Hidden 4 mos ago 4 mos ago Post by Bright_Ops
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Bright_Ops The Insane Scholar

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The Mercia Front: Hive Houston


In the underhive of Hive Houston lay a vast sway of territory that was held in dread for its dark reputation. A place in the hive in which the spirits of the demented, vengeful dead clung close to the realm of the living and monsters and demons of old came to hunt for souls... and sometimes one might slip a bit further out of its hunting ground in search of prey if the conditions were horribly right. A place where the shadows themselves would consume anyone or anything stupid enough to wander into them. A place where animals would go completely mad trying to flee rather then go anywhere near.

It was called it the Ghosthive. No one knew why it was the way that it was, but it had been that way for longer then living memory. The official records of the area stored in the upper hive did not make mention of any supernatural elements within the regions that made up the Ghosthive back when the idea of sending maintenance crews into the Underhive wasn't laughable, through the long and often contradictory list of dangers and issues to theoretical maintenance staff and why they couldn't send teams into that zone decades before the rest of the underhive was simply abandoned suggested that even in the relatively young days of Hive Houston that there had been something fundamentally unnatural about that part of the underhive.

It was also where Jzzist and his gang had once willingly called home. While at the time many viewed Jzzist as completely batshit insane for trying, his success at curving a place for himself and his followers in the Ghosthive proved that it could be done... through it didn't disprove the possibility of him being completely insane.

As Jzzist himself had told those in his command, both back in the past and present, surviving in such a place was simply a matter of understanding the rules of it. There had been trial and error of course, but the lessons learned were made incredibly clear:

1: Do not wander into the dark. The Shadows will eat you.

2: Do not go off by yourself. If you find yourself alone for any reason, light yourself up as much as possible and backtrack the way you came until you find the entrance to the Ghosthive you entered from. If you cannot remember the exact path you took to get where you are, you were going to die.

3: Do not trust anything you see or hear at face value. Illusions and mind games are common tactics for the ghosts and things in the shadows to try and get easy prey.

4: If at any point a member of a designated squad is not in line of sight with anyone else for any length of time longer then eight seconds, they can no longer be trusted to be who they are and need to leave.

5: Any 'human' that is not originally with your group and tried to approach your group needed to be shot on sight. No matter who it appears to be or what they say, they are not a person.

6: Anything that tries to get you to leave the path is to be ignored.

There were other rules... other entities that stood out among the shadows that they stalked in the Ghosthive... but Jzzist and his companions didn't know them. Not well enough to trust a life or death encounter at any rate. Thankfully, for the purposes of escorting the legion and its forces through the Ghosthive into the safe havens that Jzzist had originally created as strongholds against other gangs and the authorities those seven would be more then up to the task.

They would have to be.

...................................................


As far as stealth operations went, history would record this as one of the stranger ones. A fighting column solders of various types, each one lit up as brightly as the various light sources they could find or scavenge could make them while their footfalls echoed against the utter silence of the dead, dark hallways of the Ghosthive.

The first sign that something was going wrong was the death of one of the few remaining operational lights in the ceiling.

Flicker...Flicker... Dead... Darkness.

Considering the lights that was being carried by both those in the legion and their auxiliaries in order to make themselves as bright as possible at all times in the dark realm of the Ghosthive, this didn't draw the kind of attention that it might have in other circumstances.

In the moment, exactly who looked up wasn't as important as the fact that someone had done so... and the cry of "COLLAPSE! DODGE!" rang out for all to hear. Some looked up, but others bolted in whatever direction they felt would be the best for their own personal survival. The legionaries themselves, super human in reflex as they were in the rest of their body, not only clocked where the danger was coming from but were easily able to get out of harms way. Some even grabbed their slower auxiliary followers in order to carry them to more immediate safety, even as others didn't.

The titanic crunch of tonnes of metal and ceremite slamming into the ground was thunderous, even more so due to the utter silence in which the collapse had taken place. The one silver lining for those who had been too slow on the uptake or unlucky enough not to be near one of the more caring members of the legion was that their deaths were almost instantaneous; There was no time or room for suffering and pain before they left the living world.

The path itself was not completely blocked off. The wreckage that had fallen prevented travel, but there multiple gaps in which the makeshift obstruction could be seen through. With some time and a bit of effort, a passageway could be opened up in it to allow access through once again. A tiresome delay maybe, but safer then taking a detour into the unknown horrors of the Ghosthive.

No one realized that another of the hives limited supply of remaining lights had flickered out like the first one had until the monstrous crash that followed, mixed in with the torturous sounds of crushed metal and broken bodies. Like the first, it had broken away from the ceiling and fallen in an unnatural silence that its impact against the ground hadn't shared.

Even as those on the outside of the obstructions turned in order to work on clearing a path through them for the sake of getting things moving smoothly again, several heads started to look around at the area that they had suddenly found themselves trapped. A hallway without doors or recognizable weak points in the walls or floor that had just had the only two directions one could travel it sealed off by wreckage caused by the suspiciously silent failing of hive structure that had stood for centuries at the youngest... in two different places within the frame of twenty seconds from each other.

Guns were raised into ready positions. Knives, axes were brought to the ready and two separate chainswords roared to life as their owners slowly and methodically started to scan the area. This had to be an ambush of some kind... and yet... nothing. Only silence... and deepening shadows.

.....................................................


Squad Sergent Konrad Amutiel was careful as he slowly turned in a circle, his grip on the shaft of his chainaxe tightening even as he missed the weight of a shield strapped to his forearm. Experience from before his ascension into his current form ensured that his turn was deliberately careful, so as to avoid sweeping his allies legs from under them with his thick, crocodilian tail... but it also served to allow him to take his time in absorbing all possible details at his own pace, rather then the frantic one that the situation seemed inclined to encourage.

Both paths out had been blocked, leaving himself and the sixty five other members of the expedition (Six Marines, fifty nine auxiliaries) trapped. He could already hear and observe that allies on the other side of both blockages were striving to clear a route and thus when he gave the order to those under his immediate command to rally around him, he did so with the knowledge that he could focus on the very real danger that they might be in.

Danger that manifested itself when one of the marines named Gal spotted something and announced "What is that?!" while lighting up a seemingly blank section of wall, drawing the attention of everyone else to it as well.

A more panicked or hasty look might have simply excused it as a leak from some long neglected pipe or a strain that had endured for who knew how long, but even without the benefit of putting light directly on it, careful observation would notice that it seemed to be spreading out along the wall: An inky pool of darkness so deep that it seemed to devour the light that made contact with it and made lesser shadows appear a mere, dirty shade of grey.

Puddle was the word that Konrad would have used to describe what he was seeing, because the way that it was spreading reminded him of liquid in a way; Like something was dipping down from above and causing a puddle to form and grow, only the source was coming from the other-side of the wall and rather then a traditional 'up-down' relationship with gravity, it was dripping in from a ninety degree angle.

Several beams of volkite and a wave of bullets shot out at the puddle of growing darkness... and nothing seemed to happen as a result of it. The growing darkness didn't seem to be stalled by the attack at all... and yet there was a complete lack of sounds of either bullet or burning beam striking the wall behind it.

To say 'it' stepped out of the darkness wouldn't be true. From Konrad's point of view, it was more like the puddle was pulling parts of itself towards the center in order to form new shapes that were being pushed out of the wall. While he had never seen an actual equine in his life, even the sewer depths of the hive he had originally called him had graffiti and old pictures of the creatures that had once wandered Terra freely; This... thing kind of looked like one of those old creatures, but instead of flesh and bone it was solely made of something that looked like ink and maintained that form despite the fact that its body clearly wanted to return to a puddle like state at any given moment.

Two hooves legs connected to the front half of a torso that was sticking out of the wall, leading up to an equine face with... glowing white, humanoid eyes as horns stuck haphazardly out of its head to form a nightmarish regal crown as it glared at each and every one of them... even as bullets and blasts of volkite peppered its body to no effect, all seemingly being absorbed by the darkness of its mass like drops of rain.

