The morning after Corvus's initiation into the Blood Angels was still, the sound of hushed whispers echoing in the vast fortress-monastery. The only movement came from a solitary figure—the twelve-year-old child—who made his way down a winding hall and entered a chamber scented with incense and age-worn parchment. Even those initiated into its ranks were often unaware of Corvus's early years; they could only imagine how he had come to be in the barren sandscapes of Baal Secundus.
It is said that he was found by a patrol of Space Marines, standing alone amidst violent winds as if beckoned by fate.
In the dimly lit corridors of the fortress-monastery, the light from the antechamber revealed an ancient tapestry of a long-forgotten battle, its threads frayed and faded as if lost in time. Shadows draped across the men like cloaks, their whispers echoing off the cold stone walls. The only indication that they even stood there was the faint glimmer of the stars reflecting off the polished blades of their weapons.
Brother Cassiel spoke quietly into the silence. "It is said that the boy was not simply found; he arrived in this world with a purpose - an unyielding will and silent strength like no other."
Brother Amos, his face lined with a gnarly scar from cheek to jaw, chuckled. "Aye, I can still remember it clearly… the look in his eyes, like a fire burning deep within - a spark that could not be extinguished."
In truth, Corvus did hail from the unforgiving, radiation-scarred wastelands of Baal Secundus, born into one of its nomadic tribes. Life in these desolate lands was a constant battle for survival, forging him into a resilient and determined warrior from a young age. The Blood Angels had called to him, a beacon of hope and purpose in an otherwise barren expanse of a home.
The Space Marines were battle-worn veterans, their armor drenched in the blood of many enemies, yet when they found the child, something stirred within them. His bright eyes and delicate features reminded them of something pure, something untainted. Without hesitation, they decided to bring him back to the fortress-monastery and present him to the Chaplains and Sanguinary Priests.
The high echelons of the Blood Angels saw a glimmer of potential in the little boy, and they welcomed him into their fold as an aspirant-in-training. If he did fail, they would simply discard of him. A minor disappointment in the grand scheme of things.
He was given the name Corvus by the Chaplain who first trained him, for he had no memories or knowledge of his parents or his past. But he soon embraced this new family of fierce warriors, finding solace in the rigorous training and dark rituals that marked his initiation into the Blood Angels.
The ancient walls of the fortress-monastery loomed above them, blocking out the sun as they walked slowly towards the entrance. The scent of incense and spilled blood filled the air, a reminder of the secret rituals performed within these sacred halls.
Chaplain Selaphiel guided Corvus through the shadowy corridors, their footsteps echoing off the cold stone. The chaplain's deep voice rumbled with authority as he spoke of the dangers and rewards to come, his words carrying the weight of centuries on each syllable.
As they passed through the entrance to the sanctum, a soft red light illuminated every corner of the chamber. Long shadows stretched across the floor like a silent audience watching for any sign of hesitation or doubt in Corvus' commitment.
Selaphiel began to chant in an ancient tongue, binding Corvus' soul to the legacy of Sanguinius with each word. An unseen power seemed to fill the room, crackling with electricity and reverberating with energy.
The Chaplain raised the chalice aloft and declared with solemn authority, "With this blood, thou art reborn." Corvus took the chalice in both hands, nearly trembling with excitement as he cradled it against his chest. The ornate metalwork was cool against his skin, and within its depths shone a dark liquid that seemed to pulse with unseen power. With reverent anticipation, he brought the chalice to his lips and let the elixir of life flow over his tongue.
A sip.
As the sacred blood filled him, Corvus felt an inner fire ignite like a star had been born within him. Images of glorious battles raced through his mind, and he felt a newfound strength fill him as if he was no longer bound by the constraints of mortality. He had become something more—a son of Sanguinius, a warrior of the Blood Angels.
As he aged, Corvus was determined to focus on honing his budding skills as a warrior. He spent hours perfecting his technique and increasing his strength and endurance, doing everything he needed to become a great fighter. But no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, the shadows still whispered and the thirst for battle gnawed within him.
