2d4chan - User contributions [en]

Union Astarte

2020-01-22T22:56:57Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885:

Union Astarte

2020-01-22T21:30:19Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885: /* Culture */

Union Astarte

2020-01-22T21:28:16Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885: /* Non-combat Fluff */

Union Astarte

2020-01-22T21:24:42Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885:

Union Astarte

2020-01-22T21:24:29Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885:

Union Astarte

2020-01-22T21:23:55Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885: /* See Also */

Union Astarte

2020-01-22T21:23:45Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885: /* Notable Tau */

Union Astarte

2020-01-22T21:23:29Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885: /* Trivia */

Union Astarte

2020-01-22T21:22:37Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885: /* Warhammer Fantasy */

Union Astarte

2020-01-22T21:22:29Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885: /* TL;DR */

Union Astarte

2020-01-22T21:22:20Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885: /* In a Nutshell */

Union Astarte

2020-01-22T21:22:01Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885: /* Tau Member Races */

Union Astarte

2020-01-22T21:11:15Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885:

Union Astarte

2020-01-22T21:06:54Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885: Created page with "{{Infobox 40k Nations |name=Union Astarte |image=center |bgcolor= |fgcolor= |Capital=Macragge |Official Languages=High Gothic |Power=Major Powe..."

{{Infobox 40k Nations
|name=Union Astarte
|image=[[Image:AdMech Flag.jpg|300px|center]]
|bgcolor=
|fgcolor=
|Capital=Macragge
|Official Languages=High Gothic
|Power=Major Power
|Size=Nearly the entirety of the Galactic East
|Head of State=Supreme Chancellor
|Head of Government=Council of Ultramar
|Governmental Structure=Military Confederacy
|State Religion/Ideology=[[]]
|Demographic=[[Space Marines]], [[Humans]], [[Minor Xenos]]
}}
[[File:9jfnqeaplhexx.jpg|right|thumb|450px|Get the fuck out of the way, [[Imperium|Oldfag]]. (Vior'la Sept Fire Warriors)]]
{{Topquote|Why do you see the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye?|Luke 6:41}}
{{Topquote|Ce qui constitue une République, c'est l'extermination totale de tout ce qui lui est opposé. - What constitutes a Republic is the total destruction of that which is opposed to it.|Louis Antoine de Saint-Just}}
{{Topquote|The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.|Sun Tzu}}

Tau (τ) is the 19th letter of the Greek alphabet, 300 in Greek numerals, and also the name for 2π.

It is also the name of the Warhammer 40K race known as the '''Tau''' (or "bluies", as the Valhallan 597th call them)(or "Space Communists" as anyone on /tg/ will tell you), (or "T'au" as GW copyright lawyers call them) are a playable race and a minor and overall insignificant power in ''[[Warhammer 40,000]]''. When first discovered by humanity, the Tau were a barbaric and primitive people. Their planet was then trapped in a warp storm for a few thousand years and they emerged from the other side as a unified species, led by the [[Druids|mysterious]] Ethereal caste and devoted to the concept of the "[[Greater Good]]". Their new empire supposedly has around 115 worlds, although only 36 of those have any sort of activity on them and the rest are either useless rocks or not shown/mentioned at all. They were growing until recently, when the Imperium sent a large invading force to counter them.

Although a dystopian society in its own right, the Tau Empire is noted for being one of the LEAST awful places in all the galaxy of 40k. It's also [[Derp|not really an empire]]; the Tau government, the Ethereal caste, is essentially an edifice of meritocracy and nepotism-Tau leaders are appointed to their position by even higher ranking leaders and/or a council of their future peers; the highest ranking Tau, the Aun'O, is elected by his future underlings, much like the Catholic pope, but is still simply considered the weightiest voice of a group (like a prime minister), not an Emperor with absolute power. While Tau civilization has the behavioral tendencies of many empires throughout history (expansionism, military conquest of weaker states, forcible integration of the conquered peoples, etc.), it is the government structure of a state that makes it an empire, not foreign policies. Essentially, they are ''imperialist,'' but not an ''empire''. That said, an imperialistic nation is an empire, not the form of government. So, it is an empire without an imperial government. Like the United States during its Westward expansion.

The Tau started as a classic case of successful design-based [[Troll|trolling]] on the part of [[Games Workshop]]. They were originally developed because GW felt that their setting needed an optimistic race and that their wallets needed more money, which they could get by selling shedloads of 40k to the robot-obsessed Japanese. The Tau, therefore, are the least [[grimdark]] faction in the game; [[Tau Diplomacy|they're the dudes willing to negotiate when they've beaten their enemies]] ([[The Beast|we cannot forget the green skinned diplomats our boy sent out during his siege of terra]]) while all the others are either too [[Chaos Space Marines| murderously psychotic in ways incomprehensible to anyone who does not share the same batshit insanity]], [[Imperium|religiously overzealous]], [[Eldar|arrogantly indifferent]], [[Orks|simplemindedly violent]], [[Necron|murderously enigmatic]], [[Tyranid|more interested in eating you than anything]], or [[Dark Eldar|all of the above]] to offer such courtesies.

This began to change in the 6th edition. For all the claims that GW doesn't listen to its fans, someone seemed to have heard the incessant bitching many fa/tg/uys made over the Tau [[Belisarius Cawl|being shoehorned into the setting]] [[Primaris Marines|in the worst way possible.]] As a result, the Tau began to take on an Orwellian flavor and Imperium-esque elements, with the Ethereals being totalitarian autocrats performing acts of ruthless indifference towards their subjects, including [[Nazi|eugenics]] or up to [[Exterminatus]] of lost races (e.g. Orks and Tyranids), in the guise of being for the Greater Good.

Twelve year old [[fluff]] (from ''[[Dawn of War]]'', supported by [[Deathwatch]] supplements describing Achillus Crusade) has them arbitrarily sterilizing the rebelling humans on Kronus once they come under the rule of the Tau Empire (to be fair though, had it been anyone else they were revolting against, including the Imperials, those humans would be dead, [[Grimdark|most likely the slow and painful way, or even suffer such a terrible fate as to wish for death]]).

The Tau Codex leaves ambiguous the question of just how much of their success is due to various forms of indoctrination, caste-based conditioning, and subtle mind control. This has only been exacerbated by the recent Farsight Enclaves supplement, which makes the Ethereals come off as mustache-twirling, Saturday-morning-cartoon villains. It speaks volumes about the 40k setting that in spite of all this they're ''still'' the friendliest race in the galaxy.

Also, the Tau have twenty planets after a handful were eaten by Tyranids (discounting allied held worlds and worlds with little to no inhabitants on them). Despite this, fanfiction writers who somehow got hired by GW and Tau fans alike have this strange habit of treating them like a major faction. For instance, a galaxy ruling combined empire with the Imperum and Eldar usually includes the Tau because the writer doesn't realize the Tau are one of the smallest, most insignificant minor species in the galaxy. This isn't to insult them, they can always get stronger; it's just the plain truth, currently that is. The setting stretches millennia, so who knows how far they can go, hopefully they'll become more and grow experienced as time goes on assuming the setting doesn't fall into constant grind never proceeding to the next year for decades ''again''.

One of the more hateful aspects of the Tau is that Games Workshop feels the need to make them seem viable as an army by having their power fluctuate wildly, for example, the Tau can easily subjugate Imperial Hive Worlds and deport its population so easily that it doesn't even get a footnote. You know, those planets in which the population of a single city shocked an Tau ambassador because ''the city's population was greater than the entirety of the Tau species''? Imagine entire planets of those cities, cities in which everyone is an experienced killer (which is why Space Marines love recruiting from Hive Worlds), armed and ready to fling themselves at any invading xenos to purge them with extreme prejudice. These are the same worlds whose PDF is large enough to enforce Imperial rule, and so contribute massive numbers of Imperial Guard (on top of having their own substantial forces).

As an example of this, take the Battle of Mu'gulath Bay, known as the Battle of Agrellan to the Imperium. This was a fight over a Hive World which the Tau won, how? Using Riptide Battlesuits. According to GW, the Riptide's armor was impervious to nearly all anti-armor weaponry (lascannons, krak missiles, and heavy meltas are a threat to Baneblades and knights and heavier stuff can even threaten Titans, so we know this is bullshit). The kicker though, is that '''''Deathstrike Missiles''''' ''did nothing'' when its shields were active. You know, the missiles '''''Titans are afraid of''''' and can vaporize armies? And can use Titan-killer warheads? '''Those Missiles'''. This is but one example, another goes back to the Taros campaign in which a Tau stronghold was mysteriously unable to be blown to hell by sustained bombardment from Colossus mortars and then the Tau ''sallied out'' to engage the Imperial forces and won. In addition, a lot of fights are won by their opponents being uncharacteristically stupid, for example in both the Taros Campaign and the Battle of Agrellan the Imperium suddenly forgets how to defend itself, its supply lines and in the second Damocles Gulf Crusade, engages the Tau using formations and tactics that cater to the Tau in the extreme (this is especially egregious in the finale), [[wat|and even has an assassin forget to use her gun to instantly kill her target]]. Even the Marines aren't immune to this sudden stupefying aura, as we have Space Marine Terminators wielding storm shields were shot and killed because they were too busy telling each other to raise their shields up to block the Tau's shots [[derp|instead of raising their shields up to block the fucking shots.]]

There were like three or four of these suits, by the way.

=="Naive Weeaboo Space Communists"==
[[Image:Tau Weeaboo.png|thumb|right|Cue hotblooded music by [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-r6xYnFDoV0 JAM Project].]]
The Tau's naiveté might seem at odds with the GRIMDARK-ness of the setting (and to a degree, a lot of it is), but the thing is, Games Workshop specifically plays this straight FOR the [[grimdark]] and ''knows'' that the seeming futility of the Tau's optimism only further accentuates the general hellishness of the rest of the galaxy - and dear [[Emperor|god]] do they play this up for maximum effect. In the 41st millennium, the Tau come across as ''more'' than a little naive to the other races; the Imperium sees any contact with aliens as heretical and will shoot them with [[bolter]] rounds as soon as they look at them; the [[Ork]]s just want to kick the shit out of things; and the [[Eldar]] see the Tau as young and powerful because of their technology but also as a race in its infancy, just staggering out of its borders for the first time and wandering into a pond full of [[Saharduin|sh]][[Dark Eldar|ar]][[Chaos|ks]].

In older fluff, the Tau were implied to have been secretly uplifted by the Eldar through the creation and subtle control of the Etherals (especially the mind-influencing pheromone secreting gland at the base of Etherals’ spines) and guiding them through reverse-engineering Imperial technology from the ruined colony ships. Eventually the Eldar abandoned them because the Tau never accomplished anything notable on their own due to a crippling lack of creativity. Humans must be in physical contact with an Ethereal or perhaps subjected to heavy doses of the pheromone in other ways to be sufficiently affected but aliens are affected merely by being in the vicinity of an Ethereal. Whether this is canon or not now is uncertain. It all probably is, seeing as it hasn’t been retconned/overwritten. Or GW forgot about it.

Putting it simply, there's an ongoing joke that the Tau are some of the most successful trolling performed in the history of mankind just by ''existing''; a case of the company installing them just to mix things up whilst at the same time keeping them surprisingly on-level.

The combination of the above fluff, however, paired with their highly advanced technology, generally "Asian" feel (their Fire Caste's combat doctrine is often reminiscent of Sun Tzu's "''Art of War''" - but derived from two distinct Tau hunting methods), use of [[Mecha|battlesuits]] (just [[Imperial Knight|like]] [[Dreadnought|the]] [[Titan (Warhammer 40,000)|Imperium]]), [[Hammerhead Gunship|heavy firepower]] which rivals that of the Imperial Guard, and one of the [[Fish of Fury|most broken tactics in tabletop 40K until it was finally fixed an edition later]] has conspired to make them very much hated (and by that we mean a source of butthurt) by a reasonable-sized population of the [[/tg/|40K fan populace]], and /tg/ has rightly dubbed the Tau [[Weeaboo]] (as much due to their Asian-ness as anything else) as a result (even when people can use the same logic to point to the Imperium's xenophobia, the fanatical worship of the God-Emperor, extensive use of Mecha and suicide attacks, use of suicide attacks as punishment for dishonour, and fondness for over-the-top dialogue in general and conclude that the Imperium of Man is Imperial Japan in Space). As a dark twist on this inherent Asian-ness, a thread concerning lack of grimdark fan fluff on Tau led to the creation of [[Sept V'iet]], the Viet Cong Tau.
[[Image:Tau fire warriors.jpg|490px|thumb|left|The [[Greater Good]]: translatable as [[Deal with it|"if you want to make an omelette, you gotta break some eggs."]]]]

And again in a case of much cultural confusion, the Tau are often considered [[Communism|communists]] (despite being a rigorous, hierarchical, near-eugenicist class society that would drive Marx into [[RAGE]]) due to their central philosophy of casting aside the self in favour of the Greater Good. This is partly because it's a nearly twenty year old meme by this point and memes that old are very stubborn about dying... and partly because we're a bunch of ignorant fucks. If anything the Tau more resemble the class system of Plato's ''Republic'' crossed with the caste system of India and [[Star_Trek#The_Federation|Star Trek's Federation]], and a little bit of facism as well (because they're the only ones in the entire galaxy who bother to try diplomacy with xenos rather than [[Exterminatus|exterminate]] them (partly because all but a few alien species are horrific space monsters that only a complete idiot would try to negotiate with)).

Even then, the Tau has more in common with the Imperium than the noblebright space hippie Feds; they adhere to a highly strict doctrine of eugenics, as [[Love Can Bloom|all forms of love, sex or breeding between different castes]] are, translated from Tau lexicon into Gothic, '''[[HERESY]]'''. The Tau also have an explicit merchant caste as well as a single unified currency (something the Imperium of Man only has in theory, [[Imperial Truth|much like everything else]]) along with a system of standardised wage labour which makes them actually more Capitalist than the still stuck in Feudal Economics Imperium. Contrast to the Craftworld Eldar who's society of post-scarcity voluntary labour actually is fully Communist, albeit there's still nobles entitled to bigger houses.

As well, the Tau treat their [[Tau#Tau_Member_Races|non-Tau comrades]] as second-class citizens with no say in the Tau government, and demand them to abandon their old culture and conform to a Tau Empire, basically becoming like everyone else. Ergo, the Tau, despite not being the exterminate-all-other-species kind of racist, are still an ethnocentric, aristocratic empire pretending to be a Federation, not unlike Britain during their 'tenure' as the rulers of India.

To double the weebiness but to greatly decrease the communism connection, the Tau are remarkably similar to war-time era Imperial Japan. Not in terms of military doctrine but in terms of its geopolitics. Like Imperial Japan they're a young power situated in the east, relatively far from most of their possible rivals' centres of power. Like Imperial Japan they have a seemingly nice enough doctrine in terms of rhetoric; "Greater Good" and "Co-Prosperity Sphere"; but in terms of practise what it means is that they want to replace the old empires in the region with their own. Like Imperial Japan they're at a significant disadvantage in terms of production power compared to their most serious rivals in the region, and hope to compensate for that by tactical superiority and winning big decisive battles to topple the old powers.

To further solidify the connections to Japan in the early 20th century, the Tau Empire even borrows some terminology, such as "spheres" of expansion, a firm belief that despite their grotesque material inferiority to their primary enemies the power of their ideals and their superior willpower shall overcome their enemies all, and a dogged insistence on picking fights it probably can't win. Imperial Japan knew that America alone had nearly twelve times the industrial power, with Britain having thrice Japan's military-industrial might, France just about matching theirs, and the Soviets having four times that, and even China; despite being a wartorn barely functional shithole, could be a quagmire for it. But Japan didn't give a shit because they thought that they were so awesome they could somehow get all these people to surrender through a combination of being better at war than their soft, mewling enemies and that they simply believed in their destiny to rule the waves more than anyone else did. Much like how the Tau is fully aware that the Imperium, the Orks, the Necrons, and the Tyranids could all squash them flat in a stand up fight, but believe this is immaterial because their belief in the greater good shall overcome all and they have mastered the ways of war while their foes are mired in ignorance.

What is for sure though is that, whatever part of the terribly suited to analysing politics outside of the modern era one-dimensional spectrum of political agenda they are on (probably wherever you'd put Imperial Japan during world war two), the Tau government is mainly oligarchical, with the vast majority of political power concentrated in the Ethereal caste. This is further driven home by the fact there is a Tau splinter faction led by one of their two best generals alive, Commander [[Farsight]] of the Farsight Enclaves, whose government is a non-caste society seemingly devoid of merchants, meritocratic semi-democracy. The problem is, until people stop dragging him out of his self-imposed exile to fight Tyranids, Orks, and other Tau, he's a dictator the way Optimus Prime is sometimes depicted. Farsight's government is one most certainly [[RAGE|NOT recognized by the Tau Empire]], who have finally gotten around to dispatching a fleet to silence them. We still have yet to see the outcome of this fleet dispatch, though.

However, the new codex has HEAVILY downplayed their naiveté, bringing back the original codex mention that the Ethereals have officially declared some species "[[Exterminatus|lost causes]]" and that the [[Greater Good]] demands they be killed to the last.
*[[Orks]] were the first of the big players of 40k to get this treatment. They pretty much were the only serious competition Tau had before they discovered the Imperium, and it only took them a few weeks of study to realize the fact that Orks are beyond reason or sanity. They still have not realized that their encounters with Orks have merely been minute numbers of stragglers.
*[[Tyranids]] unsurprisingly ended up on "shoot on sight" list pretty much after the first contact. Like with Orks, the Tau are unaware of the small force of Tyranids they have experienced and that the main fleet they "destroyed" has since come back stronger.
*[[Eldar]] briefly were on the list too, owning this to the first contact being made by the Commorites, and not just any, but [[Urien Rakarth]] himself. It took some nuked Exodite world and Craftworld intervention for tau to realize that not all space-elves are insane rapists and scratch them off the list. Probably more encouraged by the Eldar effortlessly curbstomping them than actually caring that they shot the wrong Spelves.
*[[Space Marines]] seem to be entering the list as of the second Damocles war. The reason is not because it's impossible to reason with them, but because after some intense Water caste psychoanalysis and Nagi "mind-[[rape|ripping]]" they pretty much declared that Astartes aren't ''people'' but merely a ''weapon'' and as such have no place in Tau'Va. Since this means they ignore the [[Blood Angels|artistic]], [[Thousand Sons|scholarly]], [[Word Bearers|philosophical]], and [[Ultramarines|administrative]] aspects of being Astartes intended to give them purpose after the Great Crusade ended the Tau are probably just scared shitless of Space Marines and the sheer inspiration their presence brings even off the battlefield.

To sum it up, the Tau Empire is still an expansionist empire prone to using military force, but far better than almost every other polity in the setting, as it permits others to exist with rather lenient standards, and isn't dedicated to the purposeful extinction of all other life in the galaxy. On the other hand, they don’t care if you’re some primitive feral species or a peaceful member of a species they have decided to be a lost cause. Also, as a result of surviving attacks from the major factions in the galaxy yet being blissfully unaware that those were merely tiny brushes or stragglers of vastly larger forces, the Tau believe they have proven they can truly hold their own in the galaxy against all the major players. As of Eighth Edition they were corrected quite painfully due to the opening of the Great Rift and the loss of most of their Fourth Sphere Expansion forces to a Warp rift, and following a massive Chaos invasion they have been forced to face the possibility that their empire might have bitten off more than it can chew.

Ironically, if their tech really is reverse-engineered Imperial tech (science-wise), it might not be heresy to... take it back.

==Military Doctrine==
[[Image:TauTyr2.jpg|right|500px|thumb|Close-quarters painting [[Drawfag|strikes again.]]]]
The Tau disdain [[Choppy|melee]] [[Rip and tear|combat]] in favour of [[Shooty|ranged combat]], which renders them instantaneously [[Matt Ward|less manly]] in the eyes of most of /tg/'s playerbase. The reasons behind this are complicated. Generally, Tau see hand to hand combat in warfare as an anachronism, which makes sense, considering their basic guns can rip apart tank side armour, and compared to almost all other major races Tau have less muscle strength and reaction speed, which makes them ineffective in melee even if they are trained.

Even the last reason alone is enough to avoid close combat, seeing as [[Necrons]] use similar logic, despite their [[Necron Warrior|Warriors]] and [[Necron Immortal|Immortals]] being much stronger and tougher, and actually highly trained in close combat, but equally as slow, though if the Necrons do want to get into melee, they're certainly not lacking in specialists. That said, Tau do practice martial arts, but only for ritual purposes - Fire Warrior trials and rites involve knives and swords, while Ethereals have a tradition of fighting non-lethal duels to settle disputes, using sharp bladed weapons no less, so they are often quite good with their fencing style, as [[Aun'Shi]] has shown to some unfortunate Orks.

Some people think Tau military doctrine has been hit hard with the same [[grimdark|stupidity]] nerf bat as every other fieldable army; every other faction has some reason for their material to be as limited as they would be in a fantasy setting, but the Tau have widespread education, unlike Men and Orks; reasonable access to production facilities relative to their population, unlike Necrons and Eldar; and are capable of coherent research and development, unlike Tyranids and Daemons.

For fluff reasons which have never been explained (the crunch reason is obvious), they have the same motif as every other army of equipment often being more valuable than the person wielding it, leading to most personnel being fielded with "inferior" equipment. The most obvious example of this is that they always, under whatever circumstance, field infantry in simple combat armour rather than some sort of battlesuit - its only advantage is having less bulk, as the Tau have a reason not to build larger transports to cope with the shitloads of battlesuits they could deploy instead.

This argument is analogous to saying that real-world militaries should only use armored vehicles and not have infantry, and says more about fa/tg/uy ignorance than Tau doctrine. The Tau likely practice economy of force, which has consequences both on and off the battlefield. Sending excessive amounts of force at a target is wasteful, as the excess firepower would be more useful elsewhere. If one only has a XV8 Battlesuits and no infantry, but a swarm of grots in a nearby pass needs to be taken out, they have no choice but to commit a very valuable unit to a task far beneath its worth. This is also an economic matter, as lower power units are cheaper and the Tau do not have an infinite supply of the rare materials needed to produce the strongest Battlesuits.

One could easily field a number of fire warriors for far less than the cost of a single battlesuit, and considering many foes will fall beneath "mere" infantry, any cost-aware faction would prefer the infantry's use over an expensive battlesuit. Similarly, when it comes to occupying or garrisoning territory, numbers of soldiers is significantly more important than quality of soldiers as they need to cover ground and establish a presence. In other words, they are the army who most resemble modern forces in terms of strategy, and mixed armies of infantry, armor and support elements are a good combination. And who the fuck can with a straight face call a pulse rifle and carapace grade armour "inferior equipment"? The view their equipment or doctrine is nerfed also ignores that armies have to replace lost and damaged equipment as well as actually get that equipment to the troops or they're absolutely fucked. An expensive army of battlesuits is lovely right until combat losses alongside wear and tear reach a point where the empires production can't keep up with losses or supply problems mean they don't reach the front (armies in 40k have been shown running low on ammo something far easier to produce and transport in large numbers than battlesuits). A army based around soldiers armed with "cheap" rifles and armour is a lot easier to produce and keep in the field even in the face of casualties or supply problems.

The Tau's superior [[Dakka|firepower]] is similar to that of the [[Imperial Guard]], but their strategy is different in that they tend to rely less on mass warfare and more on sophisticated technical support (drones, stealth technology, railguns), with an emphasis on tactical precision, mobility, and the initiative of individual squads of units, much like how modern warfare is waged (apparently if the Imperial Guard learned from Tau tacticians and fought with modern tactics instead of zergrushing everything then they would have been the most powerful army in the galaxy, but no, that ain't GRIMDARK and AWESOME enough [unless you're [[Lord Solar Macharius|Macharius]]]). Their military doctrine is not based on winning by attrition and/or throwing out quality tactics in favour of absorbing and dishing out heavy shocks in bloody epic clusterfucks like the Imperials, Orks and early World War II-era Soviet Russia. (Unless you count the later war "deep warfare", which is actually the combat doctrine the Tau ripped off. 40k really seems to like the Russians...)

Rather, they use infiltration and their sophisticated battlesuits to [[Anal Circumference|bypass enemy strong points and launch deep into their rear]], cutting supply lines and logistics, destroying headquarters and support units, leaving enemies cut off and functionally helpless. There are numerous examples of Tau literally starving and/or thirsting entire armies to death by cutting out their supply lines, while simultaneously harassing them with night raids, ambushes and air strikes to the point the survivors are leaderless, demoralized, out of ammo and fuel, and can barely stand due to exhaustion. The [[Imperial_Armour_Volume_Three:_The_Taros_Campaign#Volume_Three_-_The_Taros_Campaign|Taros]] campaign is a prime example of these tactics (and of the Imperium's strategic stupidity).

Of course, these kinds of tactics only work fine against more convenient armies like the Imperial Guard or Orks. When it comes to Space Marines and Eldar, who sport mostly aerial/warp/webway supply lines, operate as elite armies without obvious weak spots to exploit, have similar or superior tactical mobility and badass officers that can survive most assassination attempts, Tau lose huge parts of their usual advantages (but get the numerical superiority in return). Against utterly unconventional foes, like Tyranids, Daemons or Necrons... well, all times they faced such foes, Tau either devised some entirely new strategies, or lost horribly.

[[File:TauTyr.jpg|thumb|left|300px|90% of Tau [[dakka]] comes in the form of [[Plasma|pretty blue lights.]]]]
The Tau, again, boast some of the most powerful ranged weaponry on the tabletop game, and can crank out more concentrated firepower than any other faction with the lone exception of the Imperial Guard and maybe the orks if you only count number of bullets in the air, and even then, the Tau's weapons hit quite a bit harder. They have pathetic hand-to-hand combat skills, however, and so the Tau bolster this by using several inducted races (the [[Kroot]], Vespid, and even some [[Gue'vesa|humans cut off from the Imperium during the Damocles Crusade]]) to act as buffers against assault troops to allow Tau Fire Warrior teams and their heavy, long-ranged firepower to tear enemies apart. The most pivotal, and perhaps most infamous, part of the Tau army are their [[Battlesuit|Battlesuits]], which can mount multiple heavy weapon systems and provide excellent mobility to their pilots, all on a fairly durable unit.

They also have an extremely powerful navy, though not quite as formidable as the Imperium's, if largely because of number differences. Tau air units are among the best in the game, with aircraft superior or equal to Imperial Guard equivalents, including a stealth fighter, multipurpose heavy fighter, a superheavy fighter with guns that can one-shot a Titan, and their own [[Manta|Titan-equivalent]] (which is a small starship). Unlike the Imperium, they usually deploy swarms upon swarms of flyers, with only Orks, Tyranids, and Necrons able to rival them in numbers when things come to dogfights—kind of the way the Imperial fleets' atmospheric support craft were supposed to work if fleet officers weren't a bunch of assholes who do everything they can to provide as little air support as possible.

On defense, the Tau are a bit unusual: they leave only token garrisons at their colonies to protect them. These garrisons are intended for scouting rather than combat, avoiding engagement in order to observe and report on invaders using Pathfinders, scanning towers, and drones. Because the Tau have fairly powerful spacefleets and usually keep their forces within reasoned distance of potential hotspots, any potential threat can be quickly dealt with by organizing a hunter cadre to be sent to deal with the situation. For those of you who don't get it, it's Frederick the Great's "he who tries to protect everything protects nothing" strategy.

Of course, this strategy means Tau must have some worlds actually being heavily defended - and in fact they do. Sept worlds tend to be guarded by some nasty space stations and garrisoned by an unreasonable amounts of hunter cadres and auxiliary troops, which allows them to act as major defensive nodes from which response fleets are dispatched and to which evacuation fleets rally (think feudal Japan style castles from which commanders would send trained garrisons out to protect the lands around it from encroaching armies), and in case some really scary shit like an Imperial crusade or a Tyranid hive-fleet comes into the sept, it is on the sept world where the decisive battle is fought (See the First Damocles Crusade for an example of this tactic in action).

This has, however, backfired on occasion, since it does mean that the Tau garrisons are very vulnerable in the initial stages of an attack. It also makes them very vulnerable to Orphean War style rapid assaults where the attacker is advancing so quickly the defender doesn't even have time to relay the news that they're under attack to the rest of their army. While the Tau haven't yet faced something like the Maynarkh Dynasty, they are awfully close to the Sautekh Dynasty and Imotekh is a noted cantankerous asshole and egotistical conqueror.

A rare advantage the Tau have is their willingness to change military strategy. As examples, look at how they changed tactics in reaction to the [[Damocles Crusade]] by the Imperium of Man, and even built an entirely new space fleet to match humans in straight-on space fights, or their unusual but effective choice of switching to older weapons when dealing with [[Hive Fleet Gorgon]].

==Fleet==
In the old fluff, Tau used to have a reverse-engineered imperial warp drives, tuned to only skim the surface of the warp and bounce back to materium after a short while. New fluff on the other hand retconned that, by giving them what is called "slingshot drive" for their FTL, and from what little fluff we have on it, it looks like the actual warp drive (in the modern physics meaning, i.e. warped time-space bubble). The practical applications, however, are the same in both new and old fluff - Tau FTL is much slower than the Imperium's, but is predictable, reliable, and not affected by warp storms (a big deal, given Tau spent half of their history inside one). As a result, Tau are capable of building proper interstellar logistics lines, ones the Administratum can only dream of, but their strategic mobility is lacking, to say the least compared to pretty much every other faction (though the non-Warp drive using FTL factions are different; the Necrons and Eldar teleport while the Tyranids bring their production power with them).

Additionally, Slingshot drives are rather big, heavy and power-hungry, even compared to the Warp drive (which takes up a 1/3rd of a smaller imperial ships). As a result, escort-class Tau spacecraft are built without FTL drives and are hooked to bigger ships for the purpose of interstellar travel, which basically make them equivalents of the Imperium's system monitor ships, with the same benefits (cheap, compact and too fast, powerful or durable for their size) without their major downside (being incapable of FTL flight). The Tau also have to concentrate their forces on an interplanetary scale; they can't throw a bunch of ships into a warzone from halfway across the galaxy as orks and humans can.
Tau empire have two fleets:
*Kor'Vatra, or "merchant fleet", is made of older modular ships that double as merchant and colony vessels (hence the name). One of their main shticks is huge arcs of fire for most gun batteries, with side batteries easily covering front arc, and nose batteries covering all but the stern - as a result, while Kor'vatra Ships may not have as much firepower as Imperial or Ork ones, they can focus more of it on one target. On the flip side, merchant ships while decently fast at sub-light, are not very agile, and must rely on escort wings and auxiliary fleets against more maneuverable foes. Even after the founding of Kor'Or'Vesh, Kor'Vatra still see a lot of military use, especially against the Imperium, <i>precisely</i> because it's regarded as non-military fleet, so Tau diplomats could tell their imperial colleagues "What battle cruisers on your orbit are you talking about? It's just our merchant vessels, moving goods to and from our trade missions".
*Kor'Or'Vesh, or "combat fleet" is a newer fleet, made for battling Imperium's fleet in straight up battle, after Kor'Vatra get run over during Damocles crusade. Made out of more compact, maneuverable and better armored ships, it may lack Kor'Vatra's wide arks of fire, but is superior in every other regard, and as Taros and second Damocles campaigns showed it is more then capable of fighting off humans even if outnumbered.
Both fleets use largely the same technologies - railguns as (by tau standard) short-ranged high damage gun batteries, ion cannons as long range beams (lance equivalent), and above all, their brokenly-powerful ordinance second only to Eldar ones (and available in far greater numbers) - Mantas, Barracudas and EMP drone-torpedoes reign supreme at extreme ranges, gaining Tau navy the same reputation their ground armies have. Because their ordinance is so powerful, most Tau ships tend towards carrier and torpedo boat archetype, and suffer horribly if enemy comes within macro-cannon or god-forbid boarding range (that is IF they manage to come that close).

==Non-combat Fluff==
[[File:Tau city.jpg|450px|thumb|right|Contrary to what [[Imperium of Man|some]] believe, what this picture shows might just be the future for the entire galaxy if the Tau [[Great Crusade|get their way.]]]]
The Tau were a new race/culture found by the Imperium of Man during their "slash and burn" exploration of their galactic neighborhood. The Tau were still pastoral, had just discovered flint tools and charcoal, and the Imperium had them scheduled for "[[Grimdark|routine cleansing]]" (Low Gothic for “ruthless genocide”) to make sure they never got off-world and developed into an entity capable of threatening humanity. Needless to say, that plan was promptly [[derp|fucked up]]. By an unfortunate (or fortunate, depending on your feelings towards a species' right to not be mercilessly exterminated for no reason whatsoever) coincidence which almost certainly involved the dickery of [[Tzeentch]] or [[Cegorach]] or [[The Deceiver|something]], a warp storm occluded the Tau homeworld, so nobody could get in or out. Since the Tau were virtually invisible in the warp, the warp storm didn't have much of an effect on them as they were immune to the influences of Chaos.

[[FAIL|The sector was labeled "lost to Chaos,"]] and cleansing was [[What|deferred indefinitely]]. Then [[Age of Apostasy|this shit]] happened, and almost all records about Tau were lost in the ensuring [[Rape|clusterfuck]] of civil war. Only the Adeptus Mechanicus still had records of this first contact when the storm died down 6,000 years later. The Damocles Crusade relocated the Tau, who were completely untouched by the warp storm and now using interstellar colony ships and pulse rifles. The extermination order still stood—it was just going to be much more difficult than the Imperium expected, seeing as the Tau, instead of [[C.S. Goto|throwing spears and rocks at their tanks]] and Space Marines, were now throwing [[ion cannon|ion charges]], [[plasma|plasma blasts]], and [[railgun|electromagnetically-accelerated hypervelocity projectiles]] at their tanks and Space Marines.

Tau history is pretty typical up through the iron-age: a knack for engineering, warfare between "urban" farmers and "barbarian" nomads, and unrestrained growth causing a series of plagues, leading to a dark age. Here's where things go sideways, though the Tau see it as the start of their endless Golden Age: the arrival of the Ethereals. Legend tells of a five-year siege at the castle of Fio'taun, with both sides starving and succumbing to disease, when two foreign Tau entered the battlefield. One went to the castle, the other to the barbarian tribes. Each of these Tau had a quiet grace and irresistible authority. In just a few hours, the castle was persuaded to open their gates, and the barbarians laid down their weapons, and both parties met to parley a truce.

These strange Tau called themselves "Ethereals," and stressed the importance of peace and understanding between all Tau. They described a "Greater Good" that each Tau must strive towards. Soon after, soon enough to seem simultaneous, more of these strange new Tau emerged across the continent with their message of peace and co-operation for all Tau. Their quiet authority was always respected, and their message of harmony was universally embraced. Wait a minute, [[God-Emperor of Mankind|I've seen this]] [[Great Crusade|historical pattern before]]....

Perhaps uniquely for the setting, Tau-human interactions bear the whiff of realpolitik. On the one hand, the Imperium wants to exterminate them ''eventually'', but the upper management generally realizes that the Tau are going to be a giant drain of resources and manpower to get rid of, given the stiff resistance they put up in [[Damocles Crusade|previous campaigns]] and their [[Riptide|uniformly]] [[railgun|advanced]] [[battlesuit|technology]]. Furthermore, they serve as a useful buffer state against various threats on the Eastern Fringe, from Orks and Chaos raiders to Tyranid hive fleets to alien forces the Imperium hasn't had (recorded) contact with. Their existence deflects danger from Imperial space, and in a place and time when the Imperium is [[Time of Ending|coming under attack from all sides]], that's more important than dogma.

This strategy is not unique to the Tau only though, as the Imperium allows countless other (much more dangerous) xeno empires to prosper in the Eastern Fringe to serve as an ablative shield against much nastier shit. Amongst those is (for example) the Charadon ork empire, which is older than the Imperium and spawns a Waaagh! or two per millennium (even with the routine warboss assasination raids that the Ultramarines make). Even after the emergence of the genius warboss Snagrod and his Waagh on Rynn no one cared to issue a crusade against them. So yeah, the Tau empire is not even close to being spotted by the High Lords, not to mention recognized as a threat dangerous enough to actually do something about.

Conversely, the Tau have realized just how massive an undertaking expanding through the entire universe would really be, and are taking it slow. They mostly absorb Imperial buffer worlds stripped of manpower and armament in the face of massive redeployments to face other threats, offering the Empire's protection in return for annexation and outright conquering the places that don't take the deal. The Tau have claimed that they are engaging in this sort of aggressive behavior because ''someone's'' going to [[Tyranids|gobble]] those settlements up sooner or later, and if ''they'' don't do it, then whoever does won't be [[Exterminatus|nearly as nice about it]]. While baldly self-serving, that logic is...well, mostly correct, really.

There's no lost love between the Imperium and the Tau, but open full-scale war is probably unlikely in the near-future.

And then the Second Damocles Crusade happened.... even the imperium isn't that stupid, so this almost certainly involves that tricky dick Tzeench trying to stop the greater good from ruining all his plans. ...Or nurgle...or, well any of the ruinous powers really. Or that ancient scheming old sperg [[Eldrad]], for that matter.

Looking at the new galactic map, where the Tau are now sandwiched between their own eye of terror and a Necron dynasty, they are soon to be fucked.

=== Castes ===
[[File:Commander HawkEye.jpg|thumb|290px|right|<s>Join the Greater Good, lose your virginity to a hot alien babe!</s> Unapproved of sexual contact is an offence to the greater good Gue'La. Now get back to work or you won't get your overtime pay! ]]
Tau society after the arrival of Ethereals was organized into castes; everyone with a place, and a place for everyone. [[Love Can Bloom|Interbreeding between castes and Xenos races]] is one of the most severe crimes in the Empire, in other words, [[Heresy]]. This was outlawed by the [[Ethereal]]s presumably to preserve the biological differences between castes, and as part of this effort they have taken over the practice of sex entirely. Tau society has been manipulated so that Tau do not form romantic bonds of a long-lasting nature and do not even consider sex to be anything other than a state-mandated act meant only, like everything else, to serve society and the Greater Good. In essence, Tau are conditioned to never have sex until and unless their superiors say they are worth breeding.

Their superiors pick their breeding partners (the Tau get NO input into this) and the couple basically spends a few days off from work screwing around before going their separate ways to never see each other again. If a Tau did somehow get over their social conditioning and thought of sex as something more than a mandated duty, they'd be [[Blam|punished/killed for illegal activities/perversion]]. An Imperial genetor's report in the fourth edition Tau codex observes the presence of synthetic proteins in Tau internal organs and suggests them as evidence that their evolution has been accelerated, though he might have been confused by synthetic proteins that the Tau were given. [[/tg/]] seems to be under the strong impression that they are mammals, as you can see in the picture further down the page, despite the complete implausibility of this theory. The frequent [[/d/|sexualization]] of the Tau by fa/tg/uys is a mystery to many, but clearly not all. [[PROMOTIONS|Not nearly enough]], in fact.

==== {{anchor|Fire|Fire Caste}} Shas (Fire) ====
The '''Fire Caste''' consists of the various [[Fire Warrior|warriors]] of the Tau Empire. The miniatures of a Tau army in a [[Warhammer 40,000]] game are almost exclusively Fire Caste. Other castes think Shas are overly-aggressive hotheads due to their tendency to solve all problems by applying more plasma (when Tau encountered other sentient species, Fire Caste representatives immediately voted to hunt down and exterminate them, just like they hunted down dangerous local life forms on the other world they colonized), although for Humans and Eldar, who's history knows numerous [[Wyches|kinky]], [[Haemonculus|horrid]], [[World_Eaters|Earthshatteringly mad]], [[Night_Lords|batshit insane]], [[Blood Angels|bloodthirsty]] individuals and groups, mention of the "Aggressively Hotheaded" Tau would end up with them collectively pointing fingers and laughing at them. On the other hand, it also shows how calm and disciplined other castes are.

They are taller than Earth Caste Tau, and physically stronger than the Air and Water Castes, though still shorter and weaker than a typical Human. They pretty much compensate for this by giving their basic Fire Warrior a [[pulse rifle]], which is sort of like an automatic sniper-[[plasma]] gun, and employ heavily armed and sophisticated battlesuits for their elite infantry. Oh yeah, and [[Railgun]]s. Company -sized Tau forces are called "Hunter Cadres".

==== {{anchor|Earth|Earth Caste}} Fio (Earth) ====
The '''Earth Caste''' are the laborers and engineers; they are the "civilians" of Tau society. Their appearance can vary widely, though other Tau would describe them as "plain." They all have a stoic outlook, with little ambition other than to excel in their career of choice and work for the Greater Good. Unlike the Imperial worker classes, whose quality of life generally ''starts'' at working 14-hour days seven days a week while living off of dried, recycled dung chips and goes [[Such is life on Volg|''downhill from there'']], the Earth caste is mostly concerned with technological planning and engineering.

They have robots to do the grunt work. The Farsight Enclaves field some Earth Caste pilots for their battlesuits, demonstrating their more flexible caste systems and/or their desperation for manpower. Doing so makes them ''even worse'' in close-combat than Tau already are, but they make up for it with technical training and tweaks to the suits' software and mechanics, re-rolling missed shots and equipment failures.

==== {{anchor|Air|Air Caste}} Kor (Air) ====
The '''Air Caste''' are the intermediaries between Tau. In more primitive times they served as messengers and couriers, and sometimes scouts/explorers, gliding on membranous anatomical surfaces through T'au's atmosphere. When the Tau started exploring offworld, it was the Air Caste that took charge of the vessels traveling between the stars. Now the Air Caste are the Tau stellar navy/airforce/mailmen, piloting the Empire's various carriers, warships, and emissary cruisers. Air caste Tau tend to be tall and slender like runners or dancers, and this is frequently exaggerated by the years the Tau navy spends in low-gravity.

They are much less likely to be eaten by [[daemon]]s due to a faulty Geller Field than their Imperial equivalents, but only because their ships are much slower, using a "slingshot drive" to temporarily enter the Warp and bounce back into real space. Despite their slender stature and lack of muscle mass, Air caste pilots are extremely resistant to G-force, making them excellent void and atmospheric fighter pilots (simultaneously, as small Tau voidcraft also double as atmospheric craft).

==== {{anchor|Water|Water Caste}} Por (Water) ====
The '''Water Caste''' are the emissaries to non-Tau. They are diplomats, merchants, civil servants. The most open-minded Tau can be found among the Water caste, with some even showing individual ambition (but still for the greater good of the Tau Empire). When a new culture is encountered, the Water caste are sent in first to negotiate. If talks break down, the Water caste are withdrawn from the area and it's time for the Fire Caste to then start negotiating with pulse weapon fire. Also, unlike their Imperial equivalents in bureaucracy, the [[Administratum]], they are brisk, efficient, and very good at their jobs. No dumping valuable ammo on an uninhabited dust world because no one signed the paperwork not to.

It's a less known fact that Pors also run the Tau intelligence and espionage network, and Por'Os and Por'Els from this branch are pretty much Tau Inquisitors except more competent, much saner, and not nearly as good at kicking asses personally. As of the second Damocles Crusade the Imperium has designated the Water caste as a primary threat above any other Tau caste, as their subterfuge, diplomacy and propaganda has cost the Imperium more worlds and manpower than the Fire and Air caste's military prowess combined, and they even managed to totally outplay the Inquisition on its own field, which royally pissed them off.

==== {{anchor|Ethereal|Ethereal Caste}} Aun (Ethereal) ====
The '''Ethereal Caste''' are basically the philosopher-kings described by Plato in "The Republic". They are selfless and always focused on what is best for the Greater Good ("Tau'va") for all Tau and every Tau without exception. The Ethereals are inspirational to all Tau caste members, and merely being near one will inspire a Tau soldier, engineer, pilot, or diplomat to work harder.

In the case of the Fire Caste, some Ethereals accompany hunter cadres in battle during important deployments so as to better lead/inspire the troops, which works because all Tau in the combat zone will fight to their bitter deaths. They also seem to have semi-magical powers (don't ask how they work, none of the Tau know themselves) that allow Tau around them to do special things, like running while shooting. The [[Adeptus Mechanicus]] theorizes that the respect the Ethereal Caste gets from all other Tau is caused by a pheromone. <b>ALL GLORY TO THE HYPNOTAU......</b>.
Also, ''[[Xenology]]'' relates a story from a major, insectoid race called the [[Q'Orl]] which alleges that the [[Eldar]] stole one of their queens. Given that these queens have a magic, yellow, diamond-shaped sack that produces mind-control pheromones…well, let's just say the characters in the story figure it out quickly enough. There is a theory that the Ethereals themselves are also affected by their own pheromones, which could explain why they're so selfless and uncorrupted despite their absolute power (although being uncorrupted no longer seems to apply after 7th/8th edition).

This can also be supported by the (old as fuck and likely retconned) novelization of [[Warhammer_40,000:_Fire_Warrior|Fire Warrior]], where the Ethereal character has a pretty level head and chipper demeanor despite having been [[Anal_Circumference|repeatedly captured and tortured by both the Inquisition and Chaos, watching his diplomatic retinue chopped up by a Chaos Lord, and mind-raped by said Chaos Lord all in the span of roughly two days.]] Either he's a stoic old motherfucker, or he's just too busy tripping his blue balls on his own pheromones to give a shit.

8th ed has a particularly interesting story in it and it proves without a shadow of a doubt: the Ethereal caste does use some kind of mind-altering substance or influence on the Tau. During a meeting with Commander O'Ryn and Aun'Va (who is a solid hologram controlled by an AI at this point) in the planet of Junica, their location was ambushed by Chaos forces and Aun'Va (or the AI acting like Aun'Va) ordered O'Ryn to send her forces on what's essentially a suicide mission. O'Ryn, not seeing the point of throwing her and her soldiers' lives at such a hopeless battle, actually ''defied'' the command of an ethereal (and the space pope himself, no less) and retreated. It could've been an interesting and pretty terrifying critique of how manipulative a totalitarian system can be and that the Ethereals don't shy away from anything to keep the people in line. But no, it was explained with mind control, which is way lazier and honestly way less terrifying.

O'Ryn was eventually declared a renegade and Farsight took her in, but it does indeed prove that the unflinching and unquestioning loyalty and fanaticism that the ethereals' physical presence inspire on nearby Tau aren't due to their charisma or the Tau's indoctrination, and instead on something more sinister. To put this into perspective: O'Ryn has been the first Tau since Farsight to actively defy an ethereal's command and the main reason she was able to do so was because she was speaking to an AI-controlled drone, instead of the actual space pope.

===Tau Names===
Tau have ridiculously long, detailed and actually meaningful names. Their names contain their caste, rank, birth sept, and one or more nicknames earned by them through the course of their lives. Fluff does say that they ''do'' have birth names, but those are only used before tau earn at least one appropriate nickname, as a name given to them by comrades is considered more valuable than one just chosen by random at their birth. The nickname part and its importance surprisingly is actually taken from the Roman culture, which is weird, given most Tau culture tend to be based on China and Japan (except for their social and government structures which are copied almost verbatim from Plato's Republic).

Also, do note the lack of last names, which is expected, since Tau society pretty much have no institute of a family, with children being raised in a centralized facilities apart from their parents. As tau grow, move through ranks and achieve respect of his comrades his name changes appropriately, switching the rank part, adding new nicknames and sometimes dropping the old and outdated ones. For example, when Farsight was still a lowly fire warrior, his name was '''Shas'La Vior'La Shoh''' (Fire Caste Private of the Hot-Blooded sept Inner Light), and at the "present days" '''Shas'O Vior'La Shovah Kais Mont'yr''' (Fire Caste Commander of the Hot-Blooded sept Farsight Skillful Blooded). How the fuck Tau bureaucracy is able to keep track of their population with their names constantly changing is a mystery, but it seems they have no problem with that, probably because they just track ID numbers when names are too much of an issue like most sane people who work with databases.

For the sake of convenience Tau often use shortened versions of names, almost always dropping the sept part and secondary nicknames, and if speaking within one caste the caste part too, so in the case of Farsight other fire warriors could refer to him as O'Shovah, while for example an Ethereal would call him Shas'O'Shovah (assuming Farsight allows this given his seething hatred of Ethereals, he's the type who'd force them to use his full name out of spite). Humans and other non-Tau often get this system wrong and shorten the names in a ways that make little sense: for example, Imperium's Taros invasion force thought the Taros' chief Ethereal's name was Aun'El, which was only his caste and rank, and as the book was mostly written from the Imperium's standpoint, we still don't know what was his actual name.

