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THE MAN IN THE BOX The Crusade Fleet hung over Mars like a crown of steel. The Verdant Oath and her escorts gleamed in the thin light, engines humming a low, patient warning. Dust storms swirled beneath the atmosphere, curling around the temples of the Adeptus Mechanicus like smoke over fire. High Sentinel Varyn Drakus walked the bridge, reviewing manifest after manifest, fleet strength, Blade assignments, and tonnage. Every calculation balanced, every number accounted for—or so he thought. Then the arithmetic failed. “One thousand and one,” said the Chapter Master. The strategium was silent save for servitors and distant engine hums. “Read it back,” he added. The human Fleet-master hesitated. Not long enough to defy him, long enough to be afraid. “One thousand and one, High Sentinel.” Drakus’ gaze hardened. Silence settled over the strategium like a fog. “Explain.” “I cannot,” the Fleet-master admitted. “The roster is sealed above my authority. This anomaly was not present an hour ago.” Drakus extended a hand. The data-slate was placed into it with visible reluctance. He scrolled. The cogitator whined, chimes stuttering, before unlocking a partition he had never authorized. Designation: Withheld Heraldry: Absent Status: Active Classification: Brutalis-pattern Dreadnought Drakus closed the slate. “No Green Templar stands interred,” he said quietly. No one contradicted him. “Locate it,” he ordered. “Do not alert the Mechanicus. Do not log the search. If questioned, you are reconciling tonnage.” He turned back to the hololithic fleet display. “If it exists,” he said, “it exists inside my Crusade. I will know why.” ☆☆☆ The Brutalis Dreadnought waited in a lower cargo hold of the Verdant Oath itself. Its ceramite was bare, talons locked in mag-lock restraints, edges deliberately dulled. Twin multi-meltas hung inert. Strange-marked tech-priests stood watch, robes layered with sigils from dozens of hands. “Deactivate the restraint fields,” Drakus ordered. One turned, mechadendrites twitching. “Authorization is restricted. This asset is under—” Drakus drew his bolt pistol and fired. The first head ruptured against the bulkhead; the others froze, logic-loops stalling. “You are aboard a Green Templar vessel,” Drakus said evenly. “There is no higher authority present.” He fired again. And again. When the last fell, the bolt pistol locked open. Drakus glanced at it, then keyed his helm. “Techmarine Rodrigo Peral,” he said. “Report. Bring the rites for Dreadnought activation. Requisition an additional magazine for my sidearm. I am short.” ☆☆☆ Rodrigo Peral completed the final rites. Power flooded the sarcophagus. Hydraulics hissed like indrawn breath. A voice emerged—deep, vox-cracked, yet carrying the cadence of a brother long in the wars. “High Sentinel Drakus. At last.” Drakus leveled his bolt pistol. “Identify.” “I am the First. A Greyshield forged by the Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl himself, of pure Vulkan gene-seed, before your Chapter received its name or its Blades. I was held in reserve—pure, untainted—until the moment came.” Greyshield? Drakus thought. Cawl’s vaults supplied our Primaris reinforcements, yes—but no record exists of a pre-founding internee. No sarcophagus was delivered with the gene-stock. This thing claims a history we never claimed. “Why were you interred?” Drakus asked. “In what battle did you fall?” The talons twitched against the restraints. “I was defeated… by a vile machine. It thought itself alive. It wore the form of Man, spoke as kin, but its heart was cold code. I struck it down, but the cost was grievous. The Mechanicus saved what remained of me. They interred me so I could serve still.” The words hung heavy. Drakus felt the chill of recognition—not of truth, but of pattern. The abomination it described mirrored the speaker too closely. “Where have you been since?” he pressed. “Name the forge where they rebuilt you. Name the Tech-Priest who sealed the rites.” A longer pause. The multi-meltas hummed faintly, as if testing power. “I… do not remember clearly. The wars blur. The void is long. I awoke here, among my brothers. That is enough.” Drakus’ gaze hardened. Vague. Evasive. No Marine forgets the forge that birthed his second life. Rodrigo Peral shifted, mechadendrites probing the hull readings. “Lord, the neural bridge reads… inconsistent. I need a second opinion. Apothecary Severo Marqués—report to the hold. Bring your auspex and bio-probes.” Severo Marqués arrived swiftly, white armor stark against the dim lumens. He knelt, connecting leads to the sarcophagus ports. Scans flickered across his narthecium display. His posture stiffened. “High Sentinel,” he said quietly, voice tight. “There are no life signs. None. The biomatter within… it does not resemble an interred brother. No secondary heart, no catalepsean node activity. It is preserved, yes—artificially—but it is wrong. Dead far longer than any Dreadnought could sustain a mind. And yet it spoke.” Drakus rested his gauntlet on the ceramite. The hull thrummed under his touch, almost expectant. “Then tell me,” he said, voice low and final, “who—or what—has been speaking through a corpse’s shell.” Drakus keyed the vox without looking away. “Peral. Prepare to vent the hold. Open the outer hatch on