A spinoff of The Coffin of Roboute and his 20 Sisters by Brosef
Prologue 1: The Tomb of the...
Prologue 1: The Tomb of the...
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The Lion and the Phoenix (First Draft)
- Thread starter MakeLovehammer
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Prologue 1: The Tomb of the Phoenix
MakeLovehammer
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2024
- Messages
- 18
A spinoff of The Coffin of Roboute and his 20 Sisters by Brosef
Prologue 1: The Tomb of the Phoenix
Two figures moved between moments snatched out of time. The echoing sounds of metal on metal tracked their steps through an impossibly vast structure. Two legs and a cane made a rhytmic tap taptap while insectile feet made a steady clickclickclickclickclick. The scarce baleful illumination around them hid but hinted at the near-infinite space they occupied.
The first, a metallic skeletal figure gestured to row upon row of suits of armor built for giants and painted with differing combinations of color and heraldry.
"I do so appreciate how the Second Founding increased the amount of variety among the Imperium's Astartes. How the cultures that the worlds that each chapter recruits from is such a fascinating topic. And let's not forget how those chapters choose to adhere to or differentiate itself from its parent legion. I could go on for decades on the study of Astartes sub-culture." explained Trazyn, also called the Infinite, to his guest. His perfect high gothic was produced in a metallic voice.
Trazyn's guest was a giant much too tall for any of the armor on display. He was clad in his own similar armor, but crudely fashioned and painted in a shade of rich purple. The armored giant wore no helmet revealing flowing locks of silver hair. He glared at Trazyn with amethyst eyes set in the sockets of a face reminiscent of a marble statue. His angelic features were sculpted into an expression of contempt. The demigod was restrained upon a metal slab by some mechanism even his powerful mind could not comprehend. The slab was inclined such that he was nearly standing upright. It moved forward on mechanical spider-like legs. He was not deprived of the power of speech, but exercised silence as one of the few forms of protest available to him.
Unbothered, Trazyn proceeded to the next exhibit. Their pace never changed from its precise tempo. The pair moved between formations of warriors in bright yellow armor and ones armored in dull bare metal. "Here is one of the Siege of Terra." continued Trazyn. Bolt-rounds hung in the air between the two armies, muzzle flashes, smoke trails, and impact detonations from weapons were preserved as an instant was stretched into eternity.
"I understand that you participated in it." this museum's curator once again tried to engage with its unwilling patron. "I did my best to preserve the accuracy of such a momentous event in your species' history."
The giant's glare faltered as he studied the statue-still warfare surrounding them. "I've read as much, but recall no memories from it." spoke the giant as he took on a contemplative expression.
"Perhaps your creator cultivated your cells from genetic material harvested prior to this moment." mused Trazyn. "Genetic memory is a convenient phenomenon for biologicals such as yourself. Although not as robust as simply exchanging data." The metal skeleton produced a sound that could be interpreted as brief and haughty laughter.
"I can take great comfort in knowing that my exhibits can fill in the gaps in your knowledge of your Imperium's history." Trazyn proudly proclaimed.
The pair continued through similar recreations of battles fought during Horus' rebellion. Trazyn explained each exhibit with what could pass for enthusiasm in his metallic voice. Fulgrim read about these battles from the data-slates that his teacher and creator Fabius Bile had provided for him, some of them he apparently fought in, but seeing those did not trigger old memories like in prior instances aboard the Vesalius.
The two of them came to a stop surrounded by astartes in the black of the Iron Hands and in the green of the Salamanders.
"This is the Istvaan V exhibit! Here is where you will be staying." announced Trazyn.
Fulgrim looked around at the scene around him. He could remember conspiring with Horus and the other conspirators in preparation for the trap that they had set out for Ferrus, Corvus, Vulkan, and Jaghatai. But no memories of the battle itself came to him. He noticed a much larger black-armored warrior amongst the Iron Hands. Fulgrim tried to look as far away from it as his restricted movement allowed him.
"I'm sorry to say that I can't provide you or your brother with the genuine equipment you wielded at the time. For now we'll have to make do with the equipment you already have until I fashion a more authentic looking set." said the necron somewhat apologetically. "But I hope you can appreciate that I did manage to acquire Ferrus Manus' actual blade. Usually such relics of the primarchs are more revered by their legions, but I suppose it was a hectic time for your Imperium"
Even now, without seeing it, Fulgrim vividly recalled the feeling of his fingers curled around Fireblade. He remembered the heat radiating onto his face as he held it. He remembered the craftsmanship that Ferrus put into it and how humbling it was to be even given the chance to hold it. But he also remembered Ferrus shattering it with Forgebreaker. That was the last time he'd seen his brother when he failed to convince Ferrus to join their side. Ferrus couldn't have come to face him with a sword that should have been broken. There was no way Fulgrim could be driven to kill his brother. The thing that stole his name and wears his face is the one that killed Ferrus. Fulgrim vowed to make that usurper pay.
"I was hoping to obtain one of the tenth primarch's living clones, but your predecessor killed them before I could do so. I fashioned this one from the remains of the ones I could gather. Infusing necrodermis into organic matter is not difficult, but learning that the process had apparently occurred in an uncontrolled environment astounds even myself." continued Trazyn academically.
Still taking pains to look away, Fulgrim noticed an exhibit further ahead depicting astartes in a mix of purple, green, and marble-colored armor. Trazyn noticed the primarch's interest and eager as always to present his work he spoke. "That is my Istvaan III exhibit. I hoped to have gathered more specimens, but only one of my tesseract labyrinths survived the orbital bombardment. It's unfortunate that I don't have any from the Death Guard in this collection so I'll have to be satisfied with the pre-heresy specimens of that legion in my Ullanor exhibit."
Fulgrim's expression grew pained as he recognized the faces of the legionaries clad in his colors. He remembered making that choice. He remembered leaving his sons to die on the surface Istvaan III then giving the order to bombard the planet. Having those memories resurface, and recalling how he felt as he made those choices, he finally understood that he could commit the later atrocities.
Two more necrons appeared and lifted Fulgrim from the metal slab that had carried him all this way. He could still not move his limbs as if the very air itself was restraining him. Trazyn's subordinates placed him in front of the other giant in black armor. He now noticed that the head and body were cleanly separated from each other. The severed head was floating about a hand-span above the flat surface made by the stump of the neck. Its eyes were unfocused and its expression was slack but Fulgrim recognized it for the face of his brother, primarch of the Iron Hands, Ferrus Manus. He had no memories of this moment or even setting foot on Istvaan V, but he can no longer deny that Ferrus was dead and that Fulgrim took each step towards slaying his brother himself.
The necron attendants closed Fulgrim's fingers around the large cleaver he had crudely fashioned for himself aboard the Vesalius so that he was holding it two-handed They similarly did the same for Ferrus' own blade. Under Trazyn's careful supervision they arranged the two brothers' bodies and limbs such that both were in mid-swing. Ferrus was posed into a position that put his blade into an arc that would have bisected the Phoenician. Fulgrim was posed into the moment right after his massive blade would have separated the Gorgon's neck from his shoulders. The attendants were instructed to position Fulgrim's head such that he was face to face with his brothers recently severed head.
Fulgrim tried to look away, but his head was now transfixed in that position. He tried to shut his eyes, but the xenos somehow took that ability away from him too. His punishment for this crime would be to be frozen in the moment of committing it.
He wanted to deny that he was the creature known as Fulgrim. To denounce the crimes that the primarch commited against his father, brothers, and sons. That he was merely a copy that wore its face and had its memories, and take no responsibility for the unfathomable amount of suffering inflicted upon the galaxy thousands of years ago. But he could not deny that he thought in the same patterns and had the same impulses. He may not have been the one to make those mistakes in ages past, but he recognized that he was certainly capable of committing them all over again. But it was still too much to bear.
"I'M NOT HIM!" Fulgrim howled.
The primarch's superhuman lungs gave his shouts enough force to echo throughout the gargantuan complex.
"I'm nobody! I'm an imitation who's barely left a single room aboard a ship! I don't belong here! I'm not the one you want!"
Tears ran down his cheeks and ropes of mucous oozed out his nostrils.
"The real one is still out there. He's the one who did all this! Please don't make me pay for his crimes."
