I wish to apologize. I know that waiting for a new chapter for a story that you really enjoy is terribly annoying. I want to get back into writing, so I hope that posting will be more consistent. Each chapter should consistently be around 5000 words preferably 5000 words or more. This remastered version should be significantly better than the previous story.
The grim darkness of the future, a time where war rages, prosperity is contained to the greedy and peace remains a fragment of days long past.
The Astra Militarum, the bulwark, the meat-grinder, millions die in days, or hours, that is the Astra Militarum, men and women who fight for this Imperium until meeting gruesome ends. Be it in the Imperialis Auxilia or the Navis Imperialis, the men and women fight together through thick and thin. They all may burn, shatter or rise and prevail in the crucible of endless war. Praying to the Emperor that never wished to be a God for salvation. Salvation that may or may not come.
However, in the middle of the mayhem there are qualities that decide the fate of many in the endless crucible of the 41st Millenium. Those factors are one's faith and one's will. The Astra Militarum fights, yet many only have faith, some only the will, some have neither and few have both. They are the shield of the Imperium, yet some were vulnerable and weak, allowing dents to form, vulnerabilities and opportunities for its enemies to exploit in countless confrontations. Yet others harden themselves to be greater, and if all had that drive, then the shield would not be weak, it would be hard as the adamantine armor of the Adeptus Astartes.
Speaking of, the Adeptus Astartes, they are the hammer, they do not fight, they slaughter and those that do fall, reap hundreds before they do so. They have the will, the faith and more. They are the youth who are chosen to suffer the greatest achievements at the cost of their own lives. They sacrifice their lives to focus on one singular goal, the survival of the Imperium; the young boys are given to the loyalist Legions, they forget everything except for their names, so they train and learn the ways of how to slaughter. They reform themselves, with new organs implanted and while survival is slim many would say that the ends justify the means. Proven by the countless victories over the sanctimonious heretics and xeno that besiege the Imperium on all sides.
To become an Adeptus Astartes is no small feat, each of the aspirants must learn to control themselves, to be disciplined and eternally strengthen their resolve to become Angels of Death.
In the beginning they are nothing but raw ore, freshly picked from their homes and the comforts of being a non-combatant in the war of Humanity. As ore their impurities must be cleansed from their being and only then are put through their first crucible, they must be heated and molded in the fires of training. From that point they become white-hot steel formed into the shape of a weapon, they must be quenched. So comes the final crucible, the true test, they are sent off into combat, to slaughter hordes, traitors and despoilers, there they will be quenched, in the blood of the traitors, to see if they shatter or if they harden and be immortalized in the histories of their Chapters. All while their biological parents live with the hope that their sons live, not as men, but as Demi-Gods.
However, the Adeptus Astartes pale in comparison to the 20, their gene-fathers, the Primarchs. Now, two have disappeared in the earlier stages of Imperial history and there are two groups of nine facing off against each other. Nine stood with the Imperium and nine sided with Chaos and its ilk. Primarchs, some stand as monoliths of virtue, while others fell to the debts of depravity and loss. This is a story of one of them, a soldier, a father, a son, some have called him that, the masses know him as the Praetorian, their salvation.
This is a story of the Lord of the Seventh, Primarch of the Imperial Fists, the tale of Rogal Dorn.
In the 781st year of the 31st Millenium, it seemed that all hope was lost for the vigilant Primarch, fighting a battle against the forces of Chaos in the vastness of space, sadly the battle was already lost. Prior to fighting in this battle, the battle group was heading to Cadia to reinforce it as word came out that Abbadon, Horus' lieutenant, seemed to be making an offensive. Little did the galaxy know that this would be the first of many of the traitorous bastard's 'crusades'.
Sadly, the Praetorian's fleet had already been in battle prior to this one, during their voyage, Orks, Eldari and Chaos fell upon them. One after another fell upon the might of the battle group and now it would seem that the final bell had rung and thankfully the bell would not be rung easily as the darkness encroached on them. For the traitor's would be taken to the afterlife alongside the loyalists. For the Praetorian refused to go easy into the night, as he had done in the past he would rage at the dying of the light.