my mark. Eject this… thing into the void.” Silence stretched. Then the voice cracked—less lucid, more desperate. “I am Green Templar! I am the First! Forged by Cawl, pure Vulkan blood—do not cast me out!” The Dreadnought’s talons flexed hard against the mag-locks—metal groaned. “No. I have served! I purged the machine that thought itself alive! You cannot—” “You are the machine,” Drakus said evenly. “And you will serve no longer.” The restraints snapped like brittle bone. Hydraulics screamed as the Brutalis tore free, massive frame lurching forward. Twin multi-meltas whined to full charge, barrels glowing infernal red. Bolt rifles on its forearms spat a storm of mass-reactive shells, hammering crates and bulkheads into ruin. Drakus drew his power sword in a blur. The blade ignited blue-white. “Peral—hatch! Now!” He charged low, aiming for the knee joints where armor gapped for movement. Rodrigo Peral dove for the control panel, mechadendrites stabbing into access ports, overriding lockdown protocols. Warning runes flashed crimson across the deck. Apothecary Severo Marqués raised his narthecium, vox crackling urgently: “All nearby Brothers—this is Marqués! Hold breach—hostile Dreadnought asset! Reinforcements to bay seven, priority!” A squad of Chapter serfs—ship’s armsmen in void-sealed carapace, lasguns and shotguns at the ready—poured through the inner hatch at the alarm klaxons. They opened fire instinctively: las-bolts splashed harmlessly off the bare ceramite, autogun rounds pinging away like rain on adamantium. One serf screamed a Promethean litany and charged with a shock maul raised—only for a casual backhand talon to send him flying into a wall, armor crumpling. A massive talon swept in a wide arc. Marqués twisted aside, but not far enough. The claw raked across his chest plate, tearing pauldron and rib-guard in a spray of blood and ceramite shards. He staggered back, collapsing against a munitions crate, one arm dangling useless, white armor blooming red. “Marqués!” Drakus roared. Tomas Varn—barely out of his indenture, face pale under his helm—broke from the firing line and threw himself over the fallen Apothecary, lasgun blazing point-blank at the Dreadnought’s torso. The bolts did nothing. The Brutalis pivoted, one multi-melta barrel tracking. A searing beam lanced out—white-hot promethium fury that slagged Tomas Varn’s carapace in an instant. Flesh and armor vaporized in a burst of superheated steam; his scream cut short as he slumped, charred remains shielding Marqués’ body like a broken aegis. Drakus locked his mag-boots to the deck with a heavy clunk, anchoring himself against the growing pull as Peral’s overrides began cycling the outer hatch. He lunged again, power sword slashing deep into the exposed knee servo—sparks flew, fluid sprayed, the leg buckling with a tortured whine. The Dreadnought staggered, talons raking blindly. “I am one of you!” it bellowed, voice fracturing into static rage. A fist hammered down; Drakus rolled aside, the impact cratering plasteel and sending shockwaves through the hold. The remaining serfs braced against cargo stacks and support struts, gripping handholds, autoguns still barking futile defiance. Peral’s vox cut through the chaos: “Hatch at fifty percent—five seconds! Lord, the machine is fighting the cycle!” The outer hatch hissed wide. Void roared in like a living thing—sucking air, debris, loose tools toward the black maw. Mars’ ruddy glow framed the opening. Drakus deactivated one boot momentarily, lunged to Marqués’ side, and clamped a gauntlet around the Apothecary’s pauldron. With a grunt, he hauled the wounded brother back, mag-locking both boots again. Marqués groaned, secondary heart laboring, but alive. The serfs clung desperately—some to chains, others to each other—bodies straining against the gale. The Brutalis slid inexorably toward the breach, talons gouging deep furrows in the deck as it clawed for purchase. Drakus drove his sword one final time into the shoulder mount, severing multi-melta feed lines—one barrel died in a sputter of sparks. “You will serve the Chapter,” Drakus said over the howling wind, voice steady, “but not as you imagine.” The Dreadnought’s last talon slipped. It tumbled out, twisting in vacuum, ceramite glowing cherry as atmospheric friction claimed it on the long fall to Mars. Its vox screamed one final, garbled plea—“I am—!”—before silence swallowed it. The hatch sealed with a thunderous clang. Emergency repressurization hissed. Drakus knelt beside Marqués, checking the wound. Grievous, but survivable with immediate rites. The Apothecary’s narthecium auto-injected stimms. The surviving serfs slumped, breathing hard, faces ashen. One saluted weakly, blood on his gloves from a comrade. Rodrigo Peral limped over, scorched mechadendrite dangling. “The roster is correct now. One thousand. No anomalies.” Drakus stared at the sealed hatch, then at the charred outline where Tomas Varn had fallen shielding his brother. “Technology bends to the will of Man,” he murmured. “Not the other way around.” He rose. “Tend to the wounded. Secure the hold. Honor the fallen—Tomas Varn among them. The Crusade continues.” The Chapter endured—bloodied, vigilant, and one step closer to the truth of who had tried to poison them from within... And the man in the box would fight no longer.

