Imperium Sundered: Crusade's End [40K/IC]

[Krugmar]

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Crusade's End

Weight of the Heavens

The Great Crusade, an unprecedented reconquest of the fallen human empire, is almost at an end. In just two centuries near the entire galaxy has been placed in the hands of the enigmatic Emperor of Mankind. But discontent brews at every level, and may threaten to tear the nascent empire apart.

The recent memory of Ullanor burns brightly for some Primarchs, while for others it fades quickly. One of their number has reluctantly emerged the Warmaster, delighting some, angering others. While they attempt to resume the Crusade, none suspect the tragedy and devastation that the fateful decision at Ullanor’s Triumph will unleash

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Star of the Waning Summer

It was difficult to read a Primarch, even for one who knew them very well. Ulysses had met quite a few, a perk of being a close companion to Atlas. They were all prone to solitude, hiding in their minds when they could not seclude themselves physically. He suspected it was a product of their extraordinary nature. They were immaterial beings trapped in a seemingly endless war. Had he not talked with Atlas deeply so often, he might never have understood this strange nature of theirs. If the Emperor had just wanted mere commanders to prosecute his war, why would he have created them? Such magnificent, yet flawed creatures.

He snapped out of his musings when he saw Atlas turn to meet his gaze for a second, a small smirk on his face. Ulysses returned it, before turning his attention to the rest of the room. It was rare for Atlas to call a gathering of both the Ekthroi and Philoi, his 'enemies' and 'friends'. Often he would consult them separately, the Ekthroi far more often, for they were the seven most trusted individuals in the legion. The Philoi were far more numerous, around thirty, usually consisting of the seniormost commanders

A heavy burden had been placed upon Atlas' shoulders. Ulysses could remember the moment it had happened, when the Emperor had called Atlas and the other Primarchs to attend him. The Ekthroi had accompanied him to the tent, and then milled around outside talking with some notables from other legions. All the chatter ceased when they saw the Emperor emerge, followed closely by Atlas and nine of his siblings. The Emperor raised Atlas' hand, conjoined with his own, and announced him as the new Warmaster. An acclimation quickly followed, at once by the Steel Men and Imperial Army present, and soon by the other legions as they looked warily to their Primarchs for permission.

It had been a strange day. The Triumph ended on a sour note for all. The Emperor retreated to Terra, confirming Atlas and the Ekthroi's worst fears, and Atlas became Warmaster, angering or disappointing some of his siblings.

A month had passed, one which the new Warmaster had spent in seclusion. His fears had been confirmed, and now he was to gauge the reaction of the Philoi.

"My sons, the Emperor has named me Warmaster and given control of the Crusade to me." Atlas said, with some of the Philoi grinning and hitting the table in excitement. They stopped quickly when they noticed Atlas' grim mood. "While some of my siblings may have seen this as a grand honour, or a recognition of their achievements, I do not view it in the same way. The Crusade is coming to a close, and the Emperor has made his move. My worst fears have now been confirmed."

The mood in the room was dour. While the Ekthroi knew what was to come, many of the Philoi were unaware, in part or whole, of the truth behind the Imperium.

"We are to be replaced, my sons, with mortals. The High Lords of Terra, aristocratic rats with no experience of the horrors of the galaxy, or the sacrifices we have made, will reign over us. First they will turn us on each other, create jealousy where they can. My creation as Warmaster is the first step. Already it will have set some of my siblings against me. I will be forced to mediate, reach compromises, which will inevitably stoke resentments against me, and between my siblings. Before long there will be fighting, civil war, and executions. One by one my siblings and their legions will be destroyed, until only a few are left. I suspect then the Custodes will be unleashed, and there will be no resistance." Atlas continued.

"I can not let that happen." He said, before whispering "I will not let it happen." He took a deep breath and continued, "We will not be betrayed like the Thunder Warriors. They were not slain to a man at Mt. Ararat, they were betrayed and slaughtered by the Custodes. Some escaped, enough to reveal the truth to me. I ask you my sons, do you want to be betrayed, and your betrayal warped into a sacrifice for the vainglory of one man?" He asked, receiving a chorus of 'No!' in return.

"Then I ask that you stand with me on a new crusade, one which will shake the very foundations of the Imperium. I will say it plainly: I plan to overthrow the Emperor of Mankind and liberate the Imperium. Rule of the Imperium belongs to the conquerors, not the conquered!" He announced.

The fist banging on the tables was joined by a chorus of 'We are with you!' and 'To the Conquerors!'. As expected the Philoi had chosen their Primarch over some distant Terran monarch.

It quietened down when Atlas raised his hand. "It will take some time to prepare. I will need to gauge my siblings' loyalties, and make use of my position to prepare assets, and loyalties of unknowns such as the Mechanicum. We will need allies and knowledge. I expect all of you to do your part in preparing your companies, weeding out any traitors, and steeling yourself for what is to come."

"I never wanted this, but he has betrayed not only his sons, but his loyal legionaries. Mankind has only one chance to prosper, but he will not seize it, so I will! So let it be war, from the skies of Terra to the Galactic Rim. Let the seas boil, let the stars fall. Though it takes the last drop of my blood, I will see the galaxy freed once more." He announced.

"And if we cannot save the galaxy from the Emperor's failure, then let the galaxy burn!"

[Lunas Legion]

Fareyenehyte

It should have been her.

The words echoed around Hesta Khelena's mind, a whisper on the wind, never quite banished from her thoughts despite how much she tried to avoid thinking them.

It should have been her.

It was not a poor choice, not by any means. She could not find fault with the Emperor's choice of Atlas. He was a good choice for the role, measured, calm, strategic, able to balance their more... Esoteric and barbaric siblings in equal measure. She would not relish that part of the task whatsoever. But that didn't stop it galling deep down within her mind that it should've been her, not him, clutching the Emperor's hand raised skywards.

It should have been her.

"It should have been you." Sevatar said, announcing himself and smacking the butt of his chainglaive against the floor of the observation deck.

"You find fault with the Emperor's decision, then, my son?" Hesta did not turn, instead watching the vast expanse of space in front of her through the window.

"I find fault with many of his decisions. No commander abandons his men on the eve of triumph." Sevatar said. "Atlas will do the task set before him. But it is not his calling. It does not come to him naturally. Not like it would to you."

"Or like murder does to you." Hesta said, placing her hands together. "We all have our natural gifts."

"What can I say, I was raised poorly." Sevatar shrugged dismissively. "And why this close to the end? Why not see it through? It is like abandoning a corpse before skinning it."

"I am sure He has his reasons." Hesta shook her head. "But you never come here without two other reasons. I know you dislike talking. It makes your words matter more, their absence."

"Mawdrym has been flaying non-believers, again." Sevatar said, eliciting a long-suffering sigh from Hesta.

"Does he truly find it so difficult to not flay people alive and then donate them to companies to crucify and hang on banners?" She turned around, looking down at Sevatar. "If he were not so exempilary an Apothecary, one would have had him placed on one of those banners you Nostramans are so fond of having."

"They are a sign of both our own devotion and of the fate that awaits our enemies."

"And they are a barbaric practice I reluctantly allow for their effectiveness and that you would do them even if I banned them. Where is the Medicae-Primus, now?"

"Do you intend to merely chastise him, again, or deal with the problem more permanently?"

"I will issue punishment as I see fit."

"Then I don't know where he is. Another ship, most likely, headed for one of our recruitment worlds. Inspections on the Inductii are due."

"Are you defying your Primarch, Sevatar?"

"I have erased my memory of where he is psychically."

"Truly, you are an infuriating Equerry and Lictor. Does Skraivok know our destination, at least?"

"We return to the Dominion. Zso and Thracius eagerly await your return. There are rumours of a Shadow-Forge among the Ghoul Stars again from some of the Heralds, and the Mechanicus are preparing to move to hunt it down once more in case the legends of Crucible-Omega prove to be true."

"If it exists." Hesta said doubtfully. "It's a legend, after all, and I put no stock in such. And the Warmaster may have other uses for us yet."

The Great Crusade had led to no shortage of chases after non-existent myths and legends, after all. And where the Emperor had been relatively lax in letting the Primarchs choose their own areas of operation, Hesta had no doubt that Atlas would not. It did not seem to be in his nature. But he was able, and so she would trust his judgement. Insubordination would be dishonourable and petty and disgraceful.

[Krugmar]

Ophidian Vow
Khoreum System

"Until the vanguard confirms there's no planetside threat my ship will not be getting any closer to Khoreum IV." Spoke the captain of the Ophidian Vow. She cut a fearsome figure, a prominent scar down her right eye uncovered by her dark hair. Her green eyes pierced the soul of any unfortunate enough to meet her gaze. A white uniform, once pristine but now undone by years of service, was marred by an giant oily black hand imprint at its centre.

The one she was arguing with was an equally menacing being. She was twice the size of the captain, with rusted ruddy hair and green eyes covered by a strange contraption of her own design. She was garbed in the navy blue military uniform favoured by Tzvarene admirals, of which she had been one before the Emperor had plucked her from that ravaged world and threw her into the stars.

She shrugged her shoulders, "Then sit here and rot, my vanguard will confirm the dead world is a blasted dead world, and you can then get into orbit." She said, before turning her attention to him. He had been standing nearby, shadowing his Primarch as always. "Kho." She said, striding away from the bridge. He followed her instantly.

"Always the theatrics with you two. Sarrin was right, as usual." He said glibly.

"Idiot." She replied, increasing her pace to one even he found difficult to keep up with. "Get the Death's Head ready, I want the Blighters down there too. Niqra, Vost, Bellegren, and Zail. Keep the other lances on standby. She ordered. He did not take notes, as erratic as she seemed to others, Kho knew her routine to a tee.

"The Blot?" He asked.

She gave him a look that need no answer.

"Essun?"

"Shouldn't have taken so damn long to arrive. We get the glory, she gets the guts." She replied. Kho found it hard to argue with that logic, whatever it was she meant. He looked up to realise his few seconds of pondering the meaning had left him alone, though he could still hear the thumping of her footsteps as she drew ever further.

In a few hours they'd be on the surface of Khoreum IV, to find the cause of the distress signal which had been blasting into space for centuries. Whatever had sent it was likely long dead by now.

---

Khoreum IV

As expected there had been no defensive systems to greet them. Vost was unsure why Sarrin had been so reluctant to park closer. Yes, she had a love for the integrity of her ship, but like Ekkehart the chance for a fight was something she relished.

A voice came through his vox, "Ship on ship might get her going, but shooting blindly into a planet isn't really her thing." Came Niqra's booming voice. Vost had been unaware he had been thinking out loud, and cursed himself silently. He ignored Niqra's reply and turned his attention back to his troops.

They were drifting along what had once presumably been a highway, illuminated only by faint lights here and there. Even if the world was dead, its systems had continued humming along. Hopefully that was all that was still alive in the darkness.

"Why are we here? This place is dead, and we didn't make it that way. Which is what we're usually called in to do." Came Bellegren. Vost absent mindedly nodded his head, it was unusual.

"The Mechanicum wants it checked out, could have some STCs. From the looks of it's a Forge World. Though one of them was telling me it's not on their records. Maybe went dark even before Old Night?" Ventured Zail.

They carried on their chatter while Vost scanned the horizon. He saw no sign of the other Lances, nor of anything of note. The silence of the place was only drowned out by the raucous noise of his convoy, piercing its way through the suffocating darkness. Rotating lamps illuminated the darkness, highlighting decayed structures and great pillars reaching up into the heavens. Heavens which abruptly ended with a metallic surface, hiding the barren surface above.

His vehicle came to a sudden halt, almost throwing him off balance and down the ladder he was perching on. He quickly switched his vox, "Report." He said bluntly.

"Komitore, bodies spotted ahead. Unmoving, no signs of life. Zarak-Delta requesting permission to investigate." Came the voice of Tholim Kress, a Hevdin whose vehicle had been leading the convoy.

"Granted. Keep steady reports, I want to know what they are stat."

Without the convoy drowning it out, silence descended upon them. It was eerie, and not something Vost appreciated. Even when deep in space upon the metal pieces of junk throwing them through the warp, there was always sound, chatter, the noise of the engines. Here there was nothing.

"Bodies are not entirely human, but not xenos. Scratch that, they are entirely metal. Some sort of machine, abominable intelligence by the looks of it." Said Kress.

Vost considered it for a moment. The Dark Ages had been a time of frightening ignorance, when mankind had created vile machines which sought to supplant them. Was this what had befallen Khoreum? Had they persisted in their heresy until it doomed them, where other worlds had discarded such ideas and become the Forge Worlds which now supplied the armoury of the Imperium?

"Are they dead?" He asked.

"They aren't moving. No lights. Some look pretty badly shot up, one of them is cut cleanly in half. They aren't clean though Komitore, looks like they'd been patching themselves up with scrap." Kress replied.

"Get back to your vehicle, we'll form a perimeter and let the Techmarines have a look at them. We'll await further orders from the Amrayl." He said. Usually his first instinct was to go in guns glazing, light the enemy up and overwhelm them with sheer force. But here there was no enemy to crush. At least not one he could see.

Who knew what gazed back at them from the darkness?

[Audunia]

Fort Maris, Seven-forty-three

The reports flooding back to him were not the most helpful means of gathering a full image of the battle on the planet's surface. Scattered descriptions and vague analyses written by mortals under considerable amounts of combat stress, whilst understandable, were not of great use as he had hoped them to be. He placed the most recent one down, it's overly flowery language entirely innapropriate when he had asked for clear and concise messages. A would be author, perhaps? Either way, he would inquire to the soldier's superior as to why it had arrived in such a way.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a strange sense of weariness pass over him. The sound of pneumatic doors open earned his attention, seeing one of his armoured sons step into the room. The red robe and golden chain immediately denoted his officer rank, whilst the symbol of a standing griffin on his left breast gave away his identity.

"Dyonisos" Melchior said, turning to face him with a relieved smile "I hope your words are more concise than those of our mortal allies". Despite wearing his helm, Melchior could almost sense the crooked smile that played on his lips.

"Of course, Grand Master" he replied, bowing before removing his helm. A shaved scalp, much the imitation of Melchior, seemed to glint in reflection of the sterile lights of the grey rockcrete room. Melchior instinctly brought his hand to his scalp, feeling the fresh growth of hair, whilst a short shadow had started to appear on his face.

"Well, do not keep me with bated breath"

"Apologies, Grand Master." Dynisos replied, resting his helm in the crook of his arm "The walls are holding firm, sir, the greenskins continue to throw themselves against it fruitlessly. Thirty of the defence turrets, however, have become impaired due to overheating"

"I had thought that may be the case, the report from Troop Master Akhelion of the 32nd Offaly Carabiners seemed to imply such a thing. But he could not divine the reason for it. Overheating, though...are you certain?"

"I am, Grand Master" Melchior nodded, frowning slightly. The Mechanicum had assured him the turrets were capable of firing continuously for several hours without risk, but it appeared he had been assured of a falsehood. He made a note to inquire who had set them up after the battle, see if the fault could be found elsewhere.

"That is unfortunate, have some of the 2nd Reserve Squad reinforce positions in which the turrets have broken, we cannot leave the mortals to fight alone like that. I have no doubt of their will, but the capabilities may not be enough"

"It will be done, Grand Master" Dyonisos replied. Melchior returned to his reports. Signals from fleet indicated accurate and sustained fire had succeeded in funneling the greenskins towards their location, but rogue branches of the Waaagh! had attacked a number of cities. Fortifications, lesser than that of Fort Maris but formidable nonetheless, had engaged with a number of the foe. However, it appeared greenskin vessels had also joined the fray, leading to bombardment being retasked as secondary priority. The greenskins alwys proved to be an easy mob to sway, they found a good fight irresitable so present them an immovable object of pure firepower, they would happily throw themselves at it so long as they could fight. He found it slightly funny that the irresitable nature of a fight for the greenskins reminded him of a few sons of his siblings.

He looked at the hololith image of the fort, two star shaped walls surrounded an impressive battlement. Small flashes indicated contact with the enemy or weakening positions. Combined with the reports, it gave one a fuller impression of the battle that lay before him. A number of aircraft silently screamed through the air before dropping their payload. He felt the earth shake moments before the display indicated succesful detonations. It was like watching life unfolded, only slightly delayed.

He frowned slightly, his eyes tracking the numbers. Casualty rates were reaching dangerously close to exceeding replacement levels, a firm line that he had instituted, especially with so many fresh Astartes being blooded, it risked invalidating the many years of testing a careful implantation that his gene-seed necessitated. Something drastic had to be done to avoid crossing this line.

It took a few minutes before he realised Dyonisos had remained in the room. "You have something else to share?" he asked, his eyebrow raising in confusion. It was quite unlike Dyonisos to be quiet in this manner, especially with a battle that raged so close by.

"Yes, Grand Master" he produced a scroll of vellum from a leather pouch that clung to his hip, striding close to him. He dropped quickly, presenting the scroll. A surprisingly theatric display, one that could only indicate something regarding the Emperor had occured. Perhaps something truly unthinkable had occured at Ullanor, where so many of his siblings had assembled. He took the scroll, unfurling it with a gentleness the belied the sheer size of his hands. He read it cautiously, unfounded concerns playing in his head.

His eyesbrows raised. Atlas Monomakh, First Found Son, Primarch of the Steel Men, is, by order of the Emperor of Mankind, declared as Warmaster of the Great Crusade. He looked between the scroll and the kneeling Dyonisos, he head bowed unflincingly.

He rose from his seat, leaving the scroll unfurled on the table. The Emperor had departed? Truly? He found it difficult, impossible even, to imagine that the being that had found him and brought him into this Great Crusade. One whose divinity he was so certain he was close to understanding and confirming, would simply depart the greatest undertaking ever seen by mankind. For what purpose? Why would he not share it with his children? Perhaps He had begun to accept His divinity, to work on it in privacy? He handed the scroll to Dyonisos.

"Bring this to the Parisots, let them divine the true reasons for my father's departure" he ordered, Dyonisos bowing his head sharply, however Melchior bade him wait a moment before leaving "Alert the fleet that the battle on the ground is not turning as favourably as one could want, ask them to request aid from whatever nearby expeditionary fleet is close."


Dyonisos shot him a confused look but did not pry any further. Melchior would have welcomed it, but questioning the Grand Master's orders was not in the character of Dyonisos. He bowed swiftly again, before departing the chambers in good haste. He felt his humours bubble in some confusion in how to fully grasp with this news. His sorrow and uncertainty of the Emperor's departure clashed furiously with his elation that Atlas had been chosen as Warmaster. He considered there to be no finer option, the unofficial arbitrator of the Primarchs, who had served the Emperor longer than all other Primarchs, it was only natural that he would understand the Emperor's plans for the Crusade better than any one else.

He resolved to congratulate Atlas the next he encountered his brother, but now he decided that he had best work through emotions in a more physical manner. His hand clashed the handle of the colossal Blade of the Grand Master, a blade so large it was almost as long as him and one he had not seen anyone capable of lifting without an extreme amount of difficulty. He lifted it with ease, letting it rest gently upon his shoulder.

The hololith flickered off as he departed the chamber, the starkly lit corridors of the fort filled with mortals rushing about and Astartes walking with an intent pace, all bowing as Melchior passed them by. He found Fort Maris quite a disappointing one, time had necessitated that architectual beauty be kept minimally to ensure that it would be constructed in time for the arrival of the Waaagh! as it fled from Ullanor, so only a handful of statues and decorations dotted the walls and corners. The only remarkable piece was a bas-relief in the along the corridor he walked now, depicting the reunification of the legion with Melchior, the Emperor of Mankind taking centre place as a shining star.

It had been Belteshezzar who had crafted it, and it was a fine piece by the usually sullen Hospitaller. He continued on until he reached the door, it's pneumatic hiss showering the artificially lit corridor with a wash on darkened sunlight. The clouds had long since darkened, clogged with great smoke clouds that reached up to the sky like twisted fingers. He pretenatural hearing was filled with the sounds of battle, the hammering of bolter rounds and detonations, an unholy carcophany of of human cries and the guttural cheers of the greenskins. A brief peruse allowed him to identify the weakest section of the wall, held by crumbling remains of the 45th Ellaymian Holdfasts.

His bodyguard unit, the Imperita, had seemingly materialised themselves around him. It's Master, Bayt Jibrin, stood firm at the head of them, his sand coloured cloak blowing frantically in the breeze.

"There" Melchior nodded, indicating the wall "We will make our show there, redirect some of the 28th Skakelians Highlanders there to reinforce the mortals" he ordered. Bayt nodded solemnly, the clicks of inter-com communication barely perceptible in the chaos of the fight. The unit set off at a run, mortals clearing their path as quickly as they could, letting out cheers at the sight of a primarch in full battle regalia. It was a rare sight for mortals to see one, and to see one in battle was a treasured memory that would survive for generations. He intended to give many a mortal a story to tell.

[Prusslandia]

A Collaboration by Lunas Legion and Prusslandia




Chondax System

They called it the White World. It was easy enough to see why his Legionaries had taken to calling the planet such, with its bone-white salt-encrusted earth that left the whole planet dry, but it hadn’t remained that way for long.

The orks had come first, survivors and stragglers from the great waaaagh that had been crushed on Ullanor, and the space marine legions had not been far behind. It had not even been a matter of days after Atlas’ naming as Warmaster that he had dispatched his brothers to pursue the remains of the great ork host, to ensure their utter destruction.

