Character Description Compendium: The Forces of Lord Commander Primus Eidolon

[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 The Forces of the Lord Commander Primus.



Lord Commander Eidolon



Galaxy in Flames-
Eidolon carried a powerful natural authority about him, accentuated by magnificent armour with such an overabundance of gilding that the purple colours of the Legion were barely visible. A second delegation arrived through another of the arches, arrayed in the purple and gold of the Emperor's Children. Led by Eidolon in all his magnificence, a squad of Astartes with glittering swords marched alongside the lord commander, their battle gear as ornate as their leader's. Tarvitz saw the golden armour of Eidolon flashing in the planet's hard light, the lord commander hefting a mighty hammer with blue arcs of energy crackling around its head. The hammer slammed into die remains of the doors, blue-white light bursting like a lightning strike as they vanished in a thunderous explosion.

Eidolon was on his knees, his hammer lost and the Warsinger hovering over him. Her hands stretched out in front of her as she battered Eidolon with waves of force strong enough to distort the air. Eidolon's armour warped around him, his helmet ripped from his head in a wash of blood, but he was still alive and fighting. Eidolon's eyes were ablaze, his hatred and revulsion at this foe clear as his mouth opened in a cry of rage. His mouth opened still wider and he let loose his own screeching howl. Eidolon bent and picked up Tarvitz's fallen broadsword, his own terrible scream now silenced. Eidolon looked up at the statue towering over them, the hollow eyes regarding them with a cold, unflinching gaze.

Reflection Crack'd -
Eidolon’s skin was waxy and pale, pulled tightly across the distended orbits of his eyes. Wire-taut tendons throbbed at his neck, and the bones of his lower jaw moved with the liquid detachment of a serpent. His armour was painted in garish stripes of vivid purple and electric blue, the colours riotously applied in a striking pattern that owed nothing to any design of camouflage and made Lucius’s eyes strain to assimilate what he was seeing. Such vivid colourings were now the norm among the Legion, with each warrior striving to outdo his fellows in sheer extravagance and ostentation.

Eidolon laughed, the gesture opening his face up like a tearing wound. He crashed down into the rubble left by the demolition of the tiered benches, his breastplate cracked wide and his taut skin spattered with blood. The quillons of Eidolon’s sword had barely parted company with the lip of his scabbard when the anathame cut through his neck and sent his head flying through the air. It landed with a meaty thud on the terrazzo floor and rolled until it finally came to rest against one of the urns of victory wine. The Lord Commander’s eyes blinked once, his lips drawn back over his splintered teeth in an expression of horror that made Lucius want to laugh.

 

[MolotovKraken]

Angel Exterminatus-
Fulgrim, pulling back the hood of the robed figure who had entered with Fabius. A collective gasp of astonishment swept around the Heliopolis at the sight of the warped features, the stretched-out jaw and the face of a warrior thought dead at the hands of the primarch himself. Lord Commander Eidolon threw off his robes, revealing his armoured form, gleaming and painted in neon colours that offended the eye. Barbs of coiled wire trailed scraps of hessian from his shoulder guards, and his mighty hammer was slung in a looping series of bandoleer straps that buckled in a slash of leather across his chest.

A raw suture ran the circumference of his neck in a perfectly even line. His skin was the colour of faded parchment, his eyes black and glassy, dead like a doll’s. He limped towards Lucius, a lipless grin splitting his already too-wide mouth. They followed a limping warrior named Lord Commander Eidolon, who wore a razor-hooked cloak over his garishly coloured armour and bore a monstrously heavy hammer not unlike that of the Lord of Iron. d Eidolon, pulling in a great lungful of shimmering smoke.

His corpse eyes lost their emptiness for a moment, and his jaw stretched wider than any mouth should ever stretch. Tendrils of smoke gusted from his enlarged throat. The Lord Commander’s flesh was suffused with a similar light to that enveloping Fulgrim, a deathly radiance that had no place within a living being. Eidolon removed a blade from beneath his cloak – a grey, glitterdust-bladed weapon that Lucius recognised immediately. It was a weapon with which a warrior might slay a god, a weapon that in ancient times would have been called enchanted. The anathame was a shadow of the longsword that had, rumour said, been stolen from the Hall of Devices on Xenobia. Its blade had been chipped and shaved, reduced to the length of a ranker’s gladius by a Chaplain of the XVII Legion, though no one knew for what purpose.

