Nature vs. Nurture, the What If? edition

[Rune Priest Ridcully]

So what's become of Logar and the imperial hounds?

[Wade Garrett]

They're still polishing their Terminator and Mark III armor, still unhappy about Barbedor's Legion blowing up Fenris, and still wandering around the Imperium in their gi-normous "Queenship".

 

Why?

 

@Ace

Foltus is an Olympian Ferrus Manus who grew up with Olympian Konrad Curze as his older brother. (Storm Walkers = Original name of the X Legion)

 

He replaces Phelas/Fulgrim, because once I read the Iron Hands Index Astartes and saw how much it emphasized the X Primarch seeking to test his strength, I realized he could fit in the part as well, and I had an idea for Fulgrim on Baal I wanted to write up.

[Nomus Sardauk]

Yes! More delicious lore to devour! This is why I love threads like this, so many skilled writers brought together to craft awesome tales of alternate realities! :D

[no I'm alpharius]

The disappearance of the 23rd Army was just one of those quirks of the great crusade. 

 

The admiral and field marshals of the fleet had not planned for the accursed rock that the 23rd Imperial Army found themselves stranded on. Their main ship, the carrier of the Titans and tank legions, had been hit by what appeared to be a freak asteroid. As the ship tumbled, end on end, towards the uncharted planet, smaller craft appeared, picking off the escort ships one by one. It was coordinated. It was quick. It was over in minutes.

 

The 101st Curaissers landed closest to the carrier vessel, regrouped quickly and started to make stock. This was not terminal. They could survive. The atmosphere was breathable, conditions quite benign. All they had to do was hold out and signal for help.  

 

As their first night on the planet began to fall, they had already converted the carrier ship into a rudimentary fortress and some of the more damaged tanks had been stripped of engines and turned into strong points. One of the scout titans was already converted into a secondary fortress, scanners aimed at the horizon for any sign of life. Men from other units in the fleet, dispersed by the original attacks, started to filter in.

 

As the sky began to glow red, the howls and barks filled the still air and the stragglers began to run. Order was lost. And when the very last ray of light vanished from the horizon, the shooting started. 

 

The attacks started on the fifth day. Wave after wave of green skinned beasts poured onto the ship, and with all the strength of arms and coordination of fire, they were beaten back. 

 

The warhound exploded on the dawn of the tenth day. The green skinned hordes swept through it. over it, into it, like ants in the jungle. One leg buckled, it fell for a second and then the reactor went. A second sun greeted that day. Perhaps the crew had made the ultimate sacrifice. Perhaps it just happened. 

 

The twentieth day ... the twenty-fifth ... all much like those before. Attacks started as the light faded from the sky and stopped dead as the sun rose again. Casualties on any one day were tolerable, but there seemed to be an infinite number of the things and only a finite supply of men, tanks, ammuniton. And of hope. 

 

Help arrived on the thirty fifth day. 

 

A single Astartes strike cruiser appeared in orbit. All they could see was the blip on the scanner screen. All they could hear was a static-like code. Patterns appeared to form but then broke down into the noise. For one day, it stayed in orbit. As the night fell, the static stopped. 

 

And then ... the rain. 

 

Drop pods landed in the midst of the onrushing horde, ploughing kilometre-long swathes of carnage as they shuddered to a halt. As the doors opened, they revealed seven foot tall ... men? Their armour was the dull grey of unpolished steel, they carried a single fist as insignia and they opened fire immediately. As the horde found itself caught in two minds, a second wave of attacks started. These came from the sky. 

 

While the first marines were still human, still recognisable to some degree, these were more like machine than man. Their legs tapered to an end just above the knee and their backpacks had been modified to carry large circular jet engines. They still carried weapons and still opened fire on the green horde, with a precision that suggested something more than human behind the sights. The larger creatures tended to be leaders and they were cut down accordingly. The horde faltered. 

 

The third wave sent a chill down the Imperial Army. Larger craft landed, coralling the horde into smaller groups. As the box lke craft opened, a series of strange artillery pieces moved out on multiple caterpillar tracks. Intertwined with the chrome and steel of the weaponry were recognisably human features. There were still fleshy arms on triggers, but the bodies were at one with the machine. Beams, hotter than the sun, poured out from these unhuman devices, killing hundreds of the greenskins at a time.

