The infinite sea of ink-black nothingness stretched as far as the eye (and even the mind's eye) could see – here, in the outer reaches of the Segmentum Tempestus, the sleek shimmering silver cruiser waited unmoving, and always the sickly purple scar of the Cicatrix Maledictum pulsed and oozed in the void. Like some patient bird of prey it was etched with psychic wards and a Gellar field far more advanced than any other in the Imperium, everything from its armour to its reinforced structure speaking of a supremely fast and hyper-technological vessel of war. Those sentient lifeforms aboard, though there were few enough of them, were no less impressive in most regards; the majority of these were regularly mind-wiped Chapter Serfs, efficient and highly trained but only fractionally less vulnerable to corruption than those of other Astartes formations, the [i]true[/i] power aboard the [i]Lamiae Mortis[/i] contained within only five individuals, five superhuman warriors of the God-Emperor who had been brought to this place for a purpose and one purpose alone… [hr] Kallikles, Justicar of the Grey Knights Chapter, leader of one of only three Strike Squads contained within the chapters Eighth Brotherhood under Brother-Captain Mithrac Tor – known colloquially as the 'recruit' brotherhood, being populated chiefly by the chapters newest neophytes – allowed a sour expression to creep across the three-quarters of his face that remained flesh and were not taken up by finely crafted bionics, his left eye glowing in the dim light of the cruisers innermost sanctum, a place which also served as a shrine and a briefing room. Out of his armour Justicar Kallikles was an imposing figure but now, clad as he was in all his panoply of war, he would have been the dread and terror of any mortal unlucky enough to challenge him. It was not for this that he or his brethren had been crafted though, everything from his armour to his demeanour showing that he and they had been forged to fight something more [b]and[/b] less... much, much, less. “Brothers,” came his rumbling voice, a rolling thunder that cut through the incense and candle lit shade of the chamber, “I will not mince my words and I will not extol platitudes to you, you are Grey Knights and know what must be done – this is your first true test as my Battle-Brothers, to be victorious here will ensure your ascension to full brotherhood and gifting of the holy Tactical Dreadnought Armour, to fail will ensure a swift residence in the Dead Fields.” With a simple wave of his hand a central holo-projector leapt into life, the sallow light causing Bieito to narrow his eyes momentarily – not actually something he had to do due to his implants, and probably a hangover that even his transformation from man to demi-god couldn't change – as the rotating orb of Anairu spun around and around. “It looks safe enough, a far-out planet of dirt and dust with a minimal population of nomadic tribes” commented the Justicar, “but it is [i]far[/i] from it.” A flicked finger and the projection narrowed to pinpoint a location on the southern continent of the planet, enhancing further to show what was on the face of it your average pre-civilised gathering of mud huts and trading bazaars, but there was something not right... to anyone who knew what to look for, even the shape of the village seemed... off. Indeed, if one continued to look harder they would soon realise it was constructed along a specific shape. [b]Very[/b] specific. “The Prince of Pleasure,” hissed Bieito from between his teeth, the symbol of Slaanesh traced out by the village and its parameters as clear as day. “Just so,” confirmed his superior, an armoured digit penetrating the projection like a blade, “brothers, the Cult of Anash'Ra – a chaotic assemblage we have thought gone a hundred times over – is once more abroad on Anairu. We do not believe they have been able to summon their daemonic master yet, though minor entities may be present, as well as multiple human targets.” Simple, straightforward, and to the point; they would descend like the Emperor's own wrath and snuff out this movement before it could gain traction and summon to them their patron deity. Alas, Brother Olympio feared there was more to the matter. In the many hours of meditation he had on the travel through the Empyrean to the system he touched many of the flows of fate. There were so many things he saw! Alas, the vast majority were unimportant. From seeing the dinners families would have for a month to the figures of Administratum clerks regarding water filtration systems to be delivered for local system monitors. But among all the nonsense he was able to sift out things that were very much useful. “I fear that is not all, my Brothers.” he stated, realizing he may earn the ire of the Justicar using the term that may arguably have not yet been earned. “I know not yet how, but this… [i]situation[/i] relates far more to the galaxy at large than simply threatening the security of this system. The Thousand Sons, Abaddon, they are pertinent.” Taking a deep breath, he knew this was all a load of information that was just there, unusable with how it was given. “I simply wish to say that whatever we face may be greater than anticipated. I do not wish to suggest that it is beyond our competence until such is proven but I would simply give this as a warning to exercise caution.” “All the more reason for us to end this threat swiftly.” This was the first thing Brother Elazar had said in quite a while, though he had been far from inactive in the meantime. For most of the trip, he had been practicing with his weapons of choice, twinned falchions, in a training room aboard the ship; it was only as they approached the target world that he brought himself to this room, and even now he was visibly flexing his extremities as if to keep from rising and pacing outright. “If the Traitor Legions are involved, foiling them may be a matter of minutes and seconds.” “Prepare yourselves, we engage in an hour. Emperor be with us.” A hiss of the doorway, a gust of chill air, and the four Battle-Brothers were left alone to armour themselves and ready themselves for battle. [hr] Bieito was unable to be ‘shaken’ in the mortal sense, it just wasn’t part of his genetic makeup, but he was nevertheless concerned by the words of Brother Olympio - arguably the most gifted psyker among them after the Justicar - the entirety of Squad Kallikles sitting silently in contemplation even as their drop-pod sped away from the Strike Cruiser and into the atmosphere of Anairu. It was impossible that Kallikles himself had not heard the words of his charge, but he seemed completely unphased, no doubt focused completely on the task at hand… just as he should be. A quick glance over his helmets HUD was all Bieito needed to tell him that all was in order (at least according to the blinking diagnostics), though this didn’t stop him from running armour-covered fingers over his wrist-mounted bolter and the smooth adamantium haft of his force halberd, the shaking turbulence of atmospheric entry giving way to a much smoother course. On the outside the pod was a blazing red streak, puncturing through the overcast sky to slam down on the north-western outskirts of the accursed village, every member of the squad already on their feet by the time metal touched unstable soil. “Stay alert and kill anything that moves, we are not here on a mercy mission; remember, [b]we are the hammer[/b]!” Justicar Kallikles did not need his helmet to amplify his voice, but the iron-edged words that tumbled from his lips nevertheless came as cold as a crystal clear mountain stream, causing the blood to alight and the soul to steel itself. The ramp of the pod descended with a hiss, seemingly taking eons in the mind of the battle-fuelled neophyte, Bieito counting down the very seconds until it too impacted with the earth to reveal a brown-looking world and multiple buildings before them; they were a ramshackle lot of structures, some appearing to have had some attempt made to fortify them with sandbags, razorwire and gun emplacements, while their did not seem to be a single adversary to be seen. Indeed there was not, although this did not last long, the squad barely having left the cover of the pod before an ear-piercing alarm began to wail mournfully and the village began to erupt into movement. There… a figure in robes and carrying a simple lasgun… targeting… The first kill dropped to the floor in a mist and spray of gore, Kallikles using his in-helmet systems to sketch a path toward the largest and most central structure, shifting his storm bolter about to track the increasing number of hostiles. “Onward,” he bellowed through his helmet's grille ,“and fear no evil.”