# The Rebirth of the Warmaster



## space cowboy (Apr 3, 2009)

Ok, so this is my first shot at writing something on here, and about my third shot at writing something period, so please be kind with your comments and criticisms. I know it is rough, and probably doesn't have the same feel as the setting I am trying to emulate, but I figured it was better to give it a shot as opposed to letting it just rattle around in my head.

I was inspired by the thread in the 40k fluff section postulating on what would have happened had Horus stayed loyal. I intend, if this installment is well-enough received, to continue on through the rest of the ideas I have in regards to this alternate Heresy. I hope you all enjoy.

Thanks,
Howard


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## space cowboy (Apr 3, 2009)

The Rebirth of the Warmaster

‘Tell me of Davin.’

The request, for it was posed not as a demand, came as such a shock to Foss as to cause him to stop polishing the jet-black gauntlet of his newly issued Mark V battle plate. It had been some time since the incident upon Davin had thrust the Sons of Horus, and the whole of the Imperium of Mankind, into the unthinkable war in which they now found themselves. 

‘What is it you wish to know,’ Foss said with a sigh of regret as he looked up from his work to regard the gaunt, almost skeletal, countenance of Fabrizio Montcreif? The rememberancer who had recently been assigned to document the formation of the Sons’ division of Chaplains looked as if he had not slept in days, the bags under his eyes carrying the truth of the lie that Fabrizio’s energy and zeal for his work hid.

‘I wish to know everything,’ Fabrizio said in a hasty manner that revealed the depths of his obsession. ‘Many say that it is only for the Astartes to know what happened in those dark days when the Warmaster hovered on the brink of death, but I feel that it is such a crucial turning point in the history of Mankind that it must be recorded for all who come after us. After all, we can learn from our successes just as well as our mistakes.’

Foss considered for a moment and then went back to his polishing. As a Chaplain, it was his duty to set an example for all of those in the legion. If he could not spare the time to cleanse his armor after a battle, how could any of those that looked up to him as a paragon of the Emperor’s righteousness be expected to cleanse the armor of their soul in the battle against chaos and heresy?

‘Very well Fabrizio, I relent. Where shall I begin?’

With his words, Foss could see a fire spark behind the eyes of the aging rememberancer. ‘Everyone knows of Horus’ wounding, what I wish to know is what happened once he was taken to the surface of Davin.’

Foss’ shoulders relaxed as he let the memories come unbidden into his mind, moving the polishing cloth unconsciously in the controlled manner that had committed to muscle memory years ago. Foss’ deep voice, reminiscent of all who hail from the Sons’ homeworld of Cthonia, began. ‘We were all on edge…’


The Warmaster had been in the central building of the Davinite’s Serpent Lodge for what seemed like an eternity. Even his own Mournival, the four advisors hand-picked by Horus himself, were not permitted entrance into the chamber in which Horus now fought for life after his grievous wounding at the hands of the traitor, Eugan Temba, on Davin’s moon.

Foss had stood on the grounds outside the Lodge building, wishing that the spirit of the legion had not been fractured so by the Warmaster’s state. Garviel Loken, the junior warrior of the Mournival, had railed against Abaddon and Little Horus for bringing the wounded primarch to this fane. To Cairos Foss, it had smacked of the superstition that the Emperor himself had undertaken the Great Crusade to wipe from the face of humanity.

Foss’s own brothers within the 14th company had chided him for his own spoken words of caution, saying that he didn’t love the Warmaster; for if he did, surely he would take any measure to see the primarch restored to his full measure of health. When Foss and the men under his command, the Blood Rain assault squad, continued to speak contrary to the decision to take the Warmaster to the surface of Davin, his own captain had to pull him aside and suggest that he and his men spend some time away from their own brothers to let tempers cool and egos settle.

Now here he stood, on the side with, but below, Captains Loken and Torgaddon, looking across at his brothers, for he still desired, beyond anything else in this universe, for them to be so. The tension was thick in the air as the minutes crawled by, Astartes who had known only purpose and action for hundreds of years now being expected to take a more patient tack and wait for destiny to finish its course.


‘We hadn’t the slightest inkling of what was going on behind those closed doors,’ Foss explained with care to Fabrizio. It was important that the rememberancer understand that only Horus truly knows what took place within the confines of that accursed building and, to Foss’s knowledge, had kept those secrets to himself to this day.

Fabrizio sat enthralled, having not moved from the edge of his chair since Foss had begun his tale; the only sign that he was recording any of this being the near-constant scratching of the auto-scribe he carried with him.

Noting that Fabrizio was still in rapt attention, Foss continued. ‘The grounds outside the building were deathly quiet…’


Foss felt as if the entire legion feared the worst. It had been many long days since the Warmaster had been wounded, and yet longer days on Davin, awaiting some word of the Warmaster’s condition. Foss noticed that, at some indeterminate point during the waiting, First Chaplain of the Word Bearers, Erebus, had joined Maloghurst, Horus’s equerry, Abaddon and Little Horus on the platform outside of the lodge building. Foss had only seen Erebus on rare occasions, as he was not privy to the meetings of Horus’s inner council, but the representative of the XVII legion unsettled him on some primal level that Foss was not able to articulate to anyone else.

As Foss let his thoughts mull over Erebus’s true purpose here, a loud boom echoed across the silent gathering. To Foss it sounded like the crack of a battle cannon, bursting forth with fiery vengeance against the enemies of the Imperium, and he immediately knew the source.

