+ inload: The Immortal +

+ The Immortal +

'Rest? We were not made to rest; we go on, unflinching, unstoppable, unending in our strength. The Emperor did not make us for such mortal concerns as hearth and home, vanity or contemplation; we are his engines of war, his hammers, beating out the fabric of existence into a vessel fit for Mankind to inhabit.'

attr. the Primarch Ferrus Manus in The Shadow of the Gorgon, by Czel Atternas

Turn the eyes outward.

That is the only direction for peace.

Even then, it is only the cold comfort of stars – and one could easily find himself lost in those. Staring out from the Nereid, my thoughts wandered to a lecture on void warfare strategy that Legion Master DuCaine had given, not long after Ferrus Manus had been found. It had been intended as an honour, a demonstration that the worthy once-leader remained vital, remained a part of the Legion now he had been sidelined by the Primarch, his superior in every respect.

The lecture was simple. Childishly simple. 'Look between the stars. That is where the enemy will reveal himself.' he had begun.

It was the lesson of a Terran, advice borne from experience in spotting the enemy up-close; from a man born and raised with his feet rooted firmly on soil. We had waited for him to expound upon this, to reveal some insightful twist that applied such advice to the complex multi-dimensional warfare of space.

He had demurred. His lecture was close-sighted; the tale of a man slightly out-of-time and out-of-step with the movements of the Imperium, but who was allowed leeway for his capability elsewhere.

'The void is – famously – immobile to the eye of man. All the wheeling of the spheres happens across vast timescales; any apparent movement of the stars can be owed to atmosphere.'

As he went on, and it became gradually more clear that his lessons were embarrassingly shallow, I looked about at the impassive but unimpressed war-leaders and specialists ranged about, gathered out of respect to hear their sidelined Legion Master once more. Not one showed a flicker of approval or contempt; which to me seemed all the more damning. I had cringed inwardly.

Of course, who was I – who am I – to judge the Legion Master?

As I looked out over the blank starfields of this backwater void, I mused on his words. They had, after all, come in useful on occasion. Though he had no fondness of me – in truth, I doubt I registered on him beyond our shared homeworld heritage – I had a certain regard for him, above and beyond by dutiful obedience. Piloting shuttles relied mainly on instrumentation, but the mark I eyeball – or at least, my occulobe-enhanced base biology, I reminded myself – was still reliable for those occasions when instruments were out or needed to be damped.

On this occasion, his simplistic advice may have saved our lives. It was purely because I was looking outwards, lost in thought, that I did catch something moving. A wrinkle; a twitch.

'The void is – famously – immobile to the eye of man.'

I raced down the black wood of the stairway, barking at the Dead Reckoner to confirm our location while pointing a steelshod finger at the navigatrix to hold her attention. Her already star-pale skin blanched further, her eyes wide. The Watchmaster, to his credit, did not bluster or demand an explanation. Without seconds, the ship was wheeling about, its movement shown through the shadows and highlights on the glittering dragon-prow.


The Immortal, however, did his duty; barging me to the floor with his shield and pinning me to the deck with a heavy mag-enhanced stomp, his blaster aimed levelly at my bare head.

'Explanation, Brevet-Lieutenant.'


His words were seemingly without rancour, but I was a better reader of men than most of my brethren. There was more than surliness behind that blank mask; more than the over-literal and bullying application of his role as bridge guardian. On a more personal level, he didn't like me.

I guess not even the retreat from Isstvan was going to weld us all together.

+++

+ The Medusan Immortals +

+ Owing (I suspect) a great deal of inspiration to the Spartans, one of the Iron Hands' special units is the Medusan Immortals, a band of dishonoured warriors who throw themselves into the most desperate fights as 'forlorn hope' troops. I like the imagery, and the concept is at the heart of my May You Live Forever project [+noospheric inloadlink embedded+]: offering an alternative answer to the question 'how do the Iron Hands react to the death of Ferrus Manus?' +

+ The narrator, a born survivor, answers that by burying and refusing to confront facts; Medardus with contemplation and withdrawal. The Immortal, already dishonoured and ashamed, finds a sour glee in the belief that all of his Legion are now fundamentally as damned as he is. After all, the Immortal corps is intended to offer a slim hope of redemption – but what purpose does it serve if the judge is dead? +

+ The paint scheme is nigh-identical to that for the rest of the force – a tutorial can be found in an earlier inload [+noospheric inloadlink embedded+] – though I'm not so happy with the application here; I went overboard with the weathering and smeared a flattening grey-brown over the subtler highlights. Not everything goes to plan! +

+ The main difference is in the lack of honour marking and Legion detailing, for background reasons: his Clan markings have been replaced with the large X (neatly, the Tenth Legion's numeral also represents a crossing-out or negation), and his boarding shield is devoid of ornamentation beyond the massive slab of the Legion symbol. This leads the model to being even more muted than the rest of the force, only his volkite charger and eyes being picked out in grey-white. +

The grey scheme extends to the shield's inside screen – predictably, as the part of the model of which I'm most proud, this is, annoyingly, the least visible! 

