Find any remnants of the new betrayers that remain in the system. Use whatever and whoever you need. Take them or destroy them as you must. Do it now, my son.” -Rogal Dorn, upon learning of the Massacre at Isstvan V
Though Yartsev wore armor that bore markings of the 317th Grand Battalion of Iron Warriors, he only ever referred to his battalion as "The Gravel Eaters." They bore the name as both compliment and insult in equal measure. It had come from a particularly grueling campaign on some forgotten world at the edge of the Ghoul Stars, where they had dug their emplacements in the rough earth so fast that their allies remarked that they must have consumed the gravel beneath them rather than shoveling it.
Yartsev had responded with a remark about excreting bricks, which earned him the favor of everyone in the 317th who heard it.
But the siege ended and so did whatever good humor the Gravel Eaters possessed about their lot in the universe. They certainly hadn’t expected reassignment to the Sol Sector. Fortifying what few cities existed beneath Pluto's artificial atmosphere seemed like a thankless task and the Gravel Eaters hadn’t exactly relished rearguard duty. He remembered brawl after brawl between squads (the luster of Olympian discipline on full display). Better fighting lay well beyond the bounds of the Sol Sector. Proximity to the throne world meant nothing, either. What had the Emperor ever cared for them?
When they received new orders from Perturabo himself though, then things had gotten interesting. Suddenly the Gravel Eaters became the vanguard, tasked with establishing a foothold in the domain of the Emperor Himself. Treachery had proved kind to them. No more nagging from useless Engiseers who didn’t understand the importance of a sound bunker versus yet another edifice in praise of the Machine God. Even better, they had killed the few Imperial Fists who Rogal Dorn had insisted oversee their work on Pluto. The arrogance of him. The swill-swallowing coward.
They had dug themselves in for months, arrayed themselves for war in a way that might even make their temperamental primarch proud, and drilled until their post-human bodies sang in exhaustion.
So the fact that Sigismund had broken their lines within the first minutes of engagement came as something of a surprise.
They had assurances from Perturabo this would not happen. Their primarch said that any retribution coming for them would stay soundly on Terra after he crushed the Imperial Fists force bound for the Isstvan system. All that had fallen to shambles. Sigismund had come and brought the wrath of his father with him. Worse, he had brought a group of Imperial Fists that seemed as zealous as himself. Not just the idiots who stood in front of their damnable Temple of Oaths (Temple of Arse, more like), but every single legionnaire seemed a cut apart from the famous stoniness of the Imperial Fists. They roared their hate at the Iron Warriors for the oaths they had broken to the Emperor and then they bellowed their own dedication to the Iron Warriors’ eradication.
Before Yartsev could even reload his bolter for the first time in the fight, he took a kick to the head that sent his empty weapon flying and his form sprawling against the opposite side of the tench he had occupied. He felt a massive blade crash his ribcage and pin him to the wall of the trench. The Black Sword gleamed with light from nearby fires, its ebony surface as dark as the sky above.
“You will tell me where your Warsmith is, Iron Warrior.”
Yartsev tried to spit at the First Captain of the Imperial Fists, but the saliva didn’t leave his MK II helm. He simply shook his head in protest, the pain of his impalement driving the words from his mouth.
Sigismund tore his sword free and with a single swift stroke, split the Iron Warrior’s helm vertically.
“Damn traitors. Can’t even follow the orders of a superior officer now.”
And thus it begins. With the all-but-confirmed plastic Heresy set coming at us in the fall, I took the plunge. More accurately I put my foot in the water to gage the the temperature, but yeah. I'm in there.
So the idea for the force is to represent Sigismund and his brethren in the Age of Darkness, before the siege of Terra. These Fists are striking out across the Sol Sector on Dorn's orders and eliminating the remaining traitor legionnaires, like the Iron Warriors on Pluto (deployment I made up, happily accepting feedback on my Iron Warriors portrayal). I have some strong ideas about where Sigismund's character is at this point and how he starts thinking about the legions during this time. He isn't the first High Marshal yet. He isn't even the Emperor's Champion yet. But
Anyway, expect some construction in the future and maybe some paint in late August/early September (when I'm back in school).
Edited by Son of Carnelian, 24 June 2018 - 10:12 PM.