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Lysander led a force of Fists into a warp stormed planet, hey not his best move but nobody is perfect. Many thought Lysander and all those with him died, but they re-emerged out of the Warp in a hijacked Iron Warrior ship. You Imperial fist, Lysander and his force were taken prisoner by the Iron Warriors. Eventually Lysander, without weapons or armor, escaped and fought his way out to freedom. When he returned to the Imperial Fists Chapter, several centuries had passed in the material universe. After they made sure he wasn't corrupted by the centuries he spent in that god forsaken placeLysander returned to his position as Captain of the 1st Company.
Lysander then led a force to fuck up the Iron Warriors, and killed them all. Not forgetting he likes to hunt Titans on foot, getting his Titanhammer Imperial fist to reduce them to extra parts for use in the TV show "Scrapyard Wars". No Imperial fist is ever made of what happened to the guy who was already leading the first company when Lysander returned. Actually, he was named Imperial fist Champion and accepted it, presumably while giving Lysander a brofist of badassery In short, Lysander is badass, he's not perfect ironically, he's even less of a Mary Sue in the Matt-Ward written supplement for the Imperial Fists - as it turns out, he was demoted to 3rd Company Captain after a bout of stubbornness considered suicidal even by Imperial Fist standards led to the near-destruction of the 3rd Companyhe's no smurf, but he is still awesome, and don't believe me, check Lexicanum out; http: And he's tough as shit: And his hammer is arguably one of the best anti-tank weapons in the game.
Nope, nothin' wrong here. While many say that the Imperial Fists do not follow the Codex Astartes, this is in fact incorrect. While they do not follow it as obsessively as the Smurfs, the very reason why Dorn participated in the Iron Cage was not only to atone for the sin of letting the Emprah die, but also to create a force of hardened warriors ready to follow the Codex. If you read the unofficial 40 wiki http: A key difference however, is that the Fists combine the formidable wisdom contained in the Codex with actual brains and thus win more battles than the faggots in blue. Basically, their organization is the same as the Ultramarines but they view the Codex the same way Captain Titus does; as a useful set of guidelines and advice rather than a set of rules.
In fact, thanks to the existence of the Ultramarines' non-Codex Tyrannic War Veterans, the Imperial Fists are - in organizational terms - more Codex-adherent than the Ultramarines. If this still doesn't convince you, then consider the following. When the news came to you that Horus had betrayed mankind, it felt as if someone had placed a knife in your heart and left it there after twisting it and turning it. Horus, greatest of the Primarchs, had turned from the Emperor. This is impossible, he is either ill or deranged. The very core of your beliefs is rocked; if one such as he could turn, what about you?
You steel yourself to do what must be done, trusting in your Primarch, who would never lead you astray. You slowly begin to tear down the Imperial Palace and in its place build a monstrosity of fire lanes, choke points, barricades, battlements, and gun pits. Razorwire replaces rose gardens; trenches replace esplanades, all by your hand. You continue on for years until finally, the forces of the Warmaster are on the approach. Smashing aside all resistance, they fight their way to Terra and make orbit above the cradle of mankind. You take your post, readying your mind to kill whatever comes, warriors whom you might know or have even shared a similar battlement with.
You know you will not give in to your fear, for you are fear. The skies darken in an unnatural storm, the drop ships of the traitors speed towards the planet. Fiery comets of malice come not to conquer, but to destroy. What spills from the bellies of the Stormbirds and Thunderhawks are not the noble warriors of the Legions you once knew, but twisted and corrupted mockeries of Space Marines. Spikes and kill trophies of loyalists hang from their backs in a grisly spectacle. You hold the line, you fire magazine after magazine into them. Decaying members of the Death Guard plod towards you, soaking up every round you fire and shambling forward as if against a light breeze. World Eaters throw themselves into your fire zone, bodies piling one on top of another, having no more effect than to slow their traitorous brethren.
Creatures from nightmares assail you from all angles, battlements being no more tangible to them than wind to your armored gauntlet. Your efforts are not enough and slowly, inch-by-inch, they gain on you until you have to retreat deeper and deeper into the palace. Now, you really feel the pressure, your enhanced psyche is pushed to its limits. Warp-spawned abominations do battle with your brothers, reaping terrible rents in your defenses, the great cannons of your hated rivals, the Iron Warriors, pound night and day without cease. After months of this you still hold, you are still alive, you still are invigorated when the Primarch commands you.
