#sigismund: the eternal crusader

[incorrect-primarchs-quotes]

𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫.

Key points:

Blue text means it's a short story or a novel

The bat 🦇 means Konrad is present

The knife 🔪 means Sevatar is present

Many of these cover a vast timeline: I've put them in this order based on the narrator (example: Vulkan speaking about Nostramo just before Istvaan) or the first chapter (Child of Night starts immediately after Nikaea but ends during the HH)

I ignored books where they appear for 1 line only and do nothing important. I also ignored "Lion: son of the Forest" because that thing is actually a warp-thing and not the real Konny.

𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐝𝐞

Sigismund: the eternal crusader , by John French (🔪)

Konrad Curze: A lesson in darkness, by Ian St. Martin (🦇) [AUDIODRAMA]

The Abyssal Edge, by ADB (🦇) (🔪)

The Dark King, by Graham McNeill (🦇)

Child of Night, by John French (🔪)

𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐮𝐬 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐲

Artefact, by Nick Kyme (🦇 mentioned)

The first heretic, by ADB (🦇 short appearance) (🔪 has like 2 lines tho)

Massacre, by ADB

Vulkan lives, by Nick Kyme (🦇)

Savage weapons, by ADB (🦇) (🔪)

Prince of crows, by ADB (🦇) (🔪)

The Long night, by ADB (🔪)

Unremembered Empire, by Dan Abnett (🦇 short appearance)

The lightning tower, by Dan Abnett (🦇 mentioned)

A safe and Shadowed place, by Guy Haley

Pharos, by Guy Haley (🦇)

Painted count, by Guy Haley

Angels of Caliban, by Gav Thorpe (🦇)

Ruinstorm, by David Annandale (🦇)

The lost and the Damned, by Guy Haley

The End and the Dead Vol. II, by Dan Abnett

Konrad Curze: The night Haunter, by Guy Haley.(🦇) (🔪)

𝟒𝟎𝐤

Lord of the Night, by Simon Spurrier

Red Tithe, by Robbie Macniven

Soul Hunter, by ADB

Throne of lies, by ADB

Blood Reaver, by ADB

Void Stalker, by ADB

Masters, the bidding, by Matthew Farrer

Nightfall, by Peter Fehervari

Morvenn Vahl: Spear of faith, by Jude Reid

𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥

Horus Heresy book 2: Massacre (🦇) (🔪)

Horus Heresy book 9: Crusade (🦇) (🔪)

[atisundaridarshanparadise]

Sovngarde is the Battle Anthem Song of King Harold Godwinson's Anglo-Saxon England Epic in 1066! Harold Godwinson is the Dovakhin! Edyth Swannesha is Sovngarde! Harold Godwinson is the Sun! Edyth Swannesha is the Moon! Harold Godwinson's Battle Flag is the Wessex Wyvern! Anglo-Saxon Knecht 🦢 of Orfeo Power and Glory Sidney Empire and Glory 🦢⚜️❄️⛩️🦉💎 Harold Godwinson's Anglo-Saxon Imperial Huscarl Armies Fought like Lions the Epic Battle of Fulford, the Battle of Stamford Bridge, the Battle of Hastings, the Battle of Wales, the Battle of Northumbria and Defended the North from Guillaume le Batard's Cruel Harrowing of the North! Sovngarde is the Magic Battle Song of Queen Edyth Swannesha, the Anglo- Saxon Arch Witch of the Universe, Hexe of Anglo-Saxon England and the North, Gospodarka na Slavata i Svobodata, Lady of Mercia and Sussex and the Realm for the Anglo-Saxon War against the Norman Arch witch in the Norman Camp below Senlac Hill! Queen Edyth Swannesha Had Gothic Astral Drakoness in the Air Like in Van Helsing! Edyth Swannesha is the Dovakhiness! I'm Sent Here by Goddess Freyja! I'm Sent Here by Divine Providence and Lords of Light! Vladitsite na Nebesata! I'm in Samadhi Superconsciousness and Kaivalya Power! Sovngarde is the Anglo-Saxon War Song of Eorl Edwin and Morcar, Eorl Gyrth Godwinson and Eorl Leofwine Godwinson, Lord Siward, Hereward the Wake and Robin of Locksley and Wat Tyler and Thomas Wyatt the Younger's Battles' Wars, Skirmishes and Campaigns even in Uprising were for Liberation of England from the Normans and the Spaniards! Sovngarde is the Battle Anthem of Sir Philip Sidney's Divine Star Society and Order of the Drakon fov the war in Holland against Spain! The Revenge War for the Fate of Queen Jane Grey and King Guildford Dudley of England, Wales, Ireland and France! It's a Samadhi Heaven Song! Sovngarde is the Battle War Song of King Sigismund von Luxembrourg's Crusade of Nicopolis of a Pan-European Crusader Army Mainly French and Hungarian against the Turks of Sultan Bajaseth for Liberation of Bulgaria and the Saving of the Byzantine Empire and Constantinople! All of My Crusaders are Dovakhins and Samurai Knights, the Knights of the Drakon! It's 624 Yearss of Greatness of the Order of the Drakon! Bulgaria is a Free Country for 142 Years! I Live in Sofia, Bulgaria and I am a Free Man! The Dovakhin is an Archangel and a God! Az sam Gospodar na Slavata i Svobodata! Sovngarde is the Battle Song of Emperor Timur the Great's Timurid Army and Horde for the Battle of Angora in Which He Decisively Defeated the Turks of Sultan Bajaseth, Captured the Cruel Sultan and Put Him in a Cage! It was the Revenge of King Sigismund von Luxembourg and Count Jean de Nevers for the Decisive Crusader Battle of Nicopolis, and the Treatment and Fate of My Knights and Army by the Cruel Turks! I Shall Conquer with Angels and with Gins, with Archangels and Knights and Ladies for Everything that Has Happened to Me in Bulgaria! Beowulf el Elyon Shall Love and Defend Me! This is Knight Tervel Kamenov's Epic War Song the Mount Kailash Pan-Gaian Epic, Alone with Mikael the Great, Like Vlad Dracula, Gabriel, that Saved Gaia and the Universe! Beowulf Loves and Defends Mount Kailash! Let the Echoes Become Your Strenght! What You Do Echoes in Eternity! Let Your Actions Echo in Eternity! Hail Goddess Crystine Slagman, final Crystine! Hail Sovngarde Lord and Bard Orpheus, Jeremy Soule! I'm Always on the Side of Divine Providence and Divine Providence is Always on My Side! Promote Only Nobility, People! Fight for Love, Freedom and Nobility! Hail Goddess Crystine Slagman! Reward! Nagrada! I'm the Lord of Fortune Better than Boethius! Rex Tvmundos Majestatis, Qu Salvandos Slava GRatis, Salva Me Fons Pietatis, Salva Me Fons Pietatis! O King of Tremendous Majesty, who Save s wwithout Price Those Destined to Be Saved, Save Me Font of Piety! I'm a Legendary Hero of Hoary Glory, Lord of the Anglo-Saxon Folk and Nation, Kingdom and Anglo-Saxon Empire Worldwide, the British Empire!

[caiusmajor]

You know, for all that HORUS RISING and FALSE GODS tell us again and again that Hastur Sejanus is the most beautiful, perfect man Garviel Loken has ever seen (well, until he meets Fulgrim anyway), I don't think we ever get a physical description of him.

Anyway, he shows up in SIGISMUND: THE ETERNAL CRUSADER and is described as having dark skin and grey eyes.

It's not specified whether or not Sig finds him beautiful.

