#lost primarch

Lysander shifts his weight, bare feet gripping the warm stone. Clad in only the leggings of his bodyglove, the seams strain desperately around his monumental mass. The oil slick sheen of iridescent hues play along his curves, highlighting the enormous globes of his ass melting atop the crushing columns of his thighs. A lifetime of indulgences had forged him into a creature of exaggerated proportions, broad shoulders rippling with muscle just as wide as his hips.

His meaty pecs are as strong as they are squeezable, proudly bearing the warpscars of unspeakable cosmic violence in rainbows across his translucent skin. But they’ve grown softer as of late - he’ll need a harness for them soon enough. They’re starting to cover the plug sockets of his ribs. Not that he cares. The apothecaries could just biomancy them into whatever shape his duties required.

He was a genhanced engine of war that had been sculpted into something almost grotesquely beautiful, identical to the Primarch in every way magic and science could make him. The only real difference was the hair; he kept his short for convenience in his helm. Today the hot winds somehow fear to tousle it, rendering him a statue carved of the quartz upon which he stands. How long has he been here, again…?

"My Lord," a trembling voice squeaks from behind him.

Lysander doesn’t turn immediately. He takes a slow breath, letting the solar radiation cook the melanin-stripped breadth of his shoulders, savouring the tingle of his regeneration a moment longer. The familiar itch of his scars, the burn tissue along his jaw, the bullet pockmarks on his deltoids. He comes back into his own body after hours spent in stillness, heedless of the ancient pains within. He pivots with far too much grace for a being of such bulk.

The messenger from the Governor’s spire was knelt so low his forehead touched the ground, eyes squeezed shut against the light seeping around the seals of his goggles.

"Speak," Lysander growls, the grinding timbre of his voice deep enough to rattle the fillings in the little man's teeth.

"Governor… Governor Velorum humbly requests… that the Astartes refrain from low-orbit void exercises during the Summer Solstice Festival," the man stammers, sweat dripping from his nose onto the gold-striated quartz. "He claims the sonic booms are disturbing the vintage wine fermentations."

Lysander stares down at the top of the man's head, his crimson eyes narrowing to thin slits. The constant thrumming resonance of his psychic implant scrapes the inside of his brain, like nails through a block of chalk. His focus shifts to it, to the glassy dome over his third eye. It only heightens his perception of the creature grovelling before him, the animal simplicity of his fear. Mercy, he reminds himself, reciting the Primarch’s favourite chant in the darkest corners of his mind. Mercy, even for those he does not think deserving of life. It steadies him, though the anger does not leave his body.

"Is that so?" Lysander steps forth, the heavy thud of his heel a hammer blow. "Wine."

He flexes his black-clawed hands, the tendons in his forearms coiling like snakes. He needed to kill something. The itch in his blood was becoming unbearable the longer he stayed planetside and handled the pitiful diplomacy his Primarch should have assigned to someone else. The Twin Flame’s doctrine required balance, but Lysander had always leaned heavily into the fire. Combat was where he thrived.

"Look at me, worm." Lysander commands.

The courier lifts his head, terror etched into every line of his face. He makes the mistake of lowering his gaze a half-second later. It was impossible not to.

The genetic template of the Iridiates prioritized mass for aetheric endurance. It enabled intensely demanding spells that would wither those without enough calories to sustain their life force. On most, it filled out their bodies in delicate, sloping planes proportioned to voluptuous perfection. On Lysander, it had settled with a heavy, decadent gravity.

His hips are wider than the messenger’s armspan, flared out into suffocatingly thick thighs round, rippling and lush. The pants of his glove are losing a war against the ten-foot breadth of his ass, the fabric pulled so taut that every slight motion threatens to split the seams. The Primus bore a physique built for crushing, for sitting on a throne - or a throat - and refusing to move. To kneel before him and look up into such raw power put more than the typical transhuman fear into even the bravest baseliner.

"You will return to Velorum," Lysander says, his lopsided smile stretching the scar tissue of his jaw into a sneer. "And you will tell him that if he complains about my fleet again, I will have the Invictus conduct target practice on his spire. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lord! Yes!"

"Get out of my sight."

The man scrambles away tripping over his robes, and Lysander turns back to the ocean, folding his thick arms. Being the steward of a paradise world had its perks; the food was exquisite, the aesthetics pleasing to no end, but the lack of skulls to cave in chafed at his soul.

+You frighten them unnecessarily, brother.+

A soft, melodic voice laves silkily between his ears with the weight of a collapsing star. Lysander straightens immediately, the arrogance bleeding out of his posture and replaced by pure discipline. He turns and drops to a knee, head bowed.

"Father."

A presence materializes before him, that which had always been part of this world and only now coalesced into his awareness. The humidity thins from the salted sea air. All sound and motion drains from the universe. And in that moment of eternal stillness, the Primarch of the Iridiates allows himself to be perceived.

Delicate toes on sun warmed quartz diffuse into Lysander’s vision, clarifying from the static noise flooding his senses. Sight returns to him, though he cannot remember when he’d lost it, warped and quivering like he’s staring into a volcano. His pulse spikes despite decades of conditioning. He sucks in a thin gasp, forcing himself through the regulating breath-counts of his training. No matter how long he spent at the Primarch’s side, those first few moments of Lucien’s presence always sent the animal part of him into panic.

