[center][color=orange][h1][u][b]The Bronze Scorpions[/b][/u][/h1][/color]
[h3][b]The Siege of Nabatae[/b][/h3]
[hr]
[img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/667651180872204299/1167181325954973726/OIG.naBpuhF.jpg?ex=654d3151&is=653abc51&hm=769d41c60bbc4cb1b792d413ffd4dbf57b8a30a2ebb5bc5c7fa1e5e47f10641f&[/img][/center]
[hr]
Yasif watched the dark sands of his homeland from atop the bronze perch overlooking the bastion he called home. To his eyes the sands stretched on perpetually for miles that not even he, or perhaps even the masters, could count. Dunes as tall as hab-blocks, jagged rocks as jaded as fabricatum metal, and sandstorms as wicked as the hive’s boiling sewage filled the vast emptiness of the wastes. The harsh clap of thunder drew his attention to the cloud-clotted sky as darkness descended. Short shrieks of lightning momentarily brightened the landscape around his home, while small breaks in the clouds allowed Luna to drown the wastes in alabaster light. He cursed in his native tongue, damned to suffer another storm on one of his shifts compared to his counterparts. His attention swiveled away from the bleak badlands to the rising monoliths of the bastion-hive.

Great structures akin to gargantuan monoliths of bronze loomed overhead Yasif’s domed guard tower. Unlike other hive-cities that he had heard about, Nabatae was a bastion of metal refinery and nocturnal worship. Only once in a season did all of the hab-blocks allow their lights to illuminate the dark sands of the wasteland. Although he was educated, Yasif wondered if their eternal penumbra was the reason why they were never invaded by those outside of the wastes. He then wagered that if it wasn’t for concealment, then perhaps it was because of their leviathan wall that stretched across the hive. A smile grew on his lips beneath the carapace helmet, knowing that it was nigh impossible that one would assault their home so far into the wastes.

The sound of muffled footsteps began to echo from the stairwell behind him, muted only by the crash of lightning above his post. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, a chronometer displaying the present Terran time within his helmet. Approximately twenty-three minutes before shift change. Yasif quickly claimed his chainglaive, wielding it expertly in one hand and a lascycler in the other. A swift glance at his wargear allayed his fears as the bronze-reinforced exosuit moved in perfect unison with each movement. For a single moment, he considered sending out an alert across the hive at a potential intruder. Ultimately, he decided against it to stand in the face of peril for the sake of Nabatae.

Each footstep drew another difficult breath from Yasif. He audibly swallowed back in fear of what was to come. A thousand ideas of the assailant rolled through his mind all at once. A murder from within the city? A mercenary from the upper hive? A helot from the masters? A crazed marauder from Ursh? One of the insane supersoldiers from the Himalazians? Yasif tightened the grip on his glaive, readying himself to deal with whatever dared to harm their city. A shadow began to form as the being crossed the threshold into the tower.

“Yasif, I’m here to- [b]By the Masters! Easy, easy![/b] You wouldn’t skewer your old friend, [b]Omar[/b], surely!?” A warrior in bronze carapace appeared before him, his voice as scraggly and desperate as the shaky weapons in his own hands. The man, Omar, was bedecked similar to himself in a powered suit of armor with a chainglaive and lascycler. He arrived helmetless, the angular headgear neatly clipped to one side of his leg. A dark, aged face with a long, groomed beard stared blankly at him.

“[i]Ah[/i]. Omar. I had forgotten that you tend to turnover twenty minutes earlier than the scheduled time.” Yasif said with a sigh of relief, setting the chainglaive aside and holstering the lascycler on his left thigh. His body slumped up against one of the tower’s pillars, the bronze carapace groaning in protest against the reinforced limestone. Omar’s shoulders drooped in similar respite, slinging the chainglave over his shoulder from its shaft-long attachment.

“You are quite jumpy tonight! Worried about your wife, Ysret?” Omar said with a reinvigorated smile. He stopped momentarily by the cogitator in the center of the platform, tapping at several runes to authorize his identity and acquire shift-change synchronization. Once completed, the wizened sentinel leaned against one of the rails opposite Yasif.

“[b]Of course![/b] Wouldn’t you be worried if your spouse was in the middle of having their child? The overseers couldn’t afford a replacement for me in the requested timeframe.” The younger sentinel replied with a saddened tone. He began to clip off his helmet, turning it sideways to disengage the seals before removing it from his head. A tangle of black hair drooped across his forehead, quickly disappearing as Yasif pushed it back into his sweat-slicked scalp. Delicately, the headgear was placed onto one of the two tables in the tower. “I wish I could summon the same amount of respect as you, Omar.”

“It takes time, Yasif, give it another year or two and the elders will see about making you a lead sentinel. Besides, you would miss me once you left this assignment!” Omar said reassuringly, turning away from Yasif to draw a stick of synthetic tobacco from one of his chest-strapped pockets. He snapped his fingers together, drawing several sparks to ignite the tip of the parchment. A swift inhale and exhale released a wisp of smoke from the elder’s lips. The younger sentinel shook his head in disapproval.

“And how much longer before you rise to become one of the Master’s [b]Ghaizietti[/b]? Assuming you manage to keep yourself from stealing away banned narcotics.” Yasif joked, picking himself up from the slump to cross the tower towards the cogitator. He eyed the chronometer, awaiting the precise moment to initiate turnover with Omar. Approximately five minutes until the stroke of midnight for their approved transition of authorities. One of his gauntlets tapped against the terminal, preparing the machine for a swift and easy transaction. It beeped in response, another chronometer set to alert them of the time whenever it came.

Omar chuckled in response, coughing as smoke choked his lungs mid-drag. He turned his pale eyes to Yasif, raising a knowing finger at the younger sentinel before turning back to the wastelands outside of Nabatae. “I’ll always be a grizzled, old sentinel on the wall, Yasif. What you should be thinking about is what you’re going to name your child!”

“You’ll be surprised to know that Ysret and I have already chosen names.” Yasif said with playful tone, stepping away from the cogitator. He leaned against the opposite rail of Omar, a fresh smile beginning to grow on his lips. Omar tilted his head to the left, inclining to listen to this ‘surprise’ from the younger sentinel. One of his gauntlets flicked embers away from the synthstick. He closed his eyes to momentarily enjoy the peacefulness of Yasif’s married life, longing to have a wife himself.

“If it’s a girl, we were thinking [i]Rabia[/i], and if it’s a boy… we were thinking about naming him [i]Omar[/i]-” The last word was puked from Yasif’s mouth in a combination of pained gasp and crying moan. Every chronometer began to chirp in distress as the alarms began to sound at the designated time. A stroke of lightning stabbed into the wastes outside of Nabatae. The grizzled sentinel dropped the smoldering stick in one of his gauntlets as he turned to the younger’s crying voice.

