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++ March of the Legions: XX Legion ++

Hyaenidae

By Hyaenidae
in + AGE OF DARKNESS +

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Lord_Caldera Battle-Brother

Lord_Caldera

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Down to the wire!

Unknown XX Legion operative pic-captured at Paramar wielding experimental weaponry and sporting extensively modified MkIV armor.

http://i274.photobucket.com/albums/jj254/lord_caldera/20141130_182828.jpg

http://i274.photobucket.com/albums/jj254/lord_caldera/20141130_183000.jpg

Brother-Chaplain Kage Venerable Brother

Brother-Chaplain Kage

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welp...you win...

 

I bow down to your superior skills!

 

Hey, as a mod, I have to do my best, right? ;)

 

KAGE!!!!

 

Does that mean you like it?

 

Nice work on the camouflage!

That and the cloak and the reflective looking lenses on the binoculars and, well, pretty much everything.

 

It was a bit rushed, honestly. Due to the holidays and some family stuff I've barely touched any models in the last two weeks and then a mad dash yesterday and today to finish it up. I can't even remember the last time I painted and based a figure all in the same day.

Brother-Chaplain Kage Venerable Brother

Brother-Chaplain Kage

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If that was "a bit rushed" then censored.gif please, don't take your time, give us a chance at actually competing tongue.png

The only prize for this is the warm fuzzies and a little pip in your badge. Pledging and finishing should be reward enough. :D

It means I'm raging and throwing my hobby supplies to the floor before whimpering in the corner and drinking myself to sleep

Now you know how I feel every time I look at the Top Last 7 Days on CMON.

Seriously man, you get better with each new model you crank out. It took me a long time to get where I am with this and I'd say your climbing that ladder a lot faster than I am.

ephrael Venerable Brother

ephrael

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I'm cutting it pretty close on the timing of my submission, hopefully I'm still in time.  I haven't finished the base on this mini as I want all of my 30K bases to match the ZM board at my local club.  I haven't had time to stop in and ask how my friend painted it yet.  Here goes anyway.  I apologize for the size of the pics as well, I suck at this.

 

http://i.imgur.com/0JdDj6Cl.jpghttp://i.imgur.com/svZfKqil.jpghttp://i.imgur.com/TvbGhn0l.jpghttp://i.imgur.com/jTGF90Ml.jpghttp://i.imgur.com/E9lklsul.jpg

 

This image shows an unknown marine of the Alpha Legion shortly before the outbreak of civil war caused by the treachery of the Warmaster Horus.  He is equipped with a mix of what was at the time experimental armor pieces, possibly in a live field trial.  The Legionary is assumed to be a member of a tactical squad due to his armament of a standard issue Phobos pattern bolter with close combat attachment although in a Legion known for deception and subterfuge nothing is certain.  Note the absence of any Legion iconography or any markings of any kind.  This is possibly due to the Legion's rumored fluid organizational structure wherein individual marines may be assigned to a squad for a single mission and then redeployed once certain objectives are met.  It is also possible that the markings are yet to be applied pending review of the equipment itself.  Nothing can certain when it comes to the Alpha Legion.

Hyaenidae Venerable Brother

Hyaenidae

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Harrowmaster Dorian Fal stared out the viewscreen of his ship, his hands clasped behind his back, and a content smile upon his lips as he watched the world below die. Auderak Primus had been a system defiant, standing against the tide Horus had unleashed, and for that, it's sentence was death. Dorian and his cell had spent months slowly gutting the planets' defenses through sabotage and poisoning food and water supplies, before finally showing his Legion's hand and engaging in open conflict. The Solar Auxillia and the local PDF that remained were shaking from those poisons, starving to death, and barely capable of standing on their own two feet. It was only a matter of time before they folded, and Dorian could declare the mission a success and move on. Already, his mind was on the next target, his thoughts swimming with various clandestine angles that could strangle those who defied his Legion.

