Tactical Sergeant Vhorr approached with measured steps, his own armor scored by laser burns and impact craters. “Praetor,” he said, voice carefully neutral through his vox-grille. “Supplicants… have been found. I would bring them before you.” There was hesitation in that word, and Skane’s head snapped toward him with predatory speed. His hand twitched toward his plasma pistol. Supplicants. Not enemies. Not targets. Something else. Something that required words instead of axes. The Nails screamed their displeasure, biting deeper, turning thought into agony. “Speak,” Skane forced out, each word a battle against the fire in his brain. “What… supplicants?”

“Knight scions, Malinax household. They witnessed our… victories at the outposts. They wish to pledge themselves to the Warmaster.” Vhorr’s posture was rigid, ready. He’d served under Skane long enough to read the tremors in his Praetor’s frame, the way his fingers spasmed against his weapons. “Shall I send them away?”

No. Yes. Kill them. Break them. Make them scream. The Nails offered a thousand variations on violence, each more appealing than the last. Skane’s teeth ground together hard enough to crack enamel. “Bring… them.” The words tasted like ash. Diplomacy. He was a Praetor of the XII Legion, he’d commanded thousands over the years of the Great Crusade, he’d stood before primarchs and spoken with clarity. That man was long gone now, carved away by the Nails, leaving only a trembling shell of rage barely contained. But the Warmaster needed allies. The campaign needed the Knights. Duty demanded control.

The scions entered flanked by Vhorr’s squad, and Skane’s first thought was how fragile they looked. Baseline humans wrapped in ceremonial robes marked with the red and black of House Malinax, their faces pale beneath the ship’s harsh lighting. Three of them—two men and a woman, all bearing the distinctive interface scars of Knight pilots. They moved with the cautious grace of people entering a predator’s den, which showed more intelligence than most baseline humans possessed. The lead scion, a man with silver threading his dark hair, stepped forward and began to kneel.

The motion triggered something in Skane’s combat reflexes. Target. Vulnerable. Exposed throat. Strike. His hand was on his chainaxe before conscious thought engaged, the weapon’s teeth already revving to life. The scions froze. Vhorr’s bolter came up fractionally. The moment balanced on a knife’s edge, and Skane felt his control slipping, the red tide rising, the Nails screaming YES YES YES—

“Praetor Skane.” The voice cut through the chaos like a knife through silk. Calm. Measured. Wrong. Everything about it was wrong because nothing should be that calm aboard a World Eaters vessel during a campaign. Skane’s head jerked toward the source, chainaxe still revving, and found Esoterist Ashamon standing in the command deck’s entrance.

The Esoterist wore the white and blue of the XII Legion, but his armor was inscribed with Colchisian scripture that seemed to writhe in the light. His face was bare, unhelmed, and his eyes held a serenity that had no place in a son of Angron. A decade with the Word Bearers on sabbatical had changed Ashamon in ways the rest of the Legion found unsettling—he still bore the Nails, still fought with his brothers, but he’d found something in the old texts and dark prayers that let him ride the pain instead of drowning in it.

“Brother,” Ashamon continued, stepping forward with measured grace. “These mortals come to swear oaths. Blood oaths, in their way. Surely that deserves… acknowledgment.” His voice carried harmonics that didn’t quite belong to baseline human speech. Not sorcery—the XII Legion would never tolerate that—but something adjacent to it. Faith made manifest. The Word Bearers called it the Truth.

Skane’s chainaxe stuttered, the teeth slowing. “They… knelt,” he managed. “Like… submission. Like… prey.”

“Like supplicants offering service,” Ashamon corrected gently. He moved to stand between Skane and the scions, and his presence somehow dulled the Nails’ shrieking. “They pilot war engines, brother. Machines that can break fortifications and crush armor. They are weapons, and they wish to be wielded by the Warmaster’s hand.” He paused, then added with quiet emphasis, “Through yours.”

The red haze receded fractionally. Weapons. Yes. That made sense. The Nails could understand weapons. Skane forced his hand to release the chainaxe’s activation stud, forced the teeth to stop spinning. The silence that followed felt impossibly loud. He looked at the kneeling scions again, trying to see them as Ashamon described rather than as the targets his hindbrain demanded they be.

The silver-haired scion found his voice, though it trembled. “Praetor Skane. I am Scion-Princeps Aldric Malinax. We witnessed your assault on the Xana positions. Your… ferocity broke what we could not. House Malinax remembers loyalty.” He swallowed hard. “We offer our Knights to your command. Three lances. Eighteen war machines. We stand with the Warmaster until the walls of Terra fall.”

Eighteen war machines. Eighteen engines of destruction. Skane’s tactical mind, buried beneath the Nails’ noise, stirred. Knight support could crack positions that even Astartes struggled with. They could draw fire, create breaches, destroy armor. They were force multipliers. They were useful. He needed to accept. Needed to forge this alliance. Needed to not kill these people who were offering exactly what the campaign required.

“Praetor,” Ashamon said quietly, and there was something in his tone that felt like a lifeline. “The Warmaster trusts you to build the tools of victory. These are such tools. Speak the words. Bind them to your banner. The gods favor those who turn offerings into conquest.”

The gods. Ashamon and the seventeenth legion spoke often of gods now, of the powers in the warp that had been hidden from them. Skane didn’t understand it, didn’t care to understand it. But he understood that Ashamon was giving him a framework, a script to follow while the Nails screamed. Accept the offering. Forge the alliance. Return to killing later.

