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The Imperfect - Heresy Era Loyalist Emperor’s Children

Laborious

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Laborious Battle-Brother

Laborious

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Wow truly amazing!

Cheers, mate. smile.png

I have really enjoyed both models and fluff, to the point where I can't decide which I like best. Contemptor was really amazing.

Thanks

Very kind of you to say so, glad so many people enjoy the fluff as I think the two enhance each other. Certainly doing the two has provided me with a lot of inspiration in both directions. smile.png

I have overlooked this project since the beginning but now I am glad to have gone thru this...made me want to write some fluff up myself about my 96th company of night lords...

well done on...well everything haha

Thanks, Capitano. Really enjoyed your own work as well. smile.png

Just Awl-Sum!

msn-wink.gif

Thank you very much for the replies guys, I really do appreciate it. Sorry for not thanking you when you posted, but I don't like bumping my own plog without having anything new to show and I haven't had anything new to show for quite a while now. ohmy.png Been a bit of a dud month when it comes to painting. However, I AM now replying, which means I have something to show! msn-wink.gif

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Child Galadrin, XIV Company, XIX Millennial, Emperors Children.

Ooops, should have waited a bit longer to take the photographs. that's not gloss varnish on the shoulder pads, just water from doing the transfers. It's gone now. ohmy.png

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Laborious Battle-Brother

Laborious

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Why thank you, that's a very nice thing to say. :) They're a good legion to pick because there is such a contrast between what they were and what they become that it'd give you a lot of room to play with. Any idea which way you'd go with them? With the phoenix guard and kakaphoni out soon they'll have a nice roster of units to pick and choose from as well. :)
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Laborious Battle-Brother

Laborious

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http://i92.photobucket.com/albums/l38/RAPTOR192/Citadel%20Minatures/Emperors%20Children/P1000340_zps43b93baa.jpg

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Child Wranbow, XIV Company, XIX Millennial, Emperors Children.

 

 

An irregularity amongst the IIIrd, Child Wranbow was one of tens of thousands of aspirants swept up for recruitment into the Legions as the Great Crusade reclaimed their sector for humanity. Hailing from the world of Morrell, the fierce tribal warriors of that jungle world were considered prime stock for the ever-thirsty Astarte to replenish their depleted ranks. Given their temperament and the needs of the fleet, the majority of the Morrelli were given into the hands of the XIIth Legion, who had suffered heavy losses during the fighting on Tylene VII. A few hundred of them however found themselves inducted into the ranks of the Emperor's Children.

Quite what the noble patricians of the IIIrd made of the stinking savages thrust upon them is easy to imagine; they were looked upon with disdain by their new brothers. Many of them, of course, did not survive the arduous transformation into an Astartes, but those who did swiftly found themselves viewed as outsiders by their new brothers. Given the guerrilla nature of the warfare on their homeworld, most of them were assigned to reconnaissance squads where it was thought their talents could be best put to use. Their aptitude for the role was impressive; their failure was absolute. Consummate woodsman and marksmen, they indeed excelled in the role of hunters; serving alongside elements of the Raven Guard during the Sangali Pacification the sons of Corax were highly complimentary of the Morrelli's penchant for silent warfare. They were also damning of their abject failure as scouts. On more than one occasion, against the orders of their Terran sergeants, they broke ranks to pursue the enemy, abandoning their positions and leaving blind spots in the Imperium's lines.

The results were catastrophic.

When the dead were finally counted, more than forty thousand men of the Imperial Army had fallen and two and a half thousand Astartes. Amongst their number were the eighty seven Morrelli Children whose reckless charge into an ambush had enabled it all to happen.     
 
Those few who survived were swiftly removed from their units, reallocated to assault companies where their zealousness and lack of discipline could best be stymied, or at least channeled. Fractious and ill-disciplined, now completely ostracised by the rest of the Legion, they posed something of a problem for their commanding officers and were frequently brought up on charges. Several of them were even subjected to summary execution, something unheard of within the disciplined IIIrd. Being given command of one of the Morrelli quickly came to be viewed as much a punishment for the officer as for the legionary themselves, and the outcasts found themselves passed from squad to squad, never settling. One by one, unmourned by any save each other, they died.   

