[center][h1][b][u]Dustbound[/u][/b][/h1]
-Before the Assault of Kursken-[/center]
[hr]

The Asiatic Dustfields stretched out across the vast southern reaches of Ursh. Ruins rose like antediluvian monoliths throughout the landscape, reaching up to the sky with shattered fingers of corroded metal. Arid ground fell below the eternal cloud of dust, perforating metal and plastek like a swarm of insects. The streets of what may have once been a hive were shattered, broken, and strewn apart by things unknown. Wrecks, long eaten by Terra’s radioactive fallout, remained as statues of a far distant past. Signages of a language forgotten hung from needle-thin rails, always on the verge of dropping. Things moved in the rusted shroud. A humanoid shape clambered through the broken streets, sprinting with all their life could muster. Quadrupedal beings skittered around on thin legs, their strange proportions growing their shadows like molting insects. Great shadows, larger than mortal men, skulked through the dust with a variety of menacing objects planted in their appendages. None of these were plain to see for even Sol could not perfectly penetrate the wide spun rust-cloud. 

It was a miracle that Primarch Corvinius of the Obsidian Crows could see anything beneath the orange hued storm. The night sky did little to improve this fact. His helmet, enhanced by built-in magnification oculars, attempted to pick out shapes in the rust; however, their vague outlines could only bring forth theories and hypotheses. He reached a midnight blue gauntlet to the ground, holding the magnarail as he prepared to move positions. He lambasted himself for having to move with such frequency around the Dustfields. The clouds shifted unfavorably no matter how close or how far he moved. His warplate only further capitalized on his positioning as it blasted sand in a small area around him. He had much preferred the lighter armor of their younger years, devoid of power armor and exoskeletal frames.

+‘Crow Primus to Crow All, begin ingress of the hive perimeter by two miles. Mark egress routes. No combat. Blades ready if necessary. Calm the blood-rage.’+ He spoke, his voice a mixture of deep and nasally. His cloak of feathers drooped idly over his shoulders as he moved forward in a half-crouch, half-sprint. Several others moved behind him in integers of two, spaced out by fifteen feet. Each step was a practiced movement, their hulking forms now accustomed to the peculiar gait of the Obsidian Crows. Silence was never a word that one would use when describing Thunder Warriors, yet the Thirteenth defied this with their exceptionalism.

Corvinius watched the auspex as a hawk would watch its prey, waiting for the rest of the Legio to finish their movements. The lingering dust was beginning to grow denser as they closed the distance from the outskirts of the hive. What few obstacles they’d faced in outside of the hive were quickly dealt with, obliterated into nothingness from raw aggression and genewrought might. They were nearly in the city proper now, way markers annotated by rusted signage and a greater occurrence of ruined groundcars or wrecked macrohaulers. He felt the cloth-feather fusion around him whip violently in the surging rust-storm, threatening to reveal his warplate beneath. A precarious ping alerted him as each of his genewarriors complied with his orders.

+‘Crow Primus to Crow All. Mark targets. On command, clear the way.’+ His voice crackled through the vox, now blunted by the static haze of the rust-storm. He suspected their infiltration would amount to this, but it was necessary. Their objective was well within the hive, deep beneath the surface and shrouded from their continental augur-array. It mattered little to their Master, only that their mission was completed. He hefted the magnarail up against a rusted vehicle roughly the same height as him. His talon-tipped gauntlets adjusted the scope as it linked with his helmet-mounted ocular system. The scope fell on a figure walking through the dust, a giant of a being with a heavy-duty ballistic weapon of unknown caliber.

Those genewarriors that had followed him began to echo his movements. Dark blue-yellow Cataegis in midnight hued cloth covertly entered their desired cover, unholstering their myriad instruments of vengeance. Gigantic longlas, heavy ballistic snipers, and elegant plasrails were prepared in various ways. Regardless, the telltale silence of an alpha strike loomed over their formation. Several more figures emerged from the dust, some smaller and more delicate and some of medium description in bulky attire. Their silhouettes did not reveal who they were. It didn’t matter to the Obsidian Crows. All that was required was annihilation.

