IF I EVER find that they put HIM on the Wolfblade because THE OTHER SPACE WOLVES WERE 'UNCONFORTABLE' around him Because of his "geneseed defect" I WILL BECOME A MAGNUS STAND
Haegr, The Mountain! The "Only Canon Fat Space Marine"™ Not counting whatever The heck is going on with The Death Guard, IS a character com The Blackmane books! This guy famously BROKE a Chaos Dready's leg with a HAMMER that he uses as If It weighs nothing.
Do not be fooled by silly cute way of drawing Vikings inspired By The Handsome Dwarves from The Hobbit, This guy is Pure Muscle and Hunger underneath alldat.
Proud member of The Wolfblades, the Sons of Russ who act as guards and support for the Great Navigators from House Belisarius!
I couldn't find a Very good and clear description of Lady Gabriella Belisarius, The navigator he slightly banthers with, so I drew her as The standart Navigator person™ on the Wiki, Basic Dune COPYRIGHT INFRINGMENT from The Guild Navigators stuff
I have read Very little of The Ragnar Books, but I LOVE THIS GUY and The way he talks and how his brothers Just awe at some of The things he does, a Scary Giant, Son of Leman in personality and temper,
Also YEAH I can't remenber If They Mention his hair color on the parts I read so REDHEAD IT IS
These are 2625x3500 digital drawings done on Ibispaint! I used some Already existing Haegr Fanart as inspo for his design here!
Requested Tags for All Works: @beckyninja @runin64 @ilovewolvezz @pippinsquishums @warhorny-on-main
Masterlist
Primarch Edition: pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3
Imperial Edition
pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4
Space wolves
Ragnar Blackmane
Ragnar Blackmane has never been accused of lacking confidence. It was, in fact, one of the things that has made him legendary. The Wolf Lord has always possessed a fire that burned brighter than most. He is bold where others are cautious, loud where others are quiet, and stubborn where others knew better than to continue.
Unfortunately for him, you have learned to match that stubbornness. Which is how the argument began. It is supposed to be a simple disagreement. A small thing. A matter of pride, mostly. But with Ragnar Blackmane, small matters had a tendency to become contests of will.
“You can’t simply decide you are right because you are louder,” you tell him.
Ragnar look genuinely offended.
“I am not louder because I am wrong. I am louder because I am making my point.”
“That is the same thing.”
“It is absolutely not.”
“It absolutely is.”
The Space Wolf crosses his arms, towering over you with the confidence of a warrior who has stared down nightmares and walked away laughing.
“You know,” he says, “many warriors would be grateful to have their arguments settled by the wisdom of a Wolf Lord.”
You stare at him.
“Many warriors are also afraid of you.”
“A reasonable response to my greatness.”
“A ridiculous response to your ego.”
Ragnar places a hand over his chest dramatically.
“My ego?”
“Yes, your ego.”
“I have fought champions of the Imperium. I have slain beasts that would make lesser warriors flee. I have earned my reputation.”
“And yet somehow you still think leaving your armor, weapons, and gear everywhere is acceptable because you’re ‘a legendary warrior.’”
Ragnar blinks.
“That is unrelated.”
“It is completely related.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
The Wolf Lord opens his mouth. Closes it. Then points at you.
“You are changing the subject.”
“No, I am expanding the argument.”
“That is a very sneaky way of admitting you have no strategy.”
“Oh, I have a strategy.”
Ragnar’s grin returns.
“A battle strategy?”
“No.”
You turn away.
“A height strategy.”
He frowns. That catches his attention.
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll see.”
Ragnar watches with suspicion as you walk away. He has faced ambushes before. He knows the signs. The sudden silence. The movement away from the battlefield. The preparation. Except this time, the preparation involves the unmistakable sound of a step ladder being dragged across the floor. Ragnar stares. Slowly, a smile begins to form.
“No.”
Because Ragnar Blackmane is absolutely fascinated. He watches as you position the ladder, climb up, and turn to face him with the confidence of a warrior preparing for battle. Except your weapon was one finger and your armor is sheer audacity.