“Rise,” Skane ground out. The word came easier than he’d expected. The scions stood, though wariness never left their eyes. “Your… Knights. They will… fight under… XII Legion command. No hesitation. No… question. We advance… you advance. We kill… you kill.” His hands were shaking again, but he kept them at his sides. “Betray us… and I will tear… you… apart. Understood?”

“We understand, my lord,” Aldric said, and had the wisdom not to smile. “House Malinax keeps its oaths. We will not fail you.”

Vhorr stepped forward, presenting a data-slate. “Integration protocols, Praetor. Vox-frequencies, tactical doctrine, supply chain coordination. The Malinax representatives will need to—”

“You… handle it,” Skane interrupted. His control was fraying again, the momentary clarity Ashamon had provided burning away beneath the Nails’ renewed assault. “Dismissed. All… of you. Now.”

I’ve been a busy busy bee this month working on the next 500 points of my World Eaters force for The Long March. Arguably it’s more like the next 1000-1500 points as I’ve built some more jump infantry, more tanks than I actually need for 500pts and… well, a Knight I literally had lying around for years :)

I am not a big fan of algorithm-driven “Hey, human! You MIGHT LIKE THIS THING that is vaguely connected to something else you have previously purchased” because more often than not they are just way off the mark. But, a few years ago eBay managed to put a new-on-sprue basic Knight Questoris from the ‘Renegade’ box in front of my poor-impulse-controlled-brain and 55€ later I was the proud owner of it. It sat, in a bag, in the loft for a long time - and then I figured I’d just build it and maybe ally it in with the XII sometime this year! With the aid of some leg extensions I found on Cults I think Princeps Aldric looks pretty cool stood atop an XIX Legion Rhino he’s just shot and hacked to bits. I liked the idea of working in the Xana/Malinax angle from my previous short story and it helped introduce my very out-of-place WE Esoterist into the campaign too. One part of my next 500 points is actually some Daemons which I am really looking forward to trying out. I’m sure they’ll get zapped to bits by lascannons within a turn of being summoned though, just my luck 😂

A random link I have visited before that I think everyone should read once is this article on the Imperial Knight kits describing the history of the various Knights and how they’ve been presented by GW. Worth a look!

“The Nineteenth withdrew from Theta Station four hours ago,” Felix said, his voice carrying the refined accent of Chemos’s finest. He gestured to the hololith. “Pursued by our void superiority. Corax’s sons are… diminished. The Twelth shattered them on Nyctos VII—dragged them out of their shadows and into the red work.” He glanced at Kol with something resembling professional respect. “Now they harry our flanks but lack the strength to truly commit.” He smiled, and there was something predatory in it, something that had nothing to do with tactics. “Shame. I had hoped to test myself against their Furies before your brothers got to them. A challenge would have been… interesting.”

Bael Ashur’s eyes never left the tactical display, but his voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. “They flee because the gods ordained their defeat. The Urizen has shown us the truth—all victories are written in the warp before they are written in blood.” Speaking that last word too slowly, he turned his gaze to Felix, something moving behind his eyes. “Your hunger for perfection serves the Prince of Pleasure whether you name him or not, brother. All roads lead to Chaos. Even your-“ Kol’s growl cut through the theological discussion like a chainaxe through flesh. “Don’t care… about gods. Don’t care… about ravens running.”

His words came hard, forced past the Nails’ internal howl. The hololith shifted, and new data cascaded across its surface—intelligence from the frontier mining worlds, reports of Salamanders fortifying Forge-World Accatran after their mauling by the Thousand Sons. Vulkan’s sons, burning everything they couldn’t hold, scattered and wounded. Felix’s smile took on a darker edge. “The Eighteenth are however more problematic than the Nineteenth, even diminished. They don’t retreat. They fortify, burn, and die where they stand. The Fifteenth broke them in the outskirts of the Mordax sector, yet still they cling to Accatran like a limpet mine. Our forces have lost two companies trying to pry them from the southern continent alone.”

Bael Ashur nodded slowly. “Victims. Martyrs. They think suffering ennobles them, that dying for the Emperor grants them meaning. They don’t understand that suffering is its own god now, that every drop of their blood feeds powers they deny exist.” He paused, his augmetic fingers tracing the script on his vambrace. “Let them burn. Let them scream. Their faith is wasted on a dead dream, but their agony… that has purpose.” Kol’s trembling hand shot out and stabbed at the hololith, targeting Accatran. “Then send… me. Send us. World Eaters don’t… besiege. We take. We kill. Salamanders want… to die?” His teeth were bared now, blood running from his gums where he’d ground his teeth. “We’ll… oblige them. Show them… what martyrdom… really costs.” Felix regarded him with something between pity and fascination, as if Kol were a sculpture not quite finished—brutal in it’s edges and effective, but lacking the refinement and perfection he himself strove for. “Perhaps,” he said carefully. “The Salamanders fight defensively—bunkers, flamers, interlocking kill zones. They’ve turned Accatran’s southern continent into a fortress. Your strength is in the assault, brother, but what happens when the enemy refuses to meet you in the open? When they make you come to them, slowly, through prepared ground?” The question was tactical, pragmatic. Bael Ashur smiled, and it was the smile of a prophet watching prophecy unfold. “The gods care not from where the blood flows,” he murmured. “Only that it flows.”

