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The Garden of Ghosts

Upon my journeys I came to the Garden of Ghosts, the Forgotten Monument of Holy Terra. Built in the earliest days of the Imperium, the garden has stood for ten thousand years exposed to the harsh winds and rains of the Throneworld’s highlands. Time is a cruel master and after ten millennia the faces have been all but worn away. Everyday uncountable numbers of adepts pass beneath the sightless gaze of thousands upon thousands of the long dead. Few now know what the monument symbolizes, its origins having been locked away in the depths of Imperial History. The truth is far more tragic. Once each statue had been carved in the likeness of the warriors that fell to defend Terra from the treachery of Warmaster Horus, but thousands of years of neglect and revision have robbed the monument of its purpose to all but those warriors of the Adeptus Astartes whose archives contain histories of the Horus Heresy. As long as I draw breath, let it never be said these warriors were forgotten. Their memory will be carried with me until my last day, In Memoriam.

-Chapter V, Warrior

Pilgrimages of the Adeptus Astartes

Part I

Day 55

oday was his nineteenth birthday, and fifty-five days ago Amon made a promise that he hadn’t kept. He told Vygo
 that today would be a day of celebration. He promised no matter where they were, they would commemorate this day together. A full year had passed since the friends had been initiated into the VII Legion. Together, Terra would be their first taste of true combat. Six years of grueling selection, geneforging, and training had passed since they had been classified as Legiones Astartes Compatible for Further Implantation. They had never been separated as so many of their peers had. Fifty-five days ago, they
had been overcome with pride, when they thought of all the trials they had
endured together and overcome.

Yet, today could not be celebrated. He held Vygo 
in his arms, his friend’s chest pierced by a broken sword. His own armor wept 
blood from a dozen gashes and punctures, the crimson bright against the battlefield’s dust. He wasn’t aware of his surroundings, or the
dark iron and bright gold bodies piled high in every direction. He didn’t
see the crumbling mountain walls around him, or the storm of fire and metal that raged in the sky. Amon was only aware of the ragged gasps coming from his friend’s
respirator. With a shaking hand he unbuckled the seals on Vygo’s collar,
hearing the hiss of escaping air as he removed his friend’s helmet. Knowing that these would be his last moments with his brother, he wanted Vygo to know he would not have to endure this last trial alone.

Vygo was pale as only a man who has
lost too much blood to live could be. His eyes swam in and out of focus, and his neck could not hold the weight of his head. His dark hair was matted with blood and dust and the blood vessels in his eyes had all burst from ordnance concussion. With every ragged cough more of his ruined lungs would follow. He gently
 reached below Vygo’s neck and delicately turned his face to look at him. Vygo
 gasped, suddently jerked into consciousness. He looked to Amon with the eyes of a man who had fought his last battle. Amon knew the look well 
enough now. He had seen it many times in the past fifty-five days of fighting. It was the look of a man refusing to come to grips with his mortality. Neither of them had believed the stories coming in from the front with every wave of refugees. Stories of Legionaries who had been unable to cope with the stress of having endured the whispered insanities the Warmaster had unleashed. Stories of conflict on an unimaginable scale seemed impossible to the inexperienced pair. That hundreds of thousands of legionaries could be dead dead, torn to pieces by their own kind, beggared belief. Experience was the cruelest of teachers, and it was in no shortage of lessons these past weeks.

Fifty-five days of endless combat.
Not the slow grind of a siege or the lightning fury of descending into a heart
of the enemy from orbit, but a parade of tortures without end. Even behind
the lines there were close quarters firefights with the creatures of nightmare and shadow. Trench raids by battle hardened, merciless Iron Warriors had torn through their lines at the Dhwalaghiri redoubt and it was they who had shoved the sword through Vygo’s chest. The Iron Skull of Olympia's mirthless visage etched into the blade protruding from his armor. The bastard sons of Perturabo were not the only foe they had faced these past weeks. There had been sudden executions from Alpha Legion infiltration 
teams that picked off their sergeants and commanders, leaving them leaderless moments before an assault. Legionaries would disappear in the darkness of night, only for his brothers to find
 the bodies hung in a bloody mockery of the Emperor’s own sigil, their skin
flayed from them by the vicious Night Lords. Yet, none of that was as mind numbingly relentless as fighting at
the front.

