmasters operating without question. Civilian control would slow the Tactitum, perhaps even hamstring it, but this was the price to be paid to avoid the mistakes of the past.

*Perhaps most importantly, the Ordo Securitas of the Inquisition would be formed to monitor not only the assassins but the other highest echelons of the Imperium. These Inquisitors would be the guardians of the guardians, watching each Officio and Adeptus for corruption and abuse, wary of another Vangorich or Vandire emerging.

*However, due to their power to render judgment of even the highest figures of the Imperium, the Sicarius were only permitted to advise and regulate, never taking direction — at least, in theory. In reality, many Securitas Inquisitors found rather...creative ways to circumvent the decree that they may not maintain "men under arms".

The Emperor had spoken, and these were his commands.

The Officio Tactitum is a far more modern organization nowadays. Though it primarily is still famed for its assassins, it also produces operatives specialised in sabotage and covert warfare far from home. They are often assigned to the command of the Astra Militarum or individual Inquisitors; and each lone assassin is still a finely honed killing machine, but they now serve as spectacular force multipliers rather as ends in themselves. The Ordo Sicarius is satisfied with this arrangement, as it avoids the high risk and cost of the traditional lone wolf operations, and allows them to keep an eye on any assassins deployed.

The Temples? They are far less superstitious and shadowy than they once were, although the name of "Temple" has stuck in defiance of every reform that has been attempted. Each of them has diversified, yet maintained their core roots in their quest to perfect the art of murder.

Temple Vindicare, who reach out far longer than all but the highest of psykers to deliver their kiss of death.

Temple Venenum, who can find a thousand toxins to kill a man from the gentlest of paradise worlds, each one exquisite to the palette in their own unique way.

Temple Eversor, who can scythe through men, orks, eldar and even Astartes with the horrifying ease of a power sword through flak armour.

Temples Culexus — who hunt down their prey with soulless eyes — and Callidus, who have no face to call their own.

Temple Vanus, which according to popular belief ha[EXPUNGED]oes not exist. The Ordo Sicarius has confirmed this, and will not allow any dispute.

The primary headquarters of the Tactitum, including the Temples, lies on Terra, although across each segmentum there are localised, lesser temples that train assassins, liaison with other Imperial Forces, and seek recruits from outside the Schola the Temples traditionally draw from. The Ordo Sicarius also work closely with segmentum command to permit proper coordination if Tactitum assets are needed, although on a smaller level they are surprisingly good at scouting talented assassin candidates. With proper Inquisitorial oversight, the assassins are kept well in check, and well out of politics.

The High Lords of Terra still retain a seat for the Grandmaster of Assassins, but it has been left vacant ever since the reign of Emperor Vandire. Few imagine it will ever be filled again.

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=== Adeptus Astronomica ===

“''We are the ones who give of ourselves so that others may walk in the light''”<br>
— Motto of the Adeptus Astronomica

Of all the professions available to psykers of the Imperial Schola, perhaps none is more honored than those of the Adeptus Astronomica. These are the people who make daily life in the Imperium possible with literally nothing more than their sheer force of will. The Astronomican represents one of the first major cooperative efforts between humanity and the Eldar. Although originally of human creation, its design was improved by the Eldar as a gift of gratitude for humanity’s participation in the raid on Nurgle’s mansion, greatly improving the efficiency of the Astronomican and strength of its beacon. Although original estimates based on the average ability of a human psyker suggested that twelve thousand people at once would be needed to power the beacon, Eldar modifications decreased the actual number of psykers needed by an order of magnitude, while drastically reducing the amount of stress on an individual psyker.

However, at the same time, no profession is more tragic than that of the Adeptus Astronomica. Creating a psychic “bonfire” that can be seen by the entire Imperium is taxing on the individual, even with twelve hundred other psykers to share the burden. As a result, the psykers of the Adeptus Astronomica are rotated out in shifts in an attempt to maximize their health, with a third of the choir being rotated out every four months. However, even this is not enough to prevent long-term damage. Few psykers live more than a year, and almost none have survived more than eighteen months. In the Halls of the Astronomican, right before one enters the Chambers of the Astronomican itself, there is a small, grassy courtyard, nearly empty save for a stele made of the hardest adamantium. On it is inscribed the names of every psyker who has died in the course of powering the Astronomican, a testament to their bravery so that the Imperium will never forget their sacrifice.

==== Origin of the Astronomican ====

''"Only humanity would think to solve the complex and intricate issue of interstellar travel by building a giant psychic bonfire"''<br>
— Finarion, specialist bonesinger from Biel-Tan sent to examine the Astronomican, circa M31.

When the Great Crusade started, there wasn’t any need for an Astronomican. The Steward was a Man of Gold, originally designed to link human worlds together during the days of the Great and Bountiful Empire, and as a result was a fairly effective psychic landmark in his own right. Combined with the fact that the Imperium had access to the Void Borns’ maps and the knowledge of the relatively safe Warp currents, it was possible to reach many of the nearby systems using short (but very slow) warp jumps.

Having delegated most of the Legion running and Great Crusading to the primarchs, the Steward was free to try and figure out a long-term solution to the navigation issue. The Steward made no secret of this fact, and the primarchs didn’t complain about it because they themselves were starting to notice as they were getting further and further from Earth it was getting harder and harder to navigate. Indeed, some of the primarchs were actually trying to convince the Steward to stay on Earth, because if the Steward got killed it meant no Astropaths and the nascent Imperium would likely tear itself apart over succession crises, especially after the Steward was taken by surprise and nearly killed by a super-Ork on the nascent Attack Moon of Gorro.

The Steward hit upon the idea of the Astronomican when the Imperium had at least several hundred worlds under its belt. He found that if he could get the beacon started other psychics can maintain the “fire”, but it would take a lot of them working together and they'd have to rotate in shifts. Thankfully the Imperium is big enough now to provide those numbers. Unfortunately, while it wasn’t as dangerous at first, as the Astronomican grew in response to the need from the Crusade it becomes increasingly lethal and difficult to handle. The warp-flow goes "lumpy" and the lumps are dangerous proportional to the size of the "flame” you are trying to generate. Given that the flame is bright enough to see across lightyears, the lumps are pretty lethal.

When the alliance with the Eldar happened, the Eldar sent their specialists to Old Earth as part of the deal with humanity to look at the thing. Then they backed out of the hall slowly at the sheer insanity of what these mon-keigh were trying to do. The Eldar started attaching shock absorbers and buffering jars and shit to it, and the lifespan of resident psychics jumps up dramatically. Nowadays, maintaining the Astronomican is considered an actual job rather than a death sentence, albeit one with a greatly reduced quality and length of life even compared to baseline humanity. Eldar and human technicians continued to tinker with the Astronomican, adding more devices to it, like lenses and spectrum filters. And that's where the Astronomican is at now. It can't be tweaked any more, having hit the hard upper limit on what is possible with a single, giant psychic lighthouse.

Theoretically other alternatives are possible, and in hindsight it would have been easier to just make [[Imperium_Secundus#Mustering_Forces_to_Himself|a bunch of small lighthouses]] instead of one big one, in a similar vein to what the Great and Bountiful Human Empire did with the Men of Gold and likely what many other races did back during the Dark Age of Technology. Such devices would not only be more efficient, but would greatly — though not entirely — reduce the issues with the potential lethality of the job. Unfortunately doing so would require resources that the Imperium doesn’t have, either in the form of Iron Minds/Men of Gold or psykers that are desperately needed by the big Astronomican on Old Earth. And it it not possible to simply put out the Astronomican and start over, because the loss of the Astronomican, even temporarily, would be catastrophic for the Imperium.

=== Adeptus Sororitas ===

==== Rough Notes from the Threads ====
*Formed in the aftermath of the reign of Vandire and the Civil War along with the Ordo Securitas
*They receive some cybernetic and biological enhancements, putting them roughly on par with a Spartan from Halo
**A group of 3 Sisters is roughly equal to 1 Space Marine, winning about 5 times out of 10. However, the Marine has a significant advantage in melee due to much better physical attributes and the Sisters are encumbered by their Power Armor due to lack of a Black Carapace. To win, the Sisters would need to leverage numbers and teamwork.
*I believe we said they mostly operate with the Inquisition, though their organization and exact scope of duties is unclear/undiscussed at the moment.

==== Daughters of Russ ====

The Daughters of Russ, better known as the Valkyries, are a organization similar to the Adeptas Sororitas unique for only recruiting from Fenris and the Fenrisian colonies. The Daughters claim to be matrilineal descendants of Leman Russ via his many daughters, but given the size of Leman Russ' family and the amount of time that has passed since Russ came to Fenris, it is likely that everyone on the Fenrisian Worlds can trace their ancestry back to Leman Russ in some way.

The Daughters of Russ are best known for their ferocity. Although the Sororitas are well known for their aggression and their single-mindedness, the Valkyries fight with a viciousness that seems almost inhuman. In addition, the Valkyries exhibit senses and other abilities that seem beyond standard Sororitas-level augmentation, leading some to suspect that the Sororitas enhancements either enhance the effect of the Canis Helix genes present in the general Fenrisian population or reawaken Canis Helix genes that were formerly dormant. Surprisingly, the Daughters are otherwise rather conservative for Sororitas, looking down on the sisterhoods who add additional augmentations like kill-glands. To the Valkyries, such additions mock and taint the skill of an individual in battle.

At the same time, the Daughters are also well-known for their talents in medicine. The Valkyries have close ties with the Sisters Hospitaller, and often find themselves being sent to reinforce flagging battalions and save as many of the wounded as they can. It is these practices that led the first leader of the Daughters of Russ to say “it is our job to look Morkai in the eye and tell him, ‘you will not touch them today’”, which eventually became shortened into the motto of the order.

Editor's Note: Needs to be seen how they relate to Sororitas. Are they actual Sororitas, the female equivalent of Space Wolves, or what? It was pointed out that the concept is good, but they don't seem to function like the Sisters (as internal police).

=== Navis Nobilite ===

See [[Nobledark Imperium Writing#The Saga of Fedor Jiao|The Saga of Fedor Jiao]]

== Adeptus Mechanicus and its branches ==

=== Adeptus Biologis ===

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''Gene-wrights of M41:'''''

''Without metal man is a beast. Without flesh man is a tool.''<br>
— Motto of the Adeptus Biologis

Despite being seen as just another branch of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Adeptus Biologis actually has very different origins from the rest of the Mechanicus. Instead of being derived from the Martian Mechanicum, the Biologis were originally formed from the various geneticists and biotechnologists living in the territories that the Warlord conquered, including the Geno-Hippie conclaves of western Merika, the Genesmiths of Duscht Jemanic, and the Genewrights of Luna. The Biologis were eventually folded into the Mechanicus proper, and centuries of cultural and philosophical exchange have greatly reduced the differences between the two, but the group still retains its own unique quirks.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Today, the Adeptus Biologis performs a multitude of services throughout the Imperium. They travel to newly pacified worlds to catalogue and study the native flora and fauna. They study diseases and synthesize new medications to constantly try to beat back the plagues of Nurgle. They try to engineer more efficient versions of crops to feed the burgeoning Imperium. They often oversee the augmentations of Space Marines and Sisters of Battle.

Perhaps the biggest difference between the Adeptus Biologis and most other divisions of the Adeptus Mechanicus is their stance on innovation. According to the Biologis, the Mechanicus’ prohibition on invention and innovation only applies to technology, not nature, a loophole the Biologis are happy to exploit. As a result, the Adeptus Biologis are much more willing to try new techniques than the Mechanicus proper, which is one reason why things like rejuvenant drugs and augmentation have improved over the centuries, even if it is only at a glacial pace. Of course, given that all of their equipment comes from the Mechanicus proper, the Biologis are often unable to build the kind of equipment they would like to use.

Another major difference between the Biologis and the rest of the Mechanicus involve physical augmentations. The Biologis are just as augment-happy as their brethren within the AdMech, but tend to prefer artificially engineered organs and genetically modified tissues over cybernetic implants. Even those Magos Biologis who do have mechanical implants often strive for a balance between flesh and metal, seeking to perfect the flesh before they involve the machine.

Like virtually every organization in the Imperium, the Adeptus Biologis can be broken up into a number of factions. The old rivalry between the Geno-Hippies and Genesmiths is still there, only under different names. The Emergentists believe that artificial biological designs must be “balanced” as part of an integrated whole much like natural designs, and that the greatest parts of a design often emerge via interactions that are not foreseen. By contrast, the Utilitarians believe the body is analogous to a machine, and must be treated as such. Any deviation from the perceived purity of a design is something not to be tolerated.

The Mechanicum — that is, the actual Mars-based organization who make up the majority of the Adeptus Mechanicus and primarily work with technology — do not like the Adeptus Biologis very much. They see the Adeptus Biologis as pretenders whose accoutrements are little more than aping the Mechanicum of Mars. They see the aversion of the Biologis to cybernetic augmentations as an affront to the Credo Omnissiah. Nevertheless, they begrudgingly acknowledge the Biologis despite seeing them as lesser, much in the way scholars of the “hard sciences” looked down on biology prior to the Age of Strife. Perhaps this is one reason why, at some point in history, the Biologis changed their apparel from dressing in robes of red to robes of dark green.

</div>
</div>

=== 'Tech-Heresy' and its definition ===

See [[Nobledark_Imperium_Imperial_Society_and_Culture#Hereteks_and_the_nature_of_.22Tech-Heresy.22|Hereteks and the nature of "Tech-Heresy"]]

=== The Last Ditch ===

On Mars, there are a series of missile silos. They appear on no map, save in the personal files of the Fabricator General and his inner circle. Hardcopy, not digital. Nothing about them has ever been committed to cogitator. Their locations are concealed beneath layers of bureaucratic subterfuge; declared off- limits zones, patrolled by guards unaware of what they protect. Onion layers of lies await the curious; the suspicious might continue digging past the first lie, but the second? The third, the fourth?

The bunkers themselves are manned by unaugmented humans; none possess even the simplest augmetic. Perhaps the only such in the whole of the regular armed forces of the Mechanicus. Everything is done with the simplest possible technology; even electricity is used sparingly. Steam engines drive complex mechanical assemblies. Everything is designed with physical, manually-operated lockouts. Everything requires human action to operate. From the air or orbit, they blend in perfectly with the environment.

Inside the silos, the crews are terribly isolated. Their only contact with the outside world is a single cable, through which the fire order will come. If it ever comes. None of them know of the purpose of their silo, or of the existence of the others. Each shift lasts a year at least. They play endless hands of cards, read books, and bullshit continuously. And wait for the order to come down. In ten thousand years it has not.

As for the missiles themselves? Vortex warheads. Currently the largest concentration of vortex weaponry in the entire Imperium. Over a thousand of the weapons, each capable of felling cities and Titans. Enough firepower to scour a continent clean, to say nothing of the possibility of daemonic incursion.

Arranged in a loose ring around the Noctis Labyrinth.

This is but one of the contingency plans the Guardians of the Dragon have prepared.

==The Inquisition==

===The Ark Ship===

As part of their duty to keep the Imperium safe, members of the Inquisition are often forced to consider possibilities that would be unthinkable to the rest of the Imperium. Contingency plans for disasters on the scale of which most people would be unable to imagine. The Ark Ship is one such contingency.

The Ark Ship is one of the biggest secrets of the Inquisition and Mechanicus. What little information that has leaked out to the public has been hilariously exaggerated.

It is the final contingency plan. The ultimate Plan B. Activated only in the unthinkable event that the Imperium falls and the galaxy becomes uninhabitable for sentient life. Due to its nature and the implications of its construction - even as a contingency plan - knowledge of the actual ship has been suppressed for fear of causing a panic.

It's a highly modified Omnissiah class ship, modified to survive for thousands upon thousands of years at minimal power and activity. The captain is the one Inquisitor of Ordo Desolatus, held in stasis. Its cargo is rack upon rack of genetic samples and frozen embryos, from every sapient species in the Imperium; humans to Eldar to Tau, and everything in between.

The crew are mechanically augmented up to the very edge of what is legally allowed before you start treading into A.I. territory. Metal can shut down cleanly and is far more efficient than flesh. The crew, like the captain, are in stasis.

If the Imperium falls, the Ark's orders are to take one of countless planned FTL escape-routes to the galaxy's edge, and burn hard into the intergalactic blackness, in hopes of eventually rendezvousing with the escaping craftworlds at an outlying star-cluster to resupply. And to begin the longest journey.

==Imperial Navy==

===The Five Flagships===

''Phalanx''. ''Nicor''. ''Mirabilis''. ''The Rock''. ''Terminus Est''. These are names that are instantly recognized by any scholar of Imperial history, as well as feared throughout history by those who sought to do the Imperium harm.

The Five, often colloquially referred to as the “Five Big Bastards” after a comment made by primarch Rogal Dorn, were a series of massive super-dreadnoughts commissioned by the Imperium in the last days of the Unification of Sol and the early years of the Great Crusade. Each of these ships were roughly 25 kilometers long and bristled with conventional weaponry. The five ships were roughly comparable in size and shape, though the ''Phalanx'' was perhaps a little larger and a little more heavily-armed than her sisters. In addition to newly constructed material mined from the Sol system, the Five were also constructed from the recycled remains of the numerous scattered shipwrecks throughout the Sol system (many of which came to the attention of the Imperium at the suggestion of the primarch Horus), making them packed full of whatever Dark Age-era technology could be salvaged from the wreckage.

The original construction of the Five was intended to be a show of solidarity between the newly unified nations of Sol. The ships were to be commissioned by the newly named Steward of Earth, constructed by the Mechanicum of Mars in the shipyards of Luna, and would be crewed by the Void Born of the Sol migrant fleet. However, because of the time and resource-intensive nature of their construction, only two of these ships — the ''Rock'' and the ''Phalanx'' — were ready by the beginning of the Great Crusade. The ''Rock'' was sent out as the flagship of the Imperium's first expeditionary fleet helmed by the Dark Angels, whereas the ''Phalanx'' remained in the Sol system to act as a deterrent to any potential force that would threaten Mars and Old Earth. Construction of the remaining three — the ''Nicor'', ''Mirabilis'', and ''Terminus Est'' — was not completed until much later in the Great Crusade, when the resources of additional systems could be brought to bear for their completion.

The Five were intended to be a long-term investment. In addition to building ties of unity between the major factions of Sol, the Five were meant to be a show of strength, on the part of the nascent Imperium, to the greater galaxy. The huge size of the Five meant that their internal workings could support much larger than average hydroponic bays, which meant they could function away from the Imperium for long periods of time without resupplying and be largely self-sufficient if they were ever cut off from Imperial supply chains. This made the ''Rock'' the ideal flagship to send out with the expeditionary fleet. Eventually, the plan was for the Five to be sent to the far corners of the galaxy, one for each major Segmentum, to act as flagships and command centers for the Imperial Navy. The ''Phalanx'', ''Rock'', ''Terminus Est'', ''Nicor'', and ''Mirabilis'' were to be sent to Segmenta Solar, Obscurus, Pacificus, Tempestus, and Ultima, respectively. Unfortunately, random chance and the whims of history ended up scuttling this plan. Although originally constructed as part of a set, each of the Five suffered dramatically different fates.

The ''Rock'' was infamously stolen by the arch-traitor Luther during the Chaos of the War of the Beast, only to be reclaimed by the loyalist Dark Angels after the Lion's final battle with his brother. Luther had not had his hands on the ''Rock'' long enough for it to be irrevocably tainted by Chaos, and the Dark Angels were able to repurpose the battleship for their own uses. To this day, the ''Rock'' remains the mobile headquarters of the Dark Angels chapter.

The ''Phalanx'', although heavily damaged in the War of the Beast, remains as it always has in the Sol System, an old guard dog ever-ready to fight those that would threaten the capital of the Imperium. Its [[Nobledark_Imperium_Writing#Ork_Diplomacy|legendary ramming action]] that repelled the Beast's attack planet Ullanor during the War of The Beast obliterated much of the original ship, as the relativistic impact vaporized almost all of the Phalanx, with only relatively small parts of the drive superstructure remaining attached to the ship's neutronium ramming prow and keel, which was later recovered from a highly elliptical orbit around Sol. Any conventional matter, including the body of Pius himself, would have been vaporized on impact, but neutronium is made of tougher stuff. The Phalanx was rebuilt from around this neutronium keel, missing many of the archaeotech systems originally contained within its frame but [[The_War_of_The_Beast#The_Fist_of_the_Imperium|the keel was enough of a plank in the ship of Theseus to claim continuity with the original ship]]. The Imperium doesn't like to take defeat lying down.

The ''Mirabilis'' remains active in the galactic East, still acting as a flagship of the Imperial Navy rather than commanded by any chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, perhaps the only one of the Five along with the Phalanx that is still performing the job the Imperium intended for it. However, the Ultima Segmentum is nearly an order of magnitude larger than any other part of the galaxy, and there is little the ''Mirabilis'' can do beyond putting out fires.

The ''Nicor'' fought valiantly for many years, but was presumed lost in the aftermath of the [[Nobledark_Imperium_Drafts#Second_Black_Crusade|Second Black Crusade]]. In late M40, the Carcharodons found the carcass of the ''Nicor'' floating out in the middle of the Segmentum Tempestus, and — after much friction with the rest of the Imperium — refurbished it into their new headquarters. Although the ''Nicor'' is probably capable of void combat once more, the Carcharodons prefer to keep it in a strategic location in the galactic South to act as a central base from which they can coordinate their attacks. Ironically, the ''Nicor'' in some ways is performing the job it had always been intended to do in the first place, striking fear in the hearts of any who would threaten the Imperium in the Segmentum Tempestus.

The ''Terminus Est'' served the Imperium through more military campaigns than any other member of the Five. After being sent to take back the Segmentum Pacificum when the Imperium set out to reclaim the Segmentum, the ship was commandeered in the aftermath of the war by Typhus the Pilgrim, who made it into the mobile headquarters of his breakaway chapter the Black Templars. For six millennia, the ''Terminus Est'' was a constant presence on the western front of the Imperium. Much like the Black Templars themselves, the ''Terminus Est'' was forever marching to war, never resting, never stopping, almost seeming to have an indefatigable personality of its own. If there is any truth to the Mechanicus' claim that ships have machine spirits, there is perhaps no better argument in support of this idea than the ''Terminus Est''.

However, no ship can fight forever. In late M38, the ''Terminus Est'' finally broke down after back-to-back fighting in an Armageddon War and putting down an assault on Necromunda. The ''Terminus Est'' managed to limp its mass to high Necromundan orbit before tidal forces tore the ship apart. Today, the ''Terminus Est'' is the closest thing the Black Templars have to a static headquarters. Like the ''Nicor'', the Templars claim the ''Terminus Est'' might have a few more battles in her, but so far none have been willing to put that claim to the test.

===Blade of Luna===

The Blade Of Luna is one of the first in a series of modified Mars-class battlecruisers equipped with oversized engines, the sensor networks of an Emperor-class battleship, and cutting edge vox warfare systems. Recently built by the shipyards based around Luna — not the orthodox masters of Mars — it is designed to serve as a support ship maintaining inter-fleet communications and tracking enemies for improved battlefield awareness.

This description vastly oversimplifies their role. While rebels and pirates who barely know how to keep a stolen ship's anti-gravity working are little threat to the pirate-extermination forces that a ship of this type would lead — the Crone Eldar, Necrons, Olamic Quietude, and Dark Mechanicus, to name the most infamous — all have their own foul brand of techno-sorcery.

Daemonic scrap-code can cut power to point defense arrays just long enough to let a barrage of boarding pods bite into the hull, secure encryptions can be cracked in milliseconds by machinery powered by broken star gods, crucial orders can be lost under a tidal wave of jamming signals, augurs that previously tracked micrometeorites from one end of the solar system to the other suddenly lose their visuals; the list goes on. The Imperial Navy has learned its bloody lessons over ten thousand years of war, and its more technically-minded factions are the inheritors of practices fine-tuned prior to the Dark Age of Technology.

Hence the limited production run of ships like the Blade Of Luna, testbeds for the latest electronic warfare systems to serve as sword and shield against the Imperium's enemies. Her higher decks are packed with banks of compartmentalized, EMP-shielded cogitators and consoles, each linked to a backup battery in the event the redundant power couplings to the Generatorium fail in battle. Augur arrays normally found only on the Emperor-class battleship cover the Blade Of Luna in a thin forest of sensor spars and domes, and in concert with the cogitators enable the ship's Techpriests to tune out false positives and home in on elusive cloaked enemies. Gellar fields, hexagrammatic wards, and crude automations of machine exorcism are present to fend off the more daemonic varieties of scrap-code. There are other technologies that are not so enthusiastically discussed by the rather open-minded Mechanicus builders, but they have risen to meet the monumental challenges of those who would challenge the Omnissiah's vessels of war.

===Deep Field Recon===

Knowledge of its many enemies is vital to the Imperium's survival, and quite hard to come by. Oh, you can learn some things on the battlefield. Weapons and tactics. But this is far, far from a complete picture. It tells you nothing of their logistics, of their politics, of their inner minds, of the deep knowledge needed to strike at the heart of an entire civilization. Fighting on the battlefield tells you how to fight on the battlefield, but not how to craft grand strategy.

Channels for gaining this deep knowledge are few. It is impossible to infiltrate the Silent Court, and there is no gossip there; likewise a tyranid cannot be bribed to turn against the Swarm, and even the smallest bribes in Shaa-Dome are far too horrible to pay. There is no trade with the Orks, and an embassy in Commorragh would be nothing but a buffet table. Intercepting the communications of Chaos is actively hazardous to the health of the reader's mind and soul, and any wire-tapping the thoughts of a dark God is wont to become a conduit for them into reality. All the tricks human nations have used to spy on each other since time immemorial are useless against the vast majority of the Imperium's foes. But ignorance is not an option.

Thus, the Deep Field Recon squadrons.

The Deep Field Recon squadrons are one of the few methods the Imperium has for investigating the inner reaches of enemy territory. Deep Field Recon ships are made to be as stealthy as possible, typically mounting multiple forms of concealment. Reflex shields and Eldar holo-fields are standard, as are various forms of passive stealth such as low-signature engines and auspex-baffling plating. Some are equipped with more exotic devices still; archeotech and xenotech cloaking devices salvaged from the far corners of the galaxy. An (un)lucky few bear psychic choirs on board, actively diverting the attention of possible searchers away.

The design of any two ships are often dissimilar; due to the incorporation of xenotech in the design, the main body of the Mechanicum refuses to construct them. Thus, their creation is left to the heterodox and other member states; the Hubworld League, the Eldar, the Interex, and increasingly the Tau.

With these techniques, they dive deep into the sanctums of the enemy, gathering information, inserting and extracting commando teams, and striking targets of opportunity. The Deep Field Recon squadrons are a vital part of anti-Ork efforts, providing forewarning of rising WAAAGGHHs and delivering kill-teams to eliminate rising Warbosses. Others ghost through the Silent Empire, mapping tomb worlds, counting World Engines, and watching for any preparations for an attack. This is one of the highest mortality duties among in Deep Field Recon; the Silent Empire guards its borders jealously, and its reserves of techno-sorcery are vast and deep. There are even rumors of ships covered in hexagrammatic wards operating under the auspices of the Alpha Legion, plunging into the Eye of Terror itself to strike at the Great Enemy in its lair.

Life in the Silent Service is frequently nerve-wracking. By the nature of their missions, they spend their time deep in enemy territory far away from any possible reinforcements. Often for years on end, as they slowly assemble a complete picture of enemy numbers and capabilities from telescope pictures and stray vox-chatter. At the same time, it is often quite boring, drifting through space with everything but stealth systems and passive sensors powered down, watching an enemy with no idea of their presence. When hunting, the nature of the wait and tension changes as they slowly glide towards their targets, moving into position for a single kill-shot and hoping their exit route remains clear.

Deep Field Recon squadrons usually operate under the auspices of the Inquisition. Typically, they are attached to various Watch Fortresses keeping an eye on specific threats or regions of space. Most Recon ships operate with an Inquisitor, or at least an Interrogator, on board, specializing in the specific threat the ship is operating against. Many Inquisitors use vessels of similar design as their personal vehicles, even if not specifically on Deep Field Recon duties; the class is well-suited to Inquisition duties generally.

There are few Deep Field Recon vessels. Due to the exotic equipment and demanding tolerances of the class, they are difficult to build; only a few thousand exist at any given time. But, in enemies of the Imperium ambushed and destroyed, and even more in vital knowledge gathered, each is worth ten times its number in conventional vessels.

== Eldar-Only Forces ==

=== Handmaidens of Isha ===

Just as it is the job of the Adeptus Custodes to protect the Emperor of Mankind and his wife, it is the job of the Handmaidens of Isha to protect the Grand Empress Isha and her husband. The Handmaidens of Isha are the Eldar side of the Imperium's praetorian guard, drawn from the ranks of her most devout followers in the cults that sprung up in her wake following her rescue from Nurgle's mansion. Compared to many other followers of Isha, the blessings of the Handmaidens are rather subtle; little more than an immunity to virtually all diseases and a seeming inability to sustain permanent damage from scarring or age. This allows the Handmaidens to perfect their physical training in a way that only one who does not have to worry about wear and tear on their body can. The Handmaidens are no pushovers; they are armed with swords known as "the Thorns of Isha" that can inflict wounds that do not heal. The Handmaidens are also noted to have a connection to Isha that borders on the preternatural, able to sense if their charge is in direct danger even if they are unable to see her directly.

However, the Handmaidens of Isha have an another job in addition to protecting their Empress. As the Imperial Couple travels from world to world, the Empress often sends her handmaidens to inspect the world beforehand to ensure that the world is as upstanding as it often claims to be. Although many worlds have their own dirty little secrets that they have managed to keep secret from the Administratum, few can hide from the gaze of the All-Mother. The Adeptus Custodes are likewise often posted in Imperial society to keep watch for potential threats against the Emperor and Imperium, though most of them are incapable of doing so without drawing attention to themselves. The Handmaidens of Isha, on the other hand, are capable of passing themselves off as just another Eldar, or even avoiding notice altogether. Because the two groups have essentially the same job, they often end up directly cooperating with one another.

=== The Avatar of Khaine ===

See [[Nobledark_Imperium_Notable_People#Khaine|Khaine]]

==== The Avatar of Biel-Tan ====

Biel-Tan hasn't deployed an Avatar of Khaine for nearly one hundred years. This wouldn't be surprising for a lesser or more peaceable craftworld, but this is Biel-Tan; the most well-known, influential, and martially famous craftworld. That Khaela Mensha Khaine hasn't made an appearance in a year, much less a near century, would provoke suspicion.

However, among the Eldar, it's considered a bit of a faux pas to ask about this. The Inquisition is another matter entirely though, and they already know the answer.

Biel-Tan's avatar has been awake this entire time. Biel-Tan summoned the avatar for the Ghoul Campaign to help a desperate sword wind against a siege of orks with daemon support. The avatar of war led the survivors — many of whom were wounded — to victory against the orks, culminating in the avatar decapitating the bloodthirster Yel'Grazruk and shattering the spirit of the enemy. The sword wind rejoiced.

Then they noticed the avatar wasn't gone. It had followed the fleeing enemy, killing as many as it could reach. The next day, the avatar was still killing. And the next. On the fifteenth day, it ran out of enemies to kill and came back, planted its sword at the center of the Biel-Tan fortifications, and waited.

After the twentieth day, the Biel-Tan forces found themselves very worried indeed. The burning avatar still smoldered, glaring out at the horizon. In the face of their persistent god, the Eldar finally attempted to psychically contact the avatar; a hazardous venture for even the most skilled warlock.

After the warlock stopped chanting in a dead language, she managed to sputter out "Khaine waits for his chariot". No one knew what that referred to. But when the autarch ordered the sword wind back to Biel-Tan, the avatar followed, marched through the craftworld, and returned to his temple, still burning.

The avatar has sat there since, waiting for his chariot.

===Craftworld Armor===
The Craftworld Eldar military forces are descended from, essentially, civic militia. Thus, their war machines were optimized for ease of construction, ease of maintenance, and ease of piloting; war machines a part-time non-professional volunteer force could use and maintain. The aftermath of the Fall, when the survivors were thrown back onto highly limited resources and the whole population had to be mobilized to survive, only reinforced this paradigm. 10,000 years of Imperium have loosened it; the number of super-heavy vehicles in the Craftworld arsenal has increased both in absolute number and proportionally as more resources become available. Likewise, more specialist designs for specific battlefield roles have become commonplace as the need for every tank to potentially fill every role lessens. Still, the typical Craftworld grav-tank remains a stripped-down (in terms of mechanical complexity, not necessarily weight) generalist.

== Tau Empire ==

=== Mont'Kau Battlesuits ===

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''Front-Line Defenders of the Greater Good:'''''

[[Image:Mont%27kau_Battlesuit.png|thumb|]]

As the Tau first expanded from their cradle of civilization on T’au into the greater galaxy, they began to realize that many of their opponents—including Orks, tyranids, Space Marines, and more—were devastatingly effective in close-quarters combat. Although the Tau preferred to avoid melee combat whenever possible, they realized that many of their opponents were not going to do them a favor and do the same. The Tau would have loved to use their auxiliaries to make up for this deficiency, but among their close allies only the Kroot were well-suited for close combat. And there were far more Tau regiments than there were Kroot to go around.

As a result, at the behest of O’Shovah (Commander Farsight) back before the Schism, the Tau Empire decided to solve this problem by building bigger and more durable versions of the Crisis battlesuit, specifically designed for melee combat. It has been suggested that O’Shovah was inspired to pitch his idea when he realized that battlesuits could be used to compensate for the Tau’s smaller physical stature and reluctance to engage in melee combat against foes, such as Orks and Space Marines, but the Tau vehemently deny this is the case. Unlike most battlesuits, which were designed as mobile platforms for heavy ranged weaponry, these suits were designed for close quarters combat. Like all Tau battlesuits these suits often carry guns, but more often than not these tend to be close-range weapons like shotguns, or tend to be a melee weapon first and foremost, like a giant bayonet to which attaching an actual gun is an afterthought. The Tau called them Mont’kau Battlesuits, named after a particularly terrifying species of predator from their homeworld of T’au. To the rest of the Imperium, who lacked the appreciation for the intricacies of the Tau language, these suits simply became known as Predator Battlesuits.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Compared to a Space Marine or an Aspect Warrior, Mont’kau battlesuits aren’t as particularly agile in close-quarters combat, as they lack the Black Carapace of a Space Marine or the flesh and blood agility of an Eldar. But like all Tau battlesuits they are lightweight for their size and—more importantly—easily replaceable. The purpose of the Mont’kau battlesuits is not to serve as shock troops, but instead to act as a bulwark to keep the close combat forces of the enemy away from the firing line. Mont’kau battlesuits are typically piloted by battlefield veterans, ones who are accustomed to the chaos of battle and have fast enough reflexes to fight on the front lines. As a result, although melee combat is still the Tau’s biggest weakness, at least the Tau now have an answer to the numerous close-combat specialists that dominate the galactic landscape and are not a complete joke about it. Nevertheless, the Tau claim that they are continually improving on the Mont’kau design, and that one day the Mont’kau battlesuits will be the equal of the front line combatants of the other major races.

One common addition to Mont’kau battlesuits is an outer layer of explosive reactive armor, made of an alloy similar to (but more brittle than) the traditional fio’tak, which is designed to fragment into a spray of ceramite-like shrapnel. This reactive armor can either be used to provide additional protection against anti-personnel ranged attacks or be command-detonated to act like a makeshift claymore mine. These reactive armor plates are actually capable of being added to a wide-variety of battlesuits, but are most often associated with the Mont’kau battlesuits due to their role in close combat. These additions, along with the directed flechette grenades that are now a common component of Tau infantry gear, were largely devised as contingencies against the Dark Eldar, whom the Tau held a particular hatred for after their repeated raids of the Tau Empire in the wake of the A.I. rebellion, the Tau Reformation, and the vanguard Hive Fleets. To the Dark Eldar, for whom speed was their primary protection, such devices would prove lethal.

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== Interex ==

=== Sagittars ===

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''A Fusion of Man and Machine:'''''

Although mankind had experimented with quadrupedal walking machines as early as M3, the use of these machines in warfare would not come into their own until much later, reaching their zenith just before and during the Age of Strife. The separation of the myriad worlds of the Great and Bountiful Human Empire during the Age of Strife resulted in each human world developing its own unique way of coping with the adverse conditions of the period, leading to an explosion of new technologies and new adaptations of old ones. Among these new weapons were the sagittars — a term used to both refer to the quadrupedal walking and the people who rode them — developed by the Interex of the Segmentum Pacificus. Although originally designed as scouts and heavy cavalry, sagittars would quickly become the backbone of Interex ground warfare.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Sagittars are primarily controlled by their rider, who would be neurally linked to their mount, in order to operate their mechanical limbs and onboard armory as if the machine was an extension of themself. Because of this, it often takes several years for a sagittar rider to fully learn how to control their machine’s limbs as if they were their own. When riderless, the robotic portion of the sagittar is controlled by an extremely simple artificial intelligence (about as simple, if not moreso, than those seen in Legio Cybernetica constructs), capable of standing still, returning to the rider’s side when commanded, or seeking cover in a firefight, and not much else. It is only when linked to their rider that a sagittar is capable of more complex action.

In addition to serving as a mobile mount, sagittars also function as a mobile armory for their rider. The rear portion of the mount contains a number of weapons, which can be switched between as needed. The most common weapon used by the Interex is the magnetic bow, which consists of a magazine of two-foot long spikes attached to a pair of arms, each of which contained a pair of electromagnets. A current is sent through the bow when the weapon is fired, accelerating the projectile to velocities high enough to penetrate ceramite armor. Adjusting the arms of the bow to be closer or further from the main barrel increases or decreases the power, accuracy, and recoil of the shot. Skilled riders can even turn their bodies around 180 degrees while retreating, to fire parting shots while their mount runs away from the battle. The armory will also contain lances, swords, or electrified throwing lances for other tasks. If an enemy attacks too fast for the rider to grab a weapon, the sagittar can strike out at its foe by kicking with its hydraulic legs.

In some ways, Interex sagittars act as highly mobile infantry as opposed to cavalry. Sagittars are stronger than a baseline human footsoldier, but their primary advantage over other elite troops — such as Astartes and Aspect Warriors — is their extreme mobility. Although sagittars can fight in traditional cavalry charges, the near ubiquitous presence of ranged weapons in the galaxy makes this a near-suicidal endeavor. Instead, the Interex use the superior mobility of their sagittars to outflank and outmaneuver slower opponents. This fits well with the general Interex policy of war, which was to dictate where and when a battle would occur such that battles would be fought under conditions that favored the Interex in order to minimize casualties on both sides. Although not as fast as an assault bike, under good conditions a sagittar can travel at speeds of up to 60 kilometers per hour, and unlike flesh-and-blood mounts sagittars do not get tired. Sagittar legs are also well-built to traveling over uneven terrain, as opposed to horses.

Because the sagittar’s mounts are an extension of themselves, rather than a separate animal, sagittars do not suffer from many of the typical weaknesses of biological cavalry; a sagittar cannot be startled as easily as a horse can because the only way to startle a sagittar is to startle the rider. However, sagittars do have some weaknesses. Because the rider of a sagittar has to be able to turn around to access the onboard armory, the armor has to be relatively light and flexible around the waist, making it a weak point. Since contact with the Imperium, the Interex have created models with heavier armor and more powerful weapons, but have never been able to fully eliminate this weakness. Additionally, because the rider sits above the fray of the battle, in close-combat conditions where the sagittar is unable to exploit its greater mobility, that same height which allows the sagittar to pick and choose its targets on the battlefield makes them an easy target for snipers or other high-powered ranged weaponry. If the legs are damaged, it is often possible to kill the rider before they can eject from their sagittar. Finally — and most importantly — although sagittars are good at offensive actions and hit-and-run attacks, they are not as effective when they are forced to stand and fight, whether they are forced into a position in which they cannot retreat or need to fortify and protect an objective. In the past, this is often when the Interex would call in the Kinebrach to supplement their sagittars as shock troops. Today this role is generally filled by other forces.

However, sagittar usage has never really caught on outside of the Interex and a few associated territories for a variety of reasons. First, sagittars occupy a rather awkward place in Imperial Tactics; sagittars are more expensive and more difficult to replace than flesh-and-blood cavalry such as horses, yet too slow for tactics used by heavy cavalry such as assault bikes and jetbikes. In some parts of the Imperium highly orthodox Mechanicus adepts will refuse to construct parts for sagittars, considering their machine spirits too close to A.I. for comfort (as they do the Legio Cybernetica), and since this simple intelligence is required for sagittar function no sagittars are made. Finally, sagittar fighting involves mastering an unusual set of tactics, including the ability to rapidly retreat and regroup from the battlefield when it becomes necessary. This is very different from typical Imperial tactics — particularly the Cadian doctrine, the most commonly followed military doctrine in the Imperium — which primarily focuses on the defense and holding of territory and aggressive action being undertaken primarily through artillery barrages. Sagittar fighting thus requires a very different mindset than is typically found among Imperial forces; one that is found only in groups such as the Armageddon Outriders or the inhabitants of the Pastoral Worlds. Nevertheless, a well-trained sagittar battalion is still a welcome sight for an Imperial commander on any battlefield.

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== Hubworld League (Squats) ==

=== Destroyermen ===

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''Heavy Infantry of the Hubworld League:'''''

Destroyermen are the heavy infantry of any squat army. The concept of Destroyermen originally derived from the squat custom of having people who would risk their lives as the first ones to enter an unexplored cavern or mine shaft, to see if it was safe to enter. Despite being clad in the best protective gear available, this work was extremely dangerous — as evidenced by the casualty rate — but at the same time it paid extremely well. However, being mostly collectivists, a squat clan would often not waste all of the earnings on themselves. Instead, they would put into upgrading and improving the protective suit, making it more likely that the individual performing this job would keep coming back intact. This bizarre method of technological natural selection went on for millennia, until eventually most squat colonies had numerous sets of masterwork craft powered armor scattered among various clans. From there it was a simple leap to go from using this armor for checking for gas pockets and occasional hostile xenos to using them in open warfare against threats like Orks. Destroyermen are often the “tip of the spear” in squat armies, fighting in areas where casualties are likely to be high. Destroyerman armors have often been in squat families for generations, and the living clan members are fiercely protective of them, seeing them as emblems of their clan’s glory and heritage.

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Like most squat technology, the concept of Destroyermen and Destroyermen suits was developed during the Age of Isolation, the period in which the Hubworld League was cut off from contact with the majority of humanity. Destroyerman armor is often referred to as the little brother of Space Marine terminator armor, and there is a grain of truth to that statement; Destroyerman armor and Terminator armor actually spring from a common source: the environmental hazard suits used for working in hard vacuum or mining in inhospitable conditions during the Dark Age of Technology. However, whereas Terminator armor was retrofitted for military usage and has been increasingly refined for combat over millennia, Destroyerman armor is much more sedate. This is in part because Destroyermen were never expected to see combat on the level that most Space Marines do, and in part because the ability to efficiently manufacture some of the higher-end devices for the armors (like teleporters) was lost during the Age of Strife. In general, Destroyerman armor is more geared towards making sure the wearer and the armor survives, rather than making a more efficient killing machine like Terminator armor. There is also the issue of the armor wearer; although the armor may be high quality, the person inside the armor is still only human, thus lacking the genetic modifications typical of Space Marines or Sisters of Battle (particularly the Black Carapace of the former) and therefore limited what a Destroyerman is capable of.

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=== Desperados ===

Desperados are the scouts of the Hubworld’s military. Typically drawing their ranks from the young and impetuous members of Hubworld society, desperados are often hotheaded and eager to make their name. When on duty, desperados spend most of their time on the outskirts of Hubworld society, traversing the planet in search of undiscovered mineral lodes, making sure the machinery that keeps the hold functioning is still intact, and even acting as ranch hands on the few worlds in the Hubworld League capable of supporting grox herds. Desperados typically ride jet bikes, which have the easiest time traveling over the geologically unstable surface of many worlds of the Hubworld League, but wheeled vehicles are not uncommon. The Hubworld League has the largest collection of human-made jet bikes in the Imperium, lovingly passed down family lines for generations. In times of war desperados find themselves conscripted into Hubworld military actions, acting as raiding parties, scouts, and light skirmishers. Other, better-trained forces serve as more dedicated mechanized cavalry combatants.

=== Hubworlder Land Trains ===

Not all planets are so lucky as to have a breathable atmosphere, tolerable levels of radiation, and stable tectonic activity. The people of the Hubworld League near the galactic core know that better than most, as many of their worlds exist near the galactic core and therefore are under constant upheaval from tidal flexing in the gravitational pull of a gas giant, pulsar, or the core of the Milky Way itself. On many worlds it is not even possible to build the traditional bunker-like fortresses favored by Hubworld architects. Instead, the primary form of squat habitation is in the form of Land Trains.

Land Trains were originally developed on less hostile worlds, designed as caravans to bring raw ore and other goods between major settlements. On less stable worlds, however, land trains have been refitted to become settlements in and of themselves, ballooning in size to encompass the populations of entire cities. These trains are typically found on the less tectonically stable worlds and often contain large amounts of mining equipment, allowing Hubworlders to mine the ores that drive their civilization while still being able to move out of the way of newly formed fissures and tectonic rifts

Many who see Hubworlder Land Trains draw parallels with trains from other worlds. The comparison is better in some ways than others; a better comparison might be an armored trade caravan, albeit one with treads and an ability to mine its own raw materials. Hubworlder Land Trains are formed by linked cars much as more familiar trains do, but they do not follow tracks. After all, on these worlds sedentary or semi-permanent structures are a death sentence. Instead, land trains have treads, allowing them to climb over even highly angled surfaces.

As with almost every piece of technology they developed, the Hubworlders soon found that it was easy to repurpose their caravans for war. Armored sides designed to shrug off micrometeorite impacts and stellar radiation are equally well suited to deflecting enemy fire. Furthermore, the large size of the trains makes them ideal not only for housing troops and transport materiel but also supporting truly massive weaponry, potentially making them armored juggernauts when used correctly.

[[category:Nobledark Imperium]]

Nobledark Imperium Primarchs

2020-11-26T12:47:00Z

2001:8003:D01A:2500:78E3:F6BA:DADE:20D4: /* Horus */

'''This page is part of the Nobledark Imperium, a fan re-working of the Warhammer 40,000 Universe. See the [[Nobledark Imperium|Nobledark Imperium Introduction]] and [[Nobledark Imperium|Main Page]] for more information on the alternate universe'''

To Do:
* Finish Fulgrim and Angron
* Write up Dorn

[[Image:Astartes_Evolution_V2.jpg|thumb|History of super soldier augmentations in the Imperium]]

In his conquests of Old Earth and Sol, the Warlord created the title of Primarch and awarded it to twenty of his greatest generals, that they might become leaders of leaders. This was partly to maintain an ordered hierarchy but also to promote autonomy within his forces. The Warlord's long-term dream at the time was creating a system of governance so efficient that he would become obsolete. His short-term dream at the time was to free up enough time to spend all evening in the pub. Of the twenty awarded that rank, only eighteen are — by name and deed — remembered by history under that most magnific of titles.

Although all of the primarchs commanded a legion of super soldiers, not all of them were Astartes. Some primarchs were earlier types of super soldier, whereas others were incompatible with the proceedure. Some were too old to receive any kind of full-scale augmentation — though they were given rejuvenants, cybernetics and limited gene-forging. The Imperium experimented with many types of super soldiers before eventually developing the Mark III MP (Mass Production) Pattern. Each of these models can count at least one Primarch among their ranks.

Human(ish)
* Lorgar
* Roboute Guilliman
* Corvus Corax
* Magnus (Especially bizarre genetics made him incompatible with any augmentations save the most basic juvenants)
* Horus (Abhuman, member of the Void Born migrant fleet born on Luna)
* Ferrus Manus (Heavily augmented, but a Mechanicum Skitarii, not an Astartes or Thunder Warrior)
Early Thunder Warrior
* Angron
Refined (Late Stage) Thunder Warrior
* Perturabo
* Mortarion
Canis Helix
* Leman Russ
Mark I Astartes
* Rogal Dorn
* Jaghatai Khan (Maybe Mark II. Dorn was mentioned to be one of the last of the Mark Is and still had problems)
Mark II Astartes
* Fulgrim
Mark III MP Astartes
* Conrad Kurze
Mark III S Astartes
* Sanguinius
* Lion El'Jonson
* Vulkan

== Horus ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">''''' The King of Empty Space: '''''

[[Image:1484667029816.jpg|thumb|Primarch Horus Lupercal, King of Empty Space.]]

''"Somehow I thought he'd be... well... gold-ier"''<br>
— Horus Lupercal, speaking of his first impressions of the Warlord

The exact birth date of Horus is not easy to pin down, as the calendar used by the Void Born of Sol was one used by no one else, and didn’t use the Earth Year as the basic measure of time. The particular calendar used by Tribe Lupercal fell out of use, in any case, within a few generation of the death of Abaddon the Last and the disbanding of the Void Born as a unified nation.

What is known is that, by the final days of the Earth Unification Wars, Horus Lupercal was a man of renown and considerable accomplishment. His age was always difficult to judge, as up until his twilight years he remained spry, lively, and remarkable well preserved. When the Warlord first made contact with him he was described as being in his late prime to very early middle years in age. In appearance, he was much like all Void Born; freakishly tall and thin, pale, and in possession of large eyes and pianist hands. His face was much accustomed to smiling and his mouth contained three gold teeth; generally he evoked an image of a second-hand starship salesman in the people that met him.

The Void Born were not, in those ancient days, a unified people — though they were more cooperative amongst their own kind than baseline humanity ever was. They attributed this to the constant exposure to the bottomless depths of the inky blackness; space is vast and good friends are few. Yes, they would swindle, cheat, and engage in cutthroat business practices, but never to the point of death. Of all the myriad branches of humanity, in those days theirs was the only one willing to ply the starry sea. How Horus Lupercal, son of Maherpa, of the Lunar Lagrange Point rose from a humble bulk haulage transporter to representative of the Void Born as a unified people is the stuff of legends amongst the Merchant Navy and early Rogue Trader dynasties, and like most legends is almost certainly mostly bullshit.

Whatever the case, it was not long before the final defeat of Ursh that Horus found himself in a support harness on the surface of Old Earth, unsteadily approaching the Warlord’s tent a few miles behind the front lines. Exactly what they discussed that day is not in any recorded history, and the event itself was witnessed by only a precious few — Sigillite Malcador and Lord Guilliman among them. But beer was drunk and hands were shook, and Horus returned to his people and the blessed lightness of empty space.

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The nation of Ursh was brought to an end the next day, for all that their underground resistance would persist for nigh on twenty years after.

The Warlord — now Steward — appointed his twenty greatest the rank of Primarch. Among their exalted ranks was Horus, who soon after was crowned King of Empty Space by the unanimous vote of the great matriarchs and patriarchs of his people.

Some time after the King’s death, archived audio records revealed that the Olympus Mons Priesthood of Mars had also offered him vassalage — at not unreasonable terms — some days after the deal with the Warlord was made;

“So you're saying you'd rather be vassal to the Terrawatt apostate's flesh-smith than master of our every ship for perpetuity? You scorn the shipwrights of your forefathers! You scorn the smiths of time immemorial! What nerve you have, Lord-Admiral, what—”

“Nerve, is it? Certainly, it is nerve, magos. He promised me a partnership, as fruitful and even as the bargain you propose. He'd have me be his indispensable confederate until the end of my days, and as lord of my people. I made sure he stood as I knelt to the throne, and swore no oath he had not. I set the terms of my service, and I chose my mandate.”

“The gilt conqueror has amassed the treasures of man's eldest ruin, and he dotes mightily upon his subjects. More than that, he is unabashedly greedy.”

“Oh yes, his greed for self-possessed statesmen and commanders is vast, and his appetite for men wiser than he insatiable. I am the admiral of my ships, and of his ships, and all ships he might gain henceforth, and command his navy just as my own. He is steward of my people, and he is bound to them, each and every. Not just for as long as I hold them as one but instead in perpetuity, so long as his empire stands.”

And so was undone — with no small bitterness — an older arrangement between the Void Born and the Mechanicum, each feeling betrayed by the other. It was perhaps not such a heavy or saddening burden on the Primarch’s heart as it might have been, as he had never dealt with the Olympus Mons Brotherhood and so felt no real loyalty to them. In the days of his youth and in his father’s service, they had dealt with lesser — and less arrogant — brotherhoods. The Olympus Mons Brotherhood had subjugated them all, and thus felt they were entitled to take on their obligations and owed their respective loyalties. But Horus had shaken no hands with them.

It should be noted that, despite the public image of the unshakable trust and confidence the Steward had in his primarchs, Horus did worry him somewhat — and worried the other Primarchs rather more. Horus dreamed of an Imperium with almost no centralized authority and an almost non-existent hierarchy; each world independent and sovereign, united in mutual friendship but beholden to no one but themselves, and with no authority past their own bounds.

In Horus’ vision humanity would be, in some distant age, diversified into cultivated and pure abhumanism; a type of tool for every job and a type of human for every world, all united in a shared common humanity. Humanity was in its infancy compared to the Eldar, true, but unlike the Eldar we would not forget our roots. To him, the Imperium was not a final product, but rather a mere stepping-stone towards some strange utopia of a “Star Union”.

These visions did not sit well with the Steward at all. Nevertheless, though Horus was willing to privately challenge the Steward's vision for humanity, he never crossed the line and tried to aggressively implement anything to that effect. As the Emperor could wait and play the long game, so too could Horus. He saw his vision as inevitable; maybe it would start to take shape in some near century or some unimaginably distant age, but he could wait.

The great ships of the Migrant Fleets now stood with the Steward, whose eyes were fixed upon the warring states of the Far-Orbit colonies on the moons of Neptune and Uranus, the Jovian and Saturnine nations, the settlements of the asteroids belt and the Kuiper belt, and the ultimately to the distant stars. Suddenly, those stars seemed not so distant.

It would be Horus’ people who would take them there. His formidable ships would be at the forefront of the frontier, at the bleeding edge where the Imperium met wilderness space. At the place where profit, fame and fortune could be made and where legends were forged. In every way possible, his people were going to make a killing off of this deal.

The Void Born, though master sailors of the starry seas, made for poor soldiers. Upon their ships were placed bondsmen of the Imperial Army and the fearsome and awe-inspiring Astartes pattern Space Marines. In essence, Horus now had his own Legion on top of being a necessary participant in the operations of all the other Legions, as he was the one with the ships. There was not a war he didn’t have a hand in, not a victory his people not accredited with having done their part.

But of these victories, he would claim, none were a grand as those that came to the Imperium willingly — as he had, not so long ago. Deals were ripe for the making, trade could flow, riches could be shared and increased, and all the petty little worlds had to do was reach out a hand. Of all the Primarchs only Lorgar managed to get more worlds to join the Imperium bloodlessly.

Time wore on and the borders were pushed back. The Void Born soon found themselves with more — more ships made, more wars victorious, more trade flowing, more deals made, more riches pouring into their coffers, more fame and fortune, more stories and glories — than even Horus could have dreamed of, all those years ago in that far away tent on some forgotten battlefield. It was a golden age after the ten thousand years of the Long Night. It was in this golden age that Abaddon, nephew of Horus, was born.

Horus had no children (that he knew about) and so took the young Void Born as his heir and protégé, and tried to instill in the child the skills that had led him down the road to kingship and riches. But to Horus’ mixed shame and pride, Abaddon turned into more of an admiral than a salesman. That was not to say that he didn’t learn much from Horus — quite the opposite — as Abaddon was no poor diplomat and could play the part of the blunt-but-lovable old soldier to his advantage, and manipulate an Administratum requisitions committees as well as any royal court. It was just as well, as there weren’t enough Void Born to fill the Navy by that time — and hadn’t been for decades, if truth be known. The Imperium was growing faster and faster still, producing ships faster than his people could fill them, making it a necessity for baseline humans to fill the berths of the Imperium's voidships. Horus was Void Born to the marrow and had grown up in another time. A time that was all but gone now. Abaddon would be the sort to inherit Empty Space.

As the forces of the Void Wolves — as his forces had collectively become known by that point — were at the edge of Imperial Space, it was they that were first alerted to the arrival of The Beast.

The Beast’s forces, raised across a thousand star systems and launched simultaneously with disturbingly un-orky precision, swatted aside hundreds of ships in a matter of hours across a front twenty thousand lightyears long. After that, his people would need no incitement to vengeance — no rhetoric of Warlords or Stewards or hypothetical Emperors. Blood had been spilled in Empty Space, and for the Void Born — as has been since the days of the first space pirates — only one thing could wash away a debt of blood: more blood.

It says something of the presumptiveness of Chaos that they tried to deal with the Pale Primarch, at that point still believing that they had remained hidden. They believed Horus and his people to be degenerate mutants; too slow witted to realize that the Orks were not the orchestrators of this war.

They promised him dominion of the stars, the birth of his Stellar Union. They knew that he knew that the Steward would never allow it to be in his lifetime, but with their help all could be as it ought to be. He would be exalted from now to the day the last star went out. All he had to do was simply wait the war out.

Horus would have none of it;

"Your offer sounds interesting. But you forget one thing: I am a captain of the migrant fleet and a businessman. In this place, I am the one who makes the deals. Now get off my ship."

It would be disingenuous to say that Horus had not considered sitting out the War of the Beast; he was a merchant prince at heart, and knew first-hand the advantages of considering alternatives and making cost-benefit analyses. However, he realized that not coming to the aid of the Imperium, regardless of his own political opinions, would kill any hope of a long-term "Star Union" — a fact only reinforced by the attempted temptation of the Chaos Gods. Even if humanity survived the War of the Beast, brother would blame brother for a perceived lack of help and poison any attempt at a long term "Star Union". And, perhaps most importantly, Horus had sworn an oath to the Steward centuries past. To Horus Lupercal, a man without his word was no man at all.

The people of the Void Born were not as numerous as the baseline humans and for a time it looked as though, by throwing their lot in with the Imperium, Horus had doomed them to extinction. But Horus and the wise admirals under his command could be all too sure of one thing: Chaos would have come for them in time, Imperium or no. The War needed to be over quickly. It needed to be over before his people left the stars forever.

The King of Empty Space went to the Steward and proposed a plan. A desperate and needed plan. By misdirection and feigned weakness, the forces of the Imperium would funnel the hordes of the Beast to Old Earth. Orkish psychology would demand that The Beast himself be at the head of the incursion and there — deep in the heart of Imperial territory — they would close the trap and decapitate the WAAAGH!!! of The Beast. Without their leader the orks would fall apart and fight each other, and without their meat shields the Chaos Eldar would flee.

Horus was not on the surface of Old Earth to witness the death of the Angel-Primarch. He knew that none of the other Primarchs knew of his plan to force the end of the war. He knew that they would blame him; he could tell them that the war needed to be ended, a war of attrition against Orks was a slow walk into the grave and as relentless as a gravity well. He could have told them that this had been the only hope of victory. HE knew it all to be true. Maybe they would agree, maybe they would not. Maybe it didn’t matter in the face of victory. But it was a bitter victory, given the cost and the ruin the Imperium had suffered. The Golden Age was over, and now it seemed that Long Night had never really left.

In the subsequent years — and accompanying reconstruction and rejuvenation — of the Imperium, the Merchant Navy was instrumental in the rebuilding efforts, to the point of being equal to the forces of the Imperial Army in importance. Broken and scared worlds looked to the heavens and the Pale Men of the stars with pleading and love. Horus was old, now, and a little broken inside. But maybe helping the battered and bruised people of the Imperium, seeing their gratitude and their heartfelt smiles, healed something in Horus' heart, in some small way.

Many expected that Horus would launch a coup against the Steward around this time; the Imperium was on its knees, its allies were weary, and many of the generals and the old Mechanicum brotherhoods would have followed him without question. For all his faults — for all his trials and failures — Horus was still hellishly charismatic and could sell anyone anything, whether it be a used cargo hauler or a new dream.

The Imperium waited, and it seemed like all powers that be in the Imperium — the Primarchs and generals, the lords and their assassins, the movers and shakers and the influence-peddlers — all stood poised to spring in one direction or another at his word. That word never came. Maybe he had given up on his dream of a galactic union, or perhaps he saw it as something that could only be born from the Imperium. We will never know. But for three hundred years the Imperium waited for a rebellion that would never come. A man without his word is no man at all.

Void Born are fragile creatures by nature and their bodies can’t deal with alchemy in the blood well, making it is easy for them to overdose on drugs and medicines. The rejuvenant drugs that kept him in some manner of youth had to be of a lower dosage, and now even that was starting to fail altogether. His body was too frail for the longevity treatments designed for baseline humans. Primarch Horus Lupercal, King of Empty Space, would die soon.

An entirely plausible story — held as true by the Sons of Horus and official Imperial history — put forward this unusual reaction to rejuveants as an explanation of the Lord-Admiral's recorded vigor and mental acuity, even unto the last years of his life, as well as his ceremonious abdication to Prince Abaddon several years before his death. That the Lord-Admiral spent those years assembling an entourage of notable captains, as he flitted between the systems of the Imperium, has been relegated to obscure tomes of history. Around this time, Horus threw his considerable clout into numerous ambitious projects, and was often present in the orbits of Old Earth, Mars, and Jupiter, as well as the systems of Chthonia and Prospero. Of all his works in these last decades, he is recorded to have shown greatest interest in the creation of an Imperial capital upon the Chthonian ring, the work of the Martian explorator fleets, and the collaborations of Fulgrim and Ferrus Mannus. These projects are acknowledged to have laid the groundwork for much of the Imperial Navy's own capacity for independent logistics and development. The order that would become the Sons of Horus had its roots in this period, intended by Horus to see his vision of a humanity truly suited to interstellar civilization well into the future. Horus died nineteen years after his abdication and was entombed on his personal warship. Age took him quickly in the end, but he went into the Long Sleep knowing that he had served his people and the Imperium well, and that a good man would take up his burdens.

His tomb has never been opened, but upon that basalt slab still stands the Corona Nox. Waiting for a worthy brow to sit upon.

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== Leman Russ ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Great Wolf''''' - or ''The Lapdog:''

The story of Leman Russ starts in the land of Skand, among the Nordyc peoples. He was born to a woman called Ragna, who was considered to be wise, if not especially beautiful, by the clans and so her affections were oft courted. Russ’ father was Thengir, tribal king of the Kalararit people. That his mother and father were not married was seen as not particularly odd by the peoples of Skand. Especially when his father was Thengir.

Russ’ education was about as formal as it was ever going to get among a tribe of fishermen, semi-raiders and occasional traders. Although most Kalararit men did not become warriors as a full time profession, all were expected to be able to fight in times of need. It was in this pursuit that Russ found his calling, for the ways of war came easy to him. He grew tall and broad at the shoulders, with powerful musculature and boundless stamina. He became well-versed in the care and maintenance of his tribe's weapons, from autoguns to the humble war axe. He was peerless in the execution of ambush warfare on land and boarding actions upon the cold seas. Sadly, the ways of the scholar did not come as readily to his mind. Although by no means unintelligent, Russ did not — especially in his youth — have the temperament for understanding the needs of large-scale or long-term expeditions.

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In time, Russ grew to be the strong right hand of King Thengir — who had lost his own literal right hand some years previously, in a bitter and bloody dispute with the former King Clovis Fouché of Franj. This hatred of the Franj would never leave him, for Russ could be very stubborn.

The men and women of the Kalararit respected Russ — who could be quite charming, in a blunt sort of way. Russ did take his first wife by own choice, rather than at his father’s insistence. Linnea was probably the one part of softness in Russ’ life, and possibly the only thing in later years that held his bloodlust in check. Many of the Kalararit suspected that she possessed more wisdom than he. She certainly possessed great patience.

It was when Russ was still a young man that a foreigner in dusty grey robes came to his father’s thatched hall with offerings — of strong wine, silks, and laser rifles — in chests with lightning bolt heraldry upon them. His companions were strange, for their armour was of a sort not seen in the lands of Skand or its neighbours; they were silver and matte grey, segmented with face covering helmets. The foreigner walked with the aid of a stick with a metal eagle perched atop it, and was accompanied by a giant dressed in the manner of a common man. This was the first time that Russ saw the man who would soon be know to Old Earth as The Warlord.

Some time into the deliberations between the robed man and the king, another giant — this one dressed in the manner of a wandering shaman — strode into the hall, and was called over by the first giant to sit beside him. At the time Russ thought little of it, and just assumed it not unreasonable that a giant would have giant kin. This was the first he saw of Magnus the Red — and many times down the centuries he wished it had been the last.

