++March of the Legions: VII Completions++

[Brother-Chaplain Kage]

March of the Legions

Month 13 Completions: The VII Legion

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

[Soldier of Dorn]

Gladiatori Officium

 

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Despite its preferred method of war by bolter, the 284^th Storm Battalion of the VII Legion had many skilled duelists among its ranks. Master Sergeant Slade of I Grenadier was one, as was Shield-Commandant Eilings himself, but there was one who stood head and shoulders above the rest.

 

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Jarra was the best of us. Nominally ranked as a sergeant equivalent to those commanding the grenadier veteran squads of the line companies, in practice Jarra operated independently of any specific squad within the battalion, fulfilling a role similar to the champions of other companies within the Legion, issuing forth challenges to high ranking officers of the traitor Legions in the Shield-Commandant’s stead.

 

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Jarra was not without his flaws. No man is. In Jarra, this manifested as pride, as great as that of any Emperor’s Child. He desired glory first and foremost, contrary to the ideals of the battalion championing duty above all else. Eilings only ever tolerated him because he saw something in him. I know not what, but it must have been something.

 

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Jarra died when the Storm Battalion died, a month before the Siege’s end, embroiled in combat against the Iron Warriors. He died an inglorious death, erased, body and soul by the blast of a Dreadhammer shell fired from a Typhon. I never liked Jarra in life, but I pitied the way he died. His vainglory was against what it means to be a soldier of the 284^th, but no one deserves to die in such a way contrary to what is in their heart.

 

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There is no dignity in death, but there should not be dishonor. Jarra died with dishonor, and I cannot help but wish that he had not, for his sake, and for those who we will wreak his vengeance upon.

 

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[Aeternus]

 

 

He could feel his last heart frantically pumping his blood through his body, and out through the gaping holes in his armour. Heartblood filled his lungs and mouth, the bitter liquid burbling out through pale lips. Stimulants and adrenaline willed a body to move that could no longer function, not even one as gene-hanced as his. As he felt his conscious fade away, he managed a spluttering laugh through crimson stained teeth set on a ragged face. The irony of his death did not escape him - born and inducted from Terra, it was only fitting that he would fall and end his life on it’s familiar earth once again, after centuries of roaming the galaxy. He could hear and see the legionaries around him through the half of his head that remained, he could hear and see them ignoring him, moving towards the position the rest of the squad occup- had occupied. The sea green of a Son of Horus, the white and red of the World Eaters, the dark metal of the Iron warriors, all warriors he would once have fought and died with. Once. With a final pathetic pulse, his heart gave out, and the life-linked munitions around the complex exploded, dozens of buried melta bombs, frag grenades and krak grenades. The mutilated Imperial Fist was given a burial of fire and stone as those who had killed him burned and cursed and died.

 

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Tolias blink-cycled through the vox channels, feeling the icy cold of depression in his heart as he heard how many were filled only with weeping static. Eventually he found the one he wanted, and waited. Barely five minutes later, a voice came crackling through. Low and seemingly devoid of emotion, it growled a message.

 

‘Essential civilians withdrawn from complex. Beta squad, move back to Thespian arch, hold there. Additional legion units to join you, expect heavy support.’

 

He waited a second before answering, letting the channel grow silent.

 

‘How many civilians did you leave behind? Half of Beta squad will stay.’

 

Tolias could hear a snarl of irritation now, and a tinge of anger as the reply came through.

 

‘Wall-Captain, you will withdraw to the arch. Alpha squad is down to half strength.’

 

Tolias took a moment, glancing around. Amegion and Rainar lay face down, their power armour ripped to shreds by dozens of bolt shells. A steaming patch of rubble was all that remained of Eniax, vaporized by a stray plasma shot. Here and there other Astartes were collapsed, the once golden armour charred and burnt. Tolias remembered the screams over the vox as the volkite rays burnt away at them from within and without. Beta squad had fought and bled and screamed and died here. Less than a dozen of them still lived, and only half that could move with any ease. He felt his leg collapse from under him, the pain of the wounds returning. The dull ache in his shoulder from the lodged adamantium shards. The feeling of nothingness coming from half his skull. He replied, his voice stained with shame and sorrow.

 

‘I can’t, sir. We will hold-’ His voice catched in his throat, feeling the unwelcome taste of bile and blood in the pit of his stomach. He continued.

 

‘We will hold for as long as we are able. Retrieve the civilians.’

