Calael Bishop

Calael Bishop
[[]]
Title/Honours	The Lodestar, the Void Walker, the Hellbender
Discovered (world)	Providence Space Hulk
Legion	Astral Wardens
Great Crusade Command	Primarch,
Unique Weapon	psychically-projected blade Solais and tower shield
Distinguishing Traits	Humble, massively powerful psyker
Flaws	Stubborn, simple
Brotherwar role	Union
Fate	Vanishes during an Imperial ambush

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

"“The ancient Catharics believed that their God came to Terra in the humble form of a carpenter's son. I have often wondered if the Emperor had that myth in mind when he created Calael.”"

– Remembrancer Lainne, M32.10

Calael Bishop is the the Primarch of the V^th Legion, the Astral Wardens, and most powerful psyker among his brothers- perhaps of the entire human race short of the Emperor himself. However, he spent most of his young life hiding his powers and fighting as a simple mercenary, believing himself to be some strain of abhuman rather than a godlike Primarch. Raised aboard a derelict space hulk stranded in the realspace eye of a warp storm, Cal places a great emphasis on trust and brotherhood, and clings tightly to his humanity, retaining close bonds with the mortals around him- even some non-human ones. He and his legion fight hard to bring worlds into Imperial compliance as painlessly as possible, with a focus on preventing loss of civilian life.

History

Primarch Origin

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When the infant primarchs were scattered, one never found his way to a planet. The space hulk Providence had rested since time immemorial in the realspace eye of a warp disturbance, a peaceful area where the tempestuous energies of the Empyrean are at their quietest. Not so the area around it- the turbulent warp-streams have capsized many a spacecraft brave or foolish enough to dare that region. Most craft thus lost are consumed and destroyed, but a lucky few are spat out relatively unharmed into this oasis of calm, and so join with the ancient accumulation of space junk known as Providence.

Normally a Space Hulk is no fit environment to long entertain a population, but somewhere in the great mass' ancient past the vessel achieved a sort of equilibrium. Survivors of wrecks clambered inwards seeking shelter, forming communities where the life support systems held, and came to adapt to this strange new frontier, learning to combat the horrors lurking in the dark corners civilization never touched.

In an environment like this, the sudden appearance of an unclaimed infant was not as surprising as it might have been elsewhere. New arrivals waylaid, frightened parents abandoning their child in their frenzied flight... callous scenarios, but not uncommon. The tiny primarch was discovered by a passing caravan, and delivered to the nearby colony of Travel Mercies -so named for the hull of the craft in which the town resided. The boy was swiftly adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Bishop, a childless psyker couple who served as the oracles of Travel Mercies. They named their new son Calael.

The hydroponic systems of the ancient craft composing Providence were unreliable, and a thousand other disasters that might compromise the hulk's ability to sustain life could arise with little warning – thus, the art of the oracle was crucial to the survival of every community. With séance rituals, the oracle could glean faint snippets of the future, and predict system failures or dangerous arrivals, giving the community time to prepare and respond. In lean times, the oracle could summon the light of their distant home stars to coax their food supplies to growth. While this would be a dangerous gambit elsewhere in the galaxy, in the calm of the warp oasis psykers hardly need fear drawing unwanted attention – perils are so rare as to be nearly mythical. When young Calael' talent became apparent at an early age, the Bishops were overjoyed, and hurried to bring their boy up into their trade.

Calael took to prognostication like a fish to water, summoning starlight with the ease of the most experienced psykers in Providence. So too did he grow faster than any of the crops in the greenhouse, becoming a strapping young man in record time. Ma and Pa didn't ponder much on this, though- many of their neighbors were abhumans, so they reckoned Cal must just be some sort of previously unseen, very tall, very clever subspecies. Indeed, his rapid growth mostly only drew attention from the mercenaries who guarded the ward, earning joking offers for Cal to take up one of their tower shields and join them in their defense of the corridors- but the boy was happy tending the harvest with his folks, and for a time all was well.

Then the genestealers came. Always a lurking threat in providence, the hideous halfbreeds were generally kept at bay by Warders- mercenaries who saw to the defense of the colonies. Now, though, they crept out of the dark and unexplored corners of the hulk and gathered en masse for a raid of unprecedented proportions. The Warders that protected Travel Mercies were too proud at first to call for backup from their rivals in nearby colonies. When it became clear the tide of genestealers would not soon flag, it was too late to call for help. Fleeing for their lives, the Warders abandoned their duty, and Travel Mercies to its fate. The oracle's arts were never arts of war. The Bishops fell swiftly before the threshing claws of the maddened hybrids, scarcely delaying the demise of their adoptive son. And yet, as young Calael faced his oncoming death, something miraculous happened- something that Calael would not reveal to a living soul for years to come. His parents rose again from where they fell, not in body but in numinous spirit to confront the hideous xenos anew. That was the last the boy saw, and when he awakened, the specters – and the genestealers- were gone.

