"Hunters," Aedir mutters, looking over the plans. "Snipers. Subtlety. Swords. The seashells want us to choose between perfectly symmetrical violence and perfectly asymmetrical violence. You want to spend my brothers like coin to ease your path so that you can achieve some sort of more interesting victory."

He lets out a deep breath of smoke and grinned. "Well, to hell with you - and to hell with taking it easy. The Blood God has promised me that for every skull I take in this place he'll compensate the Warmaster in kind. So go ahead, go about your schemes as quick as you can, because I will claim this entire world with my own two hands if you're slow."

His silent guardians marched in unison towards the shuttle and he gave a lazy salute, fist banging against his chestplate, walking backwards up the ramp. "Navigator. Got it. Can't promise it'll be any pretty, but you always get what you want - right?"

He disappeared into the darkness of his ship, eyes illuminated only by the ominous fire of his cigar.

Your own ship awaits.

They were slow, yes. Such was an important part of who they were- or at the very least, of who Hagar and his own following were. "Charming" as their new compatriot here is, it is safe to say that he has his own plans for the Bastion, plans that the master of this troupe cannot quite go along with. In due time, they will have to find compromise. And if they cannot...

"...Why don't we move out ?"

A few, singular and simple words aimed towards the rest of his troup. The only thing that need still for their presence are their ship, and to keep it waiting would be counter-productive.

"I don't know for you, but the skull collection doesn't interest me. We do what we need, and no more. How would that sound ?"

Geron reflects on the fact that for someone who sneers at elegance Aedir has a pleasing way with words.

And he's entirely correct as to the fact he and his men are no more than a form of currency to buy victory with.

Seeing no need to reply to the statement of the obvious Geron instead goes back to admiring his reflection before replying to Hagar.

"My problem with the skull-collecting is they never really do anything worthwhile with them. They just stack them in piles, a child could do that. Why not make a sculpture skull out of skulls or make an actual skull throne since they love shouting about it so much? As for our part, we'll do what's necessary and pleasing, they're one and the same. So yes, let's move out."

"Have you ever considered that the skull throne could be a metaphor? 'Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows, only that it flows.' Once stripped off the flesh, a skull is a skull - every skull in the skull throne is the same as the other. War does not differentiate between people, and the high nobles bleed and die as easily as the common slaves. It doesn't need to be about literal skulls."

Vael smiles.

"But yeah, we ought to get moving. Command the men, Geron."

The mouth of the Machine God gapes open even though there are no more slaves to feed it.

Its jaws are as unhinged as its scale, hunger as as dead as He on Terra, vast conveyor belts extending out like licking tongues into every wall and facility along the line. You have met daemons today and none of them are as deranged as this combination garbage dump, crematorium and arms foundry. Here all the dead and damaged of the entire fortification sector are to be cast into the pit, tech-barbarians hurling everything they do not know how to fix into the mouth of this hungering volcano god, praying that it vomits back out new munitions. You descend through clouds and rain, catching only glimpses of the vast cyborg skull as it spreads out across the earth for miles in every direction. One of its eye sockets is a major spaceport, one filled with shipbreaking equipment that it might cut apart even slain starships to feed its insatiable hunger.

But no one feeds it. The gears of Empire have stopped. The volcano god has gone out. The cranes and loaders are gently rusting in the rain, servitors sitting peacefully and watching the moss grow upon them. Eternal labour has for the first time been broken by peace.

Before being ended by violence.

You step out into warm summer rain, onto ferrocrete slick with water and huge pools forming around blocked drainage channels. You see many red-robed bodies have been butchered where they sat, priests and servitors broken apart without raising a hand in their own defense. You see, too, that the work of slaughter is not yet done. To kill five hundred thousand diseased magi, labourers and servitors by hand is a task of almost incomprehensible scale. Here and there, servitors go about this bloody business - lobotomized workers in Draupnir blue slowly trundling from victim to victim, crushing heads Martian red with unhurried movements of their servo-claws, before moving silently on.

These are slow, weak, mindless drones, barely cognizant of your arrival - a cleanup crew. Of the true warriors of the Machine Cult there is no sign but for the almost inaudible roll of thunder in the distance where Aedir and his Ruberics have made planetfall.

The sight was both dreary and, oddly enough, familliar. To see that they have been felled so, it brings back many memories of the past, and sights of what the future could be. Complacency is a form of bliss he and all his ilk enjoy, and yet to see its consequences here and now, it feels... Awry, unpleasant. Men of his or not, it is all close to home, too much for his own ease of mind. Hagar didn't show it, not overtly, but his glassy eyes slowly draping each of the malformed and mangled bodies showed sign of twitch in their movement, unlike his usual self...

"..."

The Khornite did his duty well, and of this he cannot complain. This sort of carnage, not something he himself would leave behind. The crime was both heinous and merciful at the same time.