One of the last, it was not until he was entrusted to the unforgiving care of Sergeant Awl-Sum that Child Wranbow found his place in the Legion. Something of an outsider himself, though highly respected and more than a little feared, the now grizzled Sergeant had made something of a hobby of collecting waifs and strays. All of his men were misfits of one sort another, who had found themselves ill-suited to life anywhere else.
He forged them into one of the most highly skilled units in the entire Legion.   

Perhaps it was because the role he was made to perform in a Devastator squad was so alien to what he had known before, or simply because of the Sergeant's indomitable personality, but Awl-Sum managed to achieve what no other Sergeant had in years of trying. He made a soldier out of the warrior.
   
A perfect storm of fervor and precision, Child Wranbow became a fearsome sight to behold.

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Grizzly_bear Venerable Brother

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"I'm fabulous..." Lol

 

Great work still fella.

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Laborious Battle-Brother

Laborious

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The Pariah 

 

Moridrin was lucky, he always had been. As a child on Chemos he had toiled in the mines alongside his father and brothers, day after day. Much had improved for the planet's citizens since the coming of the Lord Fulgrim, but Chemos was still a dying world and it's insatiable thirst for resources had not entirely abated. It was dangerous, backbreaking work. Men died every day in the stifling heat of the tunnels, crushed under rockfalls or succumbing to the choking gases that were an ever present threat. But never Moridrin. Time and again he walked away from cave-ins and explosions, minor accidents and full blown disasters alike, with barely a scratch.

Men began to whisper about the boy who cheated death; first with awe, but then, as his luck continued to run wild, with suspicion. It was uncanny. Unnatural.

Before their suspicions could turn to murder fate intervened.

Word came from the surface that strange lights had been sighted in the midnight skies, vessels from another world.

Chemos changed virtually overnight. Following in the newcomers footsteps came supply ships laden down with food, equipment and medical supplies. The largesse bestowed upon the world by it's benevolent new masters was staggering; the millions of workers who laboured in the dark to sustain Chemos suddenly found themselves surplus to requirements.

But Chemos was to inherit a new hunger from the men from Terra, one that could only be slaked with the lives of Chemos' young men. War. Still yet to reach his teens, Moridrin was one of hundreds of thousands of young men snatched up for testing for the Lord Fulgrim's new Legion.

 

 

***************************************************************************************



"Move along!"

Moridrin stumbled as someone further down the line was roughly prodded along, the train of boys packed so tightly the force of the shove rippled along the line. Still nauseous from the flight up, eyes used to a lifetime underground weeping from the brightness of the lighting, Moridrin stared around him as he shuffled along in a daze.

The vessel he found himself on was utterly alien to anything he had known previously in his short life. Simply being able to stand upright was a wonder beyond price. The cramped, undressed stone tunnels that had been the near entirety of his existence had been replaced by long, vaulted corridors of gleaming polished metal; utilitarian, certainly, but beautiful nonetheless. Beauty was something still virtually unknown on Chemos, despite the Lord Fulgrim's efforts to rectify that lack.

Men in plain robes bustled hurriedly along the corridors, paying scant attention to the long line of Chemosians snaking their way through their ship, save for those amongst them who had evidently been tasked with shepherding them along. Many showed signs of augmentation.

Eventually they came to a great domed chamber, hundreds of feet in diameter. This was evidently their destination, for a moment later a voice far up ahead called out, "Stop!"

Craning his neck, Moridrin tried to see what was happening, but it was hopeless; his idea was not in any way unique, and he was far from the tallest amongst those boys around him.

Standing in silence, they all waited nervously for minutes as nothing seemed to happen. Then they heard footsteps, coming slowly closer. Loud, heavy footsteps.

Moridrin had heard the tales of the Lord Fulgrim; that he was a giant of a man, ten feet tall, but he had dismissed them as flights of fancy. Now he was forced to revise that opinion.

The three armoured figures walking down the flank of the line were huge, bigger by far than any man he had ever seen. Cold, dispassionate eyes swept across him as they scanned the group.

"Alright, move along!" barked the voice up ahead once they had moved on, and the line began to move again. The line was so long it took long seconds for the motion to filter down to where he stood, and Moridrin was just taking his first step when a stern voice called out.

