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- "For the glory of the God-King! WE MARCH!"
- —Sons of Tyndareus' warchant
The Sons of Tyndareus, also known as "Brazen Kings" or notably known as "Eyes of the God-King" , are a prideful and honorable venerable Space Marine Chapter that hails from the proud and stoic heritage of Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines. Created during the scattering of the Space Marine Legions during the 2nd Founding, the Sons of Tyndareus have existed for as long as their gene-seed bore faith into their battle-brothers and as such, they are a split remnants of the second honorable chapter of the Imperius Ravagers, an ancient and bellicose Successor Chapters of the Ultramarines. Now the Sons of Tyndareus stalk the stars for facing worthy and unstoppable foes in their rampage across the stars.
Chapter History
The Sons of Tyndareus, despite the fragments of their archived past, trace their true lineage to the 2nd Founding—born from the bloodied ranks of the ancient Imperius Ravagers. Forged in the aftermath of the Horus Heresy, they emerged from the remnants of the Ultramarines Legion's ruthless 8th Assault Company. Led by the iron-willed and brutal hand of Bruticus Kratos, this warband carved its own path among the stars, carrying the fury of Guilliman's vengeance with them.
Though born of the same bloodline, the Sons of Tyndareus and the Imperius Ravagers stand as fractured reflections of one another — twin legacies forged in betrayal and pride. Their shared history is a wound that refuses to heal, a memory etched in blood and fire. Where the Ravagers uphold ruthless domination and blind conquest, the Sons of Tyndareus pursue honour through disciplined fury and sacred challenge. Yet neither can truly escape the other’s shadow.
Across millennia, their paths have crossed on a hundred battlefields — sometimes as uneasy allies under the banner of the Imperium, other times as rivals vying for glory and remembrance. The echoes of Maxellelus and Bruticus’ feud still resound through their Chapters, shaping their doctrines and tempering their resolve.
They are two blades forged in the same flame, forever bound by a brotherhood broken — and by the hatred that keeps them sharp.
The origins of the Chapter trace back to the early days of the Ultramarines Legion, specifically to the 8th Assault Company under the command of its distinguished 8th Lieutenant, Maxellelus Oinox. A master of logistics and siege warfare, Maxellelus led a specialized cadre of Breacher squads renowned for their unyielding defense and disciplined tactical formations. These warriors, once known as the Warriors of Tyndareus, earned acclaim for turning defense into an instrument of offense—using walls not as barriers, but as weapons.
Maxellelus stood as the unwavering bulwark of the 8th Company, earning honors and deep respect for his calculated methods and unshakeable resolve. Yet, his meticulous approach often placed him at odds with the Company's Captain, Bruticus Kratos. The two were like twin edges of the same relentless blade—sharply opposed in doctrine, yet inseparable in purpose.
Bruticus was the wrathful storm, a force of brute power and overwhelming momentum, sweeping through enemy lines with uncompromising ferocity. Maxellelus, in contrast, was the slow poison—dismantling his foes through sabotage, psychological manipulation, and surgical precision. One shattered the body, the other unraveled the mind.
Together, they forged campaigns that did not merely conquer—but utterly broke their enemies, leaving behind only ruin, silence, and the shadow of despair.
Maxellelus Oinox, known in time as the Regent Warrior, was born upon the cold and steadfast soil of Macragge. From a young age, he showed remarkable skill in weaponsmithing and the art of forging armor. Nobles, princes, and aspiring warriors alike sought the craftsmanship of the boy artisan, requesting ornate suits of battle-plate and ceremonial arms crafted with an elegance far beyond his years.
When not toiling at the forge, Maxellelus spent his hours immersed in scrolls of ancient biology, or locked in sparring duels with his brother-in-law, Itecrus Heol—a warrior in his own right. It was through this balance of intellect and discipline that Maxellelus honed both mind and body, preparing unknowingly for the trials to come.
But destiny did not wait long.
As the Great Crusade surged across the stars, the Ultramarines Legion scoured the worlds of Ultramar for worthy candidates. One day, Maxellelus was summoned to stand before none other than Veteran Legionary Bruticus Kratos—a towering behemoth of battle, whose name was spoken with equal parts reverence and dread. The forge dimmed under his looming presence, the embers flickering as if recoiling from the colossus of war.
Kratos stood before the boy like a living monument, his armored frame casting a heavy shadow across the forge floor. The Evocati, his cadre of elite warriors, remained silent behind him.
“You are Maxellelus, I presume?” Kratos rumbled, his voice low and sharp like grinding iron.
Maxellelus, ever composed beneath the heat of the forge, gave a measured bow despite the tension knotting his gut. “Y-Yes, my lord. Maxellelus Oinox of House Jucotis.”
Kratos took a slow step forward, the weight of his armored tread causing the forge’s floor to creak in protest. His burning red lenses stared deep into Maxellelus, as if peeling back the layers of flesh to judge the soul beneath.
“I’ve seen artisans,” Kratos said coldly. “I’ve seen cowards too. Which one are you, boy?”
Maxellelus’ throat was dry, but his voice—though quiet—carried conviction. “Neither. I am a warrior in the making.”
The Evocati exchanged subtle glances behind Kratos, yet the Veteran did not move. The silence hung thick, like smoke before a firestorm.
Kratos finally reached to his belt and unclasped a heavy, battle-worn gladius—its edge chipped, its surface blackened with old blood. He extended it, hilt-first, toward Maxellelus.
“Then prove it,” he growled. “Fix this weapon. Not with trinkets. Not with gold. Make it worthy of war again. If you can, I will take you. If you cannot…” he leaned in closer, helm inches from the boy’s face, “…then you are just another name on the wind.”
Maxellelus took the blade with both hands, the weight heavier than any he had ever held. As Bruticus Kratos turned and marched away into the shadow with his Evocati in tow, he left behind not just a challenge—but a door. A threshold.
And Maxellelus Oinox, son of House Jucotis, stepped through it.
Iron Renewed
For three days and three nights, Maxellelus Oinox labored in the heart of the forge.
He stripped the ancient gladius of its battered casing, layer by layer, learning its story through every dent and crack. It was a blade born for slaughter, wielded by a warrior who saw combat not as honor—but necessity. Where others may have reforged it with polish and flourish, Maxellelus chose a different path: restoration through understanding.
He studied its balance, refined its edges, and tempered the steel with a precise combination of heat and chemicals—techniques long forgotten by common smiths. With each stroke of the hammer, each hiss of cooling metal, Maxellelus poured not only skill but intention into the blade. It became not merely a weapon, but a testament to struggle, to survival—something even Kratos himself could respect.
On the fourth day, Bruticus returned.
He entered without a word, observing the boy standing tall, sweat-lined, holding out the gladius—not as a servant to a master, but as a warrior presenting his work to another. The blade now bore no ornamentation. It was raw, brutal, elegant only in its simplicity. Its edge gleamed with a murderous gleam, and its spine had been reinforced with tempered alloy, designed not for show, but for war.
