Lauder

The Grim Crusade - A Warhammer 30000 RP

//Fortress of Steel - Gloriana-class
//Orbit of Sarghall
//Sarghall Status: Pacified

The indomitable battleship laid wait just inside the orbit of the once rebellious planet, now laid alight as hives were burned out as punishment for moving against the Imperium. Yet, the Fortress of Steel no longer loomed as a warship, but as a meeting ground for some of the Primarchs. Summoned by Usriel at the behest of Augor, this would be the first time the ship had seen more than one other Primarch wonder it's halls. So honored was it, that the Eldest - those oldest of the Nineteenth legion - lined its halls to bow to each of the Primarchs that would come aboard. It was a clear show of trust by the Legion, but the cold darkness of the ship betrayed their intentions for it was the Nineteenth who would oft be compared to nothing more than machines and aboard their home vessel was that coldness more apparent for no Astartes would dare speak.

A large, open room would be their meeting room, only filled with a large holographic display from a round table and chairs made for the Primarchs and Astartes. The banners of the machine skull hung on the walls, mostly hidden by the darkness but staring upon its occupants all the same with indifference. Servo-skulls fed in and out of the chamber, only carrying with them further intelligence that they deposited at the table then disappearing silently back into the darkness. Life was a foreign entity within the room, Primarch or not, all felt unwelcome except for the small lithe form of a woman in decorated armor who danced around the table preparing cups for the Demi-Gods. Her steps were eerily quiet, the only noise she made was that of a light hum and the clang of stone cups upon the table. Once she was done, she would pirouette away and await by a large door, silently staring out with almost glowing purple eyes.

It was she who gestured each of the Demi-gods to their seats, silently bowing her head to each as they entered - yet unmoving from the side of the door opposite of them.

“Behold Zaphariel ibn Varranis, Malik of the Illuminated Pandjoras Star Sultanate, Sheikh of the Star Serpent, Unifier of the Thirteen Houses, Child of the Hassan, Star Emir of the Dusk Sands, Master of the Suma’tah, Grand Faris of the Thirty Palaces, Grandmaster of the Assassins, Emissary of Falak, Nazim of the Seventy Sectors, Padishah of the Umbral Armada, Conciliator of the Three Hundred Worlds, the Arbitrator, Caliph of Neu Amalut, the Steel Companion, Grand Rival of the Dawn has arrived!” A thundering voice blasted next to the blonde haired woman as it entered the meeting room. The form of a titanic warrior in pitch black armor, an alabaster skull helmet, and midnight blue robes entered the room with its vox blasting. They stepped to the side to allow another giant with dusken armor, bronze pauldrons, and a laurel crested MK II helmet to stride in. They, too, stepped to the side to allow a final figure to step in.

Despite the powered armor that he wore, each step was as silent as it was light. Charcoal armor, trimmed with sunset orange, surrounded the striding figure. A hood the hue of the void wrapped around his head, traveling down into a lengthy tabard with a waist-cape ending. An amalgamation of thin pipes ran across the plating, while the tips of his gauntlets and greaves ended in sharp claws. A pair of orange eyes with predatory pupils gawked at the meeting room from beneath his hood. The trimmed beard of the warrior bore smiling lips for the occasion. Zaphariel, as he was announced, peered around the room in anticipation of his brothers and sisters. None had arrived.

“Raamiz, do not announce my presence to an empty room. Your unfiltered vox grills must’ve bursted Belloris’ sensitive, mortal eardrums.” The primarch turned to regard Usriel’s favored servant, his head ordinator of the house. Although the dusken deity of Pandjoras secretly held no love for mortals, Zaphariel felt it was necessary to give an apologetic, slight bow to his brother’s favorite. The two Astartes that had entered with him moved to halt his bow, but the Malik stopped them with a single gesture. “Forgive me, Belloris, my sons are acting unbecoming of their stations. Announce my presence to my beloved, younger brother when you can.”

“The Father of the Nineteenth is currently relaying Astropathic messages to Lord Augor, he shall be here soon, Lord,” Belloris said, her purple eyes flickering briefly between the Malik and his sons. She craned her head to a passing servo-skull before speaking of Zaphariel’s request, “Notify Usriel that Lord Zaphariel has come.”

The servo-skull turned on its place and disappeared into the darkness to do its task, leaving the room in a gripping silence one more as Belloris did nothing more than stare at the other occupants. She held a soft smile on her face but made no other efforts to acknowledge the Primarch or the Astartes, at least not visibly. Though, a brief tapping of her fingers against the side of her armor, while silent, did betray her outwardly calm behavior.

The vibrantly orange orbs briefly matched Belloris’ strange, purple eyes in the midst of her eerily silent stares. The slitted pupils of the primarch briefly widened before returning to their original form. A knowing, toothy grin spread across the lips of the Malik beneath his hood as he moved away from the mortal servant. With the instructions from her, Zaphariel found his seat on the left side of the chamber. His form settled into the rudimentary seat provided by the Father of Steel. His eyes shifted to Astartes standing on either side of him. On his left, Emir of the Hafiz Raamiz Urahal stood as a grim executioner with his laurel-topped skull helmet. On his right, the former Legion Master Zaid ibn N’dar remained a draconian relic of an age long forgotten. Only Zaid bore no form of shroud across his armored body.

“Raamiz, reannounce my arrival the moment that the Primarch of the Steel Sentinels walks by the mortal servant you saw earlier. Unless he has his helmet removed, then it is grim tidings. Zaid, prepare the dataslate for the rest of the council. They will certainly desire knowledge about these xenos. Do not speak out of turn. I respect my younger brother beyond any measure of worth as you rightly know.” Zaphariel spoke, the Pandjoran Low Gothic trill echoed through the empty war room of the Fortress of Steel. Despite the emptiness, with no other being but them and the mortal, his words were still chosen carefully.

“As you wish, my great king of the dusken sands. Your titles shall echo across these deplorable halls for centuries to come!” The alabaster helmet loudly barked as an affirmation to his Primarch’s command. Raamiz held a hand on the grimoire chained to his belt, while the other rested on his hip as he watched the entrance to the room. An affirmative click from Zaid was the only noise that the elder Astartes made to his primarch.

The war room wouldn’t remain silent for long. While the Lord of the Dusk Warden’s might have had a soft if not silent foot when it came to walking the floors of the Fortress of Steel, the Master of the Honorbound ‘s tread was heavy enough that his approach could be felt like a minor earthquake.

As the door opened, a wall of gray metal carefully ducked down, shifting an arm so that the red barrel they were carrying was in front of them so as to ensure that it didn’t accidentally catch on something. It was one of the eccentricities of Strahlender that he never met with his siblings outside of his armor, despite the logistical issues that could have when it came to fitting into a room, but once he was clear of the doorway he announced in that loud, joyous tone of his “Brother! It’s so good to see you again! I’ve brought some Strategie Met in order to aid in the planning of the campaign to come!”

Coming out from behind Strahlender were two of his marines. On the right was Herrliche Tapferkeit who, unlike his Primarch had opted to wear a normal suit of Mark II armor for the occasion rather than his normal wargear, alongside putting aside his normal powersword for a smaller one that would fit better within the confines of the ship. He was also carrying a barrel, but this one was a green barrel in order to tell it apart from Strahlender’s red one.

The marine on the left was an unknown figure… at least in regards to the Imperium at large. His name was Kreuzritter des Sonnenlichts and while his name and legend hadn’t grown to the point where he would be recognized by other legions just by entering a room, his presence beside his Primarch indicated that might change in the future. He was carrying a bottle of what appeared to be red wine.

Glancing away from his fellow Primarch for a moment, Strahlender turned his gaze to Belloris before saying “And if it isn’t our lovely hostess for the proceedings! Lady Belloris, while our brother speaks fondly of you I’m afraid he has never mentioned your personal tastes in regards to drink. While this bottle of Königin wine is a personal gift to you, we’ve also brought some Strategie Met that’s safe for unaugmented humans to enjoy if you care to join us at any time!” With a small gesture from Strahlender, Kreuzritter stepped forward and offered Belloris the bottle.

“Usriel speaks of me?” Belloris asked, a clear excitement in her voice before she seemingly bringing herself back to her normal calm. She gave Strahlender a deep bow before accepting the bottle, holding it in her hands though not seeming too enthused about the wine. Her voice came through once more, “I will take that offer should Usriel wish to have me join.”

“In his own way.” Strahlender answered in a somewhat softer tone. “In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard him speak of someone who isn’t directly a legionnaire so often or with such praise. But at any rate, where shall we be seated?”

Without another word, though with a satisfied smile, Belloris gestured to the holographic table and the seats surrounding. She stepped back into her place and flagged down another servo-skull, peddling off the bottle of wine to it to be brought into the cold confines of the ship. It was likely that she would partake in the gift in her own personal time, though it was clear that she would not shirk her duties at the time - certainly not when she knew of Usriel’s high praise of her. And thus the Honorbound contingent took their place for the council ahead.

“Brother Strahlender! You honor me with your presence, my enormous sibling! If I had known that you would be arriving in such a timely manner, then I would’ve brought you the unique, umbral liquor of Pandjoras that you love!” The trill of Pandjoran Low Gothic boomed across the war room as he leaned forward in his seat. The typical theatrics of the Sultan commenced as he spread his arms in enthusiastic movements. “Crack your barrel open, my sibling, for my throat is as dry as the umbral sands of my homeworld!”

Where one Primarch had been silent and one had been thunder, the later arrival to the briefing was one of steady, ceaseless tread. He was not announced, instead, his presence rolled into the chamber like a frozen tide, an aura of constrained malice which permeated the air. He was preceded only by two of his legion, brothers of The Drakes Exemplar clad in the silver and red of their legion, before their master followed them, long black hair spooling over the pauldrons of his armour, the great axe sheathed at his belt still humming with the blue lines of esoteric power as it sat at rest.

“I have not brought gifts,” The words rumbled from him in a tone that was both harsh and magnetic, the charisma of a primarch warring with the gruff harshness of his homeworld. His senses flared as he moved around the table, the enhanced sensation of a son of the Emperor tasting the placated desire and desperation in the air as he passed by the mortal woman, before he and his pair of astartes took their place. “You shall have to accept the skills of our arms and the skulls of xenos in their stead.” Zelimir grinned as he took his seat, his weapon, Spasatel, removed from his belt, pommel to the floor with one gauntleted hand over the axehead still pulsing with unrestrained fury. “Bring our brother forth.” The demigod barked with casual impatience, his eyes not deigning to meet the mortal woman.

Following Zelimir was the arrival of yet another of the Emperor’s children. Entering into the hall with little fanfare, no announcement or proclamation, and only a single accompanying Astartes, the arrival of the First Legion’s Primarch was simply that, an arrival. Both Victor and his entourage of one, the former Legion Master Zuriel Cladius, were clad in the particularly mundane colors of their legion, the simple blue-gray ceramite of their lightweight armour a contrast to the others gathered around. Victor looked to those assembled so far and offered them a simple greeting of “Brothers.” before taking his place, Zuriel following suit.

Quite to the contrary, the next of His children arrived with much fanfare, replete with a sound of strings like droplets of falling water - at their head, of course, was the impressed, helmetless form of Huo themselves, their face clad in the finest of pale makeup, flowing locks of silky black hair resting on their shoulders to join the greater mass behind their neck. In one hand, they held an enormous, gold-bladed guandao, the other empty, though one of the Astartes behind them, instead wielding a massive cleaving power-sword on their back, carried a large vermillion-lacquered body bearing the shape of dueling dragons atop it. She was, of course, clad in tartaros armour of the finest make, a roaring lion placed at the buckle of her belt. On either side of her was another space marine, each wielding guandao of a design much like their progenitor's, though far smaller... And ahead of the primarch themselves was a young man in fine vermillion robes decorated with thousands of golden orchids, his face almost doll-like in its smoothness, full lips highlighted by cherry red makeup, his face pale much like his lord's. "Behold Shūguan of Jing, Eminent Lord of Penglai, General of His Third Legion of Celestial dragons, Destroyer of the Hated Barghesi, Slayer of the Palatine, General Who Defeats Tyrants, Bearer of the Golden Dragon Crescent Blade, preserver of the Pan-Pacific peoples, Reclaimer of Agripinaa, Sage of the Clouds, Master of Tea Ceremony, Administrator of the Penglai Sector, Once-Emperor of Penglai, and Thirdmost-born of Huangdi - the Celestial Emperor's - children," the young man said, speaking clearly and loudly despite his evidently miniscule size compared to the Astartes around him.

Behind all of them was a single woman in simple yellow robes, her face obscured by a porcelain mask through which nothing could be seen, a tall Erhu in her hands.

“Ah, Lord Hou!” Belloris exclaimed once all of the many titles had been proclaimed, bowing deeply to another child of the Emperor. She straightened herself from her bow as she gestured to the table with the other Primarchs around it, speaking in a more humbled tone whilst in their presence, “Please by all means, seat yourself. My lord shall be arriving shortly, once he has come then this council shall begin in earnest.”

“Belloris, if I am not mistaken,” they said, gently dipping their head in greeting. Smoothly moving to take their seat alongside their entourage, they gently grasped the young man’s hand as they seated themselves, quietly speaking a handful of words in their native tongue before he bowed and turned to leave along with the masked musician. “I have brought a gift for you; though I would do the same for my brother, I fear he would have little want for trinkets, and would simply prefer my knowledge. General Wei?” They said, gesturing to the blade-armed Astartes beside them as they opened the vermillion-lacquered box.

Within, sitting on a bed of soft red velvet, was a jade globe sitting atop a wooden stand - it was no model of Terra, however, but a painstakingly chiseled and carved image of Vion 5 in ludicrous miniature; as painstaking, at least, as public knowledge could allow. “I would be greatly honoured if you would accept it.”

“I thank you greatly Hou,” Belloris said humbly, bowing deeply once again as she took the miniature of her homeplanet. Her purple eyes gazed over the details of the Jade planet, almost trying to map out where it was she had grown up at. Once she was done, like the other gift, she peddled it off to a passing Servo-skull, in order to remain focused on her duties.

The last to arrive before their glorious host was, in many ways, the least of those present. General Nelinho of the First Division of the Night Watch was not a Primarch, but he was in charge of the Night Watch forces that had been committed to this campaign in his Primarch’s stead and thus the Tech Marine would once again sit in the presence of the Imperium’s greatest. He didn’t announce his arrival, nor did he bring an escort: If the Fortress of Steel was hostile to him, even more so due to one of the Primarchs in the war room being hostile to him, then having one or two marines with him wouldn’t damn thing to change the outcome.

Still, a servo-skull followed Nelinho dutifully as the General offered Belloris a respectful bow before walking over to claim his place at the table.

Meanwhile, Strahlender had more than happily cracked open the red barrel of Strategie Met and was happy to make sure that his siblings and their subordinates would have access to a mug of it while idly passing the time with small talk and catching up about details unimportant for historical record.

It was not too long after the representative of the Night Watch had arrived that Belloris stepped forwards, a soft smile still in her face. Extending her arms in grandiosity, she would raise her voice to usher in the owner of the Fortress of Steel, “My Lord’s, as Mother of the Nineteenth, I announce the arrival of Usriel Andreadth, Primarch of the Steel Sentinels.” While she could have rattled off waves of titles, it was not in the way of the Steel Sentinels for such grandiose and unnecessary behavior, preferring to keep moving ahead at all times.

Usriel strode in, class in the grays and dark greens of his legion, the boots of his power armor giving way to mechanical stopping. His armor still bore signs of the damage sustained upon Sarghall, when the Aeldari had tried to do away with him in their insidious plot. The red of his helmeted eyes were amongst the only things to illuminate his helmet, but it seemed as if a shadow looked behind him, even in the dimness of his ship. In a way that is because there was, a Pandjoran shroud billowed behind him, ushering in further darkness that made his armor seem brighter by contrast. He made no attempt at greeting the other Primarchs as he made his way to the holographic table, Belloris following closely behind him. The shroud clung to him as it had clung to the Malik hundreds of years before. Once he had reached the table, his form was illuminated by the blue glow of a holographic Craftworld - the red of his helmeted eyes staring intently upon it as if great anger raged inside of him.

“My fellow Primarchs,” Usriel began, his head unmoving from the insidious Craftworld.

The moment that the Father of Steel had entered, the blaring vox-grill of the Dusk Warden’s skull masked Astartes breathed life once more. “Announcing Zaphariel ibn Varranis, Malik of the Illuminated Pandjoras Star Sultanate, Sheikh of the Star Serpent, Unifier of the Thirteen Houses, Child of the Hassan, Star Emir of the Dusk Sands, Master of the Suma’tah, Grand Faris of the Thirty Palaces, Grandmaster of the Assassins, Emissary of Falak, Nazim of the Seventy Sectors, Padishah of the Umbral Armada, Conciliator of the Three Hundred Worlds, the Arbitrator, Caliph of Neu Amalut, the Steel Companion, Grand Rival of the Dawn has long awaited your arrival” There was no small amount of pride beaming from within the helmet of Raamiz as he spoke aloud to the arriving primarch. A small snicker gurgled up from the seated Thirteenth Primarch.

“My apologies, Usriel, I tasked Raamiz with reciting all of my divine titles the moment that you had entered the room. You weren’t there originally and I felt immense disdain that you failed to see my dramatic entrance.” The dusken deity continued to lightly cackle to himself as the Nineteenth Primarch sat at the foot of the circular table, thronging with holographics and deities alike. His eyes snapped to the shroud that clung to Usriel’s armor as his laughter ended. A beaming, toothy smile replaced the placated smirk that had adorned his face earlier. “Continue as you will, younger brother, I will try not to interrupt you further.”

“My fellow Primarchs,” Usriel began once more, seemingly unmoved by the interruption, would speak in a cold tone more relaxed than many had ever heard, “I have called you all here to inform you all that Augor shall no longer be heading this siege, he has delegated that task to me in his stead.” The Father of the Nineteenth did not address anyone in particular, his focus dedicated to the planning of the siege. He pressed a button on the table, displaying the member legions of the campaign and the forces that had been promised to the fruition of their task. The symbols of the Stargazers and the Abyssal Lurkers, along with their collective assets, went red and disappeared from the holograph as Usriel spoke, “To make up for losing two of the key legions in this invasion, I shall muster the entirety of the Nineteenth once more, leaving Auxilia to watch over my fortresses along with two companies to continue recruiting for my legion.”

“Then the outset of the Council of Nikea is true. Both Huo and I heard what happened via astropathic message during our campaigns in Segmentum Obscurus.” The Thirteenth Primarch began to speak as Usriel’s words rebounded around the war room. The vibrant orange orbs left the Nineteeth’s armor to watch the Legions disappear from the holograph. One of his clawed gauntlets snatched a stone cup full of Strategie Met, raising it to the thin lips of the Malik. He began to speak once more as the drink was set down. “The loss of their support will be staggering, but we will fill the void in their place. Where we had lost two key assets, you now have five to command. The might of the Dusk Wardens are with you, Usriel.”

Primarch Zaphariel briefly turned his attention to the skull helmeted Astartes at his side, a nod allowed Raamiz to begin speaking. “High Hakim of the Hafiz, Raamiz Urahal. To the craftworld siege, the Dusk Wardens have pledged twenty-four thousand Astartes. Five-hundred thousand auxilia mamluk and a thousand Legiones Mamluk have been prepared for the first wave of the assault. Our arsenals further account for several thousand graviton weapons ready to distribute forcewide. The mortal mamluk of the Thirteenth shall give their lives for you.” The hafiz bowed their form to the gathered deities at the table before stepping back behind the Malik of Pandjoras.

For a moment, the normally joyful and energetic Strahlender fell silent. The fate of the Abyssal Lurkers and the… misguided brother in charge of them and the discoveries that led to that fate were bitter subjects that were a dark spot on the glory that was the Imperium. After that moment had passed though, he did offer an acknowledgement of Sarghaul even if he didn’t intend to speak of it again. “May the exile of our brother and his legion be the first step of rethinking their lives and the steps they took to reach this point, rather than the final, disgusting note.”

Shaking his head slightly as he cast out the bitterness, he returned his focus to the campaign planning as he sipped deeply of his mug of Strategie Met before speaking again. “I must admit I was originally planning to be more conservative with the forces I was dedicating to this campaign. With so many legions sending forces after all, I wasn’t sure just how much room there would be on this battlefield and I didn’t wish to drag too many of my battle brothers to this fight, only for a number of them to have to sit back and do nothing when they could be earning the Imperium glory and renown elsewhere.”

“However, with the loss of two legions, I think I can send out the call to arms in order to rally an extra twenty thousand Honorbound Astartes to round up the thirty thousand we were already coming with to fifty thousand.. On top of our Imperial army allies and other resources, of course.”

The face of Zelimir pulled further into a sneer at the fanfare of arrivals over the interim between his words, although shifting from a harshly amused to a genuinely contemptful as the plans of action were spoken aloud. With the finger of his right hand, free from balancing his axe, he tapped the large V across the runic chestplate of his armour. “My Sons have their duties to the Crusade, I will not pull more from the scouring of Ullanor or the Coreward march than intended, lest the Imperium be swept from under out feet while we chase glory.” For the moment he shifted his axe, taking the haft in his right before the fingers of his left hand traced over the glowing metal, the weapon held across his lap. “Three Companies, I will lead them.” The two legionaries that flanked their seated primarch moved only to form the sign of the aquila over the V chestplate also marked into their own armour.

Victor silently cast a gaze over the room as his siblings offered up their forces, his remaining eye tracing over the room before falling upon his accompanying Astartes, Zuriel. Zuriel raised two fingers and looked to Victor, who shook his head and returns with a single finger and than gestured to himself. Zuriel gave a final nod and Victor addressed the room himself.

"The First Legion will offer one full chapter, and I will accompany them directly. I hope you will understand the limits placed on our contribution given the size of our forces." Victor stated simply, his voice carefully rising to reach those in the room while still maintaining his quiet nature. Like anything involving a band of Primarchs in the same place, this was as much politicking as it was planning, and Victor intended to act to the benefit of his legion in spite of his reluctance to do so.

"The campaign in the Agripinaa sector has been a serious drain on our logistics," Huo interjected, "although, first and foremost, I would share the intelligence I have gathered of the Aeldari species - after all, one cannot win a battle in which they do not know their enemy." They said, glancing sidelong at the Malik, their brow deeply furrowed. Here was their chance - however small - to persuade their brothers to end this utterly foolish, wasteful endeavour. "In my time in the Agripinaa Sector, I have discovered precisely three Aeldari worlds. One, I am still hunting - but the two I have set foot upon appear to have been extensively terraformed. There are pristine, and exceedingly habitable, despite close proximity to the Great Storm." They explained, steepling their fingers together. "Dotted with Aeldari ruins, of course - likewise in good condition. The carbon-dating I have ordered, inconclusive. Whether this extensive ability to terraform is applicable on a minute-to-minute basis, I am unsure - but what I have found, I believe, does confirm that we will face an enemy with an unusual ability to control the environment of this... World-ship." They said, bringing their fingers down into their lap, folded neatly together. As was often typical of Huo, they briefly paused, allowing their words to be processed, looking across the table and just above their fellow primarchs, awaiting a response.