It had been a mission Atarian had accepted with barely disguised pleasure. Orks were easy. Simple. Not complicated, not deceivers, not an enemy that required much thought to the parts of warfare he disliked.

No, instead he could feel the song of battle in his veins, howling manically as his chainaxe cleaved an orc’s head from their body, a manic grin on his face hiding the grim feeling that yet bothered him, that these times were nearing their end.

——————

The tribesmen of Nuceria had told tales of the Greenskins; Whispered histories over the crackle of night fires, of baying hordes that came from the cold, far stars to reap bloody tithe upon their benighted lives. How their star chariots, hulking things of scrap and jagged spikes, would break the suffocating blanket of shadow with the percussive beat of orbital insertion and the blue flame of plasma engines. The Green Horde, some would call them - Some of the tribes even worshipped them as Gods, or as the wrathful, hungering servants of such.

Oberon had known them always, and only as prey. Easy prey, at that; With their howling and hacking, brutish snorts and stamping steps announcing their presence at every measure. Such as now; This throng, scented to the butcher-joy of his kin-brother’s warriors, had elected to march and meet them head on, a warband of some fifty in size - Headed by one of massive tusks and rippling muscle. In their heedless pursuit of battle, they had neglected to consider that they had been tracked, been hunted.

As he fell upon them, Oberon could not truly fault them, for they always died fighting; Worse could be said of the humans he had made prey. With a pulse of instinct he leapt from the crag of rock above them, wrist-blades sinking deep into viridian flesh. He felt the Call nip at the edges of his mind, but paid it no heed as this hunt came to its glorious conclusion; In sheer moments the throng was dead, a collection of rent limbs and broken bodies - Cherry vitae pooling to marr the salty pan of the cracked plateau. With ease he cut into the Warboss, severing spine from tendon and neck from shoulder until he gripped the trophy in slick, clawed hand. Coal-black eyes closed, and the scent of sandy earth and fresh meat whistled through jagged teeth, as his newest trophy was held aloft above him.

After a moment he lowered it, his free hand tapping a rune upon his armors gorget; The crackling whine of the vox filled the air, and he waited for the static to clear before he spoke.

“Atarian, how goes your hunting? I have found nothing of true mettle yet. These xenos make for simple sport.”

“These are chaff, brother.” Atarian snorted in derision down the vox, the sound distorted. He watched a silver-armoured terminator, a chainaxe in each hand, lead a wedge of tactical marines into the ork horde just in front of him as the battle line caught up, joining the orks to the raging howls of slaughter.

“The dregs of Ullanor, too cowardly to die there.” He snarled as he wrenched his chainaxe out of an ork’s neck. “I doubt there is much truly worth hunting here, but there is some sport in simply killing thousands of them.”

Oberon gave an amused huff in response as he listened, hands affixing his newest trophy to the belt of his armor. “Their meat is little better; Acidic, and stringy, though far better than the boar-creatures they keep for sustenance.”

He said, clambering back up the ridge with an agility that belied his size. He reached down toward his waist again to affix his helm to his head, the rush of circulated air greeting him; He gave a mild snarl in distaste, preferring the scent of his prey to this clinical smell. Systems tracked the subtle movements of his eyes to bring forth orbital mapping, localizing the position of his brother and the various fronts that had formed; With quiet pride he noted the success of his huntsmen, watching for a moment as he drank in their own hunts and quarries. His voice rang out again, guttural tones further distorted by machine transmission.

“I question why the Warmaster sent us here - Send the bone reader, or perhaps one of the other cowards; We exist to best greater things than these simplistic hordes. If you had not been sent with me, I would have likely left already, ‘orders’ damned; My sons beyond this world have word of greater prey beyond it.”

Oberon went silent once more as he made for the grav-bike that had brought him here; Practiced hands brought forth an almost imperceptible purr from its engines, as it subtly swayed from his weight descending upon it.

“I would kill with you; The strongest greenskins are attracted to the largest battles, and if luck is real I would arrive before you already killed them.”

“This is mere fodder yet, brother, and I am sure Atlas had his reasons. Perhaps he was giving us one last taste of battle before the end of things comes.” Atarian laughed, slamming his armoured shoulder into the chest of another ork. “Follow my vox-bead, I should not be that far, unless you went too far ahead.”

Oberon gave an affirmative click in response as he kicked the bike into action, salt and soil clouding through the air behind him; As he sped toward the battle on the horizon, Atarian’s words resounded through his head.

“Perhaps he was giving us one last taste of battle, before the end of things comes.”

End? There could be no end. There would always be new prey, new slaughter; Trophies that had yet to be taken, and hunts that would await. That was the purpose of all life; To struggle and writhe and seek to survive. To perpetuate its own strength, and to be killed when it proved too weak to survive. The Call bit into him for a moment, as if offended he would even consider such a thought as an ‘End’ to the law and reason of existing. His hands gripped the handles of the bike harder in response, as he fought off the rise of bloody instinct; It would do no good to lose himself before he had even arrived into battle.

Casting the thought from his mind, he saw his brothers vox-bead grow closer and closer. At sufficient distance he killed the bike, using its forward momentum to spring himself into the flank of the horde Atarian butchered through; With a feral grin he became not-there, and the Call sang in joy as he began the slaughter. It was as if a wraith had appeared, a torrent of cutting wind and choking gale that erupted in the midst of the Greenskins - Blood and limbs flew from an unseeable blade, as bestial howls added to the cacophany of the battle; Those Huntsmen near Atarian noted their Lord’s arrival, and loped through the herd to meet their father.

With each step he killed. With each turn, each pivot another corpse landed upon the ground; Only as he neared Atarian did Oberon become visible again, the scent of ozone and magnetic charge momentarially swelling above the smell of cordite and blood. He looked upon Atarian with that grin still upon his face, helm long again fixed to his waist.

“Perhaps you are right, brother - There is good sport in this slaughter!” Oberon said, rough laughter accompanying his shout.

Atarian gave a half-mocking salute with his chainaxe, a bloody grin on his face, flesh visible in his teeth.

“There is always sport to be found in slaughter.” He said, oddly calm as his salute became a lunge, skewering another ork as he waded forwards into the morass of battle, his voice still loud enough to be heard over the din of violence. “But after this? The map is filling in, brother. How much is there left to fight, and how much is worthy of our attentions?”

He paused to ram the haft of his chainsword through an ork’s skull to the sound of cracking bone. “How many fights like this are truly left?”

Oberon listened to his brothers words as he fought, Skulltaker extending to stab through the skull of a howling Ork - Swiftly exiting its skull to skewer another charging forth. His elated tone shifted to a growl as he hacked into the Greenskin before him, wrist-blades rending rusted plate to bloodily part emerald hide. “There can be no end - Why do you speak of such? This is why we are alive, why anything is!”

He paused to slam Skulltaker through the gut of a warboss, gauntleted hand gripping the xenos forearm to pull it closer - His bestial maw found purchase on its throat, teeth gripping flesh in a fearsome bite; With a swallow and a bloodied face, he turned to Atarian as the warboss slid off the spear.

“There is always new prey; Strength untested is weakness left to fester, brother. Despite our ‘Fathers’ “ - Barely restrained disdain coloured the term - “love of the herd and their ‘civilization’, the wilds can never be truly stamped out. If not in this galaxy, we will find quarry in those beyond it.” Yet as Oberon said this, a near imperceptible fleck of doubt rose in his voice.

“A new Galaxy, when Father already retreats from the front lines of the Great Crusade?” Atarian questioned, his chainaxe scything through the throat of an ork nob, cleaving the head from the body. He let out a harsh, barking laugh as the head thudded to the ground. “Please. His work is done, now. We are simply doing the finishing touches, and then what is left to us, brother? Civilisation is not for us. We know this. And He will know it too. The others will be better suited to it, there won’t be anything only we can deal with. And what fate do we meet then? It has plagued my mind so.”

Oberon listened to his brother's words as he pounced deeper into the alien tide. Skulltaker sat abandoned behind him, twisted in the skull of a now-burning Ork. He could feel the Call rising higher and louder, and soon even his wristblade found itself unused; He howled with animal abandon as he ripped limbs and heads from their sockets, teeth gnashing and biting as he reaved a bloody tithe. It was not often he engaged in prolonged, open combat - The long wait of the Hunt lent control to the punctuation of sheer slaughter - His mind grew clouded and he felt himself slipping further into instinct as he slaughtered, and with sheer control he forced himself back into full lucidity. His form dripped blood as his jaw twitched in his turn toward Atarian. His voice filled with a bestial growl, and gazed at Atarian with a half-cocked head.

“I… These thoughts plague me as well, like scavengers after a kill. Find me when the battle is done, brother, and we will speak - I must hunt.”

Ozone and magnetic charge filled the air again as Oberon became Not-There, and only his vox bead - And the ruined bodies behind him, showed the trail of his path.

——————

Oberon remembered becoming Not-There, and then… only disconnected moments. The staccato chatter of gunfire. The rumble of artillery fire. The boastful, and then fearful, howls of the Greenskins. The pain of fire on his flesh. The taste of meat and the scent of blood. The pulling of spines and the consumption of kills.

The joy of the Hunt was the constant of these recollections.

He blinked slowly, steadily as he took in the scene around him - Bodies upon bodies encircled him, and with a wry amusement he noted that even in the Call he had already hung some above. He seemed to have found the fortress that held the Ork commanders - And had made work of it. He looked down to see the half closed eyes of a hulking Warboss, it’s caved skull tight in his grip. With a thud he released the body and made his way through the fortress, idly noting the Astartes that patrolled through it now; Bared necks and raised blades marked the greetings of his huntsmen, and he gave them warm nods in return; Pride again filled him as he saw their new trophies.

Soon the dank air of the fortress-cum-larder gave way to the crisp air of nightfall, and he gave a sigh of relief; He made no attempt to deny he preferred the sight of black void and wheeling stars to bright, harsh sunlight. He sniffed again and turned, a closed-lip smile on his face at the approach of his brother.

“You’re running out of space, I do believe, if you keep them as trophies.” Atarian remarked, armoured boots echoing loudly against the floor, punctuated by the occasional crunch of bone or the squelch of a corpse beneath his tread. “At the very least, though, I do not believe we will run out of orks to kill here any time soon.”

Oberon chuckled as he made his way toward Atarian, eyes scanning the area around him for Skulltaker - His search cut short as the collapsed spear whistled toward him, tossed by a nearby Huntsman. He took it with a nod and spoke.

“I keep the most worthwhile as trophies, though you have a point, brother. My vessel is in need of another hall to hold my new claims.” His voice shifted from casual amusement to a darker tone. “But the herds here will thin and run empty before long - Even if one of our kin had been sent instead of us, the Greenskins would not survive forever. With Ullanor taken they flee like yelping dogs bereft an alpha, but they will not last long alone.”

He paused to look up at the stars, constellations forming and dissipating until he found the closest star to Nuceria. A pang of longing filled his breast, as memory of that pure life danced in his mind.

“I cannot imagine living in the world that the Emperor wishes to create; A life of growing fat and weak on comfort. Can you, Atarian?”

“I cannot. It is part of why I am troubled.” Atarian said, slamming the head of his chainaxe against the floor and resting a hand on. “He knew what we were made for. He knew what his end goal was. So what does He plan to do with those of us that… Are no longer needed? Ever has my legion skirted the edges of censure, but what that entails… I fear naught, but only an idiot does not regard the true unknown with caution.”

Oberon listened silently, and for a long moment after that silence held as he ruminated. He gazed at the trophies on his belt, the myriad bones - And eyed one of his oldest, a thing of arachnoid pincers and hexagonal eyes. With a flick of his claw he severed the chain holding the skull to his waist, casually tossing it to his brother as he spoke.

“That is the only remnant of the pit-spyders; They were the apex predator of the southern coliseum ruins on Nuceria. They made good sport, and weaved webs of ferrous silk, but that is not why I mention them.” His gaze drifted again toward that star closest to Nuceria.

“Some time into my arrival on Nuceria, when I was still a whelp, there was a series of cyclones that battered the southern continent. Flash floods became the foundation of new rivers, and the common prey of the pit-spyder - Both man and beast - Left for higher ground. But the pit-spyder was an ambush predator, and did not pursue its prey. Some attempted to adapt, and a few succeeded, moving on to new hunting grounds. But as a whole? Without the pressures that had led to their evolution, they died out - Fifteen years, six generations and they became extinct.”

Oberon allowed his words to sink in for a moment, trusting his brother to understand - He knew his brother was no fool. But after a moment he spoke again, and his tone took on a disturbed note.

“All life evolves to occupy some niche or another; Whether by becoming hyper-specialized like the pit-spyder, or by becoming generalistic. What I mean to say, brother…. What niche will we occupy, when this work is done? What new prey, new domains will we claim to avoid extinction?”

“Do we have one, when this is over?” Atarian mused. “Peace… Does not suit us. Would not. The Emperor hands the Crusade over to Atlas and the War Council and others. Bureaucrats, paper-pushers and their ilk.” He sneered. “This… Council of Terra. We would be censured for doing no more than we are made to do. My legion has felt the wrath of bureaucracy before, been starved of the metal of war. It would take time, but our legions would wither away and rot. And there would be nothing we could do about it. We would be as those spiders, forced into something that does not suit us.”

“I…” Oberon paused, and his head shifted discretely to note the few Imperial Auxilia that neared them. When they passed from earshot turned to speak, his tone low and rough. “Nature does not give it’s creations the means for survival. These must be taken. Whether by hunting somewhere man has not yet touched-“ Oberon vaguely gestured toward the night sky above them “- or by hunting in more… familiar territories. I trust you understand my meaning, Atarian; Aside from perhaps the boastful gladiator, you and I know that strength is not something given but… earned.”

Atarian was silent for a moment, before he gave a curt nod. “The Warmaster may have given us a boon, then. Let us… Draw out, this campaign. Inflate our losses. Request more equipment, more ammunition, more cold steel to build up reserves. They will come for us when we do. All of them.” He grinned a bloody grin. “Oh, we shall probably not triumph, brother. Indeed, I would expect naught but the bitter taste of defeat, but is it not better to build one’s own gallows of their own choice, rather than be forced to them by others?”

“I will call more of my huntsmen here, by word of greater trophies; Those packs too far to come will know to turn their gaze upon newfound prey, when the time comes. Few live that I would not trust, and those that lack that faith will remember who taught them to hunt.” Oberon responded, and his chin lifted to bare his neck as he outstretched his arm to grip Atarian’s own - Another toothless smile upon his face.

“Let them come. The Gladiator. The Wych. The Machine. We will cut them down and hoist their skulls high; And if you are right, and we do fall? There is none other I would die beside, Atarian, my true brother. We will teach them what it means to challenge true strength.”

“Indeed.” Atarian’s voice was barely above a whisper as his fingers tightened slightly. “We will not go quietly into that good night, brother. You may count on that.”

[Audunia]

Setanta Cu Dubh
Barghest, Flagship of the Black Dogs

The Great Chamber of the Barghest was a sight to behold. A high, bronzed gothic door gave gave to a dark room, lit only by the flickering tochers docked into the walls. It's walls were made of dark grey stone, blocks piled high above each other. Runes and images had been etched into them, a mural of men fighting beasts that was unintelligable to someone outside of the Black Dogs legion or to one that did not understand the static art of Tuatha. It told the story of the Cu who slayed the Great Aranch in a battle that lasted many days and claimed the lives of many more, each fallen man on the mural expelling his last breath a cry of thanks to the Cu, who in turn became empowered by those cries.

On the opposing wall hung the bones of the Aranch, surrounded by the many skulls it had claimed that day.

The long room was split into three by two rows of vaulted pillars that disappeared into the dark celing, the decoration lost to the unperceptive eyes of a mortal man, but to the Cu, he could see a myriad a mythical beast heads carved, each eye projecting a look of vile hatred to those that passed beneath it. At the end of the room sat a single, simple throne. Carved of the same stone as the rest of the room, it was smoother and lacked the cracks and decorations that the rest of the room exhibited. Instead, it sat a single being that towered over all other in the room. Drapped in a thick black fur, a dark leather band wrapped around his head. The Crown of the Brytenwalda. The rest of the room was filled with hundreds of Astartes, who were likewise dressed, all bearing black furs, and knelt in submission before their Lord. The only outliers were a single beast, a wolf that came up to the Cu's waist when he stood, the beast lay sat by the throne, it's pale blue eyes staring hungrily at the Astartes that knelt before it and it's master.

Before the Cu, however, was an Astartes in more traditional wear. A black double breasted tunic and trousers, its edges decorated with golden patterns, his head bowed before his Lord. A quick rumble emanated from the Cu's throat.

"Speak your name, let it be known in this room" a voice rang out, slick but commanding, from the last figure who still stood. Dressed in black robes, the hood of a white holf pelt was drapped over his hea, whilst a snow white bread reached down to his sternum. In his hand, he held a large power maul, decorated with runes of power, and its pommel rested on the grey stone floor. Energy crackled excitely from its head. World Breaker and it's bearer, Speaker Tethra Labraid.

"I am Bodh Achell, Lieutenant of the Third Chapter of the 20th Tribe, Slayer of the Archon of the Tremayans, Veteran of the Ortan Campaign and Purifier of the Wych and the Wyrd." Bodh spoke, his voice resounding throughout the room as he spoke with pride at his achievements.

"And you think yourself worthy of these titles?" Tethra asked, his voice quieter yet more compelling because of it.

Bodh drew his sword, it's powerfield crackling to life, a soft blue glow emanating across the space "Do you think yourself worthy of taking them from me?". Tension began to fill the room, though the manner of speaking was not entirely foreign to the Black Dogs. Achievements and the willingness to defend ones achievements was an expected way of acting. Tethra remained silent, his face unreadable, until the power field around the maul snapped off.

"You have shown spirit, this is to be comended, yet you must practice humility lest I choose to question your right" he said calmly, his words making it clear that he did not consider Bobh a worhty fight for him, yet still recognising his achievements. Bodh's power field snapped off likewise, the scrape of the blade against its scabbard like a blade to a whetstone. The rest of the audience returned to their feet in a single solid movement, a wave of blackness growing in uniform speed."Now, use your right to state your business"

"Of course, Lord, I bring news from Ullanor!" the ears of the beast pricked up, twisting its head to its master. Its eyes suggested keen intelligence, reflecting the mood of its master so that he might remain indifferent. Bodh's form stiffened as the Cu motioned with his hand to continue "The Imperium records a great victory that dare, uncountable scores of the greenskin hordes lay slain by the might of man!" a cheer rose up from the Astartes present, yet the Cu and his hound remained silent. Tethra merely nodded.

"Is this all you wish to bring us?"

"No, Lord, what's more is the Emperor has decreed that Atlas Monomakh, Primarch of the Steel Men, is to reign as Warmaster over the Imperium. The Emperor of Mankind has retired from the Great Crusade, returning instead to Terra for reasons known only to him" Bodh continued on, silence hanging heavy over the room, dampening the jovial spirit brought on by the news of the victory.

The Cu grunted as he leaned forwards, the pale skin from under his dark fur hood shining in the flickering light of the torches. The rest of his face remained hidden in the dark and, thus, unreadable. A rare sight of apprehension played in the eyes of Tethra.

"And you swear you speak the truth?" Tethra asked, his tone deathly serious.

"On my life and name, I speak the truth" Bodh replied, his tone holding firm. The Cu rose from his seat, moving to face the window's that faced outwards to the darkness of the void behind him. The hound rising as well, walking to the side of its master. The Cu's giant hand rested on the beasts head, gently rubbing his thumb against it. The throng of Astartes remained in silence, such a thing was unthinkable to them. They were to follow the Emperor to the end of the Great Crusade, the Cu's oath was to the Emperor and the Emperor alone, not Atlas. He made his sons swear the oath themselves and hold it as the ultimate reason for their entire being.

Moments of silence felt like an eternity before the Cu spoke "Send recognition to the Warmaster, but do not congratulate him." he said at long last, his voice sounding like a chill running up one's spine. Calm and tightly composed, yet with pointed intent.

"My Lord, is that wise? We may appear to be insolent in the eyes of the Warmaster" Tethra spoke, his eyes remaining focused ahead at the Astartes ahead of him rather than the Primarch behind him.

"He may view us as he wishes, it does not change the fact of what he is. An imposter." the Cu responded. The beast had left his masters side, walking up to Tethra and Bodh, it's intelligent eye sending a strange sensation into the two Astartes. Like it was looking into them, searching for a hint of doubt. "He has never been my equal, nor his son's yours. To place him above us? Emperor alone has his reasons"

"Yet his reasons are enough" Tethra finished for the Cu. Years of service had led to an understanding like this to exist between them. The beast ceased staring at him, satisfied in its search. "You have heard your Primarch, Bodh, ensure the message is sent. The rest, we arrive at our destination soon, I expect you to be as ready for war as you are to die"

[Bentus]

Essun - Primarch of the Nova Legion

---

Thank the Omnissiah it wasn’t her.

Even as she scanned the initial reports from their destination, Essun’s mind was more than capable of wandering to other matters. The announcement of Atlas’ promotion to Warmaster had not come as a total surprise, given his impeccable record during the Crusade. She couldn’t fault her father’s selection, not that he’d ever shown signs of making illogical or irrational decisions in the past. And yet in spite of this, she found herself breathing a silent sigh of relief. It was only human to worry, after all.

“The world was founded prior to the Age of Strife. But only the Omnissiah knows how long it’s been silent.” Talorane’s tone was level, although Essun could hear the edge of a frown in the astartes’ words. “Apart from the distress signal, we haven’t been able to pick up any scans indicating what might have befallen its forges. To say anything more would be pure speculation.”