 

When the voice came back, it was almost compassionate. Almost. 

 

‘I understand, Tolias. Fight well, die well. For the Emperor, and for Dorn.’

 

With that, the vox-link cut off, the sharp sound of static returning. Pushing himself up, Tolias whispered through torn lips. 

 

‘For Dorn.’

 

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Sergeant, later Wall-Captain Tolias, recruited from the Ursh tribes during the unification wars, was by no means an exemplary warrior. However he was a good soldier, befitting of the Imperial Fists. Fighting alongside the early legion from the end of the wars on Terra, he was part of the hammer and anvil strike force that captured the last Ethnarcy City of the Crystal City - a combined attack from the early XVIII and VII legions. Tolias was one of the few survivors of the campaign to exterminate the Wind Caller Clans in the Himalazia, where hundreds of astartes fell low to the powers wielded by the witches they were there to hunt down. And when the Fists were sent out into the dark galaxy to unite and destroy in equal measure, Tolias went with them. 

 

Though a veteran of the Unification wars, he alone from his previous battalion declined to wear the Raptor Imperialis upon his warplate when it was reforged and repainted in striking yellow. When pressed he would state that what they did upon Terra, slaughtering millions of humans upon the their homeworld, was nothing worth commemorating. Only a duty that they had to bear, that they might grow stronger from it. 

 

Tolias would serve the VIIth legion for almost the entirety of the Grand Crusade, from the first conquest of Luna to the last battle before the fates decreed the Crusade would change, and the galaxy would lose the little peace it had gained. When his company aboard the Victory-class battleship, Integrity, heard of the greatest betrayal humanity had ever known, they were thrown into an uncertain future. There were those that screamed their anger out to the void, demanding fire and fury and retribution. There were those who wept as they saw all they had built tumble down around them. There were those who understood why, but would stand by their duty. And then there were those that merely took all they felt, and quashed it, letting their eyes turn cold. Tolias, though never as jovial as his brothers, rarely spoke after the news.

 

Tolias would be one of the countless thousands of loyal marines to fall on Terra, defending the Imperial palace with their blood and bodies against an uncountable tide of those they had once called brother. Though it would be poetic to say he made a difference, he was but one tiny insignificant cog in a machine far greater than the sum of its parts. A single casualty in a war that spanned worlds, and would be decided by Gods. Mercifully perhaps, his body was later found amongst the rubble of the broken world by his surviving brothers. Hidden as it was under tonnes of stone and iron, his flesh was left untouched by the roaming bands of the IIIrd legion, who desecrated countless other loyalists, living or dead.

 

[Elzender]

Loctar Dibarion, first lieutenant of the 81th company, was serving under  command of Seneschal Scallus when his combat group was assigned to the Retribution Fleet. His captain and company champion, Caelon Gerhild, had trusted him with the command of the frigate "Herald of Liberation", as the captain's zealous temper made him prefer to lead planetfall assaults or boarding actions rather than to rule over the vessel. Despite being Terran-born, Loctar was a relatively young astartes, having served for under 50 years in the legion, but had already reached the rank of master of signals and was tasked with coordination of the heavy assets of the company and the orbital support in the battlefield. As a result, commanding a ship did not suppose a challenging task for him. However, the Phall engagement would suppose a nightmarish test to his abilities and willpower, the first of many to come throughout his service that would lead him to the Siege of Terra.

 

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His promotion to the officer cadre had granted him access to an artificer suit of mkIV armour, although his old mkII was still perfectly operational. He decided to keep the shoulder pads with his earned honours, and the comms-equipment he used in his squad, modified and adjusted to his taste.

 

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On his right shoulder, the company number and the tactical arrow, which he hastily painted long time ago upon his assignation to an active combat group as a member of a tactical squad. Despite the lacklustre painting, he decided to keep it that way, as a reminder of his first steps and the reasons for him to enrol.

 

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His left shoulder pad showed the wreath to represent his position as the first lieutenant of the company, and was the most recent addition. The Legion medal was a reward for his role in the Drantax Prime siege, where his reports as his company was breaching the city  perimeter guided the artillery squadrons to neutralize the anti-aircraft batteries, allowing the stormbirds to unleash their cargo straight into the critical locations.