One final stroke of Tau naming, is that as they abandon their true (birth) names it makes them even more resistant to sorcery and daemonic powers that often require target's true name to amplify their effect or even make the spell work at all.

===Psychic/Chaos Defenses===
Tau as a species are comprised of psychic blunts, they cannot produce psykers and have limited innate resistance to some forms of psychic powers and daemonic bullshit. People often mistake this resistance to outright invulnerability, but in truth it's more akin to camouflage - Tau souls are so dim they are indistinguishable from the spirits of non-sapients at best, and at most times they even blend in the psychic background of inanimate objects. This may have something to do with how unemotional tau are, as some of the more passionate subjects in the fluff had been slightly affected by warp shenanigans like faint whispers and slight feelings of "wrongness" in places where humans creep out and try to run away immediately, while more calm and collected tau hadn't noticed anything strange. If for example a telepath tries to mind-rape a tau or a daemon tries to posses a tau he'd find it hard to find a soul to target, but if he manages to find it there would be even less resistance than with regular humans. Sadly while this trait is often shown in the fluff, it does not affect tau crunch in any way.

This innate defense is further strengthened by the Greater Good philosophy deeply indoctrinated into each Tau from childhood and (allegedly) reinforced by a subtle mind control if one were to believe in Ethereal Pheromones. Tau'Va being the antithesis of all the creeds of Chaos makes Tau all but immune to its temptations, and only a single Tau has ever actually fallen to Chaos, the Water Caste member Water Spider who was possessed by a Daemon of Tzeentch. That being said, the Tau have only just been exposed to the more material horrors of the galaxy; should they become jaded and start losing faith in the Greater Good (as inferred with giving up on indoctrinating certain species), well, that would be an entirely different situation. Their allies, including the Kroot, have been known to go all-in with Chaos worship, although Tau seldom take culture from their allied races.

8th Ed is here, and has confirmed that the Tau aren't immune to Chaos, just slightly difficult for Daemons to spot. When the Tau started the 4th Sphere Expansion with their new warp drives: they didn't take a note from the Imperials' tech and failed to invent the [[Gellar Field]] too, meaning they were fully vulnerable to the Warp's denizens. The entire experience was hilarious. First was the unpredictability of their warp drives (known as "slipstream technology" to them) that caused most of their expeditionary fleet to be destroyed due to unleashing massive tears in the fabric of reality, [[lulz|while being broadcasted to the Tau sept worlds, causing the Ethereals to rapidly evacuate their bowels as they scramble to censor the event to the wider populace.]] Those that weren't immediately torn up by the warp rifts, were sucked into the Warp where a vast majority was either destroyed after drifting in the more unsavory parts of the Warp, or the various daemons mucking about.

Contact was lost, but the Tau managed to find the survivors later, nestled into several worlds that were the original target for conquest. The Tau that survived however, were acting weird. Some of them started shoving off the Greater Good, while some worshiped a voice that they claim to be the Greater Good itself (which may or may not be a warp entity), while some were outright driven insane. A disturbing trend about them however, is their total [[Imperium|xenophobia and brutality]]. Any non-Tau who wasn't driven off from the 4th Sphere colonies were murdered for [[Chaos God|something]] that was telling the survivors that the auxiliaries were the reason for their loss and torment due to their more powerful connection to the Warp, so killing all non-Tau was the only way to ensure the survival of the Greater Good.

That being said, they're still hard for Daemons to see, considering that the Fourth Sphere dove into the Warp unprotected and "merely" got off with plain Chaos corruption when most people who try that shit critfails their [[anal circumference]] roll and either gets torn apart by daemon cocks or becomes [[Chaos Spawn|an Unnameable Beast]]. But this event does still prove that the Chaos Gods can still influence the Tau with enough warp exposure, so it wouldn't be surprising if a few of them started going bughouse-nuts and began carving 8-pointed stars on their persons in the future. Especially with virtually the entire [[Death Guard]] and a large force of the [[Thousand Sons]] heading straight for the wormhole that links the Fourth Sphere colonies to the center of the Empire...

...and funny thing about that - the 8E Daemons Codex does mention one Tau agri-world that was cut off from supplies eventually succumbing to the native faith revering a certain "Rainfather" - [[Rotigus]] Rainfather, a notorious [[Great Unclean One]].

On the subject, let's not forget that some soldiers are supposed to [[Lovecraft|be driven insane just by looking at the more horrific daemons]] like Great Unclean Ones. Their immunity to this is probably GW incompetency as usual, Matt Ward/Phil Kelly levels of plot armor, or a combination of both.

==Alliances==
{{MattWard}}
[[File:Illus4.jpg|280px|right|thumb|Unfortunately for some [[Slaanesh|deviants]] [[Extra Heresy|and heretical elements on]] [[/tg/]]. [[Not as Planned|This is what an actual canon Tau Female looks like.]] No boobs, no curves, no ass, no redeeming qualities other than having a face of your grandmother and the nose of a mutilated vag. Know the alien. Hate the alien. Purge the alien. The Emperor Protects! <s>This is an Ethereal though, so the other castes should be fair game.</s>]]
In 6th edition, Tau are notable for being one of two factions (the other being Imperial Guard) who can ally with anyone except for 'Nids. Yes, this includes both Chaos Space Marines and Chaos Daemons, although, according to the Farsight Enclaves supplement, Farsight rebelled because the Ethereals understand the existence of Chaos on some level, but keep it suppressed from the general populace so they're not entirely screwed. [[Emperor|That sounds vaguely familiar]]... it is probably going to end [[Horus Heresy|about as well]] (although due to cultural differences likely in it's own distinct way); all of this is, of course, assuming that the 'nids don't NOM everything before the Tau get the opportunity to fuck their own shit up.

Their current level of naïveté leads to a few... ''interesting'' alliances, to say the least.

First off, Tau ''can'' ally with [[Ork]]s, even though fluff-wise they are viewed as enemies of the Greater Good to be purged wherever encountered. Smaller Ork warbands (mostly [[Blood Axes]]) frequently act as mercenaries, of course, so the Tau might use them in that capacity. Plus, there might be fluff changes coming up (most notably, it was rumored that the [[Gretchin Revolutionary Committee]] would return in the new Orks codex; they, of course, would get along quite well with the Tau).

They are also battle brothers with both the Space Marines and Eldar, which has caused a large amount of headscratching on /tg/. The Eldar make a modicum of sense; after all, the Eldar most likely had a hand in their synthetic evolution and the creation of the Ethereals, and the Eldar are well known for being expert manipulators. A Tau-Space Marine alliance, though, would be odd, to say the least, since Tau and Space Marines are always going at it in the [[fluff]]. Of course, a minor [[Space Marine Chapter|chapter]] could always find an alliance with the Tau, or even [[Heresy|join the Greater Good]], but that seems far-fetched at best. Old fluff from back in the 3rd edition codex tells a story of a Tau commander letting an Apothecary remove the aul glands from dead Marines, establishing that the Tau are honourable warriors in the minds of this particular chapter. Isn't too hard to guess that someone at GW felt the battle brothers thing was a bit of a head-desk move, so they tried to fix it.

The weirdest part, though, is that Tau ''aren't'' Battle Brothers with the Imperial Guard, despite (or maybe because of) the existence of [[Gue'vesa]] (Imperial Guard defectors).

7th edition corrected all of this for the Tau, making them only battle brothers with themselves and certain allies of convenience, like Necrons and the Eldar, while the rest are desperate allies or, in the case of daemons and 'Nids, Come the Apocalypse. This effectively "fixes" the issue from the point of view of a butthurt puritan while still allowing for those who bought Tau models to include them as allies in their games.

8th edition totally destroyed any chance of Tau having allies in matched play games. Taudar is dead, thank fuck.

==Tau Member Races==
[[File:Dynamic entry by majesticchicken.jpg|right|thumb|550px|Look up fuckers! You're invited to the latest imperial party and we're not taking "no" for an answer!]]
The Tau are the only faction that willingly accept other races into their ranks. Typically, the races are extended a hand from the Water Caste first, and if they still pose a problem or otherwise refuse to be reasoned with, the Fire Warriors are sent in. It should be noted that tau usually are not in haste of annexing the world, and if the aliens don't want to join right now but aren't immediately hostile and open to trade, Water Caste would slowly but surely convert them into a Greater Good to the point that one day they themselves would ask to join the Empire. The species, when annexed or conquered, are usually allowed to keep their planet, but must answer to the authority of the local Ethereal and possibly the local Shas'o. Most of them are fluff and don't show up on the tabletop, but it would get a little ridiculous if you could purport to play a 'single' 40k race that included, like, twelve different races.

* Demiurg - <s>[[Squats]] reborn.</s> NOT ANYMORE the Squats are back and not Demiurg at all! They are a race of space-faring miners specializing in ionic weaponry who serve the Tau with their engineering and mining abilities. They make an appearance in Battlefleet Gothic: Armada though, so that's nice.
* Galgs - Frog/Toad People who are regularly hired as mercenaries. No other information available. Probably [[Lizardmen#Slann|Slann]] In Space.
* [[Gue'vesa]] - Humans who have not only defected to the Tau, but chosen to take up arms and fight alongside them to serve the Greater Good. Rules for them are found in [[Forge World|Forge World's]] Imperial Armour Volume 3. (If the current trend goes on we may see Sisters join up with the Tau, <s>which might be an improvement for the Sisters.)</s>{{BLAM}}{{BLAM|HERESY!}}
* Hrenian - Alien mercenaries employed for their skills as light infantry. No other information available. Probably [[Lizardmen#Skinks|Skinks]] In Space.
* Ji'atrix - A spacefaring race. No other information available. (Dammit, GW [[Writefag|writefags]].)
* [[Kroot]] - Predatory gene-assimilating avian humanoids. They are the first alien race to be actively recruited by the Tau as mercenaries, and are so regularly hired that they have officially progressed to being considered Auxiliaries of the Tau forces.
* [[Vespid|Mal'kor]] - Insectoid aliens, also known as Vespids, who are native to a gas giant planet within the Tau Empire. Serve as Auxiliaries.
* Morralian - Also known as "Deathsworn". No other information available.
* [[Nicassar]] - A voidfaring race of [[psyker]]s and the only psychically-gifted species in the Tau Empire. The Tau have carefully hidden them away from the Imperium due to their (actually justifiable) psyker-phobia. Were the second alien species to join the Greater Good.
* Ranghon - No information available.
* [[Tarellian]] - These guys are basically [[Lizardmen#Saurus|Saurus]] IIIIN SPAAAAACE!!!!!! Not really part of the Empire, but rather mercenaries who will gladly fight humans and Tyranids on the cheap since the Imperium virus-bombed their home world and the Tyranids nommed their biggest colony.
* Poctroon - The first sapient species to be found by the Tau, [[wikipedia:Siege of Fort Pitt|they were "accidentally" driven extinct by Tau smallpox]], and their planet just by coincidence was a great place to set a Sept World.
* Nagi - Brain worms that, due to their horrific appearance and inability to communicate, were attacked by the Fire Caste. They managed to sort it out, though, and now they work with the Ethereals as advisors (because having brain worms about as "advisors" isn't a bad idea or anything). They have been shown in a few books so far, and were involved in a "mind-rip" (guess outright calling it "rape" was too much) of a space marine POW, while being so self-righteous and smug about their mental superiority they could give Eldar a run for their money. Apparently they can also at least perceive the Warp (which they call "extra-dimensional space"), and probably manipulate it as well, and know enough about it to outright refuse to go anywhere near demonically-tainted Agrellan when the Tau invaded it.
* Ji'atrices, Morralians, or Ranghons are probably other Warhammer Fantasy Races In Space, such as [[Lizardmen#Kroxigor|Kroxigors]] or Trolls, given the overall tendency of the Tau to incorporate Fantasy races missing from 40k.

The usually genocidal actions of the other races, most notably the [[Imperium]], also serve as a motivating factor for less-powerful races to join the Tau. While the Tau do seem a minor threat to the Imperium now, if the current policy continues, there will be more and more races joining up with the them if for no other reason than avoiding [[Exterminatus|extermination]]. Of course, the Tau are just coming to realize how vast and powerful the Imperium really is, and while a lot of their member races really ''are'' the victims of crazy, evil, fascist extermination protocols, there's always the chance that someone responsible for a "Hell World" or "Nightmare World" might join up, and the damage might be done before they realize their mistake...,

==In a Nutshell==
;'''The Stated Reason Why People Hate Tau'''
Weeaboo space confucianists (Asian Commies)—not grimdark enough.
;'''The ''Real'' Reason Why People Hate Tau'''
Until the edition update, this would, most assuredly, be [[Fish of Fury]]. Fuck, even most Tau players felt this was bullshit. Post-edition update, it was that certain [[Matt Ward|undesirables]] felt that they were trying to take the mantle of the 40K universe's "rightful" Imperial protagonists. And because they are not [[Choppa|choppy]] enough. And then 6th Edition codex came, and Tau became one of the shootiest armies in the shootiest edition ever, not to mention their ability to bitchslap cheesmongers, having straight counters against any of the Wardex bullshit. When the 7th edition came out they became overpowered AF and they took the title as the chedder cheese of Warhammer.
More generally, the Tau battle philosophy is "deny your opponent the chance to interact with you," which is a good philosophy for real soldiers but can make for frustrating or uninteresting gameplay.

Of course there's also the fluff side of things, and as mentioned above the Tau are given massive amounts of plot armour compared to everyone else in the setting, even the Space Marines which should give you an idea of how ludicrous it is. To use some examples and keep it short, The Tau have comparatively slow non-warp travel that would '''LOGICALLY''' mean the Imperium and everyone else have a gigantic advantage in space combat and logistics, never mind hit and run tactics, yet after the first few retcons of the Damocles Crusade this stopped being an issue. Even in cases where the Tau are stuck in a planet engulfed in a burning nebula that it's established they cannot fly through, they just go back home by flying through it. Add in battlesuits that are immune to anti-titan weaponry, the capability to conquer (in one day no less) and deport a hive world, where one human hive city has more humans than the entire T'au race and you start to see some issues. And of course none of this is even touching the fact that they have never lost a '''major''' battle, the worse fate they suffer being a stalemate, a stalemate which eventually transforms into a victory when the Imperium withdraws its forces to other theatres of war where they are desperately needed and the Tau just roll in and accomplish what they wanted anyway. These aren't helped by an [[skub|interminable list of other assorted stupidities]], that would require their own separate page just to cover them all. Suffice to say for those who are more interested in the fluff their blatant titan grade plot armour can become somewhat infuriating.

;'''A Real Reason Why People Like Tau'''
The one race that isn't being a wall of dicks. If the Tau are trolling done by Games Workshop, then the target of said trolling was any fatbeard that needs a constant supply of grimdark to stay alive. Of course, the mind-influencing pheromones they use to conquer new worlds and their psycho-indoctrination mass re-education facilities will just have to be ignored if you don't want destroy your wishful thinking for a half-way decent faction to exist in 40k. But people have always been good at ignoring shit that doesn't fit into their perceived image of something. Though even considering those, it's saying something that they're ''still'' the nicest faction in 40k; they're just an awful oppressive empire, rather than a hyper-ultra terribad megadeath awful xenocidally oppressive empire, or some flavor of omnicidal maniacs<s>, or Eldar</s>.
;'''Another Real Reason Why People Like Tau'''
Unlike many other Races in 40k the Tau are capable of fitting into many other Sci-fi Universes without much Problems. Such as Star trek where they would be at home along side other Peaceful yet also Tyrannical Factions like the Federation. Compared to the Necrons or Eldar which would be both Roflstomps and completely different from all other groups in that Universe. (Unless it [[Doctor Who|Doctor Who]]).
;'''The Real Reason Why People Play Tau'''
Arguably have the most powerful guns in the game. Often twin-linked. Often on cool-looking robot battlesuits. [[meme|Also markerlights]]. Also [[Riptide|RAPETIDE]]. Tau players may also have a tendency towards sadism.
;'''A Solid Reason People Don't Play Tau'''
They're fucking expensive. Seriously. On a points-per-pound level, they cost more than any other (plastic) army. This is doubly true if you like battlesuits, but of course you do because you're playing Tau.
;'''Helping Necrons? Or are they Necrontyr descendants?'''
An often overlooked issue is that Tau have almost no warp signatures, just like Necrons, hate Warpspawns and Warp in general (despite the fact that in 6E they can work with them...I just...I don't...WAAAARD!!!), just like Necrons, have the exact same skull shape, stature and short lives, and the overwhelming need for Technology and beam weapons, JUST LIKE NECRONS. [[GW]] may have planned a race that simply prepares a pacified, multiracial galaxy for Necrons to feast upon, supported by Ethereals that have a C'tan phase blade. Then there is a reference of "dark seed in east" by the Deceiver, so the tricky C'tan might give Tzeentch the finger in the [[JUST AS PLANNED]] competition. Or maybe GW just has so little creativity that they simply made a new civ conforming to an Old One's standards without knowing it. Given that recent murmurs have suggested that something absolutely massive is in the works at GW, ''anything'' could be possible, though past experience has led us to believe that it will simply be a Tau wearing a silly [[hat]].

==TL;DR==
<s>The good guys</S>
High-tech, Mech-loving alien race who are the ''least'' [[grimdark]] of factions. Can't melee for shit but can blow you back to the stone age with ranged weaponry if you have the misfortune of being downrange. You will either love them or hate them because of all this, and many neckbeards do feel the [[butthurt]]. For some reason Tau females are [[/d/|awkwardly sexualized]] by a non-insignificant minority of fa/tg/uys, which has shown up in some draw- and writefaggotry. As the saying goes: "You can't spell TAUNT without TAU."

== Warhammer Fantasy ==
Unlike most other factions in 40k, Tau have no clear antecedent from [[Warhammer Fantasy]]. Some think the anime influences and rapid industrialization/militarization point towards Nippon; others feel the caste system might be related to the Kingdom of Ind. However, neither faction has ever been explored in great detail (or any detail at all), so it's impossible to say whether Tau are similar to those factions; instead, we must compare to the real-world equivalents of the Old World nations. Slightly more controversially, there are elements of Cathay (which is the Anglicized word for China back in the British Empire heyday, so yes) in the Tau. Cathay has been described as being technologically advanced (at least on par with the Empire), including terra-cotta automaton warriors (which the Chinese definitely used to make to pay homage to the First Chinese Emperor's over inflated ego, more than a millennia ago), although such comparison is stated by some to have [[Skub|already been implemented in the characterization of the Eldar and thus, is considered as ''seriously'' stretching up a notch.]]

More recently, some have connected the Tau and their subject races to other factions in Fantasy. The rapid evolution of the Kroot and their overall savagery is (somewhat) similar to the Gors of the Beastmen (although the Beastmen are in the 40k universe themselves). The Empire also shares the xenos-friendly viewpoint of the Tau, although they're not expansionistic, and decidedly less concerned with a unified government structure so long as everyone pays their taxes, for better or for worse. Others compare them to dwarves: dwarves don't use Chaos magic, are short, technologically advanced, kinda casty and blue (understood in many countries as "hopelessly drunk") basicly all the time. Tau don't use Chaos warp magic, are short, technologically advanced, very casty and blue all the time (in regards to skin colour). Both also get seriously grudgy and angry when you piss them off.

==Trivia==
[[File:Tau Ripoff.jpeg|thumb|right|300px|FOR THE [[Blood Ravens|GREATER THEFT]]!]]
* Some have said that Tau resemble the protagonist KYNE from the Amiga video game Brataccas, which was released in 1986. Tau were first added to Warhammer 40k in late 2001. Some would dismiss this as coincidence, but Games Workshop has a long history of ripping off designs from other games; [[Beastmen]] are [[Broo]] from [[Glorantha]], very large chunks of 40k are a little too similar to [[Judge Dredd]], and all of the Greater Daemon model designs are stolen from early [[Dungeons & Dragons]]. These properties are understandable as Games Workshop was still selling games of those IPs when Warhammer was first created, but Brataccas is an obscure game from a forgotten system that was quite forgettable even at release, even if Amiga games tended to get fantastic cover art. This being said another of GW's early products was also puzzles of of this style of '70's/'80's Sci-Fi art. The Tau cast system does resemble the Protoss caste from [[Starcraft]], which predates the release of the Tau by 3 years... You have the Templar (Fire/Air Castes) Judicators (Ethereals + Water Castes) and Khalai (Earth Caste). In addition to a rogue sub-caste in the Dark Templar (Farsight Enclaves). This is Ironic considering that GW originally was making a deal with Blizzard to make games based on their properties. GW asked too much/Blizzard didn't like the terms and left... to make Warcraft and Starcraft. Starcraft would have become a Rogue Trader RTS. It was probably a mistake on GW's part, as they REALLY missed out. Stealing the Tau from the Protoss was probably done because GW was still salty.
* Tau are technically canon to the Marvel Comics universe, as the series Venom: Space Knight repeatedly used Tau vehicles for aliens in the scenery. In fact, they have the balls to even keep the Tau Sept symbol! Also, you can see what appears to be a Eldar tank, as well as a Necron. The irony of the ripoff masters Games Workshop getting ripped off is juicy, even more so when its realized that lawsuit-happy Games Workshop (who literally tried to copyright "pauldrons" while they plagiarized Eldar from Tolkien and had some contention between [[Malekith|two very similar Dark Elf characters of theirs]]) couldn't do shit about it because Marvel is owned by Disney, and nobody beats The Mouse™. (except Marvel/Disney settled out of court rather than risk the wrath of the Ordo Legalitus)

==Notable Tau==
===[[Canon]]===
*[[Aun'Va]]
*[[Aun'Shi]]
*[[El'Myamoto (Sub-commander Darkstrider)]]
*[[Shadowsun|O'Shaserra (Commander Shadowsun)]]
*[[Farsight|O'Shovah (Commander Farsight) and The Eight]]
*[[Commander Puretide]]
*[[Shas'o Kais]]
*[[Commander Or'es'Ka|Shas'o Or'es'Ka]]

===[[/tg/ 40,000]]===
*[[Blue]]
*[[Faptau]]
*[[O'ren I'shi'ii]]
*[[Shlicktau]]
*[[Xeno]]

==See Also==
[[File:Marvel Tau.jpg|thumb|right|250px|FOR THE GREATER GROOT!]]
* [[Nicassar]]
* [[Sept V'iet]]
* [[Tau Quest]]
* [[Warhammer 40,000: Fire Warrior]]
* [[Tau Dark Heresy]]
* [[Warhammer 40,000/Tactics/Tau(8E)|Tactics/Tau]]
* [[Tau Cadre Creation Tables]]
* [[Codex_-_Tau_Auxiliary]]
* [[Tau Diplomacy]]
* [[If the Emperor had a Text-to-Speech Device|<strike>Love Can Bloom 3:Golden Shadowsun</strike> NON-CANON FANFICTION GARBAGE]]

Jon-Frederic Aristide

2020-01-22T20:47:57Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885: /* Primarch Origin */

{{Infobox Warmasters' Triumvirate Primarch
|name=Jon-Frederic Aristide
|bgcolor=white
|fgcolor=darkgreen
|image=[[File:Jon-Fred.jpg|272px]]
|title=Stallion of the Imperium, L'enfant Stellaire, Warmaster
|alias=
|where=Thiepval Prime
|when=805.M30
|legion=[[Emperor's Dragoons]]
|crusade=Primarch, 45<sup>th</sup> Expeditionary fleet
|sigil= WIP
|weapon=WIP
|trait=WIP
|flaw=WIP
|heresy=Separatist
|fate=Unknown
|dominion=WIP
}}
{{Warmasters Triumvirate-Head}}

Text here

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

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

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

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

==The Great Crusade==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="width:1000px">
'''''Deserter'''''
<div class="mw-collapsible-content">
The Heir of Superiority exited the warp, tendrils of nightmarish empyrean lashing at its alabaster hull. The Ist and Xth Dragoon battle fleets emerged in tow from the rip in space, dwarfed by the enormity of the Stallion’s flagship. Before the arrayed fleet, a derelict shipyard, a conglomeration of tangled space hulks and abandoned stations, within; the Vth legion. In all, it was similar to the Astral Warden's homeworld, albeit stripped of the warmth and evidence of civilization, hanging on to the most austere of environs. So too was the scrap field bereft of the cosmic and Immaterial tumult that surrounded Bishop's home, making the Dragoon's approach blessedly easy. To many, this was an open invitation. The Wardens were laying low, neutral, largely defected. Aristide was convinced of their neutrality, and their silent defection. Of invitation? That he was more hesitant to assume. Laying a trap in this manner would be out of Bishop's tactical acumen, and honour. Of what he was walking into, he was uncomfortably ignorant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you expect?”

“For you to talk to him like a man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That's where I get it from”

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

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

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

“You seek to exert influence beyond your rulership.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not a usurper.”

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

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

“Of my resolve I have few doubts.”

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

“Used? How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

==Brotherwar==
<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="width:1000px">
'''''Fratricide'''''
<div class="mw-collapsible-content">
The air was ash-choked and sullen, the smell of burning fuel and metal poisoned the wind, the smoke buried the twin suns of New Hope, the snow of debris and ash turned the vibrant desert into a bleak tundra. Malcador’s crashed flagship, the Barchamos, had turned the planet into a pallid grave. They couldn’t even retrieve his corpse, but the remnants of the ship’s vid and pict recordings would have told the tale. The Sigilite was dead, and nothing could ever be the same. The burgeoning Imperium had died in its adolescence. The legions that had gathered to refocus the Crusade and bring peace from division now gathered in tense silence for the coming war. Frederíc knew what would happen next. The final piece of the eroding foundation had crumbled, his only hope for peace died in that wreck. Malcador called the Warmasters to New Hope to inspire, to unite, to no doubt scold. Now they’ll argue over his body like vultures. The Sentinels were the first to arrive to the cataclysmic scene, and they were reluctant to share what they found, as somber silence met requests for information. That told Frederíc everything he needed to know. This was no accident, no tragic result of a perilous warp jump. If it were, it would have been announced, and the mourning would bind them, if only for a moment, as one. This was no assassination by Xenos forces, or enemy malcontents. If it were, they would have taken to stars already in vengeance. No, Malcador was murdered, and the list of suspects was terrifyingly small. To best the Sigillite in his own ship...the thought left a chill in Frederíc’s bones.

Many are the planets which escape notice by the powers that be. Lacking in resources, devoid of useful manpower and occupying no strategic location. This planet, New Hope, had once been lush and ripe for colonization, but the Age of Strife had been devastating. Yet the course of history is winding and endlessly complex, and on rare occasions a planet is thrust to the forefront, the hub upon which the galaxy might spin for a moment or two. New Hope was also such a place. Once a bustling and verdant world filled with industry and civilization, now all that remained was a dusty ruin. Primarch Jon-Frederíc Aristide, Imperial First Son and gene-sire of the Emperor’s Dragoons, was the first to set foot upon New Hopes’ crumbling, salt-laden soil and rolling sand dunes. In more abundant eras long past, his encampment was a beautiful ocean, a shallow sea filled with warmth and life from which huge aquaculture farms produced enough food for the entire sector. The Old Night was not kind to this world, and now only the titanic rusting skeletons of mighty industrial complexes now protruded from the endless salt flat, blue waters replaced by orange sand and white ash.

His contingent had camped on the farside of the planet, on the western hemisphere, amongst the sand covered ruins of cities and factorums. Zelbezis with his Iron Guard, Piter with his Liberators. Valorn with his Pale Hounds secretly in reserve. There was an agreement amongst the meeting parties to bring a supporting element, so that Malcador’s edict would not go ignored, or at the very least, be understood without the interference of the Warmasters. It was a concession proposed by Je'She, agreed upon by Marduk, and abided by Frederíc. Aristide would have preferred to come alone, but Je'She obviously did not trust his brothers, which Aristide understood because he felt the same. Marduk’s introduction as a neutral party did not sit well with him. Lambach and Kane’s disappearance into the fringes and the intelligence detailing the increasingly erratic behaviour of the Soaring Host and the Gunslingers made for a grim picture of the state of Marduk’s legions. Then again, the same could be said for his own legions. The Iron Guard and the Pale Hounds were famously austere, and the grievous losses the Liberators regularly incurred on Imperial Army auxilia were only overshadowed by their impeccable victory record. Of course, the Forge Lords were always disagreeable and cantankerous, their gene-sire Mot Hadad most of all. Save for the Astral Wardens and their Primarch, Aristide’s forces were famously unpopular, the Warmaster himself least of all at the moment. Without the Emperor to lead the Crusade, the Warmasters were the only authority in the frontier, and Warmaster Aristide was reluctant to allow mortal bureaucrats and entitled monarchists buck at that authority. While wildly controversial, he would not have disorder and corruption follow in the wake of his warfront.

Still, his brothers called him a seperatist, or worse, a usurper. Propaganda and misinformation caged him in, and any defense of his actions would be observed through the lense of skepticism and doubt. Worse still were his brothers under his command that took the bait and declared themselves “Astartes Supremacists”, consequences be damned. Mot in particular had been a staunch advocate of this stance, despite the Warmaster’s own views. Seperatist or not, Aristide’s image had been ruined by this movement, and his apparent enemies were more than glad to spread it, and as the debate grew more fevered, skirmishes broke out between the legions. And so Malcador called them here to discipline him and the other unruly legions. Without him, true conflict was inevitable.

Frederíc sat in a tent, a plain construction of canvas that flapped in the polluted wind. The command tent was picked clean in preparation for the meeting of the Warmasters. Only he and the austere chair he sat in remained. He had done this to himself. His experience with his homeworld made him paranoid, gave him little faith in regards to human rulers, and little trust in pacified peoples. He was not misguided, only overzealous in his response. Now his men think themselves revolutionaries, or the true successors to the Emperor’s vision. Frederíc was a leader of a movement not of his making, and yet it was his all the same. As the desert wind whipped through the tent he felt a peculiar sensation of everything falling around him, the unfamiliar impression of failure causing his stomach to sink, his head feeling light. Even that humble feeling he was supposed to be above, and here was. A disoriented man at the brink of collapse, watching all he had attempted to build be carried away with the wind, like the ash and sand. What hurt the most, was that in Malcador’s final moments, he likely considered Aristide a potential enemy. The realization that he failed the Sigillite somehow wounded him more than the prospect of coming to earnest blows with his brothers.

He felt very empty in his tent, gazing vacantly into the shifting dunes beyond. He had done this to himself.

He registered the steps coming from behind him long before they reached him, the monotonous crunch of sand blending in with the roaring of the blood in his ears. He didn’t turn to greet his brothers, and his son. Zelbezis Dyestes, the Primarch of the Iron Guard. Intimidating, severe, and nigh emotionless. He was clad in imposing black Cataphractii terminator plate, chains and spikes adorning the sinister ensemble. Despite his terrifying appearance, he was Frederíc's most loyal brother, ultimately deferential and precise in his execution of orders. Aristide often wondered what he done to engender such support, but he was glad for it nonetheless. “Warmaster, the forces are mustered, we are prepared to attend the council on your orders.” Aristide nodded absently, “Very good, Dyestes.”

An awkward silence followed, interrupted by Piter’s voice. Piter was likewise clad in Terminator armour, the new, experimental Indomitus pattern, which traded the unparalleled protection of Cataphractii and the overall perfection of Tartaros with greater mobility while being easier to manufacture and repair in comparison. Being the armour of a Primarch it was far more advanced than that which his sons wore, but the impression that he was no better equipped than his men. It was a strange bit of hypocrisy in Frederíc's mind, but it seemed to work for the Ussaran Liberators.

“Get up, Aristide. We should attend Malcador’s funeral, and fight over the scraps of the Imperium.” Piter said. Malcador’s funeral. It still didn’t feel real to Frederíc. There it was again, that crumbling sensation, like the seat beneath him and the ground beneath it disappeared, and he was falling into the void. The routine of command assisted Frederíc where conscious thought was failing him, “Indeed. Expect conflict, and a rapid exfiltration. We came here to prevent war, but do not be unprepared if war begins here.” He rose fluidly, his flesh numb to the motion, as if he was drawn up by marionette strings. He turned to face them for the first time. Zelbezis was placid as ever, his constant expression of stern disapproval was plastered on his face. Piter seemed bored with the whole affair, likely just waiting to learn if the Crusade is reunited, or if the “Revolution” is to begin.

Guy Maxíme however, was positively furious. “We were at war the second you started leading planetary governors to the guillotine and left Marines in their place.” Frederíc considered him coldly, “I curbed dissidents. I will not conquer the stars in the Emperor’s name only to have them turn against us when we present them with our backs.” Zelbezis nodded sagaciously in agreement,“There is little use in claiming worlds in title only.”, he said, echoing his Warmaster's sentiment. Guy’s nostrils flared in irritation, “Calael Bishop openly abandoned the Crusade, you allowed him to put secession into your mind, you’ve broken nearly every law of the Imperium save open rebellion and the Truth!” Piter rolled his eyes, “Brother, why do you allow this troop to speak to you this way? In my legio-” Jon-Frederíc Aristide snapped to, the fog of despair lifting for a moment, and the piercing stare from his stormy eyes lashed out as he spoke. “The Imperium is dead. It died this morning. It’s been dying since Ullanor, but today we hold the wake. Today we decide either to resurrect it, or give birth to something new. If the maggots on its corpse resist, then you should be very glad for what I have done.”

Guy’s eyes widened, “This is madness.” Frederíc turned his back to him, gazing out to the desert once more, now examining the invisible paths before him, “In an insane world, the sane man must appear truly mad. I play the part I must, for all of our sakes, but do not mistake this as the world I wanted. This is the world thrust upon me, and now I must maneuver it or we risk destruction.” Guy huffed, “All of this could be avoided if you just capitulated and fell in line. Instead, your pride compels you to be the pinnacle, to be the Warmaster of Warmasters. You are not a general, you are a tyrant.” Those words started a flame in his stomach, taking residence in the once hollow pit. Dyestes spoke up for him, “Watch your tone, marine, your liege has put down more tyrants than any before him, and has instituted order amidst chaos. You should be grateful for him.” Frederíc turned to the group, and Maxíme starred in return, “Oh, for Thiepval? Believe me, Lord Primarch, I remember Thiepval. Better than most.” Dyestes made to speak, perhaps even strike him down for his insolence, but Jon-Frederíc held up a staying hand,”Tell me, Maxíme, who now holds the title of Praetorian of Terra, and now Regent with the death of Malcador?” Guy eyed him suspiciously, “Kinnévail Kincaid.” Jon-Frederíc nodded, “Indeed. Remind me, what do they call him now?” Guy was silent. “Say it, marine.” Guy spat out the words, “The Burned Prophet.” Jon-Frederíc nodded again, “Indeed. It seems I am not the only to hold the laws of the Imperium in disregard, even on Terra. None here are without guilt, were that the case, this would not have come to fruition. Now I will hear no more dissent. We have come here for peace, we shall see what my brothers have come for.” With that, Guy was silenced, Piter seemed relieved to proceed on with the day, and Zelbezis returned to taciturn silence.

The journey to the meeting place was a long convoy, several hours of uncomfortable silence. A moderately sized contingent of Dragoons, with a few Iron Guard and Ussaran Liberator tank platoons, a few Sicarians and three Fellblades respectively. In the Dragoon force was a Mastodon, four Land Raider Platoons, three jetbike squadrons, and three land raider platoons shuttling infantry to the site. The bulk of his force was ordered to keep overwatch some few kilometres away, far away enough so that he didn’t arrive with a literal army, but close enough to make apparent that he did indeed have one. Frederíc elected to ride at the fore of the sprawling convoy upon his jetbike, the Gauvin. While it may have been more expeditious to take to wing in his personal Thunderhawk, his presence was more striking whilst on his steed. To his brothers on the other side of the divide, he would appear nonchalant and unafraid, to his men, he would be inspiring and steadying. The council was to be held in the ruins of some great hall or temple, a once massive circular tower long since decapitated by the blade of time, the tower now an open topped colosseum. As they approached it rose out of the ground from the horizon, like the breaching head of some mammoth sandwurm. The nature of the arena before him bore an unsettling resemblance to Nikaea, the Trial of Lambach writ small. Without the Emperor or Malcador, Frederíc doubted this council would resolve itself any better. However without such iconoclasts as Kincaid actually being present to speak, there was a small hope. Small.

Dust plumed from either side of the ruinous column, to the left, the “loyalist” forces, Sentinels, Titan Marchers, and Silver Blades. Razorbacks, Rhinos, Land Raiders, Land Speeder transports and Imperial Knights. They were well matched, and no doubt Je'She had support not far behind as well. Arriving from his right was a comparatively miniscule air wing, Marduk’s personal Thunderhawk flanked by Raptors and escorted by Xyphons that broke away once the gunships touched ground. It was a wise choice, as the mediating party, but if this is the force Marduk chose to arrive in, there was no doubt that a much more decisive force waiting in the wings. The message was clear, albeit subtle. Be civil, or else. Were Marduk not playing the caring third party attempting to heal wounds, Frederíc would have thought it a nonchalant boast. It may have simply been a sign of respect in respect to Malcador’s passing. But Frederíc was reluctant to rule anyone out as a suspect in his murder. He could rule no one out, save for his own men. Perhaps not even them.

He had kept close tabs on his forces, but acting beyond his orders wasn't necessarily their way, save for Mot, who couldn't be reigned in despite Frederíc's best efforts. Even still, the murder of the Sigilite? The Black Dwarf may have been spiteful, but that was beyond his means at the very least. Besides, he was on the other side of the galaxy, and no mere marine would have been able to best Malcador, surely. He spoke over the comms, hailing the detachment, "Hold here. I will take the Palantine Guard and we will approach the meeting alone. Palantine, assemble at the entrance. I meet with my brothers alone." Various affirmations met him, and the small battalion halted whilst the mounted honour guard rushed past, following their gene-sire. Guy Maxíme crackled in over the vox, "What do you hope to accomplish here?" Frederíc pondered the question for a moment, "Unity." and that was all. Guy seemed content with the answer, and fell silent as the shadow of the tower enveloped them.

The Palantine Guard dismounted their jetbikes at the sweeping archway to the tower, one of several at regular, if wide, intervals. Up close the lost glory of the thing made itself apparent. The worn stone hinted at intricate patterning in the large slabs, the archway itself a masterful piece of architecture and stonework, long eroded effigies of beasts and men of import holding up the great pillars of the tower. From the deep tracks at the entryway Frederíc presumed the ground he walked was once beach, elegant ships coming from abroad to make port within the tower, passing through the generous birth of the arch. The Primarch took a moment to regard the scene, imagining starry eyed pilgrims arriving to their destination, or foppish traders in their regalia sailing into the tower to trade and boast, or militant leaders steaming forth to discuss the fate of nations. He joined their ranks and stepped into the tower, removing his helmet and allowing the cool breeze flowing through the arrid ruin to run past his face, only to be defeated by the crushing heat beyond the shadow of the temple. He turned, facing his men, "Post up here, this is a meeting of Warmasters in good faith. Wish me luck, and hopefully we shall rejoin our comrades in the Crusade. But be alert. Guy nodded, and whirled his hand about, signalling for the guard to form a perimeter. The Stag amongst the Guard trotted up to the entryway, standing guard with Guy. At times Frederíc forgot he made the marine the captain of his honour guard. He tucked his helm under his arm, and stepped reverently into the meeting place. "Aristide!" Guy called after him. The Primarch turned halfway, and saw his Equerry standing in shadow, on his face a look of...desperation? "Aristide...bring us peace." The Primarch's jaw tightened, the weight of his duty bearing down on him. He nodded, and Guy nodded in turn, before taking a visible deep breath, donning his helmet, and turning out to face the desert with the Stag.

Frederíc turned back to the darkened depths of the ruin, and ventured forth to the whims of fate.

The base of the tower was surprisingly verdant, vines and plump desert vegetation taking root in cracks and spots of sunlit ground. Sand-worn but otherwise preserved frescos confirmed his suspicions of the use of this place. It was a gathering point for all peoples, the neutral ground amongst nations. The mosaics and frescoes told of a gift from some sea deity to the chief deity of the sky, and the gods gifting the people in celebration of their union. Images of traders giving eachother goods, with a suspicious absence of coinage or other payment, warriors and warlords plunging blades into the earth and embracing, the faithful offering up their children for blessings and good fortune. This was a place of good will, a place bound in love. It was little mystery as to why Malcador had chosen this place to make peace and reform the bonds of brotherhood, even when taking into account New Hopes' strategic unimportance and quiet location. Even in disuse, that was the spirit of this temple. Religious or not, oaths were made here, and good will was shared. Although, given the Imperial Truth, it was amusing that he would choose a temple.

Frederíc paused at a mural depicting a pair of pair of peasants offering a babe up to the sky god, while the god's advisor, a messenger spirit, stood by approvingly. A lump formed in his throat, despite himself. He approached the painting, admiring the plain but emotive artistry. He absently thumbed the mother figure. He wondered if the babe given to the gods had a good life, what legends and appellations he gained, what hardships he endured. He rested his forehead against the wall, and considered the diminutive messenger god at the feet of the sky god. No doubt in the mythology of this faded people he had some great importance. The unappreciated bureaucrat, the dutiful servant. He began to form a distaste for the artisan that placed this display along his path, it was awfully inconsiderate. He pressed off it, and took a deep breath. The Primarch could mourn his mentors later, for now he had to honour them.

Minutes passed as he coursed through the thoroughfare in silent contemplation. He attempted to plan what he would say to his brothers, but he found himself continually distracted by errant thoughts. What have he could have done differently? What if he was made sole Warmaster over all the legions? Could he have saved Malcador? Was he willing to die for him? For the cause his legions have created? It was useless. Even his peerlessly focused mind was sent wandering in the wake of the morning's grim tidings. So he decided to simply take the meeting as it came, to be bare and honest. To approach his brothers as he did Calael. With an open heart. Perhaps...perhaps he was too militarized from the very start, too indoctrinated in the way of war to ever truly connect with his brothers in a way that mattered. It was a disturbing thing to consider, that he had been wrong from the beginning. He stifled his doubts, suffocating them with resolve. Whole worlds counted on his competence, and his diplomacy would be tested like never before.

The pathway neared its end, terminating in a round chamber with a great stone table, a round construction easily thrice his prodigious body length, easily able to seat several dozens of people at its circumference. Other soaring archways lined the walls, although their number, and the smaller diameter of this inner sanctum, suggested that the paths fed into each other, or led upwards into the tower. The open top of the tower was fully observable here, the high ceiling of the path inwards remarkably intact, supporting the floors above it. Here the vegetation was once more absent, or at the very least confined to corners where the merciless twin suns could not bleach them. Still, with the ash laden sky, a somber light filtered into the chamber, casting a dim light onto the affair. Despite his moment of distraction in the hall, he appeared to be the first to arrive. He wasn’t sure if he should be smug about the speed of his legion or his own personal promptness. Smugness likely wasn’t wise regardless.

The footfalls of power armour echoed from a leftward hall, likely Je'She. He realized there was far more than just one set of steps. He hadn’t come alone. Aristide tensed, and rested his hand on the pommel of his sabre. Je'She and his Immortal honour guard emerged from the tunnel, and the guard marched in place for a moment, parting to allow their liege to break from the formation, before coming to a halt. Je'She removed his helmet, and Aristide saw his brother’s face for the first time in ages. He looked tired, the imperishable nature of Primarchs had not protected his brother from the damages of stress and tumult. Frederíc considered how he must look to Je'She. The Primarch of the Sentinels regarded Aristide cooly for a few moments, belying no emotion save his weariness. “You have come alone.” He said, finally, his accent tinted by his sandswept homeworld, easy lilting tones that contrasted Aristide’s own clipped, aristocratic speach. Frederíc sat his helm down on the table, and spread his arms, looking about him, “Aye, that I did. Was it not what we had agreed upon?” Je'She regarded him passively once more, then nodded slowly, “That it was.” Frederíc let his arms fall to his side, resting both hands on the pommel of his blade, “And you arrive with your honour guard.” Je'She exhaled sharply, regarding his statuesque guard, “A precaution, I am sure you understand.” Aristide raised an eyebrow, “Do I?” He saw Je'She’s jaw tighten at the snide retort. It dawned upon Aristide that his brother may have suspected him in Malcador’s death. The thought shook him, but he made no outward display of it. He would dissuade these fears handily enough, to be sure. “Brother,” Frederíc said, “Please, let us attend to this matter in private, as we had agreed. I come alone, in good faith.” Je'She hesitated, but waved off his guard, and they reformed, and marched back from when they came. The brothers now were alone.

There was a pregnant silence in which the Primarchs simply stared at each other, Frederíc from the table, Je'She from the archway. Je'She finally broke it with a sigh, and strode forth, setting his helm down upon the stone surface as his brother had. He did not relinquish his polearm, “Darker days have not been seen since the fall of our Father…” Aristide looked away, and to the morose sky, “All the days have been dark since then.” Another silence followed, and Aristide brought his eyes down from the heavens, “I regret many of those days.” Je'She met his eyes, and a forced grin crawled along his mouth, “It only took the death of the Sigilite to elicit humility from Jon-Frederíc Aristide, Primarch of the Emperor’s Dragoons.” Frederíc couldn’t even muster polite humour to trade with his brother, he simply looked to the ground before resting his hands on the table, running a gauntlet down his face to shake the growing chill there. He didn’t meet his brother’s gaze, and searched for the right words to say. They wouldn’t come. Je'She rounded the table finally moving away from the exit, “I apologize, Jon-Frederíc, that was cruel of me.” Aristide nodded wearily, “Have we ever been so formal, Je'She of the Watch?” Je'She stopped at an arm’s length from Aristide, reside his backside on the corner of the table, leaning on his glaive for support, “Not by my count, no.” Aristide sunk down further to his elbows, resting his head on met hands, “The last time I saw Malcador we argued...the final words I spoke to him were in spite…” “When?” Je'She asked, but Aristide knew he was fishing for information. Frederíc scoffed, “‘When?’ You know exactly when. After Ullanor. After the Triumvirate. ‘Time will prove me right.’ I said. Time will prove me right...I was so sure that a divided crusade would be our undoing, that it was a fatal flaw in the Sigilite’s unparalleled wisdom.” He shook his head, striking the table as he rose, “Now I must live with that regret.” Je'She huffed, looking away from him as he rose, “My people spoke of the dangers of self fulfilling prophecy,” he said with hints of venom, “but I suppose time did prove you right. Here we are, divided.” Frederíc placed his hand on his brother’s pauldron, and he felt the subtle shift as Je'She recoiled at his touch, “Brother, know this please, I wish this never came to pass.” Je'She turned his head slowly, “And yet it did, because of the actions of your legions, your actions.” Aristide did not relinquish his grasp, “I know. I know, brother, if anyone knows this it is I. Believe you in me. I was so focused on victory I did not see the cost, to claim the East in our father’s name. No matter the means. We are here because of me.” The contrite words seemed to catch Je'She off guard, and once more Frederíc found himself critical of his past aloofness.

For a moment Je'She seemed to consider his brother in earnest, not a suspect or a war criminal, but as a brother. The old flame of kinship flickering, faintly, back to life. Je'She let his weapon slide to the crook of his arm, and offered forth an open hand. Aristide lifted his hand off his brother’s shoulder and readily grasped it, “There was a time where we were the closest of comrades, was there not?” Frederíc allowed himself a small smile, “Aye, by my count, yes.” Je'She returned the gesture by placing his hand on Frederíc’s shoulder “Then there may be reconciliation yet,” the heavy echoes of another’s approach foretold of Marduk’s approach, and signalled that the council was to begin in earnest, “your contrition gives me great hope, brother. Be true here at this council, and we shall discover the truth of the matter.” Frederíc frowned, realizing that he was alluding to Malcador. Be true? Truth of the matter? He realized this was a test. Je'She still didn’t remove him, or at the very least his forces, from suspicion. Something was wrong. Je'She knew something he was not telling him.

