Name: Mon-Kal (roughly this translates to 'human slave' in eldar)

Discovered: 800 M.30

Gender: Male

Homeworld: Seraphim prime

Seraphim prime was once what would have been called an agricultural world before the Age of Strife, and was quite prosperous for most all its existence. However, after its isolation the relatively safe and peaceful world received a new master. As it had no standing army, a high population, and a useful output of sustenance, a cabal of Dark Eldar began raiding the world, turning it into their own personal cattle ranch. By making certain the populace was kept working and breeding by manipulating its leaders through fear, they were free to take however many slaves they wanted. For many centuries it was like this, humans taken from their homes by the ones they began to call 'The Masters'. No one ever returned once the masters took them, and all lived in fear of the tall and dark slender beings.

The planet itself is largely cultivated farmland, centuries of farming turning it into essentially a massive breadbasket. However, as the Dark Eldar began their centuries of plundering the world, many fields went untended, and began to rapidly deteriorate. Now, approximately 50% of the world is made of great marshes from unattended fields being constantly rained on. The great peat bogs and swamps that have risen in their stead are filled with beasts dropped their by the cruel Dark Eldar to torment the populace, leading further into their despair. It rains quite often, and more often than not the sky is gray and the sun obscured, in fact this is the common state of things. The people are pale because of it, unused to the bright sun, but quite accustomed to the hard labor needed to farm massive tracts of cultivated land. Their culture has become quite grim and fatalistic, as the Dark Eldar raids, the gloomy world, and the oppression by its leaders have led the inhabitants to lives of deep melancholy and despair.

Appearance: From his years spent in the sun-less commorragh, and deprived of sleep by the crown, Mon-Kal is quite pale, and his eyes sunken and ringed with sleep. His skin is drawn and sallow, sleep and food deprivation taking what were once features befitting a noble to those more befitting a slave. Strangely, some of the nobility originally in his face remains, a shadow of what it may have been. He well squared jaw, and strong bone structure reveal what may have been, were his situation of birth different. His eyes are often red and sunken, his pupils small and constantly checking his surroundings, the deep paranoia that comes with sleeplessness long since changing him. The noble green iris is still seen, a glaring contrast to the pale sullen face with their deep green. The cables running into his forehead and temples, even right behind his eyes from the Black crown are somewhat disturbing, the pale skin around their entries strangely unagitated. If he has hair it cannot be seen underneath the black crown covering the top of his head starting at the hairline, can covering his neck and the rest of his head. His face is left free however.

As a primarch he towers above the average man, and is even taller than an ordinary space marine, though is only of average size for a primarch around 12 or 13 feet tall. He is a bit taller when in his power armour, but still only 12 feet tall, meaning he is only average for a primarch in size. His armour is in the colours of his legion, though a fair bit more ostentatious, it is based on the Maximus pattern armour design molecular bonding studs and all with the helmet being virtually the same as others, for all but the carved black crown of thorns attached to it, with lines of black blood painted as falling from it. In addition, the helm bears a pair of noble bone white antlers, but they are twisted and warped and covered in thorns and its tips blackened.

He also has a great mantle, covered in a deep red, black and shock yellow fur and feathers. The mantle once belonged to the leader of the Dark Eldar Kabal who took him, and is his trophy from killing him. The strange pattern and fur mixed with feathers is from some beast in the arenas of Commorragh which Mon-Kal had killed long ago, and the Cabals leader had it skinned and made into a huge mantle for himself. To Mon-Kal, it was like taking back something that had long ago been stolen, and he wears it as often as he can, the tough warp-beasts hide able to withstand the dangers of combat. His signature weapons, a Thundr hammer and Lightning claw, only add to his intimidating stature as a man of war.



Personality: Mon-Kal is a sullen man. He is brooding, cruel, quick to anger, suspicious of others and generally not the most pleasant of people. However, he is not all doom and gloom. At his finest of times he could easily be described as melancholy and introspective, he is most often in states like this. He could also be described as self interested in a way, though far from selfish. The only type of people he was exposed to for most of his life were the heinous Dark Eldar, and more than a few of their traits have rubbed off on him, but have been tempered by his logical mind. He is prone to acts of what to many see as needless cruelty or punishment, but he does not do anything without first thinking it through. Every act is calculated and planned, concise and with purpose. Even when enraged he thinks this way, breaking apart any situation analytically, and going with the most logical course of action according to his values and core beliefs. Many find this combination of cold logic with cruel passion to be strange and off putting, but Mon-Kal does not seem to care.

Skills: Mon-Kal is an extremely adaptable Primarch. His many years in the Gladiator pits of Commorragh taught him to be ready for any possible combat situation, and so he has developed a combat doctrine of adaptability, flexibility and forward planning. He has a fair amount of skill in most types of war and combat from grand strategy, to small unit tactics, to personal combat. However, his knowledge is more practical than learned, leading his strategies to seem needlessly rough and unrefined compare to other more classically trained generals. He waged a war all on his own, and needed many strategies to win it, but they are not tempered by the wars of the past or rules of strategy. They are forged in the same way one would forge a makeshift knife, often rough and unrefined but effective and brutal nonetheless. He truly excels at no particular form of combat, preferring to remain generally good at most all of them. However, his personal weapons do show a leaning ever so slightly to melee combat, being a pair of power-fists.

He also shows a great deal of aptitude at long term planning and oration, able to bandy words with great scholars despite his lack of scholarly knowledge, his speeches are from a more 'grassroots' perspective, but are well said and articulated nonetheless.
Psyker assignment level - Rho(Ordianry human levels)

Biography: The Primarch that would become Mon-Kal drifted through the warp just as his brothers and sisters had, no ability to control where he may end up. Had he landed upon a more civilized world, one where nobility ruled and he could be placed in such a structure who knows what he may have become? A noble Statesman and fine general? A great leader of men? These questions hardly matter, for they will never be answered, for the Primarch did not land on such a world... he landed on Seraphim Prime. The child who would become Mon-Kal landed in one of its many peat-swamps, and was quickly found and attacked by one of the dangerous beasts who inhabit them, which he slew handily. It was then that the Dark Eldar found the obviously exceptional human child and took him. In truth Seraphim could not be called his home, for he was raised in the Dark city in the Webway, Commorragh. The child Primarch grew quickly and showed his resilience and resistance to his masters. To hopefully nullify this the cruel device known as the 'Black Crown' was cybernetically implanted into Mon-Kal, and he was thrown into the arenas. There he fought the many terrible beasts and other things the Dark Eldar brought in for entertainment. When he was not fighting, he was often the subject of the Dark Eldars cruel experiments and torture's, pushing the Primarchs body to its very limits of cruelty. It was here that he grew up, and it was here that he grew to despise the Eldar.

His only companions were the other humans often thrown into the pits. Gladiators, warriors from all over the milky way, and often dead by the second day... all but one that is. Mephisto, a massive man from some unknown world became the brother of the growing Primarch, and it was he who taught Mon-Kal of humanity. Its language, what history he knew of his world, technology and other things. They created a bond of brothers forged in the cruelty of the Dark Eldar, and it would prove to be the Capricious xenos down-fall. Together, they planned to escape. Often when the Gladiators were not fighting or being tortured they would be used as cannon fodder in Eldar Raids, and as the cabal that had kidnapped the two of them most often raided Seraphim it was here that they were used... and it was here they would escape. During a raid on the world the two broke their restraints and slaughtered their captors, escaping into the nightmarish swamps.

Several months later, after the Eldar believed they had died, a rebellion began starting from the swamps with Mon-Kal and Mephisto at its head. What followed was an exceptionally brutal and cruel war, with Mon-Kal running his own soldiers into the grave in order to keep pace with the Masters. Slowly but surely he gained momentum with the rebellion, until it came to his ambitious plan to take the world's capital city. His plan was well made, but dangerous nonetheless, as it required attacking the most heavily guarded city on Seraphim with his significantly less trained and equipped rebels. It was then that Emperor found him, and offered him his armies to help end the war quickly, in exchange for his fealty and agreement to help the Emperor conquer the galaxy with his Grim Crusade. Mon-Kal agreed, and the Capital was quickly taken, the Dark Eldar and the human forces their unprepared for the might of the growing Imperium. After the Dark Eldar were driven away, Mon-Kal was presented with the Third Legion of the Adeptus astartes. In addition, his aging brother Mephisto, though too old to become a true space marine, was given what Space marine organs he could and augmented to an acceptable amount to join Mon-Kal on the crusade as his second in command.

Upon being given his legion, Mon-Kal's first act was to declare that every battle brother pass a set of trials on the planet of Seraphim to prove his worth to the Legion. The horrific trials were largely modeled after the experiences Mon-Kal had on Commorragh, and the final one was a fight for survival in a mock coliseum. Fully 10% of the Legion did not survive the harsh and brutal trials, but those that had survived the nightmarish tests were far more like their Primarch; Vicious, brutal, logical and cruel.

The meeting

Legion Name: The Bloody Host

Legion Strength: 78,000 Space Marines, and a massive contingent of the Imperial army as well as Legion Serfs and servitors

Warcry: "We are Death! The Destroyer of Worlds!"

Symbol: A black crown of thorns atop a severed head

Legion number: I

Armour appearance:


The Bloody host have an armour scheme that bellies their name. The armour is by and large the color of freshly clooded flesh, a dark crimson colour for their chest, legs and arms are all red, the details however are picked out in black. Their helmets is similarly bone white, but their pauldrons are black. The most common mark is maximus, but there are plenty of Crusade and Iron patterns as well.

Favoured tactics/Battlefield role: The Bloody Host follow the tenets of their Primarch and Geneseed, Logical and analytical battlefield adaptability. The Legion is trained to be as tactically flexible as they can, preferring to study their opponent before countering their strategies and Slowly and Methodically obliterating every single part of them. The Legion pride themselves on their ability to adapt to most situations, and on their characteristic brutality. Once a weakness is discovered in an opponent's tactics the Bloody Host will cruelly and mercilessly exploit it, making sure to destroy everything in their path, taking their time to go out of their way and ensure their enemies total annihilation. However, their flexibility is innately inflexible, as ironic as that statement seems. It is possible, for a particularly clever or insightful enemy, to notice the patterns clearly present in their maneuvers and switches and tactics to exploit them, but this is difficult to say the least.

Legion Characteristics/Ideology: The Legion bellies it's Primarch as in all things, being a particularly sullen and melancholic bunch, prone to anger and cruelty. They are brutal and logical in their approach to most all things, letting their minds analyze the situations and following the best path they can. They are utterly loyal to their Primarch, even after his brutal trials leading to decimation. They believe their father Primarch is harsh to make prepare them, cruel to strengthen their bodies, and sullen to keep their senses sharp. There is little to no questioning of their Primarch, and his word is often treated as law, for to question hims is to invite harsh and just punishment, and to follow him is to fight and die in glory. They are very nearly fanatical about their Primarch, sometimes inviting the suspicion of others, who they are suspicious of in return, believing there can only be safety in paranoia

Hated enemy: As Mon-Kal, the Bloody Host despises the Dark Eldar with a fervour unmatched, and intend to be the legion to discover the Dark city Commorragh, and burn it to the ground with their glorious Primarch Father.

Name: Farah Cusatis, Shield of the Imperium

Gender: Female

Homeworld: Kestes II, Designation Death World, a world destroyed by combat so badly that it’s surface is mostly bare due to bombing, now all that is left is the rare outcrop of land capable of growing flora, and raising fauna, even most of the water was tainted and undrinkable. Farah grew up in a small tribe where everyday was a battle with other tribes over their watering hole, and their farms. Every single drink was earned with blood shed. It truly builds strong warriors to live on this planet as everything done has to be done with quick precise understanding of the consequences that can follow no matter how small.

Appearance:

She stands at 2.8 meters tall, with a powerful build and weighing about 219.085 kilograms
(the armor was too generic for a Primarch so after much discussion and without further suspense)
Wearing a set of Terminator armor is awe inspiring, the behemoth suit of plate stands out all the more with the elaborate decorations that adorn it, showing that the wearer of it is more than just your average marine. The plates themselves are painted very dark purple known as Eminence, with tiger like stripes slashing along the purple in a shade of orange known as Tangelo. This isn’t all that makes it so different, it is adorned along the back with a myriad of colored feathers each about two feet in length, and hanging from the shoulders is the pelt of a very large feral feline with a black coat and yellow spots. Furthermore etched into several of the plates are symbols from her homeworld denoting luck, strength, and victory. Many times she can be seen on the battlefield without her helmet on, but when it is adorned violet glows emit from those lenses to stare out across the battlefield as she seeks to lead her women to glory. Along with her armor she carries a Power Maul that was built to an appropriate size for her terminator armor, and the fact that she is a Primarch. The Power Maul has a plasma rifle built inside of it so that the ammunition is loaded into the bottom and fires out the end. Further she also carries a Storm Shield of appropriate size mounted on her forearm as well which combined with her terminator armor makes her a very hard to destroy foe indeed. Her left hand which is the same arm with the storm shield wields a lightning claw allowing her to have a variety of melee on top of her shield and plasma rifle.

Personality: She has a strong reverence, almost to the point of Zealotry. Her loyal nature is only more obvious as she never falters from her orders given by the Emperor, or those given to her through those who speak in the name of the Emperor. Regardless of this she can be full hardy, and bull headed, especially in combat. She never considers the possibility that losing, or retreat is an option, she would instead instead fight to the last woman rather than ever have to report that she had lost ground, or lost a battle. Though she would put her women warriors through the limits in battle, she cares for each of them greatly, and considers them her daughters in the most literal sense of the word, being sure to learn each marine she meets name and match it with a face.

Regardless of this very personal attachment she has to each of her marines, she understands there will be losses, and instead of mourning each of these she finds herself honoring the dead by having their names etched into the walls of her personal cabin. There is nothing she wouldn’t do for the Imperium, and any enemies who stand in Farah’s way should fear her wrath.

Skills: She’s an expert in close combat, and always seems to have a knack for breaking through the frontlines of enemies. Not many can match the tenacity of Farah when it comes to tactics and strategy on the ground in close combat, and finding weaknesses not only in enemy formations, but in a enemies’ personal defenses as well. She has a taste for using short ranged weapons, and close combat ones training mostly with her Power Maul, with built in plasma rifle and Storm Shield. This is brought on by a strange supernatural perception that makes it seem like she can almost see what will happen, before it happens. Though this perception may be a manifested psyker power, she has exhibited no other powers, and thus is not labelled as such.
Psyker Assignment Level: Omicron

Biography: She was found lying in a small field of corn, her body healthy, and everything about her seemed to be perfect. Many of the tribe wanted to leave her in the barrens where nothing would grow to die, others wanted to kill her outright believing that they could not feed another mouth that was not hers. Yet the Tribe Elder and his wife disagreed, finding that the child who seemed closer to a teen than that of a toddler was something special sent to them, a being that would help them keep what was theirs. They were proved right as Farah proved to be a quick learner at everything she did, and was strong enough to begin doing tasks than even two men would be able to do for the tribe.

She excelled with them quickly bringing them harmony as she helped in the taking care of what cattle they had, and helping tend the fields, even showing them a way to make some land that had once been thought impossible to far, and turn it it into workable farm land, which doubled the amount of land they had to grow food. She also showed almost natural abilities with weapons, proving time and again as she fended off raids that she was more than capable of using a firearm, and swords. As her age increased she told the elder of strategies and plans she had come up with so that the warring between the tribes could end, and they could live in peace.

So she lead the Tribe against the others removing the leaders to show the strength of her tribe, and revealing all that she had taught to her own tribe so that no one would be without. After a decade of this the planet was finally unified. A new era of peace dawned for Kestes as had never been seen before, with only the occasional rebellion rising up. Besides that though it was peaceful. That was until the Emperor came, and told her of his crusade, told her who she was to him. She went with him though and and was given her own Legion, the Fifth Legion which was quickly renamed the ‘Blazing Sisters’ after their tactics, and color pattern.

They completed every campaign they were given, proving again and again that they could take on any enemies the Emperor commanded them to eliminate or pacify. They grew close to another legion that utilized tactics that complimented their own through the ambush style that was utilized by the Brother legion, and this in turn brought Farah closer to her fellow Primarch blossoming into a friendship that presented itself on and off the battlefield as they spent much time together. It was so much so that they campaigned together quite frequently utilizing their differing tactics to take enemies down with minimum casualties as both valued every astartes beneath them.

The Meeting: Something burned through the sky, Farah had seen falling stars before, but none had burned as bright as this or had gotten as close as these were. It was then that the stars began to materialize to be something alien, something she had never seen before. Some kind of vehicle, she had seen wrecks of aircraft, and vehicles in the ruins from the bombings, and what they had used parts from. She walked to the edge of the village her heavy leather boots carrying her easily across the ground leaving deep imprints behind in the mud. She was flanked by a multitude of warriors women and men alike. She stops as it nears the ground and settles into the dirt. Farrah moved her hand to her sword and pulled it free, unsure of whatever was inside might be.

Then it opened and revealed enormous figures, almost as large as she was walking down the ramp towards her lining up on either side of the ramp. Then a glorious being appeared all in gold a ring of light around his head. It was glorious, she had never felt the need to give such reverence to anything before, and somehow she felt she knew the man before her. The sword in her hand wavered for a moment before falling into the ground point first and sticking there. “Who… who are you?’ She said aloud, and the man approached her stopping directly in front of her, a single hand going to her shoulder gently gripping it.

“I am the Emperor, and you are my daughter.” The man said, as Farrah moved to kneel before him. He stopped her though and shook his head. “Do not.” He spoke his voice booming loudly throughout the village. “Though.. The others should. You have done spectacularly from what I can tell. Uniting a planet under your rule, showing them how to utilize what they have to make life better. Truly you are my child.” Farrah stared at the Emperor breathing heavier by the moment, she didn’t know what to think, had no idea what to even say.

Turning her head and looking at the other tribe members they were all on their knees now and she turned to look back at the Emperor and slowly her mouth opened. “I am honored Emperor, my father. I am yours to command whatever you wish.” Her entire form was stock still completely amazed by what was taking place, but she could feel the surprise fading, and turning into admiration. Her eyes traveled to the armored figures behind the Emperor and seeing that they were powerfully built warriors of some kind dressed in amazing and highly advanced, quality made armor.

“I have come here to collect you, and bring you with me where you belong, daughter.” The Emperor said with a reassuring look. “I want you to join me, command one of my legions, and lead them across the stars reclaiming planets lost to the Imperium in my name.”

Farah gave a few blinks the revelation of what was taking place dawning fully on her as she began to nod. “Yes, my father, my Emperor. I will do this for you, I will be your hand.” She said with all obedience, something she had never expected herself to say. The Emperor began to lead her towards the ship.

“We have much to talk about Farah, do not worry, your people are in good hands now.”

Legion Name: Blazing Sisters

Legion Number: V

Legion Strength
Blazing Sisters Astartes 81,412
Imperial Army 645,322
Civilians 12,133
Legion Serfs 122,211

Armour Appearance:

Legion Warcry: "Ever forward! Never back!"

Dramatis Personae
First Company
10,186
Captain Isis, a handsome woman with facial features that most strongly resemble Farah of any of the Blazing Sisters, her hair when grown out also shares the same color and texture though she typically keeps her hair shaved to the scalp. She wears a set of Terminator armor much like her primarch as well though she wears a panther pelt only over the right shoulder, and wields a pair of lightning claws. Isis is one of the cooler tempered of her sisters, except when it comes to her Pirmarch, when it comes to Farah's reputation or life being on the line Isis can be easily put into a fury of retribution, but her leadership skills and strategic mind are strong and sound, and her unwaivering attitude in battle has earned her the position of First Company Captain.

2nd Company
9,847
Captain Thalestris
A face that seems almost regal with piercing eyes, Thalestris would have had the eye of many suitors if she was not born an Astartes. With hair the color of golden corn, she has shaved it in a single stirpe down the middle of her head and cuts off just at the back of her skull where it is all tied back into a ponytail that reaches her shoulders. She wears a regular set of power armor a lion's pet adorning her left shoulder and carries a power spear slightly taller than herself. She is of few words, and moves like a lioness on the prowl searching for everyone's weakness at all times.

Third Company
10,001
Captain Valasca
Valasca has seen better days, one of Farah's best Captains, but also most brash , she bears the markings of a life in war where she has taken many chances. Once a handsome face with strong features was now marred with multiple scars, and a cybernetic where and Ork had gotten to her. Further showing of her brashness is the fact that her right arm down is completely mechanical after she lost it charging a Ork line. Though all these acts are brash they also were successful, and turning points that brought many victories to Farah and through her the Emperor. She wears a set of regular power armor donning a beige pelt of a feline on her right shoulder, carrying a chainsword, and a Inferno pistol gifted to her by Farrah as a reward due the victory won at the sacrifice of her arm.

Fourth Company
8,734
Captain Penthesilia
Some find it hard to believe when they see her face that she is an Astartes, she truly has a beauty like few other among the Blazing Sisters with vibrant eyes, naturally long lashes, and hair as soft as silk many consider her quid beautiful. She keeps that soft platinum hair cut in a fade with the top being left very long and falling to one side. The Captain of Fourth Company commands the Company with largest amount of Terminators and thus she herself also wears terminator armor, with the pelt of a white tiger with almost neon blue stripes draped over her shoulder. She fights with deadly ferocity using a attached storm bolter, and a chainfist. She tends to be quite open with her thoughts, quite often expressing herself fully no matter the situation. Still she will always follow follow orders, and is willing to go into situations that would kill other Astartes.

Fifth Company
12,322
Captain Antiope
Antiope is very different from the rest of her Sisters, her hair is a darker brown color, with a rounder face than the rest of her sisters who have high cheekbones, and strong jawlines, regardless of this she is a extremely valued Sister, and completely worthy of her position as a captain. Like other Captains she wears the typical power armor the pelt of a lynx like feline on the left shoulder, unlike the others she is especially talented in ranged combat, and leads the largest amount of range fighters, she carries a Storm Bolter of which she has perfected the use of over her time in the Blazing Sisters legion.

