+March of the Legions: XIX Completions+

[Brother-Chaplain Kage]

March of the Legions

Month 2 Completions: The XIX Legion

http://i.imgur.com/ZJpBV8W.jpg

Those who successfully completed the challenge for Month Two: XIX Legion can now add this badge to their signature:

Please only leave the five pictures from your completion in the XIX Legion Challenge, and the fluff for you characters. Any other comments or text will be deleted. Thank you.

[Brother-Chaplain Kage]

   A lone astartes stood in the cell, facing the mirror on the other side of the room. The laser beams that served as the bars of his prison hummed softly. His helmet rested on the cot behind him. He had not spoken in nearly thirty hours.

    The armor he wore was painted a deep blue-grey, reminiscent of the color he wore all those decades ago on Terra, and was dusty but well-maintained. After the Primarch had turned his back on his kind, he had refused to wear the black and the raven, now only bearing the XIX numeral of his Legion. On his left pauldron was a faded and chipped skull and laurel denoting his rank as a Company champion, and on the right, the icon of his assault assignment.

     In height and build he was average for his kind, but there was where any commonality ended with the majority of his genetically engineered brothers. The epicanthic fold of his almond-shaped eyes and the dark tattoos that lined his face spoke of his Asiatic heritage from Terra. Eyes of solid black, set close to either side of a wide nose, were sunk deep in a darkly tanned face, and they spoke of a different heritage: one that now shunned his kind for their birth place.

    Those cold, dark eyes stared, unblinking, at his own reflection but knew they were looking into anothers' on the other side of the mirror.

    Severen Erris couldn't really be called be stealthy, but he was incredibly quiet for a Contemptor. His measured steps barely even gave a tremor through the metal decking as he moved up to his oldest friend and reluctant captain. One look between the prisoner and his companion told him all he needed to know.

    "He sees ye."

    "Yes," Vall replied.

    "He hasn't spoken yet, has he?"

    The short astartes shook his head in frustration. "No. We've been having this staring contest for nearly six hours now. I'm glad you've returned."

    A static blurt emitted from the Contemptor - the equivalent of a grunt from the old Dusk Raider inside the machine. "I read th' brief. He slew his brothers. Why's he still drawin' breath?"

    "We've slain our brothers as well," Vall countered.

    "They were traitors. There was no evidence that his brothers-"

    "He's no traitor. Perhaps Corax knew they had been too close to Horus for too long. I don't agree with the actions of their Primarch, but sacrificing the Terrans did keep the corruption from reaching his Legion. And this one, Enami Ozika, was only finishing what Corax started. We found lodge tokens," Vall added, before Severen could object again.

    "Fine. He's no traitor, but he en't accepted our offer or even requested t' be returned t' his own forces. Boot him out th' airlock. Be done with him."

    "I don't kill loyal astartes, and he would make a great addition to our assualt forces."

    The towering machine heaved a sigh. "Yer not even listenin' t' me, are ye, lad?"

    "He's a survivor, just like us. He was at Lysithea, the retaking of Akum-Sothos, and Isstvan, and here he stands."

    "Lysithea?" Severen echoed, and there was a hint of respect in his tone. "He obviously has no love for his Primarch, since he don't wear th' raven, but why th' raven-shaped helm?"

    Vall smiled, but still stood unmoving, looking into Ozika's eyes. "It's not a raven, but a raptor. Gotha did some checking and found that his unit had been reprimanded numerous times for refusing to bear the raven icon, but he took it a step further and had his helm fashioned after the Raptor Imperialis."

    "Maybe he en't so bad after all."

    "You saw his weapon?"

    The Contemptor shifted slightly in what approximated an affirmative. "Aye. Never seen th' like."

    "According to Gotha, it was a ceremonial tool of punishment for his people, used to sever head and limb alike, depending on the crime. Ozika likes to disarm his opponents, literally, before killing them. He also collects the finger bones from traitors, carves the names of fallen brothers into them, and links them with wire into a sort of tapesty, as his people once did on Terra."

    A low, electronic rumble signaled a laugh from the Contemptor. "I think I'm startin' t' like him."

    Just then, Ozika blinked, sighed, and sat down on the cot. He held up a hand and motioned for whoever was watching to come forward.

    "Might be gettin' somewhere," Severen said as Vall exited the room.

    Ozika's eyes widened in surprise when the short astartes entered the cell block, clad in only a simple robe of deep grey. "What afflicts you, brother, to stunt your growth so?"

    Vall managed a hint of a smile. "I was of the original VIII Legion, pulled from a dark hole in the ground on Terra. Food was scarce and it didn't help my growth much."

    "Night Lords," Ozika said derisively, then spat on the floor of his cell.

    "I'm no more a Night Lord than you are a Raven Guard. My Crimson Sons are a collection of loyalists of all stripes, many of us Terran. We still fight for the Emperor against our traitorous brothers. Have you decided to accept the offer to join us?"

    "I have nothing to return to," Ozika said. "I do not wish to rot in a cell. I want to fight, but I will not wear the colors or numbers of another Legion."

    "I would never ask such a thing of you, brother," Vall replied. "My men who brought you aboard, you saw their helmets?"

    "I did."

    "That is our only uniform."

    Ozika nodded and picked up his raptor helm; with his free hand, he bit deeply into his thumb and used the tip to paint bloody tears coming from the eyes.

    With a gesture from Vall, the laser bars of the cell vanished and he held out his hand. "Welcome to the Crimson Sons."

 

 

http://i.imgur.com/lqi6pb1.png

 

http://i.imgur.com/m2EwmDW.png

 

http://i.imgur.com/CnicyAv.png

[Grotsmasha]

++ Subject: Brother Singh ++

++ Status: Loyalist, XIX Legion ++

++ Location: Deceased, Istvaan V ++

++ Time-stamp: =]DATA CORRUPTED[= ++

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

Legionary Singh stood immobile in the darkness, shrouded from the twilight beneath a rocky overhang. His modified MKVI power armour was at minimal power usage, all but undetectable to the five Iron Warriors below. He and the two remaining members of his Assault Squad had been skirmishing with these Iron Warriors for the better part of a week. The Iron Warriors had been relentless in their pursuit of the Raven Guard Assault Squad, their initial chance encounter had left the Raven Guard with six and the Iron Warriors with thirteen.

