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[b]Year: 001.M31
The Triumph of Ullanor[/b]

The first day of celebration arrived. The event, great as it was, was planned to last in its totality for quite a while, even though the Triumph proper was not likely to last longer than perhaps three days. Indeed, the world itself was a celebration of humanity’s triumphs, and never more so than today.

To each side of the mirror-smooth granite platform, beyond the rows of Ork skulls lining its perimeter and the smokeless Promethium lanterns lighting it, countless human soldiers awaited the arrival of they who would walk the runway, a great sea of bodies that stretched to the horizon and beyond, men and women from all over the galaxy coming together as one united mass of human spirit and uniforms, kept informed of proceedings by innumerable pict-casters and kept excited by vox-hailers praising them and those they fought and died alongside. From these alone, their energy was high - it was already known that, save a few exceptions, every single Astartes Legion would be represented at the Triumph, not to mention the Cult Mechanicum and the Titan Legions; and though nothing of the sort had been confirmed, it was said too that the Primarchs may make an appearance at the event- perhaps even the Emperor himself, first and most resplendent of mankind’s number.

It was said, of course, that so too would the xeno races emancipated by the Edict of Tolerance be represented in this march. Reaction to this was mixed; some supposed there was a plot against them, 

And, sure as planets orbited their stars predictably, the first craft descended from the skies above the crowds of man to thunderous applause. A shimmering, auramite-clad transport custom-made for the occasion, as lengthy across as some Titans were tall, its landing was clouded by a burst of water vapour and vaporised coolant as its landing gear extruded toward the ground, cloaking the opening of its doorway as a mass of silhouettes.

Then, with what seemed a sudden burst of wind, the vapour cloud dissipated, revealing a company of one hundred warriors of the Legio Custodes, a formation ten men by ten, all easily nine or even ten feet tall, each impeccably clad in spotless golden power armour itself covered in symbols and text describing their unbelievable feats, who would have easily been the height of celebrations were it not for the fourteen-foot giant leading them: the Emperor of Man, a halo of light surrounding shoulder-length black hair and a face whose jawline could cut diamond, outfitted with His own relics of war. Golden auramite and perfectly-cut red jewels encased His frame in an impregnable defense, the Palatine Aquila that was His personal heraldry borne proudly upon His chest; His left hand was ensconced in a mighty power claw, its curving talons promising an end to all who might face Him; and hanging at His right hip, the scabbard containing His legendary blade, a meager trinket by comparison to the weapon it contained, but a masterfully crafted item in and of itself.

There were no words to describe the moment, other than simply “glorious”. The only sound that broke the silence that befell the crowd was the noise of the Emperor’s transport returning from whence it came, and the continued whirring of machinery throughout. At last, as a servo-drone equipped with vox-speaker and pict-capture moved to the level of His head, He spoke.

‘Rejoice,’ He said softly, ‘for we have come far. Rejoice, for the day is ours, and the galaxy with it; many men and women have lived and died for this day, and many more have fought to see it come to fruition, some even since the inception of my grand design. There is still much work to be done; but rejoice, for this moment shows that there is nothing that can stand in our path, no obstacle that cannot be overcome by the combined might of humanity, and the many soldiers, warriors, and combatants we celebrate this day.

‘[b]Rejoice![/b]’ He called, His command ringing out to the farthest stretches of the crowd even before they heard it from the vox-casters, filling them with awe and empowering them beyond measure. ‘[b]For today, we are almighty![/b]’

The outcry of adulation outshone any cheering that had come before it. Tears were wept, friends were tightly grasped in siblinghood, and the Emperor along with His personal guard began the long walk down the highway toward their final destination.

And behind them, the next of the representatives’ ships began to alight from above...

The first ships to land and disembark their forces came from the Fifth Legion, ships and forces clad in gleaming white and bronze. Prometheus walked at its head flanked by his captains and Imperial Army Generals. In contrast to his Legion, and the Emperor himself, Prometheus had ordered that his armor not be repaired or cleaned after his battle with the Ork Warlord. The great armor was still scorched and scarred from battle whereas each of his captains showed polished perfection. The image however was striking, capturing the same visage as the famous pict captured at the summit of the Ork fortress. 

Directly behind him marched the Ancient Dreadnought, first commander of the Knights of Awe, carrying the great banner of the Legion. Around the Ancient walked several other Dreadnoughts each carrying a company banner. Uniquely behind the great banners of the Astartes Legion walked Sentinels with their own crippled heroes in Dreadnought caskets who carried Imperial Army banners, specifically banners of Imperial armies lost to the Grim Crusade, even those who had not fought alongside the Knights of Awe. 