Sixth Company
10,212
Seventh Company
8,121
Eight Company
11,989
Captain Eurybe (6th), Captain Celaneo(7th), Captain Phoebe(8th)
Strangely enough these three women all took on the same identical appearance, a strong jawline, high cheek bones, small pouty lips, and half closed seemingly uncaring eyes. They also all took to having the same hairstyle where the left side of their head is shaved completely bald and the other side hangs to their shoulders, in a blonde silky waterfall. They all wear Astartes power armor decorated with a tiger pelt stretched over their right shoulders. Each one carries a different weapons though, Eurybe carrying a Power Lance, Celaneo carrying a Power Sword, and Phoebe carrying a Power Axe.

Honor Guard
Slayers of Herakles
These women make up some of the most elite of the Blazing Sister's legion. They are fifteen strong, and mixed between regular Astartes, and Librarians. They wear terminator armor the color of gold, with red splashes, while they carry Halberd weapons, force halberds for the Librarian's and Power Halberds for the non Librarians. They are lead by Captain Antimache, a veteran of the Blazing Sister's legion, one of the oldest serving Marines under Farah's command. She keeps her head shaved smooth and bald, and wears the pelt of a Kestes Lion as a cape.

Special Units
The Lion Lancers: The Kestes Lions are enormous beasts standing around eight feet at the shoulder while on all fours. They are armored in their own way with special springs, and shocks designed to hold the weight of a fully armored Astartes to ride upon their back. They also typically have a storm bolter mounted on a swivel on their back. The riders of these beasts carry power lances, and use the mounted storm bolter as a ranged weapon. The lions typically have fur colored black and white, with huge flowing manes that obscure the most of the rider from view of the enemy.

Non-Astartes
Iterator Elias Kaphim
Elias Kaphim is the Senior most Iterator on the ship and is often sought out by Farah, and the other Captains when they are in need of counsel, or wish to learn more about the past. He stands stooped at the waist, bent over as his back was bent with age, his skin wrinkled with time, though there is still a sparkle of intelligence in his eyes.

Remembrancer Lykinnia Assandros
Farrah’s personal remembrancer, Farrah has assigned Lykinna to record all her accounts of war stories, and things that are taking place during her campaigns, she also lets her record her personal feelings about how campaigns are going and the actions of other Primarchs on, and off the battlefield. She also often tells her of stories from before she joined the Crusade, and tales from her homeworld, and the songs they sung. Lykinnia is young and beautiful, hair colored bright red, with skin like porcelain, pouty lips red as blood, and bright green eyes. It was too much dismay of many men that she chose to rembrance for the crusade and now stays constant aboard Farrah’s Flagship.

Astra Telepath Daigan Morrow
The Psyker for Farrah’s flagship, he is completely blind, and frail even though he is incredibly young.

Farrah’s Serf Hipp
She tried and failed at being and Astartes, and was instead made into a Serf for Farrah’s personal use. She spends much of her time cleaning Farrah’s armor, and preparing the tribal elements that often decorate Farrah’s armor.

Favored Tactics/Battlefield Role: The Blazing Sisters Legion has a mindset of charging into battle, usually looking to hit an enemy’s frontline at it’s weakest point in order to break it. They typically form up prepared for short ranged, and close melee combat, their weapons usually consisting of chainswords, bolt pistols, and bolters. While they do have some armored vehicles it’s not nearly as many as other legions, as the tactics they typically follow in battle can’t use many vehicles except ones that deliver heavy artillery fire, though they do make use of many dreadnoughts.

Legion Characteristics/Ideology: They tend to be extremely stricts outside of combat, wearing only the appropriate attire issued to them, acting only as accorded to them by their chapters standards, and adhering to strict training schedules. During their time off from their schedules in which they can do what they please they can be often found playing games that require sharp minds knowing strategy, or sparring with each other in the training rooms. They are often respectful with other legion’s astartes, but can grow aggravated with a lack of discipline or lack of planning in any given situation.

Hated Enemy (optional): None for now

Other:
Farrah’s Flagship is named, Mellanippe

The Blazing Sisters typically put on warpaint before going into battle, a broad stripe of orange that goes from the end of one eye to the over including over the bridge of their nose, with thin strip of purple from the top of their top lip to the bottom of their chins.

The Blazing Sisters love to sing songs, especially when marching or in battle. They often sing when they gather together for updates from Farrah, who often leads them in their singing.
Example of a Battle Song: Ad bellum duci imperator nobiscum Victoria nostra canimus clare omnibus audientibus , vox nostra ocreis vere nos annuntiamus , ducis nunquam moriamur

They often share stories, though they embellish them greatly as to evoke a greater fascination with the stories or make them so much more humorous.

Outside of their armor, The Blazing Sisters often wear Togas, or simple cloth skirts.

Sevrah, the Horned Snake


Male


Scurn, Desert World

An immense planet, amongst the largest ever found by Imperial ships, Scurn is little more than a giant desert. It has not a single sea, few rivers and the vast bulk of all water on the planet runs deep under the ground. The humans present on Scurn survive by harvesting moisture from beneath the earth with vast moisture gathering machines, the owners of which represented the planet's ruling class. The operation of the ancient machines were closely guarded secrets within the ruling families, for their ability to retain control was entirely contingent on maintaining an aura of superiority and mysticism. Their monopoly on the only sources of water on Scurn allowed them to rule more completely than most kings ever have, so long as they made sure none but them knew how to work the machines.

Apart from its arid climate Scurn has one other feature that makes it less than inviting to settlers; aggressive native mega fauna. Most of the species of Scurn either have no need of water at all or have adapted to make small quantities last for vast amounts of time. The result of the planet's incredible size and comparatively low gravity is that the beasts that walk its surface are larger than those seen almost anywhere else in the galaxy though some of them bare remarkable similarities to Terran beasts. Many Imperial surveyors have remarked that the Skeltraks of Scurn could be mistaken for massively enlarged Terran Scorpions, for example. Almost all of Scurn's beasts display the same attitude to visitors as that of the planet itself. That is to say, one of unflinching hatred and resentment.


Sevrah is both alike and different to his brother primarchs in appearance. He is every bit as huge and formidable looking as his siblings, being twelve feet tall without armour and possessing muscles seemingly carved from marble. But where most Astartes and Primarchs are broadly muscled and almost as wide as they are tall, Sevrah is comparatively slimly built and wiry. His build favours reach, speed, agility and dexterity over sheer force. The vicious sun of Scurn has left a visible mark on his skin, giving him a dark complexion to compliment his sable black hair. In the desert, he was careful to keep his hair cut close to his head, both to keep it from his eyes and to deprive enemies of something to grab. In his new surroundings of wealth, he has decided on a new look; his head is completely shaved saved for a long, forked goatee. As long as he keeps his helmet on during battles, Sevrah reasons, the goatee will never provide an enemy with a handhold. His eyes are a striking green and have unusual slitted pupils that do nothing to reduce the mental image of Sevrah as a snake that strikes most people.

His power armour, much like that of his legion, is coloured to blend into brown and yellow environs without any vegetation. The armour itself is a miracle of human construction, designed to evade detection and tracking systems of all levels of sophistication. For formal occasions, Sevrah offsets the dull tones of his armour with a crimson cloak made of a rare silk but in the field he prefers the same robes his Sons wear to battle; rough clothes that do nothing to make one look appealing and everything to make one hard to see. His spear, affectionately referred to as the Snake's Horns by his legion, is another masterwork, standing a little taller than he does with a power field encased short blade on one end, a weighted striking pommel on the other and storm bolter affixed under the blade.


Sevrah was raised on a world of scarcity, where all things had to be rationed, even the truth. As a boy, he learned never to wear his heart on his sleeve, lest his foes seek to tear it away and use it against him. He learned to lie under the sand and wait until the perfect moment to strike, whether it took one hour or twenty. But most of all, he learned how to lie, with his tongue, his eyes, his army or with his weapon. As an adult, he has never forgotten the lessons of the dry desert and uses them to great effect as commander of the IVth legion. Diplomats and strategists need to be able to lie quickly and convincingly, sometimes to lead an opponent into a trap, other times merely to make a potential ally feel more at ease. In whatever way Sevrah chooses to lie or deceive, he does it subtly and well, displaying a calculating cunning second only to that of the Emperor himself.

But in the desert, he learned other lessons too. Lessons of scarcity and independence, of wariness and distrust. When every person you meet for the first dozen years of your life is intent on taking what's yours for themselves, it becomes hard to work oneself into trusting others. Sevrah could count on the fingers of one hand all the people outside his own legion that he truly trusts. Trusts with his life, soul and the wellbeing of his legion. The main lessons he learned in the dune sea, however, were of pragmatism and realism. If you can't do something, no amount of bluster or protest will let you do it. If someone else can, let them. Sevrah sees no use or merit in the qualities of pride and ego, unless it is to manipulate them in others. He himself uses words to often as weapons and armour to ever feel their sting.

Despite, or perhaps because of, his use of lies as a protective shield, Sevrah is incredibly likeable. Upon meeting him, most men and Astartes find him agreeable and affable, especially his siblings. Whether they initially trust him or not, the other Primarchs find him a charming fellow and witty companion, whether at a ceremonial banquet or on a battlefield. Since meeting the Emperor and leaving the desert, Sevrah has been surrounded by his legion and human followers, so conversing with his siblings is a rare chance to talk to an equal.


Sevrah's greatest skill is his capacity for deception. Few can claim to really know when Sevrah is telling the truth and when he is lying to them, nor can many see through his subtle bluffs on the battlefield. This skill manifests itself in him as a commander in his fondness for ambushes, misdirection and hit-and-run techniques. He only pursues open warfare when it is the last thing his opponent will expect. Apart from that, Sevrah is a skilled at hunting, tracking and the use of stealth. His patience is nearly endless, allowing him to wait for precisely the right moment to strike from an unseen position without flinching or attacking too soon. He is extremely dangerous with his chosen weapon, a two handed spear, and can use it to devastating effect whether he's attacking or defending, whether his opponent knows he's coming or not. He would be assigned Kappa level psychic abilities if he ever took the test, due to a latent ability to force enemies to freeze by looking into their eyes. This ability only occurs in times of stress and seems to be a split between psychic ability and a hypnotic gaze.


When Sevrah came crashing down onto Scurn, it was inevitable he would awake surrounded by sand. The planet was little more than an immense desert, riddled with the occasional dry sea bed. When Sevrah did awake from his first sleep on the planet's surface however, it was not to see vast tracts of sand in every direction but look into the slitted eyes of an enormous serpent. One of Scurn's most powerful predators, Serasti are horned snakes of immense size and incredible cunning. Their life spans are several centuries long and they are famous for tricking travellers and other animals into traps and snares. Some Scurn legends tell that they have their own language but no Imperial scholars have been able to find evidence of this. But when the snake looked down upon Sevrah, tiny and alone in the sand, it did not strike. Perhaps because of pity or for a later snack, it lifted the infant Primarch in its mouth and carried him to its cave lair. It allowed him to drink from a small pool of water and eat from a freshly killed carcass, watching him guardedly as he did so.


Whatever the reason that the Serastis saved Sevrah's life, it did not stop with giving him food and water. It nurtured him until he could walk and then it began to train him. Serasti need water in much the same way humans do and have evolved to prey on other animals that get their water from deep underground. Sevrah's new guardian showed him how to pierce the water sacks of burrowing beasts and to bite into the humps of desert mammals for sustenance. It helped him learn to hunt, showing him how to set a trap by concealing oneself in the sand near an attractive piece of shade. Serasti have no poison in their teeth but have not let that stop them from using attacks to weaken dangerous foes. In the desert, a small wound can quickly cause even the largest of beasts to slow, stumble and eventually fall. Serasti favour giving their prey wounds to their legs or mobility systems and simply waiting for them to stop moving before feasting.

Sevrah was an attentive student to the serpent and learned all the lessons it had to teach. He had no fangs or horns so he crafted himself a spear from the rib bones of one of their meals. He had no scales to keep him safe from the scorching rays of the sun so he used hide and fur to make a cloak. All that he lacked, he was able to cobble together from the wreckage of his guardian's prey. And for the Serastis's part, who can say what it gained? It was a truly ancient monster, having lived almost a millennia, so perhaps it wished to pass on its knowledge and skills. Without any others of its kind in the area, it settled for something else. Or maybe it was clever still than even Sevrah realised and used him as a tool to spread its influence beyond the atmosphere of Scurn, where it reigned as king of the beasts.

During this period of his life, Sevrah saw little of humans. Occasionally he spotted them in the distance but his protector found humans to be too much work for too little reward and tended to leave them be. Those humans that approached them invariably did so with the intention of stealing water or food. Most were lost and starving but Sevrah saw only invaders, come to pillage what he hd fought for and earned. Some were eaten by the serpent, some were slain by the boy but none ever got what they came for or escaped to tell the tale.

Nothing lasts forever though and, in time, even an ancient Serasti will make a mistake. Sevrah's mentor made his while fighting a younger snake for control of territory, misjudging the speed of his opponent and suffering a grievous wound. It still crushed the younger competitor and feasted upon the corpse but the injury sapped its strength and spilled its blood across the sands. The great beast dragged itself home to the lair where Sevrah awaited it. At first, the Primarch did his best to staunch its gaping wound and slow the ichor flowing from the breach. He was still a young man and had not yet even considered the possibility that his constant companion was mortal. He soon realised, however, that no amount of care would return his guardian to its former health. In its eyes, Sevrah saw a resignation and acceptance that scared him to the bone. But he knew what he must do and would not shy from the last lesson his protector had to teach. He took his spear and did what needed to be done.

In the days that followed, Sevrah made preparations to leave his erstwhile home forever. He gathered food and water along with all the accoutrements he had crafted over the years. His last act was to cave in the entrance of the lair, leaving the horned serpent's body to lie in peace and not be picked apart by the next Serasti to settle the area. The Primarch himself set off across the desert in search of something new and yet familiar. He had lost one family and left one home, he now sought a new one.

The years that followed were busy for Sevrah and full of adventures, war and learning. For the first time, he spoke Low Gothic and learned to make symbols upon paper. He learned the principles of trade, diplomacy and military tactics, though all seemed to him to be merely new ways of lying. His education in deception was already complete, his guardian's greatest gift. It seemed that lying made all things easier for him, from lying about where he came from to why he carried the horns of a Serasti with him at all times. The truth frightened or confused people and some went so far as to call his truth lies. His natural force of character and innate gifts soon brought him to command a motley gang of nomads and traders, however and they all asked what to call him. Sevrah had never had a name before and could not come up with a lie that suited him. The crowd were happy to choose for him though and soon word of the Horned Snake spread far and wide. A hero of the nomad, the greatest of hunters and walker of the sands! And here came his first true test; the masters of the moisture gatherers saw his popularity and feared.

Leaders of the wasteland's people always caused the families that controlled the great machines to worry over their security. They were few but controlled access to the greatest sources of water on the planet of Scurn and relied upon this monopoly to keep their privileged positions. They were well aware that a gathering of the desert tribes could spell the end of their precarious power structure and strove to strike preemptively. They decided, as it were, to cut the head off of the snake. Their assassins expected the reports of this Horned Snakes skills and attributes to be nothing but rumour and hearsay and where therefore surprised when he woke to the sound of their stealthy footfalls, rose, towered over them and ripped them limb from limb.

Sevrah knew the signs; this was the start of an incursion. His protector had fought off many ambitious Serasti in the past and had been forced to fend off their tentative advances for some time before they fully committed themselves to the attack. When Sevrah had watched, he had always thought it odd that the older serpent chose not to pursue his opponent, hunt it down and dispatch it outright rather than wait for it to come to him. He did not intend to make the same mistake and wasted no time in rallying his forces behind him. If the masters of machines would strike at him through the shadows, he would show them their folly. The shadows of the desert belonged to him and no one else. His fighting force, made mostly of dissatisfied mercenaries and ambitious youngsters, followed him through the vast tracts of sand that surrounded the machines on all sides. With the failure of their assassination attempt, the masters sent out a proper fighting force to finish the job but all they found was dust. Dust and the occasional ambush.

For some weeks, the master's fighting force were harried this way and that across the dunes. Whenever they thought they had a trail to follow or a trap set, their foes would explode out of the sand at their feet or from behind rocks above them. Every battle took a heavy toll on their numbers for paltry results and soon they wished only to return to the relative safety of their machine fortresses. The march took far longer than it should have done and every day cost blood and flesh. And when they finally arrived at the machine's gates, their eyes beheld a terrible sight; the corpses of their masters hung from the battlements. None were sure when or how but the Horned Snake had been among them and take his revenge without a single member of the guard being any the wiser. To the Primarch, it was all one; battle, stealthy, ambush, leadership, all were just different ways of lying.

Within a week, Sevrah had been pronounced the new master of the machine. Within two, he had begun to train his new army properly, promoting those who served with him during the long weeks of battle and those who showed promise. Within six months, he had formed a dangerous fighting force and set his sights on expansion. Scurn was an immense planet, its dune seas nearly endless and there were many, many, more moisture gathering machines. His force would expand and expand until his territory encompassed every grain of sand the desert had to offer.

It was near the climax of his grand campaign that the forces of the Emperor of Mankind arrived upon the planet. Their chariots of fire fell out of the sky and annihilated the forces battling against Sevrah. And when the corpses had been piled high, Sevrah met his maker for the first time. The year was 815.M30 and the Emperor observed what his son had done with the wastes of Scurn and deemed it good.. He even gave Sevrah what he lacked most; a name. And so he arose to the stars, leaving the sandy winds of Scurn behind him to pass ont he lessons of his guardian to his own sons, the IVth legion. The Desert Sons. But while you can take a Primarch out of the dust, you can't take the dust out of a Primarch. Sevrah was ever the liar, ever the cunning one, ever the snake.

His Sons waged war across the stars, massacring enemy forces with campaigns of calculated cunning and cold cowardice, or so it was deemed by some. Sevrah never felt the need that many of his brother's and sister's did to seek out pitched battles. He preferred traps, ambushes, skirmishes and hit-and-run attacks. He never sieged a castle that could be unlocked by sneaking over the wall and never fought an enemy that could be exhausted by a prolonged effort of harassment. As such, his Sons suffered far fewer casualties than most of Imperium's legions which served to further tighten the familial ties between the Primarch and his legion. To him, every marine was member of his family whose life could never be priced too dearly.

This philosophy found a fellow practitioner when the Vth legion was named the Blazing Sisters and commanded by their Primarch, Farah. She too valued the lives of her legionaries and fought battles according to that principle. The Sister's style of continuous advance paired extremely well with the Desert Sons use of traps and ambushes. When working in concert, the two legions could drive foes into the perfect positions for devastating strikes that would remove command sections and shatter enemy morale. The two legions shared many campaigns over the course of the great crusade and the two Primarchs became friends or, at the very least, the closest thing to a friend that Sevrah had ever had outside of his own geneseed.


The golden figure stood, haloed in an iridescent glow. All around him, a host of impressively armoured warriors stood to attention, their weapons still soaked in gore. By contrast, the men who followed the Horned Snake seemed dirty, ugly and ill equipped. Their weapons were competently forged and they wore the best armour that the desert would allow those that traversed its lengths to wear but beside the gleaming cohorts of the newcomers, they were shamed.

Their leader stepped forward, raising one hand. Instinctively, every member of both assembled armies dropped to their knees, save one. The Horned Snake stood tall, staring at this new figure with a mixture of acute suspicion and cautious curiosity. He had an aura, an unmistakable air of power and control. The very air seemed to part for him and the desert winds fell silent. It had been many years since the Horned Snake had felt such a swell of awe and respect for another being. It brought back memories of a cave, of blood in his teeth and the sight of prey fallen before him. He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts and stepped forward to greet this man.

Before the Horned Snake could utter a word, the magnificent being spoke with a voice of absolute authority. "Be at peace, my son, and know thyself. I am your father, come to reclaim you from the void. Do you know me?"

For a moment, the Horned Snake faltered. It seemed ludicrous, how could he know this man? He had descended from the skies with fire and wrath! He seemed as a god or avatar, not a father! And yet... something deep in the Snake's brain stirred and gave him a prompt.

"You... you are the Emperor."

The man smiled and his happiness lit up the world. "I am. And you, my son, are Sevrah."

The Snake rolled the name around on his tongue for a few moments. "Sevrah. Sevrah. Seeevvraah." He had never needed a name until he came amongst humans but this one felt right to him. And then he too smiled. "Yes, I am."

"My son, there are worlds beyond this one, beyond this endless sea of sand. I would take you to the stars so that you might take them in my name. I would have you stand as a champion of humanity, as a warrior supreme. I would have you take your rightful place as my son." The Emperor extended a gauntleted hand. "Will you accept?"

For a moment, Sevrah stood silent. When asked his plans and intentions, he normally deflected questions with a joke or a skilful lie. But with this man, his father, the Emperor, he felt that here was one who would see through even his deceptions. So he considered the question earnestly, his brow wrinkling and knotting. Then he looked into the face of the Emperor and spoke.

"Father, I would accept with all my heart. I must ask that you allow me to show you something first, however."

The Emperor seemed almost taken aback, just for a moment. Then a laugh that spoke of a rare intrigue in an age of repetition rang out through the air. "Yes, my son. You may show me whatever you will."

---

It took some time to travel to the cave and some more time to convince the Emperor's guards that the sight below was for him alone. Eventually Sevrah and his father stood at the entrance of the cave, once sealed by the young Primarch and now blasted open again by his father's weaponry. Together, they walked inside. Curled into coil in the centre of the cave was the colossal skeleton of Sevrah's guardian, the ancient Serasti that raised, taught and nurtured him in the early years of his life. In its withered eye socket, Sevrah's spear still stood.

It took some time for Sevrah to explain the significance of the beastly remains and even longer to relate how much he owed the old serpent. The Emperor took in everything said with steady interest and never once interrupted. At the end of Sevrah's explanation, he told of how his guardian perished.

"And when I looked into his eyes, I knew there was only one thing left I could do. Only one thing left it could teach me. So I took my spear and gave what help I could. Do you see, Father? I raised my hand against the first thing ever to show me affection, the being that taught me all I know. Can you still say you wish me to rise to the stars with you, knowing this?"

The Emperor's gaze was the patience of mountains, the depths of sea existed in his eyes. It seemed an eternity before he answered his son. "You say this Serasti made a mistake and it cost it its life?"

