Nature vs. Nurture, the What If? edition

[Conn Eremon]

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.

Canon Calibanite Primarch is called the Lion el'Jonson, meaning the Lion of the Forest. I wanted something similar for Vulkan, that tied easily to his canon self. So he is the Drake, rather than the Lion. The el'Jonson part was replaced by o'Fannon as a nod to 1000heathens' Calibanite Magnus, who was very much island celtic in theme. One of the celtic gods is Govannon, a Welsh smith god. The Irish version is Goibhnu (spelling from memory, sorry if wrong) pronounced, I believe, 'gov-nu.' Govannon became o'Fannon to better imitate el'Jonson.

 

I'm not yet sure what it will be considered a translation of. The Dragon without Malice? It can't be 'of the' since that's 'el.'

 

Despite the name, however, I have not yet decided on a cultural theme for him.

 

 

On the subject of the Nucerian Mortarion, since he was requested I will give him a shot later.

[no I'm alpharius]

The first thing they saw was the dust cloud. Right there, on the horizon, a dirty brown smudge was rolling across the plain. It was dawn. They always came at dawn. 

 

Their clan still believed in the hoof and the grass, the freedom of the High Sky. Not like those that were coming for them.

 

Women and children were gathered together into a small number of circular tents at the heart of their camp. The clan leader turned to his brother, his gaze drew a nod and a hand moved to a ceremonial knife. The young ones would not suffer if ... when ... the end came. 

 

The first outriders skirted alongside the edge of the camp, firing the odd shot from their crude blackpowder weapons into the corralled tents. The shots took out the horses first, then those that tried to save their steeds. These men rode lighter engines, with two wheels and smaller engines, a high pitched screaming accompanying their forays around the makeshift fort. Larger machines joined then, some with smaller carriages attached, the second rider free to throw burning torches at the tents and then some with three wheels, providing a stable platform for a larger gun that spat a dirty spread of pellets, nails and other debris into the corrall.

 

The last men to join the assault rode broad wide machines, long slung and dirty, with a low growl of an engine. Eight of them held back, seven forming an arrow head in front of the largest of the horde, a tall man with a dirty rag covering the lowest part of his face. Oil stained the leathers and armour he wore. His eyes scanned the scene and he muttered orders to his honour guard, coordinating the attack. 

 

Some of his men were caught by arrows fired from the clan. Some were grabbed by braver warriors, pulled from their iron steeds and had their throats cut before they hit the ground. But soon, the tents, the baggage, everything was on fire. The circle was broken. With a series of barked orders, the clan tried to run for it.

 

They did not get far. Not without their steeds.  

 

The clan leader stood in the centre of the carnage, watching his life, his home, his family burn. Tears streamed down his face, running along the path of a long, black moustache. The leader of the horde pointed him out, revved the engine on his low slung, dirty, oily bike and accelerated towards him. In the last moments of his life, the clan leader saw oil, leather, unpolished metal with a hint of rust at the edges and a dirty scythe sweeping through the air towards his unguarded neck. 

 

Ukhellion, the great khan of the first motorised clan on Cochoris, leader of the Sakyusan Khadyes, Lord of Those That Come At Dawn, had gone one more step closer to delivering his peace to the planet. 

[Wade Garrett]

That's either Mortarion or Ferrus Manus of Chogoris, but I'm unsure which.

[Conn Eremon]

He was always introduced this way. The dozen announcers chant his name with staggered repetition. The crowds, always overflowing the seats when he is to walk the sands, imitate the announcers stutteringly. Moments of harmony mixed with the chaos of meaningless noise. The interlocking half-circles of meter-thick iron set into the arena floor, toothed like gears, separate with a lurch and then pull apart slowly, screeching in protest. When the squealing stops, a deep rumbling begins, deep beneath the sands. With this new sound, the announcers fall silent. Long minutes pass as the crowd slowly follows suit. Silence descends upon the arena, broken by the sounds of machinery emanating from the pit, and the harsh voices of gladiators already present on the sands.

 

The sight of something rising from the pit caused a return to the cheers, the explosion of sound hitting those on the sands like a physical blow, their cries of pain and rage lost in the roar. The rising figure was inhumanly tall, though shorter and less bulky than some of the combatants waiting for him. His face was lost in the shadow cast by the torn grey shawl over his head. His body was draped in the same dour fabric, bound to his thin form by thick, heavy chains, his limbs unhindered. The circular elevator many meters in diameter clicked into place with heavy clunks.

 

Rough, calloused hands smeared with grease and dirt unclenched, releasing his grip on the small scythes, handles just long enough to fit into the shrouded figure’s palm. The blades landed upon the metal elevator floor, the long chains that connected them to his wrists pooling around them. His arms, the iron plating still revealing the wiry strength beneath, rise and he casts the shawl form his head, revealing skin no less grey. Heavy cabling spill out, spilling over his shoulders. They connected to the metal plate covering much of his head, the machinery sparking and causing the cables to twitch as they went to work on his mind, as lesser copies did to the other gladiators. The metal plate that covered the back of his head combined with the one that covered the lower half of his face. Above the metal rim, his nostrils flared and hardened eyes narrowed as the sounds of the crowd washed over him.

 

The crowd grew still, the cheers died to a murmur, when a spout of blood erupted from the left shoulder of the one whose name they had been chanting. The gaunt figure made no reaction for a handful of seconds. With aching slowness, he angled his gaze down to his shoulder, to the short sword embedded there, its circuits shorting out from the brief spray of blood. The other gladiators ran at him, weapons raised. The one who had thrown the small sword, an immense, naked giant with pale skin pulled tight by dozens of hooks of varying size, collapsed to his knees as chains whipped around his neck, the scythe at the end embedding deep. With one arm was raised, the extended chain taut, the raised warrior, clearly the sole target of the other gladiators, jerked the arm back and down. The blood released as the gladiator’s head was violently separated from his body stirred the crowd once more. As the other gladiators closed in, Bustuarius stepped forward. The pounding in his ears drowned everything else out as the Nails took over, and the arena became awash in blood, the whirling chains and the flapping of grey rags, like the beating wings of an angel.