[haaaaaaaaaaaave-you-met-ted]

Sigismund: The Eternal Crusader Cover Art by Leszek Wozniak

[boardgametoday]

Games Workshop Pre-Orders: Black Library Celebration

Games Workshop Pre-Orders: Black Library Celebration. Hurry, some items are limited! #WarhammerCommunity #BlackLibrary

The Black Library Celebration is delivering a massive amount of pre-orders! Two new miniatures are being released for The Horus Heresy! Fafnir Rann is ready to join your Imperial Fists wielding twin axes – the Hunter and the Headsman – ready to slice through traitor Marines. Purchase: Games Workshop $32 – Flipside Gaming $27.20 Dominion Zephon with the help of Arkhan Land’s bionics is ready to…

[lordsofmedrengard]

Pretty sure I just figured out why they made the Eternal Crusader look Like That. Someone (the artist or whoever instructed them on what to do) found this old pic of a Battle Barge and some sort of frigate, realised it was published under the unit entry for “Venerable Battle Barge”, and though to themselves that they had finally figured out what the EC looked like.

It’s of course 100% possible that I’m wrong about this, but I can’t think of any other reason why they’d weld another ship to the bottom of the EC. Ignore the measurements in the 2nd pic; they’re off (2 km length is what you’d see on a frigate, destroyer or escort, not a light cruiser, and 10 km is normal for a battleship; as a massively refitted and expanded battle barge (old canon) or Gloriana (new canon) odds are the EC is considerably larger.).

[screamingatthevoid]

Please don’t tell me I have misjudged you. I would hate to have to like you.

Sevatar to Sigismund at the Battle of Cheraut (Sigismund: The Eternal Crusader by John French)

[the-eternal-crusader]

Do you have such an impressive collect of #btdreadnoughts as Gorka San Juan Rodriguez? #blacktemplars #40k #modelpainting #blacktemplars_40k #warhammer #spacemarine #citadel #rogaldorne #gamesworkshop #eternalcrusader #primaris #gw #paintingwarhammer #sigismund #grimaldus #helbrecht #warhammerCommunity #new40k (at The Eternal Crusader) https://www.instagram.com/p/CgOuGk5N3Ex/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[drunkcodicier]

Sigismund: the Eternal Crusader had me like

It’s real loyalist hours who up?

[militant-holy-knight]

John Hunyadi, the White Knight of Wallachia, was born in the year 1407. He was a mighty Catholic warrior who led the forces of the Kingdom of Hungary to halt the advances of the Ottoman Empire into Christendom. A military genius, his entire life was spent in this noble cause. He is one of the great Defenders of Christendom.

The king of Hungary recognized Hunyadi’s exceptional military abilities while he was still quite young, and wisely made him a trusted advisor and the field commander of his armies. Hunyadi quickly rewarded King Sigismund’s confidence in him by demonstrating his complete mastery of military strategy at the expense of the invading Ottoman army of Ishak Bey, which he defeated in battle at Semendria. When another huge Ottoman army invaded Transylvania the following year, Hunyadi, with only a small force, decimated the immense host and put them to flight.

The Ottoman Empire, with a better appreciation of their adversary, put together an even larger and more powerful force to invade Hungary in the year 1442. With 80,000 of their finest warriors, including thousands of Janissaries, they were dispatched with the intention of punishing the Hungarians for their previous defeats.

Hunyadi met them at a place called the Iron Gates with only 15,000 men. Upon seeing the diminutive size of Hunyadi’s army, the Ottoman commander, Sehabbedin, arrogantly expected to easily sweep them from the field. Instead, Hunyadi, with incredible skill, repeatedly maneuvered his forces into advantageous positions to overwhelm the ineffective forces of the disbelieving Ottoman commander. The expedition meant to humble Hunyadi instead made of him a hero celebrated throughout all of Christendom.

Hunyadi followed up his remarkable victories with an expedition of his own that has come to be known as the “Long Campaign.” Marching at the head of his vanguard, Hunyadi boldly passed through the Gate of Trajan to enter recently conquered Muslim territories in the Balkans. He was soon challenged by an Ottoman army near the town of Nish. There he confronted a distinguished general and invincible warrior who, because of his proven ability, had come to be known as Iskander, Lord Alexander. This name was given him by the sultan himself, honoring the commander by comparing him favorably to the Macedonian conqueror Alexander the Great. Hunyadi would soon come to know how deserving Iskander was of the honor.

As it turned out, Iskander had never truly accepted Islam and was planning on joining the advancing Catholic army. When the battle began, Iskander switched sides with three hundred Albanians who had been forced to serve the Turks, fighting side by side with Hunyadi. Turning their swords against their Islamic oppressors, they easily defeated the Muslim army and took back the city of Nish. Further successes followed after Nish during the Long Campaign, as Hunyadi triumphed in Bosnia, Herzegovina, Serbia, and Bulgaria before winter forced him to return home.

Iskander was asked to join a papal alliance which included Hungarian, Bulgarian, and Polish forces, together with Teutonic Knights, in a new Crusade against the Turks. They marched overland to Varna, bypassing Ottoman strongholds, where they expected to meet the Papal fleet and sail on to Constantinople. These 25,000 men, under Hunyadi’s capable leadership, might actually have been sufficient to drive the Turks out of Europe.

Sadly, it was not to be. The plan was completely thwarted by base treachery, as a traitor among the Christians advised the Ottoman sultan of the advance of the Christian army. In a further despicable act of betrayal, the Venetian galleys that had been sent on ahead in order to prevent the sultan from crossing back into Europe, instead offered the use of their ships to the Ottoman sultan. They received one gold piece in payment for every Turkish soldier they transported back across the Bosporus. The sultan’s army of 100,000 men then traveled toward Varna to await the coming of the unsuspecting Christians. In a separate and final act of treachery, Iskander was prevented from joining the Christian army through a deceitful ruse perpetrated against him by the king of Serbia, who was hoping to gain the sultan’s favor. None of these men seemed to be aware that the defeat of this army and the death of these Christian warriors would be to their eternal shame, and something for which they would someday have to answer personally to God.

The Christian army learned they had been betrayed at a point when they were trapped between the enemy and the Black Sea. Some of the men called for a retreat, even though that wasn’t feasible. Others wanted to take up a defensive position. Hunyadi called for action. “To escape is impossible, to surrender is unthinkable. Let us fight with bravery and honor our arms.”

The battle began as the Christian left wing repelled the attack directed against them, and then chased the retreating Ottoman forces from the field. The Christian right wing was overcome, however, and also retreated, many of them cut down as they fled. The enemy were stopped temporarily by reinforcements, and Hunyadi told 20 year old King Wladyslaw to wait upon his return with 500 of his Polish knights. The outcome of the battle was still in the balance when King Wladyslaw disregarded Hunyadi’s advice and attempted a direct assault with his knights against the sultan and his bodyguards, the dreaded Janissaries. The king fell, and was slain by a Janissary, who cut off his head to display it on a pole to the Christian host.

Discouraged and defeated, the remnants of the Christian army rallied around Hunyadi, who was somehow able to orchestrate the retreat of the army. Thousands died in battle, and many others who surrendered were slaughtered at the sultan’s command, although a few were captured and sold as slaves. The sense of optimism felt throughout Christendom was immediately swept away with the terrible defeat. The shame of it all is that it did not have to be, as it is almost certain that the outcome of battle would have been reversed only if Iskander had been present.

The following years were full of conflict and difficult trials for Hunyadi, even though heaven had provided him with a powerful ally in Iskander. After this defeat at Varna, it appeared that the Ottoman Empire had grudgingly granted Hungary a period of peace. In actuality, Mehmet II was only reluctantly conceding a cessation to the Hungarian conflict in order to concentrate his efforts on other objectives.

