Nobledark Imperium Drafts
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It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Eternal Emperor and Empress have been joined in their holy union. He is the last relic of a lost age when hope and wisdom ruled the galaxy, still clinging to his purpose of forging a better future, and she is the last remnant of an ancient pantheon, a mother watching over dying children brought low by their own hubris. Together, they are the Masters and Guardians of Mankind and Eldar, the keepers of the Last Alliance, the embodiments of the Imperium to which a hundred sapient species swear their fealty.
At the core of the Imperium is Humanity, its teeming multitudes ever resilient, stubbornly carving out a future amongst the hostile stars. The greatest of Man’s allies are the Eldar, ancient and wise, their shared bond forged in battle and sealed in blood millennia ago. Since then, others have been judged worthy to join in the light of the Imperium, to stand with Men and Eldar as fellows: the industrious Demiurge, enigmatic Tau, countless strains of Abhumans, and many more.
Yet for all the Imperium’s numbers, it is barely enough to stave off the forces that would tear it down. United under savage Beasts, the Orkish hordes throw themselves at the great edifice of the Imperium. The Necrons are awakening to a changed galaxy, and seeth at the primitives who would dare harbor their greatest foes the Eldar. From the galactic east, the Tyranids have made landfall and sweep over countless worlds in their hungering tide. In the shadows lurk the Dark Eldar, reveling in the carnage of a galaxy at war. And from the Immaterium, the Chaos Gods brood and plot their eternal vengeance, served by the twisted Chaos Eldar.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold trillions. It is to live in the last bastion of civilization as the darkness draws near. These are the tales of those times. Forget the stories of peace and harmony, for they are fables of a gentler time, when the world still made sense. Remember the stories of struggle and defiance, full of brotherhood and sacrifice, for those are the ones that really matter. Peace is a distant dream growing ever fainter, and there is only war as Men and Eldar hold the line for the promise that has been whispered through the generations, from father to son, from mother to child: that there is good left in the world, and that is worth fighting for.
To-do List
- Finish Primarchs
- Establish timeline and events, and how similar they are to canon 40k
- Origins of Warlord/Steward/Emperor, and his own timeline
- Unification of Terra
- Great Crusade
- Rescue of Isha
- War of the Beast (replacing Horus Heresy)
- Armageddon?
- Tyranids? Have they fully arrived yet
- Other SMs? Only the original legions, or others? Chapters?
- When is present day?
- Repercussions of Imperium/Eldar alliance?
The Imperium: Then
A Brief History of the Early Days
Stuff
Governmental Structure
The Imperium is vast and covers a little over a million inhabited worlds of humans and xenos and the styles of governance of these worlds varies greatly from one planet to another. Represented under the ever watchful Aquila can be found meritocracies, stratocracies, bureaucracies, plutocracies, oligarchies, theocracies, monarchies, aristocracies, democracies and many others. All of these are local systems usually confined to a single solar system or planet or even a nations on those planets.
The Imperium itself is a dictatorship under the rule of the Emperor who operates mostly via benevolent indifference. As a general rule the Imperium does not care what you do so long as you pay the tithe and don't rock the boat.
The only time when the Imperium does care is when one of it's few rules is broken to a degree that they can't pretend to not see it any more. The rules being:
1. Pay the tithe 2. Don't worship the gods of Chaos 3. Don't worship the Emperor 4. No militarized religious institutions 5. No open warfare between member worlds of the Imperium
So long as these few rules are followed the Imperium does not care. If those rules are broken or the boat is excessively rocked the Imperium suddenly does care and that is terrible because it has no sense of proportional escalation and will confiscate your planet.
Although the Emperor officially rules in practice the Royal Couple spend most of their time touring the Imperium overseeing and inspecting. The day to day running of the Imperium is done by the High Lords of the Imperium who reside on the Holy Planet of Old Earth, know as Terra to the Mechanicum and affiliated institutions.
The High Lords of the Imperium are:
The Master of the Administratum
The Inquisitorial Representative
The Fabricator-General of the Adeptus Mechanicus
The Grand Provost Marshal of the Adeptus Arbites
The Paternoval Envoy of the Navigators
The Master of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica, Astronomican, Schola Psykana and the Black Ships
Grand Headmaster of Rhetor Imperia and Schola Progenium
Lord Commander Militant of the Imperial Army (ground forces)
Lord High Admiral of the Imperial Army (space forces)
Spokesman for the Collective Synod of the Imperium
The Speaker for the Merchant Navy and Rogue Traders
The High Lords of the Imperium were originally set up during the days of the Unification of Old Earth as the task of ruling was becoming too time consuming even for the superhuman Warlord, as he was known at the time. The Warlord's long term hope was that they would eventually be able to replace him entirely and he could step down as the temporary immortal ruler of the masses. His short term goal was to get a bit of free time to learn how to socialize.
As the years wore on it became obvious that humanity on the galactic scale would always need one man of supreme competence to set precedents for the High Lords to follow. The rank of Emperor was created but not occupied by the Warlord who instead became the Steward and would wait for such an individual to arise. In his mind humanity should be ruled by humanity, not be an artificial construct of a failed and half forgotten Empire.
After Goge Vandire was appointed Emperor, screwed everything up and was promptly executed the Steward was bullied by Inquisitor Sebastian Thor and the demands of the masses into taking the role of Emperor. He was not particularly happy about this and at first refused until Inquisitor Thor pointed out that by the end of the day one of them would be sitting on that gaudy old chair and out of the two of them one of them would die of old age eventually and then another civil war this time of succession would almost certainly ensue.
Member States
The Imperium: Now
Oficios and Adepta
The Assassins
The Officio Assassinorum was one of the oldest arms of the Imperial Government, and its roots date back to the barbarity and cruelty of the Old Night. Perhaps it was fitting that, as the Warlord became the Steward and the Unification became the Great Crusade, the ancient orders of assassins were finally brought to heel and integrated into the Imperium proper.
The Rebuke at Mount Vengeance is the common story of the Officio Assassinorum's founding. In those days, the young Imperium was mired in battles far and wide, but one particular front was facing opposition that none seemed able to counter. Here, commanding officers and vital figures were dying at an alarming rate, even in the safety of their rear areas; and although they were suspected to be the work of the enemy all of the deaths seemed to be of natural causes. The Warlord simply appointed new generals and ordered veteran bodyguards for the ones already in theatre, but in response his loathsome foes only grew bolder. Ever-more evidence of their activities was left behind, seemingly taunting the Imperium for their inability to protect their own; clean killings becoming vicious slaughters of officers and civilians alike. Commanders were found butchered in their headquarters with a single bodyguard left alive, usually little more than traumatised wrecks stammering about technological sorcery beyond that of the Warlord's Mechanicus allies.
Incensed at the atrocities inflicted upon his people, the Warlord made war on the Assassin Temples of the Salt Spires. Little is known about the Spires or mercenary, heartless Masters, for many archives of their history were lost in the anarchy of the War of the Beast (although this may well have been Vangorich's objective all along). The Warlord did the best to spread his own view - that the assassins were little but cowardly shadows who though they could behead the Imperium - but even his presence and words did little to bolster armies so plagued by fear and paranoia, and so he began using the antithesis of their own doctrine to plot their downfall. There were no grand offensives, no bold strikes, nothing that seemed major enough to warrant the assassins moving against it; yet suddenly they found their supplies of everything from ammunition to promethium - and most importantly, water - were perilously low. In their weakened state, the Temples knew they could not face the Warlord's forces, and so they came before him to seek treaty.
At Mount Vengeance, the Temple Masters met to offer peace to the Warlord.
At Mount Vengeance, they received his full scorn.
The Warlord was not content with their mere offer of fealty. For the atrocities the Masters inflicted on his people, for the lives they had taken, the Warlord would not be content with a glorified armistice. He gave them an offer of his own: total surrender, or total annihilation. That was their only choice.
Some of the Temple Masters, emboldened by hubris, unwisely struck the Warlord. They died. Some fled. They died, later. But on the mountain and around it - for many assassins had followed their Masters, perhaps out of loyalty or some morbid curiosity - others remained, bowing in total capitulation to the Warlord and the futility of resisting this god amongst men. For his part, the Warlord acted rather appropriately in that role, passing judgement on each Master and their assassins. Some were found guilty of crimes beyond forgiveness and were slain, often by their peers as a test of loyalty; others were granted the "clemency" of banishment into the salt wastes. Only one was judged pure enough to be worthy of leadership - and, as the new Grandmaster of Assassins, he was assured that the temples that surrendered would remain intact, albeit in service of the Imperium under the watchful eye of Malcador.
Thus was formed the Officio Assassinorum. Malcador was pleased with the Warlord's mercy; for it showed no amount of fury would blind him to true talent. A few thousand years later, the assassins proved that such talent brought risk, especially from those as secretive as the assassins.
In 546.M32, the Grandmaster of the Officio Assassinorum attempted to assassinate the High Lords of Terra. The Beheading, as it has since come to be know, was shrouded in mystery; with events restricted to the Imperial Palace, motive, means, and for some figures even identity have been lost to the shrouds of time. All that has survived to this day is that the Inquisitorial Representative, the Master of the Astronomicon, the Paternal Envoy of the Navigators, and the Fabricator-General of the Adeptus Mechanicus were all killed before the Steward was able to stop Grandmaster Vangorich's terror.
Naturally, many asked how Vangorich was able to get as far as he did. Perhaps the sheer scale of the events already taking place at the time (especially the rising threat of the Beast) was responsible, since it was the few periods in Imperial history where the High Lords were forced to abandon their usual backstabbing and power plays - that kept the Officios and Adepta in check - in favour of (relative) unity. However, others believe planning and preparation had taken decades, the timing an unfortunate consequence of Vangorich demanding so much care be taken to make the deaths of his fellow High Lords look like accidents.
All sources agree, however, that once his treachery was revealed Vangorich unleashed the assassins on the entire palace. The halls ran with blood of the highest Lords and the most lowly of servitors alike, yet there was one figure the assassins would not touch, could not touch, out of fear of what he had done to their forefathers: the Steward, who had vowed to personally put a stop to the killing spree desecrating the home of the Golden Throne. Vangorich, infuriated at the apparent incompetence of his underlings, took it upon himself to do the job they would not, attempting to slay the Steward with a vortex grenade as he emerged from his personal transport.
This went about as well as one would expect.
Even less is known about the outcome. Historians have waxed poetically about the Grandmaster facing an agonizing death, eternal torture, exile into the depths of the Webway with nothing but the clothes on his back, or any other number of tall tales. The most reliable account , however - attributed to the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes - states that the Steward simply broke Vangorich's neck as comfortably as one would a twig mere moments after his ill-advised attempt on the Steward's life.
For their part, the assassins were right to be fearful; for unlike their predecessors on Mount Vengeance the Steward gazed upon them with disappointment as well as fury. The Beheading had been undertaken by Vangorich, but the Steward noted with no small distaste that his orders had not been questioned by any under him. Malcador had managed to maintain the delicate balancing act between accountability and unflinching loyalty necessary in an organisation such as the Assassinorum, and without him it seemed the assassins were falling back on their bad habits.
Any other time he would have dismantled the Assassinorum's there and then, but the Steward was more concerned with reinforcing the wider Imperium against the coming onslaught of the Beast. In a time when every second was precious, the Steward could only set aside a day to scour the assassins' much-reduced ranks. Those found wanting of moral character were incinerated where they stood if they had acted on Vangorich's orders or pressed into a penal legion if they had not. One assassin that the Steward found was of solid loyalty and aided him in his purge of the temples, and they were declared new Grandmaster. The first decree they were to issue, however, was a warning - a warning to be spread through every temple, to every assassin from the depths of the Imperial Palace to frontline fighting against the Orks. A warning that, if the Steward was ever forced to intervene again, he would simply dissolve the Assassinorum instead of wasting more time on leniency.
Four thousand years later, the Steward was once again forced to intervene - although this time it was because of a crisis of his own making.
To her credit, the Grandmaster the Steward had put in place had served honorably, loyally, and carefully. Within the temples, long overdue reforms were undertaken, training formalised, and generations of assassins raised to revere the Imperium as a whole more than their temple. The Grandmaster, when she felt her time came, passed the title on to one she felt she could trust; and he continued her work, standardising material provisions and improving survivability. When he was lost in a warpstorm, his successor was well chosen, and worked to streamline chain of command and requisition. This continued, the Officio slowly evolving into an organisation capable of keeping up with the rapid changes of the galaxy, until the reign of Goge Vandire. Emperor Goge Vandire.
Goge Vandire was, initially, the ideal servant of the Imperium. Intelligent yet humble, decisive yet wise, he was familiar with all the intricacies of every part of the imperial government - save the assassins. Naturally, he was curious. At his first meeting with the High Lords of Terra, they each took their own oaths of loyalty and explained their roles. The, on the other hand, explained the history of the Beheading to the new Emperor, and explained why since then the Assassinorum always chose to swear loyalty to the wider Imperium instead of a particular individual. An explanation that would end up nearly tearing it apart.
"...hence, our loyalty is to the Golden Throne and its guardians rather than the one sitting upon it. A mere technicality, of course-" The Grandmaster offering a thin smile at this point, "-since I personally doubt we will ever receive liquidation orders from the archaeotech itself... but still."
The other High Lords had long ago learned not to question inner workings of the Assassinorum, while Emperor Vandire merely gave a hearty chuckle. They moved onto other, more pressing matters, and it appeared that that was the end of that. And it was, for the most part, but there was a small corner of Emperor Vandire's mind where those words echoed endlessly. "The Golden Throne and its guardians," the Grandmaster had said, but it seemed clear to him that there was only one guardian that mattered; the one who had appointed him to the position in the first place. Over the years of Emperor Vandire's reign - too many hard decisions, too many threats to the Imperium from within and without, perhaps too many treatments of juvenat - the echo rose in his mind until it was deafening, a mild irritation over semantics growing into full-blown paranoia.
Of course they were faithful to the Imperium, but the hypocrites chose the Steward to venerate as a figurehead! Even in the Palace, his own home, all the oaths in the galaxy would not change the fact that each soul's allegiance lay with the Steward rather than himself. They only trusted him because the Steward trusted him, had appointed him. Oh, yes, his reign and countless years of selfless service were all very good and well appreciated, but they were all nought against those of that living god. Everything he did was overshadowed by that guardian; his words judged against the Steward's, his actions compared to those of the Steward, the Steward, the Steward, who was never more than a moment away from the lips of Vandire's own people; as if he had been usurped before he was ever appointed to the throne.
Still, Vandire was still as talented as he always was, and soon managed to find an assassin willing to aid him; a callidus by the name of Tziz Jarek. By that point he was in direct control of every aspect of the Imperium thanks to a thousand emergency powers and Imperial edicts; yet frustratingly, the Grandmaster remained steadfastly insistent on the stance that had tormented Vandire since their first meeting. Jarek, on the other hand, was simply angry with the Assassinorum's reforms, and made sure to stay well out of range of Vandire's spittle and foam when he began to rant - although over time she found herself believing in more and more of his firey rhetoric.
The assassination was textbook perfection; the Grandmaster's long list of security measures outdone by Jarek's longer-still list of fallbacks and contingencies. However, the lifeless corpse that was quietly fed into a plasma generator was only a body double of the Grandmaster - even as Jarek disguised herself with polymorphine and assumed the seat of Grandmaster of Assassins - had already made her getaway, rallying those loyal to her from Terra and beyond. With the Assassinorum now firmly under his thumb, Vandire used the shadowy assassins as another weapon with which to prosecute what was rapidly becoming a reign of terror; opponents political and military alike disappearing or found butchered in cruel and unusual manners.
When the reign of Emperor Vandire was coming to an end, he began to use his assassins more openly against rebel forces - and it was at that moment, when they emerged from the shadows, that the true Grandmaster struck. Jarek had used the forces of the Assassinorum masterfully, always knowing which figures to liquidate to maximise disorder and panic - yet she had no experience of the same tactics being used against her, and could do little but order her own assassins to focus on the new threat.
The resulting battles were devastating. Assassins loyal to Vandire and to the Grandmaster both used long-forgotten, forbidden technologies on the other side, for each was (rightly) convinced that the victory of the other would see them exterminated to the last. Gene-sympathetic nerve gases, neutronic warheads, entropic broadcasters, pan-chronal disruptors, and other terrors were all used; some dating back to the nightmare of the Old Night. These were the Wars of Vindication, and they would be repeated again and again from Terra to the furthest reaches of the Imperium as assassin turned against assassin to purge the ones they saw as traitors.
When the Steward finally returned to Terra from his self-imposted exile, the Temples were little more than smoking, hellish ruin. The palace, too, was scarred by battle; and there he found the Grandmaster - who pointed to her lifeless doppelganger and declared that the traitor was dead.
The Steward was unamused.
The Grandmaster offered her life by way of apology, and begged the Officio Assassinorum be spared. She knew all too well of the warning passed down from each Grandmaster to the next, and of the possibility of her and her own suddenly being abandoned by an Imperium that had no other place for them. For his part, the Steward was bitterly disappointed with Emperor Vandire's descent into madness - yet this time he could not truly fault what had historically been the most troublesome of the High Lords' domains. One Grandmaster had fought with unwavering loyalty for the Imperium, while the other had done so in the name of the Emperor. Perhaps he was a little ashamed of his own poor judgement, for he was merciful; the Grandmaster was allowed to disappear into exile, and the remnants of the Assassinorum were to return to Terra for their final judgment.
The Steward of the Golden Throne retreated into the Imperial Palace for the last time, and when the Emperor of Mankind emerged, first and final orders to the ancient Officio Assassinorum were as follows:
- All assassins were to be granted a window of clemency, where an amnesty would be offered regardless of allegiance. They were misled, but had still fought with ferocious loyalty to their superiors - against some of the best in the Imperium, no less. Any who ignored this opportunity would be declared outlaws of the Imperium of the Golden Throne, for both the Grandmaster and her doppelganger had kept close eyes on their respective assassins (lest they defect). Huge bounties were offered, of course, but the most sought-after reward was the opportunity for the hunter to take the place of the assassin they defeated, becoming one of the Imperium's shadowy elite.
- After the grace period, the Officio Assassinorum would be completely and utterly dissolved. The Temples would remain, but only as individual institutions with no power and little role; all masters would stripped of formal office and all survivors either absorbed into the reborn order: the Officio Tactitum. No more secret handshakes or shadowy meetings lit by incense, no unaccountable Grandmasters operating without question. Civilian control would slow the Tactitum, perhaps even hamstring it, but this was the price to be paid to avoid the mistakes of the past.
- Perhaps most importantly, the Ordo Sicarius of the Inquisition would be formed to monitor not only the assassins but the other highest echelons of the Imperium. These Inquisitors would be the guardians of the guardians, watching each Officio and Adeptus for corruption and abuse, wary of another Vangorich or Vandire emerging.
- However, due to their power to render judgment of even the highest figures of the Imperium, the Sicarius were only permitted to advise and regulate, never taking direction - at least, in theory. In reality, many Sicarius Inquisitors found rather...creative ways to circumvent the decree that they may not maintain "men under arms".
The Emperor had spoken, and these were his commands.
The Officio Tacitum is a far more modern organization nowadays. Though it primarily is still famed for its assassins, it also produces operatives specialised in sabotage and covert warfare far from home. They are often assigned to the command of the Astra Militarum or individual Inquisitors; and each lone assassin is still a finely honed killing machine, but they now serve as spectacular force multipliers rather as ends in themselves. The Ordo Sicarius is satisfied with this arrangement, as it avoids the high risk and cost of the traditional lone wolf operations, and allows them to keep an eye on any assassins deployed.
The Temples? They are far less superstitious and shadowy than they once were, although the name of "Temple" has stuck in defiance of every reform that has been attempted. Each of them has diversified yet maintained their core roots in their quest to perfect the art of murder.
Temple Vindicare, who reach out far longer than all but the highest of psykers to deliver their kiss of death.
Temple Venenum, who can find a thousand toxins to kill a man from the gentlest of paradise worlds, each one exquisite to the palette in their own unique way.
Temple Eversor, who can scythe through men, orks, eldar and even Astartes with the horrifying ease of a power sword through flak armour.
Temples Culexus - who hunt down their prey with soulless eyes - and Callidus, who have no face to call their own.
Temple Vanus, which according to popular belief ha[EXPUNGED]oes not exist. The Ordo Sicarius has confirmed this, and will not allow any dispute.
The primary headquarters of the Tacticum, including the Temples, lie on Terra, although across each segmentum there are localised, lesser temples that train assassins, liason with other Imperial Forces, and seek recruits from outside the Schola the Temples traditionally draw from. The Ordo Sicarius also work closely with segmentum command to permit proper coordination if Tacitum assets are needed, although on a smaller level they are surprisingly good at scouting talented assassin candidates. With proper Inquisitorial oversight, the assassins are kept well in check, and well out of politics.
The High Lords of Terra still has a seat for the Grandmaster of Assassins, but it has been left vacant ever since the reign of Emperor Vandire. Few imagine it will ever be filled again.
Notable Planets
Vostroya
In days of the War of the Beast they refused to honour their oaths to the Empty Throne of Earth and instead focused on the defense of their own world under the delusion that they would have had any chance of ever holding out on their lonesome if The Beast ever turned his attention upon them.
Afterwards when they saw what horrors Primarch Curze was inflicting when given the order to fetch back the worlds whose loyalty was found wanting they couldn't surrender fast enough.
Being an industrial world that the Imperium needed to help with it's recovery the task of bringing the errant world back into the fold was given to Zso Sahaal.
This was during the days when Curze was planning his own trial and execution and was grooming his successor. More importantly he was grooming him to be an acceptable monster rather than just a useful one like he had been.
Curze spent the entire negotiations drugged into almost unconsciousness at First Captain Sahaal's orders and placed in a welded shut crate as a safety precaution.
Eventually a deal was reached between Vostroya and the Imperium, through it's Night Lords intermediaries. Those nobles responsible for the decision of not coming to the Imperium's aid would be executed cleanly and quickly, Vostroya would be put under Administratum rule for the next 30 years whilst a new batch of aristocrats came to the surface, one of the new fangled Adeptus Arbiters stations would be built in the capital and so long as the Imperium lasts the tithe would be the industrial produce of the world plus the first born son of any family with more than one son.
This was a steep price but gratefully accepted even by those who were going to be executed when First Captain Sahaal offered to stop drugging the Primarch and turn negotiations over to him.
Zso Sahaal's name is spoken with both hate and love on Vostroya.
Rumour has it that Underhive gangs have proven fruitful recruitment grounds for the Night Lords and splinter groups in the millenniums since, but with all things concerning those sanctioned monsters nothing is easy to pin down with certainty.
Krieg
Krieg, of the Segmentum Tempestum, Uhulis Sector, at the start of 433.M40 was an entirely different world than what we know in the modern day. Back then, it was a hiveworld with a middling population of 97 billion souls, and a restless aristocracy. A manufacture and trade hub with a surprising knack for technology outside of the Adeptus Mechanicus, interstellar market trends and the subtle shifts of the warp's currents had, over the millenia reduced its prestige and market value- and the attack of Hive Fleet Leviathan led the Administratum to introduce a price ceiling on the products of Krieg to help the war effort. The ruling councils of Autokrats, already impoverished by misfortune (And, truth be told, some serious missteps of their own) were outraged. For them, bound as they were to Krieg itself, the threat of alien invasion was distant, and they saw themselves made slaves to the whole of the sector for the sake of lazy foreigners that couldn't even pay a fair price for their orbital defenses. For that was the specialty of Krieg, big guns. Guns that could be mounted on the planet, and give orbital invaders a beating, and hopefully ward them off. This also made the planet Krieg extraordinarily dangerous to attack. Any attack from above would be costly indeed.