+ The conversion was a minor variant of my usual Astartes conversions [+noospheric inloadlink embedded+]; using a torso plate from Games Workshop's Kataphron Servitors – kindly donated by my chum Lucifer216 – and a backpack from Forge World's Mark III techmarine. I was lucky enough to grab three of these in a second-hand bundle, so I'll be able to keep a little uniformity to any future Medusan Immortals I make for the force. +

+ I deliberately avoided using loads of bionics. I like the idea that Iron Hands in 30k go some way to cladding their bionics in power armour plate to further drive out and hide weakness. While I have used a few here and there, most bionics added before Isstvan are sufficiently advanced augmetics that they can be hidden. This enables me to show later injuries with bionics, as the resource-poor survivors are forced to make do with lesser equipment (e.g. on the narrator himself). +

+ This also leaves me with crude bionics available as a visual identifer for my Iron Warriors... +

+ inload: Morlocks +

Time passes. One after another, the mortals perish to bolt rounds, matter impeller beams, mortar shells. Two kilometres out, we are alone. Our vehicle throws a track when we hit impact mines. We debark without comment, without pause, and begin running forward.

Here on Isstvan V, our Morlocks – Clan Avernii, and representatives of other Clans they deem strong enough to fight beside them – have hammered into the Emperor's Childrens' lines like a wedge driven into green oak. Here there is structure, of a sort. Blood, armour shards and heat-sweat is rising over the line in an aerosolised cloud. I have never seen anything like it. Even from our vantage a few hundred of yards back, the cacophony of Astartes-on-Astartes combat is rising over the general din.

As we watch, aspects of the line are swallowed by fireballs and missile impacts, or cleared by graser-sweeps and detonations, murdering conquerors of worlds and heroes of humanity like chaff. Such is the martial pressure that such gaps are closed near-instantly as rageful Legionaries pour forward to clash over the falling corpses of their brethren.

The Morlocks are driving forward furiously. There must be thousands of Iron Hands, each stepping forward with heavy tread to combat the glittering lines of the Emperor's Children. The line of advance is too broad to be centred on the Primarch; but for a glorious moment I see Ferrus Manus emerge from a storm of fire. His armour is aglow, his weapon – the mighty Fireblade – culling Fulgrim's elites with each sweep. It is glorious. It is an exemplary massacre; executed with all the skill and power the Tenth can muster.

It is monstrous in its fury.

It is also – I realise, with an unfamiliar cold twist in my guts – far from certain that it will be enough.

On Medusa, the Morlocks are apex predators. The arrival of the Legion saw their brutal demotion; just as all xenos species – sentient, sapient or otherwise – was put firmly underfoot by the Imperium. Here on Isstvan, I recognise a similar result. Clan Avernii are powerful, but they are outnumbered. From our position in the rear, I see the strength of the Emperor's Children as the Avernii's flanks are overwhelmed. It is slow – I am sure too slow for the IIIrd Legion's liking – but inexorable. Predators, Land Raiders and Rhinos begin to curl around the Iron Hand line, supported by clades of marching purple-armoured figures. Furiously as my brethren fight, the line is being attentuated, draw thin as the Morlocks vainly try to keep pace with Ferrus.

I turn back, searching for our Primarch in the swell of destruction, even as we continue to sprint. We find ourselves walking over a field of the dead and broken; our pace broken by the curve of armour and forced to sidestep smouldering tank-wrecks. We meet and pass Avernii casualties, vainly limping or stumbling forward, their faces and limbs twisted into fury that borders on lunacy. We are swept up. There! Ferrus has emerged at the head of a knot of Iron Hands, who club and brutalise their way through the shimmering bladework of the Phoenix Guard. They stand at the base of a craggy hill, driving upwards.

Onwards to the peak! Onwards to Ferrus!


+++

+ WIP shots +

+ Some Clan Avernii veterans (i.e. command squad people), plus the Immortal, who I think needs a couple of tweaks to his arm.

+ inload: Lord of Iron +

He strides - up and over the fallen. The Children of his brother - and his own sons.

His fury is palpable. Otherworldly.

+ inload: Painted Blood Angel +

The artillery tank bounces and lunges across the cratered, debris-laden ground. The noise –  not to mention the struggle to cling on – makes conversation impossible; though brief blurts score the squad comms-net as Miredan warns us of sudden changes of direction.

