[Iron Gauntlet 2017] Brass Phantoms (Updated 2017/05/01)

[Badass_Spaz]

Storied summaries of the finished and unfinished rough drafts I've been writing up on my down time. About 80% is done of the rough drafts with a few more needing to be written up. After that, it's off to mass editing and corrections.

Without further delay, I present the Brass Phantoms (Name up for debate.)

Born of Brass- A storied summary depicting the first recruits to the Chapter and how they recruit.

  Darkness is often affiliated with malevolence, cruelty, suspicion and seldom purity. Darkness, as it is known in a  physical sense, a void of blackness. Thus, it stands to reason only vermin, mutants, and heretics might seek the shadowy shroud. True as is, other creatures manifest in these veiled corners of existence. Children born innocence into families who descend for eternity into the bowls of their ill-fated world, Phobus, embrace the veil. The predatory mutants, cannibalistic gangers, malicious feral flora and predators; too many species competing for sustenance, feast upon those whom flee. To even challenge their malice with bravery or courage is madness, purest of its kind.
  Loving mothers and father live in perpetual fear, forever traversing the labyrinthine industrial wastes for another temporary home. While most seek the very bowels of their world, most lose themselves in this quest for sanctuary. When these travelers bare their own, premature and malnourished, they abandon the fairy tales of sanctuary and seek sanctuary in pity settlements. The sons and daughters, born terribly frail, some perishing in the coming months, grow into gaunt grim parodies of humanity.

  Light must exist beyond oil-lamps and flickering torches. Why should they be forced into the shadows bartering for scraps, devouring vermin in desperate bouts of hunger? Fear and misery never so pure in these dark crevices, is not without hope. Humans by design are instinctual animals, predators themselves. So accustomed to fear and strife, some children yearn for a tomorrow their ignorant minds could never perceive. The sun, the star, even the sky have only been spoken about in tall tales by ancient mechanical seers. Why they'll ask, Why are we denied this? yet none will answer. To even utter the horrors which rest beyond their dark sanctuaries invokes wrath beyond measure. Curious as they are, those who love them try to preserve what hope resides in them through blissful ignorance. Unfortunately, as new settlers make arrive every few months or years, they'll mistakenly whisper about the horrors wrought upon them in their dire quest for survival.
  Enough Some will say I refuse to live in the dark!. Children, blinded by the very ignorance meant to protect them, disappear on the coldest nights, when the massive furnaces heating their meager communities sputters mere embers. Driven away from this cold reality, imbued by unwavering hope, they'll strike out into the dilapidated wildness seeking a brighter tomorrow. Whether by their own desire to thrive or simply desperation, neither is relevant. Once they've set off on this ill-fated quest, none may return for fear of taint. Parents will beg and plea for that one exception, grovelling indignantly only to be denied.

  What terrors shrouded in this miserable world are too numerous to count. Some vaguely resemble humans while others are phantom sphere's screaming with infinite mouths. Hooked tendrils will sweep out through broken pipes, moss-like fungal suddenly leaping out as a consuming cloak- uncountable horrors which consume these young, would-be adventurers. Yet despite the odds stacked against them, the ravenous monsters assailing them; few will emerge from the bowels of their world. What awaits them on the otherside defies belief, shatters their hopes, consumes them entirely.
  Skies blackened millennia before by industry greet them while carnivorous Beastmen tribes howl into the eternal night. Las-bolts echo through the myriad piping systems consuming the tattered iron metropolis around them. There was no sun, no stars, only a black sky... A sky so dark it embodies the hollowness left by the very hope which lead them here, now snatched away by unforgiving reality looming over them. Collapsed on their knee's, their tears since dried away by the journey before, they're left without words or thought. There is no Why's or How's only the simple truth set before them.

  Hissing engine moans crawl through the rustic piping, growing ever nearer. Those sons and daughters stricken down by a consuming emptiness will remain eerily still, regardless of what possible dangers hurdles around the corner. With no hope of the sun, a prosperous future to seek, only the desolate hell scape left before them; they've given up. Children whom fought so valiantly against eldritch horrors remain motionless. Even as the avian vessels rears its brass coated beak around the corner, appearing as another predator, these children lower their heads in defeat.
  Before them a giant clad in scorched armor, the paint and heraldry burned away by the savages wreaking untold havoc across the surface, he'll step forward. His humming armor drowned out by the roaring engines burning a white hot; he looks upon the feeble, filth encrusted children. Malnourished and barely human, these few brave adventurers who dared to believe will be chosen for a higher calling. His armored clad brothers, divine in design, will lift and cradle them. The Emperor protects. The giants will utter behind their crimson eyed helmets.

  Born anew in their darkest hour where broken hearts and shattered dreams threatened their very lives, they'll be reborn. The hell that conceived them would become a distant memory yet never forgotten. The brave boys rose from a world bereft of light, where our truest nightmares became a grim reality, these few would become the Emperor's chosen. Their resolve hardened in a crucible of damnation, they would be reforged anew; stronger in spirit and body- Space Marines.

 

 

 

Phobus / Brass Behemoth- Story of their homeworld and how dreadful living there is. (( Rough draft, somethings yet to be edited. ))

 

Homeworld, Phobus-13

  Once the epitome of Imperial industry, Phobus-13 has crumbled. Ambitious industrious, over-population, excess arms, corrupt PDF; absolute anarchy. At its peak, neighboring Hives bask in roiling smog clouds blanketing the heavens, it's omnipotence displayed with blackened skies and roaring star ships splitting the thunderstorms over head; Phobus's thunderstorms.

  Such was its industrial might, entire underhive hab-blocks were converted into authoritarian labor camps. Phobus-13 produced tanks and personnel slaughtered millions while those captured, children and physically disfigured, were herded into labyrinthine camps. Adults, those capable of resistance, were slaughtered and recycled into profitable guardsmen rations. Few knew the secret ingredient but regiments from distant clusters ordered the rations, often sending their compliments.
  Tech-Adapts, ever gracious, took custodianship over man and mutant, giving them renewed purpose as barely sentient servitors. Mechanicus Adapts assured Hive administrators they rejoiced with jubilation, uplifted from poverty and into the Machine-Gods bosom. Neither mattered as only necessity mattered.

  Phobus-13 successfully cleansed its underhive, a feat never fathomed but at a cost. Tens of thousands perished during the reclusive conflict while bank accounts ran thinner and thinner. Other Hive dignitaries swirled their artificial water in ruby trimmed goblets festering silently. Envy has burdened their souls as Phobus-13 continually undermined other hives contracts. Some entertained the idea of war yet none ever acted. Phobus-13, who's shadow cascaded over the acrid plains and roaming beastmen tribes, always appeared barely fathomable by mortal comprehension such was its enormity. To attempt an invasion, even at its most vulnerable would be a fools errand.
  Alas, neighboring Hive dignitaries and royalty would begin feigning away. The reclusive Phobus, too enamored in its own endeavors, cared little for her neighbors diminishing states. Families relocated, hive infrastructure toppled from neglect, and a new predator lurked; Phobus-13. Her industry crept along the caustic river beds, underground mines expanded towards failing hives. As if perceiving its decrepit neighbor eventual death, it sought to plunder what little riches remained. Plasteel, bodies, cermite, anything and everything worth recycling was a bounty in itself.

  Royalties reluctantly accepted a peasants weight in treasure in exchange for their hives, so desperate had times been. Governments through the planet fell into obscurity as hives became engulfed in a great cannibalistic frenzy. Phobus, now a singular name where others had faltered, expanded without fear of retaliation. Neglected hab-blocks housed innumerable labourers who demolished rust crusted factorums and tore down barely salvageable hab-blocks. Meager bounties were placed on remnant hive populace not employed. Be it man, abhuman, or mutant, unsanctioned work force were shepherded into labor camps. The soil was their sky, the PDF their executioner, their friends and families consumed least starvation take them.

  It begs the question; how did Phobus end? A Hive without peer, a hive extending across the acidic seas... faded. The world of Phobus, hidden behind a pollutant, has crumbled. Former hive cities wrecked by failing industry, later reforged as vibrant factorums, vanished. Letters, data slates, retrievable cogitator drives, nothing lends conclusive information or clues as to why Phobus, in all its majesty buckled, and soon crumbled into the irradiated wasteland we know it as today.
  Astropathic chiors relayed no distress signals nor did Sector fleets record receiving distress signals. The fleet itself, once so boisterous, often flaunting its many squadrons and capital ships later become system spanning debris fields. Mechanicus excavation teams determined the ships were destroyed by Imperial grade weaponry. Some immediately assumed the Arch-Enemies hand yet as plausible as the accusation appeared, it was simply too easy a scape goat. No, what fate reduced the fleet and Phobus remains a mystery onto itself. While some may theorize pride and ambition consumed the behemoth Hive world and the fleet, records firmly state it was the traitors doing.

