Character Description Compendium: 28th Expeditionary Fleet

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Final moments- A flickering retinal display tells me that my cybernetics are functioning, but I cannot move them. Without flesh to impel it, the iron means nothing. The dead are everywhere, their ranks swelling with each passing second. Morlocks in funerary black surround me. I see snatches of iconography, a splash of blood. Their wounds are fresh, but the legacy of them, and the wounds against this Legion, will linger long after this battle has ended. My eyes are bloody and I witness the rest of the battle through a crimson filter that my retinal lenses cannot correct. Stuck down by julius. I detect the reek of something spoiled, rotten meat and old flesh. Rolling over the slopes, surging from some unseen place come katabatic winds. They wash over me, over the dead, and I hear voices trapped within them. They are screaming. There are voices within the screams, beckoning me on. They come from the Land of Shadows, from Medusa, where the revenants of old, long forgotten lives still walk. They come for me, the slain warriors of the Clan Avernii, reaching out to take me with them, to grant me peace. I recoil as their faces change, as noble Medusan sons devolve into wraithly phantoms. Fingers wither into talons, eyes shrink into orbless sockets. They seek to drag me into the darkness, and I have just enough will left to deny them their soul-feast. Fulgrim stoops, although it isn’t the Phoenician. With one hand, he seizes my father’s cropped hair and presents the bloody head to me. I do not see a primarch – ‘’I behold a monster. My closeness to death has gifted me that truth. And in that moment, as my heart beats its last and a final breath saws painfully through my lungs, I realise what faces us. I can see it clearly. I see that we-’’

Istvaan iron hand forces- Ten companies of the Morlocks were berthed throughout the Ferrum, the deadliest and most experienced warriors of the Legion, and Balhaan knew that whatever force was arrayed against the Terminators, it could not survive their wrath. The Iron Hands would undertake the initial assaults with the veterans of their Legion, and Balhaan felt that it was appropriate that the Legion's best warriors should be first into battle. Led by Gabriel Santar, the Morlocks hungered to confront the Emperor's Children and make them pay for the dishonourable murders done to their number in the Anvilarium of the Fist of Iron. The Iron Hands pushed through the defences of the traitors, the bulky Terminators unstoppable in their relentless advance. Lightning crackled from the claws of their gauntlets and their red eyes shone with anger. The Phoenix Guard braced themselves to meet the charge, fully aware of the power of such mighty suits of armour.

Desaan- deceased iron hand.

 

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Surrendering to oblivion-His entire body aching with pain and loss, Fulgrim pushed himself upright. Blood and the detritus of battle surrounded him, the stoic figures of armoured warriors staring in wonder at the headless body that lay-on the black ground before him. Fulgrim reversed the blade and held its fiery tip against his body, the edge blackening his hands and burning the skin through the rents torn in his armour. To end things now would be the easiest thing in the world, to take away the guilt and wash the pain away in a sharp trirust of steel into his vitals. Fulgrim gripped the sword tightly, drawing blood from his palms where the blade's edge sliced his skin.

Santars Perspective- The other is slender, even in his purple and gold armour. His unhelmed visage is handsome, the epitome of physical perfection, and long white hair streaks from his head like flashes of fire. He has my father’s weapon, the great hammer Forgebreaker. As he climbs to a spur of rock, this vainglorious yet deadly peacock, his movements are swaggering and arrogant. Fulgrim, the Phoenician. My father’s brother. My father is a brawler, brute strength and undeniable power, but Fulgrim’s technique is choreographed like a dancer’s. Even with Forgebreaker, he is swift and precise. He rains blows against my father’s defence, smashes him down time and again. The return is quick and twohanded, and leaves a fiery split in the Phoenician’s war-plate. He replies with a downward slash that Fulgrim dodges; a second cut clips the primarch’s cheek and he snarls. Savagely, my father lashes out and rips the shoulder guard from Fulgrim’s otherwise pristine armour. Gritting his teeth, he finds a gap in the Phoenician’s otherwise flawless guard and cuts deep across his torso. Fulgrim falls back, Forgebreaker no longer in his grasp as he clutches at his body. On their knees, they stare at one another, but I am struck by the Phoenician’s apparent melancholy. A silver blade flashes in Fulgrim’s grip. It halts Fireblade mid-swing, but the burning sword is descending all the same. A harsh flash of light hurts my eyes, but I no longer have the strength to look away. An aura, dark and eldritch, has enveloped both primarchs – I see Fulgrim on his feet and my father back on his knees, his armour parted as though it were parchment. Fulgrim’s eyes widen, and as they meet my own, I see his terror. I see the desperate urgency in him that screams not to kill his brother. The blow falls. I cannot stop it. Iron skin shears apart, cleaved by amethyst fire.

