Jb — Roleplayer Guild

@Lady Selune@ReedeThe23rd@BCTheEntity@CleanBreeze@Eisenhorn@Irredeemable@Reia

In the distant background the ruined carcass of Vernum City was incinerated with holy promethium and constant gouts of flame, the incandescent flame of the Emperor's purifying might being spouted by a over a hundred Imperial sentinel walkers that criss-crossed the currently spore-infested cityscape in an attempt to make it habitable for Mankind once more.

At the Cathedral of Holy Light, where Orkoid and Human bodies were currently being turned from masses of flesh and bone into nothing but so much ash, a mass of already broken regiments had held firm long enough for several Krieger Battalions to surround and annihilate the unsuspecting Greenskins where they stood – a great victory had been one that day, at the cost of many lives...too many.

Outside of the city, like a whole nest of ants stuck rigidly and still to the floor, the surviving regiments and armoured formations of the twenty-year crusade stood at attention to receive commendations and to listen to the victory speech of the architect put in charge of the entire bloody mess, Lord General Militant Egough Van Deer.

The man himself stood atop a towering podium overlooking the neat blocks of infantry, cavalry and armour, arranged in a perfect grid formation in spite of the shell-holes and trenches that had been by and large filled in, the ground now mainly flat but still a shade uneven in places.

At the front of each column of regiments, some as deep as sixty formations, had been placed a huge holo-screen so that all could witness the speech and be thankful for the God-Emperor's love; by and beneath each projection screen waited an ample coterie of aides, officers and NCO's – it would be their duty to hand out the medals once their superior was finished.

Klaxon’s blared as Van Deer strode up the podium, clad in his finest long black coat and wearing a peaked cap he nevertheless looked like some form of avian, and with the bitterly frigid wind beginning to whip up about the field, there was no doubt that he must be cold as well. On either side he was flanked by members of his staff, their responsibilities simply to stand and look austere as the General-Militant made his speech.

“Men and women of the Vernum Crusade,” he begin with a wide spreading of his arms, as if to encompass them all, his reedy voice amplified by the micro-comm before him, “for twenty years you have battled across mud and ice, through blazing heat, and marched stoically into the most hellish landscapes that our enemy could conjure...but you have survived where many would not, you have proven yourselves to the God-Emperor and to me, for this you are to be commended.”

With this signal the pack of aides and so forth were set loose, medals and commendations being drawn en masse from thousands of boxes and pinned to chest or placed in hands with military efficiency. There were awards such as the Triple Skull awarded to almost every regiment in the crusade – the amount of casualties having been beyond belief... - and more specific laurels for the differing regiments, dependent on background and part in the crusade.

It was not odd to see that those regiments composed for the most part of Abhuman soldiers – considered subhuman by many assembled there – were bereft of decoration or reward; Ogryns were too stupid to care, Penal Legionnaires could expect nothing, while those with bodily mutations were simply not counted as equals of the humans they fought by the sides of.

“The following regiments have been given the right to settle in this system, may it be your homes forever more, and may the God-Emperor watch over you.”

A list was read out then that included some of the more intact regiments, as well as some of the most depleted ones, but did not include regiments of Abhuman origin or those such as the Mordian 246th,  the 222nd Edrastian Shock Regiment, the 382nd Siege Regiment of Krieg and others.

“Those that have not been selected for resettlement will report to the Departmento Munitorum headquarters immediately. May the God-Emperor bless you all.”

The General-Militant retreated from the podium, his retinue following in turn and the holo-screens deactivating on queue, the contiguous mutterings of hundreds of voices silenced quickly by Commissars and officers amidst the men.

As soon as the assembly was began it was over, over a thousand fractured regiments directed off toward the  Departmento Munitorum headquarters, located in a huge and recently constructed outpost some miles to the west of Vernum City.