Bruticus took the weapon, ran a finger across its edge, and gave a rare nod.
"You understand more than I thought," he said, strapping the blade back to his side. Then he extended a gauntleted hand. "From this day, you are of the Eighth Assault Company. No longer a boy. No longer a noble. You are a Legionary in the making."
Maxellelus did not hesitate. He clasped Kratos' forearm and nodded, the fire of destiny burning behind his eyes.
Thus began the rise of the Regent Warrior, not with glory or blood, but with steel, resolve, and the respect of a brutal giant who saw in him something rare: potential tempered by purpose.
Rise of the Warriors
Maxellelus Oinox, "The Brazen Warrior", 8th Company Lieutenant and First Chapter Master of the Sons of Tyndareus, Successor Chapter of the Ultramarines.
With the reforged gladius now sheathed at his hip, Maxellelus Oinox was formally inducted into the ranks of the Eighth Assault Company of the Ultramarines Legion. No ceremony, no pomp—only a blood-mark across his chestplate and the silent nod of Bruticus Kratos. From that moment, the boy from House Jucotis was no longer a son of Macragge’s nobility, but a warrior in the service of the Emperor of Mankind.
Maxellelus endured the brutal rites of the Legion, his body reforged by the gene-seed of Guilliman and molded in the crucible of battle. Yet unlike many of his brethren, Maxellelus did not simply charge headlong into the fray. He studied war—not as an act of destruction, but as a language. He learned to exploit terrain, to anticipate the rhythm of an enemy’s movements, to dismantle formations with surgical precision. While others shattered walls, Maxellelus opened doors that were never seen.
Years passed in the unrelenting fires of the Great Crusade, and with every engagement, his name began to echo through vox-channels. Not for showy violence—but for results. Planets brought to compliance with minimal losses. Enemies undone by misdirection, sabotage, and brutal efficiency. It was Kratos himself who saw it first.
"You are not a warrior of the line," he had once said. "You are the knife beneath the ribs."
Recognizing the unique tactics and brilliance that Maxellelus brought to the battlefield, Roboute Guilliman himself authorized the formation of a specialized cadre under the Eighth Assault Company—the Warriors of Tyndareus. Their emblem: a broken crown and a descending sword, symbolizing the fall of tyrants and the sharp judgment of the Imperium.
Maxellelus, now a Lieutenant, handpicked his warriors—Astartes who could think beyond brute force. Veterans with a mind for subterfuge, speed, and psychological warfare. This was no standard Assault Squad; this was a scalpel, not a hammer. He trained them himself, fusing the precision of biology, the grace of swordplay, and the will of the Emperor into their discipline. They became ghosts in the shadows of war, emerging only to cripple enemy leadership, unravel supply chains, or decimate morale before the main force ever arrived.
To the Ultramarines, they were an asset. To the Imperium, a symbol of versatility. But to Maxellelus—they were Tyndareus reborn. Warriors who would fight not for glory, but for control of the battlefield and the future of humanity.
Their legend would soon spread far beyond the stars of the Eastern Fringe.
Calth Betrayal
With the revelation of Warmaster Horus Lupercal's treachery, the galaxy trembled. His allegiance to the Ruinous Powers shattered the unity of the Imperium, and nine entire Legions were swayed to his banner. In the wake of this betrayal, the Emperor of Mankind ordered his loyal sons to halt the progress of the Great Crusade and brace for war. Among those summoned was Roboute Guilliman, the primarch of the Ultramarines, who received dire word from Horus himself—an urgent plea for assistance at Calth, a vital system among the 500 Worlds of Ultramar.
Guilliman, ever dutiful, mobilized his Legion to answer the call. But as the fleets arrived in the Calth System, they were met not with brotherhood—but betrayal.
The Word Bearers, already steeped in heresy, emerged from the void in full battle formation. Though their presence initially raised concern, none could have anticipated the treachery that followed. With no warning, the Word Bearers launched a brutal assault on the Ultramarines fleet, catching many by surprise. Among the first to respond was the 8ᵗʰ Assault Company, their vox-channels burning with urgency.
From the depths of their strike cruisers, Maxellelus Oinox and his cadre of Warriors of Tyndareus launched into action. Donning their breacher shields and clad in void-hardened armor, they made immediate boarding maneuvers onto one of the Word Bearers' flagships. Within the blood-soaked corridors of the traitor vessel, they met the fanatical sons of Lorgar in brutal close-quarters combat.
Maxellelus, tactical and composed, led his breacher squads with calculated fury—clearing chambers, purging cultic effigies, and pushing back the tide of chaos-infested Astartes. Utilizing his cadre's mastery of siege and boarding warfare, they carved a path of righteous fury through the ship’s interior, giving breathing room to the rest of the Ultramarines fleet and reinforcing a new front against the traitor legions.
What began as a supposed brotherly muster had devolved into the first of many battles that would mark the betrayal at Calth, and for Maxellelus and his warriors—it was their baptism in the fires of Heresy.
With Maxellelus Oinox at the vanguard of his cadre, the Breacher Squads surged forward, methodically advancing through the darkened, daemon-scarred corridors of the Word Bearers' warship. Their advance was met with ferocious resistance—warbands of the Serrated Suns, a twisted chapter of the XVII Legion, bellowed praise to the Dark Pantheon as they hurled themselves into the breach. At their head loomed Rhazaketh Vhul, the "Sun-Gouged Butcher", a towering zealot clad in baroque crimson ceramite wreathed in daemonic script and burning iconography.
Sensing the severity of the engagement, Maxellelus ordered his men into formation. "Form the wall!" he bellowed across the vox, his voice ironclad and commanding. In perfect unison, the Breachers slammed their boarding shields together, creating a colossal phalanx of ceramite and defiance, the Wall of Iron.
As the Word Bearers charged, snarling daemonic syllables and unleashing hellish bolt fire, Maxellelus’ line held. The tight-knit shield wall weathered the storm, bolters protruding from the gaps to return fire with merciless precision. The corridors groaned and sparked, hull plates shattering from the crossfire, but the Warriors of Tyndareus pressed forward like an unstoppable tide and their advancement would be halted by the orders of the Legion Master Marius Gage to step out of the pursuit and follow to the land of Calth.
Underground War
With the Word Bearers retreating into the shadowed depths of Calth’s underworld—a vast and echoing labyrinth of ancient halls, tombs, and monuments from a bygone era—the war entered a darker, more brutal chapter. The Ultramarines, refusing to relent, pursued them with methodical fury. Lieutenant Maxellelus Oinox, bloodied but unbowed, contacted 8th Assault Company Captain Bruticus Kratos, reporting the dire circumstances beneath the surface.
Kratos, ever the embodiment of aggressive command, dismissed Maxellelus’ concerns. “Hold the line,” he ordered, his voice cold with command, “Reinforcements will come.” But Maxellelus, tactical and calculating, warned of the potential catastrophe—how pressing further without consolidation would bleed them dry. Yet Kratos, steadfast in his own brutal doctrine, severed the vox channel, leaving Maxellelus no choice but to obey.