For miles the Legion and their Imperial Army attachment marched in blocks of a single Astartes and the ten Imperial Army soldiers they often fought with. The columns stretched for miles, no tanks or vehicles accompanied the Knights of Awe, simply hundreds of thousands in immaculate parade dress. Many groups were conspicuously missing one or several soldiers, or even their Astartes at their head. No efforts were made to hide this however. Squads missing their Astartes leader honored the fallen by carrying some artefact with them, a helm, sword or pauldron. Equally Astartes who had lost men under their command honored them by carrying a small flag with each of the fallen’s medals and commendations. 

The Triumph was a celebration of victory, but the Knights honored the fallen just as strongly as the victory itself. Their remembrance was not entirely a somber one, the fallen were exalted as heroes who had earned the Imperium this victory rather than a grim cost. As the Knights of Awe began to finish their section of the parade Prometheus finally climbed the stage and joined the Emperor, falling to a knee in greeting showing humility and continued fealty to the Emperor at the height of his own honor during the Triumph.

Next came the procession of the Stargazers. Though it had been said that doubtlessly the Primarch of the Twelfth Legion would have insisted upon a full procession of Tech-Priests, automata, Skitarii, Sydonians and Onagers, the Legion’s ranks as they marched down the causeway proved to be subdued in that regard. Beyond the columns of Astartes arranged in the Legion’s peculiar twenty-five man Maniples with two rows of twelve Astartes led by a single Commander, the only noteworthy deviances were two three-man squads abreast each column, a Princeps and two Rangers, holding aloft gilded banners depicting the Aquilla Mechanicum. Thirty war cohorts of the Stargazers Astartes marched, representing the fifteen Macroclade Fleets of the Ordo Astranoma that had attended the battle of Ullanor. 

To the rear of their procession came an ordinatus tractor and gantry between an assembly of the Legion’s Knights. The tractor was flanked by three Armigers, followed-up by two Questoris Knights, and capped the Legion’s procession off with a looming Astronomer Dominus. Set atop the ordinatus tractor’s gantry was a ceremonial platform and dais upon with the Primarch Augor Astren stood, fully armored and equipped, brandishing his Omnissian Axe with both hands while his six spider-like servo-arms each held aloft the severed head of an Ork Warboss. Upon the topmost circle of the dais with him stood the Legion’s Archmandriture, Mercaerath Kyrius, cutting an unusually reserved figure due to his wholly unaugmented visage amongst the heavily modified crowd of the Legion’s senior personnel. Three figures shared the next step down upon the dais: A single Astartes and two comparatively diminutive figures to his sides, easily overlooked and dwarfed by the enormity of the figures standing betwixt them. The Marine, clad in stark white and ivory power armor, was evidently the much-reviled Corneceus Sicanus, the Legion’s Chief Apothecary. His demeanor was reserved, making little in the way of movement beyond adjusting the ceremonial stave he carried, modeled upon the Prime Helix and capped with a sigil of the Cog Mechanicum. To his right stood Andron Axaltus, a Skitarii Alpha and the leader of the Stargazers’ Skitarii Legion. He had adopted a particularly affected pose, holding aloft a Power Sword and a Transonic Blade alike whilst supporting the weight of one leg atop the headless carcass of a heavily augmented Ork Mekboy draped across his end of the dais. His figure was the only one upon the entire platform to wear the Martian-red robes of Mars, in an unusual show of conservatism on the Primarch’s part. To Corneceus’ left stood a perplexing and nearly unheard of figure of Baron Sigveyr Archarnon, the commander of the Ordo Astranoma’s Knight Legion. Nearly a complete unknown to most of the Imperium writ large inclusive of most of the other Astartes Legions, his unexpected appearance upon the Twelfth Primarch’s dais essentially served as his premier introduction to them all. He was adorned in the oddly ceremonial pilot armor of the Feudal Nobility and hefting a ceremonial saber. Curiously, his personal augmentation struck out as the most unusual amongst the assembled figures: a thin, tethered cable ran out from the base of his skill and connected to the base of a floating servo skull that drifted in eerily close proximity to the Baron’s head, almost seeming like some decrepit figure muttering in his ear.

Why the Primarch of the Twelfth Legion had foregone a procession abundant with more of the colors and blatant insignia of Mars was not entirely clear, though rumors that would spread for weeks thereafter claimed a number of wild theories - that he was attempting to distance himself from the Mechanicum, that he sought to waylay the disapproval of the Emperor, that it was a conciliatory gesture made towards the Primarch of the Second Legion, and more than a dozen other unsubstantiated rumors. More broadly, while the Legion’s comparatively miniscule procession had barely even begun to approach the size and pomp of those of the other legions, it had surprisingly stood out amongst a number of Imperium’s populaces for the simple reason that their procession had been amongst the only ones to feature the titanic elements of their Knights, which so far after the original procession of the Titan Legions had managed to stand out amidst the march.

