Word Bearers Praetor Malach Varn.

 “Ashes of Iax”

The sky above Iax burned the colour of old bruises.

Praetor Malach Varn strode through drifting ash, and the fields of once-perfect Ultramar lay trampled beneath the boots of the XVII Legion. The agri-spires that had fed a hundred systems were aflame, their sacrifices rendered up to thirsting gods of darkness.

His Tartaros Terminator armour growled with each step.

Not the clean whirr of loyalist plate—but a predatory, grinding snarl, as if the ceramite itself resented stillness. Pistons flexed like sinew beneath crimson lacquer. Scripture crawled across every plate in burning runes, lit by the brazier mounted upon his shoulders. Its fire guttered but did not diminish, fed by oils rendered from sacrifices offered before planetfall.

Before him stood the sons of Guilliman.
A shieldwall of Ultramarines advanced through the orchard ruins— Tactical squads formed disciplined firing ranks while a Contemptor Dreadnought strode at their centre, its fists crackling with power fields.

“Word Bearers,” came the vox-hail, calm and clipped. “In the name of the XIII Legion, for the crimes against Calth and Ultramar, stand down and be judged.”

Varn laughed. The sound boomed from his helm grille, layered with a second voice beneath it—something older and wet with mirth, as the brazier burst into renewed flame in challenge.
“Judgement has already come,” he replied.

*****

Having a Horus Heresy moment finishing off this Word Bearers Praetor for a friend.

He'd done most of the work but didn't want to attempt the flames and was going to paint them black as smoke, I offered and the result is here.

When I next visit Duncan, probably for our next Element Games Stockport meet up, I'll have to make sure to take a few photos of his entire Word Bearers Legion, as he's got quite a bit finished.

*****

The Ultramarines opened fire.

Bolter shells struck his armour in disciplined volleys. Ceramite flared, scripture ignited and burned brighter where rounds impacted. The Tartaros plate snarled as it absorbed the punishment, servos howling as Varn surged forward through the storm.

His combi-bolter barked in reply—mass-reactive detonations punching through blue armour, precise and unhurried. An Ultramarine fell.

At thirty metres, he triggered the melta.

Sunfire lanced out. The Contemptor’s torso became incandescent ruin. Adamantium ran like wax; the Dreadnought staggered, reactor screaming, before collapsing into the orchard in a wash of molten slag.

Still the XIII held formation.

Varn met them at the irrigation canal.

His crozius fell.

Warp-flame roared outward in a hungry arc. An Ultramarine sergeant raised his power sword to parry; the blade shattered on impact, and the crozius crushed helm and skull in a single, contemptuous blow. The brazier-fire flared in answer, as if fed by the death.

A second Ultramarine drove a combat blade into the joint at Varn’s waist. The Tartaros armour shrieked in outrage. Varn seized the warrior by the throat and lifted him one-handed. 

He crushed the loyalist’s gorget and cast the body aside.

The remaining Ultramarines closed, disciplined to the last. A bolt round found a candle and extinguished it, a second found a dent in his armour, for a moment, the Praetor staggered.

Wax and blood mixed beneath his boots.

Then the crozius blazed white-hot.

The flames leapt from weapon to brazier, from brazier to the scriptures carved across his plate. The runes ignited like a constellation. The air grew thick, trembling with unseen syllables.

The Ultramarines hesitated.

That was enough.

Fire exploded outward in a halo of empyric heat. Blue armour blackened and split. Three warriors fell at once, their forms wreathed in unearthly flame that did not consume flesh so much as unmake it.

Silence settled over the orchard.

The agri-fields burned.

Praetor Malach Varn stood amidst the dead, armour grinding as he turned toward the distant spires of Iax’s primary hive. The brazier atop his shoulders guttered low, then flared anew as if inhaling the smoke of the battlefield.

“Let Guilliman reap what he has sown,” he murmured.

Behind him, the Word Bearers advanced through fire and ash, chanting litanies that rolled across the dying fields of Ultramar like a second, darker harvest.

*****

Until next time, have nice day...