Essun didn’t react to her son beyond a digital acknowledgement, audible only as the briefest of binary squaks to unaugmented ears. She could downlink the information faster than he could vocalize it, but Essun nevertheless preferred to hear some things the old fashioned way. Information alone could be worse than worthless without time to properly assess and consider it.

“Although you should know that Ekehart has already arrived. Our requests for her to delay making groundfall were denied, it seems.”

There was a twinkle of amusement in Essun’s eyes. She’d expected as much of her sister, although it never hurt to ask. “It can’t be helped. I’m sure her legion will have more data for us when we arrive.”

Thank the Omnissiah it wasn’t her.

The thought of being chosen as Warmaster, of being saddled with the mind-numbing chores that came tied with such a position, would have made Essun grimace if the bottom of her face hadn’t been replaced with mechanical augmetics. She didn’t envy Atlas the burden of shepherding their siblings, of being forced to dedicate his time and energies to managing their father’s Crusade. Such a fate would have been the death of Essun. As it was, she at least had the relative freedom to focus on her Legion’s activities, beyond the calustrophobic grasp of her father’s burgeoning empire.

And yet, the Imperium’s suffocating politics still managed to follow her.

“It should have been you.”

The female voice spoke without announcing its arrival, interrupting the Primarch’s discussion with her son and causing both of their heads to turn. Clad in the red robes of the Martian priesthood, the newcomer made no attempt to mask the frustration in her tone as she addressed Essun directly. Striding onto the vessel’s bridge with the confidence of someone eager to flaunt their station, the tech priest ignored the frown cast at her by Essun’s son.

“His Lordship will be most disappointed. Your selection as Warmaster should have been obvious, given your greater capacity for logical thought and reason.”

Essun turned her focus back towards the reports as she replied to the Martian.

“I’m sure that the Fabricator-General will, as they say, get over it.” If Essun noticed the woman bristle, she made no sign of it. “The Emperor’s decision is final in such matters, and my brother was the logical choice.”

Logis Celoxea Grivrich scowled at being treated so dismissively. It was hard to swallow, even coming from a Primarch. Ambition and a cunning mind had carried her through the Mechanicum’s convoluted hierarchy. She’d made a name for herself through diligent work in the forges of Olympus Mons, maneuvering ruthlessly amongst her peers as she’d clawed her way up the ladder of status and influence. She’d earned the title of logis for her efforts, along with the tutelage of the Fabricator-General himself. He recognized drive and ambition when he saw it, and she’d been eager to prove herself to the Mechanicum’s powerful leader. Being offered the opportunity to serve as Kelbor-Hal’s representative within the twelfth Primarch’s fleet had been another reward: an opportunity to climb one step further along the path to greatness.

She’d received her instructions from the Fabricator-General himself, and had been told that she walked with His authority standing behind her. In return, he expected regular updates of the Primarch’s activities and discoveries, fully encrypted and without any oversight from the Legion’s own agents. The Mechanicum had the right to keep a watchful eye on its own, after all. And after a year of dealing with the Legion’s obstinance and their Primarch’s evasiveness to her prying, Celoxea understood why the Fabricator-General had decided to watch them closely.

“Nevertheless, we should lodge an official protest. As a representative of the Mechanicum, a slight against you is a slight against us all. The Emperor should at least be made to explain the reasoning behind his decision, so that we may assess his judgement.”

“You would ask the Omnissiah to explain himself?” Essun mused, raising an eyebrow. “A most intriguing suggestion. I could inquire about arranging a meeting, if you’d like to express your discontent personally.”

Talorane stifled a chuckle.

Essun doubted the Emperor would have even bothered responding to such a request, but it had the desired effect as the techpriest’s confidence wavered.

“No, that obviously won’t be necessary.”

“Then if that is all you wished to discuss, I am making preparations for our arrival in the system. You may remain on the bridge should you wish, but I must ask that you resist the urge to interrupt.”

Celoxea bristled, but otherwise held her tongue and complied with Essun’s instruction. As she positioned herself by the rear of the bridge, she logged a reminder to highlight the exchange in her next databurst to Mars. Putting the recent selection of Warmaster to one side, Essun turned to look at the vessel’s Captain.

“When we arrive, hail my sister’s fleet. I look forward to hearing what they’ve found so far.” She paused. No matter how much she detested its wasteful dance, the game still needed to be played. “And remind her that as we are investigating a forge world, the Mechanicum has rightful authority over any worthwhlie artifacts.”

Essun could practically feel the self-congratulatory data emanating from the back of the bridge.

[Lunas Legion]

Sargotha

Even through his helmet's filters, Morgan could smell the foul stench of this world. Ancient charts labelled it Sargotha, the 107th Expeditionary Fleet had labeled it as 107-95, but to the Primarch of the Amber Order it simply happened to be the planet he was currently treading the surface of. What it was called was irrelevant, all that mattered was his duties had seen him charged with the world being brought into compliance.

The obsidian pyramids, so vast even to him they seemed as mountains, that had been constructed by whatever the xenos of this planet called themselves to live in as vast arcologies, cities armoured and shielded against anything he could throw at them, bristling with weapons batteries that reminded him of home. Some legions might have simply balked at the prospect of such bastions, and instead formed plans to divide and conquer, taking each one by one through speed and surprise. Others might have gone for the methodical, grinding siege, reducing them one by one to shattered pieces of rubble.

Morgan had simply ordered the Fourth Horseman, loaded full of Scutarii terminators and veteran Cytherionii, to ram its vast, heavily-armoured bulk into the largest and most well-fortified of the pyramid cities. It had fallen in hours.

The mere thought brought a faint smile to his face.

Oh, the Fourth Horseman would take months, if not years, to be removed from the rubble and repaired, the melted but deliberately disposable armour replaced, but every single time the I Legion found a fortress nigh-impregnable, potentially requiring years to be reduced, simply smashing the Fourth Horseman into it would solve the problem without fail.

In the distance, through the clouds of yellow-green-purple gas that the Amber Order had bathed the world in he could see the flashes of lascannon fire and the return fire of the strange, red-white laseers of these xenos, the gas restricting their ability to operate anything but armoured units after they'd swiftly discovered the gas ate through their primitive respirators. This campaign would take a matter of weeks, with the largest fortress destroyed, the enemy disorganised and uncoordinated and isolated from one another while their smaller communities simply perished as they suffocated in the gas clouds that preceded the I Legion's advance.

"Another victory, if no unexpected variables appear, Lord Primarch." Lord-Praetor Calas Typhon's voice was a gasping rasp even through the filters of the helmet, a legacy of the Barbarus Campaign, Morgan's first as an independent Primarch after departing from Metillius.

"The Veleii would know if there were." Morgan said, shadows emerging through the fog as his command staff and white-armoured Cytherionii caught up to him. "Unless you believe your legionaries have failed in their duties?"

"No." Typhon shook his head. "They have performed theirs."

"Then another victory it is." Morgan said, staring through the gas clouds. "But you did not descend from orbit for such idle talk. Report what you came to say, Lord-Praetor."

"The Emperor returns to Terra, naming Atlas as Warmaster in his stead."

Morgan did not move for a moment, silent. His hand tighened the barest fraction around the hilt of the Death of Worlds, that colossal sworld he wielded. "Nothing is changed." He said simply. "We answer to the Warmaster now, as we would the Emperor. He speaks with the Emperor's voice."

Others might have been disappointed, expecting to be named in Atlas' stead. Others would be relieved, fearing they might have been called upon too service. Morgan did not care, he would serve the Warmaster with the same duty and loyalty that he would serve the Emperor Himself. Some of their siblings would find the change a chance to challenge the newly transferred authority, scraping at the chains the Emperor had kept them leashed by. No matter what, he would follow the Warmaster's orders.

"What are you waiting for, Lord-Praetor? We have a battle to fight, here." Morgan gestured onwards with the Death of Worlds. "The Warmaster is two Segmentums away. This changes nothing. The enemy remains the same."

Typhon said nothing, simply nodding grimly and raising his power sword, wading back into the fog.

What was that old saying again? The more things changed, the more they remained the same? Much had changed, and so had nothing. Not to the Amber Order, and not to its Primarch.

[Audunia]

Dread Wake
Sceafa Kentigern

Sceafa's eyes focused on the statue that dominant the entrance to the Huscarl's Chambners. A marble statue depicting Sceafa in his noble armour, the World Serpent from which Legion derived its name wrapped around him, it's head levelled behind his, forming a barbarian halo of sorts. The Serpent, in Hefenfelthish myth, was said to be at the command of the Bretwalda, and Sceafa made sure to associate that beast with him at any chance he had, even in the chambers of his most loyal Astartes.

His huscarls had gathered around him, waiting in regimented silence, expecting Sceafa to reveal for what reasons he had honoured them so with his presence. Instead he remained there, the crooks and cracks of his scarred face reflected with the pale light of the marble statue. His one remaining eye drank up the attention to detail that the artist had given the statue. Subtle shade on the scales, stones of unfathomable wealth placed tastfully upon Sceafa's armour, the scarring on his face reeled back to make it appear more as a noble mark rather than the disfiguring curse it actually was.

"My sons, I expect that the glory of Ullanor still holds clear in your mind?" he asked at long last, his voice hollow and strained. The flames from so many years ago had reach far further than just his face. The Huscarls voiced their affirmation, memories of combat against the greenskins, side by side with more of their brothers than they had expereinced since even the Rangdan Xenocides. It granted them the chance to display their martial prowess to their brothers, who otherwise may have had no solid idea on how the secretive Legion fought. A rare moment as well, for Sceafa to fight alongside his own brothers.

He turned to face them, the look in his eye a steely determination they had not seen for quite sometime. It only hinted at one thing, his worst feature "Then, you must also remember how my father spoke, he when turned Atlas from a mere Primarch, our equal in every regard, to the Warmaster." he continued, bringing his unarmoured hand to his gnarled chin "The tone, like he knew something that we did not. He plans something, my father, and it is something far worse than we could expect"

The Huscarls passed silent understanding between them. To speak against Sceafa was foolish, especially when they could sense some sort of reason behind his words. Why would the Emperor leave them so? If only to plot something against them, his most loyal soldiers.

"Word of civilian administrators are nothing but lies, of this I am certain. The Emperor could never relinquish his power, these could merely be covers for his own expansion" one of the Huscarls, Thorsteinn, suggested. Nods passed amongst the Huscarls, though Sceafa's face remained unmoved.

"It is possible, a tyrant will never surrender the absolute power he wields" Sceafa agreed. The idea had certainly been present in his mind, a haunting possibility. The Emperor already skirted close to the line of leader of mankind and its tyrant, his tremendous power would be far too intoxicating if it were anyone else sitting upon his throne. Even still, just because he had not fallen victim to his own power did not mean he was immune to it. Nobody was. The promotion of Atlas especially proved this, he had occupied a niche of arbitrator for the sibling Primarchs, but it only worked because he was their equal. Now, he was their superior, antagonising to any Primarch that thought they deserved better or one that didn't trust Atlas. It would leave them offkilter, and who knew what could become of the Primarchs when they were set off for too long.

[Audunia]

Petronium, Miracula
Orbit above Seven-Forty-Four
Amalfi de Martigues, Grand Master of the Parisots

The venerable Petronium, council chamber of the ever enigmatic Parisots Order, always reminded Amalfi of the council chambers of the Hospitallers back on Matlya. The low hanging ceiling, crafting from sandstone’s hewn from the great quarries of the land, great rounded pillars carved onto the walls, serving no real purpose other than decoration, upon which torches flickered with light. Banners of the Legion’s sigil draped on the empty sections of wall, not already decorated with busts or statues. The only thing missing was the large windows that could be opened, allowing a cool breeze to flow gently through the chamber, letting the smell of the sea fill it up.

He admitted he missed Maltya and its idyllic coasts, the way the salt from the sea would crust in his hair and leave the smell hanging upon the air. He sighed quietly, this greater purpose he had been given had robbed him of the quiet peace he had once fought so hard to attain. Alas, the Emperor’s will worked in ways even he could not understand. He removed his helm, letting the recycled air of voidcraft gently caress his dark copper skin, hoping against hope that he might taste a hint of salt upon the air, but disappointment rose when the familiar stale taste filled his mouth instead.

“Grand Master Amalfi, I am pleased to see you made it” the voice of Guerin Nasbius, Costus of the Order, sounded out. Taken from his disappointment, Amalfi managed a smile and nodded at the sight of his friend.

“As am I, though to be called from battle against the greenskins is highly irregular. They seemed keen on preventing my presence here” he replied. He looked about at those assembled, fourteen in total, all of them unarmoured and dressed in the traditional black robes of the Parisots. Their role at pacifying Seven-Forty-Four had become far easier when the orks had decided to attack Seven-Forty-Three instead, hardly requiring the presence of Astartes to begin with.

He strode to the table and placed his helmet down, almost as if on cue, they took their places around the circular wooden table in the centre of the room. The table itself had a hollow centre, a lectern displaying a thick, leather bound book stood at the centre, adorned with an eagle with its wings spread.

The Lectitio? he thought, his brows furrowed as he glanced at Guerin. The presence of this sacred book was highly irregular, even in a meeting that gathered so many in one place. Guerin, for his part, seemed perfectly serene.

The lights of the room darkened, except for a pale light that made the Lectitio stand out even more than before. Initiates of the order, heads bow and in half-black half-red robes, entered the room and began a trail about the gathered Parisots, swaying a number of thuribles between their hands, spreading the purifying smoke of incense across their path.

They muttered quiet praises under their breaths, reciting the litanies and rituals of their Order, hailing the Emperor’s name and the light He brought to mankind and the Imperium, how the Hospitallers were merely His will personified, spreading His name and glory wherever they went. Amalfi instinctively bowed his head, offering his own prayer of thanks and glory to the Emperor, feeling the floral tones of incense enter his nose, revitalisng him as those he were standing in the Emperor’s presence.

At the culmination of their prayer, they separated and stood at even distances from each other about the Petronium, heads bowed and thuribles still swaying gently. Amalfi unbowed his head first “It is with the highest recognition and praise of the Emperor, divine leader of man, that we gather here” he began, his role of Grand Master entitled him to speak first at gatherings “I would ask, like the light of the Emperor, that he who called it might enlighten us so”.

Guerin’s head unbowed, offering a thanks, requesting everyone else unbow their heads. He remained where he stood, but gestured to those gathered. “I have called this gathering” he began “As I believe now is the time that we must spread the Word”.

A small round of stifle gasps passed through the Parisots. To order something like this, with so few of their number gathered? It was an incredible break of tradition, though thankfully the final word lay with the Grand Master.

“And why do you believe this, Brother Guerin? What makes the Imperium of today any more ripe than the Imperium of yesterday” he asked.

Guerin smiled “Because, the Emperor has left the Great Crusade” he answered plainly. Amalfi could not hide the shock from his face, not from this. Their divine leader departing His Great Crusade signalled the sign of some great change, but what that change was, Amalfi could not be sure.

“Has He finally accepted his divinity?” one of their number asked. Amalfi recognised him as Paschal Ambrose, a minor Parisot from the Fourth Langue. Clearly Vesperian Sacris had been indisposed of. Guerin, however, shook his head in response. This in turn, shocked Amalfi again. They had assumed that, if ever, the Emperor leaving the Great Crusade would be prefaced by his ascension into godhood, anything less would be outlandish.

“I’m afraid He has not, He continues to deny it, but I can assure you of His departure. I can even assure you of Atlas’s ascension to Warmaster in place of the Emperor” a clamour rose out from the chamber, even the initiates seemed to struggle to hide their disgust at this. Atlas, whilst an honourable Primarch, was not nearly as noble as their gene-sire. The respect he commanded from the regular human outshined that of Atlas by a mile, there must be an injustice!

Amalfi, however, remained quiet. He considered the appointment, finding no reason to disagree with it. His brothers reacted in this way largely out of jealousy, that they might be robbed of the glory and honour brought about by the title of Warmaster, whilst they were naturally defensive of their gene-sire and the thought of any Primarch standing above them raised their humours significantly. Though he did admit the Steel Men seemed to lack the natural character an Astartes of the Warmaster might be expected to possess, rather humourless to him, but they were effective fighters.

He raised his hand, bringing silence to the chamber quickly. Their eyes fell expectantly upon him, waiting for him to agree with their thoughts. “What proof do you have of your claims?” he asked instead. Guerin brought a piece of vellum from his pocket and passed it to him.

Amalfi read it, his lips tightening the further along he read. It would appear that their brothers at Ullanor had witnessed such a thing themselves; he should expect to hear news of such a development any day now from their own astropaths. He imagined Melchior might react positively in regards to this news, their father had also held a soft spot for Atlas. He placed the note down, letting the council stew in their stifling silence for a few moments longer.

“It appears brother Guerin speaks the truth” he said, passing the note round to be read by everyone else “But now, we must turn our minds from the physical truth to the spiritual” he began, leaving his spot and beginning to pace about the room. He watched the wispy fog of incense part before his bulk, allowing the calming nature of the fumes to coalesce his scattered thoughts together. The chamber hung in contemplative silence, the only sound being that of Amalfi’s boots treading against the sandstone floor.

What did it mean? The question rang furiously about his mind as he walked. The image of the Emperor leading their glorious Crusade was one that could sate the devotional appetites of anyone that could listen, but now that he was gone? How did Guerin decide that this made it the best time to spread the Word? Perhaps the absence of the Emperor would allow it to spread rapidly without interference, they had already spread the seeds in a number of worlds they’d brought into compliance, maybe now it was time to reap the rewards of their work.

The raising of a Primarch above others though? It was questionable, risky even, but Amalfi could not see any other choice. After all, was leading the Crusade not the very reason for the existence of the Primarchs to begin with? Not to mention, it still kept the Emperor as above all. Spiritually, nothing had changed other than perhaps the reordering of the Primarchs. It was clear that Atlas, not Melchior, was the one closest to the Emperor and His divine light, perhaps even the most favoured.

But to voice something like that here? It would cause a great argument, possibly even risk a schism. No, he would let them cool off first before broaching the subject.

He looked at Guerin, whose head was bowed with a chain of golden beads between his fingers. A curious little device Guerin had started using to realign his mind. Perhaps calling this meeting had taken more nerve than Amalfi had thought.

“Brother Guerin, you say that now is the time to spread the word” Amalfi said, his voice the first noise in the room for many minutes “What makes you say this?”

“The Emperor’s absence, whilst regrettable and we are not without sorrow for it, will create a demand for His image and His presence. His work to interfere with His own worship will also lessen due to His absence, there can be no greater time to do so.” Guerin spoke quickly, as though the words were bursting to get out of him, his eyes darting between the assembled Parisots.

To their credit, they seemed to consider these words more so than they would have previously, the past minutes of contemplation restored their mind and allowed for a more thorough consideration of ideas.

Amalfi nodded, coming aside Guerin. When unarmoured, they were of similar height, now he towered above him. He placed an armoured hand upon Guerin’s shoulder “I believe in Guerin’s words, the distance of the Emperor from conquered worlds has already led to fanciful tales spreading of Him, so we must work to ensure that there is an Orthodox form of worship and divinity for him, to prevent possible heretical and blasphemous stories forming of him.” he looked at the gathered Parisots again, now from Guerin’s position who could see the possibility of division even now.

He pointed his armoured finger at the Lectitio, watching all eyes turn on it “That is the result of our Great Effort, the consolidation of our epistles and theories into His divinity, many years of discussion and debate has gone into its creation. No greater work can facilitate His worship, nor shall we allow lesser works do so. Brother Guerin” he said, feeling Guerin’s stance stipend at the unexpected mention of his name “You have opened the idea of the Word’s spread and now I have accepted it. From this moment on, you are the Apostle of the Parisot Order. Your charge will be the spread of the Lectitio and its acceptance, you will prune the unorthodox and encourage the orthodox, chasten the blasphemous and remove the heretic. Silence and secrecy shall be your weapons, man will be your voice in this mission. Your combat duties are null, now your sole purpose will be the send out the Word. To bear it until your end. Choose 3 to follow you into this purpose.”

“Augustine, Papias, Origen, and Athanasius” he answered quickly, two of the gathered men slammed their fists against their breasts and bowed. It seemed Papias and Origen would have to be retrieved from their respective fleets.

“Then it is done. We praise you, Apostles Hospitaller, and we shall cheer your name as we go to war, so that your name might know the glory of battle that you no longer can. We praise!”

“We praise!”

[Krugmar]

Star of the Waning Summer

The sound of servitors drilling in the background was a welcome distraction from the hum of the ship, Ulysses thought. He glanced around but saw little change from the last time he was here, several days since. Atlas had wasted little time in ordering two key amendments to the ship. The first was a throne room befitting his new status. It would allow him to impose his authority as Warmaster for now, and as the Emperor-to-be later. The second was perhaps more crucial, a control and command centre from where he could direct the war effort, first the Great Crusade, and later the rebellion.

They were in the throne room presently, for the disruption caused by the servitors was far more light. It had already been styled upon a mixture of the Imperial palace, and a Stirian villa.

He gazed at the other Ekthroi. Agamemnon, so proud of his station, but unbecoming of its duties. The brothers Hektor and Parizitis, the former a brilliant commander, the latter painfully behind his sibling in all skills and matters. Achilleus, the foremost blademaster of the legion. Azrael, the head of Atlas' bodyguard, a brutish but effective man. And finally Evonios, Atlas' trusted equerry, and one who Ulysses saw eye to eye with.