One such swerve nearly unseats me. Cinnamon grabs my wrist and steadies me. I nod brief thanks, then continue looking about me. The Kraton Fusiliers' vehicles are advancing more steadily than the Whirlwind; Miredan has to push our overloaded vehicle to its limits, and the single functioning engine is belching unhealthy-looking black smoke. I am sympathetic to the machine's pain. It is reliable; unlike our treacherous enemies.

Triumph pans the multi-melta back and forth. The Avernii have left the soil of Isstvan carpeted with purple and black bodies – more Emperor's Children than Morlock, I note with a certain satisfaction. Our earlier skirmish with Fulgrim's Seekers has purged me of hesitation or a sense of brotherhood towards these oathbreakers. Their reasons are shrouded to me, but ultimately irrelevant. I will not hesitate to fire first next time – even at Astartes; they are no longer my fellows.

At least, I hope it has. I take a sidelong glance at the Blood Angel. We nearly gunned him down, and it was only Blindhelm who made us see that we were fighting on the same side.

I raise an eyebrow at my thoughts. A little heavy-handed, I smirk.

+++

Even amongst the catastrophic warfare raging around me, Catabin's armour strikes me as unusual. Such details jump out during the breathing spaces between fighting. I have felt it on a hundred worlds – a distinctive heady scent of an alien vine, or fractal patterns formed in trench-soil as I dig, or a striking hue in the sky. Irrelevant to warfare, but inescapably at the forefront of my mind. I have wondered idly whether it is a personal failing, or whether my comrades also notice such minutiae.

I have not consulted them. Small talk does not come easily to Iron Hands.

Catabin's armour: I cannot place the pattern, but given the number of Forge Worlds, vassal manufactories and variants, that is not surprising. It is a rich, warm, red; simultaneously a warning and welcome; fitting for the IXth, who I am told are as famed for not fighting wars as they are for their righteous fury when their invitations are declined.

It is also heavily artificed – more so than even the armour of the Salamanders I met on One-Five-Four-Four. There must be something in the geneseed of some of our brother Legions that they value visuals so greatly. Perhaps such variation is what allowed corruption and treachery into the IIIrd?

A shell lands nearby, and we duck ineffectually as black dirt rains down on us. One of the Kratoni tanks is smouldering, and another founders. We cannot wait. They are left behind; to catch up or perish.

Catabin turns back, having whipped around, and I see the Baalite glyphs on his pauldron. I cannot read them, but presume them to be a rendering of his name.

Irrelevancies. All of it. If the Angel stands beside me while we fight with our Primarch, he is as much brother to me as the black-clad. Ferrus will have his revenge; Fulgrim will rue the day...

+++

+ A very fun figure to paint – I've tried to combine the bits I liked best of Rogue Trader, Second Edition and modern iterations of the Blood Angels. Why not see if you can identify the artworks I've used as reference, if you fancy a bit of fun? +

+ 'Cinnamon' is the first Blood Angel I've painted for about twenty years. Having some one-off figures like this is a great excuse to try something new and stop yourself getting into a rut. +

+ I've rendered Cinnamon's 'atroatican' name (Phaenuel) in Enochian [+noospheric inloadlink embedded+], an occult 'language of the angels'; quite a fun challenge to add the glyphs. The '-el' means 'of the group of', so it's on a separate line to 'Phanu'. +

+ inload: Vaarhun of Felg +

+ Vaarhun of Felg +

We scramble down the steep slope to the roiling plain, descending with inadvisable haste. I didn't care. Black scree and pebbles bounce and clink against one another as our feet skitter and slide, the sea-roar of battle overwhelming the sound.

I have plotted our path. An intercept route that will take us down the edge of the plain, then on in the wake of the Avernii. 

Halfway down, Medardus falls. Missing his footing, he lands heavily on all fours and begins to slide. His gloss-slick armour provides little drag on the rocks. Coalstan lunges for him, but too late. Scrambling furiously for a solid foothold, Medardus gathers pace, the scree loosening and building into a minor avalanche. He is spun and finds himself spreadeagled.

We watch, helplessly, as he is carried ahead of us, slowing briefly on an outcrop. His motion is arrested just long enough for him to dart a look back up the slope at us before the comet-trail of scree catches up with him and carries him over.

I hear him cursing over the vox-net, before distance carries him out of range. A knot in my stomach, I glare at Triumph, almost willing him to condemn Medardus to the dead with his morbid intonation so I can punch the thought out of him – it would be a release. He remains silent, head down. 

