Lord of the II Legion

by XVIIILegionnaire

The Emperor of Mankind's Great Crusade brought them to a world, known as Arcadia by its populace, and on its surface was an individual the Emperor had been long since searching for, since the beginning of the Crusade. He met Arwyn Clay, Master of the Wild Hunt, Grand Derwydd, Protector of the Clans, and a lost Primarch. (An AU where all twenty Primarchs were in the Horus Heresy.)

18. Chapter 17

Another update for the chapter, might be the last one for about two or three weeks. Thank you guys for the response to the last few chapters, its very gratifying to know that I've created an enjoyable character for people to learn about.

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Chapter 17: Thunder of the Two-Headed Eagle

It is said by many artisans, poets, and even my brothers, that it is impossible to know the Emperor's true face, as everyone sees different characteristics when they gaze upon his face. Only one detail is agreed upon however, that the Emperor is both a beautiful man and carries features that the viewer considers ideal or great. I have always seen this as an extension of my Father's great psychic abilities, that by nothing but force of his will, he tricked the minds of others to see what they hoped to see. I cannot say with any certainty if my Father makes an effort doing this, if it is an unconscious effect of his ego, or if he even cares how the masses see him. I suspect that only Malcador, the Sisters of Silence, and those trusted amongst the Custodes know my Father's true face. For myself, I first saw a fair skinned regal hero, golden eyes, and long flowing hair black as onyx, with a trimmed yet striking beard. It has changed dramatically, how I perceive the Emperor. For example when I first looked upon the Emperor under Terra's sky I swear I saw the flickering holes in the illusion, as I saw deep wrinkles beneath the lids of his eyes, before his skin tanned, his hair turned brown, and his beard disappeared. I had once asked the Sigillite what my Father's true appearance was, and he grinned before asking what I saw when I looked at him. He seemed amused when I described the abrupt change in his appearance, then told me that when he first met my Father, the Emperor looked like a son of the Arabic people, but now when not looking past the chimeric illusion, saw a face like one I saw on Terra.

Malcador shared his theory that the face we both see is that which the Emperor allows those he trusts to see. Again, I cannot say with certainty if this is true, as when I tried to approach a conversation on this subject with Father he smiled and gently avoided answering the question. It is hardly the only topic of conversation he deliberately avoids discussing with me, such as his origins, his age, and the process in which he created the Primarchs. However, there was one thing he did confirm about our origins, when I asked him during my year on Terra, that none of the Primarchs are clones of him, for he had used genetic material from a female donner before using his knowledge of genetic manipulation to turn us into Primarchs. He had hesitated with hints of regret and longing when he alluded to the female donner, and it reminds me of the pain of one who has lost either a close friend or a lover. I had resigned myself early on that I would likely never know the identity of our gene mother, not only because the Sigillite and Emperor refused to speak of this mysterious woman, but because all archived records that would have listed her have been tampered with to remove her name, even the written records. I suspect the Sigillite's hand in this revision of official records, not because I think it beyond my Father's character, but for the bitterness in Malcador's tone whenever I brought up the subject. As if there had been some falling out between the three, and only Malcador truly felt hatred or disappointment towards the woman. Whoever this woman is, wherever she is, the Emperor seems to only think of her fondly, despite his refusal to talk on such matters.

I doubt I am the only one of my brothers to have ever sought out such knowledge, but none of us seem willing to speak on whatever we discovered. Even I feel a strange reluctance to even consider bringing up the subject to my more scholarly brothers. Perhaps one day I will dedicate more effort into uncovering more on the truth of our mysterious mother, but such things must undoubtedly wait until the Crusade ends or lulls. I have heard, both with my ears and through the gift, many of the old Terran commanders and noblemen, that the Emperor sees the Primarchs as nothing more than tools that will one day be disposed of like the Thunder Warriors. Those crude precursors to the Astartes, rumored to have been put down by the Custodes and earliest iterations of the Space Marine legions. I will admit that these individuals have good reason to believe such a thing, but they do not know my Father as I do. Perhaps at one point, the Emperor had considered such actions, but I would be surprised if he ever enacted such plans. You have to understand that my Father is ancient, perhaps he is the oldest man within the confines of the human race, but he is at his core human. More powerful and advanced by some quirk of genetics that make him greater than any other champion of our species, but still he is human, more than that he too is subject to compulsions that all life forms experience. While his nature is that of a conquering leader, and most likely intended for my brothers and I to simply lead his forces to conquer the stars by reuniting mankind across the vast expanse of the galaxy, something changed in him.

The only evidence I have in support of my theory, is the pride and warmth that flickers within the Emperor whenever he watches us hard at work. Those feelings are at their strongest whenever he watches either Horus, Sanguinius, or Vulkan, and when he had informed us about Lorgar's fooly the embers of disappointment and regret shine brightly. To those who believe these to be the feelings of a detached inventor taking pride or disappointment in his tools, I say that you have never seen the wondrous change parenthood has on individuals, and though I fear I will never know its true touch despite my closeness to my gene sons. I have seen the changes in warriors that only parenthood brings, Celvyn himself had changed the moment he held his first born daughter to his chest. I felt the instant love and measures he would take to see her safe. The Emperor, for all his wisdom and experience, carries echoes of a loneliness that spans countless centuries, and if you believe such loneliness has no effect upon a mortal mind, then you are wrong. Humans at our core are social creatures, even the Legiones Astartes were designed to take this nature to its most military and violent extreme, but for untold eons the Emperor had no one. It is either the sign of noble purpose, or stubborn resilience, that the Emperor cares so deeply for the species he was born from, but I doubt he had ever experienced the familial bond most creatures experienced when gazing upon their own offspring. It could be argued that he never anticipated ever being able to experience such an intimate connection with anyone. Then something within awoke him as he worked upon us, and no longer did he see us as simply tools of his plans of conquest, we were the closest thing to family he had likely ever experienced. What evidence do I have to support such a bold, and maybe outrageous, theory. I will tell you the tale of the first war zone I shared with the Emperor. It followed shortly after our victory over the Glormanian Confederacy, it was the first time I ever faced the brutality of the Orks, or the Green Skins as so many Imperials call them.

The war zone was a star cluster several light years to the galactic northeast of the Glormanian's system, and is now named the Spiral of Falcus. It once hosted a large Ork WAAAGH led by a hulking War Boss known as Gralik the Ripper, he was a rarity amongst the brutish brood of the Orks, an exemplar of feral cunning and pure might in near perfect unison. He was also the only one of his strange species capable of organizing the feral chaos of his followers more effectively than any other Ork warlord I have ever faced. The Spiral was once home to ten inhabitable worlds spread across four star systems, and so overwhelming was the presence of the Ripper's followers that the initial expedition into the system had taken too many casualties, requesting reinforcements from the Legiones Astartes. The Emperor instead answered the call, ordered the Bale Hounds rendezvou with his flagship to relieve the explorator fleet and together we would crush the green skins under our boots. Once again I found myself aboard the Bucephalus, this time clad in ceramite power armor, standing before a hololithic display on the Bucephalus's strategum, flanked by four terminators in the legion's new colors, with Celvyn, my brides, and Slan standing beside me.

Slan was nervous, though not a single person without the gift would have known, and distracted himself by mentally reciting the responsibilities of his new title of Paragon Commander, leader of the Bale Hounds 1st War Host. Slan had told me that the first and last time, at that point in our lives, he had met the Emperor was when he was elevated to the rank of Legion Commander of the Astral Wardens. Jokingly, I told Slan to picture the Emperor naked, and I swear I thought his cheeks would have burned off. After a good hearty laugh, I assured him that he needed only to treat the strategic meeting like it was any other, and he would be fine. He scoffed slightly at the suggestion, saying it was easier for one of the Emperor's sons to say such a thing, and though he only meant it lightheartedly, it had me thinking deeply on those words. True, I share genetics with the Emperor, but during my year spent on Terra I felt only like his son in name alone. He was nothing like Cadfel Clay, the man who had raised me, whom I had called Father, until the Emperor arrived on Arcadia. Cadfel was both stern, yet kind, ever present in my life, encouraging me to speak freely of my mind, along with the surety in my strength and will to see Arcadia free. He had been the one to teach me to hunt with a spear. Whereas the Emperor was a distant and overwhelmingly powerful figure, and so I confess I wondered if such a man could truly see me as his own son. A faint rasping at my armored gauntlet dragged me from my thoughts, and I turned to see Celvyn giving me a grin that only a brother who had shared hardships and joy could muster towards me.

"Careful my brother," Celvyn playful teased in Arcadian, "You're getting lost in the forest of your thoughts." It was still unusual to see him wear the blue psychic hood which he had attached to an old model of Terran power armor wearing legion colors, albeit without a right sleeve of plated armor, exposing the Arcadian symbols tattooed upon his dark skin, his right hand grasped firmly around an ornate staff topped with a near perfect replica of Arcadia's likeness. He had recently shaved his dark tightly coiled and black hair into the style of a mohawk, giving ample display of the implanted cranial sockets which housed cables connected to his hood. To a degree it saddened me despite the pride he displayed them with. Yet, I smiled earnestly at my oath brother, reassured by the presence of my greatest friend, and that despite all that had changed in the past years he treated me all the same.

