Mundus Tropaeum

Minerva had little to offer her guests, save for the bitter wine stored within the skins that hung from her walls. It made for poor distraction, but the stories that Xenobia and Janissa shared were enough to fill in the gaps. The twins had forged their own path, far from the shadow of their family's lofty station yet never too far to serve the Imperium. They had become hunters, in the employ of the Sigillite. Their prey, the unseen dangers that sprouted beneath the attention of the Imperial armies.

And now they've come for their brother Ichabod, to recruit him for their latest quest.

"Catelexis?" He echoed their words as he spun Usurper like a top, poisoned tip bared against the ground. "An ominous name."

"Not its true name, but one to give classification for the records. Tis a creature of darkness, long overdue its fate." Xenobia declared, "Thirteen hundred worlds, held sway by its fell influence. It's a wonder it's lasted this long, the Imperium should've taken notice."

"It has, otherwise you wouldn't have come here." Ichabod replied, raising his eyes to meet them. "That brings me to my question. Why choose me in particular, when there are a multitude of options?"

"A multitude, yes, but none have a primaris with a penchant for nullifying the influence of the Empyrean." Janissa explained, "Oh that is right, dear brother. We know the extent of your capabilities, and they would prove most useful."

The Outcast wasn't impressed, "Is that why you've come, after all these years, because I am... useful? I fear you've wasted your time. I will not be made a tool for someone else's hands, least of all to the sisters who've had a hand in casting me out."

Xenobia rolled her eyes and downed her wine in one gulp, she was expecting this. "Come now, Cab. You languish in self-exile and claim that we had a fault in it? So fate has dealt you a cruel hand, but you were granted a life as a prince. You lived in comfort, yet you chose to abandon it all for what? Love, or the lack of it?"

"I was a prince of a family that denied me the warmth of love and kinship!" Ichabod exploded. He didn't like how she used the loving nickname Morgana gave him with such presumptuous familiarity. "I would expect no less of a murderous sociopath to have such an oversight! Tis all I wanted, yet was it granted? A thing so little of cost?"

Xenobia began to laugh. Janissa shook her head, "Your grievances are noted, brother. I suppose we extended this offer with the thought you would relish the opportunity to find purpose in your miserable life. Clearly, we were mistaken."

"Yes, and you've outstayed your welcome." He declared, rising from his seat to tower above the twins. "Leave."

The women departed without another word. Ichabod released a heavy sigh as though the exchanged weighed upon him greatly. He approached his adoptive mother and placed a hand on her shoulder. Minerva rubbed his knuckles affectionately, not in the least caring for the uncomfortable psychic lances digging into her skin from his touch.

"You should've gone with them." She said, "You would've bridged a gap between you and your family, now I fear that it has only widened."

"It's for the best, when it concerns those two." Ichabod replied.

"They are still your sisters."

"In name and in blood only."

The two of them sat together for evening meal and dined on fattened rat stew. It was far from a fancy dish, but it filled their bellies all the same. By then, Ichabod had grown accustomed to the humble food of paupers. With a body blessed with the blood of a Primarch, he had little worry for disease. And as it was with food prepared with loving hands, it simply tasted better.

"Did you know that when we were young, Xenobia and Janissa were the first to kill a grown man?" Ichabod declared as he popped a plump fleshy thigh into his mouth. "He was among the least of the nobility, but just as ambitious. It's not a pleasant story, but it should broaden perspective on the matter."

"Tell me." Minerva pressed, "This should be interesting."

"His name was Saxtus, a man blessed with the face and body of Augustus. Many noble ladies took notice of him, he also had a silver tongue, the double meaning shouldn't be too hard to figure out. Such traits were powerful tools to move up the political ladder. It wasn't long before Xenobia took notice of him as well, then soon after Janissa. The affair stirred the empire, two of the god-king's daughters fighting over one man? A mortal? It was unheard of. But what happened next took us all by surprise... Saxtus was found in his bedroom dead, the morning after the servants witnessed the twins enter his house."

"Are you certain it was them who killed him?"

"That's what everyone said, and continued to say long after. Their lust for death gave me no cause to doubt it. I tell you, Minerva, the blood of Angronius has a curse in it. All decided by a coin flipped by the gods."

The old witch smiled, "And you think your sisters got the wrong end of that coin?"

"I do, as have I." Ichabod lamented.

Minerva grew quiet as she turned thoughtful. Her hand reached out to take the giant's hand, "Ichabod, as I've said before, yours is not a curse. It is a cleansing fire, a gift by the gods to set right the wrongs of this world."