In the year 1453 all of Christendom was stunned to learn of the fall of Constantinople to Mehmet the Conqueror, great-grandson of Bayezid. The Byzantine Empire, which had survived for over 1,000 years keeping at bay all of the nomadic tribes of Asia, was a bulwark which was now suddenly gone. Emperor Constantine had died fighting, thousands had been slain, and tens of thousands more were sold into slavery.

The Muslim conquest of Constantinople was a remarkable achievement that proved the power of the Ottoman Empire. The great and ancient city, once the seat of the Roman Empire, became the new seat of Ottoman government. Entering the city in triumph, Mehmet saw himself as the successor to the Caesars, and ordered that a splendid palace be built there for his private residence where he would live from that time on.

The Christian kingdoms that bordered the Ottoman Empire suddenly realized that they were now vulnerable to further Turkish aggression. Iskander and the Albanians, as well as Hunyadi and the Hungarian people, prepared for the impending assault they knew would soon come.

In 1456 Mehmet II attacked Hunyadi at Belgrade with an army of 160,000 men. Hunyadi was on his own with only 4,000 soldiers to resist this huge army, but due to the preaching of St John Capistrano, perhaps as many as 30,000 men, mostly peasants, flocked to Hunyadi’s banner. Most armed only with farming implements, and having no military training, they were eager enough, though seemingly ill-matched to go up against the Ottoman infantry.

Heavy cannon fire had demolished the formidable walls of Belgrade in several places when the Turks finally entered the city in force. The desperate fighting flowed from street to street, but despite their superior numbers, the Janissaries were outdone by the incredibly fierce determination of St. John Capistrano and his devoted followers. Not satisfied with merely holding their city, the Christian’s trailed behind St. John through the open breaches as he held the crucifix aloft. Taking the fight to the Turks, the Christians put them to flight, while the sultan himself was wounded and carried from the battle.

The siege of Belgrade was perhaps Hunyadi’s greatest victory, though he didn’t long outlive it. A few days after the battle, having accomplished many great deeds to preserve Christendom, Hunyadi took ill and died. Mehmet II gave praise to Hunyadi upon learning of his passing, saying, “Although he was my enemy I feel grief over his death, because the world has never seen such a man.” Pope Callixtus III lamented, “The light of the world has passed away.” They were fitting tributes to the White Knight, whose efforts had helped save Christendom.

[castellankurze]

Warhammer 40,000: The Ophidian Knight

Holy crap.  Two pieces of 40k writing in under a month; I’m on fire.  Much like On the Shoulders of Giants this is an idea I’ve sat on for a long, long time and could never quite get it to come together until recently, but it’s simple enough in form: you know what we don’t see very much of in 40k?  Heel-face turns.

--------------------------

I am Alpharius.

I wear a thousand faces. I live a hundred lives. I am male. I am female. I am the one beside you. I am the one across the way. Ten thousand years have I fought my long war against the corrupt and rotting Imperium.  I have been a force of thousands, I have been a squad of five, and when I strike, I strike with the force of a legion.  Worlds beneath my touch have seen their fate altered radically as the wheel of the cosmos spins onward, turning, turning.

Reality is mutable.  Truth, as they say, is amoral.  Time is but a flat circle.  In the end, all things return to that most singular of statements:

I am Alpharius.  

One amongst many.  Many, made one.  I am legion.

Fate reaches out.  The wheel spins.

I am summoned, as one of five, to stand in readiness.  A mission awaits.  A crucial breaking point in the grand webs of fate.  We, five bodies of one will, are called upon to serve the greater part of ourselves that is our warband.  A singular opportunity, delivered unto us by many years of hard labor and the peculiarity of chance.

A Deathwatch kill-team - captured, interrogated, executed.  One of them, a member of the Black Templars chapter.  We are thus given a perfect window to rid ourselves of a particularly troublesome foe.  Within the greater area of the segmentum exists a splinter Crusade of that chapter of space marines.  A particularly large one: seven fighting companies strong - six now, thanks to recent losses.  In their wandering they have turned doomed last stands into narrow victories, secured worlds that would otherwise have been lost, and unbeknownst to them, they have stymied many of our efforts to undercut the strength of the Imperium in the local group.

For years the warband has worked in secret to prepare a trap for the Templars, seeding tales of a heretic foe and staging attacks to set the waters a-churn with fear and rumor of an unknown, unglimpsed threat.  The trap was set, the bait dangled.  What we had lacked was the proper lure.  Until now.

The kill-team had been en route to a watch fortress when they were intercepted.  The Inquisition knows naught of their fate.  To pass up this chance would be more than indolence - it would be vile sloth.

"Which of your squad is the best infiltrator?" asks the leader of the warband - who the ignorant would term a Lord.  I am indicated.  It is true, and I nod.  "Be warned.  The role you play will necessitate...permanent disfigurement," he states.

A cruelty of fate - but a necessary one.  Nothing is gained without price, and the wheel turns once more.

Our volunteering is a matter of course, and an intensive preparation follows.  It is known amongst the warband as the Becoming.  Hypnotherapy and study are alternated with psychic imprinting and modification.  The first of us becomes a son of the Great Angel, with lustrous hair and intense blue eyes.  Two others are modified into the pattern of Guilliman, faces reconfigured with aquiline and haughty features.  The one of us with the most implants is a natural fit for a descendant of the Gorgon.

For me, the process is especially rigorous.  The others will have cover as members of the Deathwatch, scions of other legions.  As a Black Templar I will be the lynchpin, the one upon whom the scrutiny will fall most acutely.  Everything must be accounted for.  The bio-mancers amongst our warband work their magics, bursting individual cells and growing new ones so that my skin tone is lightened by a hairsbreadth, my face rendered weathered, crows' feet inserted at the corners of my eyes.  My shaved scalp grows a short mane of dull, mud-colored hair, with grey clinging to my temples.  A stubble takes shape on my chin.  My eyes burn as they turn a pale shade of brown.

The changes are not all external.  Surgery removes the Betcher's Gland, the holdout weapon of the Astartes that enables the spitting of acid, which no son of Dorn would possess.  My vocal cords are damaged as a byproduct of the procedure, rendering my voice gravelly and leaving a scar at the side of my throat.  The Sus-An membrane is likewise removed, a procedure which underscores the gravity of the mission - if things should go badly, there will be no retreating into the deepest sleep to await healing or reinforcement.  I must succeed or die.

The final step of the Becoming makes use of another implanted organ.  A frozen cask is brought forth, and from it is scooped the still-bleeding progenoid gland of the Templar whose into whose life I shall step.  Rich with the genetic codes of Rogal Dorn and the lifesblood of the Black Templar, it tears readily between my teeth so that the Omophagea absorbs the fullness of the information stored within its genomes.  And with it...

I am Brother Viaten of the Black Templars.  

I am one hundred and thirty-seven years of age.  I have hunted traitor and mutant and xenoform all my life.  I have been seventeen years amongst the Inquisition.  I am a fine swordsman, as befits a follower of Sigismund.  I am dutiful, serious, and earnest.  I am pious as well, a disposition which sets me apart from my fellow kill-team members, but which nevertheless I must embrace if my mission is to be successful.