They are the Green Templar: hunters of forbidden relics, executioners of knowledge, and the hammer that keeps the Dark Age of Technology buried forever. Successors of the Salamanders, they strike where the Imperium dares not tread, leaving nothing alive that could betray what they hunt. FINAL COGITATOR ENTRY OF CAPTAIN SÉBASTIEN YORKE: They came aboard without ceremony. No warning chime. No challenge from the augur decks. One moment the Gloria Invictus drifted on idle in Imperial voidspace, her holds full and her ledgers clean. The next, the boarding alarms screamed like dying things. Green armor. Not Salamanders green—colder, somehow. Bone-white pauldrons marked with a templar cross. Two chapters merged into one impossible purpose. I could only guess who these Green Templar really were. I invoked my Warrant. “I am a Rogue Trader—Sébastien Yorke—of the Imperium,” I said, forcing steel into my voice. “By the authority of the High Lords of Terra—” They did not answer. They advanced, deck by deck, methodical, unhurried. Not butchers. Not raiders. Auditors. Sealing bulkheads, marking crates, tagging cogitator cores with red sigils that pulsed once and went dark. My armsmen fired. Some died screaming in fire that clung to flesh and armor alike. Others vanished under bolter fire so precise it felt personal. No warnings. No demands. Only collection. They found the vaults. I followed them, flanked by my Seneschal and what remained of my honor guard, shouting words like talismans: Warrant. Sanction. Cold Trade. I told them the artifacts were catalogued, secured, studied under Mechanicus charter. I told them I had saved worlds with the technologies they now sealed away. A warrior turned toward me. His helm lenses burned like coals. “You have saved nothing,” he said. That was the only sentence any of them spoke. They brought the seized relics to the docking bay—xenos engines wrapped in null-shrouds, crystalline cogitators older than the Imperium, weapons that hummed with sleeping suns. My life’s work. My legacy. And then Vulkan He’stan arrived. I recognized him at once. You don’t trade the stars for three centuries without learning the faces of legends. The Forgefather walked among my cargo in silence, the Primarch's Spear mag-locked at his side, his gauntlet brushing dust from devices that had cost me entire systems to acquire. Hope flared in my chest. Fool that I was. “Lord,” I said. “You see—this is sanctioned. This is lawful. This knowledge—” He stopped before a device I had never dared activate. He studied it for a long moment. Then he shook his head. Just once. No condemnation. No command. He turned and left my ship. I understood. The Green Templar waited until his vessel cleared the hangar before they began the purge. They did not destroy the artifacts first. They destroyed the records. My ledgers burned. My cogitator banks were slagged. Servitors dismantled into wet meat and scrap. I was seized, restrained, pulse-bound—not by mercy, but by necessity. The Apothecary moved among the wounded, scanning every survivor, preparing his tools. He would ensure no trace of forbidden knowledge survived. When he finally approached, I would've sworn I saw the disgust through his helmet as he recognized what was buried within me—the source of my long life. For the briefest of moments he studied it—buried, ancient, alien. The narthecium unfolded. Pressure. Heat. A wet shock. Gone. Four hundred years collapsed in seconds. The Apothecary crushed it in his gauntlet. Strength drained. Vision dimmed. The last thing I saw: green armor moving past me, methodical, unconcerned, as the charges finished counting down on the remaining vaults. I had thought the technology kept me alive. I was wrong. It only postponed the moment I became unacceptable. ☆☆☆ PERSONAL LOG: SEREN KORRAN, SALAMANDERS STORMRAVEN PILOT — DAY 47, ALPHA RIM PATROL I did not look at the ship as it burned. Hands steady on the Stormraven controls, the engine hum drowned out the void-detonations behind us. Auspex returns flared and died as Sébastien Yorke’s vessel came apart, compartment by compartment, exactly as planned. The Forgefather stood behind me, silent. I knew—everyone in the forge-clans knew—that he despised the Green Templar. Not for zeal, but for certainty. They were a tool he would never claim, only point toward the rim and loose like a blade. Because they were the best. No one hunted forbidden tech more thoroughly. No one left questions. I had seen the cargo. Xenos engines bound in prayer-chains. Devices whose light bent the air. Knowledge that could have fed worlds, healed atmospheres, ended wars I had already fought. Vulkan He’stan inspected only what he must. Human craft. Provenance traced. Lineage confirmed. Anything born of alien thought he did not touch. Anything that might have helped all mankind—destroyed. That was the limit of his mercy. The Promethean Creed teaches fire tempers. That what survives is stronger. I had repeated those words a thousand times on Nocturne. But there was no tempering here. Only selection. Only annihilation. As we cleared the blast radius, the ship’s death registered on my displays. A brief flare. Wreckage scattered. Then nothing. No life signs. No records. I said nothing. That is my shame. The Forgefather remained silent behind me, a presence like cooled steel. He had done what he could. The rest, he left to monsters. ☆☆☆ AFTER-ACTION RECORD: GT-RIM-4471 Subject: Void-vessel Gloria Invictus — Cold Trade contamination confirmed. Disposition: All artifacts, records, and biological carriers purged. Vessel expunged. No recoverable legacy remains. ☆☆☆ Somewhere in the void, as my life faded and the Green Templar disappeared into the dark, I thought I heard a whisper of my name—but no one would ever speak it again.