Behind the precession of the Twelfth Legion came the forms of the Nineteenth Legion, the Steel Sentinels, the field grey of the Neophytes contrasted by the singular mass that was the light brown of the fully armored Astartes that led the columns. The blue glow of their weaponry reflected off of them, giving the Steel Sentinels a stark contrast to the red eyes of their helms. Their march was in near perfect unison, rivalling the Mechanicum in synchronicity as they moved through the Triumph, brandishing the medals gifted upon them by the Primarch Prometheus proudly and with honor. Behind them came the cohort lead personally by Usriel, amongst his gene-sons he marched, joined by his Chief Librarian, Apothecary, Master of the Forge, Head Consul, and the Legion’s Standard Bearer  immediately behind him in a single line. Unlike the Twelfth, the Steel Sentinels had not come bearing trophies of war, no ork heads or treasures taken to adorn themselves. Yet, behind that cohort came a great many blackened walls hoisted by moving platforms, these walls were studded with diamonds shining into the air and casting light into the crowds from their reflections and refractions. Under each diamond was a plaque with a name and designation, each was that of a fallen Neophyte or Astartes that had fallen during the Ullanor campaign, their memories and sacrifices being honored by the grace of the Triumph.

As the glimmering memorial passed ahead and the onlookers turned to greet the next segment of the procession, the cheering seemed to falter and grow pale for the merest instant. It was soon reprised by a new surge of acclaim, but the calls felt strained and perfunctory, as though they had only been raised because such was the form for a great Triumph and not because of any genuine love or admiration. For indeed, the force that now approached, wordlessly stepping in synchrony like a single-minded machine and arrayed in the full panoply of battle, had never cultivated anything but fear and unease among the greater part of the peoples of mankind.

The Abyssal Lurkers marched in tight ranks, bolters, claws and chainswords held at the ready, the unfeeling eyes of their helmets staring deadly ahead. Faceless and unadorned, they covered the path like a river, its surface drowned beneath the unending flow of impersonal blue armour. At the head of every vortex came its Skotarch, holding a metal stave tipped with a sculpted simulacrum of the Ninth Legion’s symbol. After him there followed the specialist troops, bristling with shield walls, bladed hands and fearsome weaponry, and the great mass of the legionary files. Finally, the rearguard was closed by the looming shapes of Terminator cohorts. Time and again was this sequence repeated, uniform and unchanged, until the sight began to blur.

At long last, the vortices came to an end. Yet the calls from the crowd did not grow any more genuinely elated, and in truth more than a few soldiers had to suppress a sound of consternation. Grim as the march of the legionaries had been, their bodies had at least borne the semblance of humanity. The same could not be said of what came next – the hulking armoured forms of the Abyssal Dreadnoughts, advancing with implacable mechanical gait, and the creeping packs of the great charybdes, guided by their mancipes and surmounted by the withered silhouettes of targeting servitors. Casting their spindly shadows over all, the titanic beasts Opis and Clymene closed the cortege. Their backs had been relieved of artillery and fitted with palanquin-like platforms for the occasion; thereupon stood Sarghaul himself, unmoving like a statue and surrounded by his Lictors. Alongside him were high lieutenants from among his gene-spawn, the Fleshweavers and the Heralds of Silence, the many-limbed Primus of the Dronemaw and Nuvornal the Elder Manceps, as well as the equerry Issnos Traal, in dark armour with talons of polished leviathan-bone tipping his gauntlet-fingers. Unlike those who had come before, the Lurkers bore nothing at all to commemorate the battles of Ullanor, yet the meaning of that absence was clear, as did their silence speak louder than any words: that they would fight to the utter annihilation of the foe, and not even a memory would remain of those who would stand against the Imperium.

With most of the Legion afield in the far flung corners of Imperial space, from the civil conflict in Obscurus to pushing the boundaries of the Astronomican in the galactic eastern fringe, the contingent of Tears of Dawn present for the Triumph was not grand in size. Nevertheless, Sekhmetara had taken the Emperor’s summons as seriously as she had his command to focus on the completion of her current campaigns instead of attending herself.