"Aye, you're right, brother," I chuckled in our native tongue, "The burden of great minds, eh?" He mockingly rolled his eyes, and silently I was proud that Slan no longer felt insulted by Celvyn's casual demeanor when addressing me. Indeed, many of my Terran warriors struggled to adjust to the casual brotherhood of teasing, jabs, and trust that existed between us. I believe it was not until he killed a Drukhari swordsman by his own strength and cunning, despite being heavily wounded he came to my side to fight, that those of the 1st War Host understood why I had such faith in Celvyn. However, the crew of the Bucephalus had no such context for closeness, so even though they did not speak Arcadian, some recognized the teasing tone in Celvyn's and I heard muted gasps of horror. I likely would have rolled my eyes before chastising the ship's crew, had I not felt Malcador's presence approaching from the opposite side of the chamber. He was joined by the Captain General of the Custodes, and despite the staggering difference in the two figures' height, both carried auras of power that were equal in measure.

"It is good to see you still in high spirits," Malcador smiled, "I told the Captain General it would take more than misguided sycophants to snuff the hope you carry in your breast." Valdor, who wore his helmet, said nothing in response to Malcador's comment. I could feel that Malcador was concealing the full power of his will, perhaps wanting to retain the illusion of being nothing more than the Emperor's eldest companion, or he simply wished to tease the Custode while complimenting me. I doubt I shall ever know the truth, but that bothers me little. I nodded an acknowledgment towards the Emperor's closest companions.

"Hail to you both," I greeted, "Captain General, Sigillite, I assume that the Emperor will join us shortly?" Malcador nodded, while Constantin Valdor stayed silent, yet I could feel his cold analytical gaze affixed upon me, searching me for any weakness.

"Indeed, apologies for the delays, Arwyn," Malcador replied politely, "The Emperor intended to greet you upon arrival, but an unforeseen development demanded his immediate attention." Whenever Malcador made use of such words I have come to realize that it was ever so polite a way of telling me the Emperor was working on something of greater import and clandestine than anything I was sanctioned for. I will not lie, the number of times Malcador used such a phrase has been a source of frustration for me, but at the same time I have kept a number of my own secrets from the Master of Mankind, so it would be inappropriate to begrudge him for such a slight.

"No worries, Sigillite," I replied calmly, "He has a Crusade to lead after all." My answer seemed to satisfy Malcador.

"Then in the meantime," the Sigillite started, signaling to an operator to activate the hololithic display, "We should begin discussing the might of the Orks that brought us here." Within half a heartbeat the hololith flickered to life before stabilizing its projection, illuminating the air with a cold blue hue as thousands upon thousands of junker warships danced around a system of six planets in orbit of twin suns, and marking denoting the numbers of these unconquered worlds. By this point I had read of the Orks and their unexplainable ingenuity for creating instruments of war from the most inefficient materials or methods, but I had assumed it all exaggerated. Seeing them for the first time, even in a miniature holographic replica, I found just how wrong my assumption had been. Most looked as though the Orks had used the mangled wreck of two ships as a starting point, and continued building atop the wreck with all the design sense a mind suffering from rot. The largest of these vessels were clearly viewed as the hearts of the uncoordinated squadrons of smaller ships, and reflected the reports I had read that the Orks will default to following the largest and cruelest of their race.

"By the ancestors." I softly stated, my eyes darting across the streams of data listing predictions of combat capabilities of each cluster of ships, possible flight paths, irregularities of propulsion types, and the most likely number of Orks crammed into the ships. Those last statistics were always listed as unknown or inconclusive. There were scattered reports of human bio-signs on two of the three breathable worlds, but the data was uncertain on how many or where on the world these souls dwelled.

"Indeed it is a rather concerning number of Orks," Malcador admitted devoid of emotion, "Perhaps one of the largest gatherings of Orks since before the fall of Old Night. Truly, their species is resilient against the most extreme hardships, it is almost commendable were they not barbaric savages. A team of trusted xenobiologists are currently working to better know how they're able to so easily restore their numbers, and if there are any means of preventing it."

"They are little more than mindless animals," Valdor growled beneath his helmet, "A horde that my Shield-Brothers and I could make short work of." The challenge and insult in the Captain General's words did not go unnoticed, by myself or my entourage, and I could feel that Slan felt the sting of the insult greatly. At first, I thought the Custode was being arrogantly bitter, as it was no secret that the Captain General rarely had a kind word for the character of any Primarch, and this behavior of his has thus continued since that day. A moment later, I realized that if Valdor and his Custodes were simply charged with the elimination of the green skins then perhaps they could handle this threat alone, but I realized this was more than a war of extermination.

"Is that before or after the Orks slaughter the remaining humans?" I challenged Valdor calmly, as my eyes kept darting over the available data, absorbing and digesting more information than a normal man could within an hour. I felt the Captain General's glare become one of irritation towards me, and knew I had struck the truth of the matter. He did not need, or wanted, to give my question a response. Malcador, however, seemed interested in my response.

"You believe we called upon the IInd legion to save lives?" He asked with a quizzical tone, his eyes studying my face as I continued studying the data and worked through various possibilities the information provided.

"Not all of them," I clarified, flatly, "The sheer number of Orks makes that an impossibility. There's also the matter of the proper bait."

"Bait?" Valdor scoffed, "You think you can lead these animals by the nose into a trap?"

"With the proper bait, it's possible," I replied, "All reports that I've read paint the Orks as battle crazed barbarians led by chieftains who'd never ignore a challenge of a worthy foe. I can see many ways to exploit such a practice, both in the void or planetside." I could feel anger rise in the Captain General's soul at the unspoken implication of my words.

"You dare suggest that the Master of Mankind act as bait?" He hissed, while Malcador watched on, a silent observer to the tension between two paragons of the Emperor's genetic manipulations.

"Not just him," I corrected Valdor, "Myself, and others, not to mention our largest battleships. During the winters on Arcadia if one wanted to feed a village for days, then instead of hunting game in bulk, it was wiser to stalk a prey animal, and wait for a large predator to strike. If done correctly, the beast can be felled in one strike, however I find it unlikely that we would have such luck."

"You don't wish to head straight for this Gralik the Ripper," Malcador asked in surprise, "That would break the moral and disjointed unity of the green skins. It would likely even cause the other warlords to squabble over who should succeed the Ripper's rule." I gently shook my head.

"We'd waste at least five times the lives and resources diving straight for the Ripper," I declared calmly, "There's also the risk of green skin reinforcements swarming us. There's also an equal chance of some of the Ork ships fleeing to fight another day. Not to mention we'd put those few surviving human lives at risk." That was when I felt the atmosphere of the strategium change with a charge of overwhelming majesty, and I knew the Emperor had joined us.

"I told you Malcador, Arwyn's is a quick mind," the Emperor said with a gentle boom, "Already he has formed several plans of attack." He suddenly appeared standing in the center of the chamber, towering above everyone, clad in the gold of his power armor, with the golden hue of his halo reduced to softer gentler intensity and the subtlest glint of a toothy smile upon his face. Nearly every soul in the chamber, save for the Sigillite, Valdor, and myself, ceased their activities to kneel or respectfully acknowledge the Emperor's arrival to the chamber. Even my brides fell to their knees and lowered their heads to Him. I was honestly too stunned to react, at a loss that the Emperor could not only hide his psychic presence so perfectly, but move with such gentle swiftness that his steps did not disturb the deck with vibrations. It was the most subtle display of overwhelming power I have seen my Father make.

"I-" he ceased my attempt to speak with a gentle hand held out towards me.

"There is no need to explain yourself, my son," the Emperor spoke with a calm that seemed to influence the entire room, "The logic of your plan is sound. There are human lives worth saving, and bringing them into the fold of the Imperium must remain a priority. The only mistake you made, my son, was taking the fight to them, instead of drawing them to a field of our choosing." With the grace that seemed beyond human capability, the Emperor raised a gloved hand, and commanded the hololithic projection to center upon the system's fourth planet from the twin suns. The data read that despite having a breathable atmosphere, there was so little fertile soil left on the planet that vegetation was scarce, and had a junkyard citadel to the largest of the Ripper's subordinates, Zulrik Bigjaw. Instantly, I believe I understood the Emperor's plan.

"You want the bulk of our forces to strike down Zulrik," I stated aloud, "Then while the rest of the Orks in system scramble to meet a new challenge, we deploy specialists?" His smile broadened, and nodded gently at me.

"And our ships will hang back for a time," he added, "Then once signaled will they reveal themselves and destroy the Ork vessels with concentrated fire. Your ship, the Arcadian Retribution, will lead our fleet in this action. You will select a full complement of your legion to join you aboard my flagship. Together we will punch a hole through their fleet and then alongside the Custodians, we shall bring this Zulrik's insignificant castle down upon his head." I have a habit of interpreting orders in a manner that I believe to fit the situation, even battle plans from my Father, but not that plan. Not that time. The Emperor had proved himself a leader unphased at the prospect of taking the greatest dangers of a plan, and had expressed a desire to fight shoulder to shoulder.

"A word of caution, my son," the Emperor said, with his eyes fixed upon me, "The Orks have a strange effect upon the Warp, and you might find your abilities lessened by this quirk." This phenomenon the Emperor speaks of is something entirely unique to the Orks, which I will refer to as Green Tide, which only now, well over a century since my first encounter with them, do I have the beginning of an understanding. The Orks are not only a baffling example of alien biology, but also a species of psychic energy entirely separated from the touch of the Warp. It is ever so faint, but beyond the fires of their souls, every single Ork generates a psychic field. Curiously, the average Ork separated completely from its fellow is not enough to generate the Green Tide, yet a massive horde of them can manifest a Tide so great that its presence interferes with traditional psychic powers. I must also add that normally when the Orks start one of their WAAAGHs that the Green Tide becomes so potent and unstable, that somehow a few of the Ork mutate into something akin to a psyker. None of the experts I have consulted on this matter have an explanation on the sudden mutation, but high ranking Librarians from the Thousand Sons, White Scars, Blood Angels, and my own legion have produced a theory I believe warrants further exploration.

