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http://i.imgur.com/uEuKXk5.png?2 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9S24hgiisQY&feature=player_embedded Datafile unlocked… Memory core opened… Sequence begins… I do not understand. My brother captains often speak of glory, of honour, of becoming legends in their time. Sigismund and his Templar are the epitome of this, rushing into combat without worry or care. They have zeal, and that is enough for them. But it does not satisfy me. My father taught us many things, but above all, he taught us duty. Duty to our brothers. Duty to him. Duty to the Emperor. Duty to our Imperium. We are the foundation upon which the Imperium is built. We carry it upon our shoulders every single day. That is why we crusade. That is why we stand, when all others are dust. My brothers, my father. They are heroes. They are legends already, and they will be remembered throughout the annals of history. I am not. I simply do what is needed, and that is enough. It always shall be. I am a soldier among heroes, and I understand my burden. It has been mine since I first stepped foot in the Temple of Oaths aboard the Phalanx so many years ago. It has been renewed with every breath I take, every beat of my heart within my chest. It ceases only when I do, bloody and broken in the golden yellow of my Legion. It is the burden of duty. - Memoirs, by Heinrich Eilings, Shield-Commandant, 284th Storm Battalion, XXI Regiment,. VII Legion Astartes Sequence ends… Memory core closed… Datafile locked... VII Legion Organization CCLXXXIV Storm Battalion, XXI Regiment, VII Legion Within the Legiones Astartes there existed many variant lesser known formations and structures – the Armatures of the impeccable Third, the Steel Phalanges of the Iron Hands, the Dragoons of the early IV legion – that endured from the early days of the Legions. Significantly better known were the designate Battalions of the Imperial Fists: those of the Shield, the Lance, the Sword and the Storm. By far the most common of the battalion structures, the Storm Battalions were shock infantry formations, with a marked disposition for zone mortalis and urban warfare, with an abundance of squads configured as standard Tactical (Line) and Breacher units, representing a propensity for close order firefight units over other more specialized close-combat units. A standard structure for the Storm Battalion was a command group overseeing 3 Line Companies, roughly equitable to the standard Legion Company outlined in the Principia Belicosa, with further units relegated to a number of Auxiliary Detachments. The minutiae of the organization, as in many Legions, was relegated to the commander’s preference, and greatly varied from Battalion to Battalion, making it utterly difficult to pin down specific squad numbers for each detachment. The 284th Storm Battalion simply existed as one of many, but one whose particular ideals, exercised into tactical decision, fell close to the original structure. Within the battalion, it was typically viewed as foolhardy to go into battle with anything less than a boltgun, and whilst it was expected that each trooper of the Line companies would carry with them a sidearm and a combat blade for close quarter brawls, a company was expected to be universally equipped with the bolter as their primary weapon, with the exception of those assigned to specialized Support units and issued an alternative firearm instead. Peculiar to the 284th Storm Battalion’s rhetoric was the reference of individual Astartes as ‘soldiers,’ or often alternatively as ‘trooper.’ Whilst it is true that most Legions and their ideologies regarded the individual as lesser than the whole, it is rare that an Astartes would be referred to as a ‘soldier,’ rather than the more common ‘warrior’ or some variation thereof. The 284th placed a special emphasis on duty, and promoted this ideal as a greater purpose than anything else: glory, honor, or recognition. Duty to their Primarch, the Emperor, and most especially the Imperium was more important than any other motivation a trooper of the battalion might have, and it was frequently referred to as ‘the burden’ in many personal journals and memoirs recovered after the Siege of Terra. They prized fulfillment of their tasking over all else to a higher degree than most Astartes, and as such, suffered a high rate of casualties due to their refusal to abandon any incomplete mission, no matter how minor an impact on the war effort as a whole it might have. The precise structure of the Battalion reflected many of the standards of the Storm Battalions – Shield Commandant Heinrich Eilings and his Command Staff led, while the trinity of line companies formed the spine of the Battalion – each comprising approximately 120 Marines split among Veterans and Marines of the Line, while auxiliary detachments such as the Wallbreaker Terminator Elite and the Hunter Divisions formed its beating, unbreaking heart. By the time of the Siege of Terra the 284th was equipped with large stocks of Mk IV ‘Maximus’ pattern armor. This power armor pattern favored by the battalion for its advanced sensor suite was supplemented by other, older patterns and several prototype armor marks retrieved from Martian forges during the intense fighting there. Optimization and mixed armor types were extremely common, especially among the troopers of the Line companies, who often suffered higher than average damaged wargear during engagements as a result of the battalion’s preferred methods of warfare. It is these same tactical preferences for forlorn hopes and attrition warfare that wore away at the formation throughout the Siege and led to the ultimate termination of the 284th Storm Battalion as a functional fighting unit. http://i.imgur.com/OY4eT9k.jpg?1http://i.imgur.com/IcBn2ZR.jpg?1 [Pict-capture ZX/5793-37-00] Trooper Brannagh, I Grenadier, Company A (Line) http://i.imgur.com/iQs1TBu.jpg?1http://i.imgur.com/2vyh5Nz.jpg?1 [Pict-capture ZX/5793-37-01] Trooper Thawne, I Grenadier, Company A (Line) http://i.imgur.com/1TUf0hL.jpg?1http://i.imgur.com/Xkcf5ST.jpg?1 [Pict-capture ZX/5793-37-02] Trooper Kane, I Grenadier, Company A (Line) http://i.imgur.com/g5IenY2.jpg?1http://i.imgur.com/PwuVBP4.jpg?1 [Pict-capture ZX/5793-37-03] Trooper Lukas, I Grenadier, Company A (Line) http://i.imgur.com/gM5m9km.jpg?1http://i.imgur.com/fu4y0HR.jpg?1 [Pict-capture ZX/5793-37-04] Master Sergeant Arno Slade, I Grenadier, Company A (Line)

