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.

12. Index Astartes: Blood Angels

Chapter 12: Index Astartes- Blood Angels

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Index Astartes- Blood Angels: The Ruined and the Stained

All history is cyclical: that which has come before must come again, it rhymes and repeats to the sorrow of those subject to it. This axiom is best exemplified in the sons of Sanguinius, the gore-slicked messengers of the Blood God Khorne. From the beginning, their fate was foreordained, savage and bloodthirsty Astartes whose destiny was merely delayed by the arrival of their primarch. Sanguinius was among the best of the Emperor's sons, beloved by all, and for a time, his sons reflected their father's glory, winning fame and honor for their heroic actions. Strained by the weight of expectations and assailed by dark visions of the future, the fate of the Ninth was sealed by the intervention of Lion El'Jonson. However, though the Architect of Heresy may have started the legion down its dark path, their damnation is their own, and the Blood Angels have embraced the simplicity of their role as the favored weapons of the Blood God. Now they ravage both the Material and Immaterial Realms, barbarian hordes far removed from the cultured angels they once were as they eternally seek to drown the galaxy in death so that the blood may always flow. Until that day, they will never cease to unleash slaughter and mayhem in the hopes of unleashing that flood, a deluge that will wipe away all guilt, all shame, and all knowledge that they were once Angels.

Origins: The Revenants

The Age of Strife was not kind to any of Humanity's worlds, and Terra was no exception. Though it had escaped total annihilation from nuclear holocaust or Warp-incursions caused by rampant psykers, the homeworld of Man was left in ruins. A collection of squabbling techno-barbarian kratocracies now fought over the corpse of what was once the crown jewel in the Terran Federation, a galaxy-spanning institution whose might had been all but unchallenged during what was now known as the Dark Age of Technology. While Humanity as a species had survived, both on Terra and perhaps on other worlds scattered across the darkness of the galaxy, its empire had been sundered, and would require a strong hand to rectify things once more. As had happened many times before in history, a leader arose to impose his will upon the human species, a figure who called himself the Emperor of Mankind. What sounded like delusions of grandeur soon proved to be utter fact, as his small forces situated out of the inhospitable Himalazian Mountains struck out in every direction, bringing an entire world to heel in a few short years. Peace came to battlefields that had been contested for centuries at the word of the Emperor, and he brooked no dissent. His commands were backed up by unstoppable armies, mighty genetically-enhanced soldiers known as the Thunder Warriors and Custodian Guard, fearsome giants who towered over the rest of Humanity.

As the number of foes dwindled with each region conquered, the Emperor's armies only continued to increase as he unveiled further creations, new hosts known as the Legio Astartes. By sacrificing strength for stability, the Emperor had crafted a new and highly-adaptable tool for his arsenal, and the Astartes were an instant success, quickly developing into many variations of the original template, which would form the basis of the legions to come. Such gene-wrought might was highly necessary, for resistance only increased with each new region the Emperor took, as the techno-barbarian warlords knew full well the fate the Emperor intended for them due to their mismanagement of Terra. However, the Astartes were as of yet few in number, and so they acted as the scalpel, the sharp blade to pierce the enemy's defenses in anticipation of the hammer blow of the Imperial Army. Of these proto-legions, few had a darker reputation than the IX Legion, one well-suited to the times which they lived in. The IX Legion were utterly unlike their cousin legions: from the beginning, they were the largest in numbers of all the proto-legions, and their methods of war were far more savage. Whereas the other legions took their choice of recruits from specific regions, selecting only the best to join their ranks, the IX took in every recruit it could get, reforging the broken into the tools of war. Dozens of minor tribes from the harsh, rad-blasted steppes of the oceanic dust bowls were stripped of their male youths, who died in their tens of thousands to keep the IX operating at peak efficiency.

The Emperor used the IX as a blunt weapon, thrown into the harshest of war zones and most desperate of battles to emerge victorious no matter the odds. Such large-scale losses quickly led to the development of a morbid spirit in the Ninth, each warrior considering himself as already in the company of death, and dark rumors soon spread about this 'Revenant Legion' who had long been kept apart from the rest of their kin. Their armor lightened from stone gray to ash gray, perpetually stained by the seas of blood they created in every battle. Other witnesses told tales of horrific acts of cannibalism, of the victorious Ninth stalking the battlefield in search of fallen heroes to consume. While monstrous to outsiders, this was in truth part of the Emperor's design, for all Astartes bore an Omophagea, a genetically engineered organ that allowed the absorption of knowledge by the consumption of bodily tissues, and especially blood and brains. The IX took this practice to heart, performing it even in the midst of battle to strike fear into their foes, and for that they soon became known as the Eaters of the Dead, though such an epithet was never spoken in their presence. Many senior officers were disgusted by the Ninth, and they were soon relegated to become a reserve legion, used only in the most dire of circumstances.

After the completion of the Unification Wars, the Emperor's armies took to the stars, and the Revenant Legion went with them at the forefront of the Great Crusade. They were renowned for their cold fury, for they never retreated regardless of the cost, throwing their assault squads in over and over again, and for a time, this was enough. Tales of these blood-soaked angels were enough for many civilizations to surrender without a fight, but many other worlds were instead provoked to dogged resistance, choosing death over subservience to an Imperium that utilized such monsters. The Revenants began to flag in size, and soon fractured into smaller companies that were less resource-intensive, for the bureaucrats of the Great Crusade began to neglect them after an unfortunate friendly-fire incident led to death by exsanguination of an entire Imperial Army regiment. Thus the close bonds of friendly company rivalry never developed between the Ninth and their fellow legions, and as the decades passed, their isolation only grew. They were seen as an unfortunate necessity, a tool too valuable to throw away now, but one whose time was most definitely limited, and the legion knew this, and none more so than Legion Master Ishidur Ossuros. According to Imperial records, Ossuros had led the legion since its inception nearly sixty years earlier, fighting in hundreds of major engagements from the First Assault on Kum-Karta in the Yndonesic Bloc to the Ghost Wars of Saiph.

However, he was noted not only for his martial brilliance but also for his reckless desire to see his legion accepted, and so he had also been reported killed in at least a dozen of these. It was one of the legion's abiding secrets, known to no outsiders save perhaps the Emperor himself, that the role of legion master was passed down in a way unlike any other legion. Based on ancient reports, it appears the original Ossuros perished in 802.M30, but his legacy did not end there. The brain and progenoid glands of Ossuros were consumed by his lieutenant, whose personality became subsumed by that of Ossuros so that his tactical genius might live on. So too were other fallen commanders consumed in the same gruesome fashion, each new Astartes gaining experience faster than any of their legion cousins, and the Ninth were able to keep up a remarkable rate of compliance despite the losses routinely suffered. Thus the legion maintained continuity in a way unlike any other, continuing just as it always had until the fated day that their primarch was discovered, an event which might have been kinder for the galaxy had it never happened.

The Angel of the Wastes

The Emperor was nothing if not thorough. Many years before the first Thunder Warrior emerged from the Emperor's stone fortresses atop the Himalazian Plateau, he had labored ceaselessly to craft the weapons and soldiers to prosecute his campaigns. No army is complete without leaders, and although the Emperor was without peer, he could not afford to waste his time on every minor skirmish. Thus he crafted twenty beings known as the Primarchs, ultimate warriors to march at the head of his armies in the upcoming Great Crusade. Alas, the universe is cruel, and his Primarchs were stolen away, cast from Terra by malign powers who sought to forestall his plans. The twenty pods were thrown into the Warp in every direction, tossed and turned as beings of pure insanity clawed and chipped away in an attempt to breach defenses both psychic and physical. The pod bearing the High Gothic inscription of IX was no exception, the radiant soul of the child inside attracting special attention from the Immaterial predators, and the boy screamed as the infinite energies of the Immaterium threatened to pierce the protective shell. Yet even as the slightest crack formed and the daemons began to seep in, the pod emerged back into realspace.

To gaze upon Baal is to witness the fate of countless worlds over the many millennia of Humanity's existence. Located deep within the Red Scar Nebula in the Ultima Segmentum, the Baal System was one of many whose existence was scorched and irradiated by the blood red stars prevalent in that area of space. In millennia past during the Dark Age of Technology, Baal was once densely settled, its twin moons Baal Primus and Secundus veritable paradises. Its people were artisans, carving statues out of mountains and fine pieces of art in all mediums. However, by the end of the Age of Strife, Baal had been a wasteland for centuries. Weapons of incredible potency had been unleashed long ago, a flame deluge that had left both Baal and its moons rad-soaked badlands. The few remaining humans who had survived within fallout shelters eked out a pitiful existence, hiding from the savage tribes of mutants that wandered the wastes. The twin moons still held sizable human populations, and had the primarch's pod landed on one of these moons, it seems likely the nomads would have stumbled upon it. Alas, the pod missed the moons, and the Warp echoed with cruel laughter as the pod instead crashed into the red deserts of Baal itself, gouging out a massive crater that would later come to be known as Angel's Fall.

When the pod opened, its inhabitant was revealed to be a child, whose beauty would have made any artisan weep for joy. He was perfect in every way save one: unfurling from his back were two tiny vestigial wings, an imperfection that might have endangered his life had he been found by Humans. However, Baal had no humans, and the creatures that gathered around were mutants that welcomed another of their kind. The boy was taken in by these abhumans, and named Sanguinius, and he grew up unaware that his condition was anything but normal. Sanguinius grew far more swiftly than others around him, and by the age of three was already an adult. He was able to walk through the most irradiated lands without harm, and his strength was unparalleled, allowing him to crush boulders with his bare hands. As he grew, so too did his wings, increasing in size and span until he was able to fly high above the deserts. Sanguinius was never so happy as he was when he was soaring in the clouds, but the harsh life of Baal often brought him back down again. Resources were highly scarce in the badlands, and not a month went by without a handful of clashes between the warring mutant tribes. Sanguinius joined his clan on many occasions, and with his aid, they were victorious every time. He was an angel of death, ripping his twisted and malformed foes into pieces, and the wrath of a primarch was indeed a fearsome thing to behold. Sanguinius spent most of these battles on the verge of fury, and his tribe-kin urged him to give in to the blood-rage. For a time he resisted, feeling innately that it was wrong, but after many years he began to stop caring, and indulged in his primal temper. His tribe swelled in size, becoming the size of an army, though a tide or horde would be a more accurate description. Together they plundered the heritage of the past, arming themselves with relics they barely understood, until all the lands of Baal were under his control.

Despite these victories, Sanguinius was unsatisfied; he knew somehow that he had been created for more than just ruling these outcasts. The twin moons above looked like paradise, forever tempting yet forever out of reach. He had tried many times to improve the living conditions of his followers, and had even succeeded in settling some down into villages, but many still resisted him. He tried to instruct them using culture and religion, uniting them in worship of the ancient deities of the ruins such as Saint Raul the Cyclopean, Patron of the Misborn, and even allowing others to worship him, but their faith did not prevent them from engaging in pointless and self-destructive squabbles. His followers were peaceful enough under his direct supervision, but their blighted nature led them to rebellion and envy, as though their souls were as twisted as their bodies. It was as though such mutants were incapable of building a civilization, a thought which perturbed the Primarch whenever he contemplated his own nature.

As Sanguinius sat alone, pondering his dilemma within the Ruberica, the deep underground cavern known as the Heart of Baal, he was disturbed from his reverie by a powerful earthquake. Rushing to the surface, the primarch discovered a charnel house. The meager village that surrounded the entrance to the Ruberica was now in ruins, its mutant population slaughtered in their own homes, which were now raging infernos. Launching himself into the air to gain a better vantage point, Sanguinius soon discovered the source of this devastation of Baal: strange armored warriors, whole of limb with no obvious deformities, and in their hands were strange implements that spat fire and death as they cut down Sanguinius's tribe without mercy. The death of his kin instantly drove the Angel into a fury, and he swooped down into the heart of the foe, his wings pistoning out to behead a dozen invaders in as many seconds. The enemy warriors converged on him like a swarm of fire scorpions whose nest had been stepped on, but they were no match for a primarch. Moving by pure instinct and lost in berserk fury, the Angel tore out the throat of yet another warrior, gulping down the superhuman vitae that flowed from it.

Sanguinius reeled, clutching his head in his hands, no longer able to pay attention to the battle as fantastical visions swept through his mind. Strange sights and concepts filled his head, other worlds utterly unlike the wastelands of Baal, whose inhabitants were not the genetic abominations who Sanguinius had until now called his kin, a pure and wholesome race known as Humanity. What were once worries now became doubts as Sanguinius understood the filth he had once called his family, the word 'mutant' and its pejorative connotations now filling his mind as he beheld their bodies all around him. His superhuman mind soon began to comprehend this knowledge and wealth of experience that would have driven any lesser mortal mad. The pieces fell into place, and Sanguinius stilled, his frantic thrashing and bloodlust fading away into calm, even as the armored warriors surrounded him on all sides. Words and concepts and memories all vied for his attention, but one expression, one phrase seemed to be more pressing than the others, and Sanguinius recognized it as the name and title of the man whose blood he had consumed: Ishidur Ossuros, Legion Master of the Ninth.

As Sanguinius regained his calm, a brilliant golden light filled the sky, and bright flares blinded all around as an immense presence filled the ruins of the once-peaceful village. When the radiance faded away, the massive frame of the Emperor of Mankind was revealed, and Sanguinius prostrated before him, recognizing his authority as his new memories told him all he needed to know about the superior predator now standing before him. The Emperor bid his son rise, admonishing him for debasing himself in such a manner, and revealed the truth to Sanguinius, informing him of his primarch nature. The Angel eagerly swore allegiance to his father, and accompanied him as they left the planet. Sanguinius was astonished to see humans whose bodies were not wracked with radiation sickness and mutation, men and women who stood tall and firm without any hint of insanity or deviancy. Suddenly the Angel's wings seemed not at all like the blessing he had always assumed them to be, but a hideous mutation no better than the rest of the people of Baal, who even now Sanguinius learned were being purged by the Emperor's warriors, these Astartes of the Ninth Legion. He tried to ask the Emperor why he had these wings, but his question was never answered in the rush of information the Emperor imparted upon him. Sanguinius was eager to depart his homeworld, and he eagerly devoured all the information he could find on the journey to Terra. He could scarcely believe the wondrous tales of his father's rise to power, how mighty his armies were, or how infinitely complex the Imperium was compared to the crudeness of Baal. For weeks he learned the tactics and ways of the Imperium, understanding for the first time the purity of Man and the necessity of hating the mutant and unclean, though doubts still lurked within the recesses of his mind. When he had grasped the nature of the Great Crusade, Sanguinius was brought to a new part of the Imperial Palace, a soaring campanile known as the Tower of the Astartes. His task was simple: ascend the tower, braving its physical, spiritual, mental, and moral hazards to join the Emperor at the summit.

Sanguinius sat at the base of the tower, doubts crowding his mind; once he entered the tower, there was no going back. For hours he sat there motionless, thinking and overthinking as he weighed every possible option in his mind. Finally, he arose, and the Angel Soared. His vast wings carried him aloft as he flew to the peak of the kilometers-tall tower, and he landed with a flourish on the summit.

The Emperor turned to look at him, tearing his gaze away from a door leading into the tower. The Master of Mankind frowned at him, shaking his head as though he was disappointed in his son for taking the easy way up. The Angel began to second-guess his action immediately, but the Emperor's expression lightened, and beckoned his son closer. Sanguinius knelt, and recited the Oath of Moment he had prepared. The Emperor accepted his Oath, and Sanguinius rose to his feet, walking to stand beside his father as they overlooked the Imperial Palace and the rest of Terra far below them.

The Master of Mankind began to speak, but the Angel wasn't really listening. He had thought swearing the Oath would give him certainty of purpose, but the Doubts were as strong as ever. Sanguinius felt moisture on his face, and reached up to wipe it away, but what his hand touched seemed far more viscous than dew or tears. Looking down, Sanguinius saw the vivid redness of blood on his hands. The Angel flinched, and suddenly his hands were completely soaked. The peaceful tableau of the Palace below was now a wartorn ruin, the sounds of battle echoing from far below. Looking around, Sanguinius saw he was now on a vast wall, the tumult of war overwhelming his senses as the impossible sight of hundreds of Astartes battled each other all around him. A creeping sense of doom filled his heart with dread, and the Angel turned to see an armored warrior running toward him, a great warhammer in one hand and clacking talons in the other.

Sanguinius screamed, the earsplitting sound echoing over the cacophony of the war, but suddenly he was back where he was before, the battle replaced by the calmness of the Astartes Tower. The Emperor was still talking as though nothing had happened, so Sanguinius dared not ask him what had just happened. As Sanguinius tried to listen to his father's words again, he found himself distracted by the sound of the door opening behind him. The Emperor turned, and smiled.

"Sanguinius, I'd like you to meet your brother, Horus."

Great Crusade: The Angelic Host

Having sworn his Oath of Moment to the Emperor, Sanguinius was now ready to begin his service to the Imperium. He joined his brother Horus, the First-Found, and learned the ways of war at his side, fighting side by side in multiple campaigns. A deep-seated fraternal bond soon tied him to Lupercal, and as time passed, Sanguinius gradually paid less and less mind to the strange vision. However, mutants or not, he could not forget the death of his people: when Horus took Sanguinius to officially meet his sons for the first time, the Angel was struck by indecision. These were the men who had purged his entire planet, yet they were tied to him by blood and the Emperor's decree; having spoken to many of them face to face, he could not simply forget the death of these his sons at his own hands. Thus Sanguinius declared they would dwell on the past no more: the Revenant Legion would be henceforth known as the Blood Angels, a legion united in nobility and honor and blood. The Ninth Legion adopted new colors that day: a rich crimson replaced the grays and blacks, and a teardrop of blood would serve as its sigil.