They believe that somehow the Orks' biology is interlinked to the Green Tide, and creates a gestalt subconscious within the Tide which instinctively knows how to both sustain and protect itself, hence the mutation of these Ork psyckers. While I admit there are many gaps in this theory, it is the only one I have encountered that has been based on both physical and psychic evidence gathered on the subject. It needs work, this is true, but I am willing to put my faith in our legions' specialists. For example, we have found many different alien species who practice different intensities of psychic biomancy, as well as a myriad of different species who are linked psychically which have produced varying side effects. As for the Emperor's warning, he was correct, the Green Tide's presence would make any use of the gift beyond the confines of my own skin felt like climbing up a roaring waterfall, as I would soon discover. Some believe that my Father is incapable of making mistakes or speaking falsely, I am not one such person, and admittedly I doubted the Emperor's warning needed to be heeded. An error made in the arrogance of youth and inexperience. Does it shock you to know I will so readily admit to my own mistakes? Although I have my own sense of pride, I am not one of my brothers who believes themselves incapable of making a mistake, so I find that only by acknowledging and accepting it can I learn from it. From that day I learned that when the Emperor gives a warning it is wiser to heed it rather than dismiss it.

I had stayed aboard the Bucephalus, while my legion transferred personnel from the Retribution, overseeing the crews receiving the venerable Dreadnoughts from my legion, standing beside Morgan and Celvyn. Celvyn was busy coordinating with the crews of the Bucephalus, ensuring the legion's temporary needs were met without much trouble, as the ship's Navigator predicted a three weeks travel via the Warp until we arrived at a mandible point for our war zone. Morgan was my ever present shadow, her presence a deterrent from the wave of strange anxiety I felt waiting aboard Father's flagship, and I showed her just how grateful I was when we were alone. More so than the first time I was aboard this vessel, I felt that I was being watched everywhere I went, and unlike aboard my own legion ships, I felt as though I was being judged. Whether this stemmed from the presence of the Sigillite being aboard, or that nearly every section of the ship had one of the Legiones Custodes standing guard I cannot say for certain. However, another thing that kept such concerns from my mind, was the sight of the first venerable Dreadnought disembarking from a II legion transport, it bore the legion's older colors earthy tans and grays, but the Astartes helmet-shaped sensor array was pearl white with gold trim, and vibrant green visor lenses, along with the high gothic runes for King and Protector. That was the sarcophagus of Tiberius Slan's predecessor, Lukas Brikatus, the oldest legionnaire implanted with my gene-seed, and the first commander of the II legion. It is to my eternal regret that I only knew Lukas as a Dreadnought, and not the man who rose as one of the Emperor's earliest champions within the ranks of the Astartes. It is also to my eternal shame, that he finally fell in that battle against the Orks, but the memory of his legacy will be forever secured in the history of my legion, as the King of Wardens. Out of all my sons, in the first years of my time with my legion, I often sought his counsel on matters I felt uncertain about and found him to be an honest soul unflinching at my Primarch nature. I moved from my spot, Morgan followed close behind me, and I made my way towards the ancient Contemptor Dreadnought.

"Hail to you King of the Wardens," I greeted with a gentle smile, "I am pleased to see you will join us in this new battle." The engines of his battle sarcophagus hummed gently as the thunder of its footsteps echoed off the metal of the deck, and servos gently whined as he looked towards me. Unlike an Astartes or standard human, Lukas did not need to crane up to look at me, if anything he might have needed to look up slightly to look me in the eyes.

"Only in death does duty end, Prince of Spears," the ancient veteran intoned, "I look forward to fighting not only beside my brothers, but the Emperor and his ten thousand once more." Lukas was the only one I allowed to address me with any title of monarchy, and that was only because I felt it was both out of respect and humor, as the first words he had spoken to me were on his amusement of seeing one of the Emperor's sons using a spear. My smile broadened in response to his words, and I noticed the most subtle movement in his bulkley form.

"Ah, and greetings to you Queen of Crows," Lukas addressed Morgan, "It is a pleasure to see you still at our Lord's side. I do hope he has not yet become too much of a handful." The Queen of Crows, is an informal title held by the humans that serve my legion, one I have been reluctant to address in this record as both the office and its function were created by my Morgan. The Crows are agents loyal to the legion that act as spies, informants, and forward scouts for my legion, the intel they acquire is encoded then managed by the Queen of Crows, in any other military it is the equivalent of a spy master or mistress. A Crow's most common and vital role is to ensure that a newly Imperial world is compliant after my legion has left. If things are found to be lacking then anything from a full company to a single squad is deployed from the nearest War Host to rectify the matter. Working under the direction of these Crows, the sent Bale Hounds are able to swiftly remove whatever issues face the Imperial Governors but carry with them a warning from myself that should such issues arise again, then I would journey to end the conflict myself. I have only had to make such a journey thrice in all the years of the Crusade and all the countless worlds my legion has brought into the Imperium.

"Thank you King of Warden," Morgan bowed back, "And no, your gene-father is still manageable for me." I could sense the smile and mirth that set within my interred son, and it mirrored my own. I have always been proud of the ease in which my gene sons had interacting with regular humans, though I suspect Vulkan's sons are far greater at connecting with civilians than mine. Vulkan and the Salamanders at their very cores are both protectors and builders, whereas at the Bale Hounds', and my own core, we are protectors and hunters. However, most Astartes forget the art of small talk, and it takes considerable effort for them to relearn it, Lukas was one of the rare few of the earliest Space Marines who had done it on his own.

"Forgive me lord," he suddenly apologized, "But I need not the third sight to see you came to me for a reason. Shall we find somewhere more private?" I hid my surprise and nodded, knowing that Lukas was more familiar with this ship than myself, I let him lead the way. After five minutes he led us to an empty hallway where only servo-skulls and servators walked, and to a dead end where a golden sculpture of a tree, an artistic depiction of an ancient maple tree I believe. He motioned for Morgan to take a seat on a bench of marble with feathered cushions on the seat, and she graciously took the seat without a word.

"This is beautiful, Lukas," I said gently as I studied the craftsmanship, "Do you know who created this?" A series of gear shifting clunks emanated from the Dreadnought's vox speaker, something I had come to recognize as how the battle coffins expressed a chuckle.

"No, my lord, I am afraid not," he admitted, "But I didn't lead you here to discuss art." Lukas was not a member of the Librarius, yet he had the wisdom of experience to easily read the moods of any human being with incredible ease.

"I have…doubts." A silence hung in the air between us, but I could tell Lukas was processing my spoken and unspoken meaning, determining how best to proceed forward.

"About yourself? Or something else?" There was a flicker of unease in his soul, but it was outweighed by the concern the ancient Dreadnought felt towards me. I always wondered how Lukas saw me. He had been the IInd Legion's first commander, the first of equals amongst his brothers, served alongside the Emperor himself, gave everything for the sake of his brothers and the Imperium's ideals. I knew that Tiberius, along with most of his Terran brothers, saw me as a gene-father, leader, general, and beloved brother, but I somehow doubted Lukas saw me in such a light. He respected me, make no mistake, but there was not the same degree of reverence within him. Perhaps, that was why I liked him so much? He was never afraid to insult or challenge me. I wish I had more like him within my legion.

"The Emperor," I confessed, "I have no doubts of his intentions for the galaxy…but for me and my brothers, I am less certain." There was an echo of offense that flickered briefly in his soul at my words, but it disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

"You are one of the Emperor's sons," he replied, "Not one of his companions, nor truly one of the Legiones Astartes, you are more human than both while still being greater. As I understand it, doubt is an essential element of the human condition. Yet, there's more you aren't saying."

"I know of the Thunder Warriors," I said in a gentle tone, "The predecessors to the Legions, and heard the whispers of their final fates." I had pieced together the fate of the Thunder Warriors, both from official reports, the whispers of the Terran elite within the Imperial Palace, and knew with grim certainty that the Custodes and earliest Astartes had been their executioners. Any of my brothers that has learned of the Thunder Warriors, the rumors of their true fate and claims to have no concerns from it is a liar. True, the Thunder Warriors were simply a means to an end, and did not require the same effort of creation as the Primarchs and our legions, but despite all their brutality, the Thunder Warriors had served the Emperor loyally. Who is to say that the Emperor would not repeat the Thunder Warriors' final reward upon the Legiones Astartes or we Primarchs? Lukas, I had long suspected, played a hand in that final reward, but I hold no ill will towards him. He was a soldier following orders. I could tell even without the gift, Lukas understood exactly what I was afraid of now.

"Neither the legions nor your brothers are the Thunder Warriors." He so boldly declared, with the flares of certainty that I have really felt when talking with one of the Astartes of my lineage.