“Yes.”
“You aren’t doing what I think you are doing.”
“Listen here, you little shit.”
There is a moment of silence. Then Ragnar blinks. Once. Twice. Then Ragnar Blackmane laughed. Not a quiet laugh. Not a restrained laugh. A full, booming laugh that echoes through the room like he has just heard the greatest battle saga ever told. By the Allfather...
“You climbed higher,” he says, sounding genuinely impressed, “just to scold me?”
“Yes.”
The grin widens.
“That is magnificent.”
You frown. “You aren’t supposed to enjoy this.”
“Why would I not? You have challenged me with great courage.”
“It’s an argument, not a duel.”
“To a Space Wolf, there is little difference.”
You point your finger again.
“Do not start.”
The amusement in his eyes only grows.
“That is the most Fenrisian thing I have ever seen from someone who is not Fenrisian.”
“It is called strategy.”
“It is called cheating.”
“It is called adapting.”
Ragnar wipes a nonexistent tear from the corner of his eye.
“By the Allfather, I love you.”
“You are avoiding the argument.”
“I am appreciating the warrior spirit.”
“You are absolutely avoiding the argument.”
“Both can be true.”
You narrow your eyes.
“Don’t think you are winning this.”
“You are unbelievable,” you mutter.
“And yet you chose me.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Liar.”
You open your mouth to argue, but Ragnar is already looking far too pleased with himself. The thing about Ragnar Blackmane is that he loves strength. Not just physical strength, but spirit. Fire. The refusal to back down. Most people see a Space Marine and immediately see a towering warrior, a living weapon, something distant and untouchable. You see Ragnar.
And you have apparently decided that the best way to prove that is by standing on furniture and threatening him with the confidence of someone twice his size. He respects that. Probably more than he should. Ragnar leans down slightly, bringing his face closer to yours.
“Are you finished, little wolf?”
Your eyes narrow.
“Did you just call me little?”
“Yes.”
“You’re lucky I love you.”
His grin softens into something warmer.
“I know.”
That is the irritating thing about Ragnar. He always knows. He knows when you are angry. He knows when you are teasing. He knows when your stubbornness is covering affection. Somehow, the great Ragnar Blackmane — hero of Fenris, slayer of monsters, warrior of the Imperium — looks more amused by a tiny, angry person on a step ladder than he ever did standing victorious on a battlefield.
“Come down from there,” he says.
“Are you admitting defeat?”
“Never.”
“Then why?”
“Because I want to kiss you, and I refuse to do so while you are standing on a ladder like an angry household goblin.”
You stare at him. He stares back. Then you laugh. Ragnar decides, once again, that he has chosen the strangest and greatest warrior in the galaxy to stand beside him.
Logan Grimnar
Logan Grimnar has stood before things that would have broken lesser warriors. He has faced the enemies of the Imperium for centuries. He has carried the title of Great Wolf not because it was given freely, but because he has earned it through hardship, sacrifice, and countless battles. He has stared down daemons. He has fought traitors. He has crossed blades with beings that believed themselves untouchable.
But none of his experience has prepared him for the day his significant other decided to challenge him in the most unexpected way imaginable. It had started, as many things did, with a disagreement. A small one. Or at least, it had been small before Logan became involved.
“You can’t simply dismiss the matter because you have decided your judgment is final,” you say.
Logan looks up from where he’s sat, his expression calm and unreadable.
“I am the Great Wolf.”
You stare.
“That isn’t an argument.”
“It has been an argument for many years.”
“It is a title, Logan.”
“A very impressive title.”
“You are impossible.”
The ancient Space Wolf leans back slightly, the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.
“You knew this when you chose me.”
“Yes. I simply underestimated how much of a problem it would become.”
A low chuckle escapes him.
“You speak boldly for one standing before the Great Wolf.”
“And you speak dramatically for someone who forgot to put away his equipment again.”
The amusement fades into a look of realization.
“That is what this is about?”