 

Alongside them strode more of the giants, these with sets of tentacles of coiled metal instead of arms. Tentacles tipped with blades and spikes. Tentacles that ripped and tore and stabbed their way through the remainder of the green tide. 

 

It was the silence that struck the guardsmen that day. No words of command, no oaths or declarations made as the marines made their way through the enemy, killing and destroying with an almost preternatural calm. 

 

The orks? They were torn to shreds in one night. 

 

The surviving members of the army were taken from their improvised fortress, tired, broken men who had seen a lifetime of slaughter in the space of a month. They were led into the box-like landing craft. Some were too injured to join their comrades, a handful surviving long enough to bring word of the battle back to Terra. 

 

No record of the rest ever making it back to imperial lines exists. 

 

Some of the more inquisitive members of the Imperium have reported debris found after Steel Legion battles bearing symbols and emblems of units in the 23rd Army, but the Legion was excommunicate traitoris and, anyway, the 23rd vanished millenia ago. The proud sons of Inwit had no need for the weak flesh of mankind, so it was said in the legends.

 

The disappearance of the 23rd Army was just one of those quirks of the great crusade. 

[Conn Eremon]

As interesting as the Viper is . . .

 

I can't stand the name Leman Guilliman, and I kind of just see him as a reluctant Roboute and not much else.

[Wade Garrett]

A bit more on the Red Scorpions and their Primarch:

 

I can see this Leman falling, for reasons not dissimilar to canon Perturabo's. A great heart that would laugh at an overt enticement to treachery may still be worn down by the grind of small miseries.

 

He and his would probably go to Khorne, for the freedom the Blood God offers. Forget all this organization and logistics, and just fight. Just fight.

 

Of course, the Chaos Gods have about as much intention of legitimately solving your issues as your neighborhood drug dealer does when he suggests quitting smoking by getting hooked on heroin.

 

So, the VI are corrupted, they go into battle, they flip out, Wulven curses are triggered...but it's a temporary, fleeting thing.

 

When they return to sanity at the heart of the butcher's yard, they are forced to engage in ever more intensive feats of organization and logistics to get their forces in decent enough shape to travel to the NEXT battlefield so they can have their next hit of bloodshed.

 

Which makes them even more frustrated because $#/^! Bureaucracy! So at the next battle the explosion of pent up fury is even more intense...which requires more work and built up rage to get them to the battle after that...it's a vicious cycle.

 

Those who succumb permenantly to the Wulfen transformation are seen as especially blessed, for "He who makes himself a beast gets rid of the pain of being a man."

[Ace Debonair]

Alpharius, that is a crazy cool story, but I don't know which legion that was?

I figure Brodur would take the place of Canon Ferrus and be the first Primarch to die, although in this case it's because I'm envisioning a Warmaster who hasn't got the option of 'Keep Roboute on the edge of the galaxy, out of the fight', and instead just makes sure the Azure Titan is one of the first casualties during the Betrayal.

That or Brodur becomes Warmaster and gets killed by a jealous brother in a moment of rage or something.

I'm also pondering Magnus the Mad Prophet of Nostramo. I could have a lot of fun with that idea.

[no I'm alpharius]

One from my stock - Ferrus Manus on Inwit

 

whereupon cybernetic implants were used to strengthen the populace against the cold, and slowly the marines lose all sense of humanity ... Original post reproduced here:

 

In the years following the Great Scouring, scholars and priests sought the answers to the toughest, most heart breaking question. Why? For some, it was obvious, a lifetime of slaughter spilled over once too often. Others had ambition curtailed. The tragedy of The Fallen Angel, as Sanguinus became known, told of how a creature of beauty, grace and power placed himself a God only to fall furthest. 
 

But Ferrus?

 

Inwit was an ice world, stable and rich. Ferrus was brought into one clan and proved an able student, athlete and eventually warrior. But his most amazing gift was his technological insight. From small clockwork toys he soon progressed to independent cybernetic organisms, that could aid and assist his clan. He fought alongside his clan-father as they unified the planet, bringing wealth, knowledge and riches to those that joined, bringing the iron blade to those that fought.

