[center][h1][u][b]Slaughter of Sanctii[/b][/u][/h1] [h3][b]The Wail of Cocytus[/b][/h3] [hr] [img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1129184116840087683/1166088767984128050/OIG_2.jpg?ex=654937cb&is=6536c2cb&hm=b0fdcf686bfe31f84a79ffda39f5af5e4e62c173e669c1398c23c0189799b2f8&[/img][/center] [hr] [i][b]Sanctii Catacombs[/b][/i] Gathering the survivors of the advance up the thermal flue was a muted, sober prospect. Stavin found that his count of the auspex’s active collar signals had, in fact, been optimistic. The auspex, after all, only counted collars that could detect a pulse. And, as Stavin knew, having a pulse didn’t necessarily mean you were combat capable. Some men had concussed themselves in the drop. Others had sprained ankles, shattered legs, cracked ribs. Some had scorched hands, down to the bones. Others were psych-cases, so undone by shock or trauma they simply froze up. In any case, all had to be put down. Severina carried out this grim duty, and in a perverse way, Stavin was grateful to have the discipline mistress for this, if nothing else. They were in the sharp end of combat now, the very tip of a brutal struggle for survival against an implacable foe. The normal rules of civilization did not apply. The normal rules of etiquette did not apply. Just as he was grateful that Severina was executing the men and women who could not carry their own weight, he could see the other legionnaires were grateful that they would not have to lower their own chances of survival dragging around the unfit. No one would say it, of course. But they all felt it. They distributed the kit of the fallen, with particular care given to the photon flasks for the arc rifles, which were light, simple matrices that carried conductive metal in a thin film encased within a light sheet metal canister. Arc riflemen could carry enough ammunition for several wars on a belt. The radio-isotope slug clips of the radcarbines were the next priority, ensuring the rest of the war party wouldn’t run out. Then, food and water. Duly equipped, the now one hundred strong assault party advanced into the catacombs of the city, their only guiding light the soft blip of the projected location of the thermal flue operating station. - Sergeant Whitaker and Caleb advanced into the darkness, Whitaker checking the auspex, shotgun slung over one shoulder, Caleb scanning the darkness for targets for his arc rifle. They had been walking for quite a while, inside a cavern that was only partially tamed by Sanctii development. Indeed, the only real use for this space was as pressure proofing for the city’s intricate thermal exhaust, with Imperial tacticians figuring that there would be minimal security or defense, if any. Indeed, there was no historical evidence a Terran hive had ever been undermined in such a way. These facts shot through Caleb’s mind like hot tracers from a stubber, stitching into his grey matter, kicking up little rivulets of dust in his mindscape. Anything to keep his mind off the gnawing fear that ate at him every time he let his mind touch the full, awful reality he found himself in. It was his coping strategy, he decided. If he lived, he decided, he would write an account of this action. Then history would know it was possible to breach the walls of a hive in such a way. There would be some memorial for the sacrifice they had made, he decided. If it was his book, then good. If that didn’t work out, then he’d settle for strangling the highest ranked Imperial citizen he could find with their own entrails. Such thoughts would have horrified him, but that was a past Caleb. A dead Caleb. What dead Caleb thought about the world no longer mattered. Dead Caleb was dead wrong, and Alive Caleb would make sure he didn’t suffer the same fate. Whitaker’s hand shot up. His Auspex began to flash, dots suddenly appearing behind the advance party. “We’ve got company, Troopie.” Whitaker growled. - Stavin saw the advance element, Whitaker, call a halt. He relayed the order, having the assault element hold in place. Team leaders checked auspices, and saw the same information that had stopped Whitaker in his tracks. “Get me eyes on these contacts.” Stavin said into his microbead. “Only shoot if they’re obviously hostile. I don’t want our cover blown because one of you gun apes decided to light up a crustaecid.” Severina’s bolt pistol was in her hand. Stab lights on weapons swayed back and forth across the darkness, revealing nothing behind the assault element. “Above us.” Severina hissed. Stavin looked up. He could see a veritable horde of skittering, chitinous-looking bodies crawling across the ceiling. They easily outnumbered the assault party, but they didn’t seem to notice them. They were deep-cavern crustaecids to be sure, or maybe some kind of deep-ground arachnaed, obviously displaced from