Fulgrim's wails turned into sobs. His pale complexion turned bright pink as his blood surged towards his face.
"If you let me out I swear I'll get him for you." he pleaded hopefully.
Trazyn grasped his metal chin with his equally metallic hand and took a moment to contemplate the primarch's offer. The moment lasted for what seemed like hours to Fulgrim as he waited for the necron's response.
"An interesting proposition" mused Trazyn. "How about this, I'll let you go if..." he began
Fulgrim waited unbearable eons for Trazyn to finish.
"...I find and capture him myself"
The stasis field activated, forever locking Fulgrim into the moment when he slew his most beloved of brothers. The necron looked at the expression of anguish set on Fulgrim's beautiful visage as the primarch's pained amethyst eyes looked at Ferrus' long-dead silver ones. Trazyn never altered the tenth primarch's expression into something other than the hollow expression of inert, lifeless meat it had when he collected it.
The Overlord of Solemnace tried remembering what it would have been like to have a face made of flesh that could express emotions. He could not; feelings were not stored in his memory engrams. His immortal mind and body was not capable of simulating emotions. The C'tan and biotransference had robbed his civilization of the capability to feel.
Trazyn turned away to oversee work on the preparation or maintenance of other exhibits. Although nowhere in the planet-sized museum was there an exhibit to prove that had he, Trazyn, had a soul, its testament to the size of the galaxy and its eons of history could at least attest to the probability that at some point in ages past, his soul existed.
Prologue 1: The Tomb of the Phoenix
Two figures moved between moments snatched out of time. The echoing sounds of metal on metal tracked their steps through an impossibly vast structure. Two legs and a cane made a rhytmic tap taptap while insectile feet made a steady clickclickclickclickclick. The scarce baleful illumination around them hid but hinted at the near-infinite space they occupied.
The first, a metallic skeletal figure gestured to row upon row of suits of armor built for giants and painted with differing combinations of color and heraldry.
"I do so appreciate how the Second Founding increased the amount of variety among the Imperium's Astartes. How the cultures that the worlds that each chapter recruits from is such a fascinating topic. And let's not forget how those chapters choose to adhere to or differentiate itself from its parent legion. I could go on for decades on the study of Astartes sub-culture." explained Trazyn, also called the Infinite, to his guest. His perfect high gothic was produced in a metallic voice.
Trazyn's guest was a giant much too tall for any of the armor on display. He was clad in his own similar armor, but crudely fashioned and painted in a shade of rich purple. The armored giant wore no helmet revealing flowing locks of silver hair. He glared at Trazyn with amethyst eyes set in the sockets of a face reminiscent of a marble statue. His angelic features were sculpted into an expression of contempt. The demigod was restrained upon a metal slab by some mechanism even his powerful mind could not comprehend. The slab was inclined such that he was nearly standing upright. It moved forward on mechanical spider-like legs. He was not deprived of the power of speech, but exercised silence as one of the few forms of protest available to him.
Unbothered, Trazyn proceeded to the next exhibit. Their pace never changed from its precise tempo. The pair moved between formations of warriors in bright yellow armor and ones armored in dull bare metal. "Here is one of the Siege of Terra." continued Trazyn. Bolt-rounds hung in the air between the two armies, muzzle flashes, smoke trails, and impact detonations from weapons were preserved as an instant was stretched into eternity.
"I understand that you participated in it." this museum's curator once again tried to engage with its unwilling patron. "I did my best to preserve the accuracy of such a momentous event in your species' history."
The giant's glare faltered as he studied the statue-still warfare surrounding them. "I've read as much, but recall no memories from it." spoke the giant as he took on a contemplative expression.
"Perhaps your creator cultivated your cells from genetic material harvested prior to this moment." mused Trazyn. "Genetic memory is a convenient phenomenon for biologicals such as yourself. Although not as robust as simply exchanging data." The metal skeleton produced a sound that could be interpreted as brief and haughty laughter.
"I can take great comfort in knowing that my exhibits can fill in the gaps in your knowledge of your Imperium's history." Trazyn proudly proclaimed.
The pair continued through similar recreations of battles fought during Horus' rebellion. Trazyn explained each exhibit with what could pass for enthusiasm in his metallic voice. Fulgrim read about these battles from the data-slates that his teacher and creator Fabius Bile had provided for him, some of them he apparently fought in, but seeing those did not trigger old memories like in prior instances aboard the Vesalius.
The two of them came to a stop surrounded by astartes in the black of the Iron Hands and in the green of the Salamanders.
"This is the Istvaan V exhibit! Here is where you will be staying." announced Trazyn.
Fulgrim looked around at the scene around him. He could remember conspiring with Horus and the other conspirators in preparation for the trap that they had set out for Ferrus, Corvus, Vulkan, and Jaghatai. But no memories of the battle itself came to him. He noticed a much larger black-armored warrior amongst the Iron Hands. Fulgrim tried to look as far away from it as his restricted movement allowed him.
"I'm sorry to say that I can't provide you or your brother with the genuine equipment you wielded at the time. For now we'll have to make do with the equipment you already have until I fashion a more authentic looking set." said the necron somewhat apologetically. "But I hope you can appreciate that I did manage to acquire Ferrus Manus' actual blade. Usually such relics of the primarchs are more revered by their legions, but I suppose it was a hectic time for your Imperium"
Even now, without seeing it, Fulgrim vividly recalled the feeling of his fingers curled around Fireblade. He remembered the heat radiating onto his face as he held it. He remembered the craftsmanship that Ferrus put into it and how humbling it was to be even given the chance to hold it. But he also remembered Ferrus shattering it with Forgebreaker. That was the last time he'd seen his brother when he failed to convince Ferrus to join their side. Ferrus couldn't have come to face him with a sword that should have been broken. There was no way Fulgrim could be driven to kill his brother. The thing that stole his name and wears his face is the one that killed Ferrus. Fulgrim vowed to make that usurper pay.
"I was hoping to obtain one of the tenth primarch's living clones, but your predecessor killed them before I could do so. I fashioned this one from the remains of the ones I could gather. Infusing necrodermis into organic matter is not difficult, but learning that the process had apparently occurred in an uncontrolled environment astounds even myself." continued Trazyn academically.
Still taking pains to look away, Fulgrim noticed an exhibit further ahead depicting astartes in a mix of purple, green, and marble-colored armor. Trazyn noticed the primarch's interest and eager as always to present his work he spoke. "That is my Istvaan III exhibit. I hoped to have gathered more specimens, but only one of my tesseract labyrinths survived the orbital bombardment. It's unfortunate that I don't have any from the Death Guard in this collection so I'll have to be satisfied with the pre-heresy specimens of that legion in my Ullanor exhibit."
Fulgrim's expression grew pained as he recognized the faces of the legionaries clad in his colors. He remembered making that choice. He remembered leaving his sons to die on the surface Istvaan III then giving the order to bombard the planet. Having those memories resurface, and recalling how he felt as he made those choices, he finally understood that he could commit the later atrocities.
Two more necrons appeared and lifted Fulgrim from the metal slab that had carried him all this way. He could still not move his limbs as if the very air itself was restraining him. Trazyn's subordinates placed him in front of the other giant in black armor. He now noticed that the head and body were cleanly separated from each other. The severed head was floating about a hand-span above the flat surface made by the stump of the neck. Its eyes were unfocused and its expression was slack but Fulgrim recognized it for the face of his brother, primarch of the Iron Hands, Ferrus Manus. He had no memories of this moment or even setting foot on Istvaan V, but he can no longer deny that Ferrus was dead and that Fulgrim took each step towards slaying his brother himself.
The necron attendants closed Fulgrim's fingers around the large cleaver he had crudely fashioned for himself aboard the Vesalius so that he was holding it two-handed They similarly did the same for Ferrus' own blade. Under Trazyn's careful supervision they arranged the two brothers' bodies and limbs such that both were in mid-swing. Ferrus was posed into a position that put his blade into an arc that would have bisected the Phoenician. Fulgrim was posed into the moment right after his massive blade would have separated the Gorgon's neck from his shoulders. The attendants were instructed to position Fulgrim's head such that he was face to face with his brothers recently severed head.