Amor Fati-

Sparring-Eidolon stood before them in the Proudheart’s battle cage unarmed and clad only in a loincloth. Subconsciously he raised his hand to his throat. His fingers sought out the raised weal of the suture which circumscribed his neck. His arm convulsed and twitched of its own volition and filled him with revulsion and magnificent pain. He flipped his once lustrous hair – now stringy and clumped into patchy strands – from out of his view and ran his hand over his face. Frail parchment skin stretched taut over sunken cheeks confirmed the affront to the perfection he had always sought. The man’s knife plunged into Eidolon’s chest, but even with Fabius’ stimms flowing through him, the strike lacked the necessary force to push through the black carapace and Eidolon’s fused ribcage. The warrior tried to pull the knife back, but it was firmly lodged in the bone.

On moon- Without his helmet, he had no auto-senses to highlight the potential targets ahead. He found he didn’t need them. He knew where they were and could picture them in his mind’s eye as surely as if he’d seen them under the brightest sky. Hammer. He drew his archeotech pistol and, with an elated cry, charged. The other Space Marine’s bolter barked even as Eidolon swung. By providence or by chance, the shell deflected from Eidolon’s pauldron and detonated harmlessly against nearby stone. Eidolon’s swing ended in a thunderclap as the energised hammer’s head stove in the Iron Hands legionary’s chest and smashed his body against the ravine wall. Eidolon raised the hammer for a coup de grâce, but the Space Marine had been pulverised. Eidolon stood, slack-jawed at the result. He’d struck in the heat of the moment, with a practised strike he’d executed perhaps thousands of times. Never with such a result. Eidolon had only seen one other deal such a blow. And that being had been a primarch. Before he even realised it, he’d backhanded Gorrager several metres off the ground. The Kakophoni champion crashed down and skidded away from him. His thoughts returned to the feats which had led him to this point. How had he known where to find his prize? He’d trusted his instincts. His senses were preternaturally honed beyond anything they’d been before. The strength he’d exhibited and not known he was capable of… These were gifts from the gods.

Path of Heaven-
The Lord Commander Primus had eschewed a gorget and helm, exposing the long scar on his neck that he seemed to take as a sign of strength. He gazed down from the throne with the dull-eyed, listless mien of the Chemosian aristocracy. Every look, every gesture, implied ownership, the kind of acquisitive superiority that brooked no argument or dissension. Eidolon’s irises had been replaced by iridescent jewels, and they glinted now with a tactician’s enthusiasm. Eidolon’s cheek twitched, exposing the tight skein of sinew that Fabius had painstakingly re-knitted.

The Lord Commander Primus rose from the throne and drew himself up to his full, crooked height. Eidolon’s movements had once been fluid, but were now those of an old man, made halting by the life-sustaining poisons that coursed through his ravaged frame. Only his voice still made him deadly – the swollen auditory augmetics and bloated throat-sacs that could unleash his flesh-ripping hurricanes of sound. His gold-edged boots scraped against the marble as his feet dragged. Eidolon felt his new glands twitch. He raised a finger and traced the line of his swollen throat, the skin as tight as a drum. He felt the veins pulse rhythmically, tracing out the irregular pattern of two hearts. A six-legged augmetic drone clattered across the marble, bearing Eidolon’s swollen gorget in three iron pincer-claws.

The armour-piece had been chased with silver, picked out with bestiary from Old Terra and Chemos, fluted finely, polished to the high sheen that had always been demanded. As the drone approached, Eidolon raised his chin, suffering its mechanical attentions like some old coiffured monarch. The gorget was clamped into place, and Eidolon felt filament-needles slide into his distorted black carapace, locking fast and pulling ceramite hard onto flesh. As the sonic multipliers made their interface, an echoing snap spun out across the arming chamber. It was only a feedback glitch, but it still blasted open the cranial shells of the servitors, leaving several twitching helplessly on the flags.

Tech-priests limped towards Eidolon, carrying his helm aloft on a salver of gold. It was twice the size it had once been, chocked and studded with auditory dampeners and channellers, inlaid with the filaments that would slide into his inner ear and wrap around his sinus cavities. They lifted it high, and Eidolon looked up into its miraculous interior. Eidolon himself, who had embraced the mutations more completely than any other since his resurrection, bore a thunder hammer in his heavy gauntlets, its snarled head flooded with arcane psychic matter. It cast a sick green sheen across the iron of the chamber’s outer gates, strobing in rhythm with the beat of the idling organ guns. Lord Commander Eidolon, the proudest of his proud breed, turned his pitiless helm across the ruined detritus of the tank advance, opened his agonised throat and screamed.