 

Ferrus was a devoted son and brother. The differences between him and his family  were cosmetic, surely? His family  were bound by blood. Such things mattered on the frozen wastes, where human flesh chilled and personal weakness was exposed by freezing winds. The tragedy was that he was immortal, his family was not.

 

The cancer had spread too far when his father fell ill. Nothing could be done. As the body was left to the ice, Ferrus resolved to find a way of improving, no, perfecting his kin. Grief drove him to the solution. Cybernetic implants became common. After all, the flesh could feel the cold, but iron did not. 

 

The emperor founnd Inwit in due course, Ferrus knelt in fealty, accompanied by an honour guard of his kin, lifespan extended by a perfect symbiosis of man and machine. The Legion were already technological masters, experts at melding military strength with cutting edge technology. Conversion, improvement, the gifts of their Primarch were readily accepted and the Great Crusade was rejoined with new efficiency. But stories and rumours began to emerge of populations being forced to accept the iron, of ever more perverse meldings of man and machine. When the first shots were fired, Ferrus no longer stood for humanity. The perfect future was not that envisioned by the Emperor but he own vision, where no human need suffer, need feel pain or sadness or the biting chill of a cold wind on unprotected skin.

 

Just wanted to see where I could take it. 

[Wade Garrett]

Let's see...my other ideas are:

 

Korbin the Hooded, treetop dwelling outlaw lord of Caliban.

 

Fulgrim of Baal, Primarch of the Broken Ones

 

Alpharius Omegon of Nostromo. Lie to yourself if you want to, but you can't lie to me. You created me, so you could pretend to be something you aren't-a hero.

 

Rogol, the First Sword of Nuceria.

The story of our lives is the story of the search for our one gift, the thing we can do better than any other. Some men farm, some build, some write, but me...I've always had a talent for death.

[Ace Debonair]

The forum just devoured a post I've spent the last hour and a half writing about Sangrius Khan of the Blood Hawks and Magnus 'the Mad', Prophet of Nostramo and leader of the Thousand Knives.

How very, very annoying.

I'll try writing it again when I'm less vexed.

[recon0321]

@wade

 

Rogol of nuceria sounds cool got anymore to go on?

[Conn Eremon]

Sangrius Khan of the Blood Hawks

Oh, I am so stealing Blood Hawks for the glory of the Guardians of Midas. It's happening, don't fight it.

 

Along the vein of Wade's last post, and because I haven't really felt like I had something longer that is worth posting, here's a brief snippet of the ideas ranging around in my head:

 

Aetes Tauroi of Colchis, Primarch of the VI Legion, Feral Souls

"What does it matter what we call Him? His word is law, his reach endless. He holds the galaxy in His grasp, and His gaze brings worlds to ruin. Whether he is a God, or a Man, means nothing in the face of His power. Loyalty to Him is everything. Belief in Him, unnecessary."

 

Rogal Dorn of Prism, Primarch of the VII Legion, Conquerors

"They call Prism my home world, for that is where they found me and that is where my Legion makes its base. But it is not the world of my birth. It was a majestic world, a rich world, in my dreams of it. Its walls were of gold, manned by warriors of silver. Ruled by a golden god. I was taken from that home, though I remain ignorant of how and why. Those who found me, alone and abandoned in some ancient outpost, took me with them in search of their own home to rest from the long journey in the void. With iron and fire, I gave them a home on Prism. But now, as I stand on Terra once more, I find that the home I longed for in my dreams, existed only within them."

 

I've got another two, but I'm out of time.

[Wade Garrett]

Bare bones of my Nucerian Dorn:

 

-A child implanted with the Butcher's Nails who terrifies the lanista and medica by never screaming in rage or pain no matter how much the implants claw at his mind, he simply endures in stony silence.

 

-When the gladiators of his arena rebel and attempt to sack the city, he draws his blades and cuts them down.

 

-Is given command of the Praxury of De'Shea's bodyguard, as with the nobles baying for her blood in the wake of the slave uprising, he's the only being in the city whose loyalty she can count on.

 

-Accepts his role as a weapon wielded by others where canon Angron raged against it.

 

-Recruits for his Legion among savage tribes, the vilest of gangers, and so on. Uses the Butcher's Nails to turn the otherwise worthless into a self sacrificing fighting force.