They had been selected to fill the ranks of Storm-Captain Rohr’s detachment of Grenadiers, normally a position for veterans, the circumstances had seem the Legion Masters desire to increase the strength of their assault formations. They had thought their role would be to spearhead the counterthrusts of the Legion. The Warmaster had changed all of this. The insanities 
heaped upon them were limitless, each more soul wrenching than the last. The blistering sonic attacks of the Emperor’s
Children that would burst a legionary in his armor or the massive tracked assault vehicles that would release herds
 of corrupted monsters in broken golden armor so that the 
VII Legion would know they killed their own kin. Numberless hordes of cultists 
were whipped before their guns so they would expend all ammunition before the wretches’ Word Bearer masters would descend into the loyalist lines, spreading warp
fire and calling forth creatures beyond comprehension. The World Eaters would descend upon the palace walls in a blood lust,
 climbing over one another to be the first into a breach. Their blood spattered warriors mercilessly dragging the Imperial Fists down 
and rending them apart. The Warmaster’s own would lay down a ceaseless rain of
ordnance on the Palace void shields, so that the firelight would make it feel 
as if the war raged within the heart of hell, and his warriors
 would reave their way through the VII Legion lines, taking gristly trophies and
 performing dark rites over the dead.

Of everything he had endured for
the past fifty-five days, this trial would be the first to overwhelm him. He had held at Karnali when all hoped seemed lost, and again at Gandaki. Here in the powedered marble and granite of the palace precints, he would finally break, giving in to his own limits. The
 stoicism genetically bred into him and forged in thetraining halls would finally crack. He
looked at his brother’s face, and tears
slowly began to trail from his eyes.

‘No,’ Vygo said with blood leaking
from the corners of his mouth. ‘We won. The palace held. Today we celebrate, just like you said.’ His eyes swam out of focus as a terrible cough took him. Amon held him tighter until he stopped convulsing.

‘Not like this, not after everything,’ he replied, his
 voice breaking.

‘Then remember,’ Vygo said, gently tapping two fingers to the side of his friend’s head.

Vygo’s eyes glazed and he began to shake violently. His friend’s breaths came more
 rapidly, and the bright, arterial red of mortality came up with every cough
that wracked his body. Amon gripped him tighter, as if he could some how 
expend the last of his strength to let Vygo cling to life. Finally, Vygo stilled and
 endured no more anguish. The tears ran hot down Amon’s face as he saw the light fade 
from his friend’s eyes. His discipline broken, he was still
 human enough to sob. His body shuddered, his jaw hung slack in a wordless
cry of agony at such a profound loss so soon after the indescribable hell they had 
just survived. For his closest brother to die in the final moments of victory, robbed him of all 
will to carry on.

 will see you soon,’ Amon whispered, delicately closing his friend’s eyes.

He could not celebrate this day again, though the import of his nineteenth birthday was beyond reckoning. In the 
millennia to come it would be known as the Day of the Emperor’s Ascension, and today the traitors fled. The sky was alight with the contrails
 of fleeing ships and burning debris. Loyalist fighters that had been impotently grounded for
 so long, reaped happy vengeance upon the traitors. Across the planet the t
raitors fought tooth and nail amongst one another for seats aboard gunships
 and assault claws. Their vast fleets of landers and bulk transporters crashed 
into one another in their effort flee from vengeance. The palace ordnance batteries that remained intact had 
opened up again now that the traitors had pulled away from loyalist lines. The
 massive rolling barrage incapable of missing such a densely packed target. For the traitor’s to flee as the palace fell had taken the impossible. They had all heard the news over the box, traitor and loyalist alike. It was as if a sudden halt came over the battle and both sides stared at one another for a fraction of a second before the Iron Warrior Vygo had been dueling stabbed him through his hearts and snapped the blade before turning into a sprint away towards the traitor lines. Seeing their comrade flee snapped the Iron Warrior’s from their disbelief and they turned and ran after Vygo’s murderer. The remaining Imperial Fists pursued their bitter foe, vengeance burning through their veins.