Hagar was the first to step forth amidst the masses. The drones, he ignored, for they weren't subject of his ire. The rain, at the very least, felt good. It watered him, a feeling, at the least, refreshing, helping him soothe this pull against his soul.

"...Come out everyone."

Vael frowns.

"How horribly inelegant. Butchers' work."

But what's a man to do? Such was the Warmaster's business.

Vael's eyes go back and forth, looking for any priests still alive who could provide useful information.

Geron sighs dramatically.

This would make such a mess for the servants to clean up. Hopefully the rain would do most of the work.

"Hmm. I wanted to make a speech, but there doesn't seem to be much to motivate the masses to do. And none of these wretches look worth gloating over. Oh well, round up any survivors and we'll see what enjoyment we can get out of them."

Still, all the red was somewhat enjoyable to look at. Maybe he'd have the robes the priests wore gathered up, cleaned, and woven into something. He couldn't recall if he'd set anyone the task of creating a blood-based dye but made a mental note to do so if he hadn't.

There is a clatter of bells as a Martian priest sits up. He has taken off the augmentics that replaced the lower side of his face and jaw and pulled back his hood. His elderly face was smiling with his eyes - if not the ruin of his jaw. Wearily, he rummages through the pile of materials next to him until he finds his voxsponder and sockets it back into his neck with a binharic whine.

"Do you enjoy April's sweet showers?" groans that mechanical voice through rust and age. "The drought is pierced to the root. Projections indicated that it would continue indefinitely, so I was assigned to manage a project to ship in ice from off-world, but..." the red priest's fingers reached down to cup a flower growing alongside him. "Zephirus has come, breathing life into each sweet root."

He brought the flower up to his nose and took a gentle breath.

"If you would, you may sit with me. We can enjoy the rain together. I can tell you of the Scribe, and how she brought her knowledge unto us."

One lives still apparently, beyond the automation of servitors, albeit in a state that is, admittedly, undesirable to find oneself in. Yet, this spark of life brings some joy in the roots that have wrapped around Hagar's heart. Almost immediately, some of his joviality returned.

"The rain... It'll do some good to my leaves, in and outwards. I'll take you up on that generous offer."

With little to no hesitation, Hagar took seat right next to the unfortunate priest, shoulder to shoulder, almost like an old friend from way back then. What did the followers of the grandfather have, if not their camaraderie ?

"Tell us your story, I'd love to hear it myself. Maybe even a trade ?"

"What's your name, martian? And what the hell happened to you?"

The priest seemed crazed. Vael was going to fill the man with his will and make him tell what they needed to know, but it seemed that Hagar wanted to chat. Why not.

Geron has the servant turn so the mirror he's admiring himself in allows him to see the Techpriest in the reflection, a magnanimous action and one he expects to be rewarded. Or else.

"Fine, tell your story. Make it a good one and I'll probably leave you alive."

The shriveled husk bolted to metal doesn't seem to have much good pain left in him, but he might as well gift the man to a lesser servant of Slaanesh, see if they can torture him into insanity. Or sanity given his reaction to the impending death of his planet.

What a wretched place, they were doing the universe a favor by obliterating it. Geron wondered if he should order some of the Technpriest corpses gathered and drained of blood, he'd had Technpriest blood before but maybe this would be a different flavor.

"I am..." the martian blinked. "Doesn't matter. Old name, wasn't a name really. It was a ident-code on Form Sel-Z-0346, issued for a replacement component. Logistia-Initate Priest, Beta Grade, (1). When age wore me down then all they needed to do was look at my name tag to know how to commission my replacement. That's the kind of world this was..."

For a moment he seemed almost like dozing off. "You don't realize how tired you are until you stop. That's... that's what the Scribe of Days brought us. She brought us an updated calendar. There were saints that we were not venerating properly, you see. New holy days. We paused production, let the engines go dark, sat in contemplation of the Machine God. Sat in silence at first. Didn't know what to do with ourselves. Some just turned their minds off until they were called upon. But then... then the picts."

He stretched, timber creasing beneath his robes. His missing jaw struggled with a phantom yawn. "We didn't know where they came from, but they were inoffensive. Picts of animals. Of people dancing. Of peaceful worlds, where they did tricks and played music. Those of us without cognitive implants started watching them during the holy days. And there were... more and more holy days. The Imperium has a lot of saints. At first we dreaded downtime, didn't know what to do with it, and then we started dreading the shifts. But the shifts got further and further apart. Days. Weeks. I spent a month inside, watching the picts. It was like resting, but it wasn't restful. I slept less. Fell behind on my maintenance routines. But it was fun, watching the animals play with the little lords. Everyone seemed so happy. Two of the beasts threw an Astartes between themselves for six hours before it finally came apart. Hardly seemed to notice the roots growing in..."