I finished two characters for the Word Bearers and Emperor’s Children to lead some allied forces for the XII. Now they have names! :)

Bjornsson grunted, his fingers drumming against the pommel of a beareded axe at his side. “At least you know what you’re facing, shadow-stalker. One of my packs encountered what we thought were Ultramarines —full XIII Legion colors, tactical markings, they even spoke the right vox-protocols. We were moving to coordinate when they opened fire. Plasma and bolter-fire where there should have been brotherhood.” His lips curled back from his teeth. “The Snakes of the Twentieth. Wearing Guilliman’s colors like a skinned pelt. By the time we realized the deception, we’d bled enough. The bastards melted away before we could bring them to account. You can’t smell a lie through ceramite, and that makes them more dangerous than any berserker.”

“False colors,” Graegar said flatly, his jaw tight. “Throne, they’re not just fighting us anymore—they’re poisoning the very idea of trust between legions. And then we have confirmed sightings of White Scars and Salamanders in-system, yet no vox-contact, no identification protocols, nothing. The Fifth Legion apparently engaged the Thousand Sons near the Vandris Expanse—reports say they won, scattered the sorcerers into the outer dark. But the Salamanders?” He shook his head, pulling up fragmentary Auxilia intelligence on the hololith. “Lost an entire company to the Sons of Magnus in the Mordax Belt. Psyker-fire and warp-craft. The Eighteenth are resilient, but even they can’t stand against sorcery when it comes in force. Yet neither legion has made contact with our fleet or answered hails. Are they operating under silent protocols? Have their astropaths been compromised? Or is it something worse?”

“‘Our’ Ultramarines are silent too,” Khayven observed quietly, his eyes fixed on the display. “Optae Sulla and Marcellus—one hundred fifty-three hours since last contact. Their companies were investigating reports of traitor activity in the outer belt. Scheduled check-in came and went. Twice now.” He turned to look at Graegar, and there was a weight behind his words. “In my experience, Consul, when coincidences pile up like bodies, they stop being coincidences. White Scars and Salamanders in-system but not responding. Ultramarines gone dark. Alpha Legion wearing XIII Legion colors. The enemy isn’t just fighting us—they’re creating confusion, severing our communications, making us doubt what we see. Every engagement becomes a question: friend or foe? Every silence becomes a threat.”

Graegar’s fists clenched on the edge of the tactical table, the metal groaning slightly under his enhanced grip. “Then we operate on the assumption that nothing is as it seems. When Sulla and Marcellus return—if they return—we verify everything. Gene-scan confirmation, challenge-protocols that only true sons of Guilliman would know, the works. Same for any ‘friendly’ forces we encounter. The Alpha Legion wants to make us paranoid? Fine. We’ll be paranoid and breathing rather than trusting and dead.” He looked at both warriors in turn. “The Twelfth’s butchery we can plan for—avoid their charges, keep range and our discipline. The Thousand Sons’ sorcery we can counter with faith and bolter-fire. But this?” He gestured at the constellation of reports on the display. “This is worrying. Until we know why those legions aren’t responding, until we find our missing brothers, we trust only what we can verify with our own eyes. Pass the word to your companies: trust, but always verify. And if something seems wrong—even slightly wrong—assume it’s Alpha Legion until proven otherwise.”

Another great game at Komma last night! A proper test for my XII band, the sneaky and generally difficult to shoot at ranges above 18” Raven Guard. Up front discussions on our lists beforehand were pretty much “Either you hack me to bits in melee or I shoot you to bits from 24in away”.

I won the roll off which meant I could run up the (very packed) board pretty quick. Terrified of the prospect of Nico’s grav-rapier I unloaded half of my anti-tank (which isn’t much in this list tbh) of a Rhino’s Havoc launcher and Hunter-Killer missile - thankfully destroying it before it could really do anything. It returned fire via reaction but failed to inflict any status.

I’m continually surprised how crap Assault Squads are at actually arriving in melee in any way intact. They always get shot to bits on their way there! The squad tonight basically served as some additional chaff in a little bubble around my jump Praetor. He did some real work before being dismembered by angry red Terminators in the last combat. Deliverers delivered!

In the end though my turn 2-3 objective holds coupled with some other mission based stuff led to a 28:9 for the Traitors. Mad. I’m so not used to winning! 😆

Need to get on with the next 500-1000 points now:

• A Kratos
• Two Predators
• Ruinstorm Daemons
• Cataphractii Centurion

And then I need to focus on some important decisions:

• Rampagers plus LR party bus?
• Red Butchers?
• Just some cool new Cataphractii because they’re nice and resilient?
• Allies: Word Bearers or Emperor’s Children… or both? :)

The Nails bit deeper with each passing moment, turning thought into agony and agony into the promise of release. Beside him, Praetor Skane stood with arms crossed, his breathing a controlled rasp through his helm’s vox-grille. “Maybe,” Skane said, the word clipped. “Or loyalists. Wearing captured colors. Bait.” His jaw clenched, visible even through his helmet. “Don’t care. Need to know. Now.”

The wind across Epsilon-Garmon II’s barren surface carried dust and the distant rumble of macro-cannons from the main assault three hundred kilometers north. They’d dropped here as outriders, scouts for the main World Eaters fleet still burning in-system. The outpost squatted in their path like a tumor, and the Nails sang that it needed cutting out.

