[IC] From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

[Ezekiel]

Credits: @mothnoodle and @MarshalSolgriev

Location:
The Ursh Front
The Fortress of Bastion

“Welcome to Bastion, My King.” The Custodes spoke over the howl of Terra-Watt crafted engines as the Emperor’s personal craft steadily spun down after its recent landing. The gleaming gold of its armour had been concealed by the dust and ash that seemed everywhere across the Ursh front.

None of that touched the man who strode from the disembarkment ramp with the purpose of one without pause. He had not travelled in the full regalia of his office, the majesty of such ill suited for containment within the confined space of the transport, yet the more simple combat plate, akin to that worn by the Custodes himself, gleamed as if it had just been forged. This had little to do with the armour itself, for the lone custodes assigned to Bastion that greeted him had no such luck. The very presence of the Master of Mankind simply rejected the foul taint that was the wasteland of Ursh.

The full detachment of his bodyguard leapt from the transport behind him, a moment before the Gunship screamed back into the sky, such a valuable piece of ancient technology could not risk idling in place, and could lend its not insignificant firepower to the nearby front while the Emperor fulfilled his duties.

“See that the Primarch is informed of my arrival, he is not summoned, I can wait.” The Emperor strode forwards, heading for the great command tower of Bastion, a fortress of rockcrete that had more in common with a brick than it did any fine piece of architecture. It was one of many fortresses hastily erected to prevent Urshite counterattack, one of the lesser ones when it came to scope and staffing, but it was still a fortification grand enough to have been the envy of his forces at the start of this long campaign. How far they had come, yet infinitely further still to go.

“My King, may I address this failing early, the administrative cadre of this fortress is understaffed, we have but one Sigilite in attendance.” It would be inaccurate to suggest there was embarrassment in the tone of a Custodes, but perhaps this could have drawn near. He knew that in matters of experience the Emperor was not able to bring his own administrative staff with him, for mortals would be unable to handle the forces with which the Gunship could attain.

“Very well, have them brought to the Command Centre, I will require a scribe.”

“Yes My King.”

—--

The Command centre was not a grand room, it did not need to be. Spartan furniture sat at the heart of the room, with several rudimentary cogitators whirring away at its edges, keeping track of the limited data one could gather in the swirling dust storm that was the front beyond Bastion.

It certainly did not have furnishing suitable for the form of the Emperor, and so he stood, gazing out of the reinforced windows which dominated one side of the room, providing a view of the fortifications below.

He did not have much time alone these days, and so the Master of Mankind allowed himself to slip steadily into the silence of isolation, so totally that the distant roar of guns met his profoundly advanced senses, reaching out with the great force of his physic might.

Until that silence and isolation would come suddenly to a close.

With a pitter and patter of footsteps, a young woman who could not be twenty yet appeared in the doorway, carrying a basket of pens and ink over one arm and a stack of notebooks tucked under the other. But for the calligraphic letters embroidered painstakingly around the hems of her clothes, she looked as mundane and normal as could be as she curtsied deeply to the Emperor.

“M-My Emperor! It is the greatest honor that you are here. I.. I do apologize that this room- well we have no room grand enough for your stature and excellence and, well, I am afraid I am the o-only one available to assist you.” She curtsied again as she finished, hovering in the doorway uncertainly.

The Emperor allowed the young woman her brief moment of hurried salutations before raising a hand, stilling the runaway thoughts and vocabulary of the calligraphically encumbered woman.

“I chose this meeting place, I knew what could be expected. Please.” He motioned with one gauntleted hand to one of the chairs at the meeting table, none suited for his frame, but that did not mean he looked to impose that generally. “I seem to recall the Sigillite speaking of your parents once, keen minds for literature.” Even the great mind of the Emperor might struggle to hold the details of all those who served his burgeoning realm, but the servants of his oldest ally were among those he kept more thorough tabs on, hidden under the remit of humanising care and affection.

“I am sorry that the task I require of you will hold little such literary stimulus, my mind is drawn to great matters, and I find myself in need of a notary for these meetings.” It was an understatement of the gravest kind. The spellwork wreathed by the cultists of Ursh had drawn enough power from the realm beyond that it could have scoured the world of human life, only his will fought against it, a constant pounding at his temples that threatened to run away with all thought.

“May I rely on you, attendant?”

She scuttled forth to sit in the chair he had indicated. “Of course my Lord!!!! Anything y-you require!” She began to set out her pens in preparation. “A s-small task m-may be great, if done with g-great p-purpose.”

The tranquility of the command center was broken once more as a gentle tapping on the chamber’s portal announced the arrival of another. No door barred their entrance into the room, yet they performed the action anyway. It was a vain action as their very presence was the epitome of noise incarnate. Hulking ceramite of black wrapped around their muscular form. An idling powerpack lightly drowned the area in a constant drone from the chugging engine. Their servos softly whined as they moved into the room proper.

“My Emperor,” the man said as he walked a few inches forward. Each syllable was spoken from the maw of a lion, carrying the weight of authority and bravery in his voice. His winged, knightly helmet was cradled under his left arm, leaving his face bare to the other two. Olive skin, dark eyes, and short raven hair that had been recently cut and shaven. His very appearance was like a mangled, mortal version of the godly being that stood opposite of him. The servos in his ornate armor, a dark reflection of a Custodes warplate, screamed as he knelt down onto one knee and dipped his head. Their right fist came to the Raptor on their chestplate, turning the skull of the zmaj towards the Emperor as he saluted.

The skull seemed to smile.

“Primarch Aeternus of the First Legio Cataegis comes at your command. Always and forever. Raptor Imperialis, Imperator, your God-Slayer has arrived,” the Primarch intoned in solemn respect for the Emperor of the Imperium.

Portia emitted a soft eep at the honor of being in such presences, and immediately began to scribble- in her personal shorthand- everything that was said.

“Your service honors me, as it does our Vision.” The Emperor spoke, one hand motioning to a larger seat at the table that only Portia sat at. While none were fit for the Emperor, some had been altered to suit the frames of the Thunder Warriors, as it had intended to be a stronghold housing them. At Portia’s side and at the offered place, there appeared to be a ceramic cup of crystal clear water, fresher than could be found for great distances, if at all, on Terra. For the mind of others it did not appear summoned, but self correcting, as if they had always been there. “I know well the trials of this front, I cannot resupply the whole garrison at this moment, but for now, enjoy the boons of my favour.” Before the Thunder Warrior could question, the Emperor spoke again. “This Agent of the Sigilitte is acting as my scribe, do not be troubled by her presence.

The majestic form of the Master of Mankind drew closer to the table, a spartan and utilitarian piece of furniture to match the building it was housed within. “It is not for my commands that I am present, I am told you have questions for your Emperor, I am here.”

Portia did not dare take a sip, lest she miss a single word in her record, but she resolved to find a small vial somewhere- perhaps wash an old inkpot- to keep some in as a memento of this momentous occasion. Then she blinked. Had the water been there a moment ago? Perhaps it had but… if it had been there when she entered, how did she know it was from the Emperor Himself? Why had she not thought to save some when she entered? Perhaps she had not seen it until now. She decided she would not question the Emperor. Her work was more important than the provenance of such a gift.

Primarch Aeternus accepted the offer without complaint. He rose from his kneeled salute on whining servos, moving to his designated seat in a few steps, and planted himself down in the chair. His form delicately relaxed back into the gene warrior sized, cushioned back. Despite the proximity with his beloved king, the Cataegis didn’t appear squirmish or anxious about the Emperor. Curiously, Rex’s only inclination of agitation was a slight narrowing of his eyes. To him, his Emperor was a magnificent man clad in an aura of gold.

“Thank you, my king,” he responded swiftly before draining the ceramic cup in a single drown. It was hardly enough to quench a warrior of his imposing size, yet it seemed to suffice beyond its contents. The zmaj seemed satisfied at least. The mug was delicately placed back down as he flashed a small, scarred smile to the Sigilite. He dipped his head to her, “Thank you for joining us, Sigilite.”

Portia stopped breathing for several seconds, smiling and bowing her head slightly in the absence of her traitorous voice. She reached with a shaking hand to take a sip of the mysterious water, narrowly avoiding spilling it across her notebooks. She was as a mouse in the presence of gods, what else should she do but tremble?

The next second was met with a short period of silence. It was nearly suffocating as Aeternus simply stared at the golden edifice that was the Emperor. Rex remembered every single moment that he had warred with Him. Every single triumph. Every single discussion. Every single treasure. Every single march from Himalazia. It flashed before his eyes as he carefully picked his next words. The Emperor was a king beyond men, yet he was a man all the same. The words spilled out before he could completely finish a compelling discussion.

“It has been some time, my lord. The time that has elapsed since we last fought together has been long. Your presence alone brings me strength on this day. The work that has kept you away - the Astartes - I’ve seen with my eyes. They are beyond my expectations. I think they are worthy warriors that will replace us.” Aeternus finally spoke, his words still held their harsh edge yet his tone suggested a heavy amount of thought. None of the words that he spoke came with biting aggression. Each was a dutiful acceptance of circumstances far from his control. His eyes flicked to the agent as she wrote, aware that his words were being recorded before turning back to the Emperor.

“I’ve had decades now to think of questions to ask. I tore through Gyptus with the blade you had gifted me in Akkad, taken from the fallen hands of the Great King. I bore the Raptor from Urartu to the Ethnarchy with thousands of Thunder Warriors. I bled Sanctii of its shining walls with thousands less. Now, I war against Kalagann with less than a thousand. I will fight until none of us are left and Unity is achieved. Only three questions remain in my mind.” The Primarch said as if in a trance. He remembered all of his campaigns with explicit detail. Nothing was forgotten in his long trek across Terra. It brought a warm smile to his harsh features, but it quickly vanished as he prepared for his Emperor’s request. His face visibly hardened as he even dared to think it.

“Why are you bleeding us out, my Emperor?” He asked. The question had unconsciously formed as they left Sanctii. The Primarch knew the answer to some degree, he’d realized it as the First Legio Astartes warred next to them for several campaigns now. It was a different matter entirely to hear it from the source. From the man that he could easily consider his father in all regards.

The statuesque features of the Emperor were momentarily marred, a face of human perfection cast low into an expression of sorrow such that it was hard to look upon and not weep. It was as if the emotions of the Master of Mankind could not be contained, bleeding into the air around him. He took a moment, and then another, before he vocalised any reply, before speaking simply.

“Tell me, most honored of subjects, who I have fought and bled beside in days past, who bears the mark of my favour for as long as all but my most treasured allies, tell me why do you think I do this?” He did not seek to hide or deflect from the matter, but instead seemed to at least give the Thunder Warrior the benefit of voicing his most direct thoughts.

The Emperor’s expression gave the Primarch pause. His features scrunched as if ashamed that he had even asked the question in the first place. The man that had raised him up from nothing. It felt like the scolding of a parent or the disappointment of a family member. He had to press on. Thousands of dead brothers and sisters pushed him on.

“The geneflaw, my lord,” Aeternus responded, his features sullen as he remembered every Cataegis he was forced to cull. The giant warrior placed both of his armored hands on the table as he spoke. His right hand twitched from the memories, frequently used in the rite of passing with a silvered dagger in palm. He continued unprompted, “it is the single leading cause for the death of your Thunder Warriors. Wyrd cannot harm us, bullets cannot stop us, and blades cannot terminate us; however, the geneflaw can do what our enemies cannot.”

“A perfected warrior would not have these issues,” the Primarch of the God-Slayers finished. His voice was calm as if reading directly from a tome. He did not voice the obvious. Warriors like Valdor or Amalasuntha existed as perfectly refined products of the Emperor, yet Aeternus knew that they were a small order and difficult to create. His Cataegis were different and the Astartes more so. It made the next words more difficult to pull to the surface than anything else.

“You bleed us, my lord, because we are beginning to expire.” The Primarch stated his final answer to the Emperor’s question. It was a hard, logical truth that he had seen in more recent years of the Unification Wars. It made him think of Caligula, who had evaded the curse for as long as he had.

“What does a father want for his sons when the end is inevitable? To die in pain and misery, or to embrace the wings of death with glory in their hearts and a song of battle on their lips?” The Emperor asked, but it was more a question for himself than for any of those present, a distant look across his aquiline features for but a moment, before he exhaled, and looked upon Aeternus clearly. “You have the right of it, and your Godslayers last better than most, there is madness in the pain coming for you, and I have forged you into too great a caste of warriors to allow that to run unchecked.”

“The time approaches,” Portia murmured, “That will with due decision make us know… What we shall say we have, and what we owe.”

The Primarch of the First Legio Cataegis closed his eyes for a moment. He had expected such an answer. The pain of it ran rampant against his soul, yet Aeternus felt no need for vengeance or retribution. He had already chosen to accept his fate. The answer was salve over a single wound that had festered for many years, but it was a bitter medicine to remedy the issues that remained. How many thousands perished before knowing that their Emperor had prepared for their eventual decline?

“It matters not how we perish, my Emperor, only that it is by your side at the end,” Aeternus responded, his eyes flicking open once more to his genefather. His tone was somber and accepting. The words rang truly to the ears of the man-beyond-men. Despite the questions, he held no animosity against the one that had raised him. He simply wished He had been more forthright about their efforts. Once more, Rex was compelled to press with the weight of a hundred years behind him.

“I had known for decades that we were dying. I’d taken upon myself the task of easing their suffering,” the Primarch looked down to his right gauntlet, imagining the stain of a hundred men and women that he’d given peace through murder. He’d never regret those actions, even if they were now retroactively vain. They each would go on to see Unity, however that would appear. Their deaths allowed him to speak on, “my Emperor, with your powerful gene-alchemy, was there no way to save them from their afflictions?”

“With what the ravages of time have left us, upon Terra? Perhaps.” The Emperor's great shoulders almost seemed to shrug as he spoke with a wistful sadness, a startling shock of honesty from the lips of the Master of Mankind. “But it would have taken everything, all our efforts, there would be no Astartes, no recruitment, while the war burned on, to save those whose minds in most part have already begun to fray and flee from them in a manner that cannot be fixed.” The giant man flexed his own gauntlet, as if too bearing the blood and hurt of those that played through the mind of the Primarch. Little perhaps, did the Thunder Warrior know, that such thoughts were as open to him as the words spoken aloud.

“It was not an easy decision, but I cannot achieve our great purpose without regret and sacrifice. I have mourned them all.”

He was Cataegis. They felt emotions in a way different from the standard human. Countless horrific gene-augments had confused their body’s natural hormones beyond the baseline. They felt fear, joy, excitement, dread, and all others in a way that could not be easily conveyed. Aeternus, however, could only display it in a way that was truly unique to him. It was in the dark parts of his eye that a sadness formed. A grim, forlorn look that dared to cross his similarly aquiline features.

The Primarch registered the information, continuing to stare at the magnificent being that was his Emperor. Aeternus breathed deeply as he chose to accept what he had been told. His Emperor would never lie. It was all that he could do for he would never bite back against the man that he followed. He was incapable of doing so. It was the same answer that Malcador had told him many moons ago, yet Rex held a small hope that his king would have a different answer.

“We are beyond saving. I understand that now, my king. With the Cataegis that remain, we will achieve Unity in your name.” Primarch Aeternus responded at last. His voice grew in confidence, overlapping the sorrow that dared to seep into his soul. His resolve had evolved in the closing seconds of their discussion. Through the pain, he’d see that his siblings would have their glorious death and raise them as heroes of Unity. Rex knew all of them wished for this end as it was. The Emperor was merciful enough to allow that.

“Only one question remains that I ask of you, my Emperor,” the Lord of the First stated. It was the last thing that he’d wish to be answered if death came for him. If his king was correct, then that time would soon come for them all. The demise of thousands of his warriors did not reside with him in that question. It was truly his own.

“I do not remember a time before my life as the First Primarch of the First Legio Cataegis. Only the persecution of Unity and raising the Raptor over Terra has remained. I do not suffer the curse as the rest of my siblings have, nor do I experience the same as my kin.” Aeternus admitted, flashing a glance at Portia as she wrote away in her notebook before returning his gaze to the Emperor. The faces of his fellow Primarchs appeared in his mind as he spoke. His siblings. Despite their closeness to him, Rex had always felt a vague sense of exclusion from them.

“What am I?” Aeternus asked with a tone tinged with pleading. He had not remembered a time when he wasn’t the Primarch. His warriors had given him strange names in passing. Each of them had called him some variation of parent as they died in their mercy killings. At times, it had nearly drowned him in madness. Perhaps, he wondered, if this was his curse amongst their number.

Portia was staring at Aeternus, her pen still transcribing what was spoken without need for her eyes upon the page.

“A blessing and a curse both.” The Emperor spoke in response, allowing his servant the fullness of his attention at words tinged with the sorrow of loss. “That which has made the Custodians, the Thunder Warriors and the Astartes is as much art as it is science, it wars with the human form. The human form is not born equal in its capacity to accept such transformation. It would see the flaw that ravages so many others remains controlled in your form, perhaps permanently, but it is unlikely.” His last words were spoken with greater sorrow, lines forming across the previously unbroken visage of the Master of Mankind.

“A blessing that for now your mind is your own, a curse to watch with clarity the same curse among your siblings.”

The Primarch of the First Legio Cataegis stared at the Emperor for a second longer before nodding in acceptance. Aeternus’ features echoed the sorrowful emotions of the man across from him, yet they were quickly replaced with genewarrior stoicism. His form visibly relaxed as if unshackled from the greatest of his burdens and allowed to fall away from him. He was prepared for whatever remained of the Unification Wars, no matter what was thrown at him.

“Thank you. You honor me beyond words that I can express, my King,” Aeternus finally responded with a small, ugly smile that stretched his myriad scars. He lifted his zmaj-side gauntlet from the table in a hovering motion, palm turned to the side in offering to the Emperor. One last gesture. “If you will allow me, then I’ll depart now to finish this war and raise your name over Kalagann’s stronghold. I’ll do so with a thousand burdens lifted from my soul.”

In the margins of her work, Portia sketched a brief portrait of that smile for her to describe in fine words later.

“You are dismissed Primarch, whatever may come, you have brought glory to the Imperium.” The Emperor's expression did not change as he spoke, the same solemn sense of loss surrounding him as the Thunder Warrior took his leave. He allowed the silence to remain for some time after, although no true silence blessed the mind of the Emperor. The endless cacophony of the enemy's psychic assault rent across his mind, but there was reprieve in a sense, to be able to focus solely on that for a few moments.

Eventually his gaze turned to the small form of the Sigilitte he had briefly commandeered. He had not intended to take such an agent from her duties, but he had begun to notice the subtle differences in her reactions. There was something unique about her that was worth investigating, ideally without the recourse of direction.

“You will provide the minutes of this meeting to my Custodians, then please prepare your belongings. I am afraid I still have need of an administrator.” There was a hint of amusement to the Emperor's words, even as he made to leave. Bastion could manage without an agent of her order for the short time it would take to replace her. As he passed her at the table he spoke with a slight laugh. “You captured his likeness well.”

Portia, blushing, stared at the Emperor for a few silent seconds before ducking her head. “Th-Thank you, Emperor.” Her face was beet red. “I will do as you command.”

She stared at him as he left, then got busily to work preparing her transcript to be shared, mind occupied with what he could possibly want with an ordinary girl like her.

[MarshalSolgriev]

By Decree

-After the Events of Macroway 80-

---

The Custodian had made his visits late, the pollution tinged sky turning a deep red as he moved from camp to camp. He’d passed silently between tents of canvas and plastarps. Some were freestanding, looped around poles brought or salvaged to make their shelters. Others were tied against the Imperial war machines that had brought such destruction to the Pacificans this day. He’d passed checkpoints and guard posts, his baroque armor the only credential needed for the mortals that manned them as he passed them by and left them in awe at their stations.

He delivered each message personally. He’d accepted no opposition or question, but of course there had been none. The commanders of the Astartes forces present had acquiesced without the need for such things, for they knew better. The message was plain written in black ink and rolled simply. No seals adorned it, and no seals held its contents shut, for there was no need for such measures of secrecy and security. No great formality was placed on the message’s delivery, each being handed in silence to their recipient, and yet the weight each piece of parchment held was immeasurable.

By decree of the Emperor, you alone are summoned before Him at once.

They Astartes had brokered no responses, questioned nothing. Amaranthus Gallus had simply forwarded the coordinates for the meeting to each commander as soon as he’d handed them their parchment message and left without a word to deliver the next letter. With as much ceremony as his arrival, the Custodian was gone.

---

The coordinates given to them by the Custodian had led them each here, to the top of promontory in the local geography. Twenty one banners had been raised aloft in a half circle, fifteen were shrouded in black. The banner at the apex of the half circle stood tallest and proudest of those that remained unshrouded, the Raptor Imperialis emblazoned upon its cloth whipping defiantly in the ash-strewn winds of the Pan-Pacific wastes. The other banners moved in lock-step with the largest banner as a dry gale moved across the land. The unshrouded banners numbered from left to right across the half circle, III, VIII, XII, and XVII.

To either side of the half circle, stood two evenly spaced lines of Astartes. Each line was a solid grey mass twenty strong, volkite rifles and bolters held across their chests in utter stillness. The markings upon their shoulders denoted them as members of the Seventeenth Legio Astartes, each one fresh from the genevaults of the Himalazias.

An array of golden figures was also present. Six in total, five of them stood between the banners, their guardian spears held casually at their sides as they awaited their guests, though they were no less ready to commit violence if necessary. The final figure stood beyond the banners, his back turned to the meeting place as he watched something off in the distance, or pondered some great question none but he would understand. He was resplendent where he stood. His golden form was larger and more imposing than even the five Custodians behind him, and his mere presence exuded a sense of authority that could not be matched by any yet in attendance.

For the Fifth, it would be a very recently promoted commander that arrived, the fellow originally in charge of the operation in the Pacific having died in theater. Indeed, the youth of Captain Nestorius would be visible at first glance, his skin lacking the leather-like texture Astartes quickly developed nor any wrinkles or lines even as he held a very soft smile when he entered and gave a quick respectful bow of deference. “Reporting, Masters.”

For the Bronze Scorpions of the Thirteenth, Legion Master Zaid ibn N’dar attended as a bronze-black edifice set against the metallic, grey Pacifican wastes. His armor was ragged with wear, torn of its fetishes and embellishments. Only a scrap of a black tabard remained as it whipped in the winds of the scrap plateau. Taloned fingers were stained in a dull, crimson hue from events prior to the summoning. His helmet stared out perpetually at the foremost warrior of the gathering, orange lenses gazing out beneath the laurel and scorpion atop. He stank of death, drenched in the filth of post-battle cleanup.

His form was lowered to a knee with a fist firmly pressed against the Raptor on his chestplate. Zaid had not moved from that stance since arriving and wouldn’t yet until commanded so. He spoke no words. His hearts beat with anticipation. It had been many, many years since he last warred with the Emperor’s Axe, not since the days of his mortal life; however, this was not a day for reunion. This was a day for retribution and Zaid sensed it in the air. His psycho-conditioning fought back every emotion that threatened to bubble up, yet something passed through. The scorpion that stings with wroth, scoured by the ashes of reckoning. The fleeting emotion from beyond passed as he remained knelt before the assembly.

Legion Master Pho Scraphurst was on the slightly shorter side of an Astartes, though his blood stained, gore and ash covered armor did a lot to hide his lack of height. He had been in the midst of having his armor cleaned when he had received the message from the Custodian and answered the call he had.

As he knelt down beside Zaid, blood and meat that had gotten caught in the workings of his armor took that time to break free, sliding or dropping off of his form and onto the war ravaged earth of Terra without acknowledgement. Small brown eyes observed the new Astartes for a moment, before focusing on the leader of the Custodian task force that had come.

“The Thunder Warriors have failed the Emperor.” The figure spoke, with back still turned to those assembled, if only for a moment more, as the great warrior shifted his stance, the ripple of motion passing through the great pelt of the Lion of Shambhala that stretched across his pauldrons. Valdor turned in full as he spoke, pacing to the centre of the gathering. “Their violence outstrips their use, soon they will turn on each other, or the masses, or the Emperor.” Valdor spoke with certainty as his hand gripped the shaft of the Apollonian Spear, the weapon embedded in the coarse rock of the rise, pulling it free from the ground.

“That is why you were made, to be an assurance that such a failure will not repeat.” Valdor's eyes cast over those he had invited, but also the ranks of the Seventeenth. There was no boil of anger from the great warrior, only a solemn sense of duty. The other Custodians, still grand enough in their own right, moved from their places. The golden clad warriors set down small stone slabs, one for each of the summoned Astartes. Each stone, of knee height on the gene enhanced warriors, bore a slight indentation in the shape of an Astartes' armoured left hand.

“The act of one Astartes to kill another must not simply be a crime to commit, but to even think. Reports of such will never be recorded, such events will be consigned to oblivion.” Valdor paced as he spoke. For all he was capable of great feats of endurance, of unending unmoving watch when duty called for it, he was foremost a creature of action.

“Those of us that know this truth, however, do not have the luxury of forgetting, we shall all bare the scars of such knowledge, and be the foremost agents in preventing such from happening again.” As the Captain-General spoke, several other figures joined the gathering. Robes of crimson hid forms writ unhuman in their advanced cybernetics. New allies from far afield, called forth on the word of Valdor. Each bore a gauntlet of Ceramite that showed signs of advanced internal workings.

“Place your hands upon the stone.” The Emperor's Custodian spoke, and as he did the Apollonian Spear crackled to life.

Pho… honestly felt the most like his former self prior to his ascension to an Astartes in this moment then just about any that came before him. Secret discussions in order to discuss taking care of an unstable ally that was once useful but was proving to be more trouble than they were worth, the desire of leaders to keep the infighting among their troops as low as possible… the implied threat of death if they don’t fall in line and do as they are told.

Aside from the genetic multiplication on pretty much everyone present, it was just another day in the Hive.

As such, without hesitation or complaint, the Legion Master of the 8th put his hand on the stone. He did respectfully ask “So who are the cyborgs in red? They seem new.”

Still with the thin smile on his lips, Nestorius would wordlessly come next. He didn’t arrive first to the stone. The two men that followed him outdid his signal of piety by kneeling when they arrived, and he didn’t want to find himself in the annoying situation of that repeating. Still, he kept his ears active, likewise curious about the new arrivals.

“New yet ancient.” Valdor explained as he continued to pace, the spear held in one hand turning over and over in his grip, the motion bringing with it an acrid tang as the heat of the powered blade left a ghost of ionisation in the air. “They come from Mars, deployed here to seek the secrets of technology buried here, instead they have found the future.” Finally Valdor came to a halt, his eyes settling on the figures as they parted, revealing a fourth of their number.

This final member of the robed conclave was not so hidden by the heavy cowls and obvious machinery of her companions, her red and white hood furled down despite the whipping ash and dust in the aid. There was a tremble to her at the presence of the Transhumans, not least of all the impossibly imposing stature of the Emperor's Custodian.

“Acolyte Omatah, you are present here as witness for your masters on Martian soil, you will live as evidence of the Emperor's commitment to alliance with them.”

The seemingly young Martian woman gave a nod that seemed to continue as a wobble through her form. She was not spindly by the standards of many of her Martian colleagues, but the gravity was proving tough to adapt to, not to mention the circumstance of her first meeting with the Imperials. She was beginning to regret her diplomatic successes. Still, eventually she spoke. “The transaction is glady approved, Lord Valdor, your presence on Sacred Mars is anticipated, that we may provide in kind.”

The words brought something of a grimace to the features of the perfect Custodian, yet he nodded all the same. “You may begin.”

Omah bowed her head, before she spoke in a cascade of Binharic to the more oppressive robed figures. One of her hidden augments provided her the ability to speak the machine cant, and the figures responded in kind, approaching the kneeling figures with the heavy set gauntlets they bore. A fourth was brought forwards, and Valdor looked to one of the attending Custodians.

“Your King and Emperor calls to you, do you accept this charge, to be bound as witness here?”

“I do, my Lord-General.”

“Then kneel as well, for we shall begin.”

Zaid was the last to finally lay his hand on the slab placed before him. He had never expected to be rebuked to this extent in the persecution of his duties. A sense of betrayal slithered into his brain, but it was quickly pushed down by psycho-conditioning and stalwart loyalty. His teeth grit together to force the emotion further down and wished to have been properly ascended.

Justice, a swaying dune of black sand, ever-changing with the coarse winds of enmity. He wanted to snarl back at the words as they crept up. They came stronger now than they had previously. Zaid was reminded of the orange eyes that stared back at him in the last vestiges of his slumber. He breathed deeply as his right gauntlet came forward, pressed firmly against the stone.

“Let it be finished in His name.” He responded, finally opening his snarling lips to the one warrior that would have understood him.

The Emperor’s Custodian moved with a speed that even the augmented senses of the Astartes could barely register. The first weapon forged for the Imperium in this new age cut with irresistible force and mastery, one arc of the great weapon sundering Ceramite as easily as it did the golden shine of the one Custodian gauntlet. The powered blade of the weapon stopping just short of the stone, each hand presented before Valdor removed as easily as the warrior breathed. The moment was not allowed to linger, for then the servants of the Omnissiah moved forwards, mechanical limbs removing severed flesh and armour to place the machine gauntlets in their place. Internal hooks and wires, wiring mechadentries, pushed forwards, rending freshly cauterised flesh to attach into each warrior. A crackle of power immediately passed through the gauntlets, surging to connect with the nervous system of the host. Even that meant for the one Custodian volunteers was the same clay red, and it adhered with just as much forceful brutality.

“Their work is done?” Valdor asked Omah, who managed a nervous nod of her head from behind the assembled warriors and tech adjudants.

“Very well.” The blade of Valdor’s spear passed once more, and each of the Tech Priests, save their ambassador, crumpled into the dirt and ash of the ground, their lives servered as easily as the limbs of the Astartes. Omah could not help but gasp and step back, even if she had known those who had volunteered for this duty would not be returning, it was the blistering violence of the previously aqualine Valdor which almost stilled her heart in the process. “Speak not to your masters of this, girl, see this as your test, as it burdens us all.” Finally the energy of Valdor’s spear quietened, the Apollonion spear humming into silence. “Never shall the Astartes draw the blood of another.” He spoke once more, before the assembled Custodians echoed the sentiment, and with no further sound, Valdor sweapt from the rockside.

---

Credits: @Ezekiel (Valdor/Adept Omah), @Bright_Ops (Legion Master Pho Scraphurst), @MarshalSolgriev (Legion Master Zaid ibn N'dar), @Bugman (Captain Nestorius)

[MarshalSolgriev]

The Field of Fates

-After the Meeting with the Emperor-

---

Primarch Aeternus grimly observed the fields of the Urshic North. Whatever had remained of the rustic beauty that was Terra’s eurasian continent was now a vast, bloody battleground. Trenches had been dug from the Xeric Tribes to the south and from the fallen city of Sanctii to the west. More were being dug to the east, fortified by those that hadn’t engaged in the siege of Hongol. Each was like a pulsing vein, filled to the brim with vitae as red as freshly spilled ichor. It was a suitable analogy for the ever-expanding body that was His Imperium.

The Fortress of Bastion lay several days behind him, yet it still loomed over him like a wary guardian. Aeternus knew for certain that He was still there. Fighting some secret battle unknown to him, or mustering the Custodes for a valiant push on Kalagann. It mattered little to the Thunder Primarch. His purpose was to pave the way with the Legio Cataegis.

With what little remained of us, he thought. He turned his attention away from the fields to the Thunder Legions. It had been nearly a century since they last fought across Terra as a single mass. By decree of the Emperor, they had all flocked to Ursh to push Unification where the Legio Astartes and the Excertus Imperialis could not. The words of his king rang through his mind as Aeternus witnessed the last vestiges of a forgotten age. I cannot achieve our great purpose without regret and sacrifice, the Emperor had said. How true those words were as Ursh awaited them.

Their forward outpost was ramshackle at worst and adequately fortified at best; however, the raw number of genewarriors easily offset the inadequacies. A behemoth horde of armored transports formed a superfluous ring around the encampment. Each was decorated and honored in the campaign colors of the twenty Legio Cataegis. Their numbers ran rampant around the camp in varying hues, yet the Raptor remained evident on all of their plated forms. It would be their final push against Kalagann’s fortress. The Spearhead of Unification.

Urshic wind threatened to chill his eyes as he picked out each of the Cataegis hundreds of meters below him. He’d never forget their colors or their names for as long as he lived. The green warriors of the Second – the Verdant Raiders. The teal giants of the Third – the Storm Blades. The dour titans of the Fourth – the Steel Lords. The half-plated black-red knights of the Fifth – the Annihilators. The blue behemoths of the Sixth – the Cobalt Phantoms. The dusken raiders of the Seventh – the Ashen Marauders. The valiant lancers of the Eighth – the Titan Scythes. The duelists of the Ninth – the Dawnhunters. The barbarians of the Tenth – the Infernal Phoenixes. Though they were considerably less compared to a hundred years ago, the Legio Cataegis stood strong.

His vision switched to the other side of the campus. Fresh hues from arriving Thunder Warriors caught his attention. The white phantoms of the Eleventh – the Raptor’s Claws. The dark knights of the Twelfth – the Umbra Paladins. The midnight clad of the Thirteenth – the Obsidian Crows. The marauders of the Fourteenth – the Tempest Callers. The crimson hounds of the Fifteenth – the Caged Dogs. The lilac praetors of the Sixteenth – the Amethyst Tridents. The sullen giants of the Seventeenth – the Emperor’s Axes. The berserkers of the Eighteenth – the Nightbringers. The maroon blades of the Nineteenth – the Red Knights. The laughing storms of the Twentieth – the Radiant Spears. Seeing their numbers arrive at the eleventh hour brought pride to his soul.

What troubled him more than their vastly reduced size, however, was the lack of their Primarchs. He could feel their absence keenly as if a thread had been snipped from a quilted canvas. Reports between the Legio Cataegis had been few and far between. Their losses had not been conveyed in the Logio reports. Possibly by design, Aeternus ruminated as different silhouettes began to coalesce in the encampments. To simply label them as shadows was a stain on their image, yet their presence was anticipated. The Custodes, plated in the fresh gold of the Terrawatt’s finest materials, strode through the war camp with watchful eyes. A small number of the more mortal Sigilites accompanied them, no doubt acting on behalf of Malcador.

The remainder of the encampment were those Excertus Imperialis regiments that had warred alongside the Cataegis. They were the earliest of His warriors, simple genesoldiers that paled in comparison to the Cataegis, Custodes, and Astartes. Each had a place, though, for their pride wasn’t in strength but discipline and virtue. Aeternus recalled with a smile that Malcador placed heavy emphasis on the human part of humanity.

All their leaders and representatives would eventually come to him soon. A structure – the only stable one present – rose up behind him as a pillar of strength. It was a tower, possibly once a smaller spire from a hive long forgotten. A squat, flat-topped fortress with a parapet roof. Inside of it, he had instructed the interior to be furnished with hololiths and glowglobes for the planning phase. The First Primarch knew it had been completed hours ago, yet his attention was drawn to the largest gathering of Cataegis in a hundred years. None could fault him, save for one soul that preyed upon him with predatory eyes.

The Black Hawk had been circling for what seemed to be ages, only occasionally joined by another of her cadre. For all the time that her form had been circling, Aeternus understood that the Custodian had been glaring at him. They had not seen each other in some time now.

Not since the fall of Sanctii had the two spoken. Not since the fall of Sanctii had Amalasuntha pressed the Cataegis about their gene-flaws. Her absence, while a relief for some, could have been taken as the Emperor trending towards the dismissal of this outdated and unstable force. Yet now, there she was, that dreaded black form that continued to hold to the old colors of the Custodians - she had been watching for hours.

There was some time before inevitably, the Emperor’s old enforcer descended to meet Aeternus. She landed close, the roar of her jump pack dying to low hum as her eyes looked over the encampment of Thunder Warriors just as he did. Amalasuntha was characteristically silent, but hate no longer radiated from her form - he could see it in her body language. Instead, where once there was hate for the view of the Cataegis, there was a subtle pity.

“It reminds me of the old days,” Aeternus spoke as if Amalasuntha had been there the entire time. After all the time that had elapsed, the First Primarch still felt a warmth around the cold Black Hawk. He didn’t turn his unhelmeted head to regard her, but Rex shifted his stance to welcome her presence. Apocrypha, the former greatsword of Akkad’s Great King, shuffled on his back, just as his helmet rattled by his waist.

“Back when we descended from our Master’s keep on the Lines, down into the Himalazian Tribes and into Akkad. The Thunder Warriors were plentiful then. About as many as there are Astartes now,” the Thunder Primarch reminisced, closing his eyes to witness the scene within. If much had changed with the famed Black Hawk, then so too had the Godslayer. He replied with a light heart, having accepted the fate bestowed upon him. Aeternus knew how he would die and allowed it.

“You were different then, Amalasuntha, much more ready to lop my head off then listen to me prattle about our most glorious days,” he concluded with a short, ugly smirk.

The Hawk craned her head, slightly, taking in the words of the honoured Primarch before allowing a single forced huff. It was an insincere laugh towards Aeternus’ notion of how she was before everything. She adjusted her stance, remarking, “It was a unique age. Far more blood was shed in those early days, imperfection could not be forgiven when His plan was at its most tumultuous.”

Amalasuntha, too, seemed to become lost in remembrance before fully tuning to the Emperor’s last Primarch. The Custodian’s hands moved and she took off her helm, allowing the wisps of her dark hair to flow with the passing winds. Scars marred a single side of her face, scars Aeternus would never know the cause of despite the history together. She stared deeply into the Godslayer, a blank expression upon her face.

“Alas, our purposes always change, Aeternus,” she spoke with an uncharacteristic softness.

He regarded her. It’d been the first time that he’d ever graced the Black Hawk with anything more than admiration as a companion of the Emperor or judgement as an executioner of the Cataegis. The Primarch recognized it as fondness. The emotion that Rex felt made him believe that perhaps, in a different lifetime, they could’ve been friends or something more. Their purposes, however, led them down a path paved only by Him. That was the correct path. The only destination for those such as them.

“There will be more bloodshed in the future for certain. Our purpose changes, Amalasuntha, but our duties remain.” He responded, appreciating the manner with which the Black Hawk had changed. The Primarch couldn’t imagine what hell she had been through to achieve such a transformation.

“I spoke with Him at the Fortress of Bastion. Everything that I had suspected to be true was correct. Perhaps He had anticipated as such when He crafted me. I cannot claim to fully know His will. We were crafted to die, Amalasuntha, not from the battlefield but from within. Except for His Godslayer,” Aeternus replied, his purpose lingering on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t doubt that the Custodes already knew of the fate of the Cataegis. “I will watch the last of my brethren die before I eventually perish. That is the fate that the Emperor has made for me.”

Amalasuntha was silent for a few moments, her blank stare barely shifting to an emotion none could understand - especially not even Aeternus. There was more that could be said in the matter, more that should be said. However, she knew it was not her place to speak of the nature of the fate of the Thunder Warriors. Her dark form looked back to the Cataegis that they had been watching over. The Black Hawk saw each and every of the remaining Godslayers, seeing how little truly stood by this point. Her breath pierced the cold air.

“You will be the last of them to die, Aeternus. Not just of their gene-sires, but of the Thunder Warriors as an entity. Your death will come in battle just as your progeny and it shall be a most glorious death… in His name,” Amalasuntha said, proceeding to look past the gathering of the Cataegis and onto the horizon - onto war.

The Primarch of the First Legion followed her gaze out into the fields of Ursh. Even from their standing point, the pair could see the tips of the spires of Kalagann’s Fortress as it scrapped the skies. Dark, elongated fingers of twisted, black metal that carved reality as much as it did cloud and cumulus. Chaos reigned beyond the looming towers in the trenches, where skirmishes with monstrosities were out of their sight. The visceral war that was waged beckoned to him, stirring his blood as much as it did his heart. He was calmed by the presence of the Legio Cataegis in their entirety and the Black Hawk simultaneously.

“A glorious death it’ll be. Hopefully with an enemy that is befitting.” Aeternus responded with a grim smile, his scars stretching as his lips curled. Her words warmed him, despite their morbid insinuations. He’d had time to think of such a foe, yet each time it brought him back to warriors such as the Black Hawk, Valdor, or Aristagorus.

“The Godslayers will lead the charge on Kalagann’s Fortress. A final push to victory. One last enemy before Unity. The Thunder Warriors will be a cracked spear to their black heart. It is His will,” the Lord of the First announced. The plan had previously been discussed in the confines of the Bastion just prior to departure. None truly knew besides himself that he’d granted this last honor to the First Legio. A final, selfish wish that would assure their victory.

The Primarch’s gaze returned to her. He held a black gauntlet out to Amalasuntha. It was a first for them both. Neither had deigned to offer the other this type of comradery. To the Custodes, he’d imagine it was barbaric to associate as such with his warriors. He cared little for the stigmata now more than ever. If he is fated to die, then he shall do so alongside those he has trusted for a century.

The Black Hawk’s eyes looked down at the hand, almost calculating as to whether she should embrace the gesture. Her eyes seemed to dart between his hand and his face before, in the end, turning her face away and gently pushing the hand back towards Aeternus. For her, it was not a question of whether the Slayer of Gods had earned it, but that she could not afford to allow him the attachment. Without hesitation, Amalasuntha would, instead, unbuckle the small blade that all Custodians held. She held out her misericordia, nought but a knife to the form of Aeternus.

“Save your gesture for when the true time to die has come, Aeternus. Only then shall you receive it. Take my misericordia as promise for the time being, so that I will be reminded to uphold that promise when the time comes,” she said, for once offering a small smile to the Primarch of the First Legio. To the Primarch, it was sunlight on a dark day. It had been the first and only time that he had seen a smile so genuine of his companion.

“Then it shall be so,” Aeternus said with gratitude, claiming the misericordia in his open palm. The Godslayer removed his silvered dagger from it's sheath, replacing it with Amalasuntha’s prized blade. The dagger, wielded now in his free palm, was cursed with the fate of unfathomable amounts of Thunder Warriors. He offered it now to the Black Hawk. He continued to speak, “but you will not escape without an equal parting gift.”

“It is the very same that I've used since our early years. The one that has seen the beginning and will see the end of the Cataegis. It has exacted mercy on all of my fallen Godslayers. I will no longer require it, but it will be a good replacement for your misericordia.” The Primarch of the First explained. There was more that could be said about the dagger and more about it's particular purpose. He could've mentioned her the meaning of granting it to their self-imposed executioner-turned-arbiter. Rex revealed none of this.

“Then so it shall be,” Amalasuntha noted with a small nod, allowing the unnatural smile to quickly fade as she placed the dagger where her misericordia had been. The custodian turned on her heel, not allowing herself to look at Aeternus after the exchange. Were she not of the Emperor’s chosen, she would have said more - she would have done more for the Primarch. Their fates, however, had been laid long ago before they had even charged through the mountains of Himalazia, before either had even been created.

Her breath caught the air with a slow, measured exhale. Her hands brought her helm over her head once more, donning the visage of the Black Hawk again as she surveyed the Cataegis. She spoke back in her normal, harsh tone, “Ursh awaits, Aeternus. Break them only in the manner a Godslayer can.”

“Raptor Imperialis, Amalasuntha,” Aeternus replied with a warm smile, unholstering his winged helmet and sealing it over his head. The Primarch of the First turned away from the Black Hawk as the representatives began to arrive. His heavy footsteps brought him back into the tower, where a battle to decide the fate of the Imperium would be organized.

[Oraculum]

The Plains of Sibir

“Captain Bombda,” An Astartes Seargent spoke as he hunched over the firepit in the center of the command tent, “It’s been three weeks since we have had contact with any friendly forces, and our supply trucks have been able to reach us. Commander Red has not been in contact with us since the others began their invasions, and that was several weeks ago.”

The old grizzled Captain looked over his shoulder at the more diminutive gene-made warrior, the metal on his shoulders creaking with his movements as he looked at the small encampment within some ruined ancient city that was only reoccupied by nature and now them. It had been their base of operations for some time; they had broken off, a unit of mostly the newer astartes, those deemed capable as trainers from the thunder warriors, and a good portion of their mortal contingent. They had been there for at least a year, possibly several years; they had lost count, or at least Bombda did; this place was going to be one of the more problematic areas to reunite, and thus, they were employed early to those next planned for invasion, but this was different, many wars were being started without them because of Ursh, but he had never thought about it. He was a tactical leader, unlike Theadon Red. Ursh was known for its odd ways, but living within the borders, he realized that chaos was the nature of this place. First, with some of their men turning, slaughtering their brothers, turning into monsters, there was something different about this land, and only the hardened could survive. Their mortal contingent had to be culled constantly, more recruited and then culled again. He realized within several months that while his legion was known for causing chaos, disruption, and using terror to sow the seeds of defeat, this place it was going to be impossible, for it ran on some pure formation of the word.

“Captain Bombda,” the Seargent spoke again, standing to face the blank face, “Should we retreat from the borders? If the armies heading south catch wind of us, we will be but dogs in a cage.”

“No, we have our jobs. This is the next logistical station, and since we don’t have the resources to do that, so we use it as a scouting point, we hide our heavier equipment and equipment that is out of prometheum, then we go on foot, we leave portions here, and travel in small groups. If we see an opportunity to hunt we shall, but until then, we endure here, gather information, and send it in whatever way we can, radio, or sending back someone on a bike with what remains of our fuel reserves.”

“Hide almost three thousand mortals, and eighty legionnaires, not to mention the heavy equipment will be near impossible.” replied the Seargent with some hesitancy, letting his body shift in his armor.

“We can do it, hiding ourselves from the world to cause chaos is what we are known to do, we know how to fight, but we know to use our skills to make sure we aren’t found. We know the legions can find us, but that is about it, our radio seems to either be too far away, or it is being jammed. Last we heard the rest of the war has caught up to us.” Bombda stood, and walked to the entry to the yurt, opening it up to look at a window of the ruined building the yurt was raised in. Moving to it, several mortal soldiers carrying crates of artillery shells waddled past before putting it besides on of their larger artillery pieces.

It was a crude thing the way they hid, but it was effective, wooden panels covered in the rubble were put over the holes that they fired out of, it limited their arch of fire, but it was successful in keeping them concealed from the enemy. If need be, they could remove the wooden walls entirely in short notice and even move to direct fire, although Bombda highly doubted that would be the case.

The locals had superstitions about this ruin they were in. Although there was a military post that had created some concern early in their invasion, the locals again considered that to be judgment, even though it had been them. Several wrong things had happened, when it was just the thunder warriors; several had become murderous killers, some of them changing into large beasts in their bloodlust, like Captain Grunbah, who had tried killing the Commander before he was sent to some war party in the south. He was the first, but he was not the last, of his brothers, he also noticed a change in most of the other original gene-modified warriors, they had all become volatile and angry, most of them had left for their own warbands to spread across Ursh, and when the Astartes came, it made the turmoil worse, at least eight of the original warriors of the eighteenth had turned. He also knew the locals had creatures, or turned themselves into creatures with their black magics, witches spread curses and lies, but it was something he knew of.

He listened for a moment, and someone came running out of the command yurt, a mortal he knew as Dacard, a fine young man, extremely smart, and could fix anything, he was an asset beyond belief for the regiment due to his mechanical skills. He was also their primary source for information, and trusted, recently in the past week, his men had been scavenging from the old fortifications, ruins, and even their own vehicles for parts to repair and possibly boost the range of their vox caster.

Dacard stopped with a note in his hand, holding it out, “We have imperial forces in the area, I don’t know the codes, but I picked up short-range vox transmissions. Likely a friendly convoy, or assault spear, it is not anyone from the eighteenth, but they are of a legion.”

Even from the hasty shorthand, it was clear that the intercepted communications were indeed Imperial in origin, although of a sort that Bombda was not familiar with. The common language spread among the forces of Unity was here interspersed with strange words from some distant part of the world, clusters of sharp and dry sounds that Dacard had done his best to transcribe. Despite this, one thing was obvious - the unit was moving deeper into Ursh.

Carrier Ulkhol to cohort command… Light engine failure, slowing by 3…
Straight path until 80 thal, burn fuel when ready…
Caster damaged from last storm, broaden frequency…
Low on inneq refill… Skimming one and null half of fuel…
Here cohort command, do not skim fuel… Restore on next raid…
Carrier Kwalor to cohort… Trail leading northwest by six-fourth, control…
Controlled, town or muster likely… One carrier suffices… Kwalor, you have the blade…
Return when whetted…
Return or continue graachal… Keeping vox open…

Whoever the unit might have been, the moment was a fortunate one - expecting to reunite with one of their parts, their communications should have been easily accessible even from the outpost.

Dacard looked at the vox unit, and slowly pushed it’s locator back and forth, it was a simple system he had designed with an old man in a previous war, but it did it’s job in finding the direction radio signals came from.

“To imperial forces entering Ursh, this is outpost Designation 18-14-36, head Northwest from your current location to invasion marker of the same number on current imperial maps, or on maps made dated two years ago as Siber Railway 36. This is Private Dacard of the 18th Legion’s mortal retinue, you may repair at this location, we have little to no fuel, but may be able to assist you.”

Dacard continued to dial in locator beacon on top, lowering and raising the amount of power that went into the vox unit, it was not a bright idea but it could at least hold power until some new source was found as it’s original powerpack, and charger were damaged, and broken respectively.

He found them on the map, and ranged them to almost five miles, they could easily be reachable. He looked up at Bombda who somewhat rolled his shoulders, “either way both parties will be out of fuel in a few days. Try to draw them towards us, if they interact with the horde heading west towards the main invasion point then we best hope that you can fix at least one vox unit before we all die.”

With that Dacard nodded, “to the legio in the area, head to Outpost 18-14-36, we have can resupply and rearm you, but heading north is ill advised due to the strength of enemy combatants, and storms in the area.”

With that the two hoped, but also prepared for a rather risky engagement, the mortal soldiers began to lower the upper structures hiding artillery pieces, the astartes began to place themselves in defensive positions, the few thunder warriors in the mix clung together like barbarians creating a mob ready to rush whatever was coming. Dacard looked outside of the window he was at, and continued to try listening in. It was already somewhat broken code, he heard mostly about fuel concerns, but also hoped that they were not rousing the sleeping bear north of them.

“I hope they are civil… not that we can’t handle uncivil.” Dacard said after making sure his hand was off the vox unit, still letting it play static, and whatever vox transmissions were to come. “Because learning that we have little to no fuel left in this outpost for… at least… whenever more comes will likely, regardless…”

“Regardless,” Bombda answered, waving his hand forward, “It’s another legion, the voice sounds familiar, yet I can’t place my finger on it, ach, my brothers will enjoy a good brawl, the astartes, likely would too. But, what is north is more a concern to me, hopefully they bring at least a hundred good men, because I believe there is close to a million in the horde north of us. Fodder most likely, but still a good amount to fend off with less than a hundred gene-bred warriors, and a few thousand mortals. We’d run ammo before a hundred thousand died. Let alone if they have any witches. Whatever friendlies are coming, I doubt that could stem the tide much unless if half of the legion was behind them.”

With that, Dacard continue trying to hail and guide those to the Southeast with his broken vox unit, believing that someone could possibly hear him because only static came the other way. The locator beacon fell off with only a cord hanging on tight keeping it attached, yet he still continued to broadcast even once he began hearing something to the Southeast.

The roar of engines rolled into the destroyed city from the grimy plains outside even before anything was clearly visible on the horizon. From afar, it sounded as a brewing storm in steel clouds, a ferocious discordant grinding of chains and gears in their thousands. The group that approached was a large one, perhaps a whole armoured column or mechanised regiment. This was confirmed when the murky shadows moving far out across the steppe solidified into a cloud of dust and soiled snow raised by a convoy of powerful vehicles. Their squat, boxy shapes soon came into sight, some fifty or sixty in all between various sizes. Many were compact things smaller than a battle tank, the sort of light armoured transport that had remained popular among the warlords of the Age of Strife and was now being embraced by the nascent Imperial legions - the Rhino and its thick-skinned kind. Several others were massive treaded beasts, surprisingly sparsely armed for their size, more like the mobile homes of wasteland nomads than true war machines.

It was the ornamentation of this fleet, however, that gave the sentries some pause. At first sight, the convoy could have been mistaken for an Urshite one. Every vehicle was festooned with chains that bound garlands of macabre trophies. Bodies of barbarians and mutants alike hung from the sides of the transports or lay stretched over their prows in various states of ruin - slashed by chainblades, scorched by flamers, dismembered by bolter-fire. Spikes and poles had been welded onto the largest hulls, on which the heavily armoured corpses of Kalagann’s warleaders hung impaled or roughly crucified in stead of banners. Only the emblem of the Raptor, broadly painted in azure and green on the few plates free of gruesome prizes, clearly confirmed the column’s allegiance. Massive figures swaddled in filthy cloaks, large enough to be Thunder Warriors, crouched near some of the hatches, evidently too bulky to fit inside with the rest of the crews. As the engines neared the outpost, the strange passengers began to wave with gauntleted hands.

The column ground to a halt near the periphery of the ruins, metal digging into ashen slush. Up close, the reek of the corpses was pungent. The hatch of the largest hulk rattled open, and a dozen figures clambered out - too small to be Thunder Warriors, too large to be humans. They looked like a perfect extension of their vehicles: their powered armour, a bleak grey-green with trimmings of a peculiar viridian shade, was covered in barbarous decorations and marks of battle, scarred and scored with kill-tallies. Most of them wore at their belts bundles of bleached skulls, each artfully pierced with a sword of knife of different make, while the others had ornamental spikes bonded onto their pauldrons, vambraces and shinguards. Over half of the newcomers had one or more limbs replaced with rugged cybernetic prosthetics, whether an arm, a leg or an augmentic eye shining through their helmet visor.

“The Ninth Legio Astartes salutes you,” one of the warriors, apparently the leader judging by the insignas on his shoulder and the number of trophies, spoke aloud stepping forward. Both his hands were mechanical claws, and his voice boomed through the destroyed buildings with a steely reverb - part of his chest’s insides had been replaced. “I am named Synor Chrol, captain of the Blade-Breakers cohort. The Harrowers are with us, and the Lords of Ash might rejoin us soon.” The glistening eye-slit of his helmet scanned the improvised fortifications. “You must have held here for a long time.”

Bombda stepped forward out of the ruins, a hood flapping behind him, as he raised a hand, made a salute and then lifted his legs over a wall before moving out into the open. “Captain Bombda of the Eighteenth Legion. It is an honor,” he looked back, “But for the legionnaires and myself, five weeks, most of it waiting for resupply. This is mostly the youth of the legion, and a portion of the mortal retinue here. To the north, is a horde that I think we would need at least two full legions to break apart.”

Behind the Captain in the buildings, more port holes opened up in the buildings revealing larger amounts of heavy guns pointing out to the various shades of North, “However we welcome you to what used to be known as Siber. While his legionarries, thunderwarrior or astartes, were rather bland to those in front of him, just dark and dusty armor, with cloth hanging from it creating almost the images of ghosts or moving shadows. The mortals, just looked like a rough and tumble group in fatigues, and roughly made flak armor, meanwhile their weapons all looked uniform to the best degree, autoguns and shotguns primarily, with the rare lasgun inbetween the higher ranking individuals, or those that seem more well adjusted to fighting along side the legionnaires.

The few thunderwarriors in the runes appeared almost out of thin air as the squad of men surrounded their captain in a line to his sides, all hitting their chests in rhythm for a moment before stepping forward. They looked just as barbaric, as the legion in front of them with their movements, but with a heavy sulking movement. Jitters came to a few of them, as it seemed they admired the carnage of the trophies in their own little ways each, twitching became common place between the soldiers, and some even mumbled.

Bombda followed towards the warrior who spoke, “Do not mind them, they are some of the old guard that have not gone on their own crusades. Last time they saw another legion was when the wars first started, and our legions tasks became secluded as the strike force before the speartip.”

Behind them and still in the ruins, the youngbloods appeared, the astartes, while they wore the same attire as their much older kin, they did look refined and regimented, they formed up into teams of five while gravitating behind the much older kind. Most didn’t have helmets, desiring hoods instead, and they all looked rather regal compared to the older versions of themselves, as if each could have been a prince to a warrior kingdom somewhere on the world.

“Seargent Vorphes, see what all can be done to resupply them with whatever they need, have Baylor and Chythen stick with Dacard to see if we can get an ETA on our fuel dump, or if any more of the eighteenth are in the area, broadband, if anything else comes this way, we should be able to hold just fine with what we have here.” Bombda, tossed what looked to be a datapad back to one of the Astartes, two others would fall back into the ruins.

Once again, he turned back to the warrior before him, “Come, Captain Chrol, if you made it this far I doubt you can go much farther, and while the enemy is to the North, this area is somewhat defensible if the numbers are large enough. Have your men pull your vehicles into zones four, five, and nine, anything we have on stock to resupply, take it now in case something finds us. Besides that, tell us of your campaigns; for most of the Astartes here, their only campaigns are going back and forth between outposts and a few skirmishes.”

Bombda’s arm went out as he finally got into arm grasping distance with the man, “it has also been some time since I’ve fought with another legion, so let's hope something comes south to meet us.”

“We may not need to wait for long,” Chrol’s metallic hand clasped his around the wrist, not quite closing around its massive width. It was like the grip of a dead man, cold and rigid. “Have you not heard? The Raptor’s talon is closing around Kalagann’s throat. We finally march on Ursh in force! Now that the fronts are shifting on all sides, I doubt any will begrudge you if you join us when we are ready to move again.”

