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"A time of darkness has come, a time that will envelop us, as brothers, in shadow and crimson. Zach, set pace for the Eye of Terror!" - Vrygan, The Specter, Scarlet Apostle.
+ 'Of Mettle and Fury' +
It was at the start of the end, hence for the name; "The Age of Ending", where an operating splinter of Templars were cast into an unforgiving shadow. Survival wasn't due to their advanced and hardened skills in combat nor had it anything to do with tactical superiority or faith in the god emperor, it was but their stout hearts that drummed underneath the scarred and tempered admantium that barred their chests. It isn't often where a Templar bites their own cry or a proud astartes for that matter, "No pity, No remorse and No fear", but of the 12 that survived, each learned the exact values of the words they spat so casually before charging relentlessly into battle. The horrors that scarred them so deeply, both physically and mentally had opened up a new perspective in their otherwise rather, closed and brainwashed mindset, painted with doctrines and prayers and how the God Emperor alone, would be the savior of humanity. This thinking would be considered as a wretched act of treachery and betrayal to the Imperium of man, but this, to them, was reality, not one force was going to be able to overcome and smite with efficiency the malevolence and anarchy that was chaos for in the end, the inevitable truth was that all, regardless of will and faith, you will fall from grace and only then, shall the prudent minds of the chauvinists be faced with reality. But the 12 Astartes didn't turn to the flags of the lords of chaos, for the time spent in the deepest depths of hell, they have but grown in logic and knowledge, they knew well enough that the Imperium was but a community of weak minds influenced by that of a quasi, if not literal, dictatorship. But chaos, well, it was chaos, it was a senseless array of nonsense and illogical acts of filth and brutality, it was tasteless despite the power it promised that came along with 'gifts' of corruption, it was pathetic and in ways, similar to the Imperium. Upon their return, they were to be known as The Scarlet Apostles, and each individual, a revenant.
The 12, Chief Apostles;
Leon Vrygan; The Wise, A Marshal whilst in the service of Templars.
Arketh Marshall; The Venerated, An Emperor's Champion whilst in the service of Templars.
Dax Phylex; The Sly, A veteran sword brethren whilst in the service of Templars.
Tryf Rejikus; The Beacon, A well known scout initiate and then, sword brethren of the Templars.
Vantz Metelmann; The Wall, A veteran sword brethren whilst in the service of Templars.
Pierro Bavariett; The Tactician, A Castellan and brilliant strategist whilst in service of Templars.
Hans G'eft; The Benevolent, A fearsome sword brethren notable for his feats of courage.
Reese Lyons; The Blade, A veteran sword brethren whilst in service of Templars.
Mark Tiefton; The Loyal, A great chaplain and dedicated warrior whilst in service of Templars.
Estabaan Rizon; The Fixer, A hardened apothecary whilst in service of Templars.
Cryx Van Lierde; The Flayer, A sword brethren noted for his dual blades of Karthox.
Kenji Vehemort; The Humble, A sword brethren of great skill in the use of pistols.
