[hider=The Castigation of Pyotrskov] [b]Event Name:[/b] The Castigation of Pyotrskov. [b]Location:[/b] Mining world of Pyotrskov, Kreen Sector, Ultima Segmentum. [b]Date:[/b] 5.752.911.M30. [b]Parties Involved:[/b] Population of Pyotrskov. Daughters of Iron garrison force. VI Tempest of the Abyssal Lurkers. [hr] Dark shapes cut through the void in loose formation, creeping from the edges of the system towards the star distantly blazing at its center. No eye could see them as they glided in the cold darkness of space, trails of flame rapidly fading behind them, but still their flanks were adorned with telltale symbols - the sharp bleak-green numerals, the Imperial skull, and, looming above all, the bestial shape of the terror of Carcinus. No other paraphernalia marred their tempered hulls, nor the spires along their naves or the sinister spikes of their prows. They were built for purpose, and purpose was all their visages showed, the more sinister the lower among their arrays of weaponry and bombardment bays. Seldom was this ominous mien more appropriate than now. They, and many more of their kind, had come to Kreen following a trail. The Eldar - the [i]wraiths[/i], as Sarghaul called them, after the customs of his world - were elusive beings, well deserving their sobriquet. Their sleek ships did not leap through the howling Warp as the ponderous bulks of their pursuers, instead weaving through space in a way the unspeaking Heralds within the battlefleet could not perceive. Often, this was enough to make their escape impossible to follow - yet not this time. Perhaps they were encumbered with more of their kind than they ought to have been able to carry, perhaps their engines were wounded and limping, perhaps an affliction had struck their crews. The Tartarean Primarch did not know, nor did he care; all it meant for him was that his quarry emerged into the sight of his psykers at shorter intervals, making their course for the hated enemy clear. The pulsing signatures had led them on a winding chase through the subsector, and here was a still cooling cluster, brushing around the sphere of Pyotrskov among the traces of the planet’s own astral traffic. Or so it seemed from the outer void, and it was damning enough. Days and weeks of pursuit had worn Sarghaul’s patience thin, and the mining world was but a speck on the charts, not worth wasting precious time on. The Eldar had passed close by without the garrison striking out, and this alone deserved censure; they might have had time to land and spread subversion among its people, and the mere possibility could not be endured. A rapidly drafted decree of [i]castigatio traditorum[/i] was the simplest, most efficient solution. If the people of Pyotrskov were indeed guilty, they would be suitably punished; if not, the survivors would be admonished against transgressions of negligence and treason in the future. Thus, the Sixth Tempest, unborn sons of a thousand worlds, had been sent by their father to carry out his grim command as their brethren pressed their pursuit. His command was their law. [center]________________________________________________________[/center] “My name is Rozovska Vadimovna izva Sivetu, Captain of the garrison upon the mining world of Pyotrskov, Kreen Sector, Ultima Segmentum. Auspex scans have detected a full Tempest of the IX Legion making a direct course for the world. We do not yet know their intentions, but it can only be assumed they bode ill for the planet and its people. To my Primarch, I say we will lay down our lives in defense of the planet and its people. To my family, I love you all.” Rozovska sighed, closing her eyes. “End message.” [center]________________________________________________________[/center] The gun emplacements on the fortress walls whined to life, orbital defense systems spun into gear, macro-cannons aimed at the void, and the garrison of the world readied themselves. Ordinarily, three hundred Astartes would have been more than enough to defend the world from the potential ravages of an errant xenos threat or pirate raid - overkill, in truth. But in the face of the massive onslaught with which they were now faced, they knew nothing would be able to save them. Already, they had sacrificed as many transports and voidcraft as possible to ferry the population off of the world. Willing volunteers had swelled their ranks, manning heavy bolters affixed to the walls, and assisting in the evacuation of as many civilians as possible. The planet’s population was small, but they could still not evacuate everyone. Over a million souls had been packed in cramped conditions aboard the strike cruiser [i]Irminiia[/i] and sent on their way, seeking safety in the port of an adjacent system. Grimly, those