The Primarchs AIO by

# <font color="white">The Primarchs</font>
# <font color="white">All-in-One</font>

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##### <font color="white">*We start in the beginning, as all stories must. The end we will never know, for by then it will be too late.*</font>

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- ### <span></span><span>The Primarchs</span>
- ##### [<span></span><span>Lion El'Jonson: 3</span>](#Lion-El'Jonson)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Fulgrim: 14</span>](#Fulgrim)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Perturabo: 28</span>](#Perturabo)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Jaghatai Khan: 39</span>](#Jaghatai-Khan)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Leman Russ: 50</span>](#Leman-Russ)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Rogal Dorn: 60</span>](#Rogal-Dorn)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Konrad Curze: 71</span>](#Konrad-Curze)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Sanguinius: 82</span>](#Sanguinius)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Ferrus Manus: 93</span>](#Ferrus-Manus)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Angron: 101</span>](#Angron)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Roboute Guilliman: 112</span>](#Roboute-Guilliman)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Mortarion: 129</span>](#Mortarion)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Magnus: 141</span>](#Magnus)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Horus: 153</span>](#Horus)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Lorgar Aurelian: 168</span>](#Lorgar-Aurelian)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Vulkan: 181</span>](#Vulkan)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Corvus Corax: 193</span>](#Corvus-Corax)
- ##### [<span></span><span>Alpharius Omegon: 204</span>](#Alpharius-Omegon)

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# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="white">Chapter One</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="white">Lion El'Jonson</font>

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##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="white">*...And then came the Angels of Death, and from then we fled for they brought with them the destruction of darker times.*</font>

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# The Lion Roars
F*rom the darkness of malefic science to the shadows of ancient woods, the Lion is more monster than man. Pray then, that his fangs seek the throats of your enemies, rather than your own.*

As one of the Primarchs craft in the secret labs beneath the Emperor's Palace, Lion El'Jonson was a figure of awe and terrible might. Capable of physical feats that would have been myth in lesser times, the true art of the Dark Knight was his tactical acumen and strategic brilliance.

Unfortunately, though his mind was quick and his sons loyal, he was a troubled soul, secretive even to his closest brothers and uncaring of all the rest. All would fight harder when the Angelus Mortis took the field... but fear has always been an excellent motivator of men.

This shadow would plague those in his wake for 
<br>
years to come, his paranoia infectious amongst the 
<br>
Legion. Doubt gnaws at the soul and as the shadows 
<br>
grew voices, the Lion became more and more erratic.

Such weakness would be his downfall, this distance 
<br>
kept from even his most favoured sons. Abandoned at the final hour, the world burning around him, it would be his only friend whose blade turned black with treason. A tragedy perhaps, or inevitable from the start... 
<br><br>
***The Man Who Never Trusts Will Always Be Betrayed.***

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## From Whence The Wild Things Came

The origins of the Lion is a carefully kept secret amongst the Dark Angels, for its truth invites questions about matters best left forgotten. Isolated during the tragedy that scattered all the Primarchs, he arrived upon the Death World of Caliban as a young child. This land, though full of knights and heroes, was home to dark forests and darker secrets.

Constantly at war with the terrifying beasts that inhabited the woods, much of Caliban lay unclaimed and abandoned. It was in these feral wilds that Jonson roamed as a child, surviving the briars that no man could endure. Such places were fraught with terrible danger, but he grew larger and larger, hunting and surviving in a place even the most armoured knights feared to go.

Eventually he was found by a band of Knights, the militant orders that protected humanity from the ravages of the fell creatures. At first convinced he was but a new breed of fiend, it was at the urging of one of the greatest men to ever live that he was taken back to their Castle intact.

Trained and equipped by his rescuer, Sar Luther, the newly named Lion El'Jonson soon began to hunt down the beasts as well. Quickly rising through both rank and fame within The Order, he soon eclipsed his mentor in both skill and courage.

With the death of a Great Lion of Caliban, one of the most feared beasts that roamed the world, the Lion was promoted to Grandmaster of The Order. In honour of a father he couldn't know, his first action was to call a Crusade against the Beasts of the wild, one that would see their rage extinguished.

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## The Rage of Nature

It did not take long for the Lion to see the fruits of his grand ambition, as one by one the beasts were slain or routed from their homes. Luther had proved the sage advisor and, against the Lion's belligerence, he provided an air of calm and diplomacy that won the hearts of many.

Despite this, there was one holdout against the vast extermination, one bastion of wilderness whose silence proved a mystery to all. The Knights of Lupus were their name, and they decried Jonson's hunt. Despite many overtures, war was declared in earnest, the Crusade relentless against Beast... or man.

A vast siege took place, engines of war produced on a scale yet unknown to the quiet of Caliban as men in their thousands readied themselves for battle. Days turned into weeks, then into months, but though the wait was long, the outcome proved immediate and expected.

Outnumbered and outmatched, the Knights of Lupus fought like madmen against the invaders as they fell one by one. Even the foul revelation that they had been keeping beasts in secret did not deter the invaders, who found themselves cut to pieces by the dozen against the fell darkness of Caliban.

Such ruin was short-lived however, for led by the Lion and Luther none could stand before them, none could succeed against their might. With the fall of the Knights of Lupus, peace upon Caliban was assured, the wilds no longer dark enough to threaten anything but dreams. As music once more filled the land, peace in riotous color emerged in the dawn. His work complete, the Lion rested...
<br><br>
***And The Angels Came At Dawn...***

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## A Lesson in Hope

Time had passed since the Great Crusade of Caliban had ended, and peace reigned fully upon the world. The Knights began to retreat from the importance of daily existence, relegating themselves to maintaining stability and easing tensions between local areas.

This all changed with the coming of the First Legion, the Swords of the Emperor's Crusade and his most loyal weapons of war. How they found him was unclear but they arrived in full regalia bearing the entirety of their chosen host, the soon to be named Dark Angels of the Legio Astartes.

In friendship, unmarred by fear, he met them. Recognising both his kindred sons and father in kind, the display of power before him was overwhelming. Ships that darkened the skies, soldiers gleaming in onyx plate, the brazen eagle of the Imperium's might, all brought to heel before him in honour of their new master.

Integration into the Imperium of Man began at once, the similarities in technology and culture aiding the process immeasurably. Soon, word came of the Emperor's imminent arrival and Caliban rejoiced to meet so fabled a figure. The Lion grew impatient at meeting his long distant father and his temper became quick and sharp, fearsome to even those who knew him.

Despite a tragic encounter with a group of rebels who attempted to assassinate the Emperor, the meeting went well, and the Lion swore his sword to his father's crusade. He was placed in charge of the newly named Dark Angels and soon began his march to war, followed by both his Terran and Calibanite children.

## The Seeds of Betrayal

Despite his initial success in the Great Crusade, the Lion still sought to leave his mark on the emerging Imperium. Put in charge of the 4th Expeditionary Fleet's "recent" acquisition, this seemingly endless ordeal with the relentlessly bureaucratic humans of Sarosh appeared the perfect chance for the Lion to prove his worth.

Quickly tiring of the eternal negotiations, he ordered his forces to scout the planet for any seeming irregularities, suspicious as he was of the seemingly friendly people who so long denied integration.

Such mistrust proved wise during a council with the Saroshi leader, who denounced the Emperor and the Lion personally. Enraged, the Primarch slew the errant fool where he stood and ordered an immediate assault upon the planet. All was not as it seemed however, for during the talks the Saroshi had smuggled a nuclear device onto the Lion's flagship with the intent of killing everyone aboard in a storm of fire.

It was during this time that Luther first wavered, so loyal a soldier, so caring a brother, jealousy found its home in his heart. A man who would have been a legend in any other time overshadowed by a chance encounter against the very odds of fate.

Even as he turned from such treason, saving his brother and friend, the Primarch's paranoia began to manifest. He suspected his closest friend of allowing it to board and the shadows of his doubt began to show.

Though Sarosh and its Daemonic masters were vanquished, the first signs of madness in the Primarch were revealed, and would only grow with time.

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## A Name

With Luther 
<br>
and his brethren 
<br>
exiled back to Caliban for 
<br>
their perceived failings on
<br>
Sarosh, the Lion continued the 
<br>
Crusade in earnest. Alas, without the careful 
<br>
diplomacy of his closest friend, Jonson's reputation 
<br>
grew darker throughout the Imperium, and even his children found his paranoia unsettling and dour.

This continued well into the Great Crusade and reached a breaking point on the planet Dulan. Here the Space Wolves and the Dark Angels fought together to pacify a world resistant to the Imperium's demand for compliance.

After being called the "Emperor's Lapdog" by the rebel forces, Leman Russ grew enraged and began formulating a plan to take the citadel by storm. Unbeknownst to him however, the Dark Angels had already launched their strike successfully.

The Wolf King arrived on the planet to discover the leader of the forces slain by the Lion's hand and, furious that his revenge had been denied, immediately assaulted his brother.

The two fought for hours until the Lion finally beat down Winter's Woe. Suddenly taken with the humour of the two fighting, Russ relaxed but the Lion was incensed by his brothers apparent mockery. With speed and clarity, the First struck the Wolf hard and knocked him unconscious before leaving the planet, starting a long standing feud that would continue for ten thousand years.

Such a rift between legions was unwelcome in the courts of the Imperium, but would become but a shadow of the madness that was soon to follow. The darkness of the Lion was quickly a distant memory as the worlds of man erupted into chaos. Torn apart by the hubris of gods unleashed without restraint, the galaxy screamed as a war like no other arrived.

The Horus Heresy had begun, the Astartes lay riven and the Imperium of Man faced a choice between a great lie... 
<br><br>
***And The Only Truth That Mattered.***

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## The Start 
## and the End

Two hundred years into the Great Crusade, the Dark Angels had shown themselves to be a great and glorious legion. A message was sent to the Lion with dire tidings of betrayal and despair.

His brothers, Horus, Angron, Mortarion and Fulgrim, had spat on their oaths to the Emperor, turned their banners against him and reduced a once vibrant world to ash with the most heinous of weapons. A battle between blood had already begun, the sins of the father had quickly fallen to their sons.

Caught up in the Shield Worlds, a deployment the Lion suspected was designed to keep him distant by Horus, the Primarch was unable to extricate himself quickly to help deal with the new threat facing mankind. Instead, he relied upon a small number of teams to take the effort up against the Warmaster, deploying them immediately towards Diamat, a vital Forge World that Horus would rely upon in the coming war.

Led by the Lion, the small strike force headed towards the Forge World in secret, hoping to secure the terrible ordnance it had been producing. Quickly defeating the Warmaster's contingent in orbit, Jonson gave the weapons to the recently arrived Iron Warriors, unaware of their new allegiance and ignoring the whispers in his mind.

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## The Sins of Neutrality

Though grateful for the gift, Perturabo inquired as to how the Lion had learned about these weapons. Somewhat relaxed around his brother, Jonson revealed that he had uncovered their existence in a number of dispatches from Horus, who had requisitioned their use for a large siege against an alien world many years ago.

Despite the heroics of the Dark Angels, the Lion asked Perturabo to keep his involvement here a secret, careful to ensure the Emperor did not suspect ulterior motives. Jonson, ever doubting of the truth in others, could not understand trust given, nor received.

He also requested that the Iron Warrior support him in his bid to become Warmster, after Horus' rebellion was crushed. The Lion saw no chance of victory in the errant Primarch's rebellion and knew such time would be perfect to secure his rise.

Perturabo agreed to both, perhaps amused by the shadows of ignorance the Lion found himself in. This lord of secrets unaware of the truth around him was a delicious irony to the Master of Iron, and so he wished the Lion well in his ventures as he left. Jonson returned to the Shield Worlds in glory, having given the traitors that which they needed most.

Once more in the field of battle, Jonson led his troops to victory before making his way to the Thramas System, an area of space closely held by the Mechanicum and of vital importance to the Warmaster's efforts against Terra.

Deployed against him were the Night Lords under Konrad Curze, and for the next three years the two would be locked in struggle, the Dark Knight against the Monstrous Beast.

In the wilds of deep-space, unsure of whom to trust or where the enemy may come from next, the Lion found himself home once more. The fell forests of Caliban had finally returned, and within the twilight, the Lion would not be bested.

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## The Eve of War

Though the battles that followed were brutal beyond any imagination, it began as all great conflicts do... A clash of ego's.

Invited by a stray beacon from the Night Lords to the world of Tsagualsa, the Lion arrived with his honour guard to meet with the madling prince of the 8th Legion. Trying to undermine to Lion, to break his spirit and bring him to the Warmaster's fold, the Night Haunter baited and mocked the Dark Angel.

Unsuccessful in his attempt to bring low the Lion, the two fell into battle, foes of old tearing at the other like the animals they both truly knew they were. Despite his martial prowess and extensive training, Jonson was outmatched by the Night Lord's erratic style that left no time to recover. Saved only by the actions of his guard, who injured Curze, the two retreated from the field to begin the war in earnest.

## Fire Against Fire

Three years into the war and with no end in sight, the Lion grew frustrated at the shadow strife fought across a hundred worlds. A communique from the Perditus System promised a breakthrough in the relentless war of attrition however. Moving swiftly, they arrived to catch an ongoing conflict between the Iron Hands 98th Company and the Death Guard led by Calas Typhon.

It was soon revealed that both sides fought over the Tuchulcha Engine, a strange and sentient device capable of altering the very fabric of reality when used in conjunction with its brothers. Alone, however, it was capable of engineering incredibly precise and immediate Warp Jumps, a power that could tilt the balance of power in the region completely.

Unsure of who to trust and desiring this engine for himself, the Lion ordered both sides to stand down. In the face of overwhelming odds, both sides agreed as the Lion then requisitioned the device for himself. Soon leaving, only a warning that the others stay out of his way was left as once more the Knight trod the shadows.

Using the device, the Dark Angels were able to transfer immediately and rapidly, but doing so did not go unnoticed. Intercepted by the fell inhabitants of the Warp, the Lion found himself facing off against the Daemons of old. Marshalling the Librarians into battle against them, he proved successful, personally slaying the Lord of Change who led the assault. His decision to abandon the Emperor's Decree Absolute of Nikaea did not sit well however, with many of the loyal Dark Angels furious at this treason.

Led by Chaplain Nemiel, a staunch and devout follower of the Emperor, they decried his actions as treasonous and in a fit of rage the Lion cut him down. Father had turned against son as brother had turned against brother. The Lion stood now in the battleground of hope and rage, between two sides, as the future wrote itself in kind.

With this dark stain eroding the morale of the Astartes, the Lion ordered the Tuchulcha Engine to use once more. Orchestrating a masterful ambush, they caught the Night Lords unaware and devastated their fleet, leaving countless scores of their vessels in ruin. Even Konrad Curze was captured, wounded heavily in a duel with the Lion as his insane clarity abandoned him. A great blow against the Warmaster had been struck, but the Lion did not wait... 
<br><br>
***The Hunt Had Just Begun...***

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## A Subtle Treason

Despite the success of the ambush, the Night Lords were able to launch a counter-attack that succeeded in freeing Konrad Curze from his prison. Though they were incapable of inflicting anything greater than minor damage, a great and terrible warp storm promised retribution of a darker kind. Tearing across the fabric of reality like a maelstrom and engulfing whole sectors in madness and carnage.

By Daemons it was known as the Ruinstorm, and it proved impossible to navigate, filled with the screaming voices of the damned, teeming with the incarnate beasts of Chaos. The Imperium was split, caught between the madness of hell and war. Somehow, however, the Dark Angels were able to locate another beacon within the Warp, an enigmatic light unknown to them but bright enough to follow.

With no other option the Lion ordered that the Legion set forth, homing in on this bastion within the storm. During this journey to parts unknown, Jonson hunted throughout the vessel for Curze, who spent the weeks and months brutalising the ship. Hundreds died to his depredations and each time the Lion came close to catching him, the Night Haunter's visions saved him from his grasp.

Eventually the fleet arrived, and to the shock of 
<br>
all it had taken them straight to Macragge, the home 
<br>
world of the Ultramarines and thriving stronghold 
<br>
against the Warmaster's treachery. There they were greeted by Roboute Guilliman and Sanguinius, his 
<br>
brothers of the Ultramarines and Blood Angels.

## The Imperium Reborn

Though relieved to see friendly faces, their meeting 
<br>
was marred by the Lion's typical paranoia. After finally determining that his two brothers were aligned with 
<br>
him, a conversation began regarding the future of the Legions, the Imperium, and humanity itself.

A hard choice was made, a terrible bargain in truth and one that would reek of treason if not for the dire circumstances they found themselves in. A new Imperium was declared, a home for humanity while Terra's fate remained unknown.

Sanguinius was declared Emperor, for his nobility and kindly nature were easily rallied behind, while the Lion 
<br>
was named Lord Protector, commander of its armies 
<br>
and general of its crusading efforts.

Such a time of hope was broken however, as the skies above rained fire. Thousands of drop pods, filled with Dark Angel troops ready for war, were spat from the orbiting vessels and tore down into the atmosphere. Chas had always been the Night Lords favourite tool after all...

Sanguinius and Guilliman turned on the Lion, furious that he had planned such deception without telling them. Defensive and put on the spot, he retaliated with the cynicism and suspicion he had become famed for, and Imperium Secundus showed its first cracks. Still, the attack was halted without hostilities and peace was once more returned to home of Guilliman.

That is, until the Lion revealed what else was aboard his ship...
<br><br>
***The Night Haunter had arrived.***

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## Prey Turned Predator

With the Night Haunter unleashed upon Macragge, a world-wide hunt began for the madling god. Terrorist attacks ripped across the entirety of the planet as thousands fell to his reaving blades, the blood of innocents flowing free like a river. Finally, within the capital of Macragge, Guilliman and Jonson cornered Konrad only to discover that they had played directly into his hands.

Fending both of them off at once, claws crashing against blades, the Night Haunter detonated the entire building while fading from view. Collapsing the structure atop the two Primarchs, only the actions of Barbaras Dantioch, Warsmith of the Iron Warriors, saved them as he pulled them through the Pharos; The same strange empathic device that called the Dark Angels here the first time.

Rather than gratitude, the Lion showed only anger and disdain towards Guilliman for his tinkering with xenos technology. Ignoring the hypocrisy of his own contempt, and keeping the warp device he possessed secret, the Lion chastised what he saw as the foolish actions of a desperate man.

Perhaps more angry at himself, they returned to Macragge and the Lion left at once, driven beyond rage to capture the Night Haunter and bring him to justice. The next two years were spent in search of the fugitive Primarch, until finally a single lead brought him to the Zepath System. The Lion, torn between his administrative duties back home and his desire to capture his brother, sent the elite Dreadwing who were charged with bringing Konrad Curze back... dead or alive.

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## Caught By Design

The Dreadwing proved successful in repelling the traitor forces but were unable to locate the Night Haunter. Back at Macragge, the Lion and Guilliman continued to feud, their disagreements falling into dislike and even hate. This all culminated with the mass suicide bombing of an Astarte's convoy, the results of which lead to the Lion declaring martial law across the entirety of the planet.

Determining that Curze was hiding with a part of Macragge known as the Illyrium Region, the Lion advocated for the total orbital bombardment of the area, to use the ships in orbit to annihilate everything that stood in place. Sanguinius and Guilliman, enraged, refused to countenance such a choice and so the Lion sent his Dreadwing to flush out the Night Haunter.

At the city of Alma Mons, the Lion uncovered the Night Haunter, preying on the citizens and driving the rebels onwards against the Imperium Secundus. The two once more engaged in battle while Jonson tried to discover why the Night Haunter had turned from the Emperor, how he had become such a monster... *"Why Not?"* Was the only answer he received.

The Lion eventually bested Curze, breaking his back and wounding him violently in the process. Incapacitated and shattered, the Night Haunter's forces were demolished and he was brought back to the Triumverate to face judgement for his crimes.
<br><br>
***But Whose Crimes Were To Be Judged?***

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## A Fate Deserved

Before the three Primarchs, Curze admitted his actions but denied any guilt. Claiming he did nought but follow a nature designed not born, he called himsef a tool of the Emperor's craft. These words perhaps struck too close to home for the Lion Prince of Caliban, the monsters he now faced too similar to himself.

But Curze was ever at his finest when backed against the corner, and he began to turn the Primarchs against each other, accusing the Lion of ordering the orbital bombardment contrary to his brothers commands.

Guilliman and Jonson turned on each other without hesitation, and the Lion drew his blade to slay Curze in fury. Fury at himself or the Night Haunter, we will never know, but at the last moment he was ordered to stand down and the *Lion Blade* was taken from him and shattered.

Abandoned, as he was in the woods of home. Alone, as he was in the wilds, the Lion's heart turned black as night. Seeing the monster he was becoming, Sanguinius stripped him of his title and banished the Dark Angels from the Imperium Secundus, to never return on pain of death.

Leaving within hours, the Lion secluded himself to think upon his actions. The death of Nemiel, the banishment of Luther and a thousand other choices made by his fear and mistrust. Finally, as the ships readied to depart towards Caliban, the Lion turned to the Tuchulcha Engine and teleported himself back to Macragge, to where Sanguinius stood ready to execute the Night Haunter for his heinous crimes.

For the first time, the Lion prepared himself for honesty, and went before his brothers in hope of redemption.

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## The Last Night

Standing before his brothers, the Lion begged that Sanguinius let Curze live. Shocked at this recent turn of heart, Guilliman and Sanguinius demanded to know why.

The Lion explained of Curze's visions, most importantly the one pertaining to his own death at the hands of the Emperor. If such were the case then the Emperor must still be alive and to slay the Night Lord would be to jeopardize his success on Terra against Horus. Though Guilliman doubted such claims, Sanguinius relented, for he to possessed the power of clairvoyance and knew well their temperamental nature.

Taking it upon himself to guard the Night Haunter, the Lion once more departed from Macragge, this time with his brothers in tow. Hurtling into the Ruinstorm, the three Primarchs witnessed hell itself as the Sea of Storms awoke in gaudy horror.

From the Harrowing of Pyrrhan, where the Lion faced off against Daemon and traitor within the halls of a vast station, to the barren surface of Davin where the night was first born, Jonson battled in desperation against the end.

Each day that passed, every night that followed, the brothers found themselves clashing against the very foes of reality itself. Closer and closer they came to the end, each moment clawing at their immortal souls as they fought against the shadow.

It soon became obvious, however, that the forces arrayed against them were too much. Sanguinius had to make it to Earth, must survive to fight besides the Emperor and so the Lion and Guilliman seperated, distracting the traitors from the true mission of their voyage. Here he would remain until the Warmaster's death, once more a guardian in the shadow

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## A Home Not Remembered

With the Heresy over, he returned to Caliban to refresh, to prepare himself for a war without end against foes whose hatred grew every day. Arriving in orbit for the first time in over two hundred years, the Lion had finally come home...

And was promptly fired upon by the surface batteries that appeared to care not what they hit. Retreating from the deadly fusillade, the Lion learned to his horror that Luther had fallen, completely and utterly. Spitting on his oaths to the Dark Angels and to the Emperor, he wanted nothing more than to see Johnson dead and Caliban free from the relentless grasp of the Imperium.

## An Ending Inevitable

After unending war, betrayal after betrayal, and the collapse of all that he loved around him, the Lion snapped.

Gone was the noble knight, the distant lord, the aloof prince, now was only the beast that survived the woods those centuries ago. He ordered Caliban to burn and his ships opened fire in their entirety, reducing the planet to ash and flame.

Jonson led his men into the ruins personally, to find that Luther had not fallen to madness... He had fallen to Chaos. Powerful beyond belief and elevated by the treacherous powers of the Warp, he challenged Lion to battle as the world died around them.

But after centuries of success, of battles won from the edge of defeat, the Lion was bested. Wounded by the dark powers Luther wielded he fell to his knees, broken. Luther, however, fell too, as though a veil lifted from his eyes. He realised what he had done, the depravity of his crimes and he surrendered, releasing his blade to the ground.

But the Gods would not be denied a second time, incensed that their chosen would betray them so, they sent a vast warp storm to the planet. Bombed, ruined and demolished, Caliban collapsed, leaving only the void-shielded Fortress monastery behind.

Those Dark Angels still in orbit, who had witnessed the impossible, descended to the remnants of the world and found no sign of their Primarch, or their fallen kin.

And fallen they were, and the Fallen they were so named, scattered throughout the galaxy by the powers of Chaos. The Dark Angels recovered, turning the remnants of their world into a titanic ship and set forth to battle, to forever hunt down those who had betrayed the Lion, and to expunge the greatest sin of their past.

## Within the Depths

The Lion, however, did not go far. Mortally wounded as he was he remained asleep, slowly healing the terrible wound dealt to him by his oldest friend. Deep within the Rock he remained, guarded by the Watchers in the Dark, those strange entities who dwelt in the forests of Caliban, regaining his strength for when the Emperor once more calls him to battle.

None know this secret, not even the Grandmaster of the Dark Angels, for to reveal him too soon would risk his safety at the ends of the Great Enemy.

The time comes soon however, when the Lion will roar once more, his angels will fill the heavens with their wrath.
<br><br>
***And the woods shall march once again to war...***

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### The Lion Helm
A sacred object of the Dark Angels, this helmet was worn into battle by the Lion and elicited great fear in those who stood across from him. Possessing an intricate and miniature force-field generator, it was capable of deflecting shots from even the most deadly of weapons.

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### The Lion Sword
The great and terrible blade of the Primarch, it was broken at the hands of Guilliman and left rent even after his death. Now in the hands of the enigmatic Cypher, it is said that upon its reforging the Emperor will rise and the Lion will once more return to battle.

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# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="white">Chapter Two</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="white">Fulgrim</font>

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##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="white">*What fools we were, to forget that the Phoenix must rise from ashes of its own creation.* </font>

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# The Phoenix Rises
I*t is hard to find the truth in evil, broken as it is. Harder still to find the beauty in its cold embrace. Every now and then however, the shattered glass distorts the world, and shows us who we truly are. Finds the single tear, lonely in its sorrow.*
<br><br><br>
A combination of genetic perfection and sorcerous mastery, the Phoenician was one of the twenty Primarchs craft by the Emperor deep beneath the surface of Terra. A being of sublime beauty, Fulgrim embodied grace in all things, each movement a dance of motion, each blow a song of wonder. Alas, the greater one climbs the further one falls and in his endless search for perfection he 
<br>
found only damnation.

As rational means escaped his grasp for more, vanity turned its darkened gaze upon him. A symbol to 
<br>
emulate, a journey to follow, those in service of this 
<br>
golden warrior found themselves treading a path to madness far beyond the human ken.

Raised above the mortal coil, Fulgrim forgot that most basic of lessons. Perfection remained forever out of reach, and its image lies separate in the eyes of each. For him, only Chaos offered the Phoenician the illusion he needed, only madness protected him from the truth that could lay him low.
<br><br>
***The Mirror Can Only Lie...***

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## From the Ashes

Taken from Terra during the cataclysmic event that scattered the Primarchs across the galaxy, Fulgrim found himself on the barren world of Chemos. A land of destitute people and exploited nothingness, here he would find perfection in the ashes.

Colonised during the Dark Age of Technology, it was isolated during the collapse of human civilisation, severed by terrible warp storms that devoured whole sectors at a time. Here, a whole people found themselves starving to death, incapable of producing the food needed to survive.

Found in his crashed pod, those who discovered him begged that he survive, his beauty enough to make compassion stir in their deprived hearts. On a planet that had sacrificed art, culture and hope in the name of survival, Fulgrim was a miracle... Fulgrim was hope.

Put in the care of one of the workers, and named after an ancient deity of brighter times, Fulgrim was quickly put to work. Capable of vastly outperforming an adult worker, even as a child, Fulgrim became a legend amongst the lower classes. His brilliant mind allowed him to understand and improve the archaic technology with which they scoured the world.

By the age of fifteen his technological ability was renowned, and he had risen from the depths of the darkest mines to the heights of power. Granted the title of Executor and placed in charge of the Fortress-Factory of Callax, he was soon faced with the desperate poverty of his people.

Fulgrim organised vast expeditions that traversed the desert plains, recovering many of the lost enclaves that once wandered the world. Production increased dramatically and for the first time, Chemos began to produce more than it devoured, allowing them to fund greater and more advanced engines of labour.

This boon of prosperity enabled Chemos to trade with neighbouring worlds and fleets for food. With its people happy and cared for, Fulgrim began to pour the wealth of the world into beauty. From their dark despair, Chemos exploded into a world of light.

## Glory Comes The Flames

Though his labours on Chemos were astounding, they would prove but a minor test of the strength he would need. As time passed and Chemos grew, a single vessel arrived in orbit, craft of strange design.

Claiming to herald the Imperium of Man, the Aquila emblazoned upon its hull stirred old memories within the mind of Fulgrim. Extending towards them an invitation, the Astartes arrived in his throne hall to pay respect.

As he heard their pleasantries, a single man stood forth, and from his unremarkable form sprang forth a golden light. Declaring himself the Emperor of Mankind, he told Fulgrim of his purpose, of the Imperium of Mankind and the hope it brought, of the Great Crusade and the terrible battles it fought in the name of humanity.

Hearing of this grand purpose, this great and glorious march to supremacy, Fulgrim knelt before the Emperor and swore his blade to his service. Rising now a Primarch in the Great Crusade, from Chemos he travelled back to Terra to take his place as a general in the conflicts to come.
<br><br>
***The Phoenix Had Arrived...***

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## All That Remains

Arriving on Terra, Fulgrim was introduced to those soldiers born from his genetic material. Alas, only two hundred remained, for some terrible accident had riven their legion to nothing. Dismayed by the tragedy his sons had suffered, Fulgrim gave voice to his heart and so inspiring were his words that the Master of Mankind named his Legion the Emperor's Children, allowing them, and only them, to carve the Imperial Aquila into their chest.

Shaken by this unknown disaster, Fulgrim turned his dedication to becoming the most perfect of the Emperor's servants. From their masterful tactics to the unusually decorative adornment of their equipment, the Emperor's Children sought to become something more than mere warriors... They sought perfection.

During his time on Terra, and in search of his customary mastery of all arts, Fulgrim travelled to Mount Narodyna. Here he began to craft his armour and weaponry, surpassing even the legendary equipment of the Custodes in its elegance. He also met Ferrus Manus, who worked with the master-smiths of the Terrawatt Clan and the two soon formed a fast friendship.

Initially in competition, Fulgrim proclaimed he had come to forge the most perfect weapon. Unwilling to back down, Ferrus Manus and the Phoenician stripped to their waists and set to work in the vast forge beneath the mountain. A proven smith, and gifted with his arcane hands, Ferrus Manus saw no concern in such easy victory.

For three months they sought to outdo each other, skill matched with obsession, technique challenged by madness. Three months and their work was finally done.

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## The Gorgon In Red

Fulgrim had created a sublime hammer, *Forgebreaker*, and so potent was its swing that in the hands of a Primarch it could bring low a fortress in a single blow. Ferrus Manus had designed an elegant sword, *Fireblade* and every inch of its edge was marked with beautiful scenes of battle and grace. Without a word, each Primarch exchanged their weapons and in doing so forged a bond of friendship unequalled within the Imperium.

The Gorgon was not the only brother with whom Fulgrim met on Terra, nor the only one whose friendship he earned. While adapting to his new life, Sanguinius, the Red Angel and master of the Blood Angels had been discovered and brought to Earth. Laden down with gold, silver and rare gems as a gift to the Emperor, Fulgrim was taken immediately by both his brothers unearthly form and love for the arts.

Ferrus Manus regarded such as a pointless frivolity, needless in this age of war, which amused Fulgrim greatly. He declared his brother the most "terrible Gorgon" and from then on that name would forever be his.

But Fulgrim had been brought into this world for one purpose, and though he was capable of so much more, the Great Crusade called for him and gladly he answered for battle.

Such would be the greatest mistake he would ever make, to set foot off Terra towards battle. To become the perfect warrior, one must learn to kill perfectly. To become the master of war, death must become his art.

And as is always the case with art, the desire for more remains. The addiction never goes. Madness, it seems, will always be the path to follow.

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## Reforged

Too small to 
<br>
operate 
<br>
independently, the Emperor's 
<br>
Children were placed under the 
<br>
command of Horus Lupercal. The 
<br>
two of them grew close over the years, as did 
<br>
their Legions, and together the two conquered what 
<br>
would later become the Ultima Segmentum. This vast region of space would prove to be a great boon to the Imperium's holdings.

Eventually, after many decades of battle, the Emperor's Children were strong enough to fight on their own. Reinforced from both Terra and Chemos, they stood mighty once again, an unstoppable force of grace and perfection that would herald the end of those they faced.

Given command of the 28th Expeditionary Fleet, he set off towards the Eastern Fringe. Here many worlds fell to his blade, one after another until eventually he arrived at Laeran. Populated by a strange, serpentine species, the xenos also worshipped the twisted god of pleasure, Slaanesh.

Due to the advanced nature of the aliens, many of the Imperial envoys wished to acquire a peace treaty with the aliens, hoping to share in its rich bounty without enduring the exacting toll such a conquest would cost.

Unfortunately, the Laer did not see things the same way, and the diplomats were slaughtered upon arrival. Incensed at such an insult, Fulgrim ordered an immediate assault upon the ocean world and the Emperor's Children brought fire in kind.

The battle that followed was terrible to behold, for the Laer had perfected genetic engineering and each warrior was a monstrosity of battle. Even worse was the battlefield for the Astartes were forced to fight both underwater and upon defensible platforms of coral. The cost was great, but within a single month the Emperor's Children had pushed the Laer back to a single point, the heart of a dark and terrible nexus.

Here, in what would later be discovered as a temple to sin, Fulgrim put to death the last of the Laer... And recovered from the ruin a simple blade of crude design.

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## A Crime in 
## Reflection

Ever obsessed with perfection and terribly afraid of the failure implied by his Legion's near destruction, Fulgrim began to listen to whispers that came from the Laer blade. The months turned into years and more and more he forsook *Fireblade* for the brutal weapon of Slaanesh.

Each life he took, each moment of despair, the whispers continued their assault, promising him perfection as it stoked his paranoia. Implicating those around him of grave mockery and betrayal, these seductive words brought solace and fear to the Phoenix

This madness culminated in the Diasporex Persecution. Long hunted by the Iron Hands, this fleetbound nation of humans had rejected the Legions offer of amnesty in exchange for abandoning their alien brethren. Unfortunately, the Iron Hands were outmatched by the strategic ability of the Diasporex, and so the Emperor's Children were called in as reinforcements.

Together again, the two began the hunt against the enemy and soon uncovered their reason for remaining in space. Solar collectors, designed to provide fuel from stars, remained hidden throughout space. Destroying them, the two Legions were able to force a fight with the Diasporex for the first time and a great space battle occurred. Thousands died every second, ships left as ruins in space and, desperate for glory, Fulgrim led the charge himself.

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## So Begins The Fall

Surrounded by the devastation of true naval warfare, Fulgrims gunship blazed through the inferno towards their capital ship. Fate is forever a fickle thing however, and amidst the thousands of vessels engaged in battle, his ship came under target.

As all seemed lost, his ship doomed beneath a barrage of fire, Ferrus Manus' flagship soared into view, intercepting the shots destined for Fulgrim and covering his entrance onto the enemy capital ship.

His pride wounded, Fulgrim sought to restore his "slighted" honour by capturing the enemy commander. Throughout the halls of the vessel they tore their way, destroying all in their path but once again, the Phoenician found his glory halted by one of his commanders, whose prowess saw the enemy captain laid low. Enraged beyond measure and with the enemy destroyed, Fulgrim left with only cruel words for his brother.

Incapable of understanding the altruism of Ferrus Manus, the voices in his head fed only his jilted 
<br>
pride and broken ego, turning irritation to anger 
<br>
and from anger to hate. The heroism of the Gorgon 
<br>
had become a grave insult upon Fulgrim's honour.

## The Final Choice

Losing his grip on sanity, and with both he and his Legion struggling to come to grips with their own imperfections, the Emperor's Children soon encountered a beautiful world of verdant life.

Eager to add this planet to the Imperial fold, Fulgrim soon dashed the hopes of the bureaucrats, declaring it 
<br>
too beautiful to be marked by human hands. Beyond 
<br>
belief at this proclamation, they expressed their 
<br>
outrage loudly to be told of the certainty of their death should they continue. Terrified of this blatant display of violence towards humanity, the officials retreated, slowly realising the horror of what Fulgrim had become.

Such a choice had not gone unnoticed however, and before long an Eldar fleet led by Eldrad Ulthuan, Farseer of Craftworld Ulthwe, contacted the Phoenician. Surprised that a human had let such beauty go without conquest, he sought parley with the Primarch, to provide to him information vital to the Imperium's survival.

Meeting on the maiden world of Tarsus, Eldrad informed him of Horus' injury by a Daemonic blade, and of his rebellion against the Emperor's rule. Driven to rage by the Laer blade, Fulgrim attacked the delegation without mercy and the Eldar, realising the corruption in the Primarch's heart, moved to end this new threat immediately.

Despite their age and technological prowess, the Eldar were torn apart by the psychotic fury of the Primarch. Retreating back, they turned to the only option they had, one from a darker time, when Fulgrim's madness was an all too common malady. Calling upon *Kaela Mensha Khaine*, an avatar of his fury was torn into being.

A great duel between the Lord of Murder and the Prince of Pride took place and as their blades clashed, hell erupted across the battlefield. Injured horrifically in the process, Fulgrim managed to defeat the Avatar, as well as Khiraen Goldhelm, a Wraithlord of great age and potency. With no other choice, the Eldar retreated, hope fading in the face of this latest disaster.

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## The Pride And Fall

What followed next was lost to history, more battle as Fulgrim and his children descended into the depths of depravity. Eventually he came into the presence of the Warmaster, Horus Lupercal, Arch-Heretic and leader of the Traitor Legions.

It took little convincing for Fulgrim to swear his blade in kind, his mind already shattered by the whispers of the Daemon-Blade in his possession. Truly he was convinced that only by dedication to the pleasures of Slaanesh could humanity be truly saved from his irrelevance.

In recognition of his new loyalty, Horus gifted Fulgrim the Kinebrach, the very sword that had so mortally injured him and revealed to him the truth. With the treasure came a mission however, to meet with Ferrus Manus and bring him to the Warmaster's side.

Burdened with new purpose and certain of success, Fulgrim rendezvoused with his brother. Ferrus Manus was delighted, for he had been ill at ease with how last they had left things, and welcomed him aboard his ship.

Such joy was short-lived, for Fulgrim wasted no time in trying to turn his brother, and his arrogance revealed to the Gorgon how far his brother had truly fallen. Horrified at this treason, the two clashed in battle and as the stalemate seemed without end, Ferrus destroyed *Fireblade*, triggering a vast explosion that demolished much of the inner sanctum.

His hopes dashed but still standing, Fulgrim considered killing his brother. Such darkness was still beyond him however and instead he retreated, ordering his Phoenix Guard to slay the Gorgon's personal guard as he left.

Leaving the system for Istvaan, where Horus' plan was beginning to form, he ordered his fleet to open fire on the Iron Fists. Caught off guard by the sudden attack, the fleet was devastated, leaving the Legion crippled with many more dying as their vessels were annihilated.

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## Ash And Smoke

Their path finally chosen, the corruption of Chaos spread throughout the 3rd Legion like wildfire. Only the barest few remained true to their oaths as they watched their brothers fall to damnation. Their search for perfection had finally ended, and only illusion remained to comfort their madness.

The first action to be taken was the destruction of those few loyalist elements that remained and so a vast invasion was launched against the planet of Istvaan III. Those forces true to the Emperor were deployed to the field and as they fought their way through the city, Fulgrim and his brothers prepared their response.

Virus bombs were launched at the planet, followed by an orbital bombardment that left even the mantle shattered. Unfortunately for the traitors, a rogue legionnaire of the Emperor's Children remained in orbit, and warned the loyalists of the treachery incoming.

Faced with a resolute enemy, and with time running out, Fulgrim and the other Primarchs moved to renew the bombardment, but too late were they as Angron, master of the World Eaters, descended to the planet in rabid fury.

With no other choice, the Traitors deployed to the planet and fought a gruelling war of attrition with the loyalists. Alas, their dedication to darkness was matched in kind by their foes loyalty to the Emperor and faced with no other choice after brutal casualties, the traitors once more retreated and doused the world in flame.

## Songs of the Damned

With the loyalists pacified and time to prepare before the Emperor's inevitable response to their rebellion, Fulgrim ordered the greatest work of art to be made in honour of their struggle. Leading the charge, Bequa Kynska, a composer of great renown, began construction of her masterpiece. Utterly corrupted by Slaanesh, her work veered further and further into the realms of lunacy.

When she was finally finished, Fulgrim himself attended the performance and as her discordant music sang throughout the ship, the veil between reality and the Warp was torn. Bequa was torn apart as Daemons of Slaanesh poured through into reality, and the Emperor's Children finally accepted their bondage to Slaanesh entirely, offering their souls to the Dark Prince of Pleasure without any hesitation or regret.
<br><br>
***The Show had only just begun...***

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## The Gates of Hell

After months of preparation, the forces of the Emperor finally arrived. The Salamanders, Raven Guard and Iron Hands erupted into orbit to witness a planet turned fortress by the Traitor Legions. Incapable of rational thought, Ferrus Manus launched himself at the planet immediately against the Sons of Horus, Emperor's Children, World Eaters and Death Guard.

Faced with no other choice, the other Loyalists followed suit rather than wait for their allies and the largest battle in Imperial history stormed across the barren world. Thousands died in moments as God-Machines marched alongside the Astartes, more perished as the Primarchs took to the field, their fell weaponry ending the lives of any who stood before them.

Brother turned against brother and only hatred held sway as blood flowed like rivers across the plains. Ancient perversions of revered technology were unleashed as the Dark Mechanicum marched alongside the Astartes, and Daemon beasts of hell erupted into life amidst the violence made manifest.

Though heavily defended, the Traitor's lines were slowly starting to buckle, weakened as they were after the purge afflicted against their own men. All looked over for the rebellion, even as the remaining loyalists arrived to reinforce the assault.

As the Raven Guard and Salamanders fell back to allow their allies to take the field, the Iron Hands pushed on deeper, desperate to avenge the betrayal afflicted on them by Fulgrim. Eventually, in the depths of artillery wasteland and blood soaked fields, Ferrus Manus found Fulgrim and once more the two fought.

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## Kinslayer

Taunting the Phoenician for the imperfection of his loyalties, Ferrus Manus lunged against his fallen brother. He thought Fulgrim mad, for the battle was lost and yet here he stood unrepentant amidst the dead, laughing as their weapons clashed.

Giddy with corruption, Fulgrim could only point as the "reinforcements", Night Lords, Iron Warriors, Alpha Legion and Word Bearers, opened fire on the Loyalists, cutting them down in their thousands in an unending wall of fire. Corax was blown from the sky, Vulkan disappeared in a vast explosion and Ferrus Manus was left alone as his family died around him.

Abandoned now, lost only to his grief, Ferrus Manus charged at Fulgrim once more, and the two took to battle amidst the ruins of an empire. The Phoenician wielded *Forgebreaker*, the brutal hammer forged decades ago on Terra while the Gorgon once again held *Fireblade*. Blows that would level mountains, wounds that would slay a thousand lesser men, each were dealt in turn by the two brothers. They say no hate burns brighter than that you bore for love, and as the Phoenix fought the Gorgon, those words were proven true.

At the last moment, as all seemed lost for Ferrus, the briefest hesitation from Fulgrim, as the last vestige of good struggled for control, allowed him to strike. The Gorgon's blade arced towards his brothers throat as Fulgrim awaited his death.

But damnation rarely surrenders without a fight, and that brief moment was gone. The Laer blade screamed through the air, the Gorgon's head was severed, and the Phoenix burned with him.

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## The Daemon Within

The Battle of Istvaan finally concluded, the Loyalists dealt a final blow, the Traitor forces reconvened in orbit to plot their next move. Horus was delighted at the death of Ferrus, pleased to see Fulgrim had truly joined his cause.

If only it had been Fulgrim whose banner he had gained. In truth, the death of Ferrus had shattered the Phoenix, left him riven and mad with grief. At the final moment before the blade fell, Fulgrim had wavered and in that moment the Daemon Within had struck.

Supplanting Fulgrim entirely, the Primarch was now possessed, his soul trapped within the blade he had on so arrogantly taken. The Warmaster was less than pleased with this revelation, but realising that the Daemon had arrived unarmed, he relaxed and accepted the pledge of fealty the Dark Prince offered.
<br><br>
***The Price for Perfection was paid...***

## Defined By Weakness

As the Traitor Primarchs convened, the Warmaster began to outline his plan for the coming war. Fulgrim's Legion was ordered to Mars to aid the Dark Mechancium in their own rebellion against the Emperor and to seize the malefic technology they were producing without fear.

Throught the conclave, Lorgar's eyes never left Fulgrim and as the meeting drew to a close, he accused the Phoenix of being an imposter. Weak denials were all that were offered and without warning the Word Bearer struck the Daemon-Primarch and launched him across the room. Caught off guard by the sudden change in the Aurelian's personality, the other Primarchs merely watched as he stalked towards Fulgrim.

Finally Horus intervened and ordered the other Primarchs gone. As Fulgrim struggled to his feet, Lorgar demanded Horus to expel this monstrosity and retrieve their brother. The Warmaster knew, however, that such measures would only slay what little remnant of their kin remained, and though Lorgar forced the Daemon to its knees with a single word, he proceeded no further.

Vowing to save him, Lorgar instead left, decrying the Dark Prince as a puppet and fiend, a monster unintended by natural order. An irony perhaps from the Word Bearer, but slavery and servitude were an important distinction to the Zealot.

Disaster averted, Fulgrim left and took his Legion with him. Ignoring the Warmaster's orders for Mars, he instead took the Emperor's Children to Prismatica V, a Mechancium mining world famous for its crystals. Eidolon, the First Captain of the Legion expressed his displeasure at this turn of events, and Fulgrim promptly executed him, beheading him with a single blow and leaving his twitching corpse to the ministrations of Fabius Bile.

It wasn't just Eidolon who received the unfortunate attention of the Primarch however, for Lucius, famed swordmaster of the Legion, had drawn the gaze of his fell majesty. Sensing upon him the beginning of Slaanesh's dark favour, Fulgrim granted upon him the Laer Blade, now empty and weaker than before, but still a potent tool of destruction.

Fate orchestrated as planned, Fulgrim began his journey to something greater. The Warmaster's Rebellion was but a glimpse in the eyes of madness and divinity was there to be claimed.

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## A Deeper Darkness

Grateful for the gift from Fulgrim, Lucius was equally delighted that Eidolon had been killed, for he had always been insufferable in his arrogance.

Unfortunately, the rest of the Legion was not so pleased, and the increasingly mercurial and spiritual nature of their lord left them unnerved and suspicious. Eventually, deep in the ruins of the *Maraviglia*, that great performance orchestrated so long ago, Lucius discovered a painting of the Primarch... A painting that seemed all too life-like in its potrayal of the Primarch.

The beauty of the artwork defied mortal understanding, the perfection of colour, the artistry of love itself. Only the eyes betrayed any darkness inherent, the horror of something mad trapped without escape. Lucius realised then that his father had become something else, something... inhuman.

In utter secrecy, the legion moved swiftly. Ambushing the false Primarch they subdued him and brought him to Fabius Bile. Laughing all the while, Fulgrim endured their torture and examinations with good humour and even pleasure.

More and more he ranted about the truth of the galaxy, the beauty of Chaos and the true future that was coming to humanity. Each second passed filled the air with heresy that would drive a lesser man insane and slowly the Legion began to realise the truth.

Fulgrim had deceived them... He was not trapped within the painting, no Daemon held his form ransom. Revealing the truth, Fulgrim told them all of his imprisonment, his refusal to bend before a petty godling too weak to grasp its real nature. He had focussed on himself, learning of the sorcerous arts and honing his knowledge into something greater than even the Daemonic forces could understand.

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## The Greater Evil

Using this power, he had torn the Daemon free from his body and trapped it within the painting, entertained by the humiliation the being endured while there.

He further explained his quixotic moods and disinterest in reality as nothing more than the evolution of perfection, an abandonment of the constraints of reality in exchange for the impossible.

Reassured that their Primarch was once more amongst them, the Emperor's Children sallied forth to Prismatica and in the ruins they constructed a vast city of mirrors, each reflection showing some new madness, each shard of glass a new horror mutated in nature. Once more humanity held the reigns of madness, and its fell cruelty was darker than any malefic fiend.

With their strange goal complete, Fulgrim ordered the Emperor's Children onwards, to meet up with Iron Warriors and Perturabo. The Master of Iron was unsure as to the reason for the meeting, but knowing of his brothers flair for the melodramatic, he expected complications.

Arriving at Hydra Cordatus, Fulgrim descended to the world just as the Iron Warriors finished annihilating the last of the Imperial Fists stationed on this world. Landing on the desert world, the two Legions could not be further apart. The stoic and passionless steel marked warriors stood in perfect discipline as the cacophonous hoard of discordance erupted across the land.

Meeting in the personal bunker of Perturabo, Fulgrim revealed a secret to the Master of Iron that he could not refuse. A weapon without equal, a tool of power undreamt, the chance to undo the horrors that had been afflicted against his Legion since the very start of the crusade.
<br><br>
***The Angel Exterminatus...***

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## The Stage is Set

Perturabo set to work on the construction of a vast stadium at Fulgrim's request. He knew not why it was required, only that the Phoenix demanded a stage appropriate for the message that he brought.

Finally it was constructed, and here Fulgrim revealed the myth of the Angel Exterminatus. A terrible power deep within the Eye of Terror, born at the fall of the greatest empire in the galaxy. There, a single point, a nexus of power between reality and the Warp that could do anything, even raise one to a God.

This elegant retelling was marred only by a single shot, an attempt on the life of Fulgrim that almost brought him low. Loyalist forces that had survived Istvaan had followed them and though they escaped, the dark purpose of the Traitor Legions was unscathed.

Storming into the Eye of Terror, guided by a strange alien who appeared to know the ways of madness, the two Primarchs sailed towards a Crone World, an 
<br>
ancient citadel of the Eldar from a time of their ascendance.

Throughout their journey they were harried by 
<br>
Loyalist forces hell-bent on stopping them and the two exchanged blows constantly as reality turned feral 
<br>
around them. Finally arriving above the planet, they 
<br>
beheld the broken dream of a God. A single world, caught in the centre of the great warp storm, orbiting a titanic black hole that seemed to devour reality just as it spewed madness.
<br><br>
***They had finally arrived.***

## A Black Star Rising

Initiating an orbital bombardment, the Traitor Legions doused the world with death, leaving only the heart of its strange structure intact. *Amon ny-shak Kaelis* it was called and it was there the Primarchs descended, their children following in lockstep.

Moving into the compound with a defensive force to cover their retreat, the two armies entered the Sepulchre 
<br>
of Isha’s Doom, an ancient palace of splendor and woe. Unknown to them however, they were not only the forces headed that way.

The small band of Loyalists, who had plagued them from the beginning, carefully crept past the sentries and into the compound. Carefully following them they saw the changes manifesting in Fulgrim just as his brother did. Sweat dripped from his brow, as though he carried a titanic weight, but rather than liquid it was light that flowed like crystal down his face. His armour buckled as his body morphed within and each step seemed to grant both new vigor and take from him his very life.

However this world was not unguarded, and as they drew closer the temple recoiled from the sense of She Who Thirsts, dark goddess of pleasure and sworn enemy of the Eldar who formed him.

Guardians across the entire world awoke, ancient structures of wraithbone imbued with the souls of the departed. Suddenly engaged, the Astartes found themselves fighting off an implacable foe to whom surrender was not an option. Inside and out, the world of the dead awoke for battle one final time.

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## The Serpent's Tongue

Thousands of statues, crystal formed and powered marched at the two Primarchs as the pair prepared for their deaths. All around them the most elite of the Legions fought and died against the indestructible soul-engines. Fulgrim had little time however, and in the midst of the carnage he escaped, leaving Perturabo behind as he sought his greatest victory.

The Lord of Iron, slowly realising what was happening, chased after his brother, following him into the heart of the structure from which emanated a terrible green light. Light that, Perturabo discovered, was made of all the souls trapped within the planet, kept safe from the devouring nature of the Eye of Terror.

As he arrived at the bottom he discovered Fulgrim, enwrapped in the fell glow he approached the Phoenix. A single word was uttered by the Phoenician and the Lord of Iron dropped to one knee, his soul screaming as its very essence was torn from its shell.

Fulgrim, gloating mightly, revealed the truth of his nature, that there was no weapon... not yet anyway. The Angel Exterminatus was not a relic but a prophecy, one of his own design and one that he would bring to fruition himself.

The means to do so became immediately evident, the souls of the Eldar offered up in sacrifice and the energy of a Primarch, forged by sorcery as much as science, imbued within his body. A simple gift given months ago provided the final catalyst, the cloak upon Perturabo's back bearing a simple black gem turned gold known as the *Maugetar*. Coined the Harvester, it now provided the means for the Phoenix's rebirth.

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## Apothesis

Filled with the power of malefic love, the power of a god laid low and at the heart of Chaos itself, Fulgrim tossed Perturabo aside, leaving him broken and bleeding upon the ground. His armour flowing like liquid, his body morphing into a thousand shapes and one, Fulgrim's soul screamed into the sky as it changed.

But the Lord of Iron had endured much in his life, and even this would not break him further. Clutching the envenomed gem in his hand, he stalked towards Fulgrim, searching for any sign of regret, any sign that the cost had caused him pain.

The Fulgrim of now however, was beyond such petty concerns as regret and the Lord of Iron knew sorrow that his brother was truly gone, that his kin had fallen into a darkness not meant for the mortal soul. No longer an angel, Fulgrim now sought to become a God.

As Fulgrim erupted with mutating energies and his mind became something alien, Perturabo hurled the stone deep down below. There, the Loyalists, Traitors and Eldar who fought a terrible battle destroyed the gem releasing the pent up madness of a divine plot long in the making.

Perturabo, his energy returning to him, hefted his hammer and the Phoenix grinned as death approached. True victory, after all, comes with sacrifice and as the Lord of Iron broke his form his spirit soared free into the Warp...

And was reborn, once physical now a being of pure pleasure and ambition, a creature of divine malice made into corporeal nightmare. Fulgrim had finally succeeded and from his mouth the screams of millions joined in chorus. Perfection had come, on wings of bone and blood.

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## A New Dawn

With the Eldar defeated and Fulgrim ascended, the Crone World collapsed in on itself, its protections against the devouring black hole gone. Abandoning the Iron Warriors, Fulgrim and his Legion began a spree of terror and depravity that had been known by only one race before.

As the Heresy finally reached its culmination and Terra lay besieged, Fulgrim sent his soldiers against the citizens of Earth, subjecting them to horrors beyond imagination. As the Traitor Legions assaulted the Emperor's Palace, Fulgrim sated his endless hedonism on the souls of mortality.

But the Dark Powers of Chaos would not avail themselves this day, and as Horus fell to the Emperor's might, the Traitor Legions collapsed in on themselves in madness. The Phoenix fled in laughter, retreating towards the Eye of Terror and leaving a wake of worlds ravaged by his cruelty. Here they settled, to continue the Long War and its pleasures as they slowly tore themselves apart.

And torn apart they were, for their greed knew no limit, their need knew no end. Even the other Traitors were not safe from their depravities. Led by the prince of pleasure,

they considered not the consequences of their

actions.

\columnbreak

## A Final Act of Spite

Only once more would Fulgrim return to the world of men, vanished within the Eye of Terror as he was. Before his Legion was broken, torn apart by their rivals in retribution for their madness, Fulgrim led the Emperor's Children deep into Imperial space.

There on Thessala they savaged and tore, hurling themselves at the Ultramarines who guarded the world. There would Fulgrim clash with Roboute Guilliman and there would he prove his supremacy against the Perfect Son. A single blow from the *Kinebrach*, a weapon capable of felling even the mightiest of Gods, and the Primarch was defeated.

The Emperor's Children retreated, their malice inflicted for no real reason, and the Ultramarines were left in ruin to grieve. Placed inside a stasis pod, in the vain hope he would recover, Roboute was transferred back home and interred.

With such a delightful end, such beautiful hate inflicted, Fulgrim returned to his domain deep within the Eye of Terror. None know now where he rests, some say within a palace sewn from the skin of a million innocents, other from his mirrored hall that shows only his divine reflection.

Regardless of all this, the truth is immaterial. The galaxy lies torn by a cosmic rift, the stars grow dark in waiting. Guilliman has once more returned to the land of the living and the Eldar surge with new strength. The End of Days has come and not even the Gods can forsee the future that comes marching ever closer. All that matters is one thing...
<br><br>
           ***Once More The Phoenix Rises...***

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### The Gilded Panoply

A beautiful set of artificer armour, crafted by his very own hands, it was capable of stopping virtually any attack. Forged with his customary elegance, its beauty was dazzling enough to enrapture those whose eyes fell upon it.

### Blade of Laer

A crude blade of alien make, it's edge was honed sharp by the Daemon trapped within. Capable of corrupting all that it touched, it was later left empty after Fulgrim banished the Daemon. Empty but no lesser in its killing potential.

### Firebrand

A beautiful firearm of ancient design, it's volkite charge could stop a vehicle in its tracks. Rarely produced, its rarity was only enhanced by the demented Primarch whose technological prowess was matched only by his pain.

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# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="white">Chapter Three</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="white">Perturabo</font>

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##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="white">*Of Iron Forged and Ruin Made, the wrath of tempest steel never regrets. Remember us, but do not pity... We chose the end we face.* </font>

</div>

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# The Iron Lord
D*o you craft in sorrow dear prince, or to hide the light you see? What wonders could we have wrought together, were your mind untouched and free?*

A master of technology, peerless in the arts of creation, Perturabo was craft of the very genius he possessed. Born in the depths of Terra, a construct of genetic science, the Hammer of Olympia reached for the stars above... And found only the chains that held him down.

Taciturn and blunt, he was relentless beyond measure and such found him use in the Crusade, if not glory or love. Unwilling and incapable of sharing, his bitterness grew as his hopes faded, and by the very end, the Lord of Iron had grown far harder than his namesake.

A genius, perhaps without equal in the galaxy, he was tormented by the limitations imposed upon him by lesser men. Alas, from such heights deceit becomes muddled and as he threw off his shackles, he merely passed them to another.

Forged of steel, it was perhaps the greatest tragedy of the Primarch that it was never he that wielded the hammer, nor his flames that stoked the forge. Now he is a puppet, the engine once more brought back to heel.

\pagebreakNum

## From
## on High

Taken from his cradle within 
<br>
the Emperor's fabled gene-labs, 
<br>
Perturabo was hurled through the Warp, 
<br>
endless and maddening, to arrive upon the 
<br>
world of Olympia. Like much of his life and 
<br>
inner thoughts, little is known of the Master of Iron, 
<br>
for his world is no more, his history heresy of the darkest kind.

It is said that he grew up alone in the mountains, travelling as a young boy across the world, hiring himself out as both a mercenary and artisan of equal skill. Tales of this remarkable child quickly spread across the land, and before long they reached the ears of Dammekos, the ruling Tyrant of Lochos.

Intrigued by this strange being, he sent out guards to search for him. Eventually they discovered him beneath the vast mountain walls of the city and, seeing that he was truly remarkable, brought him before their lord.

