Basic Information

| Name |
Aed, of the first circle of the world
Nyx, of the breeze blown tune

| Age |
Older than the drums in the woods and more ancient than the song on the wind.

| Gender |
Male, in all likelihood.

| Sexuality |
Aesexual.

| Occupation |
After picking up the art of banking in the city of Babylon, Aednyx has become quite adept at moving money around to make it transform into more money. He has a considerable fortune at his disposal during his current holiday period and is acting as a patron of the arts and general layabout.

| In-Depth Appearance |
White of skin and hair, Aednyx's features are never quite settled. Today, the nose is sharp and straight, tomorrow short and cute as a button and so on. There are a few constants of course, favourite shapes like others have favourite clothes; elfin features, sharp cheekbones, a smirking mouth, deep eyes and sunken sockets. One might even theorise that his favourite shapes have, through the years, influenced the tradition of calling such features elfin or faelike.

He is generally quite tall (all the better to look down on you my dear) and thin. In previous years and centuries, Aednyx favoured sable black tunics and flowing cloaks that brought with them the dark of decades past. Nowadays, he prefers loose fitting cardigans, black T-shirts, skinny jeans and pointy shoes. Moving with the times is incredibly important to him and he wouldn't like to seem out of date. When he deigns to dress in a colour other than black, he likes reds, browns and oranges; the warm colours of autumn.

Like all fae, what people see of him is more glamour than not. But as a particularly old and noble faery, Aednyx's glamour is as thick as the age of wood and even harder to penetrate. Nothing less than a serious iron inflicted injury would force him to drop it so it is unlikely any will ever see what lies beneath. What all can be certain of, however, is that he will have no wings. When he gave up name and title, he cast those off as well and will never wear wings again, even in glamour. The skies are for others, Aednyx has contented himself with the earth. All of it.

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| Personality |

It is a truth almost universally acknowledged that being old grants one certain privileges. Not having to wait for a seat on the bus, discounts at the cinema, bigoted thinking being hand waived and so on. When one is older than the society that enforces these rules, one comes to expect a different kind of special treatment and, equally, one acts in a certain way towards those so much younger than one's self.

As a faery of noble blood, Aednyx probably couldn't tell you exactly when he was born but it is safe to say that he is very old, if such a word can be applied to an immortal. It is because of this, then, that he is more than a little patronising to those younger than himself. Of course, that's not quite accurate. He's just as patronising to anyone his age and even those older than him, they're just much rarer. His manner isn't overly rude though, just implies a perspective that thinks in different terms to mortals. Where a human thinks in brackets of ten, twenty or fifty years, Aednyx might be thinking in terms of the next handful of centuries or the next few millennia.

Another cause for this demeanor might be his station in life. For the first portion of his existence, he was a prince of the Seelie court. For the past few ages, he has been the driving force in many events of human history, an immortal flame in a sea of mortal candles. It is rare that he meets his equal in mystical might or ancient ambition. That has largely changed since the incident of 2020, as now one can find archangels and demons on every street corner, practically. Aednyx is conflicted over how to feel about this. He quite likes having so many supernatural beings out in the open, as the clash of different species and magics forces more and more creativity and creation out of society. On the other hand, he quite liked being a genuinely mysterious figure of impenetrable mystery. These days, most people just assume he's a weird vampire.

Aednyx sees people not as pieces on a chessboard but rather as characters in a story, not an uncommon viewpoint for a fae. As long as an action or inaction betters the overall story, what does temporary inconvenience matter? True, you might dislike spending five years homeless as you study for a degree but won't it be an incredible story to tell your children? And speaking of children, Aednyx has seen how you look at so and so, and he's sure he could get the two of you together, just say the word. What, you'd rather he not interfere? Ah, bit too late, he's already scheduled a blind date for the two of you and paid for everything, surely you won't back out now...And so on. Aednyx truly believes that what he does is in everyone's best interest. After all, mankind has benefited plenty from his presence, why would individuals be different? It helps that he mostly prefers happy stories and doesn't inflict undue suffering on any of his 'characters'.

Apart from that, Aednyx likes people who respect him and are suitably interested in whatever it is he has to say. He likes teaching people things they didn't know and likes it when they're prepared to admit the gaps in their knowledge. He likes people who create and change, people who warp and shift. Stagnation is death, creation is life.

| Likes & Dislikes |


| History |
Long, long ago, there was the circle. It was a petty little thing, scraped in the dirt by a being more monkey than man and lined with scraps of flint. When it was done, the man's friends came and danced around it to the beat of their savage drums. As hidebound drum and thumping foot reached a fevered crescendo, something stepped into the circle from the other side of forever. The newcomer was pale as snow and looked waiflike compared to the proto-humans before him. And yet they cowered back at his sudden appearance, stumbling to distance themselves from the circle.