 

The short sword wasn’t removed until a pair of menials later approached him, down in the cavernous billets below the red sands.

[Nomus Sardauk]

That's either Mortarion or Ferrus Manus of Chogoris, but I'm unsure which.

I'm guessing Mortarion given it said he was armed with a scythe.

[Ace Debonair]

It should never have come to this.

 

Sangrius Khan had muttered the phrase to himself a dozen times or more on the journey back to Terra. Part of him still found it impossible to credit that there had been such a division between the Primarchs. A war, fought over their Father's throne, a war bred from jealousy and bitterness.

 

The sound of an artillery shell landing nearby snapped Sangrius out of his daze. In the distance, he could see Ferrus's Steel Legion and Horus's Bloodhounds battering away at the walls, the former using precisely ordered artillery barrages, the latter keeping the defenders' heads down with volleys of fire. Hordes of the Sons of Angron marched ever closer, chanting their Warmaster's name aloud as they too sought to storm the walls.

 

Sangrius and his Blood Hawks had secured the Lion's Gate Spaceport, but now time was of the essence. If he could strike down Warmaster Angron, or maybe Horus...

 

"My brother! I knew you would come to me at last!"

 

Sangruis spun, raising both pistols. Konrad, Lord Prophet of Colchis, leader of the Doomsayers, approached him, his arms spread wide, laughing as though enjoying a private joke. More than anything else, Sangrius loathed Konrad. The Khan worked hard to protect those too weak to protect themselves, but Konrad had spent the entire Crusade making sport of the very people the Emperor sought to help. Sangrius wanted nothing more than to wipe the grin from Konrad's face. He leapt into the air, blasting away at his traitorous brother.

 

"You always were too weak to see yourself for what you are!" Konrad bellowed, charging forward with startling speed. Ignoring Sangrius, Konrad ripped open two of Sangrius' bodyguard with his lightning claws. The Khan swooped down, dropping one of his pistols in favour of his sword, and locked blades with the Mad Prophet.

 

"There aren't any heroes, brother." Konrad snarled. "Just fools and dreamers."

 

Another Blood Hawk leapt at Konrad, his chainsword stabbing at the Primarch. Konrad pushed Sangrius away and whirled past the striking marine, pushing him towards the Khan. Sangrius moved his sword aside so as to avoid stabbing his own soldier, and Konrad rushed forward. Smashing the other marine aside, the Mad Prophet rent Sangrius' wings with his claws, shearing them apart.

 

Sangrius lashed out, screaming in pain, and caught Konrad a mighty blow to the side of the head with the handle of his sword. His wings were ruined - he could see chunks of them scattered on the floor around him. Pain shot through his body, and something primal and dark seemed to call to him. A well of hatred, rage and revulsion towards his twisted brother rushed through Sangrius, and the Khan of the Blood Hawks gave voice to his rage. Leaping forward at the staggering Konrad, Sangrius brought his sword down with punishing force, slicing his brother's arm just below the elbow and severing it. He brought the sword up and around, slashing Konrad with it again and again. And all the while the Mad Prophet laughed, and refused to fall, fighting on with one arm, parrying and striking, scoring almost as many wounds as he suffered.

 

Eventually, both Primarchs fell against each other, torn apart and bleeding profusely from a hundred places. Konrad gasped for breath, but managed to speak.

 

"I knew... I always knew... you would see the truth." Konrad struggled to stand up, but his leg wouldn't support his weight. "You're every bit the monster I am."  He gave another sinister chuckle, wincing at the pain it caused. Around the two Primarchs, Blood Hawks and Doomsayers fought tooth and nail, each striving to destroy the other. Sangrius shook his head wearily.

 

"I'm nothing like you, Konrad. You're... a rabid animal, and... I'm the one who will put you down." Sangrius pushed himself upright with a titanic final effort, and drove his sword into Konrad's midsection. The Mad Prophet laughed, even as the blood gurgled up and out of his mouth. Sangrius fell to his knees. The loss of blood was finally too much for him to bear. Too many wounds, too much pain... The Khan fell forward, slumped on the floor, never to rise again.

 

"I'm so proud of you... brother. But I was... right." Konrad laughed. Around him, Blood Hakws were screaming and holding their heads. Some of them simply collapsed or dropped dead, but others went into a terrifying frenzy, attacking everyone around them and screaming oaths of vengeance against Konrad. The Prophet fell forward, onto his hands and knees, whispering his last words into the ear of his dead brother.

 

"I was... right about you, brother. Monster and the father of monsters... My death... is nothing to my vindication..."

 

And around the dead Primarchs, the war for the fate of Terra and the Imperium raged on.

[Captain Nameless]

Atrapos of Nostamo, XVIII legion, the Vengeful Spirits

 

"Raise and raze, very different though they sound the same. And yet, both apply. For with the same movement he did both to his home."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Mr. Zarel Tyre had just returned home after a long day of profitable business. This whole end of the city belonged to him; from the hit men to the gambling to the overpriced housing, it all came back to Tyre.

He went to check on "Mr. Tyre Jr.".

There was a new guy giving him some trouble; the hill folk under Tyre's pay had named him after some myth or predator they knew of, he wasn't sure which. But even this "Atrapos", with all the trouble he caused to Tyre's men and business, provided a benefit. Thanks to his recent string of attacks and kidnappings, there was an abundance of people willing to pay for "protection".

