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Part I Feed the Horses One Mundane divinity The too human familiarity of Angels Survived by i. “At the beginning, in my younger years, I did not think it possible that man alone could change the way of the stars. “I thought it the purview of His great Angels, and those iron behemoths shaped in His image. That only they, in His divine power, could reach out their hands and wring from the stars the yokes of their fortunes and bounties and treasures so that Mankind might prosper. “It wasn’t until Anchreus that I saw just what Man could do. “Men, flesh, blood, of tissue and sinew unchanged and unblessed. By their thousands. By the very tide of their bodies, I saw as they stacked one another up, chewed through by bullet and las, they changed fate. “A rout made into victory by flesh. An unwinnable battle won, because of the bounty of flesh Man had to offer. Castles unassailable, assailed unto ruination, by Man. “It tore me to my foundations. The sight quite literally drove me to a sort of personal madness, an affliction of the spirit my liege would say. He is like that, both painfully aloof and vague, but blunt unto the point that it borders on rude, even accusatory. “You are welcome here, Historitor Acenya Bhabli. The Spite Crusade welcomes all pilgrims. I cannot take you to the lord Spitewielder now, nor his commanders, but I can take you to his knights. “My dear, are you well? You look rather, I’m sorry, not pale, but a…mauve?” Acenya Bhabli caught the shoulder of the older man, steadying herself. Translation fatigue, she thought. She could picture the shipboard medicae advising that her new medication would aggravate the symptoms. She offered the older man, the appointed liaison who had been awaiting her arrival at the docking hangars aboard the Astartes battle barge The Flail, flagship of the Spite Crusade, and home to the Black Templars crusaders forming its backbone. The liaison, an aged man in a cream robe with a black woolen rope around his waist, older in feature if not gusto, was still staring at her, a look of paternal concern tugging at the folds and wrinkles of his eyes. “I’m well, sir, thank you. Translation fatigue, I’m told.” She smoothed out the crinkles of her tunic, clearing her throat to make up for the lapse. “His knights, you were saying?” The liaison, Tyren, turned to stern, his crooked nose preferred over his finger in directing her. “Follow me this way, Historitor Acenya Bhabli. There are few on board, him, the Castellan, their squads. The rest are below, completing the last of their preparations before departure.” He led them away through various corridors, both immense in scale and claustrophobic in its immediacy. She had been led to believe, before her master had sent her on this task, that the Templars were somewhat ostentatious. That the insides of their vessels were gilded bow to stern, and that every panel inside would be lined with a sector’s worth of gold and jewels decorating them. Most areas were spartan, left bare, save for the heraldic cross of the Black Templars Chapter and candles left in their loneliness. Almost every archway and door carried the icon. Either acid etched, carved, or embossed, each one was different from the last. Some were deep stones of jet, others dull and uninteresting blackened iron. The Flail was old, and she showed her age in the cavities that ran throughout her bones. Ancient prayer scrolls from thousands of years ago, barely tattered moth-scraps left on grisled wax seals that were much more grime than purified wax. She sensed an air of melancholy running through it, which she found both highly perplexing of an Astartes vessel, and profoundly sad. She spent many months aboard shift ships, and the last handful aboard the mass transport vessels of civilian ships. Crowded, teeming, so full of life. Certainly cramped, and containing very little privacy. And the noise, so many people corralled together, confined to claustrophobic quarters. She hadn’t seen much on the approach to the docking hangars, but she heard the pilots almost fawning over the sight of the ship. On more than one occasion, she had heard the term “halcyon” used by them before landing. Now that she was inside, she felt something between let down and intrigued. She came to appreciate quickly that most starships were, in fact, ships and shared a great deal of mundane familiarity amongst each other. Halls were just halls, no matter their grandeur or ornamentation. Scaffolds were just scaffolds, regardless of the intricate, painstakingly hand etched blessings carved into their handrails. However, there were some places that demanded reverence. Ancient places that floated out amongst the stars, sheathed in the ships they called home. Tyren had brought her near the threshold of such a place. Black and white checkered tiles led on until her vision could only see where the narrowed walls met. Worn from years of use, yet not a single stain or crack hobbled their surfaces. The walls themselves were brushed brass, with black iron sconces burning at regular intervals, the flames throwing arcs and moors of light, cascading onto forever in the dim glow of millions of trillions of reflections proliferating on and on and on. Paintings of individual warriors, of the Templar knights, hung from the walls, their features jumping between portrayals of stoicism, pride, and unbridled zeal. Most of these were unhelmed, save for a few wearing the most ancient marks of that sacred attire. Hauntingly, the far, faded echoes of hymnal chanting reverberated from the depths, beyond where the light reached. It was deep, unceasing, coming from dozens of voices. Without knowing why, she felt that she could tell the chanting was old. Old old, from a time long before that the actual grasping understanding of its length was laughable. Banners depicting richly sewn scenes of triumph, loss, somber humility, and righteous victory hung heavy, looming even, as sentries from the ceiling on thick chains. Here was the depiction of a bold knight in black armor, wielding a mace with the very same death’s head the knight wore. The figure seemed vindictive and righteous, surrounded by knights in uniform black and white checkered armor. The scene was intricately wrought, sewn in the classical Gothic style that dominated most Ecclesiarchal domains and that of nobles. Yet here, it lacked the ostentatious nature. Indeed, all of it held a heavy air of reverence. She looked at the other banners. There, another this done in fine golden thread, with rich reds and oranges laced throughout its stitching. This knight was hewn into the shape of a giant astride a field of fel corpses, the same mace as before held before him as if in warding. Her eyes drank more and more in. Each banner detailed a similar skull-faced figure, similar but slightly different