Recognising his brilliance, the Tyrant took him in as his ward, and here he proved himself a genius without equal. Many spoke of the prodigy who lived within the walls, others of his masterful designs. Genius and madness, however, are often two sides of the same coin, and in deep shadows and quiet whispers they spoke of a being born of malice, cold and calculating and able to match wits with the best.

Despite this, the most peculiar thing about this most peculiar child was not what he could do, but what he could see. Plagued from birth with a single vision burning in the sky, a great and terrible storm that looked down on him at all times. No other could see this maelstrom, and so the young Primarch kept quiet, contemplating the truth of what he saw.

As his youth soon left far behind, the Master of Iron was told to choose himself a name, and so he did. Scouring through tomes of ancient lore, written in text only he could decipher, he chose himself a title that he would bear forevermore. Perturabo, and never would he divulge why...

\columnbreak

## An Age of Conquest

Now an adult, Perturabo was faced with the realities of life on Olympia. A thousand City-States, each one fortified mightily and each vying for control of the delicate world. To war the young man set himself, and to war he truly excelled.

Soon mastering the siege warfare that so dominated the world, the Master of Iron set about improving it in ways hitherto unknown. New engines of war were designed, munitions that could rend apart a mountain and armour that would never yield.

Victory after victory followed as his conquests grew endlessly. New designs for architecture, vast halls of glory and beautiful structures of stone followed alongside revolutions in medicine and physics. No field stood beyond this demi-god, and his domain spanned across the entire globe.

Unfortunately, his glut for war brought no peace, only subjugation and slavery. Countless attempts on his life occured and rebellions were crushed without mercy. He was a figure of fear and loathing and not once did he care, for the only opinion that mattered was his.

Here he was called the Lord of Iron, and that name bore truth in more ways than one...

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## A New Light

With the dominion of Olympia complete, Perturabo appeared content to await his adopted fathers death before inheritance. Instead he whiled away on his designs, all the while watching the cursed light in the sky that watched him back with equal interest.

In time, the Emperor found his lostling child, abandoned in the mountains to his thoughts. Unlike many of the other Primarchs, Perturabo immediately accepted his place within the Emperor's domain, and the world of Olympia transferred to the Imperial fold without hesitation.

As he journeyed back to Terra aboard the Emperor's vessels, it became apparent that the Lord of Iron had long since reasoned out his nature. Blessed with abilities staggeringly greater than those of mortal men, he had been awaiting his creator's arrival since first he had set out to war.

Back on Earth, Perturabo proved to be a superlative researcher, scouring the planet for information long lost. His mind was a marvel, even compared to most of his brothers, and some speculated that he might be one of the greatest thinkers to have ever existed.

Here he met Magnus the Red, and the two formed a fast friendship amidst the ruins of old Terra. Perturabo rarely trusted, and seldom gave voice to his thoughts. With his eldritch brother, however, he found a like mind amidst the carnage of the past.

Alas, such was seen as the folly of a young man to the Emperor, and in Perturabo he saw only a new weapon for the crucible mankind faced. His word given, the Lord of Iron abandoned his search and readied himself for war.

Such loyalty was uncommon for the Iron Hammer, but once given it was unbreakable... Or so he thought.

## In The Mists of Madness

Having climbed the Astartes Tower and given his oath of service, Perturabo was put in charge of the 4th Legion, so named the Iron Warriors in his honour. His brilliant mind tasked with the innovation of war, he first turned to Olympia to restock his forces with those from the world of his childhood.

Alas, he found his home a less welcoming place than when he left. His foster-father, Dammekos spent much of his few remaining years attempting to usurp power from his son, fermenting rebellion across the world. Despite failing in his attempts, the anger against the Imperium never left, and would come to haunt the memory of the Primarch far into the future.

Still, with stability restored and his Legion fit for battle, he spent the first few years alongside the Emperor, learning of the Crusade as he displayed his mastery of the grinding wars of attrition.

When unleashed however, he turned upon his Legion in cruel disappointment. Their victories were lesser than their kin, their successes earned brutally and with great pain. His solution was efficient and utterly without remorse... Decimation. One in ten of the Legion, randomly chosen, was put to death and the message was clear, failure would not be tolerated.

Many within the Imperium protested this decision as barbaric, while others merely observed he had acted too soon. Most vocal of his critics however, was Roboute Guilliman, and their rivalry knew no end.

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## Without Relent

Despite the horror of his actions, and the revulsion with which they were met, the Emperor silenced all complaints regarding his sons tactics. It was his goal to make his Legion supreme, an engine of war without equal and his final methods were but one part of his plan.

In control for the first time, Perturabo took his Legion back home, to the systems that surrounded Olympia. Against the Black Judges his Legion proved indestructible, the Ecto-Saurids of Verikhonia also crumbled beneath their onslaught and the famed Knight-fiefdom of Lyxos surrendered fast against the ruthless purge of the Iron Warriors.

World after world fell to their blaze, and each planet left behind bore the scars of their passing. Theirs was not a war of finesse, nor of careful strategy to minimise losses, theirs was to ruin and break, sunder and shatter and no wall could withstand the Iron Hammer for long.

During their many battles, they fought colonies once belonging to the Mechanicum of Mars. By returning them to the fold, Perturabo earned great favour with the tech-priests, and his love of technology and its marvels led to a brewing respect between the two factions.

With his Legion reforged in the crucible of war, and a new alliance with the Red Brotherhood, the Lord of Iron once more returned to Olympia. Here, industry was brought in viral waves as the skies were filled with shipyards and the forges turned to the production of war.

Embodied with a new purpose and refitted for war unknown as of yet to humanity, the Iron Warriors had become more machine than man. Conflict had become their new industry... and business was booming.

\columnbreak

## Cruel to the Bone

Once again ready, the Iron Warriors sped off into the night at the head of a vast fleet borne of artillery might and mathematical certainty. There's was a new type of engine, one uncaring of loss and tragedy, and victory was determined only by the survivor.

Their reputation for brutal efficiency grew throughout the Imperium, their willingness to endure hell for each inch of ground made them feared amongst their allies. None were relieved to see their banners flying high, for nightmare bore their wings aloft.

Such resentment was most particular amongst the Astartes however, and the other Legions held them in contempt. They were to fight for humanity, for hope and honour yet Perturabo saw nothing but probability and cost. In his children, a dark mirror was born, and each day their humanity faded.

This left them given more and more brutal assignments, far away from the Imperial frontlines and containing the most terrible battlefields. Raised in the mountain fortresses of Olympia, Perturabo always had an affinity for siege warfare, and to the galaxy he unleashed his genius without restraint.

Even the Mechanicum grew distant with the Iron Hammer as the years passed by, mistrusting as they were of a Legion so self-sufficient and uncaring of their allies. Eventually, the Iron Warriors began to resort to the most barbaric tactics, not just chemical and biological warfare of the darkest nature but of sacrifice without point.

Millions died, herded in front of enemy fortifications, designed to inform the enemy of the true nature of the Astartes they faced. Such was their way, victory no matter the cost.

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## Broken and Bloody

With their reputation as "Corpse Grinders" truly cemented, the Iron Warriors had completely adapted to a solitary force. Even the Imperial Army given to them were listed as criminals and traitors, to ensure no lives of value were lost in their relentless crusade.

Unfortunately, such disdain earned Perturabo no accolades, and even where he fought with honour and grim determination, his exploits were forgotten. The great **WAAAGH! Mashog** saw the Master of Iron listed as an "Unknown Brother-in-Arms" and a famed painting of Rogal Dorn's fight showed not the Iron Warriors who bled beside him.

This burning bitterness and resigned contempt was only worsened after Ullanor and the appointment of Horus as Warmaster. More and more his Legion was divided, seen as ideally trained to serve as garrison forces. Stationed planet-side across the galaxy, they were soon forgotten in the annals of history, as Perturabo kept his oath though it burned him year by year.

Iron to his word, deprived both reinforcement and supplies save those they could craft themselves, the 4th Legion were ignored. Left to grind in the most horrific conditions, perhaps a curse of their own making, madness began to manifest as peace became a misted dream from better times.

It is suspected that such was Horus' plan all along, to push his most enduring brother to the very brink and shatter his loyalty in one fell stroke. If so he succeeded, for beneath that stoic countenance and brilliant mind a fire burned.

Rage left unspent, anger without action, all these were fuel for the inferno that would come from the Iron Hammer, and not even the Gates of Heaven could stand before him.
<br><br>
***The Iron Age had come***

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## The Shadow of Truth

Though his rebellion seemed inevitable to those who knew him well, Perturabo's decision to side with Chaos was a choice made in mystery. He was exposed to no true corruption, nor enamoured by the ways of the Warp. Instead, it appears to have been born from sheer arrogance, a malevolent disregard for human worth stemming from a total lack of faith.

It is perhaps tragic in its way, that the Emperor's own hatred of faith may have born in Perturabo a complete cynicism towards the ambitions of humanity, and an interest only in his personal dreams and promises.

Such was the observation of Rogal Dorn, the Imperial Fist, whose Legion had long clashed with the Iron Warriors. Too pragmatic to be human, too efficient to care, Perturabo had merely abandoned humanity long ago, a monster made by human hands before Chaos even turned their gaze in interest.

## The Engine Breaks

As the Heresy began to brew within the hearts of Lorgar and Horus, Perturabo was busy, engaged in war against the monstrous Hrud. Deep in battle against them, he was forced to disengage as news most dire arrived on wings of war.

His homeworld, Olympia, had fallen into anarchy, throwing off the rule of the Imperium and tearing themselves apart in nuclear fire. It appeared that Perturabo's father had passed away, and the vicious politics of his land had awakened without hesitation.

Retreating from the Xenos, Perturabo returned to his cradle enraged. Broken by countless decades of attrition, unstable from the endless slights and forgotten deployments, the Master of Iron order Olympia purged.

The rebels were put to the sword, the cities torn to the ground and genocide enacted without hesitation. The machine blinked and for the briefest moment, the true monster of man was unleashed.

It did not take long, and as the funeral pyres of a planet began to cool, Perturabo sat alone and realised he was now truly alone. The Emperor could never forgive his actions, nor perhaps even his own immortal soul.

Hope manifests in the strangest ways however, and as he sat in the ashes of all he had made, Horus came and offered him not only forgiveness but congratulations. He made Perturabo swear to feel no guilt, and pledged to his brother that he never would again, and in that moment Perturabo belonged to him.

When the orders came then, for Perturabo to take his sons and join the Loyalists in their purge of Istvaan, the choice had already been made. Always loyal, never wavering in his dedication, he landed on the planet and put his brethren to the sword.

Raven Guard, Iron Hands, Salamanders, all perished before him. His brothers died in fire and only then did they truly realise the horrors the Iron Warriors endured , only then did the Iron Hammer know vindication for his pain.

After the slaughter was complete, his betrayal final, Horus once more celebrated his brother and gave to him a gift. A beautiful hammer forged by Fulgrim for his brother in the Iron Hands, now repossessed following his death.

A sign of victory to some, Perturabo took it in stoic acceptance. A worthy sign of his damnation...

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## An Old Enemy

With their chains removed and unleashed fully for the first time, Perturabo took his time to focus on old grudges left to fester. Planet by planet, world by world, he hunted down the Imperial Fists and put them to the sword, revelling in brutality of their slaughter.

This ceaseless rampage ended finally on Hydra Cordatus, against the indomitable defences of the Cadmean Citadel. Drowning the planet below in orbital fire, the Iron Warriors annihilated all that surrounded the fortress walls in a display of technical mastery and arrogant loathing.

The Imperial Fist garrison could not believe such a precise bombardment was possible, and readied themselves for a last stand, knowing there was no hope for their survival. For three months they held the walls as the Master of Iron toyed with them, taking from them stronghold after stronghold. For three months they held but no longer.

Finally tiring of the game, Perturabo razed the 
<br>
citadel to the ground in a precise teleportation raid 
<br>
that left no man, woman or child alive. In the ruins 
<br>
of his greatest rivals, Perturabo found no peace 
<br>
however, no salve for his bitterness, only a desire for revenge.

## The Dawn Above

Preparing his Legion to redeploy, Perturabo received word that his fae brother Fulgrim was inbound. Curious as to what the Enigmatic Prince of the Emperor's Children would want with him, he organised his men to receive them in the ruins of Hydra Cordatus.

Unknowing as to the reason for this meeting, other than it being something "wonderous", Perturabo suspected it had much to do with Mars, and the desperate need the Warmaster had in its subjugation for his future plans.

Upon landing however, nothing could be further from the truth. Fulgrim's Legion had become manic, even lunatic in its garish form and the Phoenix demanded a stage be built for his tale. Only Perturabo had the talent required to craft a structure splendid enough to bear witness to his words.

Respectful of his brothers search for perfection, if not necassarily his means, Perturabo set about doing so. Many buried beauties remained in the Lord of Iron's workshop, delicate designs and breath-taking structures that he named his "Folly's", for in this time of war that is all they would ever be.

Work set about immediately, and the Iron Warriors turned for the first time from war. Urged on by Fulgrim, who promised Perturabo the means to end the war in a single stroke, the vast building was completed in record time, and Fulgrim took to the stage with glee.

Ever melodramatic, the Phoenix began his tale in the ways of old, his booming voice projecting fear and feeling across all those who witnessed. He told of a terrible weapon, craft millenia ago by Xenos hands. He spoke of trial and tribulation, of havoc and madness. He spoke of a place of Chaos, pure and unmitigated, and pointed skyward to its location.

The Lord of Iron followed his motion, and stared at the light that had haunted him since his birth. Whatever doubts he had vanished with the promise of truth.
<br><br>
***The Storm Beckoned...***

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## The Iron Angel

None others had ever understood what Perturabo spoke of when he mentioned the scar in the sky, and eventually he had stopped mentioning it, tired of the looks of scorn and pity he received in response.

Now, as his vessels translated towards its very edge, he knew that he was vindicated, as those assembled stared in horror and awe at the screaming maelstrom that engulfed the sky. He stared into the abyss and saw worlds abandoned by reason and certainty, where probability held as king without rule or restraint.

Faced now with this revenant spectre, Perturabo brought up the star-faring charts of the region. Few places were named, fewer were of any note but Perturabo knew, as he looked into hell itself, that no more important a place would exist. A few moments later and a new name marked the region of space... ***The Eye of Terror.***

Diving into the screaming torrent, Perturabo and his allies were not alone in their descent to madness. A loyalist band of mixed legions and temperaments had followed them from Hydra Cordatus, intent on stopping whatever lunacy the Traitor Legions had consigned themselves to.

Countless hit-and-run attacks were exchanged between both sides, casualties condemned to an eternity in the maddening grasp of the Warp. All the way into the heart of the storm they fought, to a tortured Crone World of the Eldar named Iydris, whose frozen shell orbited a vast and terrible black hole.

Here they found a crystal tomb, a vast city formed of strange bone that sang in whispers and warnings. Here lay the Doom of the Eldar, the monument to their most terrible sin. Such anguish held great power here, and locked in time it hung in the nothingness, staring its tragedy in the maw. Death, however, was no stranger to Perturabo...

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## A Divine Madness

Cautious and understandably so considering their environment, The Master of Iron ordered a bombardment of the planet, rinsing the dust-ridden plains with ash. Ruin was inflicted once more upon the Eldar of old and as the smoke cleared, one structure remained.

The Sepulchre of Isha's Doom, a grand temple of Xenos origin, was their target and descending to the surface, Perturabo ordered his men to set up perimiter. Fortifications were quickly constructed, supplies were organised, and within moments a veritable citadel lay in the ruins of old.

Pulling at the chain, Fulgrim appeared possessed, desperate to get within the structure. Concerned and suspicious, the Iron Hammer followed, suspecting treachery with every step. Meanwhile, their Loyalist foes devised a plan for revenge. They crept past the sentries and followed the two Primarchs into the darkness.

Deeper within *Amon ny-shak Kaelis* they moved, the vast citadel that surrounded the temple, and each step brought them closer to the heart of the world. Each stride taken, each inch crawled closer, Fulgrim broke further and further. Sweat that glistened like golden light, fluid twists as his body broke free of reality, the Phoenix appeared on the verge of life once more.

Life that the world would never forget, could never forget, for its existence was the curse of their damnation. Thousands of crystal statues, long inanimate, burst into life as their oldest foe returned to their midst.

All across the world, the grave awoke and as bolter fire crashed against bone and rage, the dead taste the fires of war once more. The spirits would not surrender their hold upon this world, not again...
<br><br>
***The Silence Would Have It's Due...***

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## Point of No Return

Surrounded on all sides, Perturabo descended deeper into the temple as his brother sprinted ahead laughing. Violence and carnage filled his vision as each moment turned into a perfection of slaughter.

Finally arriving at the nexus point, he saw truly what his brother had done. Engulfed in green flame, the screams of a thousand Eldar shrieking in fear, and twisting in form as his body escape its limitations, Fulgrim had truly abandoned humanity.

Seeing now the enormity of the betrayal, Perturabo stepped forward with *Forgebreaker* in hand, determined to slay the errant madman who wore his brothers flesh. Each step nearer brought him closer to his knees however, as he felt his soul being torn from his form.

Unknown to him was the truth of something small. back on Hyrda Cordatus Fulgrim had given him gifts in honour of the meeting, and amongst them was a beautiful cloak inset with a simple black gem.

A single word and the gem awoke, feasting on the soul of the Primarch. His very being ripped from his body and fed into the Phoenix, Perturabo collapsed, dying... Left empty and hollow, the irony was more painful than the wound.

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## A Madness Embraced

Screaming into the Warp, his mind fracturing into something... perfect, the Phoenix laughed at his success. The Master of Iron, however, plunged deep into a rage long ignored and hurled the gem into the darkness below.

Severed from his power, Fulgrim screamed in rage as the ritual began to writhe. Clattering far below them, the gem was destroyed in the vast fire-fight between Eldar, Loyalist and Traitor.

With a terrible explosion, Perturabo's life was restored to him, and truly hollow after this most fell betrayal, he raised the hammer and broke the Phoenix in twain. With a burst of light, Fulgrim's body reached out in its own annihilation, devouring itself in ravenous hunger.

What remained was an ethereal being of malice and depravity. His physical form rent, Fulgrim's soul remained in maddened glory before the Lord of Iron. Mutating in serpent grace, shifting with the ever present chaos of the hedonist, Fulgrim was born into the world anew, a true Prince of the Neverborn, a Daemon-Lord of Slaanesh.

With a surge of aetheric energy, Fulgrim lifted his children from the Crone World as reality once more asserted its grip upon it. Surrounded by a titanic black hole, it began immediately to fall into its eternal embrace.

With no time to spare, Perturabo retreated, screaming at his sons to flee. Already many of his vessels, surprised by the sudden life at the heart of the nightmarish storm, had perished and as their fleet ran from hell, more were slain in horror of their eternal damnation.
<br><br>
***But Iron... Iron Endures.***

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## The Last Gambit

Caught in the madness, lost in the heart of storm, their every attempt failed. Remembering Fulgrim's promise of meeting again, and seeing no other choice, Perturabo took the helm.

With a scream of metal, the *Iron Blood* turned into the heart of the black hole, and with silence as his only companion, he hurled his vessel into the maw of the universes final scream of rage. The Iron Warriors would not die here today...

Somehow they escaped, and scarred by this utter betrayal, broken by this descent into hell, Perturabo was unleashed upon the Imperium in full. What followed was a new type of war, one that broke conventional morality, one that escaped even the confines of total conflict.
<br><br>
***Death was its own goal...***

## An Iron Cage

With the Heresy nearing its end, Horus and his forces orbiting Terra, the Master of Iron called upon his sons once more. From Olympia, where the world had been turned into a bastion of steel, the Legion came in force and Perturabo was deployed against his greatest foe yet.

Rogal Dorn had spent many years fortifying the world, and against this bastion was the Iron Hammer and his sons hurled. Trenches that crossed continents, batteries that could level nations and engines of war that defied mortal science, all these and more met against the enduring hope of the Imperium.

How such a challenge would have resolved drove Perturabo onwards, kept his anger burning, a time to prove his worth to the dying lords who had forgotten him. Such chance, however, was robbed for Horus was slain and without their leader, the Traitor forces collapsed.

Seeing no point in meeting his end, Perturabo retreated, pulling his men back into space and towards the Eye of Terror with the Imperium chasing every part of the way. Survival meant little to the Master of Iron however, not compared to revenge...

A trap was lain upon the world of Sebastus IV, a citadel of genius design. Every corridor engineered to blow, every trench lain with mines. Tunnels within tunnels and labyrths that defied mathematical theory.

Every part of this fortress was designed to be lost and turned against the aggressor, and here the Imperial Fists would break themselves for nothing.

Four weeks passed, and Rogal Dorn's men bled for every inch of ground, their supplies ruined, their rest interrupted by constant ambush and barrage. Thousands died every day and though reinforcements arrived, they met only a shattered Legion, and a Primarch left hollow by his pain.

For the first time Perturabo was happy, his greatest rival stripped of his pride, perhaps even his humanity, and in his possession four hundred Imperial Fists for sacrifice. This gift he offered to Chaos, and in reward for his senseless evil, darker perhaps than any that had been committed, the Chaos Gods raised him unto divinity, a Daemon Prince of the Undivided, a god amongst gods.

Settling then on Medrengard, a Daemon Fortress of impenetrable might, Perturabo waited...
<br><br>
***But The Engine Burns Bright Once More...***

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### The Logos

A beautiful suit of Cataphractii Terminator Amour, it provided a phenomenal level of defence. Armed with various weapon systems of Perturabo's design, it was a true vessel of war, unmatched in protection or killing power.

### Forgebreaker

A hammer forged by Fulgrim for Ferrus Manus, it is capable of rupturing the armour of a tank with a single blow. Nothing can withstand its fury, and unleashed even nature bows before its path.

### Tormentor
A Shadowsword Super-Heavy Tank, this model was modified by Perturabo himself. More armoured and bearing a unique pattern of cannon, it is the pinnacle of vehicular combat, unmatched in ferocity or endurance.

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# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="Black">Chapter Four</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="Black">Jaghatai Khan</font>

<div style='margin-top:800px;'></div>
  
##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="white">*There is no rage without the fire, no peace before the war. Understand this quiet now... It is the calm before our storm* </font>

</div>

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# The Wild Hunt
D*espite the legends craft and accolades earned, the Khan will always be a figure of shadow. None know his truest loyalties, all suspect him of rage. He does not care... You cannot forgive a storm.*

Jaghatai Khan, the White Scar of the Endless Legion, was a strange man, an enigma in fact and one whose fate has often been forgotten. A talented general and peerless warrior, he cared not for rulership, easily tired of the grand games of court.

This, more than anything, made him the ideal son of the Emperor, a prince without a crown; a lord without a hall, the rule of law was a simple thing in his eye, to be followed or avoided at the threat of destruction.

His was not a trusting nature however, or perhaps not a sharing one. He kept his own counsel even amongst his kin and the greatest tragedy of his life would come from his children, desperate to please him without truly knowing who he was.

This would be his greatest strength and most terrible weakness. All would hold him suspect, unsure of whose side he'd truly choose. None could know his feral path but what did it matter?
<br><br>
***The Wind Need Not Be Understood...***

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## The Young Ranger

Torn from the depths of Terra and sent hurtling through the Sea of Storms, Jaghatai had only the screaming souls of the Warp to keep him company. Not even he knew how long he spent within this tenebrous paths, but upon his emergence he found himself on the world of Chogoris, later named the Mundus Plane by the Imperium.

This green and verdant planet was split in two. A vast Empire ruled by the Palantine sprawled across the resource rich continent, devouring as it grew. The other half, known as the Empty Quarter, was barren and empty, inhabited only by nomads and those slavers from the Empire seeking their prey.

It was in this wild and quiet land, this Empty Quarter, that Jaghatai arrived, found and quickly adopted by Ong Khan who ruled the Talaskars. From a young age, the Khan found himself pining for a greater people, one of unity and peace.

Such was not the way of the nomads however, and his words drew contempt and hate. Such hate, in fact, that in retribution, or perhaps just spite, a nearby clan named the Kurayeds launched a raid upon his people. Many were slain, including Jaghatai's father, and only ruin and ash were left in their wake.

Enraged and distraught, the Khan abandoned his words of peace for weapons of war. Rallying those who survived, he swore unity would be brought to this world, or they would burn in their respite.

Clan after clan fell to his path, absorbing those who saw truth in his quest, and annihilating those who defied him. One by one and after ten years, the tribes all bowed to him.

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## A Foe Emerges

His work complete, and with winter soon coming, the clans began to retreat to warmer climates. Jaghatai, ever headstrong, ran ahead of his own with a few select men, revelling in the furious winds and endless expanse before him.

Unfortunately, fate is ever a fickle thing, and a sudden avalanche buried the group before they could reach safety. Only the Khan survived, and as he struggled free of his confined, he was surrounded by a slaving band from the Empire.

Only one returned to their prosperous land, mutilated and bearing the head of the Palantine's son. Aghast that such primitive barbarians would strike a blow against him, would dare defend themselves against his assault, he organised a vast army.

Genocide was their only goal, as they marched into the empty wastes. Here, the Khan rallied the clans once more, and a terrible battle took place. The sky filled with arrows as the horses charged around the disciplined ranks, and as carnage wreaked her bloody toll, the Empire's forces collapsed. Few survived the retreat, but the Khan was not finished.

Intent on ending these crimes, Jaghatai led his clans into the Empire, offering each city a choice; surrender or die. As the ash of his conquests filled the sky, more and more threw down their swords in fear.

Finally he arrived at the capital, and here he demanded the Palantine's head. Without hesitation the city complied, turning on their ruler immediately. Faced now with the world at his feet, Jaghatai prepared himself for peace.
<br><br>
***But The Storm Had Just Begun...***

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## The Wild Knight

Faced with the burdens of kingship, it was perhaps with some relief that the coming of the Emperor followed soon in his conquests wake. Landing upon the world, the Emperor and Horus saw his work and proclaimed him a worthy son of the Emperor, and a vital addition to the Crusade.

Perturbed by these foreign invaders, and wary of their technology, Jaghatai realised soon who they were. Unlike many of his kin, however, the Khan knew no love when he saw the Emperor, no awe or desire to bend the knee. Instead he saw but another Emperor, another ruler in need of a crown.

Unfortunately the offer he was given was one with which the Wild Prince was all too familiar, for it was one often given by himself. Despite his formality and generous nature, he knew the Emperor's choice; surrender or die...

Faced with an unwinnable war against the Astartes, and realising the benefits of Imperial advancements, Jaghatai bent the knee, pleased perhaps that the boredom of paperwork would be avoided for now.

He was quickly inducted into the Legions Astartes, for the Great Crusade had hit a tipping point, resources starved across the galaxy. For only a brief time he fought alongside the Luna Wolves, forced to adapt quickly to the technology of the Imperium, before being let loose to face the conflict alone.

Roboute Guilliman and Rogal Dorn both objected to this quick hand-over of forces, but the Khan did not care. The war had come once more to his lands, and though his forces were scattered throughout the galaxy, such was the natural order for the vagrant warrior. From open plains to empty space, the Wild Knight rode once more.

## A Violent Rebirth

Faced with no legion, but only a disparate band of brothers who bled and died alone, the Khan fought to reforge them into one. Relishing in the memory of his younger life he put out the call to arms, waiting nearly a decade for the scattered remnants of his forces to arrive at Chogoris.

As they gathered, one by one, on the open plains, he saw a clash of colours, banners of a thousand lords, marks of a hundred faiths. He bound them all together through him, and through the wastes of his home.

Each scarred themselves, a bond of blood that united them through their differences. No rule would be established, nor order forced upon them, only this oath to each other. In this moment the Legion was reborn, and the White Scars stood ready for war.

To truly cement their new loyalty, Jaghatai led his men against the Kolarne Circle, a series of worlds filled with depraved humans and monstrous xenos. Here, against these most terrible foes, no company would survive alone and only through their comrades would they thrive.

For five years they fought, the casualties suffered on both sides horrific but rather than retreat the White Scars pushed ever onward. Led by Jaghatai Khan, the thrill of battle filled their veins as they sped forwards, never relenting, never giving a moments pause.

When the war was won, there was no thought of the Imperium, no dream of a greater mankind. There was only the Khan, his promise of war, and the thrill of battles yet to come.

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## The Hunt
## Begins

What followed this new union 
<br>
of brothers was a wake of conquest, 
<br>
fought more for joy than victory. World 
<br>
after world fell to the roaming bands of the 
<br>
White Scars, scattered wide as was their very 
<br>
nature. Howling from the back of their bikes, marked with strange tattoo's and bearing unusual fetishes, many labelled them as nothing more than savages, wild men more akin to Angron and Russ.

This missed perhaps the true genius of their work. Appearing in chaos they were in fact truly disciplined, able to operate independently without fault. They were pathfinder, rangers of old whose movements betrayed a tantalising dance of efficiency and murder.

They valued their learning, and the Khan found much wonder in the marvels of the universe, as well as the secrets kept carefully hid. Few could see past their abandon however, and though they fought with honour and respect for their foe, others saw only laughing killers, careless in their violence and ruin.

A few saw past this however, and these Jaghatai counted close as friends. Magnus the Red, outcast by his very nature, Horus who saw skill where others saw butchery, and Sanguinius, ever the statesmen and diplomat.

The others cared little, happy to ignore their wildling brother, and the Khan was happy to comply, ever moving through the edges of known space, ever careful to remain out of sight and out of mind.

Alas their success was perhaps too great. Each battle won left less to conquer and the wilds of space grew smaller every year that passed. Jaghatai knew this and felt restless, his very being obsolete as order became the new norm. The Imperium was winning and there grew little chance to outrun the storm.

No choice seemed available however... no choice except one.
<br><br>
***The Thunder Growled Once More...***

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## A Calm Brews

With many successes under his belt, Jaghatai had become a proven warlord. From the Warp infested madness of Drune, where the Khan fought alongside Mortarion and Horus, to the halls of the Pale Emperor, whom the Wild Knight left alive as reminder of the price of pride, the White Scar had aided in the slow end of the Great Crusade.

Even now they were left behind however, rarely mentioned and rarely remembered. Only the Raven Guard recalled for the Khan and Corax bore great emnity from a dozen battles, and a similarity too close for comfort.

It was at Ullanor that things truly changed however. A great WAAAGH! had been called and many Legion answered in kind, chief amongst them the White Scars whose lightning tactics proved succesful against the Greenskins.

Battle after battle across the endless plains, torrid warfare through the mountains valleys and once more the Khan felt alive, a foe truly capable of challenging him in its love of battle.

But such proved short-lived and with its end, so too came to a close the Great Crusade. A vast parade was held, the Triumph of Ullanor, and many Primarchs came to witness its passing. Here the Emperor announced his retreat, and gave unto Horus the title of Warmaster... As lightning filled the sky once more.

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## The Storm Beckons

With the celebrations over, and the White Scars eager to rejoin the fray now that their relaxation was over, they were perturbed to hear of one last act by the Emperor. A grand council was to be called, one to handle a problem long at the heart of the Astartes and mankind.

The Librarians had long been members of the Astartes, their existence drawn up by Magnus, Sanguinius and the Khan. There were strict rules regarding their existence, lessons learned by the Stormseers of Chogoris but it appeared as though Magnus had transgressed.

In this arena, Jaghatai had long disagreed with the Emperor, for he and his kin had long been aware of Chaos, and the Daemons that inhabited the Warp. His obfuscation of the truth sat ill with the Primarch and as his brother faced trial, anger burned within  the Primarch.

Unfortunately he was unable to attend, to speak in defence of his brother, though he thought him reckless. A last minute deployment to the Chondax System called, and though he considered ignoring the orders, he thought such matters could be handled adroitly.

His choice, however, would haunt the Khan forever, for Magnus spoke of power and knowledge, of a reckless search for strength amongst the madness of the Warp. Faced with such horror, the Imperium turned on him and declared his talents forbidden and with the power of the Emperor's edict ringing in the air, such became law in a moment.

Told his way of life was a crime, his culture illegal, Jaghatai's loyalty became strained. He knew leaving it to Magnus was a mistake, the Sorcerous Lord of Prospero far too intimidating and unearthly. Distant from the heartlands however, the Khan elected to stay true, ignoring the new ruling from the safety of his obscurity.
<br><br>
***The Cracks Began To Show...***

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## A Tempest Enraged

What was expected to be nothing more than a mere skirmish with the Greenskins in Chondax turned into a seven year campaign across a dozen worlds. Such was of little matter to the White Scars, used to toiling in obscurity, but when the skies lit up with eldritch flame, and word arrived of an Imperium in flames, the White Scar paused in shock.

As the great Ruinstorm spread throughout the stars, devouring communication and travel alike, Jaghatai learned of the Burning of Prospero, how his brother Russ had gone to Magnus and lain low his world and sons.

It appeared the Wolf had gone feral at last, turning on his brother in rebellion and hate. Such was not a simple truth to bear however, for a thousand messages, each different in nature, delayed and corrupted by the Warp, countered each other as every day passed.

More and more madness followed suit, Ferrus Manus had slain Fulgrim in terrible battle, the Imperium had fallen to depravity in a terrible civil war and the Mechanicum had erupted into revolt. The Warmaster struggled to contain the inferno and a desperate plea to the Khan was sent, to reinforce the Alpha Legion and bring judgement to Leman Russ.

## A Violent Patience

Though he was ready to fight, even eager as the galaxy collapsed once more to his state of chaos, the Khan would not strike until he knew the truth. Deception had ever been the greatest art of man, and Jaghatai knew well to suspect when certainties were given.

The next message he received was from the Wolf, begging for aid as the Alpha Legion ambushed them ahead of the White Scars' arrival. Those two had long feuded and though Jaghatai sympathised with Leman Russ, he would not fire until he knew the loyalty of those he fought.

It was ever strange to think that the Khan would bend the knee, those decades ago, but his oath and honour were all that he had. No matter his disagreement, perhaps even his disgust, the Emperor remained his true liege and this was perhaps the greatest secret he possessed.

Matters were further complicated by the arrival of a vast fleet of ships from the Alpha Legion. Preparing to leave Chondax to seek answers elsewhere, Jaghatai reached out to his brothers and found only silence as its response.

Slowly a cordon was formed and soon his men were surrounded, each question met with absent static, each movement mirrored in kind. Though no threat was offered, these were certainly not the actions of a friend.

A single message, breaking through the cordon and the din of warpfire raging in the sky, provided all the clarity the Khan needed. A demand to return to Terra from Rogal Dorn, to abandon their acts and retreat to the Throne World...

Jaghatai knew rage then, anger at the Imperium, humanity, the Emperor, all and above they had forgotten him. Now that the Imperium burned, they called upon their laughing warriors but so long they had left it was proof that they had never cared.

The Khan and his men were free, always free, and no oath nor bond of honour would see him choose a side till all was revealed. No seat of power nor title of weight would move his men like slaves, only the truth, one for him to find.

\pagebreakNum

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## A Distant Truth

Knowing now their path led to no side, Jaghatai ordered his vessels to break out of the system and escape the Alpha Legion for good. Relying on their novel tactics, largely unknown due to their isolation, and the genius of their modified craft, they easily splintered the opposing vessels and moved on in search of wisdom.

Their first goal was to uncover the origin of this matter, and so their vessels sped through the Warp, careful as the aetheric storms rioted with abandon and glee. Arriving at Prospero, Jaghatai hoped, more than anything, that his brother had survived.

With him, this war could end, the truth revealed and the chaos reduced to rebels and their ailing lord. Without him the Imperium was done, doomed to face itself in the dying throes of a great beast. Ready to slay any found above this world, the Khan moved towards the planet with a heavy heart.

The truth revealed itself, a tragedy of unmistakable proportions. The world lay in ruin, buildings collapsed under bombardment, the disaster of a brothers feud clear for all to see. Needing to see with his own eyes, Jaghatai descended to the surface with his closest guard, and saw the fruits of treasons reward.

## A City of Broken Dreams

Landing near the once beautiful city of Tizca, the Khan felt sorrow for the desolation inflicted upon its splendour. He had never found easy company with Leman Russ, tired of his endless boasting and exceptionalism but to see such destruction inflicted left his heart hard and his anger honed.

Searching deeper, desperate to find the Red Lord of Prospero, the Khan and his men were set upon by Psychneuein, a monstrous native to the barren world, whose form was of mist and whose chosen prey were the souls and minds of Psykers.

Incapable of harming these fell beasts, the White Scars fled. During the struggle Jaghatai slipped and as the caverns collapsed above him, the memories of old returned in full. Here, alone once more, surrounded by foes, he returned back to Chogoris as through these hidden tunnels he sped and fought.

Deeper and deeper he made his way, through a maze of passages that bore no reason or sense. Finally, turning into some large cavern, he found what he had come for. In a structure somewhat reminiscent of a vast underground theatre, a single soul stood calmly, poring through a tome of lore.

Though ethereal in form, the one eye and towering form of the Crimson King was unmistakable, and Jaghatai's eyes lay upon his brother for the first time in years. Greeting the Khan, the spirit revealed the truth of its nature, not that of Magnus but a shard of his personality, and promised answers to the Wild Knight's questions.

He told of treason, of the madness in Lorgar as he sought the Dark Gods of the Warp. He spoke of Horus and that which caused him to turn on the Emperor. He span words of the Webway, and the mistake that had seen his punishment inflicted.

And he told of the Khan, whose disinterest in mankind had been paid in kind. He had not been abandoned, but had abandoned them, and it was by his choice the world burned

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## A New Betrayal

Saddened by the fate of his brother, and slowly accepting the fault that lie with him, Jaghatai knew what he had to do. Shattering the revenant of Magnus, scattering his soul into a thousand shards, he returned to the surface, digging his way through the grave of better times.

Here he found a new horror inflicted upon him, in these most dire times. Phantasms and haunts, bleak spectres of tragedy and woe were hurling themselves upon his kin who struggled desperately to contain the madness that had come.

Moving quickly to their aid, his grace was sublime, moving from battle to battle, blow to blow with elegant speed that surpassed thought itself. Soon the conflict had calmed and he faced his sons once more, a changed man.

Amongst them stood a single member of the Thousand Sons and though for a moment he thought he saw Ahriman, he realised he was mistook. Before he could ask further, his sons questioned him as to whether he had found the truth he needed, and the Khan confirmed he had.

There was no single traitor, no one wrong that had caused the world they knew to spiral. Prospero had burned at the Wolves hands, Magnus slain by their bloodlust, but Horus had ordered the kill. No matter where one looked a web of deceit and betrayal spanned the Imperium, and left no one clean of blame.

Such discussion was cut short however, with the arrival of another. Shrouded in black, the sound of death with every step, and the reapers tool held tight in hand, Mortarion teleported down into the dust. Amidst the ruin and pain, he appeared a most natural sight in the darkness.

Once, such meeting would have been calm, if not pleasant, but tension sang in the air. Jaghatai's blade lay unsheathed as he eyed his brother carefully, and the words that followed would define the future to come.

\columnbreak

## The Reaper's Due

Quickly realising that the Haunt had not come at Horus' behest, Jaghatai demanded that Mortarion speak his words. Here in the ruin of a brighter minds work, the two set about a war of words, each trying to uncover the truth behind the other.

Alas, it appeared that Mortarion had thrown his lot in with the traitors, and found the rewards of his work bitter. Long had the Death Guard hated psykers, despised their witchcraft, and now he stood alone amidst warp-weavers who practice their arts without care.

He sought an ally, one whom he had felt similar, if not close, and in Jaghatai he had found him. Both of them outriders, both of them ignored by the greater glories of the Great Crusade, they should side together against the Emperor and against the madness of Horus.

The Khan had nothing but contempt for his words however, and rejected him with ease. Neither of them were suited to rule, both of them wild at heart and in his sickness he had not realised this aberrant truth.

Despairing now at his lonliness, and enraged at what he saw as the words of a rampant fool, Mortarion attacked. The two clashed, blades meeting in the sparks of bitter difference. The lightning movements of the Khan matched by the endless endurance of the Death Guard, his every blow weighted with spite.

Neither side appeared victorious, Jaghatai's energy slowly fading against the resolute bastion, and Mortarion bleeding from a thousand wounds inflicted with grace. Both realised in this moment how little they knew of each other, and the irony of their conflict.

Before their battle could complete however, Mortarion turned to the skies. With a single chuckle he gazed upon the Khan, and with that look he knew a terrible deed had been committed. A single crack of teleporter glare, and the Khan was left alone in the dust of his mistakes.

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## A Time of Woe

The battle over, Jaghatai Khan immediately moved to follow. This hunt was not over in his eyes, the prey had escaped and must be found. Above him, however, the stars lit up with fire as ships tore into each other, condemning their brothers to the grave.

It was not the Death Guard who fought however, for they retreated rather than face the fury of the White Scars. Instead it was the brethren of the Scattered Legion who opened fire upon one another, two sides caught between their loyalty to the Emperor and Horus.

Here began the great sorrow of Jaghatai, so long closed off that even his children knew not which way he turned. Desperately he called for calm and, reinstituting order, he returned once more to his fleet, wounded both physically and in the soul.

Reunited again, the White Scars turned on the Death Guard. This battle would not rival the first however, for they had come in peace and were unwilling to engage in such a costly engagement. Faced with the steppes fury and the grief of an abandoned son, Mortarion ordered his ships to retreat, as Jaghatai licked his wounds in thought.

With calm once more established, the Khan retreated to his chambers to plan his next move. His closest advisors came with him and there the choice was made. Jaghatai would ride with the Emperor, would ride with humanity against the darkness of old foes.
<br><br>
***The Khan Would Not Be Forgotten Today...***

## The Mirror Darkly

For the next four years, Jaghatai and his sons waged a guerilla war against the Traitors, targeting vital supply lines and inflicting horrific damage against their foes. Unfortunately, cut off from their allies, every ship lost, every soldier slain could not be replaced.

Soon the White Scars found themselves at the very brink of extinction, an ambush by the Iron Warriors leaving them devastated. Surrounded by the Ruinstorm, hounded by Eidolon and the Traitor Forces and with no safe harbour, it appeared to be the end of the Khan.

A chance discovery, however, offered them a chance to survive. The Kalium Gate, an ancient device from the Dark Age of Technology, could be used to take the White Scars to Terra and, with no other choice, they sailed towards it.

Such was known to Eidolon unfortunately, and as they arrived they were assaulted by a massed Traitor assault. Few of the White Scars survived... But few were meant to. As was the way of the Khan, a master of feints and turns, this "desperate" retreat was nothing more than a ploy.

With the Traitor forces distracted, the Khan had found his target. A senior navigator by the name of Novator Pieter Achelieux who guided the Legion to the *Dark Glass*, an archaeotech device capable of accessing the Webway, and thought to have been the precursor to the Golden Throne.

Quelling the rebellious forces that inhabited the ancient structure, the White Scars moved as one through the strange portal and into the nexus heart of the Webway.

What they saw here was unknown, what troubles followed even less so, for the Webway has often been breached and possesses guardians of a darker nature.

Regardless, they survived, and emerging into Terra, Jaghatai knew he had nowhere else to run.

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## The War in Heaven

Faced with overwhelming odds, pushed back against the walls of Terra, the White Scars found themselves in a most unfamiliar arena as the Traitors launched their assault on Earth. Realising that within the confines of the fortifications they would be crippled, Jaghatai launched an aggressive counter-attack.

Targeting the main space-port, they waited, until a breach in the defences provided the Traitors with an opening. In maddened glee the enemy poured in through the crack in the walls and at that moment the Wild Knight struck.

Wiping out the garrison they seized control of the anti-air guns, turning them on the Traitor vessels. Dozens of ships were annihilated and the Traitors found themselves without supplies and reinforcements as the heavens rained ruin below.

Such a blow proved ruinous to the Forces of Chaos, and as Horus died above, so too did the assault on the ground waver. Turning their efforts to the hunt once more, Jaghatai and the White Scars prowled the ruined earth, slaying those retreating without mercy or honour.

The war had ended, the Khan survived, and now the call came once more. The Traitors would not escape alive...

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## The Path Ends at Night

With the ruin of the Imperium slowly being rebuilt, and the Traitors locked away in the Eye of Terror, safe within the maddening confines of hell, the White Scars underwent a series of changes.

Recognising the wisdom in the Codex Astartes and Guilliman's desire to split the titanic armies of old into more manageable pieces, Jaghatai ordered his Legion to disband, breaking up into various Chapters free to operate as they saw fit.

The Khan, and those who remained in his forces, returned to Chogoris, ordered to tame the lands around his homeworld that had once more fallen into anarchy. Here they discovered the vile acts of the Drukhari, fallen Eldar of depraved instinct and hedonistic desire. They had raided his world for slaves and the Khan swore bloody vengeance against them... Such crimes would not return to his lands.

For the next seventy years he fought alongside his men, hunting down the Dark Eldar and restoring order to those parts free of the Imperium's control. Alas, as the Age of Gods slowly passed into the wayside, so too did Jaghatai follow.

Caught in battle with a terrible warlord, a Drukhari Archon of great might, he disappeared during the chase. Many suspect him dead, or captured, but the White Scars believe he survives.

Deep in the Warp they say he hunts, waiting for the End of Days, that he will return to lead a great hunt. Few remember these days but as the thunder growls in the Warp, as the rage of dying gods is reborn...
<br><br>
***The Storm Beckons Once More...***

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### The Wildfire Panoply

An elegant piece of armour, craft for beauty as much as protection, it was designed with the Khan's fabled speed in mind. Allowing total freedom of movement, no greater defence exists for the agile warrior.

### The White Tiger Dao

The master-crafted sword of the Khan, this weapon could pierce ceramite with ease. When wielded from the back of his bike it granted him devastating strength without sacrificing speed.

### Sojutsu Pattern Voidbike

A prototype device modeled after the Jetbikes, it was capable of incredible speed and dexterity. Possessing void-capability, the Mechanicum later defined it as a "ultra-light fighter" due to its versatility on the battlefield.
  
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# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="Black">Chapter Five</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="Black">Leman Russ</font>

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##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="white">*I fear not the beast with brazen fangs and feral thought, tis the man inside whose darkness robs my sleep* </font>

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# The Last Saga
I*n war, one will find men like cattle, herded into conflict without thought nor reason. Like dogs they whimper as the carnage comes again, eager to turn upon each other as the madness grows. In war, however, you will also find the wolves...*

What can be said about Leman Russ, the Wolf King and master of the Feral Legion, that has not been said in countless myths and stories. Perhaps the greatest warrior amongst the Primarchs, a general of ferocious appetite and endless bloodlust, he was a rude savage, raised in the barbaric ways of his brutal world.

But all was not as it seemed, for such an appearance made it easy to bond with his wild sons, and easier still to deflect the criticisms of his dark work. The Great Wolf was an executioner after all, the final statement of the Emperor against those who transgressed, and such punishments knew no reprieve.

In reality he possessed a mind as quick as any of his kin, sharp enough to realise the benefits such a savage alias provided him. This created an interesting dichotomy, the cultured barbarian, tutored in the ways of ancient and pagan culture, with the knowledge of the truth behind it all.

Such was the irony of the Wolf King, his savage guise maintained for the lies it helped him weave...
<br><br>
***And the lies he told himself.***

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## A Silver 
## Moon

From the depths of Old Earth to 
<br>
the frozen wastes of Fenris, Leman 
<br>
Russ travelled far from his youth beneath 
<br>
the Terran mountains. Torn from the Emperor's 
<br>
Gene-labs, like all the Primarchs, the Wolf-King would 
<br>
be sent to a world of cruelty and death, one where existence was earned, not owed.

Pulling himself free of his broken capsule, scorched black from orbital entry and a harrowing journey throughout the Warp, the first contact Russ would have appeared to be his last. A terrible Thunderwolf, a fell beast native to the broken world of Fenris, found the child, young and defenceless in the cold.

Fate appeared to have another plan for Winter's Woe however, the skein of destiny plucked for something greater. Recognising a kindred spirit, the wolf picked up the young Primarch and took him back to her den. There she raised him, alongside the other pups, his feral nature honed to a wlyvan edge.

Taught not the way of man, nor in the skills of peace and culture, Russ grew larger and more deadly. Perhaps here he should have been left, perhaps here he knew peace amidst the wilderness and quiet of the wolfen life. It was not to be, however, and come humanity would the Wolf-King put to words the demons in his blood.

One day his den was found by hunters from a nearby tribe of humans seeking both shelter and glory in the screaming blizzards. His mother was slain, arrows arcing through the air and leaving her corpse riddled upon the snow as his family tore into the invaders with abandon.

Robbed of his family, but with two of his brothers alive, he was introduced to humanity in the darkest way. Russ killed over a dozen of the invaders, fangs dripping with blood as the screams followed his murder. Winter's Woe appeared more Daemon than man, a half-beast of myth and legend whose rage could not be quenched.
<br><br>
***A Truth Which Never Changed...***

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## A Brutal Awakening

Despite such appearance as a Beast of Wyrd and Wild, it was soon realised that his heart beat as man not monster, his blood true with the warriors mark. Offered peace through their actions as blade and bow were lowered, the Wolf-King relented, unwilling to risk the lives of Freki and Geri, his last surviving brothers.

Unsure as what to make of this fae child, the warriors brought him before the court of King Thengir, ruler of the Russ Tribe. Seeing before him a boy with the potential to reach heights unknown, a true warrior without equal, the King ordered the Young Wolf to be given a place in his household.

Such might have been a mercy by the king, but to his warriors it appeared as madness. Not days ago this boy had slain a dozen men without hesitation, and no matter how careful you may be, a wolf will always see prey.

Still, such fear seemed unfounded as Russ grew, quickly mastering the language and skills of his new human hosts. Whether with axe or bow or spear, none could ever best the Wolf King, and soon he began to realise he was neither human nor a beast... but something greater than both.

With his mastery assured and capable of beating any warrior who challenged him, he was finally given the right to a name. As it stands, the first days of Leman of the Russ start here...

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## The Age of Frost

What followed the Wolf King's rise to adulthood is mostly myth and legend, told from around the fires in the dead of night. Across the world he fought but rarely did he conquer. Those tribes that came did so in search of his wisdom and his might.

It is said that he battled against armies, alone and unharmed, that he could uproot a tree with only his hands. Even the wilds of nature moved to his will, whether it be mammoth or kraken or wolf. His legend grew far and wide and upon the death of Thengir, he was immediately placed upon the throne.

None upon this frozen world doubted his supremacy, none could match his might or wit... or his ability to drink and it was not long before the world bent knee. Ironic perhaps that it was this most barbaric lord who furnished his world with peace.

## The Wanderer in the Wild

Such legend rarely lies quiet for long, and soon the Imperium had heard tale of this Savage Prince of the Wilds. Realising, perhaps, that a brazen approach might rally the inhabitants in defence, or scare them against future co-operation, the Emperor descended to the world alone.

Disguised as a simple traveler, strange runes woven into the fabric of his cloak to aid in his subterfuge, he came before Winter's Woe and revealed himself truly. Russ, however, was proud and would not bend the knee to some foreign ruler and so the Emperor challenged him to a series of contests.

The Wolf King was allowed to choose the nature of this challenge and so first they sat to eat. The Emperor was a being of power, far greater than any that had ever been born by a human before, and he was confident in his prowess. As he ate he felt victory, his meal scraped from the plate. Aghast, he saw that Russ had devoured not one, but three whole Aurochs.

Defeated, the Emperor did not relent and so Russ challenged him to drink. Six barrels the Emperor finished, but as he reached for a seventh he realised there was no more. The entire feast had been drained with ease by the thirsting Wolf.

At this the Emperor knew rage, for not only had he been beaten but his son had proven himself a drunk and a glutton. Berating Russ as a fool, the Primarch calmly listened and then challenged the Emperor to one last task.

A feat of strength between the two and with this revealed, the Emperor threw off his cloak, his size unmatched, his power peerless in this hall of mortals. His gold armour shone with eldritch energy and with a single blow he smote the Primarch, rendering him unconcious with ease.

An hour later, mouth bloody and body bruised, Russ awoke. With great humour he bent the knee to the Emperor and swore fealty, happy to serve any whose strength was greater than his own.

So sworn, the Emperor took him to the stars, training him in the ways of the Imperium and the technology that they had attained. Despite his savage nature, Russ once again proved a quick study and in a matter of weeks was judged worthy to lead. Placed at the head of the 6th Legion, filled with the recruits of Fenris and their lupine allies, the Space Wolves were unleashed upon the stars.

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## An Executioner in Name

The Space Wolves and their Primarch soon proved themselves valuable members of the Great Crusade, their soldiers adored though feared. Their legend spread with speed and all knew the tales of the pagan warriors and their feral lord.

Not all would come to love the boisterous Primarch however, and Angron, the Red Angel, was first amongst them. After the infamous scouring of Gehenna, where the World Eaters had fallen into frenzy and slain all in their path, innocent or otherwise, the Emperor condemned them and their use of the Butcher's Nails.

These devices, drilled into the head of the Astartes, provoked within them a fell rage that could only be sated with murder-make. Disgusted by their actions, the Emperor sent Russ and his Legion to ensure they paid attention to his edict.

Arriving on the ruined world, Russ and his wolves faced off against Angron and his psychotic sons. Refusing to recognise the Wolf Kings authority, Angron turned in rage upon his brother, who refused to be cowed in the face of such divine insanity.

Russ demanded that the implantations stop, that the massacres end here and now. The World Eaters would submit to his Legion and he would escort them back to Terra to face judgement for their crimes.

Such might have worked on lesser men, perhaps even just saner men, but threats were but tinder on the flames that burned in Angron. No one knows truly who fired the first shot, but the two Legions clashed in frenzy...
<br><br>
***Judgement Had Come To Gehenna...***

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## The Second Sin

Amidst the ruin of two Legions unleashed, Angron and Russ found each other in the battlefield. None but the Emperor had ever beaten Russ, his martial prowess renowned far and wide but Angron fought a different kind of battle.

His was not the way of the noble warrior, as Russ had been trained, nor even the psychotic rage of the beserker. His was the madness of one who wished to die and as he hurled himself at the Wolf King, each blow broke Russ further.

Barely able to fend of the Red Angel, such speed and strength matched by the implants screaming in his head, Russ bought time instead. Time for his Legion to surround Angron and as the final blow fell, Russ staggered back wounded, laughing all the while.

While they had fought, the World Eaters had lost control, scattering off in the thrill of battle and abandoning their Primarch. The Sons of Russ, however, had regrouped. Unable to match the fury of their foe, they instead chose to cut off any leadership they might have.

Refusing to realise his mistake, Angron left, and though the Wolf King could have slain the Primarch, the cost would have been his Legion, and such a price was not worth paying. Retreating from the fight, he left the World Eaters to their madness, knowing all too soon he would be called upon again.

If only he could have known how true such thoughts were, for across the galaxy the Primarchs were being found, and in distant stars and distant hearts, a betrayal reared it's ugly head. The Executioner would find ready use for his blade yet...

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## Wyrd and Wonder

It was not just Angron to whom Russ would find despair, but Magnus as well. Ever ethereal and more obsessed with the world of spirits than men, the Crimson King practiced arts long forbidden on Fenris.

On Ark Secundus, where the Space Wolves, Word Bearers and Thousand Sons fought alongside each other, Leman Russ saw the true nature of his brothers madness. Beyond the practice of mere psychic trickery, he had delved fully into the arts sorcerous.

Were it nor for Lorgar, whom Russ had always respected for his spiritual nature, the two would have fought, both ready to defend what they saw as the undeniable truth of humanity. Such would not be the last of arguments between the two, and would sow the seed for what came next.

More and more calls came for Magnus to repent his ways, led by Russ and Mortarion, and such voices eventually grew too loud to ignore. A grand conclave was called on the planet Nikaea, a place to meet, to talk, 
<br>
and to decide once and for all the answer to 
<br>
humanities obsession with the arcane.

Here would Russ meet Magnus once more, and here would the Crimson King reveal to him the great lie he 
<br>
had clung to. His powers were no different than his 
<br>
own, his sons cut from the same cloth as his. There was no difference between the Runecasters of ancient lore and the Librarians of the Vibrant Orders.

Graciousness was not a sin accused often of Russ however, and he laughed at Magnus, unwilling to consider perhaps the hypocrisy of his actions. Blinded by his own ignorance, he did not waver and faced with such support, the realms of magic were forever forbidden for man to explore.

## Murder-Make

Unknown to him, as his Legion explored the edge of the Galaxy and brought honour and glory to their name, dark hearts met in shadow and conspired of an empire's fall. The Crimson King had sent a warning to the Emperor, of betrayal and ruin, his psychic powers stretched to their limit in his attempt to reach him.

All he met was scorn and anger however, and having broken the Emperor's edict, the Master of Mankind ordered Russ once more to act. Sent to Prospero to bring Magnus to justice, as he had gone before, Horus intercepted the Wolf King, and told him instead of Magnus' betrayal.

Viperish words and twisted lies left the Warmaster's lips and by the time he had finished, Russ knew only fury at the Crimson Kings treason. Convinced the Emperor wished Magnus dead, the Winter's Woe descended upon Prospero with annihilation in his heart.

But towards this bitter rivalry, not even Russ could condone such brutality. Desperately he tried to reach his brother through an agent placed upon the ground but there was no reply. His spy had fallen to Chaos, and as Magnus distorted the Thousand Sons screams into the Warp, the Young Wolf perceived only a world awaiting its death.

Without hope of taking his brother alive, the silent defiance of his kin was evident to all. In such tragedy there are no victors... Only the laughter of Thirsting Gods.

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## In Ashes Born

Here, accompanied by the Sisters of Silence and Imperial Army, the Space Wolves engaged in brutal war with the Thousand Sons. Though few in number, the Sons of Magnus had mastered arts of fell ken, and the casualties inflicted upon the Space Wolves were unprecedented in number.

No victor would emerge from this, the Space Wolves ruined beyond repair and the Thousands Sons left only with the broken shell of their home. Despite this, neither side would relent... until Magnus finally arrived.

Descending upon the battlefield in a blaze of aetheric power, he challenged the Wolf King to battle, one life against the thousands lost. Russ, ever eager for glory, agreed and as blades were drawn, sorcery met sword once again.

Alas, Magnus had never felt the warriors call and, beaten back by Russ, his spine was broken by the Young Wolf. Dying, surrounded by the ashes of all that he had achieved and desperate to save his sons, he called upon the last of his life to escape, hurling his children through the Warp to safety and way from the wolf's maw.

Separated from Terra however, and wounded to the point of death, the Space Wolves would find themselves little more than bystanders in the events to come, banished by their ego and tormented by their pride. Such is the sin of the executioner, too eager in their duty to relent.

But a cornered animal is at its most dangerous, a fact that Horus knew well. As Russ ordered his Legion to regroup in the Alaxxes Nebula they found the Alpha Legion waiting and eager for battle. Long had Alpharius loathed Russ, for the Wolf King was not subtle in his distate for their "tricksome" ways, and the Blades of Hydra were all to eager to repay such insults with blood.

Surrounded by foes, his children dying by the hundred and abandoned by Jaghatai who wished nothing to do with their conflict, Russ retreated into his chambers. Here he realised the folly of his actions... And the ruin his pride had brought.

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## The Angel Comes

At peace now with his actions, and realising the pain his role as executioner had brought, Russ emerged once more. Ready to accept death, his ship was boarded by the Alpha Legion, and by Alpharius himself it seemed.