As Mr. Tyre stepped into his son's bedroom, he heard a thud and then a hiss. A lamp rolled into view. Then, he turned and saw it. Tall and imposing and amorphous, cloaked, not in shadows, but in the black of the pit. he noticed that it was holding a newborn, his son. This man shaped abyss slowly turned its head towards Mr. Tyre. Red eyes burned into him, as they stared at each other in silence. Then Atrapos left, leaving Mr. Tyre still standing, staring.

 

Some years later....

Zarel Tyre was on his deathbed. Family, associates, and doctor all crowded around him, waiting for him to die so that they can fight each other for his criminal empire, and probably destroy it in the process. He thought back to that first encounter. In the years since then, Atrapos had made its presence felt all throughout Nostramo, with kidnappings and attacks on the crime lords happening so fast on the last one's heels that they were almost simultaneous.

Tyre realized that someone else, unnoticed until now, had come to pay his last respects. Everyone turned towards Atrapos. No one moved as he walked towards Tyre and loomed over him. Tyre coughed, as he looked up into those glowing red eyes, the same as back then. Though he seemed shorter now, Tyre thought. Atrapos shut his eyes and Tyre saw what was beneath his hood. "Oh.....It's good to see you again", said Tyre. He died with a small, calm smile on his face.

 

"Goodbye Father."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

  "Hmm, the population seems much smaller than what the cities were designed to support."

"Perhaps they recently experienced some kind of pandemic?"

"Maybe there was a war? We tend to do that."

"Failed to notice the lack of destroyed buildings in the city and lack of entrenchments in the hills, did you."

"Why don't we just ask them"

  "Quiet, father is talking to our new brother"

"Atrapos, be at peace, for I have come to take you home"

The massive cloaked figure looked up, smiling, and said

"That is not my name, father. I am Vulkan, and I know full well what you intend for me.

 

 

 

 

 

There is more coming, but it's late and I tend to work slowly.

[no I'm alpharius]

He was cursed. He knew that.

 

For all the praise, for all the adulation, for all the power and the glory, he was a flawed man. It was those flaws that spurred him on. 

The legends of his discovery were now engraved into Baalite culture. Of the young child who walked in off the radiation soaked plains, armoured in the plate of a fire scorpion, armed with its stinger, fashioned into a crude claw. The tribe who found him called themselves The People of the Pure Blood. 

 

"Pure blood". The irony. 

 

He was a mutant. His wings stretched like a bats, leathery flaps between spindly limbs. He was certainly no angel. But he could always escape into the sky, soaring among the thermals and the acid clouds. As he grew, he learnt to master his power. He used it to better his people. Baal Secundus was populated by the Ragged, half men, half beast. The raids were first curbed, then repelled and then The Blood retook their planet. He lead from the front, fighting with claw and blade. He lead with a viciousness that none in his tribe could match. 

 

He was cursed. He knew that.  

 

Glimpses of the future, echoes of things that could have been and might have been and will yet be. He learnt to control and master it, much like his wings. It had always been like that, since that first night when the fire scorpions filled him with their poison, left him facing the nightmares of a poisoned sleep. Left him seeing his brothers - his real brothers, Horus master of the Shadows, Fulgrim the cripple, Vulkan, Lord of Prospero and Knight Hospitaller, all nineteen of them - tear each other to shreds in a war lasting millennia and wasting countless lives. He had resolved to serve his people in whatever way was needed. 

 

When that last battle was joined with the King of the Ragged, he was judge, jury, executioner. In one final, swift, blow, Baal Secundus was at peace. 

 

He was cursed. He knew that. 

 

He was not human. He was created for a higher calling. Not born, created. He had heard the whispers. And he had refused them. 

 

But the curses meant nothing to his family. The Blood raised him with love and care and devotion. He was their angel, he kept the night at bay, he haunted the hunters that came for them. The darker edges of his psyche were still there, when the sheer volume of blood spent in battle seemed to briefly overwhelm him. But he was pure. Maybe not the easiest company, but he was pure, untainted, untempted. The wings, the divination, the sheer inhuman nature of his being kept him pure, kept him humble.  

 

So when the calling came, he recognised the God for what he was. He saw the flashes of the future yet to come, but kept his counsel. The God told him of his higher calling, and Konrad of the Blood accepted. The God told him of his duty, and he accepted. The God told him of his fate, and he accepted. 

 

And now, as he faced The Lion of the Plains, the arch-traitor, the man who tore the Imperium into three, he was reminded of his fate. 

 

He was cursed. He knew that. 

 

But as he lept forwards, lightning cracking around the claws on both hands, it was a curse he was happy to bear. 

 

 

 

 

----------

 

There's actually quite a few similarities between Sanguinus and Konrad,. Anyway, Good Guy Kurze. It's based-in part - on something done earlier in the thread. 

[GhostMalone]

Wow theres a necromancer up in here I thought this thread was buried to the annals of time

[Excessus]

Indeed, an impressive necro! :)

[Nomus Sardauk]

Wow, now here's a thread I never thought I'd see necro'd. An interesting story & twist you have here alpharius, a Baalian Konrad with Bat wings, very entertaining.

EDIT: I thought seeing as how this thread has risen again I might as well post my two "What If" stories from the Fanfiction section for everyone's' perusal, if anyone's interested I have here's a link to the aforementioned thread.

XX-X

Ygró shivered despite himself, cursing inwardly at the cold, suffocating sensation's terrible timing as it faded away. Though he tried to hide it Solon had already noticed his brother's apparent discomfort. "Brother, are you well?" The Primarch of the XIII asked as he sat up from studying the strategic holo-map before them, a note of concern creeping into his tone.

"I'm fine Solon, it's nothing." He waved him off, but Solon seemed unconvinced. "Are you sure? You look rather pale." Ygró gave a humourless laugh, trying to deflect the issue. "Well you don't get much in the way of sunlight when your homeworld's skies are forever choked with soot, ash and stormclouds. You forget Olympian, not all of us had the good fortune to grow up in a palace on a sun-soaked mountaintop."