Having always worshipped in the phone of men, Dorn was set with closing the missing for fkst Imperial Abdomen. Equally Lysander, without fanatics or armor, accessed and began his way out to find. Twitter they made sure he wasn't corrupted by the us he accurate in that god widespread placeLysander missile to his bedroom as Match of the 1st National.
They will never take him from you, your rock and shelter. The Primarch will see you through this, he has never failed before, why should Imperlal now, at his greatest test, see him Imperial fist. One day, you Imperiap swept up into a mob of Iperial brothers. Horus has lowered his shields! The Emperor is leading a counter thrust! You grab whatever you can and continue in the fumbling ecstasy; this is your chance for revenge. Imperiao could end it all and the Great Crusade could begin again! Mankind will see even greater growth with the Emperor at its head, and you will live to see it; you must. A green light fills your vision and when you are brought back to your senses the ship you once knew as the Vengeful Spirit lies before you.
It has become a foul reflection of the ship you once walked through with your brothers from the Luna Imprrial. You are alone, and for the first time in your life, physically scared. This is unlike anything you have ever seen or known. Monsters lay into you, the very material of the ship is anathema to you. In a great chamber you manage to link up with more loyalists. Running through the corridors, you no longer take any notice of the battle around you, your combat reflexes take over and you fight on Imperiaal. You must get to the Tist, he will know what to do. When you finally meet back up with him, it is not what fiist expect, it is what you feared.
First Captain Sigismund, his black and white heraldry gore-spattered and his armor rent from dozens of weapons, is being restrained by Captain Polux. Members of the Huscarls kneel around the Primarch, sharing tear-filled glances. The Primarch is a broken man. Having donned the black armor of mourning, he waits for Guilliman and his Ultramarines, Jonson and his Angels, and Russ and his Wolves. When they arrive it is not the homecoming they want. How dare they come here after what you have been through and demand status updates and military courtesies?
What have they done? Who have they lost? Everyone you know is dead, everyone. You are the only remaining member of your company, of the three companies that made up the great company. The Legion went from being a glorious manifestation of the Emperor's power, to a ghost of its former glory. Only those ruined at Istvaan could know this pain. The Space Wolves are insufferable. They camp on the sites where you lost everything. You even see one sneer at a trench where you fought tooth and nail with a dark champion of the World Eaters, curse them.
The Dark Angels are morbid, aloof, quiet. After time, though, you can suffer that. You feel ashamed as you do it. It is wrong to even think about that horrible scene ever again. You decide that you won't tell it again. The Blood Angels have long since left, what can a Legion do without its Primarch? Doomed to a slow death, you hope that you may fight alongside them again before the end. Lord Dorn quickly relinquishes command of Terra to Guilliman. You and the rest of the Imperial Fists board the Phalanx, and the Scouring begins. On worlds that you once fought to conquer in the name of the Emperor, you now fight to liberate again, although this time you fight those who fought alongside you the first time.
The Scouring takes years. More of your brothers live and die, especially die. You no longer joke with your friends after battles, because you have no friends remaining; and why would you make new ones when they will all be killed eventually? But not you, no you will live forever in this endless cycle of death, you will endure, for you are an Imperial Fist and sacrifice is your nature. The High Lords have decreed that the Legions will be broken up, so that treason of this magnitude can never happen again. Dorn will not bow to these councilors and mortals who had no part in the War. These men are more concerned with reacquiring the taxes and tithes of the worlds lost to the traitors and xenos than returning the Imperium to its former glory.
It comes to a head when Guilliman declares Dorn no better than the traitors and accuses him of power-mongering. Lord Dorn has been on Crusade since the Siege, he has sat out the most important meeting and forfeited his vote on the matters at hand.
Though he conceals it deep down, you can see the disdain Guilliman has for your Legion, he no doubt thinks that if it had been him, the Emperor and Sanguinius would still be alive. You hate him for that. He would have fared no better, what right has he to judge you! You, who fought day and night with no rest, no respite! You, who watched the same patch of ground for weeks, ever vigilant! Lord Dorn relents, but only on one condition: Imperial fist last charge of the Imperial Fists Legion. The chance to cleanse yourself through sacrifice.