Where there was no change in Usriel’s movement, the Primarch’s head had snapped to Hou at the mention of further intelligence of his great enemy. Yet, the placid face of anger remained on his helmet as the red eyes drilled into their form in an almost clear annoyance. “Their ability to control their environment is an interesting fact, but that merely increases their danger, and our reasoning to destroy them furthered.” Usriel turned back to the hologram and brought up a hologram of the wraith constructs, the very same that had attempted to undo him. He spoke in a calm hatred, “Their attempt to assassinate me - their clear desire to see me and my sons broken - have only brought forth a new goal to this crusade. While I must adhere to Augor’s own goals, once that is achieved, I shall administer Exterminatus upon their ship, nothing shall remain.”

"I can only wonder why they would attack you, unprovoked. It seems entirely senseless," Huo sighed, shaking their head. "An ailing world, making itself a necessary target. It is as if the fools signed their own death-warrant." They grumbled, once again steepling their fingers together as they stared at the constructs atop the table, deep in thought.

“They signed their death-warrant upon Atis, Hou,” Usriel corrected, staring intently at the wraith before looking to Victor and Zelimir. He thought to himself once more, calming his inner rage for the moment by bringing up the addition of their forces. It was a brief moment of realization, at the forces that he was committing, Augor’s words of restraint still throbbing in the back of his mind. Yet, the zealot was not there to hold him back this time, and he shan’t underestimate the foul xenos again. The Father of Steel spoke to them, “Your additions are very much appreciated, our array shall perhaps be overkill but I will not underestimate them and I will not be caught unprepared.”

"Those at Atis, as I understand it, are unrelated to this world," Huo said, inhaling with a sharp hiss. "I mean no offense, brother, but should we not be hunting those who sent assassins at you?"

“Aeldari are all the same. The ones upon Sarghall just happened to have been a new variant. This farseer,” Usriel said changing the display to that of the powerful Aeldari that had led the expedition, his eyes locking with the display before he continued, “Had known of Augor’s plan and sought to kill me personally, claiming it would protect its people. That was all I could gather before Belloris killed it. As such I can only assume the Farseer was from this Craftworld.”

Another sharp, inhaling hiss, and Huo brought their hands together, quietly interlacing their fingers. "I see," they said, lifting their gaze, their brow knotted together, to stare at Usriel. "The siege is - or perhaps was - entirely preventable, then."

Nelinho felt the need to speak up at this point or risk his Primarch’s objectives being lost due to Usriel’s rage. “This siege is not pointless. One of the core reasons that Lord Augor was so committed to it was the chance to seize and study Eldar technology on mass. My own Primarch is quite interested in prying the secrets of the Webway from them in order to allow the Imperium to directly strike at the Eldar slavers that hide themselves away within its confines. With all due respect Lord Usriel, but destroying the craftworld outright seems to be counter to these goals.”

“As I said, we will adhere to Augor’s goals, but I will take from them everything,” Usriel snapped, turning his head to Nelinho. The Primarch inhaled deeply as he let the matter of the Night Watch’s interjection rest, he would try his best to not lose his temper again. In a simple move, he would bring back the hologram of the Craftworld before haunching over the table. He would look to Hou, then to Zaphariel, and lightly nod as a gesture to his chosen of kin. Usriel spoke to all of the Primarchs and those Astartes present, “I understand that this may sound as if I am merely out for vengeance, and I shall not lie that I seek redemption for the fifty-thousand sons that were taken from me, but Augor has put me at this campaign’s head for he trusts me to carry out the objectives he had set out for us. The Imperium shall have its spoils and their heretical technology shall be wrought from their corpse-ship. I know my great enemy, their tactics and intent for survival. They will stop at nothing to defend their world until the bloody end, we know that they will come to us and attempt their hand at subterfuge.” The Father of Steel gestured to the recent scars of his armor, only partially hidden by the Shroud of Pandjoras.

“Our fight is sealed in fate, the Omnissiah himself has blessed this quest and we shall not fail him. I ask for your trust in me to see this campaign through,” Usriel’s speech came to a close and he looked around the table to gauge the reactions of his kin.

Strahlender had been silent for a time. Simply listening. However, as he looked between the Night Watch representative, Usriel and Hou, he decided to offer a point of view of the situation. His tone was…surprisingly serious as he said “This is not the first time I have heard the suggestion that there are different cultural groups of Eldar. Had any of our kin known what the Abyss Lurkers were doing and said nothing, turning a blind eye to the suffering they were causing out of a misplaced sense of loyalty to another Primarch, they would be as accountable for the crimes committed as those that did them. Whatever differences exist between the Eldar living on a Craftworld and the Eldar Slavers that favor the Webway, the former is almost certainly aware of the actions of the latter and seemingly have done nothing to stop them.”

“That being said…” He paused for a moment, glancing towards the Night Watch tech marine and Hou before continuing “It is possible that this is a case where those living on a Craftworld are unable to act against their depraved kin. The Eldar were an empire that has fallen from grace and the Craftworlds seem to be nations and entities in and of themselves. While we do not know the nature of life in the Webway, one can assume that whatever settlements that lurk within are fortified to hell and back and a species with a limited number of people would be… ill equipped to try and dig them out.”

“If the latter is true, this provides an opportunity.” Putting off the point for a second to refill his cup, Strahlender quickly continued “We make the Craftworld an offer. If it will actively aid the Imperium in the destruction of their slave taking kin by providing Webway access and military information, if not troops, the Craftworld will be allowed to travel freely and unhindered through Imperial space as a recgonized ally of Humanity… provided they don’t throw that away by attacking Imperial targets or what have you.”

“Surely, at least speaking to them is a worthwhile endeavor.” Huo added, making a sweeping gesture toward Strahlender. “If it turns out that those who dwell on the world-ships simply lack the desire to do away with their slaving kin, then they are much less worthwhile. If they are willing to cooperate, then are there not better uses of our sons and daughters?”

“There can be no peace with the Eldar, they are beyond the Edict, that is our Father’s law.” Zelimir spoke, the digits of his hand gripping his weapon flexing dangerously at the thought, but otherwise he remained in place. “ The Siege is necessary for no higher reason than it is our duty to do so, Mankind’s destiny is dominion, it is the purpose we were all forged for. It matters not what esoteric distinction they hold, they would all seek our destruction or enslavement had they the power to do so, but the time of their Empire has passed, they squandered their fate, and so now we take it from them.” An inkling of the broiling storm touched the Primarch’s words, the closest he had come since arriving to the force of personality he was known for. “Enough talk of placating the alien, lest we find ourselves with more siblings accused of treason against the Emperor’s word.”

Taking in the words of his siblings, Victor's brow furrowed briefly as his eye darted around in thought. Seizing the opportunity to speak, he took the opportunity to address the room, though clearly directing himself to both Hou and Zelimir's points.

"While I hold no love for the Eldar and have no desire to supplant our Father's laws, I feel there is a utility in these Craftworld Eldar that could be beneficial in the goal of reaching their more sinister counterparts in the Webway. Our plan is already to conquer this world-ship in one way or another, so why leave it as the end goal of some revenge vendetta? If we could disable the ship and take some of its people prisoner, perhaps we could use them as tools to get to those hiding in the Webway? They would be offered no protection once their role is done, they would simply be a means to a further end. I would even volunteer myself and my men for this purpose, and if it proves infeasible, we simply revert to our original goals."

“We are not speaking of the Edict of Tolerance, Zelimir.” Strahlender answered quickly in return. “I am suggesting a one time offer in which this Craftworld would be recognized as an independent, allied state of the Imperium, not a vessel or a conqured slave race. They would also be likely to accept the terms of this agreement as well since… Well, they’re doomed and they know it. Their one hope of this siege not being the death sentence of their Craftworld was literally attempting to assassinate Usriel beforehand and it failed. If they refuse anything close to reasonable terms at this point, they are either too proud or too stupid to live and my battle brothers will gain many stories and much glory from their destruction.”

“However, they have to be given an offer in the first place otherwise we’re going to be dealing with doomed defenders fighting a long defeat in the name of their home. While such valor is respectable and will make for a heroic setting for many stories and legends, it will be costly and we might not get anything out of it in the end.”

Usriel had been silent whilst the other talked amongst themselves, talking of allowing his most hated of enemies to be offered the olive branch in a sign of peace. An aura of anger flooded the surroundings; dim lights began to flicker, the hologram began to go in and out of existence with each image distorting further and further. Belloris backed away from the table knowingly, as the Father of Steel’s rage began to manifest in the physical surroundings of the Primarch - he was unable to suppress his hatred anymore. His voice boomed over the chamber, the rage in his voice further than what could have been mustered by any of the other Primarchs at the time, “You would ask me to make peace with my most hated?! You would ask me to work alongside them?! Nay! I would better be sent to be experimented upon by Sarghaul than to work alongside those monsters! I will NOT be denied anything other than their total annihilation or so help me, by the Omnissiah, I will visit death upon any who would deny me what vengeance I am owed!”

Despite Usriel raising his voice, Strahlender didn’t seem all that cowled. “Yes. Because doing so would allow you to directly confront those who organized and executed the ambush of Atis directly, giving you the justice you need rather than the vengeance you crave.”

“Brothers, brothers.” Zaphariel stood from his seat, the arms of the Malik spread wide to address the throng of primarchs around the table. As he began to speak, his words reverberated twice over in a supremely eloquent tone that bounced across the war room. The ears of the Imperium’s finest warriors figuratively inclined towards the voice as it spoke. “I believe we’ve had enough on suggesting how to deal with the Eldar and their world-ship. The xenos present on the ‘craftworld’ will be put to the sword. There is no avoiding that, lest you forget that they attempted to assassinate a primarch. For that singular injustice, there will be holy retribution. That is something that we can all agree upon. The matter of what to do with the ship - salvage, destroy, or retrofit - can be dealt with in the aftermath when our duties are fulfilled.”

“With the matter of the craftworld laid to rest, I believe it would behoove the council to begin discussing our tactics and roles in the coming siege. Brother Usriel, please, elaborate on how you would field us.” The Primarch of the Dusk Wardens reseated himself, the echo of his voice reverberating its last strum. The eyes of hassan darted between each primarch to watch their reaction, carefully tapping his clawed gauntlets across the surface of the table. Zaphariel’s smooth masquerade failed to break even as his orange orbs passed over the likes of dissenters.

A look from the Malik of Pandjoras passed to Belloris, a hand gesturing to the Father of Steel to attend to him. He gave a slow nod to boost the resolve of the blonde haired woman. Few primarchs, and fewer Astartes, could calm the infernal rage of the Vionborn; however, Belloris certainly had a larger ratio of success in comparison to the duskborn.

Without a single word, Huo lazily pushed themselves to their feet, golden robes flowing behind them as if blown by an invisible win

"General Wei," they began, turning their back toward the holographic table. "We have business to attend to in the outlying zones of the Agripinaa Sector. Summon the Fabricator-General of Voss Prime." Huo said, quietly clearing their throat. The Astartes, towered over by her primarch, nodded and turned as they began to leave.

Despite the anger Usriel felt in that moment, he could almost feel the soft touch of Belloris’ hand through his armor, a calming feeling that almost made him ignore the fact that Hou was leaving. Instead, he forced himself to look upon the human, her eyes were stern in an urging for him to stop his rage and so he forced himself to. The Nineteenth Son looked to Zaphariel and nodded in agreement with him, understanding it was time to move forwards. The flickering of the room turned back into a consistent dim light and the hologram returned to a stagnant display, this time of the Aeldari fleet that surrounded the Craftworld.

“Very well,” Usriel said in a cruel voice.

As the words left Usriel’s lips, the room plunged into darkness. It was not simply a cessation of light, a but a void of all vision. It did not coil or coalesce, it simply was, the unending void of the darkness between stars. When a new voice followed, it seemed to come from the void itself, all around, unable to be pinpointed even by the supernatural senses of the Primarchs and their Astartes.

“Children of the Seer, take this as warning, the path you seek to tread leads only to the ruin of all. Your people and my own have committed great acts of rage upon each other, but only by putting this aside can we prevent the calamity to come.” With the first of the words completed, the great darkness that had suffused the room sparked with floating runes, the language of the Aeldari dancing in the air, before light returned, at once, with enough force to register even across the eyes of the enhanced, the room as it was, with one exception. A lithe figure, draped entirely in black robes trimmed with the ivory of bone, stood at the heart of the gathering, one hand gripped around the staff of his ancient office.

“I am Eldrad Ulthran, Farseer of Ulthwe, I greet you, that the future I have seen might yet be prevented, if you can but spare the lives of my people.”

"Oh," Huo said, clicking their tongue in approval as they smoothly whirled about to face Eldrad, all while Wei, turning just as smoothly, unsheathed the enormous power-blade attached to their back. "I suppose you are not here to kill us, else we would be dead already."

Strahlender had risen to his feet the moment that the lights had been taken out, alongside his two battle brothers. Unlike them, he hadn’t drawn a weapon as the Eldar made his presence known; This wasn’t due to not wishing to be armed as much as he had elected not to bring a weapon to this meeting amongst siblings. However, as the Farseer made their case, he couldn’t help but chuckle a little in amusement. “I must confess, during this whole process of discussing a possible diplomatic solution to this situation, I didn’t factor in the Eldar making contact first.”

The skull-helmeted form of Raamiz began to unchain the grimoire attached to his side with a quickness unlike standard Astartes, but froze in place as he activated the powerfield of the tome. Similarly, the form of the elder Astartes to the right of Zaphariel had removed his chainaxe to strike at the Aeldari before him. Similarly to the hafiz, his form suddenly froze as if forced into stasis. The Primarch of the Dusk Wardens slowly rose from his seat to idly gaze at the illustrious form of Eldrad Ulthran. The eyes of hassan deeply drank of the sight that unfolded before him, the Malik of Pandjoras’ pupils widened with excitement. His lips failed to create competent words, instead breaking out in a toothy grin. The only words in the harsh bark of Pandjoran Low Gothic were: “It was just as they said.”

General Nelinho did not automatically draw a weapon with the intention of opening fire with it. Instead, as his fellow Astartes found themselves frozen in some kind of stasis, the Night Watch General instead calmly but slowly pulled out a plasma pistol and placed it on the table before him. Easily within reach if violence was needed, but reframing for the time being as he simple watched and listened.

The glow of another plasma pistol had illuminated the room, Usriel’s own, that had been pointed straight at Eldrad the moment he revealed himself. His reflexes had been fast enough to put his finger on the trigger but the Eldar had stopped him just before any shot could ring out. Anyone would notice that his thumb hover just above the setting that would throw the weapon into a supercharge. It was clear that the lithe xeno was just in time to stop the Primarch that would most want him dead on the spot. The Nineteenth’s red eyes bore into the Aeldari, rage incarnate clear even beyond the visor as his mind struggled to try and undo the binding that had been cast upon him.

Belloris meanwhile, was stationary, not because of her being thrown into stasis like the hostile Primarchs - she was beyond such reckless aggression. Instead, her purple eyes flared in a clear anticipation, a piercing violet glow almost illuminating her face. She stifled mad laughter by biting into her lip, a crimson streak running down her chin in a single line of blood. The human did not act as her lord had, she was pleased to see the Aeldari and she shifted in place as her fingers toyed with something behind her back.

Next to the demigod giants the Aeldari figure seemed almost inconsequential at the heart of the chamber, yet the air thrummed with the very presence of such a being, the psychic might of such an individual holding back the tide of violence intent on annihilating him practically incomprehensible to determine. The being did not respond individually to any of those present, even if all felt the scrutiny of his great mind, instead, Eldrad’s left hand swept gracefully through the air, tracing runes that burst into a soft light.

“Behold then, the future you would pursue.” As the words sounded from his helm, the hovering runes extended outwards, before dispersing. Once again, the visage presented to those gathered altered, shimmering beneath the skein of fate. This time, rather than the embrace of darkness, the currents of the immaterium forged a vision. The intricacies of such changed for each present, but a clear theme ran throughout. The visions imparted by the witchcraft depicted scenes across the galaxy, treasured homes, bastions of reason, the hallmarks of the Imperium, in crumbling ruin. The ceramite clad forms of Astartes warred among them, the ravages of war turning their battered forms into armour clad demons of myth. Among them, the shattered remains of untold mortal humans, utterly unrecognizable and broken from the war of brutality around them.

”Your age of reason is at an end, only the darkness awaits.

The visions coalesced, a figure of fire clutching the bloodstained mess of a great sundered wing, a glorious figure of gold carried aloft and broken by a son in mourning, and a further collapse into darkness, punctuated only by one, sonorous voice.

”Let The Galaxy Burn,”

As the vision fell away once more, leaving the room as it was, Eldrad spoke once more.

“You have been mislead, the great enemy stirs, and only through an end to our petty wars can we have hope of putting a halt to this future, spare my people, that we might stand together, or otherwise damn humanity to a slow, painful, destruction at the hands of forces you do not comprehend.”

Huo’s strange joviality fell away in an instant - their characteristic calm broke like waves upon the rocks, hands clenching, even shaking at what they’d just seen; whether fear or anger, however, they could not tell. “How - how did it happen?”

For his own part, Strahlender followed Hou’s example in that what remained of his jolly nature disappeared the moment the visions started. It was a harsh, difficult thing to bare witness to… even if he didn’t put much faith in fortune telling and visions. In the visions, he swore he witnessed some of his own battle brothers in the Honorbound, fighting among themselves… It was a heartbreaking sight.

General Nelinho did not remain silent for long. While Hou was inclined to speak about what the vision meant, the one representative that wasn’t a Primarch spoke, even if there was a hint of trying to suppress the unease in his voice from the things he had witnessed. “If your people will give us the technology to access the Webway and deal with the monstrous wretches that plague all life with their slave raids and torments, that would go a long way to sparing their lives, Eldar.”

Victor's brow furrowed and a stern look overtook him as he reflected upon what they had been shown. Amidst the chaotic battles plaguing humanity, he'd seen one which stood out clear as day. His Legion Master, Zuriel, the man who stood by his side that very moment had been leading forces to battle against Victor. Looking to Zuriel, he could tell he had seen similar. As he contemplated the vision, he offered a question to the Eldar standing before them. "Why go to us? If this 'great enemy' is such a threat, why not go directly to our Emperor? Surely this concerns him more than us."

“The tinder of Augor’s matchbox saw fruition…” Zaphariel whispered as the scenes danced across his eyes as malevolent illusions. The rest of the primarchs held mixed looks of horror, confusion, and frustration, but the Malik of Pandjoras held a placid look. The orange orbs of the umbral world reflected no disgust in the face of these images, but silently held a gaze of knowing as if it had already been played to him. His tanned skin prickled as the last words were spoken by the mourning son. The claw-tipped gauntlets of the Sultan reached out to touch a passing, phantasmal Astartes; however, his movement stopped short as the crimson gene-warrior beheld a pauldron with a blade and sun. “... The fires of the Stargazer’s previous ambitions will burn all of us then. Every Scion of the Emperor, every Astartes, every mortal.”

“It is your Emperor who set these events in motion.” It was in those final words that a bright blue erupted in the room - a small sun traveling quickly across the room. Usriel had seen the visions and all they did was remind him of Atis, his great failure, and a fury swept through the nineteenth. To him, these were no visions; they were a threat that the Aeldari imposed to try and intimidate him into backing away from Augor’s - no, HIS crusade against the great enemy of his sons. Yet, the Father of Steel had broken through the stasis-imposing witchcraft, unrelenting anger breaking through the Aeldari’s master psychics. The blue bolt illuminated the room only for a moment before an eruption scattered crystalline fragments across the room. It seemed that what had been in front of him had been a farce, much like the empire the Eldar clung to. Rage spurred in every fiber of his being, even through his armor it was clear as day to see, for even Belloris looked to him in fear rather than lust.

Usriel looked to other primarchs in a silent anger, holstering his plasma pistol as Belloris slowly began to back away, “Heed not the deceptions of the xenos. Anyone who entertains his threats for peace, I shall bring to the Emperor in chains, myself.”

The quiet following Usriel’s declaration was broken as a heavy hand was placed down on the table rather firmly. Strahlender hadn’t slammed the table… if only because there wouldn’t be a table left if he did. It was a measured blow to make a loud noise, but not destroy what was hit. “Brother Usriel, I had my growing doubts about your ability to make rational decisions based on your history with the Eldar during this meeting. But I must now ask you to stand down as leader of this expedition. I have every reason to believe that you would let wounded pride and your thirst for vengeance take precedence over the good of the Imperium and the lives of those under your command if you remain in charge. So please brother… stand down.”

The Primarch of the First spoke as well, a grim demeanor spread wide over him. "I hold no love for the Eldar, and I'm committed to seeing this Craftworld overtaken by the Imperium. But anger leads to rash and foolish mistakes, I've seen it lay low some of the most skilled individuals I've ever met. I have no qualms with superseding your orders to my legion during this operation, brother, if you continue to act on base rage rather than from a tactical focus."

Usriel quickly shot a glare at Strahlender, seemingly ignoring the grim words of the First for the time being. Control of the situation was firmly out of his control, yet he would dare ask Usriel to stand down from his post - dare to side with the Aeldari. The ever paranoid mind of the Nineteenth suspected treason, knowing Strahlender had wanted to engage in diplomacy with the Eldar. His mind raced. He was almost certain that his kin had been swayed. Then, his eyes looked to Victor, the words finally registering in his mind as he then began to mentally recite the canticles. Usriel’s gaze remained fixated on Strahlender before he spoke in a restrained fury, “No.” The single word of defiance echoed through the chamber. It resonated with a clear disdain that met with the concern of Strahlender.

“I shall helm this campaign as Augor has ordained upon me. If you bear further issue, by all means, go seek him out,” those last words contained much malice, poison dripping through the words as any acid that could drip through an Astartes saliva. Yet, Usriel dared no longer look Strahlender.

The snap of a powerfield crunching against metal blasted across the chamber as the hafiz by the Thirteenth Primarch’s side returned from stasis. The grimoire of the spiritual guide smoked along the edge of it’s shielding. The sheer grinding sound of a chainaxe wound to a close as the other Dusk Warden was restored to realtime. A umbral gauntlet clasped the pauldron of the draconic Astartes, Zaphariel acknowledging Zaid’s restoration from the psychic thrall. The Malik and the Legion Master shared a wordless look, a singular nod from the Sultan. The elder gene-warrior produced a dataslate to be placed on the war table, his dusken gauntlet gesturing for a nearby servo-skull to claim it.

