Story sort of.

[Anlysia Gregoire]

So, having transitioned to the new edition of 40k, I'm left with the conundrum that my army's (Blood Angels) new Codex is absolute ass. Like, even people who don't play my army are going "Wow, you got totally dicked." So, I'm moving to different rules. Yay! Which means I have to justify the characters I have under new rules.

Blood Angels used to use Chaplains about, uh, 100% of the time. No lie. So I'm keeping the same character of mine as my Commander, only changing up his role to uh, not be a Chaplain. But be the same character.

So here's the little bit of fiction I've written about it. I wrote this all in one shot just now so it's likely not overly-well-proofread, but, eh, I want someone to actually read it.

It's also mildly unfluffy and will make lore-purists >:( at me. But who cares.

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It began as a red haze. Always in the corner of the eye, always crawling. Ebbing, flowing, growing, receding. Sometimes there more than others. The Red Thirst. The accursed Children of Sanguinius knew it well.

Every moment of their lives, every second in service to the Emperor they felt the hunger, the lust for battle. The crawling prickle in the back of their minds, the worry that this battle may be the chosen one, may be the one where their Lord brought them to his fold, gave them the strength, the might and fury that only his Chosen might receive.

The Black Rage.

Those brothers gifted with the Rage became near-beasts, driven mad with visions ten millenia past. Frothing and muttering of betrayals, crying out for those dead thousands of years previous. Once again fighting a war gone like dust so very long ago.

Armour painted black, striped with red like gore. These maddened Children of Sanguinius were herded towards their inevitable death in the glory of battle, led by the ones who could control that which could not be controlled otherwise. The start black and bone white of the Chaplain, the lone one to control these juggernauts of bloodthirst and hate.

The Chaplain knew better than any the power of Sanguinius's fury pounding through their veins. He would shape them into a tool, drive fear into the hearts of the enemies of the Imperium with these fearless warriors. To the last breath they would fight for the Emperor, for Sanguinius. And then they would fall, taken by their Primarch, the Golden Angel.

Xaland knew, he knew all too well of the Death Company. Of the Black Rage. The Chaplain had seen many brothers succumb. As all would, unless merciful death took them before the Flaw did. He had seen the flawless artisans, cool strategists, quick and sure Apothecaries...all of them, rendered into beasts, creatures who cared for nothing but tearing limb from limb in the name of the Emperor.

All succumb to the Rage eventually.

And this is the reason Xaland sat silently in the dark, listening to the soft thrum through the ship as he lay awake. The room was unlit, but he knew every inch of it by touch. The worn rack where rested his badges of office...his Crozius Arcanum and Rosarius, the ancient pistol that had been handed to him by his predecessor.

Xaland felt, rather than heard, the presence at his door. His eyes already open as the panel slid open silently and light filled the room. "Lord, battle approaches," the hulking crimson figure in the doorway spoke softly, reverently.

The prone Marine's eyes travelled to that familiar, worn rack and a moment of melancholy slipped over him as his eyes paused to linger upon the missing Crozius, his badges of office replaced with a pair of wickedly-bladed gloves that glowed faintly with power. And next to them lay the bone-white ceremonial helm of all Chaplains. And atop the brow of that helmet, stark in relief against the pale white...a red "X" dashed across it. Mark of the Death Company.

He stood, eyes finally lifting to the brother in the doorway who looked uneasy, perhaps slightly fearful of the figure before him as Xaland grasped his helmet and claws, bending to pick them up and softly intoning "Though all may fall to the Black Rage, brother Marine, some may master it. Perhaps this shall be your fate. Perhaps not." He stepped forward, the light of the hallway falling across his body and revealing the black tattooing criss-crossing every inch of his flesh from the shoulders down. The Litanies of Hate marked upon his flesh, mantra of all Battle-Chaplains.

Xaland stepped forward into the hall, past the awestruck Marine, and closed his eyes, feeling the familiar tingle of battle-lust begin to wash over him. Xaland, former Chaplain of the Fourth Company of the Blood Angels Space Marine Chapter. Now something more, the Blade of Sanguinius...to be set loose into the hearts of the enemies of the Emperor and the Chapter, and to return to fight another day. Urging the Death Company into frenzy from the front of the fray.

Perhaps today would be the day Sanguinius took him. Perhaps not.

"All is as the Emperor wishes," he spoke softly, to himself. "We do his bidding."

The Blade of Sanguinius placed his helmet upon his head and once again prepared for the Rage to take him.