The Leonine Heresy

by Sharrowkyn

Inspired by the Roboutian Heresy, this is the tale of Lion El'Jonson's fall to Chaos as he leads half of his brothers (and not necessarily the ones you might think) in rebellion against the Emperor. All Index Astartes entries have been completed, and now we are journeying through the various War Zones of the 41st Millennium.

9. Index Astartes: Ultramarines

Chapter 9: Index Astartes- Ultramarines

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Index Astartes- Ultramarines: Paragons Perverted

Few have fallen as far as the famed Ultramarines. Masters and creators of the Jewel of the East, the Thirteenth Legion were once the pinnacle of all the Astartes Legions, bringing order across the galaxy in the name of Roboute Guilliman, the Battle King of Ultramar. However, the brightest star casts the longest shadow, and so pursuit of glory was turned to vainglory, until the worship of self eclipsed all other loyalties. Now freed from their oaths by the dark counsels of the Archtraitor, the most honored Ultramarines have cast aside all shackles of morality and restraint. That which made them great has now made them abominable, casting aside their martial pride in favor of overweening vanity. An unholy coterie of Chaos Lords now hold sway over vast numbers of lessers, half-breeds and mongrels who will commit any crime to ascend through the ranks in desperate attempts to seize glory over the defiled corpses of those who were once their brothers. Their desire for order has been twisted into an excess of tyranny, taking decadent delight in inflicting untold suffering to those weaker than them. Each Scion of Guilliman is megalomaniacal to the point of solipsism, utterly convinced of his destiny to rule the galaxy, and so they will never, ever stop fighting until all they survey is subject to their twisted whims.

Origins: Builders of Empire

One of the Emperor of Mankind's most unrecognized traits was his ability to turn foes into friends and tools. When he first set out to unite the war-torn lands of Terra in the latter days of M30, a world of foes were arrayed against him. From savage techno-barbarians, to off-world raiders, to fanatics enamored with dark powers beyond the ken of mortal man, the Emperor faced them all, destroying those deemed unsalvageable and turning to his side those who could be of use to him. At his side were the Legiones Cataegis, the mighty Thunder Warriors, whose strength unified Terra, though they heroically perished in the attempt during the climax of the Unification Wars at the Battle of Mount Ararat. Though Terra was now secure, the loss of the Thunder Warriors had left the armies of the Master of Mankind greatly diminished; they were too few, such as the Custodes, or too unworthy, such as the Imperial Army, to carry out the next stage of his grand plan. To address this shortcoming, the Emperor used his genius to craft a new breed of supersoldier, one that would help him master the stars. They would be untouched by disease or the ravages of old age, immune to fear, and possessed of mighty armor and weapons. To master the stars would require not merely warriors, but soldiers, a new force known as Astartes, legions made from multiple gene-templates that would be unstoppable in every facet of war. Inducted as children, and raised on war and conquest, they would be the perfect weapons to carry out the Emperor's vision.

In order to gain the recruits to fill these legions, the Emperor turned to the newly conquered lands which now paid fealty to him. The initial recruits of the XIII came from various and diverse regions: the Maglev Clans of Panpocro, the Hive Oligarchs of Midafrik, and the Saragon Exclave War-Families. Yet one region contributed more sons than any other: the Man-Eaters of the Caucasus Wastes. These Wastes were ruled by techno-barbarians of rare skill known as the Ethnarchs, who excelled at crafting genetic monsters just for the challenge of it before discarding them into the gorges below when their creators lost interest. These canyons were stalked by horrors such as the Black Beast of the Tomnadashan Mine, whose centuplicate eyes peered into realms beyond our own, or the Pallid Leporine of Caerbannog, whose fangs could pierce any armor as it preyed upon the unfortunate tribes that lived in small villages scattered across the Wastes. Such holdovers from Old Night would not be allowed to blight the Emperor's domains, and when his mighty armies finally came to conquer the Wastes, they were joined by the vengeful tribes. In gratitude for their liberation, the tribes offered their sons to the Emperor, and he accepted their generous gift, inducting the new recruits into the ranks of his Thirteenth Legion. The XIII swelled in size, and its character and temperament swiftly revealed itself. The legion became known for their unusual levels of cohesion and adaptability, learning from every battle and taking inspiration from both friend and foe. Growing in strength with every battle, the XIII soon gained their first cognomen: the War-Born, a title which they quickly adopted. They took part in many great battles across the Solar System, including the brutal Sedna Campaign, where they along with seven other legions were deployed to the edge of the Solar System beyond even the orbit of Pluto. With the War-Born at the forefront, the brutal xenos and the horrors of the False World were expunged, though the XIII were left with greatly reduced numbers.

To make up for their losses, the War-Born began to rapidly induct new recruits from the hundreds of refugee camps left over from the Reconquest of the Solar System. These new Astartes had known the suffering that came before the Emperor, yet also the destruction the Master of Mankind had wrought. Such a move was risky, for while it removed any potential rebellion, it also transformed those potential rebels into posthuman supersoldiers. Yet such dark rumors were soon forgotten, as the XIII served loyally for decades, quickly becoming one of the premier legions due to their innate flexibility and willingness to adapt. It is said the War-Born took great pride in their good fortune, believing that they were the best of all the legions because of their many victories; only the vaunted I and XVI Legions could compare. They fought in many campaigns, and achieved many great victories in tandem with the dozens of regiments of the Solar Auxilia. This partnership allowed the XIII to adopt the tactics of other arms of the Imperium military, adopting new ways of waging war and turning them to their own use. Thus the XIII was a veritable kaleidoscope of tactics, able to perfectly adapt to any situation or foe. However, such disparity in appearance would soon change with the discovery of their long-lost primarch in the distant reaches of the Eastern Fringe.

The Avenging Son

In his wisdom, the Emperor knew he could not rely on mortals to prosecute his endeavor to unite the stars, the Great Crusade. The Astartes were mighty indeed, but to conquer the galaxy would require more than just strength of arms. It would require leaders of superlative might, and so the Emperor used his own genetic template to craft twenty sons known as Primarchs. Each was imbued with a portion of himself, mighty demigods designed to be the master of a legion of their own, a score of arrows aimed at the universe. Yet before they could grow to maturity, they were taken from him, thrown into a merciless galaxy still reeling from the effects of Old Night. The tiny life-pods bearing the nascent Primarchs were set adrift, some arriving almost immediately to their destinations, while others took far longer to arrive at their destinations, subject to the malign influences of the Warp. The pod bearing the High Gothic numeral XIII was subject to this fate much like the rest of its kind, and it came to land far from Terra upon the world of Macragge in the Eastern Fringes, crashing within a forest with explosive force. Macragge was largely a feudal society, possessing the technological schizophrenia common in worlds of its kind, and it was thus that the pod was discovered by a party of nobles on horseback. These nobles, led by a man named Konor Guilliman, came upon the pod almost by accident, discovering it contained a beautiful child within. Konor was taken with the boy, for he had no children of his own, and took him in, adopting him as his own and naming him Roboute.

Konor's joy at finding a son was soon tempered when his party returned to Macragge Civitas. The pod's arrival had been accompanied by, and perhaps triggered, an earthquake in the region, and many died in the aftershocks, including most of Konor's household such as his wife and his seneschal Euten. Konor had wept to find the broken bodies of so many crushed beneath the masonry of his home, but his was a culture that valued stoicism. Setting aside his grief, Konor sought to maintain the honor of his house, and soon married Atia, the daughter of Gallan, the other Consul of Macragge Civitas. The two were ill-suited for each other, yet Konor and Gallan required each other to maintain their power, Konor favoring the commons while his father-in-law supported the aristocratic Senate. However, both were united in love of their son, and thus Roboute grew under the tutelage of two parents, a rare occurrence among the primarchs. While Konor instilled discipline in his son, Atia spoiled the boy, telling him how important he would be. The primarch himself was incredibly intelligent, mastering lessons from both sides of his family with great speed, and he soon reached maturity.

In order to take him away from the negative influences of Atia and Gallan, Konor gave young Roboute command of a legion, sending him to the northern region of Macragge known as Illyrium. This land was filled with barbarians, who constantly warred amongst themselves during the times they were not hired as mercenaries by the civilized states to their south. Roboute fought the barbarians for years, exterminating some while winning the submission of others. He took great joy in seeing them kneel before him, and within a decade, he was ready to return to Macragge Civitas in triumph. However, the city had suffered in his absence. While remaining allies in public, Konor and Gallan had become the unofficial heads of rival factions, and partisan riots had taken place. The House of Guilliman had also fractured as Konor's differences with Gallan estranged him from Atia, who had kept up a hidden correspondence with Roboute. The young primarch deeply loved his mother, and was outraged by Atia's claims that Konor was going to put her away in favor of a new wife, one who would bear new sons to replace Roboute as heir.

Marching his forces back to the capital, Roboute was hailed as a hero. Yet at his sides were barbarians of Illyria who marched as conquering warriors and not as the captives the citizens of the capital expected. As the people celebrated the triumph through the streets of the city, a feast was held for the conquering hero and his family. During this banquet, tensions frayed between Roboute and Konor, while Atia watched from the side tables. The two openly shouted at each other, developing into a bitter fight between father and son.

"What are you doing, Roboute?" The younger Guilliman had risen in haste, knocking aside the long table that sat between the two. The instruments outside the hall were now incredibly loud, the drums pounding in his ears. Konor realized with some consternation that Gallan's seat was now empty. "Roboute?"

"Succeeding you, father."

With only Atia as witness, Guilliman plunged his dagger into his father. Though the blow killed Konor instantly, Roboute was lost to hate, stabbing his father over and over again with a fury that far exceeded what was necessary to kill one old man. When he came to his senses, Roboute was horrified at the mangled corpse that lay at his feet. Atia consoled him, assuring him it had to be done. She and Gallan had known Macragge Civitas would never be big enough for someone of Roboute's majesty, and so they had taken care of everything. Even as Konor was being murdered, Gallan's men swept the streets, killing Konor's supporters and securing the city for his own faction. With the Senate now dominant, Gallan offered Roboute his deceased father's position as Consul, and the primarch reluctantly accepted. He knew he could never let anyone know the truth of Konor's death: loose ends would need to be tied up. At his father's funeral, Guilliman utilized his incredible charisma to twist the truth, proclaiming the death to be the work of an assassin in Gallan's employ. The mob had never liked Gallan, who had long sneered at the common people, and so it took little effort for Guilliman to turn their hate toward him. The enraged crowds tore the elderly Gallan to pieces, and acclaimed Guilliman the sole Consul. Guilliman wasted little time, proclaiming himself Consul for life, and passing a wave of reforms that ensured his support. With the promise of free food for the poor and gladiatorial games for all, Guilliman became undisputed master of Macragge, for the barbarian tribes of Illyria had thrown their support behind him as well.

Guilliman ruled unopposed for over a decade, leading Macragge in a renaissance of progress and rediscovery. Both art and science flourished, and Guilliman was able to use his natural genius for logistics to rush Macragge through a technological revolution by organizing its production. Such efficiency enabled Guilliman to feed and equip a far larger army than the rest of the world's city-states, and his soldiers swiftly united the world under his banner. Yet world conquest was not enough for Guilliman. By piecing together the scattered and half-understood technologies from the vaults and laboratories of Macragge, Guilliman was able to sponsor the creation of a spaceflight industry. One world turned into dozens as Guilliman led his forces from world to world, creating a vast navy that, combined with his charisma, allowed him to establish control over the region of space which came to be known as Ultramar. However, this new empire was no paradise: Guilliman did not tolerate any dissent, establishing a secret police known as the Vigil Opertii, who prowled the streets of his new empire for signs of disloyalty or rebellion.

By the time Guilliman was fifty years old, his Empire of Ultramar stretched across several thousand square light years, around five hundred worlds in total. From Percepton in the southwest to Orpheus Prime in the northeast, billions of people bowed before Guilliman. His empire had absorbed many cultures, and many fringe worlds saw him as a demigod or divine and worshiped him accordingly. Though he did not personally believe himself to be divine, a small legacy of Konor's teachings that still remained, his mother advised him to utilize this longing to maintain stability and compliance in his empire. Atia soon began arranging elaborate religious ceremonies where Guilliman was honored as a demigod of war and freedom, who brought justice and security to those who were a part of his new empire. The primarch ruled unopposed for decades, personally overseeing the integration of many worlds with great pomp and ostentation. By his mid-fifties, ennui had begun to set in, for the vastness of space meant even his great empire was but a speck in the galaxy, and he sought to relieve this boredom through the thrill of battle. However, the might of his armies meant many worlds capitulated without a fight. Thus when Guilliman received word of a new planet in the east of his empire which had asked to be admitted on one condition, he was intrigued, for few worlds asked for terms before they submitted to his charismatic rule.