from banner to banner, yet all carrying what she believed to be some ancient relic of the Chapter. She craned her neck straight up to look at the closest banner. This one was newer, the fabric still vibrant and fresh. On its pallid surface, three warriors rested at a respectful kneel, two of their armor trimmed in red, the third in silver. A fourth figure was prone, abasing himself at the feet of yet another warrior whose features were that of a human skull. In its outstretched hands, the skull-headed mace. The scene was surrounded by flames, warriors in crimson armor staked atop black spears. She let out a startled gasp as the liaison placed a firm hand onto her shoulder, stopping her from taking the step she was unconsciously making onto the checkered tiles. “We are not allowed here.” Tyren said. All warmth had left his voice. “What is this place?” She asked, entranced now with the mystery of it more than the gaudy nature of the hall. “It is their temple. Their church is beyond the dark, there. Only they are allowed here, and certainly we mustn’t cross the threshold. Do not step onto those tiles, Historitor Acenya Bhabli.” “It’s…just Bhabli.” “They will kill you, Historitor Acenya Bhabli. They will kill you and that will be the end of it. Take nothing else I say to heart but this; go no further.” She made to respond but was interrupted by the dim shadows. “He is correct.” They both startled. The voice came from the blackness beyond the light of the sconces, deep and mechanical. She felt her guts tighten, and a thin sheen of sweat coated her skin. A slow, steady thump echoed down the hall. The rattling of chains and the teeth aching hum of an active engine crept from the dark. An immense figure of black armor confidently strode into the dull torch light. “Castellan Kestian.” The old man offered a deep bow. “Why are you here, Tyren?” The giant asked, coming to rest just meters from them. “Mistress Jasper advised me to take Historitor Acenya Bhabli through here to the Solemn Archive to await the lord Spitewielder.” Replied Tyren, not moving from his proffered state. “This is the Historitor?” The Astartes asked. “Yes, lord Castellan.” Tyren replied. “This was to be Jasper’s duty?” “Yes, lord Castellan. But she entrusted it to me, citing other pressing matters she needed to attend to.” Said Tyren, wrinkling his nose. “Serf Jasper is a girl of thirteen, Tyren. You are…what? Fifty-seven now?” Tyren frowned. “Fifty-eight, lord Castellan.” As he made his attempt to abase himself to the Castellan, Bhabli took in the full features of the knight before her. He was without a helmet, allowing her to see the rich ochre skin, like a fine, deep leather. A well kept beard trimmed his features, only giving way to a trio of diagonal scar tissue, reaching from the crest of his bald scalp, carving just near his left eye, catching at the corner of his lip, before finally disappearing into the collar of his gorget. Slung over his shoulder was a finely crafted ax that gave a faint reflection of blue in its recesses. It was heavily ornate and finely decorated, but she could make little of its features from the light. The knight wore a tabard belted at the waist by a chain. The same symbol shown on his chest as she had seen at every entryway of the ship. A chevron adorned his right pauldron, three stylized morning stars the color of sage over a field of white. He would have been handsome had his features not been enlarged by the transhuman reshaping that forged him into homo Astarte. “The Primarch sent you?” He asked, turning his brown eyes upon her for the first time. That direct look shot a bolt of pain into her chest from the terror response. Transhuman dread was still difficult to shake off even for those who were more accustomed to being around them. You weren’t being looked at like another person. You were being meticulously killed a thousand times over as efficiently and brutally as possible in their gaze. She was held steady, impossibly immobile by the giant’s hand engulfing her shoulder. Without her even seeing it, he had bent to a knee and held her steady. His eyes were now directed to the top of her shawl that hid her face. “My apologies, Historitor Acenya Bhabli. Too many days spent with those used to marching beside us. Are you well?” The Astartes sounded genuine. When the shaking had left her bones, she took in a deep breath and nodded. “I’m fine, thank you. I’ve a touch of translation fatigue, it’ll pass, and I’m smart enough to admit that, yes, you did terrify me just then, and no, you do not have to apologize again.” “Lady Historitor! Mind yourself, that is the-” Tyren was cut off from his chastisement by the warrior’s single raised finger. “You are expected to meet with the lord Spitewielder in the Solemn Archives?” Bhabli nodded as the Templar rose to his feet. He turned to Tyren, gave him new orders, accepted the elder man’s bow, and turned. One massive gauntlet rested against her back and she was being led further down the hallway, away from the decorated hall they had met. “I was actually intending to meet with my brothers there. I will take you.” ii. The Solemn Archives were the names given to the vast halls that contained all repositories of information, lore, history, and documents collected since The Flail was a fledgling warship in her birth-anchor. The entrance was guarded by a single knight. His armor was largely unadorned save for a single chain of silver hanging from his left pauldron. The charm at the end was a heavily stylized version of their Chapter’s heraldic cross. Drawing his sword in a left handed grip, the Templar came forward. In his free hand, a beaten lantern of black-iron barely illuminated the hallway. A strong smell of perfumed smoke crept from the bent and tattered corners that met the candle box’s glass surface. Inhaling the smoke made her eyes throb and her pulse became a beating tattoo in her temple. “Halt ert name thyselves!” The warrior’s voice was strong, assured, almost cocky as it carried away into the blackness they had traversed. “Step aside, boy.” Came the Castellan’s reply. The Templar did not waver, though he hesitated before activating the sword. “That pause would have cost you, Initiate Hunfrid.” Clapping the guardian knight on his pauldron, Kestian pushed past him. “It is a good thing I am not the one seeking admission into the Reclusiam. The Spitewielder would not have found your familiarity with me a virtue.” Chastised, the knight saluted, jogged past to open the door, his head dipped in dogged resignation as they left him. They were greeted with towering shelves spanning into the hazy dark. Distantly, softly, the sound of a heavy organ rang hauntingly throughout the endless isles of contained knowledge. The space towered above her, yet she felt compressed, consumed by the vastness that stretched forever upwards and forwards. She