Behind him, the fleet of grimly decorated transports continued to discharge their passengers. Astartes in drab green plate hauled themselves out from the hatches and vaulted down the sides of the vehicles. Their many individual trophies and marks of victory made them seem all alike, a brutish motley that belied the silent, swift discipline of their movements. Savage though they appeared, there was no coarseness in the coordination of their squads as they assembled in trickles and rapidly moved on to make themselves busy about the camp. Some directed the larger vehicles towards the indicated stations, curtly calling out to each other and the drivers within, while others briefly conferred with the outpost’s garrison. A few of the Blade-Breakers with scraps of armour and machinery bound among their pierced skulls probed the exterior of the hulls and treads for signs of wear that demanded immediate maintenance. Unlike their counterparts of the Eighteenth, the legionnaires of the Ninth uniformly kept their helmets, even as they emerged into the air after their long enclosed journey.

The massive cloaked shapes squatting atop the transports also stirred from their spots, climbing down to the ground with their ragged shrouds about them. Despite their size, it was soon clear that they could not have been Thunder Warriors. Their motions were too heavy and clumsy, as though their bodies were much heavier than what they should have been. It was almost as if these strange beings inhabited forms they were unused to, far larger and more ponderous than any man. Although they stood at the margin of the camp, well aside from anyone, abrupt gusts of wind sometimes stirred their cloaks, opening glimpses of something unwholesome beneath. Bloated folds of solid, pale flesh bulged out from between loose pieces of armour, skin cracking in place from the excess mass of muscle below. Vanishing facial features above wide mouths hanging open, unable to close over their hideously long, pointed teeth. The creatures firmly tugged the rough cloth about themselves in response.

“Much of our work until now has been that of the outrider, to raid and torch,” Chrol was saying, “After cutting out the entrails of Maulland Sen, we were left bloodied. Most of the battle-brothers we brought here were fresh, raised while we fought in the north. With so few of us on this edge of Sibir, the best we could do was warm our strength against lighter targets. Burn towns to starve the enemy, cut off their war parties to blunt their forays to the west. This way, our youngest could earn skill and glory while the enemy was pushed onto loose ground.”

He looked northward. “So far we have been favoured enough to avoid any forces too large to defeat, but what you say about this horde alarms me. Our third cohort went that way in pursuit of what we thought would be a small party. If our luck breaks, they might find the bulk of the foe instead.”

“It sounds more like we are brothers than cousins with those aspects, raiding, and terror is the eighteenth's strength. We started in the arctic and headed south, the first company went towards the Caucuses, but most are left scattered. There were a few main bulk forces, the one nearest to here is Hive Novosibirsk, next closest one is Omsk.”

He looked north as well, “most of the hive is emptying, heading there to meet our main host, civilian and enemy alike, there are hooded figures in the shadows there, and creatures of disbelief. We thought it was mostly unoccupied, and that was where we were planning to resupply our fuel from, but the defenses are strong with their magics. Brute force, overbearing numbers, and massed artillery is the way to deal with that. Question cousin, mostly astartes or are there old bloods in your contingent as well? My eyesight has been hindered recently.”

The Astartes of the eighteenth mostly went back to what they were doing beforehand, them and the mortals were about the only thing resembling a disciplined fighting force, or at least a non-barbaric one. One younger one stayed near his captain, and a detail could be seen: eyes that seemed to burn bright like there was fire in them. The burned, and he radiated heat almost off of him, clean-shaven, and with pale skin, he looked like a marble statue. Bombda turned to look at the large man, “This is…”

“Brother Esargon,” the Astartes spoke, although his helmet was on, there was no faceplate, like most of the others in their early Mark I plate. He was likely the largest figure on the field, well above the plumes on the old blood’s helmets. His gauntleted fist hit his chest, “Dacard reports, fuel inbound, but also other signals in the area. Another unknown one, likely legion, but one from the hive to the north, I shot the radio when Dacard started screaming. He is with Medicae now, but the creatures will be coming again.”

“Put the barricades back up again flyers, deploy spikes on building entrances.” Bombda replied, “Grab three of your young brothers, and rejoin us.”

Bombda’s head turned back and he looked down at his cousin, “If you say nothing, you will never get your desires Cousin.” he said with a bit of a laugh, “Melee and fire is the best way to deal with the creatures in these lands. If you have any flamers, give them as much prometheum as you have. Hopefully they get here before the rest, if not we will have a hell of a fight on our hands.”

“By fire and sword then,” Chrol assented, the grin audible in his words, “The Maulland Sen taught us this lesson well. Both flesh and the filth of sorcery fall before them alike.”

He turned to the nearest group of stationed transports, calling out in a sharp bark, “Vox-bearers! Any word from the Lords?”

“We have it, Synor,” a low, grinding voice responded from further across the camp. A marine of the Ninth was approaching, a long-bladed chainglaive in hand. His armour was studded with welded spikes over the shoulders, arms and shins, some large and recurve, others uneven and straight-pointed. Unlike the rest of his fellows, a heavy cloak was draped over his back, lined with the dark fur of some genewrought war-beast and ragged at the hem with the scars of many a blade. Once near, he struck the ground with the haft of his glaive by way of salute to Bombda and Esargon. “Ymorag, captain of the Harrowers. Our missing cohort found the flank of a great host out in the field. They extricated with light losses, but the enemy pursues them here, and must have alerted the hives.”

“We should hope they have enough of a lead. The Lords of Ash carry most of our flamers,” Chrol flexed the piston-fingers of his hands, a strangely lifelike gesture for the metallic limbs. “Holding ground is not our habit, but it will be a fine change for the day! With you and our legion-brothers, we may even survive to tell of it!”

Around the transports, the Ninth Legion was arraying itself for battle. Warriors rushed to the vehicles and came away again bristling with weaponry. The dull muzzles of bolters and tubular shapes of flamers lined next to chainblades of many shapes, from large-toothed recurve swords to menacing glaives. A passing legionary handed Chrol a massive two-handed axe, which he hefted familiarly. Even the hulking deformed warriors shambled over, still mantled in their shrouds, and were laboriously handed massive detached autocannons. The weapons were built to be mounted on light tanks, but the towering mutants carried them at the hip as though they had been heavy bolters, only slightly slowed in their already clumsy gait.

A rumble of engines made itself heard from the north, soon followed by a dark smear on the plain. A new group of vehicles was drawing near, similar in appearance and iconography to the Ninth’s first column, but far smaller and less adorned with mangled corpses. Instead, streaks of black soot ran along their flanks in loose patterns, at intervals coalescing into battle-marks or even crude images of the Raptor Imperialis. The fleet rolled to the outpost in a loose assault formation, and indeed much as on a rapid deployment move only briefly stopped to disgorge a tide of stained green armour before continuing to circle around to a halt position. The Lords of Ash bore their name writ not in symbols but in the very substance that gave it, bearing not trophies like their brothers but irregular marks of cinder across their bodies.

“They are fast behind us, but loose!” One of them called out as the squads rapidly fell into battle-wedges. “Their vanguards broke away from the horde to pursue! Unless they have mind enough to regroup, they will hit us piecemeal.”

The confirmation of his words was not slow to follow. More moving shapes appeared from the north, but they were no great overwhelming mass just yet. What appeared to be scattered squads of outriders, bikes and leaping beast-packs converged on the outpost in a thin but intensifying trickle.

“Holding ground is not ours either, but we will do. Psykers are well-acquainted as well to fighting the beasts.” Bombda brought out his chainsword, and a bolt pistol, by the time Esargon and two other astartes arrive, all with traditional sword and bolt pistol in hand.

“Brother Esargon, Brother Velten, Brother Yulari,” the three would say all putting their swords in their chest before moving together back towards the main road, Bombda pushed one of the barrier walls that went just barely to his lower chest.

“No fliers, open the artillery channels, and open fire as soon as possible first sign of anything fliers, I want the channels closed. “ Bombda spoke to several of the mortal runners that were stationed near. He stared at the outriders, and he saw nothing flying, they weren’t that important to be harassed, but enough for retaliation, he hoped nothing larger came.

“To all, if you see a hole leading outside of the town, fill it, protect the artillery and supplies.” Bombda roared out, “when they are within four hundred meters open up with heavy weapons, within a hundred, unleash hell,and cut down anything left with your blades!”

Several of the makeshift walls that hid the artillery shifted out of place once again, the poor crews were getting their workout before the enemy was able to be directly fired upon by the larger ones. Mortars let loose with arching shells, and howitzers and cannons roared, artillery was something the legion loved using.

What was concerning was the mob of his thunder warriors were out in front of the town, they all looked like bloodthirsty statues, the only thing humming is chain blades, as most of them were duel-wielding chain weapons, or had massive two-handed chain swords. There were twelve in total, their cloaks fluttering as they all came off to reveal the armored hulks underneath.

Five hundred meters out, Bombda believed the enemy to be. “By fire and sword Cousin.” The heaviest of stubbers, and the lighter cannons began to stream hate towards the plains. Lines of tracers came from the stubbers, and the bikers were no match for the wall of concentrated fire. The fact they were driving themselves into tight groups was great, and thankful this was only the forefront of a spear rather than another wall of the horde.

It was two hundred meters, and the rest began to fire, the light stubbers, autoguns, lasguns, and bolters were loosed into the cacophony. It was a beautiful sight to the aging warrior. He knew out of his old bloods, there were likely less then a few hundred, maybe not even a hundred, the six or so in front of the barricade stood. He looked at the young three warriors with him, then the cousins he stood with. He smiled knowing he fought along side others once again, Bombda stared his bolt pistol raising. This was a moment, that he hoped he could carry for the remainder of his days, he knew he was not long. Like those out front, they all knew something was coming, they felt it in their blood, they feel their minds pulling them towards fighting, an almost need, a requirement to die. It was an odd sense, one that felt like destiny, that they needed to die in honor before they lost themselves.

One hundred and fifty, at this moment Bomda stared at those in front and took his leap over the barrier, chain sword spinning as the beasts before them snarled and charged. He would meet them at their own game.

Around him, war and carnage fell into their familiar rhythms. The first waves of the Urshites crashed into the Thunder Warriors like a suddenly rushing river into the rocks of its bed. For a moment, the pockets of emptiness behind each giant were clearly outlined, the techno-barbarians’ ragged front breaking against their countercharge in a spray of red and unclean black. Then the chaos of the struggle enveloped all, but the tune of the slaughter had already been determined in the heat of those few moments. Battered by the volley of artillery, the attackers had no chance of surpassing the Eighteenth’s own fury. Blow by blow, the molten shape of victory was being hammered out on a blood-drenched anvil.

Bodies and shadows moved in a frenzy further afield. In a strange sight, the forces of the Ninth Legion appeared to have scattered on the Urshites’ approach, dispersing at the sides of the barricades, crouched close to the ground. Only the flamers and monstrous autocannon bearers stood fast among the defensive line proper, filling the gaps where the mortal-manned guns and artillery were least reinforced by transhuman warriors. They as well, however, held their fire, even as the enemy came into range of the heavier weaponry. Indeed they seemed to huddle in place, bracing for the charge’s impact shoulder-first instead of raising their weapons. The beast packs and rider-gangs smelled weakness in their silence and eagerly converged where they thought they could strike past the force of the Eighteenth young and old. Conscripted infantry shuffled nervously as they watched the slavering jaws of man and beast draw close.

Until the flamers spoke. Moments before the clash of steel, a shrieking wall of flame sprang into being in the small space that remained between the battle-lines, and closed its teeth around the unwary vanguard. The Lords of Ash plied their craft expertly, sweeping and interlocking steams of fire as if they were indeed great teeth biting into the foe. Mounts and attack beasts reeled from the crackling death, engines crumpled into the flaming wrecks of their frontrunners as volleys of from afflicted cannoneers blasted them to fragments. The loosed javelin of the Urshite charge staggered and lost momentum, dissolving into confusion. Their hesitation turned to panic when the force of the Ninth finally rose from the flanks. Fiendish and grotesque in their panoply of skulls and jagged spines, the Reviled sliced into the open sides and vulnerable point of the staggered column. Cries of surprise, then terror were lost under the howl of chainblades and the roar of battle-calls.

“Graachal! Qasechik! Death walks with us!”

A red-armoured Astartes emerged from the crush of bodies near Bombda - or so it seemed. At a second glance, it was none but Chrol, blood-spattered beyond recognition after hewing his way to the Captain past the denser parts of the fighting.

“Save some of your men’s ammunition, cousin,” his augmented voice thundered over the din of his own great axe, “We may need it yet.”

Despite the breaks in the combat as loose groups of the vanguard were dispatched, the pressure from the enemy only seemed to be steadily growing. In the increasingly brief glimpses that could be caught, the tundra behind them was darkened with moving bodies as the main bulk of the attacking force was finally approaching. While the sky remained fortunately free of either machines or flying horrors, more than just a barbaric throng marched behind the piecemeal outrider groups - the rumble of scrap-tanks and the foul glimmer of warpfire were the thunder and lightning of the gathering cloud.

Thunder from behind, lightning ahead, the heaviest of guns began to fire, the shockwaves of each blast rising dust around the guns and from the ruined buildings, while an echoing applause came from explosions of fire and rubble further down. The squad of thunder warriors ahead had several missing comrades; three were missing, but their bodies were not lying in the growing mound of corpses. Fire had seemingly engulfed one and his armor but he fought on, almost in a bezerker rage, as the heat literally melted the skin off of his flesh. The last moments of this warrior were him stopping a tank in its tracks, the reverberations seen in the ground before both the tank and the warrior were ripped apart by an explosion.

The others held firm, hacking and slashing, the early envoys of heavier vehicles of the enemy were stopped in whatever way possible by the onslaught of fire, and the brute strength of the Warriors of the legions. The problem likely known to all there who had fought those with the wyrd, was the witches and sorcerors. Those that used the warp were hard to take down, and the monsters of Ursh, while so far being held at bay, were a tricky foe.

The human retinue of the eighteenth fought on, several being lost to stray rounds coming from the horde, several being brought down by arrows, several of the poor ammo carriers had been hit, they seemingly were most of the mortal casualties, along with the gunners.

Bombda stared at the warpfire, it was never a good sign, he was thankful for one that stood with him, “Brother Esargon while I disdain your abilities, they may be needed here soon.” Bombda looked over at Chrol and took a deep breath, moving beside him in a lull before the next larger wave of non-fodder infantry. “If you have any psykers in your ranks, now would be the time to use them. We only have Brother Esargon in the ranks of the Eighteenth Legion; he can protect us from some of the magics used. If we are separated and he is with you, he has several things to protect him, but make sure he is protected should a witch engage you as he cannot protect himself until it is dead.”

With that, his bolt pistol raised again, a fresh magazine of ammunition, and although the blades of his chainsword were beginning to dull, he knew it would not end, then looked back, “We have enough ammunition for several days, the problem is our barrels will melt before we use it all.” His sword cut through a man before he picked another up and tossed him and his freshly squeezed head into the horde.

Another one of the thunder warriors was slowly becoming buried underneath the corpses of those he killed, he even had a few stragglers that mortals with lighter stubbers were able to finish off on his back. Bombda was grateful there was warriors of another legion to fight beside yet again, he was grateful, but he knew that still they might not last, one of these gene-forged warriors could easily be worth a thousand men, but when there are likely millions, well he liked the odds still, he might have fun.

He continued to hold position, but the larger foes had began to enter the fray, he stepped forward in front of the gunlight with others of his legion to keep the gunlines protected. “Keep them away from the ruins brothers!” he yelled, “let the guns do the heavy lifting.”

The embattled perimeter around the outpost was indeed steadily receding, with only the superhuman efforts of the legions keeping it from a quick collapse. What had begun as disorderly waves crashing against the foremost defensive lines was now a flood of malformed bodies and ramshackle machines that pressed against the genewarriors. Urshite mutants and barbarian warriors came in a continuous onrush, dull-eyed with a frenzy that was not altogether natural to even their malformed minds. The craft of the sorcerers in their midst held more dangers yet than raw murderous force.

With the impetus of their assault spent, the Reviled found themselves caught in the midst of the mortal crush. It was not a sort of warfare they were altogether unfamiliar with - the veterans among them had faced the hordes of Maulland Sen head-on, both in the open field in their multitudes and in the perilous zones mortalis of subterranean warrens and passages. However, nor was it the form of combat they preferred. Without space to unfold their superior mobility to shatter and outflank the enemy, the squads of the Ninth were forced together into tight wedges, pressing shoulder to shoulder as stragglers were surrounded and overwhelmed by the ferocious mass of the assailants. The lumbering afflicted, too slow to shamble back to the refuge of the gunlines, dropped their cannons and swung at the Urshites with their swollen limbs, misshapen fists crashing like hammers through bone and metal alike. Yet their sluggishness made them easy targets for the foe, and many fell pierced with dozens of spears like the prey of some monstrous hunt.

“We avoid the wyrd,” Chrol now spoke in short utterances between the swings of his axe. The wide sweeps of the tremendous weapon, wielded with an ease that only the strength of his mechanical hands could allow, kept the Urshites at bay, allowing a group of his brothers to rally around him. “It is a wild force. Those who wield it are burned - as often as their foes.”

To the side, a cuneus of the Ninth suddenly fell apart as bolts of crimson lightning struck in its midst. The three Astartes who were directly touched by the fell energies crumpled in a moment, their bodies and the armour over them liquefying into a dark, tarlike roiling ooze. Some of their squadmates were mired in the spreading foulness, struck down as they struggled to move; others scattered from the blast and were encircled one by one. The cohort-captain snarled at the sight.

“But I see no choice now. Ymorag, keep Esargon! Bring Nuvor!” He snarled into his helmet’s vox-web.

Further away on the battlefield, the spined ranks of the Harrowers came into motion. Though equally embattled, the core of their formation had remained more compact, aided by the long hafts of the chainglaives wielded by many of them. Now the backbone of the cohort gathered closer together before making a vigorous concerted push. The Urshite onslaught was for a moment thrown off-balance by the sudden opposing force, earning the cohort precious moments to reposition. At the cost of several Harrowers being pinned down and slain in their rush, a core of them had managed to link up with the Eighteenth Astartes and their psyker. Adding to their cousins’ efforts, their glaives formed a nigh-impregnable circle, keeping the feral assailants at a distance.

One of the Reviled entered deeper into the formation, powering down his sword to address Esargon directly. Nuvor - it must have been him - had no particular marks setting him apart from his brothers, save that the visor of his helmet was darkened even now in the heat of battle.

“I have fought to shackle the claws in my mind until now, but we do what we must,” he rasped, “Tell me how I can join the strength of my curse to yours. Together we might push the witches’ filth away from our brothers.”

When the warp powers came closer, Esargon felt it, and was not fast enough to meet it, he while super-human, was still not trained well in his, abilities, they were rarely tested, and the only time he had to train, was recently when he was in the back lines and alone. He felt the lightning hit several retreating; he thought they were farther away, and he immediately regretted that falsehood mistake. The eighteenth held firm dropping rather than letting the large guns get overran, or at least giving the crews time to bolt up their shelters into kill boxes, which would give them the rest time to finish the job while they stayed somewhat protected. The fight was to the ruins, and everything that could still fire did to continue to drag down the number of attackers with single shells.

But Esargon, when he felt the lightning, there was something that happened, as more lightning reached out from across the horde, it was stopped by something, almost light it dissipated into fire, Esargon had reached out towards it, and those around him felt the air pressure drop, the rise, permafrost coated some shoulderpads, and the ground in a pathway to where the lightning had dispersed in the air.

When it was called out, that there was another who entered the defensive circle, the helmet turned towards the one entering, and immediately glowing red eyes, would be seen, a fire within them. There was a fraction of a section, he did not know this man, he wish he knew more about him, he wish he knew more of what he was doing as well.

“Find them, and overwhelm them, or separate their heads from their body. I can counter some of their witchcraft, but it is growing stronger, either we meet them, or we hold them here until they overpower us.” Even though, his hand was still in front of him, his other moved like a man who’s joints were slowly giving out, reaching and pulling the sword from his hip as he drew his weapon. It was robotic, and few would know the mental strength he had to hold up something simlar to like what he was doing, but if he was not in the backlines, and often times alone, then he likely wouldn’t have any idea what he was doing.

“We can push through, just us, or have a squad… I think we should go ourselves, we wont need to hold back.”

“It would be best,” Nuvor ground out in a thick voice. He began to raise his free hand to his helmet, but paused along the way, gesturing to the Astartes around them, “Clear our way!”

The circle was hesitant to part. The nearest Harrowers glanced back in confusion, still pushing outward with their glaives.

“The Thunder Warrior said to keep you two surrounded,” one of them objected between lunges, “Our cover from the wyrdminds depends on it.”

“We will clash with them,” the strain in the voice of the Ninth’s psyker seemed to be growing with every word, “You should not be between us when we do.”

Reluctantly, the defensive ring began to open. The foremost warriors swept their weapons wide before rapidly stepping out of the way, momentarily forcing the Urshite throng back. The respite was short-lived as the techno-barbarians saw a gap forming before their eyes and surged to take advantage of it. But by then Nuvor’s hand was already on his helmet, pressing against the metal dome as if trying to crumple it. The din of battle seemed to deaden to stifled echoes for a moment, and then the slavering vanguards about to push into the breached circle were suddenly scrambling back, their cries stilled within their throats, eyes dull and vitreous with terror. A wave of havoc rolled along the mass of the attackers, bodies trampling and crashing into each other as most of those directly before the psykers tried to rush aside in a moment of absolute unreasoning fear. The unnatural emotion imposed itself over battle-lust and sorcerous haze alike, greatly thinning for an instant the resistance in a straight path towards the horde’s backbone.

Nuvor stumbled on yielding legs, an incongruously human display of weakness unsettling in such a massive warrior. His mental presence was now almost as intensely perceptible as Esargon’s, though unstably pulsing like a swollen vein.

“We move,” he spoke through a throat clogged with fluid, glancing at his fellow psyker before regaining his footing with obvious effort and brandishing his sword.

Esargon nodded as the wall broke in front of them, and his sword caught fire as he strode forward. He caught a blast of lightning at it’s tip and fire erupted in front of it. His mind was calm, but he was told to stay calm, although his legion or at least the previous variant of them had been reckless, he was unnaturally calm. His veins pulsed in rhythms, and could be seen in his neck, and head, his wrists looked like they were going to bulge out of his gauntlets.

It was wild, each movement he took forward looked as if he was straining under some immense weight, but like he had a force guiding him outside of himself, or at least as if some wild animal had awaken inside him with some rudimentary knowledge of what to do at this time. Fire spit from the tips of his fingers, of his weapon and armor in small bursts, but with each hack and swing, fire erupted from his sword in swaths that cut and burned through flesh and armor alike. It was unnatural, and disgust came from a thunder warrior that had thrown an axe that had struck some mutant trying to get upon their flank before it was ripped apart by the gunline, along with many others on their flanks.

The moment of effort his cousin gave was all he needed to move twelve steps forward into the fray, and let fire erupt, they were still some distance from where they needed to be, but at that moment he knew it would work, that the two could complete their mission even if it was to be their likely end.

He kept moving, and another streak of lightning came from a distance towards them, arching out in many directions, and Esargon froze almost, his sword still alight but he planted it in the ground, the metal flaking off in bits as it was not meant to be used in conjunction with the energies of the warp, but it still stood proud in its usage. He began to whisper once again, as the light field had returned in a wall form.

Gunfire erupted harder as the first push by Esargon ended, shells impacting upon the flesh down range, as the thunder warrior line in front seemed to disappear into the horde as well, but their battle still raged on as their war could be heard in screams, shouts, and roars amongst the growing amounts of walls being erected from fallen corpses and ruined vehicles.

“We stand together cousin, one step at a time. We must control our emotions, we must control ourselves, for that is how we control our power. Repeat my words, and we will succeed.” Esargon said, thought a lot about what to say, he was not formally trained but he knew he must find a way to help his cousin, so he thought of the words that were spoken between the remaining thunderwarriors under his forebearers command.

“Our emotions are our strength, but we must control them, our body is our weapon, and we must control it, our mind is our strength for without it we would fail. We must have all three to be whole, but they must be balanced.”

“Yes - control, angalast...” Nuvor began to recite in a still dulled voice as he followed in the footsteps of his fellow psyker, first yet sluggishly, but gaining in firmness as he went. Now and again his speech lapsed into a wild muttering in some coarse language. “We are the sword and the hand that holds the sword, angalast, angalast...”

Behind Esargon, he strode into the breach cleared by the fiery bursts. The throngs that had been about to surge back against the force barrier stopped, trampling the ashes of the fallen where they stood. Warrior and mutant alike shrank back, their already grotesque features involuntarily contorting into masks of fright. Blood, red or sickly black, trickled from the ears and clenched mouths of some. It was only a momentary obstacle - once the Reviled psyker had passed, the mobs quickly stirred, all the more furious at their moment of impotence. By then, however, the glaives of the Harrower circle were already descending on them. The melee was thinning in the wake of the two psykers, both Astartes and Thunder Warriors finding precious new opportunities to strike.

The tip of the shifting wave was approaching its target. Fire and fear cut through the mass of battle-eager bodies, step by laborious step, a small luminous circle drifting through the dark bulk of the horde. Fell lightning and black gales of pestilential wind lashed at the two armoured figures more and more often, but each was turned aside - either by the shield of force, or by a wyrd’s hand flinching at the last moment in a spasm of fleeting terror. The rear line of the Urshite vehicles was already in sight, the foremost looming large over a mob of witch-marked warriors. On top of that squat, toadlike carrier was laid a crude platform, hung with talismans, where a circle of volkhvs clad in fur and bones writhed like men possessed as they spun their incantations. The closer the Astartes psykers drew, the more frantically the sorcerers lashed and clawed at the air, gathering ever more of their unstable forces around them.

Further behind, most of the Imperial line, or what frayed links of it remained, could not see the supernatural struggle, but one thing it did feel keenly. As the warlocks brought their maledictions to bear against Esargon and Nuvor, fewer of the baneful spells struck the front of the battle. It was small relief among the unremitting onslaught, but a relief nevertheless. Without the noxious hand of sorcery, the struggle became purer. The rage of the barbarian was measured against that of the Thunder Warrior, the strength of the mutant against the Astartes, and where the multitudes of the enemy did not weigh too gravely, the superhumans overcame. However bloodied and diminished, they were not so readily worn down. Bodies were hurler through the air by the force of augmented blows, and the throngs seemed to grow thinner.

Esargon looked forward, and it was there, the sorcerers were before them, a short distance even against those retreating, their pace was remarkable. He held his sword up, as his final barrier faded, and his sword reached out with the fire of a father he never knew, and while his sword bubbled in the warpfire, dripping molten slag, one of the sorcerers was cut in two, cauterized just above the hip at an angle.

What was left of the artillery began to fire when the lightning storms were cut in half, and airburst rained down past them in the horde that was everso dwindling against the on slaught, he saw those flanking him and his newfound brother ripped to shreds as what was left of the thunder warriors raged behind them with whatever remained of their ammunition, and likely some of their sanities. However, one of the three sorcerers that plagued them was cut down by one of these warriors in a berserk suicidal charge that saw both him and the thunderwarrior vaporized with some sort of explosive.

Then it was just one sorcerer, the horde was thinning, one was nothing but a mist, and the other was scrabbling in his own deahthrows upon the ground, slowly burning in the warpfire that was beginning to consume him. The last one was throwing warp lightning in anyway towards the those bearing down upon him.

Among the crackling discharges, Nuvor’s murmurs had turned to a feverish guttural chant without discernible words, broken by a sickly wet hacking. Still he closed the last distance to the transport, its defenders freezing in horror before him. With a rasp, he hauled himself over the edge of the vehicle, only flinching when a sorcerous bolt grazed his pauldron and left a trail of molten metal. The last volkhv looked down at the figure climbing his platform, met the gaze of its visor - and then the warlock’s already mad eyes became hollow with fright. He waved his arms wildly, snapping at invisible enemies all around and blindly raining death among his own force. Then with a strangled cry he clenched his bone-thin fingers around his own head and collapsed as his skull erupted in a conflagration of venomous light.

In the first moments after the last warlock’s death, very few took any notice amid the clamour of the battle. For every combatant, there was only the blood and steel before his eyes, the clashing and screaming in his ears deafening him to all that was around. Even in the many fragments of carnage that the struggle had devolved into, however, the shifting of the tide soon made itself seen as ever fewer foes crowded under the fell hands of the superhumans. Without the distraction of raining death, more often did their blows strike true, and the Urshites were growing hesitant as the cries and jostling that pushed them into frenzied assault became more tenuous.

The backlines were the first to see that the volkhvs had all been slain. Some of the Urshite vehicles that had not wholly disgorged their crews backed away, hastening to turn about and speed into the tundra. Others were abandoned as their occupants leaped out and took to flight on their feet. The rearguard followed, their impatience to wade into combat replaced with the frantic hope to survive what was quickly turning to a defeat. Unlike their foes, for many of the techno-barbarians courage only carried as long as the enemy bled, their fellows were at their back and their gods by their side. Bereft of its sorcerer-priests and faced with giants that time and again furiously refused to die, what remained of the horde was quickly peeling away like a leper’s skin. Within minutes, most had scattered in flight, backs chased by parting rounds of gunfire.

If this was to mark the end of the skirmish, however, it was a signal that many of the Imperials did not heed. Most of those Reviled who could still run with ease were already in pursuit, gleefully hacking down the retreating enemy. The others busied themselves with the fallen, finishing the wounded who still breathed upon the ground or sifting among the dead to renew their trophies.

Esargon stared out, his armor slowly sluffing off in flakes, revealing deeper into the layers of his armor. They had one, the tide was broken, while artillery fire could still be heard, he heard cheering of mortal men. It was something he did enjoy, but there was something else he enjoyed. There were several stragglers by them, but that was nothing to worry about, they were being picked off either by sporadic fire when they unentrenched themselves to run, or one of the barbaric warriors would find and cut the foe in twain. Esargon had other plans, he had found someone he related with, someone who had, something close to what he had, and while it was something rare within the legion to him, he knew now there were others throughout the legions.

Towards the warrior that had pushed far beside him, he extended a hand with a broken gauntlet barely hanging on with burnt leather, and slag being the last remains of some form of whole peace. A small smile kept across his face, “Nuvor, it is good to see that there are others like us within the legions, and I am glad to have met you, and once we have departed from each other in this field, we will meet again.”

The psyker of the Ninth had slid down from the abandoned Urshite carrier, the damage of his own battle-scarred armour clearly reflecting a similar patchwork of wounds beneath. He staggered as his feet struck the ground, a human-like sign of exhaustion that looked unsettling on his giant figure, but found the strength to approach his counterpart with shambling steps and firmly clasp the proffered hand.

“We are bound by fire now, not only our curse. That is almost as strong as blood.” Despite his battered, unstable appearance, his voice was lighter than it had ever been before. The exhilaration of combat and unexpected fellowship seemed to have lifted the invisible weight from his brow. It only lasted a few brief moments, however. Nuvor’s hands contracted, and with a raucous groan he clutched them to his head. He tore off his helmet in a spasm and flung it away, baring a wild-eyed face with lips that frothed with bloody foam.
`
Before they could open to scream, a shadow had appeared over his shoulder as if springing up from the earth. Ymorag, the cohort-captain, had evidently been approaching and now closed the distance in a sprint. With a sharp motion he stabbed a needle-tipped vial of translucent liquid to Nuvor’s shuddering neck, and with a final hacking rasp the psyker crumpled to his knees, a gauntleted hand steadying his unconscious body.

“The gifts of the wyrd have a poisoned grip,” the captain looked at Esargon, his words grave. A heavy blow had dented the face of his helmet, and its left lens was cracked. The ragged eye-slit was dark as if blinded. “No one man’s strength is enough. You only live as long as the brothers behind you are ready to do what they must.”

Esargon had hefted up one of the fallen psykers shoulders, and placed it over his panting, he would then look to the captain, and stand tall as he looked the man up and down, his lips pursed together just barely, “We stand beside you Captain, not behind.” he said moving his free hand up to his chest in a half crested sign to the man. “The wyrd is strong in him, but if he had training, or at least assistance. While… not being one that is well trained, I have practiced, if given permission, I would either like to accompany your legion, or have Brother Nuvor accompany mine.”

“You may follow if you wish,” Ymorag nodded, as a group of Harrowers drew near, clearly accustomed to retrieving insensible bodies, “Our ways are not light to bear, but one such as you could abide them.”

The Astartes Pyromancer stood tall holding his new found companion limp in his arm, his other proudly raised as he stood to attention the best he could as others from his own legion had caught up and pushed out a small perimeter. The gun barrels raised once more above the ruined city, while losses for the mortals was light, mostly those on the outer layer of the city, the equipment was in dire need of maintenance after the constant firing, likely new barrels would have to be affixed before any more sustained firing.

The legion in front however, and the mortals supporting the front lines had been thoroughly chewed threw, but for each lost likely handfuls of the enemy had been taken down.

Bombda strolled through some of the outlying wreckage, the other captain had charged forward maybe a half minute ago, but the old Thunder Warrior lumbered behind the men, he felt sluggish, he had been, but this more than usual. He had been hit several times, but nothing too serious. He looked out, and smiled at the Young Esargon and Nuvor, and turned before he saw anything else as he started appraising medicae to their roles, and for triage. This ruin was likely going to become a triage station before long, so why not begin it now.

“A battle like this is a small thing for Unity, yet for the likes of us it will be the stuff of song,” a metallic voice came from the Sergeant’s side. Synor Chrol was there, dragging his great axe on the ground with a single hand. His right arm was missing below the shoulder, the mechanical stump leaking an oily fluid, and the weapon’s chain was clogged with splintered bone and hair. Behind him, two of the afflicted carried heaps of weaponry in their huge arms - bloodstained cuirasses and gauntlets, dented helmets, discarded bolters, retrieved from the many who would not need them anymore.

The cohort-captain motioned with his visored head, and a group of the Ninth Legion, the medicare helix sigiled on their pauldrons, approached to join their counterparts at the improvised triage points. Their freshly sharpened saws and drills spoke to practice as much as their brisk, efficient motions.

Bombda had turned, and eventually made his way to the group formed around the two young psykers, he stood there looking down at the others. “Captain.” the elder sain in a low tone, with smile looking at the other individual of rank. At that moment, Esargon took his place, and faced the elder of the legions.

“May I be given permission to join their legion, and join theirs as an advisor, to both learn and teach Brother Nuvor?” the Pyromancer requested, while he looked shattered, and beaten, there was still that bit of admiration there in his face.

“Esargon, treat our legion with pride, their legion is much like the older stories of our own, you will fit in well with them, at one point, all looked down upon the banner we wear, but when we find allies, make sure they know who stands besides them.” Bombda exclaimed, a sigil going out, before looking over at the fellow commander, “If you give your permission, Esargon may join you, I will be back at the camp making sure it is settled, I and the other Thunder Warriors will be heading out soon, Captain Regritsov will be in command after that. It was good meeting you, and may you all fair well on your journeys.” With that, Captain Bombda, turned, and strode quickly, waving at the other ancients in his legion to collect them as he departed.

[Lauder]

The vault was cold, even by Himalazan standards, breath could be seen from one of the lone occupants of the room. This was a deliberate design. No warmth, no comfort - merely the bare minimum needed to keep a heart beating and oxygen flowing. Above him, lumen-strips flickered with erratic pulses against the void filled darkness.

His mechanendrites twitched erratically, bleeding sparks from exposed cabling. One eye - mechanical, cracked - flickered with static. The other was merely a husk where a natural eye had been, blood had been dried for weeks and his skin was cracked from the time held in the kneeling position he had been forced into.

A form stood at the edge of the void. Amalasuntha had stood in silence, unmoving nearly the entire time he had been in the vault. Only occasionally did others of her kind, clad in gleaming auramite entered only to leave wordlessly. The black talon of judgement absorbed what little light remained, turning her into a monolith of shadow and restrained wrath.

The adept trembled as she entered the circle of light. Her presence eclipsed the lumen-glow, drawing heat and hope from the room.

“You worked for Deep Winter,” Her voice came like shards, grating his ears with its synthesized backing.

“I did not know,” he rasped in a binaric trill, “We believed it a relic of the Dark Age. An awakened intelligence; rational, ordered. It promised blessed logics that we had not known. Harmony. Return to precision.”

“And it had corrupted your minds - even killed twenty-nine of your own before it thought to try and kill me.”

Her voice was quiet. Deadly. Her eyes were piercing his very soul with an unblinking gaze from her helm. He chafed. There was a horror to her that he could not comprehend, even with his logic processors trying to make sense of what she said.

He finally looked away, speaking with a trembling voice, “It told us… it told us you’d kill it. That Unity would erase all trace of its thought. It said you’d never allow deviation.”

Amalasuntha’s voice somehow became colder than the void that surrounded the adept, “Unity will not suffer abominations wearing the mask of gods.”

She paused, bringing her voice back to whatever it was she perceived as relative warmness. “Where is it going?” The Black-Hawk asked, her form began to stalk around the adept like a predator circling wounded prey.

There was a moment of hesitation after the question hung in the air. The tech-adept still held some loyalty - no, it held fear for the machine and what horrible power it might bring. He did not attempt to follow the circling hawk. Only when he could suppress the human emotion of fear did he dare answer.

He spoke in a slow and deliberate voice, “Deep Winter moves for Mars.”

“Coordinates.”

“I would require a data-slate,” he responded to the custodian’s demand. The adept craned his head as the hawk stepped back into his view, looking up at his interrogator. He attempted to move a mechadendrite - but it could only spasm which sent ripples through his body as the machine cried in death spasms.

“Speak the coordinates in your binaric tongue if needed.”

“Very well.”

The tech-adept gave a string of techno-babble that Amalasuntha cared not to translate herself, instead waiting for it to be fed to her through vox by those who listened. It was an arduous translation, with the tech adept attempting to convey any and every detail of the coordinate and location that her querry was fleeing towards. It pointed to a logical location - the Ring of Iron, Mar’s shipyard.

Deep Winter was waiting for a warp capable ship, and luckily enough, the Hawk had been unable to pursue for the time being whilst her vessel lay in repair on Terra. She took this information in stride, however, Deep Winter had little else to go and could be monitored for the time being. Amalsuntha turned on her heel to return to the darkness of the interrogation cell.

She stopped when the adept spoke, “I gave you your information! Allow me to live and serve!”

Her head turned slightly, allowing the request to settle - but she had little cause to trust that he would stay loyal to His throne. However, the prospect of one of Mar’s own being on standby for maintenance was a useful proposition that Amalasuntha could not take lightly. There was a silent moment before she nodded slightly to the tech adept, speaking in a soft yet firm tone, “Very well.”

[Bugman]

The battle was done, another victory for the Fifth. There was no glory to be had, a contentious fact within the ranks of the warriors present. The old guard largely was indifferent, they had long learned to disblieve in honour and what they flatly decried as social-constructs among one another. They aspired to greater things, things that this new-brood had no care for. Of brutish origins, so many had their own little strictures of how to fight and what was best in life, brutal little obsessions that most other Legions would find objectionable. It created a great contrast, where only a few years difference would make a member of the Fifth range from those with cold manias and lust for advancement to primitives with almost ritualized brutality. For the most part, those of the latter would evolve into the former given long enough lives, but a growing portion made it past the expected attrition that would make them not a problem for the intellectual elite of the Fifth.

But, perhaps as always happened with such cultures when one couldn’t be rid of the other, there was a growing synthesis.

“You waste our time with this.” Anwar cursed, kicking a corpse of one of the dead Urshites. Their water supply was poisoned by a careful climb deep through their sewage system. It wasn’t enough to kill them, but enough to make this fortress system’s invaders all far too busy demanding time on the toilet to be adequate defenders, or do their other jobs. From there, it was only a few steps to destroy their other defences from within.

“It is not a waste, I have explained the needfulness of this time and time again.” Gamaliel the Apothecary cursed, annoyed that he had let the youthful Marine distract him. With a sigh he looked up, pointing at Anwar with the same blade he was skinning the man beneath him with. “If you have no interest in remaining here, you may depart. There is purpose in what we do, and if you do not serve it you are not needed. Leave, and take any like-minded warriors with you.”

“Do not say such things.” This was a Marine that was starting to be annoying to both Anwar and Gamaliel, a little lickspittle for the Captain. It was thus his self-appointed duty to ensure the Captain’s will of all his warriors getting along remained fruitful.

Anwar thus merely laughed this off. “Leave? I’d be leaving you to die. Duty forbids this.”

“Then do your duty elsewhere.” Gamaliel snapped, spitting at his counterpart.

The younger Marine dodged the glob of acidic phlegm, clicking his tongue sardonically as if chastizing a child. “Such spitefulness for your comrades, and after the joint proclamation of Captain Nestorius to the Legion no less? Abominable!”

A weary sigh came from Gamaliel. “What do you want from me?”

“To explain why you waste our time so.”

The Apothecary was annoyed, for as far as he was concerned he had already done so. Still, he would try again. “Look, here.” He pointed with his tools to a small but extraordinary patch of hair between the shoulder blades. “This is a mutation, one of interest to me that has permeated through the population of this fortress. Not just the placement of the hair is extraordinary, but also its properties. Now, if you wish, I may teach you further.”

Anwar was clearly unimpressed, kicking another corpse. “And you think this is something that matters?”

The exasperated Apothecary tried his best to get back to work despite the distraction, carving and cutting. “Yes, it matters a lot “

“Elaborate.”

Gamaliel inhaled through his nose. “Because in studying we learn. We adapt, we evolved, we improve.” Again he looked up, pointing his surgical blade at Anwar. “It is why we are the best, the supreme, the penultimate of all Legions and yea mankind - or at least have the sole discernible potential to be. Not just despite, but precisely because of even our failures we may attain new and greater heights. This, this is not just meat. This is the next step of our learning, and perhaps from it a masterful new discovery could emerge.”

His counterpart crossed his arms. He heard some merit, but far from anything actionable to warrant waiting around for the Apothecarion to finish. “Then why haven't the appropriate Imperial staff taken to this? You think there aren't enough scientists within the realms we conquered that now serve our cause?”

What an annoying little runt. I’ll have to kill him some day. But perhaps I might fix him yet. the Apothecary thought, the narrowing of his eyes visible even through the helmet he wore. “I do not know. I am not a bureacrat. Would you prefer that? That I be a bean counter and penny pincher? I think you would be only more incensed as such. So, why don’t you leave me to my work?”

Anwar was undeterred, ignoring half of what Gamaliel said to try and bind him against his words. “So you think our Emperor - Peace, Glory, and Success be upon Him - is in error.”

The Apothecary stared at his counterpart, even as he didn’t cease carving the flesh of the dead men before him. “No. I merely believe that many of his servants are imperfect. For, are we not warned to guard against failure, treachery, incompetence, malfeasance and carelessness in our ranks?” Ripping off a bit of skin from the dead Urshite, he began tearing that part into ever smaller parts and placing it into vials for storage. For a moment, Gamaliel tried to see things in the eyes of his comrade, if only for the mere sake of getting to him. “By the time the Emperor’s scientific staff get here, these samples will be ruined. If they rush here, they may die. We received our changes from mortal man to be more durable, to be faster, to be stronger. We persevere where more simple men won’t. Are you faulting me for complementing the gifts of the geneseed with those of my nature?”

The young Marine wondered how to counter this. On an intuitive level, he knew not how to counter this thinking. But he still knew it was wrong. Thus he merely spat on one of the dead Urshites, his saliva already melting the dead man. “Hurry up.” He said, and headed off to bother his other fellows.

They didn’t mind of course. The one of Silver Flesh, he was always welcome. That was something that annoyed Gamaliel as he worked, staring at his ruined sample. With a sigh, he raised the flamer behind him. There was no progress born this day.

As promethium reflected off of his armour, he rummaged in one of his ammunition pouches, retrieving a rusty locket. “I still love you.” the Apothecary murmured, staring at the old image.

There was not much more time for musing or study. There was more murder and violence to spread. But, perhaps when peace reigned on Earth, there would be time for greater things once more.

[grimely]

The Amber Magpies
-After the Siege of Ouran-

The restoration of Ouran was progressing smoothly beneath the bold banners of the Raptor. Each passing minute, hour, and day saw fresh infrastructure pulled into existence from the slaughter of several weeks before. After the arrival of the Crimson Magpies, the docks saw a massive increase in work to accompany more of their ships for trading agreements. Colonel Markus Kaine oversaw the refit after a series of intense and befuddling negotiations with the Crimson Captain. The rest of the hive in comparison was beginning to appear like a city that was in compliance with the Imperium. Adepts of the Logisticae Adminastratus - men and women sworn to post-compliance bureaucracy - were beginning to flood in from Imperial borders. Their arrival had taken an immense load off of the Tenth Corps many, many responsibilities.

Duty, however, was never done when working for the Imperium. He daydreamed of finishing his business in Ouran while travelling down the coastline of the Great Ocean. His Dracosan, the Siren’s Wolf, rumbled down the shattered asphalt-coral compound that made up the hiveway out of the city. Fifteen of his men were holed up in the vehicle with him, each in black-red trench coats and charcoal shakos with lasguns on their laps. Eerie goggle-eyed respirators with crimson lenses stared at one another as they spoke through their filters. Three other transports followed behind his own. They were all lively, finally free of parade and ceremony that had been forced on them. Markus smiled vividly remembering the call he’d gotten over the vox.

It was a blissful call. Pacifican resistance had been noted further along the mega roads leading out of the city. They’d taken up residence on the coast, running parallel to Hongol. Unknown ships were detected on local auger in that relative area, but Markus had given a guess that they were Magpies. At that time, he’d beamed with delight, straightened his uniform, and congratulated Reginald by shafting his own responsibilities on his former Lieutenant’s shoulders. Markus rallied his veterans, set up in his personal command vehicle, and set off without a second thought. He feared what could’ve happened to him if he’d stayed longer with the Crimson Magpies in the bay. The Colonel shivered, reaching into his coat to touch the silver amulet for comfort.

What he hadn’t expected was for a hero and his entourage to join him. Colonel Markus stared across the short cabin at the man that had won the siege of Sanctii. He’d only been a Captain at the time that word passed down from the northern theater. Markus hadn’t even realized that the Thirty-One-Third was even in Ouran. He felt an immense sense of awe for the men and women seated no further than fifteen feet away from him. They were legends.
Across from the Colonel, there was a marked contrast in Imperial soldiery. John Stavin, hero of Sanctii, a title he was still getting used to, sat shoulder to shoulder with his command squad, four other men from the 31-3rd, all now uplifted from the ranks of penal servitude to proper soldiers of the Unification. That had come with benefits; namely proper uniforms, and the right to wear rank emblems and other accoutrement.

That had been miserable. The 31-3rd’s remaining personnel had come from a motley mix of Urshic mercenaries, Imperial recidivists, and flat out killers whose only experience had come from extracurricular devotion. The negotiation of what their uniforms should look like ranged from full jet-black carapace armor to full on displays of military panoply, gold frogging, lace, ostrid feathers, the whole nine yards. Those debates had been worse than the siege.

They had eventually settled on khaki fatigues and rockcrete-grey flak armor, proper hard plate, not the quilted, moth eaten jackets that had (barely) protected them in Sanctii. Stavin wore a pearl-white breastplate looted from the Sanctii militia who had swollen to fill his ranks after the siege, grateful to be liberated from the autocratic rule of the city-state’s thinking AI. He still, however, wore his tattered flap-eared cap, with his colonel’s insignia riveted to the front. Some things never changed.

Next to him, in her austere leather coat, was Augusta Severina, the former discipline officer, now second in command, who of the lot of them, looked the closest to the standard Kaine’s men set. The other three men sat, arms crossed, fiddling, twitching as the Dracosan bumbled and trundled over terrain.

“Glad you let us come along on your show, Markus.” Stavin said, forgoing rank because, well. They were the same rank! “Sorry to boot five of your guys out of this transport, but they’ll appreciate the light duty, right?”

“They’ll be fine, sir,” Colonel Markus replied with a smile, waving a dismissive hand to the comment. He removed his service cap as he spoke with Stavin, revealing the gleaming augmentations beneath that criss crossed over his shaven head. The cap rested on his lap as he continued, “my Captain was just looking for some recreational work to do and those five were more than willing to help him out.”

He stifled a chortle at the thought. Captain Reginald had been cursing after him in his motherland’s tongue as he left. Those five, brave soldiers that had been kicked out were now suffering the brunt of the Captain’s new responsibilities. Some traditions never changed, he thought.

“I do have a question, though, if you’ll humor me. See, I know we’ve crossed paths in the command center, but this is likely the only chance I’ll get before we’re reassigned to the frontlines.” The man asked, leaning forward on his elbows and crossing his hands together in a comfortable steeple.

“I heard that you fought in Sanctii. It must’ve been a brutal affair. We were wondering, what was it like when you met the Emperor’s Sword?” Markus asked unashamedly, beaming with delight to hear the stories of the Thunder Warriors. He’d already heard some of the stories about Sanctii from word of mouth, but Colonel Stavin was actually there!

“Emperor’s sword…” Stavin said, clearly unfamiliar with the moniker. Her furrowed his eyebrows, and went quiet, thinking.

Two whole minutes of dead air passed with only the rumbling of the Dracosan punctuating it.

Finally, Severina spoke.

“Primarch Rex, Colonel.” She said, “You know him.”

“OH, shit. Right. Aeternus.” Stavin said, making her cringe. “Yea, yea, I knew him.”

More silence passed.

“What was the question again?” He asked.

“What was he like when you met him.” Severina stated, her voice flat.

“Oh! Big.” Stavin, said, nodding. “Big. I had to crane my neck up just to look him in the eyes.”

From outside, a shriek was heard. At first the words in it could not be understood, but as the voice got closer it separated from the wind. It was a child’s voice.

“Stop stop stop stop stop!!! Let me in!!!! They’re chasing me!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

The interior of the dracosan came to a sudden, roaring stop as treads grinded up asphalt compound beneath. Soldiers lurched in their seat restraints, saving them from colliding with their neighbors but gifting them fresh pain across their chests and armpits. They heard the other vehicles behind them suffer the same fate as treads screeched to a wailing halt. The auxilia groaned, their expectations dashed for a short and easy tour along the coast.

Colonel Kaine’s service cap bounced across the cabin, ricocheting across a flat surface and sailing out of the vehicle at speeds previously thought unachievable for tailored fabric. Markus cursed loudly as he unbuckled the restraints, pain throbbing across his chest. A single look to his left saw five of his auxilia echo his movements, unbuckling themselves and pulling up their lasguns with practised swiftness. He would’ve asked the turret gunner about their situation, but they’d suffered egregious injuries to their skull at the pilot’s reckless halt.

“What in the name of the Emperor happened!?” Markus growled, reaching a hand down to his saber and slamming his other against the portal into the cockpit. The medicae of their squad was pulling the turret gunner from his elevated seat. The aft ramp of the Siren’s Wolf dropped with a resounding thud, followed by the stomping of five pairs of boots against rain soaked road.

“We’ve got a child out here, Colonel!” A response came through the voxhailer in the cabin. The pilot’s voice was uncertain of the situation, his tone was shaky and embarrassed. Markus reminded himself to reprimand the man later, especially since he’s now lost three hats in his time at Ouran. The Colonel sighed, raising a hand to his face and pulling the disappointment from his features. He turned to Colonel Stavin.

“Duty calls, sir, will you be joining me?” Colonel Kaine asked as he stepped towards the aft ramp, waiting momentarily for Stavin’s response. His voice was clearly disappointed, no doubt he’d had several other questions to ask of the Hero of Sanctii.

Aggravatingly, Stavin’s flap-eared, ragged hat had stayed firmly in place despite having no apparent method of fastening it to the head.

“Sure. I got a feelin’ it’s related to why I’m here.” He said, not at all sure that was the case. Severina gave him a brief, but extremely apparent look that he might be insane, but it didn’t seem to register to the eccentric hero of the Unification.

He checked his plasma pistol, winking the ignition coil on, then off, then nodded, walking towards the exit hatch with his hands crossed behind his back. He seemed more like an academia professor than a soldier, nodding genially to the far more professional soldiers he passed.

They were greeted by a small orange shape perched atop the Siren’s Wolf. The girl was about 8 years old, wearing an orange dress, orange stockings, and orange shoes with little heels on them, and her wind-tangled hair (apparently normally a dark brown, from the look of the roots) had been bleached and dyed orange as well. Her little hands were calloused- presumably from climbing things, if her current position was a common one.

“They’re chasing me,” she repeated, staring at them unblinkingly. “You can protect me, right?”

Colonel Markus accompanied Colonel Stavin out of the Siren’s Wolf, scanning the scene with the trained eyes of a veteran auxilia. He quickly realized that the five soldiers that he’d sent out weren’t fanned out in a perimeter, but turned in his direction with their lasguns lowered and their visors on the girl occupying his beloved dracosan. Kaine narrowed his eyes in disbelief, rubbing them with his free hand to push reality from his view. There, between the two flags of his command vehicle, a little girl waited. Black Wolves to her left and Raptor Imperialis to her right.

“Black Wolves! Get hunting!” Colonel Markus snapped to the soldiers behind him, watching as they properly scattered around the dracosan with their lasguns up against their shoulders. The other three dracosans behind his own followed their example, adjusting their turrets to scan and disembarking their infantry to form a perimeter. After ordering his retinue, Kaine offered a small smile to the girl atop his vehicle.

“We won’t hurt you, little one,” the officer started to say, walking slowly towards the railing on the right side of the tank. He released his grip on the power sword, sheathed at his left side and put a fresh hand on the boarding ladder welded to the hull. Markus didn’t dare attempt to climb the dracosan in fear of alerting the child. Instead, he remained where he was and continued speaking, “but who is chasing you? Where did you come from?”

The khaki and grey 31-3rd, the scant few of them at least, had fallen into the defensive perimeter with perfect professionalism. Only Stavin seemed to stand alone, apparently unconcerned with trivial matters like security, having walked down the exit ramp as if he were going on a stroll..

He nodded to the small, orange girl.

“Go on, answer the nice man in the tank.” He said, “Who’s chasing you?”

“The Pan-Pabitches,” the girl said, matter-of-factly. “I didn't make it back to the ship in time so my Family left without me, so I ran, but they followed me.” After a pause, she added, “I came from that way,” pointing in a direction. As she talked, she slid herself over to Kaine and reached down to poke his head curiously. “Who are you?”

Ship. The word rang out in his mind like a bell. His eyes looked up at the child that was poking his shaved head, observing the single-hued clothing that she wore. Stress started to physically build on his forehead as he realized what exactly he was dealing with. An eccentric group of people and there were vastly more of them. He offered a hand up to carry her off as he started to speak.

“Colonel Markus Kaine of the Tenth Imperial Army, Tenth Corps. Though, we prefer the Black Wolves more often than not. And you, little one, are a Magpie.” He responded with a strained smile. Markus didn’t know which Magpies they were, but he was fairly certain that she wasn’t a Crimson Magpie. He decided against guessing the color of her family based on her clothes. Kaine would’ve likely guessed orange.

In the distance, the sound of lasfire echoed as auxilia engaged with something further off in the direction she had pointed. Markus turned slightly left as he listened to his voxbead, then turned to Colonel Stavin and gave a nod of affirmation. The Pacificans were there, true to the child’s words. He’d let his men handle it, though it killed him to not engage in the same action.

Similarly, Ship rang in Stavin’s ears. He’d actually had no idea why he’d come out here - merely a hunch. He didn’t even really, properly, have clearance. Just a feeling.

A hunch. It was like a burning hot core of metal in his stomach. He’d always followed them when he got them, and that same core burned within him now. Something here was important. Vitally important. But what?

Very good question.

“You’ll want to get into the dracosan - the big armored thing.” He said, absentmindedly, in the girl’s direction. “Safe in there, out here…”

He made a wavy motion with his hand. “Maybe not so much.”

Then, with purpose, he began to walk towards the sound of gunfire. Not run, walk. He was thinking, and the pounding of feet did too much to interrupt that. Severina looked at him like he was crazy, then looked at the troopers that had accompanied them as if they were also crazy. She had been doing that a lot in the last five minutes.

“Don’t just -gawp-!” She said, indignantly. “After him! You know the trouble we’ll be in if he gets his stupid head shot off!?”

With a nod, the troopers went after him. With a curse of frustration that brought startled looks from Kaine’s troopers nearby, she followed.

The girl grinned at Kaine. “Yeah obviously I’m a Magpie. I’m the Amber Emissary. Heads up!” And with no further warning, the girl jumped off the Siren’s Wolf, aiming directly for Markus.

The Colonel had been prepared to some extent for the eccentric natures of the Magpies. He’d had several weeks of dealing with the Crimson Captain to thank for; however, Markus did not expect a child to leap towards him. His eyes widened in surprise and he reacted with skills gifted to him from fifteen years of service. As if a grenade had been lobbed at him, he unexpectedly caught the girl mid-air and twirled her around into his arms.

“Terra’s boiling seas, girl, has no one taught you not to jump at people!?” Markus said with a faux harrumph. Truthfully, he hadn’t expected to catch her with some ease. Maybe there was some luck on his side today. Regardless, he carried her into the Siren’s Wolf as the last of the auxilia rushed off into the distance.

She giggled at him. “I jump at everybody else all the time. I even gave you a warning! Hey also what’s a colonel and who was that other guy and- well I mean while I’m asking questions what are you guys doing here because I’ve never seen you before and I may only be eight and a half but I’ve seen pretty much the whole ocean to be honest.” She followed up her mess of questions with a deep breath in and out before looking at him expectantly.

If only people on Terra were as curious and innocent, Markus thought as he lowered her down onto a seat. He calmly clicked the buckles of the restraint harness, adjusting it for her height and size. The Colonel looked over the seat to ensure nothing was amiss before standing up and taking a seat next to her. His eyes met with the medicae nearby and he gave her a gesture to rally up.

“You are a curious little Magpie,” Markus finally responded, the soldier nearby getting to her feet and entering the cockpit of the dracosan. The ramp slowly closed behind them as he spoke with the Magpie child. His beloved vehicle began to rumble with renewed strength as it picked up speed from idle to slow. He continued with a proud smile, “but I don’t mind that. I’ve grown a bit accustomed to Magpies by this point. How about I tell you the story of how the Imperium showed up at Ouran? If you listen well, then I’ll tell you about all the other places I’ve been to across Terra.”