"Wait!"

The line immediately clattered to a halt, boys milling about in confusion at the conflicting orders.

Moridrin cast a wary glance backwards as the footsteps approached once again. The three giants reappeared, a tension in their demeanor that hadn't been there before as they inspected the line more closely.

Once again a pair of those cold, inhuman eyes swept across him and Moridrin held his breath, helpless beneath that stare. The contact lasted but a heartbeat, and Moridrin let out a sigh of relief as it released him. But it was short lived. The gaze snapped back in an instant, the barest hint of confusion lurking somewhere in the depths, swallowed as soon as it appeared.

"Not him!" pronounced the man, pointing a finger at him as he delivered his sentence.

Huge hands grasped him firmly by the shoulders as the man's two companions hauled him firmly out of the line. There was a mad scrabble as, somehow, the crushing throng forced itself apart around the point he'd been standing at as his companions by proximity tried hurriedly to disassociate themselves from him.

"What? What's wrong? What have I done?" He screamed, or at least he tried to. His voice had seemingly deserted him; the contents of his bladder took the opportunity to abandoned him as well.

If his warders were aware of his embarrassment they made no mention of it, as indifferent to that as to his evident terror. Sandwiched between them he was hustled away from the line, to what fate he had no idea.

His mind was busy conjuring images of cells and torture chambers when his brief journey ended abruptly with him being shoved into another, much smaller, line at the other end of the chamber.

Without a word the two stalked away to rejoin their companion, who proceeded to continue his long walk down the line.

Visibly shaking, Moridrin shared a scared look with the bewildered looking boys around him.

It was a small comfort, but Moridrin took solace in the fact that many of them too smelled of piss.

 

 

***************************************************************************************



"Next!"

The wait at the head of the line had been interminable. One by one the boys had been ushered through a darkened doorway which clanged ominously shut behind them. Ten, twenty minutes would pass before it swung open once more and the next boy was ushered through. No one who went in came back out again.

Petrified, Moridrin turned beseechingly to the boy behind him. The boy stared through him determinedly, pretending he was not even there. Moridrin didn't blame him; He himself had done the same to the boy who had proceeded him.

With no recourse but to go on, no matter what, Moridrin stepped hesitantly through the doorway. No sooner had he entered the room than the door slammed shut, apparently of it's own volition.

Starring at it in fear, desperately trying to see by what mechanism it could again be opened, Moridrin jumped when a voice spoke from the shadowed depths of the room.

"Sit, boy."

Spinning, he turned towards the voice.

The lights in the room were dimmed; all he could make out was the indistinct sight of a table and the shadowy shape of a man in robes sitting at the far side of it.

"Do you fear the dark boy?"

There is only so much terror and confusion a young mind can take, and Moridrin had apparently reached his limit. Struck by a sudden burst of defiance, Moridrin boldly spat, "No! I was born in the dark! All my life I lived in the dark!"

"Ah good," chuckled the voice, "there is some fire in you, then. Most of your fellows have been sniveling wretches not fit to clean my boots, regardless of whatever Talent they may possess."

The man leaned forwards then, into what passed for the light. No, he WAS the light! Banked embers in the depths of his eyes flared dangerously, getting brighter and brighter. His voice dropping to a whisper, he continued, "Not afraid of the dark? That is good, for that is where you shall die!"

With a crash of thunder that reverberated around the room, every bulb in the room burst into life.

Eyes wide in shock, rooted to the spot, Moridrin waited to die.

But he didn't.

What happened instead was perhaps the last thing Moridrin expected.

The man laughed.

Not a cruel, about to strike you down with lightning kind of a laugh; but a true, honest laugh.

"Oh, forgive me boy," chortled the hulking man, "but I do so love spooking the primitives! I've seen dozens of you boys already this morning, and I doubtless have dozens more to go. It relieves the tedium." a pause, "Doubtless you think me cruel, yes?"

Moridrin, his head still spinning, had no answer to give, but the man obviously took that for assent for the smile faded from his face and was replaced by something dark and brooding.

"Believe me, boy, crueler tests by far await you in the days and years ahead. Should you be lucky."

Moridrin jumped at the word.