“Yes.”
“It is about my weapons.”
“It is about the fact that you leave a trail of legendary warrior nonsense everywhere you go.”
Logan considers this.
“A warrior must always be prepared.”
“A warrior must also know where the laundry basket is.”
For perhaps the first time in centuries, Logan Grimnar is genuinely at a loss. Not because he lacks a response. Because he knows you are correct. Which was unacceptable.
“I have faced armies with less determination than you have shown in this argument,” he admits.
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t entirely a compliment.”
“I’m accepting it anyway.”
A small smile tugs at his face.
He has commanded Space Wolves. He has advised warriors younger than himself by hundreds of years. He has carried the burdens of an entire Chapter. But you have a remarkable talent for making him feel like a stubborn old man being scolded in his own home. Then you walk away. Logan watches you go. Suspicious.
“You aren’t finished.”
“No.”
That answer makes him pause. There is something in your tone. Something familiar. The same determination he has seen in warriors who refused to yield. The same stubborn fire that burns in every son and daughter of Fenris. Then came the sound. Metal scraping against the floor. Logan looks toward the noise.
Slowly, you drag a step ladder into view. The Great Wolf stares. The ancient warrior who has faced some of the most terrifying foes in the galaxy simply watches as you unfold the ladder.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
“You are acquiring height.”
“Yes.”
“For the argument.”
“Yes.”
Logan is silent. A lesser person might have been offended. A lesser person might have been confused. Logan Grimnar simply looks tiredly amused.
“You realize I am aware of your height compared to mine without requiring a tactical demonstration.”
You climb up.
“I need the advantage.”
“You believe this gives you an advantage?”
“It gives me eye contact.”
A pause.
Then:
“Fair.”
You point a finger at him.
“Listen here, you little shit.”
The room goes quiet. Logan Grimnar — the Great Wolf, bearer of the Axe Morkai, leader of the Space Wolves — stares at you. Not with anger. Not with offense. With the expression of a man who has just encountered a phenomenon he can’t explain. After a moment, he sighs.
“I have been called many things throughout my life.”
You wait.
“Legend. Hero. Warrior. Old Wolf.” He looks at the ladder, “Never that.”
“First time for everything.”
A low laugh rumbles from him. A sound rarely heard from a man who carries so much responsibility.
“You are aware,” Logan says, “that there are warriors who would tremble simply standing before me.”
“Yes.”
“And yet you have climbed furniture to scold me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You cross your arms.
“Because you were being stubborn.”
Logan considers arguing, then he stops. Because the irritating truth is that you are right. Again. The Great Wolf lowers his head slightly, his expression softening. There are few people in the galaxy who can speak to him without fear or reverence. Fewer still who dare to remind him that beneath the title, beneath the armor, beneath the legend... he is still simply Logan.
That is why he tolerates the ladder. That is why he tolerates the sass. That is why, when you finally climb down, he carefully catches you before your feet touch the ground.
“You know,” he says, “most people wouldn’t survive speaking to me in such a manner.”
You smiles.
“Good thing you like me.”
A pause. Then the Old Wolf’s expression warms.
“Very fortunate for you.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“Logan.”
“Very fortunate.”
Despite all his centuries of wisdom, all his victories, and all his experience... Logan knows one undeniable truth. The most dangerous opponent he has ever faced wasn’t a daemon, a traitor, or a xenos warlord. It is the person who knew exactly how to make him admit when he is wrong.
Njal Stormcaller
Njal Stormcaller has seen many things. Through the currents of the warp, he has witnessed possible futures. He has glimpsed wars before they began, felt the approach of enemies before they struck, and read the shifting tides of fate like a saga written across the stars. The old Rune Priest has seen darkness descend upon worlds. He has heard the whispers of daemons. He has watched warriors march toward battles they might never return from. But somehow, none of his visions have prepared him for this. The argument had begun innocently enough. Or at least, as innocently as any argument with Njal Stormcaller can begin.
“You are doing it again,” you say.