The devastation surpassed anything unleashed by his brothers. Reality split open, seared from its foundations by the release of physics-defying warp harmonics. Eidolon had grown since his resurrection, his might augmented to match his ancient arrogance. The brutal shock wave tore out, driving a path of annihilation through whatever stood in its way, bisecting the hulls of stranded tanks, cracking armour, smashing skulls and bursting blood vessels. The entire deck level reeled, casting warriors from their feet and causing grav-speeders to plough into the plunging metal. Palls of smoke swelled up from the carnage, underlit with racing fires and shredded by follow-up blasts. Eidolon’s bloated breastplate cracked, disgorging white noise freely from damaged amplifiers.

He looked down to see the cascades of blood across his chest, and saw just what a mess had been made of his pristine armour. Bare flesh glistened between jagged edges, pallid even by the light of the promethium fires. Wincing, he pulled himself to his feet, just in time to see the sorcerer teleport away. Eidolon himself sat atop a throne of lapis lazuli and hammered bronze. Its armrests were carved into the form of two rearing serpents, the back moulded into a depiction of an open maw lined with curved teeth. Within the creature’s mouth, hellish visions writhed, moving subtly by the light of the many candelabra, or perhaps from other sources. Eidolon slumped in his seat, toying with something in the palms of his gauntlets. His helm was gone, and he looked maudlin. He had been elegant in the past, lean, with armour that had been gilded and mastercrafted but had not strayed into gaudiness. Some of that old poise remained, but much else was gone. His throat bulged obscenely, accommodated by new armour that swelled and curved like water. His heavy cloak was burnished with veins of gold and silver, woven into impossibly complex patterns that reflected and caught the lantern-light like prisms. When he reached the primarch, Eidolon bowed clumsily, his movements halting and awkward. Pain was evident in every gesture, drawn across flesh that had once been pristine.

 

[MolotovKraken]

The Soul, Severed-
The soul severed, Larger than the greatest of his followers his heavy cloak billowing in the hot wind. His once lusterous hair hung lankly over skin held together with iron black sutiors. In enormous gauntlets he carried a glinting thunder hammer and his breastplate was crowned with a grotesque organ grill his throat seemed to spill out out of his gorget flabby and wet ripe to swell inta sonic scream that had become his favourite weapon. / hair had been burned away and hung now in blackened clumps from a scabby scalp. Tortured sin. Chemicals seared and scoured corroding their way into bloodstreams and reacting with the soup of stimulants already there. Felt his muscles swell to even greater dimensions. No icons of the old emperors children remained on hiss armour after the burning only nightmarish slurs. The old pruple had reacted vilontly turning a virulant pink and glowing into the nights inferno, armour seals had fused closed, vox grills melted into liquid flesh.

Slaves to Darkness-
On his throne Eidolon heard it, and blood flooded the whites of his eyes. Eidolon looked at him. Air sacs in the commander’s throat filled and deflated slowly.

Saturnine-
His teeth were perfect, like fine ivory. His face was not. It was like a painted parody of human features, fixed like a carnival mask. Frilled sacs breathed either side of his throat. But it was Lord Commander Eidolon, as he strode towards them, teeth glittering, his throat sacs heaving and puffing like the goitre frills of some foul marsh amphibian. fastidiously flicking some invisible mote of dust off his coral-pink warplate, When Eidolon, gleeful, lammed his sword through Sigismund’s collarbone, Sigismund snarled, seized the bare blade impaling him, Sigismund snarled, seized the bare blade impaling him, and used his bodyweight to tear it out of Eidolon’s grip.

Eidolon looked appalled as Sigismund came on, the sword wedged through his shoulder. He scrambled backwards. The Templar’s chained blade ripped Eidolon’s pink plate open. Blood like quicksilver, like liquid chrome, sprayed out and dappled Sigismund’s armour. Eidolon screamed. Sigismund kicked him over the ledge. The lord commander’s flailing body plunged away, eleven hundred metres down into the burning darkness below the Saturnine Wall.