 

"Even the man who has nothing may still give his life."

 

It runs with the some speculation I've seen about canon Dorn using the Iron Cage to deliberately cull the most vicious of his Legion from the new Imperium, with killing Iron Warriors in the process as a side benefit.

[Conn Eremon]

 

-A child implanted with the Butcher's Nails who terrifies the lanista and medica by never screaming in rage or pain no matter how much the implants claw at his mind, he simply endures in stony silence.

 

Welp. I guess that scraps Nucerian Mortarion, the Silent Angel.

 

Ah well, I still got Calibanite Vulkan. And I've been thinking of a Nostraman Guilliman too.

[Wade Garrett]

I was going to ask:

 

Dorn of Prism is VII Primarch + Unknown Fleet, right?

[Conn Eremon]

I was going to ask:

 

Dorn of Prism is VII Primarch + Unknown Fleet, right?

Correct.

[Captain Nameless]

When I have a bit of time I will write up a Nostraman Vulkan.  It is an idea that I have been thinking about for a while, I am thinking of calling him Atrapos.

[Conn Eremon]

The Drake O'Fannon, Knightsmith of Caliban

"I found him in the jungles. We had only just escaped the wrath of a Calibanite lion when it appeared. Skin as black as night, glinting like scales, with red eyes glaring at us. It was monstrous, easily the biggest drake the order had ever seen. It appeared from between the trees like it had appeared from thin air. With a single snap of its jaws, two of my men were gone, its jaws crunching through the archaic armor like the soft shell of a mudfowl. Our bullets detonated harmlessly upon its side, our blades and spears turned aside by iron claws. We were weak from our short fight with the lion, and tried from our flight. I was going to die. And then he appeared, like some missing appendage of the drake's that flew to reunite itself with the body. With a heavy tackle, he slammed into the drake's side. When the beast twisted its serpentine jaws to swallow him whole, he grabbed the jaws in each hand and, with mighty effort, pulled them farther and father apart. With a roar of exertion followed by the finality of the crack, the drake went limp. And his burning red eyes turned to look into my own."

 

 

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

 

The weight of shotgun was heavy in the boy's arms as he stood against the wall in the dark, breathing heavily. Syril had joined Nostramo Tertius' ineffectual judiciaries only a month ago. He knew he would expect to see terrible things, but not this. After e ayear or teo gettng contacts set up, finding the right kind of people who would want a bribed officer on the payroll, he'd never be in these kinds of situations. Despite the cold, he blinked sweat out of his eyes as he looked at his Sergeant.

 

"Remember lads. We are not here for a fight. Never raise your barrels. Keep your eyes moving. Do not linger on anything. And for the love of midnight, do not, do not look into his eyes."

 

On the count of three, the sergeant opened the door into a madness of multicolored lights and rambunctious sounds, and the squad followed him in. Normally, the sight of the dark blue, almost insectoid armor of the judiciaries would be met with loud cursing, screams and gunfire, but not here. The patrons looked up and then immediately dismissed them. The girls didn't miss a beat.

 

The squad moved past them towards a dark corner, where a certain crime boss was known to have his nightly meals. Following the Sergeant's advice, gun barrels were kept down, and while their eyes roamed the facility for any threats, nobody kept their eyes on any one person or thing for too long. They came to a halt before the darkened table. Five shadowy men sat there. Each of them was big, the heavy bruisers type. But the one in the back was big on a scale far above the others. This one leaned forward, so that his pale face entered the small pool of light a hanging fixture laid upon the table.

 

"Sergeant Saresk, I can't say I was expecting a social call by the precinct at this late of an hour. Pull up a seat, you and your boys. I'll have the chef do something special for you, so long as you don't ask where the meat came from."

 

The Sergeant gulped. Syril winced. If it was loud enough for him to hear it, sure as hell the mob boss had as well.

 

"This isn't a social call, Mr. Guile. We came across a recording that showed the incident at the old opera house. Where Lady Xarla was found dead? It showed one of your boys, Uzas, leaving the scene, at the time of the murder. We want to take him in for questioning."

 

The giant's head tilted ever so slightly to his left. "Uzas. Is the judiciary correct in his suspicion of you?"