could see stretches of finely crafted wooden floors, corralled by beautifully wrought iron banisters creating balconies in which different shadows played host to the lights its occupants inhabited. Corners flickered with candles, robed and isolated figures that were certainly other Templars, poured over books and scrolls and patches of torn cloth. Pieces of art were displayed in their own cabinets. As they walked past, she would appreciate them, hungry for any details she could glenn for future recording. In one she saw an intricately detailed landscape in miniature. Small figures of what seemed to be Black Templars amongst a broken city’s garden district fought against armored Astartes in oceanic green, of whom were adorned in spikes. Though the Templars looked odd, their armor etched in black and Imperial gold, icons of thunder bolts and fists as frequent as the heraldic cross. A second held what, at initial glance, looked to be battlefield detritus. A rusted piece of barbed wire, a chunk of burned rockrete painted in hazard stripes, and another item that caught her curiosity. A symbol she had spent much of her recent life around. Near the corner of the display case, atop a cushion of black velvet, sat a broach in the shape of the Ultima symbol of the Ultramarines Chapter. Though this seemed more archaic, more ornate, indeed, there was a certain air to it that spoke of something both painful and merciful. They walked for what seemed like an hour before coming to a closed door nestled between two shelves stacked either side with helmets. Each bore some grisly damage, no doubt the killing wound to its former bearer. Some were black, others gold, sprinkled throughout where she could see were a handful of cream and checkered patterns as well. Fewer still were faint suggestions of red helmets further up near the ceiling. The Lord Castellan opened the door and held it for her. A hiss of escaping air greeted her. Inside were several more Astartes, each tending to their own interests. “Greetings, brothers. I’ve brought with me Historitor Acenya Bhabli, sent to us from the Primarch himself. She has assured me that our lord is interested in meeting her.” The proclamation was greeted with silence. Every eye turned to look at her, but this time, she turned her gaze to their boots, tucking her eyes further into the recesses of her shawl. “He’ll be another hour, says his herald.” One of the warriors spoke, a seated Templar with long, curled hair. He was square jawed and stoically featured, closing the book he had been reading as he addressed them. “Should you not be with him, brother? Being our Castellan and what not?” Asked another, this one of paler complexion. A thin beard trimmed his chin, with a buzzed mohawk of dirty blonde scything his head. He offered the Historitor a toothy, confident grin. “He dismissed me.” Replied Kestian, closing the door behind him. “Dismissed you?” The two asked simultaneously. “Did you talk reason to him?” Asked a third Templar, looking over his shoulder from the cogitator he was stationed in front of, his silhouette made more absurd by the many snake-like appendages jutting from his backpack. “I did.” Said Kestian with a knowing smile. “That would do it, then.” The knight turned back to the glowing monitor, the sound of heavy mechanical clicks emanating from his corner, one of the appendages made a machine buzz sound as it turned within its arm housing. “I’m sorry. May we slow down?” Bhabli finally managed, trying very hard to follow the conversation. Sweat crept down her neck, making the shawl stick to her uncomfortably. Her head hurt and there was a twitch in her eye she didn’t appreciate. “My apologies, Histo-” “Just Bhabli, please. Please.” She interrupted, turning fully to emphasize her point. “Very well. My apologies madam Bhabli. Brother Kybert is inquiring as to my presence. Our lord is particularly choleric as of late, and has dismissed me from the current fleet junction going on.” Spoken so plainly, Bhabli balked at the casual nature of the remark. Especially coming from what was a lord Castellan. “You were not sent to fetch me?” She asked. “No, madam. I was simply leaving my meditations from the chapel and happened upon you and Tyren.” “Tyren?” Asked the warrior Kestian had indicated was Kybert. “What was he doing at the chapel?” He looked appalled, the other Templars almost motionless. The Castellan raised a hand to calm them. “Outside the Hall of Legacy, not the chapel itself. Tyren was escorting her on Jasper’s orders.” “I have more questions now.” Said Kybert, his face pinched in confusion. “Lady Bhabli, could we offer you a seat? I can hear your pulse. You are under immense stress at the moment.” The Astartes who had been sitting in one of the stone benches arrayed in the room rose, gently taking her hand in his silver gauntlet, and gave her his seat. “You are surprisingly gentle for Space Marines.” Bhabli let the words come freely, feeling from the gathering of warriors that simple plainness of word was welcome, even encouraged, here. She winced as she saw how the three unhelmed warriors’ eyes collectively twitched. “Our lord has made mortal interaction and etiquette mandatory training within the Crusade.” Replied the warrior as he bent back up from aiding her down. “How very Macraggian of him.” The Castellan laughed, as did Kybert. The warrior helping her let slip the edge of his lip in the flash of a smirk, but nothing more. “He would probably find that both incredibly humiliating and painfully true.” The warrior turned, the edge of his silver arm catching the light from the other seated Templar’s display. He poured a small amount of wine into a pewter cup made to scale for Astartes. She took it with both hands, lifting the folds of her shawl before taking it up, and drank. “I am Altus, and this is Malgur of the Forge. He is poor company, but not a displeasure to be around. That is Kybert. Him and I, as well as another of our brothers, are what remains of our founding of the Spiteful.” She blinked. She felt utterly naked without her quill or servo skull. There was an aching pain to write everything she had just heard, to catalog and to push and to question. “What-” She began. There came a knock on the door. All heads turned. The lord Castellan went to the door, pushing it open on silent hinges. “The lord Spitewielder comes just before me. Please make ready.” A man of middling age came through the door, half his face covered by a gorgeously carved mask hewn in the features of fury. He turned and nodded upon seeing her. “Excellent. Please rise, Historitor Acenya Bhabli.” She did so. He made for the door, disappearing behind it. A final warrior joined the congregation. A chorus of rattling chains and the smoke of burning candles filled the room. Adorned in black armor, a different, more profound black from that of his brethren, it