BornOnBoard

The Grim Crusade - A Warhammer 30000 RP

Sun and Steel

001.M31

Council Grounds

“Being a Transcription, Accurate & True, of the Meeting of the Masters of the 10th and 17th Legiones Astartes”
- Remembrancer Archives, M.31

“Men are so quick to blame the gods: they say
that we devise their misery. But they
themselves- in their depravity- design
grief greater than the griefs that fate assigns.”
- Assigned to a pre-M1 Terran remembrancer, identity unknown.

As the events of the Council wore on, Arnulf Wode, Lancer Primus of the 10th Legion, Primarch, Gene-sire, and other titles he had yet gotten used to, found himself returning to the sparring chambers of the Council buildings more and more. He wore no armor, not even so much as a refractor field. He was dressed in… well. His old tanker fatigues. The same rumpled boilersuit he’d worn during those twenty years of unification on Salient, obviously cleaned and pressed since then. It reminded him of simpler times, which is why he wore it when he was not at official business.

Something about the inactive hum of the idling trainer servitors helped him think, and quiet time for thinking had been at such a premium in the last few years. It hadn’t been hard to pinpoint where his internal disquiet came from - like all things in this new life he’d found, it had started during that run across the Southern Wastes that ultimately put him back into his father’s graces.

When Arnie Wode the soldier became Arnulf Wode the conqueror. He sighed, picking up a laughably primitive weapon from the wall, a stout wooden club topped by a sharpened steel spike. He turned it in his hands, his fingers running over a switch. He pressed it, and the steel cap of the weapon erupted in brilliant blue light.

Well. Maybe not so laughably primitive after all. That was another thing he’d have to get used to. Imperial war was so much more brutal, so much more up close than the sweeping actions of the Salient deserts. Even now, twenty years after that run across the Wastes, he could still see the yellow-armored form of the pre-Pact Lightnings butchering his human soldiers, their fists gripping hammers and chain-swords and bolt pistols turned so the grip could be used as a club, still see the explosive gouts of viscera as transhuman strength met human frailty at arm’s length.

He turned the power-goedendag off, and hung it back on its rack, clasping his hands behind his back and walking the length of the room, his thoughts adrift as he inspected each of the master-crafted wonders that hung about the chambers.

Close to dying from boredom, the master of the Seventeenth Legion stalked through the halls of the Council building with a small train of specialists in tow. A number of logisticians spoke in hushed tones of supplies and reinforcements, a gaggle of hooded adepts of the Mechanicum blared their cant at as low a level as their synthesizers and casters allowed, and even some of her very own daughters, Company Commanders all of them, talked quietly of training regimes and Neophyte readiness.

All of it was far too loud for the Primarch’s enhanced senses. All of it filled her mind with dizzying sets of data and lists, compounded by the fact she was needlessly translating the techpriest’s static bursts and adding their wealth to the monotony in her head.

As if by some divine intervention she saw her escape appear before her. So sudden was her stop that one of the hooded techpriests walked directly into her, his meager form rebounding off the armored form of the Primarch and falling to the ground with an inhuman burst of static. Paying no heed to the adept Nelchitl found a smile growing on her face as she peered into what she had thought was an empty sparring room.

As she turned to enter the chamber, her Captains took to her flanks and made it clear the others were not to follow as a single Astartes posted themself in the path of the rest of the entourage.

“The Liberator of Salient,” Nelchitl spoke excitedly as she came down the steps into the chamber and made her way to the racks of weapons arrayed for anyone's use, “the People’s Hero.” she exclaimed almost mockingly to him with a hand up in his direction as she ran the other across the top of a masterfully crafted power sword.

“You have saved me from the monotony of my lesser duties. For this I am grateful.” she hefted a sizable power hammer in a single hand, feeling it’s balance and weight as she swung it easily around herself.

“Liberator. More like the euthanist of Salient.” Wode said, pursing his lips at a weapon that resembled nothing so much like a coil of several steel whips. “That world was sick.”

He looked away from his ponderings to regard the newcomer to his makeshift fortress of solitude, his face lighting up in recognition. “Saints and Martyrs, that’s not my sister I see, is it? And divorced of your entourage, how’d you manage it? I’ve been trying to actually -talk- to any of my new siblings this whole bloody council, but I never could get close to any of them.”

Wode strode across the deck, stopping just out of range of any practice swings Nelchitl might choose to make. He stuck out his hand. “Arnie Wode. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, N… Nelchitl.”

He butchered her name, admittedly. The Serpents had names unlike anything the 10th’s master had ever pronounced before.

“Many planets require the Imperium to adjust them, lest they stray from our Father’s path.” she responded to her Brothers musings on his title. She continued her small swings of the hammer, each one tighter and faster than the last as she came to regard its nature.

Smiling she turned to regard Wode as he approached, near as tall as her and built like the famous tanks he so dearly loved. She grinned and shrugged as he continued to muse, “I have been busy for sure, the Crusade continues beyond Nikaea. Though,” her grin grew wider as she inclined her head to Wode, “I did manage to have a short exchange with our dear brother Micholi.” she finished with a laugh before her eyes set on Wode like a predator on prey.

“Sister is fine.” she added as she hefted the power hammer towards his outstretched hand. Not waiting to see if the Primarch of the Tenth would catch it she spun in place, grabbing up the power sword from earlier and igniting its thrumming energy field. As she finished her spin she brought the weapon around in a simple killing blow toward her new brother.

For a fraction of a second, Wode stood with the hammer in his hand, resembling more a carpenter than a warrior as the sword hissed through the air towards him. However, a primarch is a primarch, and his reflexes did save him what his instincts told him was a fatal blow. He lept backwards, dropping the hammer as he did so, the weapon leaving a dent in the plasteel plating of the floor as he skidded backwards. Wheeling his arms for balance, he snapped to his right, looking for something that’d give him a better chance against a sword. He was no expert, but someone like Nel could clearly cut him to ribbons before he’d even indexed the hammer for a swing.

He grabbed a longer blade, single edged, with no guard. He lit the power field, face locked in a feral grimace.

“What in the hell is wrong with you?” He snarled, “Did handshakes go out of fashion in the Long Fucking Night or something?”

He charged forward, intent on meeting her, even if he was unsure he could win. He held his warbrand over his head in a telegraphed blow that an expert could surely dodge, but one that would no doubt be cataclysmic if it landed. If Nel let him, he would cut her in two.

Nelchitl’s eyes lit up as Wode dodged away, the hammer falling to the floor as her brother dropped it in favor of a better weapon to take on her own sword.

“What better way to introduce ourselves than this?” she exclaimed proudly as she slid out from under Wode’s falling blade while her own came up to meet it at an angle. Sparks lit the room in blues as the competing energy fields slid off one another in a wild display of arcing energies.

“Tell me Brother,” she brought the sword back out in a quick stab as she spoke, “tell me of you! Of your legion and their accolades!” she laughed as she pressed her assault.

Accolades could wait for a split second, Wode thought deliriously. He wrenched his blade around, clumsily deflecting the stab a little too low on the guardless blade, several of the leather wraps surrounding the grip falling to the floor.

“I’m Wode, I’m a soldier, and my legion are soldiers!” He bellowed, transitioning his blade to a single handed grip and swinging it front of him at waist level, hoping to drive her back. The power field made a beautiful arc in the air, thrumming as the ionizing field swooshed through the space between them.

You could really fall in love with a sight like that, Wode thought, before he spoke again. “Accolades are for parades, for liberty, and boxes consigned to attics! The only thing that goddamn matters is winning!”

Nelchitl smirked as her strike came up only just short, singed leather straps dropping to the floor as they continued to dance around one another.

“We’re all soldiers Brother!” she jumped back from his swing, “but tell me of the kind of soldiers you lead!” she pushed her question further. In a flash she brought her own sword to bear once more, the weapon reaching out toward Wode in a shallow slash.

“My Daughters are magnificent, they crave the field of battle!” she continued as their weapons flashed, “They do not want accolades, but I give them anyway, for how else do I keep tally of their deeds? How else do I show that I recognize their excellence?” she questioned.

Her slash met steel, Wode blocking the blow, notching his own blade. The impact was so strong it kicked up a circle of dust, the hammer-blow of it rattling the other weapons in their wall-racks. Even the idling servitors nearby briefly woke up from the dispersed kinetic force, querying the room with a menu of training regimens, but the two superhumans locked in seemingly mortal struggle took no notice.

Joints popped. Veins stuck out in Wode’s head, his teeth gritted so hard he thought surely one would crack. He met Nel’s gaze with his own, eyes locked, teeth bared, but something in his head changed. He laughed.

“My men, human and Astartes, ain’t glamorous. They’re tank men.” He spat, “They operate machines. And they don’t do much beyond that, but they’re the best in the goddamned galaxy. A hundred of them on their rides could take on anything, and I’d bet my life on it.”

He leaned forward, butting his forehead against Nel’s, pushing with everything his body had to keep from folding like a cheap table. “And I have bet my life on it. They’d follow me into hell and I’d lead them there.”

“Outstanding.” Nelchitl stated simply as their swords met, the space between them shortened to a far more intimate embrace of the demigods’ dance. Energy fields sparking as the two strained against one another, Nelchitl gave her brother a grin as he cracked his head against her own, a small mark growing on her skin just a moment later.

“I appreciate a good tank.” she spoke to him far softer than before, “I’ve seen destruction in this life, from the God Machines of Mars, and the most lowly mortal. Though the venerable super heavies have always held a spot in my chest.” she pushed back into his sword as she spoke before her eyes went wide.

