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[Prosperan Son]

You step into a large chamber of the Black Templars Flagship the Eternal Crusader. The room is seemingly devoid of life, occupied only by shelves lined with books, racks filled with scrolls, and black iron tables that have numerous data slates laid about their surface. You are so mesmerized by the sight of such a large wealth of knowledge that you don't seemed to have noticed that a voice has called out. " Once again I ask, who are you? And what are you doing here?" The voice comes from a hooded figure near the right end of the room. He is d*CENSORED*d in the robes of a servant of the legion, although the color is of a dark black, the shoulders on each side of the uniform decorated with the Badge of the Black Templars. You aren't able to see his face clearly enough, his features hidden by the shroud of his hood, although it's obvious that he is an elder. Wrinkles and blotches of weathered skin are plainly seen on his hands, and he seems to be walking in a slouching position, indicating that he has received a possible injury that has crippled his back. You tell him that you are looking for the crew dormitories and that you are now here, having recently been inducted into the legion as new vox officer for the command deck. You were on your way to the dorms to catch some rest after a hard 9 hours of continuous work but now this room has caught your interest. You begin asking the old man questions." What's that you say? What are all of these books and parchments?" He asked with a voice lined with incredulous disbelief. As if he was shocked that anyone could not have figured out the purpose of this room." Why my boy! All that you see within this room is the entirety of the Black Templars history! Within these pages and written upon these scrolls are experiences and accounts of the most well known Templars of the time! What? Who am I?" This is what you ask him, to which the old man quickly responds with" My name is not important for I have dedicated the entirety of my life to the keeping of these archives and ensuring that their survival is ensured. I swore an oath to the High Marshall Ignotis Ordo himself that nothing else would come before it. However, you can call me the Curator. Everyone does." There is one last question you have to ask, perhaps one of the most important in your life." You wish for me to share some of these stories with you? Well I suppose if you really wanted to know. I always take joy in the fact that I can contribute to the spread of these stories. Come with me then." He waves his hand for you to follow to which you quickly do. He leads you to a table and pulls up a chair for you to sit down on, while he walks towards one of the shelves. He pulls out a book and strides towards you on his long skinny legs, sitting across the table from you. He opens the book, dust spreading to the air. The pages within seem to be ragged and withered, this book is ancient." Ah my dear boy," The old man trails off as he looks into the book" Let me tell you a tale...."


( Hello! To the Templars, to the other loyalist, and to you traitorous heretics[ May you burn in the warp] I bid you welcome . If you do not know me , then allow me to introduce myself. I am Prosperan Son, as my username suggest. You can call me Prospero, Son, or just Matt. If you battled alongside me or against me you know how I am. ANYWAYS BEFORE I GET OFF TOPIC. If you can't tell from the above story, I will be writing accounts, tales, sagas, and stories for members of the Templars. Writing of our conquest, making Clan Battles,whether they be Losses or Victories, into full blown stories. Telling the stories of our beginnings, Yada Yada Yada all that good stuff. I will commence writing individual stories for the Clan. If you want a story written send me a pm,contact me on live, or send me an email at www.Spireguard@gmail.Com or www.matthewlmontalvo@yahoo.com. Keep in mind, if your on another clan and are one of our allies, such as a Dark Angel , Salamander, Death Watch ,Crimson Fist or Ultramarines or if you are a Heretic such as a Word Bearer, Night Lord, Thousand Son or the PS3 Alpha Legion Players , and want a joint story written where your characters or clan interact with the Black Templars or want a story written of a battle fought together, just hit me up, but I'll have to ask that you ask Ignotis Ordo and your own Clan Master first and then send me a msg with details of what you want. I look forward to writing the stories and seeing you all on the game. For Sigismund!For Dorn! and For the Emperor!)

[Prosperan Son]

The fires of battle burn bright across the night sky, giving it a crimson color. The Dawn is red. The iron tang of blood fills the air, both human and xenos. I look over the fields and see what lies before my eyes, a scene of carnage. Hundreds, if not thousands, of bodies are strewn across the landscape, most of them the exotic and horrific forms of the Tyranids, whose chitionous bodies are of a creamy white color with patches of violet scales adorning their heads and claws. Here and there, an armored carapace the color of the darkest night, can be found amongst the dead, fallen Black Templars, fallen brothers. Despite the massive number of bodies scattered across the battle, there are still more to come. There are still hordes of the Tyranids; xenos that move towards my Templars’ position.

