With the members of the Third legion and their allies spread through out swathes of books it can at times be quite a task to hunt down the descriptions of them, be it for art, conversions/kitbashes, lore discussions or any number of things. As such my hope with this thread is to make things a bit easier for fellow fans of the legion looking for such details.
This thread shall cover Lord Commander Cyrius, Commander of a third of the legion at the later end of the Heresy.
Palatine Pheonix- A gifted swordsman and a keen mind. Of all those he'd chosen, Cyrius had perhaps the greatest potential. He would rise far, if given the chance. Cyrius was pale, almost the colour of marble, and his armour had seen an artificer's touch. Delicate scrollwork marked the flat panes of ceramite, depicting scenes from Chemos' history. His hair was cropped short, his scalp almost shorn smooth, and his face a sharp mirror of Abdemon's own. There was something of the primarch in both of them, a subtle cast to their features, which marked them as Fulgrim's gene-sons. Perhaps that was why Fulgrim favoured Cyrius so. Cyrius held his blade low, inviting attack. His skills as a swordsman were first-rate, but flashy. He was a duellist by inclination, as many Chemosians were. They possessed a strong thread of personal combat in their cultural weave.
It revealed itself not simply in blade-work, but in all forms of activity, even poetry and music. Cyrius sheathed his sword and crashed a fist against his chest-plate in salute. Cyrius' face was unreadable beneath his helmet, but the slight twitch of his head showed that he'd heard, at least. Abdemon and Cyrius stood before them, flanking their primarch, resplendent in their baroque war-plate, their hands resting on their weapons. The proof of his statement was there, and even the dullest among them could not deny it. Cyrius sighed and drew his sword. It was a good blade, made for him by the finest artificers on Chemos. Forged from pure ores, drawn from deep veins and shaped according to the traditions of the Sulpha people. Light, but with a solid core that lent it weight and strength. He had carved the hilt himself, from the jawbone of a Chemosian shaft-cat, and wrapped it in gold wire. That too was according to tradition. To make the perfect weapon required some involvement from its wielder. Some piece of them must go into it, else its soul would be stunted and immature. Or so the artisans had maintained. Cyrius couldn't say, either way. But he knew a good blade when he held it.
His skills, already potent, had been further honed by Tesserius Akurduana, a warrior reckoned the finest swordsman in the Legion. While Cyrius was not his tutor's equal, he fancied that he was the greatest swordsman on this planet, barring the Phoenician himself. He was interrupted as one of the gubernatorial guards drew his sidearm and fired. The shot skidded across Cyrius' temple, and he cursed himself for not wearing his helmet. Akurduana would have had stem words for such a display of overconfidence.
Primacy- Cyrius looked back with a sharp-featured face, bloodlessly pale and so very like the primarch. He had drawn his long golden blade, turning it this way and that, as though thoughtfully contemplating the myriad ways he could end Eidolon’s second existence. Cyrius chuckled and patted the hilt of his sword as he slid it back into its scabbard. Cyrius carried himself with lithe grace, a duellist’s confidence. He practically swaggered into the heart of the grove as the trees stirred above, their branches heavy with malformed fruit, their bloodied bark shimmering in the rapidly intensifying light. Cyrius stretched, muscles rolling, the movements exaggerated by his powered plate.
Warlords of the Dark Millenium- Lucius' grandstanding was such that it eventually drove the silver-maned Lord Commander Cyrius to action. Clad in baroque artificer armour painted with obscene dreamscapes and wielding a twelve-foot power spear, Cyrius made for an impressive opponent indeed. The Lord Commander was every bit as fast as his chosen foe. Lucius fought hard to get within the reach of the power spear, ducking and rolling with fluid grace. Though Lucius’ blade was sharp as a razor, it could not penetrate Cyrius’s ornate battle plate, and for his part the swordsman was wearing little more than a sleeved tunic.
Over the next few weeks, Lord Commander Cyrius underwent a hideous transformation. His mane of hair fell out in clumps, his eyes changed colour, and the copulating figures that decorated his armour writhed and flowed to depict a host of laughing Daemons. To the commander’s mounting horror, dark lines appeared under his flesh, pushing outward with each passing night until they formed a maze of scar tissue. The next gladiatorial event saw Lucius stride the sands once more, his power armour adorned with the tortured, moaning face of Cyrius.