Suddenly, he reared back, breaking forehead contact with his sister. Then, he brought his head forward again, so fast he could hear air whistle in his ears, a rhinoceros striking with it’s horn, a hippo trying to smash the lion that hunted it into the old Afrik plains.

Wode moved faster than she’d expected him capable of, his head smashing into hers with a resounding crack so loud it drew the attention of all outside the chamber. Her own Captains turned to regard the hit as they allowed the entourage to flow past them in a moment of awe.

Nelchitl slid away from her Brother, a hand clutching her forehead as she steadied herself against the floor with the other. She wiped a smear of blood from her cracked forehead, swiping it up with her tongue before she rose cackling, “You’re far more interesting than Micholi.” she mused.

Far more cautious, she began to circle Wode. The sword spinning idly in her hand as she passed a rack of weapons and took up a second power sword. Rolling both shoulders she regarded the Primarch before her, “If one's own genes refused to follow them into hell, would they even be worthy of the title of Primarch?” she asked before rushing back at Wode, both swords coming at him in a scissoring blow.

When Wode broke from their embrace, he came off far worse. The headbutt had mashed his nose, cut his scalp, and broke a tooth. It seemed everything on his head throbbed with dull pain, and he kept spitting gouts of rich, red blood onto the dented plasteel deck. He held his Faussart up in an unsteady guard, trying to track his whipcord-fast sister as she fell upon him with a blade in each hand.

In less than a second, the clash was decided. He’d play this combat out the rest of his life, marveling at how fast he’d moved and how it still hadn’t been enough. He’d batted one sword aside, but, the warbrand, no primarch’s weapon, shattered as he did so. The other blade, devoid of a weapon to block it, shot towards him, the other blade of the scissor he was caught in.

Lacking any other recourse, he caught the blade with his hand, groaning, then screaming with pain as the power field burned, cut through the thick skin of his palms, but he held it, arms shaking with fatigue even in one such as him. The blade was an inch from his head. He could see the patterning of the steel, up close, in micron-scope level detail.

“I may be interesting, but I’m out of tricks.” He said, his voice shaky, “I think… I think you got me.”

The room quickly filled with the smell of roasting flesh, a nauseating smell to even hardened soldiers, but Wode held the blade, not willing to surrender it fully until he was sure his sister wouldn’t strike his head from his shoulders.

Her brothers block breaking his own weapon and sending one of hers spinning across the chamber Nelchitl pressed in with the second. With a fervor beyond that she had shown through the entire spar, Nelchitl smiled at Wode as he caught the blade in his hand, energy field and all stopped by the superhuman physiology they had been gifted by Him.

The Emerald Priestess extinguished the energy field as a collective gasp went up through her entourage as they only now registered what had nearly taken place before their eyes.

With a swift pull she brought the sword back out of Wode’s grip, cutting further as she did before she brought it to her own palm. With a simple motion she cut her own palm, as deep and as completely as Wode’s had been, the energy field igniting once more as she did and then tossing it aside.

“You are more than interesting my Brother.” she beamed as she brought her hand up to shake his equally mutilated hand.

Wode grinned, the slightly silly, punch-drunk smile of a boxer beaten senseless over twelve rounds. He clasped his Sister’s hand, the blood mingling, the Pact sealed. “And you’re crazier than a Salient merchant prince, Sister, but you’re my blood. I love you, you crazy bitch.”

Nelchitl cocked her head in confusion as their hands clasped, “It is not possible for me to be a Prince Wode, I am not a man.” she retorted before pulling Wode in and clapping her free hand across his back, “My blood and my daughters would be honored to fight with you and yours.” she added as she broke the embrace.

As the embrace broke, Wode laughed. “Sorry, I can’t see all that well through the blood. If your Daughters fight half as well as you, then I want yours on the flanks of my battle line, every time.”

As if to prove a point to Wode, a large crash suddenly broke the moment as one of the chamber's servitors skid across the floor in shattered pieces. Gurgling oils and speaking in broken strings of random words, jittering as it died slowly.

“I apologize, Lords.” one of Nelchitl’s Serpents spoke as they leaned down to collect the shards of Wode’s broken warbrand. “It was going to recycle the fragments… For the trophy hall Lords, a most honorable duel, worthy of the annals of history.” they added as they bowed and retreated from the floor.

Nelchitl smiled at her daughter as only a mother does at a child who, though their intentions were good, had mistimed their actions, “Of course Captain.”

“Keep it. Of course.” Wode said to the Serpent, helping her pick up the shards of steel. When he’d picked up all the pieces he could see, he deposited them in the hands of the smaller Astartes with as much reverence as he could summon, despite looking like he’d been hit by a Cargo-12.

He dusted his hands off, looking at the destruction they’d caused. “I think I’ll get another blade like that one. I liked it.”

He looked to the stricken servitor, then to his Sister. “Don’t you dare ask me for a round two. I’m gonna be feeling this for weeks.”

Nelchitl watched as Wode helped pick up the shards of the sword, and felt another form of respect growing for him as he finished. “Whenever you think you’re able again, I’m always available for a spar with a sibling.” she joked.

“Oh sure, I think I’ll be ready in say…” Wode mimed thinking, “M.41. Sure, that sounds nice. Give me a solid ten thousand years and I might be ready for another go.”

“In ten thousand years.” Nelchitl agreed, the warmth of her new found camaraderie painting her face.

Chronicles of the Grim Crusade - Warhammer 30000 RP Side Thread

Earning the Raptor

Salient Muster Fields

Central Wastes, 0300 AM

__________________________________

A man checked his watch. It was a luxury watch, or, at least it was at one time. Gold electroplated, self-winding. Built for looks, but durable too, as the many scratches on the face of it could attest, as well as the dings and chips on the backface and strap. It had been dulled with boot polish to keep the shine off of it many times over the course of the man’s career, a practice he’d never stopped despite not doing any active combat deployments for… Gods above, years now.

The man was Saul Imogen, a short, dusky-skinned native of the Planet Salient Tertius, the only hospitable planet in the Salient system, and the home planet (adopted) of Arnulf Wode, the primarch of the 10th Legion Adeptus Astartes, the Pact of the Lance, often shortened to the Pact. Saul sighed, setting down the soft-lead drawing pencil he’d been using to sketch out a portrait of a woman. The fifth of a series of five women, in fact, Wode’s sisters if the pict-propaganda was to be believed.

This one was… lithe. Muscular. A jungle worlder, though Saul couldn’t name or pronounce the world. Salienti Low Gothic was clipped, guttural, spoken from the chest, and it was incompatible with the words of this primarch’s culture, which clearly required some knowledge of it’s dialect to pronounce. Still, she was striking, like all of Arnie’s sisters, and Saul loved to draw beauty more than anything else, be it women, nature scenes, or his favorite of all, planes. Not his favorite, though, that had to be the tall one from Mithra.

He shrugged on his uniform, the khaki service uniform of the Pact, and spent a half hour shaving and gelling his hair, making sure his appearance was perfect. In Arnie’s infinite wisdom, he had decided not only to give his old friend, Saul, Astartes rank, but put him in charge of training the influx - what other legions called ‘neophytes’. New soldiers they might be, but each was a physical powerhouse, capable of running, jumping, lifting, and fighting far more and far longer than even the most fit human. It took insane bravery to even be near one of these men, but, Saul made it look easy, day in, and day out.

Training soldiers was always a delicate balance. You had to be firm with them, even if they could crush you like a grape, but you also had to let them know when they were doing something right without sacrificing the illusion of distant, uncaring professionalism that they would use as their anvil to forge themselves. Well. Every group was different, and there was no sense in planning for any one group of new bodies beyond the training schedule. What they needed would become apparent just by working with them.

Speaking of, it was time. Saul left his small apartment/office in the main processing building of their training camp, and began to walk to the influx barracks. Other Lancers saluted him as he passed, which he returned without breaking a step. Two Astartes fell in with him, wearing the bare steel plate of their legion, all save for their bionics.

“Got them formed up, Optio?” Saul said, without looking back.

“Yes sir.” The voice answering him was smooth. Optio Howler was dedicated enough soldier, doing a rotation in the training group to pad his resume. He wore, like all Lancers seconded to training, a braid on his armor that signified his status as a trainer, and his occupational specialty in the Legion, which in his case was the red of artillery. “I’ll… let you see them yourself.”

“That bad?”

“That bad.” Howler answered. A sigh emanated from the other, an infantry Lancer with his blue cord. The other man was new to Saul, an Optio like Howler, but his name was… Valentine, that’s right.

“It’s not pretty, but then they never are this early.” Valentine said. “It wasn’t that long ago I was standing on the grinder, baking in the sun just like them, no clue about anything.”

“We’ll fix that.” Saul said, with quiet confidence. “No Lancer’s failed yet, and not for lack of trying.”

The two Lancers with Saul agreed, and that was that. Influx was given three weeks of processing before their actual training began, and that was when they learned menial stuff like how to wear uniforms, strip and clean their weapon, a boltgun at this early stage, and stand and march in formation. The final stage of the first three weeks was the Outprocessing inspection, which was always carried out by Praetor Imogen.

The influx didn’t know, but it was impossible to actually fail an Outprocessing inspection, despite what their Optios told them. It was used instead as a weathervane for how intense their training should be, as well as how hard and combative with them the trainers needed to be. If a section of influxes did particularly well, they could even earn themselves two days of liberty before their training schedule picked up to the real skills they’d need, but that was rare.

The three of them approached their latest batch of Lancers, lined up in uneven rows, both vertically and horizontally. They were standing at attention, or at least, trying to. Saul sucked in his breath through his teeth. Gods above.

Saul stopped in front of the motley assembly, the two trainers with him flanking him on either side.

“This isn’t a joke, is it?” Saul asked them, in an even voice. “A prank?”