There was nothing left for Calael in Travel Mercies – nothing but corpses and wreckage remained anyway. Scavenging what he could, he set off aimlessly into Providence ' corridors. Where he came across a ward, he would work odd jobs to make his way, but never stuck long- in part to help conceal his skill as a oracle, which tended to attract attention. Calael had no desire to be special, he just wanted to be. Traveling alone was a dangerous affair in Providence , so he quickly took up signing on with caravans, who often had mercenary guards for protection. It was thus that Calael had his first encounters with the Breachers.

As mercenaries who guarded the colonies were known as Warders, the Breachers faced outwards- their task was to explore, to clear unknown territory, to salvage goods for use and, most importantly, to breach the hulls of craft newly arrived at Providence and investigate what was inside. They too had adapted the omnipresent Warder shields, using them to press through the derelict corridors in a tight shield-wall to prevent whatever lurked within from rushing forth. Theirs was a brotherhood born of the utter certainty that if but one man were to abandon his place in the phalanx, the whole squad might well die. That uniformity of purpose spoke to the directionless Primarch, and before long his rapid growth and gangly strength earned him a spot on a down-on-their-luck Breacher crew, the Hellbenders, led by one Eulian White.

The Hellbenders had taken heavy losses on a string of bad jobs, and were desperately close to being too under-strength to continue work. Initially, Calael was glad simply to have something to occupy his mind, even work as irregular and dangerous as breaching. The men shared a close, if somewhat harrowed, camaraderie, and White was an effective and experienced leader, rumored to be one of the oldest humans in the business. And yet, as Calael grew accustomed to the patterns of the work, the powerful mind of a Primarch began to see flaws in their methodology.

At first the men rankled at this fresh-faced youth telling them how to do their jobs, suggesting changes to age-old room clearing patterns and movement formations that had kept Breachers alive for generations. He became a subject of vicious mockery, particularly by the hard-bitten Endeavor Jones, self-proclaimed “toughest bastard in the bulkheads” – but White decided to humor the newcomer, perhaps recognizing the value of his ideas. The grumbling quickly turned to awe as the Hellbenders' losses fell to almost nothing, encounters with even the deadliest genestealer strains and fiercest Ork holdouts going nearly without a hitch- and all the while, Calael was improving their methods, redesigning the team's shields and devising new types of shot for their trench guns. The Hellbenders rebounded from the brink of dissolution and quickly began to make theirs the most famous name in the region. Calael, for his part, was happy to accredit their success to good fortune, preferring to avoid any personal fame lest someone discover his oracle origins. For the time, he just wanted to be one of the team, and though White would have liked to brag about his new prodigy to his rivals he respected young Cal's wishes.

With new fame came new work, and the Hellbenders found themselves venturing farther afield than they ever had, passing through the superstructures of dozens of fused craft in their travels. Thus it was that they came to the ward of Ebon Cross, hired for a job in a land none of them had ever visited.

As a frontier hull, on the outer regions of the hulk, Ebon Cross was at greater risk of decompression incidents, and evidently had suffered just such an event some time ago when an undetected derelict impacted the hulk. The settlement's fighting men had perished before the breach could be sealed, as well as all their Starcallers. Lacking the resources to explore the new hull themselves, the colony council determined to hire a Breacher team- and what better team to hire than the renowned Hellbenders? Cal's shieldmates laughed and clapped each other on the back, reveling in the praise, but Cal was troubled. As normal as they seemed, his oraclular skills told him something was decidedly off about these folk, an itch at the back of his head that he had first felt when the genestealers ravaged Travel Mercies in his youth. His concern was great, but to reveal the source of his worry would be to reveal his abilities, to be set apart from his crew. Taking Captain White aside, he attempted to justify his suspicions with mundane reasoning- how odd it was that the colony had lost all their oracles, and somehow seemed to have no moonfolk, of which theyd made no mention. White understood Cal's misgivings, but figured the ripe salvage from the new hull was worth the risk. Still, he agreed to proceed with greater caution than usual.

With their nerves steeled, none of the Hellbenders were taken by surprise when the genestealers rushed them from the bowels of the foreign hull, but Cal was the only one prepared when the men and women of Ebon Cross charged them from behind. It was only thanks to his precognition that what should have been a slaughter became merely a rout, the Hellbenders closing their line to a protective circle of shields as foes both human and inhuman swarmed about them seemingly as one. By shield and shot the beleaguered men battered their way blindly through the horde, following Calael's directions until they reached a bulkhead that looked no different than any other. Here, Cal lobbed a breaching charge, miraculously revealing a defensible bridge room beyond the smoking hole.

The retreat was successful, but not unconditionally so- Eulian White was gravely wounded in the struggle. Through mouthfuls of blood, the captain called for Cal to take him deeper into the structure while the others held the breach, so he could join the martyrs in relative peace.

There, with his dying breaths, he confronted Calael about his uncanny foresight. The young primarch admitted, ashamed, that his was the Oracle's gift, and that he had hidden it so as not to be set apart from the men. Eulian laughed a red spittle-flecked laugh at this- Calael had always been set apart, from his size to his skills to his incredibly rapid learning, and the men had come to love him for it. White barked one final order for his protege- use those talents to keep the Hellbenders alive, whatever the cost. With that, the dying captain pressed into Cal's hand the enormous breachgun that had been White's signature, a masterful and ancient thing with a handle of mahogany cut on some forgotten world.

