Character Description Compendium: The 12th Millennial

[MolotovKraken]

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 the 12th Millennial of the Emperors Children.
(Note: With another book to scour fully there will likely be a later expansion and edit to this thread)



Casperus Telmar, The Radiant King in his Joyful Repose, ‘’The false king’’, Captain of the 12th company, Member of the phoenix conclave-
His crusade pattern armour was plasma etched with sigils of slaanesh and shaggy white fur was wrapped about his grieves and vambraces. His chest plate had been decorated with a grotesque mural depicting Fulgrim’s moment of apotheosis and one of his shoulder plates had become fused and twisted into the shape of a leering feminine face that whispered softly. Slaves scattering blood-soaked flower pestles in his path as his harem of devil women danced behind him. His face was androgynous, beautiful but not handsome and his eyes burned like small suns. Equipped with the power sword Kobaleski (taken from the pacification of 5715). Wore a cloak of woven scalps during the preparation of the shattering.

Radiant at apotheosis-
His flesh swelled and thickened and his armour became too small to contain him. shapes that might have been wings gathered in the mass and bubbling flesh melted away to revealing scales.

Pulchrates-
The Radiant turned his attentions to a hulking renegade. ‘Pulchrates, you and your Havocs shall support him.’ The brute inclined his head. His mismatched armour showed the endless cracks of resealing and battlefield repairs, and was festooned with bandoliers of heavy bolter ammunition. The grille of his crater-marked helmet was decorated with spent casings. ‘Our guns shall roar until every tower has tumbled down, Shining One,’ he growled.

Blessed lidonius, Joybound and Sergent o the 12th company-
Both were sergeants. Both from Twelfth Company, late of nowhere in particular. Both have been with the Radiant since the beginning. A hulking monstrosity with warp touched features and wearing cracked armour bearing the mark of the 12th that revealed his flesh which swam with colour and bubbled and steamed like mud. Equipped with a thunder hammer. Blessed Lidonius attacked him with a humming thunder hammer. Lidonius was warp-touched; his power armour had cracked and ruptured at some point, exposing swollen, mutated flesh. His skin swam with iridescent colours, and it bubbled and steamed like hot mud. He snatched the Xyclos needler from its holster and fired, blistering Lidonius’ malformed face. Lidonius released his grip on the sceptre and staggered back with a screech. He dropped his power maul and clawed gobbets of waxy meat from his face as the toxins burned through him. He looked towards the hulking Lidonius. They arrived at the plaza proper in time to witness the fall of Blessed Lidonius. The monstrous Joybound was surrounded by a number of eldar constructs – Their bulky weapons turned the few unlucky warriors fighting alongside Lidonius inside out, reducing them to scattered motes of cinder and ash. As they approached, Lidonius sent his thunder hammer scything into an eldar war machine. The construct crumpled, but the others turned their weapons on Lidonius, silencing his roars for good.

Nikola Varocar, ‘’the vulpine champion’’, Sergent of the 12th company, Joybound-
Both were sergeants. Both from Twelfth Company, late of nowhere in particular. Both have been with the Radiant since the beginning. A lithe colourfully clad killer with a tri-part crest rising over a helmet wrought in the shape of beast's skull. Nikola stumbled as the Xyclos needler spat again. The vulpine champion sank to the deck with a low moan, steam spewing from his pores, his tri-part crest sagging.His armour bore the mark of the 12th and was equiped with a blade. ‘‘He went to pieces. Got caught by one of the xenos weapons platforms.’’

Diomat-
A loyalist contempter dreadnought equipped with claws and storm bolter. only surviving dreadnought from the attack on the craftworld luganath.

One piston-like arm swept out and the inbuilt storm bolter roared a deadly hymn. The ancient Contemptor Dreadnought, Ancient Diomat. Hero of Walpurgis. Diomat the Mad. Last of the 12th Millennial’s dozen Dreadnoughts. The Hero of Walpurgis had been seeking death in one way or another since the fateful day a Gheist-blade had spilled his life’s blood, and condemned him to an eternity in an amniotic sarcophagus. On occasion, Fabius regretted restoring Diomat’s bio-functions. The Dreadnought had been on the cusp of oblivion, his hull breached, his sarcophagus compromised. But something – some spark of pity, perhaps – had guided his hand, and the hands of his more technologically adept servants, to prolong Diomat’s vital signs until he could be restored. Since then, he had employed Diomat’s unbridled wrath for his benefit. The ancient Contemptor-pattern Dreadnought was roughly humanoid in shape, and ragged with the harsh touch of war. The Imperial purple of his plating had faded to the colour of a bruise, where it had not been scorched off or chipped away. The spherical head rotated in its ceramite shell, watching him as he approached. Diomat studied him, the crimson light of his optic sensors playing across Fabius’ face and armour.. Diomat flexed crude claws. He had been stripped of his heavy armament and left with only a pair of close combat weapons. Even without his guns, the ancient Dreadnought was incredibly lethal.