The long, elegant rise of smooth calves compel his gaze upwards, every fiber of his being grasped by the eldritch beauty in every particle of his gene-father’s form. Nine and a half feet of perfection stands before him wrapped in iridescent silks, the fabric so sheer it suggests more nudity than it conceals. It pools asymmetrically across one shoulder, offering up a glorious expanse of porcelain skin that seems to glow from within. The faintly luminous curve of a soft, heavy breast hangs freely, the tender pink areola wide and puffed, incomprehensible colours of the warp shimmering through barely-visible veins.

Platinum hair spills to his ankles in a curling cascade of liquid starlight, an ever-shifting nebula cloud that moves with the awareness of something alive. Each fine strand refracts light into colors that shouldn't exist, framing a face that Lysander can never look at directly. The graceful column of Lucien’s pale throat makes his mouth go dry, those soft shapely lips parted ever so slightly beneath the hooked tip of his nose. The golden half-mask prevents Lysander seeing much further, though the panic in him shrieks he needs an Apothecary now when he glimpses the fuzzing of reality just by the Primarch’s high cheekbones.

A survival instinct drops his gaze lower, back to the bare chest spilling over a luscious belly more fit for childbearing than power armour. The Emperor had designed this body to be held, though Lysander knows the deception of its softness well. He’d seen those elegant hands crack ceramite like eggshells, watched those graceful arms hurl Dreadnoughts through ferrocrete and tear the plating off ships without heed for vacuum.

Where Lysander was a heavy, brutalist interpretation of the geneseed, Lucien was the divine original. The cathedral his fortress-body had been built to protect. Looking at him was a lesson in want, especially now as the Primarch shifts his legs apart and they melt back together with the fluid inevitability of mercury pooling.

The movement sends a ripple through flesh and silk that Lysander feels in his teeth. His hearts won’t stop pounding and his skin feels too tight, especially at the crotch seam of his bodyglove. Every augmented nerve ending in his massive frame seems to orient toward the Primarch like iron filings to a lodestone. But Lucien is patient, and allows him to collect himself.

Around Lucien's throat, a thick golden collar hums with low static. It’s covered in filigree so fine it seems more like frozen light than metal, an ethereal glow pulsing through the engravings. Its hard edges offer a devastating visual of restraint against the Primarch’s soft skin, whispering of something so overwhelming it required the Emperor's own hand to leash it. It kept the voices of the suffering galaxy at a manageable volume, and that was all Lysander knew of its function.

Lucien’s mask was wrought of the same artifice, though more for the universe’s protection than his own. To even catch a glimpse of his eyes in one's peripheral vision was to lose all comprehension in the span of seconds, and claw your skull to splinters for a measure of peace. Through a bubble on the mask, the pearl-like protrusion on his forehead could be seen - his third eye, glinting with soft iridescence that seemed to both swallow and caress the sunlight. All his sons bore the mutation, through which their proprioception increased to the point of precognition.

The Primarch's voice comes in a deluge of warm honey sliding down Lysander's spine. "You’re okay, love. It’s alright."

The words vibrate through his chest cavity, bypassing his ears entirely and settling directly in his brainstem. Lysander shivers, barely daring to breathe. He had been gene-forged to worship this being. Every surgery, every modification, every carefully calibrated hormone adjustment had been an attempt to make him into a pale shadow of this divine entity. And knelt before the original, Lysander understands with brutal clarity that he will never be anything but a grotesque imitation of something too perfect for even transhuman comprehension.

His genefather takes a step closer, and Lysander stops breathing entirely. He doesn’t remember what happens next, only that his mind is clear, his body free of the stress hormones telling him he’s on the brink of death, and his words come back to him now.

“Father,” he says, his voice strained for some reason he cannot discern. He blinks rapidly, vision swimming.

“That’s me.” Lucien replies with a smile, barely holding back the palpable desire to scoop his Primus up into his arms. “You do so upset the mortals with your brusqueness. The Governor has been having strong words with our delegates.”

"Velorum is a leech," Lysander mutters, keeping his eyes on the quartz beneath them. "He forgets that he rules only because we allow it."

"He is a child playing with blocks," Lucien murmurs, drifting even closer until they are mere footsteps apart. The air temperature drops ten degrees - his psychic pressure is heavy today, and Lysander feels it squeeze his body uncomfortably. "We do not hate children for being loud. We guide them."

"I would guide him off a cliff."

Lucien laughs softly. "Which is why you are my sword, Lysander, and not my diplomat. Stand up. You know I mislike seeing you grovel."

Lysander rises. Standing before his Primarch, the resemblance is both uncanny and divergent. They share the same face, the same hair, but where Lucien is long and lithe hiding his strength under a veil of softness, Lysander is dense, compacted violence.

Lucien reaches out, a slender hand resting on Lysander’s shoulder. Through the lightest of touches, a flash of amusement becomes known to him, alongside a wave of affection blanketing the red-hot fury of the Primarch’s dormant other half.

"You are restless," Lucien observes. His hidden gaze sweeps over Lysander’s form. "Your blood runs hot."