Njal looks up from the runes spread before him.
“Doing what?”
“Pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
The Rune Priest tilts his head slightly.
“I have spent centuries interpreting mysteries beyond mortal understanding. You will need to be more specific.”
You fold your arms.
“Oh, don’t give me that.”
A faint spark of amusement enters his eyes.
“That?”
“Yes. The wise old Space Wolf routine.”
“I am a wise old Space Wolf.”
“You are an annoying old Space Wolf.”
Njal strokes his beard thoughtfully.
“I see.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I have literally seen things others cannot.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“Ah.”
A pause.
“Then I have foreseen this conversation going poorly.”
You stare.
“You’re joking.”
“I am not entirely certain.”
That is the problem with Njal. He is impossible to argue with because he can make even being wrong sound like part of some grand cosmic design.
“You always do this,” you says. “You act like because you’re a legendary Rune Priest, you’re automatically correct.”
“I don’t.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I simply possess greater experience.”
“You mean you’re old.”
“I mean I am experienced.”
“Old.”
“Experienced.”
“Old.”
Njal gives you a long look. The same look he might give a particularly stubborn opponent on a battlefield. Unfortunately for him, you have spent enough time around him to recognize it.
“You’re doing the look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you think being mysterious will win the argument.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You’re doing it right now.”
Njal sighs. A deep, long-suffering sigh.
“I have faced daemons with less persistence.”
“And yet here you are.”
“And yet here I am.”
The two of you stare at each other. The Rune Priest. The seer. The ancient warrior who has guided the Space Wolves through countless trials. And the one person in the galaxy who can make him look genuinely uncertain. You walk away.
Njal watches you leave. He narrows his eyes. The warp stirs. A strange sensation passes through him. A warning. A vision. A possibility. He sees... a ladder. His expression changes.
“No.”
A few moments later, you return carrying a step ladder. Njal stares at it. For perhaps the first time in his long life, Njal questions whether his connection to the warp is truly as reliable as he believes.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“You foresaw this.”
“I didn’t foresee the exact nature of the weapon.”
You unfold the ladder.
“It isn’t a weapon.”
Njal looks at you.
“You are about to stand above me and lecture me.”
“Yes.”
“That is a weapon.”
You climb up. Njal watches silently. Not because he is angry. Because he is genuinely impressed. The sheer confidence required to physically elevate yourself before a Space Marine and during an argument is, in its own way, a form of courage. You point at him.
“Listen here, you little shit.”
The Rune Priest goes completely still. The wind seems to stop. The candles flicker. Even the atmosphere itself seems uncertain. Njal Stormcaller has heard ancient tongues spoken by forgotten beings. He has heard enemies curse his name. He has heard prophecies that shook worlds. But this? This is new.
“Interesting,” he finally says.
You narrow your eyes.
“Do not ‘interesting’ me.”
“I am simply recording the event.”
“Recording?”
“For future reference.”
“You aren’t writing down that I called you that.”
“I am absolutely writing down that you called me that.”
“Njal.”
“Perhaps with additional details regarding the ladder.”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet you continue to argue with me.”
“Because someone has to.”
A small smile appeared beneath his beard. There it is. The thing few ever see. Not the Rune Priest. Not the ancient warrior. Not the servant of Fenris and the Emperor. Just Njal. The man beneath all the titles.
He has spent his life surrounded by warriors who treat him with respect, fear, or reverence. You treat him like a stubborn old man who needs to be reminded to listen. And strangely enough, that means more. Njal leans slightly closer.
“You understand, of course, that I could simply use my psychic abilities to move the ladder.”
Your eyes widen.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I said I could.”
“You are threatening magical cheating?”
“I am a Rune Priest. It is practically tradition.”
You point at him again.
“Don’t test me.”
Njal laughs softly. A rare sound. Warm. Genuine. The kind of laugh that only came when he forgot, for a moment, that he is a legend. In all his visions of the future, Njal has seen countless battles. Victories. Defeats. The rise and fall of warriors and worlds. But he has never expected one of his most memorable confrontations to involve a step ladder, a pointed finger, and the person he loves reminding him that even a legend can be a stubborn old fool.