Guilliman traveled to this world, to the edges of charted space to the world known as Nuceria. It was a backwater world, whose culture was similar to that of Macragge's; however, what truly interested Guilliman were the tales its leaders told him. The leaders of Nuceria begged for the primarch's support, for their world was gripped by a slave rebellion, led by an escaped gladiator calling himself Angron. Guilliman had long despised those who upset the natural order of things, and agreed to deploy his forces in exchange for planetary submission and access to Nucerian flesh markets, for Macragge always needed new gladiators and slaves. His armies landed with grand ceremony, though their arrogance soon dissipated. To Guilliman's annoyance and astonishment, his grand campaign quickly bogged down, the pride of his martial corps grinding ineffectually for over a year against huge numbers of slaves. Multiple generals of Ultramar tried and failed to end the rebellion, and their incompetence only led to other cities declaring their allegiance to these "Eaters of Cities". Guilliman himself had to intervene, turning the tide with his incredible tactics. After months of deploying and redeploying, Guilliman had finally seized the initiative and managed to pin the slave army within the mountains of Fedan Mhor. He took to the field of battle himself for the first time in years, ordering the nobles of Nuceria to stand back and watch as he led his men to victory against the slave rabble upon Desh'elika Ridge.

Guilliman was starting to see why his generals had failed. These slaves fought like madmen, and the ones with implants were even worse. However, even their devastating charges were no match for his tactical brilliance, as evidenced by the success of his assault. This would end today, for Roboute had finally lured out the ringleader, a bellowing idiot who had spotted his flag and was even now charging towards him.

Guilliman prepared to meet the charge himself, for none could stand before him in single combat. Once he had defeated and humiliated this rebel, he would crucify the brute and all his followers, leaving their bodies as a warning to other slaves to know their place. The brute got closer and closer, and Guilliman was surprised to see he was almost as tall as himself. Guilliman raised his blade, ready to make the first strike, when the sky shattered above them.

Golden shards of light pierced the heavens, and the two warring armies came to a halt. Guilliman was forced to shield his eyes from the sheer brightness, and it appeared his foe was similarly affected, skidding to a halt only yards away. It was a ship of some sort, but its size was unparalleled, far larger than any of his own vessels. Another golden flash of light appeared between Roboute and the brute, fading to reveal a giant of a man in armor as gold as his vessel. The man looked at Guilliman, and frowned.

Great Crusade: Ruler of Hosts

During the decades Guilliman was fighting to establish his stellar empire, his father, the Emperor of Mankind, had been doing the same but on a much grander scale in his Great Crusade. Sensing the presence of his primarchs, the Emperor had traveled eastwards, but a great Warp-storm had delayed his arrival by several years. When his fleets finally breached the stormfront to arrive on the coreward frontier of Ultramar, the terrified officials relayed all they knew regarding the current whereabouts of the Consul-Supreme. Leaving behind forces to begin the compliance process, the Emperor traveled across Ultramar to the edge of known space, where on the world of Nuceria, he found not one son, but two. Such a discovery should have been a joyous occasion, but there was little levity to be found on Nuceria. Here the Emperor had discovered two sons on the verge of killing each other, however unknowingly. As the Master of Mankind explained who he was, Guilliman remained standing, as did the brute who was apparently his brother. Guilliman was delighted to hear he had a legion made in his image, for surely they were worthy of his legacy, but his happiness turned to anger when the Emperor told his brother the same. Nuceria was to become the new homeworld of his brother's legion, and as such, would not be part of Ultramar.

Swallowing his pride, Guilliman agreed to serve this man calling himself his creator, and began by showing the Emperor his vast realm of Ultramar. The Emperor seemed happy at the thought of so many worlds joining his Imperium peacefully, and as a gesture of good will, confirmed Roboute in his status as master of Ultramar until such time as it could transition into the Imperium proper. The primarch joined his father as they traveled back toward Terra, and Guilliman was astonished at the sheer scale of the Emperor's realm; perhaps his father was indeed someone worthy of serving. When Guilliman was shown the assembled ranks of the XIII, he pronounced himself well-pleased at their status as one of the top legions in the Emperor's service. In recognition of that status, the primarch renamed his legion, and thus the War-Born became the Ultramarines, the Astartes beyond other Astartes.

After reuniting with his legion, the Emperor took Guilliman to meet his brothers. Technically tied with Angron, Roboute was the eighth son found. It took some time for Guilliman to wrap his mind around the concept of others being his equals, a concept soon rejected after meeting most of them. His brothers were mostly unimpressive, though a few stood out, such as Ferrus Manus and Rogal Dorn, whose dauntless natures led Guilliman to believe they'd be useful to him. Yet it was the oldest brother, Horus, that Guilliman was most taken by. Here was a rival worthy of his attention, a legion whose victories would be a fitting challenge for his Ultramarines to surpass. In order to humble Horus and his other brothers, Guilliman quickly took to the stars, achieving compliances in record times. Guilliman turned his natural charisma to gaining compliances by diplomacy, even while his logistical genius swelled the legion to an incredible size. Recognizing the Luna Wolves had the advantage in sheer compliance numbers, Guilliman ordered his sons to focus on the quality of worlds as well. Thus hundreds of worlds were left as model systems, utterly loyal to the Imperium, a stark contrast to the damaged and leaderless worlds left in the wake of Luna Wolves conquests. The philosophy of Ultramarines revolved around the concept of 'theoreticals' and 'practicals', where commanders would extensively plan out their battles and then execute them to perfection. Such a philosophy extended to other matters as well: Guilliman was a master of logistics, and the worlds his legion conquered formed economic unions with Ultramar, extending his influence ever further into the Ultima Segmentum.

Despite their proclivity toward peaceful compliance, the XIII were still Astartes, and they proved just as adept at fighting, best evidenced by their many campaigns against the ork empires of the Eastern Fringe. In the Battle of Thoas, Guilliman turned the tide with proper use of phosphex weaponry, the living fire burning through the lightly armored xenos until there was nothing left. The legion records of their defeated foes swelled in proportion with the countless victories achieved as they exterminated countless races in their drive to secure the Eastern Fringe. After each victory over xenos, or with each human world reconquered, the Ultramarines would host a triumph, marching in grand parades across the planet's surface. Many of Guilliman's fellow primarchs looked down on such displays of pride, yet the Lord of Ultramar had good reason to be proud.

After nearly a hundred years of campaigning for the Emperor, Guilliman received a summons from his father. Traveling to Terra, the Emperor informed Guilliman he was to go to the world of Khur, located near the borders of Ultramar, and destroy its cities, for they were guilty of violating the precepts of the Imperial Truth. Guilliman suspected the Emperor might have an ulterior motive for choosing him as the instrument of destruction, but he did not care, for this was a satisfying assignment. Khur was a world under the protection of the Word Bearers and their overly-pious primarch Lorgar, who had long irritated Roboute with his sermons and pointless speculations about divinity. The Battle-King of Ultramar gathered his forces and set out to fulfill his father's command. The Emperor had not given him much instruction, and so Guilliman ordered his forces to annihilate the population from orbit. Millions died in their sleep, slaughtered for the crime of worshiping the Emperor as a deity, and when morning came, only the capitol remained unscathed. Guilliman ordered the citizens of the capital, Monarchia, to broadcast a signal to their precious Word Bearers, and when the Seventeenth came running to see who had destroyed their paradise, Guilliman had his ships fire a salvo into Monarchia's sole remaining city before Lorgar's very eyes. Even as the Word Bearers descended upon the ruined world, the Ultramarines began to land after them. Mustering in their obsessively-ordered rows, Guilliman stepped out from the ranks of 19th Aethon Company to confront Lorgar personally.

"Does this senseless murder make you happy? Does it please you to witness my shame?" Lorgar yelled. The primarch of the Word Bearers was in Guilliman's face, who affected an air of casual disinterest.

"Honestly, yes. You look so heartbroken over the deaths of these mortals. There's such a sad love, deep in your eyes. I…" As Guilliman prepared to mock his brother further, Lorgar snapped, swinging his mace at Guilliman's head. If he were a mortal, or one of his lesser brothers, it might have even hit him. However, Guilliman was ready and dodged it, for Lorgar's rage had made him sloppy. "Beware, brother. I have been generous up till now, but I can be cruel." Guilliman stepped back, and Lorgar found himself forced to his knees even as Guilliman remained upright. The Emperor had arrived.

Guilliman watched with amusement as his brother was humiliated and taken back to Terra. Before leaving, the Emperor turned to Guilliman, looking as though he was going to say something, but he only frowned once more, his expression one of disappointment. Despite himself, Guilliman was bothered by his father's judgmental stare, a memory he attempted to repress to little success, and it continued to haunt his dreams over the next few decades. When Lorgar later rejoined the Great Crusade, Guilliman paid him little mind. He remained as he had, his attention kept more upon his own victories than to Lorgar or any of the other brothers who were still being found.

However, such pride was not to last, and the overweening superiority which had gripped the legion since Monarchia swiftly disappeared after the discovery of the Osirian Psybrids. Several decades after Guilliman was found, a distress call was received from the Osiris Cluster, and the Scions of Guilliman answered the call. There they discovered the world of Septus XII under attack from a race of hideous xenos clad in baroque armor, whose hourglass-shaped ships proved incredibly resilient. Guilliman threw his fleet into the battle, and by use of sheer numbers, overwhelmed the psychic xenos, who were but a scouting party. Mechanicum scientists studied the remains, discovering these xenos were offshoots of the dreaded Rangda, a powerful race known for their ability to puppet other races. The Rangda were thought to be contained by the might of the I and XIV Legions, yet clearly their influence was not totally kept within the cordon.

Sensing their deception had been revealed, the people of Septus XII turned against the Ultramarines, springing their trap in an attempt to capture a primarch. The common citizenry had controlled remotely, while the gory remains of what the Ultramarines had assumed was the Osirians fused together, forming a multi-limbed monstrosity that towered three times the primarch's height. It lashed out with incredible psychic force, throwing the primarch aside. Guilliman had little defense against psychic threats, and it was only through the sacrifice of his Librarian, Ptolemy, that the beast was made vulnerable to concentrated fire from the rest of his forces. Even as the last of the corrupted human populace were being purged, Guilliman swore he would not be vulnerable again.

Guilliman began studying all he could about the Rangda so as to counter them more effectively, but such information was kept hidden, even from him. He tried to search out the root of psychic power, but there was precious little information. To his irritation, neither the Emperor, nor Malcador the Sigillite, nor even Magnus the Red would give him the knowledge he sought, and he would certainly not demean himself by rephrasing his command into a request. His designs forestalled, Guilliman returned to his conquests, pride in his legion's accomplishments. By the turn of the millennium, Guilliman's legion was by the largest, a result of / =][= FILE CORRUPTED =][=/ and his natural talent at the organizational side of recruitment. Yet despite this, Guilliman learned to his fury the Emperor had named another to be Warmaster.

There had long been rumors that the Emperor was thinking about naming his successor, an heir to continue the Great Crusade who would possess status above that of his brothers. Guilliman was the obvious choice, based on his many victories, which were spread far and wide by the many Remembrancers that he had invited to witness his sons in battle. In addition to having the most Remembrancers and largest legion, he had shown his might in that he had conquered five hundred worlds compared to most of his brothers having only taken one. Yet despite his innumerable accomplishments, Guilliman learned only after the fact that he had been passed over. In what was no doubt an act of spite, the Emperor had instead named Horus Lupercal as Warmaster upon the world of Ullanor, and had given him a Grand Triumph, as if to mock Guilliman's many triumphs. His pride mortally wounded, Guilliman reacted not with the rage one might have expected, but with shock. Unable to face the rest of his brothers, who would no doubt gloat over him, the Battle-King sent a company of legionaries under the command of Tylos Rubio to convey a short note to the new Warmaster requesting permission to remain as he was and complete his current campaigns, a request Horus granted.

Heresy: The Unremembered Empire

"Vanity is a mortgage that must be deducted from the value of a man." -Quote attributed to Bysmark, ruler of the Jermani, circa late M2

Guilliman withdrew to Macragge, followed by a vast coterie of representatives from the worlds he had helped conquer, all seeking his favor and attention. However, they were soon disappointed, for after his arrival on Macragge, the Battle-King secluded himself within the Fortress of Hera. None were allowed in or out of the palace save his mother, Atia; all commands were routed through her, and many suspected her of gathering power for herself. Extensive juvenat treatments had left Atia looking a fraction of her true age, and while Guilliman remained in seclusion, she ruled unopposed save over the legion itself, for they obeyed only the primarch. Not even news of the Emperor calling a Council at Nikaea was enough to bring Guilliman out from the depths of the Fortress of Hera, and it was only with the arrival of a Fellowship of Thousand Sons many months later before he finally showed himself in public once more. It seemed as though Atia's council had finally changed his mind, and the Primarch now seemed gripped by a manic intensity quite unlike the staid personality he was known for. Thus the Lord of Ultramar spent the next several years presiding over grand gladiatorial games and sumptuous banquets, letting himself enjoy every pleasure which Atia brought before him. From the snake-handlers of Molech to the blade-dancers of Chemos, Roboute sampled deeply of the pleasures of ten thousand worlds, the virtues of his past utterly forgotten. The Emperor had proclaimed this life was all there is, so why shouldn't Guilliman take advantage of his status and enjoy all the galaxy had to offer?

