#Son of Sanguinius

[galgannet]

Sergeant Vorain (from the book Ragnar Blackmane by Aaron Dembski-Bowden) "A fine weapon. Its blood-marked blade shone in the hazy light drifting in through the stained-glass windows. Once they had shown a scene of the primarch Sanguinius in all his glory before the Eternity Gate. Now the scene was half lost to darkness, choked by jungle creeper vines growing against the fortress’ walls, blackening and strangling the primarch’s armour. The axe weighed next to nothing in the Flesh Tearer’s hand but its presence was soothing all the same. An echo of a time when survival was the only question, and triumph the only answer. Around him, the tribesmen were slowing in their efforts away from the towering warrior. They faced the demigod in their midst with narrowed eyes and clenched teeth, clutching their weapons tighter. The Flesh Tearer cast off his robe with a shrug of his huge shoulders. The tribesmen shrank back further, raising their own brutish blades. There were thirty-one of them in total. It took Vorain fifty seconds to kill them all. When his bloody work was done, he stood in the middle of the chamber, listening to the lifeblood of the unworthy aspirants sluicing through the gates in the floor. The slashing hiss of running blood soothed his irritated headache somewhat. None of them had managed to even block one blow. No matter how hardy Cretacia bred its hunter-sons, only one in a thousand was worthy of wearing the Chapter’s red and black. Vorain cast the stolen axe to the life soaked stone floor in disgust. ‘Another unworthy harvest after all,’ the Chaplain agreed." (с) Stage of picture readiness 3/3 Artstation | Deviantart | VK | Commission List

[mahleb]

Request from one chat, the first meeting of Lorgar with the brothers XD Request text: "The first brothers Lorgar met were Magnus and Sanguinius, whom he mistook for an angel and a demon. And therefore he, as a religious man, studiously ignored them, so as not to show his father that he was hallucinating, despite their friendliness and some resentment for being ignored"

[floralynn-arts]

My headcanon about how Magnus try to solve the Nikaea's edict. Inspired by HTP: Episode 5's sub-plotline where Marckus ordered DPlush to have a truce.

[moociaoafterdark]

Had a very intellectual discussion on r/Grimdank awhile back and I think you guys should see it

... This is it. Hope this gave you some inspiration.

[jotaro-with-a-gun]

Angel's last flight diorama

[theoreticalfishsticks]

I love all of the Primarch children content people make, especially the discussions about how potentially horrific the pregnancy would be for the baseline mother, and I wanted add my own little spin on it. So here's the pitch:

What if they weren't perfect? What if, instead of superhuman demigods like their father - or even a normal, healthy baseline like their mother - the Primarch’s child is a weak and sickly little thing; the natural gestation process having been unable to properly compensate for the extraordinary weirdness that is Primarch genes?

'Cause, they were made in a lab, right? With each gene painstakingly implemented and worked to compensate for oneanother in order to create a viable being. So, what if without outside intervention their genes just can't healthily gel with a baseline's?

So, what the couple had thought was the baby sapping their mother of her vital nutrients to fuel a Primarch's level of growth and strength was actually their baby fighting tooth and nail to develope at all. And even after having taken such a steep toll on their mother's health, the child still comes out small and underdeveloped, barely clinging to life.

That's it, that's the idea. Primarchs with chronically ill and disabled children because of their fucked up genes. Send tweet.

[staticymaticyyourlifeisatravesty]

The primarch's growths as children-adult are frankly disturbing and I feel so bad for the ones raising them. Like at least one of their caretakers/adoptive parents were sobbing over how tall their weird son was getting.

At least Guilliman was somewhat normal. Still, i feel so bad because he would have been fucking huge at 12.

This isn't even mentioning Sanguinius or Fulgrim, who both came from abject poverty. Like clothing either would be terrible especially Sanguinius because of his massive ass wings. Not to mention the fact Sanguinius I think was also the fastest growing/maturing of the primarchs so the Blood must've had some hell with that one. "Wow you're twelve year old is strong" "Thanks, he's actually three months"

like there's so much absurdity there

[dese-o]

Teaser for a comic :D

[haaaaaaaaaaaave-you-met-ted]

The Fall of Sanguinius by PlumpOrange

[astarothdm]

Wip sons of Sanguinius in flowers 🌺

(I congratulate all the beautiful ladies and those involved on the eighth of March))

[ezri-is-real]

Librarian in terminator armor for my lamenters!