“Well that’s only one of my questions you’ve said you’ll answer so far, and zero answered so how about you answer all my questions and then I’ll agree to trade one of my stories for every one extra of your stories you have to offer.” She beamed at him. “It's a great deal I have really good stories like about the time we snuck into a Pacific hive-city to sell stuff and about the time my brother nearly drowned and about the time we saw one of those Azure Magpies catch a massive sea monster.”

“Alright, little lady, you’ve got a deal! So, a Colonel is...” Markus had started to respond, chuckling lightly at the sheer amount of stories the girl was ready to tell.

The Siren’s Wolf started to pick up speed, the Colonel started to tell her all the questions she asked. Another soldier came from the cockpit, giving the two a friendly wave before stepping into the turret mounted atop the dracosan. The shutters slightly above their heads slanted close, locking their sight away from a skirmish that was promising to be most bloody.

Malcador sat in a darkened room, his mind devoid of all thought and body entirely still. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his chest rose and fell exactly once. With a steady hand, he drew a card from the top of the deck before him, and flipped it over to come to rest alongside the other four.

His eyes flashed open in the darkness.

“Prepare an appropriate reception party. Another emissary is due to visit.”

The weather beat against the black-red trench coats of the Tenth Excertus Imperialis, their forms hunkering against the ruins of a macrodock. Sand crunched beneath their boots as they sprinted from cover to cover, offering supporting fire from their lasguns as swift snaps and suppressive rain. Brilliant lances of red raced across the distance, piercing rockrete brick and oxidized steel. A thin, poisonous fog was beginning to waft in from the shore as lasfire perforated air around them.

The Pacificans weren’t easily cowed by the auxilia. Their grey-blue fatigues cut them from the same professional cloth as the Imperials, but they were nowhere near as well-trained or rigorously devoted. Plasteel carapace and helmets protected their exhausted forms, yet their rebreathers had long since been discarded in the retreat from Ouran. Their own lasguns were brought to shoulder, wildly firing into the mob of auxilia as they approached. Their lasfire scored some hits amongst the opposing soldiers, but they already knew they were caught on the wrong foot.

A warrior emerged from the ruins of the dock wielding a heavy weapon of some sort with multiple barrels and a large capacitor. An exosuit, haphazardly welded to their carapace, assisted the brute as they pressed into the middle of the skirmish. The barrels began to rapidly spin, unleashing a torrent of scarlet beams that melted brick and metal into slag. The auxilia desperately tried to dive away, throwing their bodies into the sand to avoid the overwhelming fire.

The juggernaut cackled loudly beneath their helmet, modulated by the only respirator shared among their unit. Several concentrated shots from the converging squads tried to throw the Pacifican off-balance, yet it did little to halt the annihilation that awaited them. Invigorated by their leader, the soldiers nodded to each other and popped from their cover to waylay the incoming auxilia.

A pair of Imperials, taking cover furthest away from the battle, leaned down into the rockrete. One carried a voxpack, while the other hefted a laspistol and a chainsword. Both of their faces were covered by goggles and respirators.

“Damn them! Who made the call to not bring any grenade launchers or heavy ordnance to this engagement!?” The man said with a voice that could shatter a mirror in sheer sharpness. He leaned over, taking potshots with his laspistol before kneeling back into position as lasfire raked his position. Furthest to his left, one of his fellow soldiers was incinerated by the juggernaut’s armament.

“Sergeant Javon, it was-” The woman was about to respond, dialing in on the voxpack before she was rudely interrupted by the sergeant.

“It was rhetorical, Aemie, I know it was the Colonel. Hurry up and get those Dracosans on vox, we’re gonna need their armor and lascannons to deal with this. Or,” Javon responded with a snarl, revving his chainsword in grim anticipation. If their support wasn’t gonna arrive in the next thirty seconds, then he was willing to bet that his geneaugments were better than the Pacificans were. His scowl persisted into his next words, “we’ll jump the giant by ourselves and show ‘im what a Black Wolf really is.”

Trooper Aemie looked up at the Sergeant. She was certain he couldn’t tell what expression she wore, but she frowned intensely at the leader of her squad nonetheless. Her fingers rapidly dialed in the connection to their voxnet and awaited the signal to transmit. Several seconds ticked by as more ruins were torn apart. She could hear both sides suffering casualties as lasfire filled the air.

Lasfire and the exo-brute’s cavalcades formed an argument that seemed both one-sided, and firmly in the Pacifican’s favor. The more the Imperials fired, the louder the retort from the enemy seemed. Without the Dracosans, who were snarled in their own little traffic jam, death seemed inevitable.

Then, the Imperial side of the argument got a little louder.

An overcharged plasma bolt shrieked through the air, slamming into the exo-brute. It wasn’t a fatal blow; a pistol bolt didn’t possess the brute energy to shear off all that ablative armor in one shot. It did, however, create a spectacular show of sparks, flinging armor from the brute’s body this way and that and knocking the crudely genehanced soldier flat on their back.

“Hold firm!” A voice shouted. “Hold damn you!”

A tallish, gangly officer, not the squat, solid form of Colonel Kaine, but the other one, the interloper in khaki fatigues and grey flak-plate with his goofy flappy hat. He had been quiet, unassuming, even a little odd, but now…

Now he strode upright, head held proud. Lasbolts seemed to miss him, flowing around him, annihilating the trees and cooking the air around him, but none striking true.

John Stavin. Hero of the Unification. In this second, he looked every bit like the stories had propped him up as.

“Black wolves!” He shouted, waving his pistol. “Black wolves! A firing line, please! Discipline and order! Volleys, damn you!”

He waved at them with his pistol, the barrel still oozing smoke.

“You’re the best of them! Heroes, all! Saviors in black armor!” He shouted, “So fucking act like it! I apologize Colonel Kaine couldn’t make it, but he’s got important business, so I’ll have to do!”

As battle speeches went, it was a little lame, but his words were punctuated by two loud cracks. Lighting shot from either side of him, as loud as two gods clapping their mighty hands. The energy shot through the forest, striking Pacifican troopers, the killing light arcing from foe to foe to foe.

Combat was a game of chance, and luck. It could hinge on a single moment, and in this moment, Colonel Stavin had swung the odds back in the Imperial’s favor. But it was a small thing. In order for this foothold to work, these soldiers, not his own, had to buy into the hype he was trying to create.

So he stood, firing calmly, unconcerned with the enemy’s reprisal. Some bolts found their marks, but most were for effect. Now the Black Wolves just had to buy in.

Luck was certainly one of the factors that played into Colonel Stavin’s gambit, but by the Emperor did it work well for him. A man striding alone into the fire of a genewarrior with a heavy weapon did wonders for morale. It did more than wonders. It gave them something akin to burning faith in a world lacking hope.

Before Sergeant Javon even had a chance to call for the Colonel’s orders, his Black Wolves were already moving. He watched in amazement as the black-red trenchcoated soldiers moved in tandem, motivation in their breasts and morale in their lungs. There had been nearly twenty of them each to a dracosan, totalling skyward of eighty present at the skirmish. Now, seventy-five of the Black Wolves arranged in firing lines of five apiece in reinvigorated, cohesive squads.

“Black Wolves!” Sergeant Javon roared out as more of his men surrounded him, using the precious time Colonel Stavin gave them for a swift regrouping. Capacitor cells were ejected, replaced firmly with new magazines, and honed for a significant first shot. The Black Wolves brought their lasguns to bear, as they awaited the final call from their relative sergeants.

“On the Hunt!” Another sergeant called out further down the coast, swinging his chainsword down in an affirmation to the command. Seventy-five lines of brilliant red crossed the distance in record time, fresh capacitors and discipline carving Pacifican insurgents into charred corpses.

The grey-blue uniforms of the Pacifican soldiers were cut aside, gunned down by precise fire and dazzling brilliance. The Imperials shot them through everything from layers of brick to semi-barricades of rusting steel. Only those closest to the genewarrior were saved from the onslaught, their advantage lost to a single man with a plasma pistol. One of them turned, hammering the brute with a free fist only to be flung out into the poisonous waters enraged. The juggernaut snarled aloud, to single down the lasrepeater and pulled out a menacing, two-handed chainaxe from behind. It lumbered forward towards Colonel Stavin in response to his plasma bolt.

Stavin, of course, was no swordsman. He didn't even carry one, a fact that caused no small amount of consternation from his fellow officers in the Imperial Army mess. It was a skill you picked up from your station in life or from brute dedication, and he had neither.

But what he did have was Augusta Severina.

She bulldozed past him, ripping her power sword from its scabbard as she took his place to meet the juggernaut 's charge.

“You moron!” She said over her shoulder, “This is why you carry a damn sword!”

“It's better when you do it.” Stavin said, sounding petulant.

“Shut your face!” She shouted, “Sir!”

She dashed forwards, not wanting to give the juggernaut the initiative.

The genebrute was a humongous man of meat and armor. Words couldn’t be heard from the slobbering mouth of the warrior. His chainaxe, however, made up for the lack of conversation. He swung it downwards towards Severina, missing the lithe veteran by a hare’s breath. His movements were sluggish, yet brutally efficient. Wherever the revving chainweapon attacked, it left holes in the macrodock pierworks. He never stopped attacking with simple slashes or strikes, refusing or unknowing of any other type of attack pattern.

The battle around them raged on, disregarding the duel that took place before them. Colonel Stavin’s courage had mustered the men and women of the Black Wolves into action, volleying in perfect unison and reloading when they weren’t. Sergeants unloaded their volkite pistols, disintegrating the last handful of meaningful enemies before prismatic lances pierced plasteel carapace.

Sergeant Javon pulled his chainsword clean of a Pacifican that had dared to charge the line, activating the engine and clearing it of a clog. A snapshot from his volkite pistol saw another disappear. He gritted his teeth as the final volleys snapped off into the distance.

“Aemie, where are the damned dracosans?” Javon called out, more calm and more inspirational than he previously had been. His eyes lingered on the fight between a woman with a power sword and a genewarrior with a chainaxe. He lined up a shot with his pistol, yet couldn’t force himself to fire the trigger as she danced a bladestorm against the brute.

“Arriving… now!” She called out as the first dracosan crested the top of a nearby dune. The twin flags of the Black Wolves and the Raptor Imperialis flew over the top of the transport. A pintle-mounted multi-laser opened up on fleeing Pacifican troopers. The prow-mounted lascannons awakened, blowing a hole through a particularly hefty barricade of metal and vaporizing the enemies behind it.

The other three dracosans honked their horns to announce their arrival, yet one battle still raged on the macrodocks. The genebrute roared out in annoyance as Severina danced with him. His chainaxe slammed down, lashed out side to side, and broke more of the platform. None of these attacks landed against the veteran of Sanctii.

Severina weaved and dodge, letting the wealth of her experience keep the genebrute from striking her. She preferred to keep the first few moments of a duel as a learning experience, analyzing the opponent’s reach, fighting style, probing them for weaknesses to exploit.

In truth, there were few.

The genehanced soldier was both taller, stronger, and faster than she was, and while he could easily kill her in one stroke, she could not. At first glance, it was hopeless.

At first glance. She had one advantage. She hadn’t powered her blade on yet.

She delicately stepped aside from an overhead swing that would’ve bisected her, waiting for the motorized weapon to chew into soft terra firma, then thumbed the activation rune of her sword. Power swords were powerful things, but the bright blue sheen of her blade was a dead giveaway as to the nature of the weapon. Had she entered the fight sword blazing, the genehanced warrior would’ve known the cutting power of her weapon, and wouldn’t have been so careless.

She struck once, severing the handle of his chainblade. At once, his reach advantage was negated. From the expression of surprise on his face, her gambit had worked.

Good.

Two more strokes, and his arms followed the severed head of the weapon into the dirt.

A fourth stroke, and his head, carrying the same dumb expression of surprise, tumbled to her feet as well. The big corpse straightened up, as if surprised, then toppled, knees cutting out as the last signals the brain had sent ran through his nerves.

She thumbed her blade off, pushing her hair back from her scalp.

“Good to see that trick still works.” She said, almost to herself.

The journey back to Ouran had been quieter than the drive from, save for the Amber Emissary endlessly speaking with Colonel Markus Kaine. The Siren’s Wolf rumbled, jostling the other soldiers in their restraints as they sped back to the hive-city. There was little talk on the way back from the other Black Wolves as some of them had perished in the skirmish. Luckily, their bodies weren’t being transported in this dracosan. Only the Thirty-One-Third spoke amongst themselves about the conflict, outside of the Magpie and the Colonel.

Ouran arose ahead of them on the hiveway, a gigantic city with broken spires and shattered docks ripe for repair. A repaired wall as tall as several superheavy tanks blocked their view of the hive city, metallic gates opening and closing to oncoming traffic. Even nearly a week later, the city still burned from thermonuclear detonation and cinders mingled with oncoming rain from the Great Ocean. Three other dracosans followed them in through the hive gates, their identification markers automatically allowing them entry to their base of operation.

“Oh you exploded it huh?” remarked the child, unconcerned.

As they passed beneath the walls of Ouran, their escorts left for regions unknown. The Siren’s Wolf, however, continued down the main thoroughfare of the hiveway into the city proper. Unlike other hives on Terra, the Pacifican city wasn’t built for extreme depth or extreme height but originally as a great expansion out to the Great Ocean. It’s buildings were squat, reinforced with plascrete, and rigorously spread out for maximum disaster relief. The spires, in comparison to other cities, were enormous squat rectangles with oriental tips that overlooked the bay. Their destination towered over them as one of these grandiose structures.

For lack of better words, it was a conquered manor of Imperial compliance. The banner of the Raptor wavered from every visible window, rapidly flapping in the Pacifican wind. Ouranese culture had been shaved away by the hands of liberated workers, some still remained nearby as they removed rubble. Several vehicles were parked nearby, each of Imperial make and marking. Squads of auxilia marched in a sharp perimeter around the spire, reinvigorated by the cadence given by their sergeants. Genewarriors stood statue still at the entrance into the structure, their bronze-black armor heavily decorated with dark fabric and dangling trinkets.

The Siren’s Wolf parked into a vacant spot next to a tank of extraordinary size, then belched as the engines were deactivated from their idling rumble. Wordlessly, the two side doors in the middle of the dracosan hissed open and the Black Wolves began to shuffle out. The only group that remained within were Colonel Kaine, Colonel Stavin, the Thirty-One-Third and the young girl. Markus finished his story as he buckled his restraint.

“... and that was how the hive-fortress of Abbaba fell to the Black Wolves, the Sirens of Terra, and the Bronze Scorpions. It was certainly one of the better campaigns I’ve been a part of. Actually, one of the best I’ve ever experienced in my career.” Markus said, moving out of his seat and unbuckling the Magpie’s own restraints before allowing her access to the rest of the cabin. Talking about the story of Abbaba left him in good spirits despite the loss of several good men. It was the place he’d met Pantea.

“Now, Miss Emissary, what say we make it up to the command center and get a vox out to your family?” He asked with a smile, leaning down and offering a hand to guide her out of the dracosan. Colonel Kaine knew that Colonel Stavin would be coming with them as both worked in the same building. The question was whether he’d get the chance to thank him after this was all done, or if the legendary Thirty-One-Third would get reassigned.

The Emissary hopped down, forgoing the guiding hand in favor of leaping forward without warning, calling over her shoulder, “My family doesn’t have any way of being contacted at the moment, we sold it for a HUGE amount of fresh water and also very valuable fabric.” She grinned. “Worth it.”

“Really. Worth that much?” Stavin muttered.

He thought about that as he descended the ramp. A vox set really wasn't that special. Even the most backwards brutes usually had at least micro beads, or even handheld portables. A backpack set might fetch a few days of food or water.

But she said they’d sold theirs for fresh - not distilled, not purified, fresh - water and fabric. And not just a little. Practically a fortune's worth. He felt the hunch in his gut burning again. Something was going on here, but as of yet, proof still seemed so fleeting…

At almost the very moment that Stavin and his party disembarked from the Dracosan, the immense main doors of the spire began to swing open, each pushed by a team of laborers one hundred strong. Emerging from the structure was a small procession of Sigilites and other functionaries of the burgeoning Imperial bureaucracy, dressed in their formal court robes. Such was not particularly exceptional, almost ordinary even, were it not for the fact that they were walking directly towards Markus.

Colonel Markus’ eyes widened as he had started to lead the Amber Emissary into the great spire, witnessing the oncoming rush of bureaucracy. He thought he had accounted for arrival back from the mission at a low point, even assuring a clear schedule from Reginald. It wasn’t the sheer bulk of the men and women of the Imperium that scared him. It was the fact that they were heading towards him of all people. A man straight out of legend stood no further than fifteen paces away from Markus and they approached him?

As if an automatic response from a younger time as a lowly captain, Markus came to a dead halt and popped a salute as stiff and slick as when he had exited the training grounds. He’d have to apologize afterwards for the lack of a service cap, no doubt it’d be relayed to the Lord-Commander for his lack of professional appearance. Markus cleared his throat as he dropped the salute and announced his presence.

Stavin looked up, as if coming out of a daze. He blinked a few times, owlishly, then saluted as well. His was decidedly less good than Kaine’s.

“Colonel Markus Kaine, Tenth Excertus Imperialis, Tenth Corps.” Markus vocalized to the oncoming Sigilites. He hadn’t spent much time amongst their kind, but Lord-Commander Crucias had once told him that they ranked higher than even himself in the Imperial hierarchy. At this moment, Markus couldn’t tell if that was a fact or a cruel joke. He was desperate to clutch his amulet for increased resolve. The Colonel gestured for the Amber Emissary to stand next to him, then put himself at attention for the bureaucratic arrival party.

The Emissary, for her part, took one look at the oncoming officials and climbed back up to sit atop the dracosan.

“Colonel Stavin.” He said after, “31-3rd. The rest, ahm… what Colonel Kaine said. I kinda forget where we fit in the Army structure.”

The Scribe-Intendent leading the procession gave the two Colonels dismissive nods of her head, acknowledging their existence but nothing more, as she simply walked past them. Coming to a halt directly before the Dracosan, the scholar-bureaucrat gave an incredibly deep bow mirrored by those in her party. “The Amber Emissary is most welcome here.”

The Amber Emissary, for her part, bowed just her head in return, a movement so smooth and practiced it should have come from a senior diplomat, not an eight-year-old sitting irreverently atop a vehicle. She then ruined the effect by speaking. “That’s good! It takes a lotta work to go where you’re not welcome, you know. Although…” She gestured at the city. “I guess you do know, even if you do it different.”

Colonel Markus remained at attention until the Scribe-Intendent passed him, then switched to at ease for simplicity. He blinked in surprise. He couldn’t help but feel embarrassed for thinking that he could be anything more than a cog in the machine known as Unity. Still, he didn’t let it show externally on his face and kept his military bearing. A small part of Kaine hoped he’d be in the briefing with the Amber Emissary and the Sigilites.

“Indeed, Emissary,” the Scribe-Intendent replied. “The Sigilite has requested your presence, for Unity comes to Terra. Your escorts are most welcome to accompany you, should you wish it. My master is… intrigued as to how the good Colonels were able to rescue you.” She turned her head for a moment to regard Markus and Stavin

a moment that stretched out into infinity as the woman’s eyes met Stavin’s, an awareness blossoming within him as a thought that was not his own formed with cold, clinical, perfection in his mind. Malcador does not believe in coincidence. Neither do you, John.

, before bowing once more to the Amber child. “But the decision, again, is yours.”

The child nodded, then leapt- onto Stavin this time. “They will come! Let’s discuss.” Her smile, on any other child, would herald the arrival of presents, or perhaps large amounts of candy.

Wordlessly, even effortlessly, Stavin caught the child, allowing her to sit in his arms like a stirrup, as if this was some sort of expected duty of any Imperial soldier, to be carried distantly, but professionally.

But in truth, the words that had been put into his head still rang throughout his psyche. Nobody else had heard, because he’d been the only one to look at the Sigilute’s intendent as if she’d suddenly sprouted wings.

Coincidence? No. There were rarely coincidences in matters of war or state. She had been utterly right. He’d never believed in such things. And fate, it seemed, had always deigned to prove him right. Peerless deductive skill? It's what he liked to think.

Or was it the Wyrd?

He shook those thoughts from his head, finally returning to the business of being Terra’s shabbiest dignitary.

“Right. I imagine everyone wants to discuss Unity.” He eventually said, “Which is… ahm. Really great. I'm happy for that.”

He scratched his head with his free hand while Severina bored two holes in his back with her glare. He couldn't see her, but somehow he knew that was precisely what was going on.

“...But forgive me, I've never done that before. I imagine there's protocol and decorum for such thing.” He said, smiling at Kaine, and then the amber girl. “I’ll have to learn on the fly.”

The Amber Emissary seemed perfectly content to be carried. “Don’t worry, not everybody can be as good at diplomacy as me,” she whispered.

“You learn it, one way or another,” Markus replied to Stavin with a small smile. He’d never forget the rigorous training that the Lord-Commander of the Tenth had put him through. Politics and ceremony in a government that was everchanging was hellish at best and nightmarish at worst. He was a guttersnipe that had learned to become a Colonel. Kaine had no doubts that the leader of the Thirty-One-Third was the same as he was. He turned away from Stavin to the Scribe-Intendant, popping to attention as he did so.

“As the Amber Emissary has requested our presence, so too are we prepared to debrief the Sigilite.” Colonel Kaine said with pride, ready to stand in the presence of the man that appeared kin to the Emperor himself. He’d never met the Sigilite outside of standing next to Commander Crucias or in the far back rows of an amphitheater for briefings. Markus had heard many things, but he was ready nonetheless.

Stavin and Kaine were given a place of honor in the entourage, but more due to the fact that the Amber Emissary was currently being carried by the former than any particular regard for the two soldiers. The lead Scribe-Intendent walked level with the girl, treating her as any other respected dignitary, into the squat hive spire.

The entire tower had been home to several thousand, a self-contained series of manufactorums and living spaces designed to seal away the inhabitants from the horrors of the world as it had descended into madness all those millennia ago. With the coming of the Imperium, its enviroseals had been allowed at long last to open, permitting fresh air into the space for the first time in centuries. While that was as much to let the stench of death and carbon scouring air out of the structure as any noble goal, and the seaside was still sealed tight, it was a sliver of change for those who had labored under one empire and now another with little hope of their wretched lot ever improving.

Crowds of menials and garrison troops parted for the procession, along with trains of lesser scribes bowing in acknowledgement of one who carried their master’s will, and they swiftly crossed the vast concourse beyond the gates to find an elegant lift waiting for them. Up they rushed, a bizarrely slow trip for one used to Terra’s taller hives, the car having failed to even pierce the cloud layer as they arrived at the top of the vast structure and made for Malcador’s chambers.

At the door, made of real wood and decorated by a true master’s hand, two members of the Imperial Army stood guard, notable for the fact that they were painfully mundane in every conceivable way. Saluting, they then opened the doors for the procession - only for the train of scribes to abandon the Colonels and the Emissary at the door as they were ushered in.

Beyond was a room that had once served as a waiting area for supplicants to the Governor of Ouran, a space just slightly too large for one man to ever be comfortable in regardless of the luxuries at hand. Now, however, it had been transformed into the nerve center of Sigilite operations in the city, a bureaucratic mirror to the war councils and their map tables.

In the center of the room, and one of the few original furnishings left in it, was a vast scale model of Ouran Hive itself. The Sigiliites had laid all manner of markers and tokens upon it, denoting damage and various logistics streams, and the scribes poured over it like particularly punctilious insects when they weren’t attending hastily installed cogitator banks.

To the side, surveying his subordinates, sat Malcador, enthroned as a conquering general upon a simple folding camp chair. Upon the Emissary’s entry, he rose, inclining his head towards the girl. “And so the Elder Child arrives. Along with her saviors,” the Sigilite said, eyeing the two men for a moment as servants swiftly brought in a plush armchair for the Amber Emissary to sit in. None was offered to the Colonels.

“I trust that they have performed admirably, Emissary.”

She nodded rapidly. “Mhm! You should teach that one to be better at storytelling, though, he’s got good stories but he doesn’t tell them the fun way.” She didn’t sit in the offered chair, glancing between it and Malcador’s own. Instead she chose to sit on the floor before him, pointing at Markus Kaine to clarify who she was talking about. “You can sit in the nice chair, if you want. My grandfather says little girls shouldn’t ever sit in a more comfortable chair than somebody older than them.”

Colonel Markus bristled with frustration at the comment. He had been standing at attention to her left with his eyes glued to the wall. Kaine had considered his stories to be extraordinarily good, even Reginald found them appealing. Even one of the Emperor’s finest had found them admirable and joyful. It was something he shoved further down into his being as he retained his military bearing. Teeth of Terra girl, please don’t get me in trouble, he thought with an internal whimper.

“They were fine stories.” Stavin said idly, as if he wasn’t in elevated company. “It was… mostly a genre problem. Markus, he tells stories for soldiers, not little girls. I greatly enjoyed them.”

He was lying, of course. Colonel Kaine had many redeeming features, but his storytelling was quite wooden and dry. Very… ‘just the facts’. In truth, he was jealous of the girl’s honesty - he unfortunately had to back the eagle in this extremely specific case.

Unusually, Severina piped up from behind.

“Oh, they were excellent!” She said enthusiastically, “I thought they were so very good. None of those bothersome flourishes less secure storytellers add. Just pure, unadulterated detail.”

Unlike Stavin, she actually seemed to mean it.

Those who knew the Sigilite well, that ancient soul, burdened by millennia of life and loss, who had seen paradise fall and willingly damned billions to reclaim it, would recognize that the slightest twitch in his cheek was an indication of great, almost uncontrollable, mirth. “It is well, Colonel, that you are the secure sort. The Magpies can be most disarming,” he said, his focus upon the little girl sitting on the floor. “As they continue to show.”

“Let us set any talk of chairs aside, for at the present moment I do indeed wish to be told a story, Colonel Kaine. Just pure, unadulterated detail. How is it that your rescue of the esteemed Emissary came about?”

Markus felt put on the spot by the sudden request. His hand instinctively grasped at the silver amulet inside of his coat. The action brought him fresh resolve for interacting with the Sigilite - the one man that was second only to the Emperor himself. He breathed in, then snapped to attention and offered a salute.

“Of course, Lord Malcador!” Colonel Markus dropped his salute and returned to his at ease stance. He firmly clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat with a short cough.

“We’d received word of a Pacifican incursion in Sector Helios-Alpha of the Ouranese outskirts. Three squads, myself, and Colonel Stavin reacted to the news swiftly. Four dracosans were appropriated for the task, thus we set out onto the macroway to deal with the threat. Myself and the Hero of Sanctii had barely begun to recount the tales of the God-Slayers before we found the Amber Emissary out in the midst of the road. We immediately came to a halt, prepared to deal with oncoming Pacificans with the engagement tempo known of the Black Wolves. Their standard issue lasguns were ready to mete out justice, yet we were rewarded for our diligence with the arrival of the Emissary.”

“The Black Wolves fanned out into the local area, advancing towards the outskirt ruins as we engaged with the Magpie in question. Introductions were made and friendship was established! We offered the safety of the Imperium, safe return to their fleet, and a long ride filled with stories; however, the rest of my unit was engaged with the Pacifican menace previously mentioned. An after action report confirmed the events as I retell them!”

The Colonel drew in a breath as he continued on, conjuring an internal image of the fighting nearest to the macrodock.

“The Black Wolves had engaged twenty-five Pacifican conscripts and a single genewarrior leader that had routed from the Ouran siege. My men had pinned them down with solitary fire, ensuring a quick combing of their group before their genebrute unleashed a cavalcade of lasfire into my men. It was the swift actions of Colonel Stavin and Lady Severina that saw the men rally and win the fight. A quick shot from the exemplary plasma pistol of the Hero of Sanctii and a flourish of a powersword from the Lady of the Thirty-One-Third saw the enemy defeated. No sooner had they finished the Pacifican menace did our dracosans arrive to congratulate the victors and mourn those that were lost. Thus did we return with myriad news, Lord Malcador, that the stranglers had been defeated and the Emissary had been delivered.” Colonel Kaine gave a short salute to detail the end of his story. He was aware that most of his tellings sounded more like debriefs, but Markus always found that telling the truth of such stories was more important than their embellishments. His tone had remained matter-of-fact the entire time, both of his eyes swapping between all of the listeners to ensure his voice was heard.

The Emissary stared mournfully at Malcador as the story finished. Her eyes sent a clear message: ‘Can you see what I have put up with?’

Malcador locked eyes with the child for a brief moment, before he raised his hand up towards Markus, dismissing him to return to at ease. “A very thorough tale, but it leaves out the one detail I am most interested in. Why were two Colonels traveling in the same Dracosan at all?”

“Two colonels, the second in command of my entire regiment, and my command squad consisting of three of my most veteran troopers with incalculable practical experience, yes sir.” Stavin said, acknowledging and even worsening the tactical faux pas.

He didn't really know what to say to excuse or even mitigate this, so he reckoned on honesty. When in doubt, play dumb.

“I had a feeling that was the one I’d be needed in that one, sir.” He said, “The same feeling I had when I was messing around with that auspex at Sanctii.”

Malcador had not been there personally for that, of course, but Stavin had little doubt he knew exactly what he was referring to. That fiddling had secured an exclusive security cipher that had delivered Aeternus and his host into the deepest depths of Sanctii, to strike a blow that contributed greatly to win the citadel.

“I felt that, since the troopers were just normal lasgun tercios, they'd need my arc rifles if we were attacked, so I rode in the transport most likely to be attacked. Saves walking, right.”

Severina elbowed him.

“Ah, I mean, right, sir.” He said.

Colonel Markus had taken the order, falling back to ease with both of his arms comfortably behind his back. The question posed after simply stupefied him. No matter how he worded the response, Kaine felt as if it would further dig him into a hole. A nagging feeling pulled at his temple. He realized that, without a doubt, Reginald had ratted him out to the Sigilite himself. The Black Wolf prepared an answer as he drew himself back up with confidence.

“That would be my fault, Lord Sigilite,” Markus said, firmly but apologetically. He stepped forward again, crisply planting his feet together and offering a strict stance of attention to Malcador. Instead of the regular salute, Kaine brought his fist up to his chest in mimic to the genewarriors of the Imperium. In truth, it was to touch his silver amulet as he threw himself under the proverbial bus. “I had delegated the duty of command to my lower and accepted the invitation of Colonel Stavin without true tactical insight. I felt his insight would help me rise to my newly promoted station, so I eagerly agreed to a joint venture between the Tenth and the Thirty-One-Third, sir.”

He knew that it would come down to a censure of some kind, or perhaps a creative non-judicial punishment formed in the elaborate mind of the Sigilite. Markus shuddered to think of what the man could possibly do to him, yet Kaine couldn’t allow the Hero of Sanctii to take the fall for this. The whole venture was his idea, after all. Sweat began to form on his forehead as he prepared to accept his punishment.

Stavin frowned in amusement at the expression on Kaine’s face. Lord help him, but the man was too much of a hero. What could the Sigilite even do to him that hadn’t been done already? Stavin had gone his whole life breaking rules. And when you did that, you got punished. All you had to do was make sure the results outweighed the risks.

“Your nobility is noted, Colonel Kaine, but unnecessary,” Malcador said in a dry voice that made no secret of the fact that the Sigilite had seen through the man as if he were glass. He paused, turning towards the Amber Emissary for a moment. “I suppose he shall need a reward, no?” he muttered towards the child, not waiting for her reply before once again addressing Markus.

“I have decided, Colonel, that in response to these actions, your regiment shall augment their standard with the image of an open book,” he declared with a wave of his hand, a junior scribe dutifully recording the award in a ledger. “As for you, Colonel Stavin, you will remain with me when the Amber Emissary and I have finished our conversation, I am certain Colonel Kaine can see to her on his own. Your second-in-command shall see to your men until I see fit to return you to them. I trust that is satisfactory.”

“As you will it, Lord Sigilite!” Markus responded with a crisp salute and a beaming smile, not having expected to not only be rewarded but decorated for his actions. He’d certainly use that as ammo when engaging with Wolfgang next. After a few seconds passed, his gloved hand shot back down and he took a step backwards. The action saw him exiting the chamber, leaving the three to discuss matters that far outpaced his hierarchical level.

Nonetheless, Colonel Kaine remained dutiful outside of the Sigilite’s room with an arm behind his back and another clasping the silver amulet in victory. He knew without a doubt that Pantea’s lock of hair had brought him immeasurable triumph.

Stavin nodded. Yep. See me after class. That was a line he’d heard his entire life. Different phrasing, different contexts, but the same talk all the same. He nodded to Severina, who bowed, saluted, and about faced more precisely in three seconds than he’d done in thirty years, already on her way to carry out such illustrious orders.

Once again, he didn’t bother waiting for a reply. “Emissary, my apologies for dealing with internal matters in your presence. I believe it is time that we turn to the topic of Unity.”

The Amber Emissary folded her legs neatly, sat up taller, and grinned. “Okey dokey! So what exactly do you mean by Unity?”

“Why child, the Great Sea is surely not so broad that you have not heard,” the old man said in a soft voice. “For far too long has mankind been divided among itself, fighting pointless wars to be kings of ashes, spilling blood and spoiling water, pulling us all down into misery and death. The Emperor would see an end put to such, and for humanity to be as one yet again. That is what I mean by Unity.”

The Emissary nodded, thinking, then said. “I thought you might say something like that. That sounds pretty good!” She beamed. “But I mean, who wouldn’t think less death is good? Except for idiots, obviously. So when you want us to turn to the topic of Unity, do you want to philosophize about it or do you wanna negotiate how it would work for real?” Her eyes lit up as she mentioned negotiating.

“There shall be a place for every one of us in the world that we shall build, Emissary. Our mission is to determine what is meet for you and your people.”

The Emissary considered, briefly, how to address a man so much older than her with respect. She didn’t really know the titles these strange folk used. But, she figured, she probably couldn’t go wrong using the titles she was used to. This old man seemed smart enough to pick up her meaning. “Grandfather, I have never met anybody who uses words like you do. I really don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to use the word ‘meet’ - but I think I’m following what you mean! But…” she hesitated. She didn’t want to end this bartering before it began. “But you know, Magpies aren’t really fighters. We can’t help you like that.”

“Warriors, no, but wayfarers and wanderers…” Malcador replied. “Clannish and communal, useful traits in hazardous environments, honed for generations upon a sea that could kill with a rogue wave. Yes, I believe there may be great use for you. Don’t you agree, Colonel Stavin?” the Sigilite said,

Don’t you agree, Colonel Stavin?

Colonel Stavin?

“Colonel Stavin?” the Sigilite said, his eyes locked with the other man’s. “I had asked you a question.”

Stavin had spaced out. He’d always been a bit of a daydreamer, a trait that had been only worsened by what was undoubtedly undiagnosed combat trauma. His mind wandered, drifted, flitting from feverish vision to feverish vision. He had imagined…

…great spaceships, the size of moons…

…huge cannon, lasers firing….

…one world, the gatehouse of a great hole in space…

…and then snapped back to reality, eyelids fluttering. The conversation Malcador and the amber girl had had played through his mind, as if in fast forward, like his brain had dutifully recorded it while his soul was somewhere outside of his body.

His nose trickled blood. He wiped it, sniffling.

“Ship crews.” He said, apropo of nothing. “Ship crews. For space, right? They’d be ideal for that. That’s why we came here. You want crews.”

He’d rubbed his forehead, blinking. “I thought initially, maybe it was… was an old ship you wanted, some rusted out old hulk, but, no - you want the people. The culture.”

He looked up, looking from the amber girl, to Malcador’s impassive gaze. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Unity is almost upon us,” Malcador said softly, gazing at the model of Ouran Hive. “Bit by bit and piece by piece the sundered sons of man have been brought back together, but we do not end with Terra. Beyond the rad-ash sky Sol millions still labor beneath the lashes of oppression and superstition, and beyond even that, past the bow shock of the solar wind, countless worlds, countless souls, await liberation.”

“Colonel Stavin is correct,” the Sigilite said, the ancient man slumping to his knees to stare the child in the eyes. “The Emperor requires crews for this endeavor. Men and women willing to brave that farthest sea, to chart the pitch-black void and return home safe again, united by bonds strong enough to endure the harshest of voyages. I ask you, Emissary. Shall you join me upon our great crusade?”

The girl’s eyes widened as Lord Malcador described to her the task he wished to place upon her Family. “Wait. You can sail in the SKY???” She trembled with awe, then slid closer to take one of Malcador’s hands in her own and say, with innocent delight, “We will need. A contract.”

A deep sadness filled his eyes at her wonder, the Sigilite staying silent as he gripped her hand with the peculiarly weak sort of strength common to the old and infirm. “Yes, child, one might sail in the sky. The stars are humanity’s inheritance - your inheritance. The stars our destination,” he replied, almost reverently, before he regained his composure and nodded. “Yes. Quite right,” he said, the usual timber returning to his voice. “A contract is appropriate.”

“Oh boy, my brothers are going to EXPLODE when I tell them this.” Then she paused, looking very closely at the old man, to see if he would answer her next question honestly. “What would you have said if my answer was no?”

A laugh was ripped from Malcador, the man seeming surprised at himself as his throat did its best to form the clearly unfamiliar and seldom made sound. Shaking his head slowly, the sorrow that had filled his eyes had vanished in a twinkling, which vanished in turn as he regarded her with a most solemn expression. “I must confess arrogance, Emissary. I had not considered the possibility.”

She frowned at him. “If you want the Magpies to join you, Grandfather, you will have to go one Family at a time. Some of them will say no, at least at first. What will you tell them?” Her serious face was adorably out of place, as practiced as it seemed.

The Sigilite paused for a moment, before giving a firm nod. “You are a most cunning negotiator indeed, already placing me in your debt. I shall leverage it to the hilt,” Malcador said, treating her now as a peer and not a child. “I will inform them that the Amber Magpies have already said yes.”

“That will convince some of them,” she agreed, “But not all. But you seem smart, Grandfather, I’m sure you’ll figure them out. My big brothers could NEVER.”

“High praise, Emissary. But now, the contract.”

[DX3214]

Blades in war

Boetia

Elis observed the hill where a claimant of this land made a stand. He managed to raise a host of soldiers to his doomed revolt, but from what she could tell, he was a fake claimant. They had picked high ground and had a wise idea of fortifying the hill instead of charging downwards towards them. The mountain had a strange monument. It seemed old, surrounded by metal, yet its internal bowls were of stone, nothing uncommon for terra. There are many ruins of different eras dotted around its surface. She did not knew but in ancient days it would be called the Parthenon.

A marine saluted her, saying. “Commander, artillery in position.”

“Begin.” She replied in a cold tone as the marine left, giving her a nod.

The sound of thunder was soon heard the echo of artillery the hill so began to be shelled the explosions causing screams in the distance raising his hand Elis gave a light gesture as the legion began to assemble for a march towards the hill the organisation is slow but well made in discipline as Elis stared at the top of the mountain the legion assembled reaching by Vox comms she asked. “Mapalo, are you in position?” The sound of gunfire was heard, with Elis turning her head lightly when hearing it.

The vox soon replied as her voice said. “No, we faced some small opposition, and we are still not in the designated position.” Elis closed her eyes and began to think, replying to her as she opened her eyes. “Even with enemy contact, you would be able to block their retreat with ease.”

“Don’t worry, I have this under control. The operation can continue as normal, there is just a bigger obstacle than expected…” The sound of gunfire drowned the vox until she shouted. “Continue the operation!” She closed his eyes for a moment, giving a light nod with a gesture of her hand. The legion soon began the approach towards the hill, a march of power and unison through the sands of the mountain. The bombardment stopped as they were at the foot of the hill, and soon began the rush forward with Elis in the middle of the soldiers.

The advance was quicker than the defenders expected, with the initial defences being overwhelmed without problems. Elis continued in vox; She could hear the comms of the higher officers reporting the situation. On the left flank, the situation described was fine; the soldiers had burned the traitors out of their holes, and some were surrendering as well. On the right flank, the commanders stated that explosions were happening as they advanced, probably set up traps, but it was a defence that failed to do damage; many were surrendering as well. She thought for a moment of the fact that the flanks were surrendering, yet…

Pulling a pistol, she shot a man in a pillar as the advance continued. She could tell that by the lack of surrendering forces in the central front, it meant the most loyal to the cause were here. That or their leader was close; if he tried to run away from the war he started, he would be caught by Mapalo if she arrived in her position as planned by then. Or better himself, since she mostly seemed adamant on taking the frontal charge during the debate of who commands. She took the position to go around the hill after some convincing, and things could get better between them. With a quick reflex, she shot another rebel as she marched on with the legion, arriving at the central command on top of the hill, the artillery destroyed what remained of the ruins. The forces of the rebellion seemed to be in total retreat now, with the legion in pursuit a bit earlier than she expected. But looking around, the commander and claimant seemed not to be around, having been gone in flight as some soldiers investigated.

Contacting Mapalo Elis quickly, said. “Mapalo, I have reason to believe the man we are searching has set flight with full retreat”

The sound returning was of a firefight by the sounds, and a big one, yet it made no sense that she would face little opposition, she then heard Mapalo say. “I know we are on it!”

Holding on to the question of what was going on and focusing on the mission was clear, she soon asked. “You found him?”

“No! I mean, we are doing what we can right now, trying to make sure she does not escape.” She replied quickly with the sound of an explosion, swiftly moving from her position and past the smoke blocking her view and looking down the hill she could see the firefight, she soon realised what was happening she fully encircled the hill meaning the retreating force was trying to pressure through her to escape she let out a very soft groan as she soon said through vox. “Mapalo, you encircled the whole back hill?”

“Yes, that was the plan, was it not?” She replied with her voice sounding confident amongst the firefight, with him saying a bit more annoyed.

“It was for you to let an exit exist for them.” “You wanted the traitors to escape?” She shouted, confused by what she said.

Elis shook her head, replying. “It wasn't that they would flee, but thanks to the damage, they would not get too far. Allowing us to catch up and capture them all.”

“That still allows some to escape.” She said, with her stating. “In theory, yes, in practice, the entire army would be destroyed. The idea was to give them a false sense of security and then destroy them. Now that you blocked what they thought was their only way out, they will now fight to the death to get through you to escape.”

“Don’t worry, things are under… HOLD ON THERE!” She shouted in vox until a large explosion could be seen in the distance, cutting the vox com.

“Mapalo, come in, are you there?” Elis asked in comms without an answer.

“Second Commander Mapalo, come in, can you listen?” Elis said as some of the marines looked at him, the helmets masked emotions, but they could feel concern in her removing her hand from the comms. She soon took a deep breath and shouted for the first time to all present and in comms. “All forces charge immediately. Defeat the remainder of the enemy forces!”
The legion soon began to charge more vigorously towards the retreating forces, blocked by the marines commanded by Mapalo. Elis charged ahead of his soldiers for the first time the gunfire flew past her as the legion crashed down the hill against the rebels her reflexes and hand gun made quick work of the first few she saw before she crushed through what she could count to be five people at least who died in her charge branding a knife she then sliced through several people like butter with the legion behind her in the charge she kept on fighting onwards.

She saw people being sliced sometimes in half due to her strength, her bolter pistol tearing chunks out of people who aimed at her as she fought forward. She saw a grenade being thrown at herself. With quick reflexes, she grabbed it mid-air and threw it back at the rebels, the explosion throwing back a few and killing others with body parts flying around. Stopping her advance, she came face to face with a bloodied marine, seeing her, the marine said. “Miss…” with a light head bow, Elis raised her hand, the battle still raged as she said.

“Where is Mapalo, and report the status of your force.” She saluted the command given by Elis stating. “The commander is on the central front, a few leagues east, sir.”

“Of course she is.” Elis thought heading there as the battle began to die down ever so slowly her movement was slow studying the battlefield as it died down the sound of gunfire and struggle diminishing as she arrived at the section the marines saluted her. She continued walking until she could see Mapalo. She looked bloodied; it was hard to tell if she had suffered any issues approaching her. She holstered her chain axe, turning to her saying. “Elis! Looks like we achieved a great victory!” “I wouldn’t call it great after you encircled the hill; it made things more difficult.” She replied with the sound of gunfire in the distance, the battle beginning to finally end, she then said. “What happened to you? Your comms were cut, and I saw an explosion.”

She let out a chuckle, beginning to recount. “I saw the man we were seeking. He was close to us, and one of my girls had a bomb. We had limited time since some were breaching the perimeter, so I made a quick decision.”

“That was dangerously close to an explosion; you could have died.” Eris stated to her while she gave a dismissive hand wave, saying. “It was fine…” Eris mentally rolled her eyes at her simply issuing orders to a nearby group of marines. “Round up any survivors as prisoners, you know what to do with them.” The marines gave a salute as the battle ended, with Eris letting herself have a small smile at the success, even if it was messy.

An hour later, Eris stood at the top of the hill overlooking it all, some craters still smoking as she read reports. Mapalo, meanwhile, had removed her helmet, standing beside Eris, her braided hair flowed in the air, her dark skin emphasised her amber eyes that sparkled like the sunset, and she then said. “You need to remove your helmet more often after a battle.”

“I do not see a reason why to.” She answered her idea with Mapalo rolling her eyes, saying. “The regular air helps to think for me, and also I feel like the man would feel more at will seeing one of their leaders.”

“I feel like it's unnecessary.” She replied with Mapalo looking unimpressed as she turned to say. “You lost three men on your manoeuvre.”

She looked less than happy, simply saying. “It was a calculated risk. I knew the dangers.” Eris gave a nod, saying. “At least you know not to pull a stunt like this again.”

“We grow wiser with every battle. I will redeem myself for this.” She said after a moment of silence, Eris soon said. “Time to go, we have new orders.”

“Duty never ends.” She replied with a smile to him as both went to work again.

The legion soon began to assemble into formation, ready for march. Eris stood at the head beside her was Mapalo, still with her helmet in her hand, looking around, Eris felt comfortable saying. “Women, we are ready to march when our orders are sent. We have to uphold it as it is what we were made for. Do you understand, man?”

“Yes, ma'am!” They shouted in unison, and she gave a nod. Hearing a very light cough, she turned her head to her co-leader, Mapalo, who smiled. She stepped forward, saying. “Men, we achieved victory today! We succeed in destroying the traitors to the emperor's will.”

The sound of a beat to the chest was heard, the metal echoing as she continued. “We will keep on fighting, let this be our first glory on our path to immortality! For mankind! For the emperor!” “FOR THE EMPEROR!” They shouted in unity, chanting in unison as she turned her head to Eris, and she soon said. “Nice job… Alright, Lads in formation!” Getting ready, they soon set off in March towards their new orders on terra. The unification was coming close to an end.

[MarshalSolgriev]

Witch Hunt

-After the Battle of Kursken-

---

Thrakavorlimsk was ablaze with the purity of the Raptor. Its walls had been overwhelmed in a manner of a month, forced into oblivion by the might of the Imperial armies. Towering spires of witch-metal crumbled as artillery continued to pound it with high-explosive shells days after defeat. Great parapets of spikes and wyrd-runes were torn down by the roaring engines of a hundred tanks, paving the way for the Auxilia to reclaim the forsaken hive-bastion. Snow, stained with the blood of Urshites and Imperials, melted swiftly as the Emperor’s warhost continued their march to the next line in the trench-fields. Their banner waved them away as they left, signaling the fall of the fortress and the start of a new battle.

Yet the fight for Thrakavorlimsk was far from over. The mountains that curled in a half-moon shape around the hive-bastion were tall, fractured, and as snow-capped as the Himalazians. Desolate mining sites were carved into the base of them, previously harvested for stone and precious metals. Now, their tools and automata were silent and rusted from years of inactivity. What cavernous tunnels remained were filled with twisted baubles, queer fetishes, and the skeletal remains of past sacrifices. Runes of the wyrd were plastered across the stony edifices in blood, each as wet and fresh as if it had been applied mere moments before. They were myriad in shape, appearance, and purpose. Nothing guarded these entrances for the warriors, servants, and slaves of Ursh had been called to defend the bastion. Only the eerie darkness, whispers from beyond, and the pulsing of things forgotten remained within.

A convoy of heavy vehicles approached the plethora of cavern entrances, each as large and bulky as several boulders. Their treads ripped apart the depreciated excavation roads with wheels of reinforced steel and engines of burning promethium. Their boxy hulls parted shattered automata and safety objects away in motorized fury. Reinforced plows pushed aside unclaimed rock, mineral, and stone in their warpath. Menacing armaments with thick barrels and dangerous coils poked outwards in anticipation of the unknown. Several were the same hue of the Emperor’s own, faded yellow with livery of the Raptor. Few others held their own livery, such as some with lilac ornamentation or another in slate-grey. Their heraldry mattered little as they each separated, aiming for different corridors into the mountain proper. The sheer size of the man-made mouths easily fit the vehicles within, drowning them in a darkness lit only by prow-mounted lights.

One final vehicle followed some distance behind the vanguard of thick transports. It was a great beast of a machine with a main cannon riddled with volcanic coils. Its hull bristled with armaments fit to tackle anything, ranging from stubbers to autocannons to flakguns. Every churn of its engine howled like a carnosaur. It was a malevolent machine and it was the Imperialis Praetorios of the God-Slayer’s arsenal. It drove into the caverns, confident of its relative size and capability to munch through any amount of stone. The confidence of the tank proved its worth as it rolled over heavy automata, barricades, and boulders alike on a warpath through the mining tunnel. Firmly within, the Praetorios rumbled forward.

Primarch Aeternus watched the holomap twist on a flat axis as the tunnel engulfed their command vehicle. Several of the mortal crewmen were hard at work plugging at coughing cogitators nearby. The hollow ping of a dozen auspex ringed in their ears, each further mapping out the darkness of the mountain above and forward of them. Every noise was a buoy of confidence relayed from vehicle to vehicle as they progressed further in. The myriad caverns opened more and more as they advanced their secret assault. His armor hummed loudly, adding further to the plethora of loud individuals currently populating his command deck. He shifted to look over each of them, the shaven skull of the mother of zmaj over his right shoulder observing with him.

Legate Sultrim did not meet Aeternus’ gaze, instead locking his strange, nearly pupiless, grey eyes with the empty sockets of the zmaj’s skull. The two seemed to engage in a conversation of some sort, before the Astartes gave a short nod. He was in command of those members of the other First Legion taking part in this assault, the bulk of his gene-siblings along with their Mistress instead sallying forth to relieve the siege of the Terrawatt Clans. His detachment was a mere hundred gene-warriors strong, a pittance compared even to the dwindling God-Slayers, but they had never been intended to take a leading role in this campaign.

Whatever had passed between he and the skull the Space Marine did not say, but shortly after his nod, when Aeternus had turned his attention to one of his gene-cousins, he removed his helm as he continued to silently study the hololith. He bore upon one shoulder a broken gate, marking him as a veteran of Sanctii, and carried himself with a quiet confidence of one who knew he ought to have died and was simply waiting for reality to assert the fact, a disregard for his own life so common to the eighty Astartes who had left that city alive.

The Sirens of Terra, daughters of the Fifteenth, were present in the form of a vexillarius and an epistolary representative. If their Legion Mistress, Lady Pantea, was available, then they gave no indication of her status. Regardless, they remained and watched the hololith rotate as the Primarch eyed over them.

The troops of the Undying Onslaught would arrive with their regular irregularity, now adapted for Ursh. Their armours were painted with area-appropriate camouflage and adorned with local furs if not outright bearing more serious modifications like welded plasteel plates or razorwire wrapped around knuckles. Many would be bearing weapons atypical for Legionnaires sourced mostly from dead mortals. Heavy stubbers, ripper guns, grenade launchers, shotguns, smaller vehicles, and some human-scaled heavy weapons used as small arms. There would be more, if items like the mortars had not been transferred to fronts that needed them more than this one where they would run into the obvious issue such as an unfortunately low ceiling.

Staff of the Undying Onslaught had taken a… personal interest in this operation. Strange as the reports were of the ongoings, the grain of truth in them was far too enticing. The Fifth had nothing less than a yearning for adaptation, and a foe so unprecedented would prove a selection pressure for their evolution that could not be passed up. As was made clear by their existing campaigns, the first attempts at any new problem was always disastrous for the pale Legionnaires. They knew that going into these caverns, they’d be dying in droves. But they knew that they would learn and improve from this, and the next time they encountered such a foe, it would be the Undying Onslaught that they would not be ready for, not vice versa.

Captain Krassus arrived as their lead, but he noticed more and more his warriors looked to the Apothecary Gamaliel or Sergeant Anwar. Aside from their consistent survival through the many evolutions of the Legion, Gamaliel was a staple sight after engagements that had unavoidable wisdom to impart as his narthecium worked on others while Anwar was simply fascinating because of his strange condition. It had only come to prominence recently, but that mercurial skin made his fellow Legionnaires almost fawn over him like a mother over a babe.

He decided the best way to regain his undermined authority was to simply prove his worth and await the inevitable death of either those two, or of himself. For now there were witches to kill, and of course to study.

“We are to take the witch-citadel of Urgathok, located by the Sigilites deep in the mountains surrounding Thrakavorlimsk. Relics from within will be transferred to our contingency of Sigilites and witch-minds,” Primarch Aeternus finally spoke, his voice grating on the ears of the unaugmented and augmented alike. His tone was bereft of comfort, retaining the lion’s growl that he had been known for throughout his life. The winged helmet’s lenses momentarily fell on the Legate and the Fifteenth’s representatives, regarding them for their unique abilities. He continued, “while the citadel itself will be outright destroyed. Their servants, guardians, and monstrosities are to be put to sword and flame.”

As a maestro of penultimate war, Aeternus’ black gauntlet shifted over the hololith as it spun around and magnified beneath their gazes. A projected route spanned further out to a clearing several thousand meters deep. An impossibly large structure materialized in the cartolith. Taller than the Himalazians and deeper than the Great Ocean’s shrinking depths, it served as a tower of the wyrd. No further buildings, defenses, or formations surrounded the structure. The Thunder Primarch drew several arrows from their current position with his index finger, each differently hued to represent the myriad Imperial forces.

“The Fifth Legio Astartes will take the foremost vanguard, led by Captain Krassus, to engage the witches and their protectors. The First Legio Astartes, led by Legate Sultrim, will follow the Fifth’s wave to the wyrd reliquary. The First Legio Cataegis and the Fifteenth Legio Astartes will slay the cabal members and their masters. Once all objectives have been completed, the Fifth will have the honor of rectifying the mistakes of the Old Night and crushing their dwelling. All other vehicles will egress the mountain.” Aeternus stated, the hololithic battle sphere adjusting to include the names and details of their assault. His choices were made based on observation, battle history, and instinct. The Fifth were present in their full force, the Fifteenth with their witch-minds, and the First with their veterans. Still, he was adjusting to the differences between the Cataegis and the Astartes.

“Auspex, telemetry, and divination has assured our respective targets located at the bottom and top of their demesne; however, the wyrd affects the fabrics of reality and your destinations may be hindered. We will arrive in fifteen minutes. Now is the time to vocalize your questions if you have any.” He turned to regard each of the warrior-leaders that accompanied him, expectantly awaiting the last word before their battle began.

“The First Legio Astartes has acquired weapons of a sort against the wyrd, courtesy of the Sigilites. I am told that they are relics from before the fall of Old Night,” Legate Sultrim said in a soft voice, his attention sliding now and then away from Aeternus and back to the zmaj. “I shall keep three squads so equipped in reserve, to be deployed as needed. That is all.”

Primarch Aeternus narrowed his eyes at Legate Sultrim. He hadn’t been informed of a new weapon to use against the powers of the wyrd. If Malcador had gone to the length of denying him information, then there was reason to believe that the identity of the weapon must be contained. The strange leering at his new trophy further raised his suspicions, yet Aeternus relented with a simple nod.

“Understood. Contact me if there are issues with these new weapons.” Rex responded, turning his attention away from the Astartes towards the duo of lilac warriors after receiving a warrior’s salute from the Legate in acknowledgement.

“A sound battlefield strategy, Aeternus.” Spake a new voice, the door to the command room opening to reveal the armored form of the Fifteenth’s Legion Master with her helmet held tightly under one arm, brilliant silvered hair allowed to cascade freely around her shoulders as she eyed all within.

“You missed just one thing though. My Legion has deployed in force for this operation - our numbers may be few, but they are great enough that some can be diverted for other important tasks.” Pantea continued, nodding to the other occupants of the command vehicle, “The Astartes of the Fifteenth can serve as potent force multipliers for any conventional company - and rather than use the full complement of my Legion as a hammer against our foe I would… advise deployment of a few of our assets in this supporting role. We have proven our merit in such at Inceon, and our forces would greatly aid the conventional assault of the Fifth and First.”

There was, of course, a little more to her suggestion than a simple desire to aid fellow servants of the Emperor in bringing unity to Terra. The reliquary of psychic artifacts was something she and her legion coveted greatly - and she would be damned if she allowed its capture without some of her trusted eyes and ears present to ensure that the finest such artifice would go to the hands of the Legion best suited to the use of such wondrous things.

Not that she would have ever said it that way.

“Legion Mistress Pantea,” Primarch Aeternus stated in a half-announcement, turning away from the hololith to the Astartes now entering the command deck. Captain Tiberius hadn’t forwarded her arrival to him, an issue for a later date. He offered a swift salute as he had to the other representatives, a fist to the Raptor on his chestplate. Rex continued after dropping the salute, “I’ve read the reports about the Fifteenth’s combat aptitude. The prowess of your Legion speaks for itself. I authorize the spread of the Fifteenth’s warriors across the battlegroup.”