And perhaps that was the greatest prophecy of all.
Not that he would survive the battles ahead.
But that he would always have someone brave enough to argue with him when he was wrong.
Iron Hands
Malkaan Feirros
Malkaan Feirros isn’t a man easily surprised. As an Iron Father of the Iron Hands, he has spent his life surrounded by logic, machinery, and the cold certainty of calculated outcomes. He has repaired war machines that lesser minds considered beyond saving. He has endured battles where flesh failed and steel prevailed. He understands systems. He understands efficiency. The argument itself has started over something simple. Or rather, something that should have been simple.
“Malkaan.”
The Iron Father continues examining the piece of machinery in his hands.
“Yes?”
“You have been working on that for six hours.”
“Correct.”
“You said you would take a break.”
“I have taken several breaks.”
“You stared into the distance for ten seconds.”
“That was sufficient.”
You stare at him.
“That wasn’t a break.”
“It interrupted my work.”
“It didn’t.”
“It altered my productivity.”
“That isn’t how breaks work.”
Feirros looks up. His expression is the same one he might have given a malfunctioning machine. Not angry. Not offended. Simply assessing the problem.
“You are attempting to redefine an established process.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the established process is you ignoring the fact that you are exhausted.”
“I am not exhausted.”
“You have been awake for nearly two days.”
“My biological functions remain within acceptable parameters.”
“You just proved my point.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
A moment of silence passes. Feirros returns his attention to the machinery.
“I believe this conversation has reached an inefficient stage.”
You narrow your eyes.
“Oh, so now you’re ending it because you’re losing?”
“I am ending it because continuing provides no measurable benefit.”
“That is the same thing.”
“It is not.”
“It absolutely is.”
Feirros pauses. For a moment, the great Iron Father seems to genuinely consider whether your argument contains merit. Then:
“No.”
You blink.
“No?”
“No.”
“You didn’t even think about it.”
“I did.”
“You thought for half a second.”
“That was sufficient.”
You stare at him.
“You are unbelievable.”
“Incorrect.”
“You are literally proving my point while trying to disprove it.”
“That statement is contradictory.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Malkaan.”
“Yes?”
“You’re being difficult.”
“I am being accurate.”
“You’re being a stubborn metal giant.”
“I am not entirely composed of metal.”
“You are emotionally.”
That makes him stop. Only for a moment. But you notice. Of course you notice. The Iron Hands are masters of concealing emotion, but you have learned to recognize the smallest changes. The slight pause. The subtle shift. The moment where something actually reaches him.
“You are making an inaccurate assessment.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Possibly.”
You smile. There it is. A crack. A tiny victory. You turn and walk away.
Feirros watches.
“You are leaving?”
“No.”
That answer immediately concerns him. Because he knows you. And because his tactical instincts have learned that whenever you say something like that, trouble follows. A few moments later, you return. With a step ladder. Feirros stares. Then he stares harder. His enhanced optics adjust. Confirmed. It is, in fact, a step ladder.
“You have introduced a new variable.”
“Yes.”
“Explain.”
You unfold it.
“I need an advantage.”
“You believe elevation will provide one?”
“Yes.”
“Against me?”
“Yes.”
Feirros looks at the ladder. Then at you. Then at the ladder again.
“Your probability of intimidating me has not increased.”
“Your probability of being annoyed has.”
A pause.
“That is a different metric.”
“It is still a successful outcome.”
For several seconds, Malkaan Feirros simply stands there. Processing. Calculating. Attempting to determine the correct response. You climb onto the ladder. You point a finger at his armored chest.
“Listen here, you little shit.”
Silence. Complete silence. The Iron Father’s expression doesn’t change. Which somehow makes it worse.
“Interesting.”
You immediately narrow your eyes.
“Do not.”
“I have not stated anything.”
“You are about to analyze me.”
“I am always analyzing.”