"There has been no incursion for three months, Father. The drills are... insufficient." Lysander crosses his arms, thick biceps swelling against his chest. "I need resistance. I need something that breaks when I hit it."

Lucien drifts around him, the silk of his robes brushing against Lysander’s heavy thighs. The Primarch pauses behind him. "You have been neglecting your meditations."

"Meditation is for the calmness of the void. I am the fire that burns within it."

"So dramatic," Lucien teases. A tendril of thought flicks the fattest part of Lysander’s ass with a kine pulse, a stinging impact that makes the Primus jump. "And so tense. You carry the weight of your brethren here, in your hips. You need release."

Lysander grunts, his face flushing slightly. "I need a war."

"You may get one sooner than you think," Lucien says. The playfulness in his tone evaporates, replaced by the cold vacuum of prescience. "The veil thins near the Tartarus Gulf. Something is clawing its way through."

Lysander’s red eyes flare, his boredom shattered instantly. "Daemons?"

"Neverborn," Lucien corrects, his voice hardening. The distinction mattered, lest the creatures be empathized with. Names tended to humanize one’s foes. “Soon.”

A feral grin exposes Lysander’s sharpened canines. "Let them come. I will paint the sands with their ichor."

"I know you will." Lucien steps back, turning to leave. "But first, you must center yourself. You will be of little use if the Flame takes you before the first drop lands. Go to the training cages. Find Brother Caelus or Captain Sokolov. Work this..." he gestures vaguely at Lysander’s expansive lower body, "...frustration out. I want you clear-headed when the sirens wail."

"As you command, Father."

Lucien’s aura wraps him in warmth just before he begins to fade out of awareness. " Wear the helmet this time. Last simulation, you nearly bit a servitor's arm off…"

And then he is gone, leaving Lysander with the desperate, yearning tightness in his body he can only release through violence. To the training cages, then. And may the Emperor protect whoever he finds there.

Hopefully, this is coherent. I'm tired and my hands are cramping from work and a final project.

This man may be sexy and a pretty boy but make no mistake... he's an arse.

His pod crashed into the webway and the organization that would later be known as the Harlequins found and raised him. He can control his size, shrinking to sneak around, or growing to gigantic heights. A master of acrobatics and swordsmanship.

When Golden Father Dearest showed up, he gladly joined, not giving his adoptive family a single thought. He renamed his legion the Thunder Strikers.

He was paired with Roboute to learn alongside his legion and be taught the ways of the Imperium.

Having known about chaos from growing up, the Emperor forbade him from informing his brothers or legion.

Only Tantibus would ever know his reasons but he decided to betray the imperium, making a deal with Slaanesh themself. Bring his brothers to the young god and he would be left alone by chaos.

To ensure he was untouchable, he kidnapped Sanguinius and hid him in a coffin buried in the ground. He then trapped several other brothers as he waged war against the imperium.

He was unsuccessful in convincing any brothers to join him. Most of his legion abandoned him as almost all were Terran-born.

After a duel with Fulgrim, he was killed, discovering right after that he was a perpetual.

Weakened from the duel he was slain easily by Leman Russ.

He was brought before the emperor and his brothers, refusing to say where Sanguinius was hidden.

He attempted to tell them of chaos but was silenced by Malcador the Sigilite. He fought the man's will and refused to listen as the Emperor offered penance for his actions and to be welcomed back.

Attempting to free himself, he was killed by the combined psykic force of his father and Malcador. The sigilite prevented his soul from fleeing to be revived, wounding it as well. He did not wake up.

The brutality of his death and the events that preceded it weighed upon his brothers so greatly that many requested the memories to be removed.

His body was placed in stasis and sealed within what would have been his room.

The emperor declared to have his visage be wiped from the Imperium. His sons were already accustomed to the Ultramarines and were integrated.

Tantibus finally woke after the Heresy ended. Significantly weaker and smaller. He would be considered short for a firstborn Marine. He had no control over his powers.

In the chaotic aftermath, he fled Terra, keeping his existence a secret. Realizing he was an easy target for a whooping.

He’s been dinking around the galaxy, being a nuisance, and complaining about his life and the consequences of his actions.

He is currently with the Tau, mooching off their kindness and he hates it. He's bitter, cruel, and tired. He deserves it.

He doesn't regret his actions at all. He'd do it all again if given the chance.

The return of the Lost Second Primarch, Ailani and her Second Legion, the "Imperial Hospitallers", in the waning days of M41 was accompanied by a shriek of psychic jubilation across Human Psykers throughout the galaxy. "The Time of Ending is challenged!", they cried and laughed, "The game begins anew!"

This was followed in the 42nd Millennium with a further psychic event, in which Psykers and Adeptas Sororitas both were overcome by a vision of unparalleled glory: "They have been reclaimed! The Age of Reclamation is imminent!" it was pronounced.

To the great confusion and interest of nearly all galactic powers, loyalist versions of the Traitor Primarchs and their respective Legions, iterations that represent the "Best Possible Version" of each, utterly lacking in the flaws that led the originals to Chaos during the Horus Heresy, subsequently appeared, engaged in battle against the enemies of Mankind. Over a scant 3 decades, they have been reintegrated into the Empire, though not without suspicion.

