Fall of Reksia

M30 934

Nuceria

Province of Desh'ea

For the first time in untold millennia, the people of Nuceria became firsthand witnesses to the wrath of the Emperor's spacemarine legions. And out of all the legions in the armies of the Imperium, there was none more savage or brutal than the Twelfth.

Before Angronius, the War Hounds were born of fear and weaned on hate. When the Emperor unified Terra and set out on the Great Crusade, he required a force that could conduct an assault on the enemies of mankind that could only end in only one of two ways: victorious slaughter or simple slaughter, either of which left the foe in no condition to resist further. In hindsight, concerning the nature of the treacherous xenos holding so many human worlds in slavery, such harsh and often senselessly violent means were ultimately justified.

The War Hounds embraced this particular form of stratagem more than any other legion, and rarely diverged from it. Whether it was the pacification of a resistant world, or the extermination of an entire xenos race, the Twelfth delivered with such ruthless efficiency. To them, there was little need for diplomacy. No room for half-measures. If the Imperium required that a system be added to its innumerable billions, or if a troublesome race of aliens needed to be erased from existence, the shedding of blood was all too often the quickest and most effective strategy.

And in conducting a pacification of the birthworld of their Primarch, the War Hounds found great joy in punishing the people responsible for his suffering.

In as little as thirteen hours, the Twelfth Legion blazed right through Nuceria's defenses and took the imperial province of Desh'ea. Through orbital bombardments, through swift speeder attacks, or simple street-clearing, the angels of death culled the hapless Nucerian legionnaires and heaped their bloody corpses onto mountains of flesh. The folk of Desh'ea, however, were not spared from their wrath. Highborn or lowborn, they were cut down by the scores in spacemarine bolter-fire. The old, the young, the men and women.

Including the children, much to Polgara's horror.

The children were dragged alongside their screaming mothers and hurled off of ledges and towers. They landed among the rubble, broken like pieces of pottery atop the jagged stones. In the midst of the slaughter, the sorceress begged her husband to end the violence and spare those she deemed undeserving of death. Angronius put no thought to showing mercy, and so he did nothing. In his eyes, for too long had Nuceria kept the world crushed beneath its iron heel. The diseased heart of the empire must be cut out, and nothing would forestall their judgement.

For thirteen hours, Polgara wept for Desh'ea. The province she once called home perished beneath a tidal wave of blood and fire. Sonjita, naturally, did not share her sentiments.

The Red Maiden beheld the ruin and slaughter of their enemies alongside her husband with grim satisfaction. The sins they've committed against the Stygians were repaid a hundredfold. In her eyes, this was justice. The Nucerians have reaped what they have sown.

The War Hounds tore down the marble statues of false gods, defaced the shrines of the Nucerian pantheon, and toppled the great coliseum. That last monument to the Nucerians' cruelty was of particular interest to the gladiator king, and he personally oversaw its destruction. That, and the ruined Palace Praxica, where his childhood and freedom were robbed of him. The palace, he set aflame and tore down to its foundations.

When the violence was nearly over, he turned his attention to the slaves freed from their now dead masters. They did not, however, receive him as well as he thought they would.

The liberation of Desh'ea had been conducted with so much violence that the slaves feared Angronius more than they did their masters. Where once his legend had painted him as a benevolent and just figure, a god of the oppressed from one corner of the empire to the other, their eyes that day told them differently. Angronius had become a vengeful spirit, a herald of hell and the commander of a daemonic horde, in their eyes. He did not come to liberate the slaves from bondage, he came to slaughter them all, freeman or slaveborn.

The gladiator king, while initially astonished by this unexpected reception, decided that he didn't care. By his actions their chains were struck from their hands, by his legion they were elevated. They were all freedmen, and that was good enough for him. Whatever fears were seeded into their hearts by the lies of their masters, as far as he was concerned, they would wilt and fade away in time.

Once Desh'ea was entirely in their hands, Angronius took a moment to praise the War Hounds for their aid in taking the province. Their ferocity in battle, their swift and terrible wrath upon their enemies, it impressed him to no end. Just by witnessing their handiwork in half a day, Angronius knew that they were indeed his sons. And the Twelfth Legion, ever eager to please their Primarch, reveled in his words. They had long remained desperate for the kind of bond the other legions had with their own Primarchs, and have long been denied this seemingly inconsequential bond. To be reunited with their gene-father, to claim whole worlds alongside him, it was all they ever wanted. Now that they had it, they all felt a great feeling of satisfaction.