 

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Istvann III Emperors Children

Saul Tarvitz-

The warrior of the Emperor’s Children was approaching and Garro’s eyes narrowed. During the briefing neither Commander Eidolon nor the men of his honour guard had even deigned to acknowledge the battle-captain’s presence, yet here was one of them calling out for his attention. He didn’t recognize the pennants on the man’s armour, but he was sure that this Astartes hadn’t been present in the Lupercal’s Court. ‘Ho, Death Guard,’ said a wry voice from behind the blunt-snouted breath mask of the helmet. ‘Are you so slow-witted that you ignore your betters?’ The figure reached up and removed his headgear, and Garro felt a warm grin cross his lips for what felt like the first time in days. ‘Blood’s oath! Saul Tarvitz, aren’t you dead yet? I hardly recognized you underneath all that finery.’ The other man gave a slight nod, shoulder-length hair falling across a patrician face marred only by a brass plate across his brow. ‘First Captain Tarvitz, I’ll have you note, Nathaniel. I’ve moved up in the world since last we spoke.’ The two Astartes clasped each others wrists and their vambraces clattered together. Each had a small eagle carved there by knifepoint, a sign of the battle debt they owed one another. ‘So I see.’ Garro saw it now, the etching and the filigree on the shoulder plates that designated Tarvitz’s new rank. ‘You deserve it, brother.’

Rapid firing bolts of ruby laser fire spat out from the Isstvanian troops, filling the dome with horizontal red rain. Tarvitz took a trio of shots, one to his chest, one to his greaves and another cracking against his helmet, filling his senses with a burst of static. Tarvitz's bolt pistol snapped shots at the darting black figures catching one in the throat and spinning him around. Squad Fulgerion took up position at the remains of the barricade, their bolters filling the dome with covering gunfire for Eidolon and his chosen warriors. Tarvitz killed the enemy with brutally efficient shots and sweeps of his broadsword, fighting like a warrior of Fulgrim should. His every strike was a faultless killing blow, and his every step was measured and perfect. Gunfire ricocheted from his gilded armour and the light of battle reflected from his helmet as if from a hero of ancient legend. Eidolon bent and picked up Tarvitz's fallen broadsword, his own terrible scream now silenced. The Warsinger writhed in pain, arcing coils of light whipping from her as she lost control of her song. Eidolon waded through the light and noise. The broadsword licked out and Eidolon cut the Warsinger's head from her shoulders with a single sweep of silver.

Lucius lifted the blade of his sword and dropped into a fighting crouch as Tarvitz approached him. The dome seemed suddenly silent as the two combatants circled one another, each searching for a weakness in the other's defences. Tarvitz drew his combat knife in his left hand and reversed the blade, knowing he would need as many blades between him and Lucius as humanly possible. Tarvitz saw the blade cut the air towards him, knowing he was powerless to prevent it landing. He hurled himself back, but felt a red-hot line of agony as the energised edge bit deep into his side He clamped a hand to his side as blood spilled down his armour, gasping in pain before his armour dispensed stimulants that blocked it. Lucius parried his every attack with ease and casually landed cut after cut on his flesh, enough to draw blood and hurt, but not enough to kill. Blood gathered in the corner of his mouth as he staggered away from yet another wounding blow

The two warriors clashed in the air and Tarvitz smashed his fist into the swordsman's face. Lucius turned his head to rob the blow of its force, but Tarvitz gave him no chance to right himself as they fell to the floor, and pistoned his fist into his former comrade's face. Lucius's sword skittered away and they fought with fists and elbows, knees and feet. At such close quarters, skill with a blade was irrelevant and Tarvitz let his hate and anger spill out in every thunderous hammer blow he landed. They rolled and grappled like brawling street thugs, Tarvitz punching Lucius with powerful blows that would have killed a mortal man a dozen times over, the swordsman struggling to push Tarvitz clear.

Lucius-
He turned to see Captain Lucius, the finest swordsman of the Emperor's Children. His compatriot's armour was spattered black and his elegant sword still crackled with the blood sizzling on its blue-hot blade. 'Damned animals, they don't have the sense to roll over and die when you kill them.' Lucius's face had once been perfectly flawless, an echo of Fulgrim's Legion itself, but now, after one too many jibes about how he looked more like a pampered boy than a warrior and the influence of Serena d'Angelus, Lucius had started to acquire scars, each one uniform and straight in a perfect grid across his face. No enemy blade had etched them into his face, for Lucius was far too sublime a warrior to allow a mere enemy to mark his features. Searing needles of silver filled the air around Lucius, gouging the armour of his shoulder guard and leg. Lucius lifted his sword arm to shield his head and the needles spat from the glowing blade of his sword. Where they hit the stone around the entrance it bubbled and hissed like acid. The Palace Guard were dying around him and his armour was drenched with their blood.

Lucius hauled his sword clear as the spear stabbed for him again, the musical edge shearing past him and blistering the purple and gilt of his armour. His armour cracked with the force, and the music leapt in clarity as he felt its power surge around his body in a glorious wash of pure, unadulterated sensation. Lucius caught the head as it spun through the air and held it high so the whole battlefield could see it.

He looked up and saw Lucius standing in the centre of the dome in front of him, his shimmering sword in one hand and a shard of broken glass in the other. He raised the glass to his face and sliced its razor edge along his cheek, drawing a line of blood from his skin that dripped to the dome's floor. Tarvitz smashed his fist into the swordsman's face. Lucius turned his head to rob the blow of its force, but Tarvitz gave him no chance to right himself as they fell to the floor, and pistoned his fist into his former comrade's face.