was hard edged and cumbersome looking. Atop his backpack were three headstones, each of which hosted a skull fashioned from bronze. Atop these were votive candles, their flames strong and bright. Spikes adorned the vents of the massive generator. Secured to his shoulder by chains was a human ribcage. She was oblivious to the symbolism of it. But it was a chilling site to see such a grisly trophy displayed on a warrior of the Emperor. This was not the gothic touch the Imperium festooned upon everything. It was simply a butchered man’s rib cage chained to the Templar’s shoulder, the charm’s heraldic pendants shaped into crosses. Hanging from behind his tasset, set at the waist, hung a black tabard showing the white crest of his Chapter. His helmet was like the one seen in the banners she had looked at before crossing Kestian. The singular gleaming red eye lens. The black cross branded onto the scowling forehead. The vox caster clamped between grinding teeth. All of this collectively, almost instinctively upon making the connection to the banners, forced her to look at his hip. Hanging against a loop of brass, a war maul shaped into a grinning skull, a halo of spikes cresting it. A limp chain connected it to his vambrace. An aroma came off of it, deeper and more pungent than the smell of incense or the smoke from the candles. It was the smell of centuries of blood. Of slain foes and retribution. It stank of malice and hatred and something very specific, something more personal than resentment, but more meaningful than vengeance. There was a palpable scornfulness to its casting. It wasn’t just a lump of steel or iron or ceramite. From its recesses and in the pools where the light didn’t quite catch it was a deeper color still. The weapon was unlike any she had seen in her handful of years documenting the fighting edges of the Imperium, where the Primarch sent the very mightiest of the Emperor’s armies to fight and wage war against the encroaching darkness. This here was the man she had been sent to meet with, and to document and make historically accurate texts of, as per the laws of her newly found Order. Here was the curator of an Imperial Crusade Army, and of that, a particular kind of Crusade Army. This was what the Templars would cite as a True Crusade Army. One commanded by the Black Templars, the scions of Sigismund, and sons of the Primarch Rogal Dorn. Here were warriors who had never left the Great Crusade. These warriors claimed a legacy that dated back ten thousand years. And she was ignoring him entirely. “Lady Bhabli, are you well? This is not the first time you have been asked this, I am told.” “You are the warrior from the banners I saw.” The skull faced helmet tilted to the side ever so gently. “Yes, but no.” “Yes, see, he has a fancy necklace.” Kestian pointed to the golden cross, studded with rubies and ambers, hanging from yet another chain, though this, too, was gold. “The others were more humble.” A chorus of laughs came from the gathered knights. “It is a long story, and one many Chapters have done since the time of Legions. Armors are passed down from generation to generation, from dead knight to risen squire. The face of a Chaplain will carry on even further than that, thus you recognize me. You see the face of my master, and his master before him.” The Spitewielder ran a hand over the skeletal visage of his face. “This helmet looked upon the face of my father when he still walked amongst us. It has seen the face of the Arch Traitor himself, and the whoresons he sired. It has bled the foe under the skies of Terra. I am the face of the warrior from the banner, yes. But, I am a faint echo of an eternal spite.” “He also,” Grumbled Kestian, “says a lot of exhaustive like this.” Bhabli’s hands clenched and unclenched with the ache to begin writing. Seeing this, the masked man who had accompanied the Chaplain, quietly spoke into the hem of his collar before stepping to the door, retrieving a small yellow satchel, and offered it to the Historitor with a servile bow. She tore into it, tossing the bag onto the stone bench, fetching her slate and quill. The Templars had already begun talking amongst themselves. She made quick and short snippets of dialogue, explanatory and contextual notes, and maddened scribbles. Her head shot up once she had emptied the brewing storm of words in her skull, threatening to burst from her ears and eyes if she did not release them onto screen or parchment. The knights were departing, the last words she caught mentioning a formal inspection before mass boarding. Castellan Kestian offered her a polite bow of his head, before donning his studded helmet. “Well met and best of luck, madam Bhabli.” Then the doors shut and she was alone with the man of highest authority in the entire sector. “Where shall we begin, Lady Historitor?” iii. “You are coming from Demeter IV, with the armor reinforcements? That was several months’ travel for you, Lady Bhabli.” They had retired into one of the anterooms adjacent to where they had met. Here, several chairs designed to both support an armored Astartes, but also provide some semblance of comfort to an unarmored warrior, it was still laughably too large for her. The Chaplain was seated, his hands resting against either armrest. Wine was near and available, but he had not removed his helmet. She had not yet mustered up the courage to ask him to. There was a quality to him that made it somewhat more difficult to be around him. There was a heightened awareness that there was something other about him. Between the transhuman dread, and her bout of translation fatigue, she accepted two things; firstly, she was human, and ultimately susceptible to those mortal limitations. Secondly, the warrior before her was a great many things. A Chaplain of an Astartes Chapter, the architect of this Crusade, and a living weapon set before her in an intimate setting. There was much to be unnerved by. “I am, my lord.” She said, picking up the lapse before it lingered too late. “My master gave me instruction to join your fleet, to embark on your Crusade. Document its goings-on and analogize what can be given back to humanity, when so much knowledge and lore has been lost.” Even saying it, she felt a tinge of home-sickness. She perfectly recited what her mentor would quote to her small class at every chance he could when describing the nobility of their cause, and the justness of its execution. “Quite so. What is it you know of us?” The Chaplain drummed the fingers of his right hand in a steady rhythm. The knuckles of which were banded with brass spikes, the brutal stumps fat and acid etched with minute scripture. It sounded like a piston hammering into stone. “Of the Black Templars? Only what the Primarch’s office provided us. Basic organization structure - more so, what your ranks were and how I might address you - but