As the legion secured Desh'ea to establish a foothold for more troops to drop from orbit, Angronius inspected the vast arsenal that was now at his disposal. The legionary quartermasters presented to him both the common and the rare, the melee and the ranged. From the titular volkite guns to the highly prized power-weapons of the Imperium, they meticulously showed each one to the Primarch.

Out of all the weapons in the legion's collection, the bolter particularly intrigued Angronius.

Legion Master Gheer called it 'the weapon that won Terra'. The standard and largely common weapon of the legiones astartes, the boltgun was seen as synonymous with the Imperium's spacemarines. It was loud, far too loud for anyone to sneak around with, although this was never the weapon's intended purpose. The bolter was a weapon of wrath, capable of spitting adamantine-tipped self-propelled rockets the size of Angronius' little finger to punch through enemy armor and render the meat within to red paste.

Its firing rate was astounding, and it would never jam nor misfire- or at least that was what the quartermasters told him.

And Angronius wasn't the only one impressed with the weapons of the Imperium. Sonjita, among many of the gladiator king's followers, inquired of the possibility of acquiring bolters of their own. They were promptly laughed at by the War Hounds, who declared that nothing short of an astartes could operate a bolter efficiently, or at least without the risk of injuring oneself from the powerful recoil.

Nevertheless, out of respect for Angronius, some weapons were lent to the Eaters of Cities. These were given in the form of lasguns, flamers and chain-weapons. Armaments deemed easier to handle than the more complex pieces in the War Hounds' arsenal, and readily available in great supply.

As the time came for the legion to move out again, to begin the journey towards Reksia, Angronius met with the legion master and his centurions. The mission briefing had long been concluded, this meeting was more of a casual chat between progenitor and progeny. Angronius had the opportunity to get to know his legion better, and it would have to start with the officers.

He learned of Terra, the birthworld of many among the War Hounds, and the capital world of the Imperium of Man. A war-torn and scarred birthworld, they said, that took many centuries to rise again as the golden capital it was at present. It was said that he, along with his many brother Primarchs, were conceived in the laboratories beneath the Himalazian mountains. Through some form of 'accident', they were taken into the Warp and tossed away to far-off worlds beyond the reach of the Emperor.

"My fa... The Emperor mentioned I had brothers." Angronius said, "Tell me about them."

"Ah, but where to begin?" Gheer replied. "You have many brothers, my lord. All of them great and powerful in their own way, as are their legions, though none stand as the Twelfth's equal."

"Aye!" The legion centurions roared in agreement.

Angronius smirked, amused at the great pride his sons had for themselves. "Go on."

"There is Horus Lupercal, the first Primarch to be discovered. It is no secret that the Emperor favors him above the rest, and rightly so. He commands the Luna Wolves. Second to be found was Leman Russ, Primarch of the Space Wolves."

"Wait, his legion is also named 'wolves'?" The gladiator king grimaced. "Not a particularly imaginative bunch, are they?"

Gheer shrugged, "They hail from a backwater death-world named Fenris. They take to instinct a bit more than others, some might even suspect the taint of animal splicing in their gene-seed. The name is rather fitting."

"But you will, without a doubt, grow to like them... eventually." One of the centurions, who went by the name Lasarus, offered his own experience with the Space Wolves as proof of their capacity to be somewhat tolerable. "There are certain parallels between the War Hounds and the Space Wolves. Never forget, Legion Master, that the Imperium regards both our legions as mere hordes of bloodthirsty savages. Best not to, as the saying goes, judge the kettle as you so stand as the pot?"

"Hm." Gheer grunted, "As I was saying, the third Primarch to be discovered was Ferrus Manus, gene-father of the Iron Hands. Master engineers and adept at all forms of technology, but also quite... remarkable."

"Why do you say that?" Angronius asked.

Lasarus spoke again, "Strange would be the correct description, father. They hate what they call 'the frailty of flesh' and seek to elevate themselves through cybernetic augmentation. It is a travesty, seeking to 'correct' the Emperor's grand design. How they are not censured remains a mystery to me."