+‘[i]Begin[/i],’+ Corvinius flatly stated as he pulled the trigger, a bullet vomited forth from a magnetically driven rail-barrel hybrid. Dust was pierced as it crossed the distance in a fraction of a second, piercing the hulking shape and exploding them into a rust-infused mist. A cacophony of ballistics, lasers, and plasmic projectiles perforated the shrouding storm, streaking into the hive-city from several distinct vantage points. For a single moment, the once-dead city was alive with the sound of gunfire and the cries of a hundred whimpering corpses. No ordinance was returned. Only the sound of shrieking, muted by the dustfields, started to sow panic in the city.

+‘Sixteenth. You’re approved for deployment. Reconvene at the central hive spire.’+ Corvinius spoke into the vox to a distant listener. It’d be miraculous if the listeners managed to hone in on their signal, but the Primarch was well aware that the Sigilites had a way of listening. Their message would be heard for certain. He quickly rose from his position, hurling into the dustbound city with his sniper holstered and his curved knife drawn. Of the things he was certain of, Corivinius was sure that the Sixteenth would move unopposed.

[hr]

Alfdis watched the grim floor of their transport as it sped through the dust kicked up from the petrified death throes of cities long gone. She imagined for a moment that she could see her reflection in the corrugated metal, a reflection she used to know well but would undoubtedly now reveal a woman she was far less familiar with. She'd not been blessed with the striking beauty of her sisters, although with what had happened to pleasing girls beneath the overlordship of the mutant and the Wych she doubted the true gift of such. Still, familiarity had grown fondness and she found her remade features difficult to connect with her sense of self. Her brown eyes had burnished Hazel, a creeping of blue and gold across each iris. The roundness of her face, somewhat hollowed out by lack of nutrition, was increasingly vanishing behind sculpted cheek bones that only added to her increasingly withering gaze. It was as if the ghost of another woman's face was surplanting her own. Her gaze fell upon the small item in her palm, a memento of home. She couldn't quite recall if it had been a toy or a totem, she contended that it didn't really matter. With grace that belied the clunking fingers of her armour she placed it back within the folds of her combat belt.

“Why do you keep such things?” The voice beside her was modulated by a helmet, but it did not entirely hide the combination of curiosity and scorn. Sister Thyre was sister twice over, in blood and in the furnace of the Emperor's making.

“I wish to remember home, what we fight for.”

A metallic crackle from her sister's helm no doubt masked an exasperated sigh. “There is nothing but shame in our home, holding on to it will only challenge what little trust we have.”

“We cannot pretend to be born elsewhere sister, I think honesty will work better for us than a false hope they will ever forget.” Alfdis didn't match her sister's contempt in her response, she understood her sister, the desire many of her genesisters shared that the only way the other scions of the Emperor would ever trust their new sisters was to leave behind any thought and memory of home. She wasn't even sure they were wrong, it was simply something she couldn't do.

“Be at peace, sisters,  we have our Mark, make ready.” The words of Sister-Captain Estrid stilled any further retort, as the full squad of Purifiers present in the skimmer transport drew themselves up to their full height, helms beating back against the whip cords of grit in the air that might flense flesh at such speeds. The Purifiers did not have the grand arsenals of their peers, of even the more well supplied army regiments or the brutal Thunder Warriors. This was their test, set by their Sentinel forgemasters.  You will fight with what you acquire, all that you have is what you have bled for. It was quite fortunate some of their first deployments had seen them scouring ancient hives of guerilla fighters left behind in the wake of conquest, they had gathered what they could from the rubble.

The skimmer the squad moved on, a wide set and open topped vehicle of ancient days, may not have been as solid as the armoured transports of their peers, but it whipped through the rubble and ruin with little pause, approaching the spire.

“Set yourself to his task, Vindication in Righteousness.” The words of the Captain now crackled solely through the vox, the wind too fierce to allow the words to carry.

“Purity in Vengeance.” The sisters echoed back to their leader, each of the genewomen bracing themselves for the coming impact.

With force that would simply shatter mortal humans, regardless of armour, the skimmer struck hard into the base wall of the spire. Ancient rock and rebar pulverised by the force, the immediate fireball was small, for the transport had only been fueled for the one journey. It was enough, though, to scatter the foe within. A flashout of such intensity it robbed the lungs of air of those too close to the now crumbling wall. Braced against the impact within armour of Terrawatt forge, the Purifiers were thrown into the mess, and immediately set about their task.