otherwise, nothing much more than the name of your Chapter Master, which legion you hail from, and your progenitor.” She swiped through her data slate, clearing her throat and read from it. “It is known that the Black Templars are devout followers of the Imperial Creed, and that you are some of the most sought after and requested warriors of the Era Indomitus. The Imperial Regent, the Primarch Reborn, impressed upon my master, who impressed it upon me, that the Knights of Dorn would do well to raise the hearts of Imperial citizens, and offer hope in these dark times. So, it is my thanks that you accepted this proposal. I have heard tales from my colleagues that many of the other Crusades denied them.” She went to sip from her wine, embarrassingly remembered the cup’s size, sat the data slate down, and lifted the cup up slowly with both hands. “I imagine many, if not most, were denied. We are sons of Dorn. What else is there needed to be known from us?” The Chaplain’s mace sat in his lap respectfully across his knees. Occasionally he would run his thumb along its leather handle, fidgeting with some unseen imperfection. “Well, first and foremost, my duty is to document the Crusade. My master was particularly enthused by your acceptance to our request. He claimed that it was special in some way.” Bhabli’s fingers held the quill firm to the dataslate, ready to transcribe everything. The Chaplain did not reply for many moments. He simply stared at her, the one eye lens showing with a pinprick of red. “Many Crusades exist amongst the Imperium. Mightiest is the Eternal Crusade. The one our sire, the first High Marshal Sigismund, vowed to continue. Amongst some of that mighty number are peculiar beacons of history, myth, and legend.” He stood then, taking the maul near the base of the head into his fist and carrying it with him to where a fireplace did its poorest effort of illuminating the room they were in. “The Black Templars are an old Chapter. We existed even in the time of the legions, inside the order of the Imperial Fists. Many of our artifacts and heirlooms come from such times, so we are dedicated and watchful stewards of these curios.” He turned the mace over in his fist, looking at it, his back partially turned to her. She didn’t move, only her hand making steady, quick traces over the green ambient hue of her screen. The Chaplain continued after a moment’s pause. “Crusades take on titles and names of the system they are conquering, or the foe they face, or the warrior that leads them. Sometimes the essence of the war entire. But some Crusades bear the Titles of Eternity. Meant to be challenges to our enemy, a boast of what we represent, a promise to those that dare foul His realm.” “So the Spite Crusade is such a thing?” She asked. “It is.” “And so what curio do you house? What myth is carried by the knights of the Spite Crusade?” Bhabli was leaning over her data slate as she wrote, furiously transcribing the Chaplain’s words. The room was then suddenly filled with a dreadful rasp and a baleful light of stark, unforgiving white. From across the room, the Chaplain had activated, and was pointing, the head of his maul at her. “This is the honored crozius arcanum Spite, wielded against the traitor on the walls during the Siege of Terra. We are the 88th founding of the Spiteful, the oathed keepers who continue the saga that would wield Man’s spite in His glory.” He ran the weapon in an arc across the air, sparks snaking out of its head, encompassing the greater ship around them. “Similarly, The Flail has been the home of Spite and its host since it was gifted to our Chapter at our founding.” He finished. “And so now you are the Spitewielder?” Bhabli’s throat was dry, and the active weapon field ate any moisture in the room. It made her gums itch and eyes sting. Spite deactivated in an abrupt growl, coming to rest at the Chaplain’s knee. “As were the wishes of my master, and the blessed Reclusiarch. Everyday, I must be found worthy of it. You come at an auspicious time, Lady Bhabli.” “Why is that, my lord?” “I am still young in my years as the Spitewielder. You’ve met my Castellan?” She offered him a wry smile, one he ignored behind the snarl of his helmet’s stylized teeth. “Yes, well, in most circumstances he would be in charge. Indeed, he should be a Marshal, but he is also…No, sorry, but forgive me keeping some secrets. There would typically be a Castellan or a Marshal appointed to this role.” “And not a Chaplain?” She asked, curiously holding her quill away, looking for a physical cue to continue writing on the lore of his Chapter. When he simply did not protest, but continued talking, she did too with her transcription. “Chaplains have led Crusades. But these are usually warriors under my circumstance, or due to the death of other officers amongst a Crusade. But yes, as the title of Spitewielder sits upon my mantle, I hold the authority of that office.” The Templars priest let the mace fall into its holster-loop with a dull thud and walked over to her, nudging the dataslate down to read with his middle finger. “Your handwriting reminds me of my own.” He said. “Thank you.” “It was a criticism, not a compliment.” She blinked, read over her notes, and wrote something down and turned the screen to show him. “Now, certainly that is something you should avoid calling me out loud. Lest it be inappropriate to a man of my station.” “I may correct it. In the future.” She set the data slate down. “So you are new to the title? To the office? And this great collection of ships and what looks to be a jumbled mix of cobbled together troops?” The Chaplain’s head tilted to the side in that curious manner of his. “How do you mean?” He asked. “Well you mention my coming here amidst the armored reinforcement.” “I have made a call to war, sent out a Declaration of Arms to the various worlds and systems surrounding us. We have been docked here for years, waiting, gathering, amassing. The last of those to heed the call are here. Those who would answer have sent what swords they could.” As he spoke, he reached up to the golden medallion dangling from his neck, running armored fingers down it. The word “Spite” was engraved in High Gothic. “To gather warriors, especially in these times, can be difficult. I am, due to my rank and title, and the very nature of what I am, afforded more luxuries. But supplies, man power, ships…all so valuable, more so with the return of the Primarch Reborn. Those pilgrims that come to me are welcomed, and brought together under my banner. Even still, I’ve lingered and cannot spare any more time. We must be the blade unsheathed. “I take any and all who come. Ours, Lady, is the spite, and I can wield it in any fashion it is forged. Come with me, Historitor Bhabli, I will take you to the world below and show you the many manifestations it has come to me in.”