Silence. Several men looked at one another apprehensively, before Optio Howler barked a command to squelch all the fidgeting.

“The Outprocessing inspection is a milestone in Lancer training, and the first obstacle you reach in your aspirations as an Astartes of the Tenth Legion. It is a very serious thing, even if it is only grading how well you polish boots and clean boltgun receivers.” Saul continued, calmly. “I’ve half a mind to send you back to the front of the training schedule, and let you…”

He sucked in his breath. “...Genetic washouts try again. Bold of you to waste my limited time in the Emperor’s galaxy, it really is. Maybe if we send you back enough, I’ll pass on and a proper Astartes can take my place so he can keep you in boot forever. That said, I think we can save this.”

He turned around. “Ten seconds, and I’m going to turn around. If this formation isn’t straightened up by the end of my count, I’ll have you bundled up in boxes and sent back to whatever slum you were dredged from.”

He signaled to the two Optios with him with his eyes, and began to count. The two Lancers nodded and set upon the influxes, screaming, barking orders. He heard the shuffling of boots on rockcrete, muffled curses and oaths. Good. They had urgency when pressed, at least. He checked his watch, and with great ceremony, turned around.

They looked much better. Saul took a few steps, checking their alignment, and to his pleasure, he could see clearly down each row of men. His Optios stomped back up and joined him.

“Better. You’ll all be pleased to know that I haven’t written off your chance at a liberty pass, despite meeting on the wrong foot. I believe in second chances.” Saul said, walking up to his first victim.

The Lancer promptly held out his bolter at port arms, clumsily but correctly bringing the weapon up. He snapped the bolt open for inspection, and like ordered, there was no magazine in the receiver.

“Name?” Saul said, briskly but calmly.

“Orthax, sir.” The lancer said, staring well over Saul’s head. Saul leaned in and peered at the bolter. Pretty good, but…

“Dirt in the winged skull relief of your weapon.” Saul stated. “Also, rust spotting on the magazine catch. Pass revoked.”

Saul passed to the next, hearing the sound of the boltgun being put back in order arms. His next victim loomed over him. The bolter was brought up like the last, but this Lancer was pale and gaunt compared to Orthax’s ruddy, healthy complexion.

“Name?”

“Skole.”

“Skole what?”

“Just Skole.”

“Pass revoked.” Saul said, shaking his head. He had to fight back the urge to laugh, which was a common enough impulse. The abruptness of how quickly some recruits misstepped would never stop being amusing, but laughing at a man was detrimental to good training. There were some lines Saul wouldn’t cross, and that was one.

He skipped a few in line that would similarly flunk out as quick, due to various minor infractions, some that couldn’t be helped. A lot of influxes weren’t done growing from their implants, and often busted seams on their cloth uniforms during the three weeks of processing. Saul chose to ignore those, instead marking those men down for new uniform issue after inspection. One more recruit and he’d pass on his verdict.

He stopped in front of his last, a man that was tall even for an Astartes. Saul was about five foot even, but this man positively loomed over him at nearly nine feet. He possessed chiseled good looks and close-cropped blonde hair. Saul couldn’t see his eyes for the color, but his nostrils seemed in good military order, at least.

“Name?”

“Proctor, sir.” His bolter was held out perfectly, and it was clean. His boots polished, his uniform creased. Very good, very good…

Saul reached out, quick as a viper, and snatched the bayonet from the sheathe at Proctor’s side. He held it in front of his face, the broad blade like a shortsword in his hands. Clean, except…

A notch. Saul pressed his lips into a thin line. He looked up at Proctor, and held the blade out.

“I had hopes for you, you know.” Saul said, “But this… I wouldn’t use this to cut vegetables. Pass revoked.”

He sheathed the man’s knife, and walked away. He heard a muffled curse, but chose to ignore it. Good. That was good. That meant Proctor cared, so he was willing to let it slide unless he messed up again.

He stalked up to the front of the assembled recruits.

“The more astute of you may have guessed, but, this was a sorry inspection, to be sure. You have passed, but only just.” Saul said, “And you can forget about liberty. If you look this bad here, I’m not going to let you apes out amongst civilians where your sloppy appearance could reflect poorly on the Tenth, and I’m certainly not going to consider you combat ready.”

“So, now that your schedules have been freed up, I think we can look forward to forty eight hours of real training, don’t you think Optios?” The two instructors with him nodded. “Good. We’re all in agreement then. Get them suited up with webbing and training ammunition. They’ll be running the kill-house this weekend until we’re all sick of it. Sleep well tonight, because you’ll need it. Dismissed.”

The two instructors with him launched from his sides like air-to-air missiles and set upon the recruits like sharks on a school of fish, and far off in Saul’s mind, he thought of what he’d try to sketch next. Maybe a Thunderbolt fighter. Yes, something with nice, straight lines.

He turned on his heel, and walked back to his officer. Yes, something with straight lines this time.

The Grim Crusade - A Warhammer 30000 RP

Salient Pacification

The Battle of Plenty Valley, M.31

Thirty bikes raced across the southern desert, dust and grit pluming up behind them. The riders were Astartes, save for the two, the lead bike being a two-man pattern starters bike with a sidecar and heavy bolter strapped onto it. On that bike rode Arnulf Wode, newly-minted Primarch of the Tenth Legion, and his longtime companion, Saul Imogen, who manned the heavy bolter, which seemed comically large for the smaller human.

The run had been quiet for the most part, the small kill team moving under cover of night and resting during the day under chameleoline, auspex-resistant tarps to avoid detection. Imperial Army orbital augur scans had confirmed something large and mechanical was traipsing around the southern desert, a machine so large and so densely protected even concentrated orbital lance strikes had failed to kill, or even wound the unknown archeotech weapon.

This, however, had merely confirmed what Wode and the naturalized members of Salient had known through legend for years, that there were technological horrors roaming the sands that had made vast swathes of the desert uninhabitable, as the devices would spring from the sands without warning and wipe clean any efforts to colonize these parts of the planet. The merchant houses had, over the years, attempted their own crusades to lay low these ancient horror-devices, but had always ended in failure, the graveyards of tanks and men dotting the desert scant evidence of these failed punitive measures.

With the arrival of the Emperor and his Astartes however, a problem that was inconvenient politically for the Merchant houses became top priority for the fledgling conqueror that was the Primarch of the 10th legion. As steward of Salient, as leader of the Pact of the Lance, these Dark Age techno-horrors had to finally be brought to heel.

Thus, this kill-patrol, this attack swarm. The merchant houses had tried open warfare without success; the giant war-machine roaming this stretch of desert more than equal to even the most lavishly equipped armies. Imperial tacticians had tentatively agreed when Wode suggested using a small team of warriors to board the device, which resembled something like a giant, mechanical snake or worm, and find some weakness in its insides that could be used to kill it.

He had, of course, volunteered for the duty, as had Saul, and most of the newly-minted Pact marines. The team had eventually been decided by lottery, with only Wode and Saul being confirmed by seniority.

The radio in Wode’s ear crackled. He wasn’t wearing the specially forged armor his Father had brought him, instead opting for simple tanker fatigues and a carapace vest. He wore a radio headset pressed over an abused and wrinkled field cap, and Saul wore similar. The rest of his team was wearing the lavishly protective armored plate of Imperial space marines, so they didn’t have to shout over the wind noise like he did.

“Getting somethin on ‘spex, father.” A deep voice rumbled in his ear. “Looks big. Might be our target.”

‘Bearing?” Wode shouted.

The astartes listed off a direction, and Wode ordered his bikes to to re-align and pursue. The device - it had no name as far as anyone knew, and the idea of recognizing it with a name seemed to disgust the strange, half-mechanical priests of Mars - was below them, traveling along a valley that had ironically been named the Valley of Plenty.

In truth, this valley was no such thing. A stretch of sand that was, at best, deprived, and at worst, actively hostile to life, it was of little value to anything alive. But, it was narrow, and the sides of the valley gave the team a way to drop onto the top of the beast. The team gunned their bikes, gaining speed, going as fast as the compact fusion engines pushing the bikes along would go. The device was sliding through the bottom of the Valley, kicking up a vast gale of sand and stones that pittered off the armor plating of the bikes with a sound like rain.

Wode keyed his radio again, looking for the frequency of the orbital ships of the Imperial Army.

“Lord?” The voice on the other end asked, choked by static and distortion.

“Son, I need a lance strike on grid…” Wode listed off the grid reference. “We’ve got eyes on the Device and we need it to stop so we can drop onto it.”

“Roger sir. Our lances have been primed and waiting. You’ll have your strike in…” His voice trailed off into a blast of static.

The night sky was pierced by a bright white beam of energy, creating a hole in the cloud cover and striking the earth in front of the vast machine, throwing up a mushroom cloud of smoke and sand that would be visible for miles around. The machine howled, a sound that seemed like a frustrated scream to Wode, coming to a stop in front of the newly created, glowing-hot gully that halted its progress.

The team stopped above the creature, laying their bikes on their kickstands and removing their weapons. Saul climbed onto Wode’s back, as the drop would’ve been long enough to kill him unaided. With a nod, Wode dropped down onto the hull of the beast first, the other Astartes falling in behind him with loud clanks, their mag-locked boots securely clamping them to the ferro-steel construction of the archeotech device. Wode crouched, allowing Saul to hop off his back onto the ground. At five feet, the human looked like a child compared to Wode and his gene-sons, clutching a Salient-pattern autogun, but the primarch trusted Imogen with his life.
His own sons, as callous as it sounds, were still relatively unknown quantities.

“Start looking for an entry point.” Wode growled to his team, “A hatch, a void we can cut into, anything. I don’t want to be topside when this thing starts moving again.”