He groaned. "And then Draupnir came. Joyless bastards, the bluecoats. Chips on their shoulders. Those skitarii of theirs... tech-savages, the post-apocalyptic survivors of the worst hellscape created by the Dark Age of Technology. Mars has its faults, but we tried to make it a better place! We tried to..." again a shivering yawn, the ember of strong opinion washing away in the rain. "... doesn't matter now. But watch out for the screens. They're all playing the picts now. On my way up here... it took weeks. You see one of those and..." he trailed off again, staring up at the rain.

Animals picts, of all things ? Hagar can't lie, it makes him curious. Weren't the sanctity of his mission - And of his well-being, he must admit - in danger, he'd perhaps waste some hours staring at them himself. The idea of simply sitting, gazing upon a cogitator as unfiltered joy unfurls before your eyes... It must be a beautiful sensation, one he perhaps should try one day, when less obliged to his kin.

"You sound tired... It's alright, you did what you had to do."

Hagar lays a hand upon the ruined priest's chest. Another, a little down his back. And slowly, he pushes him downwards, softly letting the unfortunate soul lay upon the wet ground they were sullying. Only one of them had to commit the effort of going further, and Hagar would rather have this curse to be his.

"Here, stay down. Don't think about any of that anymore. You're here, right under the warm rain, and that's all you have to consider. We'll handle whatever's out there ourselves."

It was a voice that creaked horrendously like dead wood, yet somehow, soothing to the tortured ears, or for whatever would it be those of Mars use to replace their auditory means, of which he knows little.

"Though I could... Stay a little longer."

Geron's interest in the old man's story rapidly increases as he hears the effects of the picts. They don't sound particularly interesting, maybe these doddering fools just lived lives so devoid of joy that animals playing each other was all it took to cause addiction.

But if there was the slightest chance to experience something he never had before then clearly they had to seize this opportunity. A spectacular sapience such as his, scoured and seared by the sacred sensations of Slaanesh, shan't sink into sloth like these stolid suppurating sabotaged simpletons. Still, seeking these screened stories would be better served by sacrificial soldiers, not superior speechgivers such as himself.

"No sense in staying still, we should sojourn soon. Sequester the survivors, then we set out to slay all who suppose to supplant us! Their spines shall be shattered, slashed, and stomped, their souls savaged and slurped by Slaanesh! None shall survive, so I say!"

He points to the crowd and makes a gesture at his silent sentinel.

"Now stand and salute! Squarehammer!"

The towering giant brings his hammer down on the ground, indicating to those present that they should applaud.

"Likely cognitive manipulation. Hypno-patterns in the recording? Could be imbued warp energies. Many possibilities, hard to tell until I see it. Does not affect those with augmented brains though..."

Vael talks to himself, ignoring the ritual. Neither Hagar nor Geron were doing the Cult Mechanicus funerary rites anyway. Speaking of...

Vael examines the priest. Cognitive implants were rare and expensive. If the priest happens to have one, it should be extracted and its machine spirit preserved. And then passed on to his brethren or repurposed, it'll depend on the war conditions and Vael's mood.

"As long as you like," murmured the priest. The concrete beneath him was taking on the consistency of mud and he was slowly sinking into it. "Have you ever seen such a rain...?"

He does not applaud Geron's speech - a few scattered claps come from the various menials and magi who are shaken out of their supernatural reverie, but it quickly trails off to silence. There is some far more enthusiastic applause from the small group of attendants and hangers-on, but it feels thin and hollow in the vastness of this dead machine. The steady pounding rainbeat drowns everything out.

This particular priest did not have any valuable implants - his identifying marks announce him as a mid-ranking bureaucrat responsible for water management, not any kind of combat specialist. You do notice a nearby body has been neatly opened up and relevant cybernetics have been extracted in perhaps a similar way you were intending to. Draupnir has gotten here first, after all - their servitors rove all about, mindlessly performing their functions - and they no doubt have some arcane machinery that allows them to identify the most valuable items for themselves.

Geron hates this place. It's dirty, wet, and full of people that fail to appreciate his brilliance. He considers having Squarehammer rip the Techpriest in half, but doubts that would improve his mood. What's the point in harming people if they don't care when you do it?!

He turns to his compatriots.

"There's nothing of value here. We should leave this wretch to be harvested and move on."

Geron decides to pass the time by picking an expendable minion to expose to the picts. Best to see what effect they have on someone not already predisposed to mindless toil.

"Go ahead, if you like, I'll join you shortly. I... don't get to bask in the rain often. Don't worry, it won't take long."

Was it irresponsible, he knew not. But to get to experience the warmth of water was good for him, even if in small, repetitive amounts. Just a few more minutes for him to enjoy, before proceeding with his duties.

Still, Hagar sits next to the near-decaying body of the one from Mars. The wood that had completely overtaken the right side of his body began to revitalise, and his leaves found to them a slightly greener hue. It felt at home. He can't stay here eternally, he knows so, but... Just a little more.

"Go for it, Geron. Pick a volunteer. We can study the effects in real time."