So, when a grand conclave of Autokrats were called, the attendees freely ruminated and conspired against the Imperium, secure in the shadows of their defenses. The Autokrats agreed that a formal complaint should be lodged to the Imperium. And that if they weren't met properly, that the councils would meet again, and elect a High Autokrat, an office only called for in times of crisis, when the whole of the planet had to act together. On paper at least, the Autokrats were united in their cause; respect, or war.
However, the Autokrats were a minority in the grand scheme of things. For the vast majority of the planet that labored, lived, and died in the hives, "For Throne and Man," was their byword, and even as the Autokrats fumed in their spires, the factory workers set their shoulders, shook their heads, and redoubled their labors. It was possible that this upset would have remained just that- a grumbling, that would be addressed when the Administratum representatives arrived to hear complaints. An agreement might have been reached, or a display of force on the truculent Autokrats, and Krieg would have returned to normalcy, minus a few belligerent aristocrats.
However, the representatives of the Administratum never arrived, and Krieg suffered a further two separate blows.
The fate of the Administratum mission has yet to be revealed. The only clue recovered was a letter from Administrative Senioris Sandos to his wife, noting with pleasure that he might return in time for Sanguinalia celebrations, that he'd secured passage through the webway "With a trustworthy sort." All Eldar guides within the sector capable of granting access to the webway deny ever offering that to a human, much less a lowly bureaucrat. There is a sizable reward still on offer for the missing Administrative, and the Administratum further cautions all citizens that the webway is restricted to a select few- anyone offering them a 'shortcut' should be considered a criminal, and treated as such.
As the year passed on, and the Administratum's delegation failed to appear, the Autokrats convinced themselves that this was a calculated slight from the Administratum. For the Autokrats of Krieg, it was obvious that the Imperium had no care for them, and didn't even care to tell them to their face. Krieg is a relatively ancient world, and has had a fiercely xenophobic streak in their culture- and for those Kriegers that believed in the Imperium, and the vision of the Throne, the silence shook them.
The issue was further deepened due to the astropathic messaging system- due to Krieg's growing insignificance, they had few astropaths, and those few were held privately by Autokrats. They may well have kept the news of the disappeared delegation quiet. Or assumed that, like any other words from beyond Krieg, any assurances that the delegation had been lost could only be treated as lies.
Then there was the Segmentum Tempestum Famine. The Ulthran Cartel had elected to invest in agri-futures- and with that investment came a stampede of Rogue Traders, Demiurge Trade Clans, and savvy planetary governors following the trend. Most notably was the influence of at least one Necron lord. Though indirectly involved in the market, for reasons unknown, a spate of necron attacks were aimed solely at agriworlds in the segmentum for a period of seven years, further aggravating food supplies. The market dried up, and shiftless and dishonest grain haulers meant for hive and forge worlds dependent on their products skimmed from the top to sell to this feeding frenzy. In the chaos of the Hive Fleet Leviathan's invasion, and the subsequent shadow cast by the hive mind blocking out psker communications, the administratum failed to notice until it was too late for the Uhulis Sector. Worlds starved.
Krieg was not among them. They wouldn't have the chance.
The precise Autokrats immediately detected they were being short changed on loads from their grain haulers. Outraged, they turned their guns on the hauler, and demanded the full load. The grain hauler in question (Records indicate a shiftless layabout "Regnal Ersten" with a forged Writ of Trade as the unfortunate) made excuses. The Kriegers fired a volley upon the orbiting vessel to make clear their dissatisfaction. The Rogue Trader, apparently, then babbled out a series of excuses, culminating in the claim that the Segmentum Command had seized most of the food intended for Krieg.
The Autokrats were satisfied with their suspicions confirmed. After finishing off the grain hauler with another volley (Surprisingly, Regnal survived this, and would meet his own gruesome fate far later- but that's another story) the Autokrats met once more, and elected a High Autokrat among their number- as far as they were concerned, they were in a state of war.
We have no record of the identity of the High Autokrat. Their position, history, statements, gender, and fate are unknown. The Death Korps of Krieg were thorough in erasing this hated figure from memory. All we know was that there was a High Autokrat, and that this figure would openly declare secession from the Imperium of Man.
At this time, seven Astra Militarum regiments of Kriegers had been raised, and were posted on the world. They had been staying garrisoned in case of tyranid attack, and awaiting orders that would have presumably accompanied the Administratum delegation.
As part of their duties, they were to gather supplies. This included food for campaign, begrudgingly supplied by the planet.
The hivers of Krieg had never been strangers to hunger. It is the same on all hives- due to corruption, inadequate transport capacity, or the simple structure of billions contained in such a small space, malnutrition is rampant. There are always too many mouths, and never enough meals.
The hivers of Krieg had known the shock of having the Imperium fail them, and now faced famine. The Death Korps of Krieg stated simply that the population rose in rebellion against the Imperium, and by extension those Imperial Regiments as well, but I feel that this misses a step. To editorialize, I imagine that the High Autokrat (Being a cunning sort) let this stew a few days. Let the rations dwindle, let the people wonder what's going on- perhaps even attempted to rather publicly deny the Imperial Regiments their supplies, and suffered equally public rebuke.
The people would hunger, see what happened, and wonder. Wonder why their children cried from hunger, as the soldiers marched and drilled and menaced with bayonet, taking scraps meant for them. The High Autokrat would let that stew, then speak.
I know not the High Autokrat's charisma, but I can't imagine the starving need much convincing to seize food.
Or perhaps it's just as the Death Korps describe it. The population en masse blindly rejected Imperial Law in madness, and set upon the regiments like savage dogs.
There were seven Imperial Regiments arranged at that time, and seven hive cities. There's a fascinating account of the fall of six of these hive cities embedded in the training manuals of the Kriegers. Each city lost held a lesson to them, and each pre-Death Korps regiment that fought and fell had a deadly sin associated with them as reason to how they fell. From each fall, they took a lesson, until one hive remained, Hive Ferrograd, under the command of one Colonel Jurten. If the Kriegers can recognize a hero, they might think of Jurten as one.
Ferrograd was the center for manufacture of ammunition- which kept the final of the loyalist Kriegers well surprised. There was an offer of surrender, but the war was bitterly fought already. The only thing you would earn in surrender was a quick death. Colonel Jurten knew that the Imperium was still months out. His forces would starve before the Imperium could arrive. Following that, the Imperium invasion would be costly, if it succeeded- if, and at this, Colonel Jurten feared the most, if the Imperium would even bother coming.
By this time, what was once a strangely anthropomorphized civic philosophy had become almost a religious mania. He believed in the Throne, even as the rebels around him ranted and raved about making a new Throne, a proper one on Krieg. Jurten knew that was heresy. And he knew the origin of it. The hubris of thinking the Throne would care. The present armageddon and sorrows sown by all of this was a consequence of that central arrogance- that the Kriegers would get something for loving the Throne. The Throne was to be served. The Throne was not there to serve them.
And if Krieg would not serve the Throne, Krieg did not deserve to be.
Krieg is a world that has its fair share of technological wonders and secrets. Among the ammunition that Hive Ferrograd produced for the orbital guns were atomics. A terrible amount of them. On the day of the Feast of the Emperor's Ascension, Colonel Jurgen gave the people of Krieg a feast that would never be forgotten. For sixteen hours straight, his collection of guns roared, blanketing the whole of Krieg in nuclear fire. Estimates lodge the amount of nuclear weapons launched in the thousands. An event in the future known as "The Purging." A kill count was kept. As point of pride, the warriors of Krieg estimated that brave Colonel Jurten with sixteen hours, reduced the population from 97 billion down to little more than 780 mlilion.
The world had never been a garden world, but I found a portrait of old Krieg once. Sold for a pretty penny. Though dated to the right era, I am not unconvinced it's a forgery, but perhaps that is due to my own horror at the sight of it. It was a poorly painted water color, perhaps by a student, showing the feet of a titanic steel hive towering into the clouds, standing atop harsh and jagged moss stained stone, wind and rain lashing the cliff side, and in the grey and dim light that peeked through the clouds, an animal soaring through the air. At least, I think it is. Might be a smudge on the canvas.
Krieg has no towering hives now, just ruins and subterranean warrens. The once proud stones have been reduced to rubble and sand. There is no water on Krieg, save for what's found in canteens and barrack reserves. The clouds are far lower to the ground now, laden with poison and chemical. The only life upon Krieg now are Kriegers. Kriegers, and the horses they grow in vats beneath the surface to ride into battle.
Though the Purging was the single greatest use of nuclear weapons in a short span of time upon the surface of Krieg, nuclear weapons would continue to be used. Both sides entrenched, and fought to the bitter, genocidal end in a war that would continue on for a further 500 years. The rebel survivors had gained a psychopathic hatred for the madmen that had reduced their world to ashes, and the loyalists grimly fought in the name of the Throne, knowing that no quarter would be given. They both practiced total war. They innovated, adapted, took on the gas mask, supplemented their meager diets with corpse starch (It's exactly as it sounds), introduced large scale usage of the mysterious "Vitae Womb" technology, and reduced all their beliefs to a fanatic, fatalistic, all encompassing devotion to the Imperium. The only thing for a Krieger is the fight. The duty. The war. Nothing else. For five hundred years, all other Krieger culture was erased. Art, music, literature, all the trappings of a civilian life was crushed by the demand for total war.
As Colonel Jurten had feared, the Imperium had more important matters to deal with than just another hive world descending into madness and blood shed. Two expeditions were undertaken to Krieg during this time. The first, a curious rogue trader, was fired upon by automated orbital guns and they beat a hasty retreat. The second, a mechanicus survey fleet, came within range, and did not report being fired upon, but instead reported what seemed to be a complete, genocidal civil war being fought by a population of perhaps a few million, upon a worthless death world. They moved on.
In 949.M40, Krieg sent a missive to the Imperium at large stating that the rebellion had quashed, and the Death Korps of Krieg were waiting for orders.
Krieg has no governor. Krieg has a Grand Marshal, in charge of recruitment and training of Kriegers. All Kriegers are considered qualifying soldiers. Logic would lead one to expect there has to be some administrative center upon Krieg aside from this Grand Marshal, but the Death Korps of Krieg seem content to hand off most logistics responsibilities to the Departmento Munitorium.
Departmento Munitorium officers assigned to coordinate and keep Kriegers in armor and weapons upon Krieg have a very high turnover rate. Few deaths, but from my understanding, psychological burn out is the primary cause.
Kriegers are immune to boredom. There are no diversions. There is only labor, training, war, and waiting. Any diversion from these four activities is looked upon with contempt, if not hostility. Kriegers are also remarkably xenophobic. And I mean that in the broadest term possible- fellow guardsmen often find Kriegers uncommunicative, and at times laden with barely disguised disgust. It seems any with a survival instinct are considered lesser men.
For aliens, it is worse. Philosophically, the Kriegers came from a point with extreme deprivation. To them, every breath an alien draws is theft. Every acre of space they occupy is one less acre for proper humans to utilize. Every mouthful of food, another mouthful denied to those that better deserve it. In their eyes, the proper place of an alien is at the end of a bayonet. The fact that the Imperium tolerates these is a matter barely tolerated.
Yet, for all their lack of social graces, the Departmento Munitorium has embraced the Kriegers. They win wars. Any order given is fulfilled without hesitation, doubt, or regret, even in the face of death. And there are a great deal of them.
The Departmento Munitorium has long had a debate between two, rough, major schools of military study- the Reformers and the Macharians. It is no secret that, as the years have gone on, more and more regiments are drilled and equipped in the Cadian style. In the eyes of the Reformer generals, the advantages are obvious- Cadian soldiers are considered the standard by which all others of the Imperium are measured, and standardization and centralization of equipment would only help with logistics in the Astra Militarum. Something as simple as ordering a replacement lasrifle powerpack can lead to tragedy due to different manufacturing standards and usage across the endless worlds. Let there be one set of kit, training, and organization instead of the confusing hodge podge that blunders on through luck and sheer bloody mindedness.
The Macharians take their name from Lord Solar Macharius, who famously forged an army from a mass of diverse elements and worlds, making a flexible legion ready for every element. In their minds, trying to force guardsmen to march and act the same is an act of folly, that denies useful specialization and experience. Any attempted reform would take hundreds of years, untold fortunes, and would cause the war machine to grind to a halt even as they are besieged on all sides. Catachans are expert jungle fighters, Valhallans ice worlders, Chem Dogs tunnel fighters, and so on and so forth. Why break what isn't broken?
But now, there is a third regiment that is gaining acclaim, one that even the Reformers balk at modeling after. The Death Korps of Krieg.
Those that favor the Kriegers, see a model of the future. A guardsman that doesn't hesitate. Doesn't doubt. Doesn't question. Fears nothing, and fulfills every order to the letter. And better yet, there is no end to them. Generals at the strategic level find the Death Korps of Krieg refreshing. Far too often, regiments have generals that don't understand their place, and seek to ask questions or meddle in affairs above them. Refusing orders, 'misinterpreting' commands, engaging in cowardly routs: such are the sins of the common general. Oh yes, on occasion there's one that rises above, heroes that make for stirring propaganda- but let's be honest. Heroes are not what victory is made of. Victory is made of attrition, of materiel, of being willing to fight longer than the other guy. Victory is the stuff Kriegers are made of. They don't need commissars. Their loyalty is beyond question. And they seemingly spring out of the dirt with their wondrous Vitae Wombs. They're practically a new breed of human, and should be welcomed.
Though the other factions are uneasy at this new model of guardsman, those in the Departmento Munitorium see the future in the Death Korps. Limitless guardsmen that will not break, grinding down all that oppose the Imperium. The anvil, to the maneuverable hammer of the Astartes. One day, these generals dream, all the guard will be like the Death Korps. Fearless. Unquestioning. Replaceable.
The Death Korps of Krieg for their part do not care. They can be found on every front, on every battlefield, wherever a soldier is called to die, a Krieger will march there to take his place. They do not question. They serve.
Notable People
Malcador
Salvage log regarding unusual item 43
Item appears to be a quasi-biological construct in the basic appearance of man in mid to late twenties. Item is approximately 2.5 meters in height, broad across shoulder and pale skin. Attempts to determine ethnic group from visual analysis has failed. Subject is either from an hitherto in recorded group, an outlier of his group or of mixed ancestry. Nearest group to appearance seems to be the western Merika or Calbi tribals. Item appears to be alive and breathing although apparent internal temperature seems to be somewhat below that of a man in final stages of hypothermia. Attempts at awakening the item have so far been fruitless.
First-mate Varda suggested electro shock to awaken. No result beyond blown fuses.
Varda also suggested the use of drugs injected into subjects blood stream. Further attempts discouraged to preserve needle stocks.
Attempts to monitor brainwaves have given confusing results. Casual psychic surface scans indicate that the mind of the individual is that of a potent psyker but seem to be completely empty. Disinclined to probe deeper until nature of Item is further determined.
Day 12 of return voyage.
Item 43 appears to have regained/gained consciousness.
Janitor Ujarak discovered Item standing upright next to it's shelf and came immediately to myself report development.
Item's eyes have been revealed to be an almost metallic golden in colour and follow sources of movement in it's immediate environment. No other sources of activity are evident.
Thermal scans still reveal unnaturally low internal temperature.
Item made no resistance to having the brain-scan cap put back on. No change in apparent brain activity. Psychic scans suggest an very minor increase in activity. In a normal individual the change would be all but unnoticeable due to background chatter.
Item appears to be growing a faint covering of dark hair on scalp and jaw consistent with a human male of assumed age. Attempts to remove a sample have been successful. Analysis of hair fragment shows it to be some sort of very dense composite-polymer similar to the sort used in the manufacture of low grade flack armour.
Further attempts to elicit any additional response have proven unsuccessful. Item moved to secure holding cell as a precaution.
Janitor Ujarak has named the Item Oscar after an uncle of his. I have approved the designation.
Day 20 of return voyage.
Oscar has shown a marked increase in activity. Monitoring equipment shows him measuring the dimensions of his cell and trying to manipulate the door handle. Handle shows signs of having been bent slightly indicating Oscar has strength far superior to that of a baseline human.
When observation and testing teams entre cell Oscar stands immobile and merely observes visitors. Thermal, brain and psychic scanning still reveal no significant change in activity.
As of yet Oscar has not indicated any need or desire to eat, drink or sleep although basic sustenance and bedding has been provided.
As of yet no conclusive idea of what our ancient Cthonian cousins reason for creating this construct were.
Senior members of the salvage teams are convinced that Oscar is an unfinished product and Item 42 that was found in close proximity to Item 43 was a psy-graft machine that would have been used to provide Oscar with programing and purpose. Currently Oscar is a blank slate and we have no real chalk for him.
Day 28 of return voyage
Oscar has escaped from his cell by applying unreasonable force to the door. Was found in storage hold 12 staring at the container we found him in.
After 5 hours of no additional activity he returned to his cell without prompting.
Day 30 of voyage home
Oscar wandered into the mess hall this morning and ate a synth-meat pate bun. Brief flare in internal temperature was recorded by off duty tech-adept team.
Casual psychic observation is showing considerable increase in activity but still well beneath that of even a child.
Attempts to restrain or move Oscar when Oscar does not wish to move have been ineffectual. Oscar sat motionless for five hours in mess hall. Diners found the experience "creepy".
An overall work suit has been fabricated in Oscars size.
Day 33 of return voyage.
Warp turbulence flared up this evening. Navigator attempted to drop us back into real space but to no avail. Anti-boarding teams were put on alert.
The turbulence ceased abruptly in the area surrounding the ship. Filtered external footage shows Oscar standing on the prow of the ship without a void suit glaring at the warp.
Method of survival is as yet unknown. Oscar did not return to the interior of the ship until cessation of disturbance some 39 hours later with seemingly no ill effects due to exposure to the vacuum of open space or total exposure to the Warp.
Oscar was placed in a decontamination booth. Oscar pushed open the door of the decontamination booth and returned his cell.
Return voyage day 36.
Oscar was found in mess hall again today having consumed a standard portion of cooked vegetable strips. Oscar then closed his eyes for almost half an hour. This is possibly the only time he has "slept" since first being awakened.
Upon awakening he approached my office and spoke for the first time asking "What am I to do?"
Oscar has been tasked with categorizing and ordering the items salvaged Cthonian artefacts.
Return voyage day 37
Members of the crew with knowledge of ancient history have put forth the suggestion that this "Oscar" is a Man of Gold albeit an unfinished one.
I am now faced with somewhat of a dilemma. The return of this creature to the territory of Clan Terrawatt could be disastrous for all nations of Earth. From what fragments we know of history a Man of Gold, should he have a mind to be, would be a disaster of similar magnitude to that of another super-volcanic eruption and it is doubtful that the people of Earth would survive such again.
After due consideration I have decided not to detonate the reactor.
This decision will either be remembered as Malcador's Triumph or briefly Malcador's Folly. May the Ancestors guide us.
Eldrad Ulthran
The date of birth of the ancient Farseer is an event lost to time. Assumed to have been born at most a few thousand years before The Fall he would have been considered old even as the Eldar Empire died. There are few (if any) surviving records of his early life, and his memory is fragmented at best.
The loss of memory may have been a result of The Fall breaking his mind, a broken mind would explain many of his later antics, or it could simply be caused by living longer than any other biological eldar. His longevity is assumed to not be natural as an unaltered eldar will live for just under two thousand years and even with the best of post-Fall longevity treatments will struggle to reach five thousand. Eldrad is assumed to be potentially three times the upper limit of known eldar longevity treatments. He is therefore either some sort of mutant or the result of now forgotten and lost medical intervention of the Old Empire. He is long lived but he is not immortal. By the dying of the Dark Millennium his skeleton has crystalized, his face is lined, his eyes grow dim and his hair is white.
His earliest coherent memories are trying to warn the general populace of the Home Worlds of the Old Empire to their dangerous folly. By that time they were either too far gone to care or skeptical of his claims. He has memories of trying to organize evacuation fleets and calling in the favours and offering favours to the trader captains to help. The names of the captains, the names of their ships and their faces have dimmed and faded with time. It is possible that they were the origins of many of the craftworlds, but now none will know for sure. It was not a time that records survived well.
With his precognitive prowess he felt the shape of something not unlike the Old Empire rising up across the galaxy but not of his kin. A god but a mortal made of gold and gold did not rust.
Every rune cast, every vision from meditation showed that the remnants of the eldar people would in time come to blows with the men of Earth. Without their gods save murderer and trickster his people would lose their wisdom, what little of it they still had. They would declare war upon the men of Earth and great slaughter would be had. Peace would be impossible.
They needed their gods back. Of them the Harlequins sang only one other yet lived and then in captivity and that rescue would always be impossible.
This declaration of impossibility did not sit well with the old Farseer. The eldar people had gone through too much, survived too much, to be driven to either madness or extinction. For one who dealt with the sliding scale of probability and the twisting threads of possibility it is possible that he saw this great wall as a personal insult and his mind started to wander down stranger paths.
Under normal circumstances none of the eldar people would have dreamed of seeking the aid of the lesser races but these were far from normal times.
And so it was that Eldrad found an unlikely ally, himself a relic from a broken empire whose people had been brought low. For the first time that he could remember the old Farseer felt something approaching a sense of family unlikely as that seemed with the great golden eyed giant.
The greatest warriors of the eldar were assembled and it’s most powerful seers and warlocks and the humans, as he learned his new friends were called, did the same. With great effort and a derelict and unstable webway gate they tore the veil of reality asunder and the human exarch “space marines” and the young Phoenix Lords charged into the very depths of Hell in the wake of the giant called Steward.
Of what they saw in that place none would tell Eldrad though of those that returned all now had the eyes of people who had seen too much and could never look away again. And for an instant, just for an instant, as they stepped back into the world of the living there stood the mother of all eldar for the last time and first time in possibly millions of years. Just for an instant in the flesh and all who beheld her in that moment knew new hope for salvation.
Soon arose again the Priesthood of Isha, the daughters of the Mother, Her disciples and from their venerated ranks the one known as Macha rose to prominence and earned herself the honour of being the avatar of her patron in the world of the living. Eldrad recognized the one known as Macha for she was old and also a survivor of the fall but he could not name her or recall her face. He suspected she was distant kin but she did not carry the name of Ulthran, none besides Eldrad in that time did.
The thread of the eldar people was strengthened and as he looked upon and forwards through the skein of fate the thread would be strengthened still further by being interwoven with that of the men of Earth. So it came to pass that the radiant High Priestess of Isha and the Steward were joined as husband and wife to formalize the union of man and eldar and the protection and inclusion of the true eldar people into the Imperium.
But the theft of Isha had insulted the gods and they were out for blood. Eldrad, as the being who had put forth that plan, felt more than a little responsible. Possibly it was this sense of responsibility that made him refuse to suggest to the craftworlders that they run and let the humans die in their place, perhaps it was the knowledge that the gods would never stop hunting them, perhaps it was that he saw this conflict as a trial by fire for their new Imperium or perhaps he was much like his own people now were. They were no longer a ragged band of refugees surviving off of scraps salvaged from a burned down home, they were Eldar once more. The galaxy had bent to their will once and some stupid upstart gods were now challenging them? They were not so weak as to cower now. Eldar and men were building the galaxy anew. Mortal hands and hearts and heads held high and what mortals had wrought no god would tear asunder.
And so it was that eldar blades met the blades of the enemy and Eldrad was aghast to find that the hands that held those deamon blades were not unlike his own. His fallen people, the ones who danced and sang as trillions died and revelled in the debauchery even to the screams of the dying and the damned still lived, if living you could call it.
It was with heavy heart that the old farseer fled the Gate Worlds of Cadid and Ulthwe and for many a centry to come his kin and kind word decry him a coward and a scoundrel. But the flight of Eldrad to Old Earth although one of desperation was not one of cowardice and if any emotion at all still beat in that cold grey heart it was wroth.