Over the next few months, other tribal chieftains and kings found themselves drawn to the hall of Thengir the Cripple. Much was discussed, marriages were arranged, oaths sworn, and gifts exchanged. It was disconcerting for Russ; to the young warrior's mind, the world was changed by strong men doing great deeds — with blood and iron and sweat. But here he watched as old men and scribes carved up the world, and told the future how it was going to be.

This — he thought as he looked at the maps and the increasingly long lists being drawn — this was true power. One great warrior could do great deeds, but this was something rather more lasting.

There were some — tribes, clans, and petty little kingdoms — that would not entertain the notions of peace. They saw the plans of Malcador and The Warlord for what they were; the soft subjugation, capitulation, compromise, and surrender of the signatories. They had pride, they had their principles — for it was the strong who dominated the weak — and they would not roll over and submit. They left the great hall of the Kalararit, and never again would they be welcomed there.

Of the tribes that were incapable of seeing reason long enough to join this new alliance, all were left behind to die in their old world of savagery — by one means or another. Most simply withered and died, as the Nordyc peoples formed a true nation and they could no longer attract new blood — for all their young had left to find new work and new lives, in the rebuilt cities of Gamsta and Akershus and the reclaimed and prosperous farmlands that surrounded them.

Few were foolish enough to outright attack the fledgling Imperium. Few but still some. These tribal savages were brought to ruin by the Nordyc men who insisted — nay demanded — that it be they who dealt with this problem, for all that they were they had once been friends and brothers all. As with the Old Ways, the warriors and kings of the barbarian tribes were slain; their women and children assimilated into the more prosperous tribes to be cared for, and their lands given to young Skandish men and women looking to found tribes of their own. It would be the last time this old law of conquest would ever be practiced by the people of Skand. Russ was present at the closing of that era, smoking and pungent with the fresh blood of the slain though it was. It was not a thing in which he found any joy, but he knew it had to be done.

It was from some unremembered tribe — slain by his hand, no less — that he obtained his second wife. Febronia had been a court slave kept by a petty chief too lazy to learn basic literacy, and thus she was fluent in an improbably large number of languages — both written and spoken — and passable in many others. Not of the Nordyc peoples herself, but a former slave bought from exotic climes, Febronia's marriage was nevertheless at the insistence of Russ' aging father — Russ, after all, was a wealthy warrior of the nobility and it was his duty to care for the slain.

Linnea was, to her credit, understanding of the situation. It was the way of things for her people in that era, even though that era was drawing to a close. In time she and Febronia became good friends. It was often joked by Russ' companions that he preferred the battlefield to the hearth of home, as he felt less outnumbered. Between them, Russ and his wives had many children — but by some fluke of genetics and chance they had only birthed daughters.

It was at about this time that the Thunder Warrior program was being phased out. The two alternate branches of Super Soldier production that the Imperium was perusing were the Canis Helix project and the Astartes project.

The first test subjects of both yielded positive results, but ultimately Russ volunteered for the former as it would complement and enhance his own strengths. By pure chance, he was spared the crippling mutations and biological failures that plagued those that took this choice in the years that followed. Indeed, he was one of only a handful of successes, and the only other to have survived both the Canis Helix tests and the passage of time was Bjorn "Fellhanded" of Kraken Bay.

Although the "Dog Soldiers" — as the Canis Helix super soldiers came to be derogatorily known as — fought magnificently and ferociously, the failure rate and the nature of the failures was too much for the Warlord to accept. The whole project was scrapped, its resources given over to the more reliable Super Soldier branches.

As time and war ground onward, the Nordyc regiments earned both fame and infamy, for they were brutally effective but, The Warlord felt, with too much emphasis placed upon brutal. Much like the bloody antics of Curze and the calculated atrocities of Mortarion, this was permitted under sufferance. Victory was always afforded some leeway, and the wars were only ever a means to an end — and Russ's carnage was expediting that end.

The Skandish raised regiments — the newly minted Wolves of the North — in the final days of the wars with the Ursh-Pacific union, and were found to be more suited to harrying moving forces and preventing the enemy from receiving reinforcements, allowing a smoother and less costly victory for the other Legions. To their immense regret, however, the Wolves were never present in the major battles.

As Old Earth united and The Steward looked to the stars, Russ was elevated to the exalted rank of Primarch.

To the disgust of Russ, so were Lion of House El'Jonson and Magnus the Red.

The Lion, as a knight of Franj and a member of House El'Jonson, was both an ancestral and recent enemy; Lion's brother Luther was responsible for the late king Thengir's maiming. Magnus the Red was a warp dabbling mutant who confessed to having consorted with daemons. Both had personalities that were utterly incompatible with Russ' own — and the feeling was mutual. It was rare that Legion elements under their jurisdictions would work together.

Russ was the first to recruit warriors from beyond Sol into his superhuman ranks. The people of Fenris were excellent recruitment stock — even if they were from a barbaric and primitive planet and needed extensive education to learn the discipline necessary for war. Russ himself was from a discontinued line of super soldiers; though possessing savage fighting temperaments and heightened senses, the modifications of the "Dog Soldiers" were dangerously unstable, and the Canis Helix Project proved to be too untenable even for the best minds in the Imperium. If news of the monsters born from the project had become common knowledge on Earth, the Warlord's support would have crumbled. But on a distant world as remote and seldom visited as Fenris, the project could not only be buried but begun anew at Russ' behest. After all, any monsters arising from the Project were the problem of a few distant primitives, certainly not the concern of the glorious Terra. For his part, the Emperor at first claimed no knowledge of the new Canis Helix soldiers, and even when he did learn of it he trusted Russ' claims of the failure rate as being "well within acceptable parameters", thus leaving Fenris and its canine guardians well alone.

The Space Wolves, as the legion became known, quickly made up for their questionable origins by serving with great distinction during the Great Crusade, excelling at tracking a target and assassinating them — often in close-quarters combat. Regrettably, in the wretched days of the War of the Beast, a number of the wolves were tempted down the bath of bloodshed for bloodshed's sake, and forsook the Empty Throne of Terra for the one of brass and bone, where the Lord of Skulls held court instead. Of these oathbreakers, no name was cursed more by Russ than that of Skyrar of Caledonia — whom Russ once would have called brother.

Some measure of honour would be restored, however, to the ranks broken by turncoats and anointed in blood. Russ's Wolves made great speed back towards Terra, and seeing the home he had left a lifetime ago aflame in war broke the Great Wolf's heart. The wolves threw themselves into the inferno and fought like mad beasts, with neither thought of the past nor hope for the future; this was no thirst for vengeance but instead a plea for redemption. Russ himself was there at the Last Roll of Thunder when Arik Taranis, Bearer of Lightning, fell in battle in the great plaza before the Eternity Gate, and took up the tattered old Unification banner in his place.

When the last of the fires grew cold, none would ever again question the loyalty of the Space Wolves. For all that the shattered remnant of a legion was covered in blood and soot, each man felt truly clean.

The remains of the Space Wolves retreated to Fenris, licking their wounds, and quietly rebuilt their legion as the Imperium itself rebuilt. For no matter how enlightened or holy it may become, Russ knew that the Throne would always need its tame monsters. But the Great Wolf himself was not fated to fall in glorious battle, and certainly not to fall to the temptations of the Ruinous Powers. Instead, the legends say, some two centuries later Russ — now an old warrior and the King of his world — simply walked alone out into the snow. His brothers, friends, and servants all followed his tracks into the cold woods of the frozen north, but he was never seen again. Some say the Old King is resting, and will return to face the Old Night in the days when hope withers and the stars grow dim.

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== Ferrus Manus ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The One of Ice and Iron:'''''

The unimaginatively named Ferrus Manus was born in the manner typical of the Mechanicus enclaves of Antarctica — grown in a jar from anonymous genetic samples. Deemed free of malformation and unwanted deviations in his early development, which were rare and valuable assets in an age where clumsy genetic enhancement created mutants more horrific than radiation or plague ever could, he was permitted to be born rather than recycled. Being born and raised where he was at the time he was, Ferrus had no name at birth — although the markings on his tube did superficially resemble the name Gorgon in an ancient tongue recognised by one of the oldest Magi. This was adopted as his unofficial name in his youth; doubly so after it became apparent that he would grow up to be aesthetically displeasing.

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Ferrus was given a basic and general techno-ecumenical education until the age of twelve, after which he began training for full inclusion into the Mechanicus. By fourteen he had managed to achieve the rank of Technician-acolyte — escaping the the fate of Servitorhood that awaited underachievers — but a purely priestly life was deemed an inefficient use of his talents, and he was transferred to the Skitarii for training. By his eighteenth year he was a fully and mechanically augmented soldier of the Mechanicus priesthood, and was tasked with the defence of the Nuemyana Port, one of the few places where primitive outsiders were permitted to have dealings with the Terran Mechanicus.

As he rose through the ranks of the Mechanicus military, receiving all the augmentations appropriate to his station, Ferrus began to see the world in absolute terms — the black and white notions of Weak and Strong; that it was the duty of the Weak to serve the Strong, whose duty in turn were to rule and protect. It was as if his heart was slowly being replaced with machinery as much as his body was, beginning to see all humanity not a part of the Mechanicus as Weak. Perhaps this was merely conformity, however, as many of the Elder Magi shared similar views. And... '''enforced''' them. Regardless of their attitude to more baseline humans, the Enclaves soon came under threat from Hy Braseal. Though the nation could hardly be called a superpower Hy Braseal was close enough, and proved sophisticated and organised enough to push the Mechanicus Enclaves off the tip of South America, leaving their former holdings destroyed, irradiated, or captured.

Due to their perceived incompetence in the piecemeal defence of their lands many of the Elder Magi were deposed by those below. The ambitious and the popular soon rushed in to fill the power vacuum at the top of the hierarchy, whilst the new Elders had the few remnants of the old order servitorised. At the end of the reshuffling Gorgon found himself as General-Sentinel and Protector of the Northern border, a prestigious yet demanding job that commanded the first line of defense against the Braseali peoples — and would be the first to be servitorised, were the enemy to force their way onto the Antarctic mainland.

In spite of the Mechanicum's preference for function over form, Gorgon ordered for his new cybernetic upgrade to be encased in the toughest alloy known to the Mechanicum. True, it would serve no purpose; although the material was indeed potent armour, his position as General-Sentinel precluded any situation where that would be useful. Instead, it was a surprisingly perceptive move to bolster his stature in the eyes of others; the intimidating size and power of the modifications terrorized those who sought to mutiny as much as it did Braseali spies. Thus, the Gorgon was no more — in his place there was only Ferrus Manus.

Even as he rallied his Skitarii and began to forge them into something stronger, the generals of Hy Braseal had already raised a horde of relatively well-disciplined and well-armed soldiers, and were beginning to lead them into the cold Antarctic enclaves. Salvation came in the form of the Warlord, who sought the advanced technology hoarded by the Mechanicum. The Elder Magi saw their projections of survival in a total war scenario with Braseal jump over tenfold merely by being on friendly terms with the Warlord, and all the way to an astounding 93% were they to accept his offer. Which they did without second thought. Dalmoth Kyn — the leader of most of South America — and his descendents would never forget how the Warlord had sided with the Mechanicus, forever opening a rift between their people and those of the Imperium. In time, they too would eventually join — but not before a long and bloody war consumed much of the Braseali people.

As the Mechanicus Enclaves were assimilated one by one into the Imperium, Ferrus Manus once more found himself rising up the ranks of the military. His existing rank the Mechanicus — which were a few isolated enclaves that had fought valiantly against an entire continent — was prestigious and his tactical acumen formidable. So too were his legions of cybernetic soldiers, who could comfortably overrun any techno-barbarian on the planet and even go toe-to-toe with the Warlord's own biologically augmented warriors. The one who, as the Gorgon, had looked down on all flesh as weak was now beginning to find a grudging respect for it.

Years passed and wars were moved from the surface of Terra to the stars. Ferrus' soldiers — now known as the Iron Hands — became renowned for being able to resist the harshest of environments with ease, proving as comfortable in the cold vacuum of space as they were in the sand-blasted remains of Ursh. Thus, although often (and rightly) feared by many, the Mechanicus forces were respected by all and proved to be a key factor in cementing the Terra-Mars partnership, which would be a story repeated at each world they encountered more of their cybernetic brothers on their crusade into the depths of space. Perhaps it was this — securing the mighty forges of mankind — rather than the Iron Hands' martial prowess, that earned the old Gorgon his recognition as a Primarch.

During the War of the Beast, however, the Iron Hands lost much of their prestige and reputation by primarily seeking to defend their Forge Worlds instead of the Imperium as a whole. Perhaps this was simply because their Primarch had seen how hard mankind would fall if they once again lost the machinery that held its precious Imperium together. Or perhaps (as many others claimed), their loyalties lay more with the Fabricator-General of Mars than they did the Steward or Terra. For their part, the Hands never denied the accusations levelled at them, only defending them.

Of all the Primarchs, Ferrus Manus was one of only three who lived to see the Steward become Emperor; and he was the last of them to die, meeting his end on the fields of Armageddon before the gates of Hades Hive in the year 616.M39. In truth, his health — both biological and mechanical — had been deteriorating for centuries, and although he knew that there was little operational time left for his body he did his best to ensure that neither his Legion nor his Emperor knew of the fact. He took a bloody and glorious toll with him — one worthy of respect from any and all — but his passing marked the end of an era. Although he and the Emperor had never been friends, his passing was felt by the flesh-bound of the Imperium just as much as it was by his Mechanicus brethren.

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== Fulgrim ==

The Primarch Fulgrim, foremost of the legion Terra's Children, was conceived in a Merikan population expansion program. His parents were both loyal Merikan officers, and upon their deaths their genetic material had been saved, and eventually combined for one of countless batch grow children. In truth this program and others were conceived and implemented as the early wars of unification rocked the eurasian continent, if only to bolster the Merikan guard should another high-technological joust of nations commence. Fulgrim was decanted twenty years before the fall of Ursh, in the facilities of the MoTon industrial concern. By random chance or the inevitability of mass production he could be said to have been born with a charming and distinct beauty, which he maintained for all his life, though it was accompanied by a vast and neurotic ego. At this time his name was Furis Doe, and shared a surname with all other children created as he was. In his youth he found success among the ranks or mechanists and the overseers of MoTon, and became the commander of his own sub workshop at a young age. Between his competence and the opportunity to demonstrate the success of their program Fulgrim's superiors were eager to fast track him.

Furis matured steeped in the legends told by old mechanists, some even from the arctic enclaves, of the star spanning Mechanicus, and the gleaming stelar empire they maintained, but also surrounded by the propaganda of the merikan war machine, with edicts of the holy human form, and even pretensions to brutal meritocracy. In the years surrounding the imperium's first truly overt offensives, and then its brutal dismantling of the Despot of Ursh and all under his banner, Merika hardened for war against the unification.

Between the saturation of muddled anti-Ursh and anti-Imperial propaganda and his own dreams of the stars Furis began to recede into his mind, and this came just as the mounting war effort put the apparent prodigy in command of his own experimental workshop and staff. These were Merikan mechanists and techpriests cast out of the polar enclave after it sided with the Imperium. Fulgrim, a nickname earned by his increasingly dry, cynical demeanor, mostly served as a director, but was himself a decent scientist and tinkerer.

Furis began experiments with superhuman modification to respond to the fabled imperial thunder warriors, among other things. While these projects had successes, even creating subsystems superior to imperial equivalents in some respects, they were few and expensive, and other avenues showed far greater promise. Fulgrim did however upgrade himself in numerous faculties, spending not insignificant resources as such. He was said to be deeply interested in the lore he could draw from the defector techpriests, though he never went so far as to make any of his personal modifications overt. Fulgrim would eventually express that it was partially the Mechanicus' preference for skitarii and servitors that made progress on superhuman physiological enhancement so difficult. During this period he traveled around Merika and Kalbi, particularly exploring the borderlands and the deep mazes of vaults drilled through the western mountains, where techno-barbarians still flourished. Fulgrim and his workshop were notably productive though this time, either creating or dredging up dozens of horrific technological marvels, but Furis Doe was only loosely tethered to his superiors' control, and was rarely in contact with Merikan command. In some histories it is guessed that the Warlord contacted him around this time, but it wasn't so.

Furis and his mechanists, notably cherry picked from Doe production runs, returned from the wastes with technological bounty and only a handful fewer men and tech priests than they set off with. At this time Ursh was all but fallen, the Pan-Pacific empire was on the defensive, Kalbi was in revolt under Military Governor Dorn, and Merikan high command contemplated alliance with Hy Brasil, though the prospect was unlikely. Fulgrim famously wowed the capital as he fired some of his more militarily applicable discoveries over the marching grounds, and excited the officers in the audience with promises of strategic archeotech and superhuman advancements to rival the power in europe, but in truth the director was unmoored from the war effort as much as the rest of terrestrial reality. Between the unnerving horrors of the wastes, the gross violations he saw authored by the great Merikan industrial core, and the Dark Age technologies Fulgrim tried to meddle with he had driven cracks through his pretty world. Fulgrim had long nursed a love for hedonism, and as he enjoyed his fame in the capital his old neuroses as MoTon's prodigy layered into his drug clouded state. In something of a haze Fulgrim began to lay down his own base of influence, and seeking military office he needed to advance, attached his tinkerers and forces to the command of one honorable Major Lucious Doe, bound for the expeditionary force to engage the Imperium. The air assets long maintained by the Merikan high command as defense against Urshii invasion were to be fitted for offensive war launched from forward air bases built up on New Atlantis. Major and Dr. Doe were respectively ordered to force the Brasealian and Afrique garrisons from the island, and to ensure the readiness of the Merikan air forces and drop troops that would be stationed there.

Lucius had cut his teeth in the Panama trenches, fighting Hy Braseal in the long border wars that burned along the isthmus. He was little more than a month Furis's senior, and was held up as another triumph of the Doe program. His tactical virtuosity was said to match Fulgrim's technical art, and the prodigies had been introduced to each other at the revels of some mutual superior. The Major is said to have rescued the mechanist from the agents of high ranking officers intent on compelling Furis to grant them immortality, and would years later go on to make the same request, which Fulgrim strove to achieve. The two, Major Lucius and Special Lieutenant Fulgrim, took up their commands on New Atlantis where the former began his campaign against the Brasealian forces in the heavily fortified south of the landmass and the scattered Aftique enclaves occupying its eastern half, and the latter rebuilding and updating the ancient merikan air fortress and factories on the island. Backed by Fulgrim's advanced weapons and occasionally his enhanced soldiers, as well as the ever increasing air power he was building in the northwest of the continent, Lucius made short, mean work of the Afrique settlements and drove Hy Braseal back to a single heavily entrenched garrison on the continent's southernmost point. The major was known for leading from the front, sword in hand. Fulgrim, once his workshop was well established and the conversion of the Ursh defense interceptor detachments to dive bombers and escorts was underway, was characteristically preoccupied with personal projects. He and his core of mechanists were busy preparing cybernetic enhancements and warriors in a rush to complete their long standing mission to provide Merika with an equivalent shock troop to the Thunder Warrior, themselves already replaced by Astartes.

Fulgrim was so bold as to fly sorties of cyborg drop troops into imperial territory, testing his Merikanized Skittari against the Imperium and its Astartes under the cover of the brushfire wars that had sprung up around the holdouts of Ursh's conquests. In these raids, nominally advance scouting missions, he found a single Astarte was worth about two of his own prized combat cyborgs. Despite many close calls he succeeded in taking numerous astartes and thunder warriors in-tact, though rarely alive, and began the process of reverse engineering their implants, if not outright stealing them. Very few outside of Fulgrim's mechanists, an increasingly honed band of enhanced Doe children and long exiled arctic Tech-priests, were privy to these hoarded acquisitions, but Lucius was one of the few who Furris included in his conspiracy. Both Lucius and Fulgrim were reforged with Astartes enhancements and the mechanists' own inventions as best they could manage, alongside many of their cabal. The result was less in stature and might than true Astartes, but the Doe children were a match for second generation Astartes, refined towards Furris's aims for the unit. It was at this point that Fulgrim and his group caught the attention and interest of the Warlord, and the hydra in particular. With the artificial continent secured and the Merikan air forces ready to launch in bombers and gunships High Command moved into the fortress and Fulgrim's band returned to the continent. The lab that remained to produce Merikan cyber-legionnaires bore no trace of the Astartes experiments, but leaked rumors of new wonders saw Fulgrim returned to the capitol and well funded as war with the Imperium mounted, while Lucius was sent to reinforce the army sent to end the rebellion of Governor Dorn. Merikan bombers lit up the Imperium from Franj to Afrique and cyborg drop troops fell to the aid of recalcitrant lords and Urshii holdouts, destroying and sabotaging everything they could.

Fulgrim himself was attempting to engineer a coup. Having seen the Imperium in his advance raids and equated it with the empire of old he deramed of, he wished to cut down the old leadership of his nation while it seemed within his power and steer it into his bright vision. He had surpassed even Lucius as a swordsman during his adventures in the New Atlantis campaign, and now Fulgrim planned to use his charm, fame, and the lure of technological enhancement to access necessary targets, and to ingratiate himself in the matters of succession before decapitation. Though his early plan went well Fulgrim overestimated his own and his agents' ability to manipulate a government in the mounting chaos of war with the Imperium, and it was not long before the self styled superhuman was at the mercy of Merikan secret police. He was saved by two plainly dressed men that introduced themselves as Ames and Ozzy, and bore the sigil of a hydra. Following the aegis of these two Hydra contacts the Doe cadre continued Fulgrim's strategy to build support in the mass produced populations of the manufactories further back from the coast, but Fulgrim himself was made to concede direct control over the operations in the capital. Fulgrim's laboratories in the capital became the futurist's edifice to a phoenician Merika, to the wonderment of the officer class, and Lucius built up the manufactories of Moton into an advanced fortress city on the near edge of the Kalbi territories. Fulgrim had little contact with either project. These power bases were tended by the Doe Cadre's inner circle under the direction of the Hydra and Major Lucius respectively, and while Furris visited his old home when it was under the major's command his work took him yet further from the center of the Doe conspiracy.
Under the cover of another exploratory mission to the bunkers and cracks of the western mountain line, Fulgrim and his mechanists traveled the length of the rocky spine and loosely governed western territories beyond. It was true they again delved the chains of fortresses and redoubts and sunken chambers under those lands for new relics of the golden age, but only least of these fruits ever reached Merikan high command. The rest became assets of the conspiracy, and some even found their way across the wastes of Beringia to the Imperium. More than this, Fulgrim secured the support of the enclaves whose knowledge had driven his successes years prior, and in the druidic labs of the Geno-hippes (an ancient title) Fulgrim and his proto-Alpha legion contacts established forward positions from which to build Astarte forces. The work done in these installations unified Fulgrim and the Geno-hippes' cybernetically and biologically upgraded "Doe" MkII Astarte with the Deutch-Jemanic genesmiths' MkIII pattern.

By Fulgrim's promises and intrigues much of the western territory would come to favor his succession, and for his technological efforts on their behalf they held him in better regard than high command. The collaboration of the Geno-hippes allowed state of the art super soldier forces to be built in the mountain enclaves stretching even into the heart of governor Dorn's beleaguered territory. Less than a year since it nearly died with its indiscreet leader, Fulgrim's conspiracy was at its zenith.

The destruction and capture of the Merikan airbases on New Atlantis saw the top admirals and generals returned to the capital to prepare a counterattack to keep the theater of war on the artificial continent, as well as the fortification of the atlantic coast. Lucius had made dramatic use of the Doe combat cyborgs Fulgrim had premiered in Europe to aid the hapless commander tasked with the re-conquest of Dorn's dominion entrenched in west and northern Kalbi. These showy hunts by air-cav and drop-troop had done more to lionize the cyber-soldiers as they strode about in gleaming gold and purple than they could ever have hoped to have done to Dorn’s defense. In weeks the guns of the Imperium were turned squarely to Merika. Massive Skandian naval forces and the air forces of Europa and the quadruple alliance gathered at New Atlantis. The ancient Merikan voidships that hung in orbit over the continent were moved in a careful dance to deny space superiority to the heirloom fleet the Imperium brought to bear, though it was ever vigilant above the panama fortresses for movement from Hy Braseal as well. Fulgrim returned to the capital as plans were being drawn up to leap back to New Atlantis and charge from Europa to Uralia with Doe cyborgs leading the way. Others were being conceived to quickly stamp out Governor Dorn's decades long rebellion and annihilate it to the last, with the field marshal already engaged in the north backed by masses of advanced weapons deployed from Moton. Neither plan would ever see action.

As Fulgrim made to announce promises of support from western military governors with all due fanfare he was accompanied by a brigade of what seemed to all a new generation of cyborg soldiers, fair as their inventor and clad in bright ceremonial armor. Days after he arrived Merika and the Imperium were fighting in and above the atlantic, all west of the artificial continent. Air Forces clashed above the naval blockades and the coasts, and orbital assets made firing lines hundreds of kilometers long. Orders began to issue to Moton to begin operation in Kalbi, and soon Doe designed and Doe piloted gunships and drop troops were buzzing northwest towards the Merikan position. Impenetrable havoc erupted in the Merikan capital and the first company of one hundred Terra's Sons, led by Fulgrim the Futurist, fortified the Doe laboratories and began conducting brutal raids on enemy factions within the Merikan command structure and officer class also entrenched in the capital. In the first hours of fighting the citadel of the high command had been raided by teleporter insertion of un-blazoned power-armored commandos. Subsequent fighting over the building saw it bombed to rubble by Merikan air assets. Fulgrim officially seized dictatorial emergency powers, and with a company drawn from his long honed circle of mechanists he corrected his rivals in the capital, making great show of the advanced forces those same officers and ministry heads had counted on in their grand strategies. The Futurist took Merika's reigns, and with the nation’s purple and white still flying high, cowed the fractious military houses in the wake of what he called an opportunistic Hy-Brasealian attack, and his enemies attributed to him, and the Imperium.

Prior to the decapitation of the Merikan military the Kalbi expeditionary force had embarked on a hard offensive against Dorn, counting on support from Moton's special forces as they drove for the pacific. Lucius lead the second company of Terra's Sons and cybernetic Moton drop brigades to smash the expeditionary force against Dorn's built up battle lines. The Merikan ship above Kalbi was quick to react with the the bombardment of the Moton citadel, and its few volleys were devastating before it was crippled by boarding forces of Merikanized skitarii and mechanists. In the capital there was stalemate between Fulgrim and the remains of the high command, with most of the lower officers sided with the futurist or removed, but the campaigns in the north were fast concluded and Lucius advanced southeast ahead of some of Dorn's own forces. The Merikan Orbital Brigades and Navy were old institutions staunchly opposed to Fulgrim, and supported ground forces throughout the gulf coast and around the panama fortifications. As Merikan reserves were mobilized by the panicking high command the Astartes company in the rockies struck east across the continent at the head of the western governors' military forces and made rapid progress securing the Merikan heartland despite orbital bombardment from opposing factions. The machine-stubber, rocketeer, and armored fighting carriage battalions that had been the Merikan Junta's unbeatable scourge were hardly sufficient against their own colonial forces backed by Astartes and Skitarii. In the week of the stalemate in the capital the Merikan navy and space brigade retreated and shortened the blockade so they could both bombard the capital and keep imperial forces from doing the same.

Fulgrim and Terra's Sons first company continued the fight for the capital under heavy shelling and the highest rate of lance strikes the capital's guarding geostationary starship could muster. They were supported by most of the remaining officer corps against the remaining high command holdouts, themselves reinforced by Merikan marines and loyalist military regiments. Fireteams of Astartes in Imperial livery moved openly in the south and west. Imperial soldiers landed in Newfoundland and the gulf to be met by the advanced guard of the forces that started from the rockies or Moton. Lucius and Dorn's forces and the Terra's Sons third company that led the midlands campaign marched on the eastern seaboard and pacified or simply commandeered the remaining ground forces, nearly all of which remained unclear on the state of affairs for the duration.

The Merikan Space Brigade was forced to retreat from the battle for the capital by subsequent attacks. They abandoned the Merikan Navy to regroup with Merika’s remaining voidships over the Panama defenses, which had become the last stronghold of the high command. In short order the Merikan blockade was broken by the Imperials and the Merikan Navy suffered mutiny and folded. The Imperial Navy and Air Forces accompanied the battered Merikan Navy into the harbor of the capital, and the cratered slopes of its anti-fallout pyramid bunker-citadels were lined with Merikan officers and civilians as Imperial engineers and officials of every land and discipline piled off amidst the columns of proud soldiers in the livery of Franj, Gredbritton, Achemedinia, and Europia. The Imperial delegation was marched to the Doe complex by the Futurist's own soldiers, equal in stature and clad in purple with emblems of raptors, well known to the capital from the past weeks. The Imperials had hardly arrived at what had become the de facto seat of government for a day before those same engineers and Furris's mechanists were seen together drafting plans for reconstruction.

The battered merikans that remained in the capital had seen among the Imperial delegation the gold giant that had been the subject of much propaganda, and the Skandian warrior at his side, his tattooed sorcerer, his towering iron-fisted automaton, his cadre of princes, the vassal warriors he’d taken from Ursh and the PPL, and so on, and on, as they had disembarked. The transcripts of the meetings within the Doe laboratories were sealed with the mark of a hydra, and vanished after some select members of the office corps were pointedly denied a chance to read them. In the eventual announcement from the grandstand on the capital’s debris strewn parade ground made by Esteemed Dictator Furris Doe and ‘Warmaster’ Oscar the former waxed poetic about the wonders of history and the wings of the Aquila, and the latter made a kurt and businesslike statement sketching out the terms of Merika’s stake in the imperium, which had already been decided. This was all much in keeping with Merikan custom. The general impression among the Merikan Junta’s officers and people was that Fulgrim had brokered an alliance and won them an entry on the footing of equals. In truth Fulgrim met the Warlord in Sibar for the Astartes III hybridization project, long before the operation began, and the conference was in many ways a formality, though Furris took it as an opportunity to lobby for his future projects.

The remains of the Space Brigade took aboard much of the Panama garrison and its war material, but lingering between the changed Merikan regime and Hy Braseal was not a longterm option. What remained of the Merikan Space Brigade never reconvened after that regrouping at Panama. The bulk of the small fleet dove for deep space, and vanished from common histories, while about half their number mobilized to attack the Imperial ships above the eastern seaboard, of which two were disabled and one seized before it could be scuttled. The six that remained over Panama held for two months, and subsequently defected to Hy-Braseal. Of those ships, one is recorded to have been used by Hy Braseal in the War of The Beast, further cementing their victory over their long term rival. They were too the “winners” of the unification war, and the last holdout on earth centuries into the Imperium.

Fulgrim's many inquiries into future endeavors by the Warlord, for potential avenues of research, for examination of technologies, continued all through the last years of unification, and he always seemed to give them precedence to the interim Merikan government run by him and Lucius. Lucious in particular, but Fulgrim as well, both showed a keen interest in the overtures the Imperium extended Hy Braseal, though they had the deference not to take part. It was worth noting in Oscar's mind that they had more or less copied the councils under which he'd arrayed the leaders of the lands of Europa and the remains of Ursh to assemble and represent the various Merikan provinces north of the isthmus and south of Dorn's restored Kalbi, all without coaching on his part, but had made some focused and major alterations in some places. There were provisions for continued cooperation with the Alpha Legion nominally to ensure full and thorough reform and removal of entrenched corruption, and others to continue the Doe program, with the added practice of optimizing the babies after random sample combination, which Fulgrim had already started, and further provisions for eminent domain over all samples of neutronium in their government's remit. For his part, Lucius was reordering the Merikan military and its many arms foundries around the support of the Terra's Children, and glad handing and encouraging as much of the old officer class to go on on grand world tours to enjoy the new Imperium, while Fulgrim was overseeing the expansion of the proud legion of nearly three hundred that had overtaken the Merikan war machine.

The Futurist got his conclusive answer shortly after Oscar became Steward of the Empty Throne, named him Primarch of Terra's Children, and began the next stage of unification, that of Sol, with his oath before all assembled. With naught but some hasty organization of the new Council of Merikan Foremen, Fulgrim convened his legion in Moton. Before his force of three hundred Astartes of his own selection, bearing his modifications, their backing of seven hundred Merikanized Skitarii, and with his blades, his mechanists, and Lucius arrayed at his sides, Fulgrim drew up in illustrious words his vision of the era before Old Night, one that the this new Imperium of unification would reclaim, with the Children of Terra at the fore to realize its mighty promise. He spoke of ships fleet and unstoppable, pillar cities vaster and more grand than any gilded Urshii ziggurat or Merikan pyramid-bunker, and of the great bridges indestructible, the Neutronium lines that tied worlds to the sea of heaven, and thus to each-other. He envisioned his legion as the mighty “New Men” of this Imperium, more virtuous, more beautiful, more effective than any officer class or knightly order of the old provincial nations, the great poet warriors that would realize this Imperium’s truth.

Furris’ new position on the council of twenty, the Primarchs, Malcador, and Oscar Steward, ensured he was now privy to the grand strategy of the Solar Unification without needing to trade favors with Ames and Ozzy. Already the pale, eerie, yet charming trade lord of the inner system had seized the initiative and taken up the Unification’s banner as its master of ships, and the famed Knight of Franj and the Lion ascendant were bound on a mission of pacification to the outer system aboard his flotilla. With some prodding a contingent of Terra’s Children best military virtuosos followed close behind, led by Lucius in a gold, purple, and white fleet of a half dozen restored Merikan warships.

In the same period of manic consolidation and activity, Fulgrim fell in with the esteemed King of Empty Space, Horus, and the iron fisted Antarctican Skitarii mastermind, Ferrus Manus, on their mission of diplomacy to Mars. While the Steward knew the holy man, Lorgar, to be the better diplomat than the preening Phoenician, treating with the dogmatic and hegemonic Brotherhood of Olympus Mons was a task ill suited to the earnest preacher, and thus it was Fulgrim that bore the Standard of the Aquila to the red priests for that first time. It proved a wise choice, and between the guns of Empty Space encircling, the mercenary charms of Horus and guileful Fulgrim, and the proud imperatives of the Antarctic Brotherhood’s iron fist, the ruddy neighbor of Old Earth was drawn into the fold.

Fulgrim hardly returned to Merika after this, and instead dwelt with Horus at the dockyards of the Lagrange supervising the building of the dreadnoughts that would lead the coming interstellar crusade, and on Mars, aiding the designs of the Iron Fist he had long idolized from the stories of his Mechanists. One could hardly tell if his fondness for Horus was surpassed by his love for Horus’s ships, and though his obsession with the mighty Ferrus Manus was clear, it took many efforts and trials to prove the worth of his works, and thus himself, to the machine-man.

Fulgrim was often said by the remembrancers to be the more worldly mirror image of Blessed Sanguineous, created haphazardly, a happy accident that perfected himself, and grew imperious and mighty by his own ambition, who flew by roaring jet instead of graceful wing, but likewise pale and fair, refined and elegant. Indeed this was very compelling, the Terra’s Children’s fine armor was unmarred and unbloodied even through Fulgrim’s brutal raids and engagements, he struck where he pleased and retreated when it was advantageous, whose blade was drawn in pride when Sanguineous drew his in duty. For all their contrast, the aesthete and the prince were on good terms, so long as military matters were not broached between them. Likewise he was compared to Guilliman, great strategos of Europea, as the Phoenician conducted great overarching campaigns in sector after sector, indomitable purple Astartes at the vanguard and unbreakable supply lines guarded by his shining cyborgs, advancing through the galactic west apace with the vaunted Ultramarines in the east. Though it had to be said that Guilliman never leaned so heavily on the techniques of economic sabotage and poxy war that Fulgrim brought with him, following on the heels of the shadowy Alpha Legionnaires he still held close since the Merikan Coup. For all appearances Fulgrim was as deft a diplomat as Lorgar, Vulcan, Horus, and Robute, but for the fact that when he paraded his regal Astartes before the people of a world and charmed its leaders at Imperial hosted galas he was often hard at work cutting down their dissenting elements and special forces just beneath that pleasant veneer of peace.

It was in this time he finally endeared himself to Ferrus Mannus, and an unusual friendship bloomed in the life of the Iron Fist, be it from their similar childhoods, shared archaic fantasy of the Great and Bountiful Human Dominion, or merely Fulgrim’s persistence. In Fulgrim, Ferrus saw a fitting disregard for the limitations of biology, in Ferrus Fulgrim found an exemplar for the advancement of the holy human form and appreciation of its mighty heritage. It was in the forges under Olympus Mons, after the Gorgon had established his might over the heads of the resident Archmagos, that they held their famed contest of smiths. Among the great cogs and reactors of the forges in the heart of the red mountain the cold Iron Hand was making demonstration of his mastery of artifice before the many venerable smiths of that ancient foundry. While the Gorgon beat cascades of sparks from adamant at the forge, another unfamiliar host of robed and augmented figures drew around the mighty Skitarii. At its head was Fulgrim, and about him were the Archeotechnological Diviners and War-smiths of the Terrawatt Clan that he had been asked to herald to the Martian Brotherhood, and with them came the Genesmiths of the Deutch Jemanik, the Gene-Hippes of the mountain enclaves, mighty weapon-wrights and siege engineers of Macedonia and Achemedinia, and Furris’ own mechanists, who had already found favor among the martians that held with the more creative interpretations of the Strictures Cybernetica.

It was in the midst of this gathering of the great masters of the forges, the Brotherhood of Olympus Mons that had in few years brought Mars to heel, who dared say they were the keepers of the Noctis Labyrinth, and the vast treasury of knowledge and art that were the assets of the Imperial Court, possessed of so many esoteric and mighty secrets and specializations they could not be rightly remembered hence their passing, that Fulgrim and Ferrus proposed to settle the budding rivalry between Old Earth and Holy Mars. In the spirit of their great blessed adventure to come, their Crusade of Interstellar Unification, Fulgrim proposed the tourney would last seven days, and in that time all present would strive to see the arsenal of Man filled with wonders to match the weapons of old. It was Ferrus that added the terms that each master of his own forge should work for himself upon his craft, and that any that shrunk from the task to let servitors or adepts dither in their work would show their lack of art. It was then that Ferrus Manus shed his robes and bore down upon the forge like a tempest with his vast silver arms, and bid the adepts about him bring schematics and material. Furris Doe likewise seized a forge, and with his Mechanists set about the recalibration of tools and selection of designs, and all around Siege Masters and Genesmiths and Armorers rushed to heat Adamant and prepare the manufacture of fine mechanical filagree.

At the contest’s end, the forges and laboratories grew still and quiet, and many gleaming wonders were brought forth to be seen by all. Kelbor Hal, esteemed host to those assembled, so humbly presented a bright adamant power-javelin he named the Windlance, that flew unerring by means of grav-lifts in its shaft, and he received much acclaim, until Vie Braur, Master of the Genesmiths, came forward with a pair of golden armbands that would in a matter of minutes regrow a arm on which it was worn if it was severed, and this was followed by a cybernetic eye that saw across the spectrum and could glare a hail of lasfire as effectively as a heavy rifle, presented by Arton Luron of the Order Cybernetica, and from the Gene-Hippes, a poison gland from which a modified creature could spit streams of strong corrosive marking agent, and put forth by the Skitarii armorers, a beautiful brassy jezail of ancient design and thunderous power, an ingenious system of actuated tread claws that would let superheavy tanks scale sheer inclines was produced by the Macedonian envoy, and gleaming the gift of the Terrawatt engineers a reconstruction of an ancient tactical awareness computer, a golden pedestal that held an ethereally projected globe, then set to show much of the infrastructure and troop placement on Mars. Between all of these treasures and wonders, any one of them fit for royalty of the previous forsaken era, still none could rightly see its creator named champion, until together Fulgrim bore up a great black hammer, and Ferrus Manus unsheathed a burning golden blade.

The black hammer, Forgebreaker, glowered with un-light, cut as it was from a shred of neutronium Fulgrim salvaged from one of earth's many equatorial scars, and he had struck upon a way to shape it only in the heat of the tourney. Though in the past Fulgrim had failed endlessly to work neutronium whatsoever, the modest lump of exotic matter was now a weapon to scatter the mass of mountains. The eye-searing sword thrust aloft by the Gorgon was simply named Fireblade, and it burned with unreal white flame that enveloped its narrow golden edges at solar temperatures, forged as the unification of many of the ancient subsystem fragments and schematics Ferrus Manus' brothers of the Antarctic Enclaves had brought from Earth, now possible to construct and piece together in the vast facilities of the Martian Brotherhood. The whole assembly of priests and artificers conceded the glory of these weapons above all the others, but between them none could decide the better. Fulgrim was certain it was the Gorgon's that was the mightiest, he loved the sword from his first sight of it, and its swift and biting form taken from the ancient glory of man far surpassed the bleak, crude weapon he had been able to carve from the strange matter. Ferrus Manus was already transfixed by the very notion of working neutronium even on such a small scale, far better than misassembling an archeotech hunting knife, it was a step towards the rediscovery of one of mankind's greatest arts. No decision could be reached, and the mastery of artifice could be given neither to Old Earth nor Holy Mars, and the budding of that rivalry continued. But the tourney beneath the red mountain did fill the arsenal of the unification of Sol, and the long and glorious Great Crusade after, and much joy and mirth resounded in the forges of mars on that seventh day, one that would be remembered as the unofficial, popular unification of Earth and Mars.

The tournament itself was said to end when the two Primarchs gave each other their own creation as prize, and the countless adepts, apprentices, magos, forgemasters, and artificers present saw fit to rejoice their work and the coming years of war and production. As the Primarch inventors exchanged notes on their works of the past seven days the huge convention of Imperial technological orders and leaders did much of the same, establishing much of the early relationship between the Mechanicus Orders and the myriad of other technological orders that The Throne would come to retain over the coming Millennia. Fulgrim would never part with the Fireblade after this, taking it with him into the unification of the galaxy, and bearing it back to Sol to strike at the back of the Beast when all that bright dreaming civilization shuddered and collapsed, and Forth again in vengeance and beautiful rebirth. Ferrus Manus would never forsake the Forgebreaker, and even when the Gorgon finally fell on the fields of Armageddon, millennia after his weapon's maker, that same hammer had smote the ruin of many dozens of Meks and Bosses across the battlefield, and left is final enemy naught but broken atoms in the ground.

'''The Conquest of Laeran'''

The world of Laeran was, in all Imperial records of the Great Crusade and since, unique. A wonder brought together in the horror of Old Night, with technology from the brighter age before the dusk of the Old Empire’s Fall. The space based, sculptural colonies of the Laer were first encountered by the 28th Expeditionary Fleet of the Terra’s Children along a long arc across the fringes of the galactic west, and at their eager initiation of contact with the third legion the serpentine Xenos seemed the most advanced, cultured, and diplomatically forward the Imperium had encountered since Eldrad’s representation of the Craftworlders. Shared in these early encounters with the diplomatic clades of the Laer, and confirmed by Imperial analysis of the distribution of known colonies, the Laer had fled their home in the regions of the galactic northwest to escape the collapse of the Old Eldar Empire they had evolved in the midst of. Absconding from their home star in a mass exodus and seeding new colonies along the path of their flight, they had fled the opening of the Eye of Terror.

As the next stages of diplomatic contact and positioning were prepared, Imperial assets from the Terra’s Children likewise began the far less stately work of intel gathering and the preparation of contingencies. The Laer’s description of their means of exodus, Laeran itself, was striking both in their soaring reverence for the world, and its technological significance as a gas giant and lunar system driven by torch drives to the point of warp transit capability, constituting a starship of utterly immense scale. Of similar interest were the trans-biological technologies the serpents employed, with many of their modifications matching or surpassing Humanity’s best Astartes or Skitarii implants and treatments. Fulgrim’s personal attention quickly fell upon the Laeran matter, drawn by this wonder, and with it came his inquisitive pack of mechanists and genewrights, Captain Lucius and his force reconnaissance fleets, the Legions’ Blades, the Phoenix Company, the support brigades of heavily updated Merikan Shock Cyborgs, and the Mechanicus Exploratory attaché offered by Ferrus. Their Administratum observers, Munitorum bullet-and-bean-counters, Alpha Legion contacts, and the not insignificant following of painters, sculptors, artisans, documentarians, writers, and veritable circus of other artists that had found Fulgrim as a patron and received stipends as Imperial Remembrancers, followed close behind. As elements of the third legion and their diplomatic entourage contacted more and more Laer colonies the air of open artistic and diplomatic exchange persisted, but in actuality diplomacy stalled, and deep tension was building between parties veiled by a pretense of aesthetic debate and politely contrasting paradigms for cybernetic development and genetic engineering.

Though more formal diplomacy between powers, a meeting on Laeran, remained the subject of talk, in truth the planet’s location was not forthcoming from the Laer even as Imperial Naval assets narrowed down their deductions for its path and place. Within the week the elusive torchworld’s presumptive location was pinned down and confirmed, a discovery made by Lorgar was delivered to Fulgrim by the hand of the Custodes that had accompanied the Preacher’s expedition to the brink go the Eye of Terror.

From any other Primarch, the aristocratic ones long in the Warmaster’s highest favor particularly, Fulgrim’s pride and nervous sense of inferiority would have led him to doubt the clear conclusion Lorgar’s report implied. He would have dared to think nearly any of his twenty peers would press such conclusions upon him merely to disrupt the handful of years he had sunk into cautious diplomacy with the Laer, but not of Lorgar, he had no doubt in the conquer of naught but hearts and minds. The Mechanicus attaché, Lucius, Ames, and Ozzy, the Mechanists, the Genesmiths, the Administratum observers, the Eldar Corsair captain Fulgrim had convinced to join them, and all the rest all agreed upon the necessity for decisive action. It was made clear that the path of Laeran had not taken it from its place among the Crone worlds along a direct path out of their midst, that their path started at the Cadian Gate, that their passing had been marked with terror and rapine, that their elder colonies were rocked by civil war against a mono dominant cult of perfection. Fulgrim was insistent that he personally reaffirm to the Laeran delegation with his fleet that the Imperium truly had negotiated with them in earnest, and that he had the assurance of one Mr. Ozzy they would be transported to Ganymede unharmed and in perfect safety. Upon the seizure of their vessel and the Laer diplomats’ removal, Fulgrim returned to the Pride of Imperium and began the Astropathic relay of instructions to activate the contingencies, likewise prepared in earnest.

Codex entry not finished.

Additional Details

- This universe's version of an "Iron Cage" incident that leads most Astartes legions to follow Guilliman's idea of breaking into Chapters. Fulgrim tries to micromanage everything but gets ground down by attrition. Final blow was trying to clear a sector of an Ork infestation led by a Tzeentch-aligned Big Wyrd, which was so nuts it was impossible to account for everything.

== Vulkan ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Promethean:'''''

Vulkan, son of the Afrique League, First Patriarch of the Prometheans, Defender of the People, Cleansing Flame of Earth and Primarch of the Steward was born in a mud and thatch hut in an arable farming village 8 days walk from Lanbarno, capital of that semi prosperous realm.

The nation itself was little more than a remnant of what it once was. At its height some 500 years previously it had been a super power the rival of any other on the Earth at that time with culture and technological knowlage beyond peer. But then the Ursh came and taught them that this was not, nor have it ever, nor would it ever be a time of peace.

But all that was history. The realm that Vulkan grew up in knew nothing of that save in dust old tomes of half forgotten lore.

Even a peace, a hard fought for peace, had been won against the Despots of Ursh and their vassal states.

Of all the peoples on the Earth at that time, they had come to the attention of foul xenos. Why they amongst all others? who can say. But there it was.

The only thing that was certain during this era was that the Dark Eldar were discovering the depths of their needs and thirsts, and they found the picking in Afrique League to their liking.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

It became a hated part of life. Shelters were dug by the prudent and the the foolish were left to die. It was an unhappy time. But maybe it was the xeno raiders and their attentions that made their lands less appealing to invaders.

It was in Vulkans 14th summer that he joined the military, against the wishes of his father and mother but with their blessing. It was customary for men to serve and protect the communities they came from for what was good for the people of a nation must surely be good for the nation as a whole.

Vulkan's parents had been adamant he not join the warriors, because they knew that his job would be to dissuade their tormentors so that they might find a softer village to attack.

One such assault was the beginning of Vulkan. The rest of his life had been merely a prelude to the man.

A brutal assault that seemed determined to abduct the while village befell Vulkan's home. The scant defenses were little more than tissue paper against razor blades. The pitiful few warriors of the Afrique League were tormented in the manner of a cat with a mouse and as inevitably snuffed out. All bar one. When the village bio-petroleum tank detonated Vulkan was inflamed. But up he rose. clutching his blacksmith fathers hammer, a halo of flame about his head and inferno wings upon his broad shoulders he was risen and he stood before the Archon, the chief tormentor of his people. His heart beat like a blast furnace and his eyes were holes into the hear of the sun and his fathers hammer he brought down hard. The Archon danced around him with inhuman grace, a nimble torture before an enraged giant. In later legends it was said they they danced from sunrise to sunset, but in truth there was a death far sooner than that. The Archons blades had been doused in poison most foul but the heat of the flame had cleansed them. Although Vulkan could barley land a single blow, he did manage to land one. And one was all he needed.

The simple smiths hammer struck hard and it struck true. It was said to have been heated by more than burning fuel but by the furnace heat of hate. The Archon lay crippled and in agony at Vulkans feet. He raised that vile man high above his head and brought him down hard over his knee and broke his back. The warrior held him up once more and with a dragons roar, dared all those who would look to see what ruin had been done before tearing out the raider kings throat.

And no more did those creatures come back.

When the Warlord came to the Afrique League it was Vulkan who met with him in the old and dying king Shatimuene's place. With the xenos gone, it would not be long before Ursh came back; The Afrique League could not endure alone when that day came.

As the now chief military commander of his nation and a hero of the people, Vulkan was taken into the confidence of the Warlord. In the name of the warlord he claimed back the old vassal states of Ursh for the Afrique League and built that broken nation back up on freed slaves and a noble sense of retribution.

Vulkan was one of the first of the final design of Astartes. All of the major flaws had been solved by that point and for that we can be grateful, the world did not need another Angron.

When the last tyrant fell and it came time to bring the Unification to the rest of Sol, Vulkan son of N'bel was raised high and called Primarch.

When the Great Crusade began it was Vulkan, second only to Lorgar, who showed that although the Imperium was strong and could be monstrous, it could also be noble and capable of true virtue.

When the War of The Beast came it was the the Salamanders that dedicated their lives to defense of the people above the defense of the Imperium, or what was good for the people of a nation must surely be good for the Imperium as a whole.

Vulkan did make it back to Old Earth before the Martyr Angel fell and he could not save his brother primarch, but no blame was laid at his feet as his Legion worked so tierlesly and gave their very lives for the people and always at the thickest of the the fighting, in the heart of the inferno was the Promethean with his hammer.

In the years that followed the rebuilding of the Imperium Vulkan's forces remained integrated most strongly with those of the Imperial Army. Vulkan served the Imperium for longer than any other primarch, save for Ferrus Manus of the Mechanicum. Time and again the enemies of man would rise to threaten the Imperium, and the Promethean would rise in turn to face them. Vulkan fought against the Black Crusades of Chaos, the Orkish WAAAGHs of Armageddon, and uncountable other foes, surviving against odds in which any lesser man would perish. Vulkan became known as Vulkan the Undefeatable, the Emerald Knight, the greatest of the Imperium’s champions.
Nevertheless, despite the Mark III S geneseed, the years began to take their toll on Vulkan. Vulkan’s body may have been young but his spirit was old, and he could no longer serve his Imperium the way he once did. The Emperor granted his steadfast champion the right to retire, only stating that he hoped Vulkan could find place to retire fitting for one who had served the Imperium as long as he.

Vulkan picked the humble planet Nocturne as his place of retirement. Vulkan was head of the Promethean Creed, its greatest missionary and, given how long he had been influencing it, probably the greatest factor in shaping it. During the Great Crusade, Nocturne had embraced the Creed completely and with great enthusiasm. As a result, Nocturne had become an important world to the Salamander Legion, and was the world the Salamander chapter held onto after the splitting of the legions, though the Salamanders built their actual fortress on the nearby moon of Prometheus, to ensure the civilians of Nocturne would not be made direct targets of any would-be aggressor.

By the time that Vulkan started to feel old nearly the entire population ascribed to the creed in one form or another. It had become their holy land, eclipsing even the old lands of Africa. Although Vulkan had intended to settle down and live a quiet life in his old age, the people of Nocturne recognized the Unbound Flame of the Promethean Creed, and petitioned him to rule. And so Vulkan became the High Patriarch of Nocturne, ruling as a wise philosopher-king, though more than once the former Emerald Knight had to pick up his old hammer to defend his adopted home.

Of all the Primarchs save perhaps Russ of Skand Vulkan's disappearance is the most odd. Shortly before Vulkan's disappearance there is a gap of approximately 200 years in the records of Nocturne and after that point it is generally accepted that he is gone. Before this gap Vulkan is recorded as the High Patriarch of Nocturne. After the gap a Triumvirate was ruling in Vulkan's place and apparently had been doing so long enough that such an arrangement was considered normal. The last known record of Vulkan is a statement by the Promethean that he had planned to take a trip around the far planets of the galaxy, but there is no indication of how long he expected to be gone and when he expected to be back. What happened during the Centuries of Silence, as the Prometheans call it, is a holy mystery. Some say he is dead, some say he will come back again in a great hour of need and some say he never left.

All that is known is that his children, the Fire Lords and the Black Dragons and the Salamanders, fight like lions for humanity and legion of them have laid down their immortal lives for mortal men and legion more and more have risen in turn.

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== Dorn ==
Note:
- Calbi born, early model astartes pattern. Desensitization problems.
- Odd friendship with Perturabo
- Died during 1st Black Crusades holding the battlements of Cadia

The story of Rogal Dorn starts in the garrison town of Onto Rontus in the not too long annexed land of Calbi. Born to a mother of the local tribes and an officer father of the Merikan army his start was not as tragic as it could have been. Often such half-breeds were not the result of consenting unions but Donovan Dorn held genuine affection for Kosa and was, unknown to his fellow officers, married to her.

Dorn was one of a large family and had many siblings though he was ultimately the only one to follow in his father’s footsteps. Dorn left his loving tribe and family and all he had known and travelled to the distant lands of Merika to begin his training, as his father had.

He learned much in those years and was an excellent student and would have been on the fast track to high station but for his circumstances of birth. No soldier of the greatest nation on Old Earth would gladly allow themselves to be given orders from a savage of the north. Despite all this his tutors could not deny his talents.

It was not a thing he took undue joy in but the ways of war came very easily to him. Despite the unfortunate circumstances of his birth he became the very model of a Merikan officer. He was well versed in military doctrine of all sorts and knew something of the history of his nation, at least enough to spot the revisionisms.

Although adept, or at minimum competent, at all aspects of war his true talents were found in siege warfare. In the tactical simulations and competitive VR matches Dorn was unbeaten.

Due to his knowledge of the locals and ability to speak at least one tribal language fluently Dorn returned to Calbi wearing a conquers uniform. He served as a lieutenant under the rule of Praefectus Adran, himself new to the post after the forced retirement of old Praefectus Stavart.

Praefectus Stavart had been very old and was unquestionably loyal to Merika but had dealt with the natives with some degree of fairness and even kindness when he could afford to. He was not loved by the locals, how could he be, but the elders were more than smart enough to know that his position as an intermediary between them and Merika was probably the best deal they could get in the circumstances.

For Stavart’s part he probably knew that as well. In his childhood Dorn had met him a few times with his father. He remembered him looking old then and unless he somehow genuinely had six sixty-seventh birthdays it was obvious that he had been lying about his age for a long time. In his way Stavart had cared about Calbi and it’s people as something other than a broken, subjugated state of Merika. He held on in the job until nearly ninety because he knew that Adran or someone much like him would succeed him. And he was right.

Praefectus Adran was not a nice man by any measure. His was the brutal rule of law and the authority of the Iron Fist. He wouldn’t be seen attending local festivals or events; they were there from the greatest to the least at his beck and call. They were savages and heathens and he was a man of the Greatest Nation and a paragon among them. Needless to say tensions between the conquered and conquerors increased.

At some point genuine tribal unrest turn into riots and Praefectus Adran orders mass executions.

Dorn is well loved by both the locals, who see him as their man on the other side and look to him to for salvation, and by the Merikan rank and file and quite a few of the officers.

There are a few days of communications black outs due to "faulty equipment" and some "regrettable accidents" that see some of the officers dead and Praefectus Adran commits suicide after a long period of depression. When asked how he managed to shoot himself in the back of the head with a shot gun acting Praefectus Dorn tells the investigators that Adran had been "Very depressed."

Nobody believes it but, due to the difficulties in the still mysteriously faulty communications equipment, it does buy him enough time to root out more Merikan loyalists, secure his alliances with the local tribes and when the order comes from the capital to stand down and come back for questioning he declares independence.

The next day he is met by an uncannily nondescript man of average height and build with no distinguishing features, hard to estimate age, unremarkable clothing and an oddly neutral and hard to place accent. He claims his name is Alpharius Omegon and he comes representing the Imperium. He tells Dorn that his timing is awful: had he been able to spin this out for a few more years, five at least, the Imperium would have been in a position to lend considerable military might to his Rebellion. As it is, they will offer what less obvious help they can but the Imperium can't get dragged into a direct and total war with Merika at the current time. Dorn and a few of his elites get what must be some of the very last Mk1 Astartes upgrades, administered by local bio-druids for reasons of deniability.

Recently Merika had been supplying and training terrorist organizations in the lands conquered by the Imperium and Oscar had found out who was behind the seemingly random attacks. The aim was to disassemble the Imperium back into little nations for Merika to "Manifest Destiny" all over and Oscar was most unhappy, most unhappy indeed. But his forces were all tied up dealing with Ursh and the Pan-Pacific Empire. So he couldn't act directly and was forced to use Dorn and his rebellion, and later Fulgrim, to fight by proxy.

Not that Dorn would know the specifics of this until quite a few years after Unification Day.

Dorn holds out for long enough for Fulgrim Doe to raise his rebellion and make contact.

By this point the Imperium is finishing off the last enclaves of Ursh, Lorgar is decapitating the Despot and Merika is in deep shit because of the multiple rebellions, the pissed off Imperium and the only neighbor it has left with whom it is not at war with is Hy Brasil who hate both of them and are just going to sit back and watch.

Fulgrim "negotiates a deal of inclusion with very good terms" with the Imperium after he is appointed President of Merika and "abandons the unprofitable campaign to uplift and civilize the northern provinces". Calbi becomes an independent nation, Dorn appoints an Assembly of Elders to govern the nation, steps down from and decommissions the title "Praefectus of Calbi". However, he does remain the head of the armed forces. The Elders and Dorn, or representatives of them in the case of the more elderly Elders, are present at the swearing of allegiance to the Empty Throne of Earth.

When Steward Oscar looks to the other worlds of Sol and to the stars beyond he names Dorn as one of his primarchs to the surprise of Dorn though not the people of his home nation who see it as only right.

And then Great Crusade, WoTB, Reconquest and death on the walls of Cadia during the 1st Black Crusade of which is WIP by Dornfag

During the Great Crusade he went slower than most of the other Primarchs bar Lorgar but his diligence over speed, though criticized at the time, proved it's worth in the WoTB as the worlds he brought into the Imperium weathered the storm consistently better than others that weren't the work of Perty.

At some point he gets it into his head to grow his trademark mustache. Some time later he has to have one of his eyes replaced and it sort of looks like a monocle.

Does not take part in the Raid. He was not the greatest personal combatant and also tended to be better at static defense than actually running around, so a quick Raid was not his strong suit. Also due to the buggy Mk1 enhancments he suffered from desensitization problems which gradually turned into a mild case of masochism.

Never married or had any children (that he or history knew about). Did have a large number of nephews and nieces and cousins and more distant kin. Quite a few of his family survived the WoTB, he was quite lucky in that regard.

== Roboute Guilliman ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Artist of War:'''''

Guilliman was born to a minor noble house in the great and relatively prosperous realm of Europia. His parents were able to afford him admittance to Parisiorum University, the most prestigious educational institution of that fair nation. By the onset of adulthood he was well versed in the classics of language, mathematics and the basic sciences; but it was in military theory that he truly excelled. Soon he was spotted by a visiting officer, and was quickly transferred to the Avelroi military academy. He was a more than adequate soldier, and a fairly skilled tactician, but it was in the arts of grand strategy and logistical planning that his brilliance was found. During wargames and simulations, his peers often managed to gain the upper hand on Guilliman's forces, flanking or encircling them only to find themselves critically short of materiel and facing positions prepared long in advance, thanks to his unconventional focus on interdicting supply lines. Thus, while he graduated with glowing recommendations from his tutors, he was somewhat resented by his fellow alumni who felt his tactics underhand or cowardly.

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Shortly after, he was assigned to the southern border where his nation rubbed shoulders - and often warred - with the Nord Afrik. Within a month of his assignment, the area was brought up to peak efficiency and combat effectiveness. Whole swathes of the border defenses were brought back up to standard, often exceeding them, becoming greater and more formidable than they were in the last border dispute; the semi-derelict Jibraltonius border fort seemed to change overnight from a ceremonial headquarters to an impenetrable bastion. And not a moment too soon, as before long the Nord Afrikaanus and their cyber-thrall army commanders were ready for war, instead of the brief raids and pillages that Guilliman's defenses had been blooded against.

The hordes of Nord Afrik, armed and armoured with most powerful technology they had recovered from the rotting corpse of the old world, charged with ferocity that would've shattered the defences of just years before. They played every hand they could; hit-and-run raids, armoured assaults, wave attacks and attempts at infiltration, yet in the end it did not matter, as their crusade broke upon the hardened shell of Europia. For every of Guilliman's soldiers, there were ten Afrikaanus barbarians - but in turn, there were a dozen shells, plasma charges or lascannon shots for each of '''them,''' and it is said that fresh reinforcements would arrive before their dead predecessors had even hit the ground. The counter-offensive orchestrated by General Guilliman was nothing less than a masterpiece of warfare, facing the Afrikaanus as if on his own home turf. The waves of techno-barbarians were bled white, their counterattacks shrugged off and shattered, their homeland burned to ashes from which nothing could ever recover.

The customary actions to follow in these conquests was for nations to incorporate the territory of the fallen into their own empire, lording over the few remaining broken people. This would have been the fate of Nord Afrik, too, but for Guilliman's address to the senate imploring them to let that foul place rot. This was perceived as weakness by some, yet his foresight would go on to frustrate the other neighbouring nations who were looking forward to invading a Europeia overextended and weakened by their subjugation of Nord Afrik. For his martial brilliance and wisdom, Guilliman was given the honorific title of Lord, a title that would not normally be bestowed upon him until his fathers death. Furthermore, in the time of relative peace the nation now found itself in, it needed an ambassador - albeit one with enough accomplishment and worth behind him for the leaders of neighbouring realms to sit up and listen.

It was during his time in the Kingdom of Franj that he met the relatively young Queen Yolande Fouché. The two had little in common at a personal level and neither ever completely trusted each other, but their respective governments deemed it imperative that they marry as a prelude to the unification of the two nations. Franj itself was deeply wounded and only slowly recovering from devastating attacks by the Unspeakable Tyrant of Gredbritton's horrific weapons, and would not survive even the most halfhearted of assaults from any of its neighbors - least of all the Dusht Jemanic, who were looking to settle old grievances. In turn, such an alliance would allow the people of Europia access to the produce of the huge tracts of agricultural land, which were sorely needed as using Nord Afrik as a psuedo-colony to feed their growing population was no longer an option.

When The Warlord came before the Senate of Europia, in the modest robes of a scribe, he came with open arms and a warm smile. Unlike elsewhere, the Senate of Europia saw this new "Imperium" as a macrocosm of themselves; their own well ordered nation merely taken to its logical conclusion. Thus, their inclusion was brief and painless, and allowed them representation in the decision and policy processes of such a regime, while the Kingdom of Franj was joined along with them as both realms were nearly dependent on one another at this point.

Lord Guilliman quickly rose through the ranks of the new Imperial Army, thanks to his history amongst one of the more civilised realms of the Imperium, as well as his unparalleled logistical prowess. Yet, when it came time for the Warlord to implement his super soldier project on a much expanded scale it was a sad fact that Lord Guilliman was biologically too old and would almost certainly have died during the implantation process. As consolation he was granted some limited gene-forging and rejuvenation procedures that his usefulness might be extended for centuries to come.

And down the centuries his usefulness would be proven.

When the Warlord became the Steward before the Empty Throne and looked to the stars, it was Guilliman amongst his generals who was deemed to be best suited to the task of preparing for interplanetary warfare, a feat considered logistically impossible by many, yet achieved through meticulous calculation and planning. His dedication and adaptability earned Lord Guilliman the title of Primarch, a leader amongst leaders and a legend amongst legends. When the eye of the Steward looked beyond the confines of Sol, he saw Guilliman was was needed more than ever.