Several steps more and the Iron Warriors would trigger Brother Ghelt’s boob trap, a krak grenade beneath the black sand, signalling the ambush. The Raven Guard had lured the Iron Warriors into a small canyon, full of columns and outcrops, perfect for the guerrilla warfare preferred by the Raven Guard. Running a mental check of his equipment, Brother Singh was acutely aware of his dwindling supply of bolt rounds. Every round would need to count.

An audible click echoed through the canyon as the lead Iron Warrior reached the buried grenade, he had just enough time to look down at his feet before being immolated in the resulting explosion. The force of the explosion knocking an Iron Warrior from his feet, and an expertly placed bolt round from Brother Rastus’ Stalker pattern Boltgun found the soft armour under the chin of a third Iron Warrior, blowing out his neck and taking off his head.

The wail of a turbine jetpack announced the arrival of Brother Ghelt, swinging an overhead blow he struck out with his two-handed chainsword at the neared Iron Warrior, who barely managed to deflect the blow with the flat of his Boltgun. With a faster than anticipated reaction, the Iron Warrior head-butted Ghelt, shattering his optical lenses and buckling his helm. A Stalker round rang off of the Iron Warrior’s pauldron, unperturbed, the Iron Warrior continued his assault on the blinded Raven Guard, knocking him to the ground with a bone-shattering leg sweep. Brother Rastus’ third and final round rang out, ricocheting from the Iron Warrior’s breastplate, buying Ghelt the time to prime and detonate his final krak grenade, taking both legionnaires out in a blast of fire and smoke.

Having located Brother Rastus’ position, the remaining two Iron Warriors opened fire, backing away from Ghelt’s fiery resting place. With their back’s turned, Singh dropped from his perch amid the rocks, activating his chainsword at the last moment and driving it vertically straight down the spine of the closest Iron Warrior. His sword was ripped from his grip as the Iron Warrior tumbled to the ground, already having raised his pistol he unloaded his final five rounds into the helm of the last Iron Warrior as he turned to face the new threat, the final round finding an eye lens and blowing out the back of Iron Warriors skull.

Singh removed his helm and awaited Brother Rastus to descend from the rocks above. As he approached, Brother Rastus extended his gauntlet in a warriors greeting, Singh took it, a smile on his face. Even before he could speak, a piercing pain erupted in his chest, Rastus had slid his blade beneath Singh’s extended arm, through the weaker armour ribbing puncturing both his primary and secondary hearts. Confusion spread across Singh’s face as he tumbled flat on his back, Rastus squatted beside him removing his helm. It revealed a face Singh didn’t recognise with a tattoo he did, a Hydra beneath Rastus’ left eye upon his cheek.

Rastus leaned forward and whispered “For the Emperor” into Singh’s ear. He then stood and set about the Iron Warriors, collecting a full suit of armour from their remains, and discarding his own. In his new suit, Rastus walked back to where Singh lay, gasping his last breaths. “Now my real mission begins”.

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

[Slips]

Heres my last-minute-leaving-for-vacation-the-next-day-why-do-I-procrastinate-so-much Raven for the March.

 

 

Depicted Here is Veteran Sergeant Chaals, of the Mor Deythan Elite of the Raven Guard Legion. The above Pict Captures were taken 300 hours into the Dropsite Massacre, recovered from vid and pict feeds from fellow legionaries. 

 

Originally having been issued prototype Mk VI (now known as Corvus) pattern Power Armor, the intensity of the fighting and scarcity of resources meant that Sergeant Chaals had to replace broken armor by scavenging from among the dead. During the fighting, he came into possession of yet-functional Nuncio-Vox equipment from a fellow fallen marine, using it to better coordinate with other Legionnaires and Central Command during scouting, sabotage and assassination missions during their guerrilla conflicts with the Traitor forces in the later hours of the Dropsite Massacre.

 

Seen here, Brother Chaals is equipped with one of the few remaining Combi-Weapons - this one being a Melta weapon - owing to his station within the legion and the types of missions he was to undergo.

 

Other Items of note are his Helmet and Backpack - being aformentioned Nuncio-Vox Gear, Climbing Rope, Standard Issue Krak and Frag grenades and a standard issue Monomolecular Combat Blade; having had to abandon his own personal Power Sword at some point during the Conflict.

 

Due to the vagaries and conflicting nature of debriefing reports, the current status and potential whereabouts of Sergeant Chaals is currently Unknown. 

[Millicant]

[Atia]

Shade Lord Arkhas Fal

former Master of the XIX Legion, Captain of the Nicor, traitors' bane

 

Arkhas Fal was the Terran-born Master of the XIX Legion before they were united with their long-lost Primarch on the world of Deliverance. Once given command of his Legion, Corax began to impose the style of war he had perfected upon Lycaeus over that which had defined the XIX Legion of old, particularly by purging the more cold-blooded ways of the Terran Xeric tribes which had once defined the Legion culture. The Legion had so often served in oppression, repression and occupation forces that Corax saw in some of the Terran members of his Legion something akin to the slavers of Lycaeus. Several of the Legion's highest ranking officers were displaced or reassigned to non-command roles, including Shade Lord Arkhas Fal, who had commanded the XIX Legion for three decades before the coming of the Raven Lord.  A small number of mostly Terrans of the Legion of old, had been assigned to many of these posts beyond the fringes of the Imperium, some in independent nomad fleets, other attached to various Rogue Traders Militum or other so-called "lone wolves". One of these fleets was in fact commanded by the Legion's former commanding officer -- Shade Lord Arkhas Fal -- on the direct order of the Primarch when Corax took over the Raven Guard. Re-entering Imperial Space at the Realm of Ultramar during the 5th year of the Horus Heresy, Fal and his man were confronted by the news of Istvaan and Calth - and swear their allegiance to Roboute Guilliman and his Imperium Secundus. 