Sevrah nodded.

The Emperor laid a hand upon his son's shoulder. "Then you should not worry, my son, for I shall not make any such mistake. Our reclamation of the stars for humanity will be unmarred by failure, a perfect legacy for mankind. Now I ask you again; will you stand with me against the forces of the foe?"

Sevrah smiled, though his heart felt heavy. "I shall, father, I shall."

Desert Sons:
Formerly the Dawn Vipers

Legion Number:
IV

Legion Strength
14,000 Marines strong

Armour Appearance:

Due to preferring to fight covertly in deserts or arid areas, the Sons find it necessary to use cloth robes to keep the heat and light off of their armour, even if the ceramite itself has been treated to avoid glare or reflection. The vast majority of the Desert Son suits of plate are bleached into muddy, sandy colours, some by design and some by the elements themselves.

Warcry:
"Blood on the sand!"

Dramatis Personae









Favored Tactics/Battlefield Role:
The Desert Sons fight in the same manner as their Primarch; luring the enemy into just the right spot and striking when they are at their most vulnerable. They specialise in melee and skirmish tactics, preferring to hit the foe hard before retreating with coordinated precision, only to attack again hours later. Wherever and whenever the enemy cannot afford the Sons to attack, attack they will. Ambushes are a favourite tactic, especially in desert environments. A favourite ploy is to conceal a number of the Sons under the sand and a different group to lure the enemy into the right spot. When the foe has been positioned correctly, the concealed Astartes explode out of the ground and wreak bloody chaos in the middle of an enemy formation, even as the other Sons attack from outside it.

Legion Characteristics/Ideology:
The Sons live by a pair of rules given to them by their Primarch; Trust your brothers and your father. Everything else is sand on the wind. These words are utterly sacred to them and are not to be spoken to those not of the legion, no matter how close they might be. It is perhaps telling that Sevrah, raised on a diet of distrust and starved of family, has not only built his legion to be a huge family tied together by bonds of trust but also isolated all those not of his legion. To Sevrah, one should have a circle of trusted, loved companions and all those outside that circle are secondary. His legion do their best to emulate this attitude though some find it difficult to reconcile an order to put everything outside the legion secondary with a deep set loyalty to the Emperor.

Name: Ser Berenger the Giant

Gender: Male

Homeworld: Berenger landed on the Feudal world of Arthis, a world that at the time was split up into several kingdoms, each warring and crusading against one another. The world was also host to various monsters such as hordes of vicious man-like Ogres, and Draken, large, land-walking lizards.

Appearance: Ser Berenger is large, even for the other Primarchs. He is a thick, tall mass of sinew and muscle standing at a daunting 13 feet tall, and when wearing his armor is even larger and intimidating at a massive 14 feet. His face and head are completely shaven, and marred with thick scar tissue from years of combat, rendering him an ugly form as well as hulking and fearsome. His eyes are a piercing blue, and his voice booms with authority and experience. His armor is a bright silver, with a white tabard with the symbol of the Imperium upon the chest, reminiscent of the plate mail armor from his military service on Arthis, with a custom-crafted helmet resembling that of a knight from his homeworld.

Personality: Berenger is an honourable knight through-and-through, he speaks with respect and dutifulness of those in higher or equal standing, and honor to those of lower positions. Despite his intimidating appearance, he can be a good speaker, known for ending wars on Arthis with but a few kind words. However, when Berenger becomes angry, he strikes with the fury of a maelstrom, destroying all in his path, the rage of a million berserkers filling him with seething hatred for those who have wronged him.

Skills: Berenger is a very skilled swordsman, fighting with a power sword and storm shield. He's also a notable tactician and general, capable of leading skilled defenses and open combat, though assaults on fortifications are his prime weakness strategy-wise. He is also a horrid ranged combatant, being terrible at nearly all forms of marksmanship. Lastly, his skills involving discussion only extend so far as starting and ending wars, and arranging defenses and establishing rulers of conquered territory. Outside of this, he is not a "people person", feeling conquest and war are his strong suites. Ser Berenger does possess a small inkling of psychic talent, as do all Primarchs. However, his is very latent, registering at around Kappa level on the assignment scale, and only triggering in times of great danger or stress. It has been said that when his legendary rage takes over, these powers manifest a red aura, which increases the Giant's already immense strength.

Biography: Berenger landed, almost miraculously, in the center courtyard of the castle of King Jacobis III, ruler of Ularia, formerly a large Kingdom on Arthis. The King hailed it as a sign from their gods, and had the baby raised as a warrior, in hopes that he could one day lead their armies in a crusade to unite the warring kingdoms of Arthis. His childhood was harsh and brutal. By the time he could stand, he was taught how to swing a sword, lead a charge, and fight in battle. This training beat any sense of innocence out of the young Primarch, leaving him as serious as a battle-hardened veteran.

By the time he was 10 standard Terran years, Berenger was a strong warrior for Jacobis III's main army. Having grown larger than any other human on Arthis, he was dubbed "Berenger the Giant", and shortly after Ser Berenger, as he was chosen as a knight in Jacobis' service. With Berenger on their side, Ularia conquered many of the smaller kingdoms and lands around them, growing into a major power on Arthis. However, two rival powers lay in the path of King Jacobis’ dream of conquering the world. These two lands were the massive Empire of Kinerthia, and the smaller, but still formidable Kingdom of Theyon. As a test of his skills of leadership, and to see if he truly could help fulfill the King’s dream, Jacobis placed Ser Berenger in command of the main force attacking Theyon. Berenger would lead the troops through many a successful battle, but it was ultimately his diplomatic skills that led to the end of the conquest. Despite having the capital of Theyon under siege, with reinforcements set to arrive within the week, Berenger requested a meeting with the King, a wiry youth named Tomas who had inherited the throne barely a year before the war began. They met in a field two miles out from the city, Tomas with a whole band of armed guards, and Berenger by his lonesome. There they discussed the terms of Tomas’ surrender, and came to a peaceful conclusion.

This victory led to Berenger being appointed as Jacobis' marshal of the realm, and leading his forces in a conquest of first the Empire of Kinerthia, then the entire globe. The war with Kinerthia was long and bloody, and did not end nearly as peacefully as the war with Theyon. The emperor of Kinerthia, an elder by the name of Septima IV, was a wise general with many years of war experience beyond those of Ser Berenger. Ultimately, it would be Septima’s untimely death due to illness, coupled with the lack of a successor, that led to Kinerthia’s downfall. Berenger would storm the capital with his army, surround the council chambers ruling in the emperor’s stead, and negotiate an unconditional surrender. Berenger and the returning army would be met with grand praise, and a three-day long festival to celebrate Ularia’s status as the only global power left on Arthis.

From there, Jacobis would task Berenger with the goal of uniting the remaining lands under his rule, finally realizing his dream of ruling all of Arthis. Uniquely, as Berenger went on his conquest, he actually absorbed more nations than he conquered violently, somewhat of an oddity in Arthisian tactics. By the age of 30 Terran years, he had united Arthis under the Kingdom of Ularia, which was renamed the Kingdom of Arthis. From here, he watched over the realm, hunting the rogue hordes of Ogres, and cleansing rural areas of Draken and other monstrosities. This lasted until the fateful day in which The Emperor of Mankind arrived in 830, winning control of the planet, and reuniting himself with his lost son Berenger, who he appointed in charge of the Ninth Legion, renamed the Iron Templars in honor of the knights of Arthis.

From there, Berenger would be a leader in the Grim Crusade, conquering and consolidating the Emperor’s rule on lost human settlements. One notable engagement and use of his tactics, involved the defense of his homeworld from the Eldar Xenos. Having fortified Arthis to be one of the most secure planets in the Imperium, the Eldar became bogged down in siege after siege, suffering losses that devastated their ability to fight back, forcing them to withdraw after having barely gained any ground. In regards to the other sons and daughters of the Emperor, Berenger has mixed feelings about them. With Sevrah and his Dust Sons, Berenger sees how having their stealth harassment tactics work in conjunction with his frontline assaults is very useful for winning battles, but he does not view his brother in a very positive light, seeing their opposing tactics as a point for dislike. With Mon-Kal and his Bloody Host, Berenger would show open dislike for his brother, viewing him as a source of great frustration, and even occasionally coming to blows. His sister Farah he views as a rival, but someone he respects greatly for her skills in both combat, and her honorable nature. During the Crusade, Berenger often finds himself either on the fringes of the frontlines, conquering minor worlds and ensuring their defense, or fortifying planets behind the main line of the Crusade’s advance. This he is fine with, as his life on Arthis gave him more than his fair share of glory. He does enjoy the times he gets to fight alongside others of the Imperium, however.

The Meeting: "M-y lord...!!" cried the runner as he collapsed into the throne room, panting for air and waving a message with one hand. An elderly steward quickly paced forward, grasping the letter and offering the boy a water. When the runner had begun to recover, the steward withdrew his spectacles from his clothes, and began to read off the message to King Jacobis III. "It appears the astronomer, I believe his name is 'Barus', has reported what appear to be...ships coming from the stars. He reports that one has fallen just beyond the city." King Jacobis laughed and said with a boisterous grin "This 'astronomer' is just a fool...disregard his-" "No." interrupted Berenger. "My liege, did I myself not fall from the stars years ago? Perhaps this...ship could lead to some insight regarding my purpose in all of this. I will go to investigate. Alone." As Berenger stood, the Jacobis looked at him, stunned, but did not interfere.

Arriving at the landing location of the ship, Berenger was awestruck at the size of the craft. It was at least as large as the flagship of King Jacobis' armada, if not larger. As Berenger stood in the shadow of this vessel, the entry hatch to the ship opened, and out stepped a glorious figure. A lone man, clad in massive golden armor, with an aura of authority rival to none. Berenger was for sure that this being must be some kind of god. As the figure stepped out of the craft, he asked Berenger "Are you the lord here? I wish to speak with him." Berenger explained to him that he was not the lord, but quickly guided him to Jacobis. Upon arrival at the castle, King Jacobis sat in awe, at the magnificent golden figure standing next to Berenger. In the booming voice fitting that of a god, the figure addressed King Jacobis. "Are you the lord of this world?" Jacobis, frightfully intimidated by the figure, stammered for a moment before meekly addressing him "Y-yes..I-I am..K-King Jacobis.." The figure stared grimly King Jacobis, before announcing his intentions to the entire throne room. "I have come to challenge you for the rule of this world. There will be a test of strength, a test of speed, and one of wit. If you, or a suitable representative, can best me in but one of these three challenges, then I shall leave. But if I win, you will relinquish control of your world to me." King Jacobis, looking over the massive golden figure, taller than even Ser Berenger, grew pale as a foul stench filled the area surrounding the throne. "I-I...uhm...n-nominate Ser Berenger the Giant to p-participate in my place...i-if that's alright, of course...?" He managed to mutter out. The heavenly figure turned to face Berenger, and spoke. "Do you wish to take your lord's place as the defendant of this world? Know that if you fail, you will be under my sovereignty from then on." Ser Berenger looked the god-like being in the eye, and accepted the challenge with but a nod.

The first test, the test of strength, required both men to hurl 3 discs as far as they could, alternating turns. Ser Berenger's first discus landed at an impressive 150 yards, but the Star-being matched this with a throw of 300 yards. Berenger's second disc landed 230 yards from the line, but the figure placed his next disc at 310 yards. Berenger's final discus managed to land 400 yards away, but again the figure trumped his throw with one reaching 427 yards. "I congratulate you Ser Berenger. Not many could even come close to challenging me at this test. I applaud you." The stranger spoke, to which Berenger gave a smile and a nod.

The second test, that of speed, had the two men sprint down a clear dirt path of 100 yards. With great speed contradictory to that of their hulking forms, both men reached the end in less than a full minute. However, the man of the heavens had once again bested Ser Berenger. "You are almost a match for me." The man stated to Berenger, a slight smile upon his lips. "Indeed, you posses much physical prowess, stranger." Berenger replied, pleased to have finally met an equal. "We shall progress to the challenge of the mind. This is your last chance defend your liege." Berenger merely returned this statement with a grim, determined stare, and proceeded to the meeting place for the next challenge.

The challenge of wit consisted of an ancient game, in which the two men would move carved pieces of black and white on alternating turns. The game lasted hours, until each man was down to their last 3 pieces. After some time, Ser Berenger saw managed to maneuver his offensive piece into a position from which his opponent's lord would have to withdraw. However, he had failed to account for a cunning strategy by the stranger, who defeated him in one move, winning the game. "It seems you have failed...my condolences." The man from the stars said." Ser Berenger smiled in return and spoke. "None needed. I am proud to be in the service of a lord with such immeasurable skill." They stood, and walked together to the throne room, where the golden-armored man made clear his whole intentions.

"Gaze upon me, and behold. I am the new lord of this world, Arthis. I have bested your champion, and have absorbed your world into my Empire. For I am the Emperor of mankind, and my domain stretches far beyond this world into the black void of space itself. Kneel before me, and swear yourselves to my cause!" As the other occupants of the throne room knelt, so to did Ser Berenger, until the Emperor stopped him with a hand. "Not you. I have something to tell you, in private."

"Is it true you fell from the stars as an infant, Ser Berenger the Giant?" asked the Emperor, to which Berenger replied with a simple "Yes, my Emperor.". The Emperor placed a hand upon his shoulder, and once again adorned his face with a slight smile. "No need for addressing me with my full title. For you are more than a mere vassal in my service...You are my son."

Legion Name: The Iron Templars

Legion Number: IX

Legion Strength: Approx. 150,000 Marines, recruited primarily from Arthis and Terra.

Armour Appearance:

On the tabard lies a golden Aquila symbol as well. The red Knight's Cross is their legion symbol, on the shoulder.

Warcry: "For Arthis, Terra, and the Imperium!"

Dramatis Personae: Although they are outside the Legion, The Iron Templars maintain constant communication with both the ruling nobility of Terra, and the royal family of Arthis. These individuals have been known to hold some power over Ser Berenger and the other leaders of the Iron Templars, though the wants of these nobles never come before the needs of the Imperium. The current ruler of Arthis is Lord Noah III, descended from the very same lineage that Ser Berenger himself served under. However, to show loyalty to the Emperor, the ruling family of Arthis renounced the title of "King" or "Queen", instead choosing to remain lords. Another figure of note is Ser Jonas Meminger, Praetor of the Iron Templars legion, and second-in-command to Ser Berenger. Ser Jonas was recruited from Arthis at around the same time as Ser Berenger's unification with his legion, having been one of Ser Berenger's top officers during the Unification of Arthis. He and the others of Ser Berenger's original advisory were inducted into the chapter to maintain their positions alongside their leader. These others all use the same knightly title of Ser given to both high rank Imperial Army officers from Arthis, and those in the upper echelons of command in the Iron Templars. The Legion also shares a significant relationship with the Imperial Army, and thus has close ties with Lord-General Davios, leader of the Army forces recruited from Arthis, and those found in the service of the Iron Templars, who also helps advise Ser Berenger on matters regarding the usage of Imperial Army forces.

Favored Tactics/Battlefield Role: The Iron Templars are highly skilled at open combat, and defending fortified positions. They fight in a manner reminiscent that of medieval battle formations, with their melee Astartes charging in formations, while ranged squads fire from vantage points when possible, or the flanks of the enemy. They also employ motorcycle troops as use for cavalry when in more open terrain. When assaulting enemy fortifications, they make heavy use of vehicles to blast through the enemy lines and walls, then charge in with melee and short-range assault infantry.

Legion Characteristics/Ideology: The Ninth legion is dedicated to consolidating the rule of the Emperor upon the planets discovered during the crusade. As skilled in combat as they are in diplomacy, they work tirelessly to both bring in new worlds to the Imperium, and ensure they remain under their rule with staunch defenses. They also attempt to ease the lives of those on worlds under their defense, caring much for the common man of the Imperium as they do the Imperium itself.

Hated Enemy: N/A, for now

Name: Erron Khaal

Alias’s: The Great Chief, Master of Blades, Namer of the Dead

Gender: Male

Homeworld: The planet of Varnis is a temperate Feudal World, covered in vast, fertile savannahs of lush grassland, rolling hills, and deciduous forests. The entire world has but a single, Pangea like continent surrounded by ocean, while lakes and rivers run throughout the landscape. A single, massive mountain known as The Spire sits in the middle of the continent. From this great tower the world slopes down into rolling foothills and thick forests, fertile flood plains, and finally the coast, which is dotted with tributaries and archipelagos from the rivers that snake their way across the savannahs from their mountain roots to feed the abyssal ocean. Huge herds of docile beasts roam the plains, fish teem in the waters, and massive apex predators hunt upon the grasslands, forests, waterways and mountain cliffs of the vibrant world.

The people of Varnis settle in city-state like clans, each clan claiming a certain amount of territory around their Holds. These clans, by nature of the land, are forced to rely on one another for trade, since the ore-rich highlands are unable to provide the same amount of food that the fertile coastal plains can. The one-sided nature of industry within each city-state has led to a complex system of alliances, trade agreements, and conflict between city-states as they bicker, barter, and fight for resources. Confederations shift as easily as the wind on Varnis, and sometimes blades speak more eloquently than tongues.

Culture on Varnis is much like that of the old tales of medieval Terra. Each Clan Chief divides his into minor Holds, governed by a Thane of his choosing, who then provides protection for the people who work his land, goods to his Chief, and warriors to support his Clan should the need arise. Traditions from one Clan to another may differ slightly, as well as dialects, but all on Varnis speak generally the same language and share similarities in culture. One aspect of Varnisian culture rings throughout the entire world, and that is their reverence and devotion to the blade.

As a blade-culture, all members of society carry at least some type of edged weapon or tool. These can range from small knives to long bladed swords. Smiths of great skill and artistry are held in as equally high regard as the warriors of mythic legend. It is a well-practiced art among warriors of Varnis to create their own blade styles, which has given birth to thousands of different designs of edged implements among the people. While certain styles have proven to be more effective and grown in popularity, it is not uncommon to see a man carrying a knife or sword of his own design into battle. Honor duels, sparring competitions, and exercises in sword-play are everyday life among the Varnisian peoples.

While a man is only as good as his sword, a warrior is also measured by his skill in the saddle. The great plains of Varnis provide ample space for mounted movement, and the warriors of Varnis seldom fight on foot in pitched battles. The Clans favor quick, decisive strikes to end conflicts, without relying on drawn out sieges or the pillaging of lands.

Religion is not completely unknown among Varnisians. They practice a form of ancestor and nature worship, believing that the spirits of their ancestors live on in one of the Ten Great Beasts. Totems, shrines, and prayers to the spirits of these beasts and to their ancestors are encouraged by all. There is no religious hierarchy, though there are people known as Seers who are looked to within each Clan to provide spiritual guides, foretell dreams, and attempt to commune with the Spirits. The Seers also perform the sacred duty of keeping up with the Clans history and oral traditions. It is common practice for the entire Clan to gather around the Seer during certain holidays or festivals and listen to the dramatic retelling of heroes, great deeds, and lessons of the past.

Appearance: Erron stands at about 11 feet tall, much like his brother and sister Primarchs, broad shouldered and heavily muscled in such a way that inspires awe among those who stand before him. He exemplifies every bit of perfection that the Emperor imbued within his gene-seed. His skin is a deeply tanned color, his black hair worn long but often tied or braided in the ceremonial style of his Clan. His chiseled jaw is clean shaven, aquiline features graceful and majestic. A strong brow arches over eyes that are shockingly green in color, a defining characteristic among the generally brown-eyed people of Varnis. While huge and well-muscled, he moves with all the grace and dexterity of the great savanna cats. His bronze skin is covered from his collar bones to wrist and hips in dark, black tribal tattoos of varying design. Tattooing is a cultural practice among both men and women on Varnis, and each depicts feats of strength, valor, and tales of legend.

His armor is just as impressive as he is, a suit of Artificer power armor known as the Mantle of Beasts. The armor is beautifully wrought, gleaming in the same deep forest green of his sons. The pauldrons of his armor depict the totems of the Ten Great Beasts of Varnis, five on each shoulder, their images beautifully embossed in brilliant gold against the deep, blood red crimson of the plates. Gold details and tribal designs riddle the plates of his gauntlets and greaves. All over his armor are various trophies and totems, from feathers hanging from one shoulder, animal and xenos skulls on his belt, and the great pelt of some striped-beast native to his homeworld draped over his back to name but a few. His helm bears two impressive wings that drive out from the temples, spreading backward like an eagle in flight.

In battle Erron fights in three different ways, either on foot, mounted, or from the sky. He bears an expertly crafted Jumppack, a single thruster capable of high speeds and agility that spreads out into two eagle-like pinions of gold and forest green. The wings can fold up against his back or spread wide at his thoughts, and enable him to soar over the battlefield and strike death upon his foes from above.

His other favorite way of fighting is mounted on his own personal steed Razorwind, a customized Outrider bike that is equipped with twin-linked Volkite Caliver and a front end ornately designed like a great fanged maw.

Like the traditions of his people, Erron is never without a blade. He carries his own personally crafted power sword, a single edge, slightly curved weapon. The blade is slender near the hilt, and widens out near the tip as it gently slopes back, while the handle is in a reverse curve to that of the blade. The hilt is circular in nature, and the broad tip of the blade is forked as it slopes back like that of a laring sword. A smaller, clip-pointed knife with matching hilt design accompanies it. Erron affectionately refers to his blades simply as “The Sisters,” named after an ancient Varnisian myth about a sword-maker and his daughters. Along with his preferred weapons, he bears an archeotech pistol on his hip, a large weapon of ancient origin that fires sizzling bolts of energy that melt armor and flesh alike.

Personality: Like all Primarchs, Erron was designed as a leader of men, both statesman and general. Unlike most Primarchs, Erron is impossibly high spirited and positive. His love of jokes, laughter, and friendly banter make him well loved among his Legion. The complicated politics of Varnis forced the young warrior to think fast on his feet, use both diplomacy and force, and learn how to bend several bickering Chiefs to his will for the greater needs of the people. He seldom is seen without a smile on his face, whether in the middle of strategic plans or the fiery glory of combat. His eyes sparkle with charisma and charm, and he speaks with eloquence and grace that sooth bruised egos and fizzle out conflicts among his brothers and sisters. He accepts almost everyone with open arms, offering an open hand before a closed fist. It is with this that Erron has faces his greatest challenges. Often, Erron is unable to see the evil in a person before it is too late. Dishonesty, disloyalty, and dishonor shake his very foundations of belief and he pursues the betrayers with an obsessive vengeance. He takes his father’s charge of spreading the Imperial Truth to be his lifelong destiny, a great adventure for his sons to forge their own legends among their ancestors.