Terebravisse Scriba, clerk of the Departmento Munitorum and dispiritedly bored servant of the Emperor, looked once more over the pile of parchment he had been asked to process for presentation to the Prefect of Munitions and gave a long and heavy sigh. It had been several days without a break, his fingers, which each ended in another quill, were hurting and heavy and even his augmented eyes whirred with irritation as they focused and unfocused.

The texts that he had been handling for over a week were texts ascertaining to numbers of lives, to regiments that had become severely depleted and damaged by the crusade, and now a decision had to be made as to what to do with them. While this certainly gave him some form of cheap thrill , the regiments very existences resting upon a strike of his quills, it was laborious and time-consuming work and he had better things to do!

“Next...” he hissed, pulling more parchment toward him, his red-lit eyes (more like a pair of goggles attached to his face for all time) narrowing on the Gothic text before him, “interesting,” slowly but with expert precision he made his way through them, marking each one by type of regiment, planet of origin and specialisation, “you...and you...and...you.”

Evening was setting in, along with bone-chilling cold, as the most damaged of the regiments arrived at the headquarters buildings – at least nine prefabricated constructs of rockrete and plasteel, mostly square in shape and at least four levels high, a hundred or so large hab-units dotted around the perimeter, in which the regiments (or rather the still living remnants) would take shelter for the night until the verdict of what was to be done with them was given on the morrow by the Prefect of Munitions.

For now they could rest, converse, eat some standard rations and generally muse over what their fate would be...

Okay, pretty straightforward, feel free to post in any of the moments or all of them (parade, march to Munitorum base, arrival etc) as well as the thoughts of your characters and so forth; after everyone’s posted a round, I'll get us all bunched up and away we go.

Extremely WIP sheets, will finish as soon as possible.

Kaelianos

Gender: Male

Homeworld: Rasena was the original 'capital world' of the three-hundred worlds that would eventually come to make up the Rasenan Republic and the Latrurian Sector where they are located, a planet that was found and then settled in the Segmentum Tempestus during the earliest days of the Age of Technology by Terrans that bought with them records of humanities earliest endevours, as well as their failures.

An age of strife and planetary warfare between nations and worlds was concluded by millennia eighteen, the three-hundred worlds becoming nominally united under the Rasenan Monarchy via a series of treaties, laws and obligations, most worlds allowed to retain their own languages, traditions and so forth, indebted worlds required to tithe the Rasenans and their core worlds a portion of their manpower, natural resources, foodstuffs and on.

In the twentieth millennia the technologically advanced city-states of the homeworld were thrown into civil strife, the people no longer wishing to be ruled by one powerful figurehead, each girding their populations for war and eventually sending their assorted militaries against one another.

Centuries of destruction and then rebuilding would follow, the firm end of it all being an extermination of the royal line and the implementation of a republic in its place - thus the Rasenan Republic was born.

******

Rasena itself is a blend of civilised world and one which is far more advanced - columned buildings of marble blended with shimmering metallic agri-domes and terracotta tiled villas, whirring and rotating defence batteries nestled among fortifications taken from the ancient days of Terra, and surrounding the planet a never-ending swarm of vessels from across the sector.

Much has certainly changed from the days of the founding, technology and rulership included, city-states remain dotted over a tapestry of landscapes with climates varying from temperate to scorching, but their populations of citizen-warriors have become much more with the arrival of first the Primarch and then the Emperor himself.

Appearance: There was once an ancient Terran artist named Mikélanjalo, a sculpture who carved a seventeen feet high statue of a mythical figure, this figure was named 'David', and it is said that it was one of the most perfect artistic depictions of the human form ever crafted by mortal hands; how true or not this tale is is largely irrelevant, except to say that when the Emperor and his gene-crafters formed Kaelianos they not only did the same but far surpassed his work.

The being, the demi-godlike creation, called Kaelianos by his initial owner - a name of no special importance, but one that he has always been known by - is in no uncertain terms one of the most perfectly formed 'mortals' to ever tread the Milky Way, arguably one step lower than the Emperor himself in heart-aching and tear-inducing physical make-up.