None of us speak, concentrating instead on our footing. We advance more cautiously, frustrated by the pace. Speed is of the essence, but it's not going to help if we arrive quickly and dead. 

+++

We reached the outcrop, and then ground level, with no further problems. Better still, we found Medardus alive. The fall had torn open his hastily-patched injuries and he would fight no further today, but he was alive. He had landed heavily within an encampment, which had caused a number of mortal gunners no small consternation. One had voided his bowels – though whether at the unexpected arrival, or simply in fear of the cataclysm erupting in front of him, I could not say.

"Things dropped on our heads, I had expected." she says. "To be flattened by falling Ishtari? This I did not expect." We stand in a staging post erected by the Raven Guard and crewed by a force of Ctsebian Combat Engineers. The artillery officer's quip was oddly jovial. Her eyes were round, with a hint of mania about them.

"We need transport." I state, over the roar of the guns. Even bellowing, I have to repeat myself three times. She is bleeding from her ears; an affliction that I spot is common amongst the mortals here. The Ctsebian pulls a face. She has called in a med-evacuation craft, but that would be overflowing. Even with three Legions driving forward, she explains, the battle is heavy going, and casualty reports are rocketing. I shake my head. "Do not mistake this for a request. I need transport." 

Flustered, she gives an elaborate bow, and hurries away. The six of us stand, impatient and wary, for the few minutes until she returns. Overhead, I spy a wings of flyers in the deep stone grey of the Word Bearers, and I rejoice privately. Our reinforcements are arriving. Casualties or not, four Legions cannot stand against seven.

"Of transports, Ishtar, I have none to offer." Seeing my brows darken, she stumbles over her words in her haste to appease me. "Vehicles, however, I have." She gestures to a graveyard of tanks; a mix of broken wrecks presumably drawn back from the vangaurd drop zones. Most are clearly beyond repair; mere shells – but others perhaps offer more promise...

+++

It is damaged, but it runs. Already we are closing on the embattled Avernii, and nearly out of the Raven Guard's primary drop zone. We have joined a column of Loyalist Imperial army vehicles advancing to stiffen the line of battle as the vanguard forces push towards the Warmaster's lines. I rap a brief tattoo on the Whirlwind's ailing engines to encourage the machine spirit. Alone amongst the wrecks, this artillery piece offered us the means of transport, and so it lives again as a makeshift transport. I feel a burst of pride that it is the lone Iron Hands vehicle that still runs – albeit fitfully.

Five of us are hunched on top of it, holding on firmly as we are bounced around. Miredan drives, and he sits alongside another Iron Hand, one of the few of the insular Clan Felg, a minor Clan whose entire strength had been subsumed within the same Order as our own. A Seeker by disposition, Sergeant Vaarhun had deployed at the advance of our primary drop site, and pushed ahead. His squad was obliterated by raking megabolter fire as a renegade Titan maniple stalked over them. 

Falling back, he had ended up linking with a force of Kraton Fusiliers, and had immediately taken command, directing them forward in support of Avernii. He bears the Seal of the Eye of Vigilance on his shoulder, an honorific that now stares out accusingly. He is recalcitrant to explain his reasoning in keeping the hateful logo, but he is our brother, even as a member of another Clan company. 

+++

+ inload: In Which a Primarch is Sighted +

+++

The roar of battle is overwhelming, deafening and constant. Small pebbles and dust jump and move around our feet, as though impatient, as though waging a war of their own. Catabin waves us on. Now we know where we are to fight, the uncertainty washes off us. I feel my breath tightening in anticipation; can detect the nervy pre-battle excitement that infects every man. I feel part of the Iron Hands, part a Legion of retribution. 

There is no fear as we approach the edge. That sullen, fogging confusion has been replaced with clarity. If I have shown helplessness and uncertainty in my leadership, it has been boiled away by practicality, drill and duty.

Artillery shells, missiles and rockets crest the lip of the Depression, distorted by a hot wash of air and smoke streaming up from below. My breathing is heavy and loud, muscle-hot and sweaty as it escapes the edge of my damaged rebreather. Sweat and ash prickle my brow as we jog upwards, the black soil tinkling and crackling under our heavy tread.

Ahead, I see Catabin pause. He has reached the edge. He stumbles.

+++

Look down.

In casting your eyes downwards, your head tips involuntarily. Casting your eyes downwards creates biofeedback. The heart rate slows. Breathing becomes slower, but shallower. It is the root of the bow – a movement of respect. 

+++

One by one we reach the lip of the Urgall Depression, a huge sunken plain, and stumble to a stop. The noise. Without the lip of the Depression blocking it, the sound is a physical force. 

