Editing Nobledark Imperium Primarchs (section)

== Roboute Guilliman ==

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

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

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


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


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


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


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

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

And down the centuries his usefulness would be proven.


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

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

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

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

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

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