The Hellbenders would escape the trap laid by the “men” of Ebon Cross, and though sobered by their leader's death they were also proud, knowing well how few breacher teams could have survived being caught flat-footed by such a dire foe. Much of the success they attributed to Calael's miraculous intuition, and even the prickly Endeavor Jones nominated the young Primarch to take White's place. Calael's own estimation of his performance, however, was considerably less positive. He was forced to confront the fact that he had for a second time lost a father figure- one who might well yet live if not for Cal's selfish want for fellowship.

Fortunately the breach team's string of successes had given them a buffer that allowed them a time to rest and mourn. Calael was unsure he was worthy or able to fill his mentor's shoes, and decided he needed some time to think. Saying goodbye to his squad, he took a walk to ease his troubled mind, setting off to wander as he once had after the sack of Travel Mercies.

Such, at least, was his intention. As his meanderings took him homeward, to Travel Mercies' onetime neighbor settlement of Silk Road Solace, he found a face he had never expected to see again. Selen of the Moonfolk had identified Bishop's psychic talent in his youth, and at the Silk Road watering hole they met once more. Bishop was delighted to see his old friend, and overjoyed that he was not his hometown's sole survivor. He spent many hours celebrating and catching up with the insectile alien, but when the subject came to Selen's tale of survival against the genestealer horde, a disturbing fact came to light. The Warders who condemned their colony to death had the opportunity to call for reinforcement, but because only rival companies were within reach they chose to abandon their posts rather than seek dubious aid. Selen had only survived to learn this truth because those Warders had returned to pick over the wreckage, and by chance found the Moonfolk buried beneath the rubble.

Calael parted ways with Selen later that day, this dark revelation driving him deeper into Providence's massive derelict composite, ever closer to the structure at the heart of the Hulk- the Blackstone Spire.

As best as any cartographer could reckon, the Spire was dead center within Providence, extending high above and far below the main mass as an enormous obelisk of an ancient and unknown make that no species known could lay claim to. No theories had ever satisfactorily explained why these protrusions had never been impacted by flying debris, or why any new craft always accreted around the middle of the hulk. So too was it unknown why the spire remained uninhabited despite clearly predating even the most venerable spacecraft surrounding it, despite its apparent immunity to impact and the obvious advantages of such a vantage point for salvagers. While occasionally Oracles would feel themselves drawn to the Spire for meditation, sometimes even gaining revelations of new spellcraft or visions of the distant future, none ventured deep, and no creature stayed long save for small reptilian beasts which skittered around the interior. Even the boldest explorers and breach teams who swore to pubs full of peers their determination to reach the top inevitably return empty-handed, stating that at some point they simply lost interest. As far as any record showed, the only claims of reaching beyond the eleventh floor were mutually conflicting accounts told by drunks competing to tell the tallest tale. Or so it had been, until Calael Bishop arrived at the threshhold of the Spire.

The ascent passed in a daze, endless flights of stairs devoured by the tireless strides of a Primarch. Calael advanced, heedless of the increasingly non-euclidian architecture. After what might have been years or merely days the boy reached the pinnacle, and even in his fugue what he saw gave him pause- for every breacher learns early not to step into the open void. The initial shock fading, he realized that the starfield that surrounded him was not the one he knew- it was an observatory of a distant place, or perhaps a distant time. At the stellarium's center floated a single figure, ethereal, barely visible. The moment he clapped eyes on the strange amphiboid apparition, Calael knew in the depths of his soul that this was the creature which had called him forth.

It took some further time before the two were able to communicate in some meaningful way. The creature, which Calael would come to know as Ry'beth, had a deeply alien mind, a shade of some ancient and mighty race whom mortals could not well hope to fathom. Fortunately, the young Bishop was no mere mortal, and slowly he began to glean insight into Ry'beth's musings.

Though the amphibious spectre spoke always in cryptic forms, Cal was slowly able to unravel the tale. The creature was a survivor of sorts, a spirit from a antediluvian time who had fled the birth of a dark god and found refuge in this place, though it could hardly sustain his form. Since then, the entity had snatched souls and the craft that bore them from the jaws of the Great Enemy whenever the opportunity arose, until over the eons the mass now known as Providence came to be. So it had been for an unknowable epoch- Ry'beth's understanding of time as a concept seemed a bit nebulous- 'til the fateful day a host of brilliant warp-presences scattered like a flight of comets through the Immaterium. It had taken all of Ry'beth's gossamer strength and the benefit of surprise to wrest but a single prize from the grip of the dark powers, to guide it here instead of whatever had been its intended destination, but the deed was done. This singular prize had grown into the man who stood before Ry'beth, a psychic titan perhaps mighty enough to master the secrets that had nearly passed from the galaxy with the amphibian's ancient race.

So it was that Ry'beth imparted his wisdom to Calael, and though a mere few months passed in the world outside the men of the Hellbenders would later confide that their young leader seemed decades aged on his return.