Being a child of the Emperor, he possess latent psychic talent, though he has no control over it and is not even aware of any powers that this talent may represent. This would make him fall upon the Omicron level of assignment. If his talent has ever surfaced before, Erron would simply shrug and chalk the event up to good luck and adrenaline rather than anything "supernatural."

Skills: Like all Varnisian warriors, Erron excels in close combat with his blades, whether descending from the sky or slamming through the ranks of the enemy upon his bike. Every cut and parry is an easily calculated dance of death as he moves like the Reaper of Terra across the battlefield. He excels in diplomacy as well, generally being able to resolve conflicts without the force of arms.

Biography: The pod containing Errons body landed in the deep, temperate forests in the foothills of the Spire. A group of warriors and hunters were patrolling the forests, seeking the Great Beasts that dwell within the trees, looking to carve their names among the stories of the people when they came across the young child. He was naked, alone, but approached the men unafraid, a beaming smile on his face, smeared with dirt and grime. The men immediately felt something from this boy, and took him back to their Chief wrapped in their cloaks. Orrian Khaal, the Chief of the Clan, adopted the boy, for his wife was barren and he had no children of his own to carry on his name. The Chief and his wife had been praying to the Spirits of Varnis for a child, one that would become a great leader of the people, and this small boy from the forest was treated as if sent by the Spirits themselves.

Educated in the ways of politics and war, always at his adopted fathers side, Erron grew at a pace staggering to the people of Varnis, even more so securing his position as a child of legend. By just five standard years he had entered adolescence, spoke with the wisdom of his elders and spoke even faster and more skillfully with his sword. He joined the Clans raids and battles, devouring the tactical knowledge of his foster father and his Thanes. He spent just as much time with his adoptive mother, learning the finer arts of speech craft and guile, and reading every book within the Holds libraries. His superior intellect led to his quick promotion of the Chiefs adviser, sitting with his father in every council. His father taught him to earn the respect of not only his Thanes, but of his people, and to approach all strangers with an open palm before a blade. Within ten years, Erron resembled a fully grown man, save for the fact that he stood head and shoulders over the warriors and peoples of Varnis.

Around the fifteenth year of his coming to Varnis, tragedy fell. In the dark of night, while the rest of the Hold slept easy, one of his father’s Thanes crept into the Hold and cut Orrians throat. A rival Clan, hungry for the fertile fields and herds of the Hold, bribed the Thane with power and land should he remove the thorn in their side. Erron, suffering from a violent nightmare filled with blood, fire and screams, awoke from his bed covered in sweat and out of breath. He did not feel fear, only a great sense of dread for the Clan. He went to his father’s room, seeking his counsel, and found the man dead, the blood soaked hand of his killer still clutching the knife, his mother’s throat slashed as well. Their bodies lay in a growing pool of crimson on the sheets.

With a primal cry of rage Erron charged, attacked, and only the slightest grasp of reason stayed his hand from continuing to smash the man’s face with his fist. He learned the truth of the deception, the man pleading for his life, and Erron turned the dishonored Thane over to the judgement of the Clan that very morning. His body hung from the gates not an hour later.

With vengeance in his heart, Erron rode out to his father’s allies. He was unopposed by the Thanes in his claim as Chief, and they followed him with all the riders at their disposal. One by one the allies were called upon, and a great host of riders, that shook the earth with their stampede, traveled behind Erron as he rode out to meet the object of his aggression.

The Seers tell of the battle between Erron and the rival Chief with great exaggeration and mythic language. They tell of fire falling from the sky as their titan Chief slashed and sliced his way through the guards of the Hold single-handedly. They say Errons eyes burned with fire and the spirit of his dead father and mother as he cut the Chiefs head from his body and held it aloft in the air with a triumphant roar. The truth is that Erron challenged the man to single combat, which he refused, fearing the tales of the warrior’s strength and skill. Erron then, without killing a single man, stormed the Hold alone while his host surrounded the hills, and drug the Chief by his hair into the streets. He slew the man there, on his knees, and tossed the severed head from the palisade walls. At that moment the entire Hold fell to their knees and joined the great warrior, pledging themselves to his will. Erron looked out among the people, saw how the women looked scared and the children hungry, and made a new oath that none on his world should live in fear and pain. He would unite the world of Varnis under one banner, securing prosperity and freedom for all.

His crusade lasted ten years, his horde of riders ever growing, traveling from Hold to Hold. He would meet with every Chief alone, debate the terms of his surrender to the greater will of Varnis. Some joined with open arms and enthusiasm. Most did not. But in ten years the bloodshed had stopped, the wars at an end, and Varnis was united under the rule of one Great Chief: Erron Khaal.

Upon his meeting the Emperor, and the reunion of Primarch and Legion, Erron set forth on a rigorous restructuring of his Legion. The Terran born warriors quickly accepted their new leader, and Erron did his best to ease the bruised egos of the old warriors while he introduced new tactics, doctrine, and members of Varnis. He broke the Legion into ten Companies, each named for one of the Great Beasts of his homeworld. New recruits from the Clans were intermixed with members of different Clans and Terrans, and he shuffled the Terran warriors from their previous assignments to breakup any tensions or group mentality. His new Legion would be one of brotherhood and loyalty, not to a Clan, but to each other. The Spirit worship of Varnis was quickly replaced with the Imperial Truth, yet he allowed his sons to continue to pay respect to their fallen brothers and promoted the symbols of the Great Beasts as images of strength and cunning. He renamed this Xth Legion the Wild Blades, a name that he knew would strike fear into the hearts of his enemies and pride in his sons. Once his restructuring was complete, Erron set out from Varnis at the head of his new Legion, rearmed and renamed, to join his true father and his Grim Crusade.

Upon joining the Crusade, The Wild Blades participated in the pacification of dozens worlds. They fell either by the sword or by the word, and the Emperor himself requested Erron and his sons to accompany him on a mission to reclaim another of his lost children. While he had met many of his sisters and brothers already, this was the first time the Emperor asked Erron to accompany him personally on such a mission, and he swelled with the honor as his fleet made a course for the planet of Roma.

It was there that the Wild Blades fell upon the Feral Orks assailing the human defenders of the world, who stood fast against the green tide with their massive Knight war machines. Under their combined strength, Erron and his Legion quickly turned the battle into a full massacre of the primitive xenos, and he was the first to meet his brother and fellow Primarch Maximus Aurelius along with his father.

The Wild Blades were again called upon years later, when the Emperor located the last of his lost children. This time however, his Legion was joined by that of the I, his brother Mon-Kal and his brutal Bloody Host. With the combined fleet of Space Marines, the two brothers and their father broke out of the Warp and came upon a planet already beset by war. The vile Eldar, a race as old as time itself according to the Emperor, were locked in a desperate battle against a fleet of unknown origin. It was this fleet, their father claimed, that bore his final child. The battle barges of the Legions smashed the remaining Eldar fleet, crushing their resistance between the three combined forces. A moment that should have been joyous and filled with tales of glory was replaced with horror as that unknown fleet turned and fired upon its saviors.

What had started as a rescue turned into a vicious battle as both the I and X Legions chased the war-weary ships back to their port of asteroids, and engaged in a drawn out guerrilla war within the dark tunnels of rock. His sons died by the score as the humans fought from shadowed holes, their mining tools used to blast ore from stone having deadly effect on the Legionnaires power armor. Such a small force could not hope to win, but they fought with zealous intensity. They died with the name of their leader on their lips as they took down many more of the Bloody Host and Wild Blades than expected.

Covered in the blood of his fellow man, the loss of his children weighing heavy on his thoughts, Erron fought with himself over the pointlessness of it all. He was baffled that such foul deeds could be sanctioned, that this “Silent King,” could not see the fault of his actions. After long, brutal hours of fighting in the dark, every death darkening his mind, Erron finally confronted his sibling upon his Iron Throne.

With Mon-Kal at his side, Erron watched with mixed emotions as his father brought his wayward child to heel. Mon-Kal wanted nothing more than to see the man executed for his crimes, and while Errons heart raged at the dishonor that he had seen, he could not bring himself to hate the man. His father had commanded them to bring him home, and that was what he would do. He could only hope that their future was not permanently scarred.

The Primarchs all reunited with their Legions, the Grim Crusade began in full. Systems were conquered by the score, huge swaths of mankind greeted with the Imperial Truth. The Wild Blades served with the loyalty and honor that was cemented into their geneseed, but faced their direst test within the hostile Death Worlds of the Forridien system.

The Emperor of Man had received psychic reverberations that a great horde of Orks was building in the system, slaughtering the helpless descendants of mankind that struggled to survive on the jungle worlds. In an effort to soothe past grievances between his children, the Emperor ordered his I, X, and XX Legions to purge the xenos and reclaim the system. Once again, Mon-Kal, Erron, and Gorseval sailed into the void, and entered a hell beyond any previous comprehension.

These Orks were not like the mere feral beasts that Erron had fought on Roma. Those creatures had been primitive, leaderless, more of a pack of wild dogs than an army. These creatures were led by a massive Ork Warboss named Bonehamma, and under his brutal charge the Orks had formed cohesive strategies and tactics. Numbering in the millions, the badly outnumbered Astartes entered the system and headed straight for the primary world, seeking to meet the threat head on.

The Void Stalkers held the tip of the spear, their great battleships easily crushing the void borne Roks of the Orks fledgling fleet. It would seem that they had arrived just in time to prevent the huge Greenskin horde from leaving the system and spreading their cancer. Gorseval and his children ripped apart the heavens, tearing open a hole for his brothers to make planetfall. The landing craft of the I and X punched through the atmosphere, and dropped the Space Marines right into the heavy vegetation. The thick, steaming jungles of Forridien Prime made the mounted and aerial combat favored by Erron and his Legion impossible. Mon-Kal and his vicious Legion pounded forward, seeking to make contact first, claim that first kill. Erron and his children covered their flanks, hacking through the undergrowth. It was not long before they all had their taste of Ork blood.

Fighting for inch by bloody inch, the Forridien Campaign marked the second darkest hour for the Wild Blades. The Void Stalkers, making planetfall shortly after establishing a blockade, fought from the shadows. They sniped and bit at the Orks flanks and rear, while the Wild Blades and Bloody Host absorbed the majority of punishment. 5 long, blood-soaked years, with thousands of Astartes falling at Ork hands, and tens of thousands of Orks lying dead. Still the beasts pressed on, spurned by their master. Wartorn jungles opened up larger swaths of open terrain, allowing more vehicles to deploy and augment the strength of the Legions. They were winning, slowly, and in a final titanic battle Bonehamma made himself known. Erron, borne aloft on his fiery wings, roared his challenge at the Ork. While Gorsevals Void Stalkers acted with silent death, and Mon-Kals Bloody Host made itself true to its hallowed name, Erron let loose all the rage of his entire Legion upon the Greenskin brute. Sustaining a dozen slashes, the Warboss refused to fall, battering Erron with his giant ax and roaring his defiance at the winged angel of death. After long moments of violent combat, Errons sword slashed across the beasts face, cutting across its right eye and it howled in rage and agony. Tasting the kill, Erron dashed forward, until he was smashed backward by a shell from an Ork cannon. When he rose, the massive beast was gone, and he howled his rage to the sky, taking out his wrath upon all those Greenskins unfortunate enough to be around him.

It still remains a mystery how the Warboss escaped the planet and broke the Void Stalker blockade. Their leader gone, the rest of the horde lost heart and were either slain or fled into hiding. While there was victory, Erron felt little honor in it. He had lost his prey, and tens of thousands of his children had paid the ultimate price. He vowed with obsessive vengeance to find the Ork Warboss, and let his Sisters drink of his blood.

The Meeting: The longhouse was filled with sounds of laughter, cheers, and the clash of swords as warriors sparred, drank and feasted. Erron sat with a smile on his face, surrounded by his Thanes, armored in leather and mail and draped in furs and feathers. It was the tenth anniversary of Unification, a great day filled with tales of legend, feasts, and merriment.

The longhouse door creaked open, and the gathering grew silent, all turning to look as a man wrapped in a dirty, plain cloak shuffled through the door and closed it behind him. Confusion swept the tables, and Erron himself stood, extending a hand toward the man.

“Greetings Stranger, welcome to the Hall of the Chief. Come, drink with me! Today is a day to feast and remember the dark days of old and make plans for the bright future ahead,” He said with a smile, and his Thanes thumped the table in agreement and howled.

The Stranger said nothing, just walked forward, his hood still pulled up around his head, face mostly hidden behind the cloth. He approached the Chiefs table, and gazed up at Erron. “You are the one they call The Great Chief yes?” he asked, his voice quiet and soft, just above a whisper.

Erron, still smiling, stepped away from the table to approach the man, towering above him. “I am, who is it that asks?”

“My name is irrelevant for the time being Great Chief. What I have come seeking is a challenge, one that will prove to me who you are and your worthiness.’

The Thanes around Erron growled, some starting to rise and grip sword hilts until their Chief motioned for them to be seated. “Very well Stranger, then I propose that if I win, you must sit at my table, drink with me and serve me among my Thanes,” The Stranger nodded, “And if I win, you must pledge yourself to me Erron Khaal,”

At the mention of his name, without the traditional title, a gasp rose among the people and the room grew quiet. Erron smiled again, nodding without a word, and drew his long blade, the edge flickering in the light. The Stranger stepped back, reached inside his cloak and drew forth a shimmering gold blade, equal in every right to the Great Chiefs own sword, drawing more gasps from the audience. For a long time, the two swordsmen stared at each other. The Strangers face impassive, Errons with a look of easy calm.

With a flash and clang the two met, sparks flying from their blades as they danced, each cut met with a parry, every stroke dodged. The two men moved like water, flowing from one form to the next, the ringing of metal on metal filling the hall as the Thanes began to cheer and thump the tables for their Chief. For Erron, his calm smile was replaced with a look of determination, as never before had he met a swordsman to match him edge to edge. The Stranger remained impassive, his brown cloak swirling around him, barely breaking a sweat as he met the Great Chiefs blade with his own at every moment. After about an hour of combat, the Stranger not even breathing heavily, a thin shine of sweat on Errons bronzed brow, the Great Chief lost his focus but for a moment.

The crowd drew in a collective breath as their champion tripped slightly, stumbling to catch himself and leaving his body wide open for a decisive strike. Erron knew he had erred, yet the blow never fell, and as he regained his balance he looked into the face of the Stranger, standing in a fighting stance, waiting for him to ready himself. A small smile curled upon the mans previously blank face.

Erron stood straight, knowing that he had just been granted a courtesy, and sheathed his long curved blade. His Thanes cried out, and he stilled their anguish with a steely-eyed glance. “A man who has the honor to withhold his strike when his opponent lies at a disadvantage is a man who deserves my respect and my allegiance. But I ask just one boon, and that is for you to reveal who you are,”

As the man smiled, he sheathed his golden blade and tossed off the brown cloak, the disguise now gone and his body growing to its full height, a god among gods, perfect in every way. He glowed with a golden light, and the gathered peoples of Varnis gasped, collapsing to their knees at his grace and power, and Erron looked upon the face of the only man he had ever met that could be called a god.

“I am the Emperor of Mankind Erron Khaal, and you are my son. Come now, join me in my Crusade to unite the lost people of Man, and bring this galaxy to a new age of Truth.”

Erron took his father’s hand, and ascended into legend.

Legion Name: The Wild Blades

Legion Number: X

Legion Strength: Approximately 60,000 Astartes, formerly 80,000 prior to the Forridien Campiagn. Augmented with the forces from the Imperial Army, Remembrancers, and Adeptus Mechanicus.

Armour Appearance:





Warcry: “Death Rides on Swift Wings!”, “Glory the Tenth! Glory the Great Chief! Glory the Emperor!”

Dramatis Personae:





Favored Tactics/Battlefield Role: The Xth Legion prefers to fight in the way of the Clans, quickly and decisively. They prefer to enter combat mounted upon swift Outrider bikes, blasting at their foes with twin-linked bolters and slashing with their swords as they cut through the ranks of the enemy. They also have specialized squads of winged Jumppack equipped Marines, led by a veteran Namer of the Dead from the 2nd Company. These squads drop from the bellies of strafing aircraft to bring quick destruction to command nodes of the enemy, falling like eagles to sow confusion and discord.

Heavy equipment is not entirely unknown among the Legion. It still possesses armored vehicles such as the Predator and Sicaran tanks, as well as a few Fellblade super-heavy tanks and Land Raiders. These weapons of war are not the preferred method of engagement for the Legion, as they do not support their usual doctrine of swift, hard hitting attacks. Contemptor Dreadnaughts and Wild Blades Marines clad in Cataphractii Terminator armor from their veteran 1st Company are typically the heaviest of equipment seen among Wild Blade assaults, entering from orbit in Drop Pods to smash into enemy ranks.

To fill the requirement for larger and more devastating weaponry, the Wild Blades utilize teams of Scimitar Jetbikes and Javelin Attack Speeders. More heavily armed and armored than the Outrider bike or common Land Speeder, these platforms allow the employment of heavier weapons such as Volkite Culverins, missile launchers, heavy bolters, lascannons and plasma cannons into the fray without sacrificing much in the name of speed and maneuverability. Outfitted with anti-vehicle or anti-infantry armaments, a team of Scimitars or Javelins fills the role of Devastators and heavy tanks.

For transport the Legion relies on the venerable Stormbird, or the smaller Fire Raptor and Storm Eagle gunships. Preferring to move infantry by aerial insertion or Drop Pod, the Legion dislikes the use of the larger land based transports in favor of fast, strafing drops of infantry to the front.

Four warriors, chosen among the most elite, cunning, and loyal of the Legion by the Great Chief himself, make up the Apexa Preadatoris. These veteran warriors, armed with long, two-handed single edged power swords and brilliant Artificer armor, make up Erron Khaals personal body guard.

A favored tactic of The Great Chief, one that he calls “The Trident,” is to begin his attack with squadrons of bikes that cut at the enemy’s flanks, pushing them closer together and squeezing them. Stormbirds and gunships deploy their aerial squads that target the leaders and heavy weapons, while the killing blow of Drop Pods erupt into the center, spilling their squads of Marines with close combat firearms and blades, Terminators, and Dreadnaughts. There is no escape, as the enemy must choose to face the crushing might of the 1st Company, or dare to brave the slicing blades of bikes in order to retreat.

Legion Characteristics/Ideology: Sticking true to Varnisian culture, the Captains of each Company bear the title of Thane as well as their rank. The only mark of their office, outside of what they chose to adorn their armor with, is a single longitudinal helmet crest of red horse-hair. Each of the ten Companies of the Wild Blades is given a symbol, one of the Great Beasts of Varnis. These creatures are the formerly worshiped and revered Spirits of the world, who the Clans of old used to believe their ancestors became upon death. The spirit worship is gone, but Erron Khaal encourages his warriors to find strength within the old memories, and each Marine adorns his armor with trophies, totems, and tribal markings in a way that no one Marine in the Legion looks like the other.



Psykers are rare among the Wild Blades, as such there are currently only ten such gifted individuals within the entire Legion. These psykers bear the name of Seer, and serve much like the Seers of the old age. They keep the oral traditions of their Legion, serve as spiritual and moral guides for the Companies they are attached to, and as advisers to their Thanes. In addition to their varied psychic powers, Seers suffer from a form of foresight that takes place in their dreams, which tell them of a possible future. This gives Wild Blades Companies a distinct advantage on the battlefield, enabling their leaders to make plans for events foreseen by the Seers.

The blade-culture of Varnis is still practiced strongly among the Legion, each Legionnaire forging his own blade after he passes the rigorous and challenging initiation phases on their homeworld. Upon death, these blades are interned into the Hall of Swords on Varnis, a massive mausoleum that contains the beloved weapons of every fallen brother, each marked with a plaque bearing their name and battle honors. Some blades, at the behest of the wielder, are passed on to their bothers to continue their service to the Legion. These weapons are some of the most treasured artifacts of The Wild Blades. It is customary for the next inheritor of such a blade to engrave its predecessors name upon the the weapon, and as such the oldest swords of the Legion are covered with names of fallen brothers who have carried them in glorious combat.

Loyalty, Honor, and Brotherhood are held in the highest regards among the Legion. They banter and bicker like the Clans of old; jest, feast, and fight to prove their strength. Seen from the outside, the Legion may seem undisciplined and chaotic. However, their prowess on the battlefield cannot be in question as they face their enemies head on, driving forward with speed and the ferocity of predators.

Hated Enemy: Due to their massive campaign against the Greenskin hordes within the Forridien system and the huge losses taken, the Wild Blades will execute any missions against these xenos with the highest of prejudice.

Name: Gorseval the Dark Star, also known as the Silent King.

Gender: Male.

Homeworld: Instead of a single planet, Gorseval was sent to a collective of inhabited asteroids orbiting a small star at a great distance, known as the Reach. Before the Age of Strife, the Reach had been a prosperous mining colony that supplied a lot of the precious metals and minerals for the industry in the nearby galactic region. As the galaxy-spanning network of mankind failed and fragmented, the Reach found itself isolated and without relief. Huddled together in the habitable bio-domes, the now-permanent inhabitants of the Reach waited out the Old Night. It wasn't until the arrival of Gorseval that the voidborn of the Reach expanded their territory and dared to branch out into the galaxy once more.

After assuming control of the XXth Legion, Gorseval turned the Reach into a mobile Fortress-Homeworld. It was an enormous undertaking that demanded the undivided attention of two entire Forge Worlds and took more than a year to complete. The Reach was turned into a voidborne fleet of some seven or eight large inhabited asteroids equipped with enormous propulsion engines, warp drives and Gellar field devices. It trails behind the fleet of the Void Stalkers at a safe distance and functions as a mobile recruitment ground, the home of some fifteen million souls, a fortress for the Void Stalkers to retreat into if the worst should happen, and a massive shrine to the Silent King.