We are granted fine armor and weapons.  The Ordo Xenos does not stint in the arming of their pet space marines.  A great relic sword is granted to hang amongst my wargear, a fine bolt pistol accompanying it.  It is an enviable - though not, in form, unusual - armament for a man of the Eternal Crusade.  We will use our status as ambassadors of the Deathwatch to nestle close to the heart of the Crusade and gain proximity to the Marshal, and whatever officers accompany him, and when the moment comes, our masterfully-crafted weaponry will strike the head from their shoulders.  In the confusion that follows the warband with slaughter them to a man.  Upon such moments, the heartbeat between life and death, does the great wheel turn.

A minor cruiser spirits us into the night while the warband turns their bows towards a distant world, there to make ready the trap that will crush the Templar crusade and leave the Alpha Legion the unknown, yet undisputed, masters of the local reaches. The transit time is time for practice, for the final moments of preparation in battle and behavioral drill to make the lure seamless.  Upon our shoulders rests the full weight of the operation. Ten thousand years of history rests behind us.  Infiltrate. Overcome.  Conquer.

They say no plan survives contact with the enemy.  Ours does not last even that long.

Word had been that the orks had been broken, driven into full retreat across the surface of the shrineworld following a heroic efforts by the Templars.  But even in the waning moments of battle, death lurks behind every passing second.  The ork ships have broken beneath the Templar fleet, but as they flee ahead of the Astartes' bows, a ramship takes the chance presented and rapidly turns to intercept our cruiser and slams into our starboard side.  Pandemonium erupts.  Men dressed as Inquisition soldiers battle with the greenskins as the crew fights to prevent a catastrophic destabilization of the power core.

The foul xenos cannot be abided, but the mission is paramount.  We have a thunderhawk, and we escape the burning ship to make for the Templar fleet, blaring warnings of an urgent message.  The cockpit has room for four - pilot, copilot, navigator, gunner - and I am related to the forward hold, strapping myself into the crash webbing as the remainder of the kill-team bring all their considerable skill to bear on the task of extricating ourselves from the dire situation.  But it is not enough to escape the sudden birth of a celestial inferno as it blossoms behind us, and the dropship tumbles like a ration tin kicked down a cliffside, the hull white-hot.

It is supremely difficult to make an Astartes black out, but the disaster in the void accomplishes the task, and when I regain consciousness I am in a hangar bay with a man in the white armour of an apothecary bent over.  The cross of the Black Templars is painted on his shoulder.  When I manage to clear my throat and ask about the kill-team, he looks at me with cool eyes and informs me that I am the only one left.  The others are laid out nearby, shrouds covering their bodies - or what remains of them, extracted from the crushed cockpit of the thunderhawk.

I fight to my feet.  "I must speak to the Marshal," I say.

The apothecary rises with me, his wizened face closed of emotion.  "He is en route.  He would speak with you, as well, brother."  The 'brother' is added carelessly, as if nearly forgotten.  Despite his cool manner, he leaves me in peace to mime praying over the fallen members of my kill-team.  O capricious fate! That I, the key to our mission, be the only survivor!  From the beginning the plan had turned upon having a friendly face to ensure the Templars would heed the urging of the Deathwatch.  All might have been lost upon a few seconds' difference.

There is another part to my good fortune as well, with reasons that I have not chosen to reflect upon since the Becoming.  Had I been amongst the dead aboard the thunderhawk the Templars might have tried extracting the precious gene-seed of Dorn from my crushed body, an effort they clearly undertook with one of my fellows before abandoning the cause as lost.  Of all the implanted organs the progenoid glands are far and away the most precious, for it is only through them that the Astates may regulate our transhuman bodies and propagate our ranks through the march of history.

In the Alpha Legion, this is taken to its natural conclusion, the recognition of each Legionnaire as but a small piece of the whole, a cell in a great body.  I am Alpharius.  We are, all of us, Alpharius.  As I kneel over my squad - my fallen selves - I cannot help but touch a hand to the breastplate of my armor.  The Templars will think that I continue my prayers, and that is well enough, but beneath the ceramite a plate of adamantium is stapled into place beneath the hollow of my throat, attached to the Black Carapace implanted beneath my right pectoral muscle.

It looks like another war-scar.  An unfortunate blow from missile shrapnel, perhaps, or a strike from a plasma gun.  Beneath it, where the progenoid gland would have attached itself to my tissues, there is only scar tissue.  There is a primary progenoid, buried deep within my torso, but it could only be extracted in the event of my death.  The secondary progenoid, extracted once every ten years, is used in the implantation procedure that creates new space marines.  Its removal signifies a gelding, of a sort.

I am Alpharius.  Alpharius lives within us.  But succeed or fail in this mission, I will contribute no more to the greater whole of the Legion.

I am called.  I am Brother Viaten of the Black Templars, and I go to meet the Marshal of the Jorian Crusade.

The Marshal listens to my warning, in the company of the officers of the Crusade.  Amongst them is the apothecary, whose gaze remains flat and suspicious.  Does he suspect?  Is the scar upon my throat, the one upon my chest too coincidental?  He remains closemouthed, however, and permits me to present my case.

The argument for the Black Templars' intervention is a masterwork.  The Deathwatch kill-team had identified an uninhabited world - mapped as Tanas-335 - which lay just outside the furthest inhabited reaches of the segmentum.  A pirate band is suspected of sheltering there, staging attacks on isolated planets where the Imperial defenses are thin.  Upon investigation, the kill-team made the decision to approach the Templars for backup as more firepower is needed to oust the renegades from their stronghold.

The planet's existence - true.

The attacks upon the Imperium - true.

The rumors of a piratical group - true.

The Deathwatch's investigation of a distant world - true.

The request for the Templars' aid is the sole lie, and crucially it is one that cannot be disproven, as the decision is said to originate with the kill-team captured and slain by the Alpha Legion.  Were they still alive, my squad would each step into the role of a Deathwatch member, expanding upon the false circumstances of 'our' investigation.  As it is I must carry this burden myself.

The Marshal's name is Holst, and he is silent throughout my recitation, allowing his subordinates to pepper me with questions and demands.  I know this tactic well, a basic interrogation technique used by the Inquisition, and I do not let it sway my balance.  In the end, he lifts a hand mid-sentence to bring silence.  "I would have preferred more time to secure Gond, but the lion's share of the war is over.  The Guard and the Argent Shroud will handle the mop-up.  Disseminate orders that the fleet is to prepare for warp transit.  I want us ready to jump by week's end.  The Crusade moves on."

And that is it.  With as much ease as the snapping of a set of fingers, the Crusade fleet begins making its preparations.  I am astonished at the credulousness of the Black Templars.  A mere question-and-answer meeting and their faith in a man wearing their colors is such that they are prepared to shove off to war.  No extended interrogation, no astropathic queries for validation, not even a perfunctory mindsweep by one of the chapter's librarians - but I forget, the Black Templars do not employ such powers, thinking them the province of mutants and witches.

How is it that such fools have not only survived but thrived for ten thousand years?  It is a miracle I can only subscribe to capricious fate.

Similarly, I am added to the Marshal's retinue with hardly a second thought.  A Deathwatch veteran is a valued fighter and counsel, and without a ship of my own it is as well I travel with the headquarters of the Crusade.  It is insane.  I am a dagger poised to strike at the heart of their leadership, and they welcome me in with open arms.  I am invited to try blades against my fellows, in which I hold my own respectably well thanks to the intense conditioning of my mission prep, and I am even permitted a seat at the flagship's feasting table in the company of the chapter's Sword Brethren.  All is as it should be.