Its maw opened wide unlike that of a serpent, since one doesn't need to unhinge their jaw when they didn't have jaw bones. There was a horrific sound, like air trying to be pulled into lungs that can no longer hold it. A light started to glow from its open maw... and it took Konrad several moments to realize that the blocked off 'room' they were in seemed to be growing darker; The lights they had brought were still on and powered, but the light they were producing was just... not strong enough to force back the darkness anymore... and growing weaker by the second.

As the darkness deepened, other shapes started to crawl out of the dark pool that had consumed the wall completely. Some humanoid... some animal... others a twisted abomination of both and many more that Konrad doubted anything had ever been witness too and maintained sanity or life. Some of the shapes had a third dimension, but more then a few of the shadow entities clawing their way towards them under the increasing darkness were little more then monstrous shadows pressed against the ground... through there was a very human feeling of dread in Konrad's hearts that these things were still highly dangerous despite their seeming limitation.

Chaos descended upon the auxiliaries. Some primal terror that even the cruel and brutal realities of their lives on a war torn wasteland of a world couldn't dull seemed to grip each and every one of them, through how they responded was individualistic. A number continued to fire their weapons at the incoming darkness and the things within it, despite the fact that bullets clearly weren't doing anything while wailing and laughing in a manner that suggested that they weren't going to be responsive. A small handful seemed to be consumed by a maniac sort of bravery as they abandoned ranged weaponry and instead turned to melee, charging forth.

Fear driven bellows turned into some of the most agonizing screams of torment that Konrad had ever heard before and never wished to hear again.

Others ran for the wreckage that blocked either side of their current battlefield, attempting everything in their power to try and escape; Some of the more coherent ones were even able to bring themselves to plead and beg for help as they clawed at unflinching stone and steel. The shadows seemed to intentionally move to cut off these groups from the main center one that had rallied around him. Like those who charged forth, he didn't see what happened to them... a part of him didn't want too.

The ones he personally didn't understand were those that just... seemed to stop functioning at all. There were a couple who had clearly passed out or feinted sure, but some of them... it was like seeing a puppet with its strings cut, only with an actual person. They weren't out cold or anything... at least from what he could tell. They just... crumpled on themselves where they were standing. At least the others possessed some desire to live, rather then just lay down and welcome death.

The last group was the rarest... and right now the one that Konrad barked orders at to fall in with himself and the rest of the marines; Those who were somehow keeping it together... somewhat. The terror that had caused this madness and was trying to sink into himself and the rest of his squad was still present and gripped even the hardest of them with fear, but they were still coherent and able to respond to his direct order. Of the fifty nine auxiliaries, only five were were still 'combat viable' in his mind... discounting the gunners who had entered some kind of insane shooting frenzy.

Beams of volkite rounds were also being fired into the encouraging tide of nightmares and shadows but unlike the mad spraying of bullets that the maddened auxiliaries were favoring, the marines were using a more controlled, coordinated approach. The beams didn't seem to harm the shadow entities directly but it appears that the brief flashes of light and heat were slowing down their terrible advance... if only briefly.

As the tide of darkness came crashing in at last, things got... weird. Deadly, but weird. How does one describe the sounds of inhuman whispers on the edge of hearing, accompanied by the terror of screams both imaginary and horribly real that truly captured the assault on the senses? Of the sense that no matter what direction you were facing you could see dozens of bright, lifeless and predatory eyes that were locked onto their prey and were just savoring the moment before rushing in to sink in their teeth?

To swing at a foe that was trying to strike at one of his battle brothers, hear the roar of the chain as it connected with a shadowy limb as his axe proceeded to shred it as if it were flesh and blood... only for the arm to complete the swing as normal, disconnected from its body completely with a shredded mess on both sides of the limb as claw like fingers punched through chest armor like it wasn't there. To know in your gut that in this place, the rules of reality were not working as intended and you were going to die painfully because of it... but planning to go down swinging anyway because even when facing off against an impossible foe, the idea of laying down and dying was somehow worse then simply being killed.

The words to truly convey those sensations to another simply didn't exist. Not that Konrad expected to be able to ever try.

Then there was suddenly light.

The darkness was pushed back, allowing Konrad to see again... through the light brought more then mere ease of sight with it. One of the attackers, caught outside of the shadows as he had swung his axe towards it, let out an inhuman noise of terror and pain as the axe tore it asunder and the being... disintegrated was the only real word that captured the wholeness of its destruction. It simply ceased to be.

The light didn't cover the whole room... merely a dome that had pushed back the darkness and caught a number of the inky, shadowy attackers in all variety of shapes and sizes in its glow. A flash of a glace backwards revealed the source of the light to have been one of the auxiliaries: A woman whose body had seemingly been infused with moth like features which included a pair of moth like wings, a large amount of surprisingly soft looking white fluff that grew out of most of her body and a second pair of arms that grow slightly lower on her torso. Her eyes were closed, clearly focusing as the warm, bright glow imitated from her body, creating the dome around them.

The shadow creatures themselves were not handling the light well; The more traditional 'shadows' that had been moving along the floor had been outright burned away, disappearing completely to the light alone. The ones with third dimensions were enduring it a bit better, but they seemed to be trying to shield what amounted to 'eyes' as something smoke-like seemed to rise from their bodies. Some were simply too overcome by what Konrad could only consider to be shock from being blinded and in pain to really do anything, while others were actively trying to blindly skitter back towards the darkness and out of the light.

There was no quarter or mercy given as Konrad's chainaxe roared and he descended upon the currently hapless monsters, seizing the opportunity to make the deathless die. He did not do so alone.

Of the battle brothers he had started with, he could only see Tragios and Zygane were still standing and able to fight; Two more laid on the ground, clearly dead from a variety of horrific wounds from all sides. The other two were unaccounted for, likely somewhere in the darkness.

Surprisingly, including the moth woman, two of the Auxiliaries were still alive as well... through in fairly bad condition. A young man with a somewhat equine face and hooves for feet with what could only be called a unicorn horn sticking out of his forehead and a young woman with goat horns and somewhat mossy skin... both of whom were covered in claw marks, bite marks and what appeared to be attempts to pry their skin off in chunks.

The 'unicorn' had suffered the worst of the two of them. Konrad wasn't trained in medicine and he had only had a glance, but even if untrained eye could tell that the situation wasn't great; Most of the damage had been inflicted on both of his arms and considering all the fingers and arm chunks that were now missing from each, Konrad couldn't blame him in the slightest for not being able to fight anymore.

The mossy goat girl was still physically able to shoot her gun, through the moment she tried there was a jarring sound of an autogun jamming. Since her companion couldn't currently use his, she grabbed it and despite the pain she was in, actually took the time to aim her shots before firing. Singular bullet holes weren't enough to actually kill the shadow entities, through the wounds seemed to start filling with light and thus caused far greater injury then simple bullet holes normally would.

Within a manner of seconds, the dome was cleared out of hostiles. New ones didn't seem inclined to try and enter it, but the moment seemed more like a reprieve rather than an end of the storm. Gesturing towards Tragios and Zygane to form a triangle around the moth woman that was the source of the dome that had saved their lives, Konrad fell into position himself as he not only tried to focus on the perimeter, but also consider the facts of their situation while ignoring the suppressed, but clearly pained noises that were coming from the surviving auxiliaries. He couldn't do anything about their injuries at the moment and he needed to focus to try and get them out of the situation alive.

The moth girl was clearly some kind of witch. He didn't know enough about witchcraft or whatever powers they generally used to know what kind or what to expect really, but she was actively trying to save them from whatever abomination it was that was outside of the dome so as far as he was concerned she was a good one and worth keeping. A quick glance in her direction suggested that not only was she deep in concentration... but also struggling rather badly; All the thing outside needed to do was maintain pressure and sooner or later it would win whatever battle of wills was taking place. Staying here was not an option.

Maintaining the dome seemed to be taking all of her attention and energy and thus wasn't likely to be able to move under her own power. He didn't know enough about this magical stuff to know if moving her would also move the dome with her... or if touching her at all would break her concentration and get them all killed...