Its defenses are crewed by the ordinary humans of the Reach, a regiment of warriors and technicians known as the Aegis. Those that show the most potential are frequently recruited for the Astartes program.

Appearance: Like all the other Primarchs, Gorseval is immense, reaching slightly over eleven feet at his full height. His visage greatly resembles that of the Emperor, featuring a powerful jawline, pronounced cheekbones, an aquiline nose, a heavy brow and long, dark hair. The differences are to be found in the color of Gorseval's skin, which is as pale as a corpse, and his eyes, which are depthless pools of black ink. There is a grave, ancient expression near-permanently etched on Gorseval's face that speaks of a melancholy so powerful that merely gazing into the Primarch's eyes is cause for even the most exuberant reveler to lapse into sullen silence.

His power armor echoes the colors of his Legion, having been painted in a deep, rich shade of purple, trimmed with cyan. A special coat of pearlescent paint means that the armor seems to shimmer, especially under dim lighting conditions, when the Primarch moves. A large black cape hangs from Gorseval's shoulders that reaches all the way to the ground and an equally black loincloth is fastened at his waist. Gorseval eschews the use of a helmet, even in combat, and an iron halo forms the backdrop to the Dark Star's baleful gaze.

He carries Darkness on his back, a black-bladed prototype force greatsword that's almost as long as he is tall; a normal Astartes wouldn't be able to lift it and the Dark Star has to use both hands to swing it effectively. Forged from strange and highly durable metal found in the deepest depths of the Reach's asteroids, its psi-convector is so large that it actually amplifies Gorseval's psychic powers.

Personality: Moreso than any other Primarch, Gorseval embodies the intense loneliness and ancient melancholy of the Emperor. He is seemingly bereft of joy and merriment, permanently exuding an aura of sorrow and loss. Even in the face of victory or other great achievements, Gorseval will barely flinch. Despite this, the Primarch is intensely driven and possessed by a great, almost obsessive and implacable ambition, like the inexorable advance of a glacier, that brings his armies to the limit and his enemies to their knees. Where this drive comes from is impossible to say, as Gorseval remains unreadable and his motives cannot be discerned. Some theorize that he is attempting to fill the void inside himself with success, trying to slake a seemingly insatiable thirst, and will stop at nothing until the entire galaxy lays at his feet. It is for this reason that the Void Stalkers are widely feared by the foes of mankind, and they and their Primarch demand hushed respect from the warriors of the Grim Crusade.

Skills: Gorseval's most notable skill and ability is his psykerdom, setting him apart even among a fellowship as illustrious as the sons and daughters of the Emperor. He specializes in reading the minds and hearts of his opponents and his allies; and, if necessary, bending them to his will. None, save for the most strong-willed and highly trained creatures in the galaxy, can keep their secrets from the Dark Star or resist the impetus of his commands. One of the favored tactics of the Void Stalkers is to abduct the commanders of their enemies and presenting them to Gorseval, so that he may break their will and obtain crucial intelligence.

As far as martial ability goes, Gorseval isn't as experienced as most of the other Primarchs. He has an intense dislike for an honest fight and will utilize his psychic powers to demoralize or dominate any opponents that may challenge him in single combat; only when that fails does he draw his gigantic force greatsword, Darkness, and resign himself to physical violence. The psi-conductor that lines the black, metal blade of the weapon is so large that it boosts Gorseval's psychic powers, allowing him to deal devastating damage with a single swing.

His inexperience doesn't mean he is incapable, of course, as a Primarch is still an extremely dangerous enemy to all but the most vile and monstrous of beings. Even in combat, Gorseval will use his psychic powers to predict his opponent's moves, deduce their weaknesses and topple them with telekinetic blasts, and this has allowed him to triumph over legendary foes numerous times.

Assignment Level: Beta.

Biography: When the Chaos Gods of the Warp scattered the Emperor's children across the galaxy, it was Gorseval that found himself flung furthest away from Terra. The pod containing the young Primarch materialized inside one of the many habitable bio-domes of the Reach, a collection of old mining colonies near the edge of the galaxy that had turned into a permanent residence for the descendants of the mining workers and corporate officials that lived there when the Age of Strife began. Isolated from the rest of mankind, slowly orbiting a small star at a great distance, the Reach was a miserable place and its inhabitants toiled in endless stasis, merely maintaining the status quo, until the next generation took over, waiting for the Old Night to end. The Reach's ruling class was the Council, a collection of representatives from the most influential families, that governed the Reach much like a corporation's board of directors might run a company. As such, it was inevitably woefully ineffective, and nothing significant was ever achieved. Political infighting and bickering were commonplace and accepted as a fact of life, while the rest of the population worked tirelessly to maintain the vital life support systems and agricultural hydro-farms that kept them all alive. The asteroids of the Reach were full of precious ore and minerals, but provided absolutely nothing that might sustain growth or expansion. A rigid single-child policy was in place to prevent overpopulation.

The appearance of Gorseval was a shock to the entire Reach. There hadn't been any contact with the rest of the galaxy for generations, and the Primarch's arrival was seen as a sign that the long wait might finally, soon, be over at last. Gorseval was raised properly and in luxury, and as he developed rapidly, the Council eagerly awaited what kind of message he might have for them.

Much to their disappointment, Gorseval didn't seem to have a message for them after all. As he approached the cusp of adulthood, the gargantuan Primarch-to-be remained silent and withdrawn, his lips sealed. He began to display psychic powers and started reading the minds of his caretakers – and, whenever they came to see him, the Council. Suddenly, and without warning, Gorseval used all he knew against the Council and performed a coup d'etat, using his psychic powers to bend those around him to his will. Those who surrendered were allowed to live and serve the new ruler of the Reach, but those who resisted were ruthlessly slain. The Dark Star spent the next two years subjugating the entirety of the Reach; not an easy task, as the various asteroids that comprised the Reach all contained largely independent cultures that harbored separate pockets of resistance. He abolished the Council and crowned himself king and dictator for life. It was his subjects that bestowed the epithet of Dark Star upon Gorseval, simultaneously honoring him for his brilliance and acknowledging the darkness of his soul.

His conquest complete, Gorseval commanded the construction of starships from the plentiful ore to be found in the asteroid belt. The monumental implication of what the Silent King demanded shocked the Reach, but they were unable to resist. The Reach's meager militia and police force was expanded and put through rigorous training, and Gorseval's merciless tests and trials forged them into a proper army; the first iteration of the Void Stalkers. Through psychic imprinting, Gorseval shared a piece of his own soul with them all, allowing them to peer beyond the veil and into his abyssal depth and implacable drive. Through this, he demanded their undying loyalty.

Even now, Gorseval remained silent and refused to explain his motives. The strength of his powers and the ruthlessness of his army meant that the people of the Reach had no choice but to cooperate. In desperation, a cult formed; if the Dark Star refused to talk, the people would do it for him. He was proclaimed a divine figure, a promised savior that would liberate them from the endless toil in the dark of the void.

He let them. Their zeal propelled them onward, and the people of the Reach met Gorseval's demands. A worthy flotilla of starships was raised and crewed by Gorseval's armies, and he led them into the void. A thorough scan of the local system had shown that a habitable garden world existed closer to their star, and the fleet charted a course there. The people of the Reach went wild with speculation; would Gorseval find a proper homeworld for them, with sunlight and blue skies?

Alas, it was not so easy. As it turned out, a contingent of an Eldar Craftworld had been spying on Gorseval and the Reach for a while, and they were determined to stop any potential human expansion in the star system. A fierce war erupted when the Eldar attempted to ambush Gorseval's fleet, and it was only the prescience given to him by his psychic powers that allowed the Silent King to avoid disaster. The Eldar expected it to be an easy cleanup, but Gorseval's armies fought with inhuman tenacity and seemed to foil the Eldar's plans time and time again. It wasn't until the Craftworld's Farseer became directly involved with the war that the Eldar discovered that there was very powerful psyker on the humans' side. The war took an ugly, dishonorable turn after that; the Eldar were hellbent on discovering Gorseval's identity and orchestrating his assassination.

It is likely they would have succeeded eventually, were it not for the Emperor's sudden intervention. The Grim Crusade had found Gorseval at last, the final Primarch to be discovered, and laid waste to the Eldar forces. In a final suicide mission, the Eldar Farseer infiltrated Gorseval's flagship and engaged him in single combat on the bridge of the ship. Gorseval, then still armed with an ordinary sword, defeated the Farseer after breaking her mind with a powerful psychic blow and stabbed her through the heart.

Unphased, he turned his attention to the Emperor's forces, declared them the enemy, and continued fighting. His soldiers were no match for the Space Marines the Emperor had brought with him, not to mention the two Primarchs (Mon-Kal of the Bloodied Host and Erron Khaal of the Wild Blades) that accompanied him, but Gorseval absolutely refused to surrender. Gorseval's fleet was destroyed and he was forced to retreat back to the Reach, where he hid deep inside the asteroids, waging guerrilla warfare on the ever-advancing Imperial forces. It wasn't until the Emperor himself, accompanied by his sons, forced his way into Gorseval's throne room and defeated him in a psychic battle that the Dark Star surrendered, and swore his loyalty to his father.

The Emperor gave him the twentieth legion, Legio XX, and Gorseval named them the Void Stalkers. He turned his homeworld, the asteroid collective of the Reach, into a mobile Fortress-Homeworld, a project that took a little more than a year, before dedicating himself to the Grim Crusade. Gorseval plunged into the thick of the fray, using his experience commanding a starship fleet and psychic powers to outmaneuver the enemy in outer space, especially the Eldar, who he seemed to loathe. The first significant campaign the Void Stalkers engaged in was the Omicreth Campaign, a three-year-long affair fought mostly in space against the forces of the Craftworld Ulthwé, dangerously close to the Eye of Terror. The Omicreth system was uninhabited, but it contained an enormous asteroid belt filled with deposits of rare minerals and precious ore -- essential to maintain the endless industry that was the foundation of the Grim Crusade. There, the Void Stalkers felt right at home. The campaign came to an end when Void Master Balthasith and the Event Horizon destroyed the Eldar flagship, and the xenos scum retreated to the safety of their hidden Craftworld.

Another significant campaign in the history of the Void Stalkers was the Forridien Campaign, an arduous five-year-long ordeal fought against an enormous Ork Waaagh in the Death Worlds of the Forridien system. The Void Stalkers supported the I and X Legions, the Bloody Host and the Wild Blades, during the war. The Emperor purposefully sent these three Legions, hoping that their Primarchs would put aside old grievances. It was at least partially successful, as Gorseval and Erron Khaal became firm allies.

The Void Stalkers spent most of their time hunting down and destroying the Roks the Orks wanted to use to propel their Waaagh to interstellar status, though the Sixth Chapter and a number of Unseen from the Third Chapter, under the command of Void Master Gabriel, descended to the surfaces of the Forridien worlds to provide fire support in person. Erron Khaal's legendary duel with Bonehamma and the subsequent escape of the Warboss marked the end of the campaign. The Void Stalkers had suffered significantly less losses than either the Bloody Host or the Wild Blades and were back in operational shape within a few months.

It was then that the most infamous of the Void Stalkers' campaigns happened. Euphemistically called the Liberation of Byzathrian, the XXth Legion was given the charge to bring the long-lost Forge world of Byzanthrian into the fold. During the long isolation of the Old Night the warsmiths of Byzanthrian had become fiercely religious and xenophobic, and these humans refused to accept the Imperial Truth, much as Gorseval himself had done. Utterly pitiless, Gorseval declared war on them and the Void Stalkers terrorized them into submission within two months, culminating in the orbital bombardment of the planet's capital city by the Lance batteries of the Eclipse. The Great Smith of Byzanthrian was brought before Gorseval and the Primarch broke his mind and will, forced the Imperial Truth upon him and sent him back to govern in a twisted imitation of what the Emperor had done to Gorseval.

The cruelty of his actions drew criticism, but the Dark Star ignored it. Some began to wonder where Gorseval's limitless ambition would end.

The Meeting: He knew that the enemy was almost here. Gorseval had dismissed his bodyguards and locked himself in his throne room, awaiting the arrival of his foes silently on his iron throne. The throne room was buried deep inside one of the asteroids of the Reach and was only dimly lit by a few strips of glow-lights embedded in the ceiling. The Dark Star, in one of his prescient moments, had slowly figured out who the enemy commander was that had destroyed the Eldar for him -- something that annoyed him. Gorseval had wanted to crush the Eldar by himself.

The door to the throne room swung open and the Emperor stepped inside, sword in hand and blood splattered on the golden plate of his golden power armor, his radiance illuminating the gloom. Gorseval looked down on the Emperor from a raised dias in the center of the room, his face concealed by shadows, a perfect contrast to the almost blinding light of the Emperor's glory. Before either of them could speak, another bloodied figure entered the room.

Mon-Kal strode in after his father, his armour splattered with the blood of many victims this day. Though his helm was on one could feel the rage radiating off of the Primarch as if his resplendent artificer armor would crack from the heat of his brow alone. His massive powerfists were dripping with gore as he cut in front of the Emperor, raising an accusing finger at the massive man on his throne, it still dripped with viscera. "You would dare to strike at the sons of the Emperor after they have provided you aid?! I should cut your whelp hide from your body and fashion it into a cloak for my finest captain! What say you in your defense, slayer of my sons? What say you!"

Erron enters the dimly lit throne room, the sounds of combat growing quieter behind him as the last of the resistance was being mopped up by the combined might of several Space Marine Legions. Green ceramite splattered red with gore, his shimmering blades dulled from blood that sizzled and popped with the flickers of energy that run along the length of the curved sword. He looked upon the scene before him, seeing his brother Mon-Kal pointing accusingly at the dark figure upon his throne, his father silent.

So this was the man they came all this way to find? The man who had returned their aid with violence? How many had died in their quest to root this one out from his holes and make him see the error of his ways? Erron could not help but feel contempt for what he saw as needless death for the sake of one man’s vanity. He swallowed his anger, and stepped up next to Mon-Kal, removing his winged helm and shaking loose his long black hair as he addressed his brother.

“Calm yourself Mon-Kal,” he spoke quietly, but with firmness in his voice, his green eyes never leaving the darkened figure on the dais. “Enough blood had been spilt today on rash actions and even rasher tempers.”

Gorseval listened passively as the red-armored giant, Mon-Kal, raged against him. His ink-black eyes flitted over to absorb the face of the green-armored man when he removed his helmet. Gorseval immediately recognized parts of his own face, and the black hair was the same -- just as it was with the golden-armored figure, the largest of them all, who watched the confrontation with an unreadable look on his face. This confirmed his suspicions.

The pale shape of Gorseval's fingers gripped the armrests of his throne tightly and he leaned forward, a beam of light falling across his graven face. The Emperor drew a shuddering breath at the sight. Gorseval looked so much like him the two could have been twin brothers, were it not for the paleness of his skin and the darkness of his eyes.

When Gorseval spoke, his voice was grim and cold. "You stole my victory from me," he said, as if that explained everything. Gorseval's mind reached out and touched those of the three fellow half-gods that stood before him. The Emperor returned this contact, and Gorseval almost recoiled -- he had never met another human psyker before. The other two seemed not to notice, and Gorseval concluded they must be blunts, like all the others. Where Erron's mind was full of contempt and Mon-Kal's was full of rage, Gorseval felt a great sadness in the Emperor's mind, and something else... was that pity? Nostrils flaring, Gorseval's mind retreated and he clenched his jaw. "The aliens were mine. I slew their witch in single combat."

Unable to bite back his retort, Erron lost his composure for a moment, snapping at the shadowed psyker. "Like you slew my sons? In single combat from within your darkened holes? Waiting until their backs were turned before your men butchered their fellows?" The sarcasm within his voice was plain, and his outburst left his face flushed with anger that was generally uncharacteristic of him. He calmed himself, but his eyes still glowered at the seated king, a ruler of nothing but rock and few souls now. "Your armies are defeated," he continued, calmer now. "There is no reason to continue this pointless campaign for the sake of your own pride, you have lost, brother." The last word is spoken with a mix of emotions, both an attempt at reaching the pallid figure as well as almost a sense of disgust.

As the 'King' claimed that the death of the Eldar was his victory Mon-Kal bristled with rage, and almost immediately retorted, were it not for Erron speaking first. He railed on about honour, and how his sons died dishonorably, which while true hardly seemed the most important thing to Mon-Kal at the time. As his brother finished Mon-Kal sneered at him referring to this bastard as a brother, "You would call him brother already? I will address him as such after his penance, and after he reigns in his arrogance!", Mon-Kal now turned back to the Primarch on his throne, he was the spitting image of the Emperor, though paler with darker eyes, "And you believe the Eldar to be your victory? No one seeks their death more vehemently than I, Kinslayer." With that, he removed his own helmet, exposing his gaunt, drawn features and sunken eyes... and the Black Crown. "The blood of the Eldar is mine to take, as retribution for all they took from me! The life of their 'witch' was not yours, it was mine! Personally father," he spoke to the Emperor now, "I believe the Kinslayer deserves harsh punishment for the murder of Erron's and my sons, and I volunteer to carry it out," he sneered the last words towards the Primarch on the throne.

"That is not your decision to make Mon-Kal!" Erron turned, speaking directly to his aggressive brother this time, casting his gaze back to their father, "Our Father has decreed this man be rejoined with us and taken in as is his birthright! It is not for you to say who is worthy and who is not."

The Emperor, who had been silent the whole time, placed his hands on the shoulders of his two sons. "Do not forget that all of you, my sons and my daughters, are made in my image," he said in a low and mournful voice. As his gaze fell on Mon-Kal, he smiled. "Strength through rage," he spoke softly, and he looked at Erron. "Nobility through honor." The Emperor's bright blue eyes, alive with emotion, met Gorseval's unreadable black stare, and he said: "And darker things too. He is as much my child as any of you."

Gorseval said nothing, though a shadow fell over his face and he looked more forlorn than ever. He had spent his whole life trying to fill the ghastly void inside himself and it had driven him to great heights -- from the cursory glances he'd taken at the minds of Erron and Mon-Kal, he knew that neither of them had raised a fleet and set off to conquer the galaxy before Emperor had found them -- but it didn't seem to matter. It was in his very nature to be hollow, and it was the Emperor who had made him this way. The Silent King, determined to defy his father one last time, reached out his mind once more and touched that of the Emperor, who sensed his intent immediately. "Stand back," the Emperor said and positioned himself in front of his sons.

The temperature in the room dropped sharply and psychic frost formed on every surface, coating the floor and the bloodied carapace of their power armor. The very air seemed to buzz and warp with the intensity of the psyker-duel, and Gorseval's face twisted grimly.

As the Emperor stepped forward, it began to dawn on Mon-Kal just what this arrogant Primarch was doing. He and the Emperor were... using their psychic powers in a sort of duel. He growled deeply at the sight, a son fighting his rightful father, "Erron... you know what is happening? The wretch duels with his own father through minds... the cur deserves punishment most extreme." Mon-Kal was tempted to interrupt the duel open fire on his so called 'brother' with his storm bolters... but were he to kill him he imagined his fathers wrath would be great and terrible... so he waited for the Emperor's inevitable victory.

Errons mind prickled with the psychic tensions filling the room, his breath coming out in puffs of white mist as the air grew cold. His head felt thick, his mind hazy, but he stayed his hand and kept his mouth shut, submitting to allow his father to take over and pull his wayward son back from the precipice of disaster.

Against the unfathomable might of the Emperor's mind, Gorseval stood no chance, but he was determined to prove his tenacity and his strength. The duel itself lasted for almost thirty seconds before the Primarch was forced to surrender, but the Emperor seized this opportunity to reach into Gorseval's very core and show him his desires; a united, galaxy-spanning human civilization, brought together by the twenty Legions of the Space Marines, each commanded by one of the Emperor's own genetic children. He showed Gorseval images of the Legion that was to be his, the twentieth and the last, and promised him glory beyond all measure. Initially, Gorseval resisted -- he didn't need the Emperor's help, he could attain all that glory by himself, why would he stand side-by-side with these brothers of his that clearly hated him? But it was the Emperor's vision that won out in the end. This is what you have longed for your whole life, the Emperor whispered in Gorseval's mind. It is your rightful place. Come home with me.

Gorseval surrendered and withdrew his mind; the Emperor let him go freely. The Dark Star, breathing heavily and weak from exertion, rose from his throne and slowly descended from the dias to kneel before the armored figures. "Truly, you are my father," Gorseval said, his voice hoarse. "I surrender. Take me home."

Legion Name: The Void Stalkers.

Legion Number: XX, the Last Legion.

Legion Strength: 34,750 Astartes, though its fleet and vast battleships are crewed by hundreds of thousands of ordinary humans.

Armour Appearance:


Symbol/heraldry:


Warcry: A single, muted whisper, followed by deafening silence: “Death.”

Dramatis Personae and Legion Organization:
I. First Chapter
2,000 Astartes

Lead by: Balthasith the Destroyer, Black Guard, Void Master of the First Chapter. He acts as Gorseval's right hand and has ultimate authority over the Legion whenever the Primarch is away. Balthasith commands the Avenger-class Grand Cruiser Event Horizon, named so for the incredible lethality of its close-range armaments; stray too close, and death is guaranteed. Balthasith and the Event Horizon famously destroyed an (ironically-named) Void Stalker-class Eldar battleship during the Omicreth Campaign, earning him his epithet.

Description: The First Chapter has the most veterans among its ranks, and it is unique in the sense that all of its Company commanders are also members of the Black Guard. They form the vanguard during boarding operations and other close-combat operations. The Legion doesn't own many suits of Terminator armor, but those that they do have are all in the hands of First Chapter veterans. Their signature weapon is the multi-melta, a throwback to the Reach's origin as a mining colony.

II. Second Chapter
3,000 Astartes

Lead by: Nasgalur, Black Guard, Void Master of the Second Chapter. He was almost killed by the Eldar during the war in the Reach and all of his limbs, save for his left arm, had to replaced with bionics. He is solid and dependable, but not very imaginative, and never presumes to give advice to the Primarch. Commands a Gladius-class light cruiser known as the Shadow of the Reach.