Fulgrim tried to look away, but his head was now transfixed in that position. He tried to shut his eyes, but the xenos somehow took that ability away from him too. His punishment for this crime would be to be frozen in the moment of committing it.
He wanted to deny that he was the creature known as Fulgrim. To denounce the crimes that the primarch commited against his father, brothers, and sons. That he was merely a copy that wore its face and had its memories, and take no responsibility for the unfathomable amount of suffering inflicted upon the galaxy thousands of years ago. But he could not deny that he thought in the same patterns and had the same impulses. He may not have been the one to make those mistakes in ages past, but he recognized that he was certainly capable of committing them all over again. But it was still too much to bear.
"I'M NOT HIM!" Fulgrim howled.
The primarch's superhuman lungs gave his shouts enough force to echo throughout the gargantuan complex.
"I'm nobody! I'm an imitation who's barely left a single room aboard a ship! I don't belong here! I'm not the one you want!"
Tears ran down his cheeks and ropes of mucous oozed out his nostrils.
"The real one is still out there. He's the one who did all this! Please don't make me pay for his crimes."
Fulgrim's wails turned into sobs. His pale complexion turned bright pink as his blood surged towards his face.
"If you let me out I swear I'll get him for you." he pleaded hopefully.
Trazyn grasped his metal chin with his equally metallic hand and took a moment to contemplate the primarch's offer. The moment lasted for what seemed like hours to Fulgrim as he waited for the necron's response.
"An interesting proposition" mused Trazyn. "How about this, I'll let you go if..." he began
Fulgrim waited unbearable eons for Trazyn to finish.
"...I find and capture him myself"
The stasis field activated, forever locking Fulgrim into the moment when he slew his most beloved of brothers. The necron looked at the expression of anguish set on Fulgrim's beautiful visage as the primarch's pained amethyst eyes looked at Ferrus' long-dead silver ones. Trazyn never altered the tenth primarch's expression into something other than the hollow expression of inert, lifeless meat it had when he collected it.
The Overlord of Solemnace tried remembering what it would have been like to have a face made of flesh that could express emotions. He could not; feelings were not stored in his memory engrams. His immortal mind and body was not capable of simulating emotions. The C'tan and biotransference had robbed his civilization of the capability to feel.
Trazyn turned away to oversee work on the preparation or maintenance of other exhibits. Although nowhere in the planet-sized museum was there an exhibit to prove that had he, Trazyn, had a soul, its testament to the size of the galaxy and its eons of history could at least attest to the probability that at some point in ages past, his soul existed.
Last edited:
Prologue 2: A Reunion
MakeLovehammer
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2024
- Messages
- 18
A Reunion
The fleets of two brothers hang in the cold black void of space. The formations of ships face each other as if they were about to do battle. A single craft crosses the distance between the two fleets. Compared to the vessels the size of cities around it, the craft is like a speck of dust. Like the singularity of a black hole, its comparative size belies its importance. The gulf of light-years and millennia compact as the gun-ship advances.
Eventually, the thunderhawk gunship reaches the other fleet's flagship, the Dawn of Fire. It breaches the thin film of the hangar's ion field that keeps the ship's atmosphere from escaping into space. The gunship maneuvers and sets down in a spot on the deck designated for it. It touches down parallel to the double lines of blue-armored warriors arrayed to greet their honored guest. The thunderhawk's front ramp lowers and disgorges its own sets of space marines armored in a mix of ancient black plate and modern dark-green plate. Following them is a giant among giants clad in black armor. He descends the ramp with silent steps incongruous with his armored bulk. He is unhelmeted, revealing his neatly trimmed beard and hair that has more silver than gold. His steel grey eyes survey the soldiers around him. Upon disembarking, the arranged soldiers in the blue of the Ultramarines lower their heads and bow to one knee. His expression does not register the deference shown by soldiers that aren't his nor the absence of the person he is here to meet.
Ahead of him, are three more blue-armored astartes decorated in the trappings of officers. After rising to their feet they approach the giant in greeting. They stop a few paces away and the lead officer sketches a bow and introduces himself.
"Greetings Lord. I am Cato Sicarius, Captain of the Victrix Guard of the Ultramarines, Knight Champion of Macragge, Grand Duke of Talassar, and High Suzerain of Ultramar."
After Sicarius' two companions more briefly introduced themselves as other members of the Victrix Guard, the giant flatly responds with.
"You know who I am."
"Of course Lord Lion El'Jonson, Eldest son of the Emperor of Mankind, Primarch of the Dark Angels -" begins Sicarius.
"Where is my brother?" interrupts the Lion.
"Lord Guilliman is currently attending to matters in his study and extends his apologies for not greeting you personally. However, he wishes to meet with you posthaste." answers the captain.
"He can't spare time to meet me but instead sends at least two companies of his soldiers to grovel on his behalf. Is it an advanced new form of insult that he's devised?" replies the primarch in the same even tone.
Sicarius' expression and response betray no indication of recieved offense taken. "You will surely come to understand his situation upon meeting him."
"Very well, lead on then." Rumbles the Lion, hinting at waning patience.
Lion El'Jonson followed Sicarius through the corridors of the ship. Its upper decks had been designed or modified to accomodate the dimensions of a primarch. The entourage of Dark Angels trailed in his wake and the Lion's eyes ceaselessly observed the activity around them.
Contrary to his outward demeanor, The Lion was rather pleased at the prospect of a reunion with his younger brother. Disregarding Roboute's absence at the hangar, the clockwork efficiency of his brother's ship and legion gave him a comfortable sense of nostalgia. As someone recently displaced in time by nearly a dozen millenia, El'Jonson learned to welcome any form of familiarity he can find in this era he had awoken in.
In the absence of his father and more of his brothers, Lion recognized that this broken Imperium needed more than just him to destroy its enemies. It also needed stewards to help rebuild it. The Lion and his legion were his father's blade, made to eliminate his enemies. Lion and his sons had little patience for tasks not related to warfare. He had mocked Guilliman and the Ultramarines for their propensity to embrace tedium before, but now he has come to appreciate it. Let Roboute wear their father's crown. Their father's sword is far less heavy.
Their procession had stopped before the double mechanical doors of his brother's study while he was in his musings. Captain Sicarius turns around to address him.
"My Primarch asks that you two speak in private. I, my brothers, and your entourage will remain here should you or he need us."
The Lion sends a glance towards Zabriel, the first of the Risen who nods in response. His retinue then moves to stand at attention on either side of the corridor. The First legion is familiar with the value of secrecy.
Sicarius opens the door and ushers the Lion in. The room's lumens blink to life as the pair enter. Sicarius opens his mouth, takes a deep inhale, and before he can begin a formal introduction he is then interrupted by a low vox-delivered voice.
"Thank you Captain Sicarius. Please wait outside."
Sicarius sketches a deep bow then exits. The Lion faces away from the doors as they slide to a close.
Cogitators and auto-scribes are mounted in the large chamber's otherwise bare metallic walls. There is barely any furniture aside from the large mechanical throne opposite the doors. Seated upon it is another armor-clad giant. This one still wears its helmet. Lion notes that his brother's armor is different from what Guilliman wore bfore and it reminds him more of a dreadnought rather than a suit of power-armor scaled-up for a primarch. Behind him rises a forest of cabling that from this angle Lion can't discern is attached to the throne or the armor. His superhuman scent detects mostly the scent of machine oils and stale food. He spots an untouched meal near one of the armrests.
Neither brother speaks, and only the sounds of labouring cogitators fill the room. One brother stands 3 paces apart from where the other sits, but there is a rift between them as large as the one that bisects the galaxy.
The Lion, ever the sword that he is, cuts through the tension.
"What's going on Roboute."
A noise like a sigh comes out from Guilliman's helmet speakers, but there is no accompanying rise and fall of his chest.
"I am not Roboute, and he might be dead."
Lion's face remains blank, not comprehending the sequence of words that originated from the other side of the room. Instead of elaborating, the seals on Roboute's neck release a hiss of air. His hand reaches up to take off the helmet. Where Lion expects to see his brother's face, he instead sees the wall. There is not even a bloody stump of a neck one would expect from a headless body. Where the neck would be, Lion only sees unoccupied armor.
Lion draws his sword Fealty but otherwise remains motionless.