Resolute, Maxellelus rallied his depleted Breacher Squads, what few Dreadnoughts remained either crippled or destroyed from the previous boarding actions. In desperate need of reinforcement, he sent an urgent request to Marius Gage for the deployment of Tirndoris Lox, a Contemptor Mortis Dreadnought and once a trusted comrade in flesh. Lox, ancient yet ever-burning with wrath, answered the call, agreeing to stand beside Maxellelus once more.
As the force descended into the subterranean depths, seeking to establish a foothold, they were met with a sudden and brutal counter-assault. The Word Bearers struck like a coiled serpent, led by their Chaplain-Consul Taradheel the Wisest, a zealot swathed in incantations and reeking of foul divination. His presence exuded oppressive spiritual weight, as if the very walls of Calth groaned under his words.
The battle was a savage, grinding melee. Maxellelus and Tirndoris fought with unwavering tenacity, but the Word Bearers gave no ground. Every step forward was paid in blood. Maxellelus’ equerry, Veteran Legionary Kokorn Demtiun, fell amidst the carnage, his death sparking a vengeful counterattack. Still, the Word Bearers, chanting in unison behind Taradheel’s voice, refused to falter, bleeding Maxellelus’ line slowly and without mercy in the suffocating dark of the underworld.
Calling for any nearby reinforcements to hasten their arrival, Maxellelus Oinox held fast to his fortified position, defending it with grim determination as the Word Bearers continued to press their assault. His forces, though valiant, were slowly being whittled down, their numbers plucked away like dying embers in a storm. Just as their line threatened to collapse, salvation came in the form of the 8th Assault Company. Bruticus Kratos himself descended onto the field, leading a thunderous charge that tore through the traitor ranks with ferocious intent.
Without hesitation, Bruticus ordered the remaining warriors of his company into a full assault, seeking to drive the Word Bearers back in one crushing blow. Maxellelus, however, voxed in with urgent concern, warning that a headlong engagement would only compound their losses—thinning their numbers even further and jeopardizing the Ultramarines' long-term strength in the region.
But Bruticus, unmoved by caution and deaf to dissent, barked his command to attack once more, engaging Taradheel the Wisest and the Serrated Suns in brutal melee. Knowing that resistance to his Captain’s orders would mean more than insubordination—it would mean death for his men—Maxellelus took a different course. Burdened by the weight of fallen brothers and driven by his own tactical acumen, he ordered his surviving squad to fall back from the front line and reposition.
Circling wide around the battlefield’s perimeter through debris-choked tunnels and shattered halls, Maxellelus and his warriors emerged behind the traitors’ rear lines. In the flickering gloom, they carved a path of destruction through the back ranks of the Word Bearers, the young lieutenant leading the charge himself—gladius in hand, boarding shield raised, turning the tide with every stroke. Each enemy slain was another step toward vengeance, another stand in defiance of corruption. Word Bearers fell like grain before the scythe, their dark chants silenced under the righteous fury of the Warriors of Tyndareus.
Fatal Brotherhood
As the Battle of Calth drew to a bitter close, the Ultramarines Legion stood battered and bloodied. The traitorous ambush by the Word Bearers had devastated their forces, leaving much of the once-proud Legion crippled—entire companies shattered, warships obliterated, and countless Astartes dead or maimed. Their capacity to wage war during the ongoing Heresy was no longer the overwhelming threat it once had been. Faced with this brutal reality, Roboute Guilliman, ever the master strategist, moved swiftly to restore the strength of his Legion. Recognizing the need to replenish their ranks with urgency, he enacted a sweeping recruitment initiative across the Ultramar Segmentum. Entire systems previously untouched by Astartes recruitment were drawn into service, their populations combed for worthy aspirants.
This renewed wave of warriors would be known as the Legio Inductii—a generation of hastily trained but fiercely loyal Space Marines, forged in desperation to fill the gaps left by fallen heroes. Though they bore the proud sigil of the Sons of Ultramar, the Legio Inductii lacked the hardened instincts and battle-forged discipline of the original Legionnaires. Their psycho-indoctrination and combat training were rushed, their armor sometimes mismatched or repurposed, and their battlefield experience minimal.
Yet despite these shortcomings, Guilliman saw in the Legio Inductii the seeds of a renewed Legion. They were a symbol of resilience, of survival amidst the worst treachery the Imperium had ever faced. In them, the XIII Legion would find not only numbers, but the hope of a future shaped by duty, loyalty, and unyielding will.
Great War
As the Legion began to rebuild its shattered ranks, what remained under Maxellelus’ command were little more than untested aspirants — young warriors draped in blue, their pauldrons marked with the faded insignia of a once-proud force. The burden of leadership fell heavily upon him, the duty to mold these raw recruits into soldiers of the Imperium resting squarely on his shoulders. With each passing campaign, the Legion’s numbers grew, yet so too did the weight upon Maxellelus’ heart. The fire that once fueled his resolve had hardened into cold iron — a resolve forged from exhaustion, duty, and the ghosts of fallen brothers.
His thoughts were broken by the crackling hum of his vox-link. Through the distortion came the voice of his commander and war-brother, Bruticus Kratos, summoning him to withdraw from the warfront. The order was clear: regroup, resupply, and make for Holy Terra — where the final siege would decide the fate of the Imperium itself. Though wearied by doubt, Maxellelus obeyed without hesitation. Gathering his men, he led them aboard the battle-barge, their destination set toward the heart of humanity’s greatest struggle.
Within the steel halls of the vessel, amidst the thunder of engines and the chanting of the Legion’s serfs, Maxellelus stood beside his lord. Yet even in the presence of Bruticus Kratos, a man of indomitable faith and unbending will, Maxellelus felt the creeping sting of uncertainty. He questioned whether their endless sacrifices had meaning — whether their blood had been spilled for a cause already lost. Seeing the shadow in his brother’s eyes, Kratos placed a gauntleted hand upon his shoulder and spoke: “No blade forged by traitorous hands shall pierce the shield of those who guard mankind.” The words, simple yet resolute, silenced Maxellelus’ doubt and rekindled his purpose.
As the fleet set its course through the roiling madness of the warp, the Sons of Tyndareus steeled themselves for the coming storm. Warp tempests howled, daemons clawed at the Gellar Fields, and xenos raiders tested the Legion’s strength — yet none broke through. Amidst the chaos, Maxellelus devoted every waking hour to the training of his warriors, shaping them into living weapons ready to bear the scars of Holy Terra. For when the Siege began, there would be no retreat, no respite — only the roar of bolters, the clash of steel, and the unyielding will of the Emperor’s faithful.