Rather than being reinvigorated by his sojourn, Bishop seemed more troubled than before. For the first time, he told his comrades in arms of the fate that befell Travel Mercies, and the truth of his hometown's fate as imparted to him by Selen. Just as in the Hellbenders' own disaster at Ebon Cross, the tragedy might well have been averted if the mercenary companies that kept Providence habitable were not so disinclined to work together. Cal's proposition was for the Hellbenders to lead by example, to offer aid unconditionally to those who needed it in the hopes of fomenting a brotherhood among Breachers and Warders.

Among the superstitious men of Providence, such a concept was slow to spread, but the growing fame and success of the Hellbenders under Bishop's leadership ensured that spread it did. In order to better focus his energies on the task at hand, he inducted two new employees- the first was Selen, Bishop's old friend, who would serve as the crew's quartermaster. The second was Constance Lainne, a young woman who was fascinated by the tale of the Hellbenders, and was determined to chronicle it from the closest position she could, which, on Bishop's offer to employ her as crew manager and outreach, proved to be very close indeed.

A struggling crew called Eden's Rangers were the first to give in- having fallen below operational strength and with a reputation for black luck, the Rangers were liable to be forced to disband or resort to banditry. So it was that, when the Hellbenders chanced to pass the hamlet the Rangers had found themselves stranded in, the Rangers' leader proposed a joint operation.

What proceeded was an unmitigated success, and the two breach teams parted ways on good terms. The Rangers would swear to any crew they met that Bishop had the luck of the Saints themselves, and carefully preserved the glyph-wards he had painted on their gear to keep that luck at hand.

Some months later, the Scav Boys put out a desperate distress signal, having found themselves in a trap not unlike the tragedy at Ebon Cross. The Hellbenders soon put the Genestealers to rout, and preserved the lives of most of the Scav crew. Soon after, the Corridor Hounds called for aid. Then, the Bulkhead Bastioneers requested aid in defending their ward, an unheard-of thing for a Warder crew to ask of a Breacher. Eventually, the Ogryn leader of the Strongarm Crew appeared before Calael, loudly boasting that his feats exceeded Cal's own, and challenged the young leader to a wrestling match to prove it.

After tuhis, there was no stopping the spread of Bishop's good news. In only a few years, a support network spanned the bulk of Providence that curbed the deadly xenos raids, pushed back the contents of an Ork Rok and saw the turnover rate of Warder and Breacher crews both reduced to a fraction of what it once was.

Though Bishop would never have called himself Providence's ruler, the following years would run a course very familiar to those versed in the histories of the Primarchs. The lines of communication the Hellbenders established grew into a greater organization, eventually coalescing into what would formally be called the Warder and Breacher's Union of the United Peoples of Providence. The Union set to rewiring and rerouting the vox systems of the derelicts that made up the hulk, and inducting every community Oracle they could find into their network. Soon, whenever a new craft appeared in system, a genstealer force massed or a ward's hull was threatening to decompress, scarcely any time was lost before Bishop had mounted a response- often with himself at the head. Providence's network of Oracles allowed problems to be predicted and mitigated.

There was no predicting the arrival of the Emperor of Mankind, however. Enlisting the legendary navigational skills of Rahman Keita'mansa's expeditionary fleet, the master of mankind oversaw the charting of the first relatively safe course through the intense warp storm that surrounded Providence. Though the inhabitants of the Hulk were very much taken aback by the unprecedented appearance of a fully functional warfleet, the promise of regular contact with the outside world saw the united peoples of Providence quickly accept the terms of integration into the Imperium of Man. No small factor in this choice was the revelation that Calael Bishop was, in fact, the Emperor's own long-lost son, a fact easily proved when the golden sovereign crowned Bishop with a halo of silver star-flame on their first meeting. Calael could no longer hide his power, or deny that he was much more than a simple abhuman.

Begging a year's time to work out the details of establishing trade routes and bringing Providence into the culture of the Imperium proper, the young Primarch soon left his home to join his father and brothers on the Great Crusade.

The Great Crusade

Expand The V^th Legion was in a sorry state when Bishop took over, as a geneseed flaw prevented proper hypno-indoctrination, leaving new recruits undertrained and unprepared for combat. They were plagued with poor performance, and dogged by worrying a reputation of black luck and tales of strange spirits haunting the places where they fell. The previous Legion master had simply pushed his semi-competent men into the meat grinder to shore up the lines of more successful Legions. The Primarch immediately had his Hellbenders made into half-astartes and had them instruct the Terran marines in the ways of the Warders, having each outfitted with a tower shield. Constance Lainne was appointed the Legion's official Remembrancer, a position which pleased her to no end as she would assiduously chronicle Bishop's life during the Crusade. The best records of the Vth during this time were penned by her hand.

Quelling the Casperian Rebellion marked the beginning of the Legion's psychic awakening, as they saw the first manifestations of Ghost-Martyrs among fallen Wardens. The strong bonds of fellowship between psychically-gifted members of shield crews resulted in a mind-linking that would come to be known as the Weave, allowing the souls of their dead brothers to briefly remain manifested on the battlefield after death. Following this event, the Legion began its training as psykers in earnest, with much help from the scholarly Lambach Kropor and his Chosen of Hecate. As the Astral Wardens' power grew they one by one began manifesting haloes of their own, echoing the silvery crown bestowed upon their gene-sire.