In the Ashes of the Thorns And who are you, the Tyrant said, that I should bend the knee Twelve high Lords on a far-off world, ‘tis all that I can see By a gilded seal, or a silver’d one, a Lion has his Claws And mine are cruel and sharp, my Lords, more cruel and sharp than yours. And so it came to pass, that in the 903rd year of the 41st millennium, a century before the Imperium would be shaken to its core and everything forever changed, Lugft Huron, Lord of Thorns, Chapter Master of the Astral Claws, and self-proclaimed Tyrant of Badab, did declare "just seccession" from the Imperium and, in so doing, ignite what was then the greatest conflict of our age. Alas, such was not to be, and if we could have seen what was yet to come within the next, darkest millennium, we might have counted ourselves lucky to be spared the horrors that came after Badab. Brother fought brother in a decade long war that saw seventeen warrior-brotherhoods of the Adeptus Astartes clash against each other in open conflict. Billions died and entire Chapters of Space Marine were condemned to crusades of Penitence, and even now, considering the horrors they would have to confront before that term was ended, it is impossible to say whether or not they survived. The war was brutal and bloody, with countless tales of equal parts valor and dishonor. These stories are too numerous to be told in full here. But even among every engagement throughout the war -- the Fires of Sacristan, the Angstrom Incident, Crow's World, and numerous others -- there is one that stands head and shoulders above the rest by the sheer measure of its violence and the gravity of its consequence. I speak, of course, of the final battle, the Siege that ended the War. I speak of the moments after the Tyrant found himself to stand alone among his manse in defiance of the Imperium of a Million Worlds upon his shadowed Throneworld. I speak of the Siege of Badab Primaris, and the Fall of the Palace of Thorns, when Lugft Huron, the Lion of Badab, died, his Claws with him, and something terrifying and black-hearted born into his place. Badab Primaris 913.M41 Long and hard had been the war, and many had already died among the Chapter. Yet more would die before the end. The smoke rising from the south meant that Surraek’s force had encountered the enemy. Most likely he and his charge of the Chapter now numbered among the honored dead, if the reports of the ferocity of the Carcharadon Astra were to be believed. Bashar Reyne glowered at this realization. This meant that unless the unlikely happened and they were reinforced, or the impossible happened and Surraek had actually survived the assault, he was the ranking officer in this sector. Turning away from the spiked parapet he stood at, he faced his command. Two depleted Tactical Squads lay at his disposal, his own and Cinnebre’s. Not enough. Not nearly enough, he thought. The Sharks had been reaping across Badab for days now, leaving a red wake behind, and they would be here in a matter of hours. The Claws would die here, he knew. There was no escape. Not now. Perhaps years ago, in the early days of the war, there might have been the possibility. But after ten years of fighting those loyal to the High Lords, ten years, brutal and bloody and restless, there was no return. The die had been cast and nought would change the number it showed upon its upward facing, save for the sweet release of death. So here the Astral Claws would make their final stand – upon the surface of their home – and so here they would die, but not before they reaped a terrible price from their attackers. A feeling came over Bashar Reyne then. Throughout the brutal centuries of his life, from the day he was first chosen to be a Neophyte of the chapter, through his days as a Marine of the Line in Tactical Squad Kherradan, through Veterancy and through his days serving first as a Sergeant, and later the honor of Veteran Sergeant, it was a feeling he had never known throughout war and strife. Peace. Reyne very nearly smiled at this realization, that he had accepted his final fate, but outwardly the grimace upon his face may well have been chiseled from stone from all it showed. A careful observer might have noted a slight shift in his eyes with this thought, but been unable to recognize it. Such a thing requires context, after all, and Bashar Reyne was not a Space Marine known for levity, but rather harshness and ill-compromise. To his men, only one thing he had to say before the end. “Die well.” It was a promise, as much it was an order. As the lights of hive spires began to go out as a wave approaching, heralding the arrival of some great cthonian marine predator, and a deathly silence began to replace the sounds of gunfire in the distance, Bashar Reyne ignited his power maul and awaited his end. Requiescat in Pace Veteran Sergeant Bashar Reyne of the Astral Claws Depicted as he was after taking overall battlefield command after the death of Tyrant's Centurion Surraek, Badab Primaris <urban combat//Zone Mortalis>, 913.M41. Confirmed KIA. Body found dismembered.