 

The red cross was bestowed to him by his sergeant. While the Maltese cross was reserved to veterans, it was also associated to the fury and zeal of Sigismund's company and his templar brethren; this one was a tradition in the companies under command of Seneschal Scallus, recognizing the bearer as an example of temperance and fortitude to face adversity, and could be awarded regardless of rank or time of service. This symbol, however, also served a second purpose to the upper command: it marked those legionaries that were to be tested. Should they  uphold the values it represented, they would be considered for promotion and tutelage. The legionaries that faltered were censored, and spent the rest of their service in the lower ranks or were inducted into the destroyer cadres.

It says something about Loctar's personality that on the years to come, the cross would become part of his personal heraldry, and many would recognize him and his company for it.

 

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The mood in the fleet was tense, even for the stern nature of the VII^th legion. It was a duty to be fulfilled, and the Imperial Fists would never falter in it, but the enemy they were about to face caused an unusual, even if subtle, nervousness across the ranks. They knew who would face them, their strengths and weaknesses, their modus operandi and their resources, precious information so rarely available in other campaigns, but no training exercise or campaign had ever prepared them to fight other astartes, let alone four different legions. It would be the ultimate test to their motto: blood and honour.

 

"Blood and honour" thought Loctar, as he passed review on the command panel. The same blood that he had spilled side by side with the Wolves in Gyros-Thravian, one of his first deployments; the same honour that bound Seneschal Scallus and Lord Commander Demeter from the Third even before he had been inducted into the Fists. The idea that his former comrades had rebelled against the Emperor, with the Warmaster himself at the lead, and that he and his brothers were on the way to punish them, caused an echo of a feeling that he thought belonged to his past life: anguish.

 

He dismissed that sensation with an imperceptible nod. He had not yielded once in fourty-six years, and he would not either in this venture. A beeping noise distracted him from his thoughts, signalling an incoming transmission.

 

- Warp drive systems fully operative and ready, commander.- The combat group had been waiting for days in the rendezvous point for the last elements of the fleet to join them, and Loctar wanted to make sure everything was ready. He opened a channel on his helmet to the engines bay.

 

 

- Thank you for your swiftness, chief engineer Tarwell. We are awaiting the Seneschal's signal to initiate transition, but I would like a last review on the weapon systems before we depart.

 

There were muffled ramblings on the engineer's part.

 

- Are you doubting my crew's capability, commander? We've checked them three times since we arrived here and they are ready to lay waste. One would say you seem nervous, sir.

 

The marine sighed at the response, but had to contain a smile. Engineer Tarwell had been serving in the Herald of Liberation long before Loctar first stepped in it, and nobody who had interacted with him could doubt  his knowledge and expertise regarding the vessel. In fact, before being transferred its command, Tarwell had demanded to  interview him for a week to approve his apointment with Seneschal Scallus' permission, which had caused some disbelief to Loctar in the first instance. However, the lieutenant came to respect and appreciate him, for he was an example and a leader to all of the ship's human crew, and the legionary knew he could learn from him to become a better commander, not only to the vessel but also to his men. If that supposed having to endure the rants and name-callings, so it would be.

 

- I would never dare to question the proficiency of your crew nor yours, chief engineer Tarwell, but the magnitude of our mission will require the best of all of us, and we shall not be found wanting. We are not to fail in this task, for the future of the Crusade is upon our shoulders.

 

There was a loud cackling as a response to the marine's diplomatic yet severe message.

 

- You boxheads have no sense of humour, don't you? - the man said, while some muted laughs were still heard in the background. - You don't need to lick my arse to get me to do something, youngling. You'll have your damn review, but if you refer to me as chief engineer Tarwell ever again, I will go up there to soften that stony face of yours with a wrench, you hear me?.

 

Loctar was grateful to have opened a private channel, as he didn't need the whole command bridge hearing the engineer's speech under the risk of some of his men demanding a punishment for such an insubordination; sense of humour was indeed not the biggest strength in the ranks of the VII^th. However, the lieutenant acknowledged the intent of Tarwell, more directed to his men than to the marine, as he was aware of the importance of keeping the morale high in the face of such an enterprise. While he considered it had no place in the heat of a battlefield, Loctar knew that even jokes and humour could be useful tools, and the engineer had certainly mastered them. But Loctar was still a Fist, and he would not back away from a challenge.

 

- Loud and clear, Lord engineer Tarwell. Over and out. - He heard the crew erupt in laughter before he cut the communication. He would need to learn and use everything he had at his disposal  for the incoming conflict, even something as unlikely to be used in that situation as humour.