What Lies Ahead

  Phobus, now a quarantined world, was not without its uses. Considered a death world in its current state, ambitious Rogue Traders and Explorators continually seek to plunder the vast mineral riches above, and most importantly, below the surface. The world has been hallowed out, its guts replaced by snaking tunnels, embedded industrial caverns, and thermal reactors feeding off the planets very core but sparsely illuminating the vast tunnels networks.
  For days or moments, no one is certain how long the lights will last. The surface dwelling humans, primitive and savage for a millennia, are not without caution. Those few fortunate enough to gain their trust heed their warnings of the Realm Beyond. Our terrors manifesting in the darkness which blinds us. So dark is this world the light itself is swallowed whole. Only the lights permitted by the churning reactors can pierce its veil.

  Of course, this stands to reason warp related phenomenon is afoot. What other force in reality could conceive such convoluted mysticism and folk lore- and yet there's none to be found. In fact, traveling to Phobus is a feat in itself. A world seemingly disconnected from the warp, one must first navigate the systems debris and asteroid fields; a task easier said then done. Archaic guns systems suddenly live for but a heart beat, unleashing a single but hellish cry to those unfortunate to stray a hair's breath from its decaying form.
  Former corvette and sword frigates, long since deprived of crew and maintenance, linger endless through the debris fields. Their hulls battered from centuries, if not millennia, ghosting their former patrol routes while comets and scrap pierce and disembowel their very hulls. Unsettling without measures, attempts made to resurrect these still in tact vessels have proven fruitful, albeit nerve wrecking. Where a machine spirit could thrive in these magnanimous vessels, only an eerie silence replaces them. They are floating carcasses, without a soul who functions only by those plucking its nerve endings from within. Tech-Priests baffle themselves deciphering yet another mystery while necessity forces the vessels into service. Unfortunately, those very priests issued to relieve its aches and pains find themselves hesitant, perhaps unloving. Without a machine spirit there is no obligation, however, duty demands they act... Reluctantly, of course.

Life Thrives

  The ill-fate dealt to Phobus was, by all accounts, apocalyptic, life continues existing unhindered. Ignorant to the bounty around them, humans, predators, mutants, creatures and animals from all walks of life contending for one another for a single objective; survival. Armories from millennia exist solely for excavation, becoming myths and legends among the feuding war-bands dueling and butchering for supremacy. Creatures evolved from former gentle house pets into carnivorous beasts. Some large, treading and forging paths of destruction through ruined hab-blocks, or petite arachnid hordes swarming over the lone survivor, his screams muffled by the swarming pouring into his every orifice.
  Life, dangerous it's become, is not without salvation. Humans band together into nomadic tribes, constantly traveling and constantly hunting. Mutants lay claim to their own territory, essentially becoming the chief predators. In these cases, the nomad tribes will contest these monster for food and munitions. These battles, sometimes a conflict between a few dozen might evelope into several hundreds. Where war ensues, other warbands, tribes, and possibly predator will be drawn. Food and munitions, suddenly developing their own lungs to cry out, do so through these savage conflicts.

  Skirmishes and wars will forever claim this world. The few who attempt to civilize it dealt ill-fates themselves. Invaders from beyond the stars, be them human or xeno, falter and eventually consumed by Phobus itself. Vile eldritch beings from below, ever patient, will ascend into the light for a single purpose; death. It's not unknown in the closing years of M41 that former Gene-Stealer corpses were discovered, or rather, their bones. Dark Eldar Raiders, though few themselves, have met ignoble ends on Phobus. Any force that threatens this worlds eternal strife is weeded out, destroyed or devoured, by creatures or locals. What few outposts exist on Phobus do so in fortified spires, blockaded from the surface world. Attempts at expansion, even with the aid of the gallant Space Marines, became temporary at best.

Journey Through Darkness- Another storied summary explaining their excursions outside the Astronomicon. ((Rough draft, don't chew me out too bad. ))

  Splintered Companies

  Scattered through the endless void, stranded and alone, hundreds, if not thousands of human settlements struggle against the inevitable demise fate has conjured. Worlds colonized, either intentional or not, do so beyond the Emperor's embrace. Ships dare not voyage beyond these metaphysical borders for fear of their very spirit, that which lies beyond would devour them body and soul. As such, those poor stranded souls in ramshackle colonies, dark age ruins, or ship forged hab-blocks remain ignorant to the otherworldly predators.

  With infinite eyes shrouded behind the darkest reaches of space, they watch patiently while their vessels draw ever closer. Seemingly starved, always thirsting, these predators dare to prey upon the Emperor's chosen people. Some descend as shadowy martinets, virilent marauders who maim but never kill. Others blaze through skies set ablaze, wailing their heresies over gargantuan vox-casters. Pirates and xeno's, traitors and mutants, enemies seeking glory and treasures in a realm untouched by the ceaseless war. They dare to believe the Imperium, in all its vastness, has forgotten these realms plague by strife. All those innocent pilgrims long dismissed, their journeys forgotten, tucked away in Administrum libraries never to be read again... How true it is.
  These vile cretins, whomever they be, believe themselves safe from reproach; how blissful delusion can be. Such is the vigilant raiders, aliens, and mutants assailing these unsuspecting worlds. As their vessels pierce the heavens, devils portraying angels, they'll soon learn the folly of their ways. In great explosives plums sputtering rock and debris far and wide, angels made true, crafted in ceramite and plasteel will thunder from forth against the vile predators. Humans will leap into cover, bard their doors as the cacophonous judda-judda-judda of bolter fire pulverizes inhuman and human formed beasts.
 
  The Emperor Protects these soldiers of divinity will spit at the unwholesome creatures assailing them. Though the angels number may be few, through unity comes a strength few forces could overtake. Monstrous, hooked and cleaver limb abominations erupt into a tsunami of viscera. Lithe, leather bound warriors, their skin a glacial cold in fair contrast to an otherwise winter pigment; they'll skulk wearily through shadows while monstrous abominations garner the defenders unyielding ire.
Thus, with heavy hearts, do the peerless succumb to vile trickery in but a moments notice. While few undoubtedly falter to the aliens innumerable scheme's, ever stalwart before the reaper collects, others simply refuse ignoble fates thrust upon them. Wounds meant to fell another of his kind might conjure a ferocious beast lurking just beneath the surface. It's not unknown for these ceramite knights to howl their steadfast defiance with, quite literately, half a brain. And where their foe might stand for the briefest of moments, shocked and baffled before his supposed prey, gawking at the exposed brain and sheered facial features, that singular moment spells the wretches death.

Other foes, more attuned to what repels them, flee in mass. Itinerant pirates falter on sight, some falling to their knee's begging for forgiveness, others hurrying aboard their vessels. However way they seek a reprieve from the colossal angels, painted in slate gray, trimmed with brass, the heraldry depicting a cloak cadaver wielding a sickle is not without promise.
  From above in what might be presumed friends or potential allies, fellow pirate vessels will fire indiscriminate salvo after salvo. If only to listen to their desperate hails from one raider vessel to another. Before another, final, salvo detonates their accursed vessels a stern yet equally soft voice will whisper in response. And Judges. In that very moment, before the retreating few breach the lower atmosphere, a coruscating explosion envelopes the skies for miles across. A testament to His wrath made true before the unbelievers eyes or those who thought themselves abandoned, His champions will stand triumphant among the masses.

  Akin to themselves, born in the abyss, where hope itself defies the most intimate senses, The Seekers will deliver the very hope that carried them from darkness to those lost themselves. Amidst these frontier worlds will courage and hope manifest anew. Their faith reignited as bristling pyres within their hearts, never will they claim ignorance to His existence, nor his blessed angels.
-----------------
  Astarte's born on Phobus will begin as standard companies but as the decades turn into centuries, these once prominent companies will erode into mere six-man squads. Those who embark loose themselves in their quest to defend the Emperor's chosen few will do so with their Chapters blessings. Several hundred Astarte's will answer these calls from afar and prepare in turn. A single strike cruiser will depart beside accompanying Corvette or Sword Frigate Squadron. These lesser ships will break away in turn to answer the myriad hails while the lone Strike Cruiser will forever travel the stars yet never landing. Always close yet equally far, this lone cruiser will support the numerous Astarte's in their ventures ahead.
  So long do these journey's last into the endless depth beyond His light, other ships, be them pirate or lingering wrecks, taken through sheer force force or cannibalized to salvage another, grander vessel. More often then not, the fledgling crusaders will eventually accumulate numerous vessel but in doing so, lose their own. Void engagements against pity warbands and alien raiders eventually deteriorate the behemoth vessels sheltering the Astarte's. Accompanying adepts vigorously mend the ailing ships scraps and bruises, and for a time, it mends the spirit within- that time must end with a bitter chime as its blessed Machine spirit can bare the burden no longer. In these dire moments, the Astarte's occupants have either managed to salvage another vessel, sometimes two or three, or found a suitable refuge elsewhere.