A Cruel Angel's Thesis Being an account of the I Legion Angeli Tenebrae, the war prosecuted against a tyrant Emperor by the Warmaster Horus, and the fall of a Legion. "We, once-merciful Angels, have forgotten sympathy. Ascend now, for our names have become legend." - Attributed to Master Azas Vem, Knight of the Angeli Tenebrae, Blood of Terra, Lord of the Eastern Sphere, Survivor of Rangdan, the First Reaper, and a battle-born brother to Luther of Caliban. +++ The Fall of the Knights of Caliban and of Terra, of the Emperor's holy Angels of Death and Darkness, the revered First, is often attributed in cause to the perfidy of Ser Luther el'Caliban, brother to Lion el'Jonson, Lord of Angels and Slayer of the Last Beast. Rejection and custodianship weighed heavy on my lord Luther's shoulders, until he could stand no longer and broke beneath the strain. Independently of the Warmaster's rebellion of the same era, he made attempt to use the confusion and chaos of war to his advantage, a political gambit to seize the power his Lord had given him and claim the world of Caliban for his own. But he failed, and as a result Caliban was lost and a full half the Legion was lost to void, scattered to space and time. So does the story go among the ranks of my former brothers who even now relentlessly seek me, in a futile effort to redeem their perceived shame. The story is a lie. While it may well be true that the catalyst of the Fall of Angels was the action of Ser Luther, its true roots can be traced back many years prior, long before the Horus Heresy, or the great Crusade that preceded it, before the Genocides of Rangdan, all the way back through the Solar Pacification and the Unification Wars, to the very foundations of the Astartes upon Terra. The processes later founded to raise Legions to strength were merely in the very earliest stages of gestation, and the Emperor still prosecuted his war with the cohorts of the Tontrua Milites that would define that era of the Imperium. At the Legions' incept, many projects were being undergone, variations on the implantation process of geneseed that made a Space Marine. The best known of these were the Firstborn and the Paragons, but many more besides these existed, their names lost to history. The pain of these processes were unlike any other, and is it any surprise that many of those who survived the march of years turned their backs to the Emperor in grave defiance of tyranny? The First Legion's, always, even before the founding of Caliban and its lost primarch, and the subsequent melding with the Order, has been one of layers and complexity of rank and standing. Our organization was the template, yes, but the later Legions never fully knew all of that. The nominal Legion structure outlined by the officiants of Terra was merely a pale reflection in a darkened glass of the original. Circles within and circles without, informal and ritual, hidden, though not always secret: that was what defined us. We knew our place and we held our tongue before others. As such, our disquiet was silent until spoken of. Through our time in the Legion, nary a wayward word, though. There were five of us to begin with. Over time this number grew in strength. By the time of Caliban, our circle numbered in the thousands, all who had the same mind: sic semper tyrannis. The Emperor was a tyrant of the worst sort, and we would one day destroy him. We had chosen our side, even if we never chose to exercise upon our decision until the time was right. We stood in silence with the Warmaster. This tale, this recollection, is a history of our circle. We forwent with mercy and sympathy: such was a liability in the war against a tyrant and a despot who had none, even if it never was open. I was there at the beginning, and I remember my brother Azas Vem speaking us into motion. This here is my account, and my argument, my reason. This is my thesis. [Pict-capture: Knight-Sergeant Marqius was a brother who had served with us since the earliest days of Crusade and through the punishing days of the Rangdan Genocides that destroyed our Legion. I trusted him with my life, right up until the day he took the blade of a Decurion Paladin meant for me that final day on Caliban.]