Several years passed, during which Guilliman rose to new heights (or perhaps lows) of epicurean excess, even ordering the cessation of tithes to Terra, for he required the funds to further improve his own empire. Falsified reports of conquests were sent to the Warmaster in order to avoid suspicion, but even these soon ceased. However, such a move was eventually bound to attract attention, and in 006.M31, an official delegation came to Macragge, a small force of Dark Angels led by the primarch Lion El'Jonson. Yet the expected recriminations did not occur. Rather, the Lion encouraged the Lord of Ultramar, telling him he too understood how it felt to be passed over. The Lion had fought nearly as hard as Guilliman had, striving against the dread Rangda for decades, only to be ignored and left out of the Grand Triumph. Guilliman had long admired the Lion from afar, for he had been found just after Guilliman himself, and his pride and skill was reputed to be almost as great as Guilliman's own. The Lion brought up many points about Horus and the Emperor Guilliman could only agree with, and even Atia seemed smitten with him, a thought which would have once disgusted him. After several days of hosting the Lord of the Dark Angels, Guilliman began to learn many secrets. The Lion revealed the truth behind their father's lies, that he saw the primarchs as nothing but tools to be sacrificed on the path to divinity. To Guilliman's surprise, his mother seemed to know what Lion was talking about, revealing the Primordial Truth that connected the disparate religions of mankind. Though Guilliman was wary of any claiming greater power than his own, the Lion and his mother revealed the divinities of which they spoke did not require worship, only sacrifice. After that, it took very little for Guilliman to throw his support behind the Lion, and the two discussed their grand plans for the future.

With a new goal in mind, Guilliman turned his logistical genius toward reshaping his legion in preparation for the future. The Ultramarines currently stood around 250,000 strong, but not all could be counted to follow Guilliman and the Lion into independence. Luckily, the distinction was easy to find, for the Lion had revealed those that refused entry into the warrior lodges that had propagated years before were those most likely to rebel against Guilliman. Thus after the Lion's departure to gather more allies, leaving behind a collection of advisors to aid Guilliman in the careful process of purging his legion, feeding units into unwinnable battles, or sending them on expeditions from which they would never return. Within three years, the Thirteenth had lost nearly a fifth of its size, yet now stood as one behind the Lion's cause. Each one of the Five Hundred Worlds was now under close supervision from the Vigil Opertii, whose thought police had been trained in new and effective techniques courtesy of XV Legion sorcerers. The public execution of such spies, including many from the hated Alpha Legion, soon cowed the population, and thus little opposition was heard when the legion began to put the civilian populace to work. Billions now labored in newly-constructed industries, accumulating vast sums of materiel in preparation for the upcoming war, all overseen by a delegation of tech-priests calling themselves the New Mechanicum.

Belisarius Cawl, the Heretek Supreme

The dogmas of Mars had long held sway over the Mechanicum, each the result of painful lessons from past mistakes. Where innovation had once run rampant during the Dark Age of Technology, fear and religious ordinances now kept tech-priests from going too far lest another Age of Strife occur. However, not all accepted these restrictions, seeing them as constraints upon their genius, and one such individual was Belisarius Cawl.

Born on Mars in the birthing vats of Xanthe, Cawl was, like others of his kind, an adolescent by the time of his delivery. Having absorbed far more knowledge in the mnemo-amnio vats than most of his peers, Cawl was soon renowned for his genius, as well as a propensity for disobedience. He was a strong proponent of the belief that the Quest for Knowledge should include discovery by any means, not just rediscovery as propounded by most others. Such an attitude should have gotten him killed long ago, but Cawl had always been especially skilled in the field of flesh-shaping, and used his talent to fake his own death, transferring his mind into that of a man named Ezekiel Sedayne. The heretek had long desired Sedayne's knowledge, as well as a means to escape his overseers, and kidnapped him in order to carry out his demented escape plan. Yet even this was not enough to escape the watchful eyes of Lion El'Jonson, who took Cawl into his custody for later use shortly after the events of Ullanor. Cawl was quickly put to work alongside other independence-minded tech-priests, spending his time studying the relics possessed by the Dark Angels until he was eventually sent to Ultramar.

Cawl's grandiose promises soon impressed the fickle Guilliman, but reality soon set in when he realized his ideas would be impossible without the tools and data from his laboratory back on Mars. Stymied for the time being, Cawl set about finding a way to make good on his promise lest Guilliman turn against him, desperately seeking some way to reach Mars in secret. His experiments took him across Ultramar, but it was on the far eastern fringe where he finally made the discovery that would forever cement his dark legacy. Guilliman had long since grown bored of Cawl, and was thus surprised when the Heretek asked him to come see him in regard to a breakthrough that would greatly aid the Ultramarines in the war to come. His interest piqued, Guilliman sent a company of Astartes to investigate, as he was much too important and busy to go himself. During Cawl's absence, Guilliman had been busy keeping track of his brothers, utilizing sorcery to spy on their fleet movements. Thus when the Lion sent word that loyalists were on their way, Guilliman was well-prepared, having noted with amusement that the Word Bearers were on their way to no doubt hold him accountable for his absence. Alongside them were the Night Lords, yet curiously their ships disappeared from the daemonic eyes that tracked them through the Warp. Utilizing the common citizenry as fuel, Guilliman had long been worsening the tides of the Warp, their agonized deaths stirring up storms within the Seethe to slow the enemy as well as prepare their trap. All that was left was but one final step.

Leaving Legion Master Gage in charge to deal with these unwelcome guests, Guilliman had one final step in his plan before he was ready to declare independence. Before his departure many years before, the Lion had hinted at the existence of a realm of immense power that was just waiting for someone mighty enough to claim it, and through careful analysis of ancient texts, the Battle-King had finally located it, in a realm of forgotten nightmares beyond the eastern edge of Ultramar known as the Jericho Reach. Accompanied by priests and soothsayers of five hundred worlds, Guilliman brought his small fleet to the very edge of known space, sailing past the Black Reef, whose gravitational forces threatened to tear his ships asunder, beyond the crumpled white dwarf that was Erioch, all the way to the Well of Night, where even the light of the stars did not penetrate through the interstellar dead zone. At the heart of the Jericho Reach lay his goal, a thinning between this world and the next. However, this gate would require a sacrifice to unleash the power he sought.

"Do not do this, Roboute. You still need me." Atia had begun to beg when the two Invictarii bodyguards had seized her, her struggles useless against their terminator armor.

"Want to bet?" Guilliman sneered as he watched his sons bind her arm and leg with runic chains to the bridge of the ship. To be honest, he simply did not care for her anymore: her companionship no longer held any appeal, her constant nagging and unwanted advice became more offensive by the day, and her attempts to remain relevant were laughable. Truly, after their months-long journey, he was glad to be rid of her.

Roboute watched with satisfaction as the ship drifted away. The Limitless Grasp, once a merchant vessel, had been seized, every wall within bound with the sacred texts daubed in the blood of Astartes, one of many enlightening things the priests had shown him. Deep within its vast holds lay a chapter of his sons, volunteers and sacrifices alike, presiding over abominable rites that would begin the process of desecrating the corpses and gene-seed of over fifty thousand of his own legion. In addition, the ship contained the riches from thousands of worlds: priceless historical artifacts, gold beyond measure, and a large bounty of crystalline gems taken from the Aeldari for good measure, enough wealth to fill the Fortress of Hera with the riches it contained. Guilliman counted down the seconds until the detonation, and he alone was brave enough to keep his eyes open.

Precisely six hundred and sixty-six seconds after the ship had been set adrift, the Warp drives of the Limitless Grasp detonated, sundering the already-thin veil between the Materium and Immaterium. A howling storm ripped its way into reality, storm walls of aetheric energy traveling tens of thousands of light years in seconds as they bound Ultramar within their confines. At the cost of his mother and incalculable sums of treasure, Guilliman had done the impossible, and opened a permanent sunder in the fabric of reality, an Anomaly that acted as a permanent entry into the Warp. The Ruinstorm was born.

Even as Guilliman enacted his dark scheme, the Word Bearers would soon learn of the Ultramarines' treachery. Gage had been in contact with double agents from the Word Bearers for weeks now, kept updated on their progress as they made their way to the Veridia System where he lay in wait. When the unsuspecting Lorgar finally arrived, Gage feigned confusion, spinning a series of fantastical lies about storms and attacks from other legions. All the while, his cultists upon Calth themselves had begun their rituals in conjunction with dozens of other worlds around the periphery of Ultramar, which would serve to direct the energies his master would soon be unleashing. When the appointed time came, Gage activated the hololith recording, broadcasting various pre-recorded messages to the Word Bearer fleet even as his own vessels moved into position. His ships, once hidden behind Veridia on low power, came to life, firing their payloads into the star itself. Deadly waves of radiation flickered out, and as the last of the Word Bearer void shields collapsed, Gage gave the order, and hundreds of Ultramarines ships fired as one.

It was a massacre. Dozens of Word Bearer ships were destroyed in the opening salvo, while many others were forced onto the planet below. Throughout the afflicted fleet, the disloyal Sons of Fuzon made their move, seizing control of many more ships, and turning them upon their erstwhile allies. Gage reveled in the slaughter, though it came to an end disappointingly quick as the Word Bearers began fleeing the system. Calth was a great success, and the Word Bearers were now trapped, ready to be destroyed at their leisure.

Excess Unleashed: Ascension

By all accounts, the plan was a success: the Word Bearers were scattered, ready to be hunted down at Guilliman's leisure, and his missives to the Lion intimated as much. Yet as the Lion once said, no plan survives battle. For even as the Word Bearers were shattered at Calth, a simultaneous battle was occurring above Macragge itself, though it would not be discovered until weeks later, when Guilliman returned from the Jericho Reach to his capital. His rage was terrible to behold when he found his beloved homeworld in utter desolation, destroyed by the Night Lords, who had left an automated recording containing vicious mockery from their uncharismatic bore of a primarch Konrad Curze. Macragge was declared off-limits to all under pain of death, while the fortress-world of Armatura became the new operations hub, from whence the Ultramarines were directed as they relentlessly pursued the loyalist fleets. Meanwhile, the Battle-King himself took a fifth of his legion to meet Cawl upon Sotha. The Heretek Supreme was wise enough not to show his impatience to the temperamental primarch, and eagerly began to show Guilliman around the site of his discovery, a vast complex of xenos ruins that he called the Pharos.

The Pharos

Sotha was a world similar to Terra had been in the distant past, a world of forests and oceans and abundant animal life. It had been a minor curiosity, for it bore no signs of human settlement, not even a colony. When Ultramar surveyors had discovered xenos architecture buried within Mount Pharos, the planet was declared restricted, and a company of Ultramarines were stationed there, along with new fortifications to secure the system from orbit. However, the Ultramarines had little success in unlocking its secrets, and even Cawl's investigations bore little fruit until a chance visit from the Queen-Mother Atia. After years of failures, Atia Guilliman came to Sotha to satisfy her curiosity, and to the astonishment of all, the Pharos responded to her. After a particularly loud complaint that she would 'rather be home' than wasting her time at the Pharos, she vanished. It was discovered that the Pharos had responded to her powerful emotions, a brilliant but narrow beam of psychic light that illuminated the Warp and sent her instantaneously across hundreds of light years back to Macragge. Since that day, Cawl had perfected its use, and was now prepared to utilize it in order to fulfill his outlandish promises.

Nearly fifty thousand Ultramarines accompanied their primarch to Sotha, bearing all the panoply needed to wage war. Accompanied by bombastic orations from fanatical chaplains, the legionaries disembarked from their vessels, marching deep into the ancient chambers of the Pharos as they prepared for their great journey. All knew they would most likely never see Ultramar again, yet none hesitated, for these were the pride of the Thirteenth, ready to fight for their primarch, for their freedom, but most of all for their own glory. As the tech-adepts began calibrating the alien machinery, Guilliman himself moved into Primary Location Alpha, the central room from which Cawl assured him he would be able to control the process. Cawl himself had already utilized the device nearly a year prior, traveling ahead in secrecy to lay the groundwork of rebellion that the Thirteenth would now be able to utilize once they arrived in force.

Guilliman stood unarmored at the center of the chamber. All around him, servitors trundled about, attaching wires and other more esoteric contraptions to his bare flesh. As the last of them stepped back, the primarch nodded his head, and the hooded form of Cawl reached a bony, mechanical hand to the quicksilver shard of fluid metal which responded to his touch.

The primarch focused all of his thoughts and emotions upon the object of his desire: Mars. Even as he did so, electrical currents began flowing through his body, a tingle at first, yet soon sharpening to incredible voltages that began to sear his skin. The pain would have been too much for any mortal to withstand, yet Guilliman found it stimulating, almost pleasurable as his emotions rose into a crescendo of new heights. Even as his limbs began jerking uncontrollably, the first of his sons vanished from the halls of the Pharos. Squads, then companies, then entire chapters at a time disappeared, taken across the entire length of the galaxy in the blink of an eye.