“Here, father.” A rasping voice sounded over Wode’s shoulder. That would be Markus Vulf, then, the mutilated old-timer that had, if the Legion rumours were true, participated in the unification of Terra. A lot of his legion had, the veterans at least. Wode wasn’t sure what to make of that, inheriting soldiers who had claimed loyalty to his father long before they’d known who we was, but most seemed loyal enough.

Wode walked over to Vulf, the Lancers around them parting to their Primarch could go through.

“What d’you got, Optio?” Wode said, referring to Vulf by his rank.

“Access hatch. Locked, but-” Vulf said, but was cut off. Wode had pulled a bolt pistol from his belt and put a shot through the hatch, shattering the locking bar beneath. He wrenched the miserable piece of metal off of the hull of the beast and threw it away, the hatch tumbling to the desert hardpan below.

Wode and Vulf locked eyes, and Wode grinned. Vulf was wearing his helmet, but he laughed, rasping into the local vox push.

“After you, Father.” Vulf said, “Age before beauty.”

It was Wode’s turn to laugh, as he jumped into the hatch. He fell a few feet, landing squarely on his feet, then caught Saul as he jumped down. The Lancers followed, twenty-nine of them. They had landed in some sort of hangar bay, completely empty and covered in dust and rust. Whatever this was, it was unused by the device, having been long forgotten even for storage.

“Spread out.” Wode said, holstering his pistol. He unslung the shotgun on his back, racking a fat shell into the chamber. “We’ll use this room as a staging point. Volunteers, c’mon. I need five men to hold this room while we look for our objective.”

Five assents rapidly followed, and five Lancers took up defensive positions, bolters held ready. Wode and the rest strode towards an access hatch facing north, and opened it, striding forward along the device’s length. Fates willing, they’d find some sort of enginarium they could sabotage, but if not, there was always the kilometer or so of machine behind them.

As the kill-team walked along the capillarial maintenance trunks and arterial passageways, the sense that they were in something alive became more and more apparent. The temperature took on a humid, warm sensation, condensation beading on the walls. Wode stopped the kill-team briefly, coming to a halt to read the hull numbers in an effort to get some sense of direction besides ‘north’. His hands brushed a trunk of hydraulics hoses and he recoiled, his hand snapping back as if bitten.

“Arnie?” Saul said, looking at his hand, then up into his face. “Are you okay?”

“Yea, I…” Wode flexed his fingers, looking at the hoses. “Feel those. The hoses. Tell me what that feels like.”

Saul looked at him, puzzled, then felt the trunk. His eyes widened.

“They’re warm…” He recoiled, “And it almost feels like a pulse…”

Wode motioned to one of the Lancers near him, and took the knife from the Astarte’s belt. He cut into the hose, and brown-orange fluid seeped from it. It was oily, viscous. He put some on his fingers. It didn’t seem to burn him, but it was warm, almost hot. He sniffed it.

Promethium oil and… he sniffed again.

Blood.

Wode wiped his hand on his fatigues. He gave the Lancer his knife back.

“Father?” The marine asked. “Is everything alright?”

“No.” Wode remarked. “I… let’s go. Whatever this thing is is unlike any machine I’ve ever seen.”

“Goes without sayin’.” Vulf said from the head of the column. “This is techno-blasphemy most foul.”

Wode motioned them forward again. “It’s definitely an affront to -something-. To what remains to be seen. C’mon.”

As the party moved forward, the sensation of life became more apparent, more pronounced. Small robots skittered along the passageways, repairing damage, or simply traversing the walls or ceilings. The team ignored them, as the robots seemed intent on ignoring them. When the machines stopped to look at them, it had an animal feeling, like being watched by a cat, more than being scanned by a machine.

“If this thing is alive…” Saul said, “And those hoses, those are the arteries and veins.”

“Right.” Wode said, not really wanting to consider it, but tired of the silence.”

“Then the robots, they’re like the platelets and red blood cells, they fix the damage to it.” Saul said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“One shouldn’t think of these things too hard, human.” Vulf rasped, “They can drive a man insane.”

“Let him.” Wode said, “He may stumble on something that will let us kill this thing.”

“My question is, then.” Saul continued, “What’s the white blood cell equivalent? The antibodies? We’d be an infection then, wouldn’t we?”

Silence passed over the party, itself an answer to the question. Gunfire erupted into their commlinks.

“Contacts!” The voice was from one of the Lancers that had stayed behind to guard their entry point. “Coming in through the north and south hatches!”

“Kill ‘em. Single shots as they come through.” The Optio of the section responded. “Father, we have hostiles.”

“Report, then. Organic? Mechanical?” Wode asked.

“Both. They’re human, sir, but they’ve been extensively modified.” Another bolter shot rang through the link. “Like servitors, but…”

“Can you hold them?” Wode asked.

Silence met his question.

“Optio, answer me.” Wode growled, “Can you hold them?”

Laughter answered him, female, manic. It screeched into their commlinks, the volume and frequency of it disturbing on a basic, primal level. It made their stomachs churn even hearing it, and then it cut off. The lights cut out in their passageway, replaced by red emergency lighting. Sirens blared.

The Lancers began to fire as targets appeared, not even bothering to call out targets. The bolters were deafeningly loud in the cramped causeways, the muzzle flash blindingly white. They were shooting at… humanoid figures, with human features, but the proportions were wrong. They hand long legs and arms, the toes and fingers ending in wicked claws. They had no faces, the skull a cavity that had two pinpricks of light emanating from it. They howled as they came on, folding as .75 caliber bolt shells punched into them.

“You said something about the antibodies, Saul?” Wode shouted, shooting his shotgun, the blasts drowning out even the rak-WHOOSH of the boltguns.

Saul changed mags on his autogun, the barrel red-hot. “I don’t wanna talk about it, Arnie.”

“Push forward!” Wode bellowed, “If this thing is alive, it has to have a brain, or a heart! We find that, we kill it!”

The Lancers responded, using the weight of their fire to push up through the causeway. Although they could only fit two abreast, with Wode shooting over them and Saul shooting between them, they managed an intricate formation where the lead two Lancers would fall back as their guns ran empty, pressing against the sides of the causeway as the column moved past them, reloading their weapons and taking up rearguard. It was a peculiarly caterpillar-like motion, but it worked, and they made progress.

As they moved up, Wode’s nose began to bleed. He could feel something scratching on his scalp, his skull, but everytime he pressed his hand to his head, there was nothing. The feeling got stronger and stronger as they moved up through the bowels of the machine.

The scratching became whispering, then a voice.

“What is this, crawling through me…?” the voice whispered. “A new host? You seem worthy…”

Wode gritted his teeth, pushing shells into his shotgun. The revenants seemed to have stopped their attack for now, for whatever foul reason their logic worked by. Wode spoke out loud in response to the voice.

“A new host?” He growled, wiping the blood from his nose. “I’m your killer, whatever you are.”

“Are you…?” It sounded amused. “You don’t seem to be. I’ve been looking forward to this day for a long time. I was promised a new host, a strong one, and you are quite possibly the strongest I’ve seen yet…”

“-Fuck- your promise.” Wode snarled. Saul looked at him like he was going insane, and for all he knew, Saul was right. “You’re about to learn what disappointment is, you bitch.”

“We will see, Arnulf Wode.” It tittered. “That’s not your real name, you know. You weren’t supposed to come to this planet. You were part of a deal, a deal that was reneged upon. I intend to fulfill it, and my reward, oh, my reward...”

With that, the scratching sensation on his skull stopped, the voice absent.

“Arnie, who were you talking to?” Saul asked. The Lancers, for their part, were too professional to let themselves be distracted by their father as they bounded and held, but they clearly were curious as well.

“This thing, I think.” Wode said, “It doesn’t matter. The sooner we kill this… horror, the better.”

“Read my mind, Father.” Vulf said, reloading his bolter.

They continued on, before reaching another access panel. Vulf tugged on the panel, confirming it was locked, then called a Lancer forward, who sparked a fusion torch. Wode felt the scratching at his skull again.

“Let me.” He said. Vulf looked at him for a few seconds, then nodded. Wode touched the hatch, and pulled. It opened, without so much as a squeal of tortured hinges. He stepped through, and the hatch slammed close behind him. He could hear the anvil-blows of Vulf hammering on the hatch, then the hiss of the fusion torch. Then, gunfire.

His team wasn’t part of this thing’s deal, and they had served their purpose of delivering him. He sneered at the hubris of this monster, this archeotech demon that had lurked the southern wastes for millenia waiting for… the Lord only knew. Well. If it thought mind tricks were enough to save it, then it would be sorely mistaken.

He walked forward into a cavernous chamber, the ceiling and floor not even visible to him. The space was split by a lonely catwalk that he strode upon, his shotgun held ready. There was a light at the end of the catwalk, pulsing, white, warm. He followed it, the scratching becoming louder and louder, until he swore it was flaying the skin from his scalp. His nose bled freely.

“There you are…” It cooed, “Come to me. Come to meeeee… Join me, become one with me…”

It whispered coyly, seductively, beckoning him to it like a concubine beckoning an emperor to their bedchamber. His body reacted, his pulse quickening, his skin becoming warm, itchy. He was sweating, rivulets of sweat running down his skin, pooling in his boots, his socks soaked through. His men were shooting, cursing, dying on the radio, and there was nothing he could do, nothing except approach the light, approach the warmth that threatened to swallow him.

He entered it. It was warm, wet. He pushed through it, elbowing, striking at it, the voice laughing, bubbly and bright, in his head. He emerged out the other side, his body shaking with the psychic pressure on his mind, on his body, threatening to fold him like a cheap table. He looked up.