The presence of these "Reclaimed" Primarchs and Legions promises to move history in a VERY different direction as new versions of those who once fought to destroy the Imperium now rise to become its greatest champions. However, the threat presented by the Chaos Primarchs is not ended: the original Traitors still persist, unchanged, and most assuredly will not take kindly to the news of their uncorrupted and incorruptible doppelgangers.

Each of the Reclaimed Primarchs maintains a memory of what their original selves did up until the end of the Horus Heresy, but, rather than a lived memory, their knowledge and experiences are more like a bad dream they have just woken up from, and it is only as they open their eyes once more and look out at the state of the Galaxy do they realize the horror and the shame of what their original selves had done. None of the Reclaimed felt the guilt more keenly than Horus and Lorgar, who looked at the state of mankind and the Galaxy and wrestled intensely with the knowledge that it is largely their handiwork from another life.

Horus perhaps felt the need to do better most keenly. Casting aside his old name, he embraced the name "Osiris", and soon came to believe he had risen from the dead to embrace his true destiny of redemption. The Sons of Horus changed their name to the Morningstars, in reference to their original selves' fall from grace, and reported for duty, embracing the Crusade to come, ready to burn their path to forgiveness and absolution across the stars, even as they were divided up into Codex Compliant Chapters by their Primarch — all the better to never to be in a position to threaten mankind ever again. But though the Morningstars now consist of many lights, they know how to assemble and shine as one, if needed, and the day may come sooner than they think whence such a reunion, and such scorching illumination, is needed.

Refusing all offers of a position of leadership out of shame, Osiris has sent himself into a grueling never ending Crusade of redemption, pushing himself to his limits to, in some way, atone for sins that are not even fully his. He does not shoulder this burden alone, and his Marines follow him on his endless quest, hoping to one day right the scales, and wipe the name of the Horus Heresy from memory and relevance, determined to atone for the Heresy, even if the quest might devour him wholly in the end. If it takes their very lives to wash away the stain of the Heresy, then they will give them freely. In the end, their aim is to ensure that the name "Horus" becomes a relic of history, supplanted by "Osiris," a symbol of redemption achieved through sacrifice and undying loyalty to the Imperium.

Lorgar has taken it upon himself to seize control of the Ecclesiarchy, and now seeks to undo the cultural damage his prior work, both as Loyalist and Traitor, had done to the Imperium. Adopting the name "Gregorium", he works tirelessly, to say nothing of working carefully yet diligently, seeking to unravel the Gordian Knot of tyranny, paranoia, and repression the Lectitio Divinatus unleashed. The Word Bearers became known as the Truthspeakers, which maintained close ties with its successor chapters. All Space Marine Chapters of Truthspeaker stock serve effortlessly alongside the Sisters of Battle, each side galvanized by the other's zeal and commitment to the Imperial Truth, even as High Father Gregorium steadily tries to reform and redefine that Truth to become ever closer to the Emperor's original vision.

Unfortunately, such is the ten thousand year rut that the Imperium has existed within that many prefer the backwards beliefs and the regime that is beyond even the concept of cruelty. They refuse to leave the dark hovel that has been the Imperium of Man for generations upon generations, for to risk anything else is to lose all they, and anyone who has ever lived, have ever known. And so Gregorium must move much slower than his sense of duty impels him. Ironically, this has rendered the Truthspeakers’ original methods from the Great Crusade more useful than ever: no mere transhuman butchers, but builders of cities and societies, philosophers, and preachers of good news and pious goodness. That which originally vexed the Emperor of Mankind now serves the original plan, and Gregorium is a patient man. Whether it takes ten years or ten thousand, his soul burns bright with the sense of purpose he had always desired; he will work until the work is done, however long it takes.

Magnus changed his name to "Uriel the Just", taking his name from a spirit of old Terran religious belief associated with service to God, and righteous divination, magic, and alchemy, and then promptly assumed command of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica, and began working to improve the lot of Psykers around the Imperium. He makes his immense knowledge of the Warp and the threats therein a weapon, one that is wielded by many a branch of the Emperor's Imperium of Man to terrific effect. The Reclaimed Thousand Sons take up the name of "Starwardens" and they and their new successors devote themselves wholly to eradicating demonic threats, wherever they may be found.

Unfortunately, while Starwardens and their Successors who undergo the Rubicon Primaris or are born as Primaris Marines in the first place see moderately to significantly reduced rates of mutation, their gene seed remains flawed to the point of gradual but inevitable non-viability, forcing these Marines to rely upon their Father and a host of Tech Magi trained in the art of Gene Seed crafting by Belisarius Cawl himself, to provide regular donations of freshly cultured gene seed, lest the Legion and its many sons be eventually swallowed up forever by the insidious twisting of their flesh. Uriel has given some consideration to the thought of taking his Father’s place on the Golden Throne as he now believes the plan had been for his original self, but has so far been dissuaded by Guilliman – there is no guarantee even the Emperor might eventually recover from such decay as his body has undergone thus far; he may simply die if removed from the Throne. Or, as the Cawl Inferior has theorized, the worst case may be that the Emperor DOES recover, but what emerges from the Throne Room may not be what went in 10,000 years ago.

