Isaiah Beacanus

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Isaiah Beacanus, once a champion, the pinnacle of a legion. Then a perversion of all that is - now a humble servant. Hailing originally from a region of Chemos that did not know the rule of the Executives, Isaiah was the only child of a Noble House, set to inherit its glory. However, with the assassination of his mother and a progressive decline of the court, he and his loyalists soon found themselves at the mercy of the traitors. It is that final moment in which he was guaranteed induction into the Emperor's Children, for Fulgrim, on the mission of restoring the planet, saved him before ultimate execution.

Growing to be an exemplar of the Emperor's Children, Isaiah became a fierce devotee of Fulgrim's teachings, building upon the bladesmanship and intellectual arts he was blessed to learn in his youth. A champion by all definition, he was a consistent sight in the ranks of the Palatine Blades, for no enemy was beyond his reach. Training day and night and facing a vast array of enemy champions, Isaiah became a permanent Prefector of the Palatine Blades - his ambitions for the perfection his Primarch promised him never ending. However, in the twilight years of the Great Crusade, Isaiah fell to the same twisted values his father did; blindly following him into oblivion whilst consumed by arrogance and manipulated by the poisons of Slaanesh. The climax of this depravity and sealing of Isaiah's fate was Bequa Kynska's Maraviglia, for in the orgy of sensuality and violence he lept to the instrumetns that had ceased their hellish symphony - becoming one of the first Kakophoni. From Terra to Skalathrax, to a hundred minor worlds raped by the hunger of the unborn, Isaiah was there, chief among traitors and heretics for ten thousand years.

However, in the times of M42, Isaiah has found himself at the mercy of the Emperor. In the wake of the Gilded Cistern and his position in the damned trio, he has been reborn, rising like a phoenix from the ashes of his failures. But the horrors of his past continue, and the mercy of the Emperor must be earned through penance alone. After the events of the Monarch Convergence, Isaiah is on the path of the redemption, but to where it will take him he does not know.

### His Journey

#### Dawn Upon Chemos

He originally lived what most perceived as a privileged life. Raised in a noble house of Chemos in the decade before Fulgrim came to prominence, Isaiah was both blessed and cursed with the circumstances of his birth.

A child unaffected by both the genetic and conditional disadvantages of the Chemosians destined to be labourers that toiled for the ever growing wealth of their overlords, Isaiah was largely left untouched by that which physically plagued the slaves of the noble houses. Additionally, himself being the only child of his family, Isaiah was catered to in every need and taught by the best tutors his parents could bring to him, preparing him for the eventual responsibility of lordship over House Turandyl. However as a consequence of his heirdom and potential as an individual champion, he became the regular target of both court intrigue and vengeful freedom fighters.

The only solidarity held by the boy was that of his closest mentors and his parents, and they taught him well to survive the perils of his privilege. Like many places in the galaxy, altruism, honour and other decent virtues were largely unknown to the nobility of Chemos; discarded and then forgotten by the degradation of ideals and the demands of the human need to survive. Inevitably, the malleable mind of the young Isaiah was shaped by the teachings of his mentors, and ruthlessness and ambition became his mediums to interact with both himself and the world around him. Ironically, in the ever-unpredictable nature of mankind though, these lessons and their value was not lost on Isaiah.

Knowing the resources, the time and the care that it took for his sponsors to raise him up into a worthy heir, a ferocious loyalty was formed within him towards his parents, even extending to a fanaticism to the cause of House Turandyl. It was a strange arrangement, for many other children of the Noble Houses he knew of were in an active competition against each other to see just who could be called the best schemer; seeking to replace their parents as soon as possible. Set apart from these others he was the target of regular bullying in the events of banquets and games, for none could truly ever understand the reality of their situation.

Informing them of this fact, Isaiah said each time he was trodden upon that their demise would not be one of a glorious and fitting death, but one of foul betrayal and deliberate dishonour. This rarely deescalated the situation. Despite these differences between him and his counterparts however, his parents privately cherished Isaiah for his loyalty, and each time rewarded him for his efforts. These rewards often came in the form of extra effort from their own end, sending to him his preferred tutors or extra lessons in preferred subjects.

Lesson after lesson, the child learnt and further honed everything he could acquire. Chief among them were the physical skills of bladesmanship, to the surprising talent he displayed for intellectualism despite the cultural situation on Chemos, and most days were spent focusing on these penchants; however time was still spent on the intricacies of statesmanship, albeit at the begrudging acceptance of Isaiah. Years passed without many events of note, and the young boy finally reached his tenth year in this world. Though he was indeed cared for in the halls of House Turandyl, it was unknown, either by plot or natural causes, if Isaiah would have died beforehand; but soon the celebration of such a success was wiped clean.

