+++Death of an Empire: The 500 Worlds Burn+++

[Vazzy]

http://free.wallpaperbackgrounds.com/sci%20fi/apocalyptic/gas-mask-sci-fi-42905.jpg

“It is easy, to lay claim to bravery, to live up to that claim, that is a monument to Man…”

 

M.2 Anon.

*The following is taken from Legionary Krasnowski personal recordings*

 

 
"The sky leaked rain like a gutted corpse the day my city died… the day the XII legion made planetfall and destroyed all I loved."
 
 
Recon unit Hunter 2-1 stalked the ruins of Appia, cobalt armor now a battered blue gray after 3 days of extended combat. Agustin Krasnowski, formerly of 67th company, cradled the heavy bolt rifle in his arms, adavanced optics noting the advancing 12th legion forces. 
 
When the XVII and XII had made orbit, Vigilator Dereus had hailed the fleet, questioning why their brothers were here. What was their purpose? He’d never received a response. A stream of hails and threats would go unanswered by the enemy, their systematic genocide conducted in complete silence.  
 
Agustin had seen the heavens split, turning the once verdant land into a mottled, bruised thing. 
 
He’d seen the bulk freighter Salic Glory,loaded to capacity with refugees detonated in mid takeoff, the burning bodies plummeting back to the earth, the falling bodies moving with a languid grace they’d lacked in life. 
 
“This is Hunter 2-1, we have eyes on XII legion forces, noting heavy armor elements and backed up by what looks like 7, no 8 Storm Eagle and Fire raptor gunships. Recommend Heavy support moves to grid 5 Lambda, they’ll have an excellent opportunity to blunt the enemy armor advance. Copy?”
 
The drawling voice of Dereus rang out over the vox, and Agustin knew that the Vigilator would likely be amongst the rubble ruins, waiting for the opportunity to slay the Centurion, Voss. 
“Acknowledged 2-1. Rolling Thunder move to 5-Lambda,  Zereus, are you and Sryal situated yet? I suspect they’ll be dropping in the square, be ready. 4th squad, 5th squad, support the mortals but do not, I repeat, do not risk your selves for them.  They are expendable.”
 
Krasnowski heard the vox crackle in his ear as Dereus hailed him on a private channel. “ Gus, when the battle begins you’ll need to fall back. I need you to be my eyes and ears. How many in your squad are still standing and operating within the city?”
 
He snorted at the question. Hunter 2-1 had been tasked as assassins for enemy Sergeants and Champions, efficiently eliminating the enemy leadership before the World Eaters Simply obliterated 4 square miles of city in a bid to root them out. Agustin and two other, Aurelius and Vorenus had survived intact, but the rest of 2-1 lay among the ashes of Appia. 
 
“Gaius is located in the West District covering Civilian egress into the countryside for now. Vorenus I suspect is dead. Last I heard some Centurion was gutting him. Voss I believe. Didn’t sound pretty.”  He heard the slow breath of Dereus, in and out, in and out. 
 
“Understood. Be prepared to move. You’re more valuable if you’re on the move.”
 
“Confirmed. I’ll do my best to disengage.”
 
When the Eaters hit, they hit like a Sledgehammer. Agustin had never fought with the XII, never seen them in combat, never seen their sheer ferocity.  His rifle lay on a bipod, and every now and again would CRACK, a HEAP round exploding a Sarum helm into shards of ceramite.  
 
Click Chunk.
 
CRACK.
Down goes the Berserker threatening Sergeant Emilio’s back, a gaping crater in his chest. It doesn’t matter though, Emilio loses his head to the Sergeant that falls from the burning Storm Eagle, his chainaxe splintering Emilio’s breastplate in spray of gore.
 
Click Chunk
 
CRACK.
 
Click Chunk
 
CRACK.
 
Krasnowski works the bolt on his rifle quickly, slaying two warriors in as many seconds, they’re frothing mouths disappearing in pink mist, bodies clattering under their brother’s boots.  When the Rapier opens up, he displaces, the cacophony of shells tearing into the warriors of the Ruined Son. He smiles, and keeps moving intent on getting a better angle, intent on-
 
Whumph! 
 
He finds himself flying through the air, his armor pulsing despondently in the corner of his eye, the left lense cracked.  He feels bones snapping as slams into the wall, dazed. 
 
A warrior, clad in ceramite of the whitest snow, and cerulean skies stands above him, twirling a cracking hammer, the weapon practically shaking with pent up energy.  His face is twisted into a rictus sneer, pain tics yanking the face on a whim. 
 
Krasnowski fumbles with his helm, the deformed helm difficult to remove with one functional arm. It falls away and he stares the World Eater in the eyes, strugging to stay conscious. He breathes a question, so faint that the warrior in white is forced to lean closer, the blood on his breath, a sweet cloying scent. 
 
“What, High rider? I can’t hear you with your lungs perforated.”
 
Agustin rasps out one word, his bloody spittle flecking the Eaters face.
 
“Why…”
 
The World Eater cocks his head, as if confused, before a grin splits his lumpy face, scars dancing and peg teeth glinting in the light. 
 
“Why? Why he asks.  Let me ask YOU Highrider. If you’re worlds, your family, your culture was taken from you, by a man, nay…a tyrant…,” He slurs his words, the archaic pain engines in his brain screaming for him to KILL. TO MAIM. TO BURN. 
 
“Hurghh, Imagine your precious Ultramar burned in the name of a man who considers himself Humanity’s Champion, yet betrays those who do not bend the knee willingly.   Imagine your 500 world burning, and yet, you’ve done nothing…hurgh, Like now I suppose.. Would you not fight? Battle to topple a tyrant to preserve those you protect?”
 
The Ultramarine shakes his head, shoving himself upright. Blood runs freely, and his armor is cracked, the once proud armor, shattered. 
 
“You are a traitor and a fool Cousin. You deserve what comes of you.” He sags, and the World Eater steps forward, blade drawn. 
 
“Quiet Cousin. This will only take a second…”
 
 

Untitled by vazzy2012, on Flickr

[Legionary Krasnowski "Hunter 2-1" Confirmed K.I.A. Image is sourced via Astartes M. 30.006]

"Krasnowski was part of one of the assassination inits created by Vigilator Dereus in the wake of the World Eaters land fall. Tasked with the elimination of key champions and leaders of the XII, it is believed that Krasnowski and the rest of Hunter 2-1 accounted for over 20 targets. On the third day orbital bombardment caught 70% of the squad in the opening and Krasnowski and the survivors would be dead less than 18 hours later. His body would be found by the 18th Company druing the Reconstruction."

Panoply of War : 1. Recon Specialized Mk. IV "Maximus" armor. Common amongst the 13th legion, Krasnowski is seen wearing the major optics and long range equipment load of a designated Pathfinder. On one knee we see the Blue arrow of a tactical designation. 2. "Hera" pattern Astartes sniper rifle. The "Hera" pattern rifle is a derivative of the venerable Broncos pattern that is commonly seen amongst the Legiones Astartes. Based of the newest Tigris frame, the "Hera" is known for its bolt action, and reliability in the field. It is believed that Krasnowski had heavily modified his rifle, incorporating a suspensor bead and enhanced optics to compensate for his increased mobility in the years leading up to Appia. 

[helterskelter]

Fluff tastic! More please

[Marshal Rohr]

Looking good brother! Can't wait to see some more.

[Kobrakei]

Oh yes. This will do. This will do nicely.

[Relict]

Interval 1-1

 

Eye of Wrath

 

In the long, torturous years that were still to come, on the rare occasions the hateful pulses of Nails waned long enough for Cadeyrn to dream, he often dreamed of Appia and the lashing rain under which it had perished.

 

Four days. That was how long it took the World Eaters to overwhelm the valiant guardians of a doomed city. Four days of chaotic fighting in the tangled ruins of Appia’s outlying districts. The Ultramarines, true to their oath as the defenders of their realm and the protectors of their people, had ordered an immediate evacuation of the capital city as soon as the invaders revealed their murderous intent. Four million terrified and desperate souls were attempting to flee when the Ardent Prayer’s mighty gun batteries spoke from high above.

 

The crimson-clad vessel was cruelly precise. The orbital bombardment had not been purposed to lay indiscriminate waste. Instead, it had wrecked the harbor and destroyed the main highway junctions leading in and out of the city. Any attempts at escaping into the void were likewise dashed - the overloaded civilian freighters blown out of the sky were testament enough. Four million frightened people were thus trapped like cattle in a slaughterhouse when the white-and-blue drop pods knifed into Appia. From within, on the whirling teeth of a thousand roaring chainaxes and the worn muzzles of a thousand battered bolters, death came.