From his head to his toes he is of perfect proportions, standing straight-backed at a height of twelve feet, his broad (but not too broad) shoulders narrowing down to a lithe yet muscular torso of sculpted flesh, unmarred and hairless skin of an olive tone covering asymmetrical limbs of a length neither too short nor too long, then continuing down legs clearly formed from a being as close to a deity as one may get.

To look upon the face of Kaelianos is to look upon a visage of a gigantic human youth in his prime - a smooth forehead above neat brows of chestnut colour, but below a curling mop of similarly coloured hair, his squared jaw tapering down to a strong chin, and his aquiline nose placed a precise distance from his full lips.

It is rare for most to be able to meet the dark-brown gaze of the Primarch, only those of strong will - fellow sons or daughters of the Emperor for example - able to do so without having to look away after a few minutes.

Out of battle he garbs himself in an enlarged version of the tunic worn by his sons, with colours ranging from deep crimson, to purple, to undyed white bordered in numerous colours.

When Kaelianos takes to the field it is in a suit of artificer armour to match his person, constructed and formed by the finest armourers he could find, made up of numerous pieces of shimmering bronze sculpted in the most precise way to his body. 

It makes him look less like a living being, and more like a statue that moves far too fluidly to be one. 

The final item is a high-crested helmet that encloses his entire head, a mask in a snarling likeness of his face able to slide down in the manner of a visor should he need it.

As for weapons, due to his upbringing he wields two Primarch-suitable gladii, blades crackling with energy and the end for many when set to deadly purpose.

Personality: Perhaps the most glaringly obvious thing about the 'young' Primarch is his inability to remain still, even when he is stood doing nothing at all; while he may not be moving psychically, there can be no doubt that an almost ethereal energy fills him from head-to-toe, Kaelianos always seeming to be permanently on the verge of mental or bodily movement, as if constantly on the edge of snapping into a blur of speed or a lecture of one sort or another.

This force can be seen and felt in almost every aspect of his being, as well as in everything he chooses to do, his joyous demenour and charismatic bon ami palpable in the very air around him by the psychically blunted - but almost like a hammer blow to those most attuned to the Emperor's mental gifts.

Such energy has turned the ever-youthful Primarch into an intellectual virtuoso, an orator of impeccable skill and verve, and a writer and author of innumerable works - primarily focusing on his own life and the campaigns of he and his fellow legions in the Emperors service.

Even before meeting his father and his sons he was ambitious, this only grew with knowledge of his origins, lending him somewhat of an arrogant air, but one that he could easily back up with either blade or the written word.

Now Kaelianos has turned himself toward the goals of his creator, taking his own pocket empire as an example, and wishing to recreate a universe - a human universe - in the image of the Age of Technology. Mankind managed it once, and he believes that they can become that great again, the Great Crusade of his progenitor being the primary step toward it.

Skills: Kaelianos employs skills that he has learnt throughout his life, made simpler by the very nature of his essential nature as one of the Emperors sons.

Starting life in the Rasenan fighting pits and arenas, training day-in and day-out in the ludus of the man that had first found him, he slew his first man when he was only ten years old - yet already as large as a full grown man, though he would grow larger still - specialising in the use of two blades at a time and caring little for the wounds which, until much later, he did not realise were unlikely to slow him down, let alone kill him.

With his skill as a duelist and combatant came the initial sparks of a charm that would see him become the autocratic leader of a three-hundred world spanning empire, casting uneeringly potent influence over the crowds before which he fought, the officials and politicians sat in their high seats and boxes, and eventually over the man who's death would make him semi-divine in the eyes of some.

Being allowed access to materials hailing from the earliest days of humanity, from scrolls of preserved papyri mingled with dataslates of gathered knowledge, to weapon schematics and the military treatises of geniuses, only formed Kaelianos into an exemplar of a warrior-scholar of the old school - a being as capable of planning a logistically challenging campaign as he was at taking to the battlefield at the head of his warriors.