Kol lowered the magnoculars, his hand shaking. Not from fear - the Nails had carved fear out of him years ago on the sands of Nuceria. From the need. The awful, glorious need to close distance, to feel bone part beneath his axe, to paint the world red until the screaming stopped. “Vox them,” he forced out. “Demand… identification. If they answer… wrong…” He couldn’t finish. Skane understood anyway. The Praetor was already moving toward the vox-operator, his movements precise despite the tremor in his limbs.

Control was a lie the Nails allowed them to tell themselves, a thin veneer over the truth.

They were weapons now, nothing more. But these weapons could still choose their own targets.

“And if they give no answer?” Skane asked, already knowing. His hand rested on the haft of his Thunder Hammer, thumb tracing a devotional script scored into its housing - old words from long before the Nails, from when they’d been the War Hounds. From before the Warmaster and his heresy.

Kol bared his teeth in something that might have been a smile once. “Then paint their walls.” The vox-operator looked up at them both. He seemed young in some way, though his face already crisscrossed with the self-inflicted scars that came when the Nails demanded blood and no enemy was near.

Skane nodded once, sharp as an axe falling. “Hail them. Demand compliance in the Warmaster’s name. Ten seconds to respond.” He glanced at Kol, and in that look was an understanding born of shared damnation.

They were damned men doing damned work, but they would do it with precision.

The Nails screamed for slaughter, but Praetors didn’t lead by surrendering to the scream. They led by riding it, by choosing when to let the red tide loose. Today, maybe. If the vox stayed silent. If the guns on those walls turned toward them instead of welcoming them. The operator began the transmission, and Skane counted heartbeats, each one an eternity of fire in his brain, each one bringing him closer to the beautiful, terrible moment when counting would stop and only the killing would remain.

Today was Heresy Day! In Komma, in Esslingen at least. I mean honestly every day is Heresy Day for me but today it was the beginning of The Long March, the Esslinger Heresy-Hauerei campaign for 2026. Johannes had organised and filled five tables with great terrain and even provided a couple of his armies for loan to new players.

I arrived after lunch and after saying hello to the folks I knew got straight into a 1000 point game with Mario, a new face for me. His beautifully painted Mechanicum army was sat behind some walls on an awesome diagonally opposed board with a big building in the middle. Didn’t take long to get set up, and we could get straight into it. Both of us were a bit rusty on the rules but we had a load of fun for the two turns we managed. Ending in a draw as I had to head home, my highlights were:

• Actually scoring some points pretty quickly by disgorging my Despoilers onto an objective
• My Esoterist being pretty great - I need to get him some Daemon brutes painted but man Void Darts seem great, as do Force weapons
• Seeing an entire Assault squad deleted in a single round of shots by Thallaxi Photon Thrusters!! 300 points for 9 of these cyborg horrors is a bargain and I want some 🤣
• Reaction-charging a Triaros that shot at Praetor Skane, and landing RIGHT on the top of it

Had some nice chats with a couple of folks too, and in all I’m looking forward to some more games this year for sure.

Next up to build and paint for the World Eaters:

TANKS 👊

Beyond the reinforced viewports, the Beta-Garmon cluster burned. Not with the clean light of stars, but with the diseased luminescence of the Ruinstorm—that great psychic cancer Horus had carved into the galaxy’s flesh. They had been trapped here for seventeen months. Seventeen months since the skies had screamed and the Warp had become a thing of teeth and madness.

“The intelligence is sound,” Tymon said, his voice the grinding of slate on stone. “The Word Bearers vessel yielded before it died. Their astropath broke under considerable interrogation. A supply fleet, twelve vessels, moving through the Vandris Passage. Light escort. Destined for the traitor siege lines at Beta-Garmon II.”

He looked at each of them in turn. Brother-Sergeant Khayven of the Raven Guard, his armor matte black even in the hololith’s glow, seemed to fade into shadow whenever Tymon’s gaze moved past him. The two Ultramarines— Optae Sulla and Optae Marcellus, from different expeditionary fleets caught in the same storm—stood with the rigid bearing of Guilliman’s sons, though Tymon noticed Sulla’s clenched fist, the subtle tremor of a warrior too long denied battle.

The Blood Angel, Captain Azkaellon’s lieutenant Damian, bore the red and gold of the Revenant Legion, his face a mask of barely controlled fury that had nothing to do with the enemy and everything to do with the storm that kept them from their gene-father’s side. Beside him stood Wolf Guard Bjornsson of the Sixth, his grey armor hung with pelts and totems, tusks and bones clicking softly as he shifted his weight.

The Dark Angel said nothing. Paladin-Commander Althaeus simply watched, his sable plate immaculate, his face carved from marble and old secrets.

But it was Lord Castellan Vorkhan of the Imperial Army who spoke first, his ornate uniform a jarring splash of ceremony amid the transhuman warriors. “Lord General Bollivar sends his regards, Consul. The Fassadian Third and Fifth stand ready. Twenty thousand men and three armor companies. We’ve been bleeding for nothing while traitor supplies slide past us in the dark.”

“We’ve been bleeding to survive,” Tymon corrected, though not unkindly. “The Ruinstorm doesn’t discriminate, Castellan. Every ship that ventures beyond our defensive sphere is a ship we lose. But you’re right. We cannot simply endure while the traitors tighten their noose around Garmon II.”

“A raid,” the Raven Guard said, his voice barely above a whisper yet cutting through the chamber like a knife. “Strike from concealment. Cripple their engines, sow confusion, withdraw and let them rot in the void.”