 

That had been four days ago. Now, as the Storm Eagle cleared the curtain of oily smoke emanating from the smashed remains of the industrial zone to the east of the city, Cadeyrn could see the destruction his brothers had wrought on the capital of Ulixes. Entire districts had been gutted and set ablaze by the fighting, fires burning so fiercely that not even the constant downpour could extinguish. Bodies - tangles of shattered white and sundered blue - marked where World Eaters and Ultramarines alike had fought each other to the bitterest of ends. From the air, the corpses had a bleached, almost serene quality to them, the rain having washed the blood away.

 

Seventeenth Legion cowards, Cadeyrn thought as he failed to spot a single fallen figure clad in Traitor’s Red. Sitting comfortably up in their ship while we bleed for every inch of ground. There had been an entire company of Ultramarines assigned to the Appian garrison. A thousand Legionaries, fully two-thirds of whom were now corpses strewn on the streets of their beloved city. But despite their impending defeat, the Ultramarines and their human auxiliary troops fought on. On the ground, the advancing World Eaters were still taking heavy fire. Cadeyrn watched as a fusillade of missiles - no doubt from a cleverly positioned heavy support squad - scythed into the lead squadron of Predators. Two of the tanks died immediately as their ammunition and fuel stores ignited. The third, immobilized by a hit to the tracks, caught two more missiles and exploded even as a Sicaran’s autocannons made red ruin of the now-exposed Legionaries before they could displace.

 

Cadeyrn felt the deck of the Storm Eagle tremble as the transport loosened a stream of fire, no doubt at some targets of opportunity spotted on a rooftop. He turned from the open rear ramp to regard the warriors within the troop bay. Captain Voss’s orders, as relayed by Sergeant Aralakh, were clear: drop in behind the enemy, wreak havoc among them, and drive them forward into the waiting guns of the 77th Battle Company’s main thrust. Despite the Nails, every Legionary carried within the holds of the six Storm Eagles in the formation knew what was expect of them. Such was the draconian discipline that the Centurion instilled in the hearts of his men.

 

As they approached their landing zone, antiaircraft fire leapt to greet them. A ruby-red lascannon beam speared an engine on one of the escorting Fire Raptors, sending it careening into a gutted tower. In response, the XII Legion aircrafts returned fire in an apocalyptic display, melta blasts and missile barrages shredding any building suspected of concealing the enemy. As the gunships circled above like carrion birds, the six transports lowered themselves into a shattered square where a gigantic stature in the likeness of Roboute Guilliman himself still stood defiantly.

 

“Go! Go! Go! Blood for the Primarch!” Screamed Aralakh as he led his squad out of the Storm Eagle.

 

“Skulls for the Twelfth Legion!” His men echoed in unison even as enemy fire lashed out to greet them.

 

The Nails were singing to Cadeyrn now - they sang so beautifully that he willingly, almost eagerly relinquished himself to them. His Mark IV armor shrugged off the impacts of lasrifle blasts and stubber rounds, the pathetic weapons of the mortals leaving barely a scratch on the Maximus plate. He had clamped his bolter to his back, for there was little need of it in a fight against mere humans. Cadeyrn had out his bolt pistol and combat knife, and those were more than enough. He laughed as he impaled a woman in the gray and white uniform of an Appian Auxilia lieutenant through the chest and smashed aside two of her subordinates with a backhanded stroke. Two quick shots from Cadeyrn’s sidearm turned another four into heaps of ruined flesh and pulped viscera, such was the power of Legiones Astartes ammunition against unarmored targets.

 

“Enemy heavy weapon, ten o’clock high!” Aralakh yelled as he pointed at something on the second floor of an abandoned shop. Ultramarines, good. Cadeyrn thought as he caught a glimpse of cobalt-blue armor. The pair of Legionaries wrestled something around to face the World Eaters still in the open, and a split second later that something spat death.

 

The effects a quadruple set of heavy bolters had on exposed targets, Legionary or no, were ghastly. The withering hail of fire blasted World Eaters from their feet, blood streaming from their cratered armor. A squad of Ultramarines emerged and added their own firepower to that of the Rapier.

 

A bolt hit Cadeyrn’s pauldron, its detonation peppering his side with shrapnel. But the warrior was beyond caring now. Like a howling tsunami of violence, the World Eaters charged the Ultramarines, heedless of death or injury. Cadeyrn roared with fury as a chainsword slashed into his upper thigh. With both hands, he drove the blade of his knife into the visor of the chainsword’s owner. Another Ultramarine swung a gladius at him - he parried the blow with one arm while he reached for his bolter with the other. A savage buttstroke with the bolter drove the Legionary back. Taking advantage of the sudden opening, Cadeyrn expertly put a burst into his abdomen.

 

From somewhere above him, Cadeyrn heard the booming reports of the Rapier. The crew was still firing, for there were far more World Eaters present than Ultramarines. Three more Sons of Angron came apart as they attempted to rush the tracked weapon platform. High-Rider bastards. Cadeyrn thought as he tore himself from the melee and ran for the Rapier's rear. The crew was too focused on cutting down the World Eaters caught in the open expanse of the square - they did not risk firing into the clashing Legionaries for the fear of killing their own. This was a mistake for which they would pay with their lives.

 

Bellowing a challenge, Cadeyrn fired as he sprinted forward, emptying his bolter into the back of the gunner. The Rapier fell silent at last as the remaining Ultramarine turned to face his adversary. Before he could raise a weapon, Cadeyrn crashed into him, bodily tackling him to the floor. The Ultramarine hammered a gauntlet into Cadeyrn’s face, knocking his helmet away and breaking his nose. The World Eater responded by repeatedly pummeling his enemy with such force that the Mark II plastron cracked.

 

“Die! Die! Die!” Cadeyrn screamed, red-tinted spittles flying, as he drove both fists into the Ultramarine’s chest. His enemy flailed, but there was very little he could do to dislodge Cadeyrn. One hand went to his sheathed gladius.

 

“I don’t think so.” Cadeyrn breathed as the Ultramarine drew his gladius and tried to thrust it into his attacker’s side. He delivered a thunderous blow into his enemy’s face, the rebreather grill hissing in protest. Dazed, the Legionary momentarily weakened his grip on the gladius. Cadeyrn seized the Ultramarine’s sword arm and twisted, his enormous, rage-fueled strength breaking the wrist and elbow with two dull, sickening cracks. In one fluid motion, the World Eater rammed the stolen gladius into the exposed neck seal of the man’s armor until he felt its tip meet the tiled floor beneath.

 

The fire of the Nails retreated as the implants drank in the slaughter its owner had wrought. Pushing himself off the dead Ultramarine, Cadeyrn retrieved his fallen helmet and listened to the vox traffic. The square and its surroundings were clear. A second of wave of World Eaters had landed to reinforce the first. He could hear the cheers of his brothers from below - this battle had been won.

 

Not bad for eight minutes’ work, he thought as he noticed the chronograph display projected on the inside of his eye lenses. Gritting his rows of metallic replacement teeth in a madman’s grin, Cadeyrn jumped down to rejoin his squad. There were still more battles to fight, more lives to end.

 

All around the victorious World Eaters, the rain continued to fall.

 

http://s24.postimg.org/7lfrnq4n9/Full_Size_Render_31.jpg

 

Legionary Cadeyrn & Sergeant Aralakh

IX Tactical Squad “Eye of Wrath”, LXXVII Battle Company “Iron Devourers”

Scouring of the Great Coastal Union, Purge of Nuceria, Shadow Crusade

[Pict-captures compiled from images recovered from slain Traitor Legionaries at the Siege of Terra]

 

At the time of the outbreak of the Horus Heresy, Cadeyrn was a relatively young Legionary of three decade’s service. Assigned to one of the 77th Battle Company’s line tactical formations, Cadeyrn survived the Isstvan III Atrocity through sheer bloody-minded stubbornness. With severe burns to over 50% of his body courtesy of a Loyalist Death Guard’s flamer, Cadeyrn was referred to the XII Legion Fleet Apothecarion for treatment instead of deploying to the surface of Isstvan V.

 

Finally declared fit for service, Cadeyrn rejoined the rest of the 3rd Echelon, some 2,800 Legionaries under the de facto command of Centurion-Captain Voss of the 77th, in time for the Shadow Crusade. Initially stationed aboard the strike cruiser Crimson Tempest and later transferred to the infamous XII Legion flagship Conqueror, Cadeyrn borne witness to almost every major engagement of the campaign, including the daemonic ascension of his Primarch on the thrice-damned world of Nuceria.  

 

Panoply of War - Legionary Cadeyrn

 

1. Mark IV "Maximus" (late variant) Power Armor: Considered the pinnacle in the evolution of power armor, the Mark IV "Maximus" type entered Legiones Astartes service just before the outbreak of the Horus Heresy, replacing the venerable Mark II "Crusade" type. The XII Legion in particular received large shipments of both early and late variants of this type, no doubt benefiting from the favorable machinations of the Warmaster himself. The late variant integrated a more efficient cooling system into the backpack. Note: Modified helmet of unknown pattern fitted with advanced rebreather system. Molecular bonding studs on the left pauldron indicative of repairs following battle damage. 