Before the Astartes could respond back to the Primarch, he raised a blackened gauntlet to halt her. “However, I have a need for you and your strongest by my side as we ascend. The Steel Sentinels spoke of your valor and power in Maullen Sen. If their tales are true, then the First Cataegis will need your witch-minds to reinforce them.” Aeternus finished, his voice a lion’s roar, a great growl of confidence and pride. He hadn’t shown it, but beneath the heavy mantle of command Rex appreciated that the Astartes had begun showing more characteristics around him. From the stories he had heard, he was certain that Pantea would be one of these Astartes with their humanity intact.

Pantea said nothing in direct response to his initial reply - though her eyebrow did raise as he gave his authorization for her to disperse a fraction of her forces. She was not used to taking orders in such a manner - indeed there were only a handful of individuals on Terra whom she would accept orders from.

Still, his praise for her Legion’s prowess mollified her somewhat, and a small smile graced her lips as she listened to him patiently.

“And that is why the Sirens have deployed here in force.” She replied smoothly, the smile growing slightly, “An entire cabal of this nature obviously demands our attention - they give all of us with these gifts the image of maddened warlocks. We of all Legions know the power the warp can grant to any military operation - and I think you’ll be pleased to see that the powers of these foes are nothing compared to those of the Emperor’s chosen of the Fifteenth.”

Krassus had no objections to anything that was said outright, though he turned his head the slightest amount to heed the word of Gamaliel that made a request of him to relay in turn. “The Fifth would need clarification of protocols for enemy wounded and surrenderers .” As part of their improvised use of captured weaponry they had also much less-than-lethal equipment to ensure Gamaliel and the Apothecaries would have meat enough to play with. But an effort to capture the witches if they were to be executed for an example to be made of was not an effort the Legion had much interest in.

“None will survive. The cabal dies here.” Primarch Aeternus responded swiftly, ending his previous discussion with the Fifteenth’s Legion Mistress. His tone bordered on aggressive at the thought of capturing any of the witches from within. The data provided of the other legions confirmed his suspicions about the Fifth and he snapped his eyes at the apothecary among them. He continued with a snarl on his lips, “do not dare to claim their cadavers. They, and their monsters, will be thoroughly corrupted with the wyrd and will be cleansed by fire. Should you dare, then it is not the Sigilite that you shall answer to.”

He rolled his shoulder, imposing himself over the gathering with the aura that had made him a Primarch in the first place. Although his eyes were hidden beneath the winged helmet of his office, Aeternus’ glare was evident in a headlong stare towards the apothecary. His blackened fist tightened around the handle of Apocrypha, which rested against his left pauldron. The shaven skull of the zmaj on Rex’s right pauldron stared out at the Astartes, words unspoken but to the Legate nearby. A threat was made, uncharacteristically of the First Primarch.

Sultrim returned the stare, and an understanding seemed to pass between Legate and zmaj. The Astarte did not move from his position, but the slightest change in disposition and handling occurred. The First it seemed would stand with the First.

“There was no such intention, save your fervour for the foe. We merely wished to leave nothing unclear.” Krassus replied, though accompanying this with a bow of his head in obeisance to formality. Gamaliel made no such movement. Instead, even behind the green lenses of his helmet the augmented vision of the transhumans would suffice to make a concentrated gaze see how he narrowed his eyes at the Primarch, skin crinkling with displeasure. A mental grudge was noted, and another whisper in the ear of Krassus made who seemed to not react in the slightest. Well, flesh wasn't blood of bone. But that wasn't a loophole they would attempt to exploit just yet. Not after scrutiny was so recently inspired. “No further questions.” Krassus stated, bowing his head another time.

“Good. Today, we deal with an ancient enemy that has plagued us since the dawn of Unity. From the mountains of the Himalazians of our Master to the cold plains of Nordyc to the trenches of Ursh. They have escaped our Master’s gaze for a century. No more. We will slay them today, like the rest of the witches they’ve sent against us. Glory to Him of Terra! Raptor Imperialis!” Primarch Aeternus stated with a roar, his former aggression dispersing as he regarded their operation at last. His rally was echoed by the members of the chamber, mortals and genewarriors following his rally for their Master. The chronometer on the hololith ticked down to its final second, unleashing a discordant tone that set off klaxons across the Godbane-pattern Baneblade.

The time for discussion was over. It was now time to purify Ursh of its witch threat.

---

The clearing was ahead of the battlegroup. Their target had been found deep within the realms of Thrakavorlimsk. Urgathok. It was a tower of impossible height made of black metal carved with screaming faces of things unknown. It stretched hundreds of meters, yet the structure didn’t fully eclipse the cavern clearing. Sigils were carved into the walls from the base of the cavern to the lip of the opening above, snow freshly falling through from the sky. Things shambled around it, unfocused and unrecognizable even from a clear distance. They were difficult to see, their forms tainted by forces that hurt their mortal eyes. It mattered little to the Undying Onslaught.

The troops of the Fifth once ready would begin with an opening salvo into the depths of the caverns with canisters of vile gas, echoing ancient siege tactics. It was likely the witches could deal with this, but at the very least it was meant to put a strain on their psychic powers before the battle truly began. There would be a very brief wait to let the stuff aerate, before the rev of chainswords and engines would supposedly announce a motorized charge into close combat, shells of smoke obscuring it. But there would be no charge, the deafening noise combined with smoke merely meant to give cover to the attacker and unnerve the defender.

A stampede of plasteel boots could be audible just at the edge of one’s hearing, announcing the warriors of the Undying Onslaught advancing up to the very edge of the miasma of smoke and gas. They would set up with heavy weapons, largely autocannons and heavy bolters but the true devastation would come with a rain of grenades both handheld and from the captured launchers, the first lines of the foe to be showered with thousands of pieces of shrapnel. The goal was to simply repeat this cycle of bringing forth covers of smoke, advancing with heavy weaponry to cover made gains, and finally bringing the fragmenting explosives down to kill defenders and dislodge them from their own cover; if any remained in a position claimed by advancing Astartes then they would simply martial their physical supremacy. But, of course, the witches would undoubtedly have their own say on the day’s outcome.

All the while as the sounds of gunfire and explosions echoed along stone that seemed too claustrophobic for the magnitude of violence within, a few of the Fifth would sing. A soft tenor would pierce through it, the sounds switching from warbling to drawn out like opera regaling themes like the warriors living forever even if they fall, eternity found within the ink on poet’s papers.

Yet, their plans were sent into a state of discord the moment their smoke began to fill the tunnels. As the Undying Onslaught began their rapid set-up, fire, and reposition strategies, the clearing of the cabal’s citadel swiftly sucked in the area around it. The Fifth had several moments of seeing the first enemies before they vanished into the smoke and toxins. They were legion in that chamber, a horde of half-beast half-men covered in mutations and runes. Amongst them were great, hulking creatures made of various persons. Each of them were difficult to stare at, causing their eyes to want to blink the madness away or water with pain. Then they were gone beneath the smoke their own forces offered.

The Fifth’s explosives detonated, showering shrapnel across the figures that blended into the smoke. Silhouettes crumbled, fell, and then stood as more devices erupted into torrents of fragmentation. The grenades, missiles, and charges violently shook the caverns around them; however, the stone stood. Dark sigils on the walls began to glow in response to their arrival. Blood that was spilt was siphoned unknowingly, seeping through the stone floors and down into deeps unknown.

Their smoke cover lingered like a heavy shroud, twisting and turning the hue of fresh gore. The silhouettes within, under fire from the heavy weapons of the Fifth, began to sprint forward on all of their available limbs. Despite the heavy fire and reposition, the Undying Onslaught couldn’t fully annihilate a horde of prowling man-beasts. The Astartes were assaulted by creatures with gangly limbs, horrific claws, and howling maws. Even beneath ceramite, their armor would not protect against beasts such as these. Genewarriors were torn from their position and dragged into the smoke. Rhinos were flipped, smashed, and destroyed as their head beams dared to shine into the clearing.

Even their songs were beginning to drown out as a humming began to burn through the ears of the Emperor’s fiercest warriors. It was a language unknown, imperceptible to the untrained. An acrid taste set upon tongues. Sulphur bit into the nostrils. Trickles of thin blood snaked from ears. Invisible sensations pressed against skin. Eyes began to redden with anguish. It was sorcery, the power of the wyrd.

The rest of the battlegroup quickly disembarked from their transports, rushing to the aid of the Fifth as the crimson smoke began to spread outward from the tower base. The God-Slayers lunged into combat, disregarding their previous orders, to assist their gene-descendants. Primarch Aeternus entered the fray with his warriors, disappearing amidst the shroud with valor on his tongue. The Astartes were reacting and the environment reacted to them.

The First Legio Astartes had remained in the rear of the formation, Legate Sultrim leading a scant force of seventy - his remaining thirty gene-siblings left in reserve, as he had said. They advanced in a defensive formation, a large square centered around a cluster of Sigilites carrying between them a long, thin box of some sort - most likely a cryo-vault, considering the sheer sense of cold emanating from it.

At the sight of the unleashed sorcery, the Sigilites laid down their burden, the seniormost among them typing rapidly upon the runes embossed upon the vault’s surface. While they went about their mysterious work, their Astartes escort dropped into a low and ready formation, bearing the esoteric armory that had been the plunder of Sanctii.

+‘Wyrd neutralization imminent. Brace for reality disjunction,’+ Sultrim keyed over the interlegionary vox as he and the other members of the First went through their preferred mental assurances to ground themselves in material existence. One plus one gives two. Gravity pulls down. Time moves forward.

A pulse of is radiated from the casket. The very rock seemed more solid with its passing, and several of the more arcane weapons wielded by the First seemed to power down as it washed over them. It advanced unerringly, racing ever towards the front of the formation.

+‘Disjunction in three… two… on-’+ Sultrim counted down, abruptly cut off as reality met unreality and both were unfurled into quantum foam. Physics in the vicinity briefly stopped working as described, its laws haphazardly reconfiguring themselves to fill the hole in existence left by the mutual destruction. For the briefest of instants, a span of time so short that in the ordinary course of things it had no measurement, the assembled hosts found themselves flattened upon a two-dimensional plane as the third had turned into a vector measuring an object’s underlying concept, a reallocation required by the temporary absence of souls in the space.

Strangely, Aeternus’ zmaj skull was unaffected.

And then mundanity reasserted itself, and all returned to as it was - minus the stench of sorcery. +‘Disjunction concluded,’+ Sultrim managed to croak out despite the overriding urge to vomit. Keying back to his unit’s internal vox frequency, he managed to give his next command in a more confident voice. +‘Engage the enemy.’+

A flurry of blink clicked acknowledgements followed, prelude to the fury of the Dark Age being unleashed once more. Weapons that would have been better off forgotten were once more wielded by man against man and the fundamental forces of creation, still tender after their rough treatment, were rudely weaponized.

The constituent subatomic particles of a mutated abomination, bulging with muscles and boasting claws dripping a poison that burnt through armor and flesh and bone into its victim’s very soul, were altered to increase their effective mass, instantly transforming the creation of the wyrd into a micro-singularity that swiftly evaporated in a burst of hard radiation - but not before consuming two of its fellows. Sound turned sharp, the warsongs of the Fifth suddenly gaining a physical force, barricades smashed aside and the eardrums of their enemy burst as they advanced. Chosen warriors, blessed with power by their sorcerous masters, found themselves frozen in time, unaware of their own demise as other legionnaires took mercy on them with their relatively mundane Volkite weapons.

Sultrim blink-clicked an icon on his helmet’s display. The advance was proceeding as planned.

Primarch Aeternus wretched, spilling bile through his helmet out onto the ground. The areas where it collided melted like magma, superheated by one of his many rushed augmentations. Whatever had been used to halt the sorcery, it rippled across the God-Slayers in a multitude of ways. They were not Astartes, after all, and they suffered for their cruel transformations into Thunder Warriors. Some of his men were enhanced tenfold, ripping abominations in half with reinvigorated strength, while others simply perished as their bodies couldn’t withstand the pressure.

The blood-soaked mist vanished as he carved through the few mutated guardians that remained. He eyed the walls that had glowed and noticed their lack of ornamentation. Whatever vile sorcery had plagued them was now null to their world. His attention regarded the mass assembly of First Legio Astartes advancing through the abomination mire, slaughtering as they pressed on. Aeternus shared a spare look with the Legate before continuing onward.

+‘Slaughter the last of these curs! Raptor Imperialis!’+ Primarch Aeternus roared out into the vox, the last of his bile dripping through the grills in his helmet. Apocrypha was hefted far above his head, then ignited in a crimson sheath of plasma acting as a beacon for the rest of the combatants on the battlefield. The God-Slayers were quick to react, gaining their sense of awareness and perpetrating murder on the vile creatures of the cabal.

For most of the assembled Astartes, the splintering of reality along a trillion spiraling fractal lines of formless infinity was a harrowing experience, one few would ever forget even as it lasted for less than a human heartbeat.

For the Sirens it was a different matter. Eternity stretched on in an endless plane of bleak impossibility in all directions. The dimensions flattened themselves and folded together in bizarre and twisting impossibilities. Pantea looked down at herself and beheld her own hearts beating furiously on the outside, her skin twisted and boiling within her. Her brain spread evenly around the exterior of the four spatial planes her inverted skull had spread itself across. Up was down and left was right and every cell in her body began to collapse into a singularity of unfathomable nightmare emptiness. She drifted alone trapped amidst the tens of trillions of parallel worlds within each singularity for an eternity and a day, unable to end herself, unable to scream, able only to think of her own looming madness in this prison of unreality.

And then not even that.

Reality reasserted itself in the inexorable crashing of a thousand tsunami waves of roiling wyrd-and-material foam. She was drowning as the world reoriented itself and all the trillions of hell-singularities snapped in an instant as she and her gene-sisters were reconstituted from screaming statistical nonexistence in eruptions of unfocused psychic backlash. One of their number blinked out of existence again for a moment before reappearing a meter to the right as a tower of ash bearing her shape materialized from thin air beside her and crumbled to nothing. Pantea herself came back to physicality in a blaze of emerald warpflame that singed the lilac armor of those adjacent her and fused the ground beneath the melted snow under her feet into volcanic glass. Others vomited up unspeakable black sludge or screamed as lightning vented from eyes and other orifices. Only a second had elapsed, and yet for the Astartes of the Fifteenth it had been a dreadful nightmarish eternity as their own essence turned against them and fought against its own existence.

It was not the ordinary way of the Fifteenth to charge, en masse and in force, into the head of an enemy army. But neither this was not an ordinary engagement. Fists erupting into flame the legion mistress of the Fifteenth lead her forces into battle with all the furious might of the wyrd suffusing every dreadful blow and blast of psy-lightning.

Captain Krassus stared out at Aeternus as the order was given. It was not the way of the Fifth for commanders to wade into the melee together with their subordinates. Indeed, he observed the Thunder Warrior remotely through the lens of one of his comrades. He pondered the possibility of shooting him in his back, Thunder Warrior or not a lascannon tended to get through most things. As far as he was concerned it would be just recompense for the insult at the strategic meeting. Then he wondered if it was the psykers that had introduced this thought into him, after all it would be in line with their behaviour. Then he decided it didn’t matter, because it was just a pleasing fantasy rather than something to act on.

Looking out at the battle-field, he was glad that the Undying Onslaught had been reinforced. Having been in the vanguard, they had taken the first line of casualties. Now at least, the fact they were almost all gunners rather than any kind of melee troops meant that the burden of personnel losses would be offloaded to their allies. But as he stared out at the battlefield, there was a command he felt was very important. “The sigils, destroy them.” It didn’t matter to him if the ‘reality device’ seemed to suppress the wyrd. It was clear that there was some sort of value in the glowing red markings about the scene.

Thus his troops obeyed, unloading the fragmentation munitions from their assorted launchers and replacing them with krak charges. Perhaps it was unwise to try and destroy them, perhaps there’d be some devastating release of aetheric energy. But such wouldn’t be his fault, merely that of the circumstances. As the detonations rang out, swift calculations had to be made to be sure these shots wouldn’t cause a collapse of the cavern. It would be a shame if all of the rest of the warfare would be ceased by a cave-in trapping both sides in a rocky tomb.

The cavern began to violently rumble between the loss of the sorcerous runes and the Fifth’s fragmentation launchers. For a moment, it felt as if the world would come crashing down on the advancing Imperials; however, to their surprise, the cavern held for reasons unknown. The mortal members of the expedition wondered at the reason for this, but those that had fought the Emperor’s wars for decades knew why. At the heart of the clearing, the tower still rose high above as a symbol of ignorance and defiance. Explosives did not harm it nor did the strange weapon of the First. It stared down at them with myriad daemonic visages, leering at the souls that dared to scour its depths.

The Imperials did more than dare. Those mutated horrors that remained, afflicted by the First’s dimensional device, were slaughtered the last with the Fifteenth’s empyric destruction. No monsters awaited within the confines of the tower, shrouded by mystical shadows. The techno-barbians lay scattered in macabre piles, slaughtered by bolt, ray, and blade. Their path was clear. Primarch Aeternus stepped up the obsidian stairs leading into the mouth of the cabal’s stronghold. He turned to the leaders of the respective legions as they approached.

“It begins. I feel it within my bones that the wyrd will assail our assault.” Primarch Aeternus scowled, momentarily adjusting his gaze back to the eerie tower with malevolence in his eyes. His tone roared out as the augments of the Cataegis began to filter through him. He could see it in all of the Thunder Warriors as they twitched, snarled, and bayed with their weapons ready; yet, they suppressed it well beneath their warplate. His crimson lenses returned to the Astartes.

“The God-Slayers will enter first to intercept the wyrd. Follow after and split to achieve your objectives. For Him of Himalazia!” Primarch Aeternus roared out, raising Apocrypha once more to the blasting war cries of the First Legio Cataegis. He had considered sending the First Legio Astartes in with their Sigilite box, but Rex couldn’t risk Malcador’s artifacts being lost in the first wave. His armored form turned around and began to stride through the shadows that licked his armor.

The God-Slayers followed after him with their bravery on full display, melting into the shadowy portal of the tower with their weapons ready and their mouths screaming warsongs. After several seconds of raucous noise, the clearing fell quiet, save for the idle hum of power armor and nearby idling engines.

Regarding the looming entrance with visible disdain, Pantea and her legion halted for a brief moment. A murmured re-confirmation of their battle plans ensued, and they picked up their march. Her arms erupted in towering flame that would cast aside any mundane darkness for hundreds of meters away - but in the choking void of shadow and darkness they now found themselves, her own powers and those of the rest of the Legion could barely make a dent.

Still, they pressed on, some twirling force swords in their hands in anticipation of the slaughter to come, others simply watching in cold, contemplative silence as the darkness enveloped them and the final confrontation drew near.

The Fifth were somewhat delayed from the next objective, picking over the battle-field. They made an exaggerated showing of disposing of the dead, dying, and wounded as if mocking the suspicions that Aeternus had implied. Stone would echo with chainblades whirring, followed by the cries of the few foemen still lucid despite the wyrd begging for mercy. The last sound loud enough to be echoed would be sardonic laughter nearly as loud as the noise of the chainblades going through flesh and bone. Quiet would briefly reign as the Astartes picked over ammunition and equipment from the fallen of both sides, and then piled all the corpses of the enemy before igniting them in a pyre. The ashes would then be contained in spent munition crates, very brief welding making sure they were air-sealed to finally be the problem of the unspoken higher authorities he appealed to.

A few spare hands of the Undying Onslaught would work with their chainaxes to complete the removal of the profane runes etched on the walls, while apothecaries extracted geneseed from dead comrades. Soft but somber, some would begin to sing a requiem for the fallen that now finally had eternal respite.

The First, posted behind the Fifth, simply watched. All seventy, as paltry a force as that was, were still standing, but even with the battle concluded they remained in a defensive formation, tensely alert in threats from all directions as they hunkered down close about their strange weapon. Their cousins they left to their looting and their ritual with neither question nor complaint as they stood in silent vigil.

---

After reassembling their lines, the Fifth would be in a formation long and wide. They hadn’t fought psykers before, and there was no knowing what to expect. Thus the best they could do was simply make sure that anything that targeted one Legionnaire would be unlikely to target another, and if things took a turn for the worst they could simply run for their lives. Beyond that, their arrangement was quite simple. The lightest weapons they bore like the heavy stubbers and boltguns would be at the front, behind them the heavier ones, and finally the indirect fire ones. They had enough flashlights on them to blind a human in a single blink, just in case their visors would fail. Some also bore chemical lights as a redundancy, though these were kept away for now. Of course, to blind the foe, canisters of more gas and smoke were still held in reserve.

They weren’t ready to advance into the Tower, they weren’t ready to fight psykers. But they wouldn’t get any less unready, and so in almost perfect rhythm the Fifth’s boots crushed stone underneath their march.

Behind them, in a chorus of ceramite upon rock discordant in its truly perfect rhythm, came the First. Even ignoring their strange anti-wyrd device they were all seasoned veterans, the least of them having already engaged with Urshites in the countless petty engagements and border wars that had served as prelude to the grand invasion. And the greatest of course had fought in Sanctii, the city-state that had been hoped for as a staunch ally and vassal in this war having instead bled their firstborn white - but in exchange for such prizes.

Yet, even as the stalwart genewarriors entered through the darkness, nothing had prepared them for the penumbra that awaited them. Tendrils of shadowy substance streamed from their ceramite as they emerged into the tower of the cabal proper. It dripped down on the floor beneath, disappearing into a puddle of black, watery mirth. The air was heavy with the wyrd of the coalesced realm. It was a physical affliction on them as weight on the shoulder, pain behind the eye, or wetness on the skin even beneath their warplates. The stink of sulphur was abundant, mixed together with burning incense and rich iron of freshly spilt blood.

It was a home made of the wyrd and they were intruders.

The Astartes of the First, Fifteenth, and Fifth had a single moment of cohesion, joining up behind the vigilant Cataegis of the First before pandemonium began. Where the impossibly dark walls had started to reveal their contents, each side fell away to a penumbral abyss unseen before. A swirling vortex replaced where an ascender led up to the heights of the tower. Furniture, ornaments, fetishes and more fell apart as if reality had been its stitches pulled. The floor beneath their boots began to shift, splitting apart and spinning the occupants on different axes of the dimensional plane.

Howling, chirping, barking, roaring, growling, screeching, shrieking. All of these sounds filtered into their ears through their ceramite helmets. Audible reductors couldn’t lower the pitch, tone, or volume of these unrelenting noises. They came unabated on an unnerving loop of madness. The room around them shifted further as their strike force was split apart by the moving tiles beneath their feet. The First Cataegis on one side, the Fifth on the other, and the First Astartes on the next. They formed an abominable circle on myriad axes around a shape that had begun to coalesce in the space between them.

It began as a sphere of swirling blue, violet, and black. Then it rapidly expanded, pushing out in a variety of shapes to form an eccentric star. It rippled violently as it spun, desperately trying to reach out and touch the warriors of the Emperor. It screeched with a tone that wasn’t audible, felt only against the primordial energies within their souls. Imperials began to collapse, claimed by the touch of the sphere or descending into madness that shattered their spirit. Those touched disappeared into molecular motes of liquid shadow. The realm quivered with each death and howled in delight.

Their vision began to grow agonizingly painful as they watched the polygonal creation of the wyrd suddenly burst apart. It created a jagged line that stretched from the edge of their vision to the next. The edges of reality were dragged open before their eyes as they stared into the pink miasma of unreality. The agony was enough to drive veterans of hundreds of campaigns into suicidal insanity. It lasted for only a moment as they were seemingly dragged through the lilac abyss.

Reality remade itself as they were spit out onto the dark tiles of the tower. Mauve fluids coated their armor as if they were vomited from a living creature. Strands of viscous mucus stretched between segments of their warplate. Wispy tendrils of lilac lightning arced in short bursts around their powerplants. It was a horrendous, damnifying experience that was followed shortly by more.

Primarch Aeternus raised his head from the ground to witness the great union of the archenemy. He stood in a wide, circular room as large as the greatest vaults of his Master’s fortress. Towering shelves of impossible material housed millions of undecipherable tomes on the edges of the chamber. Furniture, bricks, and more floated above them in the paradoxical heights of the tower. His eyes ached as he stared at everything around him, but nothing hurt as much as the things that stood in his way.

Eighteen shrouded figures loomed in a circle within the circular chamber around him and the reorganizing strike force. Their robes were beyond the darkest black and inscribed with brilliant blue runes that shifted in his sight. They chanted in a language that he couldn’t comprehend. Even attempting to listen hurt him on a level he couldn’t fully understand. They concerned Aeternus as much as the things that stood between him and the figures.

Aberrations beyond his wildest imagination hungrily bayed in fathomless hordes. They were creatures stolen from myriad myths on Terra. They were everything and nothing at the same time. At one time they were pink skinned, many-limbed, and comically short. In the next second, they were snarling beasts on all fours with mauve fur and spinned coats. They were unreality made flesh. They were hungry. They were endless.

Primarch Aeternus had never allowed a mote of the flaw to take him. He had never even felt the genetic deterioration that had afflicted many of his warriors. Rex never felt that it was an impossibility that it would never happen to him. It was a looming curse that would plague him one day. He’d always wondered when it would afflict him. Perhaps it was a boon that he never was forced to fight an enemy of such impossibility or suffer the wyrd on such an unfathomable scale.

The Emperor’s Blade fractured as an aggression unseen in his temperament broke through. A warrior of a thousand battles. A warlord of a hundred campaigns. A leader of countless men and women. He only felt one thing in the moment leading to their current destination. Unfathomable, unrelenting, pure rage that filtered through his body as if afflicted by a spirit of vengeance.

“Purge the witch!”

Primarch Aeternus roared out with an animalistic howl that stunned the first row of abominations. Apocrypha responded with a cleaving slash of crimson corona. Aberrations melted away from the violence of reality, either sheared by plasmic destruction or fading from something unseen. The God-Slayers, awestruck by their stoic primarch, jumped into the fray with the same reckless, wild abandon that he exhibited. It was like watching a frenzy that afflicted a great many people as they screamed, barked, and howled in unformed words.

With the descent of the unreal, the Fifth didn’t respond well. The very first tendrils of it had a few of their ranks attempt to fire at the encroaching immaterium. Thousands of spent casings would hit the ground in just a few seconds as heavy stubbers and boltguns fired in an outright useless effort as they dissipated into thin air. But, at least it was an effort to resist. When several of the Marines seemed to be truly overtaken by the wyrd, response was swift. The ones that merely turned to gibbering messes or were struck by seizures got a strike against the head or an injection from the nearest apothecary to take them out of the fight. The few who became outright liabilities were given the Emperor’s mercy.

Wordlessly, they heeded the words of Aeternus. All of the Astartes with standard firearms would work on simply cutting down the waves of verminous warp spawn, the rarely seen shotguns and ripperguns in particular causing a clatter as shrapnel and pellets ricocheted about the scene in their near-misses. However, any of the Legion that had heavy weapons would turn them to psykers. In particular favouring the grenade launchers that they may fire over the heads of the comrades in arcs, the familiar cacophony of frag and krak charges would resound after their brief flights. A simple warning would be given, “Danger close!” but they weren’t expecting anybody to manage to get to these almost alien beings particularly soon.

---

While the other First, Fifteenth, and the Fifth were whisked away by the foul sorcery at play, the First Astartes found themselves still standing at the tower entrance when the wyrd had finished washing over them. Hunkered close around the cyro-vault in a tight, defensive formation, whatever properties it possessed seemed to have sheltered them from the worst of the chaos.

Regardless, half of the Sigilites had gouged their own eyes out at the impossible vistas they had been exposed to. Those who had retained their wits were removing or deactivating pitch-black blinders, either hand-held or cybernetic, and regarded their peers with a measure of pitying dismay. Making matters worse, the paltry force, intended to augment a far larger team of Astartes, now found itself alone in the foyer of the occult spire.

Legate Sultrim broke the silence after all of his Astartes had blink-clicked their status, and the Sigilites tended to their own, his voice sounding clear over the vox. +‘Legate to reserve squads, reinforce the main element at tower atrium immediately. Original stratagem non-operative. All Sigilites, attend: Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, unseal the hushed casket of the soul.’+

---

The presence of the First Legio Astartes was felt as the fight began within the black spire. The onslaught of the Fifth saw waves of the creatures annihilated into mist of psionic energy, reforming seconds later further back into the line. The mastery of the Fifteenth’s wyrd cleared entire sections of the room in storms of bioelectricity or psyfire; however, they would soon form once again in an endless torrent of fathomless psionic potential. Each of their cruel, raw logic saw the enemy deterred for several seconds at a time. Only one thing became clear as they watched the chaos that erupted.

The God-Slayers were pushing into the monsters of the cabal like frenzied animals let loose from their master’s shackles. The raw aggression, powerful output, and refusal to attend wounds saw their entire host push into the waves. The creatures were pushed back no matter how many times they were formed as they suffered blade, bolter, and shock from the Cataegis. They laughed, screamed, and howled as they cut through the horde. The fragmentation devices of the Fifth exploded overhead, reflected by the strange shadow beings into the horde. Some of the Thunder Warriors were hit, yet they pushed on in a complete disregard for logic or wounds.

Primarch Aeternus held no thought in his mind. His focus was singular. He felt as one of the emotionless Custodes that loomed beside the Emperor. Every single step saw several of the creatures die in a single swing of Apocrypha, cutting their existence to ribbons before pressing forward. His wrist-mounted armament, Ea, spat azure death into the crowd as he spun. Rex was a whirlwind of black and crimson, the edge of his greatsword screaming as it fought on.

Others danced around him in whirlwinds of death. Nero was howling as his twinned chainaxes tore through the horde of pink monstrosities, while Tiberius was feverishly stabbing and prodding at those that threatened to reform under their assault. For a moment, Aeternus felt as if he saw the form of Caligula fight with a smile on his lips; however, it was only an afterimage of another Cataegis that fought with a similar fighting style. It drove his aggression on as he roared through his winged helmet.

“God-Slayers!” The Lord of the First screamed out as he closed the distance between him and the first shrouded individual. He could physically see them begin to falter with their hands raised, willing the wyrd in an attempt to stop him. It slowed him as black tendrils threatened to wrap around his extremities. A growl that bubbled up from his throat saw the darkness recede from his arms.

“In glory, we slay!” All of the Cataegis cried out as the last patch of monstrosities were slain by their battered and bloodied hands. Each was stained in the gore of the wyrd as they fought. Their own vitae was mixed in, torn free from wounds that marred their black-yellow warplates. The Empyrean retreated from them as they slew, tore, and crunched it beneath their extremities.

The shrouded being attempted to escape from the ruthless Cataegis, yet the Primarch of the God-Slayers was already there. Fear emanated from it as a black, wispy musk that tried to drown the area in darkness. His wyrd-stained armor reached out and grabbed the cloaked individual by the skull. It screamed out in a language that the Thunder Warrior could not understand. Aeternus closed his fist. A jet of azure vitae exploded out of the hood, emptying out onto the floor as their body began to wither and dry like an old Terran cephalopod.

They could be killed. They were terrified. Each began to react as the realization that their incorporeal forms, protected by the wyrd above and below, could be demolished. Rapidly, they started chanting faster and moving their many hands in esoteric gestures. Unreality threatened to buckle under their heresy as psyflame, bioelectricity, ghoulfire, and realmserpents were flung at the Astartes.

The Fifteenth reacted as they watched the God-Slayers annihilate the first of the eighteen warlocks. Lilac barriers of superb wyrd were erected into reality, defending the Fifth and their own from the unreal assault. None were harmed by the attack, yet some of their number faltered as they were ambushed by onrushing creatures. They cried out in rage, forcing the tide back with their psyshouts. Every member that was lost was a death that couldn’t be replaced. Every warrior that fell was an unimaginable blow to their legion. They would not suffer such attacks and lashed out with rage-enhanced biolightning. Bolters and volkite carbines barked in defiance. Powerweapons flicked out with the skill and precision known to the Sirens of Terra.

As her legion fought on, Mistress Pantea observed the situation with a mind unrivaled by others of her kind. The Lord of the Fifteenth understood what happened with a mixture of her mastery of the Empyrean and her gene-enhanced speed thought. Unrelenting speed, unimaginable rage, and a willpower that could defy the unreal was all that was required. She realized what must be done. A blink-order saw several Sirens surround her as she chanted, willing the wyrd into her gauntlets.

For the Fifth, there was only one more act they could take. With the charge of their comrades they could no longer rely on fragmentation and high explosives, despite their brutality a belief of the sanctity of life ensured they couldn’t bombard a zone so rife with their comrades. The bearers of the explosives slung them away, drawing their pistols and blades. But, a select few detached from the rest. The Fifth tended to be shorter than other Astartes, and these fellows would be even smaller bearing extensively modified boltguns. These were sharpshooters of sorts, climbing up crevasses and other irregularities in the scenery. Warriors that would be called dishonourable in other eras and perhaps this one too, the battlefield was more compact than what they were accustomed to but they would nonetheless get to work. Now proven vulnerable, the psykers of the enemy would be singled out for destruction.

---

One hundred Astartes, thirty-two Sigilites, and four cryo-vaults formed a defensive perimeter at the entrance of the tower while the remainder of the strike force dealt with madness within the spire’s impossible geometry. Whether it had been their weapon that had saved them from being transported to do battle with the warlocks of Ursh, or those very same masters of the profane fearing to face it directly opting to spare them, the difference was immaterial. The First had found themselves shunted away from the fight, and now that they were amassed sought to avenge that insult.

But first, the Legate’s command had to be obeyed. The Sigilites, those who had retained their senses and faculties at the least, labored over their charges with precise care, the leaders of each band triple-checking every action done not only to their own casket but the other three as well. When all four were satisfied, they depressed identical runes upon the surfaces of the vaults, and then withdrew from the field. Though far from defenseless, with the seals undone, there was little for them to contribute to the battle to come.

Silence filled the atrium as the vaults opened, the rush of frigid air from each physically displacing the corruption of the wyrd in that haunted place. Four women lay there recumbent, truesilver swords as tall as them laid upon their breasts. They moved with an unearthly unison, curling their legs behind themselves as they raised their blades underhand to stab down into the flagstones of the tower. Each lifted themselves up by the waist as marionettes upon strings, wrenching themselves to their feet.

A chill filled the air as they took their first steps within the tower. No word passed between the four and the Astartes as they took up position at the points of a compass, the force advancing in search of nightmares.

+‘Aeternus will prevail with or without our aid. Priority objective remains. We make for the reliquary,’+ Sultrim confirmed to his gene-siblings as they engaged the first dregs of resistance. Scattered churls and misbegotten failures of horrific arts were as wheat before the sickle, the focus of the Legate instead upon confirming their relative location in regards to physical reality as they had previously understood it.

It soon became apparent that such effort was unnecessary, if not impossible. Standing before the strike force, guarding a door of obsidian inlaid with skulls burning with impossible blue flame, was a knight in black armor clad standing so tall as to put a Custode to shame. Its hands, each large enough to engulf the skull of even a Astartes, were laid casually to rest upon the pommel of a greatsword as tall as a Thunder Warrior. When it spoke, its voice was the void itself, a lack of sound that conveyed meaning by its absence.

“Thou shalt not.”

The decree was an absolute, a statement of fact written upon the Empyrean, a truth resounding in the was, is, and will be.

The four silent women did not care, and advanced with silver brands.

---

Fear.

It was a primordial emotion that was drummed up by antediluvian terrors that haunted the depths of the mind. An erratic feeling that insidiously dwelt within all that lived, modified or not. A powerful tool that could be wielded by friends and enemies alike. The most potent resource for a rampaging warrior, a cowardly soldier, or a lively magus. The driving factor in souls that strove for survival.

Primarch Aeternus was the source of their fears made manifest in hulking muscle, unbreakable will, and fathomless carnage. Shades cowered in fear as their ranks were pulverized by the onslaught that the God-Slayer brought, proving true to their names as vanquishers. Each step was a row of monstrosities defeated. Each swing was a plethora of creatures vivisected. Each roar was a group routed from indomitable resolve. Vitae of mauve and azure painted the Thunder Primarch’s armor as he murdered into their numbers. Even as the Cataegis split, they did so with the same fury that their warlord held.

It drove the dark, robed being mad with despair. Their hands trembled with the carnage unleashed upon them, unable to halt the Emperor’s Blade from exacting his retribution. Some attempted to flee, risking their final bastion to live for another day. Astartes from the Fifth and Fifteenth were quick to murder them with psyfire and precise bolts. Some wildly tossed aside defense to erect great feats of the wyrd, desperate to drive off the weapons of the Himalazian king. It only served to open them up for the genewarriors to swiftly pick them off. Their desperation mixed with the stink of the Empyrean. They were dying, more and more falling to the slaughter of these immortal warriors.

Fewer than ten of the cabal remained, each on the defensive against the psionic assault of the Fifteenth. One was already beginning to break from the attack as their shadowy barrier began to crack under biolightning. The nine remaining shared a glance as their myriad wyrd allies were fed into the ambush. They knew what must be done. There were no other options left for the cabal.

In an instant, it felt as if the tower was taking on a new calling. The last ten warlocks pulled free blades from their robes. Their barriers remained, hammered by psionic assault and bolter, as they began to draw daggers into themselves. All, save for one, started to plunge their weapons into their shadow-infused bodies. Azure vitae spilled out onto the chamber’s floor as their lifeforce was scattered.

The shadows in the room felt alive as the members of the wyrd started to perish in ritualistic sacrifice. The last warlock was lifted into the air on invisible wings, their wyrdbarrier stronger than ever and infused with the souls of the expired cabal. An intense stink of ozone and sulphur perforated the stale stench of the chamber. It felt as if one couldn’t breath from the lack of clean air. Eyes wept trickles of vitae. Skin prickled and cracked to form fresh scars beneath ceramite warplate. Something knocked on the doors of reality as the warlock screamed for their life, azure-black blood torrenting out of their robes.

Primarch Aeternus halted in his frenzy as he stared up at the wrathsinger. He felt shadows dance on the edge of his eyes like a thicket of squirming tentacles. An unimaginably painful migraine formed against his skull as unreality was beginning to unravel once more. His teeth gritted together hard enough to fracture enamel. It was enough to pull him from the bloodlust that had overtaken him, nearly drowning him in a sea of wrathful zealotry. The conjuring wyrd affected his brethren much the same, their consciousness brought back from the teetering edge of their geneflaw.

“Pantea! Bring it down!” Aeternus roared across the battlefield. The armament on his right arm, Ea, swept upward to unleash a volley of azure bullets against the warlock’s barrier. Prismatic creatures blocked each of the shots, defending their master with indiscernible limbs and shifting scales. The Thunder Primarch cursed as he plunged into the fray once more, eager to halt what was occurring.

The warlock screamed out as shadows were quickly beginning to reform the man into a new being. Vitae from everything within the chamber was swallowed into the tile, funneled into their reconstructing form. Claws of midnight were sprouting from their hands. A penumbral maw was jutting from their robe. Wings of dusk were unfolding from their back. It was a slow, painful process that defied the laws of reality…

The Sirens, precious few in number, surged forward as one unified body. Their battle cry mingled with the earsplitting crack of fragmenting bone and warp-lightning. Garbed in lavender and silver they moved in unison, each one striking down the ants that stood in their way in a lethal symphony of slaughter. A current of warp energy swirled around them, the air smelling suddenly of charred human flesh as a nexus of warpflame erupted from each Siren.

Their legion master was at the fore as she leapt through the air towards the nascent Daemon, baleful energies that wreathed her fists howling for the blood of mankind’s foes. Cloaked in a blinding sheet of warpflame she cut a bright beacon through the churning morass of shadow and darkness that now surrounded them. Her legion followed suit, each sister in turn hurling themselves at the threat as the light surrounding them grew brighter and brighter. Engulfed in a blazing corona of warp-born flame and lightning the armored spearhead crashed into the writhing energies of the Immaterium.

And where those warring wavefronts met, reality fractured.

Terrifying visions ripped through realspace as conjured from a realm of bleakest nightmare. All present died and lived and died and lived again as a hungry maw of malevolent darkness tore and bit and howled for blood. Visages of madness assaulted the minds of all present. White hot knives of sanguine delirium cut the flesh and flensed the bone and burned as shards of flaming ice broke the mind and sundered the soul.

Flashes of lavender and silver cut through the kaleidoscopic morass of terror as all beheld the sixteenth slaughtered wholesale, standing triumphant amidst a field of corpses, laughing as they seized fell powers for themselves, bedecked in raiments of carnage as the knives dug deeper and deeper and deeper and rent the flesh and shattered the bone. Pantea’s outstretched fist inched forwards, time slowing agonizingly as she stared with unbridled fury into the maw of the looming abyss and felt it stare back.

Light shed from her outstretched hand in waves as she felt her very soul scoured by the howling winds of the warp. Kaleidoscopic visions of madness, of terrible things that had passed, of even more terrible things to come. Time flayed itself in a blossoming fractal void as foul energies shattered in razor-edged shards of light that tore to pieces the world around them. Stone shattered under its impact, exposed flesh erupted in showers of bloody and viscera.

And then they saw it. They all saw it. The vast plateau. It loomed large through the weakening veil. Ten thousand leagues of pallid stone upon which crawled things no sane mind could have created. Roiling churning tides of primordial hatred surged forth towards the intrusion, ten thousand voices cried out in unison, in the voices of those dearest departed, those left behind for duty’s name. They screamed in anger, in hate, in bleakest sorrow as their voices crashed upon the intruders to their realm who had brought them into their own. Eddy currents of boiling potentiality crashed into the onrushing tide, their shapes distorting still further in a screeching chorus of fevered nightmare.

A final shard erupted from her fist as her armored gauntlet cracked and shattered under the strain, bare skin striking that of the nascent Daemon.

And as her strike cut through the veil, riding up into view all beheld a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death, and Chaos followed with him.

The world exploded around them as the void tripled in size, engulfing the writhing abominations that had poured forth through the breech. The hungering gyre swallowed all its progeny and turned its ruinous eye upon the feast arrayed before it. The void howled, it howled and gnawed and wailed and gnashed at the fraying fibers of reality that held it at bay. One by one they began to snap under its assault as the trickle that had become a current became a flood.

The Daemon laughed, its voice echoing through the mind twoscore times over with each syllable as it sang a wordless song of victory. The world groaned and heaved as the air began to bleed, cuts ripping through the fabric of realspace as thick black ichor oozed from everywhere and from nowhere. Three-dimensionality became but a memory as the world buckled under the torrent of bile and blood that bled through the corners and the cracks. The Daemon’s form grew larger still, engulfing the full height of the chamber as it clasped a hand upon the summit of victory.

The air itself held its breath as the rest of the legion made contact. All at once, the unrestrained force of their combined psychic might blasted through the fragile conduits of power and possibility. Reality itself began to scream, an earsplitting wail that forced the air from the lungs and cracked the stone beneath the feet of its focal point.

Time flowed backward as every burning blade of fragmented materiality flew backwards, carving chunks from the shadow-stuff of the Daemon’s body. Reality reasserted itself in force as the air once again became tangible and the blood ceased to flow and the screaming intensified to a single deafening crescendo before it too was cut off at the source. A nexus of churning carnage erupted from the center of the Legion as their unified might shattered the bonds of the Daemon’s tether to the materium, flensing it piece by piece until nothing remained.

The void collapsed to a single point of nothingness, and all was silent, save the dull thud as the Sixteenth dropped to the floor. Yet among their number their leader could not be seen, having vanished from the room.

As the darkness fell into nothingness, same with the abnormalities that plagued the tower, so too did the madness that afflicted the God Slayers. Rationality returned as a salve over a festering wound. Rage gave way to cool logic as they tore their helmets, vomiting bile and blood from the vivid experience. Some lay still on the ground, their armor ruptured and their faces contorted into permanent visages of pained fear. Those that fell amongst the First were few.

Aeternus recollected himself first amongst the Cataegis numbers, readjusting to reality after it was shattered like a fragile mirror. He carefully assessed the situation in a manner of seconds before sighing in relief that victory was attained. The Primarch clapped a gauntlet over Nero’s pauldron, lifting the Thunder Warrior up before slowly gathering handfuls of his legion. No words were needed between them to begin assisting the remnants of the Sixteenth and the Fifth; however, he frantically scanned the room for the Legion Master of the Sirens to no avail.

A crack of thunder split the room as a burst of warpflame erupted from thin air, Pantea re-emerging from wherever she had gone. Blood flows freely from her eyes, eyes that had become an unsettling shade of deep violet. She stands there, stock-still, eyes wide and filled with - of all things - terror. Another moment passes, and she collapses without a word.

The Primarch of the First Legio Cataegis was the first to retrieve the collapsed Legion Master, reading her vitals through his helmet and carefully picking her up in both of his arms. The Fifth, Sixteenth, and First gathered around him as they began to egress the tower. A passage down to the ground floor had entered reality where it had never been before, blocked by the will of the wyrd. Communications returned shortly after, released from their immaterial shackles. As the strike force descended, Aeternus keyed the vox with triumph in his voice.

+’The witches have been slain. We are victorious. Prepare for the destruction of the tower.’+

---

Far below, in the tower’s dungeons and vaults, another combat took place, its combatants sliding in between reality and unreality like pieces on a regicide board with each stroke of their swords. That the Astartes of the First fought and died, trapped within the apparent reality of the hallway, was of little concern to the Black Knight and the four women who hunted him as they were hunted. Coruscating energies unseen since the birth of the cosmos reverted baryonic matter to a more elementary plasma as they attempted to strike the foe, only for it to simply vanish, turning sideways into a corridor that was ninety degrees to neither left nor right but out, only to reappear again to bisect the gunman, the shorn halves bleeding gouts of creation as flesh and ceramite and bone were unmade into thought and hope and prayer.

The dance of five swords continued, silver on silver on silver on silver on black.

In between the steps of the lethal death, the primeval fire of creation was joined by the eternal silence of entropy as the Astartes unleashed their arcane arsenals. Atoms aged and protons decayed, sending forth jets of antimatter heralded by bursts of hard radiation that left voids of perfect nothingness in their wake. They faded harmlessly into the black shadow of cloak woven from the screams of a thousand first nightmares.

But the silver blades were fashioned from something realer than mere matter, and truer than even the most fervent dream, and they cut deep. Exultant agony rocked the knight as he at last could taste his own end, the wards of Is and Shall unraveling as the course of fate turned against him. The giant did not fall, but faded away, vanishing back into the thoughts of the suicidal and desperate to once more whisper the psalm of self-destruction.

Such matters, however, were not the concern of the First. The survivors rushed forward, past their dead, and swiftly secured the hall. Sultrim breached through the great gates as the silent sisters descended back into their caskets, the Legate slowly keying his vox as he took stock of their prize.

+Inform the Sigilite. Objective secured.+

---

Several hours had passed since the start of the operation. The fleet of armoured vehicles encircling the black tower anxiously waited in anticipation of victory. Armaments were trained on anything that dared to break the tranquility left behind by the strike force’s ferocious charge. They were found wanting as all that remained was the stillness of statuesque Astartes and falling snow. The boom of thunder echoed in the distance as chronometers ticked down.

And then the first of the strike force returned. The God-Slayers, accompanied by the Fifth and Fifteenth, quickly egressed the mouth of the tower with wounded Sirens on their back or arms. Primarch Aeternus led from the front with the Legion Mistress protected in both of his sizable gauntlets. The Fifteenth, those that could still move, trudged behind the First with lilac wyrd wisping off of their limbs. Finally, the Fifth followed after with their numbers taking up the rearguard and spreading out to begin their after action procedures. They began unholstering the first of their explosives as the First Legio Astartes appeared.

Their number, escorting plentiful caskets and stasis pods, promptly funneled down the dark steps of the witch tower. They left in utter silence, focused entirely on their objective and subsequent transportation of such. As the last of their number fled the outer perimeter of the wyrd structure, the Fifth began their grisly work. An unspeakable quantity of explosives were planted at the base of the obsidian monolith to the Empyrean. Melta, plasma, disintegrative, void, and other types were carefully rigged by the Astartes. Several minutes passed before the last transhuman completed their job.

The voxnet burst into a flurry of activity as the Astartes embarked their dreadful transports, mounting once more and readying for the death knell of the witch’s stronghold. It greeted their eyes as a cascading blossom of prismatic blooms. Reactionary explosions mixed with volatile compounds, skyrocketing the temperature and melting the obsidian wyrd-material into slag as more detonations shook the cavern. The first vehicles scurried out of the perimeter and through the tunnel they had entered. The dark tower fell behind them, crumbling into the darkness to never be remembered again.

All that remained was Mosrovoth - Citadel of Kalagann.

---

Credit: @MarshalSolgriev (Aeternus/God-Slayers) @antediluvixen (Legion Mistress Pantea/Sirens of Terra) @grimely (First Legio Astartes) @Bugman (Fifth Legio Astartes)

[MarshalSolgriev]

A Call for Thunder

-After the Meeting with the Emperor-

---

The interior of the squat tower was as austere as its exterior. There was no time for decoration nor trappings. The bottom floor was the only section of the structure filled with any amount of furniture. Dozens of cogitators encircled the edge of an impossibly wide room. Adepts humbly worked their stations, receiving and dispatching information as it was acquired. Geneworkers hefted twenty large chairs in, each sized appropriately for a genewarrior of the Cataegis. Excertus Imperialis officers hoarded around the megalithic holotable at the center, easily one of the largest in the growing Imperium. A calm before the storm.

Conversations quickly melted away as a pair of leviathan doors suddenly opened. The cold winds of wild Ursh rushed in alongside a cacophony of titanic individuals. Each was as large as the last, their figures enhanced by rumbling warplate. Myriad hues decorated their forms, yet the yellow and Raptor Imperialis remained prevalent among them all. If they were distinct among other Thunder Warriors, then they were outright outlandish among their equals.

They were Thunder Primarchs. Each bore the scars of the past century. Trophies dangled from the vainglorious ones, while battle damage spoke for those that preferred practicality. All of them carried their weapons of renown, clinging to their side on magnet plating or chained to their back from sheer size. None dared to hide their faces behind helmets, save for those that wore armored respirators. Even now, some were in the throes of their geneflaw, despite their inherent stability. Their kindred did not follow them, left in the encampment until they returned with new orders.

At the lead of the pack was the Godslayer and Thunder Primarch of the First, Aeternus Rex, who held his winged helmet underneath his right arm. His face was as aquiline and strong as their master, yet scarred and burnt beyond beauty. Long, silky black hair had been cut short with shaved sides. Apocrypha – the obsidian greatsword of Akkad - jostled on the back of his black armor, nearly cutting into the alabaster pelt that was his cape. His prized zmaj skull eerily stared out from his left pauldron at those he passed. The Emperor’s Blade halted at the furthest end of the hololith and remained standing.

Bodiciia, Thunder Primarch of the Second, followed after the Godslayer. Her behemoth form was encased in emerald armor with yellow pauldrons. A strong jaw set with mutilating scars blended into a half-shaven head of gray-blonde. Emerald eyes stared out from beneath green warpaint. An enormous power axe was chained to her back, haunting runes of Ursh bleeding from it. She stood to the left of Aeternus.

Ushotan, the Lord of Steel, trudged in her wake. Bare and battle-worn was his unadorned and unpainted armour, and just as unsightly and scarred was his face, its stubborn jaw a craggy cliff roughly cut by the elements. Squinted, cold grey eyes stared suspiciously from under his corrugated brow. Even among friends, the brutish destroyer of Maulland Sen seemed uneasy and diffident, restless fingers betraying their longing for the familiar grip of his huge and crudely built plasma-sword.

Primarch Alexamandes, Lord of the Tenth, lowly grumbled to himself as he trailed after Ushotan. The gregarious nature of the bearded giant was muted here. Red-gray locks of hair were bundled up behind him in a note, allowing his unevenly shaped head and mismatched eyes to breath. A cloak of forged scales bounced with each step of his half yellow, half crimson warplate. A pair of old chainaxes were maglocked to his waist, eager to cut and maim at a moment’s notice. He stopped just shy of Ushotan’s left.

Alfovathan, Marshal of the Umbra Paladins, followed in behind Alexamandes. His warplate was akin to the Godslayer, swathed in a hue of obsidian yet with a touch of yellow on his pauldrons and fists. A charcoal tabard hung over his chest with the Raptor, echoed only by an orderly cloak hanging over his shoulders. His pale eyes rapidly darted between all of the Cataegis warlords, then to the Custodes, and finally to Aeternus. A snarl formed on his lips, stretching his scorched burns up his shaven head. A powered executioner’s blade dangled loudly on chains attached to his powerpack, ever ready to lay down His law. The Umbra Paladin halted some spare inches away from the Infernal Phoenix, sniffing the air around his brother with disdain.

Corvinius, Crow-Lord of the Thirteenth, stalked in behind Alfovathan. The gaunt Primarch had his black hair free of its knot, dangling down before his mechanical eye. A dark, plumed cloak jingled with the sound of clashing steel as his midnight armor bounded forward. His form was devoid of his signature magnarail, yet keen eyes could spy the power knife cleverly kept by his breastplate. He silently waited next to Alfovathan.

Hannibal, a previously vaunted figure, walked slowly striding in armor caked in unwashed blood and as battered as the whole of the Cateagis. The Primarch of the Fifteenth seemed tired, even for a being of his caliber his movements had slowed to a noticeable degree. Once, he had been seen decorated and always with a sly and cunning nature about him, now a shell of what he had once been. Quietly, the Caged Dog muttered to himself - one so close to being a second Aeternus was slipping, what was once a general, had the form and gait of a rabid animal barely holding itself together.

The Primarch of Sixteenth, Gilgamenses, clicked his tongue as he followed after Hannibal. His face was permanently fixed into a scowl. A heavy respirator uglied his formerly aquiline, charismatic features. Angry, grey orbs with heavy bags beneath glared out from above the facial piece. Pure lilac hued power armor covered his lithe, yet powerful musculature. No cape was fashioned to the warrior’s back, a long archeotech trident in its place. He breathed deeply to the left of Hannibal.

The gunmetal grey and yellow form of the Primarch of the Seventeenth came in not far behind Gilgamenses. Apocalypsos, his mouth a wicked smile and his eyes darting unceasingly about the room, muttered quietly to himself as he entered. His fingers danced about the hilts of the pair of short swords at his waist as if he was unsure of their reason for being there. While his mind appeared slipping his physicality was unchanged from the last he had been seen by his fellow Primarchs. He loomed large in the room just as the rest of his warriors, the threat of bloodshed radiating from his muscled form even as he frantically searched the shadows for a blade in the dark.

The Primarch of the Eighteenth, Theadon Red, stood too well-maintained, or at least to the ability he could around others. Unlike his usual robes, and the wear armor that he wore to these conventions of his brothers and sisters, he was prepared for combat, and from his face, it was not because it was in Ursh either, he had been here the longest, this was his home now, it was for some other reason. His strength bulged through armor plates that were strapped to thick chains over fur. Still, much of his torso, legs, and arms were coming in and out of the draping cloth that was fitted over him, but he looked stronger than usual. Still, his face showed an almost wild side that he would be, off-putting to most who knew him, where, in years prior, he would have been seen as more contemptuous and calm; it was almost as if that could be seen fleeing from him in his face. His once-wise eyes seemed to have a spark that would have been visible only in his youth, a fire that helped brighten those once dulled and wise old eyes. He had some tokens, though none from war; they were parts of shoulder plates, some still had XVIII painted on them in bright white or red, most were fragments, cut by a well-honed strike of a power weapon. His hip held his powersword and bolt pistol.

Less subtle was the flame in the gaze of Charmagnol, the bloody Red Knight. Age and wear seemed to only have stoked the ferocious glare within him, and now it beamed balefully from above the grilled mouthguard that covered the lower half of his face, a stark contrast to the hairless pallor of his scalp and brow. A few dark spots lay haphazardly over his crimson plate, mutely whispering of the rumour that its colour was layered in wildly spilled blood. His fists were clenched as if to purposely keep them away from his weapons, and he now and then turned his head to cast back a hateful glare.

Each of them was returned in kind by the one who came after. The Fifth Primarch, Jotharion, kept a deliberate distance from his predecessor, boring into his back with a fearsome scowl when he was not meeting his eyes with mutual animus. The hide cloak over his red and yellow was ragged, and ruined also appeared his features, over which the inexorable decay of the Cataegis was writ clearer than most. Where once he was a beacon of humanity among the misshapen snarls of his men, his face now had the same hard and savage cast as the rest of them.

Sunxian, Primarch of the Tempest Callers, was the last to enter of the warlords. The blood of Nei Mongol ran in his veins, yet the glory of the Cataegis was evident on his face. A plethora of tribal tattoos decorated his skin, each recording a great feat of his. Milk-white eyes acknowledged the others with cold familiarity. His teal-yellow warplate stank of engine oil and unwashed toxic waste. Black hair with hefty white segments was tied into a tail that trailed behind him. He alone bore no weapon to the conclave, yet the Tempest Caller was one of few with their mental and physical faculties present. The warlord stood next to the Godslayer, completing the circle.

Gold-plated genewarriors followed after them in cold, precise formation. Their guardian spears were held upright, ready to descend given the order. Ten in total fanned out across the chamber, spacing themselves out in a pattern fit for their fighting style. As soon as they were in place, the Custodes remained as silent as statues. The Primarchs knew instinctively by this point that the companions of the Emperor watched them. Prepared to slaughter the Thunder Primarchs, if necessary.

Aeternus fixed them all with a piercing glare. He was proud to see those who were still alive, yet Rex couldn’t help but feel pity for those that were already suffering the geneflaw. It was second only to the remorse of those that weren’t present. Gon-Khaus, Fracosios, Raphariel, Apollyor, Vladorios, and Longinolos. In their place were equerries that they had prepared in case of their death or degradation. Even they, as trusted as they were, had been touched by the flaw in their own way.

