Colonel Lord Alaric Pembroke-Valen- Commandant of the 88th Vermilion Regulars

Origins and Family Lineage

Lord Alaric Pembroke-Valen hails from one of the oldest noble houses on Valoris Prime, a lineage steeped in military tradition. His family traces its honor directly to Sir Hadrian Pembroke-Valen, a junior officer who served with distinction in the Macharian Crusade and is listed by name in the marginalia of the Lord Solar’s own muster rolls.

Where many noble families merely claim connection to the Crusade, the Pembroke-Valens can produce authenticated relics—oath-scrolls, duelist’s commendations, and even a battered fragment of the original regimental standard. Such provenance carries immense weight among the aristocracy of Valoris Prime and sets expectations for every child born into the line.

Alaric was no exception.

He is the seventh Pembroke-Valen to command the 88th.

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Early Career

Alaric’s path to the colonelcy was traditional:

• Educated at the Valoris Prime Officer Academy, where he excelled in history, swordsmanship, and battlefield theory.
• Served as a platoon commander in the 88th’s 5th Company, earning a reputation for icy calm under fire.
• Rose to company captain, commanding with impeccable discipline and a gift for maintaining formation integrity even under grueling fire.
• Chosen as heir to the commandant’s mantle after the death of Colonel (Lord) Severin Pembroke-Valen, his uncle, during the Gethos Reclamation.

His ascent was not the result of dramatic heroics but of competence, steadiness, and an unbroken record of achieving objectives with minimal disruption to doctrine—qualities the 88th values above all.

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Personality and Command Style

Lord Alaric is, first and foremost, a professional soldier.
Not flamboyant, not ostentatiously charismatic—simply authoritative, disciplined, and deeply, almost spiritually committed to the traditions of the regiment.

He is often described as:

• Measured in speech
• Unshakeably calm
• Exacting but fair
• Impeccably mannered
• Quietly proud
• Politely intolerant of disorder

He avoids theatrics, preferring a sharp word, a colder stare, or a pointedly raised eyebrow to correct subordinates. His disapproval is legendary, not for volume but for precision.

In battle, he is deliberate and methodical—never rash, never flamboyant, always positioning his lines with clinical care. When forced into close combat, he shows flashes of the Pembroke-Valen duelist tradition, wielding his power sword with controlled, economical efficiency.

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Relationship to Regimental Tradition

Alaric is the living embodiment of the Vermilion ideal.

He is not a fanatic, but he is a believer—deeply so—in:

• Lineage
• Uniform discipline
• Formation warfare
• The dignity of the regiment
• The unbroken chain to the Macharian Crusade

He conducts the annual Macharian Day remembrance personally, wearing the crimson dress coat of the founding era. He inspects the regiment’s relics weekly. He knows, verbatim, long passages from the regimental chronicle.

Yet he is not blind to the demands of the current age. He permits innovation—but only if it is orderly, tested, and does not threaten the regiment’s identity.

He is the reason the 88th’s traditions continue not as empty ceremony, but as living doctrine.

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Opinions of Other Regiments

Lord Alaric is never openly insulting—but his opinions are unmistakable.

On the 13th Necromunda (“The Rat Catchers”)

He would never criticize them directly, but he tends to phrase observations like:

“Ah. Yes. Their… enthusiasm is commendable.”

And:

“The 13th exhibit an unusual aptitude for… adaptive logistics.”

He respects their courage, but their disorderliness puts him in physical discomfort.

On the Azure Auxilia

“Reliable fellows. Rough edges, but earnest.”

On the Green Company

“If only they would remain still for inspection.”

On the Onyx Guard

“Somber, but dependable. One always knows where they stand—usually in a straight line.”

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Field Reputation

Among the 88th, he is seen as:

• A master of defensive and attrition warfare
• The ideal Vermilion officer
• A direct continuation of the Macharian-era ethos
• Someone who would rather die than break formation

Across wider Imperial forces:

• He is respected but considered very “old school”
• His regiment is known for unwavering discipline
• His lines are famously difficult to dislodge
• He is often requested for holding actions, siege lines, and parades

No one questions his competence.
Some quietly question his flexibility.
But his results speak for themselves.

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Equipment

• Power Sword: An heirloom dueling blade, converted into a masterwork power weapon. Its hilt includes a micro-engraved family lineage going back over a millennium.
• Plasma Pistol: A rare, impeccably maintained weapon gifted by the Governor Militant of Valoris Prime as a symbol of office.
• Dress Coat: Vermilion of the deepest dye, said to follow the exact pattern used during the Macharian Crusade.
• Signet Gorget: Bearing the motto “Iure Stirpis, Facto Igne.”