Hearing the bulkhead door of the bridge slide open, Dorian turned his head towards the visitor, assuming his second-in-command, Xethial, had arrived to inform him of completion of the Harrowing below. Instead, he was greeted by an individual he had not expected at all, nor welcomed. Clad in slate gray warplate instead of the blue-green of the Legion, the visitor's armour was marked with further symbols of lashed chains painted across sections of plate, his shoulder marked with two hound's heads, one black and one white. Everything about this 'guest', and the squad that filed in behind him, spoke of calmly controlled violence, of frontal assaults, of point-blank firefights, of unsubtle engagements wreathed in bolt propellant. A crude hammer, in direct opposition of the dagger in the shadows that his Legion represented.

Legionary-Detatchment, Asymmetrical. Cadejo, the Legion's answer to total failure.

Made up of XX Legion warriors drawn from within the organization who scored high in combat operations and independent thought, but posted lower scores in manipulative confidential encounters, the Cadejo were specialized Headhunters who were called upon to break those who writhed loose of the Legion's coils, when all other options had failed. The bulk of the Alpha Legion considered such an assignment as an insult, the LD-A’s mission statement too unsubtle for XX Legion standards, but Dorian heard rumour that the operators within the detachment quietly reveled in their ‘black sheep’ status amongst their brothers. This alienated pride, and sense of singular purpose, made the LD-A one of the most dedicated specialized units in the Legion arsenal, though Dorian thought of them as a tool too inflexible to be treated with anything other than cool disdain. Other, darker, rumours surrounded the Cell; that they were also called upon to cleanse Legion strike teams that had gone too far in pursuing their tasks and had spilled too much innocent blood. Whispers of Harrowmasters put down like rabid animals, and of defiant Cells simply disappearing into the void, long before even the civil war. It was even said that the Cadejo embraced individuality, reversing Legion surgeries to return their original faces, growing hair, and even crafting unique and ornate power daggers by hand, as a symbol of that independence, against Legion standing orders.

Such inflexibility disgusted Dorian to the core, and he placed no truth upon those rumours. The LD-A were disposable tools, just as much as any other operative in his Cell, and would be spent as such. As far as he was concerned, their deaths would benefit the Legion in the long term, as they were a stain to be removed in his eyes. Still, Dorian forced a pleasant smile upon his face as he welcomed the misfits. "Greetings, brothers. If you are here on mission, I'm afraid you are a little late. Enemy defenses below are collapsing as we speak, and there is nothing else to threaten us."

The Cadejo leading the squad stopped alongside the Harrowmaster, removing his modified Corvus helm and revealing a youthful face, blond-brown hair, and shockingly blue eyes set below a patrician brow. Dorian made a mental note to pass a message to higher command, seeing the truth of the rebellious independence of the Cadejo, silently convinced now that they had strayed too far. The operative looked down upon the world below, his gaze sweeping across the burning hives. “There is no foul, Harrowmaster Fal. We have simply been active for a long time, and require supplies before we shift warzones. We will be gone soon.” His voice was surprisingly soft for a Legionnaire, nearing a whisper.

The Cadejo continued to look upon the world below him, no emotion upon his face. “What was the final calculated enemy fatality count, sir?” Dorian returned his gaze to the viewscreen, again allowing a sense of satisfaction of a mission successfully completed soak in. “We are estimating a total depopulation nearing one point eight million. The last report from below left only the Arbites precinct intact and resisting, which should be silenced within the next half hour.” Dorian looked sideways at the outcast next to him, the confident smile still on his face. “We are ahead of schedule by nearly three weeks. If you are looking for failure, you will not find it here.”

The Cadejo did not rise to the bait, his face still written with indifference. “One point eight million men, women, and children, mostly defenseless. Indeed, this is a great day for our Legion. Banners will be raised to commemorate this victory.” Dorian, now suspicious, turned swiftly towards the Cadejo, a reprimand on his lips.

He turned right into the maw of a bolt pistol.