However, reprieve arrived in the most unexpected form. With no hope of escape and relentlessly outgunned, the Space Wolves died alone and without honour, ripped apart by the horrors of void warfare.

That is until the Dark Angels arrived, a fleet under the command of Chapter Master Althalos who had determined the loyalty of Russ from his distress call. Routing the Alpha Legion, the Wolf King thanked his saviour, and informed him of the true nature of the treachery that had taken place.

With no hope for reinforcement however, and with little left to give, the Young Wolf ordered his fleet to Earth. Such a journey was difficult and fraught with danger, the Ruinstorm held the Warp in its grip entirely and for many months they suffered the fury of the Sea of Souls.

Arriving back at Terra, where Sanguinius, Rogal Dorn and the Khan awaited him, he entered their presence a changed man. No longer the loyal hound, Russ outright questioned the Emperor's intentions and though he forgave Jaghatai for abandoning him, the rage he felt towards his brother did not lessen.

As the plan to fend of Horus proceeded, the Wolf King grew impatient with the measures taken. In secret he worked with Malcador, the Sigillite of Terra, to organise an attempt upon Horus' life in secret, rather than risk open battle with him.

Such might have seemed an unusual strategy for the boisterous warrior, a scheme of shadows and assassins was not common for his arrogant soul. With the world ending around him however, Russ had not the time for such petty concerns.
<br><br>
***And the Wolf hunts in more ways than one...***

## A Feral Truth

Alas, the brave Knights Errant, those soldiers sent to slay Horus, would not survive nor succeed in their goal. Captured and killed, they were able to provide Russ with the location of the *Vengeful Spirit*, and tell of the strange changes that had afflicted his renegade brother.

Now knowing of the fearsome powers at the Warmaster's command, and the dark forces that pushed him from within, Russ knew that any challenge issued would be suicide at best. Realising now that knowledge would be his greatest weapon to come, he returned to Fenris and embarked upon a great ritual with his Runesmiths to uncover any weakness in the Dark God's puppet.

Here, in the presence of his most powerful servants, Russ lifted free of his mortal ties and soared through Syrtyr's Door, the gateway into the Warp and the frozen hells beyond. Lost in the broken lands of madness, Russ came across a being known as the Erlking, and now, surrounded by the souls of the damned, he faced his doom.

But before such fate could fall, Russ challenged the Erlking for his life, four tests completed for the knowledge he needed. Entertained perhaps, the Erlking accepted, and Russ once more played chance with his soul.

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## The Veil Lifted

The first task set was to drain fully the souls that swam within Amarok's Bowl. No matter how much he swallowed or how long he drank, it appeared not to affect the contents in any way. Eventually he relented, and accepted failure in his attempt.

The second task was to wrestle an old crone, ancient and venerable in form. Happily he accepted and less happily was he defeated completely. Her strength seemed impossible, the force in her limbs enough to waste mountains.

With no choice but to surrender again, he moved onto the third task. To move, even an inch, the great wolf that slept at the Erlkings throne. Heaving with all his might, so hard his body broke with the effort, he succeeded not once, and the wolf lay sleeping, undisturbed.

With only the last challenge before his death, Russ faced the Erlking with grim determination. Here the revenant spirit asked him what each test had meant and the Young Wolf answered without hesitation.

The first symbolised the changing of the seasons, the second the inevitability of old age, and the third heralded the inescapable end of all things. So given, the Erlking accepted his success, and before Russ appeared a vision of himself, civilised and tired, a future form without the mark of Fenris etched within.

He spoke of ancient truths, of secrets hidden within weapons and of the very nature of the Primarchs themselves. An aged spear given to Russ as a gift by the Emperor possessed the key to his success but also the answer to the heart of his kin.

The Primarchs were not human, that had long been known, but that their essence was craft of Warp Sorcery was not. Here, Russ learned of the great lie, and inside he shattered, horrified at what he'd become.

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## The Ire of I

Having discovered what he needed, he emerged from the underworld a marked man. No longer as sure with every step, he retrieved from his possessions the Spear of Russ, knowing now why it filled him with fear and loathing.

Armed and ready, the Winter's Woe sailed off after Horus, his sons following behind eager for battle. Turning to sorcery of their own make, the Space Wolves ambushed the *Vengeful Spirit* as it was docked over Trisolian A4, boarding the vessel and unleashing hell upon those within.

Here did Horus and the Wolf do battle, fell magic crashing against blessed steel. Lightning filled the air as the two brothers fought, something deeper than hate, deeper than faith driving them on.

Back and forth the blows exchanged until Russ, seeing an opening, allowed himself to be gravely wounded. Falling to one knee he thrust the spear through Horus, but a single moment of hesitation saved the Lupercal, able to deflect the fatal strike to one that merely wounded.

Struck by this divine weapon, this potent artefact of truth, the dark magic of Horus was undone as the changes inflicted upon him were burned from his soul. Madness met hope in an eruption of clarity and what remained was the Primarch of the Luna Wolves as he truly was, returned from the abyss at last.

Such, however, would prove to be a grave mistake. Free of his chains, Horus knew of what he had done and felt pride... This work he had begun, this rebellion of his making would continue in his name and his name alone. Russ struggled to fight again, but with the Lupercal's mind clear, the Wolf-Kings defeat seemed imminent.

Saved only by his sons who charged Horus and gave their lives for their father, Russ retreated... His role in the Horus Heresy was over, and bar a few skirmishes, the wolves returned to lick their wounds.

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## The Long Night

With the Imperium barely recovering, and the Space Wolves once more returning to new strength, Guilliman saw the need to change the foundation of what had been built. No longer could one man stand in charge of whole legions and systems, for such made easy the act of rebellion.

Russ had, however, grown suspicious. His role as Executioner had brought only ruin and woe to him and his kin and such edict would not be condoned by the Space Wolves. In an effort to avoid another war between brothers, Guilliman relented, and allowed the Wolves to continue as they were, concerned that their new independence would come at great cost in the future.

This mattered not to Russ, who grew more withdrawn as the years passed by. Two centuries sailed on and then he vanished, disappearing with his bodyguard to parts unknown with a warning not to follow, and a promise of his return.

Long the Space Wolves waited, and when no sign of his return came, they sailed out into the stars to hunt. Time and again they searched and each journey brought little but mystery and disappointment. Many legends have been craft in this voyage, great victories earned against unimaginable odds.

But none have succeeded... Still, as the skies open with hellfire once more, the Primarchs return to battle, there are those within the Legion who whisper of his words, a promise of a great battle against Chaos, far in the future, known as the "Wolftime".

As the stars align in ruin, the bell tolls for the end. His sons wait with bated breath as the end shrieks nigh...
<br><br>
***And The Wolf Howls Once More...***

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### The Armour of Elavagar

A strange and tribal suit of armour, it's origins lie in the shrouded past of the Space Wolves shortly after Leman Russ took power. Capable of exuding an aura of chilling cold from its generators, this ability earned it the name *"Killing Frost"*.

### Mjalnar, The Sword of Banelight

A weapon far older than the Imperium, it's origins appear to have come from the Age of Strife. Known as *"The Fang of the Wolf King"*, it is a power sword of peerless make, capable of piercing any material with ease and possessed of a fell legend in murder.

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### Axe of Helwinter

Though less potent than his vengeful blade, this frost axe was forged with the teeth of a great kraken, and fitted with a disruptor field of such potency it could rupture the armour of a tank.

### Scornspitter

Originally a simple bolter, this weapon was reforged by the hands of Vulkan himself. Craft into an elegant pistol, it was a masterful armament of genius design.

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# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">Chapter Six</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">Rogal Dorn </font>

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##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">*The universal foundation of empire is the selflessness of the loyal, the passion of the unbreakable, and the silence of those who know the truth.* </font>

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# The Emperor's Hand
I*t was all for the dream. Every life lost, every world conquered, every rotten empire and perfidious civilization cast to the flames. A crusade across the infinite black, where only the most loyal would survive.*

The Primarchs were a brotherhood of demigods forged to represent the absolute pinnacle of humanity. In each of them was embodied the extremes of man. In Magnus the Red it was the hunger for understanding, in Vulkan, the strength to endure even death. Only Rogal Dorn, however, possessed the foundation for limitless duty and unquestioning service. No other Primarch was said to be more loyal to the Emperor, nor his plan for Mankind.

Other Primarchs, in their quiet moments and in times of crisis, would ponder with themselves and their fellows the nature of the Emperor and his plan for his people. They would question his motives, try to understand his vision and allow themselves to doubt his purpose. If Dorn ever mistrusted the Emperor's goals, he never voiced them and scorned such ideas in his presence.

The Lord of the Seventh Legion was a direct but reserved soul who saw purpose in duty. The Emperor demanded loyal sons to shape the galaxy, to carry his will across the stars and Dorn would give the Emperor the general he needed. By his hand would the Vigilant would mold the galaxy to his father's will, a duty he dedicated all his soul to completing. 
<br><br>
***But Dreams Seldom Survive the Waking...***

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## Icebound

Like many of his brothers, Dorn landed upon a hostile planet that had managed to sustain human life through the Old Night. Inwit is a world locked in ice and, like the people who cling to its bones, harsh and stubborn. Vast underground seas of ice, fearsome predators and unrelenting weather make survival a constant struggle. Though a place of great hardship, its people had endured the Age of Strife and had salvaged an advanced if limited civilization.

The people of Inwit were resourceful and had begun to form their own interstellar empire before even the Emperor had laid his eyes upon them. They expanded, reinforced and assimilated nearby worlds, while their native culture remained secure and unchanging. Much like the techno-barbarian clans of Medusa, this was a means of maintaining their identity and strength. Clans survived, warred and thrived in cities locked within glaciers, while in the stars above ancient technology was maintained and rediscovered. Into this world came Rogal Dorn.

Raised amongst the Ice Castes, Rogal learned the value of endurance from his adopted people. He found family in the Patriarch of House Dorn, coming to view him as a surrogate grandfather and though much of his experience upon Inwit remains shrouded in mystery, we know Dorn learned the value of endurance and humility. He became a leader to his people, an emperor whose name commanded respect and inspired loyalty in those who bowed. It was a role he served in proudly, until the day his father arrived.

## A Vow Unbroken

When the Emperor came upon Inwit, he was mightily pleased with the progress of his seventh son. He found a strength and spirit that was needed in his crusade across the stars, and eager to meet the architect of all that he saw, he ventured to the bridge of Dorn's colossal star fortress, *Phalanx*. Here, The Master of Mankind bade his progeny to join him in his quest to uplift humanity as Dorn and his people had for themselves.

Dorn sensed kinship and felt an overwhelming urge to serve the man he knew to be his father. Yet it was the purity of the Emperor's goal, to build a future for mankind, that truly convinced Dorn. This man who would claim dominion over the galaxy and all of humanity, for no other reason than to guarantee the prosperity of his people.

He would cast away superstition and mysticism, annihilate the xenos threats and unite all mankind. There could be no other task so monumental or of such import. Rogal Dorn swore to make his father's goal a reality for he saw no hidden motive, nor the shadow of an unworthy ruler. He saw a father in need of a son and an Emperor who was deserving of his dream.

Dorn would take his ambition across the stars. The Emperor asked for everything and where others would hesitate, Dorn would give anything in the name of duty. With this dedication, the fledgling Imperium had found a powerful champion who would always act in its interest and never betray it.
<br><br>
***But only be betrayed in kind...***

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## Fist
## Of War

Dorn's integration with his 
<br>
legion and the wider Imperium 
<br>
was as efficient as it was seamless. 
<br>
The Imperial Fists took after their father's 
<br>
loyalty and his dedication to the Imperium. 
<br>
Leaving his world and empire in stable hands, Dorn 
<br>
would take his sons and forge them into the ultimate weapon of the Crusade.

The Imperial Fists truly embodied the soul of the Great Crusade. They fought alongside the Emperor himself on many occasions and in their heart, were the conquerors demanded by the era. Dorn proved himself to be one of the finest Imperial tacticians, coordinating vast armies and leading them with a firm but measured hand. His passion was limitless but controlled, and applied with careful fervor, never escalating to fanaticism.

His legion took to his lessons and applied them. They distinguished themselves on alien continents, in the cold depths of space and in the burning carcasses of fallen citadels. But it was in the act of besieging fortresses and constructing defenses that their talent shined the most. Dorn himself became the finest military architect in the Imperium, and was known to leave every world he conquered defended and secure.

Their success was breathtaking and overshadowed many other legions, particularly the Iron Warriors. The Fists however, like their Primarch, did not bask in honours nor did they gloat upon their progress. They lived to serve whilst petty glory and prestige were a mere byproduct, not the goal.

Such modesty was well respected amongst the Primarchs, and Roboute Guilliman honoured Dorn with a colossal effigy upon his home world of Macragge. Horus Lupercal himself claimed Dorn's expertise in fortification unsurpassed, but such praise was never universal, such adoration harboured darkly in the eyes of lesser souls.

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## Unyielding

Dorn was not the most social or open minded of the Emperor's sons. His focus upon the Great Crusade and his idealism towards achieving his father's vision blinded him to the opinions of others, and inspired resentment in some. His demeanor was that of a rock, inscrutable, hard to read and easy to grate upon. He was rare to laugh or smile and always focused upon the demands of the Imperium and the Emperor's vision.

His expectations were high and his view rarely strayed from the path the Emperor required. He expected much of himself and his brothers. They were the sons of the Master of Mankind and their standard was paramount. This attitude earned him no small share of resentment.

With Alpharius, he mistrusted his brother's focus upon deception and asymmetrical warfare. He saw the Alpha legion's espionage as dishonourable and impractical for conquest. The 20th Primarch likewise scorned his brother's bluntness and preference for more costly military actions.

With the Night Haunter, Konrad Curze, Dorn was disappointed by his brothers' preference to use slaughter and terror to achieve compliance. Strength was important but bloodlust was a liability. Konrad cared not, accusing him of delusion, and of ignoring the evil demanded in the Emperor's name.

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## A Shadow of Truth

When Dorn learned of Curze's psychic vision however, where the Imperium and the Primarchs were torn asunder, his concern escalated.

Dorn demanded Curze recount his visions and explain his increasingly barbarous behavior. A confrontation ensued that destroyed their relationship forever for Curze attacked Dorn in a fit of madness, leaving him horribly wounded before fleeing in shame. It was an attack Dorn would come to regret long after.

Through it all however, the greatest detractor of Dorn was the Lord of the Fourth Legion, Perturabo. Like Dorn, Perturabo was a commander who was loyal to the vision of the future. Unlike Dorn, the price of sacrifice could not be paid with the honour of further duty.

Perturabo craved attention, the laurels that Dorn received chaffed at him. Where Dorn fought for the Imperium, Perturabo fought expecting his sacrifice to be rewarded with favor. When that didn't come a well of bitterness began to eat away his soul. Dorn could not understand Perturabo's angst, believing that service alone was reward enough.

He distanced himself from his mercurial other, unwilling to play to what he saw as his brother's wounded ego. Had he chosen otherwise an unbreakable new bond may have been forged between both legions in the fires of reconciliation. Instead a tainted rivalry would form that would fester for millennia onward.

## Praetorian of Sol

As the Great Crusade pushed further onward, Dorn's success reached heights second only to his brother Horus. With the Triumph at Ullanor and the ascension of Horus to Warmaster, the Emperor took leave of His crusade and bade the Imperial Fist return with him.

He had nominated Dorn as his Praetorian and while the other Primarchs would go forth and conquer the rest of the galaxy, Dorn and the Emperor would return to Terra. There Dorn would complete what would be his finest work, the construction of a capital worthy of the Imperium. A breathtaking palace atop a civilization that would shine into the darkness and put every empire that had come before it to shame.

Though Perturabo silently boiled with rage, Horus himself congratulated Dorn, believing him truly worthy of Terra's revival. Horus himself had even claimed that if his legion were to face a defense designed by Dorn the battle would last for eternity. Surely there was no other worthier architect to build the Imperial Palace.

Likewise, Dorn unconditionally supported Horus as Warmaster and believed that as the Emperor's chosen, it was only natural that Horus be the perfect choice. In Dorn's mind, the Master of Mankind could only have chosen the most adequate leaders. The bond between brothers was seldom more apparent and from the Seventh Primarch, it was a such an occasion that he offered a rare congratulations to a brother. 
<br><br>
***It would be the last time they spoke as friends.***

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## The Stone Splinters

Dorn would learn of Horus' treachery by accident, too late for the loyalists massacred at Isstvan III. A Death Guard captain named Garro had narrowly escaped and had encountered by chance Dorn's vessel *Phalanx*, adrift in a warp storm near Terra. The captain relayed news of the treachery to Dorn and what followed was abject horror.

Dorn was so in disbelief of the news that he nearly killed Garro on sight and it was only the last second intervention of a remembrancer that stopped him. Faced with the unthinkable and proof of his brother's betrayal, Dorn retired immediately to his chambers aboard *Phalanx* and ordered his First Captain, Sigismund, to rally the entire Imperial Fist legion before returning to Terra.

Alone and inconsolable, Dorn smashed apart his quarters in a disbelieving rage. Horus had betrayed the Emperor and he had not fallen alone. Horus, who had been chosen by the Emperor to lead his armies and finish what he had begun, a traitor.

It was impossible and yet... Now four traitor Primarchs stood against the Imperium and the dynamics of the galaxy had changed immediately. The Emperor had to be warned, his dream must be safeguarded. Brothers he had loved were now enemies and the blood of friends would now be spilled upon ground taken by shared sacrifice.

After a night of fury, Dorn exited his chamber and prepared for what would come next. Though none dared acknowledge it, all could see the news had fundamentally injured the Primarch's soul. He had faced countless battles in his time and led men into the fire again and again. It was that day, however, that formed an invisible injury that even his godlike physique could not heal. It was a wound made by betrayal and utter sorrow. It would be but the first of many.

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## A Nightmare Emerges

With the Emperor warned and a vast retaliation fleet assembled to bring Horus to his knees, Dorn withdrew to Terra to begin the fortification of Sol. Though confident in the Emperor, Dorn rightly was wary of the prospect of a long war. It was a concern that was regrettably vindicated when news of the Dropsite massacre reached his ears and warnings of ruin began to pour into Terra. Every source of news was a hammer blow to Dorn's spirit as he began to grasp the true scope of what Horus had begun.

Dorn took command of the Solar System while the Emperor fought hidden beneath the Imperial Palace. Even alone as he was, his loyal brothers scattered across the war wracked cosmos, Dorn dared not falter. Even if he stood alone, the Praetorian had no thought besides fighting to the bitterest end.

The heart of Imperium was in loyal hands and the Emperor's dream still lived. That alone was reason enough to fight on, even if the peace won by the Great Crusade had vanished and been replaced with a new war that every passing day seemed more and more hopeless.

Thus, Dorn set to constructing his new masterpiece. The fortification of humanity's cradle. Every planet, installation, resource and vessel had to be crafted to his plan of an impenetrable defense. A defense upon which even the vaunted Warmaster of the Traitors would smash himself upon. The price would be monumental however, a sacrifice of hope mirrored by his dreams turned to ash.

The beauties of Sol, won long before the Emperor had found his sons, were paved over. The Praetorian had returned to build a capital of grandeur to suit the newborn Imperium but instead, magnificent arches and the trappings of a society meant for better days were cast aside for war.

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## The Greater Good

Replaced with ugly fortifications, weapon batteries and garrisons of conscripted soldiers. From the burning plains of Mercury to the jagged edge of the Heliopause, no inch was left unscoured by Dorn's superhuman vision.

He coldly accepted the necessary oppression. The crackdown upon the common man who lived now in a society of suspicion and fear. Gone was the hope the Great Crusade had brought. Now it was replaced with anxiety, iron rule of law and repression.

Dorn ordered these necessary evils without hesitation. Once more though, it was an invisible stain on his soul. Another wound as he began to see the Emperor's dream of a prosperous humanity strangled by the demands of this new war. In its place was a world he increasingly did not understand.

## The Hydra's Wrath

The first traitor Primarch to sink his fangs into Terra was Alpharius. As Horus' legions continued their march on Terra, security was raised to the maximum. Only the conniving intelligence of the Alpha Legion would have a chance at breaching its stalwart defenses in the subtler manner. Subterfuge was their way, for that was how their Primarch had taught them. They would be as lightning, jagged and sudden, that would strike before the true storm broke.

It was years after the Dropsite Massacre that the Hydra showed his hand. The blow came from a thousand hidden daggers and agents. These resources had been years, if not decades in planning and mo soul save the Emperor can attest to the full cunning and planning of Alpharius. Riots, sabotage, terrorist attacks and espionage of the highest order across the solar system. It was a harrowing display of directed anarchy that caught the Imperials off guard. It seemed that alone, the Alpha Legion would overwhelm Sol in a tide of chaos before Horus had even arrived.

Alpharius though, had underestimated the resolve of his opponent.

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## A Serpent Severed

The Seventh struck back with vengeance. Riots were crushed. Agents were identified and hunted down. The bulwark of Dorn's defenses endured and counterattacked as was their way. The agents of the Hydra fell back as their gambits were turned back upon them.

Dorn would personally track down Alpharius in the burning shadow of Pluto and its moons. There, an Alpha Legion fleet was driven back by the Phalanx and the armada Dorn had mustered in Terra's defense. Though many of his finest Legionaries fell in battle, Dorn was able to confront Alpharius in a breathtaking duel, for only a Primarch can slay another Primarch.

As they fought, the Hydra taunted Dorn, claiming the war had already been decided and that the Loyalists were deluded. Alpharius twisted and slashed with his Pale Spear, confident he would land a killing strike on Dorn but the blow he meant to end Dorn's life with fell short, and the Imperial Fist was merely wounded.

In that split moment where Alpharius was caught off guard, Dorn unleashed his wrath. He tore apart Alpharius in close quarters combat, unhanding and decapitating him, before ripping his vital organs to shreds with his chainsword. Outnumbered and with their leader gone the Alpha Legion and their agents retreated to the shadows to lick their wounds.

With his brother a corpse at his feet, Dorn consolidated his forces and continued with the great work. The Alpha Legion's assault had exposed weaknesses that he would now have to rectify. The Hydra's attack had been weathered but he was only the first to arrive, the winds of ruin were still inbound and Dorn intended to meet it head on.

## Anvil of Terra

More years passed and more allies arrived to bolster the Imperial Fists. Loyalist Titan Legions and their god machines, The White Scars, Blood Angels and their respective Primarchs. The scarred but unbroken children of shattered legions and decimated army regiments that fought now only for vengeance and rage. Dorn took them all under his aegis, and added them to his shield.

Yet deep in his hearts, Dorn knew it would still not be enough. They would not hold out forever and their only hope was to await the tide of loyalists surging from the rear of Horus' fracturing advance. Only the Emperor now mattered for within him the dream lived. If Dorn's defense held long enough, the war might be ended at a stroke, the Traitors caught between the hammer of retribution and the anvil of the Praetorian. Then everything could be set right. It was only a matter of time.

Thus, when the day finally arrived and the ships of the forsaken Legions darkened the void of Sol, Dorn had but one command to the billions of defenders... Kill them all.

Every bastion, bunker, minefield, wall and trench line had been plotted to the last detail. It was only through the bluntest and most lopsided slaughter that any progress could be made against Dorn's defense. None could decry his mastery, nor his skill. Murder holes and killing fields ground the traitor's down for every centimeter they advanced.

The Siege of Terra became a mass grave for fallen heroes who had once strode across the galaxy. Even the might of Perturabo who had once touted his ability to crack any defense, was stymied by Dorn's genius.

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## Awake Once More

For all the battle's savagery and unpredictability, Dorn met the challenge as any other battle. He manned the walls alongside his sons and brothers. He gave orders under fire and when the time demanded it, engaged his fallen and mutated kin in legendary combat. He gave ground when needed and counterattacked when necessary. This was a battle he had born to fight. Defending the future of humanity from the tide of corruption he saw drowning it. It seemed that both sides would fight each other into oblivion.
<br><br>
***Then the end came as it always did. Without warning.***
<br><br>
Months since Horus had arrived, the bloodshed had continued unabated. Billions lay dead across Terra, but the defenders still held their ground. It seemed like nothing short of miracle or destiny would break the stalemate. As ever, fate was happy to comply.

Horus lowered the defenses upon his flagship, *Vengeful Spirit*. From the depths of the Imperial Palace emerged the Emperor, now free of the Golden Throne. Malcador the Sigillite had taken the burden, sacrificing his own life to allow the Emperor to strike at last. The time had come for a final confrontation. A mass teleportation assault into the heart of the traitor's nest.

Dorn did not ask his father where he had been, nor why he had decided now to attack. He cared only that now was the time to strike. Accompanying his father, Sanguinius and whatever brave souls could be spared, Dorn promised to bring the full weight of his wrath upon his brother.

Even as the teleportation faltered and scattered the loyalists across the tainted vessel, Dorn did not despair. He reaved his way through mutant and daemon alike, confident he would join with his allies and cast down Lupercal. Justice would come and the Imperium could at last escape the nightmare.

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## The Fear Remains

But the Emperor fell alone.

Sanguinius lay slaughtered, Horus had been extinguished and Dorn arrived only as his father lay dying. Two of his brothers gone and the battle as good as over. All he could do now was carry the ravaged form of the Master of Mankind to be interned upon the Golden Throne.

With his brothers in audience to the Emperor's last decrees, witness to the final mortal whispers of his voice, the Lord who had shaped the course of the galaxy and the father to whom Dorn dedicated his entire being was silenced.

Dorn was inconsolable from that day on. Even after the Loyalists had routed Horus' shattered armies and driven them from the reach of Sol, it was not the same. For the first time in his existence, Dorn felt only doubt and shame. He asked himself impossible questions he could not answer... and doubt began to fester.

A thousand cruel thoughts tormented Dorn. If he had only planned the defense better. If only he had fought harder. If only he had been quicker.
<br><br>
***If only he had been there at his father's side....***
<br><br>
Hindsight is a cruel master and Dorn looked upon every event leading to Horus' madness, finding only mistake and failure. False gods that should not exist laughed behind the veil of reality. Tainted brothers, now monsters, stalked the stars. Half the Imperium lay burning while the other half wept or slid back from the progress made. Dorn saw a galaxy he did not recognize, falling towards the very horror he had fought to prevent. It was all he could do to try and stop the bleeding.

The blow that nearly broke him was from his own ally. With the Emperor gone, Guilliman demanded decisive action and a new order based upon his Codex Astartes. Breaking apart the legions and reforming the Imperial system, Dorn was furious and his legion was outraged.

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## The Crucible Within

Having often found clarity through pain, Dorn had long used an archaic device, the Pain Glove, as a means to achieve harmony and meditation through indescribable agony. Now he sought peace again in its embrace.

After an entire week of painful meditation and contemplation. Dorn reached an epiphany. He realized the Emperor still lived even trapped upon the Golden Throne, even beyond communication, his dream was still possible and worth fighting for. The course of action though had changed. A painful lesson must be learned and if Dorn wanted himself and his Imperial Fists to go into the new era, they must cast off the shackles of the old one.

The legion would never accept the Codex Astartes. It would mean losing their unity, their father and consigning the dim memory of the Great Crusade to the void. Dorn knew this and could not force all his sons into accepting it, for though many would suffer it, many more would not. As an act of purification, he led them in one last battle to allow themselves to fight and die as a legion. Only through pain had he realized the demand of an Imperium without the Emperor. Only through pain would his sons come to that realization.

In the Great Scouring that followed Horus' defeat, the Imperial Fists had thrown themselves into devastating wars of wrath. They had suffered massive casualties already and now fought on with the hatred and contempt that betrayal had stoked. Now one last act was needed. One last showing as a legion to allow the Imperial Fists to disband and move on.
<br><br>
***They found the challenge in the perfect rival.***

## A Trial by Pain

Perturabo had not fled yet to the Eye of Terror, having longed to break the spirit of Dorn. Though he had failed at the Siege of Terra, he had plotted revenge and on the world of Sebastus IV, had constructed the masterpiece of his revenge, The Iron Cage.

A nightmare network constructed in a twisted mockery of Dorn's own work upon the Imperial palace. The Fourth Legion had dug their iron heels into the earth of a fortified monstrosity, daring Imperial forces to drive them out. It was a call to arms the Vigilant could not ignore.

Dorn lead his legion without the strategic mind he was famed for. This was not a battle the Imperial Fists intended to win, it was their send-off, A final cry of defiance to what had been. They fought with fury and paid the price, howling their oaths into eternity.

Many died on both sides and for all the glee the Iron Warriors took in the slaughter of their hated rivals, they could not match the burning devotion of Dorn and his sons. Cold cruelty met righteous wrath, their talents, strengths and weaknesses matched perfectly. Dorn bled right alongside with his Legion, no longer caring that he died, only caring that it was in the Emperor's name.

It was a perfect stalemate. Neither side could finish the fight without destroying themselves in the process. The Iron Warriors only fled when Guilliman and his newborn Chapters arrived to relieve Dorn. The Fourth took content in the slaughter inflicted, believing their enemies broken never realising how wrong they were.

\pagebreakNum

## The 
## Last Hope

What rose from the ruins of the 
<br>
Iron Cage was a re-forged Primarch 
<br>
and his sons. They had never needed saving, 
<br>
they had needed this battle. They had atoned for 
<br>
their failings and accepted the change that had come.

New chapters now rose with the same fervor and contempt which was needed for a new Imperium. Rogal Dorn swore himself to new burdens, now free of the failures and shame of the past. He had faced the insurmountable and triumphed.

Time passed and the galaxy spun onward. The great sacrifice of the Horus Heresy passed into legend, and its heroes went with it. Vulkan, the Lion, Corvus Corax, Leman Russ and Jaghatai Khan all vanished. Guilliman fell in battle with the tainted lord of the Third Legion, Fulgrim, and like his father, was trapped in stasis.

Dorn found himself more and more alone. The last servant of the Emperor who had bled alongside him, as even his sons and those of his brothers were consigned to rest.

Increasingly, he saw himself as a relic. For all his power and all his gifts, he was a ghost. His brothers were gone. His father beyond communication. He was a lord made to usher in hope and change the galaxy. The galaxy had instead, changed him. The dream seemed more and more of a fantasy. All that began to matter was surviving and staunching the bleeding. For as long as he could.

Little information is known of the final fate of Dorn. The prevailing theory is that he gave his life in one of the first Black Crusades. It was in a furious naval duel alongside his sons.

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## The Enduring Dream
Outnumbered and with his men soon to be destroyed, Dorn led a desperate counterattack against a Chaos fleet. Not to win, but to buy those under his command time to escape and for reinforcements to arrive.

This continued until, aboard a tainted vessel known as the *Sword of Sacrilege*, Dorn was overwhelmed and torn apart by a mob of heretics and renegade Astartes. He slew many, but as the Heresy had shown, even Primarchs could be felled. He died as he had lived, without fear, fury in his heart.... Alone.

In the aftermath of the battle, the Sword of Sacrilege was boarded and all that was found was a single armored fist belonging to the Primarch. No more of the body was recovered. The sons of other Primarchs might hold out hope that their sire might be alive.

To the logical and weeping sons of Dorn however, it could only mean one truth. Their father and the last echo of the Great Crusade was gone forever. Yet though the dead lie silent, their memory and teachings live on.
<br><br>
***As long as the wall stands, the dream survives.***

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### Storm's Teeth

An efficient and devastating tool of close combat, Storm's Teeth was the Primarch's wrath made manifest. Its roar was hope to the loyal and the last sound heard by countless foes.

### The Auric Armour

A glowing suit of armor that proudly displayed the heraldry of the Imperium. Dorn favored the image of and eagle with outstretched wings and the pattern manifested on various armor segments.

### The Voice of Terra

In honor of his becoming the Praetorian, the Legio Custodes presented Dorn with this master crafted Bolter. Following the same lethal design as the Custodian's war gear and customized for use by a Primarch, every bark of its muzzle sounded the end of a life.

\pagebreakNum

# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">Chapter Seven</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">Konrad Curze </font>

<div style='margin-top:800px;'></div>
  
##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">*A wolf amongst men he was called, he walks now without his pack, haunted by the dreams of those he loved. The night comes, the sun fades, once more he howls alone.* </font>

</div>

\pagebreakNum

#  In Quiet Laughter

A *thousand mirrors... he stares back through all of them. A simple glint, a worried smile, each mark bites to the bone, leaves you breathless as the panic sets in. This is Asphyxia in all his haunted glory,  Lord of the Almost Perfect, Prince of the Nearly Human...*

It is said that all the Primarchs were mad, each one marked by a defining flaw so inhuman their whole life was spent in struggle against it. For the Night Haunter it was those all too brief moments of sanity that were perhaps his greatest weakness... That which ruined him in grief and self-destruction.

A being of total absolutes, Konrad Curze cared not for the greys of life nor the shades of doubt that plagued all those in power. Recognising early in his life the strength in fear, the Night Haunter embodied the incarnate evil of existence, reflecting its depravity in his hope of keeping order within the chaos.

Alas, such brutality could not be endured by even an enhanced mind. Sheltering from the nightmare of his waking hours and the madness in his dreams, he turned to the monster inside us all, and from its chains he set it free.

Torn in erratic horror between a soul of pensive regret and a mind of psychotic bloodlust, Konrad Curze would never come to terms with his own existence. Believing truly he had been formed with such cruelty in design, he gorged himself upon ruin in a masochistic revenge against his creator.

Such would be his beginning, his middle and his end, the story of the Night Haunter an act of melancholic resignation,
<br><br>
***A Tale of Violent Suicide...***

\pagebreakNum

## Child
## of Woe

Unlike many of the Fallen Primarchs, 
<br>
the origins of Curze were not only known, 
<br>
but chronicled by him in a fell tome known as 
<br>
*The Dark*. Here he spoke of his arrival on the world 
<br>
of Nostramo, torn from the gene-labs of the Emperor and banished throughout the Aether.

Descending in a storm of violent lightning and wild tempest, his capsule buried its way beneath the largest city on the planet, cracking the mantle and plummeting deeper towards the core. The engine screams merged with those of pain as the young Primarch fought his way through the searing metal, escaping the scar left in the inviolable adamantium surface above him.

The world he found himself stranded upon was a place of shadow. Orbiting a dying star, Nostramo dwelt in almost perpetual darkness, doomed to perpetual poverty and death if it were not for the rich seams of adamantium that drew greedy warlords from all over the system.

It was a land of pain, a land of desperation and crime in which hope had become a fairy tale rarely told for fear of the sorrow it would bring. Here would Konrad dwell, alone and abandoned, scavenging like a rat for food. It was here that the Night Haunter would be born...

Plagued by visions of devastation and rage, Curze was unique in his upbringing, for none came to claim the poor child, lost in a world not meant for the living. No family would dare approach the feral scavenger and the longer he hid, the more his damnation became apparent.

As he grew larger, he noticed how different he was from those around him. They were slower, weaker, and as he killed them in search of food and clothing, the screams of dying children left like him became his lullabies.

Slowly he learned the truth of where he dwelt, memories from the corpses eaten having given him a clarity into both the language and culture. He absorbed all that the darkness could teach him, as this world of sin defined him.

\columnbreak

## A Reckoning

Despite this, he did not succumb to selfish malice as 
<br>
one might expect. Perhaps the cypher of his creation retained some legacy of its goal, for though he could have become a king amongst the monsters that dwelt here, he turned instead to retribution.

His moral code forged amidst the bleakest wastes of depravity, Konrad knew justice like a mortal knew divinity, conceived and defined by the limitations of his self. The first disappearances began, at first just the occasional gang member, maybe a rapist or a murderer, but soon whole cartels began to vanish.

Every day bodies were found mutilated, tortured and desecrated, impaled upon towering spires. Sheets of flayed skin became the banners of these cities, severed heads their art as they grinned down from on high, and all the while people began to whisper of this revenant angel, this haunt of the night here to save them at last.

Gangs, noble families and criminal syndicates all feared him and sent guns in hunt of this spirit of rage. Curze knew only pleasure however, for these sacrifices were worthy of his altar and their blood ran thick down the streets of his temple. Each time a survivor returned, hands and eyes removed, but still a tongue to tell tale of what was coming...
<br><br>
***Vengeance***

\pagebreakNum

## A Dread Right

Soon the nobles began to vanish, the secret rulers of this world found crucified and tortured. Corrupt officials were strung up beneath bridges, their nooses craft from insides torn free from their bodies.

Within a year, crime upon the world had stopped entirely, a self-imposed curfew had been enforced and Konrad Curze stared upon a world cowed through fear alone. The first ruler of Nostramo had arrived, their Dark King, and his rule was one of silence throughout the land.

Crowned and with a new responsibility, the Feral Son turned his attention to learning all that he could. A brilliant, if unpredictable mind, he ruled with fairness and temperance, implementing radical changes during his strokes of genius.

When injustice occurred however, when darkness returned, gone was the benevolent monarch, replaced instead with a beast of terror and woe. This schizophrenic blend of kindness and uncompromising ruthlessness led to a new period of efficiency for the world, and soon Nostramo grew wealthy and pleasant, light banishing the gloom of its iron shell.

Decades passed and less and less did Curze need venture out, his cities banished of sin and cruelty. Anarchy and resistence had been crushed entirely and none dared speak an errant word, for fear of the shadow that would come.

But all empires fall eventually, and upon Nostramo such was known and expected. An ancient prophecy spoke of a golden warrior, a fleet from the heavens and the coming of war. It spoke of change and devastation, horror and fear, and as the skies lit up with the Emperor's arrival, the bell tolled for the end.

\columnbreak

## A Light in the Darkness

Descending upon the shrouded world, the Emperor and his Legions arrived in force. Radiant in glory, wreathed in soul-fire that cast the shadows from his presence, those who stared upon his form were blinded forevermore.

Marching through the city they arrived at the palace, Konrad awaiting them with caution. As one the delegation stopped and four giants stepped forth to greet the Lord of this benighted world. The first introduced himself as Rogal Dorn, a white haired king of grace and humility, who greeted Curze as an equal.
<br><br>
*Konrad saw him die, dragged down by a hundred murderers, blades flashing in the shadows of their betrayal.*
<br><br>
The next was a warrior in grey, strange tattoo's covering his body and his armour adorned with golden leaf. Lorgar Aurelian he was called, and his words were a choir to the stern endurance of his brother. He was a man of sorrow, soul weeping at the tragedy these people dwelt in, the horror of their lives.
<br><br>
*His soul wreathed in fire, wings of bone and dust screaming at a sky that cared little for his display. His end would come soon, but would last for a thousand years.*
<br><br>
The last two stepped forward and they were Ferrus Manus and Fulgrim in turn, a silver armed giant and an elegant wraith, each so different, each closer than they would admit.
<br><br>
*A head severed, its eyes removed, a serpent figure always out of sight. Twins where perhaps there should be only one.*

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## Revenant Rising

Finally the Emperor came forward and greeted his errant son, naming him for who he was. Curze accepted, knowing as he did so his life was forfeit, but he refused the name he was given. Konrad Curze was from a different time, a different place... He was the Night Haunter and such would be the curse of his arrival.

Quickly mastering his duties towards the Imperium, Fulgrim was impressed with the dazzling, if erratic, intellect he possessed. Quickly realising there was little more he could teach his brother, Curze was put in charge of the 8th Legion, his sons craft of the genes within him. To these he gave the name "Night Lords" and their cry would stain the galaxy in fear.

Raised upon a brutal world, where mercy was a stranger at the best of times, the Night Haunter taught his children war unknown to the Imperium. Brutality and total annihilation, torture and malice without reason, the darkness grew quickly throughout the Legion and terror became their weapon of choice.

Soon, the mere mention of their name would bring systems to their knees, the legends never coming close to the true sickness they paraded. Here began the fall of the Night Lords, their collapse into existential rage and sadistic cruelty inevitable. They had not become monsters of necessity, but merely demons of the darkest legend, electing their evil for joy not duty.
<br><br>
***But Even Fear Itself Knows Fear Of Another...***

## Two of a Kind

Thrown into the chaos of the Great Crusade, forced to adapt and seeing no choice in his descent, Curze began to lose control of not only his Legion, but himself. At first his talents with fear were appreciated, the bloodless compliances a relief to the constantly embattled forces of the Imperium.

Soon, however, he began to order *Exterminatus* on worlds for the pettiest crimes, slaughtering billions on capricious whim and without hesitation. Censure after censure followed him but the chain had been released, nothing now could stop the Revenant Prince, for he was only what was needed by the Imperium, a product of their demand.

It was on Kharaatan that things changed, even for the twisted mind of the Night Haunter. A world in worship of the Eldar, embattled against Vulkan and the Salamanders, the Mad Prince was dispatched to help end the stalemate.

His customary tactics proved quickly effective, but Vulkan was horrified, the senseless slaughter of a whole city for a worlds compliance too dire for his soul. Still, it proved effective and the planet surrendered shortly after in fear, though the Salamander would never forgive Curze for his crimes.

Shortly after, Curze succumbed once more to his agonized visions, a future of the monster he would become. Terrified of what he saw, broken by this revelation he awoke in a panic, striking out in fear. A lone soul remained, bleeding out on the floor before the Primarch, the first innocent slain by his hand. Curze knew his punishment would be deserved.
<br><br>
***But Vindication Would Be His...***

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## The Ties that Bind

As time passed, the reputation that followed the Madling Prince grew darker and his atrocities mounted in number. His sons seemed all too willing to follow in his footsteps, and soon Konrad realised the corruption that lie in their heart.

They were not like he, fighting for the good of all, but rather they were killers and thieves, common criminals given power beyond their ken. His mind was unravelling, his visions stronger and more lucid each time they struck, and when news of his homeworld's collapse to chaos reached him, he shattered.

During the Cheraut Pacification, fighting alongside the Emperor's Children and Imperial Fists, Konrad Curze collapsed in battle, frothing at the mouth as the visions assaulted him. Fulgrim rushed to his aid as the Night Haunter raged at him, screaming of a great betrayal to come, of the destruction of his world by Imperial design... of his death by the Emperor's hand.

Troubled by his brothers ravings, and concerned of the truth they may hold, Fulgrim approached Dorn with the matter. Incensed at this apparent heresy by the Night Lord, Dorn confronted him enraged.

A battle ensued and later Dorn was found upon the ground, his body ravaged by what appeared to be the claws of a wild beast. Konrad stood above him, covered in blood, weeping and wracked with self-loathing.

Taken into custody, a council was convened regarding the matter of his obvious madness, a resolution required in the face of this recent crime. Upon finishing however, they discovered the Night Haunter gone, the corpses of numerous guards strung up and mutilated, the room adorned with their remains in mock worship and faith.

Betrayed by his brother, the Night Haunter in full control, the 8th Legion had vanished into the Warp. The Legions had splintered for the first time... but not the last.

\columnbreak

## A Mad God

Tearing through the Sea of Storms, guided by the prescient skill of the Night Haunter, they made their way back to Nostramo. Even as his brothers gave chase, they were unable to match his lunatic brilliance, and as they arrived they saw Nostramo ignited in flames.

Recognising the failure of his actions, his methods simply too merciful to those left behind, the Madling Prince ordered *Exterminatus* upon his home world. As one the Legion fired and as the mantle cracked, the core exploded, reducing the once prosperous planet to dust.

Knowing now there could be no mercy in their actions, nor excuse to hide their barbarity behind, the Night Haunter ordered his Legion to depart. Wherever they went, havoc followed, their true nature revealed as they killed now for revelry and sport rather than honour and ambition.

This is what they had been made for, figures of terror and fear. There could be no justification for the crimes he now committed but the Night Haunter knew the blame lay on one other besides him.

The Emperor demanded his Legion back to Terra, to answer for their betrayal and insanity, and the Mad Prince complied, eager to accept judgement, and level his upon his father.

But the whispers in his mind had not been jealous in their affection. As he reaved his way through the galaxy towards Terra, Konrad's brother Horus declared himself free of the Emperor's chains.

Reaching out towards the Night Haunter, Horus found an eager recruit for his rebellion, a madman willing to serve in exchange for freedom in his craft. Diverting his fleet towards Istvaan III, under the guise of loyalists here to aid the Imperium, the desperate nature of the conflict ensured no questions were asked.

Here on the fields of war, surrounded by Daemons and engines of fell make, the Night Lords stood out as the true monsters of man.

\pagebreakNum

## Unleashed at Last

Opening fire on the retreating Loyalists who pulled back towards their lines, the Night Haunter relished in the shock and despair writ across their faces. Collapsing under the weight of this fire, the Loyalists attempted to break free, pushing into the Traitor's ranks in desperation and rage.

Corax, the only brother Curze truly hated, swept into the Word Bearers, slaughtering all in his path as he hunted down the Neverborn's Champion. In furious combat both he and Lorgar fought but the Word Bearer had never been a warrior of skill or passion. His death seemed imminent at the hands of the enraged Raven, and as his claws descended the Raven Guard crowed in victory...

As another stepped in his path. The Night Haunter laughed in feral madness as he held the Raven in his grasp and Corax knew his end was certain if he could not escape. Powering his jetpack and burning his fuel, he pulled free of the Night Lord and fled, while Konrad looked down at Lorgar in contempt, disgusted at the puppet his brother had become.

Still, the battle had been won and those survivors who remained were gathered up by the Night Lords for entertainment. The Loyalists had been broken and here on the bloody field, the first blow against the Emperor had been struck.
<br><br>
***Retribution Came On Wings Of Shadow...***

## A Perpetual Problem

Though the victory had been great, the plan perfectly orchestrated, the true treasure of Istvann III lie within the Night Haunter's cells. Deep within his vessel, Vulkan languished in agony, his rent body pulled from the debris of the world below.

Delighted in his prize, the Night Haunter spent many days torturing the Primarch, inflicting upon him grave wounds both mental and physical. He forced him to watch as others died, unable to save them, he fed him food cut from the corpses of those who could not survive and taunted him with news of the Loyalists defeat.

Eventually he grew bored of this entertainment, slaying the Primarch in a fit of mercurial rage. To his surprise, the Primarch was reforged before his eyes, the wounds sealing and life once more returning to his limbs.

Time and time again Konrad cut down the Primarch, inventing even further diabolical means of execution in his attempt to end the life of the Salamander once and for all. Rabid with frustration, enraged at such satisfaction snatched from his grasp time and time again, the Night Haunter gave Vulkan a challenge, anything to alleviate the repetition.

A vast labyrinth craft by Perturabo resided in the depths of the Lunatic God's vessel, impossible in its nature and defying the very laws of physics that craft it. In its heart lay Vulkan's hammer, and his escape...

Curze expected the Salamander to lose his mind, a death not even his strange abilities could heal. To his surprise however, Vulkan found his way through, retrieved his hammer, and defeated Curze, before activating the teleporter in the haft and escaping.

The Night Haunter did not care, however, for he had had his fun, and new joys awaited his presence.

\pagebreakNum

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## A Game of Lions

While Vulkan had languished in the Night Lord's cells, Konrad had not been idle. Ordered to the Eastern Fringe, the Night Haunter began a campaign of terror and brutality without equal, all aimed at distracting the Dark Angels from reinforcing Terra.

Curze had always respected Jonson, for both had been raised in the wilds, both had seen the true brutality of life in its purest form. He left a message for the Lion to meet him on Tsagualsa, one final word before battle.

Arriving on its barren surface, the Night Haunter first tried to break Jonson, but seeing such a path would lead nowhere, instead baited him into battle. As their honour guard clashed, the Madling Prince leapt at the Lion, his spontaneous style and prescient abilities forcing Jonson back.

Konrad had always been a gifted fighter, less because of his training and more due to his erratic powers and unstable flashes of brilliance. The Lion, for all his skill, was outmatched and soon lay on the ground, his life choked out of him by the Night Lord.

Only the actions of Jonson's guard, who ran his blade through the back of the Primarch, saved the Lion. Wounded heavily and denied his prey once again, Konrad retreated and ordered his Legion once more to unleash hell upon the galaxy.

## A Reversal of Fate

For nearly three years Konrad reaved his way through the stars, leaving a trail of corpses and ruin in his wake. Battles between the Dark Angels and Night Lords broke out constantly, but nowhere were the Loyalists able to keep the Traitors from fleeing.

That is until the very end. Utilising a piece of technology unknown to the Night Haunter, the Dark Angels orchestrated a perfect ambush, their fleet appearing from nowhere before their eyes.

Konrad Curze was mortally wounded in this next fight against the Lion, caught off guard and raving as his visions turned upon him. His fleet was decimated and thousands of his sons died in fire as he was captured, and only a desperate rescue attempt by his elite guard saved him from the gallows.

Trapped within the *Invincible Reason*, the Dark Angels capital ship, but free of his cell, the Night Haunter would spend the following months prowling the depths. Hundreds died to his predations, corpses found desecrated by their dozen.

Eventually the Lion would task only himself to the hunt, unwilling to send anymore to their deaths against the Revenant Prince. Even he could not succeed however, the visions granted to the Night Haunter too effective to surpass. Eventually the Dark Angels arrived at their destination above Macragge, and Curze effected his escape.

Noticing the Lion had prepared an invasion of the world below, obviously suspicious of those he had come to meet, Konrad used the genetic similarity between Primarchs to launch the Drop Pods at the planet, sequestering himself away within one as chaos reigned below.
<br><br>
***Fear Had Come To The Avenging Son...***

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<div style='margin-top:170px'></div>

## Chaos 
## And Flames

Free and unleashed upon 
<br>
the world, the Night Haunter
<br>
erupted into a spree of killing 
<br>
and carnage that harrowed the very 
<br>
souls of those who survived. Eluding 
<br>
all attempts at capture, Curze began to 
<br>
make his way towards the heart of Ultramar, 
<br>
the seat of their power within the sector... 
<br>
The Fortress of Hera.

Here he hatched his plan, hundreds of bombs 
<br>
rigged carefully to maximise the careless destruction 
<BR>
they would bring. Ambushing both the Lion and Roboute Guilliman, the Night Haunter erupted in lunatic effort, matching both brothers at once as his laughter shrieked through the halls.

Though fighting with an infernal skill, not even Curze could defeat both without risking an end to his own life. At this moment however was his deception revealed, for the building shuddered and collapse under the weight of a thousand detonations. His trap unleashed, he escaped to leave the Lion and the Avenging Son to be buried alive.

His task complete, he turned now to the final destruction of Guilliman, the death of not only him but his legacy. Scouring all in his path, Loyalists left riven by his blades, he found the woman who had raised the Avenging Son, and with talons of arced lightning he moved to kill.

But as his dreams of death had followed him from his birth, so too had his traitor acquired a hound. Broken and bloody, scarred and beyond the reason of man, Vulkan erupted through the window and slammed into the side of the Madling Prince.

Genuinely shocked at this arrival, his prescient insanity giving no warning of the Salamander's arrival, Curze fled with Vulkan quickly in chase. Across Macragge the two fought, the city left wasted by their struggle.

The duel was interrupted however, ended by the interference of a mortal agent of the Cabal, John Grammaticus. For reasons unknown they had sent their servant to slay Vulkan, and with a shard of metal taken from the Emperor's wrath he stabbed his blade through the heart of the Salamander, ending his life for good.

The Night Haunter was in awe of such a weapon, he craved the power it possessed to end gods and Daemons alike. He turned on the newcomer and launched himself against him, lost in giggling desire and perfidious need.

Such was not the only trick these mortals possessed however, and a caged Daemon was unleashed against the Revenant Lord. A quick battle ensued in which Curze was devoured by the Warp, and once more the Night Haunter was lost within the Realms of Madness.

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## The Annihilation of I

Somehow, the Night Haunter was able to escape his raw exposure to the Warp, and came out more maddened then before. Plagued now with visions of the Sanguinius' death, his body split in twain by the Warmaster, he infiltrated the palace in search of his angelic brother.

He needed to know why the Angel Sanguine chose to be a slave, how he could collar himself to the whims of a uncaring god. Both their lives would be ended at the hands of the Emperor, their existence dictated by his ruthless nature. All that had occurred; their scattering, the Heresy, the pain they had endured, all parts of a plan too alien to ever understand.

Sanguinius would not be moved however, and even begged Curze to rejoin the Imperium, stating that no betrayal was too dark to be forgiven. Curze would not relent however, his nihilistic certainty engraved into his bones

The Night Haunter gave Sanguinius one chance to take justice, to end his life in the face of this endless tragedy. The Angel Encarmine refused to do so, and ordered the Night Lord captured, an effort Curze escaped with ease. The shadows had ever been home to the Revenant Prince.

Continuing his spread of terror across the world, though such efforts tasted hollow in the face of his irrelevant life, the Night Haunter began to build up a terrorist network of Anti-Imperial rogues. A successful terrorist attack inflicted grave injury upon this new alliance of Legions and as all stood on the verge of collapse, the Dark Angels were sent in force.

Surrounded by the Imperium's elite, tired and broken within, Curze was captured once more and brought to the capital to face trial for his crimes. Such judgement would mean nought however, in the face of his own self-hate.

\columnbreak

## Repentance and Rejection

Here, before his brothers, he was accused of betrayal, murder and a collection of crimes too horrific to relate. He admitted to them freely, almost relishing the details of his acts but of his guilt he denied the fact most vigorously.

He was made the way he was, shaped from birth and plot to embody the horror he now inflicted. His existence was pre-determined, his fate already divined and as such the crime lay upon the Emperor, not only himself.

Denying such rejections of free will, Guilliman moved to execute him. Sanguinius, however, had long possessed abilities of foretelling in kindred with the Night Haunter, and emblazoned with a furious energy he decreed that such would not be the end for Curze.

His sentence was abated, further use for him had been uncovered and fate rarely took well to interference in its way. The Lion argued that the Night Haunter's vision of execution by the Emperor's hand was proof enough that he still lived, and that until he could face such justice, he would be imprisoned aboard the Lion's vessel.

Caged once more, Curze wallowed in his spite and rage. The Lion would approach him as they travelled, hoping to glean truth from the eldritch visions of his brother, but only mocking humour and taunts of death would come.

That is until Davin, the world upon which Horus had first fallen to Chaos. Here Sanguinius boarded the vessel, plagued by his own dreams of how to overcome the Ruinstorm that separated them from Terra.

Hoping to turn Curze away from his existential certainty he took him to the planet below, accompanied by the Lion and Guilliman, and showed him the root of all this sorrow. Konrad was distraught, this future had not been revealed to him, this route had never been known...
<br><br>
***His Faith Began To Fray...***

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## Breaking Point

As Davin descended into a nightmarish waste, Daemons were unleashed in force upon its surface. Sanguinius was devoured by a vast entity of shade and bleak murder, and Curze wept to see him taken, distraught that his life had been a lie.

Faced with the Neverborn, their immortal spite relentless within the home of their etheral kind, Jonson and Guilliman begged Curze to turn his visions towards the future, to find a way to save the Angel from his demise.

But he saw nothing, for this was not to happen. Destiny had been upset and in retribution the Night Haunter was rendered blind to its acts. Though Sanguinius was later saved, and the fleet moved once more towards Terra, Curze had been left harrowed, doubt being all that remained within.

Upon their approach to the Throneworld, the Dark Angels left to intercept the Traitors coming to stop them. Agreeing that Curze's arrival was paramount, Jonson transferred him into the custody of Sanguinius.

Rather than a cell however, Sanguinius placed Curze within a stasis pod, a place where time nor will would matter. Just as the Angel would face his fate on Terra, so too would Curze meet his death by an assassins hand.

Though it may take a millenia, his end was assured as he was vented into space, set adrift through the vast nothing of the void. The rage of the Night Haunter was stilled, peace brought to him for the first time since he was born.

## The Crow Calls

Long past the end of the Heresy, after the death of Horus and the falling of the Angel, did Curze drift through the umbral tides. Eventually he was discovered by a vessel named the *Sheldroon* and aboard the ship his capsule was broken by a curious Imperial Assassin.

Everybody aboard the vessel was slain, its halls painted red with ruin. A single message highlighting the location of the Primarch was sent, but soon only ghosts wandered the ship. As it did not posssess a Warp Drive, the journey Curze underwent would take many years, and during this time he inducted the lone surviver Elver in his ways.

Arriving eventually at Tsagualsa, Curze once more rejoined his children for the last time. Their tactics had changed since he had been gone, moved towards a path of self-destruction mirrored by their father.

In his last days, Curze would approach a statue formed of flesh, naming it the Emperor and engaging it in coversation. Knowing soon that his life would end, he blamed his father for the darkness he had become.

To his surprise the statue spoke back as the Emperor, who admitted that his madness was no fault of his. The Night Haunter had become the tool he had intended, but his denial of blame was false.

Free will could not be denied, and he had chosen to side with Horus, had chosen to abandon his blood. Enraged, the Night Haunter destroyed the statue and wrote of his thoughts before the end.

Afterwards he waited, an assassin sent against him found no obstacle in her path. M'Shen she was called, and by her blade did the Night Haunter fall, proven right as the darkness claimed him for the last time...
<br><br>
***Vindication Was Worth Any Price...***

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### The Nightmare Mantle

A tailored suit of Artificer Armour, it was bedecked with the skulls and remnants of his enemies. A grisly display, only the worthy earned a place upon his suit.

### Mercy & Forgiveness

A pair of custom-forged Lightning Claws, none know from whence they came. Arcing with uncontrolled energy, few could stand before these scything talons.

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### The Widowmakers

An unusual collection of mono-edged throwing knives, their touch brought unending agony. These blades allowed Curze to capture those for whom "entertainment" later was his goal.

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# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="Black">Chapter Eight</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="Black">Sanguinius</font>

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##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">*A crimson tear beneath each eye, on wings of blood he flies. Rage follows this angel, and the End follows in kind.* </font>

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# This Divine Regret
T*he silence in the aftermath, the fire sleek in form. That which destroys is often fair, the ruins more beautiful than the truth. Is it any surprise then, that our Crimson Rose bears venom in its thorns.*

To be graced with such beauty, possessed of a form angelic, many would think him blessed. In the eyes of a faithless realm however, such could be seen as something else, and Sanguinius spent his life in doubt forever questioning the origin of his difference, uncertain of the purity that expressed itself so violently.

Fear was the Angel's curse, deep and dark. Gnawing below his gilded facade, this seeming elegance and grace was but a veil over his turmoil, a grand lie of tempest pretending to be calm. He would forever seek to prove himself the symbol that others saw, always held back by the rage borne only for him.

This made him a good man, perhaps dangerously so, for in his desperation to always be better, to rise above a flaw only he could see, the cracks in his armour began to show. Despair without direction, anger without control, such is the fuel for a shadowed flame, one that would devour himself before the end.

Plagued by visions of the future, like so many of his kin, his dreams wept constantly of blood. Dark hunger and darker rage filled his nights with dread, and the painted tears the angel wore hid sorrow etched below.

So begins the journey of his bleeding soul, the rage turned inwards for fear of it unleashed. He was an Angel raised on wings of reason,
<br><br>
***A Demon Craft In Self-Destruction...***

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## A Descent of Angels

Created from the science of Old Night, imbued with the tempestuous powers of the Warp, Sanguinius was taken away in the great calamity that saw the Emperor's Sons scattered throughout the galaxy.

None of the Primarchs survived their journey through the Sea of Storms unchanged, none escaped the ravages of Chaos in their wake. Arriving on the moon, Baal Secundus, wings of pearl and gentle feather emerging from his back, Sanguinius was almost slain there and then. Grace in form, such was the sign of a soul unstable in its nature.

Here he was found by the wandering natives of this blasted world, known as the Folk of the True Blood. Torn between his obvious corruption and his divine physicality, the Blood elected to keep the child, compassion clashing against fear of this harrowed child.

Like his kin, Sanguinius proved a gifted student, quickly learning all that his new family could teach him. He grew at a dramatic rate and soon the child was replaced with a man, a seraph of ancient times whose wings took him across the skies. The shadow cast below was but a portent of things to come...

Under his wisdom and gentle nature, the tribes that began to follow him prospered, protected by his watchful eyes. This would soon change however, for if there is light there must be dark. For there to be an angel, there must be daemons. War cared not for divinity, and in his reflection would death come.

Mutants from the barren wastelands, corrupted by the radiation that bathed the planet, began to appear in number. Attacking Sanguinius and his people, the Angel fell into a psychotic rage at those who'd dare draw blades against his followers. The Devil bore a fairer face once more.

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## A Righteous Retribution

Over a hundred mutants died in a single battle against him, a whirling dervish of fury and bloodlust. It is said that the higher one climbs, the further one falls and from the grace of God came murder in its living form.

Besieged now by this existential threat, Sanguinius found himself caught in a war for his very survival, in battle against those whose sins struck close to the bone. Over the next few years he would push the mutants back, rallying the tribes of pure-blooded humans against these corrupt fiends in the ashen wastes.

Eventually his mission succeeded, the world once more cleansed of the taint of change. Only one survivor of that ruinous curse survived, and he was crowned ruler of all that he surveyed, a messiah of hope and god to those that remained.

Such would not remain the case however, for the galaxy was slowly losing faith and there was no longer room for angels of grace and divine will. It is said that Sanguinius foresaw the future, knew of what was to come but kept it to himself, afraid of these powers he so casually employed.

Regardless, legend of this creature, of this angelic prince of man, soon reached the ears of the Emperor and he came to witness his son in pride. Amidst the crowds that gathered to witness the Angel speak, the Emperor stood as a warrior in gold amidst the rags of those who journeyed far.

Here he saw a true warrior, a beacon of hope amidst the grey. He realised immediately that this was his son and his heart wept to see such perfection embodied by a single man.
<br><br>
***Such Ruin Kept Beyond His Light...***

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## On Wings of Rage

Approached by the Emperor as he finished his speech, Sanguinius knew immediately who stood before him. Whether by divine foresight or clinical analysis it did not matter, for he dropped to one knee and swore his fealty. Crystal tears fell to the ground and, once barren, life again grew upon this desolate world.

Raised up from the ground, Sanguinius know longer stood as an angel, no longer ruled as a god. A warrior remained now, a general of armies and a harbinger of the Emperor's wrath. Divinity died in peace as necessity brought battle to the stars...

Placed in charge of the 9th Legion, later named the Blood Angels, Sanguinius was a figure of awe throughout the Imperium. So physically changed, he stood as a testament of older times and faiths and he quickly became beloved by all in the Imperium. Not even his brothers knew a dark word for the Pristine Lord, and only his own soul saw the shadows that remained within.

## He who Watches Hell

Those placed in his control however, were not what he expected. The Blood Angels had never been an army, but a force of nature, never a precise weapon but a force of annihilation without care. They were a tempest tethered by the weakest of chains, unleashed with no other choice.

They were reavers and killers, eaters of the dead and practitioners of fell rituals and horror. Censured repeatedly for their crimes, they could not appear to be further from their father... Though the Angel knew differently in his heart.

Sanguinius was distraught at what he saw, for he knew such darkness was not chance, nor borne a fault within their souls. This tragedy was of his making, a vestige of the genetic malice that ran throughout his blood.

Over the coming years he would fight to save his sons, teaching them restraint in the face of their wrath. This curse became known as the Red Thirst, inevitable in its onslaught but controllable until the end.

The reputation of the Blood Angels would eventually be restored, memories of their nightmarish conflicts forgotten in the wake of new nobility. The secret of the Red Thirst would be hidden from the Imperium, but Sanguinius knew the truth...
<br><br>
***Even Angels Fall Eventually...***

## An Age of Blood

From the Pacification of Teghar Pentarus where he slew a titanic carnodon and fashioned a cloak from its hide, to the growing wars across the galaxy, Sanguinius earned his fame and legend alongside his sons.

The secret of his curse remained hidden however, until the fateful war of Melchior. Against the towering warriors of the Nephilim, Horus and the Angel fought side by side to free the enslaved humans of this world.

Here in the ruins of the world did Horus witness the unthinkable. Sanguinius, blade slick with blood, ending the life of one of his children, a murder so cold as to defy logic. Horus confronted his brother, whose voice broke with sorrow as he revealed the dark truth of the Blood Angels, the truth about himself...

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## A Fool
## Who Trusts

Expecting retribution, vengeance 
<br>
for this dark lie he had kept from the 
<br>
Emperor and his kin, Sanguinius waited in 
<br>
bated breath for Horus' reply. Ever the closest of the 
<br>
two brothers, Horus pledged his silence forevermore, and his aid in curing the curse that afflicted him.

Their friendship assured, Sanguinius and Horus soon parted ways to continue the Crusade alone. Time and time again would the two meet up, and each visit was one of joy for their familiarity only grew over the years.

Eventually, however, the Great Crusade must end, and at the Triumph of Ullanor was its success decreed. The wars might continue, expansion endlessly needed to fund the Imperium's lust for power, but for now humanity had secured itself a place in the stars.

In commemoration, the Emperor announced that he was stepping down, returning to Terra and appointing Horus to lead the conquests forward. The new Warmaster was raised in glory, and the Angel knew only pride in his brother.

A new direction and new leadership did not deter the Angel from excellence, nor distract him as he fled ever further from the virus in his blood. Though Sanguinius continued in his war for peace, his search for a golden age of mankind, Horus grew darker and more withdrawn.

Eventually it arose that the Nephilim had returned, the Blood Angels work left incomplete in the Signus Cluster. The Warmaster dispatched Sanguinius to cleanse the xenos and the Angel complied with pleasure.

Here they found a system of in open rebellion with reality. Physics had abandoned reason in exchange for rabid glee and the worlds screamed out in cosmic laughter. Such power had never been witnessed by the Primarch, nor the strange cage that now kept them trapped, a sea of dead thought and emotion in the Warp.
<br><br>
***Damnation Had Come For The Angel...***

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## Encarmine

It was not just nature that warped itself in rage, but 
<br>
so too did the soul scream for war. Daemons assaulted the Blood Angel fleet and countless Navigators, Astropaths and Astartes fell to their infernal touch as Sanguinius faced Chaos for the first time.

Appearing in spectral form aboard the vessel, Kyriss the Perverse, a Greater Daemon of Slaanesh claimed dominion over these worlds, and challenged the Angel to take them back from him. The gauntlet thrown, the Wrath of Heaven once more readied for battle.

Unused to such an ethereal foe, the Blood Angels nonetheless charged onwards. Landing on the world of Signus Prime, the seat of the Daemon's power, they found themselves caught up in a bloody conflict spilling from the maws of madness.

Monstrous Daemons marched alongside cultists of abyssal fervour as engines of flesh crashed against the iron might of the Legion. The world was soon drowned in death as Sanguinius led the charge into hell itself. No more a being of mercy, the Angel of Vengeance had woken at last... This crucible of blood his own.

Closer and closer to the grand fortress they fought, but the forces of Chaos were never weak in their realm. A great Daemon of Khorne emerged from its halls, and on wings of fire and blood did Sanguinius meet his future.

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## A Reflection in Red

Ka'Bandha was this great beasts name, and within the Courts of Hell his work as a killer was near peerless. He was an engine of destruction, ascended in battle and in his broken form did Sanguinius meet the fate he feared so much.

Shaken by this truth, struggling to contain the murder in his blood suppressed, the Angel unleashed himself upon the Daemon. Fighting with a vigor beyond even the gods of rage, the Daemon fell back wounded and surprised.

Such violence was unusual for the Primarch however, so long restrained he was ill-equipped to battle with such abandon. Tripped and staggered to the floor, his death appeared above him with fangs and eyes of flame.

The end of Sanguinius, however, was not the Daemon's goal. The Primarch was helpless and turning from his prize, he let out a psychic scream that shattered through reality, splintering existence as five hundred of the Angel's sons were slain.

The backlash of such wanton murder rendered the Primarch unconscious, his soul retreating in horror at the end his sons now faced.
<br><br>
***The Sins Of His Silence Awoke...***

## A Choice of End

Caught up in dreams of pain and ruin, visions of his bleeding form anointed by the Gods, Sanguinius slept as his body was recovered. Here in the chasms of his mind he was celebrated as the Lord of Wrath, a Broken Prince of bloody murder and spite.

His sons had slowly begun to lose their minds however, severed from the protection their father provided, infected by the psychic spasms of the Angel. The Red Thirst grew within them all and annihilation seemed imminent.

Fortunately the Librarians of the Blood Angels, barred after Nicaea, broke their vows and through their arts restored Sanguinius to life. Awoken to remnants of his broken children, hollow from the visions in his mind, gone was the Hope of the Imperium, gone was the Sword of Light... Now stood only Vengeance with murder in its eyes.

Forging forward once again, his sons calming in his presence, Sanguinius marched against the fortress. Once more Ka'Bandha arrived to meet him but this time the Angel had no fear of the monster in his blood. It had already won...

Dispatching of the Daemon, ending its temporal existence with burnished steel, he broke through into the fortress to face Kyriss once more. Here before the Keeper of Secrets, Sanguinius was given a choice; sacrifice himself to the Ragefire, or condemn his children to destruction from the Red Thirst.

Seeing no other choice, realising now that a cure for his children would not be found as the Heresy burned across the galaxy, Sanguinius accepted and moved to offer his life. Such folly, for deceit lay in the Daemon's words, was averted as another Blood Angel stepped into the flame instead.

Mourning the loss of his son, whose form took on that of rage itself and disappeared, Sanguinius slew Kyriss and swore vengeance eternal upon Horus. Time was not on his side however, and with speed they left, unable to tend to their wounds. Terra called for aid...

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## A New Treason

Marshalling their forces, escaping the clutches of Signus Prime, Sanguinius led his forces into the Warp towards Terra. A vast warpstorm had erupted since their campaign however, a brutal tempest of souls named the Ruinstorm that barred their path and took lives without care nor want.

Within the blinding fury however, the Navigators were able to see a beacon with the nightmare and pointed the fleet in its direction. Expecting to emerge above Terra, assuming they had followed the Astronomicon, the Blood Angels were surprised to find themselves above Sotha, a distant world long forgotten.

Here they were greeted by Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines and the Avenging Son of the Emperor. He told them of how they arrived, of the nightmares the Heresy unleashed and the traitors who had abandoned their oath. He told them all of this and more, and when he was done he bid them welcome to the last bastion of the Imperium... The Five Hundred Worlds.

Sanguinius adapted quickly and was impressed by the work Guilliman had done following the terrible outbreak of Chaos. A new Imperium had been built, to hold safe the Emperor's dream while the galaxy lay split in two.

Roboute knew that while he was liked, respected by all and held in great esteem, none were more adored than the Angel. He was a symbol of something greater, a being of more than just flesh and blood.

Here was Sanguinius appointed the new Emperor of the Imperium Secundus, the *Imperator Regins* to the surviving fragments of those loyal to the dream. His reign would not be peaceful though, for he had been crowned in war and darkness loomed fast on the horizon.

Others soon joined them, remnants of shattered Legions, refugees from traitorous lords and finally the Dark Angels, led by Lion El'Jonson himself. One by one, the trickle turned into a flood and soon the Loyalists had marshalled a terrible force. Led by Jonson, guided by Guilliman and ruled by Sanguinius, the Imperium stood ready once more.

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## The Prince Insane

Alas, order invites chaos like beauty invites flame, and the Lion had not come alone. Konrad Curze had stowed away aboard his ship and escape onto Macragge where the Primarchs held counsel.

As the Night Haunter inflicted horror upon the world, Sanguinius was seized with visions of his death. Slain at the hands of his closest kin and sworn enemy, his faith in success faded in light of this future he had to deny.

Distracted as he was, it was with surprise when Curze arrived in his rooms, laden with his own doubts and feral nightmares. The two argued, Konrad incapable of understanding the Angel's faith in the Emperor in light of their shared vision of his death.

Refusing to betray the Emperor, Sanguinius faced Curze openly and begged him to return to the fold, that no treason couldn't be repaired if he turned once more to the Emperor. Such words would not reach the Revenant Prince and laughing he escaped, declaring that only Chaos remains in the end.

Still, the damage caused by the Night Haunter paled in comparison  to the arguments between Guilliman and Jonson. Polar opposites of one another, neither could agree on policy or tactics when it came to ensuring the security of the fledgling empire.

Though Sanguinius tried to mediate, his mind and soul were not what they once were, frayed by the constant visions, darkened by the secrets he still kept. The doubt that had been with him since his birth had only been magnified and the once proud angel flew no further, chained by his own regret.

## In Desperate Times

Eventually, Curze was caught by Jonson and brought back to the capital to face trial. During the proceedings, the Night Haunter taunted the Lion into violence and laughed as Jonson was restrained. Sanguinius could no longer keep the paranoid and deceptive Primarch around and exiled the Dark Angel on pain of death

The trial once more continued, long into the evening but before the Angel could pass the sentence, the Lion returned in panic. Breaking past the guards, he begged Sanguinius to hold his blade, knowing for certain that the survival of Curze might be the only hope they had left.

The Lion brought up Curze's dreams of his death, his assassination at the hands of the Emperor. The visions he possessed, though wild and fell, were nearly always correct and, as such, the Emperor must be alive. To deny fate her chance at the Night Haunter might risk what future they fought for.

Faced with the passionate plea of the Lion, and knowing now that his own dreams of death would come true, Sanguinius relented. He allowed the Lion to imprison Konrad aboard his ship and, with his two brothers, made plans to escape the Ruinstorm and journey to Terra.

Surprised by the Angels sudden desire to act, Guilliman and the Lion did not question this impetus. The reason was bleak however, for Sanguinius was falling to the Red Thirst. He felt it himself, his dreams more erratic as he barely restrained himself from violence against his own sons. The end beckoned towards Sanguinius...
<br><br>
***His Blood Called For More.***

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## The Abyss Comes

What would follow would be a journey unlike any other. Prepared and knowing that every minute counted, the Loyalist fleet launched into the heart of the storm. Here they travelled through the demented realms of Chaos, the screams of Daemons raging alongside the crash of umbral tides.

The journey would not be short however, nor lacking in obstacles. The first of which would become known as the Harrowing of Pyrrhan and began as a massive wall within the Warp. Forced to drop out into real-space, the reality of this obstruction was a sight of daemonic majesty.

A vast fortress of Chaos, larger even than some solar systems, this engine of war defied any law of reason or physics that ought apply. Impervious to their naval weapons, a brutal battle throughout its vast halls followed, claiming the lives of many in a desperate bid for survival.

It was within these halls however, surrounded by madness and the death of his kin, that Sanguinius found hope. A single vision given as he shed madness in the Emperor's name, revealing the single chance, the one possibility he could slay Horus.

The fortress defeated and with purpose renewed, Sanguinius knew now where his chance lay. Leading the forces back to where this all began, to the heart of the storm, the Angel turned his gaze towards Davin... The grave that should have been.

Possessed with a desperate fervour, Sanguinius wore less the mantle of angel and more zealous crusader. Convinced his talents would be useful, the Angel broke Curze out of his prison, intent on using his visions to guide them onwards.

The Lion was enraged but, faced with such passion from Sanguinius, relented and allowed the Night Haunter to accompany them. Descending to Davin, the Primarchs stood now amongst the ashes of loyalty, the birth of heresy. Calm held this garden of shadow...

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## Fool Me Twice

Stalking through this now empty world, tension ran rampant throughout the Legions. Onwards Sanguinius led them, towards the temple where once Horus had lay dying, eager now to uncover what he needed to survive.

No soul barred their way, no obstacle slowed their passage and soon the Angel had arrived within the hall, an altar the only object left within its confines. Hands upon its stone surface, Sanguinius announced his rejection of fate, his denial of the prophecy he had seen. He spat in the eyes of destiny, and the future returned in wrath.

A vast portal swallowed the Angel as Davin erupted into madness. Taken far from its surface, or perhaps nowhere at all, Sanguinius found himself before the Emperor's Palace, a beautiful garden all around him.

Before him Lorgar lay executed, the Emperor congratulating him from on high. At first he thought he was witnessing a vision of his future, the first one in decades that spoke not of his own demise.

Further into this delusion he descended until he began to suspect, began to doubt. The Emperor's actions were hollow, the images dampened with illusion, and with a roar he turned his blade upon his father as the lie around him shattered.

A Lord of the Undivided stood before him, Madail was his name, and Sanguinius erupted into violence. Disgusted that such a fiend would take his father's form, his beserk violence scattered the Daemon who summoned an army to hold him back.

As the Angel Caedis reaved his way towards him, Madail told him of the imperfections in Horus, how he should abandon the Imperium and take truly the mantle of Chosen. The Gods would love him more than any other, and with them Sanguinius would be free.

Such words would not fool the Primarch again, and with the aid of the Sanguinor, who arrived through the portal with reinforcements, he banished the Daemon to the abyss.

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## Unto The Final Night

Davin cleansed, Sanguinius and the Legions fled as the world began to collapse. Escaping into orbit, the world imploded, devouring with it the Warp and reality as well. In its place was a breach, a single hole in the lunatic wall of the Ruinstorm.

Without hesitation, the Angel and his forces dove for the gap, screaming through the passage towards Terra. Such, it seemed, had been predicted by Horus and as they grew closer, a large fleet of traitors moved to intercept.

Knowing the Angel's destiny, his life and death tied inexorably with the Emperor's success, Guilliman and the Lion separated from his force and assaulted the emerging traitor forces. Free of danger, the Blood Angels screamed towards Terra on wings of fire.

He did not go alone however, for the Night Haunter remained on his ship. Knowing that if his fate was important to the Emperor's success, so too was Konrad's, and with this realisation he imprisoned the Night Lord within a stasis capsule and fired him into the void of space.

It might take centuries, maybe even millennia, but Konrad would meet his destiny, would face his fate at the hands of the Emperor. Judgement, like vindication, was inevitable in the end.

With his burdens cleared and his purpose absolute, Sanguinius arrived upon Terra to great celebration. The loyalist forces knew joy as his angelic form strode across the earth, and throughout the land, hope once more returned in force.

Here he met with his brothers, Rogal Dorn, Leman Russ, Jaghatai Khan, as well as Malcador the Sigillite, and began to plan the Imperial effort against the traitors.
<br><br>
***Ruin Wore An Angel's Face Tonight***

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## A Light Within the Dark

With Russ leaving to fight Horus, despite the Angels protestations, the rest of the Primarchs began to plan both the defence and the battles that could help tilt the final fight.

All over the galaxy the loyalists would spread out, uniting those forces thought lost while dealing what damage they could before retreating. These hit-and-run tactics ended however, at the Battle of Beta-Garmon.

A final gambit planned by Dorn, it was one of the largest conflicts in Imperial history. Over a thousand titans died amidst the ruins as Sanguinius and the Khan fought desperately through a world that had been caught in conflict since the beginning of the Heresy.

Despite Dorn's skill however, he had been outplayed by Horus. The entire fight had been a ploy to lure vital loyalist forces to the planet, and with their movements contained by the defensive fortifications, Horus dropped a vast starbase, *The Anvil* upon their heads.

Their forces decimated, and Horus succeeding in destroying the Astropathic Choir at a nearby planet, the Angel and the Khan retreated, knowing now that the truth would be decided on Terra.

What followed was the most terrible battle in history, as brother fought brother, with zealotry and faith, the Throneworld burned in wytch-fyre. Sanguinius fought at the very front, using his divine form to inspire those troops who held off against the forces of madness.

Wave after wave, assault after assault, the Chaos Legions pushed them back but their spirit held strong in the Angel's light. Seemingly uncaring of his lfie, Sanguinius earned his legend, mocking Angron as he fought side by side with the common man. He did not care anymore, truth was soon to arrive...

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## The Angel Falls

Pushed back to the Eternity Gate, the very fortress before the Emperor's throne, Sanguinius held the line where no other could. Champion of Chaos, Daemons of wrath, even the great Ka'Bandha would be shattered before his might. No step was given any further, as his blade wept blood amidst the lightning in his eyes.

When the Emperor announced his plan to take the fight to Horus however, Sanguinius knew that fate had come. Teleporting aboard the *Vengeful Spirit*, the Angel found himself separated. Here in the den of madness, the shifting walls of the vessel retreating from his radiance, he found Horus.

The two fought, but even now Sanguinius tried to save his brother from the tragedy he had become. It was to no avail, and here in the heart of the Warmaster's power, Sanguinius knew his end had come.

A single crack in Horus' armour was all that he could achieve, tired from fighting and no match for the combined power of Chaos. Rent and ruined, the Angel flew no more.

Legend has it, however, that his single blow, that one weakness left in the armour allowed the Emperor to strike down Horus and save the Imperium from darkness. Such would be the Angel's way, to aid another to greater heights...
<br><br>
***To Burn So That Others Might Live...***

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### Blade Encarmine

A beautiful power-sword, it is said to respond only to those of the Angels lineage. Passed down now to the Chapter Master of the Blood Angels, it remains a relic without comparison.

### Spear of Telesto

An ornate spear of devastating power, it possesses a jealous nature. Those who wield it without the blessing of Sanguinius quickly find themselves destroyed.

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### Moonsilver Blade

A gift from Rogal Dorn, the edge of this weapon proved effective against the denizens of the Immaterium. Legend has it that it is formed of the same miraculous alloy as the *Phalanx*.

### Regalia Resplendent

A cleverly designed suit of power armour, it offered protection unmatched while still allowing the Primarch to soar through the air.

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# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">Chapter Nine</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">Ferrus Manus</font>

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##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">*In flesh there is weakness, in blood there is fear. Our father failed and so we rise, piece by piece we climb above him.* </font>

</div>

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# The Metal Age
A*lways a machine, in love with the very steel that flowed around his hands, what tragedy his death has become. Ruined by love and broken by the anger in his veins, no more human a death could be his.*

All Primarchs were designed as weapons, forged with war in mind. Few proved to be more focused on this role than Ferrus. A warrior more than a soldier, a fighter more than a king, the Gorgon was an engine of war, destined for the battlefield and little else.

Respecting strength above all things, survival proved ones worth in his eyes. Existence was not a right, but a privilege fought and earned against the terrible darkness of the galaxy. Only in such crucible could one improve, only against the threat of destruction could perfection be found.

This would never leave him, no other thought nor philosophy would intrude upon this darwinian belief. Instead it would be refined, honed down to a razers edge and adapted by all those who followed in his steps.

Hatred, for that is what it was, would define both he and his sons. A hatred of weakness, a hatred of the enemy, as more time passed all would fall within the enmity of the Gorgon until little else remained.

Such would be his downfall, such would be the graven blade that took his head. This disdain in all directions had but only one last place to go...
<br><br>
***A Hatred Of Himself...***

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## A Dark
## Sun Rising

Borne upon the winds of Chaos, 
<br>
taken from the labs beneath Earth, 
<br>
Ferrus Manus was one of twenty sons stolen 
<br>
from the depths and scattered throughout the galaxy. Arriving on the grey and dark world of Medusa, it would be here that the iron was forged. A broken world of bitter storm and cruel climate, it's orbit was one of calamity. In the distance, the Eye of Terror screamed onwards in rage against existence, a stain upon the soul of life.

Legend has it that he broke through the sky like a meteor, crashing into the highest mountain upon the world. Steam heralded his arrival as the very world shook from the impact that lay waste to this once towering edifice of nature.

Here in the northern wastes of the world, long forbidden and feared by the natives, the Gorgon spent his youth in constant conflict. Many legends are told of the beasts he slew in his travels, the storm giants that broke the land and the fearsome machines of ancient make.

The most famous of these legends, however, was that of Asirnoth, the great and terrible silver wyrm. It is said that in his explorations, as he searched across the wastes, he uncovered a vast chamber of bewitched technology and enchanted metal.

Within this hall an ancient beast did lurk, one not of flesh but metal and whose body healed every wound inflicted upon it. Awoken by his intrusion, they fought a terrible battle before it escaped, leaving the Gorgon to watch its trail of destruction.

Swearing to hunt it down, his pursuit brought him in contact with the varied tribes of Medusa. Some called him the Cataclysm, others the Finality but all knew to stay out of his way as his vengeance led him across the rock.

Knowing he was outmatched, Ferrus Manus spent his years seeking out greater challenges to grow stronger, to improve his already formidable might. Here did the Gorgon learn strength...

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## A Silver Soul

Finally strong enough and ready to face the beast, the Gorgon set off once more into the wilds in search of his prey. Impervious to harm as it was, the battle shook the very mountains and lay waste to the hills around.

The very earth screamed in torment as their conflict continued through day and night, terrible injuries afflicted upon each seeming to cause no pause or distraction in their work. It ended, as it must, with the Gorgon's success, grabbing the creature and drowning it in a pool of lava.

Such would not be the end of this creature though, for as it screeched its final rage, its body melted upon the hands of the Primarch. Unbreakable and enduring, these would remain with the Medusa for the rest of his life, their abilities strange and their nature unknown.

Once more emerging from the mountains, this time in victory, the tribes of Medusa bent their knee at once. Many saw him as a living god, a hero of an ancient time returned to bring them glory. Ferrus did not care, their worship irrelevant, only their respect for his strength mattered.

Any who refused him he broke without thought, shattering their people and leaving them as corpses on the bitter earth. They were too weak to survive, too pathetic to stand in his shadow and here did the Primarch learn rage...
<br><br>
***Here He Learned To Hate...***

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## In Service to Another

As the years passed, Ferrus Manus became a ruler to the people of Medusa as well as a sage without peer. Uncovering many of the hidden secrets buried beneath the planet, the natives grew advanced in their ways, though barbarians still to this day.

Eventually did the Emperor come however, and impressed by the success of his child, he offered him a place in the Great Crusade, to serve him for the benefit of mankind. Proud was Ferrus Manus however, and sure of his strength. He refused to bend knee to one who could not best him and so the Emperor gladly obliged.

This battle broke the very world upon which they stood, and the Gorgon realised that this being before him was far greater than even the dreaded wyrm from his youth. Bested at last by the golden lord, Ferrus Manus bent his knee to one worthy of his fealty, one with the strength to bring him low.

Placed in charge of the 10th Legion, whom he named the Iron Hands after himself, Ferrus took the Legion apart piece by piece. Like an artisan disassembling a weapon to repair each part, so too did the Gorgon undo what passed for hierarchy in place of his own methods.

Such would take place over the years that would come, but first would the Gorgon travel to Terra. Here he would meet those of his kin newly discovered, and learn the ways of the Imperium.

Most importantly of all, however, he would meet with Fulgrim, his most beloved brother and most hated foe. Their meeting would define the very future of the Crusade, would mark history as it happened. Here would the Iron Hand make his first mistake, one that would haunt him by the end.

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## The Gorgon Is Born

Though a fighter of terrible strength and ruthless endurance, Ferrus Manus was also a smith of near perfect skill. Beneath the mountains of Terra did he practice his work, learning and teaching the master-smiths of Mount Narodnya.

When Fulgrim arrived to forge his gear, both felt an immediate kinship with the other. Declaring his intent to craft the most perfect weapon ever made, Fulgrim provided a challenge that the Gorgon could not ignore.

Laughing in his face, he accused the Phoenix of pride without reason, and with regal grace and friendly humour, the two set about their contest. For three months they slaved away, silence broken by the ringing of hammers and hissing of metal. For three months and then no more, their work completed at last.

Fulgrim had forged a beautiful hammer, named *Forgebreaker*, and such was its strength that whole mountains could be levelled with a single blow. In contrast had Ferrus made his sword, *Fireblade*, and its edge rang with liquid flame and rage.

Both declared the other as victor, unable to believe the majesty of their craft. Without request nor agreement, the two exchanged weapons in awe, and in so doing forged a friendship harder than the iron of his hands.

It wasn't until Sanguinius arrived however, that Ferrus earned his nickname. Laden with gifts, the Angel greeted Fulgrim warmly, for both shared a love of the finer arts. The Medusa cared not for them however, as they brought no strength to the warrior, nor advantage in the play of war.

Fulgrim found such statements amusing however, for his brother had just forged a work of art himself. Declaring him a terrible Gorgon, such would become his title for the decades to come.

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## Relentless They Come

His Legion reforged and his mind tutored in the path to come, Ferrus Manus would lead his men into battle across the stars. He became known as a steadfast ally, one that knew no mercy nor brooked no insult in his way.

This nature only grew firmer as the Crusade grew on, righteous anger replaced with seething hatred for those who would not bend before them. Respect was rarely given to their foe, for only those who survived deserved it. This led to the Iron Hands committing terrible crimes against their enemy, willing to inflict total destruction in the name of overwhelming strength.

Such became the norm and soon dissent of any kind was silenced. Only the Emperor was strong enough to rule and therefore only his rule could exist. Genocide of newly conquered populations became common, intent on weeding out the dissidents, and the Iron Hands grew monolithic in their refusal to consider alternatives.

Incapable of seeing outside his blinkered vision, the events of the future would catch Ferrus out completely, his surprise but the herald of his total undoing.
<br><br>
***For Iron Does Not Bend... Only Break***

## A Brother's Rage

It was during the Diasporex Persecution that the troubles between brothers became obvious to the Gorogon. Having spent many months chasing down this nomadic fleet of humans and xenos, they had met nothing but evasion and failure.

Incapable of understanding why humanity would sink to such agreement with aliens, their refusal to surrender was met with furious anger by the Iron Hands, and time and time again they were tricked in their endless hunt.

Eventually, knowing they were outmatched, they called for reinforcements and were met by Fulgrim and the Emperor's Children. Delighted to see each other once more, they began their plan to destroy the enemy immediately.

Some time in they discovered the aliens intent. Solar collectors kept them here for their ships needed further fuel to escape the pursuit of the Astartes. Marshalling their forces, the two Legion began the destruction of these devices and, faced with no other choice, the Diasporex arrived to defend them.

A great battle between the two navies began as the stars grew dim in the face of such eclectic destruction. Seeking glory as always he did, Fulgrim took his craft towards the capital vessel of their foe, intent on boarding it alone.

Even a Primarch cannot stand against the forces of destruction wielded by the armadas of space however, and as guns trained upon the Phoenix, Ferrus Manus rushed to his aid. Positioning his vessel between the two, he took the shots meant for his kin and in doing so saved his life.

Fulgrim did not see it this way however, and as the battle was finished, the Diasporex eliminated, he was wroth in the face of Ferrus. While the Gorgon had acted only out of compassion and fear for his brother, Fulgrim saw ego and petty pride.

The courageous acts of the Iron Hand were dismissed and Fulgrim left with only venom in his tongue. The Gorgon knew not what possessed his brother, but the strain had began to show... Madness was soon to follow.

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## The Future Spurned

Slighting from the disagreement with his brother, this did not stop the Gorgon's path of destruction throughout the Galaxy. Eventually he found his way to the world of One-Five-Four Four, an Eldar Exodite world, under attack by the Salamanders and Death Guard.

Unknown to Ferrus however, this world was a trap lain by the Eldar specifically for him. As he led his troops across the land, the slow nature of the Iron Hands proved their undoing as the hit-and-run tactics of their foe took their toll.

Casualties grew intense and matters worsened further when the Gorgon was stolen from their midst, trapped within a psychic labyrinth by the witchery of their warlock foe. Here he was subjected to strange visions, crpytic messages of the future.

They spoke of war and betrayal, hate and blood. Images of a vast purple snake whose fangs tore out his throat assailed him and besieged on all sides, the Gorgon dug down deep within. Filled with rage and hate for such duplicitous trickery, Ferrus broke free of his chains and led his men against the Webway Gate from whence they came.

None survived the slaughter, the Eldar retreating in the face of their failure to warn the Gorgon. Such means to an end were pointless for the Iron Hand knew no doubt, and was unyielding in his faith and loyalty.

Their enemy destroyed and the danger they threatened gone, once more would the Iron Hand move on in his conquest. Little did he know that each step rang with the bells of death, each breath taken was his last...
<br><br>
***Such Certainty Would Be His Undoing.***

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## In Treason It Ends

It would be the coming of Fulgrim once last time that would start the events that brought the Iron Hands to their knees. Under the guise of an apology for previous words said, the Phoenix boarded the vessel of his brother with open arms and a vipers smile.

Surprised to see him, but grateful for such opportunity to mend fences, the Gorgon took him to his private vault. Here he heard Fulgrim's words, and the rank betrayal he spoke of so easily broke the spirit of Ferrus completely.

He could not understand, could not believe the glee in which his closest kin extolled the treason he embarked upon. When Fulgrim turned to him however and begged him to join the Warmaster in his journey, all reason abandoned the Iron Hand.

Loyalty, faith, hatred and strength, all these Ferrus held as absolutes and faced with such derision of his principles, he fell upon his brother in wrath. Such power wielded by the two, no battle would leave the other unscathed and though Ferrus was wounded he managed to grab the sword wielded so gracefully by his kin.

Forged by his hand, so too was it unmade in a titanic explosion, his hands annihilating what they hand once craft. The blast rendered Ferrus unconscious, and when he awoke he found his brother gone, and his sons cut down from the shadows.

To add further insult to injury, his ships were fired upon by the Phoenix. Seeing no enemy and caught off-guard, millions died in moments as the vessels were ripped apart in apocalyptic fury. Crippled, betrayed and broken, the Gorgon lost reason in its entirety.

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## In Violence They Cry

Chasing after his brother, he received word of reinforcements inbound. All the Legions had been mobilised, all retasked to Istvaan to bring the Horus back in chains to the Emperor. Unfortunately it would take time for them to arrive, and patience no longer rest within the Gorgon's heart.

The Salamanders, Raven Guard, and Iron Hands were the first to enter orbit. Faced with the insane wrath of the Gorgon, they initiated their assault against the fortified world, filling the sky with fire and smoke as their troops descended to its surface.

Fresh from the forge and eager for vengeance, the three Legions charged into the fray as the battleground erupted into an artillery hell. Bolter shells filled the air as brother slew brother in wanton madness.

Having secured a landing site however, Vulkan and Corax could only watch in shock as Ferrus charged further towards the enemy. Moving after him cautiously, they rallied as their allies began to descend behind them.

The Night Lords, Iron Warriors, Alpha Legion and Word Bearers had come, fortifying the position in preparation for their own assault. The Gorgon did not care however, strategy and tactics falling beside his hatred, and the desperate need to prove his strength in the wake of such deception.

Finally, as the traitors defence seemed to crumble, their positions overrun, Fulgrim appeared once more. The Gorgon saw him and in the midst of madness, the swirling torrent of explosives and gunshot, he charged his unfaithful kin.

## The Sundered Song

Here the two crashed together, poisonous words matched by terrible weapons as each sought to undo the other for good. Wielding *Fireblade*, reforged after he destroyed it, Ferrus laughed at the petty spite Fulgrim so obviously held to in his weakness.

In kind did Fulgrim hold the Laer Blade, its envenomed edge screaming secrets as it crashed against holy steel. Neither would surrender, neither would give and blood flowed like rivers as reason was abandoned in search of total destruction.

Eventually, however, Fulgrim cracked. His treason was dark indeed, but darker still were the actions of those who just arrived. Unknowing of what he spoke, the Gorgon turned in horror as he watched the reinforcements open fire upon his men. Raven Guard, Salamander and Iron Hand were slaughtered on two sides, as the Primarchs of the newly revealed traitor forces erupted into carnage.

Realising now his folly, how his actions had doomed his children, Ferrus turned once more to his brother. The face of the Phoenix had turned to one of sadistic delight as he watched Ferrus die inside, and each moment passed filled him with ecstasy and joy.

With no hope of escape available, the Gorgon turned once more to the fray. Tired, weakened and with his spirit broken, the fight could only go one way. A single slip, a solitary blow, and the head of the Gorgon rolled free, the life of the Primarch had been ended...
<br><br>
***His Heart Broken, But Never The Iron...***

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### The Medusan Carapace

The pinnacle of defensive design, this suit Cataphractii Pattern Terminator Armour was the personal craft of Ferrus Manus. Endlessly modified, it possessed numerous weapon systems and additional protective measures.

### Forgebreaker

The grand hammer forged by Fulgrim, in the hands of the Iron Hand it was capable of bring Titans to their knees. Possessing now a dark history, its ownership has moved through the hands of many.

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# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">Chapter Ten</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">Angron</font>

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##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">*I am nothing to them, a broken piece of shattered glass, but ash upon their dreams.*
##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> *The end comes...* 
<br>

##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> **I do not care.** </font>

</div>

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# The Red Angel

A *thousand battles, or one... He brings from hollow to life. Blood shed like tears, wept upon the page, a sorrow drawn from innocence vent upon in rage. One brief moment cascades, a burning light amidst those he truly loved... Then darkness, once more his Garden of Shadow.*

Many of the Primarchs found themselves on barren worlds of feral savages, others in the lands of tyrants and despots. Few were so shaped by their home as Angron, however, for barbarity became his defining trait, anger his only balm against the driving pain he endured.

Perhaps the greatest warrior amongst the Emperor's Sons, none could stand before his feral strength. Uncaring of his own existence, hoping secretly to die, the Red Angel fought without reason. Few could match blades with a being to whom survival was irrelevant in their madness.

Such insanity was not natural, at least not entirely so. Raised upon a world to whom the sport of blood was considered a delicacy, he was implanted with arcane devices, tools designed to heighten and enhance the anger and rage of those who bore them.

As a god's love is infinite in comparison to a mortal's, so too is their wrath. An inferno was already held deep in the heart of the Red Angel, and so stoked it devoured everything and anything in its path. Hateful and without control of even his own thoughts, Angron was a being of pure malice... And psychotic hate.

So begins our journey with the Red Angel, hope taken without return, his life ruined by all that he met. Nothing mattered for nothing could to a being of such sorrow and wrath. Nothing except peace...
<br><br>
***Except The Silence At The End Of It All.***

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## Red Rain Comes

The secrets of the Red Angels birth are quiet ones, buried deep in tomes of black lore and malefic truth. Few are made aware of it, fewer still dare speak it for even such faint memory of his passing evokes arts of bitter ken.

Arriving on the world of Nuceria, he found a planet of culture and advanced technology. Here the denizens of this world toiled in abject poverty, subjugated by their masters who lived high above the dejected masses who served them.

To keep the population sedated, the rulers of this world held great competitions of visceral bloodshed and violence. Gladiatorial games of monstrous brutality sated the endless bloodlust of the people, and kept them working without hope.

Such efforts required fuel however, the hunger of humanity ravenous in its need to consume. Slavers were often sent in search of those who seemed promising and it was by one of these that the young Red Angel was found.

Surrounded by the corpses of some strange alien, future historians would theorize they were Eldar, alerted by their psychic talents to the horrors contained within the harrowed child. Such choice was poorly made however, their actions taken but the first pillar of the Primarch's self-hatred and rage.

Brought to the Palace Praxica, the seat of power for the city-state of Desh'ea, he was sold to the noble family of House Thal'kr. A frightened child, alone and lost, he was dumped into a vast fighting pit and forced to kill for his life. Exposed to such violence, the monster of man was given form... No tears would follow in his tread.

## A Beast Given Form

Not just surviving but thriving in battle, he proved victorious as corpses covered the ground. Blood flowed in open tide around him as the screams of spectators glut on suffering filled the air.

Over time he became a legend within the arena, known as the "Unbeaten" for his success in defeating all that crossed his path. He was not just a simple killer however, for he possessed a distinct sense of honour, sparing those who had shown skill and honour in their plight.

One in particular, a man named Oenomaus, formed a deep bond with the Primarch. Almost a father for a child with nothing but death in his past, he provided Angron with a reminder of life beyond its ending.

Hundreds fell to the pair's blades, their success against even impossible odds granting them a terrible fame for slaughter and ruin. This would not last however, as well Angron knew, for hope was a lie, happiness a drug like all others, leaving bliss and weakness in the veins.

Their final victory against a pair of Ogryns, enhanced by brutal augmetics, would be the final act of the two. A champion was all well and good in the eyes on the noble lords, but a man undefeated could earn no coin, his success assured as the entertainment soured.

They ordered the two to fight one another and Angron refused, his love for the man unbreakable. No other had ever cared for him, no other had shown him life beyond chains and blood. 
Angered by this casual rejection, they took him away and brought ruin to his mind...
<br><br>
***As Ruin Came Forth With A Smile.***

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## A New
## Perspective

Implanted with the Butcher's 
<br>
Nails, these devices promoted raw 
<br>
aggression within the Primarch. Mindless 
<br>
anger was greeted with bursts of pleasure, and 
<br>
reason was buried beneath uncompromising fury.

A slave all his life, bound in chains to men and women alike, Angron thought he knew pain. As his vision darkened, a hunger for carnage filled his blood, and the Red Angel found a bondage more insidious than the last. Screaming as his soul was buried, he was trapped now within a cage of flesh, his own mind prisoner to itself.

That which emerged was not Angron, was not the child lost in the woods or the feral gladiator forced to fight. Calamity came with heaving breaths as sorrow wore his skin. The gates unleashed a broken beast of hate. The gates had unleashed death...

What followed next was a brutal display of primal murder, his father broken upon his blades and torn apart. Not even his corpse was left for teeth tore through his tender flesh and devoured of their fill. No more was he called unbeaten, for Angron had finally lost himself...

It took several days for the Red Angel to awaken from his slumber, his mind freed at last from its locks. When he learned of the acts committed, of the monster he had become, he wept for days unending. In despair was the blade of Angron quenched.

He swore an oath to see those above bleed, their bodies rent, their hearts devoured. His life lost meaning in the pursuit of vengeance and as the years went by his legend spread across the world.

Those who trained beneath him learned of agony, true and pure, and from this grew stronger than any. The arena in which he fought soon grew to possess champions without equal... In talent or in rage.

He waited as the bodies piled tall, he waited as the blood flowed thick, he waited and so came the end, as fanfare called this nightmare to a close.

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## Blood for Blood

The greatest game ever held was announced across the planet, a vast war of gladiators that would see bloodshed without equal. Every soldier, every reaver and bloodthirsty killer was brought to this grand stadium, and here Angron led them in escape.

Tearing into the crowds and guards, unleashing calculated slaughter in their break for freedom, the slaves suffered enormous casualties against the firearms of their captors. Trained by Angron and raised by pain however, there was nothing to be done as the walls fell to their thunder.

Two thousand survived and with weapons looted from the armouries below, they fled into the wilds, chased every mile of the way. Here in the broken plains they became known as the "Eater of Cities", the destruction that they brought indiscriminate in its placement.

Countless men died hunting them down, crucified upon the ruins of ancient cities and mutilated beyond recognition. Their myth had been assured but as starvation and sickness began to reap its due, they became surrounded by the armies of their captors.

On the mountain of Fedan Mhor, Angron and his family prepared themselves for death without regret.
<br><br>
***For Soon They Would Be Free...***

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## A Stolen Fate

Unbeknownst to the Red Angel however, their end was witnessed by the stars. The Emperor had watched his son in his rebellion and knew pride at the leadership he showed. His principled stand against tyranny shone bright through the Warp, the heroism in his actions a legacy worthy of legend.

A voice in the night reach out to Angron, echoing through his waking dreams. The Red Angel was shocked at first, even awed perhaps, to feel such power effortlessly wielded. He listened to his father's words, the Crusade and the might of man reforged...

And he refused. Offered a Legion to command, a place in history that would never be forgotten, Angron chose death instead, a quiet demise with the only family he had left. The Emperor was shocked at this rejection and, with regret, accepted the fate this Red Angel sought.

Alone with his thoughts once more, Angron readied himself for the last battle of his life. It was not a war for glory or for riches, but one for dignity, that barest sliver of what it means to be human. With the crack of dawn, the roar of engines and gunfire, Angron charged into the fray.

Stumbling forward, he found himself within an iron room, the taste of metal in the air. Delivered from the wastes below, Angron could only watch from orbit as his friends were slain alone. Abandoned by their father just as he had been abandoned by his...

None know why the Emperor left the Red Angel this way, or why he cared not for the lives of his family. No answers were given and broken by his grief, he locked himself away within the ship. Silence was all that emerged for in truth he had succeeded...
<br><br>
***Today Was The Day He Died.***

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## A Legion Lost

Only a ghost remained of the Primarch, and a ghost was all the Emperor needed. Content to leave him in annihilatory depression, the Master of Mankind placed him in charge of the Legion and left.

The first time the War Hounds tried to reach out to their father resulted in death, the commander of the Legion broken in twain with casual disregard. The second through seventh followed suit in much the same manner.

Only Kharn was able to reach through to him, enduring blow after blow, injury after injury until he lay dying on the floor. Even Angron was impressed by this resolute refusal to surrender, and saw within his sons a worthy replacement to the family now ash upon the winds.

He emerged and greeted his sons. No Eater of Cities were these, for their weapons were great and terrible... They were the Eaters of Worlds and so was the Legion renamed in honour of what he had lost.

What followed was a slow degradation of morality, a collapse into barbarity and rage. His Legion burned their way across the galaxy, caring not for any losses or suffering in their path. The ashes of their conquests filled the stars with death and the very universe recoiled from their wrath.

Even with his sons so eager to follow, Angron proved unstable in his nature, compassion a distant memory and his soul untethered from love. He disappeared many times, always found hunting for something strong enough to kill him.

With the Butcher's Nails screaming in his head, not even his own children could come near him, for they could not understand the anguish of his life. One of the most powerful beings in existence, in charge of an army of terrible might, Angron still found himself a slave, trapped in the cage of himself.

\pagebreakNum

## Anger Deep Down

As his condition worsened, the stories of his barbarity spread far and wide. Eventually he was taken by the Emperor to Terra who wished to further understand the broken chains that bound his skull.

Aided by ArKharn Land, a renowned technoarchaeologist, the sedated Primarch was examined thoroughly, the Butcher's Nails and their effects logged. His expertise was needed for he had seen these implants before, in ancient vaults on Mars buried for their dark secrets.

Known as *Cruciamen*, the implants borne by Angron were of a cruder make, but quite similar in intent. They made life unbearable, existence a continuous agony that wracked throughout his system. Only anger and violence could ease this burden and so defined the Primarch had fallen further into madness.

Unfortunately, their removal was no simple thing. Portions of the Primarch's brain had been removed, the Butcher's Nails not overriding but entirely replacing those parts now gone. The damage done was so severe 
<br>
that even the Primarch's ability to heal was incapable 
<br>
of matching its ruin.

It could be done, but the results would be uncertain, perhaps even death. Though his lifespan and his tactical acumen were reduced dramatically, the Emperor decided they would persist, his ability to lead troops more important than the quality of the life lived doing so.

## Sins of the Father

Sanctioned by his father, Angron returned once more 
<br>
to the fray. Somehow, the terror of his reign grew worse as the years passed by, the depths of horror plumbed for fresh nightmares.

This culminated with the Ghenna Campaign, the actions taken so brutal even the World Eaters balked at what was ordered. A single Centurion refused to continue and Angron fell into an apoplectic rage, so terrible he murdered several of his sons whose only crime was to be too close.

Unstable and utterly out of control, the Librarians of the Legion were forced to act. Rendering the Primarch unconcious, a brutal civil war broke out between those loyal to Angron and those loyal to the barest of humanity.

Unfortunately the rebels were crushed, and when Angron awoke he did so to see his Legion hollow before him. He knew now that they understood his pain, and so he gave to them the only gift he could.

A perfected set of Butcher's Nails were developed, designed to interface with Astartes physiology, and all of his Legion underwent their implantation. In the quest for their father's love, the World Eaters embraced oblivion... And came forth armageddon in form.

A single Primarch, afflicted with the curse of these barbaric devices, was one crime, but to damn a whole Legion with their fell touch was something else all together.  The Emperor demanded he stop, but Angron cared not for the words of this tyrant and continued on in secret.

The reputation of the World Eaters only grew worse, their bloody rituals evoking a darker time of bleak faith and ruin. The bodies of their foes were desecrated and competitions to the death took place without pause.
<br><br>
***Murder Had Become Their Faith Now...***

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## An Old Friend

Finally, they had gone too far. The Wolves of Russ, lead by their Primarch, arrived to bring him to justice. Laughing in the face of this lapdog, Angron denied any authority he might possess, and spat upon the name of the Emperor.

The Master of Mankind was nothing more than another butcher, no different than the masters he bore in his youth. Enraged by such treason, the Wolf King lunged at him as their two Legion fell to battle.

Broken and insane, Angron was nonetheless one of the deadliest creatures in the galaxy. Uncaring of his own life, even the renowned Primarch of the Space Wolves could do little more than fend off his blows.

Bloody and wounded greatly, the Wolf was forced to his knees, crawling away from the psychotic Angel who laughed before him. There was no defence against such rage for he did not defend himself at all. Any blow struck against him, would be to accept your death as well...

Crippled upon the ground, the Wolf's words brought Angron's attention back to reality, once again free of the red mist. He was surrounded by the Space Wolves, their weapons ready to cut down the errant madman without hesitation. His own Legion had abandoned him, slaughtering their way through enemy but leaving him alone.

The Red Angel could not be happier, his sons proving themselves worthy of the nails in their head. He knew the Wolf bore not the sanction of the Emperor in this task, knew he thought to find little more than an easy fight against raving fools.

He could have killed Winter's Woe there and then. Perhaps he would have died. Russ could not believe how far he had fallen however, and retreated with his forces as Angron was pulled back from damnation by his own.

Even the World Eaters, mad as they were, knew that too far had Angron gone. Their existence ran on a tight rope... One that was soon to snap.

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## An Inevitable Choice

Two Legions had fully come to blows and the news of this calamity spread throughout the Imperium. Regardless of whether Russ had been ordered to go, the results could not be ignored. The Emperor sent Horus to arraign Angron and end this sickness for good.

Unfortunately for the Emperor, Horus had already fallen to Chaos, and when he arrived he spoke directly to Angron's soul. It took little to convince the Red Angel to spit upon his oaths of loyalty, and in short order the Warmaster had another brother within his fold.

During the great purge, in which the traitor Legions rooted out those loyalists still within, Angron would prove himself as destructive and unruly as before. When the loyalists survived the virus bomb designed to wipe them out, Angron knew rage and fell upon the world in a glut of blood.

These actions stopped Horus from simply bombarding the enemy into extinction, and forced him into a costly war of attrition against the fortified survivors. Many lives were lost to Angron's bloodlust but amidst the coils of virus death, even he relented in his hunt.

With their Legions cleansed of the unfaithful and doubting, the traitors moved to Istvaan III, where fortifications began against the inevitable assault from the Emperor. Sure enough it came and on a field of blasted torment did brother fight brother once more.

The skies filled with detonations as artillery claimed lives by the score. The air shivered beneath the assault of arcane weapons as chainblades rent flesh and armour alike. Here in the absolute of devastation, Angron was unleashed like a storm upon the land.

Hundreds fell to his axes, dozens more to his bare fists as he crushed all those who stood against him. As the end came, reinforcements gone turncoat against the Emperor's banner, the battle was won, and Angron relished in the peace before the screams came once more.

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## Savour The Pain

With the Heresy beginning in truth, the Emperor's forces shattered, Angron was paired with Lorgar and sent to Ultramar to bring ruin to his lands. At first the pair proved unwieldy, the Red Angel seeing the Aurelian as nothing but a pathetic coward, too weak to recognise his own failings and hiding instead behind his gods.

Despite this, the Five Hundred Worlds burned beneath the assault of the two fanatics, devoted in turn to faith and hate. It wasn't until an attempt was made on Angron's life that the two repaired their rift. Dark Eldar, for reasons unknown, ambushed him and with Lorgar's aid he survived to wreak bloody murder upon them.

Lorgar had ever been insightful though, and beneath the savage barbarity of his brother, he saw the pain etched into his soul. His leaving from Nuceria, the Nails in his skull, all these were killing him slowly, rending his body and mind with equal fervour.

Following Lorgar's advice, Angron took his Legion back to his home where he found the slavers still ruling from their lofty heights. Incadescent with rage, plunged to new depths of madness, the Red Angel descended upon the world in flames.

Genocide is too calm a word to describe the horrors that took place here, torture too polite to describe the agony inflicted. Angron had become something even less than human, something more than divine...

They were not alone however, for their blight had been suffered by the Ultramarines and in force they came for revenge. Roboute Guilliman landed with his Legion and in the fog and smoke, madness met vengeance in kind.

Beyond reason, the Red Angel launched himself at the Avenging Son and with ease he demolished the Primarch of the Ultramarines, breaking him without hesitation or effort. So deep had he plunged now into rage, there was no hope of recovery for Angron, his madness total and in control.

Lorgar had waited for this moment however, had prayed for it in his darkest dreams. He could save his 
<br>
brother, rescue him from the sickness in his 
<br>
mind and raise him into something 
<br>
more. Using Angron's rage as a 
<br>
conduit, he conducted a ritual 
<br>
of terrible power. Born
<br>
in blood, Angron 
<br>
died alone.

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## This Son of Rage

Erupting in a scream of eldritch force, Angron burst from his tomb of blood. The skies above recoiled from his existence, his being anathema to the boundaries of reality. Staring into the face of hell itself, wreathed in blood and shadow, Guilliman retreated with his sons.

Alive once more, and rescued from his slow demise, Angron had ascended to divinity. A Daemon Prince of Khorne, his immortality was assured, his suffering guaranteed for eternity. Returning to his ship, he ordered all the slaves on board slaughtered, and a throne of skulls craft for his throne.

Beyond now the realms of mortality, beyond even the depravity of his previous life, the Red Angel took his Legion on a path of such destruction the very Warp echoed its aftermath forever. No longer bound to the Warmaster, he ignored his orders as he sated his need for death.

Eventually, upon the world of Deluge, Perturabo was sent to bring him to heel. Assaulted by Daemons and screaming warriors, the Iron Warriors fought beneath skies of blood as existence itself rebelled against them.

Finally, on the verge of breaking, the heavens above broke open as Angron descended on wings of gore. Clashing with the Master of Iron, Angron had grown deadlier in his ascension, faster and stronger than even his old psychotic self.

Alas, his reason had suffered as in equal amounts, and the Iron Warrior managed to surround him once more. Knowing of his unstoppable wrath, he did not rely on a few marines but instead whole batteries of artillery and vehicles of terrible strength. Angron had been 
<br>
defeated at last, but such humiliation would 
<br>
have to wait. Vengeance had 
<br>
come on wings of fire.

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## A Reign of Hate

The Ultramarines had arrived once more to avenge Angron's work upon their home. Laughing as spite mixed with fire in the sky, the Red Angel savoured the death of them all. Perturabo had ever been a like soul to the Prince of Blood, and his words pierced deep in his mind.

Once already Angron had abandoned his family, twice already he had worn the shackles of an unworthy god. Now he stood here, servant to madling fiends and facing the death of his children once again. Survival would be the only victory he could achieve against fate, endurance against the skein that destiny had wove...

In a moment of rare solace, and displaying power he had never before held, he tore open a rift into the Warp. Ascending once more to his fleet, the Iron Warriors and World Eaters fled through its maw, erupting into the skies above Ullanor to witness in full the Dark Triumph.

From here, the Warmaster's forces moved onto Terra, and from here did the end of existence come, heralded on wings of flame.

Clinging to his ship like some demonic gargoyle, Angron stared in glee at the destruction arrayed before him. Demanding Horus let him assault the world directly, he was rebuffed for Terra bore protection against the darkness of the Warp, and the monsters spawned from its insanity.

Enraged at this delay, he began to slaughter his way through the vessel, servant and Astartes alike but sacrifice to his violent mood. Kharn eventually confronted him, concerned that his actions would destroy the ship, and here Angron told him a dark truth.

## Only Ever A Weapon

The Red Angel knew that Kharn wished to supplant him, wished to replace him as the chosen of Khorne. He would not allow such a weakling to challenge his position and so the two clashed within the blood-soaked halls of the vessel.

Once a Primarch, now imbued with the favour of the God of Ruin, Angron easily defeated the dazed Astartes. Before he could end his life however, he was pulled away by the teleporter on board the ship, Kharn no more than a delaying tactic to cage this prince of slaughter.

Entombed within the labyrinth maze on board the Night Lord's capital ship, Angron was trapped as the maze turned its weapons upon him. Knowing such material tools could do little to harm the Primarch, it served enough of a delay for the traitor forces.

With the time given, the barrier protecting Terra collapsed, and the Red Angel was fired from the ship. Arriving as a flaming meteor from the sky, he erupted in a torrent of blood that slew all those that it touched.

Battling through friend and foe alike, he fell upon the world like an incarnation of destruction. All fled before his wrath and even Sanguinius, when challenged, merely saluted and turned away.

Deeper and deeper his forces pushed the assault, the wards placed by the Emperor collapsing in the face of his infernal might. Countless times he was destroyed and torn apart but such mortal means meant little to the Primarch, his life sustained by the death that bled around him.

Eventually however, Horus would be slain, the Emperor victorious even in his demise and though the Heresy would end, the war could not. The Eye of Terror beckoned and welcomed them home...

\pagebreakNum

## The Game Continues

Defeated in truth, but delighted with the result, Angron would prove to be the most active of the Chaos Primarchs. War eternal had now become real and though he wished to cleave the Emperor's head, such constant battle gave reason to his miserable life.

During the 38th millenium he emerged once more, a nightmare forgotten by the Imperium remembered afresh as whole stars were devoured in his path. Fifty thousand Khorne Bezerkers rode a vast space hulk, following its random journey in anticipation of the carnage it revealed.

For two centuries and over seventy sectors Angron cleansed his blade in death, his arrival scarring the very galaxy with its torment. Four chapters of Astartes, alongside countless Guard Regiments and Titan Legions were dispatched to contain him and the battles fought were of the darkest kind.

Eventually they succeeded, Angron either bested or bored with the grinding conflict that now absorbed a vast portion of the Imperium's forces. Their need for destruction sated with this glut of havoc, once more they returned to the Eye of Terror to war amongst themselves.

\columnbreak

## Once More The Darkness

The problem with fire however, is the need to consume to survive. Like the infernos of old, Angron could not be sated with petty battle and violence. Descending upon the world of Armageddon, a land whose name was earned, he plunged the planet and its Space Wolf allies into carnage untold.

Only the intervention of the Grey Knights brought a stop to the Son of Slaughter, all of them dying but thirteen in their desperate bid to end his terror. Here his blade was broken by Hyperion, here he knew a challenge once more.

His presence had left its mark upon the surface, never again would its skies be safe but beaten for the first time in his life, Angron's soul boiled with wanton rage and excitement. Battle held thrill for the bleeding god again, violence once more electric in his veins.

With the skies torn apart by eldritch fire, his greatest foe now known and still alive, Angron prepares himself for ruin. The crows call out for slaughter as the skies blacken, the armies of man crumble before a thousand foes and the Avenging Son stands tall. The End Times have arrived.
<br><br>
***The Blood Sings Once More...***

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### Armour of Mars

A suit of gladiatorial armour forged in the style of his home, it was modified by the Masters of Mars to provide additional protection without harming the fearsome image it projected.

### The Black Blade

A runesword of fell make, it was capable of tearing even reality in twain. Destroyed by Hyperion on Armageddon, its horror will surely know light once again.