The Beginning of the End
They carried out the operation in a relatively swift manner, a list of purifying and morale boosting benedictions ringing between their vox's as their bullets wrapped in plasma found their resting in the mutated flesh of the abominations that resided on the planet. Scum, heretics, xenos were but a few terms that refer to the bags of shit with the undeserving gift of conscience and free will, they squeezed and held their finger on the trigger without rest as they slowly purged and in their own names, purified the foul planet writhing in what seemed like unending chaos. This little act of rebellion and disobedience quickly caught the eye of the pit leader, sparking a glint of interest in his glowing orbs of red that monitored every movement of his planet, he played game master and proceeded to send waves of beasts to step on their on advance whilst he dined on the succulent flesh of fair maidens and the blood of true men. It was then, with the lost of long worn patience, where Rejikus let out a blast of 'unknown' energy, forcing every minion of chaos to fall on their knees and heed his call for then, his word was order. Whether every one of those twelve marines had an unique power like the one Rejikus had was unknown at that point, but the revolt and reverse in command of his minions angered Bazzariel, forcing him out of his throne and onto the field that was stained in the blood of thousands. His presence was mighty as every step he made, his hooves would cause the earth to tremble, the feral snarls and shouts of fury that rolled of his pierced lips echoed from lands afar, his every advance forward had the marines take a regretted step back, of instinct of course. Albeit the monstrosity that made its way closer with every unforgiving step, Leon had been waiting for the chance to strike the beast down, one on one and teach it a lesson that when worthless pieces of shit such as Bazzariel fucked with a man of the imperium, nothing good was going to come out of it. In a sudden burst of light, whether this was an effect of the powers granted to them by the prospect or not, he teleported unto the shoulder of the baphomet, jamming a blade wrapped in an ethereal flame into it's throat before appearing underneath his legs, slicing at his heels before delivering the finishing blow, powered with an emotion so strong, it manifested in an eerie glow of red, which sent the daemon flying off with a sonic boom before the entrance of silence. Strangely enough, the victory was unusually fast and simple, but none of them spoke of it and took it as a blessing before the ex chaplain, Tiefton awoke the Machine Spirit that slumbered within the metal casing of the Caestus Assault Craft. Their departure was swift and bore fruit in the form of trophies and prized artifacts of humanity that were lost several millenia ago in great conflicts between good and evil. Regardless, their escape wasn't complete, they had to navigate the vicious and fatal rifts of both time and reality that made up the Eye of Terror, how such a feeble ship such as an assault ram managed to stay intact through all this was but up to speculation, but the ship would prevail and later be named as "Aiza" in honor of their fallen brother, the 13th who fell to a horde of blood letters in the beginning of the operation. Silence was a virtue they all cherished while they played their chances in escaping the Eye of Terror, lost in the warp for a month after departing, they made a sudden appearance outside the Mercenary planet of Faryn, 10 clicks south-east of the EoT.
+ 'Of Mettle and Fury' +
It was at the start of the end, hence for the name; "The Age of Ending", where an operating splinter of Templars were cast into an unforgiving shadow. Survival wasn't due to their advanced and hardened skills in combat nor had it anything to do with tactical superiority or faith in the god emperor, it was but their stout hearts that drummed underneath the scarred and tempered admantium that barred their chests. It isn't often where a Templar bites their own cry or a proud astartes for that matter, "No pity, No remorse and No fear", but of the 12 that survived, each learned the exact values of the words they spat so casually before charging relentlessly into battle. The horrors that scarred them so deeply, both physically and mentally had opened up a new perspective in their otherwise rather, closed and brainwashed mindset, painted with doctrines and prayers and how the God Emperor alone, would be the savior of humanity. This thinking would be considered as a wretched act of treachery and betrayal to the Imperium of man, but this, to them, was reality, not one force was going to be able to overcome and smite with efficiency the malevolence and anarchy that was chaos for in the end, the inevitable truth was that all, regardless of will and faith, you will fall from grace and only then, shall the prudent minds of the chauvinists be faced with reality. But the 12 Astartes didn't turn to the flags of the lords of chaos, for the time spent in the deepest depths of hell, they have but grown in logic and knowledge, they knew well enough that the Imperium was but a community of weak minds influenced by that of a quasi, if not literal, dictatorship. But chaos, well, it was chaos, it was a senseless array of nonsense and illogical acts of filth and brutality, it was tasteless despite the power it promised that came along with 'gifts' of corruption, it was pathetic and in ways, similar to the Imperium. Upon their return, they were to be known as The Scarlet Apostles, and each individual, a revenant.
The 12, Chief Apostles;
Leon Vrygan; The Wise, A Marshal whilst in the service of Templars.
Arketh Marshall; The Venerated, An Emperor's Champion whilst in the service of Templars.
