thousandsonpyrae

[thousandsonpyrae]

Aaron blinked. 

That was the only warning that the aspired sorcerer, Al’mahed, had watching as his newly placed teacher before the Imperial minister was turned into a crystallized statue of such spontaneous heat that the scream that wheezed out of the man’s lungs were more from late brain-reaction than an actual reaction to pain. 

“Disappointing.” Aaron said with a dry defeat, shifting in his command throne with a collection of tomes and books here nor there. Two scribes at either side of him, low from the weight of their torso-sized manuscripts and shoulders hunched from their writing mechadendrites to keep in pace to the wordkeeping accepted by their master. “The Imperium has truly become something abhorrent. Oh how the Emperor must weep upon his Throne, but this is the price of hiding the Truths of the Galaxy. No matter their horror.” 

The reborn warrior tilted his head up to the one-way ceiling peering to the Warp-torn stars in question, pondering on his own words before nodding. “Superstitions and zealotry. Madmen and naysayers. Witch-hunters and Schemers. Traitors and Loyalists to themselves and those they’ve knelt to. A pitiful time. If I had anymore tears to have, I would weep to Mankind’s fall and drink it in a chalice of damnation.” 

Aaron leaned back finally, face twitched to the soft thunk of his power pack. It was more of a mantle of worship now, arched of gilt horns and wings to an altar of the burning Liar in a constant comet’s burn suspended in midair, drinking the constant reality of aether. Mere nuclear law no longer gave his armour mobility, he has been a shell of his former innocence for several lifetimes and the corruption he’ve suffered through only showed on his warplate. 

The sanguine scarlet edged by regal gold flames, etched in the warpcrafts of ancient knowledge and present ingenuity. He could feel the Neverborn constantly glancing in intrigue, wondering of this rare jewel that they could lick over and keep that they can never have. He has been touched by a Power beyond them.

The unmistakable stubbornness of the Human soul was something the Daemons always fawned over, their malice and forgotten innocence in a sea twisted and corrupted in a time immemorial and the beliefs of this ruined galaxy had turned them - maybe forever more. Yet, in the black tide, there is specks here and there. White and beautiful. Hiding but there. 

Aaron saw it when he finally freed himself of Ahriman’s mistake and he hoped...maybe he will see it again. 

Not now. From the words spat by the Imperial Zealot, the Sons of Russ were moving again and the reborn Lord of Fire sought to bring another lash onto the Braggarts’ backs. He might not enjoy this reality the XVth have brought onto themselves, but he will take the double-edged weapon and wreath it in purifying flame.

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Reappearing at the most opportune/inopportune moment, such is the Way of the XVth!

BROTHER - Aaron

WELCOME, BROTHER AARON!

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The Incandescent Fire

“Black-blooded traitor! Diaaaaaah!” The Child of Russ yowled before his defiance turned into a scream that pierced the life stripped from his very bones; his power armour tearing off his flesh, his flesh burning away to reveal the cybernetics and reinforced bones before that too was mere charred statue. Soul-fire flickering and extinguished, crumbling to dust before the hateful palm of the Sorcerer-Lord.

Aaron the Reborn he was called by his Genefather and brothers. A sight of hope that they never would have imagined but behold; the Rubric restored of flesh with eyes burning blue of aether from his fatigue-darkened lids. Clad in reforged armour and flowing cloak weaved from the collected dust of Grey Knights slain during their interloping of the Red King’s great ritual. Standing on a heightened formation, a ruinous lord with his scorn baring on the newest generation of the Emperor’s astartes bearing the Braggard-King’s blood. 

Around him, his Chosen Rubric lumbered with their blessed bolters crackling fell-fire from their scriptures and burning blades under his own spellcraft. The horns of Tzaangor blew, their breyherds heralded by their sorcerous champions lunging into the enemy fortification with blind hatred instilled into them for generations. The avian-cursed beastmen crested of their horns and savage beaks, dressed in jewelry and silver armour, armed of warp-pistols and elegant blades truly followed their new master and death was a mere facet to their existence. 

