The Lion Roars

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

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

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

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

Such weakness would be his downfall, this distance
kept from even his most favoured sons. Abandoned at the final hour, the world burning around him, it would be his only friend whose blade turned black with treason. A tragedy perhaps, or inevitable from the start...

The Man Who Never Trusts Will Always Be Betrayed.

From Whence The Wild Things Came

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

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

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

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

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

A Lesson in Hope

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

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

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

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

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

The Seeds of Betrayal

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Subtle Treason

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

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

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

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

The Imperium Reborn

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

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

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

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

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

That is, until the Lion revealed what else was aboard his ship...

The Night Haunter had arrived.

Prey Turned Predator

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

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

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

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

A Home Not Remembered

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

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

An Ending Inevitable

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Within the Depths

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

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

The time comes soon however, when the Lion will roar once more, his angels will fill the heavens with their wrath.

And the woods shall march once again to war...

The Lion Helm

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

The Phoenix Rises

It is hard to find the truth in evil, broken as it is. Harder still to find the beauty in its cold embrace. Every now and then however, the shattered glass distorts the world, and shows us who we truly are. Finds the single tear, lonely in its sorrow.


A combination of genetic perfection and sorcerous mastery, the Phoenician was one of the twenty Primarchs craft by the Emperor deep beneath the surface of Terra. A being of sublime beauty, Fulgrim embodied grace in all things, each movement a dance of motion, each blow a song of wonder. Alas, the greater one climbs the further one falls and in his endless search for perfection he
found only damnation.

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

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

The Mirror Can Only Lie...

From the Ashes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glory Comes The Flames

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

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

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

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

The Phoenix Had Arrived...

So Begins The Fall

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

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

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

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

The Final Choice

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Daemon Within

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

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

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

The Price for Perfection was paid...

Defined By Weakness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Serpent's Tongue

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

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

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

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

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

A New Dawn

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

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

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

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

            they considered not the consequences of their

                                      actions.

The Gilded Panoply

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

Blade of Laer

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

Firebrand

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

The Iron Lord

Do you craft in sorrow dear prince, or to hide the light you see? What wonders could we have wrought together, were your mind untouched and free?

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

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

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

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

A New Light

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In The Mists of Madness

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

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

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

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

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

Without Relent

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Old Enemy

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

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

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

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

The Dawn Above

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Storm Beckoned...

The Last Gambit

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

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

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

Death was its own goal...

An Iron Cage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Settling then on Medrengard, a Daemon Fortress of impenetrable might, Perturabo waited...

But The Engine Burns Bright Once More...

The Logos

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

Forgebreaker

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

Tormentor

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

The Wild Hunt

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

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

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

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

This would be his greatest strength and most terrible weakness. All would hold him suspect, unsure of whose side he'd truly choose. None could know his feral path but what did it matter?

The Wind Need Not Be Understood...

The Young Ranger

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wild Knight

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Violent Rebirth

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Distant Truth

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

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

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

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

A City of Broken Dreams

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Time of Woe

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

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

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

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

With calm once more established, the Khan retreated to his chambers to plan his next move. His closest advisors came with him and there the choice was made. Jaghatai would ride with the Emperor, would ride with humanity against the darkness of old foes.

The Khan Would Not Be Forgotten Today...

The Mirror Darkly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wildfire Panoply

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

The White Tiger Dao

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

Sojutsu Pattern Voidbike

A prototype device modeled after the Jetbikes, it was capable of incredible speed and dexterity. Possessing void-capability, the Mechanicum later defined it as a "ultra-light fighter" due to its versatility on the battlefield.

The Last Saga

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

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

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

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

Such was the irony of the Wolf King, his savage guise maintained for the lies it helped him weave...

And the lies he told himself.

The Age of Frost

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

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

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

The Wanderer in the Wild

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Executioner in Name

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

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

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

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

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

Such might have worked on lesser men, perhaps even just saner men, but threats were but tinder on the flames that burned in Angron. No one knows truly who fired the first shot, but the two Legions clashed in frenzy...

Judgement Had Come To Gehenna...

Wyrd and Wonder

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

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

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

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

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

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

Murder-Make

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

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

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

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

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

The Long Night

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

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

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

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

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

As the stars align in ruin, the bell tolls for the end. His sons wait with bated breath as the end shrieks nigh...

And The Wolf Howls Once More...

The Armour of Elavagar

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

Mjalnar, The Sword of Banelight

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

The Emperor's Hand

It was all for the dream. Every life lost, every world conquered, every rotten empire and perfidious civilization cast to the flames. A crusade across the infinite black, where only the most loyal would survive.

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

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

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

But Dreams Seldom Survive the Waking...

The Stone Splinters

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

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

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

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

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

Storm's Teeth

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

The Auric Armour

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

The Voice of Terra

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

In Quiet Laughter

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

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

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

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

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

Such would be his beginning, his middle and his end, the story of the Night Haunter an act of melancholic resignation,

A Tale of Violent Suicide...

A Dread Right

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

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

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

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

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

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

Revenant Rising

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

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

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

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

But Even Fear Itself Knows Fear Of Another...

Two of a Kind

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

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

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

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

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

But Vindication Would Be His...

A Game of Lions

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

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

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

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

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

A Reversal of Fate

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

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

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

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

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

Noticing the Lion had prepared an invasion of the world below, obviously suspicious of those he had come to meet, Konrad used the genetic similarity between Primarchs to launch the Drop Pods at the planet, sequestering himself away within one as chaos reigned below.

Fear Had Come To The Avenging Son...

The Annihilation of I

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breaking Point

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Crow Calls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vindication Was Worth Any Price...

The Nightmare Mantle

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

Mercy & Forgiveness

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

This Divine Regret

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

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

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

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

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

So begins the journey of his bleeding soul, the rage turned inwards for fear of it unleashed. He was an Angel raised on wings of reason,

A Demon Craft In Self-Destruction...

A Descent of Angels

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Wings of Rage

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

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

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

He who Watches Hell

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

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

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

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

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

Even Angels Fall Eventually...

An Age of Blood

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

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

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

A Reflection in Red

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

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

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

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

The backlash of such wanton murder rendered the Primarch unconscious, his soul retreating in horror at the end his sons now faced.

The Sins Of His Silence Awoke...

A Choice of End

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unto The Final Night

Davin cleansed, Sanguinius and the Legions fled as the world began to collapse. Escaping into orbit, the world imploded, devouring with it the Warp and reality as well. In its place was a breach, a single hole in the lunatic wall of the Ruinstorm.

Without hesitation, the Angel and his forces dove for the gap, screaming through the passage towards Terra. Such, it seemed, had been predicted by Horus and as they grew closer, a large fleet of traitors moved to intercept.

Knowing the Angel's destiny, his life and death tied inexorably with the Emperor's success, Guilliman and the Lion separated from his force and assaulted the emerging traitor forces. Free of danger, the Blood Angels screamed towards Terra on wings of fire.

He did not go alone however, for the Night Haunter remained on his ship. Knowing that if his fate was important to the Emperor's success, so too was Konrad's, and with this realisation he imprisoned the Night Lord within a stasis capsule and fired him into the void of space.

It might take centuries, maybe even millennia, but Konrad would meet his destiny, would face his fate at the hands of the Emperor. Judgement, like vindication, was inevitable in the end.

With his burdens cleared and his purpose absolute, Sanguinius arrived upon Terra to great celebration. The loyalist forces knew joy as his angelic form strode across the earth, and throughout the land, hope once more returned in force.

Here he met with his brothers, Rogal Dorn, Leman Russ, Jaghatai Khan, as well as Malcador the Sigillite, and began to plan the Imperial effort against the traitors.

Ruin Wore An Angel's Face Tonight

The Angel Falls

Pushed back to the Eternity Gate, the very fortress before the Emperor's throne, Sanguinius held the line where no other could. Champion of Chaos, Daemons of wrath, even the great Ka'Bandha would be shattered before his might. No step was given any further, as his blade wept blood amidst the lightning in his eyes.

When the Emperor announced his plan to take the fight to Horus however, Sanguinius knew that fate had come. Teleporting aboard the Vengeful Spirit, the Angel found himself separated. Here in the den of madness, the shifting walls of the vessel retreating from his radiance, he found Horus.

The two fought, but even now Sanguinius tried to save his brother from the tragedy he had become. It was to no avail, and here in the heart of the Warmaster's power, Sanguinius knew his end had come.

A single crack in Horus' armour was all that he could achieve, tired from fighting and no match for the combined power of Chaos. Rent and ruined, the Angel flew no more.

Legend has it, however, that his single blow, that one weakness left in the armour allowed the Emperor to strike down Horus and save the Imperium from darkness. Such would be the Angel's way, to aid another to greater heights...

To Burn So That Others Might Live...

Blade Encarmine

A beautiful power-sword, it is said to respond only to those of the Angels lineage. Passed down now to the Chapter Master of the Blood Angels, it remains a relic without comparison.

Spear of Telesto

An ornate spear of devastating power, it possesses a jealous nature. Those who wield it without the blessing of Sanguinius quickly find themselves destroyed.

The Metal Age

Always a machine, in love with the very steel that flowed around his hands, what tragedy his death has become. Ruined by love and broken by the anger in his veins, no more human a death could be his.

All Primarchs were designed as weapons, forged with war in mind. Few proved to be more focused on this role than Ferrus. A warrior more than a soldier, a fighter more than a king, the Gorgon was an engine of war, destined for the battlefield and little else.

Respecting strength above all things, survival proved ones worth in his eyes. Existence was not a right, but a privilege fought and earned against the terrible darkness of the galaxy. Only in such crucible could one improve, only against the threat of destruction could perfection be found.

This would never leave him, no other thought nor philosophy would intrude upon this darwinian belief. Instead it would be refined, honed down to a razers edge and adapted by all those who followed in his steps.

Hatred, for that is what it was, would define both he and his sons. A hatred of weakness, a hatred of the enemy, as more time passed all would fall within the enmity of the Gorgon until little else remained.

Such would be his downfall, such would be the graven blade that took his head. This disdain in all directions had but only one last place to go...

A Hatred Of Himself...

In Service to Another

As the years passed, Ferrus Manus became a ruler to the people of Medusa as well as a sage without peer. Uncovering many of the hidden secrets buried beneath the planet, the natives grew advanced in their ways, though barbarians still to this day.

Eventually did the Emperor come however, and impressed by the success of his child, he offered him a place in the Great Crusade, to serve him for the benefit of mankind. Proud was Ferrus Manus however, and sure of his strength. He refused to bend knee to one who could not best him and so the Emperor gladly obliged.

This battle broke the very world upon which they stood, and the Gorgon realised that this being before him was far greater than even the dreaded wyrm from his youth. Bested at last by the golden lord, Ferrus Manus bent his knee to one worthy of his fealty, one with the strength to bring him low.

Placed in charge of the 10th Legion, whom he named the Iron Hands after himself, Ferrus took the Legion apart piece by piece. Like an artisan disassembling a weapon to repair each part, so too did the Gorgon undo what passed for hierarchy in place of his own methods.

Such would take place over the years that would come, but first would the Gorgon travel to Terra. Here he would meet those of his kin newly discovered, and learn the ways of the Imperium.

Most importantly of all, however, he would meet with Fulgrim, his most beloved brother and most hated foe. Their meeting would define the very future of the Crusade, would mark history as it happened. Here would the Iron Hand make his first mistake, one that would haunt him by the end.

Relentless They Come

His Legion reforged and his mind tutored in the path to come, Ferrus Manus would lead his men into battle across the stars. He became known as a steadfast ally, one that knew no mercy nor brooked no insult in his way.

This nature only grew firmer as the Crusade grew on, righteous anger replaced with seething hatred for those who would not bend before them. Respect was rarely given to their foe, for only those who survived deserved it. This led to the Iron Hands committing terrible crimes against their enemy, willing to inflict total destruction in the name of overwhelming strength.

Such became the norm and soon dissent of any kind was silenced. Only the Emperor was strong enough to rule and therefore only his rule could exist. Genocide of newly conquered populations became common, intent on weeding out the dissidents, and the Iron Hands grew monolithic in their refusal to consider alternatives.

Incapable of seeing outside his blinkered vision, the events of the future would catch Ferrus out completely, his surprise but the herald of his total undoing.

For Iron Does Not Bend... Only Break

A Brother's Rage

It was during the Diasporex Persecution that the troubles between brothers became obvious to the Gorogon. Having spent many months chasing down this nomadic fleet of humans and xenos, they had met nothing but evasion and failure.

Incapable of understanding why humanity would sink to such agreement with aliens, their refusal to surrender was met with furious anger by the Iron Hands, and time and time again they were tricked in their endless hunt.

Eventually, knowing they were outmatched, they called for reinforcements and were met by Fulgrim and the Emperor's Children. Delighted to see each other once more, they began their plan to destroy the enemy immediately.

Some time in they discovered the aliens intent. Solar collectors kept them here for their ships needed further fuel to escape the pursuit of the Astartes. Marshalling their forces, the two Legion began the destruction of these devices and, faced with no other choice, the Diasporex arrived to defend them.

A great battle between the two navies began as the stars grew dim in the face of such eclectic destruction. Seeking glory as always he did, Fulgrim took his craft towards the capital vessel of their foe, intent on boarding it alone.

Even a Primarch cannot stand against the forces of destruction wielded by the armadas of space however, and as guns trained upon the Phoenix, Ferrus Manus rushed to his aid. Positioning his vessel between the two, he took the shots meant for his kin and in doing so saved his life.

Fulgrim did not see it this way however, and as the battle was finished, the Diasporex eliminated, he was wroth in the face of Ferrus. While the Gorgon had acted only out of compassion and fear for his brother, Fulgrim saw ego and petty pride.

The courageous acts of the Iron Hand were dismissed and Fulgrim left with only venom in his tongue. The Gorgon knew not what possessed his brother, but the strain had began to show... Madness was soon to follow.

The Medusan Carapace

The pinnacle of defensive design, this suit Cataphractii Pattern Terminator Armour was the personal craft of Ferrus Manus. Endlessly modified, it possessed numerous weapon systems and additional protective measures.

Forgebreaker

The grand hammer forged by Fulgrim, in the hands of the Iron Hand it was capable of bring Titans to their knees. Possessing now a dark history, its ownership has moved through the hands of many.

The Red Angel

A thousand battles, or one... He brings from hollow to life. Blood shed like tears, wept upon the page, a sorrow drawn from innocence vent upon in rage. One brief moment cascades, a burning light amidst those he truly loved... Then darkness, once more his Garden of Shadow.

Many of the Primarchs found themselves on barren worlds of feral savages, others in the lands of tyrants and despots. Few were so shaped by their home as Angron, however, for barbarity became his defining trait, anger his only balm against the driving pain he endured.

Perhaps the greatest warrior amongst the Emperor's Sons, none could stand before his feral strength. Uncaring of his own existence, hoping secretly to die, the Red Angel fought without reason. Few could match blades with a being to whom survival was irrelevant in their madness.

Such insanity was not natural, at least not entirely so. Raised upon a world to whom the sport of blood was considered a delicacy, he was implanted with arcane devices, tools designed to heighten and enhance the anger and rage of those who bore them.

As a god's love is infinite in comparison to a mortal's, so too is their wrath. An inferno was already held deep in the heart of the Red Angel, and so stoked it devoured everything and anything in its path. Hateful and without control of even his own thoughts, Angron was a being of pure malice... And psychotic hate.