“I say we harry them to death,” Bjornsson growled, grinning through his beard. “Wolves never kill a stag in one blow. We bleed it. We chase it. We tear it apart piece by piece until it falls. Would you have us peck at their engines, Raven?”

Khayven refused to bristle, but nevertheless his cold gaze filled the space.

Optae Sulla stepped forward, his finger tracing the hololith’s projected route. “The Vandris Passage narrows here, at the Mordax Strait. Asteroid fields. Debris from the old void stations. We could mine it. Force them through a killing field.”

“And when they adapt? When they simply go around?” Marcellus challenged, ever the tactician. “We have limited ordnance, brother. Every mine is a torp we won’t have later.”

“Then we use what we have now,” Damian hissed, his words tight with controlled rage. “How many months have we sat here? How many brothers have we lost to waiting, to patience? I say we take every ship that can fly, we hit them with everything we have, and we make them pay for every meter of void they cross.”

Silence fell. The Blood Angel’s fury hung in the air like heat from a forge.

“Passion without precision is waste,” Althaeus said quietly, his first words of the council. “But passion channeled is a weapon. We know their route. We know their strength. The question is not whether we strike, but how completely we can destroy them before they scatter or call for aid.”

Tymon studied the hololith, watching the projected enemy fleet crawl through the stellar map like parasites through flesh. Twelve vessels. Supplies heading for Beta-Garmon II, where the siege ground on in its grinding, endless attrition. Ammunition for traitor guns. Fuel for traitor ships. Food for traitor bellies. Reinforcements that would prolong the slaughter on that blighted world.

“We split our force,” he said at last. “The sixth and nineteenth move ahead, void-capable assault teams. You infiltrate the asteroid field, set demolition charges, create false signatures. Make them think the field is full of threats. The first and ninth form our hammer— strike craft and rapid assault boats. You’ll hit their escorts hard and fast, disable their engines, leave them for the main fleet.”

He turned to the Ultramarines. “Sulla, Marcellus—your companies will provide our anvil. Hold the Mordax Strait with the Unbreakable Vow and the Fist of Inwit. When they try to scatter, you cut them off. Nothing escapes. Lord Castellan, your forces remain here to guard our own supply lines. I’ll not have us vulnerable if this is a trap.”

“And if it is a trap, lord?” Vorkhan asked.

Tymon’s smile was grim. “Then we spring it together, and the traitors learn what it means to face the Emperor’s loyal sons when they have nothing left to lose.”

Bjornsson laughed, a sound like boulders tumbling. “I knew I’d end up liking you, stone-face. Then come to my battle-barge, Raven Guard. We plan. When do we begin?”

“The fleet enters the passage in forty-one hours. We move in twenty. Update your companies. Make your preparations. And remember— we are the Emperor’s vengeance in this forsaken storm. We may be trapped here, but by Terra, we will make the traitors wish they had never sent their pawns through our domain.”

They saluted as one—fist to chest, the old unity, the brotherhood that transcended legion colors and primarch oaths. As they filed out, Tymon remained, watching the hololith’s cold calculations.

Outside, the Ruinstorm raged. Somewhere beyond it, Rogal Dorn fortified the Imperial Palace. And below, on Beta-Garmon II, loyalist and traitor alike died in their thousands while the siege consumed them all.

But here, in the void above that tortured world, Consul Tymon Graegar would do what an Imperial Fist did best: he would hold the line, exact a price in blood for every traitor ambition, and ensure that not one bolt shell, not one drop of fuel reached the enemy lines below.

The enemy would come. And they would learn that stone does not break.

It endures.

I figured I’d create some characters to write around for our upcoming campaign at Komma next year. I mostly look forward to noting the names of my fellow player’s commanders so they can interact with this little coterie of supporting cast :)

The ready room hums with the ship’s systems, a bass rumble that settles into your bones after enough hours aboard a vessel this size. Four other equerries share this vigil, each waiting for their lords to emerge from the strategium where the fate of Beta-Garmon is being decided.

Across from me, Lieutenant Phaedos of the Iron Warriors leans against the wall with his arms folded, his expression carved from the same granite as his primarch’s heart. He hasn’t moved in twenty minutes, hasn’t even shifted his weight. Efficiency in all things, even in stillness. The IVth Legion pride themselves on their siegecraft, and why shouldn’t they? But pride alone doesn’t win wars—the Sons of Horus learned that lesson at the Emperor’s side, before the old man’s vision failed him.

“The disposition of forces troubles you, Lieutenant Phaedos?” I ask, more to break the silence than from any real curiosity. I already know what the Iron Warrior thinks. His eyes—cold, calculating—slide toward me. “The assault plan is sound. Three primary worlds, fourteen lesser targets. Standard siege doctrine applied at scale.” He pauses, then adds with the faintest edge, “Though I question the deployment of certain legions to critical theaters.”

Before I can respond, a dry chuckle comes from the corner where Brother-Epistolary Theron of the Thousand Sons sits cross-legged on the deck plating, his ornate armor glinting with hermetic symbols. “Your concern is noted, brother, but perhaps you place too much faith in conventional warfare. The Fifteenth understands that some fortresses are not broken by walls collapsing, but by minds opening.”

Phaedos’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Sorcery.”

“Knowledge,” Theron corrects gently, though his eyes flash with something less than gentleness. “But I sense your true concern lies not with my legion, but with the deployments to Beta-Garmon II.”