Progress within the Wardens was going well, but the Crusade itself proved troubling. Bishop had never before been an invader, and had now seen, with no small horror, what some of his brothers were capable of when roused to anger. He decided the Vth could, if nothing else, try to spare the worlds they visited the fates that others might bestow upon them with a swift and painless integration. Never much of a public speaker before, Calael honed his oratory skills to better make his case to newfound worlds, leveraging his Legion's increasingly-divine aesthetic to lend weight to his words. His "sermons" often began with a simple exultation: "Behold, for we are only the first of twenty-one hosts, each more terrible and wrathful than the last." His colorful descriptions always left out the Watchers, though, out of Calael's immense respect for Je'she's methods.

This measured approach would become a theme across the Crusade. The V^th were slow to grow, and slow to progress, often taking more time to achieve compliance than the other Legions, even if they sustained fewer casualties in the process. Their stubbornness was such that even on worlds that were deemed a lost cause, the V^th often dug in their heels, refusing to give up on the populace. This led to conflict with many of Bishop's brothers, most notably Einchurt when the Death's Heads were sent to decimate a world the V^th had been assigned to pacify. Calael bears much guilt for that world's fate, and Einchurt bears the scar Calael gave him in repayment.

During the Compliance of Laer, Calael entrusted the process of integration to his companion and Hellbender veteran Percival Jackson, the premier swordsman and duelist of their lot and a onetime inheritor to the closest thing Providence had to nobility. The staunch warrior was nonetheless tempted by the Blade of Laer, and in his corruption led a cohort of Wardens into the arms of Slaanesh. Isekho the Unseen would put the world to the sword and exterminate the traitor Wardens, an act which earned him Bishop's trust.

Brotherwar

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Following the Edict of Nikaea, Bishop felt betrayed and abandoned by many he had considered close allies. Je'she's choice to stand against Imperial use of psykers wounded him particularly deeply. He saw not a leader seeking to further the Emperor's will, but an appeaser kneeling to the whims of the maddened Kinnevail Kincaid in a vain attempt to soothe the bard's fury. Nevertheless, even if his brothers had lost his trust, he trusted that the Emperor had a plan, and would not have made such a ruling without ample cause. He fitted his sons with collars to restrict their psychic powers, returning to the conventional breaching strategies they had begun with so many years ago, and simply hoped the Edict would be lifted before greater tragedy befell them.

That hope died when the Emperor fell on Ullanor. With the "Burned Prophet" consolidating more and more power, his tyranny and influence growing daily, the prospects of any future reversal of the Edict grew dim. The psychic legions all felt increasing pressure under the Imperial yoke, but the Vth alone had recourse to escape it.

The next few years would see the Astral Wardens slowly withdraw from Imperial space, retreating to familiar holdouts and working their way towards the warp storm that surrounded Providence. Employing the help of Rahman's intelligence assets, the Imperium's records of the safe paths through the maelstrom were destroyed or confounded. So it was that the Vth Legion was the first to secede from the Imperium.

Bishop had expected the V^th would be alone in their rebellion, as realistically no other possessed a redoubt that could hope to avoid the Imperium's retribution. It might have been so, but Warmaster Jon-Frederic Aristide had gotten wind of the Wardens' movements and, anticipating Bishop's state of mind, intercepted the Lodestar hoping to dissuade him from secession. In a tense encounter on an asteroid base near the Ghoul Stars, the two met. Aristide, far more clever and eloquent than Bishop, delivered an expertly-prepared entreaty to his disillusioned brother. He had anticipated it would be difficult to sway the stubborn psyker, but he had not expected Bishop's simple response, one that would burn in Aristide's mind all the way to the meeting at New Hope:

"If you truly believe Kincaid hears the Emperor's voice, then follow him."

Aristide proceeded to New Hope without Bishop, and would go on to declare formal secession from the excesses of Kincaid's growing ecclessiarchy, founding the Union Astartes with the worlds of the Astral Wardens, Nova Dragoons, Ussaran Liberators, Corsairs Gallant, Iron Guard, Dusk Phantoms and Pale Hounds. To Bishop's great surprise, his quiet mutiny found itself in the company of fully third of his brothers and their legions.

There was little time to celebrate, however. Mot Hadad had prepared a segmentum-spanning ritual to precipitate the rise a new Chaos God and secure the power to fill the Emperor's place as the Master of Mankind.

Bishop attended the attempted Sanction of Zharr-Hadad, hoping to talk sense into his brother- while Mot was surly, the two had developed a surprising rapport over the Crusade, and Calael was certain Mot's wanton slaughter of so many worlds must have been the work of Daemonic influence rather than the will of the usually tidy beurocrat. The Lodestar's words were in vain, and Mot began his ascension to Daemon Princehood with the rise of Hashut, Lord of Avarice. Bishop and his brothers were forced to retreat, the Wardens covering their escape. The losses the V^th suffered at the Sanction were greater than they had seen in any single previous engagement.