Horus had arisen, and was now emerging to address his sons. The glow of crude barbaric lanterns cast an orange glow behind him and the reflection of Davin’s sun off of his silver armor as he stood in the doorway made Horus cut the figure of an avenging angel from the tales of ancient Terra. Horus’s hair blew slightly in the gentle breeze that had kicked up since his opening of the two great doors to the fane of the Davinites. As he stood, appraising his sons who waited vigilantly for the return of their gene-father, Horus’s gaze swept over his Mournival, an approving smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It had taken him several seconds to notice Erebus standing amongst them, and Foss had noticed that Horus’s demeanor darkened for the briefest of moments at the sight of the Word Bearer Chaplain.

‘My sons, I have returned from the doorstep of death itself to continue to lead you upon the Great Crusade!’

A great cheer arose from the assemblage, as if no greater words had been spoken in the history of existence. After several minutes of exultant outbursts, Horus held his hand up to quell the crescendo that had been building since his proclamation. It took several minutes for the cheering to subside, Horus clearly enjoying each passing second as if it was one more that was a gift to him.

‘My sons, before we can continue to prosecute our Crusade across the galaxy for the benefit of Mankind, I must handle some legion business with all of you.’ Horus’s smile was disarming. Foss had seen it before, when his lord had some clever strategy, or was joking and having fun with those under his command. This time he turned to Erebus, still smiling, and motioned to him with an open hand.

‘Erebus, First Chaplain of the XVII Legion, please step forward.’

Erebus stepped forward, shaven head glistening wetly with a fine sheen of sweat from the heat of the Davinite day, the tattoos covering his scalp looking freshly inked. Extending his hand to the great primarch, Erebus did not even have time to register his shock as Horus knelt and pulled him into a strong embrace. Horus leaned his head forward to Erebus’s ear and, with a whisper that seemed to carry the entirety of the plain, said, ‘I appreciate the council and vision that you have given me these last months, brother.’ 

The last word was veritably spit with disdain from Horus’s lips as he tightened his embrace against the struggling Word Bearer. As he struggled, Erebus was able to glimpse a sight beyond Horus that stopped him instantly. In the building beyond Horus lay the corpses of the Davinites of the Serpent Lodge, broken and savaged by Horus’s righteous fury.

‘Tell my brother that his lies end here. Tell Lorgar that he has sinned against our Father in the most grievous way imaginable, and that I am coming for him.’ With that, Horus held Erebus’s head in his hands and, with the Word Bearer weeping tears of remorse at his failure, received a kiss on the forehead, as a father would kiss his child, and was then set down.

Horus stood to his full height as Erebus beat a hasty retreat from the assemblage; his glorious countenance radiating in the light of Davin’s sun, as if he had been reborn by his experience within the fane of the Serpent Lodge. ‘Erebus is to be escorted to his shuttle and permitted passage out of system,’ Horus intoned, voice carrying so that none would miss a word of his proclamation. ‘The Emperor’s justice is my justice, and Lorgar and the Word Bearers have consorted with the beings that reside in the Empyrean. The XVII Legion is now Excommunicate Traitorus, and shall know no succor at the bosom of the Imperium of Man from this day forth. Their stain is to be removed from the galaxy.’

With this proclamation, a murmur began to ripple through the crowd as the assembled Astartes absorbed what had just happened. Even the Mournival seemed shocked as Horus stepped from the doorway and out onto the wood platform between his advisors and turned to Abaddon, Captain of the 1st company.

‘The Davinites have not come under the compliance to which they have paid lip service since their annexation into the Imperium. Ezekyle, it is to you that I task the elimination of the Davinite people. They have also fallen under the corrupting sway of the powers of the Empyrean in which the XVII Legion have cast their lot. Wipe their stain from this place, for they deserve no less.’

Horus turned back to his assembled legion and, with a purpose and clarity that had been growing since his emergence from the Lodge, announced ‘The ordeal that I have undergone at the hands of the Davinites and Erebus has lead me to a place of understanding and to an epiphany. The Lodges have been insinuated into our legions by the Word Bearers as a way to fashion us into tools of the foul intelligences of the warp. From this day forth, I hereby outlaw the practice of warrior lodges within the Legions Astartes.’

With glistening eyes, Horus turned to Captain Loken and regarded him with something that could only be described as a mixture of pride and gratitude. ‘Garviel, it is my greatest pleasure to have you at my side. Your staunch opposition to the lodges and what they stood for proved to be the measure of things. I have let the Chaplain edict lapse within my own legion for far too long. Loken, I am raising you to the position of Reclusiarch. While this will force you to retire from your duties as captain of the 10th company, I am sure you will find a suitable replacement in order to begin the recruitment of Chaplains and seeing to the further spiritual health and strengthening of the Sons.’

Foss remembered thinking that there could be no greater honor than to be elevated to such a position of esteem by none other than the Warmaster himself, and that Loken’s smiling acceptance of the position was more emotion than he would have expected to see on the face of an Asartes knowing that war was about to be prosecuted against a fellow legion.



‘That is the story of the Rebirth of the Warmaster, Fabrizio. I apologize for my coarse storytelling, but I am by far more a warrior than a scholar. I feel it is best to leave the telling to those with the skill to do so.’