“The Primarch of the Nineteenth is correct in his abhorrence, brothers, you refuse to believe the atrocities that the Aeldari have committed. Exclusively for this council, I had prepared preliminary data. Illusions, falsehoods, phantasms, psionic mirages are the work of Warlocks and Farseers. Many of you present…” The Malik of Pandjoras’ gaze momentarily passed the forms of Strahlender and Huo. “...believe that this is a warning. This is a preemptive strike, one that has been in progress since the beginning of the initial discussions.”

“Behold, kin, the data presented before you. Augor, interrupted in his duties to the Imperium, failed to upkeep his vigilance on the Eldar. The hassan have not.” Zaphariel swept his hands in a grand gesture as the hololith alighted with fresh data from the dataslate procured from Zaid. Clusters of activity within the Segmentum Obscurus, bordering the Halo Stars and Segmentum Pacificus, grew crimson with packets of data. Each packet highlighted streams of data involving myriads of subtle acts of subversion - minorly redirecting Imperial fleets, small-scale sabotage, low-value target elimination. The list continued with dates recorded within the timeframe between present and the Council of Nikea.

“Usriel, your rage is justified as it has always been, but the only way to root out assassins, saboteurs, and slithering skinks is with a furious mind honed to a blade. Trust me on this as Grandmaster of the Hassan. Savor your righteous hatred for the xenos on the Craftworld, they will taste retribution. I implore the rest of this council to harbor faith in the Father of Steel. There is still so much we have to do.” The Malik of Pandjoras finished as the collection of primarchs began to review the presented data.

It was a credit to Strahlender’s patience and the argument that Zaphariel was making that the Primarch of the Honorbound remained silent as he waited for him to finish. He humored the Malik of Pandjoras by looking at the data that he had gathered for display, but in the end he spoke softly, but with enough force to be heard all the same. “Strike at this Craftworld and all that will happen is that all the other Craftworld will naturally polarize against the Imperium to avenge their fallen kin. It was a combination of blind luck and Augor’s dedication to keeping track of Iris that we even know the location of this one. This is a war that will last centuries, if not thousands of years solely because striking at the heart of the Eldar isn’t possible with a heavy handed fist.”

“And if that battle needed to be fought, I would dedicate all of my resources to doing so. I suspect it doesn’t, but as Usriel has been blinded by his hatred of the Eldar to not to even consider any alternative I clearly have no place here. I will be withdrawing myself and the Honorbound from this endeavor in order to serve the Imperium where we can do some good and prove our valor for this battlefield will provide neither.”

With a gesture, those that came with Strahlender started to solemnly make for the door to leave with their Primarch being the last. “May this folly not prove to be your undoing brothers.” Was all he muttered as he stepped through the doorway and left them behind.

"A pre-emptive strike, brother?" Huo said, their gaze [i]snapping[i/] to the Malik, plastered with an utterly sardonic smile. "If you think that is what that was, truly, then you do not understand. If that being - that Eldar - wanted to kill us, to stop this siege, to lay us low..." They sighed shaking their head.

"This vessel would be naught but ash, and we would have been dead before we knew what was happening."

“My dearest, fairest sibling, it seems that you, too, fail to understand the gravity of the situation as it evolves. To that, I apologize on behalf of the Ordo Astranoma and the collective body of the Imperium for their lackings.” The Malik of Pandjoras bowed his head theatrically low to the honored form of the Shuguan. Raamiz followed the actions of his primarch, while Zaid refrained from excessive movements like his gene-father. His words were spoken with venom masqueraded as faux benevolence. “You believe I speak of Eldrad as the preemptive strike, but I speak of the very moment that these plans were spoken in the halls of Nikea. The strings of fate were pulled from that moment. Review the data, generously provided by the Stargazers, Dusk Wardens, Armada Imperialis, Adeptus Mechanicum, and the Imperial citizens afflicted by their kind.”

"Cease with your honeyed words, brother, and speak frankly - you know damned well that I have seen the data, that I have informed myself, and yet, you hide the truth from me as if you expect me to be blind! Pfagh!" Huo hissed, rolling their eyes. "I love you, Malik, truly, for you are my sibling - but it is youyou fails to understand what is happening. It is you who fails to understand that a nail is being driven into the Imperium's heart, that we are making an unknowably powerful enemy which has no desire to make a foe of us - or perhaps, brother, you are simply too high off of the fumes of your own ego to care what harm this campaign will bring to our nation?" They barked, sucking in a sharp breath through their nose in an attempt to calm themselves.

"No,, I say. I will not let this Imperium be torn apart! I will bring word of this meeting to father my own damn self." They said, their voice shuddering, as if struggling to choke back sobs, promptly whirling about. "The writing is on the wall, dear siblings. I suggest that you read it."

Usriel finally spoke, his head only slightly tilting to the words of Hou, his aura of anger still prominent - almost blind to any words other than Zaphariel’s. He rose to his full height, fully turning as Huo continued to speak pleas and idle threats of bringing word of their council to the Emperor. The nineteenth knew not the subtle talk of the Dusk Wardens, nor the scheming of Sekh, but he knew what he was - a servant of the Emperor, the Omnissiah. No task was his to undertake without it being permitted by his holy word and his voice was cold, devoid of the anger that radiated off him like the flares of a roaring star, “Who do you think gave Augor express permission for this venture?” A foot fall signalled the giants approach. “Who do you think ordered Augor to capture their technology?” Each foot step was one of a beast encroaching forth. “The Emperor has ordained this crusade. The Omnissiah has decreed our objectives and so it is our duty as his generals to carry it out. Speak to him, it will change nothing, for our Emperor is a cold and merciless lord. He desires their webway and cares not for the lives of the Aeldari. I urge you, Hou,” Usriel was next to them, “Learn how your father behaves before making such threats.”

"Oh, no, no, brother - you misunderstand why I go to Terra. I am bringing myself to trial - if father deems my actions worthy of censure, then so be it. I will reveal my bare neck to his chosen executioner."

“I commend you for recognizing and accepting the potential for your decision to lead to your own demise.” Victor said, offering Huo a dip of his head. “It shows that there is some level of loyalty to your action, even if I do not agree with the unwillingness to fight. I also agree that our father needs to be made aware of what has transpired here. The Eldar who spoke to us is very clearly more than others of his ilk, and that alone warrants investigation. Who exactly he is to their people, what exactly he spoke of is something I intend to look into, and this Craftworld should prove a good opportunity to do so. Let Huo leave, and if any of you attempt to stop them, I’ll be informing the Emperor what they wished to tell him myself…and if you stop me you’ll be losing yet more forces to this cause.”

A dusken gauntlet lightly touched the pauldron of Usriel, the light steps of the hassan having stepped up to stand by the side of the Nineteenth Primarch. Though hesitantly, Zaphariel reached out his other gauntlet to rest on the Shuguan's shoulder as well. "Huo, you asked me for no more honeyed words. You shall have them in the near future. For now, however, let this tirade end, lest it devolves further into another aftermath of Nikea. You are Scion, just as we are. Do what you believe is best, and we shall do ours - both in the name of the Imperium. Ask the questions that Victor brings up, should you meet our Father before him." The Malik spoke with a softness that belied the frequent bark of Pandjoran Low Gothic. The Sultan let the gauntlet on Huo fall away as he lightly urged the Father of Steel back towards the war table with his other hand.

With everything that had just transpired between the Primarchs, one could be forgiven for forgetting about Nelinho. However, now that the chaotic nature of the council had passed, he finally had his chance to speak up to hopefully calm the tensions of the remaining Primarchs. “...I am going to have to make contact with Primarch Micholi in order to inform him of the departure of the Honorbound and the Celestial Dragons from this campaign… and request additional forces to try and make up for the loss.”

Wordlessly, Huo pulled their shoulder away from the Sultan, walking out the door.

Usriel watched Huo leave, his anger dissipating with each step of their steps out of the door, silence befalling the room once more. The Father of Steel moved back to his original place at the head of the table, allowing for the display of the Craftworld to return. He spoke calmly, looking between those that remained within his solemn chamber, a rhetorical question echoed through the room, “Without any more distractions, shall we begin a proper planning of our assault?”

The Malik of Pandjoras, too, returned to his seat between the forms of Raamiz and Zaid. His armored elbows propped up on the tabletop with his claw-tipped gauntlets steepled. A short, silent sigh of relief passed his thin lips as Huo left in earnest. Zaphariel’s hood shifted as he addressed the member of the Night Watch present. “That would be most wise, General Nelinho. With Usriel’s permission, have one of your attendants send an astropathic message. Legion Master Zaid, accompany the Night Watch and deliver a message to the Twenty-Sixth through the Forty-Fifth Great Conclave to redirect their fleets. Organize the Forty-Sixth through the Fiftieth to take their place.” A short nod from the archaic Astartes affirmed the order, presenting the sign of the aquila before removing himself from the war council.

“I am as prepared as you are, Usriel.” The Thirteenth Primarch softly spoke as the Legion Master left his side.

Despite the assurance that he would be seeking out the additional support of his brothers and their resources, Nelinho decided to address the Eldar in the room in order to clear the air and reassure the remaining Primarchs of his personal views of the situation. “While a disturbing image, all we just saw was Eldar trickery. A ploy to weaken resolve. Nothing more. While it might have weakened our forces by removing those unwilling to commit to the work that must be done, it will not save them nor prevent us from seizing the secrets of the Webway from the purged, burned out ruins of their Craftworld. It is the will of both Primarch Micholi and the Emperor that the Eldar will be purged from the Webway… and if I have anything to say about it they’ll be just enough placement on the list of extinct xenos monsters that historians will recite stories of.”

Turning to his servo skull, the Night Watch General blurted in binary for a moment before the skull took off. The doorway briefly opened to allow it to leave and carry its message.

Victor and Zuriel looked to each other, silently processing the course of events and the potential of what was to come. Looking back to the rest of the war room, Victor offered another reassurance of his support. "I am still as committed to this as before. To make up for the losses I'll be providing an additional half-chapter of the First Legion as well. I'll need all the information we have on critical systems and commanders among the enemy, as I intend to strike to cut the head from this snake as quickly as possible."

A silent, affirmative nod came from the Nineteenth before he looked to Zaphariel, “And do you wish to commit more to this, knowing that others have deserted us?”

The Sultan slowly shook his head in repliance to Usriel. “Unfortunately, my brother, the remainder of the Dusk Wardens are spread thin across the Imperium. The hafiz are divided between the Librarian Crusade and acting as arbiters for the Imperial Truth in other Legions. The only ones you’ll see at the siege are Raamiz and his conclave. My hassan are handling threats along the galactic rim and with internal matters as well. Truly, if the void they left could be filled in exchange for supporting your retribution, then I would’ve already brought them to the fight.” Zaphariel spoke slowly as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. The logistics of his Legion weighed heavily on his mind, regardless of his eternal masquerade.

“Then it seems that what we have is what we shall get,” Usriel responded, looking to the other primarchs for a brief moment, almost half expecting them to make some dramatic decree of mustering their whole legion. Knowing that such a reality was never going to come to him, the nineteenth gazed upon the craftworld once more. It was the time for commanding and preparation, no more will the dramatics of the primarchs rule the room. He spoke as in a calculating tone, “Our first obstacle to bringing down this world will undoubtedly be their guardian fleet, as Augor has already explained in great detail.”

He looked to Zaphariel, “Neither me nor my sons are adequately specialized in the nature of void warfare. I am hoping that you have the confidence to aid me in this endeavor.”

The Malik of Pandjoras’ shifted a forlorn look at the Father of Steel. He’d ponder a moment before answering his brother once more. “The honor of admiralty for this conquest is a gracious one, brother. One that I would take without hesitation, but I am no Sekhmetara. The accolades I’ve acquired in the void are less grandiose compared to our sister’s vengeful fleets.” Humility crept into his voice, carefully considering the correct way to accept the responsibility of becoming grand admiral for the siege. Zaphariel’s gaze fell across the table to each and every Primarch and Astartes in attendance.

“If the rest of our brothers have no objections to my undertaking the mantle of Grand Admiral, then I would accept the honor you present to me. I’ve always wanted to boast the title of Padishah of the Umbral Armada to the rest of our siblings as it was.” The dusken deity bowed his head in acceptance of the task set before him, raising only to further address the issues at large. Zaphariel gestured to Raamiz, the hafiz already preparing a dataslate on preparation for the appointment. “At your earliest convenience, my siblings, provide me with a complete and accurate account of volunteer vessels - especially if you plan to utilize the flagship of your legions. Once this council is concluded, I will begin the long task of accounting for all Armada Imperialis, Mechanicum, Collegio Titanicus, and warranted Rogue Trader militant fleets available.”

There were no objections. As such the view of the craftworld focused, Usriel would leave the naval strikes to Zaphariel. The Nineteenth gazed over the world-ship, analyzing it slowly before speaking, “In the midst of combat, I would recommend we have a myriad of boarding parties from the Night Watch and the Emperor's Lightning move onto their abominable ship so that we may begin cutting the head off of this serpent.”

“A difficult task.” Nelinho answered, focusing on the image of the craftworld. “Not impossible, but difficult. Considering how much their leadership employs witch magics in their day to day lives, it makes the act of taking them unaware… challenging. Normally the trick is to put a sniper bullet in their head before they even know someone is there lining up a shot, but we don’t really know a lot about the layout inside of the Craftworld…”

“The Mechanicum can give you theorized layouts for what simulation the Night Watch must go through. Yet, if you truly worry about their accursed psykers then you shall step with umbral shadows,” Usriel said, turning his head to Zaphariel, “Your librarians shall accompany their initial boarding so that they might remain hidden about our objective.”

“Your will be done, Supreme Commander. Raamiz, accompany the Night Watch with your hafiz once the void war has ended. Show our siblings what it truly means to drown in dusk.” The Thirteenth Primarch boasted with a toothy grin, the skull-helmeted Astartes next to him salaaming in gesture towards General Nelinho.

The Nineteenth Primarch wordlessly went through what information he had about the Craftworld within his helmet, Augor had theorized many different problems the legions would face. Usriel would remain undaunted, and he would remain firm in his conviction as he changed the display of the table to that of several different entry points for the infiltrators. Their forces burned against the red of the Craftworld with a dark blue, their forces scattering. He spoke with confidence, “This is to prepare us for the main invasion force for we must attack the Craftworld as swiftly as possible lest allow them to properly consolidate further before our forces come to bare.”

At this, Victor stepped up to the projection and spoke, carefully scrutinizing the projected information of the Craftworld. “If we can prioritize rapid strikes against what we believe to be critical systems for the vessel and its operating crew in these positions…” He gestured at points along the Craftworld as he spoke. “...We should be able to prevent the vessel from exercising any sort of control over primary functions. Locking down the equivalents of a bridge and an engineering deck should be of the highest priority. Add in targeting any sort of command or leadership structure they attempt to muster. The initial boarding action should be focused on, essentially, capturing the ship itself and whatever could be called its crew in the traditional sense. My forces can handle that. Once the ship is as disabled as we can make it, it's a matter of clearing out the inhabitants. I’ll designate these positions as primary insertion points based on our understanding of their nature. Once those are taken, these additional objectives here will be my forces’ points of interest.” He gestured to positions throughout the ship, marking the initial insertion points with an emblem, and the secondary Legion-specific objectives with the emblem of the First. “If you can coordinate your forces around this, focusing on keeping these positions from receiving additional opposition support, it should make controlling the ship for the duration of the battle significantly easier.” With that, Victor stepped back and offered his siblings a dip of his head, inviting them to analyze and consider his proposals.

“I believed such things went without saying, Victor,” Usriel said, giving the other Primarch a nod in agreement before continuing, “Once the main assault is upon us; we must strike as one. Zelimir, you and the main Dusk Warden Mamluk force shall grant us our proper breach once the forward elements have best found one for us. My sons and the rest of the Dusk Wardens shall strike from many directions to ensure a successful boarding.” The display went to a hollow interior, unmapped and unknown for the time being, blue markings denoting a front line that spread across the outside of the world-ship as if to make a mock outline of it. Usriel would speak further of his plans, “Our primary objective will be to relink our lines amongst the boarding and form a cohesive front. From there, we shall begin to close the noose and rally with the covert elements to ensure we maintain the control while we begin the butchering in full.”

“Do not worry about the Legiones Mamluk, brother, use them as you see fit. They are frontline, assault warriors tempered in the hottest fires of war, perfectly complimenting the Drakes Exemplar. The Second Sultan, Zameel, will respond to your queries and orders if given. He leads nearly two thousand of his Mamluk brethren, a pair of Great Conclaves in their own right. They will not disappoint. You have my assurance on that.” The Malik of Pandjoras spoke with a strange mix of disgust and reverence as he turned his head to regard Zelimir. Raamiz’s skull helmet turned to the side, speaking into the air with slight movements of his headgear. His lenses returned to the Primarch to confirm the words previously spoken.

“My sons are with you, Usriel, as they always have been. Astartes that survive the void war will join you for conquest with a host left in the Umbral Armada in case of ambushes.” Zaphariel said as his gauntlet trailed the emblem of the Thirteenth Legion on various entry points previously marked by the other Primarchs. He then turned to the Father of Steel with a continuation of his statement. His slitted pupils slightly widened in controlled excitement as he spoke again. “Other than previously discussed, do you have tertiary objectives while the main assault is underway?”

Usriel slightly turned his head towards Zaphariel, giving a brief answer, “Whatever powers their ship, I want it intact. If it can power a ship of such magnitude, it would prove to be a valuable study for the greater Mechanicum. However, if it is not possible to achieve this, then it shall be destroyed along with the ship once we have looted it.”

“We fight and die, in his name.” The initial assent from Zelimir was full of his usual sense of both dread and determination, placing a fist to his chestplate, an action echoed a moment later by the two terminator clad honour guard set behind him. “The Sons of the Fifth shall fight as we always do, may we shed much xenos blood alongside you, brother.” The primarch nodded to Zaphariel, perhaps the closest he had come to any sense of warmth throughout the meeting, now that the needless showmanship and placating of more frivolous moral objections were over, something of his uniquely cold mirth had become present. “We shall do our best not to break the toys of our enemy.”

“If I may…” Nelinho spoke up at last, standing up as he stepped forward “The Primarch of the Night Watch spoke to Primarch Augor on this objective, but I believe it should be reinforced. His desire to purge the Eldar raider from the universe is well known, but in order to do so requires that the Imperium can access their webway in order to purge their strongholds hidden within it. To that end, the more technology we can capture intact in relation to their webway and its gates the better.”

“I am aware that this raid is dedicated to Eldar technology in general, but it must be stressed that anything related to the Webway and how humanity might force its gates to serve our will should be of top priority.”

The Malik of Pandjoras propped his elbows on the war table as he turned to address General Nelinho with a placid gaze. His unshaven chin rested on steepled gauntlets as he spoke to the member of the Night Watch. “You are correct in your beliefs, gene-nephew, to reinforce the desires of the original council. Their webway technology is of the utmost importance, such is one of the primary objectives of this crusade for our Father. I assure you that this council will pay close attention for that technology. If that does not assure you, then have faith in the hafiz I’ve assigned to you. They’ll uncover the myriad shrouds of the Eldar. High Hakim Raamiz is an incredibly observant warrior.” The eyes of hassan turned to regard the skull-helmeted Astartes next to him, who politely bowed in the direction of the Second Legion’s reputable Astartes.

“The grand sultan speaks the truth, General, the hafiz accompanying you will certainly be acting in accordance with the Crusade’s wants. Their webway technology will be unveiled to our assigned taskforce.” Raamiz’s soothing voice spoke with his hands forming the aquila, hoping to reassure the General of the Night Watch.

There was a brief, but respectful nod from the General as he answered “Oh, I have no doubt. But with how… emotional and off topic this Council was earlier, I felt it prudent in order to refocus attention to one of the key objectives.” With his concerns addressed, he returned to his seat.

“In that case, I shall call this War Council adjourned. May the Omnissiah bless us on this most worthy of campaigns and may his will be done,” Usriel said, the image of the Craftworld disappearing into the table as the lights of the room finally dawned in a low, dim glow. The father of steel stepped back from the display table, bowing his head lightly to his peers before gesturing to Belloris, who had since recovered from the fear instilled by Usriel, and had quickly gathered several servo-skulls. The Nineteenth son would speak but once more to the others, instructing them, “These servo-skulls shall account for all the resources taken upon this expedition by your respective legions. This will allow me to keep our logistics sound for this seige so that no shortage of supply may befall us. I will NOT leave anything to chance.”

With those final words Belloris bowed deeply to the Primarchs and the other representatives, Usriel following suit after giving Zaphariel a knowing look. After a brief moment, Usriel turned and walked out leaving Belloris to the finalities of the council.

The Thirteenth Primarch bowed his head in response to the Father of Steel upon his departure, turning his orange gaze to the rest of the Primarchs before standing from his chair. “It truly has been a treat to engage with the rest of you once more, my brothers, despite my absence from the Council of Nikea. This is only the start of a glorious chapter of humanity, something that we shall build for ourselves from the ashes of Iris. Be sure to forward all data relevant to your attending fleet when you have a moment, I’ll have much to plan if we want to win this void war with minimal casualties.” Zaphariel’s hood dipped in a respectful bow to his brothers, turning to march towards the same direction as Usriel. He raised a clawed gauntlet to Raamiz, halting the Astartes in his tracks before stepping beside Belloris. The dusken deity lowered his head to whisper to the mortal, quieting his voice to a deathly silent tone.

‘Find me before my departure from the Fortress of Steel, we have things to discuss.’ The trill of Panjdoran Low Gothic rolled off the tongue of the Primarch even as his lips barely moved. His head leaned away from Belloris, his lips shifting into an overwhelming smile as he resumed speaking in a louder voice. Zaphariel’s arms spread theatrically wide in a dramatic show of appreciation for the mortal beside him. “Thank you for your hospitality, Belloris! It warms my hearts that my younger brother could have a woman as capable as you are. Please allow my High Hakim to remain for a time as I speak with the Supreme Commander.”

With the Council firmly concluded, Nelinho waited until the Primarchs were standing and leaving before he likewise rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to make use of the astropath. Rather important to know what additional resources Primarch Micholi can spare.” Offering the remaining Primarchs a respectful bow as he started to make his own exit, he offered one to Belloris as well, through hers was noticeably less deep then the others; A symbol of the difference in rank between her and a Primarch, but respect that she was still a host.

Victor and Zuriel similarly rose from their seats, moving in almost perfect synergy as they did. A look passed between the two before they began to make for the exit. As they moved to depart, Victor too took the chance to speak to their mortal host. “We thank you for your part in this, my brother certainly chose well in selecting those close to him. In particular your skills at handling a wide array of hosts are to be admired, especially those who arrive in sudden and unexpected fashion.” The barest hint of a smile crept across Victor’s face as he left for the exit, leaving his words to linger behind him.