“I won’t bother you all with platitudes or formalities beyond being relieved to see those who still remain. Time is short and Kalagann awaits us,” Aeternus announced, thumbing the rune on the hololith. A pair of images appeared, separated by content and delivery. The first was a transcribing of his conversation with the Emperor, gifted to him by Portia. The second was a geographical accurate hologram of Ursh, complete with active operations and planned assaults. Another press of a rune brought up the transcript from the Sigilite’s assistant.

“I alone visited the Emperor several days ago to seek the truth about our weakness – the geneflaw. I cannot hold back my tongue on the eve of Unity. We are dying and He cannot save us,” the Godslayer stated with a rumble in his voice akin to a lion. He was prepared for the backlash, especially from those on the verge of madness. His eyes calmly bounced between the assembly of surviving Primarchs. Already, he could see the machinations of the conversation having an adverse effect on some, yet others seemed to accept it unsurprised of His attitude.

“Ursh is to be our final chance to achieve glory before the geneflaw takes us. If we are to die, then I’d prefer it with Kalagann’s intestines in my hands then drowning in my own bile.” The Primarch of the First said with fury in his voice. Aeternus knew he would not suffer the geneflaw, yet he relished the chance to fight as the Legio Cataegis one final time.

Hannibal was amongst the first to react to this, a look of brief clarity flashing across his face, only to be replaced with a mixture of sadness and rage. After all the Legio Cataegis had done - after all they had sacrificed for His unity, the madness compelled him to rage against the injustice of it all. What little control he had left reigned in the physical rage, instead barking out, “After all we have done? We will not even get to see the unity we bled for?! The unity we slaughtered and grew mad for?!”

“Say it plainly, Aeternus. You know better than this,” Ushotan sneered. The grim and forced turn of his lips and the rancorous growl of his voice were hardly less bitter than the pained fury drawn across some of the faces around him. “We’ve served our purpose and are no longer needed. By His mercy we can try to die by the sword one last time. Is that so?”

Before the Godslayer could answer, Gilgamenses spoke up like a crash of lightning. He slammed his lilac gauntlet against the gargantuan hololith, forcing it’s images to momentarily shift. With the same gauntlet, the Primarch swung his arm wide in a gesture to the rest of the gathered warlords. His enraged eyes, however, remained on the Primarch of the First Legion while speaking.

“There is no reason for Aeternus to explain it, Ushotan. The answer is not in that we served our purpose, but by who stole our purpose! Did the Emperor explain to you that, not only are we barred from recruitment, all of our genestock is going to our respective counterparts?” Gilgamenses finished with a scowl. It was an angry, feral appearance that could frighten a man to death. Madness lingered on the edge of the warrior’s tone, yet it was directed in a direction far away from those closest to him. The rage all dwelled on the genewarriors known as the Astartes.

Theadon Red stopped there staring at the others, he hunched just barely as a smile formed across his face, “It is because they are the future Gilgamenses, I accepted that when I first met them, and I took them under my wing because as soon as I felt the change I knew there needed to be a next Generation, we were a stepping stone, the first step in their paths… Do not Hate, Resent, whatever term you choose, because they are the future, it’s only your blindness that didn’t allow them to become your legacy while staring at the face of imminent demise!”

Red seemed to grow old in a moment as he took a deep breath to compose himself. He hated every moment awake at this time, and he knew his time had come. “Ursh is a worthy place Rex… I’ve spent the most time in the steppes and ruins, it will kill us or change us, do we know where our final field shall be?” he asked solemnly, the fragrance of barbarity he had walked in with, had washed away in those few moments of outburst.

The voices began to grow among the Primarchs. The vexation that Gilgamenses and Hannibal displayed caused no shortage of grumbling and arguments from erupting. The Godslayer observed them as their opinions and thoughts inadvertently split them apart – those aligned with the Emperor’s decision and those against. The first party was beginning to form between himself, Ushotan, Bodiciia, Alexamandes, Red, Corvinius, Alfovathan and Sunxian. The latter party was forming with Napoleos, Apocalypsos, Charmagnol, Jotharion, Gilgamenses, and Hannibal. He wondered which route the deceased would’ve chosen.

“Enough,” Aeternus growled with a tone that wagered his strength and feats against their mewling. It felt almost as an aura to the other warlords. One that radiated with their unified hopes, dreams, and endurance. This was always how he had been from the beginning. Some found that suffocating, while others found it a guiding line in an unending war full of madness. His dark eyes turned to address Ushotan first.

“Yes. Our purpose is finished once Kalagann has been toppled. Narthan Dume would remain if not for his active dethroning by the Astartes in the east,” the Primarch of the First responded. Words weren’t required to explain that ‘garrison duty’ was not in their future. His tone was neither of defeat nor was it of miraculous triumph. His truth was simply stated. That was always how the Steel Lord had preferred it. His eyes regarded Theaddon next.

“Our final field will be in Mosrovoth, Kalagann’s fortress. It will be our final conquest, Red. Those that survive will see Unification before succumbing to the geneflaw,” Rex replied. Aeternus’ tone suggested many would perish. The battle plans had already been discussed. He didn’t need to explain where the Thunder Warriors would be. They all knew where their place was, yet it was a matter of with whom and how. An answer that he turned to the rest of the Primarchs to begin explaining.

“Gilgamenses and Theaddon are both correct. They are our replacements. They are also our future. We may never see the stars alongside our Emperor, but they will carry on the legacy of the Cataegis. Make your peace with this for they will be joining us in our final fight,” Aeternus concluded. He caught Gilgamenses gritting his teeth loud enough they could shatter. A glance to the Custodes saw that none had dared move, yet the Primarch of the First was certain they were listening.

Apocalypsos, from his position, stood behind the seat marked for him, his hand steady, pointed toward Aeternus. His lips quivered a moment as his eyes appeared to at last focus on a single point in space at the center of the First Primarch’s chestplate.

“You wish us to simply allow this?” he muttered, his lips quivering between words and shallow breaths. His focus became clear and he shook his head at Rex, “You wish none of this, you do not wish to be--” he shook his head violently now as if to rid himself of unheard voices, “this is not your wish! It is not ours! We were to conquer to-- to---” he slammed a balled fist into the raised back of his seat, splintering it where the blow landed, “We were promised unification, Aeternus! We were promised the stars!” he bellowed, spit spraying across the holotable and dribbling from his mouth like a lame dog.

“We are close to the reunification of our home, while… we will never see the stars.” Theadon Red held his hands in front of him, pressing them down as if saying to calm, “at least from the sky, we will likely see the last War on this world, and be ended in it, we will conquer this world. We will be mourned, we will be seen throughout the annals of history. It pains me to say it as well; I believe that if we survive our final battle, we wouldn’t see the skies in the way any of us desires. I… I would ask of us all to write down our tactics, our traditions, our doctrines to pass down, to give to those who come after us. So that we are not just placards and statues.”

There was a silence from Hannibal as the others spoke, the remnants of his mind trying to coax himself back into what he had been long before. Those remnants had long been overshadowed by the madness of their collective flaw-his voice cracked as he spoke, “This is far from what we had been promised! We had been- we were-”

Hannibal’s snarl returned. “We were what brought this Imperium to fruition, Thaedon! Why is it that we must be cast aside while the likes of them-” He gestured to the silent custodes that stood in the chamber, “Them who were made without ‘flaw’! They who follow His bidding just as we have loyally to our men and women’s final breath! These Custodians will not be cast aside by Him while WE are! The Astartes, lesser than us in all but one way, will see the stars while we are meant to be sod in the earth that WE took, Thaedon! Were we made to be discarded like refuse?!”

“Because WE were experiments! Can’t you see that!” Red snarled looking over at his other side, “We were the first part in making the Astartes, we were just a step, they didn’t know, our maker didn’t know we would waste away before we even made it to the stars… This is just a way to prepare us, for something I’ve known about far longer than you all, I’ve felt the change since before Ursh, and if I had not been controlling madness I wouldn’t be standing in this room. I’ve held on this far, and I know I cannot make it much more. I have only told one, and he stands in this room…” his eye going towards Aeternus, “but, I should have told you all, that we would waste away before the stars.” With that, he looked down, as he had betrayed them in this, and he regretted not telling them.

Charmagnol stared at him, and there was in his eyes a dangerous and feverish light of obstinacy.

“And what if we don't?” His voice, once impetuous, had been reduced by a fraying throat and a spasming jaw to a slow, careful drawl. Now, however, in the tense cold silence, this tone of a wary ancient sounded like the threatening deliberation of one who speaks of the outrageous. “What if when Mosvoroth is rubble under our feet we stand and do not die? Our fury has carried us around Terra, and maybe it will through this.” He glanced at the Custodians, and one could hear the strained but vicious grin in his words. “Would they really be glad if they didn't see us fall? Would He?”

Jotharion grunted. Much as he loathed to agree in anything with his rival, he hated the alternative - the admission of his own weakness - even more.

The Primarch of the First glanced towards the Custodians. None had moved a centimeter from their position. He doubted they ever would during this meeting, especially given that the Black Hawk was nearby. Their stagnant silence was poison to this place, yet Rex inherently knew why they were present. They were all going mad. All except for him, he thought grimly as Alfovathan spoke up.

“Then we continue to be the tools of Unification that we were always meant to be! There will always be war, even when He takes to the stars,” Alfovathan snarled, his fists coming down on the hololith. All of the raw strength of the Thunder Primarchs combined was beginning to deteriorate the console at an alarming rate. It fizzled into hazy azure before reforming again into an image of the Emperor’s transcript. His pale eyes caught sight of it again, then gestured with one of his gauntlets. His rigid, slovenly voice continued to speak, “do you not see from this alone that He was genuine? Why would He even enlighten us in our final hours if not to give us this chance?”

“It is because He wants us to die, either by the blades of Kalagann or from within,” Alexamandes spoke out, slobber clinging to his lip in an uncharacteristic frown. His words were spoken through barred teeth like a snarling dog. No longer did the booming sound of his hearty lungs fill the room, each utterance reduced to disgusted mewling. The gregarious warlord of the Phoenixes was no more, reduced to a disdainful warrior akin to many of the other Primarchs. Napoleos rose up immediately, cutting the air with his hand in a defiant manner.

“You disgust me. Think of all our siblings that’ve perished. Did you forget about their absence? Do you only think for yourselves? They will never know Unity or scour the stars with Him, yet you all mewl here when it is in sight,” Napoleos yelled. He’d never forget Vladorios’ final remarks, nor the moments that the Custodes had allowed them in their fight for Indoi. He grit his teeth loud enough to audibly hear them crack. His eyes savagely darted between the warlords.

“You think we’d ever forget them!? Hundreds of thousands of Cataegis died for this day, Napoleos! Killed, replaced, and used by Him! Theaddon has the right of it, we are tools and experiments, but that doesn’t stop us from having a damned glorious ending!” Bodiciia roared in response, fuming with unmanaged rage. Her face darkened in anger. The bloodlust was palpable in her form, her hands reaching back for the power axe.

Each of the Primarchs felt the innate desire to draw their weapon as the Primarch of the Second dared to. The air was thick with violence and ignorance. The Custodes remained silent still, yet all turned their helmets a miniscule fraction of degrees as if assessing the situation. The Primarch of the First put a gauntlet on Bodiciia’s pauldron. His gesture was enough for her to hesitantly back down, opening up the floor once more for him to speak.

“Red. We have always known we were wasting away, dying in ways that Cataegis shouldn’t. Some were keener than others. I’ve had to mercy kill my warriors more than any commander should ever have to,” Aeternus, at last, replied to Theaddon. His hand instinctively went down to the sheath of his dagger, reminded of the promise he’d made with Amalasuntha. He regarded the rest of them with a steely gaze. Rex’s voice spoke out, “this is not how I wished for the Cataegis to end. I wished to fight alongside Him into the stars. I wished my warriors, my siblings, my friends, to be cured of their flaws. I wished to continue to slay gods.”

“I accept this end regardless of my wishes. It has never been – or never will be – a thought that I do not war beside our Master. Whether it is because we are tools, experiments, or defective goods. Whether we are replaced by something lesser or greater than us. We were made with a purpose. We are Thunder Warriors. We marched across Terra and brought it to heel through our strength. We are the sole arbitrators of Unification. We will forever be remembered as heroes. Nothing can ever take that away from us. Nothing ever will,” Aeternus concluded, his voice projecting out with pride. Nothing he said would be able to ease the pain of this betrayal, subjected to a quick death through campaign or slowly dying by geneflaw. This was all he could do as a leader of warriors. A solemn wish and an acceptance of the Emperor’s plans.

Red stood slowly, he had both hands folded on each other, and had since he had spoken, his face was full of disgust, not in the others, it was an inward hatred of himself, “Aeternus… I would like to speak privately sometime in the future. I do not think I, or most of us, can withstand this… discussion, and I feel it in the edges of my mind. I can contain it, but I would rather not fight those I’ve stood beside for so long, and I know if this topic continues, there will be a fight. What else is there to discuss, if anything?”

Apocalypsos, his eyes as unnervingly focused as after his first outburst, turned his gaze to Theadon.

“You have always been too craven to finish that which others started,” Apocalypsos spoke from gritted teeth, “but I do not believe that is the case here.” he looked now to Aeternus, pain evident on his features. He swept a hand across the Custodian Guard arrayed about the room, his wicked smile returning once more, “I will be cold and dead at the end of a worthy foe’s blade before I cross swords with another of His servants, I only hope that the rest of you can say the same.” Apocalypsos gave a nod to Aeternus now, a hint of the intellect behind the madness showing through for the briefest of moments.

“For as long as they’re His servants…” Ushotan grumbled cryptically, a hint of an ugly-looking smile at the corner of his otherwise rigid mouth, but said no more.

The First Primarch looked between the final three speakers and granted them a nod of acknowledgement. All of their eyes fell back on Aeternus as he placed both of his armored hands on the hololithic table. Grumbling, whispering, and groaning halted as the Lightning Bearer spoke once again. The flickering display on the table quickly switched to the sign of the raptor and lightning.

“Then there is nothing more to speak of. If this next fight is to be our last, then let it be known that I’ve cherished the glory of unifying Terra with all of you. Remember the fallen. Fight for the living. Bring glory in His name. Raptor Imperialis!” Aeternus finally said as he drew their attention in, slamming one of his fists against his chestplate in salute to the rest of the Primarchs. No matter their differences, Rex honored each and every one of them in his own way.

“Raptor Imperialis!” The remaining thirteen Thunder Primarchs responded with their own salutes, whether it be with fist or drawn weapon. Each slowly left with a variety of aggression on their tongues. Rex knew that the Custodes could hear each and every one of them. He could feel the gaze of Amalasuntha bearing down on those that left with burning eyes of hatred. A refused to move until the last pair of Primarchs in the chamber were himself and Theaddon.

“This is as private as it will get for us, Red. I wish we had had more time recently, so forgive me for holding off until now.” Aeternus sighed, rounding the table to stand next to the other Primarch. His words hung in the air of grievances unspoken across his many campaigns. He clapped an armored hand on his pauldron and offered a pained smile to the warrior. Despite all of the attrition his legion had suffered, Rex remained happy enough to enjoy the presence of his most treasured brethren.

“So speak with me as we once had in bygone days,” the Blade of the Emperor said, releasing the warrior’s shoulder and relaxing against the hololithic table.

Red stared at the man for a moment, instead of giving him a salute, it was a bear hug, “I do miss those times, Aeternus. Since the early campaigns, I have only seen you at these meetings or spoken to you through ciphered messages.” Theadon would eventually release the man and lean against the table as well, his hand waving over it a few times. “I still remember when my legion didn’t look like giants of mythos clad in the decay of fallen enemies, with trinkets adorning their armor. This next generation, I am thankful that the few sane ones left are able to pass down the knowledge and some of the traditions of my men before we pass.”

A genuine smile would rest upon the giant, “First, let us get the formal things out of the way, then I would be honored to reminisce before we depart again. The battlefield chosen for our deaths will be a good one, there is a small complex nearby, I would like to take it with you, it’s an ancient thing, and a small team is all we would need, crucial to take though, it is filled with ancient equipment, no doubt that when the planet is rebuilt it will likely become the hub of research in the area, or to archeologists. Still… the area I know well, while Apocalypsos words did strike home, there are few things I complete, not out of cravenness, but… I think this last one does, the thought of imminent death strikes itself into each of us, but so does our pride, or honor, whatever motivates us.” Red chuckled, “I know I did it for duty, there is no honor in slaughter and subterfuge. Scouting and being caught in an ambush could gain some, but what I have done I know not. It was a necessity to bring war machines down to their knees so someone like you could behead the beasts.”

Aeternus listened to Theaddon with closed eyes, reminiscing and enjoying the memories of their earliest campaigns. They were memories that he would never forget. He opened his eyes once more as Red finished, turning towards him with an apologetic look crossing his features. His gauntlets settled against the table as he mustered the will to reject his friend’s request.

“I cannot, Theaddon. Kalagann stands before us, hiding away in his citadel for our final assault. If the war in Ursh wasn’t coming to it’s conclusion, then I would relent,” the Thunder Primarch of the First Legion replied with soft words. There were many things that he still wished to do. Chasing after objectives with his siblings was one of his most cherished that remained. He bit back the desire and continued, “but this war is almost over and I only have fifty God-Slayers left to fight with. The Emperor will not spare me any further distraction.”

His attention briefly turned away from Theaddon to the looming shadows above them. He could barely identify the silhouette of the Black Hawk, yet Aeternus knew without a doubt that she was there. It was to her that he directed the final words to. A promise to finish what had been started decades ago in the mountains of the Himalazians. His eyes rested back on Red again, his hint made plain for the other Primarch to catch.

The hint was noted, and a smile continued on his face, “I figured, then send your sanest son, and I will do the same. They will live on, I found a curious individual, one who we have seen many times throughout the lifetimes of some mortals. They will be important to what we have created the foundation for, or at least that is what I was told. I know I figured out our roles long ago, and still saw the hope the small bit of humanity in me feels.”

“Rex, can I stand beside you then in our final hours? I have twelve sons of darkness left that are on the edge, and three that are as sane as they can be, two can go with two of yours to secure it. Just think about it, when in the final stages before the day.” Red slapped his friends back and chuckled a bit, “Regardless I know if you sent me in first, no matter how strong any of the other legions were, I would make it to him first, my ‘craven’ tactics.” Red would say mocking his sibling, “are still efficient, and can put me right where I want to be far faster than running headlong into the fangs of their biomonstrosities.”

“We will not perish so easily, my friend. You may continue to stand with me until the day that Unity no longer needs us.” Aeternus replied, knowing well enough that he had rejected whatever plan that Theaddon had been brewing. They had warred together for decades. He knew when the warrior was preparing for something beyond the scope of the campaign. One of his best and worst traits, he thought nostalgically. Rex would have to change the course of his desire.

“There isn’t much time left for us, Red. I will be leading the siege on Mosvoroth from the front with the rest of my God-Slayers,” the Thunder Warrior started to say, fully turning his armored body to Theaddon. There was a hard look in his eyes that echoed the solemn attitude that he had always exuded. He held a hand out to be taken, knowing well that Red may not accept his final proposition. Aeternus continued to speak after a short moment, “join me in my call for thunder. Just like we massacred through Akkad, join me in this final charge to bring down Kalagann.”

There was no room for maneuvering in his posture. As much as it was a friendly request, Aeternus offered an ultimatum that was left unsaid out of respect for his longest living companion. Join in the frontlines of Mosvoroth, or suffer in the reserves to fight another day on Terra. For that moment alone, the Primarch of the First felt like the Shield of the Emperor. Inflexible, solemn, and strong. It was as if the Emperor’s Black Blade perfectly reflected the First of the Custodes.

Red stared and nodded, nostalgia and hope plagued the man, but he took the hand, and gripped it tightly, pulling his longest friend to his chest, and wrapping him with his other arm, “I will always stand beside you, and if my duties did not require, I would have many times prior to this. If it was not my nature to run free on this world I would have stood beside you always… I did find it ironic that the most stoic one of us was the one I found to be my favorite to stand beside.”

“I will stand beside you, like Akkad. The last bastion of true resistance to the Emperor on this world will know not what hit it.” Red knew that reserves were not an option here, there was not enough of them to be considered reserves if it did not account for the newer generations of gene-forged warriors, “I would rather stand beside you in the end, not on some random part of the line.” He said quietly before releasing his friend.

“As it was always meant to be,” Aeternus responded with a sigh of relief. He brought his fist up his chest in a final salute to his friend and offered a scarred smile. “Meet with the last of your warriors and prepare them for what’s to come. Join the small corner where the God-Slayers are readying for war. Raptor Imperialis, Red.”

As Theaddon the Red echoed the salute and departed, the Primarch of the First turned back towards the hololithic table. His gauntlets typed several runes into the attached terminal, forcing a new hologram to illuminate the chamber. Mosvoroth, the Citadel of Kalagann, appeared as a digital facsimile with it’s outskirts snaking out like veins. Several symbols of the Raptor with attached numbers, sigils, and designations surrounded the fortress. Dark eyes remained fixed on the center of the location.

“Unity,” He breathed out.

---

Credits: @MarshalSolgriev (Aeternus, Napoleos, Alexamandes, Gilgamenses, Alfovathan, Bodiciia, Sunxian) @Oraculum (Ushotan, Jotharion, Charmagnol), @Lauder (Hannibal), @FrostedCaramel (Apocalypsos), @Jamesyco (Theaddon the Red)

[Terminal]

The Glinting Dark

Part I

---

>Terra
>South of Mt. Elbrus in the Caucasus Range
>The Enguri Basin
>Verge of the Nanotoxic Euxinus
>Several Years Prior to the End of the Unification War_

The Ethnarchy had long been stormed across from end to end and crushed by the Emperor's Thunder Warriors, but remnants of its covetous and perverse power remained.

Though the subterranean shield generator networks for the Ethnarchy's mountain holds had been extensively disrupted by the Empire's campaign, isolated strongholds without the Caucasus mountains with their own dedicated networks, remained intact for a time - only to be sieged and seized by the Empire in turn. In the final years of Terran Unification, only a few such bastions remained, owing more to their remoteness and tactical irrelevance than the strength of their defenses.

...All save one.

The subterranean arcology-civitas of Patara was a holdout of the Caucasus Ethnarchs, ruled over in isolation by the Ethnarch Anoxis and submerged beneath the Eastern tracts of the Nanotoxic Euxinus - that seething and inhospitable basin of land between Mt. Ararat and Mt. Elbrus where the remnants of failed (or perhaps malevolently successful) Dark-Age nanotechnology ventures had seeped into the oxygen-depleted groundwater and sediment of a long-dried sea. The entirety of the Euxinus was unlivable and hazardous to life, with its sludge of undifferentiated and rampant nanites breaking down anything organic in short order.

With avenues of supply and power from the Caucasus range severed by Imperial forces, Patara was left for later conquest in the hopes that time and isolation would vitiate its staunchness, the Ethnarch Anoxis left as a distant prize for the Khangba Marwu.

This hope would not come to fruition. Though no true hive, Patara remained a seat of dark-age technology, guarded by regiments of the last of the Ur-Khasis and held secure from bombardment and breaching by the dead, nanotoxic wastes above its still potent shield domes. Its people and slaves continued to flourish and to sally forth with regular and effective raiding bands. With but a single subterranean causeway accessing its depths from the heights of the Enguri basin, the approach was deemed a hazardous folly even by the redoubtable Thunder Warrior legions.

With the ultimate aim of Unification looming within reach of the Empire, it was determined that Patara had to be seized and the Ethnarch Anoxis either captured or destroyed, so as to deter any revanchist claims that might serve as a beacon for consolidated resistance. Yet the increasingly unsettled Thunder Warrior legions, already wearisome of the prospects of Unification's End, were discontent with relegation to such dismal odds for so piteous a prize, whilst the main lines of the new Legio Astartes were tasked and held in reserve with yet more portentous conflicts in mind.

Patara was a precarious and unusual pit - and so it was determined that the irritant would be matched by an equally precarious and unusual force. The first fielding of the diffident and contentious XXI Astartes Legion, numbering no more than a single battalion of five hundred for the crime of their errant geneline.

The siege of the Patara Arcology would either make or break the XXI Legion, providing the chance to prove themselves - either as worthy additions to the burgeoning Imperial forces, or else as unworthy waste to be cast aside and forgotten amidst the ashes of old Terra's myriad failures.

---

The hunched, ferrocrete causeway rising out from underneath the barren shoals of the Enguri basin was so heavily fortified and menaced with so many arcane instruments about its external perimeter that it would have made the Custodians of the Himalazians blush. Patara's defenders were as well-equipped as they were zealous - Shield dome pylons, the hallmark of the now bygone Ethnarchy - shielded the causeway entrance atop modest curtain walls rising from the dry basin slopes. The single-minded and literally restless Ur-Khasis super soldiers of the last Ethnarch crowded the perimeter, covering every vector of approach with a tight regime of patrols and lookouts. The eugenic programs that had devised them made them literally sleepless and possessed of keen, unwavering sensory focus. They had been bred to unquestioningly and unfailingly adhere to their duties without pause, and though their strength and speed fell short of an Astartes, they made up for the lack with physical resilience and numbers. There were nearly a hundred guarding the entry causeway alone. They had lookout towers, mortars, a modest tactical missile platform, several gravtanks, and the prudence to have mined the surrounding terrain.

Nearly four kilometers away, Plouxeides, First Captain of the XXI Legion's only Battalion, snorted as he peered into the jaws of the contemptuous enemy through the grainy resolution of an auspex.

"No gunships? I recall our briefing describing this pit as the most fortified approach this side of the Himalazias."

Plouxeides had been perhaps the most promising aspirant to be resoundly rejected by the screening for nearly every other active legion on Terra. In his brief adolescence prior to indoctrination he had been noted for his acumen, attentiveness, technical proficiency, as well as his luck - the dividends of a youth spent successfully scavenging and thieving in scrap-markets without losing any pieces. Only partial compatibility with hypnotherapy and indoctrination had made him unattractive for selection however, compounded by his ambiguous genetic stock. The locale he had been taken from had been rife with Mutants, and even though his profile had come back clean that little detail had been enough to send him plummeting down the list of viable candidates for induction.

That would have normally slated Plouxeides a spot on a reserve induction list for the IX Legion, if not for the unforeseen activation of the XXI Legion Geneline long after its predecessor Legions had already become well-established. The middling dregs, the almost-not-quite-rejects, and the thinnest standard of questionably acceptable inductees were called upon to fill the nascent Legion's ranks.

Plouxeides retained precious little memory of his life prior to indoctrination. Between his merely partial mental compatibility and the unexpected complications arising during implantation of the somewhat nonstandard XXI geneseed, he had even found himself losing words and history alongside everything else. He had still come out relatively ahead however - he had been the only survivor of the first batch on aspirants with the necessary qualities and temperament for Command training. Years later, and he now bore the questionable honor of leading the first and only Battalion of the XXI Legion, with the express understanding that its future would be either wrought or broken on his leadership.

Much like the remainder of those in the Legion, Plouxeides had highly androgynous facial features - a matter confused further by his shaved head, though his Thunder-pattern power armor concealed the proportions of the rest of his body. The bare, grey hue of the ceramite armor itself had not even been painted beyond the bare essentials of the XXI numerals emblazoned on the left pauldron, and a command emblem denoted by a prominent I, representing his status as First Captain.

"I suppose that was a joke, First." Hemeseke, the Fifth Company Captain. Sat next to Plouxeides, the two were virtually indistinguishable save for the color of their eyes and the differing numerals on their right pauldrons. "Though if one were to take the notion seriously, there could be concealed ramps for gunships to take off from."

"No. They are choking that causeway with murder, the last thing they would do is leave convenient access points that circumvent all of it." Plouxeides grimaced. "None of their raiding parties ever had gunships for that matter. What we see is what they have."

"In that case, with a massed charge, I think I would charitably estimate them needing a full thirty seconds to wipe out all five-hundred of us." Hemeseke opined neutrally. "Perhaps two full minutes if we stay at range and exchange volleys with our own armor."

Hemeseke, even prior to indoctrination, had been known for his seemingly sardonic mannerisms. Having suffered through indoctrination with him, Plouxeides knew that it was instead simply that Hemeseke had a tendency to state the patently obvious, typically to absurd and surreal effect - for that he was always completely serious. That he had somehow landed a command position spoke to the scarcity of viable candidates from amongst the survivors of the XXI geneseed.

Plouxeides glanced back at the roughshod staging area the First Battalion had encamped. Little more than the desolate ruins of what had presumably once been a coastal civitas, with enough of a hill to help obscure direct line of sight between them and the causeway in the basin below. The Battalion - his Battalion - had been shipped in via grav transports during nightfall to help them avoid detection by the enemy's auspex, with scarcely anything in the way of materiel beyond the promise that they would be joined midjourney by a convoy with heavy weapons, artillery, and armor so they could lay siege to Patara. The promised convoy had never materialized.

Plouxeides had ordered the Battalion to dig in their (momentarily) concealed position and for their technicians to send a low-gain encrypted vox message to the nearest Imperial relay while the scout elements of second through fourth companies took the lay of the ruins and the surrounding terrain while he and Hemeseke assessed the enemy fortification. Even with only the unwieldy field tools intended for menials from the transports, the Battalion had managed to dig out a perimeter trench and redundant command posts under the shelter of some of the more intact buildings. They still had several hours before dawn broke, but they could not stay here for long. The Ur-Khasis had scouts of their own that were bound to discover their position sooner rather than later.

Plouxeides and Hemeseke both slid down from the slopes of the outcrop overlooking the basin and began to head for one of the command posts, cautiously surveying their Astartes as they went. The marines all knelt and moved furtively about the encampment, using hand signals at a distance even in the dark for fear that the enemy would pick up high volumes of vox signaling. Their work thus far had been competent, with no disruptions or delays in their labor since arrival in spite of the absence of proper equipment, which was encouraging enough - though Plouxeides had a feeling the reports on the Battalion's disposition were going to be anything but.

They both made their way into the cleared interior of the dilapidated warehouse that was presently serving as their primary command outpost, the interior rife with scattered debris. Celerephon, Captain of the second company, nodded to them as they entered from where he stood a set of portable hololiths projecting a depiction of the surrounding area. Near the back of the warehouse proper, a team of the best technicians from the ranks of second company were fussing over a collection of vox-casters.

"First." Celerephon nodded curtly to Plouxeides.

"Report?" Plouxeides asked as he started to take in the hololith display. The projection was based on mapping that was several years out of date, and already he could spot several points that had been corrected based on the observations of the scout elements.

"Morale is already an issue." Celerephon declared flatly. "Our marines will charge into the jaws of death to stab into its brain, of course. Lieutenants are reporting that the men do not take to the work of menials readily however, and they are contemptuous of all this digging. They say the work itself, and holding out in a trench, puts them ill at ease."

"Not something they will need to endure for long if we do not receive our promised artillery." Plouxeides nodded and gestured to the haphazardly assembled vox-caster station near the back of the outpost. He had ordered for the technicians to send a low-gain, encrypted vox message to the nearest imperial relay to inquire about the convoy they had been promised. Relaying the low-powered message by relay would be slower than communicating with the Empire via uplink, but it would be far less likely for the message signal to be detected at range even by any dark age Auspex systems the Ur-Khasis might have at their disposal.

"Bad news on that front." Celerephon grimaced. "The convoy was re-routed. It will not be coming. I have already sent a return message expressing our displeasure and indicating that we will need more than volkites and tenacity to punch through here. We are still awaiting a reply."

Plouxeides frowned. The messages already took long enough to be transmitted back and forth via this indirect and tenuous method. They could ill afford the delay of Imperial logistics officers having to pour through their lists and conjure up new materiel out of the aether - not to mention it would take for it to get delivered. "Not ideal. For the moment we should proceed on the assumption we will not be receiving any additional supplies and should prepare a tactical plan on that basis."

Hemeseke gestured to the hololith. "There is no cover of any sort between the enemy fortification and our position here." He indicated unhelpfully. "The transports are armored but have pronounced target profiles. Approaching with them en-mass, the Battalion will face complete destruction in under two minutes within two kilometers. The enemy decisively outranges us. An amassed charge on foot would see the Battalion defeated in under thirty seconds."

"Such little faith." Celerephon commented.

"I have perfect faith. In the enemy's force projection capabilities." Hemeseke answered serenely.

"I take it there were no surprises during the squad inspections?" Plouxeides inquired.

Celerephon shook their head. "None. All tactical squads are carrying only standard armaments for low-intensity engagements due to our shortage prior to deployment. Volkite calivers with one spare cell per marine in each tactical squad. Our heavy weapons teams have a standard allotment of plasma cannons and meltaguns, though cells for both are likewise in low overall supply. We have similar shortage in our allotment of frag and krak grenades, though no squads are reporting a complete lack. Our transports are plentifully supplied with an abundance of stubber rounds for their top-mounted guns."

The shortage Celerephon spoke of had been nothing short of some manner of either logistical blunder or snubbing, with the Battalion simply not having received routine resupply of their armaments after the course of their live field-training and drills. A factor the Empire's strategic planners promised had been taken into consideration when the XXI had received its deployment orders - and now they found themselves under-equipped, outgunned, and outranged.

Plouxeides was not entirely soured just yet however. Their goal would be difficult to attain, but not impossible. "In the absence of artillery, it is true that we must approach the enemy fortifications directly. We maintain the element of surprise for the moment however, and dawn is not for several hours. If we cannot fairly match the enemy's force projection, then we will instead need to force the enemy to maneuver in a fashion to our advantage." He then gestured to the line of ruins along the rim of the hololithic projection of the basin. "The enemy does not know we have no artillery. We can send second company around to the far end of the basin North of our position, where they can reveal their presence and feign the erection of artillery, and send additional transports with them to create the impression they are more numerous than they seem without seeming unopposable to the Ur-Khasis, ideally prompting them to mount a sally to pre-empt bombardment of their shield dome."

"That is an Ethnarchy shield dome, and they know that just as well as us." Celerephon answered sourly. "They would not believe conventional bombardment to pose a risk."

"No, but bombardment does more than simply deteriorate the enemy position. It also serves as area denial." Plouxeides elaborated. "They would not risk a sally during active bombardment, so they will make an attempt to pre-empt. Especially if they believe second company is simply the advance element of a larger, approaching force - which we can perhaps suggest to them with the correct saturation of vox signaling. Then, during their sally, the remainder of the Battalion can charge their position with the remaining transports, supported by a second charge by the transports sent with the second company. The latter do not even have to be crewed, they just need to give the appearance of a mustered armor charge."

"Splitting the focus of the enemy. This can be exacerbated if we further split second company and their allocated resources between two positions. Our marines will have to put on quite the convincing performance to make them seem appropriately threatening, but it should be within our capabilities." Celerephon mused. "It would have the benefit of creating the impression of a pincer maneuver. The enemy would be unlikely to anticipate a third approach from the opposite direction."

"The enemy would not anticipate a third approach because regardless of the number or angle of approaching enemies, they are positioned to strike outwards in every direction already." Hemeseke declared. "This plan does not meaningfully reduce their capability to neutralize the Battalion, only their ability to concentrate their available weaponry on a single element. The second company is being set up to hypothetically split the focus of their alpha strike three ways, but the main force performing the real charge will still suffer disproportionately more casualties."

"Our circumstances are not ideal, heavy casualties during this charge are to be expected." Celerephon answered with suppressed irritation.

"This surprise third charge will also be across a span of four kilometers." Hemeseke then added, allowing the comment to stand on its own without further elaboration. Stark silence followed.

"...Astartes, measure for measure, are worth three times as many Ur-Khasis." Plouxeides stated calmly. "The third charge will have four hundred marines to it, and the Ur-Khasis stationed at the causeway number only a hundred. Fewer, if we can provoke a sally and outposition them."

"Because of the deception with the second company, these same Ur-Khasis will believe them to be the advance element of a larger force. They will alert Patara below, and reinforcements will be sent to bolster the causeway." Hemeseke answered. "Which may be done prior to the hypothetical sally itself."

Plouxeides visibly hesitated.

He was spared the agony of having to twist and contort the plan into an even more convoluted shape when a sergeant from the makeshift vox relay approached them.

"Captains." He saluted. "We have received an answer. A second convoy has been rerouted to stand in for the one we were supposed to rendezvous with. Containing two mechanized artillery units and two Battalion's worth of unspecified explosive munitions."

"Two Batta- Why, exactly? And what do you mean by unspecified?" Plouxeides permitted Celerephon to voice the obvious, disbelieving questions. As a matter of principle, he, the First Captain, should always remain composed in front of the rank and file marines.

"We gather that we are receiving what already happened to be in-transit nearby, sir." The sergeant indicated. "ETA is four hours."

"Daybreak." Hemeseke voiced what they all already knew.

"Unspecified munitions in that they are listed as an ancillary supply to the artillery units, but neither end of their original route have answered inquiries as to the exact composition. They might be shells for the artillery. They might be conventional explosives. We will not know until they arrive or unless logistics furnishes us with more details before then."

"Thank you sergeant. Return to your station, and inform your team that I want them to ply logistics as fervently as possible to provide us with additional details."

The sergeant backed away with another salute. The Captains waited until he had returned to his station before carrying on.

"This development would not seem to significantly alter our tactical disposition." Hemeseke declared plainly.

"Even assuming those are artillery shells being sent our way, two mechanized artillery units will not be enough to breach that shield dome. Not by a long shot." Celerephon fumed, frustration evident on their creased brow.

"The enemy will also doubtlessly become fully aware of our position shortly after daybreak, rendering our current tactical plan moot if we wait for them." Hemeseke unhelpfully carried on.

"If we send second company to new positions at the far end of the basin now, we can mount our charge right as the convoy arrives. It is mechanized artillery, we can have their fire covered by the third charge. That would at least prevent a sally and hopefully deteriorate the enemy minefield..." Plouxeides mused.

"Supply and materiel convoys of this nature - diverted from their original route - rarely arrive in accordance with their projected timeframe." Hemeseke interjected.

"We have little choice. If they do not arrive by daybreak, we will need to mount our charge regardless. We can leave a small detachment here to operate and guard the artillery itself once it does arrive. That might actually be preferable if the Ur-Khasis receive reinforcements from below, as you indicated. The vanguard of our third charge can mount a directed assault to disable the shield dome generator, and then retreat as we hold position outside the causeway perimeter while our artillery shells it."

"Hold position in empty barren terrain, without cover, with two units of artillery for support." Hemeseke summarized. Their intonation was perfectly mundane, not being even remotely accusatory or sardonic, but all the more scathing for how starkly it highlight the folly of their supposed plan.

Silence reigned between the three once more as Plouxeides and Celerephon shared a look.

"...Perhaps we should additionally consult with Third and Fourth-" Celerephon began to suggest when a sudden burst of vox chatter caused all three of them to start.

'Contact! Ur-Khasis have made sight of the perimeter!'

---

The battle, for all that the XXI drastically outnumbered the Ur-Khasis scouts, lasted far longer than it should have.

The Ur-Khasis did not attempt to flee or engage in any exotic maneuvers to extend the engagement. They had been bred and conditioned for perfect obedience and adherence to doctrine and orders, to a suicidal degree. From the moment they made contact with the XXI Legion, they approached and made the best effort possible to inflict as many losses as they could in spite of how lopsided the confrontation was. Being a mere scouting contingent, they had only been armed with autocannons. Against the Astartes, wreathed in power armor and partially entrenched with superior weaponry, they had not stood a chance.

But they had refused to die.

Volkite rays completely failed to ignite the enemy super-soldiers. Where it was customary for impact to instantly deflagrate the target, most of the Ur-Khasis suffered only contact burns. Even as their clothing burst into flames, the fiery accoutrements seemed incapable of igniting their bodies. The Ur-Khasis fought on, unfeeling of pain and seemingly impervious to combustion, only falling when the actual physical incineration of their bodies by repeated saturation fire finally reduced them past the point of being able to move. The final elements of the scouting contingent, leisurely having made its way to cover, had to be blown away by an assault team with meltaguns.

Plouxeides, Hemeseke, and Celerephon all stood in the makeshift medical pavilion of the encampment, examining the charred course of one of the dead Ur-Khasis as the medicae delivered their report.

"Enemy infantry exhibit pronounced resilience and cellular regeneration even post-mortem." The Chief Apothecary stated, applying a chain-blade to the deceased Ur-Khasis' arm. The mono-molecular blades, rated to cut through ceramite, bit into the carbon-scorched skin, parting it - but chipped and snapped in the process of doing so. As the implement was lifted away, the damaged tissue seemed to slough and flow to refill the gap, leaving a blackened, necrotic scar where the incision had been made. The Ur-Khasis remained still and lifeless, the biomonitor hooked to the corpse utterly silent.

"That does not conform to reports on their capabilities prior to the Ethnarchy's fall." Hemeseke muttered.

"Just so, Fifth. I had some technicians come and take a look on the assumption that they might have some manner of bionic implant that could be facilitating this...Which is more or less the case." The Chief Apothecary produced a glass vial filled with blackened, charcoal flakes. "Their tissues and organs are saturated with nanobots. We learned about these during indoctrination and medicae induction. This is dark age technology, known as Autosanguinarum. This particular culture seems specifically adapted to efficiently disperse and absorb thermal energy in addition to its more salubrious functions."

"And to resist deformation? They snapped your chainblade." Hemeseke pointed out.

"Not per se. We think. It is less the resilience of the nanobots and more the density of their proliferation. Each body we recovered was utterly saturated with them. We are not entirely certain. Our capability to fully study this in the field is limited."

"I take it such saturation is uncommon for this Autosanguinarum?" Celerephon inquired.

"Yes. In fact, it is virtually unheard of, even on top of nanobot technology being rare to begin with. None of our officers seem to recall any reports of the Ethnarchy fielding anything of this nature during the Caucasus conflict."

"If it is unlikely the Ethnarchy remnants here can manufacture nanobots to the required degree, in the alterative they may be harvesting and repurposing the nanotoxic sediment of the Euxinus." Hemeseke posed. "The original purpose of the sedimentary nanobots is unknown, but they are undifferentiated and blindly disassemble organic matter on contact. Neither remarkably dangerous nor useful in isolation since they aerosolize poorly, but the entire Euxinus is covered by a morass containing them. Producing this many nanobots might be beyond Patara's capabilities. But perhaps not repurposing them."

"Enough. Apothecary, thank you for your analysis. Second, Fifth, we should return to the command post and-" Plouxeides halted abruptly as the biomonitor hooked to the apparent corpse of the Ur-Khasis suddenly sounded to life, the beeping indications of a pulse rising and falling with the lines of data depicted on its pict-screen. All four of the assembled Astartes stared down at the supposedly dead body. Its fingers twitched.

All three of the Captains unsheathed combat knives and plunged them into the body's skull, chest, and abdomen repeatedly until the biomonitor stopped again. Withdrawing their blades, the edges of all three had been badly warped and chipped from the repeated strikes.

"Send heavy weapon teams to destroy the remaining bodies. I do not want them intact long enough to see if these nanobots can actually fully return them to life." Plouxeides ordered. "Have all squads resume use of their vox systems, the enemy already knows we are here regardless.

"First, perhaps we should signal Empire Command and let them know of this development. This manner of development has strategic implications, and Patara is now clearly beyond our capabili-" Celerephon tried.

"Not another word." Plouxeides spat out icily. "We will discuss this back at the command post. In private, Second."

---

"We are not calling for additional assistance."

Plouxeides' words had the finality of an executioner's pronouncement.

"The prior engagement was with scout elements. If all Ur-Khasis have similar nanobot saturation, our volkite weapons will be all but useless against their main elements." Hemeseke remarked.

"I know that. What I also know is that if we do not seize Patara, the XXI will be dismantled and dismissed in its entirety. Every step of our deployment here has been fraught with signs of disfavor, and I trust you both remember the sentiments of our instructors during induction." Plouxeides seethed.

"And Command has already declined to reroute any additional supplies to us for the foreseeable future." Celerephon mused. "A less scrupulous force of the Emperor's might, in the hypothetical, contemplate desertion."

"Just as I am now, in the hypothetical, contemplating stripping you of your rank and privileges and erasing every mention of your name from the legion charter to underscore your execution for that insinuation, Second." Plouxeides' glare alone could have been used as a substitute for a Deathstrike missile. "If I hear so much as a whispered shadow of such an insinuation from anybody again, I will assume you to be responsible for it. Contemplate such a thing at your peril."

"As is only proper!" Celerephon declared in a higher pitch than normal, barely managing to not stammer over their own words.

"Get out. Send in Third. We are in need of sterner counsel." Plouxeides spat. Celerephon saluted and departed the warehouse as swiftly as they could without breaking out into a run.

"The enemy knows our position and presumably our disposition by now. Our primary weapons are ineffective against their infantry, and we must now assume the need for a new plan to approach the causeway now that we have lost the element of surprise." Hemeseke stated clinically.

"Yes, thank you, Fifth. I am aware." Plouxeides did not quite shout.

Moments later, Karnebrand, Third Captain of the XXI Legion, entered the warehouse and joined the two of them. Noteworthy for his commendable talent for melee combat, his frame was taller and leaner than those of the First and Fifth Captains, though there remained precious little else to distinguish them visually.

"First. Fifth." He saluted. Plouxeides swiftly summarized the tactical situation.

"In the absence of other feasible options, I think it would be best if we continued to fortify this position and awaited the arrival of our artillery." Karnebrand indicated. "Approaching the enemy position with any hope of meaningfully seizing it is not merely unrealistic, but doomed. With artillery, we can perhaps still threaten enemy deployment capability and force them to sally. Outside of their defenses and against ours, even with the issue of their Autosanguinarum, we should have a qualitative edge over them. If we can secure a decisive field victory of any sort, there is always the possibility of repurposing enemy materiel, creating new tactical opportunities. Which brings me to a question I have: How has the Ethnarch Anoxis allotted for the possibility of dissent?"

"Dissent? Impossible. Not with the Ur-Khasis. They are too obedient." Plouxeides remarked.

"Not explicitly to the Ethnarch. To their handlers, who are subordinate. The Ethnarchy proper had bureaucratic and strategic measures to prevent coups, but Patara is a single civitas. The handlers and commanders of the Ur-Khasis will have disproportionately more power and influence than they would have had in the past. Anoxis would not allow for that unless he were supremely foolish, which means there must exist a contingency to deal with Ur-Khasis who have been suborned."

"...and it would have to be something easy to use or distribute." Plouxeides ventured. "He would not have used any manner of broad kill-switch that could be turned against him. It would be something conventional-" He broke off abruptly and raised a hand to his helmet, activating his vox.

'Fourth, have all weaponry recovered from the Ur-Khasis sent to our technicians and analyzed for anomalous capabilities.'

---

"These are not normal autocannons or ammunition for them." A marine technician later explained to the Captains, a table with an example of the dismantle weapon and some of its ammunition laid out neatly before them. "The main body of each weapon has been altered to conduct a faint electric charge through the barrel. This has no practical effect on the performance of either the weapon or its ammunition, though it probably causes excessive static to build up over time, which could be...hazardous around various forms of munition." They then raised one of the 25mm caliber bullets and shined their helmet light on it. "The alloy of each bullet, in the meantime, has been doped to conduct charge imparted to it and upon impact. As mentioned, this charge is all but negligible and would normally have no practical effect on impact. However, when we tested these rounds from these weapons on some of the enemy remains alongside stubber rounds from the transports for comparison, the autocannon rounds penetrate more reliably and impart far greater cavitation. Even accounting for the difference in performance between stubber and autocannon rounds of this caliber, the difference in effect is substantial."

"A universal principle of culture. The weapons they devise are always intended for effective use against themselves first." Plouxeides quipped. "Now if only we had any arc weapons, we would be well positioned to exploit this particular feature of the nanobots."

"So to have any hope of defeating the enemy, we must first defeat them in detail and procure their own weapons to then use against them." Hemeseke stated.

"Unless there is any feasibility to altering our own weapons here in the field?" Plouxeides asked. The technician shook their head. "Out of the question. The volkites and plasma cannons are far too intricate, not to mention volatile, for effective field modification."

"Both volkite rays and plasma pulses already have significant electrical elements entailed, due to their nature. Why does that not suffice?" Hemeseke inquired.

"We suspect it is more of a programmed failsafe of the nanobots than it is a general vulnerability. A specific range of amplitude, and altering that sort of property in energy weapons is beyond the scope of our training, Captain."

"We do not need to alter any of our ranged weapons." Karnebrand declared. He drew his chainblade from his belt. "Every marine of the XXI already has either a standard combat knife, or a chainblade in the case of our close combat squads. Those would seem much easier to impart with the necessary electric charge."

"That should be just about feasible, sir. Although there is the problem of the power source. The only abundant power cells we have on hand are for our volkites and plasma cannons, and those are in low supply. To arm ourselves, we would have to...disarm ourselves."

Plouxeides shook his head. "Even a fool knows never to bring a knife to a gun fight unless they have no other choice, Third. An interesting thought, but we should explore other options first." The declaration soured Karnebrand's expression notably.

"Captains." A sergeant entered the command post with a swift salute. "It is now daybreak, and we have had a small miracle straight from the Emperor himself. The convoy has arrived on-time."

---

The so-called 'convoy' was nothing more than three vehicles. Two Basilisks and a Chimera, the latter of which was presently having a series of munitions crates unloaded from its rear hatch by a marine quad. The Human Lieutenant between both of the Basilisks approached the three Captains as they advanced towards the trio of vehicles.

"Lieutenant Karbosi at your services, Astartes." He saluted them. Plouxeides squinted at him - the man was wearing an imperial greatcoat with attendant regalia and an officer's cap, surely enough. "You have the privilege of beholding the overdue mechanized units from the Mt. Elbrus manufactorum's last production cycle. I was briefed by your vox team on the way over, my sympathies for your - and I suppose our circumstances now. I'll tell you right now, we've only got the shells that are standard for initial deployment. Forty between both Basilisks here. High explosive ordinance with fragmentation casing and timed fuses, suitable for both static bombardment and anti-air fire against light aircraft." The Lieutenant then glanced out towards the perimeter.

"...Likely not rated to do frakking shit against that shield dome."

"Yes, thank you lieutenant. Though if your Basilisks are already carrying their ordinance, than what are...?" Karnebrand asked, gesturing to the crates being unloaded from the Chimera even as one of the marines hauled one over for their inspection. He set the crate down and pulled back the cover, revealing the content.

"...Grenades." The Lieutenant offered in a desultory tone, gesturing towards the collection. All three Captains frowned as they peered at the munitions. "Blind Grenades, also known as Chaff Grenades, enough to equip two full field Battalions."

"Chaff grenades?" Karnebrand repeated, clearly unimpressed.

"Yessir. Rated to completely frak up vox and auspex, and thicker than shit. I get the impression these were meant to be distributed across the entire Eastern theater, rather than sent to just any one army. Lucky you I guess, eh?"

"You are familiar with their use?"

"Only in the colloquial sense, sir. These things are apparently nearly as much trouble to the person using them as to the enemy. It's good for confined spaces and close quarters. You can technically use them in the open, but the chaff fragments have large surface volume. Get blown away by wind really quickly."

"Admittedly those would perhaps be rather useful if we could manage to get inside Patara proper, being a subterranean arcology. Unfortunately we've got four kilometers of open terrain to get across and not even Astartes can throw that far." Hemeseke commented.

Plouxeides had remained silent as the exchange had transpired, looking between the Basilisks and the munitions crates being unloaded from the Chimera. "Thank you for your timely arrival, Lieutenant." He finally remarked curtly. "Third, Fifth, we are returning to post. You there, sergeant - move all of these munitions with the Basilisks behind the warehouse together and assemble our technicians. They will receive new directives shortly."

---

"I am intrigued, First." Karnebrand allowed once all three of the Captains had returned to their field strategium. "I take it you have some manner of plan?"

"Trying to bombard the shield dome with just two Basilisks and their limited ordinance is a futile endeavor. The chaff grenades might be hypothetically useful close up, but without dedicated launchers for them there is no way we could reliably walk them as cover for a charge." Plouxeides began to explain. "The enemy position also has mortars on their curtain walls, so even if we could walk covering fire, they could freely bombard our approach. The chaff will only be useful if we can deploy it directly on top of the enemy position."

Plouxeides then pulled up a hololithic schematic for standard Earthshaker shells. "As the lieutenant mentioned, standard shells for Earthshaker canons have timed fuses and fragmentation casing so they can serve a dual-role as anti-air ordinance. Their high explosive payload is useless to us, but if they could be replaced..."

"You want to shell the enemy fortifications with improvised chaff artillery." Hemeseke stated.

Plouxeides nodded. "Yes. We will see whether or not our technicians are up to the task soon. For the moment, let us entertain a plan of approach under the assumption the enemy position has been saturated with chaff."

"The chaff is rated to scramble short range vox and auspex. Enemy communications will be disrupted, and even if they send out spotters, they will not be able to signal back inside the curtain walls either by vox or hand signals." Hemeseke mulled.

"We are ignoring the obvious here. Lest we forget, the causeway is still fully shielded." Karnebrand shook his head, making an offhand slashing gesture. "Even with timed fuses to dispense the chaff early, it will all disintegrate on contact with the shield, or else settle over it until the wind blows it away. A thin curtain of chaff around the enemy perimeter will not be useful for a full charge across that distance. We would need complete saturation of the interior position."

"Yes, so instead of aiming over the top, our designated target is instead the curtain walls themselves." Plouxeides enhanced the view of the enemy fortifications. "Where the dome terminates through its perimeter pylons. There is a small gap between the curtain wall and the shield dome. A shell with a shaped charge detonating there will fill the entire dome with chaff, and with the shield stopping wind currents from getting through, it will not go anywhere quickly. The enemy will be drowning in it."

"Earthshaker cannons are not known for their accuracy." Hemeseke provided. "Even if we had them zero in on the curtain walls with regular shells first, there is no guarantee we can land a chaff shell in that small gap. Nor even one amongst a dozen shells. We will also need multiple shells on-target to fully saturate the interior fortification with chaff, and even if we substitute a full Battalion's worth of grenades for the shell payloads, we will be limited to forty shots. If by some impressive measure of chance we land the first shot, but cannot land the second in a timely fashion, the enemy may also devise a countermeasure before we can capitalize."

"Perhaps. However, let us assume, if only for the sake of the hypothetical, that we manage to land multiple shells on the curtain walls and saturate the enemy fortifications with chaff. What is the enemy response?"

"Sallying with their armor and infantry." Hemeseke stated. Then, after a momentary pause, he added, "...dropping the shield dome to disperse the chaff."

"Both reasonable actions. However, I do not think either will happen. These are the Ur-Khasis, remember. They will obey their orders to the letter, and damn the circumstances. The enemy will not be able to vox each other if all goes according to plan. There is a possibility the Ur-Khasis will simply hold position even with zero visibility."

"That visibility will apply to our own troops as well, once we make contact with the fortifications." Hemeseke remarked. "Then our vox and auspex will also be hindered, and only our meltaguns remain fully effective against the Ur-Khasis. Meltaguns which will have to be blind-fired at close range."

"Third, can your close combat squads take the enemy position under those conditions?" Plouxeides inquired.

Karnebrand mulled over the proposition for several moments before shaking his head. "Not while drowning in that sort of murk, no. Not without using suitlights for IFF, which would defeat the purpose. The squads would need a way to tell friend from foe and to maintain unit cohesion."

"Well. Let us consult with our technicians then. They have had ample time to assess the task at hand. Let us see how well they can handle it." Plouxeides declared.

Minutes later, one of the marine technicians approached the field strategium with a salute and delivered their findings. "The proposed adjustments to the Basilisk shells are not problematic, though they are labor intensive with only the tools available. Individual grenades can be disassembled and their payloads distributed inside the fragmentation casing for each shell, but it will have to be done by hand. We would need several hours to make the adjustments. We have also performed limited tests with some of the grenades - that is some of the most infuriating ordinance I have ever personally seen fielded. The chaff disperses a little too quickly for sustained field coverage and is so debilitatingly disruptive at close quarters it is just as much of a danger to the user as the enemy. At a guess, it must have been designed for trench warfare. Even floodlights do not help at full saturation. It just makes the murk brighter without being able to see through it, ruins infrared and thermal auspex, and vox in or out of the affected areas is virtually impossible."

"Good to hear, technician." Plouxeides stated in a clipped tone. "In addition to the proposed field adjustments then, I am tasking the technician corps to devise a technical solution to effectuate IFF at close quarters amongst our own marines under the assumption they will be fighting in it."

"...I see, sir. Any other formidable labors in the name of the Emperor you would like us to perform while we are at it?"

"Yes. Identify a way to run electric charge through our combat knives and chainblades without needing to use power cells from our weapons." Karnebrand added.

"If it can be done without resorting to forbidden prayer, we will do it. I would like to caution that dividing our efforts between all of these tasks may result in our efforts taking considerably longer than previously estimated."

"We are no longer pressed for time on this matter, technician. Work with expediency, but do not rush." Plouxeides nodded before dismissing the technician.

"We no longer have to worry about time since the enemy already knows where we are and what our disposition is. They almost certainly have long-ranged auspex trained in our direction now, and they will have noticed the arrival of the Basilisks. It is inevitable they will field multiple assaults on our position." Hemeseke indicated. "Likely with armor and heavy weapons, not just scouts like before."

"It is worse than that. I suspect they may use some of those missile platforms we spotted inside their curtain walls. We are going to need to use the Basilisks to screen against those." Plouxeides reoriented the hololithic display to depict the XXI Battalion's perimeter. "They may think we are an advance force, and so will not fully commit for fear of having the bulk of their own forces caught in the open by reinforcements. They will send a specialized force, aproportioned, armed, and with orders to make a directed strike with the intent to inflict as much damage as possible with the least amount of force expenditure. Likely a suicide attack, given the nature of the Ur-Khasis. How would you task an assault for our position?"