The Cadejo shook his head sadly as Dorian's face reddened with outrage. “It's a shame that you forgot what true loyalty means, traitor.”

Muzzle flash. A split second feeling of impact, of crushing force piercing Harrowmaster Dorian Fel's skull, just below his right eye. Then, nothingness.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Senior Operative Tarquin, LD-A 517, Cadejo, swept his smoking bolt pistol upon the ship's helmsman, even as the sound of ten seeker bolters behind him roared, punching specialized Banestrike rounds through the warplate of the Harrowmaster's headquarter squad, murdering them all before their headless senior officer had even struck the deck. The helmsman's face was pale with shock, eyes wide. Tarquin smiled at him, without malice. “If you could be so kind, it would be appreciated if you lowered the shields. We have friends coming aboard, and I'd hate for them to feel unwelcome.” The mortal nodded anxiously, hurrying to comply. Tarquin looked to his junior Team Leader, Jerimiah, as the younger warrior reloaded his bolter.

“Jer, hold the bridge with Second Team and ensure nobody does anything suicidal. I'm going to head down to engineering and welcome our cousins. First, you're on me.” Jeremiah nodded his crow helm, cutting orders for defensive positions to Second, as First rallied around Tarquin. With bolters reloaded and power daggers activated, Tarquin and his demi-squad began the long drive towards the enginarium. As they left the bridge, the melody of rapid bolter fire could be heard ringing down the corridors like a song of death, his brother Cadejos killing anything that resisted, as the faint sounds of boarding torpedoes tearing into the hull acting as a backdrop to the symphony.

Less than five minutes later, Tarquin came across the first of his cousins as they were finishing off a XX Legion squad that had gotten pinned within the bare deck of a dueling chamber. Legionaires in warplate the color of a rich blue and greens were scattered across the deck, their plate shattered and split, blood pooling around their broken bodies. Savage warriors in bone white, trimmed in rich enamled crimson, stalked around the arming chamber, finishing off survivors. Those that went without helms displayed weathered faces like tanned leather, carefully applied warpaint giving them a terrifying appearance. One, a mohicaned transhuman with feathers and bone-beads tied into the braid leading from the back of his head, slammed a short-handled axe into the skull of an Alpha Legionnaire who was attempting to crawl towards a bolter, ending the traitor's pathetic resistance. He looked up from his handiwork, and a friendly smile split his face. “Hau, Khola.” The barbaric warrior tore the tomahawk from his victim's head with a crunch. “Would you mind company? These Of'i will not be bothering us again.”

Tarquin returned the smile to his honour-cousin of the Brotherhood of the Fox, the White Scar and his brethren gathering around in a loose pack. “Of course, friend. Our other guests should be here soon, and I would like to show them around our new ship.” The Scar laughed, and unsheathed his dao to compliment his tomahawk, the elegantly curved blade and Chogorian inscriptions at odds with the fur-wrapped hilt and feathers that hung from it's pommel. Together, the Cadejo and the White Scars set off at a high pace, the whooping battle cries of the Fox Brotherhood preceding them.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The Enginarium resembled a slaughterhouse by the time the Cadejo demi-squad and the V Legion arrived. More of Tarquin's cell-brothers held held the above catwalks, and were pouring anti-armour rounds into their former kin, pinning the Alpha Legionnaires in place. Storming towards them were the other 'guests' Tarquin had mentioned, giants amongst giants, clad in Tartaros terminator armour. Their warplate was a rich amaranthine, with sections of their armour enameled like mother of pearl, all trimmed with Terran gold, made from the melted-down riches of tyrants slain and kings dethroned. Mighty Palatine Aquillas marked their chests and shoulders, and each carried artificer crafted power axes and cherished Phoenix Spears laced with platinum and priceless jewels.