Dax Phylex; The Sly, A veteran sword brethren whilst in the service of Templars.
Tryf Rejikus; The Beacon, A well known scout initiate and then, sword brethren of the Templars.
Vantz Metelmann; The Wall, A veteran sword brethren whilst in the service of Templars.
Pierro Bavariett; The Tactician, A Castellan and brilliant strategist whilst in service of Templars.
Hans G'eft; The Benevolent, A fearsome sword brethren notable for his feats of courage.
Reese Lyons; The Blade, A veteran sword brethren whilst in service of Templars.
Mark Tiefton; The Loyal, A great chaplain and dedicated warrior whilst in service of Templars.
Estabaan Rizon; The Fixer, A hardened apothecary whilst in service of Templars.
Cryx Van Lierde; The Flayer, A sword brethren noted for his dual blades of Karthox.
Kenji Vehemort; The Humble, A sword brethren of great skill in the use of pistols.
The Beginning of the End
30 years have past after the dozen of Templars disappeared during the Assault of Persephone Primus, deemed Missing In Action and the search for them, long forfeited. But during the 3 decades, the warriors which were lost, found themselves pit against beasts of vile origin and vulgar nature in a gladiator setting somewhere in the midst of the Eye of Terror. They were indeed missing in action, abducted by a flood of greater daemons for private pleasure during the massive confusion where the marines lost their offensive impetus to a clumsily coordinated salvo of orbital fire. Being the hardened warriors they were, a champion of the emperor and a marshal within their ranks, they weren't set to give up and despite the notable physical changes that struck their bodies, their temple and testament of greatness to the god emperor, their conviction and stubborn fortitude kept their sanity chained. They were disciplined men and when they weren't forced onto the field for exhibition and humiliation, they recited benedictions of purity despite their physical segregation and maintained a mind of clarity and clear motive. They were to escape and in that attempt, they will bring down what forces of chaos they could and return to the light of their Emperor as the triumphant astartes they once were, in their polished armor with marks of purity fluttering in chorus with the wind. But all that seemed far fetched when the rancid air they breathed reeked of fecal matter and other repulsive properties. Despite the fact that everything the planet flaunted was out to murder anything that retained some sort of sanity, the eye of terror for that matter, they knew in their minds, they were going to succeed whether they themselves liked it or not and thus began their efforts as one, as marines, as men.
The pit leader on the planet of Shaiezen, aligned to the blood stained god of Khorne was Bazzariel, a horrendous creature that resembled a Baphomet from the ancient texts of Solomon, he was a soon to be daemon prince. Lathered with rich silks and chains, etched with blasphemous runes and sigils, his gait was firm and flaunted an air of superiority to those around him. Even the mightiest of warriors from the Imperium would get the sense that their existence was all but moribund in the presence of the beast. His pompous and ruthless grandeur earned the respect of many and the hatred of more, his tempered blade blessed by the arcanic flames of Khorne have seared the flesh of thousands and tasted the scarlet vitae of planets, trickling down the coal black metal like endless rivers of hopelessness. His existence was perverse and he took an unfortunate liking to Leon, the proud marshal of the Black Templars. He often called his honor guard to strap a collar unto the man who's pride like most marines, were hard to swallow, dragging him out to watch him duel against a monstrous being with often, nothing but his skin and fists. He was indeed, in all respects, an asshole who knew no ends.
The marines could only take so much of the endless abasement and so during their 29th year, 11 months and 27th day, when they gathered during mealtime, dining on the left overs from the gluttonous shits that played on their lives, Pierro, the genius tactician unveiled an escape plan he had developed for the nearing 3 decades they spent here in the hollowed planet of Shaiezen which made effective and major use of the derelict Caestus Assault Ram that rested in the northern ruins and a crucial enemy of logic, chance. Their only prospect of success was the fury and angst in their burning hearts and their determination to get back at these barbaric beings, this fueled the momentum and the impetus of the operation, later known as, The Burning Scarlet.