their homes by the queer geological vibrations caused by the chaos above. Stavin was about to key his microbead, when, in the center of the horde, one crustaecid stopped. Despite their small size, it was easy enough to see, as the rest of the horde crawled around it, creating an image not unlike a small rock in the middle of a river. A red light on the body of the crustaecid lit. It was then Stavin knew that Deep Winter had found them. They weren’t crustaecids at all. They were some kind of drone. “Open fire!” Stavin said. “Above us!” The guns of the damned began to shatter the night. - “Troopie!” Whitaker bellowed. “You heard ‘em!” Caleb swung his arc rifle up, pressing the trigger in anger for the first time. The gun hummed, lighting up along the vanes in the boxy barrel assembly. Caleb thought the gun might not be functioning at f- [h1]CRRR-ACK![/h1] The report of the arc rifle was like lightning, but inches from the face. The bolt of electricity, so impossibly bright and fast, slammed into the horde of crustaecid drones, frying what must’ve seemed like hundreds in a chain-lightning light show that put any thrash band to shame. The ceiling was illuminated in eerie red as the drone’s bodies all lit up, stopping their patrol to maneuver themselves to where they could - One dropped onto a trooper. The trooper cursed part in pain, part in fright, grabbing at the drone. “[b]Son of a bitch![/b]” He wailed. “Get it o-” Whitaker and Caleb were thrown to the ground as the trooper exploded. They scrabbled to their feet, backing away, firing with wild abandon at the ceiling now. “Sergeant, they’re gonna [b]fucking[/b] kill us!” Caleb shouted, and received a whack on his helmeted head. “[i]Stow that, you bastard![/i]” Whitaker yelled. “[i]Keep fucking firing! Keep fucking shooting or I’ll scrag you before these bloody things could![/i]” - Stavin watched in horror as the sight Whitaker and Caleb saw repeated itself several more times. “[b]Colonel![/b]” Severina shouted. “[b]Orders![/b]” Stavin shook his head. So what if an all-powerful AI knew they were here? What was that against the murderous god that sent them into these horrible depths? Into hell itself? Who knew hell better than the Damned? “Advance to the objective! Bounding! Your collar lights will be set to green and amber!” Stavin bellowed into his microbead, hammering the commands into his auspex. “Green advances! Amber covers! When Green is past, reverse! Do it, by the numbers people!” Order was immediately restored. Relief surged through Stavin as he realized he had made the right call at the right time. Like clockwork, the soldiers of the Damned poured fire into the advancing horde of crustaecid-drones, never letting them drop to the ground where they could grab a soldier and detonate. The arc rifles were doing the greatest work; punching great gaps in the horde of automatons that even their ceaseless numbers had trouble refilling. The radcarbines were less effective, but they added weight of fire, and with the numbers opposing them the Damned could hardly miss. Slowly, they advanced towards the objective. Slowly, the Damned purchased the progress that would grant them victory. [hr] A man cried out in agonizing pain as Aeternus’ searing great blade bisected him. The plasmic edge of his weapon cut cleanly through personal shield and ivory armor in milliseconds. Their harrowing howling was cut short by Rex’s boot, firmly shattering the defender’s helmet. Brain matter and vitae ejected outwards from his armored soles, coating the Imperial black in crimson-pink fluid. He slid forward, arcing his blade and cleaving into another group of Sanctiian protectors. Their defenses, despite the technological differences, fell short to his genewrought might and Apocrypha’s ancient plasmic nullifers. Surprise, horror, and anger shrieked forth from their helmets as their bodies slumped into an expanding pile of carcasses. The primarch swept his left arm out, venting hatred through the forearm-mounted weapon at nearby defender clusters. Explosions riddled the areas in which he fired, detonating into great balls of cobalt flames. Each burst of flame consumed bodies, unlucky auxilia, and unfortunate sentinels alike in uncontrolled fury. One of the God-Slayers roared out as a trio of Sanctiians stabbed elongated, glowing spears into their opponent’s body. Helmetless, the thunder warrior grinned in delight as he threw himself back off of the wall. The defenders fell with him, shortly falling to their death along with their suicidal enemy. Aeternus had seen the same scene occur over and over again during this assault on the wall. How many of his warriors perished in this siege, he asked himself in a small moment of clarity. The thought diminished as another group of sentinels emerged from their towers, followed only by skittering swarms of