Unlike most legions, the Blood Angels did not immediately swell in size after reuniting with their primarch. The inhabitants of Baal were no more, for mutants were not worthy to join the Imperium, but its twin moons still held viable genetic stock, semi-feral tribes who had remained human where others had not. However, it would take time to induct enough legionaries for the Ninth to become able to campaign on their own. Thus for several years they fought alongside the Luna Wolves, conquering countless worlds alongside their cousins and gradually growing in number. The Ninth were eager to put their past behind them and live up to their angelic father, and their conduct seemed to all observers to be wholly reformed. The legion soon adopted the artistic heritage of their new homeworld, and master-crafted weapons and armor proliferated. Another legacy of the legion's homeworld was its fierce hatred for mutants, a trait that deeply pained Sanguinius, who continued to hold lingering feelings for his fallen friends. Despite this, fury still lurked in the heart of every legionary, and this, combined with their fanatical emphasis on purity, served to put distance between Sanguinius and his sons. So too did it alienate him from the Emperor, nurturing a seed of doubt in both his father and his sons that would lie hidden from all. He still loved them deeply, and shared a deeper connection with them than most other primarchs, but the Angel could not help but feel doubt at the circumstances Fate had dealt him in regard to his family.

However, doubts or not, Sanguinius was determined to make the Imperium proud, and his legion felt the same way. By learning from their Luna Wolves cousins, the Ninth retained a preference for melee combat and the doctrines of shock assault. Infantry played a key role in the Ninth Legion, and the armor they did use transitioned into a supporting role, designed to get their warriors in close. New recruits were trained extensively in all fields, though none so thoroughly as close quarters operations, prizing speed and fury to a degree matched perhaps only by the World Eaters. The two legions developed something of a rivalry, but unlike the relations between other primarchs, Sanguinius never felt the need to best his brothers in petty displays. He was especially close with Horus, but in truth, he enjoyed the trust and friendship of nearly all his brothers. Warriors such as Ferrus Manus and Rogal Dorn respected Sanguinius for his combat prowess, while his artistic and cultural knowledge endeared him to others such as Fulgrim and Lorgar. So too were his sons respected as paragons of what it meant to be Astartes, and within several decades of his discovery, the Blood Angels swelled in size to nearly three hundred companies, around one hundred and twenty thousand Astartes in total. The legion soon split into many fleets, spread far and wide across the galaxy as they brought world after world into the Imperium, clashing with many foes in their never-ending quest. They never approached the tallies of the Luna Wolves or Ultramarines, nor did they fight in the Rangdan Xenocides, but Sanguinius was unbothered, preferring to leave the spotlight and such unhappy tasks to others. He was highly uncomfortable with the devotion mortals showed him: many were struck dumb by his natural beauty, and those that did speak displayed almost religious awe toward him. Though they called him the Angel, Sanguinius firmly believed that there was no such thing as the divine, a conviction ingrained in him since the Battle of Melchior.

In the year 975.M30, the Blood Angels and Luna Wolves were embroiled in a grueling campaign against a foul race of xenos known as the Nephilim. Their foes were truly monstrous beings, hideous amalgamations of human and alien genetics that towered over twice the height of an Astartes. They fed off the psychic adulation of other beings, and their domains encompassed billions of humans in abject servitude. Their chattel wore hideous fleshy masks formed from Nephilim skin that enslaved them, blissfully constructing vast praise-chapels to their alien overlords, who drained them of vitality in vampiric ceremonies. Such desecration was anathema to the Imperium, and especially the mutant-hating Ninth, and so no quarter could be given to such abominations. However, the Nephilim were powerful foes, modifying themselves into various combat-forms, and the campaign dragged on for years. The Blood Angels began to grow more and more frustrated as they were forced to put down countless people whom they should have been able to save, and some of the Ninth began to openly question why they were wasting time purging these planets by hand instead of destroying them from orbit.

Sanguinius stared at his hands, which now dripped with the blood of his son Alotros. He stood alone in the ruins of one of the Nephilim praise-chapels, the corpse of his son rapidly cooling at his feet. He hadn't meant to hit him: his son had approached him from behind, and the Angel had simply reacted to someone grabbing his shoulder. A noise made him turn around, though this time it wasn't right behind him, and Sanguinus looked across the chapel to see the shocked face of Horus Lupercal.

"Brother? What happened?" Horus asked. Sanguinius remained silent, desperately trying to come up with some sort of reason as to why his son lay dead by his hand. "Was it the Nephilim? Did they turn him against you?"

"No, it…it's a flaw. In the gene-seed. It's happened before." the Angel said softly. It was not totally a lie, he thought; his sons had fallen to rage in the past. This was a delicate situation, one that his Sanguinary Guard should have rectified by keeping Horus away, but it was too late now.

"Have you approached the Emperor about it? Maybe he could address this Flaw…"

"NO! I will not have another empty plinth in the Tower of the Hegemon." Sanguinius all but shouted at Horus. "Swear you will never tell another soul of this."

"Alright, I swear. You can trust me." Horus replied. The two brothers shook hands, but Sanguinius was looking at his brother in a new light. Horus was his dearest brother, but now he knew too much. The vision of so many years ago returned in that moment for a brief second, but even after it vanished, the Doubt continued to linger.

After the destruction of the Nephilim worlds, the Luna Wolves departed to return to their own campaigns, a fortunate occurrence for the Ninth. As if the universe was determined to make Sanguinius's lie a reality, the fury which had persisted in the Ninth since their days as the Revenant Legion began to occur with increasing frequency. Dozens of Blood Angels across wide-ranging Crusade fleets gave in to rage and madness, forcing their commanders to put them down lest their allies witness their insanity. This strange malady baffled the Apothecaries, for there seemed to be no known vector for it, nor any known cure, and so they named it the Red Thirst, for it seemed only by shedding blood would it abate. The Ninth began to withdraw from fighting alongside other legions, desperately hoping to keep this curse secret by moving their fleets far away from the rest of the Imperial forces. For several decades they remained alone, Sangunius's doubts increasing all the while. He began to second-guess himself, hesitating to commit his forces or to join battles in progress; the fear that he himself might suffer from the Thirst plagued him at every moment over the subsequent decades. Visions of death and war occurred with greater and greater frequency, most often in his dreams but in waking as well; the only time they seemed to abate was in the heat of combat. Thus the Angel was caught between avoiding the Thirst on one hand and his visions on the other, perpetually torn and vacillating over which he preferred to avoid.

The legion's self-imposed exile came to an end when Horus called for their presence at the Ullanor System. Despite his lingering doubts about Horus, the Angel could not ignore a direct request without raising suspicion, and so he and his legion made the journey to Ullanor. To his surprise, the Blood Angels were not the only ones called: eight other legions were present in orbit above the world, hundreds of vessels of every size that clustered around the majesty of the golden Bucephalus. The presence of the Emperor's flagship was a sign of the importance of this world, and Sanguinius soon learned of the glorious deeds that Horus had accomplished by their father's side. The Angel discovered there was to be a grand parade, and with some reluctance, allowed his legion to take part in it. Sanguinius joined his brothers and father atop a resplendent palace, watching from above as thousands of Blood Angels marched alongside their cousins from other legions. The Triumph of Ullanor was truly a sight to behold, and Sanguinius began to relax and actually enjoy himself. However, this ease soon turned to shock when the Emperor announced that he was naming Horus as Warmaster while he himself was withdrawing back to Terra. The Angel was floored by this revelation, but embraced his brother, all the while hiding his doubt.

The Descent of Ancient Night: From Nikaea to Istvaan

For the Blood Angels, the glories of Ullanor were a welcome relief from the drudgery of the Late-Era Great Crusade. The constant need to hide the secret of the Thirst had put distance between them and the other legions, and many Astartes looked with envy upon their more fortunate kin, jealous of those whose genetics were more pure than their own. The primarch's increasing moodiness and withdrawal weighed heavy on their hearts, and though they were Astartes who knew no fear, worry for their father and their own possible fates still ate away at them. However, the Angel's sanguinity was as potent as his melancholic humors, and so the Ninth left Ullanor ready to face whatever the galaxy could throw at them. The fears of the past were put aside, and thus for the first time since before the campaigns against the Nephilim, mortals accompanied the legion. Known as the Remembrancers, these collectives of poets, imagists, and writers were part of a new initiative begun by the Warmaster whose job it was to document the glories of the Legiones Astartes. Assignment to the Ninth was especially sought after not only for the relative secrecy of the legion, but also for their primarch's great beauty, a trait passed down to his sons, and their reputation for culture meant bonds were quickly established between the mortals and Astartes.

After Ullanor, the Ninth Legion began to assist in the mop-up operations around the sector. Though the heart of the ork infestation had been cleansed, the outlying systems were still plagued by substantial holdouts, and the Ninth were happy to fight alongside their cousins once more. For just over eleven Solar months, the Blood Angels waged war with and traded friendly banter with half a dozen legions, from the unsmiling Death Guard, to the gallows humor of the Night Lords. In the midst of one such engagement, Sanguinius received a summons from the Emperor himself, calling his sons to the world of Nikaea to discuss the question of psykers in the Legions. The Angel had been one of the early proponents of the use of psykers, alongside Magnus and Lorgar, and so he quickly gathered his retinue in preparation to make the journey to the site of the Council, which lay further south on the border of Segmentum Solar. Sanguinius ordered his sons to continue their operations against the orks, and journeyed to Nikaea alongside the elite of his legion, the legendary Immortals.

Immortals

Unlike most legions, the Ninth had long been divided into many non-standardized groups. The basic unit of division was companies, which were joined and broken into 'hosts' as need dictated, and each host was assigned to one of three spheres, each composed of varying amounts of 'orders'. The First Sphere was known as the 'Immortals', made up of the most favored groupings who bore the privilege of being closest to the primarch both on the battlefield and off, and many of these warrior orders were host to obscure dogmas and beliefs. The most famous of these orders was the Sanguinary Guard, the golden-armored host that defended their primarch on the battlefield, but the legion had other groups equally worthy if not equally famed.

The Crimson Paladins were one such order: also known as the Keruvim, these warriors had given up their names in order to serve as bodyguards to the primarch. They swore to never take a step backwards, and filled the primarch's flagship like unmoving statues, clad in mighty Cataphractii terminator armor. They were most often assigned to defend particular locations, both on the flagship and on the battlefield, and there is very little that could move Crimson Paladins off an objective when they set their mind to it. It was from the ranks of the Keruvim that Sanguinius chose a host to send to join the Legion Auxilia, tasking Captain Thoros to represent the Angelic Host among the Warmaster's armies.

At the world of Nikaea, Sanguinius was pleased to rejoin his brothers once more. Though only eight other primarchs had made the journey, nearly all the legions were represented save for the Twelfth and Thirteenth, whose conspicuous absence concerned Sanguinius. The Angel knew all too well how poorly Angron got along with the Emperor and the rest of his brothers, but Guilliman's absence was more surprising, as it was not like the Lord of Ultramar to pass up a chance to show off in front of the rest of his family. Guilliman had always gotten along well with Sanguinius, even naming him one of his 'Dauntless Few' alongside Russ, Dorn, and Ferrus, and their two legions had complimented each other well in battle. Horus soon informed him that the Lord of Ultramar had withdrawn back to his domains, and so after this disappointing meeting with the Warmaster, Sanguinius sought to approach the Emperor but was rebuffed by the Custodians, who informed him the Master of Mankind was not receiving anyone. So too was he denied a meeting with Magnus, a brother he had always been decently close with as he had been discovered right after him, and when he received the word Mortarion too had refused his meeting request, the Angel began to suspect this conclave might already have its verdict decided.

When the first session of the Council began, Sanguinius watched impatiently as Perturabo and Dorn used their time to argue with each other until the Emperor himself ordered them both from the room. Conferring with Horus, the Angel learned that the Warmaster, alongside Vulkan and Lorgar, did not intend to speak, and so he took the opportunity to voice his opinions next. Sanguinius addressed his rhetoric directly at the Emperor in hopes of provoking a response, speaking eloquently on how those born a certain way should be able to use their natural abilities as intended, as well as how useful they could be. However, the Master of Mankind remained silent and impassive, and so Sanguinius finished his speech and took his seat once more. Watching from the sidelines, Sanguinius's serene countenance masked his true feelings of outrage as Mortarion was the next to speak, his bitter words all but confirming his suspicions that this Council was as much a trial as a debate. After the Death Lord took his seat and the first day of the Council came to a close, the Angel was approached by Horus, who asked him to have his legion continue their efforts against the greenskins around the Chondax System, to which he agreed. As the next few days of the Council unfolded, he was gratified to see the Librarians of various legions talk about their positive experiences in the Librarius, and by the fifth day, Sanguinius was feeling better about Magnus's chances. Even Leman Russ's brash denunciations hardly shifted the overall consensus and feeling of the room, and as Magnus was the last speaker, it seemed certain the Council would rule in his favor. However, Fate is rarely so kind. As Magnus charmed the room with suave refutations of every argument against his position, Sanguinius's hopes grew more and more, until he turned to see their father's reaction, but by then it was too late. The Angel saw the deepest of frowns on the Emperor's face before the entire room was blinded by golden light, its harsh radiance ripping away the pleasant tapestry Magnus had been weaving. As the Emperor denounced his son before the entire Council, Sanguinius realized with a groan that Magnus had been deceiving them all; he had destroyed his chances, as always, by relying on his crutch of his powers and thinking he knew better than everyone else. The Emperor pronounced the Edict of Nikaea, banning the Librarius as well censuring Magnus before the entire crowd, and so Sanguinius watched alongside the rest of the assembly as Magnus was escorted onto the Emperor's flagship. This sad sight was deeply disconcerting to the Angel, for if this was the result of merely disobeying the Emperor's instructions, what might the Master of Mankind do to his other sons?

After this farce of a Council had concluded, the eight remaining Primarchs gathered together in the now-empty Council chambers with varying emotions: some, such as Mortarion and Russ, were gleeful that Magnus had been heavily censured, but it seemed as though the others were uneasy at the sight of the Emperor's wrath. When the Master of Mankind himself entered the chamber, the tension in the room was palpable, though their father did not seem to notice it. He reminded his sons once more that he would be remaining on Terra for the foreseeable future, but surprised the Primarchs with a new announcement. The Emperor explained to his sons a new title, that of Praetorian, and explained its duties to the group before naming Vulkan to this role. Sanguinius heartily congratulated his brother, but couldn't help but notice the rage and resentment in the eyes of Rogal and Perturabo, who stormed from the chamber without a word, and by the time Sanguinius went to look for them, both brothers had already departed. Refusing to let their bitterness affect him, the Angel allowed his other brothers to depart before him in order to spend time with the rest of his siblings. As the weeks passed and the gathered forces slowly dispersed, Sanguinius took the steps necessary to comply with the new Edict of Nikaea, naming a number of his sons to the role of Chaplain. Thus the office of Warden was established in the Ninth Legion, composed of the most vigilant and dedicated warriors who would keep watch against not only the moral corruption of the psyker, but also the ravages of the Red Thirst, as the legion's genetic malady had come to be known. Soon enough it was time for the Blood Angels to depart, journeying back north toward Ullanor in order to carry out the orders of the Warmaster. Horus had personally approached the Angel, clarifying his initial request and directing the Ninth to continue cleansing sectors of the orkoid menace with the aid of the Twentieth Legion. Yet when the Ninth arrived at their destination, the asteroid fields of the Kayvas Belt, the sons of Alpharius were nowhere to be seen.

Shrugging it off, the Blood Angels got to work, purging the countless greenskins that had fled to Kayvas after the destruction of Ullanor a year before. The orks were already deeply rooted, and even this short duration had seen their numbers rebound, and so it took the Ninth several years of fighting to begin to see progress against them. As the Blood Angels continued to clear out the Kayvas Belt, the Thirst continued to occur with ever-increasing frequency, while the Alpha Legion remained irritatingly absent. The Warmaster swore he had issued the orders, and after some time, sent the Voice of the Warmaster to tell Sanguinius to stop asking. The Angel was as close to the Lion as any of their brothers were, for Sanguinius had been found just after him, and so the Lion attempted to cushion the blow by bringing his own forces in support. Thus the two Hosts of Angels fought side by side for several years, the two primarchs becoming very close as their legions fought as a seamless whole. The various Orders of the Ninth were a natural complement to the knightly hosts of the First, and Dark Angels and Blood Angels could often be seen attending the same lodge meetings just as their primarchs could be witnessed on the battlefield fighting side by side. Sanguinius learned much of the Lion's goals and ambitions, sympathizing with his brother who seemed crushed under the weight of expectations of perfection just like him. The Lion seemed disappointed with the state of the universe: the Rangdan Xenocides, of which Sanguinius had only ever heard rumors, weighed heavily upon his brother's spirits, and his status as the Voice of the Warmaster had rendered him little more than an errand boy. Knowing his brother would reject pity, Sanguinius did his best to cheer up his morose brother, swearing to do whatever was necessary to help him, to which the Lion gave him a rare smile.

It was several years after this event when the Lion returned from his errantry with horrifying news: Horus had fallen in battle, and had been rushed to Terra on the verge of death. The Ninth were shocked, for none had ever contemplated a figure of legend such as a primarch, much less the Warmaster himself, on the verge of death. Their thoughts soon turned to the possibility of their own father dying, but the Angel was one step ahead of them, quickly issuing their next course of action in order to stop them from dwelling on such thoughts. Though he greatly desired to journey to Horus, the Voice of the Warmaster had already brought them new orders alongside the detachment of the Ninth that was part of the Legion Auxilia. The Blood Angels were to leave off their campaign against the greenskins and journey to the north: the Twelfth and Nineteenth Legions had ceased communicating with Terra, their status unknown, and thus they must be tracked down and held accountable for their silence.