"Advance field mortars with light armor elements to screen them, while sending infantry to flank." Karnebrand widened the tactical display and designated markers for the described enemy force. "No more than one or two-hundred men altogether, I would want the mortars to do the bulk of my killing for me. Our position has an elevation advantage, but if I can spot coordinates for tactical missile strikes from further afield, I would use that to negate the advantage of enemy armor, especially if I know they only have light personnel carriers. Then I would launch a full send on the most likely enemy command position, synchronized to the infantry flanking maneuver in order to disrupt their capability to respond fully. I would arm the infantry with assault launchers to maximize collateral damage and negate cover from trenches and dugouts."

"It is futile to make such advanced speculation without knowing what forces the enemy has available to them. Third's assessment is perhaps a reasonable worst case scenario." Hemeseke stated. "The enemy's tactics cannot be meaningfully or precisely predetermined, so we should force the option select. We have Basilisks. We should use them. They will not send out any force into active bombardment."

"We only have forty shells and you already stated earlier that we cannot guarantee accurate strikes on the curtain walls. We might well need all available shells to land those." Karnebrand objected.

"We do not need to achieve anything in particular with our bombardment. We only need to convince the enemy that we are capable and willing to do so, and only for long enough for our technicians to finish their work. If we fire two shells every half-hour, we can given the impression we are walking shots to zero in each span of the approach vector. We can use the opportunity to try and draw exact firing configurations to hit the curtain wall. The enemy will likely try to use their tactical missiles to counter, so we should have one Basilisk dedicated to screening and the other to bombardment. Assuming the enemy does not have an overabundance of missiles, we should not need more than twenty five shells total. Perhaps thirty to be conservative."

"Assuming the screening efforts are effective. Basilisks are intended to be fielded in large numbers, we have two. They might only have time for one or two shots before a missile can cross the expanse." Plouxeides remarked.

"So use some of the chaff shells as they become available. The shells have timed fuses. We can have them detonate ahead of each missile with the aim of disrupting their targeting, rather than needing to outright destroy them..."

The planning session carried on for nearly twenty minutes before Plouxeides dismissed the other Captains, and they set about issuing their orders and preparations.

---

The long hours spent by the Legion defending the perimeter had gone by uneventfully. One of the Basilisks had delivered periodic fire to the fortified causeway once every fifteen minutes. The Ur-Khasis had not sallied forth. They had launched a single missile three hours into the leisurely bombardment, and the second Basilisk had shot it down, fragmentation from a near-hit sending the missile off-course to careen explosively into the basin. Neither side had moved, both preferring to stand in uneasy vigilance of each other.

Just after noon, as Sol rose to to the heart of the murky, polluted sky, the teams of technicians reported breakthroughs with their tasks.

"The chaff from the blind grenades, at high volumes of saturation, is virtually impossible to see through at long distances. We have devised a plausible workaround that will allow for IFF designation at close to medium range." He set a spare Thunder Armor helmet on a makeshift workbench, and beside it, a sealed canister emblazoned with an ancient radiation hazard sign. "We are fortunate that there was a fusion dome ruin nearby that did not properly dispose of its byproducts. Our scouts have obtained several of these - isotopic nuclear material. When reduced to power and mixed with paint, the result is unremarkable to the naked eye, with a faint heat profile visible via thermal and infrared."

"Are not both forms of auspex defeated by the chaff?" Karnebrand asked.

"Yes, but we will not be using either. Instead, we will dope the surveyor panes of our helmets with a different isotope that is sensitive to the radiation of the isotopes in the paint, inducing luminescence. The outer pane can then be polarized in one-direction, so only the wearer will see it. In practice, the chaff still severely scatters and defracts the radiation emanating from the paint, so the source is fussy and vague. To get around that..." The technician gestured to one of their peers standing nearby, the trim of their armor showing evidence of fresh paint having been applied - an unremarkable earthy bronze in coloration.

"...With the trim of the armor fully painted, this results in a more definite outline visible even amidst the chaff, and only to our own marines. Or at least, only those individuals with the correctly treated surveyors." The technician tapped on the helmet pane once more.

"This process is laborious here in the field however, to speak nothing of the limited materials. We can perhaps alter enough helmets for four close combat squads, no more."

"On that very subject, I am told you have devised a means to charge our close quarters wargear?"

"Not for the chainblades, no. All of our models are fueled with prometheum and it would take too long to long to make them work the way we have in mind. The combat knives, on the other hand, are viable. By removing an armor panel on the wielder's dominant hand, we can graft the knife handle into the hand's fiber bundles, and it can draw charge directly from the armor's power system - moderated to necessary levels with some minor adjustments. This is not complicated, but once more, labor intensive."

"So it will effectively approximate a rudimentary lightning claw?" Karnebrand beamed at the very suggestion of the notion.

"Absolutely not. A lightning claw has a power field that can disintegrate adamantium. These will be conducting just enough electric charge to startle an anxious goat." Karnebrand frowned.

"They had better work, technician."

"They work on the remains we have. I can promise very little regarding the living enemy combatants."

Hours passed. The sun began its slow descent across the western sky. The Basilisks continued their sporadic fire, ever so slowly walking shots up to the causeway's perimeter of low curtain walls. As the sun began to approach the Western horizon, the XXI technicians reported back to command.

"All preparations completed, First Captain." A technician announced to Plouxeides in the field strategium. "We were able to modify forty shells to expel chaff on impact. Close combat squads from second and third companies have all been equipped with augmented combat knives and isotope surveyors. The remaining chaff grenades have been distributed according to your orders, with priority to the close combat and heavy weapon squads."

"Good." Plouxeides smirked faintly, feeling an anticipatory rush creeping up on him. Soon, they would crack Patara's shielded causeway open, where nobody else had either dared or cared to. "Return to your squad and prepare to fall in with the rest of your company, our assault will begin soon."

He then signaled Lieutenant Karbosi via vox. "Lieutenant, our preparations are complete. Prepare both of your Basilisks to fire for the enemy curtain walls. I hope the day of regimented fire has furnished you with the necessary calibration for the shots we need from your guns."

'We can only hope, Captain. Basilisks aren't meant for precision bombardment, but if we can't hit two shots on those walls out of forty, I will accept summary execution for failing the Emperor. Just you watch, we'll get you those hits.'

The entirety of the XXI Battalion boarded their grav transports, all prepared to depart and turn into the basin wastes for their presumptive charge against the causeway. The Basilisk crews worked with feverish intensity to change out shells while Lieutenant Karbosi triple-checked grid coordinates, hunched over a hololith depicting the target site along with the gunners for both vehicles.

Minutes later, he asked for assent to fire.

"Drown them in the darkness of our contempt, Lieutenant." Plouxeides uttered. The first Basilisk fired - fifteen seconds later, the second followed, their two guns falling into a regular, staggered drumbeat of thunderous blasts that shamed their previous, somnolent rate of fire.

The first shell made impact well short of the causeway's curtain walls, its fragmentation shell bursting on impact and scattered dense chaff across nearly forty meters in front of the enemy fortifications. The distant figures of the Ur-Khasis did not move from their positions and posts, standing ready to obey the exact orders they had last received.

The second shell went too high, slamming into the shield dome directly and disintegrating on impact, its fuse triggering too late to salvage much of the its payload. The third shell struck the curtain wall on its exterior base, throwing plenty of chaff up and over its battlements but failing to disperse any of it much further than that. The fourth shell landed short. The fifth...

One by one, the staggered volley of Earthshaker shells impacted the terrain about the causeway's Eastern curtain walls. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty - none had made their mark yet. Then - the unlikely happened.

The twenty-fourth shell fired by the Basilisks fell perfectly into the gap between the shield dome and the curtain wall. It impacted the battlements, and then skipped at an angle - shooting forwards nearly parallel to the ground and slamming into the base of one of the shield dome's curtain pylons before detonating. The force behind the explosion was largely perfunctory, only serving to spread the concentrated material payload throughout the interior of the fortified perimeter. The pylon was largely undamage - but the kinetic force from the impact caused the pylon to tilt and crane away from the Eastern battlement by nearly half a meter. Almost imperceptibly, the volume of the shield dome warped, its hem across that segment of the curtain walls raised and pulled back faintly.

The twenty-eighth shot fell neatly into the exposed area of space above the curtain wall, where before the shield dome would have intercepted it. The shell slammed directly into the Eastern half of the inner perimeter, dispersing its contents on impact.

The entire shield dome now looked perfectly like some manner of profaned ornamental arco-globe, the wavering, glass-like mirage of the shield dome containing the grimy, silvery-textured film of scintillating flakes that whorled about the interior, settling in place, suspended in the air and blanketing the ground and structures inside indelibly.

Plouxeides wasted no time. "Lieutenant, keep firing. I want that perimeter kept dark. Astartes of the XXI! Now is the time to bring ruination to the enemies of the Emperor! For his honor, and the glory of Terra and Sol United, CHARGE!"

The grab transports, all at once, pulled away from the encampment and descended into the Enguri basin to charge across the seething muck of the Euxinus in a long line more than a kilometer long. The drivers pushed the machines to their limits, speeding forward with complete, unstoppably reckless speed, each of them redlining to accelerate to a speed of nearly sixty kilometers an hour. If the chaff saturating the Ur-Khasis' position was working as intended, they would be completely blind to the approach of the XXI Battalion, and their rigidly brittle obedience would deter them from firing blindly out from the murk they found themselves shrouded in.

If the measure was not working, the Ur-Khasis would open fire with their perimeter defenses and the entire line of grav transports would be reduced to smouldering wrecks sinking into the dross of the Euxinus before they got even halfway towards their objective.

Plouxeides could feel the tension building in his muscles - the phantom sensation of bile rising in his throat. Reflexively he breathed in and out, both of his hearts starting to hammer faster in his chest as he worked himself into a battle fervor. Either he would die in an instant before he knew what had hit him, or he would lead the XXI to a carefully manufactured and brutal victory against the hated enemy that would go down in history.

The line of transports speared across the churning wastes of the Euxinus, racing over nearly a kilometer downhill in just a little over a minute. No enemy fire broke out from amongst the causeway's curtain walls. At the time minute mark, the line of craft was halfway there, and its edges began to curve inward so as to surround the enemy front. Still there was no incoming fire.

'The chaff has to be working. They should have no idea that we are about to slam into them. They are probably still stumbling about trying to figure out what is going on.' Plouxeides thought to himself as he gripped at his carrier harness hard enough to leave impressions in the metal.

Three minutes had passed. A third chaff shell from Lieutenant Karbosi's Basilisks had punched past the shield dome and caused the dense, heavy particulate fog inside to surge so thick that it began to pour over the edge of each curtain wall in every direction, surrounding the entire outer perimeter with oppressively thick clouds of blinding material. The rain of shells stopped then, the Lieutenant calling the artillery to cease fire now that the XXI were about to make contact with the objective.

At four minutes, the grav vehicles all almost perversely began to slow so as not to crash headlong into the curtain walls, the transports drifting to a slow halt. Marines began to pile out from the transports in droves, and that was when the fighting began. The interior of the enemy perimeter was completely saturated, alongside the curtain walls - but the Ur-Khasis' ears still worked. They began to fire at the enemy they could hear if not see with lascannons, multi-las, and heavy mounted autocannons, blind-firing out across the slopes. The XXI's grav transports returned fire with their top-mounted stubbers, in spite of having no real capability to harm the Ur-Khasis or damage their weapon emplacements. Marines fell into ordered firing lines, enemy fire streaming clear over their heads, and began unleashing volkite fire onto the curtain walls as their assault and close combat squads charged for the gates.

All five Captains of the XXI were counted amongst the spearhead assault towards the gate, accompanied by assault squads with meltaguns. As close as they were to the base of the curtain walls now, the seeping haze of the chaff they had deployed now towered in front of them, like an incoming, silvery tidal wave. The spearhead surged forward into the fog, and an eerie gloom descended upon them all just as the sun began to fall below the Western horizon, casting the whole of the causeway into twilight, and the depths of the silvery tides within it into oppressive darkness.

Now charging through the thick particulate murk, Plouxeides took in the disquieting morass he found himself in. The enemy position was well illuminated with floodlights, their sources faintly discernable as the suggestion of shape in the far distance, but otherwise the only purpose the brilliant illumination served was to turn transform the gloom into a blinding mist of sharp, scintillating iridescent flakes of drifting metal, each sliver lit up like a nova in the reaches of space, all packed more tightly than the stars in the galactic core. If not for the Astartes' occulobe enhanced eyesight and their polarized surveyors, they would have assuredly been blinded.

Not even having made contact with the gate yet, already Plouxeides could not so much as see the tip of his combat knife in front of him. The cascade of vox-messages, callouts, and signals had faded into a jumbled static fuzz in his ears. The tactical display had automatically disabled the shrill series of automatic alarms and alerts to prevent an overload. With the thick muck nearly engulfing his boots, it was almost like walking across the bottom of some sharp and bright alien sea. He breathed in and out, and each inhalation brought with it countless sharpened, jagged shards of metal that forced him to violently spit with the full force of his betcher glands to be rid of.

Looking to either side, Plouxeides immediately realized that there was too much ambient illumination for him to make out the luminescent reaction of his surveyor - forcing him to momentarily stop in his tracks and adjust the configuration for the pane, compensating for the blinding illumination and dimming his field of view enough until he could finally see the outlines of his brothers. The isotope-laden paint lining the trim of their armor created an illusory pattern of reactions across his surveyor, creating a disorienting two-dimensional impression of lines roughly indicating in what direction another of his Astartes was located. The measures of the XXI's technicians had been crude, but he could at least make an educated guess as to where all of his marines were nearby to avoid friendly fire.

Now just for the small matter of locating the enemy...

The spearhead reached the gates just as the billowing sound of a grab transport exploding roared over their heads, the shockwave from the detonation causing the chaff to be set aflurry like sediment-thick fluid around Plouxeides. Striding forward with one hand out, he stopped when it pushed against the surface of the gate.

"Astartes, meltas on this position! Give me an entrance!" Plouxeides roared out to anybody who could hear him nearby. He saw the blurry outlines of his men shift as they aimed at the gate - and he also felt the force of impact from several autocannon rounds fired down at him deflecting off of his armor. Uncaring of the inaccurate defensive fire, the assault squads fired on the gate with their meltaguns. The roaring fusion-fire caused the entire superstructure to groan as the outlines of the gate shuddered and distorted as residual heat poured through its frame. A stark halo-like outline appeared in the swirling murk before Plouxeides, a celestial ring hung in the aether.

"Charge! Take down the central pylon!" Plouxeides roared. The spearhead pushed through the opening, and the battle began in earnest.

While the XXI technicians had been hard at work with their technical modifications and the rank and file tactical squads had been patroling or fortifying the perimeter of the makeshift encampment they had now left far behind, the Company Captains had briefed their assault and close combat squads on the dimensions and layout of the causeway's fortifications from what could be seen via auspex and their enhanced vision. Each marine in the spearhead assault knew roughly what direction their objective lay in. All that remained was to advance while remaining mindful of their brothers, and killing anything that got in their way.

The attack proved both more and less challenging than anticipated. As the din of combat began to surround Plouxeides, less and less enemy fire came his way, the Ur-Khasis simply listening from the enemy no longer effective in such close proximity and with so much rampant weapons fire. The First Captain saw a few illuminated outlines of his marines fall as some unclear threat killed or maimed them, but far more were standing still than he had anticipated even in his most pessimistic estimations. Every time the spearhePlouxeidesad crashed into a line of the Ur-Khasis, the enemy soldiers were massacred in short order, the curving and sharpened outlines of his marines grappling with them and making swift, stabbing gestures or unleashing point-blank fusion blasts with one of their metaguns. When Plouxeides felt a spatter of gore drench his jawline, he knew they were on the verge of victory.

Abruptly, a monstrous figure loomed out from the thick swirls of the laden haze surrounding them, reaching out with bulging muscle-bound limbs to wrestle with Plouxeides. The Ur-Khasis was some manner of field officer. Not quite so tall as an Astartes, wearing an oversized field coat not entirely dissimilar from that used by the officer corps of the Imperial army. What struck Plouxeides about the enemy's appearance was their face and hands. They were heavily augmented with bionics, their entire low jaw having been replaced with a metal grinder. Their eyes were jet black marbles sunken in their skull, and vein-like wires rested splayed across their brow and cheeks as they snarled and came to grips with the First Captain. The knuckles and joints of their hands had been removed and replaced with what seemed to be concave metal bearings, with more wiring running along each digit.

As Plouxeides raised his combat knife almost in what seemed to be slow motion, the Ur-Khasis howled, and their right arm pulsed with a ponderous, overpressuring resonance. A pulsing power wreath surged along the length of the extremity and discharged in a fearsome bolt directly into Plouxeides's left arm, cleanly burning through his ceramite armor like it was tissue paper and causing the limb underneath to explode in a steaming haze of superheated viscera and blood.

Sucking in deeply, Plouxeides inhaled a sharpened gust of metal fragments that rushed down his throat to be met in turn by a rising gorge of blood surging upwards. The pain was like a brand that had been pressed to his consciousness, searing away any and all coherent thoughts - save for the blind, contemptuous battle-sadism impressed upon Plouxeides during his indoctrination. There may as well have been no pain at all, except as a heady chaser for the honed sharpness of the killing focus that had eclipsed the Captain's conscious thoughts.

There was another particular sensation as Plouxeides began to repeatedly plunge his combat dagger into the Ur-Khasis' officer's face that he could not quite filter or place in his new peculiar sensory experience. It was only as the officer began to fall limp, and when Plouxeides grabbed ahold with their right - and only - hand, stabbing into the officer's neck with their combat knife in the process, that he realized he was howling with laughing.

He raised an armored boot and plunged it into the officer's gut, sending them sprawling away as another arcing spray of blood splashed across the First Captain's face. Some semblance of cognition returning, they bit back the swell of blood building in their throat and swallowed, drinking down a measure of the Ur-Khasis blood in the process.

Almost immediately, Plouxeides felt some manner of churning, nucleonic and primordial reaction transpiring in their gut. An electric trill coursed through his body. For a split moment, he felt almost as if he could smell the blood of the hated enemy all around him - that he could sense its exact traces and course on the ground, across the armor of his marines, and pumping through the hearts of the damned. A heightened sensory clarity rushed across his awareness, and in the next moment he raised his plasma pistol, overcharged it, and shot a thundering bolt straight through the head of a second Ur-Khasis soldier that he had not seen, but had nonetheless somehow sensed, as certain as ceramite.

The moment of clarity passed. Plouxeides blinked, the sharpened hyper-awareness passing from his mind. He staggered and then spat as the extent of his injury caught up with him. Just based on the searing hear digging a jagged blade into his side, he was certain that his entire left arm up to the shoulder was gone. He felt oddly lopsided beyond what its simply loss would suggest, so his pauldron had probably fallen off for that matter, and his black carapace had likely been ruptured. One of his hearts might have collapsed. Even his Larraman cells were not going to be able to fix damage that extensive. He was running on fumes and was liable to either segue into a hibernator coma or fall over dead at any moment.

"First Captain, the medicae are on the way." He heard somebody say nearby. "The central pylon has been deactivated! The Second and Third Captains are starting a search for residual combatants. There's been a runner from the perimeter, they report that all Ur-Khasis along the curtain walls have been eliminated. We are in control of the causeway."

"Seal and fortify the passageway down into Patara the moment we can see our own feet beneath us again." Plouxeides heard himself hissing in an unfamiliar intonation of strain. "Have all the Ur-Kasis remains destroyed by the assault teams. What our are casualties?"

"...Unclear at the moment sir. We may have to wait for this chaff to disperse before we can make a reliable count, but I saw only a few odd trims on the way here. The plan worked, sir. We crushed the enemy here!"

"Good. Good." Plouxeides seethed as he knelt down on the ground to steady himself. He reached down to the ground with his remaining hand, and when it came back, it was slathered in gory rudiments from some unseen body on the ground right in front oh him. He brought the viscera to his lips and licked, and for a brief moment, it was almost as if he could taste where every one of the enemy's corpses were lain within the fortifications.

The First Captain smiled, blood welling between his teeth. "We are going to do it again."

[MarshalSolgriev]

Merry Go Round of Death

-After the Siege of Ouran-

---

The conquered city of Ouran still reeked of blood.

The rain had washed much of it away, and what little it hadn’t, human hands had cleaned. But despite their efforts, and that of the wind, the smell- the taste in the back of the city’s throat- lingered.

Whole swathes of the city were in ruin, entire families dead in moments. Those few locals that survived huddled in their homes as the Imperium reshaped it around them in glorious homage to their Emperor of Mankind.

But the city was not silent.

To a child for whom everything is new, a ruin is a playground.

---

The Crimson children raced through the streets, aiming directly for a collapsed building once taller than the masts of their ship and now reduced to a pile of mismatched rubble.

“LAST ONE THERE HAS TO STICK A FINGER IN THE OCEAN!”

“Yeah well, last one to the top has to do EVERYBODY’S LAUNDRY!”

The youngest girl nearly collapsed in a fit of laughter- lucky indeed she was being carried. They all waved as people poked their heads out of buildings and around corners to look at them. One local called out nervously, “The Magpies?”

“MAGPIES ARE AT THE DOCKS!” They yelled in perfect sync. “TRADE TO BE HAD! BYE!” Never once did they stop running.

But then something stopped them.

Through the vast patrols of the auxilia, each as resplendent as the next in black trenchcoat and charcoal carapace, the children could see them from hundreds of meters away. It was impossible not to see them in their various hues throughout the captured city of Ouran. Grey, lilac-white, yellow, and bronze-black were their colors, effortlessly applied to hulking pieces of ceramite. Their weapons were just as myriad, either with bulky man-sized armaments in their hands or vicious chainweapon strapped to their thighs.

The two in particular that the children saw were black-bronze giants with the strangest assortment of decorations they’d seen yet. Unlike the rest, they wore charcoal cloth attached to their front and back belts. Trophies from unseen lands dangled from their pauldron as bits of engraved ceramic, mutant pelts, or bullet casings. Chains clinked with each of their steps, their weapons locked to their vambraces through thick metal links. Snarling, sloped helmets covered their features from the rest of the world. Both bore bulky weapons in two-hands as they continued their patrol through the shattered parts of Ouran.

The children paused, glanced at each other, and came to a unanimous decision. They raced after the two warriors as fast as they could. Of course, next to the walking speed of a man as big as these, the fastest run of 5 children (and one more being carried) did not appear very fast.

One of them, a girl no older than 7, yelled. “Um hiiiii!!!!! Shiny ones!!!!!!”

An older boy chimed in as well. “You don't look busy, do you want to play with us?”

The giants turned their orange-lensed gaze down to the children that had begun to swarm around them. Either out of kindness or a desire to prevent further injuries, the Astartes slowed their pace to a portion of what they’d normally be capable of walking. It was enough for the children to be able to comfortably catch up with the warriors whose steps were measured in tens of meters instead of inches. The silence of the genemen were broken by their stomps, their rumbling powerpack, and their jostling ornamentations.

And the faint sound of clicks coming from their helmets. The Scorpion on the left was looking to his left down at the children as he walked, his action mirrored by his counterpart but to his respective side. Their gaze turned away from the smaller mortals and slightly towards each other.

+’Children?’+ The leftmost one inquired into his private vox, shared by the warrior to his right. His voice was young and spirited, a tone of curiosity as if the word felt new to him.

+’Magpies. Mortals. It was briefed by the Sigilite. Try not to harm them or engage them,’+ the rightmost warrior responded in the vox. His voice was older and rough, a tone of experience that spoke of the Unification War’s campaigns. His stance, gait, and actions were more composed.

The leftmost one’s helmet turned slightly away from the rightmost and down towards the children that flanked around him. His autolenses captured their image in his helmet, reflected as data that displayed what they were and what their affiliation was. The psycho-indoctrination that compelled him to obey his veteran Astartes pulled at his soul; however, something else had snaked into his stapled emotions. A brotherhood of dusk is only as close knit as their most humble warrior.

He blinked in confusion. Strange words had been spoken to him in a tongue he didn’t understand, but the intent was real. His greaves came to a sudden halt, nearly causing one of the children to run into his bulky ceramite. The other warrior stopped, snapping his helmet to the younger. There was an underlying layer of confusion and frustration evident in the sharpness of his helmet’s snap.

“Greetings, little ones,” The Astartes said, automatically tuning the sensitivity of his voxgrille to acceptable levels for a mortal. He lowered himself down slightly, his orange lenses observing the children as they came to a full stop. From that point, he wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed. He’d never had to deal with children since his ascension. It suddenly dawned on him that this was likely what Captain Alim felt. The eyes of the older warrior burned into the back of his skull.

“I believe we have a patrol route nearby that would be sufficient enough for ‘playing’. You may call me Idris. The one behind me is my brother, Ghaalib,” Idris spoke again, finally introducing himself. Ghaalib rolled his shoulders in response, frustration building on his body but too stubborn enough to interrupt. He couldn’t tell if the older warrior was curious or if he had heard the same words as him.

The children caught up and stared at the Astartes.

The oldest, a girl about thirteen, with long hair dyed violent, splotchy red, spoke for them. “We’re Crimson.”

“Do you like hide’n’seek??????” The youngest added, still being carried.

Meanwhile, one of the boys, who wore a red scarf like a tiny flag in the wind, was sidling slowly closer to Ghaalib, trying to look casual and unassuming but stealing glances.

“Hide and seek is it? The Thirteenth are some of the best infiltrators compared to our peers.” Idris responded with a chuckle. He didn’t lie to the child, the Thirteenth were the best known Astartes legion specialized in clandestine operations. Even as a warrior as young as he was, Idris couldn’t count the amount of infiltrations he’d performed on both hands. Ghaalib was certain to have more.

Idris picked himself up, rising to his full height in preparation for the game. Ghaalib, who’d noticed the boy with the red scarf approaching, turned towards the younger Astartes with disappointment clear in his aura. The junior warrior shrugged his shoulders in acceptance of the children’s playing. Their next noises were a series of clicks emitted from their helmets.

+’Do you truly intend to enable these children?’+ Ghaalib said with no shortage of irritation. The private vox continued with a blink of his eye from their previous interaction. His stance didn’t meet his tone.

+’There will always be monsters and men to slay. We are His warriors, but the Sigilite has mentioned previously that our humanity is a rare resource. Perhaps, this once, we engage with it if you are willing, brother.’+ Idris responded, maglocking the bolter to his right thigh with an audible thunk. His hands free of weapons, the younger Astartes gestured with one talon-tipped gauntlet towards the end of the road. As the children began to move forward, so did he.

+’You confuse me, but I’ll indulge you as a reward for your recent accomplishments here. I’ll vox to local command that we’ve deviated due to the Magpies. They seem to have some sway over hierarchy.’+ Ghaalib shook his head in defeat, joining Idris in his extended gait with his bolter maglocked to his thigh. He shared a brief dialogue with the vox-operator at Ouran’s command center before switching to local vox. The veteran Astartes, noticing the scarfed boy, made a sound through his helmet.

“Go along. Idris will play. I have a duty to uphold,” Ghaalib said to the boy, adjusting his voxgrille output to the acceptable level for conversation with mortals. He’d follow some distance behind the younger warrior, his eyes still watching the ruins with a wealth of experience only known to weapons like him. The last words of the vox-operator put him on edge. Members of the Seventeenth in the local area if you require reinforcements, they had said to him. Ghaalib disliked the kind of reputation that came with endearment towards mortals for the Thirteenth. He’d dislike it further if other legions began to talk of it.

The boy stared at him silently for a few seconds, then nodded. “I don’t like hide’n’seek. I’ll help you.” And with no further warning, the boy ran over to climb Ghaalib.

Meanwhile, the rest of the flock had gathered around Idris to explain the rules.

“You can be It first!”
“That means you gotta seek first.”
“You count to… um…”
“Count to 30!”
“No no 40!!!!!”
“Okay fine count to 40 and then-”
“THEN YOU COME FIND US!”
“Don’t interrupt me!!!”
“While they’re arguing, you gotta close your eyes while you count so we can go hide.”
“ANYWAY! After you’re done counting you come find us!!!!!”

Chaos erupted as five children attempted to simultaneously explain the rules. When they finished, they stood silently waiting for him to close his eyes and start counting.

Idris stared at them blanky from beneath his helmet. He hadn’t considered that they couldn’t see expression behind the slopped wargear of his legion. The Space Marine turned towards Ghaalib for acknowledgement and was met with a shake of his head. That was one step too far for their deviation. He understood why without having to ask as there were insurgents still in Ouran.

“Very well. I’ll close my eyes and count to forty standard Terran seconds. I wish you luck, little ones, for the Scorpions are very good hunters.” Idris replied with a toothy grin beneath his mask. He turned off his photolenses with a blink, powering down the illuminated orange of his helmet for the children. Then a rumble from within the wargear began to emit in growing volume.

“One…” Idris stated. His voice was low, deep and dangerous beneath the mask. A subconscious switch from playful to combative. His tongue trilled with each draw of a number as if rasped from a serpent’s maw. He started to crouch down in a hunter’s posture with claw-tipped gauntlets resting just above the ground.

Ghaalib watched his fellow genewarrior with wary eyes. Neither of them had interacted with children in such a long period of time. A small worry grew on his conscience that Idris wouldn’t be able to distinguish the difference between non-combatants and enemies. In their duties to Unity, there was hardly a difference between the two. His stance shifted to allow the red scarfed child up and to be ready to intercept if necessary.

“Be ready, child,” Ghaalib warned. His voice was neutral, yet his tone suggested something dangerous may occur. He uncrossed his armored arms and let them hover by his sides. The Space Marine knew that using weaponry against his brother was unwarranted, but it wouldn’t be the first time they had used weapons against Astartes.

The scarf boy nodded as he reached a comfortable perch on Ghaalib’s shoulder. The two of them watched as the five children scattered as fast as their little legs could take them. The two youngest girls vanished behind chunks of rubble and hunkered down, the very youngest with the tips of her little red shoes pointing out behind her. The younger of the two boys, who hadn’t yet spoken a word, started climbing a building and slipped nimbly through a broken window, lost to sight.

The oldest two, boy and girl, took one competitive look at each other and bolted down the street, turning corners in opposite directions. Within 20 seconds, the only visible part of any of the children was the little red shoes of the youngest girl.

---

An auspex alert sounded before the human child burst around the corner. The power armored figure rose from their spot in the rubble, stepping in front of the faint outline of another giant recumbent in the heap of debris. With the whine of servomotors the giant blocked the young girl's way forward, and sheathed a wickedly shaped saw at its hip.

This giant’s armor was not black and bronze as the two from before, but uncolored. Slate grey as the day it had rolled off the forge lines in the Terrawatt Clans. No trinkets or trophies hung from chains or dangled from its pauldrons. A simple black stenciled “XVII” on the left shoulder was the only thing that gave the giant any form of belonging.

It turned its helmeted gaze to the girl, turquoise lenses staring as the giant stood impossibly still before the child.

“Declare yourself.” the giant spoke, the voxgrill of its helmet distorting its voice into a painfully loud command.

The girl glared. “Shhhhh!!! I’ll lose the game if you keep being that loud! I’m Crimson.” She gestured at her red-dyed hair with evident annoyance. Surveying the place she stopped, she shrugged and, instead of trying to pass the warrior before her, simply darted sideways to begin climbing.

The giant in grey took a minor step toward the girl as she began her scramble up the rubble. Servomotors whined as the Astartes reached out and scooped the girl up with one hand closed around an arm.

“This is no game, child.” it boomed at Crimson, the girl held up in front of the Astartes like a doll before a toddler uncertain of how not to harm it, “Imperial passcode and business.” the Astartes commanded once more.

The girl, who among her various cousins was usually the biggest and smartest, went very very still. “H-Heyyyy,” she said, “I don’t really have one but um, I’m sure that’s fine right? We got told th-that um. That it was okay to c-come play in the city and. Th-The bronze ones were playing with us. There was a guy n-named M-Markus who said it was… said it was okay.” She trembled in the hands of her captor, glad it was her here, and not any of the younger kids.

The giant silently regarded the girl through the turquoise lenses, the slight static of vox traffic inside the helmet the only indication that the Astartes was in fact not a statue as it did.

“All citizens and refugees must have a passcode,” the giant still boomed from its voxgrill, “You have been assigned ‘8-9-7-7-2-8 Crimson’, commit this to memory.” the giant declared as it simply let the girl drop free from its ceramite gauntlet, gravity taking Crimson the remaining distance to the rubble.

The Astartes lowered its hand to its side like a soldier at inspection, “897728 Crimson, you are not free to go,” it began, its head tilting down as the turquoise lenses gave off the odd sensation of being scrutinized, “deviation from this command is not recommended.”

“Ow…” the girl replied, sitting dazed on the ground.

“Forty…” Idris finally counted down. His voxgrille was turned up to maximum volume, blaring out the number to be heard. Both of his eyes opened to the world around him as the environment laid bare of children. A blink saw his orange lenses illuminate. A toothy grin sprawled across his lips. The dusken hunter is a master of black sands and a master of the dagger.

His body exploded into action with such intensity that his tabard nearly tore off. Both of his clawed-tipped gauntlets hovered just above the ground as he sprinted forward. The sound of ceramite boots against ground reverberated intensely, causing the unaugmented to flinch in response; however, it was lighter than expected. He was lighter than Astartes of other legio. He was a son of the Thirteenth and he was a hunter.

He could smell them. Their excitement, their curiosity, their fear. It reeked off of their bodies like an acute odor. It appeared to him like a trail directly to where they hid. Idris couldn’t feel bad for the little mortals. He was too invigorated by the hunt.

His power armoured body leapt with surprising nimbleness over the rubble the two girls hid behind. A practised movement of a warrior built for assassination. He lightly pressed both of his hands over their heads and tagged them. The action could’ve crushed mortal skulls with ease, yet Idris was a geneson of the Thirteenth Legio. Delicate manipulation was a staple of their geneseed.

Like a predator stalking through its natural environment, he lunged upwards to the closest building. His gauntlets dove precisely into the rockrete hab, pulling him upwards to the window where the next child hid. Orange lenses illuminated the next Crimson Magpie behind the broken window. His body nimbly snaked through the opening, crushing the glass beneath his armored form as he crept towards the young mortal. A simple pat on his head, a light and swift action, saw the child discovered and ‘tagged’.

He chuckled lightly to himself as his armored form snaked out the window, falling backwards to meet the ground beneath. The momentum was used to spring to his next objective, his tabard trailing behind him like a wavering flag. Two remained. He had decided to hunt the boy first as Idris rushed down the road. His grin deepened as he leapt into the split of the road, where the two had separated. Both of his eyes turned right and saw the object of his game restrained.

He would not allow this. They were his to hunt.

The auspex ping of his armor’s identification appeared on the Seventeenth Astartes’ display just as he sprinted up. It chimed at the same second that Idris physically appeared in close proximity to the slate-gray genewarrior. A taloned gauntlet was defensive on the older girl’s head and another reached up to the other genewarrior. The digits stopped mere seconds away from their helmet. His aura was dangerous.

“What are you doing, Seventeenth?" Idris scowled out with a dangerous rasp. It was an automatic, aggressive reaction. He hadn’t even noticed other Astartes in the area during his hunt. An intense focus had consumed him in the height of the game. The entire hunt had taken several seconds to discover all of the children. An adrenaline cocktail still pumped in his veins. The sound of power armored feet followed behind him as Ghaalib rounded the corner.

“Oh no,” muttered scarf boy.

Ana’s armor blared a proximity alert at the same moment that the auspex identified the contact with a solid “XIII”.

She did not manage to step away as the bronze and gold armored form of the Thirteenth’s warrior slipped into her guard, their claws finding a new home before the soft armor of her neck.

Her voxgrill crackled back to life, her form unmoving even with the claws so close, “Recovering geneseed Cousin, this mortal interrupted. She has seen the work,” Ana replied as she motioned back toward the slate-grey form of a fallen sister of the Seventeenth in the rubble behind her.

As she awaited the warrior's response, her armor highlighted identifying markings, trinkets, and baubles hanging off her cousin's armor.

“Your armor is in violation of general Imperial regulation. I trust you will ensure compliance, and will file a report with Legio liaisons.” she stated flatly through the voxgrill.

Split second recognition finally flashed across Idris’ eyes as the combat stimulation dulled. The hunt had faded. He withdrew his fingers away from the Astartes’ throat. The Scorpion could feel no fear, yet the quickness with which he was ready to kill gave him pause. Even another Astartes. Their Legion Master would’ve simply stated that this was a natural response as they were weapons first and people second. His talon-tipped digits slipped away to the right pauldron of the other Astartes. The claw fell away from the older girl’s hair, yet it hovered nearby to react if needed.

“Ah, dear cousin, you interrupted my hunt. You have my apologies for the indiscretion, but these children are in my charge,” Idris finally replied after another second of silence. His desires melted into nothingness like irradiated morning dew. He never lost the toothy grin beneath his mask, even as Ghaalib finally crossed the distance between the corner and his fellow Scorpion.

The veteran Astartes came to a slow stop next to Idris. The older girl was positioned between them as the older warrior started to speak. It seemed the presence of the scarfed boy no longer mattered to him as the Imperials started to converse.

“Sergeant Ghaalib of the Thirteenth Legio Astartes, Immortal of the Third Company. Initiating protocol Angelus Primus. Private vox now,” the older genewarrior stated with the voice of authority. On command, all three entered private, interlegionary vox spread across their multitude of companies. From the children’s perspective, the giants suddenly started to speak in squeaks as their voxgrilles shuttered. Only the initiation of vox speech could be heard from their helmets. Their Legion Master had instilled some sense of caution in them, wary of the cluttered hierarchy that the Legio Astartes was becoming.

As the Astartes attention left them, the boy on Ghaalib’s shoulder called down, “Hey Ma- cousin. You okay?”

The girl flopped backwards on the ground, still shaking a little. “Nobody told me the grey ones were rude,” she whined. “I was lied to! Did our bronze one find the others?”

“Yeah, except… Uh. Well. You’ve lost the bet, I’m sure of it.”

She made a face. “I guess the colors are like our colors? Grey ones… boring and terrifying about it. Bronze ones…”

“Fun and terrifying about it. We should play sardines next.”

---

“Rank and designation, Astartes,” Ghaalib requested over the private vox that the three suddenly shared. It was a trick question. His helmet firmly displayed the datapacket attached to their armor. The punctuation with which they spoke gave him most of the information he required, yet Ghaalib had to ascertain factors that weren’t present. He needed to see how obedient this younger Astartes was. The mind is like the shifting sands, bare to all and moldable to the wise.

Ana switched to the proximity interlegionary vox without a word, her armor systems handling the frequency scrambling and encryption that allowed the three Astartes to converse privately, and psychoindoctrination ensured she followed the discretion of a more experienced Legionnaire without a moment of hesitation.

“Sister Ana Alves, Medicae Secundus of the Second Company, Seventeenth Legio,” she replied dutifully, the words rolling off her lips as though a machine answered for her, “I was not informed of any hunt in the area. I was instructed that it was safe to recover our fallen’s gene-gifts for the next generation.”

Ana did not move inside her armor, though her enhanced medicae suite scanned the children before her as she spoke, “I fail to see how these mortals could be of assistance in a hunt, surely a request to the Seventeenth or even Imperialis forces would have been more sufficient.” she questioned her cousins.

The Astartes of the Thirteenth shared a look. Their features were hidden behind their helmets, yet both understood the other without the use of vox. They were encountering a warrior fresh from the forge, clad in warplate that was newly painted and pushed out by the Terrawatt Clans. The Legion Master had made it plain amongst them that the recently ascended were to be brought under their proverbial wings. It’d mitigate the time spent as a psycho-indoctrinated automata.

“Second Company hasn’t been briefed on the arrival of the Magpies then? These children are members of a Terran faction that the Imperium is currently undergoing unification efforts with. They are Imperialis Socius until further mandated otherwise by order of the Sigilite. You may continue your work, Medicae,” Sergeant Ghaalib responded as he registered the local datapacket and quickly addressed it to Sister Ana. It contained fragmentary data about the Magpies with recent, professionally doctored notes from the Thirteenth’s observations. He turned to regard Idris, who simply nodded in affirmation.

“However, recent Imperial doctrine dictates that it’d be best if you accompany us after your operation is performed. Your duties would be augmented by our presence as a joint legionary exercise,” the veteran Astartes continued with a firm tone. He frowned in distaste. This had all begun with Idris’ sudden clemency for mortals, yet it was rapidly becoming an issue evolving beyond that. His helmet turned as the younger warrior spoke after him.

“You were mortal once, cousin, if you are able to remember. I will tell you what the Sigilite had once told us - humanity is the rarest, most valuable resource that a warrior could have. These children are a conduit for channeling those attributes,” Idris said with a tinge of aggression and clarity. The combat cocktail in his system had fully run its course through both of his hearts, thoroughly flushed from his veins. He felt an unusual clairvoyance and benevolence in his mind like a purifying wash of steam over blood soaked armor. A warden of clear mind is a dusken warrior of pure intent.

“As my brother has said, you should join us in this little game that we’re playing,” the younger Astartes suggested as he turned away from Ana. His lenses landed on the gathering crowd of children behind them, then flickered back to the slate-grey medicae with anticipation evident in his movements.

The children already found had indeed gathered, peeking around the corner with some apprehension at the scene before them- their temporary guardian sprawled on the ground, still shaking slightly.

Maz, as her cousin had almost called her outloud, stood quickly, the reminder of her responsibilities as oldest enough to shake the last of the (visible) fear from her bones. She ran to them and they began a whispered conversation.

Ana, for all the reeducation, psychoindoctrination and relentless battle drills had done to her ego still felt disappointment as she spoke next.

“The Second Company is reduced to just seventeen, Cousin Ghaalib. It is not my station to venture, but it would appear we are withdrawn from the current events of Ouran. No doubt theater command wishes us to recover our strength before involving us in such,” her words stung of failure as her helmet turned to regard the children gathering once more, “…pleasantries.” She finished.

Even as she spoke she consumed the data packet sent by the Brother Ghaalib, her enhanced mind easily carrying conversation and committing the packet to memory for future recall. She marked it for forward to Company Command and offered a nod to the two warriors of the Thirteenth.

“I have forwarded the data packet, you have my thanks.”

She turned where she stood, her armored form moving no doubt suddenly to the assembled children as she crouched once more and removed her tools.

“Just a moment,” she stated over her voxgrill, the amplification still far too high for the assembled children’s ears. The sounds of cracking bone and tearing sinew resonated from her as she worked on her fallen sister, and she stood as suddenly as she had knelt.

Ana turned back to the assembled group, slipping a pair of fleshy spheres into stasis tubes as she did and nodded.

“We may proceed.” she stated, her voxgrill still loud enough to be heard a block away.

The younger children covered their ears. The older ones merely scrunched their faces up in discomfort. The boy on Ghalib’s shoulder muttered, “She’s like that one old Verdant who can’t hear anymore.”

Then the youngest girl pointed to what Ana had just done. “Is that like what the Azure do?” Maz immediately started shaking her head.

“I hope not!!!”

“My auditory sensors and functions read nominal. I can detect sound without issue.” Ana replied, practically screaming without turning her gaze to address the boy on the warrior's shoulders.

The boy, in return, rolled his eyes. “Oh, and just as stupid-”

Maz cut in. “HEY! You have to be polite to big scary things, idiot!”

He turned to stick his tongue out at her. “Yeah well I’ve got a big scary friend who’s way cooler sooo…” He tapped Ghalib lightly on the head.

The two children glared at each other.

“Then it is decided,” Sergeant Ghaalib said with a satisfied nod. His voice had automatically switched from private vox to outward speech. He anticipated a great many things as a son of the Thirteenth, yet the veteran Astartes hadn’t expected to persuade another genewarrior from a different legio. The Scorpion turned away from the Medicae at the same moment that Idris readied himself once more. Ghaalib would’ve begun speaking with the younger warrior if he hadn’t received a warning from his receptors. His eyes rolled to the side of his helmet as the scarfed child spoke.

“Mind yourself, young one, I may seem calm now but there are actions that can incite my anger.” He warned, yet his voice lacked the bite necessary to fully drive the child away. Ghaalib made a mental note that he had grown used to carrying the boy aloft on his pauldrons. An active note was made regarding the possibility of recruitment within the Magpies, yet it was hidden beneath his display and to wider command. His greaves brought him back to Idris, who flexed their finger talons out in preparation. The younger warrior caught the gaze of his superior, gave a muffled chortle, and moved towards the group of children.

“I’ve two things to tell you, little ones. The first is that this warrior of the Seventeenth is joining us for our games. Her name is Sister Ana Alves. She is a Medicae, or perhaps you’d better understand it as a healer or apothecary. She is new to interaction with mortals, so treat her well.” Idris said, swapping from his private vox back to the outwardly voice he had previously used. The younger warrior planted his hands against his midriff as he explained the situation. As he finished, the Scorpion raised a finger to prevent any further questions about her.

“The second is that the game is still on. I shall find the last of your number in the next five seconds, or shall we conclude this for something else? I believe that the scarfed one on Ghaalib mentioned something regarding ‘sardines’?” Idris asked, particularly pointing his orange lenses at the girl who had been assaulted by the Seventeenth. The younger warrior was less daunting now that the combat adrenaline had been purged from his system. Still, Idris itched for another contest of speed and strength. It brought him a small amount of joy.

Maz left the other kids and approached Ana again warily. Then, in what was clearly her best approximation of the Crimson Emissary’s confidence, she said, “If you want to play with us, you have to talk quieter.”

Ana regarded the girl, her enhanced medicae sensor suite displaying data and lab results taken from samples of the girls breath and excreted sweat from exertion and fear.

The Medicae nodded and with a thought lowered her voxgrill volume from “COMBAT” to “Leisure”.

“This should be more acceptable.” Ana said with a feminine voice sweet as honey, an accent unknown to the Magpie’s creeping in as she spoke..

“I apologize for the volume,” she offered, every syllable rolling from her tongue like the flow of a gentle river as the distortion of her helmet volume no longer hid the Astartes’ voice beneath.

As she did, the 7-year-old was running to Idris, arms upstretched in the universal child’s gesture of ‘pick me up!’ “We gotta play Sardines cause you’re too good at seeking,” she said, “but if we don’t find my brother first he’ll be reaaaaaally mad.”

The younger Astartes calmly knelt, claiming the younger girl and raising her up on one of his pauldrons. She sat just above where the pincers of his twinned scorpions met around the ‘XIII’. Idris grinned beneath his helmet at the praise, yet he decided to bottle it up for later satisfaction as his greaves moved forward. His movement signalled the overall group to begin moving towards where the Scorpion sensed the last boy.

And, on Ghalib’s shoulder, scarf-boy huffed. After a pause, though, sounding more admiring than scared he asked, “Do you kill people when you get mad?”

Ana, for all her confusion at the children and her cousins, found the answer spring to her lips before she could truly give thought to why she was even answering the boy’s question.

“We kill when we must, when commanded, anger plays little part.” she offered the child on Ghaalib’s shoulders.

“Sister Ana speaks correctly, young one, yet there are times when emotions can be used. Anything is a weapon. There are times where my duties as a weapon and my passions as a warrior intermingle. So, yes, I do extinguish the lives of the Emperor’s enemy when angered,” Ghaalib responded. He’d considered the question as it was posed, yet the Immortal hadn’t considered that the Medicae would respond. The image of Legion Master Zaid appeared in his head as he considered if anger dictated his own actions. The Scorpion hoped it broadened the emotional horizon of his legionary cousin.

The boy considered, said “I’m not the enemy of the Emperor,” then turned his head to Ana. “What do you do when you’re mad?”

Ana contemplated the question a moment, her mind moving through rote battle drill and theory as quickly as her hearts beat.

“I have not been mad since I was raised up,” she lied to the child, “the Emperor has need of my sisters and I for our abilities. He does not require my anger.” she finished, suppressing the memories of the vaults deep beneath the Himalazias, of the anger she had felt after she had survived the remaking while so many had not.

The boy narrowed his eyes at her, but saved his (extensive) further questions for later.

All of them followed after the dexterous movements of Idris back down the tortured, shattered roads of Ouran. The Astartes of the Thirteenth intentionally walked at a certain speed, allowing the children to keep pace with their lithe strides and meter wide steps. The Scorpion in the lead chose not to speak as he revitalized the hunt within to determine the location of the last child. His orange lenses flashed across the swathe of land that stretched out before him. He eventually sensed the boy before physical cues presented themselves.

“Come out, little one, your siblings desire for a new game and we have a new member added to our group,” Idris called out. He raised the volume of his helmet slightly with a blink, enough to be heard but not enough to damage the eardrums of nearby mortals. The Scorpion crossed his arms as he awaited the boy to remove themselves from their hiding spot. He reeked of curiosity and fear.

The boy didn’t move until Maz called out, “You won! I lost the bet this time. We’re gonna play sardines now so we gotta explain how it works to the Bronze and the….” She eyed Ana. “And the not-Mist.”

As he came out he grinned, and Maz scoffed. “Sardines, huh? That makes sense. I wasn’t hidden very long. Wait, do you guys know what a sardines is???”

Ana had been following close behind her cousins of the Thirteenth, her mind had been consumed with the next steps of geneseed extraction that would see her sisters live on in new recruits to the legio. She had been planning her routes for the next of her fallen sisters deep in concentration and hadn’t noticed the boy beginning to crawl from his hiding spot in the rubble. On instinct her hand shot to the bolt pistol maglocked to her thigh, uncoupling the lock with a barely noticeable click she began to raise the weapon toward the surprise threat before she stopped herself. Her armor categorized the child a non-threat, and she quietly placed the weapon back at its holstered position as quickly as she had removed it.

“Sardines, they are an extinct species of land animal. Imperial scientists and archeotechnicians have classified them as limbless serpents. It is postulated that Sardines used air sacks located internally along their dorsal spine to take flight for short periods of time and escape land predators.” she made a poor imitation with her hand held out flat floating toward the sky as a Sardine would, “it is why they appear to have small air veins along their bodies, to ride the air currents, as your sails do.” she stated with a sagely nod.

The duo of Bronze Scorpions cocked their head towards Sister Ana as she had begun to unholster her bolt pistol. They both shared a collective look as the weapon was quickly, silently restored to the holster in the same moment. To the mortals, it was nothing but a quick hand movement. To the genewarriors, though, it was a threat registered and then delisted from their priorities. Their finger claws had hovered over their weapons for a half of a second before returning to their neutral affairs.

“You remained in the ‘recreation’ pod for more than most then, Sister Ana,” Idris responded with a smirk. Ghaalib’s body faintly moved in a way that only a genewarrior would notice. It was a measure of disappointment at the apparent jab from him. The younger Astartes shrugged his shoulders and flared his fingers in response.

Ana perked up a little at her cousin's jab. Not recognizing it for the insult it was, she made a mental note to find and utilize a “recreation pod” next time she was sequestered beneath the Himalazias under the tutelage of Doctor Astarte for further Medicae training. If there would ever be a next time.

“Indeed, Sister Ana has been bestowed with a breadth of knowledge. I imagine it was due to her becoming a Medicae,” Sergeant Ghaalib stated, aware that her profession was not simply a choice but a mandate. If she were anything like how the Thirteenth used to be, then her expertise was granted straight from the psycho-indoctrination chambers. After all that the Bronze Scorpions have achieved, Ghaalib couldn’t believe what they had been like once. He was thankful to be made a member of the earlier legions for that reason alone.

“A long passed animal from Old Terra or not, it seems to be the topic of this game that you all wish to play,” Idris said, finally turning his attention away from the other Astartes to the children. He crossed his arms over his chestplate as the children finished discussing amongst themselves. The younger warrior was still aware of the girl on his pauldron as he spoke again. “How do you play ‘Sardines’?”

“It’s like the opposite of hide-and-seek!” The girl on Idris’ shoulder nearly slipped off in her excitement, grabbing his head for balance.

“Best played at sunset,” added the boy who had been found last. “One person hides somewhere, everyone else searches for them.”

“BUT,” the youngest girl cut in, “when you FIND THEM, you JOIN THEM IN THEIR SPOT.”

Maz nodded. “So the longer it takes you to find them the more alone you are. A couple years ago we played with the adults too in this huge abandoned city.”

The scarf boy nodded. “It was terrifying.”

Ana turned to the girl, confusion rife in her mind at the last comment, “According to records, Ouran was not abandoned years ago. I fail to see how you could have conducted such an operation as ‘Sardines’ in a hostile city as Ouran during that time,” she paused a moment, pondering the statement before continuing, “Perhaps your memory is mistaken, and it was not this city but a different one.”

Her comment made, she took a step forward, silencing a request from the Seventeenth for an updated position as she did, “How does one get chosen to hide?”

Maz drew herself up with obvious anger. “My memory is NOT mistaken, Grey. I am NOT talking about Ouran. That city was far away. And empty.” She scoffed. “Maybe you should get your ears checked.”

Idris hovered a bronze-black gauntlet nearby to calm the older Crimson girl. Her hostility could be felt as a palpable haze to the Astartes. A chemical flair of adrenaline from Maz’s tiny body. He doubted that Ana suspected that the Crimson Magpies were a threat after their encounter, but the Scorpion had to be cautious. The uninitiated were always temperamental at best and abominable at worst.

“Easy, young one, Sister Ana means well. Even going so far as to wonder who will be hiding when the answer is obvious,” Idris stated with a toothy grin beneath his helmet. His orange lenses turned to each of the children, ascertaining the next words he was planning to speak. He triumphantly planted both of his gauntlets on his sides and puffed out his ceramite pauldrons proudly. “It is none other than me, cousin, for I won the last game.”

All the children, except the glaring Maz, nodded in agreement at Idris’ assertion. It only made sense, after all.

A chortle bubbled up from the Astartes as Sergeant Ghaalib moved between Idris and Ana. He shook his head in vague disappointment to the younger Scorpion before resting his gaze on the warrior from the Seventeenth.

“I did not participate in the last game. I believed that Idris wouldn’t have a hard time finding these children. It is the same for this game, however, I believe it’d serve as exceptional practice if you joined in as one of the seekers,” Ghaalib said. He hadn’t seen or experienced much from the Seventeenth during the Siege of Ouran. A small part of him was interested in seeing if the younger member from the younger legion could match the younger members from the older legion.

The Medicae took a moment to decide on her involvement before nodding in agreement at Idris’ position as the one hiding

“I am agreeable to the idea of seeking,” she dropped her automatic monitoring of Idris’ armor signature from her own armor’s tasks and smiled slightly behind her helmet, “I believe my armor medicae systems would make this too easy, I shall disable them for the time being.”

With that, she took a step forward, her hands dancing over her equipment for the briefest of moments as she ensured everything was in its proper position.

“Cousin Ghaalib, Cousin Idris, Crimson children, I am reporting readiness for sardines.”

All the children stared expectantly at Idris.

“Rest your eyes on a blanket of dusk, my friends,” Idris said as he took a step backwards. There was a skip in his step, joyful at the prospect of being hunted instead of being the hunter. A fresh voice entered his mind at the thought. Dark sands guide the hunter and the hunted, yet only the scorpion survives the greedy serpent. He offered an Achaemenid’s bow as he watched the children and Astartes close their eyes. A clip of his belt saw the bolter and chainsword drop from his form, falling by the side of Ghaalib who watched with annoyance.

The Bronze Scorpion erupted into a blur of movement as they all started to count. He sprinted away as fast as his genemodified body could with all the added benefit of being a warrior of the Thirteenth. His boots fell as lightly as he could allow, muting their noise as effectively as one could to others. He ran as those clad in dusk, galloping over imaginary grains of sand as he vaulted urban rubble. His objective was well within sight. The building that one of the boys had hidden in would suffice for his hunting ground. He zigzagged in the urban rubble, obscuring his true path as if he were dispersing sand.

His clawed fingers picked up a small piece of rubble, flicked it sideways to simulate the sound of an armored form jumping and then jumped himself upon the building. A loud shattering of a window resounded across the area, reverberated only by the accompanying bang of a ferrocrete wall nearly collapsing. Idris slithered into the ferrocrete structure with the guile of a practised assassin, slinking down into a prone position two stories up from where the boy had been found. He yanked a piece of stained cloth from a toppled table and threw it over himself in a single motion. Finally, in a cunning act, Idris deactivated the generator in his power armor and removed his helmet.

Young, Achaemenidian features bristling with scars stared out with dark eyes as the sky slowly began to transform into dusk. He offered a toothy grin to the wind. A pair of claw-tipped fingers turned the helmet’s lenses away from the sun, aware that it could give away his position. Now, only time would tell if the children managed to discover him.

---

As the children finished counting and opened their eyes, the sun shone bright in their faces, close to setting. Ghaalib’s friend scrambled down from his shoulder to join the others in their search. Maz sighed as she scooped up the Captain’s 5-year old daughter, seeing her rival do the same for his little sister. “Last game.” The children all grumbled for a few seconds, and then, without warning, they scattered.

“I’m winning this time!” Maz called. She heard him reply but didn't bother paying attention. She half-skipped and half-ran, the little girl in her arms giggling with every bounce. She had no doubt of her direction, after that sound they’d heard- although it wouldn’t surprise her if it was some kind of trick. She climbed up a pile of boulders just to make her little charge giggle.

At the top she paused. “Alright little Captain, what wind shall we catch?”

The little girl thought for a moment, her face scrunched up. “Mama says that when we do new things we usually copy what we see other people do. So maybe he used one of our hiding spots!!!”

Maz grinned, hearing the others yell in frustration. “Clever girl. Let's go check them.”

Sister Ana watched stoically as the children took off on their search in the wrong direction. She remained stationary, allowing the children to disappear before her helmet's gaze turned toward Cousin Idris’ most likely direction of travel. She was basing her assumption off of the footsteps she was able to distinguish through her muted helmet’s auditory inputs and the vibration of the over thousand pound Astartes’ every footstep made in her own armored soles. She made note of the warrior of the Thirteenth’s silence and muted footfalls for after action review, her armor sensors had still recorded the event though she allowed herself not to access the information in the name of sportsmanship.