The majority of the enemy's mighty fleet was reduced to rubble along with the Imperium's own. However, as the enemy was gaining the upper hand once more in the final stages of the battle, the Loyalists did something unorthodox.
As the fire and flames of plasma and macro batteries were traded the Primarch and his sons as well as some guardsmen boarded boarding torpedoes and launched towards the 'Sword of Sacrilege'. The traitor's battleship was a ship damaged beyond repair, but it still managed to fight, as its weapons fired and screamed at its rival. Shooting down some of the boarding torpedoes as they were strafing space to reach the starboard side of the dark blue armored ship. It was the traitor's flagship, a battleship at that, a massive dark blue coloured wedge that fought under the influence of Tzeentch. In contrast to the blue of the Despoiler class battleship's livery, its ram happened to be tinted crimson with the frozen blood of loyalists, men and women aboard ships that it had rammed. One could only imagine the pride emanating by those who had been aboard to give the loyalists such a visage. The hundreds if not thousands of people reduced to nothing more than frozen liquid at the ram of a heretic's ship.
As the torpedoes sped through the emptiness of space the deep silence was kept, nervousness, grief, determination was rife but the knowledge that this battle was going to be their last was as painful as a stake through the heart. Rogal, as any commander worth their position would, inspired his troops, "Guardsmen, Astartes, at this moment we will be entering the jaws of the beast, willingly dooming ourselves to death. A death that would eventually come for us all, but in this moment we must decide how we will die. I choose to die in the glory of battle for my Emperor and for the continuing struggle for the Imperium's survival. The more we kill today the more the Imperium will not have to endure later on. Do not grasp onto the idea of victory, we fight now to break the traitors, not in battle but in spirit. This day we may have lost the battle but our spirit never wavered! They will know that we will never falter, break or relinquish from our duty, even if it takes our lives. Fight with me as we make our last charge, as we rise forth and bring death to the enemy! For the Emperor!" The speech, while instilled with zeal and fury, was not one of his best but was good enough to muster the soldiers and Astartes.
The forces at his command rallied to his call as they all sung the words they had lived by during their lives as soldiers of the Imperium; a cry of 'For the Emperor' reverberated through the torpedoes. Gone were the dreaded looks from the faces of the Guardsmen, they knew that they were already dead, however, they would not disappoint a Primarch, themselves, the Imperium or their bloodline by dying a pathetic death. Each of them would die in a golden blaze of glory. Let the names of the unknown heroes be allowed in the Halls of Heaven and within the speeches of officers.
Rogal readied his weapons, his massive chainsword 'Storm's Teeth', a beast of a weapon that required the user to grasp it with both hands and his bolter, the 'Voice of Terra'. This may have been his last few hours fighting, he would make it his best.
The air of anticipation was thick and as the torpedo rushed through space it only grew and festered. However, so did the burning fury within them grow as they recounted all the damnable heresies that the traitors dared commit, ranging from Horus the Arch-traitor's to the Slaanesh daemons that infected the purity of the Imperium.
When the torpedoes hit the starboard side of the hedonistic battleship and the torpedoe's hatch opened, it was easy to see that the enemy was unprepared. So started the final battle, a resounding battle cry was roared from every man, woman, guardsmen and Astartes, from the depths of their souls came the roars, filled with nothing but wrath. A deafening cry of "For the Emperor", let it be known that the heathens that heard it throughout the ship could feel a vice-like grip around their hearts as their morale wavered. Only pushed on by the canticles of their dreaded masters.
More and more dead piled on the floors of the Sword of Sacrilege as they made their way to the bridge, for every dozen heathens that fell only one loyalist would. Fury spurring them on, they refused to die, only until it was certain that they would meet their end would they relish in their own demise.
As the fighting brought the loyalists to the bridge of the ship Rogal killed the traitor who had been their leader and so with no leader more of them fell and returned to their masters in the immaterium. They would not be missed, but the casualties continued to mount and one by one the loyalists fell.