Pulses of thermal power leapt from volkite weapons, searing the enemy as they stood. Even those foes who were injured beyond hope of recovery by the explosive impact of the marines were not spared lashings of the sisters’ weapons, so total in their destruction of the enemy was their aim. The first hidden bastion of the enemy fell in moments, the full squad of sisters fanning out to hold the acquired bulkhead against counterattack.

As the blisteringly brief combat ended, Sister-Captain Estrid paused in her stride to listen to the incoming reports of the other squads she had dispatched. No two assaults were the same in anything but their ferocity, wielding the scavenged equipment they had earned, each squad had been responsible for their own form of egress. For now, all were reporting in.

“Vox our appreciation for the smooth ride into the spire, and let me know if they wish for any part in the fighting to come, they had best hurry.” She spoke to her squad communications officer, before taking point into the dark ruins of the spire.

 As silence began to coalesce around the bulkhead, guarded by the Purifiers, a louder noise began to make itself known. A squad of Cataegis maneuvered out of the nearby ruins, crossing the distance from their temporary hideout to the spire. Their forms were as well concealed as one of their make could be with heavy black shrouds and red-glinted ocularae. Dust covered their shrouds, coating them in a dull orange hue that blended with the hive’s miles-long rust-cloud. Pairs broke off from the squad as they moved, fanning out and verifying the integrity of their perimeter. Only three advanced forward regardless of their squads composition.

“Well executed.” The one in the lead spoke, his voice dry and nasally beneath his vox grilles. His helmet was a strange mixture of things, most likely added to over the course of a dozen campaigns. A beak-like nasal extended out from the muzzle, while several circular lenses of dull crimson whined where its eyes should be. Myriad runes etched with names, places, and locations were inscribed across the length of the beak. The rest of his armor was shrouded by a cloak of faux-feathers, though the Astartes could quickly discern the ‘feathers’ for ease-to-use knives.

The Cataegis began to funnel in after him, taking point beside the Astartes with their plethora of long-barreled armaments ready. Curiously, they kept within five paces of the Purifiers with a combat knife drawn in their left gauntlets. From what the Astartes could tell, there seemed to be ten in total with more on the way. Their helmets were lesser mirrors of their leaders, each a beak with enhancing lenses. None bore the privilege of their leader's cloak, not even in a minor fashion.

The one that had spoken removed a device from a pouch clipped to his belt. A spherical object was produced in his midnight-blue gauntlet and then dropped to the ground. The familiar humming of a cogitator began to whine from the sphere as it expanded out onto the ground. A small-scale projection revealed itself in a vastly inferior radius compared to the hololithic devices of any proper command chamber. It mapped out the relative ruins around them, yet it extended far above and far below in comparison. 

Corvinius turned his gaze to the one he’d spoken to prior to this operation, Sister-Captain Estrid, and firmly gestured to join him. He had no interest in having to repeat the details of the next part, nor did he feel the need to suffer further recklessness. Their assault on the outskirts was already providing the level of recklessness required for their siege of the depths. The far off cacophony of gunfire was all that he needed to hear to know that such was the case.

“The Sigilite has reason to believe that this particular expanse of the Asiatic Dustfields has catastrophic armaments beneath the surface. Ursh has had no luck in finding these weapons if they exist and they no longer have the manpower from the Xeric Tribes to delve further. All of their most experienced warriors have been shuffled to the Imperial Front.” Primarch Corvinius spoke with a matter of fact tone. As he talked, the device began to pull telemetry from the nearby area and started mapping out the expanse below their current location. The scars of Old Terra were plentiful, expanding further down than he previously thought.

“Kalagann has shown an interest in this place. There is no doubt that a compliment of vityaz remains behind to guard their secrets here. We will murder them and their servants,” the Primarch continued as he switched his attention to the map. It audibly pinged as the closest mouth into the depths was revealed to them. Subterranean tunnels stretched beneath their feet for an incomprehensible length, their original purpose lost to time. Several openings were available to them, but each was hazy with the telltale sign of wreckage. Only one remained clear on the hologram: the entrance beneath the central spire. The device sparked moments afterwards, its cogitator thoroughly fried and cooked from the rusted interference. Corvinius spoke once more with some venom on his tongue, “any questions, Astartes?”