 

2. Tigrus-Pattern Bolter: Although slightly less powerful than the previously issued Phobos-pattern bolter, this type was nevertheless notable for its reliability and ruggedness. The Tigrus-pattern bolter was widely favored by XII Legion tactical formations, the Legionaries finding it suitable for the frantic, close-quarters combat they often found themselves in. 

 

3. Tigrus-Pattern Bolt Pistol

 

4. Sol-Pattern Combat Knife: Presented to every member of the XII Legion upon induction, the Sol-Pattern combat knife was well-balanced and possessed a monomolecular cutting edge. Although most of his brethren preferred other, more visceral means of dealing death in close quarters, Legionary Cadeyrn was known to have used the humble blade exclusively, wielding it with deadly proficiency. 

 

5. Mark II Frag Grenades & Mark V Krak Grenades: Assorted grenades for use against personnel and armor, respectively. 

 

Panoply of War - Sergeant Aralakh

 

1. Mark IV "Maximus" (early variant) Power Armor: Modified extensively by XII Legion artificers, Sergeant Aralakh's personal power armor used the Mark IV type as its basis, with the addition of a heavy plastron, enhanced pauldrons, and reinforced greaves. The artificers also made a number of improvements to the internal systems, achieving an excellent balance between protection and mobility. Note: Crested helmet and "Devourer" variant of XII Legion iconography indicative of squad leader status. "Crossed-chains" motif on right vambrace marking the bearer as having killed a fellow World Eater of higher rank in a sanctioned gladiatorial duel. 

 

2. Tigrus-Pattern Bolt Pistol: Commonly issued to junior officers and line Legionaries alike throughout most of the XII Legion's core formations. Unlike their peers in the other Legions, officers of the World Eaters rarely embellished their weapons. Sergeant Aralakh was no exception. 

 

3. Proteus-Pattern Power Sword: One of the many variants of this particular type of power sword, Sergeant Aralakh favored a cutlass-like design, a preference no doubt derived from his experiences fighting against brutish xenos such as the Orks. The heavy, slashing blade would prove effective against Legiones Astartes power armor as well.

 

4. Mark II Frag Grenades & Mark V Krak Grenades

[Dragonkin Arenis]

Ooooooh yiss. More collaborations!

 

Following this, Brothers.

[Urauloth]

Good stuff. And Wardruna, as well? nice bonus. ;)

[Koriel]

Terrific opening to another great collaboration thread.

 

Keep the good stuff comming.

[chaplain mortis]

http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y2/chaplainmortis/Quotation-Thomas-Huxley-fate-history-Meetville-Quotes-212178-1.jpg

 

ACT 1...SCENE 1

 

Sir! The "SON OF HERA" shes gone!

 

The explosion filled the viewscreen even though there was a distance of thousands of miles.

"Raise shields!" "Power up weapons and bring the fleet to ready stations"Rahm was calm despite the events that had just transpired.

 

 This was supposed to be simple, the message had been sent from FERRUS MANNUS himself-cease all current operations and make best speed for the Istvaan system.

Order Primarii of clan Kaargul had mustered with speed, departing the rogue trader fleet of Baron speein in the galactic east and travelling to the 500 worlds for resupply before a warp jump to istvaan, that was simple!...simple untill warp storms had blown them off course or had stopped them travelling at all, 9 Terran months it had taken to get this far. Simple untill the Ultramarines destroyer had been destroyed by warships of the XVII.

 

"Priorty message is being broadcast from the planet sir!" The comms officer shouted."On speakers-NOW" Rahms mechanical voice boomed.

 

 

+++"This is Captain Vallius of the 196TH company Ultramarines. .request urgent and immediate reinforcement""ULTIMA PROXY is under attack from forces of the Word bearer legion..they have acchieved planetfall and are besieging the capitol...current forces are being overwhelmed..this is practical not theory"

"Urgent reinforcement required"

"COURAGE AND HONOUR"+++

 

"Sire-what are your orders", Kramer was the first to speak. The Iron champion, a hulk of an astartes, fused to his early pattern gorgon armour was always the first to speak.Rahm was silent for a moment..trying to make logic of what he had just heard and seen, he turned slowly, his bionic eye whirred and foccused upon his assembled iron guard.

"I want the clan combat ready in minutes, tell Numinous and Aketon to wake the ancients and preapre the units."

"Helmsman" shouted Rahm, "delta epsilon attack formation...as soon as we are in range cripple there flagship..destroy the rest! "

 I will have anwsers thought Rahm to himself..but first there must be war again, maybe this would be simple after all....

 

"IRON SPECTRE" Flagship of order primarii.. [OBERON CLASS]

http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y2/chaplainmortis/PSX_20140815_144325.jpg

 

 

ANCIENT RAMOS:REMBRANCER PICT...ASSAULT ON DIAMOD PRIME

http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y2/chaplainmortis/PSX_20140815_143541.jpg

 

 

 

 

:PICT CAPTURE UNKNOWN ASTARTES-POSSIBLE "IRON GUARD" PURGING OF ORKS AT HELMANDS POINT RESEARCH STATION.

http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y2/chaplainmortis/PSX_20140815_131154.jpg

[Vazzy]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z0PvZGVPiJU

The 

 

"They were on us like vipers, striking from the shadows. Lord Aries was caught completely off guard,rest his soul. "

-Bridgemaster Sven Roriksted

 

"They were faceless, soul-less things. They never spoke, they never even made signs they were alive. The Mechanicum with them seemed more human than the Astartes."

-Stoke man Archibald  Hamilton

 

"Strike swiftly, die quietly."

 

Unconfirmed Motto Cell-Lambda//235 (The King Slayers)

 

The Rogue Trader Vessel “Solaris Gambit” slipped out of the warp, her flanks steaming slightly in the vacuum. Bristling with weapons arrays and besplendent in an azure and white scheme, a stark red maw marred one side.Though it slide seductively towards the Mechanicum fueling station in orbit over Decium, it was apparent the vessel had taken quite the beating before jumping.

 

Upon the bridge, a giant surveyed the void, white ceramite stained a brownish hue by the blood of a thousand different warriors. His face was a patchwork of scars and bionics, locked in a permanent snarl.  He turned to the woman behind him and growled,

 

“ Mortal, roll out our guns, let us make our intentions clear. Vox Master!”

 

“Aye Lord?”

 

“Broadcast this message! All forces aboard Epsilon-3/b//345 are to surrender at once. They are to drop void shields, and open their hangar for our vessel to re arm and refit.”

 

The woman next to him had a look of distaste on her face as these words were spoken, her Leather coat and synthskin tights marking her as the Seychelles Gaerris Daughter of Lord Gaerris, and the Captain of this vessel. She scratched at her hip unconsciously, gazing into the void as if expecting something to appear.  They’d barely survived the Ultramarines at Talassar, the fleet waiting for them opening fire before they could hail them. Her brother and father lay dead over that world, the Flagship “House of Tiltades” obliterated from the inside out by the warriors of Ultramar.  The Solaris Gambit had fared little better though, XIII legion kill teams disabling the lance batteries and putting her void shields in critical condition.  

 

“Lord Zakar, should we not attempt to raise our void shields? I suspect we may encounter-“

The World Eater cut her off, “Yes, Yes. Raise the damn shields, and get my men ready, we’ve a station to board. “ 

 

She nodded to Andros, who s quickly bringing the void shields into power, fingers dancing over the displays.  The World Eater had begun to pace, his steps causing the deck to rumble. He seemed perplexed  by the lack of activity. 

 

“Are there any life signs aboard that vessel? Any sign of anything aboard it?”

 

When he was answered in the negative, his face twisted in what Seychelles could only assume was a smile.  

 

“Excellent…Launch boarding torpedoes 1-5, tell Carad he is in command.”

 

The deck officer nodded and began to murmur into the vox, and within seconds five streams of air puffed from the prow of the ship. Seychelles swallowed and sat in the Captain’s chair, boots propped on the display. 

 

The tranquility lasted all of about thrity seconds as suddenly sirens began screaming, and one of the crew screamed in panic. 

 

“Station’s void shields are up! Her weapons are powering up too. I- Oh Terra, engine signatures off the port bow!”

 

The vessel shook as the Mechanicum station opened fire, her lances stripping the Void shields like tissue paper and punching through the anti ship batteries. 

 

“Shields are down! Lord, the boarding torpedoes have been destroyed!” 

 

Zakar roared in fury, his fist shooting out, pulping a gun servitors head, and spraying Seychelles with bits of brain and tiny cogs. 

 

A violent explosion staggered the crew and even more alarms began to scream as reports came in of multiple hull breaches through out the ship. 