Yet today, amongst this victory, Amon had not pursued the enemy that had slain his best friend. He had numbly knelt next to Vygo and cradled him in his arms. Today’s significance had another deeper meaning beyond their initiation, one that had tied them since first meeting. It was such an insignificant thing to have
created such a strong union by giving the pair something to hold on to when times were hard and the darkness had crept in all around them. It is what drew them to one another in camaraderie under the merciless training masters, relying on one another for support and growing inseparable through shared
experience. It was one of those rare confluences of chance that see two strangers meet and befriend one another in mutual hardship. Enduring training together built their friendship into an unbreakable bond of brotherhood as close as true blood relation. Every year they would repeat the same tradition
in remembrance of their first meeting. At midnight, they would meet on the walls or parapets to tell stories of home in the same fashion as the first night on the cold battlements. On his thirteenth birthday, Amon was assigned duty in the bitter cold of the monastery’s outer walls. He had only been with the legion a few short months, and missed his family desperately. Vygo had been assigned his watch parter was friendly and conversational, constantly asking his counterpart why he was so dour. As the night wore on, Amon finally relented and told him of his birthday, and his homesickness. A slow smile crept to the corners of Vygo's mouth, and the other boy stared at him with in disbelief, finally sharing his secret. They continued talking for hours, Amon's thoughts of home disappearing completely. The secret that had bound them so closely was all Amon could think of.

Today was also Vygo’s nineteenth birthday.

VII Legion Organization

III Grenadier, CXVII Storm Battalion, VII Legion

Storm Battalions

The Storm Battalions are modularized combined arms forces designed to be used as shock troops for Imperial Fists assaults. Over time the Storm Battalions earned a fierce reputation amongst the legions for their daring, all out style of attack or their tenaciously stubborn defense. At the outset of the Siege the CXVII Storm Battalion possessed near company strength detachments of its own Grenadier, Support, and Airborne detachments as well as the five standard companies that made up Imperial Fists Battalion level units.
Hard fought attrition battles favored the Imperial Fists preferred manner of war making, with their assaults comprised of large numbers of Terminators and Heavy Infantry. These self-contained linebreakers were key to winning back ground lost to the forces of the Warmaster, though by the end of the Siege these units
had suffered 90% attrition rates.
III Grenadier was the CXVII spearhead, leading the way through no mans land behind their boarding shields, using specialist shotgun armed trench clearance teams and large numbers of flamer and meltagun support
to crack open the traitors weakpoints so that armored support could drive through and overrun their positions. These specially outfitted legionaries carried all manner of personalized wargear and weapons to help them in their mission, and it wasn’t uncommon to see field modified Mark III plate amongst the veterans. By the end of the siege III Grenadier was reduced to a single man, its honors and victories carved into the Hall of Honor in the Legion’s fortress monastery.

Legionary Profiles

Pict Capture DX/235-2B-112, Legionaries Amon and Vygo,

VII Legion, Siege of Terra-Day 05

Legionaries Amon

and Vygo

had been part of the same class initiated during the Primarch’s

accelerated recruitment program that saw thousands of untested neophytes complete their training four years earlier than the standard decade long cycle practiced by the Imperial Fists. While functionally as capable as a standard legionary, having received their Black Carapace, both lacked the four years of
practical combat experience normally required by Legion standards. Meaning, that for these two warriors, the Siege of Terra would be their first war. Amongst the recruits directly initiated for the battle of Terra, attrition was 97%. Legionary Amon was the only survivor of III Grenadier, every other warrior falling to the
traitors during the fifty-five days of fighting.

Both warriors are equipped in newly forged Mark III Iron Armor still bearing the original makers mark and coat of paint. The Phobos pattern rifle and pistol were favored by the Imperial Fists for their accuracy and stopping power against power armored opponents, though the weapons frequently required a level of
maintenance that some would consider inexpedient. During the Siege weapons jams and armor malfunctions were common as the defenders were rarely not engaged in combat long enough to perform field maintenance. By week two of the Siege large numbers of units were issued with combat gladius’ or chainblades so that ammunition would be conserved in the trench fighting [Not Pictured]. The Pict Capture above shows the two legionaries during the first Imperial counter-offensive at the Dhwalaghiri line, each with a pistol and heavily laden with excess grenades and ammunition for the lengthy combats the Storm Battalion would engage in.
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Part I



Day 42


One bastion remained intact in this inner district. It rose defiantly, gold and ivory marble facades catching light through the opened pockets of the smoke stained sky. Its lesser walls were spilled across the ground, broken as if an angel had taken a mighty hammer to them. But I knew that couldn’t be. There were no more angels.


I stood atop the bastion overlooking the support parapets and a ruined courtyard. Cracked jade tiles littered the tower roof underneath my feet. A burning brazier had toppled over, spilling still smoldering coals across the area. The wind carried ash across my armor, this new drift meeting the remnants smeared into my suit from the previous ash-storms we had all endured. This place had once been a verdant garden hab full of exotic off-world vegetation and life. Now it was a garden of blackened char as it had been since the opening days of the Siege. Above me flashes of orbital warfare raged on reminiscent of the stars that filled this once pale blue sky. Fires flickered in every direction accompanied by the sounds of a planet at war.


I was unsure when it had all begun. My suit’s chronograph had malfunctioned on the first night after shrapnel shredded the unit located in my power pack. I stopped marking my vambrace after the nineteenth day of our jump. It must’ve been close to the sixth week since the firestorms blazed down from the heavens, igniting everything they touched. It was as if hell itself had been turned over on us.



We rode hot on the exhaust of afterburners as our wing of Storm Eagles screamed through the midnight sky. The Grenadiers, supported by armor, were to have secured our drop zone for insertion. Our path took us above barely visible rooftops all but choked by thick black fumes.


“ETA 10 seconds,” called the pilot over the trembling roar of the gunship as it vertically descended.


My armored visor reaffirmed the time and dampened the sound to a bearable level. Armored boots reverberated across the decking as we locked our carabiners to the fast rope system. My squad and I were already out the side doors before they were finished lowering. I was thirty meters above ground, the weight of my armor launching me earthward when our gunship took fire to the tail. Debris rained down on me and flames licked the top of my armor, engulfing my head before quickly extinguishing. The line jerked from my hands and I scrambled to maintain my grip as it fled away from my fingers. Even for my enhanced senses, the short remainder of the fall was a blur. I landed hard, simultaneously tucking into a roll as my cracked shoulder plate sustained most of the free-fall impact.


Bolter already in my grip, I scanned the area as my brothers landed and did the same. I spared a glance above, watching the golden Storm Eagle violently tumble through the air. It convulsed before the nose pitched and plummeted the gunship into a colossal statue of a pre-Unification warlord. The wave from the blast washed over us even from a distance, and the entire mountainside was lit for a moment, the blinding white flash re-filtered by my helmet.


I became aware again of a pattering sound. It was blood trickling off my blade splattering on the ground. It marked the tiles crimson next to the armored body it had come from. He laid face down, a stylized steel skull etched across his shoulder. I may have once uttered a silent apologetic verse, but those days had long retreated from my mind. How alien now to think this war ever could’ve been avoided.


I tracked the dead gardens once more before reluctantly retreating back the way I had come. A trail of armored bodies lay tangled on the tower steps, many muscle-locked in strain. The grimace across their pale faces encased their final struggle. It was a gruesome monument of butchery. It was normal now, the heavy losses. Some wore the scarred iron of Olympia. More, the bloody and battered gold of my own Legion.


I was too late. I had failed my brothers. I knew each of them and their names, though many remained cryptic behind their mangled war-visage. Over a year ago we were refashioned as the Legion required. We had sworn an oath to protect our own, and I had failed it.


At the top of the steps laid my brother, Vercinus, his armored head beaten into a mess of ceramite and brain matter. His blood was minutes old. Vercinus’ token sabre was discarded, bolter slide-locked open and clutched tightly in his gauntlets. Whispers spoke of Lord Sigismund himself keeping watch over the emerging duelist. Now I stood watch over him, lifeless at my feet and covered in blood of both his own and his opponents.


Three more steps. There was Edelrix.


The Sergeant’s power fist writhed in a fading energy field, an echo of its master’s course. His other arm ended in a flayed stump at the elbow, though it was evident he was reaching out to choke one final foe. How many of the Olympian bastards had it taken to bring the old warrior to his knees? He was a true son of the Primarch, in every sense. His practical approach on the battle line would be missed over the coming weeks or however long remained until we were all gone.