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Closing Summary

Lord Alaric Pembroke-Valen represents everything the 88th prides itself on:

• Discipline
• Lineage
• Precision
• Restraint
• Tradition
• Unshakeable bearing

He is not a caricature or a tyrant—just a man who embodies a regimental culture centuries in the making.
A commander who believes deeply in the values that made the 88th great and intends to pass them, unsullied, to the next generation.

A Wellington of the 41st Millennium.
With a plasma pistol.

88th Vermilion Regulars- Background and history for building the army.

 

The 88th Vermilion Regulars are a proud line-infantry regiment specializing in disciplined volleys and parade-ground precision.

Founded during the Macharian Crusade, the 88th Vermilion Regulars are one of the oldest continuously serving regiments in Segmentum Pacificus. Raised from the noble families and martial academies of Valoris Prime, their officers trace their commissions to the personal muster rolls of the Lord Solar himself.

The 88th retains the traditions of those glorious days—crimson coats, duelist’s etiquette, strict line drills, and the unshakable conviction that they represent the finest soldiery the Imperium has ever produced. In their eyes, modern regiments lack polish, discipline, and lineage.

"To march in vermilion is to inherit a legend—and to be judged by it."

 No regiment is more conscious of its heritage. Few are as proud. None are as insufferably certain of their own superiority.

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The Uniforms of the 88th Vermilion Regulars and Attached Auxilia

1. The Vermilion Line (Core Regiment – “The Reds”)

Command HQ, Command Squad, 1 Infantry Squad, 1 Heavy Weapons Squad, Ogryn Squad, Rough Riders, Sentinels, the Leman Russ MBT, and the psyker.

Color inspiration: British redcoats of the Peninsula and Waterloo.
Scheme: Deep crimson coats with buff straps and cuffs, black greatcoat collars, dark grey or blue trousers.
Helmets & gear: Black or gunmetal with brass trim; a white stripe or regimental “V” on the shoulder pad.
Iconography: The stylized “V” of the Valore Korps, framed in laurel wreaths or a winged skull motif.
Lore hook: The original 88th from Valoris Prime—elite, haughty, and infamously dismissive of their allies’ tailoring.

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2. The Azure Auxilia (Dutch and Belgian Analogue)

Two Infantry Squads.

Color inspiration: Deep Prussian or French blue coats with lighter blue trim.
Scheme: Blue coats, tan or khaki webbing, black helmets.
Lore hook: Attached forces from a sister world—Volturn IX, a feudal planet with a tradition of mercenary soldiery. Brave and reliable, yet viewed as provincial by the Vermilions.

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3. The Green Company (Nassauer Analogue)

Ratling Sniper Squad, Storm Troopers.

Color inspiration: Dark rifle green, black straps and boots, silver detailing.
Scheme: Very dark green coats with dull metal armor and blackened brass fittings.
Lore hook: Recon and marksman detachment. They serve as the regiment’s scouts and skirmishers, often fighting in loose order (much to the Colonel’s eternal irritation).

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4. The Onyx Guard (Brunswick Analogue)

1 Veteran Infantry Squad, 1 Heavy Weapons Squad.

Color inspiration: Black coats and armor with white skull or bone insignia.
Scheme: Black greatcoats, gunmetal trim, pale undershirts for contrast.
Lore hook: Grim, zealous soldiers from a world recently devastated—fighting in mourning black. They may have ties to a fallen Valore domain, earning them a place in the 88th’s campaign host.

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5. The Commissariat

Black and red in the traditional, timeless pattern.

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The 88th Vermilion Regulars — Founded in the Age of Macharius

Founding Era

The regiment was raised during the Macharian Crusade (392–399.M41), one of the greatest Imperium-wide military expansions since the days of the Great Crusade. Worlds across Segmentum Pacificus were tithed to provide elite regiments for the Lord Solar’s campaign.

Home World

Valoris Prime, a proud aristocratic world with a strong dueling and officer-cadet culture, contributed several regiments—but only the 88th still survives in its original form. This longevity is central to their identity.

Lineage

The regiment was sponsored by the noble houses of Valoris Prime. Many of the earliest officers were younger sons of aristocratic families, academy-trained duelists, or scions seeking glory in a crusade destined for legend.