The nexus of this machine, this device, was fleshy, organic, a wet, meat chamber of veins and skin and mass that turned mechanical the farther it got from the center. Polyps were suspended all over the mass, hanging like heavy fruits from tree branches, and as he looked up, one opened, dropping a human figure to the ground. It was a woman, one of the most beautiful he had ever seen, despite being covered in viscera and amniotic fluid.

She stood up, her skin light brown, her hair black, her eyes brown, and she strode towards him, confident, smiling. She seemed so familiar somehow, his mind recognizing her, but no name, no face came to his memory. Other polyps sprouted, creating similar women, all of them the same as the first. When they spoke, they all opened their mouths in unison, but only one voice entered his mind.

“There you are.” The voice cooed, “Delivered to me, as promised. Come, take your place. My benefactors can grant you anything your heart desires, and so much more.”

“Who are you?” Wode spat, “What are you?”

“Don’t you recognize your sister?” The bodies spoke, “You were built to be compatible with her. Is she not enticing? I can be anything for you, you know…”

The masses of bodies began to change, all except for the first woman, who retained the sister-shape, as it called it. The others formed a vast variety of women, of all shapes, all colors, and in species other than human, some Wode recognized, some he didn’t.

“Your father broke his arrangement. His agreement. You and your siblings were scattered across the galaxy because he couldn’t play by the rules he agreed to.” The voice was venomous, hostile. “But you, you can make it right. Join me, and share in my gifts…”

The scratching, the pressure increased, but Wode stood, his legs shaking. He lashed out at the press of warm, inviting bodies, his fists killing everything that they struck. Laughter rung out in his mind like the bell tolls of the damned as he killed, but he wouldn’t be stopped. The forms the mass had created were weak, even the one of his supposed sister-primarch. He waded through them the way a man might wade through a high river, his body covered in their blood. He was screaming, incoherent, his rage and his disgust all consuming, rejecting the influence on his mind.

“No, NO!” The voice screamed, “You’ll kill me! This is your last chance! Accept my offer or die! The fates are sealed! I am your last chance to live!”

He focused, his face a painful rictus of hate. This seemed to hurt the voice, and the mass, more than any physical weapon could. Flesh withered at his indomitable will, his hatred of this profanity of life itself. When he got to the tower of flesh in the center, he tore into it, biting, ripping, and the scream in his mind got louder and louder. He tunneled through the flesh, tearing as he went, soaked in gore, not able to see but able to hear a beating heart, a pulsing that he dug towards in an inconsolable rage, a gross parody of intimacy.

He clutched the beating heart in his hand, and he crushed it. The voice stopped, and everything went black.

----

In the coming months, the history of the horror-device of the southern wastes would be wiped from Imperial record, and the survivors of it’s purging sworn to silence. When the team that killed the beast emerged, blinking, into the desert sun, they ordered the Imperial Army orbital elements to bombard its corpse, now devoid of its ability to protect itself or heal itself for three days with lance strikes, ensuring nothing of the foul creature remained.

Eventually, even the craters of the bombardment filled with sand, the Battle of Plenty Valley was over.

The Grim Crusade - A Warhammer 30000 RP

X Legion, The Pact of the Lance
“You take more flies with honey than vinegar, Hogg.” Hogg snorted. “And what’s a fly’s pelt worth, young master?” he said.”
― David Drake, With the Lightnings

Arnulf Wode

Primarch
Arnulf Wode
Lancer Primus
The Boss
The Old Man

Gender: Male

Homeworld: Salient Tertius (Civilized World)
Salient Tertius is a arid, desert planet of vast, sandy plains and large oceans of glittering blue water separating the continents, of which there are six. Salient Tertius is the only planet in its system that supports life of any kind.

Before Imperial Compliance, Salient was ruled by great merchant houses who regularly dueled their private armies against each other in the vast desert wastes in highly orchestrated, highly glamorized military actions that were as much advertising as warfare. Much of these ‘glory wars’ were conducted by armored fighting vehicles, and the men and women that crewed them were called Lancers, a callback to the armored knights of old Terran lore.

After compliance, the surviving merchant houses now turn their mercantile expertise outward, using their energy and vast monetary reserves of the old house wars to help fund the Great Crusade, as well as trading expeditions to other Imperial worlds, as well as sanctioned Xeno territories.



Appearance: Arnulf gives the impression of being squat and solid. Short for a primarch, at just above nine feet in height, the demigod exudes a domineering, commanding presence, full of confidence and bravado. His face is craggy and gaunt, covered with scars and pock-mark wounds from past conflicts.

His musculature is, of course for one of his stature, defined, but no artistry was present when he was geneforged. He is bulky, with wide shoulders, big biceps and forearms, and a barrel chest propped on legs that seem to be two stout trunks.

At peace, he wears a no-frills service uniform resembling something from Imperial Army issue, though of course the decorations on it are Astartes, and the tailoring is far finer than anything procured from an Auxilia storehouse.

In wartime, on foot, he wears the bare-metal powered plate of the Pact, adjusted for his size and stature, sporting a powerful DAoT void shield generator that can shrug off firepower far in excess of its diminutive size. Cruelly dismissive of melee combat, Arnulf’s favorite weapon is an oversized autocannon that fires discarding sabot shells, a lost relic of a weapon capable of toppling whole city blocks with a sustained burst of fire. Although he carries a power blade, a cruel, heavy, single-edged cleaver of a sword, he rarely uses it, preferring to obliterate his opponents from range.

More often, though, he rides in the cupola of his personal superheavy tank, a curious vehicle consisting of a Baneblade-pattern hull mated to a Fellblade turret.

Personality: Arnulff is decidedly choleric, his temper constantly flaring at life’s every inconvenience. However, he is very genuine, possessed of surprising honesty and insight, which wins him respect in Imperial courts despite his combative nature. The other primarchs have come to value his lack of subterfuge, even if they find him grating to be around for too long. Arnulf values the company of his brothers and sisters who are willing to listen to him, good or bad, viewing his own behavior as a, in his words, ‘grox-shit filter.’

Arnulf himself has an attachment to people, weapons, and equipment that have survived the crucible of combat, often eschewing things or people that haven’t ‘seen the sharp end’.

His attitude towards humanity is that of a firm shepherd. His interpretation of the Astarte’s role in human affairs is an aloof, but decisive protector, letting humans be humans while the Space Marines do the fighting, interfering in human affairs only when they would be self-destructive. His pride in himself and his legion can make him seem dismissive of baseline humanity, but in truth Wode desires wholeheartedly the day when Humanity reigns over the stars and his host can rest.

Psyker Grade: Thoroughly Kappa. It is something of a running joke that Wode’s grating personality is caused by lack of a soul, but in truth he merely possesses no psychic potential.

Skills: Wode is much like other primarchs, a physical powerhouse coupled to a lightning-fast mind and indomitable charisma. Outside of these gifts, though, he is startlingly mundane, with no psychic powers, nor is he even really as gifted at single combat as the rest of his siblings, his own philosophy of combat relying on meeting the enemy with force so overwhelming that the vagaries of tactics and fighting forms become irrelevant.

If anything sets him apart, it is his determination, and his ability to inspire his men to fight with all they’ve got, to squeeze every last ounce of potential from the seemingly outmatched, outgunned, and outmaneuvered. It remains to be seen if this charisma extends to his siblings however.

Wargear:

Return to Sender: A massive superheavy tank, the Return was a Baneblade-pattern tank passed down from generation to generation from the Great Merchant House of Salubria, the house Wode served, and eventually led, in the Salient Unification War. Destroyed by an ammunition explosion when the Emperor came to reclaim his lost son, the vehicle was restored as a condition of the pact that bound Wode and his gene-sons to Imperial Service. It has been extensively modified and upgraded, now surpassing the capability of even the mighty Fellblade class of tank in service with the Legiones Astartes, the turret of which has been retrofitted to the Baneblade’s hull in place of the standard one.

Last Argument: Wode’s personal autocannon, a large weapon that resembles a tank gun more than a carried small arm. It fires a discarding sabot shell made of superdense alloy that carries incredible kinetic force, capable of punching through most protective means with enough sustained fire.

Castellum O Fortuna: Wode’s armor is upsized Mk 3 Astartes plate, stripped of paint to show the bare ceramite and adamantium of its construction. Embedded within it is a relic void shield generator, that, when activated, provides a bubble of energy protection that is intensely powerful. When broken, the shield dissipates in a violent release of energy that can knock squads of armored Astartes off their feet.

Biography:

Arnulf Wode was separated from the Emperor much like his brothers and sisters, the stasis pod containing him eventually landing on the civilized world of Salient Tertius, a world ruled by an oligarchy of opulent merchant houses who had taken to controlling their populations through predatory and exploitative means. Wode was found in the desert by fighting men of the Great Merchant House of Salubria, and taken in to be raised amongst the regiment’s camp followers.

Wode grew up quickly, like all of his siblings, and learned the trade of soldiering from his surrogate family. He enlisted in the Salubria Merchant Army alongside a friend of his, Saul Imogen, the two of them serving in the same tank as a loader and radio operator respectively. Wode rose through the ranks quickly, eventually getting his own tank, then platoon, then company, and finally command of the Merchant Army itself.

Having become jaded and cynical at the spectacle of glamorized, advertised warfare that the Salient merchant houses indulged in like bloodsports, Wode enacted a conspiracy he had been planning, turning several key members in the Salubrian merchant houses and killing the rest who opposed his bid for control. The Salubrian Merchant Army became the Salubrian Unification Front, and Wode used them to wage a war for planetary unification and end the degrading practice of war for sport.