Their heads turned when Atlas entered, not only to gaze at his presence, but to look shocked when he entered with Erebus.

Erebus took a seat at the table, while Atlas remained stood at its head. He pressed a few buttons, igniting the hololith. It showed numbers from one to twenty. They were all arranged in the middle, except for 10, which was placed firmly in the right.

"Atlas, why is Erebus here? He is not one of us." Bluntly put Achilleus. He had never been one for words.

Perhaps another Primarch would have bristled at the remark, but the Ekthroi had been established by Atlas to challenge him. They were not sycophants, flatterers, or boot-lickers. They were his enemies, to point out his flaws, mistakes, weaknesses, and recommend how to fix them. It was easier said than done, Primarchs did not tend to make mistakes, and if they did it was hard to see how one could have done anything differently.

"He is not Ekthroi, you are right, but he will be attending at my pleasure when needed. As you know I often utilised him as an emissary to other legions, allowing him to build up relations with important figures in other legions. He has particular insights we may find valuable." Atlas explained, before returning to what he originally intended to begin with. "We cannot topple the Tyrant of Terra alone, we will need as many of my siblings as possible. They are a tempestuous, egotistical, and difficult lot. But in many cases that will be to our advantage."

"The first, Morgan, the Utilitarian. A blunt instrument, one who can make a square peg fit into a circular hole through sheer will. He is uninterested in his own survival, too focused on the task at hand. I expect his loyalty will go to the victor. When defeated he will be taken alive, and given a new purpose." Atlas said, moving his number to the left-hand side.

"The second, Melchior, the Knight. Devoted to my father, he will never betray him." He said, moving him also to the loyalist side.

Erebus spoke up, "I have heard rumour that it is not just filial piety which moves Melchior, but a deeper veneration of the Emperor."

Atlas' face turned dark. Any mention of worship of the Emperor, of any kind, even simple hero worship, put him in a foul mood. Ulysses knew to avoid the subject, but understood Erebus' reasons for bringing it up now. "Uncover if there is any truth to these rumours." He said, before moving on. "The third, Cornelia, the Architect, one who I hope will join us. I must speak to her, see if I can gauge her views on the Imperium. Perhaps she will understand that together we can build a better future." He said, leaving her firmly in the middle.

"The fourth, Bucculeia, the Leader. I have had many conversations with her, I know she is as troubled as me, though she has not yet grasped the truth. When the time comes she will side with us. If she does not, if I have failed to gauge her intentions, then truly we are doomed."

"The fifth, Setanta Cu Dubh, the Hound. The Emperor's faithful dog, he has never much liked me. Jealous of my status, my perceived closeness to the Emperor. He must hate that I have been named Warmaster."

"He should be put down, the miserable cur." Said Agamemnon, and the others concurred. Ulysses did not, he knew that Atlas hated the idea of his siblings dying. It reminded him of his greatest fear.

Surprisingly Atlas nodded, "Death might be a preferable fate to an eternity of imprisonment." He said, rolling a silver coin between his fingers. Ulysses knew of it, but he did not know its history, or why Atlas had kept it these centuries. "No, he will be taken alive if possible. I will not butcher my siblings. All I do is for them, for their chance to live, whether they like it or not." He said, moving Cu Dubh firmly to the left side.

"The sixth, Metillius, the Gladiator. He lives only to fight, he does not see the end coming, I doubt he would care. We shall see if he is as unbeatable as he claims."

"The seventh, Sceafa, the Serpent. He trusts me to lead, I expect a conversation with him will draw him to our cause. He has ever been wary of tyrants, all I need do is point out the greatest one there is." He said, putting him halfway to the right.

"The eighth, Ravadiana, the Sorceress. She knows more than she lets on. An ally, perhaps, if not just one of convenience." He said, pushing her to the right.

Erebus spoke up, "You are right to distrust her Lord. Though I advise you follow the path she sets before you, for it is not her own, not hers to control."

Atlas gave Erebus a bemused look, before shrugging. "The ninth, Atarian, the Butcher. He has always toed the line. I expect he feels his days are numbered. Chondax will keep him busy for a time, while reminding him of the encroaching end of his task. He will join us."

"The eleventh, Oberon, the Predator. Damaged, but I expect he will side with us. He has always been itching to fight other Primarchs, and truly what better prey to test yourself against is there? At least that is what I expect he will think. After the war is ended I will lock him up until sense can be driven into his thick skull, and reform his legion of glorified murderers."

"The twelfth, Essun, the Magoi. I will need her support, for alone amongst my siblings she will drive our technology and help unshackle the Mechanicum from the Emperor's needless fears."

"The thirteenth, Ekkehart, the Stormtide. She is like a storm, sudden and terrible. But not unpredictable, I know where her lightning will strike." He said, moving her firmly to the left.

"The fourteenth, Lazarus, the Surgeon. Methodical and dangerous, his plans for his legion, for humanity, likely go beyond the Emperor's designs. Promises of breaking his shackles should place him in our camp."

"The fifteenth, Aleksandr, the Praetorian. Much as having him on our side would make the war end instantly, I do not foresee it coming. He is unimaginative. It has never crossed his mind even once that he might simply be a tool to the Emperor."

"The sixteenth, Cambyses, the Bitter. His legion suffered a terrible fate, and I expect he views the Emperor as responsible. How could the Rot affecting the 13th be near fully overcome, but his own blight be so terrible? I shall speak with him."

"The seventeenth, Hesta, the Commander. Her legion is too great to be left to mere chance, and I dare not even attempt to discuss such ideas with her. She must be dealt with."

"I have an idea, Lord, one which will require a great many parts to effect." Said Erebus.

"Draw it up as a solid plan, and then we shall discuss it." Replied Atlas. "The eighteenth, Maelian, the Scourge. I know he is displeased with the Emperor's policies on psykers, and I have seen the way he looks at him, in awe yet also disgust. We have good relations, I will enlighten him to the Emperor's true nature."

"The nineteenth, Domhnall, the Shaman. He has ever been my friend, and I have readily accepted his advice. Now I hope he will accept mine. He will join us, even if he finds much of it distasteful."

"The twentieth, Saphira and Raziel, the Twins. Their legion is small, and out of the way. Even so they must be dealt with. They cannot be trusted, and I expect there are further secrets to uncover."

With that done Atlas opened up the floor to his Ekthroi. Most of them agreed with his findings, though a few entered their own understandings, for they had contacts within the legions that Atlas did not. It could be difficult for Primarchs to remember that they were not their legions, that some within held very different views. The idea of inter-legion civil wars emerged as its own topic, and the hours drained away as they discussed in minute detail each possible scenario.

---

"Ulysses." Said Atlas, stopping him from leaving with a word. He watched the others go, Parizitis and Agamemnon shooting him a look of envy, while the others did not care. Even Evonios, who one would expect to be angered by the closeness between himself and Atlas, merely shot him a half smile, before exiting promptly.

"Tell me plainly, for you spoke little in the earlier proceedings. Do you think this is wise?" He asked.

Ulysses was taken aback. This had been his Primarch's motivation for near two centuries. The Ekthroi took an oath upon joining the sacred brotherhood that they would put themselves fully to the cause. Was he having second thoughts now that the hour seemed at hand? Did his promotion to Warmaster give him doubt that the Emperor intended to be rid of him?

Then he remembered it. Their first conversation upon his entry to the Ekthroi. Atlas had explained the truth to him, and his eyes had been opened. But a sliver of doubt had made him foolishly blurt out the same question Atlas now asked him. He remembered Atlas' answer.

"It is not. But we are beyond wisdom."

[Oblivion2]

Eclipse Class Light Cruiser ‘Dawntreader’

Approaching station keeping position with the ‘Star of the Waning Summer’

Domhnall Ainfean, Lord of the Astral Walkers, would have been described as a thinker by many of his siblings. Some would have meant it as an insult, but many others would have admired Domhnall’s ability to find wisdom and knowledge within himself, in text and literature, as well as occasionally gleaned from the depths of the warp. He didn’t need to be a Psyker to know that Atlas’ appointment as Warmaster was a prudent choice. He’d considered briefly if he could have done the task himself and found that he likely could have, from a strategic point of view. Like all of the Emperor’s gene wrought Children, Domhnall was a superb commander. His particular insights in the field of stellar logistics would have been an asset in the turnings of the Great Crusade. He admitted however that his status as a Psyker made him unpalatable to a number of his siblings, and while he and his legion did not practice sorcery, their appearance and customs would make one believe that the Nineteenth dealt in sorcerous powers. For that reason, Domhnall had disregarded his suitability for the position.

So who else then? Ravadiana was an obvious no, for much the same reason Domhnall was. Though she had a mind like no other, it was plain to see many of her siblings didn’t trust her. Hesta made for another obvious choice; her only draw back was her relative youth and a perhaps too close association with Domhnall. She might even be taking the news as something of a snub; Domhnall hoped not, for how could it be easy to choose between twenty obviously gifted children? To raise one above the rest? The Emperor had found a way, and Atlas was a choice few could fault. Perhaps that had been the kernel of wisdom the Emperor had found which allowed him to make that decision.

His thoughts were interrupted by the psychic presence of his Equerry, Zardu Layak, entering his chambers. The Terran born marine had a cool, clean mind, with ambition sharp enough to cut oneself on. Domhnall had taken him on as Equerry to both benefit from his view point and to temper his ambition with some of the Primarch’s own patience. So far, Layak appeared to be a success on both fronts.

“My Lord.” Layak said, bowing. He was clad in the emerald green of the Astral Walkers, and had adorned his right pauldron and arm with a half cape of silken white. His armor remained unadorned by many of the sigils and fetishes the non-Terran marines favoured, having been from savage planets before their ascension. “We arrive. The Captain has requested permission for you and your honour guard to go aboard, and it has been granted.”

Domhnall nodded, running a hand through his well kept beard. “You still advise what you did when we met with my Moot?” The Moot was an advisory council of Captains, Chiefs and Generals representing various expeditionary fleets and Fianna that the Astral Walkers had deployed or were attached to. It was through them that Domhnall navigated the stars and political eaters of the Imperium as he did, and though they did not always agree, their view points were an incredible asset to the King of the Green.

“I do my Lord.” Layak said with a half nod. “Paying homage to your brother, Lord Atlas, will help cement his position with those who may resent him for his position, such as Lady Hesta. Lord Atlas will see your homage as a compliment and then you will find your opportunity to advise him.”

The Primarch of the Ninteenth grunted at that. “This appointment will have been hard on my brother. Being made foremost amongst us will not be sitting well with him. Neither will the Emperor’s return to Terra. I would assuage his worries, if I could.” Truthfully, Domhnall too felt a sense of trepidation with the Emperor’s return to the cradle world. He more than most of his siblings imagined a life as more than just a warlord. They were made to do great things; to build, craft great works, and be the examples that humanity needed them to be. But if all that were true, why wouldn’t the Emperor have included any of his brilliant children in this new work of his in the capital? As much as he felt Atlas would need him, Domhnall needed the advice of his newly promoted brother.

“It will benefit you, I am certain my lord.” Layak said smoothly. Domhnall eyed his Equerry with a single raised brow. “We are here to help my brother, not to advance my own position.”

“As you say my Lord, but has my advice steered you wrong yet?” Layak responded, his hawklike features as serious as the Lord of the Nineteenth had ever seen. Domhnall smiled wryly, “No, but it need only happen once for me to seek out a new Equerry.”

“I shall endeavour not to let that happen.” The Terran marine said with a faint smile of his own. “Now, your Duskbreaker Guard await you in the hanger bay.”

—————————————————————————————

The flight over from the Dawntreader was a short one. The marines in the belly of the Thunderhawk numbered sixteen if you didn’t include the Primarch and his Equerry. These were the Duskbreaker Guard; warriors of unequalled skill who had served in both a battleline company and as a member of one of the specialist Fianna that dotted the galaxy, taking on only the hardest of tasks required by the Primarch of the Ninteenth. Each suit of power armour was hand made, and each member of the Guard carried a fetish, relic, or piece of armour from the previous member of the Guard that they had replaced. While they breathed, no threat would come upon the Primarch or anyone he assigned them to. The perfect honour guard for meeting with the newly promoted Warmaster.

There was a dull clang as the Thunderhawk set down in the Star’s hanger bay. Pressure equalized and the loading ramp slid open. Four by four the members of the Duskbreaker Guard marched out, forming ranks and standing at attention. Then the Lord of the Nineteenth stepped out of the transport, the emerald green of his armour reflecting the light like deep forest pools. He wore a cape of bearskin and along his belt were various carved bones and runes. Upon his back was the Song of Sorrow, the massive Xeno scythe arm that he had forged into a two handed force sword under the instruction of Ravadiana. Domhnall Ainfean, Primarch of the Astral Walkers, looked fit and resplendent enough to greet a King. Or in this case, a Warmaster.

[Lunas Legion]

316-74

Every death always felt like he'd been stabbed in the gut. That wasn't saying much, though. Cambyses was a Primarch, after all; a knife to the gut was far from lethal, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. Even now, every dead legionary still felt utterly irreplacable, another one of his sons that he had been unable to save.

The white-hot sun of 316-74 shone overhead, dampened and distorted through the solar shields that protected the cities on this newly-compliant world in the far Galactic North. Cambyses himself stood in what had once been a park, the green-yellow grass stretching out around him, ending at distant wire fences. Beyond he could see figures, small ones compared to his own great size, walking in small groups. Imperial Army soldiers on patrol, to occupy this newly-compliant world and ensure it remained so. The Shield Bearers had left, taking Stormbirds and Thunderhawks to their fleet in orbit.

Bar himself, of course, and those who would never leave.

Ten corpses lay in front of him, covered by purple shrouds, atop wooden biers. No conquest was ever bloodless, no matter how extensive the preperation, how carefully crafted the plan, how good the intelligence, how many Imperial Army assets they used and how many local operatives and traitors they had at their disposal. There had been a time, once, when losing ten legionaries would've been crippling to the legion, a thirtieth killed in a single engagement. Even if that was no longer the case, it still felt like it was.

No matter how large his legion grew, it would always hurt to lose any of them.

In death, the least he could do was this. The Shield Bearers were not the likes of the Amber Order or the Iron Circle, to leave their dead to simply rot where they fell on the field of battle.

Silently Cambyses raised his nameless hand-flamer and pulled the trigger. Waves of red-orange fire washed over the biers and corpses, devouring the shrouds and leaving them wreathed in dancing flame.

He stared at them for a long moment, contemplative. Perhaps this would all end, soon, and he would not have to risk losing more of his sons. Perhaps. He held back a bitter laugh, even alone. What a joke. There would be no end to the mountains of corpses the Emperor was building the Imperium upon, only greater and greater mountains to build greater and greater monuments.

"The Ullanor campaign has concluded in triumph, Lord Cambyses." First Captain Zaven spoke. He hadn't even noticed him approach in his contemplation. "There is more news."

Cambyses didn't say anything. He didn't even turn, watching the smoke drift into the sepia skies.

"The Emperor has declared he intends to retire from the Great Crusade. Lord Atlas has been named Warmaster to finish the task in his stead."

He said nothing to that either. There was naught to say. Atlas was a good, solid, dependable choice for Warmaster. Unobjectionable to, save out of one's own ego. The Emperor's retirement back to Terra changed naught. They would still be fighting the same long war, building the same monuments of corpses to his dream. Not theirs. He turned and left in silence, Zaven falling in beside him. The First Captain knew not to talk when he was being silent and contemplative, and Cambyses appreciated that. The burning of the dead should not be sullied by the sound of the living.

On to the next world to conquer, in this... Endless crusade of theirs.

[Ormata]

Primarch Bucculeia de Leon
IV Legion “Reluctors”
Replete in Night, High Orbit, Rei-Pisces Secunda 2-6-3

The campaigns had gone well.

Lithe fingers danced over the various documents and reports laid out over the steel desk, tracing each as she recalled their contents. A fan hummed lazily in the room’s singular corner, Legion banners fluttering weakly in the breeze. Many were simply decorated in black and blue, a fist with fingers outstretched as though to grasp the heavens, while one was silvered, a star upon its field. Bright lanterns hung from the walls cast few shadows, their burn nearly impressive. Lips pursed in thought as she thought of the issues laying before the Fourth.

The Monstratora reported that both the Ager Expanse and Animus were continuing to exhibit production which surpassed most expectations. Another election had come and gone on Animus, resulting in a re-election of all things. Overall, her regent was proving a capable ruler if just a bit inflexible in his thinking. He’d constructed more power stations in his last term than the planet had built in the seven terms prior, instead of developing a better grid or removing inefficiencies. Bucculeia had sent a message on what he should do, however, listing such things. If anything, he would at least follow those.

Her finger traced a sheaf of plastic binders, dark reds and blacks. The campaign of Rei-Pisces had ended with almost no bloodshed. The star cluster had been occupied by a group of humanity which had resided far from Terra indeed, though they had lost much in the way of the Dark Age and had exited the Long Night being ruled by a number of counselors and politicians. That council had been ineffective enough that the military leadership was more than willing to dispose of them for access to the Imperium’s technology and strength, a coup with only fifty-odd souls condemned to death. It was a small price to pay. The military junta which had arisen were still undergoing training, supervised by the Librarium. She was assured that, once released, they would prove excellent servants to the Imperium as a whole. Those leaders had never heard of a psyker, and she doubted they would make the connection.

Her presence had never become necessary, though she had felt the need to oversee the Grand Chapter’s operations. To integrate a full star cluster of twenty systems was a difficult task, especially one with already set infrastructure which had been seen by the users as flawed. The Primarch had no illusions that they would lack manpower, only that they might lack a certain perspective. So far, Lord-Praetor Lyco had proven almost admirable in his handling of the junta. They were quite receptive to his bluntness.

A data-slate, blocky and well-worn, came under her hand next. The Deimos Excursion, a Grand Chapter of the Legion reducing a xenos species in the far north. The foe had lacked a capable naval force, though were almost natural tunnelers and counter-siege experts. The report outlined far greater usages of quake munitions to collapse the enemy systems, though two deployments of Phosphex had rendered their fortress-systems ineffective. It was proving to be a bloody campaign, though altogether successful. She could only internally groan at the decades or even centuries it would take to return the worlds to anything approaching productivity…but that would be a far cry better than decades of dealing with new incursions of the xenos.

A handful of various thick-print pages, some stiff from age, crinkled under the pressure of her finger. The Occulta deployments…she could only be appraised of a dozen out of the twenty which were ongoing. They were engaged in fighting all across the far periphery, though five Maniples were operating within the current constraints of other Legions. One had engaged orks on Tau-Breices Prima, aiding the Hospitallers who had proved to be troubled by an unexpected number of the xenos; a cursory glance over that report had told her that the world was unlikely to fall, or at least fall easily. Melchior had indulged in his habit once more, despite the expectation of lesser numbers of orks. Another was engaged in interdiction operations, attempting to catch a number of Eldar raiders who were troubling a far-flung outpost…they had brought the Creation’s Breath to aid in the hunt. Information suspected that one of the Eldar’s vast stellar fortresses were operating in the area…Bucculeia could only guess at the wealth of information which might be found from such a prize. Others were busied performing overseer tasks with the Imperial Army on a number of fronts.

A single neat, simple paper, almost new, came under her hand. The Librarians sent to the Nova Legion were reporting good progress; they had suspected the Twelve Legion’s preferences towards the aid of the Machine Spirit, as well as working closely with the Tech-Marines of the same, but such expertise far outstripped their hopes. It was good training, knowledge which would be useful to disperse throughout the Legion, and Bucculeia could guess that the Nova Legion would do the same with their own knowledge on combat and divination. The Reluctors could not hope to match something like the Hierophants for capabilities, but the latter had proven somewhat tight-lipped. They liked to hoard what they knew for those they were only deeply certain could be trusted with the secrets…something which both concerned and inspired curiosity with the Primarch. In any case, the workings had proven…fruitful. Essun was a good friend to have.

Reports from the Warrior Lodges, a heavy stack of them about one corner of the desk. Many of the Legions had rejected their proliferation, some being far more heavy-handed than others, but still the institutions littered the majority. The Hospitallers still ran rampant in building a "beautiful fortress" everywhere they touched the ground, the Nova Legion rampant with their cogwork creeds, the World Serpents, Iron Circle, Storm Lords, and Furies generally still angry at the galaxy entire for ever attempting to be more than barbarian hordes, and yet…yet the knowledge between the Legions still did flow. Competitions were still held between them, even in the midst of the Great Crusade. She could not recall which Legion held the current champion…nor did Bucculeia truly care. It was still present enough to form a capable if half-hearted intelligence system. The system simply still required forming to be completely effective.

And then…the last report. The Emperor had retired, proclaiming Atlas to be his Warmaster. Bucculeia could only stare at it. It meant little until Atlas’s first proclamation…and only then could she be entirely certain of what it meant. The last time they spoke, he was troubled. She could not be certain of why, between the nature of the Great Crusade and the nature of their siblings…there was much to be concerned about. The very idea of an eternal, unending advance in the galaxy, that wasn’t something Bucculeia could fully support. Their resources were always finite, their supply lines always limited and open to attack, and eventually the soldier would be tired by the advance. If there is no goal to march to, why march. It was a simple question, though, one without the cultures of the Legions or the Army integrated into it, but it was still valid enough. She could only guess whether that was or wasn’t Atlas’s concern, in any case. There was much to be concerned about.