Their commission scrolls trace directly to the Macharian Muster Rolls, a fact they bring up constantly when dealing with “upstart” regiments like the 13th Necromunda.

They maintain elaborate commemorative ceremonies, hereditary officer lines, preserved relics (banner fragments, medals, oath papers), and a regimental chronicle dating back to 399.M41. Lord Colonel Pembroke-Valen claims descent from one of the original founding officers.

An Old Style of Warfare

Their doctrine reflects the tactics of the Macharian Crusade: rigid line infantry formations, dueling-style officer traditions, brightly colored parade uniforms, and an unwavering belief in order and proper soldiery.

This makes them naturally disdainful of:

·       “scavenger regiments”

·       “irregulars”

·       “gang-born auxiliaries”

·       and especially the 13th’s creative approach to logistics.

Color Schemes

During Macharius’s crusade, regiments often bore flamboyant and distinctive heraldry. Thus bright red coats, polished brass, and striking banners are not merely decorative—they are historical tradition.

“We wore vermilion when we conquered the rim with Macharius. We shall not stop now.”

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Regimental Motto:

“In Vermilio, Victoria.”
In Vermilion, Victory.

 Officer Corps Motto:

“Iure Stirpis, Facto Igne.”
By Right of Lineage, By Deed of Fire.

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Army Composition (2nd Edition)

The army consists of:

·       1 Command HQ section with 3 Infantry Units

·       1 Ratling Sniper Team

·       1 Ogryn Squad

·       1 Storm Trooper Squad

·       1 Command Squad with 1 Infantry Squad

·       2 Heavy Weapons Squads

·       1 Leman Russ Battle Tank

·       1 Rough Rider Squad

·       1 Sentinel Squad

·       1 attached Commissar

·       1 attached Psyker

 

88th Vermilion Regulars

 

The Company Banner.

88th Vermilion Regulars- “In Vermilio, Victoria.”

Founded during the Macharian Crusade, the 88th Vermilion Regulars are one of the oldest continuously serving regiments in Segmentum Pacificus. Raised from the noble families and martial academies of Valoris Prime, their officers trace their commissions to the personal muster rolls of the Lord Solar himself.

The 88th retains the traditions of those glorious days—crimson coats, duelist’s etiquette, strict line drills, and the unshakable conviction that they represent the finest soldiery the Imperium has ever produced. In their eyes, modern regiments lack polish, discipline, and lineage.

To march in vermilion is to inherit a legend—and to be judged by it.

No regiment is more conscious of its heritage. Few are as proud. None are as insufferably certain of their own superiority.

Using these guys 

And these guys

Tales of the 13th Necromunda - “Liberty’s Hammer”

A tale of the 13th Necromunda, during the uprising on Virellia Secundus.

“You ever hear the story of Liberty’s Hammer?”

The old veteran didn’t wait for a reply. He just leaned back, boots on the barrel, smoke curling from the stub of his lho-stick like the memory itself was burning in real-time.

“Virellia Secundus. Hell of a place—smelled like burnt promethium and broken promises. The Combine had its boot on the people’s neck so long they forgot what standing upright felt like. And then… the 13th showed up. Just rolled in like thunder with patched armor and bigger guns than manners.”

He chuckled. “They say the first shot came from a rust-bucket named Old Smokey. They say the last one came from the skies—courtesy of a madman called "Duck". Truth is, nobody really remembers how it all went down. But they remember what it meant.”

He tapped the side of a dented tin canteen—etched with a crude rat skull.

“It meant hope had teeth. It meant tanks didn’t care about tyrants. And it meant that just once, in a city choked by its own chains, the people won. You want the real version?”

He winked.

“Too bad. All we got is the legend. And it goes like this…”

The city of Pyrehold was burning.

Not from riots or war—though those would come—but from the smog towers of the Virellian Combine, an Imperial sub-faction that had grown too greedy, too cruel, and too comfortable with Enforcer batons and local repression. Taxes were extracted in blood. Water was rationed to loyalists. Gangs were either broken or absorbed into the Combine’s private regiments.

And then came the broadcast.

A coded vox transmission cut through the jamming field at midnight local time, crackling through forgotten channels and pirate relays:

“To the people of Pyrehold, This is Lord-Captain Alaric Danver. Stay hidden. Stay strong.

We bring liberty—and tanks. The 13th has landed."

The Combine didn’t take it seriously. They would soon learn.

The Resistance Ignites

The uprising began in the smog-wreathed underhabs. Locals with jury-rigged stubbers and stolen laslocks emerged from sump corridors and trash tunnels to hit patrols and checkpoints. Gangs once sworn to silence now wore the Rat Catcher badge over old loyalties.