“Multiple breaches Lord! Decks 3, 4 6, and 10 as well as spire deck. Sergeant Anthlas is claiming they’re Astartes! Storm Veterans are engaged in the engine room sir!” 

 

Zakar stormed to the man, and grabbed the console himself and peered at it intently. He nodded to Seychelles as he stormed from the deck, chainaxe torn from his belt, and helm locked into place. He turned to the crew,

 

“If I don’t return, I recommend locking the door, I suspect Loyalist astartes won’t be kind to traitors.”

 

 

Zakar stalked the halls of his vessel, chainaxe in one hand, and bolter in the other.  Bolters seemed to go off all around him, yet he saw nothing. The nails were singing, and he was desperate to slake their thirst.  

 

“Face Me cowards! FACE ME!” His chain axe screamed in unision, the engine crying for blood.   His vox crackled sharply, and he heard three words.

 

“As you Wish.” 

 

Three sharp cracks rang out and Zakar found his feet no longer cooperated, and his chest cavity vacated of most of its organs.  Another astartes stood over, clad in a off teal color, the snarling Hydra upon one shoulder, a crowned skull upon the other. He looked at Zakar, the red lenses dispassionate.

 

“You’re on our side you Bastard! What the Hell are you doing? I’ll kill you! Tear out your heart and eat it! Why did you attack us?!”

 

The Alpha Legionary cocked his head and simply said “For the Emperor.”

 

Zakar had only a moment before the power dagger slit his throat and left him lying upon the grating. The Alpha Legion trooper raised one head to his head and murmured into the vox., 

“Zakar is dead sir. I believe the XII legion are all accounted for. Neiras out.”

 

 

[believed to Headhunter Prime Neiras, Imperial Records can neither confirm or deny]

 

Access to Records on XX legion Operant Cell Lambda//235 is restricted.  Would you like to Continue?

 

> y

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[Candleshoes]

Love, love, love Alpha Legion in Mark IV! The combat knife is at the perfect angle too, not to mention the fantastic fluff Vazzy!

[Chronotonic]

the alpha legion at the end 

 

>y

 

enter

 

enter

 

enter...WHY IS THIS NOT WORKING

 

haha

[Daemon2027]

Nice looking Alpha legion, well nice looking everything. Good background to.

[Reyner]

Awesome thread Vazzy, I just read the full thing lol. Looking forward to your Alpha Legion! I'm mighty tempted to create a detachment of Loyalists to assist either my IW or Ultramarines.

[Relict]

Interval 1-2

 

Crimson Tempest

 

To the uninitiated, the two warships that prowled the dark side of Ulixes appeared identical save for their contrasting colors. One wore a uniform livery of the deepest red, its metallic sheen reminiscent of an insect's oily carapace. The other was clad in bone white and ocean blue, with a long, horizontal slash of blood red adoring each flank from stem to stern. Both were constructed in one of the orbital shipyards above Sacred Mars. Both were anointed and blessed by the same Mechanicum magos. Both had witnessed entire planets devastated and entire species obliterated during the course of the Great Crusade. 

 

The white-and-blue vessel increased her thrust, her engines flaring brighter as she overtook her sister. As the Crimson Tempest came into the light of the system's sun, it immediately became apparent that the strike cruiser had been extensively modified according to her master's needs. The bridge, normally positioned atop the citadel jutting from the ship's spine, was instead hidden in the heart of the ship, the vital personnel and systems it contained secured behind meters of solid adamantium. Sheets of ablative armor, left unpainted, reinforced much of the superstructure. Emergency thrusters - nothing more than gigantic tanks of volatile chemicals which, once triggered, were capable of literally blasting the ship onto a new course - had been affixed to the sides of the hull. Like the Space Marines she carried, the Tempest was a blunt instrument of war with only one purpose - to kill. 

 

None of these things were on Ship-Mistress Tallin Merkit's mind as she stood on the command dais at the center of the Tempest's bridge. Her eyes were glued on the massive displays in front of her slight frame. One showed the once-verdant world of Ulixes, the fires that raged unchecked across its surface reminding her of festering lesions on diseased flesh. Merkit was unmoved by the sight - in her eight decades of service to the XII Legion, she had seen the inhabitants of entire worlds annihilated with industrial efficiency. Judging from the tactical relays over the last four days, her master was excelling himself. With close to five thousand warriors of the XII and XVII Legions at his side, Merkit had no doubt that the Centurion-Captain would crush all planetside resistance in less than a week. 

 

Merkit understood that the danger to them all came not from the dying world but from the void beyond it. An hour ago, one of her monitoring picket had reported seven ships translating into the system from the Warp. She did not need her long-range sensor array to tell her the allegiance to which the ships belonged - the ominous fact that her picket went silent shortly after making contact was proof enough. The pitiful frigates that the Traitor fleet effortlessly smashed aside four days ago had not been the entirety of the naval garrison. Now the true sentinel of Ulixes was returning to exact her vengeance from the Traitors who had defiled her world. 

 

A battle-barge. Merkit thought as an involuntary chill crept up her spine. No, a Thirteenth Legion battle-barge. The enemy's friend-or-foe transponder identified her as the Spirit of Espandor. Even without the six destroyers escorting her, the ship was more than a match for the Crimson Tempest and the Ardent Prayer combined. Strike cruisers could not exchange broadsides with a far heavier opponent in a conventional naval engagement and expect to live for long. Merkit knew that the mathematics of naval battle did not favor the Traitors. The mathematics be damned. Merkit's thin lips drew back into a humorless smile. This girl has a few tricks up her sleeve. 

 

A dozen decks below the Ship-Mistress, fifty of the 3rd Echelon's most fearsome warriors were readying themselves for the fight of their lives. 

 

---

 

The Ultramarines were master strategists and empire builders without peer, but neither quality helped them in the frantic, deck-by-deck battle that raged aboard the Spirit of Espandor - a trail of spilled blood and shattered bodies stretched between the maintenance hatch where the World Eaters had forced entry into the powerful battle-barge and the engineering compartment, where their objective lay. Speed. Speed is of the essence here. Sergeant Torvan told himself over and over despite the alluring purr of the Butcher's Nails in his head. Six of his men were already dead, lost during the chaotic flight from the Crimson Tempest​. They had died ignominious deaths - smashed against debris drifting between the ships or sent hurling helplessly into the void itself by damaged jump packs, never to be recovered. 

 

The Ship-Mistress's gambit had paid off. At the cost of a severe beating to the Tempest, she had managed to bring the strike cruiser in close enough for Torvan and his fifty Legionaries to deploy inconspicuously from a launch bay. Torvan's orders were simple - board the target and destroy it from the inside. To that end, he and dwindling boarding party had to move quickly - every second wasted slaughtering the mortal defenders they had encountered thus far was an opportunity for their true enemy - the Ultramarines themselves - to converge and destroy them. Torvan neither knew of nor cared about how many warriors of the XIII Legion were stationed on board. All that mattered to the leader of the strike team was the objective. 

 

"Dagen!" Torvan bellowed as he sliced apart another trio of shotgun-wielding crewmen with a diagonal swipe of his lightning claws. "That bastard is going for the blast door controls! KIll that whoreson before he seals us in!" 

 

The other World Eater's response was immediate. Rocketing forward on twin pillars of fire from his jump pack, Dagen covered fifty meters in a split second and smashed his armored bulk into the crewman running for the control panel. The mortal tumbled bonelessly to the blood-slicked deck. Dagen's bolt pistol barked four times in rapid succession and another four crewmen flew back dead. 

 

"Brothers! The way is clear!" Dagen's voice rang out over the vox channel. "For-"

 

He never had the chance to finish his sentence. A hail of bolter fire swept over him, overwhelming the protection of his reinforced Mark IV armor in an instant. Torvan watched as his old friend collapsed, bright red Astartes blood streaming in arterial spurts from his ruined torso. Defiantly, Dagen attempted to raise his weapon before another bolt exploded his head and finally put the mortally wounded warrior out of his misery. A squad of Ultramarines advanced in a loose chevron formation, their bolters making no distinction between World Eaters and the crew of their own ship. Behind them, something larger - far larger than a Legionary - loomed ominously. 

 

"Come then! Come and die, whelps of Guilliman!" Torvan roared as the World Eaters rose as one and met their cousins in a fierce melee, heedless of the mass-reactive rounds now being hurled at them. Torvan punched forward and drove his energy-wreathed talons into the gorget of an Ultramarine, reveling in grim satisfaction from the savage act. "You waste your hours twirling swords and polishing armor. You think yourselves Astartes - come! Come and see how a true Astartes fights!"

