Da Fightiest Humie
Amaran Asteroid Belt, Sekrit Laboratorium 0335
Warmother Project Site Twelve
Far away from the Ullanor Sector, in a laboratory complex best kept among the Emperor's many secrets, the brightest minds of the Imperium set about to bring the latest batch of primaris spacemarine children into fruition.
Thirty years ago it was concluded, upon creation of his Primarch sons, that their gene seed would be beyond compatibility with normal humans. It was this circumstance that forced the Emperor to resort to artificial spacemarine induction trials. However, having been proved wrong upon that first meeting on Fedan Mohr, the Emperor made it his priority to ascertain the exact reason for this supposed aberration.
Choosing eighteen batches of a select number of women from every known type of world in the Imperium's vast domain, all meticulously chosen for their viability and fertility, the Emperor created the Warmother Project in hopes of replicating the desired effects. The genetic structure of Nucerians was observed to be more tenacious than most, a rare trait which allowed the joining of a Primarch's gene seed, resulting in natural pregnancy and eventual birth. It was also observed that this same trait existed in the women hailing from feral or death-worlds, leading to the conclusion that the more hostile the environment the better the chances of successful conception.
There were other factors that affected the project as well, such as the stability of the gene seed itself. The results were quite unpleasant, both for the expecting mothers and the progeny gestating within them. The stability ranged from unpredictable to downright lethal, though thankfully it was reserved to a handful of gene types. As for the rest of the legions, the results were not all bad. The Luna Wolves batch proved to be the most stable, ensuring a hundred percent compatibility, followed by the Dark Angels and the War Hounds. The percentage, however, diminished the further down the list went.
Magnus the Red, known for his great power and psychic potential, understandably had the most unpredictable seed among the legions. The impregnated mothers sometimes developed psychic powers of their own, at the cost of the life of the fetus which later dissolved into nothingness within their wombs. In worst cases, the children would emerge malformed and mutated, resulting in immediate termination. Sometimes, the births were so violent that the babies would set the room ablaze, killing all within save for the progeny from which the explosion came from.
The gene seed of Konrad Curze resulted in stillbirths, with only one out of a hundred babes to live to see the trials, sometimes the births themselves killed their mothers. A disappointing discovery, and indeed proving his was a cursed seed. Guilliman's batch was even more disappointing, much to the Emperor's surprise. Initial and late observations yielded next to nil, proving the reduced potency of his gene seed and that conception was impossible. The women chosen for the Ultramarines were given over to test the other legions' viability. To spare the Primarchs, especially Guilliman, the embarrassment, the Emperor kept the results a secret.
Over the course of the experiments, the Emperor decided that the warmothers would be his gift to bestow upon the legions after the situation in Ullanor was dealt with. Some would be denied this gift. The primaris children inherited much of the physical and psychic traits of their progenitor fathers, and more. From the organs, metabolism, psychic potential, even their personalities. The Emperor had much cause to be concerned over certain Primarchs, especially with the case of Lorgar Aurelian and Perturabo.
Both had the tendency to pervert Imperial customs and regulations, he didn't want them to spoil the fledgling project. Perhaps in the future, he could use it as an incentive for them to improve themselves, like handing out candy to children on their best behavior.
The day news from Ullanor reached Site Twelve, the Emperor proceeded with another project he was personally invested in. Angronius was dying from the faulty archeotech Butcher's Nails implanted during his enslavement to the Old Nucerians. While the God-King was far from his favorite, it was always the Emperor's intention to sever all that hindered the Primarch's potential, the Nails included. However, time and again the cortical implants proved impossible to reverse-engineer due to their damages state, leading to the conclusion that surgically excising them would result in the Primarch's incapacitation- or death.
Still, the Emperor would not give up. For all their differences, he never regarded Angronius as a lost cause. Work on the removal of the Nails continued under the supervision of the Sigillite and the Archmagos Veneratus Kelbor-Hal of Mars, for the Emperor was preoccupied with other concerns.
He brought with him the xenos Scáthach to Site Twelve in hopes of unlocking the many secrets her kind accumulated over the many millennia of the galaxy's existence. They were the forerunners of all civilizations, and the knowledge she possessed was likened unto a rediscovered STC. As of late, the Old One accompanied the Emperor wherever he went, although kept under watch by his vigilant Custodes. Scáthach suffered no harm during her imprisonment, and in fact enjoyed a relatively comfortable life during her thirty year-long stay within the closest circle of the Imperium. Her presence was not welcomed by all, yet none ventured to question the Emperor's decision on this matter, not even the Sigillite himself.
"How long does he have?" Malcador inquired of the Archmagos.
