With Fire and Iron: On the Noctis Infernae

[Barabbas Sogalon]

WITH FIRE AND IRON: THE TALE OF THE XXVI COMPANY, VIII LEGION

“I remember my father. Barely. A torn corpse in a pool of blood, guts hanging out like dead worms. I have been fatherless longer than the Imperium’s existence. Most of us never knew their fathers, the Emperor made sure of that. I took a certain pride in lacking a father, survival perhaps. We all did and it made us stronger as we faced down the abominations in our way. We had the Legion, we had a purpose. We needed nothing more. Still, there was this small hope… I admit that we once envied the XVI. They had Horus. Surely his brothers would be just as noble. And what did we get? Madness and corruption, filth unworthy of life. We did His dirty work, the acts none dare speak of or want to admit are necessary to win this war. It was a betrayal, our loyalty repaid like that. We chose not to submit, we chose to… No, lass, I will speak no more of this, for it hurts too much to do so.”

- The words of Equerry Jebra, VIII Legion, as recorded by Archivist Saroyan, 003.M31

ON THE BLACK SANDS OF ISTVAAN V

006.M31

The battered legionaries approached, retreating across the sands. The XVIII: the Salamanders, the Sons of Vulkan, the little Firedrakes. Righteous bastards. Once they had been tolerable, back in the day when they carried the Ram and were of use to the Imperium. Now they were all polluted by the Nocturnans. Weaklings who failed to understand the true potential of fire. Namarik Krastor took a deep breath, noticing the stench of fratricide through the helmet, and lifted his gaze to study the rest of the battlefield. He saw a sea of colours amidst the chaos; black, sea-green, white, ivory, purple, crimson… midnight blue. The Crows, Horus’ little pups, the rabid Dogs, the false Fourteenth… weak-bloods all of them. Krastor’s lip curled in disgust. So this was the glorious endpoint of the Crusade to save mankind from itself, the long war of enlightenment and noble ideals reduced to brother fighting brother. The Urgall Depression, a depressive sight indeed. Krastor looked to his right where the Night Lords, Curze’s depraved whoresons, had gathered and a black fury accompanied the taste of acid in his mouth. It had been decades since the last time he saw the Nostramans and now that he shared ground with them again he wanted nothing else than to watch them burn, hear them scream as the flames ate away their flesh and cleansed the taint on the Legion’s honour. He remembered the first one he killed, a mongrel who believed himself more fit to rule than the Captain; the head had come part like a piece of fruit when bashed against the wall. They were as much the enemy as the ones in the valley.

After four weeks of isolation from the Company, the Captain had suddenly emerged and ordered them to set course for the Istvaan System. The Warmaster turning against the Emperor. Wonderful. It came as a shock to hear that they would regroup with the Legion they had severed all bonds with, and when Krastor asked why they left in the middle of a campaign, the Captain had smiled like he did before a phosphex bombardment. Retribution, Namarik. Retribution, was the only answer he got. Now the 26th, the Noctis Infernae, stood ready to turn those words into action. Krastor was proud to count himself among the over fifteen hundred Astartes in blue grey armour occupying their share of the black sands, each a veteran of the war to conquer Terra. The black banners had been raised high and war cries older than the Legions let the ignorant bastards on the battlefield know that the Company’s allegiance was to Albia and Earth of Old; these men were warriors, not cannon fodder sent to die for a tyrant and his sons.

There was already talk about “loyalists” and "traitors" among the Legions. Lies. They had all been betrayed, some were just too blind to see it while others foolishly sought to compensate by pledging themselves to a new tyrant. The XVII was the worst of the lot. Krastor had greatly respected the Iconoclasts, but these fanatics that replaced them were a shame to the Legions and had to die. The only ones who saw clearly on this battlefield were the Infernae.

Krastor looked back at the Salamanders, his position in the vanguard giving him an excellent view of their retreat. The rest of the battle barely concerned him. When the order came he would lead 2nd Oathblades and the Sappers in a charge to crush the blacksmiths of Nocturne between the hammer and anvil. Killing the Firedrakes with fire; the very thought of it made him grin. Another charge, led by the Equerry and 1st Oathblades, would at the same time carve into the group of Crows and lobotomized Medusan bastards to their left. Any cursed Nostraman, Colchisian or Olympian who got in the way would burn like everyone else.

The Captain’s voice crackled in his ear. “Do you see them down there?”