malevolent drones. “More are coming, commander! We’ve already lost squads Didact and Raziel, Nero is forsaken somewhere in the city, and Tiberius has already left the wall!” Caligula stated as he chopped into another protector, who bitterly fought back with equal genestrength. The first cadre captain rammed his helmet into the Sanctiian, momentarily stunning them and using the momentum to bisect them with his powered blade. “[i]We’ve lost the wall! Any longer and we’ll end up losing you, Rex![/i]” He knew better than most the futility of assaulting the wall, yet it had taken its toll on the defenders as much as the invaders. Many of the airships had been dealt with, some of the large-scale bombardment cannons had been silenced, and whole platoons of the Sanctiians had been defeated. Aeternus gritted his teeth in a mixture of emotions, threatening to break his own jaw in frustration. If only they had more time, more men, and more thunder warriors to deal with the invasion. Rex silenced the intrusive thoughts by accurately firing into the oncoming groups of defenders. “Then it seems we’ve lost our edge as deity-annihilators, Caestus! Keep fighting, killing, and slaughtering to stall their advance.” The primarch demanded, raising the flat of his obsidian great blade to block a hail of magnetically-driven slugs. Each bullet melted on contact with the sword’s plasma-field, followed shortly by another spattering of wrist-mounted death from Aeternus. Those arriving sentinels backpedaled as their drones burst into flame, falling back into the cover of cadavers or broken turrets. “Temper your expectations and hope that Lady Amalasuntha is feeling particularly generous today!” As the defenders fell into their cover, Aeternus removed a peculiar grenade from his belt and launched it high into the air. An explosion of crackling light mixed with clouds of phosphorus erupted from the device. In a synchronized effort, the thunder warriors on the Primarch’s portion of the wall began to coalesce around their commander. Bolters, disintegration carbines, and lasrifles bit out against the encroaching forces of Sanctii. The signal had been sent, clear even through the harrowing blizzard that tormented invader and sentinel alike. A signal that filled the invaders with hope and frustration in equal amounts. [b]It was a call for retreat[/b]. [hr] Aboard another of the airships, this time flanked by two other Venatari, Amalasuntha stalked through the cramped and short halls of the vehicle. They slaughtered near all the crew on this one, and yet it continued to spit death as if crewed by ghosts. The trio made their way to the command bridge, once more dispatching those stationed to fight them. There was no chance for them to save themselves as the venatari stormed the bridge, slaughtering its defenders to a man. The Black-Hawk walked towards the view port, casting her gaze as the others planted Melta charges behind her. Her crimson gaze watched the walls of the damned city, knowing that it would fall no matter the cost for no abomination could be suffered. Yet, her head slanted ever slightly as she made out the form of a massive beast fighting in the wall like a Lion. She knew him, Aeternus, the only of his ilk to earn her respect for his loyalty and honor to the burgeoning Imperium. She watched as his plasmatic blade carved through a man - but his assault was futile as the defenders surged forth with renewed vigor once more. “Shield-Captain, charges are set,” came the low voice of one of her compatriots, wordlessly exiting the room as if already knowing his future order. Amalasuntha went to turn but she caught a glimpse - Aeternus turning from the wall and abandoning his assault. Yet, he had overextended, she could tell in that moment that both he and his men were threatened with a most gruesome death. No, Aeternus would not die here under her watch for the Emperor still had use of him and his legion. She spoke clearly to the vox, a voice clear of emotion, “Gunship Axium, turn to Wall Segment 8-A2, ensure that Aeternus has cover in his retreat.” “Do you wish to dispense those waiting for landing or extract the Primarch?” The pilot asked, unhesitatingly. “Negative, you need only give him cover,” Amalasuntha stated, turning away from the viewport to stalk out of the room. Her claws danced along one of the control consoles she passed, half-tempted to attempt to turn the guns of the ship on the city. Though, she already knew she didn't have the time or the means to properly do so, knowing she’d likely have to overcome whatever safety mechanisms the intelligence had thought to install. As the Hawk moved to rejoin her companions, she decided to relay a message to the Primarch, “Cover incoming. Retreat and regroup.” [hr] [i][b]One kilometer behind Imperial siege lines[/b][/i] The reserve force of