Marduk Engur, Primarch of the Leviathan Host and third Warmaster sauntered into the chamber, a look of reserved confidence smeared on his delicate countenance. He was unhelmed, unarmed, but armoured, fine purple robes draped across his impressive plate. He brought his hands up in a steeple, then spread his arms in an embracing gesture, "Ah, good tidings in terrible times, my brothers. I see my gamble has paid off." He said smoothly, a slight smile blossoming from his mouth, his warmth tinged by sadness. His voice was sonorous and rich, almost clashing with his soft, polished features, his accent not far removed from Je’She’s, but the rolling tides and thunderous storms of his homeworld were almost tangible in his voice. Even the measured Marduk was left touched by Malcador's passing. Passing. The term felt too passive. Je'She's marines had investigated the scene, so if Je'She was guarded with Aristide there was a reason beyond a simple, albeit catastrophic, mechanical failure. Aristide watched Je'She take in Marduk. The same critical eye he gave to Frederíc, which was partly relieving as it meant that he wasn’t being fully held accountable for the crime, but unnerving since it confirmed his suspicions. Not an accident, not the work of the enemy. There was a traitor amongst them, a murderous strain in their ranks. For Je'She, this wasn’t a peace council, it was an inquisition. Frederíc was determined to start his own.

“Your gamble?” Frederíc asked. Marduk turned to his brother, obviously pleased with himself, “Indeed. I had hoped that the cooler minds of Warmasters would prevail over the passions of their subordinate brothers. I had hoped that a moment to yourselves would provide some good. I am here as mediator between aggrieved parties, something I am sure neither of you have any...fondness for. To be patronized by the youngest brother. Perhaps, I thought, it would be best to allow the elders of the family to reconnect, to grieve in privacy. I was correct, it would seem, and that gladdens me. Malcador would have been proud, I should think, that even with his loss we reknit the broken bonds. Your temperance honours me, and this council, and I thank you both. May we have a moment of silence in remembrance of the Sigillite, before we proceed?” Marduk’s usual sickly sweet demeanour had seemed to evaporate since Frederíc last saw him, more sincere and forthright, less eager to please, to be the center of attention, to be the favorite. He wasn’t sure if the metamorphosis was wrought on the campaign trail or this morning. Frederíc looked to Je'She who looked to Marduk, and the two nodded in acceptance, and Marduk smiled wistfully, and the trio bowed their heads in unison.

Frederíc took the moment to consider his options. Confronting the mystery head on was clearly a poor move, as it would put them on the defensive. The best move seemed to allow the council to proceed as planned, allow Je'She to play his hand and watch Marduk’s reactions, or Je'She’s questions. What Je'She asked would reveal what he knew, and give Aristide insight into the exact nature of the murder. Marduk’s answers would either incriminate him or absolve him, but even then the whole scenario seemed improbable. Frederíc struggled to think of a motive for Marduk, as far as Marduk was concerned he was content with his position. He proved himself to the Emperor, and was thus at the very least considered Warmaster surely, and Malcador awarded it to him. His presumably tennous control over his legions would at the very least keep him preoccupied from murder. And removing Malcador would likewise undermine his authority as a Warmaster. Without Malcador only favoritism and bonds of loyalty remained, and his front, and all others, would collapse into cabals of comrades and like minded individuals. Chaos wouldn’t serve Marduk well, so his motive was thin. Je'She may not have been proper Warmaster material, but he was fiercely loyal and such a malodorous crime was both beneath him and unlike him, the consideration alone was ludicrous, so he was not a suspect. The other legions...the Forge Lords did not dabble well in subterfuge, Einchurt was far and away, as were the Gunsligners, the Loxidontii, and the Soaring Host. The Corsairs Gallant would have nothing to gain as the Regent of Terra legitimized their hoard of Writs of Trade. Valorn and the Pale Hounds wouldn’t enact such a dastardly plan without his consent and authorization. Callous they were, but not foolish.

The list of legitimate suspects became short indeed. Lambach perhaps had good motive, considering the Edict of Nikaea, and he was unaccounted for, but even in his melancholy he would not murder one of his mentors, perhaps even less so because of it. That left Kincaid. Afterall, he had the most to gain. If the open secret of his full blown theism were true he would be open to proselytize with the last bastion of the Imperial Truth gone. Resurrectionists and Emperor cultists would flock to his words, and he would be unstoppable. Regent and Praetorian, with a legion at his back and untold hordes of now openly worshiping faithful as a shield before him, only civil war would be able to depose him. He had the most to gain, without a doubt, but the issue remained; only a Primarch had a hope of even being able to engage Malcador, and only the Emperor himself had a chance to defeat him. Motive may have been present, but Kincaid himself was certainly not, as the tensions of Mars and Terra would keep the maniac tied to the rigours of politics, and even where he to slip aboard Malcador’s ship, that sinister cripple would have been smote. None could kill him, perhaps not even in a fatal tie. Were that the case Je'She would have discovered evidence enough to openly accuse a culprit, and this disguised investigation wouldn’t be happening. It was perplexing, and horrifying.

The observance was ended by a polite "Ahem" from Marduk, and the Warmasters raised their heads. "Now," Marduk began, "we have assembled in this place to discuss the winding path the Crusade that our father began has taken. Tragedy before tragedy has distracted us, turned our legions from comrades to rivals, and halted the course of salvation for humanity from Terra to the eastern most reaches of the Galaxy. Our father created us to be the leaders of the vanguard, to unite the stars under the Imperial Aquila. Malcador had called us here because that most sacred purpose has been lost. Je'She of the Watch, while your loyalty to the cause of the Emperor has been great, your legions clash with those of Jon-Frederíc Aristide in ways unbecoming of Astartes. The Great Joust and Great Hunts of our martial tradition are places enough to shed blood and war amongst brethren, for it is this conflict that encourages the strengthening of our men. Petty brawls and aimless skirmishes serve no purpose other than strife. Lord Aristide, your forces likewise are not innocent in this matter. The frontier nature of my legions preserves my nature as the neutral party, but I am not so naive to believe that where my armies closer at hand, there would be no such combat." He paused, eyeing Je'She with an unreadable expression, "After the censures, of course. Brothers, we have slipped farther and farther from each other each year since Ullanor and the death of our father-"

Je'She cut in, sternly, "He is not dead." Marduk winced, likely regretting the choice of words, "Of course. I misspoke. The passing of Malcador has turned my thoughts to the grim eventuality of death. Though our father recovers steadily, his wounding and absence makes it difficult to separate him from the fallen at this moment. But now is not the time for grief, not yet. Gone though the Sigillite may be, his mission remains. We must exit this chamber in concordance, or not at all. So now, I shall state, plainly, the complaints, and cede the floor to the honourable Warmasters. Je'She, you are accused of criticizing Warmaster Aristide to the point of defamation, which sows discord in the ranks, and of loose control over your legions resulting in unheeded bloodshed amongst the Emperor's legions. Jon-Frederíc you are accused of perverting the purpose of the Legiones Astartes by removing mortal governance and emplacing Astartes in their place, which disobeys the Emperor's intent, of loose control of your legions likewise resulting in battle but also the gestation of a political movement that borders on separatist, of courting worlds to your banner and not that of the Imperium, and of open dissent to the decrees of the late Regent of Terra. As the more grievously accused party, you shall be the first to speak, Warmaster Aristide. During this mediation I ask only civility. Please, brother, proceed, state your case to us."

Frederíc chose his next words very carefully; "Brothers, I am glad we meet here under common cause. Marduk, you speak true that the Crusade and its myriad misfortunes have created rifts between kin and comrades that may never be healed. I have spoken rashly, furiously, and hastily on many things. Kane, a brother who has been near to my heart as a brother in battle and in family, now decries my alleged crimes more than any other because of my misguided passion. To the Dragoons, to my legions, I present myself as the consummate general, but Je'She, you are one of the few who know me with familiarity. And you would know, I, like many of our brothers are kept from the Emperor's vision of perfection by that base humanity that tainted us all. Some of our brothers, such as Dyestes, Hadad, or Einchurt, view this as a weakness, a primitivism that constrains our potential as warriors and leaders. Some like Bishop, Pacha, or Ashur view this as our strength, lest we overlook the man for mankind. I view this, as many mortal men do, as simply the state of affairs. The love I share for my brothers, for our father, is no greater a boon than rage, or arrogance, or pride is a flaw. We are human, in part, and that is simply something that must be accounted for. My humanity has seen me berate my brothers at their weakest, defy my betters at their wisest, and act in extremes to protect that noble construct that we have made in the fires of war. And it is my core humanity that sees that I regret these actions in retrospect."

"But brothers, surely you must recognize the motivating force behind all my actions. I did not live a full and storied life upon my homeworld, I did not see generations rise and fall and prosper or wither in the wake of my actions. I saw injustice and rectified it, I took the planet for the Emperor before I had even known that was my ordained purpose. When he arrived, the truth of my being was revealed to me and I became a soldier in his name in short order. For nearly the entirety of my vast life, service to the Emperor is all I have known. To lead his armies, to inspire his troops, to wield his banner. Never have I acted in my own interest, for I have no interests save the growth and health of the Imperium. When dissident lords thought they could disregard the Lex Imperialis, written by the very hand of our brother Kane, what recourse is there but swift removal and replacement with competent and loyal leadership? Would you see me simply allow such transgressions to go unchallenged? No, surely not. What then is the proper response? Discard leaders until we discover one loyal to the Throne? Simply reduce the planet to astral rubble, thus denying my forces, already stretched thin, of a logistical asset? My actions, while controversial, have resulted in success in my theater. The East is a harsh place brothers, with human empires unaccustomed to near peers and challengers, xenos forces that have long forgotten humanity after age old conquest, and the merciless traversal of warp and void. I cannot, will not, allow greed and the capriciousness of unruly subjects to undermine my campaign. So much relies on our combined success, on a scale that only the mind of a Primarch can appreciate. It is not just the fate of worlds that hangs in the balance, but that of an entire species. The Emperor did not intend for us to be masters of men, no. But neither did he intend to fall on Ullanor. In his absence we must be the caretakers of humanity."

Before he finished, he paused, gauging the attitudes of his brothers. Je'She seemed vaguely discontented, likely disagreeing with a great deal he had said but offering him the courtesy to finish his thoughts. Marduk meanwhile was placid, observing the proceeding passively. "Brothers, I act only in good of the Imperium, the crusade. You may criticize me for the lengths I take, but you cannot construe them as anything but what I deemed to be the necessary course." He folded his arms, nodding to Marduk, and gesturing to Je'She, indicating that he had concluded. Marduk clapped a hand to his chest, a motion of appreciation, "Thank you, Aristide. Je'She?" Je'She scratched his chin, contemplating his introductory statement, “I do know you well, Frederíc, better than most perhaps. And if we are to be true here, then I must confess it was never in doubt that your installation of Astartes rulers was committed for the Imperium’s benefit. However, it is the actions of your soldiers that has brought me here against you, and you as their commander are accountable for their actions. You speak of your faults, a rare occasion indeed, and were we not close kin I could besmirch your self reflection as excuses. But I will not do this. Instead, I target your failings of command, not character.” As he spoke, he began to pace about his end of the table, his free hand pressed behind his back, “Your actions, well intended or not, have stoked the fires of a dangerous and seditious thought, that it is Astartes that must rule over men, against the creed of the Emperor. To compound this, you have taken a legion, not under your command, into your protection. What reasonable excuse is there for this? You should have remanded the Astral Wardens to Warmaster Marduk so they may be dealt with appropriately. Instead you appropriated the entire legion. Frederíc, you must admit that this, coupled with the rousing calls of the legions on the Eastern Front create ill omens. You conquer for the good of humanity, and for the Imperium, but my greatest fear is that you no longer recognize the underlying concept of the Imperium. That Astartes are to serve the good of mankind, to head the dictates of Terra, and without the voice of the Emperor, the words of mortal men take its place. You have gone against this social contract imposed upon us all, and now your legions strain against the natural order of the Imperium. And you have done nothing.” Je’She ceased his pacing, and faced his brother, “Someone must answer for this, Frederíc. Were Malcador here, I believe he would hold you accountable, but instead you have your brothers to judge you. So if not you, who then?”

Frederíc blinked in incredulity, “I will not be held on trial for keeping my campaign a cohesive front. Je’She, surely you cannot be asking for further censures? Nearly all of our psychic brothers were driven off after Nikaea, to the point where Kropor and the Chosen still are in self imposed exile, and the Astral Wardens outright desired to leave us behind and live out their days in peace!” Je’She scoffed, “The Chosen of Hecate disobeyed a direct edict from the Emperor, you speak of cohesion and striking down dissent in equal terms, save for when it concerns the Astartes. If a Dragoon disobeyed orders would you simply slap his wrist and have him continue about his day? No! Do not try and divorce the issues when they are one in the same. If there is any amongst us here that should appreciate good order and discipline it is you, no?” Frederíc threw his hands up, “At what cost? We cannot decimate our own forces with every complaint and infraction! Your Silver Blades and Titan Marchers have nearly cost us an entire legion, Primarch and all. I will not drive my legions into the dirt for a lesser an indiscretion than disregarding the Edict of Nikaea!” Je’She scrunched his face incredulously, “‘Lesser an indiscretion’? Brother, ‘Astartes Supremacy’ flies in the face of the Emperor’s intent!” Aristide contained a sigh at this comment, “That intent held import when the Emperor was whole and amongst us, yes, of course, all matters of leadership amongst his fiefdoms were his to decide, as he is the Emperor, but without him that duty falls to Malcador. Now without Malcador there is little preventing greedy planetary governors from breaking away and simply returning to their state of affairs before conquest, at great cost to their people.” Je’She sat his free hand down upon the table, staring at Aristide with deadly intent, “So you anticipated Malcador’s passing?”

There it was. The accusation, heavy handed and laid bare. Frederíc was now on the defensive. “Je’She no one in the galaxy could have anticipated this, no one. To imply I had some foresight in this is insane. Unity, cohesion, peace, order, these are the values I ascribe to. We had lost the Emperor, halving the integrity of the Imperium, with Regent gone as well the Primarchs and the Astartes are the only things keeping the construct erect in the eyes of our adversaries. Even now, should news of Malcador circulate we will leave New Hope with hundreds of insurrections and secessions, and our Crusade is undone. Does this sound like a turn of events I would find favourable? That anyone would find favourable? And then you ask me to censure my own forces, despite seeing the outcome that would cause. Je’She, put aside rumour and speculation, there is no base in this and no sense in attempting to reprimand my legions with undue force.” Je’She shook his head, “But you have no plan to curb these supremacists?” “Of course I do,” Aristide countered, “Once the campaign is at a point of stability I will address the legions on this matter, institute a system of governance less reliant on direct Astartes control, and instruct my brothers to discipline these supremacists on an individual basis. Allowing them to confront the issues of their legions on their own terms will help to prevent undue strain that a true censure would create. Slowly the dissidents would be ruled out and the movement would die out, and I am spared from legions running off in a show of melodrama. This isn’t a difficult situation to rectify.” “Then why is not rectified!” Je’She protested. “Because I can’t allow the front to collapse. This must be treated the right way, brother. I will not amputate a limb when I can slowly excise the rot.” Marduk finally decided to speak up, “I understand the precarious nature of your predicament, and many of my legions now prefer the company of the crusade to that of their brothers and cousins, but you speak of curtailing the actions of Marines, not of Primarchs. What then would you do should your brothers not fall in line?”

It was a good question, but one Aristide had not put much stock in, “Hadad is the only one who has openly supported this motion, the others have not voiced assent-” Je’She cut in, “Neither have they dissented. Silence equates to support.” “-I disagree, Je’She, they know as well as I do that dividing the legions at this juncture would be unwise. Besides, Tyrus has been vocal about his dissent of the movement, firmly within your line of thought, I should add. His legion is not amongst the rabble, and I would use his influence to stamp out the outspoken. Best to simply allow the fires to die out, or turn focus to the issue when the East is less daunting an obstacle. To answer your question then, when the time to address the issue comes, I will confront Hadad. Likely he will buck at my orders, but I would rather cut logistical ties and strategic support than fully censure him. The Forge Lords would not be censured so easily, and the growing strain on their campaign would disprove notions of Astartes supremacy handily. They would be bitter and vengeful no matter my course, but at the very least the returned support pending a recant would alleviate their spite. Afterwords, I simply direct my brothers to control the individuals responsible. Dyestes, Adras, Karamanov, they shall do as I command, and Tyrus would be a vocal advocate for my reinstating of order, with Mansa spreading conformist thought through passive and subtle means. Brothers, I have all of this accounted for! I recognize this may be perceived as a major point of contention, but allow me to proceed as I had planned, and soon it will be little more than memory.”

Je’She furrowed his brow, “You offer us excuses, promises, and then insist that we do nothing and simply hope that you are able to unknit this tangled web you have allowed to blossom. What assurances do we have? You have allowed things to progress to this point, a mistake even you admit, how can we be so sure that further mistakes will not occur?” Marduk gave a weak smile, “I am afraid I must concur, Jon Aristide, what peace of mind can you provide?” Aristide was growing tired of taking the defensive position, and his opinions on his brothers could be constrained no longer. “Assurances? Peace of mind? Have I so drastically fallen in your regard? Does my word mean nothing now? Very well, you wish to have me answer for the past? This I will gladly do, but I will have you answer for the present. From both of you. You truly think Malcador called for this council so that you may issue accusations at me? Pah, decades of crusade has not beaten the naivety from you two it should seem.” “Naivety?!” Je’She spat, “I am not the Warmaster that has allowed a rebellion to fester in his ranks!” The Stallion allowed himself a spiteful laugh, “Oh ho! That is rich indeed!” He snarled, “How can you believe that I am the only one amongst us to allow dissent to prosper when Kincaid galivants unchecked in Sol spreading the disease of faith and divides Mars as we speak!” Je’She gasped, taken aback, “So you answer your misdeeds by defaming your brother? What has taken ahold of you, Frederíc!” “Taken ahold of me? Je’She, he has not been Kinnévail Kincaid for quite some time now, as his Warmaster you should be aware of this more than anyone.” Marduk spoke next, agreeable in tone, “His...attitudes are well known, Warmaster Je’She, it is true.” Je’She waved a dismissive hand, “This is nonsense, Kincaid has been an instrumental part of the crusade, he has pacified worlds without a single drop of blood, I will not allow you to defame him as a distraction!” Aristide shook his head in disbelief, as if he had been struck, “Do you jest? You cannot be serious. A distraction? What does brother Engur have to distract you from, then? Kincaid is a fanatic, Je’She! He has not been the same since the Conflagration! Since Nikaea we all knew that something has possessed that ruined body of his, it was written in his every madness laced word, his every warped scar! He wore the words of the Emperor upon his wraps like scripture! He proclaimed his closest brothers dangers to humanity! Eyanosa, Kropor, Bishop, Pacha, every librarian in our legions, he was but a single impassioned phrase from calling for their deaths! Kind, earnest, dutiful brothers, those were the ones he villainized! Je’She, I beg of you see what he has become!” The Warmaster’s plea seemed to fall on deaf ears, as Je’She simply curled his lip in irritation, “Very well, let us assume this conjecture is true, our brother has broken the Truth as you have broken the law-” “I have broken no law!” “THEN EXPLAIN YOUR TROOPS ABOARD MALCADOR’S SHIP!”

The air froze in the chamber, time slowed to a stop, and Frederíc’s Focus surged within him. Nothing could have prepared him for this. An insane, illogical, impossible proclamation. One that made him the greatest traitor in the Imperium’s history, in the history of all mankind. Je’She did not suspect Frederíc in Malcador’s murder. He outright believed he had committed it by proxy. “There were survivors, Aristide!” Je’she shouted in a muffled crawl, his words slowed by the Stallion’s mental ability, but he saw his expression, which exposed his true state. The dilation of the eyes, the small glistening pinpricks of beading sweat, the pulsation of the throat indicating accelerated breathing. Je’She wasn’t just furious, he was scared, confused. Frederíc once again thought that his brother wasn’t sharing all he knew. He turned his head to observe Marduk, to offer up a plaintive expression, to ask that he reel in his brother, to decry this baseless accusation. Then he saw it. The little crack in Engur’s oh-so-perfect mask, that disguise of civility, of good faith, of understanding. Marduk was turning to face Frederíc, but while his eyes were locked on Je’She, Frederíc saw the truth underneath the lie. A spark of joy in wild eyes, the slightest hint of a grin at the corners of his mouth. Marduk never intended to play moderator, he intended to be the last man standing. He was to be Warmaster after his brother’s ripped each other to pieces. Maybe this was the plan from the beginning, to have Malcador dissolve the Triumvirate, to be the final and sole Warmaster. As he finally made the turn to Aristide the mask was restored, no sign of the fervour a moment before, just a mix of shock, anger, and betrayal. Aristide’s Focus faded, and only seconds had passed in what felt like several minutes. A flame began in Frederíc’s stomach, bright and hot. They would not finish him here, not whilst he still drew breath. But better sense interrupted fury; his sons did not commit this crime. The bulk of his forces were still in the East, actively fighting. Those with him would not have been able to slip away and back, and none of them would have been able to do the deed. He was being framed. But by whom?

“Retract that claim.” Frederíc warned in a low growl, “Immediately.” Je’She spat, fully ensorceled in his rage, “NEVER! NOT WHILST I HAVE EVIDENCE AGAINST YOU AND YOUR MEN!” Marduk slithered into the argument, sorrowed surprise colouring his false words, “Brothers! Calm yourselves! Je’She, you say you have evidence, clearly damning as your presentation illustrates, but why have you kept this to yourself? Should I not have been notified this morning so we could have apprehended our brother-” he stopped himself, displaying a sympathetic look to Frederíc, “assuming all of this is true of course! I would not besmirch your reputation so brazenly, and so direly.” Frederíc shot him a flat stare, “You two have been doing so since we began.” Marduk pursed his lips pensively in response. Je’She was making a visible attempt to restrain himself, but spoke in livid, breathless tones, “There were survivors. Four score that managed to escape the critical systems failures of the ship. The plasma reactors had been overloaded, the lance batteries set to misfire inside their bay, the engines cut temporarily. A boarding party infiltrated the ship somehow-" ''When?" Interjected Aristide. "When what?" Aristide adopted a borderline patronizing tone, "When did the boarding party breach into the ship? An Astartes welcoming committee is not a quiet affair. So, one has to assume they were either onboard the entire time, or were let in before or after the warp jump." Je'She sneered at his brother, "They did not breach, they infiltrated, as I had said." Je'She's uncharacteristic temper was flaring again, but his disposal of subtlety was allowing Frederíc to gain insight into the crime.

Unfortunately, it did sound like a Dragoon Saboteur operation. The tactics were the same, exactly as he would have ordered. Fortunately, and confusingly, all his Saboteur elements were running reconnaissance and forward observance alongside the Pale Hounds and Knights Stellaris. He didn't have the men to spare. The Pale Hounds didn’t have any loose elements, that Aristide knew of, and the Corsairs-he stopped his line of thought. He had no part of this, his legions had no part of this, and he would not be framed in this trial. “Very well, you have evidence that my men had sabotaged Malcador’s ship, despite the fact that all my Saboteur units are actively engaged in the East. You have survivors that claim to have seen them, and survived against all odds! So come then, brother, bring forth these witnesses in the trial of Jon-Frederíc Aristide! Come, let them decry my untainted legion, the Warmaster’s legion!”

Je’She slammed a fist down on the stone table, the soft pop of ancient rock cracking faintly heard beneath his shouting, “So you can intimidate them into silence! So you can dishonour their survival with counter accusations and lies? So you can dodge the consequences of your fell deeds!?” Frederíc stepped around the table so it’s length no longer blocked his view of his brother, “Suspicious I find it that you have withheld this great crime from us until now! Even more so that you deny reason in the face of it! WHAT DO I HAVE TO GAIN, JE’SHE, WHY WOULD I KILL THE MAN WHO WAS AS AN UNCLE TO ME! WHY DO YOU CONTINUE TO NEEDLE ME WITH THIS FOUL ACCUSATION?!” Je’She stepped up to his brother, now they were mere feet from each other, “BECAUSE WHO ELSE THEN, SHIFT BLAME TO SOMEONE ELSE, I DARE YOU!” Frederíc snarled openly, “THAT I WILL; WHO HAS THE MOST TO GAIN SAVE KINCAID?!” Je’She slammed the butt of his polearm on the ground, "I WILL CUT OUT YOUR TONGUE IF YOU SPEAK OF KINCAID AGAIN!" "EAT FILTH, I WILL SPEAK OF KINCAID! PRAETORIAN, NOW REGENT, YOUR HEATHEN CUR IS UNSTOPPABLE NOW WITH MALCADOR'S DEATH! THE PLAGUE OF BELIEF WILL POUR FROM TERRA LIKE A TYPHOON, SWEEPING THE IMPERIUM AWAY WITH IT, ALL THE WHILE OUR FATHER'S ROTTING CORPSE IS VENERATED LIKE A GOD! KINNÉVAIL KINCAID, THE FIRST HERETIC! KINNÉVAIL KINCAID, THE SIGILITE'S KILLER!"

Je'She made to lunge at Frederíc, and the Stallion's hand flew to his saber, but he hesitated before touching the weapon. Je'She still made his advance, and in the same fluid motion as he made to grab his blade, he whipped his hand back in a blocking motion, striking Je'She on the breastplate and shoving him backwards with the back of his armoured gauntlet. The sound of artificed ceramite on ceramite rang out in the hollow chamber, and Aristide backpedaled before Je'She regained his ground and went after him again. Je'She slowed his slide across the sandy floor using his polearm, but did not give chase for Aristide as he backed away, opting to grasp his glaive in a defensive position. "You absolute fool," Frederíc spoke as he walked back to his original position, "blind beyond belief. You can't see your brother undermining power from beneath you, you can't see the brothers that turn their backs to you because your censures, you can't see him gleefully watching us tear at each other until only he remains." He pointed at Marduk, a tight, fury filled gesture. Marduk allowed faux disbelief wrinkle his delicate features, "How dare you accuse me of this. Malcador brought me here to-" Aristide waved a dismissive hand, "Oh be silent, Engur. Malcador brought you here as a courtesy, to make you feel included. This is a quarrel between Je'She and I, but to exclude you would be to insult you, and perish the thought that the youngest brother's fragile feelings be damaged. You want to know something? No one cares. Not a one. No one cares that you gained the title of Warmaster. No one cares that you tried, oh so hard, to gain father's favour. Your tireless efforts to prove yourself only make you seem like an attention deprived child, and your petulant joy at seeing your betters brawl only confirms the impression."

Engur began to turn red at the insult, and he moved to speak but Frederíc cut him off once again, "Keep that forked tongue behind your fanged teeth. I believed your insignificance made you a poor mediator, but sensible given lack of other options. Now I see you only arrived for the sport." Once again Marduk attempted to speak, and once again Aristide cut him off, "Try and insert some insidious lie here again, and I will strike you in the mouth." Je'She was the next to interrupt, "So, the noose closes in and you accuse Kincaid of a dire crime, strike me, insult your fellow Warmaster, and then threaten to assault him as well. Does this strike you as the actions of an innocent man?" Frederíc laughed wryly, "I'm not sure, I've not accused many men of crimes they have not committed, nor have been the subject of another's crimes. Forgive me brother, for this is a new experience. The riddle as to why you had not announced this sooner is still unanswered, so tell me brother, why not?" Je'She met him with silence, "I assure you, Je'She, had I been behind this attack there would be no survivors, but survivors there were and they told the tale, so TELL ME!" Engur chimed in, the venom in his voice revealed, but his tone was cloying and patronizing, "Yes brother, tell us. You have spent a great deal of time attempting to build a case built on a single damning piece of evidence so why delay?"

Je'She's mouth opened fruitlessly, but his scrambling for an answer was interrupted by the crackling of a vox transmission, from both Marduk's internal comms of his armour, and that of Frederíc's. They looked at eachother, and Frederíc snatched up his helmet to take the transmission in peace, while Marduk stepped out into the entryway he came in. "This is Warmaster Aristide. What." He shot over the vox, disregarding vox protocols. Crackling and popping static answered him, interspersed with frantic voices, “This is Warmaster Aristide, you are coming in broken, transmission unclear, over.” The vox smoothed over for a moment, “-Vox failures-making -Knights Stellaris-attacked the Forge Lords at- Repeat! The -Stellaris have attacked the Forge-pash! Repeat, the Knights Stellaris have attac-" The line was drowned in a sea of static, and Frederíc froze. Solomon was outspoken against Mot's ideology, but this was a step beyond. Something forced his hand...or someone changed his mind. He removed his helmet with trembling hands, and turned around, slowly.

He saw Marduk creep back into the room, a mixture of fury and horror on display on his face. "I had Smoke Stalkers infiltrate your territory this morning, to investigate the crash on their own terms. They found the camp you held the survivors in." Je'She visibly paled. "What have you done…" Frederíc said in a hoarse whisper, slowly encroaching on Je'She's section of the chamber. Je'She shook his head, mouth still agape. “What. Have. You. Done.” Je’She finally found his voice, all the fury and fervour replaced by quiet panic, “They were not my troops...they were not mine I swear it.” Frederíc seethed through clenched teeth, “No, they were mine, and you turned them against me.” Je’She looked perplexed, “What? You admit it? After all this time?” It struck Frederíc that they were not speaking on the same subject, but Marduk allowed for some clarity, “Oh please, play coy neither of you. My Smoke Stalkers revealed the truth to me. Emperor’s Dragoons were spotted aboard Malcador’s ship, yes...alongside Sentinels.” Frederíc whipped around to Marduk, “WHAT?!” Marduk gave him a self satisfied sneer, “And so the plot is revealed. I must say Frederíc, I did not figure that you would be keen to share the title of Warmaster, but it does follow that you would rather share it with your dearest brother than me. I am hurt.” He punctuated the claim with an overwrought pout, pushing his lower lip out in insincere injury. The bearing shifted seamlessly into a vengeful smirk, “But, I suppose you were right. Seeing the self assured, the arrogant, brothers that called themselves ‘Warmaster’ perform so admirably! Why, you had even fooled me that neither of you had a part to play in Malcador’s death, then the shocking revelation! The Stallion and the Sentinel, Jon-Frederíc and Je’She, the Emperor’s finest, brought low by hunger for power. Tsk, tsk, a sad state of affairs. Breaking this monstrous conspiracy to the galaxy will be difficult, no doubt, but neither of you are escape this chamber without seeing justice.”

Frederíc largely ignored Marduk, facing Je’She instead, still rocked by the reveal. Je’She’s expression confirmed Marduk’s claim, “Your troops were aboard the Barchamos. And now the Knights Stellaris are engaged with the Forge Lords. Solomon Tyrus, a great proponent of yours, has turned against me. Brother, I need an explanation, please. Please tell me you genuinely suspected me, tell me-” He cut himself off. The wheels of logic spun in his mind. Dragoons were sighted on board, yet Frederíc knew that wasn’t possible. The Sentinels were sighted aboard, but Je’She wouldn’t leave survivors to question if he had done the deed. Je’She would not have done the deed at all. It just didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. He turned slowly to Marduk. And Marduk met his gaze, his triumphant grin still barred, and Frederíc finally saw the answers he sought. Madness filled his eyes, or rather there was a terrifying lack of personhood. His eyes lost their glimmer, the twinkling satisfaction, just dark pits of emotionless consideration, as if Marduk had left his body and something else was inhabiting it. Like Marduk was elsewhere, watching from somewhere beyond. There was never a plan, there didn’t need to be a plan. Frederíc slowly drew Encallíon, Sabre Resolute, “YOU.” Marduk cocked his head, “You would draw blades against me, Aristide? Very well, I will call for the Smoke Stalkers to rescue the imprisoned survivors and we shall see who Terra believes.” Je’She shouted out, his panic evolved into a self preserving anger, “ENOUGH! I HAVE HAD ENOUGH! I am arresting you both and remanding you to Terra! This matter shall be resolved before the eyes of the Council of Terra!” Frederíc swung around, “WHY?! So Kincaid can slip daggers in our backs?! NO. The perpetrator is here amongst us, and we can finish this here and now!” Marduk put his hands on his hips, “Je’She, you murder me here and now, and there is nothing stopping Aristide from likewise putting you in the grave. Arrest him, and we can see peace.” “Je’She, do not fall for his words,” Frederíc implored, “I was wrong, Kincaid would not implicate you and I in the same crime, I would not murder Malcador, and neither would you! See reason, please!” Je’She brandished his glaive, “This is complete madness, surrender yourselves into my custody and I will see fair treatment for both of you, but this treachery has crossed beyond reason.” Marduk chuckled, “But it is I with evidence to charge you both, so it is you who are under my custody.” Frederíc donned his helmet, the atmospheric seal cycling with a subtle hiss, “I am under no one’s custody.”

He adopted a dueler's stance, "I will come with neither of you, I will not be subject to any presumptuous trial. I will not be quietly snuffed out in a prison cell. You want me? You are welcome to me." Marduk licked his plump lips in anticipation, "Very well." He strode over, slowly, to Aristide, like a shark circling its prey. He came at him with steady purpose, the insane, dead eyed look in his eyes growing stronger. Marduk was gone, all the emotion was drained from him, replaced by raw, calculating animal destructivity. From the corner of his eye Frederíc saw Je’She catch his helmet with the tip of Dancing Devil, and flipped it up into the air, catching in and affixing it as Frederíc had done. His brother then likewise rushed to meet the ensuing conflict, "Frederíc, Marduk, cease this at once, and come peacefully!" "The time for peace has passed," Frederíc intoned somberly as he put his sabre between himself and Marduk, "the time for vengeance is now. Either help me kill this traitor or get out of my way." "I will not let you harm him." Je'She warned. "Then you will be harmed." Frederíc activated the power field of his sabre, and Je'She did the same.

Aristide made to thrust at Marduk, but Je’She cast his glaive downward, driving his brother’s strike to the ground. Frederíc spun backward, releasing his sword from beneath the polearm, but as he presented himself again, Je’She lept forward and shoulder charged his brother, ramming his helmet into Frederíc’s with a resounding headbutt. Frederíc was driven back, dazed by the blow, and when he came to he saw Je’She’s blade pointed as his chest, “Enough.” Je’she warned. Frederíc parried away the polearm, “No.” he snarled. Dancing Devil was once more leveled at him, and Je’She made a low sweep to knock Frederíc off his feet, but Aristide hopped up, catching the glaive under his boot, then issued a downward slash to Marduk, who appeared to be waiting for an opening. Marduk caught the blade in between his hands, the force of the clap pushing past the tremendous powerfield of Frederíc’s sabre, the action causing a gust of wind to blast from the contact. Frederic attempted to thrust through the grapple, but Marduk closed his hands around the blade, yanking it past his exposed head and delivering a knee to Aristide’s side. The blow rocked Frederíc; Marduk was far more physically intimidating than he had assumed. That did not bode well. Marduk closed back in, relinquishing one hand and grabbing Aristide by the crest of his helm, and driving his head into the corner of the stone table, using a sweeping leg to drive him off balance.

Frederíc’s helmed head passed clear through the time-worn stone, the whole corner section collapsing with the trauma. As he fell, Marduk collapsed atop him, using his knee to keep Aristide’s sword arm pinned. He thrust his other knee to pin his other arm, and whilst straddling Frederíc, Marduk latched onto his helmet, using his helmet’s crest to try and snap his neck. Aristide bucked, trying to get his brother off him, delivering a kick to the center of Engur’s back, which fazed him little. Je’She brought the butt of his staff across, attempting to strike Marduk in the head. Engur likewise caught that blow, but the shift in focus allowed Frederíc to roll, toppling Marduk from attop him. Frederíc then mounted his brother, reversing the grip of his sabre to drive it into his brother’s skull. Marduk jerked his head, the sabre once more sailing past and driving into the ground. In response, Frederíc simply punched his brother in the face, once, twice, thrice in rapid succession, the soft crunch and pop of nose bones misaligning tangible through his power armour. Marduk did not so much as blink. Instead he wrapped his arms around Frederíc’s waist and drove his hips up, gaining his feet before arching back, and smashing Frederíc face first into the ground. Now unarmed, Frederíc rolled to all fours, and slid forth to grab the broken free section of stone. He brought the several foot long section of curved stone up in a sweeping motion, hitting Marduk in the thigh, sending him to a knee. Frederíc lunged to his feet and brought back down the stone slap down on his brother, shattering it on his pauldron, sending up a plume of dust and rubble. Marduk remained kneeling, catching fall with a fist. Frederíc capitalized on the moment by kicking his heel into Marduk’s head, sending him sprawling to the ground. As he did so Je’She lashed out, this time with the blade of Dancing Devil, to ward Frederíc away from the downed Marduk.

Aristide smacked the reaching polearm away, grabbing it and yanking it forward to cause Je’She to trip over the rising Marduk, sending both back down. Frederíc snatched his sabre from the ground, and closed in for the kill. Marduk shot from the ground, tossing Je’She off him, and ripped his robes off, and in that same move wrapped the shredded robe around Frederíc’s sword arm, swinging him into Je’She. Je’she dodged the move, and Frederíc pulled his arm from the snare, ripping through the robes. Frederíc issued a roaring battlecry, and punched Je’She away with the guarded hilt of his sword, slashed Marduk across the chest, marring the pristine power armour, returning to Je'She to parry away another thrust, then slashing downwards on Marduk, a blow Marduk blocked with his vambraces, embedding the sword in his armour. Frederíc drew down his blade to deny Marduk the opportunity to break his sword, then slashed across in the empty air to clear room between his brothers, leaving his back to the table.

Je'She hopped back, then spun in a wide circle, leapt upwards, and sent his glaive down in a meteoric strike. Denied the proper room to maneuver, Aristide brought his sword down then up in a wide motion, blade up to snare the blade in the guard. They met in a sonorous ring, the thunderous clash of blade on blade, power field on power field, reverberating in deafening applause throughout the chamber. But a third blade had entered the embrace of the blades at the impact. A wide, sinister cleaver, no more sword than a butcher's blade, shimmering metal with serpentine, waved patterns, a diluvian construction made explicitly for the removal of limbs and the bisection of men. The wicked weapon's power field roiled off the blade like blue fire, and it thundered and roared as it conflicted with the fields of the other weapons. The Cleaver of Marduk was locked in combat with the Dancing Devil, the resplendent partisan of Je’She of the watch, the history of the Great City of Harrdid emblazoned upon its spiralling shaft, and Encallíon, Sabre Resolute, the great sweeping sword of Jon-Frederíc Aristide, the crest of the Great Thiepval House of Aristide emblazoned upon the sweeping guard of the blade, both gryphon and unicorn rampant.

The legendary blades of the Primarchs locked for a moment, the intersection of the power fields creating a roaring gout of sparks that illuminated the chamber with a blue aura. The Primarchs applied their strength to the engagement, each attempting to bring down another’s blade to create an opening. Frederíc broke the stalemate by driving his sword upwards, sending his brothers whirling back into defensive positions. As mysteriously as he had been armed, Marduk was also equipped with his inscrutable helm, his complete battle regalia had miraculously been donned. Frederíc expected dry laughter, some cruel quip, a boast. Something. Lethal silence filled the room, broken only by the high whir of power armour and the hissing crackle of power fields. Marduk was Frederíc's left, Je'She flanking his right.

Frederíc's hand shot to his hip, lighting quick, and he drew his sidearm, Ultima Ratio. It was a long handgun, a galvanic flechette blaster of Martian design, forged by Raj Vokar’s hand. Marduk rolled out of the way as Frederíc fired an opening salvo at him, the smart darts trailing after him following after the round that embedded itself in Marduk's lower leg. Marduk raced around the circumference of the table at a Primarch's freakish pace, the flechettes embedding themselves into the ground after him. Marduk hooked a hard left, hopping atop the table, and rushed towards Aristide ready to deliver a fatal strike. Je'She lashed out with his polearm, the weapon sliding through his hands like an arrow, and the blow caught Marduk in the lower chest, buffeting him back from Frederíc. The Stallion raised his pistol once more to fire, but Je'She flung the spear back with a single hand, forcing Frederíc to riposte and step forward into the reach of the weapon. He holstered the Ratio as Je'She snatched back Dancing Devil and used the moment to hop back into a guarded stance before delivering a swirling thrust down at Frederíc's legs. Aristide leapt onto the table to dodge the strike, then spun just in time to see Marduk ushering forth a wide sweeping cleave. Aristide side stepped out, then pranced forward, the swing missing him as he landed in Marduk’s exposed flank. Frederíc issued a rapid scale of strikes, slashes and thrusts that drove his brother off balance, cracking and marring his power armour. As Marduk went to grab his blade once more during a thrust, Frederíc delivered a swift forward kick to his knee sending Marduk scrambling to regain his ground. He once more reached for his holster, but the whistle of Je’She’s spear betrayed the attack from behind him.

Frederíc whipped around, his sabre presented to catch the strike. Je’She’s thrust hovered just out of Frederíc’s reach, then he feinted, sending the spear out, down, and inwards in a clockwise spiral. The feint was too quick for Aristide to catch, and the blade sunk into his thigh’s armour, the tip of the power field searing the exposed skin from proximity. Aristide let out a pained growl, then an impact struck him from behind sending Dancing Devil deep into his leg. Je’She shouted in frustration, clearing not seeking to wound his brother so, but Marduk’s shoulder charge forced his hand. Je’She snatched out his spear, and smacked Marduk across the face of his helm as he reared up for a downward chop to Frederíc. The blow of the blade shattered a section of visor, sending the hardened glass-like material into his brother’s eye. Marduk did not cease his assault, blood trickling out of the shattered visor as he cast his blade down on Frederíc’s back. Dancing Devil caught this dreadful strike, the power fields colliding once more in spectacular fashion. The flash of light and roiling crackle gave Frederíc cover to draw his pistol once more. He slid underneath the locked blades and lunged at Marduk, snaking his sabre arm under his brother’s, wrenching it back into a hasty armbar. Sacrificing the integrity of the grapple, he pressed the muzzle of Ultima Ratio against the hollow of Marduk’s knee, and pulled the trigger. The salvo ripped through the soft armour of the joint and Frederíc set a foot against the small of Marduk’s back and kicked off of him, sending them both across the wide table. Frederíc just dodged the shrapnel of the smart-flechette detonation, fragments of ceramite embedding themselves harmlessly into his own armour.

Je’She howled in shock, and even Marduk gripped his ruined knee with a shaking hand. The attack should have shorn Marduk’s leg clean off at the joint, but the integrity of the armour held, holding the bloody mess together as a splint. Je’She slammed his polearm down, unleashing an ulating warcry and he jumped upwards, spun mid-air, then sent Dancing Devil down on Frederíc. Aristide was still sprawled on the table, and wasn’t quick enough to the roll out of the way. The blade missed Aristide’s head, instead slicing his crest down the middle. The shaft of the weapon struck him solidly on his helm, shattering the monovisor and causing his head to rattle within the helmet. Frederíc felt his nose break, the bones and cartilage smashing into his face, his lip split, and his teeth crack. A dull ache emanating from his forehead suggested that the skin there had likewise been split, if not the bone as well. The splintered visor thankfully didn’t suffocate his vision, but the emergent blurriness around his sight was much more threatening.

In a flash, Je’She spun on his heel, raising his glaive once more. In the spin he caught Marduk across the chest, splitting open the muscled facade of his armour. Marduk made to grab Je'She, but on the down stroke he was struck once more in the chest by Dancing Devil's butt. Frederíc had time to roll out from the attack, springing to his feet as the glaive hit the table, creating a fracture from one side of the table to the other in a pop of dust. Frederíc leveled his pistol again and unleashed a salvo into Marduk, which found its mark in the damaged cuirass. The swarm of flechettes burrowed into the plate, and exploded in a small burst, sending Marduk onto his back, finally eliciting a mere grunt of pain. Je’She exploded in a flurry of jabs and thrusts, forcing Frederíc to react in a storm of counters, ripostes, and blocks, and for every strike that Aristide denied three more found their destination. Frederíc was battered and buffeted back, his ringing head and pulsing thigh greatly reducing his ability to offer a rebuke. Je’She continued his assault, driving Frederíc to the edge of their platform. There was a half second’s pause, where Je’she made to spin his staff and knock Frederíc off, but the Stallion seized upon the opening firing into his brother centre mass, then headbutting him with his shattered crest. The small detonation caught them both, and Frederíc felt a slight touch of wind as a series of cracks in his abdominal armour crumbled away, revealing the black body glove underneath.

Je’She’s plate had been much less abused than Marduk’s or Frederíc’s, but even still for a sidearm the Ultima Ratio was a Primarch’s weapon, the power armour of the Sentinel blasted and blackened from the impact, deep craters from the flechettes picking his torso and pauldron trim. A blur of movement caught the dueling brothers’ eyes as Marduk regained his ground and pounced on Je’She like an animal, his cleaver imbedded into the fissure Je’She had made. He picked his brother clean off the ground, throwing him at Frederíc with a strength wholly unprecedented. The tossed primarch sailed across the table like a ragdoll, Aristide ducking under his airborne brother. The Sentinel hit the chamber wall with a shattering crack, but as he fell to the ground he vaulted back onto the table with his spear, flipping it back into his hands as he touched down. Aristide was now between both his brothers. Marduk locked a bloody eye onto the Stallion and stalked back to his cleaver, snatching it from the crack. Frederíc assumed a defensive posture, pistol aimed Marduk, sabre held out to Je’She.

His brothers began to pace about him, both seeking an opening to attack Aristide and keeping an eye on the other. Marduk made the first move, driving the flat edge of his cleaver towards Frederíc’s exposed stomach, but so hobbled as he was the Stallion was able to dismiss the blow with a downward parry, transitioning into a riposte into the bloody hole in his brother’s chest. The blade stabbed into Marduk, but even in the heat of melee Frederíc stayed his hand of a killing thrust. He had been so sure that his brother was a murderer, that if justice for Malcador was to be served it would be here, and now. But with his sword in his brother’s chest, the ease of it, the soft resistance of flesh moved away by power fields...He had never faltered in killing, especially in as dire a situation as this. If he killed his brother, there would be no return, no redemption. A single swipe of the blade, severing both hearts and slashing a lung. Blood would fill his body cavity and he would either bleed out or drown in his own vitae. How had it come to this? How could he even contemplate this murder? What was he doing?

Marduk broke his indecision, and with one hand chopped at his brother’s shoulder, cleaving through the pauldron to the flesh. Aristide roared, and reflexively drove the blade deeper into his brother’s chest, the smell of burning meat and blood mixed with the sound of a power field evaporating flesh in a sickening display. Tears began to stream from Aristide’s eyes. Even now he couldn’t deliver the coup de grace, his body felt heavy, as if made of lead. Marduk dislodged his embedded sword and brought the pommel down on Frederíc’s helm, breaking free a section of shattered visor lens.

Their exposed eyes locked for a moment, and the true horror of Marduk met Frederíc. Blood swam in his brother’s eye, turning it a dreadful crimson, obscuring much of his brother's eye save a pupil so dilated it obscured the iris totally. It gave his brother the appearance of something inhuman, something bestial. Frederíc found his resolve, finally. Marduk was not going to stop until one of them was dead. If Aristide died, the East would be lost forever, and the Imperium would die trying to retake it. If he killed Marduk there would be civil war, but that was a situation he could control. This was a situation he could control, indecision would bring ruin upon everything his father built. He was the Emperor’s Stallion, he could not let his heart betray mankind. The die was cast; Marduk had to be slain. Marduk broke the brief moment with a resounding headbutt, sending his brother back with a twist of his blade, sending a squirt of blood onto Aristide, staining his alabaster armour. Marduk grabbed the blade with his free hand, and pulled it into himself, yanking his brother closer to deliver another swift headbutt, smashing in the face of Frederíc's helm. The Stallion's head swam again, worse than before, but he had the presence of mind to draw out his sword in a slash, bisecting Marduk's sternum and doubtless slashing a lung or heart. In the haze, Frederíc saw Marduk slam down his cleaver down tip first to set it aside, then next he knew he was in the air, then back down into the table.