Lost in his revere, the man failed to notice Moridrin's reaction but after a moments pause he motioned to the chair in front of him, "Sit, boy, sit. My name is Skelmis."

Moridrin sat. There was nothing else to do.

"Now to business," said Skelmis, "Do you know why you are here? Did they tell you?"

"They..." stammered Moridrin, his mouth dry, "they said we were to be soldiers! Like. . like you! That we had been called to serve, to serve the Lord Fulgrim himself! They said!"

"Easy, lad," said Skelmis as his agitation grew, "they did not lie to you. Did they also tell you it would be dangerous?"

"I'm not afraid of danger," said Moridrin, thinking back to the mines.

"Ah, but there is danger and then there is danger. You shall indeed be a soldier should you be robust enough, all of you out there. Doubt not that your new life will be full of danger, long before you see your first enemy. Doubly so for those of you brought before me."

"Why?"

"You know why. I am a soldier, but I am also something else."

"A witch!"

"Yes, if you like. Witch, magi, warlock; they all mean the same thing. The term we use is psyker. The reason you are here with me now is because you are one too."

"No!" cried Moridrin, the accusation stinging all the more because it was not the first time he had heard it, "I'm just lucky!"

"Luck is it? Now isn't that interesting. Tell me about your luck."

Haltingly, the words fighting and clawing to stay inside him, Moridrin told his tale.

When he was finished, the man sat back and asked thoughtfully, "Never even injured? At all?"

"Just scrapes, nothing more."

"What about sickness?"

"Yes, of course I got sick!"

"So, it just protects you from misadventure then. Very interesting. Well," Skelmis said, rubbing his palms together, "lets test you then, see how strong you are."

Before Moridrin could even ask what that would entail, the man had reached out and seized his face in a vice-like grip. Leaning forward, he peered intently into Moridrin's eyes, the eerie glow at their center appearing once more.

How much time passed, Moridrin could not say. Paralysed and insensate, the rational part of his mind told him it was but a matter of moments but it felt like hours.

"What is this," muttered Skelmis angrily partway through his examination, "I sense nothing in you! Were you told to come here, boy? Did you leave your line on your own? I see nothing in you. . No, wait! there IS something there. Faint, very faint."

Satisfied at last he released Moridrin who sank back into his chair, shivering. He felt cold! Freezing, in fact!

Teeth chattering, Moridrin tried to rub some warmth back into his chest as the sensation slowly returned to his body. Skelmis allowed him a few minutes to comport himself, a look almost of pity in his eyes.

"You have the Gift, boy. But barely. Frankly I'm surprised my colleagues even managed to pick you out from the multitude."

"They nearly missed me," admitted Moridrin. Strange, a few moments ago he had been terrified at the mere mention of the word "witch" and now he was disappointed to be told he wasn't very strong!

"Frankly boy, I'd be reluctant to name you a psyker at all were it not for your peculiar Talent."

"But my luck!"

"Indeed. I saw your life, lived through your eyes. I saw the truth of things. You have what we call The Prescience. Not nearly strong enough to be considered true Foresight; just barely enough to grant you a sense of your immediate future on occasion. It's such a short span of time, instants only, that only your subconscious is truly aware of it. Far too little time for it to be of use to anyone but yourself, but evidently just enough for your subconscious to act to save itself when endangered."

"So I haven't been. . causing these things to happen?"

"No, lad. Have no concern on that score," smiled the man, before the grin slipped mirthlessly from his face, "But that is about all the good news I have to tell you, I fear. Should you survive the Transformation, you will be entrusted into our care for further training. But I can already tell you that you will find no home amongst us. Your Gift is a weak and shriveled thing. A hairs breath less and it would not exist at all; a hairs more and your abilities, scant as they would be, would be too erratic to let you live. We will train you, see if we cannot kindle some semblance of a spark from it. But we will fail. We will make sure you are made safe, but you will never be strong enough to be one of us. You will be a man apart. The Ungifted amongst your new brothers will know you for what you are, and they will hate and fear you for it. Your fellow psykers will know you for what you are, and they will despise you for it."

The lights went out in an instant.

"Welcome to the IIIrd." sighed Skelmis regretfully, ushering him towards a door at the rear, already forgotten, "Next!"