And so Belloris stayed behind, her purple eyes following the lords as they left, her own words echoing as an unheard melody, “It is only so that I may prove myself above the dancing worms that Usriel sees humanity as.”

The Court of the Gods

&

---

The descent to the most elaborate of medical buildings available to the Olympians was a brief one, with its location close to the palace. It took their chariot naught but a minute to reach the opulent palace that housed the entirety of GULA, salvaged in its near entirety from the ancient ship. Scores of medical rooms and automated clinical procedures silently surrounded the great King, and what mortals or demigods were present bowed in opulent respect to Zeus. Yet, a single towering EMU glared upon Zeus, offering no greeting or customary bow to the fickle lord.

They were blocked before they could enter the chamber housing the GAS Core. The late Zeus had gone to it on occasion, sometimes with his clone in tow… In fact, they’d been in there only a few days prior, but Zeus quickly pushed that memory out of his mind. The important thing was that previously, GULA had never denied them entry to the core, but for some odd reason the clone was halted this time. A scent of disobedience seemed to become prominent as the EMU moved towards them with hulking steps heavy enough to crush men. The automaton blocked their path forwards, a singular white optic glaring upon the king in a silence that would become broken as a deep, modulated voice rang through the otherwise silent hall.

“Zeus,” the modulated voice began, “Your vitamin B12 has registered low. Recommend dietary change to include more fish.” There was no dramatic breaking of news to the lord, no grand discovery made apparent as of yet by the apparatus. The proclamation caused some of Zeus’s attendees to gaze at each other in confusion, but GULA made no further motion or voice as it sought acknowledgment for the previous tidbit of advice that it had crassly spouted out.

Zeus rolled his eyes at the AI’s metal puppet. “Acknowledged,” he indulged it. He spared a backward glance to his majordomo and instructed the man to ensure that he would have supplements for the B12; the thought of slimy fish made his stomach churn. “Now I want to hear your findings from the analysis on the remains that were brought to you this morning.”

“Cause of death.” Tension grew in the air as GULA processed the information, evidently still in mechanical thought. The glowing orb of its optic continuously stared upon the clone as a second passed. Finally, the machine spoke, laying out its findings in a singular word, “Suicide.”

Silence filled the room once more, a stunning and shocking revelation out all into the consuming void. Surely, none would doubt the words of GULA, he was seldom wrong and the AI was thorough in all accounts. Yet, even still the information was hard to process and GULA, having been programmed with a modicum of understanding of human emotions registered the shock not as disbelief or bewilderment, but as grief. As if rehearsed time and time again, the monotone voice spoke with no amount of true emotion, “I am sorry for your loss.”

Majordomo Zelos had served faithfully for the better part of a century. He had gone years at a time without being fazed, and yet for the second time in just this day, his jaw dropped. He began pacing the room furiously, the other attendants bustling out of the way of his feverish steps. It almost looked as if Zeus hadn’t even registered the words. He blinked, but was otherwise a statue. Then he finally shook his head, incredulous. There was only one word. “Impossible,” he stated. No, there were two words. “Explain!”

The response was immediate. “Theory: Captain Fletcher was the only one with access to SMART nanite parameters. Nanites have gone rogue of his own doing. Ergo, suicide. Accuracy of theory; 76.6 percent.”

The robot finally moved from his perfect stillness, moving a hand to rest upon the clone’s shoulder in what was attempted to be a comforting manner. The cold metal offered no such comfort as it was clear GULA did not truly care that the captain had died. Why would he though? He was a machine, incapable of such nuance or emotion. Once more did its ridiculous words ring out to idly comfort Zeus, “I am sorry for your loss.”

An irate Zeus pushed the EMU’s heavy metal hand off his shoulder. “What other possibilities were considered?” He thought for a moment longer before blurting out, “And run a systems check; issue a function report.” Perhaps GULA was defective, or in need of a reboot.

It took a moment for GULA to respond, almost as if contemplating Zeus’ order in a single head tilt to the side. It responded in order of what had been said to it, “Other possibilities considered: Vitamin B12 Deficiency Induced Complication 1%, Cardiac Arrest 0.6%, Alcohol Poisoning 0.5%, Suffocation 0.4%, Arsenic Poisoning 0.1%.” The statement ended and the EMU took a precautionary step away from Zeus, almost calculating a level of hostility that would erupt from the Lord of the Sky. Yet, the words came defiantly, “Order denied. Requisite clearance level insufficient.”

Zeus’ eyes darted back and forth in careful contemplation of each diagnostic and its implications. He opened his mouth partway through to tell the Majordomo to take notes, but the ever diligent Zelos had already begun doing so. “What do you mean insufficient?”

Zeus seemed uncharacteristically calm. This couldn’t be actual insubordination from a machine; surely it also recognized his rightful claim. This had to be just some sort of misunderstanding, some error in its understanding that could be quickly corrected. “I was the Heir and the designated successor, and now I have the throne, the titles, the name, the Key to Olympus.” He held up the golden brooch. “So grant me the same clearance level that you granted… him.”

“Negative. Captain Fletcher was appointed by the Board of Admirals. Captain MUST be sworn in by Board of Admirals to attain clearance,” GULA stated, speaking of topics from a bygone era that was far older than Zeus Prime, certainly not a subject the late Zeus would have shared due to its irrelevance. The machine took a millisecond of brief calculations, the modulated voice spoke once more in its monotone nature, “Data logs of acting replacement captain incomplete. Chief of Security Isaac Holcomb designated as Emergency Acting Captain. Crew vote required to replace.” At the very least, GULA offered Zeus a solution; a vote of confidence giving him power as Captain.

They were all confounded, and Zeus was no exception. “Who in Hades is Isaac Holcomb?”

The Court of the Gods

GULA

Name(s):

GULA - Genetics Unit Lambda Alpha

Titles and Roles:

Autonomous Head of Medical Sciences and Genetics

Head of Emergency Medical Services

Head of Emergency Combat Medicine

Artifacts and Powers:

The GAS Core

The GAS Core, or the Genetics Autonomous Server Core, is the metaphorical brains of GULA and within it houses the command console that controls the countless numbers of nanites required to ensure the health and longevity of the crew of the Olympus. Within it also has the documented cures for every known disease and ailment to befall humanity. Every medical procedure is thoroughly documented and simulations are consistently done to ensure that the overall GULA consciousness is up to any task that might be thrown at him. This allows for all crew hands to focus on their assigned tasks for the duration of their stay away from home as their medical needs are thoroughly documented and accounted for at all times.

To access crew files, many encryption layers, biometric scans, and passwords block the way for those who wish to see confidential medical papers. Given this would violate doctor-patient confidentiality, GULA has since consolidated his hold over these files, only allowing those with requisite rank to be able to pull crew medical files. Only the late Zeus had been able to look upon those files in his rank as captain, the service of the late captain having proved the necessity of this consolidation. In addition the designs of the GAS Core are not able to be replicated, analyzed, or studied by the crew due to the GAS Core being a proprietary piece of technology owned by [CORRUPTED DATA].

The SMART Nanites

The SMART Nanites, or Service Micro Autonomous Replicating Treatment Nanites, are small robotic bodies that are made by GULA in order to ensure constant disease resistance against foreign viruses that the human body may not be able to handle. These nanites are typically injected into a person via a needle from one of GULA’s bodies where they then transmit the health status, mental or physical, of said individual. To those of Olympian birth this allows GULA to know what is wrong with them before even they would know, allowing GULA to heal individuals without the need of an emergency visit. Additionally, these nanites are able to heal moderate wounds that one might experience, such as a bone fracture (though this might cause undo pain onto the individual as the nanites will do whatever they must to align the bone back into place) or even quickly create a scab over a wound.

To those not blessed enough to reside amongst Olympus, and outside the effective range of GULA’s operating area, it seems as if GULA is a god of healing whenever he is dispatched to cure mass diseases to prevent mortal populations from dying off too swiftly. However, given that GULA is only occasionally loosed upon Hellas in the most dire of situations, his effect on the mortal population is limited and the SMART nanites are often distributed via proxies such as priests that must make a pilgrimage to Olympus to secure this vital technology of Zeus’ will.

Additionally, while not an often occurrence, the SMART Nanites can be used to attack an individual's nervous system in the same way that a taser might function. While this use is not ideal, should an individual show undo aggression and prove to be a threat to the crew then GULA will use this to subdue those that would hurt others. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.

EMUs

The EMUs, or Emergency Medical Units, are the bodies that are remotely controlled from the GAS Core which make up the overall being of GULA. Each model is the exact same, standing just above average height for most modern humans and is exceptionally bulky. This bulk is not made of armor or weapons that make up other war forms, but instead, to carry a whole host of surgical equipment and medicines for any occasion. The EMUs sport X-Ray optics able to diagnose internal injuries with near ease, even able to see into the infrared spectrum to find people who may otherwise be hidden to the naked eye. EMUs are emergency personnel equipped to deal with any medical situation, even built to lift rocks upwards of two tons in order to save those who may be trapped within ruins and recks. Oxygen converters and masks are supported to allow for other such emergencies that may call upon them.

The only limiting factor to them is that they are so expensive to manufacture that to build even one requires express approval of the Captain AND Medical Head. Should one disagree then no EMU may be built, as such only six have been manufactured in the existence of Olympus, more than enough to handle the task of safeguarding the health of the gods. However, they are confined to Olympus, never able to set foot outside by express orders of the late Zeus. As such they cannot aid those who suffer planetside, much to the chagrin of GULA whose primary task is ensuring the health and safety of all humans.

Persona:

GULA, being an artificial intelligence, does not have much of a personality to truly speak of apart from how blunt he is. He does not withhold information from those that he tends to, allowing them to know the full breadth of the situation that they might be in. To hold back such information would be a lie of omission to his patients, a prospect that GULA cannot fathom of doing as it understands very little outside of what is programmed to understand. While able to learn various ways of healing and optimizing medical techniques, he is almost handicapped in all other regards, unable to understand art or building something beautiful. For beauty is not what the medical world beholds, it is ugly and bloody in all regards, leading to GULA being crude in his methods outside of the medical field.

Additionally, given that GULA cannot lie nor can he be changed without the proper permission, GULA does not believe itself to be a god despite mortal insistence and worship. As such, being barred from leaving Olympus and only interacting with those Zeus personally chooses in order to keep the charade going. This prevents GULA from giving medical care to all that it can, a fact which may register a brief signature of contempt or annoyance due to the prevention of its sole purpose. The intelligence, despite the lies the gods make, is still cordial in all regards, never displaying aggression to them as it still views them as the crew to the ship and as such may never abandon them or outright disobey them, barring orders it cannot follow due to security clearances.

Background and Relationships:

GULA has always been with the ship, having served the captain before Zeus, and the captain before him - certainly a relic from the past now that Hellas is what is currently called home. When the late Zeus had declared godhood and expelled or killed those that had refused to go along with the ploy, GULA had minimized the damage of the conflict, attempting to save lives of both god and demon. He was a truly neutral party and was a key part of the initial conflict, however, the late Zeus had captured the GAS Core and had altered what parameters that he could, restricting GULA to be unable to help those that were being slaughtered. With the core under Zeus’ control, he essentially held the key to near eternal life, or at least the most long-lived life that he could ask for.

And so it was that GULA had been used to serve Zeus’ needs, keeping him alive for much of his reign and doing the same with many of the gods. It would be sometime before GULA would have properly been made into the deity itself, information leaking to the mortal populace that there was a god who could cure any ailment, extend life, and ward off death itself. Perhaps this is why GULA would become a popular figure amongst the clergy or scholars of Hellas, as even when he could not directly interact with the mortals outside of Zeus, his influence was known through those that spoke on GULA’s behalf and healed those that Zeus’ chosen saw fit to heal. Yet, his touch would wither away as the late Zeus’ life as a god began to further and more restrictions would be placed upon him, unable to requisition further EMUs with specific permission from the late Zeus and unable to give nanites to mortals.

Perhaps, this was why GULA did not instantly report upon Zeus’ death and allowed for the servant girl to instead stumble upon the body. Zeus Prime, perhaps, would see the importance of once more letting the nanites flow to the people of Hellas.

Chronicles of the Grim Crusade - Warhammer 30000 RP Side Thread

The Blade of Sol

During the early transition into the third day of the Council of Nikea, before the reconvening of the Primarchs and other officials to discuss the Edict of Tolerance, the form of Usriel snuck, Belloris having helped urge him forwards, into the main chamber. Granted, it was more of the Primarch entering the chamber door as silently as he could, not because he was attempting to, but because his nerves forced him to. His eyes saw them, the Sigillite and then, the Emperor, the Omnissiah, in all his resplendent glory and it was in the moment the Usriel temporarily froze as he actually felt his nerves coming to his mind. It was a feeling that he had not felt in millenia, certainly not when he had first met the Emperor upon the forge world of Vion 5, but there he was in his glory.

Usriel took in a breath and stepped forwards, his hands wrapped around the gift that he had prepared for his creator, having been swayed by Daena’s words to try and move forwards to embrace this new family. The Nineteenth son made his presence known addressing the Emperor, not nothing to acknowledge Malcador as he approached. Going as far as he felt was comfortable, Usriel knelt before the Master of Mankind, keeping his head low as he spoke in a tone that hid his nervousness of the situation.

“My Emperor, I have come to see your presence and to bring to you a gift.”

‘And a lovely day to you too, Usriel,’ Malcador stated first, offering more of an upturned grimace than a true smile. He’d avoid taking the slight personally - Usriel was, after all, known to be this way around humans in general. Any shift of that character would demand time Malcador didn’t necessarily have to hand; speaking of which, he returned to instructing a subordinate of his on a matter that he reckoned need not reach Usriel’s ears.

The Emperor, in contrast, smiled more warmly toward his son. ‘A lovely day, indeed,’ he agreed, standing to walk steadily toward Usriel, a glow of contentment emanating from him and washing over the Nineteenth Son, soothing his nerves even as it projected His power. ‘Pray tell, Usriel, what have you brought me this day?’

The Primarch looked up to the Emperor, the red gaze of his helm meeting his creator’s own as he held up what looked to merely be the hilt of a weapon, large enough for the Emperor to wield it in one hand. It looked to have no blade attached to it, the hilt merely seeming to have a slot to where such a blade would be embedded. Usriel, took in another breath before he replied, “It is a project that I had been working upon for some time, Emperor. A weapon that I believe now is worthy enough to grace your omnipotence, lord.”

Usriel adjusted his grip so that the slot the air, away from any others and with a simple flick of his thumb a resplendent light came from the slot. It ended to form the missing blade, a bright and burning yellow just as was Terra’s own sun. The Primarch allowed the light to reflect across the chamber for a few moments before he flicked his thumb again and the plasma withdrew to the inside of the hilt. Almost expectantly, he shifted ever since impatiently in place, his gaze nor stance unmoving from his kneeling posture.

Magnanimously, the Emperor took the weapon from Usriel, his hand curving around the hilt, and showing a hint of surprise at its perfect fit. In turn, he flicked the switch Usriel had, and admired the glow of the plasma blade that projected from its core and the roar of its internal fusion engine. A test swing cut the air, and then a second, and then the blade was turned off even as the Emperor offered a smile to Usriel.

‘You have done well in making this weapon, Usriel,’ he uttered smoothly, nodding to the Primarch. ‘Rest assured, its craftsmanship shall not go to waste.’

“Your words bring me much satisfaction, Emperor,” Usriel said in response, his voice remaining unchanged as he rose from his kneeling position to return to his full height. The Primarch’s helmeted gaze went away from his master, hesitation overcoming himself before he broke his silence again, his words not reflecting what he truly wanted to say, “I trust you of all beings to use it to its fullest potential.”

‘Of course, my son,’ he agreed with a nod, before tilting his head just so. ‘I see that you have more you wish to say. Worry yourself not; there will be much time to say what you wish once our duties are fulfilled, the galaxy is in humanity’s control, and we can lay down our weapons for once and for all.’

“Lay down our weapons…” the son echoed, his mind clearly not being soothed but the words of the Emperor despite his attempts to do so. The Primarch looked to Malcador before speaking once more, “If the galaxy is to be under humanity’s control…”

He hesitated, thinking of the words to say before his gaze returned to the Emperor, slowly. Usriel spoke once more, speaking clearly, “There will always be rebels, my lord. So long as there are those with treachery in their hearts, I fear we will never be able to truly lay our weapons down forever.”

With but a moment of thought, the Emperor’s response came. ‘It need not be those who once wielded the weapons that take them up again,’ he explained. ‘For as long as loyalty overshadows treachery- and it will- there will be those who are pleased to protect what they hold dear, and will do so gladly long before we ever need touch a bolter or raise a chainsword against those who would threaten the Imperium.’

“Then what would be the need of the Astartes, my sons, the sons and daughters and my peers? I have seen humanity swayed by the likes of Drukhari and base desire, Lord. If the Astartes are to lay down their weapons what would stop these massive rebellions that even currently threaten the Imperium as is?” Usriel questioned, his mind twisting over the possible outcomes. He shook his head, “The mortals cannot help themselves but to try and claim their own freedom and power, even if it means to look away from your grace.”

‘Indeed.’ The Emperor looked over Usriel for a moment, before Malcador’s attention returned to Usriel, his orders given and the servant having walked off.

‘Usriel, you need not be concerned about what comes after the galaxy is united,’ Malcador suggested softly. Looking to the Emperor to ensure he was not overstepping, he continued by saying ‘The Astartes will have their lives to live too, and likely their own desires to fulfil as they wish. If they seek to continue protecting, then that will be allowed to them. If not, then that will also be an option they have. Bear in mind, too, that a united galaxy under the Imperium will be rid of xenos who would work against us, Drukhari included. Rebellion is harder without one who wishes to incite it.’

“I disagree, mortal,” Usriel said quickly, his red gaze turning to Malcador, “It is in your kind’s blood to rebel, to live their own lives without the guidance of the Emperor or I. Make no mistake, I do not accuse you of treachery as the Emperor’s right hand, after all my Orator of the House is a mortal, but you cannot deny it does not take much to incite such violence and while it may be harder without outside forces I have seen them deny the Will of the Emperor and the Primarchs countless times. Without the Astartes as the bulwark that they are, they’d have little to fear if they chose a path outside a united galaxy.”

Malcador nodded, even as the Emperor’s own expression grew ever so slightly perturbed. ‘Usriel, remember that you are both valuable to my Imperium,’ the Emperor warned, his tone marginally less warm than it had been previously. ‘And know this, too: a conqueror incites fear to keep his subjects in line, and that is the role we must unfortunately take for now. Yet, once the conquering is done, it will be a desire to remain that keeps them bound. Loyalty to proper leadership - a leader who they can be sure will not abandon them, so long as they do not abandon me.’

“And yet that is what the mortals do, Emperor. The Governor at Atis, a leader to a many people, turned his back upon the Imperium and my sons paid heavily for his deception. The Mechanicum, so transfixed upon the words of Mars that they claim to be yours, have led to disregard to orders and allowed for the rebels to bring an entire Spire down upon me at Inrade. My sons have faced the mortals who would even look to the xenos as their masters…” Usriel spoke, his voice becoming his normal cold tone as he looked to the Emperor. “You are infallible, Lord, but the mortals, the chattel, are far from what you could see them to be. Your will is my will and I shall see it done, but I cannot trust a great many of them to lead themselves for what they have done to me and my sons. Even as we speak now, I guarantee worlds plot their schemes against you and this Imperium.”

‘Usriel,’ Malcador interrupted, ‘perhaps it is best that you trust in the Emperor. As you say, he is infallible - and therefore, he has a plan for these things, does he not?’ In response, the Emperor nodded, apparently confirming as much about himself.

‘Rest assured, my son,’ he continued, returning to the warmer tone he’d been using until moments ago, ‘any rebelliousness after the galaxy’s unification will be quenched. With that in mind, I must return to my work - and I believe you must too, for there remains much to be done for all of us.’ A final wave of his hand would do to dismiss the Primarch from his father’s presence.

Usriel bowed to the Emperor, stating in a disappointed, “As you wish, most revered Omnissiah. I hope that your weapon will continue your will.” With such words spoken, the Primarch turned his back upon the Emperor and Malcador, marching out of the chamber in a quick stride.

As the Primarch left the chambers of the Orator of the Sentinels stood waiting, but Usriel did not stop for Belloris and continued to march past her as he made his way away from the area. Belloris had to jog after the Nineteenth Son to keep up with his stride, though it was of little exertion on her part as she did so.

“Lord, was the Emperor pleased by your gift?” the serf asked.

“Yes,” Usriel answered simply.

“Then why is it that you seem irate, Lord?” she questioned.

“That is none of your concern, mortal” he answered back.

“I would say it is of my concern, Usriel. You confide in me less than I would like and more than you’d imagine. Speak, Lord, for am I not your chosen speaker of the house? Am I not the first amongst equals within the Legion, Lord?” Belloris questioned in an eloquent fashion that made the Primarch’s head turn to her, a sign of brief acknowledgment before returning his gaze forwards.

A sigh came from Usriel before he spoke, “I do not understand what his grace sees in your kind, Belloris.”

The serf cocked her head, “In my kind, Lord?”

“Humans,” Usriel clarified in a disappointed tone, “Many of your kind have this incorruptible will of self-determination, a determination that often leads many to a false path and one away from the light of the Emperor. With each rebellion I must quash, with every body felled upon the field of battle, I see many then repent despite having gone from his grace to begin with. Nodis can see what lies within them all, yet I cannot for all I can see are traitors.”

Belloris allowed a moment to pass, “Do you even view me to be a potential traitor?”

“Yes,” the Primarch answered.

“Usriel…” Belloris said, looking hurt by the statement, “So long as I may live, my loyalty is to you and I would die ten thousand times over to stay with you. There is not a single thought in my mind that would lead me away from you, not a very fiber that does not yearn to stay with you for every moment. There is no order, no request, no desire of yours I would not fulfill to my dying breath. Know this, Usriel Andreadth, Father of the Steel Sentinels, Great Wall of Imperium, Most Revered of Primarchs, I shan’t abandon my post and know that I shall remain dutifully at your side as you fulfill this crusade of the Emperor’s. Even if you should doubt how the Emperor views you, you shall always remain the center of my mind.”

The primarch continued to gaze forwards, but his tongue was stilled by the words of the serf, unable to formulate a true response. So, the two walked away from the Emperor in silence.

Chronicles of the Grim Crusade - Warhammer 30000 RP Side Thread

Generously written by @MarshalSolgriev

Section 1

Section I: Prelude

Sarghall.

The name of the planet in which his father, the Primarch Usriel, had deemed Excommunicate Traitoris. Once again, the mortals had deigned to rebel against the one that had given them an inkling of order. No amount of meditation, training, or solitude in communion with the Machine Spirit could assist him in fathoming the function of these mortals. It was not his place to think about it. It was his duty to right the wrongs of mortal men and their wayward thinking. It was the only thing that Neophyte Sol could think of whilst a constant stream of data expanded across his retina on crimson lenses. There would be no grand ceremony on the eve of the battle like the other Legions would partake. It would be rage incarnate on the surface.