Slaves-
Branded with signs of the 12th and shown carrying platters of spoiled meat. Most slaves of the Radiant were abhumans. Some wielded narcotic generators that filled the air with its fog for the emperors' children of the Radiant during recreation.

Radiant’s dreadnoughts-
All showed signs of damage, some were missing limbs, one was weeping smoke from its chassis and some had lascannons. Only Diomat would survive the shattering.

Savona's marines-
Their power armour a riot of colour and modifications as were their bolters. Tall crests of turquoise and white rose over helmets scooped to unnatural points. Golden chains hung from shoulder jostling for space with scraps of obscenely decorated parchment other grizzly decorations.

Savona's marines at luganath-
30 of her strongest warriors and her champions were taken to the shattering of luganath. They were marked with a black hoof print on their helmet to show their devotion. They carried a variety of close combat weapons- swords, friction axes and blades made from the sharpened bones of some sort of xenos.

Uskarda Sergent of the 45th -
Was one of the 30 marines selected by Savona during the shattering.

 

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Bellephus of the 67th –
Was one of the 30 marines selected by Savona during the shattering. His armour was inscribed with lines upon lines of obscene Chemosian poetry. A Space Marine approached, his armour inscribed with line upon line of obscene Chemosian gutter-poetry. His name was Bellephus, formerly of the 214th Millennial. One of Savona’s followers. Tapping tunelessly against the hilt of his sword. Beside her, as always, strode her amanuensis, Bellephus. The gutter-poet seemed to be her loyal dog, for reasons known only to them. The hulking renegade wore battleplate inscribed with line upon line of obscene verse, and his helmet bristled with unnatural fleshy growths. Despite the state of his armour, the bolter he carried was well cared for, as was the sword sheathed at his side.

As she started to cross the causeway, she saw a familiar form step down out of the gunship, a heavy stubber slung across one broad shoulder, and its ammunition belt draped across his chest. Bellephus. His armour was scorched and marked by the automatons’ weapons, but he was still in one piece. He was clad in purple battleplate decorated with obscene verse, and wore a helm covered in fleshy growths that seemed to squirm in the dim light of the bay. Saqqara wasn’t certain what the growths were meant to be. Vestigial mouths, maybe. he stroked the newest lines of verse carved into his vambrace, tracing each word in sequence. He caught one of the fragments of sharpened ceramite that hung from his armour and began to scratch at the verse on his vambrace. He crouched nearby, his own knife in hand, not looking at them. It was a curved, crude thing, reminiscent of a butcher’s hook. He was using it to carve verses onto the wraithbone. Bellephus sighted down the length of his boltgun, watching as a tide of abomination crested the gate defences. His helm’s targeting array oscillated, isolating and expanding potential targets as he studied the clash occurring below. Quin was about to reply when he heard the soft click of a bolt pistol being readied. He turned. Bellephus stood off to the side, his weapon levelled.

Thalopsis-
Described with unbound crimson hair which framed his snarling leonine death mask of gleaming silver. His garish armour was decorated with a tabard of stretched flesh along his chest and a sharp spur of metallic bone jutted from a congealed mass of one shoulder plate. Lead the bikes of the 12th millenium during the shattering. Thalopsis was a figure of barbaric splendour. His battleplate was daubed in garish hues, and he wore a tabard of crudely stitched flesh. A twisted spur of metallic bone erupted from one shoulderplate, and his helm had congealed into a leonine death-mask, frozen in an eternal snarl. A shaggy flood of crimson hair spilled from the open back of his helmet and across his shoulders. His hands rested on the pommel of the curved xenos blade sheathed on his hip. Thalopsis had commanded his huntsmen – bikers, mostly, with a love of speed that bordered on the monomaniacal. In the centuries since Telmar’s death on Lugganath, Thalopsis had become the voice of the disaffected in what remained of the company. Thalopsis’ hand flew to his blade, but not quickly enough. Diomat put on a sudden burst of speed.