  The Strike Cruiser accompanying smaller, infant sized ships when compared to its own might, will arrive as mother would to its injured cub. Whether it survives depends wholly on salvaged parts at hand. Other vessels taken or resurrect from frontier worlds aid the ailing ships recovery but alas, there will undoubtedly be casualties beyond the human born.  A necessary lose but not without mourning. In respect to the Tech-Adepts who make their pilgrimages a reality, those few Astarte's will attend the ceremonies of mourning for however long they last.

After such traditions concludes, the journey begins again.
 
  Seekers, even those gone for decades return at a moments summon every century. Recruitment continues without hindrance, regardless of Chapter strength. In anticipation for the deaths to follow in the three companies deployed, it's not without reason they occasionally find themselves slightly more numerous yet other times, less so. What proceeds to alarm others is the supposed booty they've accumulated. Various ships stolen from pirates, weaponless merchant vessels docked, others resurrected in preparation for another ships demise. These same ships crewed and operated by serfs recruited from distant worlds. True, Chaplains may vouch for those volunteers and, seldom, conscripted citizens, it remains elusive all the same. Some speculate the Chapters loyalty and others condemn those who do. Few Astarte's ever venture so far to demonstrate the Emperor's will, especially where His very light illuminates few and dismisses many.

  Let the accusations live long into the era's to come, have them turn the righteous against the daring. The Reforged, born in a world that never knew His love, will never stray from their chosen path. Hope is a strength dismissed, often forgotten. Astarte's have never known what it means to lose faith, to have it stripped away and be left a husk... But the Seekers do. As children they've felt this inner void alien to an Astarte's, fathomed and felt a despair so ravenous it's remains indescribable. In knowing this, the Chapter will never alter it's course.  

  The Choir's reach into a realm beyond our own and capture the plea's from worlds so many have forgotten... And we will answer the prayers He cannot. Our Chapter has heard your calls and will bring retribution upon any who dare defile your lands. Through Bolter and Blade I promise redemption, I, Chapter Master Uthren Skarn, promise eternal vigilance and peace among the realms here and beyond. To the sons and daughters lost and hallowed, find solace in yours prayers, pray for salvation and pay witness as your very salvation delivers hope upon those who bleed it... He will never forget, nor will we.

Recruits and Neophyte Training- Obviously not finished but taking my time with this one.

 

 

 

  Children inducted into the Space Marines Tenth Company, the Neophytes, could seldom be considered physically capable. Malnourished, scrawny youth; sometimes eight other times ten, all so feeble they appear half their age. Despite this rather galling issue concerning their physical health and capability, it's without question the feats they've accomplished, the adversities they've conquered. Several Space Marines Squads, each lead by esteemed veterans attempted on numerous occasions to seek out these Sanctuaries where the last remnants of pure human society rests. Astartes remember vague passages from their own journeys, recall the nightmares haunting their every dream, even the ruling Tech-Adapts who toil endlessly over gargantuan furnaces heating and illuminating their bleak world. However much these reborn children, now proud Astartes remember and seek out a home never forgotten, they're always pushed back.
  Humming Power Armor, audacious heat signatures, booming bolters, all manners of attractions to lure the myriad terrors found so far below. On Phobus, a world more artificial than natural, life flourishes in ways few could decipher. While life, as fleeting as it appears on the surface remains ever vibrant. The darkness that plagues haunting spires or the canopies of intersecting highways and bridges, life exist. It's not without reason that simple fact applies for the world below. So while it's only natural for an Astarte's to desire stepping into those narrow streets, feel the rust and dust between his huge toes, it'll remain a dream for generations to come.

  Tenth Company, fresh and veteran Neophyte's, refuse this dream. Revitalized by the fortune bestowed upon them and their sisters, pursue a life mirroring the distant Astarte's on world's they've never known. Veterans, Tech-Marines, and Apothecaries; each of whom has suffered gut wrenching injuries, mutilations so extreme augmentation barely keeps them whole. Where others desired the Emperor's peace, these mangled few clung to life as they have in their previous lives.
  They've stood pauldron to pauldron, brothers beside brothers, an indomitable wall against the malicious tide crashing again and again, each thunderous collision only strengthening their resolve. As Astarte's it was anathema to entertain the notion of their own mortality, and as Brass Phantoms, wrathful spirits haunting the innumerable xeno's, heretics, and mutants; the notion never occured, even as they fought to keep their entrails from spilling out.

  One chapter ends and another begins.

  Astarte's assigned to Tenth Company under these conditions, where active duty has become a glorified memory, accept their duty with dignity instead of regret. Where some might consider this assignment a noose, Phantoms perceive it as an opportunity. Those more capable than others, typically Veterans, will be assigned an Aspirant squad who, under the Veterans tutelage, will attain Neophyte's status. What they see is galling at first glance. Terribly weak children who appear below average height and weight, unable to lift their own feeble body weight... Yet there was a time when the Veteran was the same child.
  For a split moment of disgust, an emotion stripped from Astarte's stirs- empathy. He, the truest embodiment of war and wanton destruction, must forge these poor excuses for aspirants into the man, the Astarte's like himself. However the daunting the task ahead appears, he'll look back to a moment not remembered for centuries. A young aspirant, much like those before him, taken aback by the awe inspiring Astarte's standing before them. He remembered that moment with unusual clarity; fighting the urge weep and buckle in reverence. How could they become him? Yet here he was, clad in humming power armor, aquila glistening with the fresh polish, and despite his extensive bionics still retained an imposing yet dignified composure. He was a glimpse into their future one he would not deny.

 

 

 

Black Carapace Implant- Storied summary to a Neophyte's last mission before becoming an Astartes. (( Not finished, being edited. ))

 

 

 

  "A Phantoms war is never won nor ever lost." - Last words of an unknown Brass Phantom

  High above spires piercing the blackened skies, spires crowning a once grand Cathedral now ruined and contorted through a millennia of neglect. Through silent factorums, magnificent in stature, equally eroded as the rustic Cathedrals standing decrepit in the distance. Weave under and over, through and fro brass bridges intersecting a thousand more spires and factorums, towering hab-complexs- entire cities cast in a deeper darkness as the distant Cathedrals cast a shadow under a black, polluted sky.
  Lights flicker between buildings, some floors momentarily illuminated before vanishing back into sudden darkness. Torches waver inside ancient administorum structures, never touched by man or beast. Light being such a precious commodity, it's an unspoken curtsy to scratch flint and stone together, reigniting torches at any given interval; a tradition the skulking neophytes do so in turn. Here, in the bowels of these ruined structures, left to their own devices for several years to come, do aspiring Astarte's begin truly comprehending the world and universe, one in the same.

  Phobus, sometimes known as the Brass Behemoth exemplifies the Imperium's inevitable future, where the Astronomicon fades and humanity descends into pure barbarism. This isn't spoken aloud nor ever yet at a glance, Phobus depicts a reality reminiscent of Old Night. Where man and beast contend for resources, Neophyte's must contend as well. The final trial before achieving their final implantation, six aspirants come together on a world the Emperor has forgotten, hunting and surviving until those observing from afar deem them worthy.
  Brass Phantoms, for what little honor they've achieved, have proven time and again their uncanny talent in both medical and technological fields. Perhaps not as adapt as Apothecaries or Tech-Marines, both trained for such specific roles, it's worth noting the individual Phantom is not without his merit. Some, among those whom they exist, might query as to how or why they know of such practices. Tech-Priests haven't tutored them, doctors haven't lectured them, how might they've learned these unique traits?

  Survival.

  Neophyte's who venture into Brass Behemoth's bowels, descending further and further, deeper into the very darkness which birthed them, they'll endure monumental trials in doing so. Fend off the serpentine arachnid beasts slithering through broken drains, erupting in a web of legs and mandibles but lock the terminal sealed door keeping the dozen others at bay, and there's another story. To survive without weapons or armor, where a predators scratch means immediate amputation, killing and combat prowess simply won't suffice. They must understand the withered machine spirits, those which still flicker in and out of existence. Weapons are fashioned from scraps, food salvaged and thoroughly purged into barely edible crisps.
  Astarte's learn these essential skills from their first implant, tutored by some and gaps purposely left for them to discover. As Astarte's these skills will prove invaluable against the myriad foes ahead. When trapped on a venomous planet where immense Plague Marines, composed of flora interweaving ancient mechanics, their organs the flora itself- such utility will prove their salvation. The Aspirants will implement all they've been learned in their journey least they risk their body and soul.