Sister-Captain Estrid tilted her head slightly as she processed the information, her helm’s lenses flashing momentarily in the dim light of the spire’s interior. The rust-clouds beyond still swirled violently, a howling tempest of dust and decay that would conceal their ingress but also cut off retreat should things turn against them.
“No questions, Corvinius,” she said at last, her voice crisp through the vox. “Only the certainty that our enemies will die screaming.”

The Primarch was momentarily taken aback by the response, but something of an approving chuckle passed through his helmet’s beak. He nodded in affirmation to the last words of Sister-Captain Estrid. For whatever reason, Corvinius approved of the Astartes’ reasoning. Perfect little murder machines fit to be our descendants, he thought.

Estrid turned to her squad. “We take the entrance below the central spire. Maintain formation, and keep your weapons primed. We do not know what manner of defenses or beasts Ursh has left behind.”

The Purifiers nodded in unison. Their volkite weaponry still smoked from the recent engagement, the lingering scent of scorched flesh and ozone hanging in the air. Each sister moved with a silent precision honed through war and hardship, their battered scavenged weapons a testament to the brutal trials they had overcome to stand here.

With a sharp hand signal from Corvinius, the Thunder Warriors moved ahead, their heavy footfalls echoing through the ruined spire as they took point. The sisters followed close behind, their slimmer forms slipping through the wreckage with practiced ease. The remains of Ursh’s defenders were scattered like broken dolls, flesh scorched away or bodies slumped against cracked pillars. The deeper they went, the fewer signs of life they encountered. There were no retreating footsteps, no cries of the wounded, no alarms blaring in warning. Only silence. The air was thick with the scent of rust and something else—something deeper, something foul. The spire groaned as they descended into its depths, the metal walls seeming to shift as if disturbed by their presence.

“This is wrong,” Sister Thyre muttered over the squad-channel. “They should be resisting.”

They reached the first descent shaft. A vast service elevator lay ahead, its ancient frame encrusted with rust and filth. The entrance was flanked by two grotesque statues of Urshite design, their elongated faces carved into sneering grimaces of mockery. Bloodstains old and new decorated the floor, though there were no bodies. The tunnel below was pitch-black.

The Purifiers and Cataegis filed onto the platform, fanning out to cover every angle. Volkite barrels glowed in the dim light, their crackling heat a stark contrast to the cold air rising from below. The Thunder Warriors took their positions at the edges, weapons hefted, their breath audible even through their helms.

Without hesitation, Estrid moved forward, activating the manual release. With a screech of protesting metal, the ancient platform shuddered and began its slow descent into the abyss.

Darkness swallowed them as they sank deeper into the spire’s underbelly. The only sound was the distant groan of shifting metal and the dull thrum of the elevator’s struggling mechanisms.

Then the lights flickered and died.

A metallic screech echoed from the depths below, inhuman and furious. Something was waiting for them in the dark.

A pulse of crimson light erupted from the Cataegis’ optics as they switched to low-light vision. Estrid’s voice was calm, almost eager.

“[b]Let them come[/b].”

An uncanny chortle passed between the Cataegis at Sister-Captain Estrid’s word. Her eagerness for battle was echoed by the Thunder Warriors around her, each swapping their long-barreled weapons for side arms and brutal combat knives. Bulky bolt pistols were swiftly checked, while their close combat blades were whetted against their ceramite. Small embers burned in the aftermath of their sharpening, illuminating the dark space briefly.

“Well said, Astartes,” Corvinius said as he activated the plasmafield on his combat knife, coating the blade in an azure corona that lit up the elevator around them. He holstered his magnarail against his powerpack, then swiftly drew a bolt revolver as his chosen sidearm.

His Thunder Warriors huffed and snarled as their augmentations began to build up copious amounts of adrenaline in their system. A violent cocktail of biomechanical alchemy shot through their veins, alighting them from their previous docile stoicism to prepare for the coming conflict. They would certainly need it as the elevator continued to descend further down into the darkness. Several seconds passed by as the descender began to slow. Cinches squealed, pulleys groaned, and metal continued to screech as the final feet met them. 

Their descent would never be met as the elevator stopped inches short of their destination. Something crunched beneath their strike force’s greaves, causing a few to falter and adjust their weight in response. They understood quickly exactly why they heard the telltale sign of contact in the darkness as it rushed towards them on feral limbs and frothing maws.