Merix, The ex-equerry of hellispond, 3rd of the Joybound-
Escorted Diomat and his brethren at luganath. He wore pastel daubed antiquated power armour daubed in soft garish hues bearing the mark of the 12th . Has a worn-down stub of an augmetic hand. The pelts of beasts were swept about him. Wielded an electro flail. His helmet noted having a visor.

One of the Joybound, Merix, turned as he drew close, crackling electroflail whirring about his head. His power armour was of an older mark, and decorated with wide swathes of harsh colour. The pelts of beasts flapped about him as he swung the electro-flail down. Bile sidestepped the blow and rammed Torment into his opponent’s chest. The Chaos Space Marine’s pastel-daubed armour offered precious little protection from the sceptre’s deadly energies. It cut through ceramite like a scalpel through flesh. Merix arched his back and screamed shrilly. The flail fell from his nerveless fingers. His voice was a wheezing rasp, slithering out from behind a respirator grille. His flesh was an angry red where it touched the respirator – a sign of possible infection. Oleander studied the Joybound, noting the way he favoured one arm over the other, the way he twitched – bones badly set, possible nerve damage, exacerbated by the touch of Torment. One of his hands whined as it flexed – the prosthesis was badly in need of an upgrade. Merix was worn down to a nub. There were many like him, among those who’d fled into the Eye. Walking wounded, unable to heal, and unable to die. But still useful, despite that. Strands of muscle tissue and feathery nerves coiled like creeper vines about the pistons and cables of the limb. Merix advanced at the head of a ten-strong squad of renegade Space Marines, their bolters hammering. Their armour was scorched and many were wounded. They’d had a hard fight of it, wherever they’d been.

The newcomer’s voice was a wheezing rasp, slithering through the corroded, fang-like grille of a respirator. Striations of infection climbed across his preternaturally wizened features, and he stank of rot and death. Merix had been dying for as long as Fabius had known him. Likely, he had been dying since the remnants of the Third had fled Terra, their ships loaded down with slaves and plunder. Impact craters marked the flat panes of his Mark III power armour, and the servos whined and sputtered as he approached. He flexed his prosthetic hand as he moved, as if to relieve a persistent ache. Bolt pistol. All of them bore the markings of the 12th somewhere on them.

Gulos polutides, Terran marine of the 7th company, 1st of the joybound-
His arms were bare of armour exposing corded muscle and scarred flesh, amulets icons and finger bones clattered against his chest plate and his matted hair was bound back in a single tendril like braid. He was equipped with two swords and a boltgun that was later given to oleander at luganath. (deceased). Armour bears the mark of the 12th. Gulos Palatides had been handsome once. And he still was, until you got too close. Like a statue, weathered by time and suffused with innumerable cracks and flaws. His face was a thing by turns beautiful and grotesque, depending on where you stood.

Deucalius-
Savona's chosen.

Argimedes-
Savona's chosen.

Gondol-
Killed by Savona for his armour

 

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Daemons on radiants ship-
They had the faces of beautiful men and women and the claws of insects.

Oleander Koh, ‘’Count Sunflame’’, 4th of the Joybound-
An emperor’s children apothecary whose armour was the colour of a bruise, with obscene imagery covering it, animal skins on his shoulders and a light globe on his backpack. He is equipped with a bolt pistol, grenades, ammunition on his belt and a curved mortuary blade with a golden pommel and deaths head, during the shattering he is given a bolt gun by a fellow member of the Joy bound. Oleander has extended canines, a metallic sheen to his hair, a helmet crested with a ragged mane of silk strips and oil black eyes. During the shattering he would take Gulox’s sword to replace his own and soon after claim the Radiant’s blade. He is the 4th of the Joy bound (Lord commander equivalent in the Radiant’s forces.) His helmet is noted to have a vox grill. When undercover at Sublime he wears a cowl and cloak. He is in possession of an etched and gilded pipe which is claimed to be made of Konrad Curze’s fingerbone, with tiny glass filters on his neck containing substances he uses to smoke.