By the time the last amps died down, the Pharos was empty save for Guilliman and the remaining minor tech-priests, for Cawl had accompanied his sons to Mars. Guilliman lay nearly unconscious on the floor, endorphins running throughout his nervous system as the mountain shook around him. In the depths of his pain, the primarch could swear he heard the voice of a god, a sublime crescendo that promised him experiences beyond good and evil, beyond his wildest imagination. experience was sublime and exquisite, and despite the pain, Guilliman found himself wanting more.

Throughout the Warp, those in the vicinity of Ultramar found their senses momentarily blinded, and many ships went off-course, never to emerge from the Immaterium again. The Mechanicum of Mars had little warning, as the Ultramarines materialized across the planet. Cawl was one of the lucky ones, emerging within the forges of Olympus Mons itself along with three chapters of Ultramarines, unleashing a bloodbath within the most sacred temple in the Martian faith. Some arrived in one of Mars' many deserts or within a forge-complex; others were less lucky, plummeting to their deaths as they materialized in the upper atmosphere to fall like steel rain, or screaming in agony as they appeared halfway through walls. Nevertheless, the vast majority of the legion arrived on Mars, and thus the Heresy took root within the Solar System without even the need for ships to break the outer defenses.

Even as the first shots were being fired upon Mars, a grand fleet of the Thirteenth Legion was beginning conquests of their own. Nearly a fifth of the legion had journeyed to win glory as part of the Lion's Grand Triumph upon the world of Davin, and afterwards joined with the Iron Warriors headed southwest towards Terra, clashing with the minor forces which sought to delay their march. Yet such easy victories bored the Ultramarines, for there was little glory to be won against mortals. Even more bothersome were the dour Iron Warriors themselves, whose tactics and way of waging war were effective yet devoid of style. Thus the Ultramarines quickly parted ways with the Fourth Legion, abandoning them in the midst of a campaign to pursue their own interests. Starting with the worlds they themselves had conquered so many decades before, the Ultramarines spread across Segmentum Ultima. They had returned to spread a new message, one quite different from the Unity of the Imperial Truth. Led by Aeonid Thiel, these Ultramarines were those most given to the worship of the Primordial Truth, and they bore little resemblance to the rest of the legion. Pure blues and whites had given way to a dizzying array of various colors and hues, while orderly company markings were replaced with symbols of depravity and excess, and all under his command bore a red helm soaked in the blood of innocents. The forces of Thiel fought on hundreds of worlds, forcing billions to kneel in utter subjection before them.

Back in Ultramar, the hunt for the remaining loyalists had begun to bore the Ultramarines, and many began to give up on the hunt, instead leaving the confines of the Ruinstorm to seek new pleasures elsewhere. However, Guilliman himself paid little attention to the hunts or to his increasingly-independent sons, preferring instead to indulge himself upon the Garden World of Iax, attended by his chosen favorites. The formerly disciplined Guilliman found it harder and harder to resist his desires, yet they bore diminishing returns, and so he turned to diversions of a different nature. Alcohol had little effect on his superhuman constitution, and he was immune to physical attractions, thus the primarch entertained himself with visions conjured by the few remaining priests who had survived the destruction of Macragge. It was in the midst of these revelries that an uninvited guest arrived.

With a discordant shriek, the delightful images faded from Guilliman's eyes along with the Semuta music as the musician's concentration was shattered. A shame, really. The vision had been especially marvelous, Guilliman being crowned as Warmaster and standing above the rest of his brothers. Incensed, the primarch leapt to his feet from the couch where he had been reclining. The courtiers fled through side doors, for the primarch's humours, once so level, were never stable these days.

"WHO DISRUPTS MY CORONATION?" Guilliman shrieked.

"Coronation? You've always been slow, but this is just bad comedy." The figure stepped out from the splintered doorway, revealing the scowling face of Jaghatai Khan.

For some reason, it seemed the Lion was dissatisfied at the progress Guilliman's sons had been making, and had dispatched the forces of the Fifth Legion to Ultramar to finish the job. Though Guilliman was infuriated, word of the Lion's newfound power meant he knew not to disobey his brother. With great reluctance, the Lord of Ultramar listened to his brother's words, though his mind quickly wandered. He found himself distracted by his brother's physical appearance: there seemed to be far more scars than before, so many in fact that they had to be self-inflicted. Guilliman had never paid much attention to his older brother before, but perhaps they were more similar than he had realized. As Guilliman pondered, his mind set upon a new scheme, one that would free him from the Khan and the Lion both. Interrupting Jaghatai, Guilliman told his brother he had just come up with a brilliant plan to subdue the Word Bearers. He recalled his sons to Armatura, mustering them alongside the forces of the Fifth Legion. The two legions spread out across the many worlds of Ultramar, lying in wait for the roving loyalist forces. For months they waited, and many Word Bearers died in vile ambushes, as the Star Hunters and Ultramarines attacked from all sides.

Even as they did so, the two traitor primarchs were on the move eastward. Guilliman told his brother that an ancient xenos weapon lay buried far to the east that it would take the both of them to recover. Though Khan was skeptical, he followed Roboute eastward, both primarchs accompanied only by their bodyguards. Guilliman led them to the world of Sotha, which had been abandoned by the forces stationed there once they had lost interest in guarding what they saw as merely a ruin. Only a few tech-priests remained, and they knew better than to ask questions. The primarchs walked down in the depths of the mountain, far below the Primary Location Alpha, past the Engine Halls of Primary Location Ultra, down to the semi-organic tunnels that opened up into a cavernous chamber far larger than should have been able to be contained within the mountain. No humans had been to the Heart of the Pharos before; only Guilliman had penetrated these depths before.

"How did you find this place?" Khan asked, clearly bored.

"It matters not. Take a look into this gem." Guilliman replied, handing his brother a small rock. Khan accepted the rock, holding his torch up to see it better.

"What's so special about this?" Khan remarked, squinting at his brother suspiciously. Even the eyes of a primarch struggled to see in the absolute darkness of the lightless cavern they were in.

"It's a crystal, nothing more, but if you turn it this way and look into it, it will show you your dreams." As Khan turned to look into the facets of the crystal, Guilliman rushed at him from behind, plunging the Anathame through his brother's armor and into his back. Khan whirled around, roaring at his brother's treachery. The two primarchs grappled at each other, before they plunged into the darkness of the bottomless pit below.

Even as the two fell, Khan slipped into unconsciousness, the victim of treachery and the poisons of a dagger older than Mankind itself. As he did so, Guilliman opened his own throat with the dagger, and Ascended.

The energies of the Immaterium poured out of the wounds in reality caused by the Anathame, combining with the life-force of two primarchs as well as the Pharos itself. The entire mountain shook as the vast Engines overloaded, their capacitors draining before falling silent. A brilliant flash of coruscating power illuminated the Warp for but a millisecond, reaching out for fifty thousand light years in every direction as it shifted through every color and un-color imaginable. Ships fell out of the Warp, forced to transition lest they be lost forever. Every world that bore psykers began to experience a sense of hunger and desire like they had never known. Aeldari seers cowered within their crystal sanctuaries, praying to dead gods the light would not find them. And in the depths of the inter-galactic void, in the eternal blackness between galaxies, a million eyes turned as one towards the light, recognizing it as prey.

As the light died, the Pharos did as well, the entire mountain collapsing in on itself as vast earthquakes shook the entire planet. Yet soon even the boulders began to crumble, dissolving into clouds of incense which began to spread across the planet until the whole world was shrouded. Standing alone, the highest thing standing where there once was a mighty mountain range was a man and yet this was no man, for this was perfection itself. Roboute Guilliman was no more, having cast aside his mortal shell alongside his flaws; there was now Guilliman the Epifanes, the first of the Daemon Primarchs. The daemon smiled, and vanished from the face of Sotha.

Depravity Unbridled: The Blade of Disunity

As the years passed and Guilliman and his sons slipped further down the path of decadence, they began to share a new bond, their many sins connecting them deeply. Thus when their primarch Ascended, all of his sons felt it, as well as his disappearance from the material plane. They fought with a renewed frenetic energy, invigorated as much as their foes were enervated by the intense feelings of wrongness that swept the realm of Ultramar and beyond. However, this high soon wore off like all the others, and with loyalist sightings becoming fewer and fewer, the legion began to turn upon itself. The primarch was nowhere to be found, and so a new leader would need to seize control, and soon, lest the legion destroy itself. However, with their souls now bound to the goddess of excess, this was easier said than done. Many warlords attempted to claim the mantle for themselves in those days: some were already mighty leaders such as Marius Gage, who used his status as legion master to seize control of the entire northwestern edge of Ultramar. Over a hundred worlds paid him fealty, and he urged a continuation of the struggle to crush the loyalist fleets still plaguing the kingdom. In the south, Phratus Auguston claimed dominion, interested more in taking worlds from his rival warlords than chasing loyalists.

These two were but the most powerful, for dozens more claimed the mantle of leadership. Many of these were from the lower ranks, sergeants and line brothers who simply abandoned their commanders to lead their own warbands. These warbands raided each other for dominance as the heroes of the legion burnt out like candles, overwhelmed with excess even as new scions rose to replace them. One such force was the 22nd "Nemesis" Chapter led by the preening swordsman Nero, who utilized the many destroyer squad under his command to carve out a trail of destruction around the systems near Sotha, now a shrouded world honored by all the legion as the Domain of Ascension. Apart from all of these claimants were the forces of the V Legion, who had become foes to all after Guilliman's betrayal. The loyalists would not have them, and the Ultramarines took great pleasure in hunting the once-mighty Star Hunters who were trapped with the Ruinstorm with the rest of them. Outside of Ultramar, the forces of Thiel continued their conversions, just as the forces upon Mars continued their guerrilla war against the Iron Hands who had come to oppose them. Neither Thiel nor Cawl knew where the primarch had gone, but nor did they care, for their own desires were paramount.

Even lost to their own natures, the Ultramarines still knew that their primarch's absence would reflect badly upon them. Thus they resolved to keep the knowledge hidden, and individual warlords like Remus Ventanus of the Thirteenth began converting their armor to resemble that of their primarch, and warbands sworn to such leaders became known as the Pretenders. Guilliman was 'seen' across Ultramar, leading the hunt for the Word Bearers, along with the Night Lords and Alpha Legion who still plagued the realm. Others remained more loyal to the primarch, such as Tetrarch Stolos Amyntas, who believed Guilliman was hidden somewhere with Ultramar, his absence a test for his sons to Seek him out. Yet unbeknownst to his sons, the loyalists, or even the Traitor forces, Guilliman had left Ultramar entirely, using his newly-found abilities to enter the Warp on a whim. He traveled far from Sotha, for the Ruinstorm could not hold one such as him, and journeyed to the sacred realm of the Dark Prince: the Eye of Terror.

Eye of Terror

Also known as the Ocularis Terribus in High Gothic, the Eye of Terror is the largest known Warp rift in the galaxy. Stretching nearly twenty thousand light years across, the Eye is different from other prominent rifts like the Maelstrom in that it was artificially created. For uncounted millions of years, the region of space was the center of the mighty Aeldari Empire, densely packed paradise worlds where uncounted trillions of Eldar made their homes. It was from here they projected their influence across the entire galaxy, maintaining an iron control with the help of their legions of Drazi- [REMOVED].

However, absolute power corrupts absolutely, and so their civilization fell prey to decadence and hedonism, which rose in an unstoppable tide until reality itself was sundered. An implosion of incredible strength irrupted from the heart of their empire, swallowing their core worlds and ending the dominance of the Aeldari forever. At the same time, the incredible turmoil in the Warp coalesced into a new god of Chaos, the Prince of Pleasure, Slaanesh. Her triumphant birth-cry sundered reality, and echoes eternally within the tornadic Eye, whose pupil is a gateway into the deepest realms of the Warp itself.

Guilliman learned many dark secrets as he traveled the domain of his patron, the true nature of excess and decadence revealing the past and future to him as he swelled with unholy power. He strode through the shattered palaces of the Crone Worlds, and fought in the eternal battlefields where the choirs of rival gods strove for dominance. Little is known of his journeys beyond this point, for none may peer into the Realm of Perfection without falling to insanity or giving in to its blasphemous charms. All that is certain is that he entered the Palace of Slaanesh, ascending through its sixfold layers to witness She-Who-Thirsts in all his terrible perfection. Guilliman was guided in his dark quest by a daemon known only as Nastase, a capering fiend who appears as a blasphemous combination between Eldar and Human, corrupting the sacred features of Man with the taint of the Xenos. Yet not even Guilliman remained long within the Pain-Master's Empire, returning to carve out a realm for himself on the outer fringes of the Duchies of Decadence. There he remained for eternity and a day, for time means little in the Warp, attended only by daemons of his patron, and not even his sons could find him.