The Leviathan reached down and dug his thumbs into the crack in Aristide’s pauldron, using his good leg to gain leverage by stomping on Frederíc’s stomach. Aristide danced on the verge of unconsciousness, but the sharp pain of something rupturing in his stomach brought him back to just as Marduk was finally wrenched free the pauldron, bringing it down on Frederíc’s chest, shattering the ceramite of both his cuirass and the pauldron trim. Marduk raised it again, and Aristide raised his pistol to blast a hole in his brother’s chest, but Marduk jerked out of the way, his feet hovering off the table. Aristide blinked in surprise, clawing through the haze of mind to see through the illusion. His confusion was rectified when Marduk turned, and he saw Je’She had pierced Marduk’s power pack and hoisted him into the air by the blade. Je’She slammed Marduk down on his knees, and Marduk retaliated by pushing off the table and into Je’She’s glaive, the blade of Dancing Devil erupting from Marduk’s exposed chest. There was a stillness as Marduk’s body went limp, and Je’She dropped his weapon in shock. Even Aristide, who resolved himself to the very same act, got to his feet on trembling legs. “No..” Je’She whispered, “no, no, no…” Aristide approached his brother, taking in the sight of his slain brother, slumped on his knees, his blood pouring from the wound onto the cracked stone, “He forced our hand, brother...there was no other possible outcome…”. Je’She whipped around, the raw fury of his voice colouring his every word, “No. You forced his hand. Forced our hands. HIS BLOOD IS ON YOUR HANDS! THIS IS A BEAST OF YOUR CREATION!” Frederíc opened his mouth to offer some retort, but movement to his right caught the corner of his eye.

In a flash he was smashed on the side of his head again, forcing him to backstep and fire his pistol into the open air. Marduk was suddenly beside Je’She, gripping him the the throat in a crushing vise, then swept a leg under Je’She, sending the Sentinel to his knees. Aristide seized the opening and fired at Marduk, the blast hitting squarely in the face of Marduk’s helm, exposing his bloodied and bruised face. The subsequent detonation did little to stop Marduk, as he raised his cleaver in lethal swiftness and sent it into the scrambling Je’She. The blade swung through the gap between the cuirass and the right pauldron, sinking into the soft connective armour, tunneling deep through the shoulder joint. Je’She howled, and his left hand shot to the blade to prevent a total maim. His right was dreadfully still. Equally as motionless was Marduk’s face, a placid plane of predatory consideration, his right eye flooded by blood, his lip split, his face marked by dozens of embedded shrapnel shards and deep lacerations. Frederíc roared and charged at Marduk, firing at him in a sustained burst. The barrage knocked the Leviathan away from the maimed Je’She, and Aristide leapt over the Sentinel in a spinning slash, the blade running through Marduk’s increasingly wounded torso. Frederíc landed on the tip of his sabaton, then pirouetted, landing another strike. On the turn he saw Marduk coming to with his cleaver brandished, so in the completion of the flourish he lashed out at Marduk’s hands, forcing his brother to sweep away his blade in a parry, exposing his side to Frederíc. Aristide fired another salvo into his brother’s ribs, swiping at the back of the cleaver to prevent his brother from returning a strike. The detonation created a crack in the contoured obliques of the muscled facade, and Aristide pulled the trigger again to rupture the plate. He was met with an unsatisfactory, terrifying, click. His shattered helm had long since stopped offering him diagnostics, and the head trauma he suffered still allowed him to ignore that. He did not cease his assault and simply stepped into Marduk, and pistol whipped him in his face
</div>
</div>

=Fate & Legacy=

=Rules=

Warmasters Triumvirate

2020-01-22T20:47:46Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885:

{{Warmasters Triumvirate-Head}}
[[File:Warmasters_Triumvirate.jpg|thumb|center|1000px|The Primarchs of Universe 5-A]]

After the Primarchs were dispersed throughout the galaxy by the Ruinous Powers, the Emperor reunites them, and continues on with His Great Crusade. During the closing years of this two-hundred year galactic conquest, during the height of the Ullanor Crusade, the Emperor would be fatally wounded by the Ork Warboss Urrlak Urruk, and be rushed to Terra to be interred in the Golden Throne. In the wake of His incapacitation His Regent, Malcador the Sigillite, chooses three Primarchs to form the Warmasters Triumvirate: Marduk Engur of the Leviathan Host; Je'She of the Sentinels; and Jon-Frederic Aristide of the Emperor's Dragoons. The Triumvirate would continue the prosecution of the Great Crusade in the Emperor's stead, each responsible for one of the fronts of the Crusade.

The administration of the Imperium would eventually be taken over by mere mortals, infuriating some of the Primarchs, Jon-Frederic Aristide, 'firstborn' son of the Emperor, in particular. He made his distaste for the state of the Imperium more and more known, decreeing that the Imperium should be governed by the most capable individuals, primarily the Astartes. Soon entire regions of the Imperium were engulfed in coflict as small-scale confrontations, skirmishes, political arguments and random planetary secessions take place, threatening to drive the Imperium into an all-out civil war. To prevent the conflict's escalation, Malcador calls for a peace conference on a neutral planet, overseen by the 'neutral' Warmaster, Marduk Engur. Both sides, pro-Mortal, lead by Je'She, and pro-Astartes, lead by Jon-Frederic, are tricked by the Primarch of the Soaring Host, Elsu Eyanosa, who kills Malcador on Marduk's order in such a manner that both sides think that the other is responsible for the Regent's death. The galaxy-wide conflict quickly escalated, and the 'Brotherwar' began.

The Imperium is shattered into two, while the forces of Chaos grow like a cancer that threatens to swallow both. Eventually, Marduk reveals his true allegiance to the Ruinous Powers, and attacks Holy Terra. His main objective: to kill the Emperor of Mankind. Even after the defeat of the traitor forces during the Siege of Terra, the loyalist Imperium of Mankind and the separatist [[Union Astarte]], engage in a never-ending war, and must both face the constant onslaught of the marauding forces Chaos and the Xenos empires.

And when the End Times finally come, will the Imperium and the Union be prepared for when Marduk Engur's warning proves true and the Leviathan returns to devour all?

='''LEGIONS AND PRIMARCHS'''=

[[File:Legions_of_the_Warmasters_Triumvirate.jpeg|thumb|right|195px|The Legions of Universe 5-A]]
*'''I''' ''[[Leviathan Host]]'', [[Marduk Engur]]
*'''II''' ''[[Golden Mountains]]'', [[Pacha the Earthquake]]
*'''III''' ''[[Gunslingers]]'', [[Deshain Kane]]
*'''IV''' ''[[Silver Blades]]'', [[Linares]]
*'''V''' ''[[Astral Wardens]]'', [[Calael Bishop]]
*'''VI''' ''[[Death's Heads]]'', [[Einchurt]]
*'''VII''' ''[[Soaring Host]]'', [[Elsu Eyanosa]]
*'''VIII''' ''[[Chosen of Hecate]]'', [[Lambach Kropor]]
*'''IX''' ''[[The Sentinels]]'', [[Je'She of the Watch]]
*'''X''' ''[[Smoke Stalkers]]'', [[Isekho the Unseen]]
*'''XI''' ''[[Doomsingers]]'', [[Kinnévail Kincaid]]
*'''XII''' ''[[Iron Guard]]'', [[Zelbezis Dyestes]]
*'''XIII''' ''[[Loxodontii]]'', [[Ashur of Banipal]]
*'''XIV''' ''[[Emperor's Dragoons]]'', [[Jon-Frederic Aristide]]
*'''XV''' ''[[Dusk Phantoms]]'', [[Gyahdred]]
*'''XVI''' ''[[Pale Hounds]]'', [[Valorn Adras]]
*'''XVII''' ''[[Titan Marchers]]'', [[Raj Vokar]]
*'''XVIII''' ''[[Knights Stellaris]]'', [[Solomon Tyrus]]
*'''XIX''' ''[[Ussaran Liberators]]'', [[Piter Karomonov]]
*'''XX''' '' [[Forge Lords]]'', [[Mot Hadad]]
*'''XXI''' ''[[Corsairs Gallant]]'', [[Rahman Keita'mansa]]

='''STORY'''=

==Timeline==
*750.M30: Start of the Primarch Project
*780.M30: First Founding
*798.M30: Start of the Great Crusade
*805.M30: Treaty of Mars
*805.M30: Discovery of Jon-Frederic Aristide
*807.M30: Discovery of Linares
*808.M30: Discovery of Deshain Kane
*810.M30: Discovery of Gyahdred
*812.M30: Discovery of Raj Vokar
*813.M30: Mezoa joins the Imperium
*833.M30: Discovery of Einchurt
*835.M30: Dsicovery of Je'She
*838.M30: Discovery of Isekho the Unseen
*840.M30: Discovery of Rahman Keita'mansa
*846.M30: Discovery of Ashur
*848.M30: Discovery of Mot Hadad
*849.M30: Discovery of Piter Karomonov
*850.M30: Discovery of Lambach Kropor
*851.M30: Discovery of Elsu Eyanosa
*853.M30: Discovery of Solomon Tyrus
*854.M30: Discovery of Pacha
*855.M30: Remembrancers are installed in the Legions. [[Silver Blades#The Great Jousts|First Great Joust]]
*858.M30: Discovery of Calael Bishop
*860.M30: Rangdan Xenocides
*862.M30: Discovery of Valorn Adras
*867.M30: Discovery of Zelbezis Dyestes
*869.M30: Compliance of Molech
*873.M30: Discovery of Marduk Engur
*880.M30: Discovery of Kinnévail Kincaid
*890.M30: End of the Rangdan Xenocides
*940.M30: Defense of Necromunda
*947.M30: Barabash meets Marduk Engur
*984.M30: The Ghoul Star Campaign
*985.M30: [[KFC|Kincaid burns]]
*990.M30: Edict of Nikea
*999.M30: Start of the Ullanor Crusade
*000.M31: Warboss Urrlak Urruk defeats the Emperor. Raj is instated the "Praetorian of Terra". Elsu falls to Chaos.
*001.M31: Construction of the Imperial Ring begins. Tensions start to grow between the Warmasters
*003.M31: Gyahdred's Rebuke
*010.M31: Ullanor Crusade finishes
*012.M31: Malcador gives the power to the High Lords of Terra
*013.M31: Censure of Pacha
*015.M31: Censure of Lambach
*017.M31: Aristide joins the Separatist Movement
*019.M31: Elsu and Lambach join Marduk's Movement
*020.M31: New Hope events. Ashur gets collared. Battle of Grethor. The Hour of the Musth
*021.M31: Massacre at Elcoa. Battle of Kadir
*040.M31: Siege of Terra.
*045.M31: The Codex Astartes is proposed

[[Warmaster's Triumvirate Timeline]]

==The Great Crusade==
==The Council of Nikea==
==The Ullanor Crusade==
==The Brotherwar==
==The Battle of New Hope==
==The Siege of Terra==

== Source ==

Docs: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/14hqd6RLLgvLdYCIoLCHhQkidgXIsKUzrugyWu6pthEM

https://www.google.com/url?q=http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/53129838/&sa=D&ust=1497458544607000&usg=AFQjCNFXf5j2THyW3JJC_aWfd_lHKCLJmQ

https://www.google.com/url?q=http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/53181029/&sa=D&ust=1497458544607000&usg=AFQjCNG9aPWSbyLn3aoABtIdl8cRLvmCvg

https://www.google.com/url?q=http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/53211711/&sa=D&ust=1497458544608000&usg=AFQjCNGwu1SiCXRjOtwEzSQ5qnk5Aj0wKg

https://www.google.com/url?q=http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/53238307/&sa=D&ust=1497458544608000&usg=AFQjCNFmirxItCK_qIkfZz-BrQqQne_JNA

https://www.google.com/url?q=http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/53271527/&sa=D&ust=1497458544608000&usg=AFQjCNE0P7NbgKoUFrQK-oE_0K_lHxXRrA

https://www.google.com/url?q=http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/53298379/&sa=D&ust=1497458544608000&usg=AFQjCNHHLyA-CQrBUjLy5IigWfCDcY0H_A

{{Template:Warmasters Triumvirate}}

[[Category:Homebrew Settings]][[Category:Warhammer 40,000]][[Category:Warmasters Triumvirate]]

Jon-Frederic Aristide

2020-01-22T20:19:34Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885: /* Brotherwar */

{{Infobox Warmasters' Triumvirate Primarch
|name=Jon-Frederic Aristide
|bgcolor=white
|fgcolor=darkgreen
|image=[[File:Jon-Fred.jpg|272px]]
|title=Stallion of the Imperium, L'enfant Stellaire, Warmaster
|alias=
|where=Thiepval Prime
|when=805.M30
|legion=[[Emperor's Dragoons]]
|crusade=Primarch, 45<sup>th</sup> Expeditionary fleet
|sigil= WIP
|weapon=WIP
|trait=WIP
|flaw=WIP
|heresy=Separatist
|fate=Unknown
|dominion=WIP
}}
{{Warmasters Triumvirate-Head}}

Text here

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

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

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

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

==The Great Crusade==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="width:1000px">
'''''Deserter'''''
<div class="mw-collapsible-content">
The Heir of Superiority exited the warp, tendrils of nightmarish empyrean lashing at its alabaster hull. The Ist and Xth Dragoon battle fleets emerged in tow from the rip in space, dwarfed by the enormity of the Stallion’s flagship. Before the arrayed fleet, a derelict shipyard, a conglomeration of tangled space hulks and abandoned stations, within; the Vth legion. In all, it was similar to the Astral Warden's homeworld, albeit stripped of the warmth and evidence of civilization, hanging on to the most austere of environs. So too was the scrap field bereft of the cosmic and Immaterial tumult that surrounded Bishop's home, making the Dragoon's approach blessedly easy. To many, this was an open invitation. The Wardens were laying low, neutral, largely defected. Aristide was convinced of their neutrality, and their silent defection. Of invitation? That he was more hesitant to assume. Laying a trap in this manner would be out of Bishop's tactical acumen, and honour. Of what he was walking into, he was uncomfortably ignorant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you expect?”

“For you to talk to him like a man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That's where I get it from”

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

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

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

“You seek to exert influence beyond your rulership.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not a usurper.”

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

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

“Of my resolve I have few doubts.”

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

“Used? How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

==Brotherwar==
<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="width:1000px">
'''''Fratricide'''''
<div class="mw-collapsible-content">
The air was ash-choked and sullen, the smell of burning fuel and metal poisoned the wind, the smoke buried the twin suns of New Hope, the snow of debris and ash turned the vibrant desert into a bleak tundra. Malcador’s crashed flagship, the Barchamos, had turned the planet into a pallid grave. They couldn’t even retrieve his corpse, but the remnants of the ship’s vid and pict recordings would have told the tale. The Sigilite was dead, and nothing could ever be the same. The burgeoning Imperium had died in its adolescence. The legions that had gathered to refocus the Crusade and bring peace from division now gathered in tense silence for the coming war. Frederíc knew what would happen next. The final piece of the eroding foundation had crumbled, his only hope for peace died in that wreck. Malcador called the Warmasters to New Hope to inspire, to unite, to no doubt scold. Now they’ll argue over his body like vultures. The Sentinels were the first to arrive to the cataclysmic scene, and they were reluctant to share what they found, as somber silence met requests for information. That told Frederíc everything he needed to know. This was no accident, no tragic result of a perilous warp jump. If it were, it would have been announced, and the mourning would bind them, if only for a moment, as one. This was no assassination by Xenos forces, or enemy malcontents. If it were, they would have taken to stars already in vengeance. No, Malcador was murdered, and the list of suspects was terrifyingly small. To best the Sigillite in his own ship...the thought left a chill in Frederíc’s bones.

Many are the planets which escape notice by the powers that be. Lacking in resources, devoid of useful manpower and occupying no strategic location. This planet, New Hope, had once been lush and ripe for colonization, but the Age of Strife had been devastating. Yet the course of history is winding and endlessly complex, and on rare occasions a planet is thrust to the forefront, the hub upon which the galaxy might spin for a moment or two. New Hope was also such a place. Once a bustling and verdant world filled with industry and civilization, now all that remained was a dusty ruin. Primarch Jon-Frederíc Aristide, Imperial First Son and gene-sire of the Emperor’s Dragoons, was the first to set foot upon New Hopes’ crumbling, salt-laden soil and rolling sand dunes. In more abundant eras long past, his encampment was a beautiful ocean, a shallow sea filled with warmth and life from which huge aquaculture farms produced enough food for the entire sector. The Old Night was not kind to this world, and now only the titanic rusting skeletons of mighty industrial complexes now protruded from the endless salt flat, blue waters replaced by orange sand and white ash.

His contingent had camped on the farside of the planet, on the western hemisphere, amongst the sand covered ruins of cities and factorums. Zelbezis with his Iron Guard, Piter with his Liberators. Valorn with his Pale Hounds secretly in reserve. There was an agreement amongst the meeting parties to bring a supporting element, so that Malcador’s edict would not go ignored, or at the very least, be understood without the interference of the Warmasters. It was a concession proposed by Je'She, agreed upon by Marduk, and abided by Frederíc. Aristide would have preferred to come alone, but Je'She obviously did not trust his brothers, which Aristide understood because he felt the same. Marduk’s introduction as a neutral party did not sit well with him. Lambach and Kane’s disappearance into the fringes and the intelligence detailing the increasingly erratic behaviour of the Soaring Host and the Gunslingers made for a grim picture of the state of Marduk’s legions. Then again, the same could be said for his own legions. The Iron Guard and the Pale Hounds were famously austere, and the grievous losses the Liberators regularly incurred on Imperial Army auxilia were only overshadowed by their impeccable victory record. Of course, the Forge Lords were always disagreeable and cantankerous, their gene-sire Mot Hadad most of all. Save for the Astral Wardens and their Primarch, Aristide’s forces were famously unpopular, the Warmaster himself least of all at the moment. Without the Emperor to lead the Crusade, the Warmasters were the only authority in the frontier, and Warmaster Aristide was reluctant to allow mortal bureaucrats and entitled monarchists buck at that authority. While wildly controversial, he would not have disorder and corruption follow in the wake of his warfront.

Still, his brothers called him a seperatist, or worse, a usurper. Propaganda and misinformation caged him in, and any defense of his actions would be observed through the lense of skepticism and doubt. Worse still were his brothers under his command that took the bait and declared themselves “Astartes Supremacists”, consequences be damned. Mot in particular had been a staunch advocate of this stance, despite the Warmaster’s own views. Seperatist or not, Aristide’s image had been ruined by this movement, and his apparent enemies were more than glad to spread it, and as the debate grew more fevered, skirmishes broke out between the legions. And so Malcador called them here to discipline him and the other unruly legions. Without him, true conflict was inevitable.

Frederíc sat in a tent, a plain construction of canvas that flapped in the polluted wind. The command tent was picked clean in preparation for the meeting of the Warmasters. Only he and the austere chair he sat in remained. He had done this to himself. His experience with his homeworld made him paranoid, gave him little faith in regards to human rulers, and little trust in pacified peoples. He was not misguided, only overzealous in his response. Now his men think themselves revolutionaries, or the true successors to the Emperor’s vision. Frederíc was a leader of a movement not of his making, and yet it was his all the same. As the desert wind whipped through the tent he felt a peculiar sensation of everything falling around him, the unfamiliar impression of failure causing his stomach to sink, his head feeling light. Even that humble feeling he was supposed to be above, and here was. A disoriented man at the brink of collapse, watching all he had attempted to build be carried away with the wind, like the ash and sand. What hurt the most, was that in Malcador’s final moments, he likely considered Aristide a potential enemy. The realization that he failed the Sigillite somehow wounded him more than the prospect of coming to earnest blows with his brothers.

He felt very empty in his tent, gazing vacantly into the shifting dunes beyond. He had done this to himself.

He registered the steps coming from behind him long before they reached him, the monotonous crunch of sand blending in with the roaring of the blood in his ears. He didn’t turn to greet his brothers, and his son. Zelbezis Dyestes, the Primarch of the Iron Guard. Intimidating, severe, and nigh emotionless. He was clad in imposing black Cataphractii terminator plate, chains and spikes adorning the sinister ensemble. Despite his terrifying appearance, he was Frederíc's most loyal brother, ultimately deferential and precise in his execution of orders. Aristide often wondered what he done to engender such support, but he was glad for it nonetheless. “Warmaster, the forces are mustered, we are prepared to attend the council on your orders.” Aristide nodded absently, “Very good, Dyestes.”

An awkward silence followed, interrupted by Piter’s voice. Piter was likewise clad in Terminator armour, the new, experimental Indomitus pattern, which traded the unparalleled protection of Cataphractii and the overall perfection of Tartaros with greater mobility while being easier to manufacture and repair in comparison. Being the armour of a Primarch it was far more advanced than that which his sons wore, but the impression that he was no better equipped than his men. It was a strange bit of hypocrisy in Frederíc's mind, but it seemed to work for the Ussaran Liberators.

“Get up, Aristide. We should attend Malcador’s funeral, and fight over the scraps of the Imperium.” Piter said. Malcador’s funeral. It still didn’t feel real to Frederíc. There it was again, that crumbling sensation, like the seat beneath him and the ground beneath it disappeared, and he was falling into the void. The routine of command assisted Frederíc where conscious thought was failing him, “Indeed. Expect conflict, and a rapid exfiltration. We came here to prevent war, but do not be unprepared if war begins here.” He rose fluidly, his flesh numb to the motion, as if he was drawn up by marionette strings. He turned to face them for the first time. Zelbezis was placid as ever, his constant expression of stern disapproval was plastered on his face. Piter seemed bored with the whole affair, likely just waiting to learn if the Crusade is reunited, or if the “Revolution” is to begin.

Guy Maxíme however, was positively furious. “We were at war the second you started leading planetary governors to the guillotine and left Marines in their place.” Frederíc considered him coldly, “I curbed dissidents. I will not conquer the stars in the Emperor’s name only to have them turn against us when we present them with our backs.” Zelbezis nodded sagaciously in agreement,“There is little use in claiming worlds in title only.”, he said, echoing his Warmaster's sentiment. Guy’s nostrils flared in irritation, “Calael Bishop openly abandoned the Crusade, you allowed him to put secession into your mind, you’ve broken nearly every law of the Imperium save open rebellion and the Truth!” Piter rolled his eyes, “Brother, why do you allow this troop to speak to you this way? In my legio-” Jon-Frederíc Aristide snapped to, the fog of despair lifting for a moment, and the piercing stare from his stormy eyes lashed out as he spoke. “The Imperium is dead. It died this morning. It’s been dying since Ullanor, but today we hold the wake. Today we decide either to resurrect it, or give birth to something new. If the maggots on its corpse resist, then you should be very glad for what I have done.”

Guy’s eyes widened, “This is madness.” Frederíc turned his back to him, gazing out to the desert once more, now examining the invisible paths before him, “In an insane world, the sane man must appear truly mad. I play the part I must, for all of our sakes, but do not mistake this as the world I wanted. This is the world thrust upon me, and now I must maneuver it or we risk destruction.” Guy huffed, “All of this could be avoided if you just capitulated and fell in line. Instead, your pride compels you to be the pinnacle, to be the Warmaster of Warmasters. You are not a general, you are a tyrant.” Those words started a flame in his stomach, taking residence in the once hollow pit. Dyestes spoke up for him, “Watch your tone, marine, your liege has put down more tyrants than any before him, and has instituted order amidst chaos. You should be grateful for him.” Frederíc turned to the group, and Maxíme starred in return, “Oh, for Thiepval? Believe me, Lord Primarch, I remember Thiepval. Better than most.” Dyestes made to speak, perhaps even strike him down for his insolence, but Jon-Frederíc held up a staying hand,”Tell me, Maxíme, who now holds the title of Praetorian of Terra, and now Regent with the death of Malcador?” Guy eyed him suspiciously, “Kinnévail Kincaid.” Jon-Frederíc nodded, “Indeed. Remind me, what do they call him now?” Guy was silent. “Say it, marine.” Guy spat out the words, “The Burned Prophet.” Jon-Frederíc nodded again, “Indeed. It seems I am not the only to hold the laws of the Imperium in disregard, even on Terra. None here are without guilt, were that the case, this would not have come to fruition. Now I will hear no more dissent. We have come here for peace, we shall see what my brothers have come for.” With that, Guy was silenced, Piter seemed relieved to proceed on with the day, and Zelbezis returned to taciturn silence.

The journey to the meeting place was a long convoy, several hours of uncomfortable silence. A moderately sized contingent of Dragoons, with a few Iron Guard and Ussaran Liberator tank platoons, a few Sicarians and three Fellblades respectively. In the Dragoon force was a Mastodon, four Land Raider Platoons, three jetbike squadrons, and three land raider platoons shuttling infantry to the site. The bulk of his force was ordered to keep overwatch some few kilometres away, far away enough so that he didn’t arrive with a literal army, but close enough to make apparent that he did indeed have one. Frederíc elected to ride at the fore of the sprawling convoy upon his jetbike, the Gauvin. While it may have been more expeditious to take to wing in his personal Thunderhawk, his presence was more striking whilst on his steed. To his brothers on the other side of the divide, he would appear nonchalant and unafraid, to his men, he would be inspiring and steadying. The council was to be held in the ruins of some great hall or temple, a once massive circular tower long since decapitated by the blade of time, the tower now an open topped colosseum. As they approached it rose out of the ground from the horizon, like the breaching head of some mammoth sandwurm. The nature of the arena before him bore an unsettling resemblance to Nikaea, the Trial of Lambach writ small. Without the Emperor or Malcador, Frederíc doubted this council would resolve itself any better. However without such iconoclasts as Kincaid actually being present to speak, there was a small hope. Small.

Dust plumed from either side of the ruinous column, to the left, the “loyalist” forces, Sentinels, Titan Marchers, and Silver Blades. Razorbacks, Rhinos, Land Raiders, Land Speeder transports and Imperial Knights. They were well matched, and no doubt Je'She had support not far behind as well. Arriving from his right was a comparatively miniscule air wing, Marduk’s personal Thunderhawk flanked by Raptors and escorted by Xyphons that broke away once the gunships touched ground. It was a wise choice, as the mediating party, but if this is the force Marduk chose to arrive in, there was no doubt that a much more decisive force waiting in the wings. The message was clear, albeit subtle. Be civil, or else. Were Marduk not playing the caring third party attempting to heal wounds, Frederíc would have thought it a nonchalant boast. It may have simply been a sign of respect in respect to Malcador’s passing. But Frederíc was reluctant to rule anyone out as a suspect in his murder. He could rule no one out, save for his own men. Perhaps not even them.

He had kept close tabs on his forces, but acting beyond his orders wasn't necessarily their way, save for Mot, who couldn't be reigned in despite Frederíc's best efforts. Even still, the murder of the Sigilite? The Black Dwarf may have been spiteful, but that was beyond his means at the very least. Besides, he was on the other side of the galaxy, and no mere marine would have been able to best Malcador, surely. He spoke over the comms, hailing the detachment, "Hold here. I will take the Palantine Guard and we will approach the meeting alone. Palantine, assemble at the entrance. I meet with my brothers alone." Various affirmations met him, and the small battalion halted whilst the mounted honour guard rushed past, following their gene-sire. Guy Maxíme crackled in over the vox, "What do you hope to accomplish here?" Frederíc pondered the question for a moment, "Unity." and that was all. Guy seemed content with the answer, and fell silent as the shadow of the tower enveloped them.

The Palantine Guard dismounted their jetbikes at the sweeping archway to the tower, one of several at regular, if wide, intervals. Up close the lost glory of the thing made itself apparent. The worn stone hinted at intricate patterning in the large slabs, the archway itself a masterful piece of architecture and stonework, long eroded effigies of beasts and men of import holding up the great pillars of the tower. From the deep tracks at the entryway Frederíc presumed the ground he walked was once beach, elegant ships coming from abroad to make port within the tower, passing through the generous birth of the arch. The Primarch took a moment to regard the scene, imagining starry eyed pilgrims arriving to their destination, or foppish traders in their regalia sailing into the tower to trade and boast, or militant leaders steaming forth to discuss the fate of nations. He joined their ranks and stepped into the tower, removing his helmet and allowing the cool breeze flowing through the arrid ruin to run past his face, only to be defeated by the crushing heat beyond the shadow of the temple. He turned, facing his men, "Post up here, this is a meeting of Warmasters in good faith. Wish me luck, and hopefully we shall rejoin our comrades in the Crusade. But be alert. Guy nodded, and whirled his hand about, signalling for the guard to form a perimeter. The Stag amongst the Guard trotted up to the entryway, standing guard with Guy. At times Frederíc forgot he made the marine the captain of his honour guard. He tucked his helm under his arm, and stepped reverently into the meeting place. "Aristide!" Guy called after him. The Primarch turned halfway, and saw his Equerry standing in shadow, on his face a look of...desperation? "Aristide...bring us peace." The Primarch's jaw tightened, the weight of his duty bearing down on him. He nodded, and Guy nodded in turn, before taking a visible deep breath, donning his helmet, and turning out to face the desert with the Stag.

Frederíc turned back to the darkened depths of the ruin, and ventured forth to the whims of fate.

The base of the tower was surprisingly verdant, vines and plump desert vegetation taking root in cracks and spots of sunlit ground. Sand-worn but otherwise preserved frescos confirmed his suspicions of the use of this place. It was a gathering point for all peoples, the neutral ground amongst nations. The mosaics and frescoes told of a gift from some sea deity to the chief deity of the sky, and the gods gifting the people in celebration of their union. Images of traders giving eachother goods, with a suspicious absence of coinage or other payment, warriors and warlords plunging blades into the earth and embracing, the faithful offering up their children for blessings and good fortune. This was a place of good will, a place bound in love. It was little mystery as to why Malcador had chosen this place to make peace and reform the bonds of brotherhood, even when taking into account New Hopes' strategic unimportance and quiet location. Even in disuse, that was the spirit of this temple. Religious or not, oaths were made here, and good will was shared. Although, given the Imperial Truth, it was amusing that he would choose a temple.

Frederíc paused at a mural depicting a pair of pair of peasants offering a babe up to the sky god, while the god's advisor, a messenger spirit, stood by approvingly. A lump formed in his throat, despite himself. He approached the painting, admiring the plain but emotive artistry. He absently thumbed the mother figure. He wondered if the babe given to the gods had a good life, what legends and appellations he gained, what hardships he endured. He rested his forehead against the wall, and considered the diminutive messenger god at the feet of the sky god. No doubt in the mythology of this faded people he had some great importance. The unappreciated bureaucrat, the dutiful servant. He began to form a distaste for the artisan that placed this display along his path, it was awfully inconsiderate. He pressed off it, and took a deep breath. The Primarch could mourn his mentors later, for now he had to honour them.

Minutes passed as he coursed through the thoroughfare in silent contemplation. He attempted to plan what he would say to his brothers, but he found himself continually distracted by errant thoughts. What have he could have done differently? What if he was made sole Warmaster over all the legions? Could he have saved Malcador? Was he willing to die for him? For the cause his legions have created? It was useless. Even his peerlessly focused mind was sent wandering in the wake of the morning's grim tidings. So he decided to simply take the meeting as it came, to be bare and honest. To approach his brothers as he did Calael. With an open heart. Perhaps...perhaps he was too militarized from the very start, too indoctrinated in the way of war to ever truly connect with his brothers in a way that mattered. It was a disturbing thing to consider, that he had been wrong from the beginning. He stifled his doubts, suffocating them with resolve. Whole worlds counted on his competence, and his diplomacy would be tested like never before.

The pathway neared its end, terminating in a round chamber with a great stone table, a round construction easily thrice his prodigious body length, easily able to seat several dozens of people at its circumference. Other soaring archways lined the walls, although their number, and the smaller diameter of this inner sanctum, suggested that the paths fed into each other, or led upwards into the tower. The open top of the tower was fully observable here, the high ceiling of the path inwards remarkably intact, supporting the floors above it. Here the vegetation was once more absent, or at the very least confined to corners where the merciless twin suns could not bleach them. Still, with the ash laden sky, a somber light filtered into the chamber, casting a dim light onto the affair. Despite his moment of distraction in the hall, he appeared to be the first to arrive. He wasn’t sure if he should be smug about the speed of his legion or his own personal promptness. Smugness likely wasn’t wise regardless.

The footfalls of power armour echoed from a leftward hall, likely Je'She. He realized there was far more than just one set of steps. He hadn’t come alone. Aristide tensed, and rested his hand on the pommel of his sabre. Je'She and his Immortal honour guard emerged from the tunnel, and the guard marched in place for a moment, parting to allow their liege to break from the formation, before coming to a halt. Je'She removed his helmet, and Aristide saw his brother’s face for the first time in ages. He looked tired, the imperishable nature of Primarchs had not protected his brother from the damages of stress and tumult. Frederíc considered how he must look to Je'She. The Primarch of the Sentinels regarded Aristide cooly for a few moments, belying no emotion save his weariness. “You have come alone.” He said, finally, his accent tinted by his sandswept homeworld, easy lilting tones that contrasted Aristide’s own clipped, aristocratic speach. Frederíc sat his helm down on the table, and spread his arms, looking about him, “Aye, that I did. Was it not what we had agreed upon?” Je'She regarded him passively once more, then nodded slowly, “That it was.” Frederíc let his arms fall to his side, resting both hands on the pommel of his blade, “And you arrive with your honour guard.” Je'She exhaled sharply, regarding his statuesque guard, “A precaution, I am sure you understand.” Aristide raised an eyebrow, “Do I?” He saw Je'She’s jaw tighten at the snide retort. It dawned upon Aristide that his brother may have suspected him in Malcador’s death. The thought shook him, but he made no outward display of it. He would dissuade these fears handily enough, to be sure. “Brother,” Frederíc said, “Please, let us attend to this matter in private, as we had agreed. I come alone, in good faith.” Je'She hesitated, but waved off his guard, and they reformed, and marched back from when they came. The brothers now were alone.

There was a pregnant silence in which the Primarchs simply stared at each other, Frederíc from the table, Je'She from the archway. Je'She finally broke it with a sigh, and strode forth, setting his helm down upon the stone surface as his brother had. He did not relinquish his polearm, “Darker days have not been seen since the fall of our Father…” Aristide looked away, and to the morose sky, “All the days have been dark since then.” Another silence followed, and Aristide brought his eyes down from the heavens, “I regret many of those days.” Je'She met his eyes, and a forced grin crawled along his mouth, “It only took the death of the Sigilite to elicit humility from Jon-Frederíc Aristide, Primarch of the Emperor’s Dragoons.” Frederíc couldn’t even muster polite humour to trade with his brother, he simply looked to the ground before resting his hands on the table, running a gauntlet down his face to shake the growing chill there. He didn’t meet his brother’s gaze, and searched for the right words to say. They wouldn’t come. Je'She rounded the table finally moving away from the exit, “I apologize, Jon-Frederíc, that was cruel of me.” Aristide nodded wearily, “Have we ever been so formal, Je'She of the Watch?” Je'She stopped at an arm’s length from Aristide, reside his backside on the corner of the table, leaning on his glaive for support, “Not by my count, no.” Aristide sunk down further to his elbows, resting his head on met hands, “The last time I saw Malcador we argued...the final words I spoke to him were in spite…” “When?” Je'She asked, but Aristide knew he was fishing for information. Frederíc scoffed, “‘When?’ You know exactly when. After Ullanor. After the Triumvirate. ‘Time will prove me right.’ I said. Time will prove me right...I was so sure that a divided crusade would be our undoing, that it was a fatal flaw in the Sigilite’s unparalleled wisdom.” He shook his head, striking the table as he rose, “Now I must live with that regret.” Je'She huffed, looking away from him as he rose, “My people spoke of the dangers of self fulfilling prophecy,” he said with hints of venom, “but I suppose time did prove you right. Here we are, divided.” Frederíc placed his hand on his brother’s pauldron, and he felt the subtle shift as Je'She recoiled at his touch, “Brother, know this please, I wish this never came to pass.” Je'She turned his head slowly, “And yet it did, because of the actions of your legions, your actions.” Aristide did not relinquish his grasp, “I know. I know, brother, if anyone knows this it is I. Believe you in me. I was so focused on victory I did not see the cost, to claim the East in our father’s name. No matter the means. We are here because of me.” The contrite words seemed to catch Je'She off guard, and once more Frederíc found himself critical of his past aloofness.

For a moment Je'She seemed to consider his brother in earnest, not a suspect or a war criminal, but as a brother. The old flame of kinship flickering, faintly, back to life. Je'She let his weapon slide to the crook of his arm, and offered forth an open hand. Aristide lifted his hand off his brother’s shoulder and readily grasped it, “There was a time where we were the closest of comrades, was there not?” Frederíc allowed himself a small smile, “Aye, by my count, yes.” Je'She returned the gesture by placing his hand on Frederíc’s shoulder “Then there may be reconciliation yet,” the heavy echoes of another’s approach foretold of Marduk’s approach, and signalled that the council was to begin in earnest, “your contrition gives me great hope, brother. Be true here at this council, and we shall discover the truth of the matter.” Frederíc frowned, realizing that he was alluding to Malcador. Be true? Truth of the matter? He realized this was a test. Je'She still didn’t remove him, or at the very least his forces, from suspicion. Something was wrong. Je'She knew something he was not telling him.

Marduk Engur, Primarch of the Leviathan Host and third Warmaster sauntered into the chamber, a look of reserved confidence smeared on his delicate countenance. He was unhelmed, unarmed, but armoured, fine purple robes draped across his impressive plate. He brought his hands up in a steeple, then spread his arms in an embracing gesture, "Ah, good tidings in terrible times, my brothers. I see my gamble has paid off." He said smoothly, a slight smile blossoming from his mouth, his warmth tinged by sadness. His voice was sonorous and rich, almost clashing with his soft, polished features, his accent not far removed from Je’She’s, but the rolling tides and thunderous storms of his homeworld were almost tangible in his voice. Even the measured Marduk was left touched by Malcador's passing. Passing. The term felt too passive. Je'She's marines had investigated the scene, so if Je'She was guarded with Aristide there was a reason beyond a simple, albeit catastrophic, mechanical failure. Aristide watched Je'She take in Marduk. The same critical eye he gave to Frederíc, which was partly relieving as it meant that he wasn’t being fully held accountable for the crime, but unnerving since it confirmed his suspicions. Not an accident, not the work of the enemy. There was a traitor amongst them, a murderous strain in their ranks. For Je'She, this wasn’t a peace council, it was an inquisition. Frederíc was determined to start his own.

“Your gamble?” Frederíc asked. Marduk turned to his brother, obviously pleased with himself, “Indeed. I had hoped that the cooler minds of Warmasters would prevail over the passions of their subordinate brothers. I had hoped that a moment to yourselves would provide some good. I am here as mediator between aggrieved parties, something I am sure neither of you have any...fondness for. To be patronized by the youngest brother. Perhaps, I thought, it would be best to allow the elders of the family to reconnect, to grieve in privacy. I was correct, it would seem, and that gladdens me. Malcador would have been proud, I should think, that even with his loss we reknit the broken bonds. Your temperance honours me, and this council, and I thank you both. May we have a moment of silence in remembrance of the Sigillite, before we proceed?” Marduk’s usual sickly sweet demeanour had seemed to evaporate since Frederíc last saw him, more sincere and forthright, less eager to please, to be the center of attention, to be the favorite. He wasn’t sure if the metamorphosis was wrought on the campaign trail or this morning. Frederíc looked to Je'She who looked to Marduk, and the two nodded in acceptance, and Marduk smiled wistfully, and the trio bowed their heads in unison.

Frederíc took the moment to consider his options. Confronting the mystery head on was clearly a poor move, as it would put them on the defensive. The best move seemed to allow the council to proceed as planned, allow Je'She to play his hand and watch Marduk’s reactions, or Je'She’s questions. What Je'She asked would reveal what he knew, and give Aristide insight into the exact nature of the murder. Marduk’s answers would either incriminate him or absolve him, but even then the whole scenario seemed improbable. Frederíc struggled to think of a motive for Marduk, as far as Marduk was concerned he was content with his position. He proved himself to the Emperor, and was thus at the very least considered Warmaster surely, and Malcador awarded it to him. His presumably tennous control over his legions would at the very least keep him preoccupied from murder. And removing Malcador would likewise undermine his authority as a Warmaster. Without Malcador only favoritism and bonds of loyalty remained, and his front, and all others, would collapse into cabals of comrades and like minded individuals. Chaos wouldn’t serve Marduk well, so his motive was thin. Je'She may not have been proper Warmaster material, but he was fiercely loyal and such a malodorous crime was both beneath him and unlike him, the consideration alone was ludicrous, so he was not a suspect. The other legions...the Forge Lords did not dabble well in subterfuge, Einchurt was far and away, as were the Gunsligners, the Loxidontii, and the Soaring Host. The Corsairs Gallant would have nothing to gain as the Regent of Terra legitimized their hoard of Writs of Trade. Valorn and the Pale Hounds wouldn’t enact such a dastardly plan without his consent and authorization. Callous they were, but not foolish.

The list of legitimate suspects became short indeed. Lambach perhaps had good motive, considering the Edict of Nikaea, and he was unaccounted for, but even in his melancholy he would not murder one of his mentors, perhaps even less so because of it. That left Kincaid. Afterall, he had the most to gain. If the open secret of his full blown theism were true he would be open to proselytize with the last bastion of the Imperial Truth gone. Resurrectionists and Emperor cultists would flock to his words, and he would be unstoppable. Regent and Praetorian, with a legion at his back and untold hordes of now openly worshiping faithful as a shield before him, only civil war would be able to depose him. He had the most to gain, without a doubt, but the issue remained; only a Primarch had a hope of even being able to engage Malcador, and only the Emperor himself had a chance to defeat him. Motive may have been present, but Kincaid himself was certainly not, as the tensions of Mars and Terra would keep the maniac tied to the rigours of politics, and even where he to slip aboard Malcador’s ship, that sinister cripple would have been smote. None could kill him, perhaps not even in a fatal tie. Were that the case Je'She would have discovered evidence enough to openly accuse a culprit, and this disguised investigation wouldn’t be happening. It was perplexing, and horrifying.

The observance was ended by a polite "Ahem" from Marduk, and the Warmasters raised their heads. "Now," Marduk began, "we have assembled in this place to discuss the winding path the Crusade that our father began has taken. Tragedy before tragedy has distracted us, turned our legions from comrades to rivals, and halted the course of salvation for humanity from Terra to the eastern most reaches of the Galaxy. Our father created us to be the leaders of the vanguard, to unite the stars under the Imperial Aquila. Malcador had called us here because that most sacred purpose has been lost. Je'She of the Watch, while your loyalty to the cause of the Emperor has been great, your legions clash with those of Jon-Frederíc Aristide in ways unbecoming of Astartes. The Great Joust and Great Hunts of our martial tradition are places enough to shed blood and war amongst brethren, for it is this conflict that encourages the strengthening of our men. Petty brawls and aimless skirmishes serve no purpose other than strife. Lord Aristide, your forces likewise are not innocent in this matter. The frontier nature of my legions preserves my nature as the neutral party, but I am not so naive to believe that where my armies closer at hand, there would be no such combat." He paused, eyeing Je'She with an unreadable expression, "After the censures, of course. Brothers, we have slipped farther and farther from each other each year since Ullanor and the death of our father-"

Je'She cut in, sternly, "He is not dead." Marduk winced, likely regretting the choice of words, "Of course. I misspoke. The passing of Malcador has turned my thoughts to the grim eventuality of death. Though our father recovers steadily, his wounding and absence makes it difficult to separate him from the fallen at this moment. But now is not the time for grief, not yet. Gone though the Sigillite may be, his mission remains. We must exit this chamber in concordance, or not at all. So now, I shall state, plainly, the complaints, and cede the floor to the honourable Warmasters. Je'She, you are accused of criticizing Warmaster Aristide to the point of defamation, which sows discord in the ranks, and of loose control over your legions resulting in unheeded bloodshed amongst the Emperor's legions. Jon-Frederíc you are accused of perverting the purpose of the Legiones Astartes by removing mortal governance and emplacing Astartes in their place, which disobeys the Emperor's intent, of loose control of your legions likewise resulting in battle but also the gestation of a political movement that borders on separatist, of courting worlds to your banner and not that of the Imperium, and of open dissent to the decrees of the late Regent of Terra. As the more grievously accused party, you shall be the first to speak, Warmaster Aristide. During this mediation I ask only civility. Please, brother, proceed, state your case to us."

Frederíc chose his next words very carefully; "Brothers, I am glad we meet here under common cause. Marduk, you speak true that the Crusade and its myriad misfortunes have created rifts between kin and comrades that may never be healed. I have spoken rashly, furiously, and hastily on many things. Kane, a brother who has been near to my heart as a brother in battle and in family, now decries my alleged crimes more than any other because of my misguided passion. To the Dragoons, to my legions, I present myself as the consummate general, but Je'She, you are one of the few who know me with familiarity. And you would know, I, like many of our brothers are kept from the Emperor's vision of perfection by that base humanity that tainted us all. Some of our brothers, such as Dyestes, Hadad, or Einchurt, view this as a weakness, a primitivism that constrains our potential as warriors and leaders. Some like Bishop, Pacha, or Ashur view this as our strength, lest we overlook the man for mankind. I view this, as many mortal men do, as simply the state of affairs. The love I share for my brothers, for our father, is no greater a boon than rage, or arrogance, or pride is a flaw. We are human, in part, and that is simply something that must be accounted for. My humanity has seen me berate my brothers at their weakest, defy my betters at their wisest, and act in extremes to protect that noble construct that we have made in the fires of war. And it is my core humanity that sees that I regret these actions in retrospect."

"But brothers, surely you must recognize the motivating force behind all my actions. I did not live a full and storied life upon my homeworld, I did not see generations rise and fall and prosper or wither in the wake of my actions. I saw injustice and rectified it, I took the planet for the Emperor before I had even known that was my ordained purpose. When he arrived, the truth of my being was revealed to me and I became a soldier in his name in short order. For nearly the entirety of my vast life, service to the Emperor is all I have known. To lead his armies, to inspire his troops, to wield his banner. Never have I acted in my own interest, for I have no interests save the growth and health of the Imperium. When dissident lords thought they could disregard the Lex Imperialis, written by the very hand of our brother Kane, what recourse is there but swift removal and replacement with competent and loyal leadership? Would you see me simply allow such transgressions to go unchallenged? No, surely not. What then is the proper response? Discard leaders until we discover one loyal to the Throne? Simply reduce the planet to astral rubble, thus denying my forces, already stretched thin, of a logistical asset? My actions, while controversial, have resulted in success in my theater. The East is a harsh place brothers, with human empires unaccustomed to near peers and challengers, xenos forces that have long forgotten humanity after age old conquest, and the merciless traversal of warp and void. I cannot, will not, allow greed and the capriciousness of unruly subjects to undermine my campaign. So much relies on our combined success, on a scale that only the mind of a Primarch can appreciate. It is not just the fate of worlds that hangs in the balance, but that of an entire species. The Emperor did not intend for us to be masters of men, no. But neither did he intend to fall on Ullanor. In his absence we must be the caretakers of humanity."

Before he finished, he paused, gauging the attitudes of his brothers. Je'She seemed vaguely discontented, likely disagreeing with a great deal he had said but offering him the courtesy to finish his thoughts. Marduk meanwhile was placid, observing the proceeding passively. "Brothers, I act only in good of the Imperium, the crusade. You may criticize me for the lengths I take, but you cannot construe them as anything but what I deemed to be the necessary course." He folded his arms, nodding to Marduk, and gesturing to Je'She, indicating that he had concluded. Marduk clapped a hand to his chest, a motion of appreciation, "Thank you, Aristide. Je'She?" Je'She scratched his chin, contemplating his introductory statement, “I do know you well, Frederíc, better than most perhaps. And if we are to be true here, then I must confess it was never in doubt that your installation of Astartes rulers was committed for the Imperium’s benefit. However, it is the actions of your soldiers that has brought me here against you, and you as their commander are accountable for their actions. You speak of your faults, a rare occasion indeed, and were we not close kin I could besmirch your self reflection as excuses. But I will not do this. Instead, I target your failings of command, not character.” As he spoke, he began to pace about his end of the table, his free hand pressed behind his back, “Your actions, well intended or not, have stoked the fires of a dangerous and seditious thought, that it is Astartes that must rule over men, against the creed of the Emperor. To compound this, you have taken a legion, not under your command, into your protection. What reasonable excuse is there for this? You should have remanded the Astral Wardens to Warmaster Marduk so they may be dealt with appropriately. Instead you appropriated the entire legion. Frederíc, you must admit that this, coupled with the rousing calls of the legions on the Eastern Front create ill omens. You conquer for the good of humanity, and for the Imperium, but my greatest fear is that you no longer recognize the underlying concept of the Imperium. That Astartes are to serve the good of mankind, to head the dictates of Terra, and without the voice of the Emperor, the words of mortal men take its place. You have gone against this social contract imposed upon us all, and now your legions strain against the natural order of the Imperium. And you have done nothing.” Je’She ceased his pacing, and faced his brother, “Someone must answer for this, Frederíc. Were Malcador here, I believe he would hold you accountable, but instead you have your brothers to judge you. So if not you, who then?”