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.

If I'm reading this right, with the Orbital Assault Detachment, you can finally Deep Strike Hammerfall Bunkers, like the God-Emperor intended. Hammerfall Bunkers I don't see anything that says it's not permissible. Do you?

I have a soft spot for snipers. When I recently brainstorm ideas for short stories 3 out of the 10 ideas I came up with had snipers feature in this as the main character. I also have soft spot of the assassins and all things Officio Assasinorum. I remember when the 3rd edition Codex: Assassins was released. My brother and I pick up the both the Vindicare and Callidus assasins. Those models have long since sold off. But I did pick up the current Callidus assassin model Gwenthar Mor, Callidus assassin. She's featured in a short story I wrote: Laden Kiss . She also be feature in future projects as well. Squad Cobra Squad Viper

A while back I experimented with some new Space Marine paint schemes and found one I liked. I just was happy with the one I had originally chosen. I finally let loose the arrow to land where it may. Now at this point I have a conundrum. Is the red bolter housing too busy; should I go with a more neutral off-black? The squad and chapter markings are going to be red, if that makes a difference.

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.

Yup I got even more characters for ya. Soonrem “True Heart” Thron, Apothecary for the 2nd Echelon. I accidentally broke off the hanging bit that usually in his left hand. Drom “Sabretooth”Hel, Master of Sanctity of the Loxodon Guard. I went with the execrator chaplain model for this guy. I'm not a fan of the current primaris chaplain model, this guy looks so much more dynamic. Also there's not a lot of Black Templar icons on him, so I think he fits nicely. Skatalaro "The Artificer" Tay, Techmarine. My army has a lot of Dreadnoughts, so a techmarine to follow and repair them seems like a nice idea.

Coming up with army lists and character concepts is one of the most enjoyable parts of this hobby for me. When I was working on my little kill team I went through a few ideas. First, I wanted to incorporate white into the colour scheme. Since my 3 other armies didn't have any white. So armies like Raven Guard and White Scars came to mind. I ultimately chose a homebrew chapter because like most people who do homebrews, I didn't want to be tied down to a set of rules or fluff. Then I saw this cool shoulder badges on a 3d printer site that were elephant theme and WHAM BAMA. The Loxodon Guard were born. Then I thought about what the chapter would be like. Elephants are strong, imposing creatures. So I thought Dreadnoughts would fit that theme. I also liked the idea of Bladeguard Veterans also being featured in the army. I thought I would keep it simple and have a mostly codex compliant chapter (although I did flirt with the idea of using Space Wolves, with elephant themed Wulfen). So here's the Command of the 2nd Echelon of the Loxodon Guard: Aegod "Steel Wolf" Omeal - Captain of the 2nd Echelon I love Indomitus captain with relic shield model. His shield is really great. I picture him as a ferocious pack leader leading a squad of Bladeguard Vets across the battlefield. Val”Swift Strike” Zondoros - 1st Lieutenant of the 2nd Echelon This Lieutenant is apart of the Deathwatch Combat Patrol, his helmet is from the deathwatch upgrade sprue. Greto “Firemane” Tetus - 2nd Lieutenant of the 2nd Echelon This is one of my more recent models and hes a kitbash between Bladeguard Veterans arms and the body, legs and head of the Captain in the Company of Heroes kit. He kind looks like Chuck Norris or WWE's Sheamus

So I listened to Helsreach and one thing led to another... and here I am starting a new crusade! I really enjoyed painting this guy, which coincidentally was my first marine in all the time I've painted Warhammer! I think he came out okay, what do you reckon? I'm going to periodically update this thread with the progress of my Black Templars collection, that I aim to get in a good place by this time next year. I'm going to push myself to learn one new painting technique with each set. With this one, it was painting purity seals. I think they came out okay! I also can't resist a bit of headcannon, so enjoy! Next up... Sword Bretheren! *** It was strange for Lieutenant Valerious Trebane to be among those for whom The Emperor's first crusade had never finished when he himself had been psycho-indoctrinated with a history of the Imperium that screamed at his mind that this Indomitus Crusade was something new. To some this may have felt like a minor detail, but to he whom had begun his time of service in the Yellow Armour of the Imperial Fists it meant everything. He was grateful that his superiors had agreed with him that his religious devotion was better suited to his brothers in The Black Templars, but whilst they were happy to part ways with him the reception was not the same amongst his new kin. Perhaps they hadn't yet realised that he too understood the unspoken driver of their continued quest across the stars? In a way, he felt that he articulated it better than they could precisely because he had come from another mighty chapter first. That outside perspective made him understand that these hallowed knights never lost sight of the glory and awe of the first great crusade. That they still lived it today, was beautiful. He sensed their quiet discomfort, that he had arrived seemingly untested but with the rank of command. The only thing that held them back from open challenge was theur shared forefather - Rogal Dorn. Had he hailed from any other chapter, it might have been different. Never the less, he was here, and soon he would make known his worth in the field of battle. Soon...

Have you ever pick up a project based whim? or maybe you were given some models from a loved one and continued on with it? My Space Marine project started when I won a raffle at my FLGS. my prize was a plastic bag that had a few random sprues in it. I remember there was some Mk3 Horus Hersey Marines, a Beastmen Shaman, a Imperial Guard Commissar (the older one with the plasma pistol & sabre) and 5 Intercessors. I didn't think much of my prize at the time. Until the pandemic hit in 2019-2020. We had a lot of free time to fill back then. I had sold most of the models, only having the 5 intercessors. So I thought I would make a project out of them. Kill team had been rebooted. So I thought I would start a kill team of Primaris Space Marines. I thought I would make my own chapter, my own colour scheme and even my own lore. If you're interested in the lore, please feel free to click on the link below. I made up the name Loxodon Guard because there didn't seem to be an elephant based names in the lore. The colours are from Magic: The Gathering, Selesnya (Green and White) were one of my favourite deck archetypes. Since 2020, my idea of a kill team has now ballooned to a 2000+ point army, but it all started with these 5 guys. Loxodon Guard Lore