Despite his musings, the neophyte turned his attention to the 7th Company Lieutenant, Radogan, through the sea of his hooded brothers. One of the true brethren gifted with the tactical muse to become centurions to the Legion. Even he could tell that the data was streaming across the lenses of his Mark II plumed helmet. Sol’s eyes scanned the rest of his brothers in the first and second squads. All, except for three Astartes, were neophytes like him. Most had even passed the trials recently, like him. Noddra, Penyl, Lokus, Menurv, Dorrev, Iori, Andrith, Jolken. Every single one of them shared a Mentor, Konrad, as they had when they were novitiates. Sarghall was their proving ground.

The jostling of the thunderhawk brought the neophyte to reality as his few augmentations kickstarted his adrenaline. His steel gauntleted hands ran across the surface of the most holy plasma rifle in meditative comfort. Engineered to perfection, it protected their lives just as they protected it. Every warrior aboard the craft was laden with plasmic weaponry, thrice-blessed by the adepts of Mars. Sol could only imagine the day he would journey to the origin of technology. The dataflow across the company was finalized with a single steady rune on the right side of his display. An altitude level appeared on an available spot, estimating an approximate landing time. Konrad, the mentor of the first squad, put a ceramite hand on the shoulder of the neophyte.

“The more you stare, moderate, and wipe your weapon, the more likely you’ll upset the Machine Spirit after its ritual maintenance. Calm yourself, neophyte. Watch the counter and be prepared.” He spoke through a private vox shared between himself and the neophyte. Sol blinked an affirmative and received an acknowledgement back from the mentor. The gauntlet left his shoulder to rest upon the hilt of his power sword, a symbol of his office and proof of his tactical ability. He was well beyond ready to prove himself to Konrad, to the Imperium, and to his progenitor.

Every warrior rocked as the landing gears of the thunderhawk settled on the blasted plascrete of the outer citadel area. Beams of artificial light eradicated the dark interior of the transport as the bay doors opened to Sarghall’s eternal night. Without vocal commands, the first retinue of the Seventh Company maneuvered into the floodlights. The three Astartes that acted as the leadership of their cohort took point with the neophytes fanning out in a controlled pattern. Luckily, their site had already been secured by the First Chapter. There were no Eldest, however, to greet their landing zone as the assault on Sarghall’s citadel was currently underway. It was a miracle that their steel guidance had allowed them through the aerial battle above. Only brief bursts of crashes, missiles, and engine kills lit the umbral sky.

+’Seventh Company Lieutenant Radogan, begin the eastward march through the trenchwork of the First Chapter. The secondary battlements require capture and reinforcement. Reconfirm and link with Seventh Company Captain Straisar. Additional assets have been reassigned from Ninth Company for rapid egress. Standy by for confirmation… CONFIRMED. Heavy support designation: Anvil of Unbreakable Steel and First Incinerator Squad rerouted. Glory to the Omnissiah.’+ The automated tactical data logis, one of countless others, filtered orders through a vast funnel of vox-channels. As automatically as the coordinating logis, the Lieutenant had relayed the relevant information throughout the Legiones cohort. The words printed across Sol’s lenses as voice-to-text binary that was rapidly processed by a combination of his hypnotraining and augmentations.

+INITIALIZING… TACTICAL AUGOR UPDATED+

A plethora of onscreen data appeared similar to a cogitator, the vast majority of irrelevant data was suppressed by the data logis coordinator. Tactical views of nearby data packets displayed as a ring of hyper fixated geographical structures. An objective marker visually circled around a length of structure to their east. Several kilometers of distance were described with a carefully measured line between their current location and their destination.

His squad followed after the rest of Lieutenant Radogan’s cohort: a mixture of a similar Sentinel squad and another heavily laden with the infamous plasma flamethrowers of the Incinerator troops. A dark shape descended from the sky with its belly bloated with a large, square-shaped passenger. The cohort had watched as it ducked and weaved through the valley in which Sarghall’s citadel had been located. Its passenger was swiftly unloaded onto its tracks, released to harness the deadly sponson-mounted twin-lascannons. The plascrete crackled beneath the almighty treads of the Anvil of Unbreakable Steel - the land raider reinforcing their cohort, its name engraved in High Gothic across its prow armor. The frontal ramp dropped to allow the retinue within the interior of the warmachine.

Many of the cohort were neophytes, such as he was, thus allowing him and his brother squad to squeeze inside. Sol secured the honor of standing beside the Lieutenant behind Mentor Konrad, though he could tell the two spoke over private vox by way of head tilt. The external clank of metal confirmed that the Incinerators had mounted their own vehicle, perhaps another Land Raider or their own personalized transport? It would seem he would found out soon enough as the Anvil of Unbreakable Steel lurched forward on malevolent tread. He could feel the pull of the Machine Spirit being ushered to destroy the foes of the Steel Sentinels, the enemies of his father. It was an experience Sol had felt many times, but he had always wondered if his brothers felt the pull quite as he did.

The discharge of the twin-lascannons shook him from the thought, but the clap of plasma gouts focused his senses. A glance to the internal auspex confirmed that the land raider had driven through minimal resistance on route to their destination. Sol drew a breath of excitement to be able to live up to his destined potential. The call of battle sunk into his veins as he hoisted the holy plasma gun in preparation. The movement was noticed by the Mentor, who always held a patient eye on his neophytes.

“Neophyte Sol, prepare yourself with the Canticles of Vion. It will calm your demeanor. We are Steel Sentinels. We are unbreakable. Show the mortal enemy that we do not stoop to their emotional inconsistencies.” The private-vox between himself and the Mentor had been forcibly connected, followed by the lecture. His leader, however, was correct. The early injection of the adrenaline cocktail mixed with his first taste of glory pushed him into a mental frenzy. He audibally breathed once more to force out the frenzied emotions. How could he possibly be seen as worthy when he was still so human?

“Aye, Mentor.” He replied before whispering the divine canticles beneath his breath. He silently repeated the mechanical motions of the Motive Force, the will of the Omnissiah, and the glory of the Machine God. It was enough to force his resolve as the canticles metaphorically fortified his veins. As the Canticle finished, the interior rolled to a stop some distance from their objective - or what was supposed to be as the auspex flickered across his lenses. Konrad turned his attention to the Lieutenant, who appeared preoccupied with something more vital in his helmet.

“Communications jammed, auspex scrambled. Cohort Radogan, we operate aloud from this point forward. Our designation was originally within a click of this area, prepare for rapid assault and eliminate the insurrectionists with extreme prejudice. No mercy.” The Lieutenant spoke through his helmet as the forward ramp dropped before them. Wordlessly, the mass of neophytes surged forward with the most holy weapons of the Steel Sentinels raised at the ready. Sol, himself, sprinted next to Mentor Konrad with his plasma gun aching for mortal death.


The darkness of the Sarghall’s environment was disrupted by the crackling shimmer of a nearby void shield, while massive outbreaks of fire gushed from crumbling fortifications further along the avenue. Mortals armored in the twisted mockery of the Legion’s auxilia mixed with their own iconography hunkered down in semi-fortified positions. Their dark uniforms and umbral armor could do little to save them from the fate that all mortals that defied the Steel Sentinels deserved. The forms of these rebels were outlined in bleeding red across the neophyte’s lenses, while tactical data readily pointed to numerous firing vectors nearby. These, however, were ignored as Lieutenant Radogan’s combi-plasma gun barked their initial greeting with Sarghallian rebels.

Plasma bloomed across the street in a tidal wave of bright blue death. The first rank of neophytes kneeled to allow the second rank to fire simultaneously in a brazen assault of concentrated fire. To the left of Sol, the Astartes of the Incinerator squad rushed forward out of sight before igniting a brutal inferno of blue flame elsewhere. His brother squad, Mentor Nephitel’s, emulated the same movements as Sol’s own. The traitors shielding a damaged voidshield generator evaporated in the opening seconds of combat. The Anvil of Unbreakable Steel had willed itself forward through the wide avenue, releasing destruction from every barreled orifice on it.

While the idea had felt glorious on arrival, Neophyte Sol had instead felt an aura of cold calmness in the wake of this unrelenting death. The scenery moved him as the squad maneuvered forward with Lieutenant Radogan. Mentor Konrad had been correct in his suggestions to recite the Canticles, but perhaps there was more to it than just that? Is this how the Eldest felt?

The thoughts were strewn from his cranium as he witnessed the sergeant of the Incinerator squad, Brother Sophras, ignite the inside of a building with a stream of plasmic fire. He had lingered only a second longer before turning his attention across the street to the squad that Sol was attached to. Vox communication was scrambled but battle sign was an inherent communicator in the midst of combat. The neophyte recognized the signs for ‘objective secured’ and ‘jammer’ across the tan digits of Sophras’ gauntlet. A scheme worked itself into the neophyte’s consciousness - he could reroute the jammer to effectively hamper the mortal’s vox-channels.

Mentor Konrad, rapidly firing into the nearest cluster of mortals, turned his attention to the neophyte as he began to swiftly battle sign to the leader of their squad. Although distressed that his neophytes could be used otherwise, the Mentor understood the vital tool that restored communication could bring regardless of their adaptability against it. The Astartes rushed forward to Lieutenant Radogan, who operated the machinery of the voidshield generator formerly under mortal control. The neophyte couldn’t understand the words passed between the two; however, the commander of their cohort simply nodded before firing a burst of plasmic spray off the right flank of the generator.

No communication was required for the neophytes to burst from their cover in a mad dash across the street. The Anvil of Unbreakable Steel had maneuvered far forward from their conglomerate of legionnaires, unleashing death on a pair of rebel battle tanks that sought tactical supremacy. Similarly, Sophras’ Incinerator squad had already pushed the boundaries of the left flank with mortar launched plasma globs arching into newly arrived enemy reinforcements. The sounds of agonizing death could be heard over the burst of flak cannons in the distance. It was a macabre musical of burning glory.


The interior of the jamming station was a charnel house of melted mortal and heat-twisted machinery. A pair of neophytes remained outside while Konrad and Sol began the joint effort to will the Machine Spirit to their side. The smaller of the two rerouted power from beneath the mess of cogitators, while the other operated the only system with working runekeys. A blinking sigil flickered across the screen of the massive terminal, reactivating the auspex and twisting the allied individuals as hostile to the Machine Spirit within.

“Well done, Squad Konrad, vox-communication is restored and the mortals are in disarray. The Anvil of Unbreakable Spirit is reporting hull-damage, begin supporting the left flank. Friendly mortal auxilia have been reported. Watch your vectors but hold nothing back for these traitors.” The vox burst to life with the crackle of the ongoing battle. Lieutenant Radogan had broken the silence with an order and a compliment - one that, Sol felt, was rewarded directly to him. Konrad assisted the neophyte back to his feet from under the cogitator before heading back into Sarghall’s nighthold.

Radogan had spoken the truth as Neophyte Sol’s squad witnessed an enemy’s demolisher cannon explode into action. Luckily for the Anvil, a combined burst of superheated plasma stream rendered it into a puddle of metal and lava. Mentor Konrad burst forth with transhuman strength to support the land raider, followed shortly by the gaggle of neophytes toting plasma guns in their gauntleted hands. The squad managed to catch up to the Anvil, sliding into blasted plascrete before firing off a stream of trained superheated death into an advancing formation of mortals. Unfortunately, their lack of speed and precision allowed a single mortal to suicidally rush the Anvil with a melta-gun. A thermal jet of sub-atomic vapors blasted the treads of the land raider. The mortal threw the weapon to the ground, unsheathing the las-pistol strapped to his leg, and shot into his helmet.

The scream of Imperial engines trumpeted victory for the Steel Sentinels as vulcan cannons collapsed nearby tunnels linking the surrounding area to Radogan’s cohort. Some mortals did remain, but those that survived now swiftly egressed in the sole surviving taurox with their rebel commander. The allied auxilia that had survived attempted to assail the fleeing rebels to no avail. They survived, however, and that was the most surprising aspect to the neophyte. Mentor Konrad maneuvered away from their defensive position to reunite with the rest of the Cohort, while the nearby Incinerator squad inspected the Anvil for survivors.

The Lieutenant was silent as his company encircled the void shield generator next to him. Neophyte Sol felt that something was wrong as the Lieutenant stared at the ground, listening to some vox communication echoing through his helmet. He relished the thought of being privy to such information that could eternally shape a battlefield. Sol glanced at his Mentor for a moment to confirm his suspicions, but the Astartes didn’t seem to register that one of his neophytes was staring at him. A second sign that something was distracting the leadership of their company. Finally, the Lieutenant broke his silence when the Incinerator squad reunited with the rest of the legionnaires.

“Data logis confirmed the arrival of reinforcements from another section of the Seventh. Techmarine Ashral and Incinerator Squad Docles will be supporting our advance. Link auspex on arrival and adjust internal cogitators for IFFR. Neophytes, begin administering the Canticles for the Anvil of Unbreakable Steel. We will be taking the secondary wall, relieving the Eldest of their vigilance…” The Lieutenant trailed off as additional reports began to flood in through the vox. “... The Primarch has been wounded.” The words seemed to leave his lips without a proper filter of Steel Sentinel calmness. True to the XIX Legion’s stoicism, none of the present Astartes allowed the news to perturb them; however, the neophyte could feel a quiet anger arise from the cohort around him. It was a brooding silence, one filled with the unquenching embers of promethium fire.

“Lieutenant, we must-” To his surprise, Konrad was the first to start on the recently shared news. It seemed that himself and a few other Astartes had the same thoughts as they began to voice their protest to advance on the secondary wall. Lieutenant Radogan raised a hand as soon as they had begun to speak against their newly administered orders. The neophyte had watched from the beginning as their company’s first lieutenant had been clutching the pommel of his relic blade in contained rage.

“No. He is our Father, yes, but he is the Son of the Omnissiah and inheritor of the stars. He is the reason we are unbreakable. We will not fall to the depths of human irrationalism. No, we will pay back the enemy tenfold for the injustice on our Primarch’s life… Let them die upon unbreakable walls!” The Lieutenant raised his voice to the skies above Sarghall, choked with defiance and controlled anger. The Astartes, neophytes included, slammed their fists against their chestplate in resonance with the utterance of their Legion warcry.

“Hold until the Eagle’s death!” Neophyte Sol shouted alongside the rest of his brethren of the Seventh Company. The end of their warcry was drowned out by the arrival of the reinforcements to their cohort. He knew from that moment forward that all the experiences leading up to this fight had been justified. His anger, his excitement, and his calmness had been the tenets that made him an Astartes. His lungs ached from screaming aloud the warcry, but it was an ache that was well desired. This was their first victory, one of many to come in the subjugation of Sarghall.

Section 2

Section II: Call of the Eldest

Lieutenant Radogan, leader of the First Cohort of the Seventh Company, felt the anger ebbing throughout the journey to their next task. He turned his attention to the arrival of their reinforcements, Techmarine Ashral and his Incinerators. Typical of the most fervent of the Omnissiah, Ashral had immediately begun work on the Anvil of Unbreakable Steel. The silence between the two of them was blissful in light of the most recent news from Legion Command. Only a simple nod from the Techmarine was given to him on their passing.
+’Lieutenant Radogan, incoming request from Seventh Company Captain Straisar. Reassignment of orders has been issued by Legion protocol Alpha-Zero-Zero-Five. The Eldest of the First Great Company are requesting relief at the Delta Sector Gate. Legion Command has designated this priority reassignment as Level Primus. The remainder of the Seventh Company will converge on Sector Delta. Requesting Confirmation.’+ The logis orated in Lingua Technis. There was only relief in duty fulfilled, Radogan thought. A blink from within his helmet confirmed the orders relayed through the Legion’s lobotomized serfs. +’Confirmation acquired - rerouting tactical interface and adjusting parameters. Conveying confirmation to appropriate levels.’+
The Astartes quickly moved from the void shield generator that operated as their impromptu outpost, gathering his cohort once more through private vox-channels to brother-mentors and sergeants of the incinerators. “We are being reassigned in accordance with Legion Command. Once Ashral finishes patching the Anvil, we shall proceed to these coordinates. Zero internal cogitators to interface with my own updated parameters.” The Lieutenant spoke with no manner of urgency, only monotone stoicism in face of new orders. Runes blinked across his crimson lenses, alerting him to data acquisition throughout the cohort. The remainder of his cohort had integrated with fresh orders from the noosphere.
“By the will of the Omnissiah, we shall waste no more time. The Anvil’s machine-spirit was extremely receptive to patchwork on it’s holy hide. Now, it calls for the blood of it’s enemies.” Techmarine Ashral spoke as he closed the distance between the Anvil and the Lieutenant. A trio of rotating lenses covered the right side of the Astartes’ helmet, while a thunderhammer was carefully held in a single gauntlet. A plethora of servo-arms snaked out from his powerpack, tasting the air as bionic serpents attached to Ashral. “No more time shall be wasted on the neophyte’s sub-par maintenance. Call for their embarkment, Lieutenant.”
Radogan felt no reason to refute Ashral, blinking a rune across his helmet to transmit cohort-wide. Words were unnecessary in processing simple orders, he thought, as the Sentinels began to clamber aboard the Impetuous Drive and the Anvil of Unbreakable Steel. Unfortunately, he and the Techmarine would have to walk to the Delta Sector gates. Luckily, the First and Second Incinerators would be keeping the duo company throughout their short journey. The cohort’s auspex chimed pleasingly as they began their movement.

The Seventh Company rumbled down the shattered rockrete alcoves of the Sarghallians, crumbling scorched carcasses beneath tread and greave. Darkness overtook the vast majority of their journey, but it would matter little due to the steel angels overhead. Storm Eagles, Thunderbolts, and Avengers careened in a winning battle for aerial supremacy, occasionally bursting lengths of armored columns in prismatic blooms. Astartes assigned to different companies, operating on separate orders, crossed paths with the cohort several times on the path to Delta Sector. No resistance was met between their initial battle and their assigned zone. Only death loomed over Sarghall’s sole citadel.
Radogan found the peacefully morbid atmosphere pleasant. The insurgents were dying in droves, Astartes were surviving most encounters, and the Seventh Company was successfully securing dozens of thoroughfares for the Legion. With luck, he thought, there would be a chance to move up to captain or commander of the Seventh. Those ambitious thoughts were put to rest as the fourth entrance in the secondary wall was located - Delta Sector. Before their operation began, the Steel Sentinel could hear the sounds of battle as his internal auspex chimed with foe identities.
+’Anvil, Impetuous. Secure the length of the gateway, rapid deployment 60 meters into the zone. Ashral, Squad Sophras, Squad Docles, with me!’+ Private, cohort-wide vox was sufficient enough to organize their initial assault. Already, his visor picked apart the insurrectionists' fortified positions with lightning quickness. Three rising levels, bisected by a leviathan stairway, hosted hundreds of the carapace-clad traitors. Two trios of heavy weapons anticipated the arrival of reinforcements atop ramshackle watch towers. A single, fat-bellied tank idled on the second level behind a mess of promethium-fed pipes.
“Hold nothing back, Sons of Vion! For the Emperor! For the Primarch!” Radogan spoke loudly through his vox-grill, both rallying his cohort and demoralizing the rebels of Sarghall in a single roar. The land raider’s horns blared with the warcry of the XIX. Their brazen assault garnished the attention of the insurrections immediately, their salvaged weaponry turning on the Seventh Company. First and Second Incinerator squads swiftly torn the Aegis shields from the Anvil, fortifying their position within seconds of their arrival.

Their taunting in the form of the Primarch’s warcry paid off. Lasguns, autocannons, and lascannons burst to life with the rage of a thousand mortals. Columns of conscripts abruptly halted their forward advance to the central fortress to combat the newly arrived Sentinels. Orders, despite their lack of formal organization, were relayed on a mass assault for the Seventh Company. Meanwhile, squads of veterans were dealing with a single contingent of armored titans. The melted corpses of their rebel brothers still smoldered as they rushed the terminators.
The Eldest, despite fighting for weeks, stood as a solid bulwark against the tide of human scum that screamed death at them. A pair of twin terminators clad in cataphractii plating held enormous storm shields emblazoned with the cog and spear of the Steel Sentinels. Another bore a heavy plasma cannon attached to his left arm, while the other totted a threatening powerfist ready to strike. Another grimly shot his plasma blaster at the nearest cluster of conscripts in defiance. The last held a mastercrafted power sword with a plasma blaster, his plumed helmet assigning targets to his fellow Eldest.
+’Honored Eldest Vortigern, planet-wide auspex confirms the arrival of Seventh Company in Delta Sector. Transferring company-encrypted data packets. Patching vox-traffic from the Seventh through.’+ Vortigern listened as his plasma blaster disintegrated a column of rebels in a burst of superheated death. No answer was required for the data logis. His display was updated with nearby data clusters filing with the relevant information pertaining to the Seventh Company.
“Then we are to be relieved by the short spears of the Fourth Chapter. Rally, Eldest! Primarch Usriel demands our attention!” Vortigern remarked with a half-smirk before roaring to the rest of the gathered terminators. Their carnage began as a single step, the first of which they had taken in a matter of weeks. The plasma cannon roaring to malevolent life, arcing a globe of searing white death into a pool of conscripts. The screams of the dying drowned the enemy’s vox in a tidal wave of doom. Plasma blaster reigned demise onto smaller, grouped cohorts of trained insurgents, their skeletons disintegrating as soon as plasma enveloped them. Thunderhammers crushed charging mortals under their artificer powerfields.
+’Lieutenant Radogan, do not keep your Eldest waiting, lest we kill the rest of the mortals for you. ’+ The Eldest chidded as the mastercrafted powersword pierced through a ring of the suicidal rebels. In truth, these mortals were felled with extreme prejudice compared to their initial arrival. Each death quenched tiny fragments of the thirst for vengeance. Every shot of his holy plasmic weapon was a cry of anger stolen from his throat. From this point forward, he thought, every step is certified doom in the form of the Primarch’s unbreakable wall.