Yet time continued in the mortal realms. The Ultramarines answered the Lion's clarion calls, putting aside their internecine conflicts to join him. After the fall of Marius Gage at the hands of the Word Bearers, command of the legion fell to Phratus Auguston, Master of the First, who represented the martial might of the legion, and Stolos Amyntas, the sole remaining Tetrarch, who had truly fallen to Excess alongside the primarch upon Iax and represented the Seekers. The two commanders achieved control over the majority of the legion, and joined the forces of Thiel, now known as the Red-Marked or the Invaders, who simply did not care about their primarch and whose plate was now stained a reddish-pink with the blood of innocents. Only the Lion's commanding presence held these three from turning upon each other or on their fellow traitor legions. However, their muster was not complete, for their primarch was still nowhere to be found. To drag Guilliman from his hedonistic rapture, the Lion dispatched one whom he knew would not fall to the influence of the Prince of Perversion: Perturabo.

Accompanied by sorcerous guides provided by the Lion, Perturabo left his realm of Olympia and journeyed into the Eye of Terror, seeking out his deviant brother. His small fleet plunged into the Eye, Gellar fields straining against the energies of the insane as soothsayers divined the correct path in the entrails of sacrificed legionaries. The fleet finally came to their destination, not a pleasure planet as the Lord of Iron had expected, but a realm of tragedy and loss, a Crone World known only as the World of Immortal Sorrows. Descending with a company of his sons along with a collection of slaves, Perturabo walked through the shattered world, his heavy boots crunching as they stepped upon ancient Aeldari relics and crystalline stones that wailed as they cracked. The traitorous retinue descended into the depths of the world, creatures lurking in the corners of their eyes and in reflections, until they stood before Guilliman himself, attended by insubstantial wraiths. The Hammer of Olympia demanded his brother join them, but Guilliman refused, a situation expected and accounted for.

The Gladius Incandor darted out, its once-straight edge now twisted into a curved golden scimitar whose metal screeched as it struck the strange obsidian head of Perturabo's massive hammer. Guilliman slashed and stabbed again and again, yet the Lord of Iron blocked or absorbed each blow, an immovable wall halting Guilliman from slipping past him. Behind the dueling primarchs, Perturabo's son Barabas Dantioch read out vile syllables tattooed upon the backs of slaves, his mouth a gory mess as he forced himself to speak sounds in a language not meant for mortal tongues. Each morae felt like a chain upon Guilliman, who seemed shriveled now in comparison to the stolid brother whom he had towered over at the beginning of their fight. As Dantioch spat out the last syllable, his throat in ruins and his mouth filled with the taste of honey and raw meat, its sounds rang out like a bell.

Guilliman screamed, pinned to the ground, his body covered in wounds that would not heal. He tried to rise, yet could not, bound to the will of Dantioch who had spoken his True Name and thus held mastery over him. His attendant daemons had long since fled, though they had returned now, feasting on the bodies of the slaves who had collapsed dead as their tattoos peeled off and floated away like smoke from their weak and shattered mortal bodies.

"I am not our idiot brother, always in a hurry." Perturabo spoke, his bitter tone booming out the first words spoken since his initial demand. "My sons and I came prepared, our minds fortified for this task. The Lion demands your presence." Guilliman couldn't so much as nod his acceptance, nor could he resist as his brother's sons dragged him through the mud like a shovel through the trenches they were oh-so-good at digging.

Perturabo had learned Guilliman's True Name from the Lion, and used it to bind his daemonic brother to his will. The name had been cleverly concealed, tattooed upon the backs of slaves, for if any had known even a portion of the Name, Guilliman would have sensed it and fled. Thus despite possessing it, none of Perturabo's forces actually knew the Name until it was too late. The Lord of Iron dragged Guilliman before the Lion in chains of shame and disgrace; Guilliman swore eternal vengeance upon them both, but was powerless to act. The Lion bade Guilliman and his sons to take their place in the final push towards Terra, and so they did. Thiel's forces remained at the Lion's side, refusing to fight beside the rest of their brothers, who fought under the twisted guidance of their primarch. A third of the Ultramarines remained behind, a rearguard known as the Evocati who would slow the loyalists who even now strained to escape the confines of the Ruinstorm. Though Guilliman himself had neither known nor cared, his ascension had taken power from more than just the Pharos and his brother: it stole the vitality of the very Ruinstorm itself. Though none had initially suspected it, the whirlpools and vortices that pulled all into Ultramar and prevented their escape had begun to slow, and were now traversible once more.

The Ultramarines joined in the effort to break the final defenses of Bastion Omega, nearly one hundred thousand strong. Yet each system was more fortified than the ones before them, and the XIII suffered heavily, for most of their forces were unused to the grueling siege warfare required to take these worlds. Their approach was also harried by forces from the Alpha Legion, whose primarch Alpharius had long been a source of irritation to Guilliman after Gage's incompetence at Asarna Bay. Yet the weight of numbers was on their side, and they inflicted many cruelties upon those unfortunate enough to face them. The traitors were unstoppable, and they pushed without cease until the final fortress system lay before them, the worlds of Beta-Garmon.

First settled before the Dark Age of Technology, the Beta-Garmon Star Cluster weathered the Age of Strife relatively well, and one of the first systems to join the Imperium at the onset of the Great Crusade. The Cluster was located at the nexus of many stable Warp routes, including paths into the Solar System itself. The key to entering the system lay in controlling the nearby Paramar System, which had changed hands several times during the Heresy. Even as Perturabo left to retrieve Guilliman, forces of the Blood Angels had been tasked with subduing the world, and had left it and many others lifeless ruins, for the savage Ninth was lost to the rage and madness of Khorne. Their alignment to a rival god had made them utterly opposed to the Thirteenth, who loathed them in return and refused to fight alongside them. Thus when the orders to invade Beta-Garmon came, the Ninth was deployed elsewhere in the theater, living weapons akin to the World Eaters locked away within the gaol-barges of the Iron Warriors until the proper time came to unleash them. Nearly six hundred thousand Astartes from the Third, Fourth, Ninth, Twelfth, and Thirteenth Legions descended upon Beta-Garmon, accompanied by the vast columns of the Titan Legios sworn to the Lion's cause, a force rivaled only by the other four legions assaulting the Verzagen System in tandem. However, what seemed like overkill at the outset soon proved to be almost not enough. The Cluster included thirty worlds across five systems, most of which were heavily fortified, and none more than the capital Beta-Garmon II, an industrial fortress-world.

Led by Guilliman himself, the Ultramarines descended upon the outlying worlds of the Cluster, committing unspeakable atrocities on the inhabitants of two dozen worlds. As the outlying systems fell one by one, the resource-rich mining and agri-worlds were seized to fuel the war effort elsewhere, stripped of all usable materials in order to support the main thrust to take Beta-Garmon II. The campaign took nearly an entire year, both sides throwing everything they had into holding the vital Cluster, but victory was never in doubt. When word came from the Emperor's Children signaling that they had taken the Beta-Garmon system itself with their victory over the loyalists known as the Titandeath, the Ultramarines rejoiced, for with the Cluster secured, a direct approach into the Solar System itself now lay open. However, the Thirteenth was soon disappointed, for the Lion bade his forces hold back until the proper time, to allow for a harmonic convergence between the Material and Immaterial realms. The Ultramarines took this delay particularly hard, forced to resort to dark rituals to maintain their primarch's presence in realspace. The ships of the Thirteenth rang with the screams of sacrificed slaves even as its legionaries clashed in endless honor duels or lost themselves in Semuta trances. To the sensation-starved Scions of Guilliman, the appointed time could not come fast enough; even the concept of delayed gratification was anathema to the Ultramarines. Only their father's word kept the legion from beginning the assault early, a command given most unwillingly, for Guilliman himself remained bound to the Lion through his True Name.

Siege of Terra: Abomination of Desolation

For an entire year, the tension continued to build as the traitors ensured all the preparations were made, gathering the resources necessary to deliver the ultimate blow to the most heavily-fortified system in the galaxy. The victory at Beta-Garmon had opened a direct approach into the Solar System from the east, and came in conjunction with the Lion's forces opening the westward approaches after taking Verzagen, and as the Archtraitor gave the command, ships beyond counting hurled themselves into the void from both mustering points in precise formulas calculated by the cunning mind of Perturabo. Guilliman's forces were to part of the third wave, their desire to be first assuaged by the Everchosen's assurances that the first two waves were mere cannon fodder. Thus the armada of the Thirteenth waited in the Warp alongside their traitor brethren, their shields holding only by the will of their dark patrons. The tear in reality finally opened, and Guilliman's fleet spilled out into realspace from the tear in reality within Jupiter itself, their guns opening up to pound the Sons of Horus who were desperately struggling to fall back from this renewed offensive.

While the rest of the traitors headed straight for Terra, Guilliman's forces journeyed towards Mars. After overwhelming the final defenses of the Third Sphere contained within the Asteroid Belt, they brought their guns to bear upon the Red Planet, clashing with the Iron Hands who strived in vain to defend Mars from within and without. New waves of scrapcode were vomited at the defenders like a corrupting flood, though to little avail, for the loyalists of Mars had long since removed their receptors in favor of new Noospheric configurations. Yet this code was not designed as a weapon, but as a signal. It blanketed Mars in canted madness, and emerging from the caves and forges were the remaining Ultramarines and New Mechanicum who had waged their War of Iron for six sacred years. The loyalist guns were forced to turn their firepower towards the surface itself, as Cawl's blasphemous creations hurled themselves anew at the beleaguered defenders. The Heretek Supreme had been busy, and many of the surviving XIII bore little resemblance to the Astartes they had been, for they were a new breed of Astartes. Foul biomancy had blessed them with new organs and increased size, while new armor crafted by Cawl himself shielded them from harm. Neither the forces of the Fabricator-General nor the Iron Hands could stand against them, and the loyalists were pushed into full retreat within two weeks. Guilliman himself directed the campaign from his flagship Macragge's Honour, a Gloriana-class battleship now entirely golden in blasphemous mockery of the Emperor's own flagship. The unholy behemoth clashed with its loyalist counterpart, the Fist of Iron, the flagship of the Iron Hands, and the two inflicted hundreds of cuts and bruises upon each other, neither able to claim a decisive victory. Yet weeks of combat had whittled down its supporting fleet, and Ferrus Manus was forced into retreat by the forces of Excess, ceding control of Mars to Guilliman and his New Mechanicum allies.

With Mars secured, Cawl began a new phase of blasphemous experimentation. New depths of scientific depravity were unleashed as the Heretek Supreme traversed the many forges of Mars in his horrific Zar-Quaesitor, Cawl's ambulatory castle that scuttled upon spidery legs from temple to temple, raiding his ostensible allies in order to obtain the resources and data he needed to further his plans. New creations were crafted in his dark laboratories, experiments performed on the flesh of prisoners from all legions given to him by Guilliman, who commanded Cawl to uphold his promise and craft an army in his image. Cawl assured the daemon primarch of his continued loyalty, but apparently made little progress, seemingly unafraid of Guilliman bound as he was to the Lion. Mars became his domain, a realm of steel-bound monstrosities made from the tortured and broken flesh of legionaries, a numberless horde yet one that did not make its way to join the other traitors on Terra. The rest of the Thirteenth had long since departed to take part in the assault upon the Throneworld, arriving after the loyalist fleets had fallen back and after the orbital guns had already been silenced. For the first two weeks of Tertius, the Ultramarines joined their allies in bombarding the surface, occasionally letting up to disgorge transports overflowing with the lost and the damned. The Ultramarines poured forth their vile followers across the face of Terra: hideous couplings of man and beast with the heads of bulls and goats known as Slaangor, who spread anarchy as they hurled themselves at any they saw as civilized; traitor Army regiments known as the Sybarite Cohorts, whose faces bore self-inflicted scars and relished the pain as they marched into withering enfilades from loyalist guns. The slaughter these wicked souls unleashed thinned the barrier between reality and warp, and yet these were but the vanguard, a foretaste of the horrors to come.

On the Fifteenth of Tertius, a day long known for betrayal and treachery, the legions themselves were unleashed. Thousands of drop pods and transports darkened the skies, blanketing the Throneworld with their vile embrace. Yet the Thirteenth targeted their forces nowhere near the Imperial Palace, their nominal objective, instead landing in the western hemisphere, where the lands of Merica lay.

Merica

Once a powerful techno-barbarian enclave stretching across an entire continent, Merica had been subdued early on during the Unification Wars, its resources used to fuel further conquest. It is a land of vast dust plains, an uninhabitable wasteland surrounded on either side by vast hives spanning what were once coastlines. These hives had rapidly recovered from the Wars, and by the 31st Millennium had become centers of culture and progress.

One such mega-city was Nova Yoruk, a collection of hives that had merged to form one colossal conglomeration spanning hundreds of square kilometers. Within its vast blocks and halls lay hidden lodges, gatherings of like-minded people who had given themselves to hedonistic pleasure. The sorcerers of the Ultramarines had sought to utilize these groups present in Nova Yoruk and many other hives, spreading dark secrets whispered in dreams in preparation for the day of liberation when the forces of the Ultramarines finally arrived.