Frederíc blinked in incredulity, “I will not be held on trial for keeping my campaign a cohesive front. Je’She, surely you cannot be asking for further censures? Nearly all of our psychic brothers were driven off after Nikaea, to the point where Kropor and the Chosen still are in self imposed exile, and the Astral Wardens outright desired to leave us behind and live out their days in peace!” Je’She scoffed, “The Chosen of Hecate disobeyed a direct edict from the Emperor, you speak of cohesion and striking down dissent in equal terms, save for when it concerns the Astartes. If a Dragoon disobeyed orders would you simply slap his wrist and have him continue about his day? No! Do not try and divorce the issues when they are one in the same. If there is any amongst us here that should appreciate good order and discipline it is you, no?” Frederíc threw his hands up, “At what cost? We cannot decimate our own forces with every complaint and infraction! Your Silver Blades and Titan Marchers have nearly cost us an entire legion, Primarch and all. I will not drive my legions into the dirt for a lesser an indiscretion than disregarding the Edict of Nikaea!” Je’She scrunched his face incredulously, “‘Lesser an indiscretion’? Brother, ‘Astartes Supremacy’ flies in the face of the Emperor’s intent!” Aristide contained a sigh at this comment, “That intent held import when the Emperor was whole and amongst us, yes, of course, all matters of leadership amongst his fiefdoms were his to decide, as he is the Emperor, but without him that duty falls to Malcador. Now without Malcador there is little preventing greedy planetary governors from breaking away and simply returning to their state of affairs before conquest, at great cost to their people.” Je’She sat his free hand down upon the table, staring at Aristide with deadly intent, “So you anticipated Malcador’s passing?”

There it was. The accusation, heavy handed and laid bare. Frederíc was now on the defensive. “Je’She no one in the galaxy could have anticipated this, no one. To imply I had some foresight in this is insane. Unity, cohesion, peace, order, these are the values I ascribe to. We had lost the Emperor, halving the integrity of the Imperium, with Regent gone as well the Primarchs and the Astartes are the only things keeping the construct erect in the eyes of our adversaries. Even now, should news of Malcador circulate we will leave New Hope with hundreds of insurrections and secessions, and our Crusade is undone. Does this sound like a turn of events I would find favourable? That anyone would find favourable? And then you ask me to censure my own forces, despite seeing the outcome that would cause. Je’She, put aside rumour and speculation, there is no base in this and no sense in attempting to reprimand my legions with undue force.” Je’She shook his head, “But you have no plan to curb these supremacists?” “Of course I do,” Aristide countered, “Once the campaign is at a point of stability I will address the legions on this matter, institute a system of governance less reliant on direct Astartes control, and instruct my brothers to discipline these supremacists on an individual basis. Allowing them to confront the issues of their legions on their own terms will help to prevent undue strain that a true censure would create. Slowly the dissidents would be ruled out and the movement would die out, and I am spared from legions running off in a show of melodrama. This isn’t a difficult situation to rectify.” “Then why is not rectified!” Je’She protested. “Because I can’t allow the front to collapse. This must be treated the right way, brother. I will not amputate a limb when I can slowly excise the rot.” Marduk finally decided to speak up, “I understand the precarious nature of your predicament, and many of my legions now prefer the company of the crusade to that of their brothers and cousins, but you speak of curtailing the actions of Marines, not of Primarchs. What then would you do should your brothers not fall in line?”

It was a good question, but one Aristide had not put much stock in, “Hadad is the only one who has openly supported this motion, the others have not voiced assent-” Je’She cut in, “Neither have they dissented. Silence equates to support.” “-I disagree, Je’She, they know as well as I do that dividing the legions at this juncture would be unwise. Besides, Tyrus has been vocal about his dissent of the movement, firmly within your line of thought, I should add. His legion is not amongst the rabble, and I would use his influence to stamp out the outspoken. Best to simply allow the fires to die out, or turn focus to the issue when the East is less daunting an obstacle. To answer your question then, when the time to address the issue comes, I will confront Hadad. Likely he will buck at my orders, but I would rather cut logistical ties and strategic support than fully censure him. The Forge Lords would not be censured so easily, and the growing strain on their campaign would disprove notions of Astartes supremacy handily. They would be bitter and vengeful no matter my course, but at the very least the returned support pending a recant would alleviate their spite. Afterwords, I simply direct my brothers to control the individuals responsible. Dyestes, Adras, Karamanov, they shall do as I command, and Tyrus would be a vocal advocate for my reinstating of order, with Mansa spreading conformist thought through passive and subtle means. Brothers, I have all of this accounted for! I recognize this may be perceived as a major point of contention, but allow me to proceed as I had planned, and soon it will be little more than memory.”

Je’She furrowed his brow, “You offer us excuses, promises, and then insist that we do nothing and simply hope that you are able to unknit this tangled web you have allowed to blossom. What assurances do we have? You have allowed things to progress to this point, a mistake even you admit, how can we be so sure that further mistakes will not occur?” Marduk gave a weak smile, “I am afraid I must concur, Jon Aristide, what peace of mind can you provide?” Aristide was growing tired of taking the defensive position, and his opinions on his brothers could be constrained no longer. “Assurances? Peace of mind? Have I so drastically fallen in your regard? Does my word mean nothing now? Very well, you wish to have me answer for the past? This I will gladly do, but I will have you answer for the present. From both of you. You truly think Malcador called for this council so that you may issue accusations at me? Pah, decades of crusade has not beaten the naivety from you two it should seem.” “Naivety?!” Je’She spat, “I am not the Warmaster that has allowed a rebellion to fester in his ranks!” The Stallion allowed himself a spiteful laugh, “Oh ho! That is rich indeed!” He snarled, “How can you believe that I am the only one amongst us to allow dissent to prosper when Kincaid galivants unchecked in Sol spreading the disease of faith and divides Mars as we speak!” Je’She gasped, taken aback, “So you answer your misdeeds by defaming your brother? What has taken ahold of you, Frederíc!” “Taken ahold of me? Je’She, he has not been Kinnévail Kincaid for quite some time now, as his Warmaster you should be aware of this more than anyone.” Marduk spoke next, agreeable in tone, “His...attitudes are well known, Warmaster Je’She, it is true.” Je’She waved a dismissive hand, “This is nonsense, Kincaid has been an instrumental part of the crusade, he has pacified worlds without a single drop of blood, I will not allow you to defame him as a distraction!” Aristide shook his head in disbelief, as if he had been struck, “Do you jest? You cannot be serious. A distraction? What does brother Engur have to distract you from, then? Kincaid is a fanatic, Je’She! He has not been the same since the Conflagration! Since Nikaea we all knew that something has possessed that ruined body of his, it was written in his every madness laced word, his every warped scar! He wore the words of the Emperor upon his wraps like scripture! He proclaimed his closest brothers dangers to humanity! Eyanosa, Kropor, Bishop, Pacha, every librarian in our legions, he was but a single impassioned phrase from calling for their deaths! Kind, earnest, dutiful brothers, those were the ones he villainized! Je’She, I beg of you see what he has become!” The Warmaster’s plea seemed to fall on deaf ears, as Je’She simply curled his lip in irritation, “Very well, let us assume this conjecture is true, our brother has broken the Truth as you have broken the law-” “I have broken no law!” “THEN EXPLAIN YOUR TROOPS ABOARD MALCADOR’S SHIP!”

The air froze in the chamber, time slowed to a stop, and Frederíc’s Focus surged within him. Nothing could have prepared him for this. An insane, illogical, impossible proclamation. One that made him the greatest traitor in the Imperium’s history, in the history of all mankind. Je’She did not suspect Frederíc in Malcador’s murder. He outright believed he had committed it by proxy. “There were survivors, Aristide!” Je’she shouted in a muffled crawl, his words slowed by the Stallion’s mental ability, but he saw his expression, which exposed his true state. The dilation of the eyes, the small glistening pinpricks of beading sweat, the pulsation of the throat indicating accelerated breathing. Je’She wasn’t just furious, he was scared, confused. Frederíc once again thought that his brother wasn’t sharing all he knew. He turned his head to observe Marduk, to offer up a plaintive expression, to ask that he reel in his brother, to decry this baseless accusation. Then he saw it. The little crack in Engur’s oh-so-perfect mask, that disguise of civility, of good faith, of understanding. Marduk was turning to face Frederíc, but while his eyes were locked on Je’She, Frederíc saw the truth underneath the lie. A spark of joy in wild eyes, the slightest hint of a grin at the corners of his mouth. Marduk never intended to play moderator, he intended to be the last man standing. He was to be Warmaster after his brother’s ripped each other to pieces. Maybe this was the plan from the beginning, to have Malcador dissolve the Triumvirate, to be the final and sole Warmaster. As he finally made the turn to Aristide the mask was restored, no sign of the fervour a moment before, just a mix of shock, anger, and betrayal. Aristide’s Focus faded, and only seconds had passed in what felt like several minutes. A flame began in Frederíc’s stomach, bright and hot. They would not finish him here, not whilst he still drew breath. But better sense interrupted fury; his sons did not commit this crime. The bulk of his forces were still in the East, actively fighting. Those with him would not have been able to slip away and back, and none of them would have been able to do the deed. He was being framed. But by whom?

“Retract that claim.” Frederíc warned in a low growl, “Immediately.” Je’She spat, fully ensorceled in his rage, “NEVER! NOT WHILST I HAVE EVIDENCE AGAINST YOU AND YOUR MEN!” Marduk slithered into the argument, sorrowed surprise colouring his false words, “Brothers! Calm yourselves! Je’She, you say you have evidence, clearly damning as your presentation illustrates, but why have you kept this to yourself? Should I not have been notified this morning so we could have apprehended our brother-” he stopped himself, displaying a sympathetic look to Frederíc, “assuming all of this is true of course! I would not besmirch your reputation so brazenly, and so direly.” Frederíc shot him a flat stare, “You two have been doing so since we began.” Marduk pursed his lips pensively in response. Je’She was making a visible attempt to restrain himself, but spoke in livid, breathless tones, “There were survivors. Four score that managed to escape the critical systems failures of the ship. The plasma reactors had been overloaded, the lance batteries set to misfire inside their bay, the engines cut temporarily. A boarding party infiltrated the ship somehow-" ''When?" Interjected Aristide. "When what?" Aristide adopted a borderline patronizing tone, "When did the boarding party breach into the ship? An Astartes welcoming committee is not a quiet affair. So, one has to assume they were either onboard the entire time, or were let in before or after the warp jump." Je'She sneered at his brother, "They did not breach, they infiltrated, as I had said." Je'She's uncharacteristic temper was flaring again, but his disposal of subtlety was allowing Frederíc to gain insight into the crime.

Unfortunately, it did sound like a Dragoon Saboteur operation. The tactics were the same, exactly as he would have ordered. Fortunately, and confusingly, all his Saboteur elements were running reconnaissance and forward observance alongside the Pale Hounds and Knights Stellaris. He didn't have the men to spare. The Pale Hounds didn’t have any loose elements, that Aristide knew of, and the Corsairs-he stopped his line of thought. He had no part of this, his legions had no part of this, and he would not be framed in this trial. “Very well, you have evidence that my men had sabotaged Malcador’s ship, despite the fact that all my Saboteur units are actively engaged in the East. You have survivors that claim to have seen them, and survived against all odds! So come then, brother, bring forth these witnesses in the trial of Jon-Frederíc Aristide! Come, let them decry my untainted legion, the Warmaster’s legion!”

Je’She slammed a fist down on the stone table, the soft pop of ancient rock cracking faintly heard beneath his shouting, “So you can intimidate them into silence! So you can dishonour their survival with counter accusations and lies? So you can dodge the consequences of your fell deeds!?” Frederíc stepped around the table so it’s length no longer blocked his view of his brother, “Suspicious I find it that you have withheld this great crime from us until now! Even more so that you deny reason in the face of it! WHAT DO I HAVE TO GAIN, JE’SHE, WHY WOULD I KILL THE MAN WHO WAS AS AN UNCLE TO ME! WHY DO YOU CONTINUE TO NEEDLE ME WITH THIS FOUL ACCUSATION?!” Je’She stepped up to his brother, now they were mere feet from each other, “BECAUSE WHO ELSE THEN, SHIFT BLAME TO SOMEONE ELSE, I DARE YOU!” Frederíc snarled openly, “THAT I WILL; WHO HAS THE MOST TO GAIN SAVE KINCAID?!” Je’She slammed the butt of his polearm on the ground, "I WILL CUT OUT YOUR TONGUE IF YOU SPEAK OF KINCAID AGAIN!" "EAT FILTH, I WILL SPEAK OF KINCAID! PRAETORIAN, NOW REGENT, YOUR HEATHEN CUR IS UNSTOPPABLE NOW WITH MALCADOR'S DEATH! THE PLAGUE OF BELIEF WILL POUR FROM TERRA LIKE A TYPHOON, SWEEPING THE IMPERIUM AWAY WITH IT, ALL THE WHILE OUR FATHER'S ROTTING CORPSE IS VENERATED LIKE A GOD! KINNÉVAIL KINCAID, THE FIRST HERETIC! KINNÉVAIL KINCAID, THE SIGILITE'S KILLER!"

Je'She made to lunge at Frederíc, and the Stallion's hand flew to his saber, but he hesitated before touching the weapon. Je'She still made his advance, and in the same fluid motion as he made to grab his blade, he whipped his hand back in a blocking motion, striking Je'She on the breastplate and shoving him backwards with the back of his armoured gauntlet. The sound of artificed ceramite on ceramite rang out in the hollow chamber, and Aristide backpedaled before Je'She regained his ground and went after him again. Je'She slowed his slide across the sandy floor using his polearm, but did not give chase for Aristide as he backed away, opting to grasp his glaive in a defensive position. "You absolute fool," Frederíc spoke as he walked back to his original position, "blind beyond belief. You can't see your brother undermining power from beneath you, you can't see the brothers that turn their backs to you because your censures, you can't see him gleefully watching us tear at each other until only he remains." He pointed at Marduk, a tight, fury filled gesture. Marduk allowed faux disbelief wrinkle his delicate features, "How dare you accuse me of this. Malcador brought me here to-" Aristide waved a dismissive hand, "Oh be silent, Engur. Malcador brought you here as a courtesy, to make you feel included. This is a quarrel between Je'She and I, but to exclude you would be to insult you, and perish the thought that the youngest brother's fragile feelings be damaged. You want to know something? No one cares. Not a one. No one cares that you gained the title of Warmaster. No one cares that you tried, oh so hard, to gain father's favour. Your tireless efforts to prove yourself only make you seem like an attention deprived child, and your petulant joy at seeing your betters brawl only confirms the impression."

Engur began to turn red at the insult, and he moved to speak but Frederíc cut him off once again, "Keep that forked tongue behind your fanged teeth. I believed your insignificance made you a poor mediator, but sensible given lack of other options. Now I see you only arrived for the sport." Once again Marduk attempted to speak, and once again Aristide cut him off, "Try and insert some insidious lie here again, and I will strike you in the mouth." Je'She was the next to interrupt, "So, the noose closes in and you accuse Kincaid of a dire crime, strike me, insult your fellow Warmaster, and then threaten to assault him as well. Does this strike you as the actions of an innocent man?" Frederíc laughed wryly, "I'm not sure, I've not accused many men of crimes they have not committed, nor have been the subject of another's crimes. Forgive me brother, for this is a new experience. The riddle as to why you had not announced this sooner is still unanswered, so tell me brother, why not?" Je'She met him with silence, "I assure you, Je'She, had I been behind this attack there would be no survivors, but survivors there were and they told the tale, so TELL ME!" Engur chimed in, the venom in his voice revealed, but his tone was cloying and patronizing, "Yes brother, tell us. You have spent a great deal of time attempting to build a case built on a single damning piece of evidence so why delay?"

Je'She's mouth opened fruitlessly, but his scrambling for an answer was interrupted by the crackling of a vox transmission, from both Marduk's internal comms of his armour, and that of Frederíc's. They looked at eachother, and Frederíc snatched up his helmet to take the transmission in peace, while Marduk stepped out into the entryway he came in. "This is Warmaster Aristide. What." He shot over the vox, disregarding vox protocols. Crackling and popping static answered him, interspersed with frantic voices, “This is Warmaster Aristide, you are coming in broken, transmission unclear, over.” The vox smoothed over for a moment, “-Vox failures-making -Knights Stellaris-attacked the Forge Lords at- Repeat! The -Stellaris have attacked the Forge-pash! Repeat, the Knights Stellaris have attac-" The line was drowned in a sea of static, and Frederíc froze. Solomon was outspoken against Mot's ideology, but this was a step beyond. Something forced his hand...or someone changed his mind. He removed his helmet with trembling hands, and turned around, slowly.

He saw Marduk creep back into the room, a mixture of fury and horror on display on his face. "I had Smoke Stalkers infiltrate your territory this morning, to investigate the crash on their own terms. They found the camp you held the survivors in." Je'She visibly paled. "What have you done…" Frederíc said in a hoarse whisper, slowly encroaching on Je'She's section of the chamber. Je'She shook his head, mouth still agape. “What. Have. You. Done.” Je’She finally found his voice, all the fury and fervour replaced by quiet panic, “They were not my troops...they were not mine I swear it.” Frederíc seethed through clenched teeth, “No, they were mine, and you turned them against me.” Je’She looked perplexed, “What? You admit it? After all this time?” It struck Frederíc that they were not speaking on the same subject, but Marduk allowed for some clarity, “Oh please, play coy neither of you. My Smoke Stalkers revealed the truth to me. Emperor’s Dragoons were spotted aboard Malcador’s ship, yes...alongside Sentinels.” Frederíc whipped around to Marduk, “WHAT?!” Marduk gave him a self satisfied sneer, “And so the plot is revealed. I must say Frederíc, I did not figure that you would be keen to share the title of Warmaster, but it does follow that you would rather share it with your dearest brother than me. I am hurt.” He punctuated the claim with an overwrought pout, pushing his lower lip out in insincere injury. The bearing shifted seamlessly into a vengeful smirk, “But, I suppose you were right. Seeing the self assured, the arrogant, brothers that called themselves ‘Warmaster’ perform so admirably! Why, you had even fooled me that neither of you had a part to play in Malcador’s death, then the shocking revelation! The Stallion and the Sentinel, Jon-Frederíc and Je’She, the Emperor’s finest, brought low by hunger for power. Tsk, tsk, a sad state of affairs. Breaking this monstrous conspiracy to the galaxy will be difficult, no doubt, but neither of you are escape this chamber without seeing justice.”

Frederíc largely ignored Marduk, facing Je’She instead, still rocked by the reveal. Je’She’s expression confirmed Marduk’s claim, “Your troops were aboard the Barchamos. And now the Knights Stellaris are engaged with the Forge Lords. Solomon Tyrus, a great proponent of yours, has turned against me. Brother, I need an explanation, please. Please tell me you genuinely suspected me, tell me-” He cut himself off. The wheels of logic spun in his mind. Dragoons were sighted on board, yet Frederíc knew that wasn’t possible. The Sentinels were sighted aboard, but Je’She wouldn’t leave survivors to question if he had done the deed. Je’She would not have done the deed at all. It just didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. He turned slowly to Marduk. And Marduk met his gaze, his triumphant grin still barred, and Frederíc finally saw the answers he sought. Madness filled his eyes, or rather there was a terrifying lack of personhood. His eyes lost their glimmer, the twinkling satisfaction, just dark pits of emotionless consideration, as if Marduk had left his body and something else was inhabiting it. Like Marduk was elsewhere, watching from somewhere beyond. There was never a plan, there didn’t need to be a plan. Frederíc slowly drew Encallíon, Sabre Resolute, “YOU.” Marduk cocked his head, “You would draw blades against me, Aristide? Very well, I will call for the Smoke Stalkers to rescue the imprisoned survivors and we shall see who Terra believes.” Je’She shouted out, his panic evolved into a self preserving anger, “ENOUGH! I HAVE HAD ENOUGH! I am arresting you both and remanding you to Terra! This matter shall be resolved before the eyes of the Council of Terra!” Frederíc swung around, “WHY?! So Kincaid can slip daggers in our backs?! NO. The perpetrator is here amongst us, and we can finish this here and now!” Marduk put his hands on his hips, “Je’She, you murder me here and now, and there is nothing stopping Aristide from likewise putting you in the grave. Arrest him, and we can see peace.” “Je’She, do not fall for his words,” Frederíc implored, “I was wrong, Kincaid would not implicate you and I in the same crime, I would not murder Malcador, and neither would you! See reason, please!” Je’She brandished his glaive, “This is complete madness, surrender yourselves into my custody and I will see fair treatment for both of you, but this treachery has crossed beyond reason.” Marduk chuckled, “But it is I with evidence to charge you both, so it is you who are under my custody.” Frederíc donned his helmet, the atmospheric seal cycling with a subtle hiss, “I am under no one’s custody.”

He adopted a dueler's stance, "I will come with neither of you, I will not be subject to any presumptuous trial. I will not be quietly snuffed out in a prison cell. You want me? You are welcome to me." Marduk licked his plump lips in anticipation, "Very well." He strode over, slowly, to Aristide, like a shark circling its prey. He came at him with steady purpose, the insane, dead eyed look in his eyes growing stronger. Marduk was gone, all the emotion was drained from him, replaced by raw, calculating animal destructivity. From the corner of his eye Frederíc saw Je’She catch his helmet with the tip of Dancing Devil, and flipped it up into the air, catching in and affixing it as Frederíc had done. His brother then likewise rushed to meet the ensuing conflict, "Frederíc, Marduk, cease this at once, and come peacefully!" "The time for peace has passed," Frederíc intoned somberly as he put his sabre between himself and Marduk, "the time for vengeance is now. Either help me kill this traitor or get out of my way." "I will not let you harm him." Je'She warned. "Then you will be harmed." Frederíc activated the power field of his sabre, and Je'She did the same.

Aristide made to thrust at Marduk, but Je’She cast his glaive downward, driving his brother’s strike to the ground. Frederíc spun backward, releasing his sword from beneath the polearm, but as he presented himself again, Je’She lept forward and shoulder charged his brother, ramming his helmet into Frederíc’s with a resounding headbutt. Frederíc was driven back, dazed by the blow, and when he came to he saw Je’She’s blade pointed as his chest, “Enough.” Je’she warned. Frederíc parried away the polearm, “No.” he snarled. Dancing Devil was once more leveled at him, and Je’She made a low sweep to knock Frederíc off his feet, but Aristide hopped up, catching the glaive under his boot, then issued a downward slash to Marduk, who appeared to be waiting for an opening. Marduk caught the blade in between his hands, the force of the clap pushing past the tremendous powerfield of Frederíc’s sabre, the action causing a gust of wind to blast from the contact. Frederic attempted to thrust through the grapple, but Marduk closed his hands around the blade, yanking it past his exposed head and delivering a knee to Aristide’s side. The blow rocked Frederíc; Marduk was far more physically intimidating than he had assumed. That did not bode well. Marduk closed back in, relinquishing one hand and grabbing Aristide by the crest of his helm, and driving his head into the corner of the stone table, using a sweeping leg to drive him off balance.

Frederíc’s helmed head passed clear through the time-worn stone, the whole corner section collapsing with the trauma. As he fell, Marduk collapsed atop him, using his knee to keep Aristide’s sword arm pinned. He thrust his other knee to pin his other arm, and whilst straddling Frederíc, Marduk latched onto his helmet, using his helmet’s crest to try and snap his neck. Aristide bucked, trying to get his brother off him, delivering a kick to the center of Engur’s back, which fazed him little. Je’She brought the butt of his staff across, attempting to strike Marduk in the head. Engur likewise caught that blow, but the shift in focus allowed Frederíc to roll, toppling Marduk from attop him. Frederíc then mounted his brother, reversing the grip of his sabre to drive it into his brother’s skull. Marduk jerked his head, the sabre once more sailing past and driving into the ground. In response, Frederíc simply punched his brother in the face, once, twice, thrice in rapid succession, the soft crunch and pop of nose bones misaligning tangible through his power armour. Marduk did not so much as blink. Instead he wrapped his arms around Frederíc’s waist and drove his hips up, gaining his feet before arching back, and smashing Frederíc face first into the ground. Now unarmed, Frederíc rolled to all fours, and slid forth to grab the broken free section of stone. He brought the several foot long section of curved stone up in a sweeping motion, hitting Marduk in the thigh, sending him to a knee. Frederíc lunged to his feet and brought back down the stone slap down on his brother, shattering it on his pauldron, sending up a plume of dust and rubble. Marduk remained kneeling, catching fall with a fist. Frederíc capitalized on the moment by kicking his heel into Marduk’s head, sending him sprawling to the ground. As he did so Je’She lashed out, this time with the blade of Dancing Devil, to ward Frederíc away from the downed Marduk.

Aristide smacked the reaching polearm away, grabbing it and yanking it forward to cause Je’She to trip over the rising Marduk, sending both back down. Frederíc snatched his sabre from the ground, and closed in for the kill. Marduk shot from the ground, tossing Je’She off him, and ripped his robes off, and in that same move wrapped the shredded robe around Frederíc’s sword arm, swinging him into Je’She. Je’she dodged the move, and Frederíc pulled his arm from the snare, ripping through the robes. Frederíc issued a roaring battlecry, and punched Je’She away with the guarded hilt of his sword, slashed Marduk across the chest, marring the pristine power armour, returning to Je'She to parry away another thrust, then slashing downwards on Marduk, a blow Marduk blocked with his vambraces, embedding the sword in his armour. Frederíc drew down his blade to deny Marduk the opportunity to break his sword, then slashed across in the empty air to clear room between his brothers, leaving his back to the table.

Je'She hopped back, then spun in a wide circle, leapt upwards, and sent his glaive down in a meteoric strike. Denied the proper room to maneuver, Aristide brought his sword down then up in a wide motion, blade up to snare the blade in the guard. They met in a sonorous ring, the thunderous clash of blade on blade, power field on power field, reverberating in deafening applause throughout the chamber. But a third blade had entered the embrace of the blades at the impact. A wide, sinister cleaver, no more sword than a butcher's blade, shimmering metal with serpentine, waved patterns, a diluvian construction made explicitly for the removal of limbs and the bisection of men. The wicked weapon's power field roiled off the blade like blue fire, and it thundered and roared as it conflicted with the fields of the other weapons. The Cleaver of Marduk was locked in combat with the Dancing Devil, the resplendent partisan of Je’She of the watch, the history of the Great City of Harrdid emblazoned upon its spiralling shaft, and Encallíon, Sabre Resolute, the great sweeping sword of Jon-Frederíc Aristide, the crest of the Great Thiepval House of Aristide emblazoned upon the sweeping guard of the blade, both gryphon and unicorn rampant.

The legendary blades of the Primarchs locked for a moment, the intersection of the power fields creating a roaring gout of sparks that illuminated the chamber with a blue aura. The Primarchs applied their strength to the engagement, each attempting to bring down another’s blade to create an opening. Frederíc broke the stalemate by driving his sword upwards, sending his brothers whirling back into defensive positions. As mysteriously as he had been armed, Marduk was also equipped with his inscrutable helm, his complete battle regalia had miraculously been donned. Frederíc expected dry laughter, some cruel quip, a boast. Something. Lethal silence filled the room, broken only by the high whir of power armour and the hissing crackle of power fields. Marduk was Frederíc's left, Je'She flanking his right.

Frederíc's hand shot to his hip, lighting quick, and he drew his sidearm, Ultima Ratio. It was a long handgun, a galvanic flechette blaster of Martian design, forged by Raj Vokar’s hand. Marduk rolled out of the way as Frederíc fired an opening salvo at him, the smart darts trailing after him following after the round that embedded itself in Marduk's lower leg. Marduk raced around the circumference of the table at a Primarch's freakish pace, the flechettes embedding themselves into the ground after him. Marduk hooked a hard left, hopping atop the table, and rushed towards Aristide ready to deliver a fatal strike. Je'She lashed out with his polearm, the weapon sliding through his hands like an arrow, and the blow caught Marduk in the lower chest, buffeting him back from Frederíc. The Stallion raised his pistol once more to fire, but Je'She flung the spear back with a single hand, forcing Frederíc to riposte and step forward into the reach of the weapon. He holstered the Ratio as Je'She snatched back Dancing Devil and used the moment to hop back into a guarded stance before delivering a swirling thrust down at Frederíc's legs. Aristide leapt onto the table to dodge the strike, then spun just in time to see Marduk ushering forth a wide sweeping cleave. Aristide side stepped out, then pranced forward, the swing missing him as he landed in Marduk’s exposed flank. Frederíc issued a rapid scale of strikes, slashes and thrusts that drove his brother off balance, cracking and marring his power armour. As Marduk went to grab his blade once more during a thrust, Frederíc delivered a swift forward kick to his knee sending Marduk scrambling to regain his ground. He once more reached for his holster, but the whistle of Je’She’s spear betrayed the attack from behind him.

Frederíc whipped around, his sabre presented to catch the strike. Je’She’s thrust hovered just out of Frederíc’s reach, then he feinted, sending the spear out, down, and inwards in a clockwise spiral. The feint was too quick for Aristide to catch, and the blade sunk into his thigh’s armour, the tip of the power field searing the exposed skin from proximity. Aristide let out a pained growl, then an impact struck him from behind sending Dancing Devil deep into his leg. Je’She shouted in frustration, clearing not seeking to wound his brother so, but Marduk’s shoulder charge forced his hand. Je’She snatched out his spear, and smacked Marduk across the face of his helm as he reared up for a downward chop to Frederíc. The blow of the blade shattered a section of visor, sending the hardened glass-like material into his brother’s eye. Marduk did not cease his assault, blood trickling out of the shattered visor as he cast his blade down on Frederíc’s back. Dancing Devil caught this dreadful strike, the power fields colliding once more in spectacular fashion. The flash of light and roiling crackle gave Frederíc cover to draw his pistol once more. He slid underneath the locked blades and lunged at Marduk, snaking his sabre arm under his brother’s, wrenching it back into a hasty armbar. Sacrificing the integrity of the grapple, he pressed the muzzle of Ultima Ratio against the hollow of Marduk’s knee, and pulled the trigger. The salvo ripped through the soft armour of the joint and Frederíc set a foot against the small of Marduk’s back and kicked off of him, sending them both across the wide table. Frederíc just dodged the shrapnel of the smart-flechette detonation, fragments of ceramite embedding themselves harmlessly into his own armour.

Je’She howled in shock, and even Marduk gripped his ruined knee with a shaking hand. The attack should have shorn Marduk’s leg clean off at the joint, but the integrity of the armour held, holding the bloody mess together as a splint. Je’She slammed his polearm down, unleashing an ulating warcry and he jumped upwards, spun mid-air, then sent Dancing Devil down on Frederíc. Aristide was still sprawled on the table, and wasn’t quick enough to the roll out of the way. The blade missed Aristide’s head, instead slicing his crest down the middle. The shaft of the weapon struck him solidly on his helm, shattering the monovisor and causing his head to rattle within the helmet. Frederíc felt his nose break, the bones and cartilage smashing into his face, his lip split, and his teeth crack. A dull ache emanating from his forehead suggested that the skin there had likewise been split, if not the bone as well. The splintered visor thankfully didn’t suffocate his vision, but the emergent blurriness around his sight was much more threatening.

In a flash, Je’She spun on his heel, raising his glaive once more. In the spin he caught Marduk across the chest, splitting open the muscled facade of his armour. Marduk made to grab Je'She, but on the down stroke he was struck once more in the chest by Dancing Devil's butt. Frederíc had time to roll out from the attack, springing to his feet as the glaive hit the table, creating a fracture from one side of the table to the other in a pop of dust. Frederíc leveled his pistol again and unleashed a salvo into Marduk, which found its mark in the damaged cuirass. The swarm of flechettes burrowed into the plate, and exploded in a small burst, sending Marduk onto his back, finally eliciting a mere grunt of pain. Je’She exploded in a flurry of jabs and thrusts, forcing Frederíc to react in a storm of counters, ripostes, and blocks, and for every strike that Aristide denied three more found their destination. Frederíc was battered and buffeted back, his ringing head and pulsing thigh greatly reducing his ability to offer a rebuke. Je’She continued his assault, driving Frederíc to the edge of their platform. There was a half second’s pause, where Je’she made to spin his staff and knock Frederíc off, but the Stallion seized upon the opening firing into his brother centre mass, then headbutting him with his shattered crest. The small detonation caught them both, and Frederíc felt a slight touch of wind as a series of cracks in his abdominal armour crumbled away, revealing the black body glove underneath.

Je’She’s plate had been much less abused than Marduk’s or Frederíc’s, but even still for a sidearm the Ultima Ratio was a Primarch’s weapon, the power armour of the Sentinel blasted and blackened from the impact, deep craters from the flechettes picking his torso and pauldron trim. A blur of movement caught the dueling brothers’ eyes as Marduk regained his ground and pounced on Je’She like an animal, his cleaver imbedded into the fissure Je’She had made. He picked his brother clean off the ground, throwing him at Frederíc with a strength wholly unprecedented. The tossed primarch sailed across the table like a ragdoll, Aristide ducking under his airborne brother. The Sentinel hit the chamber wall with a shattering crack, but as he fell to the ground he vaulted back onto the table with his spear, flipping it back into his hands as he touched down. Aristide was now between both his brothers. Marduk locked a bloody eye onto the Stallion and stalked back to his cleaver, snatching it from the crack. Frederíc assumed a defensive posture, pistol aimed Marduk, sabre held out to Je’She.

His brothers began to pace about him, both seeking an opening to attack Aristide and keeping an eye on the other. Marduk made the first move, driving the flat edge of his cleaver towards Frederíc’s exposed stomach, but so hobbled as he was the Stallion was able to dismiss the blow with a downward parry, transitioning into a riposte into the bloody hole in his brother’s chest. The blade stabbed into Marduk, but even in the heat of melee Frederíc stayed his hand of a killing thrust. He had been so sure that his brother was a murderer, that if justice for Malcador was to be served it would be here, and now. But with his sword in his brother’s chest, the ease of it, the soft resistance of flesh moved away by power fields...He had never faltered in killing, especially in as dire a situation as this. If he killed his brother, there would be no return, no redemption. A single swipe of the blade, severing both hearts and slashing a lung. Blood would fill his body cavity and he would either bleed out or drown in his own vitae. How had it come to this? How could he even contemplate this murder? What was he doing?

Marduk broke his indecision, and with one hand chopped at his brother’s shoulder, cleaving through the pauldron to the flesh. Aristide roared, and reflexively drove the blade deeper into his brother’s chest, the smell of burning meat and blood mixed with the sound of a power field evaporating flesh in a sickening display. Tears began to stream from Aristide’s eyes. Even now he couldn’t deliver the coup de grace, his body felt heavy, as if made of lead. Marduk dislodged his embedded sword and brought the pommel down on Frederíc’s helm, breaking free a section of shattered visor lens.

Their exposed eyes locked for a moment, and the true horror of Marduk met Frederíc. Blood swam in his brother’s eye, turning it a dreadful crimson, obscuring much of his brother's eye save a pupil so dilated it obscured the iris totally. It gave his brother the appearance of something inhuman, something bestial. Frederíc found his resolve, finally. Marduk was not going to stop until one of them was dead. If Aristide died, the East would be lost forever, and the Imperium would die trying to retake it. If he killed Marduk there would be civil war, but that was a situation he could control. This was a situation he could control, indecision would bring ruin upon everything his father built. He was the Emperor’s Stallion, he could not let his heart betray mankind. The die was cast; Marduk had to be slain. Marduk broke the brief moment with a resounding headbutt, sending his brother back with a twist of his blade, sending a squirt of blood onto Aristide, staining his alabaster armour. Marduk grabbed the blade with his free hand, and pulled it into himself, yanking his brother closer to deliver another swift headbutt, smashing in the face of Frederíc's helm. The Stallion's head swam again, worse than before, but he had the presence of mind to draw out his sword in a slash, bisecting Marduk's sternum and doubtless slashing a lung or heart. In the haze, Frederíc saw Marduk slam down his cleaver down tip first to set it aside, then next he knew he was in the air, then back down into the table.

The Leviathan reached down and dug his thumbs into the crack in Aristide’s pauldron, using his good leg to gain leverage by stomping on Frederíc’s stomach. Aristide danced on the verge of unconsciousness, but the sharp pain of something rupturing in his stomach brought him back to just as Marduk was finally wrenched free the pauldron, bringing it down on Frederíc’s chest, shattering the ceramite of both his cuirass and the pauldron trim. Marduk raised it again, and Aristide raised his pistol to blast a hole in his brother’s chest, but Marduk jerked out of the way, his feet hovering off the table. Aristide blinked in surprise, clawing through the haze of mind to see through the illusion. His confusion was rectified when Marduk turned, and he saw Je’She had pierced Marduk’s power pack and hoisted him into the air by the blade. Je’She slammed Marduk down on his knees, and Marduk retaliated by pushing off the table and into Je’She’s glaive, the blade of Dancing Devil erupting from Marduk’s exposed chest. There was a stillness as Marduk’s body went limp, and Je’She dropped his weapon in shock. Even Aristide, who resolved himself to the very same act, got to his feet on trembling legs. “No..” Je’She whispered, “no, no, no…” Aristide approached his brother, taking in the sight of his slain brother, slumped on his knees, his blood pouring from the wound onto the cracked stone, “He forced our hand, brother...there was no other possible outcome…”. Je’She whipped around, the raw fury of his voice colouring his every word, “No. You forced his hand. Forced our hands. HIS BLOOD IS ON YOUR HANDS! THIS IS A BEAST OF YOUR CREATION!” Frederíc opened his mouth to offer some retort, but movement to his right caught the corner of his eye.

In a flash he was smashed on the side of his head again, forcing him to backstep and fire his pistol into the open air. Marduk was suddenly beside Je’She, gripping him the the throat in a crushing vise, then swept a leg under Je’She, sending the Sentinel to his knees. Aristide seized the opening and fired at Marduk, the blast hitting squarely in the face of Marduk’s helm, exposing his bloodied and bruised face. The subsequent detonation did little to stop Marduk, as he raised his cleaver in lethal swiftness and sent it into the scrambling Je’She. The blade swung through the gap between the cuirass and the right pauldron, sinking into the soft connective armour, tunneling deep through the shoulder joint. Je’She howled, and his left hand shot to the blade to prevent a total maim. His right was dreadfully still. Equally as motionless was Marduk’s face, a placid plane of predatory consideration, his right eye flooded by blood, his lip split, his face marked by dozens of embedded shrapnel shards and deep lacerations. Frederíc roared and charged at Marduk, firing at him in a sustained burst. The barrage knocked the Leviathan away from the maimed Je’She, and Aristide leapt over the Sentinel in a spinning slash, the blade running through Marduk’s increasingly wounded torso. Frederíc landed on the tip of his sabaton, then pirouetted, landing another strike. On the turn he saw Marduk coming to with his cleaver brandished, so in the completion of the flourish he lashed out at Marduk’s hands, forcing his brother to sweep away his blade in a parry, exposing his side to Frederíc. Aristide fired another salvo into his brother’s ribs, swiping at the back of the cleaver to prevent his brother from returning a strike. The detonation created a crack in the contoured obliques of the muscled facade, and Aristide pulled the trigger again to rupture the plate. He was met with an unsatisfactory, terrifying, click. His shattered helm had long since stopped offering him diagnostics, and the head trauma he suffered still allowed him to ignore that. He did not cease his assault and simply stepped into Marduk, and pistol whipped him in his face
</div>
</div>

=Fate & Legacy=

=Rules=

Jon-Frederic Aristide

2020-01-22T20:17:46Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885: /* Brotherwar */

{{Infobox Warmasters' Triumvirate Primarch
|name=Jon-Frederic Aristide
|bgcolor=white
|fgcolor=darkgreen
|image=[[File:Jon-Fred.jpg|272px]]
|title=Stallion of the Imperium, L'enfant Stellaire, Warmaster
|alias=
|where=Thiepval Prime
|when=805.M30
|legion=[[Emperor's Dragoons]]
|crusade=Primarch, 45<sup>th</sup> Expeditionary fleet
|sigil= WIP
|weapon=WIP
|trait=WIP
|flaw=WIP
|heresy=Separatist
|fate=Unknown
|dominion=WIP
}}
{{Warmasters Triumvirate-Head}}

Text here

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

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

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

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

==The Great Crusade==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="width:1000px">
'''''Deserter'''''
<div class="mw-collapsible-content">
The Heir of Superiority exited the warp, tendrils of nightmarish empyrean lashing at its alabaster hull. The Ist and Xth Dragoon battle fleets emerged in tow from the rip in space, dwarfed by the enormity of the Stallion’s flagship. Before the arrayed fleet, a derelict shipyard, a conglomeration of tangled space hulks and abandoned stations, within; the Vth legion. In all, it was similar to the Astral Warden's homeworld, albeit stripped of the warmth and evidence of civilization, hanging on to the most austere of environs. So too was the scrap field bereft of the cosmic and Immaterial tumult that surrounded Bishop's home, making the Dragoon's approach blessedly easy. To many, this was an open invitation. The Wardens were laying low, neutral, largely defected. Aristide was convinced of their neutrality, and their silent defection. Of invitation? That he was more hesitant to assume. Laying a trap in this manner would be out of Bishop's tactical acumen, and honour. Of what he was walking into, he was uncomfortably ignorant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you expect?”

“For you to talk to him like a man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That's where I get it from”

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

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

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

“You seek to exert influence beyond your rulership.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not a usurper.”

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

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

“Of my resolve I have few doubts.”

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

“Used? How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

==Brotherwar==
<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="width:1000px">
'''''Fratricide'''''
<div class="mw-collapsible-content">
The air was ash-choked and sullen, the smell of burning fuel and metal poisoned the wind, the smoke buried the twin suns of New Hope, the snow of debris and ash turned the vibrant desert into a bleak tundra. Malcador’s crashed flagship, the Barchamos, had turned the planet into a pallid grave. They couldn’t even retrieve his corpse, but the remnants of the ship’s vid and pict recordings would have told the tale. The Sigilite was dead, and nothing could ever be the same. The burgeoning Imperium had died in its adolescence. The legions that had gathered to refocus the Crusade and bring peace from division now gathered in tense silence for the coming war. Frederíc knew what would happen next. The final piece of the eroding foundation had crumbled, his only hope for peace died in that wreck. Malcador called the Warmasters to New Hope to inspire, to unite, to no doubt scold. Now they’ll argue over his body like vultures. The Sentinels were the first to arrive to the cataclysmic scene, and they were reluctant to share what they found, as somber silence met requests for information. That told Frederíc everything he needed to know. This was no accident, no tragic result of a perilous warp jump. If it were, it would have been announced, and the mourning would bind them, if only for a moment, as one. This was no assassination by Xenos forces, or enemy malcontents. If it were, they would have taken to stars already in vengeance. No, Malcador was murdered, and the list of suspects was terrifyingly small. To best the Sigillite in his own ship...the thought left a chill in Frederíc’s bones.

Many are the planets which escape notice by the powers that be. Lacking in resources, devoid of useful manpower and occupying no strategic location. This planet, New Hope, had once been lush and ripe for colonization, but the Age of Strife had been devastating. Yet the course of history is winding and endlessly complex, and on rare occasions a planet is thrust to the forefront, the hub upon which the galaxy might spin for a moment or two. New Hope was also such a place. Once a bustling and verdant world filled with industry and civilization, now all that remained was a dusty ruin. Primarch Jon-Frederíc Aristide, Imperial First Son and gene-sire of the Emperor’s Dragoons, was the first to set foot upon New Hopes’ crumbling, salt-laden soil and rolling sand dunes. In more abundant eras long past, his encampment was a beautiful ocean, a shallow sea filled with warmth and life from which huge aquaculture farms produced enough food for the entire sector. The Old Night was not kind to this world, and now only the titanic rusting skeletons of mighty industrial complexes now protruded from the endless salt flat, blue waters replaced by orange sand and white ash.

His contingent had camped on the farside of the planet, on the western hemisphere, amongst the sand covered ruins of cities and factorums. Zelbezis with his Iron Guard, Piter with his Liberators. Valorn with his Pale Hounds secretly in reserve. There was an agreement amongst the meeting parties to bring a supporting element, so that Malcador’s edict would not go ignored, or at the very least, be understood without the interference of the Warmasters. It was a concession proposed by Je'She, agreed upon by Marduk, and abided by Frederíc. Aristide would have preferred to come alone, but Je'She obviously did not trust his brothers, which Aristide understood because he felt the same. Marduk’s introduction as a neutral party did not sit well with him. Lambach and Kane’s disappearance into the fringes and the intelligence detailing the increasingly erratic behaviour of the Soaring Host and the Gunslingers made for a grim picture of the state of Marduk’s legions. Then again, the same could be said for his own legions. The Iron Guard and the Pale Hounds were famously austere, and the grievous losses the Liberators regularly incurred on Imperial Army auxilia were only overshadowed by their impeccable victory record. Of course, the Forge Lords were always disagreeable and cantankerous, their gene-sire Mot Hadad most of all. Save for the Astral Wardens and their Primarch, Aristide’s forces were famously unpopular, the Warmaster himself least of all at the moment. Without the Emperor to lead the Crusade, the Warmasters were the only authority in the frontier, and Warmaster Aristide was reluctant to allow mortal bureaucrats and entitled monarchists buck at that authority. While wildly controversial, he would not have disorder and corruption follow in the wake of his warfront.

Still, his brothers called him a seperatist, or worse, a usurper. Propaganda and misinformation caged him in, and any defense of his actions would be observed through the lense of skepticism and doubt. Worse still were his brothers under his command that took the bait and declared themselves “Astartes Supremacists”, consequences be damned. Mot in particular had been a staunch advocate of this stance, despite the Warmaster’s own views. Seperatist or not, Aristide’s image had been ruined by this movement, and his apparent enemies were more than glad to spread it, and as the debate grew more fevered, skirmishes broke out between the legions. And so Malcador called them here to discipline him and the other unruly legions. Without him, true conflict was inevitable.

Frederíc sat in a tent, a plain construction of canvas that flapped in the polluted wind. The command tent was picked clean in preparation for the meeting of the Warmasters. Only he and the austere chair he sat in remained. He had done this to himself. His experience with his homeworld made him paranoid, gave him little faith in regards to human rulers, and little trust in pacified peoples. He was not misguided, only overzealous in his response. Now his men think themselves revolutionaries, or the true successors to the Emperor’s vision. Frederíc was a leader of a movement not of his making, and yet it was his all the same. As the desert wind whipped through the tent he felt a peculiar sensation of everything falling around him, the unfamiliar impression of failure causing his stomach to sink, his head feeling light. Even that humble feeling he was supposed to be above, and here was. A disoriented man at the brink of collapse, watching all he had attempted to build be carried away with the wind, like the ash and sand. What hurt the most, was that in Malcador’s final moments, he likely considered Aristide a potential enemy. The realization that he failed the Sigillite somehow wounded him more than the prospect of coming to earnest blows with his brothers.

He felt very empty in his tent, gazing vacantly into the shifting dunes beyond. He had done this to himself.

He registered the steps coming from behind him long before they reached him, the monotonous crunch of sand blending in with the roaring of the blood in his ears. He didn’t turn to greet his brothers, and his son. Zelbezis Dyestes, the Primarch of the Iron Guard. Intimidating, severe, and nigh emotionless. He was clad in imposing black Cataphractii terminator plate, chains and spikes adorning the sinister ensemble. Despite his terrifying appearance, he was Frederíc's most loyal brother, ultimately deferential and precise in his execution of orders. Aristide often wondered what he done to engender such support, but he was glad for it nonetheless. “Warmaster, the forces are mustered, we are prepared to attend the council on your orders.” Aristide nodded absently, “Very good, Dyestes.”