“The Alpha Legion and the Emperor’s Children.” The words come from Brother Ghast of the Death Guard, standing near the viewport with his arms behind his back. His voice rasps through his helm’s vox-grille like wind through a crypt. “An… interesting pairing.”

I push off from the bulkhead, unable to resist joining the conversation properly now. “The XXth excels at infiltration and intelligence warfare. The IIIrd are among the finest shock troops in the Warmaster’s arsenal. What troubles you about their assignment?” Phaedos speaks first, his words clipped and precise. “The Alpha Legion operates without clear command hierarchies. Their operational security exceeds paranoia and enters dysfunction. In a siege requiring coordination—”

“They will act as they always do,” I interrupt, unable to hide my irritation. “With results. The Warmaster trusts them, as do I.”

“And the Emperor’s Children?” Ghast’s question hangs in the air like the stench of gangrene.

That gives me pause. Lord Commander Eidolon and his perfection-obsessed warriors have grown… strange. Even we have heard the rumors filtering back from the conquest of the Laer worlds. But I keep my voice level. “They remain loyal to the Warmaster. Their skill at arms is beyond question.”

“Loyalty.” Theron’s voice carries an odd inflection. “Yes. Though I wonder sometimes what shape loyalty takes when filtered through the pursuit of sensation. My brothers have… glimpsed certain futures. Possibilities. The warp shows us—”

“The warp shows you lies and madness,” Phaedos snaps. “Which is why Lord Perturabo counsels against its use in tactical planning.”

A sound cuts through the room—a low, animal growl that raises the hair on the back of my neck even through my armor. We all turn toward the corner we’ve been carefully ignoring.

Veteran Sergeant Kol of the XII sits hunched on a reinforced bench, his hands gripping his knees so tightly I can hear the servos in his gauntlets whine. His head is bowed, and his entire body trembles with barely suppressed violence. The Butcher’s Nails, those cursed implants, bite into his brain stem, driving him toward rage with every passing second.

“Kol.” My voice is carefully neutral. “Your captain will return soon.”

His head snaps up, and through his helm’s eye-lenses I see bloodshot eyes swimming with pain and fury. “Talk,” he forces out through gritted teeth. “Keep… talking. Need… distraction.”

The others exchange glances. We’re all Astartes, all post-human, all weapons of war—but the World Eaters walk a different path. They’ve carved away the parts of themselves that made them anything but killers, and in doing so, they’ve become something we can barely recognize as brothers.

Theron, surprisingly, speaks with compassion. “The siege will be glorious, brother. Your legion will have ample opportunity to—”

“Not helping,” Kol grinds out. A thread of blood runs from beneath his helmet seal. “Strategy. Talk… strategy.”

I clear my throat. “Very well. Beta-Garmon is the gateway to Terra. Seven primary worlds, dozens of secondary installations. Imperial Army forces number in the billions. Orbital defenses are extensive. This will be the largest engagement since Isstvan V.”

“Which is why the Alpha Legion’s assignment makes sense,” Ghast says, picking up my thread. “While we prosecute direct siege operations, they can sow confusion, eliminate key commanders, disrupt supply lines. Classic force multiplication.”

Phaedos nods reluctantly. “And the Emperor’s Children can exploit breaches created by preliminary bombardment. Their speed and precision serve that function adequately.”

“Adequately,” Theron murmurs with amusement. “Such praise.”

“I praise what deserves praise,” the Iron Warrior replies flatly. “I criticize what deserves criticism. The Emperor’s Children have… changed. As have others.” His eyes flick to Theron, then to me. “The question is whether that change serves the Warmaster’s vision or something else.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop. My hand doesn’t move toward my sidearm, but the weight of it at my hip suddenly feels more pronounced. “Speak plainly, Lieutenant.”

“I speak only what Lord Perturabo observes,” Phaedos says, meeting my gaze without flinching. “That some of our brothers have found… new patrons. New sources of strength. And that strength carries a price.”

Theron rises in one fluid motion, his psychic presence suddenly heavy in the air. “Be very careful with your accusations, Iron Warrior.”

“It’s not an accusation,” Phaedos replies. “It’s a tactical assessment. The warp changes those who traffic with it. Your legion’s obsession with forbidden knowledge. The Emperor’s Children’s descent into hedonism. The Death Guard’s—”

“Endurance,” Ghast interrupts, his voice like stones grinding together. “We endure all things. As we always have. What my brothers on the other side of this war call corruption, we call adaptation. Evolution. The Emperor tried to keep us pure, and look where it led—to stagnation. And lies.”

“The Emperor,” I say carefully, “lost his way. He would have destroyed us all in the name of his vision of order. The Warmaster freed us from that. Whatever changes come, they come in service to humanity’s true future.”

A harsh laugh barks from Kol’s corner. “Future. Don’t care… about future. Only now. Only… the red. The nails sing and I…” He shudders violently. “Don’t want to hear.”

The moment of tension breaks. We’re not enemies here, not yet. We’re brothers in arms, bound by oath to the Warmaster, waiting in a ready room while our masters plan the greatest siege in human history.

“Garmon will bleed,” I say quietly. “However strange our methods have become, however much we’ve changed from what we were, we will take that system and open the path to Terra. The Warmaster will see to that.”

“The Warmaster,” Theron agrees, though something in his tone suggests he’s thinking of other forces at play.

“Lord Perturabo’s siege lines will hold,” Phaedos states with absolute certainty.

“Mortarion’s sons will endure,” Ghast adds.