The campaigns had gone well. She shuffled the papers, placing them to the side of the desk, before beginning to write out new deployment orders for the Legion.

[Segmentia]

Aboard the Gladius, Marauder Astartes Legion, Primary Fleet
Approaching the planet Seven-forty-three

The chain-axe swung within a hair's width of his nose. He could smell the oils on the chain, the scent of the foes that its teeth had bitten into. Human, Ork, Eldar, dozens of other nameless, now extinct xenos species. There were also hints of various plants, wood, and even some rockcrete. In a flash the chain-axe was out of view, swinging down towards the ground and back. Khârn crouched, following its descent, and then rolled forward, past the legs of his opponent. Springing back to his feet, he drove backwards. There was a shark crack as skulls smacked into each other. There was a groan from behind him, and Khârn turned, wrapping his arms around the right shoulder of his opponent. He knew perfectly how much pressure to apply, and with a simple jerking motion there was a loud ‘pop’, followed by the clang of the chain-axe hitting the metal floor. Khârn released his hold to the roars of approval from the surrounding Astartes.

Khârn grinned as he helped his now defeated opponent upright. Morlath was a towering figure, even for a Marauder. And that was saying something. Another Astartes came over, and together they helped pop Morlath’s shoulder back in.

“You didn’t have to go that far.” The towering Marine grumbled as he rotated his shoulder. Khârn laughed, slapping the back of Morlath’s unaffected shoulder.

“Ah, you’ll be fine. Maybe a nanosecond slower on your swing, but nothing an Ork would be able to take advantage of.” The Astartes captain said, though he made a mental note to stay on Morlath’s right side, just in case an Ork did manage to. He would feel genuine despair if their pre-battle spar would lead to injury, or even death, of a brother. Even if the enemy was Orks. Pre-drop spars were less common these days for those exact reasons, but they were also a time honored tradition for the Legion for various reasons, and this one had been brought about by Morlath’s promotion. Not to the rank of lieutenant, but to the most honored position in the Legion, that of Probatio Armorum.

There was no shortage of armorers in the Marauders, in fact every Astartes knew a bit of the craft when it came to maintaining their weapons and armor, but to be a part of the Probatio Armorum was to be an armorer of the personal armory of their gene-father and Primarch, Metillius. Not only this, they were also some of his closest companions, fighting beside him on all fields of battle. They would carry the hand selected extra weapons their Primarch might feel was necessary for a battle, after all one was a fool to think a power sword, or a thunder hammer was a weapon suited to all situations.

Morlath had earned the honor, no doubt. He was a near peerless warrior, and had studied under the Priests of the Mechanicum concerning weapons and armor. He was no tech-marine, certainly, but many Marauders undertook such studies.

A door hissed open and Khârn, along with every other Astartes on the hanger deck, turned and watched their Primarch step into the hanger. Even out of his armor Metillius was a towering figure, but in his armor he was a true behemoth, easily mistaken for a war machine, if not for the way he moved.

He stopped and surveyed the hanger, full of Marauders preparing for a combat drop down to the surface of Seven-forty-three. He held up a gauntleted hand for silence, and the hanger became silent.

“Sons! Soldiers of the Imperial Army!” Metillius’ voice was deep, though not as deep as most would imagine upon seeing him. He addressed the assembled Astartes and Imperial Army personnel as one, though the Imperial Army soldiers present were mostly logistical personnel and pilots, they were still his soldiers.

“Today we once more fight against the savage Ork! And this time we have a reason, not that a reason is needed to fight the beasts. We go to the aid of my brother, Melchior, and his sons. What he did to enrage the Ork so badly to be forced back into his pretty fortresses, I do not know.” Metillius mused aloud a bit. “Perhaps he recited one of his poems to them.” A ripple of laughter crossed the hanger. While none would dare make fun of a Primarch, Metillius was well known for his quips about his siblings, at least to his Legion.

“But enough of that, let us go and make war!” A roar of approval and then the clamor of hundreds of armored bodies moving about. Most went to drop-pods, while others filed into Stormbird dropships.

Khârn was standing back, ensuring his company was fully ready to go when he felt the presence of Metillius behind him. He turned and looked up at his Primarch, pride and awe swelling in him as always.

“Sorry for taking Morlath from you, Khârn, but I couldn’t dishonor him by choosing another to replace Belias.” Metillius spoke with surprising quietness, this conversation meant only for them.

“You hardly need to be sorry, Lord. We are your sons and we do as you command. Besides, it is a great honor to my company and myself that you’ve chosen one of our number. He will be missed on the line, but we shall always know where to find him in battle.” Khârn said with a proud nod. “We shall honor his last day with our company by presenting him with the heads of two thousand Orks.” Khârn felt the massive hand of Metillius pat his shoulder twice.

“Good. A fine tribute to one of your own. And perhaps the last time your company will perform so well.” Metillius sighed, jokingly of course. Khârn grinned viciously.

“Certainly, lord. You wound my company, nay the entire Legion, by taking our greatest to serve at your side, to carry your weapons like mules no less! Perhaps I will one day earn the privilege to carry your favorite wine into battle, lest you become parched! And Maximus could perhaps carry those meat snacks you are so fond of.”

Metillius was silent for a moment, and then his laughter filled the hanger. Most Marauders were already hooked into the drop pods, only a few able to look out and see the two of them standing there.

“Indeed, Khârn! That indeed would take me back to the arena days!” Metillius patted Khârn’s shoulder again and then gave him a small shove towards his drop-pod, turning to move to his own specialized one. “Remember Khârn, two thousand heads!”

Minutes later, the Gladius would ease into orbit and hundreds of drop-pods were released, followed by dozens of Stormbirds swooping from the massive hangar doors, escorted by fighters. Information would be sent down to the Hospitallers concerning flight paths and landing areas. Naturally they would be landing right in the midst of the Orkish horde assaulting Fort Maris.

The defenders of the fort would be able to see the drop-pods screeching through the atmosphere, first as angry red tears as they were heated, then as black dots as they cooled, growing steadily in size until they finally slammed down in the sea of Orks. Hundreds of Orks were killed from the impact of the pods alone, either crushed directly underneath the pods, or otherwise pulverized by the force of the shockwaves. The next blow came as the restraining bolts blew, the heat shields were violently ejected from the pods, carving lines through the Orks, and the hatches finally fell, slamming onto the scorched ground around the pods.

Then the Marauders came. They exited the pods and immediately started carving into the Orks around them, the greenskins own momentary shock gone as soon as they saw something else to fight. Orks were deadliest in melee combat, not quite on par with an average Astares in terms of skill, but their brute strength and battle-lust were not to be ignored. Against the Marauders however, they were found sorely lacking even in their brute strength. The Marauders tore through the Orks in swaths, gore and viscera soon all but coating the armor of the Marauders.

Khârn was true to his word, sticking to Morlaths right as they waded through the Ork horde, his chain axe biting through muscle, sinew, and bone alike. He watched out of the corner of his eye as he watched Morlath grab a true brute of an Ork by its face, lifting it from the ground and using it as a shield as an Ork with a machine gun fired off several dozen rounds, cutting down several of its own kind. There was a wet crunch as Morlath squeezed the Orks face, shattering it, before he bodily threw it at the Ork gunner. The massive body slammed into the smaller Ork, and before it could recover Morlath had closed the distance and drove his boot down on the beasts head.

Half a click away though was where the slaughter truly was, as Metillius cleaved through two or three Orks per swing of his power sword. Metillius liked fighting Orks, there was a simplicity to them that he could admire, and a courage born from the lack of sense. They did not flee from him, no, they seemingly lined up to await their turn to cross blades with him, impatient and delighting at their own kin being cut down like weeds. They would flee eventually, of course, once the largest of them, their Boss, was bested. But they would reform quickly enough and return.

Effortlessly demolishing the Orks before him, Metillius opened a communication link to his brother.

“Melchoir, my brother! You have such wonderful neighbors, to give us such entertainment upon our visit!” He laughed, bringing the pommel of his sword down on an Orks head and not bothering to watch as it exploded from the force. “Do you perhaps know the location of their war lord? I would very much like to fight it.” He asked, hopeful. If it was like any other Ork boss he had fought before, it would come to find him before too long, but just in case it was one of the clever ones, Metillius would go to it.

[Audunia]

Encountering the mountain that defied definition had certainly not been the intention when he’d taken the squad on patrol. They gazed at it, almost hypnotised by the fact it shoudln’t exist. None of them were experts in geology or mountains, but they knew it made no sense for its existence. Sat in the middle of a salt plain that stretched for miles, utterly featureless and oppressively hot, it rose from it.

It not only stuck out like a sore thumb, but Kyublai wholeheartedly believed it was taller than even Olympus Mons on Mars. It’s features confused him as well. Though nature was anything but symmetrical, it could be relied on to produce something regular. Ways to help classify natural phenomena, but this mountain did not possess any of that. It’s lines seemed to move in disregard for what would be expected of it, no regularity of any sort could be divined from it.

For someone as practised in art, it infuriated Kyublai to no end. It was a wonder to look at, but to translate it to canvas? That would certainly be an exercise in futility. The thrum of his jetbike died down as he deactivated it, dismounting and pulling out a data-slate.and noting down its location. His gene-father, the Cu, had always dissuaded them from taking notice of anything outside of the physical realm, but those of Chogorian descent were slightly more independent minded than those from Vereden or even Tuatha.

They would conduct their own investigations, but his father’s prejudices often meant they lacked anything to do so with. The sound of thumping boots brought his attention around, seeing Jurga walking to him, the black top knot blowing lazily in the gentle breeze. “You are going to summon the Elos, aren’t you?” he asked without hesitation. Kyublai returned to his work, cataloguing the unique features that the mountain possessed. “The Cu will be furious when he finds out”

“The Cu is mad at many things, he would be mad that we did not melt the mountain down at first sight” Kyublai responded without raising his head “Anything that even feels spiritual infuriates him”. Despite not seeing it, he knew that Jurga’s face was hardening in response to his words.

“One of these days, you will say something ove the line, brother, and I do not think the Cu would appreciate it, '' Jurga said, turning his gaze to the mountain. Kyublai didn’t respond. Jurga, though a good warrior and a better scout, was too loyal to the Cu, he couldn’t understand that this is what the Cu wanted from his sons. To question him and hold him to higher standards, or at least provide acceptable reasons for his actions. Discussing the warp may have been taboo, but Kyublai was simply trying to expand the mandate in which he could hold the Cu up. They remained in silence as Kyublai continued to work, he heard the thrum of jetbikes speeding off to establish a cordon and ensure there was no presence of the enemy in the area. He doubted it, the distant echo of artillery indicated there were far greater concerns for native resistance than looking after a bizarre mountain.

He did, however, credit Jurga with one thing. Informing the Elos and her sons about what they found would certainly earn the ire of their father, particularly since there were very few siblings who got along as poorly as those two. Unfortunately, there existed no greater expert on these matters. The clandestine partnership had existed for a few decades at this point, though to ensure it would remain so only middle-ranked Hierophants would ever answer summons so as to not attract serious amounts of attention.

“What do you think it is?” Jurga asked, Kyublai turning his attention to him.

“Uncertain, it’s certainly not natural though” he shrugged, studying the pretenatural formation “And if you centre yourself, you can feel energies washing off of it, unpleasant yet intoxicating”

Jurga scoffed “I cannot centre myself as you can, and I have told you to keep the fact you can hidden if you wish to keep your head” Kyublai placed the dataslate into his leather satchel, sighing. His nature was a closely guarded secret, Jurga had discovered it accidentally and would have spilled it had they not come from the same tribe on Choogoris. And the fact it made detecting the foe early easier for their squad.

“I know, but I do not have to do a thing to feel it, centreing only gives these sensations greater depths”

“Then you should remain in the shallows, we know not what resides in the depths.” Jurga answered, turning about “Shall we have a closer look?” he asked before heading back to his jetbike. Kyublai nodded, returning to his jetbike.

As they neared the mountain, he made note that the salt plains were not entirely without feature, a number of bizarre patterns constructed out of standing stones decorated the mountain as they got closer, logging them in the data-slate. The mountain itself only enhanced its own mystery, the stone grey giving way to patches of what he could only ascribe to bleached bone. There was something else as well, a small hum had started to play in the back of his mind. At first, he thought it an issue with the jetbike but it remained even after he briefly powered it down, the only real answer was that it was coming from the mountain itself and not some strange sonic weapon produced by the natives.

They came to a halt at its base, he got the strange sensation of how truly small he was in the grand scheme of things, the sheer size of the mountain outclassed every other mountain he’d ever seen, even the great Tengrin on Chogoris. It’s great height reached up into the sky until it’s peak was not even visible from where they stood, however a path was present infront of them that snaked around the great bulk of the mountain. They remained motionless for a few moments until Kyublai accelerated forwards, designating two marines to stand guard as they raced up the mountain path.

The world shrank beneath them as they sped up the path, taking far longer than even their most conservative estimates. In the distance, he could see thick plumes of smoke rising high into the sky, clearly where the battle was being fought. He considered it a bit of an overkill, the natives here possessed very little knowledge in the way of science or industry, resembling one of the more primitive societies he;d encountered. In sight of this though, he imagined victory and compliance would be declared any day now.

Kyublai could sense the frustration rippling off his men, the many hours spent working on their jetbikes to make their speed unmatched was clearly not enough to make short work of this mountain, but he suspected something metaphysical at work here. He could feel it emanating off the very foundations of the mountain, almost as though a chorus singing throughout it. A shiver ran down his spine, the mix of beauty and danger unsettling.

They eventually reached the terminus of their journey, a simple entrance way. Two pillars on either side holding up a squat rectangular roof were its only decoration. Surprisingly understated for such an otherwise extravagant location.

“Dismount, proceed on foot” he ordered, the hum of jetbikes dying and the thud of boots against the hard dusty ground almost in sync with each other. Kyublai cocked his bolter and took point, the auto-senses of his helm adjusting for the darkened entrance. Despite the age of the mountain, it was clear that this entrance was still in use, a series of paths remained clear of any dust that dominated the rest of the area and were far more well worn. “Structure still in use, remain aware for potential occupants” he reported, a series of confirmation clicks coming back in response.

The darkened entrance did not remain darkened for long, the squad quickly showered in a blinding light that the auto-senses struggled to adapt to quickly. Kyublai felt a wet sensation trickle down from his nose, something was seriously unnatural about this place, there had been no indicator that there was a lit area coming up whilst he felt his helm vibrate violently. He ripped his helm off, letting it drop to the ground as he coughed violently, feeling it tear at his throat. He fell to his knees, coagulated blood dotting the ground in front of him.

An armoured hand was placed on his pauldron. Kyublai looked up, trying his best to avoid coughing at Jurga, who looked down at him with concerned eyes, scouring his face for the source of this sudden coughing fit.

He saw Jurga’s mouth move but couldn’t hear a thing, his hearing felt as though he were underwater, feeling pressure build against his temple and every movement he made felt as though he were fighting against some force that were acting against him.

As quickly as it had come on, the episode ended. He felt gravity press down on him suddenly, his body barely prepared to hold the weight that he hadn’t even realised had disappeared. He managed a few shaky breaths before he returned to his feet, Jurga’s eyes still focused on him. He raised his hand, indicating that he was alright, but Jurga hesitated for a few moments before releasing his grip and nodding.

“We found some natives, it seems they’d been piling corpses in front of that” he reported, pointing at a gateway similar to one they’d entered, but this one was far larger. From a simple approximation, he imagined even a titan would appear small next to it. Curiously though, this gateway had two guardians which were the spitting image of Eldar war titans he had encountered before, their features smooth yet untouched by the ravages of time. Who knew how long these statues had been down here, but they seemed almost brand new, and he certainly doubted that the natives were capable of building such things.

He made a quick scan of the room they’d entered, though it more resembled an atrium. Colossal pillars reached up to the summit of the mountain, which Kyublai could now see was open and not closed as he had initially thought, the source of light despite being so far down. They themselves stood on a platform with two ramps that lead down to a parade ground of sorts, a flat piece of ground large enough to fit a company or more of Astartes and still have room for an armoured contingent. Faded spiral patterns decorated the ground, made of what had been once vibrant stones of many colours now. The ground had another ramp that led up to the great gateway, at the bottom of which was piled something.

“Corpses?” Kyublai asked

“Corpses” Jurga confirmed0 “Part of a burial ritual according to them…except the mountain consumes the corpses” Jurga’s eyes glanced back at the dark gateway that stood before them. There had been a similar story on Chogoris, but that had been solved when wolves were discovered to be the real Mouth of the Mountain, but here? He hadn’t seen anything large enough to pose a threat to a human, much less a generation’s worth of the dead.

Kyublai frowned as he looked at the gateway, the small figures of his Black Dogs marching the captured natives away from the gateway miniscule in comparison. He knew it impossible for a mountain to eat anything, much less men, but he felt something ominous radiating out of the gateway, as though vapours of poisonous gas were wafting through, it entice him and repulsed him.

“Inform Anatheus of the Hierophants” he ordered, handing Jurga the data-slate “And enforce a cordon around the mountain once compliance has been attained, do not allow mortals beyond sight of this mountain. As far as they are to be concerned, this is merely our assembly area” Jurga nodded and turned without uttering a word.

It was strange, then, the Kyublai could have sworn he heard a mocking voice come from somewhere.

[Audunia]

Fighting the greenskin menace did not give a warrior as much honour as dueling the likes of an Eldar Lord, but what little could be found was driven in spades, or so Brother Sergeant Vitus Tarsulia of the Second Reserve believed. His men had arrayed smartly upon the rear walls of the fortress, their bolters firing rapidly, the throng of greenskins so thick it would take a conscious effort to miss killing one. The glory in this fighting was to be found in ones endurance and kill tally, to kill a hundred greenskins was expected, but to claim to have fought for hours and killed upwards of three hundred? Now that would be a point worth cheering.

Much to the disappointment of Vitus, their duty as a reserve squad, though honourable and necessary, meant that they had been held back from the fighting until it appeared a portion of the fortress might be at risk. Their deployment was then activated and they fought with glee, burning off the anticipation that had been building throughout their time in reserve, each report filling through the vox channels only serving to set their eagerness to fight ablaze.

The fire of orks though had created some avenues for their mounting of the wall and this caused nothing but disgust and outrage to flow through Vitrus, his bolter slung by his side as his sword sliced through the thick, corded muscle of the green skin. His red robes had darkened from the gore spilt from the greenskins, their viscous life blood of their vile kind slid off his steel coloured armour with every movement.

One of their kind had overextended his thrust, though he had no doubt the greenskin had any idea of it as their concept of fighting was a wild flurry of strong, yet unfocused attacks. Yet it allowed him to enter the guard of the greenskin, his sword piercing straight through its armpit and out of his neck. The vile thing continued to roar in anger at him, Vitus silenced him with a brutal headbut and a cry of fury, the crunch of bone unnoticeable underneath his vox-amplified cry. His holo-senses quickly accommodated for the new crimson material that had covered his lenses, the world changing in colour slightly but not in clarity.

There were still too many, he realised with excited clamour. He’d been at the briefing, assured by the mortal commanders that sensors had picked up only two orks at most, but the planet was now scattered with them, with the vile kinda spewing forth with unrelenting adrenaline. He’d even heard the battle above had affected their operations here, whatever passed for orkish naval tactics had caused a scattering in the fleet bombardments. It was lucky then that Melchior had constructed Fort Maris without regard for the possibility of more greenskins, the excitement of construction and design had gotten to his Lord.

Still, it was not a favourable position to be in. He raised his bolter, planting two bolts into the body of a greenskin that had leapt onto the ramparts, sending the vile thing straight back off and into a stampede of green.

“Brother-Sergeant, look!” The crackle of vox in his ear and the indicator appearing on his holo-lenses caught his attention, blink clearing it as he turned and saw…saw his Primarch, towering above them as his sword slew scores of the greenskins with a single stroke. A smile was upon his lips as he cheered, his own sons joining in. He thrust his blade through the chest of a warboss, his spare hand demolishing its skull with a series of punches. Yes, that was perfection made flesh. He let out a cheer.

“Our father has joined us in the fray!” he called out, a wave of cheers following his announcement, in between grunts of exertion from fighting “Let us take heart in his presence! Show him we are his mightiest sons!” he bellowed, bringing his bolter and letting its firing on fully automatic, bolts finding purchase, announced by spurts of blood followed by the soft thump of detonation.

The rest of squad joined in, creating a small clearing for a few moments and decorating the sand-coloured stones in puddles of blood. Even the few mortals that survived in this section of wall had joined in, the las-rifles cracking and the soft sizzle of burnt ork filled the air with a strange aroma of cooked meat.

The going was slow, but the greenskins began to lose the small foothold that had claimed on the wall, now decorated in the corpses of their failed kin. Of course, none of the greenskins seemed to take notice of this. They never did.

His holo-lenses lit up again with activity, indicators from his squad showed movement in the distance. What counted as a greenskin rearguard had been busying themselves with the construction of war machines that might crack the formidable defences of the fortress, but now something else was there. A banner had appeared, a crowd of black armoured Astartes alongside it, tearing havoc amongst them. Vitrus smiled beneath his helm, so the Reluctors had finally decided to make themselves known.

“Ha ha ha!” He heard Melchior cry, gesturing with his mighty sword towards where they were appearing from “Look, my sons! The Reluctors bring destruction upon our foes! Let us show this pitiful showing what happens to those that dare stand against the power of man!” at his words, the roar of cannon became deafening, flamers ignited, rendering swathes of the horde into simple non-existence, their forms quite literally erased from existence. His smile widened, now this was where the glory of battle came from.