The newcomer looked at the strange beings whose music had attracted his attention. Huge hands, stunted limbs, large heads and wide brows. True, they seemed slow and thick, their skulls more suited to cracking nuts than thinking. There was something in them, something more than the need to eat, sleep, drink, mate. Or, at least, the seed of something else. Perhaps, with the proper guidance, they could learn to sing.

On that day, a fairy of Titania's own family did cast down his title, take leave of his duties and drop his wings into the mud. And for what? To dance with brutish monkeys? To teach them tunes and build them instruments? Madness. There again, what faery can said to be sane? He took up a new name, built of the circle and forged of the tune. Aednyx, a name that can be traced through all the ages of the world.

To follow his path through human history isn't easy, for he was ever shy of the spotlight. When men first put ink to page and made letters, he was dictating. When women first strung a strand of entrails between two horns to strum out a tune, he was conducting. When people first told legends by the fireside, he was doing shadow puppets. His role was the kindly teacher or helpful muse, giving great men and women the shape of the next revolutionary idea and letting their minds fill in the gaps. Music, the written word, theatre, and many more innovations since the first days were conceived under his gently guiding hand.

Less than loved by other faeries, Aednyx's insulting dismissal of his courtly ties burns in the hearts of many proud Seelie as hot today as it did so many years ago. His name was his own to lose and no other can find it, so they have no choice but to address him, should they meet, by his new title. But in their hearts, the more traditional of Seelie Court think of him as coward, craven and crook. To choose the man-things over the court of the Fair Folk... unthinkable.

For the past century or so, Aednyx has been taking a holiday. Mankind have taken his lessons well and are inventing like never before. It's gratifying to see them race forwards, new devices, knowledges and crafts being thought up every day, like a toddler who has gone straight from walking to sprinting. Someday soon, he's sure he'll get back to work and push humanity into the next era of progress. Really, any day now. At the moment, however, he's indulging locally in perhaps his favourite passion; the arts. As beautiful now as they were in a muddy forest near ten millennia ago.

| Family |
During his time with humanity, Aednyx has had many faery visitors. Some wanted to see his little project for themselves, alternatively laughing or marvelling. Others wished to 'avenge his insult upon the Seelie court' and challenged him to duels and contests. To their surprise but not his, they found that he had given up none of his power when he gave up his wings. The ashes of most of his challengers are spread across the earth, though some were allowed to go free. After all, what good is an example if there's none alive to spread it?

Though he has many siblings and uncountable cousins, Aednyx's family seem unwilling to visit. Most likely because none of them are prepared to go against the most prominent family member's example. Aednyx's mother, Titania the second and former Queen of the Seelie court, has never deigned to visit her wayward son. She has many others and at least this one isn't plotting to assassinate his brothers and sisters. Still, it is a little undignified for one of noble blood to squat upon the earth with such an uncivilised people. Perhaps one day she will arrive as a terrible tempest and wash away their cities before bringing him home. Not today though.

| Strengths |

• Absolutely ancient, with all the old knowledge and mystical secrets that implies.
• As powerful a magician as any fae, but with the advantage of long years of experience.
• Well practised at getting people to do what he wants them to do, with sly words and guile.

| Weaknesses |

• As vulnerable to iron as any other Faerie, it burns and strips him of his glamours
• Unpractised in personal combat, more used to using magic or using people to fight his battles
• Has very few allies to call on, most Seelie Faeries still hold a grudge about him leaving.

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| Theme Song |
The Voice – Celtic Women
_{”I am the voice in the wind and the pouring rain
I am the voice of your hunger and pain
I am the voice that always is calling you
I am the voice, I will remain”}

✯ Name ✯
Timmy, sometimes called the Tiger.

✯ Age ✯
22 years old.

✯ Gender ✯
Male

✯ Affiliation ✯
The 33rd Street Razors.

✯ Years With Gang ✯
Five years with the Razors.

✯ Appearance ✯
Scrawny and thin, Timmy looks like the exact opposite of a physical threat, apart, of course, from his snarling Tiger mask and agitated movements. His twitches, ticks and flicks would put you in mind of an athlete waiting for the match to begin or a warrior itching to get to the thick of it, except on a man more gristle than meat they look almost comical. It doesn't help that any clothes that Timmy chooses go from stylish to misshapen and tacky the second he puts them on, no matter how carefully the outfit is selected. He practically radiates an aura of 'unthreatening victim' to those people who look for such things and even those not so attentive are unlikely to be threatened or impressed by his lanky figure.

Right up until he hammers a glass bottle into a bouncer's face with a gleeful cackle. Then people tend to revaluate his threat level.