### Widowmaker

The first weapon the Primarch ever wielded, it was a barbaric tool of death. Destroyed by Leman Russ on Gehenna, its weakness was abandoned as is Angron's way.

### Gorefather and Gorechild

The twin axes used until his rise to the Daemonic Courts, they were some of the most potent weapons ever made. Eventually destroyed during the brutality of the Heresy, Gorechild would eventually arrive in the possession of Kharn.

### The Spite Furnace

This seldom used weapon was a master-crafted plasma pistol, capable of incinerating a terminator with ease. Alas, Angron's preference saw its use more ornamental than practical...

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# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">Chapter Eleven</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">Roboute Guilliman</font>

<div style='margin-top:800px;'></div>
  
##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="white">*What was once broken must once more be made, my task unchanged from ages past. <br> The clock chimes, my work undone... this age of war has come.* </font>

</div>

\pagebreakNum

# From The Ashes

I *saw him once, the Avenging Son. Blade aflame, earth sundered by war and retribution... It was his eyes, so calm amidst the chaos, that made me realise just how close to the end we are. Not even Angels were meant to carry the weight of heaven alone...*

A king amongst princes, a god amongst men, Roboute Guilliman had always been a mirror to his father. Though others may have looked more like him, borne powers more akin to his, the Avenging Son had always been the ruler that the Emperor never cared to be.

He was not the greatest warrior or the most talented sage. He possessed no ken for the psychic arts nor a capacity for violence beyond the human realms. He was not a man of silver tongue and cared little for the smith's hammer and forge.

He was not a god, though that perhaps was his greatest strength. More than any of his brothers was Guilliman human, flawed in his nature but willing to admit such weaknesses were his.

He did not focus his mastery on any one art, did not rise above those he fought to protect. His dedication was perfection, not of himself but of others, a reach towards the stars so that others may climb to their light.

This would be the guide behind every action, the drive towards every sacrifice. Guilliman became all that was required, accepting any burden necessary to ensure the survival of the human race.

Fitting then, that as the Imperium falls, once more the Blade of Unity returns. Not even death's sweet repose enough to keep him from his duty. The Sirens Sing, the Warp Awakens...
<br><br>
***Once More The End Has Come***

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## A Lord in the Making

Of all the Primarchs, the childhood of Guilliman is perhaps the most known. An inspiration for all mankind, his tale is one told time and again to remind its citizens of the power in duty, and the strength of faith.

Having been torn from his home beneath the Terran mountains, the Avenging Son had sailed the Sea of Storms for many years. Eventually he was deposited on the surface of Macragge, a bleak world but one home to a thriving civilization that stood as a shadow of what it once had been.

Found by guards in the wild, who recognised his capsule as an object of arcane technology rather than unusual sorcery, he was brought back to the capital for greater minds to judge. Here did Konor Guilliman, Consul of these lands, adopt the child and name him Roboute, enshrining his place within the family.

Provided safety and given access to everything and anything he desired, Guilliman grew fast. His mind rapidly devoured all knowledge placed before him and soon there was no subject that the enlightened child had not mastered.

Philosophy, science, history and more, all these were conquered by the errant prince but it was in the art of war that the young man proved most effective. Recognising his ability, Konor sent the Avenging Son to the north, a land of barbarians and vile killers.

Known as Illyrium, this land had long plagued the territories of Macragge and would do so long into the future. In these chaotic realms, full of shifting loyalties and loose fealty, Roboute fought a brilliant war that won him not only the region, but also the hearts of these ferocious savages.

Returning home in glory, Gulliman found only flames at the gates of home. Here would the Primarch first taste betrayal, and its bitter results.

\columnbreak

## Vengeance and Justice

During his absence, the Co-Consul of Macragge, Gallan, had launched a swift uprising against Konor. Bereft of his watchful child and missing a considerable portion of his troops, Roboute's father had been slain as the traitor saw fit to make true his dreams of power.

Those who backed Gallan had long feared a dissolution of their power, their wealth taken on the seas of change. Guilliman's arrival had only driven them further into terror, for had he taken the throne then all hope would be gone that the ways of old could be returned.

Konor had been a man well-loved by the people, having taken action against the nobility of old and installed measures to more fairly spread the wealth of this land. He had tried to bring light to the shadow and for his compassion he received only a blade in the night.

Learning of this betrayal, Guilliman ordered his men into the city, running past a nation caught in flames. Destruction lay before them as grass on a plain, all-encompassing and possessing no end.

Hundreds had been slain, their bodies riddled with bullets and blades. Roboute tore towards the senate and here, dying and abandoned, did the Primarch find his father, bleeding from countless wounds as he coughed up his last.

He told his son the truth of what had happened, how he had held the halls for three days as fire tore through the city. Step by step, death by death he had been pushed back until no further could he walk.

Gallan had betrayed them all, and with cold rage that no furnace could match, Guilliman stalked off into the city in search of his prey.
<br><br>
***Treason Had But One Reward***

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## A New World

With the support of the army and the love of the people, Guilliman quickly seized control of the city. Ordering the conspirators seized, he ended their lives publicly, displaying them before the very men and women they feared so much.

Overturning the laws of old, the lands of the rich were quickly given to those soldiers and workers who had toiled so faithfully before. Prosperity followed in the wake of such rapid progress and with the effort only a Primarch could marshal, Guilliman remade the world and brought peace.

Such a wondrous revolution could not stay quiet, for change often spreads like wildfire. Word soon reached the Emperor who made his way towards this remarkable planet but it seemed fate cared not for such intervention.

Terrible Warp Storms held back the Master of Mankind, and for five years even he could not penetrate its umbral veil. During this time Macragge grew into the jewel of the surrounding systems, trading vital goods with its neighbours and possessing a military capable of defending it from even the most terrible of threats.

The people were joyous and when the Emperor arrived he found a world thriving under the guidance of his son. Impressed by what he saw, he descended to the surface in full regalia, knowing well his child would need no cajoling or trickery to lure him to his side.

Guilliman recognised his father, aware of the truth in his words by some genetic revelation. He immediately swore fealty to the Emperor and joined his world to the Imperium, ushering in a golden age of technological wonder to his people.

## Order Restored

Placed in charge of the 13th Legion, Guilliman brought his mind to work once more. Many in the Imperium were astounded at the analytical ability possessed by the Primarch, his unique mind able to organise projects on a scale unimaginable even to his gifted brothers.

Restructured to a point of perfection, the newly named Ultramarines were able to fight in any arena under any conditions. Carefully orchestrated in their patten, under Guilliman they spent the next century conquering all in their path.

None but Horus proved more effective in their work, none left worlds behind as well structured and organised as Roboute. Every system added to the Imperium was defended, supplied and better off than they had been before, and soon the Avenging Son's name was known far and wide.

Even as the Legion fought with tactical precision, the framework upon which they relied upon was finely tuned by the genius of the Primarch. As time wore on, so effective did their methods prove, that the Ultramarines were soon the largest Legion amongst the Astartes.

Such would be the method that would continue their glory, efficient and relentless, all was managed to perfection. The realm that Guilliman governed grew to five hundred worlds, all placed with care to better aid him in his work.

Nothing could stay the same however, change once more racing towards the Primarch. No longer was he the herald of its winds...
<br><br>
***He Was Its Victim...***

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## A Time of Change

With the ending of the Ullanor Crusade, a vast conflict against a titanic greenskin horde that consumed countless Astartes and Guardsmen, the Emperor began his retreat from the frontlines. A vast celebration took place on the world, attended by many Primarchs and dignitaries from the Imperium at large.

Here was Horus named the Warmaster, placed in charge of the war efforts to come against a hostile galaxy while he returned to Terra to work in secret. Many of his brothers were displeased with such announcement, arrogantly believing such honour should lie with them.

Guilliman, however, knew the wisdom in such a choice and helped his brother win over the trust and loyalty of those most vocal in their doubts. By this point had the Avenging Son judged his kin by his own logical standards.

He knew them well, understood their strength and weaknesses and there were few whom he found company an easy trial. Dorn, Sanguinius, Leman Russ, and Ferrus Manus, these were the family Guilliman held close to, referring to them as *The Dauntless Few*.

In their company no battle would be beyond him, no challenge impossible to meet. Their forces bound to his would prove unstoppable and to these select few did Guilliman provide total respect. The others were problematic... Their methods too complicated to work seamlessly with the orchestrated nature of his mind.

Still, the needs of the Imperium must come first, and Guilliman bent the knee loyally to the Warmaster. Following his orders, he and the Legion continued their implacable progress across the galaxy.

Unknown to the Blade of Unity however, treason had once more dripped its venom across an open wound. The pride of Horus enflamed by injury and deception had risen in full, turning him gently into the dark tides of madness.

Too loyal to doubt, when ordered to marshall for a vast war against the Veridian Systems, Guilliman obeyed without objection. A call to arms was placed and in the orbit above Calth did the Legion arrive in full.

A treasure amidst a sea of gems, this 
<br>
world was the pinnacle of 
<br>
Guilliman's ambitions... And so 
<br>
too would it be 
<br>
the grave 
<br>
of all his 
<br>
dreams.

\columnbreak

## The Coin Drops

Long before the madness that would break out across the galaxy, Guilliman had been respected by most of his brothers. Angron considered him weak, Curze loathed his humanity and hope, but these Primarchs had nothing but hatred towards all their kin.

One vendetta, more personal than the rest, belonged to Lorgar, a loathing burned into the sands of what had once been the Aurelian's most prized success. The Word Bearers had long made their worship of the Emperor known, and though it had been tolerated, soon the Master of Mankind grew impatient.

He ordered Guilliman to the world of Monarchia, a planet conquered and rebuilt by Lorgar in veneration of the Emperor. Here they summoned the Golden One and as he arrived made him witness to destruction of his work.

Enraged beyond understanding, plumbing a depth of fury known only to the fanatic, Lorgar screamed at the Avenging Son. He vent his grief upon the stoic Primarch and almost there shed his brothers blood.

Thankfully, such darkness was avoided, but the bitterness had never left. Alone with the burden of what he had wrought, Guilliman was uncomfortable with the Emperor's choice, unhappy that his Legion had been made into mere tools of chastisement.

How joyous a time it was then, that this new endeavour ordered by the Warmaster would see them fight alongside the Word Bearers. Pleased at the opportunity to mend fences with his fey brother, Guilliman prepared for the arrival of the Golden One, eager to 
<br>
celebrate his brothers new 
<br>
reputation as one of 
<br>
the Imperium's most 
<br>
successful forces.

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\columnbreak

## Scorn Repaid In Kind

What followed was a treason so foul the very Warp celebrated its execution with joy. His guard lowered and unware of the madness in the galaxy at large, he welcomed his brother close as a dagger pierced his heart.

Their systems filled with scrapcode, Guilliman was unable to countenance the actions of Lorgar. He begged his brother to stop, thought this nothing more than a terrible misunderstanding as the Word Bearers opened fire.

Only silence greeted his pleas however, and with a heavy heart he ordered his troops to engage. The crown of this spited work of betrayal manifested aboard the ship Guilliman waited on. Daemons from the depths of hell erupted into being as they ran amok the ship, slaughtering all with blades immaterial and laughter infernal.

Faced with a foe they had never before witnessed, who appeared impervious to the edge of their weapons, the Ultramarines began a fighting retreat. A terrible explosion tore into the ship, damage from their lunatic foes, and the Avenging Son was pulled into the cold embrace of space.

Separated from his Legion, Lorgar expected the Ultramarine's collapse. He could not expect that order would be retained, so disciplined that even without their Primarch they fought without hesitation or misstep.

Nor could they have known the endurance of Guilliman, that even space could do little more than delay the Primarch from his vengeance. Without a helmet he fought his way back aboard the ship, reaching out to Lorgar without tragedy now, only hate.

Marshalling his forces, tools against Daemonkind brought against their ethereal wrath, he boarded the foes capital ship. Here he found Kor Phaeron, foster father to the Golden One and a heretic of snide demeanour.

At first lain low by the arcane sorceries employed by the half-human, Guilliman struck as Kor Phaeron's ego led to the slightest stumble. Reaching through the chest of the mongrel Astartes, he tore out his heart as the traitor commander fled, grievously wounded.

## So Comes The Collapse

With Calth saved from total destruction, its surface was still left blackened by the dark arts employed by the Word Bearers. Never again would its surface know life, scarred eternal by the radiation of a dying star.

The Word Bearers had retreated however, even as the skies above filled with the screams of the Warp. Though Guilliman survived, their ritual had succeeded as across the galaxy the Sea of Storms earned its name.

The Ruinstorm it was called, and its reach severed all light amongst the galaxy. Travel through its depths was impossible as the bright beacon of the Astronomicon was blotted out by its tenebrous tides.

Even worse, Lorgar had never been here. Instead, he and Angron had begun a brutal rampage throughout his realm, leaving much in ashes and ruin. Death held its scythe above the Five Hundred Worlds as billions were sacrificed in the name of depraved gods.

With no time to waste, all his work collapsing around him, Guilliman gave chase. Following the path of broken worlds he arrived at Nuceria where Angron had finally found his home...
<br><br>
***And Once More Returned To Die...***

\pagebreakNum

## An Old Foe

Tearing into realspace, Guilliman led his forces against the blockade mounted by the traitorous foe. Outgunned heavily, their only advantage lay in the number of ships under their command, utilising this weight to bypass the cordon and land upon the planet.

Here they found Angron and Lorgar well on their way towards genocide in its purest form. Every city was razed, every soul expunged, their passing more akin to a fire than plague for not even ash was left.

Ordering his troops to the surface, Guilliman initially remained in orbit, orchestrating the lunatic assault against the traitor's fleet. No mathematical work of art, nor clean battle from a distance, this void war was brutal. Fought up close and personal, the vacuum of space erupted as detonations left wounds in the fabric of nothing.

Eventually however, Guilliman's forces were able to strike a killing blow against the *Fidelitas Lex*, breaking completely the blockade and leaving their men free for reinforcement. Crashing down onto the surface, the silence of space was replaced quickly with the raving screams of the World Eaters and the dolorous chants of their fanatical brothers.

This was not war but a slaughter, tactics and strategy abandoned in the name of vengeance. Carnage filled the air as blood mixed upon the ground, each combat a duel to the death that cared not for those who fought around them.

It was in this madness that Guilliman once more met Lorgar, both surrounded by the demise of their Legions, they clashed in hatred equalled only by the other. The Golden One had never been a warrior born, but new purpose filled his veins and black magic granted him strength.

The Avenging Son was unable to find an edge, caught in a stalemate with the Prophet of Annihilation. In rage did he dig deep however... and in rage did Angron dig deeper.

\columnbreak

## A Daemon Born

Tearing out of the mists, the Red Angel erupted into frenzy. Laughing hysterically he hurled himself at Guilliman and batted him aside, unleashing upon the Ultramarine such brutality that only a Primarch could have survived.

None could face Angron and emerge unscathed, such ferocity incarnate ended only with the death of both. This Angel, however, was something else entirely, far beyond the ken of even the tortured murderer of old.

Broken and bloody, Guilliman held his ground, weathering the assault of spited storm for just one moment, just one second. He would not survive this, a truth accepted clearly, but as his men began to surround the Red Angel he went to his grave knowing he would not be alone.

Such was the only way to defeat Angron, to enter battle as he did, caring not whether you lived or you died. The axe roared, the sky screamed in blood and Guilliman's sons rushed to his rescue. Too late... Far too late.

A bolt of red energy screamed down, engulfing Angron in its sorcerous might as his blow was averted. Crawling away, rent and ruined, Guilliman could only watch as his brother died before his eyes.

No longer a Primarch, no longer a being of genetic wonder and design. Instead stood now a beast of rage, a flagrant violation of reality on whose crucifix bore hope and love in endless death.

Raised to divinity, the Red Angel screamed into the night as he and his forces retreated, their goal complete. Broken and bloody, Guilliman could only watch as they ran, the void of space replaced entirely with the laughing madness of dying gods.

Separated now from Terra, his kingdom aflame, Guilliman returned to Macragge. Once again he  witnessed true betrayal, once again he found himself amidst the ruins of his craft. Now was not the time to weep...
<br><br>
***Twas Time Sharpen The Sword...***

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## Imperium Secundus

Returning once more to the seat of his ailing empire, Guilliman ordered the activation of the *Pharos*. Managed by a renegade Iron Warrior, this xenos artefact was capable of emulating the power of the Astronomicon, piercing the veil of darkness with its own empathic shriek.

Acting now as a lighthouse within the storm, loyalists from all over the galaxy began to arrive. Lonely squads of ruined glory with eyes sharp from the horrors they had witnessed, whole companies separated from their family by the astral madness and even the Legions in their resplendent might.

The first of his brothers to arrive was Lion El'Jonson, master of the Dark Angels, and a prince of secrets oft malign. Suspicious of Guilliman's design for the future of the Imperium, the two argued but the impenetrable nature of the Ruinstorm rendered such disagreements moot.

Still, he was not the only Primarch to grace the jewel of Ultramar, for Konrad Curze lingered in the depths of the Lion's hold. Escaping as only the Night Haunter could, he launched the waiting drop pods upon Macragge, and as the skies filled with flame he descended to wreak havoc upon those whose minds dare endure.

Guilliman turned upon his brother as devestation came upon wings of night, furious his kin had dared conceal such an attack from him. Already had he been betrayed by blood and so soon on the tides of treason came this blow that the two almost drew blades.

Still, calmer minds prevailed and war was spared. The Dark Angels surrendered their weapons as the Lion revealed the true nature of darkness. The Avenging Son now realised just how close to the edge they hung, for chaos had come to his lands in its purest form.
<br><br>
***Night Had Come To Macragge...***

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\columnbreak

## The Shadows Have Eyes

Faced now with the prospect of the lunatic Prince of Night unleashed upon his world, Guilliman and Jonson began their search for the reclusive nightmare. Madness was not the only sin within his realm though...

An assassination attempt by the Alpha Legion was barely stopped, their agents perfectly disguised as Ultramarines. Even a Primarch can fall to mortal weapons and had it not been for the intervention of a Space Wolf pack, Guilliman would have fallen to this careful deception.

Knowing now his time was short, the enemy already past the defences, Guilliman began preparations for an immediate assault against his lands. Meanwhile, the hunt for the Night Haunter had progressed admirably, his spree of chaos leading back to the heart of Macragge.

Surrounding him, both Guilliman and the Lion cornered the Night Lord in a dark hall, fighting for their lives as Curze battled like a dervish. Always erratic, the Night Haunter in his element was a being of brilliance and lunacy combined.

Still, two Primarchs is a fight few can win, but that had never been the intention of Curze. Detonating explosives cunningly hidden around the chamber, he buried the two brothers alive as he disappeared once more into the shadows.

That would have been the end of the Lion and the Emperor's Soul had it not been for the *Pharos*. A device ill-understood, at the moment of their death it had felt their pain and reached out in rescue, depositing them on the world of Sotha.

## Angelus Rex

Here was the Lion introduced to Dantioch, Warsmith of the Iron Warriors and master of the arcane secrets kept by Guilliman. Disgusted at such blatant use of xenos technology, the Lion was still forced to accept it had saved their lives, albeit grudgingly.

Returning to Macragge, the two brothers had little left to lose, both viewing the other through the lens of mistrust. Fortunately, another had arrived, Sanguinius of the Blood Angels and angelic scion of the Emperor's love.

Here, the Lion and Guilliman saw a chance to mend broken fences and remove any doubt as to their loyalty. In agreement they crowned the newly arrived Angel as Regent for the Imperium Secundus, and though reluctant to accept such a mantle, even Sanguinius knew he had no other choice.

The Lion was placed in charge of the loyalist forces and Guilliman remained master behind it all, orchestrating the vast logistical network required to keep such an endeavour running. Though he and Jonson frequently clashed, disagreeing over policy and agenda, Sanguinius kept the peace... For now.

Obsessed over the missing Night Haunter, the Lion turned all his efforts towards his capture. Focussed on this one goal, his relentless passion would have inflicted much ruin had it not been for the calming influence of Guilliman.

Such hold he had over the Lion weakened every day, and as the Lion discovered the location of Curze within the Illyrium Region, his ambition to lay waste to the land was met with stark horror from the Avenging Son.
<br><br>
***Truly Were There Shadows In The Lion's Heart...***

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## The Trial of Kin

Forced to restrain the Night Lord through more discriminate means, the Lion successfully led the assault against the Primarch. Returning him to the capital, Guilliman demanded his trial be public, so that all could see the madness of the Night Haunter, so that all could see his fault.

Here before the three Primarchs did Curze accept his actions, admitting even to horrors the brothers never knew. He refused, however, his guilt. Insisting that he had done only as planned, the Night Lord's venomous words began to spin a tale of betrayal that far exceeded his own.

Claiming that the Lion had ordered orbital bombardments against his men in secret, he laughed as Guilliman turned upon the Silent Lord. Enraged at Viper's ability to twist and weave his tales, the Lion move to slay him but was halted by the Angel.

In agreement both Guilliman and Sanguinius banished the Lion for his actions, fearing that even though his loyalty lie with the Emperor, these dark times had fashioned him into something else. A weapon, more akin to the Night Haunter than perhaps he would admit.

The trial continued as the depths of madness were plumbed in earnest. Atrocity committed without regret, horror inflicted without concern, the Night Lord relished in his cruelty even as he denied any guilt for their actions.

Soon they had heard enough, and in the face of such lunacy the death of Curze was ordered. Guilliman drew his blade to enact the sentence as the Lion stormed into the chamber. Ignoring his exile, he plead with Sanguinius to spare the Night Haunter, for his death could end existence itself.

The visions of Curze had always foreseen his murder at the hands of the Emperor, and such could only be the case if the Emperor still lived...

\columnbreak

## To Breach a Storm

Guilliman was not taken by these words, especially considering the source. Sanguinius, however, had often been plagued by visions of his own and saw the truth in the Lion's cryptic words.

He ordered the execution stayed and Guilliman, though angered, relented. He demanded who was to keep the Night Lord in custody if death was not his fate, and the Lion accepted the responsibility of once more holding the Primarch secure.

Faced now with evidence of the Emperor's survival on Terra, the three brothers agreed to voyage into the heart of darkness and sail towards the Throneworld. Every Legionnaire was called to arms, all munitions scoured and placed upon the waiting fleets.

Armed and armoured, Guilliman led the fleets forward to the edge of space, and with a single word, tore into the Sea of Storms. Lost immediately within the haze of fell forces, the fleet desperately made its way towards its destination.

At one point Guilliman became separated, his flagship torn from its brethren on tides of spite and rage. Alone and lost within its tides, it was soon ambushed by a combined traitor force that sought to end the Primarch's life for good.

Fighting for their lives, Guilliman's forces desperately tried to match the fervour of their assailants. Fortunately, Guilliman had learned well from his trials on Calth, and where Daemons appeared so too did psychic might match them in kind.

Killing the enemy commander, the loyalist forces began to push back hard against their foe. Even as success seemed to be certain however, Guilliman found himself surrounded by Apostles of the Dark Gods. Wielding strange and wicked blades, they moved to kill him.

Victory would not belong to them however, and the Forces of Chaos were bested. The voyage would continue into darkness...

\pagebreakNum

## One
## Chance

Returned to his allies, and with 
<br>
a collection of Navigators versed in the 
<br>
ways of Chaos, Guilliman made good time
<br>
towards Terra. Their saga was not easy however,
<br>
many battles were fought along the way and many
<br>
heroes lost their lives in the name of salvation.

On Pyrrhan, a vast citadel of Chaos, did Guilliman and his sons personally lead the charge against madness. Always moving, never relenting, the Avenging Son abandoned his famous strategy to give their foe no respite amidst the carnage.

Forcing the Daemons to defend themselves on multiple fronts, Guilliman bought Sanguinius enough time to annihilate the structure. Retreating from the imploding structure, Guilliman was once more faced with the etheral as his guide.

Sangunius had seen the future once more, his eyes turned crimson as he spoke. On Davin, where all this had started, would the loyalists find salvation and the knowledge needed to end the war.

As they descended and the Angel renounced his service to the skeins of fate, the once silent planet erupted into life. Sanguinius was devoured by a vast portal to the Warp as Daemons poured out of the very fabric of reality.

Every crack in existence, every lie in the truth bore witness to a terrible beast as Guilliman and the Lion fought for their very lives against this tide of damnation. Hundreds died in the melee as gods battled men, as angels fought Daemons and without restraint did a hundred years of rage become unchained.

Success was assured against such divine vindication as the Angel tore free of his shackles. The dark forces were banished by his radiance as Guilliman and the Lion once more led their forces into the tides of possibility.

As the Ruinstorm unravelled around them, the loyalists had but only one obstacle left in their goal. The Warmaster had foreseen their success and had moved to delay them as he pressed towards Terra.

\columnbreak

## Crescendo

Vast fleets under the traitor's banner sailed to intercept them as Guilliman and the Lion separated from the Blood Angels. Sanguinius had to succeed, for no other future lay without his presence.

Crashing against the enemy forces, the Ultramarines and Dark Angels bought time for the Emperor's Wrath to escape the blockade while they brought salvation amidst with burning blade and bullet.

So would Guilliman end his battles against the Arch-Heretic, frenized against the bastion worlds of the Iron Warriors as he sought to delay the enemy as long he could. It was his imminent arrival, and those of his brothers, that forced Horus to gamble, forced him to face the Emperor alone.

So would the Avenging Son come to Terra, the Warmaster slain and his father broken upon his throne. Knowing now that the battle had only just begun, he took his Legion off in pursuit of those that fled, hoping to restore some measure of order to a galaxy that burned.

Never would he forsake his duty... For the Emperor was but one amongst many who needed his light. War beckoned and his brothers lay broken, torn between madness and grief. Peace now, could only be achieved at the edge of a sword.
<br><br>
***The Avenging Son Had Come...***

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## From the Ashes

The next decade would be spent fighting battle after battle against xenos and traitor alike. The Imperium was weak and strength now was needed to keep the Emperor's dream alive. Taking the mantle of Lord Commander, Guilliman brought a measure of stability to worlds of humanity, and moved now to ensure such betrayal could never happen again.

A great work was published, written carefully by him to safeguard against treason. The *Codex Astartes* was its name and it covered all, from the tactics and organisation of the Astartes to the divisions of the Imperial Army.

Few took happily to the changes prompted, the Astartes furious at their numbers split amidst small Chapters rather than the might of a single Legion. Eventually however, all bent to his wishes, though some interpreted the orders more liberally than others...

With the Imperium brought to a measure of order, his safeguards firmly implemented, the Avenging Son once more began his reconquest of fallen lands. On Eskrador did he battle the forces of the Alpha Legion, surprising the ever duplicitous legion with his ability to adapt.

Here did Guilliman end the life of Alpharius, striking quickly and without reinforcement into the heart of their fortress. Caught off-guard, the Twin named Janus was no match for the furious Ultramarine, and without remorse did Guilliman rend his foe apart.

The serpent's fangs removed, the Ultramarines were surprised at how little impact Alpharius' death had on his Legion. Ever the hydra, as one head was removed another grew and the Alpha Legion proved as disciplined in nature as their loyalist kin.

Guilliman was forced to retreat against their withering fire, unable to stomach the losses such a conflict would require. Chased the entire way back to their reinforcements, the Ultramarines casualties were almost total...
<br><br>
***Such Is The Price Of A God's Life.***

## The End of an Empire

The duty of a god's son weighed heavily on the Primarch, each day filled with decisions that affected the lives of billions. Such would not last forever, and soon mankind would be left to fend on its own.

In response to a sudden attack by Fulgrim on a series of worlds, Guilliman took the Ultramarines and six of its successors to end the threat of the serpentine Primarch. On Thessala he clashed with the Emperor's Children and on Thessala, he met his end.

The Alpha Legion had never given themselves to Chaos, their father had never taken their gifts. Fulgrim was a different story, a mighty prince of the Ruinous Powers and his form had been filled with the bleak power of the Warp.

Wielding his venomous blades, the Phoenix wounded Guilliman with the most terrible in his possession, a weapon designed to slay Primarchs and one that had already rent a god before. Wounded fatally, the Avenging Son collapsed as his sons were overrun.

The loyalists were decimated and few survived the onslaught. Guilliman's body was recovered and brought back to Macragge, but even under the artifice of their most talented apothecaries, he would not wake from his death.

\pagebreakNum

## A Waking Dream

Such should have been the end of the Primarch, lost and slain like his kin. Guilliman, however, had always known his end would come, that no tool can be relied upon forever and so had taken steps to ensure his success.

A Tech-Priest named Belisarius Cawl had been entrusted by the Avenging Son with his salvation, told to work upon means of his arrival and a new generation of Marines to take up the fight against darkness.

After 10,000 years, and with the aid of an esoteric Eldar cult, he had finally managed to succeed. Having forged a suit of armour capable of repairing even the most heinous of wounds, Guilliman was revived with the aid of ancient magic and enigmatic technology.

Stirring from his endless slumber, Guilliman had returned just in time. The skies of Macragge had darkened with the shadow of invading vessels. The 13th Black Crusade, having broken free of Cadia, turned its gaze upon Ultramar and led by the chosen of darkness, they came for blood.

Emerging from his chamber, Guilliman was given no respite nor chance to learn of his new life. The Black Legion had already stormed the palace and the men of Ultramar were overrun by madness and pain.

From death to life, nothing had changed as Guilliman drew his blade and charged into the midst. Rallying the forces embattled, the cries of hope that came as he appeared deafened the night.

Faced with the might of a Primarch restored, the traitors retreated. World after world was reconquered by the Avenging Son as he once more brought peace to an Imperium fractured by fear and terrible storms.

Returning now to Macragge, its imminent destruction delayed, Guilliman convened a council of those senior leaders left alive within his Chapter. Here he learned of the nightmare the Imperium had become, the superstition it had embraced and the horror it inflicted without regard on its own people.

\columnbreak

## Turned Nightmare

Faced now with this abomination born of his best intentions, Guilliman knew that he had failed. Still, humanity survived, and such was a only victory amidst the ashes of his defeat. Seeing no other option, he pledged to return to Terra, to speak with the Emperor and discover his intent during this time of madness.

Such an endeavour would prove terrible in nature, for a wildness filled the Warp that dwarfed even the Ruinstorm. Chaos had marshalled its forces and even as he secured his home did they strike across a thousand others.

Even worse, his awakening had been noted by more than just the Black Legion. Mortarion and Magnus, terrible and changed in their service to ruin, had learned of his survival and moved their forces to counter his arrival.

Setting forth with his forces, the Ultramarines once more restored to their Legion strength as their brothers answered the call, he began his journey towards Terra. Unfortunately his plans were known, and as he left so too did a great plague spread across his worlds.

Devised by Mortarion and unleashed through his agents, it rendered those it afflicted blind. Guilliman saw no choice but to interrupt his pilgrimage, visiting each of these lands to show solidarity with those unfortunates struck by Nurgle’s infernal curse..

What salvation they could have brought, he did not know, but never could he have expected what followed. Somehow, perhaps divine, perhaps sorcerous, his very presence was able to dispel the disease, and as word travelled of his miracles, the hysteria of his return sparked a revolution.

This would be his only victory however, for caught by surprise, Guilliman was ambushed by Magnus and his Thousand Sons. Outgunned and outnumbered, the Avenging Son thought his death at hand but the Red Prince had no designs upon the life of the Primarch.
<br><br>
***Only His Soul...***

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## Once More In Chains

A vast ritual reached its peak as a portal into the Warp devoured Guilliman and his fleet. Dozens of vessels collapsed instantly, their gellar fields activated too late to save them from the Daemons within.

Those that survived found themselves surrounded by the Red Corsairs, their fleet unimaginable in strength. Led by Huron Blackheart and Kairos Fateweaver, the two were able to overpower the Primarch, turning to dire sorcery in order to disable their prey.

Captive now to the Forces of Chaos, Guilliman and his men were interred upon a Blackstone Fortress gifted to the Red Corsairs by Abaddon. Here they languished, for Kairos had no intention of slaying the Avenging Son, but to use him in some greater game.

This plan was met with ill-regard by the other agents of the Ruinous Powers, and as Chaos always must, Chaos fell upon itself. An army under the banner of Skarbrand, chosen servant of Khorne, breached the fortress and started a vast battle in its halls.

Distracted by this sudden violence, neither Huron nor Kairos saw what happened next until it was too late. An unseen force of Fallen Angels, led by the enigmatic Cypher, stole away onbard, freeing Guilliman and his men in silence.

With no other choice but to trust this new arrival, the Avenging Son organised a mass breakout of his men, adding his forces to the madness that consumed the decks. Seeing their prey escaping, the two Daemons put aside their differences, and moved to end the threat once and for all.

## Catch and Release

Faced by the full darkness of Chaos, it seemed hope had been so given and taken away. Guilliman was not without allies however, and as the Legion of the Damned arrived in screaming balefire, so too did the Harlequins emerge from their shadows with a means of escape.

A Webway Portal, cunningly craft, opened in their wake as Guilliman led his men in retreat towards it. Enraged that his prey would escape, Skarbrand leapt towards the Blade of Unity but was intercepted by a Black Templar who impaled the fiend with his blade.

Wounded, and then obliterated as Guilliman turned his weapons upon it, Skarbrand's screaming spirit could only watch as the loyalists were able to escape. The portal soon closed behind them, putting them far out of reach.

Here did Guilliman arrive on Luna, and for the first time in 10,000 years did he lay his eyes upon the Throneworld. Such peace was interrupted however, solace denied forever to the Lord of Ultramar as Magnus arrived above.

Furious that his plans had been thwarted, the Red Prince descended to Luna as his soulless agents marched in dolorous rhythm. Physically and mentally exhausted, Guilliman and his men were forced back by the arcane wrath of the Cyclops King.

Such intrusion by the Forces of Chaos could not be countenanced however, and Terra possessed great armies under its command. The Custodes came, the Emperor's vengeance upon their lips as the Sisters of Silence brought their null powers to the fray.
<br><br>
***Guilliman would not stand alone....***

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## A Dying Whisper

With his powers dampened by the silent forces of the Sisters, Magnus grew weak. Guilliman saw his chance as the Red King turned to flee and pierced his blade through the heart of the Daemonic Scion.

Exploding with the force of a dying star, his soul prismatic in its reduction, Magnus was defeated and his armies turned to dust once more. Free at last from peril, embracing the silence of the aftermath, Guilliman moved on to Terra and to his father's throne in gold.

For a whole day he stood before the Emperor, no words uttered, no movements made. He stood and listened as secrets were given to the Avenging Son, truths too terrible to bear by any but an immortal.

Emerging from his solace, Guilliman strode with new purpose in his steps. Taking up the fabled Sword of the Emperor, he gathered the High Lords of Terra to inform them of the changes to come.

Taking once more the title of Lord Commander, he also named himself Regent of the Imperium, the embodiment of the Emperor's will on earth. Such action may have caused dissent, maybe even civil war, but a greater darkness than pride had come to Terra.

Madness exploded within the Hives of earth as blood-riven cultists of Khorne emerged as one. The skies above broke open as the Astronomicon dimmed and Warp Storms filled the air. Invigorated once more, however, Guilliman reacted instantly.

This brutal war carried itself to the very gates of the palace as the Avenging Son led a combined force of Primaris, Astartes, Custodes and Sisters against the carnal legions. Here was won a clear victory, the bloodthirsters in charge decimated before their righteous might.

So furious was Khorne, so enraged with the ease at which he had been bested by Guilliman, that he turned on his generals and obliterated them. Terra was secure once more and from the heights of the Emperor's Palace 
<br>
did Guilliman decree a new war for the
<br>
Imperium...

<br><br>
***The Indomitus Crusade***

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## Back from the Brink

For the next century would Guilliman direct this Crusade from Terra, the forces of the Imperium marshalled once more into unified might. These campaigns brought with them not just a new doctrine for battle, the Avenging Son moving away from his Codex, but also technology as of yet unseen.

Primaris Marines, those born of a perfected gene-seed, began to fill the ranks of the Astartes and weapons remembered from times of old were introduced to their armouries. Even the Custodes returned to battle, their service to the Emperor finally taking them out of the confines of the Palace.

Such time of glory was matched only by the threat they all faced. The Imperium rent by terrible Warp Storms, each world conquered merely matched another fallen into darkness. Eventually, however, the Crusade began to come to an end, its victory assured even at a terrible cost.

But as one battle ended, another began, and Guilliman rushed to his homeworld that faced the bitter might of Mortarion. Across numerous worlds the Avenging Son quenched the diseased flames of ruin, and across numerous worlds the Imperium claimed victory one by one.

It was on Iax however, where brother would once more face brother. Upon a world ravaged by virus bombs and terrible plague, Guiliman descended into the mist against Mortarion. The two fought to a standstill, the indomitable nature of the Reaper matched by the divine fury of the Avenging Son. This would not be 
<br>
the last time they met
<br>
however.

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## Against Death Itself

The two, unable to determine a victor, seperated and went their separate ways, greater battles calling for their attention. A hundred wars, a thousand battles, millions died in pain, caught between gods and their children.

Finally, on Parmenio, the results of this conflict were finally determined. Lured here by the Death Guard, Guilliman was ambushed by Mortarion, Typhus and a terrible Daemon known as Ku'Gath.

Barely able to match the Reaper, Guilliman was soon beaten back by his reinforcements, the Emperor's Blade burning dimly as the life of its wielder fled. No quick death came for the Avenging Son, for plague takes its time, and enjoys the fading agony of its prey.

The Emperor's Light cares not for the darkness however, and in the midst of shadow stepped forth a single child. Burning bright with golden fury, she banished the plagued mists that claimed this world, devoured whole the fell shroud that entombed the Primarch.

Alone she stood and by her word were the Daemons of Chaos banished, the forces of the traitors repelled. Mortarion was hurled from realspace and Guilliman stood now, free of his dying breath, and filled with vigor once again.

Whoever this child was, a saint of the Emperor or something perhaps darker than even the mad gods, is unknown. Chaos had devoured its fill however, and retreated upon itself in cannabalistic fury.

But something fell comes this way, something quiet that has slept for many years. One light, even blessed by the Emperor, is no safeguard against terrors more ancient than sin. There is no peace for the righteous, no balm for the sacred...

The silence moves once more in the night as old foes return in the lands of the dead...
<br><br>
***This War Has Just Begun...***

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### Armour of Reason

A set of Artificer Armour, it was known as the "Ever-Reforged" due to the Primarch's propensity to remake it with countless changes. With the aid of Vulkan and Ferrus Manus, it was one of the most finely-tuned pieces of defensive equipment in existence.

### Gladius Incandor

A carefully made power sword, designed to fight in any arena against any foe, this weapon was more than just a tool for death. It was a symbol of the Ultramarines and their versatile nature.

### The Arbitrator

A favourite of the Primarch, this combi-bolter was named for the matters it so often settled. Designed to withstand forces incapable of imagining, each bolt chambered was hand-crafted by a master smith, and capable of dealing death with pin-point accuracy.

### Cognis Signum

A strange collection of sensory devices, these were inspired by the Thallax Cybernetic Warriors against whom he once fought. They granted the Primarch immense awareness of the battlefield, as well as security against any foe in the shadows.

### Armour of Fate

Hand designed by Bellisarius Cawl, it possesses strange mechanisms designed to ensure the life of whoever inhabits it. Used to resurrect Guilliman from his terrible wound, it has protected him well in the years past.

### The Emperor's Sword

Possessing a fragment of the Emperor's psychic might, this weapon was once held by the Master of Mankind during the Great Crusade. Now its flame-wrought edge brings ruin against man and Daemon alike, capable of hewing even the stoutest armour with ease.

### Hand of Dominion

This ancient weapon has been worn by the Primarch since the very beginning of the Great Crusade. Enhanced repeatedly, its energy field can crush the life out of even vehicles, and the in-built bolter can lay down withering hails of fire.

### Iron Halo

Usually worn as a symbol of honour, this protective device has been enhanced for the Primarch, creating a device worthy of one without equal.

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# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="Black">Chapter Twelve</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="Black">Mortarion</font>

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##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">*As far as  I ride, I ride to escape death, yet never once has my horse outpaced his. <br> Each land that I visit, each step that I take, the reaper steps as well.* </font>

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# The Long Quiet
T*his world bears upon it the sign of God's mistrust, a ruin where nought grows, no life sent by providence. A fitting metaphor perhaps, for the arrogance of I, my pride barren of love, compassion or faith.*

Once lord of a loyal Legion, now master of ruin and decay, Mortarion's struggle with his own self began long ago. Raised to endure hardships of any kind, he embodied this trait more than any other, willing to accept pain and anguish beyond what even the immortal soul can bear.

This focus on survival above all else, this driving need to prove his existence against the hostility of the universe, showed itself within the pallid reaper. Failure could mean only death and so failure must be avoided, a mantra that would push him and his sons to the very brink... And over.

Such perversion would be the essence of this Primarch, his understanding of all things warped by a lifetime that should never have been. He loved as only the abused can, aspired upon towers of self-hatred. He was a mirror shattered and repaired, each piece replaced by hands unsure of what had once been there.

Despite these imperfections however, these cardinal flaws that would see him undone, Mortarion adored his Legion like none other. The lives of his children were never wasted, no harm dealt that he could not prevent.

Every choice he made was for their protection, and in a search for good corrupted by eyes too used to the shadow. He would hold up the very skies, bear the weight of all suffering and pain. He would endure so that others would not have to...

Such a shame that he was as hard as diamond and brittle as glass. No one was meant to withstand the horror of a dying galaxy alone...
<br><br>
***And Even Atlas Fell Eventually...***

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## Within
## The Mists

Like many of the Primarchs who 
<br>
fell to Chaos, information regarding the 
<br>
Reaper's origin is sparse and unreliable. Only 
<br>
the *Stygian Scrolls* speak of his arrival in any 
<br>
detail, and copies are hard to come by, secreted away 
<br>
by the watchful eyes of the Inquisition.

It was on the shrouded world of Barbarus that Mortarion landed, a place of poisonous fog and reaving dead. Here in the midst of great carnage did the young child plummet, a screaming voice amidst the silence of the grave.

The High Overlord Necare heard these wails and was amazed. No human should be able to survive high in these mountains, where the fog was thick, and so he began his search for the boy. A whole day passed before he found Mortarion, small and weak amidst the haze, and chose to take him into his care.

The Warlord had long since desired a child, and even his fell mastery of the necromantic arts had provided no salvation or triumph. This boy proved to be an answer to his dark prayers and so he named him Mortarion, the Child of Death.

Mortarion proved to be an elegant student of all that he studied, quickly mastering the arts of science and magic with equal ease. Stronger and stronger he grew and even his new father grew concerned, knowing deep down that he would one day supplant him.

He began to test the Reaper's endurance, taking him to greater heights until even the enhanced physiology of a Primarch could not withstand the toxic fumes. Here did Necare build his castle, protected from the winds, to ensure that any attempt to escape would end in the Pale King's demise.

Raised in this gilded cage, Mortarion craved freedom above all else. When finally the gates were opened, Mortarion embraced the open air and began his years of war. Too powerful a tool to be ignored, the Reaper was deployed against the most dangerous foes, his power unmatched, his skill unequalled.

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## Deus Mor

He fought against the dead, their bodies animated 
<br>
by foul magic. He fought against Daemons summoned by bleak sorcery and proved his strength against their eldritch blades. He fought humans and it was these that fascinated him most, those that dwelt far below where the smoke could not reach them.

He questioned his father, time and again, demanding to know who it was that settled beneath the clouds. His father grew evasive at such questions however, and refused to answer, hoping Mortarion would abandon his curiosity for fear of what he might uncover.

Eventually, as a train of slaves from below was brought to their high keep, Mortarion snapped. Disgusted at the torture, horrified at the cruel use their corpses were put to, he escaped. Hardened by constant exposure to the vile wind, he forged his way down the mountain towards the surface, abandoning the darkness from which he had been raised.

Here he smelt food for the first time, tasted air free of the filter's touch. The wind did not burn his skin, the land grew life beyond mere pale stone. He had descended from on high and found a world in which he could truly thrive, and a people he could truly know.
<br><br>
***The Reaper Had Found His Home...***

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## In Respect Comes Death

Amidst these moribund souls did Mortarion find his place. Though they were suspicious at first, he proved a remarkable aide to their community. Plying the fields and mending their gear, he was easily worth ten men, and as time passed he became beloved by the community.

It was not long later however, that he found his chance to truly prove his worth. A raiding band from the mountain tyrants had descended in search of flesh for their experiments, and the Reaper could not stand idly by against such assault.

With a simple farmer's scythe, Mortarion charged into the fray as the living dead were added to his harvest. Monsters from a thousand nightmares clashed against the Pallid Prince and all fell to his blade, reaped and tallied.

The warlord leading the assault had not expected such furious defence and retreated to his mountain hold, safe amidst the noxious shield that kept humanity trapped beneath. His surprise was great then, when Mortarion emerged from the mists, hate driving him on as he brought ruin to this great hall.

Returning once more to the surface, Mortarion was hailed as a hero. Taking charge of the defence, he began to marshal the people of this world into an army. He taught them how to fight, brought blacksmiths into the arts of war and soon the villages were replaced with strongholds.

Across the land did the destitute rise up against their tormentors, raids matched with a fury only the truly distraught can know. Mortarion began to travel, visiting other villages and fortresses, and soon his legend had spread. Each battle fought only fueling the fires within their hearts.

## To the Throne of God

Ultimate vengeance was denied the Reaper however, for though he could assail the warlords in their mountain keeps, no other human could follow him. Alone he was powerful but against the massed armies of his foe, even his enhanced strength would not avail him.

Instead he turned his mind to craft, producing the first filtration devices that allowed his soldiers to ascend the toxic clouds. Taking the strongest of those who fought, men and women who had survived numerous clashes with the dead, he scaled the cliffs and brought the war to the skies.

Higher and higher they climbed, each battle leaving only the ruin of retribution behind. Every conflict fought hardened those soldiers with him, known now as the Death Guard, and each day saw the Reaper refine further the technology that allowed them to survive.

Day by day, week by week, the mountains were cleansed of their foe. Only the peak remained out of reach, far too dangerous for even his cunning craft and durable form to endure. Enraged at this obstacle darkening his path, Mortarion scoured the world in search of an answer. Eventually he met a brazen skinned man, his accent as strange as his form.

This stranger challenged Mortarion to take the final mansion alone, to end the blight of these necromancers as once he had aided them. Should he succeed he would be free, able once more to enjoy a life he had sought for so long. Should he fail however...
<br><br>
***Once More Would He Bend The Knee.***

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## Once More In Chains

Unbalanced and lost to reason, Mortarion accepted the challenge and set out at once. Higher and higher he climbed, he grasp with bloodied hands driving him on, the pain reminding him of life.

Through biting winds and bitter fumes he held onto life, a single focused rage driving him onwards through agony unimaginable. Cresting the very top of the mountain, he pulled himself up, armour melting beneath the corrosive skies.

Choking and dying, his vision began to fade as his father stepped forward from the mist. The warlord had promised death to Mortarion should he ever return, and as the Reaper lay here, his mortal coil slipping free, Necare stepped forward to fulfill his oath.

Out of the shadows however, came deliverance in golden light. The stranger raised high his blade and cut down the necromancer, ending his life quickly and without remorse. Defying the death that clung to the winds, he helped Mortarion to his feet and revealed himself fully to the Pale King.

He was the Emperor of Mankind, Mortarion but one of his many children hewn in his image to conquer the galaxy. Faced with such power, and remembering the bet he had made, Mortarion bent his knee in supplication, swearing himself fully to the Imperium.

His was not the only presence on the mountain however, though the Reaper was not aware of it. Deep in the recesses of his mind, dark and shadowed a voice whispered softly to him. Broken as he was, so near to death, it would be fair to assume such ramblings as the product of a dying mind but the truth was something darker...

Nurgle had found his chosen child, and already his touch lay upon him. It would not be long before he lay claim to a soul already in his path.

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## Risen from the Ashes

Risen to the stars, Mortarion was placed in charge of the Dusk Raiders, the 14th Legion of the Astartes, and he quickly began to shape them in his image. The hardy endurance he exemplified shared by those born of his genetic coil.

Naming them the Death Guard in honour of those he had once fought with, Mortarion led his Legion into the Crusade, soon earning a reputation for relentless perseverance against overwhelming odds.

Even in the early days was their fortitude famed, the Astartes of the Reaper's lineage lauded for their capacity to endure pain and keep on walking. As time passed however, those Terrans who made up the ranks were replaced, newcomers from Barbarus stepping into their place.

This clash of culture formed a growing rift within the Legion, those from Mortarion's home sharing a resistance to toxins with their father that the Terrans could never hope to match. Some began to suspect that the natives of his world should have been cleansed, and that fell practices were being performed on the neophytes taken.

Nothing was ever proven, but as the Reaper led his army of the dead onwards, he earned few friends. Only Horus and Konrad ever betrayed a seeming fondness for the Pale King, the others disturbed by his dour manner and feral appearance.

These were dismissed out of hand, fuel for a burning bitterness that grew as the years passed. Often ignored, his Legion thrown into the nightmare wastelands of alien worlds too hostile for other Legions, Mortarion's hate burned brightest for the witch.

Magnus the Red, the Sorcerer King of Prospero, was the paragon of all that Mortarion hated. A practitioner of dark arts who knew no caution in his pursuit of foul power. A reckoning would soon cross the horizon.

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## A Black Reputation

This growing malaise upon the heart of Mortarion was met with some concern by his brothers. His loyalty was greater to Horus than the Emperor and the open disdain in which he viewed his kin promised only violence in the future.

Guilliman and Corax grew so worried over the Reaper's actions that they even approached the Emperor, seeking his influence to pull their brother from the brink, but the Master of Mankind merely waved away their concerns. Loyalty to Horus was loyalty to the Emperor after all.

As such, left along with his thoughts to continue warring as he saw fit, Mortarion grew more hollow as time passed. Repeatedly he faced those whose arts dabbled in the warp and his disgust for their use knew no limits.

Soon, even the Imperium's sanctioning of psykers was too much for the Pale King. He returned to Terra to once more make his case to the Master of Mankind, and during his visit stole into the Emperor's Palace to find what secrets he kept hidden.

Discovering the Golden Throne, he was aghast that his father so casually sided with the servants of magic. Malcador eased his concerns however, informing the Reaper that such a device only served to sever mankind from the Warp.

Convinced now that his view on sorcery was valid, Mortarion continued on with his campaigns, rallying those uncomfortable with witchcraft beneath his banner. Little did others know, however, that the Pallid Prince himself was a potent psyker whose arts he denied. Self-deception had ever been the armour that protected him most...

## The Prince's Trial

Eventually, enough had been drawn to his view that the Emperor could no longer stand by and watch. After Horus was named Warmaster, the Council of Nikaea was called to answer, once and for all, the Librarian Problem.

Here did Mortarion give his speech, impassioned and to the point as was often his way. This struck the Emperor deeply and, after Magnus' bombastic display of arrogance and pride, the Master of Mankind saw no other choice but to rule in the Reaper's favour.

The Librarian Project was disbanded, the Legions forbidden from delving into the Aether in search of 
<br>
power or knowledge. Mortarion had won but he did 
<br>
not linger to gloat nor revel, merely moving on to 
<br>
the next conquest in his path.

So would he continue until the very end, until the Warmaster fell to envenomed blade and dark treason. As Horus pledged his service to the mad Gods of Chaos, so too did his brothers pledge their blades to him.

Mortarion seemed like an obvious candidate, a being wracked with self-doubt and anger towards the Imperium. It would surprise many then to know, that Mortarion proved difficult to convince, his endurance stretching beyond the physical as Horus warred with his loyalty.

Eventually however, Mortarion broke, convinced that the Master of Mankind had become nothing more than another warlord bewitched. Even before the Heresy, Mortarion had begun to see the Emperor as a Warp-fuelled aberration, and with the poisoned words of the Warmaster lingering in his ear, he swore his loyalty to Horus.
<br><br>
***The Rage of Silence Had Awoken...***

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## Of Fathers and Sons

With his betrayal cemented in certainty, Mortarion had little choice but to excise those elements who would not follow him into damnation. Above the world of Istvaan III he sent them down to their death, even as each word of their execution left him hollow.

He could not kill them all however, perhaps grief or desperation forcing his hand towards mercy. Nathanial Garro would later escape this tragedy, spared such murder by the Reaper, and inform the Imperium about the madness that had been allowed to occur.

With the last shard of weakness purged from his forces, Mortarion would settle on Istvaan V in preparation for the war to come. The traitor forces would spend the coming months fortifying their position against the retribution that sailed their way.

Here on the barren plains would brother once more fight against brother, the skies rent apart with flame. Loyalist crashed against heathen as Mortarion swept the field, the Reaper once more seeking his harvest as blades flashed against his shadowed form.

Nothing could stop this spectre of war. No weapon designed by mortal minds could do more than mark his armour as this revenant scattered entire companies with his ashen laughter and harrowed touch. A figure of myth from times long forgotten, Mortarion had become death, and by his name did ruin follow.

With the loyalist forces shattered, their Primarchs slain or missing, the traitors regrouped now as a single force. Eight Legions stood ready for war, each here of their own design, each following a fate like none other.

At the head of them all stood Horus, Arch-Heretic and Warmaster of the Ruinous Powers. On his word, the traitors scattered, their orders given as they brought a war against the Imperium like none other.

Mortarion was no exception, and on the Sea of Storms he rode. Death came, and his pale knights followed in kind.

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## These Forgotten Souls

As the Death Guard left annihilation in their wake, slaughter but an errant consequence of their passage, the problem of the White Scars had arrived. Jaghatai Khan had travelled to Prospero in search of answers to the madness that split the galaxy in two.

Eager to intercept the Wild Knight, Mortarion followed in his wake, worried that such an unpredictable entity could cause terrible harm to the Warmaster's rebellion. Teleporting down to the surface as the Khan emerged once more, he attempted to charm the Primarch and draw him to Horus' banner.

Silken words and silver tongue had never been talents the Reaper possessed and, faced with Jaghatai's refusal, the two fell to battle. Lightning speed met indomitable wrath, grace unmatched clashed against the Reaper's strength as the two shadows fought upon a dying world.

Both had lived without recognition, neither remembered in tale or myth. Angels both they might have been but the secrets carried in the hearts of these two warriors would have impressed even the darkest fiend.

At first they appeared evenly matched, but the dark powers of Chaos had already began their influence upon the Reaper. White as the fresh snow, appearing more dead than living, never before had the Pallid Prince seemed so alive, each movement a vibrant display of life against his harrowed form.

Before he could end the Khan's life however, the White Scars in orbit had erupted into civil war and general violence. The Death Guard had been dragged into the fray and Mortarion was unwilling to risk his fleet in such a manner.

Escaping from the surface, he left the Wild Knight to his internecine conflict, choosing instead to visit his wrath upon the worlds around Prospero. He had always hated Magnus, and those lands would regret such proximity to his light.

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## This Mirror Darkly

During his rampage throughout the former lands of the Red King, Mortarion was soon faced with those beasts of the empyrean he hated most. Daemons of the worst kind, masquerading in the flesh of others, battled him and his sons wherever he went.

Eventually faced with such a creature, the Reaper was forced to utilise those powers innate to his soul. Psychic fury devoured the fiend and in that moment did the Pale King realise the true lie of the Emperor.

The Warp was not empty, it did not lack soul or personality, nor was it missing meaning and purpose. It was alive and only those of weak will were carried into its madness. Here, Mortarion pledged to master its fell knowledge, to take control of that power singing in his blood.

Driven onwards by this new purpose, Mortarion would seek out anything that would help him gain control of his new passion. Still, he was no wayward knight nor errant ally, and the needs of the Heresy were at the forefront of his efforts.

Arriving next on Moloch, he attended a meeting with Horus and Fulgrim, as the Warmaster strove to gain access to that strange gift the Master of Mankind had stolen from the Gods. An assassination attempt by a rogue Iron Hand force was narrowly averted as war was brought against the guardians left by the Emperor long ago.

Here did the Reaper reveal his new-found talents with sorcery, sacrificing his loyal bodyguard in order to resurrect the tortured soul of one of his marines. Imbuing this Daemonic ally with the essence of the Life-Eater Virus, Mortarion had created a true artifice of viral decay, a being of diseased humour to whom destruction was just a matter of course.

Such creations as these swiftly won the war for Horus, and the Warmaster emerged from the fae portal a changed being. No longer human in any way, his very presence caused reality to shift.

The White Scars remained a problem 
<br>
however, and Mortarion would 
<br>
be sent to finish what he 
<br>
had started... 
<br>
Once and for all.

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## A Last Minute Escape

Rendezvousing with the Emperor's Children, the Reaper and his men set about luring the Khan into a trap. Exhausted and running low on supplies, the White Scars had little chance of survival if they did not make it back to Terra immediately.

Baiting their foe towards a strange artefact known as the *Dark Glass*, the traitors surprised the Wild Knight by their knowledge of this obscure device. Quickly surrounding his fleet, Mortarion boarded their flagship in search of the Khan.

Too late he realised his mistake, how easily he had been fooled by Jaghatai who was nowhere to be found on board. Instead there were only warriors, suicidal in their frenzy, who overloaded the reactors, intent on taking the Pallid Prince with them.

Slaughtering his way through the White Scars, Mortarion displayed his mastery of the Warp as strange weapons of chaotic design left but ash and horror in their wake. Desperately ordering his ships to destroy the shields, the Reaper barely escaped alive. The crack of his teleportation but a warning shot for the detonation that followed.

Knowing there was no way to catch the Khan now that he had escaped, Mortarion ordered his fleets to converge once more. The Death Guard had never operated well without their father and such was beginning to show as losses mounted across a thousand worlds.

The final battle had almost arrived, no longer was there a need for dozen blades...
<br><br>
***Only A Single Fist of Iron***

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## Once More, The Mists

Ordered now to move on Terra, Mortarion met up with the rest of his fleet under Typhon. The First Captain of the Death Guard had long been a source of admiration within the Legion, and a favoured child of the Primarch.

When the Reaper set eyes upon him however, suspicion grew within his heart. Much had changed within the Death Guard, and though Mortarion was much different than before, such changes were magnified tenfold within the Captain.

Still, Terra awaited them and now was not the time for such concerns. Setting forth into the Sea of Storms, they travelled its umbral tides onwards towards victory. Alas, all was not as it seemed, for the Typhus was forced to slay the Navigators guiding their ships.

Claiming they were agents of the Imperium intent on sending them to their doom, the First Captain promised the Pale King that he and his cohorts could bring them to safety. Their travels had taught them much, and their powers had grown dramatically in their fathers absence.

Suspicions growing, Mortarion allowed their work to continue in the face of little other choice. These suspicions were well-earned however, as during the journey a terrible plague swept through the fleet.

Named the Destroyer Hive, Mortarion could only watch helplessly as his sons fell to its touch, one by one mutating into abominations of flesh that could never know death. Eventually, even Mortarion fell prey to its touch, and driven mad with pain he confronted Typhon for his betrayal.

## Reborn Through Pain

The First Captain quickly admitted to his crime, purporting that it was all for a greater good. Enraged at such treason, despairing as his children screamed in agony, Mortarion hurled himself at the First Captain.

Even aided by sorcery and the favour of Nurgle, Typhon was soon outmatched by the cold fires of the revenant. In a single blow, Mortarion ended his life... As the First Captain returned once more to life.

Unsure now if he dwelt in reality or some fell fever dream, Mortarion unleashed all under his command in his efforts to annihilate Typhon. None succeeded however, and even the Daemon forged on Moloch did little more than render the First Captain inert for a moment.