So begins our journey with the Red Angel, hope taken without return, his life ruined by all that he met. Nothing mattered for nothing could to a being of such sorrow and wrath. Nothing except peace...

Except The Silence At The End Of It All.

Red Rain Comes

The secrets of the Red Angels birth are quiet ones, buried deep in tomes of black lore and malefic truth. Few are made aware of it, fewer still dare speak it for even such faint memory of his passing evokes arts of bitter ken.

Arriving on the world of Nuceria, he found a planet of culture and advanced technology. Here the denizens of this world toiled in abject poverty, subjugated by their masters who lived high above the dejected masses who served them.

To keep the population sedated, the rulers of this world held great competitions of visceral bloodshed and violence. Gladiatorial games of monstrous brutality sated the endless bloodlust of the people, and kept them working without hope.

Such efforts required fuel however, the hunger of humanity ravenous in its need to consume. Slavers were often sent in search of those who seemed promising and it was by one of these that the young Red Angel was found.

Surrounded by the corpses of some strange alien, future historians would theorize they were Eldar, alerted by their psychic talents to the horrors contained within the harrowed child. Such choice was poorly made however, their actions taken but the first pillar of the Primarch's self-hatred and rage.

Brought to the Palace Praxica, the seat of power for the city-state of Desh'ea, he was sold to the noble family of House Thal'kr. A frightened child, alone and lost, he was dumped into a vast fighting pit and forced to kill for his life. Exposed to such violence, the monster of man was given form... No tears would follow in his tread.

A Beast Given Form

Not just surviving but thriving in battle, he proved victorious as corpses covered the ground. Blood flowed in open tide around him as the screams of spectators glut on suffering filled the air.

Over time he became a legend within the arena, known as the "Unbeaten" for his success in defeating all that crossed his path. He was not just a simple killer however, for he possessed a distinct sense of honour, sparing those who had shown skill and honour in their plight.

One in particular, a man named Oenomaus, formed a deep bond with the Primarch. Almost a father for a child with nothing but death in his past, he provided Angron with a reminder of life beyond its ending.

Hundreds fell to the pair's blades, their success against even impossible odds granting them a terrible fame for slaughter and ruin. This would not last however, as well Angron knew, for hope was a lie, happiness a drug like all others, leaving bliss and weakness in the veins.

Their final victory against a pair of Ogryns, enhanced by brutal augmetics, would be the final act of the two. A champion was all well and good in the eyes on the noble lords, but a man undefeated could earn no coin, his success assured as the entertainment soured.

They ordered the two to fight one another and Angron refused, his love for the man unbreakable. No other had ever cared for him, no other had shown him life beyond chains and blood. Angered by this casual rejection, they took him away and brought ruin to his mind...

As Ruin Came Forth With A Smile.

A Stolen Fate

Unbeknownst to the Red Angel however, their end was witnessed by the stars. The Emperor had watched his son in his rebellion and knew pride at the leadership he showed. His principled stand against tyranny shone bright through the Warp, the heroism in his actions a legacy worthy of legend.

A voice in the night reach out to Angron, echoing through his waking dreams. The Red Angel was shocked at first, even awed perhaps, to feel such power effortlessly wielded. He listened to his father's words, the Crusade and the might of man reforged...

And he refused. Offered a Legion to command, a place in history that would never be forgotten, Angron chose death instead, a quiet demise with the only family he had left. The Emperor was shocked at this rejection and, with regret, accepted the fate this Red Angel sought.

Alone with his thoughts once more, Angron readied himself for the last battle of his life. It was not a war for glory or for riches, but one for dignity, that barest sliver of what it means to be human. With the crack of dawn, the roar of engines and gunfire, Angron charged into the fray.

Stumbling forward, he found himself within an iron room, the taste of metal in the air. Delivered from the wastes below, Angron could only watch from orbit as his friends were slain alone. Abandoned by their father just as he had been abandoned by his...

None know why the Emperor left the Red Angel this way, or why he cared not for the lives of his family. No answers were given and broken by his grief, he locked himself away within the ship. Silence was all that emerged for in truth he had succeeded...

Today Was The Day He Died.

Anger Deep Down

As his condition worsened, the stories of his barbarity spread far and wide. Eventually he was taken by the Emperor to Terra who wished to further understand the broken chains that bound his skull.

Aided by ArKharn Land, a renowned technoarchaeologist, the sedated Primarch was examined thoroughly, the Butcher's Nails and their effects logged. His expertise was needed for he had seen these implants before, in ancient vaults on Mars buried for their dark secrets.

Known as Cruciamen, the implants borne by Angron were of a cruder make, but quite similar in intent. They made life unbearable, existence a continuous agony that wracked throughout his system. Only anger and violence could ease this burden and so defined the Primarch had fallen further into madness.

Unfortunately, their removal was no simple thing. Portions of the Primarch's brain had been removed, the Butcher's Nails not overriding but entirely replacing those parts now gone. The damage done was so severe
that even the Primarch's ability to heal was incapable
of matching its ruin.

It could be done, but the results would be uncertain, perhaps even death. Though his lifespan and his tactical acumen were reduced dramatically, the Emperor decided they would persist, his ability to lead troops more important than the quality of the life lived doing so.

Sins of the Father

Sanctioned by his father, Angron returned once more
to the fray. Somehow, the terror of his reign grew worse as the years passed by, the depths of horror plumbed for fresh nightmares.

This culminated with the Ghenna Campaign, the actions taken so brutal even the World Eaters balked at what was ordered. A single Centurion refused to continue and Angron fell into an apoplectic rage, so terrible he murdered several of his sons whose only crime was to be too close.

Unstable and utterly out of control, the Librarians of the Legion were forced to act. Rendering the Primarch unconcious, a brutal civil war broke out between those loyal to Angron and those loyal to the barest of humanity.

Unfortunately the rebels were crushed, and when Angron awoke he did so to see his Legion hollow before him. He knew now that they understood his pain, and so he gave to them the only gift he could.

A perfected set of Butcher's Nails were developed, designed to interface with Astartes physiology, and all of his Legion underwent their implantation. In the quest for their father's love, the World Eaters embraced oblivion... And came forth armageddon in form.

A single Primarch, afflicted with the curse of these barbaric devices, was one crime, but to damn a whole Legion with their fell touch was something else all together. The Emperor demanded he stop, but Angron cared not for the words of this tyrant and continued on in secret.

The reputation of the World Eaters only grew worse, their bloody rituals evoking a darker time of bleak faith and ruin. The bodies of their foes were desecrated and competitions to the death took place without pause.

Murder Had Become Their Faith Now...

Savour The Pain

With the Heresy beginning in truth, the Emperor's forces shattered, Angron was paired with Lorgar and sent to Ultramar to bring ruin to his lands. At first the pair proved unwieldy, the Red Angel seeing the Aurelian as nothing but a pathetic coward, too weak to recognise his own failings and hiding instead behind his gods.

Despite this, the Five Hundred Worlds burned beneath the assault of the two fanatics, devoted in turn to faith and hate. It wasn't until an attempt was made on Angron's life that the two repaired their rift. Dark Eldar, for reasons unknown, ambushed him and with Lorgar's aid he survived to wreak bloody murder upon them.

Lorgar had ever been insightful though, and beneath the savage barbarity of his brother, he saw the pain etched into his soul. His leaving from Nuceria, the Nails in his skull, all these were killing him slowly, rending his body and mind with equal fervour.

Following Lorgar's advice, Angron took his Legion back to his home where he found the slavers still ruling from their lofty heights. Incadescent with rage, plunged to new depths of madness, the Red Angel descended upon the world in flames.

Genocide is too calm a word to describe the horrors that took place here, torture too polite to describe the agony inflicted. Angron had become something even less than human, something more than divine...

They were not alone however, for their blight had been suffered by the Ultramarines and in force they came for revenge. Roboute Guilliman landed with his Legion and in the fog and smoke, madness met vengeance in kind.

Beyond reason, the Red Angel launched himself at the Avenging Son and with ease he demolished the Primarch of the Ultramarines, breaking him without hesitation or effort. So deep had he plunged now into rage, there was no hope of recovery for Angron, his madness total and in control.

Lorgar had waited for this moment however, had prayed for it in his darkest dreams. He could save his
brother, rescue him from the sickness in his
mind and raise him into something
more. Using Angron's rage as a
conduit, he conducted a ritual
of terrible power. Born
in blood, Angron
died alone.

A Reign of Hate

The Ultramarines had arrived once more to avenge Angron's work upon their home. Laughing as spite mixed with fire in the sky, the Red Angel savoured the death of them all. Perturabo had ever been a like soul to the Prince of Blood, and his words pierced deep in his mind.

Once already Angron had abandoned his family, twice already he had worn the shackles of an unworthy god. Now he stood here, servant to madling fiends and facing the death of his children once again. Survival would be the only victory he could achieve against fate, endurance against the skein that destiny had wove...

In a moment of rare solace, and displaying power he had never before held, he tore open a rift into the Warp. Ascending once more to his fleet, the Iron Warriors and World Eaters fled through its maw, erupting into the skies above Ullanor to witness in full the Dark Triumph.

From here, the Warmaster's forces moved onto Terra, and from here did the end of existence come, heralded on wings of flame.

Clinging to his ship like some demonic gargoyle, Angron stared in glee at the destruction arrayed before him. Demanding Horus let him assault the world directly, he was rebuffed for Terra bore protection against the darkness of the Warp, and the monsters spawned from its insanity.

Enraged at this delay, he began to slaughter his way through the vessel, servant and Astartes alike but sacrifice to his violent mood. Kharn eventually confronted him, concerned that his actions would destroy the ship, and here Angron told him a dark truth.

Only Ever A Weapon

The Red Angel knew that Kharn wished to supplant him, wished to replace him as the chosen of Khorne. He would not allow such a weakling to challenge his position and so the two clashed within the blood-soaked halls of the vessel.

Once a Primarch, now imbued with the favour of the God of Ruin, Angron easily defeated the dazed Astartes. Before he could end his life however, he was pulled away by the teleporter on board the ship, Kharn no more than a delaying tactic to cage this prince of slaughter.

Entombed within the labyrinth maze on board the Night Lord's capital ship, Angron was trapped as the maze turned its weapons upon him. Knowing such material tools could do little to harm the Primarch, it served enough of a delay for the traitor forces.

With the time given, the barrier protecting Terra collapsed, and the Red Angel was fired from the ship. Arriving as a flaming meteor from the sky, he erupted in a torrent of blood that slew all those that it touched.

Battling through friend and foe alike, he fell upon the world like an incarnation of destruction. All fled before his wrath and even Sanguinius, when challenged, merely saluted and turned away.

Deeper and deeper his forces pushed the assault, the wards placed by the Emperor collapsing in the face of his infernal might. Countless times he was destroyed and torn apart but such mortal means meant little to the Primarch, his life sustained by the death that bled around him.

Eventually however, Horus would be slain, the Emperor victorious even in his demise and though the Heresy would end, the war could not. The Eye of Terror beckoned and welcomed them home...

Armour of Mars

A suit of gladiatorial armour forged in the style of his home, it was modified by the Masters of Mars to provide additional protection without harming the fearsome image it projected.

The Black Blade

A runesword of fell make, it was capable of tearing even reality in twain. Destroyed by Hyperion on Armageddon, its horror will surely know light once again.

Widowmaker

The first weapon the Primarch ever wielded, it was a barbaric tool of death. Destroyed by Leman Russ on Gehenna, its weakness was abandoned as is Angron's way.

Gorefather and Gorechild

The twin axes used until his rise to the Daemonic Courts, they were some of the most potent weapons ever made. Eventually destroyed during the brutality of the Heresy, Gorechild would eventually arrive in the possession of Kharn.

The Spite Furnace

This seldom used weapon was a master-crafted plasma pistol, capable of incinerating a terminator with ease. Alas, Angron's preference saw its use more ornamental than practical...

From The Ashes

I saw him once, the Avenging Son. Blade aflame, earth sundered by war and retribution... It was his eyes, so calm amidst the chaos, that made me realise just how close to the end we are. Not even Angels were meant to carry the weight of heaven alone...

A king amongst princes, a god amongst men, Roboute Guilliman had always been a mirror to his father. Though others may have looked more like him, borne powers more akin to his, the Avenging Son had always been the ruler that the Emperor never cared to be.

He was not the greatest warrior or the most talented sage. He possessed no ken for the psychic arts nor a capacity for violence beyond the human realms. He was not a man of silver tongue and cared little for the smith's hammer and forge.

He was not a god, though that perhaps was his greatest strength. More than any of his brothers was Guilliman human, flawed in his nature but willing to admit such weaknesses were his.

He did not focus his mastery on any one art, did not rise above those he fought to protect. His dedication was perfection, not of himself but of others, a reach towards the stars so that others may climb to their light.

This would be the guide behind every action, the drive towards every sacrifice. Guilliman became all that was required, accepting any burden necessary to ensure the survival of the human race.

Fitting then, that as the Imperium falls, once more the Blade of Unity returns. Not even death's sweet repose enough to keep him from his duty. The Sirens Sing, the Warp Awakens...

Once More The End Has Come

A Lord in the Making

Of all the Primarchs, the childhood of Guilliman is perhaps the most known. An inspiration for all mankind, his tale is one told time and again to remind its citizens of the power in duty, and the strength of faith.

Having been torn from his home beneath the Terran mountains, the Avenging Son had sailed the Sea of Storms for many years. Eventually he was deposited on the surface of Macragge, a bleak world but one home to a thriving civilization that stood as a shadow of what it once had been.

Found by guards in the wild, who recognised his capsule as an object of arcane technology rather than unusual sorcery, he was brought back to the capital for greater minds to judge. Here did Konor Guilliman, Consul of these lands, adopt the child and name him Roboute, enshrining his place within the family.

Provided safety and given access to everything and anything he desired, Guilliman grew fast. His mind rapidly devoured all knowledge placed before him and soon there was no subject that the enlightened child had not mastered.

Philosophy, science, history and more, all these were conquered by the errant prince but it was in the art of war that the young man proved most effective. Recognising his ability, Konor sent the Avenging Son to the north, a land of barbarians and vile killers.

Known as Illyrium, this land had long plagued the territories of Macragge and would do so long into the future. In these chaotic realms, full of shifting loyalties and loose fealty, Roboute fought a brilliant war that won him not only the region, but also the hearts of these ferocious savages.

Returning home in glory, Gulliman found only flames at the gates of home. Here would the Primarch first taste betrayal, and its bitter results.

A New World

With the support of the army and the love of the people, Guilliman quickly seized control of the city. Ordering the conspirators seized, he ended their lives publicly, displaying them before the very men and women they feared so much.

Overturning the laws of old, the lands of the rich were quickly given to those soldiers and workers who had toiled so faithfully before. Prosperity followed in the wake of such rapid progress and with the effort only a Primarch could marshal, Guilliman remade the world and brought peace.

Such a wondrous revolution could not stay quiet, for change often spreads like wildfire. Word soon reached the Emperor who made his way towards this remarkable planet but it seemed fate cared not for such intervention.

Terrible Warp Storms held back the Master of Mankind, and for five years even he could not penetrate its umbral veil. During this time Macragge grew into the jewel of the surrounding systems, trading vital goods with its neighbours and possessing a military capable of defending it from even the most terrible of threats.