A knife- no, a [b]blade[/b] was buried deep into Yasif’s back and through the bronze carapace that protected his chest. Thick vitae exploded forth from the young sentinel’s mouth, tears welling at the edge of his reddened eyes. He was lifted by a being much larger than him, armored in grey plating unknown to Omar. The blade was unceremoniously ripped out of Yasif’s chest, his body tossed aside like a doll to a child. The older sentinel reached down to claim the lascycler from his holster, but suddenly realized that he no longer owned a left arm. His body began to shudder, horrendous pain welling up from the precisely delivered dismemberment. Before he could scream in agony, a grey gauntlet grabbed his face from behind.

“Know that your sacrifice for humanity is for the best.” A voice said from behind. It was heavily altered behind a helmet, yet it was a deep and angry tone that granted no peace in his fate. A blade tore through his back, splitting apart the bronze carapace and appearing out of his chestplate. Darkness began to filter through his vision as tears stained the grey gauntlet. In his last moments, Omar thought that he would’ve liked to meet Yasif’s newborn child.
[hr]
Zameel tossed aside the sentinel that he killed, an older man who had been smoking some sort of synthetic substance. The cadaver clattered across the tower’s floor, a lascycler spinning away under one of the assorted tables to be forgotten for time immemorial. A pair of chronometers chirped nearby, one from the cogitator and another from the cadaver that his brother had slain. Two steps brought him to the terminal, disabling the timed alarm and finishing the guard transition. The other warrior with him, Ahrim, crushed the skull of the younger sentinel under his boot and smashed the helmet to silence it. 

“Any witnesses on the lower floors?” Zameel asked, flicking the power sword free of blood before sheathing it for more overt combat. Similarly, Ahrim slipped his dagger back into a frontal sheath strapped to his chest plate.

“[i]None[/i]. Nusair and Muhannad have dealt with the mid-segment guardians. Nathiz and Abdul are maintaining vigilance on tertiary walkways. Everything is as instructed, Praetor.” Ahrim responded, a young man’s voice erupting from through the knightly helmet he wore. Voxgrills on the slopped portion of the faceplate boomed the response, yet the words remained audible only to Zameel. The praetor nodded firmly, bending down on one knee next to the cadaver of the elder sentinel.

The elder warrior removed his helmet, momentarily setting it aside to handle the bodies of the Nabateans. Ahrim, the younger warrior, echoed his movements with the younger sentinel that had slain. Zameel pressed his taloned digits into the skull of the sentinel, digging out quickly decaying grey matter with precise strokes of his fingers. Sticky strings of brain were brought to his mouth in lumps, pressed inside to digest the raw information provided by the cadaver. The other warrior began to perform the same movements with less precision, ripping apart the upper half of the youthful defender’s head with the carelessness of an inexperienced pawn. Immediately, the praetor could feel a surge of knowledge course through his body and supplement what was already known to them. At that moment, he knew everything he needed to know about Nabatae.

“[i]Omar[/i]. You were lucky enough to die early compared to what is to come.” Zameel solemnly spoke, wiping saliva and grey matter from his lips. Retrieving the helmet beside him, the praetor picked himself back up and descended into the tower’s interior. Ahrim followed closely behind, shaking off the experiences that now plagued his mind. He observed the younger warrior pick up one of the chainglaives unconsciously, wielding it in both hands during their descent. The clade member, noticing that he was being watched, released the chainglaive from his grip.

“I apologize. The other sentinel’s memories were vivid. [i]Yasif[/i] had a very keen anger within him. It will not happen again, Praetor.” Ahrim said with a slur in his speech. No doubt he reeled from the experience of freshly eaten brain. Zameel smirked to himself in response, fondly remembering the first time he was forced to endure the gruesome affair. 

The interior of the tower was sparsely painted in fresh vitae, complimented only by torn limbs and propped bodies of other Nabatean sentinels. More of the grey-armored warriors appeared in his descent, identifiable only by their specific armor and numeral-painted pauldrons. Zameel nodded in satisfaction of his personal clade, their performance was beyond expectation and executed flawlessly. Each of the clade members followed after their leader, holstering dagger and sword alike in favor of deadlier weaponry. Bolters, hulking bolthrowers comparable in size to a heavy stubber, were unslung from their powerpacks to be wielded in both hands. They approached the bottom of the tower, where the final members of their clade awaited in perpetual silence with daggers and bolters drawn. Their clade now numbered ten with the arrival of the praetor and his apprentice.

“Issues, Casildo?” Zameel asked as the clade began to disperse across the ground floor, readying their equipment for the next phase of the invasion. The warrior he asked, Casildo, turned away from his watching position at the tower’s open doorway. He appeared exactly like the rest of the clade, knightly slopped helmet and burdensome powered armor all in grey. Only a single numeral on his left knee identified him apart from his brethren. 

“[i]None[/i], Praetor. The guard turnover was completed exactly as planned, no further reinforcements or intermediaries from the lower- or upper-hive.” Casildo responded in a quick voice, suppressing any needless detail from the report. Satisfied with the report, Zameel nodded for the other warrior to continue his duties. Another of the clade members entered his view from the stairwell, making the sign of the raptor over his chestplate before relaying his words.

“Praetor. The eastern towers have been dealt with.” The warrior, Ehsan, spoke promptly before turning away and beginning to jog back up the stairs to other parts of the wall. Zameel didn’t appreciate having to assign runners for the sake of the operation, not when their combat prowess could be better utilized for murder and infiltration. He reasoned with himself that it was necessary for the mission and key to their invasion of the Bronze City. 

“Finally. Reactivate your encrypted voxnets. Communications silence is over. We will begin the second phase of the invasion in the Emperor’s name.” Praetor Zameel ordered across their clade’s voxnet, several affirmations clicked within his ear that the command was received. Several members of his squad racked their bolter, readied their melee weapons, and swiftly inspected their grenades after the approval decree of phase two. An ugly smile creeped over his lips at the beauty of a perfectly planned ambush. He turned away to address a separate voxnet, activating it with a blink of his eye.