 

 

***************************************************************************************



"Thirty seconds!" came the call over the comm-net.

Whether or not Skelmis had possessed the talent of Foresight himself, he had certainly been a prophet in regards to Moridrins future. Strapped tightly into his crash-seat as the Storm Eagle Gunship descending into the atmosphere of Istvaan III, Moridrin looked around at his newest squad. His fifth.

There was Wranbow, one of those crazed Morrelli, muttering to himself in his native tongue; Galadrin, who it was said had spent several years studying on mars before retuning, suddenly, in some kind of disgrace; Minos, the fallen Captain, a shadow of the man he was once said to have been; and the last and most curious of the lot, Awl-Sum himself. Moridrin suppressed a start when he saw the sergeant returning his attention.

"A strange bunch, aren't we?" asked Awl, without a hint of humour. It was said the man had none.

"Is that why you agreed to accept me, Sergeant?"

"I didn't accept you, brother. I asked for you."

"What?" exclaimed Moridrin in surprise as the dropship shook with deceleration as it's landing jets fired, "Why?"

"I cannot fault a man simply for surviving, whatever the cause. You are brave and steadfast and you have acquitted yourself with honour. That is enough for me. You are welcome here, brother.

But I would ask one thing of you. If you can agree to do that for us, always, let whatever else will be be."

"What would you have of me, Sergeant?" Moridrin asked as the assault ramp crashed down and the previously silent compartment was engulfed with the fierce sounds of battle.

Gesturing to the exit, there was definitely the hint of a smile behind his words as he told him, "You first!"

 

 

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Child Moridrin, XIV Company, XIX Millenial, Emperor's Children.

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Laborious Battle-Brother

Laborious

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The Fallen Captain


A dour, taciturn man, prone to brooding introspection, Legionary Minos is a disquieting figure to his brothers. But he was not always so.

 

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 Once the Captain of the Nineteenth's First Company, Minos was the pride of his Millennial and the envy of all others. The youngest man in the Legion's history to have ever attained the rank of Captain, he was an exemplar of all that the Children strove for: Charismatic, skilled at arms and with a grasp of strategy that far outstripped most of his contemporaries.

In the arts too, so cherished by the Legion's Primarch, he excelled. An indifferent painter or sculptor, his gifts instead leant towards the stage. An impassioned performer, he could recite the Epics from memory, and the beauty of his singing was so renowned that the Emperor himself once asked The Lord Fulgrim's permission for Minos to perform before him. He was said to have shed a single tear at the performance.

By his fourteenth year as an Astartes he had risen to the rank on Captain, and it was widely expected that in short order he would ascend to the command of a Millennial of his own.

All that changed with the fall of Solitude.

 

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A remote Imperial outpost far from the path being blazed by the Great Crusade, garbled reports began to be sent from the station, messages telling of small but increasingly savage raids by an enemy unknown. Then silence.

Of minimal strategic importance, and with the Legion's still meagre strength already committed on several fronts, it was deemed that a few companies would be sufficient enough to deal with the problem.

Full of pride at his appointment to the command of this detachment, the young Minos led the strength of the First, Seventh and Eleventh Companies forth with every expectation of an easy victory and a swift return.

It would be eight full years before any of them would be heard from again.

 

**************************************************

 


Long after Minos' companies were given up for lost, and after three attempts by Naval reconnaissance squadrons to re-establish contact with Solitude had similarly disappeared, a lone Strike Cruiser dropped out of Warp not far from the world of Gheral.

Listing badly, it's hull pockmarked and scorched nearly beyond recognition, the vessel lumbered in-system broadcasting it's identification number and pass code, eight years out of date, and a single word repeated over and over.

HELP!

 

**************************************************

 


Navy cutters moved in swiftly to intercept the vessel, but Unable to raise any response from it. After failing to override it's docking-bay airlock controls, their boarding parties were forced to gain entry through the same hole carved into its side by whatever foe had swarmed the ship.

They were faced with a scene of utter carnage.

Dead Astartes in the colours of the Emperor's Children floated weightlessly in the silent corridors, the walls blast-scarred in the same way as the exterior but also blighted with dark, bloody smears.