The people were joyous and when the Emperor arrived he found a world thriving under the guidance of his son. Impressed by what he saw, he descended to the surface in full regalia, knowing well his child would need no cajoling or trickery to lure him to his side.

Guilliman recognised his father, aware of the truth in his words by some genetic revelation. He immediately swore fealty to the Emperor and joined his world to the Imperium, ushering in a golden age of technological wonder to his people.

Order Restored

Placed in charge of the 13th Legion, Guilliman brought his mind to work once more. Many in the Imperium were astounded at the analytical ability possessed by the Primarch, his unique mind able to organise projects on a scale unimaginable even to his gifted brothers.

Restructured to a point of perfection, the newly named Ultramarines were able to fight in any arena under any conditions. Carefully orchestrated in their patten, under Guilliman they spent the next century conquering all in their path.

None but Horus proved more effective in their work, none left worlds behind as well structured and organised as Roboute. Every system added to the Imperium was defended, supplied and better off than they had been before, and soon the Avenging Son's name was known far and wide.

Even as the Legion fought with tactical precision, the framework upon which they relied upon was finely tuned by the genius of the Primarch. As time wore on, so effective did their methods prove, that the Ultramarines were soon the largest Legion amongst the Astartes.

Such would be the method that would continue their glory, efficient and relentless, all was managed to perfection. The realm that Guilliman governed grew to five hundred worlds, all placed with care to better aid him in his work.

Nothing could stay the same however, change once more racing towards the Primarch. No longer was he the herald of its winds...

He Was Its Victim...

A Time of Change

With the ending of the Ullanor Crusade, a vast conflict against a titanic greenskin horde that consumed countless Astartes and Guardsmen, the Emperor began his retreat from the frontlines. A vast celebration took place on the world, attended by many Primarchs and dignitaries from the Imperium at large.

Here was Horus named the Warmaster, placed in charge of the war efforts to come against a hostile galaxy while he returned to Terra to work in secret. Many of his brothers were displeased with such announcement, arrogantly believing such honour should lie with them.

Guilliman, however, knew the wisdom in such a choice and helped his brother win over the trust and loyalty of those most vocal in their doubts. By this point had the Avenging Son judged his kin by his own logical standards.

He knew them well, understood their strength and weaknesses and there were few whom he found company an easy trial. Dorn, Sanguinius, Leman Russ, and Ferrus Manus, these were the family Guilliman held close to, referring to them as The Dauntless Few.

In their company no battle would be beyond him, no challenge impossible to meet. Their forces bound to his would prove unstoppable and to these select few did Guilliman provide total respect. The others were problematic... Their methods too complicated to work seamlessly with the orchestrated nature of his mind.

Still, the needs of the Imperium must come first, and Guilliman bent the knee loyally to the Warmaster. Following his orders, he and the Legion continued their implacable progress across the galaxy.

Unknown to the Blade of Unity however, treason had once more dripped its venom across an open wound. The pride of Horus enflamed by injury and deception had risen in full, turning him gently into the dark tides of madness.

Too loyal to doubt, when ordered to marshall for a vast war against the Veridian Systems, Guilliman obeyed without objection. A call to arms was placed and in the orbit above Calth did the Legion arrive in full.

A treasure amidst a sea of gems, this
world was the pinnacle of
Guilliman's ambitions... And so
too would it be
the grave
of all his
dreams.

Scorn Repaid In Kind

What followed was a treason so foul the very Warp celebrated its execution with joy. His guard lowered and unware of the madness in the galaxy at large, he welcomed his brother close as a dagger pierced his heart.

Their systems filled with scrapcode, Guilliman was unable to countenance the actions of Lorgar. He begged his brother to stop, thought this nothing more than a terrible misunderstanding as the Word Bearers opened fire.

Only silence greeted his pleas however, and with a heavy heart he ordered his troops to engage. The crown of this spited work of betrayal manifested aboard the ship Guilliman waited on. Daemons from the depths of hell erupted into being as they ran amok the ship, slaughtering all with blades immaterial and laughter infernal.

Faced with a foe they had never before witnessed, who appeared impervious to the edge of their weapons, the Ultramarines began a fighting retreat. A terrible explosion tore into the ship, damage from their lunatic foes, and the Avenging Son was pulled into the cold embrace of space.

Separated from his Legion, Lorgar expected the Ultramarine's collapse. He could not expect that order would be retained, so disciplined that even without their Primarch they fought without hesitation or misstep.

Nor could they have known the endurance of Guilliman, that even space could do little more than delay the Primarch from his vengeance. Without a helmet he fought his way back aboard the ship, reaching out to Lorgar without tragedy now, only hate.

Marshalling his forces, tools against Daemonkind brought against their ethereal wrath, he boarded the foes capital ship. Here he found Kor Phaeron, foster father to the Golden One and a heretic of snide demeanour.

At first lain low by the arcane sorceries employed by the half-human, Guilliman struck as Kor Phaeron's ego led to the slightest stumble. Reaching through the chest of the mongrel Astartes, he tore out his heart as the traitor commander fled, grievously wounded.

So Comes The Collapse

With Calth saved from total destruction, its surface was still left blackened by the dark arts employed by the Word Bearers. Never again would its surface know life, scarred eternal by the radiation of a dying star.

The Word Bearers had retreated however, even as the skies above filled with the screams of the Warp. Though Guilliman survived, their ritual had succeeded as across the galaxy the Sea of Storms earned its name.

The Ruinstorm it was called, and its reach severed all light amongst the galaxy. Travel through its depths was impossible as the bright beacon of the Astronomicon was blotted out by its tenebrous tides.

Even worse, Lorgar had never been here. Instead, he and Angron had begun a brutal rampage throughout his realm, leaving much in ashes and ruin. Death held its scythe above the Five Hundred Worlds as billions were sacrificed in the name of depraved gods.

With no time to waste, all his work collapsing around him, Guilliman gave chase. Following the path of broken worlds he arrived at Nuceria where Angron had finally found his home...

And Once More Returned To Die...

Imperium Secundus

Returning once more to the seat of his ailing empire, Guilliman ordered the activation of the Pharos. Managed by a renegade Iron Warrior, this xenos artefact was capable of emulating the power of the Astronomicon, piercing the veil of darkness with its own empathic shriek.

Acting now as a lighthouse within the storm, loyalists from all over the galaxy began to arrive. Lonely squads of ruined glory with eyes sharp from the horrors they had witnessed, whole companies separated from their family by the astral madness and even the Legions in their resplendent might.

The first of his brothers to arrive was Lion El'Jonson, master of the Dark Angels, and a prince of secrets oft malign. Suspicious of Guilliman's design for the future of the Imperium, the two argued but the impenetrable nature of the Ruinstorm rendered such disagreements moot.

Still, he was not the only Primarch to grace the jewel of Ultramar, for Konrad Curze lingered in the depths of the Lion's hold. Escaping as only the Night Haunter could, he launched the waiting drop pods upon Macragge, and as the skies filled with flame he descended to wreak havoc upon those whose minds dare endure.

Guilliman turned upon his brother as devestation came upon wings of night, furious his kin had dared conceal such an attack from him. Already had he been betrayed by blood and so soon on the tides of treason came this blow that the two almost drew blades.

Still, calmer minds prevailed and war was spared. The Dark Angels surrendered their weapons as the Lion revealed the true nature of darkness. The Avenging Son now realised just how close to the edge they hung, for chaos had come to his lands in its purest form.

Night Had Come To Macragge...

The Trial of Kin

Forced to restrain the Night Lord through more discriminate means, the Lion successfully led the assault against the Primarch. Returning him to the capital, Guilliman demanded his trial be public, so that all could see the madness of the Night Haunter, so that all could see his fault.

Here before the three Primarchs did Curze accept his actions, admitting even to horrors the brothers never knew. He refused, however, his guilt. Insisting that he had done only as planned, the Night Lord's venomous words began to spin a tale of betrayal that far exceeded his own.

Claiming that the Lion had ordered orbital bombardments against his men in secret, he laughed as Guilliman turned upon the Silent Lord. Enraged at Viper's ability to twist and weave his tales, the Lion move to slay him but was halted by the Angel.

In agreement both Guilliman and Sanguinius banished the Lion for his actions, fearing that even though his loyalty lie with the Emperor, these dark times had fashioned him into something else. A weapon, more akin to the Night Haunter than perhaps he would admit.

The trial continued as the depths of madness were plumbed in earnest. Atrocity committed without regret, horror inflicted without concern, the Night Lord relished in his cruelty even as he denied any guilt for their actions.

Soon they had heard enough, and in the face of such lunacy the death of Curze was ordered. Guilliman drew his blade to enact the sentence as the Lion stormed into the chamber. Ignoring his exile, he plead with Sanguinius to spare the Night Haunter, for his death could end existence itself.

The visions of Curze had always foreseen his murder at the hands of the Emperor, and such could only be the case if the Emperor still lived...

From the Ashes

The next decade would be spent fighting battle after battle against xenos and traitor alike. The Imperium was weak and strength now was needed to keep the Emperor's dream alive. Taking the mantle of Lord Commander, Guilliman brought a measure of stability to worlds of humanity, and moved now to ensure such betrayal could never happen again.

A great work was published, written carefully by him to safeguard against treason. The Codex Astartes was its name and it covered all, from the tactics and organisation of the Astartes to the divisions of the Imperial Army.

Few took happily to the changes prompted, the Astartes furious at their numbers split amidst small Chapters rather than the might of a single Legion. Eventually however, all bent to his wishes, though some interpreted the orders more liberally than others...

With the Imperium brought to a measure of order, his safeguards firmly implemented, the Avenging Son once more began his reconquest of fallen lands. On Eskrador did he battle the forces of the Alpha Legion, surprising the ever duplicitous legion with his ability to adapt.

Here did Guilliman end the life of Alpharius, striking quickly and without reinforcement into the heart of their fortress. Caught off-guard, the Twin named Janus was no match for the furious Ultramarine, and without remorse did Guilliman rend his foe apart.

The serpent's fangs removed, the Ultramarines were surprised at how little impact Alpharius' death had on his Legion. Ever the hydra, as one head was removed another grew and the Alpha Legion proved as disciplined in nature as their loyalist kin.

Guilliman was forced to retreat against their withering fire, unable to stomach the losses such a conflict would require. Chased the entire way back to their reinforcements, the Ultramarines casualties were almost total...

Such Is The Price Of A God's Life.

The End of an Empire

The duty of a god's son weighed heavily on the Primarch, each day filled with decisions that affected the lives of billions. Such would not last forever, and soon mankind would be left to fend on its own.

In response to a sudden attack by Fulgrim on a series of worlds, Guilliman took the Ultramarines and six of its successors to end the threat of the serpentine Primarch. On Thessala he clashed with the Emperor's Children and on Thessala, he met his end.

The Alpha Legion had never given themselves to Chaos, their father had never taken their gifts. Fulgrim was a different story, a mighty prince of the Ruinous Powers and his form had been filled with the bleak power of the Warp.

Wielding his venomous blades, the Phoenix wounded Guilliman with the most terrible in his possession, a weapon designed to slay Primarchs and one that had already rent a god before. Wounded fatally, the Avenging Son collapsed as his sons were overrun.

The loyalists were decimated and few survived the onslaught. Guilliman's body was recovered and brought back to Macragge, but even under the artifice of their most talented apothecaries, he would not wake from his death.

A Dying Whisper

With his powers dampened by the silent forces of the Sisters, Magnus grew weak. Guilliman saw his chance as the Red King turned to flee and pierced his blade through the heart of the Daemonic Scion.

Exploding with the force of a dying star, his soul prismatic in its reduction, Magnus was defeated and his armies turned to dust once more. Free at last from peril, embracing the silence of the aftermath, Guilliman moved on to Terra and to his father's throne in gold.

For a whole day he stood before the Emperor, no words uttered, no movements made. He stood and listened as secrets were given to the Avenging Son, truths too terrible to bear by any but an immortal.

Emerging from his solace, Guilliman strode with new purpose in his steps. Taking up the fabled Sword of the Emperor, he gathered the High Lords of Terra to inform them of the changes to come.

Taking once more the title of Lord Commander, he also named himself Regent of the Imperium, the embodiment of the Emperor's will on earth. Such action may have caused dissent, maybe even civil war, but a greater darkness than pride had come to Terra.

Madness exploded within the Hives of earth as blood-riven cultists of Khorne emerged as one. The skies above broke open as the Astronomicon dimmed and Warp Storms filled the air. Invigorated once more, however, Guilliman reacted instantly.

This brutal war carried itself to the very gates of the palace as the Avenging Son led a combined force of Primaris, Astartes, Custodes and Sisters against the carnal legions. Here was won a clear victory, the bloodthirsters in charge decimated before their righteous might.

So furious was Khorne, so enraged with the ease at which he had been bested by Guilliman, that he turned on his generals and obliterated them. Terra was secure once more and from the heights of the Emperor's Palace
did Guilliman decree a new war for the
Imperium...

The Indomitus Crusade

Against Death Itself

The two, unable to determine a victor, seperated and went their separate ways, greater battles calling for their attention. A hundred wars, a thousand battles, millions died in pain, caught between gods and their children.

Finally, on Parmenio, the results of this conflict were finally determined. Lured here by the Death Guard, Guilliman was ambushed by Mortarion, Typhus and a terrible Daemon known as Ku'Gath.

Barely able to match the Reaper, Guilliman was soon beaten back by his reinforcements, the Emperor's Blade burning dimly as the life of its wielder fled. No quick death came for the Avenging Son, for plague takes its time, and enjoys the fading agony of its prey.

The Emperor's Light cares not for the darkness however, and in the midst of shadow stepped forth a single child. Burning bright with golden fury, she banished the plagued mists that claimed this world, devoured whole the fell shroud that entombed the Primarch.

Alone she stood and by her word were the Daemons of Chaos banished, the forces of the traitors repelled. Mortarion was hurled from realspace and Guilliman stood now, free of his dying breath, and filled with vigor once again.

Whoever this child was, a saint of the Emperor or something perhaps darker than even the mad gods, is unknown. Chaos had devoured its fill however, and retreated upon itself in cannabalistic fury.

But something fell comes this way, something quiet that has slept for many years. One light, even blessed by the Emperor, is no safeguard against terrors more ancient than sin. There is no peace for the righteous, no balm for the sacred...

The silence moves once more in the night as old foes return in the lands of the dead...

This War Has Just Begun...

The Long Quiet

This world bears upon it the sign of God's mistrust, a ruin where nought grows, no life sent by providence. A fitting metaphor perhaps, for the arrogance of I, my pride barren of love, compassion or faith.

Once lord of a loyal Legion, now master of ruin and decay, Mortarion's struggle with his own self began long ago. Raised to endure hardships of any kind, he embodied this trait more than any other, willing to accept pain and anguish beyond what even the immortal soul can bear.

This focus on survival above all else, this driving need to prove his existence against the hostility of the universe, showed itself within the pallid reaper. Failure could mean only death and so failure must be avoided, a mantra that would push him and his sons to the very brink... And over.

Such perversion would be the essence of this Primarch, his understanding of all things warped by a lifetime that should never have been. He loved as only the abused can, aspired upon towers of self-hatred. He was a mirror shattered and repaired, each piece replaced by hands unsure of what had once been there.