‘Was there anything else,’ Fabrizio asked in a tone the implied he knew more than he let on. Foss looked up from the maintenance of his armor with a gleam of amusement in his eye. He carefully folded his polishing cloth, replaced the lid on his tin of polish, and folded his hands in front of himself.

‘There was Fabrizio, and what the Warmaster said next still chills me to the bones to this very day.’ Foss closed his eyes, as if he could shut out the memory of those fateful words that had set the galaxy on an inexorable path to civil war. ‘Horus had turned to Maloghurst and said, with the coldest steel in his voice, “Maloghurst, get me in touch with my brother Angron. I have a need for his War Hounds.’


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## Legio Custode (May 20, 2009)

well no one may have commented but i liked the flow of your story, im not going to go into any form of critiqueing you on any grammar and what not but to let you know i enjoyed it! :victory:


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## Bane_of_Kings (Oct 28, 2009)

great work :victory:. I'll gadly stick around for more.


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## CaptainLoken (May 13, 2009)

Good work there pal.k:


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## shaantitus (Aug 3, 2009)

Very nicely written, It meshes well with the work in the HH books and if i had not read all the ones to come after this point this would follow on seamlessly. I like it a lot and look forward to more, although re-writing the heresy is going to be a mammoth task. 
Most repworthy.


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## space cowboy (Apr 3, 2009)

*Hounds Unleashed*

This is the next part of my re-imagined Heresy, based on what I feel would have happened had Horus chosen to stay loyal to the Emperor. I hope you all enjoy and I look forward to your comments and criticisms. Thanks to all who have commented so far. I appreciate it all.

Hounds Unleashed​
_Blades and axes only._

The words still rang in Vorn’s ears as if he still sat with the rest of squad Canus in the drop pod as it plummeted towards the planet with their gene-sire. When the vox had come over the net, he had shot Captain Karcen a questioning look.


‘Legion Master Gheer has his orders from the Emperor, beloved by all, on this matter. Our lord has a strong distrust of firearms, as they are a symbol of class repression on this planet. We are to use the full fury of our blades and axes against their armies in support of our primarch. We sill keep our guns stowed, even after we land, Seargent. Is that understood?’

The intense focus and conviction that Vorn heard in the voice of his captain left no room for doubt. ‘That is affirmative, sir. Canus squad, you heard the order. When we hit and deploy, chain axes and combat blades only. We are to be united with our gene-father in the crucible of battle. There is no greater way for the War Hounds to be united with their primarch, and I pity our Astartes brothers who are denied this same experience. Let the righteous fury of the Emperor, Lord Angron, and the War Hounds be brought to these tyrants this day!’

For their part, squad Canus bellowed a roar of response that resonated with barely contained energy and violence. Every one of them had longed for the day when they would be united with the primarch from whom their gene-seed had been engineered. Now that day had arrived. Vorn ran his thumb lightly over the activation rune of his chain axe, clearing his mind of all other thoughts except for the battle to come. As the Emperor himself had taught the first War Hounds, battle was the time to let all other thoughts slip from your mind and focus on the business of making war against your enemies.



The drop pods had fallen through the atmosphere, dragging behind them a trail of smoke and fire that lit the dawn. Vorn had always wondered what those misguided tyrants had thought as their armies were closing in for what they felt was surely the final battle that would bring end to the reign of terror that Angron had fostered amongst the ranks of nobility; not only in Desch’ea, but across the entire planet.

As Vorn meditated on the past to try to discern any lessons he may learn from any detail of that fateful day, there came a light rapping upon the metal door that served as the entrance to his quarters on The Conqueror, flagship of the War Hounds, XII Legion Astartes.

‘Please enter,’ Vorn said, the deep bass of his voice resonating through the small chamber he occupied. At his command, a frail, possible malnourished youth entered. The young man could not have been more than sixteen by Vorn’s reckoning, probably having lied about his age to participate in the glory that was the Emperor’s Great Crusade before it ended. The youth kept his eyes cast downwards, waiting for acknowledgement from Vorn, his captaincy of the 12th company making the crew of the ship feel like he was even less approachable than a rank-and-file Astartes. Vorn gave him a curt nod, ‘Report.’

‘Sir,’ the youth began, with considerably more courage than Vorn would have thought for someone as scrawny as this. ‘We have a communication from the Warmaster. It seems he wishes to speak with his brother with all due haste and precaution.’ The youth shifted nervously from one foot to the next, understanding just what the request meant.

‘Son, Angron is in meditation and is not to be disturbed lest it disrupt his humors and unleash his inner beast, so this best carry more than just the Warmaster’s name.’

The youth looked uncertain, but straightened with the sort of resolve that was inspired by working alongside the Astartes. ‘Sir, the massage came in with an Omega prefix and with the private encryption used by the primarchs.’

Omega prefix thought Vorn? He couldn’t conceive of something that would require the omega prefix, ‘Double check the code prefix. It has to be a mistake.’ A mistake had surely been made. No one had ever made use of the Omega prefix in a communication within the expeditionary fleets in the entirety of the Crusade; it just hadn’t been necessary to have that sort of emergency response.

‘I knew you would say that, sir, so I took the liberty of having the communications servitor decode it a second time. It came back Omega as well, so I switched servitor units and it still translated Omega.’