It took the Navy Troopers hours to make their way to the vessel's bridge, cutting their way through hastily sealed bulkheads with plasma torches. When finally they
reached it, their scanners showed that the room remained pressurised. The only compartment on the entire ship that still was.

Overcoming their trepidation, the men made the antechamber airtight and then commenced cutting. Whatever horrors that must have stalked through their minds as the minutes dragged slowly by were banished when the doors collapsed slowly inwards and revealed a scene much like the rest of the ship. Dead Marines lay in crumpled heaps whilst the butchered remains of Legion Serfs littered the floor. All told, their search had uncovered some two dozen Astartes and an indeterminate number of their human bondsman.

Anxious to be away from the eerie vessel, the boarding parties' technicians hacked the ship's central computer and ejected it's data core. Turning to leave, one of the party stepped upon the outstretched arm of one of the dead Legionaries.

Blood-slicked fingers clamped down hard on the man's ankle, and two haunted eyes starred pleadingly up at him.

"Help!" gasped the injured Astartes, before slipping back into unconsciousness.

It was only when the troopers were safely back aboard their ships with their two prizes that anyone dared ask the question that had plagued them all since their first step aboard the cruiser.

Where were the enemy dead?

 

**************************************************


The wounded Astarte did not regain conciousness as the Governor of Gheral sent out worried communiques to his superiors informing them of the strange event.

The planet's Doctors were still fretting about the extent of the man's injuries, and amazed at his resilience, when word came that an Emperor's Children fleet had entered the system, the PRIDE OF THE EMPEROR at their head.

The Phoenician himself had come to reclaim his lost child.

 

**************************************************

 

 
Minos teetered for weeks on the precipice of death, the Legion's Chief Apothecary fighting a dogged battle to repair the injuries that the Gheralti physicians had exhausted their skills simply holding in abeyance.

Whether through Fabius' skills or Minos' stubbornness, on the forty-ninth day of his comma Mino's eyes snapped open once more.

 

**************************************************


Kept isolated from everyone save his medical staff during his convalescence, as soon as he was able to stand Minos was summoned before his master.

Sequestered behind closed doors with the Legion's High Command for hours, the man who finally emerged to be welcomed home by his brothers scarcely resembled the golden youth who had left them. Horribly scarred and with a haunted cast to his features, he looked to have aged a century.

Sealing the events of the mission to secrecy, The Lord Fulgrim nevertheless hailed Minos' return to the fold with full honours, freed from any blame or censure for the loss of his men.

But whatever praise his Lord bestowed upon him was clearly scant comfort to Minos, for the very next day he demanded a meeting with his Lord Commander and insisted upon reassignment to a line squad. Rejecting the panoply of his rank he cast aside his arms and armour and selected from the Legion's armoury new gear for himself; the unadorned plate of a humble Legionary.

So dressed, he reported himself to the only Sergeant in the Millennial willing to accede to such a scandalous request.  

 

**************************************************


What fate befell the rest of Minos' Companies and their vessels, none save Minos and the Lord Fulgrim and his inner circle know for sure. But now Minos sings no more, and tells no tales save one. Sometimes, in the darkest hour of the night, he can be heard whispering to himself,  

"They are coming."

 

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http://i92.photobucket.com/albums/l38/RAPTOR192/Citadel%20Minatures/Emperors%20Children/P1000361_zps45553178.jpg
http://i92.photobucket.com/albums/l38/RAPTOR192/Citadel%20Minatures/Emperors%20Children/P1000362_zpsc0e46ca6.jpg
http://i92.photobucket.com/albums/l38/RAPTOR192/Citadel%20Minatures/Emperors%20Children/P1000363_zps1f515c93.jpg
http://i92.photobucket.com/albums/l38/RAPTOR192/Citadel%20Minatures/Emperors%20Children/P1000364_zps0b1888e3.jpg
http://i92.photobucket.com/albums/l38/RAPTOR192/Citadel%20Minatures/Emperors%20Children/P1000365_zpscbb6d74c.jpg

 

 

Child Minos, XIV Company, XIX Millenial, Emperor's Children.

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Nomus Sardauk Venerable Brother

Nomus Sardauk

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Posted

 

 

The Fallen Captain

A dour, taciturn man, prone to brooding introspection, Legionary Minos is a disquieting figure to his brothers. But he was not always so.