“Aye, it looks like the altruistic protectors of humanity are in need of aid,” answered Krastor in his gravel-like voice. “Sad that we have to disappoint them.”

He counted every step the little Firedrakes took towards the 26th, feeling the anticipation surge through his body. He needed to see flames and take in the smell of scorched flesh.

“Disappointment will soon be the least of their worries. You and 2nd Oathblades ready?”

“Ever since we left Earth.”

The Captain gave a mirthless chuckle. “Do you remember how they judged us? So self-righteous. Now look at them, kindling for our glorious pyre. Who had thought that their lives one day would end in flames?”

Krastor remembered very well how the Nocturnans had criticized their scorched earth operations every time they crossed paths, demanding that the Infernae should be sanctioned. What right did they have? Naive whelps that had never seen Terra or set foot on its surface, pretending they knew something of the Crusade. Morality and lofty ideals had no place in a bloody trench.

“…and so they fall, and so they fall, those proud lords of Nocturne,” the Captain continued with another chuckle. “Today we shall be dragonslayers, Namarik.”

It was good to have the Captain leading the Company again. Without the Lord of Infernal Night they were like blind men trying to find the light, the downside of him keeping all the battle plans to himself, and war was reduced to the dull affair of simple killing. Krastor’s only worry was how long the Captain could remain in this lucid state before the “dark mood” claimed him once more and they were forced to drag him away from the battle. As one of the Gedryht, the inner circle, it was his duty to ensure the Captain's survival.

“The night will soon be on fire. Make sure they feel it.”

“Of course,” said Krastor before the link was cut.

He focused on one of the XVIII, an officer of some sort, who moved at the front of the group. Bronze helmet shaped as a dragon’s head, crossed hammers on the chestplate, cloak made of scales, and like the legionaries around him the green armour carried scars from recent fighting with the Barbarusans. None of it could save him from the coming storm.

“When do we burn them?”

The Oathblade beside Krastor, Karradok, had always been among the more violent warriors, not unexpected of a former Sapper. The bolter in his hands was fittingly marked with ancient runes of fire and earth.

“Patience, Silas. You will be killing Drakes and Crows in no time.”

A quick series of confirmations filled the vox. Now they had reached the point of no return. Krastor drew his sabre, hearing it sing as he did, and ran a pair of fingers along the millennia old blade; this would not be the first time it tasted Astertes blood. Then he started to silently recite the oath he had sworn hours before.

We, the trueborn legionaries of 2nd Oathblades, swear upon the Sigil of the Burning Eye to destroy our enemies in fire and ash, to salt their earth and to uphold the honour of the VIII Legion as we kill for our brethren who are unable to stand with us on this day.

The war cries had stopped and marines armed with volkites moved to the fore. Everyone was quiet.

Justice comes with red hands, we are the left.

With a single word the Captain unleashed hell. The thunder from the artillery preceded a storm of pale green fire that burst to life in amidst the Salamanders, growing violently as the hungry flames crawled across the ground to devour everything they touched. Screams and chaos. Krastor could not stop smiling at the beautiful sight.

This is our oath sworn in the name of Terra and Albia of Old, let the flames stand witness as it is sealed with our blood.

Volkites opened fire and in seconds they obliterated the front ranks of the Drakes caught between the Infernae and the phosphex; the officer with the dragon helmet blasted to ash in the first volley. Bolters followed immediately. The war cries sounded again, louder than before, and the Vexillarii raised their black banners high as the Company advanced.

Igni Atque Ferro.

It had finally begun.

+++++++++

Oath-Decurion Namarik Krastor, Master of 2nd Oathblades, Noctis Infernae

[SalvationOfReason]

That is some killer fluff. Nicely done. The Infernae is pretty smooth looking as well, with just the right amount of menace.

[Draakur]

Your writing is very polished, great first entry! I'm not much of a Heresy fan but I think even I will enjoy this :)

[deathspectersgt7]

Another Killer Thread.

[Stoneheart]

Nice! Interesting to read from a Terran Night Lord's perspective. Looking forward to see how this develops, nice kitbash on Kastor too! :)

[jimbo13]

Yes!!! So much awesome. Just the right amout of dark but a slight regal vibe. Are they supposed to be like the Crimson Sons?

[Barabbas Sogalon]

Thanks a lot, brothers! It feels good to have finally started this project.

@ jimbo13: The Crimson Sons were a great inspiration when I created the Infernae.