Clonelord-
All save one. A crude throne had been crafted atop the most stable section of ruin – a dais of substructure and heat-warped rebar – and upon it sat the Lord Commander Primus of the Emperor’s Children. Eidolon, Master of the Eternal Song, and the Auric Hammer. Eidolon, Firstborn of the Kakophoni, and First Vizier to the Phoenician. Eidolon the Headless, Eidolon the Reborn. He accrued titles the way a gambler accrued debts. Eidolon had not changed much in the centuries since Fabius had last seen him. His battleplate was a chemical-scarred riot of colour, its facets carved into suggestive shapes. His mangled scalp was shorn smooth, save for a single cascade of colourless, brittle hair that tumbled across the ornate vents and amplifiers wired into his armour. His face looked as if the flesh were too loose to hang properly on a skull that was no longer structurally sound, and his eyes were opaque orbs. Power cables studded his head and throat, feeding back into his armour, and these sparked and twitched like serpents. His thunder hammer rested across his lap as he sprawled back in the throne.’ He grinned crookedly, empty gaze sweeping over his assembled chieftains and warlords. Eidolon tapped the distorted aquila on his chestplate. Eidolon touched the twisted mass of scar tissue that ringed his neck. He smiled, the flesh of his lips tearing like paper, revealing a razor maw beneath. Up close, Fabius could see that Eidolon’s skull no longer fit his flesh. It had transformed in some awful, subtle way. Was transforming still. As if that sagging grey meat was nothing more than a cocoon for some gestating horror. Eidolon’s jaw sagged. The sound that emerged from within that altered throat was akin to a physical blow. Even as he was knocked backwards, Fabius knew that Eidolon was using but a fraction of his strength. At its strongest, Eidolon’s howl could punch through the hull of a frigate.


Forces of Eidolon on the Tortured moon-

Carnolon Gorrager’s squad- Kakophani squad, ‘Who?’ the Kakophoni squad champion, Carnolon Gorrager, asked; his speech emerged from his fused vox-grille gurgling with phlegm. There was a warbling tone to his response indicating his preparedness to let loose with the sonic weaponry the Kakophoni were known for.

Moon- The ravine, a shallow affair from the air, proved to be a deep rent in the moon’s surface. Geometric basalt columns stretched skyward – tubes from a monstrous pipe organ, near-vertical walls which cut off what little ambient light reached the floor and left behind large patches of Stygian gloom. Sulphurous mists choked the hexagon-patterned ground masking occasional bottomless fissures, which glowed faintly orange from a source deep below. Eidolon’s footsteps scraped along the ground and disturbed crystalline shards which uttered vaguely resonant tones as they were kicked away or crushed underfoot.

Forces at Horvia
Eidolons forces- land raiders, land speeders, simitar jetbikes, legionaires, kakophani contemptors with flamers and claws, stormbird squadrons / Kakaphonis their armour smoking their exposed flesh red raw, insignias scrubbed from their armour by chemicals leaving what remained melted and distended as sluffed murass of bubling gold and laquer.

Vexillary orchestrator lekis vodian- spoke into a swollen vox distortor, he did nt wear a helm and his pale nostril flared as he drank in the bitter air of the chem world. Fingers fused to his organ gun. No icons of the old emperors children remained on hiss armour after the burning only nightmarish slurs. The old pruple had reacted vilontly turning a virulant pink and glowing into the nights inferno, armour seals had fused closed, vox grills melted into liquid flesh.

Proudheart crew– Eyeless and earless mortals suffled from station to station their spines clunky with pain bringers their shaved heads bearing brands of ownership.

Eidolons warriors- 16, Their helm lenses glowing lilac. Kakaphoni, their organs augmented and bloated, spliced and respliced pumped full stims and drained of blood until they were somwhere between legionairy and weapon. Crackling power sword flanked by pheonix terminators.

 

[MolotovKraken]