+’[b]Zaid, towers Echo-One through Echo-Five have been dealt with. Clade Zameel is ready for phase two[/b].’+ He spoke into the vox, expecting nothing in return other than a single click of affirmation from the receiving end. The response was all that he needed to know that their operation was on track. Now, he awaited the moment to begin their hours of coordinated slaughter into Nabate.
[hr]
High Overseer Mimmun sat at her enormous cogitator with several ceramic mugs within arms reach and a vast ashtray for synth-tobacco sticks in flicking distance. Her eyes glazed over many terminals linked to the cogitator, at least one for every single tower along Nabatae’s gargantuan wall. Her left hand felt in constant motion, continuously pressing runes to repeat the same command for every single transaction on the defense network. Turnover, equipment requests, lower overseer reports, and more were promptly dealt with by her trained precision. All of it had been dealt with by her lonesome in the sole command tower of the Bronze City. None, save for her spare assistant or rarer drone from the masters, entered the defense core without their upper-hive overlord’s permission. In truth, she loved the isolation away from the masses of the hive and her lower subordinates. With that thought in mind, she reached out to the closest container only to find it empty. 

“Shillan, dear, could you bring me another pot of coffee from storage? I still have another hour left to fulfill the reports for our masters.” She said in a disappointed voice, one of her index fingers holding down a specific rune on her console. There was an audible crack of noise from a nearby sound machine, and a fresh voice from a younger woman began to hurriedly respond. A smirk grew on her parched lips, enjoying the moment of chaotic dismay that she routinely threw at the assistant.

“[i]Of course, ma’am! I-I’ll return in a few minutes for your beverage![/i]” Shillan, her assistant, stated with no shortage of stress in her voice. The response nearly drew a fit of laughter from Mimmun, a fresh burst of energy revitalizing her until the younger woman returned. She enjoyed her company as much as she reveled in her misery.

The overseer continued her work while she waited for Shillan to return with fresh brewed beverages to push her to shift completion. Her aged eyes scanned over the rest of the towers, watching each turnover happen in real time. Some had initiated their authentications earlier than expected, while others completed them on time as instructed. She tapped away at the runes on her console, digitally inscribing several notes for docked pay or issuing overtime for those who deviated from the shift change hours. Mimmun recognized one repeat offender, in particular, Tower Echo-Three, led by High Sentinel Omar and Overseer Kaklan. A note now resided in their directories for another week of censer and hypno-indoctrination. That’d teach them a lesson for going against her scheduling.

She smiled in satisfaction, bringing one of her tertiary arms up to suck upon tobacco-wrapped parchment. A plume of smoke spilled out from her pursed lips, tumbling into the light haze that filled the room. Her body reclined backward in the cushioned seat, a moment of respite filling her otherwise extraordinarily busy day. It was these calm periods that she enjoyed best. Luckily, she was far enough away from the other towers to keep her peace and close enough to the bastion-hive to arrive home within fifteen minutes on an ascender without encountering the master’s hounds. Chronometers on each of her terminals ticked in sync with each other, all of them swiftly approaching midnight. One more hour and some change until she would be home in her own bed. 

A rhythmic tapping on the portal into the control chamber nearly jolted her onto her feet in panic. Usually, Shillan would call from her desk to announce her journey to the chamber. The high overseer began to worry until she remembered that the poor girl had sounded rushed and desperate. Mimmun cursed herself for teasing the assistant too much, overextending the joy she sought in harassing the younger woman. Groaning as she left the seat, the elder woman began to slowly move towards the only entrance in the chamber. A set of tertiary fingers tapped at a console on the nearby wall, inputting specific runes known only to her.

“A moment, Shillan, I wasn’t expecting you to arrive without calling. I do apologize for the trouble, but I-” Mimmun began to speak, weaving a lie into her dialogue as the doors began to automatically open vertically. She had prepared herself to deal with a sobbing woman as Shillan usually did when scolded. Instead, the high overseer of Nabatae’s control tower froze in fear at the sight before her.

A man several sizes larger than her in austere, grey-powered armor as bulky as an excavator unit stood in front of her. In one of his taloned gauntlets, the decapitated head of her assistant hung from a torn spinal cord. In the other, a grotesque chainaxe decorated with dripping ichor. A knightly, slopped helmet split ornamentally down the middle stared down at her with orange lenses. Streaks of crimson painted the warrior from armored foot, to dark tabard, and up to the numeral on his right pauldron. She took a fearful step backward, only for him to calmly step forward by ducking under the doorway. Any words that she could muster were stuck in her throat, tears beginning to form at the edge of her eyes. Mimmun knew what was to become of her without it being spoken. She would die here.

The head of Shillan was swiftly tossed aside, Mimmun’s throat was grabbed in the claw that had held her assistant. She hadn’t been able to see the warrior’s movement even with her augmented eyes. The air was being choked from her decaying lungs in his spartan grip, taloned digits beginning to dig into her soft flesh. Saliva flew forth from her lips, bubbling foam forming at the corner of her mouth. His grip tightened unexpectedly as the last of her life began to flee in the face of overwhelming strength. She listened to the only thing she could comprehend at that moment, a final epitaph from the warrior who killed her.

“I must thank you, High Overseer. Were it not for your impeccable scheduling, then we would’ve had to resort to bombarding the city from afar. You, personally, have secured your city's fate for the Thirteenth and the Emperor. Enter the end knowing that you doomed your city.” The being said in a voice that was equal parts soothing and tormenting, a deep and booming crescendo of Achaemenidian charisma. She choked, gasping for one last bit of air to respond to the warrior. Sensing the attempt, the man grumbled and swiftly twisted his wrist in disappointment. Her life was extinguished in a haze of smoke.
[hr]
Zaid ibn N’dar allowed the chainaxe to dangle from the handle, a chain attached to the hilt refusing to let it touch the ground. With a new hand free, the warrior angled his talon-tipped gauntlet into a piercing shape to plunge into the woman’s flesh. Her head was torn from the neck down, viscera and ichor splattering across the carpeted floors in disgusting clumps. The man, no longer afflicted by her feeble weight, removed the upper surface of the skull to reveal a mess of grey matter within. Delicately, he dug out specific pieces of her shattered brain to feed into his slightly raised helmet. A warm, mushy taste entered his mouth that would’ve revulsed him were it not for the genetic stapling of certain receptors.

“[i]Isha Mimmun[/i]. What a pathetic life you’ve lived.” Zaid spoke aloud, feeding in on every single part of her knowledge and memories in a fleeting moment of repulsive experience. The structural layout of the hive, the guard placements, the cogitator stacks, and every other important location across the city fed into his intellect. Unlike others of his kind, he could filter the raw data from the flesh and consume exactly what was required. None of the one named ‘Isha Mimmum’ remained for him to witness. The head was tossed aside like a piece of trash discarded by a common person. Orange lenses fell upon the cogitator, scanning each and every display that held any amount of significance.

The geneknight started to press runes in a certain sequence, beginning the second of the planned phases for their invasion. Already, he could hear the buzzing in his helmet from the other warriors across the legion. Each clade had completed their assignments, each warrior had performed exactly as expected, and every action taken was as silent as a thousand and one grains of black sand. He furrowed his brows at the analogy, fresh memories woven in from another that their legion called to. A low chirp affirmed the successfulness of his task, several towers on each display beginning to rapidly blink in a strange pattern. A toothy grin grew on his cracked, scarred lips.