Half-stooped, bent before the roaring wind cascading over the lip, I become aware of the plates of my armour thrumming. The finer columns of my bionic arm and hand are vibrating, giving off a continuous high-pitched chime. War-song.

The battle is like nothing I have ever seen. The opposite side of the Depression is lost in roiling smoke and whipping fire. A churning mass of bodies, war engines and debris seems to cover the space entirely. A roiling blanket of of red-edged steam, choking black smoke and smouldering green fog hovers like marsh-mist, eddying and twisted in places where weapons fire or movement stirs it. 

+++

Look down. 

If one allows one's back to bend or knees to buckle, the respect in the gesture becomes supplicatory, craven. Shoulders cave in, defensively. A sign of weakness. 

Humanity has instinctively looked downwards when defeated or dismayed. 

+++

The fog looks almost sentient; a malevolent djinn-fire that lazily turns one of its many heads when gouts of fire or rocket-streaks puncture it. Mostly it squats, thick and almost green in its blackness, in the centre; though where it meets the walls at the edges of the Depression, it is forced upwards by the pressure of the air changes. 

Such is the scale of warfare below, the Legiones Astartes have altered the weather. 

I had half-expected lines of tanks and infantry connecting nodes of Titans and super-heavy engines, wings of air support, pockets of drop-bunkers, but there is no shape. It is too complex. There is no pattern my post-human eyes can find, and the Iron Warrior-led battle-network is still down, so we have no noospheric sight, either. Tracer fire looks like stitches in a monstrous coverlet; with no source-profiler overlays appearing. Ugly burps of matter cannons and vape-rays punch random holes in the fog like gasping fish in stagnant water; and no reassuring runes offer clarity. There is no shape to the war. This is raw madness. 

It is bewitching. Only the physical pressure of the wind and roar sweeping up the edges make it feel real. 

"Look!" cries Coalstan, gesturing. "Avernii! The Primarch!"

I look down. He is right. At last, some sense is stamped on matters. Sanity coalesces around my father, my Primarch. Even from this distance, I see a wedge of armour pushing itself inexorably forward and inwards, like the arc of an adze, towards a peak barely visible from here.

+++

I look down into a black sea of uncertainty, I lead a group of eight. There is not a moment's hesitation. 

Neither man nor machine will block the Iron Tenth from the Master of Medusa.

"For the Primarch! Advance on the Avernii's position!"

+ inload: Seven Painted +

I let out a quiet sigh when I was realise I had been holding my breath. I put my hand on Miredan's arm, gently press down until he lowers the weapon. His gaze follows Catabin as he advanced on us, warily. 
"Make yourself known." My voice is cracked. There are protocols to follow.
"I am the Darda'il of the Eleventh Host," he began, "and I am pleased to find others who remember His name."

+++

Comparing notes as we marched back to the mobile apothecarian, Cinnamon had also been flung free. He had come across four of our comrades; all dead. Triumph and Medardus murmur in turn as each name is recited. The Stormbird's location is unknown to him, but he has found the war. 

+++

Twenty minutes sees us refreshed and back in some semblance of operational fitness – though I harbour no illusions that the eight of us we will be conquering worlds any time soon.  We have a plan. Forget the Stormbird; head towards the Urgall Depression. 

+ The painting on the first  seven is now complete, and I'm pleased that the palette seems to be working. A test model is all very well, but I don't think you really get a good idea of whether the scheme is right until you see it as part of a group. +

+ I decided to use a gloss red effect on the targeters, and keep this as a very minor accent. An eye-catching 'hot-spot' draws the eye, and since the scheme is naturally fairly muted, it can use the help to define the helmet. +

+ The first Breacher's shield looked a little plain, so I've added a broad diagonal stripe across the other two. +

+ I'm pleased with how Medardus has emerged, too. I'll likely do some inidividual model pics soon. +

+ inload: Iter Mirabilis +

+ Iter Mirabilis +

If I learn one thing from the skirmish, it is that inter-legionary warfare is swift, brutal and unforgiving. 

The second lesson is simpler. It is important to be the last one standing. 

I limp over to each of the fallen enemy in turn to confirm the kills with a blade. It is something both more, and less, than expedient. Two are little more than blackened skeletons, and one took a boltgun round to the head.

I squat next to the Seeker with the broken neck. The Immortal's grip has nearly decapitated him. Is this knifework necessary, or tribalistic? I feel like I am exorcising my own hesitation. I shiver.

+++

Standing, I appraise the situation. We are mauled, but – with the exception of Colmach – we are not dead. Triumph and Medardus are not fit to fight; but Coalstan, the Immortal and I are functional enough to prove a limited threat. Miredan seems almost embarrassed when his injuries prove to be little more than flesh wounds. He is battle-ready. Iron Hands are hard to kill.