The toxic haze clinging to the landing zone of Vosa V began to fracture, yielding to the roar of a descending void craft. It was the Frigate Pillar of Olympia, a hulking mass of grey ceramite scored with the unmistakable yellow and black chevrons of the IV Legion. The vessel settled with an almost seismic impact. Its exhausted plasma conduits vented violently into the polluted air. For a silent, strained moment, the ship loomed, its bulk an oppressive presence, pressing the small assembly of Planetary Defence Force Guardsmen and their jittery Commissar into nervous stillness. A discordant klaxon blared, and blinding amber strobes flared as the main siege ramp ground open. Out strode the Astartes of Jackal Company, clad in the dull, unadorned silver-grey of the Iron Warriors Legion. Their Mark III 'Iron' armour, with its plates reinforced with makeshift hazard-stripes, gave them the appearance of living, walking siege weaponry. They moved with the cold, mechanical precision of automata, forming four compact blocks of eight Marines, their bolters held at a parade rest. Finally, the shadow of Warsmith Barrak Kord fell over the scene. He emerged, a mountain of iron clad in veteran markings and a custom-wrought power harness, his shoulders draped with a heavy mantle of black and gold synth-silk. Two veteran Astartes Lieutenants, equally grim in tactical plate, took positions at his flanks. Kord strode forward, his pace unwavering and powerful, until he towered over the waiting Commissar. “My Lord Warsmith,” the Commissar stammered, offering a stunted bow that bordered on an apology. “By the grace of the Master of Mankind, you are here. The situation is dire, gravely dire.” He gestured wildly towards the smog-choked horizon. “The populace is in full revolt; they have seized control of almost every key Manufactorum and Promethium depot. We dare not engage with heavy weapons, lest we incur damage that compromises the Imperial Tithe.” Kord remained motionless, though his face was concealed by his helm, the Commissar could feel his eyes fixed upon him from beneath it. His silence hung heavy in the air. “My Lord, Diplomacy has failed,” the Commissar finished, the confidence draining from his voice like air from a punctured lung. The silence returned, absolute and terrifying. Then, with a sudden, economic movement, Kord drew the heavy Volkite Pistol holstered at his hip and fired a silent, focused beam of energy that punched through the Commissar’s forehead. “Diplomacy has failed,” Kord growled. Before the body could crumple, the assembled Marines of Jackal Company raised their bolters with a single, synchronised clack and unleashed a storm of high-explosive rounds that pulverised the stunned Guardsmen. Within seconds, the landing pad was silent, the air thick with the smell of ozone and spilt Imperial blood. The conquest of Vosa V had begun.

Having been barely keeping up with the hobby for several years, Indomitus reignited my passion for 40k last year, so I decided to try to actually build a force. This time it will be Primaris space marines, but still my beloved 3rd Company of the Ultramarines. The plan is to build the complete company, including officers and attached specialists and a dreadnought, plus a ten-man Deathwatch kill team, and such a project needs a fresh thread, so here I am. In terms of bulding the company, I will be dividing it into combat squads, to avoid becoming overwhelmed or bored, and alternate those with Deathwatchers and officers, so that it will go Combat Squad > Deathwatch > Combat Squad > Officer > Combat Squad > Deathwatch... and so on. This should offer a decent balance between progress and sameness of models. I started an Intercessor veteran sergeant (the 30th anniversary model) as a one-off before I decided to make a full army, so I decided to finish him before doing the rest of the combat squad. If you visit the Ultramarines subforum, you may have seen him, but here he is again with one of the Necrons the 3rd is fighting: The Necron is really just a color scheme test model, not the start of an army, any time soon at least. The rest of Combat Squad Ardias is in progress, with their bodies only needing cleanup: The bolt rifle arms are coming along too, I just need to highlight the black and tidy up everything before gluing them on. Then it's just the other arms, backpacks and heads and then finishing touches. Of course, an Intercessor squad isn't the end of it. I have plenty of plans for all the squads and in particular the command cadre. I don't feel like typing out all the minute details of my plan that I've spent the last nine months overthinking, so for now I will just finish off with something black for now:

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.

I had an idea for a Deathwatch Kill Team, featuring the most disliked, disreputable and downright dastardly Loyalist Chapters tossed together into a single unit. Obvioulsly, the Marines Malevolent have a spot... but who else fits the bill?

I've picked out a color scheme I like, thought out most of the various markings for ranks. Black kneepad for basic troopers, gold for Sergeant/Veterans/Lieutenant/Captain Blue for Librarian Red for Tech-Priests White for Apothecarion The rest of the Armour will match the rest of the army. I never liked the specialists looking radically different from the rest of the force. These guys keep it simple. They already have gold pauldrons. Assuming Citadel paints (they are the easiest to acquire), how should I paint the Green Templar? Black primer with Castellan Green or Caliban Green? Or perhaps Grey with a Contrast Paint? I have no clue, and watching endless YouTube videos just adds to the confusion.