“That is exactly the problem.”
Feirros looks at the ladder.
“The implementation of this tactic is inefficient.”
“Maybe.”
“The height advantage is negligible.”
“Maybe.”
“The psychological impact is unclear.”
“Maybe.”
“You have, however, demonstrate considerable commitment to your position.”
You pause. Because that is, somehow, the closest thing to a compliment you are going to get.
“Was that you admitting I’m impressive?”
“No.”
“Malkaan.”
“It was an observation.”
“It was a compliment.”
“It was data.”
“It was a compliment.”
A long silence. Then:
“...Perhaps.”
And there it is. From Malkaan Feirros, that is practically a love poem. Because beneath the steel, beneath the cybernetics, beneath the endless pursuit of perfection, there is still a man who has chosen someone capable of challenging him. Someone who doesn’t see only the Iron Father. Someone who doesn’t see only the machine.
Someone who can look at one of the greatest warriors of the Adeptus Astartes, climb onto a step ladder, and remind him that not every problem in existence can be solved through logic alone. Later, when asked about the incident, Feirros would deny finding it amusing. He would deny that he had smiled. He would deny that he had kept the step ladder exactly where it was afterward. But he would also never remove it.
Kardan Stronos
Kardan Stronos isn’t a man easily challenged. He is the Chapter Master of the Iron Hands. He has commanded warriors of iron will, led campaigns across the galaxy, and stands as the embodiment of the Chapter’s relentless pursuit of strength and perfection. He has faced enemies who believed themselves unstoppable. He has broken war machines that should have been impossible to defeat. He has endured wounds that would have ended the lives of lesser beings. But none of that prepared him for the most persistent opponent he has ever encountered. You. The argument had started over something that, to Stronos, had seemed entirely reasonable. Which was usually where the problem began.
“Kardan.”
The Chapter Master looks up from the data slate in his hand.
“Yes?”
“You said you would rest.”
“I said I would conclude my current task.”
“You said that three hours ago.”
“The task required completion.”
“You had six other tasks waiting.”
“They were less urgent.”
“You decided that.”
“Yes.”
You stare at him.
“And this is exactly what I’m talking about.”
Stronos tilts his head slightly.
“Explain.”
“You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Decide that because you can endure something, you should.”
Stronos considers the statement.
“I have been trained to endure.”
“That doesn’t mean you should make yourself suffer just because you can.”
“It is not suffering.”
“You haven’t slept properly in days.”
“My performance remains unaffected.”
“You are impossible.”
“I am functional.”
“You are a person, Kardan.”
The words hang in the air. For most, they would have meant little. But Stronos isn’t most people. The Iron Hands have spent generations teaching themselves that flesh is weakness, that emotion is a flaw, that attachment is a vulnerability. And yet, somehow, you have always managed to remind him of something his own Chapter often forgot. A warrior is still a person.
“I understand your concern,” he says.
You blink.
“That sounded suspiciously like an apology.”
“It was not.”
“Kardan.”
“It was an acknowledgment.”
“It was an apology with extra steps.”
“That is inaccurate.”
“You’re impossible.”
“So you have stated.”
“And you’re stubborn.”
“So you have stated repeatedly.”
“And you’re still not admitting I’m right.”
A slight pause. Stronos looks away. That is the mistake. Because you notice.
“You know I’m right.”
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“I was considering my response.”
“You were searching for a way to disagree.”
“That is also consideration.”
You cross your arms.
“Kardan.”
“Yes?”
“You’re doing the Iron Hands thing.”
He looks back.
“What thing?”
“The thing where you turn having feelings into a tactical analysis.”
“That is a broad statement.”
“It is an accurate statement.”
Stronos is silent. Which means you are winning. Unfortunately for him, you know it.
“You’re thinking too hard.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am evaluating.”
“You are overthinking.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
A long pause.
Then Stronos simply says, “You are unusually persistent.”
You smile.
“Thank you.”
“That was not intended as praise.”
“It still counts.”