"And I would've traded it in willingly, if it would've meant that my own mother would've held me to her breast... and shown me the love she'd denied me all these years."

"Take comfort in knowing that your father loved you, as I do. As your woman, Morgana."

He needed to hear that. It was strange, knowing that the one person in all of Nuceria Prime who raised him proper was the enemy of his father and an exile condemned to die in Costigane. "I suppose if I was born differently, I would never have met you. Now, enough of this talk. The journey and that exchange with our guests has sapped the strength from my bones. I wish to sleep."

The Outcast prepared a mat of animal skins on the floor, sealed the entrance to the cave, then laid down to rest with his blade close by. As he did so, Minerva lay close to him and reflected on the past before closing her eyes. She'd gained and lost so much in her long life. A son was taken from her by the Nucerians of old, and another by the new. Both at the hands of Angronius. Years have dulled the pain and the natural desire for vengeance. Exile had granted her much time to heal from the wounds of it all, but when she first laid eyes on Ichabod in the ruins so long ago... she had to admit, it opened everything up like a raw and bleeding gash.

And yet in the end, she'd grown fond of the man. It was good enough revenge as any, to gain the son cast out by the House of Thal'kyr.

"Rest now, Ichabod." She whispered, "And dream of better days."

But Ichabod did not, in fact, rest nor dream of better days. As he lay there, thinking on what might have been, his thoughts turned towards the offer of his sisters. He'd turned them down, they'd have long been gone by then. Nevertheless the thought of that xenos, an anomaly in need of correction, appealed to him in ways he dared not admit outright.

Once dawn broke, and the first rays barely pierced the dark skies, Ichabod left the cave for Vendhayana to secure himself a vessel.

Ullanor Sector

Mundus Tropaeum

With the greatest victory of the Imperium to that date sealed in blood and iron, the call to an Imperial triumph was sounded. To recognize this highpoint of the Great Crusade and to honor all the warriors of the Ullanor Crusade, mortals and astartes alike, for their extraordinary valor and service to humanity's cause. By the Emperor's command, Ullanor was remade as a trophy world, designated 'Mundus Tropaeum' on all galactic maps and records of the Imperial Tithe.

It would be a site of glory and spectacle to cement not only this single conquest over the forces ranged against Mankind, but a greater symbol of the Great Crusade itself. For two hundred Terran years the Emperor's mighty endeavor had moved across the face of the galaxy to bring unity and illumination to the lost daughter-worlds of Old Earth. It had pushed back the night, reformed old links between human civilizations, battled alien threats - and with regret, it had often punished those who refused to return to the Imperial fold. A change was coming, though, a change that found its fulcrum on Ullanor. None who walked upon that world knew that the echo of that Triumph would sound for solar decades, for Terran centuries, for millennia. The glory of this triumphant spectacle as so many of the Imperium's scattered military forces gathered in one place for the first time in centuries was to remain in the mind of every astartes as the high-point of the great endeavor that they had been engaged upon.

To prepare the world for the Triumph of Ullanor, geoformer platoons from the Mechanicum brought world engines and mobile stone-burners to cut a massive swath across the broken landscape left in the battle's wake. Orkish dead were buried by the millions within their savage ruins, interred beneath transplanted rocks and the heads of crushed mountains. The Mechanicum eradicated every last remaining trace of the enemy and paved over them with a giant boulevard, a parade stage as wide as the footprint of some entire Imperial cities.

They built a highway and allowed only one structure to stand besides the great platform - an ornamental pavilion of black marble and heavy granite that had been built piecemeal on Terra and then shipped across the void by special envoy. Marker posts decorated with the skulls of Ork commanders paced out the length of the road, and behind them great bowls of smokeless Promethium burned brightly, endlessly lighting the highway with their blue-white fire. When the Mechanicum had finished their work, the honored came to pay homage to the battle won, the Great Crusade's ideal of human unity and the Emperor who was father to all Mankind. The Imperial Army and the Titan Legions bracketed the gathering. Human troops were ranked in uncountable numbers, their host so wide they became a sea of battle armor and dress uniforms.

Every common man and woman who stood on Ullanor Prime's soil that day had been selected for their valor and conduct, and until the day they die each would have the singular honor of wearing the onyx-and-gold Ullanor Triumph Bar upon their uniforms. The award was forged from Bolter shells recovered from the field and melted down. Ranged around them, the great war machines of the Legio Titanica towered towards a sky cut to ribbons by the contrails of a thousand aerospace fighters; and above those, high over the thin white cirrus clouds of Ullanor Prime's day, Imperial warships moved as slow as they dared through the upper atmosphere, washes of interface heat rolling off their Void Shields as they showed their flanks in a gesture of renewed fealty.