12th Millennial- He studied the line of guns and the hostile shapes behind them. Their battleplate was a confusing muddle of colours and modifications. The dark purple of their original heraldry was visible in some places, beneath spills of silk or excess gilding. Tall crests of turquoise and white rose from helmets scooped to shallow points, and tusk-like extrusions erupted from rebreathers and grilles. Golden chains jangled from shoulderplates and cuirasses, and censers fumed softly, filling the air with a malign sweetness. Many had etched oaths of indulgence into their companions’ armour with ritual blades, or traded battle-pacts scrawled on ragged coils of parchment – reaffirmations of brotherhood. Once, such things would have been mere tradition. Now they were a harsh necessity – a Legion of hedonists could not trust itself, and so the wary and the pragmatic swore by the six hundred names of Slaanesh, and pledged themselves to the defence of their brothers. To break such a vow was to court the wrath of the Dark Prince.


Radiant forces- The loyalist Ancient Diomat and 11 other dreadnoughts. Cestus assault ramps, 1 sky lance gunship, boarding torpedoes, dread claws and Charybdis.

Only 100 marines would return from luganath.

Igori and 20 gland hounds take part in the shattering, filled with combat stims, armed and armoured by the best bile could provide.

Emperors children pirates and handful of mortal pirates joined in the assault of luganath.

Radiant ship- 5 ships- the quazazat a scarred Luna class cruiser with immense wings of metal and void flesh, writhing tendrils of matter sprouting from it, fangs on its bays and stinger looking batteries. -orchalius unbound(frigate)- sly tongue(frigate)- battle barge feather of zamparios - strike cruiser sixth eye.

The Fulgrims song- ship led by the 71st company.

Creations of Olleander

Radiant’s throne-
A throne made from the still living flesh of two siblings. They were fused at the joints, arm to arm and leg to leg facing one another. Their eyelids had been removed and their heads fixed in place so that they were unable to look away from each other. Internal vox dampeners were used to mute them until their screams wanted to be heard.

Radiant’s guards-
Two obese monstrosities with tiny heads hidden by helms etched with ruinous sigils. The helmets were riveted to fanged gorgets. They wore nothing on torsos and arms except oils and scar tissue, their legs were hidden between scavenged fatigues, and each carried a massive chain glaive. Vox units were installed on guard's masks for radiant to speak through.

The Auditorium-
Its curtains were made of stitched flesh hung over makeshift walls made from the melted and cut bone. Great benches made of scrap metal, fossilized bone and more less identifiable substances rose up from the immense stage had been made from flesh and bone. Unlike the walls and benches it still lived, bodies had been linked with heat and surgeries, forced to grow into one another, pruned shaped and reinforced by careful attention. Noise marines strutted across as they performed. Faces at edge of stage moaned. Dancer slaves wielded knives or had them attached to stumps and slashed on one another in time with the music.

Choir of pain-
Six slaves stood in a row, trembling. Each one had undergone intense modification, jaws distorted, larynxes widened or narrowed, palettes and clefts were soldered on them and stretched, throats and torsos bulged with cybernetic enhancements all geared towards singular purpose. Serpentine lengths of cables connected one to the next binding them irrevocably together. A sing note of sound bursts from slaves when interacted with. Each slave had been modified to produce but a single sound an individual note in whatever melody the radiant conceived.

 

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Bellephus of the 67th –
Was one of the 30 marines selected by Savona during the shattering. His armour was inscribed with lines upon lines of obscene Chemosian poetry. A Space Marine approached, his armour inscribed with line upon line of obscene Chemosian gutter-poetry. His name was Bellephus, formerly of the 214th Millennial. One of Savona’s followers. Tapping tunelessly against the hilt of his sword. Beside her, as always, strode her amanuensis, Bellephus. The gutter-poet seemed to be her loyal dog, for reasons known only to them. The hulking renegade wore battleplate inscribed with line upon line of obscene verse, and his helmet bristled with unnatural fleshy growths. Despite the state of his armour, the bolter he carried was well cared for, as was the sword sheathed at his side.

As she started to cross the causeway, she saw a familiar form step down out of the gunship, a heavy stubber slung across one broad shoulder, and its ammunition belt draped across his chest. Bellephus. His armour was scorched and marked by the automatons’ weapons, but he was still in one piece. He was clad in purple battleplate decorated with obscene verse, and wore a helm covered in fleshy growths that seemed to squirm in the dim light of the bay. Saqqara wasn’t certain what the growths were meant to be. Vestigial mouths, maybe. he stroked the newest lines of verse carved into his vambrace, tracing each word in sequence. He caught one of the fragments of sharpened ceramite that hung from his armour and began to scratch at the verse on his vambrace. He crouched nearby, his own knife in hand, not looking at them. It was a curved, crude thing, reminiscent of a butcher’s hook. He was using it to carve verses onto the wraithbone. Bellephus sighted down the length of his boltgun, watching as a tide of abomination crested the gate defences. His helm’s targeting array oscillated, isolating and expanding potential targets as he studied the clash occurring below. Quin was about to reply when he heard the soft click of a bolt pistol being readied. He turned. Bellephus stood off to the side, his weapon levelled.