Uriel has spent many hours trying to reach his father’s psyche, beseeching him to tell him what to do, and how best to apply his gifts. So far, he has gone without an answer, and perhaps that is best for his very soul. Whether this absence of communication is due to the Emperor's fading state or some deeper purpose remains unknown. Perhaps the lack of an answer is a trial for Uriel, a test of his patience and judgment, meant to force him to chart his own path and prove the worth of his gifts on his terms. For now, Uriel holds his course, his dedication unshaken, trusting that the path of righteousness and redemption will eventually reveal itself in full.

Pertuabo stepped, perhaps a bit too effortlessly, into the shoes of the MIA Rogal Dorn as Master of the Defense of the Imperium. Adopting the name "Aegis", he collaborates with Roboute Guilliman in overhauling the defensive lines of the Imperium of Man. Though Aegis is a much improved man compared to the original Pertuabo, he still takes a well earned and perhaps smug satisfaction of not just restoring Dorn's great defensive works and strategies, but also improving on them. His Iron Warriors took the new name of the "Steelforged" to indicate that they have been "reforged" without the impurities that led to their original counterpart's fall to Chaos, and made better and stronger for it. They begrudgingly accepted being divided up into myriad new chapters, acknowledging the value in smaller unit tactics, but like the Imperial Fists, retain protocols to temporarily reassemble, even so far as to full Legion Strength, should it be deemed tactically or strategically necessary. To the great chagrin of the High Lords of Terra, the Steelforged and their many successor Chapters have been significantly more liberal with these “reunions” than the Imperial Fists have been, though typically only a handful of Chapters temporarily join together, united by shared lineage and common cause. As of this time, the Fourth Legion has NOT seen fit to reassemble.

The Steelforged have once more become the tip of the spear in many Astartes operations; unwilling to sit idly by and wait for the call to react. Like the Black Templars, they and their successors are nearly always on Crusade, with each Crusading Chapter many times the regularly proscribed "full strength" of the Codex Astartes, an engine of war certainly and surely working its way from one end of the galaxy to the other towards the Imperium's greatest threats, with massive secondments to the Deathwatch and Solblade initiatives, including whole Chapters enthusiastically volunteering for the latter. Their deep involvement in these organizations stems from their belief that the Imperium must strike at its foes preemptively rather than simply react to attacks. For Aegis, the defense of the Imperium is not just about reinforcing walls and waiting for enemies to come; it’s about pushing out, taking the fight to the galaxy’s greatest threats, and ensuring that every world held in the Emperor's name is worth defending.

The Reclaimed Angron took more time than his brothers to shed himself of the expectations of pain from the Butcher's Nails that no longer afflicted him. Indeed, the memory of those torture devices now seemed like a distant nightmare that he had finally awoken from. Free to think, free to FEEL as he wanted, he shed his name of rage and violence, and took the name "Trajanis", after a famed, wise, and just warrior prince from Terra's distant past. Even so, even freed to feel the scope of the complete human experience, Trajanis knew he was a warrior at heart. But, no longer a rabid dog of war or a devourer of worlds, he could choose for the first time what kind of warrior he wanted to be — and his heart wept upon learning Sanguinius' ultimate fate. And so Trajanis stepped up as best he could to fulfill his fallen brother's legacy, to be for the Imperium what Sanguinius had once been. His steps thus far in the role have been uneven and inexperienced, marked by a warrior’s eagerness to act and a lack of experience with statesmanship and empathy. Yet his sincerity is undeniable, and his effort to bring a new kind of honor to the Astartes is genuine.

The Reclaimed World Eaters reformed as the Warbound, acknowledging what they always have been: dogs to loose when war is raged, but now with clear eyes, and self ownership. The Warbound in particular show a streak of selfless nobility and empathy towards even the lowest citizens of the Imperium in their operations that rivals even the Salamanders, though they bring with them still the same boisterous love of savage and intense combat that once defined the War Hounds and the World Eaters.

The last thing Konrad Curze remembered was his death. It was as final an end as any might have hoped for. Yet he awoke, and felt life in his lungs. And the nightmares… the nightmare visions that had plagued him from his childhood, were now tempered by visions of beauty and nobility. Somehow, the whole scope of the future now finally lay open to him. Taking the name "Lucian" to distance himself from the monster that had preceded him, he became the Master of the Adeptus Arbites, finding an outlet for his intense drive for justice, as well as an advisor to Guilliman, counseling his brother with the contents of his myriad visions.

Lucian believed strongly in reforming the Arbites and Imperial Justice, so that it might be more just, but this clashed with his strong need to punish the guilty. In the end, a massive overhaul of Imperial Justice was conceived and executed by Lucian and Guilliman, creating the Departmento Justito, in which those of the Imperium who had grown fat and corrupt feasting on the Imperium's soul like a parasite would finally all face justice, one after the other. Due to the scale of corruption and hypocrisy within the Imperium's bloated structure, it's ever maze-like and cavernous endless bureaucracies, and unwillingness to look too closely into the precise dealings of its noble houses and Rogue Trader dynasties, this might prove to be perhaps an impossible task, doomed to last another ten thousand years, but one which feeds Lucian's never-ending craving for justice. The Reclaimed Night Lords, free of their darkest aspects, took the name "Duskbringers", and became once more a force of frightening intimidation, shock and awe, and psychological warfare, much as a lone vigilante might use theatricality and deception to create an effect on a city's criminal population far greater than what he typically could have accomplished alone. The Duskbringers are more than a Space Marine force; they and their successors have become an Icon, an Idea, and one which has taught all those enemies of the Imperium, including those enemies OF the Imperium, who hide in shadows to fear the dark.