An awkward silence followed, interrupted by Piter’s voice. Piter was likewise clad in Terminator armour, the new, experimental Indomitus pattern, which traded the unparalleled protection of Cataphractii and the overall perfection of Tartaros with greater mobility while being easier to manufacture and repair in comparison. Being the armour of a Primarch it was far more advanced than that which his sons wore, but the impression that he was no better equipped than his men. It was a strange bit of hypocrisy in Frederíc's mind, but it seemed to work for the Ussaran Liberators.

“Get up, Aristide. We should attend Malcador’s funeral, and fight over the scraps of the Imperium.” Piter said. Malcador’s funeral. It still didn’t feel real to Frederíc. There it was again, that crumbling sensation, like the seat beneath him and the ground beneath it disappeared, and he was falling into the void. The routine of command assisted Frederíc where conscious thought was failing him, “Indeed. Expect conflict, and a rapid exfiltration. We came here to prevent war, but do not be unprepared if war begins here.” He rose fluidly, his flesh numb to the motion, as if he was drawn up by marionette strings. He turned to face them for the first time. Zelbezis was placid as ever, his constant expression of stern disapproval was plastered on his face. Piter seemed bored with the whole affair, likely just waiting to learn if the Crusade is reunited, or if the “Revolution” is to begin.

Guy Maxíme however, was positively furious. “We were at war the second you started leading planetary governors to the guillotine and left Marines in their place.” Frederíc considered him coldly, “I curbed dissidents. I will not conquer the stars in the Emperor’s name only to have them turn against us when we present them with our backs.” Zelbezis nodded sagaciously in agreement,“There is little use in claiming worlds in title only.”, he said, echoing his Warmaster's sentiment. Guy’s nostrils flared in irritation, “Calael Bishop openly abandoned the Crusade, you allowed him to put secession into your mind, you’ve broken nearly every law of the Imperium save open rebellion and the Truth!” Piter rolled his eyes, “Brother, why do you allow this troop to speak to you this way? In my legio-” Jon-Frederíc Aristide snapped to, the fog of despair lifting for a moment, and the piercing stare from his stormy eyes lashed out as he spoke. “The Imperium is dead. It died this morning. It’s been dying since Ullanor, but today we hold the wake. Today we decide either to resurrect it, or give birth to something new. If the maggots on its corpse resist, then you should be very glad for what I have done.”

Guy’s eyes widened, “This is madness.” Frederíc turned his back to him, gazing out to the desert once more, now examining the invisible paths before him, “In an insane world, the sane man must appear truly mad. I play the part I must, for all of our sakes, but do not mistake this as the world I wanted. This is the world thrust upon me, and now I must maneuver it or we risk destruction.” Guy huffed, “All of this could be avoided if you just capitulated and fell in line. Instead, your pride compels you to be the pinnacle, to be the Warmaster of Warmasters. You are not a general, you are a tyrant.” Those words started a flame in his stomach, taking residence in the once hollow pit. Dyestes spoke up for him, “Watch your tone, marine, your liege has put down more tyrants than any before him, and has instituted order amidst chaos. You should be grateful for him.” Frederíc turned to the group, and Maxíme starred in return, “Oh, for Thiepval? Believe me, Lord Primarch, I remember Thiepval. Better than most.” Dyestes made to speak, perhaps even strike him down for his insolence, but Jon-Frederíc held up a staying hand,”Tell me, Maxíme, who now holds the title of Praetorian of Terra, and now Regent with the death of Malcador?” Guy eyed him suspiciously, “Kinnévail Kincaid.” Jon-Frederíc nodded, “Indeed. Remind me, what do they call him now?” Guy was silent. “Say it, marine.” Guy spat out the words, “The Burned Prophet.” Jon-Frederíc nodded again, “Indeed. It seems I am not the only to hold the laws of the Imperium in disregard, even on Terra. None here are without guilt, were that the case, this would not have come to fruition. Now I will hear no more dissent. We have come here for peace, we shall see what my brothers have come for.” With that, Guy was silenced, Piter seemed relieved to proceed on with the day, and Zelbezis returned to taciturn silence.

The journey to the meeting place was a long convoy, several hours of uncomfortable silence. A moderately sized contingent of Dragoons, with a few Iron Guard and Ussaran Liberator tank platoons, a few Sicarians and three Fellblades respectively. In the Dragoon force was a Mastodon, four Land Raider Platoons, three jetbike squadrons, and three land raider platoons shuttling infantry to the site. The bulk of his force was ordered to keep overwatch some few kilometres away, far away enough so that he didn’t arrive with a literal army, but close enough to make apparent that he did indeed have one. Frederíc elected to ride at the fore of the sprawling convoy upon his jetbike, the Gauvin. While it may have been more expeditious to take to wing in his personal Thunderhawk, his presence was more striking whilst on his steed. To his brothers on the other side of the divide, he would appear nonchalant and unafraid, to his men, he would be inspiring and steadying. The council was to be held in the ruins of some great hall or temple, a once massive circular tower long since decapitated by the blade of time, the tower now an open topped colosseum. As they approached it rose out of the ground from the horizon, like the breaching head of some mammoth sandwurm. The nature of the arena before him bore an unsettling resemblance to Nikaea, the Trial of Lambach writ small. Without the Emperor or Malcador, Frederíc doubted this council would resolve itself any better. However without such iconoclasts as Kincaid actually being present to speak, there was a small hope. Small.

Dust plumed from either side of the ruinous column, to the left, the “loyalist” forces, Sentinels, Titan Marchers, and Silver Blades. Razorbacks, Rhinos, Land Raiders, Land Speeder transports and Imperial Knights. They were well matched, and no doubt Je'She had support not far behind as well. Arriving from his right was a comparatively miniscule air wing, Marduk’s personal Thunderhawk flanked by Raptors and escorted by Xyphons that broke away once the gunships touched ground. It was a wise choice, as the mediating party, but if this is the force Marduk chose to arrive in, there was no doubt that a much more decisive force waiting in the wings. The message was clear, albeit subtle. Be civil, or else. Were Marduk not playing the caring third party attempting to heal wounds, Frederíc would have thought it a nonchalant boast. It may have simply been a sign of respect in respect to Malcador’s passing. But Frederíc was reluctant to rule anyone out as a suspect in his murder. He could rule no one out, save for his own men. Perhaps not even them.

He had kept close tabs on his forces, but acting beyond his orders wasn't necessarily their way, save for Mot, who couldn't be reigned in despite Frederíc's best efforts. Even still, the murder of the Sigilite? The Black Dwarf may have been spiteful, but that was beyond his means at the very least. Besides, he was on the other side of the galaxy, and no mere marine would have been able to best Malcador, surely. He spoke over the comms, hailing the detachment, "Hold here. I will take the Palantine Guard and we will approach the meeting alone. Palantine, assemble at the entrance. I meet with my brothers alone." Various affirmations met him, and the small battalion halted whilst the mounted honour guard rushed past, following their gene-sire. Guy Maxíme crackled in over the vox, "What do you hope to accomplish here?" Frederíc pondered the question for a moment, "Unity." and that was all. Guy seemed content with the answer, and fell silent as the shadow of the tower enveloped them.

The Palantine Guard dismounted their jetbikes at the sweeping archway to the tower, one of several at regular, if wide, intervals. Up close the lost glory of the thing made itself apparent. The worn stone hinted at intricate patterning in the large slabs, the archway itself a masterful piece of architecture and stonework, long eroded effigies of beasts and men of import holding up the great pillars of the tower. From the deep tracks at the entryway Frederíc presumed the ground he walked was once beach, elegant ships coming from abroad to make port within the tower, passing through the generous birth of the arch. The Primarch took a moment to regard the scene, imagining starry eyed pilgrims arriving to their destination, or foppish traders in their regalia sailing into the tower to trade and boast, or militant leaders steaming forth to discuss the fate of nations. He joined their ranks and stepped into the tower, removing his helmet and allowing the cool breeze flowing through the arrid ruin to run past his face, only to be defeated by the crushing heat beyond the shadow of the temple. He turned, facing his men, "Post up here, this is a meeting of Warmasters in good faith. Wish me luck, and hopefully we shall rejoin our comrades in the Crusade. But be alert. Guy nodded, and whirled his hand about, signalling for the guard to form a perimeter. The Stag amongst the Guard trotted up to the entryway, standing guard with Guy. At times Frederíc forgot he made the marine the captain of his honour guard. He tucked his helm under his arm, and stepped reverently into the meeting place. "Aristide!" Guy called after him. The Primarch turned halfway, and saw his Equerry standing in shadow, on his face a look of...desperation? "Aristide...bring us peace." The Primarch's jaw tightened, the weight of his duty bearing down on him. He nodded, and Guy nodded in turn, before taking a visible deep breath, donning his helmet, and turning out to face the desert with the Stag.

Frederíc turned back to the darkened depths of the ruin, and ventured forth to the whims of fate.

The base of the tower was surprisingly verdant, vines and plump desert vegetation taking root in cracks and spots of sunlit ground. Sand-worn but otherwise preserved frescos confirmed his suspicions of the use of this place. It was a gathering point for all peoples, the neutral ground amongst nations. The mosaics and frescoes told of a gift from some sea deity to the chief deity of the sky, and the gods gifting the people in celebration of their union. Images of traders giving eachother goods, with a suspicious absence of coinage or other payment, warriors and warlords plunging blades into the earth and embracing, the faithful offering up their children for blessings and good fortune. This was a place of good will, a place bound in love. It was little mystery as to why Malcador had chosen this place to make peace and reform the bonds of brotherhood, even when taking into account New Hopes' strategic unimportance and quiet location. Even in disuse, that was the spirit of this temple. Religious or not, oaths were made here, and good will was shared. Although, given the Imperial Truth, it was amusing that he would choose a temple.

Frederíc paused at a mural depicting a pair of pair of peasants offering a babe up to the sky god, while the god's advisor, a messenger spirit, stood by approvingly. A lump formed in his throat, despite himself. He approached the painting, admiring the plain but emotive artistry. He absently thumbed the mother figure. He wondered if the babe given to the gods had a good life, what legends and appellations he gained, what hardships he endured. He rested his forehead against the wall, and considered the diminutive messenger god at the feet of the sky god. No doubt in the mythology of this faded people he had some great importance. The unappreciated bureaucrat, the dutiful servant. He began to form a distaste for the artisan that placed this display along his path, it was awfully inconsiderate. He pressed off it, and took a deep breath. The Primarch could mourn his mentors later, for now he had to honour them.

Minutes passed as he coursed through the thoroughfare in silent contemplation. He attempted to plan what he would say to his brothers, but he found himself continually distracted by errant thoughts. What have he could have done differently? What if he was made sole Warmaster over all the legions? Could he have saved Malcador? Was he willing to die for him? For the cause his legions have created? It was useless. Even his peerlessly focused mind was sent wandering in the wake of the morning's grim tidings. So he decided to simply take the meeting as it came, to be bare and honest. To approach his brothers as he did Calael. With an open heart. Perhaps...perhaps he was too militarized from the very start, too indoctrinated in the way of war to ever truly connect with his brothers in a way that mattered. It was a disturbing thing to consider, that he had been wrong from the beginning. He stifled his doubts, suffocating them with resolve. Whole worlds counted on his competence, and his diplomacy would be tested like never before.

The pathway neared its end, terminating in a round chamber with a great stone table, a round construction easily thrice his prodigious body length, easily able to seat several dozens of people at its circumference. Other soaring archways lined the walls, although their number, and the smaller diameter of this inner sanctum, suggested that the paths fed into each other, or led upwards into the tower. The open top of the tower was fully observable here, the high ceiling of the path inwards remarkably intact, supporting the floors above it. Here the vegetation was once more absent, or at the very least confined to corners where the merciless twin suns could not bleach them. Still, with the ash laden sky, a somber light filtered into the chamber, casting a dim light onto the affair. Despite his moment of distraction in the hall, he appeared to be the first to arrive. He wasn’t sure if he should be smug about the speed of his legion or his own personal promptness. Smugness likely wasn’t wise regardless.

The footfalls of power armour echoed from a leftward hall, likely Je'She. He realized there was far more than just one set of steps. He hadn’t come alone. Aristide tensed, and rested his hand on the pommel of his sabre. Je'She and his Immortal honour guard emerged from the tunnel, and the guard marched in place for a moment, parting to allow their liege to break from the formation, before coming to a halt. Je'She removed his helmet, and Aristide saw his brother’s face for the first time in ages. He looked tired, the imperishable nature of Primarchs had not protected his brother from the damages of stress and tumult. Frederíc considered how he must look to Je'She. The Primarch of the Sentinels regarded Aristide cooly for a few moments, belying no emotion save his weariness. “You have come alone.” He said, finally, his accent tinted by his sandswept homeworld, easy lilting tones that contrasted Aristide’s own clipped, aristocratic speach. Frederíc sat his helm down on the table, and spread his arms, looking about him, “Aye, that I did. Was it not what we had agreed upon?” Je'She regarded him passively once more, then nodded slowly, “That it was.” Frederíc let his arms fall to his side, resting both hands on the pommel of his blade, “And you arrive with your honour guard.” Je'She exhaled sharply, regarding his statuesque guard, “A precaution, I am sure you understand.” Aristide raised an eyebrow, “Do I?” He saw Je'She’s jaw tighten at the snide retort. It dawned upon Aristide that his brother may have suspected him in Malcador’s death. The thought shook him, but he made no outward display of it. He would dissuade these fears handily enough, to be sure. “Brother,” Frederíc said, “Please, let us attend to this matter in private, as we had agreed. I come alone, in good faith.” Je'She hesitated, but waved off his guard, and they reformed, and marched back from when they came. The brothers now were alone.

There was a pregnant silence in which the Primarchs simply stared at each other, Frederíc from the table, Je'She from the archway. Je'She finally broke it with a sigh, and strode forth, setting his helm down upon the stone surface as his brother had. He did not relinquish his polearm, “Darker days have not been seen since the fall of our Father…” Aristide looked away, and to the morose sky, “All the days have been dark since then.” Another silence followed, and Aristide brought his eyes down from the heavens, “I regret many of those days.” Je'She met his eyes, and a forced grin crawled along his mouth, “It only took the death of the Sigilite to elicit humility from Jon-Frederíc Aristide, Primarch of the Emperor’s Dragoons.” Frederíc couldn’t even muster polite humour to trade with his brother, he simply looked to the ground before resting his hands on the table, running a gauntlet down his face to shake the growing chill there. He didn’t meet his brother’s gaze, and searched for the right words to say. They wouldn’t come. Je'She rounded the table finally moving away from the exit, “I apologize, Jon-Frederíc, that was cruel of me.” Aristide nodded wearily, “Have we ever been so formal, Je'She of the Watch?” Je'She stopped at an arm’s length from Aristide, reside his backside on the corner of the table, leaning on his glaive for support, “Not by my count, no.” Aristide sunk down further to his elbows, resting his head on met hands, “The last time I saw Malcador we argued...the final words I spoke to him were in spite…” “When?” Je'She asked, but Aristide knew he was fishing for information. Frederíc scoffed, “‘When?’ You know exactly when. After Ullanor. After the Triumvirate. ‘Time will prove me right.’ I said. Time will prove me right...I was so sure that a divided crusade would be our undoing, that it was a fatal flaw in the Sigilite’s unparalleled wisdom.” He shook his head, striking the table as he rose, “Now I must live with that regret.” Je'She huffed, looking away from him as he rose, “My people spoke of the dangers of self fulfilling prophecy,” he said with hints of venom, “but I suppose time did prove you right. Here we are, divided.” Frederíc placed his hand on his brother’s pauldron, and he felt the subtle shift as Je'She recoiled at his touch, “Brother, know this please, I wish this never came to pass.” Je'She turned his head slowly, “And yet it did, because of the actions of your legions, your actions.” Aristide did not relinquish his grasp, “I know. I know, brother, if anyone knows this it is I. Believe you in me. I was so focused on victory I did not see the cost, to claim the East in our father’s name. No matter the means. We are here because of me.” The contrite words seemed to catch Je'She off guard, and once more Frederíc found himself critical of his past aloofness.

For a moment Je'She seemed to consider his brother in earnest, not a suspect or a war criminal, but as a brother. The old flame of kinship flickering, faintly, back to life. Je'She let his weapon slide to the crook of his arm, and offered forth an open hand. Aristide lifted his hand off his brother’s shoulder and readily grasped it, “There was a time where we were the closest of comrades, was there not?” Frederíc allowed himself a small smile, “Aye, by my count, yes.” Je'She returned the gesture by placing his hand on Frederíc’s shoulder “Then there may be reconciliation yet,” the heavy echoes of another’s approach foretold of Marduk’s approach, and signalled that the council was to begin in earnest, “your contrition gives me great hope, brother. Be true here at this council, and we shall discover the truth of the matter.” Frederíc frowned, realizing that he was alluding to Malcador. Be true? Truth of the matter? He realized this was a test. Je'She still didn’t remove him, or at the very least his forces, from suspicion. Something was wrong. Je'She knew something he was not telling him.

Marduk Engur, Primarch of the Leviathan Host and third Warmaster sauntered into the chamber, a look of reserved confidence smeared on his delicate countenance. He was unhelmed, unarmed, but armoured, fine purple robes draped across his impressive plate. He brought his hands up in a steeple, then spread his arms in an embracing gesture, "Ah, good tidings in terrible times, my brothers. I see my gamble has paid off." He said smoothly, a slight smile blossoming from his mouth, his warmth tinged by sadness. His voice was sonorous and rich, almost clashing with his soft, polished features, his accent not far removed from Je’She’s, but the rolling tides and thunderous storms of his homeworld were almost tangible in his voice. Even the measured Marduk was left touched by Malcador's passing. Passing. The term felt too passive. Je'She's marines had investigated the scene, so if Je'She was guarded with Aristide there was a reason beyond a simple, albeit catastrophic, mechanical failure. Aristide watched Je'She take in Marduk. The same critical eye he gave to Frederíc, which was partly relieving as it meant that he wasn’t being fully held accountable for the crime, but unnerving since it confirmed his suspicions. Not an accident, not the work of the enemy. There was a traitor amongst them, a murderous strain in their ranks. For Je'She, this wasn’t a peace council, it was an inquisition. Frederíc was determined to start his own.

“Your gamble?” Frederíc asked. Marduk turned to his brother, obviously pleased with himself, “Indeed. I had hoped that the cooler minds of Warmasters would prevail over the passions of their subordinate brothers. I had hoped that a moment to yourselves would provide some good. I am here as mediator between aggrieved parties, something I am sure neither of you have any...fondness for. To be patronized by the youngest brother. Perhaps, I thought, it would be best to allow the elders of the family to reconnect, to grieve in privacy. I was correct, it would seem, and that gladdens me. Malcador would have been proud, I should think, that even with his loss we reknit the broken bonds. Your temperance honours me, and this council, and I thank you both. May we have a moment of silence in remembrance of the Sigillite, before we proceed?” Marduk’s usual sickly sweet demeanour had seemed to evaporate since Frederíc last saw him, more sincere and forthright, less eager to please, to be the center of attention, to be the favorite. He wasn’t sure if the metamorphosis was wrought on the campaign trail or this morning. Frederíc looked to Je'She who looked to Marduk, and the two nodded in acceptance, and Marduk smiled wistfully, and the trio bowed their heads in unison.

Frederíc took the moment to consider his options. Confronting the mystery head on was clearly a poor move, as it would put them on the defensive. The best move seemed to allow the council to proceed as planned, allow Je'She to play his hand and watch Marduk’s reactions, or Je'She’s questions. What Je'She asked would reveal what he knew, and give Aristide insight into the exact nature of the murder. Marduk’s answers would either incriminate him or absolve him, but even then the whole scenario seemed improbable. Frederíc struggled to think of a motive for Marduk, as far as Marduk was concerned he was content with his position. He proved himself to the Emperor, and was thus at the very least considered Warmaster surely, and Malcador awarded it to him. His presumably tennous control over his legions would at the very least keep him preoccupied from murder. And removing Malcador would likewise undermine his authority as a Warmaster. Without Malcador only favoritism and bonds of loyalty remained, and his front, and all others, would collapse into cabals of comrades and like minded individuals. Chaos wouldn’t serve Marduk well, so his motive was thin. Je'She may not have been proper Warmaster material, but he was fiercely loyal and such a malodorous crime was both beneath him and unlike him, the consideration alone was ludicrous, so he was not a suspect. The other legions...the Forge Lords did not dabble well in subterfuge, Einchurt was far and away, as were the Gunsligners, the Loxidontii, and the Soaring Host. The Corsairs Gallant would have nothing to gain as the Regent of Terra legitimized their hoard of Writs of Trade. Valorn and the Pale Hounds wouldn’t enact such a dastardly plan without his consent and authorization. Callous they were, but not foolish.

The list of legitimate suspects became short indeed. Lambach perhaps had good motive, considering the Edict of Nikaea, and he was unaccounted for, but even in his melancholy he would not murder one of his mentors, perhaps even less so because of it. That left Kincaid. Afterall, he had the most to gain. If the open secret of his full blown theism were true he would be open to proselytize with the last bastion of the Imperial Truth gone. Resurrectionists and Emperor cultists would flock to his words, and he would be unstoppable. Regent and Praetorian, with a legion at his back and untold hordes of now openly worshiping faithful as a shield before him, only civil war would be able to depose him. He had the most to gain, without a doubt, but the issue remained; only a Primarch had a hope of even being able to engage Malcador, and only the Emperor himself had a chance to defeat him. Motive may have been present, but Kincaid himself was certainly not, as the tensions of Mars and Terra would keep the maniac tied to the rigours of politics, and even where he to slip aboard Malcador’s ship, that sinister cripple would have been smote. None could kill him, perhaps not even in a fatal tie. Were that the case Je'She would have discovered evidence enough to openly accuse a culprit, and this disguised investigation wouldn’t be happening. It was perplexing, and horrifying.

The observance was ended by a polite "Ahem" from Marduk, and the Warmasters raised their heads. "Now," Marduk began, "we have assembled in this place to discuss the winding path the Crusade that our father began has taken. Tragedy before tragedy has distracted us, turned our legions from comrades to rivals, and halted the course of salvation for humanity from Terra to the eastern most reaches of the Galaxy. Our father created us to be the leaders of the vanguard, to unite the stars under the Imperial Aquila. Malcador had called us here because that most sacred purpose has been lost. Je'She of the Watch, while your loyalty to the cause of the Emperor has been great, your legions clash with those of Jon-Frederíc Aristide in ways unbecoming of Astartes. The Great Joust and Great Hunts of our martial tradition are places enough to shed blood and war amongst brethren, for it is this conflict that encourages the strengthening of our men. Petty brawls and aimless skirmishes serve no purpose other than strife. Lord Aristide, your forces likewise are not innocent in this matter. The frontier nature of my legions preserves my nature as the neutral party, but I am not so naive to believe that where my armies closer at hand, there would be no such combat." He paused, eyeing Je'She with an unreadable expression, "After the censures, of course. Brothers, we have slipped farther and farther from each other each year since Ullanor and the death of our father-"

Je'She cut in, sternly, "He is not dead." Marduk winced, likely regretting the choice of words, "Of course. I misspoke. The passing of Malcador has turned my thoughts to the grim eventuality of death. Though our father recovers steadily, his wounding and absence makes it difficult to separate him from the fallen at this moment. But now is not the time for grief, not yet. Gone though the Sigillite may be, his mission remains. We must exit this chamber in concordance, or not at all. So now, I shall state, plainly, the complaints, and cede the floor to the honourable Warmasters. Je'She, you are accused of criticizing Warmaster Aristide to the point of defamation, which sows discord in the ranks, and of loose control over your legions resulting in unheeded bloodshed amongst the Emperor's legions. Jon-Frederíc you are accused of perverting the purpose of the Legiones Astartes by removing mortal governance and emplacing Astartes in their place, which disobeys the Emperor's intent, of loose control of your legions likewise resulting in battle but also the gestation of a political movement that borders on separatist, of courting worlds to your banner and not that of the Imperium, and of open dissent to the decrees of the late Regent of Terra. As the more grievously accused party, you shall be the first to speak, Warmaster Aristide. During this mediation I ask only civility. Please, brother, proceed, state your case to us."

Frederíc chose his next words very carefully; "Brothers, I am glad we meet here under common cause. Marduk, you speak true that the Crusade and its myriad misfortunes have created rifts between kin and comrades that may never be healed. I have spoken rashly, furiously, and hastily on many things. Kane, a brother who has been near to my heart as a brother in battle and in family, now decries my alleged crimes more than any other because of my misguided passion. To the Dragoons, to my legions, I present myself as the consummate general, but Je'She, you are one of the few who know me with familiarity. And you would know, I, like many of our brothers are kept from the Emperor's vision of perfection by that base humanity that tainted us all. Some of our brothers, such as Dyestes, Hadad, or Einchurt, view this as a weakness, a primitivism that constrains our potential as warriors and leaders. Some like Bishop, Pacha, or Ashur view this as our strength, lest we overlook the man for mankind. I view this, as many mortal men do, as simply the state of affairs. The love I share for my brothers, for our father, is no greater a boon than rage, or arrogance, or pride is a flaw. We are human, in part, and that is simply something that must be accounted for. My humanity has seen me berate my brothers at their weakest, defy my betters at their wisest, and act in extremes to protect that noble construct that we have made in the fires of war. And it is my core humanity that sees that I regret these actions in retrospect."

"But brothers, surely you must recognize the motivating force behind all my actions. I did not live a full and storied life upon my homeworld, I did not see generations rise and fall and prosper or wither in the wake of my actions. I saw injustice and rectified it, I took the planet for the Emperor before I had even known that was my ordained purpose. When he arrived, the truth of my being was revealed to me and I became a soldier in his name in short order. For nearly the entirety of my vast life, service to the Emperor is all I have known. To lead his armies, to inspire his troops, to wield his banner. Never have I acted in my own interest, for I have no interests save the growth and health of the Imperium. When dissident lords thought they could disregard the Lex Imperialis, written by the very hand of our brother Kane, what recourse is there but swift removal and replacement with competent and loyal leadership? Would you see me simply allow such transgressions to go unchallenged? No, surely not. What then is the proper response? Discard leaders until we discover one loyal to the Throne? Simply reduce the planet to astral rubble, thus denying my forces, already stretched thin, of a logistical asset? My actions, while controversial, have resulted in success in my theater. The East is a harsh place brothers, with human empires unaccustomed to near peers and challengers, xenos forces that have long forgotten humanity after age old conquest, and the merciless traversal of warp and void. I cannot, will not, allow greed and the capriciousness of unruly subjects to undermine my campaign. So much relies on our combined success, on a scale that only the mind of a Primarch can appreciate. It is not just the fate of worlds that hangs in the balance, but that of an entire species. The Emperor did not intend for us to be masters of men, no. But neither did he intend to fall on Ullanor. In his absence we must be the caretakers of humanity."

Before he finished, he paused, gauging the attitudes of his brothers. Je'She seemed vaguely discontented, likely disagreeing with a great deal he had said but offering him the courtesy to finish his thoughts. Marduk meanwhile was placid, observing the proceeding passively. "Brothers, I act only in good of the Imperium, the crusade. You may criticize me for the lengths I take, but you cannot construe them as anything but what I deemed to be the necessary course." He folded his arms, nodding to Marduk, and gesturing to Je'She, indicating that he had concluded. Marduk clapped a hand to his chest, a motion of appreciation, "Thank you, Aristide. Je'She?" Je'She scratched his chin, contemplating his introductory statement, “I do know you well, Frederíc, better than most perhaps. And if we are to be true here, then I must confess it was never in doubt that your installation of Astartes rulers was committed for the Imperium’s benefit. However, it is the actions of your soldiers that has brought me here against you, and you as their commander are accountable for their actions. You speak of your faults, a rare occasion indeed, and were we not close kin I could besmirch your self reflection as excuses. But I will not do this. Instead, I target your failings of command, not character.” As he spoke, he began to pace about his end of the table, his free hand pressed behind his back, “Your actions, well intended or not, have stoked the fires of a dangerous and seditious thought, that it is Astartes that must rule over men, against the creed of the Emperor. To compound this, you have taken a legion, not under your command, into your protection. What reasonable excuse is there for this? You should have remanded the Astral Wardens to Warmaster Marduk so they may be dealt with appropriately. Instead you appropriated the entire legion. Frederíc, you must admit that this, coupled with the rousing calls of the legions on the Eastern Front create ill omens. You conquer for the good of humanity, and for the Imperium, but my greatest fear is that you no longer recognize the underlying concept of the Imperium. That Astartes are to serve the good of mankind, to head the dictates of Terra, and without the voice of the Emperor, the words of mortal men take its place. You have gone against this social contract imposed upon us all, and now your legions strain against the natural order of the Imperium. And you have done nothing.” Je’She ceased his pacing, and faced his brother, “Someone must answer for this, Frederíc. Were Malcador here, I believe he would hold you accountable, but instead you have your brothers to judge you. So if not you, who then?”

Frederíc blinked in incredulity, “I will not be held on trial for keeping my campaign a cohesive front. Je’She, surely you cannot be asking for further censures? Nearly all of our psychic brothers were driven off after Nikaea, to the point where Kropor and the Chosen still are in self imposed exile, and the Astral Wardens outright desired to leave us behind and live out their days in peace!” Je’She scoffed, “The Chosen of Hecate disobeyed a direct edict from the Emperor, you speak of cohesion and striking down dissent in equal terms, save for when it concerns the Astartes. If a Dragoon disobeyed orders would you simply slap his wrist and have him continue about his day? No! Do not try and divorce the issues when they are one in the same. If there is any amongst us here that should appreciate good order and discipline it is you, no?” Frederíc threw his hands up, “At what cost? We cannot decimate our own forces with every complaint and infraction! Your Silver Blades and Titan Marchers have nearly cost us an entire legion, Primarch and all. I will not drive my legions into the dirt for a lesser an indiscretion than disregarding the Edict of Nikaea!” Je’She scrunched his face incredulously, “‘Lesser an indiscretion’? Brother, ‘Astartes Supremacy’ flies in the face of the Emperor’s intent!” Aristide contained a sigh at this comment, “That intent held import when the Emperor was whole and amongst us, yes, of course, all matters of leadership amongst his fiefdoms were his to decide, as he is the Emperor, but without him that duty falls to Malcador. Now without Malcador there is little preventing greedy planetary governors from breaking away and simply returning to their state of affairs before conquest, at great cost to their people.” Je’She sat his free hand down upon the table, staring at Aristide with deadly intent, “So you anticipated Malcador’s passing?”

There it was. The accusation, heavy handed and laid bare. Frederíc was now on the defensive. “Je’She no one in the galaxy could have anticipated this, no one. To imply I had some foresight in this is insane. Unity, cohesion, peace, order, these are the values I ascribe to. We had lost the Emperor, halving the integrity of the Imperium, with Regent gone as well the Primarchs and the Astartes are the only things keeping the construct erect in the eyes of our adversaries. Even now, should news of Malcador circulate we will leave New Hope with hundreds of insurrections and secessions, and our Crusade is undone. Does this sound like a turn of events I would find favourable? That anyone would find favourable? And then you ask me to censure my own forces, despite seeing the outcome that would cause. Je’She, put aside rumour and speculation, there is no base in this and no sense in attempting to reprimand my legions with undue force.” Je’She shook his head, “But you have no plan to curb these supremacists?” “Of course I do,” Aristide countered, “Once the campaign is at a point of stability I will address the legions on this matter, institute a system of governance less reliant on direct Astartes control, and instruct my brothers to discipline these supremacists on an individual basis. Allowing them to confront the issues of their legions on their own terms will help to prevent undue strain that a true censure would create. Slowly the dissidents would be ruled out and the movement would die out, and I am spared from legions running off in a show of melodrama. This isn’t a difficult situation to rectify.” “Then why is not rectified!” Je’She protested. “Because I can’t allow the front to collapse. This must be treated the right way, brother. I will not amputate a limb when I can slowly excise the rot.” Marduk finally decided to speak up, “I understand the precarious nature of your predicament, and many of my legions now prefer the company of the crusade to that of their brothers and cousins, but you speak of curtailing the actions of Marines, not of Primarchs. What then would you do should your brothers not fall in line?”

It was a good question, but one Aristide had not put much stock in, “Hadad is the only one who has openly supported this motion, the others have not voiced assent-” Je’She cut in, “Neither have they dissented. Silence equates to support.” “-I disagree, Je’She, they know as well as I do that dividing the legions at this juncture would be unwise. Besides, Tyrus has been vocal about his dissent of the movement, firmly within your line of thought, I should add. His legion is not amongst the rabble, and I would use his influence to stamp out the outspoken. Best to simply allow the fires to die out, or turn focus to the issue when the East is less daunting an obstacle. To answer your question then, when the time to address the issue comes, I will confront Hadad. Likely he will buck at my orders, but I would rather cut logistical ties and strategic support than fully censure him. The Forge Lords would not be censured so easily, and the growing strain on their campaign would disprove notions of Astartes supremacy handily. They would be bitter and vengeful no matter my course, but at the very least the returned support pending a recant would alleviate their spite. Afterwords, I simply direct my brothers to control the individuals responsible. Dyestes, Adras, Karamanov, they shall do as I command, and Tyrus would be a vocal advocate for my reinstating of order, with Mansa spreading conformist thought through passive and subtle means. Brothers, I have all of this accounted for! I recognize this may be perceived as a major point of contention, but allow me to proceed as I had planned, and soon it will be little more than memory.”

Je’She furrowed his brow, “You offer us excuses, promises, and then insist that we do nothing and simply hope that you are able to unknit this tangled web you have allowed to blossom. What assurances do we have? You have allowed things to progress to this point, a mistake even you admit, how can we be so sure that further mistakes will not occur?” Marduk gave a weak smile, “I am afraid I must concur, Jon Aristide, what peace of mind can you provide?” Aristide was growing tired of taking the defensive position, and his opinions on his brothers could be constrained no longer. “Assurances? Peace of mind? Have I so drastically fallen in your regard? Does my word mean nothing now? Very well, you wish to have me answer for the past? This I will gladly do, but I will have you answer for the present. From both of you. You truly think Malcador called for this council so that you may issue accusations at me? Pah, decades of crusade has not beaten the naivety from you two it should seem.” “Naivety?!” Je’She spat, “I am not the Warmaster that has allowed a rebellion to fester in his ranks!” The Stallion allowed himself a spiteful laugh, “Oh ho! That is rich indeed!” He snarled, “How can you believe that I am the only one amongst us to allow dissent to prosper when Kincaid galivants unchecked in Sol spreading the disease of faith and divides Mars as we speak!” Je’She gasped, taken aback, “So you answer your misdeeds by defaming your brother? What has taken ahold of you, Frederíc!” “Taken ahold of me? Je’She, he has not been Kinnévail Kincaid for quite some time now, as his Warmaster you should be aware of this more than anyone.” Marduk spoke next, agreeable in tone, “His...attitudes are well known, Warmaster Je’She, it is true.” Je’She waved a dismissive hand, “This is nonsense, Kincaid has been an instrumental part of the crusade, he has pacified worlds without a single drop of blood, I will not allow you to defame him as a distraction!” Aristide shook his head in disbelief, as if he had been struck, “Do you jest? You cannot be serious. A distraction? What does brother Engur have to distract you from, then? Kincaid is a fanatic, Je’She! He has not been the same since the Conflagration! Since Nikaea we all knew that something has possessed that ruined body of his, it was written in his every madness laced word, his every warped scar! He wore the words of the Emperor upon his wraps like scripture! He proclaimed his closest brothers dangers to humanity! Eyanosa, Kropor, Bishop, Pacha, every librarian in our legions, he was but a single impassioned phrase from calling for their deaths! Kind, earnest, dutiful brothers, those were the ones he villainized! Je’She, I beg of you see what he has become!” The Warmaster’s plea seemed to fall on deaf ears, as Je’She simply curled his lip in irritation, “Very well, let us assume this conjecture is true, our brother has broken the Truth as you have broken the law-” “I have broken no law!” “THEN EXPLAIN YOUR TROOPS ABOARD MALCADOR’S SHIP!”

The air froze in the chamber, time slowed to a stop, and Frederíc’s Focus surged within him. Nothing could have prepared him for this. An insane, illogical, impossible proclamation. One that made him the greatest traitor in the Imperium’s history, in the history of all mankind. Je’She did not suspect Frederíc in Malcador’s murder. He outright believed he had committed it by proxy. “There were survivors, Aristide!” Je’she shouted in a muffled crawl, his words slowed by the Stallion’s mental ability, but he saw his expression, which exposed his true state. The dilation of the eyes, the small glistening pinpricks of beading sweat, the pulsation of the throat indicating accelerated breathing. Je’She wasn’t just furious, he was scared, confused. Frederíc once again thought that his brother wasn’t sharing all he knew. He turned his head to observe Marduk, to offer up a plaintive expression, to ask that he reel in his brother, to decry this baseless accusation. Then he saw it. The little crack in Engur’s oh-so-perfect mask, that disguise of civility, of good faith, of understanding. Marduk was turning to face Frederíc, but while his eyes were locked on Je’She, Frederíc saw the truth underneath the lie. A spark of joy in wild eyes, the slightest hint of a grin at the corners of his mouth. Marduk never intended to play moderator, he intended to be the last man standing. He was to be Warmaster after his brother’s ripped each other to pieces. Maybe this was the plan from the beginning, to have Malcador dissolve the Triumvirate, to be the final and sole Warmaster. As he finally made the turn to Aristide the mask was restored, no sign of the fervour a moment before, just a mix of shock, anger, and betrayal. Aristide’s Focus faded, and only seconds had passed in what felt like several minutes. A flame began in Frederíc’s stomach, bright and hot. They would not finish him here, not whilst he still drew breath. But better sense interrupted fury; his sons did not commit this crime. The bulk of his forces were still in the East, actively fighting. Those with him would not have been able to slip away and back, and none of them would have been able to do the deed. He was being framed. But by whom?

“Retract that claim.” Frederíc warned in a low growl, “Immediately.” Je’She spat, fully ensorceled in his rage, “NEVER! NOT WHILST I HAVE EVIDENCE AGAINST YOU AND YOUR MEN!” Marduk slithered into the argument, sorrowed surprise colouring his false words, “Brothers! Calm yourselves! Je’She, you say you have evidence, clearly damning as your presentation illustrates, but why have you kept this to yourself? Should I not have been notified this morning so we could have apprehended our brother-” he stopped himself, displaying a sympathetic look to Frederíc, “assuming all of this is true of course! I would not besmirch your reputation so brazenly, and so direly.” Frederíc shot him a flat stare, “You two have been doing so since we began.” Marduk pursed his lips pensively in response. Je’She was making a visible attempt to restrain himself, but spoke in livid, breathless tones, “There were survivors. Four score that managed to escape the critical systems failures of the ship. The plasma reactors had been overloaded, the lance batteries set to misfire inside their bay, the engines cut temporarily. A boarding party infiltrated the ship somehow-" ''When?" Interjected Aristide. "When what?" Aristide adopted a borderline patronizing tone, "When did the boarding party breach into the ship? An Astartes welcoming committee is not a quiet affair. So, one has to assume they were either onboard the entire time, or were let in before or after the warp jump." Je'She sneered at his brother, "They did not breach, they infiltrated, as I had said." Je'She's uncharacteristic temper was flaring again, but his disposal of subtlety was allowing Frederíc to gain insight into the crime.

Unfortunately, it did sound like a Dragoon Saboteur operation. The tactics were the same, exactly as he would have ordered. Fortunately, and confusingly, all his Saboteur elements were running reconnaissance and forward observance alongside the Pale Hounds and Knights Stellaris. He didn't have the men to spare. The Pale Hounds didn’t have any loose elements, that Aristide knew of, and the Corsairs-he stopped his line of thought. He had no part of this, his legions had no part of this, and he would not be framed in this trial. “Very well, you have evidence that my men had sabotaged Malcador’s ship, despite the fact that all my Saboteur units are actively engaged in the East. You have survivors that claim to have seen them, and survived against all odds! So come then, brother, bring forth these witnesses in the trial of Jon-Frederíc Aristide! Come, let them decry my untainted legion, the Warmaster’s legion!”

Je’She slammed a fist down on the stone table, the soft pop of ancient rock cracking faintly heard beneath his shouting, “So you can intimidate them into silence! So you can dishonour their survival with counter accusations and lies? So you can dodge the consequences of your fell deeds!?” Frederíc stepped around the table so it’s length no longer blocked his view of his brother, “Suspicious I find it that you have withheld this great crime from us until now! Even more so that you deny reason in the face of it! WHAT DO I HAVE TO GAIN, JE’SHE, WHY WOULD I KILL THE MAN WHO WAS AS AN UNCLE TO ME! WHY DO YOU CONTINUE TO NEEDLE ME WITH THIS FOUL ACCUSATION?!” Je’She stepped up to his brother, now they were mere feet from each other, “BECAUSE WHO ELSE THEN, SHIFT BLAME TO SOMEONE ELSE, I DARE YOU!” Frederíc snarled openly, “THAT I WILL; WHO HAS THE MOST TO GAIN SAVE KINCAID?!” Je’She slammed the butt of his polearm on the ground, "I WILL CUT OUT YOUR TONGUE IF YOU SPEAK OF KINCAID AGAIN!" "EAT FILTH, I WILL SPEAK OF KINCAID! PRAETORIAN, NOW REGENT, YOUR HEATHEN CUR IS UNSTOPPABLE NOW WITH MALCADOR'S DEATH! THE PLAGUE OF BELIEF WILL POUR FROM TERRA LIKE A TYPHOON, SWEEPING THE IMPERIUM AWAY WITH IT, ALL THE WHILE OUR FATHER'S ROTTING CORPSE IS VENERATED LIKE A GOD! KINNÉVAIL KINCAID, THE FIRST HERETIC! KINNÉVAIL KINCAID, THE SIGILITE'S KILLER!"

Je'She made to lunge at Frederíc, and the Stallion's hand flew to his saber, but he hesitated before touching the weapon. Je'She still made his advance, and in the same fluid motion as he made to grab his blade, he whipped his hand back in a blocking motion, striking Je'She on the breastplate and shoving him backwards with the back of his armoured gauntlet. The sound of artificed ceramite on ceramite rang out in the hollow chamber, and Aristide backpedaled before Je'She regained his ground and went after him again. Je'She slowed his slide across the sandy floor using his polearm, but did not give chase for Aristide as he backed away, opting to grasp his glaive in a defensive position. "You absolute fool," Frederíc spoke as he walked back to his original position, "blind beyond belief. You can't see your brother undermining power from beneath you, you can't see the brothers that turn their backs to you because your censures, you can't see him gleefully watching us tear at each other until only he remains." He pointed at Marduk, a tight, fury filled gesture. Marduk allowed faux disbelief wrinkle his delicate features, "How dare you accuse me of this. Malcador brought me here to-" Aristide waved a dismissive hand, "Oh be silent, Engur. Malcador brought you here as a courtesy, to make you feel included. This is a quarrel between Je'She and I, but to exclude you would be to insult you, and perish the thought that the youngest brother's fragile feelings be damaged. You want to know something? No one cares. Not a one. No one cares that you gained the title of Warmaster. No one cares that you tried, oh so hard, to gain father's favour. Your tireless efforts to prove yourself only make you seem like an attention deprived child, and your petulant joy at seeing your betters brawl only confirms the impression."

Engur began to turn red at the insult, and he moved to speak but Frederíc cut him off once again, "Keep that forked tongue behind your fanged teeth. I believed your insignificance made you a poor mediator, but sensible given lack of other options. Now I see you only arrived for the sport." Once again Marduk attempted to speak, and once again Aristide cut him off, "Try and insert some insidious lie here again, and I will strike you in the mouth." Je'She was the next to interrupt, "So, the noose closes in and you accuse Kincaid of a dire crime, strike me, insult your fellow Warmaster, and then threaten to assault him as well. Does this strike you as the actions of an innocent man?" Frederíc laughed wryly, "I'm not sure, I've not accused many men of crimes they have not committed, nor have been the subject of another's crimes. Forgive me brother, for this is a new experience. The riddle as to why you had not announced this sooner is still unanswered, so tell me brother, why not?" Je'She met him with silence, "I assure you, Je'She, had I been behind this attack there would be no survivors, but survivors there were and they told the tale, so TELL ME!" Engur chimed in, the venom in his voice revealed, but his tone was cloying and patronizing, "Yes brother, tell us. You have spent a great deal of time attempting to build a case built on a single damning piece of evidence so why delay?"

Je'She's mouth opened fruitlessly, but his scrambling for an answer was interrupted by the crackling of a vox transmission, from both Marduk's internal comms of his armour, and that of Frederíc's. They looked at eachother, and Frederíc snatched up his helmet to take the transmission in peace, while Marduk stepped out into the entryway he came in. "This is Warmaster Aristide. What." He shot over the vox, disregarding vox protocols. Crackling and popping static answered him, interspersed with frantic voices, “This is Warmaster Aristide, you are coming in broken, transmission unclear, over.” The vox smoothed over for a moment, “-Vox failures-making -Knights Stellaris-attacked the Forge Lords at- Repeat! The -Stellaris have attacked the Forge-pash! Repeat, the Knights Stellaris have attac-" The line was drowned in a sea of static, and Frederíc froze. Solomon was outspoken against Mot's ideology, but this was a step beyond. Something forced his hand...or someone changed his mind. He removed his helmet with trembling hands, and turned around, slowly.

He saw Marduk creep back into the room, a mixture of fury and horror on display on his face. "I had Smoke Stalkers infiltrate your territory this morning, to investigate the crash on their own terms. They found the camp you held the survivors in." Je'She visibly paled. "What have you done…" Frederíc said in a hoarse whisper, slowly encroaching on Je'She's section of the chamber. Je'She shook his head, mouth still agape. “What. Have. You. Done.” Je’She finally found his voice, all the fury and fervour replaced by quiet panic, “They were not my troops...they were not mine I swear it.” Frederíc seethed through clenched teeth, “No, they were mine, and you turned them against me.” Je’She looked perplexed, “What? You admit it? After all this time?” It struck Frederíc that they were not speaking on the same subject, but Marduk allowed for some clarity, “Oh please, play coy neither of you. My Smoke Stalkers revealed the truth to me. Emperor’s Dragoons were spotted aboard Malcador’s ship, yes...alongside Sentinels.” Frederíc whipped around to Marduk, “WHAT?!” Marduk gave him a self satisfied sneer, “And so the plot is revealed. I must say Frederíc, I did not figure that you would be keen to share the title of Warmaster, but it does follow that you would rather share it with your dearest brother than me. I am hurt.” He punctuated the claim with an overwrought pout, pushing his lower lip out in insincere injury. The bearing shifted seamlessly into a vengeful smirk, “But, I suppose you were right. Seeing the self assured, the arrogant, brothers that called themselves ‘Warmaster’ perform so admirably! Why, you had even fooled me that neither of you had a part to play in Malcador’s death, then the shocking revelation! The Stallion and the Sentinel, Jon-Frederíc and Je’She, the Emperor’s finest, brought low by hunger for power. Tsk, tsk, a sad state of affairs. Breaking this monstrous conspiracy to the galaxy will be difficult, no doubt, but neither of you are escape this chamber without seeing justice.”

Frederíc largely ignored Marduk, facing Je’She instead, still rocked by the reveal. Je’She’s expression confirmed Marduk’s claim, “Your troops were aboard the Barchamos. And now the Knights Stellaris are engaged with the Forge Lords. Solomon Tyrus, a great proponent of yours, has turned against me. Brother, I need an explanation, please. Please tell me you genuinely suspected me, tell me-” He cut himself off. The wheels of logic spun in his mind. Dragoons were sighted on board, yet Frederíc knew that wasn’t possible. The Sentinels were sighted aboard, but Je’She wouldn’t leave survivors to question if he had done the deed. Je’She would not have done the deed at all. It just didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. He turned slowly to Marduk. And Marduk met his gaze, his triumphant grin still barred, and Frederíc finally saw the answers he sought. Madness filled his eyes, or rather there was a terrifying lack of personhood. His eyes lost their glimmer, the twinkling satisfaction, just dark pits of emotionless consideration, as if Marduk had left his body and something else was inhabiting it. Like Marduk was elsewhere, watching from somewhere beyond. There was never a plan, there didn’t need to be a plan. Frederíc slowly drew Encallíon, Sabre Resolute, “YOU.” Marduk cocked his head, “You would draw blades against me, Aristide? Very well, I will call for the Smoke Stalkers to rescue the imprisoned survivors and we shall see who Terra believes.” Je’She shouted out, his panic evolved into a self preserving anger, “ENOUGH! I HAVE HAD ENOUGH! I am arresting you both and remanding you to Terra! This matter shall be resolved before the eyes of the Council of Terra!” Frederíc swung around, “WHY?! So Kincaid can slip daggers in our backs?! NO. The perpetrator is here amongst us, and we can finish this here and now!” Marduk put his hands on his hips, “Je’She, you murder me here and now, and there is nothing stopping Aristide from likewise putting you in the grave. Arrest him, and we can see peace.” “Je’She, do not fall for his words,” Frederíc implored, “I was wrong, Kincaid would not implicate you and I in the same crime, I would not murder Malcador, and neither would you! See reason, please!” Je’She brandished his glaive, “This is complete madness, surrender yourselves into my custody and I will see fair treatment for both of you, but this treachery has crossed beyond reason.” Marduk chuckled, “But it is I with evidence to charge you both, so it is you who are under my custody.” Frederíc donned his helmet, the atmospheric seal cycling with a subtle hiss, “I am under no one’s custody.”