Description: Gorseval uses him and the Second Chapter to perform tough, straightforward missions that require discipline and tenacity. They share the 'ever forwards, never back' mentality with the Blazing Sisters, making them the odd-man-out among the Void Stalkers. They are the closest thing the Void Stalkers have to siege experts.

III. Third Chapter, the Unseen
1,000 Astartes

Lead by: Yndrasil, Black Guard, Void Master and a Stalker-Master of the Third Chapter, who are nicknamed the Unseen. He is famously more tight-lipped than even the Primarch, and it is said that he once sniped an Eldar pilot out of its Nightwing-class attack fighter during the Omicreth Campaign. Yndrasil and the Unseen travel aboard a Venom-class Destroyer, the Phantom.

Description: Total opposites of the Second Chapter, the Unseen are the best snipers and scouts. They cover their power armor with camo-cloaks and use high-powered, slug-based weapons that allow the use of silencers. The Unseen rarely fight as a single unit, instead dispersing among the battle-groups to perform scouting and overwatch duties. During boarding actions or close-quarters combat, they ditch their sniper rifles for long, silver daggers. Good for sneaking up on Orks. Stalker-Masters are trained by the Third.

IV. Fourth Chapter
2,500 Astartes

Lead by: Doraelen, Black Guard and Void Master of the Fourth Chapter. He is generally considered one of the greatest captains of the Legion, tied with Gorseval and Balthasith, and is famous for never having fired a single bullet in combat. He remains aboard his Lunar-class battleship, the Dead Star, at all times. Should all else fail, Doraelen will still be there to command the fleet.

Description: Most of the Fourth Chapter specialize in piloting landing craft, Stormbirds and various types of attack craft. As such, they are spread out across the Legion's fleet, and many of don't see their Void Master for years on end. If the situation permits it, the Fourth holds a yearly gathering aboard the Dead Star, though this occasion couldn't be observed during the entirety of the harrowing Forridien Campaign. Nobody knows what the Fourth do on that day -- not even Gorseval.

V. Fifth Chapter
6,000 Astartes

Lead by: Mandragul, Black Guard, Apothecary and Void Master of the Fifth Chapter. Mandragul is the only Apothecary that also holds the rank of Void Master, and he is regarded as the head of the Legion's Apothecarion. In his case, the rank of Void Master is mostly honorary, as he relinquishes command of his ship, the Bulk-class cruiser known as the Red Dawn, to his second-in-command, Raphael, a Theta-level psyker. A great warrior in his own right, Mandragul single-handedly slew an Ork Meganob in the Forridien Campaign.

Description: The Fifth draw inspiration from most of the other Chapters and pride themselves on their versatility, forming the flexible, all-round backbone of the Legion, together with the Seventh. Gorseval usually holds them back during the opening stages of a theater of war and subsequently deploys them wherever the Legion is weakest. This attitude of versatility is reflected in their Void Master, Mandragul, who is warrior, mentor and healer.

VI. Sixth Chapter
3,500 Astartes

Lead by: Gabriel, Epsilon-level psyker and Void Master of the Sixth Chapter. One of only two Void Masters that isn't part of the Black Guard, promoted in part because of his gift for strategy, but also because he has learned how to communicate telepathically with Gorseval over long distances. This allows his Chapter to operate away from the front. As such, Gabriel is frequently the first to make planetfall after establishing void superiority. He was present during Erron Khaal's duel with the Ork Warboss, Bonehamma, at the climax of the Forridien Campaign. He wields an Eldar Singing Spear into battle, once used by the Farseer that attempted to assassinate Gorseval. Gabriel is known to attempt to replicate Gorseval's mind-breaking techniques when transporting a prisoner to the Eclipse isn't a feasible option, to mixed success. He commands the Legion's only Battle Barge, an absolutely massive behemoth known as the Starfall. Favored by Gorseval.

Description: The Sixth Chapter has more terrestrial combat specialists than the others and they follow their Void Master to the surface. They were the only Chapter to be deployed in its entirety to the surface of Forridien Prime, down to the last man, and they suffered the heaviest casualties. Their signature weapon is the storm bolter, which they favor for its maneuverability and relentless firepower.

VII. Seventh Chapter
6,000 Astartes

Lead by: Ectheliar, Black Guard and Void Master to the Seventh Chapter. He is similar to Nasgalur in temperament and capabilities and the two are thick as thieves. His ship was recently destroyed and Ectheliar and the Seventh Chapter currently reside on the Eclipse until a replacement is acquired.

Description: Together with the Fifth, the Seventh are capable all-rounders. In recent times they have tried to distinguish themselves more by specializing in demolition weaponry and tactics, but it hasn't fully caught on yet -- an enormous explosion is considered inelegant by most of the Void Stalkers. The Seventh is frequently seen as a stepping stone; a place for battle-brothers who have finished their training in the Ninth to find their niche.

VIII. Eighth Chapter, the Technicians
1,500 Astartes

Lead by: Zanthagar, Black Guard, Master Technician and Void Master of the Eighth Chapter. Zanthagar commands a swift Gladius-class light cruiser, the Comet. He is more interested in the ships of the Legion's fleet than its Legionnaires, and most stay well-clear of him, though he is highly respected for his technical knowhow.

Description: The Eighth Chapter specializes in maintaining the Legion's massive fleet and many of them are rudimentary precursors to the Tech-Marines, informally called the Technicians. Despite not seeing as much combat action as the rest of their battle-brothers, the work of the Technicians is considered honorable and vital to the Legion's success. Like the Fourth Chapter, the Technicians are spread out across the Legion's fleet in order to perform their duties.

IX. Ninth Chapter, the Neophytes
9,000 Astartes

Lead by: Querinus, Black Guard and Void Master of the Ninth Chapter. He generally oversees the training of new recruits, along with the Apothecarion. The enormous Infernal-class battleship known as the Void Maw holds the Ninth, and has Querinus at the helm. He is widely considered to be the Legion's harshest taskmaster, doling out cruel punishments for perceived failures and precious few words of encouragement. The officers of the Ninth mimic this and encourage the hard-as-nails attitude the Legion is infamous for.

Description: Considering the young age of the Legion the Ninth Chapter is the largest of them all, currently numbering almost 9,000 Space Marines, and a disproportionally high number of Stalker-Masters to show the neophytes the ropes. They are deployed behind the formidable vanguard of the First Chapter, or in support of the flexible Fifth and Seventh Chapters. Despite having to give them a taste of war so that they can develop, Gorseval tries to avoid throwing them to the wolves and having them die unnecessarily.

X. Tenth Chapter
250 Astartes

Lead by: Michaal, Master of Secrets and Void Master of the Tenth Chapter. Well-known for looking almost identical to Gorseval, and subsequently the Emperor. He commands a Vengeance-class grand cruiser, the Black Nova. Generally considered an enigma.

Description: Gorseval, always looking for new methods to dishonorably slaughter his enemies, has commanded Michaal, the second Terran-born of his sons to be Void Master, to perform experiments with chemical and biological weapons. This is a highly secretive project, and even among the Legion very few know exactly what it is that the Tenth Chapter does. They occasionally perform so-called 'black operations' during large theaters of war to perform field tests of the experimental weaponry on the enemy, most notably during the Forridien campaign, when they unleashed a cloud of highly toxic nerve-gas inside an Ork Rok. The Tenth also applied their experimental weaponry during the Liberation of Byzanthrian on a smaller scale, infecting prisoners of war with a horrifying plague to observe the effects.

Miscellaneous

Gorseval the Dark Star, Primarch. Beta-level psyker, skilled swordsman and highly capable strategist. He commands the Apocaypse-class battleship that functions as the Legion's flagship, the Eclipse.

Asmodal, Black Guard and a Stalker-Master of the First Chapter. Asmodal has been by Gorseval's side since the very beginning, serving the Silent King voluntarily, and killed several Space Marines of the Wild Blades and the Bloody Host in the pacification of the Reach. The process of turning him into a Space Marine made him exceptionally large, and he wears one of the Legion's few prized sets of Terminator armor, carrying a multi-melta and a power sword into battle. He is generally considered the Legion's most dangerous combatant. Despite not being in a position of great authority within the Legion, Gorseval possibly values Asmodal's advice above all others. Knows how to brew a mean drink.

---

Favored Tactics/Battlefield Role: The Void Stalkers are in their home element when engaging in void warfare, and are renowned specialists in boarding actions and spaceship combat. Their Legion possesses more battleships than almost any other and they usually become responsible for establishing void superiority when involved in a battle. That doesn't mean their involvement ends there; after the fight in space has been won, the battle on the ground is frequently still going. The Void Stalkers use dropships and deep strike teleportation technology to quickly become involved with the ground war, where they specialize in targeting enemy commanders and demoralizing the enemy through terrorist tactics. The Void Stalkers lay ambushes and prefer to fight inside or underground, bunkering down deep inside enemy territory and delivering devastating strikes before vanishing into the shadows.

Gorseval himself often oversees the battle directly and uses his considerable psychic powers to predict enemy movements and identify weak positions, though he doesn't lead from the front. Captured enemy commanders are brought before Gorseval for him to break so that he may learn their secrets. If necessary, the Void Stalkers will utilize a primitive predecessor of the Exterminatus protocol in the form of sustained orbital bombardment.

The flagship of the Void Stalkers, the Eclipse, is an Apocalypse-class battleship that Gorseval personally commands. It has been retrofitted with enhanced shield flux capacitors that allow quick redirection of power to boost certain parts of the shields, and weaken others, to take maximum advantage of the psychic foresight that Gorseval is capable of. It is designed to protect those parts of the ship that are about to be hit, instead of the entire structure. This allows the Eclipse to direct more power to the Lance batteries that line the broadsides of the ship, turning it into a veritable planet-killer.

Like most Legions, the Void Stalkers are divided into ten Chapters. Each of these Chapters is headed by a Void Master, and all but two of these Void Masters are also part of the Black Guard. In addition to being Chapter commanders, these Void Masters are also captains of their own battleships, frigates or cruisers, where their word is absolute law, second only to Gorseval's or the Emperor's. They only rarely descend to the surface in a ground war, preferring to command their Chapter from the stratosphere with their ships in geosynchronous orbital anchor.

During boarding actions, deep strikes or prolonged ground wars, it is one of the Stalker-Masters that assumes control over a Company or a Tactical squad. The Void Stalkers rarely fight as a single, cohesive unit, instead spreading out over the battlefield in small groups of up to one hundred Space Marines. They use long-range vox comms to coordinate their attacks, but avoid creating a centralized front for the enemy to attack. The Stalker-Masters are experts at what they call 'shadow warfare', and are responsible for carrying out the Void Stalkers' infamous tactics of assassination, abduction and guerrilla warfare.

Legion Characteristics/Ideology: The Void Stalkers are extremely rigid and emotionless both in combat and out. They revere Gorseval above all else, including the Emperor, and will not hesitate to lay down their lives for him. They are cold, calculating and logical, and don't engage in frivolous activities like small talk or hobbies. Every waking second is spent preparing for the next fight. They care little for the lives of others outside the Legion, including other Space Marines, and will sometimes kill whole swaths of innocents to complete an objective. Terra, and the Imperium it represents, means nothing to them -- they exist to serve the Silent King.

The elite core of the Void Stalkers is comprised of the Black Guard, an informal title for the men of the Reach that served Gorseval before the Emperor found him. They are the very best of the best that the asteroid collective had to offer, having survived both a war with the Eldar and the guerrilla campaign against the Emperor's forces. As such, some of them are very good at killing Space Marines. Some of them also serve as Gorseval's personal advisers, though he has a tendency to ignore their words. There are roughly 500 of them scattered throughout the ranks of the Legion, though they make up the bulk of the leadership and the officer cadre.

The Void Stalkers are moderately superstitious and revere Gorseval as their supreme leader, who they often still refer to as the Silent King (especially the Black Guard and fresh recruits from the Reach do this). Gorseval is seen as a prophet among the people of the Reach, born of the hallowed void, sent to lead them to a better future. Because the psyker mutation never occurred among the Reachborn, Gorseval's powers were seen as supernatural and divine before the Reach was brought into the fold of the Imperium.

Hated Enemy (optional): Gorseval has a particular hatred for the Eldar, who were the first significant enemy to resist him. He still searches for the Craftworld that harassed him so much before he was found by the Emperor.

---

Name: Lydia Magaera, Lady of Victory

Gender: Female.

Assignment Level: Beta (Telepath/Telekinetic)

Homeworld:
Lydia was sent to Asphodel, a warm, temperate blue planet at a bronze-age technological level orbiting the white star Ovid IV. It is a world of wide seas and expansive archipelago, with hot summers and winters that are merely rainy and cool, its varied island nations ruled by the same mythology and pantheon but dominated by a different ruler and patronized by a specific virtue and god. Even the gods of agriculture and music were said to be covetous and fractious, however, and the isles were in a constant state of conflict; raids and invasions were commonplace, and many territories changed hands and names.

Appearance:
Lydia's jet-black hair is plaited thickly and bound into a cone at the back of her head, parted into three long braids that hang like ropes to her waist, each tipped with a sharp, heavy metal barb. Her skin is pale for her adopted homeworld, but has taken on the olive hue common to its people, and her eyes are a vibrant aquamarine. Her features are strong, her face dominated by a Greek nose and a firm jaw, beautiful, but hard, like diamond.

The breastplate of her armor is inlaid in gold, engraved with fabulous battle scenes from the mythology of her adopted homeworld. Carven emerald snakes coil around the forearms of her gauntlets, and her armor is draped in lengths of white cloth and leather, hung from her shoulders and waist, concealing her legs. Her helm is a crested, Grecian affair, engraved in the same manner as her breastplate and carven to mimic her own features in lustrous gold; its lips pressed in a mute, gentle smile, its eyes glowing the same aquamarine as her own when powered and equipped. She rarely dons it completely, however, preferring to keep it tilted back against her hair, revealing her true face.

She bears a pennant-draped force spear, Arete, and an oversized storm shield, Aegis, its surface emblazoned with a monstrous yet alluring female visage, some mythic female demon of her homeworld she was said to have slain. She still carries her three-tailed whip, plaited from her own hair and tipped with the same cruel metal barbs.

Personality:
The Primarch of the furies is thoughtful, reserved and perspicacious, preferring tactical maps and a position where she can oversee the battlefield to frontline warfare. Slow to anger, but slower still to forgive, she, like her followers, can nurse a grudge for centuries before repaying in kind. And she is always watching, always observing the others, in silence.

Perhaps most strikingly, Lydia is mute; physically (or perhaps psychologically) unable to speak, except telepathically with other psykers and sensitives, and then only through images and mental impressions. This disability informs the bulk of what others know of her personality, and as such Lydia may sometimes be scorned by other Primarchs as inferior, genetically flawed. Some in their rage may even have called her coward, watching and thinking instead of meeting the enemy in glorious, honorable combat. That these few are frequently forced to eat their words when her legion overcomes through strategy and tenacity a battle that they could not through force does not earn her their love.

And lovelessness does weigh upon her, though she betrays not a bit of it: She is aware of her father's distance from her, and though she seeks constantly to close it through her good works and devotion, the gulf never seems to fade.

Skills:
Lydia is a brilliant strategist. Her tactical excellence brought a world under her feet before the Emperor reclaimed her, and she plans to bring him a thousand more, breaking the backs of those who would defy him. She is also a radiant psyker, her abilities predominantly passive or defensive: She maintains a subconscious telepathic link between herself and her forces, infusing them with her presence and increasing the cohesion and battlefield awareness of her legion a hundredfold when she herself is on the field. This trait is passed on, albeit in a greatly dimmed form, to her chosen captains, who reflect her will as tiny mirrors to her brilliance.

Biography:
The discovery of the infant Lydia was heralded by the astronomers of Esoptron, one of the less assuming isles of the Asphodel archipelago, devoted to the god Orestes, keeper of secrets. The astrologers had observed a brace of wandering stars, not mentioned in any tale or archive, and argument was joined as to whether the omens were good or ill. Regardless, scouting bands were sent, and the Lady was found, a flawless child cradled in a roc's nest, being nurtured and fed meat alongside the great bird's chicks.

She grew, regal in her bearing and breathtaking in form, an unnerving giantess more visibly powerful than even the men of the Esoptric army. In her adolescence she could overpower and strangle the world's equivalent of a bull, breaking its neck in the crook of her arm, and no man could overcome her even amongst the few brazen enough to try.

At first, she was hailed as a demigoddess, a bastard daughter of Ilios, father of the gods, the Sunmaker, he who named the stars. Her lips, some said, had been sealed so that she could not betray her father's secrets. Others claimed the power of her voice would raise the sea against the land, causing the city to crumble and the isle to sink beneath the waves, and she had cut out her tongue as a noble sacrifice to the world.

After turning the tide against one invading force after another, ten men flying with each stroke of her spear, she took command of the city's military simply by walking into the myrmidon's temple and seating herself on its throne. None challenged her. She directed them, giving orders through maps and delegating subordinates to command each individual phalanx. She had the isle of Arborea invaded and enslaved, felling the bulk of its forests and putting its people to work to form a navy unlike any the world had seen. Her strategies were flawless, her presence on the battlefield terrible. As the conquests mounted, the daughter of Ilios was hailed not simply as an immortal, but as a goddess in her own right. Lydia Magaera, the war god, Lady of victory. The temples of Orestes were cast down, the old King's palace demolished, the ruler himself sacrificed as an offering to the goddess, and a temple was erected in its place; a huge artifice of white stone colonnades, built out of the island's cliffs and overlooking the sea. Its floor was inlaid with a huge mosaic depicting the known world, and covered with miniature armies molded in precious metals and jewels, that the Lady might continue her plans and strategems.

Esoptron was renamed to Agonpolis, and eventually all of Asphodel was brought under the reign of the goddess Lydia, beneath the auspices of her father, who would always be king of the gods. Annual games were held, brutal physical trials and blood combat, in which those who attained excellence in all things were permitted entry into the Lady's elite guard, and the city grew and prospered beyond historical precedent.

---

Legion Name: Kindly Ones (Furies)

Legion Number: XIII

Legion Strength: 90,000, divided into three chapters of 30,000, each split into three cohorts of 10,000, with companies then divided as normal.

Armour Appearance:

The Kindly Ones' armor is white, halved with black in a dramatic device reminiscent of Asphodelic theater. Their symbol is their Primarch's barbed, triple-tailed whip, symbolizing both the legion's penchant for tactical superiority, and the swift and agonizing punishment awaiting those who incur their attention.

Warcry:
The Kindly Ones have no warcry, in respect for their Primarch's curse of silence. The chapter motto, however, is scribed onto all their heraldry and embellishment, both a warning and a promise. Noli Obliviscate, ut Ne Ignoscimus: Do Not Forget, for We Do Not Forgive.

Favored Tactics/Battlefield Role:
Lydia demands strategic adaptability, and her furies obey. In the main, they field a balanced, mobile phalanx force, ready to assume any new formation required. The chapter makes heavy use of scout and tactical squads, strategic insertions and transports, teleporters and drop pods, constantly outflanking and advancing, forcing the enemy into positions and formations that will eventually cripple them. Devastator squads, heavy vehicles and stationary emplacements are used as precision instruments, the rocks around which the greater current of battle flows. The legion is also one of the few that will give ground in order to facilitate a stratagem or decisive long-term gain, potentially furthering some other Primarchs' contempt for their mistress.

The Kindly Ones have a reputation for both relentlessness in combat and the savage punishments inflicted upon those deemed guilty by their mistress. Once you have their attention, you will not be rid of them until you are broken or dead.

Legion Characteristics/Ideology:
The Kindly Ones are a highly disciplined, aesthetically Hellenic chapter of conquerors and avengers, protective of the innocent and utterly pitiless to the guilty. From the stars they constantly seek out those worthy of their aid and those worthy of their judgement, and many who plot their own gain in her sector watch the skies uneasily, for the whip is always ready to strike without warning. Wrong the Emperor, they all whisper, and the Kindly Ones will come for you.

And they will. Oh, how they will.

In an effort to attain excellence in all things, those marines not in combat periodically pit themselves against one another in an echo of the Agonian games while their mistress observes, with members of other chapters sometimes allowed or even invited to compete or attend, though some may find the spectacle disturbing; whether it is her bearing or some element of her psychic dominance over her legion, the reverence of the furies for their mistress borders on the fanatical; they seem almost to treat her as much a warrior goddess as her adopted people did. And though they may keep their silence, they forget not one single slight against her.

Not one.

---

Dramatis Personae:

• Legion Flagship -- Threnos, a Gloriana-class battleship. The craft is heavily armored and has exceptional augur capability.
• Tisiphone and Alecto -- Identical Asphodelic twins differentiated by the opposing coloration of their attire and the part of their hair. Both are Epsilon-level telepaths bearing the Crux Terminatus, and are immediately subordinate to the Primarch herself, speaking with her full authority. They are not pretty or sweet.
• Mnemosyne -- First Chief Librarian, keeper of memory. Her enhanced lifespan was slow to take hold, and Mnemosyne appears more advanced in years than her sisters, thin-faced, grey-haired and withered. She is a Librarian in the most classical sense, spending the bulk of her time physically interfaced with Threnos's memory banks, and she is terse, meticulous and fond of silence within her domain. Though as fiercely loyal to her mistress as any of the legion -- perhaps more -- she is perhaps the only one of the Furies willing to challenge or question her, and certainly the only one to do so without sanction.
• Polyhymna -- Second Chief Librarian, keeper of songs. A striking orator and powerful telekinetic, Polyhymna is at this time the only one of the three Chief Librarians who will deploy to the field.
• Sibyline -- Third Chief Librarian. We do not speak of the Third Chief Librarian.

---

Name: Fū Xiá the Tamer of Storms (Pronounced: Foo SHya)

Gender: Male

Homeworld: Twenty-Three Sixteen (Xīn Fēng)

The planet designated Twenty-Three Sixteen by the expanding Imperium - due to the recorded number of the colony fleet dispatched from Terra during the Age of Technology - but known to the local populace as Xīn Fēng is a planet of medium size, containing three separate continents, and of an extremely venerable lineage; known once upon a time as Ilithiala by the long-lived Eldar, it was one of many Maiden Worlds nearing the end of its development when the fleet of Terran vessels appeared in orbit, an almost perfect paradise of towering mountain peaks, lush grasslands and steaming jungles, frozen caps and an ecosystem that did not allow for things such as plague or disease to even exist on the planets surface.