As the Union Astartes developed, Aristide's ideology of posthuman supremacy saw Providence significantly refurbished to play host to the newly-founded Collegium Astronomica, an education center for the Union's prized psykers that took advantage of the oasis of warp-calm surrounding the Hulk to ease training and minimize perils. Bishop was awestruck by the transformation his homeland had underwent from the harsh survivalist frontier he had grown up upon, and eagerly threw his full support behind the burgeoning Union. In addition to assisting with the training of new psykers for service in the Union's government, the V^th took a special interest in their acquisition- especially by raiding the Imperium's Black Ships, spiriting away those fated to join the Golden Throne's choir. Calael largely recused himself from politicking between the states, having little confidence in his judgment after Zharr-Hadad. He focused his efforts primarily on the place of psykers within their developing society, and the prosecution of the ongoing conflict with the Imperium of Man.

Fate & Legacy

Little is known about the circumstances of Bishop's death. Records indicate his flagship, the Prodigal Sun, was lured away from Providence in order to present an opportunity for Imperial forces to engage both. Survivors of the event recall the Primarch led a desperate boarding action against the enemy vessel, which thereafter vanished into the warp- simultaneously, an unprecedented army of Ghost-Martyrs manifested in Providence, devastating the Imperial invaders. Bishop's spectral form was seen atop the Blackstone Spire as he cast the immense meteoric spell that would come to be known as the Salvation of Providence, putting the enemy fleet to rout and casting the remaining craft into the Maelstrom. After this, his specter vanished along with the other Ghost-Martyrs, with one exception- his burning psionic blade, Solais, appeared in the Wardens' reliquary. The Astral Wardens believe this is a sign from their gene-sire that the Lodestar will someday return to lead them in their time of need.

Since that time, several Legion Masters have led the V^th, most recently Erasmus Cochrane, the first man to successfully grasp Solais' phantasmal form since it was interred in the Wardens' hallowed vaults.

Writefaggotry

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CODE BLACK

Calael Bishop sat up bolt upright, his lavishly upholstered command chair creaking under the sudden shifting of his massive form.

“Does anyone else feel that?”

Startled glances from the support staff all around the situation room reminded him that, no, he was the only oracle among those gathered- none of them had the warp-knack. Slowly, he composed himself. Constance Lainne, his chief of staff, leaned in with a concerned expression. “A premonition, Cal?” The giant shook his head, as if to clear it. “I'm honestly not sure. A presence, maybe, almost like...” he trailed off. Calael had come clean about a lot of things during his tenure as director of defense, but somehow he had never found the words to explain the creature in the Spire. Still, the thought lingered. Could it be Ryb'th, sending a summons of some sort? The magnitude was similar, but there was a different tenor to the sensation, unlike anything he had ever felt from his mentor. It was at once more alien, and yet... more familiar. His musings were interrupted by a wave from the cadet on call duty. “Uh, sir? Looks like you weren't the only one after all. The switchboard's lightin' up like an engine room with an O2 leak.” Calael leaned forward, intent. “So I wasn't. Where are the calls localized from?” “Uh. They ain't localized, as such.” The boy stepped aside to give a clear view of the switchboard. Every single light shone red. Whatever was going on, every warp-sensitive the Wardens had on tap had felt it, nearly at the same time. The hairs on Calael's neck rose- this was something big. “Constance, start seeing to those calls and arrange to have Selen collate the readings, I'll want to have a look at them later.” She nodded curtly and jogged off as the murmur of activity in the room rose to the roar of an active situation. Calael called to the man on monitor duty in the next room. “Jones, you get any calls from the lookouts?” To his surprise, Jones peeked around the door, an expression of disbelief on his craggy face. “Funny you should ask, Cal, I was tryin' to figure out how to tell you. We got contact, confirmed by every lookout on the south side, even old Clancy who can't see shit.” Calael rubbed his forehead in consternation. “Angels beyond, that must be a hell of a derelict if Clancy can spot it. Get two breach teams together, then, full crisis gear. Can't be too careful-” Jones held up a hand to cut him off, uncharacteristically solemn. “See, that's the thing, Cal. It ain't a derelict.” Calael paused. “What's that supposed to mean, Jones?” “Just that, Cal. It ain't a ship. It's a fleet. And it's moving straight towards us at speed, under its own power.” The room went silent, the hush broken only by the insistent clicking of the switchboard. Calael's blood turned to ice. “Well, then.” In one violent motion he rose, flinging the chair aside and striding purposefully for the equipment room as he barked orders. “Belay that last order. This is a Code Black, people. Get EVERY breach team, on duty, off duty, on call, retired, everyone who can still hold a shield, and send them to the penultimate layer of Sector South, rendezvous at Ward 801. All our auxiliaries, find a working turret on that side and man it. Hell, find someone to put in the ones that won't shoot too, if they'll move around the intimidation factor might be worth it. Warders are to evacuate all nonessentials to the inner rings, at gunpoint if they have to. Jones, where the hell is my breach gun?” Jones quickly fell into stride next to the taller man, shooting him a fierce look. “It's on the inside of your shield same as it always is, you lanky Ogryn fuck.” His expression softened. “You serious, Cal? Code Black? Have we even drilled for that?” Calael shook his head. “Barely. I didn't even think it was possible. One functional ship, maybe. There are legends. A whole fleet...” he trailed off. “This could go very badly, Jones.” “You don't gotta tell me. My wife an' kids are in Sector South, down in Starlight Bounty.” Jones ran his fingers through his thinning hair anxiously as they approached the equipment room. “Listen, if worst comes to worst-” “If worst comes to worst we move everyone inwards to the Blackstone Spire. I've got it on very good authority that whatever's coming at us will have a hell of a time getting at anything in there.” Calael reached for his helmet. “Paint a glyph-ward it doesn't come to that.” “Sir!” The call came from behind them. They turned to see the switchboard boy nervously waiting in the doorway. “Sir, you've got a call on the vox. It's... it's from the fleet, sir.” Calael turned, gathering his suit. “Patch it through, cadet.” The boy ran to give the signal. For a moment, it was quiet save for Jones' faint cursing as he tried to put on his boot. Then the speakers overhead crackled to life, and a new voice filled the equipment room. “-name of the God-Emperor of Mankind, and his Eminence Kaita'mansa the Bold, the 36th Expeditionary Fleet greets those within the Tempest's heart. We come bearing gifts of the world beyond the storm and seek parlay with the one you name your king. I say again, in the name of the God-Emperor of Mankind-” The boy reappeared, puffing for breath. “Should we belay the assembly orders, sir?”