Astartes, fewer in number after the withering bombardment they had endured, continued to stand as still as statues as they awaited the order to advance. While the gene warriors had scattered for cover upon being alerted of incoming fire from the enemy’s airships, nothing could have prevented [i]every[/i] loss. Here the superiority of the finished product told, more than one proto-Astarte having been a second too slow, reacting with an instant of delay that their siblings were not burdened by. Malformed secondary hearts took an extra beat to hyper-oxygenate the blood, minds dulled by the pain of extraneous bone perpetually digging into flesh were slower to process the warning. They were beyond anything human, but they were simply not good enough. A full tenth of the First Legion’s advance force perished in the rain of archaeotech explosives, and of that number, half were of the older generation. The Legion Mistress processed this information dispassionately as she reviewed her smaller force, the arms of the dead having been stripped to match the proclivities of those under her command, inasmuch as any of them could be said to have personality. They were of the new imperial breed after all, and all that truly mattered to them was victory. Standing in formation amidst their own dead, they waited to bring just that. They had been born and bred for this day, if not this mission, and if the thought that so many of them had fallen without having even seen the enemy gave them pause, they did not show it. [hr] [i][b]Thirty kilometers behind Imperial Siege Lines[/b][/i] While nominal operational command of the Sanctii theater had been entrusted to the Primarch Aeternus, certain concessions to practicality had to be made to coordinate as vast a force as was besieging the city. Especially with the situation having drawn the personal attention of Malcador, and through him, the Emperor. Over a million and a half souls had been dedicated to the effort, and that was only counting combat personnel, which meant that a great mass of humanity needed to be equipped and sustained through the grueling horror of grinding war. Dwelling within a hastily erected command center well behind the auxilia’s artillery batteries, and protected by puissant void shields of ancient design, the minds that kept the operation functioning - greasing it with blood and rations as the situation dictated - held their court. Sigilites all, it was they who had conveyed the vast treasures of vaults best lost forgotten to this warzone, and it was they who kept a careful watch over the military commanders whom they had reposed such potent forces of destruction in. The Imperium, after all, only needed the one warlord. “Life-sign losses among the 31-3 are congruent with a thermal exhaust event,” one of the junior scribes reported, having been ordered to determine the root cause of the sudden vanishing of so many so quickly some time ago. “Secondary losses most likely correspond to elimination of non-combat-viable elements.” The Scribe-Intendant who he was reporting to pursed her lips slightly as she took in the news, her eyes gazing round the collection of robed scholars. “The time table was exact, attrition rates among the 31-3 were projected under the assumption that the majority would pass the flue. Explain.” “It seems that our calculations of thermal exhaust events were…. Inaccurate. I have taken the liberty of rerunning the numbers, and the original estimate did not take into account the increased power draw prompted by the siege.” Her lips pursed tighter, vanishing into a single thin line. “The scribe who provided the initial calculations shall be flogged once per instance of relic destroyed by this extreme negligence,” she said flatly before turning her attention to more important matters. “The worst case scenarios had similar attrition rates, based around the possibility that a sizable protection force was waiting in ambush at the flue exit. Presuming that this is not the case, the mission is still viable.” “I would concur. The current rate of attrition suggests incidental, rather than intentional, opposition.” “Very well. We will not initiate extirpation protocols yet, and instead hope that the remaining relics are retrievable.” The surrounding scribes all bowed deeply as they went back to their work, cogitators humming as the mission trackers updated their assumption set. None seemed perturbed by the horrifically low survivor count, reassured by the soothing news that it was likely the majority of such losses would not permanently damage any relic weapons. [hr] Credit: [@MarshalSolgriev] (Aeternus/God-Slayers/Sanctii), [@Lauder] (Lady Amalasuntha/Stygian Talons), [@grimely] (Legio I Astartes/Scribe-Intendant), [@BornOnBoard] (Colonel Stavin/Thirty-One-Third Penal Legion), [@FrostedCaramel] (Sanctii/The Administrator)