[i](Collab: Archetype Zero, ReedeThe23rd, JB, Terminal)[/i] [h3][b]Ullanor Sector Ullanor System Ullanor Prime Orbit[/b][/h3] The voyage had been calm and cool across the voided expanse which encapsulate the sea of stars and its intermittent nullspaces; an endless update strolled in through the vox-networks and the astropathic channels to accompany the silent beat of the stellar oceanic voyage, producing a cacophony of order in chaos as men and women aboard the bridge howled from one end to the other in preparation for the soon-coming emergence. All had been calm for his fleet, for as he had predicted, and as the plan had clearly proven, the attention had been successfully diverted, and the core-world of this depraved system lay open for the ravaging. Ruination would be the only spell cast upon these foolish creatures who laugh at the authority and rightful rule of the universe’s true stellar masters, and their perverted carcass-ships make mockery of the serene and delicate technology housed within his own dreaded vessel, the [i]Absolute[/i]. For as the Absolute cut its own path through the nothingness of the endless expanse, so too did its accompaniment; a fleet numbering hundreds of capital vessels, housing tens of thousands astartes prime and readied for this sole objective for months on end. They needed not think, they needed only know. Drilled so finely that each mission objective in the coming strike against the center-most citadel were subconscious aspects of their selves. Veritas shifted his gaze across the bridge as he saw the planet of Ullanor Prime, the core of the Orks’ decrepit empire, come into view. Before him he saw his own fleet, drift against the void, and the planet come ever-closer into view. He felt himself see in present and future, as they would enter its expanse and would be forced into gruesome orbital warfare for the prime purpose of removing the foul snake’s head and make damp its slithering form so that it could be removed. But all the same, he felt a mixture at its sight, for he knew that this plan was not his own, and thus, he knew that it could lend ill towards the future to come. Orks would flee, they would spread, and they would, inevitably return. Before him he saw not only one battle, but many, concurring shifts. What felt like eons passing, and battle ravaged the world even still. He grew silent in his thinking, harshened his grip around the nothingness entombed within his closed palm, and quickly loosened it, allowing it to softly fall against the sides of his throne at the far end of the bridge’s deck. They had arrived. It was obvious to all, for with their circularization and placement in upper-atmospheric orbit instilled a serene but dreadful silence, akin to calm if not for the silent thoughts of all those men and women of the Imperial Navy manning the vast vessel’s stations. First to speak up, not Veritas, but Admiral Yberov, the last of the essential personnel which the third legion’s primarch had aboard his bridge. “Primus Fleet in orbit! Man battlestations! Maintain full combat discipline!” His voice rang like thunder through his hoarse throat and the silence of the bridge, but was reciprocated by the center-deck foreman, as he responded and carried the word through the gargantuan expanse emboldened by steel paths and marble-like columns all throughout. The commands were repeated hundred-fold as the many stations of the bridge connected with the rest of the fleet, and the rest of the ship. An orderly repetition, Veritas thought, as he stood up, and all became quiet. He did not interrupt, but he waited for its conclusion. His fleet was readied, and its men hardened for war. The Truthlayers had spent many-a-hundred year fractions in anticipation for its happening, and the Imperial Navy’s officer corps had expended all efforts on morale since system-entry. They were ready. “Vox-master, communicate our presence to my siblings.” “Vox-master! Broadcast our presence to the planet, general command frequency!” Admiral Yberov repeated with his iconic roar, the Vox-master jittered moderately, but tensed rapidly, clearly now readied for the stresses to come. He pulled at the heavy lever, after pressing harshly at a constellation of heavy buttons, and then held it in place, nodding in the Primarch’s distant direction. Veritas stepped forth towards the vast arched window at his immediate front and stepped through the central corridor as he passed the hundreds of terminal stations at his right and left, speaking loudly so as to be perceived over any would-be conflict the others might have entered into. “Siblings, the Truthlayers have penetrated the Orks’ lacking defenses, but yet arrived later than some,” his monotone cloaking his intentions clearly, if there were any. After twelve steps he continued, having now passed into the grand bridge hall’s central space. “How fare you?” [hr] He had not wanted to come here, had not wanted to leave the majority of his own forces at all, there were still thousands of worlds out there in the Milky Way that did not accept the dominance of the Imperium and its Emperor and he was charged by that same figurehead to bring illumination and light to the furthest corners of the galaxy. From his commanding position aboard the [i]Castrum Aeterna[/i], arguably the most advanced spacecraft possessed by the Emperor's forces, he had been concluding the pacification of a worm-like xenos species when a call had rang out from somewhere designated the 'Ullanor Sector', appearing from all angles to be a place where a pivotal event was about to take place. Of course he had already heard of the conflict raging there, who among the Astartes legions had not, but what he had not known of was the glory that could be gained from fighting there. It was at this point that his innate ambition made itself known, the flames stoked ever higher by the knowledge that the Emperor himself would be present in the campaign, a chance to catch his eye and demonstrate the quality of he and his legion was never one that Kaelianos could give up without first attempting it. For any other legion such a departure – so sudden, so without warning or preparation – may well have taken many months of formulation and provisioning, but for the Eighth it was as any other day. There were few legions that could match them in logistical skill, close alliance with the Mechanicum making sure that they wanted for very little in terms of material, and it was barely three weeks before several [i]vexillationes [/i] of the legion, just over twenty-two thousand Astartes (including the Primarchs own Praetorian Cohorts) and innumerable auxiliary formations, took to the immaterium for Ullanor Prime. The attack force arrived several weeks later, or three months in the Warp, to find themselves already outpaced by the Twelfth and Fourth legions as well as the Emperor's own forces on the surface of the infested Orkoid world - it visibly seethed with Greenskins, the legion’s [i]haruspices[/i] divining many things but ultimately all proclaiming a cloud of 'energy' seeping from the huge gathering of primitive aliens. Moving with characteristic speed, or [i]celeris[/i] as they called it in Rasenan, Kaelianos and his Praetorians were the first of his legion to make planet-fall, taking a large tribe of Orks in their stride and set about grinding them to dust at once. “My lord Primarch,” came a voice from nearby some days later, the ever-perfect face of Kaelianos turning to regard his personal standard-bearer and equerry Modius Laevinus with an expectant look, “your brother is here, Veritas Res and the Truthlayers.” Kaelianos watched the battlefield and the movements of his sons on a luminous screen nearby, his form and that of his retinue protected from Orkish fire by little more than an adamantium bunker constructed on first landing, able to listen to the constant stream of reports and data while paying attention to the incoming message. [i]“Siblings, the Truthlayers have penetrated the Orks’ lacking defenses, but yet arrived later than some, how fare you?”[/i] It was Veritas alright, that monotone voice quite unmistakable even from orbit, the dull greeting prompting Kaelianos to split his features into a consummate smile and tap the arms of the seat he sat. “Our brother arrives at last,” came words and a chuckle that sounded like a thousand angels singing, “[i]Praefectus Fabrum[/i], please engage the vox and patch into a frequency capable of reaching the [i]Absolute[/i].” Aulus Vetus, his red armour and robes showing him to be the highest representative of the Omnissiah in the Eighth, ran a number of prayers from his lips as he turned various dials and pulled a number of levers. “Channel open, my Primarch.” Kaelianos gave an inclination of his head to the tech-priest before readying himself to speak, having spoken to neither of his brother Primarchs already here, but holding Veritas in higher esteem than either of them. “Brother!” He began in a manner of speaking reserved for the closest of his confidants, a tone that made mortals like him and most Primarchs find him tolerable at the very least, “welcome to Ullanor Prime, though you arrive later than others you are nevertheless just as welcome.” What the Primarch of the Eighth wished to ask was whether Veritas had foreseen