who were to remain upon the planet prepared for the defense. [center]________________________________________________________[/center] “I am Tresiroth, Imbrifex of the Sixth Tempest. By authority of Primarch Sarghaul, your world has been declared [i]statu traitoris[/i].” The voice from the stars was flat, toneless and metallic, as if the fleet itself were speaking as one mechanical mind. “Do not resist. Do not take up arms. Await your judgment, and some of you may be spared. Those who stand against us will be marked renegades and die in contempt of our Imperial Liege. There will be no appeal. There will be no quarter. To oppose us is futile. Our Father’s will be done.” [center]________________________________________________________[/center] The first strike brought corrosion. Missiles rained from the maws of the swarming ships, and where they touched the earth, clouds of noxious fumes bloomed. Metal rusted in the blink of an eye; cloth was eaten away as by a tide of termites; skin and flesh burned and blistered. The bombs hammered down with unfeeling precision, and where one was shot down mid-flight a dozen more took its place. The second strike brought blood. The fleet shifted, and on the heels of the rain of warheads came a hail of drop-pods. They struck down in the hearts of cities, among deserted courtyards, breaking open the pavement of empty squares. One after another, they sprang open and disgorged their gnashing load. Things that were neither beast nor human poured into streets and doorways, the edges of their jagged bodies chipping away at concrete. Stubbers and lasguns did not stop them; they burned and bled thick dark blood, and their rage only grew. Bolter-fire scythed through them, but they were dozens, scores, hundreds. They howled and hissed as they tore into their prey, heeding not if it was young or old, man or woman, mortal or Astartes. The third strike brought the end. [center]________________________________________________________[/center] Rubble crunched under Ossrin’s armoured feet as he marched through the ruined street. At his side, before and behind him, his brothers joined him in a chorus of grinding steps, rising and falling in cadence. Ahead, beyond a half-collapsed hab-block, bolter salvoes rang out, interspersed with the roaring of autocannons and the occasional dull blast of a missile deflagration. The loud whirring of the charybdes’ claw-weapons came through sporadically. The screams of the dying and the hoarse shrieks of the Infestus could not be heard over the din, and only drifted in from somewhere to the right, where the real fighting had been over before their Vortex had made planetfall. Not that sweeping up the remains of a few hundred traitors could truly be called real fighting, either, but that was their task. Much as he, and doubtless most of his fellows, would rather have been expunging the inhuman at their Father’s side, it was not for them to question his orders. Besides, the Lord Imbrifex had put it well: at least one eye must always be looking inwards. The Skotarch at the head of their column raised an open palm, and the ranks wordlessly came to a halt. The shattered block was looming directly over them, parts of its lower storeys’ disemboweled interior visible through the gaping breaches in its walls. With the piercing sight of a son of the deep, Ossrin could see the remains of disheveled living units, clearly abandoned in a hurry. Hallways buried in fallen rockcrete. Corridors split in half, like a stick by a charybdes’ pincer. Made for such small, frail bodies. The officer was giving orders. [i]Split,[/i] he gestured, [i]First through Fifth to the west. Astartes resistance likely.[/i] A series of clicks momentarily cut through the fading sounds of battle as the legionaries of the five Gales exchanged their bolters’ magazines with ones containing kraken rounds. They tromped off, the Breacher vanguards readying their shields as they went. Excessive precaution, perhaps, but never unnecessary. No battle-brother should be lost to a ragged bunch of dissenters. [i]Sixth through Eighth, sweep east area. Ensure total execution.[/i] The right flank of the column split off, scattering into groups of two and three as it branched into the tangle of jagged streets that had been the city’s eastern wing. Ossrin went alongside Voret, his elder by almost two decades. Unlike himself, he had already seen three compliance actions. They advanced in silence, without exchanging a glance, only now and again raising two fingers to suggest to the other where to go next. Now and again, they stopped still and listened. The further they went from the towering block, the fainter became the echoes of gunfire, now fragmentary and less of a string than a few isolated shots. The streets around them grew quieter, ghostly. It was not the soft, all-encompassing silence of the ocean, but it made Ossrin feel at ease. Certainly, this was something like the order they purposed to bring to the galaxy. A voiceless peace. Something broke it. He stopped in his tracks, tensing his superhuman ears. Not the heavy step of his brothers, nor the shuffling, loping gait of the Infestus. A light foot falling on hard round. Voret looked at him; evidently he had not heard. [i]That way.