Despite these imperfections however, these cardinal flaws that would see him undone, Mortarion adored his Legion like none other. The lives of his children were never wasted, no harm dealt that he could not prevent.

Every choice he made was for their protection, and in a search for good corrupted by eyes too used to the shadow. He would hold up the very skies, bear the weight of all suffering and pain. He would endure so that others would not have to...

Such a shame that he was as hard as diamond and brittle as glass. No one was meant to withstand the horror of a dying galaxy alone...

And Even Atlas Fell Eventually...

Once More In Chains

Unbalanced and lost to reason, Mortarion accepted the challenge and set out at once. Higher and higher he climbed, he grasp with bloodied hands driving him on, the pain reminding him of life.

Through biting winds and bitter fumes he held onto life, a single focused rage driving him onwards through agony unimaginable. Cresting the very top of the mountain, he pulled himself up, armour melting beneath the corrosive skies.

Choking and dying, his vision began to fade as his father stepped forward from the mist. The warlord had promised death to Mortarion should he ever return, and as the Reaper lay here, his mortal coil slipping free, Necare stepped forward to fulfill his oath.

Out of the shadows however, came deliverance in golden light. The stranger raised high his blade and cut down the necromancer, ending his life quickly and without remorse. Defying the death that clung to the winds, he helped Mortarion to his feet and revealed himself fully to the Pale King.

He was the Emperor of Mankind, Mortarion but one of his many children hewn in his image to conquer the galaxy. Faced with such power, and remembering the bet he had made, Mortarion bent his knee in supplication, swearing himself fully to the Imperium.

His was not the only presence on the mountain however, though the Reaper was not aware of it. Deep in the recesses of his mind, dark and shadowed a voice whispered softly to him. Broken as he was, so near to death, it would be fair to assume such ramblings as the product of a dying mind but the truth was something darker...

Nurgle had found his chosen child, and already his touch lay upon him. It would not be long before he lay claim to a soul already in his path.

A Black Reputation

This growing malaise upon the heart of Mortarion was met with some concern by his brothers. His loyalty was greater to Horus than the Emperor and the open disdain in which he viewed his kin promised only violence in the future.

Guilliman and Corax grew so worried over the Reaper's actions that they even approached the Emperor, seeking his influence to pull their brother from the brink, but the Master of Mankind merely waved away their concerns. Loyalty to Horus was loyalty to the Emperor after all.

As such, left along with his thoughts to continue warring as he saw fit, Mortarion grew more hollow as time passed. Repeatedly he faced those whose arts dabbled in the warp and his disgust for their use knew no limits.

Soon, even the Imperium's sanctioning of psykers was too much for the Pale King. He returned to Terra to once more make his case to the Master of Mankind, and during his visit stole into the Emperor's Palace to find what secrets he kept hidden.

Discovering the Golden Throne, he was aghast that his father so casually sided with the servants of magic. Malcador eased his concerns however, informing the Reaper that such a device only served to sever mankind from the Warp.

Convinced now that his view on sorcery was valid, Mortarion continued on with his campaigns, rallying those uncomfortable with witchcraft beneath his banner. Little did others know, however, that the Pallid Prince himself was a potent psyker whose arts he denied. Self-deception had ever been the armour that protected him most...

The Prince's Trial

Eventually, enough had been drawn to his view that the Emperor could no longer stand by and watch. After Horus was named Warmaster, the Council of Nikaea was called to answer, once and for all, the Librarian Problem.

Here did Mortarion give his speech, impassioned and to the point as was often his way. This struck the Emperor deeply and, after Magnus' bombastic display of arrogance and pride, the Master of Mankind saw no other choice but to rule in the Reaper's favour.

The Librarian Project was disbanded, the Legions forbidden from delving into the Aether in search of
power or knowledge. Mortarion had won but he did
not linger to gloat nor revel, merely moving on to
the next conquest in his path.

So would he continue until the very end, until the Warmaster fell to envenomed blade and dark treason. As Horus pledged his service to the mad Gods of Chaos, so too did his brothers pledge their blades to him.

Mortarion seemed like an obvious candidate, a being wracked with self-doubt and anger towards the Imperium. It would surprise many then to know, that Mortarion proved difficult to convince, his endurance stretching beyond the physical as Horus warred with his loyalty.

Eventually however, Mortarion broke, convinced that the Master of Mankind had become nothing more than another warlord bewitched. Even before the Heresy, Mortarion had begun to see the Emperor as a Warp-fuelled aberration, and with the poisoned words of the Warmaster lingering in his ear, he swore his loyalty to Horus.

The Rage of Silence Had Awoken...

This Mirror Darkly

During his rampage throughout the former lands of the Red King, Mortarion was soon faced with those beasts of the empyrean he hated most. Daemons of the worst kind, masquerading in the flesh of others, battled him and his sons wherever he went.

Eventually faced with such a creature, the Reaper was forced to utilise those powers innate to his soul. Psychic fury devoured the fiend and in that moment did the Pale King realise the true lie of the Emperor.

The Warp was not empty, it did not lack soul or personality, nor was it missing meaning and purpose. It was alive and only those of weak will were carried into its madness. Here, Mortarion pledged to master its fell knowledge, to take control of that power singing in his blood.

Driven onwards by this new purpose, Mortarion would seek out anything that would help him gain control of his new passion. Still, he was no wayward knight nor errant ally, and the needs of the Heresy were at the forefront of his efforts.

Arriving next on Moloch, he attended a meeting with Horus and Fulgrim, as the Warmaster strove to gain access to that strange gift the Master of Mankind had stolen from the Gods. An assassination attempt by a rogue Iron Hand force was narrowly averted as war was brought against the guardians left by the Emperor long ago.

Here did the Reaper reveal his new-found talents with sorcery, sacrificing his loyal bodyguard in order to resurrect the tortured soul of one of his marines. Imbuing this Daemonic ally with the essence of the Life-Eater Virus, Mortarion had created a true artifice of viral decay, a being of diseased humour to whom destruction was just a matter of course.

Such creations as these swiftly won the war for Horus, and the Warmaster emerged from the fae portal a changed being. No longer human in any way, his very presence caused reality to shift.

The White Scars remained a problem
however, and Mortarion would
be sent to finish what he
had started...
Once and for all.

This Final Hour

Relishing in his new found power, his sorrow buried beneath this facade of greed, Mortarion hurled his Legion into the most dire fights. While the newly formed Typhus worked with Perturabo on destroying the vast shield that protected Terra from psychic intrusion, Mortarion once more met with Magnus.

Previously mortal enemies, the two now shared a common ailment, a blessing not asked for and yet impossible to deny. The Reaper admitted to the Red King that his new form brought only agony with every breath, his eagerness for battle just a cover to avoid the aching grief of his failure.

He hated himself truly, and the despair devoured him each day he did not die. Magnus sympathised and knew truly of what his brother spoke of. Teaching the Pallid Prince his secrets learned from his broken form, Magnus was able to provide the Primarch with some measure of relief and succour.

Grateful beyond words, Mortarion would change his plans to aid his eldritch brother, charging into the fray so that the Thousand Sons could infiltrate the Emperor's Palace unharmed. Such camaraderie would mean little in the coming days however, for Horus would be slain and the traitors shattered by the combined might of the Imperium.

Fleeing back to the Eye of Terror, Mortarion would claim the Plague World as his own. Shaping it into a diseased wasteland of toxic mist and vile fauna, it became the perfect staging point for future incursions into realspace.

So pleased was he with the Reaper's craft, that Nurgle, Lord of Decay, raised the Primarch to the ranks of the Daemon Princes. Lord now over his own domain, his children fanatic in their loyalty to his work, Mortarion had finally achieved his dream.

He had finally come home...

The Bell Tolls

Left to stew in his anger, once more his attention drawn to reality, Mortarion would soon learn of Guilliman's return. Realising that now the end had come, Mortarion set forth in vengeance. None could be allowed to escape ruin's ready grasp, nor flee from death's visage.

The entirety of the Death Guard had been called to war for the first time in 10,000 years, and as one they answered. Seven plagues the Reaper had made in anticipation and with glee he unleashed them all across the Ultramarine's worlds.

In their wake, darkness followed, the armies of decay in lockstep behind him as his soldiers ravaged those lands dearest to Guilliman. Known as the Plague Wars, whole systems were drowned in a war unlike any other, one where the dead were just as much a foe as the living.

Desperate to goad the Avenging Son into battle, whole populations were put to the sword. Eventually, on Iax, the two would meet in battle, black wings of rot buffeting the Blade of Unity as mists of viral hate surrounded them both.

Neither one could gain an edge, the light of the Emperor equal in all ways to the darkness of the Ruinous powers. Forced into a stalemate, Mortarion retreated, destruction left behind him as a warning not to follow.

The new power of the Avenging Son had surprised Mortarion, but devious craft had ever been a skill of the Reaper. On Parmenio a trap was set, Typhus and the Daemon Ku'Gath luring him in only to restrain him with dark magic.

The Reaper crowed, his success at hand, but all was
not as it seemed. A single child came forth from the shadows and, burning bright with the Emperor's fury, she banished him back to the Warp, aflame with righteous vindication.

Now the Great Game returns in full, the madness of Chaos turning upon itself as their frayed alliance snaps. The end comes in the shadow of a broken angel, death upon its scythe. Mortarion will return as all falls to darkness...

And A Foe Older Than Death Returns...

The Barbaran Plate

A suit of armour combining elements of ancient design with aspects drawn from Mortarion's ingenuity, it contained elements of the toxic air on Barbarus. Producing an ominous aura of fear, it also drove those near him into fits of near fatal coughing.

Silence

This macabre weapon has long drawn tales of terrible power and strength. Suspected to be of alien make, its fell edge could cut through armour with ease, and some suspect it was possessed of dark powers long before the Reaper fell to shadow.

The Crimson King

Some might call him envious, others proud. I find personally that he is obsessed, driven to discover the truth behind the mirror. He is a storm about to break, a furnace in all its rage... and no matter the derision sent his way, he is a master of an art far darker than Dragon Flame.

Raised in two worlds, rather than one, Magnus had always been the most ethereal of the Primarchs. A master of the psychic arts, a genius unrestrained by the mortal coil, the Red Prince was quite possibly one of the most powerful entities to walk the galaxy.

Strength without reason and potential unrestrained by sanity or caution make for a dark combination however, and though the very stars would dim at his command, his own light burned without control.

Such arrogance would draw its detractors from all he would meet. He was convinced beyond doubt that his purpose was true, his path correct and all those who stood in his path were but fools, terrified of progress and doomed to live in the shadow of his greatness.

From these towering heights however, would the Prince of Sorcery fall. Reckless and without restraint, it did not take a power of equal might to bring him low, but only a glint of something more. Like a wisp luring travellers into the shadowed marsh, but a simple trick and the Crimson King fell.

Neither warrior nor sage of battle, the Red Prince would bring the edge of knowledge to the realms of Chaos. This, more than anything, would prove to be his most dangerous weapon, truth corrupted by one who understood its limitations, reality warped by one who knew its flaws.

So begins the tale of Magnus the Red, burned upon a pyre of his own making. He would be remembered as a Daemon of the darkest arts, a scion of hope lost in his desperate need to progress. All this and more would merely hide the tragedy behind the myth...

He Had Failed Before His First Step...

A World and Cage

Unlike any of his brothers, Magnus had been raised fully aware of who he was. Gestating within the pods that contained all of his kin, his mind had quickly escaped from the shell that was his mortal form.

As his body was slowly constructed around him, the science of the Emperor's work growing to its full potential, Magnus reached out and spoke with his father. Back and forth they communicated as the Crimson King learned of why he had been made, and as his form had finished, his mind had already surpassed such wonder.

Alas, such happy moments would be forgotten quickly in the madness that followed. Stolen from the depths by forces unknown, each of the Primarchs was hurled through the Warp, violently stolen and scattered throughout the galaxy.

Upon the barren world of Prospero would the Red Prince land, an asylum for psykers during the Dark Age of Technology. Isolated, and far from the reach of others, the tragedy that had befallen their land had been ignored, and what was once beautiful had turned to ash.

A single city lay upon its surface, Tizca, the City of Light. All else outside its boundaries was but dust on the wind, haunted by a terrible predator known as the Psychneuein. These strange creatures, born of the Warp, hunted psykers, devouring their minds as they implanted them with their offspring.

Only the wards maintained by the natives kept these creatures out, and it was within these walls that Magnus landed, crashing into the heart of the city to the astonishment of all. Anywhere else would his sorcerous gifts have earned him death, but here, such power brought him fame and adoration.

A Bittersweet Reunion

Having never truly separated from his father, and possessing a mind that shone like a lighthouse within the Warp, it did not take long for the Emperor to make his way to Prospero. With no need to disguise his intentions, nor cloaks his powers, the Master of Mankind arrived in glory, and the two rulers greeted each other as old friends.

The two spent much time in conversation, talking about their successes and triumphs, arguing over matters great and small. Upon the matters of sorcery however, and the conversation grew dark.

Once more did Magnus' father urge caution in the face of pandemonium, and once more did the Red Prince ignore such sage wisdom, confident in his ability to equal any danger residing within the Sea of Storms.

Eventually, however, the Crusade called once more and the Crimson King was placed in charge of the 15th Legion. Sadly, though his gift for the arcane had passed through his blood, granting his children access to terrible powers, so too had a sickness unlike any other.

It appeared to be a curse of their very helix, the Thousand Sons facing hell itself as their powers caused riotous change in their form. All eventually fell to this malady, their bodies twisted by dark energies that left them as but screaming mutants of agonized flesh.

Only a thousand of them remained once Magnus had arrived, their name perhaps a tragic coincidence or maybe fell prophecy. So ruined were they that many within the Imperium called for their execution, a mercy in their eyes against such harrowed end.

Desperate Measures

Such an ignoble fate horrified the Crimson King and he begged the Emperor to give him time, time to find a cure or perhaps some knowledge regarding the origin of this malady. Impressed by his sons passion, the Master of Mankind agreed and so Magnus would spend years in search of an answer.

As more of his sons fell to the change, Magnus dug deeper into the Warp, desperate for anything that would shed some light on this curse. Eventually he succeeded, the illness halted by works unknown.

Never would the Red Prince admit to how he had achieved this success, for the truth flew in the face
of sanity and reason. A bargain made with some
strange being in the Aether, a trade of his eye for knowledge, Magnus was certain he had bested
this spirit but if others knew they would condemn
him as a witch.

In truth, he had dealt with Tzeentch, Lord of Change
and Madness. Through his arrogance had he signed his name on the ashes of hope but certain of his victory however, he never looked back, blinded from the truth of Chaos by his own relentless pride.

His Legion saved and his thirst for knowledge stronger than ever before, the Crimson King set off into the night. Though countless foes fell to their art, numerous worlds brought to the light of the Emperor without fault, their reputation for reckless behaviour and wild magic grew.

The farther they travelled, the faster they moved, the more they appeared similar to the horrors fielded against them. Soon, many began to see them as precisely that.... A nightmare of the Old Night returned.

Magnus' Folly

The Master of Mankind revealed to Magnus what he had done, as Daemons poured through the breach he had made. The Emperor knew already of the Warmaster's betrayal, such crimes easily dealt with by the forces under his command.

What the Red Prince had done though, in his wilful arrogance, was beyond repair. The Emperor had sought to master the Webway, bring mankind away from the dangers of the Warp, and too blind to realise the dangers of what he did, Magnus had destroyed it all.