Eldrad had looked upon the threads of fate as they shifted and saw one thin strand that led to a lasting hope of victory for his peoples. Just one. He needed to be on Old Earth. He didn't know why but the only way for all to survive was for him to be where that hammer was coming down hardest. Even so it was a hard thing to do. Time has weathered their faces and names but he did now have children of his own upon fair Ulthwe. Their names have gone unremembered, their souls never made it to the Infinity Circuit and ever afterwards long past the point when their faces became blurred and forgotten he knew he had left them to die and worse and he cursed himself for it.
It was a maddening time in Imperial Palace. Eldrads small ship was shot down by the invading forces and it not so much landed in the Imperial Gardens and crashed. Greenskinned brutes occupied by that point 60% of the Earth's surface, 70% of the population was slain and they didn't look to be slowing down. In truth the forces mustered against basic sanity on Earth put the forces leveled against the home he had abandoned to shame. But this was Old Earth, keystone of a new Imperium, it's walls were so much higher.
To Eldrad's relief the Steward knew of the Crone World Eldar, his own court seer Red Magnus having divined their presence. But Red Magnus was young. Brilliant but young. Eldrad was old and even then in relative youth none were his equal and he was at the center of the storm. The heart of the web where all the strings met, Chaos had hounded him but he was now right where he needed to be and the manic grin on his face and the fire in his eyes was terrible to behold.
Forces were redeployed and moved under cover of darkness and smoke and illusion, slight of hand was played at an insane level, misdirection and the subtle knife between ribs cost the orks and their puppeteers a heavy price as the line was held with one hand and the knife shoved in the back and twisted with the other. The war had just gotten serious, the Crone Worlders were going to have to work for it and come down and fight for themselves if they wanted this victory.
They tried several times to teleport into the Imperial Palace as it's shields weakened, a fact that the turned out to be a trap and all their assassins and berserkers were caught in a withering hail of bolter fire. They tried air dropping Kommandoes and Stalkers and Mandrakes only to find that the Harlequins had been loitering in the place for months waiting for them. They tried digging in with great rock crunching maworms and Digga Krewz and stranger things that slipped between the rocks like impossible smoke. They encountered Magnus. It is probably better not to know what he did to them though they were never seen again.
In the end the Palace, now holding approximately 40% of the surviving population of the planet, would have to be taken the Orky way with a mass charge. Here was where the Beast approached.
For all his cunning Eldrad had only so many pieces on the board and misdirection and prescience could only stretch that so far. The thin red line before the Eternity Gate was thin and he knew it and they knew it and he knew that they knew it and they knew that he knew that they knew it and they savored his desperation.
For all that the Beast approached he could not withdraw soldiers for other fortifications. Every time he was abouts to do so he felt the thin strand they all hung by snapping. The Beast had to attack the Eternity Gates and he could offer no help to stop it. Thrice he had to hold the Steward back for rushing to the gate to led his prodigious strength. The Steward was needed right where he was. No one man could direct the forces across an entire planet and Eldrad knew he would be drowned if left to it on his own.
Increasing pleas for help came from the gate. Each more wretched than the last. The Steward was almost in tears, or all the beings in his Imperium few were friends and one was abouts to die and he was letting it happen. When the transmissions went quiet so did the Steward. Cold and quiet and very, very still.
Sporadic fire could be heard getting closer and the footsteps of doom like war drums or twin hearts getting closer.
When the Beast finally smashed and tore the armored door out of the Throne Room he did not find a selection of cowering generals and fleeing strategists. What he found was an angry Man of Gold cannoning into his face at a flat trajectory like a murder tipped missile.
It was a hard fight. Perhaps the most brutal and savage that there ever was. The Steward was a Man of Gold, a relic from a lost era when men were as gods. Eldrad was a primordial eldar born at the height of their kind and carrying the flame of it like an inferno. But for all that the Beast was The Beast. Empowered by gods too terrible to contemplate and mighty beyond measure. Later tales will tell of how the fight lasted a day and a night but they are almost certainly lies although the old Farseer as he danced and struck had lost all notion of time.
Fists that could break buildings impacted on the Green Menace that responded in turn with blows that could fell baneblades. Had The Beast been able to concentrate on a single target it would all of been over. He was too durable, too strong and for a creature of such mass hellishly fast and seemingly tireless. The Steward was also seemingly incapable of tiring but Eldrad was beginning to weary. Days upon days of constant battle and sifting through fates trying to divine the least awful were taking their toll. He would tire and then he would die and then the Steward would die and then his Imperium would die and his own people right along with it. It seemed as unstoppable as tide and time.
And then the Farseer noticed an out of place thing buried in the Beast's chest. A broken sword blade that must once of been of elegant design.
With the last of his strength the farseer channeled his fire and his lightning into that blade and grasped it in his mind and drove it deep into the Beast's chest and twisted. The Beast collapsed in agony, spasming on the floor as the agony wracked him and the old farseer looked over him as he fell and stared him straight in the eye and didn't stop twisting until the struggling stopped and all that was left in that monsters chest was broken up charcoal.
Exhausted the farseer fell to his knees. The last thing he saw before the darkness overtook him was the Steward holding the remains of what had once been an angel. The worst of the fighting on Old Earth was well over when Eldrad awoke once more.
The war was far from over, but the back of it had been broken.
Eldrad returned to his people, much to their annoyance. It was a long time before they would forgive him for abandoning them, although those in authority knew his reason well enough.
The Primarchs
The Warlord in his conquests of Old Earth and Sol created the title of Primarch and awarded it to twenty of his greatest generals that they might become leaders of leaders. This was partly to maintain an ordered hierarchy but also to promote autonomy of his forces. The Warlords long term dream of the time was creating a system of governance so efficient that he would become obsolete. His short term dream of the time was to free up enough time to spend all evening in the pub. Of the twenty awarded that rank only eighteen are by name and deed remembered to history under that most august of title.
Horus
- 100% human from Luna, possibly of Void Born stock.
Russ
Russ was the first to recruit warriors from beyond Sol into his superhuman ranks. The people of Fenris were excellent recruitment stock, even for a barbaric and primitive planet that needed extensive education to learn the discipline necessary in war. Russ himself was from a discontinued line of super soldiers; savage and with heightened senses, the Canis Helix (or Dog Soldier as its detractors often referred to it as) Project proved to be too unstable, even for the best minds in the Imperium. If news of the monsters born from it had become common knowledge on Earth the Warlord's support would have crumbled - but on a distant world as remote and seldom visited as Fenris, the project could not only be buried but begun anew at Russ's behest. After all, any monsters arising from the Project were the problem of a few distant primitives, and certainly not the concern of the glorious Terra. For his part, the Emperor at first claimed no knowledge of the new Dog Soldiers, and even when he did learn of it he trusted Russ's claim of the failure rate as being "well within acceptable parameters", leaving the Fenris and its canine guardians well alone.
The Space Wolves, as the legion became known, quickly made up for their questionable origins by serving with great distinction during the Great Crusade, excelling at tracking a target and assassinating them, often in a close-quarters combat. Regrettably, in the wretched days of the War of the Beast, a number of the wolves were tempted down the bath of bloodshed for bloodshed's sake and forsook the Empty Throne of Terra for the one of brass and bone, where the God of War held court instead. Of these oathbreakers no name was cursed more by Russ than that of Skyrar of Caledonia - whom Russ once would have called brother.
Some measure of honour would be restored, however, to the ranks broken by turncoats and anointed in blood. Russ's Wolves made great speed back towards Terra, and seeing the home he had left a lifetime ago aflame in war broke the Great Wolf's heart. The wolves threw themselves into the inferno and fought like mad beasts with neither thought of the past or hope for the future; no thirst for vengeance but instead a plea for redemption. Russ himself was there at the Last Roll of Thunder when Arik Taranis, Bearer of Lightning, fell in battle in the great plaza before the Eternity Gate and took up the tattered old Unification banner.
When the last of the fires grew cold none would ever again question the loyalty of the Space Wolves. For all that the shattered remnant of a legion was covered in blood and soot, each man felt truly clean.
The remains of the Space Wolves retreated to Fenris, licking their wounds, and quietly rebuilding their legion as the Imperium rebuilt itself - for no matter how enlightened or holy it may become, Russ knew that the Throne would always need its tame monsters. But the Great Wolf himself was not to fall in glorious battle, and certainly not to fall to the temptations of the Ruinous Powers. Instead, the legends say, some two centuries later Russ - now an old warrior and the King of his world - simply walked out into the snow, alone. His brothers, friends, servants all followed his tracks into the cold woods of the frozen north but he was never seen again. Some say the Old King is resting, and will return to face the Old Night in the days when hope withers and the stars grow dim.
Ferrus Manus
The unimaginatively named Ferrus Manus was born in the manner of the Mechanicus enclaves of Antarctica - or rather, grown in a jar from anonymous genetic samples. Deemed free of malformation and unwanted deviations in his early development, which were rare and valuable assets in this age where clumsy genetic enhancement created mutants more horrific than radiation or plague ever could, he was permitted to be born rather than recycled. Being born and raised where he was and at the time he was, he had no name at birth, at birth although the markings on his tube did superficially resemble the name Gorgon in an ancient tongue recognised by one of the oldest magi. This was adopted as his unofficial name in his youth; doubly so after it became apparent that he would grow up to be aesthetically displeasing.
He was given a basic and general techno-ecumenical education until age 12, after which he began training for full inclusion to the Mechanicus. By age 14 he had managed to achieve the rank of Technician-acolyte, escaping the the fate of Servitorhood that awaited underachievers, but a purely priestly life was deemed an inefficient use of his talents and he was transferred to the Skitarii for training. By his 18th year he was a mechanically augmented soldier of the priesthood tasked with defence of the Nuemyana Port, one of the few places where primitive outsiders were permitted to have dealings with the Terran Mechanicus.
As he rose through the ranks of the Mechanicus military, receiving all the augmentations appropriate to his station. He began to see the world in absolute terms, the black and white notions of Weak and Strong; and it was the duty of the Weak to serve the Strong, who in turn were to rule and protect. But it was as if his heart was slowly being replaced with machinery as much as his body was, beginning to see all humanity not a part of the Mechanicus as Weak. Perhaps this was merely conformity, however, as many of the Elder Magi shared similar views, and... enforced them. Regardless of their attitude to more baseline humans, however, the Enclaves soon came under threat from Hy Braseal. Although hardly a superpower, the nation was close enough, sophisticated enough and organised enough to push the Enclave's off the tip of South America, leaving their former holdings destroyed, irradiated or captured.
Due to their perceived incompetence in the piecemeal defence of their lands, many of the Elder Magi were deposed by those below, while the new Elders had the few remnants of the old order servitorised. Soon, the ambitious and the popular rushed in to fill the power vacuum at the top of the hierarchy, and at the end of the reshuffling Gorgon found himself as General-Sentinel and Protector of the Northern border, a prestigious yet demanding job that commanded the first line of defense against the Braseali peoples - and would be the first to be servitorised, were they to force their way onto the Antarctic mainland.
At this point, in spite of the Mechanicum's preference for function over form, Gorgon ordered for his new cybernetic upgrade to be encased in the toughest alloy known to the Mechanicum. True, it would serve no purpose; although the material was indeed potent armour, his position as General-Sentinel precluded any situation where that would be useful. Instead, it was a surprisingly perceptive move to bolster his stature in the eyes of others; the intimidating size and power of the modifications intimidating both any who sought to mutiny as much as they did Braseali spies. Thus, the Gorgon was no more - in his place there was only Ferrus Manus.
Even as he rallied his Skitarii and began to forge them into something stronger, the generals of Hy Braseal had already raised a horde of relatively well disciplined and armed soldiers, and was beginning to lead them into the cold Antarctic enclaves. Salvation came in the form of the Warlord, who sought the advanced technology horded by the Mechanicum. The Elder Magi saw their survival projections in a total war with Braseal jump over tenfold merely by being on friendly terms with the Warlord, and all the way to an astounding 93% were they to accept his offer; which they did without second thought. However, Dalmoth Kyn - the leader of most of South America - and his descendents would never forget how the Warlord had sided with the Mechanicus, forever opening a rift between their people and those of the Imperium. In time, they too would eventually join, but not before a long and bloody war consumed much of the Braseali population.
As the Mechanicus Enclaves one by one were assimilated into the Imperium, Ferrus Manus once more found himself rising up the ranks of the military. His existing rank the Mechanicus - who were a few isolated enclaves that had fought valiantly against an entire continent - was prestigious, and his tactical acumen was formidable; as were his legions of cybernetic soldiers who could comfortably overrun any techno-barbarian on the planet and even go toe-to-toe with the Warlord's own biologically augmented warriors. The one who, as the Gorgon, had looked down on all flesh as weak, was now beginning to find a grudging respect for it.
Years passed and wars were moved from the surface of Terra to the stars, and his soldiers - now known as the Iron Hands - became renown for resisting the harshest of environments with ease, proving as comfortable in the cold vacuum of space as they were in the sand-blasted remains of Ursh. Thus, although often (and rightly) feared by many, the Mechanicus forces were respected by all and proved to be a key factor in cementing the Terra-Mars partnership, which would be a story repeated at each world they encountered their cybernetic brothers on. Perhaps it was this - securing the mighty forges of mankind - rather than the Iron Hands' martial prowess, that earned the old Gorgon his recognition as a Primarch.
During the War of the Beast, however, the Iron Hands lost much of their prestige and reputation by primarily seeking to defend their Forge Worlds instead of the Imperium as a whole. Perhaps this was simply because their primarch had seen how hard mankind would fall if they once again lost the machinery that held its precious Imperium together; or perhaps (as many others claimed), their loyalties lay more with the Fabricator-General of Mars than they did the Steward or Terra. For their part, the Hands never denied the accusations levelled at them, only defending them.
Of the primarchs Ferrus Manus was one of only three who lived to see the Steward become Emperor; and he was the last of them to die, meeting his end on the fields of Armageddon before the gates of Hades Hive in the year 616.M40. In truth his health - both biological and mechanical - had been deteriorating for centuries, and although he knew that there was little operational time left for his body he did his best to ensure that neither his Legion nor his Emperor knew of the fact. He took a bloody and glorious toll with him, one worthy of respect from any and all, but his passing marked the end of an era, and although he and the Emperor had never been friends his passing was felt by the flesh-bound of the Imperium just as much as it was by his Mechanicus brethren.
Fulgrim
- Astartes pattern from Merika
Vulkan
Vulkan, son of the Afrique League, First Patriarch of the Prometheans, Defender of the People, Cleansing Flame of Earth and Primarch of the Steward was born in a mud and thatch hut in an arable farming village 8 days walk from Lanbarno, capital of that semi prosperous realm.
The nation itself was little more than a remnant of what it once was. At its height some 500 years previously it had been a super power the rival of any other on the Earth at that time with culture and technological knowlage beyond peer. But then the Ursh came and taught them that this was not, nor have it ever, nor would it ever be a time of peace.
But all that was history. The realm that Vulkan grew up in knew nothing of that save in dust old tomes of half forgotten lore.
Even a peace, a hard fought for peace, had been won against the Despots of Ursh and their vassal states.
Of all the peoples on the Earth at that time the had come to the attention of foul xenos. Why they amongst all others? who can say. But there it was.
The Dark Eldar were discovering the depths of their needs and thirsts and they found the picking in Afrique League to their liking.
It became a hated part of life. Shelters were dug by the prudent and the the foolish were left to die. It was an unhappy time. But maybe it was the xeno raiders and their attentions that made their lands less appealing to invaders.
It was in Vulkans 14th summer that he joined the military, against the wishes of his father and mother but with their blessing. It was customary for men to serve and protect the communities they came from for what was good for the people of a nation must surely be good for the nation as a whole.
Vulkan's parents had been adamant he not join the warriors because they knew that his job would be to dissuade their tormentors so that they might find a softer village to attack.
One such assault was the beginning of Vulkan. The rest of his life had been merely a prelude.
A brutal assault that seemed determined to abduct the while village befell Vulkan's home. The scant defenses were little more than tissue paper against razor blades. The pitiful few warriors of the Afrique League were tormented in the manner of a cat with a mouse and as inevitably snuffed out. All bar one. When the village bio-petroleum tank detonated Vulkan was inflamed. But up he rose. clutching his blacksmith fathers hammer, a halo or flame about his head and inferno wings upon his broad shoulders he was risen and he stood before the Archon, the chief tormentor of his people. His heart beat like a blast furnace and his eyes were holes into the hear of the sun and his fathers hammer he brought down hard. The Archon danced around him with inhuman grace, a nimble torture before an enraged giant. In later legends it was said they they danced from sunrise to sunset but in truth there was a death far sooner than that. The Archons blades had been doused in poison most foul but the heat of the flame had cleansed them and although Vulkan could barley land a single blow hid did manage to land one and one was all he needed.
The simple smiths hammer struck ard and it struck true and it was said to have been heated by more than burning fuel but by the furnace heat of hate. The Archon lay crippled and in agony at Vulkans feet and he raised that vile man high above his head and brought him down hard over his knee and broke his back and held him up once more and with a dragons roar dared all those who would look to see what ruin had been done before tearing out the raider kings throat.
And no more did those creatures come back.
When the Warlord came to the Afrique League it was Vulkan who met wit him in old and dying king Shatimuene's place. With the xenos gone it would not be long before Ursh came back and the Afrique League could not endure alone when that day came.
As the now chief military commander of his nation and a hero of the people Vulkan was taken into the confidence of the Warlord and in the name of the warlord he claimed back the old Ursh vassal states of Ursh for the Afrique League and built that broken nation back up on freed slaves and a noble sense of retribution.
Vulkan was one of the first of the final design of Astartes. All of the major flaws had been solved by that point and for that we can be grateful, the world did not need another Angron.
When the last tyrant fell and it came time to bring the Unification to the rest of Sol Vulkan son of N'bel was raised high and called Primarch.
When the Great crusade fell it was Vulkan second only to Lorgar who showed that although the Imperium was strong and could be monstrous it could also be noble and capable of true virtue.
When the War of The Beast came it was the soldiers of the Fire Lords and and Black Dragons and the Salamanders that dedicated their lives to defense of the people above the defense of the Imperium, or what was good for the people of a nation must surely be good for the Impwerium as a whole.
Vulkan did name it back to Terra before the Martyr Angel fell and he could not save his brother primarch, but no blame was laid at his feet as his Legion worked so tierlesly and gave their very lives for the people and always at the thickest of the the fighting, in the heart of the inferno was the Promethean with his hammer.
In the years that followed the rebuilding of the Imperium Vulkan's forces remained integrated most strongly with those of the Imperial Army.
Dorn
- Calbi born, early model astartes pattern. Desensitization problems.
Roboute Guilliman
Guilliman was born to a minor noble house in the great and relatively prosperous realm of Europia. His parents were able to afford him admittance to Parisiorum University, the most prestigious educational institution of that fair nation. By the onset of adulthood he was well versed in the classics of language, mathematics and the basic sciences; but it was in military theory that he truly excelled. Soon he was spotted by a visiting officer, and was quickly transferred to the Avelroi military academy. He was a more than adequate soldier, and a fairly skilled tactician, but it was in the arts of grand strategy and logistical planning that his brilliance was found. During wargames and simulations, his peers often managed to gain the upper hand on Guilliman's forces, flanking or encircling them only to find themselves critically short of materiel and facing positions prepared long in advance, thanks to his unconventional focus on interdicting supply lines. Thus, while he graduated with glowing recommendations from his tutors, he was somewhat resented by his fellow alumni who felt his tactics underhand or cowardly.
Shortly after, he was assigned to the southern border where his nation rubbed shoulders - and often warred - with the Nord Afrik. Within a month of his assignment, the area was brought up to peak efficiency and combat effectiveness. Whole swathes of the border defenses were brought back up to standard, often exceeding them, becoming greater and more formidable than they were in the last border dispute; the semi-derelict Jibraltonius border fort seemed to change overnight from a ceremonial headquarters to an impenetrable bastion. And not a moment too soon, as before long the Nord Afrikaanus and their cyber-thrall army commanders were ready for war, instead of the brief raids and pillages that Guilliman's defenses had been blooded against.
The hordes of Nord Afrik, armed and armoured with most powerful technology they had recovered from the rotting corpse of the old world, charged with ferocity that would've shattered the defences of just years before. They played every hand they could; hit-and-run raids, armoured assaults, wave attacks and attempts at infiltration, yet in the end it did not matter, as their crusade broke upon the hardened shell of Europia. For every of Guilliman's soldiers, there were ten Afrikaanus barbarians - but in turn, there were a dozen shells, plasma charges or lascannon shots for each of them, and it is said that fresh reinforcements would arrive before their dead predecessors had even hit the ground. The counter-offensive orchestrated by General Guilliman was nothing less than a masterpiece of warfare, facing the Afrikaanus as if on his own home turf. The waves of techno-barbarians were bled white, their counterattacks shrugged off and shattered, their homeland burned to ashes from which nothing could ever recover.
The customary actions to follow in these conquests was for nations to incorporate the territory of the fallen into their own empire, lording over the few remaining broken people. This would have been the fate of Nord Afrik, too, but for Guilliman's address to the senate imploring them to let that foul place rot. This was perceived as weakness by some, yet his foresight would go on to frustrate the other neighbouring nations who were looking forward to invading a Europeia overextended and weakened by their subjugation of Nord Afrik. For his martial brilliance and wisdom, Guilliman was given the honorific title of Lord, a title that would not normally be bestowed upon him until his fathers death. Furthermore, in the time of relative peace the nation now found itself in, it needed an ambassador - albeit one with enough accomplishment and worth behind him for the leaders of neighbouring realms to sit up and listen.
It was during his time in the Kingdom of Franj that he met the relatively young Queen Yolande Fouché. The two had little in common at a personal level and neither ever completely trusted each other, but their respective governments deemed it imperative that they marry as a prelude to the unification of the two nations. Franj itself was deeply wounded and only slowly recovering from devastating attacks by the Unspeakable Tyrant of Gredbritton's horrific weapons, and would not survive even the most halfhearted of assaults from any of its neighbors - least of all the Dusht Jemanic, who were looking to settle old grievances. In turn, such an alliance would allow the people of Europia access to the produce of the huge tracts of agricultural land, which were sorely needed as using Nord Afrik as a psuedo-colony to feed their growing population was no longer an option.
When The Warlord came before the Senate of Europia, in the modest robes of a scribe, he came with open arms and a warm smile. Unlike elsewhere, the Senate of Europia saw this new "Imperium" as a macrocosm of themselves; their own well ordered nation merely taken to its logical conclusion. Thus, their inclusion was brief and painless, and allowed them representation in the decision and policy processes of such a regime, while the Kingdom of Franj was joined along with them as both realms were nearly dependent on one another at this point.
Lord Guilliman quickly rose through the ranks of the new Imperial Army, thanks to his history amongst one of the more civilised realms of the Imperium, as well as his unparalleled logistical prowess. Yet, when it came time for the Warlord to implement his super soldier project on a much expanded scale it was a sad fact that Lord Guilliman was biologically too old and would almost certainly have died during the implantation process. As consolation he was granted some limited gene-forging and rejuvenation procedures that his usefulness might be extended for centuries to come.
And down the centuries his usefulness would be proven.
When the Warlord became the Steward before the Empty Throne and looked to the stars, it was Guilliman amongst his generals who was deemed to be best suited to the task of preparing for interplanetary warfare, a feat considered logistically impossible by many, yet achieved through meticulous calculation and planning. His dedication and adaptability earned Lord Guilliman the title of Primarch, a leader amongst leaders and a legend amongst legends. When the eye of the Steward looked beyond the confines of Sol, he saw Guilliman was was needed more than ever.