Vorn could see the steely resolve and confidence in the job that had been done growing in the youth as he spoke, sure that the job he had done was up to the level of expectation in him. Knowing he had no other recourse, Vorn stood and dismissed the youth with a wave of his hand.

‘I will deliver the message to Lord Angron. I might be able to survive the rage that will come with this interruption. You, most assuredly, would not.’ As Vorn passed the youth, muscle memory carrying him purposefully to his lord’s quarters, his mind began to wander back to that fateful battle.



The armies of the tyrants had surrounded Angron’s forces and slowly moved in for the kill. This was their gravest mistake. The lack of speed, the methodical nature of those who wished to savor their victory, had cost them the very thing they wished to enjoy.

For their part, Angron’s forces made a valiant push against the western forces of their enemies, the so-called High Riders; named for the anti-gravity platforms upon which the nobility rode into battle. The battle having been well and truly met, the rest of the enemy forces had only to move into position in order to encircle Angron and wipe out those that stood with him.

It was at this point, when the battle was at its most critical stage, that the blue and white drop pods of the War Hounds began crashing to the planet’s surface like the mighty hands of the avenging gods of Ancient Terra. Fear and discord spread throughout the ranks of the High Riders as Vorn and Squad Canus burst from the assault ramps, like many other squads from many companies all across the battle lines.

As Vorn emerged, he began to compose a symphony of warfare. His chain axe whirred out the beat of his work while the screams of his enemies and the tearing of their armor and flesh leant staccato counterpoints to the solid slugs, fired from the weapons of the enemy pistols, which bounced from his armor. The rumbling of artillery shells impacting the ground giving a low bass thrum that synched with the high-pitched wail of dying men.

Just as he had blended the pieces of his orchestra to complete his latest work, Vorn was pulled from his feet. Hauled backwards and behind an outcropping of rock, Vorn watched the place he had occupied moments before turn into a molten flow of liquid rock. He was turned to look at the face of his savior, but all he saw was rage and death staring at him and, at that moment, Vorn knew he would die at the hands of what was surely his primarch.



Vorn was broken from his reverie by his arrival at the door to the sanctum of Angron, a place that few ever were given the honor of entering, and that fewer yet emerged from without some manner of injury that would require the attention of the legion apothecaries. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the activation rune for the door and stepped inside.

The sharp smell of incense hung in the air as Vorn moved into the interior of the dimly lit chamber. The few lamps in the room cast an eerie glow about the place, giving it more hidden nooks and crannies than Vorn would have thought possible considering the spartan furnishings within. The distraction cost him precious seconds to explain himself as a massive fist caught him in the mid-section with the force of a freight ship.

‘How dare you disturb my meditation!’ The bellow nearly deafened Vorn before his super-human ears had time to adjust to the close proximity of that ferocious baritone voice. Vorn found himself airborne before he could react, slamming shoulder-first into the wall, dislocating it from the socket.

With the looming figure of his primarch bearing down upon him, Vorn had to think quickly or risk losing his life; not to some foe on a xenos infested rock, but to his own gene-sire on a ship that should be free of life-threatening peril. ‘An Omega prefix message has been sent from your brother the Warmaster!’

The massive figure of Angron cam to a sudden halt with much more grace and dexterity than one might think given the size of the primarch’s physique. The rage immediately fled his lord’s eyes as he knelt in front of Vorn. ‘Thank you for having the courage to deliver this message to me Captain Vorn, you have done the right thing in interrupting my meditations. I will send for the apothecarion to tend to your wounds.’

With that, Angron was gone from his quarters. Vorn knew he would ultimately be ok, but his collapsed rib cage and nearly severed shoulder would mend best in the hibernation brought on by his sus-an membrane. As he allowed himself to slip into the half-sleep his body could bring upon itself, his mind went back to his first encounter with Angron.



His helmet was wrenched from its housing, tearing out the locking mechanism with it. The angry, sun-reddened face that looked into his eyes spoke as with the hate of centuries. ‘Who sent you to interfere with my war? Tell me and I shall kill you quickly. Don’t and I will turn you over to Balthizaar and let him put his knives to work on you. ANSWER ME!’

The grip upon his shoulders had moved to his throat. His thrachea would have collapsed had it not been for his super-human physique. That as it may be, Vorn still struggled for every word he spoke, wishing for nothing other than to provide the answer that would see his lord and legion united.

‘We have been sent by the Emperor of Mankind. It is his wish that you allow us to join you in your struggle.’ Vorn resisted the urge to fight against the hands holding him above the ground, but felt them soften just a touch.

‘Why does he insist on interfering in my business? I told him I was to live or die with those I bled with in the arenas!’ The giant demigod before him seemed to steel himself against some sort of pain, screwing his eyes shut tightly for several moments.

Seizing the momentary pause in his primarch’s rage, Vorn began speaking quickly. ‘The Emperor is your father, and he fashioned us from you. We are your sons. Do we not deserve the same opportunity to have granted your brothers from these arenas?’ The last question was punctuated by the sound of cracking ribs as a large meaty fist barreled its way through a porting of his power armor and into his side.

Angron held his fist against Vorn’s side, twisting viciously, grinding the bones of his ribs into his lung. ‘Your Emperor knows not of the ways of the arena. He rides in his ship with his golden armor, letting you fight for him. He is no better than the high riders.’