Stronos stares. Then, slowly, he returns his data slate to the table.
“Very well.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“Very well what?”
“I will take a break.”
The victory is immediate.
“You admit defeat?”
“No.”
“You do.”
“I have chosen a logical compromise.”
“You lost.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Stronos opens his mouth. Stops. Then decides, wisely, not to continue. Unfortunately for him, you aren’t done. Because you have an idea. And that idea involves a step ladder. The sound of it unfolding makes Stronos turn. His enhanced senses immediately identify the object. A ladder. A household ladder. He stares. Then he stares harder.
“Why.”
You climb onto it.
“Because I need to make my point.”
“You are already making your point.”
“No, now I’m making it properly.”
“This is unnecessary.”
“Maybe.”
“The elevation provides no tactical advantage.”
“Maybe.”
“It does not increase your authority.”
“Maybe.”
“It does not alter the validity of your argument.”
You point a finger at him.
“Listen here, you little shit.”
Silence. Kardan Stronos has faced countless enemies. He has stood against forces that wanted nothing less than the destruction of the Imperium. He has heard battle cries, threats, and declarations of hatred. None of them have affected him quite like that. Not because it is intimidating. Because it is so completely unexpected. His expression remains controlled. But there is a pause. A very small pause.
“You have referred to me,” he says carefully, “as little.”
“Yes.”
“And as a shit.”
“Yes.”
“Despite my position.”
“Yes.”
“Despite my rank.”
“Yes.”
Stronos stares. Then something extraordinary happens. The Chapter Master of the Iron Hands smiles. Only slightly. Barely noticeable. But it is there.
“You are aware that almost no one would speak to me in such a manner.”
“Good thing I’m not almost no one.”
That answer seems to stay with him. Because it is true. Others see the Chapter Master. The warrior. The symbol. The iron-willed leader. You see Kardan. And perhaps that was why he tolerates the ladder. Why he tolerates the teasing. Why he allows someone to challenge him in a way no battlefield opponent ever can.
“You realize,” Stronos says, “that this behavior is highly illogical.”
“Yep.”
“And yet you continue.”
“Yep.”
“And you believe this is effective?”
You smile.
“Look at you. You’re smiling.”
His expression immediately returns to neutrality.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
“You literally are.”
A pause. Then:
“...Continue your argument.”
You grin. Because from Kardan Stronos, that is practically permission to win. While the Chapter Master of the Iron Hands would never admit that a step ladder, a pointed finger, and a stubborn voice had accomplished what logic and discipline often could not... he would remember the lesson. Strength wasn’t only found in steel. Sometimes strength is having someone brave enough to remind you that even iron could bend.
Caanok Var
Caanok Var has spent his life refining himself. Flesh is flawed. Emotion is unreliable. Hesitation is weakness. These are lessons carved into him through years of service as an Iron Hands warrior. He has endured the fires of battle, the pain of replacement, and the endless demand for improvement that defines his Chapter. He understands warfare. He understands sacrifice. What he doesn’t understand is why you seem determined to win an argument through sheer stubbornness. The disagreement had started over something simple. A promise.
“You said you would stop working when the repairs were complete.”
Caanok Var continues tightening the component in his hand.
“They were not complete.”
“They were almost complete.”
“Almost is an unacceptable state.”
You cross your arms.
“You have been saying that for four hours.”
“The statement remains accurate.”
“Caanok.”
“Yes?”
“You are doing it again.”
His mechanical eye focuses on you.
“Clarify.”
“You’re ignoring the point because you’re focused on the task.”
“The task requires focus.”
“And you require sleep.”
“My systems are operational.”
“You aren’t a machine.”
A pause. The statement lingers. Caanok Var had heard those words before. Usually as an accusation. Usually as an insult. But from you, they carry something else. A reminder.
“You are aware,” he says, “that my augmentations are intended to reduce biological limitations.”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you object to me compensating for them?”
“Because you use them as an excuse to treat yourself like equipment.”
Silence. For a moment, he has no immediate response. Not because he disagrees but because the answer is inconvenient.