The Primarch rose to the challenge, reorganising the Imperial Army into a force that seemed able to be everywhere at once yet, to its enemies, was truly endless, and giving the Steward's war machine efficiency more befitting a creation of the Mechanicus. Whole stellar clusters were brought under the Aquila by the old man of Europia, with wars that could fill a library - the greatest of which, he believed, were the ones not fought. He was and old man. He looked of middle years but he had lived, long long past his time. Memories of loved ones, their faces and voices, had become dim and faded. He had outlived his wife and his children and his grandchildren, his beautiful nation and even the greatest of its monuments. The old man had never relished war like the others, seeing it instead as an intellectual exercise - and by now he was so very tired of it.

When the War of the Beast descend like a hammer upon the still fledgling Imperium, it was Guilliman's reforms - from the optimisation of trade routes to the streamlining of military integration and combined arms - that allowed whole sectors to mobilise their forces fast enough to weather the initial shock. His well-disciplined and -equipped legionaries made the Beast and his horde pay for every parsec, every light-year, every '''metre'''. For every slain citizen under his care a hundred deaths were meted out, but all could see that the line was being ground back to the Sanctum Sanctorum of humanity: Old Earth. The Beast and his forces were defeated, just like all the others were, but the legions that struck the deathblow were glorified far more than the one that hamstrung a tide of Ork that would've otherwise swallowed them whole. Guilliman held no jealousy or resentment over that; he was old enough to understand that good men were seldom remembered as long as entertaining monsters, and had resigned himself to that fact long ago.

After the slaying of The Beast the Imperium began to rebuild. It was dirty work but it was good work, the Primarch relishing in the opportunity to rebuilding something after so long fighting. Those close to him claimed it soothed his aching soul and reminded him of the miracles he worked on the borders of his homeland, long ago - even when many of his fellow Primarchs outright refused his suggested reforms.

Guilliman endured for centuries longer than any thought possible - even himself - but In 014.M32 he began his long, dreamless sleep. His legacy, however, would endure for ages to come; remembered fondly even by those who thought him nothing but a glorified penpusher, and proving that the quiet administrators and quartermasters of the Imperium that they had just as much to be proud of as any other.

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== Magnus the Red ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">''''' The Arch-Psyker '''''

The story of Magnus the Red can be traced back to the previous Despot of Ursh, a remarkably unfriendly fellow by the name of Ganzorig the Great. Indeed he was great and conquered huge swathes of the Afrique League to add to the already great Empire his uncle left him. One of the contributing factors in his victories was his use of enslaved and potent psykers. For the most part these poor creatures, witch-kin as they were, were not highly valued as people by the Despot despite him being a follower of the dark gods.

One of his most prized possessions was a witch by the name of Ada of whom it was said could summon deamons and not so much bind them but direct them. In her youth, before he had discovered quite how valuable she was, he had whored her out to a navigator for imported weapons from far off worlds beyond Sol. That she had a child that she loved dearly was good news for Ganzorig as it gave him a means by which he could control her.

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Time passed, wars were waged, new lands were conquered and things continued to get worse on Old Earth much as they always had done.

In time the son, named Magnus, grew into a man. Like his father he was uncommonly tall and it was soon evident that like his mother he was uncommonly powerful. As such he was press-ganged into the psychic warfare and assault efforts of the Regime. Magnus' aptitudes were in wards and defensive measures and by age 15 could stop artillery fire and had done so on the front lines. By age 20 he could throw up a shield wall that covered almost a mile in either direction and was harder than the finest steel.

In his 35th year his mother died on the front lines against the Pan-Pacific Empire and the monsters created by it's mad science. Magnus at the time was half a continent away on the borders of Achaemenidia but he felt her loss. Although Magnus had always been Ganzorig's leash to ensure his mothers obedience so in turn had Magnus been kept obedient lest harm come to his mother.

Magnus seemed to vanish and the border was over run by the next morning. A few month later Ganzorig the Great was found burned to death in his bed.

Little is known of Magnus' movements in many years and the Ursh Succession war that followed. It is suspected that he fled to the cursed ground of the Himalayan Mountains. A place only whispered in dark legend, the one place nobody was strong or mad enough to conquer and from the fall of the Dark Age Empire to the arrival of the Warlord remained inviolate. It was unknown for sure what was protecting that high place but ████████████████████████████████████Data expunged by order of the Inquisition██████████████████████████████████████████████████and never again they promised on this hallowed ground, and so they faded in midnight clad.

Magnus emerged from that strange land some time in his sixties, although how much time in that place had passed was anyone's guess. Due to his inhuman heritage he looked still of early middle years but for his one remaining eye that held reflected horrors enough to last lifetimes. His skin once pale and soft like his fathers was now hardened by years of exposure to something approximating leather and adorned from head to foot in red wards and runes and holy script in some unknown letters tattooed and branded and scared across every inch of flesh. Save for the ragged bite mark that took up one side of his face.

By this time the Warlords armies were moving in earnest with expert precision across a dozen fronts, both military and diplomatic.

At first the tall man wandered in places he thought beyond the reach of any king or man or beast but as the Warlord progressed his psychic powers grew until Magnus felt them eclipse his own. He traveled to the very furthest reaches of Sibar and buried his talents that he might not shine out from afar.

But the Warlord could feel him and he knew it. Rather than wait to be hunted down or chained up as was in his youth Magnus set out for the burning light.

At the time the Warlord was busy in the Lands of Skand where the Nordyc people dwelt. The Warlord was trying to unify them into a cohesive nation that he could work with and absorb into the Imperium. Some tribes would remain independent and raid and pirate and maraud across the landscape and they would be crushed for it but his hope would be that this would be minimal in number.

Magnus strode into the great wood and thatch hall almost as tall as the doorway, draped in animal skins and weathered and wild looking. The great hall fell silent for a moment until the babbling of conversations returned. He scanned the rows of men and women through the hazy smoky air seated around the tables and staying warm by the great fire pit until he found him, the Warlord.

He was seated some way down the bench tearing into a slab of mutton whilst a man in dusty grey robes negotiated with the king in a jovial manner. To the surprise of Magnus the Warlord waved him over and offered him a seat on the bench next to him and poured him a drink.

It had not occurred to Magnus that the Warlord meant him no harm, it had always been his assumption that powerful men fought and that was the way of things.

In the years that were to follow the Warlord did offer Magnus a place at his side not for his battlefield prowess, although that was formidable, but for the forbidden and ancient lore he had ██████████████ █████ ███████Data expunged by order of the Inquisition███ ███████ although it troubled him greatly.

Eventually Magnus did walk the battlefield, but this time at the head of a small army of his own making. A band of psykers like himself, some liberated slaves or other nations and some born free in the Imperium. For the first time since the death of his mother Magnus felt at home. They won much fame and fortune in the wars of Unification primarily against the stain on the map that was Ursh. Though the Warlord trusted Magnus he put upon him the one condition that he have no more dealings from things beyond conventional time and space.

The other commanders were unsure of Magnus, he was not fully human and he was witch-kin steeped in forbidden magics and lore. Mortarion and Russ both had a particular dislike of him for this and despised his methods. For all that Magnus became Primarch Magnus the Red but unlike most of his fellow Primarchs he could not recieve any augmentations due to his strangely genes.

As the Unification slid gently into the Great Crusade the Legion of the Thousnad Sons held themselves well and despite being the smallest of the Legions in the Imperial Army held themselves as high as any other.

As the War of the Beast ground on Magnus' armies found themselves out matched but still unrelenting. The Beast had psykers of his own and the Chaos Eldar made his people die screaming.

As the Beast assaulted Old Earth Magnus at last broke his word to the now Steward. He called forth all the old spirits as his mother taught him and shipped up the warp into a howling gale and dashed the Beasts fleets upon impossible shores and almost pity them for where they now were. It was a gamble that was not wholly won for some Imperial ships were lost in the gale, their crews damned and lost forever. He was severely berated by the Warlord for this and they almost came to blows.

He was present on Old Earth in those final days of that war confounding and confusing the sorcerers of Chaos and slaying their deamons.

Eventually the Steward and Magnus did reconcile their differences though it took many, many years.

It was said that the Grey Knights were founded and trained by ancient veterans of the Thousand Sons, although as with all things to do with the history of that order the truth will never be known.

Magnus was one of the 3 primarchs that lived to see the Steward crowned Emperor, although only barely. He was as human as the day he was born, however much that was, and longevity treatments can only take you so far. His ashes were scattered to the winds on the tallest Himalayan mountain carried there by the Emperor himself.

Even unto the Dark Millennium the Emperor would not allow discussion of what he found in those mountains.

Was it wondrous? Terrible? Both? None may know now. Whatever was there was gone by the time Earth was all but unified. A few abandoned villages, some empty temples, a few overgrown fields and no sign of violence.

Whatever was there looked and acted like people to fool people, more or less. Whatever was there left of it's own accord.

What it is and why anything can never be known though The Warlord found neither joy nor sorrow in its departure.

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== Sanguinius ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Martyr Angel'''''

Duscht Jemanic was an old nation, a once great empire that spanned from the coast of the Atlazia Ocean in the west to the Besivik Ocean in the east, the lightning speed of its war machines crushing nations beneath their tread. Over the centuries its power and borders were slowly eroded by the Ursh hordes in the east and revolts in its Europian provinces, until it was left only with its core territories and forced into a humiliating alliance for survival as part of the Quintuple Alliance.

The Duscht were a dour, efficient people, obsessed with genetic purity above all else. In their great iron towers the famed genesmiths delved into the secrets of the human genome, while in the bellies of its ashen factories millions of enslaved “unclean” sweated and died to produce the materials for its armies. It was into this decaying society that Sanguinius was born, only son of the Kaiser.

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The Kaiser was a cold man, and over the centuries of his life had failed to produce an heir that satisfied his need for perfection. As he grew old, he grew desperate, and in his desperation he summoned his greatest genesmiths to do something never before attempted: to create a human life. To create his perfect heir, he opened the ancestral gene-vaults of House Baal, and sequences were taken from its greatest heroes: genes from generals and warriors for strength and bravery, from diplomats and statesmen for wisdom and intelligence, from courtesans and athletes for beauty and fairness of form. To this blend of genes, the Kaiser, perhaps in a final act of caprice or megalomania, added the genes for a pair of enormous, white wings to grow from the child’s back.

With the genome completed, the genesmiths retreated to their towers to perform their ancient biotech rites to attempt to forge the raw genetic material into a living fetus. Nine and ninety failed, ending as twisted, misshapen things, but in the hundredth the genes took hold, and after a year and a day of labor the genesmiths presented the baby boy to the Kaiser. As he wept, the Kaiser named the boy “Sanguinius,” for he was to be the culmination and greatest champion of the Baal bloodline.

As the boy grew, he was indeed as perfect as expected: tall and strong, brilliant and wise, golden-haired and beautiful to behold. His tutors were astonished at his genius, and the royal masters of arms soon found themselves outstripped by the stripling boy. Yet the Kaiser was still displeased. For the boy had always been a means to an end: the restoration of the old Duscht Empire, and two factors pulled his dream further and further from his grasp. The first were rumors and rumblings of an upstart nation, led by a feared Warlord, conquering and subjugating those in its path. And the second was something he could never has foreseen, something that surprised and confused and enraged him when he confronted it: Sanguinius had compassion.

Indeed, as a boy he had horrified his governesses and caretakers by sneaking out of the palace to play with common children in the street (wearing bulky clothes to hide his growing wings), and infuriated his father by speaking out against cruelty of the nobility and freeing the household slaves assigned to him. His kindness and strength of will drew the masses to him, yet in his gaze there was always a sense of melancholy, a sense that he was looking into the distance at something no one else could see. And it was so, for Sanguinius had dreams.

In them he saw the Earth and the suffering of its teeming masses, felt their psychic screams of pain: from a nomad child dying of radiation in the Calbian wastes, raw boils and weeping sores stark against her pale skin, from an old slave in a Duscht factory collapsing under the savage blows of laughing guards, from all the wretched of the Earth crying for salvation. And from far away amongst the inky blankness of the stars he heard similar, fainter echoes as people suffered and died on far-flung planets across the galaxy. Sanguinius wept for them, and for his own powerlessness, and as he did a great, golden figure rose from the darkness, benevolent gaze sweeping over the Earth. It reached its hands down and lifted the masses to the stars, and where there was sorrow there was now hope and opportunity. Yet it was here Sanguinius’ visions diverged: in some, he and the Duscht people were lifted into the stars with the rest of humanity to spread amongst the galaxy, his heart bursting with joy. In the others, the great golden figure drew his gaze to the cruelty of Duscht Jemanic, to its slave pens and pogroms and purges of the unclean, and Sanguinius felt only cold despair as the great hands turned to fists and ground the Duscht people into dust.

Though he was not much older than a boy, Sanguinius vowed this would not come to pass, that he would protect the Duscht people and pledge himself to the service of the great savior, and that he would march across the stars to save the scattered people of Terra no matter where they were.

So it was that the Warlord came to borders of Duscht Jemanic during Sanguinius’ seventeenth year.

By this time, Sanguinius was the de facto leader, having won over the court with his charisma and strength. The Kaiser was by now decrepit and spent most of his time secluded in his private chambers, emerging occasionally to make wild proclamations and rant about the lost glory of the Duscht Empire. Thus when the Warlord’s herald came to demand the surrender of the Duscht people, it was the boy-king Sanguinius at the head of the Duscht steel legions that came to parley with the Warlord.

When Sanguinius stepped into the Warlord’s command tent and saw his face, it took all of Sanguinius’ will not to fall to his knees, for he knew with certainty that this was the great golden man he had dreamed of. The Warlord, noting the young man’s hesitation, is said to have greeted him with a half-smile and asked, “Is aught the matter?” to which Sanguinius simply replied, “I dreamed of you.”

The beginning of the negotiations was simple enough, for Sanguinius was already willing to pledge fealty and offer the technology of the genesmiths to the Warlord. Yet when Sanguinius requested mercy for his people, the discussions grew heated.

The Warlord was benevolent but possessed of an iron sense of justice, and in his eyes the cruelty of the Duscht people demanded harsh sanction. The specifics are lost to history, but the argument is said to have stretched long into the night, with Sanguinius pleading, protesting, and threatening in turn, and the Warlord impassively countering each rhetorical thrust. Finally, Sanguinius offered his own life in return for mercy for his people, for he declared that as the culmination of the Baal bloodline, the sins of his house were for him to bear.

Impressed by the earnest conviction of the young man, the Warlord relented. The Warlord demanded that the slaves were to be freed and the possessions of the nobility were to be seized and distributed among them, and that each house would serve in the Warlord’s armies as penance. Sanguinius himself would be their general, and their duty would be to go where the fighting was thickest and lead the charge. Finally collapsing to his knees from relief, Sanguinius accepted without hesitation.

With the secrets and technology of the Duscht genesmiths, the Warlord perfected the final design iteration for his Astartes warriors, the Mark III augmentation pattern, of which Sanguinius and his fellow primarchs to-be Vulkan and Lion El’Jonson were the prototypes. On them, the Warlord ordered the genesmiths to lavish their full expertise and to spare no cost, pushing the boundaries of their arcane knowledge.

When the three men emerged they were indeed without any of the flaws and mutations that had plagued the earlier Astartes generations, with strength and abilities far exceeding those of their existing fellows. However, the cost was astronomical and the process too slow to be viable on a large scale, thus for the mass production Mark III pattern the improvements were mostly limited to eliminating the flaws in the Mark II, keeping a roughly similar or perhaps marginally higher level of strength. The prototype Mark III design was archived, and later used for the most elite warriors of the Imperium, the Custodes and the Grey Knights.

For the rest of the Unification Wars, Sanguinius and his legion served with distinction, winning fame for their lightning assaults against even the most entrenched of foes, the Astartes descending as streaks of crimson on wings of burning ash and flame as they followed their general into battle. With his purity of spirit and the oneness of their shared vision for humanity, he won the trust and confidence of the Warlord and became a close advisor, making his eventual elevation to Primarch a mere formality. Thus when the Warlord became the Steward of the Empty Throne and proclaimed the Great Crusade, it was the fleets of the IX Legion with Primarch Sanguinius at the helm that were in the vanguard, blazing a trail into the darkness.

Sanguinius’ legend grew as he and his legion pacified world after world, a magnificent sight to behold as he soared over the battlefield on immense white wings to slay the enemies’ generals and greatest champions. Yet it was not only for feats of arms that he was revered as the “Angel”. Worlds blighted by mutation that would have been purged by other legions instead found themselves welcomed into the safety of the Imperium by the IX Legion, and broken peoples barely recognizable as human for the first time experienced the warmth of kinship and camaraderie.

The IX Legion soon won the moniker of “Blood Angels,” for their nobility of spirit and devotion to the shared blood of mankind. Soon, tales of the great Angel and his warriors spread across the oppressed people of the galaxy, and many rose in joyous rebellion against their alien overlords when the great Angel and his red warriors appeared in the skies above their worlds.

Amongst his brother Primarchs, Sanguinius found comrades and friends of his own. Well liked or at least well respected by most of the Primarchs, Sanguinius was particularly close with Horus and Vulkan. In him, “Old Man Roboute” finally had a willing audience for his lectures on strategy and logistics, and Fulgrim found a kindred spirit with an appreciation of art and philosophy, the greatest achievements of man. Sanguinius’ relationship with Angron was complicated, troubled by Angron’s unpredictable madness. On good days, theirs was a friendly rivalry as each legion strove to claim the title of finest assault troops in the Imperium; on others, Angron viewed the Angel as an upstart pretender without respect for his elders and resented the Angel's pity, and they had to be separated lest they come to blows. Curze and Mortarion despised Sanguinius as naïve and foolish, and Sanguinius despised them in turn for obvious reasons, Mortarion in particular for he reminded Sanguinius far too much of his own father.

When the Steward with Eldrad at his side first proposed the idea of an alliance with the Eldar to his gathered Primarchs at the Council of Nikaea, Sanguinius was one of the first to speak out in favor, for he believed all sapient beings willing to work towards peace, prosperity, and the good of mankind had a rightful place within the Imperium. Later, he would be part of the great raid on the twisted realms of Nurgle, and nearly perished there in the stinking hellscape.

As the raiding party retreated to the portal with Isha in tow, they received word that Eldrad and his council of seers holding the portal open in realspace had come under ferocious daemonic assault, and that the portal was failing rapidly. As the allied forces rushed to the exit, Sanguinius lingered trying to save the lives of several wounded Exarchs and Astartes. It was only through the combined heroics of Lion El’Jonson, Jaghatai Khan, and the Phoenix Lords Asurmen and Baharroth that he survived, as they carved a path through the hordes of slavering monstrosities to drag the Angel through the collapsing portal.

The next few years represented the high water mark of the Great Crusade as the Imperium expanded at an unprecedented rate, fueled by their new allies and technology. World after world was brought into the Imperium, and Sanguinius dared to hope that his dream of a gentler future could truly come to pass.

Then the War of the Beast came.

The hordes of the Orks, Chaos Eldar, and Dark Eldar smashed through the fledging Imperium, plunging it into darkness, and where there was hope and opportunity before there was now only a desperate struggle against extinction. The Blood Angels fought as they always had, leading the attack in the most vicious fighting, the tip of the Imperium’s spear, and inspiring fellow troops through deeds of valor and sacrifice. Many a Warboss, Archon, or Chaos Seer met his end at the blades of a squad of Blood Angels, only for the Astartes to be surrounded and cut down by the enraged foe. The loss of leaders sowed disruption and chaos in the enemy forces, yet for all the Blood Angels’ sacrifice it could only slow the enemy’s inexorable advance.

Those within the Imperium who fell traitor learned that Sanguinius was not all kindness, and found themselves hunted without mercy by the vengeful Blood Angels. Perhaps it was because the traitors sought to tear down his cherished dream of a peaceful future, or perhaps it was because they spat on the mercy and acceptance of the Steward that Sanguinius and his Duscht people had sacrificed so much to earn back on Terra long ago. Whatever the reason, he reserved a special savagery for those who turned their backs on the Imperium. It is said that after witnessing the carnage wrought on an entire regiment of Traitor Guard by a single squad of Blood Angels, a shocked Imperial Army general called High Command to ask “Where are the Angels I was promised? Who are these flesh tearers?”

And so the war ground on. Peace was a distant dream, and for the Men and Eldar of the Imperium there was only cold, quiet determination, defying a cruel fate in the face of a hateful and malicious universe. Worlds burned, trillions died, and across the galaxy the Blood Angels could be found neck deep in the thickest battles. Many battles were on the most populated worlds of the Imperium, and the Blood Angels would fulfill their devotion to mankind as they fought in rearguard actions to save civilians and evacuees, these valiant defenses all too often becoming last stands.

Captain Malakim and his doomed 29th Company became everlasting symbols of this devotion when they gave their lives to the man securing the evacuation of hive-world Ancalagon. Ancalagon had been the greatest world of Subsector Urulok, and the invasion of the world was particularly savage, representing the greatest concentration of Ork and Chaos Eldar forces in the subsector.
The Imperial defenders led by the Blood Angels were inevitably pushed back to the walls of the last hive, with millions of civilians yet to evacuate. Primarch Corvus Corax, commanding forces in a nearby subsector, repeatedly ordered the remaining Imperial forces to retreat and regroup to conserve their strength, yet Captain Malakim refused, for doing so would have doomed the millions of civilians to butchery or enslavement at the hands of the invaders. The Imperial defense held just long enough for the final transports to clear the spaceport, and as the hive walls were overrun the Chaos Seer leading the Chaos Eldar touched Captain Malakim’s mind to taunt him and savor his despair. Yet the alien only found calm and peace, and in response Captain Malakim sent out a final vox transmission.

Across the ruined world and the Imperial starships high above the words rang out, “For those we cherish, we die in glory!” Minutes later, enormous explosions visible from orbit erupted across the planet as hidden Cyclonic Torpedoes detonated, remotely triggered by the cessation of the heartbeat of the last Blood Angel defender. The massive loss crippled the Ork and Chaos Eldar forces in the subsector, and the regiments later raised from the evacuees won renown as some of the fiercest in the Imperial Army with their warcry, “Remember the blessed 29th!”

Through it all, Sanguinius could be found leading his Blood Angels in the most perilous of missions, or offering a kind word to faltering Guardsmen and a gentle touch to traumatized refugees. He ignored the criticisms that his men’s sacrifices were wasteful and pointless, the sneers that they could have done much more had they only the wisdom to regroup and fight another day. For Sanguinius knew that each civilian saved was another who could fight, build, and carry on the legacy of man, a precious spark of humanity, and that in a war as horrific as this morale and hope were as powerful as any weapon or starship or fortress.

Yet his men noticed a change in their beloved Primarch, subtle as it was, a restlessness and grimness he could not always hide. For Sanguinius’ visions were growing stronger, and each night, pounding at his consciousness, he saw his own death again and again. He knew it would be at the hands of a great monstrosity as he stood between it and the Steward, and that his time was growing short. Death held no fear for Sanguinius, but it was the fate of mankind that gave him pause; humanity was balanced on the knife’s edge, extinction a mere slip away. Even if the gentler future of his dreams was realized, Sanguinius knew he would not be there to see it, but he would give everything to ensure it would come to pass.

In the last days of the war, as the unstoppable hordes of the Beast, Dark Eldar, and Chaos Eldar converged on humanity’s final bastion, the Primarchs and their legions raced home to Terra to fortify their homeworld for the coming onslaught. Across the soil of Terra, the Men and Eldar of the Imperium prepared for their last stand, standing side by side to shout defiance at the hatred of the galaxy:

Here, a squad of Guardsmen drawn from a dozen worlds of the Imperium place sandbags around a hospital in the shadow of a towering Wraithlord, pausing occasionally to marvel at the gleaming colossus;

Bonesingers weave armored shells around the frames of hulking Imperial tanks, as nearby techpriests chitter with anxiety;

In a long abandoned church a Word Bearer Chaplain preaches to a motley crowd of humans and Eldar, rainbow lights from ancient stained-glass dancing on his brow, fire and ecstasy burning in his breast;

A mother comforts her weeping child as they are shepherded onto an evacuation ship under the watchful eye of an Ultramarine, the boy still reaching for the picture he dropped of his fallen father;

At the edge of their camp, in an old garden under the light of the stars, a tall Aspect Warrior kisses an astonished guardswomen and smiles at her joy;

And far above in the night sky, the greatest fleets of Men and Eldar float amidst the gloom, blotting out the stars with their number, ready to stand and spit light and fire against the coming forces of the dark.

Secluded in the great halls in the Imperial Palace, the Steward with his Primarchs and Eldrad with his seers laid their plans for the coming invasion. Agreements were made and bitter arguments were fought. Many of the Primarchs requested the honor of defending the Imperial Palace itself, and the Steward heard them each in turn, from the impassioned pleas of Lorgar to the cold growls of Dorn.

Yet when the Steward turned to Sanguinius, expecting a fervent request for the honor from his old friend, he found only tranquility. Sanguinius rose from his seat, and said, “That I shall die before the walls of this palace is beyond doubt. My destiny comes and I go to it with peace in my heart.”

The Steward recognized the calm conviction in the Angel’s eyes. It was the same look he had seen so many years ago when he first met Sanguinius as the Warlord in his command tent, and Sanguinius had offered his life for mercy for his people. It was the look of a man who had wholly accepted and welcomed his death for a greater purpose, and would go to it without fear and regret.

Moved by his words, the Steward accepted the request. So it was that when the Chaos armada forced its way to Terra and its unending hordes began their assault on the Imperial Palace, they found the proud Blood Angels manning the great walls, with Sanguinius, his elite First Company, and the legendary Custodes defending the Eternity Gate.

The Beast was possessed of greater cunning and primal intelligence than most of his species, and began the assault by probing the defense of the palace, looking for a weakness. When none were found, he sent his the masses of his most expendable troops to overwhelm the defense with the crushing weight numbers.

But Dorn and Perturabo had done their work well. Automated defense turrets gunned down hordes of Orks before they even reached the firing range of the Blood Angels, and those that survived ended up in carefully designed killing fields with no cover and no escape. Overhead, Ork jets and stormboyz crashed screaming off the palace void shields, or were frozen by stasis fields to be picked off by lance batteries at leisure.

Yet for all of Dorn and Perturabo’s defensive genius, the palace was simply not designed to hold off numbers of this magnitude, for who could have predicted a Waaagh comprised of a full half of the Orks in the galaxy? After several days of fighting a flaw emerged: the immense piles of dead Orks were obscuring crucial firing angles for the defensive turrets, and had grown so tall in some places that the greenskins were using them to climb up the previously impregnable walls. The Imperial Palace was too vast to fully hold against so numerous a foe, thus Sanguinius ordered his forces to withdraw to the secondary defensive positions, cunningly designed to minimize the advantage of numbers and to funnel the enemy towards the entrenched elites defending the Eternity Gate. Thus it was the days after the breaching of the walls that the historians consider the true Siege of the Imperial Palace.

The first day of the siege consisted of more Orks, though now they included more than just mere boyz. In the Orkish hordes now came nobz and weirdboyz, flash gitz and kommandoz, all roaring for battle and eager to spill the blood of humanity.

The first greenskins to enter the Grand Plaza of the Eternity Gate were greeted with a magnificent sight before they were gunned down: the white-winged Angel surrounded by his warriors resplendent in red, while beside them stood the gold-clad figures of the Custodes with their Lord Commander Arik Taranis at the forefront, holding aloft the great Banner of Unification, its length equal to full five Astartes. Behind them, a giant Aquila spread its wings on the massive adamantium Eternity Gate, protecting the Throne Room command center where the Steward and Eldrad commanded the forces of Terra, telepathically linked with thousands of their commanders to coordinate with perfect precision and unison.

The two sides met in the middle of the plaza with a resounding crash, howling as their blades sought the blood of their hated foes. Chainswords tore flesh, power klawz ripped bodies, and the dead and wounded were trampled underfoot in the savage melee. Lord Commander Taranis won the greatest deed of the day, slaying the Warboss leading the Orks by impaling him on the Banner of Unification and lifting his still screaming body into the air for all to see, as Sanguinius held off the Warboss’ nob retinue.

By nightfall, the tide of Orks slowed, for their poor eyesight would have put them at a great disadvantage against the enhanced Astartes and the Beast would not waste his troops here. As the last Ork died gurgling with a sword rammed through its chest, the defenders found a moment of respite to pray for the dead, celebrate the deeds of the living, and prepare for the next day.

The start of the second day consisted of more Orks, though by mid-morning it was clear something was amiss. The Ork forces were in disarray, even for their crude standard of organization, and reports came from the secondary Blood Angel positions that an unknown force was attacking the Orks in the rear. When lithe figures in black cut down the last of the Orks and stepped into the great plaza, it became all to clear: the Dark Eldar had come. In their sadistic greed, they had seen a opportunity to capture the unfathomable prizes of the Steward and Eldrad at the same time, and believing the Blood Angels to be worn down they had come in full force to break the defenders.

The Dark Eldar were a deadly foe: Astartes and Custodes died screaming as the enemy weapons inflicted agony that overcame even their enhanced physiologies and mental conditioning. Yet the vile invaders had blundered in their greed and haste: for all their lethal skill and precision, the Dark Eldar were not assault troops, their equipment and tactics unsuited for the grinding attrition of siege warfare, and Sanguinius and his scions quickly showed them their error.

With no space to maneuver and dodge in the packed plaza, sculpted, graceful bodies shaped by the finest of Comorragh’s flesh arts were crushed under ceramite and steel as easily as any Ork boy. Three entire Wych cults were eradicated that day, with Sanguinius personally cutting down the three Succubi that led them. As night fell, once again the enemy withdrew, consumed by infighting as the ever-scheming Archons used the chaos to usurp weakened rivals or settle old scores. There was no levity this night for the defenders: their wounds and exhaustion prevented such efforts, and battered armor and weapons required their attention.

The dawn of the third day was unusually still, the Orks and Dark Eldar nowhere to be found. For a moment, the defenders wondered if the xenos had retreated to seek an easier target, but when the morning quiet was shattered by the pounding of unholy war drums, eldritch howls, ululating chants, and gibbering laughter, the xenos’ absence became clear.

The dread legions of Chaos crested the great stairway of the plaza in a screeching tide of twisted flesh: hordes of savage Bloodletters, sinuous Daemonettes, and rotted Plaguebearers, howling and eager to feast on the souls of the defenders. Beside them were mobs of cultists, cowardly, wretched things skulking in the shadows of their masters and chanting hymns of praise to their dark gods, hoping to gain a few scraps of favor.

Throughout the horde, the defenders glimpsed the Chaos Eldar, impossibly beautiful and perfect, their every movement liquid and effortless, their flawless faces belying the wild and fickle cruelty within. Ceramite gauntlets tightened around the hilt of swords and bolters as the Astartes gazed with hatred on a row of hulking figures, their fallen comrades the Traitor Marines. At their front strode the Arch-Heretic Erebus, once honored as First Captain of the Word Bearers and Living Saint of the Katholian Church, now reviled as the Dark Oracle and First Traitor.

Above the teeming corrupted multitude stood the four greatest servants of the Ruinous Powers, looming over their minions: Kairos Fateweaver, the ancient Lord of Change; Scabeiathrax the Bloated, the laughing and virulent Great Unclean One; Zarakynel the Bringer of Torments, the most favored Keeper of Secrets; and the mighty Ka’Bandha, bloodiest of Khorne’s Bloodthirsters.

Such a sight could have driven men to madness or despair; this was an army to crush entire sectors and devour the souls of species. Yet the Blood Angels and Custodes raised their blades aloft and shouted warcries and challenges at the dark horde, spitting defiance and insults in the faces of the dark gods. For they had armored themselves in faith and duty, purpose and loyalty, and there were no flaws upon their souls where weakness could take hold.

With the mournful blare of warhorns, the daemonic forces broke rank and thundered through the plaza. Astartes and Custodes had only moments to ready themselves before the wave crashed into their ranks. Daemonic hellblades tore through ceramite with unholy strength, impaling Astartes’ twin hearts in a single blow. Blasts of swirling warpfire incinerated men where they stood, armor and all, and still others were melted into puddles of festering ooze by hellish plagues and toxins.

Yet for every loss they suffered, the defenders retaliated tenfold. The searing touch of holy promethium and plasma cleansed corrupted flesh, and ancient power weapons sang their songs of death and lightning as the Astartes hewed through the enemy ranks. Vanguard veterans descended from on high, lashing out with bolt and blade and scattering the enemy before them, while Librarians wove great nimbuses of lightning and incinerated scores of demons with a gesture.

It is said that only in the crucible of trials and hardship does a man find his true worth, and humanity’s darkest hour also proved its finest. The Blood Angels fought with the fury of humanity itself, and their deeds that day would echo through history, to be sung of in the future even as the embers of civilization smoldered and the darkness drew near.

Chief Librarian Sandelon was the first to slay one of the Greater Daemons. As the battle swirled around him, the great librarian found himself facing Scabeiathrax, and without a flicker of hesitation he hurled himself at the massive, bloated daemon. The Blood Angel tore great gouges into the beast’s stinking flesh with his force staff and lances of crimson lightning, skillfully dodging between the beast’s cumbersome counterstrikes. However, for a heartbeat, the librarian was distracted as he turned to parry the strikes of a Chaos Astartes attacking his flank, and the momentarily lull in his defenses was enough: the Great Unclean One skewered Sandelon at the end of its massive, rusted cleaver, chortling to itself as its prey writhed on the end of its weapon. But Sandelon would not die.

With his rage and sheer force of will he anchored his soul to his dying body, and grasping the cleaver with both hands impaled himself further, bringing him within striking range of the daemon’s head. With a roar he rammed his force staff through the daemon’s skull, and focused all his pain and rage into a maelstrom of searing lightning through the staff.

The greater daemon howled and twisted in pain and fear as it burned from the inside out, slabs of flesh blackening and sloughing from its massive body, until at last it was nothing more than piles of charred, smoking meat, and its soul was sent screaming back into the realms of the warp. Only then did Sandelon close his eyes, a grim smile of satisfaction on his lips, and allow his soul to depart, his ravaged body at last going limp as he left to join his fallen brothers.

Elsewhere on the battlefield, Captain Azkaellon of the First Company, famed leader of the Sanguinary Guard, slew a dozen Chaos Lords in succession as they stepped forth to challenge his Primarch while Sanguinius dueled Erebus. Their weapons clashed for the better part of an hour, great bursts of light and warp energy erupted from the points of contact between the radiant blade of gold and the cruel mace of black. Finally, Sanguinius found an opening in Erebus’ defenses, and with a flourish he disarmed the Arch-Heretic, before severing both the traitor’s arms with a sweep of his burning blade.

Zarakynel was slain by Commander Taranis, the mighty Custodes parrying and dashing through the flashing, quicksilver strikes of the Keeper of Secrets. With a single blow of his right hand, the Commander bisected the daemon at the waist, all while firm grasping the Banner of Unification in his left.

Yet for all the deeds of heroism performed that day, the greatest was surely the Banishing of Ka’Bandha. The towering Bloodthirster was more akin to a force of nature, its great axe and nine-tailed scourge were streaks of blood as it cleaved through scores of Astartes and Custodes with contemptuous ease, and the Imperial defenders were forced to cede ground to it rampaged across the plaza.

Filled with fury at the deaths of so many of his men, Sanguinius rallied his Sanguinary Guard and together they crashed into the path of the berserk daemon. The blades of Astartes and daemon lashed out, slashing and hacking, as Sanguinius and his Guard pressed the daemon. As they fought, a score of the Sanguinary Guard were slain, each a mighty hero the Blood Angels in his own right. Yet not even Ka’Bandha could stand in the face of so many lethal warriors, and it was forced back, bleeding from dozens of wounds.

Flapping its great leather wings, it launched itself into the air seeking a respite, but Sanguinius followed, chasing the massive daemon into the sky on wings of white. In the air, they clashed and broke away, seeking greater height before clashing again. The nimbler Angel darted around the heavy Bloodthirster, swooping and twisting, dodging the daemon’s blows and inflicting a dozen more wounds on the beast. Sensing the daemon was slowing, Sanguinius pressed his advantage, and in a blur of speed, he slashed through the daemon’s right wing, sending the beast hurtling down to the plaza far below.

It landed with a thundering crash, crushing the granite and gouging a huge crater, and a few seconds later Sanguinius landed, driving his boot into the daemon’s head with all the force of his dive. As the daemon struggled to rise, faithful Azkaellon slashed through the daemon’s remaining wing as Sanguinius drove his sword through its throat. With the beast weakened, Sanguinius flung aside his blade and grabbed the Bloodthirster by its legs and throat, and with a heroic burst of strength lifted the beast above his head and dashed him against his knee, tearing the daemon in two with his force. The warriors of Chaos looked on in shock as Sanguinius flung the two pieces of the mighty demon into their ranks, while Ka’Bandha's soul was flung screaming into the warp to beg forgiveness at the feet of Khorne.

And so the battle raged on. Kairos Fateweaver was the last of the Greater Daemons to fall, screaming in rage and disbelief as it’s carefully laid plans were ruined, its frail body pulverized by the thunder hammers of a dozen vengeful Blood Angel Terminators.

Though their greatest champions had been cast down, the forces of Chaos did not relent. Night fell and there was no respite that evening, for daemons did not suffer from frailties like fear or exhaustion, and their mortal servants would never dare retreat lest they invite the displeasure of their fickle masters. Long into the night, the sounds of battle echoed through the darkened plaza, the shadowy figures of daemon and Astartes illuminated only by the brief flashes of power weapons and bolter muzzles, and the ghostly glow of plasma and warpfire.

Dawn broke as the last of the daemons were slain and banished to the warp, and the first rays of the sun touched on a hellish scene. The plaza was a mire of gore and viscera, so thick that the granite floor could not be seen beneath clotting pools of purple and red and brown, an accumulation of blood spilled over three days of ceaseless battle. Greasy tongues of black smoke reached into the sky from pyres of corpses fifty feet high, as alien, traitor, and daemon alike were fed into the fire. Amongst the dead stood the few survivors, lonely figures of red and gold, the proud First Company of the Blood Angels and the legendary Adeptus Custodes reduced to a meager handful. They knelt above the bodies of their fallen brothers, the dead outnumbering the living, and no words were spoken as each man offered his silent prayers to the fallen. The honored dead, who just a few hours ago had been friends, comrades, and battle-brothers, were now reduced to corpses, cold and silent, by the savagery of the xenos, the treachery of man, and the hatred of Chaos.

Yet even in this time of their greatest weariness and sorrow, there was no time for rest. Frantic calls came from the perimeter, voices raw from battle and disbelief as the scouts reported a monstrous Ork the size of a building advancing towards the Eternity Gate, surrounded by a horde of Nobz as big as Warbosses. The Imperial defenders gritted their teeth and gripped their swords, rising on legs worn from days of relentless fighting. The Beast itself had come. Yet when they turned to their Primarch for orders, they found that Sanguinius was still kneeling amongst the dead. They shouted but he did not hear, they shook him but he did not feel; for the visions had come again, stronger than ever before. They assailed his mind, overwhelming thought, a thousand variations and permutations of his impending death: crushed beneath a foot the size of a land speeder, impaled on the end of jagged claws, swatted out of the air to be hacked down by swarming Nobz, and a thousand other ends too brutal to imagine. Any lesser man would have been driven to madness by the phantom pain, but Sanguinius summoned all his will and forced the visions back, suppressing them until they were not gone but at least tolerable, and his mind was his own once more. He rose on unsteady legs to the relief of his men, and together the defenders pulled back from across the plaza. Sanguinius shouted orders as the Astartes and Custodes readied their weapons and gathered in a tight defensive circle before the Eternity Gate itself. Here, they would stand. Here, they would die.

The Beast announced its presence long before it reached the plaza, the ground itself dully reverberating with the weight of its steps. Steadily, the tremors grew stronger, until at least the Beast strode into view, granite cracking and splintering beneath its steps, its horde of hulking Nobz following close behind. Partway into the plaza, the Orks stopped, and for a few moments an eerie silence hung over the plaza as the two sides surveyed each other.

The Imperial defenders gazed for the first time on the monstrous Beast, whom before they had only heard of through hearsay and scattered reports. It was even more ferocious in the flesh: a towering monstrosity almost forty feet tall, defying all laws of nature and biology. Tusks as wide as a man jutted from its jaw and its gargantuan frame bulged with enough alien muscle to tear apart an Imperial Knight. It bore no weapons, instead grafting individual power field generators onto its jagged claws, and its crude armor was formed from the plates of destroyed Baneblades and Titans.

Even a spirit as pure and tireless as Sanguinius could be worn down. For days, he had faced the most terrible and nightmarish foes of humanity in endless combat, seen thousands of cherished friends and comrades butchered, resisted haunting visions of death and madness that would have broken any lesser man; and as Sanguinius gazed upon the overwhelming and terrible form of the Beast, for the first time he felt doubt.

What if it had all been useless?
What if all their struggle and sacrifice was for naught, and the light of humanity was snuffed out?
What if he failed?

Sensing an opening, the faintest blemish on Sanguinius’ soul, the dark gods of Chaos struck.
Creeping tendrils of dark thought seeped into his mind, offers and seductions, promises of power enough to fulfill all his dreams.

''Kneel before me,'' boomed a voice of hot iron and raw power, ''and I shall give you and your soldiers such strength that none may stand before you, and the whole galaxy shall know peace under the might of your legions.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius himself leading the invincible legions of the Imperium to victory after glorious victory, sweeping away the enemies of man until only an iron peace remained, enforced under his watchful eye.

''Join me,'' said a voice of chortling mirth and boundless life, ''and man will never again fear the blight of mortality or the frailties of flesh, and you shall be free to spread across the galaxy to spread life wherever you tread.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius saw joyous families, untouched by age or weakness, venturing forth on great journeys of discovery, colonizing virgin worlds and facing the challenges of the galaxy with optimism and camaraderie.

''Serve me,'' rasped a voice of eldritch cunning and ancient wisdom, ''and I shall grant you wisdom and foresight, and all the knowledge of the lost golden age of man.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius saw all the ancient wonders of humanity restored as man, filled with wisdom and understanding, walked among the stars to reclaim the galaxy with knowledge and technology.

''Come with me,'' said a voice of whispering silk and untamed passion, ''and humanity shall be made tall and strong and golden, shaped in your image and as perfect as you.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius saw golden men and women, as tall and strong as he, striding across the stars without fear, their wings carrying them over the skies of distant worlds

The voices grew louder, each clamoring to be heard, sometimes working in concert to sway him, sometimes working to undermine the others. But they agreed on one thing: the way forward was so simple, so clear, and Sanguinius only need reach out to grasp the power and opportunity offered to him. Sanguinius was granted one final vision: he saw himself in the Throne Room of the palace, warpfire dancing in his eyes, the power of the Warp overflowing from his body. Before him, a bleeding Steward kneeled at his feet, and to his side the headless body of Eldrad lay discarded, the blind eyes of the severed head frozen in an accusatory glare. Reaching down, Sanguinius hauled the Steward upright as the voices exulted and laughed, and with a leering smile shoved his golden sword through the Steward’s chest.

''No.''

In an instant the voices recoiled, and Sanguinius’ eyes snapped open. He had not realized they were closed.
''Only creatures as foul and debased as you would think that virtue could be gifted, that loyalty could be bought and bartered,'' he thundered in his mind. ''Strength does not come from might of arms, but from clarity of purpose and force of will. Joy does not come from a long life, but from a life well-lived. Wisdom does not come from arcane secrets, but from experience hard won in the trials of life. Perfection does not come through fairness of form and mind, but from struggle, sacrifice, and the will to better oneself, the noblest virtues of man.''
''Your pathetic entreaties have failed, false gods. Flee back to your twisted realms and think upon your failure, that for all your supposed power you could not sway this man to your cause. Know that though you have thrown all your greatest champions and sorceries and horrors against the bastion of humanity, we live on, and that man will rise from these ashes, stronger for having risen above such adversity. Know that man will one day conquer his baser self, that you will wither and starve, and far in the future when you have long disappeared, the light of humanity will continue to shine from the stars, until the universe itself comes to a close.''

And the voices howled and cursed, the Ruinous Powers swearing bloody vengeance upon Sanguinius and his kin. He took a moment to savor their impotent rage and smiled briefly, and then with a shout he banished the Chaos gods from his mind.

Though the dark gods had whispered their lies for what seemed like hours, only moments had passed in reality, and both the orks and the Imperial defenders were stirring. The horde of Nobz bellowed war chants and smashed their weapons together, raising a crashing din of guttural roars and ringing metal. The Beast itself was still motionless, its eyes surveying the Astartes with malevolent cunning.

Around Sanguinius, his men were springing into motion. Captain Azkaellon shouted for reinforcements through his vox receiver, calling for the secondary Blood Angel forces within the Imperial Palace to hurry to the plaza and for the assistance of any other Imperial forces in the vicinity. The few remaining librarians readied their powers, sparks swirling about their temples and fingers, as Astartes and Custodes checked armor and weapons battered from days of combat, adjusted sights, and muttered quiet prayers.

The ground shook as the Beast finally began to move. With slow, ponderous steps, it walked out in front of the horde, waving the eager Nobz back as they tried to follow; one Nob foolhardy enough to follow was pulverized into a smear by a casual swing of the Beast’s massive fist.

Across the plaza, Sanguinius did likewise, striding out alone against the protests of his men, shaking off Azkaellon as his captain begged him not to face the Beast alone. The Steward in the Throne Room had sensed the presence of the Beast, and as he touched Sanguinius’ mind he knew in an instant that the Angel meant to face the Beast unaided. The Steward urgently ordered his old friend to retreat to the Throne Room so that they might face it together, but Sanguinius refused, for to do so would have endangered the very survival of humanity.

The Steward was psychically linked with thousands of his commanders as he orchestrated the Imperial forces across Terra, and it was only through his military genius that they held, the armies of men and Eldar acting in perfect unison as they threw back wave after wave of fouls xenos and the forces of Chaos. Distracting the Steward would imperil all the forces of Terra and the survival of humanity, for even if the Beast were slain, Terra would fall should the rest of the planet be lost. Knowing he could not sway Sanguinius’ decision, the Steward could only powerlessly observe as Sanguinius bade him farewell, and met the Beast in the middle of the plaza.

Man cannot be brave without fear, nor can he have faith without doubt, and once again fear and doubt welled in Sanguinius’ heart as the terrible figure of the Beast grew larger in his vision. Not fear or doubt for himself, for death held no sway over him. No, it was fear for the future of man, for their fate hung in the balance, the existence of his entire species to be decided in the coming moments. It was doubt for the very meaning of his struggle, for while Sanguinius would gladly sacrifice himself a thousand times over, he wondered if even his greatest efforts could alter the cruel whims of fate.

But unlike before, when these weaknesses had gnawed on his resolve and allowed an opening for the whispers of Chaos, he now let them pass through him, accepting and facing down these unfamiliar feelings. And as they swirled inside them, he found a rock hard seed of hope deep in the core of his being. For Sanguinius believed in the spirit of man: in man’s resiliency, the sheer dogged stubbornness and will to endure; in his nobility, the greatness of heart and will to strive towards a better future; in his capacity for hope, the daring to dream even in the face of unfathomable darkness. And he believed in the Steward, his liege, his friend, his brother.

Thus from the dark waters of doubt did the great rock of faith rise, renewed and immovable. Sanguinius felt his fears for the future of man dissipate, for he knew that humanity would carry on and flourish far into the future even without him to protect it, and with fresh eyes, he gazed upon the Beast and knew that even such a monster could not stand in the way of humanity’s ascent. Fear became bravery and tranquility; his mind was his own, his will was pure. In the middle of the plaza, as the Beast loomed over him, Sanguinius took a slow breath and savored his last quiet moment.

The tension broke as Sanguinius burst into motion, moving so quickly he was a blur even to the enhanced senses of his Astartes. With all his righteous fury and strength he surged into the air and slashed at the Beast’s head, the massive Ork barely catching the strike in time with its armored fist. The Beast staggered back several steps from the force of the blow as the Blood Angels and Custodes looked on in awe at the power of the Primarch, and the Ork’s features twisted into a leering grin of approval, acknowledging Sanguinius’ strength. It struck back, faster than anything that huge had right to be, so fast even Sanguinius barely had time to react. The servos in Sanguinius’ armor whirred and screeched as mechanical muscle and his own superhuman frame struggled to parry the Ork’s counterblow, the power fields around the Beast’s claws crackling as they skimmed the golden relic armor.

And so the Beast and the Angel fought, the smaller frame of Sanguinius darting and striking between the Beast’s thunderbolt blows. The duel stretched on, with neither side seeming to take the advantage, and the Blood Angels allowed themselves to hope, to believe that their Primarch could win. Such hope was futile. Sanguinius could not have defeated the Beast alone even were he rested and at his full strength, perhaps fighting the monster to a standstill at best. But Sanguinius was not rested; he was wounded and weary from days of battle against the most savage foes of man, and as the duel continued blood trickled from his armor as days-old wounds reopened under the ferocious strain of combat.

A low rumble came from the Beast then, a sound of grating iron and gloating amusement, and the Astartes realized it was laughing. The Beast’s fist whipped forward in a blur, catching Sanguinius in a misstep as the massive punch caught the Angel in the chest, and he was thrown hurtling through the air, crashing through one of the few remaining statues in the plaza before tumbling to a halt on the shattered granite.

With a cry, the remaining Astartes and Custodes rushed forward to the aid of their Primarch, determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible, and from the other end of the plaza the horde of Nobz broke ranks as well, no longer able to contain their bloodlust. As Sanguinius struggled to his feet, armor cracked and blood matting his golden hair and white wings, he gazed into the mocking black eyes of his hated foe and he vowed that the Beast would not leave the plaza without bleeding dearly. In a moment, Azkaellon was at his side, pulling him to his feet, and Sanguinius joined his men in their final charge across the plaza.

Even as exhausted as they were, the Blood Angels each fought with unmatched valor: individual Astartes held off a dozen Nobz as others hurled themselves at the Beast, sacrificing themselves to try to force an opening in the monster’s defenses. The Beast was more than eager to oblige, roaring as it swiped left and right, crushing scores of Astartes with each blow. Before the unstoppable blows of the Beast and the crushing numbers of Nobz, the defenders were forced back across the plaza, until they were backed up to the steps before the Eternity Gate itself.

As his men died to the last around him, Sanguinius finally sensed an opening in the Beast’s defenses. He made a quick gesture at Azkaellon who understood immediately, and the captain flew into the air, flame roaring from his jump pack as he slashed at the Beast’s face, distracting the Ork.

As the faithful captain was crushed by the monster’s fist, Sanguinius summoned the final reserves of his strength and leaped with a great flap of his wings. Blinded by the smoke and flame in its eyes, the Beast was caught unaware as Sanguinius descended from on high and plunged his golden blade through crude armor plates, deep into its chest, seeking the heart that lay beneath. The Beast roared in pain as the sword carved open a massive wound, thick spurts of blood bursting forth, but as Sanguinius drew his sword from the Ork’s chest it caught in the sternum bone, and the momentary pause was enough. The Beast’s hand shot up and seized the Primarch from the air, pinning Sanguinius within the massive fist.

Outside the plaza, the other Blood Angel companies had rushed to aid of their Primarch and First Company upon hearing Azkaellon’s call for reinforcements. They neared the plaza as Sanguinius was dueling the Beast, but they found their way blocked by the horde of Nobz, and even with all their desperate strength, they could not break through the wall of hulking greenskins, for the Orks were simply too savage and too many. It was only upon the arrival of Leman Russ and Lorgar, the only two Primarchs close enough to respond to the call for aid, and their legions of Space Wolves and Word Bearers that the reinforcements were finally able to make headway.

Together, the Blood Angels, Space Wolves, and Word Bearers hacked their way through the Orks and crested the stairs to the plaza just in time to see the Beast grab Sanguinius in its massive fist, the plaza strewn with masses of dead greenskins and lifeless bodies clad in red and gold. As they looked on in stunned horror, Sanguinius turned his head to face them, and against all their expectations, he gently smiled. It was an expression of true warmth, forgiveness, and trust that shone from Sanguinius’ beatific face, a gesture that he did not blame them and that he placed his faith with them to safeguard humanity. In that final moment, as tears welled in their eyes, the Astartes could only watch helplessly as the Beast’s fist closed, and the monster ripped Sanguinius into shreds.

With cries of grief, the Imperial forces threw themselves at the greenskins in a blind rage. Leman Russ led the assault, tearing his way through the Nobz to body of Lord Commander Arik Taranis of the Custodes. There, he seized the fallen Banner of Unification and raised the great standard for the last time, rallying the Imperial forces forward. Yet for all their fury, the Astartes could not cut through the Orks in time, and were forced to watch, helpless once again, as the Beast smashed through the adamantium of the Eternity Gate to face the Steward and Eldrad within the Throne Room.

As the last Ork fell and the Imperial forces made their way to the ruins of the Eternity gate amidst corpses of crimson and gold, they found Eldrad perched upon the massive chest of the lifeless Beast, and the Steward kneeling over a red ruin, cradling the last few pieces of his old friend. Later, Eldrad would confess that they never could have defeated the Beast were it not for the great wound Sanguinius carved into its chest, and in his quiet moments the Steward, later the Emperor, wondered if his friend and brother might have been saved, had he only chosen a different Primarch and legion to defend the palace, or sallied forth from the Throne Room to save the Angel as he dueled the Beast.

In the aftermath of the Battle of Terra, as the forces of Chaos were defeated and driven back from the planet in disarray, the Blood Angels spirited away the remains of Sanguinius to the shattered land of what had once been Duscht Jemanic. There, in the garden of the old Jemanic Palace, they buried Sanguinius in his favorite childhood refuge, a solitary place with a creek, quiet and clear, and where the trees were very old.

As word spread of the Primarch’s death, cries rose from across the Imperium for a great state funeral so that all might participate in grieving and remembering the beloved Angel. The Steward agreed, urging the remaining Blood Angel captains that such gesture would help the survivors and citizens of the Imperium move on from the loss, but they stubbornly refused. Sanguinius would have wanted the resources and efforts of the Imperium focused on rebuilding and moving forward, not spent on lingering in the past, and besides, there was not enough left to fill a casket.

Today, Sanguinius is the most dearly loved of the Primarchs, revered as the Martyr Angel for his great sacrifice. Secrets do not last long in the Imperium, and upon his burial site, where Sanguinius was to rest undisturbed for eternity, there now stands a small chapel, built with reluctance by the Blood Angels when word of their Primarch’s resting place was revealed. It was, after all, better than erecting a massive cathedral there as many demanded. Pilgrims wait for years on end for a chance to enter and glimpse one of the holiest relics in the Imperium: a single white pinion feather from one of Sanguinius’ wings, miraculously untouched by blood or dirt during the four days of the Siege of the Imperial Palace.

Sanguinius is also honored in the yearly celebration of the Sanguinala; coincidentally, his death came three days after his birth on the Terran calendar, so for this span of time all are encouraged to celebrate the Angel’s life and great deeds, and to share in his spirit of goodwill towards all. Traditional decorations of red are hung in homes, and children are told that if they are good, the spirit of Sanguinius will visit them as they sleep and leave presents under their beds.

As for the Blood Angels, the fierce spirit of their Primarch still burns within their twin hearts as brilliantly as it did ten millennia ago. The First Company of their chapter is called the Death Company, in memory of the sacrifice of the entire company when they died at Sanguinius’ side long ago, and when veterans are inducted into this august group they swear the Oath of Black Rage, a remembrance of the helpless grief and fury they felt as they watched their beloved Primarch die.

Amongst Imperial citizens, they are celebrated for their compassion, virtue, and defense of the common man; the melancholy Blood Angel clad in red is a popular figure in Imperial media, most recently in the popular romance Eventide, where a young Eldar farseer is caught between the affections of a rugged Space Wolf and noble Blood Angel. Yet for all the adoration and honors rightly bestowed upon the Blood Angels for their undying defense of the Imperium, the old veterans have begun to wonder if the younger Astartes are becoming vainglorious, and if they are losing the true meaning of sacrifice. Pride is the surest road to damnation, and so they renew their vows of humility and loyalty, remaining vigilant not only in the defense of man but in defense of their own souls.

Beneath the romance of their devotion and nobility is the eternal struggle against the forces of chaos and entropy, the unending duty of the Blood Angels. Like Sanguinius before them, they fight for the dream of humanity even as it stretches before them into an uncertain future. For this dream, they fight and bleed and die to hold the darkness at bay, to halt the dying of the light, even if it is only for a moment.

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== Lion ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Black Knight''''' - or ''The Knight of Franj:''

The story of Lion El'Jonson began over a generation before his actual birth, during the Nordyc-Franj war. Clovis Fouché, king of Franj, had sought the aid of Skand against the invasions of the Tyrant of Gredbriton, and after the Tyrant had been repulsed the Nordyc sought payment for their services. However, King Clovis had proven to be rather miserly with the payment of the debt, and the men of Skand were worried they would never be recompensed. Chief Thengir of the Kalararit was nominated by the chieftains of Skand to travel to Franj to discuss the repayment of the debt with King Clovis.

For whatever reason, the meeting did not go peacefully. The exact nature of the quarrel has been lost to history. The Nordyc claimed that King Clovis tried to short-change them, offering only a pittance in exchange for the blood they had shed. The Franj claimed that Chief Thengir had acted arrogant and disrespectful, behaving more like a conqueror demanding tribute than an ally requesting payment. Whatever the reason, the meeting quickly escalated to violence.

Chief Thengir lost his hand. King Clovis lost his life.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Thus began the Nordyc-Franj war. In retaliation for the death of their king, Franj soldiers devastated huge tracts of Skand and destroyed entire Nordyc villages. The Nordyc responded by launching devastating raids into the heart of Franj territory. The war only ended when the new regent, 15 year old Yolande Fouché, Yolande the Clever, called a meeting with Chief Thengir, now known as Thengir the Cripple, to formally apologize and pay back the remainder of the debt along with a weregild for the lives lost. Nevertheless, a considerable amount of hatred remained between the Nordyc and Franj. Perhaps nowhere was this more pronounced than between the noble family of Jonson and the Kalararit house of Russ, both of whom had been involved in the thickest of the fighting.

As a boy, the Lion grew up with stories of glory and heroism, of knights and warriors. And yet not all of these stories were merely tales of fancy. The Lion grew up idolizing his older brother, Luther El'Jonson, who was at first a Knight of Franj and later, when Franj-Europia had been absorbed into the Imperium, a Mark I Astartes. Luther El'Jonson had won fame for his exploits as a mere squire of 16 in the Nordyc-Franj war, and had only risen in stature since. However, the Sword of Franj had a darker side which was not widely known. Although Luther was a loyal servant of Franj, he greatly disliked the fact that his country was consorting with weak allies, first with the Europia and then later the Imperium itself, when it turned out the Warlord was not as much of a warmonger as Luther expected.

From the moment he was born, it was clear that something was…different about Lion El’Johnson. Although he truly cared about his fellow man, he often had trouble reading people and came off as unempathetic. Despite being fiercely loyal to those he considered his friends, he was socially awkward and had trouble looking people in the eye. Nevertheless, despite his faults, he was groomed for knighthood by his brother Luther, who recognized his talents. Although Lion would often focus on a problem to the point of obsession, he was tactically brilliant. He also followed the old ideals of chivalry, to a degree that some would consider ridiculous. The Lion was an idealist at heart, seeing the world in terms of dragons and princesses as opposed to corrupt bureaucrats and politicians. This noble behavior won him the fancy of many a young woman’s heart, though throughout history there is no record of the Lion ever engaging in a romantic relationship.

It was for these reasons that when it came time for the Steward to name the twenty primarchs that would command his legions, the Lion was among that number. Such a nomination came as a surprise to everyone, least of all Lion himself. Before this time, the Lion was only known as the younger brother of Luther, or at best Luther’s squire. But the Warlord knew the evils that lurked in the hearts of men. Luther was a great soldier, but his mind had been corrupted by hatred and jingoism. The Lion’s heart was untamed, but it was pure, its idealism and love for humanity untampered. Along with Sanguinius Baal and Vulkan, son of N’Bel, Lion was chosen to be one of the three prototypes for the Mark III Astartes augmentation, which was to be the final model of Space Marine augmentation. Some say that this was the point that the seed of jealousy was first planted in Luther’s heart, with all his years of service to Franj and the Imperium being overlooked in favor of his untested brother. Lion, for his part, did not reciprocate the feeling and named his older brother second-in-command of the legion in gratitude for all that his brother had given him. Lion named his legion the Dark Angels after the legendary Black Knight of his country's folklore, who covered his armor in pitch and lived as a wild man rather than subject himself to an unjust lord.

If the Dark Angels were to become a proper legion, they would need a strong recruiting base. Fortunately, the Lion’s home country of Franj was almost perfect for the task. Franj was extremely healthy in terms of both health and population, and the only other primarch from Franj-Europia, Roboute Guilliman, did not seem that interested in recruiting from his home nation. Guilliman, ever the long term thinker, preferred to recruit from all over Old Earth instead of a single country, with the mind of forming an army that had no loyalty to any nation but the Imperium itself. The Lion, on the other hand, felt he needed soldiers he could trust, and so he recruited heavily from his home country of Franj-Europia. Compared to many of the other nations of Earth, the knightly orders of Franj were organized, well-trained, and well-educated militarily, making them ideal Astartes candidates. As a result, by the time the Unification of Sol was complete, the First Legion was bigger, better trained, suffered from fewer casualties, and could recruit faster than any other legion.

It was for this reason that the Dark Angels were picked to be the first legion to travel outside of Sol, acting as an expeditionary force to scout the galaxy ahead of the rest of the Great Crusade to see what of humanity had survived the Age of Strife. The Lion was enamored with the idea, starry-eyed at the prospect of meeting new peoples and reuniting with lost colonies of humanity. Luther, for his part, was not. He was growing increasingly dissatisfied with Europia-Franj’s increasing lack of autonomy in the increasingly peaceful Imperium, which was only magnified by King Gunthar Fouché, son of Roboute Guilliman and Yolande Fouché, turning over all military production and funding to the Imperium on the reasoning that there was no one left to fight. Perhaps in a bit of paranoia, Luther feared that his assignment to the expeditionary fleet was an unofficial exile as opposed to an award, and that the Imperium would completely gut his beloved Franj while he was not around to watch it.

Lion and the Dark Angels set out in The Rock, one of two super-battleships along with the Phalanx that were commissioned by the Steward to be the flagships of the new Imperial Navy, along with several ships of the Voidborn primarch Horus Lupercal (whose cartographers happened to be the ones that owned all the maps). At first the mission did not go well. The first sentient life the expeditionary force encountered was the orks, followed by the Dark Eldar, the latter of which in particular fostered a particularly deep-seated dislike of Eldar in the two brothers. Even the Lion, despite his general open-mindedness, never really felt comfortable with the Imperium being on good terms with the Craftworlders, as he had a hard time distancing the likes of Eldrad and Macha from the atrocities of their distant kin.

And yet despite these setbacks there were such triumphs. Despite the Dark Angel’s first encounters being with the orks and Dark Eldar, the Dark Angels encountered other races, such as the Diasporex and the Watchers in the Dark, who would prove to be loyal allies. And there were so many human colonies, many of whom welcomed the Dark Angels (and by proxy the return of humanity as a power in the galaxy) with open arms. After seeing Russ’ success at recruiting warriors from the planet of Fenris, the Dark Angels set up recruitment stations on many of these worlds, causing the Dark Angels to swell even larger. Nevertheless, many of the Dark Angels, particularly the officers, still came from Franj.

It was sometime during this period that Luther was contacted by Erebus, the Dark Chaplain, the First Traitor. The Ruinous Powers had seen the doubts that lay in Luther’s heart, and saw their opportunity to sow dissent within the forces of the Imperium. Erebus told Luther that he saw the nobility in Luther’s heart and his loyalty to Franj and humanity as a whole, and yet the Imperium was willing to get in bed with all the old enemies of Franj and humanity; the Duscht Jemanic, the Nordyc, the Eldar. On behalf of the Dark Gods, Erebus offered Luther a deal: Divert all Dark Angel reinforcement from the upcoming war, and in exchange Chaos would only target non-essential or non-human interests. Many have wondered, when it became clear that Chaos would never uphold such a bargain, why Luther would have continued to serve the interests of the Ruinous Powers. Captured members of the Fallen have said that Luther was never fully convinced by Erebus’ words, but merely planned to double-cross Chaos and re-establish Franj as an independent power, similar to Hy Braseal. Luther saw the Imperium as a noble ideal, but corrupt and rotten to its core. Better to burn it all down and start afresh, preferably with Franj as its center. However, as with all traitors whose minds have been warped by the influence of Chaos, it is difficult to say if they are telling the truth.