One day like any other – leaving the training hall after his mother came to fetch him, the pair traversed the same route they had always taken, unknowing of the danger that followed them.

The assassins — waifish slaves cloaked in dirtied, hooded rags, attacked suddenly and without mercy; the guards meant to be watching the walkway already having felt the sting of poisoned blades. Isaiah’s mother fell within the first minute, her defensive instincts to preserve the legacy of the house acting before anything else as she cast her child away to escape whilst she fought the interlopers. But, only a few corners were rounded by the panicked child, the assassins catching up quickly after both their numbers and the element of surprise felled his mother.

Defending himself from a few opening blows with his training sword, the attackers were impressed by the skill of the youth, however they could never land their final strike before Isaiah’s Drill-Master intervened. He’d heard the commotion in the halls and found the Matriarch of his house limp in a pool of her own blood, quickly following the footsteps leading away from the scene before he took the upper hand and decapitated the leader. The rest attempted to fight him, but they’d already been wounded by the efforts of Isaiah’s mother, causing them to cut their losses. Deciding to turn and run, the assassins made it but ten paces down the corridor before running into the rest of the House’s Guards who’d heard the short battle.

Time quickly changed the boy in the wake of the event. Indeed, all the good virtues of the galaxy were gone from Chemos, but grief still found its place in the hearts of all men.

Isaiah’s father, Quinlan Turandyl, was as any man in his place. Though he and the Drill-Master Taras deigned it not wise to show the effects of the event, Quinlan was still privately crestfallen at the loss of his wife – and that sorrow extended into Isaiah. The child, once so outspoken and enthusiastic, began to shut off from the world in the time following his mother’s death, sorrow transforming into a bitterness which consumed his adolescence. That outwardly focused cope evolved not because of the event itself however, but for the truths which were revealed from it. Both he and his father knew that the lack of servants in the area of the crime was no coincidence, and the days turned into weeks, weeks into months and eventually months into years; though nothing concrete was ever grasped by the Quinlan and Taras’ unending clandestine investigations.

Despite the persistent efforts of his father and Taras to uncover the plot, Isaiah, still embroiled in his youth, was not satisfied with the lack of answers about the death of his mother. His bitterness progressively bloomed into a simmering, violent intent that fuelling his waking hours, disturbing the ones in which he tried to rest. No longer did the intricacies of the human condition appeal to him as they once did, but only the avengement of his kin. By the time of his fifteenth birthday the intellectual classes had long since stopped, and the unforgiving training of Drill-Master Taras took their place entirely. He’d been forged into a weapon; a weapon with a mind of its own and the skill to enforce its will.

Isaiah was no longer a child, he was a man, a transformation he had undergone not of his own volition; a condition that was growing ever-more chronic as he began to participate in the games between the ruling Houses of Chemos.

He started in the bouts between minor houses for disputes, yet by way of his new infamy with each successive victory, steadily increased his feats to rivalries with the greats in the region. Some called him an upstart pest, others an excellent protégé to his famous father. They called him excellent not yet in his skill, but excellent in the fact that the teen held that which makes a true warrior: intent. The intent for familial vengeance and the devotion to his house was no secret, in fact it made him a favourite of the crowd, and never did he enter the arenas for the purpose of showboating; even when faced with the old oppressors of his childhood.

But as the exploits of Isaiah were growing, the worsening trust between Quinlan and the wider court was simultaneously waning. The court of Turandyl saw the increasing fame of their patriarch's child as an uneasy reality; a reinforced truth that one day he would rule over them in matters regarding to statehood and finance. Jealously bloomed from this, as at each triumph Quinlan praised his son more often than the nobles who had secured the games' existence, turning away from the court to focus on his son. Quinlan knew that the men and women in his court were growing restless in the period of relative peace that followed the death of his wife and the successes of his son, and so, deciding to root out the culprits of the assassination, he transferred another responsibility to his son.

Gladly accepting the responsibility of leadership from his father not only because of his own trust but the desire to reveal any conspirators, Isaiah assumed command of a Cohort of Men-At-Arms - taking the title of General in the process. Enraged by the coronation of what they saw as an incapable child, the loudest of the schemers opposed to the decision; thinking that their strength together was greater than that of Quinlan. It was not, and soon they were executed on charges of treason.