  However, why do Neophyte's choose the road below instead of above. What lays hidden where the lights are fewest, where the darkness thickest. Only nocturnal mutants, their sight attuned to darkness, stalk these catacombs. Carnivorous predators follow suit, striking whilst ones slumbers. Why they choose this path where greater evils stir is speculated, at best. It must be understood that in this world of monsters, humans exist yet hardly found. Human variants, not quite mutant but not quite human, are found in droves, typically traveling as marauding nomads.
  Between the innumerable creatures wrecking havoc across Phobus, humans exist in another realm entirely. Similar to that which rest above yet further below, where terrors so incomprehensible words alone could not express their eldritch visage. How humans have come to live among these existing horrors remains a solemn mystery. Those Neophyte's, once children themselves who crawled from that same realm as mere boys, seek the home of the nightmares destined to plague them for eternity.

  As if drawn to unimaginable depths, a journey many other Astarte's have embarked upon, these six Neophyte's never falter in their quest. Drawn by forces neither recruit could ever discern, they'll travel beyond the bleak metropolis. A new horizon bursts before their eyes shaped in mile long hab-blocks, mega honeycomb structures once housing many millions. A world where the ominous Cathedral shadow reaches yet never grazes, the revitalized Neophyte's pause for the briefest instance to bask. Repressed memories from the same day they to were found resurface as embellished fantasies. Neophyte's, much like themselves, carried their broken, malnourished forms from the ground which they lay. Neophyte's who appeared so omnipotence they regarded them as angels, true Astarte's.
  The forces which lead them for years through a malevolent, labyrinthine metropolis has brought them here, a diminished ruin bereft of civility. Gangs wrest one another for dominion, mutant tyrants bellow a spine tingling war cry, clubbed hands high waving his recent victims spine. Yet for incessant war for dominion where light exists, where the Cathedrals shadow shrouds a hundred deaths, they do so in sprawling towers. Those few warbands fortunate enough to escape the blackened hell beyond push their good fortune by attempting to usurp the existing tyrants and warlords. Greed consuming their sense of reality, they'll see the vast wealth above and demand it, thus, war breaks out.

  First glance alone alerts the Neophyte's. One or two floors belong to one gang while three or four belong to another. Above such trivial marauder politics, they'll cautiously avoid these structures by distancing themselves man hab-blocks away. With absolute clarity to the objective bestowed on them, they scour the ruins, listening for the feigning heartbeats of fatigue ridden youth. The few who dared question the abyss in which they live, the hopeful weak climbing from the perpetual night, deliver themselves from despair. Perhaps destined for rescue, these boys and girls, with their last ounce of strength will squeeze between sewer grates or pull themselves from manholes. Scarred, even broken from their journey, most collapse. The abyss which sought to devour them now a faint nightmare, they'll finally lift their weary eyes and learn their journey was for nought. Tyrants roar triumphantly with echoing howls which churn a child's soul. Without questions or thought, their tears long dried away in weeks prior, they'll collapse where they stand. The void spreading inside, devouring the same conviction which carried them, bleeds away as reality sets.

  The Neophyte's make haste, bounding from rooftops, tossing themselves from windows, shortening their path by every measurable inch. On cue with their own discovery, the same Thunderhawk that lift them years ago hovers above them. Gangs fires their pathetic weaponry at the revered machine, tyrants bellowing louder. Automated bolter fire rains shells over those wise enough to flee while others are rendered red mist, popped like bulging blisters.
  This war which greets the young, perceived as another storm hurdling towards is, in fact, their salvation.

 

 

 

To Live to see Tomorrow- Little random blip I wrote for whatever reason.

  Doubters and naysayers are essential in grounding beliefs, easily elevated to superstition, and culling poisonous thoughts with reasoning logic. Mankind, even their immortal Astarte's guardians, seek those brave enough to question the folly's of men and women wearing profound, sometimes embellishing titles far beyond their own. To question the Brass Specters in every regard, from loyalty to combat effectiveness, should come naturally. One would be hard pressed to find another Chapter quite like them. Where other fleet based Chapters might abandon a Sector corrupted to its core, billions destined for eternal poverty, born as prey for the malevolent forces beyond... They remain. Who would condemn an entire chapter to such an indignant task, a futile task at that. What few thriving worlds remain, living under crushing authoritarian regimes while others do so in fear or ignorance.
  There is no honor or glory found here, only ruin wrought about by forces mankind was never meant to see nor understand. The pyres of war that once burned brighter then newborn stars have subsided into budding embers, a pale reminder of what once was and will never be. Life among these worlds is riddled with strife some may never known existed. Humans, for all their faults, will claw simply to see tomorrow; destined to fight and die, always seeking tomorrow. While these age old conflicts faded in a time others might never discover, those who live must carve a future in what little remains. However, to do so is folly in itself. There time has come and gone, they rose to unimaginable heights and tumble from a cliffs edge, never dying only falling.

  So let it be queried again; why condemn an entire Chapter to this drab Sector? Who would burden themselves with the souls of dead-men awaiting the reapers scythe. The legions of old couldn't quell the terrors lingering in Edith Sector. To do so is hubris embodied. Such audacity, comparing a meager Chapter to legions, portraying themselves as liberators in a Sector draped in despair. One Chapter alone couldn't accomplish a campaign beyond the modern means, nor should they even contemplate such a feat. So why pursue the impossible, why attempt what five crusades couldn't accomplish, why remain when millions have long perished and the Ecclesiarchy, in all its splendor, damn this Sector to rot and fester for eternity. Why waste your precious lives dying for the lost and damned, I demand to know why?!

 

"... To see tomorrow."

 

 

Astarte's Enemies- A glimpse into the various pricks constantly at their throat.

Intro

 

  Some may ask why an Astarte's Chapter even exist in a Sector famed for subtle warp tides. Travel between colonized worlds, worlds beyond the Astronomicon, anywhere within the Sector becomes a trivial matter. At best, impatience becomes ones greatest foe. Astral choirs speak to one another with untold clarity, their songs heard and recorded, never forgotten. The utter notions of Ruinous powers at play sparks a chuckle from well-informed cardinals and Inquisitors alike. How could such serenity be challenged? Who would dare brandish their blade against the vast Imperium? Fair questions, each answered easily and not without reluctance. The galaxy itself, a living breathing melting pot with too many predators and not enough prey.
 
  Peace among the stars is a distant dream never to be realized, and even though the Warp bares us no ill-will, a million others do.

  Xeno's Deities emerge from a planets crust to bellow their venomous summons, insidious Dark Eldar melt into the void, only to appear when the preys back is turned. Brigands from distant systems, treacherous regiments, traitors from every avenue seek salvation in these soothing tides. They spew forth, more and more every year, following a mad-mans ramblings of prosperity in the fringe. A Craftworld imposes its delusional authority, purposefully intercepting and butchering Imperials in a vein attempt to claim dominance over the Sector. Whole wither as their light feigns into a flicker among the rest; ravenous xeno's deities consuming its innards without thought or desire, acting wholly on hunger.

  While ancient man sculpted a realm built upon human prosperity has been reduced to towering ruins. Colonies exist in authoritarian walled cities, industrious cities churning out countless munitions in a constant struggle for supremacy. Other, less fortunate colonies, live purely on borrowed time. Hundreds of frontier realms existing entirely ignorant of the ever present predators which feast greedily on that very ignorance. Former Civilized Worlds where whole societies live in fright beneath hollow utopian cities, who's tyrannical leaders pay handsome tributes to Imperial dignitaries so they might continue existence in their dark.

  Once, at an epoch of human supremacy, did we live without fear or ignorance. A time where only our ambitions marked the road ahead... Now the fear we never knew has driven us into ruin.

  I heard the giant who pried the pale, cadaverous fingers from my throat whisper The Emperor Protects, and though I believed him, part of me still questioned. He crushed the fragile aliens skull with his huge, ceramite boot, a firm punctuation to his words... yet I still question. How long can he protect us, and if not him, how long can they protect us?

 

 
  C'Tan Stars

  Where one frontier ends past the Edith Sector, light beyond the Astronomicon lights; Xeno's deities, still feeble as Shards, contort vibrant stars with their malignant powers. Necrons of a Dynasty without any recollection of their former selves or hierarchy, submit themselves to the omnipotent C'Tan Shards. Their starved god leads his servants to mature stars where it may feed again. Through technology we cannot begin to fathom, the Shards are lodged into the Stars core itself. Solar flares will erupt violently, as if kicking and screaming in agony. Neon green and transparent purple roots will sprout out through the decades, further afflicting and consuming the star entirely. Its Necron servants, whom obeyed without question, may live once more.
 
  Inside its molten home, the C'Tan's omnipotent power over our dimension extends through the void; transparent luminescent rivers washing over the systems worlds and moons. Necrons land on these worlds graced by their gods divinity and begin building anew.