 

"Boss, I was only in the area visiting my girl. She likes to play on the stage and pretend she's an--"

 

The gunshot took Syril utterly by surprise. Instantly his gun was up, eyes working targets, threats, anything. His heart thundering his ears, he didn't hear his sergeant's words until his gauntlet slammed the barrel back down.

 

"Stand down, Syril!"

 

It was then that Syril noticed the gun, minuscule next to the mob boss' large hand, on the table. A foot away, Uzas' head lay upon the table, blood flowing freely over one of his staring eyes from the single, small hole in the center of his forehead.

 

"Sergeant, it appears that Uzas will not be able to accompany you for questioning. However, you may tell the late Lady's family that the justice they sought has been served. Assure them that there will be no need to worry about the expenses of her funeral."

[Ace Debonair]

-A child implanted with the Butcher's Nails who terrifies the lanista and medica by never screaming in rage or pain no matter how much the implants claw at his mind, he simply endures in stony silence.

Welp. I guess that scraps Nucerian Mortarion, the Silent Angel.

Ah well, I still got Calibanite Vulkan. And I've been thinking of a Nostraman Guilliman too.

Pretty much what I had in mind for Torath the Implacable (Perturabo) of the Iron Hounds, too.

No matter how much the Nails are overclocked, Torath shows no emotion beyond mild irritance.

He later masterminds a slave rebellion with a much clearer head than canon Angron, leading him to conquer Nuceria after a long, bloody and difficult war.

When the Emperor finds him, attempts to remove the Nails go wrong and leave Torath barely able to feel anything. While he can shrug off wounds like they didn't happen, he becomes bitter at being regarded as merely a weapon.

Cue either Slaanesh or Nurgle, haven't decided which, and Torath joins with whichever Warmaster is in charge this time.

Other ideas and their brief summaries:

Alpharius and Omegon of Fenris (You were both born to be kings... except you Omegon, you obvious changeling created by evil Fenrisian Spirits or something)

Konrad Aurellian of Colchis (A MUCH better fit for my Mad Prophet idea, actually, so I need a new gimmick for Magnus of Nostramo)

Horus of Nuceria (With his epic charisma, Horus convinces the Nucerian military that once the slaves are killed they'll be next in the pits, organises flawless rebellion, still can't shake the influence of the nails and grows to hate humanity for what they've done to him)

Sangrius Khan of Chogoris (Gunslinging, aerial-attack favouring version of Sanguinius, slightly claustrophobic after years of having the entire sky to himself. Gets his wings broken by one of the traitor Primarchs and flies into a berserk frenzy, fighting until he's nearly dead. Disappears after the Heresy, some say he will return etc, others that he was killed, and so forth. Not gonna lie, partly exists because the idea of Flying Cowboy Sanguinius was just too cool for me to give up on )

Magnus of Nostramo (Originally my Mad Prophet, I might instead make him into the Eye of Justice, said to be able to see into men's souls and judge them on the evils therein. He's highly unlikable because he's so detached from his humanity, viewing humans as lesser creatures to do his bidding. People queue up to serve him in the hopes that he will overlook their past misdeeds. No idea how to cure the Flesh Change though, so Magnus will definitely have the smallest Legion, relying heavily on his own private army of serfs and followers to do the bulk of the dirty work )

[Wade Garrett]

As far as Nucerian Primarchs go, it would seem that great minds do indeed think alike.

:p

 

As far as Nucerian Dorn goes, the seed for him was planted when I saw some artwork of Pre-Heresy Khârn in another thread, with black/grey armor, and a helm that closely resembled his 40k one.

 

I thought it looked pretty neat...but most of the thread consisted of posters (up to and including ADB himself) pointing out that the "real" Pre Heresy Khârn looked nothing like that.

[Ubermensch Commander]

 

 

-A child implanted with the Butcher's Nails who terrifies the lanista and medica by never screaming in rage or pain no matter how much the implants claw at his mind, he simply endures in stony silence.

Welp. I guess that scraps Nucerian Mortarion, the Silent Angel.

 

Ah well, I still got Calibanite Vulkan. And I've been thinking of a Nostraman Guilliman too.

I do apologize for interrupting, but could you be troubled to expand on this Nucerian Mortarion a bit?

BTW, Stellar work one and all. Thank you so much for the terrific writing and amazing brainstorming. 