The rage in every one of them were caused by the lost of faith in the emperor, the physical corruption that had been dealt by the insanity that latched onto every damn planet within the eye of terror and practical denial. To return into the familiar arms of humanity, they gave a little of their own to an archaic prospect in return for a massive boost in power, yes, it was a full on spit at the beliefs of the Imperium but the desperation at that point had them too obsessed with returning to care. Each one of them had bloodshot eyes, their veins, strained and their voices, each one like an assembly, a chorus of shadows coupled with an aura once of ardent, but now, twisted and warped with a unique brand of 'justice'. They do look like heretics, like they've given up the light of humanity to lick the toes of the gods of chaos, but despite their corrupted exterior, their hearts remain true, only absent of faith in anyone except for their brethren. Finally, the archaic prospect as a bonus gift to bolster their offensive abilities and an indirect pun to their original identities, it dropped 12 sets of Pre-Heresy, Terminator Grade power armor with sentient hosts instilled in the plating. The armor had mouths and eyes, and a conscience of it's own, this at first, only scored the disgust and a sequence of muttered profanities from the men but like said, their desperation at this point ended up having them don the armor and secure a covenant that promised power in return of a symbiotic relationship between it's host and the armor. It was practically every chaos space marine's dream, to be possessed and gain an entry to a pool of archaic energy but to commit foul and false deeds. It would later be learned that the marines had learned to control and 'own' the pieces of armor with proper and dictating authority, hence the absence of further corruption and the later branding of themselves as 'paladins' of sorts.
The pit leader on the planet of Shaiezen, aligned to the blood stained god of Khorne was Bazzariel, a horrendous creature that resembled a Baphomet from the ancient texts of Solomon, he was a soon to be daemon prince. Lathered with rich silks and chains, etched with blasphemous runes and sigils, his gait was firm and flaunted an air of superiority to those around him. Even the mightiest of warriors from the Imperium would get the sense that their existence was all but moribund in the presence of the beast. His pompous and ruthless grandeur earned the respect of many and the hatred of more, his tempered blade blessed by the arcanic flames of Khorne have seared the flesh of thousands and tasted the scarlet vitae of planets, trickling down the coal black metal like endless rivers of hopelessness. His existence was perverse and he took an unfortunate liking to Leon, the proud marshal of the Black Templars. He often called his honor guard to strap a collar unto the man who's pride like most marines, were hard to swallow, dragging him out to watch him duel against a monstrous being with often, nothing but his skin and fists. He was indeed, in all respects, an asshole who knew no ends.
The marines could only take so much of the endless abasement and so during their 29th year, 11 months and 27th day, when they gathered during mealtime, dining on the left overs from the gluttonous shits that played on their lives, Pierro, the genius tactician unveiled an escape plan he had developed for the nearing 3 decades they spent here in the hollowed planet of Shaiezen which made effective and major use of the derelict Caestus Assault Ram that rested in the northern ruins and a crucial enemy of logic, chance. Their only prospect of success was the fury and angst in their burning hearts and their determination to get back at these barbaric beings, this fueled the momentum and the impetus of the operation, later known as, The Burning Scarlet.
