THE FORTY-FOURTH YEAR OF THE GREAT CRUSADE
DESIGNATED PLANET 48B-001, ICARUS CLUSTER
The Iron Blood
began the orbital bombardment of the planet 48B-001 just 67 hours before its population had surrendered. It disappointed Titus Rokar that he never got the glory of landing on the backwater of a planet its stubborn human “empire” called home. In truth, 48B-001 did have a name, its inhabitants had called it Nyle, its main topography consisted of swamp lands with rivers that ran across the world akin to veins in a human body. Perturabo had sent a human ambassador down to try and peacefully bring the Empire of Nyle to the Imperiums light, but they made their decision clear when they only sent back a bloodied and naked ambassador to the Lord of Iron. Titus was there to see his Primarchs famous ire come into full swing and immediately ordered the bombardment of Nyle’s military outposts, but curiously not their main city.
“I gave them a chance and they broke it,” Perturabo had said, “but I know the people are innocent and I want to see their “emperor” weep when his own people turn upon him and praise their saviors as their rightful rulers.”
Pict captures from scouting drones showed a city of crystalline towers where the emperor and his court were living in decadence, while at the base of these towers were ugly shelters built from the ship that had carried them here during the dawning days of Terra’s expansion before Old Night. Titus knew his master had been raised in a house of royalty on Olympia, but he knew Perturabo only wanted efficiency and work out of his people and close advisors, not grow fat on the peoples suffering like the emperor of Nyle had.
After word of surrender came, Perturabo and his Trident, the best of the commanders of the Iron Warriors, went planet side to officially oust the emperor of Nyle and sent word back to the Iron Bloods occupants that much work was to be done. Titus had only been in the Dodekatheon society for only five Terran years and had only gained a reputation amongst his brethren for designing buildings for the civilians and not fortress or trenches for battle, he saw the greater picture of wanting to rebuild planets for future generations of humanity to safely and comfortably call home. The main hall where the Dodekatheon often met smelled of stone, sweat, graphite, but the mood of the room often felt of paranoia, that everyone was watching everyone, thinking of how to quell a rival’s petty game of trying to gain their masters respect. The hall was a vast room with rows of simulation tables where Warsmiths ran scenario after scenario of battles to test their strategic prowess against others, pillars of stone where the masons designed beautiful statues or ugly bunkers, and, where Titus often was, tables for architecture.
Titus constantly tried to gain respect from his master with fortress designs but no sooner had he finished drawing when he heard the Lord of Irons emotionless, cold tone of logistics that pointed out every breaking point and error in his designs.