Vorn was lost for words. He had never heard another denigrate the willingness of the Master of Mankind to fight alongside his own troops. ‘I must respectfully disagree lord. The Emperor fights side-by-side with all of his men. There are others like you, sons created by the Emperor before he was truly the Emperor, and he fights beside them in every campaign against every foe.’ Vorn could see the anger washing from the face of the giant that held him, and he pressed his advantage. ‘Lord Angron, let us, the War Hounds legion of the Imperium of Man, fight along side our gene-father and his brothers and sisters. Let us become Angron’s War Hounds. Lead us and teach us, and you shall never know defeat.’

Angron hesitated for a moment before placing Vorn roughly onto the ground. ‘Very well…’ ‘Vorn,’ Vorn replied, realizing Angon did not know his name. ‘Vorn, you shall accompany me and relay my orders to my legion.’ Vorn smiled as he worked the vox bead from his helmet and slid it into his ear. ‘Yes sir,’ he barked.



The battle was well into its third hour as Angron and his arena warriors fought side-by-side with Astartes of the XII legion. Vorn had relayed Angron’s order precisely, allowing the legion to form up and concentrate on the bulk of the High Riders’ forces. As Angron’s personal bodyguard forged their way through the enemy soldiers, the High Riders on their golden discs began to fire their ancient weaponry indiscriminately into friend and foe alike.

‘VORN!’ Angron bellowed, ‘You are to take their main gun.’ Having fought alongside this raging god of the battlefield now for three hours, Vorn knew what he had to do.

‘Get me up there my lord and it shall be so,’ Vorn yelled over the din of the battle, sprinting for all he was worth towards Angron. As he neared, Angron gripped the back of Vorn’s backpack and hurled the Astartes warrior towards the heaviest gun platform.

Too late to correct the overthrow now that he was en route, Vorn thumbed the stud on his chain axe and swung it with all of his might as he passed over the far edge of the disc. Ceramite teeth screeched in protest against the gold alloy of the disc, the head of the axe slid across the backside of the disc, only finding purchase scant centimeters prior to falling off the end.

Vorn used his momentum to swing himself under and around in a wide arc, with his axe as the center of his arc. As he came upon the upward portion of the swing, he released his chain axe with his right hand, pulling his combat blade with his left. As he landed, Vorn dropped to his knees and carried forward into a roll, coming to a stand while slicing the platform gunner through his left lung and heart while kicking out with his right foot, connecting with the chest of the artillery commander, collapsing his chest cavity and driving him off of the platform.

Vorn reached under the platform and retrieved his axe, then moved swiftly to his work. He found the controls for the platform and pulled hard on the controls, careening it towards the nearest command platforms. Estimating the distance and setting his melta charges, Vorn took a running leap to a nearby gun platform, throwing his blade through the gunner and into the firing mechanism itself, rendering the gun worthless. As he landed, he tripped the officer on board to keep him from leaping from the platform, pulling him back and tearing out the leg in one smooth motion.

As the first platform rammed the command platform, the melta charges Vorn had set exploded. The explosion ignited the fuel source of both platforms; creating a spectacular fireball that birthed a shockwave of such force that Vorn was thrown from his feet and off the platform.



Vorn sat straight up in bed breathing heavily, a slight sheen of sweat coating his body. He looked around and realized that he was in the apothecarion, and that Angron was sitting beside his bed, eyes shut deep in meditation. Vorn stared for several seconds, wondering if it was worth the risk to find out what had happened with the communication.

As if reading his mind, Angron opened his eyes and smiled warmly at Vorn; a sentiment that he was not used to seeing upon the primarch’s normally hard-edged face.

‘Vorn, I am truly sorry. It has been since my Father removed my gladiator bionics that I have raged so uncontrollably, and I have shamed myself at my loss of control. My own sons should never be the outlet for my rages.’

Vorn was shocked to see this moment of sentimentality from Angron, as it was known that even without the bionics, Angron carried more rage and violence within him than all others except perhaps the Wolf of Fenris, and even he was more in control of that anger than his primarch. ‘I expected the punishment I received for interrupting your meditation, Lord. I wish to know, however, what message could have been so important.’

A look of sorrow crossed over Angron’s face for the briefest of moments before hardening into a mask of cold steel. ‘My son, we have been ordered to Colchis, home world of the Word Bearers. My brother Lorgar has fallen to the foul beings that inhabit the Empyrean. He has turned his back on my father, and now he is to be called to justice for the wrongs he has perpetrated. We are to be unleashed against the XVIIth legion.’

Vorn sat aghast at what he had just heard. His heart fell to know that brother would war against brother and, despite his nature, he wept. As his sorrow overtook him, Vorn felt the reassuring hand of his gene-father on his shoulder, lending him a comforting strength that he would need in the time to come.


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## Bane_of_Kings (Oct 28, 2009)

Ohhh, World Eaters vs World Bearers, can't wait :victory: 

-Bane of Kings


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## shaantitus (Aug 3, 2009)

Again, believable and very cool. Want more.....


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## Legio Custode (May 20, 2009)

I like how this is going, i have to rep you for this one!

PLease tell me though its not just going to be Angron that brings the Emperors wrath on Lorgar?! Perhaps an enraged Sanguinius aswell?

ah the possibilities... :biggrin:

Keep it up!