I look over my shoulder to see my most trusted of brothers at my back, laying down fields of fire upon the xenos horde. To my left, I can see Brother Prosperan, Brother Prometheus, and Brother Longshot bowing on their knees, their stalker bolters aimed. They fire a rythmic stream of burst fire, one firing after the other. Their shots never miss and many lines of both termagaunts and hormagaunt gene breeds fall dead; their chest and skull cavities blown apart before they can bring their acid spitting weapons to bear. To my right are three of my tactical marines and two of my devastators. Typhus and Black Spider form a scythe of a bolter fire, a twin barrage of Heavy Bolter fire sawing down lines of the enemy ranks; the sounds of thunder scream from their heavy weaponry. All the while, the barks of kraken bolter fire goes off as Roboto, Harry, and Woody lay down criss-cross fields of mass reactive rounds to add to the killing power of the devastators. These are but a few of my Templars, but they are some of my closest brothers.

Despite the massive amount of firepower being laid against the Tyranids and the massive casualties they have already taken, the sheer number of them is their prime advantage. That, and their simple minded feral ferocity. They crawl over the piles of their dead and in a matter of moments, they are upon the Templars. "Good Times! Good Times!" Prosperan yells his famous phrase, reveling in the chance to wet his blade with the blood of this alien filth. “Devastators! Draw back! Everyone else, draw your blades!" I yell aloud, my Templars repeat the order to the rest of the ranks. Countless tactical marines draw their blades, an orchestra of power blades thrumming as their energy fields ignite and the buzzing sound of chainswords' teeth whir in unison. Rifles are slung, while pistols are drawn to accompany the blades, and soon the real fight begins. A cacophony of sound starts to play as claws cut and bite away at ceramite plate, with the wet sounding crunch of bone and hide breaking and splitting apart from tempered steel cutting through chitinous plate. I hear the occasional boom of a thunder hammer putting large gaps in the battle line.

I stand at the heart of combat myself, armed with the Sword of the High Marshals in my right hand and a storm shield in my left. I am the wall these Tyranids will falter upon. I weave my way through the swarm, deflecting swipes of the Tyranids’ claws with my shield while cutting down the enemies before they can recover. I swing my blade from left to right in a scything arc, decapitating heads and dismembering taloned limbs. I pull back my sword hand and thrust it forward, the tempered blade pierces the xeno filths' chest cavities and skulls. Three of the blade limbed creatures leap towards me as one, but it is not enough. I swing my blade across the right in a sweeping motion that splits all three of them at once, their bifurcated remains falling to the blood soaked ground. I am death incarnate.

My devastators continue to blast apart the flanks of the Tyranids, whittling down their numbers slowly. The battle is brutal, perhaps one of the harshest fields of battle seen in ages. The symphony of battle is soon broken apart as the roar of a monstrous creature is heard, smashing its way through the ranks of its Tyranid kin. It cared not for its gene brethren, focused solely on ripping down the wall of Templars before it. "CARNIFEX!!!!!!" The warning bellows from my throat. As soon as I yell out the warning though, a spear of crimson laser flies by my shoulder and nearly scorches my shoulder plate. I could feel the heat of it as it passed by my head and then watched its path. It slammed right into the face of the Carnifex, causing it to stagger but not fall. It was not a kill shot, but it is enough to give me one of my own. The flesh around its face is now malleable, burning, and frothing; it is perfectly vulnerable.

I sheathe my blade as fast I can, bringing up my shield to knock away one of the termagaunts while my other hand reaches for my blessed melta gun. I bring it up swiftly, bearing it into the path of the Carnifex who is now nearly upon me. I pull the trigger, a wave of ionized gas and microwaves blasting outwards at the Carnifex, burning away and vaporizing the flesh of the Carnifex. It staggers once more, its head and chest a smoldering ruin. It stands for a moment before finally toppling to the ground. I press my foot against its ruined skull, smashing it once, twice, and a third time before it finally cracks and breaks apart. I took another two steps, now standing upon the fallen behemoth, to see that the battle is all but won. It only takes a few more minutes. I look back to see Prosperan at my side once more, his black and white armor daubed with alien gore. His power sword, Piercer de Obscurum is stained with the creamy ichor of the Tyranid's blood, the power field of his sword burning away at the vital fluids. "These are good times, good times." He says once more, as a smirk forms across my lips. "I see you've managed to come back to your feet again, Brother Prosperan," I remark. "I managed to kill a good number of them," he replies.