Aaron watched and felt nothing. As his cabal of brothers watched, their weaving minds knitting and supplanting the rousing spell. These conniving wretches were the same brothers that stood at his side, their lives mattered as little to him as the Tzaangor that threw themselves and consciously knowing that - Aaron felt another knife to his weeping pain. 

He didn’t show. He only scribed it into reality with a gesture of hand. As a pack of the Skyclaws lunged over to kill the conclave, barrages of bolts writhing of magicks punched against their patterned armour. Only one managed to divine through, crackling lightning claws rearing to assassinate the vengeful son of Magnus. A repeat of history a thousand fold...and Aaron tilted his head in time stretched into the furthest moment he could conjure. 

With his middle and ring fingers outstretching, his witchcraft lifted out into searing shadows of burning disdain stretching like a phoenix’s wings. When time flowed, another space wolf was claimed by the scorn of a true Pyrae. 

[thousandsonpyrae]

Blessed.

Aaron initates the Thousand Son Pile, resting against the Primarch before the others.

@ask-the-crimson-king

@every thousand son out there

[thousandsonpyrae]

Cabal Blade-Brothers

Cabal-Brothers of Nine: Shmuel - Pavoni (biomancy) Tapani - Pavoni (biomancy) Aten-nefru - Corvidae (Precognition) Canopus - Corvidae (Precognition) Mehur - Raptora (Telekinetics) Khalid - Pavoni (biomancy) Khaen-suas - Athanean (Telepath) Nathaniel - Pavoni (Biomancy) Sepi - Corvidae (Precognition)

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Aaron blinked again, not out of any present notion but to clear his waving mind. Reaching up without a hesitation, the Blademaster took his primarch’s hand and lifted. “Of course, Father. By your word, I end all your enemies and provide enlightenment.” He vowed as he rose with his scarlet warplate. 

With them, the spirit of the present Sons of Prospero roused to the sight of Magnus lifting once more. Shmuel rose with them, “Our Father rises once more! The sun shines scarlet and true!” The demi-company didn’t speak but those with force glaives thumped a unified rhythm in memory to the Tizcan Guardians’ salute to the Kings of Old. 

“What is your command, Lord Magnus?” Aaron questioned with a earnest energy in his eyes, the fire of the Pyrae aroused in the collective powers present. 

☠ - thousandsonpyrae

[Send skulls for dangerous situation]

@thousandsonpyrae

Surprisingly enough, upon waking, Magnus did not have a good recollection of what had happened. Last he remembered before blacking out was hearing something incredibly loud, almost impossibly so, before he was plunged into darkness. In his unconscious state, his mind was not idle, and it went adrift upon the tides of the Great Ocean. 

He saw several visions of things past and yet to come. He only remembered a few of them, as some of the visions of the future were muddled, and he could still hear the shrill cackling that had chased him back to his body.

He woke with a small start, his eye wide and immediately he was on guard for any kind of danger. That was when he realized he was within someone’s arms. That of a Legionnaire. One of his sons. Aaron. “What happened?” he asked, his voice sounding a little groggy. “Where am I?”

[thousandsonpyrae]

Temple of the goddess Isis, Philae

[thousandsonpyrae]

Aaron initates the Thousand Son Pile, resting against the Primarch before the others.

@ask-the-crimson-king

@every thousand son out there

[thousandsonpyrae]

Aaron was found, resting his Primarch on his lap. Blood-streaked eyes staring out to the beyond, intense for a moment before the sound of his Teacher’s voice brought him back to this plane. The warping blanket of soul-flame writhing around through the Sixth Sense while the physical protection of a deep cave was tainted by green energies. 

This Blademaster grasped on a powerful forearm with a tenderness one would find impossible while clad in astartes warplate. Near him, another warrior of his cabal rested marked by the Pavoni feather on his pauldron. 

A wash of relief passed through the air suddenly and out towards the entrance, between them and the thunderous tempest of war between the XVth and the Greenskinned Menace that infect this world was a demi-company of space marines willing and ready to fight and die in protection of their scholar-king. 