It didn't take long for the ancient one to make his calculations, "Indefinite. The archeotech's very nature is a mystery, and the Primarch is tenacious beyond calculation."
"Then make a guesstimate, however rough."
"I would say... perhaps within the next ten to twenty years, maybe less, based on the rate of deconstruction of the limbic lobe and insular cortex. In other words he has not long to live."
"Hmm." Malcador muttered, "Good."
With a loud click, Kelbor-Hal's head snapped up in surprise. He regarded the Sigillite carefully with a judgmental look on his many-eyed face, but said nothing. Malcador, on the other hand, realized his mistake and awkwardly coughed. "Pay me no heed, I jumped to a different thought entirely. Finish up here, I have to attend to other matters."
Malcador quickly left the office, alone and without his usual servitor attendants. Kelbor-Hal, by then, had grown accustomed to the unscrupulous nature of the Sigillite. He'd worked for several centuries under the man's guidance, often chafing but never questioning. And yet some things were not above reproach. The Archmagos made a note of keeping an eye on his activities, to be watchful for any foul play. Alas, for all his technological gifts, there were some things even the Archmagos cannot see.
Malcador stepped out of the material realm entirely once rounding the corner and disappeared into the shadows. The realm he emerged into was something both material and immaterial, a pocket dimension that functioned as a sort of bridge into the Warp. For psykers well versed in the forbidden mystic arts, this realm was primarily used to practice the most dangerous of spells, trap enemies or allow entire conclaves to engage in secret meetings. For Malcador, it was his only means to keep in direct contact with the foul benefactor of all psyker-kind. How he'd managed to keep it from the Emperor, the greatest of all human psykers, was a testament to the great power Malcador held- and abused.
"It is done." The Sigillite said to the faint apparitions swirling around him, all coalescing into a singular form. The flames dancing upon the Imperial Aquila staff turned from bright orange to alien blue. "The chosen legions have been spoiled and denied of their primaris progeny. Their... broodmares are dead. I have seen to the deed myself."
The co-conspirator revealed himself to be none other than Sevran Fowl, avatar of the Changer of Ways. The mystic's reach extended far beyond Nuceria, his schemes even further, for Tzeentch was never content to remain absorbed within a singular plan. "And what of Angronius? I do so recall that I instructed you not to harm him in any way."
"I made no move against him!" Malcador snapped, "Nor do I have need to do so. His own affliction frays the cords of his life."
"Ah." Fowl mused, "The Nails. A card to play for later."
"The legions are at the cusp of ending the Ullanor debacle. We are ready for the next step."
"Ending? Now now, Malcador, I never took you for an optimist. The Orks will prove to be ample distraction while the rest of the pieces are set. But Ullanor will fall only when I deem it time to fall."
"Think of it in any manner you wish, but action must be decided now!" Malcador thundered, gripping his staff tighter as he burned with impatience. "I would not suffer any more ignominies from the Emperor, especially now that he takes instruction from the xenos! Need I remind you the deal we made, and the consequences of falling short on either side?"
Fowl heard but hardly listened to the barrage of lamentations that came from the ancient one's mouth. He'd heard it all before and although he understood Malcador's reasons for betraying his supposed closest friend, he was bored.
Malcador didn't start early on that road to rebellion, it was a gradual slip into damnation. Upon allying himself with the Emperor in the fledgling Imperium of Man all those millennia ago on the wastelands of Terra, the Sigillite was given a promise that mankind would govern itself in place of the xeno and the mutant. The epitome of the species to sit upon the throne, namely the Emperor, would propel them into the Great Crusade to reclaim their lost territories. Malcador had long been content with this, for the Emperor was the greatest of all men and the most powerful psyker of them all. His plans were all in line with his own, and they shared the same ambitions. But then, the Emperor decided to create the Primarchs, superhumans designed to reign over the masses as their divine overlords. Malcador only saw them as insolent upstarts, usurpers who never clawed their way out of oblivion as he did. The Emperor was fashioning himself into a god, contradicting his supposed irrevocable Imperial Truth.
The Sigillite tolerated the existence of the Custodes and the Thunder Warriors, knowing their necessity at the time. But the creation of the spacemarine legions was a turn he did not approve. It was always his intention that mankind would be governed by his own kind, psyker-kind, not bio-engineered superhumans. So an alliance with the Ruinous Powers was made, in exchange for the absolute certainty that mankind would dominate the galaxy and that psykers would rule the Imperium. Malcador didn't care if it meant enslaving his whole race to Chaos, so long as this vision would become a reality.
Indeed, it was a vision that the Architect of Fate delighted in. So great was his approval that in all honesty, however insincere that may be given his nature, he promised the ancient one that his goal would come to fruition- no matter the cost.