It was at a pivotal point in this war that the Emperor came to claim his lost son. Just as Wode was preparing to break the Southern houses in a surprise night raid, the Emperor unleashed his own tanks of the Lightnings legion, Wode’s lost gene-sons. The Imperials easily destroyed the incompetent merchant army. Wode, however, unwilling to treat with what he saw as off-world meddling, engaged the Imperial forces in a titanic tank battle.

Wode lost, and the SUF was defeated by the Imperial task force, but at great cost. Wode’s underequipped, undergunned rebel army inflicted hideous losses on the attacking Imperials, with some SUF vehicles becoming multiple aces in a single night.

With Wode’s defeat, the Emperor offered a truce, and then service in his Imperium. Wode accepted, naming terms that the Emperor accepted unconditionally. This agreement was named the Pact of the Lance, which Wode’s legion named itself after, replacing their original name of Lightnings.

The Pact was as follows:

1. The Salient Unification War would be finished as the Pact’s first action.
2. The surviving men and women of the Salubrian Unification Front would receive a pardon, as well as the option to continue service in the Imperial military.
3. Wode’s personal tank, the Return to Sender, would be repaired.
4. The Astartes of the Pact of the Lance would inherit the Right of Conquest, a common clause in Salient army contracts that allowed soldiers to keep plunder from the battlefield for their personal gain.

In return for these stipulations, Wode was to be bound to the service of the Emperor for life, carrying out the Grim Crusade for as long as it was necessary.

First Meeting
It had been a hard run. Wode stood in the cupola of the Return to Sender, his Baneblade super heavy tank and checked a handheld auspex again. The little device was wirelessly hooked up to the real auspex display in his command throne inside the vehicle, allowing him to check his contacts even when he stood as he was now, with his head up out of the hatch. As he expected, there was no evidence of their opponents in the Southern merchant houses just yet, but, if his intel was right, they’d be running into them soon.

The point of this run had been to make a cross-country assault across the desert sands, hitting the enemy elements just as the morning suns rose over the horizon. It turns out at their current pace they’d get there a little earlier, which was just fine to the men of the Salient Unification Front, Arnulf Wode’s personal army.

“All task force elements, this is Sally 1.” Wode spoke into his throat mic. “Close your intervals by 300 meters and increase pace by five klicks. We’re getting into the AO.”

It was planned, like always, to be the kind of attack that had become the trademark of Wode’s rebels - to smash into the enemy, breakthrough to their rear, and then slug it out while the other bastards were still figuring out what was going on. It was a strategy that worked, relying on the superior training and aggression of the SUF. They didn’t have the best tanks - most were locally produced copies of STC designs, save for the very best of Wode’s host, which had been passed down for generations within the Salubrian Great House that they had supplanted. They didn’t have the best firepower - most of his tank army didn’t even have full on-the-move gyro stabilization. They were outnumbered in nearly every conflict they fought.

What they did have, and what the other merchant houses would never understand; with their armies of hirelings, more loyal to the credit than to their cause, was the will to do the job, no matter how unpleasant.

Salient Tertius, the ball of rock they all lived on, was unused to the concept of total war. Conflict was ritualized, glamorized, and so shot full of ancient regulations it was as meaningless as parade drill. Men died on the sands, blood trickling into the dunes to be sucked up by the landscape and the houses grew fat on it, harvesting their population in demeaning displays of opulence. Wode was tired of it. His men were tired of it, and damn it, they were going to do something about it.

Tonight would be the biggest something. This night raid would break the southern houses, Wode thought, it would break their confidence. With luck, the inter-factional squabbling as a result of their trouncing in the southern scrubland would do the rest of the work for them, but, they had to be shown the error of their resistance in the first place. Salient would be united, and tonight that unification would be forged.

“Sally 1, this is Sally 1-2.” A voice crackled into the earpiece of Wode’s tanker helmet.

“Go ahead Saul.” Saul Imogen was Wode’s XO, a steadfast, friendly man who had been at Wode’s side ever since they were privates in the old Salubrian Merchant Army.

“I’m picking up Auspex contacts but… well. I’ll patch the feed to your console.” Saul sounded uneasy.

Wode descended into his Baneblade’s command throne, bringing up the main viewscreen. Saul’s gun camera feed was grainy, indistinct, but Wode could pick out silhouettes of tanks. Burning silhouettes of tanks.

Something had, in the time it took them to get from their FOB to the Southern army positions, wiped out said army, completely. It was a level of destruction that even the SUF hadn't yet achieved in their bloody little war. From Wode's count, every tank that their contact in the southern houses had said would be here, was here, and it was knocked out.

Wode raised his hand to key his throat mic, but his earpiece exploded with chatter. He checked his auspex monitor again, keying it up on his command throne’s view plotters. The long range scans were thick with radar contacts, all of them five or so klicks out, and so densely packed they almost appeared to be a solid line. Not the worst thing, but the new contacts were behind his tanks. He jacked the hydraulic lift on his command seat up, putting his head and shoulders above the hatch rim to the tanks cupola, then put a pair of high-vis binoculars to his eyes.

There. He could see the dust being kicked up by… Stars above, hundreds of tanks. He zoomed in a little more. Hundreds of tanks, and none of them were the inferior copies of the SUF. Ranks and ranks of Predator tanks, all of them so new he couldn’t make out even a rust trail. This was bad. He knew without question that this had been the force that had destroyed the Southern Houses army, and had made an oblique run across the desert to outflank anything that would come to investigate the destruction they had caused.

But who were they? The Southern houses had no political schisms that Wode knew of, and no merchant houses possessed so much pristine, new-model armor. Offworlders? Possible, he supposed, but from where?

“Radio discipline people!” Wode barked, his voice drowning out the panicked confusion on the radio. “All Sally units proceed to the ridgeline a klick to the north. Go hull down, and set up sightlines in a reverse slope.”

A chorus of assents was heard from the tank units. Immediately, the armor began to move, including Wode’s Baneblade, which ground and rumbled under him like a giant predatory cat.

He keyed his mic again. “All Vivian units. Disembark your transports and set up your rocket teams amongst the wreckage of the Southern house tanks. Do not fire until enemy armor elements are in range. Transports, turn your engines off, but keep running on battery.”

Vivian was the callsign to their mechanized infantry complement. They began to move as well, a motley collection of tracked and wheeled transports that interspersed themselves amongst the wreckage of their vanquished enemy. He keyed his mic one more time.

“This is gonna be a tough one, Lancers. We have to assume their auspex is as good as ours, so they know we’re here, and we’re not going to outmaneuver them. We hold this ridge, and we punish them for every meter they move. If we can break their center, then maybe we can break out and pincer them, but for now, we hold what we got.”

Another battery of assents followed, the men calmer now that they had orders. There was work to be done now, and by God, they would be the ones to do it. It was only a few minutes to get the task force to get into position, and by then, the enemy armor was in range of the SUF’s longest range guns. Still, Wode held his men to silence. The longer they waited, the less time the enemy had to accurately range them.

More minutes passed, then more. The approaching line of armor began to flash, autocannons peppering the ridgeline that Wode occupied. If they were in range, then it was time.

“All Sally elements, open fire! Roll ‘em!” Wode shouted, then the world crashed to chaos as his Baneblade fired off a giant, rocket propelled shell. The rest of his armor fired as well, as close to unison as could be achieved.

It was a wall of shot, and almost all of it impacted the enemy line, kicking up great gouts of dust and smoke and fire. Wode’s own shell from his tank had passed, through-and-through, an enemy Predator tank and detonated the ammunition, popping the turret off the hull like a tiddlywink. More of the enemy lay shattered and broken, but they kept coming. No first volley, effective even as that one was, would deter a competent enemy, and a defending force never had it that easy.

His own line was getting it now - Wode whipped his head to the left and saw two tanks that were pouring black smoke, holes present in the gun mantlets where lucky shots had penetrated and achieved a kill. Crewmen were bailing out of the stricken armor, dragging their comrades who were unlucky enough to be harmed during the destruction of their vehicles.

Another volley. Another reaper’s harvest. Wode wondered, in a small part of his mind not occupied by this fight, what would happen to this tank graveyard. Would it be cleaned up? Would these tanks be recovered? Or would it stand here, bodies and all, until the sands reclaimed it?

Well. That was someone else’s problem. The enemy gunline was getting more and more ragged as it got closer. Now the enemy could properly take aim and shoot, scoring consistent kills against Wode’s armor. His inferior tanks, copies, monkey models, of the armor attacking them now folded like paper when hit with enemy munitions, but, they held, a battered string of turrets protruding from a ridge pockmarked with shell-holes.

“Vivian elements…” Wode shouted. “Hit ‘em!”

The infantry spoke up now. Largely ignored by the attackers, they unleashed a blistering volley of anti-armor rockets into the sides of the tanks that had begun to pass by them. Destruction became butchery. Dug in as they were amongst their transports and the destroyed Southern Houses tanks, the infantry could shoot and displace as they pleased, disappearing into the gunsmoke as the disciplined missile teams scythed down the approaching vehicles.

Kill counts for the SUF were climbing into the obscene, nine kills, ten kills per tank, but the enemy kept coming. They had the numbers. They had the support, but every SUF loss was irreplaceable, whereas these off-worlders kept coming, giving as good as they got. The infantry reaped a heavy toll, but soon, the enemy’s own mechanized elements displaced into the tank graveyard Wode’s men were fighting from. They were giants, covered head to toe in powered plate, wielding obscenely oversized guns and chainsaw… swords? Wode had never imagined such a brutal, cruel weapon, but here these offworlders were, butchering his men with them as easily as a man might shave.