Every skill was sharp before the arrival of the 'true eagle', his fleets of warships and his golden warriors, but the Princeps of Rasena only became razor sharp in light of texts from within the Imperium (as well as those of conquered and compliant worlds).

All-in-all he is a warlord at home in both court and killing field, more than prepared to do what he considers to be best for the Imperium, a Primarch as proficient at counting the corpses of his slain enemies as he is at sketching the supply routes for and organisation of his next military exploit.

Assignment Grade: Kappa – Kaelianos is void of almost all psychic ability, what little he does have manifesting itself in overwhelming prescence and force of personality.  

Biography: Ergalisus had always been a greedy man, even his own parents had ejected him from the family home for the amount he ate, the citizen of Rasena having a craving for currency and a fine nose for good flesh - something that he had put to good use, better use than his parents and their stupid agri-farm! - becoming one of the principle lanisti to the sneering senators and military leaders, supplying them with all the creatures and all the lives they could ever want.

He was not a cruel man, no, just greedy... and it was just business!

This is what he told himself when he abducted a cherubic child, and a spine-chillingly silent child, from some manner of incubator. It did not appear to be asleep when he came upon it by a riverbank, dipping his scarred but strong arms into the broken glass and lifting the child free, those eyes... those deep eyes... he had known then that this child was different. He had just not known how different.

Even stranger was the urge, as was natural to him, to simply leave the child where it was - exposure not entirely uncommon in these parts - but somehow he just couldn't.

Time moved on, the young Primarch given to a wetnurse to be suckled but seemingly needing little in the way of sustinence, and always those deep, dark, eyes watched everything and everyone...

By the age of five Terran years the boy-child had grown to the size of an adolescent, able to speak the tongue of Rasena and often spending his time speaking with or observing the various fighters and trainers-of-fighters surrounding him in his 'fathers' training school.

No one understood why Ergalisus had shown up with a child, then proceeded to treat the boy like his own offspring, while simply ignoring the unnatural rate at which he grew and learnt, least of all the school owner himself, but it was apparent to all that no-one seemed able to dislike him unless in the grip of an extreme emotion - anger, grief and so on - which would explan why none of the pit-fighters dispatched him in his infancy.

By the time he was ten years of age he was training with the other fighters, besting most of the rawest offerings with little effort, once jovial veterans turning sour as he progressed at some speed - many complaining that their master played favourites and doted on the outsider a little too much.

During one incident he was opposed by a fighter known widely as 'the Reaper', a huge offworlder who had dispatched dozens of opponents, the larger man spitting venomous words at the growing Primarch and asserting that he would take his head and pleasure himself with it.

Needless to say, it was the thus-far unnamed 'son' of Ergalisus that came away from the fight, wounded and bleeding from five-dozen knicks and cuts, but carrying the head of his attacker.

In the decade or so that the Primarch, eventually named Kaelianos by the man who coveted him most of all, fought before crowds of Rasenan citizenry and allies of the three-hundred worlds - dozens at first, thousands by the time of his freedom - he earned a reputation as an undefeated but magnanimous fighter, never killing unless he needed to, and gaining the largest civilian following of any pit-fighter.

While he had been growing up, unbeknownst to one who had spent his entire life in relative isolation and knew nothing of wider Rasenan politics, a former consul had slain his appointed opposite and proclaimed himself dictator for life - something that the senate were powerless to do, as he held the military in his grasp; this had sparked revolts and conflict in the wider sector, allied worlds erupting in bloodshed when they heard the news from the capital planet, a campaign set up by the tyrant was planned to go ahead but he had one thing to do first.

In his thirty-fourth year, though he appeared to have stopped aging much earlier, Kaelianos was granted his freedom by Antius Esdras the Imperator of Rasena. His erstwhile master and father-figure slipped into obscurity as soon as the final contest was over, Antius having him slain, his school sold off, and Kaelianos bought to him the space of two days.