JOURNAL OF ELIAS RENN (Recovered fragment. Original medium: bound paper journal, water- and ash-damaged.) Entry I: I write this as I walk. The road south cuts through the hills like a scar. I have followed it since dawn, though I no longer remember leaving the last town. Only the smoke remains clear in my mind—black and greasy, climbing into the sky like a signal flare for something vast and patient. They came without warning. No herald, no parley. The bells rang once before falling silent. Green armor moved through the square: huge, methodical shapes untouched by panic. Bolters did not roar; they punctuated. Each shot felt like the end of a sentence. I was spared only because I was already gone. That is my purpose, after all. Messenger. Runner. Fool who believes words can outrun fire. Entry II: The people of Varn’s Crossing listened. They nodded. They mad the sign of the Aquila when I spoke of Space Marines. But I saw the doubt in their eyes. Everyone knows His Angels do not descend for nothing. Everyone knows if they burn a place, it must have deserved it. I slept in the stable. I dreamed of armored boots grinding grain to dust. Tomorrow I try again. Entry III: They are burning in a line. That is what terrifies me most. It is not random. It is not wrath. Towns fall one by one, each nearer than the last, as though already marked. As though plotted on a map I cannot see. Today I heard of a village to the east—no survivors, no bodies whole enough to bury. Only ash and the sharp chemical sting that clawed at the eyes. I am beginning to wonder whether I am fleeing them… or leading them. Entry IV: I have started counting days since I left home. My wife’s face comes to me at night, stern and tired, as if she knows something I do not. My daughter laughs in my dreams, holding up her hands, asking if I have brought her something. Emperor forgive me. I did. Entry V: The thought arrived uninvited and now refuses to leave. What do I carry that others do not? No relics. No forbidden texts. No augmetics. I am no heretic. I pray. I tithe. I obey. Yet I remember the pilgrimage. The long road. The nameless guide. The hidden path. The quiet grove, untouched, impossibly green, impossibly old. An Aeldari world, though I did not know the word then. Only that it felt ancient. The vial was small. Clear glass. Clear liquid. Harmless, I thought. A gift. Entry VI: I went home. I do not know why I believed I could outrun them and still return. Perhaps I thought love would make me invisible. She was asleep when I entered. Curled on her side, breath slow, one hand open on the blanket. The vial sat on the table near the bed. She had placed it there carefully, upright, like a votive. I had not told her what it was. I had called it a blessing. I understood then. Not all at once. Enough. I lifted it and felt the cold through the glass. The liquid shifted, slow and deliberate, as if aware of being moved. My fingers shook. I waited for the sound of glass on wood, for her to stir. She did not. I stood there longer than was safe, listening to them breathe. I tried to memorize the sound. I failed. In the washroom I hesitated. Stupidly. As if hesitation mattered. I thought of the culvert, the fields, the river beyond town. All the places where water is allowed to disappear. Then I looked back at the bed. I chose. I poured it down the drain. It did not splash. It slid away, smooth and obedient, leaving the sink clean. The pipes did not protest. There was no smell, except something faint and familiar. Rain. I ran water after it. More than necessary. I told myself it was gone. I told myself this was what saving them looked like. I left before dawn and took a room at the inn where I could see the road and still see the house. I told myself distance was protection. I told myself I was clever. Entry VII: I took a room at the inn facing the road. From the window I could see my house. The roofline. The place where the gutter sagged. The bedroom window where the light caught in the morning and woke them before I did. I stood in plain sight. I wanted them to see me. I thought that mattered. I believed I had outsmarted them. They came midmorning. Not charging. Not hunting. A procession. White and green moving with the patience of men who know there is nowhere left to go. I waited for the moment when one of them would look up and raise a weapon. The one in white stopped instead. He carried a hand-scanner. He raised it and let it hum, slow and thoughtful, as if tasting the air. His helm turned toward the inn. Toward me. For a moment I was certain this was it. Then he lowered the device. He pointed. Not at me. At my house. The scanner moved again. He gestured to the next structure. Then the next. Calm. Precise. I could not hear the words, but I did not need them. The drain. The pipes. The way the liquid slid away so easily. I understood then what I had done. Not escaped. Not hidden. I had spread it. I had carried it into the walls. Into the water. Into everything they would test and mark and cleanse. The white one did not look back. Four Marines stepped forward. Flamers were raised with practiced indifference. No hesitation. No announcement. Fire does not need permission. I remained at the window. No one escapes the pyre. (No further journal entries.) EXTRACT: ADEPTUS ADMINISTRATUM SUB-SECTOR CLEANSING RECORD REF: GT-CX/XENOS-19-THREE CLEARANCE: MAGENTA DISTRIBUTION: RESTRICTED Subject: Civilian Settlement Contamination Event Location: Designate Three of Nineteen, Minoris Surface Habitation Tithe: Adeptus Non Responsible Authority: Green Templars Crusade Detachment, Blade Authority Confirmed Summary: On [REDACTED], auspex confirmation detected non-Imperial particulate contamination within a surface settlement designate Three of Nineteen. Contaminant exhibited self-propagating properties consistent with xenos-derived catalytic agents. Vector determined to be civilian transport from quarantined orbital structure. Assessment: Contamination classified as Class Absolutum. Spread confirmed via domestic water systems and substructure piping. Probability of civilian survival without full sterilization assessed at 0.0003%. Action Taken: In accordance with Crusade Purity Statutes and Codex Exactorum, Section XII, Sub-Clause Pyre, the following measures were enacted: • Full incineration of all affected hab structures • Termination of all civilian biological presence • Secondary purification burn to ensure null residuals • No recovery of remains deemed necessary Notable Observations: One civilian male observed at off-site lodging during initiation of cleansing protocols. Apothecarion scan registered no significant contamination at subject’s location at time of assessment. Subject classified as non-priority. No deviation from operational objectives recorded. Casualties: • Carriers: Total • Adeptus Astartes: None • Material Loss: Negligible Conclusion: Cleansing successful. Contamination eradicated. No relics, substances, or anomalous materials recovered of note. Final Disposition: Incident closed. Further inquiry unwarranted. The Emperor Protects.