The fighting was truly glorious, the ground shook with the thunder of charging greenskins and the detonation of artillery shells, scaring great swathes out of the land and reducing scores of the greenskins to complete destruction. Vitus felt his body come to life despite the rigors of combat, the effortless switch from bolter to melee and back. He was starting to understand the World Serpent’s insistence that combat could be an art form.

He had almost lost himself in it, letting only his instincts guide him, until several alerts appeared on his auto-senses. He yanked his blade free from the chest of an Ork, kicking its body off the battlements and falling to the mass of green below. He looked to the sky, green sigils dotting into existence, behind which the appearance of shooting stars.

No, not shooting stars. Drop pods. He let out a cheer as it appeared more Astartes had joined the gray.

---

Melchior grinned at the sight, it appeared his request for aid had been answered and, looking at the reports cycling through his com-bead, it was none other than the Marauders. Fine warriors, at their base level, though a bit too willing to indulge in their need for battle and often took it over the top on occasion.

It made dealing with them somewhat annoying, especially as they tended to tower over regular Astartes. Excluding that, they were generally good natured and tolerable. The same could be said for their Primarch, though his love of jibes could be a bit grating.

He devoted a portion of his attention to watching the Maruaders at work, completely throwing themselves into combat. It was easy to see them if you kept a sharp eye for geysers of blood that seemed to blast into the sky. The orks themselves seemed slightly torn over who to attack, the Hospitallers and their mighty defenses were an intoxicating target for an army obsessed with fighting, imagine what spoils could be hiding behind those walls? The Reluctors at their rear, destroying their contraptions and weapons, but to turn around would be similar to retreating and that would be simply intolerable, only the fight of sneaky humans was drawing. Then there were the Marauders, hulky beasts of melee prowess and, most handily, right in their midst.

The combination of the three proved utterly stagnating to whatever cohesion the greenskins had, portions of the horde splitting off to fight different targets of their aggression. Metillius, unmistakeable in his oversized armour, seemed to be carving a blood path in search of something.

Melchoir, my brother! You have such wonderful neighbors, to give us such entertainment upon our visit! Do you perhaps know the location of their war lord? I would very much like to fight it.” he heard come through his comm-bead. Melchior frowned at the question.

“Their war lord? He seems to be a particularly covert beast, I could count one one hand the amount of times he’s been spotted” he answered, running through his memories of sightings of the war lord “Last he was mentioned was no more than a day, westwards of here. Why? Do you seek to deprive me of the honour of slaying their lord?”

[Ormata]

Signifier Cario
XXI Maniple, Occulta, IV Legion “Reluctors”
Outskirts of Fort Maris, Tau-Breices Prima 7-4-3

The Signifer stood along the trenches, peering-out just over the few blades of yellowed grass in the fields. The heights of Fort Maris stood amid a swarm of greenskins. Turrets burned-out streams of fire as mortal troops blanketed volley after volley of las-bolt into the Ork horde. Artillery thundered in the distance before great plumes of black earth was thrown into the sky a breath later, bodies and vehicles thrown with the force of the impacts. Aircraft screamed overhead, many firing off their missiles. Fort Maris would have been a work of art, he thought, though such an effort would have been wasted on something intended to be shelled and burned on the outside.

The Orks were still mustering about in the further distances, many of them taking to the construction of war machines with a will he could somewhat appreciate. It was like a hive of termites at work, black and green dots amid the toxic smoke belching into the grey-green sky, and he narrowed his eyes at their work. The helm worked itself, vision zooming to the interesting facets of their work. Between spires of blackened metal and earth, hard red sparks flew from welders and grinders, tiny swarms of green following the larger beings, while teams of them hauled great guns into their housings. The Orks were readying themselves still, even as they pressed onwards, even as they threw themselves into blood and fire.

He watched, before turning his head just slightly. Steps announced another’s approach along the steel-bound trench. The Signifier did not need to guess why. Most of the other brothers were happier to let him be as he thought.

“They have not noticed us.”

“No, they have not.”

It was not hard to imagine why. The Hospitallers had built Fort Maris as a challenge, a great and massive one to the greenskins which could not be ignored. They had done so to entice the Orks into a great and singular battle, to destroy them in one fell blow. Altogether, the plan had worked for the most part. The Orks had mainly been driven to attack Fort Maris, though some others had seemed to think they had better ideas. Other cities and fortresses had been struck by the foe, though not to such a degree as the Hospitallers’ main stronghold. The Reluctors, by contrast, had built their host amid a low plain, mainly sunk into the earth and armored with ceramite and steel. Matte gun barrels silently tracked the battle as their operators gauged the distance carefully.

“We shall show them, then,” Tribune Saturio grinned through his words, “We shall show them, as I said before, as we spoke of before. The Maniple is ready for it. Your Battle Standard, Signifier. Hoist it high.”

Hoist it high. It was not a command Signifier Cario needed to be told twice.

His fist broke against breastplate in a salute before the Astartes set-off in a low-crouched sprint along the length of the trench, down to the command bunker where it was set. As Cario moved, sabatons clashing into the metal grille floor, he could see the platoons gathered. Along the trench there were close blocks of fifty here and there, a Land Speeder formation at pause below the berm with crews already mounted, a Voidbike formation or two with their engines whine coursing through the air, and the Predator formation was readied with hatches already closed down. There was the smell of oil in the air, of burning oil. The bunker’s guns had begun to elevate, then, and a glance confirmed that. The bombards were likely doing the same. The Maniple is ready for it. He could only hope.

Soon enough the Battle Standard was in his hands, and he stood along the trench with it held high. On the walls of the fortress, Cario could see…the Primarch, standing amid the mortals and greenskins, butchering as only a Primarch could. It set fire in his blood, steel in his soul.

The Tribune seemed to materialize beside him. He did not notice Saturio’s approach this time, only his voice upon the vox. He spoke there, his tone a jovial vindictiveness that Cario had come to know the Astartes by.

“Advance! For the Imperium! For the Primarch! For the Legion!”

“Honor! Blood! Glory!” They roared into the air, the whines and sputters of engines turning into a chaotic frenzy. The bombards and fortress-cannons of the Occulta spoke as well, adding their own fire to the mix as shells rained into the Ork ranks. Red and green smoke burst among them as well, opaque amid the chaos and clear to the sensorums of the Astartes. The Voidbikes set into the air, soon becoming blurs in the distance, the Land Speeders sprinting after them, and the blocks of Astartes broke from their trenches, soon scattering about in loose formation as they closed the distance. Bolter fire rang in the air as they fired on the move while heavy bolters paused to let loose deadly handfuls of shells. The Predators moved along the flank, in the corner of Cario’s eye, hunters among the chaos to find singular points of prey.

And among this, among the others, Cario charged, the Battle Standard held up high.

---

Signifier Cairo buried his power sword in the chest of one charging ork, its momentum carrying the beast halfway down his blade before the marine pulled it free, ichor sloughing upon the metal. Their charge had brought the Maniple into good enough range, though like any sort of ork their rearguard had promptly counter-charged, eager to get into the fray. The Battle Standard yet stood tall, however, the Signifier holding it aloft in one hand while jutting the end into his midriff. The orks continued to pour into the Reluctor formation, scattered as it was by the charge.

Then the Predators opened fire with shrapnel and shot, blasting holes in the enemy’s front ranks. Cairo’s vision turned hazy as hammer-bells rung the helm, flashes of white before black soil washed over his armor, and what was a roaring force had been rendered meat and bone. The shout of Lieutenants over the vox, frequencies lapping into the command channels, broke him from the reverie.

A platoon here and there formed into hard ranks, first rank firing bolt after bolt into the ork ranks as the second held fire. Greenskin after greenskin turned into paste as their rearguard faltered in momentum, the Predators turning their attention to the crude walkers and war machines the ork had among its horde. They fired sporadically, maneuvering as some of the enemy took notice of the tanks.

“Second and Third Platoon, advance slow! Push them against the walls!” The Tribune barked out over the vox communications. “Signifier, advance the colors!”

“By your command,” Cairo responded, his feet digging trenches into the soft black soil. The blocks of marines moved up as well, walls of bolter and ceramite constantly barking out gouts of white, and slowly the orks moved back. A warrior, larger than the rest, would rally a group here, there, before a Predator turned its attention to him and suddenly the ork disappeared in a flash of shell, and their momentum was denied.

Cairo smiled, his hand tightening about the Battle Standard.

In the sky, however, another force began to descend. A tide of stars seemed to fall from the heavens, white-hot as they exited atmosphere, the cracks of the sound barrier lost amid the din of combat. Bolter volleys tore into the orks as the drop-pods made their landings within the enemy morass, the colors of the Marauders clearly visible as doors opened to reveal their exultant passengers. The growl of chain-axes began, the Astartes within throwing themselves against the enemy with such a ferocity that it set them back even as the momentum of their advance stalled. Cairo could sense their confusion, their torn objectives and focus, though many of the xenos simply resorted to the simplest action they could. They fought back against the Marauders, roaring challenges even as they were butchered.

There was something poetic about the method the Marauders took apart their foes. One swing turned into another into another and so on. They never seemed to cease their movement, always jumping from one action to the next, one foe to the next. The energy was intoxicating, rallying, full of pulsing life. His hand grasped the Battle Standard, dipping it just a fraction in salute.

The vox in his helmet sputtered to life.

“Cease fire! Stragglers only. Let them have their fun. Second Platoon, hold here to prevent any xenos escape. All units, advance on waypoint Thresh.”

“By your command, Tribune.”

The further distance roared with bombard fire, artillery pieces beginning to pick apart the orks at their staging grounds. Explosions threw black plumes and orange flames into the sky as shells landed about half-finished gargants and other crude ork mechanisms of war before, just as he suspected would happen, one shell found an ork ammunition pile. A greater explosion threw chunks of sheet metal and engine components into the sky, far, far up, and one of the gargant bellies burst outwards in a gout of fire. Boots dug into the earth as the artillery continued to fall against the ork grounds, the foe starting to man their half-finished creations in a bid to attack.

[Krugmar]

Co-write with Oblivion2

Star of the Waning Summer

A company of Steel Men had gathered to form a welcoming party. Around them stood a number of Remembrancers, eager to set this moment in stone based on their chosen medium (indeed, for Gallius Geren the famed sculptor that could indeed be his intention.) Elsewhere in the hangar servitors and deckhands went about their duty, content, or programmed, to ignore the incoming arrivals.

The Steel Men were the Horsebreakers, the elite 1st company of the 2nd Stratos. They had earnt their title on Tensin IV, facing against a divergent strain of man which had an equine lower half and a near-human upper half. They were judged barbaric and unworthy of integration, for they had practiced cruel religious rituals sacrificing their own to dark gods. Hektor had led the scourge of the world in an efficient manner. To his lament not all of them had been slain, a well-connected imperial commander accompanying him had managed to ferry some off-world. His complaints had gone nowhere, the man was too well connected. The best Atlas had been able to do was have him and his men reassigned to another legion. Hektor was thankful for that.

It did not occur to Hektor that it may not have been an honour at all, instead a slight joke on Evonios’ part, to have the Duskbreakers met by the Horsebreakers.

“My Lord, Lord Atlas awaits you in the Command Centre. He is most pleased that you have come.” Hektor said, giving the primarch a genuine smile. Having served Atlas for near a century in the upper echelons, this was not his first time meeting Domnhall, and he had been given the honour of attending not one but two discussions between Atlas and Domnhall before.

He led Domnhall and the Duskbreakers through the ship. There had not been much time to prepare, but along some of the hallways tapestries representing the two primarchs and their victories had been placed up, as well as various artifacts, and spoils of war that they had collected or given to another as gifts.

Every ship of the Imperium was a labyrinthian maze, and a gloriana-class as ancient as the Star was not exception. But finally they arrived at their destination.

“If it please my Lord, myself and the Horsebreakers will keep the Duskbreakers company, while you meet my Lord Atlas.” Hektor said.

“Of course, Honoured Nephew.” The Primarch of the Nineteenth said with a smile and a slight bow. “I am certain that you all have many stories to share with one another; a shame we could not have helped you make any more on Ullanor.” He clapped the Astartes gently on his shoulder pauldron before stepping inside and murmured softly, “Thank you.”

Inside the Command Centre Domnhall could see a whir of activity. There were some faces he would recognise, but there would be many more he did not. When last he saw it the room had been smaller, and usually near empty unless being actively used for a campaign. Now it was vast, and attended to by generals, admirals, technicians, magi, Steel Men, and various others. None of them took any notice of him, being glued to their screens, hanging around hololiths arguing, or typing endlessly.
Though that was only partially true, for one took notice of him. Long blond hair falling to his shoulders, set in shining silver armour with a silken Stirian cloak about him, and one fierce yellow eye piercing through to his soul. The Warmaster’s gaze was upon him.

Atlas smiled and bounded over, “Domnhall, it has been too long!.” He said, embracing his brother

“A lifetime, it feels like.” Domhnall replied and held his brother tight, his armoured hand clapping him on his broad back.

“Come, we should speak in my office. There is much to discuss I am sure.” He said, motioning towards a glass box set at the back of the room, overlooking it in its entirety.

Domhnall grinned, showing white, wide teeth and nodded at his brother. “Of course! I could use your advice on the Eastern Campaign; there are interesting pockets of Xenos activities that may prove a very different sort of challenge.” His tone was jovial, but his eyes were a deep, dark blue. A colour Atlas would always have associated with serious thoughts on the King of Green’s mind.

Atlas took a seat on one of the chairs usually used by one of his Ekthroi or other subordinates, and invited Domnhall to do the same, leaving his more ornate and gilded throne empty. “Pockets are all that seem to be left. I suppose the Emperor intends us to fill in the gaps before we join him on Terra.” Atlas replied. He hoped that Domnhall had not come just to discuss the various ways of killing xenos, there were other siblings far more amiable to getting into the nitty-gritty of xeno guts than himself.

Domhnall did seat himself, the smile slipping from his face. “I’m inclined to disagree; the Eastern Fringes are vast and it feels as though we’ve hardly scratched the surface out there. Seems like every other week my sons have discovered a new civilization or stellar phenomena. I’m certain the same is true for the Galactic north.”

He waved that particular aside away, “Truthfully, I’m here to do as I’ve always done for you; To help you unburden your thoughts. And to affirm new oaths to you as Warmaster of this Crusade of ours. I thought we would talk first and then you could decide how public a spectacle you wanted to make this.” He glances back at the assembled personage in the command module behind him, “The Mob does love a show.”

Atlas smiled, though it did not take long to fade. “I fear an oath, while of the best intentions, would be a mistake. It is no secret there are among our siblings those who feel that the title should have been theirs, or that I am usurping the Emperor’s authority. While I am owed oaths, I am content to not seek them. Throne knows I have already turned down the Emperor’s offer to rename my legion, I would not set myself above my siblings any more than necessary.”

“Your advice, though, I shall always gladly receive.” He said, his smile returning.

“My advice is thus; Don’t be a fool.” Domhnall’s words were softened by his own smile. “There are those amongst us who could have been Warmaster in your stead; that is true enough. I wouldn’t deny it. But for all their skills, they lack one thing or another that makes them perhaps not perfectly suited to the role. Atlas, you’ve always had the best balanced humors of us. You know when mercy is a virtue and when it is a vice you cannot afford. You know humility, but you’ve always carried yourself with pride. And you are an able commander with a strategic mind few could match. Most importantly, however, the galaxy listens to you when you speak.”

Domhnall gestured with a hand, “I cannot help you with any of our siblings who would denounce me as a witch, nor will my oath to you change how they feel; save perhaps you managing to shame them somewhat, as I the clearly addled Psyker could see sense when they could not. What my oath will do for you is help reinforce the trust in you that your immediate contenders for the Position will need to have going forward; Hesta, Essun, Cornelia; they all think well enough of me that my placing my oath in your hands would ease their doubts.”

He gestured at the empty command throne, “And sit in the damn chair. Take a symbol of office. You’re Warmaster now and you should act like it. Half the reason father’s been so successful is his mystique. Too many people can’t help but feel awed or intimidated by all the gold and flames and the trappings of power. So long as you never fall prey to your own mystique, what could it hurt? It may very well help you keep certain other personalities in line, while the cleverest amongst us will always know you’re still the same Atlas that you’ve always been and will not be bothered by such trappings.”

“Perhaps you are right.” Atlas said softly, gazing over at a hololith displaying Ullanor, attended to by several senior commanders tasked with dismantling the Triumph’s temporary buildings. “I have sat here too long, dealing with minor bureaucracy and mulling over this role. I shall take your oath in my Court, before the best of our legions, and Remembrancers to spread it to every corner of the galaxy. Then I shall depart this world and set in motion my plans, and embrace my place as Warmaster whether my siblings accept it or not.” He said, pushing himself to his feet. He gave a wave of the hand to a legionary below them, who immediately set off to find Evonios.

“Thank you brother. Without your encouragement I’m not sure I would be able to steel myself for what must come. But knowing I may rely upon you and others no matter what comes, no matter the choices we must make or the sacrifices we will face. Solitude does our kind no favours. I hope the Emperor remembers that at Terra.” He said, grasping Domnhall’s shoulder.

They continued to speak, dwelling on various lighter matters and revelling in old campaigns long past, before Evonios interrupted them. Arrangements had been hastily made, crowds gathered in the Court, and time for the Oath had come.

[Audunia]

“Distance to the enemy, Shipmaster?”

“15 kilometres, Lord”

“Increase speed then, I want to bring our foe’s their destruction point blank” Shipmaster Pellas Candemere reported back affirmation, keying in several instructions to his delegated crew. It took a few minutes before he heard the tell-tale groan of the engines putting all they had, the metallic groan of the superstructure struggling to keep up with the high pressure the maneuver demanded. His lord, Primarch Sceafa Kentigern, was a beast who adored speed and had done a number of refittings to ensure that the Dread Wake was one of, if not the, fastest of her sister Gloriana vessels.

You cannot kill what you cannot catch, was the adage Sceafa often repeated when the topic was broached, and it was one Pellas could find himself agreeing with. He did that a lot when it came to his Lord. Even he couldn’t deny the rush he felt when the Dread Wake reached its full potential, reaching the target would be no trouble indeed.

Their foe was one particularly vile, humans who not only rejected the Imperium and his Lord, but one who openly consorted with Xenos. Their first meeting had been aboard this very vessel, he’d been wearing his white Shipmaster tunic and his medals were proudly on display. He’d stood with straightened back at the arrival of the humans, who named themselves the Alanian Confederation, but felt bile rise in his throat when xenos had attempted to step foot on his bridge, he hadn’t hesitated to pull his bolt pistol.

Things went violently south from there, the Alanians unwisely refused to disassociate with their xenos allies or even allow their destruction, so their representatives were slaughtered and their diplomatic vessel was torn asunder in moments. Under his orders, of course. He could not allow his Lord to be accused of acting in such a manner and attacking diplomats, no, this was an independent action for which he was justly punished. He flexed his mechanical hand, its gears whirring. A small price to pay for his Lord, who had been so kind as to ensure the augemetic limb was top of the line.

He looked from his screens to the small fleet that was rapidly coming into view. Sensors indicated that they were attempting to flee, which was understandable as they were faced with not only one of the greatest battleships ever constructed, but two other fine specimens (the Halcyon Age and the [i[Unmaskable Fury[/i], backed up by 16 escort vessels of varying types. Even against technologically similar foes, it was still a daunting battle group to face, but the Alanians were not on their level, to them it was insurmountable. Certainly was wasted in simple shark attacks. But alas, his Lord decreed their naval forces would be destroy before they attacked their numerous worlds.

Their vessels were more primitive, akin to retrofitted cargo ships pressed into service; the whole business nearly took the honour out of war. Nearly. As they neard could see the bulky freighters attempting to flee, their batteries placed awkwardly and almost certainly barely usable, even from this distance he could see the exhaust would cause some thermal scarring to the outer hull if used too much.

Flashing red alerts brought his attention back down to his screen, his eyebrow rising slightly. Interesting. “Lord” he said, getting Sceafa’s attention “It would appear the foe have allies breaching from the Warp, sensors indicating at least three vessels”

Sceafa was silent for a moment as his head turned to look at the vessels, whose batters had begun to light up in various colours in preparation for firing, their shocking speed likely throwing off their targeting systems. He let out a small chuckle “Three? I commend their bravery, let them come and die with their brothers then” he raised his left hand and Pellas became eager, his Lord had allowed him to open fire.

He excitedly keyed in a number of commands, the sound of the bridge becoming louder as his crew began preparing for combat. The light dimmed to better disguise the vessel’s bridge whilst he saw space around him begin to shimmer as the frontal void shields were strengthened.

“Shipmaster, begin the Slashing Dagger maneuver” Sceafa ordered, almost absentmindedly. Pellas grinned, nodding. He spun in his Captain’s chair, bringing himself about face to Navigation.

“Lieutenant, Slashing Dagger maneuver, begin rerouting ship’s guidance downwards, optimum target designated the Armenial. Void shields should be adjusted accordingly, understood?” he asked quickly, his deck crew giving confirmation. He quickly brought himself face to face with the gunnery department “Bring volcano cannon into operational capacity ready for immediate firing, spinal cannons are the be heated and fired when the order is given” the gunners likewise gave their affirmation.

He brought himself back to his position, placed upon a raised podium at the rear of the bridge, sending necessary coordinates and attack targets to their destinations. He felt at ease like this, the certainty with which he had to carry his orders and his absolute confidence made these encounters simple for him. Lesser men might have cracked under the pressure, but not him, never him.