“You are making an emotional argument.”
“Yes.”
“That is inefficient.”
“It’s also correct.”
“It is not necessarily—”
“Caanok.”
He stops. You give him the look. The look he has learned means that continuing would accomplish nothing except prolonging the conflict. A battlefield commander might have recognized it as a tactical disadvantage. Caanok recognizes it as a tactical certainty.
“You have become very confident.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you.”
That answer catches him more effectively than any argument could have. Because it is true. Others see an Iron Hands warrior. They see the armor. The augmetics. The cold discipline. The devotion to logic. But you see the person beneath all of it. And somehow, that makes you far more difficult to defeat. Caanok returns his attention to his work.
“I will consider your argument.”
You narrow your eyes.
“That means you’re ignoring me.”
“No.”
“That means you’re going to think about it until I forget.”
“No.”
“You are absolutely going to do that.”
A pause.
“...Possibly.”
You point at him.
“Aha.”
“I fail to see how that proves anything.”
“It proves I’m right.”
“It proves you are persistent.”
“Same thing.”
“It is not.”
“It is.”
Caanok stares at you. Then looks away. The smallest possible indication of amusement crosses his features. You notice immediately.
“You almost smiled.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Your observation is incorrect.”
“Your face betrayed you.”
“My face does not betray me.”
“Your face betrayed you emotionally.”
“That statement is offensive.”
“That statement is hilarious.”
Caanok has faced enemies that could tear apart armored vehicles. He has fought alongside warriors who valued pain tolerance above all else. He has survived battles where the correct response was to endure. Unfortunately, endurance is less useful against someone who knows exactly how to annoy him. Then you walk away. Caanok watches. Suspicious.
“You are not finished.”
“No.”
That answer immediately confirms his suspicion. A few moments later, you return with a step ladder. Caanok Var stares at it. Then at you. Then at the ladder again. His mechanical eye whirs softly.
“Explain.”
“I need an advantage.”
“The object provides no meaningful combat advantage.”
“It provides psychological advantage.”
“Incorrect.”
“It makes me taller.”
“Marginally.”
“It makes me feel powerful.”
“Ah.”
A pause.
“You have identified the actual purpose.”
You climb up. Caanok watches the entire process with the same focus he might give an unfamiliar battlefield tactic.
“You understand this will not change the outcome.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You are very confident for someone about to get yelled at.”
A brief pause. That one lands. You reach the top step. Point a finger at him.
“Listen here, you little shit.”
Caanok Var freezes. Not dramatically. Not visibly. But you know him well enough to notice. The Iron Father who can calmly discuss battlefield losses. The warrior who can endure unimaginable pain. The man who has replaced much of his own flesh with machinery. Had absolutely no prepared response for this.
“Assessment.”
You blink.
“What?”
“I am assessing the situation.”
“You’re analyzing me.”
“Yes.”
“Stop analyzing me.”
“I am attempting to determine why this approach was selected.”
“Because you’re being stubborn.”
“That does not explain the ladder.”
“Because I needed to make my point.”
“The ladder does not improve your argument.”
“No.”
“Then why?”
You smile.
“Because it annoys you.”
A pause. A long pause. Then, unexpectedly:
“Effective.”
You stare.
“Did you just admit it worked?”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I admitted the tactic achieved its intended secondary objective.”
“You admitted it worked.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
Caanok looks away. A rare occurrence. You smile wider.
“There. You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Pretending you’re not amused.”
“I am not amused.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
A moment passes.
Then Caanok quietly says, “You are a significant disruption to my usual processes.”
You grin.
“That’s your way of saying you love me.”
“That is not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
Silence. Then:
“...Perhaps.”
And for Caanok Var, that is an admission greater than any declaration. Because the Iron Hands taught him that perfection came from removing weakness. But you have taught him something far more difficult: That not every imperfection needed to be corrected. Some are worth keeping. Even if those imperfections occasionally involved a step ladder and a complete refusal to back down.