And yet, what other options did they have?

If they stayed still they were dead. If they tried to move her one of three things would happen:

1) They accidentally messed up whatever spell she was doing and they died. Either because of the magic or the things lurking in the darkness.

2) The dome doesn't move with her as the center, in which case they were kind of stuck and moving her was meaningless.

3) They could move her and thus they could walk her towards the wreckage at either side of the hallway. Not only might this remove a direction that the things could be bombarding the dome from and thus take some pressure off of her, but it maybe a passage out had been made as well?

It was a gamble, but it was merely a desperate situation rather then outright suicide.

"Tragios. I need you to carefully pick up the moth woman and start carrying her. I need you to be gentle with her because we'll all die if you're too rough." He stressed, before glancing at the two auxiliaries. "I know you're both in a lot of pain right now, but me and Zygane are going to be covering you, Tragios and moth woman as we all slowly make our way towards an exit. You're going to have to walk there."

There was some grumbling and pained noises, but even as he maintained his vigilance on the edges of the dome Konrad could see that the two auxiliaries were bringing themselves to their feet and leaning on each other for support while Tragios carefully pulled out of his spot in the triangle while Zygane and himself shifted to make up the difference. It was almost comical, watching as a giant of a man placed his hands on the much smaller moth woman's sides in order to pick her up like she was a fragile piece of pottery, but considering that the barrier was still up and her feet were no longer on the ground, Tragios was at least taking the job deathly seriously.

"Alright. On my mark we move. Slow and steady Tragios, we're not leaving anyone behind and you're carrying vital cargo. Mark."

Their movements were slow and steady... and also somewhat uneventful. The darkness and the entities lurking within it continued to maintain pressure at the edges of the light... and Konrad knew he could make out several shapes just lurking outside of the point between light and darkness, but it seemed like the entities weren't inclined to try anything more direct then to wait for the dome and its creator to falter.

Konrad had seem behavior like this in a variety of predators of all shapes and sizes... his former gang amongst them at times. Whatever these things were, they were ambush predators; They had masterfully set up a situation in which they had every possible advantage before they sprung the trap, including being practically invincible while attacking... and they had run into a situation in which those advantages were negated.

It was possible that their reluctance to attack was born of cowardice. After all, if you believed yourself immortal and immune to pain encountering an enemy that can make both of those things untrue must have been terrifying on some level. It could have also been from pragmatism; The price paid to assault the dome in order to kill the remaining survivors of its trap might simply outweigh the rewards of actually doing so. They were watching to see if the dome of light faltered on its own, but if they was going to simply cut their losses so be it.

For a flicker of a moment Konrad considered the possibility of using the dome to try and expose some of the entities in order to directly attack them. Turn a withdrawal into a charge. But he dismissed it easily enough; They weren't moving fast enough to realistically catch any of them and this situation was miraculous as it was... and like such things, if you pushed it too far it would disappear.

In time they did find the wreckage that made up the blockade of their exit. It took a little bit of a walk but an opening had been curved out and lit up by their fellow legionaries on the other side. Slipping through was a one by one affair, with Konrad making sure that he was the last one to carefully withdraw, facing the darkness as he did so.

For a moment, the void stared back. In the darkness he could make out the facial features of the horrific equine creature that had started the ambush off, glaring back at him with clear irritation in its bright white, monstrous eyes. Konrad swore that he saw what looked like chainsaw wounds on its cheek, but the inky blackness was already reforming it. Then... with what could only be considered a dismissive huff, it pulled back into the darkness and disappeared.

With its disappearance, the blackness of the literal kill-box seemed to lose whatever property that allowed it to block out normal light; Torchlight from both sides started to cast it back like normal. Soon the whole 'room' was lit up once more as the march needed to continue through it... even if those doing so were a bit more concerned while making the crossing.

Disturbingly, there was almost no evidence that anything had happened in that section of hallway outside of the twin piles of wreckage that had blocked it off from passage temporally. Bodies, blood, equipment... all of it was gone. All that remained were bullet holes and scorch marks on the walls and floor.
Hidden 4 mos ago 4 mos ago Post by grimely
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grimely

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Somewhere in cis-lunar space

Captain Volkov stormed onto the bridge, sleep still clinging to the corners of his eye, his fury at being awoken so early in his rest cycle directed at the Officer of the Deck.

“Why have I been awoken, Baran? The ship is not at combat alert, so why have I been summoned?”

Baran, ever the professional, handed his captain a dataslate without so much as a flinch at the anger directed his way.

“Sensorium report Captain, there has been an explosion of massive yield at world engine site #12. Yield estimated at or about 150 megatons, sir.”

Volkov skimmed the report, gave the pict recording of the explosion a watch, and handed the dataslate back to Baran. “A failure then? The world engines are wondrous machines, but they are not perfect Baran. Or is there more?”

Baran nodded and led his Captain to the sensorium officer’s station, “Here, Junior Grade Andreeva tracked a single craft leaving the world engine minutes before the explosion at high speed. We suspect sabotage, an outside attack.”

There was silence for a moment, Volkov raising a hand to his temple as he felt a headache coming on before he spoke again, “The direction of travel, that leads to the new Imperial borders, no? Do you think that this was their doing?”

Baran nodded solemnly, “Deep Winter reports suspected sabotage by unknown aggressors, other than the craft leaving the world engine, Deep Winter and our own sensorium and augers detected no incoming missiles or other craft. It could only be them.”

“Damn them, why now?” Volkov left Baran where he stood and moved to his command throne, “I have the bridge.”

“Captain has the bridge,” Baran echoed.

“Loading Bay, is the retrieval of cargo complete?” Volkov asked through the command thrones internal vox. He felt the headache worsen as he waited for the answer from the loading bays.

The radio crackled to life as a tinny voice answered through the distortion, “Complete Shipmaster, the last Selenar shuttle left not minutes ago, and the equipment and gene stocks are secure in the vaults.”

“Excellent,” Volkov said as he cut the connection, “Helmsman, make course for Sanctii at best speed.”

“Setting course for Sanctii at best speed, aye sir.” the helmsman echoed as the crew about the bridge began to move to their stations and set about the many tasks that came with moving a near-kilometer-long voidship.

Far away, ensconced within an arcane apparatus almost as old as he was, Malcador extended his consciousness across the void. He was a headache at first, a throbbing pain at the back of Volkov’s skull, as he extended his control over the man’s mind. “What have you received from the gene-cults?” the Sigilite whispered, exerting his will over the captain, peeling back memories with a gentle touch.

Volkov strained momentarily in his throne, his head pulsing in pain as he pulled up the cargo manifests without thinking. He read over the details, stopping on each item long enough to absorb the contents before swiping to the next item on the list.

He scoffed at the names of archeotech contraptions. Machines of which he knew disturbingly little about that had been hastily loaded into his ship's berths.

“Genetor Banks… Genetor Materiel… Vitae Wombs…” his head felt worse as he read, skimming over sections about temperature-controlled vials of genetic material and cryo-sleep equipment.



Somewhere in the Himalazians

The bulk of the Sigilite’s attention receded from Volkov with that act complete, the psyker remaining only as a dull pain behind the eyes. “They say imitation is the surest form of flattery,” Malcador muttered to himself as he brought forth the deployment lists of the Emperor’s vast armies, searching for a weapon that was both ready and as yet uncommitted. He did not have to search for long.

A single command ushered forth from his fastness deep beneath the Himalayzans, the Legion Master of the Second commanded to present herself before the right-hand of the Master of Mankind. It was time for the Astartes to go to war.

When Seren Crown received the summons, she thought it was fake. Her dataslate was passed around the camp, for everyone to see and snicker about behind her back.

“Are you going to go?” Her second-in-command asked her.

“I don’t exactly have a choice,” Seren grunted.

Seren’s first reaction to seeing the vault was to marvel at its size. Her second was to think about the possible ways one could break into it. There was only one entrance, and being underground would require drilling through a mountain to reach it. Her thoughts were interrupted by a set of double doors opening to reveal Malcador, the Emperor’s right hand. She gave him a lazy salute. “Malcador.” She cleared her throat and straightened her salute, “Sir. You asked to see me?”