Atop the high spine bridge leading into Pyrehold proper, “Old Smokey” rolled out of a cargo tram, smoke belching, lascannon glowing. With a thunderous BOOM, it vaporized a Combine checkpoint, then reversed into an alley where its sponsons raked a pursuing gun-skiff into molten ruin.

Meanwhile, “Ma Bell” fired her first salvo not at the enemy—but at their communications hub. The vox-spire shattered under precision rocket fire, collapsing in a twist of plasteel and flame. One of her gunners—a wiry ex-vox tech named Jinx—shouted, “That’s for charging us by the syllable, you frakkers!”

The locals called it "The Second Declaration."

“Freedom Ain’t Free, But It Has a Hellhammer”

The Combine counterattack came swiftly—APCs, power-armored enforcers, and even a corrupted Knight-class walker bribed into service.

The 13th responded with full fury.

“Maus”, the superheavy tank, emerged from the shadows of Sector 9 with all guns blazing. It played a game of cat-and-mouse with the enemy Knight across the ruined Promethium District. When the Walker turned to fire on retreating rebels, Maus executed a perfect pincer movement from a cratered parking tower. Its main cannon fired point-blank into the Knight’s side, punching through like a giant’s fist through wet paper.

The walker exploded into a pyrotechnic bloom visible for miles. People cheered. Then ducked. Then kept fighting.

The Unseen and The Unsung

While the tanks and transports made war loud and visible, Ghost Alley lived up to their name. One shot, one kill—three bodies never seen. During a critical exchange on the roof of the Capitolum Archive, a Ghost Alley sniper set up a perfect overwatch. So perfect, in fact, that he noticed another figure—a silent black-armored Vindicare Assassin—in a mirror position.

They locked eyes. The assassin gave a curt nod.

Good thing the Unseen wore gas masks. Else the assassin would have seen the sniper’s terrified grin.

And the Sky Cried Freedom

At the apex of the battle, the 13th called in their new friends.

“Duck” Dodgers—Imperial Navy Fleet Officer voxed down from high orbit.

“Targets confirmed.

                    Packages away.

                                    Happy Emancipation Day, dirt-side.”

Orbital strike lances rained from above, obliterating Combine armor, HQ, and retreat corridors in radiant pulses of light.

Then came the final broadcast:

“To the people of Virellia Secundus:

The yoke is broken.

The tanks roll for you now.

We are the 13th Necromunda.

Rat Catchers.

And we bring the boom.”

Epilogue

The 13th didn’t stay to rule. That wasn’t their way.

They left the planet’s fate in the hands of the locals, gifting weapons, training, and one rebuilt Leman Russ affectionately called “Betsy.”

She bore a hastily painted motto on her side panel in bright red ink:

“Don’t Tread on Me.”

Tales of the 13th Necromunda- Thumper

 

“Thumper’s Last Shell”

A field report from the Battle of Ash Hollow Ridge

They said the ridge couldn’t be held.

The traitor forces had dug in hard — trenches, minefields, auto-turrets powered by stolen Mechanicus tech. Chaos artillery had the high ground, pounding the 13th Necromunda’s positions like a forge hammer. Every forward push had ended in blood and retreat.

Maus was pinned.
Ma Bell was dry.
Long Tom had taken a direct hit to its optics.

The advance was stalled. The Major was wounded. Ghost Alley had lost two shooters. The Commander stared at the ridge through his magnoculars, teeth grinding, one word on his lips:

“We need a miracle.”

Down in a sunken position behind the line, wedged between a collapsed hab-stack and a crater full of bones, was Thumper.

An old artillery tank — no fancy targeting gear, no augmetic relays. Just an armored frame, a manually cranked loader, and a main gun that rang like a cathedral bell when it fired.

Most of the 13th called it a relic.

Its crew called it “home.”

The Setup

The ridge had a weak point — a munitions cache exposed on a small ledge, barely visible even on auspex. Hitting it would ignite the Chaos supply line and collapse half the enemy’s entrenchments.

There was just one problem: it was five kilometers away and obscured by fog, terrain, and enemy jamming.

“We need pinpoint accuracy,” said Bison.
“We have Thumper,” replied the Commander.

The crew — led by Artillery Sergeant Casso, a wiry man with hearing loss in both ears and a collection of cigars he never actually lit — nodded grimly.