A small teaser of 1st Oathblades.

This is the first time in seven years that I've made something of green stuff. I'm a bit rusty, but I think it turned out ok.

[Hyaenidae]

Remember, brother, it was the Terran VIII Legion who first coined the phrase 'We have come for you'.

 

Never be afraid to show off the best ever death threat.  :D

[Barabbas Sogalon]

I'll definitely make use of it at some point. Perhaps before a phosphex bombardment at dusk.

[Olis]

Just read the OP. Man, there's some sweet threads springing up recently. Very nice write up, brother. Yet more sons of Old Earth fit for killing. ;)

[Barabbas Sogalon]

Thanks!

Finished building a few members of 1st Oathblades.

Vexillarius Dundas

Oathblade Seumas

Oathblade Ciaran minus heavy bolter

Also Yitzhak, the only psyker in the 26th Company.

Then a pair of older picturer.

Endrin Karelion, Chief of the Assault, 4th Northern Varyags

I originally built this fellow for the Imperial Army regiment allies to my Death Guard, but I think he can do a better job as one of the Terran soldiers stationed aboard the Infernae's flagship the Dusk Queen.

[Barabbas Sogalon]

+On the Noctis Infernae/Last Warlords of Dusk/Gedryht+

Gedryht. That is the name for them, the inner circle. An echo of Old Earth. Long ago the Warlords of Albia went to battle surrounded by a small band of elite warriors who were sworn to die by their side. This practice ended when the Albians were forced into service to the Emperor. The Gedryht of the XXVI Company is made up of the Captain’s finest and most trusted warriors, acting as both advisors and protectors (among them are the Equerry, Oath-Decurion, First Sapper and Chief Medicae). Each group of Oathblades (eight in total) is commanded by a Gedryth.

Then there is the Fighting Gedryth, the bodyguard. This handful of veterans has only one duty: to protect the Lord of Infernal Night no matter the cost to themselves and others. They are ruthless and loyal to the point of fanaticism, never leaving the Captain’s side. They rarely speak. The majority of them are former Sappers (violent ones, most likely chosen for their expertise at close combat). The Fighting Gedryht is led by the Warden, one of the most powerful men in the Company. They call him the Captain’s Voice. I hate him.

- From the notes of Archivist A. Saroyan, in service of the 4th Northern Varyags, 003.M31

Warden Diarmuid, leader of the Fighting Gedryht, Voice of the Captain

[Barabbas Sogalon]

“You’ve accomplished nothing, Son of Dorn. Humanity can’t be saved. Our world burns and your Imperium has failed, we are back to where it all started. You must be so proud of yourself. Now, go ahead and kill me, it doesn’t matter anymore. I am a dead man. I died in the trenches long before you were born, you’ll be killing a corpse. Make sure to enjoy your victory while it lasts, slave, for he’ll turn on you as well. He and the Primarchs, they’ll destroy you, take away your Legion and honour just like they did to us, and then throw you aside like broken tools. You’ll be reduced to shadows of your former selves as the Imperium dies before your eyes. I do hope you live to see that day. When it happens, remember this moment and how you once killed one of the last loyal-“

- Last words of the one called Barka, the Siege of Terra

OATHS OF FIRE, SWORN IN BLOOD

Chapter 1

006.M31

Some called him “the cripple” or "the broken bastard", others used “the dead man that lived”. Both were true, no reason to deny it. Being labelled “traitor” was different. A Crow had shouted it before a volkite ended his worthless life. Teburon Barka was a loyal man, loyal to the past and Old Earth and the original purpose of the Legions. If that made him a traitor in some eyes, then they would die for their ignorance like the tyrants he toppled during the Crusade. He put two revolver shots through the throat of a Salamander before firing his charger into a gathering of Raven Guard. More Crows and Drakes died around him, cut down by those they called allies minutes earlier. 1st Oathblades were at the heart of it, having started their attack as the first phosphex shells detonated among the little Firedrakes, and they had slain many since the Captain gave the order. A black armoured marine came at Barka with a chainsword, only to be stopped short by a bullet through the left lens and then another to the forehead; you never knew with these Medusan bastards. He holstered the revolver and moved closer to the others in his unit.

On the way to the Istvaan System he had wondered what it would be like to face other Astartes in open battle, to kill them like cattle. He came to the conclusion that he felt absolutely nothing, but now that he was actually doing it… no, still nothing. No regret, guilt, grief, anger, hate, vindication or joy. Just the same emptiness that filled him on every battlefield.

