In the annals of the Black Templars, few names evoke as much awe and unease as Tharion the Mad. A warrior of the Emperor's eternal crusade, clad in the black ceramite of his Chapter, Tharion was a storm of fury and recklessness, a man who had forgotten the faces of his parents, his homeworld, and any semblance of peace. Born into war during the Great Crusade, his life was a tapestry of blood and death, woven with threads of madness. He had no memory of a mother's touch or a father's voice—only the roar of bolters, the scream of chainswords, and the endless hymn of battle.
Tharion's legend was built on miracles of survival that defied reason. On Calathrax, he charged alone into a plasma reactor, planting melta charges while its death throes incinerated his squad.The explosion should have vaporized him, yet he emerged from the wreckage, his armor a molten ruin, laughing.
During the purge of Vordis Prime, he was buried under a collapsing temple—only to claw his way free, his body broken but his spirit unbroken.
On the killing fields of Ghorak's WAAAGH!, he led a solitary stand against a thousand Orks, his bolter dry and his sword shattered, yet when the dust settled, he stood atop a mound of green corpses, his wounds knitting as if blessed by some unseen hand.Each time, Tharion sought death—a glorious end to release him from the ceaseless torment of war. Each time, the Emperor denied him. His brothers whispered that he was cursed, or perhaps favored, by the God-Emperor Himself, a tool too valuable to discard. Tharion cared not for their theories. He craved only the final rest of martyrdom, a death so grand it would echo through the ages. And yet, he lived, a madman trapped in an immortal shell, his laughter a dirge for the peace he could never find.Now, on Gorgona Secundus, as the Blood Angels bled and the Black Templars fought, Tharion saw his chance. A foe worthy of his end: the Swarmlord, the Hive Mind's greatest champion. A death to shake the stars.
On the blood-soaked fields of Gorgona Secundus, the Swarmlord towered over the carnage, its four bone sabers dripping with the gore of Black Templars and Blood Angels alike. Its mind was a fortress of cold intellect, linked to the vast Hive Mind, processing every scream, every death, every shift in the battlefield's tides. The Blood Angels were a fading ember—fierce but exhausted, their Red Thirst a double-edged blade that cut both ways. The Black Templars were a storm of zeal, predictable in their fury, their numbers dwindling under the weight of its hybrids. The Orks were chaos incarnate, a useful distraction but no true threat.The hybrids were its triumph: hulking monstrosities born of Ork ferocity and Tyranid adaptability. Their spiked carapaces shrugged off bolter fire, their scythe-like claws rent ceramite like parchment, and their roars shook the earth. The Swarmlord felt no pride—only the satisfaction of evolution perfected. It directed them with psychic precision, a chorus of death orchestrated to drown the Imperium's last stand.Then, a new variable pierced its awareness. A drop pod screamed through the sky, its trajectory erratic, its descent too fast, too reckless. The Swarmlord's many eyes narrowed, its psychic senses tasting the anomaly. A single warrior, clad in black, radiating a strange dissonance—desperation, madness, purpose. It dismissed him as irrelevant. One human, no matter how deranged, could not shift the tide against the Hive Mind's will. Its focus remained on Azkaellon and Mortrel, the golden commander and the skull-helmed fanatic who dared to challenge its dominion.It would crush them first. Then the newcomer would die like the rest.
The Madman's Charge
The drop pod slammed into the battlefield with a thunderous crash, cratering the mud and hurling Tyranids and Orks aside in a spray of gore. The doors blasted open, and Tharion the Mad emerged, his black armor gleaming wet with rain and blood. His chainsword roared in one hand, its teeth spinning with a hunger for slaughter. In the other, he hefted the Vortex Grenade, its surface etched with arcane runes, pulsating with a faint, unnatural light. The jet pack on his back flared to life, its engines spitting flame as he surveyed the chaos.
Azkaellon, locked in a brutal duel with the Swarmlord, caught sight of Tharion through the haze of battle. His power sword clashed against a bone saber, sparks flying as he dodged a second strike that split the ground beside him. "What in Sanguinius's name—" he grunted, parrying another blow.
Chaplain Mortrel, his Crozius Arcanum blazing, smashed a hybrid's skull into pulp, his black armor dented and leaking blood. He turned his skull-helm toward Tharion, his vox crackling with fury. "Tharion, you reckless fool! Form up with us!"Tharion's laughter cut through the din, wild and unhinged. He activated his vox, his voice booming across the battlefield. "Mortrel! Azkaellon! Brothers! Fall back from the beast! Cover me—give me a path! The Emperor's calling me home!"