A few moments later, green lights appeared from around the interior of the armor's neck joint. The lights coalesed to a transparent holographic facsimile of Roboute's face as Lion remembered it.
"I, he, fought against Mortarion on the planet Iax in Ultramar while wearing this armor." began the apparition. Its lips moved as it spoke, but it still sounded like the voice came from the helmet's speakers.
"During the fight, the armor took damage and it was ceased monitoring life signs. It was then teleported back to this ship and the fleet proceeded to bombard Iax from orbit. When the apothecaries proceeded to extract me, him, from this armor to treat him, they instead found it empty."
The hologram continued as Lion regarded him silently and wearily.
"This armor was created by Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Apparently, he had installed among other things, a means to record my thought processes. He had then used this data to construct a simulacrum of me, I mean Guilliman. Over the past few years, this abominable intelligence has been acting as the Lord Commander and Imperial Regent."
The simulacrum's voice and expression grows more frantic as it continues.
"Now that you're here, you can put an end to this farce."
"No" answers the Lion sheathing his sword.
"What do you mean 'No'?" exclaims the Guilliman-copy in confusion.
"This Imperium is a shadow of the Imperium we knew. Even I, am a shadow of myself." says Lion indicating his wizened face. "I will take help from a shadow of my brother rather than try to protect mankind on my own."
"You can't seriously be saying that you'd allow this abomination to exist in the Imperium." replied the Guilliman incredulously.
"Trust me" chuckled Lion. "This is just the kind of compromise that father would make."
"But what if I become a threat to mankind?" asked the simulacrum. This conversation had not proceeded towards any of its forcasted predictions.
"I am our father's sword, I vowed to destroy the enemies of mankind, and right now, there are far bigger threats to our species." The Lion closed the distance between them and put an armored hand over the pauldron of the Armor of Fate. "You're as arrogant as I remember you little brother."
Guilliman copied the gesture and placed a hand over his brother's shoulder. "Now you even look the part of the eldest."
"Do you want to die that badly?" asked Lion with less mirth. "At least wait until I've at least talked to father."
"Well, we have a fair bit of travel ahead of us." replied Gulliman.
"Tell me of any Dark Angels stationed close to Terra, I can be there much sooner." said Lion, eliciting a bemused look from the hololithic projection of his brother.
The fleets of two brothers hang in the cold black void of space. The formations of ships face each other as if they were about to do battle. A single craft crosses the distance between the two fleets. Compared to the vessels the size of cities around it, the craft is like a speck of dust. Like the singularity of a black hole, its comparative size belies its importance. The gulf of light-years and millennia compact as the gun-ship advances.
Eventually, the thunderhawk gunship reaches the other fleet's flagship, the Dawn of Fire. It breaches the thin film of the hangar's ion field that keeps the ship's atmosphere from escaping into space. The gunship maneuvers and sets down in a spot on the deck designated for it. It touches down parallel to the double lines of blue-armored warriors arrayed to greet their honored guest. The thunderhawk's front ramp lowers and disgorges its own sets of space marines armored in a mix of ancient black plate and modern dark-green plate. Following them is a giant among giants clad in black armor. He descends the ramp with silent steps incongruous with his armored bulk. He is unhelmeted, revealing his neatly trimmed beard and hair that has more silver than gold. His steel grey eyes survey the soldiers around him. Upon disembarking, the arranged soldiers in the blue of the Ultramarines lower their heads and bow to one knee. His expression does not register the deference shown by soldiers that aren't his nor the absence of the person he is here to meet.
Ahead of him, are three more blue-armored astartes decorated in the trappings of officers. After rising to their feet they approach the giant in greeting. They stop a few paces away and the lead officer sketches a bow and introduces himself.
"Greetings Lord. I am Cato Sicarius, Captain of the Victrix Guard of the Ultramarines, Knight Champion of Macragge, Grand Duke of Talassar, and High Suzerain of Ultramar."
After Sicarius' two companions more briefly introduced themselves as other members of the Victrix Guard, the giant flatly responds with.
"You know who I am."
"Of course Lord Lion El'Jonson, Eldest son of the Emperor of Mankind, Primarch of the Dark Angels -" begins Sicarius.
"Where is my brother?" interrupts the Lion.
"Lord Guilliman is currently attending to matters in his study and extends his apologies for not greeting you personally. However, he wishes to meet with you posthaste." answers the captain.
"He can't spare time to meet me but instead sends at least two companies of his soldiers to grovel on his behalf. Is it an advanced new form of insult that he's devised?" replies the primarch in the same even tone.
Sicarius' expression and response betray no indication of recieved offense taken. "You will surely come to understand his situation upon meeting him."
"Very well, lead on then." Rumbles the Lion, hinting at waning patience.
Lion El'Jonson followed Sicarius through the corridors of the ship. Its upper decks had been designed or modified to accomodate the dimensions of a primarch. The entourage of Dark Angels trailed in his wake and the Lion's eyes ceaselessly observed the activity around them.
Contrary to his outward demeanor, The Lion was rather pleased at the prospect of a reunion with his younger brother. Disregarding Roboute's absence at the hangar, the clockwork efficiency of his brother's ship and legion gave him a comfortable sense of nostalgia. As someone recently displaced in time by nearly a dozen millenia, El'Jonson learned to welcome any form of familiarity he can find in this era he had awoken in.
In the absence of his father and more of his brothers, Lion recognized that this broken Imperium needed more than just him to destroy its enemies. It also needed stewards to help rebuild it. The Lion and his legion were his father's blade, made to eliminate his enemies. Lion and his sons had little patience for tasks not related to warfare. He had mocked Guilliman and the Ultramarines for their propensity to embrace tedium before, but now he has come to appreciate it. Let Roboute wear their father's crown. Their father's sword is far less heavy.
Their procession had stopped before the double mechanical doors of his brother's study while he was in his musings. Captain Sicarius turns around to address him.
"My Primarch asks that you two speak in private. I, my brothers, and your entourage will remain here should you or he need us."
The Lion sends a glance towards Zabriel, the first of the Risen who nods in response. His retinue then moves to stand at attention on either side of the corridor. The First legion is familiar with the value of secrecy.
Sicarius opens the door and ushers the Lion in. The room's lumens blink to life as the pair enter. Sicarius opens his mouth, takes a deep inhale, and before he can begin a formal introduction he is then interrupted by a low vox-delivered voice.
"Thank you Captain Sicarius. Please wait outside."
Sicarius sketches a deep bow then exits. The Lion faces away from the doors as they slide to a close.
Cogitators and auto-scribes are mounted in the large chamber's otherwise bare metallic walls. There is barely any furniture aside from the large mechanical throne opposite the doors. Seated upon it is another armor-clad giant. This one still wears its helmet. Lion notes that his brother's armor is different from what Guilliman wore bfore and it reminds him more of a dreadnought rather than a suit of power-armor scaled-up for a primarch. Behind him rises a forest of cabling that from this angle Lion can't discern is attached to the throne or the armor. His superhuman scent detects mostly the scent of machine oils and stale food. He spots an untouched meal near one of the armrests.
Neither brother speaks, and only the sounds of labouring cogitators fill the room. One brother stands 3 paces apart from where the other sits, but there is a rift between them as large as the one that bisects the galaxy.
The Lion, ever the sword that he is, cuts through the tension.
"What's going on Roboute."
A noise like a sigh comes out from Guilliman's helmet speakers, but there is no accompanying rise and fall of his chest.
"I am not Roboute, and he might be dead."
Lion's face remains blank, not comprehending the sequence of words that originated from the other side of the room. Instead of elaborating, the seals on Roboute's neck release a hiss of air. His hand reaches up to take off the helmet. Where Lion expects to see his brother's face, he instead sees the wall. There is not even a bloody stump of a neck one would expect from a headless body. Where the neck would be, Lion only sees unoccupied armor.
Lion draws his sword Fealty but otherwise remains motionless.
A few moments later, green lights appeared from around the interior of the armor's neck joint. The lights coalesed to a transparent holographic facsimile of Roboute's face as Lion remembered it.
"I, he, fought against Mortarion on the planet Iax in Ultramar while wearing this armor." began the apparition. Its lips moved as it spoke, but it still sounded like the voice came from the helmet's speakers.