The entrance to Malcador’s fastness was a pair of wrought adamantium doors over ten meters tall, and broad enough to comfortably fit five power armored warriors abreast. It dwarfed Seren, and made the wizened form of the Sigilite almost vanish within its immensity. He arched a brow at her as clutched upon his staff, right hand shackled to it by a length of manacle.

“Brash,” he muttered with a soft snort, turning on his heel as he began to hobble within the cyclopean vault built into the very bones of the ancient mountains. Here were stored some of the most deadly weapons ever crafted by human hands, and the most treasured artifacts of its illustrious past. Malcador cared nothing for them, locked away as they were, hinted at only by the doors locking them away from reckless use and vain ambition. “Such is well,” he added in the same, quiet, voice, simply presuming Seren would follow him.

“I have need of you, and your warriors. Is the Second prepared to take the field?”

For the last two weeks, the Second had been engaged in an intense tournament of Liar’s Dice. The finals were scheduled to be held tomorrow evening, and they were very much not ready to take the field, “Of course. Where do you need us?”

The millennia-old man froze for a moment, looking back at the Astartes with a crooked smile. “That is… a more complicated question than you might. I am afraid that your first engagement will have you roll the dice. Come.”

Malcador advanced further into the subterranean vault, until arriving at a hololith displaying representations of Terra and her moon. A red rune glowed at a point in space halfway in between the two celestial bodies. “There is a voidship I need boarded.”

Seren squinted at the shapes, the bright lights of the display making it difficult for her to see. “Something tells me that we’re not going to be allowed to take another ship out to meet it.” There was a glint of excitement in her eyes. She had not expected their first engagement to be in space. “Did you already have an idea in mind?”

“There is precious little time, and this vessel outguns all craft that the Emperor has at hand,” Malcador confirmed. “The only alternative is a teleporter deep strike, but at such a range it will be extremely perilous. I will do what I can to prepare and guide you to your destination, but I will not lie to you. This is a desperate gamble, not a cunning plan.”

As the Sigillite spoke, a smile grew on Seren’s face. When he finished, she laughed, “Malcador, you’ve come to the right person. There isn’t a legion in the army that likes to gamble more than the Second. When do we leave?”

“As soon as you are prepared,” Malcador said gravely as he stared at the glaring red rune of Sanctii’s voidship. “But first, heed my words. Your mission is twofold. While the threat of this vessel to the siege warrants it be disabled, be aware that its cargo is of great interest to myself and your lord. Take command of this vessel, with whatever it carries still intact, and the Second will have accrued great glory in their first foray. Now go, prepare your warriors and bring them hence.”

The teleportarium chamber was built atop a high peak of the proud Himalayza mountain range, the ancient stone still standing tall despite millennia of mankind throwing their most destructive weapons at each other. The snows buried vast craters caused by nuclear, and worse, explosions, steep valleys forever entombing the armies who have attempted to cross or conquer them. Here, gazing out from the roof of the world, Malcador awaited the warriors of the Second.

It was a vast chamber of bronze and glass, the entire dome that made its roof transparent so that one might see the stars whirling overhead. Those with a keen eye could see, even now, one moving with the too-fast-yet-too-slow gait of a voidship plying its way through the far orbits of the wounded Earth. Within a vast circular room the Sigilite stood, staring at that staid transit, surrounded by robed and chained psykers of his order, and as they chanted a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature outside filled the air.

“Remain calm as you prepare the way,” Malcador said softly, his staff clinking against the intricately wrought metal of the floor. Almost as much a piece of art as of technology, the entire edifice was filled with esoteric instruments and arcane displays that only the most learned of these fallen days could understand - and even then, only just. It was this nigh forgotten wonder that he would entrust the hopes of the Astartes upon, temperamental and rarely used as it was.

The Second entered the chamber in one amorphous, chaotic mass as too many people tried to walk through a too-small door at the same time. Seren was at the head, walking backward watching the amoeba that was the Second doing its best to form straight orderly lines, “Barkley, you’re supposed to be in Spade’s squad on the left! Your other left! Nope never mind you were right the first time. Gwen wake up, I can see you back there! Are you going to make Jara carry you through the teleporter?” She was nursing a terrible hangover from the previous night’s activities, as was most of the rest of the legion. Despite their looming assignment, they had pushed ahead with their gambling finale and it had been glorious. Though she had not participated in the actual tournament, Seren had still been able to take home a sizable egg nest for correctly betting on the winner.

“Crown. Coffee for you.”

She took the offered thermos from her second-in-command gratefully, “Thanks Spade. Don’t know what I’d do without you.” She took a sip and leaned in close. “What time is it?” she hissed.

“We’re only five minutes late. All things considered, I’d say we’re doing great.”

“Beautiful.” Seren turned around to faceforward, only to find herself face to face with the Sigillite himself. She stopped, made a messy salute, and shot a glare back at Spade who had obviously seen him approaching and stayed quiet, “Sir. The Second Legion is here, reporting for duty. We’re ready to enter the teleportarium chamber.”

Behind her, the Legion shifted, yawned, and whispered amongst themselves. None of them appeared to be particularly worried about being sent on a possible suicide mission. In fact, just after waking up this morning, the Legion had already started taking bets on who would and wouldn’t make it after the jump. Even now, money discreetly changed hands and numbers were being written down.

Malcador stood silently for a moment, his face inscrutable and blank, hand tightening for a moment on his staff. And then… the Sigilite laughed, a thready noise, like wind through the desert. “I can think of none better for this,” he said to Seren, before his voice grew in volume until it enveloped the whole of the chamber. “Strength of arms shall not make the difference here, for my lord has already made you mightier than the curs you shall face. Valor and bravery you have in abundance, neither will it determine who lives and who dies upon this day. You entrust yourselves, Astartes, to the cruelest test of all.”

A hum that thrummed inside of the very bones of those present began as the teleportarium began to charge, an unseen vortex pulling the air into the epicenter of the chamber where the circled psykers chanted with increased fervor. Bolts of energy arced from ancient and corroded diodes, filling the air with the stench of ozone as the work of elder days was pressed once more into service for he who would name himself the Master of Mankind.

“Are you feeling lucky, young warriors of the Emperor?”




(Thanks to @itarichan and @FrostedCaramel)
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Veharr

Communications room - The Hidden Path - Gyptus


Veharr stared down at a communcations relay, something was in orbit. He saw it, and he somewhat felt it. He felt that those within dark cities nearby were finished, the Emperors warriors had moved on. He slowly powered on the old relay station with a prerecorded message, "We see you, and welcome you to the Home of Man." the message would blurt out over several general long distance channels. It was something fascinating, but he died that it would be enough to spark those from the old days to reach out to those below, maybe. It was his time to enlighten the Emperor, or at least his second. Most of the warrior bands of Imperial barbarians had moved far to the West, and North, maybe an audience could be found.

Or, at least communion started between those in Orbit, and those on the planet. He smiled softly as he looked back, "I am Veharr, for those listening," the old priest said as he pressed down upon a large red button, "I am a man who wishes to see his home return to it's beauty, I seek to see the green fields and forests, blue lakes and oceans once again. I wish the world to become beautiful once again. Should you hear this message, I will respond in three days at this time, and wherever you wish to meet, we may there."

Veharr slowly moved the relay to bounce between several so that it may spread to those listening, mostly those in orbit, and hopefully those who lead the Imperium, or the Emperor himself. He pressed his hand against the red button last time and watched as the light faded away. He slowly began to power down the relay, and thanked himself for the abilities gifted to him through the warp.

"May the Emperor bless us, and may we forge this world a new so that we can see purity within it. May the sons of his legions calm to my hand, and may those in this world see reason in desire and heart rather than the destruction of each other for those of evil."
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Bright_Ops The Insane Scholar

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The Mercia Front


Despite the vast distances between the various Hives that the 8th legion were infiltrating, the lack of communication between the various branches of the legion and the differences and unique challenges that each provided, the actual operation largely played out the same across them all. From the moment that the first of the branches made their move to the final Hive being completely under Imperial control, the whole operation spanned a grand total of four months.