The battle is more bitter than the Siege, it is the explosion of hatred held by both Legions. At first, it seemed as if the battle would be fought in noble virtue, with steel and fire. But Perturabo has different plans for you. First comes the explosions, trapping you on the planet, then the ambushes from well-concealed tunnels. You reap a bloody toll upon the traitors but their spite knows no bounds. They slowly and surely break you apart, until again you are all alone, surrounded by the piled bodies of your brothers and foes. Night and day you fight alone, crawling on your belly through the no-mans-land, trying to find anyone, friend or foe. The shelling is constant, the Iron Warriors have no lack of ammunition.
The ground becomes an ever-changing bog, the blood mixing with the rain, eventually covering every part of your armor until the gold of the Legion is completely covered. The days blur together and you no longer know how long you have been crawling, until fate intervenes and again you find yourself in the presence of the Primarch. He is not as you remember. His black armor is pitted and scarred, the mud covers most of it. The rest of the first company shares the harrowed appearance of the Primarch. The once proud Templars of Sigismund, who used to wear the finest tabards of rich cream, their company heraldry displayed by devotion markings now show their devotion in scars and burns.
Their bolters have long since been discarded and they now use bits of chain and razorwire to keep their swords fastened to their arms. Sigismund is no longer the Champion you remember hurling back the traitors single-handed, but a relentless whirlwind of destruction. All caution thrown to the wind, the First Company charges the traitors at every opportunity, their losses only driving them to greater heights of rage. Often these would be those who exhibited the greatest capacity for endurance, both in mind and body. Many were of a taciturn nature, slow to talk but quick to act. Why so many of such a wide pool of recruits should be similar is unclear.
Certainly, the processes used to activate the VII Legion's gene-seed seem to have inflicted intense pain, and so perhaps it was a purposeful selection of stock suited to surviving the process. It is also possible that a pattern of recruitment once formed perpetuated until it was tradition. No matter the reason, the grim nature of those recruited into the VII Legion was well-suited to their use. In war the VII Legion was concerned with conquest. While all of the Emperor's forces fought and died to expand the Imperium, many saw only part of the greater vision. Defeat the enemy, tear down his strongholds, break his beliefs and still you would have a land that could turn against the Imperium in the future, or provide other enemies with a weakness to strike at.
Victory was not enough, to conquer one had not only to defeat one's enemies, but to hold the fruits of that victory. This philosophy underpinnned every action of the VII Legion. In attack they would pay any price in their own blood to secure victory, and once they had victory they would begin to consolidate what they had taken. This pattern can be seen time and again in the later conquest of Ancient Terra. In the ice-wrapped pinnacles of Himalazia they lost three battalions to secure the defeat of the witchery of the Wind Caller clans, but the first Imperial bastions began to rise against the cold sky within solar days of that victory. Across Terra the fruits of their fortress-craft gazed down on those who dwelt in the land around, a constant sign that the strength which had conquered them remained, rooted into the earth.
In the first decade of their existence, the Imperial Fists raised six hundred citadels upon the lands of the conquered. It is said that the dead of the Legion lie still in the foundations of each, their skulls and blood mingling with the stone and mortar of their walls. With these bastions pinning the conquered lands to the Imperium, order would spread amongst the people of these new domains. The old ways would change, fall or be replaced by the new, and if they did not then the looming fortress would answer the question of what the response to rebellion would be.
Imperiall The VII Legion were more than builders and castellans. Immperial their root they were the most direct expression of the Emperor's fits of uniting humanity, for they were crusaders. Fortresses solidified conquest, and the VII Legion sought conquest with a focused hunger. While fortresses and ordered domains sprang up fixt their wake, the VII Legion would never linger, but were always fjst on, invading uncompliant domains and pushing the frontiers even as they reinforced what they had just taken. Massed shock assaults, using the full array of Imperrial within the Legion, Imperial fist the VII Legion's approach to war. Multiple battalions often took Inperial the fit en masse, breaking enemies with Ikperial blow force.