Except the apothecary.  He keeps me at arms' length, speaking respectfully but never warmly, his eyes suspicious whenever he crosses my path, and I cannot shake the concern that he has some inkling of my true nature, despite my efforts.  His name is Jaromir, I soon learn, and he is one of the longest-serving members of the Jorian Crusade at just over three hundred years of age.  A man - Astartes or not - does not live so long without a canniness, and I am tempted to eliminate him, but in the three weeks' travel between Gond and Tanas-335 there is no opportunity to quietly remove the threat.

Tanas-335 is little more than an ugly hunk of rock in space orbiting a dull brown dwarf star.  In composition it is not unlike the great forge world Mars, save its color is more a dingy brown-grey unlike the striking red of the Adeptus Mechanicus homeworld.  A thin jacket of gases clings to the planet as the barest excuse of an atmosphere.  As the Templar fleet closes there are reports of a base built into one of the planet's mountain ranges.  The base is real - discovered by the warband in centuries past, once a mining station of some manner long since abandoned.

The reports are troublesome nonetheless.  As the Crusade draws near and prepares for deployment, there is no sign of life on the surface.  The warband had intended to leave the appearance of a skeleton crew, a minimum of machinery running to suggest an unprepared, unprofessional clutch of renegades.  There are no ships reported in orbit either, which is equally troublesome - the warband had intended to leave a sacrificial lamb or two above the planet for the Templars to enjoy pouncing upon, thus leaving them open to reprisal.

Strangely enough I am not alone in my misgivings, though the exact reasons are of course not shared.  The Templars are suspicious of a trap, exactly what was not supposed to happen, and a few questions are shot my way which I must hasten to field.  I do know how why the facility seems so dead.  Perhaps the renegades are off pillaging somewhere and we have caught them while away from home.

In the end the Templars make the choice to close in and drop their companies onto the surface of the planet.  I accompany the Marshal's fighting company, silently waiting for the time to strike.  The surface of Tanas-335 is as dead as it appears from orbit; lifeless rock and dust.  The same goes for the station, machinery inert and life support below minimum levels, suggesting a deactivation of a week ago or more.

Ten thousand years past, the words were spoken: 'you are my space marines, and you shall know no fear.'  And yet my blade is at the ready as we move deeper into the facility, past living quarters and storehouses into the older mining construction beneath the surface levels.  It feels as if someone is observing me, and an itch develops between my shoulders as if anticipating a shot from behind.  

I am Alpharius.  I am well accustomed to improvising when plans go awry, but nothing here is as it should be.

There is a sudden burst of vox chatter as the fighting companies make the descent into the pit beneath the station, and a neophyte comes running to report to the Mashal, bearing a shocking find - the helm of a space marine, or at least part of one.  It is the upper-left quarter of a Mk.IV helm, iridescent blue.  It has been sheared away by an impossibly sharp blade that has left behind a perfect cut in the metal, without scrape or shard.  A horn juts from the curvature of the helm in the fashion of many a self-styled warlord of the renegade fleets that plague the Imperium.

It is immediately recognizable to the Templars as the color of the Alpha Legion.  And it is further recognizable to me as the helm of my own commander.  Something has gone terribly wrong.

As if the finding of the helm were some manner of silent cue, weapons fire erupts and reports of movement and attackers begin to flood the vox.  They come boiling up from the depths of the mining like a swarm of hornets, glistening steel insectoids with eyes that glow a bright green.  They are followed by monstrosities of steel and gleaming metallic warriors that appear almost skeletal in nature, armed with weapons that fire searing blasts of energy and poisonously green lightning.

I cannot help but feel I am made mockery as the wheel turns once more.  Fate, so fortunate, so kind, to leave me alive to see the mission through, only for my warband to fall to the supreme irony that the trap we had devised for the Templars was all along waiting for us to set our feet into the snare set out years ago by a sleeping Necrontyr dynasty.

The thought of it is enraging, and I hurl myself into battle alongside the Templars themselves.  My relic sword is a priceless weapon on par with the finest creations of the Inqusition, and it cleaves through the living steel of the Necron warriors with a roar and a crackle of flame everywhere it strikes.  It is all to easy to imagine that this unthinking, unfeeling machine-creature slayed this member of the warband, or that this one slayed that.  I roar vengeance, unafraid that my motives be questioned in the heat of battle as I strike down one after another.  There are more of them, however, always more, a sea of silver skeletons in which to drown.

A hand at my arm hauls me back.  The Black Templars are in retreat, withdrawing in the face of the threat posed by the waking Necron tomb.  The dreadfully advanced weaponry of the Necrontyr reaps a fearsome tally from the Astartes even in the span of a few minutes' fighting, and their numbers only swell as more and more of the xenos boil up from the depths.  There is no glorious stand to be made here, no heroic turning of the tide.  There is only a withdrawal, an ashen taste in the mouths of the fanatical crusaders, and it is equally bitter on my tongue as we draw back from the facility.  Somewhere along the way, I dash past a Templar attempting to hobble along on a single leg, the other having been shot out from under him, and it is a matter of a moment to grab hold of him and haul him bodily back towards the drop zone.

We flee the planet, carrying our wounded and our dead, and the Crusade fleet unleashes a devastating bombardment of lance and magma cannon upon the surface of Tanas-335.  The fleet carries no cyclonic warheads, but the concentration of sheer firepower upon one point soon turns the facility to molten slag and bores a hole almost thirty kilometers deep into the planet's crust.  The unleashed energy of the bombardment actually shifts the planet's orbit slightly and alters its day/night cycle, such is the fearsome wrath of the Black Templars.

Amidst the bombardment, a xenos ship is seen lifting from some manner of cavernous hangar beneath the planet's surface.  A great crescent in shape, it accelerates with truly staggering velocity and passes through the Templar fleet within minutes, swatting one Gladius-class escort as contemptuously as a man might swat a fly, and the minor damage inflicted by the repisal is scant comfort.  The alien ship disappears from the fleet's scopes as it flies from the system with impossible speed, leaving us to collect ourselves and count our dead.

In the days that follow a few fragments of capital ships are found amidst the barren system, and the final fate of the warband is put to rest as victims of the Necrontyr.  As a single, self-sufficient compartment in the whole of the Alpha Legion, the warband will be written off as a loss.  There will be none who suspect my survival, and I do not know how to contact them.

I am Alpharius.

For the first time in my life, I am terribly alone.

As Tanas-335 smoulders, the Crusade performs its last rites for the dead and turns its bows back towards the greater Imperium, making for an agri-world which reports invasion by the alien hrud.  The Templars pray and exercise their blade-work in preparation for another fighting action, looking forward to a more fulfilling combat than the one which we have left behind.  And amidst the preparation, Marshal Holst comes to find me.

I am seated in the quarters given to me - little more than a cell, spartan and stripped of anything but bare utilitarian needs.  The most I can offer the Marshal is a spare seat, which he takes, referring to a data-slate he holds in one hand.  "I have ordered our astropath make contact with the nearest watch-fortress of the Inquisition," he tells me.  "They are informed of the loss of their kill-team and the confrontation at Tanas-335."

I nod.

"I am given to understand that you were once a member of the Vaelson Crusade, before your secondment to the Deathwatch," he goes on.  "At last word, two years past, they had entered the Segmentum Pacificus and were engaged in battle in the Perseus Arm."  He deactivates the data-slate and looks into my eyes.  "Viaten, it is not in this Crusade's ability to despatch a ship more than three-quarters of the way across the galaxy to return a single marine to his proper place.  I have sent word to the Inquisition and they have acknowledged it is best you remain here.  Begin the rites to repaint your armour.  Your time in the Deathwatch has ended.  You are a Black Templar once more."

I nod again.

Holst tilts his head slightly.  "I had expected you to be more enthused."