The rage in every one of them were caused by the lost of faith in the emperor, the physical corruption that had been dealt by the insanity that latched onto every damn planet within the eye of terror and practical denial. To return into the familiar arms of humanity, they gave a little of their own to an archaic prospect in return for a massive boost in power, yes, it was a full on spit at the beliefs of the Imperium but the desperation at that point had them too obsessed with returning to care. Each one of them had bloodshot eyes, their veins, strained and their voices, each one like an assembly, a chorus of shadows coupled with an aura once of ardent, but now, twisted and warped with a unique brand of 'justice'. They do look like heretics, like they've given up the light of humanity to lick the toes of the gods of chaos, but despite their corrupted exterior, their hearts remain true, only absent of faith in anyone except for their brethren. Finally, the archaic prospect as a bonus gift to bolster their offensive abilities and an indirect pun to their original identities, it dropped 12 sets of Pre-Heresy, Terminator Grade power armor with sentient hosts instilled in the plating. The armor had mouths and eyes, and a conscience of it's own, this at first, only scored the disgust and a sequence of muttered profanities from the men but like said, their desperation at this point ended up having them don the armor and secure a covenant that promised power in return of a symbiotic relationship between it's host and the armor. It was practically every chaos space marine's dream, to be possessed and gain an entry to a pool of archaic energy but to commit foul and false deeds. It would later be learned that the marines had learned to control and 'own' the pieces of armor with proper and dictating authority, hence the absence of further corruption and the later branding of themselves as 'paladins' of sorts.
They carried out the operation in a relatively swift manner, a list of purifying and morale boosting benedictions ringing between their vox's as their bullets wrapped in plasma found their resting in the mutated flesh of the abominations that resided on the planet. Scum, heretics, xenos were but a few terms that refer to the bags of shit with the undeserving gift of conscience and free will, they squeezed and held their finger on the trigger without rest as they slowly purged and in their own names, purified the foul planet writhing in what seemed like unending chaos. This little act of rebellion and disobedience quickly caught the eye of the pit leader, sparking a glint of interest in his glowing orbs of red that monitored every movement of his planet, he played game master and proceeded to send waves of beasts to step on their on advance whilst he dined on the succulent flesh of fair maidens and the blood of true men. It was then, with the lost of long worn patience, where Rejikus let out a blast of 'unknown' energy, forcing every minion of chaos to fall on their knees and heed his call for then, his word was order. Whether every one of those twelve marines had an unique power like the one Rejikus had was unknown at that point, but the revolt and reverse in command of his minions angered Bazzariel, forcing him out of his throne and onto the field that was stained in the blood of thousands. His presence was mighty as every step he made, his hooves would cause the earth to tremble, the feral snarls and shouts of fury that rolled of his pierced lips echoed from lands afar, his every advance forward had the marines take a regretted step back, of instinct of course. Albeit the monstrosity that made its way closer with every unforgiving step, Leon had been waiting for the chance to strike the beast down, one on one and teach it a lesson that when worthless pieces of shit such as Bazzariel fucked with a man of the imperium, nothing good was going to come out of it. In a sudden burst of light, whether this was an effect of the powers granted to them by the prospect or not, he teleported unto the shoulder of the baphomet, jamming a blade wrapped in an ethereal flame into it's throat before appearing underneath his legs, slicing at his heels before delivering the finishing blow, powered with an emotion so strong, it manifested in an eerie glow of red, which sent the daemon flying off with a sonic boom before the entrance of silence. Strangely enough, the victory was unusually fast and simple, but none of them spoke of it and took it as a blessing before the ex chaplain, Tiefton awoke the Machine Spirit that slumbered within the metal casing of the Caestus Assault Craft. Their departure was swift and bore fruit in the form of trophies and prized artifacts of humanity that were lost several millenia ago in great conflicts between good and evil. Regardless, their escape wasn't complete, they had to navigate the vicious and fatal rifts of both time and reality that made up the Eye of Terror, how such a feeble ship such as an assault ram managed to stay intact through all this was but up to speculation, but the ship would prevail and later be named as "Aiza" in honor of their fallen brother, the 13th who fell to a horde of blood letters in the beginning of the operation. Silence was a virtue they all cherished while they played their chances in escaping the Eye of Terror, lost in the warp for a month after departing, they made a sudden appearance outside the Mercenary planet of Faryn, 10 clicks south-east of the EoT.
30 years exactly, to the second, they made their entrance back into humanity to carve their presence into the very soul of the universe, the ghosts of humanity, the revenants, the Scarlet Apostles.