Now began a new phase of the Primarchs life, one of ease and leisure where he had known only hardship and competition, months and then years spent in the libraries and record-houses of Rasena nurturing the mind of the man as food and drink did not. All the while his new patron, the tyrant having semi-adopted him into his own household as a ward, went from world-to-world out in the stars of the wider sector, he said to bring order when he bought more than enough death with it.

While Kaelianos marvelled at the splendid works of the Rasenan people, the blend of high and feudal technology allowed by their unbroken lineage to a bygone age, as well as their mercantile pursuits, glittering metal towers and blue-veined marble temples and buildings, Esdras was returning to his homeworld in triumph.

With the revolts over and most things now as they once were the sector may have gone on much as it always had, but something had touched the Imperator as he fought his battles, and upon his return to Rasena he was different. Oh he had always been flamboyant, deceitful, even sadistic, but now he began proclaiming himself a living God and parading through the streets in garments of shining gold, and history turned swiftly against him.

What happened next, and for exact reasons, are known only to Kaelianos, but suffice to say he slew the former legate-turned-tyrant and through political and military means reformed the republic into a different creature together; now it was an autocracy in all but name, though Kaelianos respected the senate and invited representatives from two-hundred-and-ninety-nine worlds of the sector - he representing Rasena itself, of course - to play the dutiful servant of the state.

Reforms swiftly followed in all tracks of life, treaties being altered and ratified seemingly by Kaelianos alone, military reforms taking place at an alarming rate, and an insistence being made especially on the allied worlds to provide auxiliary forces for the Rasenan war machine.

It was in the midst of these sector-spanning upheavals that a single vessel appeared on the fringes of Latrurian space, a ship - nay, a fortress - bristling with weapons and larger than any in the navies available to Kaelianos, one that honestly he knew could not be contended with, and so he took a small guard and boarded his least impressive vessel and thus did he come face-to-face with his father and his creator.

The Meeting: Kaelianos had watched with ever increasing dread as it transpired that reports about this unknown vessel had not been completely accurate, the construct of clearly alien origin had grew larger and larger as he neared it, at times he had even thought of turning back; yet with two-hundred-and-ninety-nine warriors at his back, clad in segemented suits of gleaming armour, high-crested helmets framing their dour faces, it was clearly an option taken away from him as soon as he thought it.

They had landed in one of the many openings, in a hangar large enough to envelope the entire Latrurian ship, disembarking into a highly illuminated... cave? 

It had seemed like a cave, with a ceiling so high that the top could not be seen, weapons far ahead of his own seemingly primitive ones tracking the movements of he and his praetorians as they made their way into the light and assembled themselves in serried ranks.

Kaelianos had always thought them so ferocious, eagle-topped standards held before each cohort of them, stoic centurions in 'sophisticated' suits of powered armour, tall plumed helmets framing the faces of the tallest and broadest warriors Kaelianos had been able to find and train.

Compared to the golden being that advanced toward them from the other side of the hangar-cave, and the ranks of giants clad in grey armour that followed in perfect step, they were but children.

At the sight of them the Primarchs heart began to quicken, and it was said in later years that he became as hard to look directly at as his gene-father.

"My son."

It was not a greeting but a statement, the blindingly bright figure coming forward to stand before Kaelianos, his own men shying away and more than one of them immediatly kneeling to the floor in his prescence. He could not deny that he too felt the need to kneel, forcing himself to remain where he was, intent on performing such a ritual of submission only if and when he desired.

In that moment he noticed a standard that one of the grey-clad warriors carried aloft, the banner showing an unknown scene upon it while at the top... at the top... his breath caught in his throat as he looked through squinting eyes at the two-headed form of a shimmering aquila.

"Who are you?" He managed to say eventually, dragging his eyes back to peer at the 'man' before him.

"I am the Emperor of Mankind, your father."

He wanted to reject this claim, wanted to call this shining beacon a liar and a false emperor, wanted to do anything but accept that he was who and what he claimed - of course he could not do it, such a notion was comical! 