What to say?  "My thoughts dwell on my brothers," is all I can think to dredge up.

He nods as if in understanding.  "You served with them for the better part of two decades," he says, thinking I mean the kill-team.  "It is well that you mourn them.  See the chaplains if you feel in need of counsel."  Then he reaches across the space between us to touch my knee.  "But as we speak of brethren lost, I have a request to make of you, Viaten.  The losses on Tanas-335 necessitate a redistribution of our fighting men, and I have several stragglers yet to be assigned.  If you would have it, I intend to see you made sergeant, and put them under your command."

I blink, once.  "Why?"

He smiles slightly.  "Your experience, for one, and your wrath against the xenos.  And your rescue of Brother Rudi.  You have the makings of a fine squad leader.  Think on it for a day," he urges before he rises and departs to leave me alone once more.

I spend some hours in thought.  What is the longer game?  This bait is too much, too easy.  No sane man would grant such a boon so generously to one he barely knows.

I walk among the Templars for a day.  The air is yet thick with the frustration of retreating from the Necrons, and the halls ring with sword-drill and prayer.  Amidst it all, a few call me by name, to compliment my tally against the foe.  Can these men, members of a chapter who has evaded the attention of no less paranoid an organization than the Inquisition, truly be so guileless?  It is displacing, and I wander deep below decks to one of the quieter chapels, and there sit alone for some time.

In the end I accept the offer, and a ceremony is conducted in which I am named Brother-Sergeant of the Jorian Crusade, and a clutch of space marines assigned to my command: Ernst, a reckless swordsman, Andreas, who is quiet and more strategic in his thinking, Hagop, who was born aboard ship and habitually responds 'aye, brother-sergeant,' to orders, and Otto, a lascannon-wielding veteran.  And Brother Rudi, young and eager even as he adjusts to his artificial leg.

It is difficult to adjust to such an eclectic mixture of humanity.  Unlike in the warband, where conscious effort would be made to erase any threat of distinction between selves, the Black Templars are open in their humours, not only recognizing but even making sport of the differences between man and man.  Still, when called to fight they become a finely-tuned machine, covering one another's weaknesses with their strengths.

They are bloodied soon enough, as the Crusade moves to turn back the hrud invasion.  Those of us with blades protect Otto and Hagop, who lay waste with lascannon and flamer.  By this time the old coats of paint are scrubbed from my armour, Deathwatch silver and...anything from before that replaced with the proper ebon of the Black Templars, the great cross taking up residence upon my shoulder.  This time the Astartes are the weight that carries the Imperial defenses to victory, scattering the hrud before us.

As we celebrate there is a hand at my shoulder, and I turn to see Apothecary Jaromir, his gaze no longer ice-cold.  "I have seen too many men, Astartes included, go to serve the Inquisition and become too much like the lords they serve," he admits to me.  "They become paranoid and mistrustful, seeing threats in every shadow, and they cannot return to the bonds of brotherhood that once filled their lives with meaning, and instead they see nothing in using their brethren as so many playing pieces upon some cosmic board.  Forgive my wariness, Brother-Sergeant, it is good to see you so well in the ranks of the Crusade."

"It is of no consequence," I assure him with a clap upon the shoulder.

I am Brother-Sergeant Viaten, and with the Eternal Crusade do I hunt the foes of humanity, without pity, and without remorse.

And without fear.

[templarhalo]

The Master of Mankind’s Return Chapter 5 ( In the Grim darkness of the far future, there is only disappointment and hope)

Only three chapters left until this fanfic is officially complete  Thank you again for everyone who’s read it.   I plan  to have this chapter and the previous ones posted on Archive of our Own this week.

Vldor was falling.   He was tumbling into an an abyss,  his limbs flailing, his mouth trying to  scream, but producing no sound.

He slammed into the floor of a the Imperial Palace   Valdor groaned and pulled himself to his feet.   Then he looked around and almost screamed.

The palace was unrecognizable.  Gold was slathered over the walls,. Statues that had once been painted were dull and lifeless,   The magnificent tapestries and friezes that had been  removed in the process of fortifying the palace had not been restored to their  rightful place.

Thick layers of dust and soot had settled over everything.  Valdor had to refrain from screaming again when released the soot was actually cremated human  remains

Than he realized something.

The palace was silent.    Something it never should have been.  The palace had always been filled with the giggles of Ligo scampering through the halls, the clack-clack of Malcador’s Staff,  The chortle his Custodes made as the exchanged jokes with Sisters of Silence in thought-mark as they went about their duties.  The ka-boom! of one his King’s experiments  going awry.  

But there was no sound, not even the background of the hustle and bustle of Terra was heard.

Valdor started running in the direction of the Sanctum Imperialis.  He had landed  near the Tower of Hegemon.  In about 15 minutes at his maximum speed he would reach the Eternity Gate

When he reached Eternity Gate, he couldn't hold back his scream back anymore.

An army of the dead stood between him and Eternity Gate.  There were Astartes and Custodes in blackened armor, wreathed in fire, with no visible, flesh except for bones.   

There were mortal soldiers, too. Voidsmen of the defunct  Solar Auxilia, warrior maidens in a pattern of power armor he did did not recognize , Lucifer Blacks and the gung-ho Catachans.  Valdor saw flame-wreathed  soldiers in gas masks and trenchcoats clutching Lucius Pattern Lasguns and shotguns.  He saw  soldiers in green and olive fatigues led by a skeleton clutching a banner that had the name Cadia inscribed on  it's tattered form.

There were Thunder Warriors too.  The glorious, honored dead of the Terran Unification Wars stood alongside those who had been betrayed at Isstvan III and V and who died at the Siege of Terra and the decades after

Valdor felt a chill deep in his bones.  There had to be at least 300,000 Space Marines alone standing before him, not to mention  the Custodes and Thunder Warriors and the host of mortal soldiers.

For a second Valdor stood before an army of Martyrs.

Then they saluted, and parted before him

Valdor hesitated, then he gritted his teeth and took a step forward

Eternity Gate opened  with a deep  rumble.

Valdor  was greeted by a withered figure  sitting in a cell.  It took Valdor a moment to  recognize him as His King

The Emperor rose from the floor.  Valdor could see His ribs through the chiton He wore.   His hair was white and greasy, dark circles were under his eyes.  His hands were gnarled arthritic things. No aura of raw power cloaked him, this was His King as he truly looked, the strain keeping his body and mind intact after the wounds Horus dealt and the agony of his confinement to  Golden Throne plain to  see .

The Emperor wiped blood from his nose, than he spat black bile and coughed up phlegm,   His body made the rattle of death,  for it was little more than a corpse, its only purpose to  contain His essence and provide a form for His subjects and the woman he loved more than life itself to  see.  

“The wheels of fate are spinning  old friend, I have done all I can to  stack the deck in your favor.”

The Emperor  reached through the bars and lay a spasm wracked hand on Stan's chestplate.

“I look forward to seeing you with my own eyes old friend.”

Constantin awoke with a gasp.  He was  not expecting to be able to actually see with his physical eyes.  Isha must have healed him while he’d experienced this…. Experience.  Valdor would not call it a dream.  Dreams hurt and left a dry, bitter taste on one’s mouth, like a mix of taking a bolter round to the chest and trying to keep down bitter dregs of a poor vintage of wine.

“Your mind is loud for a mon-keigh.”  Isha said.

“Really?” Valdor asked.  The goddess nodded.   “You have my thanks for healing me.  Are we close to finding an exit to realspace?” The custodes asked.  He rose with more effort than he’d care to admit.  His wounds had been healed, but his strength was flagging.  He wanted nothing more than to rest, but duty forced him to remain standing and press onwards.