Within that four month span, a number of hive cities ranging from the minor Hive Bullhead to Hives Oklahoma and Houston were flipped to Imperial control with very little in the way of resources or fight. For the amount of land that had changed hands at what would be an utterly mind bending speed compared to the grind of wars during the Unification, there was relatively little bloodshed. In every Hive, Pacific forces were always given the options of abandoning the Hive or surrendering and being treated as respected prisoners of war, with violence being saved for those that refused to do either.

There was some degree of disquiet on this campaign about the measures employed by the 8th in order to maintain control of the hives once they had taken control. Declaring martial law, the 8th would round up many of the leading figures, those of higher rank in various organizations and noble families and hold tribunals, trying each and every one of them for being traitors to the former Merica state (a former trusted ally of the Imperium) and Pacific collaborators. These trails were swift, uncaring and almost always ended with a verdict of guilty and execution.

Critics of the 8th made a point of disagreeing strongly with one of the Emperor's armed forces declaring themselves judge, jury and executioners of what were highborn and noble lineages and that these purges were a combination of revenge killings from before they joined the Emperor's armies and the legion installing officials loyal to them personally by putting them in now vacant positions of power. The 8th itself defended its actions, claiming that since it would take time for the Imperium to reinforce their new position and holdings, harsh measures were required in order to ensure stability and prevent sabotage from within, least betrayal lead to the hives falling back into Pacific hands.

What is certain through was that the Mercia Front swung in the Imperium's favor practically overnight, with the Pacific held fortress hives of Florida suddenly being at major risk of being completely surrounded and cut off as the Imperium now had a second front line that threatened to bypass them and punch directly into the heart of Mercia and attack both west and eastern borders at once.

...........................................


Hive Houston


If you knew the right places, it was possible to do an utterly mind blowing amount of damage to a Hive or its population for very little effort. Prevent water from being recycled or flowing around for a grand total of two hours and countless people would die in a matter of days, from thirst and fighting to the death over what few drops of liquid could be found. It was largely the same with any resource required for the Hive to function. Fuel, food, power, coolant... any disruption to the supply line could have untold, catastrophic consequences to both people and infrastructure. That didn't even factor in the cascade effects: A disruption to one vital resource tended to cause issues for other vital resources.

If you knew the right people, it was possible to aim the disaster. Select which part of the hive was suddenly going to go without power, light or heat for an extended period of time and watch the chaos unfold.

Of course, there were a number of safeguards in place to both ensure that no one ever did such a thing (either intentionally or not) to begin with and plans and people in place to sweep in and try to fix it as quickly as possible if it did. As one of the more goat like member of the auxiliary forces smashed in the skull of the last over the overseers with a club, the first line of defense crumbled.

To say that the water station was 'quiet' would have been something of a lie. Between the humming of power, the flowing of liquid and the general noises such industrial machines that provided such a vital function and would never be willing shut down unless things were truly dire, silence was not something one would ever find here. However the sounds of conflict and hostilities had now come to an end.

Jzzist Al-Allal took a moment to admire what he was seeing. This wasn't the only treatment and recycling station that the Water Guild controlled in the Hive for logical reasons, but this far up in the hive structure the quality of the room, its machines and the conditions that its workers needed to toil in were considerably better then those found lower down. It made sense in a way... after all, this station provided for the elite at the top of the hive. If the nobles didn't get the best water and air, there would be hell to pay somewhere down the line... and that had the additional benefit of giving those providing that to them access to it as well.

The air here... it was fresher and cleaner then any he had ever breathed in before outside of the lab in which he had been transformed. Artificial still of course, but...

He shook his head as he allowed the moment to pass. They had things to do.

Squads of auxiliaries and marines were setting themselves up, digging in so that they would keep their new prize. He had a different task through. "Boyle, long time no see! How would you like a once in a lifetime opportunity?"

Boyle Vea was a 5' 0" tall, white skinned man with enigmatic, light brown eyes, a lean face, a square jaw and plucked eyebrows. Bald, with tattoos fully covering his lower back, chest, upper body and left arm and an impressively long, perfectly shaped beard that was a shade blonder than his hair... and right now the middle manager of the Water Guild looked at Jzzist with a mixture of fear, awe and curiosity. He was also the highest ranked member of the Water Guild the 8th currently had access too and the person Jzzist knew
could unless targeted harm if giving motivation to do so.

"Jzzist is that... holy shit! What is going... what have you..." Boyle began, clearly never expecting to see someone he had once known become..., well, whatever he was now or experience this situation. With a clearing of the throat from a marine flanking Jzzist to try and get Boyle refocused, the conversation continued "I-I... Sorry, what's this about an opportunity?"

A massive, armored hand that could crush muscle and bone with ease planted itself with surprising softness on Boyle's shoulder as Jzzist explained "Long story short, we're working for the Imperium now and we're going to take over Houston. You and your crew have a very rare opportunity to not only help us do that, but be heavily rewarded for doing so." With a free hand, he gestured towards both the carnage of the enforcers and overseers that had resisted and the ease in which they had been dispatched... as well as the fortifications that were being made by those who did the slaughter. "I can assure you, the pacific forces aren't going to stop us, but you could help speed the process up considerably."

A marine listening into a vox caster looked up and called over "Al-Allal, squads three and four have secured the power station and preparing for counterattack, squads five and two have fortified the air purifier. Remaining squads are still securing their locations, but they've managed to secure local assistance for the mission."

Jzzist nodded to the vox man before looking back to Boyle. Boyle gulped a little as sweat started to form on his brow as he asked "I'm not an idiot. You want us to turn water off to certain sections of the hive, right?" There was a nod that the man was correct. "We could do that... but what kind of reward are we talking about?"

Jzzist grinned. This was why he liked Boyle. The man wasn't going to pass an opportunity to benefit himself pass him by. "I'll be blunt with you Boyle. After we take over, we're going to kill most of the people living in the upper hive. Nobles, guild representatives... pretty much anyone with power or influence that might cause us trouble before we get reinforcements. Oh, the reports will say we gave them trials and all that, but they're all going to die for collaborating with the Pacifics, regardless of if they did or not." The ease in which Jzzist spoke of purging the highest rungs of Houston society, be they guilty or not was horrifying to behold... but Boyle didn't get to where he was by caring about the pain and suffering of others.

"As for the Water Guild... well, I'm thinking we might start out investigations into traitors and collaborators with... well, whatever your direct boss's rank is and working our way up from there. Of course, after the purge... well, new leadership is going to be needed for the Water Guild and since you're one of the highest ranks left and proved their loyalty to the Imperium, I feel confident that your appointment to head of the Water Guild would be accepted." It was more of an afterthought when Jzzist added "And of course veterans of the Water Guild will also be risen up to fill the vacuum left by the now dead traitors or positions emptied by those moving up. But you would be in charge of it all."

There was a moment of relative silence as Boyle needed a moment to process the extent of what he was being offered. Once he did, an ambitious, greedy smile started to grow on his face. "You son of a bitch, I'm in!"
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IV Legiones Astartes
Purge of Ur-Atlan


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?"
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The 18th Legion

Staging Point Throat - Southern Ursh


"Commander Red should be back soon hold your sword Grunbah." The Astartes said as he stared up at the towering brute, then immediately receiving a backhand that tossed the young Astartes aside like a ragdoll.

"I am your elder welp, you may be Sergent but I am your superior." Captain Grunbah growled before kicking the Astartes, staring at the rest of the new squad that had entered the camp just the day prior, "He said he would be back four days ago, and that I should be arriving reinforcements, a new batch of warriors, instead I get stunted runts with no will to fight."