 

---

 

"Hurry!" Torvan screamed as he and his remaining Legionaries of the strike team retraced their steps through the blood-soaked corridors they had fought through just twenty minutes prior. "Hurry, you whoresons! We will not die on this ship!" The Spirit of Espandor was as dead as the twenty Ultramarines the World Eaters had killed in the final battle for the engineering compartment - the ticking timers on the eight melta bombs affixed to her primary plasma reactor were testament enough to that eventuality. At the cost of fully half his men, Torvan had completed his mission. Now, the only objective the strike team had was to get off the doomed battle-barge before its inevitable, fiery death consumed them as well. 

 

"Lascutters!" Torvan ordered as he saw, to his dismay, that a team of maintenance servitors had already sealed the breach the World Eaters made when they first entered the ship. Two of his brothers swatted aside the mindless drones and began their work. Torvan glanced at his chronograph. Ninety seconds remaining. 

 

Seventy-two seconds remaining. His exit was clear. 

 

Sixty seconds remaining. He pushed the last of his Legionaries through the broken hatch. He took one last look around and launched himself into the void. He ignited his jump pack immediately, burning through the last of his fuel. 

 

Twelve seconds remaining. He finally spotted the glint in the distance that was his salvation - a waiting Storm Eagle gunship. He ignored the warning runes telling him that his jump pack was overheating. He felt his back blister from the heat. 

 

Five seconds remaining. He hauled himself into the Storm Eagle. He looked back through the open hatch. 

 

Four.

 

Three.

 

Two.

 

One. 

 

The aft section of the Spirit of Espandor became an expanding ball of thermonuclear fire. The rest of the mighty XIII Legion battle-barge was consumed in an instant. Torvan's visor automatically adjusted, darkening itself to protect its owner's eyes. Torvan's teeth rattled - not from the shockwave of the explosion but from the impact of debris peppering the armored hull of the Storm Eagle. The gunship shook like a thing possessed and Torvan held on for dear life. When he looked back at where the Spirit of Espandor was, he saw only a splintered wreck. 

 

"Ship-Mistress," He croaked into his helmet's vox. "This is strike team leader. Mission complete."

 

http://s11.postimg.org/xhhlydocj/Full_Size_Render_32.jpg

 

Sergeant Torvan & Legionary Dagen

III Assault Squad "Void Serpents", LXXVII Battle Company "Iron Devourers"

Boarding Action/Spirit of Espandor, Battle of Ulixes, Shadow Crusade

[Pict-captures compiled from images recovered from slain Traitor Legionaries at the Siege of Terra]

 

Nicknamed "Void Serpent" for his impressive mastery of zero-gravity combat, Sergeant Torvan had been the de facto leader of the 3rd Echelon's assault squads for four decades at the outbreak of the Horus Heresy. During the World Eaters' 98-day pursuit of the surviving members of the Raven Guard in the wasteland beyond the Urgall Depression, Torvan turned the XIX Legion's own tactics against them, leading small but mobile kill-teams against isolated enemy elements. Torvan himself was credited with eliminating three Raven Guard reconnaissance teams. Torvan saw action throughout the Shadow Crusade, often participating in "Zone Mortalis" engagements fought in urban ruins. 

 

Panoply of War - Sergeant Torvan

 

1. Mark IV "Maximus" (late variant) Power Armor: As befitting of his elevated rank, Sergeant Torvan was equipped with the latest type of power armor, further modified by XII Legion artificers. This unit had been heavily reinforced and hardened against prolonged void exposure. Its internal systems were likewise overhauled to enhance life support functions. Note: Mark IV jump pack fitted to provide not only thrust but also maneuverability. Unadorned helmet with Sarum-Pattern rebreather. Integrated lightning claws - although certainly an uncommon weapon among the World Eaters, Sergeant Torvan favored a matched pair for close-quarters combat. His mastery of their use was said to be a match for the best of the VIII and XIX Legions. 

 

2. Mark II Frag Grenades & Mark V Krak Grenades

 

3. Mark XIX Melta Bomb: A potent weapon against enemy armor, such thermic charges were used alongside lascutters in breaching starship bulkheads during the boarding action against the Spirit of Espandor. Multiple melta bombs were later used to damage the battle-barge's plasma containment shielding, sending its fusion plant into catastrophic meltdown. 

 

Panoply of War - Legionary Dagen

 

1. Mark V "Heresy" Power Armor: One of a number of ad hoc power armor designs adopted by Traitor and Loyalist Legions alike during the course of the Horus Heresy, the type used by Legionary Dagen would later become the most recognizable - eventually gaining the designation of Mark V "Heresy". Its unadorned surfaces were riddled with molecular bonding studs, essential in holding the unit together. Perhaps the biggest drawbacks of this type was the primitive internal systems - the exposed cabling was particularly vulnerable to damage. Issued to formations that suffered high attrition rates, the type was nevertheless perfectly serviceable, with a reputation for ease of maintenance and repairs. Note: Serpha-V jump pack.

 

2. Phobos-Pattern Bolt Pistol: A favorite among XII Legion assault formations, the older Phobos-pattern bolt pistol fired a larger, more powerful projectile that provided more stopping power than that of the later Tigrus- and Umbra-pattern bolt pistols. All three types were nevertheless used interchangeably, a testament to the XII Legion's increasingly strained supply chains. 

 

3. Phobos-Pattern Chainaxe: Perhaps the most iconic weapon associated with the XII Legion, the heavy, broad blade of the Phobos-pattern chainaxe was a common sight in the hands of World Eaters, no matter what specialization the Legionary in question possessed. Inelegant but efficient, the weapon even found some favor in other Legions.

 

4. Mark II Frag Grenades & Mark V Krak Grenades

 

5. Mark XIX Melta Bomb

[Twisty]

I am absolutely loving these stories! Especially the latest one, it´s always awesome to read and visualize the brutality of a boarding assault in the grim darkness of the far future

[deathspectersgt7]

some great fluff this makes me want to do 30k Ultras.

[Relict]

Interval 1-3

 

Appia's End

 

Since the earliest days of Appia's recorded history, the Aventine Mountains had stood guardian over the city. Ancient legends spoke of a monstrous, implacable army of darkness that spread across Ulixes like a plague, consuming settlement after settlement until Appia alone remained. Atia, the warrior-goddess, rode forth with her shield-maidens in defense of her children. The battle that ensued was fierce and terrible, the defenders steadily forced back despite having slain tens of thousands of their foes. All seemed lost until Atia sacrificed her noble steed in a final, desperate act to preserve Appia. As the mount fell, its bones became the jagged, snowcapped peaks of the Aventine Mountains that would maintain a silent vigil over the city. Appia had endured.

 

Now, six days after the Traitors' planetfall, Appia endured no more. The guns at last fell silent, their wrathful roars replaced by a chorus of screams. Trailing in the wake of the Ardent Prayer were a number of vessels that had once been civilian freighters. Now, their outlines were barely recognizable under the blasphemous sigils crudely daubed and graffitied onto every surface. From within came a parade of horrors that shocked even the most hardened veterans of the Twelfth Legion. Hordes of savage beastmen marched to the steady beat of war drums bound with human skin. Cabals of insane psykers shuffled to the ever-shifting chant of alien words given voice by human throats. Swarms of diseased husks sallied forth, their cataract eyes unseeing but their rotten teeth bared in anticipation of tasting uncorrupted flesh. Mobs of giggling maniacs gathered like mutilated revelers at some grotesque festival, every hooked blade and barbed whip at the ready.

 

What followed was the ritualistic butchery of four million souls. The Word Bearers had been thorough in their destruction of all avenues of escape. The brave defenders of Appia – transhuman and human alike – had been exterminated to the last man. The World Eaters and their chainaxes had seen to that. Three hundred thousand of the Seventeenth Legion's cultist slaves now picked over the carcass of Appia like roving packs of jackals. Every man, woman, and child they came across was doomed, their pleas of mercy and screams of pain falling on deaf ears or no ears at all. The most fortunate were slaughtered immediately and their deaths offered up as tribute to the dread gods of the Warp. The less fortunate were dragged before makeshift altars, their fates too terrible for even Legionaries of the World Eaters to contemplate in detail.

 

Most of the Twelfth Legion forces had already been withdrawn, Stormbird and Thunderhawk transports having brought them, alive and dead, back to the battered Crimson Tempest. The last World Eaters remaining on Ulixes stood on top of one of the foothills of the Aventine Mountains, quietly witnessing the conclusion of the destruction they had began. Silhouetted against the dying light, the Legionaries were as still as statues.

 

“It still vexes me that you would allow this, Captain.” The voice was inhuman, mechanical.

 

Centurion-Captain Voss turned to regard the speaker. Three times the height of a Legionary clad in power armor, the Contemptor-Mortis Dreadnought was a sight to behold. Twelfth Legion iconography rendered in brass proclaimed the interred warrior's many victories. “You speak the truth, old friend.” Voss answered. “Lorgar's orders. It looks like the Seventeenth Legion bastards are excelling themselves.”