Finally realising the magnitude of his actions, the Red Prince faded away, allowing the spell binding him here to pull him back. Returning to Prospero, he said nothing as he left, hiding away from his Legion as they begged him for answers, saying nothing as he disabled their protection.

His silence went on and on, each day passing by. He was silent as his children begged for his attention, silent as the Space Wolves arrived in orbit. He was silent as the world burned and silent as his Legion perished around him.

Finally, his favourite son Ahriman reached out to him, pleading for his intervention. Emerging from his chamber, he stood before Leman Russ, guarding those fledgling remnants of his Legion from his wrath.

The two fought, blade against fang, sorcery against rage, leaving wounds in both physical form and ethereal soul. The Crimson King had never been a warrior however, and against the Winter's Woe, he was outmatched.

A last act saved him, a final spell enacted as he was broken over the Wolf King's knee. In a storm of magic and aetheric rage, the Red Prince and his sons were stolen from the world and deposited deep within the Warp.

Such power was beyond the Crimson King however, and he had made a final bargain to ensure his survival. He had offered his soul to Tzeentch, his mind and body sacrificed to the mad gods whim. Left with only the ruins of what he had raised, he realised now how he had been fooled from the very beginning.

Magnus turned his mind to rebuilding, but first he would have to repair himself. His body burned to ash by the
power of the spell, he was but a being of thought and malice. Even worse, his soul had fragmented,
its shards scattered throughout space.

Now a shell, Magnus would be
reforged...

No Choice, No Will

Having sacrificed everything, his army of scholars reduced to unthinking machines, Magnus shattered. Climbing to the highest point of his tower, he swore vengeance against existence, and echoing the words of his brother, he pledged to see the galaxy burn.

He knew it was his master who had led him here, Tzeentch who had set this pain in motion, and so Magnus wished everything gone. After all... Fate cannot manipulate when all is ash and ruin.

For most of the next 10,000 years, Magnus would involve himself in study and the Great Game of the Gods and only a few times was his presence noted outside of his home. Most famously did he engage the Space Wolves on Fenris as retribution for the destruction of Prospero.

His Legion mobilised, the Red Prince launched a vast assault upon the barely defended world of the Wolves. Annihilating the fleet in orbit, the Fortress-Monastery of Fang was besieged by the mindless automatons of the Rubricae.

A great battle tore through the corridors and along the mountain peaks that surrounded this bastion. Eventually it culminated in a brutal duel between Magnus and five champions of the Space Wolves.

Chief amongst them was Bjorn the Fell-Handed, a warrior who had fought at the very gates of Tizca itself. Magnus recognised this weathered soul, surprised momentarily, and this gave them all the advantage they needed to press home the assault.

Beaten and bloody, his immaterial form unable to maintain its cohesion, the Crimson King was banished. The legacy he left behind however, would be remembered forever. Fang was left ruined, the Great Wolf slain in the combat amidst many others.

It would be a long time before the Wolves would hunt again...

Reforged at Last

His spite momentarily sated against the Wolves, Magnus once more returned to the Great Game. Others, however, were less willing to wait and bide their time. In the midst of shadow, once more did Ahriman return to the Planet of the Sorcerers, and once more did he begin to enact a spell of his own design.

Hoping to undo the damage he had wrought,
Magnus realised what was happening almost too
late. Sensing the enchantment would exterminate
the Thousand Sons, he intercepted the spell,
corrupting it to his own ends.

With its power he was able to send his sense far, this strange incantation granting him vision he had never possessed. On this wings of this great casting did he reach out and grasp for the night, those shards of his soul missing once more returned.

Restored at last, so nearly remade to his original power, Magnus relished in his existence. Only those parts of him possessing good and nobility evaded him, but he cared not. His strength was paramount and none could stand in his way.

Once more did his gaze wander back to existence, once more did his sights lay on death...

Once More Did The Skies Darken...

A Final Revenge

Powerful like never before, Magnus returned his mind to the downfall of the Space Wolves. Long had he pulled them along, his craft bringing them closer to ruin. He had tainted their gene-seed and now the Wulfen grew in number, afflicting upon them a fear the Red Prince knew well.

Allies had been sought, cults raised in darkness upon their worlds, and as the bell tolled on high, Magnus emerged once more from the shadows. A terrible war engulfed the Fenris system and Imperial reinforcements arrived to halt this tide of madness.

Forces of all the Ruinous Powers erupted into space, orchestrated by Abaddon who wished nothing more than to see this pillar of the Imperium brought low. Amidst the confusion and endless battle, Magnus began to sow the seeds of his plot as strange rituals were performed on every world under the Wolve's control.

The Imperium reeled against this co-ordinated assault, every Chapter called in to battle this screaming horde. Worlds were put to the flame, heroes slain by the dozen as plague ravaged the realm.

Death had rarely known such bounty as every truth became warped by Tzeentch's madness, allies turned on each other, misdirection the only certainty to be found. All the while Magnus laughed as his ritual neared completion.

It was in the shadow of the Fang that the end would be decided, Grey Knights fighting alongside Astartes as the very world turned lunatic before them. The Warp was held in bated breath as the Crimson King was revealed in all his might, no weapon strong enough to harm him.

All had come to this final point, and all realised their mistake as the single eye burned bright with malice. A single word and ruin came to the land of Wolves.

The Horned Raiment

A unique suit of power armour, it is believed to be forged from aetheric energy as much as mortal materials. Covered in strange runes, it protects from both the physical and psychic weapons of its foes.

The Blade of Magnus

Once known as the The Blade of Ahn-Nunura, this eclectic weapon severs not just flesh but soul. Able to enhance a wielders psychic powers immensely, it is a device much sought after by the profane.

Arcane Litanies

These ancient scrolls possess much wisdom upon their pages. Inked in letters unbound from reality, they protect the wielder from the dangers in the Warp.

Psyfire Serpenta

A large firearm, seemingly summonable from thin air,
many have questioned whether its strange projectiles indicate a device of alien make, or if it is but a manifestation of the Crimson King's powers.

Crown of the Crimson King

An ornate device formed entirely of the Red Prince's ego and will, it produces an aura of protective energy capable of halting heavy fire with ease.

Of Favoured Sons...

There are two kinds of story to the writer. A good story has heroes and villains, darkness and tragedy... It has answers. A great story does not, and this my friend, has all the makings of a truly great story.

Warmaster of the Imperium, Chosen Prince of the Emperor, the Crimson Blade of Ullanor, all these titles and more bestowed upon the greatest of Primarchs. A beacon of hope for all humanity, a leader without peer or equal, there is but one name missing from this collection... Traitor.

Beloved by all, Horus served as an inspiration to mankind, a model of perfect form whose very shadow filled those in its fall with wonder. Combined with a sly charisma, a cunning mind and a love for battle, the Warmaster would rise to heights unmatched, and fall farther than any could imagine.

For his weakness was ego, his flaw was in pride. So long spent in celebration of his mastery that any doubt cast upon him cut deep to the bone. He needed to be great for he was made to be great, and anything less was failure, of him and him alone.

So destructive was this terror that he surrounded himself only with sycophants and fools. Only those
willing to endure the delusion could be trusted, for
behind the illusion lay a truth too dark to bear.

Here then stood Horus, cloaked in nobility, more comfortable with treason than self-reflection. Was it just pride that he clung too, a hubris so great as to deny reason? Was it indecision or doubt, whispers in his mind of what he could never know? Was it design, the craft of some fey god too divorced from humanity to understand its crime?

Or Is It just The Fate Of All Kinslayers,
To Turn Upon Their Own

Lost to Time

The Primarchs were figures of legend, their stories told across countless worlds, their myths known to even the smallest child. The history of these angels is well documented, though riddled with conjecture and doubt.

Horus stands apart from this, not because his legend lay in the shadows like some of his kin, but because darkness spreads the more it is known. Truth is a weapon in the hands of the deceiver... And in this world, everyone lies.

Banished from Terra in the great accident that saw all the Emperor's sons stolen, Horus found his way to the apocalyptic world of Cthonia. A relic from the Dark Age of Technology, this early colony had become a warren of despoiled tunnels, vast hive cities fallen to decay amidst the drive towards extinction.

Techno-Barbarians now roamed its surface, and here in the ruin did Horus come of age, learning the arts of war from those desperate to survive. Here he thrived until the Emperor arrived, lifting his son to the stars and returning him to Terra where he truly belonged.

That is one story, and perhaps it is true, but there is ever doubt regarding the home of Horus. Some say that he did not land upon his broken world a child, but arrived there already a man, to test himself against true brutality in the name of progress.

Others argue that it was not the Emperor who brought him to Terra, but his own determination. Cthonia rests not far from the Throneworld, and such tales tell of a world united behind the Warmaster, heading into the night in search of whence they came from.

Deceit, illusion, uncertainty and doubt, a fitting legacy for this Servant of Chaos. A peerless politician, the reality never mattered to the Warmaster, happy to accept any tale that raised his image in the eyes of others.

Regardless of the history however, he was the first son found and for many years he fought alongside the Emperor himself. Such a bond forged between these two would never be replicated, and under such guidance,
Horus was fashioned into a weapon without
equal...

The End Had Already
Begun...

The First Push

The Warmaster and his Legion continued their blaze across the galaxy, countless worlds, both human and alien, fell before them. The False Emperor of Terra, the Megarachnid Menace of Murder, these were but some of the battles fought and won by him in the crucible of war.

It was against the Interex however, a peaceful nation of human and alien inhabitants, that Horus would first display his anger against his father. Attempting to secure a friendly annexation, Horus met with their leaders and began to appreciate their demeanour and diplomacy.

Elements within his forces, however, did not appreciate such gestures. They consorted with xenos, wielded alien equipment without concern, and showed no intent of stopping. By the Emperor's decree, such choices meant only death.

Horus cared not for this, arguing that as Warmaster, the choice of target was his alone. These people knew much, and though their talk of the "Primordial Annihilator" seemed superstitious, their passion was admirable.

Alas, such peace was not meant to be, for a robbery staged by Erebus, Apostle of the Word Bearers, caused a rift in relations that quickly spiralled out of control. Violence broke out, and Horus had no choice but to wage war against them in totality.

They did not last long, and in the ashes of hope did Horus' heart grow hard. After a meeting with Sanguinius, Lupercal emerged a new man, more focused in his task. Accepting an honour he had long denied, the Warmaster renamed his Legion "The Sons of Horus" and set forth once more. The Crusade called and the wolves answered
in kind.

The Sounds of Thunder

Others had changed however, just as Horus began to doubt the justice of his actions. Lorgar had since fallen to Chaos, his voyage into the Eye of Terror revealing to him a truth that left him sundered.

His mind already turned to betrayal, the Golden One began to seed the other Legions with his Chaplains, their words bringing with them pagan traditions that
slowly threaded the fabric of the Imperium.

Horus tolerated the Warrior Lodges that
formed within his Legion as a result, and soon came
to appreciate them for what they were. More and
more did he step away from the Emperor's Light,
and on Davin did he finally cast free of his shackles.

Word came to Horus of a rebellion backed by an
Imperial commander. An old friend of the Warmaster personally spitting on his oath to Horus, calling him nothing but a puppet, a fool for greater men than he.

Already angered by the formation of the Council of Terra, an administrative body made of mere mortals whose orders he was bound to follow, this direct insult sent Horus into a rage. Gathering his forces, the entire might of a Legion sailed towards a world once conquered already.

Here they discovered that the leader of the rebellion had hidden himself away upon the moon of Davin, amidst its sickly marsh and bitter swamp. Unwilling to wait any longer, Horus ordered the assault immediately, and without hesitation.

Pride's Fury Had Come...

An Answer In Death

Finding only a ruined spacecraft, and no sign of any traitorous forces, Horus moved quickly in search of his foe. Entering the stranded vessel, he found a ship ruined and tortured by its fiery descent.

Crawling through its remains, the ship sank, some sudden movement plunging it into the depths beneath the surface. Separated from his men by this collapse, wounded by a spar of steel piercing his side, Horus discovered Captain Temba, alone and ruined.

His form had become corpulent, his body diseased and riddled with sickness. In his hand he held a strange blade, its design somehow familiar to the Warmaster. Such details were swiftly forgotten in the moment however, for heated words passed between the two culminated in a violent fight.

Though but a mortal, each blow Horus left upon his foe did little more than entertain him. Such vicious assault should have rendered him lifeless, but Temba endured it all, responding with clumsy blows easily avoided.

Unfortunately for Horus, one missed step, one barely parried strike, and his enemie's blade pierced deep. Wounded, he severed Temba's head from its body, finally putting to rest this putrescent mockery of his friend.

Alas, such injury was more than it first appeared. Though painful, it should have healed in moments, but a venom ran through his blood tailor made to end his existence. Even a Primarch's physiology could not endure for long.

Emerging from the broken ship, pale and weak, he beheld a slaughter like none other. A vast army of the dead had arisen, attacking his sons in mindless slaughter amidst the swamp. With the death of Temba however, it appeared that their connection to reality had been severed... Much like himself, as he crashed into the water,
unconscious.

The Pieces Placed

With the Battle of Istvaan a resounding success, Horus brought the Legions together to formulate his strategy. During the meeting, a conclave of gods and Daemons, Fulgrim proved recalcitrant, outwardly defying the Warmster's authority.

Lorgar attempted to restrain whatever Fulgrim had become, enraged that his brother had fallen so under the sway of Chaos, that a beast of the dark powers dared inhabit his flesh. Horus intervened however, recognising the use such a creature could provide in place of the Phoenix's usual arrogance.

Meeting privately with the Daemon, Horus inquired as to its intentions. Recognising the beast provided no immediate threat, he accepted its place in his armies, though under the warning that its life could be ended whenever he wished.

In exchange, the fiend gave unto Horus the head of the Gorgon, a gift and trophy of the Warmaster's rebellion. Perturbed somewhat, Lupercal accepted the offering, keeping it close by as a reminder of how even gods can die.

Realising now that he led an army of lunatics and madmen, Horus set forth on this journey knowing there was no way back to the light. Dispatching the Legions towards their task, he faced the darkness now, alone.

Truth Forgotten

As the Warmaster led his forces on a rampage against the Imperium, laying waste to all in his path, he found his shadow dogged by loyalists eager for revenge. Led by an Iron Hand by the name of Shadrak Meduson, this guerilla force inflicted heavy casualties upon his men.

Eventually, upon the world of Dwell, did Horus locate the fortress of this irritant. Moving into place, he launched a devastating assault upon the planet, defended as it was by men of fear not angels of war.

Successfully clearing the mortals out of their path, Horus was blindsided by the sudden appearance of loyalist Astartes amongst their ranks. Though they managed to slay the defenders, the damage sustained was heavy, a consequence the Warmaster could ill afford.

Alas, as the bastion fell, there was no sign of Meduson. Accepting that he must have fled, but content that
his teeth had been pulled, Horus called for Fulgrim
and Mortarion. Here they met him, and here
did the Iron Hand reveal his true gambit.

A trio of gunships, cunningly hidden, emerged
from the skies, drowning the Primarchs in ruin.
Through arcane power, genetic forgery and sheer
chance, they survived, though wounded. Such
would be a singular effort though, and one that came
with dire results.

