First Impressions-Angron

Ch1 Brotherhood and Blood

Horus was charismatic, Guilliman was noble, Sanguinius and Fulgrim were beautiful, and even
the chiseled visage of Dorn or the red-eyed gaze of Vulkan had something handsome in their
austere landscape. Angron of Nuceria was none of these things.

His face was contorted by a snarl of rage, lips pressed back to reveal a yellow-white grimace of
bared teeth. His jaw pulsed with contained fury and agony as his nostrils flared with the heavy
panting breaths he took. His silver hair was difficult to distinguish between the mechanical
dreadlocks of the thing bolted into the back half of his skull and many of the Astartes on the
battlefield looked to the Emperor. Surely this half-feral thing could not be their Primarch?
Where was the aura of command, the overwhelming reassurance that others spoke of upon
meeting their genetic fathers? Any misplaced sense of awe was certainly gone as Angron turned
to the side and snorted something unpleasant out of his nose.
“War Hounds of the Twelfth Legion,” said the Emperor, who was taking the muted reaction in
stride, “I present to you your Primarch, Angron of Nuceria!”
The gladiator waved one blood-drenched hand perfunctorily as the Emperor continued.
“Another of my sons has been found and though his homecoming is not the joyous occasion I
had hoped for, I trust you will greet him with the brotherhood and unity the War Hounds are
known for!”
There was some cheering and vague assent to this scattered among the warriors as the
Primarch stepped forward. “Right, you lot prob’ly are wondering why I’m all twitchy an’ about
as handsome as a brahmin bull. These’re called Butcher’s Nails.” Angron tapped the cables with
one massive finger. “They’re suppos’d to make a man better at fightin an’ punish him if he does
anything else. I told ‘em and the high-rider lords who nailed ‘em into me and killed my father to
fuck off.”
There was a shout of mixed outrage and assent from the blue and white giants as several
gunned the motors of their chain-axes. “Bastards!” shouted one Astartes and Angron’s grin
was a gleaming knife of painful promise.
“Aye, bastards they be, so we fought back, few though we were. We took their cities before
they chased us out and thought to kill us. But thanks to you lot, they’re the ones who’re
bleeding all over the dirt today.” There was more laughter which trailed off as Angron shook
violently and jerked his head to the side. “Eaters of Cities!” he called out and the human
gladiators raised their weapons with Nucerian chants of their own. “Gather your flags and
trophies, we march within the hour!”
The humans had been planting small red flags throughout the battle even as they’d fought and
the Astartes dispersed somewhat as the smaller figures scattered through their ranks, drawing
knives to finish off wounded enemies or pliers to extract gold teeth.

Angron turned to the Emperor, who had pursed his lips and looked faintly disapproving. “What
of the high-riders?” asked his son with ill-disguised fury and the Emperor paused to consider
this. His eyes flicked up to the Bucephalus visible now in orbit and his son before him, trembling
with discomfort despite the Emperor’s efforts to diminish his psychic presence. His expression
hardened. “Capture the scientists if you can, but humanity shall not weep for such men. If I
may, I’d like to see if my own powers can ease your suffering.”
“Go for it,” grunted the gladiator.
As cautiously as he could, the Emperor attempted to probe his son’s mind, but the pain sent
Angron down on one knee and he nearly attacked the Emperor in a roaring fury. Breathing
heavily, drooling, face twisted into a near-purple mask of rage, Angron paused of his own
accord before the Emperor could freeze him, holding himself back by a mighty effort of will.
“Did-hrn-did you do that on purpose?”
The Emperor shook his head, regret and consideration mixing on his features. “I did not, my
son. These implants of yours react poorly to psychic potential, it seems.”
Angron staggered back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Then get a damned
doctor. I don’t want these things in my head anymore.”
His father nodded and touched several runes on his armor. “I will return for you shortly, my
son.” His smile turned hopeful, almost nostalgic even. “In the meantime, perhaps your old
warriors and your new ones will find they have much in common.” Angron jolted and covered
his eyes as the Emperor disappeared in a flash of actinic lightning.

“Blood in the sand, what sorcery was that?”

“The science of teleportation, my Lord,” said the closest Astartes with the tallest helmet plume
and fur-trimmed cloak. “The Emperor will return- “
His explanation was cut off as Angron lashed his axe into the probably dead corpse at his feet.
“Nails,” he grunted, “harming the wounded keeps me focused. Best time to listen and to plan.
Come on you lot.” Unsure if the jerk of Angron’s head was a result of the device implanted in
the Primarch’s skull or not, Legion Master Gheer hesitated before racing to catch up with
Angron’s massive strides, the War Hounds dispersing across the battlefield in disquieted,
muttering clumps. Soon enough the Captains were forming up behind them, speaking amongst
themselves on inter-helm vox links.