The other Templars soon arrive at my feet and kneel before me, their blades bloodied, their armor dented, and their guns smoking from continuous use. "High Marshal," they all say as one, awaiting his next command. "Honor my Templars. Honor. Respect. Dignity. Devotion. Loyalty. These are all that we stand for. The Emperor's unflinching light has shined upon us this day and granted us victory! Glory to this day, my Templars! Glory to the Emperor, to Holy Terra, and the Imperium!" I spur them on, and soon a chorus of cheerful shouts is heard from the Templars, whom all pound their hands against their breast plates. The fires continue to light up the night sky, now more than ever as pyres are made to burn the remains of the dead. The acrid smell of blood is heavier now than it was merely hours before, mixed with the bitter taste of ash. The roar of approaching Thunderhawks can be heard; the lights of their descension at terminal velocity seen from miles away. They come for the Templars, to whisk them away to their Crusader fleets that orbit over the planet amongst the remains of the Tyranid Hive Fleet, so that they may prepare for the next theatre of war. A Templar's duty is never done.

[Anubis F34]

The room was cold, a bitter chill that caused steam to rise form the body of the young neophyte. Despite the frigid air his muscles all burned, burned from the long months of endless training. He stood tall with nothing but sheer will keeping him on his feet. Tried and tried again he had prospered where others have fallen.He even earned himself a nickname Anubis, for every enemy he meets on the field of battle he ushers towards death, slowly he was becoming a Shepard of souls. His eyes dark and emotionless hinting at nothing he felt. He glances around at the training room, marked from years of bouts long past and it was his turn. Before him stood Huge armored figures which dwarfed him in size, the superhuman adeptus astartes. Taking a brief moment his mind wandered back to when they had first visited his home, how the sheer size of them made him cower in fear and his knees almost give way from beneath him. Now after training with them and the fear was no longer there, only deep everlasting respect. He wanted to join them, to become part of something bigger than himself. He wanted to wear the armor of the Black Templars. Snapping back to the present, he looked at each figure in turn, all high ranking members of the templars and the high marshall himself was personally overseeing his training. One of the large templars stepped forward his massive footstep resounding of the walls and high ceiling as he entered the ring drawing a large knife from its sheath.The young neophyte did the same and slowly began to size up the large armored figure.The armor the neophyte wore was no more than a chest plate with shoulder guards, which now felt as though it was his second skin. A few months ago he was sluggish in the heavy gear but now almost as nimble as his counterpart. He charged despite the complaints from his tired body his first strike causing sparks to ignite of the armor of the space marine and his second strike meeting against his opponents knife before a solid punch to the ribs sends him stumbling back. He grips his stomach for only a second before standing tall once more a slight smirk on his face before he stands at the ready once more. He charges once more and the clash of blades echos throughout the massive ship............video and log data corrupted.......

[Prosperan Son]

(Author and Editor's note: The following story is centered around the match between the Night Lords and Black Templars that occurred two weeks ago, while it is in not in the same settings as the maps we played the ending is the same. Secondly, the following story is incredibly long for those of you who like to read , both I and Prometheus hope you enjoy, and finally, A special thanks goes to GravePrometheus for editing and fixing all of my mistakes, if not for him, this story would not be as good as it should be.)

How had it come to this? How had they managed to come close enough to the Eternal Crusader to manage boarding actions?! These were the questions that passed through Prosperan's mind as he took three steps back, barely avoiding the downward slash of a Blood Letter's blade. Raising his power sword in his right hand, he swung his blade to the right, attempting to remove the Daemon's horned head. The monstrosity brought its black hellblade up to parry the strike, locking blades with the Astartes. Prosperan pressed his blade against the Daemon's, attempting to break the lock. Prosperan leapt backwards, causing the Daemon to lose its footing and fall to the floor. It didn't have time to recover, and the tip of Prosperan's blade slammed down through its red eyes, piercing all the way through its body and into the floor. The crimson skinned Daemon flailed madly for a moment before exploding in a burst of dried blood; its material body destroyed. "Disgusting," Prosperean snarled before pulling his blade out of the floor.