"Perhaps, but it seems foolish to ignore that history," I sighed, "The Emperor works to see his dream for mankind made manifest, and already there are whispers of the Sigillite putting together an entire herd of politicians to run our Imperium. I'd happily accept becoming the leader of a peace keeping force, but what if even that isn't needed anymore?" The Emperor is one of the only living scions of humanity who can be said to be an embodiment of all the species's greatest characteristics, however too many are afraid to add this next part, he also contains the worst traits of our species. Take the visible manifestation of my Father's ego for example, he adorns himself in glimmering gold armor and boldly declares himself "Master of Mankind" vanity knows every human heart. I will only briefly mention my Father's utter hatred for alien life, believing there can never be an equal or honest ally to humanity, and refuses to truly entertain arguments against such notions. It is truly impossible to know the Emperor's mind, even for one of his Primarchs, and while I can tell he loved Horus as a son, I had not heard him speak of any such warmth about myself or Russ. So hopefully you can understand my concern for not only the final fate of my legion, but also myself, not even I am above the base desire for survival.

"Before I knew this cold lingering death," Lukas spoke, and I felt an unfamiliar sorrow within him, "I knew of only three things that I could trust. My brothers, that no wars would ever truly be the same, and the worthiness of the Emperor. Yet I could only interact directly and honestly with two thirds of what I listed. Even as Master of the IInd, I knew I had no hope of speaking with the Emperor as anything more than a subordinate. That doesn't ring true for you, my lord." I turned my gaze towards Lukas, both surprised at his words and the defeat I felt within him.

"Meaning?" I asked, wanting to be sure I was not misinterpreting the King of Wardens's words.

"You, like all your brother Primarchs," he answered somberly, "Are able to speak with the Emperor more honestly, and more likely than any soul, to get the truth."

Later, I found myself alone outside the Emperor's personal chambers, the doors sealed, but I could sense my Father inside the chambers, I suspect that even if I lacked the gift I would have known. Despite being clad in full war plate, I felt naked, not only that but I felt once more like the young boy who had been brought before the Wild Hunt's Court of Derwydds to have his fate to be determined. Afraid. I feel no shame in admitting that. Fear has always been a companion emotion to humanity, so just the existence of the emotion did not mark one a coward, and I count those humans who have overcome fear to be the greatest heroes, more grand than even the Legiones Astartes. I had left Morgan with Lukas, telling her that this was a private affair, but in truth I needed to prove to myself that I could face this alone. I ignored the anxiety chittering at my soul, closed my eyes, used the gift to make my presence and desire for an audience known to the Emperor.

"Enter, Arwyn." The Emperor's voice suddenly entered my mind, ceasing all other thoughts fighting for my attention, and I winced at the sudden intrusion while the twin doors slowly began to open. Once the doors were opened far enough to accommodate my frame I stepped forward, instead of waiting for them to be fully opened as many of my other brothers would have. I am not entirely sure what that says about me or them. Perhaps that I am uncomfortable with formalities or that I am impatient in certain matters? Regardless, I found the Emperor without his armor, a rare sight it must be said, favoring a simple yet elegant robe, and as he held a thick leather bound book, it looked like nothing but a pocket planner in his grasp. His golden halo was shining, not at its full intensity, but just enough to obscure the color of his eyes from my sight. There was no one else in the room, not even a servators in the room to manage the doors to his chamber, and so I presume that he made use of his psychic abilities to activate the opening or closing sequence. As I tower over the Astartes in terms of height and stature, the Emperor dwarfed me in all aspects.

"It is rare for you to seek me out yourself." Stated my Father with a tone that contained no judgment, merely surprise while declaring a factual observation. With a gentle care that betrayed his size and strength, he placed a marker in the book before closing it shut. There is an uncomfortable elation when I find myself the sole focus of my Father's attention, and it makes me wonder how any normal person is able withstand a meeting of any duration with him.

"Aye, that's true," I admitted, falling back onto my thicker Arcadian accent, "You've always seemed so busy, that I felt it inappropriate to bother you."

"But now?" I felt the subtle flicker of curiosity, one of the only times I have ever felt such an emotion flicker in my Father.

"Now. Now, I need answers," I said after gathering my resolve against the torrent that is the Emperor's aura, "You called me your son when you first found me, but in the years since that day I have felt more like a spear in your belt than a son. And I've heard whispers of your outdated spears." There was a strike of surprise within my Father, clearly this had been something he had not foreseen nor planned for, and as quickly the surprise struck it was followed by a swell of mixed emotion I could tell my Father was unfamiliar with; concern, empathy, and pain. I registered this change before He managed to dismiss it. He looked me in the eyes as he spoke calmly, in a patient and almost fatherly manner.

"You speak of the Thunder Warriors?" He asked, yet the look in my eyes was all the answer he needed before he gently let out a breath, "The Thunder Warriors were my first attempt in creating post-human warriors…no that is wrong, they were my first attempt at a less extensive process than the Legiones Custodes. The process was…imperfect, to say the least, but when they rode the planes of Terra, they did so loyally in the Imperium's name. While the Warriors had an increase in physical capabilities, their mental state deteriorated significantly over time, and despite my efforts I could never find a way to reverse or halt their decline into madness." He wore a somber expression as he spoke, whether it was due to his failure to find this solution or loss of loyal soldiers I cannot say. It took effort to keep my conviction alive, to not let it gutter out in the wake of my Father's presence, but I held firm.

"So instead of finding one last war for them," I began sternly, "You decided to see them meet the same end as a prized racing equidae with a broken leg? Then you spread stories of them meeting their end in a glorious last stand against a fictitious foe?" I will admit the fires of emotions were stoked on as I continued my words, but the Emperor's next words gave me pause.

"It was the only mercy I could give them." His tone was so gentle, with echoes of regret, and sorrow.

"What?"

"The Thunder Warriors were loyal in service to me," He continued, "But none, not even the most veteran of them, would have accepted a quiet retirement. They were Warriors, one and all, measuring their lives by the battles they survived. I could have let them have a slow and painful death, or I could give them a final glorious battle. From their end saw the start of the Astartes, a challenge for the earliest of the twenty legions." I will admit I had never considered the perspective the Emperor laid before me. True, the process which created the Thunder Warriors was not gentle on one's mind, their pension for violence was only matched by their crude behavior, but this did little to alleviate my concerns. No matter how he painted it, the Emperor had betrayed the Thunder Warriors, and had them put down by those meant to replace them. He had engineered the Primarchs, and our legions, in secret, who was to say he was not working to create replacements for the twenty legions.

"Then what of us?" I asked, not bothering to hide my doubts and distrust, "What will you do if we, your generals and transhuman soldiers, are deemed to have outlived our purpose? What will we have when we have completed this Imperium that we have bled and sacrificed for? What will our reward be?" The Emperor gave me a sad smile, and I was quickly reminded of the expression my parents, the Clays, had when they had attended the ceremony in which the Wild Hunt named me their leader. Looking back upon their expressions with wiser eyes, I now understand that though they were proud of me, they feared I was forever marked for the path of war, and how to some extent they blamed themselves. I do not know if the Emperor had such feelings towards me in his heart that day, or even to this day, but from the words he spoke next I found peace.

"My son, you are more than a simple tool of my will," He gently said, "You are one of my sons. When I had finished tailoring each of you, I had given each of you a name, ones I had hoped you'd each grow to appreciate and match. Then I found Horus, Russ, and then you. I never dreamed that my sons could outmatch what I had intended for them. Take your name for example, it rings of an ancient mythological king of a culture's afterlife, one who dealt with humans more fairly than most mythological gods, and would ride out leading a hunting party to scour the supernatural and evils that would harm humans. You and your brothers, I created you to lead my armies, this is true, but I suspect your true nature is that of a protector, not a conqueror. One day when the Crusade ends, and all of humanity is joined under our secular Imperium, then it will always need its protectors. There will be the threat of the aliens, rebellions, and one day we will find a means to strike at our foes beyond this reality. When that day arrives, we shall stand side by side, defending and preserving all we have sacrificed to create. Malcador might say you raise these concerns out of selfishness, but I see the inner workings of your mind, Arwyn, you only do this out of love for your brothers and gene-sons."

He did not need to be blunt nor direct with his words, at least not with me. I understood better than most what he spoke about when referring to "our foes beyond this reality" for I had been fighting them since I was a boy. Ignoring the nostalgia he spoke of this ancient mythological figure, I sense no deception in his words, and even if the Emperor was not telling me the whole truth, he was being honest. There was a plan beyond the Great Crusade, one that involved my brothers and our legions, regardless if that meant one day the Emperor would make improvements to the Astartes, they would not be treated like the Thunder Warriors. I suspect the more intellectual or distrustful of readers would see the Emperor's declaration as nothing more than pretty words masking a hollow promise. I can hardly blame such people seeing such duplicity within my Father, and true, in many areas He is a terribly distant parental figure, but I say this as only as a man who has fought beside Him. If the Emperor truly desired to go against what he disclosed to me that day, then he could have had me removed from the Crusade permanently on several occasions. Whether dying at the hands of a great alien menace, to the boom of Imperial bolter rounds, or simply unraveling my entire physical body with but a thought, he would have done so by now. Whatever love my Father feels towards me, I doubt it would be enough to stay his hand if he thought I posed a threat to his grand designs, but he was not lying to me, of that I am certain.