“Range is long, angle’s bad, and if we miss, we’re dry,” Casso muttered.
“So don’t miss,” the Commander said.

The Shot

They had one shell left.

Just one.

Casso ran the numbers by hand — range tables carved into the inside of the hull. His spotter, Vigs, clambered up a nearby rusted promethium tower, voxed in the coordinates, and took a breath.

Thumper fired.

The ground bucked.

The tank shuddered.

Casso bit through his unlit cigar.

The Result

There was silence for a full minute.

Then, like a second sunrise, the top of the ridge detonated.

The Chaos supply line went up in a fireball that cracked the ridge in two. Half of the entrenched position slid into the valley, taking heavy weapons, ammo, and traitor officers with it.

The 13th charged.

Old Smokey led the way. Kelly and Lucky 13 followed, ferrying in fresh squads. Even Maus joined in, its main gun roaring back to life.

Victory was bloody… but complete.

The Aftermath

Thumper didn’t fire again that day. It couldn’t. The recoil cracked one of the support plates, and Casso’s loader dislocated his shoulder trying to ram the shell home.

But no one cared.

They painted a new message on the barrel the next morning:

“One was enough.”

Tales of the 13th Necromunda- Old Smokey

 

“Smoke ‘Em If You Got ‘Em”

A tale from the Kravox Slum Offensive

No one really knows how Old Smokey came to be part of the 13th Necromunda. Some say it was fished out of a sump canal beneath Hive Primus, others whisper it just rolled up one day during a firestorm with its engine growling and its crew demanding hot food and a case of lho-sticks.

By the time of the Kravox Slum Offensive, Smokey was a legend—held together by spit, prayer, and a deep-seated hatred of stillness.

The 13th were bogged down in a decaying manufactorum district, facing off against a splinter group of traitor Guard dug into a series of collapsed transit platforms and fortified upper levels. Attempts to punch through had failed three times.

Then, over vox, came the grating, soot-caked voice of Smokey’s commander:

“Give us five minutes. And a clear lane.”

The line cut.

The ruins began to tremble.

Out of a collapsed alley thundered Old Smokey, belching thick clouds of black exhaust like a caffeinated hive-dragon. It didn’t creep or crawl—it charged, treads grinding over rubble, skulls, and a downed streetlamp like they weren’t even there.

First came the lascannon, mounted low and proud on the tank’s soot-streaked front. A piercing red beam lanced out, punching clean through an enemy heavy stubber nest, turning a would-be hero into glowing ash and slag.

Then the main cannon roared—a shot so loud it cracked windows in the buildings behind the 13th’s lines. The shell exploded inside a reinforced bunker, turning three traitor's into charred mist.

The sponson-mounted heavy bolters spun up like hive-fans in overdrive. Brass casings poured onto the street as they tore into gunlines along the upper balconies, carving fire lanes that allowed the 13th’s infantry to surge forward behind the mobile wrecking ball.

The enemy tried to return fire—but the traitor Guard had made a fatal mistake. They were used to newer tanks, newer crews. Old Smokey was old-school. And like many veterans, he didn’t go down easy.

Even after taking a direct missile hit to its left track (which it shrugged off with a shudder and a blast of smoke), Smokey kept rolling. By the time it reached the enemy’s command point, the lascannon was still spitting death, the bolters glowing red, and the cannon barrel looked more like a branding iron than a weapon.

The traitor commander made a break for it—ran through an archway, hoping to escape down a stairwell.

He didn’t make it.

The last shot fired by Smokey that day didn’t come from the cannon, or the bolters. It came from the commander’s laspistol, fired from the cupola hatch, right into the back of the traitor’s skull.

“Told you,” the crewman muttered, “Five minutes. Give or take.”

Aftermath

                                

With the enemy in disarray, the 13th swept in and secured the slums. The Kravox Offensive turned in their favor that day—and the name “Smokey” was spray-painted in bright white on a dozen walls by grateful troopers.

One green-haired Goliath from Squad 3 was overheard saying:

“Emperor help me, I think that tank was smiling.”

The commander of the 13th, watching from a command post, simply said:

“There goes Smokey. Ugly as hell. But I’d take a dozen of him over a regiment of parade tanks.”

Postscript:

The only casualty on Smokey’s crew that day was a pot of recaf that boiled over when they hit a bump.

“Bloody crater,” one gunner swore, “We just got that pot working again!”

The crew spent the next night cleaning the soot off the lascannon’s barrel—well, most of it. “The rest is luck,” they said. “Let it bake in.”