Oramar Elthiran stood in the corner. His mirrored armor mimicked the darkness, as did his swarthy unhelmed face. Tatood on his face were eldar runespells, and his eyes glowed with warplight. The chamber he hid in was wide, for it was one of the most important chambers in the whole of the galaxy. Oramar stood in an architectural nook of the Strategium chamber of the All Seeing Eye, greatest interstellar vessel of the Imperium of Man. When in low orbit of Terra, the massive ship could eclipse the moon. It was not anywhere near Terra now, however. At the center of the great chamber was a hololithic display table ten metres long. Around that table sat Oramar's traitorous brothers.

Traitors they were in many ways. Many of them had betrayed Oramar and his Warp Raider legion not unrecently, and Oramar had a long memory. He watched them from the shadows, his presence masked from all but one. They were now gathered for a different sort of treachery: Patricide. Oramar's plans were interwoven to their intentions, but he could not yet reveal his involvement. They stood like titans around the hololithic mountains and castles, and to Oramar's third eye they danced with omens more than any other being.

At the head of the table stood the Warmaster. He was tall, a slender wisp of darkness. His artificor armor was black, trimmed with grey. His skin was pitch black like his armor, but his eyes were a splash of brilliant orange. Those eyes stood out, watchful suns which saw every minute detail. He held a dull iron crozius with its head on the floor, alluding to ancient terran scepters of regality.

At the Warmasters right hand stood Enoch the Relentless. He stood in Tartaros armor, its dull ceramite surface was unpainted, save for red command medals on his pauldrons and breastplate. He wore his helmet, and its visage was one of judgemental fury. On the shoulders of Enoch's armor were a pair of hurricane bolters, no doubt targeted by the auspex arrays of his helmet.

Across from Enoch stood Balthasar Bornhold. He wore armor of red scales and pelts, tailored and embossed with skilled worksmanship. His shin was pale white, and his hair red like dried blood. That hair grew like a mane down the back of his neck and across his forearms, giving him a beastly appearance. He stood in a violent stance, as though ready to tackle any of his brothers in an eyeblink. His eyes darted across the hololiths before him with apparent bloodlust. On his right hand was a gloved power-talon, with a flint dagger on each articulated finger.

Standing close was Kashaln, primarch of the Silver Spears. His armor was plated in pure silver, and the countless cracks, scrapes, and bulletholes of the crusade had been filled in with gold as artistic memoirs. His forked moustache was brazen, decorating a face of immaculate beauty. In his right hand he held a long pike. Wrapped around the pike in a double helix were two snakes, one of gold, and one of silver. Each one's head made a spear tip at one end of the long spear, and though they seemed merely gold and silver, they would surely cut through any foe.

Gengrat Vannevar, the beast of Terrodyne, stood looming over the hololiths, their light illuminating him. His face was refined, his eyes piercing blue. From his head, where hair should have been, grew dozens of long, prehensile mechadendites. They hung like dreadlocks, each one with binary claws for grasping. His armor was a dark metallic blue, like iron discolored by oil. Its construction was unique, for no 'pattern' but Gengrat's own had been used to construct it. Its surfaces were long and angular, with sharp ridges.

Anshul the Resplendant sat, his six arms formed into meditative poses. His eyes were closed, for he was seeing the room by other means. He wore only light ringmail robes, which glimmered like lanterns from his luminous skin. In his lap sat a bow of ravanna white wood, with now arrows in sight.

At the far end of the table, standing as far from the Warmaster as he dared, stood Aodhan Kael, the Negator. His light artificer armor was dull grey, but painted across its cuirass were many patterns in woad blue. His skin was brilliant bronze, and his his long hair framed a statuesque face. He grinned with ironic mockery and brash confidence.

Next to Aodhan stood a hunchbacked, twisted figure. Its ancient armor was caked with verdigris, covering the dull bronze beneath. From its back sprung dozens of crude devices, servo arms, sensors, even a few tanks of unknown fluid. Each arm ended in a monstrous bronze chainfists as thick as tree trunks. At the center of the mutant's great armored torso was a massive crater, reaching deep into its chest. At the bottom of that crater, where the mutant's heart once was, there sat a rusted iron relic, pulsing with ancient light.

