The Illuminator
The Broken Scribe
Jabin Hazor was once a great artist. He was famous amongst the Word Bearers and their imperial cults for his miniature illustrations. Jabin brought a visual beauty to the written word with a delicate love and careful dedication. A rare characteristic for an Astartes. From the Codex Gigas which four men needed to carry. To the hermit’s hymn book; no bigger than a thumb.. So beautiful was his work that he was even responsible for the illuminations in some of Lorgar’s most popular works.
Like many of his brothers the destruction of Monarchia left a mark on Jabin’s soul that would never close. To see his art discarded, either burned or left to rot on a shelf. It broke him. So when his primarch began his new works the broken scribe was all too willing to throw himself into the work. The Book of Lorgar. Jabin went on many pilgrimages with his primarch. Uncovering ancient archives and delving into lost libraries. The Aurellian shared many secret works with his scribe. Alien diagrams, strange geometries and proscribed artworks.
But what the Lorgar found does not neatly fit inside the human mind. Not even the transhuman. What Lorgar wished to share was not meant to be conveyed by our arts. To give form to the formless; to convey meaning from primordial chaos. It comes at a price. No one knows what happened to Jabin Hazor in those late hours. Some say his illuminations summoned something. Others say the work drove him mad. All that is known was that Jabin was found as a bloody ruin before his completed work. The broken scribe indeed.
Jabin Hazor was a great warrior as well as artist and a legionnaire so close to a primarch was greatly respected. So it was decided that Jabin would be interred within a dreadnought chassis. A cruel jest by the universe for gentle Jabin Hazor. He strides into battle now bound in the words of his primarch. Banners of parchment and vellum of unspeakable origin. Reliquaries and triptychs containing demonic bones and powerful spells. The greatest irony is the mace that has replaced the right hand of the artist that was. A crude and thrice cursed weapon dripping with witchfire. Its touch could melt iron and burn flesh and with a deft swing, the warp born flames would spray anyone who strayed too close.
After this none could really say how sane the dreadnought was. Ranting and raving; sliding between poetry, riddles and unknown tongues. And yet, there were those that listened. Whatever the secret language is, the neverborn speak it. A sharp eye can catch the Gal Vorbak watching him. Demons turn at the sound of his sermons and even infernal engines paused when he spoke.
Mercy to those who witness the works of Jabin Hazor’s right hand. Either the pen or the maul.