Hard, but not impossible. We are forced to leave Colmach. The Immortal stands back, respectfully, as the others place the fallen veteran on his shield and fold his arms across his front. Bereft of a head, the corpse has precious little dignity. 

Triumph pulls a small silver object – no larger than the tip of my finger – from a pouch, and places it gently on Colmach's torso. Medardus, swimming in and out of consciousness, mumbles along with Triumph as the Breacher coughs out his litany.

"Colmach is dead. We will remember."

Let them have their ritual. 

+++

I order us back to the supplies. There was a functional narthecium suite in one of the armoured containers, I am sure. We limp back down from the mountain, Miredan taking point and the Immortal protecting the rear. We are slow, vulnerable. Weak.

A functional suite, I think cloudily, though none of us have the training to use it. A problem, I decide, for later. Activity. Purposeful activity. 

We trudge heavily down the gouge, using the missing Stormbird's path as cover. No-one objects to the direct route this time. Having no orders, no command and control, has left me at a loose end. 

Isstvan was full of miracles, but miracles are simply the confluence of seemingly unlikely events. The Imperial Truth provides clarity and guidance. It has little space for mysticism. 

Finding an angel on the way down was thus a surprise.

+++

+ inload: Weathering on black +

Coalstan's plan had peaked the moment he had hold of his weapons after the crash: Attack. What this plan boasted in simplicity, it lacked in detail or sustainability. Though his near-subliminal movements betrayed urgency and impatience, he complied when I pointed this out.

Nominally, of course, I was in charge. The rank of Celeusta – a combination of co-pilot, navicalculator and transport monitor – marked me as Immunes, and as a result, I am afforded a modicum of responsibility. In the maelstrom of Isstvan, I very much regretted this.

I was finding it hard to think. Absently, I wondered if I had sustained brain damage of some kind – something more serious than concussion. However, even in my battered state, I could tell that two legionaries was a force unlikely to overcome four Legions in the field.

'Uh... Re-group. Re-arm..' I paused. 'If we can, link up with the rest of Caled and then... uh.' I paused again; this time because something – beyond the roar of battle; beyond the blaze over the crater's edge – was nagging me. 

'Movement!'

+++

+ May you.... take *******  forever to paint. +

+ I've been away, recharging the batteries in the distant north. What little hobby work I've done has revolved around putting together some of the new crates/barrels scenery (very nice – and the storage creates would make an amazing basis for a 3D space hulk), and this: 

+ I've repainted the eyes to a cool grey-blue and added some weathering using metallic paints and Charadon Granite, plus some pastel dust. The latter was simply scraped away from the barrel of a chalk pastel, then picked up on a brush and applied dry. +

+ I like the effect; the warmth this adds to the model makes a huge difference to what is a very limited palette. In order for this to make sense, I'll likely be basing them on brickdust and marble; and make that how I build the Dwell board. +

+ You'll also note the symbol of clan-company Caled; a bisected shield. +

+ inload: Meridius Coalston +

The first I saw was Marnos, as the crash had deposited him high up on a steep outcrop of rock with enough force to pin him there. He was, quite clearly,  dead – the bulk of his torso plate and helmet flattened, distorted by the impact. Larraman cells had quickly stemmed the dripping blood, but not before it had coagulated into monstrous cinnabar stalactites that wept from his sundered plate, yearningly reaching for the black earth below.

Using him as a sign, I scuttled towards the outcrop, where I found Hanic and Wellsmyth; again, both dead. They at least warranted confirmation. I harvested their ammunition, took Hanic's boltgun and Wellsmyth's sidearm and moved on. 

The fourth I found was alive. I could tell because he put me on the floor. It is a measure of the extent of my physical trauma that I was caught utterly – embarrassingly – off-guard. The muzzle of the salvaged boltgun was down as he swung out from behind a blackstone column and slammed his shield into me. I blinked. His foot was on my chest and his shield raised edge-on to finish me with a chop through the gorget. Time slowed.

The markings on his shield are a traditional blessing, an extract from a mantra familiar to most Medusans. The initial and final pairs operate as caesura or check-marks, marking a break between concepts in the complete text. The core four pairs then operate as a quatrain, translating from lingua-technis into Gothic as to '×'. This, of course, brings to mind the Legion's number in High Gothic format; but there is – as always with Medusan poetry – an intertwined meaning; here the X is not a script-form letter but a multiplication symbol. 

Vocal repetition of this mantra reinforces and strengthens the speaker; in concert with those around him, the act of sounding the mantra serves to calm the individual and bond the group. It is not spiritual; it is physiological fact. There is no hidden truth; but a real and measurable result as plain as the slate sky above or the inert surface beneath your feet. 