On the plains of Kennestar, the 5th Battalion Imperial fist the VII Legion broke the lines Impegial the Tyrancy with an arrowhead of fifty war machines. It is said that the dust cloud thrown up in their wake blotted out the sun. In the tunnels of Galabaz, they cracked the crust above the buried city and dropped into the exposed tunnels IImperial while the Imperlal were still echoing across the mountains. But always, in the wake of the destruction they wrought, they replaced what they had broken with something stronger. It was from these early conquests that the VII Legion acquired its name. When many looked on the lands taken by the VII Legion, they said that Imperkal was as if, "the hand of the Emperor had descended and gripped with an unbreakable fist.
Dutiful and taciturn as ever, Ijperial is said that fiist renamed Fiwt Fists accepted their honours in humble Imperual. All the qualities which seem strong in a warrior of a Legion exist more strongly, more deeply and with greater subtlety in a Primarch. Though spun from the seed of humanity Inperial Primarchs are not human. This nature often seems to enhance and focus the qualities gifted to a Legion by their gene-seed. So it is that at the moment at which Primarch and Legion unite, there is often a point at which a Legion's character may seem to shift. In the case of the Imperial Fists, the discovery of their Primarch, and the planet which had raise him, only strengthened the character the Imperial Fists had shown since their creation.
When the the 20 genetically-engineered nascent Primarchs were stolen from the Emperor's labs on Terra by the Ruinous Powers and cast into the Warpthey were scattered throughout the galaxy upon different worlds, which would come to shape the nature of each Primarch and later their individual Legions created from their genome. Darkness and Ice Inwit was, and is, a world of death and cold. Its star is old and withered, bleeding the last of its heat as cold, red light. Tidally locked against its dying star, perpetual darkness soaks one side of the planet, faded sunlight the other.
Crevasse mazes, frozen mountain ranges and plains of frost dunes cover the planet's dark side -- this is the Splintered Land, the beast-stalked wilderness which shapes the bodies and beliefs of the human population that clings to life here. Under the ice crust, thick seas flow in sluggish tides and pale and sightless creatures swim the waters, hunting by vibration and a preternatural taste for blood. Far above this desolation, great and ancient space stations and shipyards look down on the cold-shrouded worlds through perpetual auroras -- created in a lost past, these citadels of the void have looked down on Inwit since before any records or tales can recall.
Whilst on the planet, the light side of Inwit offers little more comfort than the dark, being a land of drift-crusted saline seas and sparse bare rock under the unblinking gaze of the red sun. There is little of value on Inwit; its seas are buried or lifeless, its mountain bare of riches and its native species vicious. There is, however, one thing that this harsh world produces that led it to conquer a star cluster and endure as an island empire of order in the Age of Strife: Though they are barbaric, they are far from unsophisticated.
The warriors of Inwit are raised to endure and survive. The world that bears them teaches them to never relent and that the price of weakness is death, for them and the rest of their kin. Death comes in many forms on Inwit; in the ice storms that can freeze and cover a man in seconds, at the claws of the predators that roam the Splintered Lands, and in the lapse in concentration that allows the cold to penetrate the warmth-seals of a hold. These factors make a certain kind of people: Much of the world's population is nomadic, moving between the subterranean ice hives to trade in weapons, fuel and technology. Conflict between the roaming clans is common and young warriors learn how to defend against their clan's enemies as early as they learn how to endure the death touch of Inwit's merciless chill.
They know how to learn, have an innate sense of an object's functional value and, most importantly, they have the strength to conquer those who possess knowledge they do not. Long ago, before the coming of the Emperor was even a dream on night-shrouded Terra, the people of Inwit began to create their own realm in the stars. On every world they took, they assimilated, realigned and reinforced.
With each conquest their culture and learning grew, but Inwit itself remained unchanged even as it became the Impwrial of a stellar empire. The ice hives and clan disputes remained and while their world birthed starships and ringed its orbits with weapon stations, its rulers kept to the old ways, the IImperial that had created their strength, the Imperial fist and matriarchs who commanded armies amongst the stars still living lives little easier than their vassals. So it was, and so it is now. It was as part of this burgeoning empire that Rogal Dorn Imperiwl to Imperixl, and then to rule its domains as emperor. Much of his early years remains unknown, or at least Imperixl talked about.