Hey everyone, recently I decided to retire from wargaming forever (some folks would state that I am too young of a man to seriously consider retirement from anything, but I digress). I did some soul searching, and have decided to move on with my life into a different direction. .... .... .... .... .... .... .... That being said, I decided it's time to go out with a bang I am returning to the Minotaurs chapter of Space Marines, an army left for too long unfinished. Although primarily having focused my wargaming efforts on 30k for the last several years, I have decided that this will be the last army I ever paint or collect. Once I finish I finish with this project, I'll be done for good. This army represents a point in the past when I was younger than I am now, and as such, the painting quality of my existing units is... not great. But that's all good! I'm here to have fun (though expect the new things to look particularly jazzy ). I don't have my existing models with me as I write this post, so here is a sneak peak of the first members of my new Tactical Squad (my 4th Minotaurs Tactical Squad). These Battle Brothers still have some work to do tidying up before they are ready to be painted. Both are kitbashed from the regular Tactical Squad and the Mark III Tactical Squad. The Space Marine on the left carries the Melta Gun that comes with the regular box yet wears Mark III Power Armour, while the one on the right wears the more common (as of M41) Mark VII Armour, yet carries the Heavy Bolter found in the Mark III box. I know it's not much so far, but I will have more on this Tactical Squad as well as overall Minotaurs progress very soon, so stay tuned. .... .... .... .... .... .... Surprise, I'm still here! Although the Minotaurs are the last army I am ever doing for any wargame ever, and I will be proactively moving closer and closer to that end destination (and yes, I do have a set plan of exactly how many Space Marines that is), who is to say that I can't work on side projects here and there? It's a loophole Here is a (currently unpainted) Eldar Farseer: Here's some quick lore about where this Eldar comes from (it's the homebrew kind of lore, so strap yourselves in for a particularly bumpy ride): -The Farseer comes from the very minor Craftworld of Jhul'yllant. It's genuinely one of the smallest, and practically no one even lives there! (Even by Eldar standards). In ages long past, the Craftworld was hidden from the rest of the galaxy by the mystical powers of the Eldar, in a super secret location that NOBODY could ever find it. But the Eldar of Jhul'yllant have decided it is time that it left it's hiding place. Where is it hidden? In the core of a massive ocean planet in a system now controlled by the Imperium. It's a backwater system, only one of the planets is inhabited (though two of it's planets are also occupied by the Imperium), and that's an Imperial staging world where forces being sent to fight in more important places are gathered together, but is currently manned by a solely by a light infantry regiment of Imperial Guard, an Imperial Guard Independent Tank Company, and a wing of Imperial Navy Valkyries. Will the Ordo Xenos Inquisitor that goes to investigate the rumoured Eldar sightings in the system be enough to stop the Eldar of Jhyl'yllant before it's too late? We'll have to find out. Also, some quick notes: -Jhul'yllant doesn't really have many forces. Instead, it's more just Farseers going on adventures around the galaxy, and bringing usually only a few dozen warriors at most as their personal bodyguard, and even then, forces THAT big are only in the rarest of circumstances. Also, multiple Farseers often work together to combine their efforts to achieve a common goal. Releasing the Craftworld from it's hiding place will require all the Eldar of Jhul'yllant to work together! How will they achieve this? Guess we'll find out eventually too!" .... .... .... .... Next, I'll leave you some pictures of some of my Horus Heresy stuff (if you haven't guessed from my name and profile picture by now, they're Dark Angels Legion). These pictures were on my old thread, but everything I do now will be collected here so I will repost: I might return to them, or maybe not, we'll just have to see. I also have some Forge World Badab War characters (not Minotaurs surprisingly) that I aim to get painted up super soon, at which point I'll share here: Carab Culln, Lufgt Huron, and Armenneus Valthex. Thankyou for reading guys, and I promise that this thread, although not got much RN, will only get more exciting from here on!

Well, I've got my 3d printed carry case/display case to paint up... My Harakoni Warhawks are being assembled... I'm visiting the Warhammer store tomorrow for the Servitor - It will be a Servo-Sentry for my Kill Team (not a huge fan of the 4 legged model). Let's see... I have some Space Marines, but I can't decide how I want to build it, or what to buy (I have a push-fit Judiciar, Chaplain, 3 × Eradicators, 3 × Bladeguard Veterans, and an Bladeguard Ancient).

So between a few topics on the boards and a few too many sleepless nights with a teething baby my thoughts have been returning to the greatest of dreadnoughts the castra ferrum. The big one that started this is @Grotsmasha's brilliant upscaled grey knights and the fact that the new Saturnine termies are more or less the same size as a venerable dread. Now to get to my actual point, I'd love to see a rescale of the old box, I'd assume it would realistically be under the umbrella of the heresy given 40k's new love for the redemptor chassis but how big should it actually be? The original fluff had them created for zone mortalis operations, tight confines of cities, space hulk's and the like so would a slight leg extension be all it needs in height (obviously a big upgrade to detailing etc or just remake the forge world mk4s) Another tangient thought from this is imperial architecture must have some excessive internal volume and structural strength seen as space marines never seem to have trouble moving around. But that's a whole different thing, any thoughts would be very welcome

Working on the test model for my own chapter, the Thalassians. The green armor is done. Looking at this, I see that I need to add a few point highlights to the helmet. I've overshaded the tabard and need to bring that up a bit, but I think the texture on it is coming across well. C&C is welcome! This is going to start with a six-man firstborn kill team, and then I'll be working on the Leviathan box.

So, here's my plan. I want to build a themey and fun Blood Ravens army that will be fun to play, but still hold its own in games. There is one thing I want in a 2,000 point list: A Knight Paladin in the Blood Ravens colors. Right now, I have the following models available: 3 × Eradicator (no multi melta) 3 × Bladeguard Veteran 1 × Bladeguard Veteran Ancient 1 × Chaplain 1 × Judicar 1 × Infernus Marine various Intercessors from a Space Marine game, including 1 Gravis Marine with a Heavy Bolter 1 × Reiver Marine 1 × Deathwatch Phobos Marine And that's it... for now.

Hmmm... I'm thinking I should leave this like it is. It would explain why this Techmarine was put in charge of this gun and not doing something actually important to the Chapter. Next step is to prime and paint him, as I now know he will fit together... mostly.

Why does the Firestrike Servo-Turret have a Tactical Rock? It doesn't even connect to the model!

Defending or storming the stronghold is one of the most fun narrative missions you can play on the tabletop. This bundle is probably the best opportunity to get a complete, great looking and themed tabletop terrain set on a budget. This Bundle will give you eight PDF files to create a Strongold themed tabletop. It includes Tank Traps, a modular Defense Line, Barracks, a Landing Plattform, a Control Tower, a Communication Tower, a Bastion and a modular Fortification Wall. All Terrain Pieces are fitting for 28mm tabletop games with a Modern or Future-Fantasy setting. Get the bundle here: Stronhold Bundle Just print build and play! Please leave C&C below!