Broken, his life draining from his body as hallucinations claimed his mind, Mortarion sank to the floor, defeated. Once more he found himself on Barbarus, once more Necare stood above him as the whispers began anew.

He snapped, the pain of every breath, the screams of his Legion, all the sorrows and agony he had endured during the Crusade. All this and more built up to a crescendo in his mind and without any other choice, he begged for relief.

Though the Battle of Terra was long ready by the time he arrived, what emerged from the Warp bore no resembelance to the proud yet gaunt Prince. Now came a force for ruin, a force for death... A force of plague.

Durable beyond the mortal ken, inhuman in every way but their rage, Horus granted Mortarion the right of first blood. Leading his putrid forces into the fray, the Reaper brought pestilence and disease with every breath he took.

Hell had come to Terra...
<br><br>
***And Its Name Was Death...***

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## This Final Hour

Relishing in his new found power, his sorrow buried beneath this facade of greed, Mortarion hurled his Legion into the most dire fights. While the newly formed Typhus worked with Perturabo on destroying the vast shield that protected Terra from psychic intrusion, Mortarion once more met with Magnus.

Previously mortal enemies, the two now shared a common ailment, a blessing not asked for and yet impossible to deny. The Reaper admitted to the Red King that his new form brought only agony with every breath, his eagerness for battle just a cover to avoid the aching grief of his failure.

He hated himself truly, and the despair devoured him each day he did not die. Magnus sympathised and knew truly of what his brother spoke of. Teaching the Pallid Prince his secrets learned from his broken form, Magnus was able to provide the Primarch with some measure of relief and succour.

Grateful beyond words, Mortarion would change his plans to aid his eldritch brother, charging into the fray so that the Thousand Sons could infiltrate the Emperor's Palace unharmed. Such camaraderie would mean little in the coming days however, for Horus would be slain and the traitors shattered by the combined might of the Imperium.

Fleeing back to the Eye of Terror, Mortarion would claim the Plague World as his own. Shaping it into a diseased wasteland of toxic mist and vile fauna, it became the perfect staging point for future incursions into realspace.

So pleased was he with the Reaper's craft, that Nurgle, Lord of Decay, raised the Primarch to the ranks of the Daemon Princes. Lord now over his own domain, his children fanatic in their loyalty to his work, Mortarion had finally achieved his dream.

He had finally come home...

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## An Angel of Death

Mortarion would spend the next five thousand years caught up in the Great Game played endlessly between the gods and their servants. The Materium held little of interest to the Pallid Prince, its entertainments few and short-lived by their nature.

It was on the world of Sanctia that he would emerge for the first time since the Heresy, having created a devious plague delivered to the servants of a large ork force. Driven onwards by this feral virus, the greenskins would invade the planet and devour all that they found.

Living and dead, all were consumed by the Daemonic hunger that knew no end. The Adeptus Sororitas would eventually intervene but at this moment did the Reaper reveal himself, the Pallid Prince slaughtering all in his path.

His plague perfect, a world devoted to the Emperor left in ruin, he would continue to spread this illness across a dozen worlds before retreating once more into the Eye of Terror.

It was on Kornovin however, that Mortarion would find a true reason to turn his rage against reality. Having returned once more to existence, disease in ready flock behind him, he was challenged upon this planet by the Grey Knights of Titan.

Whole sectors had already fallen to his touch, but ash on the winds of his laughter, and against these silvered knights he saw no real threat. Slaying their Grandmaster, his harrowed scythe wreaked a wicked toll upon these servants of the Emperor.

That is until Kaldor Draigo, armed with the knowledge of his True Name, banished the Prince of Decay back to the Warp, carving the name of their deceased commander into his heart. Such an insult could never be forgotten by the Reaper, such disrespect vile in his eyes. The Reaper knew rage and he swore he would have his due.

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## The Bell Tolls

Left to stew in his anger, once more his attention drawn to reality, Mortarion would soon learn of Guilliman's return. Realising that now the end had come, Mortarion set forth in vengeance. None could be allowed to escape ruin's ready grasp, nor flee from death's visage.

The entirety of the Death Guard had been called to war for the first time in 10,000 years, and as one they answered. Seven plagues the Reaper had made in anticipation and with glee he unleashed them all across the Ultramarine's worlds.

In their wake, darkness followed, the armies of decay in lockstep behind him as his soldiers ravaged those lands dearest to Guilliman. Known as the Plague Wars, whole systems were drowned in a war unlike any other, one where the dead were just as much a foe as the living.

Desperate to goad the Avenging Son into battle, whole populations were put to the sword. Eventually, on Iax, the two would meet in battle, black wings of rot buffeting the Blade of Unity as mists of viral hate surrounded them both.

Neither one could gain an edge, the light of the Emperor equal in all ways to the darkness of the Ruinous powers. Forced into a stalemate, Mortarion retreated, destruction left behind him as a warning not to follow.

The new power of the Avenging Son had surprised Mortarion, but devious craft had ever been a skill of the Reaper. On Parmenio a trap was set, Typhus and the Daemon Ku'Gath luring him in only to restrain him with dark magic.

The Reaper crowed, his success at hand, but all was 
<br>
not as it seemed. A single child came forth from the shadows and, burning bright with the Emperor's fury, she banished him back to the Warp, aflame with righteous vindication.

Now the Great Game returns in full, the madness of Chaos turning upon itself as their frayed alliance snaps. The end comes in the shadow of a broken angel, death upon its scythe. Mortarion will return as all falls to darkness...
<br><br>
***And A Foe Older Than Death Returns...***

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### The Barbaran Plate

A suit of armour combining elements of ancient design with aspects drawn from Mortarion's ingenuity, it contained elements of the toxic air on Barbarus. Producing an ominous aura of fear, it also drove those near him into fits of near fatal coughing.

### Silence

This macabre weapon has long drawn tales of terrible power and strength. Suspected to be of alien make, its fell edge could cut through armour with ease, and some suspect it was possessed of dark powers long before the Reaper fell to shadow.

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### The Lantern

A firearm produced on the industrial world of Shenlong, all knowledge of its design was lost when the Emperor put them to the sword. Capable of firing bursts of terrible energy, those struck by its blast were reduced to atoms, their existence removed from fate.

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# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="Black">Chapter Thirteen</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="Black">Magnus</font>

<div style='margin-top:800px;'></div>
  
##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White"> <br><br><br><br> *They gave him gifts like never before, gifts of knowledge and power, of hope and love. In return, he gave the Gods the gift of war...* </font>

</div>

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# The Crimson King

S*ome might call him envious, others proud. I find personally that he is obsessed, driven to discover the truth behind the mirror. He is a storm about to break, a furnace in all its rage... and no matter the derision sent his way, he is a master of an art far darker than Dragon Flame.*

Raised in two worlds, rather than one, Magnus had always been the most ethereal of the Primarchs. A master of the psychic arts, a genius unrestrained by the mortal coil, the Red Prince was quite possibly one of the most powerful entities to walk the galaxy.

Strength without reason and potential unrestrained by sanity or caution make for a dark combination however, and though the very stars would dim at his command, his own light burned without control.

Such arrogance would draw its detractors from all he would meet. He was convinced beyond doubt that his purpose was true, his path correct and all those who stood in his path were but fools, terrified of progress and doomed to live in the shadow of his greatness.

From these towering heights however, would the Prince of Sorcery fall. Reckless and without restraint, it did not take a power of equal might to bring him low, but only a glint of something more. Like a wisp luring travellers into the shadowed marsh, but a simple trick and the Crimson King fell.

Neither warrior nor sage of battle, the Red Prince would bring the edge of knowledge to the realms of Chaos. This, more than anything, would prove to be his most dangerous weapon, truth corrupted by one who understood its limitations, reality warped by one who knew its flaws.

So begins the tale of Magnus the Red, burned upon a pyre of his own making. He would be remembered as a Daemon of the darkest arts, a scion of hope lost in his desperate need to progress. All this and more would merely hide the tragedy behind the myth...
<br><br>
***He Had Failed Before His First Step...***

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## A World and Cage

Unlike any of his brothers, Magnus had been raised fully aware of who he was. Gestating within the pods that contained all of his kin, his mind had quickly escaped from the shell that was his mortal form.

As his body was slowly constructed around him, the science of the Emperor's work growing to its full potential, Magnus reached out and spoke with his father. Back and forth they communicated as the Crimson King learned of why he had been made, and as his form had finished, his mind had already surpassed such wonder.

Alas, such happy moments would be forgotten quickly in the madness that followed. Stolen from the depths by forces unknown, each of the Primarchs was hurled through the Warp, violently stolen and scattered throughout the galaxy.

Upon the barren world of Prospero would the Red Prince land, an asylum for psykers during the Dark Age of Technology. Isolated, and far from the reach of others, the tragedy that had befallen their land had been ignored, and what was once beautiful had turned to ash.

A single city lay upon its surface, Tizca, the City of Light. All else outside its boundaries was but dust on the wind, haunted by a terrible predator known as the *Psychneuein*. These strange creatures, born of the Warp, hunted psykers, devouring their minds as they implanted them with their offspring.

Only the wards maintained by the natives kept these creatures out, and it was within these walls that Magnus landed, crashing into the heart of the city to the astonishment of all. Anywhere else would his sorcerous gifts have earned him death, but here, such power brought him fame and adoration.

\columnbreak

## Too Fast a Climb

Raised by the scholars and arcane masters of this world, Magnus proved himself a prodigy in the eldritch arts. Mastering every technique, perfecting every spell, The Red Prince quickly grew to be the greatest amongst their number.

His greatest success however, would also be his downfall. Rather than channeling the Warp into reality, he instead looked deep into its tides, severing his soul from physical form to escape upon its tides.

No longer hampered by the rules of the material world, Magnus became a master of the Immaterium instantly. Returning now, changed and invigorated, he took charge of the lonely city and began to rework it into a beacon of knowledge.

A vast library was constructed to house all they discovered about sorcery, its surroundings torn down and replaced with beautiful architecture that defied the rules set by the universe. The adepts that studied were organised into a vast institution that enabled learning and progress like never before.

What had once been a world ruled by fear and superstitious science rapidly grew into a bastion of knowledge unfettered by caution or restraint. Magnus' foster-father, Amon, tried to convince the Red Prince to slow down, to stare not too deep into the abyss, but such cowardice was met with laughter. There were no secrets too dangerous for the Crimson King...

Eventually, the land was reclaimed from the *Psychneuein*, driven to near extinction by Magnus' crusades. Numerous cities were rebuilt and the population flourished...
<br><br>
***The Red Prince Had Claimed His Crown...***

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## A Bittersweet Reunion

Having never truly separated from his father, and possessing a mind that shone like a lighthouse within the Warp, it did not take long for the Emperor to make his way to Prospero. With no need to disguise his intentions, nor cloaks his powers, the Master of Mankind arrived in glory, and the two rulers greeted each other as old friends.

The two spent much time in conversation, talking about their successes and triumphs, arguing over matters great and small. Upon the matters of sorcery however, and the conversation grew dark.

Once more did Magnus' father urge caution in the face of pandemonium, and once more did the Red Prince ignore such sage wisdom, confident in his ability to equal any danger residing within the Sea of Storms.

Eventually, however, the Crusade called once more and the Crimson King was placed in charge of the 15th Legion. Sadly, though his gift for the arcane had passed through his blood, granting his children access to terrible powers, so too had a sickness unlike any other.

It appeared to be a curse of their very helix, the Thousand Sons facing hell itself as their powers caused riotous change in their form. All eventually fell to this malady, their bodies twisted by dark energies that left them as but screaming mutants of agonized flesh.

Only a thousand of them remained once Magnus had arrived, their name perhaps a tragic coincidence or maybe fell prophecy. So ruined were they that many within the Imperium called for their execution, a mercy in their eyes against such harrowed end.

## Desperate Measures

Such an ignoble fate horrified the Crimson King and he begged the Emperor to give him time, time to find a cure or perhaps some knowledge regarding the origin of this malady. Impressed by his sons passion, the Master of Mankind agreed and so Magnus would spend years in search of an answer.

As more of his sons fell to the change, Magnus dug deeper into the Warp, desperate for anything that would shed some light on this curse. Eventually he succeeded, the illness halted by works unknown.

Never would the Red Prince admit to how he had achieved this success, for the truth flew in the face 
<br>
of sanity and reason. A bargain made with some 
<br>
strange being in the Aether, a trade of his eye for knowledge, Magnus was certain he had bested 
<br>
this spirit but if others knew they would condemn 
<br>
him as a witch.

In truth, he had dealt with Tzeentch, Lord of Change 
<br>
and Madness. Through his arrogance had he signed his name on the ashes of hope but certain of his victory however, he never looked back, blinded from the truth of Chaos by his own relentless pride.

His Legion saved and his thirst for knowledge stronger than ever before, the Crimson King set off into the night. Though countless foes fell to their art, numerous worlds brought to the light of the Emperor without fault, their reputation for reckless behaviour and wild magic grew.

The farther they travelled, the faster they moved, the more they appeared similar to the horrors fielded against them. Soon, many began to see them as precisely that.... A nightmare of the Old Night returned.

\pagebreakNum

## Old
## Secrets

Contemptuous of his detractors, 
<br>
who he saw as little more than 
<br>
barbarians, Magnus continued his collection 
<br>
of sorcerous knowledge. Every tome, every single 
<br>
scrap of information was carefully studied and collated within a vast grimoire tethered to his side.

His sons followed in eager pursuit, each a student of the wider world as their mastery over their powers increased. Nothing was forbidden from their curiosity, no art deemed too dangerous to know, and soon the threshold between psychic finesses and fell magic had been crossed in full.

During his journey however, one of the greatest discoveries he would make would not be of human make. The secrets of the Webway were revealed to Magnus, though only partially, and on a world guarded by animate statues did the Red Prince begin to doubt...

Beneath the mountains of this fell place did the Red Prince delve, embattled all the way. Little could match his might however and as he broke into a vast cavern, he discovered a being of shadow and mist.

Battling in a world of aetheric storm, his Legion fighting for their lives against this Daemonic monstrosity, Magnus found a creature unlike any other. This was not a mindless entity, no mere shark of the Warp, but a thinking being of total malice and hate.

Taunted with the actions taken to save his Legion, distracted by the possibility that he had been fooled, the Red Prince was almost undone. Marshalling his ego however, he brought victory to himself, as he beheld a creation more wondrous than anything he had ever seen.

A wall within the Warp faced him, a barrier that the Sea of Storms could do little more than rage against as it held firm. Calling up all his powers, he forced his way in, and here did he discover the vast network of tunnels that scoured the Aether... the Webway of old.

Returning to the material once more, Magnus and his Legion eventually left, not knowing the ramifications of what they had done. The Great Crusade called once more.

\columnbreak

## Obsession

Less and less did the Thousand
<br>
Sons lead the way in war, more and more focused as 
<br>
they were on research. The Red Prince's critics grew vocal, and soon even the friendship of Horus and the Khan was unable to keep him safe.

On Ark Secundus, they joined in battle with the Word Bearers and Space Wolves. Fighting through the mountain strongholds, the arcane displays of the Thousand Sons horrified their wolfish cousins, and in the heart of their foes city did Magnus and Russ meet in rage.

Eager to study the tomes kept by these resolute foes, the Crimson King stood in the path of Russ who wished nothing more than to bring fire to their works. Neither of them were known for their calm, and as the Space Wolves charged towards the Thousand Sons, so too did sons of Magnus unleash their magic.

As arcs of lightining, walls of force and waves of crippling agony spread throughout the wolves, Russ drew his blade in fury. Only Lorgar, ever the peacemaker, was able to bring calm to the situation, but even his smooth words could do little calm the flame that had been begun to burn.

Magnus had gone too far, too freely revelled in his fell arts and now a time of reckoning had come. Always eager to look ahead, possessed of a prescience granting him sight into the future, it was in the past now that danger lurked...
<br><br>
***The Chains Had Already Been Placed.***

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## More than it Seems

Demands for censure against the Crimson King grew, and after the Triumph of Ullanor, the Emperor had no choice but to settle the matter for good. The Council of Nikaea was called and here did the Trial of Magnus begin.

Arguing passionately in defence of the psychic arts, the Red Prince proved a fearsome figure in the grand arena. His voice booming, his words aflame with promise and potential, he was in stark contrast to his opposite number.

As he finished, so too did Mortarion begin and with precise and cutting oratory did he begin to sway those who watched. Lacking the eloquence of the Crimson King, he finished quickly and to resounding applause.

Even before the verdict was given, Magnus knew he had lost. The Librarian Project was ended, the Legions once more forbidden from exploring the Aether and its secrets. The Thousand Sons had been labelled as failures, and in their penance they fled.

Even so branded did Magnus remain loyal to the Imperium however, and when Lorgar would later question his faith, search for answers in the darkness, the Red Prince would urge restraint... An irony lost on the arrogant sorcerer.

## A Grave Mistake

In the face of such blanket condemnation, Magnus retreated back to Prospero, sealing himself away in his chambers as his Legion was left abandoned. He had no intention of abandoning his eldritch pursuits and in the quiet of his keep did he begin once more his search for mastery.

On one of his many journeys would the Crimson King see the future, a fate so dark as to shock even his jaded soul. A galaxy in flames, brother fighting brother as shadows pulled at strings barely out of sight. In the center of all that he saw was Horus, wounded and dying, as he faced a choice between salvation and damnation, loyalty and betrayal.

Enacting a terrible ritual, he dragged himself into the mind of Horus. Pleading with his brother, Magnus tried desperately to draw his ailing brother back to the light, but faced with the arcane power of the Red Prince, Horus knew that his kin had forsaken the oaths he had sworn. Surrounded by Daemons, traitors and foolish family, Horus made his choice alone.

Realizing he had failed, Magnus called together a council of his greatest psykers and began a spell powerful enough to send his soul across the galaxy. No mere cantrip could conjure such strength, and so he turned to blood sacrifice, pain and ruin fuelling his descent into hell.

Entering into the Warp, his soul a beam of light that pierced through the storms choking the Imperium, Magnus strove towards Terra. The Emperor must be warned of what was coming and, seeing a shortcut through the Webway, broke through into its tunnels to more rapidly deliver his warning.

Buffeted by the winds of fate, aided by arts darker than should ever should be practiced, Magnus emerged in a crescendo of light and noise. Destroying the seal beneath the Golden Throne, his warning to the Emperor was met on deaf ears.
<br><br>
***He Had Not Come Alone...***

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## Magnus' Folly

The Master of Mankind revealed to Magnus what he had done, as Daemons poured through the breach he had made. The Emperor knew already of the Warmaster's betrayal, such crimes easily dealt with by the forces under his command.

What the Red Prince had done though, in his wilful arrogance, was beyond repair. The Emperor had sought to master the Webway, bring mankind away from the dangers of the Warp, and too blind to realise the dangers of what he did, Magnus had destroyed it all.

Finally realising the magnitude of his actions, the Red Prince faded away, allowing the spell binding him here to pull him back. Returning to Prospero, he said nothing as he left, hiding away from his Legion as they begged him for answers, saying nothing as he disabled their protection.

His silence went on and on, each day passing by. He was silent as his children begged for his attention, silent as the Space Wolves arrived in orbit. He was silent as the world burned and silent as his Legion perished around him.

Finally, his favourite son Ahriman reached out to him, pleading for his intervention. Emerging from his chamber, he stood before Leman Russ, guarding those fledgling remnants of his Legion from his wrath.

The two fought, blade against fang, sorcery against rage, leaving wounds in both physical form and ethereal soul. The Crimson King had never been a warrior however, and against the Winter's Woe, he was outmatched.

A last act saved him, a final spell enacted as he was broken over the Wolf King's knee. In a storm of magic and aetheric rage, the Red Prince and his sons were stolen from the world and deposited deep within the Warp.

Such power was beyond the Crimson King however, and he had made a final bargain to ensure his survival. He had offered his soul to Tzeentch, his mind and body sacrificed to the mad gods whim. Left with only the ruins of what he had raised, he realised now how he had been fooled from the very beginning.

Magnus turned his mind to rebuilding, but first he would have to repair himself. His body burned to ash by the 
<br>
power of the spell, he was but a being of thought and malice. Even worse, his soul had fragmented, 
<br>
its shards scattered throughout space.

Now a shell, Magnus would be 
<br>
reforged...

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## The Road to Hell...

Dispatching Ahriman to retrieve those fragments he could, Magnus waited as his essence began to fade. Fortunately for the Red Prince, his son succeeded as four shards were returned to their master, delaying his end and returning to him his power.

The last shard known however, was on Terra, and it possessed what remained of his humanity and love. Swearing that he would regain that which he had lost, he joined Horus' rebellion in the hopes of restoring himself fully.

Sailing out of their astral home, the Thousand Sons answered the call to arms at Ullanor, breaking their silence at long last. Moving on to Terra, the dark arts of sorcery now fully theirs to control, the Scions of Magnus would prove to be a terrible weapon in the heretics arsenal.

Preparations had to be made however, for the Emperor had long guarded his works from the infernal and malefic. Stopping at Prospero before the final battle, Magnus and Ahriman searched through the ruins for a weapon that would allow them egress onto the Throneworld.

In the broken shards of their home, the two found a Daemon caged and trapped. Shai-Tan was its name and it would prove instrumental in the coming war. By this point, however, Ahriman had grown suspicious of his father and demanded answers to what had happened.

Realising that he had no choice, Magnus paused to tell Ahriman what he had done. The deal with Tzeentch, the breaking of oaths, the horrors of his arcane research, all of this laid bare as Ahriman reeled in shock.
<br><br>
***Truth Was The Greatest Curse...***

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## A Battle of Wits

Returning now to Terra with the siege well underway, Magnus' physical form had once more returned. No longer a being of genetic science and careful craft, the Red Prince had ascended into something more... Something else.

Ascended beyond humanity, beyond the most basic understanding of mortality, the Crimson King had become a Daemon Prince in service to Tzeentch. The very Warp howled at his presence as reality rejected him fully.

Initially absent from the battle as the skies rained fire, he worked carefully to bring down the Emperor's protection. Ultimately successful, he breached through and with him once more came the Daemonic servants of Chaos.

His loyalty was not entirely certain however, for as the Imperium faced its end, it took measures to ensure certain devices would not fall into the traitors hands. The *Magna Mater*, the very essence of all twenty Primarchs distilled, was liberated by the loyalists who escaped with the aid of the Thousand Sons.

Why they allowed this to happen, what prophecy or chaotic principal they followed, is unknown. As the Siege of Terra continued however, he showed no mercy to the Imperials who stood before him as he brought madness with each uttered word.

On the surface he brought the purest concept of change, the very ground moving at his whim. Here, as Daemons laughter filled the sky, he fought alongside Mortarion, himself changed greatly by the Dark Gods.

Though once grave enemies, the two stood side by side in their grief and remorse. The Reaper was unused to such matters as magic, and the blessings received caused him great pain. Sympathising with his brother, Magnus taught him how to control his powers, to harness the pain within to restore some semblance of balance.

Grateful for such knowledge, Mortarion agreed to help the Crimson King in his goal. Two brothers once more, even if for a moment.

\columnbreak

## A Rebellious Son

Delving far underground, to the Imperial Dungeons, Magnus sought for something within its walls. Whatever it was, it was not enough to change the outcome of the war. Horus was slain by the Emperor, the loyalists triumphant as the traitors were forced to flee.

Magnus appeared not to care however, for whatever it was he found had made the endeavour a success. Retreating back to the Planet of the Sorcerers, Magnus was content to pass his time in research and politicking while his sons found their own path.

Unknown to him, or perhaps he simply did not care, the Thousand Sons once more fell victim to the Flesh Change. Some within the Legion celebrated this madness, seeing it as a blessing from Tzeentch, but many were horrified, memories of the mindless husks still strong after hundreds of years.

Ahriman and a council of the most powerful sorcerers gathered together in order to enact a powerful ritual, desperate to halt this curse. The skies filled with lightning as they chanted, the air burned with dark power.

One by one the members of the Legion were struck by this enchantment, those powerful in the ways of sorcery were enhanced, while their lessers were rendered to dust in their armour. As was often the way of Tzeentch, the cabal had succeeded in the worst possible way.

Magnus was furious at this rank betrayal, his sons tampering with forces beyond their control and suffering heavily for it. Summoning Ahriman, he prepared to execute his favourite child for his crimes, but a single voice held him back.

The Mad God, ever curious, ever insane, had claimed Ahriman as his own and faced with his masters power, Magnus relented. Banishing the sorcerers from his land, he bound them to forever wander until they truly understood Tzeentch.

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## No Choice, No Will

Having sacrificed everything, his army of scholars reduced to unthinking machines, Magnus shattered. Climbing to the highest point of his tower, he swore vengeance against existence, and echoing the words of his brother, he pledged to see the galaxy burn.

He knew it was his master who had led him here, Tzeentch who had set this pain in motion, and so Magnus wished everything gone. After all... Fate cannot manipulate when all is ash and ruin.

For most of the next 10,000 years, Magnus would involve himself in study and the Great Game of the Gods and only a few times was his presence noted outside of his home. Most famously did he engage the Space Wolves on Fenris as retribution for the destruction of Prospero.

His Legion mobilised, the Red Prince launched a vast assault upon the barely defended world of the Wolves. Annihilating the fleet in orbit, the Fortress-Monastery of Fang was besieged by the mindless automatons of the *Rubricae*.

A great battle tore through the corridors and along the mountain peaks that surrounded this bastion. Eventually it culminated in a brutal duel between Magnus and five champions of the Space Wolves.

Chief amongst them was Bjorn the Fell-Handed, a warrior who had fought at the very gates of Tizca itself. Magnus recognised this weathered soul, surprised momentarily, and this gave them all the advantage they needed to press home the assault.

Beaten and bloody, his immaterial form unable to maintain its cohesion, the Crimson King was banished. The legacy he left behind however, would be remembered forever. Fang was left ruined, the Great Wolf slain in the combat amidst many others.

It would be a long time before the Wolves would hunt again...

## Reforged at Last

His spite momentarily sated against the Wolves, Magnus once more returned to the Great Game. Others, however, were less willing to wait and bide their time. In the midst of shadow, once more did Ahriman return to the Planet of the Sorcerers, and once more did he begin to enact a spell of his own design.

Hoping to undo the damage he had wrought, 
<br>
Magnus realised what was happening almost too 
<br>
late. Sensing the enchantment would exterminate 
<br>
the Thousand Sons, he intercepted the spell, 
<br>
corrupting it to his own ends.

With its power he was able to send his sense far, this strange incantation granting him vision he had never possessed. On this wings of this great casting did he reach out and grasp for the night, those shards of his soul missing once more returned.

Restored at last, so nearly remade to his original power, Magnus relished in his existence. Only those parts of him possessing good and nobility evaded him, but he cared not. His strength was paramount and none could stand in his way.

Once more did his gaze wander back to existence, once more did his sights lay on death...
<br><br>
***Once More Did The Skies Darken...***

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## A Final Revenge

Powerful like never before, Magnus returned his mind to the downfall of the Space Wolves. Long had he pulled them along, his craft bringing them closer to ruin. He had tainted their gene-seed and now the Wulfen grew in number, afflicting upon them a fear the Red Prince knew well.

Allies had been sought, cults raised in darkness upon their worlds, and as the bell tolled on high, Magnus emerged once more from the shadows. A terrible war engulfed the Fenris system and Imperial reinforcements arrived to halt this tide of madness.

Forces of all the Ruinous Powers erupted into space, orchestrated by Abaddon who wished nothing more than to see this pillar of the Imperium brought low. Amidst the confusion and endless battle, Magnus began to sow the seeds of his plot as strange rituals were performed on every world under the Wolve's control.

The Imperium reeled against this co-ordinated assault, every Chapter called in to battle this screaming horde. Worlds were put to the flame, heroes slain by the dozen as plague ravaged the realm.

Death had rarely known such bounty as every truth became warped by Tzeentch's madness, allies turned on each other, misdirection the only certainty to be found. All the while Magnus laughed as his ritual neared completion.

It was in the shadow of the Fang that the end would be decided, Grey Knights fighting alongside Astartes as the very world turned lunatic before them. The Warp was held in bated breath as the Crimson King was revealed in all his might, no weapon strong enough to harm him.

All had come to this final point, and all realised their mistake as the single eye burned bright with malice. A single word and ruin came to the land of Wolves.

\columnbreak

## A Last Goodbye

Ships were torn from orbit as Magnus invoked his full potential, their reactors detonating as the world of Fenris was scoured by plasma and radiation. Millions died in moments as the Crimson King conjured destruction from nothing as this sacrifice echoed through the Warp.

Just as he was about to triumph, just as Fenris threatened to shatter, one warrior emerged from the rubble. Bearing the *Spear of Russ*, he impaled the Red Prince with this arcane weapon, and though it failed to end the Primarch, it weakened him just enough.

A group of Grey Knights had managed to perform a banishing ritual, and seeing Magnus reel from the blow, they struck. Their words cut through the air as the Crimson King was destroyed, taking with him the Daemons and Legions under his command.

Despite this victory, the Imperium could only see the losses it had incurred. Many worlds had been left barren of life, those that survived put to the sword to prevent further corruption from the Primarch's presence.

The ruin had been total and complete, a fact the Red Prince relished as he watched the results of his mad work in delight. His sacrifice had been enough, his ritual finished, and the Planet of the Sorcerers emerged entirely from the Warp.

Hanging now over Prospero, that home long lost, a vast portal to hell now hung in realspace. Daemons uncounted poured out of its maw as the Thousand Sons had emerged fully into existence. Knowledge lost was returned, power stolen, reclaimed.

The Imperium would never recover from this blow, as the Winds of Change brought portents of the darkness to come. The Crimson King laughed as the end drew near...

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## The Last Gasp

But the end would not come easily for the Imperium, old and weathered as it was. Just as their destruction seemed complete, a miracle of chance occurred, or perhaps a fate carefully planned. Guilliman awoke as Abaddon's Crusade burned through the galaxy... As Magnus felt the storm begin once more.

Ascending once more into the heavens, the Crimson King brought a vast fleet with him towards Ultramar. Here did he intercept the Avenging Son, as he sought to restore his realm, and here did Magnus reveal yet another plan.

Bending the Warp to his will, he opened a portal into its storms as he pulled Guilliman into the Aether. Knowing that he would be captured, and knowing he would escape with the help of the Harlequins, the Red Prince waiting for his moment to strike.

Finally, it happened. A portal from the depths of hell towards Terra opened and seizing his opportunity, Magnus brought his forces through it, emerging into a system once considered home long ago.

Alas, not all had gone as planned, for instead of Terra he found himself upon Luna, his machinations suspected if not entirely countered. Guilliman was weak however, pushed to edge of endurance by the demands placed upon him.

Seeing his chance to tilt the Great Game in his favour, the Crimson King launched his assault. As the *Rubricae* clashed with the scattered loyalists, Magnus fought Guilliman in the barren wastes.

Battered and fatigued, Guilliman could not match the psychic storm that was the Red Prince, and his end seemed imminent. Terra was not unguarded however, and as Magnus sought to end the Blade of Unity, the Custodes arrived in force.

Surrounded, his abilities crippled by the presence of the Sisters of Silence, Magnus realised he could not win. Turning to retreat however, Guilliman summoned the strength for one last attack, piercing the Crimson King through the heart.

Screaming balefire and wounded terribly, the Red Prince fell through the portal, fleeing to safer lands. His ambition was not hampered however, for but one failure amidst a thousand plots meant little to the immortal sorcerer.

## Fate Unravelled

Now Magnus schemes, moving the pieces on the board without seeming strategy or logic. From the Stygius Sector to the blasted world of Prospero, the Red Prince appeared insane in his working, his actions erratic and without reason.

All comes to fruition however, the grand plan of the sorcerer untouched as fate follows in kind. Returned to reality, the Crimson King is a beacon to all sorcerers, to all those whose souls sing in the Warp.

With each day that passes, his taint spreads as the latent power of humanity awakens... With madness never far behind. Chance now rules this terrible game, time the only conquest of meaning. Death has emerged once more in force as the god's laughter echoes endlessly in the halls of the damned.

The fate of all relies now upon a single choice...
<br><br>
***The Toss Of A Lonely Die...***

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### The Horned Raiment

A unique suit of power armour, it is believed to be forged from aetheric energy as much as mortal materials. Covered in strange runes, it protects from both the physical and psychic weapons of its foes.

### The Blade of Magnus

Once known as the *The Blade of Ahn-Nunura*, this eclectic weapon severs not just flesh but soul. Able to enhance a wielders psychic powers immensely, it is a device much sought after by the profane.

### Arcane Litanies

These ancient scrolls possess much wisdom upon their pages. Inked in letters unbound from reality, they protect the wielder from the dangers in the Warp.

### Psyfire Serpenta

A large firearm, seemingly summonable from thin air, 
<br>
many have questioned whether its strange projectiles indicate a device of alien make, or if it is but a manifestation of the Crimson King's powers.

### Crown of the Crimson King

An ornate device formed entirely of the Red Prince's ego and will, it produces an aura of protective energy capable of halting heavy fire with ease.

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# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">Chapter Fourteen</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">Horus</font>

<div style='margin-top:760px;'></div>
  
##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White"> <br><br><br><br> *I have reached for the Heavens, aspired to the Throne of God. I have stormed his Hall and found it empty, barren in its promise...<br><br> There was only Silence, and a mirror to my ruined soul...* </font>

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# Of Favoured Sons...
T*here are two kinds of story to the writer. A good story has heroes and villains, darkness and tragedy... It has answers. A great story does not, and this my friend, has all the makings of a truly great story.*

Warmaster of the Imperium, Chosen Prince of the Emperor, the Crimson Blade of Ullanor, all these titles and more bestowed upon the greatest of Primarchs. A beacon of hope for all humanity, a leader without peer or equal, there is but one name missing from this collection... Traitor.

Beloved by all, Horus served as an inspiration to mankind, a model of perfect form whose very shadow filled those in its fall with wonder. Combined with a sly charisma, a cunning mind and a love for battle, the Warmaster would rise to heights unmatched, and fall farther than any could imagine.

For his weakness was ego, his flaw was in pride. So long spent in celebration of his mastery that any doubt cast upon him cut deep to the bone. He needed to be great for he was made to be great, and anything less was failure, of him and him alone.

So destructive was this terror that he surrounded himself only with sycophants and fools. Only those 
<br>
willing to endure the delusion could be trusted, for 
<br>
behind the illusion lay a truth too dark to bear.

Here then stood Horus, cloaked in nobility, more comfortable with treason than self-reflection. Was it just pride that he clung too, a hubris so great as to deny reason? Was it indecision or doubt, whispers in his mind of what he could never know? Was it design, the craft of some fey god too divorced from humanity to understand its crime?
<br><br>
***Or Is It just The Fate Of All Kinslayers, 
<br>
To Turn Upon Their Own***

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## Lost to Time

The Primarchs were figures of legend, their stories told across countless worlds, their myths known to even the smallest child. The history of these angels is well documented, though riddled with conjecture and doubt.

Horus stands apart from this, not because his legend lay in the shadows like some of his kin, but because darkness spreads the more it is known. Truth is a weapon in the hands of the deceiver... And in this world, everyone lies.

Banished from Terra in the great accident that saw all the Emperor's sons stolen, Horus found his way to the apocalyptic world of Cthonia. A relic from the Dark Age of Technology, this early colony had become a warren of despoiled tunnels, vast hive cities fallen to decay amidst the drive towards extinction.

Techno-Barbarians now roamed its surface, and here in the ruin did Horus come of age, learning the arts of war from those desperate to survive. Here he thrived until the Emperor arrived, lifting his son to the stars and returning him to Terra where he truly belonged.

That is one story, and perhaps it is true, but there is ever doubt regarding the home of Horus. Some say that he did not land upon his broken world a child, but arrived there already a man, to test himself against true brutality in the name of progress.

Others argue that it was not the Emperor who brought him to Terra, but his own determination. Cthonia rests not far from the Throneworld, and such tales tell of a world united behind the Warmaster, heading into the night in search of whence they came from.

Deceit, illusion, uncertainty and doubt, a fitting legacy for this Servant of Chaos. A peerless politician, the reality never mattered to the Warmaster, happy to accept any tale that raised his image in the eyes of others.

Regardless of the history however, he was the first son found and for many years he fought alongside the Emperor himself. Such a bond forged between these two would never be replicated, and under such guidance,
<br>
Horus was fashioned into a weapon without 
<br>
equal...
<br><br>
***The End Had Already 
<br>
Begun...***

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## This Age of Glory

Placed in charge of the 16th Legion, they were christened the Luna Wolves for their first gathering upon the moon. Immediately they proved themselves warriors of paramount skill, soldiers of superlative talent whose tally of conquests grew day by day.

Aggresive, yet with reason, relentless, but not suicidal, the Luna Wolves were an efficient force who knew precisely where to place the pressure. Though not the greatest warlord under the Emperor's banner, Horus knew people better than anyone.

He understood their strengths, recognised their flaws. His magnetism forged a single army from a thousand princes, each one placed carefully according to their prowess. This, more than anything, made him successful. An architect instead of a general.

For thirty years he fought besides his father, but soon the Emperor heard tales of the other Primarchs, leaving Horus in charge of the Crusade as he went in search of them. The first found after Lupercal was Russ, and though the two got along famously, the stirrings of jealousy began to grow.

So long spent alone with the Emperor, that such affection divided revealed the first crack in the Warmaster's armour. The Wolf was a resplendent figure, a being of primal majesty and awe... A true warrior even in the shadow of Horus' achievements.

As the Crusade continued, more of his brothers were found, each one brought into the fold by the charisma of Lupercal. Even as he charmed them one by one, his Legion continued to earn victory after victory, and soon 
<br>
Horus was a legend second only to the Emperor in 
<br>
the eyes of his servants.

\pagebreakNum

## A Triumph Raised

His star ascendant, his victories beyond number, Horus grew proud of his success. The bond that bound him to the Emperor transcended mere friendship and respect, their lives intertwined through legacy and deed.

During the Siege of Reillis had Horus been wounded, surrounded by the foe as the Master of Mankind shielded him from all assault, weathering the storm till reinforcements arrived. Later on Gorro would Lupercal return the favour, leading his Legion into a lightning assault against an Ork "Scrapworld" ruled by a Warboss of great strength.

There the Emperor was bested, his life choked out by the titanic beast until Horus emerged in rescue. Slaying the beast in a terrible duel, the world was soon destroyed as his Legion detonated the reactor powering the monstrosity.

These alone would have earned Horus a place in history, perhaps even the respect of his brothers, but it was on Ullanor that Horus sealed his destiny. An Ork Overlord threatened the Imperium, a creature of immense size leading an interstellar empire that stretched far and wide.

While the Imperial Army and his brother Legions engaged the main force of the greenskins, Horus and his Legion lunged straight for the throat. Teleporting into the capital of this strange land, they found themselves engaged against Orks of terrible strength.

Lupercal and his guard battled their way up the ruined tower, each step soaked in blood as the greenskins returned righteous anger with joyous fury. Eventually, at the pinnacle of the structure, Horus clashed blades against Urlakk Urg, the leader of their terrible foe.

Hardened now across a hundred worlds, raised by the Emperor and taught in varied strategies by his brothers, Horus dispatched the Ork, rendering him ruined with blade and claw. Their ruler gone, the greenskins scattered, soon driven to extinction by the Imperial forces below.

As fate began a different tune...

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## A New Dawn

This victory marked one of the greatest wars fought by the Imperium, and Horus was celebrated across the galaxy by those whose survival he ensured. So brilliant had his methods been, each piece played to perfection, that the Emperor decided to hold a Triumph in his honour, and to grant upon him the greatest gift of all.

Every Legion was in attendance, the Army deployed in force alongside Mechanicum and Titan forces alike. The might of mankind deployed for the pride of one man, raised above all others.

Here, the Emperor announced his retirement from the Crusade, to attend to matters more important back on Terra. In his stead would Horus lead the forces of the humanity, not just as a Primarch, but as Warmaster of the Imperium.

Such news brought a pall upon the event, all saddened by the Emperor's departure from the front lines. Horus' promotion was also met with mixed views, for while many agreed that such a choice was well earned, there were those to whom this appointment was seen as an insult.

These matters were slowly put to rest however, the Warmaster working tirelessly to appease those brothers who felt slighted and aggrieved. Eventually, the Crusade continued but while the resentment of others had been supressed, the fire that burned within Horus only grew.

The Emperor's pronouncement had stolen the Warmaster's victories, the glory of Horus taken by the Master of Mankind as he left for Earth. Now he was out here, alone, earning an empire for one who did not see the sacrifices of those who fought for him.

Even worse, in Lupercal's eyes, was the idea that he had failed his father. Why else would he retreat from war, return to Terra without word of why, unless he could not trust his sons. Fear, doubt and bitterness grew each day...
<br><br>
***And From It, Betrayal Was Born...***

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## The First Push

The Warmaster and his Legion continued their blaze across the galaxy, countless worlds, both human and alien, fell before them. The False Emperor of Terra, the Megarachnid Menace of Murder, these were but some of the battles fought and won by him in the crucible of war.

It was against the Interex however, a peaceful nation of human and alien inhabitants, that Horus would first display his anger against his father. Attempting to secure a friendly annexation, Horus met with their leaders and began to appreciate their demeanour and diplomacy.

Elements within his forces, however, did not appreciate such gestures. They consorted with xenos, wielded alien equipment without concern, and showed no intent of stopping. By the Emperor's decree, such choices meant only death.

Horus cared not for this, arguing that as Warmaster, the choice of target was his alone. These people knew much, and though their talk of the *"Primordial Annihilator"* seemed superstitious, their passion was admirable.

Alas, such peace was not meant to be, for a robbery staged by Erebus, Apostle of the Word Bearers, caused a rift in relations that quickly spiralled out of control. Violence broke out, and Horus had no choice but to wage war against them in totality.

They did not last long, and in the ashes of hope did Horus' heart grow hard. After a meeting with Sanguinius, Lupercal emerged a new man, more focused in his task. Accepting an honour he had long denied, the Warmaster renamed his Legion "The Sons of Horus" and set forth once more. The Crusade called and the wolves answered 
<br>
in kind.

## The Sounds of Thunder

Others had changed however, just as Horus began to doubt the justice of his actions. Lorgar had since fallen to Chaos, his voyage into the Eye of Terror revealing to him a truth that left him sundered.

His mind already turned to betrayal, the Golden One began to seed the other Legions with his Chaplains, their words bringing with them pagan traditions that 
<br>
slowly threaded the fabric of the Imperium.

Horus tolerated the Warrior Lodges that 
<br>
formed within his Legion as a result, and soon came
<br>
to appreciate them for what they were. More and 
<br>
more did he step away from the Emperor's Light, 
<br>
and on Davin did he finally cast free of his shackles.

Word came to Horus of a rebellion backed by an 
<br>
Imperial commander. An old friend of the Warmaster personally spitting on his oath to Horus, calling him nothing but a puppet, a fool for greater men than he.

Already angered by the formation of the Council of Terra, an administrative body made of mere mortals whose orders he was bound to follow, this direct insult sent Horus into a rage. Gathering his forces, the entire might of a Legion sailed towards a world once conquered already.

Here they discovered that the leader of the rebellion had hidden himself away upon the moon of Davin, amidst its sickly marsh and bitter swamp. Unwilling to wait any longer, Horus ordered the assault immediately, and without hesitation.
<br><br>
***Pride's Fury Had Come...***

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## An Answer In Death

Finding only a ruined spacecraft, and no sign of any traitorous forces, Horus moved quickly in search of his foe. Entering the stranded vessel, he found a ship ruined and tortured by its fiery descent.

Crawling through its remains, the ship sank, some sudden movement plunging it into the depths beneath the surface. Separated from his men by this collapse, wounded by a spar of steel piercing his side, Horus discovered Captain Temba, alone and ruined.

His form had become corpulent, his body diseased and riddled with sickness. In his hand he held a strange blade, its design somehow familiar to the Warmaster. Such details were swiftly forgotten in the moment however, for heated words passed between the two culminated in a violent fight.

Though but a mortal, each blow Horus left upon his foe did little more than entertain him. Such vicious assault should have rendered him lifeless, but Temba endured it all, responding with clumsy blows easily avoided.

Unfortunately for Horus, one missed step, one barely parried strike, and his enemie's blade pierced deep. Wounded, he severed Temba's head from its body, finally putting to rest this putrescent mockery of his friend.

Alas, such injury was more than it first appeared. Though painful, it should have healed in moments, but a venom ran through his blood tailor made to end his existence. Even a Primarch's physiology could not endure for long.

Emerging from the broken ship, pale and weak, he beheld a slaughter like none other. A vast army of the dead had arisen, attacking his sons in mindless slaughter amidst the swamp. With the death of Temba however, it appeared that their connection to reality had been severed... Much like himself, as he crashed into the water,
<br>
unconscious.

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## A Dreamer's Woe

Seemingly beyond the grace of modern medicine, the Legion grew distraught as Horus slowly faded from life. Under the urging of Erebus, they took him to natives of the moon who were well versed in ancient techniques of healing.

Unbeknownst to them however, both Erebus and the shamanic healers who took Horus in were servants of the Ruinous Powers, their souls already forfeited to the Dark Gods. Sealing the Primarch away, a dark ritual was enacted designed to break the Warmaster's spirit.

Lupercal awoke to a world of dream, a sky of furnace fire and bleak towers of iron. It was a desolate land of constant change and shifting rage. He appeared alone, at first, but then came Sejanus, one of Horus' most beloved children now sadly departed.

This spirit told Horus of the truth behind the Emperor's lie, showed him visions of the future where the Master of Mankind ruled as god. He showed how the Primarchs were discarded, abandoned after their purpose was fulfilled, and he showed him the creator kept secret from him all his life.

Chaos had been instrumental in their creation, the Ruinous Powers as much parent as the Emperor. This great hypocrisy that the Emperor, so devout in his warnings regarding the dangers of the Warp, would so easily consort with those very same powers himself.

Overwhelmed with knowledge, doubt long buried devouring all within him, Horus seemed weak... A mistake his foes only ever made once. He was not alone however, and into this dream came Magnus, his tone dire and his words full of warning.

He warned that Sejanus was not as he seemed, a fact Horus had been aware of from the start. Tearing away the mask he wore, Erebus was revealed, the serpent unveiled.

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## The Cards We're Dealt

On the verge of death, mind assault by these phantoms of his past, Horus snapped. At Erebus he laughed, such tricks he had mastered pathetic in the face of a Primarch's power, his belief that they would work insulting and fatal.

To Magnus however, he turned in scorn, disgusted at the naked hypocrisy displayed by the Crimson King. To come here, warning him of the dangers in the Warp, while so casually flouting the edicts of the Emperor, displayed an arrogance that not only made him untrustworthy, but downright dangerous.

Unable to interrupt the ritual, incapable of pulling Horus back from the darkness, Magnus faded away. His own power had been spent in vain as the Warmaster faced the viperous words of Chaos alone.

The final gambit Erebus had left to play would be the final moment of Lupercal's loyalty. Witnessing before him the great project that spawned his brothers, seeing them stolen from Terra by a terrible storm, all this convinced Horus, finally, that the Emperor had deceived him.

Bitterness from a thousand slights, his abandonment of the Great Crusade, the institution of the Council of Terra above him, the great lie of their birth... From small embers came the inferno and in the fires of betrayal was Horus forged, hollow and crazed.
<br><br>
***A Traitor Made By Traitor's Hands...***

## Great Works Undone

Agreeing now to aid Chaos in their war against the Emperor, a man Horus saw as a tyrant intent on godhood, the Warmaster emerged unscathed from the temple, and began to formulate his plan. He did not announce his betrayal immediately, did not turn from the Emperor's Light... He instead brought shadow within its glare.

Carefully he began to lure his brothers to the cause of nightmare, influencing them through the same Warrior Lodges that infested his Legion. Favours were provided, old insults brought back to the tide of memory, and soon many saw the Emperor as a ruin of what he once had been.

To the Mechanicum he gave a great gift, a fragment of the divine and the keys to ancient vaults long buried. Within these halls were engines of destruction forbidden by the Imperium, and forgotten research into the most dangerous technologies.

Months turned into years as his venomous words infested the minds of all who heard him speak. With care and subtlety had the Warmaster always pursued his agenda, and now rage guided this Haunted Prince towards damnation, caught in a web of his own making.

Eventually, his plan in place, Horus moved with his Legion to Istvaan III, the fires of rebellion once more cloaking his intentions. The World Eaters, Death Guard and Emperor's Children followed in attendance, and though some questioned this overwhelming force, Horus calmed their suspicions with talk of an example made that could never be forgotten.

Select units were then deployed to the surface, not whole companies but rather squads individually placed together. Every soul descended below a loyalist in the eyes of their fathers, every soul a sacrifice for the battle to come.

As carnage took to the streets, the skies above filled with smoke, the Warmaster striking the first match for war...

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## Revolt

Bathing the 
<br>
planet below in 
<br>
viral rage, the loyalists found 
<br>
themselves succumbing to 
<br>
the most terrible weapon in the
<br>
Imperium's arsenal. A moment later, a single 
<br>
spark fired, and the world erupted in flame.

The corpulent rot of a billion dead detonated as 
<br>
those few to survive the plague were incinerated in seconds. His plan complete, Horus looked down at the ashes in pride... Only to realise he had failed.

A quick warning had been given from within the fleet, a desperate message urging those below to hide. Just in time it had been delivered, as safety was found far below. Enraged by this sudden complication, Horus prepared to order a bombardment below, as Angron proved himself as difficult an ally as before.

On wings of flame the Red Angel descended, psychotic in his rabid anger, desperate to slay those who had escaped such betrayal with his bare hands. For a moment did Horus consider firing anyway, sacrificing his brother for a quick resolution and a quiet end to such an uncontrollable asset, but he relented.

Ordering an invasion of the planet, loyalist met traitor for the first time in battle, blades clashing against each other as anguish fought against hate. For weeks they held out against the combined ingenuity of four Primarchs, but without reinforcements, such defiance was but a gesture.

Slain to a man, buried on a world of ash and smoke, they were left behind as the Warmaster continued with his plans. Moving onto Istvaan V, he began to erect a series of fortifications, guarding his position as he awaited the inevitable response to his crimes.

For though few had escaped to give word the Emperor of the treason that had taken place, the death of so many had sent a psychic scream throughout the Warp that reached the very gates of Terra.

Seven Legions were dispatched to bring Horus to justice, seven brothers prepared to turn on kin at the word of their master....

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## Amidst Ash

Entombed within their bastion, 
<br>
Horus and his men watched as the skies filled with 
<br>
ships. From the heavens descended the Raven Guard, the Salamanders and the Iron Hands, their forces eager to enact vengeance against the despicable traitors.

Crashing into the ground, the assault began immediately, at a pace only the Astartes could maintain as they tore into one another. The ground churned as gods fought amongst men, weapons of arcane make leaving devastation in their path.

From his keep did Horus watch as the battle continued, orchestrating its movements  with tactical ease. He watched as thousands died each second that passed, watched as artillery left its stain upon the earth... He watched as four Legions descended from the heavens, ready to conquer their foe.

The loyalists cheered at the sight of allies, retreating back to allow their reinforcements to continue the assault. What horror they must have felt then, as with laughter and quick smiles did their "friends" open fire upon them.

Caught between two fronts, the loyalists were slaughtered as they found no quarter or  mercy. Ferrus Manus, Primarch of the Iron Hands, was slain and his brothers disappeared in the carnage that swallowed the field. In one blow, Horus had tilted the game in his favour...
<br><br>
***Yet Neither Side Knew The Rules.***

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## The Pieces Placed

With the Battle of Istvaan a resounding success, Horus brought the Legions together to formulate his strategy. During the meeting, a conclave of gods and Daemons, Fulgrim proved recalcitrant, outwardly defying the Warmster's authority.

Lorgar attempted to restrain whatever Fulgrim had become, enraged that his brother had fallen so under the sway of Chaos, that a beast of the dark powers dared inhabit his flesh. Horus intervened however, recognising the use such a creature could provide in place of the Phoenix's usual arrogance.

Meeting privately with the Daemon, Horus inquired as to its intentions. Recognising the beast provided no immediate threat, he accepted its place in his armies, though under the warning that its life could be ended whenever he wished.

In exchange, the fiend gave unto Horus the head of the Gorgon, a gift and trophy of the Warmaster's rebellion. Perturbed somewhat, Lupercal accepted the offering, keeping it close by as a reminder of how even gods can die.

Realising now that he led an army of lunatics and madmen, Horus set forth on this journey knowing there was no way back to the light. Dispatching the Legions towards their task, he faced the darkness now, alone.

## Truth Forgotten

As the Warmaster led his forces on a rampage against the Imperium, laying waste to all in his path, he found his shadow dogged by loyalists eager for revenge. Led by an Iron Hand by the name of Shadrak Meduson, this guerilla force inflicted heavy casualties upon his men.

Eventually, upon the world of Dwell, did Horus locate the fortress of this irritant. Moving into place, he launched a devastating assault upon the planet, defended as it was by men of fear not angels of war.

Successfully clearing the mortals out of their path, Horus was blindsided by the sudden appearance of loyalist Astartes amongst their ranks. Though they managed to slay the defenders, the damage sustained was heavy, a consequence the Warmaster could ill afford.

Alas, as the bastion fell, there was no sign of Meduson. Accepting that he must have fled, but content that
<br>
his teeth had been pulled, Horus called for Fulgrim 
<br>
and Mortarion. Here they met him, and here 
<br>
did the Iron Hand reveal his true gambit.

A trio of gunships, cunningly hidden, emerged 
<br>
from the skies, drowning the Primarchs in ruin. 
<br>
Through arcane power, genetic forgery and sheer 
<br>
chance, they survived, though wounded. Such 
<br>
would be a singular effort though, and one that came 
<br>
with dire results.

Injured, his body wavered as his mind snapped into clarity. A memory, long buried by the Emperor, emerged in full as he saw a fable made real. On the world of Moloch, he saw the Master of Mankind ascend into the heavens. Saw him bargain with the gods for power beyond imagination... Saw him lie as he stole from Chaos its rightful place.

Convinced that such knowledge would bring him victory, Horus ordered his forces to a world engineered in its mystery. Through the shadow of deceit, the fog of memory...
<br><br>
***He Came To A World That Never Was...***

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## This Price we Pay

Arriving into the orbit of this feral myth, Horus launched an immediate assault upon the world. Defended as it was by Astartes and Knights of House Devine, the coming battle promised to be a brutal one.

As his bitter allies made planet-fall, Horus took his force to the island of Damesk, following perfectly in the footsteps of his father. His egress was met with heavy ruin however, as towering knights stalked the battlefield in their engines of war.

This world was defended as few ever have been, and the traitors found themselves hard-pressed as the very planet turned against them. Horus himself was wounded deeply during the battle, his form rent by weapons of ancient make.

Only the Ruinous Powers saved him, fuelling his body even as biology screamed in denial at this unnatural restoration. Once more revived, Horus led his forces for months, pushing the loyalists back step by step towards extinction.

Finally, at the gates of Lupercalia, the traitors prepared for a siege. Directed by Horus, the Phoenix began to whisper his words of madness into the wind, its gentle ebb bringing apathy and malaise into the minds of the defenders.

When the final push occured, the loyalists were horrified as many of their knights turned upon them, twisted by the feel sorceries employed by Fulgrim. So riven, they stood little chance as damnation flooded their walls, as darkness claimed their souls.

Leaving a few hundred defenders to escape, to better spread word of what came, Horus descended beneath the city, towards a vast rift carefully hidden beneath its foundations. Here did he enter, following in the footsteps of his father, and here did Horus die...

For a thousand years he wandered the maddening tides of the Warp, for a thousand years did he fight Daemon and mortal alike. For a thousand years he ruled kingdoms and empires that spanned worlds, and for a thousand 
<br>
years did he grow tired of his existence.

Infused with the power of Chaos, total
<br>
and complete, he was offered a 
<br>
life within this realm of madness... 
<br>
He was offered divinity, and a 
<br>
dream made 
<br>
manifest.

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## All Upon The Pyre

He refused, rejecting the chains they offered, no matter how gilded they were. He took the power they offered, through force rather than guile, and here did he and the Emperor part ways.

Escaping from the rift, a partner to the mad gods, not a slave, he had changed dramatically. Within those spited lands, Horus had spent eternity in war and conquest, emerging wizened but more powerful than ever.

To his shock did he realise that but moments had passed in reality, his presence barely gone before he returned once more. Shaken, different, his mind evolved into something darker, he took up his mantle once more, no longer comfortable with its weight, but more able than ever.

Returning to his ship, he had little time to adjust before the war brought him back to attention once again. A strike force from the Knights-Errant, consisting of many members from his Legion, had infiltrated the vessel in an attempt to end his life.

Led by one of his most trusted councillors, a former member of the legendary Mournival, Horus was almost outmatched, untethered as he was from his own form. Fortunately for the Warmaster, his power had grown so great that even surprised, little could bring harm to him.

Fending off the attack, the loyalists scattered or slain, Horus returned once more to the rebellion. For all the time that had passed, his hate remained undimmed, and Terra remained yet unscathed.

Once more on the winds of ruin did he fly, sailing the Sea of Storms towards his goal...
<br><br>
***Apocalypse Had Chosen <br> Its Champion***

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## Wolf-Pack

Quickly mastering his newfound powers, Horus used them to revitalise himself, restoring his form to that of his youth. At Trisolian however, would these talents be put to the test. Ambushed by Leman Russ and his Legion, they bore an anger that only those personally aggrieved could know.

Their fury came, not just from the rebellion, but from the manipulation that had seen them reduced to murderers. When Russ had been sent to apprehend Magnus, Horus had interceded, convincing him of the Emperor's intent to slay the Crimson King.

Poisonous words and acid intent eroded at the Wolf King's honour, and without realisation did he bring the blade of fury against the Thousand Sons. Too late had Winter's Woe discovered he had been manipulated, merely fulfilling the goal of his vile kin.

Now they had their chance to repay such malice in kind, boarding Horus' flagship as they sought his head. Russ led the charge, changed much like the Warmaster, and wielding a weapon of divine make.

The Spear of Truth it was called, possessing within its blade a fragment of the Emperor's power. On the bridge of the ship did the two fight, and though Russ had ever been a peerless warrior, Lupercal's sorcery provided him an edge that could not be beaten.

Pushed back by Daemonic strength, outclassed by a mind that had known war for as long as time had existed, Russ was skewered by the Warmaster's talons. Sacrifice for victory had ever been a tactic of the Wolf however, the one willing to die for the many.

Taking the blow and tearing free, he suffered a terrible wound, for a single chance. Lightning fast, driven by desperation, he skewered the Warmaster with the golden blade, and with a scream of shadow was the darkness dispelled from Horus.

The pall upon Lupercal's soul was lifted, the shroud of fell power excised in its entirety. His strength remained untouched, but those shackles placed in secret by the Dark Gods were released in a blaze of psychic fury.

\columnbreak

## Damnation by Choice

For the first time, Russ saw his brother as once he stood. Noble and proud, the blight in his eyes replaced with a shining light of hope... Ambition. The Wolf wavered, unable to finish the strike, to end this rebellion once and for all.

Desperately he reached for Horus, begging him to repent and return to Terra so that the Emperor could save his life, and his soul. His mind clear once more, the wound screaming at his side, Horus looked back at the Wolf...