The Primarch rose to the challenge, reorganising the Imperial Army into a force that seemed able to be everywhere at once yet, to its enemies, was truly endless, and giving the Steward's war machine efficiency more befitting a creation of the Mechanicus. Whole stellar clusters were brought under the Aquila by the old man of Europia, with wars that could fill a library - the greatest of which, he believed, were the ones not fought. He was and old man. He looked of middle years but he had lived, long long past his time. Memories of loved ones, their faces and voices, had become dim and faded. He had outlived his wife and his children and his grandchildren, his beautiful nation and even the greatest of its monuments. The old man had never relished war like the others, seeing it instead as an intellectual exercise - and by now he was so very tired of it.
When the War of the Beast descend like a hammer upon the still fledgling Imperium, it was Guilliman's reforms - from the optimisation of trade routes to the streamlining of military integration and combined arms - that allowed whole sectors to mobilise their forces fast enough to weather the initial shock. His well-disciplined and -equipped legionaries made the Beast and his horde pay for every parsec, every light-year, every metre. For every slain citizen under his care a hundred deaths were meted out, but all could see that the line was being ground back to the Sanctum Sanctorum of humanity: Old Earth. The Beast and his forces were defeated, just like all the others were, but the legions that struck the deathblow were glorified far more than the one that hamstrung a tide of Ork that would've otherwise swallowed them whole. Guilliman held no jealousy or resentment over that; he was old enough to understand that good men were seldom remembered as long as entertaining monsters, and had resigned himself to that fact long ago.
After the slaying of The Beast the Imperium began to rebuild. It was dirty work but it was good work, the Primarch relishing in the opportunity to rebuilding something after so long fighting. Those close to him claimed it soothed his aching soul and reminded him of the miracles he worked on the borders of his homeland, long ago - even when many of his fellow Primarchs outright refused his suggested reforms.
Guilliman endured for centuries longer than any thought possible - even himself - but In 014.M32 he began his long, dreamless sleep. His legacy, however, would endure for ages to come; remembered fondly even by those who thought him nothing but a glorified penpusher, and proving that the quiet administrators and quartermasters of the Imperium that they had just as much to be proud of as any other.
Magnus the Red
The story of Magnus the Red can be traced back to the previous Despot of Ursh, a remarkably unfriendly fellow by the name of Ganzorig the Great. Indeed he was great and conquered huge swathes of the Afrique League to add to the already great Empire his uncle left him. One of the contributing factors in his victories was his use of enslaved and potent psykers. For the most part these poor creatures, witch-kin as they were, were not highly valued as people by the Despot despite him being a follower of the dark gods.
One of his most prized possessions was a witch by the name of Ada of whom it was said could summon deamons and not so much bind them but direct them. In her youth, before he had discovered quite how valuable she was, he had whored her out to a navigator for imported weapons from far off worlds beyond Sol. That she had a child that she loved dearly was good news for Ganzorig as it gave him a means by which he could control her.
Time passed, wars were waged, new lands were conquered and things continued to get worse on Old Earth much as they always had done.
In time the son, named Magnus, grew into a man. Like his father he was uncommonly tall and it was soon evident that like his mother he was uncommonly powerful. As such he was press-ganged into the psychic warfare and assault efforts of the Regime. Magnus' aptitudes were in wards and defensive measures and by age 15 could stop artillery fire and had done so on the front lines. By age 20 he could throw up a shield wall that covered almost a mile in either direction and was harder than the finest steel.
In his 35th year his mother died on the front lines against the Pan-Pacific Empire and the monsters created by it's mad science. Magnus at the time was half a continent away on the borders of Achaemenidia but he felt her loss. Although Magnus had always been Ganzorig's leash to ensure his mothers obedience so in turn had Magnus been kept obedient lest harm come to his mother.
Magnus seemed to vanish and the border was over run by the next morning. A few month later Ganzorig the Great was found burned to death in his bed.
Little is known of Magnus' movements in many years and the Ursh Succession war that followed. It is suspected that he fled to the cursed ground of the Himalayan Mountains. A place only whispered in dark legend, the one place nobody was strong or mad enough to conquer and from the fall of the Dark Age Empire to the arrival of the Warlord remained inviolate. It was unknown for sure what was protecting that high place but ████████████████████████████████████Date expunged by order of the Inquisition██████████████████████████████████████████████████and never again they promised on this hallowed ground, and so they faded in midnight clad.
Magnus emerged from that strange land some time in his sixties, although how much time in that place had passed was anyone's guess. Due to his inhuman heritage he looked still of early middle years but for his one remaining eye that held reflected horrors enough to last lifetimes. His skin once pale and soft like his fathers was now hardened by years of exposure to something approximating leather and adorned from head to foot in red wards and runes and holy script in some unknown letters tattooed and branded and scared across every inch of flesh. Save for the ragged bite mark that took up one side of his face.
By this time the Warlords armies were moving in earnest with expert precision across a dozen fronts, both military and diplomatic.
At first the tall man wandered in places he thought beyond the reach of any king or man or beast but as the Warlord progressed his psychic powers grew until Magnus felt them eclipse his own. He traveled to the very furthest reaches of Sibar and buried his talents that he might not shine out from afar.
But the Warlord could feel him and he knew it. Rather than wait to be hunted down or chained up as was in his youth Magnus set out for the burning light.
At the time the Warlord was busy in the Lands of Skand where the Nordyc people dwelt. The Warlord was trying to unify them into a cohesive nation that he could work with and absorb into the Imperium. Some tribes would remain independent and raid and pirate and maraud across the landscape and they would be crushed for it but his hope would be that this would be minimal in number.
Magnus strode into the great wood and thatch hall almost as tall as the doorway, draped in animal skins and weathered and wild looking. The great hall fell silent for a moment until the babbling of conversations returned. He scanned the rows of men and women through the hazy smoky air seated around the tables and staying warm by the great fire pit until he found him, the Warlord.
He was seated some way down the bench tearing into a slab of mutton whilst a man in dusty grey robes negotiated with the king in a jovial manner. To the surprise of Magnus the Warlord waved him over and offered him a seat on the bench next to him and poured him a drink.
It had not occurred to Magnus that the Warlord meant him no harm, it had always been his assumption that powerful men fought and that was the way of things.
In the years that were to follow the Warlord did offer Magnus a place at his side not for his battlefield prowess, although that was formidable, but for the forbidden and ancient lore he had ██████████████ █████ ███████Date expunged by order of the Inquisition███ ███████ although it troubled him greatly.
Eventually Magnus did walk the battlefield, but this time at the head of a small army of his own making. A band of psykers like himself, some liberated slaves or other nations and some born free in the Imperium. For the first time since the death of his mother Magnus felt at home. They won much fame and fortune in the wars of Unification primarily against the stain on the map that was Ursh. Though the Warlord trusted Magnus he put upon him the one condition that he have no more dealings from things beyond conventional time and space.
The other commanders were unsure of Magnus, he was not fully human and he was witch-kin steeped in forbidden magics and lore. Mortarion and Russ both had a particular dislike of him for this and despised his methods. For all that Magnus became Primarch Magnus the Red but unlike most of his fellow Primarchs he could not recieve any augmentations due to his strangely genes.
As the Unification slid gently into the Great Crusade the Legion of the Thousnad Sons held themselves well and despite being the smallest of the Legions in the Imperial Army held themselves as high as any other.
As the War of the Beast ground on Magnus' armies found themselves out matched but still unrelenting. The Beast had psykers of his own and the Chaos Eldar made his people die screaming.
As the Beast assaulted Old Earth Magnus at last broke his word to the now Steward. He called forth all the old spirits as his mother taught him and shipped up the warp into a howling gale and dashed the Beasts fleets upon impossible shores and almost pity them for where they now were. It was a gamble that was not wholly won for some Imperial ships were lost in the gale, their crews damned and lost forever. He was severely berated by the Warlord for this and they almost came to blows.
He was present on Old Earth in those final days of that war confounding and confusing the sorcerers of Chaos and slaying their deamons.
Eventually the Steward and Magnus did reconcile their differences though it took many, many years.
It was said that the Grey Knights were founded and trained by ancient veterans of the Thousand Sons, although as with all things to do with the history of that order the truth will never be known.
Magnus was one of the 3 primarchs that lived to see the Steward crowned Emperor, although only barely. He was as human as the day he was born, however much that was, and longevity treatments can only take you so far. His ashes were scattered to the winds on the tallest Himalayan mountain carried there by the Emperor himself.
Even unto the Dark Millennium the Emperor would not allow discussion of what he found in those mountains.
Was it wondrous? Terrible? Both? None may know now. Whatever was there was gone by the time Earth was all but unified. A few abandoned villages, some empty temples, a few overgrown fields and no sign of violence.
Whatever was there looked and acted like people to fool people, more or less. Whatever was there left of it's own accord.
What it is and why anything can never be known though The Warlord found neither joy nor sorrow in its departure.
Sanguinius
Duscht Jemanic was an old nation, a once great empire that spanned from the coast of the Atlazia Ocean in the west to the Besivik Ocean in the east, the lightning speed of its war machines crushing nations beneath their tread. Over the centuries its power and borders were slowly eroded by the Ursh hordes in the east and revolts in its Europian provinces, until it was left only with its core territories and forced into a humiliating alliance for survival as part of the Quintuple Alliance.
The Duscht were a dour, efficient people, obsessed with genetic purity above all else. In their great iron towers the famed genesmiths delved into the secrets of the human genome, while in the bellies of its ashen factories millions of enslaved “unclean” sweated and died to produce the materials for its armies. It was into this decaying society that Sanguinius was born, only son of the Kaiser.
The Kaiser was a cold man, and over the centuries of his life had failed to produce an heir that satisfied his need for perfection. As he grew old, he grew desperate, and in his desperation he summoned his greatest genesmiths to do something never before attempted: to create a human life. To create his perfect heir, he opened the ancestral gene-vaults of House Baal, and sequences were taken from its greatest heroes: genes from generals and warriors for strength and bravery, from diplomats and statesmen for wisdom and intelligence, from courtesans and athletes for beauty and fairness of form. To this blend of genes, the Kaiser, perhaps in a final act of caprice or megalomania, added the genes for a pair of enormous, white wings to grow from the child’s back.
With the genome completed, the genesmiths retreated to their towers to perform their ancient biotech rites to attempt to forge the raw genetic material into a living fetus. Nine and ninety failed, ending as twisted, misshapen things, but in the hundredth the genes took hold, and after a year and a day of labor the genesmiths presented the baby boy to the Kaiser. As he wept, the Kaiser named the boy “Sanguinius,” for he was to be the culmination and greatest champion of the Baal bloodline.
As the boy grew, he was indeed as perfect as expected: tall and strong, brilliant and wise, golden-haired and beautiful to behold. His tutors were astonished at his genius, and the royal masters of arms soon found themselves outstripped by the stripling boy. Yet the Kaiser was still displeased. For the boy had always been a means to an end: the restoration of the old Duscht Empire, and two factors pulled his dream further and further from his grasp. The first were rumors and rumblings of an upstart nation, led by a feared Warlord, conquering and subjugating those in its path. And the second was something he could never has foreseen, something that surprised and confused and enraged him when he confronted it: Sanguinius had compassion.
Indeed, as a boy he had horrified his governesses and caretakers by sneaking out of the palace to play with common children in the street (wearing bulky clothes to hide his growing wings), and infuriated his father by speaking out against cruelty of the nobility and freeing the household slaves assigned to him. His kindness and strength of will drew the masses to him, yet in his gaze there was always a sense of melancholy, a sense that he was looking into the distance at something no one else could see. And it was so, for Sanguinius had dreams.
In them he saw the Earth and the suffering of its teeming masses, felt their psychic screams of pain: from a nomad child dying of radiation in the Calbian wastes, raw boils and weeping sores stark against her pale skin, from an old slave in a Duscht factory collapsing under the savage blows of laughing guards, from all the wretched of the Earth crying for salvation. And from far away amongst the inky blankness of the stars he heard similar, fainter echoes as people suffered and died on far-flung planets across the galaxy. Sanguinius wept for them, and for his own powerlessness, and as he did a great, golden figure rose from the darkness, benevolent gaze sweeping over the Earth. It reached its hands down and lifted the masses to the stars, and where there was sorrow there was now hope and opportunity. Yet it was here Sanguinius’ visions diverged: in some, he and the Duscht people were lifted into the stars with the rest of humanity to spread amongst the stars, his heart bursting with joy. In the others, the great golden figure drew his gaze to the cruelty of Duscht Jemanic, to its slave pens and pogroms and purges of the unclean, and Sanguinius felt only cold despair as the great hands turned to fists and ground the Duscht people into dust.
Though he was not much older than a boy, Sanguinius vowed this would not come to pass, that he would protect the Duscht people and pledge himself to the service of the great savior, and that he would march across the stars to save the scattered people of Terra no matter where they were.
So it was that the Warlord came to borders of Duscht Jemanic during Sanguinius’ seventeenth year.
By this time, Sanguinius was the de facto leader, having won over the court with his charisma and strength. The Kaiser was by now decrepit and spent most of his time secluded in his private chambers, emerging occasionally to make wild proclamations and rant about the lost glory of the Duscht Empire. Thus when the Warlord’s herald came to demand the surrender of the Duscht people, it was the boy-king Sanguinius at the head of the Duscht steel legions that came to parley with the Warlord.
When Sanguinius stepped into the Warlord’s command tent and saw his face, it took all of Sanguinius’ will not to fall to his knees, for he knew with certainty that this was the great golden man he had dreamed of. The Warlord, noting the young man’s hesitation, is said to have greeted him with a half-smile and asked, “Is aught the matter?” to which Sanguinius simply replied, “I dreamed of you.”
The beginning of the negotiations was simple enough, for Sanguinius was already willing to pledge fealty and offer the technology of the genesmiths to the Warlord. Yet when Sanguinius requested mercy for his people, the discussions grew heated.
The Warlord was benevolent but possessed of an iron sense of justice, and in his eyes the cruelty of the Duscht people demanded harsh sanction. The specifics are lost to history, but the argument is said to have stretched long into the night, with Sanguinius pleading, protesting, and threatening in turn, and the Warlord impassively countering each rhetorical thrust. Finally, Sanguinius offered his own life in return for mercy for his people, for he declared that as the culmination of the Baal bloodline, the sins of his house were for him to bear.
Impressed by the earnest conviction of the young man, the Warlord relented. The Warlord demanded that the slaves were to be freed and the possessions of the nobility were to be seized and distributed among them, and that each house would serve in the Warlord’s armies as penance. Sanguinius himself would be their general, and their duty would be to go where the fighting was thickest and lead the charge. Finally collapsing to his knees from relief, Sanguinius accepted without hesitation.
With the secrets and technology of the Duscht genesmiths, the Warlord perfected the final design iteration for his Astartes warriors, the Mark III augmentation pattern, of which Sanguinius and his fellow primarchs to-be Vulkan and Lion El’Jonson were the prototypes. On them, the Warlord ordered the genesmiths to lavish their full expertise and to spare no cost, pushing the boundaries of their arcane knowledge.
When the three men emerged they were indeed without any of the flaws and mutations that had plagued the earlier Astartes generations, with strength and abilities far exceeding those of their existing fellows. However, the cost was astronomical and the process too slow to be viable on a large scale, thus for the mass production Mark III pattern the improvements were mostly limited to eliminating the flaws in the Mark II, keeping a roughly similar or perhaps marginally higher level of strength. The prototype Mark III design was archived, and later used for the most elite warriors of the Imperium, the Custodes and the Grey Knights.
For the rest of the Unification Wars, Sanguinius and his legion served with distinction, winning fame for their lightning assaults against even the most entrenched of foes, the Astartes descending as streaks of crimson on wings of burning ash and flame as they followed their general into battle. With his purity of spirit and the oneness of their shared vision for humanity, he won the trust and confidence of the Warlord and became a close advisor, making his eventual elevation to Primarch a mere formality. Thus when the Warlord became the Steward of the Empty Throne and proclaimed the Great Crusade, it was the fleets of the IX Legion with Primarch Sanguinius at the helm that were in the vanguard, blazing a trail into the darkness.
Sanguinius’ legend grew as he and his legion pacified world after world, a magnificent sight to behold as he soared over the battlefield on immense white wings to slay the enemies’ generals and greatest champions. Yet it was not only for feats of arms that he was revered as the “Angel”. Worlds blighted by mutation that would have been purged by other legions instead found themselves welcomed into the safety of the Imperium by the IX Legion, and broken peoples barely recognizable as human for the first time experienced the warmth of kinship and camaraderie.
The IX Legion soon won the moniker of “Blood Angels,” for their nobility of spirit and devotion to the shared blood of mankind. Soon, tales of the great Angel and his warriors spread across the oppressed people of the galaxy, and many rose in joyous rebellion against their alien overlords when the great Angel and his red warriors appeared in the skies above their worlds.
Amongst his brother Primarchs, Sanguinius found comrades and friends of his own. Well liked or at least well respected by most of the Primarchs, Sanguinius was particularly close with Horus and Vulkan. In him, “Old Man Roboute” finally had a willing audience for his lectures on strategy and logistics, and Fulgrim found a kindred spirit with an appreciation of art and philosophy, the greatest achievements of man. Sanguinius’ relationship with Angron was complicated, troubled by Angron’s unpredictable madness. On good days, theirs was a friendly rivalry as each legion strove to claim the title of finest assault troops in the Imperium; on others, Angron viewed the Angel as an upstart pretender without respect for his elders and resented the Angel's pity, and they had to be separated lest they come to blows. Curze and Mortarion despised Sanguinius as naïve and foolish, and Sanguinius despised them in turn for obvious reasons, Mortarion in particular for he reminded Sanguinius far too much of his own father.
When the Steward with Eldrad at his side first proposed the idea of an alliance with the Eldar to his gathered Primarchs at the Council of Nikaea, Sanguinius was one of the first to speak out in favor, for he believed all sapient beings willing to work towards peace, prosperity, and the good of mankind had a rightful place within the Imperium. Later, he would be part of the great raid on the twisted realms of Nurgle, and nearly perished there in the stinking hellscape.
As the raiding party retreated to the portal with Isha in tow, they received word that Eldrad and his council of seers holding the portal open in realspace had come under ferocious daemonic assault, and that the portal was failing rapidly. As the allied forces rushed to the exit, Sanguinius lingered trying to save the lives of several wounded Exarchs and Astartes. It was only through the combined heroics of Lion El’Jonson, Jaghatai Khan, and the Phoenix Lords Asurmen and Baharroth that he survived, as they carved a path through the hordes of slavering monstrosities to drag the Angel through the collapsing portal.
The next few years represented the high water mark of the Great Crusade as the Imperium expanded at an unprecedented rate, fueled by their new allies and technology. World after world was brought into the Imperium, and Sanguinius dared to hope that his dream of a gentler future could truly come to pass.
Then the War of the Beast came.
The hordes of the Orks, Chaos Eldar, and Dark Eldar smashed through the fledging Imperium, plunging it into darkness, and where there was hope and opportunity before there was now only a desperate struggle against extinction. The Blood Angels fought as they always had, leading the attack in the most vicious fighting, the tip of the Imperium’s spear, and inspiring fellow troops through deeds of valor and sacrifice. Many a Warboss, Archon, or Chaos Seer met his end at the blades of a squad of Blood Angels, only for the Astartes to be surrounded and cut down by the enraged foe. The loss of leaders sowed disruption and chaos in the enemy forces, yet for all the Blood Angels’ sacrifice it could only slow the enemy’s inexorable advance.
Those within the Imperium who fell traitor learned that Sanguinius was not all kindness, and found themselves hunted without mercy by the vengeful Blood Angels. Perhaps it was because the traitors sought to tear down his cherished dream of a peaceful future, or perhaps it was because they spat on the mercy and acceptance of the Steward that Sanguinius and his Duscht people had sacrificed so much to earn back on Terra long ago. Whatever the reason, he reserved a special savagery for those who turned their backs on the Imperium. It is said that after witnessing the carnage wrought on an entire regiment of Traitor Guard by a single squad of Blood Angels, a shocked Imperial Army general called High Command to ask “Where are the Angels I was promised? Who are these flesh tearers?”
And so the war ground on. Peace was a distant dream, and for the Men and Eldar of the Imperium there was only cold, quiet determination, defying a cruel fate in the face of a hateful and malicious universe. Worlds burned, trillions died, and across the galaxy the Blood Angels could be found neck deep in the thickest battles. Many battles were on the most populated worlds of the Imperium, and the Blood Angels would fulfill their devotion to mankind as they fought in rearguard actions to save civilians and evacuees, these valiant defenses all too often becoming last stands.
Captain Malakim and his doomed 29th Company became everlasting symbols of this devotion when they gave their lives to the man securing the evacuation of hive-world Ancalagon. Ancalagon had been the greatest world of Subsector Urulok, and the invasion of the world was particularly savage, representing the greatest concentration of Ork and Chaos Eldar forces in the subsector. The Imperial defenders led by the Blood Angels were inevitably pushed back to the walls of the last hive, with millions of civilians yet to evacuate. Primarch Corvus Corax, commanding forces in a nearby subsector, repeatedly ordered the remaining Imperial forces to retreat and regroup to conserve their strength, yet Captain Malakim refused, for doing so would have doomed the millions of civilians to butchery or enslavement at the hands of the invaders. The Imperial defense held just long enough for the final transports to clear the spaceport, and as the hive walls were overrun the Chaos Seer leading the Chaos Eldar touched Captain Malakim’s mind to taunt him and savor his despair. Yet the alien only found calm and peace, and in response Captain Malakim sent out a final vox transmission.
Across the ruined world and the Imperial starships high above the words rang out, “For those we cherish, we die in glory!” Minutes later, enormous explosions visible from orbit erupted across the planet as hidden Cyclonic Torpedoes detonated, remotely triggered by the cessation of the heartbeat of the last Blood Angel defender. The massive loss crippled the Ork and Chaos Eldar forces in the subsector, and the regiments later raised from the evacuees won renown as some of the fiercest in the Imperial Army with their warcry, “Remember the blessed 29th!”
Through it all, Sanguinius could be found leading his Blood Angels in the most perilous of missions, or offering a kind word to faltering Guardsmen and a gentle touch to traumatized refugees. He ignored the criticisms that his men’s sacrifices were wasteful and pointless, the sneers that they could have done much more had they only the wisdom to regroup and fight another day. For Sanguinius knew that each civilian saved was another who could fight, build, and carry on the legacy of man, a precious spark of humanity, and that in a war as horrific as this morale and hope were as powerful as any weapon or starship or fortress.
Yet his men noticed a change in their beloved Primarch, subtle as it was, a restlessness and grimness he could not always hide. For Sanguinius’ visions were growing stronger, and each night, pounding at his consciousness, he saw his own death again and again. He knew it would be at the hands of a great monstrosity as he stood between it and the Steward, and that his time was growing short. Death held no fear for Sanguinius, but it was the fate of mankind that gave him pause; humanity was balanced on the knife’s edge, extinction a mere slip away. Even if the gentler future of his dreams was realized, Sanguinius knew he would not be there to see it, but he would give everything to ensure it would come to pass.
In the last days of the war, as the unstoppable hordes of the Beast, Dark Eldar, and Chaos Eldar converged on humanity’s final bastion, the Primarchs and their legions raced home to Terra to fortify their homeworld for the coming onslaught. Across the soil of Terra, the Men and Eldar of the Imperium prepared for their last stand, standing side by side to shout defiance at the hatred of the galaxy:
Here, a squad of Guardsmen drawn from a dozen worlds of the Imperium place sandbags around a hospital in the shadow of a towering Wraithlord, pausing occasionally to marvel at the gleaming colossus;
Bonesingers weave armored shells around the frames of hulking Imperial tanks, as nearby techpriests chitter with anxiety;
In a long abandoned church a Word Bearer Chaplain preaches to a motley crowd of humans and Eldar, rainbow lights from ancient stained-glass dancing on his brow, fire and ecstasy burning in his breast;
A mother comforts her weeping child as they are shepherded onto an evacuation ship under the watchful eye of an Ultramarine, the boy still reaching for the picture he dropped of his fallen father;
At the edge of their camp, in an old garden under the light of the stars, a tall Aspect Warrior kisses an astonished guardswomen and smiles at her joy;
And far above in the night sky, the greatest fleets of Men and Eldar float amidst the gloom, blotting out the stars with their number, ready to stand and spit light and fire against the coming forces of the dark.