At first, it actually seemed like Chaos was going to keep its side of the bargain. The entire tone of the war did not shift, but many worlds that had been predicted to be in the path of breakaway warbands suddenly found themselves waiting for an invasion that never came, though this may have been more due to the actions of Horus and Guilliman than anything Erebus did. At the same time the response of the Dark Angels to crises became extremely variable and unreliable. The Dark Angels who fought alongside the Lion responded valiantly and with alacrity, but other groups replied to cries for help sluggishly if at all. However, it wasn’t before long that Erebus appeared beyond Luther again. He told Luther that the war against the Imperium wasn’t going so well, and while before the forces of Chaos were content to have Luther sit out the war now they needed help. There was a chance that the followers of the Ruinous Powers might actually lose the war, and if that happened, well, there was no guarantee that the Imperium wouldn’t find out about Erebus and Luther’s little bargain from captured traitors.

In retrospect, what Erebus said was clearly a ruse. Although Chaos and the Beast’s forces had lost some momentum on their blitzkrieg through the stars, the tide was far from turning, and even if the Imperium had found out about the deal from prisoners of war they would have had little reason to believe it was anything more than an attempt to sow suspicion among Imperial forces by traitors. Erebus had no evidence beyond his word that such a deal had been made. But in the heat of the moment, and due to his own guilt over having been tempted into making this deal in the first place, Luther was unable to recognize Erebus’ claim for what it was. Luther was enraged by this, Erebus was clearly altering the terms of their deal, but he didn’t see any way out of it.

Having made judicious use of the stick, Erebus then offered Luther the carrot. The Ruinous Powers didn’t require much in order to help their schemes succeed. All they needed Luther to do was burn down some Maiden Worlds. It’s not like Luther would be required to commit treason or kill humans. They were just eldar. Luther accepted Erebus’ terms with a snarl, before setting off to organize his forces to perform the deed. Fifteen Maiden Worlds burned before the relentless assault of Luther’s Dark Angels. Upon hearing this news, the Lion was horrified. Already irritated by the apparent lackadaisicalness of his forces, he immediately set out to find Luther and demand an explanation.

The Lion finally caught up to Luther in the ashes of the Maiden World once known as Tarsus. Already in a rather poor state of mind, the Lion made no attempts to try and talk his brother down or convince him to surrender. Instead, he marched his honor guard down the ramp of his ship, bolters drawn, before asking his brother what the hell he thought he was doing. Even though Lion didn’t like the eldar either, there was a world of difference (or rather, fifteen worlds) between merely disliking them and butchering the civilians of their nominal allies. Being fixed by the Lion’s withering, contemptuous glare, Luther found himself having trouble explaining his actions to his little brother. His tone low, and with a bit of shame in his voice, Luther told Lion that he had made a deal…for Franj. Upon hearing those words, the Lion long pent-up rage finally erupted and he struck Luther in his anger. It wasn’t a hard blow, but it was enough to knock Luther off his feet and escalate the situation to violence. Lion yelled that committing massacres in Franj’s name did nothing but sully Franj’s honor, and the country would rather die than have such blood on its hands.

Something in Luther snapped at Lion’s accusation. He declared him a traitor to Franj, willing to let his country be gutted and eaten by foreign powers rather than protect it, and in a fit of madness ordered the Dark Angels to kill him. Both brothers were enraged at the other’s perceived betrayal.

Luther’s order sent the Dark Angels into disarray. Luther had originally justified his orders to the Dark Angels by claiming that the eldar had turned on the Imperium, and the Lion had ordered the maiden worlds burned in retaliation. Most of the Dark Angels had obeyed, since they were used to Luther being the spokesman for the Lion and Lion’s poor personal skills meant he had trouble voicing a reasonable counterargument. Many were more loyal to Luther than Lion, being Franj nationalists. Others, particularly those who were with Lion or capable of critical thinking, realized that Lion had ordered no such thing and that Luther had completely lost it. Still others had no clue what was going on due to the contradictory sets of orders and were merely caught in the middle. When the Dark Angels loyal to Luther raised their bolters, those loyal to the Lion did so response. It was absolute chaos, brother against brother, with many not even knowing if they were fighting traitors or those loyal to their cause.

It was as at this point that one of the Lion’s biggest mistakes becomes clear. The Lion recruited much of his legion, including most of its officers, from Franj because he felt he needed people he could trust. Sadly, the officers of the Dark Angels were loyal to a fault, but not to him. Although many in the legion respected the Lion, and those who actually got to know him personally actually found him quite pleasant, if persnickety, the Lion often relied on his brother to motivate the legion due to his lack of people skills. The Lion had so much trouble reading people, and was so trusting of his brother, that he had not seen the viper in the grass before it bit him. Nearly two-thirds to three-fourths of the legion had been subverted by the Ruinous Powers. If it were almost any other legion, it wouldn’t be as much of a problem, but by the time of the War of the Beast the Dark Angels were by far the largest legion and so having two-thirds to three-fourths of the legion go renegade was the equivalent of having two or three other legions fall to the Ruinous powers.

In the confusion, Luther and many of his followers commandeered the Rock, the flagship of the Dark Angels, and escaped into the Warp. Luther’s madness only worsened as he mulled over Lion’s words and the fighting on Tarsus, leading him to believe that the entire Imperium including his brother had turned against him. Many of the Dark Angels felt the same way, seeing themselves as abandoned and betrayed by the Imperium they had once served, and resented it. After Tarsus, Luther’s Dark Angels began burning both human and eldar worlds indiscriminately. The worlds that had been “spared” after Luther’s initial bargain found themselves the target of Chaos, with interest. Besieged Guardsmen on many worlds looked to the skies in hope when they saw the famed Astartes legions come to reinforce them, only to be butchered when their “saviors” landed on the planet. Chapters of the legion devolved into civil war as former brothers drew arms against one another as they realized they served different causes. Many more Dark Angels turned to the service of the Ruinous Powers out of desperation and a desire for survival.

The Lion never returned to Old Earth during the War of the Beast to participate in the Battle of Terra. Many have criticized the Lion for these actions, however, in the Lion’s mind, his priorities were clear. His men were slaughtering one another, and it was his duty to put things right. Perhaps more importantly, it was his mistake, HIS mistake, and the universe would not be set right until he took pains to correct it.

Eventually, Lion tracked Luther and his inner circle to the world of Caliban. Getting to Caliban was easy enough. When the Dark Angels reached the planet Luther’s Fallen found themselves sandwiched between the loyalist Caliban garrison and the Lion’s reinforcements, forcing them to temporarily break their hold over the planet in order to regroup. However, when the Dark Angels found out from captured traitors what Luther was actually looking for on Caliban, they were stunned. Luther had learned from the entity known as Be’lakor ([[Nobledark_Imperium_Drafts#Be.27lakor_and_the_Alpha_Legion|which the Imperium had only recently learned existed due to the actions of the Alpha Legion, and only then at great cost]]) that Caliban was the site of the Ouroboros, a device created by an ancient xenos race, one even older than humanity, the Watchers, or the eldar, capable of warping the very fabric of space-time, which they had used to create the Webway. The Dark Angels realized the implications of this discovery, here was the potential solution to the issue of the fragile, unreparable Webway, and possibly a means to free the Imperium and the galaxy from the tyranny of the Warp, whereas the Watchers were shocked at learning the origins of their eons of suffering had been buried under their own feet. No one knew exactly what Luther planned to do with the equipment, but all agreed it could not be anything good.

The Dark Angels and Watchers were faced with a dilemma. Destroy the device that could potential prove the salvation of the entire galaxy, or leave it to fall into the hands of the Fallen. Although the loyalist Dark Angels could disrupt Luther’s control of Caliban, they could not hold the planet, as Luther’s forces greatly outnumbered their own. In the end, it was the Watchers who made the decision to blow up their own homeworld. They loved Caliban, it was their home despite being harsh and warp-tainted, but they realized the danger that Luther in control of the Ouroboros would prove. Better that no one have it than let it be abused. As the Watchers wired their planet to blow with Exterminatus-class weaponry, the loyalist Dark Angels launched a counterattack on the Fallen, with the Lion particularly eager to take the fight to his brother. However, when Lion reached what should have been Luther’s sanctum within the Rock, he realized he had been tricked. Luther had known where Lion would have looked for him, and therefore did the exact opposite, taking a small strike team to the surface of Caliban. However, he was quickly forced to turn around when he realized what the Watchers had done to their planet. Lion was also forced to retreat, realizing that he and his men risked being cut off and overwhelmed by the Fallen if they tried to wait to ambush Luther. No one had won at Caliban. Luther had lost the Ouroboros, but Lion had lost his brother.

There were reports of a “Cypher”-type character on both sides of the conflict. Based on reports either he could travel really fast or (more likely) there was more than one of him. Some say he was the court battle-wizard of the legion who had gone missing/presumed dead two years previously whilst fighting a Big Mek and his Orkblitorator Cyborks on a Forge World. Some of these Cyphers may have actually been Alpha Legion infiltrators covertly helping the loyalists and hindering the traitors.

What happened to the Fallen mostly depended on what they did immediately after the War of the Beast. Some of the Fallen, mostly members of the lower ranks who realized they had been fed bullshit for the whole ordeal, surrendered when the enormity of their error became apparent. They ended up being sentenced to serve in the penal legions until they were deemed to have sufficiently repented for their sins after the first Black Crusade, after which the survivors were scattered among the other legions. The remainder, which represented at least half of the surviving Dark Angels, were spirited away by the Ruinous Powers to the Eye of Terror where they formed the core of the Fallen as we know them today. Of the being known as Cypher no conclusive answers have been obtained. He still appears in Imperial records from time to time down the ages with no discernable pattern. He is either leapfrogging through time via cryo-sleep or it’s not the same man. Even a Mark III S Astartes should have aged to death by now. The Eldar allies of the Dark Angels are unable to predict his movements and, much like the tyranids, he acts as a travelling blank spot in their prophecies.

In the years immediately following the War of the Beast, there were many who criticized the Lion's actions, chief among them Leman Russ. At one point the Great Wolf said within earshot of El'Jonson that Luther's betrayal was a near certainty, because "that's what one gets for trusting a member of the house of Jonson". That was a fateful mistake, as while the Lion might have been distraught, he wasn't deaf. The Lion was enraged, although his brother may have fallen to the Ruinous Powers, the Lion had still remained loyal to humanity and had done all in his power to help the Imperium. At least one son of Jonson had retained his honor. In retaliation, the Lion turned and struck the Great Wolf on the jaw, knocking him out cold. In the aftermath of the fight, Leman Russ decided he had enough of witches and Jonsons and decided to relocate to Fenris entirely, nearly severing all ties with Old Earth. The Great Wolf would not set foot on his home planet again until nearly forty years after the Lion's disappearance, slightly humbler and wiser from his experience setting up the Fenrisian colonies.

As with all of the primarchs save Sanguinius and Angron, the Lion was active following the War of the Beast, though one would be forgiven for thinking he was not. Unlike most of the primarchs, who were primarily focused on rebuilding the Imperium, Lion was focused, some would say obsessed, with trying to recapture the Fallen. He split the remaining loyalist Dark Angels into knightly orders reminiscent of those once present on Franj and scattered them to distant worlds, with a program of frequent officer exchange between orders to keep them loyal to the Imperium rather than any one place of origin. He also instituted a mandatory position of Watcher within each chapter, held by a member of the Inquisition in order to monitor the chapter from the inside. These days, the job is usually held by a really old member of the Inquisition who refuses to retire despite being too old to chase anyone.

Finally, years after the War of the Beast had ended, the Lion received the news he had waited so long for. The Rock, and by extension Luther, had reappeared.

The Dark Angels and the rest of the Unforgiven fell upon the Rock swift as a flock of ravens, hounding it from system to system in a series of skirmishes until they finally cornered the Fallen Angels on a long forgotten feral world. Amidst the twilight murk and murmuring rustle of a primeval forest the once comrades faced each other after long centuries of hunting and waiting. The trees bore silent witness as loyalist and traitor slaughtered one another with a fury born of the void left by brotherhood and filled by hate, the quiet split by the roar of bolters and the scream of chainswords on ceramite. Bodies clad in green and black fell soundlessly to the mossy undergrowth, and the soil drank deep of rich dark blood.

Lion was unstoppable that day as he stalked the battlefield with his Deathwing honor guard, the Lion Sword flashing red as the Fallen fled before the Primarch. Yet the scum before him did not interest Lion; he had come with only one goal, and he would not be denied.

In the tangled forest the Primarch soon was separated from his honor guard and found himself alone at the edge of a clearing. He brushed aside the foliage in time to see a lone figure in black cut down the last of a squad of Dark Angels, carving through their armor with contemptuous ease. Lion did not need to see the golden fleur de lis on the horned onyx helm to know who the traitor was. His stance, the arrogant grace with which he moved, the way his sword danced in his hand like an extension of his arm. Luther.

Luther turned at the sound of Lion’s footsteps. The clearing was quiet as the eyes of the two brothers met behind the mirrored lenses of their helms, then Luther raised his sword in an old Franjish dueling salute, half mocking and half earnest. Lion did not return the gesture. Then sudden and swift as his namesake, he charged. The Lion Sword descended in a shining blur, faintly glowing with a pale inner light, and their blades met with a shivering clang as the Arch-Traitor blocked the Primarch’s savage strike, the Sword of Luther wreathed in a delicate corona of the void, tendrils of the Immaterium spilling forth from the edges of the blade. The sound of swords rang through the forest as back and forth the brothers traded blows, each unable to take the advantage as Lion’s cold ferocity and superior augmentations were matched by Luther’s consummate skill and the blessings of Chaos Undivided.

So bathed in the dappled light of the setting sun Lion and Luther did battle. Against the backdrop of the ancient giants of the forest, they might have been boys playfighting with sticks, swatting at each other with wild abandon; but this was no game, and these were not the familiar old oaks of Franj. Bright gashes appeared on the brothers’ green and black armor where they found openings in the other’s defense, and blood trickled out where the blades had pierced the flesh beneath before the wounds were stanched by their superhuman physiologies. Pressed by his brother’s assault, Luther eventually began to tire, yet Lion remained as unrelenting as ever. Sensing victory, he battered Luther with a flurry of blows, tearing off the helmet with a glancing slash to the head, and finally drove his blade into his brother’s leg. Luther fell to one knee, and before he could react the Lion Sword was at his throat, the tip pressed against his bare neck.

For a moment the two men were motionless. Then Lion removed his winged helm with one hand and let it fall to the ground, and for the first time in a century the brothers looked each other face to face. Under his matted blond hair Lion’s eyes were red and wet. Another moment of stillness, then the Lion Sword dipped, and lowered away. Sharp as a whipcrack, Lion said only one word: “Why?”

The accusation in his brother’s voice struck Luther like a hammer, and emotions welled up within him. Rage. Humiliation. Guilt. Shame.

How could he have lost to Lion? Never before had Lion bested him in their sparring, except the few times when he had allowed it. But he deserved this. He betrayed his brother, and the Imperium, and had nearly damned humanity to extinction.

No, no! His plan had been sound, and with a single stroke they could have rid humanity of xenos influences and secured a future for Franj among the stars. If only Lion had listened and followed. Lion had always sought his counsel and followed him in matters of import, never defying him until that fateful day.

Yes, with that once act of defiance, of betrayal, Lion had doomed his plan and consigned him to a life of furtive scavenging and raiding. It was Lion!

LION!

With a cry Luther burst upwards, his sword a malign black blur streaking towards Lion’s throat. Surprised, Lion threw himself back and raised his sword to parry, but it was no use; against foe as deadly as Luther, even an inch of an opening would have been fatal. But the Chaos Gods were not done with their servant yet. In a final act of malicious caprice, they lifted the scales of madness from Luther’s eyes and allowed him to see with a clear mind what he had done.

In that moment Luther saw: Lion as the solemn boy he had taught to swing a sword, who wanted so much to be like his famed older brother; as the young man he had personally knighted, a rare, sweet smile spreading across those stern features; as the man he had fought and laughed and bled with on the battlefields of a thousand worlds, side by side. And he saw the brother that he had just killed, the tip of his sword cutting smoothly through a pale throat, a thin spray of blood in its wake.

Something within Luther broke. Beneath the horror of this realization, his tortured psyche fell to pieces, and when the Deathwing finally came upon the clearing they found a screaming Luther kneeling over Lion’s still body. Their act of domination complete, the warp echoed with dark laughter as the Chaos gods spirited Luther away amidst a hail of bolter fire.

The Deathwing immediately recovered Lion, and in a battle barge in orbit the Chief Apothecary and his team fought to save Lion’s life. Indeed, it was a miracle that Lion had survived so long, made possible only through the astounding power of the Mk III S augmentations, for even a Sus-an coma would not have saved a normal Astartes from such a grievous wound. Yet while the apothecaries could stabilize Lion, they could not restore him. A slash from a mundane weapon would have soon been healed by Lion’s regenerative abilities, but Luther’s cursed blade had inflicted a wound that would not close, the treatments and medications unable to take hold on the tainted flesh. Lion was slipping away, and with no other options, the apothecaries could only seal Lion in a stasis-coffin, and hope that some day a cure would be found.

To this day, Luther is still a broken man, given to wild swings of mood as his mind flits to and from the scattered shards of his personality, from charming magnanimity to unbridled rage to brooding despair. Yet buried within the dark cage of madness lies the last piece of good within Luther’s heart, his nobility and honor and love for his brother. And once in a rare while that light emerges from its prison, and Luther awakens to the reality of the nightmare around him and the horror that is his life. He screams then, and as he slaughters the Fallen around him he weeps and begs Lion for forgiveness. Inevitably, that moment of lucidity is swallowed again by warp-fueled madness as the Chaos gods reassert their power over their servant. But that piece of goodness remains, perhaps as the last spark of hope for Luther’s redemption.

Lion still sleeps in his coffin, his features peaceful beneath the crystal cover, frozen in time on the precipice between life and death. He would surely perish were he removed to perform the canticles of purification to cleanse his wound, and so he remains in his millennia-long slumber. Entreaties to Isha have proved fruitless, for she has said healing Lion would be beyond ever her powers as the Goddess of Life; Lion is too far into the realm of death for her to exercise sole influence over him. Indeed, it would take another god, a God of the Dead, in conjunction with her powers to restore Lion to life, and surely no such god exists. But the Dark Angels are not deterred; they wait and dream, sure that one day the last remaining Primarch will return and lead them all to their long-promised salvation.

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=== The Lion Sword ===

Throughout his travels the Lion was known to use a red blade of excellent quality. When the Lion was put into his coma, his sword was put alongside him in the Rock, ready to be picked up again in the event the Lion ever woke from his coma. That sword is a Kinebrach blade. It was handed over in the ceremony to finalize the alliance between the young Imperium and the Interex. It was the last blade made by the venerable master Mez-Go-Bur. It is said and witnessed that he used no forge or hammer and the metal was taken from the hide of a fallen Cybernetica robot. He struck the metal with his fists and it started to heat up and become pliant and into that metal he beat all his sorrows (which were many) and his wroth (which was considerable). That cherry red blade was quenched in a barrel of ceremonial oil mingled with his own blood and on that blood he placed binding words. Daemons had made his life a misery, his blade would cut them and leave them maimed and that pain would follow them to their Hell and no matter if they healed they would never stop hurting as he would never stop hurting. But where he would die they remain immortal and would go on hurting for ever and ever and ever.

He smiled when the sword was handed over to Lion El'Jonson. He died not long later.

There are many Kinebrach blades in circulation in the Imperium and the art of making them is in no danger of ever being lost but few are as vindictive as the ones made by Mez-Go-Bur and that was his last creation and believed to be his best.

It has been idle for too long now. Too many summers under a shroud of dust despite it blade being razor sharp. There was a legend among the people of Franj; if an implement is left for more more than a year and day it will hunger for blood. If such stories are true then the Lion Sword is somewhat thirsty. It would take a man of iron will to tame that blade now.

== Perturabo ==

[[Image:1485738836578.jpg|left|thumb|200px|Perturabo, Primarch of the Imperium, The Mad Architect and Prince of Macedonia.]]

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Warsmith''''' - or ''The Mad Architect:''

Perturabo of the Macedonian Garrison was not a man truly cut out for the military life, although it is hard to say exactly what sort of life he ''was'' cut out for.

Macedonia was an odd case at that point in the constant wars of the Age of Strife. Barely a century and a half ago it had been a conquered territory of the Great Everlasting Tharkian Empire - an empire far less grand than its name would suggest - until the Tharkians were crushed by the relentless expansion of a Despot of Ursh, as so many others of the time were. The Urshii quickly swallowed up the valuable regions of the area, leaving only the ancient nation of Macedonia relatively untouched. By some miracle of cunning, guile, and luck on an incredible scale, Perturabo's grandfather Nestor made it appear that, instead of the meagre garrison it actually held, Macedonia was in fact home to Tharkian strategic reserves far greater than the forces the Urshii had already fought. This, combined with the seemingly unwavering defiance of the Macedonian people, convinced the Despot that conquering the region would overextend his supply lines and weaken his control over the greater Tharkia.

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With the immediate threat gone the cities began to drift apart and Nestor was old and wise enough to know that he had neither the forces nor the authority to hold them together. He did, however, manage to take and hold the ancient fortress city of Štip-Isar; and many rival groups joined him in seizing a city or hive and expanding from there. Thus, Macedonia ''did'' survive, to some extent, albeit as a collection of squabbling city-states that would only unite against greater outside threats; ironically, not unlike the Classical Greek counterparts who were conquered by the Macedonians themselves in the depths of history.

Perturabo's father Nikola had risen to be the petty king of the reasonably well-off fortress city of Štip-Isar after Nestor had passed away, and, recognising how inadequately ''he'' had been prepared for the job, immediately set about the task of trying to train his children in the arts of statesmanship. His daughters were fine women, just as dedicated to the nation as he was, but the other regional powers would have openly scoffed and secretly mocked the entire family if a queen were to rise. Thus the highest they would reach were hasty marriages to shore up the city's few alliances, leaving Perturabo as the heir apparent - albeit one rather psychologically unsound.

Countless years later, when Nikola and his nation were a mere footnote in endless halls of historical texts, Perturabo's peers would describe him as a spare Angron, minus the enthusiasm. This was unfair and inaccurate, but it was true that it would have been difficult to find a leader ''less'' statesmanlike than the unfortunate son of Nikola. Perturabo suffered from bouts of quite severe depression, punctuated by occasional flashes of intense rage with little to no warning. Although the rage would flash into incandescence and burn itself out relatively quickly, the depression was far more lingering. Nikola made no effort to hide the disappointment he had for his son, but little did he know that the heir's true talents would be more vital for the nation's survival than Terra's finest diplomats could ever be.

For Perturabo - in spite of his constant pessimism, or perhaps ''because'' of it - was supremely gifted at defensive planning. His dreams, haunted as they were by thoughts of his home being crushed by faceless invaders, merely bolstered his resolve to resist. He was not his father, or his grandfather, however; he was not a leader who could call the people to defend their land tooth and nail, for that would require hope and optimism that he himself so sorely lacked. Instead, Perturabo's defensive planning was that of grim determination, of strongpoints and counter-offensives instead of rallies and patriotism, of a hard shell around a softer peoples. Some would have called this paranoia, especially given how the petty skirmishes with other nation-states were the largest wars known for over a generation, but in truth it was uncanny foresight.

When the scum of Ursh came back it was as if a mighty hammer had struck the lands, driving all before it. Perturabo - indeed, all of Macedonia - was caught off-guard by the assault; by the time he was made aware of the threat, the most prosperous and powerful of his neighbours were little more than flaming rubble. Desperate for time, the heir withdrew his forces again and again, his generals raging and threatening mutiny for his cowardice, and he later claimed that in all his life he had faced no greater test than keeping his calm and concealing his plans from them (and thus, any possible Urshii spies) until the very last moment.

Nestor had fought a war - a war of armies and raiding parties facing each other in pitched battles - but his grandson had to stop a wave of slaughter that bore more resemblance to a swarm of locusts than any coherent fighting force. Isolated strongpoints were ground down horrifyingly quickly by sheer weight of numbers, and Perturabo had soon realised that the only chance he had of stopping the swarm was in a single, united defensive line. Even then, he knew he could not hope to stop the Despot's onslaught, only to give it a bloodied nose and hope it would back off.
The Urshii forces knew none of this, as all they saw were lands held by weak natives and abandoned by their defenders. Just as they were wondering if their grandparents' tales of the effortless conquest of Tharkia had some truth to them, they ran directly into Perturabo's hastily constructed kill zones. Metal, laser and superheated plasma alike rained down on the barbarians as if it were his own spite and pain made manifest, and the Urshii vanguard was left a pile of mangled bodies for their comrades to climb.

The Despot's humiliation drove him into such a rage that he eviscerated his own commanders, ordering their replacements to wipe Macedon from the face of Terra. Even with Perturabo's formidable defences and traps, the main Urshii force would raze the land without batting an eyelash - yet the Despot was so blinded by his rage that he was caught completely unawares by the true threat to his power.

When the scouts of the Warlord's army first trickled into Macedonia they expected a barren wasteland - or at best, a broken nation at its own throat. Much of their suspicions were confirmed, but amongst the dirt they found a diamond-hard shard of defiance that had prepared for the storm and, amazingly, was still weathering it. It was here, the Warlord decided, that the first (and perhaps the most important) true blow against Ursh would be struck.

After the smoke cleared. the plasma burns cooled, the shrieks of wounded finally fallen away into silence, Perturabo discovered that not only had he bloodied the nose of the Despot's assault, but he had broken its back completely. Caught between the swift hammer of the Warlord's armies and the unyielding anvil of the Macedon defence, Ursh's toughest veterans were shattered and scattered to the wind - and even the most zealous of barbarians were were beginning to question if there was a master greater than their own.

The Warlord entered Štip-Isar not as a conqueror, but simply as a leader, for he had great respect for the one who turned such a small nation into a devourer of armies. Yet the prince would do something that not a single battlefield or leader had managed so far, or quite possibly since. He ''surprised'' his guest, and not only with his young age (for, compared to his generals, he was little more than a boy), but with his mind. For when the Warlord looked into his psyche, he found something he had never seen before or since - and he wished he had not. It was cold. Bleak. A desolate landscape of steel and bone blasted smooth by an unrelenting gale of numbers, of angles, of shifting probabilities; while above, great roiling clouds of blackness drained away what little light and life lay beneath them. Even this was just a momentary glimpse, for in the blink of an eye he was locked out by an immense iron wall rising from the ground in mere instants, horizons wide and twice as tall. The Warlord found himself simply staring into dead, grey eyes, barred from what lay within by mental defences greater than all but the most powerful of psykers - and built simply from paranoia and distrust rather than to contain any unearthly whispers. But those eyes told him all he really needed to know about the prince. There was no fear there, no awe, and certainly no love. Just endless planning, calculating, searching for weakness.

To his credit, the Warlord still saw potential in the mad architect; something that could be put to use, maybe even turned to greatness. After long, distrustful negotiations (for the Macedonians were as wary of his arrival as they were grateful for it), Perturabo was offered a place in the Warlord's armies as a fortification and garrison specialist. For King Nikola's part... the sad truth was that he was glad to see the back of his son. After all, with Perturabo otherwise occupied - or out of the way, depending on your point of view - he now had grandchildren to train in inheriting his responsibilities.

Perturabo rose through the ranks of the Imperial Army with neither the speed nor grandeur of the other Primarchs, but he did indeed become great. Other generals captured huge swathes of land or routed vast armies, but it was he who ensured that any forces seeking to recapture their territory or avenge their fallen knew nothing but failure. He was never at the forefront of any battle or campaign, never the glorious conqueror or invincible warrior; and of course, he earned little respect from those who ''were,'' who saw him as an unstable freak barely fit to follow in their footsteps. This, however, suited him just fine, as he much preferred a legacy of impenetrable bastions safeguarded people than any number of songs or monuments.

Still, the Warlord quietly took note of his work, of how harmlessly the condescension of both his superiors and subordinates bounced off him, and none were surprised as Perturabo himself was when he was selected for late-stage Thunder Warrior treatment. Soon, as the remnants of the Old Night were finally purged and the dream of Unification began to spread across Sol, malcontents and partisans began to emerge from the woodwork; and it was here Perturabo's worth truly became evident even to his detractors. For old king Nikola's lessons had not, in fact, been in vain, and it was discovered that the Macedonian's lands were impenetrable to assault from within as well as without. For this, he was finally elevated to the lofty title of Primarch.

In the countless years that followed, the Unification became the Great Crusade; the Warlord became the Steward, and Štip-Isar faded into distant memory. Perturabo, however, did not change. Perhaps he could not. After all, his life had certainly not changed, for it still consisted of day after day of building meat grinders of horrific scale while planning yet-greater ones, all while hoping against hope they would never be needed. Or perhaps, just as was the case in his youth, his works were so brutally efficient because of the hope he - and they - ''lacked.'' But back in his homeland he still had the support of his people; or at least he had his father to soothe and comfort them at every turn. Here, on the frontier worlds, the deal of "harsh work and oppression for you and your children in the name of descendants you will not live to see" would've been a hard sell for Gulliman, or Sanguinius, never mind one as uncharismatic as Perturabo - and the hatred of the people was beginning to wear down even his iron resolve.

When The War of the Beast descended upon the worlds under his aegis, his worth was finally proven beyond any doubt. Wretched, base creatures assaulted his people, his fortresses, his worlds in droves - and time and time again they drowned in their own tides of endless green. His warriors manned their battlements and fired from positions prepared centuries ago in an eerie mirror image of the plains of Macedonia so long ago. The doctrine still remained identical, as well. No point would be defended to the last man, for such heroics were costly and unnecessary; instead, the defenders would fight until the back of the assault force was broken before retreating to their next set of positions, buying them precious breathing room while the enemy were forced to bring in a fresh wave of warriors.

It would be wrong to say that no worlds under his protection fell, or to say that his methods were flawless. Just as it was against the Urshii, he would never defend an untenable position; civilian conurbations and evacuation points were no exception to this, and his new subordinates labelled him a coward with as much vigour as his old ones had so long ago. But this cold, calculated strategy ensured that his armies lived - and more importantly, rested - to fight another day, where another Primarch would've allowed them to be slaughtered in a vain order to hold the line.

On venerable Olympia, one of the first colony worlds of the Old Empire brought back into the fold by Perturabo's Iron Warriors, the Primarch nearly met his end. His command headquarters was unexpectedly besieged by a force of Orks that, reinforced by a newly arrived Rok, had broken through a weakened flank, and he insisted he took to the field. Years later, he would claim it was simply a pragmatic decision; after all, as a Thunder Warrior he was fully capable of fighting to earn time for his command staff to be evacuated, all of whom were equally invaluable to the defense of the planet - but for many, this unexpected loyalty was a welcome reminder that there was still a human within the Primarch's iron shell. His psychological one, at least.

His physical armour, however, would be sorely tested by the warboss he would face; a great corroding creature of Nurgle's kin, leading the Orks of the Pox Dok in laughter and taunts even as lascannon and bolter blew off chunks of rotting green flesh. The fate of the world and every soul on it was decided in a burning cathedral; and while Perturabo was certainly not the unstoppable juggernaut other Primarchs were, his calculating mind was as much use here as it was fighting on theater or even planetary level. It merged with his Thunder Warrior instincts, making each move carefully planned and each attack predicted ahead of time, until the fight seemed to be a fluid dance akin to that of the Eldar Harlequins.

Still, in brute force he was outmatched, and for every hundred blows he saw coming, there was one he simply could not parry or evade in time. The mighty green leviathan and the smaller figure slowly but relentlessly tearing it down - a fitting reversal of their armies' roles - wore each other into the ground, until the Iron Warrior emerged triumphant over the Rust of decay. With the Warboss gone, his legion quickly broke the remainder of the Ork assault, reclaiming swathes of land and beginning the long and thankless task of resecuring it. Scouting parties quickly found their Primarch, slumped in the pews where the faithful once prayed for redemption, and almost as white as the pale stone dust raining down from the ruined cathedral.

Perturabo did not see that world retaken; he did not see the organised withdrawals from worlds and sectors almost turn to a complete rout without his immaculate planning.

He did not see the Battle of Terra, the desecration of his homeworld.

He did not see the death of first Sanguinius, then the Beast.

He eventually did awaken, but only after a year spent comatose, while his ruined body was slowly repaired by Thunder Warrior physiology where possible and Mechanicus cybernetics where not. Unbowed and unbroken; Iron within, Iron without. As soon as he was able to, he marched on with his legion, rebuilding worlds and shoring up their defences before moving onto the next. Still, many believed that the Beast's legacy still haunted him and that he blamed himself personally for each loss; for as the years passed he became more and more of a perfectionist, making demands of broken worlds that could not have met them in their prime. Eventually, his most senior Warsmiths agreed by unanimous vote to remove him from active service, after he demanded a planet's population be decimated for a single of its regiments' incompetence. Perhaps, like many others, he did not resist simply because he was grateful.

Perturabo's last days were spent back on Old Earth as an architect, away from the battlefield and doing what he loved. Many had forgotten that he could design anything but defensive lines and fortresses; and perhaps he himself had forgotten as well. Over time, the work began to heal him, and in turn he began to heal Olld Earth. The swathes of land destroyed by the Beast were given to him as a blank canvas, and upon them he built structures as grand and magnificent as any in the Dark Age of Technology ever were. Oddly enough, '''this''' would be his legacy to the common man; his military campaigns would be lost to the ages, but his designs would be copied and imitated across the entire Imperium, from his streamlining of Hive City layouts that every planetary governor desperately sought to the glorious palaces on Terra that, well, every planetary governor desperately sought. Such form and function would not be surpassed for millenia to come, and even to this day his influence is visible on almost every Imperial world.

Perturabo passed away soon after finishing his plans for the new Imperial Palace; remarking that only now he was able to discover his art, after war had taken all the joy and beauty from it. Some say that he passed with a gentle, childlike smile on his face - for after a thousand years of siege, Perturabo, Prince of Macedonia, Son of Nikola, was finally to be relieved.

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See Also: [[Nobledark_Imperium_Writing#Iron_Within.2C_Iron_Without|Iron Within, Iron Without]]

== Mortarion ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Vermin Lord:'''''

Mortarion was a born in the abject squalor of the slums of Gredbritton, in the aftermath of the fall of the Unspeakable Tyrant. His life was certainly not made any easier by the fact that his mother was the fallen Tyrant's daughter; and that many whispered that his unknown father was the Tyrant himself - and given the sheer depravity of that individual, these accusations were hardly baseless. When the hysteria was beginning to die down, his mother did her best to hide their shared heritage and instead made ends meet as a maintenance skivvy and lay-technician of the great Tintajus Hive, the capital of that broken nation. They never truly advanced in wealth or power - although perhaps this was shrewdness on his mother's part, as those of the upper hive would be more likely to recognise them - and as such Mortarion seemed almost permanently sickly, growing up pale and gaunt from lack of sunlight and food.

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Gredbritton was one of the earlier nations brought into the Imperial fold. Being part of a greater union of nations went some way to restoring order, as well as bringing strength and prosperity it had not seen since the nation itself had ruled great swathes of Terra. Like so many young men with no hope, Mortarion joined the regiments of the Imperial Army - not out of some sense of patriotism or desire to bring other realms into the Imperium, but simply for the promise of at least one meal a day, a pair of trousers he didn't have to share and perhaps even some money to send home to his family.

He served with merit (if not distinction) until he was in his 22nd year, in spite of recurring bouts of old childhood illnesses. At some point in this year he learned that the Warlord was looking for volunteers for Thunder Warrior conversion, known to be a procedure that carried considerable risks. The Apothocarium and the Biologicus warned both him and the officials administrating the project that his physical imperfections would likely render Mortarion little more than a twisted nightmare, yet neither side yielded. The project's overseers were unwilling to turn away one of the few volunteers they could find, least of all one so eager; and for his part, the would-be Thunder Warrior reasoned that his body was already almost constantly betraying him, and that both success and failure would finally bring him the respite he so desperately sought. At first he volunteered, then requested, then even ''demanded'' that they tear his body apart and put him back together, as the payout his family would get for his "death" in this manner would set his mother and younger sisters up for life.

By some strange twist of fate he ''did'' survive. Perhaps even the biotechnicians had failed to realise how far they had refined their own process - certainly, the success rate was easily an order of magnitude higher than it was when Angron was "upgraded" - or perhaps the trauma of the procedures was shrugged off by a body that had spent 22 years steadfastly refusing to die. In any case, Mortarion fought as hard as any other in the name of the Imperium and its warlord, earning rank after rank based on sheer weight of victories. These victories were costly, the battlefields brutal - for he was no tactical genius, and would often dismiss inventive but untried tactics and strategies in favour of the certainties of more proven ones.

Thus, while his superiors prized his methodical successes over the less reliable tactics of the more creative leaders, his men held no love for him, only a grudging respect. The latter was cemented in place by his willingness - no, his ''insistence'' - to lead from the front, forcing his way into the thickest fighting and risking death alongside his men. They saw great victories against the savage men of Ursh and the organised and equipped armies of Achaemenidia with equal ease, only stumbling when facing the Gyptoussian sorcerers who dabbled in things that should not be dabbled in. Indeed, it was in those desert campaigns that Mortarion developed a fear, almost a hatred, of all psykers. Never again in his long life would he employ them or even accept their advice or aid, even when it might have been advisable to do so.

Mortarion soon developed a reputation for being invincible, and while this struck fear into his enemies, it merely frustrated his subordinates. He would charge into battle alongside his soldiers, yet he would far outlast them even under the most withering fire; returning from the field of war alone, with shredded armour and spent weapons, sporting wounds that would have felled a lesser Thunder Warrior.

When the forces of the Steward looked to the rest of Sol, Mortarion's forces were assigned primarily to garrison duty due to the costly nature of his method of warfare. In these engagements they held themselves with distinction, as they would make an enemy's assault on them far costlier. By the time Sol was subjugated and the galaxy lay before the Imperium, the Emperor had named him Primarch for his sheer tenacity and list of victories. It was revealed in later years, however, that the Warlord/Steward disapproved greatly of Mortarion's methods of warfare - at least, according to a few unnamed insiders from the Imperial Palace. Mortarion had, by methods undisclosed, obtained the entire stockpile of biological and chemical weapons owned by his late grandfather and father. He had also obtained the ancient library of Gredbritton, the contents of which were hastily handed over to the Warlord's Sigillite.

When taking a city or hive, the Dusk Raiders would prefer to besiege if first, firing artillery rounds filled with a dozen godforsaken contagions over (or through) the walls and waiting a few months. When the time came for them to enter the city, anything that was still alive would be shredded with bolt, plasma and promethium; the only considerable obstacles in their way being the sheer number of dead bodies filling the hive. Only Curze's methods were deemed more detestable, but unlike his fellow primarch's claims that the horrors he committed were for the greater good he simply pointed out that a conventional assault would likely have similar civilian casualties, but would also take a heavy toll on his own legion. The Warlord was never satisfied with this defence, but the results of his campaigns were undeniable.

He would go on to take this method of warfare off-world; after all, the need to kill and conquer in the most efficient way possible was even greater when precious supplies had to be ferried across the depths of space. Many whispered that he was his father's son - but this was not the case. For while the Unspeakable Tyrant had done such things in the name of gods too terrible to contemplate, Mortarion did them in the name of his warriors, and so that they may live another day. For all that ''they'' hated ''him'', he did not hate his own men; although few would have believed that had he told them.

At the onset of the War of the Beast the Dusk Raiders were quickly established as the dirty, dirty hands of the Imperium. Instead of fighting heroic yet costly rearguards to save evacuees as so many others did, they would bombard worlds with flesh-eating diseases and exsanguination virii the minute they were lost. This, contrary to their detractors, was not to punish those left behind but instead to deny the enemy potential slaves - or food, for that matter - while leaving most material assets intact. Hundreds of billions, maybe even trillions died from these proto-Virus Bombs, and it did not stop the enemy, or even slow their expansion; it was only beginning to chip away at the rate at which the expansion accelerated. Yet this was still more than most other legions could achieve against the sheer size and speed of the Beast's initial assault, and it was done while preserving Mortarion's valuable warriors; indeed, it was then that they earned their moniker of the ''Death Guard'', for the ruination that followed on worlds they failed to defend was as if they were the guardians of the reaper himself.

Many of Mortarion's fellow primarchs, Sanguinius and Vulkan in particular, publicly decried these attacks, but he did not care. They called him a traitor, and he did not care. They called him a coward, a monster, and he did not care. They spat on his legion's banner; Dorn in particular calling his warriors detestable cravens - and only then did he warn the man who fought only from his precious entrenchments to mind his choice of words, lest one of the Unspeakable Tyrant's lost weapons suddenly "appear" in the skies over his beautifully crafted defensive lines. For his Legion were not cowards, and any who would make such a claim had not seen the mechanical determination with which they fought. Any who would make such a claim had not seen the way they ground the Beast's forces down into pieces, then into dust, breaking the back of the enemy's assaults so that other, more heroic, ''better'' men might earn the glory of beheading them.

When the smoke had cleared and the Steward and Eldrad stood over the corpse of The Beast, the remains of the Imperium cheered for years, for decades. The Death Guard did not, for they were pushing its borders outwards; rebuilding their legion and continuing their endless, tireless crusade. Never mind how the mighty Dorn and his warriors would not take one step back. The Death Guard would never cease marching forward, into the Dark Millennium and beyond. The only time they would ever falter would be to honour their primarch's passing, on the distant western fringe world known as Macharius' Rest. Where sickness, assassination attempts, Thunder Warrior treatment and thousands of orks had failed, time had won its final victory. Members of the Dusk Raiders, the Death Guard, and every crusader who had ever fought alongside them made the pilgrimage to the edge of the Imperium, to pay their grudging respects to the Man Who Would Not Die.

''"Even our '''allies''' believe us nothing more than scum, than vermin to be crushed underfoot. Then let us fight like them; with tooth and claw, dragging down the mightiest of enemies with our dying breaths. Let us scour their lands clean with pestilence, and leave nothing that can be used against man - '''for vermin always have the last word'''."''

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== Lorgar ==

Lorgar Aurelian was a child born in the theocracy of the Ynsdonesic Bloc and as all children born in that awful place was the result of a state designated union. Unions in that dysfunctional realm in that time usually being decided by perceiving omens be it from smoke patterns or entrails augury despite the degenerate unions that this often created.

As with all youths of that nation he was raised in the Kartharanite branch of religion. He was taught that only through suffering was any worth found be it inflicted on the self or on others and that the unbeliever must be cleansed from the world by fire and sword. It was not a faith of kindness that he was raised in.

His appointed mentor in matters of religion was Bishop Kor Phaeron of Jakurtana. Had he had any other master then history would have taken a decidedly different path.

Bishop Phaeron was secretly a member of the Katholian sect from which the Kartharanite had once sprung and in this more kind and just faith did Lorgar find peace and purpose.

The old faith spread through the downtrodden and the hopeless of society despite the brutal and cruel efforts of Cardinal Tang to suppress, contain and exterminate it.

Eventually the outrage and animosity of the people for their leaders reached a fever pitch and civil war ensued. As Bishop Phaeron was the highest ranking member of the hierarchy on the side of the people he was looked to for guidance. As the Bishop's right hand man Lorgar soon learned the ways of war. He learned to inspire and comfort. He learned to appeal for calm and how to whip peoples passions to a frenzy. Although not lacking in martial prowess his voice, his cunning and his keen intellect were his favoured weapons.

It was maybe just in time that the subversion erupted into open rebellion when it did. The forces of the Warlord were marching down from the North and the Ynsdonesic Bloc was well up on the "Burn it down and start again" list.

With the possibility of an unwinnable war on two fronts Bishop Phaeron went to the parlay with the Warlord in person, dressed in only a crude hessian robe, with only Lorgar Aurelian accompanying him.

An audience was granted to the Warlord in his tent, at the heart of the enemy war camp, surrounded by genetically modified super soldiers and heavy weapons.

Expecting some sort of zealous speech of defiance and martyrdom the Warlord was taken aback some what when the two got down on one knee and swore allegiance.

The cared deeply about their faith and the word of their God. But their God cared deeply about the people he had made. Their God would understand if he was to be forgotten but not forgive men who should know better leading children to the slaughter. They would rather their people be free and happy than pious.

Moved by their words the Emperor gave them grace time. Should they triumph over their oppressors they would be welcomed into the Imperium as any other member state. Should they would have the harsh treatment of conquest and subjugation.

By insurgencies, underhanded tactics, assassinations and a brutal 12 year war the Katholians claimed victory and Cardinal Tang's broken but still living form was dragged before the Warlord as a token of gratitude.

It was somewhat of a pyrrhic victory for the people of the Ynsdonesic Bloc. They nation was in a hundred pieces, each swearing loyalty to some tin hat despot with delusions of grandeur, some almost as bad as Cardinal Tang. It would not be long before the fighting for dominance began, to say nothing of annexation from another nation.

The forces of the Warlord prepared to march again and again Lorgar begged the Warlord to stay his hand. They were just sheep without a shepherd, lost children in a very dark night. Once more swayed by the strange kind passion in Lorgars voice the Warlord relented.

Over the next five years as Bishop Phaeron became Patriarch Phaeron Lorgar went to the isolated and the lost and the scared with open arms and promises of reconciliation.

For the most part he was well received and his homeland healed. It was only after the talking was done that those too stubborn or monstrous to come home again were removed. Great pains were taken to minimize casualties but it was not a wholly peaceful end to that bitter conflict.

Ynsdonesic Bloc was the first of the old nation states to disband it's own military completely and throw it's own might, such as was left of it, wholeheartedly into the Imperium.

Lorgar, now a Chaplain-General in the Imperial Army, was considered too old for conversion from human to superhuman but did receive some discrete genetic modifications.

It was a regiment overseen by Lorgar that lead the final assault on the Despot of Ursh's palace that signaled the unification of Old Earth, and it was Lorgar's blade who swung the sword after the Last Despot of Ursh was tried and sentenced to execution for war crimes. But Chaplain-General Aurelian considered all of his victories to be nothing but tragedies. The only true victory, he would often claim, was one where no war was to be found. For his valour and astounding levels of inspiring oratory skill he was declared the unlikely Primarch.

Of all the Primarchs in the time of the Great Crusade his forces brought more worlds into the Imperium peacefully than any other.

They didn't bring more worlds in, oh my no. They were quite slow and their tardiness was no end of frustration to the now Steward. But Lorgar was tolerated because the worlds he claimed were brought into the Imperium whole and undamaged and contributing.

In the War of the Beast Primarch Aurelian and his Legion struck back with an unexpected force. Many of the other war leaders of the imperium considered his Legion to be full of pacifists and weakness. Like many of the damned in the armies of the Beast they had mistaken the olive branch for a white flag and they were punished hard for it.

Across the breadth and depth of the burning Imperium, to the aid of human or xeno, the Word Bearers could be found holding the line and inspiring others to hold the line. Where they strode despair turned to hope and weary hands held firm blessed weapons and shaky voices roared the old battle hymns.

Lorgar and his forces were on Old Earth when Sanguinius died and ever afterwards Lorgar blamed himself for not fighting hard enough to have saved his brother Primarch.

Lorgar lived and served for many years. He eventually died of old age at near eleven hundred years old. A small but modest shrine was erected at the Jakurtana Seminary that is sometimes visited by Word Bearer chaplains even into the Dark Millennium.

See also [[Nobledark_Imperium_Imperial_Society_and_Culture#The_Book_of_Lorgar|The Book of Lorgar]]

== Jaghatai Khan ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Noble Savage:'''''

From an early age, it was clear to most people that Jaghatai “White Scar” Khan was going to grow up to be a troublemaker. Some might have doubted such a claim, but that would have been put to rest by the time Jaghatai was ten, when he was thrown from his vehicle during an accident while tending the flocks, giving him the scar that would later become his most identifying feature, only to dust himself off with little to no concern for the cut on his face. Unfortunately, “most people” did not happen to include the Despot of Ursh. For years, Jaghatai and his people had lived the way his people always had, raising flocks of livestock on the steppes with the help of motorcycles and off-road vehicles. It was this skill with motor vehicles that had brought the people of the steppes to the Despot’s eye. He saw a greater use for their talents than simply herding livestock, and so he pressed the people of the steppes into service. The people of the steppes were turned into shock troopers, raiding enemy supply lines, tearing into retreating battalions, and burning down villages that refused to completely subjugate to the Despot, becoming yet another boogeyman for the Despot of Ursh to use to scare his enemies and subjects into submission.

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Jaghatai’s father was the nominal representative of the steppe peoples to the Despot of Ursh, and so was given the title of Khan: a once noble title that had come to mean nothing in the years since the people of the steppes were enslaved by Ursh. Jaghatai's father pleaded with the Despot to try and make the lives of his people better, but the Despot had a heart harder than adamantium and had no love for people whose loyalty was not absolute. And so it was that at the age of nineteen Jaghatai was awoken one night by emissaries from the Despot of Ursh, who dropped his father's head in a sack on his doorstep and gave Jaghatai the same ultimatum the Despot had given his father. "Serve me absolutely, or die".

Faced with not only the threat of his own demise but the demise of his people, Jaghatai swore loyalty at the point of a sword. But privately, the new Khan swore another oath. He swore that if there was any justice in this world he would not rest until he had avenged his father and it was the Despot of Ursh who had his head put in a sack. And so it was that for several years Jaghatai served as the leader of the one of the most feared forces in the entire Urshii army. And he hated it. He hated seeing his people being turned into animals, being used as attack dogs to terrorize people whose only sin had been to ask the Despot of Ursh for a bit of mercy. He hated the pain and suffering he caused in every burned out husk of a settlement he left behind him. Even when his people were kept out of the fray of raiding and pillaging, his conscience still gnawed at him over the fact that it had been his support that had allowed the Urshii to win and allow this to happen.

This went on for several years, until reports began to come in about a strange new power known as "the Imperium" led by a most peculiar Warlord, which was pushing against the Urshii from the west. Fortunately for Ursh, much of the south and west of the Urshii heartland was bordered by near-impenetrable mountain ranges, with only a few major passes between them. Khan and his people were dispatched as part of a force to guard one of these mountain passes from incursion, along with several thousand elite Urshii troopers. The Urshii troopers had no love for the nomads, forcing them to set up camp far away from the rest of the army and making them do most of the scouting. It was because of this that the Khan and his forces were alone when they quite literally stumbled upon the expeditionary force of the Warlord one fateful day.

Coming around a corner in the bottom of a river valley, the Khan and his scouting forces quite unexpectedly came across some incredibly angry men holding some very imposing guns. After a few minutes of an intense standoff, the leader of the opposing forces called a ceasefire to try and figure out why either of the two sides hadn't begun shooting at each other yet. It was at this point that the Khan first met the Warlord. The Khan realized that this was his opportunity to get revenge on the Despot of Ursh and avenge his father. He told the Warlord the truth, the real truth he had carried inside him since the day his father died. Although initially skeptical, the Warlord was so impressed by the sincerity of the Khan's answer that he believed his story.

The Warlord and the Khan began to conspire as to how to defeat the Urshii army at the pass. At first, the Warlord suggested to the Khan that he simply had to "forget" to show up to the battle, but the Khan vehemently disagreed. The Urshii had denigrated his people, the Khan said, and blood had to be repaid in blood. Therefore, a new plan was formulated, in which the Khan's forces would change sides once the Urshii and the Imperium became locked in combat. Rather than being flankers as intended, the Khan's troops would tear into the Urshii army from behind, forcing them to fight a two-fronted battle. The plan worked, and the battle was a complete rout for the forces of Ursh, allowing the Imperium to cross the mountain passes into the core Urshii territories. The former slaves of Ursh were skeptical to see the Khan's people as liberators, rather than devastators, and this bad blood would persist for years even after the fall of Ursh. Nevertheless, being involved as the front lines of a massive liberating army went a long way towards alleviating such concerns. When the Despot of Ursh was toppled and that abominable empire finally fell, the Khan finally felt that his father had been avenged.

The Warlord had earned the Khan’s gratitude and trust, but the Khan made sure to let the Warlord know that his people would never again be unthinking slaves.

''“You have helped me avenge my father and free my people, and for that you have my gratitude. But remember, that gratitude makes my people and I your allies, not your slaves. For all that you have done, you have my trust, but if you abuse that trust, know that not even death will be fast enough to catch you before I do.”''<br>
- Jaghatai Khan, reportedly said to the Warlord upon the final fall of Ursh

Fortunately, the Khan never had to put his newfound trust to the test. The years of the Great Crusade were probably some of the best of the Khan's life. His people were no longer slaves, and they had a vast new galaxy that had just become open to them. He even fell in love, something he had been studiously avoiding under the reign of the Despot in order to avoid giving that monster something he could exploit him with. He caught the eye of a girl, a former Urshii woman who had worked in the fields as an agricultural serf. He showed her the ways of the steppes, and the two of them fell deeply in love. He was heartbroken when she died. She died at 110, a ripe old age by the standards of those who lived before the Dark Age of Technology, but from a disease that befell many who worked in the fields of Ursh late in life that no amount of juvenant drugs could fix. And yet the Khan had to go on, as the Imperium still had need of his services. It was this sense of duty that led Khan to become an Astartes. Khan spent most of the Crusade on planets that had problems with orks and occasionally dark Eldar, beings that the Khan saw as truly reprehensible and therefore had no moral problems with hunting them down.

Late in life, the Khan began to feel the age seeping into his bones, and looked back at what he had accomplished during his life. He had avenged his father, freed his people, taken them to the stars, started a family, and helped build an empire. It was "more than any man could hope to accomplish in one lifetime", as the Khan said in his own words. But there was still one last thing Khan had to do. The old warrior planned to travel the galaxy one last time, to say goodbye to the friends he made before he passed away. However, the Khan never finished his trip. Although most of the people close to him did report seeing him shortly before his disappearance, the Khan never made it back to Earth to be buried in his homeland, like he wanted. Many of the White Scars say that like many of the other primarchs, Khan did not truly die, and will return to lead them once more when times are dire. One can only hope.

Although the Khan got along well with many of the warrior primarchs like Russ, perhaps his strangest relationship was his odd friendship with Magnus the Red. Part of the reason for this is that Khan actually knew Magnus (though not well) before either had become known as primarchs, back when they had served under the Despot of Ursh. Khan knew firsthand that Magnus was a man, not a monster, and treated him as such. It was probably this friendship that lead to the Khan being so pro-psyker in life. Although he was not a psyker, he knew of the suffering psyker powers could bring to an individual, and so was a strong advocate for pro-psyker policies like the schola that would help psykers control their gifts. He was also not averse to the use of psykers in combat, though like most he drew the line at warp sorcery.
Outside of the Steward and the primarchs, the Khan often had trouble socializing with other people. Part of this was due to a lack of things he could talk about with other people, and part of this was that he never really got the hang of Gothic, always speaking it with a rather heavy accent, which he was embarrassed by. As a result, the Khan was often known for being taciturn at public appearances, and was well known for regarding actions higher than words.

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== Konrad Curze ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Unforgivable:'''''

Konrad Curze was a man that could politely be described as driven, and accurately be described as ''a frothing at the mouth lunatic.'' Of all the Primarchs appointed, none were more questioned than he.

He had grown up in the final days of the Age of Strife in the rambling under city Tordashimya in the Pan Pacific Empire, along with all of the horrors and excess that this entails. To say that this had an effect on the deepest levels of his mind would be a woeful understatement, and he saw the fledgling Imperium as only existing as a means of imposing some sort of order and some basic justice on a world that was in dire need of both and he saw it as his duty to make it happen. Sadly his means of doing so were as crude and brutal as those who he sought to bring to justice; after all, the quickest way to gain obedience is through fear, and and the easiest way to rebuild a society is to behead it and tear apart the body.

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Despite - or, some whisper in hushed tones, ''because of'' - the Steward's insistence that he change his tact, Curze became stubborn and resentful; his predations becoming ever more brutal. Realising the futility of bringing to heel, the Steward instead directed him instead to the worlds of no hope, worlds so broken that they could never be brought into the Imperium. Worlds he couldn't make worse. It was on one of these worlds, Nostramo, that the Night Haunter found some strange joy. If he could bring a world such as this, so broken, so unspeakably wretched, as this to the light of civility then he would be vindicated before the whole galaxy. If a world so cursed by both gods and men could be rebuilt, there was nothing that could not be.

The subjugation of that world was the harrowing stuff of nightmares. The Dark Eldar could barely have done better to make every day-cycle a new nightmare; indeed, some claim that they were there to simply soak up the suffering as a welcome break to their long campaigns of torture and enslavement. But in time Curze, now infamous as the Night Lord of Nostramo, was vindicated. His people took control of every position of authority, while the malcontents were quickly ''disappeared'', often winding up dead and mutilated along with their families and friends, whether man, woman, elder or child. Hideous as it was, order was brought - and order began to spread, as for each world his legion inflicted unspeakable horrors on, ten more surrendered without raising arms. Hideous, brutal examples were made of the worst, but through them the more virtuous were saved.

Soon enough, the dark whispers of Chaos began to tempt his mind, the fallen Eldar of the Crone Worlds assailing his dreams with tantalising offers of untold riches and endless power. Yet every offer was found wanting; every envoy cut down, every promise met with scorn. They had made the mistake of assuming that one such as Curze had become would revel in their depraved debaucheries, without considering that he would find them every bit as repulsive as other, better, people found him. He was a monster, this was true, but he was a monster who ripped and tore and tortured in the name of order; by the Emperor he was the ''Imperium's'' monster and nobody else's.

Some, of course, fell. Younger soldiers who had maybe joined the cause for glory, for strength, or even for mere self-gratification. But the vast majority of them were, like their Primarch, disgusted by the offerings of Chaos, horrified by the fall of their battle brothers, and insulted at the implication that they and the forces of Chaos served the same ends. For the entirety of the War of the Beast, the Lords of the Night could be found sowing discord and misery amongst the fleets and the armies of damnation. For every horror the invaders committed more was inflicted upon them, and for every innocent killed by the Ruinous Powers the Night Lords would swear vengeance on a dozen daemons.

Few of that despised Legion ever fought on the soil of Old Earth, and never were they allowed to forget this. But because of their actions the forces of damnation were weakened and poorly focused with one eye always over their shoulder. Even if their military successes had counted for naught; even if they had not managed to save a single soul, '''they had made Chaos fear ''them'''''. And that was an achievement beyond all others.

In the aftermath of that war, many small provincial worlds and systems tried to strike out on their own, away from the light of the Throne, often being brought back by force. None of Curze's worlds, however, had ever tried to secede - after all, they knew both sides of the Imperium's protection, and had seen first hand the wrath that the Night Lords could unleash. If that was what they would to in ''defence'' of the Imperium, what they would do to willing turncoats did not bear thinking about.

In his later years, Curze was well aware that he had become everything he had despised in his youth, and he sometimes derived black humour from this; that he had finally rediscovered across the galaxy what he had first learned in his youth on a small Terran kingdom: that the ends do not, and cannot, justify the means. In the year 243.M32 he had himself tried and executed for war crimes as the ultimate testament that none were beyond judgement. He had deemed himself to have outlived his usefulness, and to some extent he was right; although the Imperium could tolerate a useful monster, it should have no love for one.

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== Angron ==

Angron was a slave pit fighter in what was left of the Nord Afrik Enclaves.

He was liberated quite early on in The Warlords campaign. Signed on to join the Thunder Warriors.

Rose through the ranks and earned great fame and respect. Munched loved by his men due to his tendency to lead from the front and getting stuck in where the fighting was thickest.

Was one of the older generation of TW with all the damage and flaws this brought with it.

Due to his astounding aptitudes he was promoted to the rank of Primarch and given command of a batch of the new Astartes model Space Marines.

Plagued by health issues despite attempts to repair his faulty upgrades. Refused the retirement offer that many TW took to make lives for themselves. He wouldn't have been able to deal with a peaceful life.

Survived all the way to the end of The War of the Beast but not much longer. Died peacefully in his sleep. Probably the oldest TW.

Kharn the Oathsworn took over, new type of super soldier for a new era.

He didn't live a happy life, but given the nature of his childhood he could have lived a worse one and a statue of him stands outside the gate of the Carthisisa Hive Cathedral.

===His Early Life===

Some men are born into greatness, and carry it upon their brow with the natural ease of command. Others have greatness forced unwillingly upon them, and they suffer its burden for duty and honor. The Primarch Angron fell firmly into the second category.

Little is known about Angron’s early life. What is known is gleaned from his private writings, scattered public records, and a few of Kharn’s recollections; and it is little wonder that the Primarch did not speak of his youth, for it was a bitter and brutal upbringing so sadly common in the chaotic days before the Unification.

Angron was born to a humble family in a small town in Timbuk, the northern state of the Afrique League, along the border of the Nord Afrik Conclaves. The town sat on a trade route used by nomad clans and acted as a minor trade hub and rest stop for their caravans as they traveled the roads between the techno-barbarian conclaves of Nord Afrik and the settlements of the Afrique League. Angron’s family made their living as bakers; their fortified strongbread was particularly well-regarded in the area as a food of the road for weary travelers. Their lifestyle was modest but probably not unpleasant, and it was more than likely that Angron would have followed in his family’s footsteps and become a baker as well, living a quiet life, were it not for the Europian-Afrikaan War.

After the humiliating defeat inflicted by Angron’s fellow Primarch-to-be Roboute Guilliman, the Padishah of the Nord Afrik Conclaves needed victory and loot to pacify his rebellious vassal shahs and sheikhs, who were threatening a shahs-moot to elect a new leader or even open revolt should the Padishah refuse. Thus, the Padishah turned his gaze and armies towards the weakest of his neighbors, the Afrique League. The southern Afrique state of Nama Gola was cut off from Timbuk by the toxic coastal wastelands and the vassals of Ursh further inland, nor could they challenge the Afrikaan at sea, and so their northern brethren faced the rage of the Afrikaan utterly alone.

The Padishah’s regular forces had been decimated by the war with Europa, and in a desperate show of might he turned to the cruelest monsters and technologies hidden within the Conclaves. Upon the Afrique League he unleashed lumbering arco-flagellants, limbs replaced by electrowhips and hydraulic mauls; screaming berserker slaves, hippocampuses mangled by crude cybernetics to increase aggression; cackling Volkite cultists, who unleashed the terrible heat of their weapons to praise their Burning God and the Devouring Flame; shriveled moisture cannibals from the deep deserts, who ripped men apart to drink of the precious water in their bodies and harvest the fluids for dark rituals; and a hundred other varieties of horrors and monstrosities forgotten to history, each worse than the last.

The Afrikaan host swept over the border unimpeded as the scattered militias of Timbuk were blown aside before the Padishah’s storm of ravening terrors, the regular Afrique soldiers having long withdrawn to fortify the coastal cities. Angron’s town was one of the first to fall, and the Afrikaan marauders slaked their bloodlust on the terrified citizens through all manners of torture and slaughter. The details around what happened to Angron during this time are scarce: Angron himself understandably did not speak much of this event and the only written comments involve a short line in one of his final writings. The only clues are from the journals of a minor officer of the Padishah’s elite Janissor Corps who was assigned to oversee the sacking of Angron’s village, where he writes of an incident regarding a young boy who leapt from the rafters of a burning bakery and stabbed one of his men to death, and who then almost escaped on foot before being shot down by a stun dart to be taken as a slave.

From ruins of his village, Angron was taken to a loot caravan along with the few other survivors, mostly young children like himself who would sell well at the slave markets. They were taken through the scorching heat and swirling sands of the Afrikaan deserts until at last they reached their destination: Karthago, called Carthisisia in the Afrikaan tongue, oldest of the Nord Afrik city-states, seat of His Ascendancy the Padishah. Perched upon the western bank of the great God’s Eye Lake, it was a dusty city of brass and stone, its red stone walls a crumbling reminder of a long and cultured past, its glittering pyramids and temples casting long shadows over the slave bazaars reeking of blood.

In the auction houses, the fierce young boy drew great interest from the old gladiator houses, for a star pit fighter would bring great riches and prestige to anyone who owned him, and when the auctioneer’s hammer finally fell after a round of exorbitant bidding, it was the infamous slaver Nuceria, Queen of Flesh, who won the right to Angron’s collar. After the auction he received Nuceria’s slave mark, the inverted red triangle upon his forehead that marked him as her property, a tattoo he would have for the rest of his life.