Of course, nothing lasts forever.

What followed was a conflict of terrible savagery and merciless actions, the Terrans of this period not being adverse to intelligent xenos species, but seeing a world so close to their ideal garden of Eden was too tempting and too easy to take for themselves that they had to take it...and take it they did. Over the course of fifty years the human fleet, aided by forces on the ground, pushed the Craftworld and Exodite Eldar already settled there back into the mountains and engaged in vicious guerilla actions. Although the humans numbers were beginning to tell, the Eldar would not surrender or leave their world to these apes, and so something drastic had to be done; taking the most vile and dreadful biological weapons that they could find, the Terrans choked the very life out of the perfidious Eldar and took the planet for themselves, claiming it as their own and renaming it as they went.

Whole swathes of once fertile land had been destroyed forever, turned into nothing more than valleys and plains filled or covered with gases so toxic that they could kill a man in less than a minute, while the use of such weapons had irreversibly altered the once balanced state of the planet, leading to the current state of the planet - a planet of winds capable of tearing buildings from the earth by their very foundations, of storms so violent that little can resist there fury, and of rainfall that annually wipes out villages by the score.

For the current inhabitants these 'seasons' come at set times of the year, those able to read them being safe enough if they take the correct precautions, many retreating to the numerous temple-cities of the plants theocratic rulers - men and women that treat the very wind itself as a divinity, the various aspects as lesser deities - their strongholds acting as fortresses, monasteries and cities all in one, each one a mountain steadfast built into the towering peaks by the former occupants of the planet and now twisted to serve new owners; what technology used by the Eldar is rarely ever seen or touched, mostly because the humans of the modern period have no idea how to use it! Similarly, that plentiful technology bought all the way from Terra - those same filters and such that keep out the toxins and death-causing bacteria from these primitive Hive Cities of stone - are treated with distinct reverence and ritual by the Yaushi or monks of these places charged with making sure that they continue to function.

In short, Xīn Fēng is what could be termed as a Feudal planet (though semi-Civilised might seem more appropriate), advanced technology mingled with primitive beliefs and ideologies referring to the Divine Wind, while whole areas of all three continents are so blasted by the effects of war that they are no longer habitable by any except for the 'drakes' - wingless serpents of great size who seem to use the air currents to glide, as if swimming through the breeze - these beasts are seen as holy creatures by the ruling theocracy, and treated accordingly. Those areas not irradiated or gassed are the homes of those at the lowest to mid-tier of the human populace - farmers and a peasantry that know their place - the upper tiers reserved for the warrior class and the militant clergy that make up the highest tier of all. Their technological level can certainly be classed as 'Feudal', for they have little in the way of agricultural advancement, their most developed weapon is the black powder arquebus, and what higher devices or knowledge they may have is restricted or simply too advanced for even the holy men and women to work. Lastly, it is the synthesis of religious belief systems and ideologies, linked intrinsically with the internecine warfare practised by every each temple-city against the other, that truly makes Twenty-Three Sixteen a place of highly developed culture and religion but also one of savagery and backward thinking brutality.

Appearance: With his appearance, as with many things about him, Fū Xiá is quite an enigma; in his height he is of a rather diminutive stature for a Primarch, being around nine-and-a-half feet tall when out of his armour, and unlike many of his brothers and sisters he is of a much leaner body type - which should not be mistaken for gaunt or undernourished, but is still seen as a sign of weakness by some. Why he is so short, almost the same height as those that he leads in fact, and why he lacks the muscle mass of some of his brethren is unknown to all and any but the Emperor and himself.

On the contrary, his is the body of one who has trained for unending hours to perfect it, a lean but broad-shouldered physique sporting a highly visibly and clear musculature putting to rest any doubts that one might have regarding that. Not for him the bulk of one who shows that they could crush rocks in one hand, nor the arms as thick as the trunks of trees, the fact that he can kill a man with a single blow is not something he feels that he needs to reflect in his body.

It is in the matter of his face though that the largest difference between himself and his more Emperor-blessed siblings can be seen; his own features are angular and sharp, his usually hairless jawline more pointed rather than squared, and his almond-shaped eyes each containing a pool of stormy grey. It has been said that looking into his eyes for too long can make one feel as if they have just entered the eye of a hurricane...or emotions of extreme peace, depending on his mood. As is the custom of one ordained into one of the temple-cities he regularly shaves his head, seeing it both as a sign of vanity and as a devotional ritual. When not in his armour, as with most of the 'higher ups' up the legion, he will don a head-wrap of crisp white material, while his warriors favour a simple headband displaying their clan mon in the centre.

As with almost anyone of import among the XV Legion, his body is rather riddled in tattoos; these commonly take the form of stylistic representations of the element of the wind, perhaps a contorted face of a daemonic deity, or artistic depictions of the Wind Drakes that roam the continents of the planet - these latter creatures possibly descended from the 'drakes' used by Eldar Exodites on the planet before the coming of man. Colours range from those most associated with the air and sky - bright shades of turquoise, greens, blues and the like - all the way to black. In the case of Fū, both of his arms are turned almost a different colour by the swirls, twists and wavy patterns made upon his flesh, even the upper part of his back and shoulders patterned with the scales of a Wind Drake, or Fēng-nar-hebi.

His artificer armour imitates that of the planet upon which he was nurtured, with the certain elements of the Mark II power armour being moulded into something completely different; the face-plate of his helmet for example is forged into the shape of a snarling old man, with the top of the helmet sporting a lifelike head of hair. Meanwhile the chest and back plates, usually adorned with the Aquila and the like, have been shaped into the gaunt torso of a starving monk - a strange form of armour worn by some members of the militant clergy upon his planet - the flesh, through which the ribcage can be seen, perfectly sculpted and usually covered somewhat by loosely worn robes of white and grey when in battle; a theme shared in the armour of the legs and arms. In short, it regularly appears that this particular Primarch is actually wearing the gaunt but far larger body of a starved monk-warrior.

Commonly worn around his neck is a symbol of office on his homeworld, a collection of one-hundred and eight beads known as onenju or 'thought beads'. His own beads also contain a picture of an impression of the Divine Wind, used as an emitter for a conversion shield which defends him both in and out of battle, while also being used to centre his mind and calm his nerves.

Lastly is his favoured weapon, a glaive-like power weapon of twelve feet, topped by a two foot blade of slightly curved steel known as the Wind's Fury; this is supported by the twin set of curved blades worn by all members of the warrior caste on the hip, the daisho set of one longer blade and one shorter in length.

Personality: Fū Xiá was raised as a man of two halves, balanced halves but two differing halves nonetheless, this has affected everything from the way he picks and fights his battles to his interactions with others.

Firstly, as was intended when the Emperor began his creation, Fū is a warrior first and foremost with the culture of his adopted planet only emphasizing this over more academic pursuits; from a young age he was taught the many ways to kill a man while also honouring him, how to look into the eyes of an adversary as his life slipped away into the breeze, and the plethora of armed and unarmed combat systems open to one of his unique abilities for learning - what this has done is nurtured him into a robust individual, fully confident in his own abilities both on and off of the field of battle, a simple figure who has no need to demonstrate their skills or abilities to anyone, and a Primarch who may be not much larger than your average Astartes but is actually so much more. In his life he has worked to develop his own code of honour, as he sees it, one that means those who can gain his trust and friendship - something not all that easy to do - will have a loyal and devoted comrade for life, a code that means he abhors the senseless waste of life among both his own legion, civilian populations and even his enemies if he can help it.

Maybe not the largest part of his personality, but certainly what has made him the way he is and influenced him utterly, is that other half of himself, and that is the 'monk' or scholarly half.

Living most of his adult life high in the mountain peaks - surrounded as he was by wise men, their cohorts, and vast libraries of knowledge - has made Fū Xiá somewhat of an introvert, and altered his perceptions of life and reality, producing a nimble and quick-witted mind but also a Primarch who believes that although the human form may be perfect, it is clear to him that the internal workings of man are far from it. Through the teachings of his mentors and martial trainers, as well as through many days of meditation and self-reflection, he believes that one must always seek to improve and better oneself both internally and externally; in this way he has become a quiet and softly-spoken warrior, his outer expressions concealing his innermost thoughts, and his strongly held belief of mind-over-matter allowing him to endure bodily and mental hardships to an even greater than one may have believed possible in a Primarch.

Finally, one cannot grow up on Twenty-Three Sixteen without being infused with the belief in the Divine Winds, studying the Wind Drakes and learning from the premier military manual on the planet the Fū-neh-isay or 'book of air', which has given Fū Xiá a rather unique outlook on things that many others may consider trivial. For example, there is no true Fū Xiá, the jovial and friendly one that you see may not be the one that you see when he is removing your head from your body, or the still and contained monk-warrior may not be the man you see besieging a city with biological gas weapons at a later date. Like the winds after which he is named he is extremely hard to corner, hard to read and even harder to fully understand.

Skills: The quintessential warrior-scholar, Fū is an intelligent, cultured and quick-witted individual who is able to see ten steps ahead, to adapt swiftly to most situations, when his adversary may see only seven steps in front of them - this could take place in the broad sphere of warfare, or the more compact space of interpersonal conversations, but either way it is extremely rare for this Primarch to ever be taken by surprise. His favoured strategy is one developed from his unarmed combat, known to himself as 'defensive-offense', awaiting the first strike of the enemy, absorbing or 'blocking' their attack, then decimating them utterly; it is for this reason that he rarely, if ever, goes on the attack.

A 'skill' in a similar vein is his ability to read people, to truly see them and their intentions within moments of engaging with them, although he rarely ever shares this fact with others for fear that they might shun him. Through the various forms of observance and training he has had to endure, he has become an unarmed fighter without peer - at least among his enemies - using weapons as an extension of his body and developing himself into a weapon all of its own.

The holy men of his legion, 'chaplains' if you will, have the ability to alter and use air as other psykers have distinct abilities of their own; the flip-side of this is that many are unsure whether this actually is a psychic ability, the meditative exercises of the same monk-warriors allowing one to develop oneself from within, and ultimately to shape and use the element of air as if it were nothing - from bringing in fogs and mists to help with an ambush or obscure an attack, to killing another being by depriving them of oxygen - only those who have reached an almost blank state of being and mindfulness able to perform such things at will.

It is severely odd therefore that Fū himself is actually a psychic 'blank', something that was sensed early on by the elders of the mountain temples but seen as a form of enlightenment!

For, although blanks are commonly looked down upon by others, it is the ultimate goal of the monk-warriors to make themselves 'empty' of all internal strife and worry, to focus oneself utterly, and...in a strange way, and not truly of his own doing, Fū has inadvertently accomplished this. It is probably best for him that this 'skill' or 'latent ability' has not yet turned him into full-blown Pariah, manifesting mostly as a feeling of utter stillness and calm (a feeling that many find nevertheless quite unnerving ) over baseline humans, but in turn shielding him against the assaults of psykers.

This would later be found to be designated as 'Chi' on the assignment chart of the Astra Telepathica.

Biography: They said that nothing could live in the toxic zones of Twenty-Three Sixteen, that it was death to all and everything save the great wingless Drakes, and yet - on the day that the planets isolation and the warp storms encompassing it were to both be shattered - a meteor was said to have fallen from the sky and bought with it the stars and the moonlight. Of course, this is not what happened; for it was the coming of a Primarch to this Feudal world, his gestation pod hitting the chemically decimated earth of a region near the great Temple-City of Mount Huangxia, that would give him both his name and herald the coming of a new age for the people of that world.

Incapable of entering these regions without protective equipment, old suits left from the wreckages of the Terran colony fleet after which the planet was named, it took many months for those that had seen the plummeting pod to even discover what it was - most not even prepared to attempt the trek into the unknown. Most fortunate it was for them then that he who would come to be called Fū Xiá, having grown swiftly into a boy the size of toddler, simply walked out of the area he had been stranded in; there were those that called him a god, others claiming that he was a monster and should be killed immediately, but upon seeing the child - so full of life, his deep eyes gazing up at them, and a spine-tingling sense of calm all but sapping their will to do harm unto him - they joined the others in proclaiming him a marvel and a wonder who should not be touched by hand or cold steel.

The High Abbot of Mount Huangxia, a man of almost one-hundred and seventy years of age and very well preserved, came to the peasant village where the boy was now being clothed and fed. For almost three days he simply sat in the village and looked at the child, his face an unreadable mask, before giving a surprising and curt nod of his head. "This child," he announced in a voice like dried parchment, "is the one we have waited for, see how the storms have given way, see how we can now see the sky once more...truly he is the one we have been promised."

Completely unwilling to allow this child, who it was clear to see was no ordinary infant. He was carried to Mount Huangxia on a stretcher and given the name Fū Xiá which roughly translates as 'wind hero' - once he had entered the broad and thick gates of that mountain monastery, a life of solitary contemplation and martial training ahead of him, his fate and how he would be raised was sealed. For years he remained within those halls of stone, dug deep into the mountain, a place of vast halls and libraries filled with scrolls, manuscripts and the like in a calligraphic language that he could not understand at first, but soon became his first language in terms of both reading, writing and speech.

By the time he had reached maturity, developing into his prime after a decade or so, the fact that a giant - for although he was average for a Primarch, he still towered far above the rather squat population of his homeworld - was being housed and secreted away at Mount Huangxia could no longer remain as such; having kept him hidden for all these years was a minor miracle in itself, and now the other temples were gathering their warriors. If they could not have this gift from the heavens, then they could not allow a rival to possess him either. A loose confederation was soon formed against them, and within a matter of months there were thousands arrayed against them, forming a column that trailed back toward outer regions of the continent and kicked up dust wherever it went. Now, now, was the time for Fū Xiá to show just how superhuman he truly was.

His first motion, supported with some persuasion by the abbots and monks of the soon-to-be-besieged mountain fortress, was to draft men and women from the peasant populations into the warrior caste as the lowest tier of a multifaceted structure. They were given simple armour, weapons, and training enough to fight in large formations and not the usual style of single-combat favoured by their more aristocratic allies and enemies. Soon enough they had developed a force not unlike those that the Primarch would later lead, the blocks of peasantry each supplemented by men from the warrior caste and all under the overall command of a monk-warrior, every one of them ultimately under the tactical guidance of Fū Xiá.

When the greatest battle yet seen was joined, it was not atop the walls of the temple complex, but in the fields and forests surrounding the mountain; some would have called this foolhardy strategy, but Fū knew exactly what he was doing, using every arm of his forces in perfect unison and winning perhaps the greatest victory ever seen on Xīn Fēng before or since.

What happened next is not really known, but it is very apparent that within the space of two to three decades he had subjugated the entire continent and been placed atop an almost godlike pedestal by the people he now ruled. In the coming years he fought off multiple invasions, personally leading his armies to new lands and, as on most planets where the Primarchs landed, dominating them utterly by bending to his will three whole continents of formerly divided fiefdoms and mountain strongholds.

It was at this point, when there was nothing left to conquer, that he once more returned to the toxic area where he had first landed, taken to the exact spot where his pod still lay; here he was left alone, asking that it be so, before turning his head toward the sky and wondering...

Not having long to wait, the Emperor arriving mere days later, an entire galaxy was opened up to him and a legion of sons placed at his disposal. Far from shirking back from this, or really stopping to even question it, he told his people that he would return and that would be bringing strangers with him. This he did, taking his fleet back to Xīn Fēng to observe the planet and its people, the Terran-born sons soon mingling with their 'foreign' comrades-in-arms and slowly but surely becoming shaped into that which Fū Xiá wished them to be. There was some resistance at first, but in the end the Sons of the Storm came to adopt most of the trappings of their Primarch's homeworld, even going so far as to rarely speak Gothic unless they were required to.

Since joining the Grim Crusade, one of the latter legions to be joined by their Primarch, the Fifteenth have been used primarily as a reserve force - mopping up enemies, breaking their adversaries for other legions to strike the fatal blow, and generally doing more reconnaissance and observation than any honourable combat. Whilst Fū Xiá has no problem with this, there have been some grumblings from within his legions upper echelons, and he cannot entirely disagree that putting their more martial talents to use soon would be a morale boost to all.

Legion Name: Sons of the Storm

Legion Number: XV

Legion Strength: The Fifteenth have around 108,000 Astartes within their ranks, as well an innumerable hosts of Imperial Army divisions and supporting formations; each Astartes is assisted in battle by three non-marines, carrying his weapons and caring for his armour while on campaign, so they've got at least 324,000 non-Astartes to begin with.

Armour Appearance:



The suits of armour worn by the Sons are some of their most cherished possessions, each suit customised to the likes of its wearer although still of uniform colour to the rest of the legion; these can range from helmets that flare out at the neck and sides to protect the marines more vulnerable parts, to masks carved into the likeness of Drakes, mythical creatures and even their own Primarch.

Mostly of the Mark II type, but with a spattering of others, as well as various parts of others, the armour of this legion bears a couple of unalterable elements throughout the legion, these being the coloured stripe down the centre of the helmet and the sashimono banner jutting from the top of their packs.

The colour of the stripe and the mon or symbol seen on the banner correspond to the leader of the particular squad and the foremost colour of the robes worn by members of a particular mountain-temple back on Twenty-Three Sixteen. For example, a blue stripe would mean Mount Furoshi, while the insignia on the banner might be a Wind Drake consuming a man which would be the aristocratic house of Hiroshi Techu who would also be the leader of that squad.

Many also choose to wear the loose outer robes of their temple over their armour, these going from the same turquoise and white as their Primarch all the way to a saffron or more orange colour depending on the unit.

Legion Symbol:

The overall symbol of the Sons is a circle, known as an ensō, a nearly-closed circle drawn in a single brush stroke. Some of the legion may also choose to scorch or strap various mantras or sutras to various parts of their armour.

Warcry: The XVth do not yell anything when going into battle, but projectd from within their helmets as they march forth can be heard the repeated phrases of religious mantras, or even deep humming, helping to free the warriors from any doubt or vestiges of fear they may have.



Favoured Tactics/Battlefield Role: The XV Legion are about as adaptable as they come, competent in most areas of warfare and more than happy to engage from any distance - as happy to cleave the enemy in two as to blow them apart with an orbital strike...or at least so they say, the people of Xīn Fēng being both natural hand-to-hand combatants and traditionally head hunters as well. That being said, they do favour airborne assaults, chemical/gas attacks and fast attack strategies developed on the home planet of their leader; sometimes they can be like the gentle breeze, battering the enemies walls before marching calmly toward them, while at other times they can be like the furious typhoon as they hurl themselves into the fray, often times dispersing in the face of the enemy to draw them in before crashing down on them. In terms of vehicular support, their primary vehicles are APCs of differing stripes, supported by outriders on bikes and land-speeders, very rarely do they use - or even have access to - anything 'heavy', and so they are not all that well suited to prolonged sieges.

Legion Characteristics/Ideology: The matter of the Fifteenth legions ideology and characteristics is a complex one at best, but at the most basic level they are each of them a 'monk-warrior' complete with all that such a moniker entails; they are trained in both the martial abilities of the legion - seeing their weapons as an extension of their bodies rather than a mere tool, trained thoroughly in the many training halls spread throughout the fleet - as well as their Primarchs belief that one can attain ultimate perfection (or enlightenment) through suffering and exceptional skill upon the battlefield. When not bringing the Imperial Truth, a creed that they wholly subscribe to, to the enemies of the Emperor they are often found meditating, conversing or training in the particular robes of their home 'temple'...outside of that they do very little. Like their Primarch, and actually on his orders, they seek to preserve life when they can and fully extinguish it when they cannot, the heads of their enemies removed from their bodies and bought to be shown to their officers or Primarch.

It is in internal organisation that the Fifteenth differ outwardly from most of their comrades; each cohort formed into a 'temple', each temple bearing the insignia of their leader - almost always one of the holy men or Daidoshi recruited from the ascetic mountain-warriors of Twenty-Three Sixteen - and then each temple split into 'domains' or 'clans' which are in turn under the command of the warrior nobility. The Terran recruits have found this feudal structure somewhat difficult to adapt to, but have done well in doing so without much complaint. Each temple is a self-contained formation, capable of being fielded independently from the legion, with their own division of vehicles and specialists given to them and for which they are responsible.

Overall, the legion is much as their predominant culture - various 'fiefdoms' within the legion vying for honour, the most heads taken and the great foes destroyed, and a code of personal conduct and honour pervading their lives. These are superhuman warriors who may have some superstitious beliefs, such as their souls being taken by the wind and their bodies ritually consumed by their comrades, but due to their exoteric and esoteric doctrines, their constant martial training, and their belief in their Primarch and his word, they are truly ferocious combatants and gods among mere men.

Hated Enemy (optional): None, as of yet.

Name:
Maximus (Caesar) Aurelius

Gender:
Male

Homeworld:
Roma
A Feudal world with a temperate climate that supports many farmers and mines extracting materials and food to be exported to the nearby forge world. It was ruled by three great houses that are constantly at war with each other over territory and their precious honor, until the planet was inducted into the Imperium it was also plagued by an infestation of feral Orks.

Appearance:

Outside of his titan Maximus is 10ft tall, he is broadly built as most other Primarchs but with a faintly olive tanned skin. He has a very short buzzed hair and pale blue eyes.
Outside of combat Maximus wears a simple robe, much like a monk would wear.

Armament – modified Crusader Knight Titan
The Knight is built larger and stronger than other Crusader pattern Titans giving it additional bulk to accommodate the Primarch’s size and heavier weapons.
Left arm - Plasma blast gun
Right arm - Vulcan Mega Bolter
Chest mount – Meltagun
Back mount – twin-linked heavy bolter

Master-craft Terminator armor

In the Terminator armor he dual wields rotary autocannons

Personality:
Maximus is an ally to all, he and his legion take their role as servants of the Imperium very seriously. He endeavors with every fiber of his being to grow the Imperium and make it greater, the only way to peace is to spread the Imperium to the edges of the galaxy. Once the Emperor rules all, peace will reign. He also tries to closely ally himself with his siblings and lend them his might to make them both greater opponents on the battlefield and grow the Imperium with their victory.

