[b]Maulland Sen, Nordyc[/b]

A storm was breaking.


The land was no stranger to storms, since even before the seas had boiled away, the land had been beaten by frigid winds pulled off long gone seas, surging past far away mountains. 


This was not a storm of such making, but the work of the species who had ruined the oceans and the land, and were doing so yet again. In a moment, a thousand, thousand munitions fell upon the far off emplacements of the enemy. The fringes of a corrupt empire, given way to witchcraft and mutation that nestled in the mountains of old Nordyc. The Maulland Sen were some of the worst of the human nations that the Imperium would have to sweep away, should it seek to claim the mantle of Terra.


A first blow in a war that would no doubt cost much in time, men and resources, but a minor one, were it not for the providence of those who watched it. There was a second storm at play, but the second was simply the presence of a being powerful enough that reality seemed to bear his presence with only great trepidation. The Emperor did not need the pict-imaging devices his commanders were using to examine the bombardment from afar, instead he simply watched, alone for the moment, as the Balt-Forts began to show the first signs of damage to the torrential bombardment the Imperial Army had begun the day before.


Even with the shell cracked, the meat within would hardly be vulnerable, it would be yet another early test of the new warriors he had forged. His space marines, that had been made from what remained of his greatest project.


“Come before me, I will listen.” The Emperor spoke before he was addressed, sensing the approaching presence of his warriors, a scant number of them, who might interrupt his private viewing of the battlefield to come.


With heavy, hesitant steps, three figures drew near, as if rising from the soil itself at his beckoning. Faceless in the smooth masks of their visors, featureless in armour of dull slate and bare grey, they truly seemed fragments of the dreary northern landscape come to life, all the bleaker before a presence that dwarfed even their superhuman size. They bore no identifiers save for the numeral IX on their pauldrons, but one was clearly the leader; as the others remained standing at a distance, he moved several more steps forward before lowering himself to one knee.


“My Emperor,” he began in a guttural voice with an odd, harshly whistling timbre, “We are your instrument. We fear no enemy, no death. But doubt eats at our warriors from within.” He bowed his head. “Before even we reached the front, many of us were crippled as organs and muscle failed them. Too many, we were told, and too late for simple rejection of the procedure that made us, but no more than that. Now the others grow uneasy. They dread that their bodies might fail them, and that they might fail you. We beseech you, my Emperor. If anything can choke these doubts, I would not have them poison our spirits.”


The towering figure of the Emperor did not turn as the warriors spoke, the gleaming gold of his armour standing out against the wasteland of his surroundings. Forged in recent days by the smiths of the Terrawatt clans, it was a great work of marvel, one of many that his vision had brought about in recent times, but in his own opinion, a far lesser one than the work which had forged those who now spoke to him.


“Your concerns are heard, my warriors.” It was only then that he turned, the full might of his presence falling upon the men, the air around him seeming to shimmer with intensity. “Each of my new legions is not alike, you come with great strengths, and challenges, that are all your own. We are on the cusp of greatness that will propel us far beyond the scope of this world, but for this vision, there will be sacrifices, as you all well know.” The future Master of Mankind stood with his hands clasped behind his back, a pose of military formality, yet still his expression provided some familial warmth to the helmeted warriors. “It may not seem such, but even this contributes to our cause, to defeat what ails you will provide you with greater strength for these wars to come.” The Emperor paused for but a moment, before continuing it a barely quieter tone, “I am not deaf to your worries, however, we will continue to improve the manner in which new legionnaires are made, and to protect against the ravages that it inflicts.”


Awed by the force that fell upon them with his every word, the legionnaires were silent for a time, their visored eyes downcast, until at last their leader found his voice again.


“Then we shall fight to master our weakness in your name, as we do your enemies in the field. But…” He halted, clearly uneasy at the thought of raising a demand, were that even a humble one. “Allow us to carry a word from you to our fellows. A command to drive them forward without fear, knowing your eyes are on them. Their misgivings would be ash on the wind, and the priest-king’s blades snowflakes in their path.” His voice dipped, little more than a reverent whisper overtaken by his whistling accent. “My Emperor.”


The Emperor paused for several long beats of his warriors’ augmented hearts before one hand drifted to the great eagle that sweapt from his left pauldron, the insignia of the Aquilia which had been adopted across the nascent Imperium he was building. His fingers touched upon the wing of the golden bird, before pulling away. A single feather of gold seemed to seperate, in a structural impossibility, from the armour. Small in the Emperor palm, he offered it down towards the speaker.


“Take more than words, carry this with you, the bearer of my singular honoring of yout kindred who have, and will, perish from this trial. Let none who hear of it use it as a weapon against you, for none have given more to my cause so early in their great service.” As the Emperor spoke, the pounding of the guns which had become little more than white noise backing their discussion rose in a fearful roar, a great intensity of bombardment that could only herald the imminent commencement of the assault. “You will fight with me this day, let us strike the first blow together.”


[hr]


Three figures walked down over the coldly dry Nordyc soil. Behind them was the light whose spark they now carried; ahead, others like them – many others – awaited the resolution of their audience. Before their Master, they had stood nameless, for they did not doubt he knew all that needed to be known. Yet among their own ranks their names, these echoes of a desolate and frostbitten land much like the one they now trod, carried the great weight that had propelled them to this honour. From a host of orphans, they had emerged as leaders.


They were Osorin Skorr, who always found the finest words and thoughts, and now bore a gleaming feather with reverent care; Tevr Nyrid, whom none could surpass with the sword; and Tzosh Ghaal, who already in the gene-labs had been the most curious and observant.


“If the next generation is gestating now,” Ghaal rumbled in his cavernous voice, “We can expect an improvement in the third at the soonest. Likely much later.”


“I was naive to hope it could be all solved so easily,” conceded Skorr. Now that he no longer addressed the Emperor, the whistling accent is his words had emerged as strongly as in his fellows’. “But you heard him. We are not to be discarded, even if [b]death walks with us[/b]. Give him reason for his faith, and we shall not only be free, but among the most favoured.”


“And if we do not live to see it?” Nyrid asked grimly.


“Then we will at least have died a proud death.”


“Were it only for me, I would not mind,” the blade-champion shrugged, “But the others need our guidance now, Osorin. We were all taken young. So few of them remember anything of our traditions, the way of battle in our blood. If we are gone too soon, what will be left when a perfect generation comes will no longer be [i]us[/i].”


“What concerns me,” Ghaal spoke up, “is who is to find this cure for us. Our makers were so clumsy and sluggish, and I was still nascent when I saw them.”


“They are the Emperor’s finest,” Skorr chided.


“And yet they are only human.”


They walked a few steps in silence.


“We will do this,” said Skorr finally, “Tevr, make sure our people awaken to their birthright. I will give them a push with this,” he lifted the gleaming feather, “and you lead them through the forge of battle. Tzosh, however the day goes, many of us will fall. Look at the bodies [b]reviled by flesh[/b] and see if you can find anything, if you are not one of them.”


“I do not count on dying,” Ghaal answered without a hint of jest.


“Then it is decided.”


The three warriors mounted a knotty ridge, and a sea of familiar grey metal stirred to receive them.