Ultimately that is my Father's greatest strength and his ultimate weakness, he is dedicated entirely to his chosen mission to see mankind flourish under the guard of the Imperium, that he would take any means to achieve his vision. To a degree he is aware of this, and it most likely is the reason he is so difficult to know on a personal level, even to we Primarchs. Yet, in that moment of privacy, I could tell that on some level he was making efforts to overcome this habit, trying to establish some familial bond with me. He told me of the name he had intended for me, Cornelius Magni, in honor of an ancient Terran hero of a fallen empire and to reflect my psychic nature. He told me of what he had intended with my creation, where the first Primarch was not only the template for the rest, along with the most stable fruit of his labors, I was my Father's first success in creating a psycker. Freely did He tell me that I was not the strongest psycker of my nineteen brothers, nor had He yet perfected a means of instilling immunity to the Warp's twisting influence, but He remarked that I might be the most spiritually resilient of all my brothers. A trait He believes is thanks to my upbringing on Arcadia and inside the Wild Hunt. He praised the advanced yet restrained methods of tutelage the Wild Hunt used for those with psychic abilities. However, He gently expressed frustration at the slow pace Arcadia took in modernizing both their technology and culture, and from what I have later come to understand, Arcadia is not the sole outlier in the Imperium. I told Him that while I understood the frustration He felt, that the people of Arcadia had only just known liberation from the oppression of foul powers, and I had promised them the opportunity to flourish at their own pace, albeit with conditions, the coming of the Imperium did not change my promise. I assured him that if given the chance to choose their own paths, the Clans of Arcadia would prove loyal and grateful members of the Imperium, and these days my words are proving true, but I will elaborate upon that subject another time.

For the remainder of our transit through the Warp, I split my time between training, exploring my Father collection of literature, and attending lectures given by the retinue of Iteraters. The training was against members of my legions and the Custodes, who I faced without the boon of power armor. For my legionnaires it was to further hone and refine their skills in close combat, while whenever I faced a Custodian it was to improve upon my own, as the Custodes are able to still surprise me in combat. While in my Father's collection I found literature that dated back to the earliest of human civilization, some were hand written replicas made by the Emperor's own hands, others had been printed in the second millennium of the current calendar. Plays, poems, epics, novels, and essays of various topics, I must have read hundreds of each and even then it was not even a third of his collection. Each one helped me gain a clearer understanding of the complex tapestry that was humanity's origins, and has helped provide context for the development of many of the lost worlds I brought into the Imperium's perview. Morgan attended the lectures with me, which were on the subject of various human planetary governments, which types were more sustainable, which were more likely to create civil unrest, and how the Imperium could theoretically exploit the weaknesses of each to bring them into compliance. There were also three different Iteraters that proposed theoretical self sufficient economic models for societies that could provide the Imperium with a tithe of resources. While neither politics or economics were my favorite subjects to study, I understood better than most of my brothers that these subjects would shape the future of our Imperium even greater than the wars we waged. Back then, I was searching for blueprints for Arcadia's future, and the other worlds my legion would claim dominion over.

I refuse to let warfare be the sole purpose of myself or my legion, and back then I felt it important to have some understanding of these matters before asking my own sons to study them. That is something my brothers Horus, Roboute, Fulgrim, Vulkan and myself all have in common, we all want a future for our legions beyond the fires of war and conquest. Unlike my brothers, I allow my sons to select their own interests as I believe such things are a private affair, but there are many within my legion who have taken up interests in both the art of politics and economics. Tiberius Slan has shown an impressive analytical mind that can easily break the fat of economic systems and policies with ease, and I believe that should he see the Great Crusade's end, he will make a frightening politician. However the majority of my legion shows an interest either physically or skilled labor, perhaps a subtle nod to my emphasis that we toil for the sake of the average Imperial citizen. My only hope is that enough of my sons live to see the end of this Crusade to pursue their own interests. Apologies, I seem to have veered from the initial topic of this entry, but those early days were another facet of what shaped me and the Bale Hounds into what we are now. One final thing of note about our time in the Warp, the Emperor and I managed to converse more often, which allowed me to deepen this familial bond between us. When the day we finally departed the Warp, I felt eager, eager to charge at foe with a blade in hand, and it took but a moment to realign my humors.

I will never forget the shock I felt at my first true sight of an Ork war fleet, it was like looking at a swarm of flying insects, but there was no coordination, no unity, no pattern other than that of random whims. Behind that fleet was a world of red landmasses and sapphire blue oceans, which housed the target of our first strike against the foe. It did not take long for the Ork's to notice our arrival in the system, or for their lopsided ships to burn hard towards the Emperor's flagship. Those ships that managed to get close met unceremonious ends at the hands of lance batteries, missiles, and torpedoes. The Bucephalus raced through the Ork fleet with speed, pushing the limits of human engineering as it weaved between enemy fire and gaps between the Orks' formation. The shields were pushed to their limits, but the ship began its swooping approach to launch drop pods, and gunships. Before our departure the ship gunnery crews unleashed a deadly salvo of orbit bombardment on nearby Ork outposts, and when the last drop pod, gunship, and air support vessel were launched, did the Emperor's flagship break orbit. This entire operation was performed with such speed and precision that I suspect if either Fulgrim or Jagahati knew of the details, they would envy or commend the crew of the Bucephelus.

The Emperor had invited myself, Slan, and six assault veterans, to join Himself and three Custodes in a drop pod large enough to house five Contemptor Dreadnoughts. I invite any with a warrior's heart to refuse a personal invitation from my Father to fight alongside him. The interior was more spacious than I had originally thought, but even still I could feel the friction of resistance from the planet's atmosphere, reminding me that regardless of the composition or size, a drop pod was still just a drop pod. The restraint thrones, although larger than those that my gene sons were familiar with, still fit to their armored frames snuggly, and I suspect the one I sat in was designed for my Father's use. Tiberius wore artificer armor, an Astartes patterned combat shotgun with bayonet attached was strapped beside his throne, a master crafted heavy bolter pistol mag clamped to his thigh plate, and a power sword that we had forged together. Veteran Sergeant Jamous Melikor wore the vermilion green, silver, and brown of the legion, his breastplate marked with a hundred tallies, each marking a combat deployment he had survived, and held his bearded power ax firmly to his chest, while his storm shield was stored beside him. Jamous's brothers were equipped with chainblades, pistols, hand-flamers, and a few krak grenades, while their Helix Adept wore a helmet, the faceplate painted white, with a white chainfist. I felt no anxiety within my sons, only an anticipation for the hours of violence that approached, and within the three Custodes there was nothing but an eerie calm. The further we descended, the more I felt the prickling presence of the Green Tide battering at the walls of my mind, and it brought with it seeds of nausea. I was grateful for the silence that hung between all inside the Emperor's drop pod, as it allowed me enough focus and clarity to keep the psychic discomfort from afflicting my primary thought processes.

Unintentionally, I found myself gazing upon the Emperor's sword, which would be heavy and awkward in my own grasp. As I looked upon it, theoretically processes for its construction filtered into my mind, both for its physical and psychic properties. In the most basic of terms, the Emperor's sword was one of the most powerful Force Weapons crafted by human hands, but that alone was not why it burned in the light of battle. There was something primeval bound to the weapon, not a shackled fragment of the Warp's darkness, but something far, far older. There is no sentience to the sword, but the power it held was a mixture of the Emperor's own might and that primeval force. That mixture created an inescapable finality to the bite of the sword's edge, and I believe that so great is that finality that not even those cancerous powers hidden in the Warp would not survive a fatal cut. A part of me felt awe at the existence of such immense power, another portion of me wished to learn the secrets of replicating such power within my own arsenal, but I suspected I would one day learn my own means of such power. Though I have learned much in the near two centuries I have roamed the stars, I am nowhere near replicating the Emperor's array of Force Weapons, but I suspect I am getting closer. However, in that moment I had on my person a short Force Sword, wrist-mounted twin stormbolter, a power spear, and a plasma pistol, all reliable weapons. I closed my eyes, silently counting down the seconds until our pod landed. Seconds passed, then a minute, and then a warning siren sounded, followed shortly by the tectonic impacts of the pod slamming into the earth. I opened my eyes, thumbing the release mechanisms of my throne, before the pod's doors unfolded to provide us exit ramps, and freed my power spear from its secured position beside my throne. I blink-clicked through the vox channels until I cycled into my legion's priority channel, and I activated the override so every Bale Hound that made planetfall would hear my words.

"Unsheath your guns and blades my sons!" I encouraged, "Show no mercy to these savage brutes! We are sons of humanity, and we shan't let these creatures go unpunished for their cruelty! For the Imperium! For humanity!"

"For the Emperor!" A disjointed choir of voices voxed back, just as the pod finally unfolded to release us, and I smiled as I caught my sight glimpse of an Ork war party racing towards the pod. Off in the distance I saw a castle fortress of scrap metal and with a gate in crude depiction of a screaming Ork head.

"Bale Hounds, Charge!" I roared, before I took off at full speed alongside the Emperor, followed closely by the three Custodians and my sons trailing shortly behind. I raised my twin-barreled stormbolter and unleashed five steady bursts of bolts into the approaching horde of Green Skins, each one finding purchase inside alien flesh before detonating in a fountain of gore. The Emperor could have easily outpaced me, of this I am utterly certain of, but he kept his pace at a match for mine. Together, we crashed into the ocean of Ork warriors, our blades tasting blood at the same time, and as we fought in harmony both Custodian and Astartes joined our efforts. The air detonated with inhuman bestial screams, the booms of weapons' fire, the roaring engines of chain weapons, and the hiss of flamers. In orbit, flashes of exploding Ork ships glittered in the sky, as the rest of our ships translated in system and dedicated themselves to making short work of the alien foes. That detail was not observed by myself, but by those of my legion who charged to join us, as I was deep in the ocean of green skins. I am uncertain how my brothers would describe how it feels to fight alongside our Father, in truth I am unable to say with confidence which of them have even fought alongside him in a war zone before, but for me it felt right. It was entirely different from how I felt when I first fought alongside my Astartes, but it brought about that same sense of fulfillment to my spirit, albeit stronger. The Custodians and Bale Hounds behind us covered our rear, by providing another target for the massive horde of Orks, and killed any that tried to attack us from behind. With nearly every thrust, swing, or toss of my spear, I claimed the life of an Ork, but found that bursting their hearts did little to stop the beasts. Instead, decapitation or total destruction of their brains seemed the most effective method of killing them. Occasionally during the deadly dance of blades and bolters, I caught glimpses of Bale Hounds cutting through the horde with chain weapons, and saw one Ork head hurled through the air still moving its jaws as it howled. Meanwhile, each stroke of the Emperor's sword left a burning corpse to smolder into ash upon the ground, and it was only after the battle that one of my sons told me how the sight of me and the Emperor fighting side by side reminded him of a depiction of mythological gods of war. Who could rightly blame him, as stubber rounds bounced off us, barely damaging our armor, and as we carved a path through the enemy.