It was time to execute the second phase of the invasion.

+’Warriors! Astartes of the Thirteenth Legion! Begin the second phase of the invasion! Communication ban has been lifted, weapon silencing has been lifted, and stealth has been nullified. Let them know the price for rejecting our Master’s benevolence. ’+ Legion Master Zaid, the Warmaster of the Thirteenth Legion, commanded across their voxnet. Sigils on each of the terminals grew bright crimson as a hostile takeover took place. Gates along the wall opened, automated turrets fell silent, and remote drones suffered shocking fates. Nabatae was now laid bare to the genewarriors of the Emperor. +’[b]Kill them all[/b].’+

His command was absolute as if spoken by the Emperor himself. Already, Zaid could hear the familiar tone of bolter fire, volkite rays, and roaring chainweapons beginning to slaughter through the defenses of Nabatae. He tracked their aggressive, tactical movements on the high overseer’s terminals. The teams of ten on the walls - the clades - killed with extreme prejudice enroute to their next assignments. Many more of the Astartes flooded in from the four Bronze Gates of Nabatae. The invasion was now in full swing, a product produced only due to their genewrought might and cunning. Soon enough, the Imperial Army would arrive to pick up the pieces of their assault. Until that moment, the Bronze City was their grounds to hunt. 

The sound of shouts, stomping feet, and clattering wargear drew his attention away from the enormous cogitator. The guardians of Nabatae had finally noticed his intrusion. Zaid flexed his wrist, snapping the chain upwards and flinging the motorized axe into a talon-tipped gauntlet. He pushed the helmet tight against his skull, reconnecting the pressurized seal with the power armor’s environmental system. The body of the overseer was then lifted in his free hand, gripped in such a way that it was easily tossable. If he could not terrify the arrivals into submission, then Zaid settled for being able to throw the cadaver to break their spirits.

And so they arrived, a squad of the bronze sentinels of Nabatae from the ascender in the nearby corridor. He admired their suicidal gall to some degree, recklessly charging in with their meager carapace and bronze exosuits. Most carried their typical, curved chainglaives in one hand and a lascycler in the other. One particular Nabatean held aloft a blade that crackled with uncontrolled electricity. That specific warrior, however, wouldn’t be enough to calm their nerves.

“In the name of the Masters, who- [b]Oh sweet deliverable gods! High Overseer Mimmun![/b]” One of them spat out before doubling over in a heaving fit, bile spilling out of their mouth. His tactic had worked as anticipated, yet something told him there was more that could be done. [b]Anything is a weapon[/b]. A phrase that hadn’t been taught to him, but it was a passage that he certainly agreed with. Zaid hurled Isha’s defiled body at the group with every ounce of his genewrought might. The first warrior crumbled under the assault, crushed within his suit of armor by the combined weight and momentum of the cadaver. Her body exploded into a fit of ichor, blinding and terrifying the other sentinels. 

The Astartes lunged immediately after the cadaver was thrown, engaging the throttle-paddle on the chainaxe to dig into the second sentinel. Reinforced teeth chew through bronze and carapace quickly, their body cleaved in half through raw power. They began to scream, either scattering back to the ascender or flailing in shock. Zaid crushed the third defender’s skull with a punch, then effortlessly flung their corpse towards the ascender to fumble their companions. He refused to allow a second of recovery, kneeing the next Nabatean and plunging them down onto their own chainglaive. Shrieks of agony filled the air as much as vitae began to mist the room in a crimson haze. The last three defenders couldn’t hold their faculties, nor muster a defense against the Astartes.

“[b]Louder![/b] Let your fellow Nabatean hear your shrieks so that they may yet live in His name! Praise the Emperor with every ounce of your revolting body!” Zaid screamed at them, knowing that he’d receive exactly what he requested. The sentinels cried out as loudly, harshly, and desperately as possible. They slobbered fresh praises to the Emperor and pleas to spare their lives. He frowned in annoyance, pushing aside one of the broken defenders to enter the ascender. His last sight of the overseer’s chambers was one perfectly described as charnal house of intense macabre. 
[hr]
Commander Ismaal el-Mahdavi watched the Bronze City of Nabatae burn with his own eyes. He had been born here, grew up here, and defended this home for forty-five years. His sentinels had pushed back the technobarbarian corsairs of the Nordafrik Conclaves, culled the Gyptian reavers, and purged waves of gangrel mutants for twenty-five years. He had known war, trained in it, and considered himself a master within the walls of the bastion-hive. All of his vocal cords had been bruised from the amount of screaming he conducted, spreading orders and commanding the warriors under him. Every muscle in his body had been trained, bio-enhanced, and engineered for the relentless persecution of his enemies. Every Nabatean warrior knew his name, understood his legacy, and refused to route under his visage.

Yet, everything that had just occurred belied any sort of war that he participated in. They appeared from seemingly every corner of the hive, precisely firing into the crowds to slaughter warriors that he had personally trained. Each bullet had seen their body explode into showers of gore, shattering the resolves of his sentinels. He had tried to rally every soldier, citizen, and mercenary that he could muster against those killing machines. They ran faster than he could speak. The commander noticed that the invaders hadn’t been slaughtering citizens, only defenders with extreme prejudice. In all of his years, Ismaal considered surrendering outright and pleading for his life with the rest of his soldiers. Pride wormed into his veins, disallowing such thoughts to take hold within his body.

And so he waited at an artificial strait towards the noble hab-blocks, a sentinel station impeding the way forward. To either side of him, men and women of Nabatae shivered in silent fear of the things that hunted them. Their chainglaives idly revved in anticipation, lascyclers fiddled with, and their armor rising high only to lower in quick succession. Ismaal gripped both handles on his lightning cleaver, a two-handed melee weapon confidently crafted by their masters for aspiring champions. Behind him, the commander could hear the chanting of the priests as they summoned their wyrd. Biomechanical monstrosities of flesh and armor protected those of the clergy, looming in the post like wrathful knights of the gods. Confidence began to brew within him, a feeling of certainty for victory settling across their defense.

It was all in vain. While he had been hunkered down in the sentinel post, the enemy had begun putting their beloved city to the torch. Those who hadn’t surrendered were slaughtered, burned, maimed, and decapitated in such quickness that he hadn’t heard their death cries. They, the grey armored ones, had noticed their outpost and began to stalk it like wild animals to wounded prey. It wasn’t until one of their kind openly stepped out to address them that he truly began to feel fear.