  During the gods feast upon star, however long that maybe, the servant Necrons construct machines of war, luxury, agriculture, anything their rejuvenated minds might conceive. However, this only occurs once a sacrifice is acquired. Alien races, alien to them, such as Orks, Humans, even Tyranids are hoarded in behemoth sized vessels once captured. Necron, forged entirely of Necrodermis, will have themselves liquefied and poured over the sacrificial creature. There, once the symbiosis of Necron and Organic is complete, may they truly believe themselves alive once more. The alien sacrifices soul and eternal agony during this symbiosis further feeds the C'Tan's insatiable hunger. It's sentient conscience erased, the warp connection forever severed, it'll forever know agony while the Necron parasite will believe himself a living, breathing creature once more.

  It grieves me to admit these systems are without salvation and immune to Exterminatus protocol. Worlds enshrouded by the C'Tan's aura nullify any and all attempts. Invasion fleets are swept away in violent solar flares, long range Exterminatus missiles malfunction before launch, prematurely exploding in its silo. Under direct order from Elren Hale of the Ordo Xeno's, the eight systems plagued by these cancerous stars have been quarantined. Though only one remains in the Astronomicons light on the Eastern fringe, the other seven are documented and remain quarantined, regardless. All Imperial forces maintain interference against Necron harvesters. Whether or not denying them further bodies to consume hinders them or not, their extermination still remains a priority.

 

  The Caustic Caress

  Whole worlds whisper a silent plea as entire colonies are immortalized in statuesque glass statues. Humans, plants, all organic life snuffed out in a single night; only their eerily frightened expressions before death sharing the slightest glimpse of what vile misfortune befell them. Haemonculi of the Craven Song begin every Masquerade in this fashion, treating Dark Eldar dignitaries to an assortment of terror made manifest in crystalline statues. Wych Cults, fledgling or old, assemble to test ones might in brilliant singles competitions against captured slaves across the Sector. Humans, Astarte's, alien predator; sometimes foolish Corsairs.
  Perhaps singles competition is too generous a phrase. The Wych Cults allow their chosen prey a fleeting glimpse of hope, that freedom could be obtained through a single victory. However, that's never the case. These poor victims inevitably become the tapestry depicting the Wych's chosen art of torture, mutilation, and ultimately, death. Poisons, needles, knives, serrated knives and whips, a great plethora of weapons are utilized in these brilliant displays. Other Wych Cults, whom find themselves mildly intrigued, will barter with other cults or, simply put, forcibly absorb them into their own. Such is The Wych Cult ways.

  Archon Grissils, Lady and Matriach to the Kabal Caustic Caress, garnishes great favor from allies and rivals alike in these grandiose events. Edith Sector, rich in habitable worlds, in and beyond the Astronomicon, commits consider effort and resources to these Masquerades. Kabalite Raiders strike and fade, again and again, never ceasing until they've crippled their target. Performed raids happen sporadically but intentionally, normally targeting the least defending worlds or distant shipping lanes. These attacks hardly last past a day, where several hundred civilians or PDF are killed before a sudden retreat. A tactic used to extend the Imperial forces thin in a course of decades, some raiders are unfortunately too bold. Astarte's, on rare occasions intercept these raiding parties yet never frequently enough to deter the countless other raids already transpiring.

  What little evidence scavenged from these brief raids has allowed the Imperials to theorize the xeno's motives- only after several Masquerades have come and gone. Intelligence regarding these raids, even theorizes, is trusted only to a select few. Elren Hale, of the Ordo Xeno's, Bras Phantom Astarte's, and few trusted associates. Guardsmen and Navy will continue wider patrols routes and PDF Forces are drawn from previously raided worlds in small companies, forming larger counter-offensive squads on more essential worlds. By feigning ignorance, assuming the xeno's will not strike the same target twice, essentially lure the void lurking predators into a guileful trap. Astarte's, cleverly brought in alongside relief and aid, will remain dormant for weeks, even months in preparation. While more troops are shipped away, the insatiable craving for easy prey eventually consumes the sadistic raiders. They'll descend once more eager for torture, and once they've strayed deeper into the fleeing civilians masses, overwhelmed by their inherent thirst for murder- The Astarte's come.

  Bolters cut through mobs of innocents and raiders alike, barely slaying a dozen raiders. Two, sometimes three squads choose populated area's in key locations, usually near shelters. Inquisitor Elren Hale, turns the Dark Eldars base desires into their greatest weakness. At the cost of innumerable lives, thousands half-breed Kabalite Raiders fall prey. Though she's yet to successfully intercept the Kabal's ever famed Masquerades, with the Astarte's aid, she inches ever closer to the next, narrowing down the worlds suitable for the next grand event.

Lords of Slumber

  Celestial beings whom dare imply themselves gods stride across once formidable Hive Worlds. So vast are these creatures do Imperator Titans pale in comparison. Manifested through the twisted amalgamation of flesh and machine, molded into a singular entity human minds can barely fathom. Dozens of multi-jointed limbs stretch out to the horizon, ten fingered hands squashing entire hives in mere moments. At its center where the green and neon aura leaks out like a miasma, poisoning the sky, does the god bellow a silent roar beckoning for its kin to ascend him to the stars. Life, be it Eldar, Ork, or Human endure sudden seizures in the silent roars wake. An unseen echo travels from Sector to Sector, a futile hope its ascended C'Tan Shards might show mercy, break away from their domains and uplift them into the heavens and merge their feeble shard with their own. Whether these shards are one in the same remains a mystery only answerable by the Celestial Deities themselves.

  Ships requisitioned from across the Edith Sector loom over the miasma polluted skies in response to a threat so grand. Ordnance fire will sunder the skies as war incarnate comes crashing down, smashing debris and gore in its wake. The gargantuan unnamed god never responds in kind. Naval officers who observe the country size, grotesque bio-mechanical abominations demise, scratch behind their officers caps, as if to subside the mourning sirens song itching just beneath the waking reality. Perceiving this armada's attack as response to its galactic cry, whimpering through the minds of those assailing it; However, these whimpers are a momentary distraction which fails to alleviate the colossal shells rattling its entire form, from shell to core.

  Necrodermis, metals of such alien nature some believe it's invulnerable. While Astarte's bolters might sudden a shell or render it simply molten slag, it always remains whole. Sentient comes to mind yet that seems a touch too generous... Yet as these nigh impervious beings buckle and collapse after enduring days of bombardment, their tattered corpse, strewn out across thousands of kilometers, outright refuses to die. After such a blank refusal in response to their desperate plea's they refuse death, as if death were neither a first or last option.
  In the wake of destruction, where lush jungles and sprawling cities once stretched out beyond the horizon, another being would rise. Here, where voracious flames and ruins devour the landscape with an insatiable hunger, a gods supposed death will beckon forth horrors before the pious guardsmen very eyes. The smouldering necrodermis slag bubbling in roaring pyre's begin taking shape. Slowly at first, splinters and fragments crawling while pools harden but shape none the less. Illuminate green streams of living energy seep into these shapes and from hollowed eyes in gaunt, oval shaped humanoid skulls, that same energy will peer into the guardsmen soul. He'll freeze in that same moment, utterly baffled by what transpired before him. His blunder will cost him dearly. As the newly formed Necron captivates its ignorant victim, it'll clasp the guardsmen wrist, and with a single, powerful wrench, pry his arms from their sockets. Before the Necron can collect its now forming gun, several dozen las-bolts will render it slag and ruined once more.

  Wherever this gods corpse fell, wherever its ruin splashed, the tomb world used to craft its former colossal form will form anew. Fanatical mechanized wretches find themselves whole once more, and in the weeks following, millions, if not billions more Necrons will rise. Human populations disappear, rather, those who remain. The molten Necrodermis will latch onto any sentient being, be it man or animal. As more pools over them their biological essence is gradually vaporized until only the contorted skeleton remains. With their body gone and soul diminished to an insignificant spark, their will consumed, these newly formed wretches march forth as another generation is forged.
  Astarte's fight tooth and nail against the arising hoard descending upon every landing zone established. Many more guardsmen stand beside them, their weapons blaring a crescendo of las before leman russ tanks blast devastating shells into the masses. Most stumble until they can properly butcher the invaders with their metallic cadavers while others fire iridescent gauss blasts in their crawling silent march. No matter how tenacious a man, even an Astarte's, might appear, it's only a matter of time before they to are strewn across the land which their god once walked.

  Success, if anyone would call it that, is achieved only through Exterminatus. Once the dormant yet still weeping shard is located and secured personal will attempt to bring it into orbit. Mind you, this is no easy feat. As if sensing their deities departure, Monoliths suddenly erupt in volcanic tsunami's of Necrodermis filled oceans. Doom Scythes, Night Scythes, thousands more blades hastily erupt half formed. With frames leaking liquid residue, they'll hurl themselves against the forces which threaten their lord. Where most have yet to formulate weapons of their own, pilots hurl their crafts into the invaders. Fleets above, whom since learned to anticipate this desperate act, unleash what munitions remain yet never enough.
 