The Emperor and myself, two goliaths of humanity, him clad in shimmering gold, and myself clad in silver and green, him swinging his burning greatsword, while I thrusted a crackling spear. The Emperor calmly moved forward with a thunderously deadly grace, while I bounced around with lightning speed, blocking, parrying, and dodging each attack of an Ork's crude melee weapon. From the various vid and pict images taken from the helmet feeds of both the Custode and Bale Hounds, there have been no end of artists who have tried their hand at painting a moment from that battle, and I must confess that I have a favorite. Maribel Thortin is the painter, a talented artist from Segmentum Solar, not born of Terra, and she chose to capture a moment no other artist dared to depict. It showed the Emperor taking a blow that drew blood delivered by an Ork clad in hulking power armor, which made it look as though it was a piece of construction equipment, while I punched my power spear through the brain of another, as I glared at the Ork attacking my Father, my wrist mounted twin-barreled stormbolter raised as I sent a burst of bolts into the skull of my Father's attacker. Surrounding us was a horde of green skins, not a single sign of an Astartes or Custode, and far in the distant background was the Ork fortress. Maribel had chosen oil paints as her medium, yet brought more life to her depiction of the Emperor along with his golden halo than any other artist, and I suspect that had I not sent a message of praise of her work then she would have been labeled a social pariah by my Father's more fervent supporters. People seemed to dislike evidence that brought more recognizable evidence of humanity within my Father, a rather dangerous trend that persists that I must at some point discuss with either Him or Malcador.

My Father and I managed to kill our way further and further towards the fortresses gate, when suddenly the Green Tide's presence became an overwhelming presence, with a jagged maw gripped tightly around the barriers of my mind, and I screamed in pain. It was a foreign sensation for me to experience such pain, which while technically sourceless, cut all the way to the meat of my internal organs. I heard the echoes of inhuman voices, guttural laughter and bestial cheers for war, all of which threatened to overwhelm my consciousness. I barely registered the green energy that flickered to life an instant later, it poured out a storm of Orks, depositing tanks, buggies, and clunking walkers with an absurd amount of guns. The Emperor shielded me. I do not mean he used his body to protect mine, rather I felt his mind create a new barrier to shelter mine against this maelstrom of psychic Ork energy.

"Harden your resolve and mind, my son," He said calmly, "There are lives to save, and xenos to kill." He stood before me, unleashing bolts and fire alike as he slash around to give me a chance to reinforce my psychic defenses. I chanted verses from the Song of the Still Mind, emboldening my mind and spirit, until I could right myself back up, and I felt a presence drag my attention to the far right. Off some thirty yards away, I saw a hunched over Ork, its gray matter open to the world, drool oozing from its open maw, as it tightly gripped a brass staff, and green psychic energy danced across its skin. With a roar that compounded my anger, pain, frustration, and embarrassment, I hurled the power spear towards the Ork psycker. It flew with the speed and accuracy of a masterpiece long laz rifle, the blade of the spear tearing the psyker's brain out with a faint wet snap, and suddenly I felt the Green Tide's strength diminish. Then about a hundred of the Orks charging towards us, suddenly erupted into an explosion of brain matter, cerebral fluid, skull fragments and eyeballs. They burst apart one by one. Still they lumbered forward, thus I drew out my short sword and levied my plasma pistol before firing off a shot into the crowd. I once again stood beside my Father, this time splitting my focus between the ensuing onslaught and protecting myself from the Green Tide's influence. Soon our forces joined us in the slaughter, Lukas the King of Wardens led the majority of the Bale Hounds towards us, destroyed countless walkers, and was the one who took down the fortress gate with a blast of missiles.

"For the Emperor," his voice boomed over the battlefield, "For the Primarch! For my brothers! I will slay an ocean of you Ork filth, my life for the Imperium of Mankind!" The combination of roaring twin-linked autocannons, and bursts of stormbolters brought death to the Orks in a furious tempo. Then when an Ork dreadnought dared to challenge him, Lukas easily crushed it with his power fist, before leveling his autocannons at the pilot's housing and sprayed death into the insulting imitation. I must admit, even I was inspired by Lukas's deeds, and I channeled that inspiration as we killed our way through every level of the fortress. Slan and Jamous's squad ventured to find and liberate the captured humans. By the spirits. They found over two hundred malnourished humans, clad in rags, caked in filth, and being caged like animals. Slan and his brothers did honor to me with the fury and speed in which they slew the Ork filth. Meanwhile the rest of the legion established a defensive perimeter, knowing fully well that other nearby outposts would soon send out war parties towards our position. The Astartes and Custodes used anything they could find with the fortress to create barriers, take stock of ammunition, explosives, and what turrets could be used for our purposes. As they did this, the Emperor, myself, and the same three Custodes that were in the drop pod, searched the fortress for the Ork War Boss. Zulrik Bigjaw. We found him in what could pass as a throne room, and by the Golden Throne, he was an ugly hulking brute. He had attached a beaten metal plate to his jaw, the yellow of his peg-like teeth just barely poking above the rim over his lips, and he had the roundest belly I have ever seen on an Ork. A single red augmenting eye on the right half of his face, a vicious looking power claw replaced his right hand, and wore nothing but leather pants, boots, and a carapace breastplate that was cut to accommodate the bulge of his belly. To his left was a two headed chain ax, caked in dried splashes of gore, and quickly surveying the room showed why it looked that way. Scattered around randomly the wall of the room, on shelves made of scrap metal, were rotting severed heads of various Orks, other aliens, and a few humans.

"You have never fought a War Boss before have you, Arwyn?" The Emperor asked in an off puttingly casual manner. His words were enough to grab my attention instead of assessing the grizzly trophies of Zulrik throne room, and what a shrine to his brutal nature it was.

"You know this is my first encounter with Orks." I said dryly, careful to keep any hint of annoyance or confusion from my tone.

"Would you like the honor of slaying this one?" He offered with a warm smile, that made it hard to refuse the offer. Honestly, if we had not spent so long fighting, and killing our way into the fortress I would have questioned the Emperor in that moment, but I was still riding the high of adrenaline and the thrill of honest combat.

"If you insist." I grinned, fully immersed into my aspect of war, wanting nothing more than to test myself against this new experience. Wordlessly, one of the Custodes handed me his Guardian Spear, as I had not had time to retrieve my power spear, and I nodded my thanks to him, before giving the weapon an experimental swing. Since my first training duel against one of the Custodes, I had been adjusting my combat style to better serve me against those of flesh and blood instead of the nightmares in the Warp. Although I have become familiar with all manner of weapons created for human hands, nothing felt as comfortable to me as a spear. Nor have I stopped learning, developing, or improving upon ways to combat physical foes, as only a fool refuses to improve upon their flaws highlighted by a challenging enemy. Every leader of the Orks I have faced has taught me not only to appreciate the impossible resilience of their species, but to never underestimate the strength of their hulking leaders. Zulrik provided me with the first lesson.

"Bunch o' flashy gitz!" Zulrik bellowed in a poor attempt at Gothic, "I rip ya! Zoggin eat ya! Ake ya shiniez!" He moved with a lumbering speed that should have been impossible for one with his bulk, the twin-headed chain ax roared to life as Zulrik lifted it above his head in a deafening war cry. Yet I recognized it as a feint, and instead focused on the green skin's massive power claw, stepping just outside the Ork's reach as claws closed upon the empty space I had previously occupied. I wanted to sever his arm attached to the claw, but with incredible speed the Ork twisted his body around to deliver a blow with its ax. Without thinking I raised the Guardian Spear to catch the shaft of the ax mid swing, and I got an uncomfortable view of the brutal design of Ork chain weaponry. Zulrik was by no means the most prolific combatant of the Orks I have faced in my lifetime, but he was the first example to show me there was much to the threat they posed than simply large numbers or random barbarism. Zulrik put me on the defensive with his next seven attacks forcing me to dodge, block or rippost his blows, but I scored no hindering hits initially.

"Fink yous snazzy," it laughed, "Fink da bestest colur gonna elp ya beat Bos Bigjaw?!" There was no pattern to his chain of attacks, and the volume of his voice was admittedly aggravating to my ears, but I did not shut off my helmet's audio receptors as dulling one of my senses would have been detrimental. I recognized the glint of ego and pride in Zulrik's every action, a tyrant whose confidence was not unfounded, but still it was a weakness I knew how to exploit. After smacking aside a swing of his ax, I further pressed my attack jabbing the pommel of the spear into the Ork's pig-like nose, while calling upon the gift to rejuvenate then enhance my speed and strength. I have always found it far easier to enhance my body's already posthuman capabilities with the psychic strength of my mind, and had become adept at doing so without calling upon the more turbulent tides of the Warp. The trade off for such an ability is that it does not happen instantaneously as opposed to the instant results you would see from powers used by the Thousand Sons. However, that was not only what I hinged my victory on, during those moments of blade locks between us, I fired a single bolt from the Guardian Spear, each one destroying one of Zulrik's gruesome trophies mounted about the room.