“A mighty fortress, protecting the noblemen that have already likely abandoned you. Your Masters have rejected the Emperor’s vision of Unity before, but that doesn’t have to be your ultimate fate. Walk out, praise His name, and join the quest for Unity. I promise you on my name as Consul Raamiz of the Thirteenth.” The grey-armored giant, Raamiz, had stated in a soft and warm voice. His voice reverberated, echoing several times over in a pleasant crescendo. Ismaal couldn’t believe how alluring the warrior sounded. He was more ornate than the other warriors beside him, bedecked in chain and tabard. Ten other austere knights stood around him with their orange lenses upon the sentinel post. 

Before Ismaal could properly respond, five defenders had left their posts to kneel down before the one named Raamiz. As promised, one of the austere knights guided them safely away from the warzone. Three more began to shift in a movement to leave, yet found themselves assailed by the priests behind him. They screamed in a tongue that the commander couldn’t comprehend, murdering the defenders that had attempted to leave with purple lightning. None of their number dared to leave after that, yet the grey warriors were not so kind as to wait for more deserters. Nabateans were brought forth from an unknown area, forced to their knees, and ripped to shreds by the invaders. Some were offered a quick death with a slash to the throat, while others were maimed by chainswords or slowly decapitated by their taloned gauntlets.

Bodies had begun to pile up some distance away from the sentinel post. Ismaal watched with reddened eyes as more of his defenders were murdered by the grey warriors or gutted by the Master’s priests.  The confidence that he had initially built up began to wane as every minute passed. Every moment his home burned, his people died, and his culture slowly eradicated. The puppets of their forlorn overlords did nothing, perfectly content to wait while Nabatae was purged. Fresh wrath bubbled within his stomach, angry that he couldn’t change fate no matter how hard he tried. Wrath gave way to despair until the one named Raamiz returned once more to speak.

“I understand now, sentinels. You are stuck between two walls, yet there is a way out of this. Open the doors, welcome us inside, and we will flay the pair of witches that torture you.” Raamiz spoke from across the hab-strait, his voice as smooth as freshly harvested honey. The ‘witches’ that he spoke of turned their attention away from ritualistic chanting to witness Ismaal’s reply. The commander stepped forward, making himself evident in the post’s wide-slitted viewports. He saw now that Raamiz was armed with a spear in one hand and a strange bolthrower in the other. Ismaal knew that this was their last chance, either side with this ‘Emperor’ or remain loyal to the Masters.

“Will you promise to spare every sentinel that we come across, so long as we fight beside you?” Commander Ismael called out, a deep and serious voice that belied any amount of cowardice. As the question was asked, he thought that he could feel Raamiz smile under his helmet. The grey warrior brought his spear upon his chestplate, half-bowing in a strange form of gesticulation. It sufficed for an answer, Ismaal turning around to angry priests behind him. Their monstrous knights huffed in preparation, raising their fists to fight against the commander and his sentinels. Warily, his companions readied their chainglaives to combat against their former Master’s servants.

“[b]I, Ismaal el-Mahdavi, pledge my life, and the lives of all Nabatean sentinels, to the Emperor and Unity from this moment onward![/b]” He called out at the top of his lungs, yet the aftermath of his defiance to the Nabatean masters was felt immediately. The wall that had been behind him crumbled into nothingness as those austere knights charged through with insane timing. Their weapons were already firing, gunning, and powered to fight in relentless close-quarters combat. Consul Raamiz arrived last with his spear lowered and a quickness to his feet.

“Well said, Ismaal! [b]Glory unto you![/b]” Raamiz laughed, lunging forward with an unknowable energy enhancing his movements. Ismaal watched the spear ignite with a powerfield, pierce the first priest in the heart, and explode the second priest with a point-blank shot of his firearm. The other ten austere knights easily cut down the Master’s monstrosities, their own form equally towering the bioenhanced servants. He never knew that the Emperor had such power, nor did he know that the Masters could be dealt with so easily.

Ismaal fell to his knees as the Consul flicked the boiling blood from his spear tip. The lightning cleaver fell from his grip, and both of his hands were brought together in a prayer. He dipped his head in fervent faith towards the man who had saved their lives, offered them solace, and guided them to a glorious future. The other sentinels began to do the same. The commander looked up only to ask a single question. “Are you all vengeful angels?”

The comment drew the ire from the other grey warriors who had defeated their master’s puppets. Raamiz laughed loudly and happily, stepping forward to kneel in front of Ismaal. One of his titanic hands, now free of a firearm, was delicately placed on the Nabatean’s shoulder. Ismaal’s green eyes peered into the orange lenses of the Emperor’s warrior with anticipation.

“No, Ismaal, we are the Emperor’s [b]Astartes.[/b]” Raamiz said with a warm smile.
[hr]
Alim ibn Sharif, Consul of the Thirteenth Legion, observed the disastrous siege that halted their invasive progress into bastion-hive Nabatae from atop a sentinel post. The forsaken technosavants that had called themselves ‘masters’ holed up in the final vestige of resistance. An enormous, bronze palace at the center of the hive stood in the way of their conquest. A singular bridge as wide as a mountain connected the hive to the palace through the noble’s district. Ghaizietti, the ‘perfected’ genewarriors of Nabatae, desperately held the crossing regardless of whatever was thrown at them. Completely armored in bronze, buffed to the size of Thunder Warriors, and wielding savage power claws of monstrous size was what awaited them. Several of the Thirteenth had died attempting to murder the genewarriors, butchered by sheer strength seen only by the Emperor’s Thunder Warriors and Custodes. 

A thousand and one different plans formulated in his mind of how to deal with the imperfect genethings that they fought. He ruled out all options that would cost the Emperor a fruitful assault, then ones leading to mass sacrifice of captive Nabatae, and finally ideas that would garnish unacceptable casualty factors for the Thirteenth. Ultimately, he decided on a plan that would utilize the best and worst of their strengths. Just as he had begun to expand on the idea, the Legion Master appeared behind him on feet as silent as sand.

“You appear troubled, Alim, how do you plan to take the bridge by simply thinking?” Zaid chided, placing a reassuring gauntlet on Alim’s pauldron. He couldn’t help but feel belittled, yet it did little to sway him from the momentarily melancholy of a failed assault.

“The [i]Ghaizietti[/i] are like Thunder Warriors, Legion Master, I don’t think we’ll get out of this fight without necessary losses.” Alim responded in a monotone voice, both responding to the question and defending his actions as a field commander. It earned him a sneer from the older warrior, who now watched the carnage wrought by the genewarriors. Fresh reinforcements of deserter sentinels stormed the bridge, wildly firing their lascyclers while others wheeled in multilasers on hovering platforms. They disappeared as quickly as they appeared, one of the Ghaizietti lunging animalistically into their battalion.