The Reclaimed Fulgrim and the Reborn Emperor's Children were discovered by the 3rd Company of the Redemptor Roses, a loyal Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes forged from the original Fulgrim's gene seed in the late 40th millennium. After much diplomacy, Fulgrim managed to convince his sons of the reality: that Traitor and Primarch were now two VERY different men. Taking the name "Castor", he guides his Reclaimed Legion, now known as the Exalted Sons, down the difficult road of reintegrating with the Imperial forces, dividing into myriad chapters, and adopting the Codex Astartes into their existing combat doctrines. The Redemptor Roses, led by their Chapter Master, Gautier Boudreaux, have largely taken the lead in managing this integration, giving the Exalted Sons the benefit of their long experience and commitment with being heirs to the legacy of the Great Crusade-era Third Legion while wrestling with the knowledge and the reality of what that legion ultimately became, and their pains and efforts to avoid the same fate.

Castor himself has taken to lending Roboute Guilliman his expertise as a natural polymath; the keen intellect that once saved and united Chemos without firing a shot now turns to assisting his brother in reforming the Imperium and helping coordinate its massive war machine, though on campaigns of particular importance, he will depart Holy Terra to join his Sons in battle. Much of Castor's time on Terra has been spent fussing over the quality of life of the Imperium's Citizenry, and the struggle to convince them to accept better standards than the regime has permitted them to even WANT for ten thousand years. Castor seeks to introduce art, music, poetry, and the finer things to every level of Imperial Life, though he frequently finds his efforts stymied by the quagmire that is the Adeptus Administorum, the Ecclesiarchy (despite Gregorium's best efforts), and the Inquisition.

The Exalted Sons, meanwhile, have integrated the Redemptor Roses' fierce commitment to banishing the chance of Chaos Corruption, and they and their successors have joined in many campaigns alongside those of the Morningstars and the Ultramarines and their kin, and have reminded the galaxy precisely why they were once considered the apex of what it meant to be a Space Marine during the Great Crusade, so long ago. Castor's presence on Terra and in the Imperium’s war efforts serve as a constant reminder that redemption is a path of both creation and destruction—destroying the old to create something better. He constantly advocates for the acceptance of beauty as a fundamental aspect of life, not a distraction from it, striving to make the Imperium a place where the human spirit could thrive, even amid endless war. It is a struggle that consumes him as much as the martial demands of leading his sons into battle, but one he pursues with the same fervor he brings to every aspect of his being. In this way, Castor and the Exalted Sons seek not only to reclaim the legacy of the Emperor's Children but to transcend it, leaving behind a legacy far brighter and nobler than any they had once imagined.

Mortarion claimed the name "Thanatos" for his own, and the Death Guard were reborn as the "Pale Sentinels", the Imperium's first, and best, line of defense against the forces of Chaos and its insidious corruption. Ever watchful over the areas of the Imperium long ago neglected by the Administorum and Departmento Munitorum, the Pale Sentinels rove in great Casts across the fringes of the Imperium, bringing hope and protection to long isolated worlds that have not had them in ages. To that end, the Pale Sentinels and their Successors find themselves working alongside the forces of the old Second Legion, the Imperial Hospitallers, in a reborn version of the Great Crusade of ancient times - bringing the God Emperor's protection, and his intended standard of living, to even the most distant and forgotten worlds. And where Chaos might be found, the Pale Sentinels find themselves working closely if uncomfortably alongside the Starwardens and their sons, with the sons of the 15th Legion holding much wisdom and knowledge in the matters of the Warp and its inhabitants, and bring a gift for killing them, not simply banishing them. Thanatos, though not a particularly politically-minded Primarch like some of his brothers, often advises Guilliman and the other politically active Primarchs on matters relating to Chaos incursions, plagues, or other threats that require quick, decisive action. As much of his Son's duty and role has them ministering their talents to the Dark Imperium, he must rely on the Psykers of the Astra Telepathica to communicate his advice to his brothers on Holy Terra, which, even free of his corruptive traits, is a reliance he still would vastly prefer to not have.

He must also work alongside Ailani in dealing with the various Rogue Trader dynasties and fiefdoms of the Dark Imperium, fiefdoms which, while still loyal in the broadest sense, have developed an uncomfortable ease with their own way of doing things in their long isolation and independence that frequently conflicts with Thanatos' own sense of what loyalty ought to look like. Despite the difficulties posed by these challenges, Thanatos and the Pale Sentinels remain steadfast in their mission to cleanse the Imperium of Chaos’s taint. They act not only as warriors but also as healers and guardians, seeking to mend the wounds left by ten thousand years of war and neglect. For Thanatos, redemption is not an end in itself, but an ongoing struggle to make the Imperium a better place, a struggle that will continue as long as the galaxy remains a battlefield. In this endeavor, the Pale Sentinels would not falter, for they had become more than mere soldiers—they were the shield against the darkness, the bringers of hope to the forsaken, and the harbingers of humanity’s rebirth.