In a fashion typical of the Legion, none of the diminished presence of the Mithran legion marched in the ground formation, but instead soared upon the air. A formation of blazing orange and gold seared through the sky, Fire Raptor gunships flanking the dominating form of a Stormbird. The roaring engines of the craft added to the cacophony of assembled noise even as the craft screamed overhead, before banking around and over the assembled procession. The expert pilots of the Tears of Dawn pulled the large craft into maneuvers that even other astartes or advanced flight servitors could manage, flying without the alarm and predictive measures usually contained within the machine spirit of such costly craft. The proud pilots of the Raptora Wing had been assigned this duty from their primarch not because their expertise were not sorely needed across the Imperium, but instead because no force greater exemplified in martial force the character of her Legion and they bore such responsibility with the fierce Mithran pride they were known for.

Their Primarch still in orbit, seeing to the disposition of warriors and vessels throughout the Milky Way, Kaelianos had sent in his stead Modius Lavinus, bearer of the legions standard touched by the Primarchs own hand.

Following behind him came the serried ranks of nine entire cohorts of his Praetorian Guard, emblazoned shields by their sides as they marched, armour polished to a gleam and helmet crests brushed to perfection; it was a token force only, for the Eighth knew no rest, and already the majority of their forces in the Ullanor System were regrouping in orbit before jumping off who knew where in order to face another threat to their Imperium.

Behind the Eighth, came the Tenth. Arnulf Wode, the second-newest primarch to return to the fold, rode ahead of his Legion in his massive superheavy tank, the hybrid Fellblade/Baneblade Return to Sender, waving to the crowds as he rolled past. Behind him, an entire battalion of Predator tanks, ranks and ranks of medium armor, then the Legion’s Sicarans, all their turrets pointing up and to the right in salute. The driver and commander of each vehicle rode with their heads out of the hatches, with the remaining crewmembers stood atop the engine decks, cheering and extorting the crowds to new heights of fervor and exaltation. 

The Pact’s contribution to the Triumph was the reminder to the citizenry that the Emperor’s armies were overwhelming, and that the Astartes that made up the vast ranks of warriors were as eager for victory and peace as they. The Pact was an honest, pragmatic legion, who valued peace and the absence of danger as much as they valued the glory and prestige victory brought them. The Legionaries of the Pact were as eager to be here, soaking up the adoration of their citizenry just as much as they wanted to be on the killing fields, decisively ending some affront to the Imperial Truth.

Behind them, came the mechanized infantry, the second pillar of the Legion. They marched, in perfect lock-step, alongside their Rhinos, bellowing baudy marching songs and stomping their left foot in cadence so that a thundering crash echoed through the procession every off-beat of their songs. Normally derisive of ornamentation, every marching squad held aloft a banner of the Pact, either their own banners, or ones taken from the enemy during the Unification of Salient, Arnulf Wode’s adopted home world. 

Thirdly, the artillery. As the tanks did, the self propelled guns of the Pact, a dizzying variety of Basilisks, Medusas, Bombards, and other, more esoteric weapons, Arquitor Bombards, Scorpius Whirlwinds, and the squat, pugnacious Vindicator siege tanks all followed in perfect spacing. As the barrelled artillery passed a certain point, the crews fired underpowered blank shells that shot wads of confetti into the air as they made a thunderous bang. The crowd cheered louder and louder as each passing rank of armor filled the air with more smoke and paper.

Eventually, the grinding of treads on the roadway faded at the Tenth’s showing ended, allowing the next part of the procession to pass in review. 

The finale of the Triumph was far from grand, the final participants neither counting a mighty Primarch nor god-machines among their number. Their Primarch had already left, and not being the sort to engage in pomp or pride many of their number had followed her. The XIVth Legion did not bring trophies, they did not bring great engines, and they did not prepare grand banners. Instead, those Doomsayers that did take part simply marched in loose order, their procession taking far more space than was sensible for how few were there. But they did remember who they were, and where they were and understood their obligation to give a fitting end to the lengthy affair. Lacking the typical tools to provide such a display, for after so long could anyone truly be impressed by another array of power armored figures?, they made use of what they did have.

As they walked upon the grand procession, the gaps in their ranks slowly widened, and hidden figures slowly became visible. Small, miniscule in comparison to the warriors they were among, they had been hidden at first by the rows of marching women. Yet now as they walked alongside the Astartes, the truth of who and what they were became obvious. Those Doomsayers who had remained on Ullanor lacked a unique display of martial might, but there was one resource within their fleets that they could draw from - one that almost no other Astartes could count upon. Their children. The legionnaires marched with an almost casual  cadence, many removing their helmets with their sons and daughters soon lifted up into their embrace or even placed to ride upon their pauldrons.