“Y-you...’ Aaron’s harsh voice answered, still recovering from the horrid mind-bomb of the Ork Psykers. ‘We barely stopped an insidious tactic from the enemy, my Primarch. The Greenskins used their Psykers so crudely, w-we...didn’t expect such a barbaric move. The ones on the battlefield just overwhelmed themselves in the Ocean’s powers.” 

There was a edge of controlled fury in the Blademaster’s voice behind his jaded calm. “If we didn’t had the familiars of the Great Ocean come to some of us, I...”

His nose had this tick of twitching when beholding the fire of rage that never left him from childhood. “The wisdom of our ancestors and the Emperor watch us this day.” 

As if to challenge this very notion, the sound of a great unified warcry rolled beyond their temporary sanctum, ‘WAAAARGH!’

☠ - thousandsonpyrae

[Send skulls for dangerous situation]

@thousandsonpyrae

Surprisingly enough, upon waking, Magnus did not have a good recollection of what had happened. Last he remembered before blacking out was hearing something incredibly loud, almost impossibly so, before he was plunged into darkness. In his unconscious state, his mind was not idle, and it went adrift upon the tides of the Great Ocean. 

He saw several visions of things past and yet to come. He only remembered a few of them, as some of the visions of the future were muddled, and he could still hear the shrill cackling that had chased him back to his body.

He woke with a small start, his eye wide and immediately he was on guard for any kind of danger. That was when he realized he was within someone’s arms. That of a Legionnaire. One of his sons. Aaron. “What happened?” he asked, his voice sounding a little groggy. “Where am I?”

[thousandsonpyrae]

This scene and his talk with Konrad Curze in his book really stuck with me about the Emperor.

Extract: Master of Prospero

[Book Extract - Magnus the Red: Master of Prospero] The Emperor gives Magnus some good advice, then some really bad advice. (taken from Reddit)

Context: Magnus is recovering from a massive sorcerous undertaking he directed with his legion to rescue the civilian population of a world Magnus and Perturabo were attempting to save. After collapsing, and being caught by Perturabo in one of the few brotherly acts I’ve read of him doing, Magnus recovers in an unconscious state only to dream about his last contact with the Emperor.

‘I am still alive,’ he said, and his voice was thrown back at him as though he stood in the centre of a great amphitheatre.

Since no vistas were presenting themselves in this void, Magnus would conjure his own. If he was going to spend an eternity in this place, then he would be damned if he’d do it bored.

Memories surged around him, a series of snapshots from his life: the climb into the hills of Prospero where he found the statue whose destruction gave rise to the Fellowships of the Thousand Sons; the inaugural conclave of the First Masters in the Reflecting Cave; taking a knee before his father upon their first meeting in Occullum Square, though in truth they had spoken for many years already.

He conjured them at random, knowing all the while that nothing was every truly random, wondering which memory would come to the fore.

The answer presented itself, as the night he had climbed the Astartes Tower to meet his father on the eve of his departure from Terra swam into focus. It had been a bittersweet moment, for they were both aware it would be many years before they met this way again. The Great Crusade was a vision of supreme ambition, one that would take father and sons to the uttermost corners of the galaxy for decades, perhaps even centuries. Only a fool would entertain any notions of certainty on the commencement of such a singular undertaking.

They had sat upon the highest peak of the slender tower and cast their minds out over the world, flying together one last time. Only then did Magnus understand he was not simply witnessing a memory, but was part of it.

Their bodies of light threaded the deep canyons of the Mid-Atalantic Ridge then circled the arid dust basin of the Mid-Terranean before following the Urals from Kara Oceanica to the Kievan Rus Khaganate. They circled Mount Narodnya, watching the ghosts of Fulgrim and Ferrus Manus as they competed over the labour of twin weapons.

‘So perfect,’ said the Emperor.

‘Which one?’ asked Magnus, but his father just smiled.

Magnus watched his brothers striving to outdo one another, finding their need to prove their superiority faintly ridiculous. What did it matter who could forge the best weapon when a primarch was a weapon unto himself?