 

 

http://img5.fotos-hochladen.net/uploads/lordarkhasfalxgm794h2ti.jpg

 

My brethren ... i need to share a dark truth with you ... Horus, our paragon and former teacher has betrayed the Imperium of Mankind. For all we know, Terra may be fallen and the Emperor and our so called 'father' Corax may be dead. We are not the magnificent angels, as these are the sons of Sanguinius, nor are we Guillimans' eager apprentices or the proud knights of Caliban ... but we will never be slaves of Horus' madness! We will be Terras' avengers, and like the Xeric shark of old, we will hunt that traitorous bastards and let them bleed ... for Terra and for the Emperor!" 

- Shade Lord Arkhas Fal 

 

http://img5.fotos-hochladen.net/uploads/lordarkhasfaly9x1fb65il.jpg

 

http://img5.fotos-hochladen.net/uploads/lordarkhasfalp6zcr18v9a.jpg

 

Note: This suit of Terminator armour shares many similarities with early Indomitus armour produced on the Forge World of Testudas, designed to be an dedicated assault variant. Arkhas Fal gained a prototype of this Tactical Dreadnought Armour after the compliance of 27-13, as a gift from the Testudas-Mechanicum, but because of material straits and the outbreaking Heresy (and Testudas' extermination in the 3rd year of war) only a handful of suits, around 500, were ever manufactured and used by the Legiones Astartes.

 

http://img5.fotos-hochladen.net/uploads/lordarkhasfalesmtvp40nq.jpg

 

http://img5.fotos-hochladen.net/uploads/lordarkhasfal2fdenu7bix.jpg

[Castiel]

Sergeant Eran of the Raven Guard ran, the heavy boots of his prey echoing ahead of him into an empty building. A bolt pistol was clutched in either hand, and the bandoleers from which the grenades the Destroyers were so feared for hung empty on his chest. The infravisor in his helmet painted his surroundings in a wash of different greens. He heard a cackling of the marine he hunted, the Night Lord a twisted mirror of the noble Raven Guard, that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere a once.

 

"Got you!" a voice whispered in his ear, and he hurled himself forwards into a roll as a lightning claw snapped closed where his left knee had been, catching a quick glimpse of midnight dark armour and a pallid face framed by lank black hair. He fired a volley as he came out of the roll, but the Night Lord had vanished again. He retreated to the shadows and watched for movement, as his Primarch had taught, constantly moving, never still for more than a heartbeat.

 

The Night Lord chuckled again, and this time Eran tracked the sound to the rafters. So that was where he was hiding. Eran's eyes narrowed as he sought a way into the high roof of the building. Hand over hand he pulled himself into the beams above, moving as silently as he was able. From his new vantage point he looked around, stalking carefully across the beams. He spotted a hunched figure beside one of the cross beams, staring intently at the floor below, searching for some hint of Eran's whereabouts.

 

Eran launched himself, tackling the Night Lord off the beam. The enemy warrior sought to twist as they fell so as to land on top of Eran, but he held firm, driving his enemy face first into the ground below. There was a sickening crunch, and the Night Lord rolled away and staggered to his feet, his lower jaw pulverised and nose broken and ran suspected a fractured skull as well.

 

All mirth was gone from the Night Lord's bloodied features and he launched himself at Eran with a bestial snarl, no longer playing and aiming to kill. Eran held his ground, firing his pistols and blowing chunks from his enemy's plate, before swiftly sidestepping the swinging claw aimed at his head and sweeping the Night Lord's feet out from under him. He stepped in to kick his fallen opponent, but wa forced to jump back as the Night Lord's talons shot out, gouging deeply into the armour of his shins. The Night Lord came forwards again, but Eran leapt at him, taking him by surprise and hammering a pistol wielding fist straight into his already damaged jaw, dropping his opponent to the floor. Eran stepped swiftly around the Night Lord as he struggled to rise.

 

The Night Lord froze as he felt the hard barrel of the pistol against the back of his head. "Any last words, traitor?" Eran asked. With his ruined jaw the Night Lord could only howl in frustration, a terrible bestial sound.

 

It was cut off by the bark of the bolt pistol, and the headless body dropped to the floor in a clatter of plate. Eran holstered his pistols and quickly scavenged the ammo the Night Lord had carried and moved off through the night. There were many more traitors on this world to kill.

 

http://i1246.photobucket.com/albums/gg605/Castiel25/Mobile%20Uploads/IMG_20141231_031545_zps9919b282.jpg

http://i1246.photobucket.com/albums/gg605/Castiel25/Mobile%20Uploads/IMG_20141231_031526_zps54ffed2b.jpg

http://i1246.photobucket.com/albums/gg605/Castiel25/Mobile%20Uploads/IMG_20141231_031515_zpse67577ac.jpg

http://i1246.photobucket.com/albums/gg605/Castiel25/Mobile%20Uploads/IMG_20141231_031552_zpsaabf033f.jpg

http://i1246.photobucket.com/albums/gg605/Castiel25/Mobile%20Uploads/IMG_20141231_031611_zpsc880f8ba.jpg

 

Terrible photos I'm afraid, but I'm in the middle of moving house and can't get a better set up just now. Still, vow complete!

[Der_H]

The moon emerged from behind a cloud, casting its ethereal light on the landscape below. It was quiet, it wasn’t a battle anymore. The sounds of distant bolter exchanges echoed around the narrow canyons and Sgt Brax of the IVth ordered his men to advance.

 

Yard by yard they checking each rocky outcrop and every concealed area for their prey. The sound of power armoured footsteps on rock echoed up the narrow cutting. He sensed movement ahead. Brax knelt and with one quick hand signal his men knelt also.

 

“Hail, Brother” said the figure who emerged around the corner

 

“Hail”

 

Brax knew this voice, and he stood. His old friend walked towards him, the rest of his own unit rounding the jagged corner ahead followed by a mighty contemptor dreadnought. The units exchanged glances, assessing losses and equipment status. It had been days since the first strike at the drop-site. They were worn, but not tired. The hunt kept them sharp.

 

http://i1145.photobucket.com/albums/o501/henrycoll/March%20of%20the%20Legions/F.jpg

 

“What news Brother?”

 

“Tracking some stragglers,” Brax replied “we’re close.”

 

“Unlikely my old friend,” the Sgt laughed “we have come from where you are heading...”

 

Brax felt his jaw tighten and his grip on his weapon shift, “...there was nothing” The sergeant hardened as he saw Brax’s hand shift on his bolter.