Where their cousins had marched beneath icons of war and death, where their fathers had marched before them, the Doomsayers focused instead on what their victories had bought, the Emperor's promise so tantalizingly close to fruition. A future where the children of warriors need not become the same. That eternal, never achieved dream of peace.

As the first participants of the grand procession made it to the end of the triumphal way, a monumental sight awaited them. Long had the architects of the Triumph labored, but none so secretly as those that had provided the final trophy. What awaited them was nothing less than the preserved frame of the fallen Urlakk Urg, the greenskin warboss recovered from the wreckage of his dread tower and placed as the ultimate insult to his entire race. A cordon of Doomsayer Revenants who had demurred when offered the glory of the procession stood guard around the massive corpse, their weapons drawn as if afraid it might somehow come back to life. Judging by the tell-tale volkite burns that had scoured flesh from bone, and the neat hole in between his eyes, it was a fear that had been taken rather seriously by the XIVth. But most resplendent of all was a massive banner of the Knights of Awe hanging behind the slain xeno, proclaiming to one and all who had made such a sight possible.

As the procession of Astartes reached the final spectacle of their march, as the titans strode among them and the roars of supersonic engines spoke of the Imperium’s dominance of the skies, The Emperor and his custodes watched from the pinnacle of their triumph. Even for the Astartes, perhaps even the Primachs themselves, it was a strain to look upon the Master of Mankind when he made no effort to conceal or ease the scope of his might. Yet, they could not look away, for all eyes were drawn to the being of perfection before them. As the first of the Legions reached their final positions for the conclusion of the Triumph, the Sign of the Aquila rippled through their ranks, ceramite and ceramite clanging with such repeated enormity it could be heard over even the great warhorns of the God-Machines echoing their same praise.

The blinking lights of a horde of recording devices flared to life at the sight, preserving the sight not just for those across the galaxy but likewise for those across the Triumph itself who would be too distant to behold the finality of their glory. The golden light of the Emperor’s might shone back at him from the gleaming auramite of his guardians, the Custodes stoic in their physical form but ever alert and poised to act.

“When first the Aquila was raised on distant Terra, this day was the promise.” The Emperor’s voice broiled through the air like the surge of a rogue wave. While Remebrancers worked to bring it into being through sound systems across the length of the Triumph, the necessity of doing so was in doubt. All those present felt, more than heard, the power of the Emperor’s own words. “The path we chose was wrought with trial and tragedy, but the cost of justice has always been high. Our aim has never simply been the victory of might, but the vindication of our righteous truth. Not the enslaved peace that has been offered countless times to humanity by false religion and cosmic foes, but peace and freedom both. The right of humanity to rule across the stars, as is our birthright.” Each intonation of the Emperor’s voice stung the air like the building force of thunder, softening only slightly as his words carried on. “The Campaign we have fought here is but a sign of our inevitable victory, a hated ancient foe of our people laid into the dust, never to rise again to threaten us so. Because of our victory, generations of human children shall never need to fear the Beast as their ancestors have. What began on the slopes of Terra has reached this new pinnacle, and from here, only the Galaxy awaits.” The Master of Mankind paused in his speech, looking over the assembled parada as if his focus might reach every soul present, impossible a task as that might be even for one such as him.

“My Children have lead you all to victory across countless worlds around innumerable stars, the Legiones Astartes at the fore, but do not forget that each being within the Imperium has sacrificed that we might stand triumphant today. Each of you, from my chosen primarchs to those who toil to bring arms and armour to the front have earned the right of this victory, and countless others, be they upon Ullanor or at the farthest cusp of the Galaxy.” The whole countenance of the Emperor shone with pride, a sight that could stir even the most jaded of those present, such was the force of majesty in the presentation of this work.

“Thus it is so, that with a heavy heart, for I shall no longer have the privilege of witnessing your glory first hand, that I pass the orchestration of our Crusade on to them, my children.” For the first moment since the Emperor began his address, a true hush rolled out over the parade, not in awe, but in shocking doubt, a thousand questions springing to the mind of those assembled. “I have been your Emperor and Warmaster, but the time has come where one role must surpass the other. Here, and upon the gruelling campaigns of this Crusade, my children and the forces they command have shown that you no longer need my guiding hand, and it would be remiss of me to forsake the governance of our hard won realm, simply that I might keep your noble company. Upon Terra the Aquila was raised, but it is here, from Ullanor, that it shall be raised higher still, until the galaxy, from the Ghoul Stars of Ultima to the far rim of Pacificus are one within the Imperium. To this duty I trust, what say you?”

The question from the lips of the Emperor broke a moment of doubt, shuddering through those assembled like a wave of righteous fury from less enlightened times.

“For the Imperium! For the Emperor!”