40k-
Flavius Alkenex- A warrior pushed his way through the newcomers’ ranks. He was clad in magnificent Mark IV battleplate, decorated with complex heraldry and ornamentation. Every facet of the purple armour had been made over into a work of art – painted faces warred for space with deceptively delicate looking crystalline growths and carefully sculpted extrusions of ceramite. The helmet bore a crest of stiff white hair, and the golden visor was scooped to a sharp, baroque curve. Ancient oaths of moment, all either happily unfulfilled or proudly broken, fluttered about his armour. Flavius Alkenex, whom he’d fought beside at Byzas and Walpurgis. Prefect of the Phoenix Guard in the waning days of the Heresy. One of Fulgrim’s lackeys in the centuries after the flight from Terra. He tapped the pommel of the blade sheathed at his side. Flavius Alkenex stood behind him, watching him with a mocking eye. Alkenex had removed his helm, exposing his face. He bore little in the way of obvious mutation. His face had been ritually scarred, and his pale hair braided into thin locks that hung serpent-like from his scalp. His teeth were unnaturally sharp and had been etched with tiny characters, as if each fang were a poem. Alkenex’s hand fell to the hilt of his blade. For the first time, Fabius noticed the curious ring-shaped pommel, and the tassels of threadbare silk that were tied to it. He recognised the streamers as the remnants of a company banner, though which company he could not say.

He had joined the Phoenix Guard not long after the culling of the Legion’s ranks at Isstvan III, and then been promoted to prefect by Fulgrim himself. It had been his task to maintain lines of communication between the scattered Millennials as the war began in earnest. The Third was everywhere in those days. The Emperor’s Children had been Horus’ sword, decapitating the enemy at every turn. Literally, in some instances. Where they fought, only victory bloomed. And then Eidolon had returned, and it had all started to go wrong. Alkenex emptied his goblet and set it aside. He bore the Lord Commander Primus no grudge. It was not solely Eidolon’s fault, any more than it was Fulgrim’s. They had all lost their way, overcome by the magnitude of what awaited them. Command had broken down, as Horus had likely known it would. Alkenex had realised early on that the Warmaster was using them, bleeding them white so as to spare his own precious sons. That was a familiar story. The Third Legion had almost been used up in the early days of the Great Crusade. Their dwindling numbers cast into war again and again, until only a few remained. But they had emerged the stronger for such a tempering. As they had at Terra, and would again, when the gene-tithe was theirs once more. ‘We will be magnificent,’ he murmured.

His hand flew to his bolt pistol.

Palos Gyr-
‘This is Palos Gyr. My good right hand. He will remain here, as an observer.’ The warrior was short and sturdily built beneath his bruise-coloured battleplate. His helmet had been reinforced with bands of ceramite, including, inexplicably, across the visor. That one was marked with two intricately painted eyes – a beast’s eyes, Fabius noted. The false eyes met Fabius’ real ones as their owner saluted silently. ‘He doesn’t talk much. Then, he doesn’t need to.’ Palos’ hand dropped to the friction axe mag-clamped to his thigh. He shuddered slightly as the endorphin pumps in his armour went to work. . Palos Gyr had come through the battle with Red Scimitars intact, and with new notches carved into the chest-plate of his armour. The bulky, eyeless warrior seemed willing enough to defer to Fabius’ authority, but it was for the sake of appearances. Maysha sucked in the air for a scream as the monomolecular axe bit into his chest, but no sound emerged from the Gland-hound’s throat. Mayshana snarled and lunged, drawing her own blade as she leapt on Palos’ back. The knife sank into a gap in his armour, but the renegade didn’t hesitate. Amethyst fingers snagged her by the head and he wrenched her from her perch.


Associates of Eidolon-

Queen Sylelle- Consort of Eidolon

Slaves (Amor Fati)-
Four more slaves charged. This batch, like the others, held weapons sourced from the Chapter’s own armoury. Powerblades and a chainaxe. The largest of the swords merely an initiate’s gladius, a main gauche for an Astartes warrior. They frothed at the mouth with a mixture of bile, saliva and inchoate rage, fuelled by Fabius’ concoction. (Dead)

This next group held little promise save for one. A tall man, powerfully built, bore many scars. Where the other three slaves cowered and averted their eyes, he stared directly at Eidolon and dared match his gaze. The depth of hatred in the man’s eyes made Eidolon lick his lips. He wondered what it must be like for this man to have lost everything and be moments from a meaningless death, yet still stand defiant. A warrior. ‘Fabius, do not give that one the liquid madness – only the physical stimulants, I want his mind intact.’ Stimulants coursed through the man’s body. He bounced on the balls of his feet and bent to retrieve an Astartes combat knife from the pile of weapons. In his grip it looked like a short sword. Even as the warrior swooped to retrieve the combat knife, Eidolon was on him. His hand snatched the man’s throat, lifted him bodily into the air, and slammed him into the decking. The man’s head snapped back from the force of the blow and his skull cracked, spraying blood and brains across the marble.