 

Brax felt anger well up in his chest, but he lowered his Bolter to his side.

 

http://i1145.photobucket.com/albums/o501/henrycoll/March%20of%20the%20Legions/R.jpg

 

Brax turned away. “We will double back to the last fork,” he barked at his men “they must be in here somewh...”

 

His words were lost under the powerful blast of a lascannon. The contemptor flashed with fire as its torso was hit. The ancient warrior groaned and stumbled to its knee. A second shot landed perfectly, more central than the last, which sent it rolling back. Bolter fire erupted all around. Shouts and confusion took over. It was time for orders.

 

“Contacts.” Brax raised his bolter, spun on his feet to kneel. His bolter sights lined up. “Engage!”

 

His men, initially scattered, took cover where they were able. Shapes moved overhead, evading the sights of warriors below. The fog, the sound of bolt guns, the sounds of movement close but unseen confused the senses of the warriors of the IVth and slowly they fell. Brax was thrown to the ground by a bolt round to his left pauldron. He knew this pain, and quickly regained his senses. A scream erupted from behind.

Brax rolled over to see his old friend with three glowing claws protruding from his chest. The claws drew back, replaced with rich blood of the falling warrior. Brax swung his bolter around, and unleashed its payload at the shadowed warrior behind his fallen brother. A flash of a jump pack and the shadow was gone.

 

http://i1145.photobucket.com/albums/o501/henrycoll/March%20of%20the%20Legions/L.jpg

 

Brax crawled over to his fellow sergeant, his shallow breaths interrupted by coughs of blood.

 

“They followed us brother...” the dying warrior gasped “...run...”

 

“We are the IVth Legion. We have already taken the drop-site. We do not run from our prey”

 

http://i1145.photobucket.com/albums/o501/henrycoll/March%20of%20the%20Legions/B.jpg

 

Brax hauled himself from the ground and turned as a shadowed figure appeared from the fog. A sharp pain caught his breath and he was stopped in mid stride. He looked up to see a MkVI helmet within inches of his visor. The helmet was black, set with two deep red eyes.

 

“You should have listened to your friend. Traitor”

 

The claws that sat in his chest tore sideways, carving through his carapace and ceramite as though made of cloth. The figure turned, flew up into the fog and was gone.

Brax dropped to his knees, readouts in his helmet listing the damage, his hearts racing. The nearby bolter rounds slowed their rate and were replaced by silence.  Brax fell forward, the impact of his armour slowly echoing around the canyon walls. The fog darkened and the moon disappeared behind the clouds.

 

http://i1145.photobucket.com/albums/o501/henrycoll/March%20of%20the%20Legions/Pose.jpg

[Ezeriel]

Diocail, Destroyer squad member of the XIX Legion

A Terran born legionaire of few words and who cared little for accolades or glory. It is this attitude that prevented him from rising in the ranks and eventually found him a spot in a Destroyer squad, a role he found rather fulfilling.

He was spared the fate of joining other Terran legionaires in the nomad fleets beyond the Imperial borders. He was present and survived the worst tragedies the legion faced, the Battle of Gate 42 and the Dropsite Massacare. These two events left their mark on Diocail. He was now one of only a handful of Terrans left in the legion. He became withdrawn and rarely spoke. On the battlefield he dove headlong into enemy emplacements and squads with little regard to his own safety. All records of him cease during the Scouring while in pursuit of members of the XVII Legion. His ultimate fate is unkown.

The only markings on his armor were his legion number and his repainted vambraces and gauntlets. They were repainted an ash gray as a sign of his surviving Gate 42 and Istvaan V as well as being of Terran descent.

[Adra'Melek]

++Pict of Najib-ul-Duala, Praetor of the 'Dawn Ravenors' XIth Chapter of the XIXth Legiones Astartes, during action as part of a Preditation Fleet in the outer reaches of the Galaxy. Equipped with artificer lighting claws and custom Volkite weaponry. The mark of armour worn suggests some contact with the main forces of the great crusade was maintained++

++The Praetor made a name for himself fighting in the Great Crusade under Horus, and when the XIth Chapter was formed he was given command. One of the Terran members of the Legion he was proponent of swift and savage strikes. Favouring high altitude drop insertions, equipped with jump packs, to fall on the enemy. Following Corax taking command of the XIXth, Najib was one of those sent into exile. It is unknown what purpose they were sent but it is worth noting the lack of Legion signature in the pict even though it was taken after they had become the Raven Guard++

They were coming. Uncalled for, unwanted, but they were coming. They would fall upon their enemies, and tear them apart. They would show their gene-sire what true loyalty is.

 

 

 

 

http://i963.photobucket.com/albums/ae112/hammer_of_thunor/015725002d4f6772237dea80570fd934.jpg

http://i963.photobucket.com/albums/ae112/hammer_of_thunor/c9edfd48dae8eb5494d29a0314d92a4b.jpg

http://i963.photobucket.com/albums/ae112/hammer_of_thunor/7e2f5cb8a970b79e12e90c5ba4091ba8.jpg

http://i963.photobucket.com/albums/ae112/hammer_of_thunor/141b3307bb7dda5682c330258e78e197.jpg

[KBA]

The searing ringing tore through his eardrums, stabbing his brain like hot shrapnel, as his crumpled form struggled to right itself. Finally turning over and leaning on his back, his fingers scraped and scratched at his helm’s release, desperate to end the noise. Vacuum-sealed clasps disengaged with a hiss he couldn’t hear as he threw the malfunctioning Mark IV Destroyer Pattern Astartes helm to his side. Recollecting himself and his surroundings, Veteran Sergeant Tills hung his head down in defeat.

 

The Eastern Valley had fell to Household Ferrand, the traitor Knights outnumbering and overwhelming the Legio Atarus God Engines. A simple vox-transmission could have warned the Ultramarine 433^rd company that their flank had collapsed, but communications had been in disarray upon planet-fall. His squad had been ordered Carrier-Pigeon Protocol. Tills let out a laugh that showered his morning-lit surroundings in sardonicism, but not from the ancient Terran-borne metaphor. The mission had been a tragedy – no, comedy -- of errors that started with his Storm Eagle evading a shower of battle cannon shells on lift-off only to later bathe in the subsequent volley of heavy stubber fire that followed, the pilot careening away off intended course and right into the well-timed swipe of a Reaper Chainsword.