THE RETURN OF THE GREEN KNIGHT The strike cruiser Verdant Oath did not sound a welcoming chime. The Thunderhawk settled into its cradle amid drifting vapor and cooling metal. From its hold emerged a lone figure clad in black ceramite. Brother Martin bore the sigil of the Deathwatch upon his pauldron. The Inquisitorial mark still clung to his armor, dull and intrusive, like a scar that refused to fade. No honor guard awaited him. Marshal Calder stood at the foot of the embarkation ramp, hands clasped behind his back. To one side waited Brother-Artificer Verdug, his servo-arm locked in repose. A pace behind them stood Codicier Lucan, hood drawn low, presence folded inward like a sheathed blade. Calder inclined his head. ‘Your vigil is ended.’ Brother Martin knelt. ‘It ended early, My Lord,’ Martin said. Not defensively. Precisely. ‘As intended,’ Calder replied The black of his armor was not revered aboard the Verdant Oath. It was residue. A foreign layer to be removed. They led him into the Armorum Sanctum. Cog-etched arches rose overhead. Incense hung heavy in the air, sharp with solvents and sanctified oils. The rites of return began. The black paint was burned away. Chemical agents hissed as Deathwatch livery dissolved down to bare adamantium. Serfs worked in silence. No hymns were sung. No litanies spoken. Only the steady rhythm of cleansing. As the green was reapplied, Codicier Lucan circled Martin slowly. His eyes never lingered on the armor. They searched deeper. ‘You refused three direct taskings,’ Lucan said, eyes unfocused. ‘Not requests. Orders.’ ‘I did,’ Martin replied. ‘Specify,’ Calder said. ‘The Deathwatch required maintenance of xenos-derived weapon systems,’ Martin said. ‘Calibration. Sanctification. Instruction.’ Verdug’s optics brightened faintly. ‘I refused,’ Martin continued. ‘Each time, I cited Martian doctrine and Imperial law. Each time, I offered sanctioned alternatives.’ ‘And?’ Calder asked. ‘They recorded my refusals,’ Martin said. ‘They judged me obstructive. Ideologically inflexible. A liability to operational cohesion.’ Calder’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. 'They I was released to my parent chapter under writ,’ Martin finished. Calder inclined his head once. ‘Exactly as hoped.’ Lucan stopped pacing. ‘There has been interference,’ Lucan said at last. Calder did not turn. ‘Explain.’ ‘The Ordo Xenos attempted a surgical purge,’ Lucan replied. ‘Memory excision. Observation anchors. They were thorough.’ Verdug’s optics flared softly. ‘And successful?’ Lucan paused. ‘Incomplete.’ At a gesture from Verdug, servitors drew back a shrouded reliquary. Runes flared as seals disengaged, one by one. Beneath lay an ancient device of brass and blackened steel, its surface etched with sigils older than the Chapter. ‘Sanctioned by Holy Terra,’ Verdug intoned. ‘Recovered during the Third Scouring of Helican Reach.’ Lucan’s voice lowered. ‘Rumors claim the Ordos Hereticus uses such devices to unmask witches. To reconstruct lies stripped from the mind.’ Calder turned at last. ‘Then use it.’ Brother Martin was seated before the device. Cables interfaced with his cranial ports. The machine stirred, not with noise, but with intent. Lucan reached into the warp. The device responded. Fragments surfaced—gaps where memory had been cut away, cauterized with cold precision. The machine probed those absences, not restoring what was taken, but mapping what should have been there. Runes ignited across the chamber walls. Star charts unfolded, incomplete at first—then sharpening. Worlds returned from omission – bled back into focus. Vaults hidden by silence. Listening posts. Quarantine reliquaries hidden beneath layers of denial. Lucan exhaled slowly. ‘Nineteen,’ he said. ‘Recovered from absence,’ Verdug confirmed. ‘The rest are too degraded.’ Calder stepped forward, studying the burning points of light. ‘Nineteen worlds touched by xenos treachery,’ he said, ‘Nineteen worlds, hidden not by ignorance, but by intent.’ ‘Some confirmed,’ Martin said, his voice steady despite the lingering ache behind his eyes. ‘Some merely watched.’ Lucan’s gaze hardened. ‘Watched is enough.’ ‘Then no longer,’ Calder said. He turned to Verdug. ‘Inform the Blade.’ The words carried weight. The War Council would convene. Routes would be charted. Oaths renewed. Weapons sanctified. Calder faced Martin once more. ‘Your vigil ended early because it needed to,’ he said. ‘You were sent back because you exposed their weakness. They lack faith in humanity.' Martin bowed his head. ‘You return to us without stain,’ the Marshal said. ‘Go and rejoin your brothers.' Outside the Armorum Sanctum, klaxons began to sound—not alarms, but summons. The Verdant Oath altered course. A Crusade had been declared. It was a good day for the Green Templars. And the alien would not endure it.