Mortrel hesitated, his faith warring with his fury, but Azkaellon saw the madness in Tharion's plan and seized the moment. "Do it!" he barked through the vox. "Cover him!"The Black Templars and Blood Angels shifted, their bolters roaring as they laid down a hail of fire.
Mathius and Tharlic carved through the swarm, their chainswords a blur, clearing a corridor toward the Swarmlord. Thaddeus, atop Kael's dreadnought, slashed at encroaching Tyranids with his combat knife, his broken arm throbbing as Kael's cannons blasted a path.
The brothers fought as one, their discipline and zeal forging a fleeting opening.Tharion ignited his jet pack, the engines screaming as he launched into the air. Flames trailed behind him as he soared over the battlefield, his chainsword swinging to fend off Gargoyles that swooped to intercept. A hybrid roared below, its claw swiping at him, but he twisted mid-flight, the jet pack's thrust carrying him just out of reach.
His brothers' fire kept the swarm at bay, their sacrifice buying him precious seconds.The Swarmlord turned its gaze upon him, its psychic presence flaring with irritation. It swung a bone saber, the blade cleaving the air with a thunderous crack. Tharion banked hard, the weapon missing him by inches, and landed on the corpse of a fallen hybrid. He kicked off, the jet pack flaring again, propelling him upward toward the Swarmlord's towering form. His chainsword bit into its carapace, anchoring him as he climbed, his laughter echoing like a death knell.
Aboard the Indomitable Fury, Tech-Marine Arturo watched the auspex feed in stunned silence as Tharion's insanity unfolded. His mechanical eye whirred, zooming in on the Vortex Grenade in Tharion's hand—a relic of the Mechanicus's deepest vaults, a weapon of apocalyptic power meant only for the Omnissiah's chosen. His servo-arms twitched with indignation, his vox crackling with a rare burst of emotion.
"That heretic!" Arturo snarled, his voice a blend of machine precision and human rage. "He dares defile the sacred works of the Machine God! That grenade is a holy artifact, forged in the forges of Mars, blessed by the Omnissiah's will! It's not for some mad dog to wield like a toy!"
Captain Valtor turned, eyebrow raised. "He's using it to kill the Swarmlord, Arturo. That's worth something."
"Worth?!" Arturo's mechadendrites lashed out, slamming into a console in fury. "The Omnissiah weeps at this blasphemy! That device channels the Warp itself—a sacred union of tech and divine wrath! To see it squandered by a lunatic who knows not its rites, its purity… I should have him flayed and servitorized for this sacrilege!"
Valtor smirked despite the tension. "If he survives, you can take it up with him.""He won't,"
Arturo muttered, his tone dark. "And the Omnissiah will judge him for it."
The Swarmlord felt the sting of Tharion's chainsword as it carved into its flank, a minor irritation against its regenerating flesh. Its mind surged with cold disdain—this lone human dared to climb it like a parasite? It swung its bone sabers, aiming to shear Tharion in half, but the madman was too fast, too reckless, scrambling higher with a grip like iron. The jet pack's flames scorched its carapace, an insult it would not tolerate.
It unleashed a psychic scream, a wave of raw force meant to shred Tharion's mind and hurl him off. The blast hit, and Tharion faltered, his laughter choking into a groan as blood trickled from his helm's grille. Yet he clung on, his will a jagged shard of defiance against the Hive Mind's might. "Not… yet…" he growled, pulling himself higher, his chainsword grinding deeper into the Swarmlord's chest.
The Swarmlord roared, its sabers slashing wildly, cutting through its own lesser kin in its fury to dislodge him. But Tharion reached its shoulder, planting his boots on its carapace, and raised the Vortex Grenade high. Its runes glowed with an unholy light, the air warping around it as the Warp's hunger bled through. The jet pack's fuel sputtered out, its last burst spent, but Tharion was where he needed to be.
"FOR THE EMPEROR!" Tharion bellowed, his voice a thunderclap. "GIVE ME MY REST!"
He drove the grenade into the Swarmlord's chest, its casing cracking open as he triggered it. The Swarmlord's eyes widened, a flicker of alien realization piercing its cold intellect. Then the world erupted.
A black vortex tore open where the Swarmlord stood, a howling maw of Warp energy that swallowed light and sound. The Swarmlord screeched, its massive form disintegrating as the portal ripped it apart, flesh and chitin spiraling into the abyss. Tharion's laughter rang out one final time, a triumphant, mad cackle, before he too was consumed, vanishing into the Warp's embrace.