 

Bailing out on roaring jump jacks, he and his surviving destroyers were forced to act as range practice to a tirade of enemy forces. Most of his men fell to the accurately placed, arcane-powered shots of twisted Mechanicum automatons, but Tills couldn’t be certain. Bounding across the scorched battlefield, he soon found himself alone and untargeted; tracer fire and ray trails no longer zinging horizontally across his field of vision. The false wall of safety quickly crumbled around him as warning alerts sounded and red tinted symbols flashed around his HUD: his armor was breached. He momentarily felt the sting of pain from the pulped, blood gushing stump of broken ceramite and ripped flesh where his knee had once been before his Astartes body released heavy doses of adrenaline into his blood stream, racing through his arteries, along with the accelerated clotting-agent Larraman cells, to the wound site.

 

Landing on one leg would have been difficult, but nothing was just difficult for the Veteran Sergeant this day. The port side of his jump pack had been struck; ruptured hydraulic control and fuel line fluids joining the blood from his leg, forming a cruel cocktail of liquids which rained under his flight path’s arc. Bracing for uncontrolled impact was the last thing Tills could recall, now righted up against his ruined jump pack. He began recessing from consciousness as his well-disciplined Sus-an membrane began reacting to the extreme trauma of his wound.  Quickly, he disengaged the surviving bolt pistol from its mag-lock with his right hand, his left fetching something far more sinister from his waist. The decision was upon him, and soon his enemy would be as well. Fighting in his current condition would only extend the comedy of the day, he thought, as his glance shifted from the bolt pistol to the phosphex bomb in his left hand. Consume himself and the traitors in white-green, coward-chasing flame? Now that would give him something to actually laugh at.

 

http://s12.postimg.org/rr0pgx08t/P2022004.jpg

http://s12.postimg.org/5gcugy2yl/P2021997.jpg

http://s12.postimg.org/s6bz9xm65/P2021992.jpg

http://s12.postimg.org/3tnmvpqwt/first.jpg

http://s12.postimg.org/lot2qfbst/P2022011.jpg

[Spaced Hulk]

"Once I led warriors into battle, heroes of the Imperium one and all. The greatest soldiers our race could produce, to face the foulest terrors that lurk amongst the stars.

Now I herd monsters to the slaughter, abominations for whom a swift death would be the greatest mercy we could provide.

Fate, it seems, is not without a sense of irony."

- Attributed to Lucas Deth, so-called 'Warden of the Damned', former captain of the 23rd Assault Battalion, XIX Legion Astartes. Current commander of the Reborn Third Company, known within the Legion as 'The Black Guards'.

Easy Prey

Like a wraith in the darkness, Lucas Deth crept through the twisting warren of the Varn Orbital Manufactorum. Unseen and unheard, his ebon plate merged with the shadows as he effortlessly avoided servitor production teams and mortal work crews alike. As with the majority of Nineteenth Legion survivors, the newly promoted commander of the Black Guards possessed no supernatural ability to hide his presence. Indeed, very few of the fabled Mor Deython, inheritors of the Raven Lord's most unique gift, had returned from the killing fields of Istvaan. Instead, the warrior relied solely on skills honed during his youth in the mines of Lycaeus, utilising stealth and his surroundings to remain undiscovered. Residual heat from the foundries served to mask his thermal signature, whilst the constant roar of machinery drowned out the distinctive hum of his power armour. Once the Raven Guard had practised such tactics as a preference, now they were simply a necessity.

The Varn Orbital was a Grade IV production facility, independent but affiliated to the distant Forge World of Ryza. For nearly a hundred years, the artificial moon had provided arms and munitions for the armies of the Great Crusade, supporting their advance into the galactic North East. Now, those same factories were supplying the rebel armies of the Warmaster, fuelling his inexorable campaign back towards Terra. The Primarch of the Nineteenth had decreed that this supply must be terminated, and so the Black Guards had been tasked with returning the Orbital to the Emperor's light, by any means necessary. Unfortunately, even Corax himself would have to admit that it was far from an ideal mission for his Legion's most unconventional company. However, with their forces so sorely depleted, the Raven Lord had to utilise whatever assets were still available. And so Deth and his command squad had infiltrated the station, initiating a plan to remove the rebel's influence here once and for all.

An entire month of reconnaissance, observation and sabotage had led them to this moment. With the rest of his team dispersed throughout the factory complex, Deth made his way back towards their original insertion point. His designated ambush site was a simple access corridor, a long, twisting passageway that ran the entire length of the station's cavernous flight deck. Like much of the facility, the walls here were open and unfinished, a tangled web of thick pipes and exposed cabling that could easily hide even his heavily armoured form. The corridor itself saw little traffic, but as it connected all the primary loading bays, it would form an obvious escape route for anyone fleeing the hangers and freight terminal. Satisfied with the location, Deth mag-locked his power gloves to his torso, freeing his hands from the cumbersome weapons. As he swiftly made his preparations, he kept a close eye on his chronometer. Timing was critical now, and with the squad maintaining a strict vox-silence, he had to trust that the rest of his forces were in their assigned positions.

With his work complete, the Black Guard reattached his weapon gauntlets and slipped into the shadows once more, concealing himself amongst the pipes and machinery of the passage walls.

He would not have long to wait.

***

Veteran Sergeant Tomas Gorr, of the XIV Legion Astartes, prowled impatiently through the primary loading docks. Like a caged beast, he watched with growing irritation as the servitor teams ferried arms and ammunition into the waiting cargo haulers. Inactivity was the main cause of his worsening humours. Gorr was Astartes, but more than that he was Death Guard, a warrior bred solely for constant, unrelenting combat. He would never admit it, either to the men under his command or to his superiors, but he resented the nature of his mission here. Varn was an essential link in the Fourteenth Legion's supply chain, and following the Istvaan Campaign, Gorr and his squad had been dispatched to safeguard the facility. With civil war raging throughout the galaxy, such duties were now a necessity even for Mortarion's forces, but the sergeant still could not banish the thought that this assignment was a slight, or worse, a chastisement.