"During the fight, the armor took damage and it was ceased monitoring life signs. It was then teleported back to this ship and the fleet proceeded to bombard Iax from orbit. When the apothecaries proceeded to extract me, him, from this armor to treat him, they instead found it empty."
The hologram continued as Lion regarded him silently and wearily.
"This armor was created by Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Apparently, he had installed among other things, a means to record my thought processes. He had then used this data to construct a simulacrum of me, I mean Guilliman. Over the past few years, this abominable intelligence has been acting as the Lord Commander and Imperial Regent."
The simulacrum's voice and expression grows more frantic as it continues.
"Now that you're here, you can put an end to this farce."
"No" answers the Lion sheathing his sword.
"What do you mean 'No'?" exclaims the Guilliman-copy in confusion.
"This Imperium is a shadow of the Imperium we knew. Even I, am a shadow of myself." says Lion indicating his wizened face. "I will take help from a shadow of my brother rather than try to protect mankind on my own."
"You can't seriously be saying that you'd allow this abomination to exist in the Imperium." replied the Guilliman incredulously.
"Trust me" chuckled Lion. "This is just the kind of compromise that father would make."
"But what if I become a threat to mankind?" asked the simulacrum. This conversation had not proceeded towards any of its forcasted predictions.
"I am our father's sword, I vowed to destroy the enemies of mankind, and right now, there are far bigger threats to our species." The Lion closed the distance between them and put an armored hand over the pauldron of the Armor of Fate. "You're as arrogant as I remember you little brother."
Guilliman copied the gesture and placed a hand over his brother's shoulder. "Now you even look the part of the eldest."
"Do you want to die that badly?" asked Lion with less mirth. "At least wait until I've at least talked to father."
"Well, we have a fair bit of travel ahead of us." replied Gulliman.
"Tell me of any Dark Angels stationed close to Terra, I can be there much sooner." said Lion, eliciting a bemused look from the hololithic projection of his brother.
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falsekafka
K R
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Interesting, to see the existence of the 41st millennium chugging painfully along. And that title does kind of imply Fulgrim but it might also apply to Rowboat Gorilla's living armor.
MakeLovehammer
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Chronologically, prologue one happens first in m37, but I'd already written the Lion and Robot Guillibot scene.
falsekafka
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Neat there is never enough Clonegrim content.
Fair enough. But is that the only reason for the 30k tag? Or will we be getting some serious flashbacks or timetravel?
MakeLovehammer
Getting out there.
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I'm planning to write this as a time-travel fic featuring Clonegrim, Old Lion, and Guillibot like Rowboat's 20 sisters, but it requires multiple prologue chapters in m42 before I get there. I should probably remove the 30k & Horus Heresy tags for now.
KonradC
Versed in the lewd.
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Intriguing
Reman Septim
I trust you know where the happy button is?
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I thought this timeline already collapsed due to RG's time travel.
MakeLovehammer
Getting out there.
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It's a fanfic of a fanfic. Anything's possible
Reman Septim
I trust you know where the happy button is?
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So it's Lion'el collecting his fellows like Pokémon this time.
MakeLovehammer
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Him and some other peeps.
Dragon Fire
Sad, sad, lonely lifter
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What is your update schedule?
Prologue 3: Dramatis Personae
MakeLovehammer
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Amongst all the creatures in the vast galleries of Solemnace, all were unmoving save for one. It capered about in defiance of the stillness of the rest of the museum planet. Its thin frame was covered in a tight body-suit. Various patterns decorated different sections of the suit. Each pattern bore a different pair of bright colors. Gossamer-thin fabric flowed, and bells jingle-jangled as the dancer moved. It twirled, spun, and juggled a hooked cane as a duelist would swing and thrust a blade.
The dancer finished its performance balancing atop a giant's helmet before giving a bow to its captive audience of living statues. The dancer lifted its hooded head revealing the mirror it wore as a mask. A jagged crack in the shape of a smile marred its otherwise perfectly smooth surface.
"We are but the actors and audience upon this stage that is the Galaxy." addressed the fool to no one in particular.
"Empire after empire rise and fall throughout the span of history." it said as it leapt from warrior to warrior.
It ran upon a line of shells hanging in mid-air. "Lives long and short play out cycles of tragedy after tragedy."
The fool hopped upon the blade of an amethyst armored demigod. "but thirsting gods delight in what to them is the greatest comedy."
It drops off the sword onto the ground between one brother slaying another. "And so it shall be until the last star burns out in entropy."
The fool places a finger under the floating severed head of the defeated combatant. "I'm out of rhymes and I haven't quite worked out what point I was getting to." it conceded as it mimed the act of balancing the head.
It turned to the other combatant and regarded its look of utter sorrow. "I should have gone with the game metaphor. I think you mon-keigh call your variant regicide."
The fool stalked towards another group of warriors holding its chin in one hand. "No, I think I could still make the play metaphor work."
It stood amongst the astartes and followed their skyward glance. "...we follow a script written by destiny…"
The performer jogged forward as it spotted something in the distance. It stopped at another frozen battle between more of the Imperium's astartes. Three Space marines in dark-green armor trained rifles at a fourth in black returning fire with two pistols as he leapt backwards. Bolt rounds, casings and smoke hung still in the air. The battle was set in a recreation of a back alley of some hive. The squalor of the scene was recreated in painstaking detail. The harlequin busied itself with the firearms of each space marine. Once finished it stepped towards a small device set on the floor that glowed with a baleful green light.
"With this the curtain rises, and the characters make their entry." finished the harlequin with a florid bow then smashes the device with the butt of its cane.
Ezekar ran through the underbelly of the hive. He'd made mistakes worthy of a neophyte. He should have known better that ganger-business wasn't his business. He should have known better than to get gear from people who could make a profit from sharing your whereabouts and come back to see them a second time. He definitely should have been more careful about making a very loud, very violent scene, while wearing the arms and armor of a Dark Angel. But he just couldn't leave those kids alone. Not when one of the few memories he had before his ascendance into an astartes was of being cold and hungry in the streets of the Petitioner's City. And besides, he'd been playing the part of the prey for far too long. It felt good to be the hunter again and giving that pack of human trash their just deserts was oh-so satisfying. Well he's paying for it now, but he couldn't convince himself he wouldn't pay it again.
Ezekar ran into an intersection and turned left, only to find three more of his pursuers ahead of him. He leapt backward hoping that his leap would let him clear the line of fire of the ones that were behind him before they could draw aim. The three that ambushed him unloaded their bolters at him as he unloaded his pistols at them. As he flew backward he thought he heard the faint sound of bells even through the gunfire. His pistols clicked indicating that they were both empty. It would be a bad time for them to jam, but he was sure he had a better count of his shots as frantic as they were.
The fallen Dark Angel landed into a roll and quickly turned around to run in the opposite direction. Fortunately none of the bolter rounds found their mark, and the sounds of reloading behind him told him his pursuers were also too careless with their own ammunition. But he didn't want to stick around and spend any more of his luck than he needed to. If there weren't any more pursuers ahead of him, he could lose them in the complex tangle of the underhive. He had quickly studied its labyrinthine layout just for this occasion.
Except Ezekar didn't recognize this part of the hive. In fact, this didn't look like any kind of hive he'd ever seen. Nevermind, he didn't have time to worry about it now. He had to focus on losing his pursuers then somehow get off-world.
Looking for somewhere to hide, he took careful stock of his surroundings. He saw row after row of astartes battleplate in different marks and chapter colors. For want of a better idea, he crept toward the suits of armor as stealthily as his own ceramite covered bulk allowed him. He found himself an empty spot amongst the different suits and attempted his best to blend in with their stillness. Slowing his breathing, he waited for signs that his would-be-captors, or killers, had passed him.
Lion El'Jonson stalked through the forest of Mirror Caliban. He'd felt the familiar urgent tugging at his consciousness that alerted him of the presence of one of his sons who'd been living in hiding since the destruction of the real Caliban.
He'd made it known that it was his wish to forgive these wayward sons that later generations of the Dark Angels had up until recently had called The Fallen. He'd accepted the fact that word may never reach all of his prodigal sons in every corner of this fractured galaxy. He'd redubbed them The Risen and sent word to all chapters descended from the Dark Angels to cease their hunt for their once fallen brothers. Since Lion's reawakening in this age he'd gathered nearly a full company of the Risen and placed them under his direct command.