The next twelve years of Angron’s life were a nightmare of the most brutal training imaginable, designed to break and beat him into a instrument of slaughter, a sadistic crucible to purify him into a weapon unhindered by morality or humanity. From sunup to sundown on the grounds of Nuceria’s palatial manor Angron was forced to train and fight until his entire body was a tight knot of agony, and every slight failure, misstep, or distraction was punished with beatings. In his first year he was given a puppy to raise as his companion, and on his birthday the next year he was ordered to strangle it with his bare hands. When he refused, he received the first of many electro-whippings. As Angron grew older, Nuceria used him as her headsman, forcing him to mete out the punishments to her other slaves, like cutting off the feet of escapees and executing those who disobeyed.

In this hell Angron grew into a man. At eighteen he already stood well over 6 feet tall, his dusky frame thick with corded muscle, and he was excellent with the sword, superb with the mace, and unmatched with the axe. During one sparring match he killed three of the trainers that had tortured him since his childhood with a blunted training sword until the others managed to intervene, and when Nuceria heard she laughed and said the dead men had done their jobs well.

Yet for all their efforts, they had not broken him. Beneath all the years of horrors and scars upon Angron’s psyche, there was still the core of the simple young boy from Timbuk, the son of parents he no longer remembered, born in a village that no longer existed. It would have been easier to break, to become the monster they wanted, or to place the blame for all the atrocities he had committed on Nuceria and the others who forced his hand. Instead Angron chose to face and accept all that he had done, and when he woke at night, gasping and sweating from the nightmares that haunted him, all he could do was swear to make things right, some way, some how.

When it was time for Angron’s first fight in the pits, to Nuceria’s fury it was to be against Tigris of Franj, a knight taken as a prisoner of war long ago and a long-time veteran of the pits. Nuceria had seen too many promising young talents cut down before their prime by facing wily old fighters before they were ready, and on this match she saw the mark of the other gladiator houses, conspiring with the gamemasters to kill her most promising fighter before he could bloom. For all her rage Nuceria could not challenge their combined authority, and so as Angron stepped out in the sandy arena to face the Franjish knight, she resigned herself to losing a decade of investment.
Angron won in less than 5 minutes. With dispassionate, overwhelming strikes of his axe he dismantled his opponent’s defense piece by piece before battering him down with a furious rain of blows. When the crowd called for Tigris’ death, in defiance of pit custom Angron refused to perform the traditional execution of disemboweling his opponent and strangling him with his own intestines. Instead, he cleanly decapitated Tigris in a single blow, leaving the crowd in a momentary stunned silence before they rose to their in feet in an approving roar to cheer the masterful performance by the young fighter.

Elated, Nuceria took Angron to her slave pens and allowed him to choose any of the slave girls to be his personal courtesan, a prize usually reserved for gladiators that had won ten fights. To Nuceria’s surprise he walked past the cells of beautiful young women to the cells of children. They were frightened, furtive little things, and there Angron picked up a little boy with dark eyes full of defiance and loss, so very much like his own, and said this boy was to be no slave, but his son. And so Angron had found the first of his children, Kharn.

In the next few years Angron became a legend, his matches televised throughout the Conclaves, defeating champion after champion in an unbroken chain of victories. The crowds called him the “Lord of the Red Sands” while Nuceria lavished gifts and privileges on him for his victories, and so Angron’s little family grew as he took several more children under his wing as his sons and daughters. Yet for all his successes and outward displays of obedience, Angron was still haunted by his sins, and the chance for his atonement finally came when he was approached by a group of fellow slaves who asked that he aid them in their escape attempt by killing the guards the protected the motor pool. In return, they would take him and his children with them to freedom in far off Franj. Angron agreed without reservation, and the preparations were made.

Yet rarely were things ever so simple. The night before the planned escape, Angron returned to his quarters after training to find his children’s rooms empty. Nuceria was sitting in her study when Angron burst through the door, his axe dripping with gore from the guards he had slaughtered outside, and froze when he saw his youngest son Macer upon her lap, the baby giggling as the slaver cooed and bounced him in her lap in a mockery of motherhood. Angron demanded to know where his children were. Nuceria replied that they were safe, for the moment, but only if Angron the revealed the names of the conspirators of his escape. Remain silent, she added, and his children would die screaming, and suddenly there was a stiletto in her hand, delicately tracing a line across the baby’s neck. Falling to his knees weeping tears of helpless rage, Angron made his choice, and Nuceria smiled. In the morning, there were dozens of new crucifixes in the courtyard, and the moans and cries of the dying escapees echoed through the manor. Angron could only look on at the new nightmare that would haunt his dreams, and swear a dozen new vows of bloody vengeance.

The chance would come sooner than Angron ever imagined. War came once again to the Nord Afrik Conclaves, but this time in the form of an overwhelming invasion from a mysterious warlord from the Terrawatt Clan. At first, the Afrikaan nobility was filled with bluster, boasting that they would crush this upstart and take him as a slave to be paraded in the streets, yet in only a few short months the main armies of the Conclaves were crushed. The shahs of the Conclaves had imploded into panicked infighting and blame, and whispers spread throughout the fearful streets of Karthago of invincible steel-clad giants who marched in the vanguard of the invading army who crushed all resistance under the shells of their mighty guns.

Soon the enemy army was at the gates of Karthago, and the siege was brief, the spirit of the defending soldiers already broken and the conscripted slaves unwilling to waste their lives for their hated masters. As the walls fell and the fighting neared the estate, Angron knew he would have no better chance to fulfill his vows. In the chaos he pushed his way through panicking servants and slaves to the motor pool, where he found Nuceria with a few guards preparing an armored car for her escape. The guards he swiftly killed before they even had a chance to draw their weapons. For Nuceria, Angron gave her the death she deserved: the gladiator’s death, cutting open her belly and strangling her with her own entrails as she screamed and begged for mercy she had never shown, a final act of irony he hoped would appease his fallen comrades.
With the deed done, Angron took his axe and retreated to his quarters with his children, barricading the door as the sounds of fighting grew ever closer. Soon, he could hear echoing footsteps inside the manor, and he gripped his axe tightly as they drew closer down the hallway.

The door exploded open in a cloud of splinters and dust, and a hulking armored figure ducked through the doorway with a massive gun in its grip. From behind, Angron leapt forward and kicked the back of the intruder’s leg, causing the giant to stumble forward slightly, and with a roar he swung his axe two-handed at its vulnerable head. The axe struck true and hard, and bounced off harmlessly with a clang. The giant turned, and in response drove its armored fist into Angron’s chest. Never in all his training, sparring, or duels had Angron been hit so hard, and he was flung backwards against the wall, vision flickering, gasping and coughing blood through broken ribs and crushed lungs.

The giant stood over him and leveled the gaping muzzle of its gun at Angron’s head, dim light glinting balefully from the red lenses of its helmet, when there was a sudden movement. It was Kharn, screaming and beating at the giant’s leg with his thin arms. The giant looked down at the boy flailing helplessly at its leg and turned towards the sounds of whimpers from the other side of the room where the rest of Angron’s children huddled weeping behind the bed. He looked back down at Angron, and wordlessly the giant plucked Kharn off its leg, tossed him aside, and walked out of the room.

The next few days were a haze of pain as Angron lay in his bed, tended by a few of the old healers who had remained. The city had fallen, they told him, and to their surprise there had been no looting or raping or murder. Instead, the corrupt of the city had been dragged into the streets and purged, all the old slavers and fat nobles and decadent priests, though the Padishah had long fled. So when word spread that the warlord that had taken their city would be coming to visit his new territory, Angron dragged himself out of his bed despite the agony in his chest, and limped his way down to the city gates to take stock of this Warlord who had conquered them so easily.

When the Warlord walked through the city gates, there was a murmur of hushed awe. He was young, his face unlined and dark hair falling to his shoulders, and he towered well above the steel giants beside him, his gold-armored frame standing well over 8 ft tall. In unison, the crowds lining the road began to kneel, an instinct drilled into each of them by their years of service to their masters. But as their knees began to bend, each person felt an invisible force seize them, holding them before their knees could touch the ground. A presence touched their thoughts, vast and overwhelming, yet somehow warm and protective, and it spoke in ringing tones that echoed soundlessly within their minds:

''Do not kneel, for I am no king or conqueror.''

''Do not kneel, for you are slaves and servants to the unworthy no longer.''

''Do not kneel, for though you know it not you are noble and good.''

''Instead, I bid you: STAND.''

And every onlooker felt the force around their bodies reverse, pulling them gently but firmly upwards, until even the most stoopbacked old men found themselves standing as tall and proud as they did in the flower of their youth. They looked up with wide eyes upon the golden stranger before them, and a cry rushed through the crowd as they called out in tongues from a dozen lands.

“Liberator!” “Breaker of chains!” “Savior!” And that is when Angron knew he would fight and die for the Warlord.

See Also: [[Nobledark_Imperium_Writing#Nails|Nails]]

== Corax ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Raven King:'''''

Towards the end of the Wars of Unification the Despot of Ursh and remnants of the Pan-Pacific Empire united out of desperation although for that desperation they were no less formidable.

In the lands of Sino were to be found huge tracts of the richest and most bountiful fields on all of Old Earth in that time and with their produce a seemingly unending number of fighting men and near-men and once-men could be maintained. Those fields though bountiful were tilled with the blood and sweat and breaking backs of a slave caste that knew nothing of war and cared nothing for conquest and whose eyes were cast firmly upon the ground as those that dared to look up were so often the worse for it.

It seemed the Warlord knew that any attempt to invade that place by conventional means would be bloody in the extreme; to his own men, to their men and more tragically to the people he was trying to liberate.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Ursh had been pushed back and pushed back until it was now one diamond hard core of resilience. Conventional war was to be avoided and Curz's methods of unconventional war were not to be considered.

All that could be done was stand at the border and wait. Although the Warlord could not get in the Despot and his men were contained. Victory by weight of probability and time was assured but time for change to occur would be glacial and all the while suffering and death would be had among the downtrodden masses. Death by time or death by the blade, neither option was palatable.

And into this unhappy standoff Corax, the one who would one day be known as the Stormcrow, arose.

Uninformed and downtrodden as they were the slaves of Sino were far from stupid if only because stupidity was far from a survival trait in their harsh world. They had hear of the Warlord, they had heard of his new Imperium and they had heard of the freedoms it offered. They wanted that. Few would dare try to run the border because of what the Urshi would do to their loved ones left behind and what the foul men of the Khanate did to those they found running away.

Among them arose a man from the factories who had spent too long toiling for cruel masters and starving whilst his oppressors feasted. His family were dead by one means or another be it contagion, sport or ritual and he was left with critically little left to loose.

His job afforded him a basic but working knowledge of alchemy and reaction and he often handled equipment that was only considered tools rather than weapons because of how it was used. Corax was a very angry man but also a very cunning man whose anger was tempered by age earned wisdom and set for the long simmer rather than full boil. This was good as he was surrounded by a lot of other very angry people who also needed to be taught that patience and anger could work very well together.

By simple but time trusted methods of communication the words of rebellion spread. It was not without cost or casualty but those sufferings were just more fuel for the long burn of hate. It is possible that the rebellion would have died in it's infancy but for the forces and resources and attention being diverted to the borders where the Warlord circled, waiting for some weakness to show.

When the hammer finally came down it was like half the nation caught fire all at once. Caught unaware vast numbers of the fearsome warriors trying to out stare the Warlord at the border were frantically pulled back to keep the heartlands in good order. Perhaps this was a miscalculation on the part of the Generals responsible for the descision. Certainly the Despot thought so if the flayed and violated but still somehow living bodies of those generals adorning the palace walls are anything to attest to.

With the sudden depletion of massed soldiery on the borders the tables had turned sufficiently to make conventional invasion a realistic possibility. And at the head of the vanguard was Angron whose account of the first battles would have made historically important reading had he been persuaded to write anything down about it.

Caught between the forces of Corax and his merciless insurgency who knew all about cruelty and the forces of the Warlord that were as unstoppable as the sunrise the forces of Ursh were driven from the lands of Sino to their last strongholds where they licked their wounds and waited for the end that was not slow in it's arrival.

The people or Corax, freed for the fist time in time beyond living memory, looked towards the ordered and disciplined (except for Angron who had to be sedated) forces with wary eyes. They were not slaves now and would never bend a knee to a man again.

Corax, to his credit, did know that there was a world of difference between taking an nation and holding it. His people were brave and tenacious and could be vicious when provoked. But he knew deep down that they could not run a nation and all would soon descend into anarchy at best and re-enslavement or death at worse.

When the Warlord strode across the quietened field of victory towards the Stormcrow Corax could see in his eyes that it was one man greeting another as an equal, brothers in battle and free men.

Corax knew he would need to use what temporary authority he had as leader of a victorious rebellion to direct his people into a cohesive whole now that the immediate threat was removed and the Warlord knew that they were distrustful of outsiders and wouldn't take kindly to direct orders. A compromise was quickly reached. The most competent seeming of Corax's people would be given positions of authority in the newly freed nation but would also be provided with advisors and assistants from the newly formalized Administratum on loan for as long as they were wanted.

It was not long after that the weathered man that was Corax witnessed the final and lasting death of the Ursh and ever afterwards was he disappointed that he didn't get to deal the killing blow.

As Old Earth was brought to a new golden age the now Steward's eye turned upward to the inky black. To the far places of Luna and Mars and the Jovians and further, so very much further.

He knew he would need men he could trust in both loyalty and competence. People to act in his stead. Of these twenty most gifted and proven individuals Corax was one. When it came to covertly setting traps and ambushes he had no equal. Sadly he was well beyond the age when super soldier treatments become a viable possibility to say nothing of the two prosthetic lungs Imperium loyal tech-adepts had gifted him to undo the effects of thirty years of toxic fume inhalation in his old job. He did receive some discrete cybernetic enhancements and longevity treatments but nothing that wouldn't allow him to pass as human.

The skills he had learned and instilled in his new legion were of great use in the Unification of Sol. One of the earliest and most charictaristic victoris was when the dissidents breaking away after the Magi of Mars pledged alliance to the Empty Throne swiftly found themselves making considerable compromises as their air recycles all spontaneously exploded. Ever a man of the people Corax would always choose the path of least collateral damage over expediency or personal safety.

As the Unification of Sol turned into the Great Crusade Primarch Corax found that there were all too many kindred souls enslaved on distant worlds to terrible masters, some human and some xeno and some hideous beyond categorization.

Although the Raven Guard did posses Astartes soldiers (favoring a more refined version of the earlier model rather than the latter models) they were only typically used for the killing blow. The bulk of the Legion was mere mortal men who were far more adept at cover tagging of targets and walking among the downtrodden masses unobserved. When the Space Marines were called in and the fireworks went off the action was intense, devastating and brief. Quick decapitations with little mess were what his legionaries prided themselves in and it served them well. The people of the worlds they liberated loved them. The Men of Earth, that legendary birth world of humanity, had come back to save them and it was joyful.

But of Corax no rest was had in celebration or revelry. If his victories had taught him one thing it was that they were necessary and they hadn't run out of worlds to free. There would be no rest till they reached the edge of the galaxy and all the worlds in between.

The Raven Guard in their way operated in a manner mirror to that of the Night Lords in those hopeful days of the Great Crusade. The Night Lords would terrorize and scatter and slaughter but leave the technology and architecture of a world intact in preparation for a killing blow, the Imperium had no shortage of people and a replacement population could always be brought in. The Raven Guard preferred to destroy infrastructure but spare those who knew how to repair and maintain it in preparation for the final strike with the certainty that expertise could not be easily replaced. The Raven Guard argued that the entire endeavour of the Great Crusade was to save humanity, not slaughter it. The Night Lords agreed but saw no point is loosing sleep over the loss of individual humans sacrificed for the good of the whole.

Both rival primarchs despised one another, both raised good points, both were most effective when fighting in concert with a more direct Legion or similar fighting force and neither were openly brought to heel by the Steward because both were undeniably effective. Twice, in the days of the Great Crusade, the Crow and the Haunter came to blows although their Legions never went to war against each other. Barely.

When the Beast arose among the orks and the Great Crusade ran into it's equal and opposite the nature of the Raven Guard changed. Just as the Night Haunters were occasionally called in, to their disgust, to protect refugee convoys so were the Raven Guard called in to euthanize populations contaminated irreparably. To say that Corax found these orders distasteful would be a gross understatement. Out of all the Primarchs it was Corax who was first to outright disobey a direct order from the Steward. He would not bring nuclear fire down upon a civilian target. He and his men would not abandon their principles, not even in the face of annihilation.

It was upon the fate of the once thriving cultural hub that was the planet Azoth that the Raven Guard made their stand. The world was infected but they believed, they knew in their heart of hearts, that it could be saved. The force to retake it was led by the Stormcrow himself who needed to show the Steward that no such drastic steps needed ever to be taken.

Upon that world something in the heart of Corax died at what he saw. At the barbarity and the debauchery and the unholy violations he could never of dreamed of, not even the most depraved Despot of the Urshi could have dreamed of. ██████████████████████████████Data Expunged. -][- . Hydra Dominatus.████████████████████████.

Never again, the Stormcrow vowed, never again would he inflict such cruelty for the sake of human pity and the bleeding conscience of one old man. Indeed the primarch did feel old and in some way untouchable by rejuveneant treatments did look it now more than ever. Azoth was sterilized with atomic fire, a monument to all that should be reviled.

For the sense of well being that it cost one general the Imperium did at least learn of the Chaos Eldar earlier than they otherwise might have. Despite his disobedience Corax faced no censure from the Steward for showing pity and sorrow in his work, if he had shown joy then maybe things would have gone rather differently for him but the Steward would not punish a man for being human.

For the most part the Raven Guard served in the War of the Beast with great valor an uncommon cunning striking far harder than their numbers would suggest. Their greatest ally, they would claim in later years, was the orkish nature to infighting when their leaders were removed. Whole sub-WAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!s would grind to a halt as Nob after Warboss was subject to fatal ambush and inhumanly precise assassinations. Purely against the orks it is possible that the Raven Guard had no equal.

But it was not purely against the orks. Children of Chaos were abroad and of them the Raven Guard could not out maneuver readily. The forces of the dark gods reaped a heavy toll as hunts were turned inside out and the weakness of using so many mere mortal men was exposed. Astartes, it was often claimed, knew no fear, but baseline humanity did and that played right into the hands of the Croneworlders.

It is unknown how many of these sworn to service under Corax fell. Many who venerate the Stormcrow Primarch would claim that none did but they are blined by pride. The numbers are hard to tell in a legion that so loves the shadows and when they struck it was from a direction those in command did not see coming and so the wounds were felt all the deeper. Exact numbers may never be known beyond "too many".

Perhaps it was having to deal with these traitors, perhaps it was getting mired in a war of attrition against the orks or out outmaneuvered buy the fallen eldar or maybe some combination of all three but Corax and all save a token force of his vanguard, like his old rival, was not on Old Earth when Sanguinius died and the great Beast was slaughtered. Some blamed him but none so much as he himself did.

The wars of reconquest and the rebuilding of the Imperium was not a war that the Raven Guard were well sited for. Their primary means of warfare was one of carefully stalked targets and swift simultaneous executions. The reconquest of the Imperium with it's muddied waters and sliding scales of loyalty was something they found difficult to adapt to and in the years that followed they lost nearly as many as they did to the Beast's predations.

By the time the Imperium was stabilized and looking even anything like it had once done the Raven Guard was a shattered remnant of it's former glory and it's primarch was almost broken. Corax had seen too much he held dear despoiled, to many dreams crushed. The Steward tried to comfort him but his kind words fell upon deaf ears. In Corax's mind the Great Crusade, the greatest accomplishment of the human species, had failed and he had maybe played no small part in that failing.

To his credit he never let his sorrows interfere with his work. The Raven Guard was built up far more modestly in scale and in the place of a Legion a hundred Chapters were built in the centuries that followed. By the time that the last of the first commissioned chapters was declared ready for duty Corax was an old withered man. His early life had been hard and he had started on the rejuvenants relatively late in life and it showed.

Of Corax's ultimate fate the truth is unknown. He would, in those ancient times, travel between the newly minted chapters to inspect and advise and occasionally accompany on missions but like always he made few aware of his movements and would often drop in unannounced and leave abruptly. Which chapter he last visited is up for debate as many records are contradictory at best and nonsensical at worse but all is known is that one day he just vanished.

Some hold out hope, even unto the Dark Millennium, that the Raven King will return.

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== Alpharius & Omegon ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">''''' The Beginning and the End: '''''

"I am the Alpha and Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End." these are the last known records of the primarchs "Alpharius and Omegon". All documents and records pertaining to these individuals were deleted by Inquisition, those that were thought to be associated with the primarchs disappeared and all that was left was a parchment with those words and a small wax stamp beneath depicting the Lernaean hydra of old terran mythology. Now the only way to learn about the individuals and their legacy is by eyewitness accounts and rumours that have slipped beneath the inquisitions watchful gaze.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

One eyewitness report tells of two figures clad in dark robes standing next to the Warlord and his war council, they describe that the figures were much shorter than the other in the council.

It is unknown if these are the individuals known as Alpharius and Omegon because other reports say that they were tall men fighting battles and cutting down enemies. It is now even known if they are two persons and might in fact be one individual. This comes from a witness that said to have met a man dressed in the clothes of a highly revered official that presented himself as "Alpharius Omegon". All that is known that there was at one point one or more individuals called Alpharius and Omegon. But what is known is that he or they had a large part in the counterintelligence and espionage of the unification war. They were said to be masters of infiltration and supposedly had a deep network of agents and assassins so that the mysterious individuals could act at multiple places at once. This network is thought to become what we now know as the Inquisition.

"Cut off one head and two shall take it’s place."<br>
-Last words spoken from a prisoner before committing suicide.

A popular theory about the origins of the mysterious individuals, is that they were the members of the even less known ██████████ that were a secret society of old terra. It’s thought that that they joined the warlord after seeing the potential power that they could have they sent their most loyal and brightest two members to help the Warlord in his endeavours.

"You search the darkness, while we hide in the light. You see not the serpent lying in wait, you see only a brother. We witnessed your beginning and we will be your end."<br>
-Said to be whispered to an Imperial official before her assassination.

Another theory is that they originate from ███ ████ a group of Xenos set on destroying the "primordial annihilator" and thus sent their best human operatives to aid the Warlord and his future plans.

"Cut the head off the snake and the body will die shortly after"
-thought to be a direct quote from either Alpharius or Omegon.

Alpharius and Omegon are thought to be major members in the creation of the inquisition and that after the alliance with the eldar their influence has only increased. Acting as puppet masters, they are thought to be behind both the starting of wars and the ending of them, doing as they see fit for the better of the imperium.

It was around ████ that all records and documents of Alpharius and Omegon were deleted. Theories say that they had died and that their successors order the purge of information surrounding the primarchs so that their legacy and actions can be forgotten. Other theories say that the warlord declared them traitors and therefore got rid of all evidence of their existence.

But yet to this day there are whispers about legions of men and women walking among us, executing the orders of their puppets masters, killing the corrupt, eliminating the foe from the inside and bearing the brand of the hydra

"Hydra Dominatus"<br>
-Alpharius and Omegon, the Beginning and the End

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[[Category:Nobledark Imperium]]

Nobledark Imperium Primarchs

2020-11-26T10:57:00Z

2001:8003:D01A:2500:78E3:F6BA:DADE:20D4: /* Ferrus Manus */

'''This page is part of the Nobledark Imperium, a fan re-working of the Warhammer 40,000 Universe. See the [[Nobledark Imperium|Nobledark Imperium Introduction]] and [[Nobledark Imperium|Main Page]] for more information on the alternate universe'''

To Do:
* Finish Fulgrim and Angron
* Write up Dorn

[[Image:Astartes_Evolution_V2.jpg|thumb|History of super soldier augmentations in the Imperium]]

In his conquests of Old Earth and Sol, the Warlord created the title of Primarch and awarded it to twenty of his greatest generals, that they might become leaders of leaders. This was partly to maintain an ordered hierarchy but also to promote autonomy within his forces. The Warlord's long-term dream at the time was creating a system of governance so efficient that he would become obsolete. His short-term dream at the time was to free up enough time to spend all evening in the pub. Of the twenty awarded that rank, only eighteen are — by name and deed — remembered by history under that most magnific of titles.

Although all of the primarchs commanded a legion of super soldiers, not all of them were Astartes. Some primarchs were earlier types of super soldier, whereas others were incompatible with the proceedure. Some were too old to receive any kind of full-scale augmentation — though they were given rejuvenants, cybernetics and limited gene-forging. The Imperium experimented with many types of super soldiers before eventually developing the Mark III MP (Mass Production) Pattern. Each of these models can count at least one Primarch among their ranks.

Human(ish)
* Lorgar
* Roboute Guilliman
* Corvus Corax
* Magnus (Especially bizarre genetics made him incompatible with any augmentations save the most basic juvenants)
* Horus (Abhuman, member of the Void Born migrant fleet born on Luna)
* Ferrus Manus (Heavily augmented, but a Mechanicum Skitarii, not an Astartes or Thunder Warrior)
Early Thunder Warrior
* Angron
Refined (Late Stage) Thunder Warrior
* Perturabo
* Mortarion
Canis Helix
* Leman Russ
Mark I Astartes
* Rogal Dorn
* Jaghatai Khan (Maybe Mark II. Dorn was mentioned to be one of the last of the Mark Is and still had problems)
Mark II Astartes
* Fulgrim
Mark III MP Astartes
* Conrad Kurze
Mark III S Astartes
* Sanguinius
* Lion El'Jonson
* Vulkan

== Horus ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">''''' The King of Empty Space: '''''

[[Image:1484667029816.jpg|thumb|Primarch Horus Lupercal, King of Empty Space.]]

''"Somehow I thought he'd be... well... gold-ier"''<br>
— Horus Lupercal, speaking of his first impressions of the Warlord

The exact birth date of Horus is not easy to pin down, as the calendar used by the Void Born of Sol was one used by no one else, and didn’t use the Earth Year as the basic measure of time. The particular calendar used by Tribe Lupercal fell out of use, in any case, within a few generation of the death of Abaddon the Last and the disbanding of the Void Born as a unified nation.

What is known is that, by the final days of the Earth Unification Wars, Horus Lupercal was a man of renown and considerable accomplishment. His age was always difficult to judge, as up until his twilight years he remained spry, lively, and remarkable well preserved. When the Warlord first made contact with him he was described as being in his late prime to very early middle years in age. In appearance, he was much like all Void Born; freakishly tall and thin, pale, and in possession of large eyes and pianist hands. His face was much accustomed to smiling and his mouth contained three gold teeth; generally he evoked an image of a second-hand starship salesman in the people that met him.

The Void Born were not, in those ancient days, a unified people — though they were more cooperative amongst their own kind than baseline humanity ever was. They attributed this to the constant exposure to the bottomless depths of the inky blackness; space is vast and good friends are few. Yes, they would swindle, cheat, and engage in cutthroat business practices, but never to the point of death. Of all the myriad branches of humanity, in those days theirs was the only one willing to ply the starry sea. How Horus Lupercal, son of Maherpa, of the Lunar Lagrange Point rose from a humble bulk haulage transporter to representative of the Void Born as a unified people is the stuff of legends amongst the Merchant Navy and early Rogue Trader dynasties, and like most legends is almost certainly mostly bullshit.

Whatever the case, it was not long before the final defeat of Ursh that Horus found himself in a support harness on the surface of Old Earth, unsteadily approaching the Warlord’s tent a few miles behind the front lines. Exactly what they discussed that day is not in any recorded history, and the event itself was witnessed by only a precious few — Sigillite Malcador and Lord Guilliman among them. But beer was drunk and hands were shook, and Horus returned to his people and the blessed lightness of empty space.

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The nation of Ursh was brought to an end the next day, for all that their underground resistance would persist for nigh on twenty years after.

The Warlord — now Steward — appointed his twenty greatest the rank of Primarch. Among their exalted ranks was Horus, who soon after was crowned King of Empty Space by the unanimous vote of the great matriarchs and patriarchs of his people.

Some time after the King’s death, archived audio records revealed that the Olympus Mons Priesthood of Mars had also offered him vassalage — at not unreasonable terms — some days after the deal with the Warlord was made;

“So you're saying you'd rather be vassal to the Terrawatt apostate's flesh-smith than master of our every ship for perpetuity? You scorn the shipwrights of your forefathers! You scorn the smiths of time immemorial! What nerve you have, Lord-Admiral, what—”

“Nerve, is it? Certainly, it is nerve, magos. He promised me a partnership, as fruitful and even as the bargain you propose. He'd have me be his indispensable confederate until the end of my days, and as lord of my people. I made sure he stood as I knelt to the throne, and swore no oath he had not. I set the terms of my service, and I chose my mandate.”

“The gilt conqueror has amassed the treasures of man's eldest ruin, and he dotes mightily upon his subjects. More than that, he is unabashedly greedy.”

“Oh yes, his greed for self-possessed statesmen and commanders is vast, and his appetite for men wiser than he insatiable. I am the admiral of my ships, and of his ships, and all ships he might gain henceforth, and command his navy just as my own. He is steward of my people, and he is bound to them, each and every. Not just for as long as I hold them as one but instead in perpetuity, so long as his empire stands.”

And so was undone — with no small bitterness — an older arrangement between the Void Born and the Mechanicum, each feeling betrayed by the other. It was perhaps not such a heavy or saddening burden on the Primarch’s heart as it might have been, as he had never dealt with the Olympus Mons Brotherhood and so felt no real loyalty to them. In the days of his youth and in his father’s service, they had dealt with lesser — and less arrogant — brotherhoods. The Olympus Mons Brotherhood had subjugated them all, and thus felt they were entitled to take on their obligations and owed their respective loyalties. But Horus had shaken no hands with them.

It should be noted that, despite the public image of the unshakable trust and confidence the Steward had in his primarchs, Horus did worry him somewhat — and worried the other Primarchs rather more. Horus dreamed of an Imperium with almost no centralized authority and an almost non-existent hierarchy; each world independent and sovereign, united in mutual friendship but beholden to no one but themselves, and with no authority past their own bounds.

In Horus’ vision humanity would be, in some distant age, diversified into cultivated and pure abhumanism; a type of tool for every job and a type of human for every world, all united in a shared common humanity. Humanity was in its infancy compared to the Eldar, true, but unlike the Eldar we would not forget our roots. To him, the Imperium was not a final product, but rather a mere stepping-stone towards some strange utopia of a “Star Union”.

These visions did not sit well with the Steward at all. Nevertheless, though Horus was willing to privately challenge the Steward's vision for humanity, he never crossed the line and tried to aggressively implement anything to that effect. As the Emperor could wait and play the long game, so too could Horus. He saw his vision as inevitable; maybe it would start to take shape in some near century or some unimaginably distant age, but he could wait.

The great ships of the Migrant Fleets now stood with the Steward, whose eyes were fixed upon the warring states of the Far-Orbit colonies on the moons of Neptune and Uranus, the Jovian and Saturnine nations, the settlements of the asteroids belt and the Kuiper belt, and the ultimately to the distant stars. Suddenly, those stars seemed not so distant.

It would be Horus’ people who would take them there. His formidable ships would be at the forefront of the frontier, at the bleeding edge where the Imperium met wilderness space. At the place where profit, fame and fortune could be made and where legends were forged. In every way possible, his people were going to make a killing off of this deal.

The Void Born, though master sailors of the starry seas, made for poor soldiers. Upon their ships were placed bondsmen of the Imperial Army and the fearsome and awe-inspiring Astartes pattern Space Marines. In essence, Horus now had his own Legion on top of being a necessary participant in the operations of all the other Legions, as he was the one with the ships. There was not a war he didn’t have a hand in, not a victory his people not accredited with having done their part.

But of these victories, he would claim, none were a grand as those that came to the Imperium willingly — as he had, not so long ago. Deals were ripe for the making, trade could flow, riches could be shared and increased, and all the petty little worlds had to do was reach out a hand. Of all the Primarchs only Lorgar managed to get more worlds to join the Imperium bloodlessly.

Time wore on and the borders were pushed back. The Void Born soon found themselves with more — more ships made, more wars victorious, more trade flowing, more deals made, more riches pouring into their coffers, more fame and fortune, more stories and glories — than even Horus could have dreamed of, all those years ago in that far away tent on some forgotten battlefield. It was a golden age after the ten thousand years of the Long Night. It was in this golden age that Abaddon, nephew of Horus, was born.

Horus had no children (that he knew about) and so took the young Void Born as his heir and protégé, and tried to instill in the child the skills that had led him down the road to kingship and riches. But to Horus’ mixed shame and pride, Abaddon turned into more of an admiral than a salesman. That was not to say that he didn’t learn much from Horus — quite the opposite — as Abaddon was no poor diplomat and could play the part of the blunt-but-lovable old soldier to his advantage, and manipulate an Administratum requisitions committees as well as any royal court. It was just as well, as there weren’t enough Void Born to fill the Navy by that time — and hadn’t been for decades, if truth be known. The Imperium was growing faster and faster still, producing ships faster than his people could fill them, making it a necessity for baseline humans to fill the berths of the Imperium's void ships. Horus was Void Born to the marrow and had grown up in another time. A time that was all but gone now. Abaddon would be the sort to inherit Empty Space.

As the forces of the Void Wolves — as his forces had collectively become known by that point — were at the edge of Imperial Space, it was they that were first alerted to the arrival of The Beast.

The Beast’s forces, raised across a thousand star systems and launched simultaneously with disturbingly un-orky precision, swatted aside hundreds of ships in a matter of hours across a front twenty thousand lightyears long. After that, his people would need no incitement to vengeance — no rhetoric of Warlords or Stewards or hypothetical Emperors. Blood had been spilled in Empty Space, and for the Void Born — as has been since the days of the first space pirates — only one thing could wash away a debt of blood: more blood.

It says something of the presumptiveness of Chaos that they tried to deal with the Pale Primarch, at that point still believing that they had remained hidden. They believed Horus and his people to be degenerate mutants; too slow witted to realize that the Orks were not the orchestrators of this war.

They promised him dominion of the stars, the birth of his Stellar Union. They knew that he knew that the Steward would never allow it to be in his lifetime, but with their help all could be as it ought to be. He would be exalted from now to the day the last star went out. All he had to do was simply wait the war out.

Horus would have none of it;

"Your offer sounds interesting. But you forget one thing: I am a captain of the migrant fleet and a businessman. In this place, I am the one who makes the deals. Now get off my ship."

It would be disingenuous to say that Horus had not considered sitting out the War of the Beast; he was a merchant prince at heart, and knew first-hand the advantages of considering alternatives and making cost-benefit analyses. However, he realized that not coming to the aid of the Imperium, regardless of his own political opinions, would kill any hope of a long-term "Star Union" — a fact only reinforced by the attempted temptation of the Chaos Gods. Even if humanity survived the War of the Beast, brother would blame brother for a perceived lack of help and poison any attempt at a long term "Star Union". And, perhaps most importantly, Horus had sworn an oath to the Steward centuries past. To Horus Lupercal, a man without his word was no man at all.

The people of the Void Born were not as numerous as the baseline humans and for a time it looked as though, by throwing their lot in with the Imperium, Horus had doomed them to extinction. But Horus and the wise admirals under his command could be all too sure of one thing: Chaos would have come for them in time, Imperium or no. The War needed to be over quickly. It needed to be over before his people left the stars forever.

The King of Empty Space went to the Steward and proposed a plan. A desperate and needed plan. By misdirection and feigned weakness, the forces of the Imperium would funnel the hordes of the Beast to Old Earth. Orkish psychology would demand that The Beast himself be at the head of the incursion and there — deep in the heart of Imperial territory — they would close the trap and decapitate the WAAAGH!!! of The Beast. Without their leader the orks would fall apart and fight each other, and without their meat shields the Chaos Eldar would flee.

Horus was not on the surface of Old Earth to witness the death of the Angel-Primarch. He knew that none of the other Primarchs knew of his plan to force the end of the war. He knew that they would blame him; he could tell them that the war needed to be ended, a war of attrition against Orks was a slow walk into the grave and as relentless as a gravity well. He could have told them that this had been the only hope of victory. HE knew it all to be true. Maybe they would agree, maybe they would not. Maybe it didn’t matter in the face of victory. But it was a bitter victory, given the cost and the ruin the Imperium had suffered. The Golden Age was over, and now it seemed that Long Night had never really left.

In the subsequent years — and accompanying reconstruction and rejuvenation — of the Imperium, the Merchant Navy was instrumental in the rebuilding efforts, to the point of being equal to the forces of the Imperial Army in importance. Broken and scared worlds looked to the heavens and the Pale Men of the stars with pleading and love. Horus was old, now, and a little broken inside. But maybe helping the battered and bruised people of the Imperium, seeing their gratitude and their heartfelt smiles, healed something in Horus' heart, in some small way.

Many expected that Horus would launch a coup against the Steward around this time; the Imperium was on its knees, its allies were weary, and many of the generals and the old Mechanicum brotherhoods would have followed him without question. For all his faults — for all his trials and failures — Horus was still hellishly charismatic and could sell anyone anything, whether it be a used cargo hauler or a new dream.

The Imperium waited, and it seemed like all powers that be in the Imperium — the Primarchs and generals, the lords and their assassins, the movers and shakers and the influence-peddlers — all stood poised to spring in one direction or another at his word. That word never came. Maybe he had given up on his dream of a galactic union, or perhaps he saw it as something that could only be born from the Imperium. We will never know. But for three hundred years the Imperium waited for a rebellion that would never come. A man without his word is no man at all.

Void Born are fragile creatures by nature and their bodies can’t deal with alchemy in the blood well, making it is easy for them to overdose on drugs and medicines. The rejuvenant drugs that kept him in some manner of youth had to be of a lower dosage, and now even that was starting to fail altogether. His body was too frail for the longevity treatments designed for baseline humans. Primarch Horus Lupercal, King of Empty Space, would die soon.

An entirely plausible story — held as true by the Sons of Horus and official Imperial history — put forward this unusual reaction to rejuveants as an explanation of the Lord-Admiral's recorded vigor and mental acuity, even unto the last years of his life, as well as his ceremonious abdication to Prince Abaddon several years before his death. That the Lord-Admiral spent those years assembling an entourage of notable captains, as he flitted between the systems of the Imperium, has been relegated to obscure tomes of history. Around this time, Horus threw his considerable clout into numerous ambitious projects, and was often present in the orbits of Old Earth, Mars, and Jupiter, as well as the systems of Chthonia and Prospero. Of all his works in these last decades, he is recorded to have shown greatest interest in the creation of an Imperial capital upon the Chthonian ring, the work of the Martian explorator fleets, and the collaborations of Fulgrim and Ferrus Mannus. These projects are acknowledged to have laid the groundwork for much of the Imperial Navy's own capacity for independent logistics and development. The order that would become the Sons of Horus had its roots in this period, intended by Horus to see his vision of a humanity truly suited to interstellar civilization well into the future. Horus died nineteen years after his abdication and was entombed on his personal warship. Age took him quickly in the end, but he went into the Long Sleep knowing that he had served his people and the Imperium well, and that a good man would take up his burdens.

His tomb has never been opened, but upon that basalt slab still stands the Corona Nox. Waiting for a worthy brow to sit upon.

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== Leman Russ ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Great Wolf''''' - or ''The Lapdog:''

The story of Leman Russ starts in the land of Skand, among the Nordyc peoples. He was born to a woman called Ragna, who was considered to be wise, if not especially beautiful, by the clans and so her affections were oft courted. Russ’ father was Thengir, tribal king of the Kalararit people. That his mother and father were not married was seen as not particularly odd by the peoples of Skand. Especially when his father was Thengir.

Russ’ education was about as formal as it was ever going to get among a tribe of fishermen, semi-raiders and occasional traders. Although most Kalararit men did not become warriors as a full time profession, all were expected to be able to fight in times of need. It was in this pursuit that Russ found his calling, for the ways of war came easy to him. He grew tall and broad at the shoulders, with powerful musculature and boundless stamina. He became well-versed in the care and maintenance of his tribe's weapons, from autoguns to the humble war axe. He was peerless in the execution of ambush warfare on land and boarding actions upon the cold seas. Sadly, the ways of the scholar did not come as readily to his mind. Although by no means unintelligent, Russ did not — especially in his youth — have the temperament for understanding the needs of large-scale or long-term expeditions.

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In time, Russ grew to be the strong right hand of King Thengir — who had lost his own literal right hand some years previously, in a bitter and bloody dispute with the former King Clovis Fouché of Franj. This hatred of the Franj would never leave him, for Russ could be very stubborn.

The men and women of the Kalararit respected Russ — who could be quite charming, in a blunt sort of way. Russ did take his first wife by own choice, rather than at his father’s insistence. Linnea was probably the one part of softness in Russ’ life, and possibly the only thing in later years that held his bloodlust in check. Many of the Kalararit suspected that she possessed more wisdom than he. She certainly possessed great patience.

It was when Russ was still a young man that a foreigner in dusty grey robes came to his father’s thatched hall with offerings — of strong wine, silks, and laser rifles — in chests with lightning bolt heraldry upon them. His companions were strange, for their armour was of a sort not seen in the lands of Skand or its neighbours; they were silver and matte grey, segmented with face covering helmets. The foreigner walked with the aid of a stick with a metal eagle perched atop it, and was accompanied by a giant dressed in the manner of a common man. This was the first time that Russ saw the man who would soon be know to Old Earth as The Warlord.

Some time into the deliberations between the robed man and the king, another giant — this one dressed in the manner of a wandering shaman — strode into the hall, and was called over by the first giant to sit beside him. At the time Russ thought little of it, and just assumed it not unreasonable that a giant would have giant kin. This was the first he saw of Magnus the Red — and many times down the centuries he wished it had been the last.

Over the next few months, other tribal chieftains and kings found themselves drawn to the hall of Thengir the Cripple. Much was discussed, marriages were arranged, oaths sworn, and gifts exchanged. It was disconcerting for Russ; to the young warrior's mind, the world was changed by strong men doing great deeds — with blood and iron and sweat. But here he watched as old men and scribes carved up the world, and told the future how it was going to be.

This — he thought as he looked at the maps and the increasingly long lists being drawn — this was true power. One great warrior could do great deeds, but this was something rather more lasting.

There were some — tribes, clans, and petty little kingdoms — that would not entertain the notions of peace. They saw the plans of Malcador and The Warlord for what they were; the soft subjugation, capitulation, compromise, and surrender of the signatories. They had pride, they had their principles — for it was the strong who dominated the weak — and they would not roll over and submit. They left the great hall of the Kalararit, and never again would they be welcomed there.

Of the tribes that were incapable of seeing reason long enough to join this new alliance, all were left behind to die in their old world of savagery — by one means or another. Most simply withered and died, as the Nordyc peoples formed a true nation and they could no longer attract new blood — for all their young had left to find new work and new lives, in the rebuilt cities of Gamsta and Akershus and the reclaimed and prosperous farmlands that surrounded them.

Few were foolish enough to outright attack the fledgling Imperium. Few but still some. These tribal savages were brought to ruin by the Nordyc men who insisted — nay demanded — that it be they who dealt with this problem, for all that they were they had once been friends and brothers all. As with the Old Ways, the warriors and kings of the barbarian tribes were slain; their women and children assimilated into the more prosperous tribes to be cared for, and their lands given to young Skandish men and women looking to found tribes of their own. It would be the last time this old law of conquest would ever be practiced by the people of Skand. Russ was present at the closing of that era, smoking and pungent with the fresh blood of the slain though it was. It was not a thing in which he found any joy, but he knew it had to be done.

It was from some unremembered tribe — slain by his hand, no less — that he obtained his second wife. Febronia had been a court slave kept by a petty chief too lazy to learn basic literacy, and thus she was fluent in an improbably large number of languages — both written and spoken — and passable in many others. Not of the Nordyc peoples herself, but a former slave bought from exotic climes, Febronia's marriage was nevertheless at the insistence of Russ' aging father — Russ, after all, was a wealthy warrior of the nobility and it was his duty to care for the slain.

Linnea was, to her credit, understanding of the situation. It was the way of things for her people in that era, even though that era was drawing to a close. In time she and Febronia became good friends. It was often joked by Russ' companions that he preferred the battlefield to the hearth of home, as he felt less outnumbered. Between them, Russ and his wives had many children — but by some fluke of genetics and chance they had only birthed daughters.

It was at about this time that the Thunder Warrior program was being phased out. The two alternate branches of Super Soldier production that the Imperium was perusing were the Canis Helix project and the Astartes project.

The first test subjects of both yielded positive results, but ultimately Russ volunteered for the former as it would complement and enhance his own strengths. By pure chance, he was spared the crippling mutations and biological failures that plagued those that took this choice in the years that followed. Indeed, he was one of only a handful of successes, and the only other to have survived both the Canis Helix tests and the passage of time was Bjorn "Fellhanded" of Kraken Bay.

Although the "Dog Soldiers" — as the Canis Helix super soldiers came to be derogatorily known as — fought magnificently and ferociously, the failure rate and the nature of the failures was too much for the Warlord to accept. The whole project was scrapped, its resources given over to the more reliable Super Soldier branches.

As time and war ground onward, the Nordyc regiments earned both fame and infamy, for they were brutally effective but, The Warlord felt, with too much emphasis placed upon brutal. Much like the bloody antics of Curze and the calculated atrocities of Mortarion, this was permitted under sufferance. Victory was always afforded some leeway, and the wars were only ever a means to an end — and Russ's carnage was expediting that end.

The Skandish raised regiments — the newly minted Wolves of the North — in the final days of the wars with the Ursh-Pacific union, and were found to be more suited to harrying moving forces and preventing the enemy from receiving reinforcements, allowing a smoother and less costly victory for the other Legions. To their immense regret, however, the Wolves were never present in the major battles.

As Old Earth united and The Steward looked to the stars, Russ was elevated to the exalted rank of Primarch.

To the disgust of Russ, so were Lion of House El'Jonson and Magnus the Red.

The Lion, as a knight of Franj and a member of House El'Jonson, was both an ancestral and recent enemy; Lion's brother Luther was responsible for the late king Thengir's maiming. Magnus the Red was a warp dabbling mutant who confessed to having consorted with daemons. Both had personalities that were utterly incompatible with Russ' own — and the feeling was mutual. It was rare that Legion elements under their jurisdictions would work together.

Russ was the first to recruit warriors from beyond Sol into his superhuman ranks. The people of Fenris were excellent recruitment stock — even if they were from a barbaric and primitive planet and needed extensive education to learn the discipline necessary for war. Russ himself was from a discontinued line of super soldiers; though possessing savage fighting temperaments and heightened senses, the modifications of the "Dog Soldiers" were dangerously unstable, and the Canis Helix Project proved to be too untenable even for the best minds in the Imperium. If news of the monsters born from the project had become common knowledge on Earth, the Warlord's support would have crumbled. But on a distant world as remote and seldom visited as Fenris, the project could not only be buried but begun anew at Russ' behest. After all, any monsters arising from the Project were the problem of a few distant primitives, certainly not the concern of the glorious Terra. For his part, the Emperor at first claimed no knowledge of the new Canis Helix soldiers, and even when he did learn of it he trusted Russ' claims of the failure rate as being "well within acceptable parameters", thus leaving Fenris and its canine guardians well alone.

The Space Wolves, as the legion became known, quickly made up for their questionable origins by serving with great distinction during the Great Crusade, excelling at tracking a target and assassinating them — often in close-quarters combat. Regrettably, in the wretched days of the War of the Beast, a number of the wolves were tempted down the bath of bloodshed for bloodshed's sake, and forsook the Empty Throne of Terra for the one of brass and bone, where the Lord of Skulls held court instead. Of these oathbreakers, no name was cursed more by Russ than that of Skyrar of Caledonia — whom Russ once would have called brother.

Some measure of honour would be restored, however, to the ranks broken by turncoats and anointed in blood. Russ's Wolves made great speed back towards Terra, and seeing the home he had left a lifetime ago aflame in war broke the Great Wolf's heart. The wolves threw themselves into the inferno and fought like mad beasts, with neither thought of the past nor hope for the future; this was no thirst for vengeance but instead a plea for redemption. Russ himself was there at the Last Roll of Thunder when Arik Taranis, Bearer of Lightning, fell in battle in the great plaza before the Eternity Gate, and took up the tattered old Unification banner in his place.

When the last of the fires grew cold, none would ever again question the loyalty of the Space Wolves. For all that the shattered remnant of a legion was covered in blood and soot, each man felt truly clean.

The remains of the Space Wolves retreated to Fenris, licking their wounds, and quietly rebuilt their legion as the Imperium itself rebuilt. For no matter how enlightened or holy it may become, Russ knew that the Throne would always need its tame monsters. But the Great Wolf himself was not fated to fall in glorious battle, and certainly not to fall to the temptations of the Ruinous Powers. Instead, the legends say, some two centuries later Russ — now an old warrior and the King of his world — simply walked alone out into the snow. His brothers, friends, and servants all followed his tracks into the cold woods of the frozen north, but he was never seen again. Some say the Old King is resting, and will return to face the Old Night in the days when hope withers and the stars grow dim.

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== Ferrus Manus ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The One of Ice and Iron:'''''

The unimaginatively named Ferrus Manus was born in the manner typical of the Mechanicus enclaves of Antarctica — grown in a jar from anonymous genetic samples. Deemed free of malformation and unwanted deviations in his early development, which were rare and valuable assets in an age where clumsy genetic enhancement created mutants more horrific than radiation or plague ever could, he was permitted to be born rather than recycled. Being born and raised where he was at the time he was, Ferrus had no name at birth — although the markings on his tube did superficially resemble the name Gorgon in an ancient tongue recognised by one of the oldest Magi. This was adopted as his unofficial name in his youth; doubly so after it became apparent that he would grow up to be aesthetically displeasing.

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Ferrus was given a basic and general techno-ecumenical education until the age of twelve, after which he began training for full inclusion into the Mechanicus. By fourteen he had managed to achieve the rank of Technician-acolyte — escaping the the fate of Servitorhood that awaited underachievers — but a purely priestly life was deemed an inefficient use of his talents, and he was transferred to the Skitarii for training. By his eighteenth year he was a fully and mechanically augmented soldier of the Mechanicus priesthood, and was tasked with the defence of the Nuemyana Port, one of the few places where primitive outsiders were permitted to have dealings with the Terran Mechanicus.

As he rose through the ranks of the Mechanicus military, receiving all the augmentations appropriate to his station, Ferrus began to see the world in absolute terms — the black and white notions of Weak and Strong; that it was the duty of the Weak to serve the Strong, whose duty in turn were to rule and protect. It was as if his heart was slowly being replaced with machinery as much as his body was, beginning to see all humanity not a part of the Mechanicus as Weak. Perhaps this was merely conformity, however, as many of the Elder Magi shared similar views. And... '''enforced''' them. Regardless of their attitude to more baseline humans, the Enclaves soon came under threat from Hy Braseal. Though the nation could hardly be called a superpower Hy Braseal was close enough, and proved sophisticated and organised enough to push the Mechanicus Enclaves off the tip of South America, leaving their former holdings destroyed, irradiated, or captured.

Due to their perceived incompetence in the piecemeal defence of their lands many of the Elder Magi were deposed by those below. The ambitious and the popular soon rushed in to fill the power vacuum at the top of the hierarchy, whilst the new Elders had the few remnants of the old order servitorised. At the end of the reshuffling Gorgon found himself as General-Sentinel and Protector of the Northern border, a prestigious yet demanding job that commanded the first line of defense against the Braseali peoples — and would be the first to be servitorised, were the enemy to force their way onto the Antarctic mainland.

In spite of the Mechanicum's preference for function over form, Gorgon ordered for his new cybernetic upgrade to be encased in the toughest alloy known to the Mechanicum. True, it would serve no purpose; although the material was indeed potent armour, his position as General-Sentinel precluded any situation where that would be useful. Instead, it was a surprisingly perceptive move to bolster his stature in the eyes of others; the intimidating size and power of the modifications terrorized those who sought to mutiny as much as it did Braseali spies. Thus, the Gorgon was no more — in his place there was only Ferrus Manus.

Even as he rallied his Skitarii and began to forge them into something stronger, the generals of Hy Braseal had already raised a horde of relatively well-disciplined and well-armed soldiers, and were beginning to lead them into the cold Antarctic enclaves. Salvation came in the form of the Warlord, who sought the advanced technology hoarded by the Mechanicum. The Elder Magi saw their projections of survival in a total war scenario with Braseal jump over tenfold merely by being on friendly terms with the Warlord, and all the way to an astounding 93% were they to accept his offer. Which they did without second thought. Dalmoth Kyn — the leader of most of South America — and his descendents would never forget how the Warlord had sided with the Mechanicus, forever opening a rift between their people and those of the Imperium. In time, they too would eventually join — but not before a long and bloody war consumed much of the Braseali people.

As the Mechanicus Enclaves were assimilated one by one into the Imperium, Ferrus Manus once more found himself rising up the ranks of the military. His existing rank the Mechanicus — which were a few isolated enclaves that had fought valiantly against an entire continent — was prestigious and his tactical acumen formidable. So too were his legions of cybernetic soldiers, who could comfortably overrun any techno-barbarian on the planet and even go toe-to-toe with the Warlord's own biologically augmented warriors. The one who, as the Gorgon, had looked down on all flesh as weak was now beginning to find a grudging respect for it.

Years passed and wars were moved from the surface of Terra to the stars. Ferrus' soldiers — now known as the Iron Hands — became renowned for being able to resist the harshest of environments with ease, proving as comfortable in the cold vacuum of space as they were in the sand-blasted remains of Ursh. Thus, although often (and rightly) feared by many, the Mechanicus forces were respected by all and proved to be a key factor in cementing the Terra-Mars partnership, which would be a story repeated at each world they encountered more of their cybernetic brothers on their crusade into the depths of space. Perhaps it was this — securing the mighty forges of mankind — rather than the Iron Hands' martial prowess, that earned the old Gorgon his recognition as a Primarch.

During the War of the Beast, however, the Iron Hands lost much of their prestige and reputation by primarily seeking to defend their Forge Worlds instead of the Imperium as a whole. Perhaps this was simply because their Primarch had seen how hard mankind would fall if they once again lost the machinery that held its precious Imperium together. Or perhaps (as many others claimed), their loyalties lay more with the Fabricator-General of Mars than they did the Steward or Terra. For their part, the Hands never denied the accusations levelled at them, only defending them.

Of all the Primarchs, Ferrus Manus was one of only three who lived to see the Steward become Emperor; and he was the last of them to die, meeting his end on the fields of Armageddon before the gates of Hades Hive in the year 616.M39. In truth, his health — both biological and mechanical — had been deteriorating for centuries, and although he knew that there was little operational time left for his body he did his best to ensure that neither his Legion nor his Emperor knew of the fact. He took a bloody and glorious toll with him — one worthy of respect from any and all — but his passing marked the end of an era. Although he and the Emperor had never been friends, his passing was felt by the flesh-bound of the Imperium just as much as it was by his Mechanicus brethren.

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== Fulgrim ==

The Primarch Fulgrim, foremost of the legion Terra's Children, was conceived in a Merikan population expansion program. His parents were both loyal Merikan officers, and upon their deaths their genetic material had been saved, and eventually combined for one of countless batch grow children. In truth this program and others were conceived and implemented as the early wars of unification rocked the eurasian continent, if only to bolster the Merikan guard should another high-technological joust of nations commence. Fulgrim was decanted twenty years before the fall of Ursh, in the facilities of the MoTon industrial concern. By random chance or the inevitability of mass production he could be said to have been born with a charming and distinct beauty, which he maintained for all his life, though it was accompanied by a vast and neurotic ego. At this time his name was Furis Doe, and shared a surname with all other children created as he was. In his youth he found success among the ranks or mechanists and the overseers of MoTon, and became the commander of his own sub workshop at a young age. Between his competence and the opportunity to demonstrate the success of their program Fulgrim's superiors were eager to fast track him.

Furis matured steeped in the legends told by old mechanists, some even from the arctic enclaves, of the star spanning Mechanicus, and the gleaming stelar empire they maintained, but also surrounded by the propaganda of the merikan war machine, with edicts of the holy human form, and even pretensions to brutal meritocracy. In the years surrounding the imperium's first truly overt offensives, and then its brutal dismantling of the Despot of Ursh and all under his banner, Merika hardened for war against the unification.

Between the saturation of muddled anti-Ursh and anti-Imperial propaganda and his own dreams of the stars Furis began to recede into his mind, and this came just as the mounting war effort put the apparent prodigy in command of his own experimental workshop and staff. These were Merikan mechanists and techpriests cast out of the polar enclave after it sided with the Imperium. Fulgrim, a nickname earned by his increasingly dry, cynical demeanor, mostly served as a director, but was himself a decent scientist and tinkerer.

Furis began experiments with superhuman modification to respond to the fabled imperial thunder warriors, among other things. While these projects had successes, even creating subsystems superior to imperial equivalents in some respects, they were few and expensive, and other avenues showed far greater promise. Fulgrim did however upgrade himself in numerous faculties, spending not insignificant resources as such. He was said to be deeply interested in the lore he could draw from the defector techpriests, though he never went so far as to make any of his personal modifications overt. Fulgrim would eventually express that it was partially the Mechanicus' preference for skitarii and servitors that made progress on superhuman physiological enhancement so difficult. During this period he traveled around Merika and Kalbi, particularly exploring the borderlands and the deep mazes of vaults drilled through the western mountains, where techno-barbarians still flourished. Fulgrim and his workshop were notably productive though this time, either creating or dredging up dozens of horrific technological marvels, but Furis Doe was only loosely tethered to his superiors' control, and was rarely in contact with Merikan command. In some histories it is guessed that the Warlord contacted him around this time, but it wasn't so.

Furis and his mechanists, notably cherry picked from Doe production runs, returned from the wastes with technological bounty and only a handful fewer men and tech priests than they set off with. At this time Ursh was all but fallen, the Pan-Pacific empire was on the defensive, Kalbi was in revolt under Military Governor Dorn, and Merikan high command contemplated alliance with Hy Brasil, though the prospect was unlikely. Fulgrim famously wowed the capital as he fired some of his more militarily applicable discoveries over the marching grounds, and excited the officers in the audience with promises of strategic archeotech and superhuman advancements to rival the power in europe, but in truth the director was unmoored from the war effort as much as the rest of terrestrial reality. Between the unnerving horrors of the wastes, the gross violations he saw authored by the great Merikan industrial core, and the Dark Age technologies Fulgrim tried to meddle with he had driven cracks through his pretty world. Fulgrim had long nursed a love for hedonism, and as he enjoyed his fame in the capital his old neuroses as MoTon's prodigy layered into his drug clouded state. In something of a haze Fulgrim began to lay down his own base of influence, and seeking military office he needed to advance, attached his tinkerers and forces to the command of one honorable Major Lucious Doe, bound for the expeditionary force to engage the Imperium. The air assets long maintained by the Merikan high command as defense against Urshii invasion were to be fitted for offensive war launched from forward air bases built up on New Atlantis. Major and Dr. Doe were respectively ordered to force the Brasealian and Afrique garrisons from the island, and to ensure the readiness of the Merikan air forces and drop troops that would be stationed there.

Lucius had cut his teeth in the Panama trenches, fighting Hy Braseal in the long border wars that burned along the isthmus. He was little more than a month Furis's senior, and was held up as another triumph of the Doe program. His tactical virtuosity was said to match Fulgrim's technical art, and the prodigies had been introduced to each other at the revels of some mutual superior. The Major is said to have rescued the mechanist from the agents of high ranking officers intent on compelling Furis to grant them immortality, and would years later go on to make the same request, which Fulgrim strove to achieve. The two, Major Lucius and Special Lieutenant Fulgrim, took up their commands on New Atlantis where the former began his campaign against the Brasealian forces in the heavily fortified south of the landmass and the scattered Aftique enclaves occupying its eastern half, and the latter rebuilding and updating the ancient merikan air fortress and factories on the island. Backed by Fulgrim's advanced weapons and occasionally his enhanced soldiers, as well as the ever increasing air power he was building in the northwest of the continent, Lucius made short, mean work of the Afrique settlements and drove Hy Braseal back to a single heavily entrenched garrison on the continent's southernmost point. The major was known for leading from the front, sword in hand. Fulgrim, once his workshop was well established and the conversion of the Ursh defense interceptor detachments to dive bombers and escorts was underway, was characteristically preoccupied with personal projects. He and his core of mechanists were busy preparing cybernetic enhancements and warriors in a rush to complete their long standing mission to provide Merika with an equivalent shock troop to the Thunder Warrior, themselves already replaced by Astartes.

Fulgrim was so bold as to fly sorties of cyborg drop troops into imperial territory, testing his Merikanized Skittari against the Imperium and its Astartes under the cover of the brushfire wars that had sprung up around the holdouts of Ursh's conquests. In these raids, nominally advance scouting missions, he found a single Astarte was worth about two of his own prized combat cyborgs. Despite many close calls he succeeded in taking numerous astartes and thunder warriors in-tact, though rarely alive, and began the process of reverse engineering their implants, if not outright stealing them. Very few outside of Fulgrim's mechanists, an increasingly honed band of enhanced Doe children and long exiled arctic Tech-priests, were privy to these hoarded acquisitions, but Lucius was one of the few who Furris included in his conspiracy. Both Lucius and Fulgrim were reforged with Astartes enhancements and the mechanists' own inventions as best they could manage, alongside many of their cabal. The result was less in stature and might than true Astartes, but the Doe children were a match for second generation Astartes, refined towards Furris's aims for the unit. It was at this point that Fulgrim and his group caught the attention and interest of the Warlord, and the hydra in particular. With the artificial continent secured and the Merikan air forces ready to launch in bombers and gunships High Command moved into the fortress and Fulgrim's band returned to the continent. The lab that remained to produce Merikan cyber-legionnaires bore no trace of the Astartes experiments, but leaked rumors of new wonders saw Fulgrim returned to the capitol and well funded as war with the Imperium mounted, while Lucius was sent to reinforce the army sent to end the rebellion of Governor Dorn. Merikan bombers lit up the Imperium from Franj to Afrique and cyborg drop troops fell to the aid of recalcitrant lords and Urshii holdouts, destroying and sabotaging everything they could.

Fulgrim himself was attempting to engineer a coup. Having seen the Imperium in his advance raids and equated it with the empire of old he deramed of, he wished to cut down the old leadership of his nation while it seemed within his power and steer it into his bright vision. He had surpassed even Lucius as a swordsman during his adventures in the New Atlantis campaign, and now Fulgrim planned to use his charm, fame, and the lure of technological enhancement to access necessary targets, and to ingratiate himself in the matters of succession before decapitation. Though his early plan went well Fulgrim overestimated his own and his agents' ability to manipulate a government in the mounting chaos of war with the Imperium, and it was not long before the self styled superhuman was at the mercy of Merikan secret police. He was saved by two plainly dressed men that introduced themselves as Ames and Ozzy, and bore the sigil of a hydra. Following the aegis of these two Hydra contacts the Doe cadre continued Fulgrim's strategy to build support in the mass produced populations of the manufactories further back from the coast, but Fulgrim himself was made to concede direct control over the operations in the capital. Fulgrim's laboratories in the capital became the futurist's edifice to a phoenician Merika, to the wonderment of the officer class, and Lucius built up the manufactories of Moton into an advanced fortress city on the near edge of the Kalbi territories. Fulgrim had little contact with either project. These power bases were tended by the Doe Cadre's inner circle under the direction of the Hydra and Major Lucius respectively, and while Furris visited his old home when it was under the major's command his work took him yet further from the center of the Doe conspiracy.
Under the cover of another exploratory mission to the bunkers and cracks of the western mountain line, Fulgrim and his mechanists traveled the length of the rocky spine and loosely governed western territories beyond. It was true they again delved the chains of fortresses and redoubts and sunken chambers under those lands for new relics of the golden age, but only least of these fruits ever reached Merikan high command. The rest became assets of the conspiracy, and some even found their way across the wastes of Beringia to the Imperium. More than this, Fulgrim secured the support of the enclaves whose knowledge had driven his successes years prior, and in the druidic labs of the Geno-hippes (an ancient title) Fulgrim and his proto-Alpha legion contacts established forward positions from which to build Astarte forces. The work done in these installations unified Fulgrim and the Geno-hippes' cybernetically and biologically upgraded "Doe" MkII Astarte with the Deutch-Jemanic genesmiths' MkIII pattern.

By Fulgrim's promises and intrigues much of the western territory would come to favor his succession, and for his technological efforts on their behalf they held him in better regard than high command. The collaboration of the Geno-hippes allowed state of the art super soldier forces to be built in the mountain enclaves stretching even into the heart of governor Dorn's beleaguered territory. Less than a year since it nearly died with its indiscreet leader, Fulgrim's conspiracy was at its zenith.