As Corvus ventured further into the depths of the fortress-monastery, he was drawn to a secluded library. The air was heavy with the scent of musty parchment and dust-coated leather bindings. Dimly glowing lumens cast wispy shadows through the vast archive, illuminating thousands of ancient texts. He skimmed his fingers along the spines of codices, each one containing a unique tale of bravery and heartbreak, until he found himself faced with a wall lined with scrolls and data slates, their contents written in strange glyphs and runes.
The mysteries within these pages were unlike anything he had ever encountered before-prophecies that had been hidden from view for centuries, visions recorded by the Chapter's most revered psykers and seers. He unfurled them cautiously, reading of cryptic messages concerning fate and destiny, of secrets long forgotten.
Uncertainty turned to wonder as he realized that perhaps these whispers were beckoning him towards something more.
The whispers crept through the smoky corridors of the battle-weary Imperium, speaking of a Herculean figure that had emerged from the ashes of war. His armor blazed with a golden hue, a symbol of his regal bloodline, and a pair of wings spread forth from his back like the solar flares of an erupting star. With his ornate chainsword at the ready, he marched into the darkness, striking fear in even the most horrific enemies of mankind with each echoing step.
Standing in the shadow of the fortress-monastery, Corvus gazed in awe at its towering walls and pristine marble statues. The emblem of Sanguinius, Primarch of the Blood Angels, watched over him like a guardian angel; its visage both comforting and intimidating at once.
Chaplain Selaphiel appeared suddenly, his imposing figure cutting through the heavy silence like a beacon. His gaze was as dark and unforgiving as obsidian, but beneath it was a spark of understanding.
"Child," he said in a gravelly voice that seemed to echo through the halls, "you are born of this sacred soil, and to it you shall give your blood, your soul and your undying loyalty. This is the path of a Blood Angel: one of sacrifice and unyielding duty."
The boy nodded solemnly and followed the Chaplain into the secluded chambers of the monastery where his transformation began.
Here, he learned the importance of discipline under Selaphiel's stern tutelage: "Without it you are but a leaf in the storm," Selaphiel would tell him, "directionless and fragile."
The days would begin with the slow, solemn tolling of bells from the distant monastery. Corvus meditated in silence, listening for divine messages and finding strength within himself.
The moonlight spilled through the glassless chapel windows, casting an eerie light upon the worn stone walls and revealing the intricate details of each relief. Corvus felt a reverent hush pervade the air as he approached the altar, its surface adorned with carvings detailing Sanguinius's journey from death to resurrection. He could feel something stirring within him, some deep-rooted connection to this ancient place that transcended time and space.
Kneeling before the altar, illuminated only by candlelight, Corvus took in the grandeur of the Primarch's visage. In that moment, his senses were alive with the scent of incense and whispers of destiny. He felt himself pulled into a trance like state, as if some unseen force was reaching out to him. A voice spoke to him—soft yet strong—telling tales of courage and glory, of battles won and lost, of loyalty and sacrifice.
"Hearken, child of the Red Grail," it said. "Thou art born of blood and fire, forged in the crucible of war and baptized in the tears of angels. Thy path is set before thee, a road of thorns and stars, leading thee to glory eternal and damnation unending."
The words of power pierced through Corvus' chest as he knelt in the chapel, a holy aura surrounding him. He felt his body trembling with the force of the voice, a deep and resonant vibration that seemed to echo from beyond the stars.
"Fear not the darkness within, for it is but the reflection of the light without," it commanded in gentle tones. "Embrace thy heritage, accept thy duty, and rise, rise as a son of Baal, a child of the Angel, a warrior of the Emperor."
As if on cue, a sunbeam broke through the window behind Corvus and bathed the sacred space in its golden rays. He rose to his feet slowly, feeling heavier than before.
Then, he was introduced to the sacred weapons of the Astartes—each had its own weight, shape, and balance that became an extension of his own body when wielded.
On the training grounds, Corvus faced a variety of opponents under the relentless Baal sun, applying what he read in ancient texts: how to judge distances quickly; strategies and tactics to outwit and outlast the enemy; how to use terrain and weather conditions to advantage, and last but not least the art of aerial assault from its veteran instructors, executing sweeping dive-bombing runs and tumbling maneuvers with grace and skill, a hallmark of the Blood Angels' airborne tactics.