Secluded in the great halls in the Imperial Palace, the Steward with his Primarchs and Eldrad with his seers laid their plans for the coming invasion. Agreements were made and bitter arguments were fought. Many of the Primarchs requested the honor of defending the Imperial Palace itself, and the Steward heard them each in turn, from the impassioned pleas of Lorgar to the cold growls of Dorn.
Yet when the Steward turned to Sanguinius, expecting a fervent request for the honor from his old friend, he found only tranquility. Sanguinius rose from his seat, and said, “That I shall die before the walls of this palace is beyond doubt. My destiny comes and I go to it with peace in my heart.”
The Steward recognized the calm conviction in the Angel’s eyes. It was the same look he had seen so many years ago when he first met Sanguinius as the Warlord in his command tent, and Sanguinius had offered his life for mercy for his people. It was the look of a man who had wholly accepted and welcomed his death for a greater purpose, and would go to it without fear and regret.
Moved by his words, the Steward accepted the request. So it was that when the Chaos armada forced its way to Terra and its unending hordes began their assault on the Imperial Palace, they found the proud Blood Angels manning the great walls, with Sanguinius, his elite First Company, and the legendary Custodes defending the Eternity Gate.
The Beast was possessed of greater cunning and primal intelligence than most of his species, and began the assault by probing the defense of the palace, looking for a weakness. When none were found, he sent his the masses of his most expendable troops to overwhelm the defense with the crushing weight numbers.
But Dorn and Perturabo had done their work well. Automated defense turrets gunned down hordes of Orks before they even reached the firing range of the Blood Angels, and those that survived ended up in carefully designed killing fields with no cover and no escape. Overhead, Ork jets and stormboyz crashed screaming off the palace void shields, or were frozen by stasis fields to be picked off by lance batteries at leisure.
Yet for all of Dorn and Perturabo’s defensive genius, the palace was simply not designed to hold off numbers of this magnitude, for who could have predicted a Waaagh comprised of a full half of the Orks in the galaxy? After several days of fighting a flaw emerged: the immense piles of dead Orks were obscuring crucial firing angles for the defensive turrets, and had grown so tall in some places that the greenskins were using them to climb up the previously impregnable walls. The Imperial Palace was too vast to fully hold against so numerous a foe, thus Sanguinius ordered his forces to withdraw to the secondary defensive positions, cunningly designed to minimize the advantage of numbers and to funnel the enemy towards the entrenched elites defending the Eternity Gate. Thus it was the days after the breaching of the walls that the historians consider the true Siege of the Imperial Palace.
The first day of the siege consisted of more Orks, though now they included more than just mere boyz. In the Orkish hordes now came nobz and weirdboyz, flash gitz and kommandoz, all roaring for battle and eager to spill the blood of humanity.
The first greenskins to enter the Grand Plaza of the Eternity Gate were greeted with a magnificent sight before they were gunned down: the white-winged Angel surrounded by his warriors resplendent in red, while beside them stood the gold-clad figures of the Custodes with their Lord Commander Arik Taranis at the forefront, holding aloft the great Banner of Unification, its length equal to full five Astartes. Behind them, a giant Aquila spread its wings on the massive adamantium Eternity Gate, protecting the Throne Room command center where the Steward and Eldrad commanded the forces of Terra, telepathically linked with thousands of their commanders to coordinate with perfect precision and unison.
The two sides met in the middle of the plaza with a resounding crash, howling as their blades sought the blood of their hated foes. Chainswords tore flesh, power klawz ripped bodies, and the dead and wounded were trampled underfoot in the savage melee. Lord Commander Taranis won the greatest deed of the day, slaying the Warboss leading the Orks by impaling him on the Banner of Unification and lifting his still screaming body into the air for all to see, as Sanguinius held off the Warboss’ nob retinue.
By nightfall, the tide of Orks slowed, for their poor eyesight would have put them at a great disadvantage against the enhanced Astartes and the Beast would not waste his troops here. As the last Ork died gurgling with a sword rammed through its chest, the defenders found a moment of respite to pray for the dead, celebrate the deeds of the living, and prepare for the next day.
The start of the second day consisted of more Orks, though by mid-morning it was clear something was amiss. The Ork forces were in disarray, even for their crude standard of organization, and reports came from the secondary Blood Angel positions that an unknown force was attacking the Orks in the rear. When lithe figures in black cut down the last of the Orks and stepped into the great plaza, it became all to clear: the Dark Eldar had come. In their sadistic greed, they had seen a opportunity to capture the unfathomable prizes of the Steward and Eldrad at the same time, and believing the Blood Angels to be worn down they had come in full force to break the defenders.
The Dark Eldar were a deadly foe: Astartes and Custodes died screaming as the enemy weapons inflicted agony that overcame even their enhanced physiologies and mental conditioning. Yet the vile invaders had blundered in their greed and haste: for all their lethal skill and precision, the Dark Eldar were not assault troops, their equipment and tactics unsuited for the grinding attrition of siege warfare, and Sanguinius and his scions quickly showed them their error.
With no space to maneuver and dodge in the packed plaza, sculpted, graceful bodies shaped by the finest of Comorragh’s flesh arts were crushed under ceramite and steel as easily as any Ork boy. Three entire Wych cults were eradicated that day, with Sanguinius personally cutting down the three Succubi that led them. As night fell, once again the enemy withdrew, consumed by infighting as the ever-scheming Archons used the chaos to usurp weakened rivals or settle old scores. There was no levity this night for the defenders: their wounds and exhaustion prevented such efforts, and battered armor and weapons required their attention.
The dawn of the third day was unusually still, the Orks and Dark Eldar nowhere to be found. For a moment, the defenders wondered if the xenos had retreated to seek an easier target, but when the morning quiet was shattered by the pounding of unholy war drums, eldritch howls, ululating chants, and gibbering laughter, and the xenos’ absence became clear.
The dread legions of Chaos crested the great stairway of the plaza in a screeching tide of twisted flesh: hordes of savage Bloodletters, sinuous Daemonettes, and rotted Plaguebearers, howling and eager to feast on the souls of the defenders. Beside them were mobs of cultists, cowardly, wretched things skulking in the shadows of their masters and chanting hymns of praise to their dark gods, hoping to gain a few scraps of favor.
Throughout the horde, the defenders glimpsed the Chaos Eldar, impossibly beautiful and perfect, their every movement liquid and effortless, their flawless faces belying the wild and fickle cruelty within. Ceramite gauntlets tightened around the hilt of swords and bolters as the Astartes gazed with hatred on a row of hulking figures, their fallen comrades the Traitor Marines. At their front strode the Arch-Heretic Luther, once honored as First Captain of the Dark Angels and Sword of Caliban, now reviled as the Dark Oracle and First Traitor.
Above the teeming corrupted multitude stood the four greatest servants of the Ruinous Powers, looming over their minions: Kairos Fateweaver, the ancient Lord of Change; Scabeiathrax the Bloated, the laughing and virulent Great Unclean One; Zarakynel the Bringer of Torments, the most favored Keeper of Secrets; and the mighty Ka’Bandha, bloodiest of Khorne’s Bloodthirsters.
Such a sight could have driven men to madness or despair; this was an army to crush entire sectors and devour the souls of species. Yet the Blood Angels and Custodes raised their blades aloft and shouted warcries and challenges at the dark horde, spitting defiance and insults in the faces of the dark gods. For they had armored themselves in faith and duty, purpose and loyalty, and there were no flaws upon their souls where weakness could take hold.
With the mournful blare of warhorns, the daemonic forces broke rank and thundered through the plaza. Astartes and Custodes had only moments to ready themselves before the wave crashed into their ranks. Daemonic hellblades tore through ceramite with unholy strength, impaling Astartes’ twin hearts in a single blow. Blasts of swirling warpfire incinerated men where they stood, armor and all, and still others were melted into puddles of festering ooze by hellish plagues and toxins.
Yet for every loss they suffered, the defenders retaliated tenfold. The searing touch of holy promethium and plasma cleansed corrupted flesh, and ancient power weapons sang their songs of death and lightning as the Astartes hewed through the enemy ranks. Vanguard veterans descended from on high, lashing out with bolt and blade and scattering the enemy before them, while Librarians wove great nimbuses of lightning and incinerated scores of demons with a gesture.
It is said that only in the crucible of trials and hardship does a man find his true worth, and humanity’s darkest hour also proved its finest. The Blood Angels fought with the fury of humanity itself, and their deeds that day would echo through history, to be sung of in the future even as the embers of civilization smoldered and the darkness drew near.
Chief Librarian Sandelon was the first to slay one of the Greater Daemons. As the battle swirled around him, the great librarian found himself facing Scabeiathrax, and without a flicker of hesitation he hurled himself at the massive, bloated daemon. The Blood Angel tore great gouges into the beast’s stinking flesh with his force staff and lances of crimson lightning, skillfully dodging between the beast’s cumbersome counterstrikes. However, for a heartbeat, the librarian was distracted as he turned to parry the strikes of a Chaos Astartes attacking his flank, and the momentarily lull in his defenses was enough: the Great Unclean One skewered Sandelon at the end of its massive, rusted cleaver, chortling to itself as its prey writhed on the end of its weapon. But Sandelon would not die.
With his rage and sheer force of will he anchored his soul to his dying body, and grasping the cleaver with both hands impaled himself further, bringing him within striking range of the daemon’s head. With a roar he rammed his force staff through the daemon’s skull, and focused all his pain and rage into a maelstrom of searing lightning through the staff.
The greater daemon howled and twisted in pain and fear as it burned from the inside out, slabs of flesh blackening and sloughing from its massive body, until at last it was nothing more than piles of charred, smoking meat, and its soul was sent screaming back into the realms of the warp. Only then did Sandelon close his eyes, a grim smile of satisfaction on his lips, and allow his soul to depart, his ravaged body at last going limp as he left to join his fallen brothers.
Elsewhere on the battlefield, Captain Azkaellon of the First Company, famed leader of the Sanguinary Guard, slew a dozen Chaos Lords in succession as they stepped forth to challenge his Primarch while Sanguinius dueled with Luther. Their swords clashed for the better part of an hour, great bursts of light and warp energy erupted from the points of contact between the radiant blade of gold and the cruel blade of black. Finally, Sanguinius found an opening in Luther’s defenses, and with a flourish he disarmed the Arch-Heretic, before severing both the traitor’s arms with a sweep of his burning blade.
Zarakynel was slain by Commander Taranis, the mighty Custodes parrying and dashing through the flashing, quicksilver strikes of the Keeper of Secrets. With a single blow of his right hand, the Commander bisected the daemon at the waist, all while firm grasping the Banner of Unification in his left.
Yet for all the deeds of heroism performed that day, the greatest was surely the Banishing of Ka’Bandha. The towering Bloodthirster was more akin to a force of nature, its great axe and nine-tailed scourge were streaks of blood as it cleaved through scores of Astartes and Custodes with contemptuous ease, and the Imperial defenders were forced to cede ground to it rampaged across the plaza.
Filled with fury at the deaths of so many of his men, Sanguinius rallied his Sanguinary Guard and together they crashed into the path of the berserk daemon. The blades of Astartes and daemon lashed out, slashing and hacking, as Sanguinius and his Guard pressed the daemon. As they fought, a score of the Sanguinary Guard were slain, each a mighty hero the Blood Angels in his own right. Yet not even Ka’Bandha could stand in the face of so many lethal warriors, and it was forced back, bleeding from dozens of wounds.
Flapping its great leather wings, it launched itself into the air seeking a respite, but Sanguinius followed, chasing the massive daemon into the sky on wings of white. In the air, they clashed and broke away, seeing greater height before clashing again. The nimbler Angel darted around the heavy Bloodthirster, swooping and twisting, dodging the daemon’s blows and inflicting a dozen more wounds on the beast. Sensing the daemon was slowing, Sanguinius pressed his advantage, and in a blur of speed, he slashed through the daemon’s right wing, sending the beast hurtling down to the plaza far below.
It landed with a thundering crash, crushing the granite and gouging a huge crater, and a few seconds later Sanguinius landed with his own crash, driving his boot into the daemon’s head with all the force of his dive. As the daemon struggled to rise, faithful Azkaellon slashed through the daemon’s remaining wing as Sanguinius drove his sword through its throat. With the beast weakened, Sanguinius flung aside his blade and grabbed the Bloodthirster by its legs and throat, and with a heroic burst of strength lifted the beast above his head and dashed him against his knee, tearing the daemon in two with his force. The warriors of Chaos looked on in shock as Sanguinius flung the two pieces of the mighty demon into their ranks, while Ka’Bandha's soul was flung screaming into the warp to beg forgiveness at the feet of Khorne.
And so the battle raged on. Kairos Fateweaver was the last of the Greater Daemons to fall, screaming in rage and disbelief as it’s carefully laid plans were ruined, its frail body pulverized by the thunder hammers of a dozen vengeful Blood Angel Terminators.
Though their greatest champions had been cast down, the forces of Chaos did not relent. Night fell and there was no respite that evening, for daemons did not suffer from frailties like fear or exhaustion, and their mortal servants would never dare retreat lest they invite the displeasure of their fickle masters. Long into the night, the sounds of battle echoed through the darkened plaza, the shadowy figures of daemon and Astartes illuminated only by the brief flashes of power weapons and bolter muzzles, and the ghostly glow of plasma and warpfire.
Dawn broke as the last of the daemons were slain and banished to the warp, and the first rays of the sun touched on a hellish scene. The plaza was a mire of gore and viscera, so thick that the granite floor could not be seen beneath clotting pools of purple and red and brown, an accumulation of blood spilled over three days of ceaseless battle. Greasy tongues of black smoke reached into the sky from pyres of corpses fifty feet high, as alien, traitor, and daemon alike were fed into the fire. Amongst the dead stood the few survivors, lonely figures of red and gold, the proud First Company of the Blood Angels and the legendary Adeptus Custodes reduced to a meager handful. They knelt above the bodies of their fallen brothers, the dead outnumbering the living, and no words were spoken as each man offered his silent prayers to the fallen. The honored dead, who just a few hours ago had been friends, comrades, and battle-brothers, were now reduced to corpses, cold and silent, by the savagery of the xenos, the treachery of man, and the hatred of Chaos.
Yet even in this time of their greatest weariness and sorrow, there was no time for rest. Frantic calls came from the perimeter, voices raw from battle and disbelief as the scouts reported a monstrous Ork the size of a building advancing towards the Eternity Gate, surrounded by a horde of Nobz as big as Warbosses. The Imperial defenders gritted their teeth and gripped their swords, rising on legs worn from days of relentless fighting. The Beast itself had come. Yet when they turned to their Primarch for orders, they found that Sanguinius was still kneeling amongst the dead. They shouted but he did not hear, they shook him but he did not feel; for the visions had come again, stronger than ever before. They assailed his mind, overwhelming thought, a thousand variations and permutations of his impending death: crushed beneath a foot the size of a land speeder, impaled on the end of jagged claws, swatted out of the air to be hacked down by swarming Nobz, and a thousand other ends too brutal to imagine. Any lesser man would have been driven to madness by the phantom pain, but Sanguinius summoned all his will and forced the visions back, suppressing them until they were not gone but at least tolerable, and his mind was his own once more. He rose on unsteady legs to the relief of his men, and together the defenders pulled back from across the plaza. Sanguinius shouted orders as the Astartes and Custodes readied their weapons and gathered in a tight defensive circle before the Eternity Gate itself. Here, they would stand. Here, they would die.
The Beast announced its presence long before it reached the plaza, the ground itself dully reverberating with the weight of its steps. Steadily, the tremors grew stronger, until at least the Beast strode into view, granite cracking and splintering beneath its steps, its horde of hulking Nobz following close behind. Partway into the plaza, the Orks stopped, and for a few moments an eerie silence hung over the plaza as the two sides surveyed each other.
The Imperial defenders gazed for the first time on the monstrous Beast, whom before they had only heard of through hearsay and scattered reports. It was even more ferocious in the flesh: a towering monstrosity almost forty feet tall, defying all laws of nature and biology. Tusks as wide as a man jutted from its jaw and its gargantuan frame bulged with enough alien muscle to tear apart an Imperial Knight. It bore no weapons, instead grafting individual power field generators onto its jagged claws, and its crude armor was formed from the plates of destroyed Baneblades and Titans.
Even a spirit as pure and tireless as Sanguinius could be worn down. For days, he had faced the most terrible and nightmarish foes of humanity in endless combat, seen thousands of cherished friends and comrades butchered, resisted haunting visions of death and madness that would have broken any lesser man; and as Sanguinius gazed upon the overwhelming and terrible form of the Beast, for the first time he felt doubt.
What if it had all been useless? What if all their struggle and sacrifice was for naught, and the light of humanity was snuffed out? What if he failed?
Sensing an opening, the faintest blemish on Sanguinius’ soul, the dark gods of Chaos struck. Creeping tendrils of dark thought seeped into his mind, offers and seductions, promises of power enough to fulfill all his dreams.
Kneel before me, boomed a voice of hot iron and raw power, and I shall give you and your soldiers such strength that none may stand before you, and the whole galaxy shall know peace under the might of your legions. And it was so, for Sanguinius himself leading the invincible legions of the Imperium to victory after glorious victory, sweeping away the enemies of man until only an iron peace remained, enforced under his watchful eye.
Join me, said a voice of chortling mirth and boundless life, and man will never again fear the blight of mortality or the frailties of flesh, and you shall be free to spread across the galaxy to spread life wherever you tread. And it was so, for Sanguinius saw joyous families, untouched by age or weakness, venturing forth on great journeys of discovery, colonizing virgin worlds and facing the challenges of the galaxy with optimism and camaraderie.
Serve me, rasped a voice of eldritch cunning and ancient wisdom, and I shall grant you wisdom and foresight, and all the knowledge of the lost golden age of man. And it was so, for Sanguinius saw all the ancient wonders of humanity restored as man, filled with wisdom and understanding, walked among the stars to reclaim the galaxy with knowledge and technology.
Come with me, said a voice of whispering silk and untamed passion, and humanity shall be made tall and strong and golden, shaped in your image and as perfect as you. And it was so, for Sanguinius saw golden men and women, as tall and strong as he, striding across the stars without fear, their wings carrying them over the skies of distant worlds
The voices grew louder, each clamoring to be heard, sometimes working in concert to sway him, sometimes working to undermine the others. But they agreed on one thing: the way forward was so simple, so clear, and Sanguinius only need reach out to grasp the power and opportunity offered to him. Sanguinius was granted one final vision: he saw himself in the Throne Room of the palace, warpfire dancing in his eyes, the power of the Warp overflowing from his body. Before him, a bleeding Steward kneeled at his feet, and to his side the headless body of Eldrad lay discarded, the blind eyes of the severed head frozen in an accusatory glare. Reaching down, Sanguinius hauled the Steward upright as the voices exulted and laughed, and with a leering smile shoved his golden sword through the Steward’s chest.
No.
In an instant the voices recoiled, and Sanguinius’ eyes snapped open. He had not realized they were closed. Only creatures as foul and debased as you would think that virtue could be gifted, that loyalty could be bought and bartered, he thundered in his mind. Strength does not come from might of arms, but from clarity of purpose and force of will. Joy does not come from a long life, but from a life well-lived. Wisdom does not come from arcane secrets, but from experience hard won in the trials of life. Perfection does not come through fairness of form and mind, but from struggle, sacrifice, and the will to better oneself, the noblest virtues of man. Your pathetic entreaties have failed, false gods. Flee back to your twisted realms and think upon your failure, that for all your supposed power you could not sway this man to your cause. Know that though you have thrown all your greatest champions and sorceries and horrors against the bastion of humanity, we live on, and that man will rise from these ashes, stronger for having risen above such adversity. Know that man will one day conquer his baser self, that you will wither and starve, and far in the future when you have long disappeared, the light of humanity will continue to shine from the stars, until the universe itself comes to a close.
And the voices howled and cursed, the Ruinous Powers swearing bloody vengeance upon Sanguinius and his kin. He took a moment to savor their impotent rage and smiled briefly, and then with a shout he banished the Chaos gods from his mind.
Though the dark gods had whispered their lies for what seemed like hours, only moments had passed in reality, and both the orks and the Imperial defenders were stirring. The horde of Nobz bellowed war chants and smashed their weapons together, raising a crashing din of guttural roars and ringing metal. The Beast itself was still motionless, its eyes surveying the Astartes with malevolent cunning.
Around Sanguinius, his men were springing into motion. Captain Azkaellon shouted for reinforcements through his vox receiver, calling for the secondary Blood Angel forces within the Imperial Palace to hurry to the plaza and for the assistance of any other Imperial forces in the vicinity. The few remaining librarians readied their powers, sparks swirling about their temples and fingers, as Astartes and Custodes checked armor and weapons battered from days of combat, adjusted sights, and muttered quiet prayers.
The ground shook as the Beast finally began to move. With slow, ponderous steps, it walked out in front of the horde, waving the eager Nobz back as they tried to follow; one Nob foolhardy enough to follow was pulverized into a smear by a casual swing of the Beast’s massive fist.
Across the plaza, Sanguinius did likewise, striding out alone against the protests of his men, shaking off Azkaellon as his captain begged him not to face the Beast alone. The Steward in the Throne Room had sensed the presence of the Beast, and as he touched Sanguinius’ mind he knew in an instant that the Angel meant to face the Beast unaided. The Steward urgently ordered his old friend to retreat to the Throne Room so that they might face it together, but Sanguinius refused, for to do so would have endangered the very survival of humanity.
The Steward was psychically linked with thousands of his commanders as he orchestrated the Imperial forces across Terra, and it was only through his military genius that they held, the armies of men and Eldar acting in perfect unison as they threw back wave after wave of fouls xenos and the forces of Chaos. Distracting the Steward would imperil all the forces of Terra and the survival of humanity, for even if the Beast were slain, Terra would fall should the rest of the planet be lost. Knowing he could not sway Sanguinius’ decision, the Steward could only powerlessly observe as Sanguinius bade him farewell, and met the Beast in the middle of the plaza.
Man cannot be brave without fear, nor can he have faith without doubt, and once again fear and doubt welled in Sanguinius’ heart as the terrible figure of the Beast grew larger in his vision. Not fear or doubt for himself, for death held no sway over him. No, it was fear for the future of man, for their fate hung in the balance, the existence of his entire species to be decided in the coming moments. It was doubt for the very meaning of his struggle, for while Sanguinius would gladly sacrifice himself a thousand times over, he wondered if even his greatest efforts could alter the cruel whims of fate.
But unlike before, when these weaknesses had gnawed on his resolve and allowed an opening for the whispers of Chaos, he now let them pass through him, accepting and facing down these unfamiliar feelings. And as they swirled inside them, he found a rock hard seed of hope deep in the core of his being. For Sanguinius believed in the spirit of man: in man’s resiliency, the sheer dogged stubbornness and will to endure; in his nobility, the greatness of heart and will to strive towards a better future; in his capacity for hope, the daring to dream even in the face of unfathomable darkness. And he believed in the Steward, his liege, his friend, his brother.