However, it was the Manufactorum's sheer inefficiency which was currently testing the sergeant's already limited patience. In the last month, the facility had been beset by technical problems of every kind, from catastrophic machine failures to unexplained data crashes. Production had dwindled to a mere trickle, and with the Legion's urgent need for a continuous supply of fresh war material, his commanders were now demanding that the situation improve, and swiftly. And so Sergeant Gorr and his men had begun to display a more obvious presence aboard the station, in the hope that trans-human dread could accomplish what the Tech-Overseers apparently could not.

As his patrol reached the South Terminal, Gorr suddenly became more alert, his customary irritation replaced with a strange sense of unease. There was no obvious reason for this suspicion, but a century of warfare, combined with a childhood spent amongst the grim hills and valleys of Barbarus, had led Gorr to trust his own instincts and intuition. With one gauntleted hand resting on his shouldered power maul, the Death Guard turned and slowly scanned the nearest loading bays.

At first, nothing appeared amiss. Like the rest of the flight deck, the scene here was one of constant, almost chaotic activity. Despite the apparent lack of order, Gorr knew that the work teams were operating under standard Mechanicum protocols, like a colony of insects where each individual knew their place and exactly what was expected of them. Cargo shuttles and light haulers were docked in every bay, each one surrounded by the same frenetic horde of servitors and bionically enhanced labourers.

All but one.

An unassuming, black hulled cargo shuttle sat still and silent in docking bay Ninety Four. Whilst every other craft in the hanger was a veritable hive of activity, this ship alone was untended, a strange oasis of calm amidst a sea of chaos. Even the shuttle's loading ramp was raised and closed, sealing the vessel off from the rest of the flight deck.

It was possible, the sergeant mused, that this particular shuttle was already fully loaded and was waiting to lift off. However, every ship that visited the facility had very specific instructions, to depart the moment that loading was complete, returning to the orbiting fleet of mass cargo carriers and allowing an empty shuttle to take it's place. In contrast, this particular vessel was seemingly inactive, giving no indication that it was preparing to either load or depart.

He was just about to vox an inquiry to the harbour master when the black ship's cargo ramp began to slowly lower, striking the deck of the loading bay with a dull, metallic clang.

Veteran Sergeant Gorr had spent a life time fighting the worst horrors the galaxy could throw at him, from massive, war bloated Ork Warlords to cybernetic Jorgall. At Istvaan, he had willingly committed fratricide against his own brothers, and assisted in the extermination of entire Legions of Astartes on the plains of black sand. There was nothing, he honestly believed, that could still cause him either surprise or shock.

Nevertheless, as the silent ship's cargo ramp lowered and the air was suddenly filled with unnatural howls and screams, unlike anything he had ever heard before, the Death Guard's blood ran as cold as the void itself.

***

First there was gun fire. Then, soon after, came the screaming.

Deth ignored the first wave that ran past his hiding place. Mortal labourers, breathless in their panic, fleeing the flight decks exactly as predicted. Easy targets certainly, but such traitorous vermin were not his objective.

Armed Skitari were next, the Mechanicum's slave soldiers following their retreating Tech Priest Overseers. Many of the bionically modified warriors bore terrible wounds, great gouges torn through flesh and steel alike, but even so there was no sense of fear or alarm. Their programming and neural control routines installed an unassailable sense of discipline, despite the monstrous adversaries unleashed against them.

Once again, Deth allowed them to pass, confident that his brothers would be able to deal with the escaping Mechanicum forces amongst the factories and workshops.

No, he was waiting for far more dangerous prey.

Another two minutes had passed before his chosen targets finally appeared. A demi-squad of Astartes: five fully armoured Space Marines, all clad in the white and steel of the Fourteenth Legion. The Death Guard fell back in good order, maintaining their squad coherency as they advanced down the access corridor towards him. Deth watched as the last two traitors turned to cover their retreat, firing on full auto against a still unseen opponent. A terrible howl, clearly audible despite the deafening roar of the boltguns, echoed briefly along the passageway before suddenly cutting out.

Deth waited until the last of the enemy squad had passed his position, then triggered the detonator built into the palm of his left power glove.

The melta charges and krak grenades he'd secreted in the walls and floor of the corridor ignited in unison, engulfing the Death Guard in a storm of pyrotechnic fury. In such an enclosed space, the intensity of the explosion was magnified considerably, tearing through the traitor ranks despite their heavy Mark III power armour. A blast wave of fire and shrapnel tore through the passageway, shredding the coolant feeds that lined the walls and adding great plumes of steam to the smoke. In less than a second, visibility in the corridor had become almost non existent.

Even before the blast had subsided, Deth was moving, activating his artificer helm's prey sight and extending the blades of his lighting claw as he strode purposefully forward.

The first two Death Guards he encountered were lying prone on the shattered ferrocrete, their armour crumpled like paper by the sheer concussive force of the explosion. As he stepped over their ruined, still twitching forms, another Space Marine emerged from the smoke, both arms burned away at the elbows by a melta blast. With a contemptuous flick of his wrist, the Black Guard decapitated the traitor, standing aside as the smouldering, head less corpse collapsed on top of his comrades.

A bolt pistol round thudded into Deth's chest as the silhouettes of another two heavily armoured figures appeared right in front of him. The range was too close for the mass reactive to detonate, but the force of the impact alone splintered the ceramite and pushed him back a step. As the first traitor adjusted his aim, looking for a clear head shot, the Black Guard lunged forwards with incredible speed, punching out with his left arm and activating the gauntlet's power field at the same time. His fist slammed into the warrior's chest plate like a thunderbolt, literally folding the traitor in two and sending him flying backwards, the mangled remains vanishing once more into the smoke filled corridor.

As fast as he was, the last Death Guard was faster. A brutal, two handed power mace, flaring with blue-white energy, smashed into Deth's left pauldron, pulverising the bones in his arm and throwing him bodily against the wall. As he tried to rise, the traitor kicked him viciously in the chest, putting him flat on his back on the burning floor.

“Time to die, little raven.” Tomas Gorr hissed through his vox grill, raising the power maul for the killing blow.

Suddenly a hideous screeching filled the air as a monstrous shape crashed into the traitor. With his vision blurred, Deth could barely see the Death Guard or his assailant, but before they disappeared completely into the smoke he could just make out sickly, pale white flesh and long sinuous limbs entwined around the enemy Space Marine in a deadly embrace.