They were bestial things. Biomechanical monstrosities born from the fruits of Kalagann’s relentless research, bred for pure annihilation against his foes. Where skin would’ve been abundantly displayed, only bloodsoaked fur and exoskeletal frame remained. Snarling snouts with mechanical maws seeped with burning saliva. Claws, unpowered and rusted by use, replaced their hands. They were legion in those dark depths, visible to the unenhanced eye only by their predatory eyes.

“Terra’s Teeth! [i]Vukodlak[/i]!” The Primarch of the Obsidian Crows snarled, his bolt revolver opening up at first sight of the monstrosities. Post-reactive shells detonated against matted fur, exploding pieces of their huge bodies with brutal efficiency; however, they were not things to be easily cowed. They rushed towards the ascender even as meat fell from their body, unaffected by the shock and deadly efficiency of his weapons.

Corvinius was not alone. The Cataegis roared out in grim defiance of the Urshic monstrosities with their own sidearms. A flurry of gunshots echoed down the blood-drenched service tunnel, slaughtering the beasts as they grew closer to their strike force. A decent portion of the creatures were defeated, their hides erupting into gore piles or their craniums obliterated. The loss of their comrades did little to slow their screeching advance. His Thunder Warriors confidently strode forward of the Astartes with their close combat weapons ready. They would accept the brunt of the darktide.

The vukodlak surged forward, their feral howls mingling with the mechanical screech of their failing bodies. Estrid gritted her teeth as she stepped forward, raising her volkite charger and unleashing a searing pulse of crimson fire. The beam lanced through the darkness, igniting flesh and melting bone in an instant. The beast before her howled as it fell, its body splitting apart as the heat of the weapon vaporized its vital fluids.

"[b]Hold the line! Do not falter![/b]" she barked, her voice cutting through the cacophony of snarling. Her sisters formed a tight semi-circle, volkite fire and scavenged ballistics filling the narrow space, each blast illuminating the grim tunnel in flashes of burning light.

Alfdis moved beside Estrid. Every shot she placed was precise, aimed to rupture skulls or sever limbs. One of the vukodlak, half of its face missing from an earlier shot, lunged towards her, its rusted claws outstretched. With a practiced motion, she sidestepped, drawing her combat blade in a fluid arc. The blade, scavenged but honed, plunged deep into the creature's exposed throat, silencing its screams in a gurgle of hot blood.

Thyre fought with raw ferocity, her volkite weapon overheating as she used it to batter a vukodlak aside before drawing her pistol and putting a shot through its skull. "These things stink of corruption!" she growled, her voice thick with disgust. "Ursh breeds only filth and nightmares!"

The beasts continued to swarm, heedless of their losses. Some clambered across the walls, their claws screeching against metal as they attempted to flank the warriors below. But the Purifiers were not so easily outmaneuvered. Estrid's vox crackled. "Burn them out."

With a single motion, several of the sisters unhooked their makeshift incendiary charges and hurled them into the advancing horde. The detonation was instant. Fire erupted in the confined space, roaring to life as it clung to flesh and metal alike. The vukodlak screamed, their bodies igniting as promethium licked at their frames. The tunnel became an inferno of thrashing limbs and inhuman howls.

For a moment, silence reigned. The vukodlak lay dead, charred husks twitching as their corrupted forms finally ceased their unnatural motion. Smoke filled the chamber, curling in thick tendrils around the warriors who stood victorious amid the carnage.

Estrid exhaled, glancing toward Corvinius. "We push forward. If this was only the first of Ursh's defenses, then worse lies ahead."

The Purifiers and Cataegis advanced into the darkness, their weapons ready, their resolve unshaken. The deeper they went, the more the air itself seemed to hum with something ancient and malevolent. Whatever lay at the heart of this spire was waiting for them, and it would not die easily.

The Cataegis and Astartes trudged through the darkened corridors of the underspire. Armored boots crushed broken bone, scorched fur, and brittle metal as they trampled over the remains of the vukodlak. Silence greeted them as the trail of tainted bodies began to dwindle to nothingness. The carnage above the surface was muted by the thick, plasteel structure that wrapped around them in an icy grip. Only the footfalls of their tread, the hum of bulky powerpacks, and the eager grunting of the Thunder Warriors filled their augury.