anything, those questions being akin to a game in the mind of Kaelianos, but he was in the middle of a battle and it seemed somewhat superfluous at this moment in time. “I am about to join my sons in glorious battle, but always make time to listen to my most magnetic of siblings. How goes it with the Third and their farseeing master?” Flicking the comradely jest into the vox-channel the Primarch lithely rose from his seat and held up his arms in order to allow multiple serfs to attend him, armour plating of shining gold fixed perfectly and most exact to his oversized frame while he awaited a response. [hr] It was a rare occasion for the battlegroups of the Fourth Legion to assemble upon a single point, only the most pressing of military engagements or honorable of ceremonies would lead to their Primarch calling upon the entirety of their might. The Ork warbands of Ullanor proved to be such a threat. Ten fleets worth of ships, each enough to transport a Chapter of one thousand battle-ready Astartes and their accompanying Imperial Army regiments. The ships of the Imperial Star League had descended upon the system just at the heels of the initial Imperial assault, shoring up defenses in the fiery battles that lit up the void, and deploying upon the planets of the system to provide echelon and rearguard support to the forces already engaging the greenskin menace. Heading this offensive, and engaging their foe at the core of the system, was the battlegroup that converged around the flagship of the legion, the [i]Astra Urba.[/i] Commanded by their Primarch and father, Wolfram of Parrisan, these forces encroached upon Ullanor Prime in the shadow of those helmed by the likes of his brother, Kaelianos, or their father, the Emperor of Mankind himself. The ground forces of the Fourth Legion directed to Ullanor Prime had already landed, and were engaged in mechanized reactionary deployments formed to ensure the Imperial forces assembled were not encircled or otherwise cut off from their growing beachhead upon the world. Wolfram himself had chosen to stay aboard his command vessel, overseeing the progress of the Legion as a whole across the system, while also offering strategic support to the allied forces assaulting the core world of the system. The command deck of the [i]Astra Urba[/i] was bustling with activity, members of every branch of the Imperium associated with the conflict gathered in a war council, discussing strategic and logistical plans to further the conquest of the system in a rapid and decisive manner. At the forefront of this room filled with energy stood Wolfram, a silent pillar offering but a few simple words of acknowledgement when requested of him. Seeing the greenskin forces assembled in such a fashion as that of Ullanor was perplexing to him. Such an organized effort was not traditionally in their nature, and the idea that they could achieve something of this sort threatened to reshape all he had come to know of their militaristic lifestyle and habits. Wolfram’s plans for future strategic organization would have to be revised heavily if the Orks continued to showcase this level of acumen. As if intentionally rousing him from such thoughts, indicators chimed and flashed to notify the many individuals present of the arrival of more Imperial forces. The Third Legion’s war vessels had arrived at the field of battle, and not a moment too soon. Hailing frequencies were exchanged, the vox-systems connected, and soon the monotone voice of Veritas Res spoke from across the void to his siblings. [i]“Siblings, the Truthlayers have penetrated the Orks’ lacking defenses, but yet arrived later than some, how fare you?”[/i] The master of the Eighth, Kaelianos, responded first, sharing a rousing welcome with just the faintest hint of witticism about it. The Eighth were already engaged in battle upon the planet below, so it was no surprise that the vox-call from their Primarch came from just before his entrance into the battlefield. “The Fourth greet you as well, brother. The arrival of you and yours is a most welcome aide, regardless of when it occurs.” As he awaited his brother’s reply, Wolfram silently began relaying word to those fighting under him that the Truthlayers had arrived. Plans would be reorganized, fronts shifted, and calculations reworked to account for these new forces. The throng of military staff and their assistants around the command deck began to move with renewed vigor, cogs in the grand Imperial war machine ever churning. [hr] “Yes,” responded Veritas simply to Kaelianos’ initial remarks, whilst there were some amongst the Primarchs who had communicational wit and