[/i] They moved as lightly as their bulk would permit them, creeping closer to the unit whence the sound had seemed to come, circling it. Voret stood watch on one side while he tried the doors on the other. There. One was locked. [i]This one.[/i] A kick, and they were inside. The room was barely tall enough for them to fit in hunched. A circle of seats around a table, synth-plasted over to make it look like wood. A holo. Bright squares on the walls, a simulacrum of a rug on the floor - [i]decoration[/i]. A small, cushion-like thing lying at the far end - [i]a toy[/i]. So many unnecessary things, distractions from duty, garish and stinging the eyes. They disgusted him, these small mortal creatures that lived like this. He could hear them now. They tried to be quiet, but he could hear their breathing, stifled, an irksome whistling. In the next room to the right. He was there in two steps, tearing pieces of the doorframe away as he pushed his mighty frame through it. They were a whole cluster, large and small, but his mind did not care enough to distinguish between them. Screaming. The closest one raised a cheap laspistol. Too slow. Ossrin smashed his armed hand into the wall and struck his head with the stock of his bolter. A sickening crack, blood. Defiant, but weak. He raised his weapon. A heavy hand pushed down his arm. Voret was behind him. [i]No shooting,[/i] he gestured, [i]Do not waste bolts on those.[/i] His other hand came forward, and the chainblade in it roared to life, drowning out the screams. Voret was older and had seen compliances; he knew better. Ossrin nodded and drew his own knife. This place did not deserve lives or bolts being spent over it. They would waste neither. [center]________________________________________________________[/center] “[i]Ketus[/i] to [i]Geryon[/i]. Lord Imbrifex, a strike cruiser remains in orbit. It flees.” “[i]Ketus[/i], intercept. [i]Kraken’s Grip[/i], [i]Implacable[/i], open fire. Ensure none survives.” “Our Father’s will be done.” “Long may his age be.” In the void, death came silently. [center][b]++++CASTIGATIO EXPLETA++++[/b][/center] [center]________________________________________________________[/center] Devastation. That was all that remained. Auspex scans showed nary any signs of life upon the formerly prosperous mining world. All around the empty husk that had once teemed with life drifted the burned out hulks of voidcraft - military and civilian alike - that had tried to flee aboard them from the cataclysmic doom that had befallen them. No signs had been detected of any surviving fragments of the garrison force, it seemed as though the fury of their ‘Brother Astartes’ had fallen upon them as well. In the distance, loomed perhaps the greatest tragedy of all. The strike Cruiser [i]Irminiia[/i] floated aimlessly, just within the gravitational pull of the planet. As recovery teams investigated, they returned with grave expressions and hardened hearts. Over a million souls had been crammed tightly into the voidship, nonessential hardware stripped out and thrown aside. Around its burned out remains floated the corpses of every one of those million fleeing refugees. Most unrecognizeable from the intensity of the lances that had struck the ship down. With a heavy heart, the captain of the rescue fleet dictated to her Astropath. “No survivors remain on the world, the purging of the planet’s population by the IX Legion is total. Our casualties are also total, and retrival of bodies has only been partially successful. A mere thirty seven of our Sisters have been found, and their remains will be returned to Kayaamat. Casualties are three hundred Astartes, 30 Dracosan pattern Armored Carriers, 15 Wolfram tanks of multiple variations, 1 VI Pattern Astartes Strike Cruiser and all associated materiel onboard, 1 Sword Class Escort Frigate and all associated materiel, approximately three thousand standard supply units, and…” she paused, the words only coming after a weary sigh, “Approximately 12 million Imperial Citizens, killed in action. Identification of any prominent individuals has proved impossible due to severe mutilation of remains.” [center]________________________________________________________[/center] [/hider]