Solon frowned, the rebuttal morphing his concern to weary resignation as he realised Ygró would not budge on the issue. "Very well then, shall we continue?" He asked with a sigh, turning the conversation back to the task at hand. Ygró nodded, quietly thankful Solon had finally taken the hint.

The rest of the meeting had proceeded smoothly and Ygró was glad to finally escape Solon's endless babbling as he returned to his personal sanctum aboard his flagship, the Argent Arsenal. The chamber inside was surprisingly spartan in it's decoration for what one might expect of a Primarch, no trophies or campaign banners hung on the walls, no master-forged weapons sat upon racks awaiting battle, even the furniture was plain and functional. The only hint that anyone actually lived in this sparse place was a crude animal hide cloak that lay draped across the bed in place of a proper blanket. Ygró allowed his eyes to linger on the cloak for a moment, but quickly tore them away, memories too painful to remember stirring in the deep waters of his mind.

Shaking his head to clear his mind Ygró quickly reassumed his stride, crossing the room and marching into the next chamber. Unlike the first, this chamber was anything but sparse, nearly every wall was covered with viewscreens, cogitators & and other less identifiable machines.
The room was dark but not pitch black, the glow of the numerous screens casting the place in a pale blue twilight. A constant low humming filled the room as Ygró slowly approached the large glass cylinder that sat in the room's centre, tapping a few buttons upon the small control plinth adjacent he disengaged the stasis field, the glass casing swiftly sinking into the cold metal floor in response.

"Hello brother." There, stood before him was his reflection, perfectly captured in solid silver. The figure was a flawless recreation of Ygró, frozen in a confused, almost pleading expression, a cloak identical to the one on his bed clasped around it's shoulders. Despite the agony that expression ignited inside him, Ygró still managed to force a gentle, if sad, smile. "I'm sorry for leaving you alone for so long, but you know Solon, always trying to bore me to death with his precious logistics." He said quietly, before pulling a holoslate from his belt. Activating the device caused it to light up with a projected image of a planet, the very same world the Argent Arsenal herself currently orbitted, alongside elements of the 52nd and 125th Expeditionary Fleets.

The world, Fifty-Two-Nineteen, was home to one of humanity's long lost colonies, but when the Imperium had arrived to bring the planet back into the fold it's people had violently refused. The Imperial diplomatic party had been executed and their ship attacked, barely managing to escape to report back. In response the two nearby fleets had converged upon Fifty-Two-Nineteen to enact the Emperor's Justice on those who would repay his extended hand of friendship with murder.
None of this was of any concern to Ygró however, all that mattered to him was the testimony given by the crew of the Diplomatic Party's ship about the enemy's technology, of strange weapons that transmogrified solid matter into liquid or gaseous form wielded by machine warrior-constructs.

Already Ygró's mind was racing with ideas and theories, and more importantly, hope. Turning his gaze back to his silver doppelganger he reached out and laid a reassuring hand upon it's shoulder, a true smile creeping onto his features despite the familiar cold sensation.
"Fear not Sympagí̱s, we'll be together again soon, I promise."


---


Howdy-hoo folks, hope you enjoyed that, this hear is a little short story thingamabob I've been working on on-and-off over the past month or so that was inspired by the Dornian Heresy, the Corax Coup and the Alt Heresy Application Thread that preceeded it. For those of you still scratching your heads wondering what the hell you just read this is a short story featuring two, or rather three, alternate Primarchs whose concepts I came up with after a little messing around with a D20 dice roll generator, mixing and matching Primarchs and their homeworlds as the Corax Coup did.

Admittedly, I have manually swapped one or two around for what I thought to be more interesting matches but I was paticually taken with this one, 20-10, the twin Primarchs Alpharius Omegon landing on the harsh deathworld of Medusa. I thought long and hard about this one and I will admit to being very inspired by Ace Debonair's Medusan Fulgrim in the CC thread, but eventually I came up with Ygró Sympagí̱s, Primarch(s) of the XX Legion, who defeated the metal wyrm Asirnoth that terrorised Medusa, but paid a terrible price for it.

That price, as it turned out, was Sympagí̱s's life, as in it's death throes the great wyrm lashed out to drag one of the brothers down with it into the molten lava. Ygró would have died that day had his brother not seen the danger and pushed him out of harm's way, but in doing so Sympagí̱s was dragged down with the dying monster. When he re-emerged moments later Sympagí̱s was forever changed, from head-to-toe his skin was shining silver, and after his first few steps the strange metal cooled, hardened itself and leaving the young primarch an inanimate statue. Since that fateful day Ygró has blamed himself for his sibling's demise, desperately searching for a way to restore Sympagí̱s, whom he has kept hidden from the Emperor and the other Primarchs, deathly afraid of what might occur should they learn of his failure.

Also featured in this story is Solon Nikomedes (Solon=Wisdom, Nikomedes=To think of victory), my alternate Rouboute Guilliman who was raised on Olympia instead of Macragge. I like to think he's more pragmatic and less honour-focused than canon Rouboute thanks to Damnekos's influence, but he's not all withdrawn, bitter and cruel like Perturabo is. Possibly uniting Olympia partially through diplomacy rather than Perturabo's absolute conquest while quietly minimalising Damnekos's power & influence, effectively keeping him under house-arrest in his pleasure-palace until his death without Damnekos even realising he's been usurped.

As for their Legions I hadn't really decided on names for them yet, though I know I had "Iron Snakes" pegged as a candidate for the XX in reference to the canon chapter of the same name and because I wanted their symbol to be a pair of silver snakes coiled around each other to subtly reference the twins thing. Solon's Legion I haven't considered much yet, but I was thinking maybe the Steel Legion, keeping in with the metal theme but also referencing the Roman-esque nature of canon Rouboute.

So, with all that said and done, your thoughts brothers and sisters?