An inferno grenade exploded to his right and was followed by Oathblade Seumas’ raspy voice. “The shadows can’t save you, Crow! The light has found you!”

Barka watched as their enemies were covered by unquenchable flames. One of them should have kept his helmet on.

“Good to see you're still keeping up, brother,” said Seumas, speaking with the heavy Northern Albian accent common among the 26th. "Thought you'd fallen behind by now."

Barka remained silent, having heard it before. He moved with a limp, ever since his left leg was severely injured several decades ago. The Apothecaries had tried everything and failed, not even power armour could correct it, and without the support of his armour the leg was practically useless. A broken man in every sense of the word, but on the other hand one incapable of bending his knee again. How humiliating for the lobotomized Medusans to be killed by a cripple made of “weak flesh”; it made him sick to think that the “Iron Tenth” once had been home to Albians like himself, another proud Legion twisted beyond recognition. Perhaps that had been the Emperor’s plan all along, to use the Albians until his goal was achieved and then destroy them once and for all. They would never know.

Seumas shot a Drake ravaged by phosphex in the back of the knees and left him writhing on the black sand. The other Oathblade had always been a savage bastard; Barka remembered seeing the first signs during purges in the Panpacific long ago. A very long time ago, in what now felt like another life. He fired at the Crows, but instead of taking in their demise, he looked to his right and at the ever expanding pyre his brothers had unleashed on the Firedrakes. Once the sight of green flames slowly devouring his foes would have made him smile, maybe even laugh, but not anymore. Barka was dead on the inside, his body just the shell of a once proud man still capable of taking lives. It was the Emperor that killed him; shoved a blade through both his hearts the day He left the VIII in the hands of that creature they were supposed to call “father”. Teburon Barka died with his Legion on the Sunless World while the soldier lived on to fight a war he no longer cared about. Immortality was such a beautiful gift. He had thought about just letting the enemy kill him, to die unmourned and forgotten on a nameless world, but none had managed to take him down. That or he did not want to give some xenos mongrel the satisfaction.

The Burning Eye gazed down on them from the banner held firmly by Vexillarius Dundas who fought left of Barka, covered by Ciaran’s heavy bolter. The old warrior spoke only in the Old Tongue during battles and his voice drove the men onwards, like it had since the days of Unification. Sappers charged a group of Crows and Drakes hit by sticky fire from air bursts, cutting them down with red axes and moving further towards the heart of the slaughter. Though they were far away, Barka could hear the Sappers’ familiar chant.

Burn, burn, fire and iron!

Burn, burn, fire and blood!

Burn, burn, the night's on fire!

Hell comes, hell comes!

They were a violent lot. That was all there was to say about them.

Barka stomped on a dying Drake’s head until it came apart and turned his focus to the shattered enemy ranks, noticing that some finally made an effort to resist. A pair of Malcadors and a Spartan in Medusan livery began to move towards the Oath-Decurion’s men on the right, but if a single Sapper managed to climb up on them and force open the top hatch they would both be dead; phosphex filled metal graves for the men of iron. And right now about a hundred Sappers closed in on the tanks. When he looked straight ahead, Barka caught a brief glimpse of the Equerry carving his way through several Medusans with ease, his claymore leaving behind only gutted corpses and severed limbs. It was always an honour to follow the Captain's most trusted warrior into battle, the massive Albian reminding them of everything they fought to avenge.

One of the little Firedrakes, an Apothecary by the looks of it, suddenly crashed shoulder first into Barka and nearly knocked him to the ground; he grunted at the pain in the crippled leg when he was forced use it for support. Silently cursing the attacker, he grabbed his trench knife and dodged a maul aimed at his head before stabbing the Drake through the softer midriff of his Mk II plate.

“Here’s to Albia, you red eyed whoreson.”

Barka then tore the weapon free, reversed his hold on the grip and drove the blade into the Firedrake’s visor.

+++++++++

Oathblade Teburon Barka, Noctis Infernae

[Barabbas Sogalon]

“Cha togar m’fhearg gun dioladh!”