Leading these noble and honourable transhumans was a living legend, a warrior-king clad in plate that was entirely pearl, except his right arm, which still retained the royal purple of the Legion. Lieutenant Commander Atellus, 1st Company, IV Millennial, III Legion. Delegate of Old Earth, bearer of the Palatine Banner, the Knight of Unification. Tarquin always felt his breath taken away by the grace and glory of his every sword stroke, his hardened and proud gaze that seared one's very heart. Even as he watched, the last Alpha Legion defender was laid low by Atellus, a calculated and perfect strike slitting the Legionnaire from shoulder to hip, cutting clean through his blackened blade as if the power weapon had been crafted from paper. Tarquin nodded to the old III Legion Swordmaster as he approached the broken body at his feet, the White Scar at his side. All three warriors looked upon the bleeding and dying wretch, Tarquin noting the rank markings and nameplate carved with the brand 'Xethial'. The second in command of the targeted cell.

The Legionnaire who called himself Xethial turned his MK IV helm to his executioners standing over him, his voice snarling though the vox speakers and the blood in his throat. “What.... what have you.... done? This is the Primarch's work, deserter. You... have no idea of.... his plans...”

Tarquin cut him off, anger cutting into his youthful face. “I do not care what the Primarch thinks he's doing. I've seen the horror of the Istvaan system, and have heard enough of the terror you have commited in Horus's name. This is treason against the Imperium and the Emperor, pure and simple, and it will not stand. No more lies, no more deviancy. The Hydra has grown too many heads, each too convoluted to preserve the other. Our hubris has come home to devour us, and I and my cousins will hunt you all down, cell by cell, until this betrayal is washed away with your blood. Die in failure, traitor”

All three warriors standing over Xethial raised their weapons and thrust downward at the same time, determination written upon their faces.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Senior Operative Tarquin, LD-A 517, Cadejo, Ghost Legion

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Hyaenidae Venerable Brother

Hyaenidae

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Y'all got lucky, I got caught up watching a show, lol. Having said that...

 

TIME'S UP!!!!

 

Tomorrow I'll tally up the completions, create the finalized completion thread to post for the ages, and of course, we will begin the sign-up for our next Legion... the XIX Legion, Raven Guard.

Kizzdougs Venerable Brother

Kizzdougs

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I'm itching to get started on some XIX Legion action!

Awesome work on the XX everybody, I'm really looking forward to seeing what people create for the Raven Guard in December. Lets make this project grow and encourage as many as possible to participate. One mini a moth is fairly achievable for most people and participating in a community project is always a great source of inspiration and commoraderie.

Lets keep the Legions Marching thumbsup.gif

EdT Veteran

EdT

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I'm afraid I've failed this one, although I definitely won't the next round- but as penance, I can provide the vignette I wrote for my XX Legionaire...
 

http://fc00.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2010/278/3/d/desert_ruins_by_blinck-d304j7r.jpg
 
 
One Year before Isstvan III
 
The unshackled mind of Oksana Zhmaev Al-Mustanir soared above the ravaged ground of the Alboran Chem-Wastes, seeking the approach of the expected visitors. Her senses detected little sign of life. This far out into the abyssal plain, the high air pressure forced the noxious gases emitted by the waste sumps into a layer of choking, corrosive cloud that clung to the ground like a growing mould. Few aside from the Blue Men could live in such an environment; the great salt-pans of the region would never have attracted many inhabitants even had they not become the prime dumping ground for the industrial waste of the Nord Afrik Conclaves. Oksana had once heard a Rembrancer compare the wastes to the highland regions of Barbarus; if that was the case, she could understand the XIV Legion’s propensity for obdurate endurance.
 
They are not coming, the conscious part of her mind thought with growing irritation. Why aren’t they here? She suppressed the thought quickly, remembering the lessons John had given her in focussing her latent psychic ability; etheric projection was dangerous enough, even without emotion seeping into the immaterium and betraying her presence like blood in the water.
 