‘You are so like me in so many ways,’ said the Emperor. Magnus flushed with pride, but, as always, the Emperor’s words carried multiple meanings. ‘You have a great many of my strengths, but strength magnified to excess eventually becomes a weakness.’

‘How can that be?’

‘Confidence can spill over into arrogance,’ said the Emperor. ‘An obsessive pursuit of perfection can blind you to what it costs to achieve. Attention to detail can become micro-management. Magnus, you have my intellect and my power, but like me you are prone to believing you can do no wrong, that your intellect lifts you above the risk of making petty mistakes or errors based on emotion.’

‘What mistakes have I made?’ asked Magnus, dreading the answer.

‘Only time will tell what is a mistake and what is not, but an inability to believe you can ever make a mistake is dangerous. It leaves a mind open to certainty, and unwavering certainty is our greatest enemy. Always question and always be open to different ways of thinking, other ways of untangling the knot. That is the gift I give to you on this eve of our Crusade.’

‘I do not understand.’

‘You will, my son,’ said the Emperor. ‘Despite all I have just said, you are different enough from me that I can see how you will succeed where I have failed.’

‘Failed? How have you failed?’

‘I do not know yet,’ said the Emperor with a wistful sheen to his subtle body. ‘But I will soon, and I sense you and your favoured son must play a part in rectifying my mistakes.’

‘My favoured son?’ asked Magnus. ‘They are all my sons.’

‘There’s truth in that, yes, but there is one who will bear your ambitions when you need them to travel farther than you could ever dream.’

‘Where in this galaxy can I not travel?’ said Magnus.

He felt his father’s amusement.

‘There are always places a son will travel where his father should not,’ replied the Emperor. ‘Just when you believe there is nothing more to be done, one of your sons will show you how wrong you have been all this time.’

‘This sounds like gloomy advice, father,’ said Magnus. ‘I had hoped for something a little more inspiring as we venture out into the unknown.’

‘What could be more inspiring than to know you have taught your sons to reach greater heights than you? They are your immortality, Magnus.’

No more had been said on the matter, and they had returned to their bodies atop the Astartes Tower to say farewell. His father had taken a seat by the great celestial occullum and the impossibly complex maps detailing His plans for galactic conquest. Though they had shared a sublime moment flying the aether, Magnus knew his time here was at an end. The Emperor turned and extended His hand, and Magnus looked into his father’s eyes, wondering how he had not noticed the wistful look of sadness he now saw in them.

‘Remember this moment,’ said the Emperor.

‘I will,’ promised Magnus.

He took his father’s hand and Magnus gasped in sudden pain as his spirit was wrenched from the memory and hurled back into his body.

From Magnus the Red: Master of Prospero.

[thousandsonpyrae]

Pre-heresy Era Thousand Sons

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When you have an excellent character, designwise and purpose, but you’re like ‘What am I gonna do with him?’

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Chaos Lord Aaron the Restored 

By the twists of fates, by powers unforeseen and failure made success, one of the Rubricae return from its long-suffering. Blademaster made lord, the skulls of his past masters made into foci of his heightened power and the halo of warpfire blaze cruel and angelic as the Impossible Lord stands before his Gene-father from the ruins of Grey Knight interference..

I bet y’all thought he wouldn’t appear today!

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Should Aaron be a free Chaos boi in the M42?

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A picture for March 25th, the date when the One Ring was destroyed and Sauron was defeated, aka Tolkien Reading Day. What do you plan to read?

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What place does Aaron call home? Does he have his own warship?

For many millennia, he didn't have a place to call home. As an unwilling servant to a number of his own legion brothers, their gene-heirs, and ambitious sorcerers who dared to grab his aethereal leash, the Rubric marine had countless homes and graves when he was finally defeated by the many foes pitted against his 'master'.

 Now, free by the excess winds of the Warp that his spirit has been gathering in its long torture and by Magnus' rituals, Aaron is the First Rubric to break free of the curse. After killing his latest master, Thoka Lamar - an ambitious Thousand Son magister - Aaron claimed his power and warband, he calls the Silver Tower "The Chariot of Akhet" his home and warship.