The Scouring
Finally, after long years of attrition and ruin, Maxellelus and his warriors joined the defense of the Throneworld, lending their strength to the Legions of the Imperium in the desperate struggle to repel the Traitors from the Palace of Terra. The siege was a vision of hell made manifest — oceans of blood pooling across sacred ground, the cries of the innocent mingling with the roar of bolter fire. Men, women, and children perished by the thousands, their lifeblood staining the hallowed soil of humanity’s cradle. Maxellelus, a son of duty and honor, bore witness to this horror — and in that witnessing, something inside him began to fracture. He became what he had sworn he would never be: a creature driven by wrath and the cold hunger of vengeance.
When word reached the defenders that the Arch-Warmaster Horus Lupercal had fallen by the hand of the Emperor Himself, the Loyalists found grim solace in the pyrrhic victory. As the skies above Terra cleared of heresy’s taint, the Ultramarines and the remaining Loyalist Legions joined in the final purges, sweeping the palace districts and the broken walls of the Imperial City clean of Traitor filth. It was in these blood-choked streets that Maxellelus once again fought beside his commander, Bruticus Kratos, their blades and bolters united in the slaughter of the retreating heretics.
Yet even as the Loyalists pressed their counterattack during the Great Scouring, a shadow crept over Maxellelus. Watching his Lieutenant charge headlong into the fray, Bruticus saw not discipline but fury unrestrained. Maxellelus’ vengeance burned hotter than the sun above Terra’s ashen sky — and soon, he could no longer restrain it. He hurled himself into the melee with reckless abandon, carving through the ranks of the Traitor Legions as if possessed. The Iron Warriors, the Night Lords, the Word Bearers — all fell before him like wheat before the scythe. When his ancient brother-in-arms, Contemptor Dreadnought Tirndoris Lox, was torn down by Iron Warriors siege-fire, the last of Maxellelus’ restraint shattered utterly.
With a bellow that drowned the thunder of war, he charged the Iron Warriors lines alone, his shield shattered, his blade broken to a jagged fang of steel. The enemy faltered before the sheer ferocity of his assault; a crimson storm that tore through ceramite, flesh, and iron alike. Bruticus cried into the vox, commanding his brother to fall back, to regain his senses — but Maxellelus was lost to rage. He fought like a beast unchained, cleaving apart Legionaries with bare hands, his armor bathed in gore, his eyes burning with madness. Those who survived would speak in whispers of the “Crimson Bull of Tyndareus,” a warrior so consumed by wrath that even daemons recoiled from his fury.
When the battle ended and silence fell over the fields of ruin, Maxellelus stood alone amidst the carnage. The ground was slick with blood, the air thick with the stench of death. His armor, once blue and gold, now gleamed a dark crimson, coated in layers of flesh, ash, and sinew. As Bruticus Kratos approached, he beheld not his loyal lieutenant, but a ghost of what once was — a warrior hollowed by grief and guilt, his spirit fraying under the weight of slaughter. Their eyes met, and in that silent exchange, Kratos saw the doubt and sorrow festering within his brother’s heart.
Without a word, Maxellelus lifted his broken shield and battered sword, their edges still wet with blood. He turned from the battlefield and walked toward the waiting Battle-Barge, his steps heavy, his purpose uncertain. The Legion would march again, but the man who bore its colors had been forever changed — not by victory, but by the terrible price of it.
Bloody Aftermath
In the aftermath of the Great Scouring, the galaxy lay broken and the Legions crippled. Once-mighty hosts of the Emperor’s Angels of Death were now shadows of their former strength — scattered, depleted, and haunted by the echoes of war. The skies above Holy Terra were choked with ash and fire, and its sacred streets ran red with the blood of the innocent. What had once been the Throneworld, radiant in its glory, now stank of decay and despair. The war had devoured all that was pure; its fury left no sanctuary untouched. The wounds carved into Terra’s soil mirrored those in the hearts of its defenders — wounds that would never truly heal.
Across the stars, the remnants of the Traitor Legions fled into the Warp, their Primarchs leading them into the hellish embrace of the Eye of Terror, where they would build their cursed dominions amidst the screaming tides of unreality. The loyal sons of the Emperor, though victorious, found little triumph in survival. The Ultramarines and their allied Legions faced the grim duty of rebuilding, hunting down the Traitors where they lingered, or awaiting the command of their wounded Primarch, Roboute Guilliman. The galaxy, once united under the Emperor’s dream, now stood fractured — its faith shaken, its warriors hollowed by loss.
Amidst this ruin stood Maxellelus, alone aboard the shattered Battle-Barge, staring out into the void through fractured armor-glass. The silence of the vessel was suffocating — a tomb of memories and ghosts. He had seen his brothers fall beneath the guns and blades of the Traitors; he had watched their noble banners burn and their honored dead consumed by fire. Worst of all, he had learned the final truth — that the Emperor Himself, the Master of Mankind, had been mortally wounded by the Arch-Traitor Horus Lupercal. That knowledge broke something within him that no weapon could.
Bruised, humiliated, and weary beyond measure, Maxellelus turned his gaze toward his commander, Bruticus Kratos. The two warriors, bound by loyalty and bloodshed, shared a wordless exchange across the ruins of their hopes. In Kratos’ eyes burned conviction; in Maxellelus’, only exhaustion — the doubt of a man who had given everything, yet questioned whether it had been enough. But beneath that weary stare, a faint understanding grew: the war had taken all, yet duty still endured. The cost was unbearable, but the Imperium would rise again — it must rise again.
When the summons came from Guilliman, the surviving Sons of Macragge answered without hesitation. The call of the Avenging Son was not merely an order — it was salvation. Under his guidance, the remnants of the shattered Legions gathered once more to hear the words that would reshape the Imperium itself. For many of those present, including Maxellelus, that moment would be carved into their memory for eternity — the day when mourning turned to resolve, when grief became duty, and when the broken sons of the Emperor swore never again to falter in His name.
Founding
Adhering to the summons of Roboute Guilliman, the Imperium, still reeling from the devastation of the Heresy, stood on the brink of anarchy. The once-glorious Legiones Astartes were deemed too dangerous to remain whole; their vast numbers and unchecked might posed a dire threat to the fragile order that now clung to survival. Even the noblest of Legions could, in time, fall prey to corruption or ambition. Thus, under the counsel of scholars, strategists, and loyal statesmen, the Lord of Macragge decreed a new doctrine — a vision to ensure the Imperium would never again suffer from such unrestrained power.
From this vision was born the Codex Astartes — a monumental work that redefined the very structure of the Space Marines. Its doctrine called for the great Legions to be divided into smaller, self-contained Chapters, each governed by its own master and bound by rigid discipline. Many among the surviving Legions obeyed Guilliman’s decree, taking new names, heraldry, and oaths in the Emperor’s name. Yet not all embraced this change with equal conviction. To some, the Codex represented wisdom and survival; to others, it was weakness — the fragmentation of once-unbreakable brotherhoods and the fading of their ancient glory.
Among those who accepted Guilliman’s command was Bruticus Kratos, who would found the Imperius Ravagers, leading his newly formed Chapter into the bloody frontier of Imperial reconquest. To him, the Codex was not a chain, but a weapon — a tool to forge order through destruction. But for Maxellelus, his once-loyal brother-in-arms, the decree was a wound that cut deep. To see the mighty Legions disassembled, their banners torn and reborn under new names, was a betrayal of their shared history. When Bruticus declared his allegiance to Guilliman’s vision, Maxellelus saw not wisdom but cowardice — a surrender of legacy for safety.