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## space cowboy (Apr 3, 2009)

*Angels of Doom*

Since I am going to be out of town this weekend, I didn't want to have nothing for you all, so here is the next part of the story. I hope you enjoy it.

Angels of Doom

‘Has the Omega prefix ever been utilized before,’ Luther questioned? He was clearly surprised to hear that anyone would have cause to issue the code, but he knew what was going to be asked of him now that it had. ‘What is it you require of me my friend? We garrisoned our own Astartes here as insurance against something that required emergency response, but now that it is happening, we need a plan.’

The astropath was silent as he relayed the message across the void to the Lion. While Luther knew that there would be a time that his lord would call upon him and his men, he did not expect that it would be so soon. He wasn’t even sure if those under his command were ready for what was to be asked of them. He could only hope that all of the work they had put in on Caliban had been worth it.

‘Prepare for fleet resupply Luther, I will be bringing the forces to Caliban on our way to Colchis. We are going to need all of the supplies we can get if we are to prosecute Lorgar as befitting a traitor such as him and his damnable legion.’

Luther never had quite gotten used to communicating via astropath, but he understood that it was necessary in order to speak to anyone across the vast distances of space in any semblance of timeliness. ‘I understand. We will be prepared for your arrival. How much time do I have until you reach Caliban?’

After a long pause, Luther was nearly stricken with panic when the response came through. ‘We shall be no more than a week getting back. Our navigator seems to think that prevailing warp currents will speed our journey. I trust that this will be enough time to prepare.’

Luther’s face hardened in determination as he formulated his response. ‘We will have to be ready. I won’t let us fail. End transmission.’ Luther watched as the astropath sank deeply into his chair, resting his mind after the exertion of void communication. Sweat had broken out upon his brow, and Luther sympathized with the poor man whose life was meant for only servitude due to an accident of birth. At least he, Sar Luther of The Order, was a leader of men. Soon, he hoped, he would be so much more.



The hasty bustling of the servitors and ground crew caused Captain Aurus to momentarily lose his concentration. He had been at this for three days without sleep, and it would probably be at least two more before he felt that he would even seriously consider that option.

The supervision of loading and preparing stockpiles had fallen to him as the Master of the Armory, including the organized launching of the legion’s reserve fleet in order to be better prepared for the arrival of Johnson’s main force. He was glad that Luther had included him on the preparations for the arrival, as he felt he had been able to contribute and increase the esteem that was already felt towards him as a planner and a strategist. Aurus knew that it was this esteem that would allow him to be chosen to reinforce the Dark Angel forces that would bring the traitor Lorgar to justice.

As the last servitor came off the loading dock, Aurus pressed the door activation rune inside the shuttle’s ramp and stepped up inside. Finally the last supply shuttle was heading to the fleet, and Aurus was heading up with it. He had little time to waste, which made him particularly annoyed that lift-off procedures hadn’t begun by the time he reach the crew compartment.

‘What is going on?’ Aurus nearly screamed at the shocked crew, ‘You should have been heading out of the atmosphere by now. My timetable is strict and I cannot afford delays.’ As he finished admonishing the pilot, a voice sounded over the vox, both calming and demanding at the same time.

‘Captain Aurus, I wish to meet with you. I have some information that has just come in from the fleet that I think you should know.’ Aurus stared, mouth agape, at the vox unit in the console of the shuttle. Had Sar Luther just asked for a meeting during the most sensitive time of his timetable?

‘I know the answer without asking, but I must anyway, just for my own curiosity. You do know, sir, we are at the most critical juncture of our preparedness, yes? We discussed this at some length and I thought it was clear in our planning session that this was the time in the operation that we couldn’t afford delays.’ Aurus was worried that some critical detail had been left out and that they had failed the primarch. He would be shamed for eternity for this.

Luther’s voice cut through the doubt with the cold steel of determination in his voice. ‘I understand Aurus, but this latest communication may have changed everything, and I need you here in the strategium at The Rock. It is of the utmost importance; otherwise I would not have interrupted you at this juncture.’

Aurus paused only briefly, making up his mind as to what needed to be done in the span of a heartbeat that felt like an eternity. ‘Yes sir, I will attend on you shortly.’ Once the vox clicked off, Aurus looked at the crew. ‘You will ready for take-off. Once I have boarded the shuttle after my meeting, we will rejoin the preparations with the fleet and just hope that we have enough time before the Lion’s arrival.’ Aurus snapped a quick bow towards the crew and stepped from the shuttle’s loading ramp and towards The Rock.



The pain in his heart was not a physical one. That he could have dealt with. No, this pain was not one that he could fight off with the help of adrenal stims and his second heart; it was the pain of betrayal. Aurus continued to stare at the deployment manifest that Luther had handed him at the start of their meeting.

‘None of us are going, Aurus. The Lion, in his infinite wisdom, has decided that we can be of no use to him in this upcoming campaign.’ Luther’s words sounded as if he were in a long tunnel. Aurus was having trouble coping with the fact that he was to be left behind, again, to garrison a world that didn’t need him to be safe. He felt as if the only father he had known, Lion El’Johnson, primarch of the 1st Legion Astartes, the Dark Angels, had cast him aside and forgotten about him. He was heartbroken.

‘It does not have to be this way Aurus,’ Luther said, words dripping like honey from his lips. ‘We can matter. We can still join the fight and prove the worth that we still have. If you desire it, we have allies that can see to our inclusion in the war yet to come.’