We look to Kol. He’s bent double now, hands pressed to his helmet, fighting the implants’ insistent screaming. “Will… kill,” he manages. “Will kill them all.”

It’s not poetry, but it’s truth. The World Eaters will kill them all. The Iron Warriors will grind them down. The Thousand Sons will break their minds. The Death Guard will outlast their hope. The Sons of Horus will lead from the front, as we always have.

And the Alpha Legion and the Emperor’s Children? They’ll do whatever secret, terrible things they do in the shadows and the light respectively. The Warmaster has his reasons for sending them to Beta-Garmon II, and I trust those reasons even if I don’t understand them.

The strategium doors hiss open. Captain Ashurhaddon emerges, his expression unreadable. Behind him come the other captains—Forrix of the Iron Warriors, Typhon of the Death Guard, Ardeth of the Thousand Sons. Khârn of the World Eaters is last, and Kol practically leaps to his feet, desperate for orders, for purpose, for release.

“Beta-Garmon,” the First Reaver says simply, looking at me. “We deploy in three weeks. The final siege begins.”

I nod. “For the Warmaster.”

“For the Warmaster,” the others echo.

But as we file out of the ready room toward our separate ships, separate legions, separate fates, I can’t help but wonder if Phaedos was right. Not about loyalty—we’re all loyal to the Warmaster—but about change. We’ve all changed so much since the Heresy began. We’re not the same warriors who stood at the Emperor’s side during the Great Crusade.

Perhaps that’s what victory requires. Perhaps you must become something terrible to tear down something worse.

Or perhaps, a small voice whispers in the back of my mind, we’ve simply found new chains to replace the old ones.

I silence that voice. Captain Ashurhaddon is waiting, and the XVI have work to do.

The siege of Beta-Garmon awaits.

Stay tuned for some loyalist fan-nonsense from the other side! 🫣😂

// SURFACE-ORBIT VOX INTERCEPT // : SNDR : XVI LEGION ARAKNAE 4A XXIX VERISAX BASTION : PRIMARY OBJECTIVE ACHIEVED || LOYALIST PRESENCE SIGNIFICANT || ALL HANDS LOST || MARDUK SEDRAS CONFIRMED ON THETA GARMON V ++ FOR THE WARMASTER

My first game of HH 3.0 was a big, very silly one. Nico has a Warhound titan. I had just finished my Fellblade. 4000 points? Why not! It was great to get to grips with how the base game feels now, the removal of rerolls and having to think about twin-linked/artificer sergeants or what other rules made things more complex it felt a lot faster.

After a delicious bowl of pasta, it was time to deploy. I had a shockingly small amount of infantry on the table in comparison to the Dark Angels - mainly because I’d elected to bring a Cerastus Knight as well :)

Deployment was relatively quick, attacker (so, me) first. I struggled to fit the Fellblade and Kratos between some of the scatter terrain! And in true me-style I managed to put at least one unit (Saturnine Terminators) on completely the wrong side of the battlefield to actually achieve anything of note.

I can’t remember much about the details of each turn but my first shooting definitely felt like the most effective. The Laser Vindicator got deleted by the Titan and didn’t survive to make a second shot but it did get First Strike(1VP) for me by popping a Rhino.

At some point the Terminator boogie music started on the right flank and Marduk Sedras came out to play.

I enjoyed the new challenge system conceptually, even if Sedras was an absolute murderchonk and just chewed through anything I could throw at him. Even the Cerastus Knight! He mullered my Cataphractii Praetor, swept through the Justaerin (who would have had more of a chance if I had taken 10 and remembered to pay for at least one Multi-Melta) and then slow-mo broken ol’ Maloghurst (who I had only taken because he looks so cool). Monster.

The second of the Engine Kill! missions in the Liber is the one where the defender gets a Titan. They essentially score points by shooting at ‘strategic stuff over there’ rather than blowing your units to tiny bits, and your primary objective as attacker is to bring the big big chonker down. The Warhound has two void shields which can optionally (attempted to be) recharged at the end of each turn, and a bunch of tables for head, arms, torso and legs as targets.

The most useful units for killing the Titan were:

• 5 Veteran Heavy Support Legionaries with Lascannons
• Fellblade - in particular it’s Demolisher cannon!

So technically I won because I managed to down the thing but I did completely forget that the Fellblade had a shaken status and should have been taking snapshots. It’s not like we’re really playing for points though so Nico very graciously forgave me. I shouldn’t play tabletop games late at night, my memory is awful when I’m tired! 😂

Anyway, aside from being a great, great fun game with top tier company it illustrated to me three things:

1. I need to get an Abaddon proxy sorted out (I have the FW one but I’m not the biggest fan of that wonky pose and his waspy hips)
2. I want a Titan of some sort. Reaver?
3. Further research on ‘how to murder big blobs of horrible Cataphractii elites’ is definitely in order. Two Fellblades? 🤔

This post arguably starts late in mid 2023 when I built the Leviathan Dreadnought. I’d put together my Mad-Cat-legged Deredeo at that time too but had focussed on getting that painted as I loved the model so much. At the end of October we’d found our new house however and Real Life™ got in the way for the next year. In the two weeks before our game I managed to (print, in some cases) build and paint the following:

• One Land Raider Proteus
• 5 Tortuga Bay Justaerin to ride in the above
• The SoH Cataphractii Praetor to lead them
• 5 BolterJugend MKIV Reaver Aggressors - mainly to arm them with Carsoran Power Tabars and have a deepstrike Meltagun
• 5 Tortuga Bay MKVI Recon Legionaries with Nemesis bolters (Scheme inspired by the incredible @Crysos_Mortug)
• 10 MKVI Assault Legionaries

Phew. Seems like a lot? It was a lot. I ended up painting them while at work (and occasionally during semi-dull meetings) during breaks, and had a little palette and paint setup at my desk.