A Daemon was the least of his problems: the fleet was under attack and a small renegade Flotilla had managed to intercept their Crusading fleet while they were en route towards Prisca VII. The attack was utterly unexpected and even before the fleet's sensor arrays could tally the enemy craft; they had come under fire. Large scraps of molten slag and debris floated through space and it had taken 20 minutes to raise their void shields, and even then only three of the ships were capable. The Eternal Crusader had not been one of them. Within those twenty minutes, both humans and transhumans loyal to the Emperor rushed to their battle stations, preparing to hold against the incoming storm. The Night Lord ships continued to pound away at the Templar fleet with their heavy weapons, tearing away at adamantium and plasteel hulls, aiming for turret emplacements and command bridges. After what seemed like an eternity in waiting, the Templar fleet had managed to move into a position that allowed them to return fire and the conflict soon escalated from a massacre to a full blown skirmish between the two. The Black Templars larger in number but caught with their defenses low; the Night Lords smaller but with the advantage of speed and surprise.

The Templars traded shots with the Renegades for forty-five minutes before all hell broke loose from within. It had started with several command consoles on multiple ships that burst apart in an electrical surge, followed by the flickering of the lights and life support. Several moments later the screaming started. They had come from the warp, walking blasphemy, neither living nor dead, they simply were. Daemons, a large host of them at that, began to appear all over the ship, slaughtering all that stepped before their path. They ranged from the servants of the blood god, Khorne, to the children of the Father of Rot, Nurgle. Blood Letters, crimson skinned fiends with digitigrade legs, pelts and wrappings of flayed flesh, and ivory horns mounted above their heads. Their every step left burning foot prints across the steel floors after they appeared in the armory and weapons bay of the ship, attacking the crewmen, servitors, and any Space Marines they came across. Accompanying the Blood Letters were the undead ghouls of Nurgle, pot-bellied cyclopean terrors of decaying flesh that ran amok. Plague Bearers, whose innards hung from their body like trophies, wielding worn, rusted, and poison dipped blades, ran slaughtering and maiming alongside their Khornate companions. Powerful entities these creatures were, but not enough to hinder the Black Templars. The religious zealotry so ingrained in the Templars’ mindset, spurred them on to even greater fits of rage, which they honed to destroying anything that crossed their path. However, the Daemons were only meant to be used as distractions; the true fight began when the Night Lords commenced boarding. Numerous boarding craft were launched from their ships, the vessels propelling through the open void at breakneck speed. Their thrusters flared to overdrive, the heavily armored bows smashing through the hulls of the Eternal Crusader, melta guns at the front boiling away through metal with ease. The doors of the ships burst open, allowing traitorous marines to spew forth into the Templar Flagship.

Prosperan moved along the hallway on a course towards the Archives, planning to cut through them to take a shorter route towards the Bridge. Bolt pistol in his left hand, power sword in his right, he proceeded through the halls in a cautious haste, dispatching any warp filth that came across him in a fervent anger. His armor was caked with dried blood, the result of the Blood Letters' violent deaths. On several occasions he had come across the Plague Bearers and rust had formed over the areas where their blades struck his armor. He had yet to come across any of the invaders, that was until he had entered the Archives. What he witnessed upon entering the room brought on a rage he had not known he was capable of. Blood was splattered all over the bookshelves and the floors, where several Templar Initiates along with an older Veteran Sergeant lay dead. Several of them had trios of slashes across their chest, helmets and lower abdomens, the grooves burned, indicating a power weapon. The fact that there were three on each of them made it obvious this was the work of lightning claws. The other bodies were riddled with large puncture trauma. The area around the wounds were torn to shreds and blown apart. Bolter rounds. Prosperan examined the scene before him, suspecting that in the midst of the assault, the Sergeant had rallied these initiates to him and brought them to the Library to fend off the Daemons in unison when they were ambushed. Prosperan turned his head from right to left, looking for any trace of evidence that could lead to the identity of the attacker. He was interrupted by a painful moan; he turned to the right, following the sound. He walked in between the shelves, bolt pistol at the ready. He weaved around the corner, pistol raised, to see a robed figure propped against one of the shelves, his cream-colored robes stained with blood; a small puddle of blood forming underneath him. His arm mangled, crushed to the point that it would be futile to try and restore it. The Curator groaned in pain, mumbling beneath his breath. He raised his head to look up at the Astartes, mumbling something. Prosperan leaned down towards the man, preparing to help him to his feet when the Curator whispered a warning. "Behind ... you..."he gasped before falling unconscious from blood loss. Years of honed instinct arose in him and Prosperan spun, bearing his bolt pistol to fire at his foe. A clawed gauntlet smashed into his hand, smacking away his bolt pistol. The attacker cross slashed with his Lightning claws, but Prosperan brought up Piercer de Obscurum. Energized weapons clashed against each other and Prosperan managed to catch sight of who dared to attack them. Matching blades with him was a figure of similar size and build, bearing power armor of its own. But where his armor was polished Onyx Black, his attacker wore armor of a Midnight Blue; his armor adorned with numerous spikes and his lightning patterns spread about. Batwing ears extended from his helmet. Night Lords...