He adopted a dueler's stance, "I will come with neither of you, I will not be subject to any presumptuous trial. I will not be quietly snuffed out in a prison cell. You want me? You are welcome to me." Marduk licked his plump lips in anticipation, "Very well." He strode over, slowly, to Aristide, like a shark circling its prey. He came at him with steady purpose, the insane, dead eyed look in his eyes growing stronger. Marduk was gone, all the emotion was drained from him, replaced by raw, calculating animal destructivity. From the corner of his eye Frederíc saw Je’She catch his helmet with the tip of Dancing Devil, and flipped it up into the air, catching in and affixing it as Frederíc had done. His brother then likewise rushed to meet the ensuing conflict, "Frederíc, Marduk, cease this at once, and come peacefully!" "The time for peace has passed," Frederíc intoned somberly as he put his sabre between himself and Marduk, "the time for vengeance is now. Either help me kill this traitor or get out of my way." "I will not let you harm him." Je'She warned. "Then you will be harmed." Frederíc activated the power field of his sabre, and Je'She did the same.

Aristide made to thrust at Marduk, but Je’She cast his glaive downward, driving his brother’s strike to the ground. Frederíc spun backward, releasing his sword from beneath the polearm, but as he presented himself again, Je’She lept forward and shoulder charged his brother, ramming his helmet into Frederíc’s with a resounding headbutt. Frederíc was driven back, dazed by the blow, and when he came to he saw Je’She’s blade pointed as his chest, “Enough.” Je’she warned. Frederíc parried away the polearm, “No.” he snarled. Dancing Devil was once more leveled at him, and Je’She made a low sweep to knock Frederíc off his feet, but Aristide hopped up, catching the glaive under his boot, then issued a downward slash to Marduk, who appeared to be waiting for an opening. Marduk caught the blade in between his hands, the force of the clap pushing past the tremendous powerfield of Frederíc’s sabre, the action causing a gust of wind to blast from the contact. Frederic attempted to thrust through the grapple, but Marduk closed his hands around the blade, yanking it past his exposed head and delivering a knee to Aristide’s side. The blow rocked Frederíc; Marduk was far more physically intimidating than he had assumed. That did not bode well. Marduk closed back in, relinquishing one hand and grabbing Aristide by the crest of his helm, and driving his head into the corner of the stone table, using a sweeping leg to drive him off balance.

Frederíc’s helmed head passed clear through the time-worn stone, the whole corner section collapsing with the trauma. As he fell, Marduk collapsed atop him, using his knee to keep Aristide’s sword arm pinned. He thrust his other knee to pin his other arm, and whilst straddling Frederíc, Marduk latched onto his helmet, using his helmet’s crest to try and snap his neck. Aristide bucked, trying to get his brother off him, delivering a kick to the center of Engur’s back, which fazed him little. Je’She brought the butt of his staff across, attempting to strike Marduk in the head. Engur likewise caught that blow, but the shift in focus allowed Frederíc to roll, toppling Marduk from attop him. Frederíc then mounted his brother, reversing the grip of his sabre to drive it into his brother’s skull. Marduk jerked his head, the sabre once more sailing past and driving into the ground. In response, Frederíc simply punched his brother in the face, once, twice, thrice in rapid succession, the soft crunch and pop of nose bones misaligning tangible through his power armour. Marduk did not so much as blink. Instead he wrapped his arms around Frederíc’s waist and drove his hips up, gaining his feet before arching back, and smashing Frederíc face first into the ground. Now unarmed, Frederíc rolled to all fours, and slid forth to grab the broken free section of stone. He brought the several foot long section of curved stone up in a sweeping motion, hitting Marduk in the thigh, sending him to a knee. Frederíc lunged to his feet and brought back down the stone slap down on his brother, shattering it on his pauldron, sending up a plume of dust and rubble. Marduk remained kneeling, catching fall with a fist. Frederíc capitalized on the moment by kicking his heel into Marduk’s head, sending him sprawling to the ground. As he did so Je’She lashed out, this time with the blade of Dancing Devil, to ward Frederíc away from the downed Marduk.

Aristide smacked the reaching polearm away, grabbing it and yanking it forward to cause Je’She to trip over the rising Marduk, sending both back down. Frederíc snatched his sabre from the ground, and closed in for the kill. Marduk shot from the ground, tossing Je’She off him, and ripped his robes off, and in that same move wrapped the shredded robe around Frederíc’s sword arm, swinging him into Je’She. Je’she dodged the move, and Frederíc pulled his arm from the snare, ripping through the robes. Frederíc issued a roaring battlecry, and punched Je’She away with the guarded hilt of his sword, slashed Marduk across the chest, marring the pristine power armour, returning to Je'She to parry away another thrust, then slashing downwards on Marduk, a blow Marduk blocked with his vambraces, embedding the sword in his armour. Frederíc drew down his blade to deny Marduk the opportunity to break his sword, then slashed across in the empty air to clear room between his brothers, leaving his back to the table.

Je'She hopped back, then spun in a wide circle, leapt upwards, and sent his glaive down in a meteoric strike. Denied the proper room to maneuver, Aristide brought his sword down then up in a wide motion, blade up to snare the blade in the guard. They met in a sonorous ring, the thunderous clash of blade on blade, power field on power field, reverberating in deafening applause throughout the chamber. But a third blade had entered the embrace of the blades at the impact. A wide, sinister cleaver, no more sword than a butcher's blade, shimmering metal with serpentine, waved patterns, a diluvian construction made explicitly for the removal of limbs and the bisection of men. The wicked weapon's power field roiled off the blade like blue fire, and it thundered and roared as it conflicted with the fields of the other weapons. The Cleaver of Marduk was locked in combat with the Dancing Devil, the resplendent partisan of Je’She of the watch, the history of the Great City of Harrdid emblazoned upon its spiralling shaft, and Encallíon, Sabre Resolute, the great sweeping sword of Jon-Frederíc Aristide, the crest of the Great Thiepval House of Aristide emblazoned upon the sweeping guard of the blade, both gryphon and unicorn rampant.

The legendary blades of the Primarchs locked for a moment, the intersection of the power fields creating a roaring gout of sparks that illuminated the chamber with a blue aura. The Primarchs applied their strength to the engagement, each attempting to bring down another’s blade to create an opening. Frederíc broke the stalemate by driving his sword upwards, sending his brothers whirling back into defensive positions. As mysteriously as he had been armed, Marduk was also equipped with his inscrutable helm, his complete battle regalia had miraculously been donned. Frederíc expected dry laughter, some cruel quip, a boast. Something. Lethal silence filled the room, broken only by the high whir of power armour and the hissing crackle of power fields. Marduk was Frederíc's left, Je'She flanking his right.

Frederíc's hand shot to his hip, lighting quick, and he drew his sidearm, Ultima Ratio. It was a long handgun, a galvanic flechette blaster of Martian design, forged by Raj Vokar’s hand. Marduk rolled out of the way as Frederíc fired an opening salvo at him, the smart darts trailing after him following after the round that embedded itself in Marduk's lower leg. Marduk raced around the circumference of the table at a Primarch's freakish pace, the flechettes embedding themselves into the ground after him. Marduk hooked a hard left, hopping atop the table, and rushed towards Aristide ready to deliver a fatal strike. Je'She lashed out with his polearm, the weapon sliding through his hands like an arrow, and the blow caught Marduk in the lower chest, buffeting him back from Frederíc. The Stallion raised his pistol once more to fire, but Je'She flung the spear back with a single hand, forcing Frederíc to riposte and step forward into the reach of the weapon. He holstered the Ratio as Je'She snatched back Dancing Devil and used the moment to hop back into a guarded stance before delivering a swirling thrust down at Frederíc's legs. Aristide leapt onto the table to dodge the strike, then spun just in time to see Marduk ushering forth a wide sweeping cleave. Aristide side stepped out, then pranced forward, the swing missing him as he landed in Marduk’s exposed flank. Frederíc issued a rapid scale of strikes, slashes and thrusts that drove his brother off balance, cracking and marring his power armour. As Marduk went to grab his blade once more during a thrust, Frederíc delivered a swift forward kick to his knee sending Marduk scrambling to regain his ground. He once more reached for his holster, but the whistle of Je’She’s spear betrayed the attack from behind him.

Frederíc whipped around, his sabre presented to catch the strike. Je’She’s thrust hovered just out of Frederíc’s reach, then he feinted, sending the spear out, down, and inwards in a clockwise spiral. The feint was too quick for Aristide to catch, and the blade sunk into his thigh’s armour, the tip of the power field searing the exposed skin from proximity. Aristide let out a pained growl, then an impact struck him from behind sending Dancing Devil deep into his leg. Je’She shouted in frustration, clearing not seeking to wound his brother so, but Marduk’s shoulder charge forced his hand. Je’She snatched out his spear, and smacked Marduk across the face of his helm as he reared up for a downward chop to Frederíc. The blow of the blade shattered a section of visor, sending the hardened glass-like material into his brother’s eye. Marduk did not cease his assault, blood trickling out of the shattered visor as he cast his blade down on Frederíc’s back. Dancing Devil caught this dreadful strike, the power fields colliding once more in spectacular fashion. The flash of light and roiling crackle gave Frederíc cover to draw his pistol once more. He slid underneath the locked blades and lunged at Marduk, snaking his sabre arm under his brother’s, wrenching it back into a hasty armbar. Sacrificing the integrity of the grapple, he pressed the muzzle of Ultima Ratio against the hollow of Marduk’s knee, and pulled the trigger. The salvo ripped through the soft armour of the joint and Frederíc set a foot against the small of Marduk’s back and kicked off of him, sending them both across the wide table. Frederíc just dodged the shrapnel of the smart-flechette detonation, fragments of ceramite embedding themselves harmlessly into his own armour.

Je’She howled in shock, and even Marduk gripped his ruined knee with a shaking hand. The attack should have shorn Marduk’s leg clean off at the joint, but the integrity of the armour held, holding the bloody mess together as a splint. Je’She slammed his polearm down, unleashing an ulating warcry and he jumped upwards, spun mid-air, then sent Dancing Devil down on Frederíc. Aristide was still sprawled on the table, and wasn’t quick enough to the roll out of the way. The blade missed Aristide’s head, instead slicing his crest down the middle. The shaft of the weapon struck him solidly on his helm, shattering the monovisor and causing his head to rattle within the helmet. Frederíc felt his nose break, the bones and cartilage smashing into his face, his lip split, and his teeth crack. A dull ache emanating from his forehead suggested that the skin there had likewise been split, if not the bone as well. The splintered visor thankfully didn’t suffocate his vision, but the emergent blurriness around his sight was much more threatening.

In a flash, Je’She spun on his heel, raising his glaive once more. In the spin he caught Marduk across the chest, splitting open the muscled facade of his armour. Marduk made to grab Je'She, but on the down stroke he was struck once more in the chest by Dancing Devil's butt. Frederíc had time to roll out from the attack, springing to his feet as the glaive hit the table, creating a fracture from one side of the table to the other in a pop of dust. Frederíc leveled his pistol again and unleashed a salvo into Marduk, which found its mark in the damaged cuirass. The swarm of flechettes burrowed into the plate, and exploded in a small burst, sending Marduk onto his back, finally eliciting a mere grunt of pain. Je’She exploded in a flurry of jabs and thrusts, forcing Frederíc to react in a storm of counters, ripostes, and blocks, and for every strike that Aristide denied three more found their destination. Frederíc was battered and buffeted back, his ringing head and pulsing thigh greatly reducing his ability to offer a rebuke. Je’She continued his assault, driving Frederíc to the edge of their platform. There was a half second’s pause, where Je’she made to spin his staff and knock Frederíc off, but the Stallion seized upon the opening firing into his brother centre mass, then headbutting him with his shattered crest. The small detonation caught them both, and Frederíc felt a slight touch of wind as a series of cracks in his abdominal armour crumbled away, revealing the black body glove underneath.

Je’She’s plate had been much less abused than Marduk’s or Frederíc’s, but even still for a sidearm the Ultima Ratio was a Primarch’s weapon, the power armour of the Sentinel blasted and blackened from the impact, deep craters from the flechettes picking his torso and pauldron trim. A blur of movement caught the dueling brothers’ eyes as Marduk regained his ground and pounced on Je’She like an animal, his cleaver imbedded into the fissure Je’She had made. He picked his brother clean off the ground, throwing him at Frederíc with a strength wholly unprecedented. The tossed primarch sailed across the table like a ragdoll, Aristide ducking under his airborne brother. The Sentinel hit the chamber wall with a shattering crack, but as he fell to the ground he vaulted back onto the table with his spear, flipping it back into his hands as he touched down. Aristide was now between both his brothers. Marduk locked a bloody eye onto the Stallion and stalked back to his cleaver, snatching it from the crack. Frederíc assumed a defensive posture, pistol aimed Marduk, sabre held out to Je’She.

His brothers began to pace about him, both seeking an opening to attack Aristide and keeping an eye on the other. Marduk made the first move, driving the flat edge of his cleaver towards Frederíc’s exposed stomach, but so hobbled as he was the Stallion was able to dismiss the blow with a downward parry, transitioning into a riposte into the bloody hole in his brother’s chest. The blade stabbed into Marduk, but even in the heat of melee Frederíc stayed his hand of a killing thrust. He had been so sure that his brother was a murderer, that if justice for Malcador was to be served it would be here, and now. But with his sword in his brother’s chest, the ease of it, the soft resistance of flesh moved away by power fields...He had never faltered in killing, especially in as dire a situation as this. If he killed his brother, there would be no return, no redemption. A single swipe of the blade, severing both hearts and slashing a lung. Blood would fill his body cavity and he would either bleed out or drown in his own vitae. How had it come to this? How could he even contemplate this murder? What was he doing?

Marduk broke his indecision, and with one hand chopped at his brother’s shoulder, cleaving through the pauldron to the flesh. Aristide roared, and reflexively drove the blade deeper into his brother’s chest, the smell of burning meat and blood mixed with the sound of a power field evaporating flesh in a sickening display. Tears began to stream from Aristide’s eyes. Even now he couldn’t deliver the coup de grace, his body felt heavy, as if made of lead. Marduk dislodged his embedded sword and brought the pommel down on Frederíc’s helm, breaking free a section of shattered visor lens.

Their exposed eyes locked for a moment, and the true horror of Marduk met Frederíc. Blood swam in his brother’s eye, turning it a dreadful crimson, obscuring much of his brother's eye save a pupil so dilated it obscured the iris totally. It gave his brother the appearance of something inhuman, something bestial. Frederíc found his resolve, finally. Marduk was not going to stop until one of them was dead. If Aristide died, the East would be lost forever, and the Imperium would die trying to retake it. If he killed Marduk there would be civil war, but that was a situation he could control. This was a situation he could control, indecision would bring ruin upon everything his father built. He was the Emperor’s Stallion, he could not let his heart betray mankind. The die was cast; Marduk had to be slain. Marduk broke the brief moment with a resounding headbutt, sending his brother back with a twist of his blade, sending a squirt of blood onto Aristide, staining his alabaster armour. Marduk grabbed the blade with his free hand, and pulled it into himself, yanking his brother closer to deliver another swift headbutt, smashing in the face of Frederíc's helm. The Stallion's head swam again, worse than before, but he had the presence of mind to draw out his sword in a slash, bisecting Marduk's sternum and doubtless slashing a lung or heart. In the haze, Frederíc saw Marduk slam down his cleaver down tip first to set it aside, then next he knew he was in the air, then back down into the table.

The Leviathan reached down and dug his thumbs into the crack in Aristide’s pauldron, using his good leg to gain leverage by stomping on Frederíc’s stomach. Aristide danced on the verge of unconsciousness, but the sharp pain of something rupturing in his stomach brought him back to just as Marduk was finally wrenched free the pauldron, bringing it down on Frederíc’s chest, shattering the ceramite of both his cuirass and the pauldron trim. Marduk raised it again, and Aristide raised his pistol to blast a hole in his brother’s chest, but Marduk jerked out of the way, his feet hovering off the table. Aristide blinked in surprise, clawing through the haze of mind to see through the illusion. His confusion was rectified when Marduk turned, and he saw Je’She had pierced Marduk’s power pack and hoisted him into the air by the blade. Je’She slammed Marduk down on his knees, and Marduk retaliated by pushing off the table and into Je’She’s glaive, the blade of Dancing Devil erupting from Marduk’s exposed chest. There was a stillness as Marduk’s body went limp, and Je’She dropped his weapon in shock. Even Aristide, who resolved himself to the very same act, got to his feet on trembling legs. “No..” Je’She whispered, “no, no, no…” Aristide approached his brother, taking in the sight of his slain brother, slumped on his knees, his blood pouring from the wound onto the cracked stone, “He forced our hand, brother...there was no other possible outcome…”. Je’She whipped around, the raw fury of his voice colouring his every word, “No. You forced his hand. Forced our hands. HIS BLOOD IS ON YOUR HANDS! THIS IS A BEAST OF YOUR CREATION!” Frederíc opened his mouth to offer some retort, but movement to his right caught the corner of his eye.

In a flash he was smashed on the side of his head again, forcing him to backstep and fire his pistol into the open air. Marduk was suddenly beside Je’She, gripping him the the throat in a crushing vise, then swept a leg under Je’She, sending the Sentinel to his knees. Aristide seized the opening and fired at Marduk, the blast hitting squarely in the face of Marduk’s helm, exposing his bloodied and bruised face. The subsequent detonation did little to stop Marduk, as he raised his cleaver in lethal swiftness and sent it into the scrambling Je’She. The blade swung through the gap between the cuirass and the right pauldron, sinking into the soft connective armour, tunneling deep through the shoulder joint. Je’She howled, and his left hand shot to the blade to prevent a total maim. His right was dreadfully still. Equally as motionless was Marduk’s face, a placid plane of predatory consideration, his right eye flooded by blood, his lip split, his face marked by dozens of embedded shrapnel shards and deep lacerations. Frederíc roared and charged at Marduk, firing at him in a sustained burst. The barrage knocked the Leviathan away from the maimed Je’She, and Aristide leapt over the Sentinel in a spinning slash, the blade running through Marduk’s increasingly wounded torso. Frederíc landed on the tip of his sabaton, then pirouetted, landing another strike. On the turn he saw Marduk coming to with his cleaver brandished, so in the completion of the flourish he lashed out at Marduk’s hands, forcing his brother to sweep away his blade in a parry, exposing his side to Frederíc. Aristide fired another salvo into his brother’s ribs, swiping at the back of the cleaver to prevent his brother from returning a strike. The detonation created a crack in the contoured obliques of the muscled facade, and Aristide pulled the trigger again to rupture the plate. He was met with an unsatisfactory, terrifying, click. His shattered helm had long since stopped offering him diagnostics, and the head trauma he suffered still allowed him to ignore that. He did not cease his assault and simply stepped into Marduk, and pistol whipped him in his face
</div>
</div>

=Fate & Legacy=

=Rules=

Jon-Frederic Aristide

2020-01-22T20:16:13Z

2603:3003:3EF4:2000:FD0E:FC04:E854:4885: /* Brotherwar */

{{Infobox Warmasters' Triumvirate Primarch
|name=Jon-Frederic Aristide
|bgcolor=white
|fgcolor=darkgreen
|image=[[File:Jon-Fred.jpg|272px]]
|title=Stallion of the Imperium, L'enfant Stellaire, Warmaster
|alias=
|where=Thiepval Prime
|when=805.M30
|legion=[[Emperor's Dragoons]]
|crusade=Primarch, 45<sup>th</sup> Expeditionary fleet
|sigil= WIP
|weapon=WIP
|trait=WIP
|flaw=WIP
|heresy=Separatist
|fate=Unknown
|dominion=WIP
}}
{{Warmasters Triumvirate-Head}}

Text here

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

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

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

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

==The Great Crusade==

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="width:1000px">
'''''Deserter'''''
<div class="mw-collapsible-content">
The Heir of Superiority exited the warp, tendrils of nightmarish empyrean lashing at its alabaster hull. The Ist and Xth Dragoon battle fleets emerged in tow from the rip in space, dwarfed by the enormity of the Stallion’s flagship. Before the arrayed fleet, a derelict shipyard, a conglomeration of tangled space hulks and abandoned stations, within; the Vth legion. In all, it was similar to the Astral Warden's homeworld, albeit stripped of the warmth and evidence of civilization, hanging on to the most austere of environs. So too was the scrap field bereft of the cosmic and Immaterial tumult that surrounded Bishop's home, making the Dragoon's approach blessedly easy. To many, this was an open invitation. The Wardens were laying low, neutral, largely defected. Aristide was convinced of their neutrality, and their silent defection. Of invitation? That he was more hesitant to assume. Laying a trap in this manner would be out of Bishop's tactical acumen, and honour. Of what he was walking into, he was uncomfortably ignorant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you expect?”

“For you to talk to him like a man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That's where I get it from”

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

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

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

“You seek to exert influence beyond your rulership.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not a usurper.”

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

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

“Of my resolve I have few doubts.”

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

“Used? How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

==Brotherwar==
The air was ash-choked and sullen, the smell of burning fuel and metal poisoned the wind, the smoke buried the twin suns of New Hope, the snow of debris and ash turned the vibrant desert into a bleak tundra. Malcador’s crashed flagship, the Barchamos, had turned the planet into a pallid grave. They couldn’t even retrieve his corpse, but the remnants of the ship’s vid and pict recordings would have told the tale. The Sigilite was dead, and nothing could ever be the same. The burgeoning Imperium had died in its adolescence. The legions that had gathered to refocus the Crusade and bring peace from division now gathered in tense silence for the coming war. Frederíc knew what would happen next. The final piece of the eroding foundation had crumbled, his only hope for peace died in that wreck. Malcador called the Warmasters to New Hope to inspire, to unite, to no doubt scold. Now they’ll argue over his body like vultures. The Sentinels were the first to arrive to the cataclysmic scene, and they were reluctant to share what they found, as somber silence met requests for information. That told Frederíc everything he needed to know. This was no accident, no tragic result of a perilous warp jump. If it were, it would have been announced, and the mourning would bind them, if only for a moment, as one. This was no assassination by Xenos forces, or enemy malcontents. If it were, they would have taken to stars already in vengeance. No, Malcador was murdered, and the list of suspects was terrifyingly small. To best the Sigillite in his own ship...the thought left a chill in Frederíc’s bones.

Many are the planets which escape notice by the powers that be. Lacking in resources, devoid of useful manpower and occupying no strategic location. This planet, New Hope, had once been lush and ripe for colonization, but the Age of Strife had been devastating. Yet the course of history is winding and endlessly complex, and on rare occasions a planet is thrust to the forefront, the hub upon which the galaxy might spin for a moment or two. New Hope was also such a place. Once a bustling and verdant world filled with industry and civilization, now all that remained was a dusty ruin. Primarch Jon-Frederíc Aristide, Imperial First Son and gene-sire of the Emperor’s Dragoons, was the first to set foot upon New Hopes’ crumbling, salt-laden soil and rolling sand dunes. In more abundant eras long past, his encampment was a beautiful ocean, a shallow sea filled with warmth and life from which huge aquaculture farms produced enough food for the entire sector. The Old Night was not kind to this world, and now only the titanic rusting skeletons of mighty industrial complexes now protruded from the endless salt flat, blue waters replaced by orange sand and white ash.

His contingent had camped on the farside of the planet, on the western hemisphere, amongst the sand covered ruins of cities and factorums. Zelbezis with his Iron Guard, Piter with his Liberators. Valorn with his Pale Hounds secretly in reserve. There was an agreement amongst the meeting parties to bring a supporting element, so that Malcador’s edict would not go ignored, or at the very least, be understood without the interference of the Warmasters. It was a concession proposed by Je'She, agreed upon by Marduk, and abided by Frederíc. Aristide would have preferred to come alone, but Je'She obviously did not trust his brothers, which Aristide understood because he felt the same. Marduk’s introduction as a neutral party did not sit well with him. Lambach and Kane’s disappearance into the fringes and the intelligence detailing the increasingly erratic behaviour of the Soaring Host and the Gunslingers made for a grim picture of the state of Marduk’s legions. Then again, the same could be said for his own legions. The Iron Guard and the Pale Hounds were famously austere, and the grievous losses the Liberators regularly incurred on Imperial Army auxilia were only overshadowed by their impeccable victory record. Of course, the Forge Lords were always disagreeable and cantankerous, their gene-sire Mot Hadad most of all. Save for the Astral Wardens and their Primarch, Aristide’s forces were famously unpopular, the Warmaster himself least of all at the moment. Without the Emperor to lead the Crusade, the Warmasters were the only authority in the frontier, and Warmaster Aristide was reluctant to allow mortal bureaucrats and entitled monarchists buck at that authority. While wildly controversial, he would not have disorder and corruption follow in the wake of his warfront.

Still, his brothers called him a seperatist, or worse, a usurper. Propaganda and misinformation caged him in, and any defense of his actions would be observed through the lense of skepticism and doubt. Worse still were his brothers under his command that took the bait and declared themselves “Astartes Supremacists”, consequences be damned. Mot in particular had been a staunch advocate of this stance, despite the Warmaster’s own views. Seperatist or not, Aristide’s image had been ruined by this movement, and his apparent enemies were more than glad to spread it, and as the debate grew more fevered, skirmishes broke out between the legions. And so Malcador called them here to discipline him and the other unruly legions. Without him, true conflict was inevitable.

Frederíc sat in a tent, a plain construction of canvas that flapped in the polluted wind. The command tent was picked clean in preparation for the meeting of the Warmasters. Only he and the austere chair he sat in remained. He had done this to himself. His experience with his homeworld made him paranoid, gave him little faith in regards to human rulers, and little trust in pacified peoples. He was not misguided, only overzealous in his response. Now his men think themselves revolutionaries, or the true successors to the Emperor’s vision. Frederíc was a leader of a movement not of his making, and yet it was his all the same. As the desert wind whipped through the tent he felt a peculiar sensation of everything falling around him, the unfamiliar impression of failure causing his stomach to sink, his head feeling light. Even that humble feeling he was supposed to be above, and here was. A disoriented man at the brink of collapse, watching all he had attempted to build be carried away with the wind, like the ash and sand. What hurt the most, was that in Malcador’s final moments, he likely considered Aristide a potential enemy. The realization that he failed the Sigillite somehow wounded him more than the prospect of coming to earnest blows with his brothers.

He felt very empty in his tent, gazing vacantly into the shifting dunes beyond. He had done this to himself.

He registered the steps coming from behind him long before they reached him, the monotonous crunch of sand blending in with the roaring of the blood in his ears. He didn’t turn to greet his brothers, and his son. Zelbezis Dyestes, the Primarch of the Iron Guard. Intimidating, severe, and nigh emotionless. He was clad in imposing black Cataphractii terminator plate, chains and spikes adorning the sinister ensemble. Despite his terrifying appearance, he was Frederíc's most loyal brother, ultimately deferential and precise in his execution of orders. Aristide often wondered what he done to engender such support, but he was glad for it nonetheless. “Warmaster, the forces are mustered, we are prepared to attend the council on your orders.” Aristide nodded absently, “Very good, Dyestes.”

An awkward silence followed, interrupted by Piter’s voice. Piter was likewise clad in Terminator armour, the new, experimental Indomitus pattern, which traded the unparalleled protection of Cataphractii and the overall perfection of Tartaros with greater mobility while being easier to manufacture and repair in comparison. Being the armour of a Primarch it was far more advanced than that which his sons wore, but the impression that he was no better equipped than his men. It was a strange bit of hypocrisy in Frederíc's mind, but it seemed to work for the Ussaran Liberators.

“Get up, Aristide. We should attend Malcador’s funeral, and fight over the scraps of the Imperium.” Piter said. Malcador’s funeral. It still didn’t feel real to Frederíc. There it was again, that crumbling sensation, like the seat beneath him and the ground beneath it disappeared, and he was falling into the void. The routine of command assisted Frederíc where conscious thought was failing him, “Indeed. Expect conflict, and a rapid exfiltration. We came here to prevent war, but do not be unprepared if war begins here.” He rose fluidly, his flesh numb to the motion, as if he was drawn up by marionette strings. He turned to face them for the first time. Zelbezis was placid as ever, his constant expression of stern disapproval was plastered on his face. Piter seemed bored with the whole affair, likely just waiting to learn if the Crusade is reunited, or if the “Revolution” is to begin.

Guy Maxíme however, was positively furious. “We were at war the second you started leading planetary governors to the guillotine and left Marines in their place.” Frederíc considered him coldly, “I curbed dissidents. I will not conquer the stars in the Emperor’s name only to have them turn against us when we present them with our backs.” Zelbezis nodded sagaciously in agreement,“There is little use in claiming worlds in title only.”, he said, echoing his Warmaster's sentiment. Guy’s nostrils flared in irritation, “Calael Bishop openly abandoned the Crusade, you allowed him to put secession into your mind, you’ve broken nearly every law of the Imperium save open rebellion and the Truth!” Piter rolled his eyes, “Brother, why do you allow this troop to speak to you this way? In my legio-” Jon-Frederíc Aristide snapped to, the fog of despair lifting for a moment, and the piercing stare from his stormy eyes lashed out as he spoke. “The Imperium is dead. It died this morning. It’s been dying since Ullanor, but today we hold the wake. Today we decide either to resurrect it, or give birth to something new. If the maggots on its corpse resist, then you should be very glad for what I have done.”

Guy’s eyes widened, “This is madness.” Frederíc turned his back to him, gazing out to the desert once more, now examining the invisible paths before him, “In an insane world, the sane man must appear truly mad. I play the part I must, for all of our sakes, but do not mistake this as the world I wanted. This is the world thrust upon me, and now I must maneuver it or we risk destruction.” Guy huffed, “All of this could be avoided if you just capitulated and fell in line. Instead, your pride compels you to be the pinnacle, to be the Warmaster of Warmasters. You are not a general, you are a tyrant.” Those words started a flame in his stomach, taking residence in the once hollow pit. Dyestes spoke up for him, “Watch your tone, marine, your liege has put down more tyrants than any before him, and has instituted order amidst chaos. You should be grateful for him.” Frederíc turned to the group, and Maxíme starred in return, “Oh, for Thiepval? Believe me, Lord Primarch, I remember Thiepval. Better than most.” Dyestes made to speak, perhaps even strike him down for his insolence, but Jon-Frederíc held up a staying hand,”Tell me, Maxíme, who now holds the title of Praetorian of Terra, and now Regent with the death of Malcador?” Guy eyed him suspiciously, “Kinnévail Kincaid.” Jon-Frederíc nodded, “Indeed. Remind me, what do they call him now?” Guy was silent. “Say it, marine.” Guy spat out the words, “The Burned Prophet.” Jon-Frederíc nodded again, “Indeed. It seems I am not the only to hold the laws of the Imperium in disregard, even on Terra. None here are without guilt, were that the case, this would not have come to fruition. Now I will hear no more dissent. We have come here for peace, we shall see what my brothers have come for.” With that, Guy was silenced, Piter seemed relieved to proceed on with the day, and Zelbezis returned to taciturn silence.

The journey to the meeting place was a long convoy, several hours of uncomfortable silence. A moderately sized contingent of Dragoons, with a few Iron Guard and Ussaran Liberator tank platoons, a few Sicarians and three Fellblades respectively. In the Dragoon force was a Mastodon, four Land Raider Platoons, three jetbike squadrons, and three land raider platoons shuttling infantry to the site. The bulk of his force was ordered to keep overwatch some few kilometres away, far away enough so that he didn’t arrive with a literal army, but close enough to make apparent that he did indeed have one. Frederíc elected to ride at the fore of the sprawling convoy upon his jetbike, the Gauvin. While it may have been more expeditious to take to wing in his personal Thunderhawk, his presence was more striking whilst on his steed. To his brothers on the other side of the divide, he would appear nonchalant and unafraid, to his men, he would be inspiring and steadying. The council was to be held in the ruins of some great hall or temple, a once massive circular tower long since decapitated by the blade of time, the tower now an open topped colosseum. As they approached it rose out of the ground from the horizon, like the breaching head of some mammoth sandwurm. The nature of the arena before him bore an unsettling resemblance to Nikaea, the Trial of Lambach writ small. Without the Emperor or Malcador, Frederíc doubted this council would resolve itself any better. However without such iconoclasts as Kincaid actually being present to speak, there was a small hope. Small.

Dust plumed from either side of the ruinous column, to the left, the “loyalist” forces, Sentinels, Titan Marchers, and Silver Blades. Razorbacks, Rhinos, Land Raiders, Land Speeder transports and Imperial Knights. They were well matched, and no doubt Je'She had support not far behind as well. Arriving from his right was a comparatively miniscule air wing, Marduk’s personal Thunderhawk flanked by Raptors and escorted by Xyphons that broke away once the gunships touched ground. It was a wise choice, as the mediating party, but if this is the force Marduk chose to arrive in, there was no doubt that a much more decisive force waiting in the wings. The message was clear, albeit subtle. Be civil, or else. Were Marduk not playing the caring third party attempting to heal wounds, Frederíc would have thought it a nonchalant boast. It may have simply been a sign of respect in respect to Malcador’s passing. But Frederíc was reluctant to rule anyone out as a suspect in his murder. He could rule no one out, save for his own men. Perhaps not even them.

He had kept close tabs on his forces, but acting beyond his orders wasn't necessarily their way, save for Mot, who couldn't be reigned in despite Frederíc's best efforts. Even still, the murder of the Sigilite? The Black Dwarf may have been spiteful, but that was beyond his means at the very least. Besides, he was on the other side of the galaxy, and no mere marine would have been able to best Malcador, surely. He spoke over the comms, hailing the detachment, "Hold here. I will take the Palantine Guard and we will approach the meeting alone. Palantine, assemble at the entrance. I meet with my brothers alone." Various affirmations met him, and the small battalion halted whilst the mounted honour guard rushed past, following their gene-sire. Guy Maxíme crackled in over the vox, "What do you hope to accomplish here?" Frederíc pondered the question for a moment, "Unity." and that was all. Guy seemed content with the answer, and fell silent as the shadow of the tower enveloped them.

The Palantine Guard dismounted their jetbikes at the sweeping archway to the tower, one of several at regular, if wide, intervals. Up close the lost glory of the thing made itself apparent. The worn stone hinted at intricate patterning in the large slabs, the archway itself a masterful piece of architecture and stonework, long eroded effigies of beasts and men of import holding up the great pillars of the tower. From the deep tracks at the entryway Frederíc presumed the ground he walked was once beach, elegant ships coming from abroad to make port within the tower, passing through the generous birth of the arch. The Primarch took a moment to regard the scene, imagining starry eyed pilgrims arriving to their destination, or foppish traders in their regalia sailing into the tower to trade and boast, or militant leaders steaming forth to discuss the fate of nations. He joined their ranks and stepped into the tower, removing his helmet and allowing the cool breeze flowing through the arrid ruin to run past his face, only to be defeated by the crushing heat beyond the shadow of the temple. He turned, facing his men, "Post up here, this is a meeting of Warmasters in good faith. Wish me luck, and hopefully we shall rejoin our comrades in the Crusade. But be alert. Guy nodded, and whirled his hand about, signalling for the guard to form a perimeter. The Stag amongst the Guard trotted up to the entryway, standing guard with Guy. At times Frederíc forgot he made the marine the captain of his honour guard. He tucked his helm under his arm, and stepped reverently into the meeting place. "Aristide!" Guy called after him. The Primarch turned halfway, and saw his Equerry standing in shadow, on his face a look of...desperation? "Aristide...bring us peace." The Primarch's jaw tightened, the weight of his duty bearing down on him. He nodded, and Guy nodded in turn, before taking a visible deep breath, donning his helmet, and turning out to face the desert with the Stag.

Frederíc turned back to the darkened depths of the ruin, and ventured forth to the whims of fate.

The base of the tower was surprisingly verdant, vines and plump desert vegetation taking root in cracks and spots of sunlit ground. Sand-worn but otherwise preserved frescos confirmed his suspicions of the use of this place. It was a gathering point for all peoples, the neutral ground amongst nations. The mosaics and frescoes told of a gift from some sea deity to the chief deity of the sky, and the gods gifting the people in celebration of their union. Images of traders giving eachother goods, with a suspicious absence of coinage or other payment, warriors and warlords plunging blades into the earth and embracing, the faithful offering up their children for blessings and good fortune. This was a place of good will, a place bound in love. It was little mystery as to why Malcador had chosen this place to make peace and reform the bonds of brotherhood, even when taking into account New Hopes' strategic unimportance and quiet location. Even in disuse, that was the spirit of this temple. Religious or not, oaths were made here, and good will was shared. Although, given the Imperial Truth, it was amusing that he would choose a temple.

Frederíc paused at a mural depicting a pair of pair of peasants offering a babe up to the sky god, while the god's advisor, a messenger spirit, stood by approvingly. A lump formed in his throat, despite himself. He approached the painting, admiring the plain but emotive artistry. He absently thumbed the mother figure. He wondered if the babe given to the gods had a good life, what legends and appellations he gained, what hardships he endured. He rested his forehead against the wall, and considered the diminutive messenger god at the feet of the sky god. No doubt in the mythology of this faded people he had some great importance. The unappreciated bureaucrat, the dutiful servant. He began to form a distaste for the artisan that placed this display along his path, it was awfully inconsiderate. He pressed off it, and took a deep breath. The Primarch could mourn his mentors later, for now he had to honour them.

Minutes passed as he coursed through the thoroughfare in silent contemplation. He attempted to plan what he would say to his brothers, but he found himself continually distracted by errant thoughts. What have he could have done differently? What if he was made sole Warmaster over all the legions? Could he have saved Malcador? Was he willing to die for him? For the cause his legions have created? It was useless. Even his peerlessly focused mind was sent wandering in the wake of the morning's grim tidings. So he decided to simply take the meeting as it came, to be bare and honest. To approach his brothers as he did Calael. With an open heart. Perhaps...perhaps he was too militarized from the very start, too indoctrinated in the way of war to ever truly connect with his brothers in a way that mattered. It was a disturbing thing to consider, that he had been wrong from the beginning. He stifled his doubts, suffocating them with resolve. Whole worlds counted on his competence, and his diplomacy would be tested like never before.

The pathway neared its end, terminating in a round chamber with a great stone table, a round construction easily thrice his prodigious body length, easily able to seat several dozens of people at its circumference. Other soaring archways lined the walls, although their number, and the smaller diameter of this inner sanctum, suggested that the paths fed into each other, or led upwards into the tower. The open top of the tower was fully observable here, the high ceiling of the path inwards remarkably intact, supporting the floors above it. Here the vegetation was once more absent, or at the very least confined to corners where the merciless twin suns could not bleach them. Still, with the ash laden sky, a somber light filtered into the chamber, casting a dim light onto the affair. Despite his moment of distraction in the hall, he appeared to be the first to arrive. He wasn’t sure if he should be smug about the speed of his legion or his own personal promptness. Smugness likely wasn’t wise regardless.

The footfalls of power armour echoed from a leftward hall, likely Je'She. He realized there was far more than just one set of steps. He hadn’t come alone. Aristide tensed, and rested his hand on the pommel of his sabre. Je'She and his Immortal honour guard emerged from the tunnel, and the guard marched in place for a moment, parting to allow their liege to break from the formation, before coming to a halt. Je'She removed his helmet, and Aristide saw his brother’s face for the first time in ages. He looked tired, the imperishable nature of Primarchs had not protected his brother from the damages of stress and tumult. Frederíc considered how he must look to Je'She. The Primarch of the Sentinels regarded Aristide cooly for a few moments, belying no emotion save his weariness. “You have come alone.” He said, finally, his accent tinted by his sandswept homeworld, easy lilting tones that contrasted Aristide’s own clipped, aristocratic speach. Frederíc sat his helm down on the table, and spread his arms, looking about him, “Aye, that I did. Was it not what we had agreed upon?” Je'She regarded him passively once more, then nodded slowly, “That it was.” Frederíc let his arms fall to his side, resting both hands on the pommel of his blade, “And you arrive with your honour guard.” Je'She exhaled sharply, regarding his statuesque guard, “A precaution, I am sure you understand.” Aristide raised an eyebrow, “Do I?” He saw Je'She’s jaw tighten at the snide retort. It dawned upon Aristide that his brother may have suspected him in Malcador’s death. The thought shook him, but he made no outward display of it. He would dissuade these fears handily enough, to be sure. “Brother,” Frederíc said, “Please, let us attend to this matter in private, as we had agreed. I come alone, in good faith.” Je'She hesitated, but waved off his guard, and they reformed, and marched back from when they came. The brothers now were alone.

There was a pregnant silence in which the Primarchs simply stared at each other, Frederíc from the table, Je'She from the archway. Je'She finally broke it with a sigh, and strode forth, setting his helm down upon the stone surface as his brother had. He did not relinquish his polearm, “Darker days have not been seen since the fall of our Father…” Aristide looked away, and to the morose sky, “All the days have been dark since then.” Another silence followed, and Aristide brought his eyes down from the heavens, “I regret many of those days.” Je'She met his eyes, and a forced grin crawled along his mouth, “It only took the death of the Sigilite to elicit humility from Jon-Frederíc Aristide, Primarch of the Emperor’s Dragoons.” Frederíc couldn’t even muster polite humour to trade with his brother, he simply looked to the ground before resting his hands on the table, running a gauntlet down his face to shake the growing chill there. He didn’t meet his brother’s gaze, and searched for the right words to say. They wouldn’t come. Je'She rounded the table finally moving away from the exit, “I apologize, Jon-Frederíc, that was cruel of me.” Aristide nodded wearily, “Have we ever been so formal, Je'She of the Watch?” Je'She stopped at an arm’s length from Aristide, reside his backside on the corner of the table, leaning on his glaive for support, “Not by my count, no.” Aristide sunk down further to his elbows, resting his head on met hands, “The last time I saw Malcador we argued...the final words I spoke to him were in spite…” “When?” Je'She asked, but Aristide knew he was fishing for information. Frederíc scoffed, “‘When?’ You know exactly when. After Ullanor. After the Triumvirate. ‘Time will prove me right.’ I said. Time will prove me right...I was so sure that a divided crusade would be our undoing, that it was a fatal flaw in the Sigilite’s unparalleled wisdom.” He shook his head, striking the table as he rose, “Now I must live with that regret.” Je'She huffed, looking away from him as he rose, “My people spoke of the dangers of self fulfilling prophecy,” he said with hints of venom, “but I suppose time did prove you right. Here we are, divided.” Frederíc placed his hand on his brother’s pauldron, and he felt the subtle shift as Je'She recoiled at his touch, “Brother, know this please, I wish this never came to pass.” Je'She turned his head slowly, “And yet it did, because of the actions of your legions, your actions.” Aristide did not relinquish his grasp, “I know. I know, brother, if anyone knows this it is I. Believe you in me. I was so focused on victory I did not see the cost, to claim the East in our father’s name. No matter the means. We are here because of me.” The contrite words seemed to catch Je'She off guard, and once more Frederíc found himself critical of his past aloofness.

For a moment Je'She seemed to consider his brother in earnest, not a suspect or a war criminal, but as a brother. The old flame of kinship flickering, faintly, back to life. Je'She let his weapon slide to the crook of his arm, and offered forth an open hand. Aristide lifted his hand off his brother’s shoulder and readily grasped it, “There was a time where we were the closest of comrades, was there not?” Frederíc allowed himself a small smile, “Aye, by my count, yes.” Je'She returned the gesture by placing his hand on Frederíc’s shoulder “Then there may be reconciliation yet,” the heavy echoes of another’s approach foretold of Marduk’s approach, and signalled that the council was to begin in earnest, “your contrition gives me great hope, brother. Be true here at this council, and we shall discover the truth of the matter.” Frederíc frowned, realizing that he was alluding to Malcador. Be true? Truth of the matter? He realized this was a test. Je'She still didn’t remove him, or at the very least his forces, from suspicion. Something was wrong. Je'She knew something he was not telling him.

Marduk Engur, Primarch of the Leviathan Host and third Warmaster sauntered into the chamber, a look of reserved confidence smeared on his delicate countenance. He was unhelmed, unarmed, but armoured, fine purple robes draped across his impressive plate. He brought his hands up in a steeple, then spread his arms in an embracing gesture, "Ah, good tidings in terrible times, my brothers. I see my gamble has paid off." He said smoothly, a slight smile blossoming from his mouth, his warmth tinged by sadness. His voice was sonorous and rich, almost clashing with his soft, polished features, his accent not far removed from Je’She’s, but the rolling tides and thunderous storms of his homeworld were almost tangible in his voice. Even the measured Marduk was left touched by Malcador's passing. Passing. The term felt too passive. Je'She's marines had investigated the scene, so if Je'She was guarded with Aristide there was a reason beyond a simple, albeit catastrophic, mechanical failure. Aristide watched Je'She take in Marduk. The same critical eye he gave to Frederíc, which was partly relieving as it meant that he wasn’t being fully held accountable for the crime, but unnerving since it confirmed his suspicions. Not an accident, not the work of the enemy. There was a traitor amongst them, a murderous strain in their ranks. For Je'She, this wasn’t a peace council, it was an inquisition. Frederíc was determined to start his own.

“Your gamble?” Frederíc asked. Marduk turned to his brother, obviously pleased with himself, “Indeed. I had hoped that the cooler minds of Warmasters would prevail over the passions of their subordinate brothers. I had hoped that a moment to yourselves would provide some good. I am here as mediator between aggrieved parties, something I am sure neither of you have any...fondness for. To be patronized by the youngest brother. Perhaps, I thought, it would be best to allow the elders of the family to reconnect, to grieve in privacy. I was correct, it would seem, and that gladdens me. Malcador would have been proud, I should think, that even with his loss we reknit the broken bonds. Your temperance honours me, and this council, and I thank you both. May we have a moment of silence in remembrance of the Sigillite, before we proceed?” Marduk’s usual sickly sweet demeanour had seemed to evaporate since Frederíc last saw him, more sincere and forthright, less eager to please, to be the center of attention, to be the favorite. He wasn’t sure if the metamorphosis was wrought on the campaign trail or this morning. Frederíc looked to Je'She who looked to Marduk, and the two nodded in acceptance, and Marduk smiled wistfully, and the trio bowed their heads in unison.

Frederíc took the moment to consider his options. Confronting the mystery head on was clearly a poor move, as it would put them on the defensive. The best move seemed to allow the council to proceed as planned, allow Je'She to play his hand and watch Marduk’s reactions, or Je'She’s questions. What Je'She asked would reveal what he knew, and give Aristide insight into the exact nature of the murder. Marduk’s answers would either incriminate him or absolve him, but even then the whole scenario seemed improbable. Frederíc struggled to think of a motive for Marduk, as far as Marduk was concerned he was content with his position. He proved himself to the Emperor, and was thus at the very least considered Warmaster surely, and Malcador awarded it to him. His presumably tennous control over his legions would at the very least keep him preoccupied from murder. And removing Malcador would likewise undermine his authority as a Warmaster. Without Malcador only favoritism and bonds of loyalty remained, and his front, and all others, would collapse into cabals of comrades and like minded individuals. Chaos wouldn’t serve Marduk well, so his motive was thin. Je'She may not have been proper Warmaster material, but he was fiercely loyal and such a malodorous crime was both beneath him and unlike him, the consideration alone was ludicrous, so he was not a suspect. The other legions...the Forge Lords did not dabble well in subterfuge, Einchurt was far and away, as were the Gunsligners, the Loxidontii, and the Soaring Host. The Corsairs Gallant would have nothing to gain as the Regent of Terra legitimized their hoard of Writs of Trade. Valorn and the Pale Hounds wouldn’t enact such a dastardly plan without his consent and authorization. Callous they were, but not foolish.