There seemed to be a stand off, twenty thunder warriors against seven astartes. Both sides knew who would win, but the younger warriors did drag their sergeant back into their ranks. As both lines began to set up, swords, axes, and mauls all in hand and raising. At that moment, another stepped between the lines, "Grunbah, call your wolves back, for we need not shed blood outside of a sparring pit or the battlefield. An I would not think Theadon or the Emperor would wish to see these young soldiers destroyed before their first battle." Bombda stared at them and held out several canisters of explosives that wrapped around his chest, it was a crude deterrent, but it was one that worked; there was no fun in dying in an exploding.

With that, the group of thunder warriors turned and grumbled back into their barracks and tents, Bombda turned back towards the men behind him, "You will be under me... he is anxious for bloodshed, so tread lightly around him. Lock your barracks, and have explosives nearby he sees them as weak yet charges head first into artillery barrages."

"Thank you Lieutenant, he does realize that we are not thunder warriors but Astartes right?" the younger warrior asked, "No... The commander has tried to explain to him, but he is... idiotic and wild, he is also unhinged, and becoming worse. The more he thinks the worse he gets, and blood lust takes him."




"He is gone." a thunder warrior muttered out after closing the cover of a tent.

Theadon Red stood behind the man sighing, "He took his bike, and sword, not even his armor. He is headed to the North East from the tracks, but why?"

"I don't know... what is to the North East, snow?" asked the Warrior, turning back towards his commander, "And at this hour as well, doesn't he know he's more likely to freeze than find anything out there?"

"Check the maps and see, we can see if we can sideline the route to find him before we continue to our first objective." Theadon said before remembering something, "There is a village there, Seargent Lathurani and his men scouted it on their way here... I think... Do we continue without our objectives without him is the question. We let him rampage through the countryside alone, or we take him with us. The man can probably draw anything away from us alone with his bloodlust."

"Commander, do you think it wise to let him go, his men might follow suit?" The warrior asked, a bit of worry on his face.

"That might be for the best; we send his fifty men with a few trucks and their bikes to chase him... knowing them, it will spread more chaos through the countryside. They are all full of bloodlust, let them get it out. While... I would like to have their bodies in the end; I would rather not kill them like... the last three that have fallen to bloodlust. Send a scouting party behind them by a few days, maybe the Astartes... they may be at odds, but the young blood still have honor in their hearts and can collect those who have fallen. Bombda can lead them while I lead the rest of the eighteenth north."

He thought this out, it was their job to cause fear and terror in the realms out of the imperiums light, through darkness there is a light that comes from the fires of ruins, and rebuilding from the smoldering ashes. He thought about his on his way to see Bombda, but he also though of his conversation with his friend when he received the new warriors of the Imperium, he figured they would be replaced eventually with old age, if they died of old age, but at that moment he sighed as he took a deep breath, looking up at the sky trying to see a moon, but it was not there. The legions symbol was that of the moon cracked by blades of the imperium, he was a night terror, and tonight was a full moon. Blood flowed thick through their bloods as they all desired war once again, sitting in these stations resupplying is something most hate. He enjoyed it, it kept his mind off fighting. He knew he could do many things, but numbers did help. But he felt himself letting loose once again, he felt his body aching for destruction, it was almost apart of his nature, of the legions nature to desire destruction.

"Let them run free... we will not be able to contain them should they find out, so let them know. Find their commander and to continue to stage two of the objectives."



Central Ursh - 3 weeks later




"Lieutenant Mehnan, artillery fire at designated zone six. Six shots full salvo followed up by two shots of smoke." Rex said into a small vox caster unit as he held his pistol and sword in both hands, he was hidden behind a mound of stone, it hid him and six others. "If Grunbah made it this far, we have two hundred yards, and four buildings until we get to the outpost."

A minute or so later, shells landed in front of him; the human contingent of his force did better without the most bloodthirsty of his legion screaming at them and trying to flay them at night. But with that he stood and listened to two more pops down towards the grouping of buildings. He raised his pistol up and started to fire at a hole in building two. He saw a muzzle flash a moment before, and since then saw nothing. Twenty yards he had not realized he had gone so fast, but he was twenty yards from the breach in the wall as he jumped in to fight some form of the beast that came from behind him. He looked at the breach, and there was nowhere for this thing to hide. He slashed in through and let its body bisect itself after several moments before firing more shots into what he assumed was its head.

He jumped backed several feet after receiving a blow to his side, and he lowered his blade to see that this thing was reforming in front of him, dark ooze coming from it as he charged once again, and his blade fell several times against this monster he fought, and finally he cleaved it in two once again, and kept going until it was a pile at the floor.

He turned back, and continued down the hall, "By the emperor, what abominations live in this place?" In front of him, a door burst down with a large and bloody figure full of madness; he knew that madness and had seen it before it was Grunbah. Covered in blood, and sheets of skin the hulking figure stood with a sword and an axe in both hands.

"You caught up to me old man." Grumbled Grunbah, "I've fought many things and learned many things... I've sent you back the bodies of those you sent for me, and now... I get to kill a welp who should have fallen at my heels long ago."

Grunbah turned towards his superior and let out a roar as his arms went wide, with his arms before the charge. Blood and skins flapping against the speed of this monster. Commander Red lifted his pistol and shot the man several times in the face, watching the man drop to the floor feet from him. Surprised, with a bit of dew on his face, he slowly placed his sword to the back of Grunbah's neck and pressed down upon the spine, cutting it. It was a loss, but, a needed one, both in the reminder of this is how all of his warriors would end up, but also how he would end up one day.

The other, is that this became a butcher, instead of a warrior of honor, he sowed destruction of many kinds upon the lands far beyond that of which he would have taken. He saw the scars in the land left by this lone warrior, the scars in his own soldiers left hanging mutilated in effigies on the country side almost as if they were warnings from the enemy, but it came from within. He knew it to be from within but told all others differently.

Grunbah was brutal and sadistic, and in his last moments it showed, he had become almost an animal, but one of sport. One which desired only to become a sport, or allow its prey to. Death was only a final desire, and here it was given, likely not in the manner desired, but it was given and given swiftly. How long had he been moving, how long since he rested, not in some time. The building he was in shook, as the floor came down in front of him, and he climbed through the breech reloading his autopistol. He was thankful it brought Grunbah down, and surprised it did as well.

"Commander are you alright, the back half of your building came down?" someone asked through the vox channel.

"I am fine, this building is clear, finish your building and then let us proceed to the communications center. We don't have much time before the jamming is lifted."

Grunbah looked at the building, it looked like the one he was in, but with metal poles and dishes sticking from it, he saw a few using them as climbing aids in scaling the side to get to the roof, but he decided the door or one of the shell holes would be a better entry way for himself.

"Seargent, are your astartes ready?" Commander Red asked, "through the lower quarters with Bombda, take both of your squads, and meet me in the central room. Weizer and Wenttiv follow me. Yuidilon Standard to the roof, give the backlines a sight, and let honor be bound to our names."

To that several responses came through the vox network, all confirming their orders. He saw brutes charge to catch up behind him, but they were slow and he made it through the first breech as he came upon a group of three men, none of which stood a chance as his sword cleaved two in half, and his autopistols hilt caved the thirds skull in. He put a shot into the thirds head to put him out of his suffering before he kicked a door off it's hinges. Firing into any warm body in the room, he stepped on the door with a crack as the individual below the door started to break, he shot through the door to finish this poor soul as well. Two more shots, his magazine was empty, and he dropped with his thumb before letting his other hand release the sword impaling another and letting his fists pulp the last man into the wall.

Reloading once again, he retrieved his sword moments later smashing a panel in the room, and staring at the carnage that maybe took twelve seconds in total, if he was younger, he could have done it in eight. This, was slaughter, it was butchery, it was not terror, in terror you leave several alive, but so far all he came across was death. The astartes he heard below him, and he saw his own warriors follow past the room he was in. He saw them as butchers in that moment, not as the warriors he knew. He saw what other legions were, butchers, they had an artistic view, a morbid one, but it was methodical. It was logical, and full of terror. He sighed, Bombda and the Astartes he felt would be the last of those who could complete their goals, their ways. Their old ways, like in Gyptus, or when starting this crusade across the world. Slow, steady, methodical. Leaving the enemy pissing in their pants and surrendering rather than killing them wholesale. Instead of having bodies to work in workshops, or constructing roads and logistics, there was only bodies cut apart with viciousness and hate. He knew there was hate, he saw hate in himself too, he saw some the abominations within this place. This outpost, a chapel of some kind, some form of prayer, they butchered as well, but in a different way. He felt it, something was wrong, both with this place, but he felt like with some of those around him. He felt Grunbah was different as well.