Thalopsis-
Described with unbound crimson hair which framed his snarling leonine death mask of gleaming silver. His garish armour was decorated with a tabard of stretched flesh along his chest and a sharp spur of metallic bone jutted from a congealed mass of one shoulder plate. Lead the bikes of the 12th millenium during the shattering. Thalopsis was a figure of barbaric splendour. His battleplate was daubed in garish hues, and he wore a tabard of crudely stitched flesh. A twisted spur of metallic bone erupted from one shoulderplate, and his helm had congealed into a leonine death-mask, frozen in an eternal snarl. A shaggy flood of crimson hair spilled from the open back of his helmet and across his shoulders. His hands rested on the pommel of the curved xenos blade sheathed on his hip. Thalopsis had commanded his huntsmen – bikers, mostly, with a love of speed that bordered on the monomaniacal. In the centuries since Telmar’s death on Lugganath, Thalopsis had become the voice of the disaffected in what remained of the company. Thalopsis’ hand flew to his blade, but not quickly enough. Diomat put on a sudden burst of speed.



Merix, The ex-equerry of hellispond, 3rd of the Joybound-
Escorted Diomat and his brethren at luganath. He wore pastel daubed antiquated power armour daubed in soft garish hues bearing the mark of the 12th . Has a worn-down stub of an augmetic hand. The pelts of beasts were swept about him. Wielded an electro flail. His helmet noted having a visor.

One of the Joybound, Merix, turned as he drew close, crackling electroflail whirring about his head. His power armour was of an older mark, and decorated with wide swathes of harsh colour. The pelts of beasts flapped about him as he swung the electro-flail down. Bile sidestepped the blow and rammed Torment into his opponent’s chest. The Chaos Space Marine’s pastel-daubed armour offered precious little protection from the sceptre’s deadly energies. It cut through ceramite like a scalpel through flesh. Merix arched his back and screamed shrilly. The flail fell from his nerveless fingers. His voice was a wheezing rasp, slithering out from behind a respirator grille. His flesh was an angry red where it touched the respirator – a sign of possible infection. Oleander studied the Joybound, noting the way he favoured one arm over the other, the way he twitched – bones badly set, possible nerve damage, exacerbated by the touch of Torment. One of his hands whined as it flexed – the prosthesis was badly in need of an upgrade. Merix was worn down to a nub. There were many like him, among those who’d fled into the Eye. Walking wounded, unable to heal, and unable to die. But still useful, despite that. Strands of muscle tissue and feathery nerves coiled like creeper vines about the pistons and cables of the limb. Merix advanced at the head of a ten-strong squad of renegade Space Marines, their bolters hammering. Their armour was scorched and many were wounded. They’d had a hard fight of it, wherever they’d been.

The newcomer’s voice was a wheezing rasp, slithering through the corroded, fang-like grille of a respirator. Striations of infection climbed across his preternaturally wizened features, and he stank of rot and death. Merix had been dying for as long as Fabius had known him. Likely, he had been dying since the remnants of the Third had fled Terra, their ships loaded down with slaves and plunder. Impact craters marked the flat panes of his Mark III power armour, and the servos whined and sputtered as he approached. He flexed his prosthetic hand as he moved, as if to relieve a persistent ache. Bolt pistol. All of them bore the markings of the 12th somewhere on them.

Gulos polutides, Terran marine of the 7th company, 1st of the joybound-
His arms were bare of armour exposing corded muscle and scarred flesh, amulets icons and finger bones clattered against his chest plate and his matted hair was bound back in a single tendril like braid. He was equipped with two swords and a boltgun that was later given to oleander at luganath. (deceased). Armour bears the mark of the 12th. Gulos Palatides had been handsome once. And he still was, until you got too close. Like a statue, weathered by time and suffused with innumerable cracks and flaws. His face was a thing by turns beautiful and grotesque, depending on where you stood.

Deucalius-
Savona's chosen.

Argimedes-
Savona's chosen.