He is also very fond of the Imperial Guard and often fights with them combining the massive vehicle force of the Guard and the heavy weapons of his legion into an unstoppable wave of firepower.

Skills:
Psyker level: Grade Sigma- Minor level blank, would be somewhat resistant to psyker abilities.

The first obvious skill that Maximus has is his ability in a Crusader class Knight Titan, the titan is less a vehicle than an extension of his own body. He is an expert in piloting the massive machine, even to the point that he would be a serious threat even to titans greater than his own.

He is an expert in heavy weapons dual wielding rotary autocannons when not in his Titan but is more than able to use all heavy weapons that he can carry, such as Las-cannons, Multi-Meltas, etc.

Maximus is also a master tactician, just like his brothers and sisters. He excels when confronted with a fortress to attack or a point to be defended. He quickly understands the weaknesses of a fortress and how best to exploit such weakness, by extension this lends itself to fortification giving him knowledge on how his defense could be bolstered.

Biography:
Maximus landed in the field of a farm which was a fief owned by a minor lord, when the lord learned of this he adopted the child as his own. The lord, Gaius Caesar, thought that the child was fortune favoring him as his wife could not give him an heir. Maximus grew quickly and had taken an early interest in his adoptive father’s knight titan and the state of the world he was living on. Gaius was not a lord that fit in with the feudal world he was living on. Gaius worked tirelessly to unite the great houses, Julii, Scipii, and Brutii under one banner and defeat the feral Orks once and for all. This left an impression on the young Maximus, to unite the world.

Maximus’ father began to understand his child very quickly, he learned that the child was to grow faster and likely far larger than the average man. In addition to his rapid growth Maximus had an insatiable thirst for knowledge about warfare which his father accommodated as best he could. Maximus received training from the best tutors that could be hired eventually receiving training on how to operate a knight titan at the age of 12.

When Maximus had finally stopped growing Gaius scrounged all the money available in his lands, even selling several fiefs, to purchase a knight titan worthy of his son who had grown into a god among men, but was too large to fit into any Knight built for mere mortals. He requisitioned the Knight from the local forge world and payed to have it delivered as quickly as possible. He was making these arrangements because the Orks had begun a major offensive and had destroyed several minor houses.

Over the next several years Maximus would train in the use of a knight titan and learn about governance and state craft. While Maximus was learning the finer details of diplomacy the three great houses called up their respective armies which his father would have to join. The great houses where waging a war with the Orks to drive them back into their traditional lands and let the Ork problem fester on their borders. During the war Gaius was killed by a swarm of Orks dragging his Titan down and tearing it apart.

The Grief stricken Maximus became a lord in one stroke, but it fortified his resolve to carry out his father’s dream. The day the knight titan his father had purchased arrived he climbed into it and truly became a Knight. His soul boded with the machine spirit and he felt the might of the titan and its desire to destroy his enemies. Though the titan was truly powerful in its own right, he could never conquer the planet alone.

Maximus began to beseech other minor lords, those who were at the beck and call of the great houses and began to garner their support. Slowly, lord by lord, he built the House of Caesar. Eventually he gained the attention of the great houses who were becoming uncomfortable with Maximus’ ever growing might and Knight Legion. He reached a point that he could no longer siphon minor lords to his cause and had to either unite the houses diplomatically or go to war.

Unfortunately the houses where resilient in their denial, Maximus organized his small but mighty legion of titans and went to war with the most powerful of the great houses. House Brutii brought to bear many more knights that Maximus had, but theirs where not united in purpose. When the two clashed in battle is was a bloody melee that went on for hours. Maximus’ Titan was an ideal titan killer, equipped with a Plasma Blast Gun and a Vulcan Mega bolter he could bring down several titans before the battle was truly underway. He kept up the bombardment during the battle punishing any enemy who came into range or was exposed with deadly blasts of plasma or a hail of bullets. When the house was finally defeated, only a few of the Caesar titans were destroyed when almost a dozen enemy titans lay smoking in the field.

Once the House Brutii capitulated the other two houses listened to Maximus’ proposals much more carefully. When they began to see the prowess of Maximus’ leadership both on the battlefield and at the diplomacy table, they began to agree with him. Eventually the houses formed a Republic, forming the first senate that had each lord represented equally regardless of wealth or the number of fiefs it owned. At the formation of the senate the houses where dissolved letting each lord be independent from kings or houses.

The Orks came again after the formation of the senate, they came in greater numbers than ever before coming from their territory as an endless stream of Orks crushing any lord in their path. The senate pleaded for Maximus to tell them what to do, become king and protect them from the Orks. Maximus however refused and offered a different possibility, He would be appointed the supreme commander of the planetary forces under the title Caesar but he would hold no more power in the senate than he always had.

When this was done Maximus took the field in his massive Crusader class Titan and his small legion of others and began to beat back the Orks. Nothing the Orks had could remotely compare to the might of a Knight, their “Killa Kans” where no match for a bolt of plasma from a titan gun or a reaper chain sword. However when Maximus had finally blasted the Orks into their homeland, he carried the siege on. For days the titans would blast the Ork stronghold with any weapons they had. When Maximus was satisfied that there would be nothing left but cleaning up the few survivors of his barrage the titans stormed the Ork Citadel, and Maximus was wrong. There seemed to be no less Orks than there ever have been, hundreds of thousands poured from the Citadel to attack the titans in swarms that could not simply be gunned down.

During the fight, the Emperor of Mankind arrived on planet and began an orbital bombardment of the citadel and unleashed the full force of the Wild Blades Legion with their Primarch at the head. With the combined might of what few titans where left and the Astartes Legions under the Emperor’s guidance the battle was swiftly won with the Wild Blades hunting the last of the Orks and putting them to the sword. After this Maximus would take his true place as Primarch of the XXVII Legion, that became known as the Paladins Eternal.

He would take the surviving 15 titans of the Ork Siege with him when he joined the Grim Crusade. Each of the 10 Cohorts (Company) have a Knight Errant Titan at its head. The final 5 Titans are piloted by Maximus and his personal bodyguard.

The Meeting:
Maximus looked at the scanner Asupex still showing nothing but a cloud of hostile Orks. He fired his Plasma cannon into a horde of charging Orks and there would be nothing but a smoldering crater where the mob once stood, but it would be filled in again just as quickly as the gun could be fired. With his other arm he sprayed a hail of bullets from the Vulcan mega-bolter that slaughtered dozens of Orks a second. The line of Titans was collapsing each slowly being dragged down and torn to pieces one at a time, and there seemed to be no less Orks than when the battle started hours ago. ”Keep firing brothers! For Roma! Our Victory is assured!” yelled Maximus into his Vox for the fifth or sixth time today, though as the battle progressed the words began to feel hollow and dishonest. As the realization that he and every other Knight with him where going to die began to pass over his thoughts a blast of energy coming from the heavens demolished a huge swathe of the horde, then another, and another. The blasts came like clockwork finding the most densely packed part of the horde and destroying it, shortly after the bombardment started his Auspex began tracking dozens of objects coming from orbit, Gunships and drop pods bringing in a vast legion of soldiers clad in green, several dropships flew over the Knights dropping dozens of soldiers with jetpacks.


“2nd Company! Get ready to drop! The Orks are already bloodied, no need for fancy plans, Purge them all!” The Namer of the Dead called out to the assembled Marines. The warriors howled and thumped their chests, each standing against the bay walls of the Stormbird, winged Jumpacks primed and ready as the craft dove fast and hard towards the ground.

Erron smiled, his head bare, long black hair braided with feathers and small bits of bone. He had decided to accompany his 2nd on his mission, flying with the airborne specialized Marines. Named for the infamous Avarok of Varnis, the 2nd Company of the Wild Blades was made up entirely of Jumpack Marines, and dealt death from above like the avian beast of their namesake. Grinning a predators grin at the Namer of the Dead, Erron nodded and drew his curved sword and knife, their edges flickering to life as his honor guard drew their own massive power blades.

“Well said! Today is a day for glory! Today we fly with the Emperor himself!” Erron called out to the Marines, who gave a collective roar at the name and beat the floor with their armored boots. The bay doors at the back of the huge craft opened, the air sucking out of the ship as Erron stepped toward the edge, his massive golden and deep green wings unfurling from his personal Jumpack, the Marines assembling behind him. “Glory to the Tenth!” he cried, his sons returning the call with the customary “Death Rides on Swift Wings!” as he dove.

Falling headfirst from the craft, his hair flying out behind him, he streamlined his body as he left the ship. His sons whooped as they followed behind him as the Stormbird delivered its cargo high above the battlefield. Below him, Erron’s enhanced eyes could see green hordes of feral Orks being smashed apart by the orbital bombardment from space, as well as the huge mechanical walkers that belonged to the humans his Legion was here to assist. More Stormbirds dropped the remainder of the Avaroks around him, while others loaded with the other Companies dipped lower to deliver the Marines directly onto the ground. His face was stricken with a permanent smile, his Apexa Predatoris falling in formation with him, silent behind their helmets. Strafing Fire Raptor gunships cut huge lines in the alien’s formations, opening holes for Stormbirds to land and the green, red, and gold clad Wild Blades running out, bolters barking. Squadrons of bikes rode in V formations as they exited the landing craft, cutting down Orks with a hail of gunfire and slashing swords. Erron could hear the battle cries of his Legion, even from hundreds of feet above, and he used his wings to change course, heading for a pocket of resistance close to the huge battle-walkers.

With a primal roar, he flipped till he was feet first and fired his thruster, slowing his descent just before impact, smashing into the ground with a shock that would have pulverized a mortal being. The Orks staggered at the impact, too stupid to look up in the confusion of combat to see the airborne Marines as they fell upon the horde. Without breaking stride Erron was among them, both of his blades whirling in a deadly blur, slashing and cutting with wild abandon. There were so many of them he didn’t have to pick his targets, every cut finding flesh and parting bone. These beasts were primal creatures, their armor crude, and they died screaming upon their swords. His guards formed around him, and in a circle the five fought, back to back, their swords flinging fresh blood into the air with ever stroke. “Leave none alive! Purge them from this planet and let them know the wrath of the Wild Blades! ” Erron roared in the glory of combat, his Legionaries hollering their approval, each painted with tribal markings that were now smeared with gore.

The battle was turning quickly, with the Orks unable to stand against the combined might of his Legion and the massive machines. As soon as the creatures saw that their own kind were being surrounded by the new arrivals, many of them turned and ran. The more that ran, the more cowardly the others got, until the green tide was in full rout. Erron slashed the throat of a beast that charged him, using the momentum to spin his body and deliver a killing stroke with his knife into the temple of an Ork that was still struggling against the huge sword carving his stomach. His body guard kicked the dead alien off, smashed the pummel into another face, and drove his armored heel down on the dazed Orks neck with a sickening crunch as it fell. Erron looked out onto the field, seeing his sons chasing down the fleeing Orks.

“Ballor,” Erron spoke into the vox attached to the collar of his armor, addressing the Thane of his veteran 1st Company. “Chief,” came the gruff reply, awaiting orders. “It’s time for your men to share in the glory,” Erron said with a smile, pausing to watch the distant ridge-line of forested hills that the Orks were making to, believing to lose themselves in the cover. Within a few minutes, fire filled the sky and the hills exploded as the Drop Pods from Legion ships smashed into the earth, directly in the Orks line of retreat. The doors opened and the Orks were greeted with a withering hail of gunfire as the Dreadnoughts and Terminators within bellowed their challenge and charged. The Gorgoths , the first and most heavily armed of his children, stepped forward in unrelenting advance and fury like the massive creature whose totem adorned their armor.

Erron spread his arms wide, mechanical wings spreading out behind him and he tilted his head back, roaring in triumph as all around him his Legionaries lifted their swords, shaking them in the air with cries of victory. He then turned, wings closing behind his back. Facing the Great War Titans, he stepped forward to them as his honor guard followed; the rest of his Legion beginning to cut the ears and tusks from the slain for trophies.

“Cease fire!” yelled Maximus into the vox of his Knight. He didn’t want the devastating firepower of his titans to kill any of his saviors. He watched the blazing speed of the warriors hunting down and slaughtering the Orks to the last. Maximus ordered his titans to begin firing on the retreating Orks and not to allow them to escape, they began to unleash a hellish torrent of fire at the same time pods carrying dreadnaughts and Terminators fell from the sky right into the Ork line of retreat, their awesome combined firepower butchering them with no chance of escape.

When the cry of victory echoed throughout the forest Maximus opened his Knight and stepped out to greet the group following him. He was exhausted from the battle and climbed down from the Knight with an unusual stiffness that he was unaccustomed to. He was concerned with the state of his surviving troops, if he was this tired then each of his Knights would be nearly unconscious at the controls now that the adrenaline was wearing off. He finally reached the ground and noticed the obvious leader approaching him. There were several similarities between Maximus and this lord, it was not as though he was looking into a mirror but at a face he had once known like a brother or long lost friend. Maximus dismissed this as a silly thought strode up to meet the leader, just before speaking a massive ship darted by overhead that was plated in gold and obviously built for a King, or God. The ship picked a spot nearby and began to slowly drift to the ground, Maximus ignored it more interested in the warrior lord before him.

“My thanks! I am Maximus Aurelius, Caesar of the Knights of Rome, who are you?”

Erron reached out, grasping the man’s armored wrist with his gauntleted hand, looking him in the eye with a smile. “Erron Khaal, Primarch of the Wild Blades,” he replied, noticing the similar features in the man’s face, and the fact that he was the only one here who matched him in size. Yes, this was the one his father had said he would find, another of his lost brothers returned. His smile grew, and he kept his hold on the man’s arm. He had met several of his siblings already, but this was the first time his father had requested he join him in reuniting one. He felt a strong sense of kinship with Maximus already, though he knew nothing of him. Before the man could speak, Erron continued, “And I am a child of the Emperor of Mankind, sent here to assist in the reclaiming of another of his lost children,” he paused, letting his words sink in, checking Maximus’s face for any signs of recognition before he spoke one final word, “brother…”

Maximus grasped the man’s arm back and listening to the brief introduction, ‘Primarch of the Wild Blades, to be sure. These warriors are fierce and fearless.’ Thought Maximus though he had never heard of this Emperor, but the mention of lost children intrigued him. Maximus knew that he was adopted and had always felt somewhat out of place among even the mightiest of lords on this planet. ‘Could it be possible’ thought Maximus almost in disbelief that he was also a child of this Emperor, and had siblings.

The confusion was obvious on Maximus’ face, Erron smiled ever wider at the amusement of his brother’s confusion. Somehow it felt right, instinctively he knew that Erron was his brother and was not lying to him about the Emperor coming to reclaim him. “What happens now?” says Maximus wondering if the fate of all the Emperor’s children where to become gods of war.

Erron laughs and replies, “Well Maximus, I suspect that the Emperor will be coming to talk to you soon, about what will depend on you I am sure. He will offer for you to join his Grim Crusade across the stars and a Legion of warriors much like mine. Thus you will ascend to the title of Primarch and you will conquer the stars with your brother and sister Primarchs.” Maximus opens his mouth to ask a question, likely something about the title Primarch or the Grim Crusade, but Erron replies even before the question is asked. “Talk with The Emperor, he will make everything clear.”

As Erron finished his sentence the golden dropship opens and the Emperor of Man steps from the ship in his golden terminator armor that illuminated the blood soaked battlefield in a golden glow, Maximus didn’t even have to ask if this was the Emperor of Man. He could feel that it was simply the case, bypassing any logical portion of his mind he knew it to be true. As he strode up to meet the pair he casually inspected the chaos that was wrought on the battlefield, with a tiny hint of a smile on his face as though he was had won a minor wager. As the Emperor neared the pair Erron bowed to his father, Maximus merely saluted him by bringing his fist over his heart.

The Emperor spoke in a commanding voice, not as though he was trying to be heard but when he spoke the very planet seemed to stop and pay attention.

“Well done my son” he says to Erron
“Thank you father, Allow me to introduce your son, Maximus.”
The Emperor turns a knowing gaze to Maximus ”Yes,” while putting a massive arm around him “come my son, we have a great deal to discuss.”

The two wandered for hours followed distantly by the Emperor’s guard, all the while discussing the Imperium and what would become of maximus. The Emperor answered all of Maximus’ questions, during the walk the pair passed a small village near a minor lord’s castle. The Emperor paused when he began to observe the village and took notice of the people. A Knight Titan that seemed to be damaged and incapable of being in the battle with the Orks was at the edge of the forest cutting down trees with its chain sword. Seeing this the Emperor came to a realization that made him laugh loudly.

“Maximus” , the Emperor said still chuckling “We have talked about my Imperium and your future for hours, but we have said nothing about your world. I see a great engine of war doing labor, cutting down trees for his servants. Tell me why?”

Maximus mulled over the question briefly before replying “It’s simple really, we knights are servants to the people, their protectors. That service extends beyond war, even a damaged Knight like that one can do more work in an hour than most towns could in a day.”

“But does that not impede their training and battle readiness?”

Maximus was baffled by the implication, surely warriors are not mindless machines of war. When in peace warriors can maintain their training and still have enough time to serve their people by building or harvesting with the peasants. He knew this ideal was unpopular when the planet was united but the senate, comprised of both lords and peasants alike, agreed that knights should help their people.

“Not at all father, a warrior must do things other than train and maintain his equipment. He would be a great warrior without doubt but to what end? If a warrior spent an hour or two a week aiding his people, then he would not only have time enough to ensure that he is a great warrior but also make his people prosperous.”

The Emperor nodded, Maximus was right, however the Astartes where not made to be servants such as this. The Astartes where made to be war made manifest, however a legion that helped the people above and beyond the call of war would aid in earning the respect and admiration of the people.

“Of course my son, well said. Now, I must ask you. How did you come to rule this world?”

“I don’t, the title Caesar is a military one, commander of the Knights and local forces.”

The Emperor studied Maximus for a long time, even to the point that he became uneasy. Maximus was unsure at what the Emperor was thinking, he felt that his answer was unsatisfactory in some way. The Emperor did not give any indication as to his feelings and seemed to be waiting for farther explanation.

“I united the planet under one banner some years ago, but I formed a senate to rule. Comprised of both lords and commoners, it was a dream that m fath- adopted father had. When I was a child he worked ceaselessly to accomplish that goal, when it was in my grasp I accomplished what he could not.”

The Emperor nodded in understanding, and took Maximus to the golden transport ship to be united with the IIIXX legion.

Honor Guard: When on the battlefield Maximus has a personal bodyguard of 4 Knight Titans.
Two Paladins and two Castigator

Legion Name: Paladins Eternal

Legion Number: XVII

Legion Size: 100,000 Marines + 15 (the 10 Cohort commanders, Primarch and Primarch’s Honor guard)
10 Cohorts
100 Centuries (per Cohort)
100 Marines (per Century)
5000 Knight Titans (total)
+chapter serfs/servitors

200,000 - 502 imperial army (remnant regiment)
400,000 - other Imperial army units.

Armour Appearance:

War cry: Imperator Aeternam (Emperor Eternal)

Dramatis Personae:
(WIP)
- Claudius Balbilus – Bodyguard titan operator, Knight Castigator.

- Decimus Junius – Bodyguard titan operator Knight Castigator

- Junis Brutus – Bodyguard Titan operator Knight Paladin

- Lucius Otho – Bodyguard Titan operator Knight Paladin

- Domitius Marsus – Leader of the 1st Cohort Knight Paladin

- Magnus Felix – Leader of the 2nd Cohort Knight Paladin

- Romulus Augustus – Leader of the 3rd Cohort Knight Paladin

- Casius Tetricus - Leader of the 4th Cohort Knight Paladin

- Lucius Barbatius - Leader of the 5th Cohort Knight Paladin

- Tadius Pavo - Leader of the 6th Cohort Knight Paladin

- Gallus Aedinius - Leader of the 7th Cohort Knight Paladin

- Octavianus Socellius - Leader of the 8th Cohort Knight Paladin

- Titus Canius - Leader of the 9th Cohort Knight Paladin

- Marcus Furius – Leader of the 10th Cohort, Pilot of a Knight Gallant Specially built for close combat. Marcus is a Brutal and furious warrior favoring close and bloody combat as opposed to heavy weapons. Personally he is also a brutal and angry man who is prone to furious outbursts among his fellow Cohort leaders.

- Loch Ó Duirnín – Lord Commander of the 502nd Imperial Regiment, Loch is a regimental commander of remnant forces recovered by the Paladins. When small units of the Imperial Guard saved they are inducted into the 502nd.

Favored Tactics/Battlefield Role: The Paladins Eternal utilize their knight world heritage to their advantage, receiving knight titans from their homeworld’s nearby forgeworld. Often fielding hundreds or thousands of knights to lay siege to the enemy. With many devastator marines and artillery vehicles supporting the knights none can stand in their path, the mightiest fortresses will fall to the to the Paladins Eternal.
Legion Characteristics/Ideology: The Paladins Eternal fully embrace the Imperial Truth, and endeavor to grow the Imperium to the edges of the galaxy. They are also dedicated to their role as servants of the Imperium. Members of the Paladins Eternal will go out of their way to protect civilians during combat and try to get them away from the battle if possible.

The Paladins Eternal are not led like any other Legion in the Imperium, they are governed by a senate comprised of Cohort and Centurion leaders. They resolve internal matters through discussion and votes where each member is allotted only one vote, including Maximus. That being said a vote very rarely goes a different way than Maximus desires, but it has happened. This does not affect military matters however, if the legion receives orders to attack a planet they will obey without any kind of vote. Additionally on the battlefield Maximus’ word is law, during combat his orders are followed without question.

In the Paladins Eternal discipline is fierce and training harsh, all intended to instill a group cohesion that could bind the men together into effective fighting units. Military training concentrated on instilling teamwork and maintaining a level head over individual bravery, a marine is rewarded for heroism but it must be a truly great act of bravery.

The Paladins Eternal are organized into 10 Cohorts, each led by a Knight Titan, though they have Terminator armor when the Titan is not useable.

Hated Enemy (optional): Orks
The Hatred of Orks runs deep, the home world of Roma was besieged by the Orks for many years once recruitment began to come from the home world the hatred took root deep in the Chapter’s culture.

Talvyrn Gallogoth


Male

Wardens Aegis


XIX