All the legions stood represented at the Ullanor Triumph, and with them came the beings of superhuman power and majesty. Gods and angels made flesh, the Primarchs of the greatest armies ever created by human hands.

Mortarion, the reaper of men and master of the Death Guard, cowled and lethal in aspect, matched by the warrior-guardians of his Deathshroud honor guard. The Phoenician, Fulgrim, resplendent in his finery and handsome in aspect, lit by the reflection of gold and platinum. Magnus the Red, the Crimson King of the Thousand Sons, the lord of the unknown, his soul as much a mystery to the common world as the workings of the Warp and the ghosts within it. The proud Lion El'Johnson, knightly and seething with quiet fury for reasons yet known to himself. Roboute Guilliman of the Ultramarines, as well as Corvus Corax of the Ravenguard.

Angronius Thal'kyr, the quiet and brooding master of war of the War Hounds who burned with such intensity and buried it all deep in his heart, saying little and standing watchful. The savage Leman Russ, father of all Space Wolves and slayer of the Ork Overboss Urlakk Urg. Rogal Dorn, the stalwart man of stone, the Imperial Fist with his unswerving manner and unbreakable focus, the one who would always obey, would always be ready for duty. Jaghatai Khan, his fur-trimmed robes and ornate armor detailed with a thousand narratives of the White Scars Legion, his every step across the land a challenge to the galaxy.

The giant of blackest obsidian, the warmhearted Vulkan of the Salamanders, arguably the most beloved of the Emperor's sons. Surprisingly, the enigmatic twin Primarchs Alpharius Omegon, appeared as well. And unsurprisingly, the Iron Warriors remained absent altogether, ever on the frontlines without time to spare for triumphs or celebrations- word for word spewed from the lips of their petulant gene-sire. Then Sanguinius of the Blood Angels, flanked by the gold-armoured honor detail of the Sanguinary Guard, his mighty wings folded back across his battle-plate, his face turned to the sky to welcome the impossible, majestic sight before him. Lurking in the shadows, their presence barely acknowledged out of fear and loathing, were the Night Lords. Konrad the Cursed, drawn to the mirth of the crowds, followed the Emperor's fleet and sat back quietly to witness his brothers in what he considered an unnecessary distraction.

Then, finally, came Horus of the Luna Wolves, the Hero of Ullanor, liberator and first among equals. Though he was not the slayer of the Ork warlord, his strategy was undoubtedly the piercing edge in the Ullanor conflict. Without it, the Crusade would've surely faltered. The honors would go to Angronius and Leman Russ, but the title of Warmaster would be granted to the Lupercal. It was also here, at the celebrations, that the Emperor planned to unveil his gifts to the most worthy of legions. And unknown to him, it would cause the planted seeds of treachery to take root and bear the foulest of fruits.

A day before the Triumph itself, the Primarchs gathered to meet. It was Horus' idea to forge alliances and bring the brothers together, there at Mundus Tropaeum, for it was the first time that all the legions had gathered in one place since the Emperor embarked on the Great Crusade. The Triumph was to celebrate the end of the Ullanor conflict, but there were more to follow. Petty rivalries would remain, but it was the detrimental enmity between Primarchs that Horus' hoped to eliminate.

He would never succeed, at least not entirely.

"To you, my brothers!" Horus raised his goblet, a vessel so large that it might've served as a mortal's dais, and toasted to the Wolf-King's kill. Leman Russ had taken Urlakk's skull and used it as a trophy to adorn his armor's right pauldron. It was hardly the most elegant of liveries to wear to a party, but Leman was never one to adapt in favor of catering to the whims of others, save for himself. The skull brought him great pride, the sight of which never ceased to invoke the memory of that monumental duel. "May you live forever, to see more glorious duels with both men and xenos."

Horus downed the noxious substance, which could kill a normal man yet tasted sweetly to the Primarch's lips. This same wine swirled within the cups of his brothers, who dined in the giant round table of solid stone. All those in favor of the toast drank too, and all those who did not drank all the same to swallow the bitter taste of their smoldering jealousy.