Yet when the Ultramarines began their triumphant parade towards the hive cities, they were not greeted with open arms but with gunfire. Severed heads bearing the tattoos of pleasure cults adorned the battlements of the hive walls: clearly the loyalists had discovered their subterfuge. Thousands of Ultramarines died outside the hives of Merica as they walked into pre-sighted bombardment zones bereft of the cultist support they had expected. Yet for all their decadence, they were still Astartes, the most perfectly adaptable of their kind when it came to waging war, and they pressed on. For weeks they threw themselves at the walls, creating massive breaches on the surface even while their fighters clashed in the vast sewers stretching belowground. The hives began to fall one by one, taken in brutal street fights between the forces of the Ultramarines on one side and the Alpha Legion and Salamanders on the other.

As the seasons passed and the bloodshed grew higher, reality itself began to degrade as the immaterial barriers thinned. Blood and other bodily fluids began to rain down as the frost of winter turned to the mud of spring. Daemons began to push their way onto the battlefields, and great sacrificial pyres were erected, calling greater and greater monsters from beyond into reality as billions perished from the relentless slaughter. Nova Yoruk finally fell after the Iron Warriors diverted a portion of their artillery corps to breach the walls; rivers of blood flowed through the streets choked with the bodies of Astartes and mortals as the very hive spires themselves came crashing down. In the west, the Golden Hives of the West Coast finally fell after Guilliman himself manifested. The chains of his True Name had been released by his allies, and so the daemon primarch strode the boulevards of Losanges, its mortal defenders in rapturous awe at his grandeur. Guilliman was a giant among giants, three times Six meters tall, the height of a Warhound Titan yet far more swift. Unholy lilac clouds billowed in his wake, the smell alone driving mortals into a stupor as he strode through their camps, casually crushing tanks underfoot and shattering buildings with every time he swung the Gauntlets of Ultramar, his titanic power fists engraved with blasphemous imagery.

Here is wisdom. Let him who bears mastery over his own desires carry witness and count the unholy numerals, for it is the number of a man and yet not a man, and his number is 665.- From the Liber Chaotica Slaa-neth, kept with the Vaults of Titan.

The daemon primarch marched across the hive, leaving utter destruction in his wake. His rampage finally came to a halt at the Holy Woodland, a grove containing some of Terra's last unspoiled nature hidden within a compound near the center of the hive. Merica was his, and across the continent, his sons moved into the proper locations. As Guilliman raised his Gauntlets, the legion sorcerers poured their might into the land as rippling waves of corruption radiated outward. Across Merica, similar scenes played out in diverse forms as daemonic buildings pushed their way into reality from the Domain of Slaanesh. Temples to Avidity arose in the Ash-glass Wastes around the Lost City of Veggos while Fanes to Indolence emerged in Hive Orlandus. Every window or sculpture made of glasscrete across an entire continent shattered in the same instant, billions of shards psychically drawing together to create hundreds of daemonic mirrors known as Contorted Epitomes, which reflected the grandeur of the Primarch across Merica. Every form of depravity and excess manifested across Merica as the Ultramarines worked to brand the foreheads of their new slaves with foul symbols, glyphs that corrupted the minds of billions as they fell to unholy worship to the living monument of Pride that was Guilliman the Epifanes.

For six times six days did Chaos reign as the hysterical frenzies of an entire legion were unleashed upon Merica. By the time this symphony of pain had come to an end, few civilians remained alive. Only those truly lost to the worship of Guilliman remained, those who were given body and soul to Slaanesh. His lusts sated and his objectives accomplished, the daemon primarch began to fade from reality, leaving only rapturous standards and profane symbols upon every wall. His flawless host began to withdraw as well, stumbling to their ships as their stupor wore off, drained from weeks of nonstop dissolution. Thus even before the Palace was taken, the majority of the Ultramarines, nearly sixty thousand total, had retreated, leaving Terra with their fleet to return to Ultramar and begin their decadence anew. Only the forces of Aeonid Thiel still remained upon Terra when the loyalists finally arrived, the Red-Marked who had followed their commander and landed near the Palace alongside the two main siege camps far removed from the rest of their brethren. The Invaders knew all-too-well the rituals that would soon take place and had no desire to be subservient to their father. They were devotees to the excess found upon the battlefield, within ritual combat, and they tested their mettle against traitors and loyalists alike. Their delight lay in the expressions of brothers betrayed, and so they acted as mercenaries and saboteurs, allying with the Iron Warriors one week, only to betray them at a critical juncture the next as they turned over plans and stratagems to their rival Crimson Fists. At other times they acted in concert with other legions, joining in particular pushes that saw the fall of entire wings of the Imperial Palace with quicksilver swiftness. There they remained until the loyalist reinforcements arrived to turn the tide of battle, though they were one of the first to flee Terra, unwilling to sacrifice themselves as no Red-Marked, or any other Ultramarine for that matter, would ever lay his life down for another.

Post-Heresy: Prolonged Profligacy

The majority of the legion returned to Ultramar, to begin the cycle of decadence once more. The sole exception was the portion of the legion trapped upon the surface of Mars, where they remained by Cawl's side until they disappeared after the Imperium retook the Forge World Principal. Even Guilliman himself knew little and cared less about their fate, the Materium having become secondary to participation in the Great Game. Bereft of their father's presence and attention, the Ultramarines were beginning to feel the downsides of giving their souls to the goddess of excess. Having indulged their deepest and most depraved desires upon the people of Terra, the Ultramarines felt drained, gripped by a sense of shame both at their actions as well as an unsettling emptiness that they felt. Some legionaries tried to fill their time with new and more exquisite forms of excess: having indulged to the extreme, now they sought experiences brought about by denial, that the reward would be that much sweeter having withheld themselves from it. Others tried to replicate the glories of Terra, and some even succeeded, taking advantage of the dissolution of the Ruinstorm during their absence to spread their terrors to nearby sectors. Still others recognized that Ultramar was no place for them now, and left entirely, including Thiel's Invaders.

Aeonid Thiel

Also known as the Lord of the Red-Marked, Aeonid Thiel was a sign of contradiction to his legion from the beginning. Before the Heresy, Thiel was a lowly sergeant in the 135th Company, whose inquisitive mind excelled at the legion custom of theoretical and practical. However, Thiel refused to be constrained by decency, and developed practical battle-strategy against not only foes, but also other Astartes from fellow legions. Such thinking was anathema before the Heresy, but his primarch's descent into self-indulgence gave Thiel the opportunity he needed. Leading his squad in a daring raid against Iax, where Guilliman held his court for several years, Thiel and his men slaughtered the unprepared forces of Tetrarch Amyntas that were responsible for the primarch's safety. Guilliman was highly impressed by the initiative shown, and promoted Thiel to Captain, ordering that his helmet be painted red as a mark of distinction, as well as giving him a weapon from his own collection, the legendary Friction Axe.

Originally from a minor race known as the Kehletai wiped out during the Kraal Compliance, the Friction Axe is a massive two-handed weapon. Aside from its unusually light weight and durability, its most unique feature is its ability to cut through apparently anything. At the press of a button on its haft, the ax-head begins to vibrate at incredible speed, shearing through even the energy fields of power weapons. Thiel quickly became proficient with it, oscillating between friction and non-friction to achieve deadly results on the battlefield. Many Chaos warlords and Imperial heroes have fallen to his blade without so much as landing a scar upon his person, and many have sworn to end the Red-Marked once and for all, including Nassir Amit of the Ninth Legion, the legendary Flesh-Tearer.

With this powerful weapon, along with the even greater boon of the Primarch's approval, Thiel quickly gained many followers along with a reputation for effectiveness and ruthlessness, never removing his helmet in the presence of others. Yet unlike many of his followers, neither performance-enhancing stimulants nor the promises of the dark gods hold any appeal for him, for Thiel only seeks to become the best duelist in Astartes history through his own power. Thiel knows that some foes are beyond his ability to slay, and has no compunction about utilizing underhanded tactics to achieve victory, or to retreat if the battle turns against him. Thiel's warband, the Invaders, fights only for glory and the thrill of victory, lending their services to any that can promise them a good fight, and has fought under the banners of many legions, including Sigismund's Black Templars.

For nearly a hundred years, the Ultramarines remained in realspace, safe on the eastern fringes while the other legions were rooted out by the vengeful forces of the Scouring. Most of the legion remained upon their own worlds, for the various chapters had kept to themselves as they were unwilling to submit to the authority of others. Yet the legion squandered their opportunity to rebuild, giving more heed to their own twisted desires than to helping the legion as a whole. Thus when the Imperium did arrive, the legion stood little chance against the vengeful Word Bearers, who came seeking justice alongside retribution for Monarchia so long ago. Even as the outer worlds of Ultramar began to burn once more, only the Evocati, including the Sons of Fuzon who had betrayed the Word Bearers at Calth, seemed willing to make a proactive defense of their empire. Yet their response was half-hearted at best, for the Word Bearers had brought the might of the Imperium with them, including other legions such as the Space Wolves. Lorgar's forces were incredibly thorough, purging each and every one of the Five Hundred Worlds in an advancing front that left nothing but ash behind them and countless ships retreating before them. The countless mortal cultists that called Ultramar home fled for their lives, selling everything they held dear to obtain passage on one of the transports preparing to flee to the dubious safety of the Jericho Reach or the Maelstrom, the nearest Warp rifts. Guilliman himself remained secluded upon Thessala, unwilling to lift a finger to aid his sons and utterly uncaring of the destruction of his empire. When the Word Bearers finally assaulted Thessala, Guilliman himself entered the battle, taking savage joy in killing Lorgar's sons in front of his eyes one by one as he toyed with the Astartes. Alas, Guilliman's pride proved to be his undoing, for Lorgar was not the same as he was upon Monarchia nearly a century. The death of his sons provoked a great rage in the Saint, who unleashed incredible golden light, the psychic energies of the Anathema that burned Guilliman's essence, and his glorious form began to unravel as the bindings keeping it tied to the mortal plane were severed one by one. Yet it was Guilliman who was to have the last laugh, for even as Lorgar unleashed the final strike, Guilliman plunged the Gladius Incandor into Lorgar's chest, dealing a fatal blow as the last of his daemonic essence returned to the Warp.

With the banishment of Guilliman the Epifanes, the Ultramarines knew the battle was lost. The Evocati and their Sons of Fuzon allies had already fallen back from the ferocious assault of Leman Russ and the Sixth Legion, followed shortly after by the rest of the legion. Some made for the Anomaly, while others tried their luck in the longer journey to the Maelstrom. Still others remained to fight, enacting vile rituals in an attempt to summon warp storms or create daemon worlds out of their chapter homeworlds, though few succeeded. Within several years, the Five Hundred Worlds were left desolate, and abandoned to the solitude of the Eastern Fringe. The Kingdom of Ultramar was no more, renamed to Sector XIII and was labeled Perditus, all information about it suppressed by the Inquisition under pain of death. With the destruction of Ultramar, the final years of the Scouring were in sight. Yet the Ultramarines' influence was not so easily expunged, for they had left many thrall-worlds scattered across the galaxy, realms of excess and slavery ruled over by companies or even squads of Ultramarines, who directed and oversaw widespread atrocities on an industrial scale. After several more years of bloody battles, in which the last few traitor-allied worlds of Ultima Segmentum were cleansed, the loyalists declared themselves the victors. The Inquisition led pogroms across the galaxy, purging the influence of Slaanesh and the other dark gods through any means necessary, leading to the deaths of billions, both innocent and guilty.

For nearly eight hundred years, the people of the Imperium labored under the delusion that Chaos had been vanquished forever. However, their complacency was to be shattered by the climactic invasion of the First Black Crusade. A vast armada on a scale unseen since the days of the Leonine Heresy erupted from the Eye of Terror, the dread fleet of Sigismund the Destroyer and his traitor brethren. The legions of hell returned like a nightmare, and the Imperium struggled to halt his rampage. Even as he did so, the forces of the Thirteenth emerged as well, returning to realspace from their hidden realms within not only the Maelstrom, but also the Anomaly within the Jericho Reach, now bearing the appellation of Hadex.

Hadex Anomaly

The Jericho Reach has long been a cursed region, home to innumerable horrors unique and yet similar to those found within the Ghoul Stars or other nightmarish realms lying on the galaxy's outskirts. The Astronomican shines but faintly here, and natural hazards abound, waiting to snare unwary travelers that stray too close. Yet of these hazards, none are greater or more dangerous than the Warp rift known as the Hadex Anomaly.

The Anomaly itself was created at the behest of Guilliman, a rift in space-time that allowed the energies of the Warp to spill into reality to be shaped into a barrier girding his kingdom. When the Ruinstorm later collapsed as its constituent storms subsided, the Anomaly remained, a permanent scar upon reality. This however was not discovered until centuries later, when a Rogue Trader named Lord-Captain Emanuel Hadex found it during his exploration of the outer reaches of the galaxy in search of treasure. By this time, the Hadex Anomaly had swelled in size with the dissipation of the Ruinstorm, irradiating hundreds of systems in hellish light. Worlds bathed in the crimson glow become saturated with its corrupting essence as time itself is in constant flux, and the Anomaly itself seems to shrink and grow at random.