“Then we need only slaughter them before they slaughter us.” A new voice stated, Praetor Zameel emerging from the depths of Nabatae with a pair of clades following behind. The swordmaster inclined his head towards Zaid first, then to Alim after a swift gesticulation from the Legion Master. The Praetor found a comfortable viewing distance on Alim’s left side, eyeing the monstrosities tearing apart the sentinels with ease. 

“[i]Incomprehensible[/i]. We would sustain heavy casualties on this lone assault. Victory is achievable without it.” Alim responded with a hint of anger, yet retained the majority of his monotone voice. Often, it felt like he couldn’t comprehend what his comrades were thinking. He thought much more different from the Thirteenth Legion, honed in on different details that fled their minds. Zaid turned to him now, his posture displeased with the discourse between his warriors. Zameel simply shook his head in response, perhaps thinking him a coward instead of a tactician.

“Then what do you suggest, Alim?” Zaid pointedly asked, hints of familial anger growing on his tongue. It was a tone that the Consul despised, yet it granted him the room to vent a more formulated plan to his comrades. 

“The [i]Ghaizietti[/i] must bleed, preferably profusely but more viably in several minor cuts. After watching them for several minutes, I’ve ascertained the majority of their enhancements. They do not possess regeneration such as we do. We pull back the sentinels, fight only with Astartes, and utilize hit-and-run tactics to bait the genethings.” Alim said with a small hint of pride in his voice, defeated once more by the monotone. The Legion Master nodded his head in satisfaction, approving of it with a familial slap on Alim’s pauldron. Zameel tapped the hilt of his blade against his chestplate, offering a small warrior’s salute.

“[i]Death by a thousand cuts[/i], is it?” Another voice, Consul Raamiz’s, joined in with their small strategic meeting. More of his brethren followed behind the arriving Consul, stray sentinels mingling in amongst the power-armored warriors. One of the mortals held aloft a peculiar weapon that caught Alim’s eye, yet his attention was stolen as Raamiz spoke again. “Even I would’ve suggested that. If I hadn’t been slaughtering my way through the noble’s district, then perhaps I could’ve broken through the stalemate.”

“Your arrogance knows no bounds, Raamiz. If you are so eager to prove your strength, then venture out and slay the Ghaizietti.” Alim challenged, squaring off against the prideful Astartes. Tension filled the air between himself and Ramiz for only a moment. Zaid snapped the chain attached to his chainaxe, forcing them to glance in the direction of their Legion Master. Fury was beginning to fume from the slopped helmet of the elder warrior.

“[b]Enough talking[/b]. The Emperor demands Nabatae. We will deliver. [i]Fight together or die together[/i].” The Legion Master commanded, turning away from the rest of his warriors. His power-armored form disappeared into the depths of the tower they stood on, venturing forth into the battlefield that calls to them. Alim shared a look with Raamiz and Zameel before descending with Zaid. The rest of the Astartes followed shortly after, their arguments laid to rest and their lust for glory raised.

The battlefield of the bridge stretched out before Alim and his brothers as a corridor of shattered bodies. Broken, maimed sentinels were spread in every chaotic direction covered in freshly spilled blood. Rare Astartes were amongst their number, ceramite armor torn and rended apart by the bestial claws of the Ghaizietti. Those hyper-enhanced Nabateans stood in a staggered yet coherent line on the bridge, awaiting the next attempt on their master’s life. Now that Alim was closer, he could finally understand exactly why they had pushed the Thirteenth back.

Bronze plates covered every inch of their body in hyper-dense powered armor. They stood slightly taller and wider than the Thunder Warriors that he had seen on the battlefield. Great reservoirs of bubbling purple fluid on their backs hooked into several ports across their body. Blank helmets with industrial respirators hooked to the reservoirs covered their smaller proportioned skulls. Gruesome claws of five powered talons were permanently fused to their hands, serrated for maximum damage against armored foes. Short arcs of strange lightning danced against their metal plating, grounding out at their clawed greaves.

Consul Alim stepped forward first with his thunder hammer in one hand and a plasmic rifle in the other. He hadn’t realized that his greaves brought him forward, but the Astartes felt a keen draw to those powerclaws. It wasn’t simply fascination that drew him towards the Ghaizietti. He wanted those talons for himself and the Legion. Not even he could comprehend where this desire bubbled up from. His sloped helmet turned to swiftly regard the Legion Master with a sense of urgency.

“Zaid, I want those powerclaws for the Thirteenth. I believe I could fashion a great number of them for future operations. Though, I confess, I do not know where this desire draws from.” Alim spoke with a tone of fascination, dimmed only by his dull voice. The comment drew the Legion Master’s attention with peaked interest. Instead of responding to him in a proper manner, Zaid simply nodded his head in affirmation of the Consul’s request. He beamed with muted delight, tightening his grip on the thunder hammer.

The Ghaizietti, sensing a dangerous array of opponents, began their attack before the Astartes could sprint forward. Each Nabatean menace galloped forward on all of their limbs, barreling towards Alim and his brethren like wild animals on the hunt. Despite their cumbersome galloping, the genemonstrosities uttered no sound as if their mouths were sown shut. It did little to perturb the Astartes, who had since readied their array of weapons. Both sets of genewarriors met in a clash of genewrought might.

Alim swung his furious hammer into the first Ghaizietti with all the force of a minor deity, crunching the chestplate of the Nabatean supersoldier. Utilizing his enhanced reflexes, the Consul unloaded an uncharged point-blank shot from the plasmic rifle into the brute. Reinforced plating immediately cooked hot enough to sink into the genewarrior’s chest, yet it only suffice to push the being backwards for it to recuperate. Raamiz followed up on Alim’s assault, lunging forward with accelerated speed to pierce through the Ghaizietti’s sunken chest. Both of the reservoirs were punctured along with it’s heart, cutting the lifethreads of the genething. It slumped forward, defeated under the rapid assault of the Thirteenth.

The consul turned to face new foes, yet found his brethren similarly successful if not employing unique strategies in their duels. Legion Master Zaid, swift and deadly, parried strikes from the powerclaws to deliver gruesome swings of his chainaxe. Once behind the brutes, the elder Astartes unleashed a jet of flames from his firearm. Promethium-enhanced fire cooked the genebeasts from the inside, boiling the vats of enhancing-fluid into solid mass. The Ghaizietti he fought began to audibly choke as vat-sludge clogged his respirator. Zaid wasted no time in his assault, allowing the flamer to dangle from a chain and delivering a sidewards punch against the genething’s helmet. As it stumbled sideways, the bloodthirsty chainaxe cleaved upwards to catch the Nabatean’s throat. Blood, meat, and gore cascaded downwards in disgusting clumps against Nabatae’s palace bridge. The Emperor’s angel of death left to engage another Ghaizietti, allowing the one that he fought to choke and die.