Kite had been in the armory at the time, in the middle of bolter training with the Initiates Parskii and Anubis when the fight began. Under Kite's instruction, the two had rushed to put on their armor and prepare for the fight to come. They weathered the fire fight between ships, thanking the Emperor that the Eternal Crusader had not come under too much fire. Their prayers were soon silenced when the Daemons appeared. They came in droves, servants of Khorne and Nurgle, bearing their hellblades and poisoned swords. All Adeptus Astartes in the room, numbering around fifteen, moved into a line with their bolters and bolt pistols aimed towards the oncoming horde. "FIRE!" Kite's voice boomed, a barrage of mass reactive rounds surging towards the Warp filth. The Daemons’ charge faltered for several seconds, the Daemons' hardiness enabling them to take several rounds to the body before exploding in puffs of dried blood and rotten meat. However, their charge did not break; their single track minds incapable of feeling fear or understanding pain. The Daemons rushed into the room and all descended into mayhem. Any form of order was lost as Veteran Templars and Initiates were forced into fights of their own, each warrior having to fend for himself. Warp denizens clashed against the Emperor's Chosen. Kite, Parskii, and Anubis fought back to back, ensuring that they only had to face Daemons in front of them. Kite drew his power sword from its sheathe and parried several fatal blows, returning them in kind. Parskii fired his bolter from the hip, taking down numerous Plague Bearers with incredibly accurate headshots. All the while, Anubis held both combat knife and bolt pistol, deflecting any blow that may have hindered him, dealing low sweeps with his knife and blowing apart abdomens with his bolt pistol. The Templars fought on with zealous acrimony, but that and skill alone would not save those within the armory, even under the leadership of their Castellan; they were outnumbered three to one. To Kite, it had seemed like forty minutes had passed when in reality it had only been ten. Templars were falling, both the old and new, his brothers and the future of the legion. Kite smashed his armored boot against the knee of a Plague Bearer, causing it to crumple to the ground. He gave it no chance to recover, slashing his blade down across its chest; he carved it in half from right shoulder to groin. "PHALANX!" he shouted over the discord of battle. The remaining eight Templars formed into a large circle, and the Daemons surrounded them. Kite raised his blade to the air, preparing for a glorious charge.

"FOR THE EMPERO-" His battle cry was cut short by an earsplitting *BOOM!* resonating from the entrance. Several of the Daemons were sent scrambling across the floor, crashing into their kin. All was still as both defenders and attackers looked towards the entryway. The silence was broken as a figure clad in black armor strode out of the smoky darkness, hefting his mighty thunder hammer, Opprimendi Vis, in both hands, leading three squads of Templars. "Burn this filth, my brethren!" Prometheus ordered, his squads opening fire at the Daemons surrounding Kite and his men. "CHARGE!" Kite roared at the remaining Initiates, who moved forward cutting a swath of death of their own. The Daemons had become boxed in, and were being exterminated; despite their inevitable defeat, they rushed both groups of Templars. The floor ran slick with the life fluid of dying Space Marines and the putrid remains of the warp horrors. Prometheus stepped over several of the bodies as he moved towards Kite and the remainder of the recruits. Kite met him in the center of the room and the two clasped one another’s gauntlets. "I had feared that the worst, brother, but luckily you arrived when you did," Kite thanked his brother Astartes before continuing. "Status report, what goes on throughout the ship?" he asked, wishing to receive a full assessment of the situation. "To put it simply, my brother, it’s as if the entirety of the infernal Warp has taken up residency within our ship. As soon as the renegade ships ceased fire, we were under assault from these pathetic wretches," Prometheus answered, vaguely gesturing at the remains of the Daemons. "There are reports of the presence of Daemons on every ship in the fleet, and there have been sightings of boarding craft smashing through the hulls in several areas of each ship. Before his comms cut off, Initiate Mykael described a squad of Astartes in dark blue armor with bat-winged helmets. We’ve had no further word from Mykael, unfortunately."