  As those fortunate enough to elude the mass kamikaze, warships in orbit attempt a mass evacuation. Monoliths, formed entirely, lead what vessels capable of void travel. Inside, Necron Lords and Overlord cooperate in a harmony seldom, if ever, scene throughout the other dynasty. Unified by their god, who soothed the agony in another life, reached into the stars to see single shard retrieved. However noble their intentions may appear, their insidious invaders deny them again and again.
  Beneath enormous monoliths guiding a pristine, freshly revitalized fleet into orbit after untold millennia in slumber, their world cracks, splintering into a thousand seems. Valleys of inferno stretching across this once thriving world collapse into canyons swallowing generations of Necrons, old and new. In every instance where millions met their doom in these hungering casms, whole Necron fleets abruptly pause in flight. Triarch Stalkers claw desperately for purchase, Canoptek Wraiths and Spiders find themselves crushed beneath several tons of debris building upon their forced tombs. Helpless to save innumerable Necron's, whom their god chosen and loved, volcanic gysers burst forth, immense molten rivers suddenly flowing within the planetary splinters. A mixture of red hot and gun-metal grey, these volcanic rivers carrying the liquidized bodies of a vast Necron Dynasty will disappear as quickly as they came.

  A planet dies with the Dynasty it sought to hide. The god who bellowed into the eternal void for unity is hurled back into what little remains. Like a toddler throwing a candy wrapper away, the Astarte's escorts throw the xeno's shard as a final insult. There, among the ruined fields of Necrodermis and planetary debris it'll linger, never forming anew, forever lingering beside faithful yet ruined corpses and a Dynasty it never knew worshiped him with such reverence. Were they his body or his people? A question the Shard will ask for eternity in what little remains of both.

 

 

 

 

[Cryptix]

Not sure how long this chapter has survived without the =][= looking in on them. Maybe make them successors of a first founding chapter like the Scars or the Dark Angels who are known for not giving a :cuss about other chapters.

[Badass_Spaz]

I'm pretty sure the Inquisition wouldn't give a rats butt cheeks what they do. True, the Defilement is a stain on the Chapter's history that will never go, but otherwise, they're pretty damn compliant. Prowl outright refuses to acknowledge his Chapter's heritage but a curious Inquisitor could easily find out... It's just him attempting to attain prestige/infamy for his Chapter. Otherwise they'd be another random successor who couldn't measure up to the original... Err, that's how I like to think about it.

[Donkey Kong]

Space Marines that don't rely on heritage or honor but unbridled brutality? Cool! Now what makes them different from the Minotaurs?

 

Off the bat, I'm not a big fan of the name. Tusk Bearers doesn't roll well. Tuskers maybe if that's the imagery you want to go for. Is the iconography supposed to be a boar? an elephant? disembodied ivory?

 

Why does the Chapter need freight ships full of live cargo?

Who's writing the article? Why does it matter what the Chapter thinks about its genetic heritage for the purposes of an official document?

Founding a Chapter is a logistical undertaking that takes a long time. How long ago did this sector fall that a new Space Marine Chapter is founded to reclaim it?

Why do they need a special speaker shaped like tusks on the sides of their helmet to scream? Why can't the Marines just scream?

Terror and Long-range what?

Prowl Mandrake, okay. Why is his beating a possessed to death important right now?

Extra organs are a M.I.S.S. or Me I'm So Special. They don't need to have something special about them to have more endurance. They're already super humans, so why do they need even more endurance anyway? Marines can already fight with half of their brain asleep. What's lactic acid flushing supposed to change? Why not just use that third lung to breath better so there's less lactic acid build up in the first place?

Sociopathy. Most marines already have that though to some degree or another.

Brass Behemoth. How do sociopathic crazy murder marines put two and two together well enough to infiltrate a Chaos Space Marine fortress?

Edith. The Eighth Company Captain gives slaves to guardsmen who beat and abuse the slaves. The Eighth Company Captain is beaten and lobotomized by the crazy Chapter Master. A feast is held to honor the guardsmen for beating and abusing the slaves. Which part of this was supposed to justify the lobotomy? Also, Edith is a silly name for a Space Marine.

Too nutty for Librarians. That's kinda cool.

Too nutty for Dreadnoughts. That's cool too.

 

With the 26th Founding, they're as young as a Chapter can get. How are you going to use that?

 

As it stands, this isn't an Index Astartes. It's a few short story blurbs and you telling me about how unhinged and cool your Chapter Master is. It's also got too much name dropping for my liking. We infiltrated an Iron Warriors Fortress, yeah! We speared a Marine Malevolent on rebar and knocked him out, yeah!

 

Your Chapter is a bunch of crusading unhinged lunatics, but they're not Black Templars or Minotaurs. Their Chapter Master is totally radical and cool, and he's been kicking around for at least 500 years if he's going to go the distance until 999.M41. So, where are you going to go from here?

[Badass_Spaz]

Minotaurs are paranoid psycho's who plunder loyalists chapters for their booty. My guys are low but robbing your cousins, come on, that's just grimy.

Still trying to figure out a way to make Iconography but I was hoping to use a Boar's head or something along those lines.

Currently, live cargo (captured heretics, mutants, and rebels) are put to work in labor camps that supply the crusade. Other times they're given to Mechanicus to be recycled into servitors or slave bodies reduced into nutrient gruel for servitors. Moreso gaining a bit of favor with the locals while putting the treacherous swine to better use... But it's a working idea.

Prowl is a vain, prideful fool who'd willingly jeopardize possible aid/friends/homies in a desperate attempt to stand out. Brilliant man but everyone needs a few crippling flaws.

Centuries ago. The sector is a mineral rich plain unfortunately plagued by ruinous feuding warbands, Dark Eldar pirates, and harboring renegade Imperials. Given the Imperium's state, military forces from all branches are stretched quite thin, thus, a Chapter is founded beside a small crusade force hoping to capitalize on the ensuing disorder.

Think more of a deep lions roar. Astarte's are intimidating enough but imagine one who roars at you like an off world predator? That's cause for a case of brown trousers.

A Dark Apostle killed the previous Chapter Master, so the Chapter was awe-struck, paralyzed even seeing him die... And Mandrake challenges the bastard to 'Bare his tusks'. Basically, fight me as god (Whichever you believe) intended. So mortal combat ensues with a delightful fatality.

Edited the organs out and that's a work in progress. Thanks for pointing that out, by the way. I figured it sounded unique but a bit hamfisted, if you get the gist.

... These guys broad casts torture over enemy communication, religious sermons, unsettling Night Lord tactics. Also, they have a predisposition to executions. I'd say they're a tad more unhinged than your average Astarte's.

Marines can be equally crazy and intelligent. Those who underwent the mission knew they'd die in the process. If anything, it expresses just how out of their minds they really are. It's not senseless slaughter but a driven desire to win by any means necessary.

Edith is the name of the sector not the Captain. And the feast was a ruse in itself. His Captain was out of line, the Guardsmen were especially out of line. What better way to get'em all together by having a demi-god Astarte's hold a feast in their honor? He gets'em together and muffs them up some fierce. And the Captain knew what would happen. Wars break people. That far away from home for so many years, what did you expect would happen. The Captain thought it'd send a message buuuuuut even they have ethical boundaries. Again, an expression to their lack of empathy.

With all that said, you can see why Dreadnoughts and Librarians aren't an option for this chapter. I could easily see the librarians becoming Chaos Spawns in a few weeks. Hehe

They're young, ambitious, and it allows me to make a more concentrated history eventually leading to the 13th Black Crusade... If they survive. I'm still deciding whether they live past their inception or not.

Honestly, it's been a solid few days since I accepted the challenge and I haven't gotten a topic for the Iron Gauntlet. This was more half-assed to get something up before procrastination truly got its grubby claws into me.

Still, I appreciate you bombarding me with all those questions and getting me into gear. I've been pretty lazy lately so being thrown on the pedastol helped get me typing.

Oh, and don't forget to throw any idea's my way or further criticize. Now, I have oodles of other topics to post in. Good day, my good man!

[Cryptix]

I think what King is trying to say about Prowl is that Possessed are bog standard and can be found anywhere. Worse yet, being a good fighter does not make you eligible for Chapter Master. You have to be an exemplary commander, a master of logistics, a leader of men, and a great negotiator. I'm not seeing any of that right now.

[Dizzyeye01]

The question I want to pose on you Badass is why? Why has the chapter become a bunch of lunatics? What made them decide that they needed to go the extra mile to scare their enemies? Why call themselves the Tusk Bearers? Does tusks on their home planet have some special factor/meaning for them? Look into why the chapter has things and see if the idea is still reasonable.

 

Secondly, a lot of this is just based on the current chapter master. Personally, I would give him say a sidebar giving the basic details on him however an IA should mainly focus on the chapter as a whole.