Lion wanted to investigate this particular phenomenon urgently and had quickly summoned a squad of the Risen to his side. The rest of the company made their own preparations in case a Lion and single squad was insufficient to handle whatever waited for them on the other side.
Lion exited Mirror Caliban, and found himself in Solemnace, the domain of Trazyn the Infinite.
The dancer finished its performance balancing atop a giant's helmet before giving a bow to its captive audience of living statues. The dancer lifted its hooded head revealing the mirror it wore as a mask. A jagged crack in the shape of a smile marred its otherwise perfectly smooth surface.
"We are but the actors and audience upon this stage that is the Galaxy." addressed the fool to no one in particular.
"Empire after empire rise and fall throughout the span of history." it said as it leapt from warrior to warrior.
It ran upon a line of shells hanging in mid-air. "Lives long and short play out cycles of tragedy after tragedy."
The fool hopped upon the blade of an amethyst armored demigod. "but thirsting gods delight in what to them is the greatest comedy."
It drops off the sword onto the ground between one brother slaying another. "And so it shall be until the last star burns out in entropy."
The fool places a finger under the floating severed head of the defeated combatant. "I'm out of rhymes and I haven't quite worked out what point I was getting to." it conceded as it mimed the act of balancing the head.
It turned to the other combatant and regarded its look of utter sorrow. "I should have gone with the game metaphor. I think you mon-keigh call your variant regicide."
The fool stalked towards another group of warriors holding its chin in one hand. "No, I think I could still make the play metaphor work."
It stood amongst the astartes and followed their skyward glance. "...we follow a script written by destiny…"
The performer jogged forward as it spotted something in the distance. It stopped at another frozen battle between more of the Imperium's astartes. Three Space marines in dark-green armor trained rifles at a fourth in black returning fire with two pistols as he leapt backwards. Bolt rounds, casings and smoke hung still in the air. The battle was set in a recreation of a back alley of some hive. The squalor of the scene was recreated in painstaking detail. The harlequin busied itself with the firearms of each space marine. Once finished it stepped towards a small device set on the floor that glowed with a baleful green light.
"With this the curtain rises, and the characters make their entry." finished the harlequin with a florid bow then smashes the device with the butt of its cane.
Ezekar ran through the underbelly of the hive. He'd made mistakes worthy of a neophyte. He should have known better that ganger-business wasn't his business. He should have known better than to get gear from people who could make a profit from sharing your whereabouts and come back to see them a second time. He definitely should have been more careful about making a very loud, very violent scene, while wearing the arms and armor of a Dark Angel. But he just couldn't leave those kids alone. Not when one of the few memories he had before his ascendance into an astartes was of being cold and hungry in the streets of the Petitioner's City. And besides, he'd been playing the part of the prey for far too long. It felt good to be the hunter again and giving that pack of human trash their just deserts was oh-so satisfying. Well he's paying for it now, but he couldn't convince himself he wouldn't pay it again.
Ezekar ran into an intersection and turned left, only to find three more of his pursuers ahead of him. He leapt backward hoping that his leap would let him clear the line of fire of the ones that were behind him before they could draw aim. The three that ambushed him unloaded their bolters at him as he unloaded his pistols at them. As he flew backward he thought he heard the faint sound of bells even through the gunfire. His pistols clicked indicating that they were both empty. It would be a bad time for them to jam, but he was sure he had a better count of his shots as frantic as they were.
The fallen Dark Angel landed into a roll and quickly turned around to run in the opposite direction. Fortunately none of the bolter rounds found their mark, and the sounds of reloading behind him told him his pursuers were also too careless with their own ammunition. But he didn't want to stick around and spend any more of his luck than he needed to. If there weren't any more pursuers ahead of him, he could lose them in the complex tangle of the underhive. He had quickly studied its labyrinthine layout just for this occasion.
Except Ezekar didn't recognize this part of the hive. In fact, this didn't look like any kind of hive he'd ever seen. Nevermind, he didn't have time to worry about it now. He had to focus on losing his pursuers then somehow get off-world.
Looking for somewhere to hide, he took careful stock of his surroundings. He saw row after row of astartes battleplate in different marks and chapter colors. For want of a better idea, he crept toward the suits of armor as stealthily as his own ceramite covered bulk allowed him. He found himself an empty spot amongst the different suits and attempted his best to blend in with their stillness. Slowing his breathing, he waited for signs that his would-be-captors, or killers, had passed him.
Lion El'Jonson stalked through the forest of Mirror Caliban. He'd felt the familiar urgent tugging at his consciousness that alerted him of the presence of one of his sons who'd been living in hiding since the destruction of the real Caliban.
He'd made it known that it was his wish to forgive these wayward sons that later generations of the Dark Angels had up until recently had called The Fallen. He'd accepted the fact that word may never reach all of his prodigal sons in every corner of this fractured galaxy. He'd redubbed them The Risen and sent word to all chapters descended from the Dark Angels to cease their hunt for their once fallen brothers. Since Lion's reawakening in this age he'd gathered nearly a full company of the Risen and placed them under his direct command.
Lion wanted to investigate this particular phenomenon urgently and had quickly summoned a squad of the Risen to his side. The rest of the company made their own preparations in case a Lion and single squad was insufficient to handle whatever waited for them on the other side.
Lion exited Mirror Caliban, and found himself in Solemnace, the domain of Trazyn the Infinite.
Dragon Fire
Sad, sad, lonely lifter
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You need to read more novels. And practice writing.
MakeLovehammer
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I've been trying to get at least 1k word chapters out several times a week. I'm new to doing this much writing so I don't really have a set schedule.
I do, and that's what this is.
I find I work best(read:at all) if I first push out this first draft for refinement later.
This forum has the (mis)fortune of being my preview audience.
Interlude I: A Confluence of Bullshit
MakeLovehammer
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Note: I wrote this to get a grasp of how I want the rest of the prologue to advance. I'm asking the plot to do a lot of acrobatics.
Trazyn, Cegorach, & Cawl: By Our Powers Combined! Deus Ex Machina!
Trazyn, Cegorach, & Cawl: By Our Powers Combined! Deus Ex Machina!
Clonegrim wakes up from thousands of years of stasis into a scene of chaos. Nearby Iron Hands legionaries may also have come out of stasis and see him with their dead primarch at his feet.
"It wasn't me!" testifies Clonegrim sword in hand.
"Objection!" roared various Iron Hands who may or may not have bore witness to Fulgrim committing the very act on Istvaan V. They express their grief and hatred with a rain of bolter fire.
Flavius Alkinex, and other members of the Emperor's Children, who were traded away by Fabius, are also present at the scene and return fire to protect their returned primarch.
Clonegrim steps into the line of fire to prevent any more bloodshed on his behalf and kick-off his redemption arc. He makes a passionate speech that is both logically sound and emotionally cathartic prompting a pause in the gun fight.
"I have no reason to forgive you, but we're now surrounded by these metal skeletons who are somehow a higher priority target than the person I saw kill my genesire." said the Iron Hand.
Flavius heads over to a freed Saul Tarvitz to have a broment. "We should never have left you brother. You were the best of us."
"I just got here and this is a lot to take in, but me and my boys are leaving. I should just leave all of you here but forestwalk lets me Deus Ex Machina my way into anywhere. I'm sure Black Library will have me visit Solemnace officially at some point for bullshit such as this." exposited Lion who'd just forestwalked his way into the scene.
"Go! Me and my irredeemably chaos tainted warriors will hold off the spoopy robots, and exit the narrative heroically!" shouted Flavius Alkinex
"Based." concurred Lion, who had not killed these warp-tainted traitors on sight.
"But I don't want to leave any more of my sons!" objected Fulgrim even as he retreated towards the poorly defined extraction point.
"Only from the ashes shall the phoenix rise again!" argued Flavius Alkinex, who had almost always been portrayed as an asshole in each of his official appearances.
"Are we still alive?" asked the Iron Hand on behalf of his legion and some Great Crusade Era Salamanders who may also have been freed from stasis in the chaos.
"I don't know. It would be out of character for me to leave any servants of the imperium here if I could save them, but none of you are relevant to this plot." answered Lion.