“Get Selen to compose a response- we welcome our visitors in the name of peace and fellowship, so on and so forth. Light up the old dock in Ward 813 and plot them a course to it, and let me know the INSTANT they deviate from that heading. Everything else stands.” Finished donning his suit, Calael raised his helmet to his head and slid his ancient warder's shield off its wall brace. “Code Black. Be ready for the impossible.”

Expand

FIRST CONTACT

Calael Bishop's men stood a respectful distance away, watching the proceedings uneasily. He had selected three of his bravest crews and fitted them with the most impressive armors he had to offer, resplendent with freshly-painted glyph-wards. So far, their guests had seen fit to only send forth a dozen of their own guard, six to either side of the landing ramp. Cal studied them, helmet under one arm.

He was getting the distinct impression that his men were still outnumbered.

Each of these alien warriors was nearly as tall as Calael himself, who on Providence had towered over all but the Ogryn crews... but these men had none of the affable clumsiness of his abhuman friends. The blue-black armor they wore looked heavy enough to crush a normal man to death, but they moved in it with casual ease. That, perhaps, was the most worrisome part of all- there was no tension evident in these blue-clad giants. Alertness, yes- but they had clearly completed their assessment of Providence's force and determined its threat was minimal. While they had only chosen to show a dozen of their men, their titanic spacecraft hinted at a great deal more waiting in the wings. Cal had been running mental calculations since he got his first look at those ships, trying to guess at their crew complement and potential armament based on their dimensions. He didn't like the numbers he was coming up with. Calael had prepared for this eventuality. If he had truly intended to fight, he'd have brought a great deal more breachers. The men with him knew they were there mostly for show, though they were stalwart fighters all – they had to be, to sign up for a suicide mission. Before leaving the situation room, Calael had established five distinct signals, each of which would alert the dockmaster to vent the entire bay into space. He estimated that such a maneuver represented Providence's best chance at taking the interlopers unawares and leveling the playing field. The more he saw of his guests, the more he hoped it didn't come to that. With the titan soldiers settled into their places, a new procession began down the ramp- men unfurling a huge, luxurious crimson carpet. Behind them came incense-bearers and men with strange instruments, drumming a regal tune that somehow managed to sound grand even in the echoing expanse of the docking bay. As they filed to the sides, a wizened-looking functionary unfurled a large scroll and began to recite in a stentorian drone. “Hear ye that ye are in the presence of his Eminence Rahman Kaita'mansa the Bold, Primarch of the XXI Legion and Lord of the 36^th Expeditionary Fleet!”

This said, the man stepped aside, expertly stowing the scroll. From the mouth of the craft appeared a new titan warrior, clad in the same colors as the twelve flanking the ramp but with finer armor, and lacking a helmet. Taller than his comrades, taller even than Calael himself, the dusky-skinned fellow proceeded down, a faint smirk on his lips as he surveyed the pomp arrayed before him. His eyes stopped as they reached Calael, and the wry smile vanished. He inclined his head slightly, the first acknowledgement anyone had given to the Breachers' presence. Though this Rahman was a bit larger than his cohorts, and a bit more finely dressed, it was not so much this as his presence that convinced Cal that he must be the leader of the blue-clad soldiers. He had a natural aura of command around him, a nearly tangible charisma, and an air of the same daring he'd seen in the best breachers, men who'd hauled enough salvage to retire several times over but never considered sitting out the next run. Could this man be the presence Calael had felt in the situation room? There was a certain echo of it here, but... Cal spared a glance sideways at Selen. The moonfolk tailor appeared outwardly calm, but the subtle quivering of his antennae showed he sensed something within this newcomer. It was likely Rahman Kaita'mansa had something of the oracle's talent himself. Perhaps... But no, the herald with the scroll produced another, clearly intent to introduce another figure.The man's hands shook, and though he was clearly experienced there was an unmistakable quaver to his powerful voice. “Hear ye that ye are in the presence of the Master of Mankind, the Lord of Terra, the Omnissiah Manifest! Kneel before the Emperor of Man!” Save for the blue-clad titans, all the men in Keita'mansa's entourage kneeled and lowered their eyes. Calael barely had time to register the auburn light appearing at the top of the ramp before he was overcome. The presence he had first felt when the fleet appeared washed over him a hundred times, a thousand times as strong as it had before. A gold-clad giant strode forth from the ship, his black-locked head ringed by a numinous halo which seemed to fill Calael's entire field of vision. The man with the scroll continued to speak, but the breacher captain heard none of it, so enraptured was he by the luminous being that approached him. Every fiber, every atom of his being demanded he kneel before this creature and swear his undying fealty.