P.S. I kind of wanted to add a Metal Gear Solid theme to the twins, so their names are greek for Liquid=Ygró & Solid=Sympagí̱s (plus the reference to Arsenal Gear with the ship name), or at least I think so, unfortunately it turns out it's really damn hard to find what the greek words for liquid and solid are, so if any greek frater notice I any mistakes and can correct me please inform me and I'll amend it, thanks!

XVIII-VI

The scruffy youth raced through the crowd with his mother, heart pounding in his chest as she led him by the hand to avoid being separated in the rush of village folk. The rapid clanging of the Alarm Bell echoed over the panicked cries of the people as the women, children, elderly and sick were rushed as fast as they could move to the longhall at the heart of the village. Carved into the solid rock of the mountainside the village nestled against, it was their last refuge from what was coming.

All around them the men were arming themselves, every male old enough to properly hold a weapon was donning their ringmail vests, iron helmets and wooden shields. Swords, axes, spears, daggers and bows were made ready as the boy saw his father, Hjoldir Long-Arm, wade through the crowd toward them. The boy's mother cried out to Hjoldir as she spotted him, embracing her husband with one arm as they met.

"Elainin! Thank the Gods, I feared you were both still out picking picking herbs!" Hjoldir exclaimed in relief. "Fear not love, we were within sight of the village when we heard the bell, are we under attack?" Hjoldir glanced at his son before turning back to Elainin, fear creeping into his expression. "Elainin, listen to me carefully, you have to get to the longhall right now, barricade the doors once everyone is inside and don't open them for anything, do you understand?"


Elainin stared at him in confusion, she'd never seen him this scared before. "...Hjoldir, what is it? What's wrong?" For a long moment he seemed unable to look her in the eyes, before finally meeting her gaze. "The scouts reported back, the banners... It's them Elainin, they've come for us." He whispered. "The Kaargul." She replied, voice wavering as realisation washed over her, her mind drifting back to tales of bloodstained banners bearing serpent icons carried by men-turned-monsters as they annihilated whole tribes as sacrifices for the evil spirits they venerated.

It meant this was goodbye.

Hot, bitter tears of anguish washed down Elainin's face as she clung to Hjoldir, burying her face in his shoulder in a futile attempt to hide her pain as he wrapped his ringmail-clad arms around her, gently stroking her head and whispering soothing words in her ear as she squeezed him tighter.

Slowly he pulled away, cupping her chin with one hand as they locked eyes. "Hush love, no tears now." He said softly, his own eyes overflowing with sorrow.

"Remember the promise I made to you all those years ago? When I first went off to battle after we married and you were afraid I wouldn't come back? No matter what happens..." "...You'll always find your way back to me." She finished, wiping her tears away. "Aye, that's right. And nothing will stop me, not the Kaargul, not the Gods themselves, I'll find you." She gave a sad smile at that. "You better, or else." She replied, trying her best to sound threatening, before pulling him into a last kiss.

When then finally, regretfully pulled away from each other Hjoldir's gaze full upon his son, the young lad looked up at him, defiantly holding back his tears as Hjoldir knelt down and pulled a shortsword from his belt and handed it to him. "You take care of your mother little cub, you're the man of the house now, you understand?" The boy nodded solemnly, taking the preoffered weapon as his emotions warred within him. "I-I can help, I can fight beside yo-" He said, but was silenced as Hjoldir placed both hands on his shoulders. "No. Your place is here, with the others, you younglings will be needed to rebuild the tribe." "But I-" He tried to protest, only to be hushed by his father as he stood, the sound of clashing steel could be heard in the distance now. "I'm proud of you Bjorn, now take your mother and go, go and live!"

Before Bjorn could reply Hjoldir donned his warhelm and ran off, sword in hand as Elainin held Bjorn close in a vice-like grip, dragging him kicking and screaming towards the longhall as they watched Hjoldir disappear into the crowd to join the defence. As the two passed through the great oak-and-iron doors into the longhall the last of Bjorn's strength gave out and he broke down, furiously sobbing while his mother held him close, the gate slamming shut behind them.

-----

An eternity. That's what it felt like to Bjorn as he and his mother huddled with the others in the darkness, the flickering torches on the stone walls casting a feeble glow as they waited for news of the battle's result, for good or ill. Idlely he toyed with his shortsword, examining the engraving of a two-headed wolf, the God Morkai he recognised, upon the side. The God of the Dead... Bjorn thought to himself bitterly as he cast his eyes towards the barred doors. Perhaps I'll be seeing him soon. His eyes widened suddenly as he noticed a shadow on the other side of the door through the miniscule gap beneath them, someone was there. Or perhaps we all will.

Jumping to his feet, Bjorn quietly made his way over to the gate, ignored his mother as she called for him to come back. Dropping onto all fours, he peered underneath the ancient gate, straining to hear as the sound of voices reached his ears, loud enough to know he wasn't imagining things but too faint to understand. He was still struggling to hear when he felt his mother seize him by the arm, pulling him away from the door and back towards the others. "Ma, let me go! There's someone out there!" He hissed, trying to slip free of her grasp. "Aye, and they'll find us if you keep tempting the wyrds poking around that d-"

-WHAM-

Elainin's words died in her throat as something heavy slammed against the doors, shaking loose a shower of dust and cobwebs with it's force. A collective gasp of fear escaped the other villagers as they swiftly backed away from the direction of the noise, meanwhile Bjorn and his mother remained frozen in place, Elainin by fear, Bjorn by curiousity.

-WHAM-

The pair watched in awe as the great wooden bar holding the door shut bent, cracks forming in the centre as it did so. "Oh ancestors no." Elainin whispered "They know we're in here."

-WHAM-

The bar bent again, causing the cracks to spread as the doors were forced ajar even further by the impact. Gritting his teeth Bjorn shook free of Elainin's grip and drew his blade, holding it two-handed as he stood before the door and the others. "Everyone get back." He said with a conviction that surprised even him. If I'm to die today, then I'll die fighting to protect my people.