Through recollection, instinct, and telemetry, Primarch Corvinius guided them out from tertiary passages to the primary corridor. Several blockages had momentarily eluded their pursuit into the undergrounds, either intentionally placed by saboteurs or by dereliction of maintenance for untold eons. Corruption was evident where the abhorrent of Ursh were not. Fetishes, scratchings, and blood-painted symbols slowly began to fill the halls as they passed. The air stank of sulphur and vitae, freshly spilled and reeking of the wyrd.

The two groups of genewarriors weaved into each other naturally. The Astartes filled the gaps between the Cataegis, their senses honed and reflexes maximized. The Thunder Warriors strode forth, evenly spaced to allow the Space Marines to adapt to oncoming challenges. It was a natural reaction due to confined proximity. It was something that the Thunder Primarch noticed as he led the strike force further in.

A claw-tipped gauntlet shot up to halt the formation, who swiftly readied their armaments with unimaginable speed. Corvinius half-crouched as fresh light began to spill in from the next passage. Autolenses on the Astartes’ and Cataegis’ helmets adjusted to the growing lumens. Another opening, unlike the descender chambers, opened up beyond the Thunder Primarch. A half-circular room with a plethora of demolished platforms, destroyed passageways, and half-functioning glowglobes met their sight. At the furthest end, some two-hundred meters away, was a pair of doors as large and thick as the Pan-Pacific Titans of the East. A single, thirty-meter-wide stairway rose up to greet the gates.

As the formation began to shift again, the Primarch lowered his other gauntlet to halt their movements. A single movement of his claw-tipped fingers saw the Captain of the Purifiers appear from beside him to look in. From her vantage to his right side, Estrid saw within the chamber several figures facing out from the gargantuan doors. Her enhanced senses saw fifteen, each standing proudly in bulky armor with exquisite melee weapons of sizable proportion. She noted the suspicious lack of vukodlak among their number. Concerningly, however, the gates further in were cracked open.

“Tell me, Captain, what do you see and how would you deal with this enemy?” Corvinius asked, his voice as quiet as the voxgrill would allow. The question was posed to Estrid. He gave no inclination to the environment, the type of foe, or the weaponry involved. His tone spoke as if he already knew the answer. Another test to the Astartes.

“I see those who’s purpose is to die and bleed us in the process.” The modulating tone of the Captain’s helmet could not entirely hide the remnant of combat adrenaline pumping through her form. The daughters of twisted Nordyc knew the howl of battle well, but remade into the Emperor’s chosen and they had the means to meet it out themselves. It was intoxicating, but she was Captain because she would not allow it to claim her entirely. “Whether it is for their own savage delight or fouler sorcery, that is what they will seek to do, and we should deny them what we can.” Estrid watched the towering figures from distance, equipped as powerfully as they were, they lacked  the uniform discipline of her Sisters. “I would use our full might at range, it will expend more than we would wish to replenish, but it would put down the beast before it bites.”

“[i]Tactical[/i],” the Primarch of the Obsidian Crows said with a muted smile, “but [b]ignorant[/b]. Psycho-conditioning and hypnotraining can only do so much to help you recognize an unassuming threat. Those are vityaz - the mutant knights of Ursh. They’ve been around since before we marched out beyond the Master of the Line’s Himalazian home. Each is said to be stronger than a Thunder Warrior, ‘blessed’ with the gifts of the wyrd.”

As the Thunder Warrior spoke, the two watched as the vityaz patrolled the area before the gate into the unknown. A pair would break off, kneel down between them and uncork unseen canisters to bathe themselves in fresh vitae. They offered up words in the Urshic tongue, harsh and savage, to profane deities and spirits. If the spirits were truly paying attention, then they made no effort to reveal themselves. The effect, however, was immediate as the runes on their armor began to radiate menacingly red with the wyrd.

“When fighting a foe of unknown or greater strength, it’s best to gauge their abilities with feints and ambushes. Bleed the slower ones or wear down the faster ones. Seize the initiative as they grow weaker. Prepare yourself, Estrid,” Corvinius elaborated, then pointed to key points for ambushing leading up to the vityaz. He sheathed the plasmaknife and revolver, drawing his magnarail in one swift, practised movement. His posture quickly shifted to a sniper’s comfort, lining up the first shot on one of the vityaz. A shuffling sound behind him verified that his Cataegis were similarly preparing. He continued, “and kill them as they come.”