Betrayer: The Red Angel

As the Ninth set out to accomplish the Warmaster's order, a pervasive malaise settled down upon them, and all understood, if only subconsciously, the weight of the task they had been given. Although the Imperium nominally stretched across the entire galaxy by this point in the Great Crusade, its hold on many outer regions was tenuous at best. Vast swathes of the uncharted territories known as Wilderness Space still lay undiscovered, the few Imperial worlds pinpricks of light in the outer Darkness where the Astronomican shone but faintly. Adding to their difficulty was the presence of powerful Warp Storms, but the Blood Angels knew no fear, and so they did not hesitate as they pushed their way into the darkness of the northern reaches, far beyond the borders of the Imperium. As the months turned into years, the fleet dispersed itself ever more thinly, spread out into a wide-ranging net leaping from system to system in the hopes of discovering signs of the missing legions. However, each transition from Reality to Unreality and back again carried with it the risk of being caught in the grip of an unpredictable squall, and thus attrition began to take a serious toll on the fleet. However, these tactics proved to be worth the cost, and eventually the tell-tale sign of an Astropathic beacon bearing the signature of the World Eaters set the fleet on the right trail, a path which led close by the region known as the Coronid Deeps.

Gathering into a cohesive whole once more around the world of Gethsamaine, the Blood Angels readied themselves for one final jump. Their target was the Istvaan System, which lay only a couple dozen light years away, but it took quite some time for their fleet of nearly nine hundred vessels and the hundred and twenty thousand Astartes of the Three Hundred Companies to fully assemble together once more. When the armada arrived at Istvaan, they discovered a veritable asteroid belt of wreckage, countless ships of varying sizes strewn across the eight-world system. Legion scouts began to comb the wreckage in search of ship logs and identification, and hundreds of grim reports began to fill the cogitator databanks of the Red Tear, where the primarch sat dumbfounded at the sight of what to his knowledge was the single greatest loss in Imperial history. However, the time for introspection quickly passed, and panicked calls for aid from their scout vessels began to roll in from the other side of Istvaan III. As the ships of the line moved into a supporting position, the world shattered, hurling continent-sized chunks of debris through the unprepared armada. Even void shields were of little use against such kinetic force, and as the Ninth struggled to assess losses, they were beset by a new foe: the long-missing Twelfth Legion. The World Eaters wasted no time in closing in on the unready sons of Sanguinius, and dozens of ships began to report boarding incursions even as the sons of Angron unleashed withering broadsides against their now-unshielded targets. Desperate requests for orders began to crowd and overload the vox-systems of the Red Tear, but no replies were forthcoming as Sanguinius remained stunned, nearly catatonic as he struggled to comprehend the magnitude of this betrayal. Thousands perished as the primarch vacillated, his commanders pleading with him for some sort of decision, but not all were so concerned with the chain of command. Taking matters into their own hands, a large contingent of ships broke formation, dozens of vessels spearing into the enemy's flanks. This unauthorized assault was led by none other than Fifth Company Captain Nassir Amit aboard the battle barge Victus, and soon the battle became far less lopsided.

Lodge of the Archangels

The Ninth had spent most of its existence split into many smaller fleets, only senior commanders interacting with the Primarch with any regularity, and thus Sanguinius seemed a demigod, flawless in form and spirit. It seemed as though he always knew what to do, and his very presence and charisma inspired others with a fervor surpassed only by the Emperor himself. However, this image was but a facade, carefully maintained to uphold both Legion and Imperial morale. Only a select few knew the truth about the primarch and how he struggled to balance his mercurial temper, his crippling indecision, and the near-catatonia brought about by his visions. Their membership included the legendary Azkaellon, Herald of Sanguinius and commander of the Sanguinary Guard; First Captain Raldoron, the Equerry; Nassir Amit, the so-called 'Flesh Tearer'; as well as another six, each representing one of the Choirs of the Ninth Legion.

This group, known as the Lodge of the Archangels, was a product of necessity, a fractious organization united only by their mutual love of the primarch and desire to keep both his secrets and secrets from him. The continuing influence of the Red Thirst had resulted in many atrocities, and the Archangels did not wish for Sanguinius to blame himself any more than he already did. The Wardens reported solely to them, and more than a few legionaries, both of the Ninth and other legions, went missing under questionable circumstances.

In another, more rule-bound legion, Amit's action would have been seen as insubordination, a serious charge. However, the influence of an Archangel was potent indeed, and thus many ships moved to join his headlong assault, and eventually the rest of the fleet followed suit after the Red Tear began firing once Raldoron had convinced the primarch there was no other way. The battle began to even out, but by this time, Amit himself was beyond caring, busy as he was running rampant through the bowels of a World Eaters battleship. The serrated blades of his chainfists sheared through flesh and armor alike as his tactical dreadnought armor shrugged off all the firepower hurled his way, and multiple Twelfth Legion ships fell silent as they were crippled from within. Most commanders would have used this as an opportunity to turn enemy assets against them, but Amit cared not for conventional doctrine: after seizing the bridge, Amit moved on to the hangar bays, launching his forces onto the next target and leaving the vessel dead in space. Thus after some time, he found himself on the Conqueror, flagship of the Twelfth, the voices in his head urging him on to ever-greater feats of martial prowess. Amit had been here before, fighting in the legendary fighting pits and impressing even the sons of Angron for his willingness to duel to sanguis extremis, to the death. For such feats he had been named the 'Flesh Tearer', and he more than lived up to this epithet, shredding all in his path to the bridge. Most of the Twelfth had already departed the Conqueror, following Angron to invade the Red Tear, and so the Flesh Tearer found little that could threaten him until he was halted by the arrival of Lhorke, the legendary Legion Master of the Twelfth. Theirs was not a battle of speed but of endurance as the two massive warriors slugged away at each other, each relying on the thick slabs of their terminator armor to ward off the crippling damage.

Amit leaned in, his pauldron tanking another blow that would have floored another legionary. His armor was in tatters, rent by Lhorke's twin chainaxes, and his opponent was little better, bleeding profusely from where Amit's chainfists had bit deeply. Both Amit and Lhorke were insensate with rage, each ignoring crippling pain in their quest to rip their counterpart limb from limb with inert weapons whose power supplies had been destroyed in the heat of battle. It was this quirk of fate that had kept them both alive thus far, but it couldn't last forever. Ducking an ill-timed blow, the Flesh Tearer pistoned his fists out, batting aside Lhorke's defenses with an uppercut that was instantly followed with a left hook that sent the World Eater hurtling backwards through a bulkhead. Amit wasted no time, moving to follow Lhorke even though he was most likely already dead courtesy of the chainfist blade in his plastron. The Flesh Tearer ducked, stepping through the gaping hole in the wall the World Eater had made, and emerged on what turned out to be the bridge of the Conqueror.

Upon seeing the towering demigod in their midst, the bridge crew manning the stations began shooting at him, though to little effect. Amit began to walk from console to console, not even bothering to dodge the small arms fire as he crushed the gnats, pulping each one with disdainful backhands as he moved ever closer to the prone form of Lhorke. After a minute, only one mortal still remained, the shipmaster judging by the golden epaulets and the bloody red hand upon their uniform. The captain's attitude seemed more defiant and angry than scared, so Amit paused, his helmet vox growling out his demand to know who this was that would come between one of the Nine and his prey. 'Lotara Sarrin' came the spiteful response, swiftly followed up by a blistering volley of insults.

Another legionary might have laughed at such defiance, but the sting of betrayal had left Amit feeling distinctly unamused. As Sarrin continued her verbal barrage, Amit stared down at Lhorke, but the fallen Legion Master remained still. Satisfied his foe was dead, the Flesh Tearer turned his attention back to the Shipmistress, and brought his gauntlets together with a deafening clap. When he brought them apart once more, everything above her waist had been flattened from the titanic force of his gauntlets, spraying a thin mist of gore in a cone across the room. Taking a second to observe his handiwork, Amit felt a deep-seated satisfaction at seeing such bloodshed, but buried it, already planning his next moves.

After taking the bridge, Amit and the few remaining Astartes of the Fifth who had accompanied him abandoned the Conqueror in search of new foes. Across an expanse of void filled with the shattered remnants of Istvaan III, Astartes of both legions found themselves descending further and further into rage, including the primarch himself. Even as the Flesh Tearer and Legion Master were fighting their incredible duel, Sanguinius and Angron were locked in mortal combat, dueling across the length of the Red Tear in a titanic battle between demigods. The Angel and the Red Angel seemed equally matched, dueling with blade and fist as they fell ever deeper into a rage and bloodlust which far surpassed that of their sons. Many had wondered which of the Emperor's many sons would come out on top should they ever fight, a sentiment whispered only quietly but one that had now come to pass. On the verge of being utterly lost to rage, Sanguinius desperately hung on to the last shreds of his sanity in order to retain an advantage over his maddened brother. The burning desire to avenge Corax lent him speed, and the Angel swooped high, smashing Angron backwards into the Gellar Field generators. Faster than the eye could see, Sanguinius's arm hurled the Spear of Telesto like a javelin, its silvered head shearing through Angron's gorget like parchment. Caught in the midst of getting to his feet, the Lord of the Red Sands had no time to dodge, his axe raised too high to block a blow that never came, and thus another son of the Emperor died at the Istvaan System.

A blinding white tornado of energy blasted its way out of Angron's headless corpse, the unbound energies of the Immaterium escaping reality with a deafening howl. Even as the energy storm began to die down, Sanguinius gave in to the Rage which he had suppressed for so long, bounding from the room in pursuit of the World Eaters who had so brazenly invaded his flagship. The once-mighty Twelfth was in full retreat now, fleeing from the wrath of the Angels, and within a few hours, the Istvaan system belonged to the sons of Sanguinius. However, the fights continued on even without the World Eaters, for the Red Thirst had claimed nearly the entire legion, and thus many legionaries came to their senses drenched in the blood of their own brothers. The shame of fratricide coupled with the nature of their victory meant there were no celebrations to be heard as the Ninth tallied their losses and recovered their dead. Istvaan had come at a heavy cost in both men and ships, tens of thousands in total, but further surprises were yet to come. As the vox systems came online once more, they began to pick up distress calls from the nearby world of Istvaan V, where they discovered several thousand Astartes of the Raven Guard. Sanguinius himself came to treat with these scattered sons of Corax, learning of the years they had spent at the side of the Twelfth and the unexpected treachery which had seen them reduced to such a pitiful state.

The Blood Angels and the Raven Guard remained in Istvaan for several weeks, recovering from their losses and waiting for the Warp storms to die down enough to more safely enter the Warp for the long journey back to Imperial space. The Immaterium around Istvaan had been thrown into a storm of unprecedented size after the climactic battle, and thus the Nineteenth were the first to depart, for the few small vessels bearing their meager forces would be less likely to scatter than the large armada of the Ninth. The Blood Angels were left alone with the dead of Istvaan, Astartes and mortals working around the clock to repair the heavy damage their ships had taken while Sanguinius remained locked in his chambers, ruminating on the battle and staring into the sightless eyes of Angron. His brother's body had been taken while he was lost to the Thirst, but the head had remained, either because it was so firmly affixed to the wall or as some sort of message. The Angel had not noticed it at the time, but the Lord of the Red Sands had seemed almost confused or lost before his death, and the rigor mortis had transfixed that look upon his lifeless face. Doubts plagued Sanguinius more than ever, and he shuddered to imagine how his brothers would react to the knowledge of his fratricide.

As Sanguinius maintained this dark trance, he was interrupted by a most unexpected arrival: a small detachment of black-armored warships bearing the insignia of the First Legion, and at their head was the Invincible Reason. The presence of such a mighty vessel could mean only one thing, and so with worry in his heart, Sanguinius met with Lion El'Jonson face to face. There would be no hiding the truth from the Lion's predatory gaze, and so the Angel tried to be blunt about it, presenting his version of events before his brother could pronounce judgment. To his surprise, the Lion did not seem shocked by Angron's death, assuring Sanguinius it was only a matter of time before their brother went mad. When the Lion beheld their brother's severed head, he remained impassive, untangling the bloody scalp and hair of Corvus which had remained snagged in the gory mess of Butcher's Nails and removed it before placing them in a pouch in his armor, taking the largest of the Nails along with it. The two spoke long into the night on various matters, though the most recurring topic was how Horus and the others would react. Lion's merciless reason made it clear that their brothers would see Sanguinius's actions as excessive, and so the Angel's doubts were crystalized into daggers of guilt and self-recrimination. He begged the Lion not to report this to their father or the Warmaster without him being present to defend his actions, and to his surprise, the Lion agreed. His expression almost gentle, the Lion promised his brother he would always do what he could to help him, and in gratitude, Sanguinius embraced his brother, swearing to repay him however he could.

With the aid of the First Legion's support, the Ninth Legion fleet was finally ready to brave the Warp once more, and before he left, the Lion gave them their destination, a world called Davin near the center of the galaxy where Horus would be waiting. The red-hulled armada of the Ninth slid into the Warp once more, the Astropaths carefully maneuvering their way around the edges of storms where the tides were not quite as strong. However, no amount of care would be able to hold nearly six hundred vessels together, and attrition began to take its toll. Smaller ships slipped out of formation, hurled to the winds along with their unfortunate inhabitants, never to be seen as they were again. The Gellar Fields groaned, struggling to hold back the mad energies that struggled to break through with almost malicious intent, until finally they could stand no more. With a lascivious whimper heard by all across the entire armada, the fluid of unreality thrust through the dam of the Gellar Field in a thousand thousand places. Some ships buckled instantly, their frames twisted and mutated into contorted, crumpled balls of screaming madness. Others dropped from the Warp entirely, deposited back into realspace in the hearts of stellar bodies or lost in the empty expanse between star systems where nothing ever had been or ever would be. These were the lucky ones, for in the vast majority of vessels, the primordial madness coalesced and coagulated, forced into conformance with the material universe according to the laws of reality. Latent mortal psykers, those who had never learned to guard their souls, began to detonate like rotten fruit, their minds and bodies ripped apart from the inside to birth parodies of life, lithe and sensuous abominations with pallid skin and lilac claws. Still dripping from the remains of their unwilling portals, the warp entities writhed and contorted with quicksilver swiftness, bisecting the ill-prepared mortals who stood stunned even as their fellows were murdered before their eyes. Yet death was but the beginning of this desecration, for as they fell, the corpses melted and fused, becoming foul perversions of equines with flickering tongues, or centaurine freaks with lashing whips that sent waves of sickly-sweet perfume billowing through the decks. Dozens became hundreds became thousands as the lower decks of hundreds of vessels were filled with these unwelcome intruders, and the Blood Angels were soon engaged in skirmishes and battles on their own ships. These creatures whispered and laughed as they fought and died, speaking lies and perversions in the minds of all around, though one word was said more than any other: daemon, a word loaded with the sort of religious context the Imperial Truth had trained the legion their whole lives to reject. Even as his sons battled these daemons, Sanguinius himself was assaulted in his chambers.

Brooding on his throne, the Angel stared into Angron's lifeless eyes. The Lion's words were reassuring, but the Red Angel still stared accusingly, his gene-forged flesh refusing to rot. The two had always shared the title of Red Angel, but Sanguinius supposed it was now his by right of conquest. An almost-imperceptible shudder in the vast chambers disturbed his reverie: these rooms, buried at the heart of the ship, were designed to not be shaken except by the largest of forces rocking his vessel.

As the Angel stood, he noticed the marble statues lining the halls had all fallen over. He strode over to one, setting it upright only to hear a crash from behind, followed by the rumbling of stone and the tearing of fabric. Before his unbelieving eyes, the vast collection of art and culture contained within his personal chambers was rolling together, thick purple smoke flowing from nowhere to form a cloud where his throne had once been. He began to walk toward the mists, then stopped. A taloned leg emerged from the lavender cloud, a strange mixture of humanoid and caprine and something else entirely. This was followed by another, and another, and another, and flowing silks of red unfurled behind it. These four legs were followed by torsos and arms, writhing together before separating into two distinct entities. Four arms whirling strange implements moved threateningly beneath cloaks covered in symbols that hurt the eye to behold, and twisting horns crowned the heads of these unholy creatures that towered above the Angel. Before Sanguinius could react, one of the creatures spoke in the sweetest and most disgusting voice he had ever heard.

"Rejoice, favored one, for you have gained the notice of the Dark Prince. Feel free to kneel before us, for you stand in the presence of Synessa and Dexcessa, the Voice and Talon of She-Who-Thirsts."

The obscenity calling itself Synessa began to speak to the unbelieving primarch, while its twin stood silent behind it, its wings moving hypnotically in time with the whip-crack of its scourge. Synessa was soft-spoken, promising pleasure beyond imagining and pain without measure if Sanguinius would agree to serve its master. However, before Sanguinius could so much as begin to reply, the ship shuddered once more, and the head of Angron seemed to glow with a faint crimson light. The once-beautiful faces of the two creatures turned to snarls of hate, and they launched themselves at the primarch, who found himself assaulted by the twin daemons, desperately blocking their talons and scepters with the Blade Encarmine. The creatures had attacked without warning or reason, and they proved irritatingly hard to hit, moving and twisting around his blade before slicing deep rents in his golden armor, though never inflicting a deadly wound. It was as though they were toying with him, inflicting minor wounds to cause pain rather than to kill, either from an ulterior motive or underestimating him. Enraged by the thought, Sanguinius redoubled his assault, and the fight began to even out as the Red Angel inflicted wounds on the daemons. Unseen to all, the Nailed Skull continued to glow, an aura of rage and hate suffusing the room that invigorated the Angel and irked his enemies.