 

Finally, going off of these notable battles here, I would be incredibly surprised if the Inquisition did nothing considering that at least some of the chapter has worn warp tainted armour and weapons (already a bad thing) but have also killed off guardsmen in a feast where the chapter gave them dead heretics as food. That just sounds like a chaos ritual to me.

 

There is some good ideas here, you just need to develop them and see how viable they are.

[Ferrus Manus]

I don't really have much to add to what has already been said. But what I say is that a 'traditional IA' could be considered - as KHK touches on with his point on writer's perspective - a report on the Chapter, a non-fiction text of fiction so to speak. So tidbits like the possessed marine story, while following the rule of cool - don't really add anything to the character of your Chapter as a whole. Think bigger picture, and don't get bogged down in the minute details. 

[Sete]

My first advice will be to change the founding.

26th seems to be too recent.

One thing that bothers me, if they eventually turn into sociopaths, having some dudes questioning and challenging the chapter master, wouldn't​ that get them murdered?

If i was a bit crazy and had a dude always annoying me, i would dispatch him.

 

Don't Turn Mandrake into a Mary Sue ;)

Some defeats also define character.

 

Also where does the chapter recruit from, do they have a center of operations, like a battle barge or star fortress?

[MysticTemplar]

Descended from the Marines Malevolent? That's... a mildly terrifying concept - it may be worth exploring what desperate circumstances were required to get this founding off of the ground - for surely there was a more suitable source for geneseed and initial training than they of the unsubtle name, especially given the way it seems to have backfired (as described, the Tusk Bearers seem like they're just above being Khorne worshippers), so I think you could do something interesting with their founding rather than just a blurb on the timeline.

[Badass_Spaz]

@Cryptix: What in the holy hell are you smoking- Possessed Space Marines bog standard... That straight Imperial propaganda right there. Anyway, I'm not sure you and I perceive Chaos in the same light, to be honest. Traitor Marines are greased up, amoral barbarians that go to any and every low to win. Not only that, they're relatively rare by Imperial standards... Unless you're near the Eye of Terror or Malestrom, then they're like the everyday paperboy.

Possessed Marines are Astarte's possessed by immaterial Daemons that make them a fair bit (ALOT) dangerous than any loyalist or traitor. Mind you, I stand by the idea Chaos Space Marines, one-on-one, would absolutely maul Loyalists. Loyalists have cohesion and discipline, which is their strength against those beefy savages. So yea, Traitor Marines, especially possessed, aren't your bog standard.

Either way, I think this entirely depends on your own perception of Chaos and the threat represented. I like to treat them as a terrifying present that, on those rare occasions, cause Astarte's to have a bad case of brown trousers.

@DizzyEye: Sir, I've taken everything you've said to heart (Literately) and threw all that Tusk Bearer stuff out the window. I tried implementing it cause having little tusks on the helmets seemed aesthetically badass buuut any narrative felt hamfisted. So I skewered the idea with extreme prejudice!

Again, kicked those idea to the curb BUT! I will find a narrative strong enough to warrant my psycho's to fool Traitors and butcher them in their own colors before becoming giant pink, fleshy Chaos Spawns. The idea is simply too awesome to throw away. I mean come on, you know no legion would see that coming!

Anyway, I've rehashed a lot of the previous stuff into what's stated above. And the notable battles and documented history is to help illustrate how the Chapter operates. Personally, the Imperium, in their era, is a merciless regime that demands maximum efficiency. This first crusade essentially molds the Chapter and its combat doctrine into what it eventually becomes. Edith Crusaders are, for lack of better words, ruthless. 

Build, destroy, enslave, build, destroy, enslave. The Imperium in the late 41st century is stated to be the bloodiest regime to date, so the Chapter confirms to this time... And Marines Malevolent gene-seed, that probably contributes.

@Sete: An excellent question and to answer; yes they do get snuffed! Unofficially, Uthren Skarn is the designated enforcer in the Chapter. Once a single battle brother crosses any line, they're never seen again. Hence, the emphasis on discipline but the odd few slip up.

26th founding seemed necessary considering how the Chapter operates and the reason for their inception. Bloodiest regime, too many treacherous swine, people forgetting who's in charge. So, lets take the gene-seed from truly lunatic Astarte's, say the Marines Malevolent, and drop the unfortunate results on a truly fethed up Sector.

Mandrake's defining feature is he's a ruthless brawler who hasn't lost. It's a gimmick for the Marauders, really. These guys are honorless beasts who'll fight dirty if it means winning. So though he hasn't, that doesn't mean his accumulated record is anything respectable. Would you respect a man who won an honor duel of chainswords by shooting his opponents kneecap out when he, Mandrake, was about to lose? Again, technically wins but lets not go assuming he's skilled or anything!

Still haven't decided on the fleet. Certainly no star fortress. I don't care what people say, you have to do something truly remarkable and blow the Fabricator General himself for a Chapter to get their mitts on that... And my guys faaaaar from qualify for that.

I mean honestly, a Star Fortress is obviously better used by the Imperial Navy/Imperial Guard for full-scale invasions and crusades. You give that monstrosity to a thousand or so Astarte's, a solid 1/10 of it is gathering dust and falling into disrepair. That isn't to say I'm against other Chapters having it I just like to have a dash of believability... Which part of me feels I'm failing at.

@MysticTemplar: You've got a solid point there, so I went over there and threw down a reason I feel plausible. That, and a plethora of overhauls, I think they're quite similar to the Marines Malevolent but still a different entity. They aren't going to be plowing through refuge camps because shortcuts but they aren't taking an inkling of back sass. Salamander wants to fight cause slavery is bad, then bring it you big charcol monkey!

[Sete]

Well i like the answers you gave me.

I like the fact that you have an enforcer, and the fact that the CM is a bastard.

I still think that they are too young maybe, but its your chapter dude. ;)

[Dizzyeye01]

Its good to have a timeline written out so you have a good idea where you chapter stands at certain points in time. I will say though, while I like the idea of having an enforcer in the chapter, why not expand it so that your chaplains are considered enforcers' too? You can even run with the idea of your chaplains being so with the Marine Malevolent being the parents since they're still very Great Crusade liking guys. You also get two birds with one stone as they can make sure those gifted with the powers of the warp don't overstep themselves and use the warp. It was one of the main duties a chaplain had during the Great Crusade / Horus Heresy.

[Ferrus Manus]

I have two thoughts ( actually 3 now I think about it):

1- Personally I think you're making a step in the right direction.

2-For me, using the 26th founding is a tricky one. Mostly, because how much of a reputation can a chapter gain in the space of 200 years. Chances are they'd still be developing their own character and methodology in that time. I'd suggest making them a bit older.

3- I find it hard to believe that Astartes that effectively develop psychosis would be able to manage some of the squad arrangements - which sound precise on par with that of the Raven Guard - such as the 2,2,2 arrangement you've suggested. I feel like you're trying to have your cake and eat it. If these guys are meant to be brutal, make them brutal.

 

Why can't they be codex organisation, maybe an extra assault squad minus one devastator, with NLedque death units that are specifically charged with being murderous and brutal to sow fear?

 

Also (ok, it was 4 things sue me ;) ) I'm not sure about the name. I actually preferred the old one. It kind of conjured up images of astartes crossed with WoC Norseman in my mind.

[Badass_Spaz]

@Ferrus Manus: The fledgling approach allows me to create a more detailed history. Contrary to popular belief 270 years is a very long time. Yea, Astarte's live a long time but that's still a fairly extensive time frame. That, and I personally adore the idea this Chapter's character and tactics are develop over the course of a morally deprived crusade. Humans are destructive by nature, thus, Astarte's are many times more destructive... Physically, and psychologically.

Next update I'll purge that 2,2,2 idea from the record books. And trust me, these guys are quite the brutes. I'm working on the combat doctrine and imagine- a Rhino transport with spiked cow-catcher/snow plow thingy, and driving straight through enemy lines. While the pintle guns are laying down suppression fire, Assault Marines are jettison out the back in groups of two. And stealing another idea; said Assault Trooper have modified communicators in their helms, essentially allowing them to screech like murderous banshee's. (See Night Lords Terror Squads.)

 

They're codex adherent, aside for sorely lacking tactical squads, veterans, and terminators. To compensate, they sport an equal amount of Assault and Devastator Squads. Their rather gruesome tactics are employed because they lack dedicated professional/veteran support. This eventually leads to small scale intelligence networks, raider tactics, and continually devolves from there... BUT! that doesn't mean I'm not open to idea's or suggestions.

@Dizzyeye: Next update I'm stealing both those idea's and never giving them back! The Chapter are far from religious, so Chaplains resuming their former, official role is appealing. It allows me to further explore the Librarian instead of just axing it. Chaplains who perceived said Librarian's to slightly go astray plants a Power Maul in their skull... Sounds about right.