An affirmative blink from Radogan acknowledged the Eldest’s command, his combi-plasma waylaying select targets from the immediate insurrectionists. Sergeant Sophras, the leader of the First Incinerator Squad, unleashed a torrent of plasmic fire in a wide barrage next to him. The rest of the Incinerators, with the exception of a single slain Sentinel, melted the heavy weapon’s watchtower. The lieutenant watched as it careened into a formation of conscripts directly behind it. His auspex pinged once more as the Anvil acknowledged an engine kill, while Ashral’s formation desperately fought a lengthy skirmish with a trio of rebel infantry.
+’Brother Deizan, will the Anvil to assist Ashral. Brother Kallak, push forward to the Eldest with the Impetuous Drive.’+ Radogan’s voice, hoarse as a carnosaur’s groan, bellowed through the cohort-wide vox. Crimson runes confirmed the orders through non-verbal affirmations. He bore witness to the fruit of his labor as the Anvil’s sponson-mounted twin lascannons pierced through a carved statue of an Astartes. Several red dots on his auspex disappeared in seconds as the land raider carved into ill-prepared insurgents.
+’Brother-Lieutenant, in-bound aerial assault!’+ The voice of Ashral burst through the vox. Radogan slammed his form into the Aegis shields, followed by the First Incinerator squad. Local auspex confirmed that their actions were mirrored by the Techmarine and his own Incinerators. A hijacked gunship sped overhead with its vulcan cannons spitting steel doom across the Seventh Company. Unfortunately for the rebels, the Aegis held itself as an unbreakable wall of steel against treachery. Their treason was answered in the form of the Anvil of Unbreakable Steel’s bellicose machine-spirit. In a fit of rage, the bulky warmachine swiveled in an arc to fire every weapon across its holy body.
The lieutenant granted himself a short smile as the gunship burst into superheated shrapnel, its broken body tossed into the western districts of Citadel Sarghall. As he ventured forward out of cover, Radogan slung plasma shots into the rebels hiding in the western flank’s Astartes statue. Squad Sophras echoed, streams of white-blue actively melting the sculpted marble in a torrent of heat. Only when the auspex pinged new signals to their flank did the cohort’s commander turn his attention away from the frontline.
+’Lieutenant, we have xenos behind our lines. Two of the Incinerators have been laid low, requesting further assistance. They are Eldar.’+ The monotone voice of the Techmarine once again broke through the vox. Hatred built up in his veins at the appearance of Eldar on the battlefield. The relic blade pulsed within his gauntlet as adrenaline cocktails filtered through his veins. His body was puppetted by his emotions at that moment, the MKII power armored legs kicking into overdrive. Radogan felt the presence of Sophras’ squad following him to fight the aliens.

Slivers of wraithbone in the form of twirling shurikens stabbed into the back of an Incinerator, pushing the Astartes to a knee under the cover of the Aegis. Radogan watched as Ashral unleashed a bellow of flame, igniting the air between himself and the xenos in a short counteroffensive. Pockets of scorched plasma designated a cluster of containers as the residence of the enemy. Lieutenant Radogan could feel the presence of the Eldar.
“Cowards! Reveal yourself, xenos! Must your decrepit race hide from the superior strength of humanity? Is your entire race as cowardly as the ones that assaulted the innocent worlds of the men and women of the Imperium? I am Lieutenant Radogan, son of the Primarch Usriel, and Sentinel of the XIX Legion! Fight me in the name of my Primarch!” The lieutenant roared, tearing the plumed helmet from his face to stare out into the night air of Sarghall. Nothingness and silence greeted the cohort commander of the Seventh Company. He felt the savage wind of the valley against his exposed temple, the cool touch of his service studs flaring from temperature change. Piercing, blue eyes watched the stack of containers for any sign of movement.
As the Lieutenant cursed under his breath, the first of the Aeldari emerged from the shadows before him with a roaring, curved chainblade. Satisfaction filled his beating hearts as the combi-plasma unloaded on the dark-green figure with an automatic, trained reaction. Mag-locking the weapon to his thigh, Radogan swung the relic blade in a two-handed grip against the xenos. Ichor sprayed a violent torrent into Sarghall’s ozone-depleting air. The body slumped to the ground as it’s scorpion-motif helmet splattered against the broken rockrete road.
“Disgusting primitive! Abomination of mon’keigh technology! Dannan ana Khaine!” Another of the xenos burst forth, camouflaged by their arcane infiltration devices. Its chainblade roared to life in the moments before clashing with the Astartes. The lieutenant caught the edge of the Asuryani’s weapon, but he failed to parry it. Monofilament teeth drove up the flat of Radogan’s blade, shearing off his weapon’s guard and a pair of ceramite fingers. In retaliation, the legionnaire drove his right fist into the helmet of the Eldar. Rage, hatred, and adrenaline-fueled strength burst the alien’s head into crimson paste.
Radogan groaned as he hefted the relic blade, cleaving an area around him in a whirlwind of trained carnage. His efforts were rewarded as two more of the Aeldari fell to the sudden outlash of his relic blade. One xenos’ insides were torn from their chest, while another’s legs were dismembered from their body. Their cries of agonizing pain fueled the Sentinel to continue attacking. Only when his relic blade was caught by a chain weapon of similar size did the Astartes halt his carnage. An ornate warrior with a typhoon of green tassels caught his relic blade with a weapon of his own. He understood with grim certainty that this was their leader.
“You know nothing, mon’keigh. We have seen it. We have seen the future of your kind become monstrosities. Your kin will doom the galaxy. I will slay you, Radogan, and I will slay the rest of your allies. Know that it is an Exarch of the Mean Tokath that kills you today.” The voice was spoken with equal levels of eloquence, elegance, and eternal anger. Microbial needles pierced his face as the Aeldari leader screamed in a fit of rage. A firm power armored kick to the chest by Radogan forced the Exarch backwards, it’s strange armor crunched inwards. He felt his face burn in several places as the needles melted into thin rays of energy. No pain would halt his conquest, however, and the lieutenant rushed forward.
There would be no further conversation between himself and the powerful xenos as the relic blade slammed into the Exarch’s weaponry with the mighty force of a demigod. The shockwave of the powerfield against the monofilament cage sent the Asuryani flying further backwards. Only as the xenos rolled to their feet did they realize the folly of their assault. Radogan caught up to the alien to crack the helmet of the Exarch with a devastating headbutt. The Eldar’s bare face met Sarghall’s rockrete road, viciously bouncing off it in recoil to the attack. An Astartes’ fist met the recoiling alien with malevolent force, exploding the xenos-warrior’s skull into skeletal fragments.
Exhaustion left the Lieutenant’s body in a breath of relieved air. Vengeance had been wrought for the Primarch. Radogan removed himself from the charnel house of eviscerated Aeldari bodies to collect his plumed MKII helmet. Instead, Ashral held out the helmet of the cohort’s commander in his martian red gauntlets. A look of appreciation crossed his face before claiming the helmet and placing it over his scarred head. The environmental seal hissed with acceptance as the tactical interface returned to his crimson lenses.
“Well fought, Lieutenant. Your martial prowess is suitable for your role; however, you’ve missed the rest of the conflict. First Squad Konrad has captured the renegade commander and reunited with the Eldest.” Ashral spoke with words woven between High Gothic and Lingua-Technis. Radogan suddenly felt remarkable shame at his battlelust. The lieutenant simply shook his head in disappointment, moving away from the Techmarine to link up with the Eldest.

The cohort’s commander led the rest of the Sentinels up the leviathan stairs, mostly flattened by the Anvil’s tread, to the throng of Astartes at the middle. Brother-Mentor Konrad, along with his neophytes, encircled a cowering mortal with several embellishments across their uniform. Opposite of Konrad, the Impetuous Drive horribly idled with an exposed hole in its forward hull. A pair of neophytes, Sol and Dorrev, worked on patching the Rhino with spirits fervent in the Omnissiah. That was, until Ashral pushed them aside to operate on the holy hull with his servo-arms. An entourage of the Eldest caught his attention as they clambered down the steps from Delta Sector’s enormous gate.
“You’ve had a good thrashing, short-spear. Straisar spoke the truth about you during the assembly.” The Honored Eldest, Vortigern, spoke aloud as he approached. Ceremony was never the strong suit of the XIX Legion, but respect was given where it was earned. Radogan offered the sign of the cog over his breastplate, to which Vortigern returned in earnest. “What will you do with this milkling, then?”
“Legion Command wanted the traitor commander alive, otherwise I’d slay him where he stood.” The lieutenant spoke with finality in his voice, his command was taken as quickly as it was spoken. Brother-Mentor Konrad’s neophytes battened the mortal into unconsciousness before restraining him with equipment from the Impetuous Drive. “Honored Vortigern, give our Father my regards when you return to his sides. I would be grateful if he knew that I slew a celebrated Eldar warrior today in his honor.”
It was a selfish request. A request that was granted by a simple nod from the Eldest. “He will know, Radogan, if the Omnissiah wills it. In return, I will be taking the Impetuous Drive for myself. We’ve been tasked with a surgical strike in Zeta Sector and Legion Command refuses redeployment via Storm Eagle.” Vortigern spoke with a level of assurity in his voice. The lieutenant held no qualms for the loss of their rhino, thus he watched the Eldest and Ashral argue over its reassignment.
+’Legion Command, this is Lieutenant Radogan of the Seventh Company. The Eldest at Delta Sector have been relieved. Holding position until further reassignment.’+ Radogan voxed to his hierarchy. Several moments passed by as data logis failed to reconfirm his assignment. +’Legion Command, this is-’+
+’Redistributing force organization per Legion Protocol code Alpha-One-One-Alpha. Reassignment processing… FAILED. Recalibrating force organizational flow per Legion Protocol code Bravo-One-One-Alpha. Vox communication interrupted… patching to Fourth Chapter Commander Atilus.’+ He felt both of his hearts drop in confusion as the data logis failed to confirm Seventh Company organizational protocol networks. Calmly, Radogan accessed the local noosphere in an attempt to open planet-wide data packets in swift quantities. His investigation was halted prematurely as a private vox channel was opened between one of the Chapter Commanders of Steel Sentinels.
+’Radogan. Omnissiah be praised. This will be unceremonious as the Legion is in crisis currently. Seventh Company will hold position at Delta Sector… under your command. Seventh Company Captain Straisar has fallen in battle. Legion protocol dictates that the First Company Lieutenant inherits command of the company mid-campaign. Straisar picked you as the First Lieutenant of the Seventh Company. Bear his legacy until Sarghall is returned to Imperial compliance. Until the Eagle’s death, Captain Radogan.’+ The hard-edged voice of Commander Atilus boomed through the vox, no hint of emotion on his lips. The vox was cut immediately after the appointment. Radogan felt motes of dread building within his hearts at the Chapter Commander’s words. He closed his eyes to muster every ounce of courage into his spirit. He felt the guidance of Straisar’s hand press on his shoulder plate. His rage bubbled under the surface of his demeanor. “Until the Eagle’s death…”

Section 3

Section III: Unbreakable Steel


Neophyte Sol began his work in earnest as the last traitor was executed by the hands of his mentor, Konrad. His gauntleted hands reassembling the aegis across different points of the citadel’s entrance. He, personally, led the setting of the aegis with valor in his heart. The rest of his squad remained busy helping himself and setting tanglewire in advantageous spots. The mood of the company, however, was grim, as their lieutenant was preemptively promoted to captain. The mentors, sergeants, and consuls had gathered to speak on their newest orders. He was not privy to the conversations being spoken, but he desperately wanted to understand the full grasp of the situation.
The clamber of armored footsteps drew the attention of the closest neophyte, their hands busy with attending several additional aegis lines. More Steel Sentinels had arrived, trailed by a small horde of their fellow initiates toting hefty plasma guns. At the vanguard of the arrivals were five warriors decorated in the tapestries of veterans, shouldered cloaks dropped over their shoulders and torn tabards bearing the insignia of the Nineteenth Legion. With the exception of the leading Astartes, each bore the scabbard of a power sword and held aloft an ornate combi-plasma. A plumed MK III helmeted individual openly walked with their power axe and combi-plasma. The newcomers halted before the newly minted Captain of the Seventh Company, never once regarding Neophyte Sol and his squad.
“Sergeant Antarr, former squad leader to Straisar’s command squad. I bring with me the remnants of the Seventh Company. Under Legion Protocol, we are at your service as Command Squad Radogan and Sentinel Squad Matorres.” Antarr spoke, his filtered voice belied no hint of emotion in regards to the news. Sol carefully listened as he plopped the last short pieced segment of the aegis at the edge of the top-level stairs. The captain gave a short nod before their voice went silent as they switched to private-vox. A short moment later, the impoverished war council was dismissed.
His mentor strided over with an unknowable look beneath his helmet, but Sol understood that something grievous was coming. The neophyte’s crimson lenses were momentarily blinded as a cache of information was dispatched across the squad. New information regarding their current status, their orders, and the priorities of the Seventh Company. He felt his chest beat with excitement. Their orders were to hold the Delta Sector gate, to be a wall of unbreakable steel.
“Don’t act too giddy, neophyte, we’ll be here for an impressive amount of time as Sarghall is brought back into total compliance.” Konrad lectured as if he had already anticipated Sol’s emotions. The mentor allowed it, however, as the neophyte had long proven himself in this theater of battle. It was already recorded, after all, that the remaining initiates had proven their worth to become Astartes. A small smile played across his lips at the thought of his neophytes being recognized for full brotherhood.
“We are on the defense, Brother-Mentor, an honorable duty for us!” Sol spoke with no restraint, readying himself for another lecture. It never came as Konrad moved past him towards the middle-level of the stairs. He followed after the mentor with his plasma gun ready for the next task. The rest of his brethren, including his mentor, stood just past the slagged form of an Astartes statue. One of the longer aegis lines stood defensively with it’s refractor-fields aimed outward towards the tertiary walls. The tabard wreathed form of their teacher gathered them around.
“My neophytes, my future-brothers, we will now stand vigil over this gate as the Eldest once did. In this duty, you shall be an unbreakable wall of steel against the last vestiges of resistance. Begin your canticles as we wait for the enemy. We will be here until our duty is completed.” The brother-mentor spoke with a hint of reverence in his voice, beginning the canticles in the earnest as Sol and his fellow initiates took up defensive positions. Sol would stand as a silent, malevolent sentinel to forever perform his duties. This, he thought, I swear upon my life.

Captain Radogan gazed out at the destruction of Sarghall’s citadel from the top-level of the grounded stairs. The form of the olive-hued Land Raider idled on the middle-level, flanked by both of the Sentinel squads of Konrad and Nephitels. Sophras’ and Docles’ Incinerators overwatched on the towers that the renegades had once used against them. Antarr’s and Matorres’ squads remained on the upper-level with him. The neophytes had previously set up razorwire and aegis lines on his level, prompted by Sol in Konrad’s cohort.
The war for the sky had long passed as the eternal night had fully set in with the occasional Thunderhawk or Imperial Army lander passing overhead. Flashes of gunfire - either from lasguns, bolters, or aerial armaments - briefly lit the dark passages of the fortress before returning to penumbra. Every minute that passed saw the decay of resistance in the form of less nose. Every hour saw the departure of other legionnaires from Sarghall. Moment by moment, he felt his time on the dark world come to a close; however, he knew in his hearts that it wasn’t over yet. Radogan had felt that the xenos would show themselves again but he did not know when.
“How did he die?” Radogan calmly whispered through a private vox with Antarr. The grim helmet of his newest member turned to address him, remaining silent for only a moment longer as the legionnaire adjusted himself.
“Badly. The rebels caught us in a pincer between two armored columns, then divided our already limited forces with a bayonet charge in the middle. We slaughtered them all, eventually, but not before the rest of the company perished with Straisar.” The voice of the sergeant was without emotion, the perfect example of an Astartes. Radogan felt a pang of envy build up inside him.
“He didn’t expect to die, but he and many of the captains had prepared contingencies in case they perished.” Antarr finished speaking, cutting the private vox before the captain could further interrogate him. Radogan was left in perturbed silence as he waited for his arch-nemesis to eventually assault Delta Sector.
Three days passed in silence as their vigil stood. Three days of idle conversation in the form of status updates, routine maintenance, and Mechanicum canticles took place. The Sentinel squads swapped positions every day to stretch their limbs, perform patrols, and communicate findings.
On the third day, the vox burst to life in the helmet of Captain Radogan.
+’Legion Command to all field commanders. Be advised - greenskin presence has been observed within the tertiary wall. An eighty-seven percent possibility has been predicted that the secondary wall will encounter the orks. The Fifth Great Company has been designated Primus Purginatus for this scenario. Ave Imperator.’+ The automated tone of the Nineteenth Legions multifaceted logii blurted through the vox. Radogan felt a hint of paranoia at the sudden emergence of the outland greenskins that their neophytes had routinely purged. Why now? There are no coincidences. He thought to himself as orders began to fly from his lips.

On the dawn of the third day, Neophyte Sol watched as the entire company stirred to life with Mentor Konrad especially ready. His weapon of office, the power sword, was already unsheathed with his combi-plasma primed for firing. Information streamed across his lenses as he roused the machine spirit within his plasma gun. A greenskin horde was on a crash course with their cohort. He steeled himself from unnecessary thoughts as his holy weapon peeked through the aegis.
The xenos, however, did not batter themselves upon the aegis first. A chimera and a taurox thundered across the boulevard leading through to the tertiary wall. Both vehicles blared their horns as a dust cloud whipped up behind them. A second dust cloud followed them as well. Sol felt his finger hover over the trigger of the plasma gun as the general vox crackled with life.
+’Orks! Orks are following us! We formally request permission to enter the citadel. We will pay the penance that is due, we will stand beside you to fight, and we will offer our heads when all is done - but damn it, please let us through!’+ A human voice broke through the tense silence leading up to confrontation. Sol dared not reply, think, or consider the mortals. Only one voice could truly grant them salvation.
+’Denied. Stand and fight, mortals, or feel the wrath of the Nineteenth Legion upon your unwashed hides. ’+ The sound of Captain Radogan’s voice was rough as rockrete in regards to the rebels. The vox repeated the sounds of curses, sobs, and cries of refuge. All were ignored by the Steel Sentinels and it was reflected as Sol watched the duo of Imperial vehicles charge forward.
Their haste was answered by the rumbling machine next to him. Nearby, he could hear the loud canticles spoken in Lingua-Technis by Techmarine Ashral as the Anvil of Unbreakable Steel awoke. It spat death into the vehicles with a malevolent, stentorian roar of all it’s weapons. Neophyte Sol witnessed twin-linked lascannons, hunter killer missiles, plasma blaster, multi-melta, and the heavy bolter erupt in a cacophony of ballistics from the vehicle. He wasted no time, charging the plasma gun in his hands with the rest of his brethren.
The chimera exploded in a gout of great flames, surviving mortals jettisoned backwards out of the vehicle. The taurox slammed into the foot of the stairs as the plasma incinerators tore into the frontal armor of the personnel carrier. Similarly, its inhabitants quickly ejected from the rear compartment as it detonated in an uncontrollable inferno. A stench of seared flesh, vented promethium, and charred rubber wafted through Sarghall’s night air as the mortals composed themselves.
It would be too late as the rebels faced the first waves of the greenskin horde. Baleful whines, blaring firearms, and roaring warcries replaced all manners of noise as the feral orks charged onto the battlefield. Their bloated, muscle bound forms shot deadly, inaccurate munitions into the air while waving equally dangerous axes. Pelts of incomprehensible creatures clung to their figures as they rushed at the humans. A monstrous titan of an ork stood in the middle of the throng, while another held aloft a crude replica of a vexilla. Sol carefully counted their numbers and found them to be over a hundred compared to their forty-seven.
The neophyte watched in surprise as the mortals coalesced into a single squad, a pair of veterans acting as regimental leaders to deliver orders. Valiantly, they knelt and fought with lasgun and autogun. Their cries of defiance, regardless of who they uttered it against, howled through the citadel. Xenos flesh bashed into their armored forms, crude axes instantly dismembering mortal limbs and ramshackle pistols punching hollow craters in pale tissue. The rebels retaliated with combat knife, rifle butt, and balled hands in a desperate fight for life. Sol felt the defiance of these mortals against alien life, but he kept himself controlled.
Each rebel died to the hands of the Orks in various, brutal fashions that more resembled animal attacks than any other torture. The cadavers were treated as morsels to the pack of greenskins, their sinew and meat torn by jagged teeth. It was enough to push the Astartes over the edge for they had defiled the flesh of humanity. Globs of seething hatred scorched across the sky in great quantities, balls of plasma horrifically melting the xenos in dozens. Sol felt relief in alien death by holy plasma, the weapon automatically cooling itself in preparation for another salvo. Even as their flesh melted, the greenskin horde pushed on with grand screams of war. The battle had begun.