As he brought the Blade Encarmine down for a killing blow on one, another shudder rocked the ship. The daemon he had been about to kill dissolved, its essence blown away like fog in a breeze. The sensuous voices and cloying smell of incense finally halted, and Sanguinius was left alone in his chambers beside a pile of broken sculptures and shredded tapestries. The thought that it had all been a vision was swiftly discarded, for his armor still bore the holes and claw-marks, along with the blood dripping not only from his wounds but also from his eyes and nose. Wiping away the worst of the vitae, Sanguinius stumbled, suddenly feeling the strain of his exertions, and as he fell to one knee, his chamber doors opened. In rushed a force of Sanguinary Guard led by a wild-eyed Azkaellon, who explained they had been trying to enter his chamber for hours. The commander explained that the fleet had come under attack just as he had, that they had fought off a Warp incursion for days and lost thousands in the process. Sanguinius assured them he was fine, and began his path to the bridge, where he assessed the situation. Losses had been moderate but wide-ranging, though of more pressing concern had been the re-emergence of the Red Thirst in nearly the entire legion. It was clear the genetic malady was intensifying, and Sanguinius shuddered to think what this might mean for his legion's future. Thus did the Doubts return full-force once more, and the Angel remained preoccupied as the armada of the Ninth finally came to Davin, battered and bruised in both body and soul.

Darkness in the Blood: Fall of the Angel

As the fleet of the Ninth transitioned back into realspace from their nightmarish journey, they were hailed by scouts of the Warmaster, who seemed shocked at their appearance. Sanguinius ignored their questions, demanding to see Horus himself, refusing all further communication as the fleet transited the system toward Davin itself, where the Warmaster held court. As they journeyed, auspexes picked up the arrival of another fleet, the grand armada of the Dark Angels. Lion himself accompanied this fleet, and the three primarchs communicated remotely through their hololith systems. Sanguinius brooded silently as his brothers conversed, giving no external reaction as Horus proclaimed four entire legions renegade. However, on the inside, his doubts and fears grew exponentially: if the Warmaster was willing to excommunicate legions simply for not communicating, what might he do to a legion with deep-seated genetic abnormalities like his own, or to a fratricide such as him? Horus gave no indication that he noticed his brother's discomfort, but it appeared that the Lion did, for shortly after the meeting ended, Sanguinius received a private missive from his brother asking to speak to him. As the Lion's fleet moved into the outer edges of the Davin system to broadcast the Warmaster's decrees, the Lord of the First met with Sanguinius, confiding in his brother his own doubts about the Warmaster and informing the Angel what the Warmaster had been doing during his long absence from the Imperium. The Lion reminded his brother that Horus knew of the Red Thirst, confirming his worst fears, and even the stoic Lion seemed disturbed by the Warmaster's accumulation of power.

Distraught and assailed by doubts, Sanguinius asked his brother what they should do, and with grim finality, the Lord of the Dark Angels explained the course they must take. The Emperor had not been seen since Nikaea, and the Imperium continued to suffer at the hands of a power-hungry Warmaster. It was up to the primarchs to stop Horus, and it was at this moment the Lion revealed to his brother what he had been doing during Sanguinius's journeys. The Lion had gathered six other brothers to his cause, and together they would be able to force Horus to recognize their autonomy; all he needed was Sanguinius, for even with their recent losses at Istvaan, the Three Hundred Companies were still a force to be reckoned with. With the First and Ninth Legions together, Horus would be forced to surrender here at Davin; there would be a battle but not a war, and the Imperium would be saved. The Angel was torn, for he had always been close with Horus, but the Lion assured him the brother he knew was gone, torn away from them by the weight of his office and the decisions he had been forced to make. With a heavy heart, Sanguinius consented to the Lion's plan, swearing to follow his brother for the greater good.

His allegiance sealed, Sanguinius asked Horus to meet him upon Davin itself. The Angel was confident in his ability to best Horus in a fight, and if he could capture the Warmaster, there would be no need for bloodshed. Thus the two primarchs journeyed down to the surface of the planet without even bodyguards, and in the ruins of an ancient temple, Sanguinius presented his brother with the head of Angron. The Warmaster remained stoic, showing disgust but not surprise at the death of their brother, thereby confirming the Lion's words that the brother they knew was long gone, replaced by a man who cared only about his office. Rather than showing interest in their brother's severed head, Horus inquired instead about the Angel's appearance, and thus with reluctance, Sanguinius told him of the horrors he had faced on his ship. Forced to relive that nightmarish experience, the Angel's anger boiled up to the surface once more. The Emperor had promised a secular, rational galaxy under his Imperium, yet he was nowhere to be found, and daemons roamed freely in his absence. Tired of delaying the inevitable, Sanguinius roared his frustrations, and leapt at Horus.

As the two primarchs battled on the surface, the Lodge of the Archangels kept close watch from their vessels in orbit. Azkaellon desperately wanted to intervene, furious at the thought of someone as dangerous as the Warmaster fighting the Angel. However, they had their orders, and so the armada of Ninth began to move into position. Ignoring the hails from the Sixteenth, the Blood Angels rushed to their boarding pods even as their vessels began to spit death across the vastness of space. It was Nassir Amit who ordered the first shot to be fired: though Raldoron outranked him as First Captain, the Flesh Tearers had gained more traction in the Lodge, and even senior commanders deferred to him on matters of war. Thus the Fifth Company gained first blood in this battle between the legions, their boarding torpedoes slamming into a scout ship of the Sons of Horus, where they swiftly butchered the crew. Amit personally slew Iacton Qruze, broadcasting the veteran's screams of agony to the rest of the fleet to bolster their resolve. The Ninth and Sixteenth battered each other at short range, their fleets interspersed above Davin, and the Blood Angels felt the siren's song of the Red Thirst calling to them as the battle wore on. Two legions who were as close as brothers murdered each other without remorse in the vacuum of space while their leaders did so upon the planet below. The Angel's fury only grew as Horus continued to refuse him an honest fight, dodging and blocking without returning any blows, as if he considered his brother not a threat. Sanguinius was just on the edge of giving in to the Thirst when the Warmaster finally struck, smashing the Angel backwards with a dishonorable blow. As the head of Horus's mace connected with his brother, a vision overwhelmed the Angel, drowning out any pain he might have felt from the blow.

The rubble of the temple was gone, and a new monument to horror stood in its place, akin to the trees of a world named Murder. A scaffold built from dead legionaries towered over a motley band of Blood Angels, all busily defacing their armor scratching away symbols of Unity with broken rusted swords. Eight-pointed stars and skull icons were abundantly present, carved into armor and flesh and the very ground itself, which wept with blood that oozed from wherever Sanguinius trod. The Angels turned to look at their father, and howled, an empty, impotent sound of frustration and black rage at their creator who had made them so. Did they blame him, or the Emperor?

Now unable to reach the Angel, Azkaellon threw caution to the wind, fanatically determined to reach the primarch regardless of the cost. The ships under his direct command broke formation, moving closer to Davin itself regardless of Raldoron and Amit's curses and threats. As expected of the Warmaster, the forces under his command were quick to take advantage of the gap, disengaging and reforming their lines. Panic began to set in across the Ninth Legion fleet, for they were all too aware the Dark Angels were about to arrive from the system's edge, but the Lodge of the Archangels demanded they hold fast. They assured those of their brethren still lucid enough to be concerned with the tactical situation that everything was under control, and so it was. The First Legion's betrayal was a complete success, and the Ninth soon rejoined the battle, quickly closing the gap to snare the Warmaster's vanguard with their boarding torpedoes. Once more the blood began to flow from both the Sons of Horus and the Blood Angels, most of whom were now beyond caring about anything except the siren song of battle. So busy dealing death were they that they gave no heed to the Dark Angels' repeated requests for them to withdraw so that they might fire upon the damaged vessels of their foe, and so the Warmaster's forces were able to slip the snare laid for them. By sacrificing dozens of vessels, the bulk of the Sixteenth was able to fall back in relatively good order, leaving the traitorous Angels the masters of Davin.

When Sanguinius regained consciousness, he awoke to the sight of Azkaellon and the Lion standing over him. The Angel dismissed his First Captain's concerns, his wounds superficial, but his brother was not so easy to dismiss. The Lion seemed to be barely controlling his anger at the news Horus had escaped, and in that moment the Doubts came back once more. As Sanguinius wrestled with the knowledge of his failure, the Lion slapped him, a light blow that he should have seen coming and one that swiftly turned the doubt to frustration. Beside him, Azkaellon roared, rushing at the Lion for daring to assault the Angel, but his brother was too fast. The Lion did not even bother to look at the Astartes, smashing him to the ground with contemptuous ease before scolding the shocked Blood Angels like children for letting the Sixteenth escape. A sullen silence pervaded the ruined temple as Sanguinius's rage and self-loathing warred with each other. The Lion spoke again, this time in a more kindly tone; he assured his brother he was not truly angry, that he had chosen the right side, and that he had an important task for them now. The Ninth Legion was to travel to the far eastern edge of the galaxy, beyond the fringes to discover their destiny in the Signus Cluster. Determined to put aside his doubts, Sanguinius ignored the pleas of the Lodge of the Archangels, for his mind was set, and thus the Ninth set out once more without even waiting to repair the damage their fleet had suffered at the Battle of Davin. The journey proved remarkably swift, the storm fronts of the Warp pushing them onward instead of slowing their progress as they had done for the previous decade or so, and only a handful of ships were lost, mostly lighter craft which had barely taken part in the Battle of Davin.

Meros wandered the lifeless halls of his ship, a frigate whose flanks were scarred once at Davin and again during the transition back to realspace which had left the vessel inoperable. Stranded alone in deep space, Meros was alone save for his thoughts and guilt, a solitary survivor alone in deep space kept alive only by his Sus-an Membrane. According to his armor's internal chronometers, he had been here for over four years, going in and out of hibernation, but Meros knew his time was running out. However, it seemed he was no longer alone, for the silence of the void had been disturbed by vibrations in the hull. Following them back to their source, Meros discovered a small vessel, pirates most likely, but battle seemed more appealing than asphyxiation, and so he crept into a vantage point, bolter at the ready to kill whomever was bold enough to board an Astartes vessel.

It was a small group of individuals in power armor, their stature suggesting Astartes, yet the color a plain gray not akin to any of the legions. One of them turned, and Meros was able to make out the heraldic device upon his shoulder. It appeared to be a stylized '=][=', which held no meaning for Meros, but the Aquila upon their chest suggested loyalty to the Emperor of Mankind. The intruder turned once more, before stiffening, and turning to look directly at the wall which concealed Meros, spoke in an open vox frequency.

"Meros of Baal, reveal yourself. The Regent of Terra demands your service."

The Signus Cluster was a strange system. Located near the edges of the Astronomican's light, it would have been next to impossible to find had it not been for the presence of Nemiel, a Chaplain of the Dark Angels who guided their path. The triple stars of Signus shone dimly over a collection of worlds and asteroids, barren rock and lifeless gas giants. Signus had once belonged to the Nephilim, teeming with billions of human slaves, but there was nothing here now save dust and echoes. Nemiel directed their attention to Signus Prime, a planet which initially seemed as abandoned as the rest of the system until scans began to pick up a structure, a towering cathedral of bones reaching up to the very stars themselves. The Ninth Legion made landfall, wary and ready for battle, for the Dark Angel had warned them their destiny would need to be seized by force, and his words were soon proven true. Hordes of warp entities, daemons as Nemiel called them, rose from the ground itself, fashioning misshapen avatars from stone that rushed forward to bludgeon the Astartes with their rocky fists. The Host of Angels fell upon them with a fury, destroying all in their path as they pushed toward the Cathedral. As they neared its impossible heights, different daemons began to manifest, horned daemons with red flesh and smoking blades that sliced through ceramite like silk; flying rays screamed madly, zooming overhead pulling chariots manned by cackling imps that hurled iridescent fireballs; green-skinned cyclopes shambled endlessly from putrid clouds of filth and disease, marching side by side with lavender-hued abominations akin to the ones that had assaulted them on the way back from Istvaan. The plains around the Cathedral soon devolved into a chaotic mess, a battlefield stretching dozens of miles in every direction as nearly sixty thousand Astartes battled with the numberless hordes of the daemonic. The entirety of the Ninth had been committed to this battle save for the garrison upon Baal itself led by Captain Amit, whom Sanguinius had sent to secure his homeworld's loyalty. Above Signus, the fleet began to battle with phantom ships crewed by daemons and insane mortals, ephemeral vessels pulled from the dark depths of the Warp to wreak havoc in the name of causing chaos.

While his sons battled around him, Sanguinius and his chosen elite pushed their way into the cathedral itself, the Crimson Paladins and Sanguinary Guard crushing all in their path as they cleared the way for their primarch. The inside of the cathedral was just as foul as the outside, an impossibly vast hall whose bone walls were lined with living tissue that pulsed with barely-contained energies. Despite its size, the heart of the cathedral was visible from the entrance, the floor sloping down to reveal the apse of this pagan fane, where there lay not an altar, as one might have expected, but a bottomless fiery chasm, illuminated by sickly green light which shone from a mandala window above it. On either side of the pit lay four colossal thrones: upon the leftmost throne reclined a being of sensuous excess, an abomination so very like Synessa and Dexcessa, yet subtly different, as though it embodied a different vice; its freakish face contorted into a knowing grin as it met Sanguinius's disgusted gaze. A snort of fury tore the Angel's attention away from the alluring yet repulsive being, and Sanguinius turned to behold a second creature. This one had no subtlety, a bull-headed daemon of elemental fury, its brass armor gleaming wetly with viscera and reflecting the sickly green light of the pit as it stomped its feet impatiently. Nemiel came hurrying up from behind, and began to explain the choice Sanguinius now faced.

"The gods have chosen you, Sanguinius, as their avatar. But your destiny is your own. You must CHOOSE." Nemiel all but shouted the last word, imbuing his voice with a psychic resonance. The air of the cathedral shimmered, shifting and shimmering, and the librarian and the daemons faded away, replaced by a vision of four Angels. Sanguinius shifted uncomfortably as he recognized himself in these beings, not as he was but as he might be.

The Sanguinius on the left spoke first, an angel of death covered in sores whose feathers were falling out and dripping with pus. His face was hidden behind a golden death mask, and as it began to croak out promises, its words of everlasting life were interrupted by another not-Sanguinius.

"The Ninth Legion and its Nine Hosts of Angels belong to the Architect of Fate!" A blue-armored doppelganger with shimmering wings squawked at its twisted reflection. The two Angels fell to squabbling, fading into the mists of nothingness as the real Sanguinius remained silent. The third not-Sanguinius spoke next, a beautiful warrior who laughed the most perfect laugh Sanguinius had ever heard, his glorious golden wings shimmering. The primarch wanted more than anything to be like this version of himself, this eternal, invincible angel who commanded the respect and adulation of all that beheld him. The third Angel reached his hand out as if to grasp his arm, but something made Sanguinius pull back. Looking closer, the Primarch beheld a terrible hunger in this doppelganger's eyes, a want that could never be satiated. The not-him seemed to recognize this, and in that moment its glamour broke, revealing an emaciated husk in place of the demigod it was before.

"No, no, I don't want any of this!" Sanguinius shouted at the other him. The third not-Sanguinius staggered, the Angel of Excess's hold on reality severed as it was struck by this metaphysical rejection. "Give me a different choice, anything but these failures, these sacrifices to other powers. Someone, anyone, take this Doubt from me! Grant me the strength I require!"

AS YOU WISH+

The fourth not-him revealed itself, a glorious general bedecked in imposing armor whose dark red stood in contrast to the bright red of the Ninth. Sanguinius approached the figure, but as he reached out to touch this possible reality, it faded into nothing just like the others. All around him, the mists of the vision turned a blood red, and Sanguinius found himself pinned to the ground, his limbs splayed out and held firmly by chains of brass. A malevolent presence approached from behind, and the Angel could tell it was that bull-headed daemon from the cathedral.

"You have chosen wisely, mortal. The Blood God has sent me, Ka'Bandha, to usher you into the ranks of his favored." The daemon stepped upon Sanguinius's back, driving the air from his lungs with the force of his cloven hoof, before reaching down to grasp the base of the Angel's wings, and PULLED. Sanguinius tried to speak, but all that came out was a scream of rage and pain coming from the deepest recesses of his being. His sons fell to their knees at the soul-wrenching sound, their minds suffused with rage and their backs wracked with agony in mirror of their father's. The Warp shuddered as reality shifted, black rage becoming Red as a fated death slipped forever out of reach. The Angel was no more, his form twisting and shifting into a diabolical aspect as his mortality fell away. The perfection of the human form vanished as his arms became claws, and his legs twisted, bones shattering and reforming into digitigrade shanks capped off with cloven hooves in a hideous mirror of Ka'Bandha's own. From his back, two ugly stumps protruded, weeping blood from where his magnificent wings had been pulled off one by one.

The primarch's soul was shredded alongside his body, filled with the essence of the god of war; his hopes, doubts, and positive emotions were no more, and in their place was only the desire to kill and maim and burn. Ka'Bandha's mocking laugh soon turned to a choking whimper as a brass-armored figure caught him by the throat. A towering metal-winged monstrosity began to rip the Bloodthirster limb from limb, its face a hideously beautiful death-mask that struck fear in the hearts of all who gazed upon it, completely silent as the gore splattered everywhere. The Daemon Primarch climbed to his now-hooved feet, the brass-armored warrior fading out of existence as the red-skinned monster stomped through the puddles of blood to tower over his gathered sons, and raising the Blade Encarmine, Sanguinius spoke.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!" His words echoed out, a chorus of madness echoed by tens of thousands of demigods shouting their rage into a galaxy unready for such reckless hate, resounding on and on without ceasing.