"Night Lords," Kite said. Prometheus nodded, having come to the same conclusion earlier. "So it appears that we are under attack by the followers of the Arch-Enemy," Kite spat the words out with seething hatred. "Castellan, I suggest all available battle brothers move towards the Bridge," Prometheus said as he scanned the entrances for more threats. Kite considered that for a moment. "Agreed, we need to link up with the High Marshal and plan our counter-attack." Kite paused and then added, "And, of course, cut down any heretics that cross our path on the way there." Prometheus reactivated the power field of his hammer and remarked, “Of course, I expected nothing less.” Kite could hear the smirk in his voice. With that, they left for the bridge, leaving a handful of Sword Brethren to guard the armory against the traitorous thieves.

Siddicus deflected another of Prosperan's thrusts with the side of his Lightning claws. Sparks crackled away as their energized blades met once again. He gave Prosperan no ground to retaliate, moving in to slash through his guard at him with his claws, but Prosperan was not new to the art of the blade, having trained extensively with some of the Crusade's best. He expertly blocked and evaded several strikes, returning some of his own. They traded blows for two minutes before leaping back from one another. Both combatants had scores and gouges all over their armor. There was a gash in Prosperan's left leg that bled for a few minutes before his transhuman body sealed the wound. The left side of Siddicus's chest plate had a large puncture where Prosperan had managed to thrust a fair portion of his blade through. Neither warrior spoke to one another, nor did they give any sign of faltering. They were Astartes, one loyal to the Emperor, the other only to himself. They were prime examples of the pinnacle of human achievement, so similar, yet so vastly different. Both harbored a hatred built over vast millennia of warfare, but only one had lived through all those years, the other’s hatred came naturally. They circled one another three more times before striking at nearly the same time. Prosperan raised his blade upwards and brought it down to strike at his shoulder, while Siddicus lunged forward and swept low with his claws towards Prosperan's abdomen. They finally shouted as their blows met the other’s body.

Woody ducked behind a column, reloading his bolter. Mag-locked to his hip was his melta, which would be used should they come closer. To his right, behind another of the columns, was Typhus and Leo. They gave their heavy weapons a chance to cool, having overheated at least two times in the last twenty minutes. Leo gripped his Lascannon with gentle care, popping shots off at the Night Lords whenever Typhus suppressed them with bursts of his Heavy Bolter. However, the Night Lords did not break as easily as other enemies would. They were spurred onward to battle by Dex, Snafu, and Wan. Whenever Leo attempted a shot, Dex was there to counter with his stalker bolter. Any time Typhus tried to mow them down for extended periods of time; Snafu returned fire with his plasma gun. For every shot that Woody fired, Snafu matched them in kind. "Grenades!" Leo ordered, the three of them quickly turned the corners to toss their frag grenades, and the resulting explosions tore away at the Night Lords. Both forces matched one another in numbers, and the fight was at a standstill. The Night Lord's Daemonic allies began to falter, their foothold on the Eternal Crusade gradually weakening, leaving the Night Lords to handle the brunt of the work themselves which they took up with great pleasure. Up in the gantries above the Weapon's Bay, where the opposing forces met, another duel was at hand.

Lord Ariok of the Night Lords swung at Spider with his axe, but Spider brought his stalker bolter up to shield himself. The teeth of the chain axe dug into the weapon, slowly tearing through it. Spider held the gun by its stock and barrel, and swung it to the side to throw Ariok off balance. Spider never let up, bringing the bolter up to slam the stock of it into the Night Lord's helmet, sending Ariok staggering back. Spider lunged forward, smashing his rifle into Ariock's upper left arm, making him drop his chainblade to the side. Ariok, however, had taken on stronger opponents, having fought for survival his entire life. He curled his right hand into a fist and jabbed it into Spider's diaphragm, causing him to double over. Ariok brought both hands together over his head and slammed them down onto Spider's head, sending him to the floor. Spider rolled onto his back as Ariok was about to smash his thick boot against his back, and caught his foot. Straining against it, Spider pushed with all of his might and sent the Night Lord over the railing, to fall to the floors below.

Curze and Naut moved in unison, and, like dancers, they moved as one. Where one swept with his chain sword, the other thrust with his power sword. When one blocked, the other countered with a slash. If it weren't for the Templar's current situation, the sight would have been considered a thing of beauty. Kite and Prometheus had already lost four brothers to Curze and Naut alone, and would have lost more if they had not intervened. Prometheus dashed forward with his thunder hammer, bringing it down in a great arc. Both of them leapt back, the steel grating below them bursting apart from the force of the hammer. Using the advantage of speed, they both lunged, each aiming for one of Prometheus' shoulders. However, before the blows could land, Kite ducked in from beside Prometheus and parried both blades, allowing Prometheus to retract his hammer and swing it in a circle towards them. The duo ducked and split away from each other to take on Prometheus and Kite individually. The Templars went back to back, looking over their massive shoulders at one another while watching their enemies. "This is taking too long, brother,” Kite muttered between heavy breaths.