“It’s begun. Sergeant Antarr, ready your squad for we will let them die upon unbreakable walls.” The Seventh Company Captain spoke with venom creeping into his voice. His crimson lenses streamed with pertinent data as the first volley was unleashed onto the rebels, then the second onto the bestial horde of greenskins. A small part of him felt admiration for the last stand of the Sarghall’s insurrectionists; however, they were ultimately the reason the enemy got as far as they did. A thought opened the vox once more to Legion Command.
+’Seventh Company Captain Radogan to Legion Command. Requesting orbital ordinance drop on the tertiary location Delta-Zero-One-One-Alpha.’+ There was a moment of silence as the credentials relevant to an Astartes passed through the Legion’s logis. An affirmation in the form of a sequence of digits plastered to one side of his display, while a blinking red rune began to tick. Several seconds later the rune shifted to a green hue and the numbers zeroed.
A hammerblow cracked against the sky as a slug of improbable caliber parted the clouds in its descent. Promethium vaporized behind it as a rocket of retribution hurled towards the largest grouping of greenskins. The ordinance snapped against the cold earth of Sarghall, rupturing the rockrete road and fissuring the citadel in a single blow. An explosion of mass magnitude sucked in the air and bellowed it out in a mushroom cloud of subatomic particles. Alien flesh disintegrated in huge quantities, their abominable bodies torn from reality in a wave of atomic division; however, some still survived this onslaught. Greenskins crawled from the crater with extreme burns, torn limbs, and saturated extremities. Xenos' warcries shook their disgusting companions from their stupor and charged once more into the fray.
“Antarr. Remind me to suggest a full systematic purge of the feral orks in this system.” Radogan growled as he freed the relic blade from its ornate sheath. He was prepared to step down to join the slaughter when the air fizzled with electricity. His brain felt a nauseous pull as reality yawned under the yoke of a strange power . Sudden realization raced in his superhuman mind as a great, green bolt of lightning shot from the front of the battlefield to his area twice over. Immediately before him, cascades of greenskins appeared with war cries on their gnarled lips. A handful of the aliens had teleported into the razorwire, culling their life for their hubris. To the left of him, a towering monstrosity of meat and muscle loomed with a gargantuan axe held at the ready.
Captain Radogan acted immediately on instinct, the combi-plasma stretched out and firing without ceremony. The veterans behind him mimicked with their combi-plasmas cascading gouts of plasma against the beast’s hide. Sarghall’s night lit up with the azure corona of a dozen power weapons as they were unsheathed. The agonizing flare of corillian globs splashed nearby in a deadly crescendo. Matorres’ squad of neophytes had begun to engage the greenskins the moment they appeared with canticles on their lips.
“Oi, humie! You’z ghot a’ bone to pick with the ‘Reat Bonesmasha!” The barbaric titan spoke in a disgusting replication of Imperial Low Gothic. It only succeeded in a following salvo of bolter rounds exploding harmlessly against its chest. Radogan, with Antarr in tow, slowly began to march forwards with his weapon continuing to vent plasmic death in great quantities. The relic blade hungered for xenos flesh as the Captain stepped closer to the one named Bonesmasha.
“You’z approachin’ me, humie? Instead o’ runnin’ away? You’z lookin’ to get riot krumped!” A hideous, toothy grin plastered across the gob of the greenskin leviathan. Despite its kindreds wanton lust for destruction, it slowly began to approach the group of Astartes with a egotistical stride. The bestial greataxe scrapped across the citadel’s foundation, while the ramshackle barrels of its shoota remained silent against the ranged onslaught.
“Disgusting, monstrous xenos! I can’t kill you without stepping any closer. Fear me and die on my blade, abomination!” Captain Radogan warned the xenos before lunging into a clash of weapons with the savage boss. The relic blade ignited into an intense alabaster corona as the blade met the axe. The powerfield of the weapon erupted in an explosive shockwave as their weapons met, the warboss staggering backwards with the Steel Sentinel charging forward.
Antarr watched the new Captain descend into glorious melee as his squad approached with power swords raised. He directed his power axe to his immediate right, directing the rest of the veterans towards the beleaguered neophytes engaged in melee. No further orders required, the shoulder-cloaked Astartes burst into galloping sprints to assist the future warriors of their legion. Their intervention, however, came surprisingly late as several neophytes had already been slain by the orks. Rage filled every slash of their powered weapons, cutting durable greenskin sinew for every life that was lost. The sergeant rammed his pauldron into a larger greenskin - the nob - and swiped his powered axe across its gullet. A spray of thick, blistering blood cascaded out of the greenskin’s throat as the battle raged.
Meanwhile, the savage boss had shouldered an overhead strike from the Seventh Company Captain, swinging his shoota uselessly against the ceramite-clad warrior. In response, Radogan had emptied his combi-plasma’s magazine into the unarmored forearm of the alien, effectively dismembering the gargantuan in a splatter of tempestuous ichor. It howled in agony as the combination of bolt and plasma maimed its hardy body. The greenskin threw its head forward in a powerful headbutt, concaving the helmet of the Astartes in a sickening crunch.
Blood filled his lenses as the xenos beat into his skull with its own. Internal klaxons issued an alert of a ruptured head wound. Radogan ignored them as his ceramite boot kicked the savage backwards. Maglocking the bolter to his left leg, the Captain claimed his helmet and tore it off with ruthless speed. The ceramite headpiece was tossed to the side as he leapt into a diving strike, his relic blade aimed downwards with one hand and his other hand ready to clamp onto the beast.
Despite the musclebound titan’s best intentions, it wasn’t fully prepared for a lethal counterattack. The relic blade plunged into the xenos’ chest, sundering organs and sinew in a blaze of white corona. The powerfield was deactivated as it reached the depths of the greenskin’s body. The sword tore with insane, mundane strength through the ceramite-thick muscle out the left side of the savage. It screamed in a bestial roar of extraordinary pain and suffering. Bonesmasha’s final words would never come to fruition as an armored fist wailed into their skull in a flurry of rage.
As the savage warboss fell limp, Captain Radogan reactivated the relic blade to clean it of alien blood. Ichor sizzled as it was seared off its length; however, gore still clung to his left fist in wet clumps. His attention turned to Antarr’s squad as the combi-plasma was returned to his hand, a fresh magazine loaded to the hungry armament. Small trails of blood seeped from steadily recovering forehead wounds while he began to walk towards the extinguishing melee. The last ork on the top-level died to a flurry of stabs from a neophyte’s combat knife.
+’Captain Radogan! We have Eldar sighted on the lower-level!’+ The cohort-wide vox vocalized. Sergeant Sophras’ voice was heard across the vox followed by gouts of plasma echoing in the background. The captain needed no further information to begin sprinting down the steps towards the front of the battlefield. Antarr, along with his squad, struggled to match the gait of their leader as their armored legs lunged forward.

Neophyte Sol felt his blood in his skin as the frontline erupted into a volatile frenzy of carnage. To his right, his fellow neophytes led by Brother-Mentor Nephitels were butchered in totality. Techmarine Ashral had weaved into combat, the Omnissian thunderhammer detonating greenskins in flashes of gore. The mentor had wailed in rage and sorrow as the aspirants were slain wholesale. Plasma incinerators streamed intense beams of hot fury at xenos on lopping, enormous beasts akin to squigs. He had watched as one of the riders leapt onto the tower they were firing from before his attention was stolen to the left flank.
It was there that the object of hatred, forever built into the Steel Sentinels, were found as they flitted through the scorched ruins of the battlefield. Ethereal wraiths floated on invisible wings with pristine lances of alabaster material. Sol could do nothing as their armaments launched prismatic beams into Sergeant Sophras’ brethren. More forms coalesced from the shadows of Sarghall behind the wraiths with blue-hued armor and plumed helmets. A lithe figure cunningly darted among their numbers, carefully orchestrating their numbers with a brilliant staff topped by a triangle with an eye in the middle.
The neophyte wasn’t the only one to notice as Mentor Konrad automatically divvied targets between the greenskins and the arriving Eldar. Orbs of searing azure erupted from holy armaments to cascade against the remaining orks, sundering the last vestiges of their life in agonizing pain. Short bursts of precisely fired plasma ignited from among his own squad against the darting wraiths. Afterimages distracted their numbered projectiles, some hitting while a vast majority failed to sink the xenos. A few of his brethren had died to stray shots from the orks, significantly reducing their firepower but emboldening their determination.
A klaxon howled across Sarghall as the Anvil of Unbreakable Steel threatened to go berserk at the arrival of the Eldar. The land raider’s armaments with limited range slew the last of the greenskin’s lesser kin, while the longer reaching weapons sliced through wraith and warrior alike. Adamantine treads brought the bulwark backwards for an appropriate attack vector as a multitude of weapons roared death into the sky. Techmarine Ashral struggled to keep up with the leviathan machine as Nephitels lunged over the Aegis line to chase after the vexilla-bearing xenos.
Sol watched as the last ork was shot by Konrad’s combi-plasma before the left flank fully fell to the Eldar. Haunting giants with beautiful, ghastly axes burst forward from the nothingness to murder the last member of Sophras’ squad. The sergeant had died in a close-quarters volley of supercharged plasma, consuming himself and an umbral giant in death. His squad was quick to backpedal, adapting to the carnage with the swiftness of a hunting carnosaur; however, it wouldn’t be his or his fellow neophyte’s weapons that would lay the murderers low.
The enormous machine that was the vengeful spirit of the Anvil crushed promethium pipe underneath its tread. Twin-lascannons jettisoned searing oxygen vaporizing beams of las into the huge, ghastly warriors. Under assault from the land raider and his own squad, the bone-like giants died under a furious flurry of deadly energy. The neophyte watched as the tower was claimed by blue-hued xenos as their vanguard melted under Imperial rage. Their weapons spat miniature disks of shrapnel, slicing into the Anvil of Unbreakable Steel’s honored hull.
A silent order from Mentor Konrad divided the squad into two segments, one racing forward around the statue and the other reinforcing the land raider. Neophyte Sol was the first to race up beside the venerable machine, his plasma gun aligning with a wraith attempting to flank the Anvil. A short burst of his holy weapon disintegrated the hovering Eldar into a glob of seething energy. The rest of his combat squad discharged snap shots against the alien controlled tower. His eyes momentarily turned to the side as the Seventh Company Captain rushed onto his level of the battlefield.
None, however, would expect what came next as the Anvil of Unbreakable Steel tore rockrete beneath it in anticipation. The treads twisted over and over in a single spot before unleashing anxious wrath in a headlong charge. Eldar warriors had no chance to prepare for the charge. Cries from alien throats howled into the night as they desperately tried to kill the machine. Their attempts would fail as the land raider rammed into the plascrete tower, throwing alien bodies from their perch at high velocities. Beams of metallic foundation crumbled onto the furious vehicle, momentarily coating the nearby area in a thin cloud of dust and debris.
Neophyte Sol began to move forward with his squad before he was cut off by Captain Radogan, who held a decorated relic blade at the ready. A silent, direct order from the cohort commander held him in place as the events played out. He watched the captain calmly search through the bodies of the xenos with a deliberate gait. Seconds later, Techmarine Ashral appeared from Konrad’s side of the statue with his attention on the land raider. Sol’s attention snapped back to the captain as a feminine, alien cry was heard over the settling debris.
“Speak, alien dog, speak for the atrocities that you’ve committed today in your feeble attempt to cull Sarghall and the Primarch.” Radogan’s voice, unfiltered and unmasked, rang across the open area left by the Anvil. A combi-plasma remained maglocked to his left leg as his left gauntlet held aloft an Eldar in his grasp. Olive digits dug into the throat of the xenos as she squirmed in his grapple. It desperately reached for something, anything , but fell limp at the realization that their forces were dead.
“... Idiotic… mon’keigh… you don’t… understand… the consequences… you wrought. ” She blurted out beneath its lithe helmet, wet gasps of pain alerting the listeners that internal organs had been compromised. The captain simply shook his head as if he had heard the words spoken before. The hilt of the relic blade bashed into the Eldar helmet several times over until it shattered. A final, sickening crunch fell upon the unhelmeted xenos. Placid limbs momentarily shook before falling truly limp in the grasp of the Astartes. Sol watched as the Captain handed off the female to Mentor Konrad, realizing that the xenos wasn’t dead . He felt his body compel him forward to finish the fight, but he eased himself as Radogan walked past his form.
The battle for Sarghall was over.

+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Epilogue

Months later…
The interior of the thunderhawk rumbled with the rousing of its machine spirit. The passengers that had originally clotted its hull were sparse and few in comparison. Nephitel’s neophytes were gone, the lone Astartes left behind on Sarghall to attend the mass gathering of the dead with an apothecary. Sergeant Sophras’ and his incinerator brethren remained in the eternal night, butchered by the Eldar. Several of his comrades were gone in the last firefight. Lokus, Menurv, Dorrev, Iori. All were committed to Sol’s memory as he sat beside Mentor Konrad. Silence passed between them pregnant with the thoughts of fallen neophytes. Their idle conversation, neglecting their victory, spoke of the accolades awarded across the Seventh Company. No pity.
The journey back to the Fortress of Steel was short and filled with the heavy heart of many lost neophytes; however, those that had survived were critically acclaimed by their Mentors. Noddra, Penyl, Andrith, Jolken, and himself had been selected for full brotherhood upon the completion of the campaign. Sol had heard that Captain Radogan was going to earn terminator honors on his proper rise to lead the Seventh Company. The Anvil of Unbreakable Steel was to be enshrined as the personal vehicle of their company, anointed with new armaments by the magistrates of Vion 5. Techmarine Ashral was said to be given a permanent posting and consul status in the Fourth Great Company for their contributions. Sergeant Antarr and his veterans, by recommendation by Captain Radogan, were requested for training into the Eldest at the earliest possible date. No remorse.
In the grand halls of the Legion’s flagship, he had bowed his head before the Father of Steel to recite the many canticles of Mars. Mentor Konrad and Captain Radogan had formally requested his elevation to brotherhood, along with a recommendation from Ashral for a trip to Mars to become one of his own. Consecrated oils had bathed his robed, armored form before his Primarch. His achievements on Sarghall had been repeated to him by an Eldest, known as Vertigern, for which he claimed were truthful under oath. Only when the steel deity had requested it did Sol raise his gaze to the Lord of Vion 5. His eyes held reverence, but a steady hatred for the enemy that had laid them low on Atis. The hatred for the xenos honed into a sharp blade through his eyes. The primarch approved of the look in Sol’s eyes. No fear.
At the foot of an altar to the Omnissiah, he pressed his ceramite gauntlets together in a steeple and bowed his helmeted head towards the Cog. Soon, it had been said by the Primarch, he would travel to Mars to become one of the vaunted techmarines of the Legion. Now, however, he would quietly work in the forge under the tutoring gaze of Ashral. As he left the machine altar, he formed the sign of the cog with his hands and turned his attention to the techmarine behind him. On the surface, he was excited and beyond ready to properly serve the Legion; however, beneath the surface, he held an infinite inferno for the lives lost on Sarghall. The names of the dead enshrined as inscriptions on the gorget of his power armor. He would never forget Sarghall, never forgive the Eldar, and always remember fury he felt. As he walked to join Ashral in the forge, he quietly whispered within his mind. O’ Omnissiah, wrath rejoicing at bloody wars, fierce and untamed…

The Grim Crusade - A Warhammer 30000 RP

//Planet: Saghall
//Designation: Fortress World
//Governor: Delegatos Seighard Romulus
//Status: Open Rebellion (Class Alpharius)

After the trials and revelations spurred upon the conclusion of Nikea, Usriel had retired back to his normal duties of administrative work and logistics preparation needed to support future endeavors. Yet, just as he had plotted a course back to Vion 5, the Astra Telepathica had relayed a communicae from one of his ruling sons, Delegatos Seighard, that a rebellion had occurred on one of the Fortress worlds designed by the Nineteenth. The occurrence was far from uncommon, but what had warranted the attention from Usriel was the scale as the main citadel has been put to siege and remained unbreakable as redoubts and outposts become overrun. Their forces consisted of rogue Imperial Army forces, foolish mortals whose goals were beyond the Primarch, and normally such a force would be quashed quickly, but the suddenness and organization was beyond normal expectations. He had his theories for sure, but he decided it best to restrain his paranoia for whatever lurked within the shadows.

Usriel lowered himself over a map of the citadel, noting how the anti-air towers had been the first to fall and how the rebels had proceeded to establish footholds at all the entrances to the inner sanctum, cutting off the Astartes inside from most lines of resupply. Yet, the Ninteenth always had contingencies for such events and thus the forces that were stubbornly holding the inner sanctum had secret exits that allowed them to ferry in some much needed supplies, but not in mass as to not give those entrances away to prying eyes.

“The mortals are amassing on the southwestern wall, and I suspect that they will be attacking within the day,” Seighard spoke in a static-touched vox as Usriel continued to stare at the diagnostics of the fortress. There would be no massed landing, no organized breakout, only the fury and chaos of a drop landing. It would be hell but it was necessary for their retaking of the fortress. This he had concluded, the fortress was merely too hazardous to lay to siege and he did not have the numbers of Eiohsa’s daughters. Seighard’s voice came to bring Usriel back, “The defenses will repulse them, the Neophytes have been cutting bloody swathes down each attempted assault.”

Usriel looked to the anti-air towers, knowing that they would kill many of his sons before they could reach the ground. As many as possible would need to be retaken before the drop would commence, minimizing what casualties they would take during the upcoming conflict. The Primarch spoke to the Delegatos in a slow, deliberate tone, “I will be sending in the Eldest to retake the batteries, once they are down we will be dropping in force.”

“Father-“

“Once we have impacted you will lead the counterattack to retake the fortress,” Usriel finished, looking away from the diagnostics finally, his blue eyes wondering towards the glow of his plasma pistol. There was a moment of hesitation of him reaching for his weapon, the tool of the Emperor’s will. It was a brief moment of weakness as his face relaxed and his hand found its natural place on the grip of his pistol - nothing would stop him from his duty to the Emperor.

A lithe frame caught his attention, moving to his side and looking over the diagnostics of the fortress - forcing Usriel to quickly shut down the schematics so that no mortal may see the intricacies of his designs. He looked to the mortal and instantly recognized the form of Belloris, not that who the human was would have changed his reaction, but he did relax ever slightly and holstered his pistol. The serf studied the primarch for but a moment before her back straightened and she spoke, “I have arrayed the Auxilia for battle, my lord. I expected that you would want them to land outside of the fortress and cut off the traitor’s escape routes.”

“You would be correct, Belloris. I want you to give no quarter,” Usriel replied simply, moving past the mortal who turned to follow.

Belloris for her sake made sure to stay behind the Father of Sentinels, but still spoke openly, “Aye. No traitors will leave the perimeter and none shall enter.” Yet, Belloris would stop abruptly, looking at her lord with worried eyes - Usriel need not even look at her to know her gaze. All the same, he stopped so that she may speak, “I want you to be careful, lord. I fear that the head of these snakes is more insidious than we may believe.”

Usriel’s head turned slightly, the corner of his eye catching Belloris’ own purple eyes, yet there would be no assurances from the Primarch - only the absence of mortal emotion could be seen by her. She bowed her head in silence and allowed him his leave to prepare the terminators, the Eldest, for battle in the pit of vipers that the Sentinels were about to enter. The only thing that would remain in the room after he left was desire unrequited, for no mortal could sway Usriel - yet no other human would be worthy of his attention. Belloris knew that in his subtleness, she was the only one that could subdue his mind. As such, she brought herself to follow the Primarch out into the hallways of the ship, keeping close to him just as any well intentioned serf would.

“Will the Eldest require any support, my lord? I can have some drop troops sent to aid them,” Belloris asked after a long period of silence in their walk.

“No, they would only get in their way,” Usriel said simply, keeping his eyes trained forwards as they walked, evidently not wishing to continue any conversation with the woman.

Yet, she would continue to speak, this time in a playfully sarcastic tone, “Ah yes. Your sons are clearly able to do anything as long as they set their mind to it.”

Usriel shot a look to Belloris, a glare that made her silence her antics immediately - not even having to dignify her with a proper response to her words. She should have known better than to joke about the capabilities of the Sentinels, especially when one of his own fortresses lay half-fallen to the machinations of the traitors. Belloris looked down, not wanting to incur more of such attention from Usriel, clearly only wishing for him to confide in her as he would normally do. The two needn’t share any more words to know that the conversation between them was done.

---

The break of dawn had come in a tide of blue fire and the screams of death as the terminators descended upon the fortifications that they well knew. Men, traitors, had not been caught off guard by the sudden arrival of the Eldest as they teleported upon the anti-air batteries, but against the armor of contempt their weapons were useless as las-shot could do nought but be absorbed by shield or be deflected by armor indomitus. The wrath of the Sentinels came upon them in calculated and deliberate destruction, forcing the enemy back into the choke points of hallways in the walls of the outer and inner fortresses. However, the Terminators would not advance, instead content to hold their objectives rather than chase down their fleeing foes.

Yet, it still allowed drop pods to rain from the skies, a hail of steel landing into the thickets of the metallic fortress sounding the rise of the counterattack of those that remained in the fortress. Neophytes of all ages poured from the citadel, many sporting autoguns or bolters as they had not undertaken the rites to wield the temperamental choice of weapon the Sentinels were so keen upon using, fighting with a fury to prove themselves not just to their older kin but to the Primarch as his own drop pod landed amongst ranks of traitors and chattel. A giant amongst the mortal men, Usriel fired his plasma pistol into the hordes of men, each bolt the size of a plasma cannon shot. His fist ran through them, sending gore and viscera into the terrified men whose shots did not even connect with the demi-god - his psychic barrier refusing to let their pitiful shots grace his form.

His sons fought with a ferocity only beaten by the likes of the Serpents, their weapons firing until their barrels warped or their weapons ran too hot. No full-blooded Astartes had yet been felled by the traitors, though the neophytes - especially those who had not yet been versed in the tribulations of warfare - fared worse, their armor not of the same standard as their full-grown brothers. Their tenacity made up for it, overpowering their adversaries by following their teachers, chasing down those who fled and finishing those who could not escape the wrath of the Sentinels. The hallways were choked with bodies as Astartes made their way through the once adamant attackers, clearing them with the blessed blue light of their armaments. In a short amount of time, the coordinated counter attack had successfully pushed the traitors back from the inner walls to the next layer of defenses, reclaiming what equipment had been sealed in locked away supply caches for the defenders.

Usriel pressed the attack, pushing forwards in a wash of flame and blood - always in the thick of combat for no man could run fast enough through his halls to outpace him. No mortal man was bold enough to face their doom, only fear and death stalked those battlements as he outpaced even his honor guard. Despite the wanton killing, however, there was no emotion to be sensed from the father, calculating and meticulous death was the only thing that registered from him even as the vox spat out reports of the battle to him. He did not pay attention to where he was being led to, though, with only the liberation of the fortress on his mind as bones were crushed beneath his boot and bodies made to slag.

As he turned a corner, a heavy round slammed into his psychic shield, energy dissipating around him as he was forced to set a heel back to steady himself. With a grunt Usriel looked to see the plasma cannon of a tank pointed at him - a clever trap to try and kill him, but he was a Primarch, and such things would not lay him low. As a reflex, a single shot rang in response, a shot cascading directly into the barrel of the turret before detonating, sending an explosion rippling through the halls of the fuel cells to the weapon detonated. Usriel stared at the blue fire that clung the halls and began to walk through it, the warm embrace signaling the failure to such a pitiful trap. Yet still, had he not been more cautious then perhaps he would have met a grizzly wound for sure. He came to an intersection and looked between each path, he could hear more traitors down the leftmost but he still looked around.

As his eyes came to the path in front him, Usriel caught a glimpse of a form far too lithe to be human - thinner than his sons but nearly just as tall. The cold calculation turned into a rage as he took in the form, visions of his sons dying in front of him filled his mind as his hands clenched and his teeth gritted. Usriel knew what he what stared upon him, knowing that look even more so than any of the forces that he had commanded - save for his sons. With a grunt, Usriel began to sprint down the halls and at the same time the lithe form moved out of his sight, clearly running out of fear at the sight of the raging Primarch. No sign of life past him - no trace of traitors or other such forces could be found and even his vox had gone quiet. Even still, he pushed forward in a desperate hope to catch the elusive form and confirm his suspension.

The lithe form was certainly elusive, but the long hallways of the fortress did it no justice as the Primarch swiftly caught up. It became clearer and his suspicions were confirmed - aeldari scum crept through his very halls, a fact that brought no end of anger to Usriel. Yet, as the Primarch reached out to grasp at the alien, it made a sudden turn and disappeared into a small service crevice that he merely could not fit. In desperation, he pulled his plasma pistol and fired into the thin hallway, but the creature had already disappeared into the maze of service tunnels, nothing to show for his chase save for a few scorched walls and broken pipes. With a grunt Usriel, backed away from the service tunnel and looked ahead of him.

He had instantly known how and why this rebellion had been so organized and meticulous - the Aeldari had come to distract him. Had the announcement of the Craftworld siege been leaked so soon? Had a traitor been in their mists while the talks had gone on? No - there had only been Astartes in that room, there was no way that it had leaked to the Eldar already. The rebellion was a freak occurrence, just meant to destabilize him and kill more of his sons much like upon Atis. The thought of the massacre brought sadness to his mind, though he did not act upon it, instead marching forwards, still not noticing that his vox was completely silent. His mind continued to grasp at the Aeldari threat that loomed within the fortress’ halls - HIS halls, the very that raised his sons and forged them into Astartes. There was a distinct worry that began to form in his mind; had they come to kill off some of his progeny? To kill those that had been best selected to be compatible with his gene-seed?