I gathered my armour assets from storage in the cellar too. So cool to get the Kratos out again! Love that tank so much. I have another couple I want to paint up for the XII and V Legions someday.

I managed to get everything done to a relatively OK standard in time. I cut some corners that I may or may not sort out another day, we’ll see. ‘Battle ready’ is a nebulous enough concept for people these days but I’m happy so that’s good enough - as it should be.

Deployment followed another failed start roll from me, so I had to place my models second but got shot at first 😂 One day I’ll sieze the initiative I swear! In hindsight I should have placed my Contemptor centrally as he did very little in the whole game. Again I underestimated the sight lines and managed to see a Rhino get exploded almost immediately as well. Left my Reaver Aggressors in orbit ready to drop.

The Deredeo was brilliant generally but could have been more destructive for sure. He was well placed though and could shoot at tons of stuff. The Kratos roared up the left flank to meet the 1 Legion HQ in their Proteus battle bus.

The Recon squad felt like they could have been more effective but they were in a dumb little bolthole in the middle of the battlefield and were under constant ‘spare’ fire. Despite good cover and good saves they were whittled down without really managing to achieve much (other than look cool with their non-standard camo). Nico’s Interemptors with their scary plasma guns were a lot harder to take down than I would have liked.

I’d take a big Tactical blob again. They were sat on an objective the whole game and despite really not managing to do anything other than keep it they felt like they were doing a good job. Love the Emissary too and he survived some good Vindicare snipes.

This wall was an MVP for my opponent as it delivered 4 cover saves against 3 penetrating and 1 glancing hit from the Kratos’ Melta-blast gun on his HQ Proteus. It might have been reduced to steam after doing so but it was INCREDIBLY frustrating (if hilarious) for the XVI.

The long and the short of it though is that I lost. My deep strike was very successful and managed to free up the objective in my opponent’s half but I didn’t have anything left with line to take it anyway. I hope Reaver Aggressors can still take meltaguns as it’s a great thread to suddenly appear in the backline and looks super cool too. There were some pretty epic scraps and the Justaerin are a lot tougher than I expected - I thought it was going to be on a knife edge with the Companions and their silly Terranic swords but they didn’t break a sweat in the end. Nico’s Box-dread was a real hit with it’s double plasma cannons and was a bargain for the points it cost. Boom boom boom boom big blasts everything it looked at just exploded!

Can’t wait to get a big force like this on the table again in 3.0. Bring on the 27th of July!

I’ve told you a dozen times and I’ll tell you again, Captain - tell the Old Bear I’m going down there. We saw the IV move in to that sector twice in the past hour on Auspex and have confirmed eyes on from nearby Seeker squads. They’re going for those Archaeotech clusters man! and yes I know we can’t stop them but we can at least harry them until you can meet with the other elements of the chapter and organise an appropriate practical response. Don’t look at me like that. Tell the old man I’ll see him in hell. I hope the Olympians have bought enough tanks to make this worth my while. ~Stelos Titus, Praetor 12th Chapter XIII Legion Assault Element

+++528.011.M31 - TALLARN, SURFACE - [[Exact location redacted]]+++

“Ha, do you see now Victus, they didn’t bring enough of their vaunted armour it seems. Onward!” ~ The last words of Praetor Stelos Titus, shortly before his complete annihilation by concentrated Deimos-pattern Vindicator Laser Destroyer fire

I’d been wanting to have a game against Johannes since meeting him last year, and we managed to finally get an evening planned in after some IRL rescheduling on my side. I took a couple of photos but should have taken more!

The game didn’t go well for the XIII. I left my Praetor, his retinue and an Assault Squad in low orbit for a deep strike. I lost the roll off so went second. First turn’s fire was overwhelming from the IV’s armour - the Vindicator with laser destroyer minced my Inductii Rhino and the Scorpius squadron exploded some of the bigger Tactical squad on the other side. Spartan was fine, I’ll miss the Flare shield in 3.0!

I had read my opponent’s list but had zero idea what most of it really meant - I figured the Tactical squads were just cheap ways to fill line slots but it turns out the RoW Johannes used gave them all Shrapnel Bolters - properly mean Boltguns basically full of nuts and screws as well as being mass-reactive. Nasty stuff!

The Contemptors clashed, but Ancient Aequitas was already damaged by Melta fire from the Predator squadron and was at a disadvantage. I really liked the Inductii squad with their meltaguns and will be building at least one more squad for the XIII as soon as their new rules drop this year.

My first turn’s shooting was pretty unspectacular.

Second turn started well as I managed to stick the landing on the deep strike. What I wasn’t prepared for was the inevitable overwatch fire from the shrapnel bolters 😂 The Assault squad was pretty much mulched but it did ok once it had actually charged. Praetor and his retinue smashed up some tanks but hadn’t bet on being in the sights of a Vindicator laser destroyer and he was annihalated in a single shot! Pop goes the weasel.

Great fun game though and I can’t wait for a rematch with a few more points. You can find Johannes’ write up here.