The Reclaimed Twin Primarchs of the 20th Legion, Alpharius and Omegon, took the names of Kaleidos and Janus, though both answer only to Kaleidos for anyone but each other. Together, they are once again the Ghost Who Walks In Many Places, and their Alpha Legion has been reborn as the Dolusian Knights, a reference to an ancient Terran spirit of trickery, deception, and misdirection. The Twins have taken command of the Solblade Initiative, finding the Tyranid threat both a clear and present danger to the Imperium, but also a shifting, ceaseless foe that is truly worthy of their talents and warfighting intellect; a chance at long last for the 20th Legion to show its quality and earn glory long overdue since the Great Crusade.

While the Knights took to the splintering of their legion into chapters the easiest of all the Reclaimed, nobody who knows their methods is convinced for even a minute that the Legion has TRULY divided – they are simply doing what they have always done best: breaking up into decentralized warbands, each committed to its task. Among the Solblades, Kaleidos and his Marines impart that same knowledge and wisdom to the constituent forces, teaching even the lowliest Guardsmen and PDF volunteers how to be effective combatants no matter how many "heads" are "sliced off" by such a foe as the Tyranids -- to the Solblades and Imperial Guard units trained by the Primarchs and their Sons, whether their force is 2 million men strong or just 20, they will always have a strategy to be as effective as possible, even in environments where traditional communications or the chain of command collapses entirely. “Every soldier a rifleman, every grunt an officer.” Everyone knows everyone else's job well enough to do it effectively, should the need arise to do it.

The Dolusian Knights and their myriad warband Chapters also specialize in rapid reorganization and shifting battle plans, essentially becoming the Imperium's foremost experts on warfare against hive-minded opponents. The Twin Primarchs have seen Holy Terra precious little since their return. Their place is not on the benches of politics, but on the battlefield, proving their ingenuity and strategic brilliance time and time again against the largest, keenest mind the Imperium has yet encountered. And what’s more, they appear to be gradually winning, offering hope that, even against the ceaseless onslaught of the Tyranids, newfound ingenuity and resourcefulness can yet prevail. With Kaleidos’ leadership style finally proving its mettle under fire, their leadership is beginning to influence other Imperial forces, encouraging a more flexible and resilient approach to warfare across the galaxy. While their methods do not suit all factions or chapters, the lessons learned from the Dolusian Knights may yet shape how the Imperium adapts to future threats, proving the wisdom of Ultramarines Chapter Master Marneus Calgar: “Rules should never make a prisoner of intelligence.”

Saorlaith, the Lost Eleventh Primarch, has been the most recent Reclamation alongside her Legion, the Black Eagles. Motivated to return at long last by whispers in the weave of time, overheard in her scrying at the far edge of space. The Sorceress Queen has decided that now is the proper time to return, for it is now, and no other time, in which her people, ten thousand years in exile, finally have a future they might call their own, but such a future demands decisive action on Saorlaith's part. The dread wailing of the Carnefex now drones across hundreds of worlds, the harbinger of the Crow Queen's return.

Arriving, as Ailani did, to an Imperium who has no memory of her very existence, and led not by the Emperor, but by his struggling sons, Saorlaith casts her lot in with her siblings, for she is older and wiser, and recognizes that she can either protect her people's culture and interests from the inside, or be forced to go it alone in exile once more. Unwilling to deny her people the worthy future she had seen in her dreams, she swallowed her pride and prepared to bend the knee to Roboute Guilliman, Lord Commander of the Imperium. To her shock, Guilliman did not accept her subservience, telling her instead that she "would best serve the Imperium as you are: a Primarch, not a puppet", and that her input would always be welcome. Heartened by acceptance she had never had before, Saorlaith became a staunch ally and confidante of Guilliman, and has found that her reincarnated brothers are MUCH easier for her to find common cause with. She also took quiet relief that, at least for the time being, Leman Russ was nowhere to be found, though she does not doubt for a moment that the Great Wolf will one day return on his own, for her sorcery has told her that "the Reclamations are not yet complete."

The Black Eagles follow the Codex Astartes in some form, though it is broadly interpreted and often recontextualized by the savage and mystic warriors, resulting in one of the loosest interpretations of the text to date, but still one fairly in line with the spirit of the thing. Their roving warbands have delighted in the strength of the enemies they now face across the galaxy, a fitting trial for some of the mightiest and most competitive fighters in Imperial History, long may the crows feast on the bodies of their enemies.

They don't talk about it.

None of them do.

Not even beloved Horus dares to bring it up.

And why would they? How could they possibly even? It was struck from the records, erased from all memory, scrubbed from the very fabric of existence. Theres nothing any of them could bring up. Nothing any of them should remember, and bringing it up, in conversation or even private thought, made it erase itself further.

He looks at his brothers, dear, beloved siblings with such looming destinies and Sanguinius isn't sure sometimes if they even know anymore.