I took four more steps before freezing in place. There, caught in between two of the foe, was a warrior speared through the back and throat bared. He wore the Pathfinder’s black. My mind drifted as I watched the scene from minutes before unfold. He had fallen behind our brothers and was taken by surprise, a sword erupting from his chestplate. With vengeance pulsing hot through his hearts he turned to confront the foe, instead being greeted with a dagger sliced across the throat. His frame buckled at the knees as he came crashing down.


I kneeled beside him, closed his eyes, and offered the warrior’s benediction. He was a true friend of mine, he was my former master. It wasn’t a hero’s ending. This war had made sure no one die a hero.


We had all prepared for this.


For this war.


For this ending.


But tears still filled my eyes as I reflected on my now dead brothers and what each had imparted in the time I shared with them. Their names, and my own, would be carved among the battle honors aboard the Phalanx soon, I was sure of it.




VII Legion Organization


I Airborne, CXVII Storm Battalion, VII Legion



Airborne Detachment



Originally designed to reinforce line companies at the Siege of Terra, the airborne division became the Legion’s primary vanguard element. Before the Heresy, the airborne operated conventionally alongside drop pod assaults. In preparation for the coming siege, Lord Dorn and Legion Masters revisited a method of vertical deployment that had long been annulled. During airborne operations veteran legionaries would perform high altitude jumps from Storm Eagle gunships, in addition to “fast rope” insertion inside more secure drop zones. Thunderhawks and the smaller Fire Raptor class would provide close air support.


Just prior to the Siege, the 368th Company was reallocated as an airborne division to the CXVII Storm Battalion in support of the Grenadier elements. The Company was re-commissioned as I Airborne. Many of these legionaries had already served the VII for considerable time, seeing sufficient action throughout the Great Crusade. In the time leading up to the Siege of Terra I Airborne was reequipped and tirelessly trained in the use of these new tactics. Initially, the airborne divisions served a dual purpose of light infantry and pathfinding, executing aerial envelopment maneuvers by surrounding enemy-held ground from the rear and flanks. By midpoint of the traitor ground attacks the Company was grounded into a more defensive stance, withstanding heavy shelling and being surrounded themselves, cut off from other loyalist forces. I Airborne suffered an attrition rate of 92%.










http://i421.photobucket.com/albums/pp299/spencertrimm/adelmarwipclose1.jpeg http://i421.photobucket.com/albums/pp299/spencertrimm/galdricwipclose1.jpeg




[Pict Capture DX/235-2B-51-55] - Legionaries Adelmar & Galdric


VII Legion, Siege of Terra - Day 12


Adelmar and Galdric represent the archetypal airborne legionaries of their time. Most drop specialists were outfitted in advanced Mk. IV power armor, for it allowed a wider range of flexibility and customization. These suits included renovated auto-sensors helping minimize off-course drops. Heavy ash drifts from massive burn sites plagued the airborne specialists throughout the entirety of the Siege. Many of the projected air routes were clogged and visibility extremely low. Mk. IV suits included improved tracking systems but many of the older marks required supplemental upgrade. During the Siege, Legionary Adelmar recorded his kills behind the muzzle flash of a Tigrus boltgun, a pattern initiated just before the outbreak of the Heresy. The Tigrus pattern was easily maintained though its stopping power slightly reduced compared to its forebears. Legionary Galdric can be seen armed with an Umbra pattern boltgun. At this time, the Umbra pattern was a more obsolete model but still highly serviceable throughout the VII Legion’s forces. These picts were captured approximately thirty-six Terran hours1a after the I Airborne’s initial night jump behind forward traitor lines at Dhawalagiri.


++Ref.1a – All further chronographic references will be stated in Terran standard time++




[Pict Capture DX/235-2B-42-45] - Sergeant Edelrix


VII Legion, Siege of Terra - Day 12


The aging Edelrix commanded I Airborne’s III Tactical squad. He had already served the Imperial Fists for close to a century and a half when the Heresy started. At the Siege of Terra his finest hour came when he led a counter-offensive push to regain footing along the Dhawalagiri banks. Holding off the traitor onslaught that ensued, Edelrix bought precious time for the pathfinders of I Airborne, who were planting a demolition belt in anticipation of a traitor armor advance.