Their confrontation was inevitable. In the halls of the newly christened Battle-Barge Ravager’s Oath, Maxellelus stood before Bruticus and tore the insignia of the Imperius Ravagers from his pauldron. He spat accusations of treachery and cowardice, calling his former brother a tyrant unworthy of Ultramar’s blood, a brute who had traded brotherhood for blind obedience. Bruticus met his fury with equal fire, proclaiming that the Imperium would only survive through strength and slaughter — and that sentiment, not loyalty, had no place in the new age.
Their bond shattered. The schism between them would echo through generations. Rallying those who shared his disillusionment — warriors of the Ultramarines’ lineage and a handful of Ravagers who could not stomach Bruticus’ rule — Maxellelus gathered enough to forge his own path. No longer bound by the chains of Legion or Codex, they became something else — a Chapter forged from defiance and sorrow, named in honor of a hero-king of mythic past: the Sons of Tyndareus.
Their name became both an oath and a curse — a remembrance of brotherhood broken, and the promise that from ruin, they would rise anew.
Unchanged Legacy
The Sons of Tyndareus, bearing the sigil of their master and the heraldry of their rebirth, would rise to become a Chapter synonymous with vengeance and the pursuit of worthy foes. Their name soon became whispered across warzones as both a blessing and a curse — for where they marched, blood would surely follow. To the Sons, every battle is a test of will and skill, every slain enemy a lesson in mastery. They seek out the greatest champions of war — human, alien, or daemon — and challenge them head-on, for in combat lies the truth of the warrior’s soul.
Honour and martial prowess are their creed. Cowardice is a sin beyond redemption. Whether in formal duels or amidst the chaos of sieges, the Sons fight with iron resolve and an almost divine hunger for perfection. Under the indomitable guidance of their Brazen Master, Maxellelus Oinox, they established their fortress-monastery upon Mount Drykos, on the storm-wracked world of Graea. From this citadel of bronze and blood, they launch endless crusades into the void — their mission not conquest, but challenge. To test themselves against the galaxy’s fiercest and to remind all who oppose the Emperor’s realm that His wrath still endures through them.
Their campaigns often devolve into brutal rampages that leave entire systems scarred. Each victory is etched into their flesh and armour, their once-golden panoply darkened to a brazen hue — a reflection of both their fury and their legacy. Every scar, every dent, every bloodstain is worn as a testament to their devotion. Among allies, they are admired yet feared — a force whose savagery borders on fanaticism.
To their enemies, they are the hammer of retribution, their golden eyes gleaming through the smoke of war as they deliver judgment upon all who would defy Mankind. Alien, mutant, and heretic alike are crushed beneath their advance. For the Sons of Tyndareus were forged from the ruin of brotherhood — a brotherhood betrayed and reborn in flame — and they march beneath a single vow that echoes through the stars:
“We shall come for you.”
Notable Campaigns
Chapter Homeworld
The Sons of Tyndareus reside upon the civilised world of Graea, a thriving planet located within the western fringes of the Ultima Segmentum. Verdant plains, towering spires, and vast marble citadels mark this world as a jewel of order amidst the void, a bastion of learning and civilization under the watchful eyes of its warrior-kings. Despite its structured modernity, Graea retains the soul of an ancient world — a place where the echoes of tribal honour and ancestral oaths still shape its people.
Its sun, four times the size of Holy Terra’s, casts a brilliant bronze hue across the landscape, blessing the planet with long, scorching days. Though the outer regions bear the marks of arid desert, the heartlands bloom with fertile fields and orchards — their harvests a testament to the planet’s resilience. Above it hangs a dark, rust-hued moon, its surface pitted and scarred from ancient orbital wars, serving as both warning and watchtower to those who would trespass.
The inhabitants of Graea are a proud and disciplined people, their culture steeped in the study of kings, warriors, and the ancient histories of Terra. Scholars and philosophers gather in towering academies, seeking to understand the lost ages of mankind while forging alliances that bind intellect with martial strength. The planet’s society is built upon the unity of tribes and clans — each devoted to the preservation of honour, tradition, and the mastery of both knowledge and war.
At the heart of Graea’s governance stand the Four Great Temples: the Temple of Ozikon, Temple of Vin’roth, Temple of Asika, and Temple of G’torn. Each temple serves as both spiritual citadel and seat of power, ruled by monarchs whose bloodlines stretch back to the earliest settlers. These monarchs command vast legions of armoured warriors and maintain their own armies patterned after the mythic hosts of Holy Terra’s golden past.
Monuments and relics scatter the surface of Graea — statues of long-dead kings, heroes, and champions line its avenues, while ancient totems whisper forgotten legends. Some of these artifacts are said to predate even the Dark Age of Technology, relics of a time when humanity’s reach extended to the stars unhindered. The Graeans revere these discoveries as sacred, dedicating their lives to uncovering new worlds, lost artifacts, and ruins worthy of their devotion. Whether it be through trade, war, or divine discovery, the people of Graea strive ceaselessly to build monuments fit for their rulers — and to honour the Sons of Tyndareus, whose fortress-monastery crowns the world’s mightiest peak, Mount Drykos, as an eternal symbol of vigilance and strength.
The environment of Graea is one of stark beauty and harsh endurance. Its lands, draped in ochre sands and whispering dunes, are often cloaked in a dusty haze that gives the air a shimmering, sun-baked quality. The atmosphere is thick and heavy, carrying a dry heat so intense that it sears the nostrils of any unadapted mortal who dares to breathe it. Yet to the Sons of Tyndareus, such conditions are not a burden but a crucible — a natural forge that hardens body and spirit alike. This hostile climate serves their warfare well. The dense, heated air and swirling dust storms often suffocate the comfort of their enemies, choking supply lines and disorienting the unprepared. In these conditions, the Sons thrive — using the planet’s own elements as a weapon. Their siege tactics and chokepoint assaults are made all the more devastating by the stifling atmosphere, turning every battlefield into a suffocating tomb where the enemy gasps for air as the Sons descend upon them with merciless precision.
Despite the arid surface, Graea’s interior regions are tempered by vast ponds, hidden oases, and winding sandy lagoons that glimmer under the planet’s bronze sun. The Mediterranean basin of Graea serves as both lifeline and pathway, its waters connecting temples, cities, and strongholds through a network of wooden vessels and war barges that ferry supplies, pilgrims, and warriors alike. These inland seas grant balance to the otherwise punishing world — a realm of both fire and water, where resilience and adaptability are the truest forms of worship.