And chose darkness. Of his own free will, no more lies, no more deceptions or errant illusion, Horus accepted ruin in place of hope. Pulling the terrible weapon from his body, he quickly bested the Wolf, now a perfect blend of arcane might and brilliant leader.

Before he could kill Russ however, his Legion came to save him. Hundreds of his children dived atop their Primarch, screaming in rage as they charged towards their death. Such distraction served well however, for though they died to a man, the Wolf King escaped the ship.

His enemies bested, his purpose clear, the Warmaster continued on with his war. World after world fell before him, but each day drew him closer to the end. Though his soul had been freed by the Spear of the Emperor, the wound it left would not heal, and its pain tormented him wherever he went.

On Beta-Garmon did it finally claim him completely. In one of the largest battles of the Heresy, countless Legions engaged beneath the tread of Engines designed for death, and Horus collapsed.

Without his leadership, the traitor forces slowly began to implode, turning upon one another with glee. In desperation did the Sons of Horus reach out to Lorgar who revealed the truth of his malady.

Part Horus remained within the Gate of Moloch...
<br><br>
***The Gods Would Not Surrender Their Toy So Easily...***

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## Loyal unto the End

With no other choice, their Legion facing ruin as their discipline fractured, the Sons of Horus turned towards sorcery to save their father. Once more was a ritual enacted around the ruined Primarch, and once more did the Warp find home in the crack of his soul.

Entering the Sea of Storms, they found that last vestige of Horus, beset on all sides, battling for his existence against hell itself. He refused to submit, refused to bear their chains ever again. None could hold him for he was free, his ambition unchecked by another's design.

For as long as he fought, he would be trapped, and his kin begged him to relent. They pleaded for him to surrender to the Dark Gods but to no avail, the pride of Lupercal would not submit.

Faced with no other choice, his sons sacrificed themselves to free him, exchanging their souls for his. Success was had, as Horus awoke amidst the carnage, quickly taking charge of his fractured force and leading it to victory.

The path to Terra now secured, fortune fast fading in the face of countless gambits, Horus called for the traitor Legions to muster on Ullanor. A Triumph was planned, a dark mirror of his greatest moment, for now the end had come. No more was left of him to lose upon the pyres of his ambition.

## But Moments Repeated

Arriving upon the world where all this began, Horus was greeted by Lorgar and Fulgrim. Already the skies filled without countless vessels, an army the likes of which had never been gathered.

His soul ruined beyond repair, patched up and broken a thousand times, his free will shattered by countless steps towards slavery, Horus had come undone. For the briefest moment it appeared as though he might be saved, but now complete, he was but a hollow shell of his former glory.

Constantly shifting in form, his very existence fluid in nature, he had become a true slave of Chaos, a true Servant to Darkness. This had sat ill with Lorgar for a long time, his concern growing as he watched Lupercal sacrifice his humanity without pause.

Envious of his favour with the Gods, disgusted by his abject debasement of the human soul, Lorgar struck with purpose. A plan long in the making emerged as his betrayal took true and pure form.

And met with nothing... Horus had known all along, such treachery suspected and countered. Against the unchained might of the storm, Lorgar was beaten unto death with pathetic ease. Horus knew he had a greater fate however, and rather than kill his viperous brother, he exiled him instead.

Banished from the rebellion, sent fleeing back to the Warp, Horus kept his Legion as punishment for such transgressions. Turning now to his glory, Horus addressed the gathered forces of ruin, urging them on to victory against the False Emperor.

A great sacrifice was held, a whole tenth of their force taken to the pyre to bring the blessing of the gods. Their blood ran like a river across the world, as mad laughter filled the skies.
<br><br>
***And Hope Began To Fade...***

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## The Gates of Heaven

Tearing into the stars above Terra, Horus had finally arrived, the Arch-Heretic had come for blood. At the head of a terrible fleet, their weapons dismantled all defences in their path, as Lupercal's soul taunted the Emperor through the Warp.

A vast portal above Luna had been opened by the dark magic of the Word Bearers, and from it the untold legions of hell marched forth. Destruction rained from the heavens as Horus watched carefully. Existence itself hinged upon a single mistake...

As the Astartes descended to the planet below, Horus ensconced himself within a pocket dimension of his own design. As his men fought against the planets material defences, Horus battled against those that were spiritual, matching wits with the Emperor himself.

Flitting in and out of consciousness, his soul staring into the aether in search of answers, his body was infused with the purest power of the Warp. Abaddon witnessed this and grew disgusted, the corpulent image of his father tainted by the sickness of pride.

Such power wielded without caution could not be done without consequence, and those wise in the way of the Warp measured his life in months. True to their claims, his mind began to fracture, reality blending with memory as who he was joined with what he had once been.

But salvation had come for Terra, and Horus knew his time grew short, reinforcements from the outer systems heralded upon the Warp. Seeing no other choice, he awoke from his slumber and ordered the shields of his vessel lowered, throwing the dice to fate one last time.

On bated breath the universe watched, carefully it waited, as with a blinding flash of light the Emperor boarded his ship. So many had died, and now existence would be decided by a single duel between father and son...

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## Paradise Lost

Scattered aboard the capital ship, the loyalists found themselves surrounded on all sides by unmitigated madness. The very walls came to life as men were devoured whole by metal mouths. The halls filled with gunfire as brother fought brother, one last time...

Horus waited on the bridge, knowing now the end had come. He waited as death came towards him and he laughed in its face. He had died too many times to be scared. The first to find him, however, was Sanguinius and for the briefest moment he faltered.

He had loved the Angel like none other, a brother he would have given his life for in another time, another place. In a daze he listened as Sanguinius begged him to surrender, to end this madness, but he had come too far.

The battle was brutal, swift in kind for Horus had far transcended mortality. Even an angel could not match the devil in all his darkness and so Sanguinius fell, a single blow the only testament to the battle that claimed his life.

It was to this scene that the Emperor entered, the Warmaster stood over the corpse of his son, and grief stole his heart. There was no hope for Horus and so, without words, he launched himself into the fray.

As their blades clashed in reality, darkness devouring light, so too did their souls tear at one another in the Warp. Truly now, facing his son, the Master of Mankind could not bring himself to end him, his power withdrawn as he struggled to find the heart to slay his child.

This gave Horus the chance he needed, inflicting terrible wounds upon the Emperor as he began to waver. As the end seemed nigh, however, a single Custodes ran in, desperate to protect his master, and Horus flayed him alive with a single glance.

Seeing such power used without restraint, the Emperor knew that Horus was already dead...

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## The War Never Ends

Unleashing now his full power, his life fleeing his form at speed, the Emperor struck one blow against this bastard monster. All his rage, all his psychic might funneled into one point, he obliterated the heretic without hesitation or mercy.

As white light filled the room, for the briefest second, 
<br>
the Horus of old stared back... But then he was gone. 
<br>
The Imperium ruined eternal by his actions, the Warp awoken by his pride, Horus had surpassed every expectation the Emperor had for his sons...

None other could have brought such ruin to a gods work, none could have withstood the madness of the Dark Powers. His name would be a curse throughout time, his followers the architects of untold horror. He had succeeded against all odds, for all he had craved was recognition...
<br><br>
***And His Legacy Would Never Be Forgotten...***

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### Serpent's Scales

A prototype suit of Terminator Armour, it was handcrafted by some of the greatest minds on Mars in exchange for his aid. Possessing superlative protective mechanisms, it cemented the alliance between the Dark Mechanicum and Horus.

### Worldbreaker

A power maul bigger than a normal human, it was a gift from the Emperor, forged by his own hand. Celebrating his ascension to Warmaster, the devastation it inflicted soon became a symbol for something darker.

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### Warmaster's Talon

An esoteric Lightning Claw, this weapon was found on Cthonia and reflects a darker age of technology. Possessing a twin-bolter that could unleash a storm of bullets, it was the favourite weapon of Horus until his demise.

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# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">Chapter Fifteen</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">Lorgar Aurelian</font>

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##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White"> <br><br><br><br> *Renegade without a master, my sins lie inked upon me, each word testament to my  regret. Soon, there will be nothing, for I forget alone...* </font>

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# Deus Ex Nihilio

W*hat follows this prophet but cryptic horror and sorrow. No tears for his fellows, no ink for his page, each warning lost without hearing. Weep, dear angel, your faith cannot save you from yourself...*

Into a world of monsters and dragons, one of witchcraft and black sorcery, did Lorgar find himself alone. A man of faith in a faithless realm, a servant of God with only demons to serve, the Urizen was a soul out of place... and out of time.

Ever uncomfortable with his role as a warrior, Lorgar would spend his whole life in search of an escape. Afeared of what shadows lie in his heart, he looked to the heavens for an answer, and safety from the nightmares that clawed at his mind.

Such desperation made him mercurial, fay in his nature. Lorgar doubted his perfection, questioned his role in existence. Without such surety, he grew erratic, and unpredictable.

He needed an anchor, and religion provided one. His father so powerful as to be divine became the only cover from the storm of his questions, his mind fixated on destroying itself, even as his soul sought salvation.

Such faith became fanaticism, such certainty became obsession. Rejection, when it came, was all-consuming for his very life was tied to the hope that he clung to. Untethered from himself, Aurelian would be undone.

But what he lacked with a blade, he made up for with heart. A silver tongue he possessed that could sway millions with its skill. No orator could ever match his passion, no general could equal his zeal. Lorgar had mastered the hardest art of the deceiver...
<br><br>
***He Had Deceived Himself...***

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## This Valley of Death

Spirited away by the Dark Powers, Lorgar was stolen like the rest of his kin, from the vast gene-forges beneath Terra. Chosen from birth by the fell powers of darkness, his home would come to be a bastion of faith torn eternally between light and shadow.

On Colchis did he land, a desert world of arid heat and fiery tempers. It was a world dedicated unto ancient gods, chained in faith to beings ephemeral... and entirely inhuman. Amidst a cloud of thunder and rain did the Golden one arrive, soon found by a clan of tribal nomads.

A miracle born, for in the blasted wilds did life emerge amidst his wreckage, these savages called him Lorgar, meaning *"Rain-Caller"*, and they raised him as their own. Seventeen days passed and already had he grown in size to that of a young child. His destiny already writ in the sky...

Then did Kor Phaeron find him, an exiled priest from the Covenant that ruled the world, he led a caravan of fellow renegades on their path. Realising this young child's potential, seeing within him the power required to ascend to the heavens, Kor Phaeron slew the family that had adopted Aurelian, and took him under his wing.

Lorgar's new foster father proved to be an abusive soul, violent and cruel with his affection. Beatings were common, as were verbal assaults that would forever scar the young Primarch. Regardless, he persevered, becoming a truly devout worshipper whose skill with words fast outshone those of Kor Phaeron.

## High Rises the Penitent

Eventually, as further study of the ancient scriptures broadened his mind, Lorgar began to delve into the shadowed mysteries surrounding his faith. Recognising the four powers as manifest forms of the soul, he theorised of another, a central being that connected them all together while fundamentally clashing in nature.

Initially ridiculed by his father, Kor Phaeron realised that such belief, true or false, could be instrumental in his own rise to power. Despite this low cunning and vicious brutality, Lorgar remained loyal to his tutor, later risking his life to defend him against a mutiny amongst the caravan.

Upon reaching adulthood, the Urizen was appointed Arch-Priest of the Godsworn, many amongst his family enraptured by his sly wit and passionate speech. Named the *"Bearer of the Word"*, his fame soon spread throughout the lands, and millions flocked to hear him preach the faith.

From cleric to crusader, the march of Lorgar took him across the world. Slaves were freed wherever he went, their chants echoing amongst the hills and valleys that welcomed them. Finally they came to Vharadesh, the seat of spiritual power upon the world, and before its gates did Lorgar speak.

His words were of wisdom, hope benign. He told tales of greatness, parables of wonder, and each word uttered brought tears to the eyes of those who listened. A heretic he might once have been, but as the gates opened, the corpses of the ruling Ecclesiarch deposited before him, he entered as divinity.

Inflamed by the zeal of a million souls, Lorgar spoke not of his fears, nor the questions that would never leave...
<br><br>
***Such Doubts Hidden Behind Words Of War.***

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## Sojourn

From his new 
<br>
seat of power, 
<br>
Lorgar would lead his forces 
<br>
across the world. Those cities that 
<br>
did not submit to his authority 
<br>
were put to the sword, razed in ash and flame 
<br>
as their occupants were slain.

None could withstand his onslaught, furious in its piety, ruthless in its fervour. Only one realm held him back, one nation ready to match engine against belief. The borders of Gahevarla were protected by ancient devices capable of marshalling the storm in protection of their keep.

Lost in frenzy, or perhaps just confident in his powers, Lorgar strode before the terrible ruin that filled the air. A single word spoken, a single step taken, and the guardian was undone, the winds parting before this son of God.

Quickly was it seized, and with its fall did Lorgar now control an entire world. His banner hung from every keep, and from every city was his name chanted with love and admiration. Alas, such peace cannot be made by mortal hands, for darkness ever lies within the soul.

Those members of the Covenant who had bowed to Aurelian soon grew envious of his strength, jealous of their own diminishing power. As Lorgar began to suffer terrible visions, each one promising the return of a golden god, they struck from the shadows.

For as time had passed, the Urizen had grown less forgiving of the deities of old, further rejecting the four spirits that so defined this worlds culture. Instead, he held to his single god, the lone master devoted in his desire to unify mankind.

This led to a grand schism between the church, one faith clashing with another. The land, so barely recovered from its previous purge, once more burned in the world-spanning fires of war.

For six years did the conflict spread, countless slain in the name of one ideology or another. By the time it had finished, a whole third of the planets population had been buried beneath the ash, another scar for a world left bitter by them.

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## Repentance

Barely had Lorgar emerged the victor in this struggle, when the Emperor arrived in glory and splendour. Descending down upon a world ravaged by the rigors of faith, the people celebrated wildly as proof of their conviction arrived.

Side by side with Magnus did the Master of Mankind approach Lorgar, who prostrated himself before his father. Recognising this portentous figure from his visions, Aurelian immediately swore his loyalty, and led his land in festivity and joy.

It is said the Emperor was displeased by what he saw before him, this return to the heathen ways of old. Silent he remained however, perhaps noticing the instability within his son and fearing the consequences such rebuke would bring.

With the jubilee finally over, Lorgar was lifted to the heavens. Placed in charge of the 17th Legion and sent out into the galaxy to bring light to the darkness, his newly named Word Bearers soon brought faith with their fire.

Reformed in the image of their father, the Word Bearers fought with conviction, iron resolve replacing nuance and strategy as their zealous path cleaved through the cosmos. At their head strode Aurelian, his words filled with brimstone and ash, implacable in his advance.
<br><br>
***The Crusade Had Begun...***

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## Words of a Prophet

Defined as he was, by faith not glory, Lorgar's conquests were slow in comparison to his brothers. Every world taken was put to the flame, religious texts and temples to elder gods were burned, replaced with shrines to the Emperor.

His sons penned great works of theology, spending years, if not decades, on each land they passed until they had left behind souls as zealous as they. Their tally may have been small, but never once would their subjects rebel, for their spirit was tied to the Imperium completely.

It was during this time that Aurelian set himself to a task that would come to shape the Imperium for 10,000 years. A great book of faith, its devotion given entirely to the Emperor, called the Lectio Divinatus.

This tome argued for his divinity, even as the Master of Mankind denied it. It espoused such faith as not just moral, but necessary, and soon it began to spread as the Great Crusade progressed. Cults hidden in secret upon every world, even Astartes of the Legions, all would seek comfort within its words.

With a pure heart did Lorgar commit himself to the First Heresy, without malice nor guile did he put himself on the path of damnation... The road to hell has always been paved with good intentions and without hesitation did Aurelian follow.

The Urizen had gone too far however, the Emperor furious as he beheld such works of wonder. Those planets raised in his devotion, those arts formed in worship of he, all were a failure to the Imperial Truth.

Mankind must be godless for faith had brought only pain in the Emperor's eyes, and so he tasked the Ultramarines with a most thankless role. Sent to the city of Monarchia, these Angels of Death brought judgement to the world, the rage of the heavens manifest as the sky rained fire and fury.

Deliverance had come...

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## The Wrath of God

Evacuating the city, Roboute Guilliman set aflame this bastion of worship, many of its citizens caught and devoured by the flame regardless. Long had Monarchia been the jewel of Lorgar's creations, and hearing their screams through the Warp, he departed at once to their rescue.

Apoplectic, lost in rage, he could not imagine that any Imperial would be so mad as to attack one of his worlds. Tearing into realspace, his entire Legion resplendant, he landed upon a world of dust and broken dreams.

Before him stood the Avenging Son, his own forces in ready attendance. One faced the other as silence filled the world, both sides trying to understand what had happened, and what would happen next.

With a scream of primal rage, Lorgar turned on his brother, as his Legion raised weapons against the Ultramarines. Even Malcador's smooth diplomacy brought no solace, almost killed by Aurelian as he attempted to calm the embers that now raged like an inferno.

Even Guilliman was unnerved, to see a Primarch so lost to reason. Though such was unimaginable, all were ready for Lorgar's word to action. Ready to spill the blood of their allies and split in twain the Imperium of Man.

Such was not to be however... Not yet. The Emperor himself had journeyed with his loyal son, and seeing how far to rage Lorgar had fallen, descended to the surface in a flash of light.

A single word was spoken, and a whole Legion bent its knee without will. This was the power of a god, this was the power that Lorgar had so vainly worshipped and yet the Master of Mankind stood there, denying his evident divinity.

Fighting against the power, struggling to his feet as blood ran free from his mouth, Lorgar overcame the command. Something had changed however, and as the Emperor spoke into his mind, Aurelian listened...

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## An Angel Spited

Rejected, censured and rebuked, the Word Bearers and their father were left in the dust, one last chance given to prove their worth. Not only were his actions to be watched going forward, his every choice judged, but he would not travel alone.

Custodes from the Emperor's personal guard were deployed to the Legion, and though such insult chafed, there was little choice to be had in the matter. Riven by grief, Lorgar cared not, secluding himself away from all but his closest advisers.

Here, both Erebus and Kor Phaeron spoke of older faiths. The Emperor was not worthy of their worship, his dedication to atheism but a portent of ruin to the human soul. His mind unsteady from Monarchia, Lorgar listened and listened well.

If the Emperor could not accept their worship, perhaps another would. The four powers of Colchis had been found in dedication across a thousand worlds, surely indicating the truth of their existence. Though Aurelian struggled with this logic, having fought against them long ago, he conceded that a search for their light must begin.

Poisoned by the words of his closet confidants, Lorgar finally rejected the Emperor and turned his loyalty towards Chaos. A new work was begun as his Chaplains slowly seeded this dark faith throughout the Legion, but Lorgar knew not how to proceed.

## Unto Damnation

Reaching out to his brother Magnus, a being with whom he had always held kinship, Aurelian demanded answers for what lie in the Warp. The Crimson King would not be fooled easily however, and cautioned him from such a path, warning of the terrible powers that could be found in the Immaterium.

Beings like gods might live there, truth in the words he had found, but divine they were not. Such creatures were of primal hunger and malice and could not be trusted. Lorgar would not be dissuaded however.

Mankind needed faith, Lorgar needed faith, and as the Emperor was about to rebuke them again for their inaction, the Word Bearers set off at speed, their conquests progressing at a prodigious rate.

His Legion spread out, deploying into the very 
<br>
farthest reaches of known space. Battle after battle 
<br>
was followed with prejudice, all a cloak for the true 
<br>
goal of Lorgar.

Legend spoke of a pilgrimage undertaken by heroes 
<br>
of Colchisian legend, a journey to the very heart of divinity. Somewhere in the darkness of space was a point where heaven and reality collided... and Aurelian would find it no matter what.

As all hope seemed lost, Lorgar came across proof of the legend. A tear in space where the Immaterium railed against the physical universe was found. This vast eye stared with malice across existence, and the very screams of a dying empire could be heard in full from its shores.

The Eye of Terror he named it, and this name would become a curse of madness for 10,000 years and more. Heading into the bleak shadow it cast, they came across a single world of strange laws and feral beauty.
<br><br>
***The Gates Of Heaven Stood Ajar...***

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## These Lands of Folly

This world was known as Cadia and upon it lay a tribal people whose proximity to the Eye had changed them. Though appearing human in all aspects, their eyes were purple, and they spoke of strange beings and whispers.

Descending to its surface, Lorgar met with these natives, and learned of what they had to say. They had foreseen his coming however, and greeted him as a saviour lost long on the winds of time.

A great celebration was planned, one where answers would be given. Invited to attend if his soul truly wished truth, Aurelian had little choice but to follow. Here he found runes familiar to his gaze, the writings of Colchis scrawled in primitive paint across every wall and surface.

Perturbed by these details, the Urizen watched as this pagan ceremony took place, human sacrifice but one of many fell acts commited in worship of those beings they considered divine. The Custodes with them could only stomach so much however, and when demands for the natives destruction fell upon deaf ears, he acted accordingly.

Launching into battle, a blaze of movement and genetic mastery, he slew many before finally he fell to the blades of his wards. His body was desecrated, his armour sundered as flesh was torn free of its cage. The final sacrifice had been found...

The ritual complete, Lorgar gave witness to the past. Inflicted with these horrifying visions, he could only watch as the truth was revealed to him. What he saw he would not say, but the experience changed him. Converted fully to the fold of Chaos, he worshipped not one of the gods but all of them, a servant of divinity in its entirety.

His path set, his purpose defined, Lorgar would sail with his Legion into the very heart of the storm. Sending first his sons into the madness, they returned in moments, changed and twisted. Their souls had become less than human, greater than mortal, and with two voices they told him of what they saw, inviting the Golden One into its depths.

So beckoned did Lorgar go, diving into the 
<br>
Eye as it opened fully in welcome. 
<br>
Here in the tides of madness 
<br>
would he become whole, returned 
<br>
home at last...

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## Faith Rewarded

Through the Aether was he led, first to a ancient world once belonging to the fallen Eldar. On its blasted surface was he shown the truth of Chaos, and the dangers that come with rejecting its call.

The Aeldari had birthed a god, and in their hubris and arrogance, they had chosen to stand against him. This dead land, this ruin of a once mighty kingdom, was but a testament to the strength of the Ruinous Powers.

Such sickness possessed by Lorgar, his step already tainted by shroud and misery, could not be stomached by the guardians of this world. A mighty champion of Khaine formed before him, a splintered shard of his murderous malice awoke.

The two joined in battle as faith collided. Both sought ruin, both sought the end, but Lorgar possessed a power as old as humanity itself. Proving victorious, he rendered the Avatar to ash, and so claimed victory in his first trial.

His second trial would follow fast on the trails of the first, a great Bloodthirster by the name of An'ggrath the Unbound challenged him to battle, a duel to prove his strength for the path he would walk.

Once more victorious, this time Lorgar sustained terrible wounds. Barely alive, he persevered in his journey, his pilgrimage into the very night too far gone to surrender now. The third trial however, would not be one that blades could prove...

Here he met with Kairos Fateweaver, errant prophet of Tzeentch and master of all knowledge. Usually bound by an ancient curse, one mouth honest, the other deceiving, he spoke now only the truth.
<br><br>
***And Such Knowledge He <br> Possessed...***

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## The Chosen

This being of change offered Lorgar a choice in the war to come. The grand rebellion of Horus would consume the galaxy but its success relied upon a single decision made by Aurelian. He could earn his revenge upon Guilliman, prove to all the strength he now possessed, but doing so would doom the Heresy, and condemn Horus to failure.

Or, he could put aside his personal grievance, accept the shame of defeat and instead secure victory for the gods and mankind. The options were clear, now Lorgar merely had to choose between revenge and faith, his own agenda and that of mankind.

Struggling with such a defining moment, Lorgar demanded to see a vision of what would occur should the Heresy fail. What he witnessed changed him forever, and no more did the Primarch doubt as he emerged from his voyage. No more did his hands shake at the promise of his words... The Favoured Son had arrived.

His path set, Lorgar sent Erebus to Davin to orchestrate the events that would lead to Horus' fall. Meanwhile, he waited, biding his time for the future as the new faith of his Legion was kept secret from the wider Imperium.

As time passed, Lorgar began to experiment, improving both his physical and psychic prowess. Soon he had become a monstrosity, a being of sublime sorcery and martial strength who had far outstripped his mentors.

This caused concern amongst the Legion, Kor Phaeron and Erebus cautious now around his new strength. Once they had guided him, moulded his path as they manipulated him into position. Now he stood above them both, a creature knowing no shackles except his own.

When the Warmaster finally fell, and declared his rebellion amidst the ruins of Istvaan, Lorgar answered the call of the Emperor for war. With desperate speed, he and six other Legions made their way to battle, he and six others prepared to shed a brother's blood.

What came next was a betrayal that would cement Lorgar's place in the eyes of the gods, and begin a conflict that would know no end.

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## Carrion Calls

Landing upon the surface of Istvaan V, the Salamanders, Raven Guard and Iron Hands were already engaged heavily with the Warmaster's forces. Taking no pleasure in what was to come, the Golden One smiled back as the loyalists greeted him in joy.

Beginning their retreat so that the newcomers could continue the assault, the Raven Guard moved towards the Word Bearers, eager to greet their brothers. Aurelian's smile darkened however, and just before it began, the Raven Guard knew something was wrong.

A barked order and Lorgar's sons joined the rebellion in truth, raking the lines of the loyalists with devastating fire as the Night Lords, Alpha Legion and Iron Warriors joined in their treachery.

Caught between the hammer and anvil, the Emperor's forces collapsed, horrified by what had happened. Many tried to escape, but few would survive, Corax watching as his own children were massacred in front of him.

The Raven was a being of emotion however, of rage and anger like any other. Seeing Lorgar inflicting ruin upon the loyalists, he took to the skies as his shadow fell across the battlefield. As though some dark prophecy had been fulfilled, a great change took the Word Bearers as the Raven came for revenge.

Mutating horrifically, dark alterations of mad power erupting from their flesh, the Word Bearers were remade in the eyes of madness. This once proud Legion stood now as monsters more than men, chosen and beloved by the Ruinous Powers below.

Crashing into his target however, Corax cared not for the disgusting actions of his foresworn kin. His only intent was upon ending the life of this traitor, and saving his children in the process.
<br><br>
***But Night Followed The Raven...***

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## An Oracle in Flesh

The two clashed amidst the ruin of faith, crozius and claw sparking as they met. Lorgar knew he could not win, not because he lacked power, but because fate had already been decreed. Kairos had told him he would never win against the Crow, and so Lorgar prepared for his end.

But Corax was hated by one other more than anything, and from the shadows came the Night Haunter. Laughing maniacally, he caught the Raven in his grasp as he prepared to end his mirror's existence.

But even Curze's madness paled in comparison to Lorgar's, and seeing what had happened to the Word Bearers, he could not help but show his disgust. Aurelian had become nothing more than a puppet, exchanging one owner for another, and Curze could not respect a man who chose slavery instead of freedom.

This moment's respite was all that he needed, and Corax escaped, the Night Haunter in rapid pursuit. All that remained was the Urizen, who witnessed the glory of his sons changes and wept, for they had become perfect in their divinity.

## Too Close to Home

With the battle concluded, the traitors victorious, Horus called a council of those who had sworn themselves to his banner. Here, for the first time since the rebellion, did Lorgar meet Fulgrim, and see the truth behind the mask.

Aurelian had always known that Chaos was not benign, malice evident in every action. He did not love them but worshipped them, respecting their divinity even as he recognised the monsters that they were.

What Fulgrim had become was a travesty however, for it was not the Phoenix behind the smile. Some dark beast of the Warp had taken his flesh, wearing it now without reverence nor care, and the Urizen grew wroth at this crime.

Speaking now such words of power that blistered the air, the Daemon was forced to its knees by the sheer will of the Primarch. Horus moved to intervene but found himself stayed by the mere presence of Lorgar unchained, his mind now a pit of focussed devotion and energy.

Unable to move, he was still the Warmaster, and his charisma knew no bounds. Talked down from the edge, brought back from a point of no return, Lorgar released the Daemon and left, unwilling to bear witness to such darkness. Possession was meant to be a bond, not an invasion, and this foul parody of parasitic irreverence sat ill with the Golden One.

This disagreement put aside for more important matters, Lorgar and his Legion were dispatched to Ultramar. While the majority of his forces moved towards Calth, where the Warmaster had organised the entirety of the Ultramarines to be in attendance, the Urizen joined with Angron for war.

Named the Shadow Crusade, the two Primarchs would carve a bloody swathe through the Five Hundred Worlds. Embattled on Calth by the Word Bearer's ambush, Guilliman could do little but watch as his empire crumbled around him.

Such an endeavour was tense at first, for the Red Angel held Lorgar in nothing but contempt. Aurelian, meanwhile, could not understand Angron's need for bloodshed and violence. Chaos feeds off the fractures however, and in their anguish did something darker grow...

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## A Brother's War

An assassination attempt by the Dark Eldar of old did much to repair the rift between the two however, Lorgar's defence of his brother earning him no small measure of respect. Eased by this growing kinship, it would be on Armatura that Lorgar would learn the true tragedy of the Red Angel.

The psychotic frenzy of the World Eaters had become infamous throughout the Imperium, but on this embattled world, Aurelian witnessed something else. As Angron and his sons charged, beserk and lost to reason, the Ultramarines fought desperately against this lunatic assault.

Chasing down the Red Angel, trying desperately to reign him in, Lorgar watched as he was buried alive beneath a towering building brought low. Surrounded on all sides, trapped below the ground, Angron's end appeared imminent.

That is until Lorgar arrived, tearing apart the world around him with sheer fury and psychic might, the very skies erupting as rage was unleashed without control. All who approached were annihilated, gunships ripped in twain as Astartes died by the score. Hell had been unleashed upon the world.

The loyalists, realising that now was the time to strike, diverted titans to the weakened Primarchs. Holding his ground, refusing to relent, Lorgar stared down death as an Engine of Mars unleashed its payload into him.

Blinding light left all sightless as the Primarch was consumed, but as vision returned they saw that still he stood, maintaining his shield against all odds. Spent as he was however, his armour soon failed, and only Angron emerging from the debris like a titan of old saved him.

Both free, the battle was quickly won, and the Crusade continued once more...

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## A Daemon Divine

Knowing now the pain inflicted by the *Butcher's Nails*, Lorgar directed the assault towards Nuceria, the home of the now ravening Primarch. Here he unleashed Angron and watched as his brother slaked his thirst for vegeance in full.

Guilliman had finally secured victory at Calth however, and eager to repay the horrors inflicted upon his realm, arrived at Nuceria with nothing but rage and anger. As their ships battled in orbit, the Avenging Son descended to the world below, finding Aurelian waiting for him.

The two clashed, equals for the first time in years, as Lorgar displayed a mastery never shown before. With neither able to break against the other, it seemed inevitable that this fight would never end.

Angron, however, had other plans and he emerged from the ruins of this world with glee. Tearing into Guilliman, the demented lord of the damned screamed as he shattered the Blade of Unity with ease.

Lorgar seized this opportunity, stepping back from the carnage as he began to enact a terrible ritual of blood and murder. Calling upon the gods, feeding them the grief of a whole world, he channeled their power into the Red Angel who began to change even as he fought.

Eventually, the sky red with dark power, ruin feeding upon every aspect of his mortal form, Angron erupted. Blood filled the air as great wings of spite emerged from his back. Lorgar fell to his knees exhausted, his work complete as the Red Angel now truly wore his title in full.

Faced now with a true god of war, Guilliman retreated as Angron disappeared to his fleet. The Shadow Crusade had ended and Aurelian stood there alone, proven to all who had witnessed this display of power.
<br><br>
***Chaos Had Answered His Call...***

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## A Turn
## of Treason

His time with the Red Angel over, 
<br>
Lorgar once more brought his Legion to heel.
<br>
Spreading darkness wherever he went, his forces conquered worlds and left dark cathedrals of spite in 
<br>
their wake.

Over time, however, Aurelian began to lose faith in Lupercal, his brother's constant craving for power unbecoming of his majesty. Less and less was he the noble warlord of old, more and more a slave to his own ambitions.

Even worse, he had refused to submit to the authority of the gods, choosing instead to serve his own pride and vainglory. When Horus' rejection of Chaos came, Lorgar decided there and then to kill him, to take his place as Warmaster of Chaos. Anything less would bring ruin to the rebellion, and grant victory to the Emperor.

At Beta-Garmon, where Horus became comatose from a wound inflicted by Russ, Lorgar made his move. Lupercal had ordered the assembly of all the Primarchs at Ullanor, to celebrate a Dark Triumph before the march on Terra began.

Feigning agreement with this plan, he sent Perturabo off in search of Angron while he took upon himself the task of reigning in Fulgrim. Into the Webway he travelled, old magic guiding his path, following the trail left by the Phoenix.

Emerging into the Eye of Terror once more, they found themselves within the twisted palace of Slaanesh itself. Here in the halls of depravity did they find Fulgrim, twisted in form and mind, delighting in pleasures too perverse to be described.

In this bastion of darkness, the very seat of Fulgrim's power, an assault against him would be folly of the highest order. Lorgar had not come unarmed, however, a dark spell having granted him knowledge of the Phoenix's True Name.

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## Out-Played

Lore such as he had learned came 
<br>
with a dark price however, and his mind would not long hold its memory. Granting the name to one of his Apostles, the two used its power to bind Fulgrim to their will.

Returning to Ullanor, they began to prepare for their betrayal. Sacrificing a thousand souls to the gods of Chaos, Lorgar planned to unleash a sudden strike against Horus, only recently awakened and surely weak.

Descending to the planet below however, he was immediately attacked, Horus fully aware of the venom in his blood. Siding with Lupercal, his Apostle released Fulgrim from his chains, freeing him from slavery and dooming Aurelian completely.

Utterly beaten, ruined and near death upon the ground, Lorgar could only express pity for the hollow being Horus had become. Nothing more than a raging storm of power, completely unfettered from free will and hope, Horus had become a weapon and nothing else... A tool for the Dark God's amusement.

With his plot unthreaded, fate cruelly dismissing him from its notice, Lorgar was banished back to the Eye of Terror, exiled on pain of death. His Legion was taken from him, bound to the Warmaster's purpose and Aurelian was left destitute, alone once more in an uncaring universe.
<br><br>
***But The End Had Just Begun...***

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## The Bell Tolls

Where Lorgar went is unknown, travelling far and wide or perhaps hiding from his shame. The Warmaster would fail, as he predicted, and Chaos would once more retreat back to its domain.

Eventually, he would return to Sicarus, a Daemon-World claimed by the Word Bearers. Here would he ascend to divinity, the gods bestowing upon him their final blessing as he beheld a future that would know only unending suffering.

Maybe he felt sorrow, for Lorgar had always cared for people, or maybe such emotion, such compassion, had been riven from him in his tireless pursuit of favour. The choice mattered not, for Lorgar retreated into the shadows. Residing within a vast temple built, it was said he would only emerge once the end of days had come.

What fear must we know then, what horror must we expect, for once more the Prince of Chaos marches. His seclusion ended in defence of his children, it seems that destiny is keen to play the same story once more.

As the galaxy prepared itself for the final night, the Word Bearers had come under assault by a strange creature in the Warp. A beast of fang and feather that hunted them relentlessly.

Corvus Corax, the Raven Lord, had never forgiven Lorgar for his betrayal, and had pursued him into the heart of darkness. Changed and mutated by the powers of the Aether, he was an abomination of vengeance whose presence overwhelmed even the Favoured Child.

Hunted by his brother, a war fought once already plaguing the Imperium, Lorgar finds himself torn now between two worlds. The Great Game of Chaos continues, murder and plot thicken, and legend repeats itself in kind.

The bell tolls for the end, the reaper comes with scythe in hand...
<br><br>
***His Faith Shall Burn It All...***

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### The Armour of the Word

This suit of Artificer Armour possesses a protective field built within it. Further enhanced by strange runes and dark glyphs of magic, it is a formidable piece of defensive craft, proof against attacks both physical and spritual.

### Illuminarum

Fashioned by the metal hands of Ferrus Manus, it is a weapon of sublime artifice. Capable of rending plate with ease, it is the model upon which the Crozius Arcanum would later be designed.

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### The Book of Lorgar

This gospel of the dark gods was written personally by Lorgar himself. Containing the parables of a Primarch's journey into madness, it also possesses a large store of information relating to sorcery and the lunatic laws it follows.

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# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="Black">Chapter Sixteen</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="Black">Vulkan</font>

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##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White"> <br><br><br><br> *What a world we live in, that our demons walk beneath heaven's guise, while our heroes cast shadows of nightmare make.* </font>

</div>

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# The Dragon Comes
I *never cared for what they thought, my eyes alone enough to bring fear to their hearts. I strove for good in a world that had long forgot such concept, sought hope amidst the ash, but there was nothing. Only memory, and the nightmare I had long denied...*

Humanity has often been spoken of by the poet, the struggle of the soul contained within endless epics and songs. Amidst the relentless push for victory that devoured the Imperium, only Vulkan remembered truly who they were, and what they were meant to be.

Defined by his empathy, his enduring compassion for those who dwelt beneath his shadow, Vulkan would live a life of torment both self-inflicted and drawn from the ire of others. The weight of those he failed to save would forever follow him, the fire in his blood eternal in its promise of annihilation.

Tragedy, however, can only be carried for so long, failure a burden that grinds all to dust. The Dragon was immortal though, and though his body could survive, his mind would eventually collapse. His grief all-consuming, the form that could never fail would become but a cage to a soul that could never escape.

This was his gift and his curse, to possess the very love of mankind without an end to grant relief. No strength of the heavens, no power of unearthly ken could save him from himself, and what was once his greatest armour became a weakness like no other.

In this time of angels and demons, this land of eldritch horror and bitter strife, would Vulkan truly learn sorrow. He was a hero when all were villains, moral as doubt consumed them all. He held to hope as death came forth on wings of flame...
<br><br>
***He Was Human Until The Very End....***

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## The Tides of Fire

Taken by the winds of fate, brought into the world by the rage of dark gods and the manipulations of those who knew too much, Vulkan would find himself upon the planet of Nocturne. This volcanic land of smoke and ash was home to a small colony of humans, their struggle against the violence of nature testament to their endurance and strength.

Little more than a mewling child when he arrived, he was discovered by the blacksmith, N'bel, who took him under his wing and raised the Primarch as his own. Cared for in this quiet village, his life dedicated to his craft, Vulkan would grow at a prodigious rate, both mentally and physically.

Barely four years of age and already he was larger and stronger than any man in town, more capable in the smith's art than any soul who dwelt beside him. Kind-hearted he would remain, but his appetite for more grew steadily, and his innovations soon spread throughout the world.

Nocturne was not a peaceful place however, not just because the very earth groaned against restraint and its inhabitants prowled the mountains ever eager for blood. A nightmare made real had come to Nocturne time and time again, and they bore only one name... "*Dusk Wraith*".

These star bound invaders arrived with disturbing frequency, each time descending onto the planet in search of slaves for their hold. So used to these incursions were the natives that each had found themselves a hiding place, long prepared and defended, their only hope against these foreign assailants.

This time, however, they would not be forced to dig through the debris for their prey. Vulkan stood alone in the middle of his town, hammers raised for the first time in violence. The Dragon had awoken...

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## Once he Slumbered...

A single soul, he charged into the midst of the xenos, but not for long did he stand alone. Emboldened by his bravery, he was soon joined by the village who took up arms against these foreign foes.

Hundreds died in the ensuing conflict, strange blades clashing loudly in the din of the mountain's roar. Eventually, however, they were driven off, Vulkan victorious amidst the carnage that would soon be repeated eternal.

In celebration of his success against the Drukhari, the true name of their ancient foe, the people spread the legend of their saviour across the world. No longer a simple blacksmith, toiling away in obscurity, the Dragon had become a symbol to the people, and many travelled far to learn from his wisdom.

Following such success, and the great prosperity he brought with his knowledge, the natives of Nocturne organised a vast tournament in Vulkan's honour. These festivities were full of delight and wonder, and all journeyed the great distance to take part in such a momentous occasion.

To the surprise of all, however, a stranger revealed himself from within the crowds. Pale amidst the ashen skin of the celebrants, dressed in exotic clothing from far off lands, all went quiet as he spoke. He challenged any who would dare stand against him, arrogant and hubristic in his belief that none here were worthy of his strength.

Great laughter filled the air, for the natives knew the strength of Vulkan, as well as his wit and keen mind. Stepping forth to defend the honour of his people, the Dragon agreed to a contest with the stranger, the loser bound to serve the other forevermore.
<br><br>
***So Would Fate Be Decided...***

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## The
## Choice

For eight days would the two 
<br>
compete, pushing themselves to 
<br>
their absolute limit in these tests 
<br>
of body and mind. For eight days they sought 
<br>
success, but at the end they were tied in their 
<br>
victories, certainty still far out of grasp.

Realising that there would be no clarity if such continued, the inhabitants of Nocturne agreed to a final challenge, one that would test every aspect of its participants. Each would be given 24 hours to construct a weapon of their own choice, and with it slay the largest Salamander they could find.

These beasts were amongst the most terrible upon the world, titanic monstrosities of sinew and bone to whom flame was a kindred spirit. Such meant little to these two however, their power majestic and their hearts relentless in the search for glory.

Quickly slaying one of the largest of these creatures he had ever seen, Vulkan rushed back home to present his trophy. Alas, with haste did he act and with haste did the wrathful world of Nocturne reply.

The mountain he scaled in his return was in truth a volcano, and by fateful chance or dark manipulation did it choose now to reveal its fury. Thrown from his perch by the calamitous eruption, Vulkan barely survived, hanging by one hand above a chasm eager to devour him whole.

Faced with defeat or certain demise, Vulkan refused to release his prize. Each moment closer to his last, he would not relent, clinging onto the corpse of the Salamander with all of his strength as the very rock above him began to give way.

Salvation came, however, from an unlikely source. The stranger saw him struggle and without hesitation, hurled his own beast into the flame to better clasp the Primarch's ailing grasp. Heaving him to his feet, the two quickly escaped back to the village.

Returning home, the natives prepared themselves for celebration but Vulkan, knowing the truth, refused.

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## Compassion

This stranger had proven himself worthy of much, 
<br>
for his drake had been larger than Vulkan's. Instead, he had chosen failure in order to save the Dragon's life, and in doing so had shown compassion to be greater than pride.

Kneeling before this figure, he swore his service to him, pledged his life and heart to a duty he did not truly comprehend. In a flash of light did the outlander throw off his disguise, revealing before all the Emperor of Mankind.

Filled with power and golden light, the Master of Mankind was an awesome figure of majesty. Lifting Vulkan to his feet, he embraced his son and took him to the stars to show him the future that awaited him.

For the next few years would the two travel together, the Dragon learning much as the Emperor sought to show him the extent of his vision. The whole galaxy would be his, and with the aid of the Primarchs, such a dream came closer to reality each day.

When not travelling with his father, Vulkan would spend days learning from the brightest minds of Mars, honing his prodigious skill at the forge. It would be in the smoke and ash of the artisan's realm that Vulkan would meet Ferrus Manus, forming a fast friendship with the Gorgon.

Such time of learning would, however, come to an end...
<br><br>
***For War Was Not A Patient Mistress...***

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## On Wings of Flame

Equipped with the knowledge needed to prosecute his father's war, armed and ready for the violence he would face, Vulkan set forth at the head of those recruits drawn from his home. Moving towards the last reported location of his Legion, he found them beset on all sides, fighting a desperate action against the greenskins as they slowly lost ground.

Falling upon the Orks with the fury of god, Vulkan brought fire to their lives, and quickly ended them. Bearing weapons of novel design crafted by the Primarch himself, the Astartes proved unstoppable as their beleaguered brothers were rescued from the edge of death.

The two halves reunited on the fields of battle, Vulkan embraced his Legion with love. The Astartes that now joined him had fought with the courage of heroes, their last stand chosen in defence of those who could not defend themselves.

Kneeling before his sons, he renamed them the Salamanders, for their love of flame and reckless nature had earned such comparison. Returning whole to Prometheus, a moon above Nocturne and their bastion going forwards, Vulkan would spend his time reforging the Legion in his image.

Here, each would learn the arts of war, practicing upon this barren world as their skill grew greater with each passing day. The forge would also become their home as the Legion was taught the way of the smith, to better understand the patience required in battle, and to better hone the discipline they had sorely lacked.

Vulkan himself would instead turn to the past, crafting a beautiful Dreadnought Chassis for the Chapter Master before him. This man had sacrificed himself for hope and compassion, and such wisdom could not be squandered, nor sheer good abandoned.

So were they defined by their new father, the reckless, almost suicidal spirit, kept in check. The Crusade called and they answered, the Dragon's roar heard across the galaxy as they set forth.

## Forged Anew

Unbridled passion now met with the calming nature of their father, and the Salamanders proved to be an exemplary addition to the Emperor's forces. Though they never reached the strength of other Legions, nor claimed dominion as some had chosen to do, they became beloved by all who crossed their path.

They never forgot their purpose, as shields of humanity, and never did they carelessly spend the lives of those they fought beside. No conflict was too small to draw notice, glory only second in their ambition to bring light to a galaxy riven with darkness.

The once quick anger of the Salamanders had gone, their reputation for heedless violence against the most hopeless odds soon swept beneath the tides of history as they brought hope to the lives of billions.

Such would be their legacy, but as their fire banished the shroud, such evil retreated to the shadows they left. For every warrior defined by hope, there was one defined by spite. For each victory earned in honour, there were those forged in cruelty. For every angel...
<br><br>
***There Was A Demon Made In Kind...***

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## A Memory Disturbed

On the world of Caldera would Vulkan meet an old foe once more. Though incredibly dangerous and mostly undeveloped, it possessed great mineral deposits that the Imperium sorely craved.

The Eldar, however, had similar designs for the world, and a garrison remained dedicated to its protection from greedy interlopers. While their martial ability was great and their technology potent, it was not just one Legion that had arrived to bring this land to heel.

The Death Guard, Salamanders and Iron Hands all arrived with xenophobic hatred in their hearts. More than any did Vulkan loathe these creatures for they bore a striking resemblance to those who had preyed upon his home years ago.

The Eldar were quickly crushed but the human natives seemed uncomfortable with the newly arrived Imperial forces. Their sympathies clearly lay with the Eldar and as Vulkan explored the world, he began to realise why.

Ancient devices had been left here, portals he knew all too well from the Drukhari raids of old. These Webway Gates had been seized by the Aeldari from their dark kin, and they had freed the human slaves kidnapped from a thousand worlds.

This truth had been revealed to him by a mysterious figure, one he later realised was the Emperor. However, he was now faced with a population who saw the Eldar as liberators not enslavers, and so took the only option left to him against such corruption.

The natives were slain to a man, every soul burned from their shell as Vulkan watched on darkly. This would be only the first of many sins to weigh upon his soul, the first step towards a hatred that seethed within his blood.

Quickly leaving, Vulkan would move on to greater victories... and far darker crimes.

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## The Mirror Smiles

It would be on Kharaatan however, that Vulkan would truly see the sickness carried within his brothers, the madness that had claimed them without issue. A joint conquest of the world between the Night Lords and Salamanders would reveal the splendour of the Lunatic Prince and the horrors that lived within his mind.

Initially successful, the battles against the reluctant humans and their Eldar masters had taken a heavy toll on the Imperial vanguard. In an effort to speed up pacification, Curze resorted to his usual acts of debauched sadism, eventually ordering a whole city slaughtered, the corpses displayed prominently around its borders.

Vulkan was horrified by this casual genocide, railing against his brother who seemed utterly unconcerned by such matters as morality and compassion. The argument grew heated, and only an attack by the Warlock-Coven that ruled the planet staved off violence between the two.

So unsettled was Vulkan by the Night Haunter's morbid delight in murder, that he lost control himself. As the campaign concluded in victory, prisoners were brought before them in chains. A single moment, a brief spark of psychic energy, and without thinking Vulkan struck.

An Eldar child, uncontrolled in her talent, lay dead upon the ground, her life taken by a single instinct unrestrained by reason. Vulkan could only watch as mayhem was unleashed, panic filtering from his blow until chaos reigned in totality.

Riven by grief, Vulkan soon left, the vision of the slain child haunting his every dream. Still, his own darkness could not excuse the madness of Konrad Curze, and with disgust he made his protests clear to Horus and Rogal Dorn.

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## Caught from the Shadow

How Vulkan reacted to the Warmaster's sudden betrayal is unknown. Perhaps he was stricken by shock, perhaps he found himself consumed by rage like so many of his kin, or perhaps he merely accepted it, knowing in truth the madness that lie in his heart.

Vulkan had once forged a great gift for Horus, a weapon worthy of the man who bore the weight of the Imperium upon his shoulders. Something had held him back, however, a whispered concern that Vulkan could not ignore that warned of his brother's plight.

When the call to war was put out then, Vulkan responded. With the Raven Guard and Iron Hands beside him, the Dragon tore through the Immaterium towards Istvaan V, where his family's treason was celebrated by mortar and artillery ash.

On the fields of hate did brother meet brother, blades clashing beneath the din of terrible weapons. Success seemed sure for loyalists, and though they had rushed into battle, already they cheered for victory.

As reinforcements came from the heavens, allies against the Warmaster's spite, both Vulkan and Corax retreated towards them. Exhausted from hours of battle, running low on vital supplies, they were happy for their kin to take up the assault and claim the final prize.

## Such Revenant Hate

What surprise then, when their allies turned their guns upon them. In moments were the loyalists drowned in fire as a resurgent push from the Warmaster saw them caught between hammer and anvil.

With barely a moment to react, Vulkan roared to his troops... as their world erupted in flame. Nuclear missiles launched by the Iron Warriors tore into their ranks, killing thousands in a brief flash of violence.

The Salamanders died, there and then, no outcome enough to save them from the horrific losses they had just suffered. Vulkan himself was caught by the explosion, devoured by its ravening flame, but remained alive. His own nature revealing itself for the first time, death was denied its due.

Such an end would have been a mercy however, for emerging from the ruins he found himself surrounded by traitors who once bore his blood. Shot, beaten and bludgeoned to the ground, he was placed in chains and taken away. Little more than an animal lost to its pain, the Mad God's menagerie was all that awaited his fate.

So now did Vulkan languish, his soul tormented endlessly even as his body refused to relent. A prisoner of Curze, the Night Haunter found great delight in extracting agony and screaming madness from the Primarch.

But Konrad was no knight, to slay the Dragon even as it lost all hope. Vulkan's refusal to die or submit began to drive the Hollow Prince to madness and even more bizarre and esoteric punishments were employed in a desperate attempt to shatter the Hope of Man.

Finally, Curze turned to sorcery in his rabid anger, forcing Vulkan to endure failure after failure, each one condemning innocents to die as his dreams proved no haven nor escape from the torturer's touch.

What humanity remained within him was soon gone,
<br><br>
***And Something Darker Took Its Place...***

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## Always a Price

Finally, driven beyond even madness by the Dragon's relentless endurance, the Night Haunter sought to bring Vulkan within the mirror. He wanted the Dragon to admit he was a monster, to realise that all his desire for good, his hope for salvation, came from the understanding that deep down, he was no better than Curze.

Placed within a maze designed by Perturabo, Vulkan found himself lost within the labyrinth. Somehow, perhaps through genius or some innate understanding of the cryptic mind of his brother, the Dragon escaped. Finding himself within a chamber containing his personal weapon, he was soon ambushed by Curze who sought what both had craved for so very long.

This battle was fought on many levels, far darker than even the Heresy that consumed the galaxy. Two monsters warred within them both, each seeking death of a different kind, each hating all that they had become.

Vulkan was strong however, beyond even the ken of the Emperor's sons, and without much trouble he broke the Night Haunter apart. Little more than a ruin of his haunted form, Curze laughed as death approached...

But such mercy was too good for the Hollow Prince, such murder too far for even Vulkan lost in his rage. Activating instead the teleporter within his hammer, he was pulled away on umbral tides to lands far from these dark memories.

His target was found, his location revealed, and above the skies of Maccrage did he emerge, unarmoured and ill-prepared for the horror that followed. Falling through the atmosphere at terrible speed, his body was immolated upon re-entry, but ash as it collided with the earth.

Vulkan knew not what happened next, his body ruined far beyond any medical repair. Slowly did his powers work, knitting together broken bone and scorched flesh, sealing grievous wounds and ancient scars.

Step by step was he restored, and in panic did life return with frantic breath and fear. Caged once more, iron walls and strange devices surrounded him, colours fading fast as instinct overrode any reason he once possessed.

Violent and utterly incoherent, Vulkan 
<br>
could not be calmed, little more 
<br>
than the furnace screaming its fire 
<br>
into the night. Pain 
<br>
was all that 
<br>
remained...

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## From Man Come Monsters

Pain, and a single bond that drove him into action. Konrad had followed him to this world and instantly he reacted. Lashing out at the Ultramarines who had tried to save him, he broke free of the chamber and escaped into the night, following the song of his most hated brother relentlessly.

On the trail of his prey, he soon found Curze and tore into him like an animal. Fang and fist, tooth and claw, all employed brutally against his tormentor as the two battled across the city that enclosed them.

To Curze's horror, whatever regeneration the Dragon had possessed had magnified tenfold, wounds healing before his very eyes as Vulkan mastered his fell powers. Even death was nothing but a minor deterrent, no more capable of holding him back than the wind.

This spiteful duel continued on through the night, blade meeting flesh with no clear victor at hand. Only the intervention of another Perpetual, another being blessed with immortality like Vulkan's, brought this chaos to an end.

Armed with a piece of the Emperor's psychic might, John Grammaticus had been guided here to slay Vulkan once and for all, to ensure Horus' victory against the Imperium. Directed to provide Curze with the weapon so that the Dragon might be slain, he chose instead to strike the Salamander himself, hoping to restore the Primarch's mind and body completely.

The resultant explosion tore all apart, devouring the Night Haunter as he was pulled into the Warp and leaving Vulkan a lifeless shell upon the ground. Such ends the tale of our Dragon, slain at last by a blade to the heart,
<br><br>
***No Armour Strong Enough To <br> Save Him From Himself.***

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## Duty Knows no Release

Or so it seemed... His body found in the rubble, it was quickly interred in a stasis chamber until it could be delivered back to Nocturne for burial. An honour guard of Salamanders stood watch over his remains, vigilant even as their grief tore against the control they had spent decades mastering.

As matters grew darker in the Imperium, the Warp ripped asunder by a terrible storm that devoured all that approached it, the Salamanders grew desperate. Convinced by a heartbeat that none other could hear, they agreed to make the voyage back to their home, certain that they could restore Vulkan once more to life.

Such purpose, such single-minded determination was but the last defence against the rage slowly devouring them all. This vain hope was but the figment of a story-teller's imagination, the province of myth and legend best forgotten in this time of scorn.

With nothing else to keep them in Ultramar, they left, the journey taken terrible as storm, Daemon and heretic turned their gaze upon them in violent delight. The battles they fought would serve to fill a thousand books, but such stories are left for another time, another place, another tale of betrayal and woe.

Arriving finally above Nocturne, they rushed their fallen Primarch to the surface. Deep beneath the Mountains of Deathfire, Vulkan was condemned to the flame, the raging furnace claiming his flesh once more unto its heart.

With the final sacrifice of one of his most loyal sons, Vulkan was reborn amidst the ash that had once raised him as its own. Heaving for breath, his body whole, the Dragon's mind remained elusive.

## A Perpetual Truth

As his body was carefully monitored, Vulkan himself dwelt in a land of dream and fugue vision. Here he spoke with a being that named itself the personification of the very mountains beneath which he dwelt.

This creature urged him to return to Terra, speaking of horror and woe, darkness beyond that which even the human soul could contain. In order to aid him in his task, the spirit led Vulkan to two items he had once forged, though no longer did the Dragon remember doing so.

These were the Thunder Hammer Urdrakule and the Talisman of Seven Hammers, and with them could 
<br>
hope once more be rekindled in man. So armed with knowledge and weapons, Vulkan awoke surrounded 
<br>
by three of his most dedicated sons.

Naming them his Draaksward, he led them beneath the surface of Nocturne, deep beneath its roiling plates and furnace rivers. Here, in the entombed caverns of an ancient world did Vulkan reveal the Talisman, and use it to open a gate into the Webway once claimed only by the Eldar of old.

What followed was a brutal journey through the maze of derelict paths that intertwined the Warp. To Commorragh did Vulkan find himself first, caught up in a violent conflict that he narrowly escaped. Once more into the Webway would he flee and a thousand doors led him onwards.

Eventually, they would find themselves aboard an Iron Hands fleet led by Shadrak Meduson, itself caught up in internecine conflict that knew no end.
<br><br>
***And A Spectre Of Love Long Lost...***

\pagebreakNum

## Haunted

Here he found 
<br>
them, desperate for 
<br>
hope, convinced that they had 
<br>
restored their father once more 
<br>
to life. The sudden arrival of 
<br>
Vulkan only emboldened those who most 
<br>
deeply held to this belief, and the violence between 
<br>
the faithful and the doubting only grew faster.

Demanding to see his brother, himself hoping beyond hope that he had survived, Vulkan was left hollow at what he was shown. The Ferrus Manus of old was gone, replaced by a mere puppet of engine oil and electricity, a single limb from the Primarch welded onto its chassis.

Disgusted at this mockery of divine elegance, he shattered the automaton and left it ruined upon the ground. Damning this creation as nothing more than a product of self-pity and delusion, Vulkan reforged the Iron Hands and brought them back from the brink.

Eager now to continue with his journey, he refused Shadrak's invitation to join the Iron Hands, and instead left for the world of Caldera in search of another portal. Here was he met by the Eldar, and though wary at first, he soon realised they wished to aid him on his path.

Guided to another gate to the Webway, once more would Vulkan, tired and ailing, descend into its labyrinthine pit. On Calastar would he and his sons emerge next, a planet within the Nexus empty and barren, possessing only the ghosts of wars once fought upon its surface.

Here were they beset immediately by Daemons of Chaos, their mad power having finally breached the once sacrosanct gates of the Eldar's domain. Vulkan himself was brought to battle against a fiend of ancient ruin and rot, a Great Unclean One of Nurgle by the name of Aghalbor.

Once this would have been the end of the Dragon. Now, however, he was a being of sheer will, pain nothing but a distraction from his tormented form. Death was a faint memory, agony a constant friend, and in the depths of hell did he step forth to meet his foe.

Unchained at last, the pyre's roar set the darkness aflame.

\columnbreak

## In Defiance

Wielding weapons forged by powers greater than any, Vulkan clashed against the monstrosity. With strength and purpose did he smite the beast, tearing it asunder as its soul was obliterated.

He did not merely banish the creature, but annihilated it, removing from existence its taint and stench. Alas, such victory would not be enough, for one Daemon is nothing to the endless hordes of madness.

Only the timely intervention of Eldrad Ulthran saved them, and it was here that he revealed his manipulation of the Primarch. Admitting that it was he who had impersonated Deathfire's spirit, he urged them onwards as he held their enemies at bay.

A final portal greeted them, a final step towards their endless hunt, and through it they ran. Emerging in the Imperial Dungeons, Vulkan found himself in a home he had almost forgotten, surrounded by men he could barely recall.