The destruction and capture of the Merikan airbases on New Atlantis saw the top admirals and generals returned to the capital to prepare a counterattack to keep the theater of war on the artificial continent, as well as the fortification of the atlantic coast. Lucius had made dramatic use of the Doe combat cyborgs Fulgrim had premiered in Europe to aid the hapless commander tasked with the re-conquest of Dorn's dominion entrenched in west and northern Kalbi. These showy hunts by air-cav and drop-troop had done more to lionize the cyber-soldiers as they strode about in gleaming gold and purple than they could ever have hoped to have done to Dorn’s defense. In weeks the guns of the Imperium were turned squarely to Merika. Massive Skandian naval forces and the air forces of Europa and the quadruple alliance gathered at New Atlantis. The ancient Merikan voidships that hung in orbit over the continent were moved in a careful dance to deny space superiority to the heirloom fleet the Imperium brought to bear, though it was ever vigilant above the panama fortresses for movement from Hy Braseal as well. Fulgrim returned to the capital as plans were being drawn up to leap back to New Atlantis and charge from Europa to Uralia with Doe cyborgs leading the way. Others were being conceived to quickly stamp out Governor Dorn's decades long rebellion and annihilate it to the last, with the field marshal already engaged in the north backed by masses of advanced weapons deployed from Moton. Neither plan would ever see action.

As Fulgrim made to announce promises of support from western military governors with all due fanfare he was accompanied by a brigade of what seemed to all a new generation of cyborg soldiers, fair as their inventor and clad in bright ceremonial armor. Days after he arrived Merika and the Imperium were fighting in and above the atlantic, all west of the artificial continent. Air Forces clashed above the naval blockades and the coasts, and orbital assets made firing lines hundreds of kilometers long. Orders began to issue to Moton to begin operation in Kalbi, and soon Doe designed and Doe piloted gunships and drop troops were buzzing northwest towards the Merikan position. Impenetrable havoc erupted in the Merikan capital and the first company of one hundred Terra's Sons, led by Fulgrim the Futurist, fortified the Doe laboratories and began conducting brutal raids on enemy factions within the Merikan command structure and officer class also entrenched in the capital. In the first hours of fighting the citadel of the high command had been raided by teleporter insertion of un-blazoned power-armored commandos. Subsequent fighting over the building saw it bombed to rubble by Merikan air assets. Fulgrim officially seized dictatorial emergency powers, and with a company drawn from his long honed circle of mechanists he corrected his rivals in the capital, making great show of the advanced forces those same officers and ministry heads had counted on in their grand strategies. The Futurist took Merika's reigns, and with the nation’s purple and white still flying high, cowed the fractious military houses in the wake of what he called an opportunistic Hy-Brasealian attack, and his enemies attributed to him, and the Imperium.

Prior to the decapitation of the Merikan military the Kalbi expeditionary force had embarked on a hard offensive against Dorn, counting on support from Moton's special forces as they drove for the pacific. Lucius lead the second company of Terra's Sons and cybernetic Moton drop brigades to smash the expeditionary force against Dorn's built up battle lines. The Merikan ship above Kalbi was quick to react with the the bombardment of the Moton citadel, and its few volleys were devastating before it was crippled by boarding forces of Merikanized skitarii and mechanists. In the capital there was stalemate between Fulgrim and the remains of the high command, with most of the lower officers sided with the futurist or removed, but the campaigns in the north were fast concluded and Lucius advanced southeast ahead of some of Dorn's own forces. The Merikan Orbital Brigades and Navy were old institutions staunchly opposed to Fulgrim, and supported ground forces throughout the gulf coast and around the panama fortifications. As Merikan reserves were mobilized by the panicking high command the Astartes company in the rockies struck east across the continent at the head of the western governors' military forces and made rapid progress securing the Merikan heartland despite orbital bombardment from opposing factions. The machine-stubber, rocketeer, and armored fighting carriage battalions that had been the Merikan Junta's unbeatable scourge were hardly sufficient against their own colonial forces backed by Astartes and Skitarii. In the week of the stalemate in the capital the Merikan navy and space brigade retreated and shortened the blockade so they could both bombard the capital and keep imperial forces from doing the same.

Fulgrim and Terra's Sons first company continued the fight for the capital under heavy shelling and the highest rate of lance strikes the capital's guarding geostationary starship could muster. They were supported by most of the remaining officer corps against the remaining high command holdouts, themselves reinforced by Merikan marines and loyalist military regiments. Fireteams of Astartes in Imperial livery moved openly in the south and west. Imperial soldiers landed in Newfoundland and the gulf to be met by the advanced guard of the forces that started from the rockies or Moton. Lucius and Dorn's forces and the Terra's Sons third company that led the midlands campaign marched on the eastern seaboard and pacified or simply commandeered the remaining ground forces, nearly all of which remained unclear on the state of affairs for the duration.

The Merikan Space Brigade was forced to retreat from the battle for the capital by subsequent attacks. They abandoned the Merikan Navy to regroup with Merika’s remaining voidships over the Panama defenses, which had become the last stronghold of the high command. In short order the Merikan blockade was broken by the Imperials and the Merikan Navy suffered mutiny and folded. The Imperial Navy and Air Forces accompanied the battered Merikan Navy into the harbor of the capital, and the cratered slopes of its anti-fallout pyramid bunker-citadels were lined with Merikan officers and civilians as Imperial engineers and officials of every land and discipline piled off amidst the columns of proud soldiers in the livery of Franj, Gredbritton, Achemedinia, and Europia. The Imperial delegation was marched to the Doe complex by the Futurist's own soldiers, equal in stature and clad in purple with emblems of raptors, well known to the capital from the past weeks. The Imperials had hardly arrived at what had become the de facto seat of government for a day before those same engineers and Furris's mechanists were seen together drafting plans for reconstruction.

The battered merikans that remained in the capital had seen among the Imperial delegation the gold giant that had been the subject of much propaganda, and the Skandian warrior at his side, his tattooed sorcerer, his towering iron-fisted automaton, his cadre of princes, the vassal warriors he’d taken from Ursh and the PPL, and so on, and on, as they had disembarked. The transcripts of the meetings within the Doe laboratories were sealed with the mark of a hydra, and vanished after some select members of the office corps were pointedly denied a chance to read them. In the eventual announcement from the grandstand on the capital’s debris strewn parade ground made by Esteemed Dictator Furris Doe and ‘Warmaster’ Oscar the former waxed poetic about the wonders of history and the wings of the Aquila, and the latter made a kurt and businesslike statement sketching out the terms of Merika’s stake in the imperium, which had already been decided. This was all much in keeping with Merikan custom. The general impression among the Merikan Junta’s officers and people was that Fulgrim had brokered an alliance and won them an entry on the footing of equals. In truth Fulgrim met the Warlord in Sibar for the Astartes III hybridization project, long before the operation began, and the conference was in many ways a formality, though Furris took it as an opportunity to lobby for his future projects.

The remains of the Space Brigade took aboard much of the Panama garrison and its war material, but lingering between the changed Merikan regime and Hy Braseal was not a longterm option. What remained of the Merikan Space Brigade never reconvened after that regrouping at Panama. The bulk of the small fleet dove for deep space, and vanished from common histories, while about half their number mobilized to attack the Imperial ships above the eastern seaboard, of which two were disabled and one seized before it could be scuttled. The six that remained over Panama held for two months, and subsequently defected to Hy-Braseal. Of those ships, one is recorded to have been used by Hy Braseal in the War of The Beast, further cementing their victory over their long term rival. They were too the “winners” of the unification war, and the last holdout on earth centuries into the Imperium.

Fulgrim's many inquiries into future endeavors by the Warlord, for potential avenues of research, for examination of technologies, continued all through the last years of unification, and he always seemed to give them precedence to the interim Merikan government run by him and Lucius. Lucious in particular, but Fulgrim as well, both showed a keen interest in the overtures the Imperium extended Hy Braseal, though they had the deference not to take part. It was worth noting in Oscar's mind that they had more or less copied the councils under which he'd arrayed the leaders of the lands of Europa and the remains of Ursh to assemble and represent the various Merikan provinces north of the isthmus and south of Dorn's restored Kalbi, all without coaching on his part, but had made some focused and major alterations in some places. There were provisions for continued cooperation with the Alpha Legion nominally to ensure full and thorough reform and removal of entrenched corruption, and others to continue the Doe program, with the added practice of optimizing the babies after random sample combination, which Fulgrim had already started, and further provisions for eminent domain over all samples of neutronium in their government's remit. For his part, Lucius was reordering the Merikan military and its many arms foundries around the support of the Terra's Children, and glad handing and encouraging as much of the old officer class to go on on grand world tours to enjoy the new Imperium, while Fulgrim was overseeing the expansion of the proud legion of nearly three hundred that had overtaken the Merikan war machine.

The Futurist got his conclusive answer shortly after Oscar became Steward of the Empty Throne, named him Primarch of Terra's Children, and began the next stage of unification, that of Sol, with his oath before all assembled. With naught but some hasty organization of the new Council of Merikan Foremen, Fulgrim convened his legion in Moton. Before his force of three hundred Astartes of his own selection, bearing his modifications, their backing of seven hundred Merikanized Skitarii, and with his blades, his mechanists, and Lucius arrayed at his sides, Fulgrim drew up in illustrious words his vision of the era before Old Night, one that the this new Imperium of unification would reclaim, with the Children of Terra at the fore to realize its mighty promise. He spoke of ships fleet and unstoppable, pillar cities vaster and more grand than any gilded Urshii ziggurat or Merikan pyramid-bunker, and of the great bridges indestructible, the Neutronium lines that tied worlds to the sea of heaven, and thus to each-other. He envisioned his legion as the mighty “New Men” of this Imperium, more virtuous, more beautiful, more effective than any officer class or knightly order of the old provincial nations, the great poet warriors that would realize this Imperium’s truth.

Furris’ new position on the council of twenty, the Primarchs, Malcador, and Oscar Steward, ensured he was now privy to the grand strategy of the Solar Unification without needing to trade favors with Ames and Ozzy. Already the pale, eerie, yet charming trade lord of the inner system had seized the initiative and taken up the Unification’s banner as its master of ships, and the famed Knight of Franj and the Lion ascendant were bound on a mission of pacification to the outer system aboard his flotilla. With some prodding a contingent of Terra’s Children best military virtuosos followed close behind, led by Lucius in a gold, purple, and white fleet of a half dozen restored Merikan warships.

In the same period of manic consolidation and activity, Fulgrim fell in with the esteemed King of Empty Space, Horus, and the iron fisted Antarctican Skitarii mastermind, Ferrus Manus, on their mission of diplomacy to Mars. While the Steward knew the holy man, Lorgar, to be the better diplomat than the preening Phoenician, treating with the dogmatic and hegemonic Brotherhood of Olympus Mons was a task ill suited to the earnest preacher, and thus it was Fulgrim that bore the Standard of the Aquila to the red priests for that first time. It proved a wise choice, and between the guns of Empty Space encircling, the mercenary charms of Horus and guileful Fulgrim, and the proud imperatives of the Antarctic Brotherhood’s iron fist, the ruddy neighbor of Old Earth was drawn into the fold.

Fulgrim hardly returned to Merika after this, and instead dwelt with Horus at the dockyards of the Lagrange supervising the building of the dreadnoughts that would lead the coming interstellar crusade, and on Mars, aiding the designs of the Iron Fist he had long idolized from the stories of his Mechanists. One could hardly tell if his fondness for Horus was surpassed by his love for Horus’s ships, and though his obsession with the mighty Ferrus Manus was clear, it took many efforts and trials to prove the worth of his works, and thus himself, to the machine-man.

Fulgrim was often said by the remembrancers to be the more worldly mirror image of Blessed Sanguineous, created haphazardly, a happy accident that perfected himself, and grew imperious and mighty by his own ambition, who flew by roaring jet instead of graceful wing, but likewise pale and fair, refined and elegant. Indeed this was very compelling, the Terra’s Children’s fine armor was unmarred and unbloodied even through Fulgrim’s brutal raids and engagements, he struck where he pleased and retreated when it was advantageous, whose blade was drawn in pride when Sanguineous drew his in duty. For all their contrast, the aesthete and the prince were on good terms, so long as military matters were not broached between them. Likewise he was compared to Guilliman, great strategos of Europea, as the Phoenician conducted great overarching campaigns in sector after sector, indomitable purple Astartes at the vanguard and unbreakable supply lines guarded by his shining cyborgs, advancing through the galactic west apace with the vaunted Ultramarines in the east. Though it had to be said that Guilliman never leaned so heavily on the techniques of economic sabotage and poxy war that Fulgrim brought with him, following on the heels of the shadowy Alpha Legionnaires he still held close since the Merikan Coup. For all appearances Fulgrim was as deft a diplomat as Lorgar, Vulcan, Horus, and Robute, but for the fact that when he paraded his regal Astartes before the people of a world and charmed its leaders at Imperial hosted galas he was often hard at work cutting down their dissenting elements and special forces just beneath that pleasant veneer of peace.

It was in this time he finally endeared himself to Ferrus Mannus, and an unusual friendship bloomed in the life of the Iron Fist, be it from their similar childhoods, shared archaic fantasy of the Great and Bountiful Human Dominion, or merely Fulgrim’s persistence. In Fulgrim, Ferrus saw a fitting disregard for the limitations of biology, in Ferrus Fulgrim found an exemplar for the advancement of the holy human form and appreciation of its mighty heritage. It was in the forges under Olympus Mons, after the Gorgon had established his might over the heads of the resident Archmagos, that they held their famed contest of smiths. Among the great cogs and reactors of the forges in the heart of the red mountain the cold Iron Hand was making demonstration of his mastery of artifice before the many venerable smiths of that ancient foundry. While the Gorgon beat cascades of sparks from adamant at the forge, another unfamiliar host of robed and augmented figures drew around the mighty Skitarii. At its head was Fulgrim, and about him were the Archeotechnological Diviners and War-smiths of the Terrawatt Clan that he had been asked to herald to the Martian Brotherhood, and with them came the Genesmiths of the Deutch Jemanik, the Gene-Hippes of the mountain enclaves, mighty weapon-wrights and siege engineers of Macedonia and Achemedinia, and Furris’ own mechanists, who had already found favor among the martians that held with the more creative interpretations of the Strictures Cybernetica.

It was in the midst of this gathering of the great masters of the forges, the Brotherhood of Olympus Mons that had in few years brought Mars to heel, who dared say they were the keepers of the Noctis Labyrinth, and the vast treasury of knowledge and art that were the assets of the Imperial Court, possessed of so many esoteric and mighty secrets and specializations they could not be rightly remembered hence their passing, that Fulgrim and Ferrus proposed to settle the budding rivalry between Old Earth and Holy Mars. In the spirit of their great blessed adventure to come, their Crusade of Interstellar Unification, Fulgrim proposed the tourney would last seven days, and in that time all present would strive to see the arsenal of Man filled with wonders to match the weapons of old. It was Ferrus that added the terms that each master of his own forge should work for himself upon his craft, and that any that shrunk from the task to let servitors or adepts dither in their work would show their lack of art. It was then that Ferrus Manus shed his robes and bore down upon the forge like a tempest with his vast silver arms, and bid the adepts about him bring schematics and material. Furris Doe likewise seized a forge, and with his Mechanists set about the recalibration of tools and selection of designs, and all around Siege Masters and Genesmiths and Armorers rushed to heat Adamant and prepare the manufacture of fine mechanical filagree.

At the contest’s end, the forges and laboratories grew still and quiet, and many gleaming wonders were brought forth to be seen by all. Kelbor Hal, esteemed host to those assembled, so humbly presented a bright adamant power-javelin he named the Windlance, that flew unerring by means of grav-lifts in its shaft, and he received much acclaim, until Vie Braur, Master of the Genesmiths, came forward with a pair of golden armbands that would in a matter of minutes regrow a arm on which it was worn if it was severed, and this was followed by a cybernetic eye that saw across the spectrum and could glare a hail of lasfire as effectively as a heavy rifle, presented by Arton Luron of the Order Cybernetica, and from the Gene-Hippes, a poison gland from which a modified creature could spit streams of strong corrosive marking agent, and put forth by the Skitarii armorers, a beautiful brassy jezail of ancient design and thunderous power, an ingenious system of actuated tread claws that would let superheavy tanks scale sheer inclines was produced by the Macedonian envoy, and gleaming the gift of the Terrawatt engineers a reconstruction of an ancient tactical awareness computer, a golden pedestal that held an ethereally projected globe, then set to show much of the infrastructure and troop placement on Mars. Between all of these treasures and wonders, any one of them fit for royalty of the previous forsaken era, still none could rightly see its creator named champion, until together Fulgrim bore up a great black hammer, and Ferrus Manus unsheathed a burning golden blade.

The black hammer, Forgebreaker, glowered with un-light, cut as it was from a shred of neutronium Fulgrim salvaged from one of earth's many equatorial scars, and he had struck upon a way to shape it only in the heat of the tourney. Though in the past Fulgrim had failed endlessly to work neutronium whatsoever, the modest lump of exotic matter was now a weapon to scatter the mass of mountains. The eye-searing sword thrust aloft by the Gorgon was simply named Fireblade, and it burned with unreal white flame that enveloped its narrow golden edges at solar temperatures, forged as the unification of many of the ancient subsystem fragments and schematics Ferrus Manus' brothers of the Antarctic Enclaves had brought from Earth, now possible to construct and piece together in the vast facilities of the Martian Brotherhood. The whole assembly of priests and artificers conceded the glory of these weapons above all the others, but between them none could decide the better. Fulgrim was certain it was the Gorgon's that was the mightiest, he loved the sword from his first sight of it, and its swift and biting form taken from the ancient glory of man far surpassed the bleak, crude weapon he had been able to carve from the strange matter. Ferrus Manus was already transfixed by the very notion of working neutronium even on such a small scale, far better than misassembling an archeotech hunting knife, it was a step towards the rediscovery of one of mankind's greatest arts. No decision could be reached, and the mastery of artifice could be given neither to Old Earth nor Holy Mars, and the budding of that rivalry continued. But the tourney beneath the red mountain did fill the arsenal of the unification of Sol, and the long and glorious Great Crusade after, and much joy and mirth resounded in the forges of mars on that seventh day, one that would be remembered as the unofficial, popular unification of Earth and Mars.

The tournament itself was said to end when the two Primarchs gave each other their own creation as prize, and the countless adepts, apprentices, magos, forgemasters, and artificers present saw fit to rejoice their work and the coming years of war and production. As the Primarch inventors exchanged notes on their works of the past seven days the huge convention of Imperial technological orders and leaders did much of the same, establishing much of the early relationship between the Mechanicus Orders and the myriad of other technological orders that The Throne would come to retain over the coming Millennia. Fulgrim would never part with the Fireblade after this, taking it with him into the unification of the galaxy, and bearing it back to Sol to strike at the back of the Beast when all that bright dreaming civilization shuddered and collapsed, and Forth again in vengeance and beautiful rebirth. Ferrus Manus would never forsake the Forgebreaker, and even when the Gorgon finally fell on the fields of Armageddon, millennia after his weapon's maker, that same hammer had smote the ruin of many dozens of Meks and Bosses across the battlefield, and left is final enemy naught but broken atoms in the ground.

'''The Conquest of Laeran'''

The world of Laeran was, in all Imperial records of the Great Crusade and since, unique. A wonder brought together in the horror of Old Night, with technology from the brighter age before the dusk of the Old Empire’s Fall. The space based, sculptural colonies of the Laer were first encountered by the 28th Expeditionary Fleet of the Terra’s Children along a long arc across the fringes of the galactic west, and at their eager initiation of contact with the third legion the serpentine Xenos seemed the most advanced, cultured, and diplomatically forward the Imperium had encountered since Eldrad’s representation of the Craftworlders. Shared in these early encounters with the diplomatic clades of the Laer, and confirmed by Imperial analysis of the distribution of known colonies, the Laer had fled their home in the regions of the galactic northwest to escape the collapse of the Old Eldar Empire they had evolved in the midst of. Absconding from their home star in a mass exodus and seeding new colonies along the path of their flight, they had fled the opening of the Eye of Terror.

As the next stages of diplomatic contact and positioning were prepared, Imperial assets from the Terra’s Children likewise began the far less stately work of intel gathering and the preparation of contingencies. The Laer’s description of their means of exodus, Laeran itself, was striking both in their soaring reverence for the world, and its technological significance as a gas giant and lunar system driven by torch drives to the point of warp transit capability, constituting a starship of utterly immense scale. Of similar interest were the trans-biological technologies the serpents employed, with many of their modifications matching or surpassing Humanity’s best Astartes or Skitarii implants and treatments. Fulgrim’s personal attention quickly fell upon the Laeran matter, drawn by this wonder, and with it came his inquisitive pack of mechanists and genewrights, Captain Lucius and his force reconnaissance fleets, the Legions’ Blades, the Phoenix Company, the support brigades of heavily updated Merikan Shock Cyborgs, and the Mechanicus Exploratory attaché offered by Ferrus. Their Administratum observers, Munitorum bullet-and-bean-counters, Alpha Legion contacts, and the not insignificant following of painters, sculptors, artisans, documentarians, writers, and veritable circus of other artists that had found Fulgrim as a patron and received stipends as Imperial Remembrancers, followed close behind. As elements of the third legion and their diplomatic entourage contacted more and more Laer colonies the air of open artistic and diplomatic exchange persisted, but in actuality diplomacy stalled, and deep tension was building between parties veiled by a pretense of aesthetic debate and politely contrasting paradigms for cybernetic development and genetic engineering.

Though more formal diplomacy between powers, a meeting on Laeran, remained the subject of talk, in truth the planet’s location was not forthcoming from the Laer even as Imperial Naval assets narrowed down their deductions for its path and place. Within the week the elusive torchworld’s presumptive location was pinned down and confirmed, a discovery made by Lorgar was delivered to Fulgrim by the hand of the Custodes that had accompanied the Preacher’s expedition to the brink go the Eye of Terror.

From any other Primarch, the aristocratic ones long in the Warmaster’s highest favor particularly, Fulgrim’s pride and nervous sense of inferiority would have led him to doubt the clear conclusion Lorgar’s report implied. He would have dared to think nearly any of his twenty peers would press such conclusions upon him merely to disrupt the handful of years he had sunk into cautious diplomacy with the Laer, but not of Lorgar, he had no doubt in the conquer of naught but hearts and minds. The Mechanicus attaché, Lucius, Ames, and Ozzy, the Mechanists, the Genesmiths, the Administratum observers, the Eldar Corsair captain Fulgrim had convinced to join them, and all the rest all agreed upon the necessity for decisive action. It was made clear that the path of Laeran had not taken it from its place among the Crone worlds along a direct path out of their midst, that their path started at the Cadian Gate, that their passing had been marked with terror and rapine, that their elder colonies were rocked by civil war against a mono dominant cult of perfection. Fulgrim was insistent that he personally reaffirm to the Laeran delegation with his fleet that the Imperium truly had negotiated with them in earnest, and that he had the assurance of one Mr. Ozzy they would be transported to Ganymede unharmed and in perfect safety. Upon the seizure of their vessel and the Laer diplomats’ removal, Fulgrim returned to the Pride of Imperium and began the Astropathic relay of instructions to activate the contingencies, likewise prepared in earnest.

Codex entry not finished.

Additional Details

- This universe's version of an "Iron Cage" incident that leads most Astartes legions to follow Guilliman's idea of breaking into Chapters. Fulgrim tries to micromanage everything but gets ground down by attrition. Final blow was trying to clear a sector of an Ork infestation led by a Tzeentch-aligned Big Wyrd, which was so nuts it was impossible to account for everything.

== Vulkan ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Promethean:'''''

Vulkan, son of the Afrique League, First Patriarch of the Prometheans, Defender of the People, Cleansing Flame of Earth and Primarch of the Steward was born in a mud and thatch hut in an arable farming village 8 days walk from Lanbarno, capital of that semi prosperous realm.

The nation itself was little more than a remnant of what it once was. At its height some 500 years previously it had been a super power the rival of any other on the Earth at that time with culture and technological knowlage beyond peer. But then the Ursh came and taught them that this was not, nor have it ever, nor would it ever be a time of peace.

But all that was history. The realm that Vulkan grew up in knew nothing of that save in dust old tomes of half forgotten lore.

Even a peace, a hard fought for peace, had been won against the Despots of Ursh and their vassal states.

Of all the peoples on the Earth at that time, they had come to the attention of foul xenos. Why they amongst all others? who can say. But there it was.

The only thing that was certain during this era was that the Dark Eldar were discovering the depths of their needs and thirsts, and they found the picking in Afrique League to their liking.

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It became a hated part of life. Shelters were dug by the prudent and the the foolish were left to die. It was an unhappy time. But maybe it was the xeno raiders and their attentions that made their lands less appealing to invaders.

It was in Vulkans 14th summer that he joined the military, against the wishes of his father and mother but with their blessing. It was customary for men to serve and protect the communities they came from for what was good for the people of a nation must surely be good for the nation as a whole.

Vulkan's parents had been adamant he not join the warriors, because they knew that his job would be to dissuade their tormentors so that they might find a softer village to attack.

One such assault was the beginning of Vulkan. The rest of his life had been merely a prelude to the man.

A brutal assault that seemed determined to abduct the while village befell Vulkan's home. The scant defenses were little more than tissue paper against razor blades. The pitiful few warriors of the Afrique League were tormented in the manner of a cat with a mouse and as inevitably snuffed out. All bar one. When the village bio-petroleum tank detonated Vulkan was inflamed. But up he rose. clutching his blacksmith fathers hammer, a halo of flame about his head and inferno wings upon his broad shoulders he was risen and he stood before the Archon, the chief tormentor of his people. His heart beat like a blast furnace and his eyes were holes into the hear of the sun and his fathers hammer he brought down hard. The Archon danced around him with inhuman grace, a nimble torture before an enraged giant. In later legends it was said they they danced from sunrise to sunset, but in truth there was a death far sooner than that. The Archons blades had been doused in poison most foul but the heat of the flame had cleansed them. Although Vulkan could barley land a single blow, he did manage to land one. And one was all he needed.

The simple smiths hammer struck hard and it struck true. It was said to have been heated by more than burning fuel but by the furnace heat of hate. The Archon lay crippled and in agony at Vulkans feet. He raised that vile man high above his head and brought him down hard over his knee and broke his back. The warrior held him up once more and with a dragons roar, dared all those who would look to see what ruin had been done before tearing out the raider kings throat.

And no more did those creatures come back.

When the Warlord came to the Afrique League it was Vulkan who met with him in the old and dying king Shatimuene's place. With the xenos gone, it would not be long before Ursh came back; The Afrique League could not endure alone when that day came.

As the now chief military commander of his nation and a hero of the people, Vulkan was taken into the confidence of the Warlord. In the name of the warlord he claimed back the old vassal states of Ursh for the Afrique League and built that broken nation back up on freed slaves and a noble sense of retribution.

Vulkan was one of the first of the final design of Astartes. All of the major flaws had been solved by that point and for that we can be grateful, the world did not need another Angron.

When the last tyrant fell and it came time to bring the Unification to the rest of Sol, Vulkan son of N'bel was raised high and called Primarch.

When the Great Crusade began it was Vulkan, second only to Lorgar, who showed that although the Imperium was strong and could be monstrous, it could also be noble and capable of true virtue.

When the War of The Beast came it was the the Salamanders that dedicated their lives to defense of the people above the defense of the Imperium, or what was good for the people of a nation must surely be good for the Imperium as a whole.

Vulkan did make it back to Old Earth before the Martyr Angel fell and he could not save his brother primarch, but no blame was laid at his feet as his Legion worked so tierlesly and gave their very lives for the people and always at the thickest of the the fighting, in the heart of the inferno was the Promethean with his hammer.

In the years that followed the rebuilding of the Imperium Vulkan's forces remained integrated most strongly with those of the Imperial Army. Vulkan served the Imperium for longer than any other primarch, save for Ferrus Manus of the Mechanicum. Time and again the enemies of man would rise to threaten the Imperium, and the Promethean would rise in turn to face them. Vulkan fought against the Black Crusades of Chaos, the Orkish WAAAGHs of Armageddon, and uncountable other foes, surviving against odds in which any lesser man would perish. Vulkan became known as Vulkan the Undefeatable, the Emerald Knight, the greatest of the Imperium’s champions.
Nevertheless, despite the Mark III S geneseed, the years began to take their toll on Vulkan. Vulkan’s body may have been young but his spirit was old, and he could no longer serve his Imperium the way he once did. The Emperor granted his steadfast champion the right to retire, only stating that he hoped Vulkan could find place to retire fitting for one who had served the Imperium as long as he.

Vulkan picked the humble planet Nocturne as his place of retirement. Vulkan was head of the Promethean Creed, its greatest missionary and, given how long he had been influencing it, probably the greatest factor in shaping it. During the Great Crusade, Nocturne had embraced the Creed completely and with great enthusiasm. As a result, Nocturne had become an important world to the Salamander Legion, and was the world the Salamander chapter held onto after the splitting of the legions, though the Salamanders built their actual fortress on the nearby moon of Prometheus, to ensure the civilians of Nocturne would not be made direct targets of any would-be aggressor.

By the time that Vulkan started to feel old nearly the entire population ascribed to the creed in one form or another. It had become their holy land, eclipsing even the old lands of Africa. Although Vulkan had intended to settle down and live a quiet life in his old age, the people of Nocturne recognized the Unbound Flame of the Promethean Creed, and petitioned him to rule. And so Vulkan became the High Patriarch of Nocturne, ruling as a wise philosopher-king, though more than once the former Emerald Knight had to pick up his old hammer to defend his adopted home.

Of all the Primarchs save perhaps Russ of Skand Vulkan's disappearance is the most odd. Shortly before Vulkan's disappearance there is a gap of approximately 200 years in the records of Nocturne and after that point it is generally accepted that he is gone. Before this gap Vulkan is recorded as the High Patriarch of Nocturne. After the gap a Triumvirate was ruling in Vulkan's place and apparently had been doing so long enough that such an arrangement was considered normal. The last known record of Vulkan is a statement by the Promethean that he had planned to take a trip around the far planets of the galaxy, but there is no indication of how long he expected to be gone and when he expected to be back. What happened during the Centuries of Silence, as the Prometheans call it, is a holy mystery. Some say he is dead, some say he will come back again in a great hour of need and some say he never left.

All that is known is that his children, the Fire Lords and the Black Dragons and the Salamanders, fight like lions for humanity and legion of them have laid down their immortal lives for mortal men and legion more and more have risen in turn.

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== Dorn ==
Note:
- Calbi born, early model astartes pattern. Desensitization problems.
- Odd friendship with Perturabo
- Died during 1st Black Crusades holding the battlements of Cadia

The story of Rogal Dorn starts in the garrison town of Onto Rontus in the not too long annexed land of Calbi. Born to a mother of the local tribes and an officer father of the Merikan army his start was not as tragic as it could have been. Often such half-breeds were not the result of consenting unions but Donovan Dorn held genuine affection for Kosa and was, unknown to his fellow officers, married to her.

Dorn was one of a large family and had many siblings though he was ultimately the only one to follow in his father’s footsteps. Dorn left his loving tribe and family and all he had known and travelled to the distant lands of Merika to begin his training, as his father had.

He learned much in those years and was an excellent student and would have been on the fast track to high station but for his circumstances of birth. No soldier of the greatest nation on Old Earth would gladly allow themselves to be given orders from a savage of the north. Despite all this his tutors could not deny his talents.

It was not a thing he took undue joy in but the ways of war came very easily to him. Despite the unfortunate circumstances of his birth he became the very model of a Merikan officer. He was well versed in military doctrine of all sorts and knew something of the history of his nation, at least enough to spot the revisionisms.

Although adept, or at minimum competent, at all aspects of war his true talents were found in siege warfare. In the tactical simulations and competitive VR matches Dorn was unbeaten.

Due to his knowledge of the locals and ability to speak at least one tribal language fluently Dorn returned to Calbi wearing a conquers uniform. He served as a lieutenant under the rule of Praefectus Adran, himself new to the post after the forced retirement of old Praefectus Stavart.

Praefectus Stavart had been very old and was unquestionably loyal to Merika but had dealt with the natives with some degree of fairness and even kindness when he could afford to. He was not loved by the locals, how could he be, but the elders were more than smart enough to know that his position as an intermediary between them and Merika was probably the best deal they could get in the circumstances.

For Stavart’s part he probably knew that as well. In his childhood Dorn had met him a few times with his father. He remembered him looking old then and unless he somehow genuinely had six sixty-seventh birthdays it was obvious that he had been lying about his age for a long time. In his way Stavart had cared about Calbi and it’s people as something other than a broken, subjugated state of Merika. He held on in the job until nearly ninety because he knew that Adran or someone much like him would succeed him. And he was right.

Praefectus Adran was not a nice man by any measure. His was the brutal rule of law and the authority of the Iron Fist. He wouldn’t be seen attending local festivals or events; they were there from the greatest to the least at his beck and call. They were savages and heathens and he was a man of the Greatest Nation and a paragon among them. Needless to say tensions between the conquered and conquerors increased.

At some point genuine tribal unrest turn into riots and Praefectus Adran orders mass executions.

Dorn is well loved by both the locals, who see him as their man on the other side and look to him to for salvation, and by the Merikan rank and file and quite a few of the officers.

There are a few days of communications black outs due to "faulty equipment" and some "regrettable accidents" that see some of the officers dead and Praefectus Adran commits suicide after a long period of depression. When asked how he managed to shoot himself in the back of the head with a shot gun acting Praefectus Dorn tells the investigators that Adran had been "Very depressed."

Nobody believes it but, due to the difficulties in the still mysteriously faulty communications equipment, it does buy him enough time to root out more Merikan loyalists, secure his alliances with the local tribes and when the order comes from the capital to stand down and come back for questioning he declares independence.

The next day he is met by an uncannily nondescript man of average height and build with no distinguishing features, hard to estimate age, unremarkable clothing and an oddly neutral and hard to place accent. He claims his name is Alpharius Omegon and he comes representing the Imperium. He tells Dorn that his timing is awful: had he been able to spin this out for a few more years, five at least, the Imperium would have been in a position to lend considerable military might to his Rebellion. As it is, they will offer what less obvious help they can but the Imperium can't get dragged into a direct and total war with Merika at the current time. Dorn and a few of his elites get what must be some of the very last Mk1 Astartes upgrades, administered by local bio-druids for reasons of deniability.

Recently Merika had been supplying and training terrorist organizations in the lands conquered by the Imperium and Oscar had found out who was behind the seemingly random attacks. The aim was to disassemble the Imperium back into little nations for Merika to "Manifest Destiny" all over and Oscar was most unhappy, most unhappy indeed. But his forces were all tied up dealing with Ursh and the Pan-Pacific Empire. So he couldn't act directly and was forced to use Dorn and his rebellion, and later Fulgrim, to fight by proxy.

Not that Dorn would know the specifics of this until quite a few years after Unification Day.

Dorn holds out for long enough for Fulgrim Doe to raise his rebellion and make contact.

By this point the Imperium is finishing off the last enclaves of Ursh, Lorgar is decapitating the Despot and Merika is in deep shit because of the multiple rebellions, the pissed off Imperium and the only neighbor it has left with whom it is not at war with is Hy Brasil who hate both of them and are just going to sit back and watch.

Fulgrim "negotiates a deal of inclusion with very good terms" with the Imperium after he is appointed President of Merika and "abandons the unprofitable campaign to uplift and civilize the northern provinces". Calbi becomes an independent nation, Dorn appoints an Assembly of Elders to govern the nation, steps down from and decommissions the title "Praefectus of Calbi". However, he does remain the head of the armed forces. The Elders and Dorn, or representatives of them in the case of the more elderly Elders, are present at the swearing of allegiance to the Empty Throne of Earth.

When Steward Oscar looks to the other worlds of Sol and to the stars beyond he names Dorn as one of his primarchs to the surprise of Dorn though not the people of his home nation who see it as only right.

And then Great Crusade, WoTB, Reconquest and death on the walls of Cadia during the 1st Black Crusade of which is WIP by Dornfag

During the Great Crusade he went slower than most of the other Primarchs bar Lorgar but his diligence over speed, though criticized at the time, proved it's worth in the WoTB as the worlds he brought into the Imperium weathered the storm consistently better than others that weren't the work of Perty.

At some point he gets it into his head to grow his trademark mustache. Some time later he has to have one of his eyes replaced and it sort of looks like a monocle.

Does not take part in the Raid. He was not the greatest personal combatant and also tended to be better at static defense than actually running around, so a quick Raid was not his strong suit. Also due to the buggy Mk1 enhancments he suffered from desensitization problems which gradually turned into a mild case of masochism.

Never married or had any children (that he or history knew about). Did have a large number of nephews and nieces and cousins and more distant kin. Quite a few of his family survived the WoTB, he was quite lucky in that regard.

== Roboute Guilliman ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Artist of War:'''''

Guilliman was born to a minor noble house in the great and relatively prosperous realm of Europia. His parents were able to afford him admittance to Parisiorum University, the most prestigious educational institution of that fair nation. By the onset of adulthood he was well versed in the classics of language, mathematics and the basic sciences; but it was in military theory that he truly excelled. Soon he was spotted by a visiting officer, and was quickly transferred to the Avelroi military academy. He was a more than adequate soldier, and a fairly skilled tactician, but it was in the arts of grand strategy and logistical planning that his brilliance was found. During wargames and simulations, his peers often managed to gain the upper hand on Guilliman's forces, flanking or encircling them only to find themselves critically short of materiel and facing positions prepared long in advance, thanks to his unconventional focus on interdicting supply lines. Thus, while he graduated with glowing recommendations from his tutors, he was somewhat resented by his fellow alumni who felt his tactics underhand or cowardly.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Shortly after, he was assigned to the southern border where his nation rubbed shoulders - and often warred - with the Nord Afrik. Within a month of his assignment, the area was brought up to peak efficiency and combat effectiveness. Whole swathes of the border defenses were brought back up to standard, often exceeding them, becoming greater and more formidable than they were in the last border dispute; the semi-derelict Jibraltonius border fort seemed to change overnight from a ceremonial headquarters to an impenetrable bastion. And not a moment too soon, as before long the Nord Afrikaanus and their cyber-thrall army commanders were ready for war, instead of the brief raids and pillages that Guilliman's defenses had been blooded against.

The hordes of Nord Afrik, armed and armoured with most powerful technology they had recovered from the rotting corpse of the old world, charged with ferocity that would've shattered the defences of just years before. They played every hand they could; hit-and-run raids, armoured assaults, wave attacks and attempts at infiltration, yet in the end it did not matter, as their crusade broke upon the hardened shell of Europia. For every of Guilliman's soldiers, there were ten Afrikaanus barbarians - but in turn, there were a dozen shells, plasma charges or lascannon shots for each of '''them,''' and it is said that fresh reinforcements would arrive before their dead predecessors had even hit the ground. The counter-offensive orchestrated by General Guilliman was nothing less than a masterpiece of warfare, facing the Afrikaanus as if on his own home turf. The waves of techno-barbarians were bled white, their counterattacks shrugged off and shattered, their homeland burned to ashes from which nothing could ever recover.

The customary actions to follow in these conquests was for nations to incorporate the territory of the fallen into their own empire, lording over the few remaining broken people. This would have been the fate of Nord Afrik, too, but for Guilliman's address to the senate imploring them to let that foul place rot. This was perceived as weakness by some, yet his foresight would go on to frustrate the other neighbouring nations who were looking forward to invading a Europeia overextended and weakened by their subjugation of Nord Afrik. For his martial brilliance and wisdom, Guilliman was given the honorific title of Lord, a title that would not normally be bestowed upon him until his fathers death. Furthermore, in the time of relative peace the nation now found itself in, it needed an ambassador - albeit one with enough accomplishment and worth behind him for the leaders of neighbouring realms to sit up and listen.

It was during his time in the Kingdom of Franj that he met the relatively young Queen Yolande Fouché. The two had little in common at a personal level and neither ever completely trusted each other, but their respective governments deemed it imperative that they marry as a prelude to the unification of the two nations. Franj itself was deeply wounded and only slowly recovering from devastating attacks by the Unspeakable Tyrant of Gredbritton's horrific weapons, and would not survive even the most halfhearted of assaults from any of its neighbors - least of all the Dusht Jemanic, who were looking to settle old grievances. In turn, such an alliance would allow the people of Europia access to the produce of the huge tracts of agricultural land, which were sorely needed as using Nord Afrik as a psuedo-colony to feed their growing population was no longer an option.

When The Warlord came before the Senate of Europia, in the modest robes of a scribe, he came with open arms and a warm smile. Unlike elsewhere, the Senate of Europia saw this new "Imperium" as a macrocosm of themselves; their own well ordered nation merely taken to its logical conclusion. Thus, their inclusion was brief and painless, and allowed them representation in the decision and policy processes of such a regime, while the Kingdom of Franj was joined along with them as both realms were nearly dependent on one another at this point.

Lord Guilliman quickly rose through the ranks of the new Imperial Army, thanks to his history amongst one of the more civilised realms of the Imperium, as well as his unparalleled logistical prowess. Yet, when it came time for the Warlord to implement his super soldier project on a much expanded scale it was a sad fact that Lord Guilliman was biologically too old and would almost certainly have died during the implantation process. As consolation he was granted some limited gene-forging and rejuvenation procedures that his usefulness might be extended for centuries to come.

And down the centuries his usefulness would be proven.

When the Warlord became the Steward before the Empty Throne and looked to the stars, it was Guilliman amongst his generals who was deemed to be best suited to the task of preparing for interplanetary warfare, a feat considered logistically impossible by many, yet achieved through meticulous calculation and planning. His dedication and adaptability earned Lord Guilliman the title of Primarch, a leader amongst leaders and a legend amongst legends. When the eye of the Steward looked beyond the confines of Sol, he saw Guilliman was was needed more than ever.

The Primarch rose to the challenge, reorganising the Imperial Army into a force that seemed able to be everywhere at once yet, to its enemies, was truly endless, and giving the Steward's war machine efficiency more befitting a creation of the Mechanicus. Whole stellar clusters were brought under the Aquila by the old man of Europia, with wars that could fill a library - the greatest of which, he believed, were the ones not fought. He was and old man. He looked of middle years but he had lived, long long past his time. Memories of loved ones, their faces and voices, had become dim and faded. He had outlived his wife and his children and his grandchildren, his beautiful nation and even the greatest of its monuments. The old man had never relished war like the others, seeing it instead as an intellectual exercise - and by now he was so very tired of it.

When the War of the Beast descend like a hammer upon the still fledgling Imperium, it was Guilliman's reforms - from the optimisation of trade routes to the streamlining of military integration and combined arms - that allowed whole sectors to mobilise their forces fast enough to weather the initial shock. His well-disciplined and -equipped legionaries made the Beast and his horde pay for every parsec, every light-year, every '''metre'''. For every slain citizen under his care a hundred deaths were meted out, but all could see that the line was being ground back to the Sanctum Sanctorum of humanity: Old Earth. The Beast and his forces were defeated, just like all the others were, but the legions that struck the deathblow were glorified far more than the one that hamstrung a tide of Ork that would've otherwise swallowed them whole. Guilliman held no jealousy or resentment over that; he was old enough to understand that good men were seldom remembered as long as entertaining monsters, and had resigned himself to that fact long ago.

After the slaying of The Beast the Imperium began to rebuild. It was dirty work but it was good work, the Primarch relishing in the opportunity to rebuilding something after so long fighting. Those close to him claimed it soothed his aching soul and reminded him of the miracles he worked on the borders of his homeland, long ago - even when many of his fellow Primarchs outright refused his suggested reforms.

Guilliman endured for centuries longer than any thought possible - even himself - but In 014.M32 he began his long, dreamless sleep. His legacy, however, would endure for ages to come; remembered fondly even by those who thought him nothing but a glorified penpusher, and proving that the quiet administrators and quartermasters of the Imperium that they had just as much to be proud of as any other.

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== Magnus the Red ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">''''' The Arch-Psyker '''''

The story of Magnus the Red can be traced back to the previous Despot of Ursh, a remarkably unfriendly fellow by the name of Ganzorig the Great. Indeed he was great and conquered huge swathes of the Afrique League to add to the already great Empire his uncle left him. One of the contributing factors in his victories was his use of enslaved and potent psykers. For the most part these poor creatures, witch-kin as they were, were not highly valued as people by the Despot despite him being a follower of the dark gods.

One of his most prized possessions was a witch by the name of Ada of whom it was said could summon deamons and not so much bind them but direct them. In her youth, before he had discovered quite how valuable she was, he had whored her out to a navigator for imported weapons from far off worlds beyond Sol. That she had a child that she loved dearly was good news for Ganzorig as it gave him a means by which he could control her.

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Time passed, wars were waged, new lands were conquered and things continued to get worse on Old Earth much as they always had done.

In time the son, named Magnus, grew into a man. Like his father he was uncommonly tall and it was soon evident that like his mother he was uncommonly powerful. As such he was press-ganged into the psychic warfare and assault efforts of the Regime. Magnus' aptitudes were in wards and defensive measures and by age 15 could stop artillery fire and had done so on the front lines. By age 20 he could throw up a shield wall that covered almost a mile in either direction and was harder than the finest steel.

In his 35th year his mother died on the front lines against the Pan-Pacific Empire and the monsters created by it's mad science. Magnus at the time was half a continent away on the borders of Achaemenidia but he felt her loss. Although Magnus had always been Ganzorig's leash to ensure his mothers obedience so in turn had Magnus been kept obedient lest harm come to his mother.

Magnus seemed to vanish and the border was over run by the next morning. A few month later Ganzorig the Great was found burned to death in his bed.

Little is known of Magnus' movements in many years and the Ursh Succession war that followed. It is suspected that he fled to the cursed ground of the Himalayan Mountains. A place only whispered in dark legend, the one place nobody was strong or mad enough to conquer and from the fall of the Dark Age Empire to the arrival of the Warlord remained inviolate. It was unknown for sure what was protecting that high place but ████████████████████████████████████Data expunged by order of the Inquisition██████████████████████████████████████████████████and never again they promised on this hallowed ground, and so they faded in midnight clad.

Magnus emerged from that strange land some time in his sixties, although how much time in that place had passed was anyone's guess. Due to his inhuman heritage he looked still of early middle years but for his one remaining eye that held reflected horrors enough to last lifetimes. His skin once pale and soft like his fathers was now hardened by years of exposure to something approximating leather and adorned from head to foot in red wards and runes and holy script in some unknown letters tattooed and branded and scared across every inch of flesh. Save for the ragged bite mark that took up one side of his face.

By this time the Warlords armies were moving in earnest with expert precision across a dozen fronts, both military and diplomatic.

At first the tall man wandered in places he thought beyond the reach of any king or man or beast but as the Warlord progressed his psychic powers grew until Magnus felt them eclipse his own. He traveled to the very furthest reaches of Sibar and buried his talents that he might not shine out from afar.

But the Warlord could feel him and he knew it. Rather than wait to be hunted down or chained up as was in his youth Magnus set out for the burning light.

At the time the Warlord was busy in the Lands of Skand where the Nordyc people dwelt. The Warlord was trying to unify them into a cohesive nation that he could work with and absorb into the Imperium. Some tribes would remain independent and raid and pirate and maraud across the landscape and they would be crushed for it but his hope would be that this would be minimal in number.

Magnus strode into the great wood and thatch hall almost as tall as the doorway, draped in animal skins and weathered and wild looking. The great hall fell silent for a moment until the babbling of conversations returned. He scanned the rows of men and women through the hazy smoky air seated around the tables and staying warm by the great fire pit until he found him, the Warlord.

He was seated some way down the bench tearing into a slab of mutton whilst a man in dusty grey robes negotiated with the king in a jovial manner. To the surprise of Magnus the Warlord waved him over and offered him a seat on the bench next to him and poured him a drink.

It had not occurred to Magnus that the Warlord meant him no harm, it had always been his assumption that powerful men fought and that was the way of things.

In the years that were to follow the Warlord did offer Magnus a place at his side not for his battlefield prowess, although that was formidable, but for the forbidden and ancient lore he had ██████████████ █████ ███████Data expunged by order of the Inquisition███ ███████ although it troubled him greatly.

Eventually Magnus did walk the battlefield, but this time at the head of a small army of his own making. A band of psykers like himself, some liberated slaves or other nations and some born free in the Imperium. For the first time since the death of his mother Magnus felt at home. They won much fame and fortune in the wars of Unification primarily against the stain on the map that was Ursh. Though the Warlord trusted Magnus he put upon him the one condition that he have no more dealings from things beyond conventional time and space.

The other commanders were unsure of Magnus, he was not fully human and he was witch-kin steeped in forbidden magics and lore. Mortarion and Russ both had a particular dislike of him for this and despised his methods. For all that Magnus became Primarch Magnus the Red but unlike most of his fellow Primarchs he could not recieve any augmentations due to his strangely genes.

As the Unification slid gently into the Great Crusade the Legion of the Thousnad Sons held themselves well and despite being the smallest of the Legions in the Imperial Army held themselves as high as any other.

As the War of the Beast ground on Magnus' armies found themselves out matched but still unrelenting. The Beast had psykers of his own and the Chaos Eldar made his people die screaming.

As the Beast assaulted Old Earth Magnus at last broke his word to the now Steward. He called forth all the old spirits as his mother taught him and shipped up the warp into a howling gale and dashed the Beasts fleets upon impossible shores and almost pity them for where they now were. It was a gamble that was not wholly won for some Imperial ships were lost in the gale, their crews damned and lost forever. He was severely berated by the Warlord for this and they almost came to blows.

He was present on Old Earth in those final days of that war confounding and confusing the sorcerers of Chaos and slaying their deamons.

Eventually the Steward and Magnus did reconcile their differences though it took many, many years.

It was said that the Grey Knights were founded and trained by ancient veterans of the Thousand Sons, although as with all things to do with the history of that order the truth will never be known.

Magnus was one of the 3 primarchs that lived to see the Steward crowned Emperor, although only barely. He was as human as the day he was born, however much that was, and longevity treatments can only take you so far. His ashes were scattered to the winds on the tallest Himalayan mountain carried there by the Emperor himself.

Even unto the Dark Millennium the Emperor would not allow discussion of what he found in those mountains.

Was it wondrous? Terrible? Both? None may know now. Whatever was there was gone by the time Earth was all but unified. A few abandoned villages, some empty temples, a few overgrown fields and no sign of violence.

Whatever was there looked and acted like people to fool people, more or less. Whatever was there left of it's own accord.

What it is and why anything can never be known though The Warlord found neither joy nor sorrow in its departure.

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== Sanguinius ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Martyr Angel'''''

Duscht Jemanic was an old nation, a once great empire that spanned from the coast of the Atlazia Ocean in the west to the Besivik Ocean in the east, the lightning speed of its war machines crushing nations beneath their tread. Over the centuries its power and borders were slowly eroded by the Ursh hordes in the east and revolts in its Europian provinces, until it was left only with its core territories and forced into a humiliating alliance for survival as part of the Quintuple Alliance.

The Duscht were a dour, efficient people, obsessed with genetic purity above all else. In their great iron towers the famed genesmiths delved into the secrets of the human genome, while in the bellies of its ashen factories millions of enslaved “unclean” sweated and died to produce the materials for its armies. It was into this decaying society that Sanguinius was born, only son of the Kaiser.

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The Kaiser was a cold man, and over the centuries of his life had failed to produce an heir that satisfied his need for perfection. As he grew old, he grew desperate, and in his desperation he summoned his greatest genesmiths to do something never before attempted: to create a human life. To create his perfect heir, he opened the ancestral gene-vaults of House Baal, and sequences were taken from its greatest heroes: genes from generals and warriors for strength and bravery, from diplomats and statesmen for wisdom and intelligence, from courtesans and athletes for beauty and fairness of form. To this blend of genes, the Kaiser, perhaps in a final act of caprice or megalomania, added the genes for a pair of enormous, white wings to grow from the child’s back.

With the genome completed, the genesmiths retreated to their towers to perform their ancient biotech rites to attempt to forge the raw genetic material into a living fetus. Nine and ninety failed, ending as twisted, misshapen things, but in the hundredth the genes took hold, and after a year and a day of labor the genesmiths presented the baby boy to the Kaiser. As he wept, the Kaiser named the boy “Sanguinius,” for he was to be the culmination and greatest champion of the Baal bloodline.

As the boy grew, he was indeed as perfect as expected: tall and strong, brilliant and wise, golden-haired and beautiful to behold. His tutors were astonished at his genius, and the royal masters of arms soon found themselves outstripped by the stripling boy. Yet the Kaiser was still displeased. For the boy had always been a means to an end: the restoration of the old Duscht Empire, and two factors pulled his dream further and further from his grasp. The first were rumors and rumblings of an upstart nation, led by a feared Warlord, conquering and subjugating those in its path. And the second was something he could never has foreseen, something that surprised and confused and enraged him when he confronted it: Sanguinius had compassion.

Indeed, as a boy he had horrified his governesses and caretakers by sneaking out of the palace to play with common children in the street (wearing bulky clothes to hide his growing wings), and infuriated his father by speaking out against cruelty of the nobility and freeing the household slaves assigned to him. His kindness and strength of will drew the masses to him, yet in his gaze there was always a sense of melancholy, a sense that he was looking into the distance at something no one else could see. And it was so, for Sanguinius had dreams.

In them he saw the Earth and the suffering of its teeming masses, felt their psychic screams of pain: from a nomad child dying of radiation in the Calbian wastes, raw boils and weeping sores stark against her pale skin, from an old slave in a Duscht factory collapsing under the savage blows of laughing guards, from all the wretched of the Earth crying for salvation. And from far away amongst the inky blankness of the stars he heard similar, fainter echoes as people suffered and died on far-flung planets across the galaxy. Sanguinius wept for them, and for his own powerlessness, and as he did a great, golden figure rose from the darkness, benevolent gaze sweeping over the Earth. It reached its hands down and lifted the masses to the stars, and where there was sorrow there was now hope and opportunity. Yet it was here Sanguinius’ visions diverged: in some, he and the Duscht people were lifted into the stars with the rest of humanity to spread amongst the galaxy, his heart bursting with joy. In the others, the great golden figure drew his gaze to the cruelty of Duscht Jemanic, to its slave pens and pogroms and purges of the unclean, and Sanguinius felt only cold despair as the great hands turned to fists and ground the Duscht people into dust.

Though he was not much older than a boy, Sanguinius vowed this would not come to pass, that he would protect the Duscht people and pledge himself to the service of the great savior, and that he would march across the stars to save the scattered people of Terra no matter where they were.

So it was that the Warlord came to borders of Duscht Jemanic during Sanguinius’ seventeenth year.

By this time, Sanguinius was the de facto leader, having won over the court with his charisma and strength. The Kaiser was by now decrepit and spent most of his time secluded in his private chambers, emerging occasionally to make wild proclamations and rant about the lost glory of the Duscht Empire. Thus when the Warlord’s herald came to demand the surrender of the Duscht people, it was the boy-king Sanguinius at the head of the Duscht steel legions that came to parley with the Warlord.

When Sanguinius stepped into the Warlord’s command tent and saw his face, it took all of Sanguinius’ will not to fall to his knees, for he knew with certainty that this was the great golden man he had dreamed of. The Warlord, noting the young man’s hesitation, is said to have greeted him with a half-smile and asked, “Is aught the matter?” to which Sanguinius simply replied, “I dreamed of you.”

The beginning of the negotiations was simple enough, for Sanguinius was already willing to pledge fealty and offer the technology of the genesmiths to the Warlord. Yet when Sanguinius requested mercy for his people, the discussions grew heated.

The Warlord was benevolent but possessed of an iron sense of justice, and in his eyes the cruelty of the Duscht people demanded harsh sanction. The specifics are lost to history, but the argument is said to have stretched long into the night, with Sanguinius pleading, protesting, and threatening in turn, and the Warlord impassively countering each rhetorical thrust. Finally, Sanguinius offered his own life in return for mercy for his people, for he declared that as the culmination of the Baal bloodline, the sins of his house were for him to bear.

Impressed by the earnest conviction of the young man, the Warlord relented. The Warlord demanded that the slaves were to be freed and the possessions of the nobility were to be seized and distributed among them, and that each house would serve in the Warlord’s armies as penance. Sanguinius himself would be their general, and their duty would be to go where the fighting was thickest and lead the charge. Finally collapsing to his knees from relief, Sanguinius accepted without hesitation.

With the secrets and technology of the Duscht genesmiths, the Warlord perfected the final design iteration for his Astartes warriors, the Mark III augmentation pattern, of which Sanguinius and his fellow primarchs to-be Vulkan and Lion El’Jonson were the prototypes. On them, the Warlord ordered the genesmiths to lavish their full expertise and to spare no cost, pushing the boundaries of their arcane knowledge.

When the three men emerged they were indeed without any of the flaws and mutations that had plagued the earlier Astartes generations, with strength and abilities far exceeding those of their existing fellows. However, the cost was astronomical and the process too slow to be viable on a large scale, thus for the mass production Mark III pattern the improvements were mostly limited to eliminating the flaws in the Mark II, keeping a roughly similar or perhaps marginally higher level of strength. The prototype Mark III design was archived, and later used for the most elite warriors of the Imperium, the Custodes and the Grey Knights.

For the rest of the Unification Wars, Sanguinius and his legion served with distinction, winning fame for their lightning assaults against even the most entrenched of foes, the Astartes descending as streaks of crimson on wings of burning ash and flame as they followed their general into battle. With his purity of spirit and the oneness of their shared vision for humanity, he won the trust and confidence of the Warlord and became a close advisor, making his eventual elevation to Primarch a mere formality. Thus when the Warlord became the Steward of the Empty Throne and proclaimed the Great Crusade, it was the fleets of the IX Legion with Primarch Sanguinius at the helm that were in the vanguard, blazing a trail into the darkness.

Sanguinius’ legend grew as he and his legion pacified world after world, a magnificent sight to behold as he soared over the battlefield on immense white wings to slay the enemies’ generals and greatest champions. Yet it was not only for feats of arms that he was revered as the “Angel”. Worlds blighted by mutation that would have been purged by other legions instead found themselves welcomed into the safety of the Imperium by the IX Legion, and broken peoples barely recognizable as human for the first time experienced the warmth of kinship and camaraderie.

The IX Legion soon won the moniker of “Blood Angels,” for their nobility of spirit and devotion to the shared blood of mankind. Soon, tales of the great Angel and his warriors spread across the oppressed people of the galaxy, and many rose in joyous rebellion against their alien overlords when the great Angel and his red warriors appeared in the skies above their worlds.

Amongst his brother Primarchs, Sanguinius found comrades and friends of his own. Well liked or at least well respected by most of the Primarchs, Sanguinius was particularly close with Horus and Vulkan. In him, “Old Man Roboute” finally had a willing audience for his lectures on strategy and logistics, and Fulgrim found a kindred spirit with an appreciation of art and philosophy, the greatest achievements of man. Sanguinius’ relationship with Angron was complicated, troubled by Angron’s unpredictable madness. On good days, theirs was a friendly rivalry as each legion strove to claim the title of finest assault troops in the Imperium; on others, Angron viewed the Angel as an upstart pretender without respect for his elders and resented the Angel's pity, and they had to be separated lest they come to blows. Curze and Mortarion despised Sanguinius as naïve and foolish, and Sanguinius despised them in turn for obvious reasons, Mortarion in particular for he reminded Sanguinius far too much of his own father.

When the Steward with Eldrad at his side first proposed the idea of an alliance with the Eldar to his gathered Primarchs at the Council of Nikaea, Sanguinius was one of the first to speak out in favor, for he believed all sapient beings willing to work towards peace, prosperity, and the good of mankind had a rightful place within the Imperium. Later, he would be part of the great raid on the twisted realms of Nurgle, and nearly perished there in the stinking hellscape.

As the raiding party retreated to the portal with Isha in tow, they received word that Eldrad and his council of seers holding the portal open in realspace had come under ferocious daemonic assault, and that the portal was failing rapidly. As the allied forces rushed to the exit, Sanguinius lingered trying to save the lives of several wounded Exarchs and Astartes. It was only through the combined heroics of Lion El’Jonson, Jaghatai Khan, and the Phoenix Lords Asurmen and Baharroth that he survived, as they carved a path through the hordes of slavering monstrosities to drag the Angel through the collapsing portal.

The next few years represented the high water mark of the Great Crusade as the Imperium expanded at an unprecedented rate, fueled by their new allies and technology. World after world was brought into the Imperium, and Sanguinius dared to hope that his dream of a gentler future could truly come to pass.

Then the War of the Beast came.

The hordes of the Orks, Chaos Eldar, and Dark Eldar smashed through the fledging Imperium, plunging it into darkness, and where there was hope and opportunity before there was now only a desperate struggle against extinction. The Blood Angels fought as they always had, leading the attack in the most vicious fighting, the tip of the Imperium’s spear, and inspiring fellow troops through deeds of valor and sacrifice. Many a Warboss, Archon, or Chaos Seer met his end at the blades of a squad of Blood Angels, only for the Astartes to be surrounded and cut down by the enraged foe. The loss of leaders sowed disruption and chaos in the enemy forces, yet for all the Blood Angels’ sacrifice it could only slow the enemy’s inexorable advance.

Those within the Imperium who fell traitor learned that Sanguinius was not all kindness, and found themselves hunted without mercy by the vengeful Blood Angels. Perhaps it was because the traitors sought to tear down his cherished dream of a peaceful future, or perhaps it was because they spat on the mercy and acceptance of the Steward that Sanguinius and his Duscht people had sacrificed so much to earn back on Terra long ago. Whatever the reason, he reserved a special savagery for those who turned their backs on the Imperium. It is said that after witnessing the carnage wrought on an entire regiment of Traitor Guard by a single squad of Blood Angels, a shocked Imperial Army general called High Command to ask “Where are the Angels I was promised? Who are these flesh tearers?”

And so the war ground on. Peace was a distant dream, and for the Men and Eldar of the Imperium there was only cold, quiet determination, defying a cruel fate in the face of a hateful and malicious universe. Worlds burned, trillions died, and across the galaxy the Blood Angels could be found neck deep in the thickest battles. Many battles were on the most populated worlds of the Imperium, and the Blood Angels would fulfill their devotion to mankind as they fought in rearguard actions to save civilians and evacuees, these valiant defenses all too often becoming last stands.

Captain Malakim and his doomed 29th Company became everlasting symbols of this devotion when they gave their lives to the man securing the evacuation of hive-world Ancalagon. Ancalagon had been the greatest world of Subsector Urulok, and the invasion of the world was particularly savage, representing the greatest concentration of Ork and Chaos Eldar forces in the subsector.
The Imperial defenders led by the Blood Angels were inevitably pushed back to the walls of the last hive, with millions of civilians yet to evacuate. Primarch Corvus Corax, commanding forces in a nearby subsector, repeatedly ordered the remaining Imperial forces to retreat and regroup to conserve their strength, yet Captain Malakim refused, for doing so would have doomed the millions of civilians to butchery or enslavement at the hands of the invaders. The Imperial defense held just long enough for the final transports to clear the spaceport, and as the hive walls were overrun the Chaos Seer leading the Chaos Eldar touched Captain Malakim’s mind to taunt him and savor his despair. Yet the alien only found calm and peace, and in response Captain Malakim sent out a final vox transmission.

Across the ruined world and the Imperial starships high above the words rang out, “For those we cherish, we die in glory!” Minutes later, enormous explosions visible from orbit erupted across the planet as hidden Cyclonic Torpedoes detonated, remotely triggered by the cessation of the heartbeat of the last Blood Angel defender. The massive loss crippled the Ork and Chaos Eldar forces in the subsector, and the regiments later raised from the evacuees won renown as some of the fiercest in the Imperial Army with their warcry, “Remember the blessed 29th!”

Through it all, Sanguinius could be found leading his Blood Angels in the most perilous of missions, or offering a kind word to faltering Guardsmen and a gentle touch to traumatized refugees. He ignored the criticisms that his men’s sacrifices were wasteful and pointless, the sneers that they could have done much more had they only the wisdom to regroup and fight another day. For Sanguinius knew that each civilian saved was another who could fight, build, and carry on the legacy of man, a precious spark of humanity, and that in a war as horrific as this morale and hope were as powerful as any weapon or starship or fortress.

Yet his men noticed a change in their beloved Primarch, subtle as it was, a restlessness and grimness he could not always hide. For Sanguinius’ visions were growing stronger, and each night, pounding at his consciousness, he saw his own death again and again. He knew it would be at the hands of a great monstrosity as he stood between it and the Steward, and that his time was growing short. Death held no fear for Sanguinius, but it was the fate of mankind that gave him pause; humanity was balanced on the knife’s edge, extinction a mere slip away. Even if the gentler future of his dreams was realized, Sanguinius knew he would not be there to see it, but he would give everything to ensure it would come to pass.