-WHAM-

With a immense crack the bar split completely, as the doors swung open Bjorn took a deep breath, screamed the fiercest battlecry he could muster and charged.

"My son!" Bjorn had no time to process what he was seeing as Hjoldir snatched him up in arguably the most painfully tight hug he'd ever experienced, his father was alive! All around them, the other surviving village warriors rushed forward to find their loved ones as the tribesmen and woman within the longhall, realising they were safe, did the same. Hjoldir released Bjorn, only to be pounced upon by Elainin, who did the same to him "Y-you're alive! By the Gods, you're alive!! B-but how?! How did you win?!" She asked, tears of joy streamed down her face as she stumbled over the words in excitement. Hjoldir's expression became concerned, then pointed over in the direction he'd just came. "It was him, He saved us."

Bjorn and Elainin followed his direction, then froze in shock at what they saw. There behind the crowd of villagers, silhouetted against the setting sun and surrounded by the butchered corpses of dozens of Kaargul tribesmen, was Death Incarnate.

The titanic figure stood facing the sun, gazing at them over it's shoulder in strange silence. It easily stood over twice the height of a grown man and was clad in crude-looking leather armour augmented with iron plating, on his shoulders sat a fur cloak made from the pelt of a monsterous Ice Troll and in his right hand was a battleaxe so huge Bjorn reckoned it could cleave a boulder in half with ease. While all these things were certainly impressive, it was the stranger's features, not his dress, that truely terrified them. Blood-red eyes like glowing coals were set unto a face whose complexion was of the darkest jet, as if he were formed of shadow itself, while an unruly mane and beard of equally dark hair framed an otherwise noble, even handsome face.

"He appeared just after the Kaargul began their attack, came barreling out of the forest like an avalanche and slaughtered his way through their rear lines." Hjoldir explained, eyeing the ebon giant warily. "By the end they were fleeing for their lives, and Kaargul never retreat." Elainin gave him a worried look. "But, what is it...?" She asked quietly as the giant turned and began to lumber back into the forest from whence it came.

Bjorn watched in awe as the figure took one last glance at them before disappearing into the treeline. In that fleeting moment, he swear the giant looked right at him, those glowing crimson spheres boring into him.

"Morkai."

-----

"Bjorn!"

Jarl Bjorn Redaxe of the XVIII Legiones Astartes snapped out of his slumber, rousing to his senses back to full awareness as he looked at whoever had addressed him. There in the doorway to Bjorn's personal quarters stood a fellow Marine of the XVIII, his armour coal-black save for the heraldric fields on it's shoulder pads, the right bearing the red-and-iron markings of Bjorn's 3rd Great Company while the left was snow white upon with the head of a jet black hound with red eyes emblazoned upon it. Recognised the marine as his pack-brother Gunnar Blacktooth, Bjorn swiftly rose to his feet.

"Hmm? Oh, it's you Gunnar. Well, what's so important you had to interrupt my meditation? News from the front?" He asked as he retrieved his Frost Axe Gravenfang from it's wall rack, frowning when Gunnar shook his head. "No my Jarl, quite the opposite, the Primarch has arrived early!"
If Bjorn wasn't fully awake yet, he was now. "What?! The main body of the fleet wasn't supposed to arrive for another six days!" He roared, eyes widening in disbelief. "It seems the tides of the Empyrean have been generous milord." Gunnar replied as Bjorn stormed past him into the hallway, quickly falling in behind his Jarl as the pair made their way to the bridge of the Battle Barge Tindalos.

"So where is the Primarch now?" Bjorn demanded as they walked. "The 32nd Expeditionary Fleet only arrived a few minutes ago sire, they're currently still waiting on the last of the Fleet to re-enter realspace before the Primarch takes passage across from the Hringhorni to meet with us, so we've got some time yet to prepare." Gunnar answered calmly, the doors before them parting as they strode onto the bridge. "Captain on deck!" He announced as they passed through, the crew quickly pausing in their work to salute Bjorn. "At ease." He growled as the two of them reached the centre of the bridge where a vast Hololith displayed the Tindalos's position over the embattled world of Thirty Two-Six-Fifteen as well as the newly-arrived vessels further out, the menacing shape of the immense Gloriana-class Battleship Hringhorni dominating the growing fleet as the smaller ships crowded around her.

Bjorn stared at the Hololith for a moment, as if deep in thought, before turning back to Gunnar. "Assemble the Company, let's give our Father a fitting welcome."

-----


It was said that Space Marines knew no fear, especially those of the XVIII, but if Bjorn was truely honest with himself as he watched the ebon Thunderhawk touch down before him and his awaiting Company, he had to admit he more than a little afraid of his Gene-Father.
Ever since that first time he had laid eyes upon the Morkaison, surrounded by slaughtered Kaargul, he had viewed him with fear, fear for the terrible violence he was capable of, fear of very how easy it would have been for the dark giant to turn that gore-stained axe upon Bjorn's tribe.

And yet, as the assault ramp struck the deck and the omnious forms of the Draugar, the Primarch's Terminator bodyguard, marched forth to take position either side of the gunship, he knew he also looked upon his gene-sire with hope. Hope, because he employed his skill at the murder-make against Mankind's foes rather than upon them, hope, because he had resisted the red haze and spared Bjorn's tribe.
He had given them a chance to survive, to rebuild and, as fate would have it, to repay their debt to him years later when the Allfather descended upon Fenris to reunite with his lost son. When he did, he brought with him his Angels of Death, the XVIII Legiones Astartes, who quickly took Fenris as their new homeworld, allowing Bjorn and many other youths to repay the Morkaison by becoming the first of a new generation of Legionnaires where they would crusade across the stars to unite the scattered remnants of mankind under the Imperium's banner.