And it doesn't matter in the end, he knows this, he does.

He's seen love and war, hate and birth, miraculous and simple joy, he knows this is the past, he's not so naive to think that it could possibly affect the coming events if any of his siblings besides himself remember the number 20.

It doesn't matter, he knows this.

.

But he catches glimpses sometimes. When he looks at Vulcan, he can still remember a shade of burnt orange that doesn't belong to anyone.

But this makes no sense, not even to himself, it's nonsensical to pay mind the visions of an unreal past.

So, he keeps this to himself. And besides, this 'ability', these visions, it's somehow less reliable than Sanguinius' ability to see possible futures. Odd isn't that? Sight into the past, a series of ('fictitious' whispers a voice) events already transpired and its less certain and more vague than his powers to see what might be.

Although that's in part because of how vicious and effective their Father is. His inherited ability to see the roads of possible futures allows him to also glimpse for just a moment the past and then the Emperor's magic makes him forget it again in the next blink.

A tricky and complex piece of magic it is. A curse placed upon the memory of an existence, designed to self destruct upon being summoned through cognitive thought and thus destroying the thought of them.

Paired with the purge of fire its an effective way to wipe someone completely, isn't it?

Sanguinius stretched his wings slightly, walking with silent steps down the golden halls of the palace.

He'd come to great Father, the planet holding some celebration, and join his brothers Konrad and Peturabo on a mission after.

His primary feathers twitched as he slightly shook his grand wings, steps steady.

Conscious thought spent on them brought about that slithering destruction. The best, the only way to remember is to forget it yourself. Bury it so deep beyond conscious thought, only a faint impression, a gut feeling to guide and be a ghost of an impression in fleeting moments.

At least this is what Sanguinius assumes his brothers do.

He can't well ask them, can he?

Even now, walking down the hall deeper into the planet he's not thinking on this, not really.

Distracting himself with sight into the future and plans of the present his subconscious, beyond the second mind and into his third most deep and conceptual state of thought can he ponder in a tense fragile sort of balance.

But there's still a consequence this way.

It's causing a splitting feeling, a deep pain in the base of his neck extending into his shoulders and secondary humorous bones.

But that block he's placed for himself prevents him from dwelling on it.

"It's just the pains of a long day of work, don't pay it any mind.-

It almost sounds like a different voice speaking soothingly to him, someone younger, light and energe-

.

Sanguinius fully stops. Rolls his head and shakes loose the tension of a day leading. He'll need to stop by the apothecary, there's a dull throbbing in his chest, a tug pulling almost at the inside of his chest where his first heart is located.

But never mind that for now, he only has a little while before he needs to return to the outer layers to meet with Father. He shouldn't be wasteful with this time.

He carries on down to the inner levels library. He's going to retrieve a tomb. Something not digitally in the archives web access yet.

A book on the intricacies of the warps effect on a person's mental state,

He'd had an interesting conversation with Magnus earlier on the subject and he'd recommended this book, explained that the only accessible copy was in the private stores of the inner level library.

The author had been deemed a dangerous individual after they're death and all other copies of their works were destroyed.

A strange sense of curiosity compelled him and since he's here on Terra he'll use the chance to pick it up and give it a read.

He continues down the hallway and to the library gate.

Measured strides passing without pause the small water mark on the pristine polished floor.

Tears spilt without purpose, the point already eaten away from existence.

.

He made good time, in and out without problems.

The book was handed to his sons and instructed to be put securely within his quarters on ship.

From there he'd made his way to the celebrations.

Father was in the middle of it all with Malcador of course, discussing something as the nobles around them mingled and concealed looks of awe and admiration.

Or, political machinations.

But that was tiresome to think of.

Instead Sanguinius looked around to the room to see how long it would take to spot his more melancholic brothers hiding spot.

While doing so he caught the Emperors eye, Sanguinius smiled at his Father pleasantly. It was good to see him.

The Emperor smiled back. But not in the same way.

For a second, a split second, less than half the time it took for a single drop of Champaigne to spill out of the flute a noble lady between them held drunk in her outstretched and unsteady hand the Emperor was not smiling.

He pulled out this expression sometimes, when he looked at Sanguinius, and Sanguinius alone it seemed. He never could pinpoint a rhyme or reason to it.

By all means it should be positive, his heavenly mouth was upturned in what could be described as mirth and his body language relaxed.

And yet, Sanguinius felt pinned. Observed and scrutinized. All in this micro moment between them.

The Emperor of Mankind looked directly at him, through him and judged something.

Sanguinius never observed a moment like this between anyone else.

It unsettled the angel of Baal deeply and left him shaken.

And just as swiftly the Emperor, his Father smiled at his beloved son and looked away again, back to his conversation with Malcador. The moment was broken and the drop fell down, down, down to the floor below.

Sanguinius turned in controlled calm motions to observe the rest of the ballroom.

Curze was in the rafters at the west side, looking down observing the chaos. Sanguinius smiled at the strangely familiar sight.

Another strange comfort, the faint feeling of pressure over his eyes, like hands gently covering from behind in a playful tease.

Sanguinius broke forward and began to make his way towards Curze and further down Perturabo.

more plotty than angsty but eh