Thus from the dark waters of doubt did the great rock of faith rise, renewed and immovable. Sanguinius felt his fears for the future of man dissipate, for he knew that humanity would carry on and flourish far into the future even without him to protect it, and with fresh eyes, he gazed upon the Beast and knew that even such a monster could not stand in the way of humanity’s ascent. Fear became bravery and tranquility; his mind was his own, his will was pure. In the middle of the plaza, as the Beast loomed over him, Sanguinius took a slow breath and savored his last quiet moment.
The tension broke as Sanguinius burst into motion, moving so quickly he was a blur even to the enhanced senses of his Astartes. With all his righteous fury and strength he surged into the air and slashed at the Beast’s head, the massive Ork barely catching the strike in time with its armored fist. The Beast staggered back several steps from the force of the blow as the Blood Angels and Custodes looked on in awe at the power of the Primarch, and the Ork’s features twisted into a leering grin of approval, acknowledging Sanguinius’ strength. It struck back, faster than anything that huge had right to be, so fast even Sanguinius barely had time to react. The servos in Sanguinius’ armor whirred and screeched as mechanical muscle and his own superhuman frame struggled to parry the Ork’s counterblow, the power fields around the Beast’s claws crackling as they skimmed the golden relic armor.
And so the Beast and the Angel fought, the smaller frame of Sanguinius darting and striking between the Beast’s thunderbolt blows. The duel stretched on, with neither side seeming to take the advantage, and the Blood Angels allowed themselves to hope, to believe that their Primarch could win. Such hope was futile. Sanguinius could not have defeated the Beast alone even were he rested and at his full strength, perhaps fighting the monster to a standstill at best. But Sanguinius was not rested; he was wounded and weary from days of battle against the most savage foes of man, and as the duel continued blood trickled from his armor as days-old wounds reopened under the ferocious strain of combat.
A low rumble came from the Beast then, a sound of grating iron and gloating amusement, and the Astartes realized it was laughing. The Beast’s fist whipped forward in a blur, catching Sanguinius in a misstep as the massive punch caught the Angel in the chest, and he was thrown hurtling through the air, crashing through one of the few remaining statues in the plaza before tumbling to a halt on the shattered granite.
With a cry, the remaining Astartes and Custodes rushed forward to the aid of their Primarch, determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible, and from the other end of the plaza the horde of Nobz broke ranks as well, no longer able to contain their bloodlust. As Sanguinius struggled to his feet, armor cracked and blood matting his golden hair and white wings, he gazed into the mocking black eyes of his hated foe and he vowed that the Beast would not leave the plaza without bleeding dearly. In a moment, Azkaellon was at his side, pulling him to his feet, and Sanguinius joined his men in their final charge across the plaza.
Even as exhausted as they were, the Blood Angels each fought with unmatched valor: individual Astartes held off a dozen Nobz as others hurled themselves at the Beast, sacrificing themselves to try to force an opening in the monster’s defenses. The Beast was more than eager to oblige, roaring as it swiped left and right, crushing scores of Astartes with each blow. Before the unstoppable blows of the Beast and the crushing numbers of Nobz, the defenders were forced back across the plaza, until they were backed up to the steps before the Eternity Gate itself.
As his men died to the last around him, Sanguinius finally sensed an opening in the Beast’s defenses. He made a quick gesture at Azkaellon who understood immediately, and the captain flew into the air, flame roaring from his jump pack as he slashed at the Beast’s face, distracting the Ork.
As the faithful captain was crushed by the monster’s fist, Sanguinius summoned the final reserves of his strength and leaped with a great flap of his wings. Blinded by the smoke and flame in its eyes, the Beast was caught unaware as Sanguinius descended from on high and plunged his golden blade through crude armor plates, deep into its chest, seeking the heart that lay beneath. The Beast roared in pain as the sword carved open a massive wound, thick spurts of blood bursting forth, but as Sanguinius drew his sword from the Ork’s chest it caught in the sternum bone, and the momentary pause was enough. The Beast’s hand shot up and seized the Primarch from the air, pinning Sanguinius within the massive fist.
Outside the plaza, the other Blood Angel companies had rushed to aid of their Primarch and First Company upon hearing Azkaellon’s call for reinforcements. They neared the plaza as Sanguinius was dueling the Beast, but they found their way blocked by the horde of Nobz, and even with all their desperate strength, they could not break through the wall of hulking greenskins, for the Orks were simply too savage and too many. It was only upon the arrival of Leman Russ and Lorgar, the only two Primarchs close enough to respond to the call for aid, and their legions of Space Wolves and Word Bearers that the reinforcements were finally able to make headway.
Together, the Blood Angels, Space Wolves, and Word Bearers hacked their way through the Orks and crested the stairs to the plaza just in time to see the Beast grab Sanguinius in its massive fist, the plaza strewn with masses of dead greenskins and lifeless bodies clad in red and gold. As they looked on in stunned horror, Sanguinius turned his head to face them, and against all their expectations, he gently smiled. It was an expression of true warmth, forgiveness, and trust that shone from Sanguinius’ beatific face, a gesture that he did not blame them and that he placed his faith with them to safeguard humanity. In that final moment, as tears welled in their eyes, the Astartes could only watch helplessly as the Beast’s fist closed, and the monster ripped Sanguinius into shreds.
With cries of grief, the Imperial forces threw themselves at the greenskins in a blind rage. Leman Russ led the assault, tearing his way through the Nobz to body of Lord Commander Arik Taranis of the Custodes. There, he seized the fallen Banner of Unification and raised the great standard for the last time, rallying the Imperial forces forward. Yet for all their fury, the Astartes could not cut through the Orks in time, and were forced to watch, helpless once again, as the Beast smashed through the adamantium of the Eternity Gate to face the Steward and Eldrad within the Throne Room.
As the last Ork fell and the Imperial forces made their way to the ruins of the Eternity gate amidst corpses of crimson and gold, they found Eldrad perched upon massive chest of the lifeless Beast, and the Steward kneeling over a red ruin, cradling the last few pieces of his old friend. Later, Eldrad would confess that they never could have defeated the Beast were it not for the great wound Sanguinius carved into its chest, and in his quiet moments the Steward, later the Emperor, wondered if his friend and brother might have been saved, had he only chosen a different Primarch and legion to defend the palace, or sallied forth from the Throne Room to save the Angel as he dueled the Beast.
In the aftermath of the Battle of Terra, as the forces of Chaos were defeated and driven back from the planet in disarray, the Blood Angels spirited away the remains of Sanguinius to the shattered land of what had once been Duscht Jemanic. There, the garden of the old Jemanic Palace, they buried Sanguinius in his favorite childhood refuge, a solitary place with a creek, quiet and clear, and where the trees were very old.
As word spread of the Primarch’s death, cries rose from across the Imperium for a great state funeral so that all might participate in grieving and remembering the beloved Angel. The Steward agreed, urging the remaining Blood Angel captains that such gesture would help the survivors and citizens of the Imperium move on from the loss, but they stubbornly refused. Sanguinius would have wanted the resources and efforts of the Imperium focused on rebuilding and moving forward, not spent on lingering in the past, and besides, there was not enough left to fill a casket.
Today, Sanguinius is the most dearly loved of the Primarchs, revered as the Martyr Angel for his great sacrifice. Secrets do not last long in the Imperium, and upon his burial site, where Sanguinius was to rest undisturbed for eternity, there now stands a small chapel, built with reluctance by the Blood Angels when word of their Primarch’s resting place was revealed. It was, after all, better than erecting a massive cathedral there as many demanded. Pilgrims wait for years on end for a chance to enter and glimpse one of the holiest relics in the Imperium: a single white pinion feather from one of Sanguinius’ wings, miraculously untouched by blood or dirt during the four days of the Siege of the Imperial Palace.
Sanguinius is also honored in the yearly celebration of the Sanguinala; coincidentally, his death came three days after his birth on the Terran calendar, so for this span of time all are encouraged to celebrate the Angel’s life and great deeds, and to share in his spirit of goodwill towards all. Traditional decorations of red are hung in homes, and children are told that if they are good, the spirit of Sanguinius will visit them as they sleep and leave presents under their beds.
As for the Blood Angels, the fierce spirit of their Primarch still burns within their twin hearts as brilliantly as it did ten millennia ago. The First Company of their chapter is called the Death Company, in memory of the sacrifice of the entire company when they died at Sanguinius’ side long ago, and when veterans are inducted into this august group they swear the Oath of Black Rage, a remembrance of the helpless grief and fury they felt as they watched their beloved Primarch die.
Amongst Imperial citizens, they are celebrated for their compassion, virtue, and defense of the common man; the melancholy Blood Angel clad in red is a popular figure in Imperial media, most recently in the popular romance Eventide, where a young Eldar farseer is caught between the affections of a rugged Space Wolf and noble Blood Angel. Yet for all the adoration and honors rightly bestowed upon the Blood Angels for their undying defense of the Imperium, the old veterans have begun to wonder if the younger Astartes are becoming vainglorious, and if they are losing the true meaning of sacrifice. Pride is the surest road to damnation, and so they renew their vows of humility and loyalty, remaining vigilant not only in the defense of man but in defense of their own souls.
Beneath the romance of their devotion and nobility is the eternal struggle against the forces of chaos and entropy, the unending duty of the Blood Angels. Like Sanguinius before them, they fight for the dream of humanity even as it stretches before them into an uncertain future. For this dream, they fight and bleed and die to hold the darkness at bay, to halt the dying of the light, even if it is only for a moment.
Lion
- Astartes. Franj born
Perturabo
Perturabo of the Macedonian Garrison was not a man truly cut out for the military life, although it is hard to say exactly what sort of life he was cut out for.
Macedonia was an odd case at that point in the constant wars of the Age of Strife. Barely a century and a half ago it had been a conquered territory of the Great Everlasting Tharkian Empire - an empire far less grand than its name would suggest - until the Tharkians were crushed by the relentless expansion of a Despot of Ursh, as so many others of the time were. The Urshii quickly swallowed up the valuable regions of the area, leaving only the ancient nation of Macedonia relatively untouched. By some miracle of cunning, guile, and luck on an incredible scale, Perturabo's grandfather Nestor made it appear that, instead of the meagre garrison it actually held, Macedonia was in fact home to Tharkian strategic reserves far greater than the forces the Urshio had already fought. This, combined with the seemingly unwavering defiance of the Macedonian people, convinced the Despot that conquering the region would overextend his supply lines and weaken his control over the greater Tharkia.
With the immediate threat gone the cities began to drift apart and Nestor was old and wise enough to know that he had neither the forces nor the authority to hold them together. He did, however, manage to take and hold the ancient fortress city of Štip-Isar; and many rival groups joined him in seizing a city or hive and expanding from there. Thus, Macedonia did survive, to some extent, albeit as a collection of squabbling city-states that would only unite against greater outside threats; ironically, not unlike the Classical Greek counterparts who were conquered by the Macedonians themselves in the depths of history.
Perturabo's father Nikola had risen to be the petty king of the reasonably well-off fortress city of Štip-Isar after Nestor had passed away, and, recognising how inadequately he had been prepared for the job, immediately set about the task of trying to train his children in the arts of statesmanship. His daughters were fine women, just as dedicated to the nation as he was, but the other regional powers would have openly scoffed and secretly mocked the entire family if a queen were to rise. Thus the highest they would reach were hasty marriages to shore up the city's few alliances, leaving Perturabo as the heir apparent - albeit one rather psychologically unsound.
Countless years later, when Nikola and his nation were a mere footnote in endless halls of historical texts, Perturabo's peers would describe him as a spare Angron, minus the enthusiasm. This was unfair and inaccurate, but it was true that it would have been difficult to find a leader less statesmanlike than the unfortunate son of Nikola. Perturabo suffered from bouts of quite severe depression, punctuated by occasional flashes of intense rage with little to no warning. Although the rage would flash into incandescence and burn itself out relatively quickly, the depression was far more lingering. Nikola made no effort to hide the disappointment he had for his son, but little did he know that the heir's true talents would be more vital for the nation's survival than Terra's finest diplomats could ever be.
For Perturabo - in spite of his constant pessimism, or perhaps because of it - was supremely gifted at defensive planning. His dreams, haunted as they were by thoughts of his home being crushed by faceless invaders, merely bolstered his resolve to resist. He was not his father, or his grandfather, however; he was not a leader who could call the people to defend their land tooth and nail, for that would require hope and optimism that he himself so sorely lacked. Instead, Perturabo's defensive planning was that of grim determination, of strongpoints and counter-offensives instead of rallies and patriotism, of a hard shell around a softer peoples. Some would have called this paranoia, especially given how the petty skirmishes with other nation-states were the largest wars known for over a generation, but in truth it was uncanny foresight.
When the scum of Ursh came back it was as if a mighty hammer had struck the lands, driving all before it. Perturabo - indeed, all of Macedonia - was caught off-guard by the assault; by the time he was made aware of the threat, the most prosperous and powerful of his neighbours were little more than flaming rubble. Desperate for time, the heir withdrew his forces again and again, his generals raging and threatening mutiny for his cowardice, and he later claimed that in all his life he had faced no greater test than keeping his calm and concealing his plans from them (and thus, any possible Urshii spies) until the very last moment.
Nestor had fought a war - a war of armies and raiding parties facing each other in pitched battles - but his grandson had to stop a wave of slaughter that bore more resemblance to a swarm of locusts than any coherent fighting force. Isolated strongpoints were ground down horrifyingly quickly by sheer weight of numbers, and Perturabo had soon realised that the only chance he had of stopping the swarm was in a single, united defensive line. Even then, he knew he could not hope to stop the Despot's onslaught, only to give it a bloodied nose and hope it would back off. The Urshii forces knew none of this, as all they saw were lands held by weak natives and abandoned by their defenders. Just as they were wondering if their grandparents' tales of the effortless conquest of Tharkia had some truth to them, they ran directly into Perturabo's hastily constructed kill zones. Metal, laser and superheated plasma alike rained down on the barbarians as if it were his own spite and pain made manifest, and the Urshii vanguard was left a pile of mangled bodies for their comrades to climb.
The Despot's humiliation drove him into such a rage that he eviscerated his own commanders, ordering their replacements to wipe Macedon from the face of Terra. Even with Perturabo's formidable defences and traps, the main Urshii force would raze the land without batting an eyelash - yet the Despot was so blinded by his rage that he was caught completely unawares by the true threat to his power.
When the scouts of the Warlord's army first trickled into Macedonia they expected a barren wasteland - or at best, a broken nation at its own throat. Much of their suspicions were confirmed, but amongst the dirt they found a diamond-hard shard of defiance that had prepared for the storm and, amazingly, was still weathering it. It was here, the Warlord decided, that the first (and perhaps the most important) true blow against Ursh would be struck.
After the smoke cleared. the plasma burns cooled, the shrieks of wounded finally fallen away into silence, Perturabo discovered that not only had he bloodied the nose of the Despot's assault, but he had broken its back completely. Caught between the swift hammer of the Warlord's armies and the unyielding anvil of the Macedon defence, Ursh's toughest veterans were shattered and scattered to the wind - and even the most zealous of barbarians were were beginning to question if there was a master greater than their own.
The Warlord entered Štip-Isar not as a conqueror, but simply as a leader, for he had great respect for the one who turned such a small nation into a devourer of armies. Yet the prince would do something that not a single battlefield or leader had managed so far, or quite possibly since. He surprised his guest, and not only with his young age (for, compared to his generals, he was little more than a boy), but with his mind. For when the Warlord looked into his psyche, he found something he had never seen before or since - and he wished he had not. It was cold. Bleak. A desolate landscape of steel and bone blasted smooth by an unrelenting gale of numbers, of angles, of shifting probabilities; while above, great roiling clouds of blackness drained away what little light and life lay beneath them. Even this was just a momentary glimpse, for in the blink of an eye he was locked out by an immense iron wall rising from the ground in mere instants, horizons wide and twice as tall. The Warlord found himself simply staring into dead, grey eyes, barred from what lay within by mental defences greater than all but the most powerful of psykers - and built simply from paranoia and distrust rather than to contain any unearthly whispers. But those eyes told him all he really needed to know about the prince. There was no fear there, no awe, and certainly no love. Just endless planning, calculating, searching for weakness.
To his credit, the Warlord still saw potential in the mad architect; something that could be put to use, maybe even turned to greatness. After long, distrustful negotiations (for the Macedonians were as wary of his arrival as they were grateful for it), Perturabo was offered a place in the Warlord's armies as a fortification and garrison specialist. For King Nikola's part... the sad truth was that he was glad to see the back of his son. After all, with Perturabo otherwise occupied - or out of the way, depending on your point of view - he now had grandchildren to train in inheriting his responsibilities.
Perturabo rose through the ranks of the Imperial Army with neither the speed nor grandeur of the other Primarchs, but he did indeed become great. Other generals captured huge swathes of land or routed vast armies, but it was he who ensured that any forces seeking to recapture their territory or avenge their fallen knew nothing but failure. He was never at the forefront of any battle or campaign, never the glorious conqueror or invincible warrior; and of course, he earned little respect from those who were, who saw him as an unstable freak barely fit to follow in their footsteps. This, however, suited him just fine, as he much preferred a legacy of impenetrable bastions safeguarded people than any number of songs or monuments.
Still, the Warlord quietly took note of his work, of how harmlessly the condescension of both his superiors and subordinates bounced off him, and none were surprised as Perturabo himself was when he was selected for late-stage Thunder Warrior treatment. Soon, as the remnants of the Old Night were finally purged and the dream of Unification began to spread across Sol, malcontents and partisans began to emerge from the woodwork; and it was here Perturabo's worth truly became evident even to his detractors. For old king Nikola's lessons had not, in fact, been in vain, and it was discovered that the Macedonian's lands were impenetrable to assault from within as well as without. For this, he was finally elevated to the lofty title of Primarch.
In the countless years that followed, the Unification became the Great Crusade; the Warlord became the Steward, and Štip-Isar faded into distant memory. Perturabo, however, did not change. Perhaps he could not. After all, his life had certainly not changed, for it still consisted of day after day of building meat grinders of horrific scale while planning yet-greater ones, all while hoping against hope they would never be needed. Or perhaps, just as was the case in his youth, his works were so brutally efficient because of the hope he - and they - lacked. But back in his homeland he still had the support of his people; or at least he had his father to soothe and comfort them at every turn. Here, on the frontier worlds, the deal of "harsh work and oppression for you and your children in the name of descendants you will not live to see" would've been a hard sell for Gulliman, or Sanguinius, never mind one as uncharismatic as Perturabo - and the hatred of the people was beginning to wear down even his iron resolve.
When The War of the Beast descended upon the worlds under his aegis, his worth was finally proven beyond any doubt. Wretched, base creatures assaulted his people, his fortresses, his worlds in droves - and time and time again they drowned in their own tides of endless green. His warriors manned their battlements and fired from positions prepared centuries ago in an eerie mirror image of the plains of Macedonia so long ago. The doctrine still remained identical, as well. No point would be defended to the last man, for such heroics were costly and unnecessary; instead, the defenders would fight until the back of the assault force was broken before retreating to their next set of positions, buying them precious breathing room while the enemy were forced to bring in a fresh wave of warriors.
It would be wrong to say that no worlds under his protection fell, or to say that his methods were flawless. Just as it was against the Urshii, he would never defend an untenable position; civilian conurbations and evacuation points were no exception to this, and his new subordinates labelled him a coward with as much vigour as his old ones had so long ago. But this cold, calculated strategy ensured that his armies lived - and more importantly, rested - to fight another day, where another Primarch would've allowed them to be slaughtered in a vain order to hold the line.
On venerable Olympia, one of the first colony worlds of the Old Empire brought back into the fold by Perturabo's Iron Warriors, the Primarch nearly met his end. His command headquarters was unexpectedly besieged by a force of Orks that, reinforced by a newly arrived Rok, had broken through a weakened flank, and he insisted he took to the field. Years later, he would claim it was simply a pragmatic decision; after all, as a Thunder Warrior he was fully capable of fighting to earn time for his command staff to be evacuated, all of whom were equally invaluable to the defense of the planet - but for many, this unexpected loyalty was a welcome reminder that there was still a human within the Primarch's iron shell. His psychological one, at least.
His physical armour, however, would be sorely tested by the warboss he would face; a great corroding creature of Nurgle's kin, leading the Orks of the Pox Dok in laughter and taunts even as lascannon and bolter blew off chunks of rotting green flesh. The fate of the world and every soul on it was decided in a burning cathedral; and while Perturabo was certainly not the unstoppable juggernaut other Primarchs were, his calculating mind was as much use here as it was fighting on theater or even planetary level. It merged with his Thunder Warrior instincts, making each move carefully planned and each attack predicted ahead of time, until the fight seemed to be a fluid dance akin to that of the Eldar Harlequins.
Still, in brute force he was outmatched, and for every hundred blows he saw coming, there was one he simply could not parry or evade in time. The mighty green leviathan and the smaller figure slowly but relentlessly tearing it down - a fitting reversal of their armies' roles - wore each other into the ground, until the Iron Warrior emerged triumphant over the Rust of decay. With the Warboss gone, his legion quickly broke the remainder of the Ork assault, reclaiming swathes of land and beginning the long and thankless task of resecuring it. Scouting parties quickly found their Primarch, slumped in the pews where the faithful once prayed for redemption, and almost as white as the pale stone dust raining down from the ruined cathedral.
Perturabo did not see that world retaken; he did not see the organised withdrawals from worlds and sectors almost turn to a complete rout without his immaculate planning.
He did not see the Battle of Terra, the desecration of his homeworld.
He did not see the death of first Sanguinius, then the Beast.
He eventually did awaken, but only after a year spent comatose, while his ruined body was slowly repaired by Thunder Warrior physiology where possible and Mechanicus cybernetics where not. Unbowed and unbroken; Iron within, Iron without. As soon as he was able to, he marched on with his legion, rebuilding worlds and shoring up their defences before moving onto the next. Still, many believed that the Beast's legacy still haunted him and that he blamed himself personally for each loss; for as the years passed he became more and more of a perfectionist, making demands of broken worlds that could not have met them in their prime. Eventually, his most senior Warsmiths agreed by unanimous vote to remove him from active service, after he demanded a planet's population be decimated for a single of its regiments' incompetence. Perhaps, like many others, he did not resist simply because he was grateful.
Perturabo's last days were spent back on Old Earth as an architect, away from the battlefield and doing what he loved. Many had forgotten that he could design anything but defensive lines and fortresses; and perhaps he himself had forgotten as well. Over time, the work began to heal him, and in turn he began to heal Olld Earth. The swathes of land destroyed by the Beast were given to him as a blank canvas, and upon them he built structures as grand and magnificent as any in the Dark Age of Technology ever were. Oddly enough, this would be his legacy to the common man; his military campaigns would be lost to the ages, but his designs would be copied and imitated across the entire Imperium, from his streamlining of Hive City layouts that every planetary governor desperately sought to the glorious palaces on Terra that, well, every planetary governor desperately sought. Such form and function would not be surpassed for millenia to come, and even to this day his influence is visible on almost every Imperial world.
Perturabo passed away soon after finishing his plans for the new Imperial Palace; remarking that only now he was able to discover his art, after war had taken all the joy and beauty from it. Some say that he passed with a gentle, childlike smile on his face - for after a thousand years of siege, Perturabo, Prince of Macedonia, Son of Nikola, was finally to be relieved.
Mortarion
Mortarion was a born in the abject squalor of the slums of Gredbritton, in the aftermath of the fall of the Unspeakable Tyrant. His life was certainly not made any easier by the fact that his mother was the fallen Tyrant's daughter; and that many whispered that his unknown father was the Tyrant himself - and given the sheer depravity of that individual, these accusations were hardly baseless. When the hysteria was beginning to die down, his mother did her best to hide their shared heritage and instead made ends meet as a maintenance skivvy and lay-technician of the great Tintajus Hive, the capital of that broken nation. They never truly advanced in wealth or power - although perhaps this was shrewdness on his mother's part, as those of the upper hive would be more likely to recognise them - and as such Mortarion seemed almost permanently sickly, growing up pale and gaunt from lack of sunlight and food.