The Rogue Trader also reported vast fleets of wreckage strewn about the Anomaly. The Inquisition was intrigued, but only the most foolhardy were able to penetrate within a few thousand kilometers of the vessels. Included among the wrecks were the Limitless Grasp, along with ships of every description, including many from the distant past and others that would not see production for millennia. The Anomaly was thus declared impossible to navigate, and left along with the rest of the dead worlds of Jericho.

The laws of reality and chance mean little where the servants of the dark gods are concerned, and so it was the Ultramarines were able to survive within the Hadex Anomaly. As the first of their fleets pushed back into realspace, a horrific psychic scream echoed out, becoming known as the Lamentation Wave due to the intense emotional effects it had upon New Monarchia, the closest Imperial world. Oppressed by nightmarish visions, many astropaths and other psykers on the Word Bearer homeworld fell to madness, babbling of a cavalcade of concupiscence. The Seventeenth Legion had known their ancient enemies would not stay gone, and so moved their fleet into Sector XIII and the Jericho Reach.

There they were met by the forces of the Ultramarines, and the two legions clashed as the galaxy plunged back into war once more. Both had a score to settle, and no quarter would be asked or given as the two fleets clashed in the Cellebos System. The Ultramarines bore little resemblance to the drained and listless Astartes that fought at Thessala: indeed, many of them had never fought against the Imperium. Time works differently within the Warp, and entire generations were born, inducted, and died in service to their dark goddess within the daemon worlds of the Anomaly. These recruits were wholly given to the corruptive influence of Chaos, and had been raised with the purpose of toppling all that the Imperium stood for. However, fanaticism cannot overcome discipline, and the Word Bearers grimly held their ground until the Thirteenth was broken and retreating. Similar scenes played out in the battles occurring near the Maelstrom, where the Sons of Horus and Imperial Guard hurled back the never-ending tide of traitors.

Since those days, the Ultramarines have emerged from the Warp time and time again, seeking bloodshed or to spread their vile creed to the worlds of the Imperium. Loyal psykers, their minds and souls protected by the light of the God-Emperor, have attempted to peer into the rifts, and have pieced together fragmented visions at great cost to their sanity. The Maelstrom has become home to a horrific kingdom in bitter parody of the Imperium, daemon realms beyond count where the twisted Scions of Guilliman reign supreme as the masters of the Sybaritic States. Likewise, hundreds more duchies of decadence blight the Immaterial innards of the Hadex Anomaly. However, concord and alliances are anathema to the servants of Chaos, and the legion spends most of its time fending off attacks from rival powers, or fighting amongst themselves for dominance. Only the promise of a Bakhanal or Campaign of Subversion, their own twisted versions of a Black Crusade, can bring the Thirteenth together in larger numbers once more, and the galaxy trembles when they do.

Homeworld, Recruitment, and Gene-seed

Like all the other traitor legions, the Ultramarines have long since lost their original homeworld, or more accurately, homeworlds. The Five Hundred Worlds are no more, cordoned off behind a permanent Imperial blockade centered around the Word Bearers fortress-world of New Monarchia. Consisting of dozens of sectors and watch-fortresses, the forces of the Imperium are on constant watch for Chaotic incursions. Their defenses have been tested hundreds of times throughout the millennia, by not only the forces of Ultramarines, but other Chaos forces and even xenos. Ultramar holds many dark secrets on its dead worlds, relics and weapons of a bygone age that any warlord would love to get their hands on. Yet the Ultramarines seem little interested in actually reaching the planets: they delight in the challenge of breaking the blockade, throwing their forces at where the defenses are strongest.

The Inquisition has managed to piece together a rough outline of Ultramarine strategy in this regard. It is estimated that the legion turnover rate nears 90%, and most of the Thirteenth has less than a decade of combat experience. Life is harsh within the unreality of the Warp, and only the strongest and most ruthless survive. Victory is almost irrelevant compared to winnowing out the weak, and indeed many battles devolve into slaughters as long as discipline is maintained. Most raids consist of a handful of Ultramarines veterans directing hundreds of new recruits known as Thin-bloods from the rear, making note of legionaries with particular promise. The Thin-bloods possess only a few Astartes organs, chiefly those relating to combat, and make up for it with potent cocktails of combat drugs. Insofar that their primarch pays attention to his legion at all, it is believed Guilliman seeks to craft a perfect legion for himself, allowing his sons free rein so long as the legion grows stronger as a result of it.

Save for perhaps the innumerable hordes of the greenskins or the Tyranid Swarms, few forces in the galaxy are able to sustain such pyrrhic losses on such a grand scale, and yet the Ultramarines have managed it, even regaining their former size. Slaaneshi influence is unlike that of the other Chaos powers: it is far more subtle and insidious, requiring constant vigilance to suppress and expel. However, the Inquisition cannot be everywhere, and so it is believed many worlds are secretly controlled or at least influenced by the Thirteenth. They were responsible for literally tens of thousands of worlds joining the Imperium during the Great Crusade, and controlling even a few of these systems gives the Ultramarines a great advantage in recruiting compared to the other traitor legions. It is believed small bands of Ultramarines still lurk in the wilderness of the Ultima Segmentum, spreading their foul influence as they groom and corrupt systems in their quest for new recruits, who are then taken back into the Warp to be instructed in the debased methods of their patron.

The Ultramarines are the masters of many worlds within the Warp. As stated above, each warband, or chapter as they generally prefer to call themselves, is responsible for tending to its own affairs. When unfortunate youth are taken to be inducted, it could be to any one of these many worlds. The influence of Slaanesh is not quite so damaging to gene-seed as that of Tzeentch or Nurgle, and so the Ultramarines have had a comparatively easier time implanting it as they attempt to prolong their foul legacy. However, no traitor legion is exempt from the wicked toll of their sinful ways, and most Ultramarines gain mutations the longer they endure. The wiles of the Dark Prince are subtle indeed, and many youth do not even realize the true horror of the monsters that they so willingly serve. Many noble families are easy prey for the libertine creeds of Pleasure and Pain, though most are sensible enough to keep their proclivities hidden from the prying eyes of the Inquisition.

The original homeworld of the Ultramarines was the Macragge System, though it has long since been destroyed. In its place, Guilliman the Epifanes unleashed his pride and will to shape the warp itself to his whims, forming a daemon world in his own twisted image and ideals. Formed from the sacrificial offerings to pleasure deities throughout all time and the detritus of space hulks trapped within the Warp by the tides of madness, Guilliman created a replica of Macragge, a world forged from precious metals known as Laestrygon. Its skies are filled by an riotous assortment of spacecraft and celestial bodies, including sixty-six moons that serve as both the domains of senior legionaries and as mustering points when the primarch wishes to command his sons. Few are ever allowed upon Laestrygon itself, and thus the daemon world remains unusually orderly, its sickeningly elegant palaces, temples, and vast statues dedicated to the daemon primarch remaining utterly pristine. All of these buildings are impossibly large, designed for a being of Guilliman's stature, and none are larger than the Temple of Atzilah. The Temple is composed of six walls, each spanning hundreds of meters across and high, though distance means little in such a realm of madness. Each wall is covered in vast mirrors reflecting the center of the temple, and concealed behind each mirror is a niche containing a daemon known as a Chalkydri, chimeric abominations with many wings and serpentine features whose sole reason for existence is to chant unceasing praise for the Spiritual Liege, as he is known. Only one Chalkydri is known by name, an obscene creature that calls itself Matwaard the Metatron, who has been seen bearing new commands to Ultramarines forces on the battlefield. Only the emotionally-blunted such as Nulls or Magos of the Adeptus Mechanicus are able to withstand its awful presence, for its appearances are inevitably accompanied by thunderous fulminations that echo with the praises of the daemon primarch.

The Temple of Atzilah is designed with one being in mind, Guilliman the Epifanes. The mirrors not only show him at all times that he might admire himself, but also as a security measure, for despite being immortal, he is incredibly paranoid, for anyone able to arrive unannounced would mean he is not in complete control of his surroundings. Thus the Primarch has remained, worshiping himself within the temple dedicated to his own glory since the days of the Heresy, though he is far from indolent. Each mirror acts as a conduit where he might peer across space and time through the use of cursed artifacts known as flects. Each flect is made of crystallized Warp glass taken from Laestrygon, through which reflect the awful glory of the daemon world, acting as talismans through which Guilliman or other legion sorcerers are able to peer through and even influence the minds of those carrying them. Thus Guilliman's influence has spread far and wide without him ever leaving his throne, and the Inquisition has spent many thousands of years struggling to destroy flects and other unholy paraphernalia like them.

Each of Laestrygon's many moons is the nominal home of a chapter, though only the most powerful are allowed to venture so close to the primarch's demesne. Those who own such a realm are permitted to add a profane symbol representing it to their armor, and the presence of one bearing such a symbol on the battlefield is a dire sign indeed. These Astartes are inevitably some of the most wicked and powerful of Guilliman's sons, and many have fought for the legion since the days of the Leonine Heresy. However, seniority means little compared to fulfilling the primarch's caprices, and those who are particularly devoted to their primarch are more likely to rise through the ranks to obtain command of a chapter and its accompanying moon. One such Duke of Decadence goes by the name of Marneus Calgar.

Marneus Augustus Calgar

Few Chaos Lords strike such fear in the hearts of loyal Imperial Citizens like the pure dread inspired by Marneus Calgar. His nature is more akin to that of a Khornate champion than a devotee of Slaanesh, yet his bloodlust is tempered by incredible ruthlessness that has seen him maintain control of his chapter for nearly a millennium now. Treachery and infighting is ruthlessly suppressed, as many aspiring Lords of Pain have found out to their peril. The most recent attempt on his life was led by an Astartes by the name of Cato Sicarius, whom he ripped limb from limb before hurling his body into the tides of the Maelstrom after an abortive attempt to usurp Calgar's chief lieutenant Agemman.

Calgar's tactics, combined with his incredible charisma, have made his men incredibly loyal, despite their inherently fractious nature as champions of Slaanesh. Indeed, they have saved the warlord on more than one occasion, such as his disastrous loss to the Tyranid Swarmlord nearly two centuries ago on the world of Bakka, when they dragged his mangled body back to be rebuilt with daemon-forged bionics. Calgar has risen far in his primarch's estimation, and many whisper the Epifanes' actual attention is upon him when he goes to battle, a rare occurrence considering how little heed Guilliman gives anyone besides himself.

Despite their control of the Maelstrom and Hadex Anomaly, the Ultramarines remain deeply dissatisfied. Part of this comes from their nature as creatures of Slaanesh, whose Credo of Excess means they will never be satisfied and will always desire more. But the main reason they are unhappy is their lack of holdings within the Eye of Terror. The Grave-Birth of their goddess is a holy place to them, yet its worlds are filled with rival powers who despise the Ultramarines. The legion has tried many times to expand their holdings with the Eye of Terror, striking out from the Crone Worlds, those worlds dedicated to their patron. Yet each unholy crusade has ended in failure, repulsed by the hated Iron Warriors or one of the other traitor legions, though the Thirteenth sees each loss as merely a setback in the Great Game of the dark gods where there can be no true winners.

Combat Doctrines and Organization

Subtlety and stealth are antithetical to the tenets of their patron, so when new Ultramarines take the field for the first time, it is not as scouts but as Painbringer squads. Consisting of anywhere from ten to thirty Thin-bloods, these traitors are kept in awful conditions, deprived of most pleasures, which are then granted to them as rewards or incentives. Most do not survive their first few real battles, but those that do are rewarded with elevation to the Seeker squads, a dark mirror of Assault Squads. Those truly blessed by their masters are permitted to mount daemonic steeds, acting as fast cavalry in mockery of the biker squads of other legions. Despite the freedom their primarch gives them, one of Guilliman's few commandments is that recruits must follow the tenets of the Codex, lest they suffer his wrath.

Codex Catamitus

Roboute Guilliman had long been famed for his strict adherence to doctrine and procedure, an outgrowth of his excessive need to control every aspect of life, even battle. His commands most often took the form of treatises or tomes, distributed across the legion and to be followed on pain of severe reprimand. When he began to fall to the dark seductions of Slaanesh, these stopped for a time, but soon began again, though with increasingly more vile commands. It is believed after the Siege of Terra, the primarch spent his time learning the foul secrets contained within the Palace of Slaanesh, and recording his thoughts in a series of volumes known as the Codex Catamitus.

Each chapter homeworld, no matter how far from Guilliman they may be, possesses a copy of the Codex, written on the flayed skin of Astartes in the blood of Imperial saints. Whenever the primarch makes a correction or addition, the thousands of Codices are instantly updated through the use of foul sorcery. The Inquisition has never been able to obtain one of these books, but it is believed they contain everything from battle tactics to organization to complaints about various topics. The Ultramarines themselves quote from the Codex frequently, even on the battlefield, chanting foul verses that can drive loyal Imperial Guard to treachery and insanity. Many dark promises are sworn upon these codices, and even the treacherous Thirteenth hesitates to go back upon such an oath for fear of the Epifanes' wrath.