The tell-tale signs of volcano cannon actiation began to ring through the bridge, a growing whine that kept reaching a higher and higher pitch until it was well outside the hearing of mortal men. A simple command appeared on his console Begin maneiver?. He smiled as he keyed it in. He felt his stomach drop almost immediately, a side-effect of the internal gravity generators struggling to compensate. Indeed, the groaning of the ship’s superstructure became a riot of furious complaints, the juddering of metal undergoing immense amounts of pressure. He looked up, seeing their target coming into view, the largest and awkwardly bulkiest of the small squadron they’d encoutnered, reminded him of a handleful of blocks fused together against its will.

A strange, void-travelling turtle, he thought. But the view began to shift, as the vessel began an awkward attempt at turning about to face them, the Dread Wake began to drop beneath it. The violent discharge of the volcano cannon sent brutal shudders throughout the vessel, their vision becoming momentarily blinded as the bridge’s sensors fought to compensate for the sudden brightness. It suddenly darkened as the result of its firing was shown to them, the vessel was virtually crippled in a single fell swoop, portions of its hull and interior had been turned into slag, exposing it. He imagined any mortal caught in its wake had been rendered in non-existence, burned away by the immense heat of the weapon.

Unfortunately for the Armenial, its punishment was not yet done. The massive bulk of the Dread Wake had brought itself beneath the vessel, its spinal cannons unleashing its payload. The ship was torn apart under the barrage, quite literally, holo-vids showed sections of the vessel separating apart from one another and sent adrift. Whatever what used to fuse the sections of the vessel together was not designed to withstand the unforgiving barrage that Imperial vessels were capable of.

“Target destroyed” Pellas said, his smile remaining on his lips.

“Good, the rest should panic and hasten their own destruction” Sceafa replied “Fine work Shipmaster, I do believe we caught them quite unprepared with that wonderfully executed maneuver”

Pellas did not think his smile could get any wider at Sceafa’s words, his heart began to thump so loudly he was certain his Lord could hear it. A brief “Thank you, Lord” was all he could manage without embarrassing himself and slipping over his words. He returned to the console, slowing hiis breathing as he studied the rest of the battle. The two battleships had caught three of the vessels running the T, no doubt brought on by desperation to escape, whilst some of the escorts had ended up amongst the floundering vessels. Further inspection informed him that some had withdrawn and established a cordon of sorts. However, something was irking at the back of his mind, no sighting of those three vessels.

He requested and received sensor information, seeing they had broken warp at least 20 minutes previously, but not a single move against them. He keyed communication with the commander of the Danse Macabre, who was stationed closest to their Mandeville Point, but reports back indicated that they were just sitting there, observing. His brows furrowed, as intercepted data indicated that the vessels were communicating, urgently if one looked at the frequency of comms.

“Lord, permission to launch a boarding operation” he asked, looking from his console at the Primarch. His good side was facing him, nobleness was carved into every feature. A jaw that seemed to be from stone and sharpened, a pointed nose that never felt as though he were looking down at you, while long, dark brown hair was pulled back into a top knot. When Sceafa turned to face him, the scars came into few. It looked like a battlefield after torrential rain, deep cuts ran like trenchlines across it while it seemed as though portions of his face had melted and dried as such, like metal superheated into slag. All of it surrounded a hollowed eye socket, which he knew would have once possessed a keen and penetrating blue eye.

“On what grounds, Shipmaster?”

“The Alanians are communicating, Lord. Three battleships lay just out of range, capable of intervention, but do not.”

“Perhaps they have realised the futility of it”

“Of course, Lord, but I do not believe so, else they would have fled by now. I wish to know why they are there”

Sceafa was silent, nodding slowly “Astute thinking, they may be planning something. Iniital inspection places these new arrivals as unencountered, who knows what they are capable of. Permission granted, deploy the seventh and twelfth Burh, intended target?”

Pellas returned to his console, searching frantically. The damages sustained to the vessels was serious. The Dragon Eternal? No, it’s hull may be intact but it’s communications array was destroyed before the sensors indicated communication. He scanned through the data log before finding his match.

“The Bronzed Calf, it received the most messages from the three vessels and it’s interior is at least 60% intact.” he replied, Sceafa nodded.

“A fine choice, I had thought the same. See to it the fleet ceases firing upon it, further damage might make info retrieval more hazardous

“Aye, Lord”

[Audunia]

Dread Wake,
Belteshezzar Opis

The order had been given, and it was his Burh that had been chosen to follow it through. On this, he knew he would not fail. He placed his sky blue helm upon his head, a white stripe down the centre indicated him as a Lieutenant amongst the Legion. His combat knife slid comfortably into the scabbard roped to his thigh, while he held his bolter firmly in his hands, It had seen him through dozens of conflicts, and he knew it would get him through this. He was not the sentimental type, this was simple certainty.

He was Belteshezzar Opis of the World Serpents, Lieutenant of the Seventh Burh of the First Althing of the Second Fyrd, the Viper’s Venom as they liked to call themselves. He allowed the nickname to remain, it gave his men something to cry out with pride when they assaulted an enemy's position. More importantly, it gave him something of a reputation to live up to.

“Lieutenant, the Burh has loaded” his equerry, Leondeos, reported to him from the doorway into his personal arming station. He answered with a grunt, departing the room with Leondeos following close behind him. Though it would not fit in the cramped confines of starships, Leondeos would typically be carrying the banner of the Seventh Burh, but he had instead settled on a simple chainsword and bolt pistol confirguration. The armament, though typical, meant there was a sort of unorthodoxy to his Burh now and thus would require tactical amendments. He frowned, an unneccessary complication this close to the joining of battle.

Passing through the enlarged corridors of the Dread Wake, with mortals clearing their way and offering deep bows at their passing, it did not take long to reach the loading chamber of the boarding torpedoes. Five in total, each holding 20 marines ready to bring death and destruction to those unlucky enough to face them. It might be considered overkill to unleash 200 marines onto a single vessel, but he considered it appropriate, a very costly lesson for their enemy about the material potential of the Imperium.

He entered his assigned boarding torpedo, a wave of acknowledging nods and recognition vox-clicks spreading throughout the bay. He walked to the front, turning to face his men. “Our mission is simple. Locate the communications centre and seize their communication logs for intelligence gathering. Mission parameters give us a maximum of thirty minutes to see this objective achieved and successful withdrawal before the reactor is detonated by elements of the Twelfth Burh. Understood?” he asked, though no one was forthcoming. He nodded to them and set himself into location, feeling the clamps reaching down from the ceiling and securing him in spot.

Almost as soon as he had been secured, he felt the torpedo jolt violently as its thrusters were activated. To ensure torpedo pressure within its cargo hold, it sported no windows or ports to view the outside, but it was not necessary either way. The damage output capabilities of the Bronzed Calf had been thoroughly crippled and Belteshezzar didn’t particularly care to see void combat. Soundless fights over distances even artillery couldn’t reach offered little spectacle for him, brief brilliant flashes of light were not enough to maintain his attention for long.

The torpedo jolted frequently as it steamed towards it target. Tactical overlays appeared in Belteshezzar’s auto-senses. Initial scan readouts of the layout of the vessel, time to impact, the progress of other torpedoes. He blink-clicked the majority of them away, only maintaining information immediately relevant to the twenty marines he had with him, names and ammounition counts hung just within his vision, with a steady heartbeat tracker hung alongside their names..

The transit to the vessel was not long, owing to his Primarch’s habit of using his speed to close with the enemy faster than they could hit him meant that it would have been just as easy to throw the torpedo at them without missing.

“Prepare for impact” he steadied himself as the melta charges on the torpedo began to whine to life. He knew they’d made a successful hit when the torpedo gave a tremendous lurch forwards, though the firm grasp of the clasp get him upright. The timer in his visor turned red as it entered the single digits. He did not need to utter a single word, hearing the cocking of bolters and the whirring of chain weapons in preparation. The torpedo’s hatch busted open, letting in the dim light of the corridor.

He was the first one out, landing on the deck with a resounding metallic clang. His bolter was raised instantly, firing at the sole target in the corridor. It evaporated into a mess of blood and gore as the torpedo began to empty. They’d seemed to have landed in a deserted aspect of the vessel, the sound of distant clagon ringing down it.

He indicated, splitting the squad into two groups of ten. They moved quickly down the right side of the corridor, the corridor fitting their sizable bulk surprisingly comfortably. All around them was the sign of combat, hull plates torn into the cold vacuum of space, bodies floating lifelessly in the air, long since frozen. Frozen clubs of blood followed the bodies, looking almost like red crystal in their sharp edges.

On one of the flame damaged doors read ‘SIGNALS AND COMMUNICATION’. A fortuitous landing, Belteshezzar considered, bringing his men through. The further down they went, the damage of battle began to clear away as the corridors became cleaner and more sterile. It reminded him of the apothecarily clean armour of the Purifiers, the lack of personality matched it as well.

A violent scream and a flash on his heartbeat register brought his attention. Turning, he found a red smear on the ground, ceramite armour crumpled. “Brother Taran, explain”

“Brother-Lieutenant, it appears a delayed automatic response brought the bulkhead down in response to the decompression. Too late to save those within, but it has taken the foot of Brother Carkter” came a vox-crackling response. Belteshezzar frowned beneath his helmet. It had separated three, four if one counted the injured Carkter, from the rest of the squad. Not ideal in unfamiliar circumstances. He brought up the sensor-map of the vessel. The path they were on continued towards the signals array, however it appeared there were potential separate routes for the seperated men to take.

“Brother Taran, take Carkter back to the boarding torpedo, leave another to stabilise him before continuing to the Signals centre. Taking a secondary route through the fifth floor cafeteria and habitation area would have you arrive within an acceptable parameter as us.” he said, a vox-click returning from Taran in confirmation. He saw the indicators of his separated brothers beginning to move and so he blink-clicked the map away. He continued on wordlessly, his six remaining marines following him in a similar fashion.

The metallic interior of the vessel flickered with light, the distinctive wet thumps of bolter detonation indicated the other squads were coming close to their objective. It would not be long before the illumination grid would be brought down and grant their superior darkness sensors the ability to fully dominate.

He rounded a corner when he felt a great pressure against his pauldron, sparks emanating off of him. He moved quickly to the other side of the junction, using the wall as cover. “Threat evaluation”

“Brother-Lieutenant, seems a heavy weapons post. Hastily assembled but still a threat with sustained fire. Sensors indicate at least fifteen hostiles” a crackle response came through.

“It seems we have located the signals and communications centre.” he said understatedly “Brother Hapesh, have an artificier inspect your armour at the cessation of hostilities, your vox is at risk of losing discernability”

“Yes, Brother-Sergeant”

He pulled a smoke grenade from his waist, pulling its pin sharply before tossing it down the corridor. The quiet detonation pre-empted a barrage of stubber fire. However, they were unfocused. Belteshezzar would not be.

He spun onto his knee, the figures highlighting into red behind the cover of the smokescreen. He pulled the trigger, the gun recoiling solidly in his arms. The bolts cleared gaps in the smokescreen, offering a sparing glimpse of the corridor beyond as they screamed through. The red figures began to disappear from his holo-lens, often offering showing the body momentarily torn apart before the highlight disappeared as soon as it was registered as dead. A second brother joined in the barrage, the figures blipping from their sight quicker.

He rose to his feet and steadily moved forwards, the squad in tow. Passing through the smoke, they saw the results of their handiwork. A heavy stubber with a blast shield was decorated with a splashes of dark red crimson and unrecognisable chunks of gore. Bodies lay about, their original form alien to his eyes. They passed through quickly, boots crushing the bodies with each step.

He did not need to tell them to keep their eyes keen, as stubber fire began to rain down on them from behind makeshift barricades and consoles. With their heavy weapon disabled, however, they had no chance of piercing their armour. They did not get the chance to fire in response as the roar of chainblade followed a wall being blown apart. Two World Serpents broke through, separating bodies apart with ease.

Obviously unused to seeing creatures of such overwhelming strength tear a body apart with such ease, those untouched faltered. Some were reduced to tears as they dropped their weapons and huddled in fear, whilst the foolish amongst them attempted to resist, their stub rounds bouncing harmlessly off their ceramite armour.

The men he’d brought with him also joined the fray, seizing on the momentum caused by the surprise entrance of two unknown marines. The defenders were torn apart in mere moments, he expected his men to grant no quarter and so no quarter was given. There’d be no such thing for those who conspired with vile xenos as they had.

They made their way through the signals centre, searching for a main console. The room was not particularly large, primarily dominated by a central circle sunk into the ground which was covered in numerous consoles on which now fallen defenders lay scattered. He’d removed his helm, finding the air palatable and tolerably stale. The metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils, adrenaline pumping furiously in his body in response. He spotted it, to the north of the wall was a tall console, as wide as it was tall, and a central screen blinking in standy.

A body lay slumped against it, clearly they were attempting to purge their records before his men appeared. He nudged the ruined corpse aside as he hunched over, bringnig the console to life. Though it was not in Gothic, he had come to understand the Alanian language relatively well. He withdrew a small metal metal drive and inserted it into the console, flicking through the options.

Redirect Comms

Enter Channels

Recieve transmission

The list was not proving fruitful to his search, scrolling through a number of useless options until he finally found the list of transmission. Entering, a scrapcode from the drive was sprea into the system, perfectly copying the long list of transmission records to the drive. From his own inspection, it seemed that they wren’t trying to purge the code, but rather they were communicating desperately with the mysterious battleships that were residing just outside of reach.

Looking at his chronometer, he did not have the luxury of time to thoroughly read through them, so he withdrew the time when the scrapcode had finished with its imitation protocols. He placed his helm back onto his head, just as the lumens flickered off.

He grunted. Far too late and would require a serious discussion with the Banner in charge of terminating the lumination grid. He sent the order to begin exfiltration through the way Taran and the other marine had come. The corridors were slick with blood, clearly he had given them a far more populated route that he had intended, a brief visual scan of their armour showed serious scarring and superficial burn damage to it, but still splattered with the blood of the enemy. Perhaps a commendation was in order for them.

He checked the vitals of Brother Cartker, his beat steady and normal. He considered it a disappointment, to be denied battle because the wiring of their field of battle was faulty. Skin grafts would be the furthest extent of his medical care, in addition to some bone therapy and restructuring. Two days of rest was the maximum he would need to recuperate, and even then that was generous. At least Cartker would be able to experience battle when they finally to it to them on the ground, as the Astartes were meant to do.

Abandoned corridor after abandoned corridor eventually brough them back to the boarding torpedo. They awkwardly reboarded it, bringing Cartker to rest at the rear of the torpedo as the rest filed in. The clamps came back down to secure them in place as the opening ramp resealed itself. The mechanical sound of the torpedo freeing itself from where it had burned a hole into, hearing the sound of pressure being sucked out of the hole they had added to the outside of the side.

A glance at his indicators showed the successful exfiltration of the other squads. A new one appeared, displaying the vessel and a minimum safe distance they should reach before the vessel detonates. He felt his second heart begin to slow as the torpedo was obviously safe from any aftershock of the detonation.

[Audunia]

Heart of Triumph
42nd Expeditionary Fleet
1st Fyrd of the World Serpents
Thegn Beor Sharpblade

He worked quickly. His eyes ran over the various data-slates and ancient tomes as his transhuman biology allowed, his eidictic memory allowing him to seamlessly transcribe it to vellum, writing with both hands when time allowed. His two hearts beat quickly as he did so, adrenaline ran through his system furiously, the synthetic chemicals understanding that things were ending soon.

His body had lost sensation on its outer layer, even the soft press of his legion robes and fur pelt were unknown to him. The hull rattled violently, he looked at the ceiling of his chambers frantically, eyes darting. They would be here soon, hidden under the guise of battle. The sound of alarm klaxons confirmed his suspicions, vox-emitters indicating the hull had been pierced on the 14th level. He laughed at the ridiculousness of it, momentarily pausing from his hurried work, how anyone would believe the Alanians in their primitive vessels could damage a battle-barge like the Heart of Triumph was beyond him yet because it came from above the mindless fools would accept it wholeheartedly.

He had been like them once, eating up every word that he told them and never doubting it for a moment, but times had changed. Ever since what he witnessed on Illanium, he had started to change with them.

It was bizarre at first, seeing two dead Astartes officers that were sprawled on the operating tables of the Apothecarion. The fact they were at the Apothecarion was not bizarre, the sterile white of the operating theatres were slick with blood during operations, but it was how they had died that confused him. Both had been pierced with direct knife wounds to the back on the neck whilst their torsos had been torn open, ceramite shattered. Even then, as he dug through their mutilated corpses, he found chunks of the ceramite scattered about within.

“Tell me, Apothecary, how did they die?” Thegn Breadon had asked him, his voice dripping with authority befitting his station. He had stifled a laugh, knowing that doing so in the operating chambers would be quiet the insult.

“It appears some sort of external explosion tore through their cermite and destroyed much of their chest cavity.” he had replied, removing the sanitation gloves from his hands “Yet an incision on their back of their necks, planted precisely through the jugular, predates it. They either died outright or choked on their blood, either way it raises questions.”

“Such as?”

“Where the natives got power weapons, nothing they posses can produce cuts so precise and clean” he replied.

That was where the trouble began for him. Thegn Breadon was dead within half a solar rotation, whilst he received non-subtle indicators that he should not mention the mysterious stab wounds. Far from deterring him from investigating, it only encouraged him. He had searched through the notes of his predecessor, Chief Apothecarion Te Garundi, discovering that three such deaths had occured over the span of fifty years. Each with a stab wound at the back of the neck with a second, more obvious cause of death, though it appeared over time the knife wounds had gotten smaller and harder to detect. He even hypothesised some had appeared who had died the same way, yet decaptation prevented Te from being certain.

At first, the mentions were few, but by the third body, Te had started asking questions and ended up in the Apothecarion himself, his autopsy by Beor hid any signs of foul play. Yet, the more Beor dug, the harder it got to find anything. He suspected it was intentional efforts to hide information from him, only compounded by his promotion from Chief Apothecary of the Fourth Byrd to Thegn of the Third Althing, essentially barring him from the personal files of the Apothecary he so desperately needed. Conveniently, the Third Althing was also stationed aboard the Dread Wake which he suspected was to keep a closer eye on him. So he laid low, suspended his investigation except if he were absolutely certain he was not detectable.

His efforts, however, proved successful, the Third Althing being granted its own battle barge under the command of the Thegn. Then he began his investigation again, looking into the details of the two astartes that had first roused his suspicions. There was nothing to link that at first, with the exception of belonging to the same Althing, however they were from different Fyrds and seemed to have very little association with each other. Until he discovered the Lodges.

Those secretive little conspiracies, festering within the Legion, rotting it from within. He had joined when it was first offered, foolishly continuing his investigation as though it were not reported to him. It was that parasite Erebus who first presented Beor that first inkling that something was wrong with the Lodges and the Legion, an issue that went all the way to the top.

That was what brought him to where he was now, recording all that he could remember and read to aid his successors, he could not allow this corruption within the Legion to continue. His auto-quill paused from the vellum, a noise had rung out. Indistinguishable to mortals but all to audible to him. The rush of pressurised air and the brush of fabric against fabric indicating the presence of cameleoline. They were here then.

He looked at what he had written, cursing himself for delaying to put what he knew into writing. He had not even the chance to fully warn of the danger the Lodges posed. His lips straightened, he estimated he had only a brief amount of time left to hide these for his successor. He resolved himself, writing down two words that would arouse the suspicion of anyone reading. SCEAFA LIES!

He set the quill down, rolling the vellum up without regard for whether the ink had dried properly or the smudging of the writing. There was no time. He rose, quickly moving to the far wall of his chambers where a Legion banner hung, the coiled Serpent symbol seeming to mock him now. All the lies he had believed, of his Legion and his Primarch, the dreams of being a hero to those from his home.

He scoffed as he gently moved it aside, imagining how they would think of him now. Actively committing sedition against his Primarch, reduced to such underhanded tactics. Quite the hero.

Under the thick fabric of the banner was a small safe, practically invisible except for the searching eye, blending perfectly with the dark wood of the chamber’s walls. He opened it quietly, placing the scroll within and closing it just as so. Only one knew of the safe’s existence and they would not reveal it until they had judged his successor. He did not pray, but he hoped silently his successor would be as open to the truth as he was.

That was it then, he sighed, feeling a weight lifted off his shoulders. He returned to his desk, breathing as easily as a condemned criminal who has accepted his fate and resolved his sins. He spun around, granting himself his last sight, the view of the endless voice. Peaceful and serene, even the sound of battle could not disrupt this,

Let them come for him, those of the Legion no one spoke of, the Wild Hunt. He had done what he could to allow others to uncover the truth of Sceafa, who displayed himself as a caring, fatherly figure for his sons. Even now, he wanted to believe the lies he had believed for years, but he couldn’t. The wool was pulled from his eyes and the world would never be the same, the reality of the murderous and paranoid father was one he could not ignore. Not when he was coming for him and the dozens of sons before him who had discovered what he had.

He heard the door to his chambers open, the hiss of pneumatics covering the soft footsteps. The corridors sounded clear, of course. One who operated with permission from above could easily redirect crew or kill those unlucky enough to find themselves in their paths. He heard the shuffling of cloaks and the cocking of a weapon, he let out a single calming breath.