Satisfied with his commander, Alim sprinted towards the next Ghaizietti that danced with Zameel. The blademaster of the Thirteenth slashed, cut, and pierced the genebeast several times over. His mastery of the powersword was unnatural to Alim’s eye, one that hadn’t been indoctrinated into their psyches. Every step of the Praetor was weightless, precise and deft. It appeared as if Zameel was stepping on glass or gliding across sand with each fluid strike of his blade. Each strike of his powersword found gaps in plates, cut arterial tubes, or opened fresh gashes in exposed skin. To the Consul’s surprise, the Nabatean had already significantly slowed to the blood loss it suffered. Eventually, the genething ceased to move and slumped to the ground after a dozen rounds of bloodletting.

Several other Astartes followed in from behind, engaging with those that Alim hadn’t yet collided with. Perhaps they had watched the Thirteenth’s best warriors closely, echoing movements that the four of them exhibited. In a sense, the consul understood why this was the case. They were all of the same genecode, trained all in the same underground halls, and raised up to be the Emperor’s greatest weapons in the same arts of war. He clenched his thunder hammer tighter, a new emotion beginning to pulse throughout his being. Brotherhood. They shared something even more profound than their upbringing, visions buried beneath their genetic modifications that bonded their legion together. Those thoughts were buried as Zaid rushed forward with Raamiz and Zameel, Alim following shortly behind with the palace doors in full view of their assault.
[hr]
The Legion Master stepped over the corpse of a Ghaizietti, bloodied and mauled by his Astartes. A slaughterhouse painted the bridge behind him filled to the brim with injured Astartes, slaugheterd Nabatean genehorrors, and desecrated sentinels. The fighting had ended some moments ago with the final genething laid low at the entrance of the palace. His chainaxe still dripped fresh ichor from the chunks of meat ripped from the fight. Their armors no longer remained an austere grey, brilliant crimson decorating every surface of their powered plating. Only the numeral of ‘thirteen’ remained visible on their right pauldron.

One final step saw Zaid arriving at the foot of the palace doors. They rose up as monoliths of carefully curated culture, forged from the pits of the hive to house the affluential beings that controlled it. He felt ire creep on at the sight of such vile designs depicting their isolated history in the desert wastes. Disregarding any want for theatrics or ceremony, the Legion Master lifted one of his armored greaves up and slammed it against the doors. At first, it refused to give and instead buckled under the weight of his gene-wrought might. As he began to lift his foot for another point-blank kick, the doors slowly fell backward in a dreary descent. Both clattered against the palace floors, shattering tile and echoing destruction for several miles across the hive.

Inside, the Master of the Thirteenth could truly see the abominable forms of Nabatae’s true overlords. Bronze plinths, columns, and braziers decorated the interior, while strange arcane devices ominously hummed nearby. The genewarriors of Nabatae, the Ghaizietti, floated unformed in tanks of poisonously green liquid. A vast array of cables snaked along the ground to the back of the palace. A wide, spherical room attached to the main corridor opened up to reveal a great device of impractical design. Five upright cryogenic chambers linked to a central cogitator the likes he had never seen. Chilled humans, thawed yet cooled, seemingly rested in peaceful slumber inside each of these frozen beds. As Zaid began to approach the cogitator, he began to hear a rumbling like that of an enormous, crackling voxcaster.

+’[b]Insects. Tools of the Emperor. Scorpions. You who have delayed the advancement of civilization by hundreds of years for invading our hive. Nabatae was to be a shining ecumenopolis isolated in the desert wastes. It is now ruined and you will pay for your transgressions.[/b]’+ The voice, a myriad of several being that spoke all at once, reverberated across the palace. All the Astartes turned to regard the cogitator at the center of the palace, inferring that it was the rightful speaker. They spoke with a level of confidence that belied their situation as if they knew nothing of the events. Zaid felt the temptation to throw a grenade and be done with the ordeal, yet he had a different fate in mind for the Nabatean masters.

“[i]Scorpions?[/i] An apt description, don’t you think?” Raamiz called out from behind, walking in tandem with Zaid with his powerspear clanking against the ground. Zameel and Alim turned to regard the consul, shaking their heads in protest to being regarded as such.

“Indeed. We are [b]His[/b] instruments of vengeance and destruction. We are a skittering legion on the sands, persecuting unification through claw and stinger.” Zaid began to speak in a dangerous tone, inching closer to the cogitator stacks with his chainaxe raised. The Nabateans may not have displayed it, but the Legion Master could taste their fear on his tongue. They knew that no one was left to defend their glorious ideas. All that was left was death. 

He slowly walked around the cogitator, stopping at the first cryogenic chamber to its immediate left. A flick of his wrist saw the chainaxe decapitating the first of the masters through their cryogenic chambers. Ichor splattered across the palace’s floors as Zaid murdered the being that rebelled against the Emperor’s idea. A howling cry of pain resounded through the palace on the vox, one of their number dying to a savage genewarrior.

+’[b]Do you not feeling nothing for the loss of sacred technology!? Does your master not wish to preserve our minds for the glory of the future!?[/b]’+ The voices began to plead through their synchronized voxcaster, desperation becoming extremely evident as the first of their number died. The Astartes punched through the frail glass of the chamber, tearing the Nabatean out and throwing him against one of the pillars. He moved to the next, aiming the chainaxe against the following master of Nabatae.

“[b]No[/b]. Your arrogance hinders His ideals. Accept death and [color=orange][b][i]drown in umbral sands[/i][/b][/color].” The Legion Master calmly stated, furrowing his brows at the final words spoken. More unknown phrases that continued to seep into his being, spoken in a tongue not known to him. The thought was disregarded as gripped the paddle-throttle on the chainaxe, burrowing the gruesome weapon through the cryo-chamber to feast on Nabatean flesh. Harsher shrieking thronged through the palace, nearly forcing the structure to buckle in on itself. 

+’[b]This hive will die without our guidance! Nothing will operate, the refineries will die, and the walls will buckle! The Emperor needs us to rule Nabatae![/b]’+ The voices pleaded with utter despair as they were cut down one by one. Those beings that had been quietly ‘sleeping’ in their chamber were now wide-eyed in perpetual fear. Zaid drew closer to the next one, his orange lenses meeting the terrified eyes of his next target.

“He does not need you. There will be others that are less cowardly, more befitting the Emperor’s guidance.” The Legion Master responded, gunning the chainaxe once more to bite through glass and flesh in tandem. Gore spilled across every inch of the cryogenic chamber, gushing out in horrible chunks on the palace grounds. The body within slumped as a mutilated corpse. The shrieking had quieted after three had died, leaving only two to cry their lungs out in vain. They were isolated, forgotten, and discarded by the Nabateans who pillaged their own city.