Fortress-Monastery
Mount Drykos, known to the people of Graea as the “Mountain of the Titans,” stands as the colossal heart of the Sons of Tyndareus’ might and devotion. This formidable, monolithic temple serves as both fortress monastery and sacred home to the Chapter — a citadel hewn from the mountain’s very bones, reaching so high into the heavens that its summit seems to pierce the veil of the atmosphere itself. To ascend Mount Drykos is to ascend toward divinity, a pilgrimage reserved for the most resolute souls who seek to grasp the realm of demigods. Located in the far eastern reaches of Graea, far beyond the dominion of the four great temples, the fortress monastery of Mount Drykos dominates the horizon like a divine spear thrust from the earth. Its marble pillars gleam beneath the harsh bronze sun, each carved with intricate patterns of battle and sacrifice. From the mouths of carved gargoyles and saintly figures, crystal waters flow down the mountain’s face, casting rippling light upon the white stone walls. Upon each towering column rests a statue of a fallen brother — heroes of the Chapter immortalized in marble, their vigil eternal.
The fortress’ height is legendary, its ascent perilous even for the most hardened warriors. It is said that the mountain’s peak rises so high that one can glimpse the curvature of Graea itself from its summit. The Sons of Tyndareus use this elevation as both sanctuary and weapon, striking down upon their foes from above with godlike fury. Many invaders who have dared to scale the treacherous cliffs of Mount Drykos have found only death waiting for them — crushed beneath falling stone, burned by the fury of orbital fire, or cut down by the wrathful sons who call the mountain home. From the outside, the fortress-temple of Mount Drykos stretches across the mountain’s entire breadth, its marble architecture embracing every cliff and ridge as though carved by the hand of a god. The white stone glimmers beneath the bronze light of Graea’s sun, veined with golden inlays and streaks of age-old dust, creating a vision of sublime harmony between nature and divinity. Streams of crystal water flow freely through the cracks of the marble, cascading into serene ponds that gather around the temple’s base. Towering trees and creeping vines frame the colossal gates that guard the monastery — nature itself seeming to protect what the Sons of Tyndareus have sanctified with war and sacrifice.
Within the temple, vast marble halls stretch into grand corridors, their polished floors reflecting the faint glow of votive fires. These halls serve as both armory and reliquary, housing an arsenal of blessed weaponry, battle-worn armor, and ancient relics that mark the Chapter’s long and blood-stained history. Each weapon is maintained with ritual precision, regarded not as mere tools of war but as living symbols of devotion to the Emperor and to the memory of the fallen.
Banners of heraldic war hang solemnly from the high vaulted ceilings, each one bearing the name and title of an Archaios — a Chapter Master of old — along with their personal panoply and deeds of renown. Their fabric, heavy with centuries of dust and blood, tells the saga of a thousand crusades. At the heart of these hallowed halls lie the Tombs of Brazen Work, grand sepulchres forged from burnished metal and stone, where the remains of past Archaios are interred in eternal honour. It is here that the Hierarch, the Chapter’s Master of Sanctity, leads his brethren in solemn rituals of remembrance. The Sons of Tyndareus bow their heads in reverence, their voices echoing through the marble chambers in chants of devotion — not merely to mourn their ancestors, but to pledge their lives to uphold the same relentless honour and fury that defined those who came before.
At the forefront of the temple gates stands the Aegisguard, the indomitable Honour Guard of the Sons of Tyndareus. These towering warriors, clad in the venerable Cataphractii pattern Terminator armour, form an unyielding wall of living steel at the entrance of Mount Drykos. Each member of the Aegisguard is sworn to safeguard the fortress and its presiding Archaios with their lives, their oaths sealed in blood and sanctified by the Hierarch himself. They are the shield of the Chapter’s legacy — guardians of the gates, protectors of the sacred tombs, and silent sentinels of their king’s will. Armed with devastating long-range weaponry and master-forged blades, the Aegisguard embody the perfect balance of discipline and destruction. Their massive forms are often mistaken by outsiders as statues or relics of war, unmoving in their eternal watch. Yet when the sanctity of the temple is threatened, these silent colossi awaken with terrifying precision, unleashing volleys of righteous fire and crushing any intruder beneath their power fists and storm shields.
Among the Sons of Tyndareus, the Aegisguard are revered beyond measure — living legends whose mere presence commands silence and awe. To be chosen for their ranks is an honour few can ever aspire to; it is said that those who serve as Aegisguard cease to live as individuals and instead become embodiments of the Chapter’s enduring will. Their eyes, ever fixed upon the horizon, are the eyes of Graea itself — cold, eternal, and unblinking — ensuring that no enemy shall ever breach the sacred gates of Mount Drykos.
Chapter Organisation
The Sons of Tyndareus are, by structure, a largely Codex-Adherent Chapter, though their interpretation of the Codex Astartes bears the marks of their own heritage and martial philosophy. As descendants of the Ultramarines, they follow the tenets of the Codex in form, yet temper it with their own codes of honour and leadership, forged through centuries of blood and conflict. These doctrines, known collectively as the Tyndarean Tenets, govern every aspect of their existence — and breaking them is considered a sin greater than death itself. Like all Chapters bound by the Codex, the Sons of Tyndareus divide their numbers into ten companies. From the 1st Company of Promach, composed of battle-hardened Veterans, to the 10th Company of Skopion, made up of Scouts and Aspirants still proving their worth, every company serves a precise purpose in the Chapter’s grand design. Each brother knows his station, his duty, and the weight of his oaths to both his Archaios and the Emperor. At the heart of their command lies the Hegon, the Chapter’s High Council, formed from the most trusted captains, chaplains, and specialists. The Hegon oversees the coordination of the Chapter’s deployments, rituals, and long-term campaigns, acting as both advisory body and executioner of the Archaios’ will. Their authority, however, is absolute only insofar as the Archaios allows — for he alone stands as the living embodiment of the Chapter’s creed. His word is law, and his judgment carries the weight of divine decree. Unlike many of their brethren, the Sons of Tyndareus maintain a close formation around their Archaios, with many of their elite warriors — including the Gerontes (Veterans) and members of the Aegisguard (Honour Guard) — remaining ever at his side rather than dispersed among the companies. This practice, though controversial by strict Codex standards, is deemed essential for safeguarding the Archaios and ensuring the unbroken continuity of command. Such a structure comes at the cost of slower mobilization and the burden of training replacements through harsh attrition, yet the Sons endure it willingly.
Dorymacheion
Within the Chapter’s Command resides the Dorymacheion — the high council of the Sons of Tyndareus, where war, wisdom, and honour converge. This exalted assembly is composed of the Polemarchs of the Chapter’s ten companies, each a commander of unmatched prowess and renown. Together, they form the living embodiment of the Chapter’s will, serving as the Archaios’ most trusted advisors, tacticians, and brothers-in-arms. Each Polemarch is granted a bronze-forged throne, masterfully wrought by the Chapter’s artificers to bear his name, heraldry, and the likeness of his chosen weapon. These seats are not mere symbols of rank, but monuments to each warrior’s legacy — a reflection of his mastery in war and the countless battles that have shaped his honour. At the center of the council chamber stands the Coal-Black Throne, upon which the Archaios himself presides. The throne hums with ancient power, its black metal said to resonate with the will of the mountain itself, exuding a low, thunderous energy that can be felt more than heard. When the Archaios speaks from this seat, his voice carries the weight of divine judgment and command.