[cryptid-catnip]

Ivan the Terrible and His Son but it's the Emperor and Sanguinius

[wh40kartwork]

Horus And Sanguinius

by Vitaly Perevoshikov

[floralynn-arts]

Baby-primarchs series continues on~

Next: Angron & Lorgar, sometime next week!

[naniguini]

Me: I need to see wholesome facts about the Primarchs, I need to forget about the horrors. *Me watching wholesome facts about the Primarchs and still remembering the horrors*

BTW you have my permission to drop more wholesome facts or headcannons of them. I'll leave some I already know in the tags.

[candyswirls]

Crying in the Dark: PT 6 - Revelation

Previous - Next - MasterPost

Summary: the Little One’s past is revealed. But only to the reader >:3

His death and pain echoed across the warp. His brother had shattered his soul. Pieces glittered as they flew and small vermin tried leaping up and catching them.

Slowly, through the years and centuries, they found their way back to the main piece. Each time he found a part of himself, he grew more whole. He gained more power.

He could appear to others, his sons. He began creating a paradise for his sons. Doing what he could as he was dead.

He’d come across splinters of Magnus. Bits of Vulkan from each time their brother Curze tortured and killed him.

He tried to help them. But how could he when he was in such a state?

H…. Him. He couldn’t even refer to Him by name. The way He had killed him… the brutality… the look of pure hatred and rage… it haunted him. Waking visions of… Him attacked him throughout the day.

He was weak. Still healing. He feared he’d never stop healing. That these wounds would never become scars. The pain his brother inflicted would never leave him.

It took so much power to appear to his sons as a glorified and magnificent being. As if he was whole. He didn’t want the living ones or the imperium to worry and fear. He also didn’t have much time with this visage. As soon as he finished in a dream or vision, he retreated back to the warp where his perfect Angel persona faded away to his regular horrifying appearance. He had to have some of his sons describe it to him.

Constantly bleeding from cracks and fissures in his skin, leaving a trail wherever he moved. Dark blood stains that formed a mask on his face and ran part way up his arms and legs. His extremities faded to pitch black. Both wings were mangled and sparse with feathers. One was stiff and held tightly to his body. The other was limp and dragged behind him. One arm was hard to move and he held it close to his stomach. One knee was mangled and caused his foot to stuck out. He walked with a limp. His hair appeared dull and paler. Ratted and dirty. Choppy and brittle.

Scars of his battle with… Him littered his body. His eyes sported dark circles and bags under them. His sclera was bloodshot. His sons all said the same thing. He looked haunted and hurt. He looked exhausted. He was. It took so much just to function. To move. Often times he’d fall into deep sleeps that could last up to years. A few times had lasted near a century.

He used to cry. Cry at how far he’d fallen. No one would recognize him as a Primarch or son of the emperor now. Often times when he went to meet recently passed sons, they took him as a crude daemon attempting to pass as their Primarch. It broke his heart. Now he had his other sons go meet them.

But each piece of his soul he found, he got better. The souls of his sons were always near. The best he could do for his living ones was visions and sending the Sanguinor.

He found himself often ravished with hunger. Out hunting creatures of the warp, draining their vitality. It was his only moment of solitude. Though his sons always trailed behind him some distance.

He was hunting now, wheezing as he tracked the same type of small vermin that had tried to get bits of his soul.

He had put some distance between his sons and rested within a ravine. Sand whipped around him.

“Far prey from that cat you slayed and sported,” a voice said.

He whipped around, snarling and barring teeth.

He froze.

“Malcador?” He questioned.

“Hello Sanguinius,” the Sigilite greeted. “I’d say you are looking well but…”

He stood atop a ledge near the path.

“This is a trick,” Sang wheezed. “A figment of my…”

“There’s no need for that,” Malcador assured as he moved down. “I have some pieces of your soul.”

He presented three golden and glowing flecks that floated just above his hand.