✯ Personality ✯
You know that feeling you get when you score the winning goal, beat the unbeatable game boss, or kiss that special someone? The thumping in your chest, the racing of your heart, the sudden power that fills you up and makes you want to scream? That's adrenaline, liquid energy naturally produced by the body to help us when we're in a tight spot. With it pumping through your veins, you can run faster, punch harder and survive more. Some people describe an adrenaline rush as the only time they feel truly alive.

Timmy is not just one of those people, he's their king. Ever since he first tasted the bitter tang of adrenaline on his tongue, the rest of the world was painted over in grey and beige. Every moment was a drag, every day without it an eternity. In the space of but a few weeks, he transformed from a mild mannered, middle class boy to a first class adrenaline junky. It didn't matter what he had to do to get his fix; glass a bouncer, head-butt a priest, dirtbike while drunk, tightrope walk while high, he'd do it and then do it again. His antics brought him to the attention of the 33rd Street Razors who saw a kindred spirit in a frail body and invited him to join their ranks.

Ever since then, Timmy has been benefitting from the perks of being a member of the infamous gang, from easy access to narcotics, fast cars and weapons to many opportunities to to sate his lust for excitement. While he might not initially seem like a natural recruit for the Razors, his single minded determinedness to obtain an adrenaline high at any cost, to himself or others, fits in just fine with them. Having fully abandoned his former life, Timmy is all in as a member of the Razors, living by their rules and embodying their philosophy to the best of his abilities. In return, the gang's name and infrastructure protect him for the worst consequences of his actions. Without them, Timmy would likely not last a day.

✯ Strengths ✯
Berserker - Timmy's addiction to adrenaline and general bloody mindedness makes him a vicious beast when set loose in close proximities to a potential opponent. Where other fighters seek to guard themselves and harm the enemy without taking too much damage themselves, Timmy is all whirlwind of fists, feet, teeth and knives that only cares about savouring the feeling of dancing on the edge of knife, not about defending himself or surviving the fight.

Driver - There are few ways to guarantee a spike in one's pulse than racing a fast car round a hair-pin bend or executing a Lazy Boy on a dirt bike. As such, Timmy has spent many, many hours behind the wheel and all that practise has gained him some skill. In all fairness, his driving abilities aren't based on speed, safety or efficiency but on how dangerous and exciting he can make any given action.

Survivor - Despite his wiry frame, Timmy is both surprisingly strong and shockingly tough. A combined addiction to adrenaline and drugs have wreaked merry hell with his nervous system, heart and body in general. Due to this, Timmy can take more punches than most men several times his weight and still get up to give out a few hits of his own.

✯ Weaknesses ✯
Untrained - Although he's been in uncountable scraps and fights during his membership of the Razors, Timmy has never received any formal training for any of his skills. He fights like a rabid beast because he's got the same amount of training as one and drives like a drunken toddler because he hasn't got a license. While he can blunder through with luck and belligerence, many tasks call for a level of technical skill that he simply doesn't have.

Unhealthy - Almost all addictions have negative affects on both the victim's social life and physiology and Timmy is no exception. His old life has almost been completely lost in a haze of drugs and death, leaving him no friends outside the Razors. And his body is a twitching, scarred wreck, no longer able to properly regulate its natural release of adrenaline or balance his humours.

Unstable - When you're obsessed with finding excitement at any cost, even if it is detrimental to yourself and others, you're bound to get hurt and to do some hurting. Finding methods of obtaining that elusive high that were previously effective now dull, Timmy has to work hard to experience new thrills. So far he has managed to avoid breaking the Razor's cardinal rule, to not betray one another, but one of days he may slip up.

✯ Likes ✯
✔ Almonds, Kale and healthy, organic foods that boost the body's adrenaline output.
✔ Going out at night on the main streets, where the city is all neon and concrete.
✔ Driving to the edge of the city to drive in the dust and drink in the dirt.
✔ Partying until he can't think, always seeking to one up everyone else.

✯ Dislikes ✯
✘ Fast food, salt and other things that clog up the body and slow down the mind.
✘ Slow Sundays, boring Wednesdays and times when nothing happens.
✘ Situations and places where no one is supposed to move or make noise, like Churches or Libraries.
✘ Waking up after a good night and suffering for it.

✯ Relationships ✯
Blank, for now.

✯ Other ✯
Blank, for now.

✯ Theme ✯
Ballroom Blitz - Sweet

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.

Player Name:
Roosan

Character You Wish To Play:
Union Jack (Brian Falsworth)

Moral Alignment:
Walking the Line

Affiliation:
S.H.I.E.L.D.

Character Origin:

Powers and Abilities:


Sample Story Arcs: