[H1]Forge Moon Amatheus, Manufactorum Alpha I[/h1]

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"Approaching drop zone," announced the pilot in his calm, collected voice that failed to reflect how grave their flight was. He was a fine pilot, made finer by his unshakeable nerves and willingness to pilot the wolves' suicide missions, which as the chapter grew smaller, they all became.

Askeladd in his terminator armour approached the bay doors as diagnostics on played across his visor, confirming that everything was as it was meant to be. Even if it hadn't been, there were no serfs or tech priests to provide the necessary support. His visor then confirmed that across the board all wolves were prepared for their next battle. Eager, even.

They ship lurched violently and beyond the hull the wolves could hear the firing of only a single fuselage-mounted bolter firing. "Be swift," the lord ordered his pilot. As if Eiryk had read his mind, he manually actiaved the bay door, ehich split open to the display of a field of corpses across which armies still marched. Askeladden was the first to step, dropping the few meters from the slowed, but still moving bird. The bones and gore of the battlefield crunched and squished beneath his armoured feet, freeting the following wolves the same.

He took a moment to survey the battlefield as the wolves around him fell into position, taking a moment to parse out the remaining distance to the Magos. "Magos Fekten, we are approaching on foot. We will be clearinf the way through them, dtraight to the breach and to your men. Keep track of my position and avoid unnecessary crossfire."

Small arms fired pelted their shields and armour, doing little more than scratching the paint in most cases. Rune Priest Canis stepped forth from the formation then and breathed deeply, sucking in all of the air that lingered around him and held it. Then, as the air left his lungs, so had the warmth left the air. Violent winds grew suddenly as clouds began to twist and take shape above them. Hail like jagged blades began to pour, while rosring winds pulled cultist's feet out from under them. "I fear I may be growing old," gasped Canis, now surrounded by the wolves. "I have opened a path, for how long I am uncertain."

"Then we march," commanded Askeladd, crashing his claws together. The wolves chased the storm, only slowing to deliver finishing blows to those who had lost their footing under the winds or that were sticken and bloodied by the falling ice. Blood froze to their weapons, frozen streks splayed across their lord's arms and claws, on their Blood's shields. Gore was caked and frozen to their boots and though their armour was superb, they still felt the chill in their bones from the old rune priest's psychic attack.

Near the breach the blizzard had already begun to die, all in time for the wolves to make thwir final push into the Magos's bulwark. "We have arrived," announced the wolf lord, ever the one to state the obvious.