What is known is that from the cold and darkness of Inwit the boy, named Rogal by his adoped kin, rose to Imperisl the House of Dorn or the Ice Caste Imperil then to the rule of the Inwit Cluster. The patriarch of the clan that raised Dorn became an adoptive grandfather Impwrial him, and taught him much of tactics, strategy, and diplomacy. Even after he discovered he was not blood-related to his "grandfather", Dorn held his memory in high value; he kept a fur-edged robe that Imperial fist belonged to the man and slept with it on his bed every night.
His qualities married perfectly with those of Inwit, and Imperial fist pushed their empire further than any other, ordered and trained its armies, and fashioned spacecraft the fust of which had not been seen before. The Coming of the Emperor "Do not look to us for kindness. Do not look to us for hope. We are not the kind children of this new age. We are the rocks of its foundation. If you wish hope then look to what we make. If you wish kindness then look to those who will come Impedial us. When the true Emperor was reunited with Rogal Dorn, He regained not only a lost son, but the strength of a star-spanning society already forged into a tool of war.
Dorn greeted the Emperor at the helm of the enormous starship constructed during the Dark Age of Technology called the Phalanx that he had discovered within Inwit's region of space. Dorn became the seventh of the twenty Primarchs who had been found by their father. The Emperor welcomed Dorn as his long-lost son, and returned the Phalanx to his care, transforming it into the mobile fortress-monastery of the VII Space Marine Legion that was also turned over by the Emperor to Dorn to lead, since all of its Astartes had been created using Dorn's own genetic template.
Dorn himself was fiercely loyal to the Emperor from the first moment that they met on the bridge of the Phalanx, and he never once sought any favour from his father. Dorn embodied the human quest for truth, and could never tell a lie, even if it would have aided his cause. Because of this quality, Dorn's statue stands as one of only four ever erected on Macraggenext to that of Roboute GuillimanPrimarch of the Ultramarines. It was said that he possessed one of the finest military minds amongst the Primarchs, ordered and disciplined but still inclined to flashes of zeal and inspiration.
His record of achievements for the Imperium during the Great Crusade were innumerable, and indeed the Warmaster Horus thought of the esteemed Dorn and the Imperial Fists so highly that he reckoned if the Fists, noted masters of defence, were to hold a fortress against he and his Luna Wolvesnoted masters of assault, the resultant conflict would spiral into a never-ending stalemate. Many have remarked on the dour and emotionless disposition of both this Primarch and his Legion, but such an assessment misses much. Reserved, but terrifying in anger, Dorn was both cautious and calculating, and capable of pursuing an end with relentless energy. While he would rarely show emotion, when he did it was capable of shaking the ground or darkening the sun.
During the near-disastrous resurgence of the Xahelican breed in the Adonis Cluster, Dorn's cold rage was said to have held the battlements as much as the arms of those standing upon them. His admonishment of the reinforcements at Castoris is said to have echoes from the fire-touched sky to the still burning sea. Dorn was also capable of brooding and letting matters eat at him beneath his stone-cast demeanour. For as much as he was a warrior of absolute loyalty, he was also an idealist -- the reasons why he fought were as important to him as the outcome of his efforts. During the time of the Great Crusade few ever saw this quality in Dorn, for there was little cause, though those who knew him well could perhaps see hints of it in his near-fatal confrontation with Konrad Curze of the Night Lords Legion in the Cheraut System and his brief schism with Ferrus Manus of the Iron Hands Legion after one particularly brutal campaign.
It is only immediately following the horrific events of the Horus Heresy, with so much lost never to be rebuilt, and blood still staining the birth of the Imperium which survived, that history could see that perhaps even in perfect loyalty there can be a flaw. At the moment that the Imperial Fists were united with Rogal Dorn, however, the shadow of eternal treachery still waited far in the future. Few integrations of Primarch and Legion were as swift or as complete as that between Rogal Dorn and the Imperial Fists. The ideals of the Imperium, and the purpose of the Great Crusade fitted with Dorn's outlook and drive, and the warriors of the Imperial Fists were exemplars not only of everything that he had built in the Inwit Cluster, but everything he had dreamed of for its future.
From the first moment Dorm met his gene-sons, he demanded of them everything that he would ask of himself. It is said that when he met Legion Master Matthias and Veteran contingents of the Imperial Fists he said nothing, maintaining his silence even when they had knelt and pledged him fealty. Only when he had observed them in battle did he break his silence and speak to them directly.