The sun of Baal Secundus was a relentless, searing ball of fire, its rays beating down upon the desolate landscape. The aspirants-in-training of the Blood Angels gathered in the shadow of the planet's apex predator, arrayed for battle against not only each other but also against the unforgiving force of nature itself.
Corvus felt the intensity of this place radiate through him like a wave, an energy that seemed almost palpable as Chaplain Selaphiel spoke his challenge to the group: "Endure or be found wanting."
In response, Corvus and his comrades threw themselves into physical contests with frenzied vigor, their bodies glistening with sweat as they tested their strength and agility against one another. The heat seemed to bring out a hunger for victory in them all, transmuting their movements into a delicate dance of power and grace.
But these were not just physical tests; as the day wore on and the sun beat mercilessly down on them, so too did they face mental and spiritual challenges. Questions designed to probe the depths of their intellect and belief systems flew back and forth, each answer serving as a shield to protect them from being found wanting by either man or nature. This was a battle for souls.
The sun's searing heat baked the desert's sands and sap-filled air, making each movement an effort for Corvus. Sweat beaded along his brow and glistened on his muscular arms and chest as he chipped away at the tests set before him. He heard the clanging of swords in the distance and knew the task ahead was a battle of skill and strength.
Clad in leather armor, he grabbed his practice sword and flexed his fingers in preparation. With steely determination in his gaze, he squared off against opponents one by one until only two remained—Corvus and his final challenger. The clang of steel echoed in the still night air as they clashed with passion and fervor, neither giving ground to the other.
Finally, after what seemed like hours locked in combat, Corvus delivered the decisive blow that would make him victorious. His opponent dropped to the ground with a thud, defeated.
The sun of Baal Secundus hung low in the sky, illuminating the barren landscape with its golden rays. Long shadows stretched across the rocky terrain, reaching out towards them.
At the center of the training grounds stood an elite Space Marine, clad in power armor with a hue of gold that matched the setting sunlight. An ornate Black Carapace encased his torso, signifying him as a veteran of countless battles against the enemies of mankind. He was a member of the revered First Company – the Sternguard – bearing wargear and relics only accessible to the most decorated Astartes.
The other aspirants-in-training muttered amongst themselves in awe and admiration as they watched him move with an unmatched grace and precision. The warrior shifted his gaze momentarily towards them and spoke in a deep rumble: "Valor is not proven through words, but deeds. The path of the Astartes is one of sacrifice and duty. Many are called, but few are chosen." His eyes, hidden behind his visor, seemed to pierce through the gathering dusk and lock onto Corvus.
Selaphiel queried him often with battlefield hypotheticals, testing his vision and resourcefulness. The young warrior honed these skills until they felt as instinct, understanding the flow of battle as if he could see the invisible strings binding each person together on the battlefield.
Corvus stood tall among his fellow aspirants, his gaze a mixture of determination and fear. Day by day, they faced the physical and mental challenges of training, forging bonds of trust and friendship – but also rivalry.
Eventually, Corvus was ready for the final test, one that would decide whether he was worthy to wear the fittings of a true aspirant. He steeled himself for the battle ahead, bolter in hand and courage in heart. He would emerge victorious, no longer a scout but an aspirant.
At daybreak, Corvus donned his full battle gear and entered the Crucible of Determination, which was located deep within the fortress-monastery. Inside the sanctum, he faced a variety of holographic enemies that lunged at him from all directions. Despite his best efforts to fight them off, Corvus struggled as whispers of uncertainty infiltrated his mind, clouding his judgment and sapping away his focus.
Chaplain Selaphiel's booming voice echoed throughout the chamber: "Focus, aspirant! The enemy will not wait for you to be ready. You must master yourself before you can master the battlefield!" Corvus straightened his back and steeled himself against the mental fatigue, mustering up every ounce of courage in order to face his opponents head on.
Corvus took a deep, steadying breath, letting the Chaplain's words sink into his soul. His hands tightened around the grip of his bolter and chainsword as he stepped forward, ignoring the whispers of fear surrounding him. He moved with a newfound confidence through the battles ahead, weapon in hand, every shot finding its mark with unerring accuracy.
Until finally, after all these years of training, Corvus was ready to take his place among this brotherhood.