"But cybernetic augmentation isn't necessarily a travesty." Angronius rebutted, "Sometimes it's an improvement."

"Forgive me, but if you saw the extent of their 'improvements', you would be more inclined to agree."

The gladiator king reflected on the centurion's words, and he remembered the monstrosity Cannicus Thal'kyr had become thanks to Acraesius' machinations. Indeed, not all augmentations were good for the body, nor were some pleasant to look at. "Tell me more about my brothers. Who was found next?"

"The fourth was Fulgrim, Primarch of the Emperor's Children. If there was ever perfection personified, it would be Fulgrim. Of all the legions, his is the most disciplined and sophisticated."

"And shiny." Grunted Gammon, the quiet one of the lot.

"Agreed." Lasarus acknowledged, "They spend just as much time polishing their armor as fighting. Something to do with Primarch Fulgrim's incomprehensible desire for perfection in all things- armor and weapon sheen included."

"Don't underestimate them." Gheer warned the centurions, "They may look like a flamboyant bunch, but at the end of the day they can hold their own in a fight just as well as any legion."

"Oh, but here comes my personal favorite, the Imperial Fists." Lasarus said with a nod, "Sired by Rogal Dorn, Praetorian of Terra and master-builder. If you need anything built and built to last, the Imperial Fists are the right legion for the job. They can build anything, even out of detritus. Castellans and crusaders alike, they are masters of defense and have been proven to be nigh unbreakable. I have had the pleasure of fighting alongside them once, but that is enough for me say that they are most reliable in the face of impossible odds."

There were many more to the long list of names his legionnaires gave testimony to. Vulkan of the Salamanders, Roboute Guilliman of the Ultramarines, Magnus the Red and his Thousand Sons. Sanguinius of the Blood Angels, Lion El'Jonson of the Dark Angels of Caliban, Perturabo of the Iron Warriors, and Mortarion of the Deathguard.

More recently discovered Primarchs included Lorgar Aurelian, who took control of the Word Bearers. Jaghatai Khan of the White Scars. And one other Primarch, one whose very name unsettled those who heard it.

"Konrad the Cursed, I believe he was called." Lasarus said.

"Curze. Konrad Curze." Gheer corrected.

"Close enough." Gammon muttered.

"And now, we've found you." Lasarus turned to the Primarch, "Now, the War Hounds are complete. After we've finished with the pacification of this world and have brought it beneath the banner of the Imperium, I look forward to the hundred campaigns we shall fight in your name."

Angronius frowned but said nothing. He knew that the salvation of his people came with a price. They would defeat the Nucerian Empire, but it would ultimately cost him his hard-won liberty. In the expulsion of one ruler, they must bow before another. Angronius was no fool, he knew the moment of facing the Emperor once more was drawing near.

"Do you not find this pleasing, my father?" Gheer asked.

The gladiator king shook his head, "I do, noble Gheer. It's just that... so many things are changing far too quickly. I am overwhelmed."

"Don't be, my lord." Lasarus assured him, "Know that you stand among good company. Whatever comes, you are with your legion. We will follow you anywhere."

"Come, we've tarried long enough." Angronius beckoned as he rose to board the Stormbird transporter. "Reksia awaits."

Like a pack of wolves eager to shadow their alpha, the War Hounds trotted after Angronius. At the sight of him taking the helm of the legion, a surge of near-palpable energy galvanized the legionnaires. They boarded their own war machines at his behest and spearheaded the assault against the next province. It would take two to three more cities, two to three more bastions before they converged upon Reksia itself.

Once the capital falls, the world was theirs.

Polgara opted to stay behind at Desh'ea while Angronius led the War Hounds into battle, choosing to help ease the fears of the liberated slaves and hope to dress the grievous wounds cut into her former homeland. Sonjita willingly accompanied her husband on every assault, wishing to see the end of Nuceria with her own eyes. Her presence at every battle was barely tolerated by the War Hounds, but after seeing her hold her own and even managing to keep up with the least of their battle-brothers, they formed a begrudging respect for the woman.

For one who was not gifted by bio-augmentations, her fire was commendable.

Having witnessed Polgara's peculiar capability to bear their Primarch's child, the legionnaires wondered if Sonjita too had this ability. Such concerns were not shared solely by the War Hounds, but even by the Emperor himself.