As she descended to examine a mass of twisted metal, one of the thousands of rusted shipwrecks that had come to rest there in the millennia before the seas retreated, she heard a distant sound, like a half-heard voice. She ignored it, but it came again; then she felt the unmistakable sensation of a hand on her non-existent shoulder. She cursed, her focus slipping, and for a terrible second saw forms begin to cohere out of the fog, insubstantial tendrils reaching out for her like blind pseudopods, and then she was flying upwards in a rush.
 
Oksana gasped as her eyes snapped open and focused on the cowled face a few inches from her own; around her, the rusted walls creaked and groaned as the hoarfrost generated by her psychic effort dissipated, the ambient temperature returning to the natural stifling heat of the wastes. “I asked not to be disturbed,” she snapped, struggling to control her panic and banish the memory of the warp-predators, “do you have any idea how dangerous it is to pull me out of a scrying trance like that?”
 
The Ansar who had roused her bowed apologetically. His expression was hidden behind the head wrappings worn by all his kind, but even without using her talent Oksana could sense his nervousness; the Blue Men were a superstitious people who understood the extreme dangers of the immaterial world. Such understanding had come late for her and she shuddered at the memory of how foolish she had been in the days before her illumination. At least mortals could be released from possession through death. Such an escape would not be possible for her, and the prospect terrified her more than anything.
 
I was happier before I was Illuminated, she admitted; at least then I had the certainties of the Imperial Truth to cling to. Her mind went back to the crumbling, dessicated paper she had found in one of the endless chambers of the Rock, the ancient, honeycombed mountain the Blue Men had taken as their fortress; it had held the words of an ancient philosopher. “Someday the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.” Oksana thought of the Acuity and shuddered. If the choice is between truth and death, she thought, than ignorance becomes a more palatable choice.
 
It belatedly occurred to her that only something extremely important would have necessitated the breaking of her trance, and her anger evaporated. “Never mind,” she continued, taking slow, controlled breaths to return her racing heartbeat to its normal speed, “what has happened?” The Ansar gestured to the door. “They come,” he ventured in thickly-accented Low Gothic; very few of the Blue Men deigned to speak anything other than their own dialect, and the words were one of the longest statements Oksana had heard since they had left the safety of the Rock two weeks before. Oksana’s brow furrowed in confusion as she scrambled to get up, wincing at the pain in her muscles as she did so.
 
“How can they be here? I would have sensed them coming.”
 
Her companion shrugged, already moving into the corridor as Oksana strapped on the breath-mask she needed to live in the foetid atmosphere of the Alboran. The Blue Men needed no such aid and breathed the air freely, either through generations of acclimatisation, or more likely, selective genetic manipulation. “They come,” the Ansar repeated.
 
****
 
“Target Acquired.”
 
Glyphs showing the disposition and combat strength of the opposing force scrolled before Reno Petrus’ eyes as the internal systems of his modified Mk4 plate collated the information provided by his squad mates, and after scrutinising them for a moment, he blink-clicked them away.
 
“Acknowledged,” he muttered, not pausing in his stride across the salt-flats, “do not make contact or otherwise reveal your presence until ordered; I do not want them spooked. That goes double for you, Sheng.”  
 
Petrus allowed himself a brief smile as he continued forward; while he did not anticipate the rendezvous to result in violence, he felt better knowing Octavian Sheng’s heavy rotary cannon was covering his every move. Arranging an introduction with the Blue Men had taken six months of painstaking work, considerable expenditure of resources and the deaths of more mortal agents than he cared to consider. Yet their assistance, and the knowledge they held, would be vital in the fraught times ahead. Petrus knew what was coming; they all did, particularly since Nikea. If the Legion was to successfully negotiate the torturous path they must follow, allies were needed in the secret places of the world. And if that meant negotiating with secret societies and cults, then so be it.
 
When he was around five hundred metres away from the ruined landcrawler which was to serve as the rendezvous point, a distance far beyond the visibility afforded by the pollutant clouds, the enhanced autosenses on Petrus’ armour detected multiple energy and heat blooms as his presence was detected and weapons were brought to readiness in preparation for his arrival. “Contact made,” he voxed; “their vigilance is impressive, so ensure your stealth is equally so.”
 