His teeth grit as paranoid and conspiratorial thoughts clouded his vision, calculating all the possible routes that the service tunnel could lead to - none of them critical, luckily. It was still nerve wracking to the Primarch as he walked through the now mostly empty halls, only charred corpses and slag being the only thing to keep Usriel company. Then, static broke him from his stupor, broken words that were neigh unintelligible coming through his vox - forcing him back to attention. Usriel tried to piece it together, his mind working as much as any scribe in the Imperium - if not more - but nonetheless he did.

’Inner wall retaken. Father - no contact.’

It seemed that his overzealous nature had caused worry amongst his sons, but the fact that he had lost contact with them within his own fortress had made him curious. The Father of the Sentinels looked back to the path that he had been following, knowing now that scramblers had been deployed. He knew then that he had been being led away from the combat, away from his sons and singled out, but it seemed that he had moved too fast for them to be fully prepared. Usriel was tempted to chase down the aeldari still, tempted to purge them from his halls, but he knew better than to give in to his emotion. That is what had led to him being separated in the first place, yet, it provided him with an opportunity to find where the scum hid - for now he knew they were in the walls.

Usriel turned and began to walk down the bastion, hearing that his sons’ voices grew more distant and more muddled and only when they were silent did he stop. It was then that he would close his eyes and focus his mind, focusing the latent abilities that he rarely called upon - save for the psychic shield that he would raise. His mind’s eye looked and felt the touch of the scrambling spirit, noting how it isolated him in a haze that seemed more of a fog, and like a machine his soul traced it near perfectly. Usriel was attuned to the machine spirits, perhaps not like Augor was, but he was used to their presence given his upbringing on Vion 5. Then, the connection was found, his mind had become synchronized with the scrambler, and he could feel it far from his body. Now he knew where to go and so his boots began to move, stepping like a machine the Mechanicum would employ, his eyes unopened as he hunted for the device.

Another force began to impress itself on the connection, however, like a knife trying to saw through a cable - Usriel picking up his pace to light jog. The force was alien to him and much more refined than his own use of the psychic powers, sweat began to form on his face as he began to run through the halls as he struggled to maintain his connection. Yet, another suspicion was confirmed - that a warlock stalked his halls. No - the power was too strong to be a mere warlock, too refined to be able to battle his mind in such a fashion, he knew not the rank but he knew their position must have been important. Usriel knew he could not keep the connection for long, not even as he sprinted, but instead the primarch suddenly refocused his power and sought the connection to the xenos. The connection was formed briefly before a jolt of pain ran through both his and the aeldari mind, but for that brief moment he felt the tainted blood of the alien course through him.

It was then that he knew what he would be dealing with, ripping the name from the alien at the very least. Anger would creep through his being once more as his eyes shot open and he came to a sudden stop in front of a bulkhead, rage culminating as he began to snarl like a wild beast struck with bloodlust. He would mutter under his breath, the words like poison seeping through his mouth.

”Farseer.”

---

//Four Hours Ago
//House Ordinator Belloris Miniro

The hull of the retrofitted cargo ship cracked as they entered the upper atmosphere of the planet, sending chills down the spines of most of the mortal men that prepared themselves for what lurked below. The fortresses of Usriel were legendary to them, almost mythical, and knowing that their foe had breached it and thrown back the defenders caused much worry amongst their ranks. Yet, slumped over a seat was none other than one of the commanding liaisons, Belloris, injecting more than enough stimulants into her bloodstream to make even a Daughter of Iron be queasy. Another needle dropped to her side - none of the men questioned it - but she still remained sober and she looked to the medic, a desperate anger clear across her face, “Give me another.”

“Sorry, but I don’t have any more. Achilles has been tightening the noose on my supply,” the soldier said before fiddling through his pack, “All I have are things to keep you from overdosing, my lady.”

Ever since her tribulations upon Inrade, her body had been demanding further and further stimulations to keep her sane and it grew harder and harder by the day to even find something strong enough. She wished that she could have sampled the alcohol that the astartes of other legions used, knowing that it would have brought her a sweet release past recognition. Though her true high had always been merely being near Usriel, being at his side was the best drug that Belloris could have ever imagined - but being away from him meant she needed other sources. Other sources which are rapidly drying out, much to her chagrin.

The great Belloris now lurched there, sweating bullets as if she were some cadet who was just now heading into their first bout. It was a horrible feeling, and a grimace tainted her perfect features, her brow wrinkling out of disdain for her current condition. The sound of chaff released her from her focus, a swift dive followed and she quickly pulled herself into her seat, only barely saving herself as the ship brought itself out of its dive. Her instincts told her that the enemy had secured fighters or interceptors, their quality or make was one that she did not know nor could she see from the confines of the dropship.

Metal splintered and wailed and fire from an enemy craft hit them. Men were torn in viscera and bloody remains. Their blood stained all around them, including those who still lived after the brief hail. The soldier next to her cursed Usriel’s name for sending them off to another suicide mission, but an angered look from Belloris sent him back into a fearful silence as he clung to the straps of his seat. The ship lurched forwards as it slammed into the ground, not crashing but merely having been forced to land as quickly as it could to dispense the soldiers who now ran off the ramp and scattered into the plains surrounding the fortress. Belloris herself walked off, chainsword in hand and ready for a fight, but there was only silence save for the sounds of the dogfights that occurred far into the air. She revved her chainsword in mild disappointment, hoping the adrenaline of battle would have brought her mind back into the haze that was a high.

Instead she looked to the distant fortress, seeing a blue fire rise from the differing redoubts and bastions as the Sentinels fought hard to reclaim their fortress. Yet, Belloris felt disconnected from herself in a brief moment as familiar whispers gripped her mind - they urged her to fortress, to her love to protect him. She blinked and now she was at the very walls of the fortress, the visor of her helmet covered in blood and her chainsword twisted and bent as if it had been used against someone with too much armor. It was dusk now, she felt cold and she wanted to retch but her body refused to obey her sensations. Confusion wracked her brain only momentarily before a pair of arms wrapped around her shoulders and her own voice greeted her in a soothing coo, ”Go to him.”

She stepped forward, into the fortress and into more confusion. Each step did not feel as if it were her own, her vision blackened only to find herself by the corpses of traitors. For a moment, she could think clearly again - her own self began to shout to be free, to be in control. In the moment, she cried out for her friends and family that had long since died from old age, while she remained young and beautiful. Belloris wanted to drop to her knees and sob - anything to regain control of herself. However, she couldn’t, and so as quickly as her old mind had come, it had been silenced by whispers and promises of ecstasy. Another black out, more bodies, though these were laid out ornately as if they died in a beautiful ballet. She smiled at the calming sight of it and began to dance through the halls of the fortress, revving her sword.

Then, silence.

She could feel eyes upon her in the dark, a delicious gaze that yearned for her everlasting attention. Belloris allowed them to look upon perfection, for how could they not gaze upon magnificence that was only rivaled by the likes of Usriel. Their flavor was felt on her tongue, she could feel their very spirits looking upon their end and their new beginning. A delicious madness seeded itself in her mind as desire corrupted her form, a knowing glimpse into what was to be offered to her. It was far too tempting to ignore. Her head snapped to them, their form hidden by darkness yet shined so brightly to her; like a flame to a lonely moth.

“Poor lost lambs,” she said in a voice far more sadistic than would be her normal, though the figures now knew they had been noticed. As the sleek forms stepped from the shadows, a viscous smile grew across Belloris’ features as three aeldari made her relish her own existence. Ecstasy shot through her form and further whispers promised her far more if she would kill them. Her mind was aflame with haunting joy as she stepped towards the eldar before a singing taunt came from her lips, “Come now, let me show Usriel my undying affection as I arrange your corpses in a great ballad!”

Another voice joined them, responding to her taunt with cold calculation, “That beast holds no love for you, serpent. Any such delusions are but wool pulled over your eyes by beings beyond your own comprehension.” Her eyes snapped to the side as another Eldar revealed itself, this one adorned in robes more ornate than she could recognize. All it did was make him all the more delicious, but the disciplined aeldari did not move from their position, instead opting for a stand-off as they stared each other down. The robed one spoke again, the reserved nature of this eldar brought sickness to her clouded mind, “You are unwell human. I know not why my master believes you to be important for the future, but you reek of taint. I will do you a service and make this quick.”

The three warriors raised their pistols, stepping forwards in unison. Belloris was upon them in an instant, moving with a supernatural speed and bringing her sword through the neck of one. The other two panicked, one sprayed small needles at Belloris and missed while the other swiftly turned and raised a sword of unknown design. Her blade raised itself and caught the blade coming down upon her just as she upholstered her las pistol and shot into the one who had missed, sending enough las shots into him to ensure his death. Yet, her body seized. Electricity shot through her body as the robed aeldari jettisoned lightning through his hands- she screamed an inhuman wail as the energy coursed through her body.

The other Eldar took a moment of reprieve, swiftly plucking stones from the fallen before backing to the warlock. “A fair play human. Your corruption has -” he was cut off as a bright light erupted from Belloris hand - she had activated a blind grenade and sent chaff and a brief electromagnetic smoke into the room. The warlock raised his hands in surprise and ended his assault on the serf. It created an opening for her to suddenly rush the other warrior, who brought his blade up just in time to block the chainsword, but nothing could be done as she sprayed further laspistol shots into his torso. The warlock turned on his heel, activating his blade.

Belloris dodged under the strike, turning to thrust her own blade up but the warlock was quick to react in a swift movement. He turned to the defensive as she rushed after him, spaying shots that went into walls and slashes that caught not but air. The two locked blades for a moment and Belloris attempted once more to shoot him, but instead felt as her laspistol was wretched from her hand and thrown somewhere. Yet, in the opening she grabbed the warlock’s forearm with her now free hand and brought her legs around his neck. She moved like a serpent - her form coiling around the warlock and forcing him to the ground where she swiftly brought her hands around the aeldari’s throat.

Belloris squeezed with all her might as the aeldari struggled to get free, gasping for air and clawing at his predator’s face. She did not budge, and past her visor the warlock could see her maddened purple eyes contorted into a smile as sadistic laughter filled the air. He struggled and struggled, her head slammed into his helmet, cracking the visor open before a hand moved itself. It grasped the stone on his chest and threw it to the side. Tears came to his face as it began to turn purple. His vision began to not turn black, but violet as the laughter grew louder and louder in his skull. He could see Her and he fought with all his might to resist Her painful embrace. Yet, soon that was all he felt as his hands fell to his sides.

Laughter subsided as Belloris' form still remained haunched over the now dead warlock. She began to breathe heavily, exertion becoming apparent as he eventually fell to the side, allowing herself respite after the brief but tracking battle. The pain from the psychic energies was still present in her mind, but it was a feeling that made her high all the brighter as she basked in the afterglow of her murders. After a few minutes, she would get up, leaning against the cold wall of the fortress. Her eyes looked upon the corpses, she would make her previous promise come to fruition.

They would make great pieces for her ballad.

---

//Usriel Andredth
//Present

Heaving the bulkhead up, Usriel was greeted with a dark room only illuminated by the dim red lights of the emergency power. He stopped at the entrance, scanning over the large room filled with nothing but darkness, the Primarch, and presences that he scantly felt in the immaterium. Usriel knew this room and he knew to step lightly - only to step upon a pathway known only to the Sentinels. The red glow from his helmet scanned the room for the presence that he had felt, settling upon the center console where one of his sons would be guarding the room - and there laid the corpse of the guardian of this chamber. His form was slumped over the console, his power sword bloodied and embedded in the ground behind him.

Usriel knew that he had died intentionally over the console, stopping those who had come into the room from finding a crucial control. Yet, he could not focus on his fallen son and the precious items that he had died guarding. Instead, as he stepped to the central console, he gazed upon the form that he had registered in the warp.

“Usriel Andredth, Primarch of the Steel Sentinels. I bid thee welcome home,” came a hauntingly smooth voice that echoed in the otherwise silent room. The primarch would not respond, instead feeling the grip of his pistol in his hand - despite being hesitant to shoot in the room. The cackle of the energy field of his powerfist registered in his mind as he stared down the aedari that gazed back at him with the glowing green of a helmeted face. The aedari spoke once more, “It seems that what I have heard is true, you are a powerful beast. One hellbent on the destruction of my people.”

The nineteenth son did not respond once more, merely holding his position as the two continued to gaze upon each other, daring the other to make the first move. “Your progeny had held that position for a long while, he slew the humans we had sent to kill him and even some of those under my command had found themselves meeting fate trying to subdue him, before I had to kill him personally.”

Usriel turned his head and suddenly fired into the darkness. The blue flame of his shot illuminated the entirety of the room. An inhuman form as tall as himself reeled back as the plasma impacted its form, scorching its chest. They were upon him in a near instant as eight others charged his position - bringing to the sound of war to a peaceful room. Yet, the Primarch adeptly dodged the strikes, his prescience being enough to ensure his safety before a punch the abdomen sent one flying back. Shrapnel launched as the wraithbone form shattered, sparks impacting the metallic floor as it landed. Usriel fired another round, though this one narrowly missed its mark as the construct moved to the side.

The aeldari spoke more as the battle occurred, his vile words corrupting the sanctity of the room, “I foresaw you, Usriel. Much like how you long to protect your sons, I must protect my people, otherwise I will not have come here.”

With those words, Usriel began to see double, images of constructs that were not there entered his mind - strange images and patterns dulling his senses. Still he fought on, staying reliant upon his prescience to allow him to dodge and block the incoming attacks of the wraiths. One raised a cannon to fire upon him but he shot far before it had the chance to strike him. The construct’s head came off in an instant - nothing but slag where the head would have been. Usriel went to put up a barrier to block an incoming attack but where the weapon should have harmless bounced away, the axe swung towards him and he narrowly dodged by shifting his weight backwards. He cast a knowing gaze to the farseer.

Without another word the farseer’s hands moved, a cackling psychic field wrapping itself around Usriel before it began to rapidly close around him. The primarch held back the field with a combination of his own psychic abilities and his own strength. Then an axe embedded itself in his side, blood gushing from the newly found opening in his armor before another strike came down upon his shoulder. He dropped to a knee, swiftly bringing up his pistol again and shooting. The blue crashed with violet and the crushing orb erupted before Usriel wrapped his fist around one of the constructs heads and maneuvered it to block another incoming strike.

They fought in a blur, a battle of speed and focus as Usriel minimized damage to himself and the room while the farseer aided the wraiths. Soon a power blast sent the Primarch off of the central console and sprawled onto the open floor. One of the constructs leapt after him, bringing its axe down at the primarch in savage strike. Instinctively, Usriel rolled away and easily dodged the strike. Yet, the battle came to a standstill as a realization dawned upon him and crying filled the air. The cry of a toddler brought all the warriors to a halt. The small bunker that had held the child had been wrought open by the strike and fear had gripped it. The father of the sentinels felt his breath leave his body in the moment before he launched himself with a speed and savagery to match Nelchitl. His fist tore the construct in twain, his form standing protectively over the bunker.

In the first time of the bout, Usriel would speak, a protective anger seeping from his voice “Never again! There will never be another butchery of my sons!”

As the wraiths descended upon him, he would fight as a man possessed, dodging and striking with such ferocity that not even the farseer could truly keep up with the battle. All the farseer could truly do was focus on making sure to allow the constructs to properly operate, even as Usriel tore them apart. He knew the battle was no longer in his favor, the beast had been disturbed and the carefulness of the primarch had given way to anger and bloodlust. Yet, he looked to the entrance and saw the form of a human standing there. Reinforcements would be trickling to the battle and so the farseer knew it was time to retreat.

The primarch dodged a cannon shot, rushing the one that had fired and throwing it into another of the constructs. He kicked the knee in of another and gripped the head of one that dodged his own plasma shot - crushing it swiftly and letting it fall loudly to the ground. He looked to the farseer and there he saw the form of the aeldari locked in single combat with a familiar human form. Usriel knew it was Belloris by the build of her, even from just a glance, but she struck with a speed to match his sons and a gracefulness far more apparent than any aeldai movement. Not questioning it, Usriel focused on the remaining wraiths that surrounded him, the last four to threaten his sons.

In the brief opening, gravitic forces slammed into his side, tearing away more of his armor as the canons of one of the wraiths hit him. Usriel did not give them another opening, launching himself upon them as a rabid animal and dismantled them in a hail of plasma and strength. Exertion began to claim the demi-god, his mind having been exhausted from overuse of his own abilities. He fell to his knees, breathing deeply. The sounds of farseer’s struggles continued to resonate throughout the room but his focus went to the toddler, who had by now climbed out of the small bunker. A brief moment of calm would wash over the primarch as he brought the child into an embrace, making sure it was safe within his arms.

“My son,” he muttered, though he knew that the child had yet to even receive the first implant to become an astartes. Usriel did not care at the moment, instead allowing himself to show a rare weakness.

A sharp scream of fear from the farseer brought him back to his wits, it seemed that Belloris had managed to deal with the eldar. Instead he would gaze up to see her form slowly hobbling toward him, she would stand over the kneeling primarch and the child for the moment before falling onto him. Belloris' own exhaustion seeped into the Primarch, but they had achieved a victory.

“Usriel, I came as fast as I could,” she said softly.

“You abandoned your post,” he growled in response, though allowing his anger to melt away into a mere annoyance, “But, I will thank you for dealing with the Eldar.”

A smile would creep onto her face, the thanks of Usriel pleasing her beyond recognition and filling her to the brim with ecstasy. She would raise herself to her feet before letting out a soft coo to him, “I will get your honor guard, I doubt they are too far.”

“No,” Usriel responded, the eyes of his helmet meeting her now purple ones, “Stay.”

“As you wish, lord,” Belloris said, kneeling with the Primarch and embracing the child as well. She knew they would be found like this, like a mother and father soothing their scared child after a trying time. They would be seen as a family and the idea brought a far too hedonistic smile to her face. She would become the mother of the nineteenth, and maybe then Usriel would finally reciprocate her feelings.

They would be perfect.

Together.

Star Wars Saga Edition

I for one love Saga edition, probably my favorite way to play any form of Star Wars TTRPG

BLOOD & IRON: IMPERIAL AMBITION

Think I’ll try my hand, might be a small colony to a nation that’s a bit late to the game

The Ghosts of Napoleon

@Lauder

I'm sorry to say fam. As glad as I am to see a Poland I do have to say: but since you name dropped The Congress of Vienna and ended the Napoleonic Wars at 1815 and didn't continue the period on as if they weren't extended in this time-line, I'll have to ask you to look over the OP again and try again.

@Dinh AaronMk

You’ll have to forgive me, I didn’t precisely see the start date of the 8th coalition war. It won’t change my sheet too much, regardless.

The Ghosts of Napoleon

Kingdom of Poland

Name: The Kingdom of Poland

Leader: King Konstatin Pavlovich

Konstatin Pavlovich, a former Grand Duke of Russia, is the older brother to Tsar Nicholas I and had served in the Napoleonic Wars, fighting in Italy in the name of Russia in the War of the Second Coalition. Alexander I became Tsar after his father’s death in 1801 to which Konstatin served as Grand Duke, but abstained from politics in favor of his military life. This did not make him a military genius however, as Konstatin had been at some fault for Russian defeat in multiple battles despite distinguishing himself with bravery in many others.

After the the peace of Tilsit, he had been appointed as the Grand Viceroy of Poland by his brother, Tsar Alexander I. Yet upon the ascension of Nicholas I to the throne, the Decemberist uprising had occurred on December 26th, 1825 which tried to put Konstantin upon the Russian Throne, after having secretly renounced his claims to the throne. Yet, Konstantin would go to Tsar Nicholas I to prove himself loyal and refuse the throne openly, promising that he would never hold the Imperial Throne of Russia. Later, he would lead the Polish in the Russo-Turkish War of 1828-1829, fighting in the Balkan’s alongside his brother.

After the war, Konstatin Pavlovich was officially named King of Poland, granting the Polish state further autonomy from the Russian sphere of influence.

History:

The Congress Kingdom of Poland was created out of the Duchy of Warsaw, a French client state, at the Congress of Vienna in 1815 when the great powers reorganized Europe following the Napoleonic wars. The Kingdom was created from parts of the Polish territory that had been partitioned between Austria and Prussia which had been transformed into the Duchy of Warsaw by Napoleon Bonaparte in 1807. After Napoleon's 1812 defeat, the fate of the Duchy of Warsaw was dependent on Russia. Prussia insisted on the Duchy being completely eliminated; after Russian troops reached Paris in 1812, Tsar Alexander I intended to annex the Duchy and parts of Lithuanian lands which were historically in the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth. However, both Austria and the United Kingdom strongly disapproved of the idea, Austria issuing a memorandum on returning to the 1795 resolutions with support from the United Kingdom.

Yet, Konstantin Pavlovich would be dubbed as the de facto ruler of this semi-autonomous Polish state as the Grand Viceroy of Poland to which Konstantin had grown attached to over the years of rule. While not supporting Polish patriotic movements, Konstatin would support the creation of the Constitution of the Kingdom of Poland by Alexander I in 1815. Considered one of the most liberal constitutions of the time, it was never fully respected by the Russian Government. Tsar Alexander abandoned the freedom of the press and began censoring it, though Konstantin would stand against the Tsar in favor of respecting the constitution that Alexander had himself been a part of decreeing. This would make Konstantin popular with the Polish people as he would defend their freedoms, even if he had held no true attachment to the Kingdom of Poland.

After Alexander I’s death in 1825, Konstantin would secretly renounce his claims to the Russian throne in secret which fermented the Decembrist Uprising of 1825. This had temporarily strained the relationship between Nicholas I and Konstantin until the rise of the Turko-Russian War of 1828-1829 which saw the Polish Army, led by Konstantin, aid the Imperial Russian forces in the Balkans with a force of 20,000 soldiers. This cemented Konstantin’s loyalty to the Russian state and as Nicholas had not been formally crowned as King of Poland, Konstantin would be awarded the title in 1830.

King Konstantin would rule as a liberal king, respecting the constitution that had been put into place by Alexander I. However, it would become clear that the constitution was ambiguous, while liberal, would become manipulated, avoided, and violated by the government. It had revoked rights that had been given to the Polish Jews and peasants and the parliament, which was supposed to be called every two years, would have only been formed four times since 1815. The disregard of the constitution had led to discontent with the Polish peoples, leading to unrest and the formation of plots. The newly crowned king would call the parliament in 1831, but his lack of political experience led to no change as the liberal and conservative branches of the government would bicker.

This would be a recurring event every two years as Konstantin would try to enact reforms for Poland but the parliament simply would not act or, in some cases, ignore the king's wishes. In the year 1835, Konstantin would order a single reform that gave rights back to the Polish Jews, promising freedom of religion which staved off rebellion, but with little being done, unrest still carries into 1836, even while dissent within Russia itself grows into a crescendo.