Among these mighty captains are the greatest champions of the Chapter, beginning with Kyrandros Petron, Gerontes Polemarch and First Captain of the Veteran Company Promach, whose indomitable resolve has earned him the title The Stone of Drykos, and ending with Helkaron, commander of the Skopion, the 10th Company of Scouts, whose cunning and speed embody the Chapter’s youthful fury. When the Dorymacheion convenes, the chamber becomes a crucible of ideas and strategy — a place where iron minds clash as fiercely as blades. Each Polemarch is granted voice and counsel, and through fierce debate, they forge their plans of war. No decision is made lightly; each move is weighed with patience and precision, ensuring that the Sons of Tyndareus strike not merely with strength, but with purpose. To witness the Dorymacheion in session is to behold the heart of the Chapter itself — united, relentless, and eternally guided by the will of their Archaios.
1st Veteran Company
The 1st Veteran Company of the Sons of Tyndareus is among the most revered formations within the Chapter, known as the Promach Lochion — the Company of Veterans. Numbering one hundred warriors, these are the Chapter’s most elite and unyielding champions, each a paragon of skill, discipline, and devotion. Every member of the Promach has earned his place through centuries of battle, their names etched in the annals of the Dorymacheion as living testaments to the Chapter’s endurance and glory. These Veterans wield relics of incomparable craftsmanship — ancient weapons and armour consecrated through countless campaigns. Only those judged truly worthy may bear such armaments into battle, for each carries with it a legacy of sacrifice. The Promach fight not merely for victory, but for the perfection of their art; every duel, every siege, every slaughter is a test of their resolve to transcend mortal limits and embody the Chapter’s code of honour. Always marching beside their indomitable Teutorach, the First Captain of the Sons of Tyndareus, these warriors don their burnished Indomitus Pattern Terminator Armour, their bronze and iron plate glinting beneath the glow of bolter-fire. Bearing the signature spear and shield of their Chapter, they form an unbreakable phalanx around their commander, enduring the heaviest fire to protect him and crush the foe with precise, unrelenting might. Many of these Veterans — known by the title Gerontes (Veteran), are often dispatched to reinforce the Lochions of lower rank, from the Battle Companies to the Scouts of the Skopion. There they serve as mentors, anchors, and symbols of unflinching resolve. Their presence inspires the younger warriors to greater acts of courage, for to fight beside a Gerontes is to fight alongside living history. Through their counsel and sacrifice, the Sons of Tyndareus ensure that each new generation ascends stronger than the last — ever striving toward the perfection of the Promach's ideal.
Battle Company
Within every Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, true strength lies in its Battle Companies — and for the Sons of Tyndareus, these formations are the beating heart of their military might and honour. The 2nd and 5th Companies stand foremost among them, their ranks forming the living phalanx of the Chapter’s war machine. Structured by ancient doctrine, each Company is composed of Phalanx (Battleline), Kataxon (Fire-Support), Doron (Close-Support), and Skopion (Scout) Lochions, ensuring flexibility in both siegecraft and open warfare. Every Battle Company is accompanied by a Hegon — an elite command squad of Gerontes (Veterans) who serve under their Polemarch as guardians and extensions of his will. Clad in battle-worn bronze and bearing the scars of countless crusades, these warriors embody the unity and discipline of the Chapter. At the vanguard, the Sons of Tyndareus strike with ruthless precision, dismantling fortresses and crushing resistance through coordinated fury, ensuring that no enemy survives their relentless advance.
Reserve Company
Officer Ranks
Specialist Ranks
Line Ranks
Specialist Units & Formations
Order of Battle
Headquarters
Companies
Chapter Beliefs
Gene-Seed
Genetic Flaws
Combat Doctrine
Deathwatch Service
In every century, it is the duty of the Adeptus Astartes to offer warriors to the Deathwatch, the Emperor’s chosen hunters of the alien. From among the countless Chapters of the Imperium, each dispatches its champions to join the Long Vigil. Yet for the Sons of Tyndareus, this sacred tradition bears a deeper weight. Of every hundred battle-brothers, only one shall be chosen to descend into the Watch Fortresses, to serve under the black and silver of the Ordo Xenos. Their purpose is not merely to fulfill an oath, but to temper their craft in the crucible of the Deathwatch — to learn, to hunt, and to return refined beyond mortal measure.
The Sons of Tyndareus send their chosen not out of obligation, but as an act of transformation. These candidates are selected for their valor, intellect, and adaptability — warriors sent to study the alien so that they may better destroy it. When they return to their Chapter, they are changed beings: bearers of forbidden knowledge and hard-won wisdom, their minds sharpened and their instincts honed to perfection. Such veterans are regarded with reverence and unease alike, their very presence considered both sacred and perilous, for the lessons they carry are not meant for lesser minds.
Those selected for the Long Vigil often range from the Gerontes, the esteemed veterans of the Chapter, to the exalted Areteon, the Chapter’s chosen champions. On the rarest of occasions, even the Archaios himself — the Chapter Master — has taken the black, whether by command of higher authority or by his own grim choosing. In these moments, the Deathwatch has witnessed the fury of Tyndarean discipline unleashed upon the alien, as if the wrath of ancient kings had returned to walk among them.
The Sons of Tyndareus are renowned for their tactical precision and defensive mastery. Their doctrines of siegecraft, shield formations, and indomitable endurance make them invaluable in the breach or upon the rampart. They fight as bulwarks of humanity — protectors who shield the innocent and crush the heretic with calculated fury. Yet within this honor lies a tragedy: the Chapter’s reverence for sacrifice often drives them to the edge of annihilation. To the Sons of Tyndareus, the measure of devotion is destruction — and through death dealt to the enemies of mankind, they find both purpose and salvation.
Notable Sons of Tyndareus
- Archaios Maxellelus Oinox, "The Brazen Warrior" - In the annals of the Sons of Tyndareus, the name of Maxellelus Oinox is etched in iron and blood. Born to House Jucotis of Macragge, he rose from noble artisan to the first Chapter Master of the Sons, his legend carried forward from the fires of the Great Crusade through the ashes of the Horus Heresy. Known to friend and foe alike as The Brazen Warrior, Maxellelus embodied the fusion of calculated discipline and unbending ferocity - a master tactician whose patience was matched only by the swiftness of his decisive strikes.
Before the Heresy, Oinox served as Lieutenant of the Ultramarines’ 8th Assault Company under Captain Bruticus Kratos. The two were an unlikely but devastating partnership—Kratos the unrelenting storm, Oinox the iron bastion. Together they forged campaigns that shattered not merely armies, but the morale and will of entire worlds. As commander of his specialist cadre, the Warriors of Tyndareus, Oinox perfected the arts of breaching and defensive counter-assault, turning sieges into traps and fortifications into weapons. His hallmark was the "Wall of Iron," a shield phalanx that could grind down any advance, before the sudden, precise counterblow fell like a headsman's axe.