Aurus eyed Luther warily, knowing that Luther had some ulterior motive; otherwise he would not be so circumspect. ‘What is it that can be done, sir? The Lion has made it clear that we are to assist with the resupply efforts and then we are to be abandoned here again, this time without the benefit of our auxiliary fleet. What options are open to us Luther?’ Aurus’s eyes began to water as he spoke, never having felt this deep a wounding in his unnaturally long life. Somehow he had always held onto the belief that the Lion would come back to Caliban and order the rest of his sons and brothers into the fight, and that their long wait would be over.

Luther merely smiled, letting Aurus vent his pain and frustration, before continuing. ‘There are those out there in the galaxy that would give us the means to fight. We would be valued allies in their crusade, and we would not be left on some rock to let our abilities wither away to nothing but impractical rotes of practice and repetition. All they ask is our loyalty.’

Aurus was skeptical. Luther offered everything he desired in his heart, yet it somehow felt wrong. Yet he could no more deny his desire to join battle once more than he could stop breathing forever. His mind made up, he took a deep breath and gave his superior a determined stare. ‘Tell me what I must do.’


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## space cowboy (Apr 3, 2009)

The Lion stood unmoving like a mountain as warning klaxons screamed around him on the bridge of his strike cruiser, the Wrath of Caliban. A series of detonations had wracked the ship, forcing it to list to starboard and roll slightly. Knowing how the Imperium persecuted combat in the void of space, he knew what was transpiring before the damage control officer had given voice to what had happened.

‘Sir, hull breaches on decks six, seven, and nine, as well as engineering. None of the damage control teams in those sections have reported in.’

Johnson could tell the officer was afraid of the reality of the conflict in which he now found himself, and was doing a remarkable job of keeping his cool; for a normal man, of course. There was only one course available to him at this point, and it was laid out plainly before him.

‘Vice-Admiral Briggs, continue to take the fight to the traitors and continue to hail Luther. We are slowly winning the naval battle, but we must assess the situation on the ground if we are to prevent our forces from being crippled in this surprise attack. I will vox when the decks have been cleared of the boarding forces.’

Johnson activated the vox stud and issued commands to his Dark Angels that were stationed on the ship to join him at the lift on deck 5. As he strode from the bridge, the vice-admiral spoke up; the quiver in his voice showing the trepidation he felt in addressing this angel of death on the brink of battle.

‘Sir, I fear the worst. Visual identification has come through from the fighters and the first ships into the fight. They identify the attacking fleet as the planetary defense fleet, sir.’

The Lion looked back menacingly, as if willing his gaze to punch a hole through the man’s skull for the mere suggestion that hung in the air. ‘Surely Lorgar’s lackeys have used their warp trickery on the mere mortals of the fleet, but my Angels will teach them the price of treachery.’ Johnson stepped through the doorway from the bridge to meet the traitors that would dare defile his ship with their presence.

Meeting his soldiers at the rendezvous, Johnson looked upon his men with paternal pride. He had not been as proud to fight alongside such men since the early days of his crusade against the beasts on Caliban.

‘My Angels, today we set foot upon the path to meet the traitors that have poisoned our fair Imperium. They wish to strike a blow that will cripple, if not outright destroy, us and keep us from assisting my brother Horus in dealing righteous justice to the XVIIth Legion. This is the first step, but not the last. However, each step we take is one closer to forever ending the blight upon this galaxy, the way we ended the blight of the beasts upon our fair homeworld. Be prepared, for these traitors consort with the creatures of the Empyrean, and no one knows for sure the foul beasts that reside there.’

With that, Lion El’Johnson lead a company of his finest veterans through the corridors and access ways that lead to the engineering deck. It was the obvious point of interest for the invaders. If they could hold engineering long enough, they could sabotage the warp core and send it into a critical state that would destroy all on the ship, as well as any ship nearby. Clearly the invaders never intended to leave the ship alive, and he would insure that that wsa the only part of their mission in which they would succeed.



The corridors had become dank and muggy the closer they approached to engineering. Instead of the reassuring cold metal of the ship’s decking, the floor and walls began to have a closer resemblance to the equatorial swamps of Caliban. Water and some unidentifiable liquids seeped down the walls and from pipes that had clogged and burst while choking on yet thicker, brackish fluids.

Johnson did not know what trickery was at work, but he understood that it would end when he finished the last of the traitors. He sent a portion of his men on a flanking maneuver in the hopes of trapping the traitors in a cross-fire that would allow him to quickly persecute this foe and get back to the bridge to assess the situation on the ground.

As Johnson and his men broke through into engineering, his senses were assaulted by the foulest stench of filth and decay he could imagine. The bloated corpses of tech-priests and servitors floated, swollen and decaying, facedown in shallow pools of desiccated liquid while an unnatural dimness shrouded the large chamber in an eerie and unnatural half-light that played tricks on the eyes. Signaling his men to advance cautiously, Johnson kept his pistol and sword at the ready.

‘Finally I shall have my revenge,’ a voice boomed out, seemingly familiar to Johnson, yet strange and unknown at the same time. It echoed and filled the room with its deep rumbling timbre, yet seemed to speak directly to his mind and his soul. ‘At last I have a chance to prove my worth to one who values and desires my friendship and skills.’

