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http://i1299.photobucket.com/albums/ag78/chud395/AL_Vet_Tact._Legionary_zpsaeredy1d.jpg Our name is Legion Our name is our own Our name is power Power giveth strength Strength belongs to the deserving You deserve not our name To give you our name is death You are not us We are apart from you For we are Legion We are Death Axiom of Ruinam or "The Downfall" ​The Unification Wars Greetings one and all. Since inspiration for my Night Lords is completely dead and with A Tale of 18 Hobbyists kicking off/News on Shattered Legions/Plastic tactical marines I've decided to plough ahead with my next project. Originally I was going to shoot for the Alpha Legion but with the bits and pieces of rumour concerning the forthcoming Vol VI containing a Shattered Legon list I've increased my scope - I want to model/paint/write about more than one Legion and I like the idea of a Shattered Legion outside of the usual Iron Hands/Salamanders/Raven Guard theme. And after doing Night Lords loyalists were the order of the day for me. So here I shall log my struggles to do more painting/modelling than actual writing and bring my ideas forth. I want to say at the start that Hyaenidae and BCK's Unification Wars/Early Great Crusade stuff has inspired most of the ideas for this. And apologies in advance to the Princess of Crows Flint. As my usual sounding board she's going to be listening to a lot of from me. OK to business. As I'm still awaiting my FW order first up is some fluff, what I'm looking to do is shed some light on our varied protagonists and just why they'd consider something as drastic as following a Harrowmaster of the least trustworthy Legion. Enjoy. Triton, Satellite of Neptune – Sol System – 1043 Days after the Istvaan V Dropsite Massacre Ishamael Julvar had consigned himself to a lonely death. He had seen nor heard anyone for the past seventeen days. Even by the standards of his cell that was an uncommonly long period of time where none of his jailors had seen fit to check if he still lived. He had made a point of counting how long they were wont to abandon him previously, and that had never extended beyond five days. The VII Legion were nothing if not meticulous in their duty. But this long silence obviously meant that events were afoot. Over two standard Terran weeks was bordering on dereliction of duty in any other case. The riveted bands of silver around his bare wrists and ankles prevented him from simply pushing his sixth sense out into the prison complex. Indeed he was no longer sure his powers would manifest at his behest, he had never gone so long without calling upon them in some way though he had heard tell in his gutted Legion that psychic powers were known to atrophy quickly. Julvar supressed a sigh of regret. The XV Legion were dead, the third Legion to have their names and deeds burnt from Imperial history, the crimes of the Crimson King against his father the Emperor, too great for simple censure. The abrupt clacking of the door seals retracting snapped his attention back to the present. He lacked the strength to stand and face his captors so was forced to settle slumped against the wall opposed the entrance, his feet almost reaching the metal in the confined space. Three Astartes stood outside, the rich yellow of their armour identifying them immediately. One held a dataslate in his fist, the others merely kept their bolters held at ease across their chests. Interestingly, none had anything to denote rank. The warrior with the dataslate stepped to the threshold of the cell and glanced at the device once before speaking. “Ishamael Julvar. By order of Rogal Dorn, Lord of the VII Legion and Praetorian of the Imperium, you are to be transferred from this facility to Terra immediately” He motioned for the two warriors accompanying him to lift the stricken Thousand Son from the cell. As both entered, Ishamael caught the distinctive scent of oil and hot ceramite tinged with the unmistakable aroma of fycelene – smoke from the propellant in bolt shells. As he gained his feet he looked straight at the Astartes who had addressed him. “My bindings cousin,” he said, raising his arms to show his wrists. The Imperial Fist didn’t hesitate; “Of course kinsman” and he simply ripped away the silver in his gauntlets. Ishamael felt the Warp trickle back into him but ignored it to focus on his deliverer. “You are not of the VII Legion.” It was less than a question. Again no hesitation, “No cousin we are not.” “Then who are you! You are in a prison posing as members of Dorn’s Legion and he-“ The false Imperial Fist’s laughter stopped Ishamael short. Of everything, laughter was the last thing he expected. “Cousin. Dorn has had you locked here for four years. Given the other things on his mind you are a very minor detail.” “There is no such thing as a minor detail.” Again, laughter. “No doubt Gulliman would agree with you. He however is not here, we are. And you are coming with us.” Still Ishamael hesitated. If he were being smuggled from the prison, why? And by whom? Were his brothers being freed too? The questions ceased running through his mind as he looked down the corridor and saw another Astartes start down the cramped space. This one wore ornate warplate, it’s surfaces chased with scales, silver serpents and undecipherable text written in a score of languages, most of them dead. Alpha Legion. It could be no other, which would explain the false Fists and the gun smoke. He decided to try one more time. “I’m grateful cousins, truly. Now who are you? And what of Dorn?” The Alpha Legionnaire stopped forty paces shy of him, his helm, surprisingly was wrought in such a way that the faceplate represented the unfurled pinions of the Imperial Eagle. He’d never have expected to see such a thing. “Cousin,” he said, making the Aquila before his chest. “We must see you safely from here. In approximately thirteen minutes every alarm in this rock will sound and the guns of a hundred brothers will be pointed directly at us. Haste is essential. And as for Dorn, Bane told you truly. He has far greater concerns on his mind at present. Like trying to reign in the aggressive impulses of the Wolf King and co-ordinate the invasion of Paramar V. Ishamael’s head spun with these revelations. Paramar V invaded? Leman Russ on Terra? Who was fighting who? Had the Warmaster lost all control over the Legions? “Who are you? And why is all of this taking place? My Legion’s sins I can at least bear witness to but Paramar is the domain of the Mechanicum and has Russ slipped beyond the Warmaster’s-“ “Enough brother. Answers will come with time. Time and distance between us and Triton. We cannot bide. And the Warmaster is why we have come. Your services are needed.” “Yes, yes, yes I will come. But for the final time kinsman, your name.” The eagle helm could have been boring a hole through his skull or been utterly lost in contemplation for all the movement and expression it presented. Finally, completely without emotion or inflection, a single word emerged from the vox-grill “Ruin”