Kaelianos had grown rapidly, learnt more than any scholar or sage on Rasena, taken leadership of hundreds of planets from a senate of peers with nary a word spoken against him and no weapons raised.

How, he asked himself honestly, could he have achieved these things if he were like any other man? Any other mortal? 

No, the Emperor could not be lying.

"And them?"

"They are my warriors, my Astartes, my Space Marines."

A gesture bought one of these strange warriors forward, a word of command from the Emperor disengaging a helmet with a hiss, the face that confronted Kaelianos like looking in a slightly warped mirror; this Astartes was beautiful as any mortal would measure it, the face so different and yet so uncannily similar to his own, the dark eyes assuredly containing within them a portion of the Primarch himself.

"These are your own sons," continued the ruler of Mankind almost casually, ignoring the look on his progenies face, "Astartes of the Eighth Legion created in your image, their former lives beginning across Terra, now they are here."

"And... this?" Asked the Primarch, gazing at their meeting place in wonder even as he absorbed every detail of the Space Marine beside his father.

"This? This is a fortress taken by your legion from my enemies, an action that earned them their titles. It too belongs to you."

Kaelianos allowed himself further moments of contemplation, the Emperor allowing an amused expression to appear on his face before it vanished as quickly.

"I-I cannot leave Latruria undefended, there are worlds that need rebuilding and..."

"My son," said the Emperor, cutting him off, "I would not ask you to abandon so many worlds of Man. No, the crusade I lead is to forge our people into what they once were. I ask that you come with me, lead your sons, join me and your siblings."

"There are others?! Others... like me?"

"Yes, Kaelianos, your brothers and sisters."

The chuckle that followed was like the peeling of a thousand bells, and made Kaelianos forget about asking how this being - his father he reminded himself - could know his name.

"I place what worlds and warriors I possess into your hands, father. I shall come with you to the stars and help you forge anew a future for Mankind."

Only now did he kneel, the image of the Palatine Aquila and the face of the Emperor both burnt into his psyche, his eyes finally cast down at the deck of the monstrous vessel that would soon be his.

The Eighth Legion

'Reliable and Steadfast'

Legion Name: The Eighth legion has never had a previous legion name, having been straightforward and wary of names and titles even before being gifted to their Primarch - as such they retained only their number from founding, to reunion, and beyond.

Legion Number: VIII

Legion Strength: Approximately 180,000 Astartes, shifts often due to legion combat doctrines, as well as nearly innumerable auxiliary formations of the Imperial Army.

Warcry: "We bring death, that man may thrive." 

Not so much a war-cry, the Eighth not being generally fond of such 'barbaric displays', but more a reminder and affirmation of why they fight, typically said prior to an engagement.

Armour Appearance: The armour of the Eighth is by and large uniform, gunmetal being the colour of the masses, with brass/bronze trimming; of course, differing ranks require different accoutrements – Centurions with transverse crests etc – and more ornamentation.

One quirk of the legion due to their Primarchs adoption of Rasenan military equipment and stratagems, these being chiefly frontal assaults, is the overly high amount of Mark III power armour – the so-called “Iron Armour” - and the adoption of the scutum (a breacher shield in most respects) by Marines of nearly every rank and the infantry masses for certain. If it is not one of these, it is likely to be a prototype 'Storm Shield', a smaller version currently in development.

The legion symbol is the encircled laurel wreath, a sign of victory taken from Terran history as well as Rasenan athletic feats.

Dramatis Personae:

Praefectus Praetorio Salvius Merula - Commander of the Primarch's bodyguard cohorts and also his equerry.

Tribunus Militum Minicius Paterculus - Tribune of the Primarch's personal guard, the Raseni corporis custodes, (Rasenan body guards) and his second-in-command.

Praefectus Fabrum Aulus Vetus - Techmarine and the Omnissiahs highest representative in the Eighth Legion.

Haruspex Primus Tages Attus - Chief Librarian of the Eighth.

Primus Medicus Galenus Dioskorides - Chief Apothecary of the Eighth.