"Third Company, present arms!" Bjorn roared, smiling to himself as the assembled marines of the Third Great Company stood to attention, saluting neatly as the familiar sound of heavy, lumbering footfalls echoed from within the Thunderhawk.
With the same awe he'd felt so many years ago, Bjorn watched in stunned silence as Vermundr Morkaison, Primarch of the XVIII, stepped out into the hangar bay, his glowing eyes immediately locking onto Bjorn. Slowly, he stepped down off the assault ramp and came closer until he stood in front of Bjorn, towered over him as if the Jarl were still the child he was when they had first met. Clad in charcoal-coloured power armour beautifully engraved with Fenrisian rune-script, Vermundr sported a magnificent white Thunderwolf skin cloak whose forelimbs wrapped around his armoured collar whilst the beast's head was draped over the Primarch's right pauldron, and in hand he carried an breathtaking battleaxe whose dual-bladed heads bore the engraved image of his namesake. Compared to their first meeting, Vermundr's visage had changed greatly, his hair was pulled back into a noble raven mane and his beard was braided neatly, but beneath it all he remained as intimidating as ever.

"Hail Father, I welcome you aboard." Bjorn said, saluting as he held Vermundr's crimson gaze. For a long moment Vermundr gave no reply, then slowly, a broad smile crossed the giant's features

"Hail little Bjorn, my how you've grown."


----------

Whew! Okay, I've been working on this one (read: struggling with writer's block) for quite a while, but I'm proud to finally introduce you all to the second in my little Alternate Primarch "what if" stories, this time featuring my Fenrisian Vulkan; Vermundr Morkaison! The more astute among you may have noticed I carefully refrained from mentioning the XVIII Legion's name in this story, for those of you who're wondering why that is, well, I basically couldn't decide on a name, but I have narrowed it down to a few ideas including; Grim Hounds, Black Fangs & Sons of Morkai.

My idea with this story is that unlike Leman in the canon, Vermundr is never adopted by human parents on Fenris due to his frightful appearance, but he is drawn to people because he longs for companionship. I decided Vulkan would keep his trademark red eyes and jet black complexion, partly because I can't really imagine him without them and mainly because I though it would be interesting to see how the superstitious Fenrisians react to a huge red-eyed, jet-black demigod running around. Eventually I came up with the idea that they see Vermundr as the physical avatar of Morkai, the two-headed wolf god of death that guards the gate to the underworld, this line of thought was inspired by the infamous folktales in Britain of the ghostly Black Dogs, sometimes called Hellhounds, that are said to be bad omens and portents of death. So while the tribes love him for protecting them from monsters and chaos-worshipping raiders like the Kaargul they're also still afraid of him, so he remains on the fringes of society, living apart from the tribes he protects while being distantly venerated and left offerings of food and Mjod in thanks for his work. I think perhaps the only people Vermundr really interacts with back in those days would be native Priests of Morkai or Rune Priests, who teach him how to speak and such.

Once Vermundr is reunited with the Emperor the XVIII Legion begins recruiting from the tribes he used to protect, creating a new legion identity somewhat similar culturally to the canon Space Wolves, but is far more dour and level-headed in personality, with a bit of the Dwarven Legion of the Dead from the Dragon Age franchise thrown in. Each Legionnaire believes he is already dead, his previous life is over and he has been chosen by Morkai and the Allfather to become one of his Angels of Death, hence they fight without fear of injury or death as they have been remade into death incarnate.
However I've also considered that maybe this attitude comes back to metaphorically bite them later on, as Vermundr, after years of loneliness of Fenris grows overly attached to his new sons, so when they all start dying in battle over the course of the Great Crusade, this hits Vermundr in a big way and despair sets in, opening the door to potential treachery down the road...

Anyway, that's my ideas behind Vermundr, I can't wait to hear what you guys think of him.

[no I'm alpharius]

I'd read a description of KC as Batman, so tried to work out how to give him wings and then thought about what would happen next. Also, I liked the idea of him not being *angelic*, how would other people see the bat wings .... 

 

The model of such a character would be fun. 

[b1soul]

 

He was cursed. He knew that.

 

For all the praise, for all the adulation, for all the power and the glory, he was a flawed man. It was those flaws that spurred him on. 

The legends of his discovery were now engraved into Baalite culture. Of the young child who walked in off the radiation soaked plains, armoured in the plate of a fire scorpion, armed with its stinger, fashioned into a crude claw. The tribe who found him called themselves The People of the Pure Blood. 

 

"Pure blood". The irony. 

 

He was a mutant. His wings stretched like a bats, leathery flaps between spindly limbs. He was certainly no angel. But he could always escape into the sky, soaring among the thermals and the acid clouds. As he grew, he learnt to master his power. He used it to better his people. Baal Secundus was populated by the Ragged, half men, half beast. The raids were first curbed, then repelled and then The Blood retook their planet. He lead from the front, fighting with claw and blade. He lead with a viciousness 

 

He was cursed. He knew that.  

 

Glimpses of the future, echoes of things that could have been and might have been and will yet be. He learnt to control and master it, much like his wings. It had always been like that, since that first night when the fire scorpions filled him with their poison, left him facing the nightmares of a poisoned sleep. Left him seeing his brothers - his real brothers, Horus master of the Shadows, Fulgrim the cripple, Vulkan, Lord of Prospero and Knight Hospitaller, all nineteen of them - tear each other to shreds in a war lasting millennia and wasting countless lives. He had resolved to serve his people in whatever way was needed. 

 

When that last battle was joined with the King of the Ragged, he was judge, jury, executioner. In one final, swift, blow, Baal Secundus was at peace. 

 

He was cursed. He knew that. 

 

He was not human. He was created for a higher calling. Not born, created. He had heard the whispers. And he had refused them. 