“There is a webway portal ahead   Twenty five of what you call miles ahead.” Isha answered.

The Aeldari goddess smelled of pine and roses, freshly baked bread and fertile soil.   The goddess presence, coupled with the  whispers of the imperfection of the daemons and those he slew with the Apollonian Spear hammered at him.  

He looked at Aella for a second.  

“You look like shit Captain-General.”  The young custodes  said with a grin.

Leman let out a bark of laughter.

“I feel like shit.” Valdor said.

“So Lord Commander Guilliman has petitioned for the aid of the knights of Sigismund?” High Marshal Helbrecht asked.

“My Primarch... has requested that the Black Templars muster as many warriors as you can spare to aid him for his crusade.  He would be honored if the Eternal Crusader could take part.” Lieutenant Chiron Patroclus of the Ultramarines 10th Company replied.

Sitting in a throne of hand carved marble mined from a quarry on holy Terra  during that heady period between the end of the Terran Unification Wars and the first true battles of the Great Crusade Helbrecht was every inch a Black Templar.

His Power Armor was a mix of Mark III and IV  plate  painted in a dull bronze that did little to hide the scars and dents it had accumulated during its service not just to Helbrecht but to those who had worn it before him. A line of knights had worn this suit, a line stretching back all the way to the Templar Brethren of the First Company of the original Imperial Fists Legion.  The suit had bore the scars of the battle fought at Beta-Gamon and the Siege of Terra itself.  

Over this power armor was a black tabard and cloak lined in arterial scarlet. Further adorning the armor were oaths of moment, purity seals, crusader tokens and scrolls detailing Helbrecht's glorious deeds.

In the Master of the Black Templar’s hands was the Sword of the High Marshal’s.  Even sheathed and deactivated  the Power Sword radiated an aura of majesty,  for the blade had been forged using  fragments of Rogal Dorn's own Chainsword Storm's Teeth.  The holy sword  had been quenched in traitor and xenos blood in the hands of the founder and First High Marshal of the Black Templar and  the First Emperor’s Champion, Sigismund

In contrast, Lieutenant Chiron wore Mark X Power Armor, which bore few battle scars. Helbrecht saw no battle honors on his armor aside from the Vigilus Campaign.

Not only does the Primarch send a lackey, he doesn't even send me one who's at least earned to right to march onto the field of battle in  holy Terminator Armor. Helbrecht thought.

Helbrecht’s pride was not stung, but the High Marshal was by the  necessity of his sacred office and duties a political thinker.  

Why had Lord Commander Gulliman sent a Lieutenant with barely two centuries of battle experience?  If the matter was so damn important why not order the High Marshal with his divine and political authority or petition him in person? Why not send Marneus Calgar or Reclusiarch Cassius? Or a member of his Victrix Guard or a Company Captain?  Or was this crusade so important that this young officer was all the thirteenth son of the God Emperor could spare in his preparations?

At least he has not sent one of his  Librarians. Helbrecht thought.

“Tell me Lieutenant, given the importance of this endeavor why had Lord Commander Gulliman not come in person? I mean no offense but why send  a young brother such as yourself? “

“No one else could be spared my Lord.  My Primarch is personally overseeing the gathering of forces for his new crusade.  Lord Calgar has been recalled from Vigilus to resume his role as Lord Defender of Macragge.  Reclusiarch Cassius fights along the 3rd Company and half the 6th against the Tyranids of Hive Fleet Kronos. The remainder of the chapter save for 25 veterans of the first and half of my own company, muster at Calth.

Translation :Guilliman was micromanaging again, but wanted his officers close, and anyone else that could have been sent  was unavailable due to other duties.

“What are Gulliman’s goals for this new crusade of his?” Helbrecht asked.

“Further securing the borders between the western and eastern half of the Imperium as well as the destruction of key traitor assets including  the Despoiler himself. My lord.  Many chapters, including your primogenitors and the Iron Hands have contributed their entire strength to  this endeavor.”

Helbrecht took a second to reply.

“I will confer with my knights, tell your primarch I can guarantee at least two hundred warriors for his crusade. I cannot promise that the Eternal Crusader herself will join for I have received petitions from other commanders.”

The Lieutenant nodded and than left the hall.

“My liege,  you should send only a handful of knights, there are other war zones, we would be more suited to.” Marshal Brienne of the Tarth Crusade said.

“I concur, High Marshal, the filthy Tyranids  and Tau have been ravaging the southern half of the Imperium, send enough brothers and sisters to satisfy the Lord Commander and be done with it.  He did not even petition you in person.” Marshal Tormund, a Primaris Marine clad in battered Gravis Armor said gruffly

“We have received reports of Huron Blackheart conducting  raids in the galactic West.  We should muster as many warriors and ships as we can.  Surely she  would be put to better use ending the Tyrant of Badab. while Lord Commander Guilliman has his own Gloriana.”   Marshal Michel spoke.

Helbrecht  suppressed a sigh.   The Black Templars had been bloodied this past century.    Many of their Chapter Keeps had been destroyed.  Many brothers and sisters had given their lives for the God-Emperor.   With the Imperium split in half that meant a great many Knights were missing, presumed fallen.   Helbrecht doubted there were a little less than two thousand Black Templars still crusading, and with every petition for aid and every campaign that dragged on longer than projected spread them thinner and sapped their strength.   The crusade to protect key Shrine worlds had been a costly campaign, even with the new Primaris Marines to bolster their ranks.   The Indomitus Crusade had whittled them down even more.   Aiding Lord Commissar Yarrick in slaying Ghazkull Urk Thraka had left more than a thousand of them dead   While the chapter had continued the Eternal Crusade far below Codex Approved levels, and when tthe chapter had been at the brink of extinction, something had to  give.  The Black Templars could not be everywhere at once.

“This is a perfect opportunity to avenge Marshal Almarich and the honored fallen  who died fighting the Despoiler!” Venerable Tankred boomed. The  Dreadnought  was one of 14 ancients and the sole Mark V lingering in the corner of Sigismund’s Hall. The others were  mix of Contemptor, Mark IV and Leviathan patterns; all of them more than five thousand years old or more.

Helbrecht listened to the arguing of his Marshals and Castellans

“Enough!  Tonight, I will pray to the primarch and the God Emperor for guidance before the bones of the first High Marshal!  Tomorrow I will decide if I will take the Eternal Crusader to  join Lord Guilliman.”

That night Helbrecht knelt before the amber encased bones of the first Black Templar and prayed for guidance.

He shut his eyes,  for a second  he was kneeling, the next he on the bridge of the Eternal Crusader, the Vengeful Spirit filling up the viewports.   He saw the Phalanx beside the Vengeful Spirit. Her guns trained on the traitor flagship

“Fire now High Marshal!” A voice ordered over the vox.

Helbrecht opened his eyes, his chapped lips uttering a gasp.  He was back in the Tomb of Sigismund.  

When he returned to his quarters he voxed Reclusiarch Grimaldus that he had made his decision. The Eternal Crusader would go to Gulliman’s crusade. The only question now would be which Marshals would accompany him and which ones would not.

“Finally an exit back into real space.” Leman said.    “Do we know where it leads?” Rogal asked Isha inspected the portal.

“ It leads to a planet called Drecksloch.”  Isha said   She  pointed to  the inscription and  smiled,  as if she knew a joke that others  would not get.  