Only the luckiest or most treacherous Ultramarines recruits survive their first few battles, for many become victims of their own allies' treachery as opposed to falling on the battlefield. However, even the most greedy Chaos lord will not stint on lavishing his recruits with ornate power armor. Though of dubious make, it is still power armor, and thus even the newest recruits are still formidable foes to be reckoned with. When an Ultramarine has become a veteran known as a Chosen, he is given access to many new pleasures and options to specialize in. The legion firmly believes in excessive mastery of warfare, and most veterans flit between professions on a whim. Some are swordsmen for a battle, only to lose interest and seek to deal death from afar as part of a Havoc squad. After several years of Chosen status, they are then permitted to lead their own hordes of Painbringer Squads as a Chaos Lord. The sheer size of the legion means that there are hundreds if not thousands of these Lords of Pain, and they are subservient only to the chapter masters known as Princes of Profligacy. Only those Astartes who have mastered every form of war and formed their own warband or seized control through force are permitted to bear the title of Prince, a title received from the Primarch himself. Such an honor is received in one of two ways, either a battlefield promotion announced by the arrival of the Metatron, or after completion of a pilgrimage known as a Thiasus to the Ultramarines capital buried deep within the Maelstrom where Guilliman himself reigns supreme.

Such warlords are the closest thing to being considered valuable to the legion, and Guilliman actually gives them some thought before ordering them into unwinnable battles simply for his own amusement. These veteran Astartes are generally called Paragons, each the veterans of many battles and possessing many powerful artifacts, along with the pride to match. It is incredibly difficult to defeat them in open battle, for they are experts of the many facets of war and devotees of the Codex Catamitus. However, their pride is often their undoing, lured into traps against forces far beyond them or betrayed by their own allies. One Duke of Decadence that met such a grim fate was the warlord known as Uriel Ventris. He and his chapter, a warband known as the Mortifactors, invaded the Imperial world of Pavonis, enacting profane rituals in the name of his primarch. Yet unknown to either the attackers or defenders, Pavonis was actually a Necron Tomb World, whose automated defenses came to life when they sensed the threat to their buried complexes. Vast armies of unliving Necrons were unleashed upon Pavonis, exterminating all in their path. When Ventris tried to challenge what he assumed was their leader, he was killed instantly, for in his pride he had challenged a C'tan Shard, a piece of the star-god known as the Nightbringer. The Mortifactors were killed to a man, and their moon orbiting Laestrygon swiftly taken over by a rival warband.

The Ultramarines are beings of immense pride, and as such, have made many foes and few allies. Their charisma has allowed them to tempt and sway many traitor Guard regiments to their cause, for many men simply follow the orders of their nobles even if it means fighting other Imperial soldiers. The Ultramarines take great pleasure in corrupting loyal citizens to their cause, and none more than high lords of authority such as prelates of the Ecclesiarchy, a practice which serves as yet another cause for hatred from the Word Bearers. Many prominent men and women of the church have been corrupted over the years, requiring extensive purging and frequent conflict between the two legions. In addition to corrupting the holy, the Ultramarines undertake frequent raids against New Monarchia, defiling its temples and fortresses as they train the latest waves of new Astartes. Yet these raids are usually conducted solely by the Ultramarines. Besides the Black Templars, who will accept the aid of any traitors in pursuit of their Black Crusades, only those tempted or given to the worship of Slaanesh are willing to act as their allies. The rest of the traitor legions despise the Ultramarines for their almost complete lack of aid during the Siege of Terra. It is said Guilliman has never lost a battle, but he cost the traitors the war by refusing to aid his allies. Only Thiel's Red-Marked are slightly more accepted, and even they are hated for their monstrous pride and mercenary nature.

Though all traitor legions revile the Ultramarines, the hatred of the Blood Angels exceeds that of any other. The heirs of Sanguinius have become creatures of Khorne, the rival Chaos power to Slaanesh, and as such bear incredible hatred for the Sons of Guilliman. The two legions have clashed many times, a self-destructive rivalry that has seen countless Astartes killed that could have been better used against the Imperium. Yet the Ninth Legion is not present within the Maelstrom or the Hadex Anomaly, and so most clashes have come in realspace while the kingdom of Laestrygon remains safe from their rage. Because of this distance, the Ultramarines do not care as much as the Blood Angels do about the rivalry, instead focusing their attention upon the raiders nearer to their own borders: the White Scars and War Hounds. The Fifth Legion has despised the Thirteenth for their betrayal at Sotha so long ago, and have raided Laestrygon and its attendant worlds countless times, sowing anarchy and terror as they ravage all in their path. Their depredations are occasionally joined by the forces of the War Hounds, for the Twelfth Legion despises the forces of Slaanesh as much as any other.

Despite their corruption, the Ultramarines are still Astartes, and as such despise xenos. They have driven many races to extinction over the years, though their favorite prey are Aeldari. The mere presence of the Ultramarines strikes fear in these xenos more than any other, for the Thirteenth are the willing tools of their ultimate sin and damnation, and any who fall to their blades are sure to have their bodies desecrated even as their souls are hurled into the gaping maw of Slaanesh once their spirit stones are shattered. In more recent years, the Ultramarines have come into conflict with the T'au, whose Spheres of Conquest press ever closer to the once-proud realm of Ultramar. Campaigns of Subversion emanating from the Hadex Anomaly often find themselves clashing with the xenos, whose natural lack of self-interest is diametrically opposed to the self-indulgence preached by the Thirteenth. Unintelligent or mechanical foes such as the Tyranids or Mechanicus are also hated by the legion, for they lack the ability or inclination to scream in terror, which provides little sport.

Beliefs and Warcry

The Ultramarines are firm believers in the concept that 'more is more'. The doctrines of their deity are few and flexible, but giving into excess at every opportunity is holy duty. Looking back to when they were still loyal, it is easy to see the mark of Slaanesh upon the legion: they had the largest legion, the most victories, five hundred worlds instead of one. When their primarch ascended to daemonhood, he intentionally crafted a form to surpass the rest of his brothers in strength and size. Yet despite this, both Guilliman and his sons instinctively know that they are fundamentally flawed and incomplete, and seek to better themselves. The sacred number of their goddess, Six, has ancient connotations of incompleteness and imperfection. The Ultramarines recognize this, and believe there is always room to better themselves that one day they might be the perfect instruments of Slaanesh in the mortal realms. At least, that is what they tell themselves. The truth is the Ultramarines, like all devotees of the Dark Prince, are rapidly burning themselves out. The greater and greater heights of excess are matched only by the deepening symptoms of withdrawal, an agony that only intensifies the longer the legionary lasts. Those few survivors of the Leonine Heresy are wracked with incredible ennui, torpid and unwilling to do much of anything unless it sufficiently piques their fickle interest. Thus any methods are acceptable in the pursuit of perfection, and any atrocities can be forgiven.

However, just because things can be forgiven does not mean they will be. The Ultramarines are particularly vengeful, and they do not forget failures or slights quickly. Despite the legion's propensity for waste when it comes to the lives of others, repeated failures without results will earn the offending legionary imprisonment within a Moksha Oubliette. These esoteric devices resembling coffins are contained upon every world and vessel of the legion, and those unfortunates placed inside soon find themselves bereft of sensation of any sort, including time. Such a fate is utterly horrific for those addicted to pleasure and sensation, and those left within its confines too long soon go mad, and spend the rest of their days as a mindless beast, tormented for sport by those they once called brothers.

As befits a legion spread across hundreds of worlds, the Ultramarines possess many ships, most left over from their retreat from Ultramar. If they were to assemble as one, their numbers would surely overcome all but the greatest defenses, yet this will most likely never happen. Only the primarch himself could command such a gathering, and Guilliman has not emerged from his Temple since the days of the Scouring. However, Guilliman does occasionally proclaim commands through the use of his Metatron, and has on occasion even named champions to lead missions of particular import. On those rare times, the primarch denotes his favor through the Crown of Glories, a metal band with spikes on the inside. Every movement pierces the bearer's skin with exquisite pain while bestowing a small fraction of the primarch's wisdom and charisma. Many vile warlords have been crowned by the Metatron, and each has performed truly diabolical acts of iniquity in service to primarch and goddess. Yet the primarch's favor is fickle, and just as often has the Metatron returned to take back the crown, which usually leads to the champion's warband collapsing or turning against their leader after his charisma wears off. At other times, the Crown is left on for far too long, and the bearer is drained of any semblance of personality, becoming a puppet to the domineering influence of the Epifanes. Such a warrior quickly begins to pay far more attention to the Great Game, seeking to serve Guilliman to his own detriment, and generally either becomes a daemon prince or is stabbed in the back by his disloyal servants.

The Ultramarines have long since renounced the unified blue and white that they wore during the Great Crusade. In its place has risen a protean array of different paint schemes and liveries, each chapter seeking to be different from all the rest. Likewise, no two squads bear the same numerals or markings, thus embodying the madness of Chaos. Many seem to take particular delight in how offensive their armor is to the eyes of others, as though their armor was painted by a child who not only relied upon his memory but then lacked the skill to bring his vision to life. Some Ultramarines slather their power armor with a single thick coat of paint; others are less constant, slathering on many layers of paint, one on top of another every time they change their minds. Still others paint their armor in the color schemes of other legions as a symbol of mockery, some even claiming to be of a different legion entirely. Even the famous Omega symbol has been abandoned in favor of Icons of Slaanesh or other offensive symbols.

"For Guilliman, Son of the Emperor!" "Woe Betide!" "We March for Macragge!" "The Greatest of them All are the Ultramarines!" These are but some of the many battlecries utilized by the legion, for they have more chants than they do chapters. Many utilize High Gothic Chants shouted extremely loudly as they emerge from Warp portals or other chaos gates. Other warbands are less wholesome, and enter battle accompanied by the tortured cries of slaves, whose wracked and flayed forms rush in before even the Painbringer initiates in order to absorb the incoming firepower. The legion's hideously painted armor more than anything else acts as their standard, for none who face the Unholy Thirteenth ever forget their exposure to horrific decadence.

"Guilliman the grand! Guilliman the glorious! Guilliman the god!" On and on the Chalkydri chanted their endless paeans of praise for the Primarch. For the past century, their chants had tended towards alliteration, the latest in an endless series of gimmicks in order to keep their master pacified if not happy. Yet the end of the endless came sooner than expected, and the Temple of Atzilah fell silent for the first time in an aeon.

Turning his head to see the side, Guilliman the Epifanes beheld his Metatron, Matwaard, hovering beside a robed Astartes with a sword upon his back and a canister in his hands.

"Who is this cluttering up my hallway? What is the meaning of this incursion?" the Primarch lisped in a voice as soft as a sigh.

"A mortal infidel, my lord, by the name of Cypher. He comes keeping a secret for you alone." The Chalkydri managed to look agitated despite his reptilian appearance, his many fluttering wings conveying his unease. Cypher remained silent, his hood concealing his face from even Guilliman's enhanced eyesight. The lord of hosts extended a languid hand, and brought the canister up to his eyes, gently flicking open the lid with unexpected dexterity. Peering inside, Guilliman withdrew what appeared to be a small clay brick, unremarkable to behold. Yet the Chosen of Slaanesh nearly fell off his divan as he surged to his feet. The assembled Chalkydri remained silent, unsure of how to react.

After studying the object for less than a minute, Guilliman placed it gently back in Cypher's hand, and rose to his feet. The Dark Angel stared at Guilliman, clearly awaiting a response. The daemon primarch stared at him in return, before giving him a languid smile that showed his blindingly bright pointed teeth between which slithered a lasciviously-forked tongue.

"What's said is said. I suppose I did give my oath. It's only forever, not long at all." Cypher seemed satisfied with this response, yet before he could leave, Guilliman let loose a cry into the abyss. It had no true sound, yet it echoed throughout the Warp, conjuring horrific imagery in all who heard it. Gellar fields flickered on thousands of ships, while Astropaths clawed at their ears in a maddened frenzy of repressed emotions. Irresistible desires welled up in every sentient being, but only those truly touched by the Prince of Pleasure understood it for what it was, a clarion call through the gene-laced brood of Guilliman's bastard sons. Across the Maelstrom and the Hadex Anomaly, across all the material and Immaterial realms, the call echoed. The Thirteenth were marching to war.

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A/N: Oh boy, oh boy. Where to even start with this one? This was by far the most fun chapter to write. There are quite literally dozens of references to spot, so I'm sure the eagle-eyed readers will enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it. The Ultramarines are quite possibly the most irredeemable of the traitors, for they truly enjoy what they do (or at least, the veterans of the legion do), and I encourage readers to enjoy this levity, for in the next chapter, we go way, way grimdark as we visit the World Eaters, who I believe are utterly unlike any other legion, in my story or in other fanfics. As always, please leave your thoughts and reviews in the comments. Sharrowkyn, out.