And so it went, slowly did the Sigillite undermine the great works of the Emperor. He went as far as to sabotage the already estranged relationship of the Primarchs, that dissent and division would drive them apart.
"Patience patience." Fowl said, interrupting Malcador's stream of pointless babbling. "Play your part, and even you will see. Everything is going according to plan."
He didn't reveal it to the man at the moment, but the other agents of Chaos were fast moving to set the stage for the most glorious confrontation between the Imperium and the Ruinous Powers. The moment the Great Crusade reached its peak, it would be the moment when the terrible truth of the horrors beyond the veil would at last be revealed to the whole of mankind. Moved by his foster father after the humbling of his legion, the Primarch of the Word Bearers had embarked on a pilgrimage to meet his gods and the time for its end was at hand.
He found his calling, as did many lost souls seeded among the Imperium's upper echelons.
"Patience is a virtue I am short in supply." Malcador replied, "But if this is the path, then I will walk a little further. However, I expect results. Ample results."
Fowl cracked a smile, amused at the sight of an insect making demands of its betters. "Depart now. We will meet again under more favorable winds. Keep a close eye on Angronius for me and keep him alive. He doesn't know it yet, but he will become the greatest pawn in the board. I will not have him die before his time."
"As you wish." Malcador said, willing the realities to bend in on themselves.
The shadows faded, and once again the Sigillite was onboard the great station Site Twelve, worse of a mood but with renewed purpose. He found comfort in knowing that immediately after the legions' triumph would come soon the toppling of an empire, paving the way for the true Imperium that he so envisioned. And when that moment comes, the galaxy will burn.
Ullanor Sector, Middle Rim
Ullanor Secundus
As more worlds were reclaimed into the fold of the Imperium, the more manpower was required to hold them. Two more legions were deployed to the Ullanor front soon after their success in the Great Crusade elsewhere. The Fifth and the Ninth, the White Scars and the Blood Angels. Two of the most respected legions in the Imperium, known and feared far and wide for their speedy savagery in battle, enough to rival the Space Wolves and the War Hounds together. Both had won each a hundred more worlds from the xenos and the noncompliant.
It was a good thing that they came too, for the deeper the legions waded into the Ullanor Sector the stronger and more fanatical the resistance proved to be. The advance into the inner rim worlds had finally grown burdensome, slogged by the innumerable billions of greenskins swarming in to flood the Imperial onslaught. Angronius was learning the truth behind the Ork way of thinking, that the bigger the fight the more powerful the surge of the green tide. Orks love war in all its forms, and very quickly the Primarch of the War Hounds was getting a reputation among the xenos population for his legion's furious blitz into the frontlines.
They started referring to him as 'Da Big Red Un'. What was relatively unknown to the Imperium at the time was that the collective psychic gestalt of the greenskins affected much of realspace, particularly within the immediate vicinity. Whatever the Orks believed was their reality, and they believed that the Red Un was the 'fightiest humie Nob' they'd ever seen. Therefore, Angronius became the 'fightiest humie Nob'. Often after every confrontation, the Primarch would return to his artificers hub to have his armor repaired, and he would come drenched in the blood of the xenos. The brass chrome became red, clinging to him like new paint or a symbolic baptism.
For a brief interim between battles, the Primarchs met upon the landing zone of Ullanor Secundus I, where the legions first made planetfall after their breakthrough from the Ork blokkade. The bone-white legionnaires of the White Scars and the frightful red Blood Angels descended from the skies by heavy transports, but the Primarchs traveled via teleportation. Ullanor Secundus I was a desert world, filled with the ruins of a recently destroyed xenos civilization upon which the Ork infestation stems from.
The supreme ruler and Great Khagan of Chogoris, Jaghatai Khan, stepped out of the circle of noyan-khans and his Keshig heavy-assault terminator honor guard. His hawk-eye sharp gaze took in the results of a pyrrhic victory claimed from a savage fight against the greenskins. The medicus sector of the encampment was full of injured spacemarines, both from the War Hounds and Luna Wolves legions, as well as fighting men from the Imperial Guard. The groans of astartes and mortals filled the air amidst the whine of surgical saws, crackle of soldering rods, and bustle of medical crews. Gun emplacements filled the skies with flak and explosive ordnance, while soldiers carried ammunition and weapons back and forth from the lines.
The angelic Sanguinius bade his own sons to venture forth and assist wherever or however they could, moved by pity at the sight of his kinsmen's suffering.
"You!" The Primarch said to a War Hound who emerged from a nearby medicus booth. "Where is your gene-sire?"