Heresy: Tides of Slaughter

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

-Yates, Poet of Old Earth, M2

The Warp shuddered and convulsed, now striated with barely-contained rage as Sanguinius Ascended to daemonhood, his influence suffusing the essence and natures of all of his sons. Even Amit's forces upon Baal felt his influence, though in a different way. The primarch had sold his soul and the souls of his legion, and so one and all they were creatures of Khorne now, whose eyes lingered approvingly upon his newest servants as they destroyed the remaining daemons of the other Ruinous Powers still left upon Signus. However, the sons of Sanguinius had only taken the first step on the road to damnation, and so for the time being, with only minor exceptions, the Ninth resisted the urges to shed each other's blood. They returned to their ships, and set out in search of war, to carve a bloody path through the galaxy in the name of Chaos. To the south lay the Ruinstorm, whose storms, so infused with the nature of excess, were now inimical to them, and to brave them would be foolish as well as useless; to the north lay the thinly-populated Ghoul Stars, with comparatively few systems, while the east beyond them was unknown. Thus with one path remaining, the Blood Angels swept westward like a hurricane of death, utterly destroying all in their path. The first world to feel their wrath was the civilized world of Attila. For six months, the Ninth Legion descended upon the prosperous civilization, butchering men, women, and children and collecting their blood in vast reservoirs converted from promethium storage tanks. By the time they were done, they had collected billions of liters, leaving behind desiccated corpses and a handful of stragglers, who were left to pick up the pieces of their once-prosperous civilization. This pattern was repeated on dozens of worlds, each left in ruins and drained of their lifeblood, their resources plundered in the name of Khorne. Under the tutelage of Nemiel, the most devoted of the Ninth learned the ways of Chaos, becoming the first Sanguinary Priests. Each apothecarium became an abattoir, its holds filled with the blasphemous rituals which utilized their stolen blood, sacrificing an eighth of it to Khorne in order to infuse the rest with the energies of the warp. This corrupted vitae was put to all manner of foul purposes, from empowering legionaries with diabolic strength, to mixing it with promethium to create biofuel which would corrupt the engines of war with the same taint and power as the legion itself.

Unlike the other traitor legions in service to the Lion, these Blood Angels were unconcerned with holding the territory they took. They left only corpses and ash in their wake, a trail of destruction from the eastern fringe moving northwest across the Dominion of Storms toward Baal itself. However, not all were so short-sighted. Even as the Heresy raged on, new powers were rising, including Baal itself, whose sector had been transformed into a center of industrial slaughter by the forces of the Flesh Tearers. Dozens of worlds now paid fealty to Nassir Amit, and while he and his forces may have been afflicted by the same influence as the rest of their brothers, they seemed to embody a very different aspect of the Blood God. The earlier recklessness and fury of Nassir Amit had been tempered, leaving a commander of unholy skill who embodied the tactical brilliance of the god of battles. While the Blood Angels under the primarch's command shrank with every loss, the forces under Amit only grew as they took world after world utilizing complex maneuvers and set-piece battles that left the enemy broken and reeling. These resources were fed into the traitor war-effort, seizing a large swath of the north-central part of the galaxy, a vast domain bounded by the Golgothan Wastes to the south and the Coronid Deeps to the north. However, Amit's empire was still an empire devoted to Chaos, and thus when its outlying territories began to abut the domains of Olympia, the Iron Warriors proved just as hostile as the Imperium. The Ninth and the Fourth Legions began to clash over their borders, difficult to pin down in the vastness of space, both sides using this new crucible of war to train their commanders. Neither Perturabo or Amit ever directly intervened on this front, both focusing on the war effort against the Imperium, but it left lingering resentments on both sides, a new rivalry brought about by the self-destructive nature of the Ruinous Powers.

A suicidal recklessness quickly became apparent in the forces accompanying their primarch. As a being imbued with the nature and aspect of the Blood God, Sanguinius had little interest in the war beyond fighting for its own sake. He had become an uncontrollable weapon, and thus it fell to his sons to point the Daemon Primarch in the right direction lest he turn upon his own forces to keep the blood flowing. A deep-seated factionalism splintered the Lodge of the Archangels, a fracture which radiated across the Ninth Legion and replaced their bonds of brotherhood with the desire for blood. The Three Hundred Companies were set against themselves, fighting each other after every battle in order to determine the strongest and most devoted servants of Khorne. Within a few years, two dominant factions had emerged from the forces still following the primarch. On one side were the Sanguinary Guard, the forces under Azkaellon dedicated to the primarch and worship of the Blood God. Any refusal to shed blood at the earliest opportunity was a grave insult, and accusations of cowardice led to many honor duels fought to sanguis extremis. Opposed to them were the hosts under command of Raldoron, who sought to direct the legion toward Terra in the name of toppling the False Emperor. Raldoron and Azkaellon despised each other, each nurturing a burning resentment over imagined slights, and the two both sought to bring this rivalry to a fitting conclusion which would see one of them dead and the other in command of the legion. Amit and his Flesh Tearers remained apart from this rivalry, refusing to commit his forces to a pointless alliance, and all three knew this tenuous balance of power could not last forever.

As befits the favored warriors of the Blood God, this feud could only ever come to a violent end, and tensions finally came to a head after a particularly gruesome incident of friendly fire saw five companies eradicated upon the world of Deluge. This brushfire of resentment soon grew into a firestorm of hate as Raldoron and Azkaellon both seized upon it as a pretext to escalate the conflict, and soon the Ninth Legion was finally fully at war against itself. Both hosts were around the same size, around twenty-five thousand Astartes on either side, while Sanguinius rampaged uncontrollably on the other side of Deluge against the remaining Imperial defenders. If the daemon primarch had noticed that barely any of his sons were at his side, he gave no notice, so lost to fury and bloodlust was he. Raldoron's and Azkaellon's forces soaked the killing fields of Deluge with gore and vitae over the course of months of pointless conflict, thousands of Astartes fighting with nothing but inert power fists and ruined chainswords after their ammunition supply dried up. Left to their fate, it seems likely that the Ninth would have been left extinct save for Amit's forces; however the universe is rarely so kind. Far above the killing fields, reality shuddered as hundreds of gunmetal-gray vessels knifed back into existence from holes in the fabric of space-time. Boxy, utilitarian slabs of ships designed solely for war filled the skies above Deluge, their sheer number and gravitational effects catching the attention of even the most blood-thirsty of Angels. Hundreds of drop pods careened down from the sky, landing with incredible precision to form a wall of metal that was soon matched by the living wall of Astartes that emerged from within, armed with strange rifles that looked like modified Volkite weapons. Whatever these guns were, they were drawn and aimed at the confused Blood Angels who had put aside their differences to observe this unexpected sight. Bulk transport haulers soon followed, landing behind this wall, escorted by gunships, and the ranks of legionaries soon parted to reveal their leader, a giant of a man who exemplified the brutal efficiency of his sons but magnified in every way. Perturabo stared contemptuously at the gathered sons of Sanguinius, his withering glare full of scorn at the colossal waste of resources the Blood Angels had become. The Lord of Iron demanded their service, for the Lion was gathering his bannermen in preparation for the final push to Terra, and the Ninth would be there one way or another.

To their credit, some among the Angels actually felt shame, recalling the days when the Thirst had not consumed them, when they had been glorious angels of death instead of the madmen they had become. Others were too far gone, and all it took was one fool too lost to rage to care about the fact he was facing one of the Emperor's own sons. From the gathered crowd of Blood Angels emerged Captain Furio, a hulking brute of a Space Marine and one of the few remaining members of the Lodge of the Archangels. His pale face was unhelmeted, revealing bloodshot eyes filled with fury. In a growling voice, Furio rejected Perturabo, insulting him, his legion, the Lion, and everyone not dedicated to Khorne in an impressive tirade that lasted for several minutes. The Lord of Iron listened calmly, then issued a short command into his vox. Before anyone could react, a precision lance strike from orbit struck Furio. The storied veteran, commander of a thousand campaigns and the butcher of countless foes, was erased from existence in the blink of an eye, leaving only a smoking crater in the ground. At the sight of this manner of death where the blood could not flow, the Blood Angels went berserk, hurling themselves at the shieldwall of the Iron Warriors, who weathered the storm with the same calmness as their primarch. Perturabo's hammer fell again and again, crushing into pulp any foolish enough to attack him, but otherwise remaining motionless. From gaps in the shieldwall, the Iron Warriors began to fire their strange Volkite rifles, coruscating arcs of energy blasting out to strike the charging Angels. Whenever the bolt of lightning struck true, the victim locked up, his armor overloaded and frozen in place, crashing to the ground like an immobile statue as the legionary inside was left alive but helpless from the weight of their armor. Others fired more conventional weaponry, destroying the red-skinned daemons which had manifested to join the Ninth on Deluge. This scene repeated itself for hours, until the grounds were covered in the immobile bodies of Blood Angels, who had come running to the siren song of battle only to fall victim to the strange tactics of the Fourth Legion. The shieldwall advanced step by step, covering for teams of Iron Warriors to come forward and drag the bodies to their ships, hurling them bodily into the holds of their ships like cargo. Soon most of the legion had been captured in this way, nearly thirty thousand berserkers chained within the iron holds of Perturabo's ships.

Azkaellon watched helplessly, held upright by two hulking terminators, their gunmetal gray armor slicked with gore. His golden artificer armor had been no more effective against these strange weapons of the Fourth, though they seemed to only have a few shots a piece. His own fury had faded as he lay immobile, the brilliant tactical mind which had seen him rise to the position of commanding the Sanguinary Guard reasserting itself once more instead of falling into deeper fury as other legionaries had done.

Several dozen yards away from the bodyguard, Sanguinius was dueling Perturabo. The bloodshed had drawn the father to the site just as it had his sons, though Azkaellon could barely recognize him anymore. There was nothing about him that resembled the Angel of old: a towering daemon roared its fury at the universe, its skin the color of the legion's armor, its weapons the color of fresh gore. Alongside him fought the same brass-armored ghostly warrior which had been present upon Signus, though its blows seemed to falter as it neared the Lord of Iron's black-tipped hammer. Perturabo seemed positively frail in comparison to his brother, who had initially stood as tall as an Imperial Knight, and Azkaellon was sure he'd be ripped limb from limb.

Imagine, then, his horror when Perturabo not only survived the first few seconds of the engagement against a daemon primarch, but remained unbent, a solid wall halting the whirlwind of rage his brother had become. His thick iron armor weathered the deep cuts from the Blade Encarmine, now dripping with a brother's blood, while his hammer fell again and again, battering away at the berserk Sanguinius, who seemed diminished with every iota of essence stripped away. Azkaellon wept and strained at the sight of his primarch being hurt, but he was helpless in the steely grip of his jailors.

Within a few minutes it was over. With a final mighty swing, Perturabo's hammer banished the brass-armored ghost, the backswing smashing the Red Angel into the ground where he lay broken and shattered at the feet of his brother. The Lord of Iron bent down, dragging the defeated primarch face-down through the gore and mud by one ankle back toward his transport. As Azkaellon lost sight of them, he sagged down, utterly despondent. The fury which had animated the Ninth seemed utterly diminished, their hearts hollow without their primarch and their rage spent. One by one the remaining Blood Angels were herded into the holding pens, now living weapons in the hands of he who was notoriously without care for his men.

Far to the west, the Blood Angels under the command of the Flesh Tearer felt the defeat of their primarch just as surely as their brethren to the south did, though its effects were not nearly as debilitating. Many of these were newer recruits, who had never even seen their primarch and had only fought under the banners of Amit, and for this reason many had begun calling them the Flesh Tearers after their commander. For several months now they had been pushing closer and closer to Terra, having abandoned the border conflicts with the Fourth Legion at the express command of the Lion. Now their forces shifted west, clashing with the Space Wolves as they inched ever closer to Beta-Garmon, the lynchpin of loyalist defenses on the northern flanks of Bastion Omega. The sons of Russ were fierce fighters, almost suicidally brave after the loss of their primarch so early in the Heresy at the hands of Magnus the Red, and Amit almost admired their dogged resistance, futile as it was. The Sixth had never been a numerous legion, and the Flesh Tearers estimated they had maybe ten thousand Astartes, a thin line reinforced on occasion by the Death Guard and countless Imperial Army regiments. Their methods were no doubt effective against more conventional forces such as the Fourth or Seventh Legions, designed to slow down and drag out engagements. However, such a strategy could not account for the elemental fury that the Flesh Tearers had become, and the loyalists' lines quickly buckled from the strength of their shock assault. Amit's armies struck them again and again, his well-disciplined storm troops deploying with preternatural tactical genius which enabled them to produce results far exceeding what should have been possible against other Astartes. In truth, the Flesh Tearers only numbered around twenty thousand in total, and their effectiveness was not only a testament to their commander, but also to how low in numbers most legions had become. Nearly six years of non-stop Astartes warfare had left the legions shells of their former selves, with most save for outliers such as the Iron Warriors operating with a half to a third of what they once were at the height of the Great Crusade.

However, even with Amit's tactical brilliance, the Flesh Tearers were feeling the strain of fighting their cousin legions, and they began to undertake fewer and fewer operations in order to conserve their strength for the upcoming Solar War. As their operations scaled down, Amit's forces were transferred to the command of Rogal Dorn, who used their prowess to train other forces under his command, the inexperienced Fifth Legion. The Ruinous Powers had not been kind to the Star Hunters, having been betrayed early in the Heresy by the Ultramarines; scorned by most other legions, they had cast aside their name, becoming the White Scars as they marked their armor with ritual scars in memory of the fallen. The Vth had sworn eternal vendetta against the Ultramarines, and had remained largely forgotten, hunted by both sides who sought to remove a possible threat or plunder their resources for the war effort. However, this neutrality came to an end with the arrival of Rogal Dorn, who gathered the disparate Fifth Legion with the aid of Amit's forces, and the sons of Jaghatai found they had much to learn from the Flesh Tearers. These legionaries reaffirmed their loyalty to Dorn and the Lion in exchange for their lives and for a chance at revenge, and now under the command of Amit, they repainted their armor in recognition of their pact, staining their armor crimson to match the warriors of the Ninth they now fought alongside. The Flesh Tearers took part in the vital Battle of Verzagen, reaping a bloody toll on the outnumbered loyalists, who were eventually forced into retreat in the face of such overwhelming odds.

On other battlefields, the rest of the legion continued to shed blood, living weapons now meticulously and forcefully directed by the Iron Warriors. The Fourth Legion used their cousins like grenades, strapping them into drop pods to be hurled into the heat of battle, taking only the bare minimum of precautions to ensure they arrived safely. Imperial defenders found the rabid Blood Angels extremely hard to counter, and few commanders were able to adjust to handle such elemental fury combined with the more conventional tactics of their Iron Warrior handlers. The legionaries of the Ninth seemed to have an uncanny instinct to go to wherever the fighting was thickest, like living storms that appeared from nowhere to wreak havoc until they inevitably burnt out. Many of these Astartes exhibited extreme mutations, swelling to unholy proportions with blades and claws of every description poking through their tortured flesh as the Mutilator Virus spread like wildfire through their ranks. Sanguinius himself never joined his sons upon the battlefields of Beta-Garmon, and many, both Imperial and Traitor, wondered as to where the primarch of the Ninth might be.

In truth, the Red Angel was a prisoner of Perturabo. When he awoke from being beaten to a bloody pulp, Sanguinius was unsure where he was. His wounds had healed naturally as a result of his daemonic nature, but the chambers he found himself in were not only devoid of blood and gore, the source of his power, but aetherically inert. The brass-armored warrior, which others had begun to call the Sanguinor, seemed remote, still present but unable to manifest. The Red Angel began to wander the corridors, his mind calmer than it had been since his Ascension, the voices urging slaughter quiet for the first time in years. Servitude to the Ruinous Powers comes with many unnatural abilities, but becoming a creature of Chaos tunes one's will to that of their master, and thus Sanguinius was not quite lucid as he wandered aimlessly. Though he did not know it, Sanguinius was aboard one of Perturabo's gaol-ships, imprisoned within a vast labyrinth constructed in imitation of the Cavea Ferrum, the paranoid Lord of Iron's personal sanctum. The halls twisted and turned, their non-Euclidean geometry too complex for most mortals to have any hope of escape, let alone an insane daemon primarch. Thus the Red Angel continued to wander, his ruined wings clipped as surely as any caged bird's, a sheathed weapon kept locked away until Perturabo or the Lion had need of him.

Siege of Terra: In the Company of Death

Anger is a poison which burns the vessel containing it.- Proverb of Ancient Ind

With the favor of Khorne obtained through the victory at Beta-Garmon, the main approach to Terra now lay open, and a similar victory at Verzagen ensured the loyalists were in full retreat. Once more the Flesh Tearers, along with their White Scar counterparts, took the lead in these operations, personally tasked by Dorn to harry the foe and keep them pinned and on the defensive until such time as the main force was ready. It was a task for which they were well-suited, their natural aggression remaining aimed at the foe instead of themselves or their allies. The White Scars quickly mastered all the facets of war taught to them by the Flesh Tearers, and their emphasis on assault and speed complemented each other well. For a standard year, the two legions had no shortage of foes as they secured the flanks, crushing isolated Imperial Army bastion worlds and staving off desperate assaults from loyalist legions that sought to cripple the main staging point. Despite the Lion's best efforts at secrecy, the Alpha Legion had discovered the mustering point early on, launching suicidal assaults against supply vessels and other logistical craft in order to slow the attack. Thus after clearing the last holdouts within the immediate vicinity of the Solar System, the combined Fifth and Ninth were assigned to picket duty, utilizing their fast ships to patrol the neighboring systems while continuing to intensify the Warp storms through indiscriminate slaughter.