When the Heresy came to Calth, Maxellelus's warriors were among the first into the void, boarding traitor vessels in brutal close-quarters combat. He led from the front, his breacher shield locked against the storm of bolt and blade, cutting a measured path through the Word Bearers' ranks. In the Underworld War beneath Calth's poisoned skies, his tactics preserved lives that would otherwise have been spent in Kratos's headlong charges - though such caution often put the two commanders at odds. Even so, Oinox's flanking assaults and calculated encirclements turned the tide in more than one engagement, breaking the back of the enemy where sheer force could not.
In the grim aftermath, the Ultramarines stood bloodied and diminished. Guilliman, seeking to rebuild his Legion and bring retribution to the traitor, sanctioned the creation of the Legiones Inductii. Oinox was tasked with shaping many of these raw recruits, tempering them into a fighting force capable of precise, coordinated warfare. His doctrine - patient advance, relentless pressure, and sudden, overwhelming assault—would become the bedrock of his later Chapter's identity.
During the Great Scouring, Oinox's Warriors of Tyndareus became a scourge upon the fleeing traitor fleets. From the Eye of Terror to the maelstrom-churned edges of the galaxy, they hunted Word Bearers and Iron Warriors alike, their attacks honed to decapitate command structures and cripple supply lines. These campaigns, fought side by side with the Imperius Ravagers, forged the blood-oath between the two brother-Chapters - a kinship born not of convenience, but of shared scars and mutual respect. At the Second Founding, Guilliman decreed that Oinox and his cadre would form the nucleus of a new Chapter - the Sons of Tyndareus - tasked with defending the Imperium's borders with the same stubborn, methodical vigilance that had preserved so many lives at Calth.
As their first Chapter Master, Oinox oversaw the forging of their fleet, the recruitment of warriors from across Ultramar, and the codification of their battle doctrine. His reign was one of iron discipline, precise execution, and an unyielding hatred for those who had turned from the Emperor's light. Maxellelus Oinox's death is unrecorded - lost to time and war. Some claim he fell in the purging of the Maerath Rift, locked in mortal combat with a warband of the Serrated Suns; others whisper he vanished on a void crusade beyond the Imperium's edge, seeking one last reckoning with the traitor. Whatever the truth, the Sons of Tyndareus still bear his sigil on their war-plate, and to this day, their shield walls form and their counterstrikes fall in the image of "The Brazen Warrior."
Archaios Kallistos Poloc, "The Stygian Conqueror", arrayed in his fearsome panoply of war.
- Archaios Kallistos Poloc, "The Stygian Conqueror" - A ruthless yet strangely honorable commander, Kallistos Poloc is a paradox of brute strength and tempered will — a warrior who embodies both the unstoppable might of a charging bull and the boundless patience of a calm, endless ocean. As the reigning Archaios of the Sons of Tyndareus, his rule is marked by conquest, challenge, and unyielding discipline. Kallistos thrives on combat not merely as a tool of war but as a test of worth, driven by a devouring need to confront and surpass every champion who dares to meet him blade-to-blade. To him, battle is not chaos but ritual — a sacred arena where honor and brutality intertwine.
A master of both strategy and slaughter, Kallistos commands with the intellect of a seasoned tactician and the wrath of a demi-god of war. His campaigns are remembered as pyres of broken kingdoms and worlds left in ruin, where his sons march through smoke and flame to claim the ashes of the defeated. His armor, forged from the remnants of his earliest victories, is adorned with symbols of conquest and marred by deep scars — each one a silent testament to the horrors he has unleashed and endured.
Despite the savagery that defines him, Kallistos Poloc does not cower from his own nature. He wears his reputation as both executioner and guardian of his Chapter with unflinching pride, believing that only by embracing the darkness within can true mastery be achieved. To his warriors, he is a being of awe and fear — a leader whose fury borders on the divine, yet whose loyalty to the Emperor and to his gene-father remains unbroken.
Known for his blunt demeanor and tempestuous temper, Kallistos spends much of his time within the colossal Colosseum of the Flagship “The Tyrian Bull”, where he tests both his strength and his faith in relentless duels. It is here, amidst the roar of his warriors and the clash of steel, that he undergoes the sacred Rubicon Primaris, seeking not just ascension but transformation — to refine his fury into something greater. For Kallistos Poloc believes that perfection is born not in restraint, but in the crucible of endless struggle and bloodshed — where brutality becomes beauty, and war becomes truth.
Thyrantos Dysorius, "The Eldest", Honorable Ancient of the Sons of Tyndareus.
- Ephorinvictus Thyrantos Dysorius, "The Eldest" - Throughout the long and blood-stained history of the Sons of Tyndareus, countless heroes have risen and fallen in fire and devotion. Even the mightiest of the Gerontes have perished beneath the endless tide of war, leaving the Chapter with few of its elder brethren still walking among the living. Those who remain are entombed within the sacred Dreadnought sarcophagi, their broken bodies sustained only by the machine, yet their spirits burning with the undying will of the God-King, the Emperor of Mankind. These venerable warriors bear upon their armour the scars of centuries — marks of wisdom, rage, and honour — but none are held in such reverence as Thyrantos Dysorius, the eldest and most venerated among them.
Known to his brothers as “The Eldest,” Thyrantos embodied every tenet of the Chapter’s creed. A warrior of unwavering obedience, he followed the doctrines of the Sons of Tyndareus without question, trusting the will of the Archaios and the strategies of the Dorymacheion above his own instinct. In life, he served as a Gerontes of the 1st Lochion, a giant of bronze whose silence was said to weigh heavier than thunder. His peers regarded him as grim and humourless — a bull of living metal, waiting patiently for the command to charge.
Yet beneath that iron exterior lay a spirit of profound mercy. For all his strength and wrath, Thyrantos was known to shield the innocent and preserve the weak with almost saintly compassion. His most storied deed came during the siege of a feudal world, where he tore an entire castle gate from its iron hinges and wielded it as a weapon, crushing the ranks of a greenskin horde beneath its rusted weight. It is said the gate was heavier than a siege tank, yet Thyrantos, clad in his brazen Terminator plate, bore it aloft with the strength of a demi-god.
In time, the warrior met his end amidst the ashes of a devastated world, his mortal shell broken but his will unyielding. When his brethren recovered his shattered form, they found his vox still echoing a final oath of defiance. Honoured beyond all measure, Thyrantos Dysorius was interred within the ancient shell of a Contemptor Pattern Dreadnought, his iron frame engraved with the runes of his victories and the prayers of his brothers. Now, he strides once more into battle, an echo of ages past, his booming voice shaking the halls of Mount Drykos and the hearts of his enemies alike. To the Sons of Tyndareus, he is not merely a relic — he is the living embodiment of their creed: unyielding, honour-bound, and eternal.
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By: Sons of Tyndareus
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