As he watched from orbit at all his son's handiwork, he made plans. This world held a particular importance to him now. It would become more than just a recruitment world for future legionnaires, it could possibly become the source of a separate race of transhumans. It was never part of his design to allow his Primarchs to sire offspring, but in the end the saying always proves true.

Nature was tenacious.

Four Days Later

City of Reksia

How the tables have turned for Emperor Acraesius.

For one who had grown accustomed to success, the series of failures he now faced at the hands of his most hated enemy was a stain on his honor that could never be erased. Even as he punished the generals who displeased him, by nailing them to crosses or tossing them into the arena, Acraesius could find no peace. And so, having grown so increasingly mad from desperation, the frantic emperor turned to distraction. Very quickly, did he descend from his lofty opulence to horrifying decadence.

And with him did Reksia pursue the highest forms of revelry, even as the end approached.

They had become a proverbial Sodom. When the fires of judgement prepared to wipe clean the diseased and tumorous growth pulsating hideously at the heart of Nuceria, the city indulged itself in the highest forms of pleasure with reckless abandon. Great feasts, conducted before great bonfires erected in honor of the Nucerian gods, and all manner of bloody games were held from the gargantuan halls of the Exalted Palace to the great banquet halls lining the mega-complexes near the walls of Reksia.

Here, the veil between realities thinned ever so dangerously. Daemons walked freely among mortal men, as though they had always belonged there. And as the Empyrean leaked into the material realm, both man and beast were changed irrevocably. Flesh warped and minds twisted, as though the immaterial fires melted them into water, so easily stirred by the faintest touch of the Ruinous Powers.

Mars did not favor this turn of events, and the God of War withdrew his presence from the Exalted Palace. Now Lilith, beautiful and perfection-incarnate, dwelled within the halls of the emperor's home. Here, walls of stone and ivory became walls of flesh and bone. Dancing, writhing, contorting and screaming shapes pressed against the pulsating skin like infants ready to burst free from their mother's womb.

Acraesius himself, who sat at the great Ruby Throne, watched with dreamy and sunken eyes as his legionnaire guardsmen performed unspeakable acts upon his many slaves.

The days passed so quickly before him, that everything felt like a blur. Shapes swayed and slithered at the corners of his gaze, while his ever-wanting eyes flitted from one beautiful dancing girl to the next. For a brief moment, his attention was fixated on one. She had a bounty of dark brown locks flowing down her shoulders, which reminded him so painfully of Polgara. Her keepers had sculpted her to perfection, meticulously crafting a finely toned and gleaming body that bordered on the divine. She was a superb dancer, and oh so captivating every time she flashed him a smile through that veil hanging over her cheeks. It tugged at his heart like a cancer, and Acraesius reached for his laspistol.

He shot her through the stomach, and the slave girl toppled from the pedestal. She tried so hard to please him, he hated her for that.

One of his guardsmen, naked and glistening with sweat, loomed over the dying slave and glanced up at his emperor as though asking for permission. Acraesius nodded, "You know what to do." And so the guardsman fell upon the hapless girl, and the blasphemous revelry continued.

So easily did the divine and graceful forms transform into the utterly grotesque that Acraesius wondered if he had truly gone mad. The whispers of the goddess in his ear confirmed his fears, but even so, he felt an inexplicable sense of peace.

"I am right where I want to be." He echoed the words slithering down his ear canals like black oil, "I am right where I need to be."

His hands brushed against the smooth surface of the red ruby armrests, and he felt them creep up his skin like growing fungus. Lilith was embracing him, swallowing him whole, and he did nothing to stop her. The Ruby Throne, the thing he fought so hard to gain, was slowly becoming his tomb. A cocoon, a chrysalis in which a greater being, one more opulent and exalted than even Marsus Acraesius, would emerge.

She-Who-Thirsts smiled at the generous offering, accepting the souls of Reksia for the promise of a fine showing. A great battle was on its way, and all the Ruinous Powers were put on the edges of their seats. Whatever comes, it would make for a good bit of sport.

Outside the doomed city, a tall and sneering mystic beheld the impending slaughter with great disdain. He watched from atop the walls as hundreds of dropships poured out of the sky to bring death to Nuceria, and a knowing smirk found its way to his lips. "Right on time."

The game here was over, and it was such a delight playing it.

"Just as planned."