Gondol-
Killed by Savona for his armour

Savona of the Ruptured Skane, Lady of the Spin-Ward Conflagration, 2nd of the Joybound-
Taller than her marines and slim with long jointed legs ending in heavy black hooves. She wore a suit of pale amethyst power ripped from a dying marine and crudely modified to fit her unusual shape. Her white hair is bound into a profusion of whip like braids hung like a lion's mane from her narrow skull, strange sigils and signs had been carved into her brow and cheeks. One nostril was pierced with a trio of golden rings and a necklace of bolter shells, medallions and fangs clattered against her chest plate. Her mouth contains fangs and a bifurcated tongue. She had a power maul hung at her hip. Her eyes were black. And yet, despite this, and even though she wore their heraldry, she was not Legion.

Savona, in contrast, was taller than the Space Marines around her, for all that she had been mortal once. Her lithe form was clad in pale amethyst power armour, altered to fit her proportions. The armour was no longer metal. Instead, it resembled the carapace of some great insect, sharply edged and unpleasantly contoured. She balanced on long, jointed legs that ended in thick, black hooves. White hair, bound in whip-like braids, hung like a lion’s mane from her narrow skull. The lumen-light glinted from the golden rings which pierced one nostril. She extended her power maul in an accusatory gesture, playing to the crowd. Savona smiled, baring thin fangs. She spat a glob of something acidic on the deck. Savona said, playing with the necklace of spirit stones she wore. The colourful stones were mostly cracked and dull, though one or two still flickered with an inner light. She smiled, as if listening to something only she could hear, and tapped one of the stones against her lips. Her forked tongue slid from between her lips and curled lewdly. r. Savona prowled at their head. A golden death-mask of a helmet, which had once belonged to an eldar autarch, encased her narrow skull.. Savona spat curses as she reloaded her bolt pistol.

Once, she had admired them – to her, they had seemed the apex of the universe. Angels wrought in the shape of men. When they had come to her little agri world, seeking slaves and supplies, she had gone with them willingly, as a bride to her groom, draped in the blood and skin of her family. She had offered up the hearts of kin, and been made a serf for a Legion that had forgotten what such things were for. She had worn a golden torc about her throat, and endured pain and pleasure in such gross quantity that one had bled into the other, until it was impossible to tell which was which. She had sacrificed a life of grey drudgery on the altar of sensation, and remade herself beneath the loving gaze of a god. Her old life had offered her but one path – Governor’s daughter to Governor’s wife to Governor’s mother, and finally, to Governor’s widow.

 

[MolotovKraken]

The battleplate she wore had been another gift from her master, as he lay gasping out his miserable life on a world of iridescent dust and singing winds. She treasured her memory of the look in his dimming eyes, as she crept towards him through the stinging dust, knife in hand. How he had moaned as she’d pried his armour off, one plate at a time, exposing the withered meat beneath. How it had hummed as she placed it on her own body. It had sunk its barbed contact nodes deep, and spread a rough, newborn carapace beneath her scarred flesh. It had found her to be sweet soil, and had drawn what it needed from her meat and marrow, making her over into something worthy of itself. And yet, despite this, and even though she wore their heraldry, she was not Legion. A noxious cloud emerged, wafting through the corridor. Savona gagged and drew a perfumed rag, made from the woven hair of an eldar, from her armour and pressed it to her mouth and nose.’ She lifted her maul, her thumb caressing the switch that would activate the power field. her hand falling to the bolt pistol on her hip. Her armour bore fresh battle-pacts, he noted. She was not of the Legion, but she well knew the way to their heart. Savona was taller than a legionary, but thinner – she had been mortal once, the spoiled daughter of a planetary governor. Now she was something else. She had slim, jointed legs ending in heavy black hooves, and a narrow face, framed by a mane of braided white hair. Sigils had been carved into her cheeks and brow, and three golden rings pierced one nostril. Her fingers toyed with a necklace of spent bolt-rounds and aeldari spirit stones. Savona strode down Butcher-Bird’s boarding ramp, her maul resting on her shoulder. Her armour had been freshly oiled in scented unguents and her golden helm, torn from the dying body of an aeldari autarch and repurposed to interface with her battleplate, had been polished to a mirror sheen. The screams of the mad, the injured and the dying filled the air and she sighed in pleasure. She caught the blow on her pauldron and rolled with it, letting the creature fling her out of arm’s reach.