Sanguinius didn’t think, staggering forward and snatching them from his father’s right hand man and absorbing them in. The blood stains receded a few centimeters as did the cracks and fissures.

These pieces felt good. Well taken care of. They had been safe and hadn’t needed to survive.

He looked at the Sigilite.

“Why are you here?” He questioned. “You died. Right before we to fight… that… H… Him… the one…”

Sang gripped his hair as he breathed heavily. A hand steadied him.

“I know how it affects you,” Malcador spoke. “The pain. The horror. Even now I come concerning remnants of your soul.”

“You have more?” Sang questioned, he wrinkled his nose. “Why not bring them here and now? Are they trapped?”

The Sigilite spoke, “There is much that can and cannot be explained. But yes, I know where more pieces of your soul are. Fifteen to be exact. But you cannot take them back.”

“Why?” He demanded, emotion in his voice. “Are you holding them from me? That is my soul! I need it! I-“

“Easy, easy,” Malcador soothed. “When you see, I don’t think you could bring yourself to do so. They are… well, you’ll see.”

“What?” The Angel questioned. “What do you mean?”

Malcador removed a pendant that had been hidden in his robes and held it out to Sanguinius. The ninth Primarch slowly reached out and took it. It was ceramite. On it was a common lizard from Baal, carved into it. Other Baalian symbols were upon it. The pattern and sequence was a declaration of familial love, adoration, and gratitude. Children typically gave less precise and skilled versions back on his home planet to family members.

“Th-this was given to you,” Sanguinius deduced. “Where? Who?”

“Come and see,” Malcador said. “Come and see the power of your soul.”

“My sons are tracking me now,” he mumbled.

“I know.”

“The Sanguinor too.”

“I know. They will be fine without you for a bit.”

Malcador offered a hand and a soft smile. He took his hand and followed.

Whether by powers of the warp or the Sigilite’s power, Sanguinius found himself stepping into a courtyard modeled after the older sections of the imperial palace. Vines and trees over grown onto the architecture. But what caught his attention was a large mural just below a veranda.

With intense detail and miriad of glorious colors was a portrait of him. Eyes closed, facing down, smiling.

He found himself limping towards it. He had seen countless remembrancers and artisans create visages of him. But this… this spoke to him. It wasn’t a glorified piece or one that had the artists awe in it. It was… him.

He gently ran fingers along it. Another painting, just down a hallway caught his eye.

He moved to see a similar mural. This time of his brother Vulkan. He was laughing.

Then further down was one of Magnus. Proud as psychic waves surrounded him.

As he followed the hall he found countless depictions of him and them. Some together. Different styles. Different mediums. Some carvings done with utmost skill and expertise.

The final was the biggest. It had him, Vulkan, and Magnus in separate panels. Images of them caught mid laugh. Then there was a fourth. An eldar woman with utmost beauty.

“Wh-who painted these?” He asked.

A gasp rang out.

He looked in its direction searching the brush. It was a small humanoid creature. Metallic skin. Her hair glowed yellow. Eyes glowed blue. She had long ears that flopped to the side of her head. A tail that split in two.

He could not take his eyes off of her. He felt like was peering through a mirror. The face seemed to change and he could see Magnus. No, Vulkan. Him again.

Malcador trailed behind him.

He said softly. “This is Hapipola.”

Sanguinius mouthed the word.

“Joy in Baalian,” he whispered.

Hapipola approached him, eyes staring up into his own and he collapsed to his knees.

He reached out his hands, the connection between them growing strong till his hands brushed her cheeks and she rested her palms over them.

Suddenly he was transported. Back. Back to the moment his soul shattered. The moment… his… his brother… Him.. killed him. The brutality of it. He saw the shattered pieces go flying off. Just as he remembered. But a group of them stayed together. Confused hurt. Looking for familiarity. They went to the astronomicon. There was something else there.

Then he saw countless images of Curze killing him. Bits of him being torn off. They went flying to the astronomicon as well.

Then, the screams of his world and sons dying. The wolf king slamming him down, breaking his back in two. Parts of his soul splintered off. A group looking for safety.