Gredbritton was one of the earlier nations brought into the Imperial fold. Being part of a greater union of nations went some way to restoring order, as well as bringing strength and prosperity it had not seen since the nation itself had ruled great swathes of Terra. Like so many young men with no hope, Mortarion joined the regiments of the Imperial Army - not out of some sense of patriotism or desire to bring other realms into the Imperium, but simply for the promise of at least one meal a day, a pair of trousers he didn't have to share and perhaps even some money to send home to his family.
He served with merit (if not distinction) until he was in his 22nd year, in spite of recurring bouts of old childhood illnesses. At some point in this year he learned that the Warlord was looking for volunteers for Thunder Warrior conversion, known to be a procedure that carried considerable risks. The Apothocarium and the Biologicus warned both him and the officials administrating the project that his physical imperfections would likely render Mortarion little more than a twisted nightmare, yet neither side yielded. The project's overseers were unwilling to turn away one of the few volunteers they could find, least of all one so eager; and for his part, the would-be Thunder Warrior reasoned that his body was already almost constantly betraying him, and that both success and failure would finally bring him the respite he so desperately sought. At first he volunteered, then requested, then even demanded that they tear his body apart and put him back together, as the payout his family would get for his "death" in this manner would set his mother and younger sisters up for life.
By some strange twist of fate he did survive. Perhaps even the biotechnicians had failed to realise how far they had refined their own process - certainly, the success rate was easily an order of magnitude higher than it was when Angron was "upgraded" - or perhaps the trauma of the procedures was shrugged off by a body that had spent 22 years steadfastly refusing to die. In any case, Mortarion fought as hard as any other in the name of the Imperium and its warlord, earning rank after rank based on sheer weight of victories. These victories were costly, the battlefields brutal - for he was no tactical genius, and would often dismiss inventive but untried tactics and strategies in favour of the certainties of more proven ones.
Thus, while his superiors prized his methodical successes over the less reliable tactics of the more creative leaders, his men held no love for him, only a grudging respect. The latter was cemented in place by his willingness - no, his insistence - to lead from the front, forcing his way into the thickest fighting and risking death alongside his men. They saw great victories against the savage men of Ursh and the organised and equipped armies of Achaemenidia with equal ease, only stumbling when facing the Gyptoussian sorcerers who dabbled in things that should not be dabbled in. Indeed, it was in those desert campaigns that Mortarion developed a fear, almost a hatred, of all psykers. Never again in his long life would he employ them or even accept their advice or aid, even when it might have been advisable to do so.
Mortarion soon developed a reputation for being invincible, and while this struck fear into his enemies, it merely frustrated his subordinates. He would charge into battle alongside his soldiers, yet he would far outlast them even under the most withering fire; returning from the field of war alone, with shredded armour and spent weapons, sporting wounds that would have felled a lesser Thunder Warrior.
When the forces of the Steward looked to the rest of Sol, Mortarion's forces were assigned primarily to garrison duty due to the costly nature of his method of warfare. In these engagements they held themselves with distinction, as they would make an enemy's assault on them far costlier. By the time Sol was subjugated and the galaxy lay before the Imperium, the Emperor had named him Primarch for his sheer tenacity and list of victories. It was revealed in later years, however, that the Warlord/Steward disapproved greatly of Mortarion's methods of warfare - at least, according to a few unnamed insiders from the Imperial Palace. Mortarion had, by methods undisclosed, obtained the entire stockpile of biological and chemical weapons owned by his late grandfather and father. He had also obtained the ancient library of Gredbritton, the contents of which were hastily handed over to the Warlord's Sigillite.
When taking a city or hive, the Dusk Raiders would prefer to besiege if first, firing artillery rounds filled with a dozen godforsaken contagions over (or through) the walls and waiting a few months. When the time came for them to enter the city, anything that was still alive would be shredded with bolt, plasma and promethium; the only considerable obstacles in their way being the sheer number of dead bodies filling the hive. Only Curze's methods were deemed more detestable, but unlike his fellow primarch's claims that the horrors he committed were for the greater good he simply pointed out that a conventional assault would likely have similar civilian casualties, but would also take a heavy toll on his own legion. The Warlord was never satisfied with this defence, but the results of his campaigns were undeniable.
He would go on to take this method of warfare off-world; after all, the need to kill and conquer in the most efficient way possible was even greater when precious supplies had to be ferried across the depths of space. Many whispered that he was his father's son - but this was not the case. For while the Unspeakable Tyrant had done such things in the name of gods too terrible to contemplate, Mortarion did them in the name of his warriors, and so that they may live another day. For all that they hated him, he did not hate his own men; although few would have believed that had he told them.
At the onset of the War of the Beast the Dusk Raiders were quickly established as the dirty, dirty hands of the Imperium. Instead of fighting heroic yet costly rearguards to save evacuees as so many others did, they would bombard worlds with flesh-eating diseases and exsanguination virii the minute they were lost. This, contrary to their detractors, was not to punish those left behind but instead to deny the enemy potential slaves - or food, for that matter - while leaving most material assets intact. Hundreds of billions, maybe even trillions died from these proto-Virus Bombs, and it did not stop the enemy, or even slow their expansion; it was only beginning to chip away at the rate at which the expansion accelerated. Yet this was still more than most other legions could achieve against the sheer size and speed of the Beast's initial assault, and it was done while preserving Mortarion's valuable warriors; indeed, it was then that they earned their moniker of the Death Guard, for the ruination that followed on worlds they failed to defend was as if they were the guardians of the reaper himself.
Many of Mortarion's fellow primarchs, Sanguinius and Vulkan in particular, publicly decried these attacks, but he did not care. They called him a traitor, and he did not care. They called him a coward, a monster, and he did not care. They spat on his legion's banner; Dorn in particular calling his warriors cowards - and only then did he warn the man who fought only from his precious entrenchments to mind his choice of words, lest one of the Unspeakable Tyrant's lost weapons suddenly "appear" in the skies over his beautifully crafted defensive lines. For his Legion were not cowards, and any who would make such a claim had not seen the mechanical determination with which they fought. Any who would make such a claim had not seen the way they ground the Beast's forces down into pieces, then into dust, breaking the back of the enemy's assaults so that other, more heroic, better men might earn the glory of beheading them.
When the smoke had cleared and the Steward and Eldrad stood over the corpse of The Beast, the remains of the Imperium cheered for years, for decades. The Death Guard did not, for they were pushing its borders outwards; rebuilding their legion and continuing their endless, tireless crusade. Never mind how the mighty Dorn and his warriors would not take one step back. The Death Guard would never cease marching forward, into the Dark Millennium and beyond. The only time they would ever falter would be to honour their primarch's passing, on the distant western fringe world known as Macharius' Rest. Where sickness, assassination attempts, Thunder Warrior treatment and thousands of orks had failed, time had won its final victory. Members of the Dusk Raiders, the Death Guard, and every crusader who had ever fought alongside them made the pilgrimage to the edge of the Imperium, to pay their grudging respects to the Man Who Would Not Die.
"Even our allies believe us nothing more than scum, than vermin to be crushed underfoot. Then let us fight like them; with tooth and claw, dragging down the mightiest of enemies with our dying breaths. Let us scour their lands clean with pestilence, and leave nothing that can be used against man - for vermin always have the last word."
Lorgar
Lorgar Aurelian was a child born in the theocracy of the Ynsdonesic Bloc and as all children born in that awful place was the result of a state designated union. Unions in that dysfunctional realm in that time usually being decided by perceiving omens be it from smoke patterns or entrails augury despite the degenerate unions that this often created.
As with all youths of that nation he was raised in the Kartharanite branch of religion. He was taught that only through suffering was any worth found be it inflicted on the self or on others and that the unbeliever must be cleansed from the world by fire and sword. It was not a faith of kindness that he was raised in.
His appointed mentor in matters of religion was Bishop Kor Phaeron of Jakurtana. Had he had any other master then history would have taken a decidedly different path.
Bishop Phaeron was secretly a member of the Katholian sect from which the Kartharanite had once sprung and in this more kind and just faith did Lorgar find peace and purpose.
The old faith spread through the downtrodden and the hopeless of society despite the brutal and cruel efforts of Cardinal Tang to suppress, contain and exterminate it.
Eventually the outrage and animosity of the people for their leaders reached a fever pitch and civil war ensued. As Bishop Phaeron was the highest ranking member of the hierarchy on the side of the people he was looked to for guidance. As the Bishop's right hand man Lorgar soon learned the ways of war. He learned to inspire and comfort. He learned to appeal for calm and how to whip peoples passions to a frenzy. Although not lacking in martial prowess his voice, his cunning and his keen intellect were his favoured weapons.
It was maybe just in time that the subversion erupted into open rebellion when it did. The forces of the Warlord were marching down from the North and the Ynsdonesic Bloc was well up on the "Burn it down and start again" list.
With the possibility of an unwinnable war on two fronts Bishop Phaeron went to the parlay with the Warlord in person, dressed in only a crude hessian robe, with only Lorgar Aurelian accompanying him.
An audience was granted to the Warlord in his tent, at the heart of the enemy war camp, surrounded by genetically modified super soldiers and heavy weapons.
Expecting some sort of zealous speech of defiance and martyrdom the Warlord was taken aback some what when the two got down on one knee and swore allegiance.
The cared deeply about their faith and the word of their God. But their God cared deeply about the people he had made. Their God would understand if he was to be forgotten but not forgive men who should know better leading children to the slaughter. They would rather their people be free and happy than pious.
Moved by their words the Emperor gave them grace time. Should they triumph over their oppressors they would be welcomed into the Imperium as any other member state. Should they would have the harsh treatment of conquest and subjugation.
By insurgencies, underhanded tactics, assassinations and a brutal 12 year war the Katholians claimed victory and Cardinal Tang's broken but still living form was dragged before the Warlord as a token of gratitude.
It was somewhat of a pyrrhic victory for the people of the Ynsdonesic Bloc. They nation was in a hundred pieces, each swearing loyalty to some tin hat despot with delusions of grandeur, some almost as bad as Cardinal Tang. It would not be long before the fighting for dominance began, to say nothing of annexation from another nation.
The forces of the Warlord prepared to march again and again Lorgar begged the Warlord to stay his hand. They were just sheep without a shepherd, lost children in a very dark night. Once more swayed by the strange kind passion in Lorgars voice the Warlord relented.
Over the next five years as Bishop Phaeron became Patriarch Phaeron Lorgar went to the isolated and the lost and the scared with open arms and promises of reconciliation.
For the most part he was well received and his homeland healed. It was only after the talking was done that those too stubborn or monstrous to come home again were removed. Great pains were taken to minimize casualties but it was not a wholly peaceful end to that bitter conflict.
Ynsdonesic Bloc was the first of the old nation states to disband it's own military completely and throw it's own might, such as was left of it, wholeheartedly into the Imperium.
Lorgar, now a Chaplain-General in the Imperial Army, was considered too old for conversion from human to superhuman but did receive some discrete genetic modifications.
It was a regiment overseen by Lorgar that lead the final assault on the Despot of Ursh's palace that signalled the unification of Old Earth. But Chaplain-General Aurelian considered all of his victories to be nothing but tragedies. The only true victory, he would often claim, was one where no war was to be found. For his valour and astounding levels of inspiring oratory skill he was declared the unlikely Primarch.
Of all the Primarchs in the time of the Great Crusade his forces brought more worlds into the Imperium peacefully than any other.
They didn't bring more worlds in, oh my no. They were quite slow and their tardiness was no end of frustration to the now Steward. But Lorgar was tolerated because the worlds he claimed were brought into the Imperium whole and undamaged and contributing.
In the War of the Beast Primarch Aurelian and his Legion struck back with an unexpected force. Many of the other war leaders of the imperium considered his Legion to be full of pacifists and weakness. Like many of the damned in the armies of the Beast they had mistaken the olive branch for a white flag and they were punished hard for it.
Across the breadth and depth of the burning Imperium, to the aid of human or xeno, the Word Bearers could be found holding the line and inspiring others to hold the line. Where they strode despair turned to hope and weary hands held firm blessed weapons and shaky voices roared the old battle hymns.
Lorgar and his forces were on Old Earth when Sanguinius died and ever afterwards Lorgar blamed himself for not fighting hard enough to have saved his brother Primarch.
Lorgar lived and served for many years. He eventually died of old age at near eleven hundred years old. A small but modest shrine was erected at the Jakurtana Seminary that is sometimes visited by Word Bearer chaplains even into the Dark Millennium.
Khan
- Former military commander of Ursh. Early Astartes.
Konrad Curze
Konrad Curze was a man that could politely be described as driven, and accurately be described as a frothing at the mouth lunatic. Of all the Primarchs appointed, none were more questioned than he.
He had grown up in the final days of the Age of Strife in the rambling under city Tordashimya in the Pan Pacific Empire, along with all of the horrors and excess that this entails. To say that this had an effect on the deepest levels of his mind would be a woeful understatement, and he saw the fledgling Imperium as only existing as a means of imposing some sort of order and some basic justice on a world that was in dire need of both and he saw it as his duty to make it happen. Sadly his means of doing so were as crude and brutal as those who he sought to bring to justice; after all, the quickest way to gain obedience is through fear, and and the easiest way to rebuild a society is to behead it and tear apart the body.
Despite - or, some whisper in hushed tones, because of - the Steward's insistence that he change his tact, Curze became stubborn and resentful; his predations becoming ever more brutal. Realising the futility of bringing to heel, the Steward instead directed him instead to the worlds of no hope, worlds so broken that they could never be brought into the Imperium. Worlds he couldn't make worse. It was on one of these worlds, Nostramo, that the Night Haunter found some strange joy. If he could bring a world such as this, so broken, so unspeakably wretched, as this to the light of civility then he would be vindicated before the whole galaxy. If a world so cursed by both gods and men could be rebuilt, there was nothing that could not be.
The subjugation of that world was the harrowing stuff of nightmares. The Dark Eldar could barely have done better to make every day-cycle a new nightmare; indeed, some claim that they were there to simply soak up the suffering as a welcome break to their long campaigns of torture and enslavement. But in time Curze, now infamous as the Night Lord of Nostramo, was vindicated. His people took control of every position of authority, while the malcontents were quickly disappeared, often winding up dead and mutilated along with their families and friends, whether man, woman, elder or child. Hideous as it was, order was brought - and order began to spread, as for each world his legion inflicted unspeakable horrors on, ten more surrendered without raising arms. Hideous, brutal examples were made of the worst, but through them the more virtuous were saved.
Soon enough, the dark whispers of Chaos began to tempt his mind, the fallen Eldar of the Crone Worlds assailing his dreams with tantalising offers of untold riches and endless power. Yet every offer was found wanting; every envoy cut down, every promise met with scorn. They had made the mistake of assuming that one such as Curze had become would revel in their depraved debaucheries, without considering that he would find them every bit as repulsive as other, better, people found him. He was a monster, this was true, but he was a monster who ripped and tore and tortured in the name of order; by the Emperor he was the Imperium's monster and nobody else's.
Some, of course, fell. Younger soldiers who had maybe joined the cause for glory, for strength, or even for mere self-gratification. But the vast majority of them were, like their Primarch, disgusted by the offerings of Chaos, horrified by the fall of their battle brothers, and insulted at the implication that they and the forces of Chaos served the same ends. For the entirety of the War of the Beast, the Lords of the Night could be found sowing discord and misery amongst the fleets and the armies of damnation. For every horror the invaders committed more was inflicted upon them, and for every innocent killed by the Ruinous Powers the Night Lords would swear vengeance on a dozen daemons.
Few of that despised Legion ever fought on the soil of Old Earth, and never were they allowed to forget this. But because of their actions the forces of damnation were weakened and poorly focused with one eye always over their shoulder. Even if their military successes had counted for naught; even if they had not managed to save a single soul, they had made Chaos fear them. And that was an achievement beyond all others.
In the aftermath of that war, many small provincial worlds and systems tried to strike out on their own, away from the light of the Throne, often being brought back by force. None of Curze's worlds, however, had ever tried to secede - after all, they knew both sides of the Imperium's protection, and had seen first hand the wrath that the Night Lords could unleash. If that was what they would to in defence of the Imperium, what they would do to willing turncoats did not bear thinking about.
In his later years, Curze was well aware that he had become everything he had despised in his youth, and he sometimes derived black humour from this; that he had finally rediscovered across the galaxy what he had first learned in his youth on a small Terran kingdom: that the ends do not, and cannot, justify the means. In the year 243.M32 he had himself tried and executed for war crimes as the ultimate testament that none were beyond judgement. He had deemed himself to have outlived his usefulness, and to some extent he was right; although the Imperium could tolerate a useful monster, it should have no love for one.
Angron
Angron was a slave pit fighter in what was left of the Nord Afrik Enclaves.
He was liberated quite early on in The Warlords campaign. Signed on to join the Thunder Warriors.
Rose through the ranks and earned great fame and respect. Munched loved by his men due to his tendency to lead from the front and getting stuck in where the fighting was thickest.
Was one of the older generation of TW with all the damage and flaws this brought with it.
Due to his astounding aptitudes he was promoted to the rank of Primarch and given command of a batch of the new Astartes model Space Marines.
Plagued by health issues despite attempts to repair his faulty upgrades. Refused the retirement offer that many TW took to make lives for themselves. He wouldn't have been able to deal with a peaceful life.
Survived all the way to the end of The War of the Beast but not much longer. Died peacefully in his sleep. Probably the oldest TW.
Kharn the Oathsworn took over, new type of super soldier for a new era.
He didn't live a happy life, but given the nature of his childhood he could have lived a worse one and a statue of him stands outside the gate of the Carthisisa Hive Cathedral.
Corax
Towards the end of the Wars of Unification the Despot of Ursh and remnants of the Pan-Pacific Empire united out of desperation although for that desperation they were no less ofrmidable.
In the lands of Sino were to be found huge tracts of the richest and most bountiful fields on all of Old Earth in that time and with their produce a seemingly unending number of fighting men and near-men and once-men could be maintained. Those fields though bountiful were tilled with the blood and sweat and breaking backs of a slave caste that knew nothing of war and cared nothing for conquest and whose eyes were cast firmly upon the ground as those that dared to look up were so often the worse for it.
It seemed the Warlord knew that any attempt to invade that place by conventional means would be bloody in the extreme; to his own men, to their men and more tragically to the people he was trying to liberate.
Ursh had been pushed back and pushed back until it was now one diamond hard core of resilience. Conventional war was to be avoided and Curz's methods of unconventional war were not to be considered.
All that could be done was stand at the border and wait. Although the Warlord could not get in the Despot and his men were contained. Victory by weight of probability and time was assured but time for change to occur would be glacial and all the while suffering and death would be had among the downtrodden masses. Death by time or death by the blade, neither option was palatable.
And into this unhappy standoff Corax, the one who would one day be known as the Stormcrow, arose.
Uninformed and downtrodden as they were the slaves of Sino were far from stupid if only because stupidity was far from a survival trait in their harsh world. They had hear of the Warlord, they had heard of his new Imperium and they had heard of the freedoms it offered. They wanted that. Few would dare try to run the border because of what the Urshi would do to their loved ones left behind and what the foul men of the Khanate did to those they found running away.
Among them arose a man from the factories who had spent too long toiling for cruel masters and starving whilst his oppressors feasted. His family were dead by one means or another be it contagion, sport or ritual and he was left with critically little left to loose.
His job afforded him a basic but working knowledge of alchemy and reaction and he often handled equipment that was only considered tools rather than weapons because of how it was used. Corax was a very angry man but also a very cunning man whose anger was tempered by age earned wisdom and set for the long simmer rather than full boil. This was good as he was surrounded by a lot of other very angry people who also needed to be taught that patience and anger could work very well together.
By simple but time trusted methods of communication the words of rebellion spread. It was not without cost or casualty but those sufferings were just more fuel for the long burn of hate. It is possible that the rebellion would have died in it's infancy but for the forces and resources and attention being diverted to the borders where the Warlord circled, waiting for some weakness to show.
When the hammer finally came down it was like half the nation caught fire all at once. Caught unaware vast numbers of the fearsome warriors trying to out stare the Warlord at the border were frantically pulled back to keep the heartlands in good order. Perhaps this was a miscalculation on the part of the Generals responsible for the descision. Certainly the Despot thought so if the flayed and violated but still somehow living bodies of those generals adorning the palace walls are anything to attest to.
With the sudden depletion of massed soldiery on the borders the tables had turned sufficiently to make conventional invasion a realistic possibility. And at the head of the vanguard was Angron whose account of the first battles would have made historically important reading had he been persuaded to write anything down about it.
Caught between the forces of Corax and his merciless insurgency who knew all about cruelty and the forces of the Warlord that were as unstoppable as the sunrise the forces of Ursh were driven from the lands of Sino to their last strongholds where they licked their wounds and waited for the end that was not slow in it's arrival.
The people or Corax, freed for the fist time in time beyond living memory, looked towards the ordered and disciplined (except for Angron who had to be sedated) forces with wary eyes. They were not slaves now and would never bend a knee to a man again.
Corax, to his credit, did know that there was a world of difference between taking an nation and holding it. His people were brave and tenacious and could be vicious when provoked. But he knew deep down that they could not run a nation and all would soon descend into anarchy at best and re-enslavement or death at worse.
When the Warlord strode across the quietened field of victory towards the Stormcrow Corax could see in his eyes that it was one man greeting another as an equal, brothers in battle and free men.
Corax knew he would need to use what temporary authority he had as leader of a victorious rebellion to direct his people into a cohesive whole now that the immediate threat was removed and the Warlord knew that they were distrustful of outsiders and wouldn't take kindly to direct orders. A compromise was quickly reached. The most competent seeming of Corax's people would be given positions of authority in the newly freed nation but would also be provided with advisors and assistants from the newly formalized Administratum on loan for as long as they were wanted.
It was not long after that the weathered man that was Corax witnessed the final and lasting death of the Ursh and ever afterwards was he disappointed that he didn't get to deal the killing blow.
As Old Earth was brought to a new golden age the now Steward's eye turned upward to the inky black. To the far places of Luna and Mars and the Jovians and further, so very much further.
He knew he would need men he could trust in both loyalty and competence. People to act in his stead. Of these twenty most gifted and proven individuals Corax was one. When it came to covertly setting traps and ambushes he had no equal. Sadly he was well beyond the age when super soldier treatments become a viable possibility to say nothing of the two prosthetic lungs Imperium loyal tech-adepts had gifted him to undo the effects of thirty years of toxic fume inhalation in his old job. He did receive some discrete cybernetic enhancements and longevity treatments but nothing that wouldn't allow him to pass as human.
The skills he had learned and instilled in his new legion were of great use in the Unification of Sol. One of the earliest and most charictaristic victoris was when the dissidents breaking away after the Magi of Mars pledged alliance to the Empty Throne swiftly found themselves making considerable compromises as their air recycles all spontaneously exploded. Ever a man of the people Corax would always choose the path of least collateral damage over expediency or personal safety.
As the Unification of Sol turned into the Great Crusade Primarch Corax found that there were all too many kindred souls enslaved on distant worlds to terrible masters, some human and some xeno and some hideous beyond categorization.
Although the Raven Guard did posses Astartes soldiers (favoring a more refined version of the earlier model rather than the latter models) they were only typically used for the killing blow. The bulk of the Legion was mere mortal men who were far more adept at cover tagging of targets and walking among the downtrodden masses unobserved. When the Space Marines were called in and the fireworks went off the action was intense, devastating and brief. Quick decapitations with little mess were what his legionaries prided themselves in and it served them well. The people of the worlds they liberated loved them. The Men of Earth, that legendary birth world of humanity, had come back to save them and it was joyful.