The meaning, then; is simple – increase, strength, a reduction in weakness.

My traumatised brain parsed the meaning, reeling off the recitation drummed into me since childhood by the Iron Fathers; desperately trying to avoid the unavoidable fact I was facing decapitation at the hands of a friend. 

A flicker of recognition stopped the execution. Coalstan's helmet ticked to one side, and he set aside the shield, warily, his boltgun trained on my recumbent form. I reached a hand up and he pulled me to my feet. 

'Ware your wearing, brathair – I barely recognised you.' He looked about, attentively. 'You are injured.' It was a bald fact. I could not know the extent of my hurt as my helm's hood – the electrovisual display – was flickering intermittently, the runes fizzing and unclear when they stabilised enough to be readable. The spirit of my armour was clearly as afflicted as my own anima. I knew I would heal, given time, but my plate required attention if I was to prove anything beyond an irritant to the enemy.

In any case, I had found an ally. Meridius Coalston was as staunch a member of the company as I could have hoped to find; a veteran, as dependable as lead, a breacher assault specialist. With his shield up and a firm footing, he looked like he could hold back the Warmaster's treachery alone.

+++

+ Brother Meridius Coalstan (WIP) +

+ Not yet complete, I thought I'd post up this marine to get a little feedback on the decisions I've made so far. My thoughts at this point are: 

– The eyes aren't bright enough. I can't decide whether to persevere with red, perhaps going for ann orangey-red, which will let me brighten them; or switch to a green, blue or purple, as I did on my old Iron Hands army. 

– I've reserved the white for the weapon casing and Legion symbol. On previous Iron Hands, I've used white for all the trim, but I was a bit concerned that they looked a bit too much like Raven Guard. Thoughts on silver vs. white trim would be appreciated.

– Regarding basing, the two leading options are Isstvan V black soil, which has the advantages of being easy and fitting them nicely into the Drop Site Massacre background; or light stone/rubble Dwell, which will tie them into the Meduson background better and provide a strong visual contrast. At the moment I'm leaning towards Dwell, but I'd be interested to hear the board's opinions. Perhaps a completely different basing scheme entirely?

– I need some further decoration, detailing and unit markings to add interest to a naturally fairly dour scheme. I'm toying with basing this on a particular culture, but would also like to explore Medusa/the Iron Hands' recruiting worlds a bit more, and markings like this will allow me to show minor disparities and quirks of different cultural groups. So, more distinctive uniform detailing, or a mix?

+ inload: May You Live Forever +

Turn the eyes upward.

That is the only direction for peace.

Even then, it is the cold comfort of stars. They twinkle, uncaring and mindless, through an atmosphere charged with static and heat and horror. Even then, some of those motes are not stars; and some of the twinkling marks deaths – hot, brief deaths of panicked men and women gasping silently for air in the sweat-and-oil sepulchres that are breached and venting voidcraft.

Other stars are mobile drop-craft. Seven good loyal Legions are descending wholesale via dropcraft, atmosphere-pod, teleport-matrix and other means; cloaking the Urgall Depression in a smothering wave of fury. They have been descending non-stop for hours. The weave of the defender's macro-cannon and defence laser mesh is fine – would we expect less from the Sons, or the Children? – but more and more make ground, where the Astartes emerge into battle.

Great creaks and moans mark the tormented earth; and rise up into the sky, where those same drop-craft shriek and howl like furies of lost myth. They fall, and fall, and fall for hour after hour. 

+++

I came down late, as these things are measured, though as with all things the Legions do, it was to schedule, and on-target.

Void-travel starts silent. A thin, keening piping creeps in first, which then builds to air-roar as the craft makes atmospheric envelope. Today, another sound overlaid the familiar noise of the Stormbird. At first, I took the additional sound to be a failing engine; or perhaps simply a quirk of the ramjets' interaction with this world's atmosphere. It was insistent, continual; harmonising with the aircraft.

After a moment, I realised that it was the guns. Not those on the Stormbird, though they were firing now. No, it was the constant barrage of oversized ordnance below that was forming a protean cacophony, indecipherable and absolute, that my autosenses were muting into a simple hum, like grey static. 

I am not primed to fear. I was not a fearful child. Such potential weakness had quickly been whipped into protective hatred by my father – my real father, that is – and sublimated into a simple drive to find something less cold and cruel. With hindsight, it was perhaps an unsound choice to have sought out the mysterious wandering leviathans of my homeworld. 