The list of legitimate suspects became short indeed. Lambach perhaps had good motive, considering the Edict of Nikaea, and he was unaccounted for, but even in his melancholy he would not murder one of his mentors, perhaps even less so because of it. That left Kincaid. Afterall, he had the most to gain. If the open secret of his full blown theism were true he would be open to proselytize with the last bastion of the Imperial Truth gone. Resurrectionists and Emperor cultists would flock to his words, and he would be unstoppable. Regent and Praetorian, with a legion at his back and untold hordes of now openly worshiping faithful as a shield before him, only civil war would be able to depose him. He had the most to gain, without a doubt, but the issue remained; only a Primarch had a hope of even being able to engage Malcador, and only the Emperor himself had a chance to defeat him. Motive may have been present, but Kincaid himself was certainly not, as the tensions of Mars and Terra would keep the maniac tied to the rigours of politics, and even where he to slip aboard Malcador’s ship, that sinister cripple would have been smote. None could kill him, perhaps not even in a fatal tie. Were that the case Je'She would have discovered evidence enough to openly accuse a culprit, and this disguised investigation wouldn’t be happening. It was perplexing, and horrifying.

The observance was ended by a polite "Ahem" from Marduk, and the Warmasters raised their heads. "Now," Marduk began, "we have assembled in this place to discuss the winding path the Crusade that our father began has taken. Tragedy before tragedy has distracted us, turned our legions from comrades to rivals, and halted the course of salvation for humanity from Terra to the eastern most reaches of the Galaxy. Our father created us to be the leaders of the vanguard, to unite the stars under the Imperial Aquila. Malcador had called us here because that most sacred purpose has been lost. Je'She of the Watch, while your loyalty to the cause of the Emperor has been great, your legions clash with those of Jon-Frederíc Aristide in ways unbecoming of Astartes. The Great Joust and Great Hunts of our martial tradition are places enough to shed blood and war amongst brethren, for it is this conflict that encourages the strengthening of our men. Petty brawls and aimless skirmishes serve no purpose other than strife. Lord Aristide, your forces likewise are not innocent in this matter. The frontier nature of my legions preserves my nature as the neutral party, but I am not so naive to believe that where my armies closer at hand, there would be no such combat." He paused, eyeing Je'She with an unreadable expression, "After the censures, of course. Brothers, we have slipped farther and farther from each other each year since Ullanor and the death of our father-"

Je'She cut in, sternly, "He is not dead." Marduk winced, likely regretting the choice of words, "Of course. I misspoke. The passing of Malcador has turned my thoughts to the grim eventuality of death. Though our father recovers steadily, his wounding and absence makes it difficult to separate him from the fallen at this moment. But now is not the time for grief, not yet. Gone though the Sigillite may be, his mission remains. We must exit this chamber in concordance, or not at all. So now, I shall state, plainly, the complaints, and cede the floor to the honourable Warmasters. Je'She, you are accused of criticizing Warmaster Aristide to the point of defamation, which sows discord in the ranks, and of loose control over your legions resulting in unheeded bloodshed amongst the Emperor's legions. Jon-Frederíc you are accused of perverting the purpose of the Legiones Astartes by removing mortal governance and emplacing Astartes in their place, which disobeys the Emperor's intent, of loose control of your legions likewise resulting in battle but also the gestation of a political movement that borders on separatist, of courting worlds to your banner and not that of the Imperium, and of open dissent to the decrees of the late Regent of Terra. As the more grievously accused party, you shall be the first to speak, Warmaster Aristide. During this mediation I ask only civility. Please, brother, proceed, state your case to us."

Frederíc chose his next words very carefully; "Brothers, I am glad we meet here under common cause. Marduk, you speak true that the Crusade and its myriad misfortunes have created rifts between kin and comrades that may never be healed. I have spoken rashly, furiously, and hastily on many things. Kane, a brother who has been near to my heart as a brother in battle and in family, now decries my alleged crimes more than any other because of my misguided passion. To the Dragoons, to my legions, I present myself as the consummate general, but Je'She, you are one of the few who know me with familiarity. And you would know, I, like many of our brothers are kept from the Emperor's vision of perfection by that base humanity that tainted us all. Some of our brothers, such as Dyestes, Hadad, or Einchurt, view this as a weakness, a primitivism that constrains our potential as warriors and leaders. Some like Bishop, Pacha, or Ashur view this as our strength, lest we overlook the man for mankind. I view this, as many mortal men do, as simply the state of affairs. The love I share for my brothers, for our father, is no greater a boon than rage, or arrogance, or pride is a flaw. We are human, in part, and that is simply something that must be accounted for. My humanity has seen me berate my brothers at their weakest, defy my betters at their wisest, and act in extremes to protect that noble construct that we have made in the fires of war. And it is my core humanity that sees that I regret these actions in retrospect."

"But brothers, surely you must recognize the motivating force behind all my actions. I did not live a full and storied life upon my homeworld, I did not see generations rise and fall and prosper or wither in the wake of my actions. I saw injustice and rectified it, I took the planet for the Emperor before I had even known that was my ordained purpose. When he arrived, the truth of my being was revealed to me and I became a soldier in his name in short order. For nearly the entirety of my vast life, service to the Emperor is all I have known. To lead his armies, to inspire his troops, to wield his banner. Never have I acted in my own interest, for I have no interests save the growth and health of the Imperium. When dissident lords thought they could disregard the Lex Imperialis, written by the very hand of our brother Kane, what recourse is there but swift removal and replacement with competent and loyal leadership? Would you see me simply allow such transgressions to go unchallenged? No, surely not. What then is the proper response? Discard leaders until we discover one loyal to the Throne? Simply reduce the planet to astral rubble, thus denying my forces, already stretched thin, of a logistical asset? My actions, while controversial, have resulted in success in my theater. The East is a harsh place brothers, with human empires unaccustomed to near peers and challengers, xenos forces that have long forgotten humanity after age old conquest, and the merciless traversal of warp and void. I cannot, will not, allow greed and the capriciousness of unruly subjects to undermine my campaign. So much relies on our combined success, on a scale that only the mind of a Primarch can appreciate. It is not just the fate of worlds that hangs in the balance, but that of an entire species. The Emperor did not intend for us to be masters of men, no. But neither did he intend to fall on Ullanor. In his absence we must be the caretakers of humanity."

Before he finished, he paused, gauging the attitudes of his brothers. Je'She seemed vaguely discontented, likely disagreeing with a great deal he had said but offering him the courtesy to finish his thoughts. Marduk meanwhile was placid, observing the proceeding passively. "Brothers, I act only in good of the Imperium, the crusade. You may criticize me for the lengths I take, but you cannot construe them as anything but what I deemed to be the necessary course." He folded his arms, nodding to Marduk, and gesturing to Je'She, indicating that he had concluded. Marduk clapped a hand to his chest, a motion of appreciation, "Thank you, Aristide. Je'She?" Je'She scratched his chin, contemplating his introductory statement, “I do know you well, Frederíc, better than most perhaps. And if we are to be true here, then I must confess it was never in doubt that your installation of Astartes rulers was committed for the Imperium’s benefit. However, it is the actions of your soldiers that has brought me here against you, and you as their commander are accountable for their actions. You speak of your faults, a rare occasion indeed, and were we not close kin I could besmirch your self reflection as excuses. But I will not do this. Instead, I target your failings of command, not character.” As he spoke, he began to pace about his end of the table, his free hand pressed behind his back, “Your actions, well intended or not, have stoked the fires of a dangerous and seditious thought, that it is Astartes that must rule over men, against the creed of the Emperor. To compound this, you have taken a legion, not under your command, into your protection. What reasonable excuse is there for this? You should have remanded the Astral Wardens to Warmaster Marduk so they may be dealt with appropriately. Instead you appropriated the entire legion. Frederíc, you must admit that this, coupled with the rousing calls of the legions on the Eastern Front create ill omens. You conquer for the good of humanity, and for the Imperium, but my greatest fear is that you no longer recognize the underlying concept of the Imperium. That Astartes are to serve the good of mankind, to head the dictates of Terra, and without the voice of the Emperor, the words of mortal men take its place. You have gone against this social contract imposed upon us all, and now your legions strain against the natural order of the Imperium. And you have done nothing.” Je’She ceased his pacing, and faced his brother, “Someone must answer for this, Frederíc. Were Malcador here, I believe he would hold you accountable, but instead you have your brothers to judge you. So if not you, who then?”

Frederíc blinked in incredulity, “I will not be held on trial for keeping my campaign a cohesive front. Je’She, surely you cannot be asking for further censures? Nearly all of our psychic brothers were driven off after Nikaea, to the point where Kropor and the Chosen still are in self imposed exile, and the Astral Wardens outright desired to leave us behind and live out their days in peace!” Je’She scoffed, “The Chosen of Hecate disobeyed a direct edict from the Emperor, you speak of cohesion and striking down dissent in equal terms, save for when it concerns the Astartes. If a Dragoon disobeyed orders would you simply slap his wrist and have him continue about his day? No! Do not try and divorce the issues when they are one in the same. If there is any amongst us here that should appreciate good order and discipline it is you, no?” Frederíc threw his hands up, “At what cost? We cannot decimate our own forces with every complaint and infraction! Your Silver Blades and Titan Marchers have nearly cost us an entire legion, Primarch and all. I will not drive my legions into the dirt for a lesser an indiscretion than disregarding the Edict of Nikaea!” Je’She scrunched his face incredulously, “‘Lesser an indiscretion’? Brother, ‘Astartes Supremacy’ flies in the face of the Emperor’s intent!” Aristide contained a sigh at this comment, “That intent held import when the Emperor was whole and amongst us, yes, of course, all matters of leadership amongst his fiefdoms were his to decide, as he is the Emperor, but without him that duty falls to Malcador. Now without Malcador there is little preventing greedy planetary governors from breaking away and simply returning to their state of affairs before conquest, at great cost to their people.” Je’She sat his free hand down upon the table, staring at Aristide with deadly intent, “So you anticipated Malcador’s passing?”

There it was. The accusation, heavy handed and laid bare. Frederíc was now on the defensive. “Je’She no one in the galaxy could have anticipated this, no one. To imply I had some foresight in this is insane. Unity, cohesion, peace, order, these are the values I ascribe to. We had lost the Emperor, halving the integrity of the Imperium, with Regent gone as well the Primarchs and the Astartes are the only things keeping the construct erect in the eyes of our adversaries. Even now, should news of Malcador circulate we will leave New Hope with hundreds of insurrections and secessions, and our Crusade is undone. Does this sound like a turn of events I would find favourable? That anyone would find favourable? And then you ask me to censure my own forces, despite seeing the outcome that would cause. Je’She, put aside rumour and speculation, there is no base in this and no sense in attempting to reprimand my legions with undue force.” Je’She shook his head, “But you have no plan to curb these supremacists?” “Of course I do,” Aristide countered, “Once the campaign is at a point of stability I will address the legions on this matter, institute a system of governance less reliant on direct Astartes control, and instruct my brothers to discipline these supremacists on an individual basis. Allowing them to confront the issues of their legions on their own terms will help to prevent undue strain that a true censure would create. Slowly the dissidents would be ruled out and the movement would die out, and I am spared from legions running off in a show of melodrama. This isn’t a difficult situation to rectify.” “Then why is not rectified!” Je’She protested. “Because I can’t allow the front to collapse. This must be treated the right way, brother. I will not amputate a limb when I can slowly excise the rot.” Marduk finally decided to speak up, “I understand the precarious nature of your predicament, and many of my legions now prefer the company of the crusade to that of their brothers and cousins, but you speak of curtailing the actions of Marines, not of Primarchs. What then would you do should your brothers not fall in line?”

It was a good question, but one Aristide had not put much stock in, “Hadad is the only one who has openly supported this motion, the others have not voiced assent-” Je’She cut in, “Neither have they dissented. Silence equates to support.” “-I disagree, Je’She, they know as well as I do that dividing the legions at this juncture would be unwise. Besides, Tyrus has been vocal about his dissent of the movement, firmly within your line of thought, I should add. His legion is not amongst the rabble, and I would use his influence to stamp out the outspoken. Best to simply allow the fires to die out, or turn focus to the issue when the East is less daunting an obstacle. To answer your question then, when the time to address the issue comes, I will confront Hadad. Likely he will buck at my orders, but I would rather cut logistical ties and strategic support than fully censure him. The Forge Lords would not be censured so easily, and the growing strain on their campaign would disprove notions of Astartes supremacy handily. They would be bitter and vengeful no matter my course, but at the very least the returned support pending a recant would alleviate their spite. Afterwords, I simply direct my brothers to control the individuals responsible. Dyestes, Adras, Karamanov, they shall do as I command, and Tyrus would be a vocal advocate for my reinstating of order, with Mansa spreading conformist thought through passive and subtle means. Brothers, I have all of this accounted for! I recognize this may be perceived as a major point of contention, but allow me to proceed as I had planned, and soon it will be little more than memory.”

Je’She furrowed his brow, “You offer us excuses, promises, and then insist that we do nothing and simply hope that you are able to unknit this tangled web you have allowed to blossom. What assurances do we have? You have allowed things to progress to this point, a mistake even you admit, how can we be so sure that further mistakes will not occur?” Marduk gave a weak smile, “I am afraid I must concur, Jon Aristide, what peace of mind can you provide?” Aristide was growing tired of taking the defensive position, and his opinions on his brothers could be constrained no longer. “Assurances? Peace of mind? Have I so drastically fallen in your regard? Does my word mean nothing now? Very well, you wish to have me answer for the past? This I will gladly do, but I will have you answer for the present. From both of you. You truly think Malcador called for this council so that you may issue accusations at me? Pah, decades of crusade has not beaten the naivety from you two it should seem.” “Naivety?!” Je’She spat, “I am not the Warmaster that has allowed a rebellion to fester in his ranks!” The Stallion allowed himself a spiteful laugh, “Oh ho! That is rich indeed!” He snarled, “How can you believe that I am the only one amongst us to allow dissent to prosper when Kincaid galivants unchecked in Sol spreading the disease of faith and divides Mars as we speak!” Je’She gasped, taken aback, “So you answer your misdeeds by defaming your brother? What has taken ahold of you, Frederíc!” “Taken ahold of me? Je’She, he has not been Kinnévail Kincaid for quite some time now, as his Warmaster you should be aware of this more than anyone.” Marduk spoke next, agreeable in tone, “His...attitudes are well known, Warmaster Je’She, it is true.” Je’She waved a dismissive hand, “This is nonsense, Kincaid has been an instrumental part of the crusade, he has pacified worlds without a single drop of blood, I will not allow you to defame him as a distraction!” Aristide shook his head in disbelief, as if he had been struck, “Do you jest? You cannot be serious. A distraction? What does brother Engur have to distract you from, then? Kincaid is a fanatic, Je’She! He has not been the same since the Conflagration! Since Nikaea we all knew that something has possessed that ruined body of his, it was written in his every madness laced word, his every warped scar! He wore the words of the Emperor upon his wraps like scripture! He proclaimed his closest brothers dangers to humanity! Eyanosa, Kropor, Bishop, Pacha, every librarian in our legions, he was but a single impassioned phrase from calling for their deaths! Kind, earnest, dutiful brothers, those were the ones he villainized! Je’She, I beg of you see what he has become!” The Warmaster’s plea seemed to fall on deaf ears, as Je’She simply curled his lip in irritation, “Very well, let us assume this conjecture is true, our brother has broken the Truth as you have broken the law-” “I have broken no law!” “THEN EXPLAIN YOUR TROOPS ABOARD MALCADOR’S SHIP!”

The air froze in the chamber, time slowed to a stop, and Frederíc’s Focus surged within him. Nothing could have prepared him for this. An insane, illogical, impossible proclamation. One that made him the greatest traitor in the Imperium’s history, in the history of all mankind. Je’She did not suspect Frederíc in Malcador’s murder. He outright believed he had committed it by proxy. “There were survivors, Aristide!” Je’she shouted in a muffled crawl, his words slowed by the Stallion’s mental ability, but he saw his expression, which exposed his true state. The dilation of the eyes, the small glistening pinpricks of beading sweat, the pulsation of the throat indicating accelerated breathing. Je’She wasn’t just furious, he was scared, confused. Frederíc once again thought that his brother wasn’t sharing all he knew. He turned his head to observe Marduk, to offer up a plaintive expression, to ask that he reel in his brother, to decry this baseless accusation. Then he saw it. The little crack in Engur’s oh-so-perfect mask, that disguise of civility, of good faith, of understanding. Marduk was turning to face Frederíc, but while his eyes were locked on Je’She, Frederíc saw the truth underneath the lie. A spark of joy in wild eyes, the slightest hint of a grin at the corners of his mouth. Marduk never intended to play moderator, he intended to be the last man standing. He was to be Warmaster after his brother’s ripped each other to pieces. Maybe this was the plan from the beginning, to have Malcador dissolve the Triumvirate, to be the final and sole Warmaster. As he finally made the turn to Aristide the mask was restored, no sign of the fervour a moment before, just a mix of shock, anger, and betrayal. Aristide’s Focus faded, and only seconds had passed in what felt like several minutes. A flame began in Frederíc’s stomach, bright and hot. They would not finish him here, not whilst he still drew breath. But better sense interrupted fury; his sons did not commit this crime. The bulk of his forces were still in the East, actively fighting. Those with him would not have been able to slip away and back, and none of them would have been able to do the deed. He was being framed. But by whom?

“Retract that claim.” Frederíc warned in a low growl, “Immediately.” Je’She spat, fully ensorceled in his rage, “NEVER! NOT WHILST I HAVE EVIDENCE AGAINST YOU AND YOUR MEN!” Marduk slithered into the argument, sorrowed surprise colouring his false words, “Brothers! Calm yourselves! Je’She, you say you have evidence, clearly damning as your presentation illustrates, but why have you kept this to yourself? Should I not have been notified this morning so we could have apprehended our brother-” he stopped himself, displaying a sympathetic look to Frederíc, “assuming all of this is true of course! I would not besmirch your reputation so brazenly, and so direly.” Frederíc shot him a flat stare, “You two have been doing so since we began.” Marduk pursed his lips pensively in response. Je’She was making a visible attempt to restrain himself, but spoke in livid, breathless tones, “There were survivors. Four score that managed to escape the critical systems failures of the ship. The plasma reactors had been overloaded, the lance batteries set to misfire inside their bay, the engines cut temporarily. A boarding party infiltrated the ship somehow-" ''When?" Interjected Aristide. "When what?" Aristide adopted a borderline patronizing tone, "When did the boarding party breach into the ship? An Astartes welcoming committee is not a quiet affair. So, one has to assume they were either onboard the entire time, or were let in before or after the warp jump." Je'She sneered at his brother, "They did not breach, they infiltrated, as I had said." Je'She's uncharacteristic temper was flaring again, but his disposal of subtlety was allowing Frederíc to gain insight into the crime.

Unfortunately, it did sound like a Dragoon Saboteur operation. The tactics were the same, exactly as he would have ordered. Fortunately, and confusingly, all his Saboteur elements were running reconnaissance and forward observance alongside the Pale Hounds and Knights Stellaris. He didn't have the men to spare. The Pale Hounds didn’t have any loose elements, that Aristide knew of, and the Corsairs-he stopped his line of thought. He had no part of this, his legions had no part of this, and he would not be framed in this trial. “Very well, you have evidence that my men had sabotaged Malcador’s ship, despite the fact that all my Saboteur units are actively engaged in the East. You have survivors that claim to have seen them, and survived against all odds! So come then, brother, bring forth these witnesses in the trial of Jon-Frederíc Aristide! Come, let them decry my untainted legion, the Warmaster’s legion!”

Je’She slammed a fist down on the stone table, the soft pop of ancient rock cracking faintly heard beneath his shouting, “So you can intimidate them into silence! So you can dishonour their survival with counter accusations and lies? So you can dodge the consequences of your fell deeds!?” Frederíc stepped around the table so it’s length no longer blocked his view of his brother, “Suspicious I find it that you have withheld this great crime from us until now! Even more so that you deny reason in the face of it! WHAT DO I HAVE TO GAIN, JE’SHE, WHY WOULD I KILL THE MAN WHO WAS AS AN UNCLE TO ME! WHY DO YOU CONTINUE TO NEEDLE ME WITH THIS FOUL ACCUSATION?!” Je’She stepped up to his brother, now they were mere feet from each other, “BECAUSE WHO ELSE THEN, SHIFT BLAME TO SOMEONE ELSE, I DARE YOU!” Frederíc snarled openly, “THAT I WILL; WHO HAS THE MOST TO GAIN SAVE KINCAID?!” Je’She slammed the butt of his polearm on the ground, "I WILL CUT OUT YOUR TONGUE IF YOU SPEAK OF KINCAID AGAIN!" "EAT FILTH, I WILL SPEAK OF KINCAID! PRAETORIAN, NOW REGENT, YOUR HEATHEN CUR IS UNSTOPPABLE NOW WITH MALCADOR'S DEATH! THE PLAGUE OF BELIEF WILL POUR FROM TERRA LIKE A TYPHOON, SWEEPING THE IMPERIUM AWAY WITH IT, ALL THE WHILE OUR FATHER'S ROTTING CORPSE IS VENERATED LIKE A GOD! KINNÉVAIL KINCAID, THE FIRST HERETIC! KINNÉVAIL KINCAID, THE SIGILITE'S KILLER!"

Je'She made to lunge at Frederíc, and the Stallion's hand flew to his saber, but he hesitated before touching the weapon. Je'She still made his advance, and in the same fluid motion as he made to grab his blade, he whipped his hand back in a blocking motion, striking Je'She on the breastplate and shoving him backwards with the back of his armoured gauntlet. The sound of artificed ceramite on ceramite rang out in the hollow chamber, and Aristide backpedaled before Je'She regained his ground and went after him again. Je'She slowed his slide across the sandy floor using his polearm, but did not give chase for Aristide as he backed away, opting to grasp his glaive in a defensive position. "You absolute fool," Frederíc spoke as he walked back to his original position, "blind beyond belief. You can't see your brother undermining power from beneath you, you can't see the brothers that turn their backs to you because your censures, you can't see him gleefully watching us tear at each other until only he remains." He pointed at Marduk, a tight, fury filled gesture. Marduk allowed faux disbelief wrinkle his delicate features, "How dare you accuse me of this. Malcador brought me here to-" Aristide waved a dismissive hand, "Oh be silent, Engur. Malcador brought you here as a courtesy, to make you feel included. This is a quarrel between Je'She and I, but to exclude you would be to insult you, and perish the thought that the youngest brother's fragile feelings be damaged. You want to know something? No one cares. Not a one. No one cares that you gained the title of Warmaster. No one cares that you tried, oh so hard, to gain father's favour. Your tireless efforts to prove yourself only make you seem like an attention deprived child, and your petulant joy at seeing your betters brawl only confirms the impression."

Engur began to turn red at the insult, and he moved to speak but Frederíc cut him off once again, "Keep that forked tongue behind your fanged teeth. I believed your insignificance made you a poor mediator, but sensible given lack of other options. Now I see you only arrived for the sport." Once again Marduk attempted to speak, and once again Aristide cut him off, "Try and insert some insidious lie here again, and I will strike you in the mouth." Je'She was the next to interrupt, "So, the noose closes in and you accuse Kincaid of a dire crime, strike me, insult your fellow Warmaster, and then threaten to assault him as well. Does this strike you as the actions of an innocent man?" Frederíc laughed wryly, "I'm not sure, I've not accused many men of crimes they have not committed, nor have been the subject of another's crimes. Forgive me brother, for this is a new experience. The riddle as to why you had not announced this sooner is still unanswered, so tell me brother, why not?" Je'She met him with silence, "I assure you, Je'She, had I been behind this attack there would be no survivors, but survivors there were and they told the tale, so TELL ME!" Engur chimed in, the venom in his voice revealed, but his tone was cloying and patronizing, "Yes brother, tell us. You have spent a great deal of time attempting to build a case built on a single damning piece of evidence so why delay?"

Je'She's mouth opened fruitlessly, but his scrambling for an answer was interrupted by the crackling of a vox transmission, from both Marduk's internal comms of his armour, and that of Frederíc's. They looked at eachother, and Frederíc snatched up his helmet to take the transmission in peace, while Marduk stepped out into the entryway he came in. "This is Warmaster Aristide. What." He shot over the vox, disregarding vox protocols. Crackling and popping static answered him, interspersed with frantic voices, “This is Warmaster Aristide, you are coming in broken, transmission unclear, over.” The vox smoothed over for a moment, “-Vox failures-making -Knights Stellaris-attacked the Forge Lords at- Repeat! The -Stellaris have attacked the Forge-pash! Repeat, the Knights Stellaris have attac-" The line was drowned in a sea of static, and Frederíc froze. Solomon was outspoken against Mot's ideology, but this was a step beyond. Something forced his hand...or someone changed his mind. He removed his helmet with trembling hands, and turned around, slowly.

He saw Marduk creep back into the room, a mixture of fury and horror on display on his face. "I had Smoke Stalkers infiltrate your territory this morning, to investigate the crash on their own terms. They found the camp you held the survivors in." Je'She visibly paled. "What have you done…" Frederíc said in a hoarse whisper, slowly encroaching on Je'She's section of the chamber. Je'She shook his head, mouth still agape. “What. Have. You. Done.” Je’She finally found his voice, all the fury and fervour replaced by quiet panic, “They were not my troops...they were not mine I swear it.” Frederíc seethed through clenched teeth, “No, they were mine, and you turned them against me.” Je’She looked perplexed, “What? You admit it? After all this time?” It struck Frederíc that they were not speaking on the same subject, but Marduk allowed for some clarity, “Oh please, play coy neither of you. My Smoke Stalkers revealed the truth to me. Emperor’s Dragoons were spotted aboard Malcador’s ship, yes...alongside Sentinels.” Frederíc whipped around to Marduk, “WHAT?!” Marduk gave him a self satisfied sneer, “And so the plot is revealed. I must say Frederíc, I did not figure that you would be keen to share the title of Warmaster, but it does follow that you would rather share it with your dearest brother than me. I am hurt.” He punctuated the claim with an overwrought pout, pushing his lower lip out in insincere injury. The bearing shifted seamlessly into a vengeful smirk, “But, I suppose you were right. Seeing the self assured, the arrogant, brothers that called themselves ‘Warmaster’ perform so admirably! Why, you had even fooled me that neither of you had a part to play in Malcador’s death, then the shocking revelation! The Stallion and the Sentinel, Jon-Frederíc and Je’She, the Emperor’s finest, brought low by hunger for power. Tsk, tsk, a sad state of affairs. Breaking this monstrous conspiracy to the galaxy will be difficult, no doubt, but neither of you are escape this chamber without seeing justice.”

Frederíc largely ignored Marduk, facing Je’She instead, still rocked by the reveal. Je’She’s expression confirmed Marduk’s claim, “Your troops were aboard the Barchamos. And now the Knights Stellaris are engaged with the Forge Lords. Solomon Tyrus, a great proponent of yours, has turned against me. Brother, I need an explanation, please. Please tell me you genuinely suspected me, tell me-” He cut himself off. The wheels of logic spun in his mind. Dragoons were sighted on board, yet Frederíc knew that wasn’t possible. The Sentinels were sighted aboard, but Je’She wouldn’t leave survivors to question if he had done the deed. Je’She would not have done the deed at all. It just didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. He turned slowly to Marduk. And Marduk met his gaze, his triumphant grin still barred, and Frederíc finally saw the answers he sought. Madness filled his eyes, or rather there was a terrifying lack of personhood. His eyes lost their glimmer, the twinkling satisfaction, just dark pits of emotionless consideration, as if Marduk had left his body and something else was inhabiting it. Like Marduk was elsewhere, watching from somewhere beyond. There was never a plan, there didn’t need to be a plan. Frederíc slowly drew Encallíon, Sabre Resolute, “YOU.” Marduk cocked his head, “You would draw blades against me, Aristide? Very well, I will call for the Smoke Stalkers to rescue the imprisoned survivors and we shall see who Terra believes.” Je’She shouted out, his panic evolved into a self preserving anger, “ENOUGH! I HAVE HAD ENOUGH! I am arresting you both and remanding you to Terra! This matter shall be resolved before the eyes of the Council of Terra!” Frederíc swung around, “WHY?! So Kincaid can slip daggers in our backs?! NO. The perpetrator is here amongst us, and we can finish this here and now!” Marduk put his hands on his hips, “Je’She, you murder me here and now, and there is nothing stopping Aristide from likewise putting you in the grave. Arrest him, and we can see peace.” “Je’She, do not fall for his words,” Frederíc implored, “I was wrong, Kincaid would not implicate you and I in the same crime, I would not murder Malcador, and neither would you! See reason, please!” Je’She brandished his glaive, “This is complete madness, surrender yourselves into my custody and I will see fair treatment for both of you, but this treachery has crossed beyond reason.” Marduk chuckled, “But it is I with evidence to charge you both, so it is you who are under my custody.” Frederíc donned his helmet, the atmospheric seal cycling with a subtle hiss, “I am under no one’s custody.”

He adopted a dueler's stance, "I will come with neither of you, I will not be subject to any presumptuous trial. I will not be quietly snuffed out in a prison cell. You want me? You are welcome to me." Marduk licked his plump lips in anticipation, "Very well." He strode over, slowly, to Aristide, like a shark circling its prey. He came at him with steady purpose, the insane, dead eyed look in his eyes growing stronger. Marduk was gone, all the emotion was drained from him, replaced by raw, calculating animal destructivity. From the corner of his eye Frederíc saw Je’She catch his helmet with the tip of Dancing Devil, and flipped it up into the air, catching in and affixing it as Frederíc had done. His brother then likewise rushed to meet the ensuing conflict, "Frederíc, Marduk, cease this at once, and come peacefully!" "The time for peace has passed," Frederíc intoned somberly as he put his sabre between himself and Marduk, "the time for vengeance is now. Either help me kill this traitor or get out of my way." "I will not let you harm him." Je'She warned. "Then you will be harmed." Frederíc activated the power field of his sabre, and Je'She did the same.

Aristide made to thrust at Marduk, but Je’She cast his glaive downward, driving his brother’s strike to the ground. Frederíc spun backward, releasing his sword from beneath the polearm, but as he presented himself again, Je’She lept forward and shoulder charged his brother, ramming his helmet into Frederíc’s with a resounding headbutt. Frederíc was driven back, dazed by the blow, and when he came to he saw Je’She’s blade pointed as his chest, “Enough.” Je’she warned. Frederíc parried away the polearm, “No.” he snarled. Dancing Devil was once more leveled at him, and Je’She made a low sweep to knock Frederíc off his feet, but Aristide hopped up, catching the glaive under his boot, then issued a downward slash to Marduk, who appeared to be waiting for an opening. Marduk caught the blade in between his hands, the force of the clap pushing past the tremendous powerfield of Frederíc’s sabre, the action causing a gust of wind to blast from the contact. Frederic attempted to thrust through the grapple, but Marduk closed his hands around the blade, yanking it past his exposed head and delivering a knee to Aristide’s side. The blow rocked Frederíc; Marduk was far more physically intimidating than he had assumed. That did not bode well. Marduk closed back in, relinquishing one hand and grabbing Aristide by the crest of his helm, and driving his head into the corner of the stone table, using a sweeping leg to drive him off balance.

Frederíc’s helmed head passed clear through the time-worn stone, the whole corner section collapsing with the trauma. As he fell, Marduk collapsed atop him, using his knee to keep Aristide’s sword arm pinned. He thrust his other knee to pin his other arm, and whilst straddling Frederíc, Marduk latched onto his helmet, using his helmet’s crest to try and snap his neck. Aristide bucked, trying to get his brother off him, delivering a kick to the center of Engur’s back, which fazed him little. Je’She brought the butt of his staff across, attempting to strike Marduk in the head. Engur likewise caught that blow, but the shift in focus allowed Frederíc to roll, toppling Marduk from attop him. Frederíc then mounted his brother, reversing the grip of his sabre to drive it into his brother’s skull. Marduk jerked his head, the sabre once more sailing past and driving into the ground. In response, Frederíc simply punched his brother in the face, once, twice, thrice in rapid succession, the soft crunch and pop of nose bones misaligning tangible through his power armour. Marduk did not so much as blink. Instead he wrapped his arms around Frederíc’s waist and drove his hips up, gaining his feet before arching back, and smashing Frederíc face first into the ground. Now unarmed, Frederíc rolled to all fours, and slid forth to grab the broken free section of stone. He brought the several foot long section of curved stone up in a sweeping motion, hitting Marduk in the thigh, sending him to a knee. Frederíc lunged to his feet and brought back down the stone slap down on his brother, shattering it on his pauldron, sending up a plume of dust and rubble. Marduk remained kneeling, catching fall with a fist. Frederíc capitalized on the moment by kicking his heel into Marduk’s head, sending him sprawling to the ground. As he did so Je’She lashed out, this time with the blade of Dancing Devil, to ward Frederíc away from the downed Marduk.

Aristide smacked the reaching polearm away, grabbing it and yanking it forward to cause Je’She to trip over the rising Marduk, sending both back down. Frederíc snatched his sabre from the ground, and closed in for the kill. Marduk shot from the ground, tossing Je’She off him, and ripped his robes off, and in that same move wrapped the shredded robe around Frederíc’s sword arm, swinging him into Je’She. Je’she dodged the move, and Frederíc pulled his arm from the snare, ripping through the robes. Frederíc issued a roaring battlecry, and punched Je’She away with the guarded hilt of his sword, slashed Marduk across the chest, marring the pristine power armour, returning to Je'She to parry away another thrust, then slashing downwards on Marduk, a blow Marduk blocked with his vambraces, embedding the sword in his armour. Frederíc drew down his blade to deny Marduk the opportunity to break his sword, then slashed across in the empty air to clear room between his brothers, leaving his back to the table.

Je'She hopped back, then spun in a wide circle, leapt upwards, and sent his glaive down in a meteoric strike. Denied the proper room to maneuver, Aristide brought his sword down then up in a wide motion, blade up to snare the blade in the guard. They met in a sonorous ring, the thunderous clash of blade on blade, power field on power field, reverberating in deafening applause throughout the chamber. But a third blade had entered the embrace of the blades at the impact. A wide, sinister cleaver, no more sword than a butcher's blade, shimmering metal with serpentine, waved patterns, a diluvian construction made explicitly for the removal of limbs and the bisection of men. The wicked weapon's power field roiled off the blade like blue fire, and it thundered and roared as it conflicted with the fields of the other weapons. The Cleaver of Marduk was locked in combat with the Dancing Devil, the resplendent partisan of Je’She of the watch, the history of the Great City of Harrdid emblazoned upon its spiralling shaft, and Encallíon, Sabre Resolute, the great sweeping sword of Jon-Frederíc Aristide, the crest of the Great Thiepval House of Aristide emblazoned upon the sweeping guard of the blade, both gryphon and unicorn rampant.

The legendary blades of the Primarchs locked for a moment, the intersection of the power fields creating a roaring gout of sparks that illuminated the chamber with a blue aura. The Primarchs applied their strength to the engagement, each attempting to bring down another’s blade to create an opening. Frederíc broke the stalemate by driving his sword upwards, sending his brothers whirling back into defensive positions. As mysteriously as he had been armed, Marduk was also equipped with his inscrutable helm, his complete battle regalia had miraculously been donned. Frederíc expected dry laughter, some cruel quip, a boast. Something. Lethal silence filled the room, broken only by the high whir of power armour and the hissing crackle of power fields. Marduk was Frederíc's left, Je'She flanking his right.

Frederíc's hand shot to his hip, lighting quick, and he drew his sidearm, Ultima Ratio. It was a long handgun, a galvanic flechette blaster of Martian design, forged by Raj Vokar’s hand. Marduk rolled out of the way as Frederíc fired an opening salvo at him, the smart darts trailing after him following after the round that embedded itself in Marduk's lower leg. Marduk raced around the circumference of the table at a Primarch's freakish pace, the flechettes embedding themselves into the ground after him. Marduk hooked a hard left, hopping atop the table, and rushed towards Aristide ready to deliver a fatal strike. Je'She lashed out with his polearm, the weapon sliding through his hands like an arrow, and the blow caught Marduk in the lower chest, buffeting him back from Frederíc. The Stallion raised his pistol once more to fire, but Je'She flung the spear back with a single hand, forcing Frederíc to riposte and step forward into the reach of the weapon. He holstered the Ratio as Je'She snatched back Dancing Devil and used the moment to hop back into a guarded stance before delivering a swirling thrust down at Frederíc's legs. Aristide leapt onto the table to dodge the strike, then spun just in time to see Marduk ushering forth a wide sweeping cleave. Aristide side stepped out, then pranced forward, the swing missing him as he landed in Marduk’s exposed flank. Frederíc issued a rapid scale of strikes, slashes and thrusts that drove his brother off balance, cracking and marring his power armour. As Marduk went to grab his blade once more during a thrust, Frederíc delivered a swift forward kick to his knee sending Marduk scrambling to regain his ground. He once more reached for his holster, but the whistle of Je’She’s spear betrayed the attack from behind him.

Frederíc whipped around, his sabre presented to catch the strike. Je’She’s thrust hovered just out of Frederíc’s reach, then he feinted, sending the spear out, down, and inwards in a clockwise spiral. The feint was too quick for Aristide to catch, and the blade sunk into his thigh’s armour, the tip of the power field searing the exposed skin from proximity. Aristide let out a pained growl, then an impact struck him from behind sending Dancing Devil deep into his leg. Je’She shouted in frustration, clearing not seeking to wound his brother so, but Marduk’s shoulder charge forced his hand. Je’She snatched out his spear, and smacked Marduk across the face of his helm as he reared up for a downward chop to Frederíc. The blow of the blade shattered a section of visor, sending the hardened glass-like material into his brother’s eye. Marduk did not cease his assault, blood trickling out of the shattered visor as he cast his blade down on Frederíc’s back. Dancing Devil caught this dreadful strike, the power fields colliding once more in spectacular fashion. The flash of light and roiling crackle gave Frederíc cover to draw his pistol once more. He slid underneath the locked blades and lunged at Marduk, snaking his sabre arm under his brother’s, wrenching it back into a hasty armbar. Sacrificing the integrity of the grapple, he pressed the muzzle of Ultima Ratio against the hollow of Marduk’s knee, and pulled the trigger. The salvo ripped through the soft armour of the joint and Frederíc set a foot against the small of Marduk’s back and kicked off of him, sending them both across the wide table. Frederíc just dodged the shrapnel of the smart-flechette detonation, fragments of ceramite embedding themselves harmlessly into his own armour.

Je’She howled in shock, and even Marduk gripped his ruined knee with a shaking hand. The attack should have shorn Marduk’s leg clean off at the joint, but the integrity of the armour held, holding the bloody mess together as a splint. Je’She slammed his polearm down, unleashing an ulating warcry and he jumped upwards, spun mid-air, then sent Dancing Devil down on Frederíc. Aristide was still sprawled on the table, and wasn’t quick enough to the roll out of the way. The blade missed Aristide’s head, instead slicing his crest down the middle. The shaft of the weapon struck him solidly on his helm, shattering the monovisor and causing his head to rattle within the helmet. Frederíc felt his nose break, the bones and cartilage smashing into his face, his lip split, and his teeth crack. A dull ache emanating from his forehead suggested that the skin there had likewise been split, if not the bone as well. The splintered visor thankfully didn’t suffocate his vision, but the emergent blurriness around his sight was much more threatening.

In a flash, Je’She spun on his heel, raising his glaive once more. In the spin he caught Marduk across the chest, splitting open the muscled facade of his armour. Marduk made to grab Je'She, but on the down stroke he was struck once more in the chest by Dancing Devil's butt. Frederíc had time to roll out from the attack, springing to his feet as the glaive hit the table, creating a fracture from one side of the table to the other in a pop of dust. Frederíc leveled his pistol again and unleashed a salvo into Marduk, which found its mark in the damaged cuirass. The swarm of flechettes burrowed into the plate, and exploded in a small burst, sending Marduk onto his back, finally eliciting a mere grunt of pain. Je’She exploded in a flurry of jabs and thrusts, forcing Frederíc to react in a storm of counters, ripostes, and blocks, and for every strike that Aristide denied three more found their destination. Frederíc was battered and buffeted back, his ringing head and pulsing thigh greatly reducing his ability to offer a rebuke. Je’She continued his assault, driving Frederíc to the edge of their platform. There was a half second’s pause, where Je’she made to spin his staff and knock Frederíc off, but the Stallion seized upon the opening firing into his brother centre mass, then headbutting him with his shattered crest. The small detonation caught them both, and Frederíc felt a slight touch of wind as a series of cracks in his abdominal armour crumbled away, revealing the black body glove underneath.

Je’She’s plate had been much less abused than Marduk’s or Frederíc’s, but even still for a sidearm the Ultima Ratio was a Primarch’s weapon, the power armour of the Sentinel blasted and blackened from the impact, deep craters from the flechettes picking his torso and pauldron trim. A blur of movement caught the dueling brothers’ eyes as Marduk regained his ground and pounced on Je’She like an animal, his cleaver imbedded into the fissure Je’She had made. He picked his brother clean off the ground, throwing him at Frederíc with a strength wholly unprecedented. The tossed primarch sailed across the table like a ragdoll, Aristide ducking under his airborne brother. The Sentinel hit the chamber wall with a shattering crack, but as he fell to the ground he vaulted back onto the table with his spear, flipping it back into his hands as he touched down. Aristide was now between both his brothers. Marduk locked a bloody eye onto the Stallion and stalked back to his cleaver, snatching it from the crack. Frederíc assumed a defensive posture, pistol aimed Marduk, sabre held out to Je’She.

His brothers began to pace about him, both seeking an opening to attack Aristide and keeping an eye on the other. Marduk made the first move, driving the flat edge of his cleaver towards Frederíc’s exposed stomach, but so hobbled as he was the Stallion was able to dismiss the blow with a downward parry, transitioning into a riposte into the bloody hole in his brother’s chest. The blade stabbed into Marduk, but even in the heat of melee Frederíc stayed his hand of a killing thrust. He had been so sure that his brother was a murderer, that if justice for Malcador was to be served it would be here, and now. But with his sword in his brother’s chest, the ease of it, the soft resistance of flesh moved away by power fields...He had never faltered in killing, especially in as dire a situation as this. If he killed his brother, there would be no return, no redemption. A single swipe of the blade, severing both hearts and slashing a lung. Blood would fill his body cavity and he would either bleed out or drown in his own vitae. How had it come to this? How could he even contemplate this murder? What was he doing?

Marduk broke his indecision, and with one hand chopped at his brother’s shoulder, cleaving through the pauldron to the flesh. Aristide roared, and reflexively drove the blade deeper into his brother’s chest, the smell of burning meat and blood mixed with the sound of a power field evaporating flesh in a sickening display. Tears began to stream from Aristide’s eyes. Even now he couldn’t deliver the coup de grace, his body felt heavy, as if made of lead. Marduk dislodged his embedded sword and brought the pommel down on Frederíc’s helm, breaking free a section of shattered visor lens.

Their exposed eyes locked for a moment, and the true horror of Marduk met Frederíc. Blood swam in his brother’s eye, turning it a dreadful crimson, obscuring much of his brother's eye save a pupil so dilated it obscured the iris totally. It gave his brother the appearance of something inhuman, something bestial. Frederíc found his resolve, finally. Marduk was not going to stop until one of them was dead. If Aristide died, the East would be lost forever, and the Imperium would die trying to retake it. If he killed Marduk there would be civil war, but that was a situation he could control. This was a situation he could control, indecision would bring ruin upon everything his father built. He was the Emperor’s Stallion, he could not let his heart betray mankind. The die was cast; Marduk had to be slain. Marduk broke the brief moment with a resounding headbutt, sending his brother back with a twist of his blade, sending a squirt of blood onto Aristide, staining his alabaster armour. Marduk grabbed the blade with his free hand, and pulled it into himself, yanking his brother closer to deliver another swift headbutt, smashing in the face of Frederíc's helm. The Stallion's head swam again, worse than before, but he had the presence of mind to draw out his sword in a slash, bisecting Marduk's sternum and doubtless slashing a lung or heart. In the haze, Frederíc saw Marduk slam down his cleaver down tip first to set it aside, then next he knew he was in the air, then back down into the table.

The Leviathan reached down and dug his thumbs into the crack in Aristide’s pauldron, using his good leg to gain leverage by stomping on Frederíc’s stomach. Aristide danced on the verge of unconsciousness, but the sharp pain of something rupturing in his stomach brought him back to just as Marduk was finally wrenched free the pauldron, bringing it down on Frederíc’s chest, shattering the ceramite of both his cuirass and the pauldron trim. Marduk raised it again, and Aristide raised his pistol to blast a hole in his brother’s chest, but Marduk jerked out of the way, his feet hovering off the table. Aristide blinked in surprise, clawing through the haze of mind to see through the illusion. His confusion was rectified when Marduk turned, and he saw Je’She had pierced Marduk’s power pack and hoisted him into the air by the blade. Je’She slammed Marduk down on his knees, and Marduk retaliated by pushing off the table and into Je’She’s glaive, the blade of Dancing Devil erupting from Marduk’s exposed chest. There was a stillness as Marduk’s body went limp, and Je’She dropped his weapon in shock. Even Aristide, who resolved himself to the very same act, got to his feet on trembling legs. “No..” Je’She whispered, “no, no, no…” Aristide approached his brother, taking in the sight of his slain brother, slumped on his knees, his blood pouring from the wound onto the cracked stone, “He forced our hand, brother...there was no other possible outcome…”. Je’She whipped around, the raw fury of his voice colouring his every word, “No. You forced his hand. Forced our hands. HIS BLOOD IS ON YOUR HANDS! THIS IS A BEAST OF YOUR CREATION!” Frederíc opened his mouth to offer some retort, but movement to his right caught the corner of his eye.

In a flash he was smashed on the side of his head again, forcing him to backstep and fire his pistol into the open air. Marduk was suddenly beside Je’She, gripping him the the throat in a crushing vise, then swept a leg under Je’She, sending the Sentinel to his knees. Aristide seized the opening and fired at Marduk, the blast hitting squarely in the face of Marduk’s helm, exposing his bloodied and bruised face. The subsequent detonation did little to stop Marduk, as he raised his cleaver in lethal swiftness and sent it into the scrambling Je’She. The blade swung through the gap between the cuirass and the right pauldron, sinking into the soft connective armour, tunneling deep through the shoulder joint. Je’She howled, and his left hand shot to the blade to prevent a total maim. His right was dreadfully still. Equally as motionless was Marduk’s face, a placid plane of predatory consideration, his right eye flooded by blood, his lip split, his face marked by dozens of embedded shrapnel shards and deep lacerations. Frederíc roared and charged at Marduk, firing at him in a sustained burst. The barrage knocked the Leviathan away from the maimed Je’She, and Aristide leapt over the Sentinel in a spinning slash, the blade running through Marduk’s increasingly wounded torso. Frederíc landed on the tip of his sabaton, then pirouetted, landing another strike. On the turn he saw Marduk coming to with his cleaver brandished, so in the completion of the flourish he lashed out at Marduk’s hands, forcing his brother to sweep away his blade in a parry, exposing his side to Frederíc. Aristide fired another salvo into his brother’s ribs, swiping at the back of the cleaver to prevent his brother from returning a strike. The detonation created a crack in the contoured obliques of the muscled facade, and Aristide pulled the trigger again to rupture the plate. He was met with an unsatisfactory, terrifying, click. His shattered helm had long since stopped offering him diagnostics, and the head trauma he suffered still allowed him to ignore that. He did not cease his assault and simply stepped into Marduk, and pistol whipped him in his face

=Fate & Legacy=

=Rules=

Jon-Frederic Aristide

2020-01-22T20:14:05Z