The Warmaster waved his hand, and the hololithic display shifted to a map of the Galaxy. Shipping routes, military defensive zones, micropolitical boundries, and a thousand other statistics spread across the display, an amount of data only the minds of Primarchs could truly process all at once. "Brothers, let us begin." His voice was like cold iron and silk, seeping into the mind. "The time has come, the Oathsworn have been censured and Cadia is prepared."

"CENSURE!" cracked the bronze mutant at the far end of the table, "CURSED BE THE WORD!" His voice came as though through speakers, crackling with distortions. He slamed a massive fist against the
table, crashing a corner and causing parts of the display to flicker. That part happened to contain the ancient world of Rust, homeworld of Rubinek. Oramar was blindsided. Rubinek had been censured for technoheresy nearly a century ago. He had not known the Rusted Lord still lived. He reeled at the possible implications, and then Rubinek spoke again. "YOU SAY YOU WISH TO SLAY OUR FATHER, SO I COME FROM HIDING. NOW YOU SPEAK OF WAR AGAINST THE OATHSWORN? HAVE I BEEN SOLD FOOL'S GOLD?"

Balthasar the Red chuckled, a low hearty rumble. "Rubinek's heart may be Iron, but his balls are tin!" He roared with a single gruff laugh, and slapped princely Kashaln on the back. "He does not have the stomach for the butchery that is to come. In truth I doubt he has a stomach at all." Balthasar motioned toward the hololiths, and they focused on the Solar System. Holy Terra sat in the center, with luna twirling around it. The Red Bastard continued in his gruff tone, "Faustus will not join us no matter the cause. He must be neutralized."

The Warmaster nodded his head graciously toward Balthasar, "Our beastly brother speaks truth. The Oathsworn must be neutralized before the war begins. We shall destroy my greatest adversary and dull the blades of our enemies in all at once." He keyed in new coordinates, and the display adjusted to show the galaxy once again. "Rubinek, you must burn Tepectitlan to ash. Xun's army must be swept out from under him." Rubinek made a motion which seemed vaguely like a nod, though it was hard to tell through his hunched posture.

"Gengrat?" said the Warmaster, "Are you still confident in your plan?" Gengrat Vannevar's cold eyes turned to the Warmaster, devious plans churning within like the gears of a clock. "The voices speak clearly. If I face Saul Sheridan on Armageddon, he will join us. There can be no doubt."

"Balthasar, you will lay in wait at Octarius, setting a trap for our brother Graha'nak." Balthasar's grin widened to a snarl, and he leaned forward, "I will turn the world to a charnel house, and build statues to the God of Skulls out of the Void Lords' sons." The Warmaster gave him a quiet smile, and turned to Enoch. "You will be in charge of our greatest battlefield, brother Enoch. We will draw the most defiant to Cadia, and there we will teach them the price of disobedience." Enoch did not speak, he merely rose a gauntleted fist to pound against his chest in salute.

"Anshul, you will have the hardest task of all..." the resplendant monk opened his eyes and spoke, "I must create a ruinstorm, that our foes may not fly from the appointed battlefields. This I already know." Oramar chose that moment to reveal himself.

"And what of Terra, brother? What of our father's seat?" Oramar stepped out of the shadows and translated fully into realspace. His wyrdwhip jingled against his hip as he walked down to the table where his brothers made plans of war. "You make plans to neutralize all of our enemies, save the greatest. What of the Emperor?" The other primarchs' reactions were varied. Kashaln and Gengrat seemed confused, and Aodhan's face was one of wry amusement. Balthasar, however, showed only raw aggression and hate, "What is this foul wych doing here? Have you come to finally meet the executioner's blade, knife-ear?"

The Warmaster rose a hand to silence Balthasar. "I have kept Oramar's involvement in my plans secret, for I feared reactions such as this. He has been integral to my designs, and is personally responsible for some of you being here. You will show respect where it is due, Balthasar, and forget past grievances. No longer are we our father's sons, set to do his will. Now we fight for ourselves."