The portal opened  with a deep bass rumble

The five of them entered the shimmering portal,  Constantin  a sense of vertigo for a a few minutes  no more than three by his estimate.   Than he emerged in the middle of a fucking war zone.  In the distance he could make out Imperial Fists and Space Wolves  engaging warriors of the Black Legion.   

The sky was  filled with smoke  and dueling aircraft.

“Brother?  Is that you?”  a familiar, if somewhat unliked voice said.

Standing before them, clad in  deep blue and gold Power Armor, a Laurel wreath on his head and The Emperor of Mankind’s sword in his hand was Roboute Guilliman.

   .

[ask-valerian-40k]

When Ultio called out that we were being hailed, the command deck fell into hallowed silence. No one needed to ask which ship was sending the hail. The image upon the oculus took several seconds to resolve, and between the distance at hand and the interference of nearby Eyespace, it remained flickering and grainy. The throne before us was fashioned of carved bronze and Terran marble, that blue-veined stone rarer than an honest man in the Nine Legions. Its high back and broad arms were flanked by stands of braziers and ascending candles, painting the white rock amber and casting flickering shadows across the dark warrior seated there. Many legionaries and humans alike have mistaken Abaddon for his father, Horus. There was no way that this warrior could be mistaken for his primarch liege. His armour was black, as was ours. The ceramite layers were rimmed in gold, as were ours. It is said that our armour is black to obfuscate our past colours, and this is true, but I saw the very same mournful and hopeful defiance in the wargear of the warrior before me. The stain of failure clung to him as it clung to us, and rather than drape himself in funereal black out of a need for revenge, he had darkened his armour as a statement of atonement and redemption. He reclined like an idle king, too stalwart to slouch, too alert to be resting, his hand on the hilt of a black sword. Every one of us knew that blade’s legend. Many of us had lost brothers to its killing edge. Their blood had soaked into its black steel, running across the inscription marking its length. The oculus image was too flawed to read the words but I knew what they would say if the view resolved: Imperator Rex. The blade was forged to honour the Emperor, the king of kings, the Master of Mankind. The warrior’s hair was cropped close and whitened by time. A short beard framed the thin, scarred line of his mouth. Age had weathered his skin and frosted his hair, but his shoulders were unbowed, and no oculus distortion could hide the icy fury in his eyes. Vindication burned in that gaze. He had waited for us here, down the many decades, and he had been right to wait. He was us, through a lens of loyal zeal, through a mirror of indignant righteousness. I would have known this even before I tasted his knight’s brainflesh months before. I would have known it the second my eyes fell upon him, this ancient knight-king, enthroned on white stone and leaning upon a sword that had reaped an untellable number of lives during our doomed rebellion. Abaddon was standing, staring, his glyphed teeth showing through parted lips. He was as awed as the rest of us. Knowing what was waiting once we broke free was one thing, but witnessing it with our own eyes was quite another. A smile dawned across his features, and his warp-lit eyes gleamed. ‘Only you, Sigismund,’ he said to the knight-king, ‘would pursue a grudge to the very borders of hell. That’s a hatred so pure, I can’t help but admire it.’ The ancient knight rose, raising the blade in a warrior’s salute, one I recognised from fighting alongside the Imperial Fists in brighter, better days. He kissed the hilt, then pressed his forehead to the cold blade. ‘I suffer not the unclean to live.’ Abaddon’s grin deepened. ‘Blood of the Gods, it is good to see you again, Sigismund.’ ‘I uphold the honour of the Emperor. I abhor and destroy the witch. I accept any challenge, no matter the odds.’ Abaddon was laughing now. ‘A true son of Rogal Dorn. Never show emotion when a chorus of oaths and vows will serve instead.’ But they were not vows. Not really. They were promises. He wrote those oaths for his Chapter to follow, but they were his words – not vows for his knights to emulate, but a promise to his foes. Sigismund, once First Captain of the Imperial Fists, now High Marshal of the Black Templars, looked back at us from the bridge of the Eternal Crusader. And still he refused to address us. We were beneath him, undeserving of anything but his regal disdain. In contrast, our bridge erupted with sound. Shouts and murderous cries were hurled towards the oculus, as the relief of escaping our prison and the surreal truth of being confronted by our former foes finally broke over us. It banished the stunned and useless silence that had gripped us upon emerging into the Cadian Gate, and we baptised the moment in an orchestra of bestial roars and jeers. It was a tide of sound from human throats, mutant maws and legionary helm vocalisers, a throat-tearing wave of derision and fury that made the stinking air of the bridge tremble. There was joy in that sound, and bitterness, and rage. It was an exorcism. A purging. It was vindicta given voice. Sigismund looked at us as if we were nothing but howling barbarians. To him, perhaps we were. He still had not addressed us directly, and he did not change that now. He gave an order to his bridge crew and cast his cloak from his shoulders, freeing himself for the fight to come. ‘Attack.’

Black Legion, by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

what a power move by Sigismund 

[caiusmajor]

It's deeply unsurprising, and kind of cool to see, that Sigsimund and Sevatar remember their duel very differently, in terms of context and meaning if not in terms of actual facts.

Too bad though that Sig's side of things makes friendship between the two of them seem a lot less likely.

[boardgametoday]

Games Workshop Next Week: Black Library Celebration and Blood Bowl

Games Workshop Next Week: Black Library Celebration and Blood Bowl #BlackLibrary #BloodBowl

The Black Library Celebration kicks off this week leading to a massive amount of pre-orders! Two new miniatures are being released for The Horus Heresy! Fafnir Rann is ready to join your Imperial Fists wielding twin axes – the Hunter and the Headsman – ready to slice through traitor Marines. Dominion Zephon with the help of Arkhan Land’s bionics is ready to leap back into battle with his jump…

[lordsofmedrengard]

Black Templars

As much as I love the Black Templars I just can’t get into some of the new and new-old lore. BT revering astropaths for having been in the presence of the Emperor? BT being wildly religious and shilled as the only religious Chapter? BT Crusades being either thousands strong (as per Faith & Fury) or the entire Chapter being around 1000 strong (as per Eternal Crusader)? There only being 1 Emperor’s Champion at a time, and him dying within a Crusade every time? They don’t record their history because they don’t have Librarians? They don’t even know why they don’t have Librarians?

MEGA-hard pass.

IMO They’re coolest as presented in their 4E codex and Helsreach: a few thousand strong in total, with the Emperor’s Champion being the guy in the Fighting Company who on the eve of battle recieves visions, is blessed by the chaplains, and is kitted out in the finest armour and weapon available at the time, ceremoniously called the “Black Sword” and the “Armour of Faith”. Sort of makes it feel... More reasonable? Less flashy?

They’re a Chapter like any other, sticking out more than most for eschewing the Codex Astartes but otherwise having their own dogma and traditions, and making them too extreme IMO detracts from that. What makes them unique isn’t just this, or their Gloriana flagship (it used to be a retrofitted Battle Barge, like the Vengeful Spirit), but their quixotic mentality of being the only guys who truly continue the Great Crusade in the 41st Millennium. The Heresy and the Scouring to them (in my reading) would then be more like the Rangdan Xenocides - massively damaging campaigns that the Imperium has nonetheless persevered through, letting them go on the business of Crusading. Not having Librarians was another aspect of that: the only Chapter not fan-made who rigorously upheld the Edict of Nicea, with their Chaplains picking up the slack of the record-keeping.

Their sheer zeal used to be represented by a rule which would see your marines recklessly charge out of cover to avenge their honour and avenge their fallen when they lost even a single model to shooting, and another showing them to be so fanatical for killing all enemies on the field that they needed leadership rolls to see if they could shoot enemies that weren’t the closest.