 

 

**************************************************

 

 

Once the Captain of the Nineteenth's First Company, Minos was the pride of his Millennial and the envy of all others. The youngest man in the Legion's history to have ever attained the rank of Captain, he was an exemplar of all that the Children strove for: Charismatic, skilled at arms and with a grasp of strategy that far outstripped most of his contemporaries.

 

In the arts too, so cherished by the Legion's Primarch, he excelled. An indifferent painter or sculptor, his gifts instead leant towards the stage. An impassioned performer, he could recite the Epics from memory, and the beauty of his singing was so renowned that the Emperor himself once asked The Lord Fulgrim's permission for Minos to perform before him. He was said to have shed a single tear at the performance.

 

By his fourteenth year as an Astartes he had risen to the rank on Captain, and it was widely expected that in short order he would ascend to the command of a Millennial of his own.

 

All that changed with the fall of Solitude.

 

 

**************************************************

 

 

A remote Imperial outpost far from the path being blazed by the Great Crusade, garbled reports began to be sent from the station, messages telling of small but increasingly savage raids by an enemy unknown. Then silence.

 

Of minimal strategic importance, and with the Legion's still meagre strength already committed on several fronts, it was deemed that a few companies would be sufficient enough to deal with the problem.

 

Full of pride at his appointment to the command of this detachment, the young Minos led the strength of the First, Seventh and Eleventh Companies forth with every expectation of an easy victory and a swift return.

 

It would be eight full years before any of them would be heard from again.

 

 

**************************************************

 

 

Long after Minos' companies were given up for lost, and after three attempts by Naval reconnaissance squadrons to re-establish contact with Solitude had similarly disappeared, a lone Strike Cruiser dropped out of Warp not far from the world of Gheral.

 

Listing badly, it's hull pockmarked and scorched nearly beyond recognition, the vessel lumbered in-system broadcasting it's identification number and pass code, eight years out of date, and a single word repeated over and over.

 

HELP!

 

 

**************************************************

 

 

Navy cutters moved in swiftly to intercept the vessel, but Unable to raise any response from it. After failing to override it's docking-bay airlock controls, their boarding parties were forced to gain entry through the same hole carved into its side by whatever foe had swarmed the ship.

 

They were faced with a scene of utter carnage.

 

Dead Astartes in the colours of the Emperor's Children floated weightlessly in the silent corridors, the walls blast-scarred in the same way as the exterior but also blighted with dark, bloody smears.

 

It took the Navy Troopers hours to make their way to the vessel's bridge, cutting their way through hastily sealed bulkheads with plasma torches. When finally they

reached it, their scanners showed that the room remained pressurised. The only compartment on the entire ship that still was.

 

Overcoming their trepidation, the men made the antechamber airtight and then commenced cutting. Whatever horrors that must have stalked through their minds as the minutes dragged slowly by were banished when the doors collapsed slowly inwards and revealed a scene much like the rest of the ship. Dead Marines lay in crumpled heaps whilst the butchered remains of Legion Serfs littered the floor. All told, their search had uncovered some two dozen Astartes and an indeterminate number of their human bondsman.

 

Anxious to be away from the eerie vessel, the boarding parties' technicians hacked the ship's central computer and ejected it's data core. Turning to leave, one of the party stepped upon the outstretched arm of one of the dead Legionaries.

 

Blood-slicked fingers clamped down hard on the man's ankle, and two haunted eyes starred pleadingly up at him.

 

"Help!" gasped the injured Astartes, before slipping back into unconsciousness.

 

It was only when the troopers were safely back aboard their ships with their two prizes that anyone dared ask the question that had plagued them all since their first step aboard the cruiser.

 

Where were the enemy dead?

 

 

**************************************************

 

The wounded Astarte did not regain conciousness as the Governor of Gheral sent out worried communiques to his superiors informing them of the strange event.

 

The planet's Doctors were still fretting about the extent of the man's injuries, and amazed at his resilience, when word came that an Emperor's Children fleet had entered the system, the PRIDE OF THE EMPEROR at their head.

 

The Phoenician himself had come to reclaim his lost child.