Ignoring the pain lancing through his shoulder, the Black Guard climbed unsteadily back to his feet. As his armour dispensed pain suppressants into his blood stream, he realised that the screeching had stopped and, save for the crackling flames, the entire passageway had fallen eerily silent. Checking that his lightning claw was still functional, Deth advanced cautiously into the smoke.

He found the Death Guard slumped against the wall of the corridor, the massive power maul hanging limply from his left hand. The warrior's right hand was completely missing, sheered away cleanly at his forearm, and a pair of deep puncture wounds were clearly evident on his throat. Despite his Astartes metabolism, blood was running freely from the traitor's injuries, painting the white ceramite of his armour a rich, arterial red. The wounds must be envenomed, Deth realised, for the Space Marine's Larraman organ to be suppressed so effectively. More than any other member of the Nineteenth Legion, the commander of the Black Guards prided himself on knowing the abilities of his charges. Even so, they still retained the ability to surprise.

Somehow, despite his grievous wounds, the Death Guard reacted to his presence, slowly raising the power mace into a combat posture. Ignoring his own injury, Deth lunged forwards on instinct, spearing his lightning claws through the traitor's stomach, pinning him to the wall behind. As the maul tumbled to the floor, he stared into the cracked visor of his enemy's Iron helm, their face plates mere inches apart.

“What have you done?” Tomas Gorr whispered, blood gurgling in his throat.

“What we had to do in order to survive.” Deth replied simply, his own voice calm and clear through the Corvus face plate. “What you and your traitorous brethren forced upon us.”

“Abominations. Monsters.” Gorr mumbled, but he was no longer focussing on the Raven Guard. Instead, his vision seemed locked on something – or someone – behind the ebon clad warrior's back.

“Aren't we all cousin, aren't we all.” Deth sighed, then activated the power field of the lightning claws, pushing the energised blades effortlessly up through the traitor's torso until they reached his breast bone.

Sensing the presence behind him, the Black Guard retracted the claws back into the gauntlet's sheaths, letting the almost bisected corpse of his opponent fall gracelessly to the ground. Slowly, trying to avoid initiating a threat response, Deth turned around to face the being which had saved his life.

The creature watching him was taller than a fully armoured Astartes but only half as broad. Standing ungainly on its spindly hind legs, it's forelimbs were long and slender, belying a strength, Deth knew from personal experience, that was stronger than his own. Bones protruded from the pale, albino flesh, creating a protective exoskeleton around it's misshapen form. Shoulder blades, massively oversized due to the malfunctioning Ossmodula implant, turned the creature's upper body into a monstrous parody of a Space Marine's silhouette. However, it was perhaps the head which was most alien, and yet, at the same time, almost shockingly familiar. An elongated skull dominated by an immense, gaping jaw, filled with layer upon layer of razor sharp teeth, perpetually drooling acidic saliva caused by an over active Betcher's Gland. But it was the eyes – those dark, all too human eyes, which burned with both pain and sadness almost too terrible to witness – which the Black Guard always found the most disturbing.

Numerals and letters were laser etched onto the creature's exposed, shield-like rib cage. Personal Ident codes, designed both to identify the inhuman warriors of his Company, and, perhaps more importantly, to record their previous names. However, Deth had never needed the codes. He knew each of his charges, and remembered exactly what each had given up in the hope of saving their Legion. He owed them that, at least.

For a moment he wondered if the creature – Subject XXXIIIVI, or Neophyte Aran Kassus as he was once known – was going to attack. It was quite possible, his charges were unpredictable, especially in combat, and often failed to differentiate between friend or foe. With his shattered arm, Deth knew he would be easy prey.

As the two warriors of the Nineteenth Legion faced each other, black eyes and gleaming red visor locked together, the creature gave a slight, barely perceptible nod. Suddenly it dropped to all fours and sped away, disappearing into the smoke with unbelievable speed.

Releasing the breath he hadn't realised he was holding, Lucas Deth reactivated his lightning claw and began walking forward, following the creature into the depths of the Manufactorum.

Eliminating the Death Guard was just the start. Varn would fall in a single night.

His brothers would see to that.

[FuzzyBunny]

Soloman Cray was often called the talon of the raven. As the captain of the 68th great company he was often responsible for leading his men on daring and powerful counter thrusts and charges. He was known for wielding his hammer with devastating power as he descended on screaming thrusters from his jump pack. He believed slain, with his entire company, during the initial stages of the drop site massacre.

 

http://i198.photobucket.com/albums/aa166/FuzzuBunny/Raven%20Gaurd/10917905_899970373377208_6827187643120881822_n_zps96ee4a7a.jpg

 

http://i198.photobucket.com/albums/aa166/FuzzuBunny/Raven%20Gaurd/10896895_899970403377205_4597306715745437480_n_zps83921062.jpg

 

http://i198.photobucket.com/albums/aa166/FuzzuBunny/Raven%20Gaurd/10885064_899970383377207_7574535290459400787_n_zps71f79dc6.jpg

 

http://i198.photobucket.com/albums/aa166/FuzzuBunny/Raven%20Gaurd/10922467_899970446710534_4963623611850271808_n_zps891bbbf7.jpg

 

http://i198.photobucket.com/albums/aa166/FuzzuBunny/Raven%20Gaurd/10897752_899970423377203_2795662505842785511_n_zpsdbf02467.jpg

[Zujara]

http://i1006.photobucket.com/albums/af182/Zujara/Legions/xix1_zpsb78cebc6.jpg
 

http://i1006.photobucket.com/albums/af182/Zujara/Legions/xix2_zpsa1b36946.jpg

 

http://i1006.photobucket.com/albums/af182/Zujara/Legions/xix3_zps9161e6d6.jpg

 

http://i1006.photobucket.com/albums/af182/Zujara/Legions/xix4_zps46251de3.jpg

 

http://i1006.photobucket.com/albums/af182/Zujara/Legions/xix5_zps53d899eb.jpg

 

   Centurion Senan was a patient commander and skilled infiltrator, epitomizing the way the XIX waged war. During the battle on Istvaan V, his unit was waiting for their moment to strike at the Death Guard when the Loyalists came under attack from their reinforcements. Hurrying back to their Primarch, Senan and his men engaged the Word Bearers. Senan slew many of the traitors, and was last seen combatting the Gal Vorbak that were after his Primarch.