“Right,” said Angron once his “sons” had caught up. “First thing, I’m not My Lord, or Ser, or any
of that rot. You don’t kneel or bow, none of that shit. Just Angron will do.”
“Yes, My Lo- “Gheer cleared his throat. “Primarch Angron.”
Angron grunted as a pleading high-rider soldier died under his axe. “Better. Spartacus said you
lot were my sons, ‘cept I don’t remember bedding any women.” He let out a bark of laughter at
his own joke, which sounded more like a snarl than anything else, but when he slapped Gheer’s
back, the warrior nearly tumbled face-first into the mud. One or two of the Captains laughed,
namely Vark of the 5th, and Kharn of the 8th, so Angron flashed them a yellow-toothed smile of a
shared joke.
“We are your genetic sons, Primarch, Angron. That is what the name Primarch signifies. We are
all soldiers, a pack of War Hounds born of your genetic code, united in brotherhood and blood.”
“I like the sound of that, though War Hounds doesn’t fit. I don’t come yapping for table scraps.”
said Angron, seeing several of his gladiators stumbling around, slightly dazed at the sight of the
transhuman giants in blue and white who had saved their lives. “Here, come meet my Eaters of
Cities. Damn tough, and loyal, every one of them.”
He waved his free hand and three humans staggered over, one bound in a submission hold.
“Angron, thank the Divine,” said a man with relief on his face as the warrior he held thrashed
and gibbered. “We saw you join the spearhead, but lost sight of you among all these other
warriors. Up to your usual tricks, eh?”
“Drawing enemy fire an’ spears? Yeah, something like that,” said Angron. “Calpurnia, how fare
you?” His face lit up at the sight of the blood covering her arm and his hands tightened around
the haft of his axe as he restrained himself from attacking. “How bad is it?”
“Barely a scratch compared to the Games,” she said dismissively, shucking the blood away from
her arm with long sweeps of her free hand, causing it to spatter on the boots of 2 nd Captain
Tazoul. She blanched and looked up to see the Captain gesture to his own bloody plate in
reassurance. “What of this one?” the Captain rumbled, pointing one ceramite finger at the
twitching, mostly dead man between the two humans. Calpurnia looked up into the green
scowl of his Mk 5 helmet without a shred of fear.
“Darbo’s Nailed, just like Angron, and he’s gone. The battle took him and now, only his body still
lives. We were looking for you, and he’s the one that did this.”
She tapped her arm, which had great lashes torn in it from Darbo’s fingernails as his struggles
renewed.
“Primarch Angron,” said Gheer, one hand at his earpiece. “The War Hounds are getting
scattered reports of similar cases, men and women throwing themselves at us, beating
themselves bloody on our plate. Your orders?”
Angron jerked to the side, stamping his feet, and pummeling his chest with the flat of his axe,
the blade barely turning aside each time as the machine in his head pulsed. “Kill…Something to
kill,” he managed.
“There’s a high-rider we left spitted on a spear to your left,” said the man restraining Darbo and
Angron was off at a galloping run that at times seemed more bestial than human. The Astartes
hesitated as a roar came from that direction, followed by screams of pain.
“Monstrous behavior,” said Idulor, forgetting his vox channel had been open as Calpurnia
pulled a captured rifle into her hands and fired twice. The bullets ricocheted off ceramite plate,
but her expression was just as fierce as the captain’s as he stalked forward, activating his power
sword with a humm of ozone. “Say that again and I’ll kill you,” she promised. “I don’t care if you
did save our asses, you will address the Lord of the Red Sands with respect.”
Idulor snorted and carved the rifle in half with contemptuous swing. “With what? You’re a
human, just as pathetic as he is. A Primarch should not be this pitiful, groveling creature, the
War Hounds deserve better.” A hand wrenched him around as Kharm pummeled a fist into
Idulor’s helmet, methodically raining three precise blows to shatter the eyepiece and wrench
the helmet away.
“She’s right. He may not be what we hoped, but he’s still our Primarch,” snarled Kharn. “So,
keep your thoughts to yourself, Captain.” He shoved the other Space Marine back and tossed
the helmet at Calpurnia, who caught it with both hands and staggered back several steps.
“Right now, she’s more worthy of that crest than you.”
Angron strode back with a new bloodstain across his chest. His face lit up once more as he
caught the tension in the two groups, the mortals glaring at the Space Marines, who were
either standing next to Idulor, or edging away. “What now, you damn fools?”
“We’ve got one with a high-rider attitude, Angron,” said Calpurnia, turning the helmet over in
her hands with some effort. “But plenty with the sense to spare, so there’s hope for ‘em yet.”
Angron gnashed his teeth at the word high-rider and pointed his axe at the isolated group of
three Captains, including Idulor. “Right, which ones’re they?”
Gheer stepped forward, his hands held out in a gesture for calm. “Captains Idulor, Tharsis, and
Menk of the 3rd, 6th, and 7th Companies, my Primarch. However, there is still the matter of- “
“Yeah, the Nailed,” said Angron in a voice that suddenly sounded tired, for all the self-loathing
contained within it. “Have any of my Eaters of Cities pulled them back?”
“Most, my Primarch, but a few appear to be, as Calpurnia says, too far gone.”
“Then duel them,” said Angron. “Let them die with blades in hand and honor intact, what
shreds remain. One champion each and remove those helmets when you do. Face them as men
if that’s what you are.”
He turned to leer at Idulor, then stopped, flexing his hands as he noticed bruising around the
Captain’s eye. “Who punched the high-rider? Cal?”
His gladiator shook her head.
“It was me,” said Khârn, stepping forward and saluting with his chainaxe. “The War Hounds do
not take kindly to insubordination, especially from our ranking officers.”
Angron bobbed his head in a nod. “Good, neither do I. Who’re you?”
“Eighth Assault Company Captain Khârn,” said the warrior, removing his helmet to look upon
the Primarch with his weathered face.
“Hrn. How do the War Hounds deal with shit-lipped, high-riders then, Khârn?”
Gheer raised a hand. “Standard protocol is demotion, followed by- “
“Wasn’t asking you,” said Angron with an eyeroll. “Was asking Khârn. Shut your mouth.” Gheer
wisely kept silent.
“Censure, followed by demotion, and if the Marine in question still has an attitude, posted to
the front line for the next four worlds.”
“Right,” said Angron through gritted teeth. “You three, you’re demoted to…Kharn what’s your
basic shield wall rank?”
“Breachers, Angron. Ship boarding and tunnel fighting.”
“You’re breachers, now get out of my sight before I make things simple and just kill you.”