"I'd prefer if you left them." opined Trazyn from off-screen. He was likely distracted by the mysterious harlequin as portions of his museum were being repatriated or vandalized.
"For the Phoenician!" shouted Alkinex as he and his fellow Emperor's Children died heroically to speed-run their redemption arc despite thousands of years of sexual war crimes.
Clonegrim and Saul Tarvitz looked back at their doomed brethren as they retreated into Mirror Caliban with the Lion. They vow to recall the memory of their heroic deaths whenever it became dramatically appropriate.
"Learning to forgive you may be part of my character arc, but let's not talk about it right now." says Saul to the clone of his gene-father.
"I shouldn't quite trust you and your company of loyalist traitors, but I'm going to have to turn you and your company into primaris marines in order for you to survive the sheer amounts of femstartesussy you're about to drown in." said Lion to Saul in an appropriately sombre setting.
"I guess I'm going to have to adopt the codex astartes to organize my company of Emperor's Children, Luna Wolves, and World Eaters." replied Saul.
"But wait there's more!" offered Lion. "Since you don't have any Death Guard, I'm also reinforcing your company with fresh primaris recruits that happen to have the complete set of Istvaan 3 gene-lines. And this is on top of the new tech we're issuing you for this suicide mission."
Clonegrim ran his hand through his new haircut. "Brother, why did you force me to get this haircut that makes me look like a lesbian?"
"Because we're bringing a company of Sons of the Phoenix who instinctively recognize you as their primarch. And if they find out you're not Rogal Dorn, then it'll break their hearts." answered Lion.
"Of all the chapters you could have chosen from, why are you bringing religious zealots? Weren't you recently outed as anti-ecclesiarchy?" asked Fulgrim looking kind of like Nero as he appeared in Devil May Cry V.
"Because conveniently there aren't any other chapters available. And I would feel less guilty sending them off on a suicide mission." Lion explained.
"Aren't you and your Risen also coming with us on this suicide mission?" If Fulgrim showed any sign of worry from being sent on the same suicide mission, a mere mortal wouldn't have been able to detect them.
"Because I can always forestwalk away." boasted Lion. "Now onward into this poorly explained phenomena that the premise of this story is built upon!"
"It wasn't me!" testifies Clonegrim sword in hand.
"Objection!" roared various Iron Hands who may or may not have bore witness to Fulgrim committing the very act on Istvaan V. They express their grief and hatred with a rain of bolter fire.
Flavius Alkinex, and other members of the Emperor's Children, who were traded away by Fabius, are also present at the scene and return fire to protect their returned primarch.
Clonegrim steps into the line of fire to prevent any more bloodshed on his behalf and kick-off his redemption arc. He makes a passionate speech that is both logically sound and emotionally cathartic prompting a pause in the gun fight.
"I have no reason to forgive you, but we're now surrounded by these metal skeletons who are somehow a higher priority target than the person I saw kill my genesire." said the Iron Hand.
Flavius heads over to a freed Saul Tarvitz to have a broment. "We should never have left you brother. You were the best of us."
"I just got here and this is a lot to take in, but me and my boys are leaving. I should just leave all of you here but forestwalk lets me Deus Ex Machina my way into anywhere. I'm sure Black Library will have me visit Solemnace officially at some point for bullshit such as this." exposited Lion who'd just forestwalked his way into the scene.
"Go! Me and my irredeemably chaos tainted warriors will hold off the spoopy robots, and exit the narrative heroically!" shouted Flavius Alkinex
"Based." concurred Lion, who had not killed these warp-tainted traitors on sight.
"But I don't want to leave any more of my sons!" objected Fulgrim even as he retreated towards the poorly defined extraction point.
"Only from the ashes shall the phoenix rise again!" argued Flavius Alkinex, who had almost always been portrayed as an asshole in each of his official appearances.
"Are we still alive?" asked the Iron Hand on behalf of his legion and some Great Crusade Era Salamanders who may also have been freed from stasis in the chaos.
"I don't know. It would be out of character for me to leave any servants of the imperium here if I could save them, but none of you are relevant to this plot." answered Lion.
"I'd prefer if you left them." opined Trazyn from off-screen. He was likely distracted by the mysterious harlequin as portions of his museum were being repatriated or vandalized.
"For the Phoenician!" shouted Alkinex as he and his fellow Emperor's Children died heroically to speed-run their redemption arc despite thousands of years of sexual war crimes.
Clonegrim and Saul Tarvitz looked back at their doomed brethren as they retreated into Mirror Caliban with the Lion. They vow to recall the memory of their heroic deaths whenever it became dramatically appropriate.
"Learning to forgive you may be part of my character arc, but let's not talk about it right now." says Saul to the clone of his gene-father.
"I shouldn't quite trust you and your company of loyalist traitors, but I'm going to have to turn you and your company into primaris marines in order for you to survive the sheer amounts of femstartesussy you're about to drown in." said Lion to Saul in an appropriately sombre setting.
"I guess I'm going to have to adopt the codex astartes to organize my company of Emperor's Children, Luna Wolves, and World Eaters." replied Saul.
"But wait there's more!" offered Lion. "Since you don't have any Death Guard, I'm also reinforcing your company with fresh primaris recruits that happen to have the complete set of Istvaan 3 gene-lines. And this is on top of the new tech we're issuing you for this suicide mission."
Clonegrim ran his hand through his new haircut. "Brother, why did you force me to get this haircut that makes me look like a lesbian?"
"Because we're bringing a company of Sons of the Phoenix who instinctively recognize you as their primarch. And if they find out you're not Rogal Dorn, then it'll break their hearts." answered Lion.
"Of all the chapters you could have chosen from, why are you bringing religious zealots? Weren't you recently outed as anti-ecclesiarchy?" asked Fulgrim looking kind of like Nero as he appeared in Devil May Cry V.
"Because conveniently there aren't any other chapters available. And I would feel less guilty sending them off on a suicide mission." Lion explained.
"Aren't you and your Risen also coming with us on this suicide mission?" If Fulgrim showed any sign of worry from being sent on the same suicide mission, a mere mortal wouldn't have been able to detect them.
"Because I can always forestwalk away." boasted Lion. "Now onward into this poorly explained phenomena that the premise of this story is built upon!"
Prologue 3.5: Dreaming
MakeLovehammer
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2024
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- 18
Mother was singing him a lullaby as she always did whenever he was troubled. His face was still hot from tears, but the reassuring softness of her voice and her gentle stroking of his hair brought back a sense of comfort. He had been in a place of painfully garish color and cacophonous noise for an unfathomably long amount of time. But mother had shielded him from the taint of this place, at the cost of getting tainted herself."
Teacher woke him up and he had learned a lot of things and remembered others. The time they spent together was short, but then Teacher sent him away. He didn't know why, but Teacher had looked so sad. Mother said he was sorry but there were many important things that Teacher needed to do. Now he was dreaming again, and Mother was back with him.
Mother was Teacher's daughter, but Teacher was also Father's son. It was an odd thought, that he was both Teacher's grandchild, and brother. But he was in a place that had no concept of time, or thought, or family. He was more than a man, yet he was an infant. He was both young and ancient. He heard something large slither towards them.
"You dote on him too much, '' hissed Father in a sibilant whisper as gentle as raindrops and as foreboding as a distant storm. "He'll become more useless than he already is."
"You're too hard on him." said Mother. "He's you after all."
"Only the parts I've cast-off." said Father. "My weaknesses, my limitations, my imperfections."
"Your humanity" added Mother. "He can do plenty of things with that."
"You've discarded yours as well." said Father with an audible sneer. "He can do nothing of value with it."
"That's not for us to decide," said Mother. "If he can weather what the universe has in store for him, and find some kind of peace, then that is enough."
He felt the tender warmth of her lips press into his forehead. "Take care, my sweet boy. It's time to wake up."
He didn't want to go. He didn't want to leave this perfect moment that stretched into eternity. He clung to Mother more tightly, exactly how neither knew nor cared. He felt the warmth of her presence recede from his and felt the chill grasp of the materium seize him.
"I love you Fulgrim; Good Bye."
Teacher woke him up and he had learned a lot of things and remembered others. The time they spent together was short, but then Teacher sent him away. He didn't know why, but Teacher had looked so sad. Mother said he was sorry but there were many important things that Teacher needed to do. Now he was dreaming again, and Mother was back with him.