- War cry in the Old Tongue, frequently used by the Noctis Infernae

OATHS OF FIRE, SWORN IN BLOOD

Chapter 2

006.M31

The Dusk Queen’s primary launch bay bustled with activity as the Infernae prepared for planetfall on Istvaan V. It was just like before any other battle; the sight, the sound, the smell, the familiar chatter between brothers who had first conquered a world then a galaxy together. Phosphex was being loaded aboard Storm Eagles repurposed to act as bombers, one of the Captain’s most ingenious creations, and squads of infantry had gathered in front of their transports. Meanwhile serfs in grey uniforms marked with a VIII numeral flew around them like little insects. The Oathblades kept to themselves as usual, each group surrounding a ceremonial brazier close to the entrance awaiting the Captain’s arrival. Teburon Barka sat on a crate while loading the revolver, trying to reduce the strain on his crippled leg as much as possible. He had always refused a bionic replacement, the pain and reduced mobility preferable to ending up like one of the lobotomized Medusans; he was Albian and would endure.

His eyes lingered on the revolver long after the cylinder was locked in place. It was a finely crafted weapon with brass ornamentation, delicate wires running along the barrel and ivory inlay on the grip, but what made it a valued possession was its ability to punch through armour. He had found it inside a burning fortress early in the Crusade lying beside its dying owner who was in no position to object after his neck was crushed.

Holstering the revolver, Barka looked up and into the dancing flames of the brazier. Fire had stalked him throughout his entire life and as one of the Infernae it would continue to do so until death. His earliest memory was of a burning city and a mother who had died protecting her only child while hulking giants slaughtered everyone in their path. Everything became fuzzy after that and the next thing he remembered was the day he became part of the VIII Legion. Barka had been a clanless toddler when the Albian War ended, a lump of flesh that somehow ended up as a soldier in service of the man that cheated his people of their birthright. And he had been a loyal soldier all those years, from his time as a legionary to his promotion to Sergeant and then after joining the ranks of the Oathblades. His reward was betrayal and a lifetime of misery.

“Wish we could kill all of them.” Seumas was muttering to Barka’s right, pulling him back to the present. “Crows, Snakes, Mud Diggers, Dogs, Zealots… just burn them where they stand and scatter their ashes to the four winds.”

Savage and having one of the Company’s worst cases of pyromania, Seumas was like Barka one of the longest serving Oathblades, a proud son of Old Albia who had been among the first to act when the Captain ordered the recruits from the Sunless World purged. He stood closer to the brazier, clearly fascinated by how the flames were reflected on his trusted combat blade when he held it in different angles, though it was impossible to read his expression; most of Seumas’ face had been burned off years ago and he kept what remained hidden behind a piece of rough cloth tied around the head with holes cut out for his bloodshot eyes.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about the Mud Diggers. They’re just tools, brother. They’ll wear themselves out sooner or later.”

It was Ciaran that spoke. The physically strongest member of the group sat beside his heavy bolter, an outdated variant partly based on a weapon used by the Ironsides, while restlessly tapping his left foot against the deck.

“I’ll be satisfied as long as I get to kill a few Nostramans, show those usurping whoresons who the true Lords of the Night are.”

He grinned slightly, his lipless mouth set in a face best described as ruined with wide features and a wispy dark beard. The helmet being turned around in his hands was a non-standard pattern he had won after duelling one of the VII, if punching the Templar’s teeth out while cursing his Legion in the Old Tongue could be counted as a duel. Insults from their high and mighty cousins were commonplace and Ciaran tended to answer them in his own way, once giving a Sycophant of the III a permanent smile when the arrogant bastard mistook them for Nostramans.

A squad of Sappers in clanking Mk III plate walked past 1st Oathblades, all armed with heavy axes, flamers and enough inferno grenades to set an entire world on fire; a pair of crossed axes on the shoulder marked them as veterans, Daerellen’s lot. Lucky bastards, their position in the vanguard always ensuring they were the first to taste blood, and today they would spearhead the Infernae’s first act of fratricide, at least in the open. The thought of standing shoulder to shoulder with all those weak blood Legions did not sit well with Barka, he was disgusted by it, knowing that the moment he and his brothers sat foot on the black sands they were marked as followers of the Warmaster. The Butcher of Istvaan III. How many Dusk Raiders, Luna Wolves and War Hounds had died there? How many of them had Barka fought alongside in the early days? He doubted they would have come to see the Emperor as the tyrant he truly was, but they still deserved a better end than what Horus gave them. It all made him wonder what the Company was doing in the Istvaan System.

