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Hello all, and welcome. This is a thread where I'll be posting my blossoming Sons of Horus army, the 82nd Grand Company. A large focus will be on individual models and their lore, so most posts will be accompanied by a short excerpt. To set the stage, this all takes place post-Heresy. Time is a bit...well, strange in the warp, as you all know, so there's not a solid timeline. Abaddon has risen, and begun uniting the legions. So for anchoring, I'd say this all happens ABOUT the same time as ADB's second Black Legion novel, roughly. Before the first real Black Crusade. My Sons of Horus are the last left within the Eye who still call themselves Sons, holding on to what structure they had during the Great Crusade. That's about it, below I've included a small teaser for a post in the very near future, and once again, welcome. Hope you enjoy. Vall’ak twists in agony, his transhuman body horrifically deformed. Even now, destroyed beyond any hope of warmaking, he yearns to hold a blade. Frustratingly, he seemed to have misplaced his arms. “You are a fool, Vall’ak, and a traitor.” The voice that calls to him is that of an ancient mountain, heavy and rough. He had expected mockery. Arrogance. Not sorrow. Not pity. “Speak to me no more, brother,” Vall’ak replies, spitting blood onto the deck beneath him. The smell of war is overwhelming, oil and gunsmoke and spilled blood filling his nose. All around him are the bodies of his brothers, black corpses lost amongst ocean green. “I am weary, and do not wish to hear your barking.” This brings a laugh from lips unaccustomed to such a thing. With the grinding of servos, Oberax Khan comes into view. He is gigantic, Cataphractii armor struggling to contain his monstrous form. A crown of horns nestles on his brow, eyes the color of melted gold staring out from a dark iron gorget. He towers over the pitiful form of Vall’ak. Slowly, carefully, he bends to one knee, lowering himself to the broken warrior. “You are dying.” Vall’ak laughs at the blunt statement. Blood turns his teeth pink as he smiles. “I had heard tales of your prodigal wisdom, Oberax. They underestimated you.” Oberax does not smile. His eyes trail over the ruination that was once an Astartes. Vall’ak’s arms are stumps, oozing blood. His legs are torn, mangled by the harsh anger of plasma. His dark armor is rent and cracked, the skin beneath blackened by fire. His shallow breathing is testament to the strength of the Astartes. “Why do you betray your past, brother? Why dishonour the memory of our father?” There is cold anger in Oberax’s voice, held back by a supreme force of will. “You are too proud to be one of his sons? To wear his colors? You led these warriors here, against us. You stand reborn in Abaddon’s black.” Vall’ak shakes his head, the gesture robbed of any strength. “I refuse to live in their shadow. And I refuse to die in yours. Leave me be, Oberax. I fought, and I lost. There is nothing left for me but the void.” Oberax grimaces as he stands, the grinding of his ancient armor almost lost amidst the groans of the dying. “I heard tales of your victories upon the walls of Terra, brother. The Burning Blade, they called you. You held a section of the wall for a day and a night against the servants of the Carrion Lord. Your sword drank deep of their blood. How long ago was that now?” “Two hundred and thirty eight years, Oberax.” Vall’ak replies, his voice weak, his head heavy. “Curious. It was so long ago for us...” Vall’ak says nothing, blood bubbling from his thin lips. Oberax sighs. “Apothecary!” ---------