The spacemarine glanced at him in turn, up and down. His armor was rent and scratched from numerous Ork choppaz, and freshly scabbed wounds marred his bare face. The insolent War Hound showed the bare minimum respect he felt he owed to any other legion by giving the Khagan a dismissive shrug and walking away. "Follow the shouts. You'll know his voice."
Angronius' voice, filled with fury, boomed above the din of the encampment. He was arguing again with his legion-master and the captains of his legion. He had returned from a long absence in the field after the company he was assisting was cut off from the rest of the legion. Angronius, refusing to abandon his sons to let the greenskins overwhelm them, recklessly pursued the Orks closing in on their position- alone.
He emerged, with not a single spacemarine lost to the company and victorious.
Jaghatai and Sanguinius approached the group just as they stomped their way through the encampment. Angronius was heading for his personal tent and the captains were struggling to keep in pace with his gigantic stride.
The Primarch of the War Hounds looked worse for wear. His armor was falling apart, having sustained countless blows from Ork power-weapons and significant dakka. Several broken blades still clung to the ceramite hide like lampreys, and pieces of the armor itself started falling off with every step he took. Angronius lost his weapon in the fracas, soon after facing the Orks unarmed- so the Primarch resorted to using his bare hands to fight it out.
His mouth was caked in xenos blood, for in the midst of the battle-turned-brawl he sank his teeth in the throat of some forgotten Ork boss. His gauntlets were hammered down to his skin after relentlessly pummeling that same boss to the ground until his face was a pulpy mess. The rest of the xenos tucked tail and retreated from the battlefield afterwards.
Angronius noticed his brothers for the first time and stopped mid-stride.
Jaghatai was the first to greet him, beckoning him to come close to invoke the Zolgokh- a customary Chogorisian formal greeting. He grasped him by the forearms and pulled him in to touch cheeks. He didn't care if the blood smeared his beard. It was a welcome surprise for Angronius after such a trying day, and he grabbed the Khagan for a crude bear-hug. Rare was the moment where two Primarchs got along from the start, and fortunate was the God-King in having two of them to greet as friends.
"You must be Jaghatai!" The Primarch cried out, "Horus informed me of your arrival, I just didn't expect you to come so soon."
A bolt of lightning in clear skies, a sudden gale from an unexpected quarter- the White Scars legion was war's sudden and merciless slaughter. Swift action and a joy for the rush of combat and clash of blades were the hallmarks of their battles, tempered by a quiet and hidden wisdom that few took the time to uncover. They were the Great Crusade's pathfinders, the bleak wind that ran ahead of its serried armies culling the weak and harrying the strong that they might fall more easily to those who followed. There were many victories claimed by the Great Crusade that would not have been possible without the depredations caused by these warriors. The lightning-fast style of mobile warfare that had served Jaghatai Khan so well on the steppes of his homeworld proved to be equally effective on the many different battlefields of the Great Crusade.
"Speed is our specialty." Jaghatai said, his voice thick with the implacable accent of his homeworld. "Our father desires this conflict to end soon, and so it shall."
"And you..." Angronius regarded Sanguinius with curiosity in his ever-discerning eyes. He never saw one so blessed with heavenly masculine beauty, and with wings that befitted a servant of the gods.
"I am Sanguinius." The angel finished his sentence for him, offering a warm smile that made Angronius forget his troubles of the day. When he extended his arm in brotherhood, he immediately grasped it. "It is good to finally meet you."
"You return to camp scathed, is there something we can do for you?" Jaghatai offered.
Angronius dismissed Gheer and the captains with a wave of his hand, "You are kind to offer, but I bid you to fret not. All I wish of you is to make swift preparations. The sortie I assisted in is but a prelude, for the Orks are planning on a massive counterattack. As I've learned from the start of this campaign, the best way to end the greenskin tide is to strike at its source. But alas, there is something unique about this particular Orks."
"Unique? How so?" Sanguinius inquired as the three Primarchs walked together.
"See the writing upon the walls? I've studied the Orks in hopes of finding a weakness." Angronius explained, giving himself over to this craftsmen to aid in the reparation of his armor. They worked quickly as he spoke without pause, "The Orks believe that the color red makes things go faster. Somehow, the warboss who leads these Orks found a way to make them learn faster, therefore becoming smarter. They write in red, thus stimulating whatever small thing constitutes as a brain in their heads."
"A cunning enemy?"
"A brutally cunning enemy."
"A very dangerous enemy." Jaghatai mused, "The hourglass is set then. We must attack soon, before they get any smarter."
"I agree." Angronius revealed, "For the Ork boss I killed wasn't wearing the same cobbled scrap his underlings adorn themselves in. He was wearing power-armor, manufactured and meticulously crafted for war. A xenos race known for such crude contraptions possessing this kind of awakened intelligence worries me."