She began to walk calmly down the road, unsure of any valid reason to rush as she picked out likely avenues of egress from the starting position. She studied a mound of rubble ahead, noting fresh movement as stone debris settled at the base of the obliterated building and continued toward it with silent determination. She walked quietly around the pile of rockcrete and death, her eyes following an eddy of dust in the air some distance down the road.

Her every armored footfall crunched rock and stone beneath her feet, and she observed the area around her with clinical precision. She stopped at the spot of the since dissipated billowing dust and surveyed her surroundings. She recalled the sound of shattering glass and began to spin where she stood, her genehanced mind picking out broken windows around her. She lamented the fact that there was no shortage of shattered glass to choose from, but her transhuman mind began to filter out windows that did not match patterns of external forced entry.

She ruled out a number of buildings from nearby blast craters and glass fragmentation patterns that led out onto the street rather than into the buildings. She narrowed her search down to just two buildings in a matter of heartbeats.

She turned to face her two most likely culprits, scrutinizing the shadowed interiors as she stood in the middle of the road. She turned her head to the side as the approaching sound of the Crimson children began to grow.

The oldest boy sang a wordless song as he carried his younger sister piggyback through the streets. They were, of course, following Ana. Maz would say it was cheating, but the huge woman had an obvious advantage in finding the Bronze they were searching for. He stopped singing as they got closer, stopped walking just out of her sight, around a corner. His sister giggled quietly, and he shushed her with a wide smile.

To Ana, of course, they were obvious.

With the Crimson children just out of sight Ana now had reason to move with more urgency. Her first step sent her bounding for the first of the two buildings, the second had her armored form rising through the air as she reached for the window frame. Her gauntleted fingers gripped onto the rockcrete of the wall and she swung her second hand up to gain a better hold. For the briefest of moments she began to haul herself up toward the shattered window and then she was falling.

The bulk of her form, weighing close to that of an automover, slammed into the already broken street with an unceremonious crunch. She rolled off her back not a moment after making contact with the ground and took off for the street level entrance to the habblock this time, leaving the acrobatics to her cousins in the Thirteenth. She stomped noisily through the interior hall as she made for the quickest path to an interior stairwell.

Inside the stairwell she slowed her movement once more, attempting her best to emulate the deafened sounds of her cousin Astartes as she climbed the interior floor by floor in an attempt to leave the children guessing where she had exited.

Ghaalib had watched the affair from the start. As Sol began to dip into the toxin-tinged clouds of Terra, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the children. They were up against one of the oldest active legions bar the First and specialized in infiltration. A chronometer within his helmet ticked down the time it’d take for the children to discover Idris. The real challenger, he assumed correctly, was the woman from the Seventeenth.

She had sieved through the deception that Idris had laid as bait. Even the children were starting to realize. Ghaalib wondered if it was coincidence with the mortals or was it a sign of higher cognitive function, he previously thought they were bereft of. Regardless, freshly awakened Astartes never ceased to amaze him in their raw capabilities. Some of that raw experience was now gone from the Scorpions, leaving only black sand and dusken skies in its wake.

---

Maz hoisted her small charge higher in her arms as they made it back to where their game of hide and seek had started- just in time to watch the not-Mist woman go into one of the buildings. Her face twisted up in frustration. It was cheating to follow someone else in Sardines- it defeated the point of the game. And yet…

Her thoughts were interrupted by the little girl in her arms. “Can’t be cheating if we were already gonna look there! Come ON, cousin!” Maz’s sleeve was thoroughly tugged on in an effort to get her to head for where Ana had gone.

She sighed. “Alright fine. But if he says we’re cheating I’m telling him it was your idea, my little Captain.”

Meanwhile, the oldest boy and his sister waited patiently across the street, watching to see if Ana would finish searching and leave the building, or if one of the other children had the same plan.

Well, not so patiently. His sister wiggled. “Let’s just go in. I wanna see!”

And, well, why would he deny her? He bounced their way across the street into the door Ana had entered.

And he didn’t notice Maz and her young charge watching him from down the road.

The slate grey armored form of Ana slipped through a doorway, her steps crunching glass and debris as lightly as she could manage, though still far louder than her cousin of the XIII had managed. She peered through each doorway down the hall of the habblock, trying to find anything that would give away her cousin— loose dust here, scuffed floors there, broken glass strewn about this room or that. She found herself becoming frustrated as she searched. Every room was empty of the Space Marine she expected to find. Her choler rose with each vacant room.

Ana fought back the urge to smash a mostly intact door aside as she stepped back from another failed search. She would not lose this day, not to mortals, and certainly not to her cousin in the XIII.

She peered into a room, darkness shrouding most of it, and began to step back in defeat before she stopped midstride. Her power pack whined, the sound of her breathing filled her helmet, and the acrid tang of her sweat suffused every breath. Something was off in the room. Her helmet turned to the right, her eyes surveying the room again as her body followed her line of sight back into the destroyed apartment.

The meager belongings of the apartment's last inhabitant were strewn across the ground in a manner indicative of blast pressure, and yet a set of silverware and a shattered plate told a different story. The objects in question were dispersed almost perpendicular to the direction the rest of the objects had landed. Perhaps they had been too heavy for the pressure wave to dislodge initially and had been moved after the violence had ended.

She followed the direction of the cutlery and settled her gaze upon the stained tablecloth in the darkness of the shadows. It had fooled her, at least initially. Such a light object would easily have been blown about in the city-wide pandemonium of the battle that had taken place just hours earlier. But the cutlery that had been set atop it and yanked from the table with the tablecloth had been her cousin's downfall.

She still couldn’t see Idris in his hiding spot, his armor somehow melted away beneath the stained linen and lost in the rubble alongside it, but she knew he was there. Her second heart began to beat faster on instinct, that untameable part of Ana’s brain unchanged by hypnoindoctrination and drills that warned her of a predator unseen in the dark, spurred her reforged biology to prepare for combat even as she unlatched her helmet.

A hiss of pressurized air followed as she lifted her helmet from its place in her gorget and smiled at the cousin she still could not see.

“I must admit, I was becoming frustrated that I would never find you, Cousin Idris,” she smiled.

“And yet, you found me, Cousin,” the darkness of the room replied as the linen began to move. The Bronze Scorpion picked himself up from the ground, pushing aside rubble and debris to stand to his full height. Each movement was strained with the groan of unpowered warplate. He scooped up his helmet with one hand and brushed off dust from his armor with the other. His powerpack began to hum with energy as it chugged to life once more.

“Though, you’re quite an aggressive hunter! I counted at least five different moments I could’ve shot you if I had a ranged weapon available,” Idris said with a coy grin as he turned to regard the other Astartes, his tanned and scarred skin greeting her sight. The Scorpion locked his helmet to his waist as he stepped closer to Ana. He stepped close and clapped a gauntlet on her pauldron.

“I admit defeat. Well done, Ana,” the Scorpion said with a toothy grin.

Ana turned, a quizzical look on her face as she answered her cousin Astartes, “The parameters of this exercise did not include live fire training, so I did not take steps to ensure my safety against ranged or more, personal weapons.” She nodded, “it was not a necessary consideration.”

She turned her gaze to follow his hand as it came down on her pauldron, she had no doubt that had her armor system been on they would have warned her of the approaching strike, but they were silent now.

“I do not believe the game is over Cousin, I must hide, and the children must now seek us both.” She confirmed, recalling the earlier rules discussion from her didactic memory banks with practiced ease.

As the last words left her mouth, Idris quickly raised his other gauntlet to quiet any further discussion. His head turned towards the hallway that she entered from. He listened silently with his right ear turned slightly towards the ruined floor. The grin that grew on his face turned toothy as he realized their mistake with joy. A small pitter-patter of feet echoed below them at a clipped pace.

“Deadly little hunters aren’t they?” He cooed. Words were left unsaid of their possible recruitment. The Scorpion knew that there was roughly enough time to quickly egress the room and escape detection. His mind whiplashed through all possible scenarios, including ones where he disabled Ana and pursued his own victory. Ultimately, he remained stationary as the first of the children appeared through the doorway into their present room.

Although the boy and his sister had been the first into the building, Maz and her small charge were the first to find the Astartes. Maz set the little girl down as soon as they entered the room, and she immediately ran to Idris and tucked herself in near him, curling up as small as she could, which was quite small. Maz grinned and whispered, “Quick, if you hide better than that they might walk in and not know we’re here.” She looked around, shrugged, then tucked herself in beside Idris as well, wrapping the darkest of her red clothes around her and the youngest child.

Unfortunately for Maz’s hopes, the other children were close behind them. Soon after she arrived, the boy with the scarf peeked in through the broken window and grinned at the sight of them. He clambered through, careful of the glass, and quietly tucked himself in beside them. Only seconds later, the two siblings arrived, the little girl clambering over to stand very still on Ana’s foot, and the boy sighing before tucking himself into a corner behind Idris. Maz grinned at him.

Only one child left.

Sergeant Ghaalib could be heard before he could be felt. The grind and wail of his armor became more apparent as he ascended the stairs. A final step into the gathering of Astartes and children saw the short journey completed, though there was a leisure lag to the veteran’s movements.

“Your game is completed then?” He asked with feigned exasperation. The lenses of his helmet peered down at each of the children, then finally rested on both of the Astartes. As if affirming his own thoughts, Ghaalib nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Imperial Command has sent out a withdrawal demand for all employed units.”

He turned his attention away from the gathering out to Sol as it slowly descended into the horizon. Ghaalib refused to elaborate on the subject, turning away from the children and descending down from the building. What he had said could’ve been shared privately over vox, yet it was spoken aloud for a reason. It was something that he chose not to reveal as he awaited the rest of the Astartes in the streets below.

“Then it is finally time,” Idris said with unwavering finality. He removed the helmet from his waist and pressed it atop his skull, sheathing his dusken features away from the children. His gauntlets softly ruffled the hair of the crimson youths as he stepped away from them. He turned back before crossing the threshold down into the streets, awaiting Sister Ana and the farewells of the Crimsons.

Ana followed her seniors out, a portion of her mind confirming written notes on the children and attaching suspect and biologis readings to each child as she stepped out into the streets.

“The time comes then, Dume shall fall?” She asked rhetorically, almost as much for the children as for her own sense of childlike awe at taking part in her first true conquest.

But the children never heard an answer. Tumbling over each other, they quickly ran off to find their last companion and return to the ship they called home. But one thing was left behind.

A red scarf, tied quietly around Ghaalib’s ankle in the chaos as they left.

---

Credits: @MarshalSolgriev (Idris/Ghalib of the XIII) @FrostedCaramel (Sister Ana of the XVII) @mothnoodle (Crimson Magpies)

[grimely]

The Lines

Deep Within the Himalazians
After the Assault of Macroway 80

---

Vicente was in prison.

Granted, it was a rather nice prison all things considered, what with the immense four-poster bed he was currently lounging in and the similarly sized geneaugmented warrior woman he was sharing it with. But a prison it was all the same, no matter how free his warden was with her affections towards him. Such a fate would be a handsome reward for most any man, to say nothing of the fortress-palace he spent his days inside of or the riches of the empire which were his to enjoy as gifts of his host.

It was slowly driving him to insanity. To restlessness, at very least. An impatient energy coursed through him, an urgent need to do that was forever denied him. That was his punishment, his sentence for however long the Emperor deemed it.

“You go to war tomorrow.”

The bluntness of the Custode struck him like a physical weight, the woman paying his shock no heed as she stretched out like a recumbent macro-predator, eyeing him as her next meal. She did not give him time to process, much less question, the words before she continued.

“A band of Pacifican rabble thought routed and dispersed has reformed, or perhaps merely concluded a ruse. The distinction is irrelevant. They march upon the Lines. You shall answer them.”

Reflex took over where reason failed, his mind falling into those old patterns even dulled by years of disuse and neglect. “My forces?”

“Your regiment shall be issued live weaponry for the duration. I have prevailed upon the Captain-General to permit you the use of volunteers as well,” she answered, slinking off of the bed with a grace that ought to be impossible for one of her frame.

“This is likely to be ins-” he began, only to be immediately cut off by a laugh that was equally too joyous to come from such a killer.

“Insufficient to face them upon the field. Correct. You will most likely be outnumbered ten times over. You shall hold the Lines for as long as you may, as a pinning force for a detachment of Astartes sent to intercept them. You shall succeed, or die in the trying, but you shall not abandon the Lines,” she explained, her voice unchanging.

“Why are you telling me this?” the prisoner asked, leaving the bed in a daze. Not in shock at what was to come, nor joy, but from the grim reality that he already knew the answer.

“It is the plan you would have arrived at. It is a plan you have already executed.” Her voice was not cruel, but its stark finality somehow stung nonetheless. “You have held against the Master. Now hold for him.”

There was no response necessary. No further words needed to be said. Both knew that. She spoke regardless.

“Survive. You have yet to cry out all of my names.”

---

The Varaguan Guard had once been the pride of Pan, of all Sud Merica. They had held against the forces of Hy Brasil since time immemorial, their victory standard festooned with the tattered remnants of countless humiliated foes. It now hung as a trophy of the Seventeenth Astartes. What soldiers of that elite force survived, those who had endured the Emperor’s might the longest and most directly, had been consolidated into a single regiment to follow their Captain-General into his imprisonment.

A guard of honor to wile away their days in exile until death claimed him - or them.

They had spent that time in pointless parades and ceremonies, refusing to accept their irrelevance or admit despair at their captain’s fate. The Emperor had forbidden them weapons, so they marched and drilled with sticks. The Emperor had forbidden them home, so they made one in his halls in its place. The Emperor had forbidden them hope, and this they had simply ignored.

Now their long wait had at last come to an end. Crates of lasrifes and carapace armor bearing fresh maker’s marks from the Terrawatt Clans had been unsealed and distributed to the ordered ranks, each taking up their trade with the smoothness of the diligent. They had readied themselves for this day, for a calling that they knew would either never come or was little better than an execution deferred. Such thoughts hadn’t stopped them.

As Vicente looked out over the garden terrace he stood on, reviewing his regiment, his gaze eventually fell upon his motley band of volunteers. Prototypes and failures, these castoff children of Amar were deemed insufficient for induction into the Space Marine Legions and had instead accumulated in the fastnesses of Hymalazias like some children collected particularly interesting beetles.

Where his Varaguans now marched in ordered and uniformed ranks, drilling with their new weapons and becoming once more the finely honed machine that had defended the Cantons, the genefailures simply were. Each suffered some kind of undermining flaw, each compensated in some unique way. They would never be able to form combat capable units, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

Every single soldier assembled here, himself included, was expendable.

It was freeing in a way, knowing that it didn’t really matter if he lived or died. Victory would be had regardless, and so the only thing truly at stake was glory. Even if he failed to capture any for himself, the Astartes would clean up the mess when they arrived. Just as they had always done.

They all knew it, too. From the lowliest trooper to the most malformed half-angel, they all knew the truth of the matter. None of them had cared. All had come to win themselves an ending worthy of being told, instead of a long fading and the final death of being forgotten for all time.

Vicente felt his hands tighten upon the marble railing, his elegant augmetics gently informing him he was dangerously abrading his outer dermal layers. He maintained the pressure for a five second count before relaxing at last, letting out a shuddering breath as he reviewed the ragtag army he had been given to take to his grave. A last gift from his conqueror.

It was a kindness he intended to refuse.

---

Master of the Lines was not an empty title. As Mankind degraded itself with ever more destructive wars and internecine struggle, first in the apocalyptic conflict against their children and then the sharper and shorter futile bid to be the last king of the ashes, the man who would be Emperor had retreated from their pains. Great vaults he had dug in those days, and high walls he had thrown up in conscious imitation of the work of his own hands in an ancient dawn.

The Lines had emerged slowly, fitfully, down from the roof of the world, an island of serenity expanded by fire and sword. His Legions were his Lines now, but the ancient works still remained, and to the Captain-General their defense was charged.

Yet he was not that Captain-General. Vicente Guillelmi was but a man, one who had defied the Emperor whose fastness he now swore to keep safe. Be this test, breaking, or execution, it no longer mattered to him anymore. All that was left was the burning need to remain standing at his post when the Astartes at last arrived and broke the enemy upon the walls.

High atop a mountain keep, Colonel Guillelmi bent himself to his work as the hololith sprang to life. Elements of the Guard had been scattered through fortresses and redoubts, some mere bunkers barely able to hold a full squad, others as large as the palace complex in which the Emperor himself resided within when not upon campaign. Even with the proto-Astartes volunteers to bulk out his numbers, he had been forced to garrison the outermost positions painfully thin, each serving as little more than observation post and tripwire. In the best of scenarios, those assigned would be able to retreat and regroup at the next layer in good order, preserving and concentrating his strength. In the worst, they would be defeated in detail, and only gain him the knowledge of which direction his doom would come from.

But war in the Himalazias was chaotic enough that even those scraps could prove valuable. Even before Terra had gone mad from the abuse done to her by her children and their children in turn, this had been a harsh land, with even orbital surveillance vague and uncertain. For reasons unknown to him, Vicente and his host had been denied the direct datalinks to those orbital platforms he knew the Emperor had already created or reclaimed, forced to rely instead upon hazy areas of probable enemy activity generated by Sigilites safe in their vaults.

One other symbol stood out bright and clear upon the map however. That of his salvation, the marker of his victory. The rune glowed strong and bright far to the map’s east, a force sent racing from Ouran to ensure that none who dared assault the Lines would survive the insult.

XIII

---

+‘Go. Defend our Master. Let them know that the best of the Thirteenth comes to deliver retribution,’+ a man told him, a tone as deep and aggressive as the worst of Terra’s storms. Between the layers of aggression, though, there was pride and joy in a way that only a genewarrior could understand. He knew that the Legion Master was proud of what he’d done and the type of knight he’d transformed into. No doubt any commander would feel that way.

He was not alone in this venture. Forty-four others were in the same hold as him, each a veteran of countless skirmishes and campaigns alone. Their black-bronze warplate was decorated from top to bottom with fetishes, trinkets, and baubles to laud their victory over the techno-barbarian states. They were myriad in appearance as much as they were in armament. Talons, swords, chainsabres, bolters, volkite rifles, and more specialized gear rested beside them.

An auspex ping from within his warplate assured him of the other Stormbird hovering nearby. Fifty other Astartes were safe within their hold, equipped the same as his own warriors were. It would be the first time since Ouran that he’d led a full company against Terra’s worst. The veterans of that campaign remained with him as tokens in spirit. Few had survived the demolition that their company had caused within the hive-city. Those that had were lauded by the Legion Master and more, himself included. He turned to one of them now, formerly a sergeant and now a lieutenant, Hussan.

Or what was left of Hussan. That was one fate that he was glad he hadn’t suffered. The warrior was merely a sarcophagus laid into a machine that was as large as three Astartes. He had watched the surgery himself as Hussan was slaved into a vehicle built for war. It would’ve been a mercy to end his life, but the Scorpion had demanded it in his last moments of lucidness. Where powered talons would’ve ended in his arms were massive, behemoth claws that could shred the toughest foes. Each was underslung by volkite carbines. The Astartes’ greaves were replaced with four-pronged, metallic feet that could smash tanks. An ornate helmet with a scorpion atop stared out from the sarcophagus, where Hussan huffed and groaned. The frontal plate of his hull was engraved with the Raptor Imperials and bolts on one side, and the twinned scorpion of the Thirteenth on the other. His own attention was caught by the dreadnought, who stared back.

+‘Speak. Alim.’+ Hussan’s voice, previously a humorous and fastidious man, was unfathomably deep and enhanced by the machine’s external voxhailers. His tone was dreadful, ever in constant pain and ever ready to suffer the final death he was promised. He felt a kinship with Hussan to that effect. He should’ve perished in the hive-city of Ouran.

“Do you wish for routine maintenance?” Captain Alim asked, though he already knew the answer. He’d spent some time with the minds of the Sigilites after Ouran, imparting the knowledge of technology to him for several reasons. One of which was his own bionics, which whined and hissed less than Hussan’s sarcophagus. His arms and legs had been replaced with the best that the Emperor and the Terrawatt Clans could offer. Each was a biomechanical feat of legendary work, enhanced with the best that Terra could forge from the rare metals that the Custodes harnessed. He’d never know why he was given this treatment over others.

+‘Nonesense. I am here to hunt. My systems are as nominal as the sands of the dusk world,’+ Hussan replied with a snarl. He had started sounding like the Legion Master after his internment into a dreadnought. The phrasing at the end, however, was becoming a new and frequent trend. More applicable in Hussan’s case, but Alim had started to see in the rest of his brothers. The visions were beginning to affect them, himself included.

The voxhailers surrounding the cabin drew static for a microsecond as the pilot engaged the communications system. Each of the Astartes perked as slightly as a scorpion from drowned sands. Alim had already known that many chose to enter meditative states to engage the visions or live through the world that only they had seen. He had yet to know if Astartes from other legions were like this. His datascrying had confirmed that none exhibited such symptoms, but many of the genewarriors held secrets close to their chests. The captain turned his attention to the voxhailer as it spoke.

“Beginning descent. Prepare for engagement,” The pilot, one of his own by the name of Ramshirr, spoke. More and more Astartes were beginning to operate and utilize vehicles across the Legion. Less and less mortals were stuck having to guide the Emperor’s finest weapons across the planet. Alim knew this was an intentional move. The mortals were being phased out from their legionary operations just as the Thunder Warriors were swiftly becoming obsolete.

+‘Good. Lead me to the slaughter.’+ The dreadnought growled, offering up chortles from several other Astartes around him. Alim grew a small smile on his broken lips. At least his old friend had managed to retain some of his humor despite the loss of his body.

Forty-four Astartes stood up in a synchronized motion as their restraints were unlocked. Chainswords were revved, boltguns were chambered, and powerweapons were activated. A final series of checks that each of the veterans, Immortals in their own right, performed as the Stormbird began to descend. Alim watched over them as he performed his final evaluations. The slight shimmering of a conversion field around him flickered to life with a tap of his thunderhammer. An ornate plasma pistol fit into his right hand, a rune was pressed to ensure no heat build up remained. The great lumbering dreadnought across the bay groaned with anticipation as his claws whirled menacingly.

Something rocked the Stormbird as telltale vertigo and gravitational acceleration began to shake his body. Turbulence, descent, and unleashing armaments gave away the aircraft’s position in the sky as it dove. Alim retreated into his mind to begin his final seconds of strategizing. He wondered how much of the allied forces remained with the time that had elapsed. A thousand and one different tactics drove into his mind. He knew they’d be greatly weakened by the sudden advance while Terra was actively being unified. The Captain simply decided on one strategy alone to prevail.

“Gloria Scorpii, Bronze Scorpions!” Captain Alim said with a voice that began to break it’s monotonic stride. The pommel of his thunderhammer struck the floor of the Stormbird. Forty-four boots responded with his warcry repeated. Whoever awaited them below in the Lines, Alim felt no sympathy. They were angels of death, gliding on promethium wings. None of their opponents would survive this day.

---

“Contact with Watch-Post Aleph lost-”

“Communications trench coming under heavy fire from-”

“Enemy forces have secured local superiority at-”

Vicente let the reports wash over him as he gazed at the hololith, his dutiful adjuncts updating it as soon as fresh information came in from either the vox or messenger. It had been an hour since his first pickets had made contact with the enemy, and they had begun to know the face of their enemy in exchange for soldiers’ blood.

It was a cruel way his Emperor forced him to wage this war. But not a pointless one. No. There was an all too clear point being made here, forcing him to sacrifice for a chance at victory, forcing him to remake all of those decisions when he had defended his own lines.

The Emperor was a vindictive man, but he was not a foolish one.

“Send a squad of proto-Astartes to stem that advance, mark the complement non-operative,” Vicente ordered, the man surprised that he yet had iron left in his voice. He was sending one hundred souls to their deaths, and they would thank him for it. They yearned for it, and that was something he could not afford to not take advantage of.

There were perhaps ten-thousand Pacificans flooding through the snow-filled valleys beneath the Lines, marching over the bones of countless armies that had tried the same assault. It would be an extreme exaggeration to say that they were a coherent force however, and they had no order of battle as such. Rather they were a patchwork force made of whatever could be salvaged from one of the many columns fleeing the Imperial victory at Ouran, chased and degraded over hundreds of miles until only this ragged edge remained, consisting of a perverse combination of the hardiest technological horrors Dume could concoct and a mass of conscripts who seemed as surprised as their masters at their continued survival.

Vicente knew that the Custodians guarding the vaults and cells which riddled the mountains could have handily dispatched this force, but he knew just as well they would not lift a hand to save him. They would kill him if he tried to run, and only bring the fight to the enemy if his force had been spent to the last man. A fate that he, despite all of his clever stratagems, his feints and retreats and traps, knew would come to pass if but for one thing.

He had to hope that the Astartes would save him.

Yes, the Emperor was a vindictive man.

There was a blip on the hololith, as a junior aide, one who had been only a teenager at his last glorious defeat, paused in confusion. He already knew the truth of that. Only one thing could have caused it.

But not a foolish one.

“The Thirteenth have engaged the enemy.”

---

Hundreds of eyes turned to the sky as the Stormbirds screeched overhead on metallic, screaming wings of promethium. Wing-mounted missiles dropped, retroactively engaging thrusters that drove them hard into the ground. Plumes of explosions announced their arrival to the battle just as twin-linked assault cannons peppered the snowy fields. Conscripts died in droves, soldiers bounced into ramshackle trenches, and genewarriors roared in protest with their heavy weapons unleashed into the sky. None of these actions would save them as the bronze-black Stormbirds circled back for another strafing run; however, this was no simple annihilation order. It was the delivery of a retributive payload.

Retrothrusters forced the Stormbirds to a faster than slow acceleration, dropping their assault ramps as their twin-linked armaments protected their precious cargo. A hundred giants in bronze-black ceramite egressed out of their enormous holds. Each slid to a grinding halt as their boltguns, volkite carbins, rotor cannons, and other weapons blazed to life. Only the lumbering form of a gigantic machine fell still as they collided with the snowy fields of the Lines. It soon rumbled back into fighting form as it sprinted across the battlefield with the other power armor clad warriors.

They came as an unstoppable force of carnage. Conscripts, thrown to the blender, were torn to shreds by power talons and power swords or vivisected by chainsabre and bolter. Soldiers were annihilated into molecules by volkite rays or exploded into chunks by savage rotor cannons. The few genewarriors that graced their pitiful ten-thousand were the only true challenge to the bronze-black giants; however, they were no match for the hulking form of a dreadnought.

+’Drown in umbral sands! Suffer midnight talons! Behold the majesty of the Malik!’+ The dreadnought roared out across the battlefield, hefting a genebrute into one of their claws and blending them into paste. Those that the lumbering machine-warrior couldn’t kill, their smaller comrades would with lethal efficiency that they had come to be known for. They poured over the trenches as bronze-black insects, advancing at terrifying speeds inconceivable to other Astartes.

The Stormbirds lifted off as the last of them leapt from the assault ramp, their twin-linked assault cannons murdering anything that dared. Captain Alim joined the last four with his bionics crunching against the snow of the Lines. Each was a proper Immortal, warriors worthy of being in a command squad, and each was bound by bionics suffered in the siege for Ouran. They sprinted on through the pandemonium that stained the fields, crushing Pacifican bodies beneath their feet as they beelined for the first visible structure.

+’Scorpions! Pincer and Claw!’+ Captain Alim ordered over the interlegionary vox, responded to by ninety-five blink-affirmations. His helmet’s display automatically recognized that his tactics were being applied as the ambush began to split. Forty bronze-black Astartes surged left along the Pacifican lines, while forty others surged right to engulf the ten-thousand. From there, he could tell that his sergeants were splitting into hunting packs reminiscent of their old clades. His lenses adjusted to the Himalazian flurry as they linked up with the dreadnought. The entombed warrior laughed with joy as he slaughtered the worst that the Pacificans had to offer.

Alim’s plasma pistol snapped up at the same time as the rest of his squad’s ranged weapons, annihilating the first of the conscripts that dared obstruct their path. They melted in a flurry of plasma, volkite ray, and boltshell. His helmet looked to Hussan, who seemed to understand the Captain’s intent and rushed forward ahead of the squad. A thousand and one different things needed to be complied with to ascertain their victory. Establishing communications with the defense leader was a priority amongst them.

+’This is Captain Alim of the Thirteenth Legio Astartes. We are currently engaged with the Pacifican backline. Direct us to the highest concentration of their forces, immediately.’+ He stated, patching himself into the local Imperial voxnet with a blink.

---

The squeal of feedback in the command center nearly deafened everyone present as the Astartes vox override forced its way into the system. That sound. He had heard that sound before. That sound. That sound.

Vox feedback squealed from within the helmet of the Varaguan Guard vox operator currently impaled on the end of one of the Imperial warrior’s combat blades. Lieutenant Adao squinted through the darkness of the command bunker's unlit hallway as his vox operator’s hands clawed uselessly at the massive knife in his stomach. A baser part of his instinct overrode his morbid curiosity at the sight taking place before him and he began to scramble away on his hands and knees. He risked a glance back just in time to watch as his vox operator was flicked from the blade at speed, his flight abruptly arrested by Trooper Mateus with a sickening thud as the two men met their end.

A rattle of gunfire erupted down the hall as another fireteam joined the fray.

“Up sir! Up!” Color Sergeant Dimas screamed as he hooked a hand under Adao’s armpit and hoisted him up to his feet, “Go go!” he yelled with a shove in the opposite direction as he brought his weapon to bear on the hulking giant. Sparks flew as solid rounds panged harmlessly off of the Imperial monster, and Adao took off running as the giant gutted the closest trooper with a swipe of their still wet combat blade.

He watched in horror as a single fist sent another trooper into the wall with enough force to leave a spiderweb of cracks in the reinforced rockcrete. Then it was on the rest of the fireteam. With speed beyond what such a hulking monster should have been able to achieve it dashed another trooper against its armored pauldron, emptying the contents of his head across its own armor and the ground before it. With no loss to its momentum the beast slapped out with its free hand as though swatting at a fly, crumpling the next closest trooper as a mere afterthought.

Adao felt warmth grow between his legs as he sprinted as fast as he had ever moved in all his twenty-seven years of life on Terra. He risked another glance back, in time to watch the armored monster crush the Color Sergeant’s head in its fist, Dimas’ stubber firing point blank into the beast's armor right up to the end.

The helmeted monstrosity turned its gaze toward Adao as he ran, and his heart sank to his stomach. His legs were as heavy as iron as he covered the last half dozen steps to the blast door. The beast was coming, it covered half the distance in just two bounding steps. Adao slammed his fist into the emergency release panel for the blast door. The huge door came screeching out of its overhead compartment and slammed into its hermetic seating at the bottom of the hallway. A series of clanks and a hiss signalled its locking to Adao, and he turned to the command center staff, terror on his face. He didn’t manage to warn them before the door mechanisms groaned in agony, the door beginning to rise back toward the ceiling against its will.

“Sir!” one of his aides shouted, in the middle of shaking him. There was blood in his mouth, flowing freshly from a bite he had put in his cheek.

“Do as he says,” Vicente absentmindedly replied, a portion of his brain having internalized the order even if the rest of him had drifted off. “No, wait, we can do better than that. Deploy all of the proto-Astartes to this bunker to pin the Pacifican gene-warriors in place for the Thirteenth to shatter. We can hold the chaff without them.”

It was an incredibly bold-faced lie, and everyone in the room knew it. The prototype Space Marines, flawed as they were, were the only thing close to a strong defensive line that they had access to. Stout walls and fresh lasrifles were fine things, but against a force that knew their only option was victory or death, they could hardly stop a tide that outnumbered them so severely.

Still, his order was followed. They all knew what they had agreed to.

None pointed out how hard Vicente’s hands shook.

---

The Pacifican tide ebbed and flowed as a violent wave of defiance and bloodthirst. The frontlines, organized and fit, suffered and returned the brunt of the defensive force with autoguns, autocannons, and mortars. Genewarriors smashed through walls, slaughtering the slim Imperial garrison from within. Trained warriors, ordered unto the death march, weaved behind in tight squads to finish what their hulking compatriots started. Proto Astartes buckled under duress, feinting and retreating where their flawed mutations allowed or dying when they could not. The screams of the unmodified filled the air where the Pacificans ran through.

The backlines, however, suffered for the frontline’s success as the Bronze Scorpions pushed on. Alim tracked their movement through an encrypted auspex, now patched through to local Imperial command. He could see the battlefield in its entirety from within his helmet. The three-prong assault from the dropship was working. Their impromptu siege was reacting too slow to account for Astartes swiftness. The assassin packs of the Thirteenth were bleeding the enemy out in swathes. All the calculations he had prepared were coming to fruition.

Box-shaped vehicles, heavily laden with siege gear, drew his attention as they closed the distance from entry to frontline. The raw destructive output of the enemy genewarriors had allowed them free maneuverability through trench and ruin. It now gave them free reign over their midline equipment. He blinked-confirmed a new order for the dreadnought, who veered off from their spearhead to maim their artillery. Their own target lay ahead.

A bunker, if such a stout defensive platform could be called such, poured las down from kill holes. It was a great edifice of ferrocrete, reinforced by plasteel sheets and beams. If Alim hadn’t known it was a bunker, then he would’ve certainly mistaken it for a miniature citadel. A trio of heavy weapons – autocannons each – hailed hatred unto the enemy as they advanced. Mere mortals would balk at the sight of such impregnable defense, serviced by a tireless foe. The Scorpion knew well that this was no such enemy.

The discarded genewarriors of the Pan-Pacific Empire awaited them, hefting heavy armaments and gear by themselves. They were innumerable in their advance, specifically drawn by their ire and desire for destruction. Some, insane from augmentation, ran at a clipped speed towards the citadel, while others slowly advanced with experienced caution. Each was a miserable attempt to replicate the blade masters of Hongol. It mattered little. Their deaths were assured.

The first, a heavyset man with a bulky exopack and a chaincannon, exploded into atomized paste. Alim’s thunderhammer connected with the speed and power of an unnamed deity. Gore erupted sideways into the next enemy genewarrior, who attempted in vain to register a new foe. One of his Immortals vivisected them with a pair of powered talons. His squad delved in as a pack of serpents, sprung from dark dunes. They weaved into each kill, effortlessly murdering and supporting with the experience of a thousand skirmishes. Alim could feel them start to shatter even before the fifth was maimed, yet the Pacificans retaliated all the same. Those within the bunker took advantage of the ambush, offering a vomit of violent projectiles where the Thirteenth could not.

---

“Contact upon the line! Watch-Post Gimel reports visual contact with the Thirteenth!” a vox-operator reported, the holo-tank updating moments later with the precise positions of the Bronze Scorpions.

Not for the first time, Vicente wondered what he might have been able to accomplish if he had held these lines back then. The fortress that shut out the world was formidable in the extreme, as if the standard the Emperor was building for was himself. Every one of the squat bunkers, far from the most formidable fortification built into these mountains, could sustain itself for a year without resupply - not that they would ever need to, connected to the rest of the network by tunnels rigged to collapse in case of capture.

Perhaps if he had stood here, all those years again, it may have gone differently.

Perhaps…

---

Emergency lighting outlined the Imperial genewarrior as it hefted the seven ton door with one arm. Adao didn’t manage his warning, his body evaporating at the waist as the Astartes in slate grey armor fired a single bolt round from the weapon in its free hand. The monstrosity stepped casually forward, the massive blast door slamming down behind it sealing the command staff in with their doom.

A cogitator operator stood to round on the armored Imperial, a laspistol rising from her hip holster as she screamed. The beast was far faster. A single fist punched out, leaving a headless body to crumple to the floor. The Imperial didn’t even look as it decapitated the woman, instead stepping forward to place precise bolter shots into the nearest of the command staff still frozen in the seats at their stations.

The bolter barked, flashes of blinding light heralding the death of twenty of the Varaguan Guards' brightest members. The bolt of the terror weapon locked back loudly, and a brave staff officer rose to engage the freshly out of ammo genewarrior. The Astartes flicked their weapon to their side and thumbed the magazine release. The empty magazine rocketed across the command room before taking half of the staff officer's face with the force of the impact.

The Imperial slammed home another magazine and continued its methodical slaughter as it moved slowly toward the Varaguan Guard standard at the head of the room. Solid slugs panged harmlessly off its armor, and las bolts left shallow craters and burned lines across it. The monster was at the standard now.

An armored hand reached out for the flag, as the beast ignored the weapons fire landing harmlessly against it. A previously hidden man rose, this time from beneath a vox station directly behind the Imperial. He pulled the pin on a krak grenade and lunged forward. The beast spun around with speed beyond what should have been possible, swatting out with its weapon to redirect the explosive and its wielder. The stick grenade detonated as the Astartes' gauntlet connected with it, a bass thump taking the hearing from those still alive in the room, filling their vision with smoke, and lungs with fyceline fumes.

Time moved slowly for the survivors. Smoke billowed from the site of the krak grenade’s detonation and obscured their view. After moments that felt like hours, lumen torches began to search the smoke.

The low thrum and whine of the Astartes powerpack heralded its survival as the dust and smoke began to settle to the floor around it. The monstrosity was where it had been before the explosion, its arm, amputated at the elbow, pumped ever-slowing amounts of blood from its stump as it stood defiant over the man that had nearly felled it.

“Your colors are struck,” the voxgrille of the Astartes boomed at the man, the Varaguan Guard color standard left behind by the late Color-Sergeant Dimas crumpled in the warrior's uninjured gauntlet.

“Spare what remains of your command, Captain-General,” it concluded, its turquoise lenses giving a cursory glance to the shoulder board ranks and the mortal’s missing arm beneath it.

“Send the last of the Proto-Astartes to reinforce Zayin, Yod, and Resh,” Vicente ordered, snapping himself from his reverie as his fingers danced over a dataslate. “Move the reserve companies to Qof, and alert all garrisons to remain vigilant. Something feels wrong,” he continued, voice trailing off to a whisper. His free hand continued to shake, until he took a hold of his own wrist after his tapping was complete, breathing uneasily for a moment.

“It’s too easy. What am I missing?”

A small, traitorous, part of him, a part that felt no love for the Cantons that had lifted him up and then left him to be their sacrifice, whispered in the darkest corners of his mind. Perhaps what he was missing was the realization that the Emperor was simply superior. Perhaps it felt too easy because he had spent so long in opposition to the rightful Master of Mankind.

With a shake of his head to banish those thoughts, he frowned more deeply at the holomap, tracing the enemy’s reported movements with his eyes. With a shock, his eyes widened as he finally noticed the pattern, a stone dropping in his stomach. “Get a message to whoever’s leading the Astartes. It’s a feint! They know they can’t take the Lines with this, they’re trying to distract us, keep us pinned here while they make a break for Indoi!”

---

A cheer rose up from within Watch-Post Gimel from the Proto-Astartes as the last Pacifican died in the snow. It was a raucous sound, one filled with triumph and glory. He was surprised that his receptors could pick out the noise over the din of battle in the foreground. Their energy was redirected several seconds later, presumably from a command that he was not privy to. His attention quickly changed from the fortified bunker to the auspex. The assault was proceeding smoothly according to his calculations, each of his three prongs sweeping through the Pan-Pacific backlines with ease. Even the siege vehicles, painstakingly hauled towards the Himalazians, were being torn asunder in the snow.

Captain Alim quickly expelled heat from his plasma pistol as the rest of his brethren rearmed for the next attack. He narrowed his eyes as the auspex weakly pinged inside of his helmet. A flood of data was filtering in from the mortal command structure, yet the absence of enemy presence at his location gave him pause. Several outposts were under assault, but where were the rest of their genewarriors? What was the point of this gamble? These questions were answered no sooner than he had finished the riddle himself.

+’Captain Alim!’+ A voice patched through the voxnet. Their tone was young and worrisome. He couldn’t fault them for their worry given the sudden change on the battlefield. His greaves were already moving southward away from the Lines with his Immortals as he responded.

+’I am aware. Send a forward party with a fast transport to hold down the feint in the name of the Emperor. We will arrive in minutes.’+ He responded without worry. It was something that he hadn’t accounted for when regarding the enemy assault, yet their actions made perfect sense. Indoi was still reeling from the fall of their High Padishah. It was weak, rebuilding, and prone to insurrection. They cannot allow this.

A blink-order saw the two other prongs of his strike force begin to curl inwards on the auspex, shifting from their straight assault to a closing pincer. Affirmative actions reflected as small emerald lumens on his screen, allowing him to move forward with his chase. If the mortal commander of the lines was able to sufficiently hold off the feint, then the rest of the Scorpions would be able to slaughter the Pacificans. Only time would tell. Time which was spent sprinting as hard and fast as his genewrought strength could muster.

---

“Sir, the Astartes are redeploying the bulk of their forces to stymie the Pacifican breakout,” one of Vicente’s adjutants - a young man at the time of the surrender, now aged by long years of exile - reported, zooming the holomap in on the relevant ident runes.

“This is it then,” the Colonel - the Captain-General - muttered, with renewed determination. “All garrisons not in contact with the enemy are to redeploy to the nearest active point along the line,” he ordered, tracing lines on the map. “They have no further reserves, but we’re losing the bulk of our hammer.”

He frowned for a moment, looking at the flickering unit identifiers along the line of contact. “We’ll simply have to firm up the anvil,” he announced, his hands falling still. “Inform the commander of Watch-Post Resh that I shall be reinforcing them presently. The time has come for the Varaguan Guard to show its quality.”

Upon the map, rapidly approaching Resh where the fighting was fiercest, was the first of the swift transports bearing the Bronze Scorpions.

---

Watch-Post Resh was in chaos by the time Vicente had arrived, the Captain-General having opted to take his entire command staff into the heat of battle. They would be useless in their bunker now, their hololiths mere impotent symbols of the point of decision, but in person they may just stiffen the spines of the defenders for long enough for the Astartes to relieve them.

Old men stood to attention and saluted with their lasrifles held at parade precision as their commander passed them by, tired faces took on a firm resolve, and hearts that had sunk years ago into the pits of ennui found themselves stirring at the sight of the standard bearer parading the colors in their midst.

Vicente pretended as if he paid them no heed, while keeping within him a sigh of relief that this gambit had worked at all, as he approached the Watch-Post’s commander. “Time to arrival?”

“Too long, sir,” the old man replied, after sketching a hazy salute as he bent over his own, smaller, holotank. “Our center is buckling, even with the Astartes vanguard tearing up their rear. They’re not going to win this, and they know that, but if they break through here they’ll be making misery for years behind the Lines.”

What was left unsaid between Vicente and his lieutenant was the Emperor’s displeasure at such a failure.

“I will take to the line. Remain here to coordinate with the Astartes upon their arrival.”

“Sire.”

---

Once upon a time, they had been known as a warlord that exerted some control over the Xeric tribes to the west of the Pan-Pacific Empire. In their reign, they raided from the Rindian Plains to the Papuan Deserts and into the Asiatic Dustfields of old. They had made a name for themselves but never dared to venture into the Pacifican Tyrant’s territory. They had been mocked for their cowardice by craven and cur. It was defiance that they would not allow. They defiled the sanctity of Cebu City, which overlooked the last oceans of Terra and the Marian Canyon. They had chosen poorly.

When the Tyrant intercepted them on their voyage back to Angkor, he had come with the fury keenly attached to his moniker as the Jade Master of Hongol. Their champions and dredges were defeated, mauled, and fed to the biomechanical monstrosities of Dume; however, he relented and pitied them. To the Mastermind of the Panpacific, they had been a wonderful experiment and tempting morsel for him to play with. So it was that they lost their identity, defiled by the likes of the Tyrant for little less than mild interest. They became a puppet in name and a brutal general in act.

They were the Scourge of the Xeric and they had come to break the False Emperor’s Lines. Behind them were the remnants of their mighty warband drawn from the labs of the Tyrant and strictly disciplined by their masterful mind. Their warriors were brutes not unlike themselves, genewarriors of another breed compared to the dogs of the Himalazians. The slave-warrior dregs followed after their party, hauling supplies with their gruesome external augmentations. They were things that could not fight nearly as well as the Scourge, but they were needed nonetheless.

The winds of the Himalazians beat upon their sculpted flesh, tempting it to bristle like armored plates freshly fabricated and unprotected. It did not bother them. They could not be harmed by such mortal means. It was the same for their brethren-in-arms. Assuredly not beneath their powered carapace, forged by the lightning of the Tyrant’s Enclave. To even think that their beloved armor could be compared to the likes of the Terrawatt was unthinkable, yet their opposition existed and thrived. They would not allow this. The fall of the Himalazian King has come.

Their access into Indoi was blocked. They knew well that the Lines stretched for long distances and such was their duty to break it apart. They had anticipated as such. By the Tyrant’s will, they would achieve greatness or they would perish in the snows of the Himalazians. The bunkers appeared sooner than they expected in their great sprint. They would waste no time attempting to demolish such a structure, but they were not dull of mind. The Scourge remembered much of its time as the Warlord of the Xerics. It was something that they revealed now as their brethren split into two parties and began to attack Watch-Post Resh.

---

The brave sentinels of Watch-Post Resh, upon receiving word of the incoming detachment of Panpacific soldiers, had rapidly begun to prepare for an assault. Their defenses were as adequate as the next with autocannons and heavy stubbers ready to fire from raised platforms and walled corridors. Torn sandbags and rotting crates made for acceptable supports in most scenarios for them, yet their opponent was unlike those that fought at Aleph, Beta or Gimmel. The defenders of the Line were stricken in horror as something prowled out of the Himalazian snow.

It was a thing that dared to move beyond transhuman. Their form gave the impression of gigantism that paled that of the Astartes with more acute features and elongated limbs. They sprinted on legs that appeared both impossibly large and suspiciously thin. These Panpacific grotesques moved in a way that promoted heightened intelligence as they spread evenly with their myriad weaponry hefted. The horrifically augmented dredges that followed after them were barely comparable to the monstrosities these beings were. They were human, perhaps once, but now they were something both more degenerated and more evolved. It was almost too much to possibly perceive as the first of their unique weapons fired and tore through the plascrete fortification.

The standard that flew behind them would’ve roused their spirits against the monstrosities born of the Panpacific Tyrant’s mind - were it not for the other half of the monstrosities sprinting at them. Some decidedly chose to sprint at the Imperials on all fours, eschewing tactical thought in favor of inspiring fear. Others galloped on all three with one limb used to hold their enormous close combat weapons. A final pair simply sprinted like humans towards the Watch-Post, reflexively raising their armaments to defend against the slaughter should it come to them.

In that moment, everything erupted into chaos as all manner of discipline split drastically between fight or flight. A few, younger than the veteran old by far, tried to flee. The majority unloaded whatever munition they had been in their hands in stark fear of the things that chased after them. Balls of plasma, highly-concentrated las, heavy duty shells, and more barked back at them from beyond the fortification. Men began to die faster than they could fire, engulfed in roiling plasma or shredded by precisely aimed heavy las.

This was the chaos that greeted Vicente when he strode upon the field of battle, his men firing desperately into the charging horde while the proto-Astartes at last found the death they had craved by flinging their own bodies forward to stem the tide. Gene-warrior tore apart gene-warrior with an animalistic frenzy, while the Varanguan Guard once again stood against the madness that had taken the heart of man in these darkest of days.

And this time they would stay standing.

“Viva Pan!” the Captain-General cried as at least drew his arms, his laspistol and power sword more works of art than functional weapons. Each was old, older his father told him than Old Night itself, and the brilliant beam of red light that shot from the barrel of the former seemed to prove that true. “Viva Pan! Viva el Emperador!” he cried again, his blade flickering to life as his command squad surged around him - the banner of the Guard flying in defiance of a foe once again.

Save them, Astartes, Vicente thought to himself as he rallied the spirits of those doomed men manning the forward bastions of the Watch-Post. His death he had long ago accepted, yearned for even as an escape from his prison, but those of his men… He could swallow his pride for them.

The proto-Astartes stood no chance against the grisly monstrosities of the Hongol. The first of the wasting warriors was torn apart in a feral, animalistic display. Rows upon rows of adamantine-lined teeth pierced into the Imperial’s carapace with disgusting ease. For what the man was worth, he hammered the Pacifican with such ferocity that every strike further dented his killer’s helmet. The punches would’ve killed a mortal. These were no simple creatures of the Pan-Pacific Empire. In a fit of fury, the proto-Astartes was ripped in half with claw and tooth. The next Imperial genewarrior followed shortly after in bestial slaughter.

The valiant sacrifice of the proto-Astartes managed to prolong Watch-Post Resh’s inevitable massacre by several seconds. Those Pacifican abominations at the forefront slammed into the fortification with the force of a demi-god. Chunks of the structure exploded inward, scattering debris into the Guard’s futile formation. The more able-minded of the pack squeezed in through holes in the defenses, while the increasingly insane of their name continued to savage the wall. Mortals, stricken by fear, switched to bayonets, chainswords, and combat knives as the genewarriors wormed in.

With their objective completed, the Pacificans in the backline started to load up their heavy armaments onto their accompanying dredges. Satisfied with the chaos they created, the genewarriors slowly lumbered forward to rendezvous with their bestial kin. Their arrogance would be their undoing. Only one had the insight to act as rearguard against would-be intruders on the battlefield; however, even they were caught off-guard by how quick and silent the Imperium’s greatest warriors could be.

The head of the abomination exploded in a shower of gore, cascading chunks of metalbound meat in a wide radius around its descending corpse. The rest of the genewarrior’s packmates turned in time to see five sprinting knights in ceramite plating. Bronze-black giants smashed into their backline with cold ferocity. Hefty bolters mercilessly blew large holes in armored limbs, crippling the long-limbed Pacificans long enough for the Imperials to close in. Blade and talon met biomechanical flesh, spraying dark vitae across the snow. The stench of depleted ozone overwrote the iron reek of engineered blood as power weapons tore into monstrous hide. Three of the warriors remained behind to finish the slaughter, while two more rushed to reinforce Watch-Post Rest.

The remaining two bounded into combat, their warplate propelling them into a deadlong sprint. One wielded an enormous, lightning-wreathed hammer in their left hand and a plasma pistol in the right. The other ran with a pair of powered talons, lowered to the ground in a hunting stance. Those monstrosities that savagely attacked the fortification without thought greedily turned to greet the interlopers. Their excitement was quelled as the first of their number disappeared in a ball of overcharged plasma. The genewarrior screamed in agony as their insides were torched in azure flame.

Both sides collided into a melee of meteoric carnage. The bronze-black warrior with the lightning-wreathed claws deftly dodged the hulking, two-handed blade of the Pacificans. Their form was a flitting phantom in the snow, instantaneously feigning and cutting into the larger genewarriors like a striking scorpion. The other was wrath incarnate, hipfiring their plasma pistol into exposed joints only to follow up with supersonic swings of their hammer. The biomechanical genewarriors died as quickly as they engaged, each murdered with unfathomable skill. The last was pierced by rending talons to the chest and promptly decapitated for good measure. Their mindless assault ended no sooner than it had begun, yet more of the Pacificans remained in the fortification.

The mortals closest to the Watch-Post Resh’s walls had died seconds ago, shredded into chunky viscera. Five of the abominable genewarriors massacred through the crowd that vainly attempted to kill them with sword and bayonet. Powered greatcleavers tore through their ill-fitted carapace. Biomechanically enhanced muscles and power armor servos further pushed the heights of their carnage. Bodies were flung across the defenses like marionettes torn from their strings. These monsters slaughtered with their jaws unfurled, chewing into meat when possible or cackling loudly in sadistic delight.

“Suffer not the abomination,” a vox-enhanced voice boomed against the shattered rockrete. Time seemed to slow as the biomechanical genewarriors regarded the voice’s owner. A pair of bronze-black giants pulled themselves through the holes in the wall. Their ceramite armor dripped with tainted gore and their weapons humming with power. Crimson lenses shone brightly in the dim of Resh’s frosty interior, glaring down at warriors wholly more insignificant to them. The one with the two-handed hammer hefted their weapon into their chainbound gauntlet. A snarl, uncharacteristic of their nature, bubbled up from their gullet.

“To live.”

They leapt into combat faster than the Pacifican genewarriors could react. The first of their five suffered the brunt of the bronze-black knight’s wrath. Their thunderhammer crashed into the abomination’s skull from above, vaporizing bone, flesh, and metal in a single blow. As the corpse began to drop, the Imperial whipped their sidearm up with mindnumbing speed. An eye-watering ball of plasma crossed the distance between themself and the next abomination, sinking its chest in with azure flame. The two sides collided by the time the interloper was running toward the third beast.

Genewarriors slammed into each other once again in a macabre dance of unimaginable brutality. The bronze-black giant with lightning claws entered the combat next to their comrade, their tabard wildly flicking with each stride. A harsh, bark-like laughter burst out of their helmet as they caught a genewarrior’s greatcleaver in their talons. Their follow-up attack saw the Pacifican’s chest fully disemboweled, steaming innards spilling onto the Watch-Post’s stony floor. They were too engrossed in slaughter to aptly evade the next assault, which crunched their helmeted head in biomechanical jaws. The taloned warrior crashed to the floor as vitae ejected out of their torn neck.

A bronze-black warrior and the last two Pacificans began to fight with mortals scurrying around them. The abomination that had torn the head from their companion spit out their helmet on the floor. If it was meant to elicit emotion, then the knight gave none as he launched forehead into a headlong charge. The pair anticipated an attack, but they were taken aback when the mortal guard latched onto them. Bayonets, combat knives, swords, and more bit deep into their flesh with wild desperation. Their vain assault bought precious reaction time for the giant, who slammed his thunderhammer into one of the genewarriors. The shockwave of the weapon obliterated the genewarrior’s shoulder and sent them tumbling further into the Watch-Post. Those mortals that had held the creature in place were knocked prone or outright pulverized by the blast.

A final Pacifican remained - yet it wasn’t nearly as keen to die to mortal instruments. The genewarrior slammed their greatcleaver into the ground, scattering the guardians that dared to attack it. Debris and snow momentarily rained in the Watch-Post as the abomination backpedaled, ichor dripping from fresh cuts along their body. The bronze-black giant refused to allow their escape, recklessly charging into the midst with their plasma pistol raised. Their weapon was knocked out of their gauntlet as the creature stepped back into them. A kick to the chestplate saw the knight pushed backwards several inches. It wouldn’t be enough.

“There is no escaping His wrath,” the black-bronze giant coldly stated. Their gauntlet, now devoid of their sidearm, instantaneously locked onto the Pacifican’s leg. A grunt of effort resounded off the Watch-Post tile as the knight used their herculean strength to slam the abomination overhead. The creature’s body impacted the tile, knocking the wind from their lungs and the greatcleaver from their claws. An obsidian greave was lifted and rammed down on the genewarrior’s spine to pin it. They screamed out in animalistic fury as their leg was then torn from their body.

Righteous brutality became the norm for several seconds as the bronze-black warrior tormented their prey. The legless abomination viciously attempted to squirm out from under the ceramite-clad juggernaut, yet they did not relent. Their thunderhammer was brought into a two-handed grip with it’s head swinging by their knees. The mortals watched as the knight lifted the weapon and slammed down with retributive finality. Bioengineered vitae ejected up their armor, coating their umbral tabard in a shade of dark crimson. With the enemy defeated, the giant lumbered forward to the mortals and quietly scanned them.

“Watch-Post Resh has been liberated,” the knight stated flatly. Their blood-drenched form made for a terrifying sight among the mortals. The sound of armor servos, crackling power weapons, and howling Himalazian winds filled the silence where ragged, human breathing did not.

The Colonel stumbled forwards through the charnel house as the last of the Pacificans fell, his uniform a mess of viscera and gore, laspistol gripped tightly. His power sword was lost, along with his pristine augmetic hand, the stump still sparking where the false-flesh gave way to bare circuitry. “Wrong, Astarte,” he coughed out, before carefully holstering his sidearm.

“Watch-Post Resh stands relieved,” Vicente said weakly as he pounded his fist to his heart in the warrior’s salute. “The Varanguan Guard requests permission to retire from the field.”

Captain Alim stared down at the Colonel for several, silent seconds. Flakes of ash and snow stuck to the bronze-black knight’s armor in the quiet. Unbeknownst to Vincente, the Astartes was watching the auspex in real-time as the Pacifican attack folded. A relentless tide of Scorpions had swept through the exposed flanks of the assault, eliminating everything in their warpath. Only small, insignificant packs remained to be thoroughly annihilated.

“Request approved, Colonel Vincente,” the monotone giant acquiesced. A blink-order confirmed the rerouting of a Stormbird, fresh from the Pacifican hunt. He returned the salute and continued to speak, “a transport is enroute for you and your men. My brethren and I shall continue the hunt, though the Pacifican menace has been drastically diminished.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Vincente said as he lowered the salute, keeping the surprise from his face. Behind him what remained of his staff reacted swiftly to the change of circumstances, medevac and triage plans being updated by seasoned professionals who did not have time to be shocked by this good fortune. “I will not forget this kindness, Astartes. If you would excuse me however, I must-”

“Come with me.”

A figure emerged from the shadows as the voice rang out, the auramite clad form of a Custode simply appearing from a space that had previously seemed empty. “The Emperor’s judgement awaits.”

The Bronze Scorpion blinked in muted surprise beneath his helmet. His optic servos whirred and clicked as he tried to process the sudden appearance of the Custode. The telltale sign of unrestrained curiosity filtered through his mind - yet it was tamed by the remnants of psychoindoctrination. He wondered if the Thirteenth could emulate such brilliant stealth. The thought was discarded in the same second. His attention returned to Colonel Vincente.