Greeted briefly by Rogal Dorn, relief evident upon his face, Vulkan was soon escorted to the Emperor by the Custodian Guard. Here did the Dragon face his father once more, no longer the glorious figure of majesty but instead a prisoner upon a throne of tortured gold.
<br><br>
***Such Beauty But Shackles Upon The Soul...***

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## The Last Flight

Struggling against the very darkness of man itself, the Emperor diverted enough attention to communicate with his son. He revealed that it was he who had tricked Vulkan into forging those artefacts the Dragon now bore and he revealed that it was his power that had hidden their memory from his mind.

Accepting of the Emperor's decision, Vulkan asked of his father what purpose still remained, and here did the Master of Mankind reveal the true nature of what he bore. The Talisman, capable of rendering death upon even Daemons, was in fact a weapon of total destruction.

Designed to annihilate Terra in its entirety, it was a weapon forged with a singular purpose for a singular event. Should Horus take Earth then there must be no Earth left for him to take.

His heart heavy, Vulkan took up this final mantle, and stood guard outside the Emperor's Throneroom. Here he waited and here he watched, ready to end existence itself in a blaze of fire.

Such would not come to be however, for Horus was slain, the Emperor wounded unto death. The traitor's assault on Terra collapsed without the Warmaster and Vulkan would once more restore the shattered remnants of his Legion in a final act of vengeance.

When finally they had been chased back to the Eye of Terror, the demented servants of the Dark Gods trapped within their endless game, Vulkan returned to Nocturne for one final time. Here he told his sons of his plans to depart, and though they were filled with sorrow, he promised that one day he would return.

Speeches and words of weight were never his to command however, and such farewell was brief. With that did the Dragon leave, wings aflame, to soar free once more until the end.

## Fate Intervenes

Wherever he rested, his return came with fury as the Beast led the largest Ork WAAAGH! in history against the Imperium. Emerging once more onto Caldera, he fought a one-man war against the greenskins as every death he suffered only spurred him on to greater acts of violence.

Eventually recovered by the Imperial forces who, with his aid, were able to destroy the Ork offensive against the world, he was sent back to Terra to take control of the ailing Imperium.

Condemning the petty politics of the High Lords, disgusted by the naked ambition and greed that ruled their motive, he allied with Lord Commander Koorland who had so far kept humanity from destruction.

Together, the two planned a final strike against the Orks, their bastion on Ullanor the only target that could bring an end to this conflict. Bringing the Emperor's wrath to these distant shores, Vulkan led the charge into the greenskins' vast temple, a gargant of terrible size and power. Here in its halls did he match blades with the Beast, and here did Vulkan once more stand firm against death.

The battle that took place left only ruin, the generator powering the vast engine destroyed. In its shattered remnants there was no sign of the Primarch, and so he was declared dead once more, a hero until the very end,
<br><br>
***Eternal In His Vigil...***

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### The Draken Scale

Vulkan's Artificer Armour was personally made by his own hand, and stands as a testament to the artisan's craft. The skull of the vast drake slain in contest with the Emperor adorns its frame as it provides protection against even the most terrible assault.

### Dawnbringer

A warhammer of titanic size, in the hands of the Primarch it was capable of laying low any structure or fortification. Legendarily indestructible, its blunt form incorporated 
<br>
sly technology, including a teleporter array and potent power field.

### The Furnace's Heart

A baroque plasma pistol made by Ferrus Manus, it was a gift in solidarity between two brothers whose kinship went beyond the battlefield. Capable of producing long beams of energy that can slice through armour, it is said that Vulkan cared little for the weapon, and that a dark legend hangs over its fate.

\pagebreakNum

# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="Black">Chapter Seventeen</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="Black">Corvus Corax</font>

<div style='margin-top:760px;'></div>
  
##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White"> <br><br><br><br> *I am not the darkness, for the light is never far behind. I am the shadow, that halfway point between your life and mine. <br><br> I am the End, Brother, and I have found you at long last...* </font>

</div>

\pagebreakNum

# Fear the Shadows
T*here was once a little boy who ran and ran, never stopping, never ceasing. Time and again the villagers asked, "Why do you run?" And always he responded, “Because what happens if I stop.” The villagers, puzzled at this, eventually asked what it was that scared him so. The boy answered, "Nothing."*
<br><br>
A liberator, a hero, a saviour of the downtrodden, Corax was perhaps the closest the Imperium ever found itself to the annals of fairy-tale and myth. Possessing a sense of justice bred deep into the bone, the Raven stood as a knight of legend, a story too good to be true.

A talented commander, Corax displayed the mindset of one who had fought from a position of weakness his entire life. Stealth, trickery, subterfuge and guerilla strategies that left both ally and enemy confused and in disarray. Few others could match his cunning, nor play against his shadow-craft...

Only one, and he bore his form in mockery of the Raven, a bleak parody of his benign rebellion. Where the Night Haunter was revenant, a feral memory of fairness and equality, Corax was resplendent. Such light did he cast that the monsters in his shadow were more terrible than any...

So would the Raven forever strive against his reflection, driven by a hope that ran with the wind, chased every 
<br>
step by the possibility of what he could become. Desperation, some would call it, fear even, but to Corax it was but duty and focus. The most important battle of his life fought each and every day.

Let us not digress however, from the truth of what comes next. A romantic parable of guile against might, a soaring epic of revolution in the face of iron tyranny, the tale of the Raven gives air to a secret many have craved.
<br><br>
***What Happens Once The Story Ends...***

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## Heaven-Sent

Torn free from his home deep beneath the mountains of Terra, Corax sailed the Sea of Storms, held aloft by the powers of Dark Gods and foul creatures. Deposited upon the moon of Lycaeus, he found himself in a desolate land that stared down upon the thick smoke and acrid fog of its father.

This broken shell of a satellite was little more than a glorified prison, an engine for raw materials produced by slave labour to fill the coffers of the Technocrats on Kiavahr. It was this ruin of justice that would define Corax, and by its misbegotten inhabitants would he be saved in kind.

Buried deep within an ice flow, frozen still within its biting cold, Corax slumbered with his pod. Lost, forgotten and secured deep within the grasp of earth, it seemed unlikely that the Primarch would find escape, nor succour from his imprisonment.

Fate, however, is fond of its games, and mere moments after his arrival did a team of miners come digging towards him, searching through the maze-like structure for a mineral vein to secure.

Discovering instead the child, locked away, they took him with them and raised him as their own. Corax he was named, "The Deliverer" in their native tongue, and as he grew fast and quick, they grew fanatical in their belief that he was to save them.

Over time, he learned his craft at the hand of those imprisoned for their radical beliefs, hearing tales of rebellion and revolution unchained. Alongside these myths was he also taught how to hide, to keep his presence unknown to those who would not tolerate him.

With these lessons was he able to thrive, remaining invisible to the eyes of the wardens who guarded the prison. Throughout the network he would travel, bringing hope to those so long without, and acquiring great skill in his shadowed arts.

He was not just taught of guile however, but also of leadership, and as he journeyed so to did he begin to organise a vast resistance to the tyranny holding 
<br>
them tight. Cells of guerilla fighters, huge 
<br>
stockpiles of weaponry carefully 
<br>
hidden, all of this and more was 
<br>
slowly prepared as the end 
<br>
came closer 
<br>
each day.

\columnbreak

## Flames of Revolution

A vast campaign of psychological warfare soon began, strikes, riots and sabotage that endlessly bled the wardens dry as they struggled to contain the thousand fires that were lit. 
Each time one was dealt with, a dozen more would emerge, and without rest for many months, the overlords began to grow exhausted.

Finally, the moment came, and with a sudden surge of rage did the prisoners erupt into violence. Seizing their hidden weapons, the rebels launched a thousand attacks simultaneously. Overrunning the bewildered defenders who struggled to halt the seemingly chaotic uprising, the prisoners soon claimed Lycaeus as their own.

Deprived of raw materials, the world below began to crumble. The Masters of Kiavahr turned on one another as their economies collapsed, their very lives sent reeling in the face of this unseen disaster.

Such could not be relied upon for long however, a fact that Corax knew well. Preparing his forces, training and equipping them with the best he could provide, the Raven awaited the inevitable retaliation that must occur.

Searching through the rubble, he found the tools required to end any retribution for his action, a final, damning weapon to bring halt the carnage that was soon to come. Without hesitation he ordered them primed...

With a single word, he drowned Kiavahr in nuclear fire, targeting the largest cities for utter annihilation and destruction. As they looked down from on high, the planet screamed alone, as millions died in flame.

Free from subjugation, Corax anticipated a time of peace and recovery. How mistaken he was...
<br><br>
***His War Had Just Begun...***

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## So Written, we Forget

For it was at this moment, unknown to any other, that the Emperor emerged. Having heard tale of violent upheaval, he had arrived to discover one of his own children leading the charge against barbarity and horror.

In secret did he appear upon the newly named "Deliverance", and in secret did he soon leave. What words exchanged between the two remain lost to mystery, but many suspect he told Corax of what he was, of the legacy he carried in his blood, and the true dangers within the Warp.

The Raven pledged his blade to the Master of Mankind. Hardened as he was by his rebellion, a more perfect warrior could not have existed in the mind of the Emperor who gladly accepted his service.

Taking the mantle of the 19th Legion, he quickly moved to restructure it in his image, devising new tactics befitting those who fought in the shadow. Engines of war, unheard of outside the Raven Guard, were soon commissioned and new technologies were implemented to better aid in their method.

This would not be an easy road for the Raven, however, for there were scars in his Legion that predated him, and philosophies that disgusted the Primarch to his core. Such cracks his sons bore would be but a warning of the terror to come.

## The Raven Flies

Having been so long alone, the Raven Guard had designed their own methods, and these seemed too familiar to the Raven. Plans of oppression and terror, assassination and horror, all these were the hallmarks of his Terran sons, and all these echoed the strategies of his former masters.

This bitterness would stain the soul of the Legion, Corax's own derision regarding these precursors obvious and without end. Such a history was not quickly removed and for many years would the Liberator find uncomfortable comparisons to the foes they fought, and to the Night Lords of Konrad Curze.

Despite these obstacles, Corax soon emerged as a legend within the Imperium, his unusual tactics and strategies eclipsing even Roboute Guilliman in their ingenuity and cunning. From battle to battle, victory to victory, the Raven would soon become synonymous with justice, and a fair-minded approach to war.

It was from these ashes of rebirth that the darkness to come would be born. Lorgar may have first found the Dark Gods, Horus may have fired the shot heard around the galaxy, but it was Corax, unknowing and unwillingly, who would set the scene for the madness that followed.

Brought into the Istvaan Conflict, it was the Raven Guard who first set foot upon their soil, battling the humans who clung so tightly to their despotic lords. Eradicating each position with seamless ease, bringing ruin with ambush and disaster, Corax soon left nothing before him capable of resisting further.

Accepting their allegiance, promoting freedom where once there had been chains, the Raven tied them close to the Imperial Creed and accepted them as brothers once lost in the night. Little could he know, however, how false those words would ring...
<br><br>
***How False His Faith Could Be...***

\pagebreakNum

## A Double-Edged Sword

Despite bringing such honour and glory to the Imperium, not all would fair well for the Raven-Lord. As the Great Crusade reached its peak, Horus having been raised to Warmster and the Emperor sidelined for his own projects, Corax was called for war.

A great push by Lupercal had been organised, a vast effort to reclaim worlds that had thrown off the burden of Imperial loyalty. Dominated by some strange xenos that warped the mind, the Warmaster called on the Iron Warriors, Raven Guard, Space Wolves and his own sons to bring battle to the heretic.

The Raven had long avoided contact with his brothers, fighting with them only as completely necessary. Their own methods of war rarely worked well with his, and the Battle for Gate Forty-Two only further enshrined this thinking.

In a council called to craft the strategy going forwards, the Raven Guard were ordered to launch a full-frontal assault against the enemy defences. Horrified by what he saw as a waste of lives, Corax argued vehemently for a more careful tactic to be employed.

Such was not the way of the Iron Warriors, however, and Perturabo derided him as a coward, accusing him of dereliction in his service to the Emperor. Such heated words were rarely spoken and the two almost came to blows. Only the intervention of Leman Russ, his diplomatic entreaties soothing the Raven, halted such violence before it could go too far.

Out-voted and so ordered, Corax bitterly consigned himself to the conflict to come. Organising his forces, he selected mostly Terrans to take the charge, for they had spoken in support for the Warmaster's plan and had long been a thorn in the Raven's side.

When the battle came, many of them were slain, and though victorious, Corax swore never to serve Horus again.

\columnbreak

## A War against Himself

Now incredibly weakened, the Raven Guard were the smallest amongst the Legions and Corax became cautious in his approach, eager to restore his strength before fully committing elsewhere. Unbeknownst to him, however, the massacre he had endured would only strengthen him in the wars to come, for those who had fallen were already poisoned, their spirits tainted by a treason soon to be declared.

Other matters took to the fore however, and the Raven would not shirk from his duties. During the Carinae Retribution would he fight alongside the Night Lords, witnessing first hand the nightmare of their erstwhile kin.

Caught in a war that dragged on far longer than anticipated, extended mostly by his own personal need for vengeance against the lunatic master of their foe, Corax would decry openly the harrowed nature of Curze. Nearly coming to blows over their sadistic kill-mongering, the madness in the Night Haunter's eyes would forever haunt the Raven, a promise of what he could become should he ever fall too far.

From inner reflection to personal vendetta would he travel next, pushed into the Scalland Sector to test the new Mk V Power Armour against the Eldar. It is suspected that Perturabo engineered the Raven Guard to take the brunt of the testing, hoping that in their weakened state the new armour would be discontinued.

Alas, the Iron Warrior would not be successful in his machinations, for the Raven led his troops to stellar success against their fae foe. Still, such would be of little comfort to a Legion already on its knees...
<br><br>
***Mercy But A Traitor's Bolt To the Head...***

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## A Turncoat Surprise

Despite his own personal grievances with the Warmaster, and his memory still raw from their previous encounter, it still took the Raven by surprise when word of Horus' treachery reached his ears.

Reacting quickly, though still barely recovered from his previous ordeals, Corax joined up with Vulkan and Ferrus Manus to bring retribution against the Warmaster and those foolish enough to follow his deceit.

Sailing through the Sea of Storms, the three Legions raced ahead of their allies in an effort to break the traitors before they could become too dug in. Still, upon arriving at Istvaan V, both Vulkan and the Raven cautioned restraint as Ferrus Manus raged against their reticence.

Too little avail was their reason heard, and unwilling to let their brother sacrifice himself for vanity, Corax followed suit. Bringing his Legion in force, the Raven crashed into a world of screaming metal and hissing storm.

No careful act of subterfuge was this, no crafty stage of guerilla terrorism and assassination could be deployed, only brute force and rage against brothers once loved. Claws flashed, blades shattered and the lives of thousands were lost every moment that passed, extinguished by the ravening ego of the Warmaster who watched from on high.

Progress was strong in this heart of madness. Blood flowed like a river through the barren land as Corax watched his sons bring fury on wings of justice, Angels of Deliverance riding high the flames of war.

So was the scene as reinforcements arrived for the loyalist forces, the combined might of four Legions deploying behind them as the traitors fell back step by step. Seeing his allies arrive, Corax rallied his men and began to retreat, wounded still by the terrible plight of his Legion, and eager to conserve their lives.

## Salvation Denied

Moving towards his erstwhile allies, the world slowed down for the Raven as he watched every movement with care. Too easy did they stand, no preparation to charge, and...

To the sound of riotous laughter did the Word Bearers, Iron Warriors, Alpha Legion and Night Lords open fire upon him. Fire filled the air as the very skies split open with orbital rage, devouring the earth to the steady beat 
<br>
of war.

A betrayal like none other obliterated all that he 
<br>
loved, annihilated all that he had made, and the Raven stood in shock as he watched his world eviscerated by 
<br>
the hand of love turned black. For but a moment he could only watch the end play out in full, before his reality snapped back into focus.

Roaring above the thunder, he ordered his troops to flee as he charged into the blackguard foe before him. Never before had he fought with such vigour, never before had he felt so alive, and for the briefest moment did the Night Lords know what it was like to face fear itself...

Desperate to buy time for his sons to escape, he tore into the thick of hell itself, each flash of light another life claimed by Deliverance. He accepted his death, knew that it would come, but with it would he inflict upon them the horror that he now felt.
<br><br>
***The Raven Found Its Prey...***

\pagebreakNum

## Justice

Crashing into Lorgar, Corax 
<br>
erupted into a blaze of motion too 
<br>
fast to follow by even the augmented 
<br>
eyes of the Astartes. The Aurelian had 
<br>
never been a warrior born, and against 
<br>
this enraged spectre of death he could do little 
<br>
but try to survive.

A move too slow, a fraction of a second lost against this murderous rage, and Lorgar was undone. Corax had impaled him upon his claws, blood hissing as it dripped upon the tortured ground.

The Raven treasured the moment, the last look before justice was delivered, but before his blow could strike did the mirror reflect his own demise. A sudden shadow filled the sky as the Night Haunter intervened, catching Corax before he could react, and for one brief moment did light resplendent face darkness all devouring.

Reason returning once more to his mind, Corax disengaged before the two Primarchs could gather themselves, knowing that only death awaited him in such a battle. Tearing off into the skies, he fled his brothers darkness for the sake of his sons.

For the next 98 days would he fight through the barren lands, terribly wounded both in form and soul. What scattered remnants of his Legion were bound to him, forming rag-tag squads that never stopped moving, and never stopped fighting.

Fortune was with them, however, for a rescue fleet from Deliverance broke through the blockade and lifted Corax to safety. Employing arcane technology known only the Raven Guard, they effected their escape and disappeared into the Warp towards safety.

Heading back towards Deliverance, back towards their home, Corax realised that there was no  with his Legion shattered as it was. Only a few thousand remained, most of whom were recruits or seriously injured.

Sending the majority of his fleet onwards, he set course to Terra and the Emperor in the vain hope that he might provide some answers to a war already lost. Time was precious, and already the clock neared midnight...

\columnbreak

## And
## Vengeance

Breaking into realspace above Terra, Corax was ferried to an Earth very different than what he remembered. Once beautiful plazas were replaced with fortifications, towers resplendent in their beauty now shrines to war, bristling with turrets and destruction.

Even worse than this desecration was the refusal he met when he requested his father's presence. Too busy he was, too focussed to pay attention to his empire crumbling, and Corax grew wroth at this dismissal.

Preparing to return to Deliverance, ready now to face his end, it was only the voice of the Emperor in his mind that drew him back. The Master of Mankind battled against beings of malice, trapped in his throne as he kept Terra from extinction.

He knew, however, of the plight his sons faced, and of the purity in the Raven's soul. He would answer his pleas and provide to Corax what he needed to fight once more, not just in men but in hope.

His last message to the Raven was a key, an entrance towards secrets hidden for good reason. Delving down into the depths of Terra, Corax found his way blocked, not just by trickery and machined guile, but by engines of war possessing destruction like none other.
<br><br>
***Yet The Raven Could Not Be Denied...***

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<img 
  src='https://www.gmbinder.com/images/cPPYV7h.png' 
  style='position:absolute; top:-230px; right:0px; width:880px' />
  
## A Beginning in Blood

Overcoming all challenges before him, from mazes designed by arcane reason to harrowing trials of the very soul, Corax emerged from the Labyrinth complete. Possessing now the shared DNA of the Primarchs, he raced back to Deliverance to continue the war once more.

Though Rogal Dorn begged him to stay, Corax knew that such methods of battle would never suit his sons, and only wild and free could they repay the harm that had been dealt to them. Home once more, the Raven set to work unlocking the secrets his father had so long kept hidden.

After much trial and tribulation was Corax successful, and with his new secrets he revealed his plan to all. No longer would the Astartes spend years in gestation, accepting each organ one by one, no longer would they lose most recruits to the process that seemed so random in its nature.

Now each marine could be made instantly and without repercussion. Whole armies designed for the moment, entire Legions crafted without waste nor excess. Beginning immediately, the recruits were implanted with the new design, and Corax watched as his sons returned to strength.

But where there is hope, there must also be despair, and it has always been the providence of Chaos to push the line where it can. Agents of the Alpha Legion had infiltrated the Raven Guard, wearing the faces of those slain at Istvaan V.

Masters of their craft and relentless in the pursuit of their goal, these operatives began to sow mayhem across the world. Corrupting both the minds of those loyal to the Emperor, and the genetic material being utilised for the rebirth, Corax soon discovered the extent of the horror inflicted upon him.

What had been his finest hour now stood as a testament to his failure, and here did the Raven shatter...

\columnbreak

## Taken at the Last

His altered sons, raised from the dust to stand as a new dawn for the Legion, were wrought with change. Mutations beyond the ken of reason erupted from their flesh as riot took its physical form. Retaining their sanity, they were forced to watch as their bodies rebelled against purity.

Corax could only watch in horror, his heart breaking to see such pure and loyal men riven by darkness and betrayal. Even worse, such malign sabotage was but the beginning for a vast assault erupted from the quiet, the old lords of this world eager to reclaim their place.

Battling alongside both beast and men, Corax lost himself in the raging fires of treason. What hope remained had been shattered in a single stroke, and death was no longer a foe he feared. He fought now for the violence, for the song it sang, for little reason remained otherwise.

Holding firm against this new aggressor, eventually beating them back into the shadows, Corax gathered once more the remnant grave of his Legion. Accepting that what stood before him was all that remained, Corax led his men into battle against the Warmaster.

Making up for his meagre numbers with a careful allocation of resources, the Raven struck across the galaxy, harassing vital weapon shipments and re-taking worlds important to the traitor's mission.

From the land of Constanix II, where the Dark Mechanicum ruled unrestrained, to the planet of Carandiru, the Raven brought havoc against the heretic wherever he could. Though small and ill-equipped, their nimble formation allowed them to wreak mayhem on a scale disproportionate to their fighting strength.

Eventually, however, such tactics could no longer be brought to bear, the damage suffered too great. His scattered forces were once more drawn together, gathered at the Dexius System, to decide now the fate of the Raven Guard.

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<img 
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## To Die in Silence

Here did he Legion debate what options remained, for many wished to return to Terra and stand beside their allies for the last battle. Corax, however, felt differently, but his future had been told, his fate had been regaled by one whose eyes pierced the veil of time with fragmented ease.

Ambushed suddenly by a Night Lord's assault, the Raven Guard fled before their riven kin, knowing truly that any fight would be their last. Broken, shattered and shipwrecked upon the winds of chance, Corax rejected the defence of Terra, for he was told of another battle that would define forever the future of mankind.

Enraged at this sudden revelation, that his actions had been defined by the fickle play of fortunes told, Corax rejected everything. His soul broke completely, the pain of his sons, the agony of his life, the failure of his own actions, each and all set in stone before he could even decide.

No more would he be puppet to anothers whim, no more would he serve the twisted skein of possibility made manifest. He would face his end and accept his death, free at last from the last chains he had ever wore.

Banishing all those from his forces not of his Legion, he took the Raven Guard and his mutant sons to Yarant, driven now by a desire to end the screaming rage of his failures. The Ravens crowed as murder came,
<br><br>
***His Death Had Been Foretold...***

## A Final Rejection

Arriving to the sight of the Space Wolves surrounded, fighting for their very lives, the Raven led his forces in a sudden blitz against the traitor's lines. Breaking through with ease, for from the shadows had he come, Corax found himself besides Bjorn and a grievously injured Leman Russ.

With the Space Wolves refusing to flee, for such would be to reject destiny, Corax decided here would be his final stand. Ordering the majority of his Legion to retreat, to seek deliverance in the shadows and save the Raptors who had suffered for so long, he led the charge against the traitors for one last time.

Buying time for his sons to execute their escape, distraught as they were, Corax was unleashed upon the foe. Blades flashing, bullets tearing through flesh and bone, no more fitting figure had stood as the herald of death.

At the very precipice of existence, caught between living and not, Corax finally knew peace. Such clarity brought, however, revealed to him a truth he had long neglected. His desire to die for the Emperor and cleanse his sins was the same arrogance that had driven those before him to damnation.

Relenting from his suicide, he begged Bjorn to reconsider the Space Wolves fate, as he had reconsidered his own. Finally breaking through the feral rage that consumed his lupine allies, the two managed to organise a retreat, though the losses that had suffered were dire indeed.

Continuing now to harry Horus' force as they made their way towards Terra, Corax would serve as an instrument of chaos and destruction against the traitor's rear. Too broken to take the battle head on, when the Heresy ended, the traitor's found their escape haunted by revenants and rage, each one hell-bent on seeking vengeance.

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  style='position:absolute; top:00px; right:-210px; width:1870px' />
  
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<img 
  src='https://www.gmbinder.com/images/YkAl61d.png' 
  style='position:absolute; top:-140px; right:300px; width:820px; height:950px' />
  
## A Murder of Crows

As the traitor's made their way into the Eye of Terror, the Imperium struggled to rebuild from its ruined state. As Guilliman took the charge of bringing the light once more the mankind, he ordered that all Legions disband, breaking up into small Chapters to forever deny another Heresy from forming.

Recognising the wisdom in his brother's words, Corax followed suit, as his Legion was left riven for the greater good. Only on question remained, and it haunted the Raven wherever he went.

Those few Raptors who had survived, those recruits risen to the ranks of angels and pulled down into monstrous form, had no place within the future of mankind, but their loyalty was without doubt.

Accepting what must be done, begging the Emperor for mercy, he brought peace to each and every one of them. A single bolt, one for each, and their respite had been earned, delivered at the hands of one who craved only what they all had.

Dead inside, empty and finally undone, Corax retreated into his chambers for a whole year. No word came from him, nor sign that he still lived, but as the year passed, he emerged for one last time.

With the final words of *"Never More"*, he headed into the Eye of Terror, never to be seen again, set on a path known only to his defeated soul...

Or so it was thought, for now as the end of days seems imminent, as the dead walk once more amongst the 
<br>
living, word of a strange creature within the Warp has come. A flock of crows, demented and filled only with all-consuming rage, it has hunted the traitor's throughout the Aether without rest nor pause.

Even Lorgar could not stand against this fiend, this archon of shadow defined only by hate. Whether this is Corax, or just the shell of what he once was, the ravens have come once more. The crows cry out, the blood runs cold...
<br><br>
***On Wings Of Death He Soars***

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<img 
  src='https://www.gmbinder.com/images/cPPYV7h.png' 
  style='position:absolute; top:-570px; right:0px; width:880px' />
  
### Raven's Talons

A unbreakable pair of Lightning Claws, their touch is death to all that it meets. Capable of shredding through armour and flesh alike, they have become a relic of the Raven Guard, passed down to their greatest warriors.

### The Sable Armour

A cunning piece of artifice, this Power Armour was designed by Corax to not only protect him, but to hide him from those who wished him harm. Capable of jamming communications, filtering heat and blending in with the environment, it served as a formidable tool for the covert Primarch.

\columnbreak

### The Korvidine Pinions

A relic from the Dark Age of Technology, this jump pack was further modified by the Primarch to allow him almost unlimited flight. A haunting device, those who saw the Raven descend upon them would often freeze with fear as death came for them.

### The Panoply of the Raven Lord

Despite his already formidable tools, the Raven would often carry a plethora of weapons designed for any situation. From his two archaeotech pistols, energised whip and heavy bolter, their were few battles he was not prepared for.

\pagebreakNum

# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">The Primarchs</font>
# <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White">Alpharius Omegon</font>

<div style='margin-top:760px;'></div>
  
##### <div class='wide' style="text-align: center"> <font color="White"> <br><br><br><br> *Who am I? My face is not known, My manner cryptic in its silent guise. Each step I take is a forgery, every smile a lie I cannot recall.<br><br> I... I am nobody for the I does not matter at all.<br><br>I am nothing... But we are Legion.* </font>

</div>

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# Such Serpent Smile
T*his reaver is the most dangerous we have ever seen. What loyalties possessed are forever unknown, his faith upon his own regret. A demon in the tongue of old, a shadow in the prose of poets, we ourselves have another name for such godless men... Renegade.*

Deceptive, mercenary, callous and cruel, all these have been used to describe the two-faced Lord of Serpents. Rarely remembered and intentionally forgotten, many would write off the Hydra as a failure, never looking deep enough to uncover why.

For though his skill lie in espionage, his craft in shadows and chaos, he was also a being of honour and unbending loyalty. A schism of the human paradox, Alpharius represented both perfection, and the dark means used to attain it.

Such complexity within the immortal mind may be expected, but even amongst his kin did it seem erratic. This was but the surface of reality, however, for Janus was not one, but two, and maybe even a thousand more.

Unique amongst his brothers, the Primarch of the Alpha Legion bore twin faces and a single soul, each in perpetual conflict and constant agreement. The first was called Alpharius, for it was he that was known to all others, the beginning of their trials within the Imperium.

The second was Omegon, and he was the end, the final matter brought to bear against their foe. None would know of this secret, even if it were true, for to understand the Hydra is to understand nothing.

Theirs is a battle of deceit and illusion, a land of false meanings and obfuscation. They are the sons of guarded tongue and envenomed words, the first to betray and the last to break faith. They are the seekers...
<br><br>
***For Truth Is Everything To The Liar.***

\pagebreakNum

## From Whence Unknown

It is perhaps unsurprising, considering his nature, that the truth of the Hydra's origin is utterly unknown, a figment of broken memories and twisted facts. Taken in the same storm that stole his kin, Alpharius would disappear to parts unknown for nearly two hundred years.

The truth would never be known, his upbringing of little consequence to himself and his sons. Every facet unravelled about his character would be brought into doubt, revealed as falsehood as further stories were later denied.

The only certainty that can be derived is from those who met him, but even that is fragmented, corrupted by the thousand aliases born by the Primarch. In such murky waters, we can speak only of what others confirm, and so from these beginnings shall we start.

Emerging out of nowhere, a foreign fleet of haphazard design had ambushed the Warmaster, whose forces had only just arrived. Staggered in formation, quick and rapid in their movements, they left the Astartes in total disarray as the Legion found itself overwhelmed and surrounded.

Quickly destroying one of the battleships accompanying the Luna Wolf fleet, they retreated as fast as they had arrived. Enraged that such reavers would dare attack him, he chased after the armada, only to find countless traps and misleading shadows in his path.

Eventually, wounded and weakened from countless ambushes, the flagship of Horus came under direct assault. A small squad of invaders boarded the *Vengeful Spirit*, tearing their way through the defenders as they made way towards the bridge.

Here begins the story of Alpharius, meeting his brother for the first time as they faced each other across the bridge. Recognising each other immediately, the Warmaster embraced the Hydra for at last he had come home.

\columnbreak

## The Lie Remains

This is but one story amongst  many, for others state that the Primarch awoke on a desert world, long abandoned by life. Here, against the elements would he survive, battling weather and starvation as he sought nothing more than to live amidst the ruins.

Later in his life he would be discovered by the Slaugth, a terrible xenos of dark desires and foul depredations. Tortured beyond sanity, he was left but a hollow shell, serving only as a weapon of war against the universe.

Condemned to such finality, the Emperor himself would come to his rescue, piercing through the midnight veil with fury and vengeance against the beasts that would harm his son. Brought back to Terra, the Hydra would spend many decades in recuperation, learning humanity even as his body repaired until finally he was released.

Another tale states that he never left Terra, being the sole Primarch to escape the claws of the Warp even as it stole his family. Raised in secret and kept hidden from all, lest the Great Foe take him as well, Alpharius would learn at the feet of the Emperor for many years.

Granted knowledge and power beyond even his most formidable kin, he would only emerge as the Great Crusade ended, another weapon against a future the Emperor feared came far too fast.

Whatever the truth, whatever the outcome, Alpharius would join the Great Crusade late into its success, spending much time with Horus. The two became fast friends as each taught the other their way of war.

Hurriedly placed in charge of the 20th Legion, there was little fanfare to his arrival, for the conflict dragged on and reinforcements were urgently needed. 
<br><br>
***The Serpent Had Gained Its Fangs...***

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## The Many Heads as One

Despite his rushed promotion, and the chaotic sprawl of the Imperium fully at war, Alpharius turned his Legion into a formidable weapon of unusual tactics. Focussing away from the grind of total conflict, he taught instead a belief of subtlety and covert strikes.

Expanding the mortal contingent of his forces dramatically, the Hydra began to fight less and less upon the battlefield, relying further on sabotage, rebellion and information warfare that saw their foes defeated before the first bullet had been fired.

Soon, this push towards espionage began to affect the Legion, each member becoming increasingly secretive as truth became more a subjective concept than empirical requirement. Illusion became permanent, and like all those caught in a dream, reality fell to the wayside as shadows held court instead.

These unorthodox methods, proved incredibly effective however, and though many of his kin, Guilliman chief amongst them, derided his shadow-craft, the conquests continued without pause.

These victories would not halt his detractors unfortunately, and their constant criticisms and moral objections drove Alpharius further and further into the darkness. Plans grew more convoluted, strategies became works of art as each success became the result of a thousand dominoes falling perfectly into place.

## Poisonous to All

So reliant upon themselves, the veneer of mockery covering every interaction with their allies, it wasn't until later that they would receive utter condemnation from the Imperium. On the world of Tesstra Prime they would allow their foe to dig in, sacrificing a speedy victory as they watched with humour and almost undisguised malice.

Once organised and prepared for every eventuality, the enemy would begin to crumble by themselves, a constant string of tragic accidents, assassinations and ruinous sabotage leaving little but ash in its wake.

Surrendering to a foe they never saw, the Primarchs were aghast at such a waste of resources, while Alpharius merely enjoyed the challenge. Only Horus defended him, and only the Warmaster recognised the skill required to end an enemy so easily from the shadows.

Even Dorn would rail against the Hydra, for during the World-Prince Conquest would Janus arrive without communication and join the fray. Indicating only that he had come as an ally to the Imperial Fists, a campaign of terror soon began across the world.

Not a single member of the Legion would be seen by the Sons of Dorn, but their touch was evident in every city. Rebellions erupted across the world, coups orchestrated by criminal cartels and military groups seized power without warning and, eventually, every member of the ruling class was murdered by their family.

Accepting the surrender of the now haunted ruler of this shattered world, Dorn would seek out Alpharius. Finding three who claimed to be him, the Imperial Fist uncovered his brother with a quick blow that was blocked in kind.

Deriding the Hydra for his deceitful ways, Alpharius, in response, would concede nothing.
<br><br>
***For He Was Only As He Was Meant To Be...***

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## Victory in Suicide

This reputation for dishonour would never fade but, despite this, he remained completely loyal to mankind. He had begun to view the Master of Mankind as flawed, the ideal of the Imperium as inherently self-destructive. The Emperor's desire to save humanity resonated with him however, for such was why Alpharius fought.

This... worldly nature was the reason he was contacted by the Cabal, a strange organisation of various xenos who had turned their goal towards the destruction of Chaos. Sending a human agent under their control, a man by the name of John Grammaticus, they invited the Hydra to a meeting and to a revelation of the truth.

On a distant world did they greet the Primarch and here they told him of the Dark Powers. This was not new knowledge to Alpharius however, for he was already aware of the Primordial Annihilator, of the forces of Chaos and the madness they brought.

How he had come by such truth is unknown, for this was a terrible secret kept hidden from the Primarchs by the Emperor. Regardless, they spoke of a war that was to come, of a brother's treachery and of a single hope for existence that faded each day that passed.

Left unchecked, the Gods of Chaos would devour all life in totality. A plan had emerged however, named the *"Horus Gambit"*, and it required the Imperium to fall, to be broken apart by the Warmaster who would later turn on himself in grief.

Humanity would be purged in the fires of Horus' regret, and with it would the Dark Gods follow, starved of the faith and emotion that kept them alive. Chaos had to win, however, and only with the Alpha Legion would it succeed in its desire.

Faced with this brutal choice, to stay loyal and doom the galaxy or betray his oath and save all life bar humanities, Alpharius took but a moment to decide. Leaving the planet behind, a member of the Cabal now joining him on his ship, the Hydra set sail towards damnation, sworn now to the madness at the end of the world.

Convinced this was the answer the Emperor would 
<br>
have given, to sacrifice everything in the name 
<br>
of the greater good, Alpharius 
<br>
set sail into the night. The traitors 
<br>
had already begun to move, and 
<br>
the galaxy was 
<br>
out of time.

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## Machiavellian Design

Joining the Night Lords, Iron Warriors and Word Bearers, Alpharius found himself involved in one of the most delightful betrayals of its kind. The Drop Site Massacre it was called, and upon the blasted field of Istvaan V, three Legions loyal to the Emperor met their end.

Such an event proved too tempting to the Hydra however, for an opportunity like this would never occur again. In the aftermath of the slaughter he ordered the dead of the loyalists recovered, their faces and memories grafted upon his own sons.

These agents were perfect, impossible to detect for they were identical to those they pretended to be. Bordering on simulacra, they were scattered throughout the Imperium to infiltrate the Legions and wait for the perfect time to strike.

Such would be the Hydra's modus operandi for the next few years, harassing and raiding the Imperial front even as he waited for that one moment that would grant him victory. Rebellion, disinformation, a riot of counter-intelligence and mayhem were spread across the galaxy as truth released its grasp on reality.

Eventually, that moment came, the Raven Guard having been granted access to the deepest vaults of the Emperor's gene-forge. Activating his sleeper agents, Alpharius watched as his plot came to life, sabotage and ruin befalling his avian brother as his secrets were stolen.

Pleased with such results, the failure to destroy the Raven Guard Gene-Seed bothered him little as he left with his prize. Possessing now the knowledge of creation itself, Alpharius foresaw the power this tool would grant him. The Alpha Legion would be reborn, and 
<br>
none would stand in their way...
<br><br>
***A New Game Had<br> Begun.***

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## Lords Unto Themselves

Rendezvousing with the Warmaster after their successful raid, Alpharius found himself in a difficult position. The friend he had once known had become corrupt, his soul blackened by the foul powers of Chaos.

This new being was as far above the Primarchs as they were above mortal men, his every word suffused with serpentine menace. Horus demanded the Hydra hand over his spoils, and with no other choice, he complied. To Fabius Bile went the data, and the mad doctor laughed in delight.

From here were his forces then split, half of them sent on to bring the White Scars to the traitors side, while the other half were sent after the wounded Space Wolves. Alpharius cared little for such disruption, for he had trained his Legion well, and their self-reliance was a strength matched by none.

Setting sail, the Hydra could only laugh, for to play games against Chaos was to play dice against chance herself. The designs given to the Warmaster were corrupted, incomplete and useless without further knowledge, and only Alpharius possessed the entirety unscathed.

## A Banner Unknown

At Chondax, the Hydra found the White Scars embroiled in a bitter war with the Orks, completely unaware of the madness that gripped the galaxy. The placement of several Warp Jammers had been instrumental to this cause, severing the region off from wider communications, and making travel near impossible for those trapped within.

Silent, sending no word to their wild kin, the Alpha Legion slowly approached the gathered White Scars. At the same time, a raid led by a Legionnaire altered to look identical to the Primarch struck against the Warp Device, slaughtering its Alpha Legion garrison under the guise of stemming an information leak. Suspiciously, the engine was also destroyed, and as Jaghatai watched, he was suddenly inundated with the screams of a dying empire.

Perhaps it was an accident that left the device shattered, perhaps it was a sign of dissent within the Legion, for Alpharius had always operated with two minds. Regardless, this break in the calm gave the Khan all the excuse he needed to flee, shattering through the Alpha Legion blockade that still remained silent as the grave.

So obviously threatening, so obviously bearing 
<br>
ill-intent, it was clear that his approach would do 
<br>
nothing to endear the Wild Knight to Horus. Such 
<br>
actions were bound to push the Khan towards the Imperium, and  it is even rumoured the ships that approached the White Scars were unarmed, their very existence but bait for Jaghatai to escape.

Foolish mistakes were not the hallmark of the Hydra, 
<br>
nor ill-timed choices made in the chaos of war. Rebellion had always been a weapon in their arsenal, a tool to be deployed as needed, and now the Alpha Legion deployed it upon themselves.

None would know this truth however, history delirious when faced with such details. Confusion was the weapon of Janus and with no side clearly aligned, their strength grew each passing day. Horus had forgotten the most important lesson of all...
<br><br>
***The Snake Always Bites The Hand That Feeds It.***

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## Wolves
## And
## Serpents

Meanwhile, in the Alaxxes Nebulae, 
<br>
Alpharius had chased the Space Wolves into its 
<br>
tenebrous depths, their respite after Prospero 
<br>
interrupted by the Hydra's sudden arrival. Wounded unto death, the Space Wolves collapsed beneath the disciplined and relentless fire of the Alpha Legion.

Though suffering unexpected losses as the Space Wolves turned to beserk tactics, the Sons of the Serpent had soon reduced the wolves to ruin. Boarding their flagship vessel, Alpharius took the lead, disguised as a member of his honour guard as he tore through the ranks of the beleaguered foe.

Ever eager to prove himself in the eyes of his brothers, the Hydra relished this opportunity to prove first hand his superior strategy. Battling through the defenders, his serpentine moves easily rendering those against him dead, he found Russ wounded, barely holding on to life.

The two engaged immediately, Russ unaware of who he fought. Outmatched, his soul broken as his end approached, his demise seemed imminent as the Hydra erupted into cold motion, each blow rending deep.

There is a saying about the best laid plans however, and even the most brilliant mind cannot foresee all possibilities. Out of nowhere came the Dark Angels, their vengeance aflame as they screamed into the fray, hatred fuelling them past doubt and fatigue.

Unwilling to sustain further casulties, and wary of the balanced odds against him, Alpharius ordered the retreat. Pulling back from his daring assault, the Hydra would once more return to his war in the shadows, the Heresy continuing on as the seeds of riot were hidden across the galaxy.

From impersonating loyalist guerillas to sabotaging vital elements of the traitor's assault, the Hydra would be found everywhere, his machinations universal in their ruin.

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## Arrogance

Finally, the assault on Terra was 
<br>
soon to begin, and Alpharius moved ahead of the 
<br>
traitor's force to begin operations amidst the enemy. Displaying powers unknown to any, the Hydra had his mind transplanted with that of his lieutenant, Kel Silonius, then suppressed his memories to avoid any psychic awareness of who he was.

Leading a fleet of 200 ships, they stealthily entered the Sol System, aided by the countless acts of terrorism that had debilitated the loyalist defences. These events had long been prepared, and orchestrated to perfection, Alpharius arrived without notice.

Moving towards Pluto, their sudden arrival caught the defenders off-guard. Located in the depths was an astropathic device vital to the security of Terra, and with subtle ease did Janus engage his forces against the foe.

Outmanoeuvred and outnumbered, the defenders fell fast. An Imperial fleet led by Sigismund attempted to intervene but against the Alpha Legion they found no access nor point of weakness, their own vessels decimated as strange weapons were deployed against them.

A psychic trigger was then activated, and Alpharius was once more restored, his mind quickly adapting to what unfurled before him,
<br><br>
***Such Sweet Success And Triumph...***

\pagebreakNum

<img 
  src='https://www.gmbinder.com/images/cPPYV7h.png' 
  style='position:absolute; top:-230px; right:0px; width:880px' />
  
## The Head of the Hydra

Quickly taking command of his forces, Alpharius led his troops into the jaws of war. Dismantling those who stood against him, victory seemed inevitable as the Imperial defence collapsed, stretched too thin to hold the ground it so dearly needed to.

Dorn would not relent however, his defence of Terra subtle beyond even the Hydra's wit. Tearing into the space above Pluto, the Phalanx loomed ominously in the sky as its weapons began to reap a terrible toll amongst the Alpha Legion.

Ill-prepared for this sudden arrival, Alpharius had slipped. Such a response had not been expected, such rapid deployments thought beyond the talents of Dorn and his sons. A brutal conflict within the tight corridors of the fortress took place, as shadows warred in the blaze of gunfire.

Hunted down, Alpharius quickly turned from prey to predator, slaughtering the first team seeking him within the bastion. His pale spear slick with blood, he stalked through the shadowed halls in search of his foe.

Eventually would he find Rogal Dorn, the two facing off against each other as they had so long ago. Blade against spear, certainty against doubt, the two moved in opposition as light fought against dark.

Serpentine in his movements, elegant in his ever-changing form, Alpharius slowly took the Imperial Fist apart, each blow but part of a greater whole as his dance left blood upon the ground.

Arrogant in his superiority, certain beyond reflection, Alpharius made the mistake that all those forgotten make. He forgot everyone else in kind... So focussed had he been on his own victories, he had never paused to consider his foes.

One step was all it took...

\columnbreak

## Eternal We Remain

A single blow was parried and the Hydra saw his end come swift. Dorn had watched and studied, quiet in his actions as Alpharius tried to convince him of his loyalty. Catching the spear against his side, he stepped forward, severing the Hydra's hands from his wrists.

Staggering backwards, bleeding profusely, Alpharius said nothing as death appeared before him. No stranger to the shadow, its claws were but an old friend come to take him home. His chest split open by his own weapon, his skull ruined by the teeth of chain and rage, the Hydra fell to the floor, slain at last...

Or so Dorn would think, his chest heaving as he watched the Alpha Legion retreat with discipline and calm. These were not the actions of a Legion lost to their father... But upon the ground he lay, dead beyond recovery.

Across the galaxy, across space and endless war, a twin felt utter loneliness for the first time. Whether this was Alpharius, the corpse but his brother or just another puppet, we will never know. Truth is cryptic, reality a myth, and in this world of stained glass and illusion there is only the dream of what should be.

As Horus called his Dark Triumph, the Hydra arrived alone and unwatched. Alpharius he called himself and none would know, for every movement was perfect, each action identical. Compared to the thousand lies that had worn his name, this figure matched many, and yet none at all.

Standing before the Warmaster at the end of existence, the serpent cared not as reality warped around him. No ship with his banner had arrived in the system, no kin with his marking had appeared. From the mists had he come alone, a figment and memory of what might still be.
<br><br>
***For The Dream Was All He Had...***

\pagebreakNum

<img 
  src='https://warhammergames.ru/_pu/3/46663324.jpg' 
  style='position:absolute; top:0px; right:240px; width:770px' />
  
<img 
  src='https://www.gmbinder.com/images/YkAl61d.png' 
  style='position:absolute; top:-250px; right:-750px; width:1450px' />
  
\columnbreak

## In Sweet Sorrow, I Repent

In his grasp he came not with promises of support, nor oaths of fealty to the black war ahead. He bore only a map of Sol, a layout of its defences accurately placed, and his final farewell from the rebellion.

As others called for his death, Horus merely nodded, bidding him farewell as he departed. From nowhere had he came, and nowhere did he go as silence remained in his wake. The Heresy would continue, burning itself out upon the walls of Terra, and the Warmaster would fall to damnation.

The Emperor would be interred upon his Golden Throne, the Primarchs rallying an Imperium shattered beyond all hopes of repair. The Alpha Legion had failed, or perhaps they had succeeded, none would know... Not even themselves.

Alpharius had other plans it seemed, Horus' Rebellion no more now but a consequence of his choices. Continuing his war against the loyalists across a thousand worlds, the Hydra seemed obsessed, driven to fight beside his own men in stark defiance of his death.

It seemed now that they were lost, driven only by the ages old desire to prove their worth once and for all. No agenda, no strange machinations, just pride pushing onwards toward the furnace, ego unto self-immolation.

## The Last Stand

Eventually, this suicidal drive to prove himself would take Alpharius to the planet of Eskrador. Fortifying the world, he taunted the Ultramarines, readying himself for a final battle between him and his sworn enemy.

Believing the Avenging Son would resort to tactics long employed by his forces, he found himself surprised as Guilliman appeared to abandon reason and assault his headquarters directly. Teleporting into the bastion with a small splinter force, the Ultramarine had turned the tables on the Hydra.

Meeting in battle for the first and last time, Janus fought with wit and speed, but he was no match for the Avenging Son. Back and forth they went but the die had been cast, the fates had chosen, and Alpharius was once again slain. Dropping to the floor, his lifeblood escaping, the last head of the Hydra had been removed.

Or so the Ultramarines thought, but as they turned to face their foe they found an enemy unperturbed by this sudden tragedy. Uncaring that their father lay dead upon the ground, the Alpha Legion routed the Ultramarines with relentless force.

Overextended and surprised, Guilliman desperately retreated as the jaws closed shut. Barely any of his Legion involved in the attack would escape, hounded doggedly by the Sons of Serpent. A last warning that not all fought for a single banner, not all would end with the king cut down.

This fact would ring true for many centuries to come, countless battles beneath the banner of Alpharius appearing out of nowhere and vanishing without a trace. Who had died on Pluto, who had died on Eskrador, these certainties were smoke, mirrored reflections of hope in a hopeless universe.

To this day they fight on, each a lord unto themselves, each Alpharius in their minds eye.
<br><br>
***A Thousand Strangers, Figments Of Their Deceit...***

\pagebreakNum

<img 
  src='https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bPfOvGD-sDQ/XG71MZfus5I/AAAAAAAAGQM/6XLz3vaFkAclXvmYsd535ydfqpbza56gACEwYBhgL/s1600/diego-gisbert-llorens-alpha-legionnaire.jpg' 
  style='position:absolute; top:0px; right:-200px; width:1000px; transform:scaleX(-1)' />
  
<img 
  src='https://www.gmbinder.com/images/cPPYV7h.png' 
  style='position:absolute; top:-200px; right:480px; width:390px; height:600px' />  
  
<img 
  src='https://www.gmbinder.com/images/YkAl61d.png' 
  style='position:absolute; top:-480px; right:300px; width:820px; height:890px' />
  
### The Pythian Scales

A sinister piece of Artificer Power Armour, it was 
<br>
designed in the likeness of an ancient myth from Terra. 
<br>
Consisting of strange overlapping plates, its efficacy 
<br>
was clear as it turned away bolt, plasma and blade with equal ease.

### The Sarrisanata

Known also as the *Pale Spear*, this xenos weapon was unlike any other in the Imperium. Older than even the Aeldari, its blade shimmers as it phases between existence and not. Capable of bypassing even the thickest armour, those struck by the weapon were rent apart on a molecular level, their remains destroyed beyond recognition.

\pagebreakNum

### Art

1: Unknown
<br>
2: Unknown
<br>
3: Warhammer 40K - Lion El'Jonson by Koh LJ
<br>
4: Angels of Caliban Cover
<br>
5: Concept by hammk
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6: Dark Angels Codex (Unknown Edition)
<br>
7: Dark Angel by hammk
<br>
8: Lion El'Jonson: Lord of the First Cover
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9: Unknown
<br>
10: Warhammer Community
<br>
11: Paul Dainton - Ravenwing
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12: Unknown
<br>
13: Diana Martinez - Cypher
<br>
14: Fulgrim by D1sarmon1a
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15: Fulgrim Cover
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16: Fulgrim: The Palantine Phoenix Cover
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17: Emperor's Children by Aleksey Bashlay
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18: Last Stand of Ferrus Manus by Jeff Porter
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19: Unknown
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20: Fulgrim, Emperor's Children by luffie
<br>
21: Slaanesh Symbol by SlaaneshG
<br>
22: The Realm of Slaanesh by Age of Sigmar
<br>
23: Fulgrim: A Bit of Willpower by Alex Cristi
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24: Emperor's Children (Cover?)
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25: The Phoenician by David Severeide
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26: Angel Exterminatus Cover
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27: Unknown
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28: Horus Heresy: Slaves to Darkness book
<br>
29: Primarch Perturabo by Mauro Belfiore
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30: Perturabo: The Hammer of Olympia Cover
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31: Tallarn Executioner Cover
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32: Unknown
<br>
33: Iron Warrior Concept by hammk
<br>
34: Unknown
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35: Perturabo by Warhammer 40K Database
<br>
36: Perturabo Concept by hammk
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37: Unknown
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38: Iron Warriors by Ilqar
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39: Unknown
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40: Jaghatai Khan: Warhawk of Chogoris Cover
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41: Bortherhood of the Storm Cover
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42: Unknown
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43: Scars Cover
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44: The Last Hunt Cover
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45: Unknown
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46: Unknown
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47: Hunt for Voldorius Cover
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48: Unknown
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49: The Path of Heaven Cover
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50: Mortarion vs Jaghatai Khan by David Sondered
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51: Night of the Wolf by Taonavi
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52: Prospero Burns Cover
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53: Unknown
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54: Leman Russ bu Mikhail Savier
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55: Unknown
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56: Leman Russ the Wolf King by luffie
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57: Unknown
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58: Wolfsbane Cover
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59: Blood Claw by L J Ko
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60: Unknown
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61: Primarch Rogal Dorn by Mauro Belfiore
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62: Heralds of the Siege Cover
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63: Rogal Dorn by TheMaestroNoob
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64: Imperial Fist by hammk

\columnbreak

65: Unknown
<br>
66: Imperial Fist (02) by hammk
<br>
67: Unknown
<br>
68: Praetorian of Dorn Cover
<br>
69: Sons of Dorn by MajesticChicken
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70: The Crimson Fist Cover
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71: Unknown
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72: Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter Cover
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73: Talos by DavidSondered
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74: Konrad Curze/Night Haunter by DavidSondered
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75: Nostramo landscape by amriinthewarp
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76: Konrad Curze by Alexey Kruglov
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77: Unknown
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78: The Throne of Lies Cover
<br>
79: Unknown
<br>
80: Night Lords vs Solar Auxillia by Victor Fernández
<br>
81: The Blood Reaver Cover
<br>
82: Uzas of First Claw by Morten Bak Pøhlsgaard
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83: Sanguinius by Koh LJ
<br>
84: Sanguinius by V-Strozzi
<br>
85: Echoes of Imperium Cover
<br>
86: Sanguinius by David Sondered
<br>
87: Sanguinius Painting by David Sondered
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88: Fear to Tread Cover
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89: Unknown
<br>
90: The Unremembered Empire Cover
<br>
91: Unknown
<br>
92: The Lost and the Damned Cover
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93: Warhammer 40K Death Company Blood Angels Tribute by pierreloyvet
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94: Ferrus Mans: Gorgon of Medusa Cover
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95: Last Stand of Ferrus Manus by Jeff Porter
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96: Iron Hands by agnidevi
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97: Iron Hands vs Orks by Diana-Martinez
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98: Clan Raukan Cover
<br>
99: Iron Hands vs Death Guard by Igor Sid
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100: Unknown
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101: Wrath of Iron Cover
<br>
102: Angron, the Eater of Worlds, Horus Heresy by Koh LJ
<br>
103: Unknown
<br>
104: Angron by Jeff Porter
<br>
105: Angron and the World Eaters by AlexBoca
<br>
106: Unknown
<br>
107: Angron by Mauro Belfiore
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108: Angron: Slave of Nuceria Cover
<br>
109: Betrayer Cover
<br>
110: Unknown
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111: Tales of Heresy Cover
<br>
112: Warhammer Fan Art by bradwhitlam
<br>
113: Guilliman's Fury by Alexandr Babak
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114: Roboute Guilliman battles Chaos by Mikhail Savier
<br>
115: Unknown
<br>
116: Knights of Macraage Cover
<br>
117: Unknown
<br>
118: Roboute Guilliman: Lord of Ultramar Cover
<br>
119: Unknown
<br>
120: Dark Imperium: Plague War Cover
<br>
121: Warhammer 40K: Wrath and Glory Cover
<br>
122: Fall of Damnos Cover
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123: Dark Imperium Box Cover
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124: The Finest Hour by John-Stone-Art
<br>
125: Unknown
<br>
126: Unknown
<br>
127: Astartes of the Indomitus Crusade by Charles EJD

\pagebreakNum

### Art Continued

128: Mortarion, Daemon Primarch of Nurgle by Igor Sid
<br>
129: Space Marine Chaplain by Dan Farin
<br>
130: Mortarion by Chris Campbell
<br>
131: Unknown
<br>
132: Mortarion's Heart Cover
<br>
133: Mortarion by Mauro Belfiore
<br>
134: Unknown
<br>
135: Betrayer Characters by Slaine69
<br>
136: Death Guard vs Tau by Johan Grenier
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137: The Great Unclean One by Igor Sid
<br>
138: Pre-Heresy Deathguard by uncannyknack
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139: Unknown
<br>
140: Plague Wars (Guilliman vs Mortarion) by Alex Boyd
<br>
141: Unknown
<br>
142: Magnus the Red by Ibrahem Swaid
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143: A Thousand Sons Cover
<br>
144: Unknown
<br>
145: Magnus the Red by Mauro Belfiore
<br>
146: Eldar vs Tzeentch by Johan Grenier
<br>
147: Magnus the Red: Master of Prospero Cover
<br>
148: Ghosts of Prospero by Visionyst
<br>
149: Unknown
<br>
150: Thousand Sons Sorcerer by David Sondered
<br>
151: Unknown
<br>
152: Unknown
<br>
153: Thousand Sons Wallpaper by Ryan Anderson
<br>
154: Horus the Warmaster by Raffetin
<br>
155: Vengeful Spirit Cover
<br>
156: Unknown
<br>
157: The Primarchs Cover
<br>
158: 40K Horus Practice by Zhang Han
<br>
159: Age of Darkness Cover
<br>
160: Horus Lupercal by Mauro Belfiore
<br>
161: Unknown
<br>
162: Horus Lupercal by Mikhail Savier
<br>
163: Unknown
<br>
164: Unknown
<br>
165: Unknown
<br>
166: The First Wall Cover
<br>
167: Unknown
<br>
168: Unknown
<br>
169: Lorgar by Mauro Belfiore
<br>
170: Aurelian Cover
<br>
171: Word Bearers by Aaron Oborn
<br>
172: The Purge Cover
<br>
173: Unknown
<br>
174: Unknown
<br>
175: Eternal Crusade Concept Art: Massive Battle by ukitakumuki
<br>
176: Unknown
<br>
177: Unknown
<br>
178: Game Workshop DPS by Grant Griffin
<br>
179: The First Heretic Cover
<br>
180: Chaos Spawn by Thomas Rome
<br>
181: Unknown
<br>
182: Old Earth Cover
<br>
183: Vulkan Lives Cover
<br>
184: Unknown
<br>
185: Born of Flame Cover
<br>
186: Deathfire Cover
<br>
187: Unknown
<br>
188: Salamanders by Cristian Torres
<br>
189: Unknown
<br>
190: Fallen Hero by Dan Farin

\columnbreak

<br>
191: Promethean Sun Cover
<br>
192: Unknown
<br>
193: Vulkan: Lord of Drakes Cover
<br>
194: Corvus Corax by Mauro Belfiore
<br>
195: Corax Cover
<br>
196: Corax: Soulforge Cover
<br>
197: Unknown
<br>
198: Ravenlord Cover
<br>
199: Raven Guard by Johan Grenier
<br>
200: Deliverance Lost Cover
<br>
201: Raven Guard by Hammk
<br>
202: Unknown
<br>
203: The Scripts Cover
<br>
204: Corax: Lord of Shadows Cover
<br>
205: Legion Cover
<br>
206: Shroud of Night Cover
<br>
207: The Harrowing Cover
<br>
208: Alpha Legion by Mauro Dal Bo
<br>
209: Sons of the Hydra Cover
<br>
210: Unknown
<br>
211: Alpha Legionnaire by Dima Sokolov
<br>
212: Wolf King Cover
<br>
213: Unknown
<br>
214: Unknown

## Afterword

Please enjoy this complete installment of the Primarch Lore Posts by Jackeyblob. I would like to extend a grateful thanks to u/geologyrocks98 for his assistance in editing this piece for a much cleaner final draft, as well as u/Rubricae98 for his invaluable help in research.