social acumen approaching the Eighth's master, the lord of the Third was not amongst them. A brief pause was had, as he took in his two brothers’ communiqués, an equally swift reciprocation following. “The Truthlayers are readied for victory, as will always be true, brothers. I am also.” He turned swiftly, Admiral Ybarov on the receiving end of his gaze, a quick nod followed by distant roars imperceivable from jargon as far away as Veritas stood at the helm. Right besides the vox-master’s tiring yet duty-bound body as he struggled feverishly to hold down the most important lever he would ever grace his eyes upon. He continued. “Kaelianos, you know what needs to be done, gain as much of the Orks’ fervour as you can and demolish them,” a quick glance was had at the hundreds of tactical visors across the bridge, portrayals of the many battlefronts of Ullanor Prime playing in unison; overlapping in his gaze. He need not influence his brother’s mind with words, silence would lead the same result as the opposite. Attention instead placed on the next monitor, a fleet statistics board. With a voice echoing cold but loud once again, he turned his attention towards the master of the League. “Wolfram, I will soon make planetfall; I will align my fleet with yours once I am surface bound. The Absolute and her escort are yours to command.” Perhaps an odd statement beyond the orthodox of any other Primarch but himself, however he knew what he needed to do. He knew how to accomplish it. Wolfram, a competent mind in a competent position, would make good use of the fleet whilst he was away. Though Admiral Yberov had been already informed as to what actions to take. The specifics sorted, he closed his eyes and finished, “I will notify you both once my preparations are finalized.. Ending communication.” The sweat of the vox-master having long since shown, he was finally allowed momentary rest as he let go of the device. However, as he turned, he was met with the towering stature of his lord gazing down at him. He froze, but was met only with the equal parts malicious and noble gaze of a statuesque goliath. “Hail the Lectro-Maester.” No reprieve could be allowed, war was greater than the failing muscles of the mortal condition. A replacement would be needed once the campaign had finished. As if knowing the thoughts of Veritas Res himself, the Vox-Master, an aged man, lowered the lever with renewed vigor, a subdued nod given towards his judge, adrenaline filling him as if he was placed along the trenches. “Lectro-Maester, your status.” The voice that answered was accompanied by a sharp crackling - not due to any failure or feedback from the voxcast itself, but from the writhing field of electrical power the individual at the other end of the line was doubtlessly shrouded in. “This is Artisan Malagra Veneratus Prime Numilus Grirkov. The 8th Macroclade Fleet of the Ordo Astranoma is now dispersing in orbit and we are entering the final stages of preparation for our planetary assault operations. We are at your command, Primarch, child of the Omnissiah! Speak that your will be done!” The voice, underneath the layers of static, was deep and had a booming quality to it - laced with open reverence for Veritas. A brief silence filled their dialogue briefly, its purpose for any and all to guess, before the Primarch laid out his plan for the Artisan to hear. “Align your fleet’s orbit with the Absolute’s. During the initiatory bombardment, we shall enter the atmosphere with ferocity. You will land in the tower complex.” “Your will be done! The 8th Macroclade Fleet is now correcting maneuvers, we will all align with your flagship shortly, Primarch! We will tear the motive force from the enemy in your honor! For the glory of the Omnissiah!” “Ending Communication.” Veritas turned, looking towards the Admiral as he stepped away from the Vox-Master’s exhausted form. His feet echoed with each step. Each step was one step closer to the planet’s surface, closer to the great destiny yet far too distant. “You have the helm, Admiral. Follow the will I have written and align with the Fourth once I have departed.” “Aye, Primarch.” Soon the cannons would rain fire and fury upon the Ork who dares proclaim an empire within the true Imperium’s domain. The false icon, the sacrilegious idol shall be expunged, and the bells of destruction will soon toll to Urlakk Urg’s demise. As he passed the Admiral, and left the Bridge, headed towards the assembly halls which his legion had long since filled in preparation for the orbital drop, he once more affirmed his belief that only one vision may rule the galaxy. And it was that of the Emperor’s.