He knew that something was wrong, "All units, set explosives for five hours, leave the central spire in tact, and leave our calling cards, but blow up the other buildings. Let nothing but this last building stand, then let us head out, we have three days to make it to where we need to be. So let us be quick, gather our dead, and let us go."

Theadon Red stared, and opened up a smaller communications channel, "Bombda, in my building, Grunbah is there, get his body and his things. We need it... to figure out the problems that are starting to arise. Make sure no one see him but those you trust to keep quiet... And please, be quick about it. He is in the lower level I only checked that spot, but search the rest, see if there are any survivors and keep them hidden away as well. I want to know what they faced before we arrived, this was far too easy of a fight."
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Oraculum Perambulans in tenebris

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Nei Monggol




With a roar of straining, grinding engines and a wail of grasping wheels, the fleet clambered up the crescent dune, kicking up a plume of brown dust into the hazy sky. Despite their light frames, the dirtbikes had the hardest time of it, sinking into the grit like an overeager flenser’s knife into meat and laboriously hauling themselves out again in a relentless cycle of bumps. The migou’s buggies, though vastly more massive and burdened by the weight of their hulking occupants, were built to cruise the sands, and rolled over their surface with stupefying ease. Radim would have found the paradox of it amusing, had he not been one of the many being brutally jolted on the saddles of the bikes. As it was, the irritation wormed around his skull like a needle, now and then incautiously prodding the pall of darkness in the back of his mind.

“Devil’s dust, this.” On the bike to his left, Kuzma spat a mouthful of dry dirt, some of it snagging on his wild rust-red beard. “Pass the samogon, some got in my throat.”

“Where’s yours?” Radim did not take his eyes off the crest of the dune ahead of him, leaning forward to avoid being rattled by the next series of bumps. It did little to help. “Your drunk face already gargled it all?”

“Gave it to the lads. If you didn’t hear, these fat lunks-” Kuzma flashed a fig to the closest migou vehicle; one of the brutes on board answered with some unclear but doubtless vulgar sign of theirs, “-have been going around the camp at night, squeezing the goods from our people if they catch ‘em alone. It’d take a barrel to get one the things drunk, so they swiped everything they could from our band.”

“Should’ve stuck close to the volkhv, or us. These apes wouldn’t dare come near.”

“It’s not just the migou who’re afraid of us, you know. People get uneasy. Even samogon doesn’t help that much.”

“Maybe.” The truth was that Radim had seen it, too. Seasoned warriors hesitated a step too far when they approached him. Fresh meat did not even dare look him in the eye. This spread even to those who had never seen him in battle; the village streets he rode through were always eerily empty. The faint vibration of the metal - if metal it was - on his back, always warm through its wraps and his clothes even in the ash winter, had been his only company for a long time, along with the other three and the volkhv. He did not mind.

“Leave some.” Without letting the front wheel swerve, he grabbed the flask from his belt and threw it ahead over the handle, almost casually. It whistled through the air like an arrow catching a spark of Monggol’s white sun, sure to fall until it found itself as if by magic in Kuzma’s hand, stretched just far enough to catch it. The red-bearded warrior opened it with his teeth, drank a single deep swig, and threw it in the same way. Again, Radim did not even look up; the shimmer slipped at the upper edge of his sight just below the lid, and at the last moment his arm shot out, serpentine. He felt the warm metal tap against the palm of his hand as an afterthought. With the same motions, he opened the flask, feeling with some relief that the other warrior had not touched it to his mouth. Kuzma might have been a beggar, but at least he was a honourable one. Hells knew what scum festered in that beard of his, and Radim was not eager to taste its residue.

“You want some too?” He glanced to his right. “Fast, before I finish it all.”

“Got mine,” Kayan laughed, twisting to the side so the sun flashed on the flask at his own belt, likely still untouched. Unlike Radim’s other band-brothers, who came from his same village, the slant-eyed man was an easterner, used to the heat and dust of the steppes even before he had taken the rite of blood. Although Nei Monggol must have been trying even for him, his bravado would not permit him to show it. It surely helped that he did not wear his beard long like an Urshite, but kept it to a small wedge under drooping whiskers in the steppe way. Easier to clean blood out of it, as well, as he boasted every time, but neither Radim nor his compatriots would humiliate themselves by baring their faces like that, even if few appreciated the difference. Some things stayed with a man no matter what became of him.

“What about Gleb back there?”

Kayan turned the other way and shouted something to the last link of their line, which Radim did not hear over the howl of the engines. He did, however, see the distant head of dark hair shake, and could very well picture the grunt that came with that. Never one to speak much, Gleb had barely uttered a dozen words since they had gone through the rite years before.

“He says-” Kayan looked back to him.

“He says kark all,” Radim cut him off with a guffaw. The easterner grinned and sped ahead, dipping over the next dune.

All the better, Radim thought, the more for him. He would need it. The day would still be long.




They pitched camp at nightfall. None among the Urshite horde could tell one dune from another, but Dzhute, the migou warleader, said they were well within striking distance from where the Hymalazian army had encircled Monggol Tertius. Tomorrow, then, they would at last see battle. It was about time. Samogon was all well and good, but only blood could truly wash away this damnable dust.

From the top of the dune where their small brotherhood had raised its tents and lit its fire, Radim could appreciate the immensity of the force that moved to break the southerners’ siege. Though they were united under the long shadow of Kalagann, there was little love between the rider-bands of Ursh and the colossal migou that peopled this desolate land, and so they had set down well apart from each other. The campfires of the Urshites were far more numerous, dotting the plain as far as the undulant dunes would let him see, and this stirred some pride in his chest, though he knew that the Monggol giants were little inferior in sheer weight of flesh.

“You think there’s enough of us?” Kuzma asked between mouthfuls of insipid deathworm-meat. When Radim simply nodded at the multitude of lights, he continued, “They say the king of Hymalazia has a thousand times a hundred thousand warriors.”

“More than that, he sent his champions, the warriors of the storm,” Kayan added in an indifferent tone. Gleb smirked contemptuously.

“Freaks in painted armour. What he doesn’t have is us,” Radim grinned, almost a snarl, and the light of the fire danced on his teeth, “He could fill the desert with more men than there’s grains of dust, and they’d only be chaff to our swords.”

“Right you are, brother!” Kuzma leaned back, laughing, “The four of us will cut through his whole army and topple him from his mountain!”

“That’d be poor thanks for someone who’s given us such a gift,” Kayan would never be left behind in a boast, “The wind at our backs, the enemy’s wails before us, what’s better in life?”

“What do you say, volkhv? Do you see our victory?” Radim looked up at the old man crouched in the shadow of a tent’s mouth. If he had a name, no one knew it; to everyone he had always been the volkhv.

“I see blood, that’s for sure,” the elder’s voice did not match his dry, wrinkled skin and long white beard. It had the rough vigour and turns of speech of a man in the full of his years, something many found as unnerving as the jagged black patterns inked on his face and hands, now contorted by age. He kept his eyes fixed on the bowl in his lap, the circle of the moon bright within it. “Too soon to tell if any will be yours.”

Gleb gave a dismissive grunt. Radim found there was not much to add.




On his way towards Monggol Tertius, Radim had often found himself wondering what a city built in this wasteland could ever be like. Now, he found his silent question answered. Sheer walls of ochre stone rose from the dust plain like the pillars of a storm, angled walls bristling like a line of teeth below dome-capped spires and sinuously aligned bastions. From the distance where he stood, it was hard to discern singular details, much less the fine lines of division between the great stone blocks, and the entire massive appeared to be an impossible monolith carved by a vanished race of titans. Though fanciful, this was not too far from the truth; surely none had the knowledge and means to build something like this any longer.