Joker snarled, viciously whipping his staff to the right, and sent Roboto's sword off to the side. He wasn't sure how Roboto had found him so fast, but his role in the assault was now in danger. It had taken a tremendous amount of power and human sacrifice to summon forth their Daemon Hordes, and it had taken all of his patience and will to maintain the hold. It all fell apart when the Sword Brother had found him in the engineering deck and immediately attacked him. His link with the Daemons broken, the denizens had receded back towards the warp hastily, unable to maintain their presence in this reality. Roboto sent a flurry of slashes, thrusts, and sweeps at the Chaotic Sorcerer who struggled to evade. With a force of will, the Chaotic Astartes Psyker let loose a blast of telekinetic force that sent Roboto sprawling across the floor. Joker raised his hand, palms flat and expelled a stream of warp fire towards Roboto. The Sword Brother pushed himself off to the side, barely avoiding the flames. He leapt to his feet, drawing his bolt pistol and fired off a pair of rounds at the Sorcerer. "I will destroy you, you psychic abomination!" Roboto promised, running forward with his sword raised, still firing off rounds until his pistol was dry. With a wave of his hand, Joker stopped the bullets in mid-air, with his other hand he sent forth streaks of lightning that left Roboto reeling. "I have seen the 'threads', Templar, and I have seen things that would shatter your simple mind. I am not destined to fall this day, and you still have your role to play," the Psyker spoke, a sneer spread across his mouth. He took several slow steps backward, a warp rift opening behind him. A harsh wind sucked everything towards the rift, bolt rounds and data tablets flying through the air. "Goodbye Templar. Till we meet again. I look forward to the next hunt," he cackled, the rift closing as he entered.

Fuzzy moved with his squad of Sword Brethrens in an arrow head formation. They jogged through the hallways towards the Command Bridge, purging the halls of the Night Lord's taint. "I need you to get to the Bridge, Fuzzy; the High Marshal will need all the help he can receive, and the rest of us have our hands full," Kite had told him minutes ago. He and his squad had been in the observation deck, the farthest away from the fighting and the closest to the command bridge. They heard the shouts and struggles of their brothers over the vox, but strove on towards their goal. Fuzzy checked the corner, aiming down the barrel of his bolter; the hallway to the Command Bridge was clear. They walked to the Bridge doors slowly, bolters at the ready. The doors automatically slid apart as the Adeptus Astartes approached them. What they witnessed upon entering the Command Bridge was a scene of utter horror. Blood and oil splattered the walls and floors, large scores decorated the walls along with scorch marks. There were several crewmen lying dead upon the floor, cut down by lightning claws and several pilot servitors were detached from their consoles, heads and chests split apart. The ugly scene was broken by the sight of two Astartes at the center of the room. Both combatants’ armors were marked with numerous furrows and lacerations, blood running down their armor, whether it was their own or that of the crew remained to be seen. The one on the left was the High Marshal Ordo, whose white shoulder plates were stained red by blood, and a large gap ran down the right side of his shoulder plate. He was on his knees, three large punctures through his right leg, but still he held the hilt of the Sword of the High Marshals, broken into three pieces. Standing before him was a Night Lord, adorned in Midnight Blue clad Terminator armor. The armor of the enemy was in much the same state as Ordo's, pocked with so many dents, cuts, and deep wounds. A large rip decorated his breastplate, armor and skin beneath split. Blood ran profusely down his armor, dripping down the tears in his lower abdominal. He wore no helmet, his face bloody and pulped. His right forearm was broken in two places, his hand shattered, and the lightning claw was missing two of the talons. The other gauntlet was missing just one talon. The Night Lords’ Warmaster Othrim had one clawed hand in the air, preparing to cut down the High Marshal, when Fuzzy and his squad arrived. The Sword Brothers raised their bolters and began shooting. "Hold your fire!" Ordo ordered, slowly struggling to stand up. Othrim stepped back, unwilling to risk his life to finish the kill. His Terminator armor may have been strong, but not nearly durable enough to withstand an Astartes firing squad. He slowly backed away from them all, moving towards the viewing glass.