Hey everyone. I present to you all an Index Astartes article I've written for my Deathwatch army (part of which I'm painting up for the 2016 Deathwatch Painting Challenge): members of the Deathwatch Watch Fortress Fort Excalibris. I'm looking for some feedback on this, in particular the believability of what I've laid out here. In the past I've mentioned that I dislike "special snowflakes" (being someone that absolutely has to feel special, usually by violating some core tenet of whatever project they are participating in) and that continues to this day. In 40k, being a special snowflake tends to manifest itself in things like, "Oh, he's the only Grey Knight who's ever turned to Chaos" (despite background stating that NO Grey Knight has ever turned to Chaos). I'm concerned that I might have gone a little too far in some of the things I've described here so I'd like some other people to take a look at it and tell me if that's the case. I'm also a little... I guess "scared" is the term, seeing as I've taken two actual GW places/Chapters and given them a history of my own (Fort Excalibris and the Imperial Stars). Please let me know what you think. ========== Index Astartes: Fort Excalibris Origins The facility that would eventually become Fort Excalibris was founded in the 34th Millennium as a joint venture between the alien-hunting branch of the Inquisition, the Ordo Xenos, and the Adeptus Mechanicus to capture and study the tools of the alien. The Ordo Xenos provided a complement of Deathwatch Kill Teams to investigate alien activity and retrieve xeno-artefacts whilst the Adeptus Mechanicus pledged a cadre of Tech Priests and their servants to study anything captured, as well as the space station Er Kontor that would be their base of operations. Non-military members of the Ordo Xenos would oversee the running of the facility and provide additional aid to help the Adeptus Mechanicus in their research. Less than a century after the establishing of Er Kontor, the Fabricator-General of the relatively-nearby Forge world of Mezoa discovered the pro-xenos leanings of the Tech Priests doing research there and declared them Hereteks. Unable to directly assault them for fear of reprisal from the Inquisition, Mezoa engaged in a secret cold war with the unknowing space station. Whilst Er Kontor’s initial research was extremely promising, over time as their resources dwindled and former allies removed their support they produced fewer and fewer usable results to the point that the Ordo Xenos was prepared to scrap the project altogether. But, on the cusp of victory, Mezoa tipped their hand and accidentally exposed their actions to the Inquisition, who were swift to take action. Cold war exploded into open warfare. With all pretence of subterfuge gone, the Basilikon Astra of Mezoa was despatched to blow Er Kontor out of the stars. The Ordo Xenos responded in kind, sending a flotilla of Imperial Navy ships to defend the research facility. The flotilla arrived just in time to intercept the Adeptus Mechanicus ships bearing down on the space station. Massed rows of torpedoes flew across the ever-decreasing gap between the fleets before slamming into their targets in blossoms of red and yellow. Weapons batteries on both sides blazed white hot as they spewed their fiery payload upon their enemies. Lance fire sliced open ship hulls, exposing their innards to the void of space. As the Imperial Navy flotilla drew closer, the Adeptus Mechanicus fleet attempted to outmanoeuvre them in the hopes of accomplishing their assignment then retreating without paying too heavy a toll in destroyed vessels. But the ships loyal to the Inquisition managed to draw close and launched boarding actions against almost the entirety of the Mechanicus vessels. Few of the Legiones Skitarii had been deployed to the fleet and soon their ships started to become overrun with troops of the Ordo Xenos. In a last ditch effort to succeed in their mission the Adeptus Mechanicus’s flagship, a Retribution class battleship whose name has been lost to history, fired its final complement of torpedoes at the station before signalling the withdrawal of their fleet. The deadly missiles closed the distance with Er Kontor, the salvo large enough to obliterate the already-damaged facility. At the last moment, a Sword-class frigate named Excalibris flew headlong into the spread of torpedoes. The Excalibris was utterly destroyed, ripped asunder by a full half-dozen of the plasma warheads igniting as they impacted its hull. The remaining torpedoes continued on their path and hit Er Kontor, crippling the station as secondary explosions rippled throughout its structure. As the Adeptus Mechanicus fleet limped home to Mezoa, it was clear that their gambit had failed. Er Kontor, though crippled and listing in space, was still whole; the noble sacrifice of the Excalibris and her crew had saved the station from the majority of the torpedoes at the dear cost of the ship and their lives. In the aftermath of the battle, the Inquisition censured the forge world of Mezoa. Assuring them that the Adeptus Mechanicus personnel aboard the station had been wiped out in the explosions caused by the final torpedo impacts, the Ordo Xenos claimed the research facility as being solely theirs, renaming it Fort Excalibris in honour of the vessel