- Equipment -


VII Legion Sergeant Edelrix can be seen here armored in elements of both Mk. II & Mk. III power armor. These older marks required more extensive modifications to their aerial locator trackers. The node on top of his Mk. III Luna pattern powered-backpack allows the legionary to be precisely traced from high-altitude flight, aiding allied gunships during support runs or evac. Edelrix is armed with a power fist (origin unknown) and a newly fashioned bolt pistol from the forges of Voss. The ceramite plate seen on Edelrix’s hip is a peculiarity. This is most likely indicative of seal leaks to the groin soft armor (in which the emission of the power fist’s disruptor field may scramble internal systems), resulting in the legionary quickly affixing ceramite armor to shield the affected area. Equally probable is the possibility of a previous wound being sheltered impromptu.

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Absolutely awesome stuff brother. Your writing is powerful, your conversions are both subtle and simultaneously characterful- with an excellent choice of bits.

If I could ask, where is Edelrix's powerfist from?

It looks like the PF from the FW MK IV Assault Weapon set to me.

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I'll just make a quick note that this will be a joint log between M2C and myself.

There's two of us, guys.

We'll have some further explanations up by tomorrow, explaining the purpose of our project. smile.png

You had me at the title and now the other shoe drops? Amazing news and I'm doubly looking forward to updates to this log. I love everything so far.

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Stellar start you two. This looks like it is gonna be very interesting. looking forward to hearing what your eventual goal for this project is gonna be. I love projects that incorporate background into the models and army vision. 

Cool posing on that right hand side (looking at screen) mk4 marine. Solid and dependable, picking off traitors with precision shooting.


Just wondering, 1000heathens has been tagged in the 'topic title', is he gonna be involved as well?



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I'll just make a quick note that this will be a joint log between M2C and myself.

There's two of us, guys.

We'll have some further explanations up by tomorrow, explaining the purpose of our project. smile.png

You had me at the title and now the other shoe drops? Amazing news and I'm doubly looking forward to updates to this log. I love everything so far.

Just wait...

Just wondering, 1000heathens has been tagged in the 'topic title', is he gonna be involved as well?


Who else would a bunch of Imperial Fists fight at the walls?

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Im glad everyone has enjoyed it so far. We amalgamated our logs so that we would be able to spread out updates and keep interest and traffic up. Darth and I started the log as a throw back to our days as apprentices of Commissar Molotov, when we worked on his Castigators. 


For my part, this log will be a representation of a heavy infantry shock assault army (akin to Death Guard) will modularized armor or air support. 

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ohmy.png cry.gif thumbsup.gif

Holy crap that was good - powerful stuff indeed. Well done to you M2C and Darth for knocking my socks off. I'm just going to go look for my eyebrows and my teeth...

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Well, those are some of the two best opening posts I've ever seen in a project log! Well done guys. :) Excellently written fluff; both pieces really evoke the desperation and tragedy of the time. I really like the way your two forces are organised to compliment each other in a realistic manner; it's great that this seems like it will be a genuinely collaborative project rather than just being lumped into the same thread with nothing really connecting them.


I was sad to see your Ultramarines die a stillbirth, Darth, but this is going to be even better I feel! :)

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 Darth and I started the log as a throw back to our days as apprentices of Commissar Molotov, when we worked on his Castigators. 



I thought about that when I saw the log this morning, remember how that went I have no doubt you guys are going to pull off something incredible. 


And you have no idea how much this log makes me want to bring forward my ideas for a HH army.

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Darth and I started the log as a throw back to our days as apprentices of Commissar Molotov, when we worked on his Castigators.

I thought about that when I saw the log this morning, remember how that went I have no doubt you guys are going to pull off something incredible.

And you have no idea how much this log makes me want to bring forward my ideas for a HH army.


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Well... I'm certainly floored...


That's it. I need no further convincing. I'm selling everything I own that is 40k related that is not part of my Chaos Marines. I need as much money I as I can scrounge to start my Iron Tenth...



I may not be at your side, but I will be joining you soon, brothers...

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this is incredibly awesome. the background stories are excellent, but those figures are screaming for paint, though their pre-paint is very good too.


PS. Heathens, i'm counting on you to bash the yellow teams behinds.

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