Petrus continued to stride forward through the smog, tracking the targets marked by his helm display until they became visible through conventional means. A group of lean figures clad in dull-coloured bodygloves, their faces covered by indigo headscarves, watched his approach. They were armed not with the antiquated las-locks favoured by most waste nomads but rather with compact, advanced-looking energy rifles of an indeterminate design; Petrus quickly blink-clicked images of the weapons for further analysis and then approached, ostentatiously keeping his hands away from the combi-bolter and power-sword mag-locked to his waist.
 
A figure emerged from the landcrawler and walked forward; the vox hissed with the subvocalisation of Leonid Tenko, his Communications specialist. “Thaumaturgical readings indicate the female is a psyker. We would be detected were it not for our psy-baffles”.  Petrus grunted assent, as his armour detected the greatly elevated heart rate of the woman and flashed a diagnosis of transhuman dread on his visor.
 
“Acknowledged. I am causing intimidation, so I will act to reassure the mortals. Removing my helm now.”
 
****
 
Oksana Zhmaev Al-Mustanir stood transfixed as the Astartes, not more than ten paces away, regarded her through its serpent-crested helm. The scales worked into its armour lent it a reptilian grace as it moved, quite at odds with its huge bulk. She had seen post-humans from a distance on occasion, at parades and ceremonial occasions, but had never previously had one scrutinise her directly; it turned her stomach to jelly, and made the elegant needler she had brought for protection look like a ridiculous affectation. Beside her, she felt the Ansar stiffen. They were intimidated too, any sane person would be, but it was a measure of their devotion that they were still ready to fight. Before, she had thought that the twenty-three Ansar she had brought with her would be enough protection. Now she was unsure if it was enough to deal with the giant before her.
 
It was not just the sight of the legionary that disturbed her, but its complete lack of a psychic presence; she could feel the intimidation roiling off the Ansar beside her, but no hint from the giant. Do they not have souls as we do? she thought. Eventually, Oksana realised she should speak. “I….” she started, only to be interrupted by a hiss as the Astartes raised his monstrous gauntlets to his helm and disengaged the seals keeping it in place.  
 
The face revealed was bronzed, and handsome despite its exaggerated scale. Intelligent blue eyes framed by a serpentine tattoo regarded Oksana with some humour, and she realised, with a start, that just like the Ansar the Astartes could breathe the air unaided.
 
“I have come seeking Al-Mustanir, the leader of the Blue Men,” it said, its voice a pleasant, cultured baritone a world away from the gravelly rasp Oksana expected. “I wish to establish an alliance between my Legion and his people, for dark times are coming and we are oath-sworn to the struggle against the Primordial Annihilator, as I believe are you.”
 
Oksana cleared her throat behind her facemask. “I am not a Blue Man,” she replied, “but they have accepted me amongst them, and I speak for them. Let it suffice to say that in speaking to me, you speak to Al-Mustanir.”
 
The Astartes raised an eyebrow. “I would rather know to whom I talk.”
 
Oksana smiled. “If you truly know of the Primordial Annihilator, then you also know that names have power. We do not give that power away lightly. The Blue Men, and their allies, understand the true state of the cosmos. We have been Illuminated. And to symbolise this, the Blue Men take the name Al-Mustanir. “It means ‘enlightened’ in one of the old Terran tongues. So while we may have other names, they are irrelevant, and known only to ourselves; we are all Al-Mustanir.”
 
The Astartes was silent for a second, then to her absolute bemusement, it began to laugh, a terrifying booming sound that caused the humans present to take an involuntary step back.  Finally, the sound subsided and with a dull clang the Legionary tapped the device worked onto the indigo of his massive breastplate.
 
“I believe we shall come to understand each other very well, mamsel Al-Mustanir. I am Alpharius.”
 
***

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