All three met one another. Confused, afraid, not fully understanding what happened. They clung to each other and they search. For what? They don’t know. They travel the warp and begin fusing together. Each with a piece of Magnus, a Piece of vulkan, and a piece of Sanguinius.

They’re in a horrible realm. Foul and rancid. But something draws them in. A tune. Incredibly lovely.

They see her. Trapped. They come to her. Eldar. She is kind.

“My only hope,” she says.

She speaks to the owner of the garden. Horrid and large. Yet he happily gives her what she asks for. Various materials.

Then she makes something. Then she takes them and combines them then breathes life into them. Memories of creatures from youth and human from their fathers take over as they form.

Everything goes dark for a moment. Then… they each wake up. They’re in her embrace. She is exhausted from creating. Yet so proud of them.

They’re alive. Each an individual. Fifteen of them. Daughters. Each with their own quirks and personalities. Each with the memory of their three father’s deaths.

They cannot stay long. Master of the Garden has plans for them. They’re vessels. They could carry his wretched gifts to others.

They have to flee. They’re so little.

Mother whispers a prayer before she sends them off.

“Emperor of Mankind,” she cries. “Please, find these members of your progeny.”

As they exit the garden and escape… the soul of the Sigilite is waiting for them.

His eyes finally open again. It’s not just Hapipola with him. It’s all fifteen. Different colors. Different hair lengths and styles. But they’re here and they’re his. They’re all his. His daughters.

He pulls them into an embrace the best he can, tears streaming down his cheeks.

They squeal and giggle as they swarm him. Calling him father and nestling into him. Some cry with bright eyes and wide smiles. Overjoyed he’s here.

He can feel that they did have a portion of his soul. It is now one with the other two pieces. They are their own persons now. He couldn’t take it back even if he wanted to.

“They are called the Angessa.”

He looked up, still in shock.

“Malcador,” he half laughed. “I-“

He put up a hand, “Easy Sanguinius. You have endured much. Your soul is weary.”

He moved forward and Sang took his hand.

“These are your daughters,” Malcador continued. “They discovered them right before they entered Nurgle’s garden and I could not follow. I was there when they exited. The Eldar goddess of Life, Isha’s plea with them. I call them the Adeptus Angessa.”

Malcador sighed as he sat next to Sanguinius.

“Your father is weak in his current stare,” Malcador told him. “He has… I fear he has lost all hope. I have helped raise them but they cannot stay here. I need to help your father. These little ones long for a father. Vulkan is not available and Magnus is out of the question. They can help you. I-“

One of his daughters said something in a language he didn’t recognize to one of her sisters.

“Kettra!” The sigilite scolded.

Her ears went back as he berated her in another language.

She held her arms to her chest, pouting and looking ashamed.

“I swear,” Malcador muttered. “

“What did she say?” Sanguinius questioned. “I’ve never heard this language.”

“It is my native tongue,” Malcador explained. “It is now extinct. She has a habit of using swears and other crude words just like many of her sisters. She knows better. They do not know high gothic. The plague god managed to curse them to not be able to learn it. For some reason he did not want them communicating with the Death Guard. They know a few words but otherwise cannot speak it or understand it. You can teach them Baalian though. They can only learn one’s native tongue.”

One of them offered a carved reptilian figurine to Sanguinius.

“Thank you,” he smiled at her. She giggled and ran off.

“They’re so sweet,” he laughed as another rubbed her face against him.

The Sigilite sighed, “They’re are. Except when they’re not. They’re little gremlins. Destructive and feral. I suspect they act a lot like you before you were taken in by that tribe.”

Sang just smiled while glancing at Malcador.

“I will warn you,” Malcador added. “They have a quirk from your brother Vulkan. They can and like to set themselves on fire.”

***

The cherub was now cinder and ashes.

A son of the Phoenix held an angry Hapipola outward. She pouted, smoke still coming off of her.

Smyne cackled as Lion held her outward. She sparked and blew raspberries at the cherub.

“No, no Daemon,” hissed ChiChi-Bon.

An ad mech cried over “pookie”.

Lion sighed as he turned Smyne to face him, “You just add more and more mystery to who your father is.”

She giggled at him.