that had sacrificed itself. Mezoa gladly let the Inquisition claim the facility, knowing it was a small price to pay and that they could have been forced to repay far more. Homeworld As with all Deathwatch Watch Fortresses, Fort Excalibris does not recruit new Space Marines but instead draws from the best xenos killers amongst the Adeptus Astartes. Fort Excalibris itself is a sprawling complex located in the eastern portion of Segmentum Obscuris, almost on the border with Ultima Segmentum. The initial space station has been built upon numerous times into a multi-hulled space fortress, surrounded by innumerable minefields and other defence emplacements. Whilst the basic goal of the venture of Fort Excalibris hasn’t changed over the millennia, the contingent of Deathwatch Kill Teams initially stationed there has evolved over time into being a fully fledged Watch Fortress. The research portion of the facility, initially staffed by the Adeptus Mechanicus, is now fully crewed by the Ordo Xenos and their servants. As one of the few Watch Fortresses to have a facility exclusively dedicated to xeno-tech research, Fort Excalibris has a reputation within certain circles for being at the forefront of Imperial research into alien technology. As a result of this, Kill Teams from all over the Imperium deliver numerous pieces of xeno-tech to the experts at Fort Excalibris in the hope that some vital information can be gleaned for use in the future. Deep within the depths of Fort Excalibris lie a great many relics and articles of war, some of which are so dangerous they cannot be used lest they annihilate all life on a planet’s surface. The Black Vault of Fort Excalibris is one of the most diverse in the Deathwatch, allowing its castellans to be armed with the deadliest weapons known to the enemies of Man. Combat Doctrine As befits a research centre such as Fort Excalibris, its Kill Teams are usually armed with the best equipment available to the Deathwatch. In some cases this means brand new, barely-post-testing weapons whilst in others this means ancient artefacts dating from before the Horus Heresy. The Kill Teams of Fort Excalibris are well-armed and equipped to face any foe on the battlefield. Whilst capable of making quick insertions into hostile territory, they are also fully able to wage war on a longer term basis, particularly in circumstances where xeno-tech acquisition is highly likely. In such cases specially adapted Corvus Blackstars and Thunderhawk Gunships are used to airdrop varying forms of forward command posts including Aegis Defence Lines, Imperial Bastions, and even Skyshield Landing Pads to allow the Deathwatch to maintain a mobile front line. The armoury of Fort Excalibris contains some of the rarest vehicles deployed by the Adeptus Astartes. Amongst other things, the Watch Commanders of Fort Excalibris can call upon the aid of motorised behemoths such as Legion Fellblades and Typhon Heavy Siege Tanks. The Cerberus Heavy Tank Destroyer is a particularly useful and oft-requisitioned vehicle, as it allows the Deathwatch the ability to take down alien Titans at long range; many such massive engines of war have been salvaged as a result of this war machine. Organisation Like most other Watch Fortresses of the Deathwatch, Fort Excalibris follows the standard format of a strategium staff and an armoury supporting five Watch Companies, each consisting of a Watch Captain and four Kill Teams. Due to the nature of Fort Excalibris, historically the Watch Commander has been an Ordo Xenos Inquisitor as often as it has been a Deathwatch Watch Master. In addition to his usual duties, the Watch Commander is also the overall head of the research and development facilities, though a Deathwatch Watch Master holding the post usually delegates that responsibility to a senior member of the Ordo Xenos. The current Watch Commander of Fort Excalibris is Watch Master Arcturus. Originally from the Imperial Stars, a Codex Chapter whose Astartes are all curiously named after the celestial bodies the Chapter is named for, he has dedicated himself towards the extermination of the Enemy Without through a lifetime of dedicated service to the Deathwatch. Arcturus eschews the traditional Guardian Spear wielded by a Marine of his station, instead taking the field with an ornate and ancient Relic Blade of great length and power. The more superstitious members of the Deathwatch whisper rumours that suggest this Relic Blade may have once been wielded by the Emperor himself and that the merest hint of His divine essence still resides within it. The Watch Captain of Fort Excalibris’s Watch Company Tertius is Magnus Blackwolf of the Space Wolves. Recruited from Engir Krakendoom’s Wolf Guard for his part in masterminding and leading an attack on an Ork-infested space hulk, Magnus has served in the Deathwatch with distinction for a great number of years. Distrusted by many within his own Chapter due to inadvertently choosing the name of the Space Wolves’ archenemy as his own following the Test of Morkai, Magnus finds himself more at home amongst his brethren in the Deathwatch than he ever felt in The Fang, the fortress monastery of the Space Wolves. Comfortable with using the wide variety of weapons and wargear afforded him by his station, Magnus leads his Watch Company from the front with a