Until only one remained, it was the Primarch, in the span of a few hours he had seen various acts of heroism, gallantry and valiance. Even if he didn't show it as he cut down another traitor Astartes of the Thousand Suns and looted another body for bolter rounds. In truth, however, he couldn't be happier to know that the dead would be dining with the Emperor and not suffering for eternity in the Immaterium.
As mighty as the Primarch was, and arguably the most stubborn one, he was beginning to lose ground, enemy numbers and the loss of his left hand proved to be losses too extensive and sufficient handicaps for the transistor's to be able to take advantage of. However, there would be no end to the ferocity shown by the Primarch as even in the moment where he was at his weakest he fought like no other. Using the bodies of the dad he made a wall to soak up las-gun and bolter fire coming from the heretics, he would not yield, he refused to.
However, as the Spartans had fallen in Thermopylae so did the Primarch fall, a lucky bolter shot having caught him in the abdominal region. As the Primarch had been fighting it seemed as if he was unaware or uncaring of the fact that the ship had lurched meaning that it had entered the warp. The Primarch not-perturbed spat out his lifeblood as it left him, as it continued oozing out of his wound, all he could focus on was the battle ahead of him. His ears could hear the heretics rushing him only to have it all stop in an instant.
A bright light erupted in the room and his vision went blank and his pain evaporated and so the Primarch fell into a dream-like state.
In space it seemed that the grotesque battleship of the remaining crew on the bridge had decided that they would leave the battlefield as the loyalist ships had all either retreated or been destroyed. They were attempting to warp jump to the nearest friendly location. The ship was so damaged it would most likely not see battle either ever or in a very long time. The gate to the Immaterium opened for reality to decisively wish for its existence to be eradicated, as the purple ooze of the Immaterium combated with real-space, in mesmerizing ebbs and flows. With the ship's gellar fields mostly operational the heretics set course into chaos, the gate came to a close just as quickly as it appeared when the battleship entered the void.
As the ship was traveling in the Immaterium, the gellar fields had decided to simply stop functioning, in fact it seemed that this warp jump would be its last. In those moments the Emperor took the opportunity to save his loyal son, for the Praetorian could not fall yet.
When the heretics rubbed the blindness out of their eyes they once more rushed to the make-shift wall only to discover the absence of their target and so the howls of anger and denial coursed through the minds and hearts of the heathens. It seemed the 'Corpse' Emperor had denied them one of the greatest achievements they could ever achieve, killing a Primarch.
However, the absence of the Primarch of the seventh was felt throughout the entire galaxy. The chapters and sons of the Primarch could feel a bond within them weaken, but never disappear. Like a relenting reminder that they would not see their Primarch any time soon. It caused a boiling fury to rise as their pain and grief led to an insatiable desire for penance. That penance would be paid with every dead traitor, with every ounce of their blood spilt, with every victory, a covenant was formed that day and it would be followed with frightful eagerness.
Thus every time they returned from battle and prayed to the Emperor they would always remember to pray for their Primarch as well. For thousands of years, this ritual would continue. Until the faithful day arrived when the Primarch would return to them, for all of them knew that Dorn lived.
In the 500th year of the 41st Millenium, on a planet far away a blinding light appeared in a village far away from the nearest city. In the numbingly cold expanse of Solitas, a hearty village put together with wood, stone and cement. A village that was a closely-knit and wholesome community that would help each other in their times of need. While the landscape truly was bleak and to an extent so were they, they still had moments of joy and happiness, sparse as they may be. This place was named Last Hearth.
It was a windy and frigid day in Last Hearth.
That light appeared in the barn of a local farmer, a farmer who had a family of 3, his wife Alexa and two kids, Ivan and Konrad, his name was Arthur Moore. In almost all aspects he was a normal farmer, being the height of six feet and one inch tall. He was just about a hundred kilograms of hefty muscle with a body molded by the tough lifestyle of living in the frontier of Solitas. The man had a brown mop of hair on his head, with some individual hairs being blond, having his hair combed to the right more befitting a businessman more than a farmer. He had a full-grown brown beard as well as sporting eyes that withheld a mixture of brown and green. At the time he was sporting blue overalls with a red and blue flannel shirt underneath with some brown farmer boots.