Each detonation of decaying meat issued a roar of outrage, followed shortly by even more wild swings of Zulrik's weapons, and I smiled beneath my helm. The Ork suddenly swung his claw in a downward arc, that I sidestepped with ease, and the green skin's weapon became stuck in the floor, providing me with an opening. With the speed of a flash of lightning, I severed his arm attached to the bulky power claw with an upward slash of the crackling energy field around the Guardian Spear's blade. I had wanted to use the momentum from the initial slash to chain into a series of thrusts and strikes at the Ork's vitals, but that plan died as Zulrik slammed into me using the shoulder of his now bleeding stump of an arm. He managed to stagger me backwards and was ready to deliver an overhead strike with his ax. Anyone else would have likely dodged or attempted to parry the blow, instead I grinned and held my ground. I thrusted the Guardian Spear towards the small area that the Ork's jaw connected to its fat neck, while his chain ax connected with the skin of my power armor's breastplate, chewing the layer of ceramite to mulch, slowly inching deeper even as the spear tasted Zulrik's muscles and bones. The moment I felt the blade touch the base of the Ork's skull, I pulled the trigger on the bolt caster, expending the last bolt round into the xeno's brain matter. Time seemed to slow down to an agonizing crawl, as I could feel the mechanism of the Guardian Spear race against the speed and power of the chain ax, and I could read a disbelief in Zulrik's burning red eyes. He knew on some instinctual level that this was his end. Before he could utter a sound, his skull exploded as the bolt round detonated inside his brain, violently sending shards of bone and chunks of meat scattering into the air.

The Emperor and his Custodians had stood by to watch the death match between the Ork War Boss and myself, and though I could sense pride within the Emperor at seeing me victorious, there was a shadow of disappointment. He intended me to sense those emotions, make no mistake, it was his way of telling me he expected more from me, while also proud to see me survive and slay an alien foe. Zulrik would not be the only Ork warlord I would face or kill during this campaign I shared with my Father. From every corner of the system, the other Ork War Bosses heard of the death of Zulrik Bigjaw, and all twenty of them wanted to claim the glory in killing the one who took Zulrik's head. I would face and kill twelve of them, nine in single close quarters combat, two with the bark of bolters, and one crushed beneath the treads of a tank I dropped upon it. None of them were an equal to Zulrik's skill, but when we finally faced Gralik the Ripper did I find another challenge. Where Zulrik's danger was in the threat of how unceasingly random but deadly his attacks were, Gralik was a more cunning and ultimately deadlier foe. We faced Gralik and his own personal army of green skins in the void, aboard what I can only describe as an artificial moon, of considerable size, with thrusters affixed to one half of the body and the crude depiction of an Ork face on the other. We suffered casualties, both Astartes and Custodes, navigating the nonsensical labyrinth of tunnels inside the Ork Attack Moon, most notably Lukas the King of Wardens. He had led a retinue of Destroyers from the 1st War Host into the depths of the Moon, seeking to destroy the propulsion engines, but the Ork defenders managed to destroy or steal their shape charges. Rather than watch his brothers die beside him, Lukas commanded the Destroyers to pull back then regroup with the main assault, while he determined a new method to destroy the engines. Reluctantly, the Destroyers obeyed, after navigating ten miles back to the main assault group, they felt a rumble and detected a distant yet sudden spike in atomic radiation. Shortly after that, the Attack Moon was no longer capable of artificial thrust, and was now sailing on its own momentum.

Later, we recovered what little remained of Lukas's Dreadnought, by some miracle the sensor array shaped as an Astartes helmet had survived, and I commissioned it to be integrated into the Wall of Last Honor aboard the battle barrage, Honor's Mandate. The ship was the first void ship that had been called into service of the IInd Legion, and previously served as its flagship before the birth of the Arcadia Retribution. It had required some coveted secret of the Mechanicum, to erase the lethal radiation that had soaked into the surviving piece of the Dreadnought, but I felt it a worthy memorial to the first leader of my legion, who made the ultimate sacrifice for both the Imperium and his battle brothers, not once, but twice. From that point onward, the Bale Hounds of the 1st War Host that served aboard the Honor's Mandate painted their left armor pauldrons in the earthy tan of the Astral Wardens. Along with the High Gothic runes for kings and protectors painted onto the bottom right corners of the pauldrons. Additionally I chose not to rename the Battle Barge to The King of Wardens, only because Slan voiced an objection to such a thing. He stated that only Brother Commander Lukas Brikatus was the only soul worthy of such a title, and felt that to name a ship, even one so renowned and veteran as the Mandate, would not cheapen Lukas's legacy but the deaths of the other Bale Hounds lost in the assault. He had spoken his objections with such firmly restrained passion, that I felt no choice but to honor his argument, and instead settled for having their names added to the Walls of Last Honor. I cannot say with any certainty how the Legiones Custodes honored their dead, or even if they performed funerary rites in the first place, but I hope they gave some honor to their fallen shield brothers. Those few that had died aboard the War Moon had spilled oceans of Ork blood, and made the green skins labor harshly to claim their lives.

Together, my Father and I found our objective in the largest cavern of the Attack Moon, having fought our way through wave after wave of green skin warriors and armored assault vehicles. We saw him standing on a raised grated platform roughly twenty meters above the cavern floor, he was looking down at us in anticipation but I could tell my Father felt slighted at being looked down upon, literally, by an Ork. Gralik the Ripper, was taller than Zulrik, but that could have been a result of the green and blue painted power armor he wore. The Ork was just barely taller than me, and had no left armored sleeve which displayed bulging muscles littered in scar tissue and black tattoos. Gralik's head seemed more in proportion with the rest of his body, a deep scar going down from his right brown past the cheek, and curved towards his lips. He had a patch of black hair he wore in a similar topknot to 1st Captain Ezekyle Abaddon of the Luna Wolves, albeit I cannot say with any certainty what material kept the knot in its shape, but it looked organic in nature. He carried two giant axes that even a legionnaire would need both hands to hope wielding. One was a chain weapon, more fearsome in appearance than Zulrik's with its thicker and longer teeth blades, along with the welded buzzsaw blades attached to the ax's back. The other was a crudely designed power weapon, undoubtedly crafted by one of his more intelligent subordinates, but the shaft of the weapon was wrapped in leathered human skin. I sensed the echoes of shrieking human souls that clung to that accursed power ax, and while its presence set a fire of hatred with my soul, it paled in comparison to the eruption of volcanic hatred I felt with the Emperor. Let it be said, that for whatever faults I find in my Father, the Emperor felt a deep sense of responsibility and protection for humanity, so to feel the clinging terror of dead humans upon a weapon easily earns his hatred. Looking back, it becomes easier to believe that Leman Russ or Angron each embodied some aspect of our Father's fury and wrath. I am only glad that my Father knows enough restraint in the face of offensive presences, and did not tear the Moon asunder in justifiable anger. Instead, my Father looked at me, and gave me the unspoken command to defeat Gralik, a command I had no problem following. With a nod I took off towards a ramp that could lead me easily to the Ork's position, weaving in and out of the pelting shower of heavy stubber fire.

"Ow n'tcha sum shiny gitz!" Gralik bellowed with a glee chuckle, "Ain't ever een no oomiez hat kan ive proppa rokk. An all dat dakka youz rought! Waz etting ored til youz zowed up! Eeded a proppa WAAGH! Ere we go! Ere we go! Youz an' me, ya snazzy git!" His followers switched their focus upon the Emperor and the forces we had led into the cavern, at least most of them did, there was the occasional smaller malformed Ork that looked like children armed with explosives and knives. They posed no true threat, but killing them slowed my advance slightly, to both my own and Gralik's annoyance.

"Oi!" He shouted, pointing his chain ax towards the smaller Orks, "Eez mine ya zoggin gitz! I wanna proppa rukk! Wot yuz finkz I on't zoggin eed ya nampy pampiz tae Mad Dok Gutztoof?!" That sent the smaller Orks running scared, one even threw itself over a railing, but eventually I found myself approaching the hulking Ork in power armor. Gralik laughed with murderous glee, then pointed his power ax towards me before gesturing for me to come at him, and I fired a burst of bolts from my wrist-mounted stormbolter. They met an energy field protecting Gralik, halting their flight before detonating harmlessly in front of the green skin, who snickered like a child, before charging at me with a guttural roar. I blocked his power ax with an energized longsword, and gripped his left wrist arresting the swing of his chain ax. He grinned about to say something else, I slammed my helmet into his face, I felt the wet crunch of cartilage and bone. Blood gushed from the Ork's nose, but still he smiled honestly.