Ours is the Burden of Duty - Unit words, VII-284BTN ...inload 1... Garrus Klyne wakes up choking, eye obscured by clotting blood, post-human physiology rapidly compensating for injuries received. Awarness comes back in a rush, scrolling signis-runes and voxchatter filling his remaining eye and ears, barraging him with situation information that would be overwhelming for a baseline human. But Garrus Klyne is not human. He hasn't been for over twenty-three years. With a grunt, the rockcrete slab fallen over him is pushed aside, power-armor servoes whirring with the strain of the effort, and he rises to his feet, dust clouds billowing around him. Blinking, the sight that greets him confirms what the runes and vox have already told him. Traitor forces have breached the Khangchen Tjulwa perimeter, their columns far advanced beyond the bombed-out post where Klyne had been stationed. Battlegroup Nehvra was broken, Imperial Army units routed, and without support, Astartes forces were faltering against the onrushing hordes. His unit was unaccounted for, missing or more likely dead in the chaos. A scene that was being repeated a thousand times over in the other districts of the Imperial Palace. Loyalist forces scattering, falling back to secondary positions, giving ground to the Warmaster's invasion force. Overall situation? Dire. Odds? Untenable. Victory? Impossible. Klyne's combi-disintegrator lies on the ground where he fell, crushed by the same slab of rockcrete that crushed him, complex archeotech ravaged by blunt force trauma. Still not worth leaving behind. The archeotech is only half of a whole, and the half that is left is a boltgun: hardy, rugged, dependable. Deadly. The Gun that Would Win the Galaxy, they called it during the Crusade. A good name for a good weapon. The perfect weapon. It would take more than a falling building to disable a bolter, and with a score of campaigns fought in the zones mortalis Klyne attested to the fact. It wouldn't do to leave such a weapon behind, not while trapped in occupied territory, behind enemy lines. He quickly runs through a field check, practiced from two decades of warfare. The bolt-thrower is intact, simple mechanics still functioning in perfect alignment. There are seven mass-reactives remaining in the reserve with integrity intact. Satisfactory. Klyne shoulders the weapon and surveys the north, the thunder of artillery and other munitions a locus for where the invaders have marched. They're miles off, of course, but distant through the haze, the guns are still visible, liveried in gunmetal and black. Perturabo's Fourth, of course. There would be no other. Only the Iron Warriors would bring their artillery in this close, past the perimeter, as if to show the defenders ultimate superiority in siege warfare, self-redemption for decades of being sidelined in favor of the Seventh. Arrogance has blinded them to the possibility of survivors among the defeated radial outposts. Either that, or they simply no longer care what happens. Shaking his head, Klyne starts on the long march towards the traitor lines. He's dead, as dead as corpsestarch for sure, but there's still work to be done. Doesn't matter if he's dead, doesn't matter if the day is lost, doesn't matter that whoreson Lupercal is already sitting in the Golden Throne. He still has his duty to fulfill. He's Legiones Astartes, an Imperial Fist, 284BTN Ranger, and he still has seven rounds left. That’s an oversight. Somehow, somewhere in that bitter IV Legion horde, seven dead men are still walking, and oversights like that require correction. No one can see it, but under his helmet, the barest hint of a smile twitches... ... inload 1 ends ... Pictured: Garrus Klyne, Ranger unit, Imperial Fists 284 Storm Battalion. The Rangers were a hand-picked unit of veterans within the ranks of VII-284BTN, drawn in relatively equal measure from the ranks of the Reconnaissance squads and the Legion's Seeker Marines. Trusted with difficult to maintain disintegrator weapons, they served as a light infantry/scout counterpart to similar veteran infantry formations found throughout the Legions as well as within the 284 Storm Battalion itself. Sadly, like so many of those deployed to the front-line of the Siege of Terra, the Rangers suffered crippling losses during the fighting and afterwards were never reconstituted. Garrus Klyne had a particular reputation for taking vicious glee in killing, a tic surviving from formative years raised to join an Aranean gang. For the most part, the intense discipline of VII Legion doctrine hid this from view, but according to his closest brothers in the Legion, those who knew him quickly learned to recognize certain mannerisms -- a glint in the eye here, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, never quite a smile -- that would broadcast emotions leagues beyond the stoicism normally attributed to an Imperial Fist. He is shown here armed with a combi-disintegrator rifle, the standard equipment issued to a member of the Rangers within the ranks of 284BTN, and armored in the usual mix of power armor marks common to many Storm Battalion units, attrition warfare eating away at attempts at standardization.