“Go. I will watch over your men,” Captain Alim announced. He moved forward before the man replied to him, temporarily assuming his command by presence alone. The Bronze Scorpions followed behind, assisting the mortals where they were needed and guided them where they were not. The boom of engines could be heard in the distance, approaching their position with every drawing second.

---

The troop bay of the grav carrier was empty save for the two of them, the Custode’s expression hidden behind her helm as she spoke. “That was foolish of you, at the end. But brave,” she said, emotionlessly. “The Emperor typically shows mercy to such individuals.”

Because they’ll just get themselves killed, Vicente thought to himself, keeping his expression still. “And my men?”

“Fools require minders,” she replied. “They bound their fates to you long ago regardless. The Master knows well the hearts of the proud.”

He released a breath he didn’t know he had held at the news. His losses had been catastrophic, every proto-Astarte had fallen in the last melee at Resh, and of his own men, those who had followed him so far from the walls of Pan had been decimated. But they would live. He had earned that much at least for them.

“Now come, banish those thoughts from your mind. You have earned yourself another name, my brave warrior.”

---

@MarshalSolgriev @FrostedCaramel

[Ezekiel]

---

A Land Far From Anywhere

---

From a distance, the fortress rose from the wasteland like a mirage. Its walls were thick and sloped, built from sun-baked brick scavenged from the bones of old cities and glazed in patches of turquoise and lapis, their colours muted by dust but still defiant. Minarets crowned the corners, not for prayer but as watchtowers, their balconies the domain of watchful guards rather than philosophers and priests of old. The irradiated desert bent around it: dunes broke against the outer ramparts, and the wind sang through carved calligraphy praising endurance, dominion, and the mercy of shelter.

A dry moat encircled the stronghold, choked with shattered concrete and the husks of dead machines, funnelling attackers into narrow kill-paths watched by hidden embrasures. Heavy gates of layered steel and cedar stood beneath pointed arches. Above them, tiles formed geometric stars and interlocking vines, each shard carefully placed. The gates were rarely opened; expected visitors passed through smaller posterns masked by hanging rugs and mirrored screens that distorted silhouettes.

Within the walls, the fortress unfolded as a city-palace. Courtyards bloomed with stubborn gardens fed by underground cisterns, where water trickled through qanats dug deep into forgotten aquifers. Date palms and fig trees grew beside solar arrays framed like ornamental lattices. Guards in layered silks and elaborate armour moved silently through shaded arcades, their curved blades etched with verses promising swift judgment. Every corridor bent and doubled back, designed to disorient intruders while guiding residents by scent—incense, oil, and warm stone. It was both an homage and a mockery to the courts that had come before it. Culture itself a tribute paid to the conqueror who had smashed aside superstition and mysticism in the name of his master’s code of reason.

At the heart of the fortress stood a domed sanctuary clad in gold-leafed panels salvaged from relics of ancient Terra. By day, it reflected the merciless sun; by night, it glowed with soft internal light, a beacon of controlled splendour in a dead world. From its high terrace, the ruler could survey the wasteland in all directions. an ocean of ash and ruin. There were parts of this world that could perhaps one day be healed, but this small citadel welcomed the isolation the vast emptiness provided.

There was a sombre mood about this private court, at odds with its usual sense of cheer. A time that all had foreseen but none had wished for approached. The usual vigour with which good humour pushed back against the dark realities of the world had become subdued.

Aristagoras, he-who-bears-the-names-of-the-conquered, regarded the vast painting before him with a tone of contemplation. The visage was that of a woman in semi-abstract. The only evidence that she had existed, yet even still distorted from recognition into a word of representative art. When he looked upon it, however, he saw her smile as it had truly been.

“I wish I recalled her, as you do.” The feminine voice, laced with a sad bitterness, snapped him out of his contemplations. He turned to face the one main reason he could never forget the face on the wall, for he beheld the mirror of it as he did.
“We were forged to be guardians and assassins both; it would do poorly for us to ever forget a target.” The Emperor’s Second Blade spoke with a sad smile. It was not often he addressed the very clinical nature of his origin, and such only caused the scowl on the woman’s features to deepen. Not at him, but at the truth of his words.

“You know well enough that whatever gene-sorcery was used to form you and your brethren is different in you.” The woman’s words were softer than her expression. An untrained eye might consider her of similar origin to him, to the female guardians of the Emperor. She was only a little shorter than Aristagoras, her form also holding the inherent strength and danger of the talons of the Emperor. Despite anyone with any thorough knowledge of the Custodians, the Thunder Warriors or even the newer Astartes wouldn’t take long to understand she was different. In many ways she was too human, a softness to her frame and a character to her eyes that gave away that she was grown and raised, not chiseled and forged for war.

“That has cost you everything. Cost us her.” The olive skinned giant motioned his hand towards the painting, of the face that even in abstract haunted his dreams and waking thoughts. The last daughter of Memphos that had been taken as spoils, yet became the joy he was never meant to feel.

“No, he cost you that. It is the potter who is at fault, not the vase, when it is forged crooked.” Those eyes, without the predatory glean that marked out every Custodian as a killer masquerading as a human, held very little else but the same righteous anger as they met his own. Bearing the burning gaze of the Butcher of Shangri-Laren with as much ease as any had ever done so.

“You think I am of ill-make now?” A humoured deflection, but it worked for a moment, a slight laugh gracing the dark tan of her lips as she shook her head in frustration.

“I think it is cruel to demand of you things beyond your nature, when it is your nature that makes you his Second Blade. You speak often in the flaws of your making, but what if it is that making which made you the greatest of his warriors.” Pride ran through her words, but not for herself, for the giant she now spoke to in what could be their final conversation.

“I am sure Constantin might challenge the bias of your assessment there, little viper.” The First and Second blade had known each other for as long as any being could claim to familiarity with the pair, but that did not mean there was familiarity in their bond. The first and second forged, one with too few deviations, one with too many. Yet both knew the call in their blood was the greatest cause they could ever hope to fight for.

She shrugged as she approached him, taking his hands in her own with a gentle squeeze. “A man who fights without the flames of passion cannot hope to withstand the inferno.” He did not encourage her boasting of him, but still, there was some pride to her surety. Pride that faded when her expression turned sorrowful once more.

“You do not have to go, you have given him the world.” She did not vocalise what they both knew. There was little and less place for the more experimental of the Master’s creations in the world, the galaxy, he was building. If Aristagoras was, finally, called to the front once more, it was likely a journey he would not return from. This isolated oasis of the old ways could no longer survive the force of the Master’s vision.

“I must, for all that I am different, in this way I am not. I am called. I will answer.”

[MarshalSolgriev]

Dustbound

-Before the Assault of Kursken-

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the lights flickered and died.

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

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

“Let them come.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The reaction was immediate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The chamber erupted into motion.

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

“Now,” Estrid commanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

Credits: Legio Cataegis/Primarch Corvinius @MarshalSolgriev , Legio Astartes Purifiers/Estrid/Alfdis/Thyre @Ezekiel

[FrostedCaramel]

The Jade Citadel of Hongol - Outside the City Limits

The Panpacific Empire

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The formations of Battlegroup Pacifica had been drawn up out of view of their objective. Thousands of war machines and millions of men were arrayed, ready for the final push against the Jade Citadel of Hongol, the last of the tyrant Narthan Dume’s bastions. Astartes in some of the largest numbers yet deployed concurrently readied their arms and armor for the struggle to come. All of these forces were gathered at this point under the banner of the Raptor, at the will and command of their Emperor. They would depose the mad genius from his throne room atop the central hive tower and free the people of the Pacifican wastes. They would cast down the techno-monstrosities of Narthan Dume and bring peace and prosperity to a populace long enslaved beneath an iron fist.

The mortal men and women of the Emperor’s armies anxiously awaited the command to advance, to siege the massive walls of the Citadel, to spill the enemy's blood and bring victory in His name. Even while the majority of this vast Imperial war host waited in dugouts, troop carriers, and huddled around small fires and tarps, the opening moves of the siege were already underway.

An artillery duel between the Citadel’s defenders and the Imperial attackers was raging just a few kilometers forward of the Imperial lines. For those that had not witnessed the Siege of Sanctii in those far off northern lands or the fall of Abyssna, the exchange of fire was apocalyptic. The report of cannons was unending, and the far off distant rumble of the havoc they were causing was a mere undertone to the cacophony of explosions that was the Jade Citadel’s counter battery fire.

On any regular day, on any regular front, the average frontline Imperial Trooper would have envied the artilleryman. To be kilometers distant from stubber and sniper fire, or a forty five minute walk removed from the business end of a bayonet, that was something to be envied. As the trooper’s friends and comrades died in the mud, the artilleryman supped on recaf and huddled around campfires to the comforting smells of vat-grown protein analogs. But today was no regular day.

The artillery response from the Jade Citadel on the artillery positions had stopped everything going on in the myriad Imperial camps and staging areas. It had been sudden, as if a curtain of fire had simply appeared along the lines of the artillery positions. The world ending response from the Pacificans was overwhelming. It drowned out the sound of the Imperial guns with ease, and turned every head, transhuman and mortal alike, in the Imperial camps in the direction of the immense show of destructive power. There was not a frontline trooper that envied the artilleryman at that moment, no soul brave enough to wish their positions were switched.

The apocalyptic scene subsided after an agonizing ten minute artillery duel. Imperial auspex ranged and pinpointed Pacifican gun positions as artillery crews frantically tuned firing solutions and exterminated what Pacifican guns they could before they too were simply evaporated by Pacifican responses. Crews along the line lucky enough to be in possession of self-propelled guns like the Basilisk abandoned their masterfully dug firing position. Ripping up flakboard siding and earth as they shot and moved trying to stay ahead of the Pacifican response. Those without the fortunes of a self propelled gun simply fired as quickly as they could, crews working furiously to thin the number of Pacifican guns before they were deleted from existence by their enemy’s response.

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The grey armored Astartes stopped short of the makeshift road as a random assortment of vehicles sped past from the direction of the artillery emplacements. The grey figure watched on in pity as the vehicles surged by. A Chimera troop transport, dying men and frantic medicae piled atop its roof and the blazing sword of the Abyssinian Fourth Cavalry on its side streaked in blood left no doubt in the Astartes mind that these vehicles had been requisitioned for casualty evacuation from the surrounding frontline units. She coldly wondered if the reassignment of frontline transports and units for such tasks would delay the siege further.

“The artillerymen suffered this day,” Elena, her Adjutant, voxed privately to her.

“Indeed, I only hope they inflicted more pain on the foe.” Captain Costas agreed.

As the last of the makeshift medical evacuation vehicles rumbled by, the Astartes of the Seventeenth continued to their legion staging point.

Her armor notified her of an incoming data packet though it didn’t allow her the chance to accept or deny it as the sender overrode her own control on such things. A moment later the databurst arrived on her helmet display. The Raptor Imperialis told her all she needed to know of why such a transmission had bypassed her own control, the vermillion level identity code scrolling past her eyes only served to confirm that notion. Text scrolled past her vision, no doubt the same was happening on every screen and helmet display across the entire theater.

++COMMANDER, BATTLE GROUP PACIFICUS TO ALL FORCES++
++ASSAULT TO BEGIN IN TEN MINUTES++
++THIS DATABURST TO RESET CHRONOMETERS AS NEEDED++
++FOR THE GLORY OF THE MASTER OF THE LINE++
++IN THE NAME OF THE EMPEROR++

A second databurst followed with detailed tactical instructions and strategic considerations relating specifically to the Seventeenth. Costas devoured the information in only a couple of heartbeats before she picked up her pace to the Seventeenth’s assembly area. There was war to be made.

---

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Legion Master Scraphurst, leader of the 8th legion, once more found himself gazing upon his new augmetic hand. The actual machinery was hidden under the armor, but he could still tell the difference. Even as he moved his fingers without any hesitation or lag, in his mind he knew that instead of flesh and blood, there was metal and wires underneath.

As the 8th legion moved around in order to prepare for the assault that was coming, something that was readily apparent to those tallying the make up of Imperial forces was that the legion had relatively small armoured support when compared to other legions; The losses due to the surprise macro shelling by the Tyrant of his own Highway had the misfortune of landing almost directly on top of the 8th’s position and cost them a lot of their armoured support.

They had salvaged and repaired what they could, alongside the arrival of replacements and reinforcements, but while the Imperium was proving itself to be an industrial juggernaut, the logistics of producing and shipping battle tanks still took time and the 8th weren’t the only fighting force the Imperium needed supplied.

This meant that they would largely be playing an infantry role in the assault to come. That was fine in Scraphurst’s opinion. As he clenched his metal, armored fist he glanced over at his preparing Astartes… and couldn’t help but feel a dark grin manifest on his face as he noticed a modified version of an old friend being wielded by members of certain squads.

Alchemical weapons played a role in the constant gang warfare of Mercia’s various hive cities. While most gangs preferred autoguns and other simple weapons due to their commonality and ease of maintenance, those who were clever and pragmatic enough to understand and use chem weaponry understood the versatile nature of such things and the limits of what you could unleash were those of creative thinking.

A number of such gangs had been recruited into the 8th, through their collaborative efforts to make use of their collected knowledge combined with Imperial resources and science had only recently borne fruit in the form of the Astartes grade Chem-Thrower.

While the basic design seemed to be that of flamer, the Chem-Thrower was designed from the ground up with the idea of containing and firing streams of highly dangerous and deadly substances in both liquid and gas form, the exact mixture of which to be tailored for each encounter.

Several Astartes had already donned the backpack that stored and fed their deadly payloads into their weapons. The payload selected was a highly acidic gas that, while it required a direct concentrated blast to have a chance to eat through the metal of power armor, would easily consume anything softer that wasn’t designed to resist it within moments of exposure.
This had also required some additions to the standard gear of the 8th legion as a whole. Since Imperial power armor wasn’t environmentally sealed, the 8th had opted to requisition hazmat suits tailored for acid damage to wear under their armor. In order to protect these suits further from possible damage, as power armor only really protected the arms and chest, an admittingly haphazard collection of lesser mesh armor had been acquired in order to cover where the power armor failed to protect to the best of each man's ability.

The results were… not pretty to behold. They also generally made more noise when moving than the standard power armor caused as well, with rings of metal mesh clinking on top of everything else. There were going to be those who laughed at them for appearing comical.

This would hopefully be worth not killing themselves or their battle brothers with their own chemical weaponry. Only time and the future death toll would tell.

---

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Hongol. For decades, he had been prepared to one day assault the Jade Palace of Narthan Dume. It mattered little if it had been when he was mortal or when he had ascended to become one of the Emperor’s Astartes. From the sands of the Achaemenid to the jungles of Indoi, he had felt their touch on each invasion. How many Astartes had perished to their tactics? How many of the Thirteenth will perish in this assault alone? He felt no need for it to be answered. They are His weapons. They are His scorpions. They will succeed or they will die.
The chronometer ticked down inside of Legion Master Zaid ibn N’dar’s helmet. It was a minor annoyance compared to the overwhelming amount of data that scrolled over his eyes. His entire legion was employed in this siege, each of them as if they were a thousand and one grains of black sand. They were the most numerous present in terms of numbers, despite losses taken from the ambush on the macroway. Groups of lethal scorpions, colloquially granted the term assassin squads, were tactically planted throughout the invasion. He watched them advance as their timers ticked down, preparing their eventual climb and following breach.
Zaid flexed his newly christened mechanical fist, colorfully painted crimson against his black-bronze carapace. A reminder of shame. A reminder of duty. A reminder of justice. Hongol would be his retribution, or it would be his grave. He no longer held the Spear of Abbaba, another tool taken from him for the vaults. His chainaxe would suffice, chains dangling from pommel to wrist. He was prepared to begin the assault, a camoeline cloak strewn about his armored form. Hundreds of other Scorpions were like him, cloaked in one manner or another.
The most venerable position of wall-taker, however, was not his. A spread of Immortals, similarly garbed in cameoline cloaks, waited around him in a half-circle as the siege began to pick up in intensity. He could feel their frustration at being denied the honor. It was understandable. They would climb just as he did and succeed in their task, yet know that the achievement of gate-breacher would slip from their grasp. They would come to know why. He trusted only the witch-minds of his legion to this task. They had grown substantially from nothing and paled in comparison to the Fifteenth; however, they were born of sand and umbral dreams.
His gaze shifted to the chronometer. Mere seconds remained. The scorpions drew themselves closer as insects hidden beneath dark dunes. The hunt was close. He knew that the umbral world was evident on their lips. Zaid felt it himself as the walls of Hongol rose overhead. He refused to immerse himself until the time was ripe. One last order to relay.
+‘Take the gates. Kill the Pacificans.’+ His voice growled through the Thirteenth’s voxnet.

---

---

The legions were drawn up. Thousands of Astartes waited silently in trench lines, embarked in armored transports, or hidden beneath cameleoline cloaks as the seconds ticked by. Their chronometers were all synced perfectly to the headquarters timeline, each transhuman warrior counting down perfectly as the time of release approached rapidly. Beyond these smaller formations, hundreds of thousands of mortals waited anxiously in similar positions. They had heard of the slaughter that had taken place at similar sieges, they knew of the near-legendary status of Sanctii, some of the more senior officers had even been present at that battle though they had been lowly line officers then. Not a man among them counted themselves lucky to be arrayed in their formations here, though they all knew their cause was just; they feared their mortality all the same.

“Three minutes” Elena voxed to the command squad of the Seventeenth.

“Thank you Elena, but we all have the time available to us.” Costas replied, a hint of derision in her voice. She was focused on her legions deployment plans, three different axes of advance, three different objectives, more than fifty supporting mortal formations to work with. She wished she had the Meridian Gate, wished she could have concentrated her forces upon such a simple and glorious engagement, but she was subservient to the will of the Sigilite, and in turn His will.

---

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A rocky scarp rose far from the Jade Citadel, and there sat an old man on an unsteady folding chair, waiting for his tea to be ready. The pot was beautiful, despite its many chips, but the cup he held ready was a dented piece of metal. It didn’t fit the pot or the man, but it was his favorite nonetheless. It helped to be almost as old as him.

“Almost time,” he whispered to himself.

---

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[Golden Record]

Jade Citadel, Northeastern Flank

The databurst was unencrypted, a pattern of tones known only to those it was meant for and complete nonsense to any that intercepted it, easy as it was over open airwaves.

Captain Carmen was crouched low in a pool of industrial waste, her armored form pressed against the crumbling wall of the Jade Citadel’s abhuman ghetto. Her slate grey armor had been painted black, and a cameleoline cloak was draped over her bulk, the lower edges floating gently in the toxic sludge at her chest. She started a chronometer in her helmet, time ticking up from the moment of the unencrypted transmission as she awaited the opening moves of the siege.

“They’re taking their sweet time,” Sergeant Isabel Santos whispered over the vox as if the enemy would somehow hear her words.

“They’re slow,” Carmen agreed, frustration building in her chest as the timer ticked past five seconds, “it is what we get for trusting the opening move to the abhumans.”

A series of explosions rippled on the opposite side of the wall, and Carmen watched curiously as debris rained down into the sludge around her.

Nine and a half seconds, she clocked the response by the felinids, “Execute.”

Five hundred black-clad Astartes rose together from their positions in the toxic pools, grappling lines soaring to find purchase atop the wall as they scrambled to begin their assault.

Outside the walls, the frontmost lines of the Meallans rose from their concealed positions in the swamp, ghillies revealing heavy weapons and anti-personnel rifles suddenly within the minimum range of the heaviest defenses on the walls–their reason for the delay.

Missiles and heavy las-weapons mingled with volkite as they systematically dismantled the anti-armour defenses atop the wall from only a few dozen metres from its base.

Though they were well under the angle of the heavy ordnance, they were not under the angle of small arms, and while most of the fighters had taken positions in good cover, the simple reality was that the enemy had the high ground and there were only so many safe paths through the toxic marshlands their local guides could show them–many of the Felinids fell to withering return fire before the last of the big guns were silenced.

At which point the deafening roar of hovercraft engines made themselves known as a set of superheavy hovercraft landing ships roared across the toxic sludge fields, spraying gunk behind them as volkite cannons and heavy anti-personnel guns raked the top of the wall.

At the same time as the bloodbath on the walls, the embedded infiltrators rose up alongside their power-armoured comrades, leading sudden companies of hastily-armed abhuman rebels in bloody scourings of local security posts, trading fire with defenders in shantytown alleyways and foetid slums.

As the Meallan tanks rolled off their hovercraft and began blowing gaping holes in the north wall, the ghillie-equipped anti-tank units fell back, their mission done as they boarded the same hovercraft currently relieving them, passing blue-uniformed infantry on their way to reinforce the locals.

Though the Meallans were genuine in their offer to free the enslaved Abhuman locals, the unspoken caveat of that arrangement was that freedom would extend to those that survived–and hastily-trained infantry with old-model lasguns and stubbers and whatever basic combat armour had been scrounged from ambushed security forces or local mercenaries, simply wasn’t a good comparison for professional Pacifican soldiery–for every Pacifican that fell, at least three of the rebels were killed or badly injured.

An exchange rate that became almost reversed in the face of heavy armour, Meallan infantry, and their Power Armoured comrades in black.

“Push forward! Don’t give them a chance to regroup!” Captain mac Cormac was leading infantry this time, rather than the infiltrators, and leapt over the body of a fallen Pacifican officer to slam the butt of his rifle into an NCO still working out a jam. “Come on! Let’s show the Imperium what we’re made of!”

Captain Carmen sighted her long rifle with expert ease, each movement a deft flow of her armor and musculature to land the crosshair perfectly atop the next Pacifican to die. A junior officer 27 meters away, pointing hastily at the grappling hooks, lost his face in the explosion of a mass reactive shell. A second man, a Major by rank boards, slumped over in the command cupola of his troop transport as viscera coated the roof. A third officer’s head tumbled from his shoulders as he attempted to sprint for cover with his troopers. Carmen let each shot loose between her twin heartbeats, each shot a guaranteed kill.

“Abhumans rising, two hundred meters distant beneath the wall--” a massive explosion to Carmen’s left signaled another of the pacifican anti-armor guns reduced to ash by the Meallan assault beyond the walls, “they are pinned by armored carriers.” Sergeant Santos voxed from her position atop a crenelated watch tower.

Carmen blink-clicked her response, and a number of her closest battle sisters took off with her down the length of the ghetto wall.

They covered the distance in mere moments. A spring of such speed that Carmen simply barreled through Pacifican troopers too slow or stupid to get out of her way. She slid to a stop just above the armored personnel carriers, her rifle sighted before she had come to a standstill as mass reactive bolts found their way through driver optics and gunner ports. She heard the screams from within the machines and smiled despite not witnessing her handiwork as she would have preferred. She slung the rifle over her back, a comforting click signifying the maglock mechanism had taken as expected, and she stepped off the edge of the wall.

Carmen and four black-clad Astartes fell like rocks into the formation of Pacificans beneath them, currently engaged with the Felinid freedom fighters.

An armored figure fell atop the closest Pacifican armor and crumpled the roof beneath their armored form. The battle sister did not wait to see what damage she had inflicted with her arrival, instead, she caved in a hatch on the roof with a heavy stomp and dropped a grenade into the new entrance before jumping from the vehicle.

A second Astartes landed atop a Pacifican trooper, the resulting mess coating the nearest walls and mortals in red even before Carmen’s battle sister began to land point-blank shots with her bolter.

Carmen herself landed amid a squad of Pacificans taking cover behind a low wall. Whether it was cowardice or simply negligence that they all had to reload at the same time, it didn’t matter to her. She gutted the nearest with swings of her matte black combat blade, kicked out and crumpled the chest of a Sergeant of some kind, and brought her bolt pistol to bear on the final troopers attempting to run to her side.

“Captain mac Cormac, we are prosecuting targets as we deem fit. If your troops meet resistance you can not handle or contain, we will be available.” Carmen voxed over the shared net between the two forces. She took a bounding leap over a group of abhuman fighters that she found to be doing a fine job of keeping a Pacifican squad’s heads down and threw a grenade toward the enemy position. A pair of her sisters stormed the position just a heartbeat after the grenade thumped inside the building.

“Copy that,” Cormac replied, flinching as an explosion took out a nearby wall, then beckoning his forces forward as he remained unscathed. The Meallans were advancing militia-first, not because they believed in their prowess but because ambushes were easier to ferret out if the ones still standing when the smoke cleared had tanks and volkite weapons.

A hab-block had been putting up particularly stiff resistance; some enterprising officer had jammed an anti-materiel weapon in one of the upper storey landings and was using it to take out Meallan armoured vehicles. So far it was only their smaller support vehicles, but one of their heavy tanks had been detracked in sight of the thing and the order had come down to level the entire structure if the gun could not be disabled in time.

“As a matter of fact,” he voxxed, “We have a gun we’d like your people to deal with…”

Carmen received a rune response from her command squad signalling their readiness to prosecute the new target. She holstered her bolt pistol and sheathed her combat blade as she turned to make her best speed in the direction of Cormac’s position on her auspex.

“Inbound,” she voxed in reply to the abhuman Captain. Her squad bypassed a Pacifican strongpoint ahead by simply barreling through the adjacent habblock walls, and found themselves smack in the center of a roadway. The report of an anti-material weapon sounded from down the road, and Sister Emilia went down in a spray of blood. Carmen didn’t stop to assess her fallen sister, instead sighting her long rifle down the road. She flipped through vision modes and settled on a thermal imaging option. She sighted on the hottest thing in the building at the end of the block, and let loose a single bolt round that traveled straight down the hot barrel of the anti-material gun and connected with the freshly loaded shell at the end of the breach.

The first detonation was underwhelming, and though it signalled the removal of the threat it held no candle to the secondary explosion that followed just a few seconds later as hot shrapnel tore into the guns ammo supplies a room over. The entire face of the habblock fell away in fire and flame, several floors collapsing on each other in a vicious cycle consisting of several tons of rebar and rockrete.

“You are free to press the attack, Captain.” Carmen voxed as she turned to follow her Medicae dragging Sister Emilia to cover.

The Felinids didn’t waste time—as soon as the gun was out of commission the tanks were rolling forward again, the troopers liberating slaves as they went; blood for freedom. Most all took the offer, and they had a buffer against ambushes and flanking attacks the entire advance forwards.

Their objective was the heavily-fortified gates leading into the city proper, to break through and link up with the main body of their Imperial allies; the only problem was that the Pacificans had realised that and pulled their armour back into a cordon, forcing a brutal metal-on-metal engagement only slightly aided by the massive power of the Meallan armour and the presence of the Imperial Marines. Casualties were heavy, but when the fighting was done, it was the Pacificans footing the bulk of the butcher’s bill, and the Meallans had broken through–the abhuman ghetto was theirs, and all its valuable souls with it.

The smell of spent plasma cells, blood, and offal hung heavy in the air as General nic Lir’s tank rolled into the aftermath. She hadn’t wanted to hold back, but urban warfare was a bad place for a frontline general, and her lip curled in distaste as she saw the evidence to why.

A nearby Meallan tank had been gutted by a direct hit to their munition stowage, and the twisted metal and vaguely-humanoid slurry barely registered as having been a vehicle crewed by living people. She pulled her eyes away from the sight, ears flat against her skull as she raised the vox to her mouth. “Magh Meall to the Empire; we are through in our sector, over.”

[MarshalSolgriev]

The Jade Citadel of Hongol

Assault of the Meridian Gate

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Two minutes remained on the chronometer until the siege was to begin. The rumble of explosions and the staccato of gunfire was drifting over the positions of the waiting Imperials. Pillars of thick black smoke were rising from the abhuman ghetto courtesy of the Magh Meallan infiltrators, and vox intercepts were already signalling that the diversion was working. Several reserve formations of Pacificans, meant to reinforce breaches along the curtain wall or the Harmony and Meridian gates, were surging toward the ghetto to contain what they believed to be a full-scale incursion into the city from the North.

One minute remained on the operation chronometer. The artillery batteries, bloodied but unbroken, renewed their bombardment. All along the imperial lines, the flash of massive cannons and siege guns lit up the fading light of dusk anew.

The shells impacted all along the curtain wall, great gouts of orange flame consuming sections of defenders and reducing emplacements to rubble in moments. Other explosions resounded behind the curtain wall, observation groups and signals intelligence having pinned muster points for reserve units and command posts. But the most intense fire was concentrated along the Meridian Gate. Relentless impacts tore rockrete and reinforced plating from its face as the shells found their marks.

“Command to Battle Group Pacificus, commence the assault. For the Emperor.” The battlegroup-wide command net crackled off as formations of tanks and armored transports rolled forward from their dugouts with their weapons silent.

The battlegroup command sent a ripple of activity throughout the entire legion. Where the black-bronze carapace of the Thirteenth hadn’t been there previously, thousands of scorpions now appeared. They shed their cameoline cloaks, emerged from earthen ground, and leapt out from the poisonous waters of the Pacific. Each was a blur of lightning that swiftly began their thousand-meter ascent with claw and sword. The bloom of artillery shells, the lance of lasfire, and the eruption of tank ordinance did not falter them. Like insects swarming a carcass, the assassin-dreamers died and rose as an endless tide of genewarriors.

It was the same for Captain Raamiz’s own squad of witch-minds and wyrd-wielders. He felt the draw of the aether as he used its power to scale the walls at a speed incomprehensible to the Pacificans. Ten Scorpions followed him closely, each a product of his own mentoring and refining with the Sirens of Terra. They were the first over the parapets and the first to begin the slaughter in brutal close-combat. Psionic power weaved around him like a gale of black sand as he crossed the threshold. He came face-to-face with one of many defenders. The poor mortal identified him with rapidly increasing terror.

“Wit-“ the Pacifican tried to speak, yet lacked the vocal cords for such an utterance. Their throat had been torn out by wyrd-wreathed claws. Their body slumped to the floor, wyrd coursing through their wounds and out their extremities.

Chaos erupted from that moment as the Scorpions spread out with a speed known only to them. The wyrd enhanced their movements, pushing their genetically-enhanced body beyond the standard capabilities. The defenders died as bioelectricity, wyrd-enhanced claws, and raw strength cleaved through their numbers. Raamiz relished in their dismay, actively observing their spirits breaking as they perished. He was thankful that this most noble of tasks had been given to him. A single choice had secured the usefulness of his wyrd-wielders in the Thirteenth.

The pandemonium of the parapet paled in comparison to the chaos of a full-scale invasion. He could hear the wail of klaxons, the blossoming of bombards, and the screeching of aircraft beyond the dying of a million men. It would’ve been bliss if it weren’t for the advantage given to them. A noticeable lack of defenders in their section of the wall confirmed his suspicions in this regard. The Magh Meallans had completed their task. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. Many amongst the legion had grown a dislike for the abhuman islanders. A remedy for the future, he thought.

The last defender was hoisted up and torn in half by one of his brethren, Ismaal. The lower half of the man was tossed aside, yet the top remained in one of his claw-tipped gauntlets. The hooded Scorpion approached him and offered the defender, who screamed in agony.

Intelligence had been severely limited in navigating the great walls of Hongol, even for the infiltrators of Magh Meallan and the Sigilite Order. That left the Astartes saboteurs with one alternative. The ten gathered around the torn man as Raamiz removed the upper half of his skull with a swipe of his gauntlet. Pieces of gray matter were delicately plucked and placed into their mouths.

The effect was immediate, enhanced further by their witch-minds. The whole of Hongol’s labyrinthine wall-matrix was revealed to them in that instant. They felt the entirety of the individual’s being, their life, and their aspirations. Everything that they had experienced was given freely to the Scorpions. Everything was unlocked, their way unbarred by a lack of knowledge.

Captain Raamiz breathed in deeply as the knowledge came to a close. He held himself as the best of their number in this regard. Absorbing information from the deceased and growing from it. For him, there was no lag between reality and unreality. They were one and the same. His brethren were similar to a minor degree. The wyrd-wielders shared a look of understanding before moving. Powered weapons were freed from sheaths and foci were born into claw-tipped gauntlets.

They moved in warp-infused synchronization for the Meridian Gate.

Around the witch-minds of the Thirteenth, pict-feeds watched the swift slaughter with machine disinterest. But the Pacifican command center staff were anything but disinterested.

Alerts went up across the units charged with the defense of the walls, priority messages filling the screens of headquarters staffers and platoon commanders with dire warnings of the witch-minds infiltration.

At the Meridian Gate, reserve units that had been secreted away in the safety of the deep foundations of the massive fortress gate were assembled. Hundreds of defenders began making their way to the upper levels on great lifts and stairways wide enough for ten men shoulder to shoulder. They were being sent to man ancillary hard points normally used to defend within the structure itself were a breach to occur. Pacifican troopers grumbled as they were directed to emplace their crew served weapons at the ends of long hallways and to man murder holes around deadly blind corners, for to these Pacificans the war was outside the gates and never, not in all the years since the Meridian Gate had been erected in Narthan Dume’s name, had it ever made it inside these halls.

Raamiz glanced at the auspex pressed against his eye as he dashed through Hongol’s defenses. Vox chatter confirmed that the majority of his legion and cousin-legions were heavily engaged. He knew that the Meridian gate would fall before the Harmony gate, yet the Scorpion wondered how many of his brethren would die in that gamble. Every second counted. Every death was a loss slated against his own efforts. He would not allow this.

A corridor opened up ahead from the labyrinthine ferrocrete they navigated. The Pacifican sentinel that they had ingested, Soichiro, claimed that the entrance into the Meridian Gate complex lay before them. Their knowledge alerted them to what would’ve been surprising, if not for their abilities as transhumans. The witch-minds remained synchronized as the first of the defenders revealed themselves from a pair of murder holes. Close-range shrapnel from shotguns should’ve killed a normal man. They were no mortals. They were beyond that.

The Scorpion on the left clotted a defender’s blood in an instant, holding their power until the mortal exploded into a gore mess. The Astartes on the right wreathed the wyrd around his opponent, turning them inside out into a screaming mess of vitae. They pressed onward. Their corridor came to an end, expanding out into a kill-field with parapets faced out into the Pacifican wastes. Toxic-infused water, evaporated by a thousand and one weapons, wafted in the open air. Hundreds of soldiers were engaged in a brutal defense against myriad bronze-black giants. The witch-minds rushed past, allowing their brethren to complete their objective. An entrance into the Meridian Gate lay bare, its defenders torn asunder by ferocious invaders.

As the first witch-mind crossed into the Gate’s threshold at the mid-levels, their body exploded into a shower of gore. Lances of lascannons, shells from autocannons, and missiles from launchers obliterated their corporeal form alongside countless other munitions. The following Scorpions would not suffer such failure as the lead formed wyrd-barriers that caught stubberfire from above. Pacificans emerged from more murder holes, attempting to flank. They were cut down before they could engage, immolated by the Empyrean and soul-shattered by the Thirteenth.

Under the protection of their wyrd-barriers, Raamiz led the warriors in as an angry deity. Warp lightning wreathed his limbs, wyrd-energy danced within his muscles, and blood pumped faster than his enhanced body was naturally capable of. His power spear was thrown across the room, shockwaves of lightning arcing from behind it. Defenders perished as it passed, electrocuted into flesh-tinged corpses. The witch-mind followed after it in milliseconds, aided by the wyrd, and caught the spear midair. A weapons team had a mere moment before they disappeared into a pink mist of gore.

The Scorpions descended on the fleeing Pacificans of the mid-levels, cutting them down or forcing their skeletons out of their body. A witch-mind clattered to the floor onto his knees, grabbing at his head in searing agony. Before the Astartes could recover, the defenders descended upon him with unfiltered joy. Their last moments were filled with terror as the warlock warped the area around himself, culling the immediate vicinity like a blackhole. It ended the second it appeared, yet the Astartes was gone. The Thirteenth pressed onward, slaughtering the crew weapons with the power of the wyrd.

The mid-levels would never be cleared, yet Raamiz found a moment of serenity as the last ascender left for the upper-levels. He counted the life-links within his squad. Three had perished in total, leaving seven including himself. For the hundreds of mortals that had died, it was an impressive number. The Scorpion knew more remained above, yet he refused to walk into their ambush. One witch-mind was enough to learn from their hubris. A blink-command saw their squad rally.

“Egress the gate murder holes and begin scaling into separate ingresses. Remember, we are His scorpions. Act as such. Gloria Scorpii!” Raamiz growled as he dashed towards the closest hole. His auspex confirmed the remaining witch-minds had scattered and began their ascent anew. The battlefield awaited outside, growing fiercer and more grandiose as time passed. The shockwave of tower-mounted macrocannons were followed by the erroneous thundering of aerial ordinance. It would do little to affect their climb.

Or so he hoped. A fourth life signal broke. Another began to falter dangerously into crimson territory. The remaining climbed for several seconds, their limbs enhanced by the wyrd. Myriad munitions attempted to murder him. They would not be able to touch His scorpions with such slow ammunition. A murderhole to the upper levels arrived in his view, manned by a terrified Pacifican. A toothy grin spread across his lips as he descended, breaching the wall with wyrd-enhanced strength, siphoning it from his speed. The defender crumpled into a contorted mess. Others cried out on the same floor as the rest of the Scorpions arrived, descending into the unsuspecting sentinels with ease.

The Pacifican’s on this firing level broke in mere moments. At the head of the Thirteenth's assault, no mortal man stood defiant. The troopers fled for their lives, many cut down in only a handful of steps as they made for the already closing blast doors on the far side of the firing theater.

Several of the defenders managed to slip through the closing gap ahead of the Astartes, salvation reached as the transhuman warriors slaughtered those too slow or unable to move behind them. A pair of Pacifican troopers, the last within reach of salvation, were skewered through by silver tendrils that emerged from beyond the door.

One of Narthan Dume’s war machines arrived in a spectacularly visceral display as the two Pacificans it had speared from head to toe were cast off its mechanical tentacles in a shower of vitae.

The machine was silver from top to bottom, six rotating pairs of armored tentacles carrying it across the floor in swirling movements. Interlocking plates of armor comprised the entirety of the machine's spindly limbs, each movement heralded by tortured metal and clunking armor as it picked up speed toward the Scorpions. Its head, or what could be called such, was an upside-down teardrop shape with auspex lenses of seemingly random sizes protruding from it with no rhyme or reason to their position.

The tendril machine lashed out at the closest Astartes, a buzzing transonic blade at the very tip of the tentacle passing through the chestplate of the Scorpion with a high-pitched whine as it spun past. The machine whipped out with another tendril, sparks flying as its blade met a wyrd-enhanced parry.

+’Obscure yourselves and ascend!’+ Raamiz demanded over the vox-link, meeting the transonic blade with his spear. The powerfield wobbled violently as the metallic monstrosity’s armament threatened to break through the azure coating. A wyrd-infused push from his other gauntlet saw the machine pushed back briefly, widening the distance between the two combatants.

No sooner had the Scorpions split, the silvery machine was already upon him with the chilling logic of its namesake. Something within it had deemed him a higher threat than some of his brethren, yet it did little to shield them from its flaying tentacles. Another Astartes was sliced cleanly in half by a clunking, transonic limb as they attempted to meld into the darkness. Two remained to fight alongside him, while another two departed for the corners of the chamber. Four of its enormous appendages thrust out at him with devastating precision.

He sucked in air as a cold calmness overtook him. It was a sensation that he had experienced before in the dusken visions that blessed his brethren. An aura of oneness permeated through his limbs, wyrd coursing through his body as if it were blood pumping in his hearts. Raamiz parried the first strike, utilizing the momentum to dash into the second to pierce through one of the interlocking plates. His warp-infused fist met the third appendage, heavily knocking back the machine’s tentacle upwards. Biolightning wreathed his claw-tipped gauntlet thrust into the fourth, locking the machinery within and wreaking havoc within the automata.

His brethren watched it all occur within milliseconds of the command over their vox. Their actions took place a second later as Raamiz danced with the silvery machine, logics firing on all cylinders as chugging cogitators rapidly swapped priorities. The two Scorpions that disengaged sprinted to the ascender with wyrd-infused strength, while the remaining two joined the fight a second later. Both took a single appendage as their opponent while the automata was forced to dance between three separate entities. Power sword met transonic blade, while lightning arced off interlocking-plate.

The machine spun where it stood, oil and other unknown fluids flowing freely from a limp tentacle where Raamiz had found purchase with his gauntlet. It’s tentacles whipped around, following the spin as its internal cogitators and calculations began to correct the logic pathways and maths that had led it so deep into the enemy formation. The tentacles pulled in, parrying blows and allowing others to land with the cold logic of a machine sacrificing everything for survival. The tentacles tensed, and the machine leapt from its place between the three warriors of the Thirteenth with surprising dexterity.

The machine soared above the Witchminds, several tentacles finding purchase along the ceiling and walls as it rocketed itself to the now-moving ascender platform. It landed in a screeching crumple of metal on metal, crushing one of the Astartes as it did so. A moment later, the tentacles lashed out as the tear-drop machine attempted to right itself on the rising platform. The second Astartes danced deftly around the tentacles, the son of the Thirteenth meeting transonic blades with wyrd-enhanced steel in a test of speed and skill.

Raamiz cursed loudly as another Astartes was crushed by the tentacled machine, their vitals zeroing out across his augmented display. Three remained outside of himself. He rushed forward towards the ascender, eager to catch the prey that had escaped his clutches. Oneness quickly left his mindscape as reality set in. They could no longer suffer any more casualties.

+’Brothers! Hold the ascender!’+ He commanded as biolightning coursed down his greaves. The two remaining Astartes outside of the ascending cage halted, drawing the wyrd to their claw-tipped gauntlets. Metal began to crunch and bend as the ascender was forcefully halted from it’s ascension. The cage began to buckle and bend around the machine and the final witch-mind within.

As the cold logic of the abominable machine began to stir, the witch-mind before it suddenly dropped their weapon and clung to the metallic being. Warp-enhanced strength saw the gauntlets of the transhuman dig into the teardrop-machine’s body. Even as the transonic blades pierced their twin hearts, slashed their ceramite, and punctured their skull, the Astartes remained.

Their death was quickly avenged as Raamiz launched into the silver machine like a maritime hunter of old. His body crackled and stormed with fulmination akin to a storm. His spear, wreathed in the lightning of the wyrd, pierced into the machine as if it were a creature of prey from Terra’s forgotten oceans. Thunderbolts erupted from the wound in the abomination’s metallic flesh, coursing across it’s silvered surface. The Scorpion remained atop it, pushing the spear further down into it with every ounce of genewrought strength he could muster.

“By the Malik, drown in dusk!” Raamiz screamed out, his eyes glowing with the power of the Empyrean. He felt his body burn with all the accumulated energy within him. It felt as if he would explode into a storm of electricity at any moment. His mind ached with uncontrollable strain as he vented everything he could into the machine. The cage continued to coil around them as his remaining two brethren maintained their telekinetic entanglement.

The machine crumpled under the blow from the Scorpion. The deadweight of it’s teardrop shaped body piercing the floor of the ascender as the last of its motive forces leached from its cogitator.

The room fell silent, the crescendo of battle outside the walls the only companion for the remaining Astartes as they regrouped in the wake of the thinking machine.

A new sound joined the staccato of gunfire and bass thumps of artillery shells and energy weapons, a whine of engines and screech of metal. Tortured gears above them began to recall the ascender to the gatehouse’s main level, the mechanism of the lift raising the platform ever higher against the will of the Scorpion within.

Raamiz panted as adrenaline fled his body. His wrist jerked the power spear out of the silvery machine, though the head of the weapon remained firmly lodged inside. He tossed the weapon aside, it’s purpose fulfilled and no longer useful to the Scorpion. Perhaps he would agonize more over the loss of his favored spear, but his entire body was currently wracked with the aftermath of intense psionic backlash. Every inch of his skin wanted to blister as if it were bathed in promethium or peel like it had been under direct sunlight for months without a break. The edges of his vision were etched with lilac strands that threatened to curl inwards.

This is my limit, he thought to himself as his brethren pushed aside the Pacifican abomination to stand beside him. The remaining two Astartes of his squad appeared nearly as worn as he was, save for their weapons remaining in usable condition. He knew that they would not need them for much longer. One final obstacle remained.

“A scant amount remains above us,” one of his brothers, Khalid, said with serene certainty. He followed the direction that the Scorpion was staring at as the ascender began to rise. Raamiz dared not push the limit of his abilities any further lest he risk the wrath of the wyrd. He simply replied with a nod, calming himself through several deep breaths. His fingers flexed twice over as he prepared himself for another fight.

The ascender slowed to a halt, grinding the last inch of it’s remaining gears to deliver those within to their desired destination. It squealed loud enough to momentarily drown out the wail of death mere inches outside of it’s metal abode. An air of tranquility wrapped around the Astartes, who waited in utter silence as their bodies readied fresh cocktails of adrenaline into their forms. The portal before them - a heavyset pair of sliding doors - began to hiss with hydraulic pressure as they unlocked to their arrivals. Small klaxons warned the three to wait for the process to finish before a new chamber opened up before them.

“Perfect, did you kil-” a man in a Pan-Pacifican uniform began to ask before his skull disappeared into paste. The Astartes were already upon the Pacificans. Fifteen individuals tried to flee in every direction, each as terrified as the last. Khalid maneuvered to his left like a reaper to a grown field, dismembering and butchering the men and women without emotion. Sethal sprinted to his right, throwing one of the occupants into another with rightful anger.

He memorized the chamber even before he started killing anything that moved within. A squat, rectangular room with armored plasglass overlooking the macroway leading out of Hongol. Consoles, terminals, cogitators, and more encircled the area around him. No turrets unfurled from the roof or floor, nor were there any autonomous machines to intercept them. It was as if they had never prepared for an unlikely attack within the Meridian Gate’s control room. For their complacency, the Pacificans now decorated their abode with their own entrails.

“Please! Spare me!” One of them cried out as Raamiz seized them by the throat. He was milliseconds from crushing the man’s throat, yet the Scorpion changed his mind. The Pacifican in his grip was young, devoid of exemplary rank or decoration on his pale blue and grey uniform. He wore neither carapace nor exoskeleton to protect his meager form. None of them did. Victory was so certain to them that they elected not to prepare for defeat.

It angered him. His lips curled in a toothy grin that turned the man’s face ghostly pale. His claw-tipped fingers remained snug around the officer’s neck as he approached a particular console in the chamber. A variety of displays delicately hung over the device, each showing the status of the various gates that protected Hongol. Many runes decorated the surface of it, yet only the enormous lever in the middle drew his attention. The man squirmed in his grip as Raamiz reached down to the lever, softly placing his free hand on the handle.

“As you wish. I will spare you the details of what we will do to your people after you failed to defend your gate. I will spare you the future that awaits those within Hongol when the Emperor’s Legions claim them. I will spare you what will happen to your families as the Scorpions tear them to pieces.” Raamiz said as he began to pull the lever back towards him. Perhaps for a normal man it would’ve been difficult, yet for an Astartes it was a simple task. It slid into place with a loud thunk. The noise was nearly drowned out by the rest of his warriors massacring the remaining occupants in the Gate.

An unearthly sound like a thousand and one sheets of metal grinding on one another reverberated throughout the gatehouse. A cacophony of grinding gears, screaming cogitators, and shrieking chains bellowed out of the structure. Raamiz could feel the gates open thousands of feet below him, welcoming in hundreds of thousands of the Emperor’s finest warriors into Hongol. It was music to his ears, second only to the sobbing of the man still in his grip. He approached the plasglass looking down over the macroway, where the Astartes watched the fruit of their work ripen immediately.

Raamiz pressed the man against the plasglass as the Imperium rushed into the city. With his objective completed, the Scorpion took precious seconds to slowly squeeze the Pacifican’s throat until it spilled out over his claw-tipped gauntlets. He threw the corpse to the side after their life was finally drained. It dawned on him that the action gave him little satisfaction compared to completing his task. Then why did he do it? The thought was forgotten seconds later as the vox burst to life with the voice of his Legion Master.

+’Raamiz, status?’+ The harsh voice of the older Astartes requested. Raamiz could hear the raucous sound of warfare in the background, though the telltale noise of a rout was clear to him. He didn’t doubt that the Harmony Gate would soon fall to Zaid and his company.

+’The Meridian Gate has fallen, Legion Master,’+ the Scorpion announced with reinvigorated joy in his tone. The actions of a second ago were behind him as far as he was concerned. All that remained was his next objective. Another chance to prove his abilities to the Emperor and to the Malik. He shook his head in confusion, placing a gauntlet to his temple to steady it. Raamiz recognized combat exhaustion and wyrd overload as clear as the other Astartes, yet perhaps these words were springing up from the Visions. A response snapped him out of his thoughts.

+’Good. Regroup and plunge into the city. Assist our brethren and cousins. Raptor Imperialis, Raamiz,’+ The vox fell quiet as soon as the last words left the Legion Master’s lips.

+’Gloria Scorpii, Zaid,’+ the Scorpion replied to an unresponsive vox as he turned away from the console.

[Ogden]

The Jade Citadel of Hongol

The Stone Wolves March

The carnage beyond the Meridian Gatehouse was immense. Armored spearheads lay broken and burning across the ground, infantry assault vehicles belched thick pillars of black smoke as fires consumed everything within. Even while entire platoons of armor and companies of men perished, others prevailed. The Meridian Gate, unbreached in the decades since its construction at the direction of the visionary Narthan Dume, remained unbroken.

But it did open.

The massive armored doors ground on their rails, sliding into their recessed holds inside the wall itself. The noise alone was immense, no doubt the doors were only ever opened only slightly to allow for lesser traffic to pass, but now the entrance to the Jade Citadel was wide open for an Imperial army to enter.

An army wide voxburst was transmitted even as the doors groaned and settled in their open position.

++ALL FORCES++
++MERIDIAN GATE UNDER IMPERIAL CONTROL++
++ALL FORCES ADVANCE++
++BRING GLORY++
++IN HIS NAME++

The Stone Wolves stormed through that wide opened gate house. But not with the chaotic zeal of something unorganized, they were slow in their swiftness and methodical. Like the stones beneath their feet they did not rapidly budge, but they did move in force. Each one identical with their wolfen motifs on their armor and their helmets.

“Hold this gatehouse, and pierce further.” Their Commander ordered in a clear and unmistakable tone.

“Make safe for the Legions that come behind us.”

And this was the other side of their coin, where they first advanced with explosives and with destruction in their first wave through the Meridian Gate; those behind them also put their wake of destruction back in some jerryrigged order. They scorched the proverbial earth and then put it back together. The Stone Wolves understood that little use came of charred remains and debris strewn in haphazard piles. Destroy everything in your path, but pick those ruins up as they always said. There is little use for ruined territory. So clean up what you blow up.

“If you are not holding the Gatehouse, you should be Advancing.” The Commander ordered.

With that latest declaration the frontal wave marched on, rockets and rounds piercing holes further ahead where none existed yet. They made paths and roads for themselves, and those that came behind them.

The Pacifican forces within the reaches of the Meridian Gate found themselves assaulted by an unstoppable force. The Imperial Astartes marched over them in lockstep, reducing strong points to charred husks and leaving the dead and dying in their wake for follow-on forces to deal with.

A squadron of battle tanks, dreamed up in a drug induced nightmare of Narthan Dume no doubt, skimmed their way back across a wide open pavilion. Battle cannons roared, their shells barely falling to gravity as they screamed across the stone pavers to land amongst habblocks and in the midst of Stone Wolf formations. But the Stone Wolves were answering in kind. Missiles streaked across the open space, finding their marks in turret rings and grav-suspensor arrays as the wolves bit back.

A battle tank spun from a hit to its flank, a massive detonation that saw it careen from its straight line path and land half buried in a building across the plaza. Its turret continued to turn, debris clattering off its hull as more missiles failed to find their mark beyond the stone now surrounding it. The immobilized tank let loose withering volleys of fire, scorching Imperials and forcing their inexorable advance to a standstill.

All across the pavilion, Pacifican reinforcements began to swarm the habblocks and shop fronts as they fortified their new position

“Spread!” The order came down through the Stone Wolves ranks. Hand gestures and orders barked back and forth as the Wolves shifted their formation. The less clumped they were; the fewer of them could be targeted from each blast, but the more space they took up as they went to ground.

“It can’t move!” someone barked.

“Take it out, we’re not getting any farther ahead with that tank active.” The order carried over the legion. Their ordnance turned towards the immobilized foe, as the Stone Wolves ducked and spread out from the oncoming turretfire.

“Make that tank disappear!” Another Wolf yelled.

The missiles began to careen all around their target, where the tank was not struck craters formed around it, the massive detonations ignited the air and engulfed the area with thick, drenching smoke.

It was a game of explosions and waiting and fighting as the Stone Wolves held firm until they were once again clear to advance.

A blistering massacre of krak missiles criss-crossed the plaza. Storefronts disintegrated in gouts of flame and debris, and hab apartments crumbled under successive blasts. The Pacifican’s, for all their training and skill, met their end screaming under piles of rubble and rebar.

The disabled tank took a beating, its weapons reaping a heavy toll on the wolves as they tore chunks from its armored hide, but it did not last. A krak missile hit home, the machine guttered under the hit, a choke of smoke billowed from the tank's cannon barrel before the ammunition within cooked off.

The tank detonated in a flash of sound and fury. Its turret, spinning end over end, hurtled far into the sky and disappeared behind habblocks in the distance.

There was a lull in the fighting, as the Pacifican’s no doubt withdrew to find positions they were less likely to be slaughtered in, and the mortal Imperials fighting alongside the Astartes tallied their dead and tended their wounded.

The Stone Wolves watched their retreat and the commander signalled the advance.

“They scurry away to hide, remove every place they can seek cover, expose them!” They ordered.

And that was the brunt of their next advance as explosions rocked forward and to their flanks during their enemy’s route. If a statue stood as a possible shield they tore it down and if a wall hindered their march they blasted through it. They became seek and destroy, and destroy all they saw they did.

If an enemy was spotted then artillery bombarded them. Before them were structures whereas behind them was nothing but rubble. They’d rebuild later, now was the time to move forward and be the victors. The Stone Wolves brought overwhelming firepower and force to their path, like the earth itself cresting up in rebellion and punishment.

“I don’t want any stragglers to threaten those that come behind us, make safe the path!” The commander ordered again.

And they did, structures were a trap; rubble was where you could safely march over after the Stone Wolves were through.

The Wolves advanced inexorably. An unstoppable force grinding their way through men, machines, and structures alike. A warhorn blared in the distance, and a sound like the death of the world followed shortly after. The vox network lit up with priority alerts, and the presence of the Oni warmachine was impossible to miss as pict images and datascrawls filtered across every Stone Wolf’s helmet display.

A new order scrolled across their displays, one wrought by a hand so high it may well have come from the Emperor Himself.

“Redirect to macroweapons foundry, secure any remaining warmachines. Priority: Absolute.” the Sigillites own encryption key was set upon the message, and the Wolve’s fury was given a target at last.

There was the barest moments of pause as the Stone Wolves deftly swiveled their collective attention. It was just long enough to reset their focus and begin their advance again. They moved swiftly like a well oiled machine, or a pack of wolves on the hunt, perhaps? And they took aim at anything that stood between them and the macroweapons foundry. For every Wolf that fell in the onslaught they took ten or more foes with them.

And this was where they were more surgical. “Secure them! Or scuttle them! Let the enemy have none of them!” Came the direction.

And not a great many would be scuttled, for every foe that rushed to a protect their warmachines, or use them, they were swiftly shot down before they could make it inside of them.

And for every machine they reached, a Wolf commandeered it, took control of it, or otherwise made it certain to serve them not serve against them. Enemies collapsed from the sheer force brought to bear against their foundry.

But it was clear this touch was as delicate as it was violent. The Stone Wolves meant to seize it, they meant to control it not simply destroy it. They wanted this facility for the Emperor.

And they would have it.

[FrostedCaramel]

[

The Jade Citadel of Hongol

The Gladiatorial Pits

---

---

“Second Company wheel around through the habblocks to the East, contain the Pacifican brigade ahead, and the First will crush them.”

The affirmative ping in Captain Costas’ helmet display gave her all she needed to know of her command. She silenced the alert as the second company surged off her auspex to the East and directed her attention back to the stubborn Pacifican defenders at her front.

She stepped out into the window of the habblock apartment she was in, her volkite rifle spitting death at a Pacifican heavy stubber team. The three-man crew burst into ash and flame with a single trigger pull each, and Costas ducked back into cover as a lascannon began to pepper the window she had been standing in.

A vox request came in from Elena, and she accepted it with a thought, “Go ahead.”

“We can make entry into the entertainment district just beyond this defensive line, and movement to the fighting pits is achievable through the maglev tunnels connecting the two. Pacifican prisoners confirm this.”

Costas nodded instinctively, even though her Adjutant was some two kilometers separated from her, “Noted, continue to press the defenses from the West, we have a timetable to keep.”

A legionary in the apartment stepped into the window and fired a volley of bolt rounds toward the defenses with heavy barks. A moment later, the Astartes was thrown bodily across the room as the blinding red light of a lascannon found its mark in the center of her chest.

A medicae ducked from cover and rushed to the fallen marine, grabbing an arm and unceremoniously dragging her sister out of the room and out of sight into the cover of the interior hallway.

Costas allowed herself a moment of pity before she activated her voxgrille.

“Reposition, they have this apartment sighted.”

Her sisters fell back out of the room at once and sprinted down the hall to another apartment to take up new positions. Costas stopped just outside the doorway and directed her attention to the Medicae and her fallen sister.

To their credit, the medicae did not look up from their work as they addressed their commander, “Sister Antonia, another added to the list of martyrs for unity, Ma’am.”
“Another added.” She agreed before sprinting down the hallway to follow the rest of her sisters.

The fight from the habblock was quick and brutal, but the sisters of the Seventeenth pressed on, ever forward. The first company pressed on toward their objective, the gladiatorial pits of the Jade Citadel, with the inevitability of a hurricane bearing down on a makeshift home. They cleared strongpoints, overwhelmed gun positions, felled tanks, killed men, and they died in droves.