"Hatz ight! Hatz ight!" He chuckled, "A proppa rukk!" Suddenly, he began bashing his skull against my helmet, cracking my left eye lense but not enough to make it unusable. I was not surprised by his resilience to the pain, those previous fights made it abundantly clear that the Ork nervous system was extremely dulled to pain, but still Gralik felt like a league apart from the previous Ork warlords I had slain. There was more than just feral cunning behind those red eyes, and his movements spoke of one who had trained himself with notable discipline and skill unlike the other Ork leaders. This Ork was the best of all his fellows, not the largest, not the strongest, but undoubtedly a blend of the two mixed with unrivaled Ork cunning. All of which felt like a true threat to my life if I underestimated this green skin, so I used the repelling energy fields of our blades to maneuver my cross guard to slam into his jaw. The blow loosened one of his peg shaped yellow teeth, but before staggering backward, he raised up a boot to kick my breastplate. He not only put a crack in the plate, but had enough force to send me staggering back as well. Gralik continued to laugh joyously, and it was then I realized I did not have the luxury of time to hone my abilities to match the Ork's ambidextrous melee style. So I switched to a two handed grip of my power sword, falling back on the sword drills I had learned back in the Wild Hunt, and started to let the gift slowly enhance my reflexes as I readied myself for Gralik's next attack. I did not wait long.

"WAAAAAAGH!" The Ork roared charging towards me, swinging with his power ax, while readying the other, and instantly I batted the power ax away before it could reach me. I stepped closer into his guard, thrusting my sword towards his head, instead of dodging, Gralik swung his chain axe up to redirect my blade's trajectory. It worked, but before we could get any closer to each other, I struck his groin with the knee of my back leg, stunning him for a moment allowing me to take three steps back. He took that moment to swing both axes towards my head, instinctively I raised the sword to block the oncoming blow. Then something unfurled from behind Gralik's right shoulder and something slammed into me with the force of a thunder hammer before exploding and sending me to the ground. The crazy bastard had installed a small missile launcher into his armor, and before I could utter a curse his form charged through the smoke. He leapt high into the air, an impressive feat considering the bulk and weight of his armor, both axes raised to strike as another missile appeared. I moved quickly, rolling to my feet before back dashing slightly, as the missile detonated atop the spot I had previously laid, and it was a miracle that the platform retained its structural integrity.

"Me Mek Boyz did gud," Gralik taunted, "Makin dez, da bestest werk zey don!" He clipped his chain ax to his hip and produced a strange copper plated pistol with two blue glowing orbs with a matching glowing coil leading up to the muzzle. A plasma weapon. With greater effort than I was truly accustomed to I created a barrier of psychic energy before I was washed in plasma fire, and focused on maintaining the shield while Ork fired three more shots in quick succession. The weapon began a cool down cycle, and I wasted no time. I charged forward at full speed enhanced by the might of the gift, sword at the ready, and swung a two-handed strike when within close range. The Ork raised his power ax to block the attack, but he could not halt the momentum of my sword, instead he managed to change where the blade struck. Instead of cleaving into his right clavicle, my blade severed his left arm at the shoulder, a bloodless wound thanks to the cauterizing energy field of the blade. The loss of his arm is what finally draws the first roar of pain and anger from Gralik, but it changes from a howl to a chuckle of amusement.

I cannot lie, in that one moment, I hated the Ork and his kin, not because they were aliens, not even because they were my foes. The burning inferno of this hatred was due because they loved the slaughter and cruelties they both inflicted and endured. I understood then, that wars waged only for the sake of war, was the only thing that moved the hearts of the green skins. It disgusted me. While the Astartes, Custodians, even we Primarchs were designed to be apexes of warfare, there was both a purpose and promise beyond violence for us. Take the examples of the Blood Angels, Emperor's Children, and the Ultramarines, each of whom have branched their interests beyond warfare, from studying the visual arts to learning the art of statesmanship. Knowing of the subtle whispers today, I even suspect that the Alpha Legion have been preparing themselves to be a sort of intelligence bureau or hidden police force of the Imperium's governing laws, and whether the twin Primarchs of the legion had determined this path after their reunion, or if the legion had already been geared towards such a future from the outset. Even those cancers in the Warp, whom I despise and stand against with my very soul, have a purpose, twisted though they are, other than to corrupt the material universe. Not the Orks.

Gralik did not let the loss of an arm stop him, while laughing he slammed the pommel of his ax into his faceplate, and staggered me back. I had no time to return the strike, as he kept pressing me with swings faster than before, but lacking the same degree of purpose and skill he had displayed at the beginning. It reminded me of a cornered wounded animal, desperate to defy its death, and lashing with a berserker's fury. I deflected each strike he threw, but after four hundred seconds of relentless strikes, I found an opening in the torrent of blows. So after deflecting another strike, I thrust my sword forward, piercing the right side of Gralik's neck, before tugging the energized blade cleanly through the Ork's neck. As the head tumbled to the opposite direction of my blade, I kicked the corpse backwards, and glared down at the still moving severed head. Still the alien war lord grinned, he grinned with delight and pleasure. Then I slammed a boot down upon the skull, crushing meat, brain, and bone in a sickly wet crunch of ceramite. Then as though a fire was snuffed out by a cold breeze, what little cohesion of the Ork's existed crumbled, and victory was achieved within the next hour. I wanted to destroy all physical traces of Gralik the Ripper, including his weapons, but the Emperor stopped me.

"Take his gun and chain ax," He told me, "Not as a trophy for yourself, but a monument to the victory achieved today, that future generations will look upon in awe." Many believed that I created the museum in the Retribution's middle decks, which has come to display trophies, keepsakes, and paintings earned from those publicly known engagements of the Bale Hounds, after I had learned Horus had done so aboard the Vengeful Spirit. I have not seen fit to correct this mistaken belief, not because I do not care what others might think, but because I believe that some of my brothers would be jaded by the truth. The Emperor, our Father, encouraged or rather insisted I create the museum dedicated to my legion's victories. I suspect it is because my Father wishes for there to be some documentation to not only remind future generations of what my legion accomplished, but to further cement His own legacy by proxy. You must remember that He is a ruler first, psychic warrior second, brilliant scientist third, and a father fourth. It has been the nature of past great human leaders to leave behind a legacy for the future to marvel at, and my Father is not immune to this form of vanity. There is a saying on Arcadia, "The rule of a great king is worthless lest his heir builds and improves upon his works." I doubt that any of my brothers can truly govern the Imperium successfully in my Father's stead, at least not for long, but it is clear to some extent that He takes pride in our accomplishments, whether He does so out of affection, with the pride of a creator, or some strange combination of both I cannot say.

Malcador has walked the halls of the Bale Hounds' museum, which we call the Hall of Echoes, which had been planned by both standard humans and Astartes. They had sought my approval for such plans. I am grateful that they had planned a display that celebrated the legion's origins, victories, and allies, instead of simply the history of when I turned them into Bale Hounds. Recently, during his last visit, Malcador seemed more agitated than usual, but that changed after he had asked why the trophies of my personal battles were not in their own section or given more grandstanding than the other displays. I told him plainly that this chamber was to celebrate the accomplishments of the IInd Legion, and though I am its leader, I am but a single piece of something greater than myself. He seemed momentarily caught off guard by my answer, perhaps finding it hard to believe I was either so naive to state such things, or humble enough to realize I am but a small piece of the Imperium's tapestry. Then again, these days the Sigillite seems to tolerate the behaviors of my brothers and myself less, to the extent that often the Crows of the legion have reported more and more blatantly public criticism of our character from Malcador's own lips. I have no doubt that Malcador is aware of the Crows, their purpose, and so I cannot help but suspect he wanted these words to reach me. I feel comfortable in making the assumption that Malcador sees the Primarchs as tools, and most likely tools that he thinks do not perform to expectation, so he seems to enjoy hinting at his beliefs from time to time. Many of my brothers feel betrayed, that Malcador's recent behavior towards us is both unwarranted and utterly unexpected, silently I disagree with them. I have held my tongue to avoid causing any further unnecessary friction between my brothers or our legions, but I believe Malcador's vocal criticisms are the result of Lorgar's folly paired with his actions on Monarchia. I must add that I cannot lay the blame entirely upon Lorgar's misguided judgment, perhaps the unrestrained fury of Angron, the bitter resentment of Mortarion, the Khan's tendency to hold all his cards close to his chest, my history of acting to my own accord, Magnus's arrogance in believing he understands all better than most, or even Russ's overly aggressive simple nature were the foundations of his contempt for us. However, out of all of us, Lorgar's blunder in believing that our Father's denial of divinity to be some test only he had bested, had set many of the Crusade's objectives back decades, if not centuries. Resulting in the creation of a hidden cult of those who worship the Emperor as a god.

If Malcador holds the belief that we should be treated as nothing more than tools, then by that incredibly cold blooded logic Lorgar is the most defective in regard to fulfilling the goals of the Great Crusade. I do not approve nor even like this line of thought, but I cannot deny that there is a ring of truth to it. Each Primarch had been designed to not only lead armies of gene-enhanced soldiers, but to fulfill some role in enforcing the edicts of Imperial rule across the stars. Despite this truth, many of us have developed either beyond or outside the plans our Father intended, yet still the Emperor treats us mostly with warmth. Beyond my own independence, I point to Jagahati's ability to always be unpredictable, and the mighty wings of beloved Sanguinius, which I assure you that our Father had not expected nor encoded our most beloved brother to have. I suspect that his wings are some quirk of mutation wrought by the unpredictable corruption in the Warp, the only flaw in my theory is that Sanguinius's mind and soul are so strong with purity that it leaves more questions than answers. If we truly were only the tools that Malcador undoubtedly sees us as, then the Emperor would have not hesitated to remove us, regardless if the fondness he expressed towards us was genuine or not. I hope that these pages have provided more context on the relationship between the Emperor and myself, along with the extent my loyalty and love towards him goes. Until next time.