This echo of bygone glory did nothing to deter the assault that churned at the foot of the enormous walls. The Hymalazian army was like a toxic lake churning restlessly against a cliff, thousands of red-cloaked soldiers and bulky angular vehicles hurling themselves at the enormous city, a myriad metallic mouths vomiting scorching fire and metal against the stubborn millenary stone. Desultory flashes of cannon-fire answered from atop the rampart, but they were clearly outmatched by the besiegers’ numbers. The warriors of the storm were nowhere to be seen, but then it stood to reason that they would be fighting at the very foot of the city, where the battle was most intense.

It would be this that doomed the invaders.

“Here they come,” Kayan pointed. Tearing his focus from the monumental battle and the pitch-like heat of the volkhv’s brew he had drunk that morning, Radim looked to his right. All but inaudible under the cacophony of the siege, the bike-riders’ horde was spilling over the last of the dunes that had kept its approach hidden. They were numerous, like a great stain of glistening oil spreading over the dust. Busy around its tanks and cannons, the Hymalazian rearguard did not notice their approach until they were a third of the way down the slope, and then its ranks came to life in a panicked flurry. Red-garbed warriors levelled their guns at the approaching avalanche of metal, firing some disorderly shots before the horde’s stubber-bikes spoke in a lightning stroke of gunpowder, scything them down to the earth. As they fell silent again, the horde’s vanguard crashed into the besiegers’ scrambling files, screaming riders slashing wildly to all sides from their saddles.

Like a gargantuan, amorphous beast, the invaders’ army shuddered and hesitated, frozen for a few moments’ surprise and indecision before it began to ponderously turn about itself to face the unexpected onslaught. Heavy artillery pieces were abandoned as troops rushed with guns in hand, the foremost firing off hasty shots on the run. Some riders fell from their bikes. The others roared their engines, well distinct now that much of the bombardment had abated, and swerved about, withdrawing up the slope now that the momentum of their charge was spent. It spoke to the Hymalazians’ credit that they did not hurl themselves in blind pursuit as Radim’s countrymen might have done; they arrayed their ranks, consolidating under the shouts of their sergeants, and marched up the dune in good order, the forward files raking the backs of the retreating riders with autogun bursts. Behind them, the waves of red began to stretch into a steadily advancing tide, the beast that was the army stretching out a shapeless limb to grasp at the unwary mites that had stung it.

Then, from over the ridge at the flank of this body of men, the second prong of the attack struck. A sky-choking cloud heralded the feral rush of the migou, tumbling down the dune in their rough buggies and all but throwing themselves from the vehicles at the enemy. A hail of ironshod muscle rained onto the reorganizing Hymalazian troops, plunging their counterattack into confusion. The flank of their pursuit crumbled as it was taking form, hulking monsters tearing a swathe into its midst; the vanguard stopped, wavered, and the riders of the horde turned back upon them. The formation ceased to be.

“Our time,” Radim said, reaching for the handle of his still wrapped sword. He saw pennants of crimson and yellow rushing back towards them from the forefront of the siege, the Hymalazian king’s thunderbird upon them. If his champions were finally approaching, he and his brothers would be there to meet them.

He tore the rags away from his blade, feeling the sting of the circular bone amulets the volkhv had driven into his skin with their recurve spikes. The sword was unlike any other he had ever seen, aside from its three fellows. It had the feel and weight of metal, considerable given its size, but its surface looked like smooth black glass. The blade had a deep, angular curve in the middle, like a strange branch or two symbols of lightning welded together. The handle was of beige bone, or very worn wood, but it was affixed to it so smoothly that they truly seemed to be as one piece.

He dragged the edge across the palm of his hand, and it drew blood with ease despite its odd shape.

Кровь…

The darkness stirred from its rest, creeping over his mind from its hiding place, and with it came the voice. The volkhv had said it belonged to the sword, but Radim was not so sure. The weapon, unusual as it was, looked new, indeed never suffering a notch in the time he had wielded it, but the snarling words that shook his marrow when he wielded it sounded ancient in a way he could not name. Perhaps it was the language, some hoary speech the world had long forgotten, but whose meaning he nonetheless understood in a way far more primal. Perhaps it was the contempt he could feel in them, the disdain of an ageless mountain as the unsure steps of youth braved its paths. Whatever the truth, he was never given time to dwell on it.

Жажду крови…

His body insensible, Radim saw the ground beneath his feet grow further. His loose plates of armour groaned and scraped as the muscles below bulged hideously, huge lumps of flesh grown a ruddy violet pushing them apart in their abnormal growth. A smooth sliding as reforming bones broke through the skin on his back and upper right arm, their tips shearing away into spikes. Fingers on hands and feet alike curled, twisting into blackened claws. Jaws were forced apart by a forest of dagger-like teeth. The neck bobbed, adjusting to the weight of the single horn on the left side of the head. The heat that had been within him since the morning grew to an all-encompassing blaze, one which only one libation could quench.

Жажде нет конца…

The thing that had been Radim bellowed its rage to the sky, joined by the chorus of its brothers, and the battle below froze for a moment at the visceral terror of that sound.

Столько крови, столько плоти…

It crashed among the red-garbed warriors in a leap. All thought of discipline was forgotten as shreds of flesh and metal sprayed under its blows. Its sword was black lightning, gouging through the armoured hide of tanks as easily as through human skin. The vermin that dared call themselves men trampled each other to mush as they scrambled to escape its wrath.

Круши, терзай, рви в клочья…

It picked up a struggling body and snapped off its head with a bite. They were walking carcasses before it, helpless offerings to its thirst. It was invincible.

A scream rang out ahead. This one was different, somehow. The thing raised its vitreous yellow eyes, trying to track the sound. That voice did not sound afraid. It was a scream of-

Challenge?

Something slammed into its chest, and it staggered back, dense black blood spattering its armour. The warrior before it was larger than the others, bound in red and yellow metal. A defiant grin cut across his face, and a cannon worthy of a small war vehicle smoked in his hands. More of the bulky figures crowded its sight now, brandishing huge pieces of metal - guns, swords, hammers. Its wandering eye saw some further back routing a pack of migou, the gutless brutes losing heart before an enemy they could not overwhelm by sheer strength.

Они ничто… Убей, ломай их хребты… Больше крови…

The thing snarled, and its brother of the flaming beard answered at its shoulder. They sprang forward. The warrior with the cannon began to squeeze the trigger again, but he was too slow. A stroke of a black sword severed his body and weapon from shoulder to hip. The horned thing plunged among its new foes with cruel abandon, heedless of the blows that fell onto its hide, cutting, mangling, killing.

A shriek to the side. It looked up, and gaped. Its brother had fallen to one knee, a leg broken by a hammer’s blow. As it watched, another warrior in red and yellow swung his greatsword in a wide arc, and the flame-bearded head toppled from its shoulders. The thing howled, its rage turning bitter.

Мсти… Все они умрут…

The slayer barely had time to finish his exultant cheer before being caught upon a horn and tossed into the air. The thing thrashed furiously, uncaring of what it cut so long as something bled.

Something stung its ear, more aberrant yet than a fearless cry. In the face of its anger, someone was daring to laugh. It spun about, coming to face with yet another storm-warrior. His red and grey beard was like flames over ash, and the laughter on his lips seemed to mock the scars that surrounded it. It lashed out with its sword, but the warrior’s axe was fast in his hands, faster than it expected. Black blood spurted from its wrist as the dark blade fell into the gory dust with a damp thud. Roaring, it clawed with its good hand, but a burst of heavy shells to the side staggered it, and the warrior - no, the champion hewed its leg out from under it, sending it sprawling on its back. The heat was draining from its wound together with its blood.

Radim saw the sun shine upon the axe as it descended on his head with a boastful, theatrical flourish, and then darkness claimed him for the final time.
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