Angronius didn't enjoy the festivities as much as he should have. Looking at them, all those gods said to be his equals, he didn't quite feel the camaraderie Horus claimed to have. Some, they were pleasant to be around. Others made him wish he was in the silent halls of the Maw, tending to his hounds who loved him unconditionally. Especially that one with the unnerving smile, Konrad Curze, who didn't stop grinning at him the whole time he sat at the table. His thoughts turned to Nuceria, to Polgara and Sonjita. It simply wasn't the same here. These brothers of his, they weren't his family nor were they the Freedmen of Old. They fought alongside him, but it was all in the name of conquest. The gladiators and all the Stygians who helped him topple an empire, Angronius missed them too.

He was among many, and yet never before had he felt so alone.

"What weighs upon your brow, god-king?" Sanguinius, the Angel of Baal, sat beside him and nudged his brooding sibling with his elbow. "We've won a great victory, should there be no greater cause for celebration?"

"Perhaps he feels it hollow, given that I was the one who took the beast's head!" Leman guffawed, stuffing his mouth with grapes. The fruits of this world were exotic to him, and the Fenrisian was never one to turn down a chance to fill his belly.

"You mistake my silence." Angronius waved them off, "I think of home... and the distance that keeps me from it."

"Ah, yes." Sanguinius nodded, "They told me that you have family there, trueborn sons and daughters to hold your name. Never mind glories and opulence, love weighs heavier than a king's crown."

"Oh?" The god-king sat back and regarded his brother curiously, "And from what brook does this bit of wisdom spring from?"

There was an amused twinkle in Sanguinius' eye, "I have family too, Angron. Back on Baal. You're not the only one whose seed has proven mortal enough to take root. There will be an end to the crusade, and you will see them all again."

"There will be no end, Sanguinius." Angronius lamented, he knew that even if there was and end, his wives would not live to see it and his children wouldn't even recognize him. "But I appreciate your words of comfort."

"I would have your hearts lift a bit more. Come!" The angel clapped him on the back, forcing the wine up Angronius' nose. The god-king growled spitefully but said nothing as Sanguinius took hold of his arm. If it were anyone else, he would have remained seated. But Sanguinius was of equal strength and soon Angronius found himself dragged to his feet, "I shall introduce you to Vulkan, this is a meeting long overdue."

The giant was late to the party, having stopped by the recovery centers to impart encouragement to the wounded warriors of the Imperium. Vulkan arrived at the dining hall, adorned in scaled mail robes of twinkling emeralds and other precious stones. Like his brothers, he was a king in his own right, the ruler of Nocturne and said to be the greatest smith the Imperium had ever seen. And despite his lofty status, there was a certain commonalty to him, a demeanor of one who knew suffering and humility in equal measure.

"Angronius, is it?" Vulkan boomed, throwing aside all formalities as he swept up the Primarch in a great bear hug. "Well met, my brother!"

Angron smiled awkwardly, overwhelmed by the warmth shown by the gentle giant. Horus had an aura of amicability, a pleasantness that allowed him to forge a great bond between foes. Vulkan had that same endearing charm, but in greater stores. Suddenly, the party didn't seem all that bad to the god-king. The giant let him go and presented him with a gift, a newly forged replacement to the helmet he lost.

"I was not present at the battle of the Ork stronghold, but I heard you lost something. Tis bad manners to come empty-handed to a feast." Vulkan declared, "Behold the Howling Visage, reforged and now unbreakable. May your enemies never rid you of this piece again."

He even went so far as to paint the helm to look like brass, bedecked with masterful engraving of pouncing warhounds. Angronius nodded gratefully and grasped Vulkan's arm tightly, "A gift well received, Vulkan. Will you join us? We've started, but there's plenty of food and drink to go around."

"Is there room for one more?"

The three of them turned to see an unexpected visitor, one to join the circle of Primarchs before the Triumph. His head was shaven clean, like Horus', and every inch of his skin was adorned with holy writ. Golden words of Colchisian origin were tattooed into his flesh, so many of which gave him the appearance from afar as a walking statue of purest gold. He carried himself with the same air of humility as Vulkan, but Angronius saw through it. He saw in the eyes of the stranger, the faint swirling echoes of wounded pride, and he mistook it for sadness.

This stranger was Lorgar Aurelian, ill-fated to be ruin of all things. Cursed was his name at birth, and cursed would be his name for all time.

"Of course there is." Angronius beckoned, embracing the stranger warmly. "Welcome brother, I am Angronius Thal'kyr. You must be the one they call Lorgar. If you're here now, I suppose congratulations are in order. You must've come far, from some successful conquest I assume?"

"A pilgrimage, to be precise." Lorgar nodded slowly, walking in pace with his brothers. "One that has opened my eyes to the destiny of mankind. Far greater than any conquest, I assure you."