And yet...

And yet. Here were his men beside him, facing an unknown and unknowable force. In the void outside this bay, an alien fleet bristled with weapons and warriors. The breachers looked to him now, expressions of growing concern hidden behind rugged features and polished helmets, wondering why it was that their leader's knees shook in the presence of this giant. If he was afraid, they would be afraid. It was the immutable law of the breacher- the crew doesn't fall until the first man falters.

The master of mankind stood before Calael Bishop. His gaze was steady and commanding, the air pregnant with the breathless expectation of his followers. Bathed in that golden light, Calael's very soul ached to bend the knee.

Instead, with a supreme effort of will, he extended his hand.

“On behalf of the United Peoples of Providence, we welcome you and yours to our humble home. Our air is your air, our water your water. May the Martyrs guide this meeting to stable ground.”

The Emperor examined Cal's outstretched hand as a biologist might examine a particularly interesting duct vermin. Rahman, watching from his place amongst the titans, looked quite nearly surprised- the smaller men seemed something approaching horrified. The echoing silence of the bay grew stifling as the frozen moment stretched towards eternity. Cal cleared his throat, sweat beading on his forehead with the effort of keeping his focus.

“It's called a handshake, Your Eminence. On Providence it's, uh, used as a greeting and a measure of respect.”

The Emperor nodded fractionally, still examining Cal's hand. “Yes, we have this custom on Terra as well.” He raised his gaze to meet Cal's, and finally extended his own gauntleted hand. With the handshake out of the way, the tension visibly eased, and Cal felt the inexorable pressure of the golden being's presence lighten to a less overwhelming splendor. “I thank you for your welcome, Calael Bishop of Providence. It will be good to shelter and restock after our trying passage through the Warp.”

So dazed was the breacher that it took him a few moments to realize the Emperor had addressed him with his given name rather than his title. Had Selen included that in the vox address? The fleet had asked for “the one you name your king,” but that was certainly not Calael. He headed up the Warder and Breacher's Union, sure, but that didn't make him some fairytale ruler. He'd have to speak with Selen about that later.

At that thought, the moonfolk became the subject of the Emperor's scrutiny. “And what is this here?”

“That's Selen, your Eminence. He's our quartermaster and vice head of the Warder and Breacher's Union when I'm on a run. He's the one who you heard on the vox, actually.” Selen folded his four arms and lowered his antennae respectfully. The golden giant seemed to expect further elaboration, so Calael continued. “Selen is, uh, of the moonfolk. They make most of the good fabric on Providence. He put together our dress uniforms personally.”

The Emperor continued to examine Selen with what appeared to be a critical eye. “And you... trust this creature?”

Unsure how to interpret this question, Cal decided after a moment of deliberation to settle for simple fact. “Selen identified my oracular talent before I was old enough to walk, sir. He's known me longer than anyone else still among the living. He's good people.”

The Emperor regarded the moonfolk for another instant, then gave a microscopic nod, returning his attention to Calael. “It is well that you have found good company.” With that, the Emperor reached out towards Cal with one mailed hand, a languid gesture. Bishop heard his men shift and murmur behind him- clearly they weren't happy with the way this was playing out- but he somehow felt utterly unthreatened. The golden gauntlet touched two fingers to Cal's forehead, and suddenly the discomfited murmering turned to gasps and shouts of surprise and not a few oaths- not only from the breachers, but from the Emperor's entourage as well. Even Rahman and his soldiers seemed taken aback, but Cal couldn't immediately discern why. He glanced back at his crew, who had shrank away from him in shock. Adrian Bibbowski, the largest of the humans on any of his crews and an old friend from his days on the Hellbenders, stared at his captain slack-jawed, pointing like a frightened child.

“Boss, y-your head...”

Cal held up his helmet, seeking his reflection in the mirrored visor, and suddenly the source of Bibbowski's consternation was eminently clear. The Emperor had crowned Calael with a ring of silver flame, a cold and pale imitation of the Lord of Terra's own radiant halo. He turned back to the golden being, confusion etched on his face. The Emperor's gaze remained imperious and impassive, but if anything, he seemed... satisfied.

“I am glad to have found you at last, my son. We have much to discuss.”