The explosion sent a shockwave across the battlefield, flattening Tyranids and Orks alike. Blood Angels and Black Templars braced against it, their armor rattling as the ground cracked beneath them. The Swarmlord's psychic link shattered, its death severing the Hive Mind's grip on the horde. The Tyranids—hybrids, Hormagaunts, Termagants—staggered, their coordination gone. Some turned on each other, claws rending kin in blind panic; others stumbled aimlessly, easy prey for the Orks' savage glee.
Azkaellon fell to one knee, his sword planted in the mud, his breath ragged. "Throne above…" he gasped, staring at the void where the Swarmlord had been. Mortrel, bloodied and battered, raised his Crozius in salute, his vox crackling with a hoarse prayer. "The Emperor's will is done."
Thaddeus, atop Kael's dreadnought, clutched his combat knife, his broken arm throbbing. He watched the Tyranids unravel, a flicker of relief piercing his exhaustion. "He did it…" he muttered, his voice raw.
Kael's speakers rumbled, a deep note of respect. "A madman's end. A warrior's death."
The Aftermath
The Black Templars and Astra Militarum stood firm, their resolve unbroken despite the chaos. Mortrel's voice thundered across the battlefield, rallying his Templars as they plunged into the fray, chainswords roaring through the disoriented Tyranids. "Purge them, brothers! No mercy for the xenos filth!" Mathius and Tharlic led their squads, carving bloody swathes through the hybrids, their blades dripping with ichor. The Astra Militarum followed, lasguns blazing in disciplined volleys, Commissar Kallen's threats keeping their ranks steady as they faced the maddened remnants of the swarm and the still-raging Orks.
Aboard the Indomitable Fury, Captain Valtor stood speechless on the bridge, the auspex feed flickering with the aftermath of Tharion's act. The Swarmlord was dead, its psychic presence snuffed out, yet the cost gnawed at him. "Tharion…" he muttered, shaking his head. A victory, yes, but one bought with a madman's life and a weapon of untold power.
Tech-Marine Arturo's voice cut through the silence, his indignation undimmed. "He deserved it," he spat, his mechadendrites twitching. "That heretic took a sacred Vortex Grenade—blessed by the Omnissiah Himself—and used it like a crude club. His death is justice for his blasphemy." Valtor shot him a sidelong glance but said nothing.
At the ridge, Thaddeus sat as an Apothecary tended to his broken arm, the ceramite brace clicking into place. His green eyes fluttered shut, exhaustion claiming him after three days, seven hours, and twenty-three minutes of unrelenting war. Four hours of sleep beckoned—a fleeting respite from the blood and screams. He could finally rest.
Azkaellon stood apart, his golden armor dulled by mud and gore, his mind racing. He was grateful for the Black Templars' aid—Mortrel's zeal had turned the tide—but unease gnawed at him. The Astra Militarum had been treated like fodder, their lives spent without hesitation, and he bristled at the callousness. Worse, he knew the Red Thirst's toll on his brothers must remain hidden. The Templars' fanaticism left no room for such flaws in the Emperor's angels. He clenched his fist, vowing to shield his Chapter's honor as they faced the uncertain future.
The Void's Call
In the swirling depths of the Warp, Tharion the Mad floated amidst a tempest of color and shadow. The vortex had claimed him, his body torn from the materium, yet he felt no pain—only a strange weightlessness. His laughter had faded, replaced by a silence that pressed against his soul. He had sought death, a martyr's end, but this was not the rest he'd craved.
A presence stirred, vast and ancient, its voice a chorus of whispers that echoed through the void. Tharion, son of Dorn, warrior of the eternal crusade. Your death is not yet yours to claim. Spectral figures emerged—black-armored shades wreathed in flame, their skulls grinning beneath tattered hoods. The Legion of the Damned, the Emperor's cursed immortals, who appeared in the darkest hours to wage His war.
Tharion's helm was gone, his scarred face bare to the Warp's chill. His eyes widened, a mix of awe and frustration twisting his features. "No…" he rasped, his voice trembling with bitter realization. "So in the end, I will not die…"
The lead figure stepped forward, its voice a hollow growl. You are called to serve, Tharion the Mad. Your madness is our strength, your will our blade. Join us, and fight until the stars burn out.
Tharion laughed—a hollow, mirthless sound that echoed through the void. He had sought peace in death, but the Emperor had other plans. With a resigned nod, he took the proffered hand, his form igniting with ghostly flame. The Legion of the Damned claimed him, and his laughter returned, a haunting echo of a warrior denied his rest, bound to war everlasting.