Injured, his body wavered as his mind snapped into clarity. A memory, long buried by the Emperor, emerged in full as he saw a fable made real. On the world of Moloch, he saw the Master of Mankind ascend into the heavens. Saw him bargain with the gods for power beyond imagination... Saw him lie as he stole from Chaos its rightful place.

Convinced that such knowledge would bring him victory, Horus ordered his forces to a world engineered in its mystery. Through the shadow of deceit, the fog of memory...

He Came To A World That Never Was...

This Price we Pay

Arriving into the orbit of this feral myth, Horus launched an immediate assault upon the world. Defended as it was by Astartes and Knights of House Devine, the coming battle promised to be a brutal one.

As his bitter allies made planet-fall, Horus took his force to the island of Damesk, following perfectly in the footsteps of his father. His egress was met with heavy ruin however, as towering knights stalked the battlefield in their engines of war.

This world was defended as few ever have been, and the traitors found themselves hard-pressed as the very planet turned against them. Horus himself was wounded deeply during the battle, his form rent by weapons of ancient make.

Only the Ruinous Powers saved him, fuelling his body even as biology screamed in denial at this unnatural restoration. Once more revived, Horus led his forces for months, pushing the loyalists back step by step towards extinction.

Finally, at the gates of Lupercalia, the traitors prepared for a siege. Directed by Horus, the Phoenix began to whisper his words of madness into the wind, its gentle ebb bringing apathy and malaise into the minds of the defenders.

When the final push occured, the loyalists were horrified as many of their knights turned upon them, twisted by the feel sorceries employed by Fulgrim. So riven, they stood little chance as damnation flooded their walls, as darkness claimed their souls.

Leaving a few hundred defenders to escape, to better spread word of what came, Horus descended beneath the city, towards a vast rift carefully hidden beneath its foundations. Here did he enter, following in the footsteps of his father, and here did Horus die...

For a thousand years he wandered the maddening tides of the Warp, for a thousand years did he fight Daemon and mortal alike. For a thousand years he ruled kingdoms and empires that spanned worlds, and for a thousand
years did he grow tired of his existence.

Infused with the power of Chaos, total
and complete, he was offered a
life within this realm of madness...
He was offered divinity, and a
dream made
manifest.

The Gates of Heaven

Tearing into the stars above Terra, Horus had finally arrived, the Arch-Heretic had come for blood. At the head of a terrible fleet, their weapons dismantled all defences in their path, as Lupercal's soul taunted the Emperor through the Warp.

A vast portal above Luna had been opened by the dark magic of the Word Bearers, and from it the untold legions of hell marched forth. Destruction rained from the heavens as Horus watched carefully. Existence itself hinged upon a single mistake...

As the Astartes descended to the planet below, Horus ensconced himself within a pocket dimension of his own design. As his men fought against the planets material defences, Horus battled against those that were spiritual, matching wits with the Emperor himself.

Flitting in and out of consciousness, his soul staring into the aether in search of answers, his body was infused with the purest power of the Warp. Abaddon witnessed this and grew disgusted, the corpulent image of his father tainted by the sickness of pride.

Such power wielded without caution could not be done without consequence, and those wise in the way of the Warp measured his life in months. True to their claims, his mind began to fracture, reality blending with memory as who he was joined with what he had once been.

But salvation had come for Terra, and Horus knew his time grew short, reinforcements from the outer systems heralded upon the Warp. Seeing no other choice, he awoke from his slumber and ordered the shields of his vessel lowered, throwing the dice to fate one last time.

On bated breath the universe watched, carefully it waited, as with a blinding flash of light the Emperor boarded his ship. So many had died, and now existence would be decided by a single duel between father and son...

The War Never Ends

Unleashing now his full power, his life fleeing his form at speed, the Emperor struck one blow against this bastard monster. All his rage, all his psychic might funneled into one point, he obliterated the heretic without hesitation or mercy.

As white light filled the room, for the briefest second,
the Horus of old stared back... But then he was gone.
The Imperium ruined eternal by his actions, the Warp awoken by his pride, Horus had surpassed every expectation the Emperor had for his sons...

None other could have brought such ruin to a gods work, none could have withstood the madness of the Dark Powers. His name would be a curse throughout time, his followers the architects of untold horror. He had succeeded against all odds, for all he had craved was recognition...

And His Legacy Would Never Be Forgotten...

Serpent's Scales

A prototype suit of Terminator Armour, it was handcrafted by some of the greatest minds on Mars in exchange for his aid. Possessing superlative protective mechanisms, it cemented the alliance between the Dark Mechanicum and Horus.

Worldbreaker

A power maul bigger than a normal human, it was a gift from the Emperor, forged by his own hand. Celebrating his ascension to Warmaster, the devastation it inflicted soon became a symbol for something darker.

Deus Ex Nihilio

What follows this prophet but cryptic horror and sorrow. No tears for his fellows, no ink for his page, each warning lost without hearing. Weep, dear angel, your faith cannot save you from yourself...

Into a world of monsters and dragons, one of witchcraft and black sorcery, did Lorgar find himself alone. A man of faith in a faithless realm, a servant of God with only demons to serve, the Urizen was a soul out of place... and out of time.

Ever uncomfortable with his role as a warrior, Lorgar would spend his whole life in search of an escape. Afeared of what shadows lie in his heart, he looked to the heavens for an answer, and safety from the nightmares that clawed at his mind.

Such desperation made him mercurial, fay in his nature. Lorgar doubted his perfection, questioned his role in existence. Without such surety, he grew erratic, and unpredictable.

He needed an anchor, and religion provided one. His father so powerful as to be divine became the only cover from the storm of his questions, his mind fixated on destroying itself, even as his soul sought salvation.

Such faith became fanaticism, such certainty became obsession. Rejection, when it came, was all-consuming for his very life was tied to the hope that he clung to. Untethered from himself, Aurelian would be undone.

But what he lacked with a blade, he made up for with heart. A silver tongue he possessed that could sway millions with its skill. No orator could ever match his passion, no general could equal his zeal. Lorgar had mastered the hardest art of the deceiver...

He Had Deceived Himself...

Words of a Prophet

Defined as he was, by faith not glory, Lorgar's conquests were slow in comparison to his brothers. Every world taken was put to the flame, religious texts and temples to elder gods were burned, replaced with shrines to the Emperor.

His sons penned great works of theology, spending years, if not decades, on each land they passed until they had left behind souls as zealous as they. Their tally may have been small, but never once would their subjects rebel, for their spirit was tied to the Imperium completely.

It was during this time that Aurelian set himself to a task that would come to shape the Imperium for 10,000 years. A great book of faith, its devotion given entirely to the Emperor, called the Lectio Divinatus.

This tome argued for his divinity, even as the Master of Mankind denied it. It espoused such faith as not just moral, but necessary, and soon it began to spread as the Great Crusade progressed. Cults hidden in secret upon every world, even Astartes of the Legions, all would seek comfort within its words.

With a pure heart did Lorgar commit himself to the First Heresy, without malice nor guile did he put himself on the path of damnation... The road to hell has always been paved with good intentions and without hesitation did Aurelian follow.

The Urizen had gone too far however, the Emperor furious as he beheld such works of wonder. Those planets raised in his devotion, those arts formed in worship of he, all were a failure to the Imperial Truth.

Mankind must be godless for faith had brought only pain in the Emperor's eyes, and so he tasked the Ultramarines with a most thankless role. Sent to the city of Monarchia, these Angels of Death brought judgement to the world, the rage of the heavens manifest as the sky rained fire and fury.

Deliverance had come...

An Angel Spited

Rejected, censured and rebuked, the Word Bearers and their father were left in the dust, one last chance given to prove their worth. Not only were his actions to be watched going forward, his every choice judged, but he would not travel alone.

Custodes from the Emperor's personal guard were deployed to the Legion, and though such insult chafed, there was little choice to be had in the matter. Riven by grief, Lorgar cared not, secluding himself away from all but his closest advisers.

Here, both Erebus and Kor Phaeron spoke of older faiths. The Emperor was not worthy of their worship, his dedication to atheism but a portent of ruin to the human soul. His mind unsteady from Monarchia, Lorgar listened and listened well.

If the Emperor could not accept their worship, perhaps another would. The four powers of Colchis had been found in dedication across a thousand worlds, surely indicating the truth of their existence. Though Aurelian struggled with this logic, having fought against them long ago, he conceded that a search for their light must begin.

Poisoned by the words of his closet confidants, Lorgar finally rejected the Emperor and turned his loyalty towards Chaos. A new work was begun as his Chaplains slowly seeded this dark faith throughout the Legion, but Lorgar knew not how to proceed.

Unto Damnation

Reaching out to his brother Magnus, a being with whom he had always held kinship, Aurelian demanded answers for what lie in the Warp. The Crimson King would not be fooled easily however, and cautioned him from such a path, warning of the terrible powers that could be found in the Immaterium.

Beings like gods might live there, truth in the words he had found, but divine they were not. Such creatures were of primal hunger and malice and could not be trusted. Lorgar would not be dissuaded however.

Mankind needed faith, Lorgar needed faith, and as the Emperor was about to rebuke them again for their inaction, the Word Bearers set off at speed, their conquests progressing at a prodigious rate.

His Legion spread out, deploying into the very
farthest reaches of known space. Battle after battle
was followed with prejudice, all a cloak for the true
goal of Lorgar.

Legend spoke of a pilgrimage undertaken by heroes
of Colchisian legend, a journey to the very heart of divinity. Somewhere in the darkness of space was a point where heaven and reality collided... and Aurelian would find it no matter what.

As all hope seemed lost, Lorgar came across proof of the legend. A tear in space where the Immaterium railed against the physical universe was found. This vast eye stared with malice across existence, and the very screams of a dying empire could be heard in full from its shores.

The Eye of Terror he named it, and this name would become a curse of madness for 10,000 years and more. Heading into the bleak shadow it cast, they came across a single world of strange laws and feral beauty.

The Gates Of Heaven Stood Ajar...

These Lands of Folly

This world was known as Cadia and upon it lay a tribal people whose proximity to the Eye had changed them. Though appearing human in all aspects, their eyes were purple, and they spoke of strange beings and whispers.

Descending to its surface, Lorgar met with these natives, and learned of what they had to say. They had foreseen his coming however, and greeted him as a saviour lost long on the winds of time.

A great celebration was planned, one where answers would be given. Invited to attend if his soul truly wished truth, Aurelian had little choice but to follow. Here he found runes familiar to his gaze, the writings of Colchis scrawled in primitive paint across every wall and surface.

Perturbed by these details, the Urizen watched as this pagan ceremony took place, human sacrifice but one of many fell acts commited in worship of those beings they considered divine. The Custodes with them could only stomach so much however, and when demands for the natives destruction fell upon deaf ears, he acted accordingly.

Launching into battle, a blaze of movement and genetic mastery, he slew many before finally he fell to the blades of his wards. His body was desecrated, his armour sundered as flesh was torn free of its cage. The final sacrifice had been found...

The ritual complete, Lorgar gave witness to the past. Inflicted with these horrifying visions, he could only watch as the truth was revealed to him. What he saw he would not say, but the experience changed him. Converted fully to the fold of Chaos, he worshipped not one of the gods but all of them, a servant of divinity in its entirety.

His path set, his purpose defined, Lorgar would sail with his Legion into the very heart of the storm. Sending first his sons into the madness, they returned in moments, changed and twisted. Their souls had become less than human, greater than mortal, and with two voices they told him of what they saw, inviting the Golden One into its depths.

So beckoned did Lorgar go, diving into the
Eye as it opened fully in welcome.
Here in the tides of madness
would he become whole, returned
home at last...

A Brother's War

An assassination attempt by the Dark Eldar of old did much to repair the rift between the two however, Lorgar's defence of his brother earning him no small measure of respect. Eased by this growing kinship, it would be on Armatura that Lorgar would learn the true tragedy of the Red Angel.

The psychotic frenzy of the World Eaters had become infamous throughout the Imperium, but on this embattled world, Aurelian witnessed something else. As Angron and his sons charged, beserk and lost to reason, the Ultramarines fought desperately against this lunatic assault.

Chasing down the Red Angel, trying desperately to reign him in, Lorgar watched as he was buried alive beneath a towering building brought low. Surrounded on all sides, trapped below the ground, Angron's end appeared imminent.

That is until Lorgar arrived, tearing apart the world around him with sheer fury and psychic might, the very skies erupting as rage was unleashed without control. All who approached were annihilated, gunships ripped in twain as Astartes died by the score. Hell had been unleashed upon the world.

The loyalists, realising that now was the time to strike, diverted titans to the weakened Primarchs. Holding his ground, refusing to relent, Lorgar stared down death as an Engine of Mars unleashed its payload into him.

Blinding light left all sightless as the Primarch was consumed, but as vision returned they saw that still he stood, maintaining his shield against all odds. Spent as he was however, his armour soon failed, and only Angron emerging from the debris like a titan of old saved him.

Both free, the battle was quickly won, and the Crusade continued once more...

The Bell Tolls

Where Lorgar went is unknown, travelling far and wide or perhaps hiding from his shame. The Warmaster would fail, as he predicted, and Chaos would once more retreat back to its domain.

Eventually, he would return to Sicarus, a Daemon-World claimed by the Word Bearers. Here would he ascend to divinity, the gods bestowing upon him their final blessing as he beheld a future that would know only unending suffering.

Maybe he felt sorrow, for Lorgar had always cared for people, or maybe such emotion, such compassion, had been riven from him in his tireless pursuit of favour. The choice mattered not, for Lorgar retreated into the shadows. Residing within a vast temple built, it was said he would only emerge once the end of days had come.

What fear must we know then, what horror must we expect, for once more the Prince of Chaos marches. His seclusion ended in defence of his children, it seems that destiny is keen to play the same story once more.

As the galaxy prepared itself for the final night, the Word Bearers had come under assault by a strange creature in the Warp. A beast of fang and feather that hunted them relentlessly.

Corvus Corax, the Raven Lord, had never forgiven Lorgar for his betrayal, and had pursued him into the heart of darkness. Changed and mutated by the powers of the Aether, he was an abomination of vengeance whose presence overwhelmed even the Favoured Child.

Hunted by his brother, a war fought once already plaguing the Imperium, Lorgar finds himself torn now between two worlds. The Great Game of Chaos continues, murder and plot thicken, and legend repeats itself in kind.

The bell tolls for the end, the reaper comes with scythe in hand...

His Faith Shall Burn It All...

The Armour of the Word

This suit of Artificer Armour possesses a protective field built within it. Further enhanced by strange runes and dark glyphs of magic, it is a formidable piece of defensive craft, proof against attacks both physical and spritual.

Illuminarum

Fashioned by the metal hands of Ferrus Manus, it is a weapon of sublime artifice. Capable of rending plate with ease, it is the model upon which the Crozius Arcanum would later be designed.

The Dragon Comes

I never cared for what they thought, my eyes alone enough to bring fear to their hearts. I strove for good in a world that had long forgot such concept, sought hope amidst the ash, but there was nothing. Only memory, and the nightmare I had long denied...

Humanity has often been spoken of by the poet, the struggle of the soul contained within endless epics and songs. Amidst the relentless push for victory that devoured the Imperium, only Vulkan remembered truly who they were, and what they were meant to be.

Defined by his empathy, his enduring compassion for those who dwelt beneath his shadow, Vulkan would live a life of torment both self-inflicted and drawn from the ire of others. The weight of those he failed to save would forever follow him, the fire in his blood eternal in its promise of annihilation.