In any case, more prosaically, our brains are altered during gene-forging. So, I am not primed to fear – but nor I am not stupid. Landing on the plain below was as bluntly dangerous as landing on roiling magma. Perhaps less, as magma, in my experience, rarely tries to actively kill you. I intimated as much to the pilot-primaris, who called me a lackwit and told me to be silent, if you cannot be useful.

I looked about, bringing up a hand to twist a dial; correct a course measurement; compensate for the infernal heat rising from below. The world, from horizon to horizon, was afire. A number of my brethren consider my decision-making questionable; but I am nothing if not obedient. I took a moment to turn in my seat for confirmation, taking in the ranks of black-armoured, grille-masqued warriors that stood, uncharacteristically active, their fury palpable. Three stood apart from the rest, in temperament as well as detail. Two red-armoured cousins – one cold crimson-clad, the other a tongue of hot scarlet – and the Centurion, proud-crested and stoic. A brief hand signal from our officer to the pilot sent us down.

+++

As one, the Stormbirds dipped, falling in sequence as perfect as geometry, into the maze mesh of lasers. Three reached the ground intact; one in pieces. The fifth – ours – was clipped. It tumbled balletically across the sky before a wing tip touched the ground and sent it pin-wheeling across the black, black dirt, scattering debris, armour plating and its unfortunate cargo across the burnt earth before ploughing into the dead surface.

+++

I woke to the insistent hiss of my armour stimming me awake. I am not primed to fear, which made it all the more disconcerting when I considered, muzzily, that I am not meant to suffer the effects of concussion, either. 

Well, I thought. That could have gone better.

After a moment, as my head swam, I pressed my hands into the hard, gritty earth, and pushed myself upwards, groaning. Twisting, I sat up, looking about cautiously for the Stormbird, for my boltgun, for my brothers. 

+ inload: We Are All Immortal Now +

+ 'May you live forever.' Everyone present understood the meaning. +

+ Afterwards, it didn't seem to matter quite so much. +

+ We were all going to die here. +

+ My shame seems to lose its tarnish when we stand against our brothers. It becomes, briefly, mirror-bright – a source, if not of pride, then at least of the chance of a better death. +

+ That I have died here, on this dead world, seems inevitable. I make this record for your unknown ear, simply because this treachery should be recorded. +

+  My brothers are unable, or unwilling to do it, and so another onerous duty falls to the Immortals. +

+ The forces ranged against us are colossal; and our forces few. Their betrayal has changed but one thing for us. We are no longer ashamed. +

+ We are all immortal now. +

+ conceptinload: Flight Risk +

+ conceptinload: Flight Risk +

+ Pict-capt source:

Isstvan V: South of the Urgall Depression +

Tentative ident: sinister–dexter – Brothers Phaestos and Ulc'cagni, XVIII Legion; Braar Taarlach, Iron Tenth. 

Incept-link α:serpens. Contact: Aqua.

+ These three are the first in a mini skirmish team, representing a few surviving Astartes from the Drop Site Massacres during the Horus Heresy. The intention is to allow me to scratch a few hobby itches without committing to big armies.

• Salamanders and Iron Hands – I've wanted to build some of these for a while, and this offers a great way to build two or three of each.
• Ultramarine purity – every so often, I find a cool bit that I want to use, but I really want to keep my Ultramarines much more uniform this time round. This hotch-potch group should let me use up those special bits without diluting the imagery on my Ultramarines.
• Variation – I want to play around with the background, and show that while all the Legions had certain marks of armour in common, there was also a lot of variation in the Legions. Showing Salamanders and Iron Hands next to each other will be a great opportunity to highlight both the differences and similarities.
• Storytelling – Isstvan V is a great canvas for skirmish games...

+++

+ Setting the scene +

+ These marines are going to be an example of what happened to the survivors on the day after the events at the Urgall Depression on Isstvan V. Because I want to build Salamanders and Iron Hands, I've decided that this group were separated from the rest of the Legion and isolated as the Alpha Legion and Word Bearers pushed forwards into the Depression. 

+ The map below shows the deployment and main thrusts of the various forces. Our lost marines find themselves running south, having been missed between the Word Bearer and Alpha Legion thrusts directly below the Imperial Army symbol (winged sword in the centre of the depression). This point seems sensible to me – the Alpha Legion were notoriously insular and the Word Bearers relatively undisciplined, so a point between the two seems the best place for our marines to have somehow avoided a picket or sweeps during the clash. In addition, both of the Traitor Legions would have been pushing hurriedly into the centre.


+ This spot also means that it's possible for the Salamanders to make contact with the broadest possible spread of loyalist forces, including the Iron Hands, Imperial Army and even potentially Legio Atarus, the loyalist forces of the Mechanicum. This should allow me to play around with various other models.+