 

“Six days spent and five hundred of our men dead, all for this?” the Ancient rumbled. “If Angron was not mad before, he is mad for allying with Lorgar and letting the Word Bearers drag us into committing such dishonorable barbarities.”

 

Voss did not respond immediately. Had any other man under his command made such an accusation, the Centurion-Captain would have killed him on the spot. However, his old friend gave voice to the misgivings that had been accumulating in his mind since Isstvan III. Helvast had always been honest – noteworthy even in a Legion not known for subtleties. He respected and appreciated that. 

 

“He is still our father, you know that.” Voss finally said. “Had the Warmaster not raised the flag of rebellion, we would still be slaves of the Emperor. Be thankful that Horus has included us in his grand design.”

 

“And this atrocity is the price of admission?”

 

“Yes. I like it no more than you do, but Horus needs Lorgar and his Legion. Have you not heard the word from Calth, brother?”

 

“The word spoke of half the Thirteenth Legion murdered in cold blood by two heathen cowards and their foul schemes. Shot in the back by those they once called cousins.”

 

“Is that any different from what we did on Isstvan III?”

 

Helvast fell silent. Voss knew that he had gone too far. The months they had spent in the ruins of the Choral City had been hellish – an experience made all the worse by the fact that they had spent the time largely hunting and killing their own brethren. Upon his return to the Conqueror, Voss had, for the first time in his life, wished that he had volunteered for the Butcher's Nails. At least the implants would have granted him some solace from the many sins he had committed, the induced bloodlust overwriting new thoughts and old memories.

 

What else could I have done? Voss wondered. I knew the storm was coming and the tide would turn on that blasted world. The lodge master said as much. I knowingly sent a fifth of my men to die at the hands of their brothers because I needed to save the rest. I have killed many good men since – World Eaters, Raven Guard, Ultramarines – good men who had been too blind to see the freedom that Horus will deliver us. Many more good men will have to die before that freedom becomes a reality.

 

“My Lord,” A voice interrupted Voss's thoughts. “All Twelfth Legion forces have evacuated off-world. You and your entourage are the last. Shall I send for transport?”

 

“Affirmative, Ship-Mistress. Send a communique to the Ardent Prayer. Ulixes dies tomorrow. Let Lorgar's dogs enjoy their spoils for one solar day, then burn this world to a cinder.” Voss ordered. “A new battle awaits us.”

 

“Where, my Lord?”

 

“Armatura. Our Primarch calls for our presence.” 

 

http://s3.postimg.org/mei5zwk77/Full_Size_Render_33.jpghttp://s3.postimg.org/64rzx09j7/Full_Size_Render_34.jpg

 

Centurion-Captain Voss & Ancient Helvast

Company Command Cadre, LXXVII Battle Company "Iron Devourers"

Scouring of the Great Coastal Union, Purge of Nuceria, Shadow Crusade

[Pict-captures compiled from images recorded by elements of the XIII Legion during the Purge of Nuceria]

 

The de facto commander of the entire III Echelon, Centurion-Captain Voss was as powerful as he was mysterious. As a young lieutenant, Voss had spent a decade seconded to the IV Legion, where he gained an appreciation for armored warfare. Upon attaining command of the 77th Battle Company, Voss shaped his tactics in accordance with those of his IV Legion hosts. Although he honored Angron as his gene-sire, Voss remained indifferent to the mindless fury that the coming of the Primarch brought to the XII Legion - to Voss, warfare was a calculated affair that needed to prosecuted with merciless efficiency. Personally refusing the Butcher's Nails implants, Voss instilled such draconian discipline in his men that battlefield disorder was kept to a minimum. 

 

At the outbreak of the Horus Heresy, Voss led the entirety of the III Echelon - some 2,800 Legionaries with a sizable armored complement - to Isstvan III. There, Voss revealed his true allegiance, following Angron to the ruins of the Choral City as part of the World Eaters second wave to slaughter those he had once called brothers. It was a mystery as to how Voss - a dedicated warrior who remained true to the ideals of the old War Hounds with few friends among his fellow officers - escaped the purge of suspected loyalists in the first place. Rumors spoke of the Warrior Lodges that permeated the ranks of the Isstvan III Legions in the decades prior to the Horus Heresy. Perhaps Voss, ever a taciturn soul who shunned the company of all except a select few, succumbed to the whispers of darkness within the confines of one such foul confraternity.

[Vazzy]

 

"Never Forget. Never forget what happened here...."

 

http://static.environmentalgraffiti.com/sites/default/files/images/Underground-Tunnel.img_assist_custom-600x407.jpg

 

Appia

I-Day +6

The Sewers Beneath Appia

 

The bombardment had commenced, but still the XIII legion fought on. Remus was one of the last, he knew that, having seen the citadel take a direct lance strike and creating a crater in the earth.  He’d fled to the sewers, planning to return to the surface after the destruction. Lord Guilliman would come, He would not let this go unanswered. He couldn’t. A sinking thought crept into his head,

Perhaps the XIIIth is dead. What if the Word Bearers have already destroyed them at Calth, they must have survived. I would know if Guilliman was killed. 

 

He heard Ceramite on stone and stayed crouched as two Word Bearers stalked by, hands wrapped around dripping chainaxes. He grinned.

 

Right on time. 

 

His heart fell as he saw both had Ultramarine trophies hanging from their belts, skulls and helmets. He vowed vengeance for the dead, feeling the fury boil up inside. Remus stood, and fired. Two shots, two kills. He strode over to the bodies and pulled two short magazines of bolter ammunition, placing them on his belt. He checked the drum magazine on his rifle and winced. 9 shots left. Plus the two 10 round magazines he had now, he was in possession of 40 shots. Much much less than what he wanted. His auspex pinged and he saw three more blips on the radar, approaching quickly.  He checked the bodies one last time, satisfied at his work and ran again, boots loud in the tunnels. He rounded one corner, then two, and felt the tunnels shake as the grenades he’d left went off.  Remus chuckled to himself, the cries of fury and agony following him.  He moved down the ladder, sinking deeper and deeper to the depths, the last survivor of a burned world. Honor dictated he avenge his Brothers, and dying would make that difficult. 

 

Untitled 

 

[brother Remus, 6th squad, Seeker]

Remus is equipped with up armored Mk IV plate, something stolen from the increased protection given to Destroyers. It would pay off during the fall of Ulixes as Remus would take bolt shells that the increase in armor stopped.  He wields a modified Godwyn Bolter with increased optics as well as a large box magazine loaded with AP rounds. Remus would be found alive 3 weeks after Ulixes and would join forces with the 129th company in the Shadow Crusade.

 

 

[Vazzy]

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b2/Sortavala_lutheran_church_on_fire_(1940).jpg

 

A

rmatura. War World. Crown of the Ultramarian Military. These are not what Centurion Cato Voss thinks as he bleeds from the gaping wound in his armor as the World Eater strides past him, power axe sizzling. 

This is where I die…lying on the ground like a dog…

 

He rises to his feet, leaking blood like a burst bottle. He twirls the blade in his hands, the perfectly weighted gladius covered in his lifeblood. He steps over the two dead World eaters at his feet, and calls out to the XIIth legionary. 

 

“World Eater. “ 

The white armored warrior turns, and Voss knows he’s smiling behind the helm.

“We have not yet finished this fight.”

The World eater shakes his head.

 

“I will kill you Ultramarine. It will be over quickly.”

 

“We’ll see.”

The two fly at each other, Voss blocking strike after strike, weaving as the axe flies at him. He parries the chainsword and strikes, spearing the World Eater in the stomach. Voss rips the blade out and kicks the World Eater away, staggering as he does so. He’s dying. But so will the World Eater. He marches toward the fallen warrior, flipping the blade to coup de grace the bastard. He never get the chance,as the power axe suddenly pistons up, embedding itself to the beard in his groin before being torn out. Cato Voss groans once more,and the sword falls limply to the ground. 

 

“Cou..courage….a..nddd…Hon…hono…r.” He breathes once more,then falls silent. 

 

Agram Ironmaw walks away from the dying Ultramarine.The XIIIth legionary had died ugly, though he’d died bravely. Agram winced at the wound in his gut. It hurt, a lot. Blood coated his armor like a red glaze, the white of his armor a dirty grey-red.  His Captain signals him over the vox. 

 

“Agram…damn you…answer me.”

The World Eater chuckles, striding through the collapsed throughway, marble pillars chipped and damages. Shattered busts litter the ground, though one catches his eyes. Agram approaches it, ignoring the bleating radio in his ear. The bust is of Lord Guilliman, his hawkish features betraying a slight smile.  Agram snorts, fingers curling unconsciously. The Nails bite hard for some, but for Iron Maw, it’s merely a nibble, the pain engines allegedly malfunctioning. He doesn’t mind. Thinking clearly is something he’s quite fond of. Perhaps that’s why the Captain never got his, Hard to say really.  He examines the bust more closely, peg teeth clicking unconsciously. He crouches and picks the bust up, setting it on the display plinth.  He nods once then stalks off, leaving the hall undisturbed.  Two World Eaters wait outside for him, the remainder of the squad.  One gestures to the hall and Agram shakes his head, finger to his lips. 