 

But the curses meant nothing to his family. The Blood raised him with love and care and devotion. He was their angel, he kept the night at bay, he haunted the hunters that came for them. The darker edges of his psyche were still there, when the sheer volume of blood spent in battle seemed to briefly overwhelm him. But he was pure. Maybe not the easiest company, but he was pure, untainted, untempted. The wings, the divination, the sheer inhuman nature of his being kept him pure, kept him humble.  

 

So when the calling came, he recognised the God for what he was. He saw the flashes of the future yet to come, but kept his counsel. The God told him of his higher calling, and Konrad of the Blood accepted. The God told him of his duty, and he accepted. The God told him of his fate, and he accepted. 

 

And now, as he faced The Lion of the Plains, the arch-traitor, the man who tore the Imperium into three, he was reminded of his fate. 

 

He was cursed. He knew that. 

 

But as he lept forwards, lightning cracking around the claws on both hands, it was a curse he was happy to bear. 

 

 

 

 

----------

 

There's actually quite a few similarities between Sanguinus and Konrad,. Anyway, Good Guy Kurze. It's based-in part - on something done earlier in the thread.

 

 

Clever take...good man

[no I'm alpharius]

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

 

static ... static? that's odd. 

 

Thoughts. Feelings. Pain. 

 

Emotions. 

 

This was new. 

 

*********

 

the vague sound of drilling pierced the white noise. 

 

"He's on"

"What's the story?"
"We were able to save the left arm"

"I thought we agreed on total prosthesis. Lose the arm"

 

He could see five figures standing over him. More background chatter. He struggled to pick up words. Clicking?

 

"Can he understand what I'm saying?"

"Doesn't matter. "

 

He tried to think. Pain. More pain. 

 

Static. 

Darkness. 

 

***********

 

A bright light. Burning. The blurred vision as he pulled himself from the metal work and out into the cold air. Wind lashed his white hair into his eyes. He had pulled himself hand over bleeding hand out of a burning cave. The hill he stood on shook. Something was stirring. 

 

 

***********

 

The same routine. Darkness, static and now light. Figures and digits ran down the side of his vision. 

"The entire outer skin will be like this"

 

He could see an arm, but no hand at the end. Four clumsy levers, surrounding a circular barrell. He wanted to speak, say something. Frustration. Pain coursed his body. 

"It's adamantium, lined with ceramite"

" ... could crush every bone in your body"

"you're going to be a bad motherf ..."

 

Static again. Darkness. 

 

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

 

The wyrm had burst out of the mountain, roaring, breathing ethereal green fire. He did not know what it was, but dread overwhelmed him. He followed it down the valley, as it slithered and meandered. He saw it tear through the village, leaving nothing but fire and death. 

 

The wyrm was evil. 

 

It needed to die.

 

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

 

"Hey. Hey! Look. He's watching". 

 

He was becoming used to the cell. He could almost feel the warmth of the room but something was wrong. It was 

 

One of the bodies stumbled forwards, placing a circular ring of paper above him. A sense of warmth as her lips touched his vision. The briefest moment away from the cold. Then static. And darkness. 

 

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

 

He had stalked it. It had shed a scale, a silver shard, infinitely sharp and bladed. He had seen the wyrm destroy more of the people in the valley, and the armoured men that had come. Fire and death. 

 

He crawled into position, blade ready. The wyrm was coming. Beneath him, just a matter of timing. 

 

The silver creature slithered along the valley floor. 

 

He waited. 

 

And waited. 

 

And ... NOW

 

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

 

"We have the best of both worlds. The fastest mechinery Medusa has to offer, on-board computer assisted memory, and a life time of usage. It is my great pleasure to present to you, the first dreadnought". 

 

The bodies stepped back as he sought to control the limbs. Not his limbs, but he could stand on them. 

 

He raised one set of arms, two rudimentary fists. Green targetting logos flickered up onto the screen. He pushed with his mind and two small flames flickered into being from his palms. These could be worked with. He flexed his new arms. Strong. 

 

**********

 

His first blow killed the creature. 

 

Eventually. 

 

It struck between neck and head, not quite hard enough to kill straight away. The beast lurged forwards, as he tried to force the blade deeper and deeper. It rolled over. One of  his arms broke, splintered into pieces, dashed against the rocky valley. But still he held on. Fire swept across his body, burning off skin. He could feel his body trying to repair the damage but he was young. A second blast of the green fire removed an eye, boiling away the liquid inside. His long white hair burnt in seconds. 

 

But still he held on, still he forced the scale deeper into the creatures's neck. 

 

It reared up and bucked this way and that. A leg was removed at the hip as the creature, the silvery worm that he was going to kill, sensed it was at an end. The struggle had taken them to a cliff. One more push, liquid was oozing from the room. He had been hanging on for a lifetime. 

 

The creature hit the cliff and fell. 

 

He fell. 

 

Pain. 

 

Darkness. 

 

Darkness. 

 

Darkness.

 

Darkness. 

 

static ... static? that's odd. 

 

 

**********

 

"This design has legs, but we're working on a cross country modification based on the dead beast he was found with". 

 

He had two sets of arms. The bodies in front only had one. He moved them up and down. 

 

"Ah, yes, the weapons unit. Two enhanced rotor cannon on secondary upper limbs. We don't know if there are more beasts out there"

 

He stood. It was clumsy but he had power. This was to be his coffin, but it had strength, he could sense more than just the sounds and noises around him. A low buzz of ... something else ... flooded the room. 

 

"The dreadnought STC ... "

"NO"

 

Words. His first words. The voice, not his own, now his own, deep and loud and rattled the windows. 

 

"What's your name, son?"

 

"FULGRIM"

 

He was a monster. A half-human, half-machine monster. And it was perfect. 

[bluntblade]

Reminds me of another alt-Scattering, which gave us Corvus Morragul leading the Iron Ravens