In the last days of the war, as the unstoppable hordes of the Beast, Dark Eldar, and Chaos Eldar converged on humanity’s final bastion, the Primarchs and their legions raced home to Terra to fortify their homeworld for the coming onslaught. Across the soil of Terra, the Men and Eldar of the Imperium prepared for their last stand, standing side by side to shout defiance at the hatred of the galaxy:

Here, a squad of Guardsmen drawn from a dozen worlds of the Imperium place sandbags around a hospital in the shadow of a towering Wraithlord, pausing occasionally to marvel at the gleaming colossus;

Bonesingers weave armored shells around the frames of hulking Imperial tanks, as nearby techpriests chitter with anxiety;

In a long abandoned church a Word Bearer Chaplain preaches to a motley crowd of humans and Eldar, rainbow lights from ancient stained-glass dancing on his brow, fire and ecstasy burning in his breast;

A mother comforts her weeping child as they are shepherded onto an evacuation ship under the watchful eye of an Ultramarine, the boy still reaching for the picture he dropped of his fallen father;

At the edge of their camp, in an old garden under the light of the stars, a tall Aspect Warrior kisses an astonished guardswomen and smiles at her joy;

And far above in the night sky, the greatest fleets of Men and Eldar float amidst the gloom, blotting out the stars with their number, ready to stand and spit light and fire against the coming forces of the dark.

Secluded in the great halls in the Imperial Palace, the Steward with his Primarchs and Eldrad with his seers laid their plans for the coming invasion. Agreements were made and bitter arguments were fought. Many of the Primarchs requested the honor of defending the Imperial Palace itself, and the Steward heard them each in turn, from the impassioned pleas of Lorgar to the cold growls of Dorn.

Yet when the Steward turned to Sanguinius, expecting a fervent request for the honor from his old friend, he found only tranquility. Sanguinius rose from his seat, and said, “That I shall die before the walls of this palace is beyond doubt. My destiny comes and I go to it with peace in my heart.”

The Steward recognized the calm conviction in the Angel’s eyes. It was the same look he had seen so many years ago when he first met Sanguinius as the Warlord in his command tent, and Sanguinius had offered his life for mercy for his people. It was the look of a man who had wholly accepted and welcomed his death for a greater purpose, and would go to it without fear and regret.

Moved by his words, the Steward accepted the request. So it was that when the Chaos armada forced its way to Terra and its unending hordes began their assault on the Imperial Palace, they found the proud Blood Angels manning the great walls, with Sanguinius, his elite First Company, and the legendary Custodes defending the Eternity Gate.

The Beast was possessed of greater cunning and primal intelligence than most of his species, and began the assault by probing the defense of the palace, looking for a weakness. When none were found, he sent his the masses of his most expendable troops to overwhelm the defense with the crushing weight numbers.

But Dorn and Perturabo had done their work well. Automated defense turrets gunned down hordes of Orks before they even reached the firing range of the Blood Angels, and those that survived ended up in carefully designed killing fields with no cover and no escape. Overhead, Ork jets and stormboyz crashed screaming off the palace void shields, or were frozen by stasis fields to be picked off by lance batteries at leisure.

Yet for all of Dorn and Perturabo’s defensive genius, the palace was simply not designed to hold off numbers of this magnitude, for who could have predicted a Waaagh comprised of a full half of the Orks in the galaxy? After several days of fighting a flaw emerged: the immense piles of dead Orks were obscuring crucial firing angles for the defensive turrets, and had grown so tall in some places that the greenskins were using them to climb up the previously impregnable walls. The Imperial Palace was too vast to fully hold against so numerous a foe, thus Sanguinius ordered his forces to withdraw to the secondary defensive positions, cunningly designed to minimize the advantage of numbers and to funnel the enemy towards the entrenched elites defending the Eternity Gate. Thus it was the days after the breaching of the walls that the historians consider the true Siege of the Imperial Palace.

The first day of the siege consisted of more Orks, though now they included more than just mere boyz. In the Orkish hordes now came nobz and weirdboyz, flash gitz and kommandoz, all roaring for battle and eager to spill the blood of humanity.

The first greenskins to enter the Grand Plaza of the Eternity Gate were greeted with a magnificent sight before they were gunned down: the white-winged Angel surrounded by his warriors resplendent in red, while beside them stood the gold-clad figures of the Custodes with their Lord Commander Arik Taranis at the forefront, holding aloft the great Banner of Unification, its length equal to full five Astartes. Behind them, a giant Aquila spread its wings on the massive adamantium Eternity Gate, protecting the Throne Room command center where the Steward and Eldrad commanded the forces of Terra, telepathically linked with thousands of their commanders to coordinate with perfect precision and unison.

The two sides met in the middle of the plaza with a resounding crash, howling as their blades sought the blood of their hated foes. Chainswords tore flesh, power klawz ripped bodies, and the dead and wounded were trampled underfoot in the savage melee. Lord Commander Taranis won the greatest deed of the day, slaying the Warboss leading the Orks by impaling him on the Banner of Unification and lifting his still screaming body into the air for all to see, as Sanguinius held off the Warboss’ nob retinue.

By nightfall, the tide of Orks slowed, for their poor eyesight would have put them at a great disadvantage against the enhanced Astartes and the Beast would not waste his troops here. As the last Ork died gurgling with a sword rammed through its chest, the defenders found a moment of respite to pray for the dead, celebrate the deeds of the living, and prepare for the next day.

The start of the second day consisted of more Orks, though by mid-morning it was clear something was amiss. The Ork forces were in disarray, even for their crude standard of organization, and reports came from the secondary Blood Angel positions that an unknown force was attacking the Orks in the rear. When lithe figures in black cut down the last of the Orks and stepped into the great plaza, it became all to clear: the Dark Eldar had come. In their sadistic greed, they had seen a opportunity to capture the unfathomable prizes of the Steward and Eldrad at the same time, and believing the Blood Angels to be worn down they had come in full force to break the defenders.

The Dark Eldar were a deadly foe: Astartes and Custodes died screaming as the enemy weapons inflicted agony that overcame even their enhanced physiologies and mental conditioning. Yet the vile invaders had blundered in their greed and haste: for all their lethal skill and precision, the Dark Eldar were not assault troops, their equipment and tactics unsuited for the grinding attrition of siege warfare, and Sanguinius and his scions quickly showed them their error.

With no space to maneuver and dodge in the packed plaza, sculpted, graceful bodies shaped by the finest of Comorragh’s flesh arts were crushed under ceramite and steel as easily as any Ork boy. Three entire Wych cults were eradicated that day, with Sanguinius personally cutting down the three Succubi that led them. As night fell, once again the enemy withdrew, consumed by infighting as the ever-scheming Archons used the chaos to usurp weakened rivals or settle old scores. There was no levity this night for the defenders: their wounds and exhaustion prevented such efforts, and battered armor and weapons required their attention.

The dawn of the third day was unusually still, the Orks and Dark Eldar nowhere to be found. For a moment, the defenders wondered if the xenos had retreated to seek an easier target, but when the morning quiet was shattered by the pounding of unholy war drums, eldritch howls, ululating chants, and gibbering laughter, the xenos’ absence became clear.

The dread legions of Chaos crested the great stairway of the plaza in a screeching tide of twisted flesh: hordes of savage Bloodletters, sinuous Daemonettes, and rotted Plaguebearers, howling and eager to feast on the souls of the defenders. Beside them were mobs of cultists, cowardly, wretched things skulking in the shadows of their masters and chanting hymns of praise to their dark gods, hoping to gain a few scraps of favor.

Throughout the horde, the defenders glimpsed the Chaos Eldar, impossibly beautiful and perfect, their every movement liquid and effortless, their flawless faces belying the wild and fickle cruelty within. Ceramite gauntlets tightened around the hilt of swords and bolters as the Astartes gazed with hatred on a row of hulking figures, their fallen comrades the Traitor Marines. At their front strode the Arch-Heretic Erebus, once honored as First Captain of the Word Bearers and Living Saint of the Katholian Church, now reviled as the Dark Oracle and First Traitor.

Above the teeming corrupted multitude stood the four greatest servants of the Ruinous Powers, looming over their minions: Kairos Fateweaver, the ancient Lord of Change; Scabeiathrax the Bloated, the laughing and virulent Great Unclean One; Zarakynel the Bringer of Torments, the most favored Keeper of Secrets; and the mighty Ka’Bandha, bloodiest of Khorne’s Bloodthirsters.

Such a sight could have driven men to madness or despair; this was an army to crush entire sectors and devour the souls of species. Yet the Blood Angels and Custodes raised their blades aloft and shouted warcries and challenges at the dark horde, spitting defiance and insults in the faces of the dark gods. For they had armored themselves in faith and duty, purpose and loyalty, and there were no flaws upon their souls where weakness could take hold.

With the mournful blare of warhorns, the daemonic forces broke rank and thundered through the plaza. Astartes and Custodes had only moments to ready themselves before the wave crashed into their ranks. Daemonic hellblades tore through ceramite with unholy strength, impaling Astartes’ twin hearts in a single blow. Blasts of swirling warpfire incinerated men where they stood, armor and all, and still others were melted into puddles of festering ooze by hellish plagues and toxins.

Yet for every loss they suffered, the defenders retaliated tenfold. The searing touch of holy promethium and plasma cleansed corrupted flesh, and ancient power weapons sang their songs of death and lightning as the Astartes hewed through the enemy ranks. Vanguard veterans descended from on high, lashing out with bolt and blade and scattering the enemy before them, while Librarians wove great nimbuses of lightning and incinerated scores of demons with a gesture.

It is said that only in the crucible of trials and hardship does a man find his true worth, and humanity’s darkest hour also proved its finest. The Blood Angels fought with the fury of humanity itself, and their deeds that day would echo through history, to be sung of in the future even as the embers of civilization smoldered and the darkness drew near.

Chief Librarian Sandelon was the first to slay one of the Greater Daemons. As the battle swirled around him, the great librarian found himself facing Scabeiathrax, and without a flicker of hesitation he hurled himself at the massive, bloated daemon. The Blood Angel tore great gouges into the beast’s stinking flesh with his force staff and lances of crimson lightning, skillfully dodging between the beast’s cumbersome counterstrikes. However, for a heartbeat, the librarian was distracted as he turned to parry the strikes of a Chaos Astartes attacking his flank, and the momentarily lull in his defenses was enough: the Great Unclean One skewered Sandelon at the end of its massive, rusted cleaver, chortling to itself as its prey writhed on the end of its weapon. But Sandelon would not die.

With his rage and sheer force of will he anchored his soul to his dying body, and grasping the cleaver with both hands impaled himself further, bringing him within striking range of the daemon’s head. With a roar he rammed his force staff through the daemon’s skull, and focused all his pain and rage into a maelstrom of searing lightning through the staff.

The greater daemon howled and twisted in pain and fear as it burned from the inside out, slabs of flesh blackening and sloughing from its massive body, until at last it was nothing more than piles of charred, smoking meat, and its soul was sent screaming back into the realms of the warp. Only then did Sandelon close his eyes, a grim smile of satisfaction on his lips, and allow his soul to depart, his ravaged body at last going limp as he left to join his fallen brothers.

Elsewhere on the battlefield, Captain Azkaellon of the First Company, famed leader of the Sanguinary Guard, slew a dozen Chaos Lords in succession as they stepped forth to challenge his Primarch while Sanguinius dueled Erebus. Their weapons clashed for the better part of an hour, great bursts of light and warp energy erupted from the points of contact between the radiant blade of gold and the cruel mace of black. Finally, Sanguinius found an opening in Erebus’ defenses, and with a flourish he disarmed the Arch-Heretic, before severing both the traitor’s arms with a sweep of his burning blade.

Zarakynel was slain by Commander Taranis, the mighty Custodes parrying and dashing through the flashing, quicksilver strikes of the Keeper of Secrets. With a single blow of his right hand, the Commander bisected the daemon at the waist, all while firm grasping the Banner of Unification in his left.

Yet for all the deeds of heroism performed that day, the greatest was surely the Banishing of Ka’Bandha. The towering Bloodthirster was more akin to a force of nature, its great axe and nine-tailed scourge were streaks of blood as it cleaved through scores of Astartes and Custodes with contemptuous ease, and the Imperial defenders were forced to cede ground to it rampaged across the plaza.

Filled with fury at the deaths of so many of his men, Sanguinius rallied his Sanguinary Guard and together they crashed into the path of the berserk daemon. The blades of Astartes and daemon lashed out, slashing and hacking, as Sanguinius and his Guard pressed the daemon. As they fought, a score of the Sanguinary Guard were slain, each a mighty hero the Blood Angels in his own right. Yet not even Ka’Bandha could stand in the face of so many lethal warriors, and it was forced back, bleeding from dozens of wounds.

Flapping its great leather wings, it launched itself into the air seeking a respite, but Sanguinius followed, chasing the massive daemon into the sky on wings of white. In the air, they clashed and broke away, seeking greater height before clashing again. The nimbler Angel darted around the heavy Bloodthirster, swooping and twisting, dodging the daemon’s blows and inflicting a dozen more wounds on the beast. Sensing the daemon was slowing, Sanguinius pressed his advantage, and in a blur of speed, he slashed through the daemon’s right wing, sending the beast hurtling down to the plaza far below.

It landed with a thundering crash, crushing the granite and gouging a huge crater, and a few seconds later Sanguinius landed, driving his boot into the daemon’s head with all the force of his dive. As the daemon struggled to rise, faithful Azkaellon slashed through the daemon’s remaining wing as Sanguinius drove his sword through its throat. With the beast weakened, Sanguinius flung aside his blade and grabbed the Bloodthirster by its legs and throat, and with a heroic burst of strength lifted the beast above his head and dashed him against his knee, tearing the daemon in two with his force. The warriors of Chaos looked on in shock as Sanguinius flung the two pieces of the mighty demon into their ranks, while Ka’Bandha's soul was flung screaming into the warp to beg forgiveness at the feet of Khorne.

And so the battle raged on. Kairos Fateweaver was the last of the Greater Daemons to fall, screaming in rage and disbelief as it’s carefully laid plans were ruined, its frail body pulverized by the thunder hammers of a dozen vengeful Blood Angel Terminators.

Though their greatest champions had been cast down, the forces of Chaos did not relent. Night fell and there was no respite that evening, for daemons did not suffer from frailties like fear or exhaustion, and their mortal servants would never dare retreat lest they invite the displeasure of their fickle masters. Long into the night, the sounds of battle echoed through the darkened plaza, the shadowy figures of daemon and Astartes illuminated only by the brief flashes of power weapons and bolter muzzles, and the ghostly glow of plasma and warpfire.

Dawn broke as the last of the daemons were slain and banished to the warp, and the first rays of the sun touched on a hellish scene. The plaza was a mire of gore and viscera, so thick that the granite floor could not be seen beneath clotting pools of purple and red and brown, an accumulation of blood spilled over three days of ceaseless battle. Greasy tongues of black smoke reached into the sky from pyres of corpses fifty feet high, as alien, traitor, and daemon alike were fed into the fire. Amongst the dead stood the few survivors, lonely figures of red and gold, the proud First Company of the Blood Angels and the legendary Adeptus Custodes reduced to a meager handful. They knelt above the bodies of their fallen brothers, the dead outnumbering the living, and no words were spoken as each man offered his silent prayers to the fallen. The honored dead, who just a few hours ago had been friends, comrades, and battle-brothers, were now reduced to corpses, cold and silent, by the savagery of the xenos, the treachery of man, and the hatred of Chaos.

Yet even in this time of their greatest weariness and sorrow, there was no time for rest. Frantic calls came from the perimeter, voices raw from battle and disbelief as the scouts reported a monstrous Ork the size of a building advancing towards the Eternity Gate, surrounded by a horde of Nobz as big as Warbosses. The Imperial defenders gritted their teeth and gripped their swords, rising on legs worn from days of relentless fighting. The Beast itself had come. Yet when they turned to their Primarch for orders, they found that Sanguinius was still kneeling amongst the dead. They shouted but he did not hear, they shook him but he did not feel; for the visions had come again, stronger than ever before. They assailed his mind, overwhelming thought, a thousand variations and permutations of his impending death: crushed beneath a foot the size of a land speeder, impaled on the end of jagged claws, swatted out of the air to be hacked down by swarming Nobz, and a thousand other ends too brutal to imagine. Any lesser man would have been driven to madness by the phantom pain, but Sanguinius summoned all his will and forced the visions back, suppressing them until they were not gone but at least tolerable, and his mind was his own once more. He rose on unsteady legs to the relief of his men, and together the defenders pulled back from across the plaza. Sanguinius shouted orders as the Astartes and Custodes readied their weapons and gathered in a tight defensive circle before the Eternity Gate itself. Here, they would stand. Here, they would die.

The Beast announced its presence long before it reached the plaza, the ground itself dully reverberating with the weight of its steps. Steadily, the tremors grew stronger, until at least the Beast strode into view, granite cracking and splintering beneath its steps, its horde of hulking Nobz following close behind. Partway into the plaza, the Orks stopped, and for a few moments an eerie silence hung over the plaza as the two sides surveyed each other.

The Imperial defenders gazed for the first time on the monstrous Beast, whom before they had only heard of through hearsay and scattered reports. It was even more ferocious in the flesh: a towering monstrosity almost forty feet tall, defying all laws of nature and biology. Tusks as wide as a man jutted from its jaw and its gargantuan frame bulged with enough alien muscle to tear apart an Imperial Knight. It bore no weapons, instead grafting individual power field generators onto its jagged claws, and its crude armor was formed from the plates of destroyed Baneblades and Titans.

Even a spirit as pure and tireless as Sanguinius could be worn down. For days, he had faced the most terrible and nightmarish foes of humanity in endless combat, seen thousands of cherished friends and comrades butchered, resisted haunting visions of death and madness that would have broken any lesser man; and as Sanguinius gazed upon the overwhelming and terrible form of the Beast, for the first time he felt doubt.

What if it had all been useless?
What if all their struggle and sacrifice was for naught, and the light of humanity was snuffed out?
What if he failed?

Sensing an opening, the faintest blemish on Sanguinius’ soul, the dark gods of Chaos struck.
Creeping tendrils of dark thought seeped into his mind, offers and seductions, promises of power enough to fulfill all his dreams.

''Kneel before me,'' boomed a voice of hot iron and raw power, ''and I shall give you and your soldiers such strength that none may stand before you, and the whole galaxy shall know peace under the might of your legions.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius himself leading the invincible legions of the Imperium to victory after glorious victory, sweeping away the enemies of man until only an iron peace remained, enforced under his watchful eye.

''Join me,'' said a voice of chortling mirth and boundless life, ''and man will never again fear the blight of mortality or the frailties of flesh, and you shall be free to spread across the galaxy to spread life wherever you tread.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius saw joyous families, untouched by age or weakness, venturing forth on great journeys of discovery, colonizing virgin worlds and facing the challenges of the galaxy with optimism and camaraderie.

''Serve me,'' rasped a voice of eldritch cunning and ancient wisdom, ''and I shall grant you wisdom and foresight, and all the knowledge of the lost golden age of man.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius saw all the ancient wonders of humanity restored as man, filled with wisdom and understanding, walked among the stars to reclaim the galaxy with knowledge and technology.

''Come with me,'' said a voice of whispering silk and untamed passion, ''and humanity shall be made tall and strong and golden, shaped in your image and as perfect as you.'' And it was so, for Sanguinius saw golden men and women, as tall and strong as he, striding across the stars without fear, their wings carrying them over the skies of distant worlds

The voices grew louder, each clamoring to be heard, sometimes working in concert to sway him, sometimes working to undermine the others. But they agreed on one thing: the way forward was so simple, so clear, and Sanguinius only need reach out to grasp the power and opportunity offered to him. Sanguinius was granted one final vision: he saw himself in the Throne Room of the palace, warpfire dancing in his eyes, the power of the Warp overflowing from his body. Before him, a bleeding Steward kneeled at his feet, and to his side the headless body of Eldrad lay discarded, the blind eyes of the severed head frozen in an accusatory glare. Reaching down, Sanguinius hauled the Steward upright as the voices exulted and laughed, and with a leering smile shoved his golden sword through the Steward’s chest.

''No.''

In an instant the voices recoiled, and Sanguinius’ eyes snapped open. He had not realized they were closed.
''Only creatures as foul and debased as you would think that virtue could be gifted, that loyalty could be bought and bartered,'' he thundered in his mind. ''Strength does not come from might of arms, but from clarity of purpose and force of will. Joy does not come from a long life, but from a life well-lived. Wisdom does not come from arcane secrets, but from experience hard won in the trials of life. Perfection does not come through fairness of form and mind, but from struggle, sacrifice, and the will to better oneself, the noblest virtues of man.''
''Your pathetic entreaties have failed, false gods. Flee back to your twisted realms and think upon your failure, that for all your supposed power you could not sway this man to your cause. Know that though you have thrown all your greatest champions and sorceries and horrors against the bastion of humanity, we live on, and that man will rise from these ashes, stronger for having risen above such adversity. Know that man will one day conquer his baser self, that you will wither and starve, and far in the future when you have long disappeared, the light of humanity will continue to shine from the stars, until the universe itself comes to a close.''

And the voices howled and cursed, the Ruinous Powers swearing bloody vengeance upon Sanguinius and his kin. He took a moment to savor their impotent rage and smiled briefly, and then with a shout he banished the Chaos gods from his mind.

Though the dark gods had whispered their lies for what seemed like hours, only moments had passed in reality, and both the orks and the Imperial defenders were stirring. The horde of Nobz bellowed war chants and smashed their weapons together, raising a crashing din of guttural roars and ringing metal. The Beast itself was still motionless, its eyes surveying the Astartes with malevolent cunning.

Around Sanguinius, his men were springing into motion. Captain Azkaellon shouted for reinforcements through his vox receiver, calling for the secondary Blood Angel forces within the Imperial Palace to hurry to the plaza and for the assistance of any other Imperial forces in the vicinity. The few remaining librarians readied their powers, sparks swirling about their temples and fingers, as Astartes and Custodes checked armor and weapons battered from days of combat, adjusted sights, and muttered quiet prayers.

The ground shook as the Beast finally began to move. With slow, ponderous steps, it walked out in front of the horde, waving the eager Nobz back as they tried to follow; one Nob foolhardy enough to follow was pulverized into a smear by a casual swing of the Beast’s massive fist.

Across the plaza, Sanguinius did likewise, striding out alone against the protests of his men, shaking off Azkaellon as his captain begged him not to face the Beast alone. The Steward in the Throne Room had sensed the presence of the Beast, and as he touched Sanguinius’ mind he knew in an instant that the Angel meant to face the Beast unaided. The Steward urgently ordered his old friend to retreat to the Throne Room so that they might face it together, but Sanguinius refused, for to do so would have endangered the very survival of humanity.

The Steward was psychically linked with thousands of his commanders as he orchestrated the Imperial forces across Terra, and it was only through his military genius that they held, the armies of men and Eldar acting in perfect unison as they threw back wave after wave of fouls xenos and the forces of Chaos. Distracting the Steward would imperil all the forces of Terra and the survival of humanity, for even if the Beast were slain, Terra would fall should the rest of the planet be lost. Knowing he could not sway Sanguinius’ decision, the Steward could only powerlessly observe as Sanguinius bade him farewell, and met the Beast in the middle of the plaza.

Man cannot be brave without fear, nor can he have faith without doubt, and once again fear and doubt welled in Sanguinius’ heart as the terrible figure of the Beast grew larger in his vision. Not fear or doubt for himself, for death held no sway over him. No, it was fear for the future of man, for their fate hung in the balance, the existence of his entire species to be decided in the coming moments. It was doubt for the very meaning of his struggle, for while Sanguinius would gladly sacrifice himself a thousand times over, he wondered if even his greatest efforts could alter the cruel whims of fate.

But unlike before, when these weaknesses had gnawed on his resolve and allowed an opening for the whispers of Chaos, he now let them pass through him, accepting and facing down these unfamiliar feelings. And as they swirled inside them, he found a rock hard seed of hope deep in the core of his being. For Sanguinius believed in the spirit of man: in man’s resiliency, the sheer dogged stubbornness and will to endure; in his nobility, the greatness of heart and will to strive towards a better future; in his capacity for hope, the daring to dream even in the face of unfathomable darkness. And he believed in the Steward, his liege, his friend, his brother.

Thus from the dark waters of doubt did the great rock of faith rise, renewed and immovable. Sanguinius felt his fears for the future of man dissipate, for he knew that humanity would carry on and flourish far into the future even without him to protect it, and with fresh eyes, he gazed upon the Beast and knew that even such a monster could not stand in the way of humanity’s ascent. Fear became bravery and tranquility; his mind was his own, his will was pure. In the middle of the plaza, as the Beast loomed over him, Sanguinius took a slow breath and savored his last quiet moment.

The tension broke as Sanguinius burst into motion, moving so quickly he was a blur even to the enhanced senses of his Astartes. With all his righteous fury and strength he surged into the air and slashed at the Beast’s head, the massive Ork barely catching the strike in time with its armored fist. The Beast staggered back several steps from the force of the blow as the Blood Angels and Custodes looked on in awe at the power of the Primarch, and the Ork’s features twisted into a leering grin of approval, acknowledging Sanguinius’ strength. It struck back, faster than anything that huge had right to be, so fast even Sanguinius barely had time to react. The servos in Sanguinius’ armor whirred and screeched as mechanical muscle and his own superhuman frame struggled to parry the Ork’s counterblow, the power fields around the Beast’s claws crackling as they skimmed the golden relic armor.

And so the Beast and the Angel fought, the smaller frame of Sanguinius darting and striking between the Beast’s thunderbolt blows. The duel stretched on, with neither side seeming to take the advantage, and the Blood Angels allowed themselves to hope, to believe that their Primarch could win. Such hope was futile. Sanguinius could not have defeated the Beast alone even were he rested and at his full strength, perhaps fighting the monster to a standstill at best. But Sanguinius was not rested; he was wounded and weary from days of battle against the most savage foes of man, and as the duel continued blood trickled from his armor as days-old wounds reopened under the ferocious strain of combat.

A low rumble came from the Beast then, a sound of grating iron and gloating amusement, and the Astartes realized it was laughing. The Beast’s fist whipped forward in a blur, catching Sanguinius in a misstep as the massive punch caught the Angel in the chest, and he was thrown hurtling through the air, crashing through one of the few remaining statues in the plaza before tumbling to a halt on the shattered granite.

With a cry, the remaining Astartes and Custodes rushed forward to the aid of their Primarch, determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible, and from the other end of the plaza the horde of Nobz broke ranks as well, no longer able to contain their bloodlust. As Sanguinius struggled to his feet, armor cracked and blood matting his golden hair and white wings, he gazed into the mocking black eyes of his hated foe and he vowed that the Beast would not leave the plaza without bleeding dearly. In a moment, Azkaellon was at his side, pulling him to his feet, and Sanguinius joined his men in their final charge across the plaza.

Even as exhausted as they were, the Blood Angels each fought with unmatched valor: individual Astartes held off a dozen Nobz as others hurled themselves at the Beast, sacrificing themselves to try to force an opening in the monster’s defenses. The Beast was more than eager to oblige, roaring as it swiped left and right, crushing scores of Astartes with each blow. Before the unstoppable blows of the Beast and the crushing numbers of Nobz, the defenders were forced back across the plaza, until they were backed up to the steps before the Eternity Gate itself.

As his men died to the last around him, Sanguinius finally sensed an opening in the Beast’s defenses. He made a quick gesture at Azkaellon who understood immediately, and the captain flew into the air, flame roaring from his jump pack as he slashed at the Beast’s face, distracting the Ork.

As the faithful captain was crushed by the monster’s fist, Sanguinius summoned the final reserves of his strength and leaped with a great flap of his wings. Blinded by the smoke and flame in its eyes, the Beast was caught unaware as Sanguinius descended from on high and plunged his golden blade through crude armor plates, deep into its chest, seeking the heart that lay beneath. The Beast roared in pain as the sword carved open a massive wound, thick spurts of blood bursting forth, but as Sanguinius drew his sword from the Ork’s chest it caught in the sternum bone, and the momentary pause was enough. The Beast’s hand shot up and seized the Primarch from the air, pinning Sanguinius within the massive fist.

Outside the plaza, the other Blood Angel companies had rushed to aid of their Primarch and First Company upon hearing Azkaellon’s call for reinforcements. They neared the plaza as Sanguinius was dueling the Beast, but they found their way blocked by the horde of Nobz, and even with all their desperate strength, they could not break through the wall of hulking greenskins, for the Orks were simply too savage and too many. It was only upon the arrival of Leman Russ and Lorgar, the only two Primarchs close enough to respond to the call for aid, and their legions of Space Wolves and Word Bearers that the reinforcements were finally able to make headway.

Together, the Blood Angels, Space Wolves, and Word Bearers hacked their way through the Orks and crested the stairs to the plaza just in time to see the Beast grab Sanguinius in its massive fist, the plaza strewn with masses of dead greenskins and lifeless bodies clad in red and gold. As they looked on in stunned horror, Sanguinius turned his head to face them, and against all their expectations, he gently smiled. It was an expression of true warmth, forgiveness, and trust that shone from Sanguinius’ beatific face, a gesture that he did not blame them and that he placed his faith with them to safeguard humanity. In that final moment, as tears welled in their eyes, the Astartes could only watch helplessly as the Beast’s fist closed, and the monster ripped Sanguinius into shreds.

With cries of grief, the Imperial forces threw themselves at the greenskins in a blind rage. Leman Russ led the assault, tearing his way through the Nobz to body of Lord Commander Arik Taranis of the Custodes. There, he seized the fallen Banner of Unification and raised the great standard for the last time, rallying the Imperial forces forward. Yet for all their fury, the Astartes could not cut through the Orks in time, and were forced to watch, helpless once again, as the Beast smashed through the adamantium of the Eternity Gate to face the Steward and Eldrad within the Throne Room.

As the last Ork fell and the Imperial forces made their way to the ruins of the Eternity gate amidst corpses of crimson and gold, they found Eldrad perched upon the massive chest of the lifeless Beast, and the Steward kneeling over a red ruin, cradling the last few pieces of his old friend. Later, Eldrad would confess that they never could have defeated the Beast were it not for the great wound Sanguinius carved into its chest, and in his quiet moments the Steward, later the Emperor, wondered if his friend and brother might have been saved, had he only chosen a different Primarch and legion to defend the palace, or sallied forth from the Throne Room to save the Angel as he dueled the Beast.

In the aftermath of the Battle of Terra, as the forces of Chaos were defeated and driven back from the planet in disarray, the Blood Angels spirited away the remains of Sanguinius to the shattered land of what had once been Duscht Jemanic. There, in the garden of the old Jemanic Palace, they buried Sanguinius in his favorite childhood refuge, a solitary place with a creek, quiet and clear, and where the trees were very old.

As word spread of the Primarch’s death, cries rose from across the Imperium for a great state funeral so that all might participate in grieving and remembering the beloved Angel. The Steward agreed, urging the remaining Blood Angel captains that such gesture would help the survivors and citizens of the Imperium move on from the loss, but they stubbornly refused. Sanguinius would have wanted the resources and efforts of the Imperium focused on rebuilding and moving forward, not spent on lingering in the past, and besides, there was not enough left to fill a casket.

Today, Sanguinius is the most dearly loved of the Primarchs, revered as the Martyr Angel for his great sacrifice. Secrets do not last long in the Imperium, and upon his burial site, where Sanguinius was to rest undisturbed for eternity, there now stands a small chapel, built with reluctance by the Blood Angels when word of their Primarch’s resting place was revealed. It was, after all, better than erecting a massive cathedral there as many demanded. Pilgrims wait for years on end for a chance to enter and glimpse one of the holiest relics in the Imperium: a single white pinion feather from one of Sanguinius’ wings, miraculously untouched by blood or dirt during the four days of the Siege of the Imperial Palace.

Sanguinius is also honored in the yearly celebration of the Sanguinala; coincidentally, his death came three days after his birth on the Terran calendar, so for this span of time all are encouraged to celebrate the Angel’s life and great deeds, and to share in his spirit of goodwill towards all. Traditional decorations of red are hung in homes, and children are told that if they are good, the spirit of Sanguinius will visit them as they sleep and leave presents under their beds.

As for the Blood Angels, the fierce spirit of their Primarch still burns within their twin hearts as brilliantly as it did ten millennia ago. The First Company of their chapter is called the Death Company, in memory of the sacrifice of the entire company when they died at Sanguinius’ side long ago, and when veterans are inducted into this august group they swear the Oath of Black Rage, a remembrance of the helpless grief and fury they felt as they watched their beloved Primarch die.

Amongst Imperial citizens, they are celebrated for their compassion, virtue, and defense of the common man; the melancholy Blood Angel clad in red is a popular figure in Imperial media, most recently in the popular romance Eventide, where a young Eldar farseer is caught between the affections of a rugged Space Wolf and noble Blood Angel. Yet for all the adoration and honors rightly bestowed upon the Blood Angels for their undying defense of the Imperium, the old veterans have begun to wonder if the younger Astartes are becoming vainglorious, and if they are losing the true meaning of sacrifice. Pride is the surest road to damnation, and so they renew their vows of humility and loyalty, remaining vigilant not only in the defense of man but in defense of their own souls.

Beneath the romance of their devotion and nobility is the eternal struggle against the forces of chaos and entropy, the unending duty of the Blood Angels. Like Sanguinius before them, they fight for the dream of humanity even as it stretches before them into an uncertain future. For this dream, they fight and bleed and die to hold the darkness at bay, to halt the dying of the light, even if it is only for a moment.

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== Lion ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Black Knight''''' - or ''The Knight of Franj:''

The story of Lion El'Jonson began over a generation before his actual birth, during the Nordyc-Franj war. Clovis Fouché, king of Franj, had sought the aid of Skand against the invasions of the Tyrant of Gredbriton, and after the Tyrant had been repulsed the Nordyc sought payment for their services. However, King Clovis had proven to be rather miserly with the payment of the debt, and the men of Skand were worried they would never be recompensed. Chief Thengir of the Kalararit was nominated by the chieftains of Skand to travel to Franj to discuss the repayment of the debt with King Clovis.

For whatever reason, the meeting did not go peacefully. The exact nature of the quarrel has been lost to history. The Nordyc claimed that King Clovis tried to short-change them, offering only a pittance in exchange for the blood they had shed. The Franj claimed that Chief Thengir had acted arrogant and disrespectful, behaving more like a conqueror demanding tribute than an ally requesting payment. Whatever the reason, the meeting quickly escalated to violence.

Chief Thengir lost his hand. King Clovis lost his life.

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

Thus began the Nordyc-Franj war. In retaliation for the death of their king, Franj soldiers devastated huge tracts of Skand and destroyed entire Nordyc villages. The Nordyc responded by launching devastating raids into the heart of Franj territory. The war only ended when the new regent, 15 year old Yolande Fouché, Yolande the Clever, called a meeting with Chief Thengir, now known as Thengir the Cripple, to formally apologize and pay back the remainder of the debt along with a weregild for the lives lost. Nevertheless, a considerable amount of hatred remained between the Nordyc and Franj. Perhaps nowhere was this more pronounced than between the noble family of Jonson and the Kalararit house of Russ, both of whom had been involved in the thickest of the fighting.

As a boy, the Lion grew up with stories of glory and heroism, of knights and warriors. And yet not all of these stories were merely tales of fancy. The Lion grew up idolizing his older brother, Luther El'Jonson, who was at first a Knight of Franj and later, when Franj-Europia had been absorbed into the Imperium, a Mark I Astartes. Luther El'Jonson had won fame for his exploits as a mere squire of 16 in the Nordyc-Franj war, and had only risen in stature since. However, the Sword of Franj had a darker side which was not widely known. Although Luther was a loyal servant of Franj, he greatly disliked the fact that his country was consorting with weak allies, first with the Europia and then later the Imperium itself, when it turned out the Warlord was not as much of a warmonger as Luther expected.

From the moment he was born, it was clear that something was…different about Lion El’Johnson. Although he truly cared about his fellow man, he often had trouble reading people and came off as unempathetic. Despite being fiercely loyal to those he considered his friends, he was socially awkward and had trouble looking people in the eye. Nevertheless, despite his faults, he was groomed for knighthood by his brother Luther, who recognized his talents. Although Lion would often focus on a problem to the point of obsession, he was tactically brilliant. He also followed the old ideals of chivalry, to a degree that some would consider ridiculous. The Lion was an idealist at heart, seeing the world in terms of dragons and princesses as opposed to corrupt bureaucrats and politicians. This noble behavior won him the fancy of many a young woman’s heart, though throughout history there is no record of the Lion ever engaging in a romantic relationship.

It was for these reasons that when it came time for the Steward to name the twenty primarchs that would command his legions, the Lion was among that number. Such a nomination came as a surprise to everyone, least of all Lion himself. Before this time, the Lion was only known as the younger brother of Luther, or at best Luther’s squire. But the Warlord knew the evils that lurked in the hearts of men. Luther was a great soldier, but his mind had been corrupted by hatred and jingoism. The Lion’s heart was untamed, but it was pure, its idealism and love for humanity untampered. Along with Sanguinius Baal and Vulkan, son of N’Bel, Lion was chosen to be one of the three prototypes for the Mark III Astartes augmentation, which was to be the final model of Space Marine augmentation. Some say that this was the point that the seed of jealousy was first planted in Luther’s heart, with all his years of service to Franj and the Imperium being overlooked in favor of his untested brother. Lion, for his part, did not reciprocate the feeling and named his older brother second-in-command of the legion in gratitude for all that his brother had given him. Lion named his legion the Dark Angels after the legendary Black Knight of his country's folklore, who covered his armor in pitch and lived as a wild man rather than subject himself to an unjust lord.

If the Dark Angels were to become a proper legion, they would need a strong recruiting base. Fortunately, the Lion’s home country of Franj was almost perfect for the task. Franj was extremely healthy in terms of both health and population, and the only other primarch from Franj-Europia, Roboute Guilliman, did not seem that interested in recruiting from his home nation. Guilliman, ever the long term thinker, preferred to recruit from all over Old Earth instead of a single country, with the mind of forming an army that had no loyalty to any nation but the Imperium itself. The Lion, on the other hand, felt he needed soldiers he could trust, and so he recruited heavily from his home country of Franj-Europia. Compared to many of the other nations of Earth, the knightly orders of Franj were organized, well-trained, and well-educated militarily, making them ideal Astartes candidates. As a result, by the time the Unification of Sol was complete, the First Legion was bigger, better trained, suffered from fewer casualties, and could recruit faster than any other legion.

It was for this reason that the Dark Angels were picked to be the first legion to travel outside of Sol, acting as an expeditionary force to scout the galaxy ahead of the rest of the Great Crusade to see what of humanity had survived the Age of Strife. The Lion was enamored with the idea, starry-eyed at the prospect of meeting new peoples and reuniting with lost colonies of humanity. Luther, for his part, was not. He was growing increasingly dissatisfied with Europia-Franj’s increasing lack of autonomy in the increasingly peaceful Imperium, which was only magnified by King Gunthar Fouché, son of Roboute Guilliman and Yolande Fouché, turning over all military production and funding to the Imperium on the reasoning that there was no one left to fight. Perhaps in a bit of paranoia, Luther feared that his assignment to the expeditionary fleet was an unofficial exile as opposed to an award, and that the Imperium would completely gut his beloved Franj while he was not around to watch it.

Lion and the Dark Angels set out in The Rock, one of two super-battleships along with the Phalanx that were commissioned by the Steward to be the flagships of the new Imperial Navy, along with several ships of the Voidborn primarch Horus Lupercal (whose cartographers happened to be the ones that owned all the maps). At first the mission did not go well. The first sentient life the expeditionary force encountered was the orks, followed by the Dark Eldar, the latter of which in particular fostered a particularly deep-seated dislike of Eldar in the two brothers. Even the Lion, despite his general open-mindedness, never really felt comfortable with the Imperium being on good terms with the Craftworlders, as he had a hard time distancing the likes of Eldrad and Macha from the atrocities of their distant kin.

And yet despite these setbacks there were such triumphs. Despite the Dark Angel’s first encounters being with the orks and Dark Eldar, the Dark Angels encountered other races, such as the Diasporex and the Watchers in the Dark, who would prove to be loyal allies. And there were so many human colonies, many of whom welcomed the Dark Angels (and by proxy the return of humanity as a power in the galaxy) with open arms. After seeing Russ’ success at recruiting warriors from the planet of Fenris, the Dark Angels set up recruitment stations on many of these worlds, causing the Dark Angels to swell even larger. Nevertheless, many of the Dark Angels, particularly the officers, still came from Franj.

It was sometime during this period that Luther was contacted by Erebus, the Dark Chaplain, the First Traitor. The Ruinous Powers had seen the doubts that lay in Luther’s heart, and saw their opportunity to sow dissent within the forces of the Imperium. Erebus told Luther that he saw the nobility in Luther’s heart and his loyalty to Franj and humanity as a whole, and yet the Imperium was willing to get in bed with all the old enemies of Franj and humanity; the Duscht Jemanic, the Nordyc, the Eldar. On behalf of the Dark Gods, Erebus offered Luther a deal: Divert all Dark Angel reinforcement from the upcoming war, and in exchange Chaos would only target non-essential or non-human interests. Many have wondered, when it became clear that Chaos would never uphold such a bargain, why Luther would have continued to serve the interests of the Ruinous Powers. Captured members of the Fallen have said that Luther was never fully convinced by Erebus’ words, but merely planned to double-cross Chaos and re-establish Franj as an independent power, similar to Hy Braseal. Luther saw the Imperium as a noble ideal, but corrupt and rotten to its core. Better to burn it all down and start afresh, preferably with Franj as its center. However, as with all traitors whose minds have been warped by the influence of Chaos, it is difficult to say if they are telling the truth.

At first, it actually seemed like Chaos was going to keep its side of the bargain. The entire tone of the war did not shift, but many worlds that had been predicted to be in the path of breakaway warbands suddenly found themselves waiting for an invasion that never came, though this may have been more due to the actions of Horus and Guilliman than anything Erebus did. At the same time the response of the Dark Angels to crises became extremely variable and unreliable. The Dark Angels who fought alongside the Lion responded valiantly and with alacrity, but other groups replied to cries for help sluggishly if at all. However, it wasn’t before long that Erebus appeared beyond Luther again. He told Luther that the war against the Imperium wasn’t going so well, and while before the forces of Chaos were content to have Luther sit out the war now they needed help. There was a chance that the followers of the Ruinous Powers might actually lose the war, and if that happened, well, there was no guarantee that the Imperium wouldn’t find out about Erebus and Luther’s little bargain from captured traitors.

In retrospect, what Erebus said was clearly a ruse. Although Chaos and the Beast’s forces had lost some momentum on their blitzkrieg through the stars, the tide was far from turning, and even if the Imperium had found out about the deal from prisoners of war they would have had little reason to believe it was anything more than an attempt to sow suspicion among Imperial forces by traitors. Erebus had no evidence beyond his word that such a deal had been made. But in the heat of the moment, and due to his own guilt over having been tempted into making this deal in the first place, Luther was unable to recognize Erebus’ claim for what it was. Luther was enraged by this, Erebus was clearly altering the terms of their deal, but he didn’t see any way out of it.

Having made judicious use of the stick, Erebus then offered Luther the carrot. The Ruinous Powers didn’t require much in order to help their schemes succeed. All they needed Luther to do was burn down some Maiden Worlds. It’s not like Luther would be required to commit treason or kill humans. They were just eldar. Luther accepted Erebus’ terms with a snarl, before setting off to organize his forces to perform the deed. Fifteen Maiden Worlds burned before the relentless assault of Luther’s Dark Angels. Upon hearing this news, the Lion was horrified. Already irritated by the apparent lackadaisicalness of his forces, he immediately set out to find Luther and demand an explanation.

The Lion finally caught up to Luther in the ashes of the Maiden World once known as Tarsus. Already in a rather poor state of mind, the Lion made no attempts to try and talk his brother down or convince him to surrender. Instead, he marched his honor guard down the ramp of his ship, bolters drawn, before asking his brother what the hell he thought he was doing. Even though Lion didn’t like the eldar either, there was a world of difference (or rather, fifteen worlds) between merely disliking them and butchering the civilians of their nominal allies. Being fixed by the Lion’s withering, contemptuous glare, Luther found himself having trouble explaining his actions to his little brother. His tone low, and with a bit of shame in his voice, Luther told Lion that he had made a deal…for Franj. Upon hearing those words, the Lion long pent-up rage finally erupted and he struck Luther in his anger. It wasn’t a hard blow, but it was enough to knock Luther off his feet and escalate the situation to violence. Lion yelled that committing massacres in Franj’s name did nothing but sully Franj’s honor, and the country would rather die than have such blood on its hands.

Something in Luther snapped at Lion’s accusation. He declared him a traitor to Franj, willing to let his country be gutted and eaten by foreign powers rather than protect it, and in a fit of madness ordered the Dark Angels to kill him. Both brothers were enraged at the other’s perceived betrayal.

Luther’s order sent the Dark Angels into disarray. Luther had originally justified his orders to the Dark Angels by claiming that the eldar had turned on the Imperium, and the Lion had ordered the maiden worlds burned in retaliation. Most of the Dark Angels had obeyed, since they were used to Luther being the spokesman for the Lion and Lion’s poor personal skills meant he had trouble voicing a reasonable counterargument. Many were more loyal to Luther than Lion, being Franj nationalists. Others, particularly those who were with Lion or capable of critical thinking, realized that Lion had ordered no such thing and that Luther had completely lost it. Still others had no clue what was going on due to the contradictory sets of orders and were merely caught in the middle. When the Dark Angels loyal to Luther raised their bolters, those loyal to the Lion did so response. It was absolute chaos, brother against brother, with many not even knowing if they were fighting traitors or those loyal to their cause.

It was as at this point that one of the Lion’s biggest mistakes becomes clear. The Lion recruited much of his legion, including most of its officers, from Franj because he felt he needed people he could trust. Sadly, the officers of the Dark Angels were loyal to a fault, but not to him. Although many in the legion respected the Lion, and those who actually got to know him personally actually found him quite pleasant, if persnickety, the Lion often relied on his brother to motivate the legion due to his lack of people skills. The Lion had so much trouble reading people, and was so trusting of his brother, that he had not seen the viper in the grass before it bit him. Nearly two-thirds to three-fourths of the legion had been subverted by the Ruinous Powers. If it were almost any other legion, it wouldn’t be as much of a problem, but by the time of the War of the Beast the Dark Angels were by far the largest legion and so having two-thirds to three-fourths of the legion go renegade was the equivalent of having two or three other legions fall to the Ruinous powers.

In the confusion, Luther and many of his followers commandeered the Rock, the flagship of the Dark Angels, and escaped into the Warp. Luther’s madness only worsened as he mulled over Lion’s words and the fighting on Tarsus, leading him to believe that the entire Imperium including his brother had turned against him. Many of the Dark Angels felt the same way, seeing themselves as abandoned and betrayed by the Imperium they had once served, and resented it. After Tarsus, Luther’s Dark Angels began burning both human and eldar worlds indiscriminately. The worlds that had been “spared” after Luther’s initial bargain found themselves the target of Chaos, with interest. Besieged Guardsmen on many worlds looked to the skies in hope when they saw the famed Astartes legions come to reinforce them, only to be butchered when their “saviors” landed on the planet. Chapters of the legion devolved into civil war as former brothers drew arms against one another as they realized they served different causes. Many more Dark Angels turned to the service of the Ruinous Powers out of desperation and a desire for survival.

The Lion never returned to Old Earth during the War of the Beast to participate in the Battle of Terra. Many have criticized the Lion for these actions, however, in the Lion’s mind, his priorities were clear. His men were slaughtering one another, and it was his duty to put things right. Perhaps more importantly, it was his mistake, HIS mistake, and the universe would not be set right until he took pains to correct it.

Eventually, Lion tracked Luther and his inner circle to the world of Caliban. Getting to Caliban was easy enough. When the Dark Angels reached the planet Luther’s Fallen found themselves sandwiched between the loyalist Caliban garrison and the Lion’s reinforcements, forcing them to temporarily break their hold over the planet in order to regroup. However, when the Dark Angels found out from captured traitors what Luther was actually looking for on Caliban, they were stunned. Luther had learned from the entity known as Be’lakor ([[Nobledark_Imperium_Drafts#Be.27lakor_and_the_Alpha_Legion|which the Imperium had only recently learned existed due to the actions of the Alpha Legion, and only then at great cost]]) that Caliban was the site of the Ouroboros, a device created by an ancient xenos race, one even older than humanity, the Watchers, or the eldar, capable of warping the very fabric of space-time, which they had used to create the Webway. The Dark Angels realized the implications of this discovery, here was the potential solution to the issue of the fragile, unreparable Webway, and possibly a means to free the Imperium and the galaxy from the tyranny of the Warp, whereas the Watchers were shocked at learning the origins of their eons of suffering had been buried under their own feet. No one knew exactly what Luther planned to do with the equipment, but all agreed it could not be anything good.

The Dark Angels and Watchers were faced with a dilemma. Destroy the device that could potential prove the salvation of the entire galaxy, or leave it to fall into the hands of the Fallen. Although the loyalist Dark Angels could disrupt Luther’s control of Caliban, they could not hold the planet, as Luther’s forces greatly outnumbered their own. In the end, it was the Watchers who made the decision to blow up their own homeworld. They loved Caliban, it was their home despite being harsh and warp-tainted, but they realized the danger that Luther in control of the Ouroboros would prove. Better that no one have it than let it be abused. As the Watchers wired their planet to blow with Exterminatus-class weaponry, the loyalist Dark Angels launched a counterattack on the Fallen, with the Lion particularly eager to take the fight to his brother. However, when Lion reached what should have been Luther’s sanctum within the Rock, he realized he had been tricked. Luther had known where Lion would have looked for him, and therefore did the exact opposite, taking a small strike team to the surface of Caliban. However, he was quickly forced to turn around when he realized what the Watchers had done to their planet. Lion was also forced to retreat, realizing that he and his men risked being cut off and overwhelmed by the Fallen if they tried to wait to ambush Luther. No one had won at Caliban. Luther had lost the Ouroboros, but Lion had lost his brother.

There were reports of a “Cypher”-type character on both sides of the conflict. Based on reports either he could travel really fast or (more likely) there was more than one of him. Some say he was the court battle-wizard of the legion who had gone missing/presumed dead two years previously whilst fighting a Big Mek and his Orkblitorator Cyborks on a Forge World. Some of these Cyphers may have actually been Alpha Legion infiltrators covertly helping the loyalists and hindering the traitors.

What happened to the Fallen mostly depended on what they did immediately after the War of the Beast. Some of the Fallen, mostly members of the lower ranks who realized they had been fed bullshit for the whole ordeal, surrendered when the enormity of their error became apparent. They ended up being sentenced to serve in the penal legions until they were deemed to have sufficiently repented for their sins after the first Black Crusade, after which the survivors were scattered among the other legions. The remainder, which represented at least half of the surviving Dark Angels, were spirited away by the Ruinous Powers to the Eye of Terror where they formed the core of the Fallen as we know them today. Of the being known as Cypher no conclusive answers have been obtained. He still appears in Imperial records from time to time down the ages with no discernable pattern. He is either leapfrogging through time via cryo-sleep or it’s not the same man. Even a Mark III S Astartes should have aged to death by now. The Eldar allies of the Dark Angels are unable to predict his movements and, much like the tyranids, he acts as a travelling blank spot in their prophecies.

In the years immediately following the War of the Beast, there were many who criticized the Lion's actions, chief among them Leman Russ. At one point the Great Wolf said within earshot of El'Jonson that Luther's betrayal was a near certainty, because "that's what one gets for trusting a member of the house of Jonson". That was a fateful mistake, as while the Lion might have been distraught, he wasn't deaf. The Lion was enraged, although his brother may have fallen to the Ruinous Powers, the Lion had still remained loyal to humanity and had done all in his power to help the Imperium. At least one son of Jonson had retained his honor. In retaliation, the Lion turned and struck the Great Wolf on the jaw, knocking him out cold. In the aftermath of the fight, Leman Russ decided he had enough of witches and Jonsons and decided to relocate to Fenris entirely, nearly severing all ties with Old Earth. The Great Wolf would not set foot on his home planet again until nearly forty years after the Lion's disappearance, slightly humbler and wiser from his experience setting up the Fenrisian colonies.

As with all of the primarchs save Sanguinius and Angron, the Lion was active following the War of the Beast, though one would be forgiven for thinking he was not. Unlike most of the primarchs, who were primarily focused on rebuilding the Imperium, Lion was focused, some would say obsessed, with trying to recapture the Fallen. He split the remaining loyalist Dark Angels into knightly orders reminiscent of those once present on Franj and scattered them to distant worlds, with a program of frequent officer exchange between orders to keep them loyal to the Imperium rather than any one place of origin. He also instituted a mandatory position of Watcher within each chapter, held by a member of the Inquisition in order to monitor the chapter from the inside. These days, the job is usually held by a really old member of the Inquisition who refuses to retire despite being too old to chase anyone.

Finally, years after the War of the Beast had ended, the Lion received the news he had waited so long for. The Rock, and by extension Luther, had reappeared.

The Dark Angels and the rest of the Unforgiven fell upon the Rock swift as a flock of ravens, hounding it from system to system in a series of skirmishes until they finally cornered the Fallen Angels on a long forgotten feral world. Amidst the twilight murk and murmuring rustle of a primeval forest the once comrades faced each other after long centuries of hunting and waiting. The trees bore silent witness as loyalist and traitor slaughtered one another with a fury born of the void left by brotherhood and filled by hate, the quiet split by the roar of bolters and the scream of chainswords on ceramite. Bodies clad in green and black fell soundlessly to the mossy undergrowth, and the soil drank deep of rich dark blood.

Lion was unstoppable that day as he stalked the battlefield with his Deathwing honor guard, the Lion Sword flashing red as the Fallen fled before the Primarch. Yet the scum before him did not interest Lion; he had come with only one goal, and he would not be denied.

In the tangled forest the Primarch soon was separated from his honor guard and found himself alone at the edge of a clearing. He brushed aside the foliage in time to see a lone figure in black cut down the last of a squad of Dark Angels, carving through their armor with contemptuous ease. Lion did not need to see the golden fleur de lis on the horned onyx helm to know who the traitor was. His stance, the arrogant grace with which he moved, the way his sword danced in his hand like an extension of his arm. Luther.

Luther turned at the sound of Lion’s footsteps. The clearing was quiet as the eyes of the two brothers met behind the mirrored lenses of their helms, then Luther raised his sword in an old Franjish dueling salute, half mocking and half earnest. Lion did not return the gesture. Then sudden and swift as his namesake, he charged. The Lion Sword descended in a shining blur, faintly glowing with a pale inner light, and their blades met with a shivering clang as the Arch-Traitor blocked the Primarch’s savage strike, the Sword of Luther wreathed in a delicate corona of the void, tendrils of the Immaterium spilling forth from the edges of the blade. The sound of swords rang through the forest as back and forth the brothers traded blows, each unable to take the advantage as Lion’s cold ferocity and superior augmentations were matched by Luther’s consummate skill and the blessings of Chaos Undivided.

So bathed in the dappled light of the setting sun Lion and Luther did battle. Against the backdrop of the ancient giants of the forest, they might have been boys playfighting with sticks, swatting at each other with wild abandon; but this was no game, and these were not the familiar old oaks of Franj. Bright gashes appeared on the brothers’ green and black armor where they found openings in the other’s defense, and blood trickled out where the blades had pierced the flesh beneath before the wounds were stanched by their superhuman physiologies. Pressed by his brother’s assault, Luther eventually began to tire, yet Lion remained as unrelenting as ever. Sensing victory, he battered Luther with a flurry of blows, tearing off the helmet with a glancing slash to the head, and finally drove his blade into his brother’s leg. Luther fell to one knee, and before he could react the Lion Sword was at his throat, the tip pressed against his bare neck.

For a moment the two men were motionless. Then Lion removed his winged helm with one hand and let it fall to the ground, and for the first time in a century the brothers looked each other face to face. Under his matted blond hair Lion’s eyes were red and wet. Another moment of stillness, then the Lion Sword dipped, and lowered away. Sharp as a whipcrack, Lion said only one word: “Why?”

The accusation in his brother’s voice struck Luther like a hammer, and emotions welled up within him. Rage. Humiliation. Guilt. Shame.

How could he have lost to Lion? Never before had Lion bested him in their sparring, except the few times when he had allowed it. But he deserved this. He betrayed his brother, and the Imperium, and had nearly damned humanity to extinction.

No, no! His plan had been sound, and with a single stroke they could have rid humanity of xenos influences and secured a future for Franj among the stars. If only Lion had listened and followed. Lion had always sought his counsel and followed him in matters of import, never defying him until that fateful day.

Yes, with that once act of defiance, of betrayal, Lion had doomed his plan and consigned him to a life of furtive scavenging and raiding. It was Lion!

LION!

With a cry Luther burst upwards, his sword a malign black blur streaking towards Lion’s throat. Surprised, Lion threw himself back and raised his sword to parry, but it was no use; against foe as deadly as Luther, even an inch of an opening would have been fatal. But the Chaos Gods were not done with their servant yet. In a final act of malicious caprice, they lifted the scales of madness from Luther’s eyes and allowed him to see with a clear mind what he had done.

In that moment Luther saw: Lion as the solemn boy he had taught to swing a sword, who wanted so much to be like his famed older brother; as the young man he had personally knighted, a rare, sweet smile spreading across those stern features; as the man he had fought and laughed and bled with on the battlefields of a thousand worlds, side by side. And he saw the brother that he had just killed, the tip of his sword cutting smoothly through a pale throat, a thin spray of blood in its wake.

Something within Luther broke. Beneath the horror of this realization, his tortured psyche fell to pieces, and when the Deathwing finally came upon the clearing they found a screaming Luther kneeling over Lion’s still body. Their act of domination complete, the warp echoed with dark laughter as the Chaos gods spirited Luther away amidst a hail of bolter fire.

The Deathwing immediately recovered Lion, and in a battle barge in orbit the Chief Apothecary and his team fought to save Lion’s life. Indeed, it was a miracle that Lion had survived so long, made possible only through the astounding power of the Mk III S augmentations, for even a Sus-an coma would not have saved a normal Astartes from such a grievous wound. Yet while the apothecaries could stabilize Lion, they could not restore him. A slash from a mundane weapon would have soon been healed by Lion’s regenerative abilities, but Luther’s cursed blade had inflicted a wound that would not close, the treatments and medications unable to take hold on the tainted flesh. Lion was slipping away, and with no other options, the apothecaries could only seal Lion in a stasis-coffin, and hope that some day a cure would be found.

To this day, Luther is still a broken man, given to wild swings of mood as his mind flits to and from the scattered shards of his personality, from charming magnanimity to unbridled rage to brooding despair. Yet buried within the dark cage of madness lies the last piece of good within Luther’s heart, his nobility and honor and love for his brother. And once in a rare while that light emerges from its prison, and Luther awakens to the reality of the nightmare around him and the horror that is his life. He screams then, and as he slaughters the Fallen around him he weeps and begs Lion for forgiveness. Inevitably, that moment of lucidity is swallowed again by warp-fueled madness as the Chaos gods reassert their power over their servant. But that piece of goodness remains, perhaps as the last spark of hope for Luther’s redemption.

Lion still sleeps in his coffin, his features peaceful beneath the crystal cover, frozen in time on the precipice between life and death. He would surely perish were he removed to perform the canticles of purification to cleanse his wound, and so he remains in his millennia-long slumber. Entreaties to Isha have proved fruitless, for she has said healing Lion would be beyond ever her powers as the Goddess of Life; Lion is too far into the realm of death for her to exercise sole influence over him. Indeed, it would take another god, a God of the Dead, in conjunction with her powers to restore Lion to life, and surely no such god exists. But the Dark Angels are not deterred; they wait and dream, sure that one day the last remaining Primarch will return and lead them all to their long-promised salvation.

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=== The Lion Sword ===

Throughout his travels the Lion was known to use a red blade of excellent quality. When the Lion was put into his coma, his sword was put alongside him in the Rock, ready to be picked up again in the event the Lion ever woke from his coma. That sword is a Kinebrach blade. It was handed over in the ceremony to finalize the alliance between the young Imperium and the Interex. It was the last blade made by the venerable master Mez-Go-Bur. It is said and witnessed that he used no forge or hammer and the metal was taken from the hide of a fallen Cybernetica robot. He struck the metal with his fists and it started to heat up and become pliant and into that metal he beat all his sorrows (which were many) and his wroth (which was considerable). That cherry red blade was quenched in a barrel of ceremonial oil mingled with his own blood and on that blood he placed binding words. Daemons had made his life a misery, his blade would cut them and leave them maimed and that pain would follow them to their Hell and no matter if they healed they would never stop hurting as he would never stop hurting. But where he would die they remain immortal and would go on hurting for ever and ever and ever.

He smiled when the sword was handed over to Lion El'Jonson. He died not long later.

There are many Kinebrach blades in circulation in the Imperium and the art of making them is in no danger of ever being lost but few are as vindictive as the ones made by Mez-Go-Bur and that was his last creation and believed to be his best.

It has been idle for too long now. Too many summers under a shroud of dust despite it blade being razor sharp. There was a legend among the people of Franj; if an implement is left for more more than a year and day it will hunger for blood. If such stories are true then the Lion Sword is somewhat thirsty. It would take a man of iron will to tame that blade now.

== Perturabo ==

[[Image:1485738836578.jpg|left|thumb|200px|Perturabo, Primarch of the Imperium, The Mad Architect and Prince of Macedonia.]]

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Warsmith''''' - or ''The Mad Architect:''

Perturabo of the Macedonian Garrison was not a man truly cut out for the military life, although it is hard to say exactly what sort of life he ''was'' cut out for.

Macedonia was an odd case at that point in the constant wars of the Age of Strife. Barely a century and a half ago it had been a conquered territory of the Great Everlasting Tharkian Empire - an empire far less grand than its name would suggest - until the Tharkians were crushed by the relentless expansion of a Despot of Ursh, as so many others of the time were. The Urshii quickly swallowed up the valuable regions of the area, leaving only the ancient nation of Macedonia relatively untouched. By some miracle of cunning, guile, and luck on an incredible scale, Perturabo's grandfather Nestor made it appear that, instead of the meagre garrison it actually held, Macedonia was in fact home to Tharkian strategic reserves far greater than the forces the Urshii had already fought. This, combined with the seemingly unwavering defiance of the Macedonian people, convinced the Despot that conquering the region would overextend his supply lines and weaken his control over the greater Tharkia.

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With the immediate threat gone the cities began to drift apart and Nestor was old and wise enough to know that he had neither the forces nor the authority to hold them together. He did, however, manage to take and hold the ancient fortress city of Štip-Isar; and many rival groups joined him in seizing a city or hive and expanding from there. Thus, Macedonia ''did'' survive, to some extent, albeit as a collection of squabbling city-states that would only unite against greater outside threats; ironically, not unlike the Classical Greek counterparts who were conquered by the Macedonians themselves in the depths of history.

Perturabo's father Nikola had risen to be the petty king of the reasonably well-off fortress city of Štip-Isar after Nestor had passed away, and, recognising how inadequately ''he'' had been prepared for the job, immediately set about the task of trying to train his children in the arts of statesmanship. His daughters were fine women, just as dedicated to the nation as he was, but the other regional powers would have openly scoffed and secretly mocked the entire family if a queen were to rise. Thus the highest they would reach were hasty marriages to shore up the city's few alliances, leaving Perturabo as the heir apparent - albeit one rather psychologically unsound.

Countless years later, when Nikola and his nation were a mere footnote in endless halls of historical texts, Perturabo's peers would describe him as a spare Angron, minus the enthusiasm. This was unfair and inaccurate, but it was true that it would have been difficult to find a leader ''less'' statesmanlike than the unfortunate son of Nikola. Perturabo suffered from bouts of quite severe depression, punctuated by occasional flashes of intense rage with little to no warning. Although the rage would flash into incandescence and burn itself out relatively quickly, the depression was far more lingering. Nikola made no effort to hide the disappointment he had for his son, but little did he know that the heir's true talents would be more vital for the nation's survival than Terra's finest diplomats could ever be.