 

“Yes Greaus? I’m listening now.”

 

His Captain snarls, “Listen up Ironmaw. Khârn and the eighth are getting hammered. We’re going in to assist. Have your squad meet Kree at Avici plaza and move from there. Greaus out.” 

 Agram turns to the other two Legionaries, eye lenses glowing dully in the dust. Both are blood soaked, and one is missing his arm at the elbow. Agram gestures to it. 

 

“Fryu, you good to fight? Drecu?” 

 

He’s answered with a snarling affirmatives. He grins behind his helmet.

 

“Good. Come on, we’ve more Ultramarines to kill.” 

 Fryu breaks the silence as they move at a loping run, humor tainting his voice.

 

“So. The Ultramarine you killed? How’d he die?”

 

There is a pregnant pause as they run, and Dercu looks to Agram, expecting an outburst. He gets none. Agram keeps running, axe in one hand chainsword in the other.

 

After a time he replies, “He died a hero. I’ll remember him…”

 

Agram IronMaw is the leader of Veteran Cadre VII, one of the adhoc formations created post Massacre. Agram has twice defended his title as leader, both tmes to Sanguis Extremis. He is best known for the peg teeth in his mouth, but also for the fact his Butcher's Nails do not operate correctly, barely driving him to Berserk fury. As such, he is something of an intellectual, something almost unheard of in the XIIth legion. 

 

Untitled by vazzy2012, on Flickr

 

Agram wields a Vibro axe, looted from a IIIrd legion warrior during the Istvaan III betrayal. Once called Ilktuyum, it is now simply called "Beheader", the graceful weapon now simply a tool to be discarded when no longer useful. He also wields the Chainblade "Cutter",an unimaginative if, true, name. 

Untitled by vazzy2012, on Flickr

 

Agram would survive Armatura as well as Nuceria, though he would end up falling on Terra, cut down in a sally by VII legion armored companies. It is beleived that on Armatura, he personally slew 3 Champions/centurions, as well as an entire Armaturan guard company. 

[Relict]

Interval 2-1

 

Past, Unhappy Things

 

Ship-Mistress Tallin Merkit swore as the Crimson Tempest unexpectedly dropped out of the Warp for the fourth time since leaving Ulixes. Her ship had taken a tremendous beating from the Spirit of Espandor - it was a wonder that she was still void-worthy. Merkit had voiced her concerns to the Commander, going so far as to suggest delaying the journey until the Mechanicum magos on board could make adequate repairs. The Centurion-Captain had refused her request. Even though Voss was far more levelheaded than most of his brethren, he was still a World Eater. Merkit knew that the Iron Devourer already had his mind made up - to try convincing him otherwise would be at best futile and at worst deadly. 

 

The rest of the fleet emerged from the Warp as well - they would not leave one of their own unguarded and vulnerable. Merkit keyed a control panel and the feeds from the external picters appeared on the bridge monitors - the Crimson Tempest lacked the luxury of armored viewports. The Ship-Mistress could see the familiar shape of the Ardent Prayer  - the Word Bearers aboard having received the same orders as their cousins in white and blue. A Mechanicum ark appeared as well, drifting almost serenely through the cold, empty void. A demi-legio of Warhound Titans was stowed on board. The heavy-handed brutality of the Legio Audax was a perfect match for the Twelfth Legion. Behind the capital ships came the lesser vessels - escort and supply ships. 

 

Merkit knew that she beheld a force capable of subjugating an entire system inside of a Terran week. Five thousand Legionaries, sixteen Titans, and who knows how many thousands of the World Bearers' "auxiliaries." All well-equipped and bloodthirsty. She mentally counted. The worlds they had encountered thus far in Ultramar - Ulixes being their latest victim - had all fallen despite of valiant resistance offered by the Ultramarines. And what exactly does any of this butchery has to do with the march on Terra? The Ship-Mistress wondered. None of the worlds we destroyed held any significant military value. If the destruction of the Thirteenth Legion is the objective, then why not sail for Macragge itself? The combined might of two Legions would surely prevail.

 

Again since Isstvan III, Merkit found herself with more questions than answers. Looking out at the force arrayed before her and knowing that even it was only a fraction of the might the Twelfth and Seventeenth Legions would be bringing to bear on Armatura, the Ship-Mistress felt a sense of dread and sorrow for the war-world. 

 

---

 

"Come on, you weakling!" Torvan spat, his lipless mouth locked into a grimace even though his eyes practically danced with glee. "Are you one of Fulgrim's fops now? Stop trying to hit me and just hit me!" 

 

Aralakh slashed with one of his Falax blades while he drove the other forward, aiming for his opponent's throat. Torvan ignored the feint and met his brother-sergeant with his Excoriator chainaxe. The would-be lethal blow glanced harmlessly off the haft of the longer weapon. Aralakh swung again with both weapons, only to have their energized blades parried by the spinning teeth of the chainaxe. A kick sent him reeling, and Aralakh brought up a blade just in time to deflect a backhand stroke from Torvan. 

 

Cadeyrn watched the fight with fascination while his brethren gathered around the pit roared their approval. Unlike the warrior lodges of other Legions, gatherings of the Lodge of the Red Serpent were seldom solemn affairs. The only ritual practiced here was combat - contests of strength and skill between warriors who had shed blood side by side on the battlefield and now wished to test themselves against each other. Over a hundred World Eaters of various ranks were gathered in the torch-lit space, watching the contestants trade blows and insults while they consumed vast quantities of meat and swill. The fight was close, too close to call. 

 

"Second blood!" Aralakh called out triumphantly as he landed a cut on the back of Torvan's thigh. The spectators, sensing that the climactic conclusion was near now that both sergeants were back on even ground, began a guttural chant. 

 

The bite of the Butcher's Nails granted Aralakh the raw strength his exhausted body would otherwise have lacked. Blow by blow, he drove the other sergeant back. Torvan, suddenly on the defensive, fought on stubbornly as he tried to regain the initiative. The heavy chainaxe was an offensive weapon - it was ill-suited for defense. He desperately sought an opening in Aralakh's unrelenting assault so he could bring his weapon to bear. 

 

There. In his mindless fury, Aralakh was not minding his flanks. An opportunity Torvan was quick to exploit. 

 

As Aralakh brought both of his blades down in an overhead cut, Torvan rolled to his right instead of blocking. Still on one knee, he swung his chainaxe in a wide, lateral arc. The flat of the broad chainaxe slammed into Aralakh's left side, sending him tumbling into the sand. Kicking aside his opponent's weapons, Torvan brought the chainaxe - this time with its killing edge facing forward - to Aralakh's exposed neck. 

 

"Well fought, brother." Torvan breathed, fighting the murderous impulses that the mechanical parasite pumped into his brain. "Third blood." 

 

---

 

Seated amongst the last row of spectators, Voss was only dimly aware that the fight was over. Clad in simple robes made from a coarse material, the Centurion-Captain's attention was focused on a data-slate in his hands. While most of his fellow officers viewed the matter of logistics with contempt, a decade spent seconded to the Fourth Legion had given Voss a different perspective. The Twelfth Legion as a whole and the Third Echelon in particular had been badly bled over the last year. The cataclysmic events in the Isstvan System had cost the Centurion-Captain some of his most experienced troops. Now, with both Bodt and Sarum vulnerable to Imperial retribution, there was no guarantee that the men and machines lost in combat could be replaced in a timely manner, if they could be replaced at all. 

 

Material losses aside, Voss understood that the betrayal on Isstvan III and the the massacre on Isstvan V had irrevocably damaged the psyche of every Legionary, Butcher's Nails or no. Killing a brother in honorable single combat is one thing, hunting them down like wounded animals is quite another. He thought. I chose and sent a hundred of my warriors to die in the Choral City. I deceived them. Then I followed Angron to the surface to finish the deed face to face. How many of my kinsmen did I kill during those weeks on the surface? It was a rhetorical question that he could not begin to answer. He put the data-slate down and closed his eyes for a moment. 

 

"Traitor..."

 

The accusation was barely a whisper, yet there was enough familiarity behind the venom to make me pause. 

 

"Hamilcar of the Tenth."

 

The dying warrior did not reply. Instead, his gaze found mine, the baleful eyes burning bright behind a mask of cascading blood. Four mass-reactive rounds had transformed his midsection into an unrecognizable mess of shattered ceramite and shredded innards. A chainsword had taken the left side of his face off. The only distinguishable features left above his gorget were the Butcher's Nails. Even now, I knew that Hamilcar's cortical implants were pulsating, scraping at the soft meat of his brain with the dull knife of a singular command - kill, kill, kill. My brother's remaining hand trembled as he attempted to wrap his fingers around the grip of a fallen bolter. 