But of Corax no rest was had in celebration or revelry. If his victories had taught him one thing it was that they were necessary and they hadn't run out of worlds to free. There would be no rest till they reached the edge of the galaxy and all the worlds in between.
The Raven Guard in their way operated in a manner mirror to that of the Night Lords in those hopeful days of the Great Crusade. The Night Lords would terrorize and scatter and slaughter but leave the technology and architecture of a world intact in preparation for a killing blow, the Imperium had no shortage of people and a replacement population could always be brought in. The Raven Guard preferred to destroy infrastructure but spare those who knew how to repair and maintain it in preparation for the final strike with the certainty that expertise could not be easily replaced. The Raven Guard argued that the entire endeavour of the Great Crusade was to save humanity, not slaughter it. The Night Lords agreed but saw no point is loosing sleep over the loss of individual humans sacrificed for the good of the whole.
Both rival primarchs despised one another, both raised good points, both were most effective when fighting in concert with a more direct Legion or similar fighting force and neither were openly brought to heel by the Steward because both were undeniably effective. Twice, in the days of the Great Crusade, the Crow and the Haunter came to blows although their Legions never went to war against each other. Barely.
When the Beast arose among the orks and the Great Crusade ran into it's equal and opposite the nature of the Raven Guard changed. Just as the Night Haunters were occasionally called in, to their disgust, to protect refugee convoys so were the Raven Guard called in to euthanize populations contaminated irreparably. To say that Corax found these orders distasteful would be a gross understatement. Out of all the Primarchs it was Corax who was first to outright disobey a direct order from the Steward. He would not bring nuclear fire down upon a civilian target. He and his men would not abandon their principles, not even in the face of annihilation.
It was upon the fate of the once thriving cultural hub that was the planet Azoth that the Raven Guard made their stand. The world was infected but they believed, they knew in their heart of hearts, that it could be saved. The force to retake it was led by the Stormcrow himself who needed to show the Steward that no such drastic steps needed ever to be taken.
Upon that world something in the heart of Corax died at what he saw. At the barbarity and the debauchery and the unholy violations he could never of dreamed of, not even the most depraved Despot of the Urshi could have dreamed of. ██████████████████████████████Data Expunged. -][- . Hydra Dominatus.████████████████████████.
Never again, the Stormcrow vowed, never again would he inflict such cruelty for the sake of human pity and the bleeding conscience of one old man. Indeed the primarch did feel old and in some way untouchable by rejuveneant treatments did look it now more than ever. Azoth was sterilized with atomic fire, a monument to all that should be reviled.
For the sense of well being that it cost one general the Imperium did at least learn of the Chaos Eldar earlier than they otherwise might have. Despite his disobedience Corax faced no censure from the Steward for showing pity and sorrow in his work, if he had shown joy then maybe things would have gone rather differently for him but the Steward would not punish a man for being human.
For the most part the Raven Guard served in the War of the Beast with great valor an uncommon cunning striking far harder than their numbers would suggest. Their greatest ally, they would claim in later years, was the orkish nature to infighting when their leaders were removed. Whole sub-WAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!s would grind to a halt as Nob after Warboss was subject to fatal ambush and inhumanly precise assassinations. Purely against the orks it is possible that the Raven Guard had no equal.
But it was not purely against the orks. Children of Chaos were abroad and of them the Raven Guard could not out maneuver readily. The forces of the dark gods reaped a heavy toll as hunts were turned inside out and the weakness of using so many mere mortal men was exposed. Astartes, it was often claimed, knew no fear, but baseline humanity did and that played right into the hands of the Croneworlders.
It is unknown how many of these sworn to service under Corax fell. Many who venerate the Stormcrow Primarch would claim that none did but they are blined by pride. The numbers are hard to tell in a legion that so loves the shadows and when they struck it was from a direction those in command did not see coming and so the wounds were felt all the deeper. Exact numbers may never be known beyond "too many".
Perhaps it was having to deal with these traitors, perhaps it was getting mired in a war of attrition against the orks or out outmaneuvered buy the fallen eldar or maybe some combination of all three but Corax and all save a token force of his vanguard, like his old rival, was not on Old Earth when Sanguinius died and the great Beast was slaughtered. Some blamed him but none so much as he himself did.
The wars of reconquest and the rebuilding of the Imperium was not a war that the Raven Guard were well sited for. Their primary means of warfare was one of carefully stalked targets and swift simultaneous executions. The reconquest of the Imperium with it's muddied waters and sliding scales of loyalty was something they found difficult to adapt to and in the years that followed they lost nearly as many as they did to the Beast's predations.
By the time the Imperium was stabilized and looking even anything like it had once done the Raven Guard was a shattered remnant of it's former glory and it's primarch was almost broken. Corax had seen too much he held dear despoiled, to many dreams crushed. The Steward tried to comfort him but his kind words fell upon deaf ears. In Corax's mind the Great Crusade, the greatest accomplishment of the human species, had failed and he had maybe played no small part in that failing.
To his credit he never let his sorrows interfere with his work. The Raven Guard was built up far more modestly in scale and in the place of a Legion a hundred Chapters were built in the centuries that followed. By the time that the last of the first commissioned chapters was declared ready for duty Corax was an old withered man. His early life had been hard and he had started on the rejuvenants relatively late in life and it showed.
Of Corax's ultimate fate the truth is unknown. He would, in those ancient times, travel between the newly minted chapters to inspect and advise and occasionally accompany on missions but like always he made few aware of his movements and would often drop in unannounced and leave abruptly. Which chapter he last visited is up for debate as many records are contradictory at best and nonsensical at worse but all is known is that one day he just vanished.
Some hold out hope, even unto the Dark Millennium, that the Raven King will return.
Alpharious & Omegon
"I am the Alpha and Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End." these are the last known records of the primarchs ‘’Alpharius and Omegon’’. All documents and records were deleted by inquisition, Those that were thought to be associated with the primarchs disappeared and all that was left was a parchment with those words and a small wax stamp beneath depicting the lernaean hydra of old terran mythology. Now the only way to learn about the individuals and their legacy is by eyewitness accounts and rumours that have gone under the inquisitions watchful gaze.
One eyewitness report tells of two figures clad in dark robes standing next to the warlord and his war council, they describe that the figures were much shorter than the other in the council. It is unknown if these are the individuals known as Alpharius and Omegon because other reports say that they were tall men fighting battles and cutting down enemies. It is now even known if they are two persons and might in fact be one individual. This comes from a witness that said to have met a man dressed in the clothes of a highly revered official that presented himself as ‘’Alpharius Omegon’’. All that is known that there was at one point one or more individuals called Alpharius and Omegon. But what is known is that he or they had a large part in the counterintelligence and espionage of the unification war. They were said to be masters of infiltration and were supposedly to have a deep network of agents and assassins so that the mysterious individuals could act at multiple places at once. This Network is thought to become what we now know as the inquisition.
‘’Cut off one head and two shall take it’s place.’’
-Last words spoken from a prisoner before committing suicide.
A popular theory about the origins of the mysterious individuals, is that they were the members of the even less known ██████████ that were a secret society of old terra. It’s thought that that they joined the warlord after seeing the potential power that they could have they sent their most loyal and brightest two members to help the warlord in his endeavours.
‘’You search the darkness, while we hide in the light. You see not the serpent lying in wait, you see only a brother. We witnessed your beginning and we will be your end.’’ -Said to be whispered to an imperial official before her assassination.
Another theory is that they originate from ███ ████ a group of Xenos set on destroying the ‘’primordial annihilator’’ and thus sent their best human operatives to aid the warlord and his future plans.
‘’Cut the head off the snake and the body will die shortly after’’ -thought to be a direct quote from either Alpharius or Omegon.
Alpharius and Omegon are thought to be major members in the creation of the inquisition and that after the alliance with the eldar their influence has only increased. Acting as puppet masters, they are thought to be behind both the starting of wars and the ending of them, doing as they see fit for the better of the imperium.
It was around ████ that all records and documents of Alpharius and Omegon were deleted. Theories say that they had died and that their successors order the purge of information surrounding the primarchs so that their legacy and actions can be forgotten. Other theories say that the warlord declared them traitors and therefore got rid of all evidence of their existence. But yet to this day there are whispers about legions of men and women walking among us, executing the orders of their puppets masters, killing the corrupt, eliminating the foe from the inside and bearing the brand of the hydra
‘’Hydra Dominatus’’ -Alpharius and Omegon the Beginning and the end
The Craftworlds
ALAITOC
A Craftworld of contradictions, Alaitoc is both highly-regimented and highly liberated-. The reason for this is that while the majority of the Craftworld's population are highly dedicated to Eldar ideals, a sizeable minority seek freedom from their home's stifling environment. As such, its relations with the greater Imperium are also as contradictory.
Officially, Alaitoc is only marginally allied with the Imperium. While they do send small tithes of soldiers as needed, the still-proud Eldar of Alaitoc refuse to have any more dealings with mon-keigh than is strictly necessary. Their troops, even those of the lowest ranks, are notorious often treat non-Eldar of any rank with breathtaking disdain fit to rival any three hive princes one could name. An exasperated Saint Macharius was once heard to remark "Better a thousand armies of the Beast's cultists at my rear than a single Alaitoc Farseer at my side!"
The same cannot be said however, for the Rangers that Alaitoc regularly sends out, albeit unintentionally. Freed of their stifling homes, many eventually find solace in the familiar, though not as restricted, environments of other Craftworlds. More notorious however are those Rangers who find Imperial life to their liking, and in a strange, yet peculiarly Eldar way, often find themselves as obsessed with non-Eldar life as an Exarch on their path, sometimes even combining two or more cultures in their quest for freedom and reinvention. Even the most seasoned galactic traveller must take pause when they find themselves meeting "Fio'La Bork'an Rialieath, Magos Prime of Forge Alpha."
BIEL-TAN
As one of the Imperium's most militiarized Craftworlds, Biel-Tan Aspect Warriors are the ones most often seen on both the battlefield and in Imperial media, with the gruff, battle-hardened Biel-Tan warrior being a staple of Imperial entertainment. Of the major Craftworlds aligned to the Imperium, the Biel-Tan are perhaps one of the most fanatical in expanding Imperial borders, seeing in the Imperium a chance to recreate the Eldar Empire of old. This has sometimes caused friction even within the Imperial military, as Biel-Tan officers regularly advise all-out offensives regardless of the state of the greater army.
One notable aspect of Biel-tan's society is the surprising amount of regard they hold for the inhabitants of Tallarn, a desert world. During the War of the Beast, a large cultist army sought ancient relics long-buried beneath Tallarn's surface. With Imperial forces being in disarray at the time, many Imperial authorities wrote offf Tallarn as lost, and prepared for an assault from that side, Cursing their new allies and their own kin for their cowardice, the Eldar of Biel-Tan rushed to Tallarn, determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible.
However, upon arrival they found the devastated Tallarni not waging a desperate war, but holding onto a bloody stalemate despite being outnumbered and outgunned. When the ferocious Eldar fell upon the cultist forces, the Tallarni were quick to take the advantage. Though their once prisitine farmworld had been turned into a vast desert, they had managed to win the respect of the Eldar. Though today the Craftworld maintains a careful distance, both socially and physically, from their adopted planet, they do make short visits in small numbers to carefully shepard the desert warriors. Most adult Tallarni that the 'djinns' of their childhood stories are really the Imperium's major alien ally, but even their oldest generals often show more than the usual respect humans give one of the elder race.
IYANDEN
In official records and Imperial propaganda, Iyanden is one of the most successful examples of Imperial-Eldar relations in history, a friendship won in blood and iron. And while this may be believed by the rank and file of both peoples, the truth is a little more complex than that.
Even after the marriage between the Steward (as he was still known at the time) and Isha, the Craftworld of Iyandem refused to be part of the alliance. They saw the evil that lurked in the hearts of men, and lambasted the idea of chaining their entire race to the barely-tamed, barely-evolved pseudo primates that had the gall to call itself a sentient species. Even so, they knew that angering said wild beast would only prove detrimental, so they made a deal- they would of course honour any request the Imperium would make of them, on the condition the Imperium never made any such request. Though the High Lords took great offence at this snub, they also knew that antagonizing Iyanden would risk the rest of the alliance, and so quietly backed down.
And so matters were left, Iyanden being an island of isolation in the middle of the Realm of Ultramar. Though they opened their docks for limited trade in late M36, they only did so for the handful of Rogue Traders who managed to find their home. Even then, it was only for what few luxuries the Craftworld could not provide, and would be safe for those on the Path to consume.
Then the Hive Fleets came.
Isolated as they were, Iyanden was almost engulfed by the Shadow in the Warp when they managed to send their distress signal. Even so, it said that only by miraculous guidance from the Eternal Emperor and Empress did Prince-Admiral (later Saint) Yriel manage to find the beleagured Craftworld (indeed, it is officially recorded as the Saint's first miracle). Though the rescue effort was a success, the Craftworld was left devastated, with many of its population reduced to soulstones. Even worse, the Imperial fleet that had saved them could barely spend enough time for rest and repairs, as the chitinous tide threatened to drown Ultima Segmentum. No ship could be spared to defend Iyanden, not even the most grievously wounded ones guaranteed to die pauper's deaths in the void.And so it was that Iyanden found itself making another unfair deal. They offered to make themselves a mobile dock for the Imperial Navy, on the condition that there would always be ships provided for their protection.
Today, Iyanden is so integrated into the Navy organization of Ultima Segmentum that it is officially designated a void station colony instead of a Craftworld. Sailors from a hundred member races, from a thousand times more worlds, mingle every day in bustling streets where once Eldar took quiet walks. So many ships orbit the Craftworld that at times they block the stars. And while many of the younger races and Eldar youth see this as a great thing (some even proclaim Iyanden's colours of blue and gold, the same as the Imperial Navy's, to be a sign of divine intervention), older Eldar simply sigh, and mourn the lost purity of their home as yet another casualty of the Tyranids, and they fear what the outsiders might bring in.
SAIM-HANN
The Craftworld of Saim-Hann are an anomaly in the Imperium's dealings with the Eldar. In the early days of alliance negotiations, the Eldar Seers negotiating with the High Lords insisted almost every Craftworld be given proper due and respect, even prideful ones like Biel-Tan and Iyanden. Almost every Craftworld- save for Saim-Hann. When Imperial authorities tried to find out the reason for this surprising reticence, they found out just why the Seers let them carry out the fact-finding mission in the first place.
The Saim-Hann were wild, more wild than even the humans were used to. In many of their dealings, the Eldar displayed a surprising lack of respect for Isha, calling her 'soft-bodied' and throwing the word 'gentle' like an insult. Negotiations quickly degraded, and would have broken down had not the Saim-Hann Farseer in charge of his side's negotiations noticed one of the humans taking a swig of the drinks the Eldar gave them ("You think us barbarians, mon-keigh?" one of them is reputed to have asked. "Perhaps you are right- but we are not savages."). Unlike the other Imperials present, who only took polite sips with grimaces on their faces, this giant Imperial seemed to actually enjoy his drinks. Seeing the chance for a bit of fun, the Farseer said that he would sign whatever deal the Imperials wanted, if that one man could outdrink the Farseer amd his council.
"Wasn't like I could say no, right?" Leman Russ later remarked. "I managed to outdrink the Steward while he still walked among us, I could outdrink a bunch of prissy Eldar," he would add, endearing him and his Wolves even further to Saim-Hann.
His terms were surprisingly lenient, though it did include a proviso that the Eldar stop by the Fang for a drink once in a while. Even long after Russ's disappearance, Saim-Hann warbands often stop by Fenris, and the halls of the Fang echo with tales of ribaldry and derring-do, all equal in their magnificence and unbelievability.
ULTHWE
One of the last Craftworlds attempting to escape the Eye of Terror, Ulthwe was instead doomed to forever orbit the afterbirth of Slaanesh, pulled dangerously close to the Eye by gravitational fields. Ever since then, the Eldar of Ulthwe have fought against Chaos, though it is not a fight they face alone. The stalwart warriors of Cadia can often be found back-to-back with Ulthwe Eldar, and their Kasrkin train alongside Aspect Warriors and Exarchs.
Like Biel-Tan, Ulthwe has found itself admiring the humans with whom they shed blood together, even moreso since they've been doing so since the Eye of Terror was formed, before even the alliance. These ties have only grown stronger since; it is said that the average Cadian will know how to strip his gun before they are 10 and learn to swear in Eldar by 15. Despite the facetiousness of that claim, it is true that Cadians are generally adept in both Eldar customs and language at amazingly young ages, with only the highest reaches of both being beyond human grasp as they require subtle psychic signals only Eldar are capable of. Many Ulthwe Eldar even prefer the harsh utilitarianism of Imperial equipment as opposed to the grace of Eldar technology, and it is not uncommon to see Ulthwe Guardians wearing adapted flak armour and fatigues on campaign. In exceptional circumstances, Ulthwe Eldar have even served directly in the Cadian Guard, often to great acclaim- the career of Farseer-Colonel Taldeer of the Cadian 412th (later the 1st Kronus Liberators) is the most well-known example, one that is often compared to the career of Commissar-Colonel Gaunt.
Incidentally, the most Eldar-human couplings on record are those between Ulthwe Eldar and Cadian humans, and while no children have been recorded as resulting from these unions, many such married couples assure those who ask delicately that it is not due to lack of trying.
Timeline
Mid to Late M29 Warlord arises on Old Earth. Divides nations of Earth into two lists. One one side are the ones worth inclusion to the Imperium and on the other the ones that need to be destroyed and their lands divided amongst more worthy men.
Begins global unification using diplomatic means when possible and brute force when not possible.
Late M29/Early M30 First use of early model Thunder Warriors
Early to mid Refinement of Thunder Warriors.
Old Earth unified (Except for Hy Brasil). Warlord sets up the Throne of Earth and refuses to sit in it instead becoming the Steward of the Empty Throne. The Throne stands waiting for a worthy individual to become Emperor.
Steward looks towards the sky and is inspired to take the Unification to the other planets of Sol. Appoints 20 generals the title of Primarch to be his leaders among generals.
Sol is unified in a sequence of assimilations, partnerships and short brutal wars of conquest.
Steward sets up High Lords of Terra to run the day to day affairs of the Imperium. Long term goal is to make the Imperium self-governing and then fade away again. Short term gaol is to get be able to spend all evening in the pub.
Warp storms subside enough for large scale warp travel to become viable.
Steward looks to the stars and the dream of Unification burns again.
Steward is contacted by Eldrad "fist fight with Skarbrand and won" Ulthuran. The two of them concoct a fiendish plan to break in to Nurgle's mansion and steal Isha back. Eldar send a band of the most fearsome ninja clowns and the Imperium sends its most brutal nutters. Steward leads the expedition. Isha is rescued.
Isha is rescued. Imperium earns the eternal hate of the Chaos Gods. Eldar petition Stewards for inclusion into Imperium. Steward agrees in exchange for Webway access. Eldar are reluctant due to potential damage to webway. Compromise is reached that Inquisition can have unlimited access and the Eldar will upgrade the Astronomican.
Chaos Gods direct the Crone World Eldar to manipulate the orks into unifying under the banner of a warboss know as The Beast. The Beast and all his Boyz are directed towards Old Earth and other key worlds of the Imperium. Dark Eldar join forces with the Crone Worlders for the promise of plunder and slaves.
Primarch Sanguinius dies in the ruins of the Eternity Gate of the Imperial Palace.
Steward about to be pummelled into fine red paste by The Beast. Eldred Ulthuran smashes through the wall and joins in the Beast beating festivities and he and the Steward beat The Beast is a savage brawl.
As payment for saving his life the Steward owes a favour to Eldrad. Eldrad immediately call that favour in demands that the Steward marry Isha so that the union of Human and Eldar can never be broken.
Imperium Recovers over time. Most of the Primarchs die off in battle or simply by time. The title is never given to another; relic of a past age.
Chaos forces usually from the Eye of Terror periodically form Black Crusades to try and topple the Imperium. Imperium stays strong.
Eventually at about the turning point of M35 and M36 a great man by the name of Goge Vandire arises to be the head of the Administratum. Steward believes that he has found a worthy man to sit upon the Empty Throne of Earth. Emperor Vandire is an asset to the Imperium. Steward steps down and fades into the shadows of some distant world and disappears for some time.
Goge Vandire goes nuts.
Inquisitor Sebastian Thor raises rebellion against him and causes the Great Civil War. Steward is rediscovered with the High Priestess of Isha sitting at the bar of a tropical beach resort on some backwater nowhere planet. Apparently having been on that beech for the last ~150 years.
After 10 years of devastating war Goge Vandire is slain and Sebastian Thor bullies the Steward into sitting on the Throne of Earth and becoming Emperor. 3 of the old Primarchs survive long enough to be present at the ceremony.
Due to substantial Demiurg assistance in the war the new Emperor permits the space traveling craftsmen membership to the Imperium, to the grumbling of the elder. Imperium becomes open to the idea of accepting other "lesser" peoples into the fold.
Late M36 and the first scouting fleets of the Tyranids are sailing through the Imperium. Connection with gene-stealers is made. Scouting fleets eventually slain and it is believed for a time that they are defeated.
Mid M37, Hive Fleets have arrived. A few are slain eventually and at great cost over the next handful of centuries. Most shatter into splinter fleets and terrorize huge swathes of the Galaxy for a long, long time.
At about the M38 mark the Necrons start to rise from their half-death into mechanical unlife. Up till the end of the Dark Millennium there is a gradual and unstoppable increase in Necron activity.
Mid M38. Tau expeditionary forces encountered for first time. Contact made. Fledgling Tau Empire is unaware of the scale of the wars across the galaxy or the vastness of the Imperium. Refuses all efforts at inclusion.
Late M38. Tau have a serious Artificial Intelligence rebellion after ignoring the repeated warnings of the Mechanicus. Dark Eldar take advantage of this time of weakness to use their failing Empire as slave raiding grounds despite the Tau themselves being "bland". Still refuse inclusion to Imperium when offered.
Mid M38 and Tau have recovered their old Empire bounds and are once more expanding their borders. Historians note passing similarities to the expansion of early Imperium.
Mid to Late M38. Series of crippling wars with the Hive Fleets and pyrrhic victories leaves the Tau once more vulnerable to Dark Eldar raids, and raid they do. They finally accept the offer of inclusion to the Imperium.
Mid M39. Ethereal Council of the Eastern Fringe is once more pressing for closer relations with the greater Imperium. Fire Warrior general by name of Farsight believes that too much of the ideologies of the Greater Good have already been compromised by outside influences. Demands return to old ways.
Political turmoil and minor skirmishes that the Tau believe are real wars erupt across the eastern fringe. Largely the Imperium fails to notice. Or care.
Farsight and friends carve out their own Enclave and defy the Imperium. Ethereals furious at this breach of Tau honour. General Shadowsun swears a blood oath against Farsight.
M40. Necrons awakening increases. Silent King spotted. Silent King tries to rebuild old Necrontyr Star Empire. Silent King wishes to find a way to reverse the biotransferance. New rebellions against The Silent King erupt on both scores.
Some of the more minor and "eccentric" Necron Lords seek refuge in the Imperium. Emperor eventually agrees on the logic that it's better to have them in here pissing out than out there pissing in. Necron Lords, inhumanly powerful and prideful as they are, swear to obey their new liege so long as he never actually orders them to do anything.
Eldar are livid at the inclusion of the Necrons. Some craftworlds consider trying to leave the Imperium.
Mid M41. Brain Boys spotted. Any talk of abandoning ship stops abruptly. Nobody wants to jump off the boat, no matter how many vermin are in it, when the alternative is sharks.
Late M41. The Hive Fleets were just a vanguard. The Tyranids are assaulting the entire eastern galactic edge in such numbers that they blot out the stars.