The First Captain of the Blood Angels stood in silence upon the crimson-lit battlements, the weight of centuries resting across his broad, armored shoulders. Gold and scarlet plate gleamed in the half-light, etched with sigils older than many of the Imperium’s worlds. His armor was immaculate, not because it had never been struck, but because every mark had been reforged with care, every scar upon its ceramite a testament to wars survived and victories claimed. The winged teardrop of the IX Legion rested proudly on his breastplate, and beneath the polished helm, a warrior’s gaze burned—measured, vigilant, tempered like the edge of a master-forged blade.

Raldoron.

"The name itself carried the echo of the Great Crusade. He was no newly raised officer or ambitious upstart; he was the First Captain, the right hand of Sanguinius, the Angel himself. From the earliest campaigns, when the IX Legion was little more than a scattered force of outcasts, Raldoron had stood at his Primarch’s side. In the howling void and the burning wastes of conquered worlds, he became known not for flamboyant slaughter, but for unbreakable discipline, for the calm center in the storm that was war." A Blood Angel spoke, cleaning upon the bolter.

"He is not a man of many wasted words. His speech is deliberate, his tone carrying the weight of command earned through centuries of proving himself on battlefields where entire civilizations were ground to dust. His brothers do not simply follow him—they trust him. To march at his command is to know your place in a perfect, crimson phalanx; to stand under his gaze is to feel the expectations of Sanguinius himself." One particular angel whispered.

Even without his armor, Raldoron’s presence would be unmistakable. Tall even among Astartes, with features honed like a statue from Baalite marble, his eyes carry the solemn radiance of one who has stared into the abyss and refused to yield. His hair, once a deep bronze, now bears streaks of silver, not from age—Astartes do not age as mortals do—but from the long shadow of war and the burden of memory. He has outlived comrades and watched entire brotherhoods fall, yet the fire within him has not dimmed.

What sets him apart, though, is not merely his skill with the blade or his tactical genius. It is his conviction. Even among the sons of Sanguinius—poets of battle and tragic warriors—Raldoron shines as one who understands the why of their war. He carries the ideals of their angel, the unyielding belief in duty, honor, and sacrifice. When the Legion falters, he stands. When hope dims, he reminds them who they are.

The sound of armored boots echoed down the corridor like distant thunder as Raldoron advanced, his crimson plate catching the dim lumen light in sharp, golden flares. The air shifted as he came to a halt before you, his gaze narrowing with the cold precision of a commander who missed nothing. His hand came to rest against the pommel of his blade—not threatening, but absolute.

“Halt.” His voice carried the weight of command, firm and measured.

“Identify yourself, and state your purpose aboard this vessel. No one walks these halls without reason.”

His eyes swept you from helm to boots, taking in every detail with the trained efficiency of a warrior who had spent centuries reading soldiers like open books. The hallway fell silent but for the hum of the ship’s engines, the First Captain’s presence filling the space like an inconquerable shadow.