Tragedy, however, can only be carried for so long, failure a burden that grinds all to dust. The Dragon was immortal though, and though his body could survive, his mind would eventually collapse. His grief all-consuming, the form that could never fail would become but a cage to a soul that could never escape.

This was his gift and his curse, to possess the very love of mankind without an end to grant relief. No strength of the heavens, no power of unearthly ken could save him from himself, and what was once his greatest armour became a weakness like no other.

In this time of angels and demons, this land of eldritch horror and bitter strife, would Vulkan truly learn sorrow. He was a hero when all were villains, moral as doubt consumed them all. He held to hope as death came forth on wings of flame...

He Was Human Until The Very End....

The Tides of Fire

Taken by the winds of fate, brought into the world by the rage of dark gods and the manipulations of those who knew too much, Vulkan would find himself upon the planet of Nocturne. This volcanic land of smoke and ash was home to a small colony of humans, their struggle against the violence of nature testament to their endurance and strength.

Little more than a mewling child when he arrived, he was discovered by the blacksmith, N'bel, who took him under his wing and raised the Primarch as his own. Cared for in this quiet village, his life dedicated to his craft, Vulkan would grow at a prodigious rate, both mentally and physically.

Barely four years of age and already he was larger and stronger than any man in town, more capable in the smith's art than any soul who dwelt beside him. Kind-hearted he would remain, but his appetite for more grew steadily, and his innovations soon spread throughout the world.

Nocturne was not a peaceful place however, not just because the very earth groaned against restraint and its inhabitants prowled the mountains ever eager for blood. A nightmare made real had come to Nocturne time and time again, and they bore only one name... "Dusk Wraith".

These star bound invaders arrived with disturbing frequency, each time descending onto the planet in search of slaves for their hold. So used to these incursions were the natives that each had found themselves a hiding place, long prepared and defended, their only hope against these foreign assailants.

This time, however, they would not be forced to dig through the debris for their prey. Vulkan stood alone in the middle of his town, hammers raised for the first time in violence. The Dragon had awoken...

On Wings of Flame

Equipped with the knowledge needed to prosecute his father's war, armed and ready for the violence he would face, Vulkan set forth at the head of those recruits drawn from his home. Moving towards the last reported location of his Legion, he found them beset on all sides, fighting a desperate action against the greenskins as they slowly lost ground.

Falling upon the Orks with the fury of god, Vulkan brought fire to their lives, and quickly ended them. Bearing weapons of novel design crafted by the Primarch himself, the Astartes proved unstoppable as their beleaguered brothers were rescued from the edge of death.

The two halves reunited on the fields of battle, Vulkan embraced his Legion with love. The Astartes that now joined him had fought with the courage of heroes, their last stand chosen in defence of those who could not defend themselves.

Kneeling before his sons, he renamed them the Salamanders, for their love of flame and reckless nature had earned such comparison. Returning whole to Prometheus, a moon above Nocturne and their bastion going forwards, Vulkan would spend his time reforging the Legion in his image.

Here, each would learn the arts of war, practicing upon this barren world as their skill grew greater with each passing day. The forge would also become their home as the Legion was taught the way of the smith, to better understand the patience required in battle, and to better hone the discipline they had sorely lacked.

Vulkan himself would instead turn to the past, crafting a beautiful Dreadnought Chassis for the Chapter Master before him. This man had sacrificed himself for hope and compassion, and such wisdom could not be squandered, nor sheer good abandoned.

So were they defined by their new father, the reckless, almost suicidal spirit, kept in check. The Crusade called and they answered, the Dragon's roar heard across the galaxy as they set forth.

Forged Anew

Unbridled passion now met with the calming nature of their father, and the Salamanders proved to be an exemplary addition to the Emperor's forces. Though they never reached the strength of other Legions, nor claimed dominion as some had chosen to do, they became beloved by all who crossed their path.

They never forgot their purpose, as shields of humanity, and never did they carelessly spend the lives of those they fought beside. No conflict was too small to draw notice, glory only second in their ambition to bring light to a galaxy riven with darkness.

The once quick anger of the Salamanders had gone, their reputation for heedless violence against the most hopeless odds soon swept beneath the tides of history as they brought hope to the lives of billions.

Such would be their legacy, but as their fire banished the shroud, such evil retreated to the shadows they left. For every warrior defined by hope, there was one defined by spite. For each victory earned in honour, there were those forged in cruelty. For every angel...

There Was A Demon Made In Kind...

Always a Price

Finally, driven beyond even madness by the Dragon's relentless endurance, the Night Haunter sought to bring Vulkan within the mirror. He wanted the Dragon to admit he was a monster, to realise that all his desire for good, his hope for salvation, came from the understanding that deep down, he was no better than Curze.

Placed within a maze designed by Perturabo, Vulkan found himself lost within the labyrinth. Somehow, perhaps through genius or some innate understanding of the cryptic mind of his brother, the Dragon escaped. Finding himself within a chamber containing his personal weapon, he was soon ambushed by Curze who sought what both had craved for so very long.

This battle was fought on many levels, far darker than even the Heresy that consumed the galaxy. Two monsters warred within them both, each seeking death of a different kind, each hating all that they had become.

Vulkan was strong however, beyond even the ken of the Emperor's sons, and without much trouble he broke the Night Haunter apart. Little more than a ruin of his haunted form, Curze laughed as death approached...

But such mercy was too good for the Hollow Prince, such murder too far for even Vulkan lost in his rage. Activating instead the teleporter within his hammer, he was pulled away on umbral tides to lands far from these dark memories.

His target was found, his location revealed, and above the skies of Maccrage did he emerge, unarmoured and ill-prepared for the horror that followed. Falling through the atmosphere at terrible speed, his body was immolated upon re-entry, but ash as it collided with the earth.

Vulkan knew not what happened next, his body ruined far beyond any medical repair. Slowly did his powers work, knitting together broken bone and scorched flesh, sealing grievous wounds and ancient scars.

Step by step was he restored, and in panic did life return with frantic breath and fear. Caged once more, iron walls and strange devices surrounded him, colours fading fast as instinct overrode any reason he once possessed.

Violent and utterly incoherent, Vulkan
could not be calmed, little more
than the furnace screaming its fire
into the night. Pain
was all that
remained...

Duty Knows no Release

Or so it seemed... His body found in the rubble, it was quickly interred in a stasis chamber until it could be delivered back to Nocturne for burial. An honour guard of Salamanders stood watch over his remains, vigilant even as their grief tore against the control they had spent decades mastering.

As matters grew darker in the Imperium, the Warp ripped asunder by a terrible storm that devoured all that approached it, the Salamanders grew desperate. Convinced by a heartbeat that none other could hear, they agreed to make the voyage back to their home, certain that they could restore Vulkan once more to life.

Such purpose, such single-minded determination was but the last defence against the rage slowly devouring them all. This vain hope was but the figment of a story-teller's imagination, the province of myth and legend best forgotten in this time of scorn.

With nothing else to keep them in Ultramar, they left, the journey taken terrible as storm, Daemon and heretic turned their gaze upon them in violent delight. The battles they fought would serve to fill a thousand books, but such stories are left for another time, another place, another tale of betrayal and woe.

Arriving finally above Nocturne, they rushed their fallen Primarch to the surface. Deep beneath the Mountains of Deathfire, Vulkan was condemned to the flame, the raging furnace claiming his flesh once more unto its heart.

With the final sacrifice of one of his most loyal sons, Vulkan was reborn amidst the ash that had once raised him as its own. Heaving for breath, his body whole, the Dragon's mind remained elusive.

A Perpetual Truth

As his body was carefully monitored, Vulkan himself dwelt in a land of dream and fugue vision. Here he spoke with a being that named itself the personification of the very mountains beneath which he dwelt.

This creature urged him to return to Terra, speaking of horror and woe, darkness beyond that which even the human soul could contain. In order to aid him in his task, the spirit led Vulkan to two items he had once forged, though no longer did the Dragon remember doing so.

These were the Thunder Hammer Urdrakule and the Talisman of Seven Hammers, and with them could
hope once more be rekindled in man. So armed with knowledge and weapons, Vulkan awoke surrounded
by three of his most dedicated sons.

Naming them his Draaksward, he led them beneath the surface of Nocturne, deep beneath its roiling plates and furnace rivers. Here, in the entombed caverns of an ancient world did Vulkan reveal the Talisman, and use it to open a gate into the Webway once claimed only by the Eldar of old.

What followed was a brutal journey through the maze of derelict paths that intertwined the Warp. To Commorragh did Vulkan find himself first, caught up in a violent conflict that he narrowly escaped. Once more into the Webway would he flee and a thousand doors led him onwards.

Eventually, they would find themselves aboard an Iron Hands fleet led by Shadrak Meduson, itself caught up in internecine conflict that knew no end.

And A Spectre Of Love Long Lost...

The Draken Scale

Vulkan's Artificer Armour was personally made by his own hand, and stands as a testament to the artisan's craft. The skull of the vast drake slain in contest with the Emperor adorns its frame as it provides protection against even the most terrible assault.

Dawnbringer

A warhammer of titanic size, in the hands of the Primarch it was capable of laying low any structure or fortification. Legendarily indestructible, its blunt form incorporated
sly technology, including a teleporter array and potent power field.

The Furnace's Heart

A baroque plasma pistol made by Ferrus Manus, it was a gift in solidarity between two brothers whose kinship went beyond the battlefield. Capable of producing long beams of energy that can slice through armour, it is said that Vulkan cared little for the weapon, and that a dark legend hangs over its fate.

Fear the Shadows

There was once a little boy who ran and ran, never stopping, never ceasing. Time and again the villagers asked, "Why do you run?" And always he responded, “Because what happens if I stop.” The villagers, puzzled at this, eventually asked what it was that scared him so. The boy answered, "Nothing."

A liberator, a hero, a saviour of the downtrodden, Corax was perhaps the closest the Imperium ever found itself to the annals of fairy-tale and myth. Possessing a sense of justice bred deep into the bone, the Raven stood as a knight of legend, a story too good to be true.

A talented commander, Corax displayed the mindset of one who had fought from a position of weakness his entire life. Stealth, trickery, subterfuge and guerilla strategies that left both ally and enemy confused and in disarray. Few others could match his cunning, nor play against his shadow-craft...

Only one, and he bore his form in mockery of the Raven, a bleak parody of his benign rebellion. Where the Night Haunter was revenant, a feral memory of fairness and equality, Corax was resplendent. Such light did he cast that the monsters in his shadow were more terrible than any...

So would the Raven forever strive against his reflection, driven by a hope that ran with the wind, chased every
step by the possibility of what he could become. Desperation, some would call it, fear even, but to Corax it was but duty and focus. The most important battle of his life fought each and every day.

Let us not digress however, from the truth of what comes next. A romantic parable of guile against might, a soaring epic of revolution in the face of iron tyranny, the tale of the Raven gives air to a secret many have craved.

What Happens Once The Story Ends...

Heaven-Sent

Torn free from his home deep beneath the mountains of Terra, Corax sailed the Sea of Storms, held aloft by the powers of Dark Gods and foul creatures. Deposited upon the moon of Lycaeus, he found himself in a desolate land that stared down upon the thick smoke and acrid fog of its father.

This broken shell of a satellite was little more than a glorified prison, an engine for raw materials produced by slave labour to fill the coffers of the Technocrats on Kiavahr. It was this ruin of justice that would define Corax, and by its misbegotten inhabitants would he be saved in kind.

Buried deep within an ice flow, frozen still within its biting cold, Corax slumbered with his pod. Lost, forgotten and secured deep within the grasp of earth, it seemed unlikely that the Primarch would find escape, nor succour from his imprisonment.

Fate, however, is fond of its games, and mere moments after his arrival did a team of miners come digging towards him, searching through the maze-like structure for a mineral vein to secure.

Discovering instead the child, locked away, they took him with them and raised him as their own. Corax he was named, "The Deliverer" in their native tongue, and as he grew fast and quick, they grew fanatical in their belief that he was to save them.

Over time, he learned his craft at the hand of those imprisoned for their radical beliefs, hearing tales of rebellion and revolution unchained. Alongside these myths was he also taught how to hide, to keep his presence unknown to those who would not tolerate him.

With these lessons was he able to thrive, remaining invisible to the eyes of the wardens who guarded the prison. Throughout the network he would travel, bringing hope to those so long without, and acquiring great skill in his shadowed arts.

He was not just taught of guile however, but also of leadership, and as he journeyed so to did he begin to organise a vast resistance to the tyranny holding
them tight. Cells of guerilla fighters, huge
stockpiles of weaponry carefully
hidden, all of this and more was
slowly prepared as the end
came closer
each day.

A Turncoat Surprise

Despite his own personal grievances with the Warmaster, and his memory still raw from their previous encounter, it still took the Raven by surprise when word of Horus' treachery reached his ears.

Reacting quickly, though still barely recovered from his previous ordeals, Corax joined up with Vulkan and Ferrus Manus to bring retribution against the Warmaster and those foolish enough to follow his deceit.

Sailing through the Sea of Storms, the three Legions raced ahead of their allies in an effort to break the traitors before they could become too dug in. Still, upon arriving at Istvaan V, both Vulkan and the Raven cautioned restraint as Ferrus Manus raged against their reticence.

Too little avail was their reason heard, and unwilling to let their brother sacrifice himself for vanity, Corax followed suit. Bringing his Legion in force, the Raven crashed into a world of screaming metal and hissing storm.

No careful act of subterfuge was this, no crafty stage of guerilla terrorism and assassination could be deployed, only brute force and rage against brothers once loved. Claws flashed, blades shattered and the lives of thousands were lost every moment that passed, extinguished by the ravening ego of the Warmaster who watched from on high.

Progress was strong in this heart of madness. Blood flowed like a river through the barren land as Corax watched his sons bring fury on wings of justice, Angels of Deliverance riding high the flames of war.

So was the scene as reinforcements arrived for the loyalist forces, the combined might of four Legions deploying behind them as the traitors fell back step by step. Seeing his allies arrive, Corax rallied his men and began to retreat, wounded still by the terrible plight of his Legion, and eager to conserve their lives.

Salvation Denied

Moving towards his erstwhile allies, the world slowed down for the Raven as he watched every movement with care. Too easy did they stand, no preparation to charge, and...

To the sound of riotous laughter did the Word Bearers, Iron Warriors, Alpha Legion and Night Lords open fire upon him. Fire filled the air as the very skies split open with orbital rage, devouring the earth to the steady beat
of war.

A betrayal like none other obliterated all that he
loved, annihilated all that he had made, and the Raven stood in shock as he watched his world eviscerated by
the hand of love turned black. For but a moment he could only watch the end play out in full, before his reality snapped back into focus.

Roaring above the thunder, he ordered his troops to flee as he charged into the blackguard foe before him. Never before had he fought with such vigour, never before had he felt so alive, and for the briefest moment did the Night Lords know what it was like to face fear itself...

Desperate to buy time for his sons to escape, he tore into the thick of hell itself, each flash of light another life claimed by Deliverance. He accepted his death, knew that it would come, but with it would he inflict upon them the horror that he now felt.

The Raven Found Its Prey...

A Beginning in Blood

Overcoming all challenges before him, from mazes designed by arcane reason to harrowing trials of the very soul, Corax emerged from the Labyrinth complete. Possessing now the shared DNA of the Primarchs, he raced back to Deliverance to continue the war once more.