Praefectus Castrorum Pinarius Celer - Overseer of the legions mobile-fortress, and second only to Kaelianos in matters of logistics and planning.

Vexillarius Modius Laevinus - Personal standard-bearer of the Primarch, carries the legion banner.

Praefectus Peregrini Cae Velthur - Mortal and overall commander of the Latrurian Auxilia regiments, as well as any other Imperial Army regiments of the legion.

Primus Praefectus Classis Abdosir Hiram - Naval commander of the legions space-borne vessels overall, also non-Astartes.

Favoured Tactics/Battlefield Role: In spite of how it may appear to some, and although against most enemies the Eighth does favour the straightforwardness of an aggressive forward push, they truly do not specialise in anything and possess an inclination toward the old adage of a river-rush that bends in the breeze but never snaps.

The organisation of the legion, and the utter discipline prioritised  by Kaelianos that runs through it, allows the Eighth to flexibly adjust themselves as-and-when the situation requires it of them.

In general the Eighth Legion uses little in the way of vehicles (at least for their Astartes, the auxilia are another matter!), with the exclusion of bikes and airborne transports, putting most emphasise on the simple foot-soldier on the ground  and supporting him with mobile batteries of Quad Launchers and Rapier Carriers especially.

Jack-of-all-trades and masters of none, Kaelianos and his legion pick and choose from other legions, capable of building fortifications that fall just short of the standards of the Nineteenth Legion, of launching boarding actions that would make the Dread Lords smile, or even of intelligence gathering that may be but a tad less inaccurate than those drawn up by Micholi and his sons.

Legion Characteristics/Ideology: Kaelianos and his legion come from a realm that bore little of the brunt of the Age of Strife, a unified and technologically adequate pocket-empire that is becoming more advanced as time goes by, the Primarch wishing to see a unified mankind once more under the leadership of the most exceptional human – for he retains the belief that the Emperor is simply a super ordinary man, albeit the pinnacle of their species – that is may return to the Age of Technology once more.

Outside of this there are a number of things that drive the life of an Eighth Legion Space Marine, perhaps the highest being adherence to the Fifteen Rasenan Virtues, fifteen aspects of personal and mental development and fortitude required of every Astartes of the legion. This is combined with a professionalism and discipline seen almost nowhere else in the Crusade, everything from trigger discipline to internal competition between singular marines to entire formations, every aspect tailor made to produce a generalist soldier, rather than a warrior, who acts in concert with his peers.

One Remembrancer commented that watching the Eighth train was akin to viewing 'drills like bloodless battles, and battles as bloody drills.'

Adaptability and always learning in and away from the fields of war, loyalty, fidelity and espirit de corps in all they do, constant striving to excel at ones craft for the betterment of the unit, the company, the legion and the Imperium as a whole, these are the markings of the warrior-scholar par excellence and what the Eighth embody  in their trials and tribulations.

Relationships: There is honestly not much to be said for the ins-and-outs of the legions relationships, Kaelianos more than understanding of his brothers and sisters, and always willing to try to view things from their own ways of thought and action.

His loyalty to the Emperor is absolute, though he is not a mindless drone, and his legions links with the Mechanicum are significantly more stable than most others, giving them the respect they require and receiving what he wishes in return. It is mutual and it is beneficial to both, as it should be.

As for humanity in general, and the bureaucracy of the Imperium, Kaelianos long ago decided to wield them as one might wield a blade, his innately born charisma coupled with a mind as keen at diplomacy as it is at war has allowed he and the Eighth to never truly come to blows with either the administrators of the burgeoning realm of man or those citizens within its borders.

Those that defy compliance and xenos races specifically, well, they should expect no mercy from Primarch or legion short of outright surrender for the former and outright extermination for the latter. Man is the true inheritor of the Milky Way and beyond, Kaelianos having no time for the Edict of Tolerance by which he nevertheless will abide because it is the law of the land and will of the Emperor... for now.

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