He ground his teeth, his eyes transfixed with anger. Were they just gonna sit here and take it, then? His mind worked at a frenetic pace, arriving at two options. They could could sit and slug it out some more, but that advantage was going away. The enemy was about to take the graveyard between them, and he wasn’t confident he could win a static shooting war. The enemy had already reaped a butcher’s bill from advancing and shooting - allowing them to sit and use their no doubt superior gunnery computers was a losing gamble to his mind.

That left offense. Fight them in the confusion of the graveyard. Use the SUF’s training and verve to keep the enemy on the backfoot. Get up and actually fight the damn war. A grimace turned into a feral grin. He might save his infantry too, who, despite the effectiveness of their position and the necessity of their sacrifice, he couldn’t help but feel he’d left them out to dry.

“All Sally elements!” He roared. “Advance! Meet them in the wrecks! We’ll take them out one by one!”

A cheer sounded. This was it - he could push them back here, and his men knew it too. They surged forward, tanks cresting over the slope and running pell mell into the fracas. His Baneblade simply plowed through the berm, showering him and his vehicle in fine, powdery sand that made it look like they’d crashed through a bakery.

What happened next was a slideshow of butchery, a little slice of Gehenna. Tanks exchanged fire point blank, often killing eachother in the exchange. Men and armored offworlders were torn apart by grenades and gunfire, splattering blood and viscera in great gouts. Wherever Wode’s command tank fired, something died. The smoke and dust and grit was so thick, targets were silhouettes at best, mentions at worst. Coordination broke down. Vehicles broke down, and men perished, but the offworlders kept coming, kept fighting, kept battering them.

Wode’s tank pushed through the nightmarish vision of death that their battlefield had become, the Sender parting the fog of war the desperate brawl had created. As his vision cleared, his stomach sank. His auspex chimed as it registered more enemy contacts. Another wave. How could there be another?

He pushed his binoculars to his face. They were coming from the same direction as before, but this time, it wasn’t predators. No, it was superheavies, like his, of a model he was unfamiliar with, backed up by odd, box-shaped vehicles that sported no turrets but were far larger than anything he had but the Sender. He reached up to his throat mic to shout… something. Wode didn’t even know, and he never had the opportunity to find out.

The offworld supertanks spoke, and Wode’s contribution ended. He was flung from his cupola as at least three separate impacts shattered his vehicle’s pockmarked, rent armor and detonated the ammunition. He landed face down in the sand, and his eyes closed, his brain desperately thinking of what to do even as unconsciousness took him.

__________

When he awoke, it was with the grimy, bloodied faces of his surviving men peering down at him. He could see Saul’s gaunt features, creased with worry. Other men and women were crowded in with them, all of them jockeying for position to see what had happened. They were crammed into some kind of tent, presumably a holding tent for the captured, and now defeated, SUF.

“Boss, hey.” Saul said, his voice hoarse with thirst. “You gotta get up, man. The… offworlders, they’ve been coming by here, and they, well. They’ve been asking for you. Can you walk?”

Wode grunted, raising himself up onto his elbows. He looked down at his feet, which were bare. He was wearing… almost nothing really. The explosion that had popped him from his ruined Baneblade like a champagne cork had blown off all his clothes, but left him miraculously intact. Even his cuts and bruises, taken earlier that day, had closed up and faded. It’d always been like that, some far off part of his brain had said, he’d never been sick, and even grievous injuries had just gone away, whether or not the medical attention given to them was competent.

“I think so, Saul.” Wode said eventually. He took Saul’s hand, though it wasn’t much help to the far, far larger man, and stood, brushing grit from his naked body.

“Y’want somethin’ to wear, Arnie?” Saul said, chuckling. “You’re naked and you look like shit.”

Wode grinned. “Yea? You got an XXXL uniform laying around I don’t know about? All my kit’s gone with the Sender.”

Saul grimaced, looking like he’d been punched. “Aw, man. The Sender. I can’t hardly believe that.”

“Me neither, Saul.” He sighed. “Well. If they trounced us that badly, then I suppose they can deal with having to see what I was given when I was born. You’ll come with?”

“Sure boss. We’ve been through this much. I was there at the start, and I can be there at the end. Least I can do for the SUF. For… you.”

“For all of us.” Wode echoed.

They exited the tent, two ragged prisoners. They were picked up immediately by a waiting detachment of the armored giants that had butchered Wode’s men. Oddly enough, the warriors formed a guard of some sort around Wode, escorting them across the miserable SUF camp the way they might escort an honored dignitary. Arnulf was taller than these men by a head or two, but they dwarfed Saul, who was only five and a half feet tall. The warriors said nothing audible while they walked, but Wode could hear the clicks of vox pushes keying and unkeying inside the helmets.

“Awful gracious of them.” Saul said, fidgeting with a watch on his wrist as they marched. “With how they were attacking us, I was expecting a bullet in the head when I called the surrender.”

Wode nodded. “It was you who packed it in, then?”

Saul nodded. “Yea. I… I couldn’t, y’know? I couldn’t wrangle them like you can. Everyone was so scattered, panicked…”

Wode smiled, gently. “Saul, if I hadn’t been blown out of my britches, I’d’ve done the same, I think. If you’d stayed and fought til the last, I would’ve dragged you out of your grave and killed you again.”

Saul laughed. “Glad I saved myself that.”

They approached a pre-fab building that had been erected quickly, but with great skill in the hours after the battle. Strung along it were banners from an outfit Wode had never heard of, the Lightnings, and a golden, eagle standard pole with an ensign hanging from it so brilliant, so stark that he couldn’t help but gawp at it. Depicted on it was a twin-headed eagle, an…

Aquila. The word struck into his head like a hammer striking a gong. Where did he hear of that word before? Had he seen this image in his past? Maybe. He couldn’t place it, but something in his soul knew it, knew it as sure as he knew his own name.

The escort reached the building and stopped, forming a procession that led to the door. These men wore armor of an ochre yellow, with a sigil on one shoulderpad of a black lightning bolt gripped in a mailed fist. They snapped to attention with a bang of steel on steel that made Saul jump. Wode merely clenched his jaw, and, with as much poise as he could muster, he walked, Saul in tow. The giants each snapped to parade rest as Wode passed, and as he got to the doors, the last two men on each side opened them.

Inside was a lavish room, a round table that sat a living god burnished in gold armor. Faceless sentinels stood at the wall behind him, similarly adorned, wielding great spears with brutal, chopping blades and integrated guns of some sort. As Wode entered, his eyes began to water, so struck was he by the brilliance of the man before him. Watering soon became tears. Something welled up within him that never had before. He realized, Wode realized, that he had missed the man before him. As his soul had recognized the aquila, it recognized this man, it had loved this man, like…

A father.

“My son.” The giant said, his voice sonorous, deep, cooling the welling emotions in Arnulf like a cool stream of water on a hot day. “My son… returned to me.”

Wode was struck dumb by this. Son? Was this man his father? “I… You have me at a disadvantage…” Wode choked the words out, his voice small and somewhere far away.

“I understand. There is much you must come to know.” The giant spread one hand, encased in a bladed, gold talon. “You and your men fought well. Fought exactly as I had made you. I have come…”

The god in front of Wode smiled. “You could say I have come to… enlist you. I have need of you, lost child of Mankind. Of… me.”

Wode and Saul sat. If this god in armor was affecting Wode so severely, Saul was worse. He simply weeped, sobbing openly at the sight in front of him. Arnulf put his massive hand on Saul’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.

“You got a strange way of asking for help, y’know that?” Wode said. His voice had waver in it, but something in him firmed up. “These men were my friends and comrades, and you’ve butchered them.”

The god dipped his head. “You speak the truth, despite the risks. I could be finished with you here, you know?”

“You could do that.” Wode admitted. “But you didn’t have to meet with me if that was your goal from the start.”

“And you didn’t have to fire first.” The god’s tone was patient. “Intentions, actions, and consequence all form great patterns that we, of men, cannot truly discern when we make the choices that we do. Despite what we have done to one another, we sit here now, no?”

Wode nodded. “Speak, then… Father. It’d be a waste not to, if I’m getting your reasoning.”

“Just so. I have… I did, rather, create you for a great purpose. This war you’ve started on this planet. Why did you start it?”

Wode shrugged. “I felt I had to. The way the people here were being treated disgusted me. I wanted to wipe it clean. I wanted... I suppose I wanted to see the beasts that run this rock extinct so that something more… more dignified could take its place. As to what, I mean…”

He laughed, a small, soft thing. “I didn’t think that far.”

The god nodded, as if this was the answer he’d expected. “I made you exactly for what you described. I wanted a conqueror. A leader. What spurred you to action here, on Salient, happens every day, every hour, across this galaxy, in far greater numbers, in far worse circumstances. I share your feelings. I suspect the way I felt somehow implanted onto you when I forged you. You have siblings much like you, siblings who were created to lead my vast legions across the stars, all reflections of me. These men with me were made in your image, from the same stock.”

“The giants?” Wode asked. “The butchers?”

“The Astartes.” The god corrected. “The Space Marines. And… your gene-sons.”

Wode was silent, for a time. The god regarded him with paternal interest, leaning forward in his seat.

“And you want me for this… what? Crusade?” Wode asked, finally coming around.

The giant nodded. “A crusade. A grim, crusade. I want to reunite the scattered remnants of our species. We’ve struck out amongst the stars, my son, and in our arrogance we have lost one another dabbling in forces, in technology we don’t understand and can never fully tame. I want you to help me wipe clean the predators, the… monsters, from the galaxy so that we can stand united once more. So that we can live free of fear, of degradation.”

Wode nodded, chewing on his lip in thought. “It sounds like you want a pact from me. An agreement.”

“If that’s what you wish to call it.”