Though the Flesh Tearers had not chosen to dedicate themselves to the Ruinous Powers in the same way as the rest of the legion had, they nonetheless felt the influence of the diabolical pact their primarch had made. After the Council of Nikaea, Amit had gathered the legion librarians into his own company, openly defying the Primarch, who had vacillated on whether or not to censure such a prominent member of the legion. Yet after the events of Signus, the librarians had begun to die off one by one, seemingly cursed with the worst luck imaginable: small arms fire was inordinately effective against them, friendly fire fell near their positions, and even gene-seed defects occurred more frequently, the implants refusing to take to those with psychic gifts. Only those librarians who dedicated themselves to the Blood God, now calling themselves the Magi, seemed immune to this curse, trading their psychic mastery for the darker arts of daemon summoning and possession, delving into facets of the Warp even the accursed Thousand Sons dared not. Thus when the call to rejoin the fleet finally came, the Flesh Tearers effortlessly made their way through the roiling empyric storms, greasing the skids of their passage through great bloodshed. The Lion had divided his forces in two in order to minimize friendly fire, and so the Ninth took their place alongside the fleet gathering at Verzagen, entering the Warp alongside tens of thousands of other ships. Their journey seemed to take only seconds, swiftly passing from the calm void of the mustering grounds to the arena of death that was the Solar System.

The fleets of the Ninth streamed forth from the tear in reality alongside the tens of thousands of other ships, a gathering of force the loyalists were utterly unprepared for. The Lion's cunning plan had utilized the sorcerous might of the Fifteenth to create a Warp rift within the Great Red Spot of Jupiter, allowing the Blood Angels and their allies to bypass the restrictions that would have come from arriving at the system's edge. The first wave had already nearly broken the Sons of Horus and their allies, and the arrival of the second wave destroyed any remaining semblance of order. However, even in retreat, the loyalists remained deadly, their reactions crippling dozens of ships, but it was only ever a stop-gap, for more and more ships continued to stream through. The desire for blood could never be satiated, and so the Blood Angels descended like a carrion bird upon those loyalist vessels unable to effect their escape, harrying them all the way alongside the White Scars. The Warp resounded with the furious approval of the Blood God as the blood of millions poured into his realm, and his favor, channeled by the Magi, shone upon his chosen, filling them with diabolical strength and martial brilliance. The bloodshed only continued to increase as Amit himself took to the battlefield for the first time in months, reveling in the slaughter that came to be known as the Callisto Massacre. The favor of Khorne upon him was clear to all as the Flesh Tearer moved unnaturally fast in his Crimson Plate, his mighty terminator armor which glowed with unholy light; shots simply glanced off his gore-slicked panoply. Heavier firepower was absorbed by his Iron Halo, now a cruel brass icon jutting out from between the barrels of his cyclone missile launcher, which spat death in return in the form of missiles carved with the face of screaming skulls, while his twin chainfists pulped any foolish enough to come within reach. Beside him were the remnants of the Fifth Company, each a master of death in his own right, yet, next to Amit, mere novices in comparison. While the rest of the loyalist forces made good their escape, those trapped on Callisto, mortal and Astartes alike, died agonizing deaths at the hands of the Flesh Tearers, ripped limb from limb. Once more, their screams were broadcast to instill fear, and the gruesome death of Captain Lev Goshen of the Sons of Horus 25th Company led to multiple mutinies as several divisions of Imperial Army attempted to desert rather than wait to see what had torn such screams from a brave Astartes commander.

As the fleet approached Terra itself, the Lion gave Amit and his forces explicit orders not to make immediate planetfall, for he was no doubt unwilling to risk one of his few competent generals. Thus the Blood Angels waited for over a month, allowing the chaff such as the Renegade Army regiments and Iron Warriors to soak the incoming firepower of Vulkan's defenses. However, the siren song of war could not be contained forever, and so when the time came for the Astartes to join the fight, the Blood Angels took to their drop pods alongside the other legions, landing in their thousands to surround the Imperial Palace. For the first time in years, the Blood Angels who were confined by Perturabo were allowed to join the battle, though only those who were lucid and had regained self-control during their enforced captivity. Perhaps a fifth of the legion, still lost to the madness of the Blood God, remained imprisoned by their own allies, still stuck aboard the vessels of the Iron Warriors. There they were watched over by the Sanguinary Priests until whatever time Perturabo deemed most appropriate. So too did Sanguinius remain imprisoned, his rage having given way to unpredictable swings of emotion. This sea change was considered a blessing from the Dark Gods by many of the Iron Warriors, for the labyrinth which held the daemon primarch was beginning to run out of walls for him to destroy.

Forty thousand heralds of war descended upon the battlefields of Terra, harbingers of the apocalypse led by Raldoron. The First Captain was eager to make up for lost time since Deluge, and led his men with the same brutal effectiveness that had seen him rise through the ranks to become the legion master. With his erstwhile rivals Azkaellon and the Sanguinary Guard remaining aboard the vessel which held their primarch, Raldoron was now free to exert total control, and even Amit yielded to his authority after being counseled by the Magi. After seizing the outer precincts of the Imperial Palace, the vast network of slums which had sprung up like weeds around it, Raldoron ordered his forces to deploy elsewhere, for he would not waste his men on a battlefield such as this. Until the walls were broken, the First Captain would allow others to perform the slow and dangerous work of digging Vulkan and his allies out of their entrenched positions, and would only return when the time was right. Until then, they would heed the call of Khorne, and let the blood flow in his name. Directed by the prophecies of the Magi, the Ninth Legion moved westward, descending like a storm upon the hive cities of the Afrik continent. From the Nordafrik Conclaves and ancient Gyptus to the Sa'Afrik Collectives and everywhere in between, the Ninth Legion began a slaughter unrivaled in recorded history. Preliminary skirmishes soon overwhelmed the small pockets of Alpha Legion and Salamander defenders, who stood little chance against the sheer numbers that the Angelic Host brought to bear, and soon the Ninth turned their fury against the mortals that cowered behind their walls. Over the course of weeks, the Blood Angels systematically wiped out every man, woman, and child they could find, offering the blood of untold billions to their patron. As the slaughter continued, dozens of legionaries began to ascend, shedding their mortal forms to become daemon princes in imitation of their primarch, a reward from Khorne for their deeds. However, the Ruinous Powers are nothing if not true to their chaotic nature, and just as many descended into madness, their minds overwhelmed by the gifts of the Warp as their flesh melted and twisted into the maddened form of a Chaos spawn. Such an inglorious end came to many who fell at the hands of loyalist ambushes, punishment for falling in battle to mere mortals, who began to adopt increasingly more desperate tactics. Hundreds of hive gangers began to hurl themselves at the isolated slaughterpacks of the Ninth, their bodies laden with bomb vests strapped with melta charges as they committed suicide in the hopes of killing the Angels who preyed upon them. Such cowardly tactics were no doubt directed by the Alpha Legion, and the Blood Angels sought in vain to root out the Twentieth from wherever they hid.

However, the Blood Angels soon began to face a foe far deadlier than the Alpha Legion and their mortal allies: time itself. Despite their numbers, the Blood Angels were spread across an entire continent, and there were simply not enough of them to root out the teeming billions in each of the dozens of hives that spanned the Afrik continent. Even with the daemons of Khorne that had begun to manifest as the blood flowed were of little use, ephemeral and inherently unstable due to the Emperor's light upon Terra which made them disappear as quickly as they came. In addition, the other legions began to complain of their continued absence and lack of aid at the Palace itself. Without their primarch to defend their actions to the Lion, the Blood Angels were at the mercy of the other primarchs who did hold the attention of the Everchosen. Thus after several months of being left to their own devices, the Lion demanded the Ninth return to the Himalazians and lend their support in overcoming the loyalists who still held out. Rumors of loyalist reinforcements had begun to sweep the ranks, and while the Blood Angels did not fear anything, even they, or at least their commanders, recognized they would be crushed if they did not break the Palace in time. The five preceding months had left both sides shells of their former might as the Imperium slowly strangled itself to death, though the Blood Angels cared not, for letting the blood flow was now their only concern.

"Infinite wrath, and infinite despair? Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell."

Milton, M2

Thus did the Angelic Host descend upon the Imperial Palace, twenty thousand Astartes in service to War and accompanied by death come to destroy the dream of Unity. What hope the Imperial defenders had left quickly evaporated at this new arrival, for the Blood Angels were soon joined by the rest of their comrades, hurled like stones in their drop pods at the heights of the Palace to sow terror and confusion. The traitors now had overwhelming numerical superiority as almost every legion present save the Dark Angels had arrived, but victory was far from assured. Their reserves were almost all committed, whittled down by constant attrition, and infighting had cost them dearly. The main legions conducting the siege proper, the Fourth and Seventh Legions, had spent almost as much time fighting each other as they had the loyalists, the most recent example of this occurring at the Raven's Gate Spaceport. Control of this strategic location would have allowed the traitors to land titans within the walls of the Palace itself, but the Crimson Fists had chosen to assault their rivals, seizing the glory from their nominal allies at the cost of thousands from both legions. This rank stupidity was further proven when less than a week later, the Fists lost their prize to a surprise attack from the Death Guard, and thus a considerable portion of the god-engines of the Dark Mechanicum were still off-world and unable to land months into the siege.

A new strategy would have to be adopted, and the Siegemasters of the Iron Warriors knew just how to accomplish it. Since Deluge, the primarch of the Blood Angels had remained a prisoner of the Iron Warriors, his location unknown to all save Azkaellon and his Sanguinary Guard, though even they were unable to approach him. Thus Perturabo held considerable leverage over the Blood Angels, and so when he chose them to enact his latest plan, Raldoron had little choice but to obey the Lord of Iron. In order to keep their timetable, another spaceport would need to be taken, and so the Blood Angels descended upon the Eternity Wall in hopes of seizing it swiftly. The Eternity Wall was further away from the heart of the Inner Palace than the Raven's Gate, but it still held functional landing pads and was still within the outer walls. This was their last chance to land their remaining titans, whose numbers would finally be enough to bypass both the exterior walls and the remnants of the loyalist titans, those precious few who had survived the Titandeath of Beta-Garmon, who even now still battled their traitorous kin that had landed beyond. Their goal clear, Raldoron's forces fell unexpectedly upon the Eternity Wall, which had as of yet seen but sporadic fighting. As a result, much of the garrison had been transferred elsewhere in an attempt to hold the line, and thus the Ninth made great progress in the initial stages. Their shock assault soon gave them control of the ramparts, overwhelming the Imperial Army assigned to hold this stretch of the wall, and a company of Crimson Paladins was soon battering down the gates which led to the heart of the spaceport. Yet it was in this moment of glory that it all began to go terribly wrong. The Magi were first to notice, recognizing dark omens in the entrails of the fallen, though their warning came far too late. The gatehouses of the Eternity Wall burst forth, revealing a black-armored spearhead of terminators: the Justaerin had come for them. Forces of the Sixteenth Legion under First Captain Abaddon smashed into the Ninth from the front even as the other half of the First Company, the Catulan Reaver Squads, hit them from behind. The Blood Angels and Sons of Horus began to clash with incredible ferocity, a recreation of the battle between their primarchs upon Davin written large.

Recognizing the importance of this assault, Perturabo heeded the Ninth's call for reinforcements, and soon the rest of the legion kept upon his ships joined the battle upon the towering walls. None were left behind, all hurled into the crucible of war no matter their state of readiness or their sanity. Raving legionaries lost to the Red Thirst gorged upon the flesh of the fallen, while dreadnoughts missing ablative plating and ammunition smashed Sons of Horus off the parapets, sending them hurtling to their doom below. Yet despite their fury, the Ninth was still losing: though few would admit it, the Sons of Horus' spearhead was the equal of the Blood Angels' shock assault, and their charge had lent them momentum, smashing through the undisciplined Ninth like a hammer wielded by a wrathful deity. The Ninth called for aid once more, and Perturabo answered, unleashing his final weapon: the Red Angel. The Lord of Iron ordered his ships to open fire upon the vessel which contained the Angel's Prison, and they answered with alacrity, shattering the strike cruiser into a meteor shower of molten iron that hurtled down upon the Palace like fiery rain. The purpose of this callous action soon became clear when sensors picked up the screams of the insane coming from the wreckage now hurtling toward the Palace. As an immortal servant blessed by the god of war, Sanguinius was almost unhurt by either the explosion or falling from orbit, bellowing his wrath as he fell on the Eternity Wall with the force of a meteor. The towering daemon was quick to rise from the crater left from his impact, and his sons rallied to his side, spurred on by the abominable influence of the Sanguinor, which stood by its master for the first time in months. The Red Rage swept through the legion faster than any plague, and the Sons of Horus were swiftly put onto the defensive, unable to stand up to the blistering presence of the Daemon Primarch, this living avatar of Khorne.

However, even though they were clearly outmatched, the Sons of Horus would never yield, for they were the Warmaster's Legion, and so they prepared to give their lives in service to the Emperor. Sanguinius was more than willing to grant them their desire, and hundreds fell before his molten fury, the Blade Encarmine slicing through half a dozen with every swing even as others fell to the Sanguinor, whose daemonic axe blocked blows before unleashing a flurry of strikes in return as it defended its master. The daemon primarch reveled in the slaughter, but just as it seemed the Sixteenth would break, a worthy foe finally appeared. A withering enfilade of bolter fire slammed into the daemon's hide, who roared as he saw the source, the charging figure of Horus Lupercal. The skull of another brother would make a worthy offering to Khorne, and the two demigods began to clash, while the Sanguinor slaughtered any defenders attempting to interrupt their duel. However, even the Sanguinor could not hold back Abaddon and Sejanus, the twin sons of the Mournival, who had remained close to their father as he entered the conflict. Yet every time the Red Angel attempted to remove them from the battle, he found his blows blocked by Lupercal, Worldbreaker singing as it smashed over and over again into his once-resplendent regalia, rending great wounds in his golden armor and making his daemonic blood flow like a river. However, the bloodshed only empowered Sanguinius further, an unwitting offering to Khorne which his brother would soon regret. Dodging an ill-timed blow, the Red Angel called into reality from the depths of the Brass Citadel the Spear of Telesto, smashing the haft into Horus's skull. With the Warmaster now stunned, Sanguinius took the opportunity to rid himself of the irritating Mournival. First to die was Abaddon, the brass Spear flicking up through the terminator plate to slice the First Captain's arm off before plunging into his chest, killing him instantly. Next the Red Angel turned his attention to Sejanus, inflicting multiple deep cuts into the unwounded Astartes, letting the blood flow in Khorne's name, for despite his eagerness to kill, Sanguinius had not forgotten his patron.

Yet it was this devotion to the Ruinous Powers that cost the Angel everything, just as it had countless others before him. Distracted in his attempted ritual killing of the utterly outmatched Sejanus, Sanguinius did not notice Lupercal standing up behind him, somehow still moving despite his cavitated skull. The Red Angel did not notice until his back began to burn as golden light seared it, and he twisted to see the radiant figure of the Warmaster seizing him from behind. Sanguinius lashed out, attempting to break the hold, but it was already too late, his strength slipping away as his connection to the Warp was slowly strangled. Even the Sanguinor could not aid him, smashed away by a strike from Sejanus, and the Emperor's Favored Son lifted the Angel above his head, casting him over the edge to fall into the darkness below. At the sight of their father falling, the Blood Angels broke, and many of those lost to the Thirst hurled themselves over after the primarch. Azkaellon himself was one of these afflicted, his sanity utterly destroyed as he felt his primarch die, and in his rage and madness he Ascended, shedding his mortal form as his spirit hurtled into the Warp to enter the halls of the Brass Citadel. The laughter of Ka'Bandha echoed in Sanguinius's mind as he fell, his wing stumps flapping uselessly until his body hit the rocks below, exploding like rotten fruit as he struck the ground. Their father banished, the Ninth fell back from the Eternity Wall, utterly defeated and ignoring the calls of their allies as they fled to their ships. The fury of Perturabo at their retreat was surpassed only by that of the Blood God, and the Warp shook with his rage. Though they did not know it, their defeat had come in conjunction with the defeat of the Emperor's Children at the hands of Ferrus Manus and the Iron Tenth, and so Perturabo's attention eventually turned elsewhere.

Post-Heresy: War Without End

It would not be inaccurate to state that the Ninth Legion died with the banishment of their primarch. Even after the Ascension on Signus, the Blood Angels had remained mostly cohesive, united in shared treachery and bloodlust directed at an Imperium which had created them to be the perfect weapons. However, no amount of rage could hide from them the feeling of loss they felt when Sanguinius vanished from the material plane, a wrenching experience accompanied by the weight of Khorne's displeasure. The Blood God was furious as never before that his champion had been defeated, and the favor of the god of wars proved as illusory as the legion's unity. This fury was only stoked further when the legion committed the ultimate sin, cowardice, as the Ninth fled the bloodsoaked battlegrounds of Terra en masse. The only exception to this headlong flight were the forces under Amit's command, though even his genius was sorely pressed to maintain discipline over his ranks. However, the Lion's ambition had left the entire Solar System a battleground, and the legion's escape from Terra proved to be no more than an illusion, for Khorne was not satisfied with the blood spilt so far. As the vanguard ships of the Ninth sped toward the Mandeville Points in hopes of fleeing the system, they began to run into loyalist ships waiting for such an occurrence. First to strike were the remnants of Battlefleet Solar, hidden behind the storms of Saturn, who launched dozens of attacks of opportunity to pick off the smaller Blood Angels vessels. Still demoralized by their primarch's downfall, the Blood Angels did not bother to offer more than a few parting shots as they passed by, leaving the crippled vessels of their brethren to cover their escape. These ships were soon boarded, the loyalist forces discovering psychotic berserkers desperate to shed blood in order to escape the awful wrath of their angry god. Yet as the bulk of the fleet continued on, they found their path blocked yet again, this time by a foe far more fearsome than the ragtag flotilla that was Battlefleet Solar: the assembling armada of the Night Lords. The Ninth had not seen their Eighth Legion cousins in large numbers since before the Leonine Heresy, and were completely unprepared for dozens of capital ships waiting around the Elysian Gate.