+’[b]You must understand! We could gift the Emperor a greater legion of gene-warriors the likes he has never seen! Great beings that could rival the machine-men of the Old Night![/b]’+ Their voice was split between a man and a woman, still synchronized but weakening with every death. Terror etched into their pleading tone, hoping for the barest sliver of persuasion. It only served to earn a chuckle from the Astartes.

“The Emperor has already created his great legions of gene-warriors, ones that you will never live to see.” Zaid stated with a toothy smile, swinging his chainaxe against the glass and gunning the trigger once more. Sharpened, metallic teeth bit into the flesh of the man within. His voice rang out in a cacophony of maddening pain, desynchronizing from the great host that they had been tied to.

+’[i][b]Please-[/b][/i]’+ The last of their voice, a woman’s tone, began to plead out. The Legion Master of the Thirteenth wasted no more time on the matter, smashing a fist through the cryogenic chamber to drag the woman out of her artificial shell. She gasped for air, forcibly unplugged from the machine that likely vitalized her. Amniotic fluid spilled out of metallic holes in her skin as she dangled from Zaid’s grasp.

“[b]Die with some dignity, cur[/b].” He flexed his grip on her throat, bursting flesh and organs alike in his malevolent grasp. Her head split from her throat, the mangled body dropping to the floor in a disgusting splash of ichor. Disinterested, the Legion Master tossed the crudely decapitated head aside to join the rest of his brethren. They had remained a distance away to watch the affair. Each knew what it meant to allow their leader to perform the final cut on the master of an enemy army. It was their sign of respect.

“Get the Imperial army on vox. We’re finished here.” Zaid commanded, walking through the main corridor of the palace with his armor stained in Nabatean gore. As he began to cross the threshold between the master’s abode and Nabatae proper, the Legion Master halted to look back at the great cogitator. He considered some unknown fascination for a second before beginning to speak again. “Inform the Sigilites that we have a gift for them.”
[hr]
Legion Master Zaid waited on the sands outside of Nabatae as the fresh morning son began to crest the horizon. The storm that had plagued their initial invasion had dissipated into nothingness, revealing the massacres on the bronze walls. All of his brethren over a thousand strong stood nearby in perfect formation, their weapons sheathed and their grey armor cleaned of Nabatean blood. Some of their number had taken trophies from the bastion-hive, such as the lightning cleavers of the elite sentinels or the powerclaws of the Ghaizietti. It reminded him that the most loyal of the deserters, Ismaal, stood nearby with his own group of sentinels in a traditional formation. A part of their invasion had been successful because of his efforts. An honor that Zaid would never forget.

His attention was suddenly drawn to a great flock of descending silhouettes in the sky. Stormbirds, Lighters, and Karmis transports began their landing sequences some distance away from the bronze city. Each bore the symbol of the Raptor, yet the Stormbirds retained an additional numeral for the Thirteenth. Their caretakers had arrived to replenish their numbers, repair their gear, and move to the next warzone to push unification. Similarly, he recognized the pattern on the Imperial transports as the Tenth Excertus Imperialis. A legion of mortals that either followed or prepared their insertion into congested battlefields. The Legion Master watched as the first of the Imperials began to disembark from their fat-bellied aircraft, hordes of red-garbed auxilia and utility crawlers unloading supplies. Already, Zaid could pick out their Lord-Commander from the grunts, accompanied by veterans and a cadre of Sigilites from the Himalazians.

As they approached, the Legion Master pressed his fist against the Raptor on his chesplate in salute of the Tenth’s Lord-Commander. The motion was responded to with a crisp, traditional salute from the mortal before he stepped closer. Zaid had forgotten how brutal and battered he was. A tall man in black dress uniform padded with plated-carapace from Europa walked up to him. One of his eyes was replaced with a glaring, red augmentation, while the rest of his face was scarred from combat or strained from age. His thin lips curled slightly upwards in what could pass as a smile for him.

“[i]Legion Master Zaid.[/i]” The Lord-Commander stated, sharply clicking his heels together in a straightening pose before the Astartes. Both of his arms were crossed in front of his chest, a greatcoat billowing behind him in the desert waste’s uneven breeze. 

“[i]Lord-Commander Crucias.[/i]” Zaid responded, dropping the salute and returning to a neutral stance before the glaring eyes of the mortal.

“Another successful assault added to the tally of the Thirteenth. The Emperor will certainly know of your victory, considering how you managed to rally the majority of the hive against itself and maintain low margins of collateral.” Crucias said, his voice a mixture of mature and prompt. Their conversations always began the same, starting with debriefing and working towards specifics meant for one-on-one conversations. Auxilia of the Tenth Excertus Imperialis had formed a red sea by this point, hauling their supplies and vehicles through the open gates of Nabatae.

“A great many factors played their parts. Offer ample rewards to the Nabatean commander, Ismaal, for his service in the name of the Emperor.” The Legion Master said, gesturing to the formation of sentinels closest to them. Ismaal echoed Zaid’s movements, placing a fist against the Raptor on his chest plate and bowing to Crucias. The Lord-Commander offered a wave and a thin smile, then returned his piercing eyes to the Astartes soon after. 

“And the technology previously mentioned in the report?” Crucias asked, gesturing for the Sigilites to step forward to listen in on Zaid’s personal report.

“In the central palace, past the noble district. A cogitator tied to the Nabatean masters in chilled chambers of glass. The stack is left undamaged, but the overlords were destroyed. Too unworthy to live in service to the Emperor.” The Astartes stated, a smile beginning to form under his helmet. The Sigilites nodded in response, speaking amongst themselves before disappearing away from the Lord-Commander. Crucias dipped his head in respect as they left to gather their own equipment.

“Excellent. Nabatae is in the Emperor’s hands and our unification progresses. We’ve already received reports that our next war is in Abyssna. I wish you luck, Master of the Thirteenth-” Crucias spoke, beginning to already deliver their next assignment to the Astartes. Zaid held up a taloned gauntlet to halt him from further speaking. The action earned a patient, confused look from the Lord-Commander, yet the movement hadn’t startled him like other mortals. 

“We have spoken amongst ourselves. The Legion has tread the shadows of Terra without a proper name for too long. It has been decided.” The Legion Master said, earning a surprised look from the Lord-Commander. The thin smile on the mortals lips grew at the thought of his long-lasting friend’s achievements. Crucias folded his arms behind his back.

“And what would your Legion be known as, old friend?”

“[color=orange][b][i]The Bronze Scorpions[/i][/b][/color].”