Satisfied with the results, Quinlan resolved to his son that he would raise him to be better than the men around him, truly committing him to the new role with Drill-Master Taras as his personal advisor and guardian. Encouraging his son to see the fields of Chemos and the reality beyond the walls of the factory-fortress, Quinlan sent his son out to herald a new years long campaign to carve out new territories. Marching forth into the wastelands with his vengeance satiated by the deaths of the public conspirators, Isaiah was ready to undertake the transformation he needed; finding that with the enactment of vengeance came no true satisfaction. It, like the one before it, was gradual; a progressive hardening of the soul and humbling of pride which he sorely needed. Sobering losses were endured, friends were made and lost, wounds were weathered. All while Taras stood at Isaiah's side, ensuring that the darkness of his younger days did not consume him. Years passed both on and off the battle field, and the forever titled 'Boy-General' became regarded as one of the most unwavering commanders of Chemos.

To his men who joined the cohort after his earning of the title he bore, he was likened to that of a figure of legend rather than an officer; and to the men who were with him in his most inexperienced days he was a close friend, the bonds forged by hardship forever transforming their relationships. The prideful, bitter and confused child that had left the walls of House Turandyl years ago had evolved in the wasteland beyond, and many were the foes he conquered. From rival houses who had overstepped their bounds, to squatters and raiders who encroached on Turandyl's borders, Isaiah had fought and bled against them, but nothing compared to the new ally he had made.

*"I do not like this sire, to walk into such an encampment unarmed."*

*Taras walked, as always, in step with Isaiah on the old rusted gantry, the pair clad in old and patch worked armour they'd made from their original garments leaving House Turandyl's borders.*

*"Have faith Master Taras, there is a different air here." Isaiah whispered back*

*Two regally clad soldiers stopped the pair, parting their pinioned halberds once they announced their names.*

*Taras' eyebrows narrowed "That is exactly what I am concerned about."*

*The representatives of House Turandyl stopped before a campaign map, the room filled with staring eyes belonging to field commanders, engineers and what looked like some kind of archivist. All but one. They stood atleast three heads taller than Taras, four more than Isaiah. Master-crafted armour clad their giant body, its surface adorned with peculiar runes that looked not to dissimilar to the ones they found in the abandoned complexes in the wastes. White, shimmering hair was elegantly hanging below their shoulders, waved in shapes not dissimilar to the glass dunes. Silence filled the room for a few seconds, Isaiah remembering to bow before announcing himself.*

*The figure spoke first, almost deliberately, playfully cutting his sentence off before it started. The man turned around from the wall of the tent, showing a face unblemished by the harshness of the winds. "There is nothing to be concerned about. But there is much to discuss."*

Returning to House Turandyl with great haste after their meeting with the man called Fulgrim, the cohort backtracked their progress over the wastes as fast as they could manage, cutting years off the distance with their previous triumphs and navigational preparations. However, their return was not welcomed as they expected after years of being away. Disarmed, beaten and imprisoned despite significant resistance, the last loyalists of Quinlan Turandyl were destined to join their long since betrayed Patriarch, for the court had made their final play whilst the cohort undertook its task.

*Isaiah glanced up through the screen of his bloodied pale hair, scowling at one of the nobles who stood with their backs turned to him and his companions whilst making some loathsome speech. To his left knelt Grimman, eyes down, his back covered in the lashmarks that they all shared now. He felt the heir’s gaze on him, redirecting his eyes to meet them.*

*“Two betrayals are felt today, Isaiah.” He shouted through the din of a roaring crowd*

*“They will come. I am sure of it.” Isaiah’s voice was strong compared to the venomous hisses of his lieutenant despite the grievous wounds over his back*

*“No, they won’t. We need a w-” The butt of a rifle broke Grimman’s jaw unceremoniously, his knelt form folding to the floor.*

*“Keep silent!” A guard yelled*

*Isaiah looked forward again into the crowd past the noble now reaching the climax of his speech; and there, in the back of the throng, he saw the same shining hair he’d spotted out in the blast wastes against their dull colours. Isaiah and Taras had spoken for days with the mysterious giant from the distant lands of the executives, and in the end, they had accepted his offer.*

*Fulgrim mouthed the word ‘Rise’.*

*And so he did.*

### The Ways of War

#### Triumph's End

Named in honour of his ending of countless enemy champions and leaders, Triumph's End was ironically won from a wayward human king Isaiah challenged in one of his first true duels during the Great Crusade. Bladed in an unknown shimmering black and white stone, the power field of this weapon materialises in a gentle grey glow. The guard itself is of a more spherical nature and clad in silver, and it is embossed with the visage of a screaming scarred warrior, his flowing hair creating a halo around him. Upon the end of the pommel is a black tassel, and the handle itself is comparatively simple in a smooth wooden design that’s resilient enough to never be broken by the foes of the Imperium.

In the aftermath of the Maraviglia, Triumph's End went unused for the duration of the Horus Heresy, then was presumed stolen during the galactic civil war.

*Archives Incomplete....*

### What Lies Without

*Archives Incomplete....*

-R