[center][b][h2]IV Legiones Astartes
Purge of Ur-Atlan[/h2][/b][/center]

The Decree of the Emperor was absolute. The Hand of the Emperor were his Legions.

These two truths did little to comfort Isaac as he stood in what could little be described as a tent. He disliked the need for it, true, but there were some few benefits to weigh against his feelings. For one thing, the mortal beside him did not need to wear his mask though the wastes howled and screamed outside. For another, the cartographic display could properly function in the tent. He scratched against the stubble of his face, ignored the humidity of that tent and the heat in his armor from it. The display flickered as a technician worked against it, clicking various systems here and there through an open panel. The wind howled louder, flapped against it, and some breath of it invaded into the tent. It scorched against Isaac's skin and burned his throat, though he shrugged such issues away.

A chance look to the other, his tan, light uniform and breastplate testaments to the fact that the General did not suffer from the same issues as the rabble outside. The Legion Master had looked such over earlier, a mix of mercenaries, gene-warriors drawn from Saragorn, and professional soldiers. Some were used to the wastes and how they were, others simply didn't seem to be so at all. They wouldn't have to deal with such for much longer, though. Soon enough the IV would have its first true deployment and all would have a taste of war against Ur-Atlan. He snorted at the thought that it might be somehow better weather to their north. The comparison between the General's garb and his own unpainted plate came unbidden. Some tools were best left unadorned.

"Your men," his voice crackled, harsh and rough, "are they prepared?"

The General's gaze was set on the cartographic display as it hummed into action, displaying a number of positions. Watery eyes dared not shift away from it. "They are ready for whatever comes."

There were some questions which bore little use in clarifying. Isaac did not ask for more than what had been given. He stared further still at the display, waiting patiently on the other two whose presence had been called for by the Legion Master. There was little else he could or needed to do but await their arrival. He had been told they had entered camp some moments before, and thus had called up the General to come and speak. The pause was not for long, though. The heat and breath of the wastes invaded the tent again, whipping about, introducing the two figures even as their stench seemed to assail all. 

Isaac but turned his head slowly to the two Primarchs. One was clad in the gray-gold of the Seventh, Apollyor with his lantern-jaw features and acid-shaven skull, while the other wore blue-and-yellow of the Fourteenth, Sunxian with crag-hills for a face. Neither seemed especially pleased, though Apollyor greeted all present with a clenched smile. This was a new adventure, a new deed, and the Legion Master knew Apollyor was eager for it to be penned to the Ashen Marauders' list of conquests. Isaac rendered a silent salute to them, returned in kind.

"We gather for the destruction of Ur-Atlan. Long have they guarded their south against the nomad tribes of the wastes, but such defenses will be ineffective against the Emperor's Decree. Once they are swept from the face of Terra, a new front against Albia may be opened and, with it, new promises of victory."

The General spoke, bowing before he began. "Ur-Atlan. They consort with witches and falsehoods. They claim their Queen is a god. Such affront to the Emperor cannot be allowed. Their primary city is…here," a finger jabbed into the cartographic display, "Their capital, Atlas Ultima, placed between two lakes. What information we can gather suggests both are highly polluted with their foul traditions and are impassable. Fortresses here, here, and here guard against the south while the hive of Atlan Tertia, to their north, appears to provide the bulk of their reserve forces, the majority of their populace."

"Mountain pass chokeholds. We cannot pass through these easily. Your suggestion?" Apollyor ground his teeth as he spoke, eyes narrowing in mental calculations for losses. They didn't appear good.

"Here and here," Isaac motioned to portions of the region near two of the strongholds, "We shall tunnel into these, place charges to induce landslides against the fortresses. After this…tunneling out into where the fortresses were should not be exceedingly treacherous."

"That sort of activity will be noticed. They may yet attack first." Sunxian was sour, it seemed, doubtful about such a motion that did not involve the sheer speed of the bike, the firepower of the tank. His arms were already crossed in condemnation.

"Then yours will be there to meet them in the field. Let them try to move on your plains. If the foe counter-tunnels, we shall dissuade him. False tunnels, angled approaches, so on will complicate their efforts. Ours is the Emperor's Decree."

"What after?"

"We strike across Ur-Atlan like lightning. Destroy the remaining fortress behind us - their fortifications will be weak from the interior - and bound against Atlas Ultima to place it under siege. Reinforcements from their northern hive will be intercepted by the Ashen Marauders in the field, before they can solidify their position, and you shall burn Atlan Tertia to the ground. After that, Apollyor, you shall join us for the assaults against Atlas Ultima."

"When?"