[apologist]

Brother Ykypanipo, Nightmarcher

 

And I was, as it were, turned into a dove/
so that my arms were pinioned like a bird/
Seizing me, he led me down to the dark house, the dwelling of Yrkla/
to the House where those who enter do not come out/
along the road of no return/
to the House where those who dwell do without light/
where dirt is their drink, their food is of clay/
where, like a bird, they wear garments of feathers/
and light cannot be seen, they dwell in the dark/
and upon the door and bolt lies dust/

 

– Excerpt from The Red Dream of the Nightmarchers, trad.

 

 

Forget the power of technology, science and common humanity.

 

Forget the promise of progress and understanding.

There is no peace amongst the stars.
 

 

 

Only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

 

The universe is a big place and, whatever happens, you will not be missed...

[EdT]

Kai Hau and the Dust Clad of the XIX

 

 

“To those who call themselves ‘Loyalists’, I say this; loyalty must be earned. For long centuries we scoured the stars for our gene-sire alongside our cousins in the XVI; when at last we found him, he overturned the sacred traditions of our Legion, condemned us as tyrants and cast us out into the outer darkness. It was only then that I realised that our true father had been with us all along; blood means nothing compared to comradeship. The only one who has earned my loyalty is the Warmaster. I spit on the Ravenlord; He is no father of mine.”
-Lieutenant Commander Kai Hau, formerly of the 7^th Battalion, XIX Legion

 

 
 
The XIX Legion, or Raven Guard, was one of those that remained faithful to the Imperium in the wake of the Warmaster’s treachery. However it would be naïve to believe that the every member of the Legion remained Loyal. The Ravenlord’s actions in the days after being united with his Legion left a lasting legacy of bitterness amongst some of the longest serving Terrans under his command, and for a small number, this anger would eventually be expressed in a repudiation of the Primarch and all he stood for.
 
When the Primarch of the XIX took control of his Legion, he began a major cultural shift in his command. Corax’s background as a freedom fighter and crusader against oppression sat badly with the ‘might makes right’ Xeric tribal philosophy of his Terran veterans, and while the majority of the Legion transitioned to the new ways, there remained a rump that was reluctant to abandon their traditions. There hold-outs were dealt with ruthlessly; the Ravenlord essentially cast them out of the Legion, removing them from the command structure of the XIX and scattering them in ‘Nomad Predation’ fleets sent to pacify the fringes of the galaxy.
 
Many of these outcast XIX remained Loyal to the Imperium and their Primarch come the Great Betrayal, but one who did not was Lieutenant Commander Kai Hau. A proud warrior of Xeric stock, Hau had fought for the Legion since the earliest days of the Great Crusade, and proudly maintained the traditions that had distinguished the XIX since that time. For a time after the Ravenlord’s union with his Legion he escaped the general purge of his comrades by finding favour as a liaison officer for joint operations with the XVI; however after the Akum-Sothos Cluster campaign and the withdrawal of all cooperation between the two legions, it was clear that Hau’s usefulness to the Primarch was at an end.
 
The unfortunate Lieutenant Commander was given command of a few hundred Terran veterans and, like so many of his kind, was exiled to the distant Halo Stars. For the next half century, Hau and his comrades languished in obscurity, fighting unknown wars beyond the Galactic fringe and appearing only occasionally in Imperial records; however, it appears that some contact was maintained with their old friends in the Warmaster’s legion, and at some point before the Isstvan atrocity, they were recalled to join the traitor cause.  
 
Fortunately for the Imperium, Hau and his comrades never made it to join the bulk of the Warmaster’s forces. Around the time of their summons, his strike force took serious casualties in a major engagement, quite possibly the result of internal infighting. While resupplying at a concealed cache in the crystal forests of Satva Tertius, they were chanced upon by the Rogue Trader Fouwé Tor, who had also been engaged in exploration of the Halo Zone and was completely ignorant of the warfare spreading across the Imperium. The renegade Astartes, not realising this fact, launched an immediate attack on the new arrivals; however they had badly misjudged the capabilities of Tor’s vessel Anastasia, and their Strike Cruiser was quickly disabled, trapping them on the planet’s surface. Refusing all offers of surrender, Hau was eventually cut down by the massed volkites of Tor’s landing parties.
 
Other ‘Dust Clad’ were more successful. As early as the Coronid Deeps campaign, enough members of the XIX had joined the Warmaster’s forces to organise a demi-company; by Dwell and Molech three whole battle companies wore the whorled grey of the old XIX. It is certain that the Dust Clad were at Terra with their adopted father; their ultimate fate after the Warmaster’s death remains one of the many unknowns of that disturbed period.

 

[Brother Vidius]

Captain Remus Narcus

 

Captain, XXIX Assault Company, XIX Legio.

Terran born, served with distinction during numerous campaigns. Pictured here during the "Dropsite massacre" on Isstvan V. 

 

Remus is carrying a hand crafted thunder hammer that he took from a fallen Salamander captain after his own weapons had been destroyed during the initial assault. Remus tallied 39 confirmed kills during the opening stages of the battle. 

 

Remus had the honour of accompanying his Primarch, Corax during the initial assault. His current status is unknown, last seen leading the remains of his company towards the initial landing zones, as the reinforcements of the Word Bearers legion made planetfall.

 

http://i1252.photobucket.com/albums/hh567/Vidius22/Mobile%20Uploads/photo_zpsc54aa613.jpg

 

http://i1252.photobucket.com/albums/hh567/Vidius22/Mobile%20Uploads/photo_zps0b9cac48.jpg

 

http://i1252.photobucket.com/albums/hh567/Vidius22/Mobile%20Uploads/photo_zps98b0f787.jpg

 

http://i1252.photobucket.com/albums/hh567/Vidius22/Mobile%20Uploads/photo_zps788d2caa.jpg

 

http://i1252.photobucket.com/albums/hh567/Vidius22/Mobile%20Uploads/photo_zps0c318df5.jpg