This thread shall cover Lord Commander Cyrius, Commander of a third of the legion at the later end of the Heresy.
Palatine Pheonix- A gifted swordsman and a keen mind. Of all those he'd chosen, Cyrius had perhaps the greatest potential. He would rise far, if given the chance. Cyrius was pale, almost the colour of marble, and his armour had seen an artificer's touch. Delicate scrollwork marked the flat panes of ceramite, depicting scenes from Chemos' history. His hair was cropped short, his scalp almost shorn smooth, and his face a sharp mirror of Abdemon's own. There was something of the primarch in both of them, a subtle cast to their features, which marked them as Fulgrim's gene-sons. Perhaps that was why Fulgrim favoured Cyrius so. Cyrius held his blade low, inviting attack. His skills as a swordsman were first-rate, but flashy. He was a duellist by inclination, as many Chemosians were. They possessed a strong thread of personal combat in their cultural weave.
It revealed itself not simply in blade-work, but in all forms of activity, even poetry and music. Cyrius sheathed his sword and crashed a fist against his chest-plate in salute. Cyrius' face was unreadable beneath his helmet, but the slight twitch of his head showed that he'd heard, at least. Abdemon and Cyrius stood before them, flanking their primarch, resplendent in their baroque war-plate, their hands resting on their weapons. The proof of his statement was there, and even the dullest among them could not deny it. Cyrius sighed and drew his sword. It was a good blade, made for him by the finest artificers on Chemos. Forged from pure ores, drawn from deep veins and shaped according to the traditions of the Sulpha people. Light, but with a solid core that lent it weight and strength. He had carved the hilt himself, from the jawbone of a Chemosian shaft-cat, and wrapped it in gold wire. That too was according to tradition. To make the perfect weapon required some involvement from its wielder. Some piece of them must go into it, else its soul would be stunted and immature. Or so the artisans had maintained. Cyrius couldn't say, either way. But he knew a good blade when he held it.
His skills, already potent, had been further honed by Tesserius Akurduana, a warrior reckoned the finest swordsman in the Legion. While Cyrius was not his tutor's equal, he fancied that he was the greatest swordsman on this planet, barring the Phoenician himself. He was interrupted as one of the gubernatorial guards drew his sidearm and fired. The shot skidded across Cyrius' temple, and he cursed himself for not wearing his helmet. Akurduana would have had stem words for such a display of overconfidence.
Primacy- Cyrius looked back with a sharp-featured face, bloodlessly pale and so very like the primarch. He had drawn his long golden blade, turning it this way and that, as though thoughtfully contemplating the myriad ways he could end Eidolon’s second existence. Cyrius chuckled and patted the hilt of his sword as he slid it back into its scabbard. Cyrius carried himself with lithe grace, a duellist’s confidence. He practically swaggered into the heart of the grove as the trees stirred above, their branches heavy with malformed fruit, their bloodied bark shimmering in the rapidly intensifying light. Cyrius stretched, muscles rolling, the movements exaggerated by his powered plate.
Warlords of the Dark Millenium- Lucius' grandstanding was such that it eventually drove the silver-maned Lord Commander Cyrius to action. Clad in baroque artificer armour painted with obscene dreamscapes and wielding a twelve-foot power spear, Cyrius made for an impressive opponent indeed. The Lord Commander was every bit as fast as his chosen foe. Lucius fought hard to get within the reach of the power spear, ducking and rolling with fluid grace. Though Lucius’ blade was sharp as a razor, it could not penetrate Cyrius’s ornate battle plate, and for his part the swordsman was wearing little more than a sleeved tunic.
Over the next few weeks, Lord Commander Cyrius underwent a hideous transformation. His mane of hair fell out in clumps, his eyes changed colour, and the copulating figures that decorated his armour writhed and flowed to depict a host of laughing Daemons. To the commander’s mounting horror, dark lines appeared under his flesh, pushing outward with each passing night until they formed a maze of scar tissue. The next gladiatorial event saw Lucius stride the sands once more, his power armour adorned with the tortured, moaning face of Cyrius.