Now that I juggled it in my noggin for a little bit, I'm beginning to wonder if I should have Chaplains play a larger role in the Chapter. Besides bonking Librarians, perhaps they could act as enforcers for other Marines with certain litanies. Nothing religious, more disciplinary. Chapels are dens of learning, where Marines reflect on their heritage and purpose. The Emperor created them to slay the Imperium's enemies yet must uphold the moral values intended for them and humanity, as a whole. However, these values don't apply to the Imperium's enemies, thus, why battlefields become butcher galleries... I don't know, it's a thought but nothing solid.

[Donkey Kong]

I like the premise of showing a Chapter develop. I don't think that an IA is the best format to tell that kind of story though. My suggestion, if this is what you want to write, put together an IA of what you think the Chapter looks like at the end of the crusade. Then, take the ideas that you want to write and make a short story for how they went from founding to IA.

[Draakur]

The short story would net you another Challenge, too.

[Badass_Spaz]

@KHK: Good sir, that is what I think the combat doctrine will end up looking like at the end of the day. I personally adore the idea that my Chapter has bit too many Tech-Marines, Chaplains, and Apothecaries. The sheer attrition rate this chapter endures conquering the traitor, xeno, and mutant seems apt those three are present.

Also, just imagine being an Ultramarine fighting beside these guys? One Astarte's who attempts to put a bolt into an infants noggin ends up with a Crozius in his skull. All those questions and no answers... Epic!
--------------------------------------
Yes, I figured out how I can truly capture how and why they're so inherently brutal among themselves and everyone around them.

Edit: One day I'll learn to proof read the crap I post. Hehe

[Evz]

Marines Malevolent is pretty scary. 

 

I feel like the article should be broken up a bit more with a big title for each chunk? Mostly because it seems like a giant text wall.

[Draakur]

Just as another voice on the topic, I like the new name more I think.

[Badass_Spaz]

Welp, after spreading things out and fighting with the editor (I gave up for a solid few hours.) I've finally made it less wall-y... If that makes sense. Now I don't want to look at this train wreck for a solid few days. Lets see what everyone else is up to.

Edit: So I jotted down some idea's I'm working on for the company composition, unique Astarte's, all that non-sense. I've literately stole these idea's from Great Crusade/Horus Heresy Legionary because why not? Anyway, any feed back concerning these idea's would be appreciated.

 

Red Marauder Company composition is Codex compliant yet adjustments were required to utilize veterans more appropriately. Veteran Astarte's normally lead Tactical Squads as oppose to forming their own individual squads. Decorated veterans may transfer into 10th Company for mentor roles or remain with their current Tactical Squads.

Standard Bearers have remained absent from the Chapter's inception, as well as their battle cry. While their name and heraldry might imply a certain level of audacity; it's far from accurate. Marauders operate in such away that drawing unwarranted attention to a key individual or shouting before engagement is considered irrational. Other Chapters questions these notions, sighting such disregard of ones own heraldry is unbecoming of an Astarte's, and the entire Chapter in question. Marauders refuse to compliment nor discuss said matters.

Tech-Marines and Apothecaries appear more frequently within the Chapter. Marauder recruitment ensures academically inclined candidates eventually become Neophyte's. Presumably because of this specific recruitment requirement this influx in specialists medical and technological roles occurs. Whether or not this contributes to reduced veterans and tactical squads remains largely ignored. The accumulated armory under the Tech-Marine influx and Apothecarions, statistically speaking, have reduced estimated causalities while permitting large vehicle operations.

Unique Astarte's/Squads

Outrider Bike Squads: 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Companies utilize two Outrider Bike Squads. Each squad is lead by a veteran on Storm Bolter equipped Attack Bike with three other bikes follow suit without weaponized bikes.

 

4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, and 9th Companies maintain one Outrider Bike Squad with appointed veteran leading each squad. Only Bike Squads are lead by Veterans, other squads are lead by Sargents. Veteran lead ensures maximum effectiveness during deployments.

Destroyer Marines: Devastator Sargent's are considered Destroyer Marines for their service record leading Devastators. These Marines have chosen to remain heavy weapon specialists and modestly refuse veteran roles. As such, these Marines become active Destroyers. Only these leaders use Phosphex Bombs.

 

Moritat Company: Entirely separate from Codex compliant companies, the Moritat company is reserve for Chapter Blacksheilds. Astarte's who besmirched the Imperial law enter the Moritat Company and await their final appointment. These Astarte's have succumbed to psychological depravity where humans, be it Imperial or Non-Imperial, are considered fodder. These psychological disturbances differ from one Astarte's to another. Some might outright beat an objecting citizen for merely objecting while others abuse personally appointed serfs.
Those unfortunate enough to make it into this company undergo strict disciplinary and religious indoctrination by Chapter Chaplains. Red Marauders do not conform to religious ideals, neither do Chaplains, however this is circumvented so Moritat Marines feel the weight of their crimes. They are considered outcasts among fellow companies and treated as lowly serfs.

 

Moritat Company remains as an example for all Red Marauders. Should they forego moral Imperium conduct towards the Imperium's citizens to indulge their superiority complex, they'll be admitted without hope of redemption. Only the Imperium's innumerable foes should be acquainted with an Astarte's boot, not the pious pilgrim or inquiring Guardsmen.

 

 

[Daimyo-Phaeron Lenoch]

Three things, though it may be able to be considered two., or even four, depending on how you slice it.

 

1.

 

Marauders refuse to compliment nor discuss said matters.

I think you mean 'refuse to comment' ​not refuse to compliment. But given their character I doubt they give compliments anyway ;)

 

2. Switch Moritats and Destroyers. Moritats were loners and officers, while destroyers were the ones to run in groups. Both had similar equipment, but I think it would make more sense for the destoryers to be the mainline guys for that company and have the moritats as their officers of that company. Also, does this company take them above codex size? Perhaps 1100 combat marines instead of the normal 1000?

 

3. Where have they gotton phosphex bombs? They were rare and considered disgusting in the HH, so I'm curious as to your justification for having them (this isn't mean-spirited, I'd be very interested in the reason).

 

Captain Lenoch.

[Badass_Spaz]

@Captain Lenoch, my good man, all fine questions. As for the first, I've yet to proof read all the mumbo jumbo I've posted. Honestly, I'm still in the works of editing in stuff, deleting bologna and all that meticulous crap. When I'm done getting the rough draft done, I'll go through to re-word, punctuate, and show love towards these motherless bastards. (Thank you Guilleman for such a beautiful insult.)

Moritat officers leading Destroyers... By Fulgrim's perfectly sculpted cheek bones, that is a must! Good sir, I salute and appreciate your idea's.

As for company sizes, it varies from campaign to campaign. At times they'll be barely 300 others they'll be close to 1200. Casualty estimations, simulated battles, and campaign lengths call for a brief increase in Astarte's and for mildly justifiable reasons. Between the KIA's and MIA's during prolonged operations, some might return and after a certain period, a Neophyte will assume the MIA Astarte's previous role. Nothing too radical considering the way they operate. These guys conquer constantly, so there's a higher attrition rate. They compensate accordingly.

Rare or not, we must not assume not every nifty gadget eventually became extinct in the 41st millennia. So, one of the Forge Temples who swore fealty to them equips them. Fortunately enough, this Magos is one of those rare few with Phosphex. Not only that, they got their own pattern of Bolter- Bismal Pattern. A bit larger and clunkier but the standard issue drum magazines hardly jam anymore. Yea... Standard issue Drum Magazines cause awesome!

[Daimyo-Phaeron Lenoch]

Careful, Spaz, Fulgrim killed Manus, and we of the Iron Tenth still aren't happy about that....

Heh, we're cool. Just a little joke.

But in all seriousness, I see what you mean with the phosphex. I suppose it does make sense that is isn't all ​dead, plus if you can give a decent fluff reason other than handwavium​ it's all the better. Perhaps you might expand on how​ they got their old tech/all drum bolters (which, by the way, would look awesome on TT and in-universe and greatly expand their battlefield logistical train capabilities...or something like that, I can't think this late at night).

[Badass_Spaz]

So, after that recent update, I had to run to the 24/7 coffee shop to post it. My god, these guys are turning out to be 40K's answer to the IRS. Basically, when these clowns come into whosever systems, someone dun goofed it! Whenever these guys arrive in town, there's literately nothing good about it... Unless you're a struggling PDF guy. Otherwise, the whip will be cracked some fierce... Oh, the hilarity is killing me.

I posted a description of the fleet and Brass Behemoth to help clear things up concerning munitions and such. They do more than collect tithes but it's a small and rather crappy part of their job; ensuring absolute compliance while conquering the little twits who say otherwise.

I actually had this funny idea that when the Astronomicon flickered, a few Chapters declares the Emperor is dead... Not two hours later, guess who comes knocking at the door? They are drawn to heresy, the smallest of misdemeanors, and marginal unpaid tithes... They are, THE RED MARAUDERS!