Barka glanced over at the fourth Oathblade, the Vexillarius, who rested his forehead against the banner pole clutched firmly in his hands. Dundas was a son of lost Glaschu and the only man to ever carry the Burning Eye for 1st Oathblades, having done so since the Captain gave it to him at the beginning of the Crusade. Unlike Ciaran and Seumas, he barely said a word in the hours before a battle, saving his breath for when he truly needed it. Barka liked that about him. He looked at the black banner in the Vexillarius’ hands and at the simple red mark at its centre; the Sigil of the Burning Eye, symbolizing the Infernae’s role as deliverers of fiery wrath. He had first seen it during their destruction of the Southern Atlan holdouts, painted crudely in human blood on charred cloth and held high by he who later became the Captain. The sight of the banner was enough to remind the Company of what they were fighting for.

“The Captain should have been here by now,” said Ciaran, still tapping his foot against the deck.

“You sure he’s coming?” Barka spoke for the first time in hours, giving voice to their greatest concern.

“Haven’t heard otherwise. Besides, I think the Equerry would have told us if that was the case.”

Barka nodded, though the doubt lingered, and turned to watch the entrance to the launch bay. A squad of Northern Varyags stood guard there, clad in carapace armour over khaki greatcoats and carrying heavy lasrifles. He hadn’t thought much of the mortals when they arrived on the Queen, but it soon became clear that they possessed the same brutality and thirst for battle that once made the Nordmen such hated enemies of Unification. They certainly had their uses.

“How can you be certain? Wouldn’t be the first time we’re left in the dark with no plan or anything,” growled Seumas. “We might as well go in with our eyes cut out.”

He had barely finished when a fifth Astartes, about a head taller than the rest, joined them by the brazier and put a scorched gauntlet on his shoulder. In another life, Barka would have grinned at his brother’s poor choice of words.

“Says he who managed to burn his own face off,” said the Equerry in a voice like cold iron. “For an Albian you think very much like a Nostraman whoreson. Do you really think you can do better, Seumas? Do we have an Oathblade questioning his oaths?”

Dundas was looking up now, disinterested, while Ciaran’s twisted smirk surfaced. Barka just stared.

“No, sir.” Seumas shook his head and stared back into the flames. “We do not.”

“Good lad. We are the executioners of our Battle-Captain’s will. We. Do. Not. Question.”

Kaltiim Jebra had always been the master of 1st Oathblades. Brooding and humourless, his face was locked in a permanent scowl that was made even more serious by dark piercing eyes and a greying beard; it was not overwhelming charisma that made others follow him, rather a desire to avoid being made a target for his concept of justice. The reinforced armour he wore was unchanged since the war on Earth and carried no markings save for the Raptor Imperialis on the chest, making him the embodiment of everything they had lost, but also a source of stability. Jebra was as Equerry the Captain’s right hand, responsible for taking command of the Company in a moment’s notice when the Lord of Infernal Night was lost in his own darkness, and for the past three years he had been their leader almost permanently. It was not the same as having the Captain in charge, Jebra’s blunt assaults lacked the artistic approach and masterful planning of their master, but he was the one who kept the Company together and they would have fallen without him.

“The Captain is coming,” he said. “Now, draw your blades.”

Barka obeyed, limping over to the brazier where he removed his left gauntlet and drew the iron dirk that gave the Oathblades their name. Then he and the others cut their palms and allowed the blood drops to fall down into the flames while the Equerry recited the oath.

“We, the trueborn legionaries of 1st Oathblades, swear upon the Sigil of the Burning Eye to destroy our enemies in fire and ash, to salt their earth and to uphold the honour of the VIII Legion as we kill for our brethren who are unable to stand with us on this day. Justice comes with red hands, we are the left. This is our oath sworn in the name of Terra and Albia of Old, let the flames stand witness as it is sealed with our blood. Igni Atque Ferro.”

“Igni Atque Ferro,” the Oathblades repeated.

Then it was over. Gauntlets were put back on, dirks sheathed and helmets equipped. Barka picked up his charger and moved to take up position alongside his brothers. He noticed that the entire Company had fallen silent as they waited and many turned their attention towards the entrance. It was a familiar situation. According to the timepiece inside his visor they stood like that for over four minutes before several determined footsteps rung against the deck; eleven individuals, ten in Mk III plate, one in custom Mk IV.