A cloaked figure stepped from the shadows into an opening between two run-down machines that had once been responsible for powering the warp engines of the cruiser. As it stepped into the light, Johnson was horrified and broken-hearted to see the familiar patrician features of his mentor Luther; his face sunken and pallid, his eyes dark and haunted.

‘You have stolen my destiny, and for that you shall die. You do the bidding of an Emperor who deserves not our worship, but our disdain. He is not what he claims, and now that I have the full measure of what you are, neither are you.’

Johnson could not believe his ears. This man, who had found him and raised him, fought beside him and shared victories with him, was now standing here, a traitor, opposed to him.

‘Your petty jealousy has poisoned your mind against me Luther. Are we not comrades and brothers, forged into one by the crucible of battle?’ Johnson began to subtly move toward and around Luther. ‘Have we not always endeavored to raise men, no matter their birth, no matter their station, based on their merits and actions?’ Johnson knew Luther would expect him to continue to talk, attempt to get him to drop his guard. ‘How could you turn on these noble goals now that we have been given the chance to take those goals to all of humanity?’

Luther’s face flashed with a deeper anger and hatred then Johnson thought possible, and he was nearly struck by the forcefulness of Luther’s words. ‘You lied! An accident of birth and an accident of chance put you on Caliban. You are not a man you are a creation. You are a pawn of some being who thinks he is above the rest of us, and you use your birth and station as one of his sons to rule as a lord over others. Well I have also gained a patron, but one who will truly reward those loyal to him.’

Johnson knew the time was right, but as he shifted to make his charge, a hand grasped his ankle, stronger than any man could have gripped one such as he. As Johnson looked down, he saw one of the dead servitors pushing itself up to its knees, its body bloated and decaying, but still animated by some unnatural power.

Striking with his sword, Johnson severed the creature’s arm at the wrist and put a round from his pistol into its head. ‘Take them out,’ Johnson ordered to his men. ‘They are no longer your comrades.’

The fight was gruesome but expected. The animated corpses provided little resistance to his men, but it gave the traitor Luther time to back off and regroup. Just as the last of the corpses had been dispatched, Johnson witnessed with mounting horror the true depths of Luther’s poisonous treachery.

From the depths of the ship, shapes in the form of Astartes began to emerge from the gloom. Black armor with the sword and wings insignia of his legion, bolters and plasma guns at the ready, stepped into view. The vision was a parody of the proud legion as these marines were bloated and even split open with rot and disease.

They opened fire on a horrified Johnson and his men, who had no choice but to return fire. Broken from his horrified reverie, The Lion growled deeply and bellowed, from the depths of his soul ‘Charge!’ as he led his men headlong into the traitorous forces arrayed against them.

The hail of bolt rounds and plasma discharges that assailed them reduced their number severely, the marines like no other force Johnson had faced. However, unprepared for the speed of the assault, these plagued astartes were slower in reacting than his men, and they were able to gain the upper hand. With pistols barking and swords carving through the enemy, Johnson and his remaining men pushed through the firing line of Luther’s forces and on to where Luther had withdrawn.

‘I see you have not yet succumbed to my forces. No matter, I shall handle this myself.’

‘I think not, traitor. You will not have the satisfaction. My flankers will be arriving and you will be cut down like the inglorious dog you are.’ Johnson spat the words with vitriol at Luther, knowing that the man who he loved like no other was gone.

‘I think you overestimate the loyalty of the men in your command.’ With the words spoken, Johnson’s flankers burst into the clearing created by the machinery of the engineering deck. Loosing a barrage of withering fire into the primarch’s remaining loyalist astartes, the traitors finished the job they had begun with the assault on Johnson’s fleet.

For his part, Johnson fought with the fury of a caged animal unleashed. He shot, stabbed, and carved his way through those who had once been loyal to him, who had called him master and brother in equal measure. He fought like a true son of the Emperor of Mankind, giving no mercy to those siding with those who had cast off their loyalties.

It was not enough.

For every Astartes and animated corpse Johnson had slain, two more took its place. For every wound suffered at the hands of overwhelming odds, Luther’s fervent chants and prayers spawned a creature of the warp. As Johnson was brought down and borne to the deck by these creatures, Luther stepped into view.

‘Now you see the true master of the galaxy, Lion’ Luther intoned calmly, as if the effort of keeping his forces alive and summoning being from the empyrean had been of only the slightest effort. ‘Grandfather Nurgle may ask obedience, but those who give willingly also gain in equal measure to the successes they bring in his name. Know that I will raise the legion beyond what you and your pathetic father could have hoped, and we will be true masters of humanity.’

With that, Luther stepped back to make room for another, much larger figure. As the hulking pestilent humanoid form strode forth, Johnson barely recognized the face of Captain Aurus, the man who he had placed in charge of the armory due to his prodigious logistical talents.

‘Aurus, please…’

The remaining words were lost as the thing that used to be Aurus swung its disease-ridden blade in a sweeping arc, removing the head of the primarch of the first legion. ‘It is done sir.’

Luther stepped forward to review the work of his second in command as he placed a hand on the daemon astartes’s shoulder. ‘Excellent work Aurus, you are a testament to the rewards Grandfather Nugle bestows on those who are true and loyal worshippers. Now to gather the fleet and make way to Colchis.’


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## Bane_of_Kings (Oct 28, 2009)

Awesome work. Nice to see the Lion destroyed .


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