Estrid inclined her head once, sharply, committing the Primarch’s words to memory. There was no wounded pride in the correction, only clarity. She turned and issued her orders in a series of clipped hand-signals and subvocal commands, her voice low and controlled over the squad-channel.

“By twos. Break sightlines. Kill-lanes only when I call them. We do not rush.”

The Purifiers flowed apart wolves on the hunt. What moments ago had been a single armored knot became fragments of shadow and heat haze, each sister slipping into cover among shattered platforms, collapsed gantries, and broken machinery. Volkite weapons were powered down to low-emission standby, their coils dimmed to prevent premature detection. Blades were drawn instead, quiet, patient tools.

Alfdis took position high, clambering with practiced ease onto a slanted ruin of plasteel overlooking the stairway. She felt the old unease stir in her chest, the instinct to act, to strike first and hard, but she mastered it, breathing slowly, counting heartbeats. Remember home, she told herself, but do not let it rule you.

Below, Thyre ghosted into a maintenance alcove half-choked with debris, her bulk hidden behind a fallen glowglobe casing. She bared her teeth behind her helm in a feral grin, fingers tight on her combat blade. Waiting went against her nature, but she trusted Estrid, and the Primarch’s cold certainty carried weight even here.

The Cataegis vanished almost entirely. Where they had stood moments before, there was now only ruin and dust. Corvinius himself withdrew into the upper shadows of a collapsed balcony, magnarail braced against a corroded support beam. His lenses tracked the vityaz with merciless focus, already cataloguing their movements, their rituals, and the cadence of their patrol.

The vityaz advanced and retreated in slow, confident patterns. They did not hurry. They did not fear. Each knight was a towering mass of warped muscle and rune-etched armor, carrying axes, glaives, and mauls whose edges shimmered faintly with the wyrd. Their chanting rose and fell like a heartbeat, echoed by the pulsing glow of the cracked portal behind them.

Then Estrid made her first move.
A single scavenged charge, small, crude, and deliberately underpowered, clattered across the floor near the base of the stairway.
It detonated with a sharp, concussive crack. Not lethal. Not even close.

The reaction was immediate.

Three vityaz surged forward with snarls of challenge, their armor flaring red as they thundered down the stairs, eager to meet whatever dared announce itself. The others held position, weapons raised, eyes searching for a threat that did not yet exist.
That was the opening.

A single shot rang out, flat, thunderous, and final.

Corvinius’ magnarail round punched through the lead vityaz’s chestplate, detonating within its ribcage. The mutant knight was lifted off its feet, hurled backward in a spray of blood and rune-lit fragments that spattered the steps behind it.

Before the echo faded, Alfdis struck.
Her volkite charger flared to life, releasing a focused lance of heat that scythed through the knee joint of the second vityaz. Superheated flesh cooked instantly. The knight roared as it collapsed, its mass shaking the chamber.

The third made it two steps further, then Thyre was on it.

She burst from concealment with a wordless cry, ramming her blade up beneath the creature’s gorget. The wyrd flared in angry defiance, runes blazing as the vityaz swung blindly, but Thyre was already gone, rolling aside as the Thunder Warriors surged in to finish the work.

The chamber erupted into motion.

The remaining vityaz charged, bellowing invocations and curses, but their cohesion was broken. They came not as a wall, but in staggered fury.

“[i]Now[/i],” Estrid commanded.

Volkite fire stitched the air in disciplined arcs. Not sustained beams, but short, precise bursts meant to cripple rather than kill. Armor softened. Limbs burned. One knight lost an arm to a Cataegis sniper round before it ever reached striking distance.

The Thunder Warriors met the first of them head-on, roaring in savage delight as chainblades and power weapons crashed together. Even then, they did not overcommit. They struck, disengaged, then struck again, bleeding the vityaz and forcing them to expend their unnatural strength in wild, furious swings.

Estrid watched it all with cold focus, adjusting her commands in real time.

“Second-team, shift left. Box them in. Do not let them retreat.”

A vityaz broke through, barreling toward her in a storm of red-lit runes and shrieking metal. Estrid did not retreat. She sidestepped at the last instant, driving her blade into the creature’s exposed flank as it passed. Alfdis finished it with a volkite burst to the spine.

One by one, the mutant knights fell. Not in glorious duels. Not in the frenzy they craved. They were bled out, burned down, and dismantled by method and patience.
At last, silence returned to the chamber.