For Perturabo - in spite of his constant pessimism, or perhaps ''because'' of it - was supremely gifted at defensive planning. His dreams, haunted as they were by thoughts of his home being crushed by faceless invaders, merely bolstered his resolve to resist. He was not his father, or his grandfather, however; he was not a leader who could call the people to defend their land tooth and nail, for that would require hope and optimism that he himself so sorely lacked. Instead, Perturabo's defensive planning was that of grim determination, of strongpoints and counter-offensives instead of rallies and patriotism, of a hard shell around a softer peoples. Some would have called this paranoia, especially given how the petty skirmishes with other nation-states were the largest wars known for over a generation, but in truth it was uncanny foresight.

When the scum of Ursh came back it was as if a mighty hammer had struck the lands, driving all before it. Perturabo - indeed, all of Macedonia - was caught off-guard by the assault; by the time he was made aware of the threat, the most prosperous and powerful of his neighbours were little more than flaming rubble. Desperate for time, the heir withdrew his forces again and again, his generals raging and threatening mutiny for his cowardice, and he later claimed that in all his life he had faced no greater test than keeping his calm and concealing his plans from them (and thus, any possible Urshii spies) until the very last moment.

Nestor had fought a war - a war of armies and raiding parties facing each other in pitched battles - but his grandson had to stop a wave of slaughter that bore more resemblance to a swarm of locusts than any coherent fighting force. Isolated strongpoints were ground down horrifyingly quickly by sheer weight of numbers, and Perturabo had soon realised that the only chance he had of stopping the swarm was in a single, united defensive line. Even then, he knew he could not hope to stop the Despot's onslaught, only to give it a bloodied nose and hope it would back off.
The Urshii forces knew none of this, as all they saw were lands held by weak natives and abandoned by their defenders. Just as they were wondering if their grandparents' tales of the effortless conquest of Tharkia had some truth to them, they ran directly into Perturabo's hastily constructed kill zones. Metal, laser and superheated plasma alike rained down on the barbarians as if it were his own spite and pain made manifest, and the Urshii vanguard was left a pile of mangled bodies for their comrades to climb.

The Despot's humiliation drove him into such a rage that he eviscerated his own commanders, ordering their replacements to wipe Macedon from the face of Terra. Even with Perturabo's formidable defences and traps, the main Urshii force would raze the land without batting an eyelash - yet the Despot was so blinded by his rage that he was caught completely unawares by the true threat to his power.

When the scouts of the Warlord's army first trickled into Macedonia they expected a barren wasteland - or at best, a broken nation at its own throat. Much of their suspicions were confirmed, but amongst the dirt they found a diamond-hard shard of defiance that had prepared for the storm and, amazingly, was still weathering it. It was here, the Warlord decided, that the first (and perhaps the most important) true blow against Ursh would be struck.

After the smoke cleared. the plasma burns cooled, the shrieks of wounded finally fallen away into silence, Perturabo discovered that not only had he bloodied the nose of the Despot's assault, but he had broken its back completely. Caught between the swift hammer of the Warlord's armies and the unyielding anvil of the Macedon defence, Ursh's toughest veterans were shattered and scattered to the wind - and even the most zealous of barbarians were were beginning to question if there was a master greater than their own.

The Warlord entered Štip-Isar not as a conqueror, but simply as a leader, for he had great respect for the one who turned such a small nation into a devourer of armies. Yet the prince would do something that not a single battlefield or leader had managed so far, or quite possibly since. He ''surprised'' his guest, and not only with his young age (for, compared to his generals, he was little more than a boy), but with his mind. For when the Warlord looked into his psyche, he found something he had never seen before or since - and he wished he had not. It was cold. Bleak. A desolate landscape of steel and bone blasted smooth by an unrelenting gale of numbers, of angles, of shifting probabilities; while above, great roiling clouds of blackness drained away what little light and life lay beneath them. Even this was just a momentary glimpse, for in the blink of an eye he was locked out by an immense iron wall rising from the ground in mere instants, horizons wide and twice as tall. The Warlord found himself simply staring into dead, grey eyes, barred from what lay within by mental defences greater than all but the most powerful of psykers - and built simply from paranoia and distrust rather than to contain any unearthly whispers. But those eyes told him all he really needed to know about the prince. There was no fear there, no awe, and certainly no love. Just endless planning, calculating, searching for weakness.

To his credit, the Warlord still saw potential in the mad architect; something that could be put to use, maybe even turned to greatness. After long, distrustful negotiations (for the Macedonians were as wary of his arrival as they were grateful for it), Perturabo was offered a place in the Warlord's armies as a fortification and garrison specialist. For King Nikola's part... the sad truth was that he was glad to see the back of his son. After all, with Perturabo otherwise occupied - or out of the way, depending on your point of view - he now had grandchildren to train in inheriting his responsibilities.

Perturabo rose through the ranks of the Imperial Army with neither the speed nor grandeur of the other Primarchs, but he did indeed become great. Other generals captured huge swathes of land or routed vast armies, but it was he who ensured that any forces seeking to recapture their territory or avenge their fallen knew nothing but failure. He was never at the forefront of any battle or campaign, never the glorious conqueror or invincible warrior; and of course, he earned little respect from those who ''were,'' who saw him as an unstable freak barely fit to follow in their footsteps. This, however, suited him just fine, as he much preferred a legacy of impenetrable bastions safeguarded people than any number of songs or monuments.

Still, the Warlord quietly took note of his work, of how harmlessly the condescension of both his superiors and subordinates bounced off him, and none were surprised as Perturabo himself was when he was selected for late-stage Thunder Warrior treatment. Soon, as the remnants of the Old Night were finally purged and the dream of Unification began to spread across Sol, malcontents and partisans began to emerge from the woodwork; and it was here Perturabo's worth truly became evident even to his detractors. For old king Nikola's lessons had not, in fact, been in vain, and it was discovered that the Macedonian's lands were impenetrable to assault from within as well as without. For this, he was finally elevated to the lofty title of Primarch.

In the countless years that followed, the Unification became the Great Crusade; the Warlord became the Steward, and Štip-Isar faded into distant memory. Perturabo, however, did not change. Perhaps he could not. After all, his life had certainly not changed, for it still consisted of day after day of building meat grinders of horrific scale while planning yet-greater ones, all while hoping against hope they would never be needed. Or perhaps, just as was the case in his youth, his works were so brutally efficient because of the hope he - and they - ''lacked.'' But back in his homeland he still had the support of his people; or at least he had his father to soothe and comfort them at every turn. Here, on the frontier worlds, the deal of "harsh work and oppression for you and your children in the name of descendants you will not live to see" would've been a hard sell for Gulliman, or Sanguinius, never mind one as uncharismatic as Perturabo - and the hatred of the people was beginning to wear down even his iron resolve.

When The War of the Beast descended upon the worlds under his aegis, his worth was finally proven beyond any doubt. Wretched, base creatures assaulted his people, his fortresses, his worlds in droves - and time and time again they drowned in their own tides of endless green. His warriors manned their battlements and fired from positions prepared centuries ago in an eerie mirror image of the plains of Macedonia so long ago. The doctrine still remained identical, as well. No point would be defended to the last man, for such heroics were costly and unnecessary; instead, the defenders would fight until the back of the assault force was broken before retreating to their next set of positions, buying them precious breathing room while the enemy were forced to bring in a fresh wave of warriors.

It would be wrong to say that no worlds under his protection fell, or to say that his methods were flawless. Just as it was against the Urshii, he would never defend an untenable position; civilian conurbations and evacuation points were no exception to this, and his new subordinates labelled him a coward with as much vigour as his old ones had so long ago. But this cold, calculated strategy ensured that his armies lived - and more importantly, rested - to fight another day, where another Primarch would've allowed them to be slaughtered in a vain order to hold the line.

On venerable Olympia, one of the first colony worlds of the Old Empire brought back into the fold by Perturabo's Iron Warriors, the Primarch nearly met his end. His command headquarters was unexpectedly besieged by a force of Orks that, reinforced by a newly arrived Rok, had broken through a weakened flank, and he insisted he took to the field. Years later, he would claim it was simply a pragmatic decision; after all, as a Thunder Warrior he was fully capable of fighting to earn time for his command staff to be evacuated, all of whom were equally invaluable to the defense of the planet - but for many, this unexpected loyalty was a welcome reminder that there was still a human within the Primarch's iron shell. His psychological one, at least.

His physical armour, however, would be sorely tested by the warboss he would face; a great corroding creature of Nurgle's kin, leading the Orks of the Pox Dok in laughter and taunts even as lascannon and bolter blew off chunks of rotting green flesh. The fate of the world and every soul on it was decided in a burning cathedral; and while Perturabo was certainly not the unstoppable juggernaut other Primarchs were, his calculating mind was as much use here as it was fighting on theater or even planetary level. It merged with his Thunder Warrior instincts, making each move carefully planned and each attack predicted ahead of time, until the fight seemed to be a fluid dance akin to that of the Eldar Harlequins.

Still, in brute force he was outmatched, and for every hundred blows he saw coming, there was one he simply could not parry or evade in time. The mighty green leviathan and the smaller figure slowly but relentlessly tearing it down - a fitting reversal of their armies' roles - wore each other into the ground, until the Iron Warrior emerged triumphant over the Rust of decay. With the Warboss gone, his legion quickly broke the remainder of the Ork assault, reclaiming swathes of land and beginning the long and thankless task of resecuring it. Scouting parties quickly found their Primarch, slumped in the pews where the faithful once prayed for redemption, and almost as white as the pale stone dust raining down from the ruined cathedral.

Perturabo did not see that world retaken; he did not see the organised withdrawals from worlds and sectors almost turn to a complete rout without his immaculate planning.

He did not see the Battle of Terra, the desecration of his homeworld.

He did not see the death of first Sanguinius, then the Beast.

He eventually did awaken, but only after a year spent comatose, while his ruined body was slowly repaired by Thunder Warrior physiology where possible and Mechanicus cybernetics where not. Unbowed and unbroken; Iron within, Iron without. As soon as he was able to, he marched on with his legion, rebuilding worlds and shoring up their defences before moving onto the next. Still, many believed that the Beast's legacy still haunted him and that he blamed himself personally for each loss; for as the years passed he became more and more of a perfectionist, making demands of broken worlds that could not have met them in their prime. Eventually, his most senior Warsmiths agreed by unanimous vote to remove him from active service, after he demanded a planet's population be decimated for a single of its regiments' incompetence. Perhaps, like many others, he did not resist simply because he was grateful.

Perturabo's last days were spent back on Old Earth as an architect, away from the battlefield and doing what he loved. Many had forgotten that he could design anything but defensive lines and fortresses; and perhaps he himself had forgotten as well. Over time, the work began to heal him, and in turn he began to heal Olld Earth. The swathes of land destroyed by the Beast were given to him as a blank canvas, and upon them he built structures as grand and magnificent as any in the Dark Age of Technology ever were. Oddly enough, '''this''' would be his legacy to the common man; his military campaigns would be lost to the ages, but his designs would be copied and imitated across the entire Imperium, from his streamlining of Hive City layouts that every planetary governor desperately sought to the glorious palaces on Terra that, well, every planetary governor desperately sought. Such form and function would not be surpassed for millenia to come, and even to this day his influence is visible on almost every Imperial world.

Perturabo passed away soon after finishing his plans for the new Imperial Palace; remarking that only now he was able to discover his art, after war had taken all the joy and beauty from it. Some say that he passed with a gentle, childlike smile on his face - for after a thousand years of siege, Perturabo, Prince of Macedonia, Son of Nikola, was finally to be relieved.

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See Also: [[Nobledark_Imperium_Writing#Iron_Within.2C_Iron_Without|Iron Within, Iron Without]]

== Mortarion ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Vermin Lord:'''''

Mortarion was a born in the abject squalor of the slums of Gredbritton, in the aftermath of the fall of the Unspeakable Tyrant. His life was certainly not made any easier by the fact that his mother was the fallen Tyrant's daughter; and that many whispered that his unknown father was the Tyrant himself - and given the sheer depravity of that individual, these accusations were hardly baseless. When the hysteria was beginning to die down, his mother did her best to hide their shared heritage and instead made ends meet as a maintenance skivvy and lay-technician of the great Tintajus Hive, the capital of that broken nation. They never truly advanced in wealth or power - although perhaps this was shrewdness on his mother's part, as those of the upper hive would be more likely to recognise them - and as such Mortarion seemed almost permanently sickly, growing up pale and gaunt from lack of sunlight and food.

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Gredbritton was one of the earlier nations brought into the Imperial fold. Being part of a greater union of nations went some way to restoring order, as well as bringing strength and prosperity it had not seen since the nation itself had ruled great swathes of Terra. Like so many young men with no hope, Mortarion joined the regiments of the Imperial Army - not out of some sense of patriotism or desire to bring other realms into the Imperium, but simply for the promise of at least one meal a day, a pair of trousers he didn't have to share and perhaps even some money to send home to his family.

He served with merit (if not distinction) until he was in his 22nd year, in spite of recurring bouts of old childhood illnesses. At some point in this year he learned that the Warlord was looking for volunteers for Thunder Warrior conversion, known to be a procedure that carried considerable risks. The Apothocarium and the Biologicus warned both him and the officials administrating the project that his physical imperfections would likely render Mortarion little more than a twisted nightmare, yet neither side yielded. The project's overseers were unwilling to turn away one of the few volunteers they could find, least of all one so eager; and for his part, the would-be Thunder Warrior reasoned that his body was already almost constantly betraying him, and that both success and failure would finally bring him the respite he so desperately sought. At first he volunteered, then requested, then even ''demanded'' that they tear his body apart and put him back together, as the payout his family would get for his "death" in this manner would set his mother and younger sisters up for life.

By some strange twist of fate he ''did'' survive. Perhaps even the biotechnicians had failed to realise how far they had refined their own process - certainly, the success rate was easily an order of magnitude higher than it was when Angron was "upgraded" - or perhaps the trauma of the procedures was shrugged off by a body that had spent 22 years steadfastly refusing to die. In any case, Mortarion fought as hard as any other in the name of the Imperium and its warlord, earning rank after rank based on sheer weight of victories. These victories were costly, the battlefields brutal - for he was no tactical genius, and would often dismiss inventive but untried tactics and strategies in favour of the certainties of more proven ones.

Thus, while his superiors prized his methodical successes over the less reliable tactics of the more creative leaders, his men held no love for him, only a grudging respect. The latter was cemented in place by his willingness - no, his ''insistence'' - to lead from the front, forcing his way into the thickest fighting and risking death alongside his men. They saw great victories against the savage men of Ursh and the organised and equipped armies of Achaemenidia with equal ease, only stumbling when facing the Gyptoussian sorcerers who dabbled in things that should not be dabbled in. Indeed, it was in those desert campaigns that Mortarion developed a fear, almost a hatred, of all psykers. Never again in his long life would he employ them or even accept their advice or aid, even when it might have been advisable to do so.

Mortarion soon developed a reputation for being invincible, and while this struck fear into his enemies, it merely frustrated his subordinates. He would charge into battle alongside his soldiers, yet he would far outlast them even under the most withering fire; returning from the field of war alone, with shredded armour and spent weapons, sporting wounds that would have felled a lesser Thunder Warrior.

When the forces of the Steward looked to the rest of Sol, Mortarion's forces were assigned primarily to garrison duty due to the costly nature of his method of warfare. In these engagements they held themselves with distinction, as they would make an enemy's assault on them far costlier. By the time Sol was subjugated and the galaxy lay before the Imperium, the Emperor had named him Primarch for his sheer tenacity and list of victories. It was revealed in later years, however, that the Warlord/Steward disapproved greatly of Mortarion's methods of warfare - at least, according to a few unnamed insiders from the Imperial Palace. Mortarion had, by methods undisclosed, obtained the entire stockpile of biological and chemical weapons owned by his late grandfather and father. He had also obtained the ancient library of Gredbritton, the contents of which were hastily handed over to the Warlord's Sigillite.

When taking a city or hive, the Dusk Raiders would prefer to besiege if first, firing artillery rounds filled with a dozen godforsaken contagions over (or through) the walls and waiting a few months. When the time came for them to enter the city, anything that was still alive would be shredded with bolt, plasma and promethium; the only considerable obstacles in their way being the sheer number of dead bodies filling the hive. Only Curze's methods were deemed more detestable, but unlike his fellow primarch's claims that the horrors he committed were for the greater good he simply pointed out that a conventional assault would likely have similar civilian casualties, but would also take a heavy toll on his own legion. The Warlord was never satisfied with this defence, but the results of his campaigns were undeniable.

He would go on to take this method of warfare off-world; after all, the need to kill and conquer in the most efficient way possible was even greater when precious supplies had to be ferried across the depths of space. Many whispered that he was his father's son - but this was not the case. For while the Unspeakable Tyrant had done such things in the name of gods too terrible to contemplate, Mortarion did them in the name of his warriors, and so that they may live another day. For all that ''they'' hated ''him'', he did not hate his own men; although few would have believed that had he told them.

At the onset of the War of the Beast the Dusk Raiders were quickly established as the dirty, dirty hands of the Imperium. Instead of fighting heroic yet costly rearguards to save evacuees as so many others did, they would bombard worlds with flesh-eating diseases and exsanguination virii the minute they were lost. This, contrary to their detractors, was not to punish those left behind but instead to deny the enemy potential slaves - or food, for that matter - while leaving most material assets intact. Hundreds of billions, maybe even trillions died from these proto-Virus Bombs, and it did not stop the enemy, or even slow their expansion; it was only beginning to chip away at the rate at which the expansion accelerated. Yet this was still more than most other legions could achieve against the sheer size and speed of the Beast's initial assault, and it was done while preserving Mortarion's valuable warriors; indeed, it was then that they earned their moniker of the ''Death Guard'', for the ruination that followed on worlds they failed to defend was as if they were the guardians of the reaper himself.

Many of Mortarion's fellow primarchs, Sanguinius and Vulkan in particular, publicly decried these attacks, but he did not care. They called him a traitor, and he did not care. They called him a coward, a monster, and he did not care. They spat on his legion's banner; Dorn in particular calling his warriors detestable cravens - and only then did he warn the man who fought only from his precious entrenchments to mind his choice of words, lest one of the Unspeakable Tyrant's lost weapons suddenly "appear" in the skies over his beautifully crafted defensive lines. For his Legion were not cowards, and any who would make such a claim had not seen the mechanical determination with which they fought. Any who would make such a claim had not seen the way they ground the Beast's forces down into pieces, then into dust, breaking the back of the enemy's assaults so that other, more heroic, ''better'' men might earn the glory of beheading them.

When the smoke had cleared and the Steward and Eldrad stood over the corpse of The Beast, the remains of the Imperium cheered for years, for decades. The Death Guard did not, for they were pushing its borders outwards; rebuilding their legion and continuing their endless, tireless crusade. Never mind how the mighty Dorn and his warriors would not take one step back. The Death Guard would never cease marching forward, into the Dark Millennium and beyond. The only time they would ever falter would be to honour their primarch's passing, on the distant western fringe world known as Macharius' Rest. Where sickness, assassination attempts, Thunder Warrior treatment and thousands of orks had failed, time had won its final victory. Members of the Dusk Raiders, the Death Guard, and every crusader who had ever fought alongside them made the pilgrimage to the edge of the Imperium, to pay their grudging respects to the Man Who Would Not Die.

''"Even our '''allies''' believe us nothing more than scum, than vermin to be crushed underfoot. Then let us fight like them; with tooth and claw, dragging down the mightiest of enemies with our dying breaths. Let us scour their lands clean with pestilence, and leave nothing that can be used against man - '''for vermin always have the last word'''."''

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== Lorgar ==

Lorgar Aurelian was a child born in the theocracy of the Ynsdonesic Bloc and as all children born in that awful place was the result of a state designated union. Unions in that dysfunctional realm in that time usually being decided by perceiving omens be it from smoke patterns or entrails augury despite the degenerate unions that this often created.

As with all youths of that nation he was raised in the Kartharanite branch of religion. He was taught that only through suffering was any worth found be it inflicted on the self or on others and that the unbeliever must be cleansed from the world by fire and sword. It was not a faith of kindness that he was raised in.

His appointed mentor in matters of religion was Bishop Kor Phaeron of Jakurtana. Had he had any other master then history would have taken a decidedly different path.

Bishop Phaeron was secretly a member of the Katholian sect from which the Kartharanite had once sprung and in this more kind and just faith did Lorgar find peace and purpose.

The old faith spread through the downtrodden and the hopeless of society despite the brutal and cruel efforts of Cardinal Tang to suppress, contain and exterminate it.

Eventually the outrage and animosity of the people for their leaders reached a fever pitch and civil war ensued. As Bishop Phaeron was the highest ranking member of the hierarchy on the side of the people he was looked to for guidance. As the Bishop's right hand man Lorgar soon learned the ways of war. He learned to inspire and comfort. He learned to appeal for calm and how to whip peoples passions to a frenzy. Although not lacking in martial prowess his voice, his cunning and his keen intellect were his favoured weapons.

It was maybe just in time that the subversion erupted into open rebellion when it did. The forces of the Warlord were marching down from the North and the Ynsdonesic Bloc was well up on the "Burn it down and start again" list.

With the possibility of an unwinnable war on two fronts Bishop Phaeron went to the parlay with the Warlord in person, dressed in only a crude hessian robe, with only Lorgar Aurelian accompanying him.

An audience was granted to the Warlord in his tent, at the heart of the enemy war camp, surrounded by genetically modified super soldiers and heavy weapons.

Expecting some sort of zealous speech of defiance and martyrdom the Warlord was taken aback some what when the two got down on one knee and swore allegiance.

The cared deeply about their faith and the word of their God. But their God cared deeply about the people he had made. Their God would understand if he was to be forgotten but not forgive men who should know better leading children to the slaughter. They would rather their people be free and happy than pious.

Moved by their words the Emperor gave them grace time. Should they triumph over their oppressors they would be welcomed into the Imperium as any other member state. Should they would have the harsh treatment of conquest and subjugation.

By insurgencies, underhanded tactics, assassinations and a brutal 12 year war the Katholians claimed victory and Cardinal Tang's broken but still living form was dragged before the Warlord as a token of gratitude.

It was somewhat of a pyrrhic victory for the people of the Ynsdonesic Bloc. They nation was in a hundred pieces, each swearing loyalty to some tin hat despot with delusions of grandeur, some almost as bad as Cardinal Tang. It would not be long before the fighting for dominance began, to say nothing of annexation from another nation.

The forces of the Warlord prepared to march again and again Lorgar begged the Warlord to stay his hand. They were just sheep without a shepherd, lost children in a very dark night. Once more swayed by the strange kind passion in Lorgars voice the Warlord relented.

Over the next five years as Bishop Phaeron became Patriarch Phaeron Lorgar went to the isolated and the lost and the scared with open arms and promises of reconciliation.

For the most part he was well received and his homeland healed. It was only after the talking was done that those too stubborn or monstrous to come home again were removed. Great pains were taken to minimize casualties but it was not a wholly peaceful end to that bitter conflict.

Ynsdonesic Bloc was the first of the old nation states to disband it's own military completely and throw it's own might, such as was left of it, wholeheartedly into the Imperium.

Lorgar, now a Chaplain-General in the Imperial Army, was considered too old for conversion from human to superhuman but did receive some discrete genetic modifications.

It was a regiment overseen by Lorgar that lead the final assault on the Despot of Ursh's palace that signaled the unification of Old Earth, and it was Lorgar's blade who swung the sword after the Last Despot of Ursh was tried and sentenced to execution for war crimes. But Chaplain-General Aurelian considered all of his victories to be nothing but tragedies. The only true victory, he would often claim, was one where no war was to be found. For his valour and astounding levels of inspiring oratory skill he was declared the unlikely Primarch.

Of all the Primarchs in the time of the Great Crusade his forces brought more worlds into the Imperium peacefully than any other.

They didn't bring more worlds in, oh my no. They were quite slow and their tardiness was no end of frustration to the now Steward. But Lorgar was tolerated because the worlds he claimed were brought into the Imperium whole and undamaged and contributing.

In the War of the Beast Primarch Aurelian and his Legion struck back with an unexpected force. Many of the other war leaders of the imperium considered his Legion to be full of pacifists and weakness. Like many of the damned in the armies of the Beast they had mistaken the olive branch for a white flag and they were punished hard for it.

Across the breadth and depth of the burning Imperium, to the aid of human or xeno, the Word Bearers could be found holding the line and inspiring others to hold the line. Where they strode despair turned to hope and weary hands held firm blessed weapons and shaky voices roared the old battle hymns.

Lorgar and his forces were on Old Earth when Sanguinius died and ever afterwards Lorgar blamed himself for not fighting hard enough to have saved his brother Primarch.

Lorgar lived and served for many years. He eventually died of old age at near eleven hundred years old. A small but modest shrine was erected at the Jakurtana Seminary that is sometimes visited by Word Bearer chaplains even into the Dark Millennium.

See also [[Nobledark_Imperium_Imperial_Society_and_Culture#The_Book_of_Lorgar|The Book of Lorgar]]

== Jaghatai Khan ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''The Noble Savage:'''''

From an early age, it was clear to most people that Jaghatai “White Scar” Khan was going to grow up to be a troublemaker. Some might have doubted such a claim, but that would have been put to rest by the time Jaghatai was ten, when he was thrown from his vehicle during an accident while tending the flocks, giving him the scar that would later become his most identifying feature, only to dust himself off with little to no concern for the cut on his face. Unfortunately, “most people” did not happen to include the Despot of Ursh. For years, Jaghatai and his people had lived the way his people always had, raising flocks of livestock on the steppes with the help of motorcycles and off-road vehicles. It was this skill with motor vehicles that had brought the people of the steppes to the Despot’s eye. He saw a greater use for their talents than simply herding livestock, and so he pressed the people of the steppes into service. The people of the steppes were turned into shock troopers, raiding enemy supply lines, tearing into retreating battalions, and burning down villages that refused to completely subjugate to the Despot, becoming yet another boogeyman for the Despot of Ursh to use to scare his enemies and subjects into submission.

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Jaghatai’s father was the nominal representative of the steppe peoples to the Despot of Ursh, and so was given the title of Khan: a once noble title that had come to mean nothing in the years since the people of the steppes were enslaved by Ursh. Jaghatai's father pleaded with the Despot to try and make the lives of his people better, but the Despot had a heart harder than adamantium and had no love for people whose loyalty was not absolute. And so it was that at the age of nineteen Jaghatai was awoken one night by emissaries from the Despot of Ursh, who dropped his father's head in a sack on his doorstep and gave Jaghatai the same ultimatum the Despot had given his father. "Serve me absolutely, or die".

Faced with not only the threat of his own demise but the demise of his people, Jaghatai swore loyalty at the point of a sword. But privately, the new Khan swore another oath. He swore that if there was any justice in this world he would not rest until he had avenged his father and it was the Despot of Ursh who had his head put in a sack. And so it was that for several years Jaghatai served as the leader of the one of the most feared forces in the entire Urshii army. And he hated it. He hated seeing his people being turned into animals, being used as attack dogs to terrorize people whose only sin had been to ask the Despot of Ursh for a bit of mercy. He hated the pain and suffering he caused in every burned out husk of a settlement he left behind him. Even when his people were kept out of the fray of raiding and pillaging, his conscience still gnawed at him over the fact that it had been his support that had allowed the Urshii to win and allow this to happen.

This went on for several years, until reports began to come in about a strange new power known as "the Imperium" led by a most peculiar Warlord, which was pushing against the Urshii from the west. Fortunately for Ursh, much of the south and west of the Urshii heartland was bordered by near-impenetrable mountain ranges, with only a few major passes between them. Khan and his people were dispatched as part of a force to guard one of these mountain passes from incursion, along with several thousand elite Urshii troopers. The Urshii troopers had no love for the nomads, forcing them to set up camp far away from the rest of the army and making them do most of the scouting. It was because of this that the Khan and his forces were alone when they quite literally stumbled upon the expeditionary force of the Warlord one fateful day.

Coming around a corner in the bottom of a river valley, the Khan and his scouting forces quite unexpectedly came across some incredibly angry men holding some very imposing guns. After a few minutes of an intense standoff, the leader of the opposing forces called a ceasefire to try and figure out why either of the two sides hadn't begun shooting at each other yet. It was at this point that the Khan first met the Warlord. The Khan realized that this was his opportunity to get revenge on the Despot of Ursh and avenge his father. He told the Warlord the truth, the real truth he had carried inside him since the day his father died. Although initially skeptical, the Warlord was so impressed by the sincerity of the Khan's answer that he believed his story.

The Warlord and the Khan began to conspire as to how to defeat the Urshii army at the pass. At first, the Warlord suggested to the Khan that he simply had to "forget" to show up to the battle, but the Khan vehemently disagreed. The Urshii had denigrated his people, the Khan said, and blood had to be repaid in blood. Therefore, a new plan was formulated, in which the Khan's forces would change sides once the Urshii and the Imperium became locked in combat. Rather than being flankers as intended, the Khan's troops would tear into the Urshii army from behind, forcing them to fight a two-fronted battle. The plan worked, and the battle was a complete rout for the forces of Ursh, allowing the Imperium to cross the mountain passes into the core Urshii territories. The former slaves of Ursh were skeptical to see the Khan's people as liberators, rather than devastators, and this bad blood would persist for years even after the fall of Ursh. Nevertheless, being involved as the front lines of a massive liberating army went a long way towards alleviating such concerns. When the Despot of Ursh was toppled and that abominable empire finally fell, the Khan finally felt that his father had been avenged.

The Warlord had earned the Khan’s gratitude and trust, but the Khan made sure to let the Warlord know that his people would never again be unthinking slaves.

''“You have helped me avenge my father and free my people, and for that you have my gratitude. But remember, that gratitude makes my people and I your allies, not your slaves. For all that you have done, you have my trust, but if you abuse that trust, know that not even death will be fast enough to catch you before I do.”''<br>
- Jaghatai Khan, reportedly said to the Warlord upon the final fall of Ursh

Fortunately, the Khan never had to put his newfound trust to the test. The years of the Great Crusade were probably some of the best of the Khan's life. His people were no longer slaves, and they had a vast new galaxy that had just become open to them. He even fell in love, something he had been studiously avoiding under the reign of the Despot in order to avoid giving that monster something he could exploit him with. He caught the eye of a girl, a former Urshii woman who had worked in the fields as an agricultural serf. He showed her the ways of the steppes, and the two of them fell deeply in love. He was heartbroken when she died. She died at 110, a ripe old age by the standards of those who lived before the Dark Age of Technology, but from a disease that befell many who worked in the fields of Ursh late in life that no amount of juvenant drugs could fix. And yet the Khan had to go on, as the Imperium still had need of his services. It was this sense of duty that led Khan to become an Astartes. Khan spent most of the Crusade on planets that had problems with orks and occasionally dark Eldar, beings that the Khan saw as truly reprehensible and therefore had no moral problems with hunting them down.

Late in life, the Khan began to feel the age seeping into his bones, and looked back at what he had accomplished during his life. He had avenged his father, freed his people, taken them to the stars, started a family, and helped build an empire. It was "more than any man could hope to accomplish in one lifetime", as the Khan said in his own words. But there was still one last thing Khan had to do. The old warrior planned to travel the galaxy one last time, to say goodbye to the friends he made before he passed away. However, the Khan never finished his trip. Although most of the people close to him did report seeing him shortly before his disappearance, the Khan never made it back to Earth to be buried in his homeland, like he wanted. Many of the White Scars say that like many of the other primarchs, Khan did not truly die, and will return to lead them once more when times are dire. One can only hope.

Although the Khan got along well with many of the warrior primarchs like Russ, perhaps his strangest relationship was his odd friendship with Magnus the Red. Part of the reason for this is that Khan actually knew Magnus (though not well) before either had become known as primarchs, back when they had served under the Despot of Ursh. Khan knew firsthand that Magnus was a man, not a monster, and treated him as such. It was probably this friendship that lead to the Khan being so pro-psyker in life. Although he was not a psyker, he knew of the suffering psyker powers could bring to an individual, and so was a strong advocate for pro-psyker policies like the schola that would help psykers control their gifts. He was also not averse to the use of psykers in combat, though like most he drew the line at warp sorcery.
Outside of the Steward and the primarchs, the Khan often had trouble socializing with other people. Part of this was due to a lack of things he could talk about with other people, and part of this was that he never really got the hang of Gothic, always speaking it with a rather heavy accent, which he was embarrassed by. As a result, the Khan was often known for being taciturn at public appearances, and was well known for regarding actions higher than words.

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== Konrad Curze ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Unforgivable:'''''

Konrad Curze was a man that could politely be described as driven, and accurately be described as ''a frothing at the mouth lunatic.'' Of all the Primarchs appointed, none were more questioned than he.

He had grown up in the final days of the Age of Strife in the rambling under city Tordashimya in the Pan Pacific Empire, along with all of the horrors and excess that this entails. To say that this had an effect on the deepest levels of his mind would be a woeful understatement, and he saw the fledgling Imperium as only existing as a means of imposing some sort of order and some basic justice on a world that was in dire need of both and he saw it as his duty to make it happen. Sadly his means of doing so were as crude and brutal as those who he sought to bring to justice; after all, the quickest way to gain obedience is through fear, and and the easiest way to rebuild a society is to behead it and tear apart the body.

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Despite - or, some whisper in hushed tones, ''because of'' - the Steward's insistence that he change his tact, Curze became stubborn and resentful; his predations becoming ever more brutal. Realising the futility of bringing to heel, the Steward instead directed him instead to the worlds of no hope, worlds so broken that they could never be brought into the Imperium. Worlds he couldn't make worse. It was on one of these worlds, Nostramo, that the Night Haunter found some strange joy. If he could bring a world such as this, so broken, so unspeakably wretched, as this to the light of civility then he would be vindicated before the whole galaxy. If a world so cursed by both gods and men could be rebuilt, there was nothing that could not be.

The subjugation of that world was the harrowing stuff of nightmares. The Dark Eldar could barely have done better to make every day-cycle a new nightmare; indeed, some claim that they were there to simply soak up the suffering as a welcome break to their long campaigns of torture and enslavement. But in time Curze, now infamous as the Night Lord of Nostramo, was vindicated. His people took control of every position of authority, while the malcontents were quickly ''disappeared'', often winding up dead and mutilated along with their families and friends, whether man, woman, elder or child. Hideous as it was, order was brought - and order began to spread, as for each world his legion inflicted unspeakable horrors on, ten more surrendered without raising arms. Hideous, brutal examples were made of the worst, but through them the more virtuous were saved.

Soon enough, the dark whispers of Chaos began to tempt his mind, the fallen Eldar of the Crone Worlds assailing his dreams with tantalising offers of untold riches and endless power. Yet every offer was found wanting; every envoy cut down, every promise met with scorn. They had made the mistake of assuming that one such as Curze had become would revel in their depraved debaucheries, without considering that he would find them every bit as repulsive as other, better, people found him. He was a monster, this was true, but he was a monster who ripped and tore and tortured in the name of order; by the Emperor he was the ''Imperium's'' monster and nobody else's.

Some, of course, fell. Younger soldiers who had maybe joined the cause for glory, for strength, or even for mere self-gratification. But the vast majority of them were, like their Primarch, disgusted by the offerings of Chaos, horrified by the fall of their battle brothers, and insulted at the implication that they and the forces of Chaos served the same ends. For the entirety of the War of the Beast, the Lords of the Night could be found sowing discord and misery amongst the fleets and the armies of damnation. For every horror the invaders committed more was inflicted upon them, and for every innocent killed by the Ruinous Powers the Night Lords would swear vengeance on a dozen daemons.

Few of that despised Legion ever fought on the soil of Old Earth, and never were they allowed to forget this. But because of their actions the forces of damnation were weakened and poorly focused with one eye always over their shoulder. Even if their military successes had counted for naught; even if they had not managed to save a single soul, '''they had made Chaos fear ''them'''''. And that was an achievement beyond all others.

In the aftermath of that war, many small provincial worlds and systems tried to strike out on their own, away from the light of the Throne, often being brought back by force. None of Curze's worlds, however, had ever tried to secede - after all, they knew both sides of the Imperium's protection, and had seen first hand the wrath that the Night Lords could unleash. If that was what they would to in ''defence'' of the Imperium, what they would do to willing turncoats did not bear thinking about.

In his later years, Curze was well aware that he had become everything he had despised in his youth, and he sometimes derived black humour from this; that he had finally rediscovered across the galaxy what he had first learned in his youth on a small Terran kingdom: that the ends do not, and cannot, justify the means. In the year 243.M32 he had himself tried and executed for war crimes as the ultimate testament that none were beyond judgement. He had deemed himself to have outlived his usefulness, and to some extent he was right; although the Imperium could tolerate a useful monster, it should have no love for one.

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== Angron ==

Angron was a slave pit fighter in what was left of the Nord Afrik Enclaves.

He was liberated quite early on in The Warlords campaign. Signed on to join the Thunder Warriors.

Rose through the ranks and earned great fame and respect. Munched loved by his men due to his tendency to lead from the front and getting stuck in where the fighting was thickest.

Was one of the older generation of TW with all the damage and flaws this brought with it.

Due to his astounding aptitudes he was promoted to the rank of Primarch and given command of a batch of the new Astartes model Space Marines.

Plagued by health issues despite attempts to repair his faulty upgrades. Refused the retirement offer that many TW took to make lives for themselves. He wouldn't have been able to deal with a peaceful life.

Survived all the way to the end of The War of the Beast but not much longer. Died peacefully in his sleep. Probably the oldest TW.

Kharn the Oathsworn took over, new type of super soldier for a new era.

He didn't live a happy life, but given the nature of his childhood he could have lived a worse one and a statue of him stands outside the gate of the Carthisisa Hive Cathedral.

===His Early Life===

Some men are born into greatness, and carry it upon their brow with the natural ease of command. Others have greatness forced unwillingly upon them, and they suffer its burden for duty and honor. The Primarch Angron fell firmly into the second category.

Little is known about Angron’s early life. What is known is gleaned from his private writings, scattered public records, and a few of Kharn’s recollections; and it is little wonder that the Primarch did not speak of his youth, for it was a bitter and brutal upbringing so sadly common in the chaotic days before the Unification.

Angron was born to a humble family in a small town in Timbuk, the northern state of the Afrique League, along the border of the Nord Afrik Conclaves. The town sat on a trade route used by nomad clans and acted as a minor trade hub and rest stop for their caravans as they traveled the roads between the techno-barbarian conclaves of Nord Afrik and the settlements of the Afrique League. Angron’s family made their living as bakers; their fortified strongbread was particularly well-regarded in the area as a food of the road for weary travelers. Their lifestyle was modest but probably not unpleasant, and it was more than likely that Angron would have followed in his family’s footsteps and become a baker as well, living a quiet life, were it not for the Europian-Afrikaan War.

After the humiliating defeat inflicted by Angron’s fellow Primarch-to-be Roboute Guilliman, the Padishah of the Nord Afrik Conclaves needed victory and loot to pacify his rebellious vassal shahs and sheikhs, who were threatening a shahs-moot to elect a new leader or even open revolt should the Padishah refuse. Thus, the Padishah turned his gaze and armies towards the weakest of his neighbors, the Afrique League. The southern Afrique state of Nama Gola was cut off from Timbuk by the toxic coastal wastelands and the vassals of Ursh further inland, nor could they challenge the Afrikaan at sea, and so their northern brethren faced the rage of the Afrikaan utterly alone.

The Padishah’s regular forces had been decimated by the war with Europa, and in a desperate show of might he turned to the cruelest monsters and technologies hidden within the Conclaves. Upon the Afrique League he unleashed lumbering arco-flagellants, limbs replaced by electrowhips and hydraulic mauls; screaming berserker slaves, hippocampuses mangled by crude cybernetics to increase aggression; cackling Volkite cultists, who unleashed the terrible heat of their weapons to praise their Burning God and the Devouring Flame; shriveled moisture cannibals from the deep deserts, who ripped men apart to drink of the precious water in their bodies and harvest the fluids for dark rituals; and a hundred other varieties of horrors and monstrosities forgotten to history, each worse than the last.

The Afrikaan host swept over the border unimpeded as the scattered militias of Timbuk were blown aside before the Padishah’s storm of ravening terrors, the regular Afrique soldiers having long withdrawn to fortify the coastal cities. Angron’s town was one of the first to fall, and the Afrikaan marauders slaked their bloodlust on the terrified citizens through all manners of torture and slaughter. The details around what happened to Angron during this time are scarce: Angron himself understandably did not speak much of this event and the only written comments involve a short line in one of his final writings. The only clues are from the journals of a minor officer of the Padishah’s elite Janissor Corps who was assigned to oversee the sacking of Angron’s village, where he writes of an incident regarding a young boy who leapt from the rafters of a burning bakery and stabbed one of his men to death, and who then almost escaped on foot before being shot down by a stun dart to be taken as a slave.

From ruins of his village, Angron was taken to a loot caravan along with the few other survivors, mostly young children like himself who would sell well at the slave markets. They were taken through the scorching heat and swirling sands of the Afrikaan deserts until at last they reached their destination: Karthago, called Carthisisia in the Afrikaan tongue, oldest of the Nord Afrik city-states, seat of His Ascendancy the Padishah. Perched upon the western bank of the great God’s Eye Lake, it was a dusty city of brass and stone, its red stone walls a crumbling reminder of a long and cultured past, its glittering pyramids and temples casting long shadows over the slave bazaars reeking of blood.

In the auction houses, the fierce young boy drew great interest from the old gladiator houses, for a star pit fighter would bring great riches and prestige to anyone who owned him, and when the auctioneer’s hammer finally fell after a round of exorbitant bidding, it was the infamous slaver Nuceria, Queen of Flesh, who won the right to Angron’s collar. After the auction he received Nuceria’s slave mark, the inverted red triangle upon his forehead that marked him as her property, a tattoo he would have for the rest of his life.

The next twelve years of Angron’s life were a nightmare of the most brutal training imaginable, designed to break and beat him into a instrument of slaughter, a sadistic crucible to purify him into a weapon unhindered by morality or humanity. From sunup to sundown on the grounds of Nuceria’s palatial manor Angron was forced to train and fight until his entire body was a tight knot of agony, and every slight failure, misstep, or distraction was punished with beatings. In his first year he was given a puppy to raise as his companion, and on his birthday the next year he was ordered to strangle it with his bare hands. When he refused, he received the first of many electro-whippings. As Angron grew older, Nuceria used him as her headsman, forcing him to mete out the punishments to her other slaves, like cutting off the feet of escapees and executing those who disobeyed.

In this hell Angron grew into a man. At eighteen he already stood well over 6 feet tall, his dusky frame thick with corded muscle, and he was excellent with the sword, superb with the mace, and unmatched with the axe. During one sparring match he killed three of the trainers that had tortured him since his childhood with a blunted training sword until the others managed to intervene, and when Nuceria heard she laughed and said the dead men had done their jobs well.

Yet for all their efforts, they had not broken him. Beneath all the years of horrors and scars upon Angron’s psyche, there was still the core of the simple young boy from Timbuk, the son of parents he no longer remembered, born in a village that no longer existed. It would have been easier to break, to become the monster they wanted, or to place the blame for all the atrocities he had committed on Nuceria and the others who forced his hand. Instead Angron chose to face and accept all that he had done, and when he woke at night, gasping and sweating from the nightmares that haunted him, all he could do was swear to make things right, some way, some how.

When it was time for Angron’s first fight in the pits, to Nuceria’s fury it was to be against Tigris of Franj, a knight taken as a prisoner of war long ago and a long-time veteran of the pits. Nuceria had seen too many promising young talents cut down before their prime by facing wily old fighters before they were ready, and on this match she saw the mark of the other gladiator houses, conspiring with the gamemasters to kill her most promising fighter before he could bloom. For all her rage Nuceria could not challenge their combined authority, and so as Angron stepped out in the sandy arena to face the Franjish knight, she resigned herself to losing a decade of investment.
Angron won in less than 5 minutes. With dispassionate, overwhelming strikes of his axe he dismantled his opponent’s defense piece by piece before battering him down with a furious rain of blows. When the crowd called for Tigris’ death, in defiance of pit custom Angron refused to perform the traditional execution of disemboweling his opponent and strangling him with his own intestines. Instead, he cleanly decapitated Tigris in a single blow, leaving the crowd in a momentary stunned silence before they rose to their in feet in an approving roar to cheer the masterful performance by the young fighter.

Elated, Nuceria took Angron to her slave pens and allowed him to choose any of the slave girls to be his personal courtesan, a prize usually reserved for gladiators that had won ten fights. To Nuceria’s surprise he walked past the cells of beautiful young women to the cells of children. They were frightened, furtive little things, and there Angron picked up a little boy with dark eyes full of defiance and loss, so very much like his own, and said this boy was to be no slave, but his son. And so Angron had found the first of his children, Kharn.

In the next few years Angron became a legend, his matches televised throughout the Conclaves, defeating champion after champion in an unbroken chain of victories. The crowds called him the “Lord of the Red Sands” while Nuceria lavished gifts and privileges on him for his victories, and so Angron’s little family grew as he took several more children under his wing as his sons and daughters. Yet for all his successes and outward displays of obedience, Angron was still haunted by his sins, and the chance for his atonement finally came when he was approached by a group of fellow slaves who asked that he aid them in their escape attempt by killing the guards the protected the motor pool. In return, they would take him and his children with them to freedom in far off Franj. Angron agreed without reservation, and the preparations were made.

Yet rarely were things ever so simple. The night before the planned escape, Angron returned to his quarters after training to find his children’s rooms empty. Nuceria was sitting in her study when Angron burst through the door, his axe dripping with gore from the guards he had slaughtered outside, and froze when he saw his youngest son Macer upon her lap, the baby giggling as the slaver cooed and bounced him in her lap in a mockery of motherhood. Angron demanded to know where his children were. Nuceria replied that they were safe, for the moment, but only if Angron the revealed the names of the conspirators of his escape. Remain silent, she added, and his children would die screaming, and suddenly there was a stiletto in her hand, delicately tracing a line across the baby’s neck. Falling to his knees weeping tears of helpless rage, Angron made his choice, and Nuceria smiled. In the morning, there were dozens of new crucifixes in the courtyard, and the moans and cries of the dying escapees echoed through the manor. Angron could only look on at the new nightmare that would haunt his dreams, and swear a dozen new vows of bloody vengeance.

The chance would come sooner than Angron ever imagined. War came once again to the Nord Afrik Conclaves, but this time in the form of an overwhelming invasion from a mysterious warlord from the Terrawatt Clan. At first, the Afrikaan nobility was filled with bluster, boasting that they would crush this upstart and take him as a slave to be paraded in the streets, yet in only a few short months the main armies of the Conclaves were crushed. The shahs of the Conclaves had imploded into panicked infighting and blame, and whispers spread throughout the fearful streets of Karthago of invincible steel-clad giants who marched in the vanguard of the invading army who crushed all resistance under the shells of their mighty guns.

Soon the enemy army was at the gates of Karthago, and the siege was brief, the spirit of the defending soldiers already broken and the conscripted slaves unwilling to waste their lives for their hated masters. As the walls fell and the fighting neared the estate, Angron knew he would have no better chance to fulfill his vows. In the chaos he pushed his way through panicking servants and slaves to the motor pool, where he found Nuceria with a few guards preparing an armored car for her escape. The guards he swiftly killed before they even had a chance to draw their weapons. For Nuceria, Angron gave her the death she deserved: the gladiator’s death, cutting open her belly and strangling her with her own entrails as she screamed and begged for mercy she had never shown, a final act of irony he hoped would appease his fallen comrades.
With the deed done, Angron took his axe and retreated to his quarters with his children, barricading the door as the sounds of fighting grew ever closer. Soon, he could hear echoing footsteps inside the manor, and he gripped his axe tightly as they drew closer down the hallway.

The door exploded open in a cloud of splinters and dust, and a hulking armored figure ducked through the doorway with a massive gun in its grip. From behind, Angron leapt forward and kicked the back of the intruder’s leg, causing the giant to stumble forward slightly, and with a roar he swung his axe two-handed at its vulnerable head. The axe struck true and hard, and bounced off harmlessly with a clang. The giant turned, and in response drove its armored fist into Angron’s chest. Never in all his training, sparring, or duels had Angron been hit so hard, and he was flung backwards against the wall, vision flickering, gasping and coughing blood through broken ribs and crushed lungs.

The giant stood over him and leveled the gaping muzzle of its gun at Angron’s head, dim light glinting balefully from the red lenses of its helmet, when there was a sudden movement. It was Kharn, screaming and beating at the giant’s leg with his thin arms. The giant looked down at the boy flailing helplessly at its leg and turned towards the sounds of whimpers from the other side of the room where the rest of Angron’s children huddled weeping behind the bed. He looked back down at Angron, and wordlessly the giant plucked Kharn off its leg, tossed him aside, and walked out of the room.

The next few days were a haze of pain as Angron lay in his bed, tended by a few of the old healers who had remained. The city had fallen, they told him, and to their surprise there had been no looting or raping or murder. Instead, the corrupt of the city had been dragged into the streets and purged, all the old slavers and fat nobles and decadent priests, though the Padishah had long fled. So when word spread that the warlord that had taken their city would be coming to visit his new territory, Angron dragged himself out of his bed despite the agony in his chest, and limped his way down to the city gates to take stock of this Warlord who had conquered them so easily.

When the Warlord walked through the city gates, there was a murmur of hushed awe. He was young, his face unlined and dark hair falling to his shoulders, and he towered well above the steel giants beside him, his gold-armored frame standing well over 8 ft tall. In unison, the crowds lining the road began to kneel, an instinct drilled into each of them by their years of service to their masters. But as their knees began to bend, each person felt an invisible force seize them, holding them before their knees could touch the ground. A presence touched their thoughts, vast and overwhelming, yet somehow warm and protective, and it spoke in ringing tones that echoed soundlessly within their minds:

''Do not kneel, for I am no king or conqueror.''

''Do not kneel, for you are slaves and servants to the unworthy no longer.''

''Do not kneel, for though you know it not you are noble and good.''

''Instead, I bid you: STAND.''

And every onlooker felt the force around their bodies reverse, pulling them gently but firmly upwards, until even the most stoopbacked old men found themselves standing as tall and proud as they did in the flower of their youth. They looked up with wide eyes upon the golden stranger before them, and a cry rushed through the crowd as they called out in tongues from a dozen lands.

“Liberator!” “Breaker of chains!” “Savior!” And that is when Angron knew he would fight and die for the Warlord.

See Also: [[Nobledark_Imperium_Writing#Nails|Nails]]

== Corax ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%"> '''''The Raven King:'''''

Towards the end of the Wars of Unification the Despot of Ursh and remnants of the Pan-Pacific Empire united out of desperation although for that desperation they were no less formidable.

In the lands of Sino were to be found huge tracts of the richest and most bountiful fields on all of Old Earth in that time and with their produce a seemingly unending number of fighting men and near-men and once-men could be maintained. Those fields though bountiful were tilled with the blood and sweat and breaking backs of a slave caste that knew nothing of war and cared nothing for conquest and whose eyes were cast firmly upon the ground as those that dared to look up were so often the worse for it.

It seemed the Warlord knew that any attempt to invade that place by conventional means would be bloody in the extreme; to his own men, to their men and more tragically to the people he was trying to liberate.

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Ursh had been pushed back and pushed back until it was now one diamond hard core of resilience. Conventional war was to be avoided and Curz's methods of unconventional war were not to be considered.

All that could be done was stand at the border and wait. Although the Warlord could not get in the Despot and his men were contained. Victory by weight of probability and time was assured but time for change to occur would be glacial and all the while suffering and death would be had among the downtrodden masses. Death by time or death by the blade, neither option was palatable.

And into this unhappy standoff Corax, the one who would one day be known as the Stormcrow, arose.

Uninformed and downtrodden as they were the slaves of Sino were far from stupid if only because stupidity was far from a survival trait in their harsh world. They had hear of the Warlord, they had heard of his new Imperium and they had heard of the freedoms it offered. They wanted that. Few would dare try to run the border because of what the Urshi would do to their loved ones left behind and what the foul men of the Khanate did to those they found running away.

Among them arose a man from the factories who had spent too long toiling for cruel masters and starving whilst his oppressors feasted. His family were dead by one means or another be it contagion, sport or ritual and he was left with critically little left to loose.

His job afforded him a basic but working knowledge of alchemy and reaction and he often handled equipment that was only considered tools rather than weapons because of how it was used. Corax was a very angry man but also a very cunning man whose anger was tempered by age earned wisdom and set for the long simmer rather than full boil. This was good as he was surrounded by a lot of other very angry people who also needed to be taught that patience and anger could work very well together.

By simple but time trusted methods of communication the words of rebellion spread. It was not without cost or casualty but those sufferings were just more fuel for the long burn of hate. It is possible that the rebellion would have died in it's infancy but for the forces and resources and attention being diverted to the borders where the Warlord circled, waiting for some weakness to show.

When the hammer finally came down it was like half the nation caught fire all at once. Caught unaware vast numbers of the fearsome warriors trying to out stare the Warlord at the border were frantically pulled back to keep the heartlands in good order. Perhaps this was a miscalculation on the part of the Generals responsible for the descision. Certainly the Despot thought so if the flayed and violated but still somehow living bodies of those generals adorning the palace walls are anything to attest to.

With the sudden depletion of massed soldiery on the borders the tables had turned sufficiently to make conventional invasion a realistic possibility. And at the head of the vanguard was Angron whose account of the first battles would have made historically important reading had he been persuaded to write anything down about it.

Caught between the forces of Corax and his merciless insurgency who knew all about cruelty and the forces of the Warlord that were as unstoppable as the sunrise the forces of Ursh were driven from the lands of Sino to their last strongholds where they licked their wounds and waited for the end that was not slow in it's arrival.

The people or Corax, freed for the fist time in time beyond living memory, looked towards the ordered and disciplined (except for Angron who had to be sedated) forces with wary eyes. They were not slaves now and would never bend a knee to a man again.

Corax, to his credit, did know that there was a world of difference between taking an nation and holding it. His people were brave and tenacious and could be vicious when provoked. But he knew deep down that they could not run a nation and all would soon descend into anarchy at best and re-enslavement or death at worse.

When the Warlord strode across the quietened field of victory towards the Stormcrow Corax could see in his eyes that it was one man greeting another as an equal, brothers in battle and free men.

Corax knew he would need to use what temporary authority he had as leader of a victorious rebellion to direct his people into a cohesive whole now that the immediate threat was removed and the Warlord knew that they were distrustful of outsiders and wouldn't take kindly to direct orders. A compromise was quickly reached. The most competent seeming of Corax's people would be given positions of authority in the newly freed nation but would also be provided with advisors and assistants from the newly formalized Administratum on loan for as long as they were wanted.

It was not long after that the weathered man that was Corax witnessed the final and lasting death of the Ursh and ever afterwards was he disappointed that he didn't get to deal the killing blow.

As Old Earth was brought to a new golden age the now Steward's eye turned upward to the inky black. To the far places of Luna and Mars and the Jovians and further, so very much further.

He knew he would need men he could trust in both loyalty and competence. People to act in his stead. Of these twenty most gifted and proven individuals Corax was one. When it came to covertly setting traps and ambushes he had no equal. Sadly he was well beyond the age when super soldier treatments become a viable possibility to say nothing of the two prosthetic lungs Imperium loyal tech-adepts had gifted him to undo the effects of thirty years of toxic fume inhalation in his old job. He did receive some discrete cybernetic enhancements and longevity treatments but nothing that wouldn't allow him to pass as human.

The skills he had learned and instilled in his new legion were of great use in the Unification of Sol. One of the earliest and most charictaristic victoris was when the dissidents breaking away after the Magi of Mars pledged alliance to the Empty Throne swiftly found themselves making considerable compromises as their air recycles all spontaneously exploded. Ever a man of the people Corax would always choose the path of least collateral damage over expediency or personal safety.

As the Unification of Sol turned into the Great Crusade Primarch Corax found that there were all too many kindred souls enslaved on distant worlds to terrible masters, some human and some xeno and some hideous beyond categorization.

Although the Raven Guard did posses Astartes soldiers (favoring a more refined version of the earlier model rather than the latter models) they were only typically used for the killing blow. The bulk of the Legion was mere mortal men who were far more adept at cover tagging of targets and walking among the downtrodden masses unobserved. When the Space Marines were called in and the fireworks went off the action was intense, devastating and brief. Quick decapitations with little mess were what his legionaries prided themselves in and it served them well. The people of the worlds they liberated loved them. The Men of Earth, that legendary birth world of humanity, had come back to save them and it was joyful.

But of Corax no rest was had in celebration or revelry. If his victories had taught him one thing it was that they were necessary and they hadn't run out of worlds to free. There would be no rest till they reached the edge of the galaxy and all the worlds in between.

The Raven Guard in their way operated in a manner mirror to that of the Night Lords in those hopeful days of the Great Crusade. The Night Lords would terrorize and scatter and slaughter but leave the technology and architecture of a world intact in preparation for a killing blow, the Imperium had no shortage of people and a replacement population could always be brought in. The Raven Guard preferred to destroy infrastructure but spare those who knew how to repair and maintain it in preparation for the final strike with the certainty that expertise could not be easily replaced. The Raven Guard argued that the entire endeavour of the Great Crusade was to save humanity, not slaughter it. The Night Lords agreed but saw no point is loosing sleep over the loss of individual humans sacrificed for the good of the whole.

Both rival primarchs despised one another, both raised good points, both were most effective when fighting in concert with a more direct Legion or similar fighting force and neither were openly brought to heel by the Steward because both were undeniably effective. Twice, in the days of the Great Crusade, the Crow and the Haunter came to blows although their Legions never went to war against each other. Barely.

When the Beast arose among the orks and the Great Crusade ran into it's equal and opposite the nature of the Raven Guard changed. Just as the Night Haunters were occasionally called in, to their disgust, to protect refugee convoys so were the Raven Guard called in to euthanize populations contaminated irreparably. To say that Corax found these orders distasteful would be a gross understatement. Out of all the Primarchs it was Corax who was first to outright disobey a direct order from the Steward. He would not bring nuclear fire down upon a civilian target. He and his men would not abandon their principles, not even in the face of annihilation.

It was upon the fate of the once thriving cultural hub that was the planet Azoth that the Raven Guard made their stand. The world was infected but they believed, they knew in their heart of hearts, that it could be saved. The force to retake it was led by the Stormcrow himself who needed to show the Steward that no such drastic steps needed ever to be taken.

Upon that world something in the heart of Corax died at what he saw. At the barbarity and the debauchery and the unholy violations he could never of dreamed of, not even the most depraved Despot of the Urshi could have dreamed of. ██████████████████████████████Data Expunged. -][- . Hydra Dominatus.████████████████████████.

Never again, the Stormcrow vowed, never again would he inflict such cruelty for the sake of human pity and the bleeding conscience of one old man. Indeed the primarch did feel old and in some way untouchable by rejuveneant treatments did look it now more than ever. Azoth was sterilized with atomic fire, a monument to all that should be reviled.

For the sense of well being that it cost one general the Imperium did at least learn of the Chaos Eldar earlier than they otherwise might have. Despite his disobedience Corax faced no censure from the Steward for showing pity and sorrow in his work, if he had shown joy then maybe things would have gone rather differently for him but the Steward would not punish a man for being human.

For the most part the Raven Guard served in the War of the Beast with great valor an uncommon cunning striking far harder than their numbers would suggest. Their greatest ally, they would claim in later years, was the orkish nature to infighting when their leaders were removed. Whole sub-WAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!s would grind to a halt as Nob after Warboss was subject to fatal ambush and inhumanly precise assassinations. Purely against the orks it is possible that the Raven Guard had no equal.

But it was not purely against the orks. Children of Chaos were abroad and of them the Raven Guard could not out maneuver readily. The forces of the dark gods reaped a heavy toll as hunts were turned inside out and the weakness of using so many mere mortal men was exposed. Astartes, it was often claimed, knew no fear, but baseline humanity did and that played right into the hands of the Croneworlders.

It is unknown how many of these sworn to service under Corax fell. Many who venerate the Stormcrow Primarch would claim that none did but they are blined by pride. The numbers are hard to tell in a legion that so loves the shadows and when they struck it was from a direction those in command did not see coming and so the wounds were felt all the deeper. Exact numbers may never be known beyond "too many".

Perhaps it was having to deal with these traitors, perhaps it was getting mired in a war of attrition against the orks or out outmaneuvered buy the fallen eldar or maybe some combination of all three but Corax and all save a token force of his vanguard, like his old rival, was not on Old Earth when Sanguinius died and the great Beast was slaughtered. Some blamed him but none so much as he himself did.

The wars of reconquest and the rebuilding of the Imperium was not a war that the Raven Guard were well sited for. Their primary means of warfare was one of carefully stalked targets and swift simultaneous executions. The reconquest of the Imperium with it's muddied waters and sliding scales of loyalty was something they found difficult to adapt to and in the years that followed they lost nearly as many as they did to the Beast's predations.

By the time the Imperium was stabilized and looking even anything like it had once done the Raven Guard was a shattered remnant of it's former glory and it's primarch was almost broken. Corax had seen too much he held dear despoiled, to many dreams crushed. The Steward tried to comfort him but his kind words fell upon deaf ears. In Corax's mind the Great Crusade, the greatest accomplishment of the human species, had failed and he had maybe played no small part in that failing.

To his credit he never let his sorrows interfere with his work. The Raven Guard was built up far more modestly in scale and in the place of a Legion a hundred Chapters were built in the centuries that followed. By the time that the last of the first commissioned chapters was declared ready for duty Corax was an old withered man. His early life had been hard and he had started on the rejuvenants relatively late in life and it showed.

Of Corax's ultimate fate the truth is unknown. He would, in those ancient times, travel between the newly minted chapters to inspect and advise and occasionally accompany on missions but like always he made few aware of his movements and would often drop in unannounced and leave abruptly. Which chapter he last visited is up for debate as many records are contradictory at best and nonsensical at worse but all is known is that one day he just vanished.

Some hold out hope, even unto the Dark Millennium, that the Raven King will return.

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== Alpharius & Omegon ==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">''''' The Beginning and the End: '''''

"I am the Alpha and Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End." these are the last known records of the primarchs "Alpharius and Omegon". All documents and records pertaining to these individuals were deleted by Inquisition, those that were thought to be associated with the primarchs disappeared and all that was left was a parchment with those words and a small wax stamp beneath depicting the Lernaean hydra of old terran mythology. Now the only way to learn about the individuals and their legacy is by eyewitness accounts and rumours that have slipped beneath the inquisitions watchful gaze.

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One eyewitness report tells of two figures clad in dark robes standing next to the Warlord and his war council, they describe that the figures were much shorter than the other in the council.

It is unknown if these are the individuals known as Alpharius and Omegon because other reports say that they were tall men fighting battles and cutting down enemies. It is now even known if they are two persons and might in fact be one individual. This comes from a witness that said to have met a man dressed in the clothes of a highly revered official that presented himself as "Alpharius Omegon". All that is known that there was at one point one or more individuals called Alpharius and Omegon. But what is known is that he or they had a large part in the counterintelligence and espionage of the unification war. They were said to be masters of infiltration and supposedly had a deep network of agents and assassins so that the mysterious individuals could act at multiple places at once. This network is thought to become what we now know as the Inquisition.

"Cut off one head and two shall take it’s place."<br>
-Last words spoken from a prisoner before committing suicide.

A popular theory about the origins of the mysterious individuals, is that they were the members of the even less known ██████████ that were a secret society of old terra. It’s thought that that they joined the warlord after seeing the potential power that they could have they sent their most loyal and brightest two members to help the Warlord in his endeavours.

"You search the darkness, while we hide in the light. You see not the serpent lying in wait, you see only a brother. We witnessed your beginning and we will be your end."<br>
-Said to be whispered to an Imperial official before her assassination.

Another theory is that they originate from ███ ████ a group of Xenos set on destroying the "primordial annihilator" and thus sent their best human operatives to aid the Warlord and his future plans.

"Cut the head off the snake and the body will die shortly after"
-thought to be a direct quote from either Alpharius or Omegon.

Alpharius and Omegon are thought to be major members in the creation of the inquisition and that after the alliance with the eldar their influence has only increased. Acting as puppet masters, they are thought to be behind both the starting of wars and the ending of them, doing as they see fit for the better of the imperium.

It was around ████ that all records and documents of Alpharius and Omegon were deleted. Theories say that they had died and that their successors order the purge of information surrounding the primarchs so that their legacy and actions can be forgotten. Other theories say that the warlord declared them traitors and therefore got rid of all evidence of their existence.

But yet to this day there are whispers about legions of men and women walking among us, executing the orders of their puppets masters, killing the corrupt, eliminating the foe from the inside and bearing the brand of the hydra

"Hydra Dominatus"<br>
-Alpharius and Omegon, the Beginning and the End

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[[Category:Nobledark Imperium]]