Up until this point in the day, things were merely going along as they normally went on, just how he liked it. The bitter cold made his skin shiver but it was an enjoyable feeling that he had already been accustomed to. Little did he know that change would come in dramatic form, and as he picked up some hay and fed his cows and horses that very event would realize itself.
'What a lovely day.' He thought sarcastically as he tried and failed to get the knot on the fence's gate correctly.
As one of his cows mooed once more a glaring light slithered its way through the wooden walls of the family barn. In a short burst of radiating light from the barn the World seemed to stop for a second and so Arthur stopped and as his animals were starting a chorus of shouts and raced to the other side of the fence while the farmer ran into his home looking for his gun. His children and wife were shocked, they may have not seen the light but heard the fearful shouts of the animals, shock evident on their faces. However, once Alexa caught the sight of Arthur's eyes she took their kids to the cellar hurriedly.
With his mind at slight ease knowing his family was to a degree safe he rushed out of his home and towards the barn, rifle in hand and with his stomach twisting with adrenalin. When he reached the door he paused knowing that this could be something perilous inside. He calmed himself and took a breath and as he was about to open the door a loud groan was heard inside the barn.
As curiosity sprouted in his mind he cautiously opened the door to the barn and as the light entered the barn it reflected off of something directly to his eye. Cursing quietly Arthur averted his eyes from the blinding light and rubbed his eyes quickly, then opened the door slowly and to say that he was shocked with what he saw inside was an understatement.
Within his barn was a giant in golden armor, his mind was attempting to process everything that he was seeing but it just didn't make sense. To get a better grasp of the being within his barn he looked closely at the armor. There were a lot of symbols that looked like a two-headed eagle on his pauldrons and chest plate and a black fist on a white field on a circular section of armor that looked like a belt buckle. As Arthur looked at the being as a whole he saw that the being was wearing a helmet and continued to groan.
As he looked all over trying to find what it is that could make a being such as this groan he saw that the giant's left hand had been severed and a deep wound plowed into its abdomen, his right side.
The giant was laying on top of a small mount of hay making it seem as if the man was lazily sitting upon a reclined chair. It reminded Arthur of his father when he was younger and his father would lay on his chair smoking his pipe.
Arthur once again stood in silence as the being laid there unmoving, except for their shallow but deepening breaths. The air coming from the beings mouth came out in larger and larger plumes of white.
As he stood there the wind blew into the barn, it forced the door open, swarming the barn with chilling air.
Light shone onto the giant's face and its groan pierced the air, Arthur looked and thought, 'Oh what a lovely day'.
The giant eyes opened and for the first time the Praetorian's eyes gazed upon this new world.
As the Praetorian's eyes opened and he gained consciousness all throughout the galaxy a rekindled connection in the hearts of the Imperial Fists and its successor chapters burned like a new star.
All across the galaxy marines of the Seventh, the Templars, Crimson Fists, they all felt it, the instant rush of adrenaline waking them all no matter the state. Dreadnoughts cried out in glory and those who were meeting their deaths cried out in joy.
Gregor Dessian was in the Phalanx and was woken from his slumber, a smile was strewn across his face.
High Marshal Helbrecht grew more fervent as he struck his battle brother in the practicing arenas within the Eternal Crusader, calling for the end of the bout.
Chapter Master Gareus Aluiten of the Crimson Fists was in contemplation with the pain glove with his friend Pedro Kantor, they looked at each other and smiled.
They all spoke the very same words, "He is risen, the Praetorian has returned."
I hope you all enjoyed this, it is something I have had trouble coming back to. I wont lie and say that there will be a new chapter very soon after this but I will say that this story is not abandoned. That I can say with full confidence.