The Captain and the Fighting Gedryht came to a halt between 1st and 2nd Oathblades. He wore the black pelt cloak as usual and his left hand rested on the pommel of Aodh, the last sword forged in an independent Albia, but he was like a shadow of the warrior they were used to seeing. He looked haggard, as if he had aged since the last time he showed himself, and the confident smile was missing. The dark mood was no doubt taking its toll on him. Barka had stood guard outside his chamber once, listened to the screams and how he talked to members of the Legion that everyone knew were long dead; just another part of their “father's” great legacy to them. But the fire in the Captain’s eyes was far from extinguished.

“You all know what we are about to do, so I won’t waste your time on grand speeches. I’ll leave that to the Sycophants and the Golden Boys and the Blind Zealots,” said Aliksandr Saevus, the Lord of Infernal Night. “When we land on this cursed planet, we’ll be alone. So I command you to put your trust in the fire and the iron, and make sure those worthless bastards know who their killers are. Buaidh no bas, my brothers.”

The smile suddenly returned as the launch bay resonated with the sound of over a thousand Astartes hammering their right fist against the chest.

“Terra Invictus!”

+++++++++

Kaltiim Jebra, Equerry to the Captain, Master of 1st Oathblades, Noctis Infernae

Vexillarius Dundas, Noctis Infernae

Oathblade Seumas, Noctis Infernae

Oathblade Ciaran, Noctis Infernae

[TDF]

I'm loving the fluff pieces. Can't wait to read more about why the good captain has brought them over to the Warmaster's side. :)

[Charlo]

MK3 NL... Rather cool! Don't see em often :)

 

Looking sweet - that flesh mask is downright scary.

[Barabbas Sogalon]

@TDF: Thanks!

 

@Charlo: I love mk III, so I'll be using that a lot. Almost every marine will have mixed armour to show that the Company is operating far from any supply lines. I'm happy with the mask, first thing I made out of green stuff in seven years.

 

Now that I finally have the time to sit down and write I'll soon start introducing the mortals of this tale, the Varyags.

[Augustus b'Raass]

HELLO! I can't believe I missed this thread for so long - and that you have seemed to be monologueing for a while. You fluff is delicious. I'll return to read more, but from the first two stories (and mini's - dude, nice kitbashes and use of bits, love 'm) I can already see your writing is very clean. Yummy.

[Barabbas Sogalon]

+On the Noctis Infernae/Last Warlords of Dusk/Three Warlords+

The first Astartes I ever met was a gravel-voiced bastard called Namarik Krastor. The Oath-Decurion. I could tell that he didn’t like me (and the feeling is mutual, though I was too frightened at the time to think about that). He called me “a stupid little girl deluding herself into thinking she has a place among the stars.” I told him to go to hell. That’s when he brought the sabre to my neck. “We are already in hell, lass.” Only later did I learn that he is one of the three highest ranking officers in the 26th. I have been avoiding him ever since.

It is a curious rank, Oath-Decurion, unique to the Infernae. A more common name would be Centurion. The Infernae and their damned Oaths. While the Equerry is the Captain’s right hand and responsible for taking command with an iron fist when he is lost in darkness indisposed, the Oath-Decurion is the Captain’s will at the frontlines. Krastor has known the Captain longer than anyone else in the Company. Both were clanless child soldiers in service of Albia long ago, he saw the birth of the VIII and was there long before the 26th named themselves Noctis Infernae. I am told that the Betrayal (what the Infernae call reunification with the Eight Son on Nostramo) changed Krastor. He has always been a violent bastard, but all that hatred and rage only surfaced after what happened on the Sunless World. I wonder how different the Infernae were at the beginning of the Crusade...

- From the notes of Regimental Archivist A. Saroyan, in service of the 4th Northern Varyags, 003.M31

Sergeant Namarik Krastor, 5th Tactical Squad, XXVI Company, VIII Legion; Purge of the Southern Atlan Holdouts, Unification Wars

@ Augustus b'Raass: Thanks, I'm really glad to hear it! Fluff is the main reason I'm doing this project.

[Augustus b'Raass]

Omnomnom. Delicious.

[Barabbas Sogalon]

Glad you like this little appetizer, brother.

[CaptainStabby]

Love it. I'm always a fan of grumpy Terran born Astartes.

[Barabbas Sogalon]

Thanks!

[jimbo13]

Question, what paints are you using? I like the bluish grey you use.

[Barabbas Sogalon]

It's the fang washed with badab black.

 

I like to keep it simple.