"Prepare to die, Heretic," Ordo snarled as one of the marines sprinted to his side, helping him to his feet. "You are but a mere puppet of the Corpse Emperor," the Night lord hissed, his hand moving to his bolt pistol. The tension broke as a large rift began to form in the center of the bridge, a spacial rip that tore away at the fabric of reality. Stepping from the rift was the Chaos Sorcerer Joker, accompanying him were several blood letters who rushed the Space Marine squad, the Daemons thirsting to spill the blood of anything they could find. "My lord, I think it is time we withdrew," the Sorcerer said, with a hint of venom. "I do believe that you are right, Joker," Othrim replied, moving to enter the portal. Before leaving, he watched as the Daemons were gunned down by the Templars, and- then locked eyes with Ordo. The hatred between them was obvious. "I will hunt you down, Night Lord; I will break your back upon my knee," Ordo promised, intending to hunt the Warmaster down till the end of time. "The next time we cross blades, Templar, your brothers won't be there to save you," he taunted just before stepping through the rift alongside his Sorcerer. The tear in reality closed in on itself soon after. The High Marshal looked to Fuzzy and then back to the remainder of the crew. "Status report, damn it!" he demanded, a quivering servant, who had been hiding during the conflict, moved towards him with a data pad in hand. "My lord, we’re getting reports that all Night Lords within the Crusader have begun retreating, and most, if not all, of the boarding craft are detaching from the hulls and are en route to the Night Lord's Flotilla. It is slowly departing to the edge for probable warp translation," the attendant told him, handing him the data slate. Ordo took the slate, reading it over. "Do not lose them! I want all weapons ready to fire and engines at full power for pursuit," the High Marshal demanded, his rage blinding him to the damage that been done to his ship, his crew, and his Templars. "I'm sorry my lord, but there are fires all over the engine bay that prevent us from working, extinguishing teams have already been dispatched and our starboard and bow turrets were badly damaged during the initial assault. We won't be able to do much of anything until effective repairs can be made." This news angered the Marshal, but he took a deep breath, doing his best to calm himself. He limped towards the viewing glass with the aid of his Templar, watching as the Night Lord's Flotilla slowly began to slip away from the battle. The light of the ships’ engines winking out one by one as they moved beyond eyesight. "I will find you..." Ordo whispered to himself.

Over the course of the next two weeks the Templar Crusade stumbled through space, the crusader incapable of Warp flight due to damage to the Warp engines and Void shields. Fortunately, they were only two days travel off from the Forge World Graia. The tech adepts of the Mechanicus were more than eager to aid the Adeptus Astartes. Over the two days, evaluations had been surmised as to the number of wounded and dead. One hundred and fifty crewmen dead, along with over seventy five of the Templars had been killed, brothers Mykael and Chewy counted amongst the dead. Over a hundred brothers were wounded, Prosperan included, who suffered from a ruptured stomach, torn muscles through his calves and triceps and the loss of his left forearm. "Bad Times, Bad Times," Prosperan groaned as the Apothecaries attended to him. The number of casualties troubled the upper echelon of the Templars. The High Marshal Ordo and Castellan Kite were troubled by the loss of so many brothers. Both knew that Prosperan would be saddened by the loss of so many Initiates and Neophytes that he had trained himself, for now though, he was in recovery at the Apothecarion, resting under heavy anesthetics. Roboto, Erfuin, Kite, Leo and Prometheus stood before the High Marshal, their armor and weaponry restored to their former glory. Even Ordo's armor was as strong as it once had been, any signs of damage gone. At his side, the restored Sword of the High Marshals was sheathed. "Scans show that the Night Lords have completely fled the system. What is our next course of action, my lord?" Kite asked, all of them awaiting Ordo's command. "We continue on towards the Prisca Sector. The Imperial Guardsmen forces there are in dire need of us," he answered with a hint of disappointment. "We have been struck a devastating blow, brothers, but in the end we have prevailed and endured. That is all that matters. The Night Lords hoped to take advantage of us through the use of Warp trickery and cowardly tactics of subterfuge, but none can stand before us. We are the Black Templars, sworn sons to the Emperor's eternal crusade against all those who would stand against the Imperium. For the Emperor!" he said, rallying their morale. Afterwards, he turned back to the command throne, and sat upon it. He rested his elbow on the arm rest, leaning his head on his fist, in deep thought as to how close they all had come to death. He had to store his hatred of the Night Lords for a later date, because he knew they would cross paths with them once more. Ordo would settle his score with the heretics. No matter how long it took.

[Prosperan Son]

(New Story in the works, it will be posted in the following 3-4 weeks.)