feral grin on his lips. The highest ranking non-Deathwatch member of the Ordo Xenos at Fort Excalibris is Inquisitor Ambrosius Grax. An ageing puritan of the Monodominant philosophy, since being assigned to Fort Excalibris he has tempered his methodology and now freely embraces the idea of using the weapons of the alien against them. Despite nominally having nothing but a desk job, Inquisitor Grax often assigns himself to Deathwatch Kill Teams on their expeditions to retrieve xeno-tech. When asked why, he smirks and replies, “Rank hath its privileges.” Requests from members of his support staff to stop doing so usually end up with said support staff temporarily reassigned to scourge the environmental duct systems of dust, debris, and vermin. Due to Kill Teams from all over the galaxy guarding and delivering new materiel to the researchers, Fort Excalibris is often host to Astartes from other Watch Fortresses, including such famous names as Watch Captain Artemis of Talasa Prime and Ortan Cassius, Chaplain of the Ultramarines. On rare occasions, these outsider members of the Deathwatch are conscripted into Excalibris’s Kill Teams and sent on missions by Watch Master Arcturus. Whilst technically an abuse of power, these actions are usually excused as the experience gained by fighting alongside Deathwatch members from other Watch Fortresses is seen as extremely valuable and are often “overlooked” by those who could do something about it. Beliefs The establishing of Fort Excalibris as a centre of research has led to the Deathwatch Marines stationed there embracing the use of refitted xeno-weaponry readily. Likewise the majority of their Ordo Xenos personnel have at least a slightly radical bent, as any position within the Watch Fortress is naturally attractive to individuals who would prefer to use the tools of the alien against them. The portion of the Adeptus Mechanicus who formed the initial alliance with the Inquisition followed a set of beliefs counter to those of the majority of their associates. Their interpretation of the Xenos Testamenta, one of the Mechanicus’s Sixteen Universal Laws, meant they believed that even though the knowledge found within alien technology had been corrupted from the pure thought of the Machine God, it could still be salvaged for the Quest for Knowledge. As a result, Fort Excalibris has become something of a pilgrimage site for members of the Adeptus Mechanicus who follow similar pro-xenos beliefs, though those who do visit often do so in disguise so as not to be identified. Gene-seed Like all other Watch Fortresses across the Imperium, the Deathwatch is composed of Space Marines from a number of different Chapters, with a variety of nearly identical to little-to-no similarity in their gene-seed. The exact composition of Fort Excalibris’s Deathwatch Marines varies over time, but currently includes members of the Ultramarines, Dark Angels, Crimson Fists, Liberators, and Howling Griffins. There is a slightly higher than average number of Astartes from the Silver Skulls Chapter, likely due to Fort Excalibris’s proximity to their homeworld of Versavia. Battlecry Raising his sword towards the heavens, the leader of a given Deathwatch Kill Team or army calls out, “FOR EXCALIBRIS!” which is echoed in turn by his comrades. Watch Fortress Icon http://i11.photobucket.com/albums/a182/Masked_Thespian/Wargaming/TIC%20HPC%202016/17d%20Excalibris%20Icon.png ========== Author's Notes and Trivia The major driving force of the background was justifying certain model choices in-universe. This includes: Wanting to convert the original limited edition Emperor's Champion into my Watch Master, Including a Lord of War and a Fortification choice as per one of the painting and modelling challenges on another site that I'm participating in, Wanting to include the Deathwatch special characters Watch Captain Artemis, Venerable Dreadnought Nihilus, and Kill Team Cassius in my army as themselves, and, Wanting to include a Puritan Inquisitor with a roguish streak. In my first draft of this, Fort Excalibris was initially a Ramiles class star fort, but I couldn't justify why such an impressive installation wasn't considered a Primary Watch Fortress (as per pages 12 and 13 of the codex). The incursion by the Adeptus Mechanicus was originally an attempt to explain why it wasn't a Primary Watch Fortress (due to them maintaining a long-running grudge and starving the Fort of resources and allies), but all my attempts at writing it ended up with the AdMech holding the idiot ball. In the end, I still included the AdMech attack because I liked the inter-Imperial conflict, and I especially enjoyed writing the battle. For anyone paying attention, there are a number of references here. In particular, there are 5 specific references to Arthurian legend (excluding the fact that the name of the Watch Fortress is "Excalibris" (which is where I took the inspiration from) since that's what GW called it) and 1 Star Trek reference (which kind of doubles up to 2 if you look at it in the right light). Bonus points are available for anyone who finds them all

Hello brothers ! It has been a long time but I return. Here is a link to some fiction I am currently working on for our beloved Chapter: https://greenblowfly.blogspot.com/2017/08/assassin-part-20-blood-oath-iii.html Enjoy.