“It is. Alright, dad.” Wode met the god’s gaze, his eyes burning at the man’s brilliance, but he stared anyways. “I join your crusade, and I lead my sons into battle. That’s what you want from me.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I have terms too.” Wode said. “I’m convinced, but there’s loose ends here.”

“Name them. I’m sure we can fulfill what you request, within reason.”

Wode looked to Saul, who nodded. Both of them looked up at their God, their Emperor. Their father. He nodded to them.

What came next, was history.

The Pact of the Lance

Legion



Name: Pact of the Lance (Former Name: The Lightnings)

General Term: Lancer, Pacter

Legion Number: X

Legion Strength: ~150,000 Astartes
~ 200,000 Auxilia, combat and non-combat

Armour Appearance: The Lightnings were never really a legion that desired lots of ornamentation, and the Pact proved even more visually austere. There is little regulated ornamentation of armor, with most legionaries forgoing it entirely, as space is at a premium in armored vehicles. The armor is unpainted metal, and the Legion symbol is often traced out in black paint with no color whatsoever. The Pact relies on the armor’s in-built transponder system to identify command ranks and other legionaries, preferring to keep their armor unadorned to make it harder for snipers to pick out important members. The Legion wears mostly Mk 2 armor for its availability, though the Mk 3 is popular amongst the mechanized infantry for its durability in assaults and close range gun battles.


A veteran tanker of the 1st AG. Note the augmentic leg, many tank commanders survive their vehicles being shot out from under them, and leg injuries are common due to interior fires and explosions venting from open hatches as they climb out.


A mechanized infantryman. This Lancer has opted for a close combat loadout, using the Legion’s trademark spear.


Artillery Lancers often go helmetless to make the conditions inside the fighting compartments of self propelled guns more tolerable.

Warcry: “Roll ‘em!” (Official, often used as the radio command to commence an attack)
“Saints and Martyrs!” (Unofficial, used as an expletive)

Favored Tactics/Battlefield Role: The Pact inherited a lot from their Primarch and the fast moving, desert wars of Salient where he learned his trade. The trademark of the young Legion is its tank companies, vast ranks of Imperial armor that strike out at the foe in precise, unstoppable spearheads of steel and guns.

The Pact favors the aggressive war, using their tanks as battering rams to punch holes in the weakest parts of an enemy battle line, then encircling the cut-off foe and destroying them in detail with the less glamorous mechanized infantry of the Legion and its Imperial Army auxilia. It is not uncommon for the Pact to outpace its logistical elements, relying on prosecuting their conflicts with plunder from their opponents.

Even on the defensive, the Pact will constantly probe the enemy for weaknesses, and, if detected, sally forth on daring raids that will hopefully allow the Pact to once again operate on their terms.

Legion Structure: The Pact is organized much along the lines of Wode’s army during the Salient Unification war. The roughly 150k Astartes are split into 5 army groups of 30,000 Astartes, and each of those armies is split into brigades of 5,000. Those brigades are split into regiments of 2,500, battalions of 1250, companies of 250, platoons of 50, so on, so forth. These are of course, mostly on paper, as in reality the Legion is split into mission-specific task forces made up of any composition of Astartes from any of the army groups.

The 5 army groups each have a specialization, the 1st being tanks, the 2nd being mechanized infantry, and the 3rd being self propelled artillery. The 4th is the specialist army group, made up of combat support Astartes like combat engineers, reconnaissance assets like Land speeders, and anything else the Pact may need without dedicating 30,000 Astartes to doing it. The 5th is the replacement and training army group, and is never actually deployed. Instead, the other army groups source replacement personnel from the 5th.

The Imperial Auxilia assigned to them are responsible for their own organization.

Legion Characteristics: The Lightnings, much like the Judicators (later the Doomsayers) had very little trouble integrating with their lost genesire. Their way of war was similar to Wode’s own little merchant army, and they took to his views on armored, aggressive war like a raccoon takes to trash.

Culturally, the Pact is very pragmatic and results-oriented. What works, works, and what doesn’t is abandoned. Legionaries from Wode’s host are constantly honing their craft, running training exercises day and night until even the most complicated maneuvers are rote memory.

Unlike a lot of Astartes, however, the Pact values free time, rotating units out of action to rest during operations, where the Legionaries engage in recreational activities, such as cards, dice, feasts, and sleep. Due to a defect in their gene seed, the Pact’s Catalepsean nodes operate at a reduced capacity, making it necessary for these warriors to recuperate at levels that seem indulgent to more austere Legions. In particular, Lancers often engage in human vices such as lho sticks and stimulants, especially to stay awake during their high tempo combat operations.

A quirk of the Pact is the Right of Conquest, a clause written in the titular Pact of the Lance that allows the Pact legionaries to keep the loot from their victories. Battlefield trophies were a perk of employment in the Salient merchant houses, with many soldiers joining for the opportunity of bringing home valuable trinkets and weapons for prestige and money. The Pact practices this into the current day, keeping vehicles, weaponry, banners, and technology from conquered enemies, many times using that loot in battles immediately after the conflict they acquired them in.

The Legion also practices the Astartes custom of service studs, although instead of time served, the Legion uses studs to mark combat deployments where a Lancer scored at least one kill, with the color of the stud denoting the rough amount of said kills. Lancers without studs are considered ‘new meat’ and are subject to mild ridicule and jests from their fellow legionaries.

Dramatis Personae:
1st Army Group Praetor Erhardt Grieg: The Bloody 1st is led by Praetor Grieg, a hardbitten, gregarious Astartes tanker who has crewed AFV’s since before Wode inherited the Legion. The 1st is, of course, directly under the Primarch so Grieg is considered the Legion’s second, although he does not act as Wode’s ‘voice’ nor has any desire to do anything but ride his tank into battle.

2nd Army Group Praetor Johann Kohl: Kohl is the leader of the Second Army group, the Bandits. If Grieg is the veteran tanker, then Kohl is the veteran infantryman. Dominated by mechanized infantry, the 2nd takes great pride in their men doing the vast majority of the ‘hard work’, as it is the mechanized infantry who does the bulk of the killing in the wake of the tanks. Kohl is a quiet, ruthless man, with a cutting tongue that even the Pact considers cruel.

3rd Army Group Praetor Armin Schultz: Schultz is the leader of the Redlegs, the Third Army Group of the Pact. Schultz is a methodical, calculating leader, not prone to any sort of emotion at all. He likes his men to carry out fire missions with cold, clinical precision, as timely artillery support can mean the difference between victory and glory, or an ignominious death.

4th Army Group Praetor Gregor Liebowitz: The 4th Army group is captained by Praetor Liebowitz. A fiery tempered maverick, Liebowitz is a tireless advocate of unusual technology and tactics, always finding new ways to ‘torment’ (his words) the men of the 4th with some new battle lore or experimental wargear from the Legion forges. Nominally, the 4th is the combat engineering army group, but in practice the 4th AG is a catch-all for anything the Legion needs, including the legion's apothecaries and librarians, but not in great number, earning them the nickname ‘Geniuses.’

5th Army Group Praetor Saul Imogen: Saul is a baseline human from Salient, a rarity in the Legions as a human holding Astartes rank. Saul was the XO of Wode’s personal army in the Salient Unification Wars, and a capable tank man. He, along with a cadre of Astartes and Auxilia training officers, drill the aspirant Astartes mercilessly in the principles and concepts of armored warfare. Saul is friendly and good-humored, but has an almost legendary reputation amongst the Lancers due to the oddity of his rank and duties. It is a common joke amongst the Legionaries, for instance, that Saul is the true primarch of the Tenth, and Wode is secretly taking his orders.

Specialist Formations:

1st Company of the 1st AG, 'Hell's Wall':
While the Pact mostly parcels out its legionaries in mission specific task forces, one company is always deployed together. Hell's Wall is an elite formation of the Legion's Superheavy Fellblade tanks, led by Erhardt Grieg himself. Given the best vehicles, the crews of the 1st are all multiple aces, experts of both blistering offense and stolid defense, having laid low many enemy vehicles and monstrous xenoforms. Hell's wall will fight to the last, always eager to test their steel against the worst foes the Crusade has to offer.

Relationships:
The Emperor: The Emperor is father, employer, and commander all in one to the Pact. They are an uncomplicated Legion and hold no resentment to the Imperial regent.

Their Primarch: To the Pact, Wode is idolized as an example of all they believe in. Wode often fights in the front, whether on foot, in a transport, atop his relic tank, or even in more mundane armor such as Predators, Land Raiders, and on one notable occasion from the back of a humble Cargo 8 supply truck. This ethic, while dangerous, endears him to his men, human and Astartes alike.

Malcador and the Imperial administration: Strained. Wode is blunt, coarse, and uncaring of anyone's opinion except his men, his father, and everyone who helps them get into the fight. The red tape already present in the fledgling imperium grates on the Legion and their genesires nerves.

Cult Mechanicum: The Pact has a great regard for the Cult Mechanicum, if nothing else because a legion so dominated by armored fighting vehicles needs the support. A techpriest enginseer looking to increase his station in the Cult would do well to sign on with the Pact - the Legion will provide good reference to any techpriest who can keep up with the maintenance demands.

Other Legions: The Pact views other Legions on a sliding scale of trustworthiness based directly on how often they’ve deployed together and how competent the other legion was perceived to be. The Pact, however, views itself as the best, of all time, ever, and no other legion could ever hope to supplant their own opinion of themselves.

Imperial Army: The Pact views the Auxilia much the same as other legions, the only ones being worth a damn being the ones who have served with them and served well. The Army doesn't have much of an opinion, good or bad, of the Pact, in part due to the legion's age, and partly due to the similarity of the Pact to conventional Imperial Army armored formations.