A perfect symphony of death. The dead vityaz remained broken on the ruined tile of the spire. As the dust began to settle, the Purifiers and the Cataegis broke apart to search the area for further threats. The Astartes, ever fastidious in their scavenging, claimed the great warblades of the vityaz for their own. No doubt the Sigilites would cleanse them later. Others took trophies from the Urshic mutant-knights. The Cataegis joined them sparingly in trophy taking, delighting in an enemy that was well-fought.

Corvinius maneuvered off of the balcony with his magrail slung over his back, moving to join up with Estrid. A few of the Astartes, namely Thyre and Alfdis, remained near their commander as the Primarch approached. He harshly stepped over the helmet of a vityaz, crunching the skull of the Urshite beneath his ceramite boot.

“[i]Superb[/i],” the Primarch remarked, stopping only once to congratulate her before continuing on his path. The Purifier commander walked with him, shortly followed by the previously stated Astartes. The remainder of their task group remained within a fifty foot perimeter of the gates. A small cacophony of noise filtered through the area as the two groups spoke at length of their battle.

Inside of the leviathan gates resided their objective. Sterile air filtered in where once the stagnant decay of a rusting spire wafted. Amber glowglobes illuminated a long chamber that appeared to stretch indefinitely beyond the entrance. Broken voxspeakers and crackling terminals lined every corner, ready to deliver and receive information in great quantities. Enormous pits of creeping shadow dotted the expanse in specifically patterned spots. Hoarfrost creeped against hexagrammic sigils littered against grey tile and metallic railing alike. Despite all of this, it paled in comparison to the Emperor’s desire deep within.

Hundreds - perhaps even thousands - of missiles as tall as the smallest of the Himalazians stood sentinel within the chamber. Conical tops ended in speartips primed for annihilation. Fat bodies of promethium and metal carried the vast majority of their lengths. Shapely fins decorated the end of the objects like some primordial serpentine creature born to fly. A plethora of purifying sigils lined the weapons, each as unique as the last. The faint hiss and wheeze of a dying cooling system confirmed the upkeep of these myriad devices. There were enough within the chamber alone to see Terra devastated twice over - and then some more. 

The discovery was a staggering monument to humankind’s wanton destruction; however, to the Primarch, it was merely another duty performed for Him of Himalazia. His ceramite crunched the sterile tile beneath his boot as he crept forward into the chamber. He had no desire to unlock the tempting secrets within, only to serve his duty. Corvinius did so as his body crossed the threshold of the entrance. 

A device was procured from a satchel attached to his chestplate and delicately activated. The object was dropped onto a balcony overlooking the slumbering weapons beneath the Dustfields. It beeped thrice over with a eerie green light like the eyes of the Norsyc Wyrd-Weaver. Several of the terminals awoke from their sleep in a flurry of activity. An eternity of emerald runes passed over the screens, transmitting a cadence unknown to neither the Cataegis or the Astartes. 

The Cataegis remained not a moment longer as the device suddenly died, leaving only a metallic shell in the emptiness of the chamber. He turned from the missile depot with solemn pride, exiting back into the broken corridors of the spire once again. The Cataegis and the Astartes had begun to gather - yet the Primarch waited for Estrid to exit the chamber. He turned to her as she did.

“The will of the Emperor has been achieved. We will now begin exfiltration operations,” Corvinius began to speak. His voice was clearly congratulatory in it’s own nasally way, garbled even further by his unusual helmet. Before Estrid could give him a reply, the Cataegis surprisingly put a hand on her gauntlet and continued to speak. His tone turned gravely cold, “you will replace us well, Astartes. When the time comes, I expect the Purifiers to perform as ruthlessly and as cold as the Crows.”

The Primarch stared at her for several tense seconds before turning away and removing his gauntlet. His silent gait brought him back into his pack of Cataegis, who began to follow him back into the spire. Their hoots and hollers were filled with celebrations of trophies gained and weapons claimed. As Estrid regarded the leaving Thunder Warriors, she realized that the Crow had left small indents from his claws in her ceramite pauldron.
[hr]
Credits: Legio Cataegis/Primarch Corvinius [@MarshalSolgriev] , Legio Astartes Purifiers/Estrid/Alfdis/Thyre [@Ezekiel]