Though Rogal Dorn begged him to stay, Corax knew that such methods of battle would never suit his sons, and only wild and free could they repay the harm that had been dealt to them. Home once more, the Raven set to work unlocking the secrets his father had so long kept hidden.

After much trial and tribulation was Corax successful, and with his new secrets he revealed his plan to all. No longer would the Astartes spend years in gestation, accepting each organ one by one, no longer would they lose most recruits to the process that seemed so random in its nature.

Now each marine could be made instantly and without repercussion. Whole armies designed for the moment, entire Legions crafted without waste nor excess. Beginning immediately, the recruits were implanted with the new design, and Corax watched as his sons returned to strength.

But where there is hope, there must also be despair, and it has always been the providence of Chaos to push the line where it can. Agents of the Alpha Legion had infiltrated the Raven Guard, wearing the faces of those slain at Istvaan V.

Masters of their craft and relentless in the pursuit of their goal, these operatives began to sow mayhem across the world. Corrupting both the minds of those loyal to the Emperor, and the genetic material being utilised for the rebirth, Corax soon discovered the extent of the horror inflicted upon him.

What had been his finest hour now stood as a testament to his failure, and here did the Raven shatter...

A Murder of Crows

As the traitor's made their way into the Eye of Terror, the Imperium struggled to rebuild from its ruined state. As Guilliman took the charge of bringing the light once more the mankind, he ordered that all Legions disband, breaking up into small Chapters to forever deny another Heresy from forming.

Recognising the wisdom in his brother's words, Corax followed suit, as his Legion was left riven for the greater good. Only on question remained, and it haunted the Raven wherever he went.

Those few Raptors who had survived, those recruits risen to the ranks of angels and pulled down into monstrous form, had no place within the future of mankind, but their loyalty was without doubt.

Accepting what must be done, begging the Emperor for mercy, he brought peace to each and every one of them. A single bolt, one for each, and their respite had been earned, delivered at the hands of one who craved only what they all had.

Dead inside, empty and finally undone, Corax retreated into his chambers for a whole year. No word came from him, nor sign that he still lived, but as the year passed, he emerged for one last time.

With the final words of "Never More", he headed into the Eye of Terror, never to be seen again, set on a path known only to his defeated soul...

Or so it was thought, for now as the end of days seems imminent, as the dead walk once more amongst the
living, word of a strange creature within the Warp has come. A flock of crows, demented and filled only with all-consuming rage, it has hunted the traitor's throughout the Aether without rest nor pause.

Even Lorgar could not stand against this fiend, this archon of shadow defined only by hate. Whether this is Corax, or just the shell of what he once was, the ravens have come once more. The crows cry out, the blood runs cold...

On Wings Of Death He Soars

Raven's Talons

A unbreakable pair of Lightning Claws, their touch is death to all that it meets. Capable of shredding through armour and flesh alike, they have become a relic of the Raven Guard, passed down to their greatest warriors.

The Sable Armour

A cunning piece of artifice, this Power Armour was designed by Corax to not only protect him, but to hide him from those who wished him harm. Capable of jamming communications, filtering heat and blending in with the environment, it served as a formidable tool for the covert Primarch.

Such Serpent Smile

This reaver is the most dangerous we have ever seen. What loyalties possessed are forever unknown, his faith upon his own regret. A demon in the tongue of old, a shadow in the prose of poets, we ourselves have another name for such godless men... Renegade.

Deceptive, mercenary, callous and cruel, all these have been used to describe the two-faced Lord of Serpents. Rarely remembered and intentionally forgotten, many would write off the Hydra as a failure, never looking deep enough to uncover why.

For though his skill lie in espionage, his craft in shadows and chaos, he was also a being of honour and unbending loyalty. A schism of the human paradox, Alpharius represented both perfection, and the dark means used to attain it.

Such complexity within the immortal mind may be expected, but even amongst his kin did it seem erratic. This was but the surface of reality, however, for Janus was not one, but two, and maybe even a thousand more.

Unique amongst his brothers, the Primarch of the Alpha Legion bore twin faces and a single soul, each in perpetual conflict and constant agreement. The first was called Alpharius, for it was he that was known to all others, the beginning of their trials within the Imperium.

The second was Omegon, and he was the end, the final matter brought to bear against their foe. None would know of this secret, even if it were true, for to understand the Hydra is to understand nothing.

Theirs is a battle of deceit and illusion, a land of false meanings and obfuscation. They are the sons of guarded tongue and envenomed words, the first to betray and the last to break faith. They are the seekers...

For Truth Is Everything To The Liar.

Victory in Suicide

This reputation for dishonour would never fade but, despite this, he remained completely loyal to mankind. He had begun to view the Master of Mankind as flawed, the ideal of the Imperium as inherently self-destructive. The Emperor's desire to save humanity resonated with him however, for such was why Alpharius fought.

This... worldly nature was the reason he was contacted by the Cabal, a strange organisation of various xenos who had turned their goal towards the destruction of Chaos. Sending a human agent under their control, a man by the name of John Grammaticus, they invited the Hydra to a meeting and to a revelation of the truth.

On a distant world did they greet the Primarch and here they told him of the Dark Powers. This was not new knowledge to Alpharius however, for he was already aware of the Primordial Annihilator, of the forces of Chaos and the madness they brought.

How he had come by such truth is unknown, for this was a terrible secret kept hidden from the Primarchs by the Emperor. Regardless, they spoke of a war that was to come, of a brother's treachery and of a single hope for existence that faded each day that passed.

Left unchecked, the Gods of Chaos would devour all life in totality. A plan had emerged however, named the "Horus Gambit", and it required the Imperium to fall, to be broken apart by the Warmaster who would later turn on himself in grief.

Humanity would be purged in the fires of Horus' regret, and with it would the Dark Gods follow, starved of the faith and emotion that kept them alive. Chaos had to win, however, and only with the Alpha Legion would it succeed in its desire.

Faced with this brutal choice, to stay loyal and doom the galaxy or betray his oath and save all life bar humanities, Alpharius took but a moment to decide. Leaving the planet behind, a member of the Cabal now joining him on his ship, the Hydra set sail towards damnation, sworn now to the madness at the end of the world.

Convinced this was the answer the Emperor would
have given, to sacrifice everything in the name
of the greater good, Alpharius
set sail into the night. The traitors
had already begun to move, and
the galaxy was
out of time.

Lords Unto Themselves

Rendezvousing with the Warmaster after their successful raid, Alpharius found himself in a difficult position. The friend he had once known had become corrupt, his soul blackened by the foul powers of Chaos.

This new being was as far above the Primarchs as they were above mortal men, his every word suffused with serpentine menace. Horus demanded the Hydra hand over his spoils, and with no other choice, he complied. To Fabius Bile went the data, and the mad doctor laughed in delight.

From here were his forces then split, half of them sent on to bring the White Scars to the traitors side, while the other half were sent after the wounded Space Wolves. Alpharius cared little for such disruption, for he had trained his Legion well, and their self-reliance was a strength matched by none.

Setting sail, the Hydra could only laugh, for to play games against Chaos was to play dice against chance herself. The designs given to the Warmaster were corrupted, incomplete and useless without further knowledge, and only Alpharius possessed the entirety unscathed.

A Banner Unknown

At Chondax, the Hydra found the White Scars embroiled in a bitter war with the Orks, completely unaware of the madness that gripped the galaxy. The placement of several Warp Jammers had been instrumental to this cause, severing the region off from wider communications, and making travel near impossible for those trapped within.

Silent, sending no word to their wild kin, the Alpha Legion slowly approached the gathered White Scars. At the same time, a raid led by a Legionnaire altered to look identical to the Primarch struck against the Warp Device, slaughtering its Alpha Legion garrison under the guise of stemming an information leak. Suspiciously, the engine was also destroyed, and as Jaghatai watched, he was suddenly inundated with the screams of a dying empire.

Perhaps it was an accident that left the device shattered, perhaps it was a sign of dissent within the Legion, for Alpharius had always operated with two minds. Regardless, this break in the calm gave the Khan all the excuse he needed to flee, shattering through the Alpha Legion blockade that still remained silent as the grave.

So obviously threatening, so obviously bearing
ill-intent, it was clear that his approach would do
nothing to endear the Wild Knight to Horus. Such
actions were bound to push the Khan towards the Imperium, and it is even rumoured the ships that approached the White Scars were unarmed, their very existence but bait for Jaghatai to escape.

Foolish mistakes were not the hallmark of the Hydra,
nor ill-timed choices made in the chaos of war. Rebellion had always been a weapon in their arsenal, a tool to be deployed as needed, and now the Alpha Legion deployed it upon themselves.

None would know this truth however, history delirious when faced with such details. Confusion was the weapon of Janus and with no side clearly aligned, their strength grew each passing day. Horus had forgotten the most important lesson of all...

The Snake Always Bites The Hand That Feeds It.

The Head of the Hydra

Quickly taking command of his forces, Alpharius led his troops into the jaws of war. Dismantling those who stood against him, victory seemed inevitable as the Imperial defence collapsed, stretched too thin to hold the ground it so dearly needed to.

Dorn would not relent however, his defence of Terra subtle beyond even the Hydra's wit. Tearing into the space above Pluto, the Phalanx loomed ominously in the sky as its weapons began to reap a terrible toll amongst the Alpha Legion.

Ill-prepared for this sudden arrival, Alpharius had slipped. Such a response had not been expected, such rapid deployments thought beyond the talents of Dorn and his sons. A brutal conflict within the tight corridors of the fortress took place, as shadows warred in the blaze of gunfire.

Hunted down, Alpharius quickly turned from prey to predator, slaughtering the first team seeking him within the bastion. His pale spear slick with blood, he stalked through the shadowed halls in search of his foe.

Eventually would he find Rogal Dorn, the two facing off against each other as they had so long ago. Blade against spear, certainty against doubt, the two moved in opposition as light fought against dark.

Serpentine in his movements, elegant in his ever-changing form, Alpharius slowly took the Imperial Fist apart, each blow but part of a greater whole as his dance left blood upon the ground.

Arrogant in his superiority, certain beyond reflection, Alpharius made the mistake that all those forgotten make. He forgot everyone else in kind... So focussed had he been on his own victories, he had never paused to consider his foes.

One step was all it took...

The Pythian Scales

A sinister piece of Artificer Power Armour, it was
designed in the likeness of an ancient myth from Terra.
Consisting of strange overlapping plates, its efficacy
was clear as it turned away bolt, plasma and blade with equal ease.

The Sarrisanata

Known also as the Pale Spear, this xenos weapon was unlike any other in the Imperium. Older than even the Aeldari, its blade shimmers as it phases between existence and not. Capable of bypassing even the thickest armour, those struck by the weapon were rent apart on a molecular level, their remains destroyed beyond recognition.

Art

1: Unknown
2: Unknown
3: Warhammer 40K - Lion El'Jonson by Koh LJ
4: Angels of Caliban Cover
5: Concept by hammk
6: Dark Angels Codex (Unknown Edition)
7: Dark Angel by hammk
8: Lion El'Jonson: Lord of the First Cover
9: Unknown
10: Warhammer Community
11: Paul Dainton - Ravenwing
12: Unknown
13: Diana Martinez - Cypher
14: Fulgrim by D1sarmon1a
15: Fulgrim Cover
16: Fulgrim: The Palantine Phoenix Cover
17: Emperor's Children by Aleksey Bashlay
18: Last Stand of Ferrus Manus by Jeff Porter
19: Unknown
20: Fulgrim, Emperor's Children by luffie
21: Slaanesh Symbol by SlaaneshG
22: The Realm of Slaanesh by Age of Sigmar
23: Fulgrim: A Bit of Willpower by Alex Cristi
24: Emperor's Children (Cover?)
25: The Phoenician by David Severeide
26: Angel Exterminatus Cover
27: Unknown
28: Horus Heresy: Slaves to Darkness book
29: Primarch Perturabo by Mauro Belfiore
30: Perturabo: The Hammer of Olympia Cover
31: Tallarn Executioner Cover
32: Unknown
33: Iron Warrior Concept by hammk
34: Unknown
35: Perturabo by Warhammer 40K Database
36: Perturabo Concept by hammk
37: Unknown
38: Iron Warriors by Ilqar
39: Unknown
40: Jaghatai Khan: Warhawk of Chogoris Cover
41: Bortherhood of the Storm Cover
42: Unknown
43: Scars Cover
44: The Last Hunt Cover
45: Unknown
46: Unknown
47: Hunt for Voldorius Cover
48: Unknown
49: The Path of Heaven Cover
50: Mortarion vs Jaghatai Khan by David Sondered
51: Night of the Wolf by Taonavi
52: Prospero Burns Cover
53: Unknown
54: Leman Russ bu Mikhail Savier
55: Unknown
56: Leman Russ the Wolf King by luffie
57: Unknown
58: Wolfsbane Cover
59: Blood Claw by L J Ko
60: Unknown
61: Primarch Rogal Dorn by Mauro Belfiore
62: Heralds of the Siege Cover
63: Rogal Dorn by TheMaestroNoob
64: Imperial Fist by hammk

Art Continued

128: Mortarion, Daemon Primarch of Nurgle by Igor Sid
129: Space Marine Chaplain by Dan Farin
130: Mortarion by Chris Campbell
131: Unknown
132: Mortarion's Heart Cover
133: Mortarion by Mauro Belfiore
134: Unknown
135: Betrayer Characters by Slaine69
136: Death Guard vs Tau by Johan Grenier
137: The Great Unclean One by Igor Sid
138: Pre-Heresy Deathguard by uncannyknack
139: Unknown
140: Plague Wars (Guilliman vs Mortarion) by Alex Boyd
141: Unknown
142: Magnus the Red by Ibrahem Swaid
143: A Thousand Sons Cover
144: Unknown
145: Magnus the Red by Mauro Belfiore
146: Eldar vs Tzeentch by Johan Grenier
147: Magnus the Red: Master of Prospero Cover
148: Ghosts of Prospero by Visionyst
149: Unknown
150: Thousand Sons Sorcerer by David Sondered
151: Unknown
152: Unknown
153: Thousand Sons Wallpaper by Ryan Anderson
154: Horus the Warmaster by Raffetin
155: Vengeful Spirit Cover
156: Unknown
157: The Primarchs Cover
158: 40K Horus Practice by Zhang Han
159: Age of Darkness Cover
160: Horus Lupercal by Mauro Belfiore
161: Unknown
162: Horus Lupercal by Mikhail Savier
163: Unknown
164: Unknown
165: Unknown
166: The First Wall Cover
167: Unknown
168: Unknown
169: Lorgar by Mauro Belfiore
170: Aurelian Cover
171: Word Bearers by Aaron Oborn
172: The Purge Cover
173: Unknown
174: Unknown
175: Eternal Crusade Concept Art: Massive Battle by ukitakumuki
176: Unknown
177: Unknown
178: Game Workshop DPS by Grant Griffin
179: The First Heretic Cover
180: Chaos Spawn by Thomas Rome
181: Unknown
182: Old Earth Cover
183: Vulkan Lives Cover
184: Unknown
185: Born of Flame Cover
186: Deathfire Cover
187: Unknown
188: Salamanders by Cristian Torres
189: Unknown
190: Fallen Hero by Dan Farin