 

 

**************************************************

 

Minos teetered for weeks on the precipice of death, the Legion's Chief Apothecary fighting a dogged battle to repair the injuries that the Gheralti physicians had exhausted their skills simply holding in abeyance.

 

Whether through Fabius' skills or Minos' stubbornness, on the forty-ninth day of his comma Mino's eyes snapped open once more.

 

 

**************************************************

 

Kept isolated from everyone save his medical staff during his convalescence, as soon as he was able to stand Minos was summoned before his master.

 

Sequestered behind closed doors with the Legion's High Command for hours, the man who finally emerged to be welcomed home by his brothers scarcely resembled the golden youth who had left them. Horribly scarred and with a haunted cast to his features, he looked to have aged a century.

 

Sealing the events of the mission to secrecy, The Lord Fulgrim nevertheless hailed Minos' return to the fold with full honours, freed from any blame or censure for the loss of his men.

 

But whatever praise his Lord bestowed upon him was clearly scant comfort to Minos, for the very next day he demanded a meeting with his Lord Commander and insisted upon reassignment to a line squad. Rejecting the panoply of his rank he cast aside his arms and armour and selected from the Legion's armoury new gear for himself; the unadorned plate of a humble Legionary.

 

So dressed, he reported himself to the only Sergeant in the Millennial willing to accede to such a scandalous request.

 

 

**************************************************

 

What fate befell the rest of Minos' Companies and their vessels, none save Minos and the Lord Fulgrim and his inner circle know for sure. But now Minos sings no more, and tells no tales save one. Sometimes, in the darkest hour of the night, he can be heard whispering to himself,

 

"They are coming."

 

 

**************************************************

 

 

 

 

http://i92.photobucket.com/albums/l38/RAPTOR192/Citadel%20Minatures/Emperors%20Children/P1000359_zps92163607.jpg

http://i92.photobucket.com/albums/l38/RAPTOR192/Citadel%20Minatures/Emperors%20Children/P1000360_zps1741702b.jpg

http://i92.photobucket.com/albums/l38/RAPTOR192/Citadel%20Minatures/Emperors%20Children/P1000361_zps45553178.jpg

http://i92.photobucket.com/albums/l38/RAPTOR192/Citadel%20Minatures/Emperors%20Children/P1000362_zpsc0e46ca6.jpg

http://i92.photobucket.com/albums/l38/RAPTOR192/Citadel%20Minatures/Emperors%20Children/P1000363_zps1f515c93.jpg

http://i92.photobucket.com/albums/l38/RAPTOR192/Citadel%20Minatures/Emperors%20Children/P1000364_zps0b1888e3.jpg

http://i92.photobucket.com/albums/l38/RAPTOR192/Citadel%20Minatures/Emperors%20Children/P1000365_zpscbb6d74c.jpg

 

Child Minos, XIV Company, XIX Millenial, Emperor's Children.

Emperor's mercy, that's creepy.

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Laborious Battle-Brother

Laborious

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Emperor's mercy, that's creepy.

Thank you. biggrin.png

That is an impressive bit of fluff. Now if my work computer would just load the pictures I'd be set.

Cheers, mate. Was it just your work computer blocking them? These are all hosted on photobucket so sometimes I run out of bandwidth, but I should have plenty left this month and they seem to be showing up fine for other people. Give me a prod if not though as I have another account I can host them on. :)

Your work can be called nothing less than epic!

How odd I miss this for so long!

Keep up the great work.

Why thank you, very kind of you. There's so many great project logs on here and they're updated so frequently it's easy for things to slip off the page before the other side of the world has woken up. That's half the fun though, discovering "new" old threads. :)

The fallen captains fluff is super awesome! Makes me wonder who or what they were fighting, daemons, genestealers, ghosts?

Cheers, mate, glad you seem to enjoy my writing so much. Really does mean a lot. As to who or what Minos met out there in the dark, who knows? More worryingly, what of his portentous final words? Is he simply having flashbacks to an attack he and his men endured; or, more terrifyingly, is he speaking in the now? They are coming. . .

/DUM DUM DUM!

Ahem, the truth is I have no idea. :) The most terrifying monsters are the ones we imagine for ourselves, so imagine away. :)

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