Unfortunately for the Ninth, the reverse was not true. The foresight of the sons of Nostramo had proven true, and their guns lit up as they began to bombard the Blood Angels, and the wrath of Khorne lessened as the blood began to flow once more. Both fleets were far from optimal, one having suffered during its long journey through the Warp while the other had seen constant battle above the Throneworld for months, a battle which only grew larger as more ships arrived from both sides. Above the shattered ruins of the Eyes of the Old God, the once-mighty station which had kept watch over Uranus against the depredations of star-vampires and iron men for thousands of years, the Eighth and Ninth Legions fought with reckless abandon. The wrath of Khorne was as fickle as his favor, and the Ninth began to fight harder, forgetting the loss of their father as they shed blood once more. However, the Eighth refused to be cowed by such reckless hate. The sons of Konrad fought with unshakeable conviction, armed with the fatalism of one whose fate was known and a fury of a different sort that matched the Blood Angels' own. This, combined with their greater numbers, finally proved decisive with the arrival of the Nightfall, the personal chariot of Konrad Curze. The guns of the massive Gloriana-class battleship turned the tide, and Khorne's favor surely turned to wrath once more as the Blood Angels conceded defeat, scattering in a desperate attempt to escape the Solar System.

However, the Eighth gave no attempt to capitalize on this retreat, allowing the Blood Angels to slip on by as they began to move in the direction of the Throneworld. Back on Terra, the prophecies of the Magi warned the Flesh Tearer of the incoming loyalist fleets, and so his forces began to pull back, leaving their allies to their fate without so much as a warning of the incoming threat. However, the Flesh Tearer and his men did not follow the same path as the rest of his broken legion, instead moving in the opposite direction, and by performing a slingshot maneuver around Sol, soon left the system through the empty and undefended expanses of the other side of the system. While Amit's ships passed easily through the Warp, or at least with no additional difficulty, the rest of the shattered legion was hurled to the winds. Without Khorne's favor, they were now for the first time just as subject to the hostile tides of the Warp as the loyalists had been throughout the Leonine Heresy, with equally deadly results. Dozens of ships were lost forever, dragged into the lightless depths of the Immaterium as a blood-price so that the rest of the fleet could make it safely to Baal, where they discovered Amit's forces had already arrived. However, their world was as changed as they were, and was not how they remembered it, for it had been many years since the legion had returned home. In their extended absence, Amit had ruled over Baal unopposed, its twin moons now covered in armament factories. Scars of both industry and battle were everywhere, the greatest of these having been inflicted by a punitive raid from forces of the Space Wolves and Death Guard. The loyalists had only been driven off by the arrival of the Crimson Fists and the Phalanx, and Amit was both furious to learn his domains had been assaulted in his absence and humiliated that his forces had to be rescued by Dorn, who extracted heavy tribute in exchange.

However, the Blood Angels had little time to inspect their homeworld. Backed by his relatively-intact armies, Amit demanded control over the rest of the Ninth, a threat which was unlikely to have succeeded even before the legion fell to Khorne. Only the primarch himself could have stopped the Blood Angels from falling upon each other, but he had not been seen since Terra, and so brother began to fight brother. The war that had engulfed the rest of the galaxy did not spare Baal, and any chance Amit had to control the Ninth dissolved. However, the Flesh Tearer had foreseen this outcome, and had been stripping Baal of its resources during the months while the rest of the legion arrived. As the only ones with any tactical foresight, Amit's forces bullied their way into the heart of the free-for-all melee taking place in Baal's orbit. The last great boarding action of the Leonine Heresy took place that day, as the Flesh Tearer and his companies seized control of the Red Tear, the bloodied flagship which had led the legion to victory in countless conflicts. Amit personally slew First Captain Raldoron upon its bridge, once more broadcasting the screams of his victim as he flayed his longtime rival inch by inch before offering his skull to Khorne. In the midst of this civil war, which would later come to be known as the Breaking of Baal, the vengeful Imperial forces of the Scouring led by the primarch Leman Russ arrived in such numbers as to render the conflict pointless. Unwilling to throw away their lives so recklessly, the gathered Blood Angels warbands left Baal to be destroyed at the hands of Russ, making their way toward the Eye of Terror, its location whispered in dreams to them. The Ninth was only an eighth of what it had been before the Heresy, a third of that under Amit's command while the rest were scattered warbands seeking blood and war so that they might appease Khorne. The Flesh Tearer eventually followed suit, departing to roam the Eye in search of his rebellious brethren as he seeks to reunite the legion once more.

For ten thousand years, the Blood Angels have remained scattered throughout the Eye of Terror, endlessly shedding blood in the name of their maddened god. By following daemonic whispers, they have carved out their own domain within the ever-shifting Eye through sheer force of arms. Even few and disunited, the Ninth has remained on the offensive in the war of all against all, seeking to honor both Khorne and their primarch. It is unknown how many of the legion have remained since the Leonine Heresy, or how many even remember a time without war. Even without foes, the warbands are prone to turn on each other in order to keep the blood flowing, and many rituals have developed to ensure Khorne remains appeased at all times. As the 41st Millennium draws to a close, the Angels present a greater threat than ever as warbands slip out from the Eye with increasing frequency and numbers. The galaxy seems more gripped by war than ever before, and it seems only a matter of time before the Ninth turn their attention away from the Eye, and onto the Imperium which cast them out so long ago.

Homeworld, Recruitment, and Gene-seed

Among Inquisitors who have made it their life's work to study the minions of the Blood God, a widespread consensus exists that were it not for the efforts of the Flesh Tearer, the Blood Angels would have died out long ago. By utilizing his influence in the Lodge of the Archangels, Nassir Amit was able to gather the weapons he would need to wage the Long War, a term he himself coined. It is unknown what set him on the path to darkness: some say it was the legion's genetic curse, while others posit the whispers of the Ruinous Powers. Whatever the case, it seems likely Amit served the Blood God long before the rest of his kin, marked by fate to be his greatest mortal champion. Thus by the end of the Heresy, the Flesh Tearer had stockpiled a great hoard of gene-seed and supplies, enough to sustain his forces and establish his power-base in the Unreality of the Eye of Terror. However, time means little within a Warp storm of that size, and when he arrived, much time had passed, giving way to an entirely new state of affairs.

Ensconced within the ever-shifting tides of the Eye lies the world of Akeldama, a volcanic world of thorny forests watered by rivers of blood. A dark mirror of Baal, Akeldama is a world steeped in the energies of Khorne, and his influence is pervasive. It is a land of sweltering heat, constantly lit by a baleful reddish-orange glow that seems to emanate from everywhere and nowhere. Vast ash deserts cover the land, broken only by the glassy remains of once-great cities, the victims of some forgotten conflict. Thick growths of thorny trees sprout up without warning, watered by the boiling blood just long enough to grow before inevitably wilting from the heat. Concealed within these woodlands dwell feral tribes, the descendants of unlucky travelers and prisoners of war dumped upon the hellworld. Most die from exposure, but some survive long enough to breed, which has given rise to a great variety of tribes, all touched by War. Life is short and brutal here, with limited resources, and so the tribes fight amongst themselves, both for survival and for glory. Children from these tribes are sometimes taken to be inducted into the ranks of the Blood Angels, though this is a rare occurrence, for few legionaries are lucid enough during battle to contemplate the idea of taking prisoners. These migratory tribes are accompanied in their wandering by Blood Angels warbands, who make use of them in their bloodletting rituals. The thrill of battle and the need to let the blood flow has led many legionaries to abandon much of their armor and weapons, at least while upon the surface of their homeworld. By exposing themselves to greater danger, they increase the chances of letting the blood flow, a sacred act present in every endeavor these Heretic Astartes undertake. There are few places in the galaxy more dangerous or more prone to violence than the killing grounds of Akeldama, a fact which has attracted warriors from across the galaxy to seek glory on its battlefields. Rumors abound of imported dangers such as greenskin hordes or Tyranid swarms, though Chaotic threats remain the primary threat considering its location within the Eye. Akeldama is located on the fringes of Khorne's domain, and is thus more open to attack than other legion homeworlds, though stellar cartography is almost meaningless within that realm of Unreality.

Amidst these blood-soaked plains patrolled by the roaming hordes of insane warriors, Akeldama is also home to colossal brass fortifications, for siegecraft is an integral part of war. Many traveling Warsmiths of the Iron Warriors and Siege-Masters of the Black Templars come to Akeldama to test their latest creations, seeking to breach the defenses of the Ninth Legion, who fight back with incredible ferocity though without any irritating sorcery that might affect the results of their experimental weaponry. The largest structure upon Akeldama is the Arx Angelicum, an eight-ringed fortress that rivals the Imperial Palace in size. Not constrained by the laws of physics, its chambers are filled with forges and armories, barracks and ranges, along with every other possible building related to the art of war. Contained between these rings are vast shanty-towns filled with mortal slaves, who serve as both labor force and fuel for the fires of war. As befits the servants of the Blood God, all industry is powered by an arcane mix of vitae and warp-essence. The poor souls trapped here are sickly and anemic, branded with the hideous symbols and constantly drained by their vampyric masters, and are pitied even by the feral tribes, who see such slavery as worse than death. It is for this reason that the Blood Angels must take their new recruits by force, for the mortals of Akeldama can never tell if a raiding party has come for their sons or for their blood.

Only the Blood Angels are permitted access to the inner sanctums of Arx Angelicum, and from there, raiding parties will periodically emerge, often directed by Sanguinary Priests. These demented clerics are a twisted combination of techmarine and apothecaries, trained both to harvest gene-seed and to coax their brothers' flesh into ever-darker perversions in the name of Khorne. The genetic legacy of Sanguinius is incredibly potent, though temperamental, transforming those implanted with it into pale imitations of the primarch himself as he once was. Indeed, the physical similarities of the Alpha Legion or Sons of Horus to their primarchs pale in comparison to the living simulacrums that the Blood Angels are of their primarch, cracked mirrors which must enrage their damned father all the more. Such changes are performed through the use of ancient coffins, their innards lined with needles which exsanguinate their occupants, only to replace it with new, corrupted blood infused with the legacy of the Angel. The Ninth is full of men who could be considered beautiful if it were not for the savage bloodlust visible in their eyes or the omnipresent scarring all over their bodies. Mutation is fairly uncommon amongst the Ninth, who are prone to lopping off offending body parts both in the name of utility as well as to let the blood flow, but pointed fangs are commonly left in, the better to drain their victims with. Such canines are most visible in the Sanguinary Priests who oversee the blood harvesting to ensure the forges and altars never run dry, and it is said they can drain an adult human in seconds as they fill their vile Blood Chalice with stolen vitae. Thankfully these vampyres are rarely seen in realspace, kept busy within the Eye replacing the losses commensurate with an army constantly at war. Most often they replenish their ranks from Akeldama itself, but warbands have been known to abduct hapless imperial citizens as well, leaving only drained corpses and destruction in their wake.

Corbulo, the Sanguinary Hierophant

The duty of the Sanguinary Priests is not one that lends itself to glory. Most Astartes who don the mantle remain upon Akeldama, for it is much easier to transport the vast blood tithes required across the surface of the planet as opposed to conveying it across the unpredictable tides of the Warp. However, Khorne favors the bold, and there are no priests bolder than Corbulo. Despite his young age, Corbulo has gained the attention of legion commanders through his bold raids across the Eye of Terror, casting down every foe with the aid of his warband, the Angels Encarmine. The Sanguinary Hierophant has the combat skills to rival any legion champion, rocketing across the battlefield with his jump pack as he heeds the daemonic whispers of the Red Grail which guides him toward the worthiest foes and the most potent blood. The Red Grail is a Blood Chalice marked with the symbol of the Sanguinor, an ancient relic said to be the first of its kind and originally filled with the boiling blood of Sanguinius himself collected from the Eternity Wall after his banishment. The Hierophant has mixed this blood with that of a thousand thousand champions, along with that of his predecessor, for the Red Grail must be taken by force, and his own blood will surely be mixed in when he dies.

Combat Doctrines and Organization

Unlike other traitor legions, the touch of the Warp does not lie so heavily upon the sons of Sanguinius, a by-product of their patron. Khorne detests the psyker and the witch, and of all the Ruinous Powers, his blessings are the least-dependent upon the Warp. However, all legionaries of the Ninth are afflicted by a psychic malady that produces both mental pains when they go too long without shedding blood, as well a persistent ache in their shoulders, a perverted mirror of the agony felt by their Daemon Primarch ever since the loss of his wings. Aside from these issues, the sons of Sanguinius are almost physically pure, for many sport brass collars around their necks so as to ward off the mutagenic touch of the Eye of Terror as well as the spells of rival powers. It is perhaps because of these collars and the Blood God's favor that the Ninth Legion are more effective than any other traitor legion at stopping the assaults of the Legion of the Damned.

The Firetide

The Imperium of Man is held together by three things: the might of its armies, the spirit of its people, and the light of the Emperor. This is more than just a proverb: without the illumination of the Astronomican, the Emperor's psychic beacon which illuminates the Immaterium, Warp-travel would grind to a halt and be not just dangerous but suicidal. Its light is occasionally obscured or weakened by harsh storms or the devices of the Ruinous Powers, but such occurrences are ephemeral. The Astronomican shines throughout the Warp, guiding Navigators and calming the endlessly roiling Sea of Souls. By its very nature it is linked with the Emperor, his light burning a thin stream of order through the Realm of Chaos, and its brilliance is cursed by the daemons of Chaos who flee lest they be cauterized. Even mortals are affected: those who spend too much time gazing into its fiery depths are changed, their eyes left a brilliant golden hue akin to the light of Imperial Saints, a painful condition to the servants of Chaos.

The Firetide itself shifts and moves, a column of fire that changes slightly depending on the tides of the Warp and upon the strength of the Astronomican. The walls of this pillar are nothing less than death to the minions of Chaos, the pure light scorching everything in its path. Even Imperial ships dare not get too close, lest they be burned by the Emperor's wrath made manifest. Travelers often speak of armies of fiery beings erupting from the Firetide at random intervals, Immaterial solar flares ejected to fulfill the God-Emperor's commands. The Inquisition has yet to confirm such tales, but they occur with enough frequency that it seems likely this strange phenomenon does indeed exist. The betrayal of both the Dark Angels and Blood Angels has left the Ecclesiarchy distrustful of the very term 'angel', but the term does seem to fit the best for these spiritual armies.

Contained within the column of light that is the Firetide lies the realm known as the Radiant Worlds. Whereas the walls of heat burn everything in their path, the Radiant Worlds exist unharmed in the eye of the storm, lit by the same unending golden light which marks the eyes of any who stare into it for too long. They are featureless, sterile, and free of daemonic taint, but they are veritable paradises compared to the molten fury of the Firetide or the ever-mutating Daemon Worlds that exist elsewhere in the Warp. Only those ships protected by Gellar fields and the favor of the Dark Gods stand any chance of breaching the Firetide to get to the Radiant Worlds, and information is correspondingly rare about what these worlds actually contain. However, what is certain is that the Blood Angels know more than any other about these Worlds, for they have never stopped assaulting them. Countless gore-slicked vessels of the Ninth have hurled themselves into the Firetide in a maddened quest to destroy the Radiant Worlds within. Most are destroyed in the journey, but enough have made it through to sustain a never-ending war against the forces of the Emperor which exist even there, for the realm is defended by more than mere light. Beneath its featureless surface exists vast networks of caverns, their true size and contents unknown. Whatever exists within is heavily protected by ghostly spirits armored in burnt-black and bone, the so-called Legion of the Damned. Mind probes on captured Blood Angels have revealed the existence of these spectral warriors in numbers far exceeding the squadrons which occasionally appear in realspace. Entire companies of the Legion fight with cold efficiency against the white-hot rage of the Blood Angels on empty plains of glowing stone, their ghostly forms all-too-vulnerable to the accursed brass weapons of the Ninth. It is believed that Sanguinius himself has fought on its battlefields, seeking to claim the skulls of the Damned commanders: one is a towering warrior in power armor of deepest black no matter how bright the Firetide shines; the other is a priestly figure of pure light known only as Imperious, appearing as an intangible elder who walks unharmed through the Firetide and across the Radiant Worlds.

The bulk of the Ninth Legion is occupied with the Firetide at any given moment, either waging war upon the Radiant Worlds or preparing to journey there. However, as it is tied to the Astronomican, the light of the Firetide frequently waxes and wanes, casting long and shifting shadows across the Warp. During such times of contraction, the walls of the Firetide grow stronger as they are contained and focused, and fewer solar flare ejections occur at these times. It is believed that the armies of the Legion of the Damned are unable to leave the confines of the Firetide during these times, instead concentrating their attention inward as they attempt to scour the Radiant Worlds clean of the traitor invaders. During such times, crossing the Firetide is impossible, and the Blood Angels are forced to turn their fury elsewhere, usually upon each other, on other traitor legions, or embarking on realspace raids. Thus the weakening of the Astronomican is often accompanied by disasters as the Warp strengthens in conjunction. As the centuries roll on, such contractions have been occurring with greater and greater frequency, and Blood Angels have been sighted more and more frequently, unleashing their rage upon hapless worlds, the best example of this being the First War for Armageddon.