[Ace Debonair]

Sangrius Khan took to the air.

While the cheering crowds had been a novelty, to begin with, the endless fanfare and ritual of the Colchisian peoples was beginning to grate on his nerves.

Besides, Father had made his mission very clear during the last transmission between their ships.

"Your brother is somewhere on that world, Sangrius. His name is Konrad Aurellian. Find him, and we will bring him home."

How simple it sounded, when Father said it like that.

But the reality was several hundred thousand screaming, cheering people lining the streets, all in a delighted frenzy because a man with wings had arrived to look for his brother. Sangrius had never thought of himself as anything but human - albeit an unusual one - and something about the way these people prostrated themselves before him made his skin itch.

Besides, he'd felt more than the gazes of the crowd on him. Someone or something else had been watching him.

Swooping across the city, it's towering cathedrals and spires below him, Sangrius scanned the crowds idly, looking for anyone who could be his brother.

Suddenly, a shadow moved on one of the great churches. There, on the roof, a large humanoid figure dropped down, onto a lower building, and began running. Instinctively, Sangrius gave chase, feeling the wind in his wings as he swept past the edge of the church.

Below, there was a narrow alley, leading into some kind of old, abandoned fortification. There was no sign of the shadowy being that Sangrius had seen, but the door into the structure was open. Sangrius landed neatly in the alley, drawing both his custom-made plasma pistols, gifts forged for him by his brother Drake O'Fannon. Moving with a quickness and silence that belied his heavy armour, the Angel of the Blood Hakws ducked through the doorway. The inside of the fort was so dark as to be suddenly blinding after the brightness of the Colchisian daylight.

Suddenly, a dozen torches flared around Sangrius. They were held by men in robes who glared at him with fearless, determined, but glazed expressions. They were not the focus of Sangrius' attention, however, and nor were the other hundred or so that surrounded him with crude knives, spears, or even just bits of broken plank or common tools as weapons.

Instead, Sangrius was watching a shadowy figure, stood behind the mob. Whatever it was, it stood with it's head bowed and arms stretched wide, in just enough shadow as to be almost invisible.

"I know who you are, stranger. I know who you are, and I know..." The figure gave an eerie, unsettling chuckle. "I know who sent you."

Sangrius shrugged. "I am Sangrius Khan of Chogoris, Primarch of the Blood Hawks. My Father, the Emperor, sent me. I come in search of my Brother Konrad Aurellian."

The odd figure laughed again, this time raising it's head to the heavens. Lank black hair covered much of his face, and the figure laughed as though enjoying a private joke.

"Oh, we're all brothers here. Brothers and sisters, the lost and the forgotten. I know you, winged man! And I know what you will become! You're just like me!"

"And what are you?" Sangrius countered, as certainty formed in his head. "Tell me... Konrad."

The figure moved with startling swiftness. One second, it was staring at the ceiling as though reading a hidden message, and the next it had pushed two of the strange torch-bearing men aside and stood framed in the firelight, staring at Sangrius with an intensity that sent a shiver down the Primarch's spine. He'd seen eyes like those before, but only rarely, and never on anyone sane.

"We're the same, Brother." Konrad's face cracked into a twisted smile, and he gave another sinister chuckle. "We're monsters."

I'd tell more of the story, but I'm tired and that's probably drivel because it's 11pm.

[captain Angel]

Quite good

[Adra'Melek]

Ace, I thought it was pretty good (but it is 12:15). By the eyes, are you talking about he black ones?

 

I know Drake O'Fannon is one of Cormac's, but is he Irish? I can't help but hear him talk with a strong Irish accent.

[Ace Debonair]

Quite good

Cheers.

Ace, I thought it was pretty good (but it is 12:15). By the eyes, are you talking about he black ones?

I know Drake O'Fannon is one of Cormac's, but is he Irish? I can't help but hear him talk with a strong Irish accent.

I actually meant he looked like a man who had gone so far off the deep end that his eyes could have been windows into the Eye of Terror and the realms of the Chaos Gods.

I'd forgotten entirely Kurze's eyes were actually black.

EDIT:

I hope somebody learns something from my repeated mistake of continuing to write after 10pm, because I don't seem to have the hang of learning things anymore.