 

"I can't let you do that," I said quietly as I gently kicked the battered weapon out of my brother's reach, noticing with some disdain that it borne the sigil of the Emperor's Children. 

 

My brother's ruin of a face contorted. "Why?" He spat the word out with as much hatred as he was able to muster. "Why? Answer me... You... You thrice-damned traitor."

 

I had no answers for Hamilcar. I had no answers for any of the nearly one hundred dead and dying Legionaries who lay around me. Most wore the same livery as I did, the great fanged maws that once marked their armor now defaced. Fallen warriors in sea green or royal purple were scattered amidst the mass of filthy blue and white, their once-proud sigils likewise erased in defiance. A fine last stand. It had taken my men days to corral and corner them within this worthless husk of a city on this worthless husk of a world. It had taken my men hours still to silence the last of the resistance. Even with myself and Ixion leading the veteran Terminators' relentless advance. A fine last stand indeed. Very admirable. 

 

I turned back to address Hamilcar, uncertain of what I would say until I saw that there was no longer any need. The warrior's dead eyes now stared vacantly at the abused sky beyond the gutted roof of the manufactorum. 

 

At last, the Nails sing no more. I thought as I sheathed the sword that had cut down so many of my kin today. Die knowing that you fought well, brother. 

 

I had no pain-engines enslaving my mind to the gory joys of the battlefield. What I did have is duty. Not to the bloodthirsty, rampaging creature I called father, but to the battered and bloodied men I called brothers. When the warrior lodges spoke of the word that the tide would turn on this world, I willingly turned with it. I could not condemn those who followed me to death simply because I wished to present some illusion of devotion to the Emperor who regarded us as nothing more than tools to be blunted and then discarded. 

 

"Captain Voss," Cael's quiet voice interrupted my musings. "We've cleared the grounds. Caleston reports that those on the upper levels are dead as well."

 

"Our losses?" 

 

"Nineteen dead and twice that number wounded," Cael replied emotionlessly, mostly due to the augmentic vocal cords that had replaced his natural ones. He shrugged, not an easy feat to perform in Tartaros Terminator armor. "Mostly Torvan's maniacs. Void Serpent's gone - he and his men moved on before Caleston even got to the roof." 

 

"Very good, old friend," I said with a sigh. "Order the rest of the company to follow Torvan's lead. The second we're clear, I want the tunnels below flooded with phosphex."

 

"Yes, sir."

 

Voss opened his eyes as the painful memory came to an end. Standing up, he quietly made his way to the exit. Not one of his lodge brothers saw him leave. 

[Relict]

Interval 2-2

 

Bloody Kindred

 

A Gloriana-class battleship represented the very pinnacle of Humanity's technological achievement. The Conqueror was that pinnacle distilled into an expression of Mankind's basest yet purest instinct - raw aggression. A century spent in World Eater service had changed her. She lacked the sweeping, majestic lines found on the Pride of the Emperor or the Red Tear. She had not the somber grace of the Invincible Reason or the Macragge's Honor. She was not the bastion that the Iron Blood or the Endurance were. Instead, she possessed something else - she looked, above all, hungry. Like the sightless predators that prowled the depths of the vast oceans that once covered much of distant Terra, she slashed through the impenetrable darkness between stars, seeking to sate her hunger for death and destruction on an unimaginable scale. 

 

Behind meters of Nostraman adamantium, the Conqueror was a hive of activity. She carried a complement of tens of thousands of souls - Navy crewmen, Army troops, and Legion warriors. All of them scrambled to give a wide berth to the four armored figures making their way to the flagship's command deck. Centurion-Captain Voss, solid and unyielding in his artificer-wrought Cataphractii plates, led the silent procession, his dark features expressionless save for a mild hint of distain. The three lesser captains who followed their commander were clad in newly issued Mark IV Maximus plates. Eadric, the freshly elevated leader of the 52nd Battle Company, walked with a swagger he previously lacked. Hakon, whose Butcher's Nails implants dangled loosely from his violated skull, represented the 71st Assault Company. Vulferam alone kept his helmet on, for the master of the Destroyer Cadre had little organic face left after years of exposure to his own weaponry. 

 

---

 

"Enough, Khârn." The Primarch's voice was an almost bestial growl, thick with the bloody phlegm that had accumulated in the back of his throat. 

 

"But sire-" The Equerry began, before Angron silenced him with an outstretched hand. Khârn wisely held his tongue. 

 

"Enough of this." Angron said with finality, shaking his head like some fearsome predator fresh from its slumber. His red-tainted eyes had a strange, glazed look to them. He flexed his fingers absentmindedly. Although he had never received the "blessing" of the Butcher's Nails, Voss recognized the symptoms, after seeing the same in so many of his own men over the years. The Sire of the XII Legion was in immense pain, his cortical implants scraping at the raw meat of his brain with a dull blade's slow cruelty. To question him now would be to invite a gruesome death.

 

"Well, that took less time than expected." Hakon quipped as soon as Angron had stalked out of the Conqueror's strategium, the Devourers following in his wake. "I expect Lorgar is still busy sermonizing to his zealots on the Fidelitas Lex."

 

The assembled World Eater officers - several dozen in all - likewise broken their silence at the departure of their lord. This was the first time many of them had seen one another in person since they had left the black sands of Isstvan V behind. Old friendships and rivalries rekindled themselves as the officers congregated in small knots to converse amongst themselves. Khârn stood before the massive holographic representation of Armatura with a data slate in hand, no doubt appraising its formidable defenses, pausing his study to occasionally speak to an old man Voss recognized as the Princeps Ultima of Legio Audax. Delvarus, the braggart in charge of the Triarii, made cutting gestures with his arms, no doubt reenacting his choicest moves in the fighting pits to a handful of his admirers.

 

Since the coming of the Red Angel, Voss had disliked spending time on the Conqueror. To him, the ship will always be the Adamant Resolve. He knew that he would never be able to partake in the bloodletting with the same relish that most of brethren enjoyed. To them, he was a relic of a forgotten past, decidedly useful but also deliberating shunned. As he and his cohorts turned to leave, Voss found himself face to face with a scarred warrior.

 

"Captain Lorimar." Voss acknowledged his fellow officer with a curt nod. The man leered with a toothy grin that seemed too wide for his face. 

 

"Voss of the Iron Devourers. Vulferam, Hakon - good to see you. Where is Zuka?" Baltus Lorimar of the 4th Assault Company glanced at the two captains at Voss's side. "And who is this whelp?" He added, glancing at Eadric, who bristled at the casual dismissal. 

 

"Captain Zuka died a valiant death on Ulixes," Voss answered quietly. "This is Captain Eadric, his successor. I would appreciate it if you addressed him by his formal rank." He added firmly. 

 

Lorimar took a step closer to Eadric, his dark eyes alight with malice. "Captain Eadric, eh? Have you been to the pits on the Conqueror? Perhaps you and I should step onto the red sands. Sanguis Extremis would do nicely, would it not? You strike me as a sycophant, and I would like to test your mettles where this fossil cannot interfere." 

 

Hakon and Vulferam stiffened at the insult, sensing that bloodshed was imminent. Without a word, Eadric moved to draw his sidearm. The snub-nosed bolt pistol never cleared its holster. 

 

"Holster that sidearm. Save your wrath for the enemy." Voss commanded in a dangerously low voice as he released Eadric's wrist. The younger man complied, still glaring at Lorimar. "Armatura awaits and we all have warriors to make ready. Captain Lorimar - I suggest that you do the same, before this becomes something we shall both regret." 

 

"You have no authority over me, Voss." Lorimar sneered as Voss and his men walked past him and out of the strategium. "Damned old fool, I shall put you down one day." He whispered to himself. 

 

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Angron the Conqueror, Primarch of the XII Legion 

Khârn the Bloody, Captain of the VIII Assault Company, Equerry to the Primarch

Battle of Armatura, Shadow Crusade 

[Pict-captures compiled from images recorded by elements of the XIII Legion during the Battle of Armatura]

[Kizzdougs]

Awesome work Relict! Angro is looking great :)

[Relict]

Glad you like it. I redid the photos for each story so everything is a little more streamlined now. 

[KrautScientist]

Aw, mate, that is so cool! Lorimar making an appearance in your fluff really rocks! Thanks for that! I have to say he's a bit more of a bastard than I would have expected, but I think this shows rather beautifully how there are always two sides to a story, right? In fact, I feel kinda tempted to write a version of that particular scene from Lorimar's point of view...

 

Excellent work on your Angron model, btw! I think you've gone for just the right amount of red elements on the armour, which really makes him pop!