First War for Armageddon

Being the stream of concentrated Anathematic energy that it is, the Firetide by way of its very nature weakens the barriers between the Material and Immaterial realms. By stilling the Warp and thinning the veil, the Firetide makes it easier for ships to slip from one realm to another, though this sometimes has negative consequences, as was the case in the First War for Armageddon. In the year 444.M41, a time of incredible dimness in the Astronomican, a vast space hulk blipped into reality above the planet of Armageddon, an industrial hive world located just ten thousand light years from Holy Terra. Civil unrest soon boiled over into open revolt as the planetary defense forces assaulted the local Imperial Guard Regiment, the Armageddon Steel Legion, who discovered the presence of an extensive Chaos cult.

As Armageddon burned in the fires of civil war, the veil of reality thinned further from the extensive bloodshed, and a trio of Blood Angels strike cruisers were dragged into realspace above Armageddon. A warband calling themselves the Knights of Blood led by Chaos Lord Samyaza Nero descended upon Armageddon to offer bloody sacrifice to their foul deity, and within weeks, half the planet had been slaughtered, enough death to allow the Daemon Primarch Sanguinius himself to manifest. Just as all hope seemed lost, Imperial reinforcements finally arrived: an entire Great Company of Space Wolves, the legendary Champions of Fenris led by the Hár-Fylkir Logan Grimnar. This last-minute intervention managed to avert total disaster, and soon the slaughter became a grueling battle of attrition that favored the Chaos-hunters of the Imperium. One by one, Nero's warband were hunted down and killed until only a handful remained.

However, this left the Daemon Primarch unaccounted for, and no Space Wolf could stand before his molten fury. Even Grimnar himself nearly perished, his Axe of Morkai growing heavy in his hands in the presence of the Angel. Just as the Daemon Primarch raised his Spear to kill the High King, a thunderous boom echoed throughout the battlefield as an entire brotherhood of Grey Knights unleashed a teleport assault. Sanguinius was finally banished with their aid, though nearly a hundred sons of Titan perished in the attempt. In the confusion, the rest of the Blood Angels escaped back into the Warp through means unknown, and Nero has continued to plague the galaxy ever since.

With such targets for slaughter as the Realm of the Firetide and the staggering behemoth that is the Imperium, the killing fields of Akeldama are thus usually more empty than one would expect of a legion homeworld, which is perhaps why the feral tribes have managed to survive the unending fury of the Blood God's favored servants. As befits the servants of Khorne, the Blood Angels are constantly engaged in conflict, ever desiring to keep the blood flowing. The spilling of vitae has consumed the Ninth Legion, both a religious obligation and an addiction that must be satiated. Though most see the sons of Sanguinius as berserk maniacs, the truth is the Ninth has still retained their martial prowess, and through the guidance of the Gore-Magi, they are able to pick and choose their battles. If the Ninth had completely fallen to madness, they would have been wiped out long ago; their continued existence in a galaxy that knows only war is a testament to how carefully targets are chosen. Only the strongest may command a warband, but even the most favored and powerful still pay homage to the prudence of the Gore-Magi, which has earned them the grudging respect of their brothers. This vile brotherhood has long been known to the Inquisition, whose archives contain many reports from soldiers who have observed the foul Magi at work. They are easy to spot on the battlefield, calm figures moving with purpose in the midst of their animalistic brethren who are too busy hurling themselves at the foe to pay attention to the bodies they crush underfoot. The Gore-Magi rarely engage in combat themselves, instead letting the blood flow through precise mutilation of corpses, spilling the innards of the fallen in order to consult their entrails. It is said these mystics are able to perceive the future, tapping into the innate union between death and the Sea of Souls in order to divine the warband's next destination. Many Inquisitorial scholars over the years have posited that the actions of the Magi are something of a self-fulfilling prophecy, that it doesn't take precognition to tell that the blood will flow wherever a Khornate warband travels, and these mystics are nothing but psykers attempting to retain a place in a legion which despises the witch. However, this does not take into account their primarch's genetic legacy of foresight, nor the success that warbands employing the Magi have had, even against other sorcery-heavy forces such as the Thousand Sons or Aeldari.

The Flesh Tearers possess perhaps the highest number of Gore-Magi amongst their ranks, and Amit is one of the few able to command them, a show of loyalty that is equally matched by the rest of the forces under his command. His armies are as mighty as the rest of their brethren, but far more effective through their incredible discipline stemming from a martial tradition that has existed since the days of the Leonine Heresy. It is said no general has ever bested Amit in tactics, no mean feat considering the Eye contains such rivals as the Daemon Primarchs, Eidolon the Soul-Severed, and Sigismund the Destroyer. Even after the legion retreated from Terra after their father's banishment, the Sawtoothed Host retained their organization and efficacy, retreating back to Baal to gather their forces and defend their empire. By the time the warfront of the Scouring finally reached the other side of the galactic core, the Flesh Tearers had nearly unified the legion once more, which would have no doubt prolonged the war for decades, bloodshed which would have only empowered them and their foul patron. However, the ever-fractious nature of Chaos turned the armies of the Blood Angels against each other and allowed the Imperial forces to emerge victorious, not only weakening the Ninth as a whole but the Flesh Tearers specifically, for they were the last to retreat. By the time they fell back into the Eye, only a few thousand Flesh Tearers survived, though the incalculable bloodshed and slaughter they unleashed on the way ensured their place as the most favored of Khorne's mortal servants, even above the rest of the legion. The Flesh Tearers, or more precisely Amit, has never been able to reach Akeldama; many end their lives having never even seen their daemonic progenitor. It is not that Amit does not desire to find his primarch; rather, the religious necessity of keeping the blood flowing and maintaining Khorne's domains in the Eye of Terror has a higher priority than any sentimental reunion with a father who is now a being of the Warp.

The Octocalvariae

Few Imperial ships can ever rival the grandeur of a Gloriana-class battleship, and it is a testament to Amit's might that no less than three such vessels can be counted amongst their small but mighty fleet. During the climax of the Breaking of Baal, the Flesh Tearers seized control of the mightiest vessels, including the Red Tear, the legion flagship. The Red Tear has become the personal chariot of Nassir Amit, a mobile command center from which he directs the endless battles, and its Chaos-infused chambers contain many dark relics, weapons of unimaginable potency, including the living tool known only as the Octocalvariae. Little is known of this creature other than its name: a vaguely-humanoid xenos of some forgotten race, its many eyes peer into the past and the future, into the Material and Immaterial Realms. Few are able to speak to it without going utterly mad, a fate it inflicts on any psykers attempting to scry the location or activities of the Flesh Tearers. Its foresight has allowed Amit to maintain an incredible success rate, but even other Flesh Tearers are not safe from this effect, as evidenced by the fate of the Gore-Magi known as Calistarius, who was left comatose for months before awakening with an entirely different, morbid personality. Now calling himself 'Mephiston', only he and Amit have ever been known to visit the Octocalvariae with any regularity.

As the chosen of the god of war, the Blood Angels have no true allies, only allies of convenience. The neverending need to shed blood renders any partnerships temporary, and most end with the Blood Angels turning upon their erstwhile allies, who curse them for their sudden yet inevitable betrayal. However, the sheer might of a Ninth Legion warband is an enticing prospect for many up-and-coming Chaos lords seeking to speed their path down the Path of Glory, and so the Ninth has often been seen fighting alongside other legions in exchange for tithes of blood. The Black Templars are most likely their most common ally, and many sons of Sanguinius have left their warbands to join the forces of Sigismund in search of greater slaughter. The services of the Ninth are called upon the least by the Dark Angels and Iron Warriors, a legacy of the poor treatment they received during the Leonine Heresy. The Fourth Legion is more often a foe than friend, for their vast numbers mean they rarely hire mercenaries, though their foes are the opposite; nor do the sons of Sanguinius fight alongside the Ultramarines, whose god and beliefs are antithetical to their patron Khorne. The Thousand Sons are especially hated for their widespread acceptance of mutation as well as their prolific use of sorcery, an abomination to the god of battles. The Blood Angels have retained the ingrained hatred of xenos common to all Astartes, and continue to nurture a deep-seated rage at the Imperium who cast them out. This rivalry runs especially deep with the Sons of Horus, whom they despise for defeating their father so long ago.

Beliefs and Warcry

"How could we believe there could be angels without daemons?"

Perhaps more than other legions, the Blood Angels hate the Emperor and all of his creations. Trapped within the hellish Eye of Terror, the Firetide is a reminder of the glory of the Imperium and the light of the Emperor. This light which once shone at their back now burns them, revealing their sins and all the genetic flaws implanted in them by the same Emperor who they believe discarded them like used-up broken tools. So too do they hate the other legions, especially the Dark Angels, whose trickery damned them to their infernal prison in the Eye. This hate has been nurtured for ten thousand years, and is kept raw through constant, unending war against the forces of the Emperor, a war which does not even require them to leave the Eye of Terror. The Legion of the Damned is their most recurring foe, incorporeal warriors whose ghostly residue is a poor substitute for the blood which Khorne requires.

The Blood Angels are rather unusual compared to other followers of Khorne, for they are markedly religious in outlook. Their fixation upon blood manifests in almost every aspect of their existence: blood drop symbols can be seen everywhere, and many wars are fought solely for the purpose of shedding blood. Even victory comes second to this: in many instances, warbands of the Ninth have neglected to finish off their enemy, preferring to hold their positions and begin the process of exsanguinating the dead and dying rather than pursue the foe. The legion is shepherded in this mindset by the omnipresent Sanguinary Priests and Gore-Magi, who help legionaries hone the Red Thirst from the moment they are inducted into the legion. Except for the grudge war against the Firetide, most foes are selected for their likelihood to provide vitae, as well as worthy skulls, for the legion. Unworthy foes are all but ignored, while foes that do not bleed, such as the Skitarii Legions or the machine hosts of the Necrons, are avoided if at all possible. Mutants too are despised in their strange belief system, though this is most likely a holdover from before they betrayed the Imperium.

However, the Blood Tithe is more than just a fixation, for it brings powerful benefits to the legion in battle. Even the most basic Inquisitorial acolyte is aware that bloodshed thins the veil of reality, capable of opening Warp-tears or summoning daemons, and on certain worlds, such as Terra itself, bloodshed is forbidden, lest it invite the attention of the Ruinous Powers. The Blood Angels have truly mastered the use of blood in the name of their foul god, and by utilizing dark rituals whose workings are better left not understood, the blood gathered by the legion is put to all manner of uses, fueling their engines and empowering their champions. There are even rumors that the Tithe is going toward the construction of a Titan Legion dedicated to Khorne, that a god-engine larger than any created ever before known only as Abominatus is nearing completion and that the day it walks will herald the end times. Bloodshed also softens the effects of the Red Thirst and Red Rage, that psychic malady which has plagued the legion since their primarch Ascended. All warbands must pay this Blood Tithe, bringing a portion of their stock to add to the vast reservoirs which exist within the Arx Angelicum upon Akeldama, while those foolish enough to disobey soon learn the folly of their mistake at the hands of the Lamenters.

Lamenters

Of the ten thousand years in which the Ninth Legion has blighted the galaxy, perhaps the least amount of information has survived regarding the time between their fall upon Signus and their capture upon Deluge. No doubt many dark deeds were performed in that time, entire populations and cultures wiped from existence in order to steal their blood and satiate the twin curses of Thirst and Rage. Perhaps it was this desire which planted the first seeds of the philosophy that would later grow into the obsession of the Blood Tithe, that the concept of harvesting blood from the living as well as the dead first took root. Whatever the case, the group known as the Lamenters was first recorded after the legion was captured at Deluge. Yellow-armored warriors were spotted moving freely amongst the imprisoned legion, siphoning blood from some while giving it to others in order to prolong the lives of those most afflicted by the Thirst. These Astartes seem to be blessed by Khorne, both immune to the Twin Curses and possessing incredible luck: enemy blades shatter at inopportune times, guns jam, and snipers fail to pick them out in the midst of battle.

All Lamenters can be witnessed weeping blood from the joints in their armor, a result of self-harm performed to keep their blood flowing at all times. Those who would deny the legion its due are quick to suffer their wrath, their warbands scattered by the preternaturally lucky warriors who then gather their vitae as a substitute. Only one Lamenter is known by name: Dominion Zephon, the Bringer of Sorrow. This foul servant of Chaos is unusual in that his body is mostly mechanical, looking far more akin to an Iron Warrior than a son of Sanguinius. It is whispered that his augments are possessed by a machine-spirit from the Dark Age of Technology, an Abominable Intelligence which renders him far swifter than he has any right to be. Zephon is the reason the Lamenters are named what they are, for his armor is engraved with the names of the dead in microscopic script, though whether or not these are the names of fallen Blood Angels or other groups entirely is unknown.

Aside from their fixation on blood, the Ninth Legion is highly dedicated to their father, a sentiment not at all returned. Sanguinius despises his sons for the painful living reminders that they are, an ironic inversion of the closeness that once existed between a father and his sons. This harsh truth is only known by the most powerful and ancient of his sons, such as Samyaza Nero or Nassir Amit, and such warbands bear markedly less affection for their absent father. He rarely fights alongside his adoring sons, instead dispatching messengers such as the Daemon Prince Azkaellon or other favored minions to direct them to particular battlefields. The most important tasks are conveyed by the Sanguinor, who appears without warning, leading the Blood Angels to victory before guiding them through the Warp to new battlefields. Those Chaos lords who receive this privilege are believed to have the primarch's attention, but reality is somewhat different, for Sanguinius is a creature of Khorne, desiring only blood and skulls. Any who get in his way will be destroyed without mercy, and even Greater Daemons of Khorne are not safe, for the Lord of Angels despises all Bloodthirsters for their role in his fall from grace, a hatred which is mutual. The daemon Ka'Bandha has plagued the Blood Angels for millennia, plotting to destroy the legion which humiliated him upon Signus by their refusal to bow to him. His pride has made him an implacable enemy despite the fact both he and the legion serve Khorne.

As befits servants of Khorne, the armor of the Blood Angels is the bright red of freshly-spilled blood. This crimson is highlighted by various other shades that come from dried gore accumulated from countless battlefields. Nearly all legionaries bear the skulls of the fallen at their waists, macabre trophies from the worthy dead. The sole exception to this red is the yellow of the Lamenters and the gold of the Sanguinary Guard, the half-daemonic warriors who alone are permitted to fight alongside their primarch even now ten thousand years later. Their war-cries are almost as uniform: "Blood for the Blood God, Skulls for the Skull Throne" are heard across every battle the legion takes part in. Others invoke the name of Sanguinius, or chant incantations relating to the spilling of blood. Most common are incoherent screams from those lost to the Red Rage.

Planet Amethal, Diamor System, Segmentum Obscurus, 999.M41

The machine-men of Mars had not stood a chance, even with the aid of a company of Sons of Horus. The auguries of Gore-Magi Xorphas had pointed Karlaen's warband to Amethal, daemon whispers calling them across the void to land upon this world. The Skitarii had attempted to fight back of course, for even their primitive subroutines grasped the desperation in the binharic stream canted at them with ever-growing panic. In the end they had fallen, ripped limb from limb by maddened Blood Angels, who had been stirred into a true frenzy with the arrival of the Sanguinor. The Brass Angel tore its way into reality in the heart of the Mechanicus encampment, neatly bisecting the Magos Dominus Ivasnophon with its power axe even as Karlaen tore the throat out of the Sons of Horus captain who had been fighting alongside him.

The Sanguinor turned to regard the Chaos Lord who knelt before him, twitching as he stilled the Red Rage beginning to return as the bloodshed ended. The daemonic envoy watched him silently for a moment, before turning away, stretching forth his brass-armored finger to point down into the excavation pits, where vast black pillars rose from the ground, half-buried but still dozens of meters in height. The Sanguinor was already fading from existence, its hold on reality tenuous even despite Amethal's proximity to the Eye of Terror. The battle had left dozens of holes in the vast Mechanicus aegis covering the dig site, through which shone the pale cerulean light of Diamor.

Tapping into his vox, Karlaen signaled to his vessel for pickup, his warband grudgingly returning to their ships, dragging the severed heads and mutilated bodies of the Sons of Horus with them as trophies. As the Blood Angels began the grisly task of exsanguinating the fallen, the fury of a starship was unleashed upon Amethal. The vast black pillars which had stood silently for untold eons crumbled to dust beneath their fury, the planet mantle shattering from dozens of lance shots precisely aimed as per the instructions of Magi Xorphas. With their task in the Diamor System complete, the cruiser bearing the warband began to move closer to the Eye of Terror to their next destination: the Cadian Gate.

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A/N: I really can't account for the length of this one. Sanguinius is nowhere near my favorite primarch, yet here he is as the main character in an entry far larger than any before it. As I've stated before, I'm trying to do something unique with each of the Chaos-god aligned legions, a focus different than the stereotypical/canon views of them. Thus the Blood Angels here are highly focused on blood, compared to the anger of the World Eaters in canon. In addition, Nassir Amit, whom I like much more than than his primarch, embodies the fact Khorne is the god of battles and tactics. A point of comparison would be between Ares and Athena: both are war gods, but they embody different aspects. Also, sorry to all you Dante enthusiasts, I couldn't really find a way to make him fit in here since his defining trait (being old) isn't super relevant in a faction where the real veterans have been around since the Heresy. If you're looking for veteran commanders, I recommend looking at Legion Master Imset of the Sons of Horus.

As I mentioned before, we're over halfway through the Indices at this point, but from here on, the canon divergences are really going to grow. Next up is the Night Lords, whose fate was altered greatly compared to canon, but I think you will enjoy it all the same. Before that though, I hope to release a short story, and to leave you with a little teaser as to the plot, here is the title of this little interlude: Regicide.

As always, be on the lookout for references, both to canon as well as outside works, both fictional and nonfictional. I'm really hoping people will get my inspiration for the Sanguinor. Feel free to leave comments and critiques, I love to read them and I'm always looking to improve.

Sharrowkyn, out.