“No,” said Menk calmly as he glared right back at the Primarch, the power fist in his hand rising
to point at him. “I will not take orders from an animal- “
The Primarch’s axe was buried in his skull before he finished the sentence and as the blood
splashed onto Angron’s face he shivered in ecstasy before wiping it away with a disgusted
expression. “Anyone else?”
Some shuffling among the officers, but even Khârn said nothing as Angron tugged on his axe,
wrenching it free from the corpse, which tumbled to the ground in a clatter of armor. “Smarter
than he was, at least. High riders everywhere. Calpurnia, you’re Captain of the 7 th Whatever
now.”
Both the Astartes and the gladiatrix protested, voices rising, but Angron ignored them. “Gheer,
you said the Apoth…rrrngh, the doctors could make humans into Astartes, right? Make her
one.”
Gheer sighed. “Primarch Angron, that’s simply not possible.”
“Shut up ‘bout possible. I led a rebellion with these Nails in me and most of my army, don’t tell
me about possible.”
“Only men, or boys can become Space Marines,” said Gheer. “And she would not be able to
keep up on the battlefield or lead from the front as our leaders do.”
“You’ve got radios, live with it,” snapped Angron as he turned his back on the marines and
raised his bloody axe. “Iculon, release Darbo and I’ll duel him.”
“No, my Primarch,” said Khârn, putting a hand on Angron’s arm only to be lifted by fingers that
gripped the collar of his armor effortlessly.
“This is my man, what I could be,” snarled Angron, sending spit and blood into Khârn’s face.
“It’s my responsibility.”
“We’re your men too,” pointed out Khârn, aware of the many gruesome ways Angron could kill
him. “From today, we will share your responsibilities, your world, your gladiators, even your
Nails if- “
“NO!” bellowed Angron, shaking Khârn like a rag doll and crushing the ceramite in his fist. “The
Nails die with the high-riders.”
“Then let me duel Darbo the Nailed,” said Khârn as his armor beeped at him. “We can begin to
end this cursed technology and let the man rest.”
Angron dropped him without ceremony. “Fine.”