Mother was Teacher's daughter, but Teacher was also Father's son. It was an odd thought, that he was both Teacher's grandchild, and brother. But he was in a place that had no concept of time, or thought, or family. He was more than a man, yet he was an infant. He was both young and ancient. He heard something large slither towards them.
"You dote on him too much, '' hissed Father in a sibilant whisper as gentle as raindrops and as foreboding as a distant storm. "He'll become more useless than he already is."
"You're too hard on him." said Mother. "He's you after all."
"Only the parts I've cast-off." said Father. "My weaknesses, my limitations, my imperfections."
"Your humanity" added Mother. "He can do plenty of things with that."
"You've discarded yours as well." said Father with an audible sneer. "He can do nothing of value with it."
"That's not for us to decide," said Mother. "If he can weather what the universe has in store for him, and find some kind of peace, then that is enough."
He felt the tender warmth of her lips press into his forehead. "Take care, my sweet boy. It's time to wake up."
He didn't want to go. He didn't want to leave this perfect moment that stretched into eternity. He clung to Mother more tightly, exactly how neither knew nor cared. He felt the warmth of her presence recede from his and felt the chill grasp of the materium seize him.
"I love you Fulgrim; Good Bye."
Prologue 4: Flight of the Phoenix 1
MakeLovehammer
Getting out there.
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- Feb 3, 2024
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- 18
Fulgrim registered various stimuli intruding upon his senses all at once. Trazyn and his attendants had disappeared completely; the necrons were there one moment and gone the next. The roar of nearby bolter-fire made him suspect that the frozen battles he'd passed by returned to the normal flow of time. The corpse of the clone of Ferrus Manus dropped bonelessly in front of him, with Fireblade clattering to the ground. Gravity re-exerted itself upon his body as he gracefully recovered his balance. He noticed the crackling sparks of damaged electronics made by some sort of device by his feet. And amongst all of these other sensations, he heard the near-imperceptible jingle of bells.
Fulgrim traced the sound of combat to a space marine in the black armor of the first legion. He was using the frozen space marines around him as cover to ward against the energy weapons of advancing necron warriors. It was an effective strategy as it seemed that the skeletal constructs were hesitant to fire upon their master's prized exhibits. But Fulgrim could see that the dark angel would eventually be overrun by the inexorable advance of the xenos machines. In addition to their steel bodies being as tough as ceramite, they possessed no spirit that could be affected by fear. As Fulgrim watched, he could see that some of the warriors that the legionary felled had repaired themselves and stood back up to rejoin the battle.
Fulgrim found that Trazyn had replaced his giant cleaver with a replica of the silver blade of the Laer. He cast the weapon aside, recoiling from its purported malign essence. Fabius had noted in his dataslates that the sword was possessed by a malevolent entity that had influenced the original Fulgrim's thoughts and led him and his legion down a path of ruination and depravity. Whether or not the reproduction also contained a malicious spirit within it, he did not dare risk having his mind be so influenced once again. He stepped over to where Fireblade lay and picked up the sword. Its familiar grip drove away the lingering unease from holding the Laer blade.
Checking the rest of his equipment, he found that the makeshift armor he'd been wearing had been replaced with an uncanny replica of his old armor. He also found a side-arm holstered at his hip. He drew the pistol then inspected it to find that it was a near-perfect replica of his volkite charger Firebrand. Such was the quality of the weapon, that Fulgrim wondered if it was the genuine article itself. Whether or not it was, he'd at least hoped that it'd function as a weapon.
Taking aim at the approaching necrons, He depressed the weapon's trigger releasing a searing ray of thermal energy. Fulgrim's shot turned the upper half of one of the constructs into molten slag and he inwardly expressed gratitude to Trazyn's meticulous attention to detail. The former necron's lower half toppled to the ground mid-stride and did not get back up again. The space marine turned to look at the source of his unexpected support to find Fulgrim beckoning him over to fall back to his position.
Fulgrim covered the dark angel's retreat with shot-after-shot from his pistol, each unerring hit permanently downing one of the xenos.
As the space marine came within earshot, he asked "I hope you have a way out of here."
"I don't… my lord." the legionary managed to answer, as he stared up at the primarch that saved him. "I don't even know where this is."
"Well, I suppose we should go look for one." said Fulgrim as he eyed the various exhibits hoping that Trazyn kept a warp-capable vessel somewhere in his collection. But beyond the galleries of various space marines in his line of sight, all he could spot were the baleful green glow of the eyes of more incoming necron warrior constructs. These new ones were larger, more elaborately decorated, and carried more exotic and dangerous looking weaponry.
As his hope for escape began to falter, he once again spotted the group of space marines mostly clad in the colors of his and Horus' legions. Amongst them was the captain of the 10th company, Saul Tarvitz. Fulgrim was glad that at least some of his sons had somehow survived his madness that day. He smiled even though he hadn't yet found a means of escape, he'd at least found a means of redemption.
Fulgrim traced the sound of combat to a space marine in the black armor of the first legion. He was using the frozen space marines around him as cover to ward against the energy weapons of advancing necron warriors. It was an effective strategy as it seemed that the skeletal constructs were hesitant to fire upon their master's prized exhibits. But Fulgrim could see that the dark angel would eventually be overrun by the inexorable advance of the xenos machines. In addition to their steel bodies being as tough as ceramite, they possessed no spirit that could be affected by fear. As Fulgrim watched, he could see that some of the warriors that the legionary felled had repaired themselves and stood back up to rejoin the battle.
Fulgrim found that Trazyn had replaced his giant cleaver with a replica of the silver blade of the Laer. He cast the weapon aside, recoiling from its purported malign essence. Fabius had noted in his dataslates that the sword was possessed by a malevolent entity that had influenced the original Fulgrim's thoughts and led him and his legion down a path of ruination and depravity. Whether or not the reproduction also contained a malicious spirit within it, he did not dare risk having his mind be so influenced once again. He stepped over to where Fireblade lay and picked up the sword. Its familiar grip drove away the lingering unease from holding the Laer blade.
Checking the rest of his equipment, he found that the makeshift armor he'd been wearing had been replaced with an uncanny replica of his old armor. He also found a side-arm holstered at his hip. He drew the pistol then inspected it to find that it was a near-perfect replica of his volkite charger Firebrand. Such was the quality of the weapon, that Fulgrim wondered if it was the genuine article itself. Whether or not it was, he'd at least hoped that it'd function as a weapon.
Taking aim at the approaching necrons, He depressed the weapon's trigger releasing a searing ray of thermal energy. Fulgrim's shot turned the upper half of one of the constructs into molten slag and he inwardly expressed gratitude to Trazyn's meticulous attention to detail. The former necron's lower half toppled to the ground mid-stride and did not get back up again. The space marine turned to look at the source of his unexpected support to find Fulgrim beckoning him over to fall back to his position.
Fulgrim covered the dark angel's retreat with shot-after-shot from his pistol, each unerring hit permanently downing one of the xenos.
As the space marine came within earshot, he asked "I hope you have a way out of here."
"I don't… my lord." the legionary managed to answer, as he stared up at the primarch that saved him. "I don't even know where this is."
"Well, I suppose we should go look for one." said Fulgrim as he eyed the various exhibits hoping that Trazyn kept a warp-capable vessel somewhere in his collection. But beyond the galleries of various space marines in his line of sight, all he could spot were the baleful green glow of the eyes of more incoming necron warrior constructs. These new ones were larger, more elaborately decorated, and carried more exotic and dangerous looking weaponry.
As his hope for escape began to falter, he once again spotted the group of space marines mostly clad in the colors of his and Horus' legions. Amongst them was the captain of the 10th company, Saul Tarvitz. Fulgrim was glad that at least some of his sons had somehow survived his madness that day. He smiled even though he hadn't yet found a means of escape, he'd at least found a means of redemption.
MakeLovehammer
Getting out there.
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- Feb 3, 2024
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<Will write this after I've re-read Fulgrim>
MakeLovehammer
Getting out there.
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For anyone who happens to be following this, would you mind terribly if I started releasing the story out of order?
KonradC
Versed in the lewd.
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- Jan 26, 2018
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If it makes sense to you? Why not