Khârn stood up and pulled his weapons from the bloody earth as everyone backed up, leaving
space between him and the gladiator still holding the thrashing Darbo. “Are there any words
you say, my Primarch?”
Angron’s head twitched. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Khârn.”
The massive Legionary held his chainaxe in the ready position while his opponent had a
machete and pistol pressed into his clinging hands, the sane gladiator flinging himself away
instantly.
“Die well, Darbo of Nuceria,” intoned Khârn with respect in his voice. “You have won.”
Darbo gibbered incoherently and charged with a shout as Khârn met him halfway.
Two halves of a dead man fell to the ground, now just one more body on a mountain plain full
of them. Angron and Calpurnia’s eyes both flicked to the dead man, and then back to Khârn.
“Cal,” asked Angron, “Did I have an Equerry before the battle?”
“I believe you said it was a pointless title when Whirl-Shield Agem suggested it,” said Calpurnia.
“Despite being a walking brick in armor, I like him.”
“There we go, a recommendation from another Captain,” said Angron. “You’re now my
Equerry, Khârn.”
“I am honored,” said Khârn dryly, “and an Equerry does what, exactly?”
“Explains shit, reminds me of shit, points me at whatever’s big and needs killin’,” grunted
Angron as he stalked in the direction of one of the Thunderhawk gunships. “Which right now
means all the other high-riders on the planet and whoever’s guarding the rest of the
gladiators.”
“As you will, Angron,” Gheer turned to the remaining captains and began shouting orders in a
voice turned brassy from bellowing across battlefield.
“Make sure the City-Eaters get on board,” said Khârn. “Sounds like this is their fight too.”
Angron nodded. “The ones who’re left, the men, can you make them like you?”
The 8th Company Captain raised and lowered his shoulderpads in a visible shrug of whirring
servobundles. “It’s a risky process, but others have succeeded and become far more powerful
than even the Nailed City-Eaters.”
“Volunteers only,” growled Angron as several of his gladiators rolled their eyes or huffed fondly.
“You know that means eight out of every ten will volunteer,” said one of them and even the
Space Marines chuckled at that.
Calpurnia hopped up onto one of the passenger seats built for a Space Marine, and she looked
tiny with the helmet in her hands. “That Gheer, he said something about ‘the next four worlds’
what’s that about?”
Khârn pulled Captain Dreagher forward as he ushered several more City-Eaters onto the
gunship. “The Emperor created us to free worlds, entire planets, from the grip of tyrants,
psykers, and xenos monstrosities of all sorts, Captain. Your brothers will soon join us.”

“They won’t be the Eaters of Cities anymore,” said Dreagher, the Captain of the 9 th Induction
Company already assessing the humans who stood within the Thunderhawk with scavenged
weapons. “They’ll be the Eaters of Worlds.”
“World Eaters,” said Angron and he beat his chest in time to the Thunderhawk’s roaring engines
as the gunship exploded with the sound of cheers from Astartes and human alike. “Yes, then
the World Eaters we shall be.”

Ch 2: Leman Russ

Leman of the Russ plodded down the ramp of his Stormbird onto the deck of the Conqueror
and looked out at the rows of white and blue World Eaters who’d assembled to greet him.
When Leman had heard of his newly discovered brother, he’d been delighted and
conveniently arranged a compliance mission a mere system away as a pretext to visit Angron
of Nuceria. Another brother raised in difficult circumstances who’d climbed to greatness, so
he’d heard, one who enjoyed a good bout. By all accounts, Angron was a man who understood
the value of brotherhood, but there was no towering figure in the sea of Space Marines.
“Hail, Leman of the Russ, Primarch of the Space Wolves,” pronounced his skald in a voice that
carried across the loading bay. “We come in the spirit of brotherhood and to meet with his
long-lost kin.”
“Hail!” bellowed the World Eaters in a synchronized wall of sound, raising their axes and
swords and clashing them against breastplates. An Astartes in a dark blue cloak approached
with his helmet in his hands alongside a mortal with a chainsword strapped across her back,
conversing in the low tones of some guttural language. When she reached the Primarch and his
honor guard, she looked up into his face, squinting slightly as Leman bent to regard her
weathered dark face.
“I announced my arrival well in advance,” said Leman Russ in his gruff rumbling voice. “Where
is my brother? Does he not wish to meet with his brothers?”
“Angron does not stand on ceremony,” replied the woman, consulting her dataslate. “But he
anticipated your arrival and wishes us to meet him in the gladiator pits. It’s his way.”
“Do not take this as a slight, my Lord,” said the Astartes as they turned and began to walk, the
World Eaters falling in next to the Primarch as the honor guard jockeyed for space. “His
Butcher’s Nails necessitated modification to some of the more standard honors. Lor- I mean,
Angron is very much looking forward to this meeting.”
“Finally someone who can take a punch,” said the woman with a gleam of amusement in her
eyes. She’d scampered up the Astartes’ armor like a squirrel and was perched on the captain’s
backpack as Leman raised a single eyebrow. She shoved one hand at the Primarch. “Calpurnia,
Captain of the 7th Assault Company, the big lug beneath me is Dreaghar of the 9th Induction.”
“How does a human woman come to lead a company of Astartes?” asked Leman. “Sounds like
a saga worth singing.”
“It’s really not,” replied Calpurnia, shrugging. “I used to lead Angron’s army on Nuceria, when
he killed the last Captain, he gave me the job. Leading from the front helps when you’re in a
big battletank and Captain Dreaghar’s working with me to make sure the new World Eaters
mesh with the War Hounds.”

Ch 3: Fulgrim and Kurze

Ch 4: Lotara Sarin

Ch 5: Sanguinius

Ch 6: Gulliman