“It would appear I have not received our father’s curse of paranoia” he said, remaining with his back to the intruders, vindicated that he was not losing his sanity “Do it then, I have waited long enough”. A muffled bang died before it had even spread, Beor slumping forwards immediately. last image in his eyes the peaceful void and a smile remained on his lips.

[Krugmar]

Inner Palace
Imperial Palace
Terra

“Your curiosity will be the death of you.” He spoke, and Atlas turned to see the golden and radiant figure standing before him. As usual his father had snuck up upon him, catching him as he had planned to stray yet again into the forbidden areas of the Inner Palace.

Atlas could not help but grin, “It is not long until my legion arrives, it may be a long time until I return here. Malcador has been showing me the vastness of our galaxy, how much must be reunified in Your name.” He said.

“But I didn’t tell you to enter the forbidden paths that lead to the Vaults of Rython, Lord Atlas.” Spoke the Sigilite, staff in hand and a small smirk upon his lips. To his right was Valdor, and tailing them was a man in black power armour, slightly larger than the nearby Custodes, one who he had seen often but never talked to.

“You did tell me always to seek the truth, no matter the cost. You and Father both.” Replied Atlas, maintaining his playful smile.

“Atlas.” Said Malcador with a slight smirk. “The Emperor and I refer to seek certain rational truths. Such as thermodynamics as explained by Ancient Terran scientists. Not, the subjective truths of those born of the irrational or archaic logic of mystics.”

Not once did his smile fade, nor his tone adopt a lecturing sound to Atlas ears.

Atlas pondered his words for a moment, stroking the skin where his left eye should have been. Sometimes he felt as though he could feel the missing eye moving, and occasionally the area would tingle or burn, a malady he found could be somewhat be remedied through exploring and learning.

“I think you are right. There are truths and falsehoods that cannot be handled correctly, even by us Primarchs. Still, I must sate my curiosity somehow. If it is agreeable, I will visit the Outer Palace for the last time.” He particularly yearned to see how the remnants of the Techno-Barbarians plied their trade in the shady underground arenas. Perhaps there was something he could learn from them.

The Emperor nodded, radiating a kindly smile. “Of course, Atlas, though I’m afraid you’ll have to explore alone. There is much work to be done, and I must plan out the campaigns we will undertake together. Legion Master Etruscus arrives within the week, and not long after that we shall both be off.”

Atlas nodded and began making his way to the passages that would lead him out of the Inner Palace. To the fighting pits, to learn whatever truths he could.

===

His eye snapped open. He was in his innermost sanctum, quarters none without an invitation, even his Ekthroi, were allowed to enter. He was seated, and had been holding a pict, a very old pict, before his mind had seemingly gone dark, reliving old memories of times past.

Such times of innocence he sorely missed. His time on Stirios, short as it was, had shaped him. The villagers of Agoraki had seen him emerge from the ground, a great figure carrying a vast array of rocks and soil upon his shoulders. They had named him after one of their gods, one who held up the sky. When the Emperor noted the similarities to that of an ancient deity of Terra, he took that as his name. His Stirian name was personal, his Terran one a promise.

He did not dwell on his time on Terra. Naivety, ignorance, what he would give to have it all back. Now the galaxy would suffer because of the truth he had learned. Trillions would die. Many of his siblings would watch their sons die, and possibly join them.

Books and datapads were scattered about him. Endless data had streamed into his mind, old campaigns, discoveries, theories. He searched for information about ancient and terrible weapons. The Emperor was power incarnate, perfection physical and spiritual. He would need an edge, something to render his father mortal in flesh and spirit. Winning the war was irrelevant if he could not strike down the would-be god.

Then there were numerous datapads to his left, ones that he had been looking at before he stared at the pict. Each contained plans for prisons, to be installed into his ship. They were heavily specialised, though all temporary, to be later replaced by some, possibly more permanent, at Terra.

Once the Tyrant was dead, they would listen to reason. His reason. Together they would rebuild the Imperium, finish the Great Crusade, and begin a new Eternal Crusade, into the universe, the Warp, and beyond.

So he hoped.

===

Deep in the bowels of the Star of a Waning Summer, in decks rarely used and largely forgotten about, stood the equerry Evonios, the captain of Atlas' bodyguard Azrael, and Ulysses and Achilleus of the Ekthroi. Scattered around the room were various corpses, freshly slain with strange symbols carved into them.

Azrael held a crooked blade, one with similar strange etchings. It had been given to him by Erebus. It was dripping blood, and its victim was still gasping for air. He clawed at the wound, now gangrenous, and hurled voiceless insults at his murderers.

“It’s taking a lot longer for him to die.” Azrael bluntly stated.

“You should show more respect, Rossas isn’t some mortal, he was one of us once.” Replied Ulysses.

Azrael shook his head, “Anybody who would call Atlas a liar is not one of us. He is not fit to be an Astartes, let alone of the Steel Men.”

Ulysses quashed his desire to argue, and weakly nodded. Their former brother before them began to twitch and convulse, before ceasing all movement. Ulysses moved forward to check him. “He’s dead. What now Evonios?” He asked.

Evonios could not take his eyes from the blade. “We ask Erebus if it worked.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Asked Achilleus.

Evonios peeled his eyes away, looking towards the now decaying body of Rossas. “The galaxy burns, with or without them.”

[Audunia]

Co-write between Audunia and Oblivion2

Dread Wake

Half of Sceafa’s face was permanently smirking greviously, poorly healed scar tissue, lumped and drooping like melted wax, held the musculature pointed upwards tightly. Half his lips had been burned away, his teeth on display gave the appearance of a mocking look, one that intended harm or misfortune upon those that looked upon it. An aura of violence hung closely around him. His unscarred half, was the opposite. Smooth skin, pulled tightly over patrian features, gave some an irresistible urge to stroke it. It was, however, furrowed in thought as he scanned through the partially translated information, his one eye, a deep brown that held emotion eagerly, darting quickly across the page.

The information captured from the raid of the Bronzed Calf have proven…unhelpful to say the least. The language didn’t translate accurately to High Gothic, full of unnecessary poetry and rhetorical devices that pained many in divining its true meaning. Not to mention the use of kennigs whenever there was a chance, this mysterious sea-steed berth seemed to dominate the conversation. From his best guess, it would appear those battlships, that had long since fled before he had the chance to pursue, had originated from there and fled when it became apparent they were too late to effect any sort of difference. He would bet a fine penny that they had returned to the sea-steed berth, full of information gathered about the abilities of the Imperium’s vessels.

He scowled, annoyed that any might possess information about him that he was unaware of, likewise granting them a sort of edge in preparing for when they were inevitably found. At least the knowledge of Astartes seemed to be safe, no word of kenning even coming close to describing the immense power of an Astartes legionnaire, nor even a mention of the colours blue and white. At least he still held one secret up his sleeve.

He looked again at the documents, finding the mention of a ‘womb-world’ followed by the immediate demand that any information on it be put to the torch. The Alanians seemed to delight in archaic speech, it reminded him of Hefenfelth ever so slightly. At least he had drained such wasted speech out of those under his command, some were resistant to civilisation. Looking further, it seemed the vessel had fulfilled the orders of the battleships, any mention of a home or location was firmly burned from memory or utterance. He groaned inwardly, this would likely only increase the amount of time he would have to deal with these miserable people.

The shuffling of feet brought his attention away from the papers. “Yes?” he asked, without turning.

He heard a muffled gasp, followed by a brief admonishment. It would appear there were two people bringing him a message, one master and another an apprentice. “My Lord” a voice came, older and wisened, the master clearly “Sensors indicate the arrival of a Primarch’s vessel”

“My siblings?” he asked, turning his good side slightly, brown eye sharpened as he inspected the pair of messengers. An old man and a younger one, one balding and the other a headful of thick blonde hair, the familial resemblance was certainly there.

It had been a while since he had even considered his own siblings, witnessing Atlas’ ascension to Warmaster had sparked some of his more regrettable attributes and he was only brought out of it when he’d been told he’d ordered the Wild Hunt to kill a Thegn. Unfortunate and covered up, he pushed all thoughts from his mind regarding them, but now why had they come? Did they believe so little in his capabilities to crush a small realm that resisted compliance?

“I have many siblings” he replied, his tone absent of any indicator of his thoughts “Which one is it?”

“Domnhall Ainfean, the Nineteenth, Lord” the older man replied. Sceafa nodded, their most mysterious brother had graced him with a rare appearance. They’d only met a handful of times, if his eidectic memory was correct, the two wayfarers did not have the habit of running into each other. Still, it was an interesting appearance.

“I see, invite him aboard if he wishes to speak. Assemble the First Banner and have three of the Huscarls there to greet him, then bring him to me in the Awning Chamber” he ordered, returning to look at the information, though he took none of it in. Instead, his mind raced with various outcomes of their meeting.

The Dawntreader and it’s escorts settled into a station keeping position around Sceafa’s fleet with the Primarch and his Duskbreaker Guard being transferred over by shuttle. Proper codes were submitted, identities double and triple verified, Sceafa ran a tight operation; something Domhnall approved of.

He did not give the purpose of his visit, but a Primarch seldom needed one to do anything. Truthfully the bones had brought him here, telling of a reunion with an errant sibling. He had cast his mind out into the Warp and felt the cool, collected presence of the Serpent only just off his path back to the Legion. Having recently left the Warmaster’s presence, Domhnall considered it a good omen to find a sibling with which to share the news; and perhaps stretch his legs with.

He came before Sceafa in his armour, an animal fur much like that of a Terran bear stretched over his massive shoulders, and his belt was lined with various runes and fetishes. Despite his barbaric appearance, Domhnall observed all the Hefefelthish customs of greeting with his nephews. His mastery of the language was good, even if his lilting accent lended it a strange cadence. It was all about respect and Domhnall would have shown this respect to even the most hostile of his siblings’ children, if only for a little while anyway.

Eventually the Primarch of the XIXth Legion was led to his brother’s chambers; the Awning Chamber, as they called it. Though not as close to Sceafa as some of his other siblings, Domhnall still extended a hand to his brother. It was respectful for two warriors of Hefefelthish descent to clasp one another’s forearms, after all. “Brother.” Domhnall said warmly, “It’s been too long.”

Sceafa nodded slowly, taking his brother's arm and clasping it tightly “Indeed it is, Green Walker” he said, giving it a slight clench before releasing it. The Awning Chamber was an impressive display of subtle power, the skulls of beasts hung from chains in the rafters with the weapons that ended their lives still embedded deeply within them. The walls and floors were likewise draped in furs of their various owners, a mismatch of browns, greys, and blacks. Their condition differed greatly, the more scarred hung from the ceiling while the relatively untouched were on the floor.

A variety of weapons were collected across the room, some placed on the wall and others placed on racks, crowns and jewels from conquered planets resting on a number of shelves and plinths with a pict of their previous owner above them, their ultimate fate recorded. At the centre was a dark wooden table, primarch sized chairs surrounded it, with Sceafa’s at the head, indicated by the carved shape of a serpent skull.

The skull was identical to the one that decorated the breastplate of his armour, though here it was displayed in gold. Sigils of the serpent in the Hefenfelthish style decorated his white and blue armour, whilst a rearing one was tattooed onto the unscarred portion of his face, it’s hea rested just underneath the leather band of the Brytenwalda. He gestured to one of the seats by Sceafa’s, the image of a bear carved into the top of it, as he took his own. He poured a small wooden cup with a honey coloured liquid, passing it to where he had gestured Domnhall to sit.

“The Outer Dark is rarely accommodating to unexpected visitors, so your appearance is quite the pleasant surprise” he said, the edges of his deep voice tinged with a rasp “Though I would ask why you have chosen to appear so”

“Does a brother need a reason to pay a visit to his siblings?” Domhnall asked with a raised brow and a slight smile playing in the every shifting colours of his eyes. “I’m not here to assume command or take over your campaign if that’s your worry.” The Lord of the Nineteenth said with uncanny foresight. Some of his siblings were proud as kicked cats, and you risked doom by bruising their egos. Sceafa’s wasn’t so bad, but he had many worries and doubts in his mind at times.

“I’m fresh from Ullanor, having paid homage to the Warmaster.” Domhnall continued, taking the offered cup and having himself a small sip of the rich liquid within. “I didn’t make the campaign, but the least I could do was pay my respects to our eldest brother. I thought perhaps to tell you of it, and perhaps to beg upon you the opportunity to stretch my legs and wet my blade alongside you for a time. My sons and I have been traveling for months now, and I so hate to see them so restless.”

Sceafa’s eye looked upon his brother’s face, taking in the details of their most mysterious sibling “Ullanor was quite the glorious campaign” he replied, taking a deep draw from his cup, memories of the fight still present in his mind. The wild rush of the wind against his skin as he sped along the blasted surface of that world, cutting the greenskin down in scores, the rare treat of watching the way other legions fought and the lessons that could be wrought from it “It is quite the shame you were not present, the podium at the great parade was quite an eclectic collection”

He placed his cup down, refilling it. In truth, he neve had must taste for the fermented honey water of Hefenfelth, but tradition demanded he drink it with newcomers to his hearth and he was loath to ignore some of the simpler ones of his homeworld “And I would be remiss to refuse such a request, to spill blood is our purpose after all. Besides, your particular brand of warfare would fit comfortably within my plans” he paused again to take a sip, but remind silent for a while after he had finished. So, Domnhall had met with Atlas, their new Warmaster. Quite the journey for one who walked so far into the reaches of the the galaxy only to speak, Domnhall was certainly one of the more sentimental of their siblings. He shrugged inwardly, it was best to indulge these aspects “And tell me of Atlas, how does he fair with his new title? Is he well? He seemed more shocked at Ullanor to be promoted than honoured”

“Shocked is exactly the term I’d use.” Domhnall said with a nod. “Atlas, I think, has never been one to enjoy having been the first found amongst us. He always seemed uncomfortable with the idea that it set him apart from the rest of us. Doubly so with being the Warmaster.” Domhnall paused and considered his next words carefully. He didn’t want to undermine Atlas’ authority, but Sceafa had a generally level head and could be relied on to see the bigger picture.

“He seemed reluctant to take his place when we met, almost troubled. But I believe I’ve managed to make him see past that; he is after all the best suited to getting all of us to agree on any course of action. He seemed… much more at peace at our parting. He smiled and meant it, anyway. I think our brother will do quite well for himself; I’ve already seen a shifting of fleets and materiel. Astropathic communications from the Warmaster travel faster than even I can.”

He gestured vaguely, “But please, tell me about these plans of yours. So much politicking lately, I feel the need for a good and honest battle. It would do much to set me at my ease.”


Sceafa’s permanently smirking face seemed to tighten, an effect of those burned nerve endings attempting to effect an actual smile, but his unharmed side managed it effortlessly “I’m sorry to say you have just missed our most recent encounter” he said, shaking his head slightly “Though I’m certain the carcasses of naval combat gave that away”. He spoke quickly of the void battle they had just conducted, the speed and ease at which the Alanian vessels could be dismembered. He made mention of generally poor naval conduct, suggesting impressed cargo hauler captains were running some of the fighting, but focussed largely on the three battleships that had hung tantalising close to their firing range.

“Scans indicated they were capable vessels at the very least” he mentioned, having activated a hololith that lay on the table, the soft, flickering image of the vessel spinning slowly between them. Its angles were smooth and gun batteries placed economically and effectively, quite the opposite of the reconfigured freighters they had come into contact with so far, the centre of the vessel having an oddly large spire decorating it. Strange writing in the Alanian language decorated the hull.

“Capable of facing a battle-barge and at least surviving, but they withdrew when it became clear they had lost the fight. Communications captured by a raid on one of their vessels shows the existence of a ‘sea-steed berth’, which one can only assume is a manufactorum of sorts, the only issue is where. Further, they’d delayed us by scrubbing any mention of their homeworld’s location, so the plan is two fold but somewhat bland. Locate this manufactorum and use its stellar data to locate their homeworld, from which we might destroy the xeno miscenginists entirely. Finding the manufactorum is where you come into this, I hear your connection to the Warp allows for a number of abilities, perhaps the scouring of a prisoner’s mind is amongst them?”

Domhnall’s expression went carefully blank at the mention of his abilities. “It is.” He admitted. “Though there can be certain difficulties involved if the subject is Xenos, properly trained, or shielded in some manner. I could also kill the subject entirely, or render them completely catatonic. Maybe even worse. I would not do this thing lightly.”

Sceafa chuckled, a light and croaking noise coming from the bottom of his throat “Their survival is not necessary, they have rejected the Imperium and so their fate is already sealed. And if you believe I would spare a xenos, then you dishonour me; no, they were killed. The prisoner is a navigator of sorts, their high speeds guided by mathematics and accurate star chart data. Entirely human, yet her mind holds the location of this manufactorum, all I need is the location, everything else can be gained through investigation” he answered, taking another sip of the honeyed water.

Domhnall was silent for a brief moment and then nodded. “Aye, I could do this. And I will, since you ask it of me. I would prefer to leave this woman alive, however. Both because she may be useful later, and because dying with another person inside your head isn’t a clean death worth dying.” The Prime-Seer’s eyes went a piercing shade of grey as he finished his drink. “Show me to your prisoner.”

---

The journey to the brig was not especially long nor especially notable, the hallways of the Dread Wake were suitably gothic for a ship hailing from Terra, but much felt altered in some fashion. Sigils of the Serpent or symbols from Hefenfelth and the myriad of worlds the crew originated from decorated the metal grey walls of the vessel. Astartes in the blue and white plate offered the sign of teh Aquila and move aside as the two brother Primarchs made their way deeper into the bowels of the ship, whilst mortals scrambled to clear a path for the two armoured titans.

Sceafa was bemused by Domnhall’s request, he’d never had much intention in allowing the prisoner to live, in fact her fate had not crossed his mind at all. Interrogations had been conducted, of course, but she was a stubborn soul and so he pushed her from his mind, an annoyance like that would only bring out his worst tendencies and he had no intentions of ordering the death of another son.

But still, it did seem like a uniquely Domnhall thing to do. From what reports he had read in the tens of minutes it took for Domnhall to reach his vessel, he had found he was a remarkably humane soul that lacked the prediliction for death that many of his other siblings possessed, war ending sharply and ceasing the allowing of death. His permanent smirk would have been real as he thought, if this world used slavery as he suspected it might, he doubted Domnhall would appreciate the fate that await slave masters when Sceafa conquered their worlds.

They reached the brig, it was bright and sterile like an apothecary. The eternally bright light kept prisoners awake, flashing erractically every so often to rouse those lucky enough to get sleep in their cells. Comfort was not something he allowed prisoners to have. They reached a cell with #85 in Hefenfelth runes scored into the metal door, it opened automatically at his presence, the sound of pressurised air being released adding to the ever present thrum of generators.

Stepping inside, they would find the prisoner still in her smart naval officer uniform, though with epulettes and medals very clearly stripped from the jacket and stains of blood scarred the white material. She looked up at them, her blue eyes betraying determination and fear at their presence behind dark brown hair that had already begun to become a mess, mere hours after her capture.

“The Twelfth Banner discovered her when they raided the bridge” he said nonchalantly, as though he were reading straight from her file “Interrogations yieled little from her, clearly the Alanians possess some sort of mental conditioning for their sailors. Her name tag said her name was Indira Solene…of, if your looking at the blood, most of it was from her superior who met the business end of a bolter”

“Has she said anything?” Domhnall asked, as he looked the woman over. His expression remained carefully guarded, but he still hated to see a foe so dishonoured. She had fought bravely, and should have been able to wear her uniform as unsullied as possible to her death.

Sceafa shrugged “Other than wishing death upon us? No, nothing of interest”. Suddenly, a wash of bravery seemed to burst forth from her, charging forwards until only the chains held her back, mere inches from the pair. A flurry of nonsensical words spilled forth from her mouth, the fact they dripped with venom and hatred indicated that they were certainly not praises. Sceafa raised a bemused eyebrow as the sounds of an approaching Astartes from the corridor grew louder “She is full of fight, however, breaking that may be difficult”

“Not so difficult as you might believe.” Domhnall uttered lowly before squatting down to look the woman directly in the eyes. Reaching out through the warp, he touched on the barest edges of her mind. Not intruding yet, but getting a sense of her emotions and the tongue that she was speaking. It took only a moment before he felt that he might have mastery of it.

“Please. Relax before you hurt yourself.” Domhnall said in the woman’s tongue. “Sit, and answer my questions and you will be afforded treatment befitting your status. I am called Domhnall, of the Clan Ainfean. May I have your name?”

Her body went from raging hot to suddenly feeling a chill run from her skull all the way down her back, the chill raced from his spine along all the nerve endings, she shivered in response. The anger was still there, of course, but the new presence had forced it back, the feeling of someone else in her mind made her eyes widen when she looked at the titanic brutes in front of her. She answered in Alanian “Indira Solene, of Master Valduros’ household”. The smaller one, scarred to resemble a monster from myth and dressed in the colours of the sky, chuckled and said something she could not understand but his voice sounded like a serpent slithering across loose sand to her.

“I did not know multi-lingualism was an ability of the warp” he joked, folding his armoured arms across his chest, though the daggered eyes of the serpent skull was still visible, staring at their prisoner as though it were wounded prey.

“The Warp is a pathway to many abilities.” Domhnall said in High Gothic before returning to Alanian. “Mistress Solene, my brother has asked me to get from you the location of your manufactorum world. I want you to know that I can have it any which way I please…” He gently tapped out against her mind with the warp, not enough to hurt, just enough for her to know he had much more strength and subtlety in him.

“I would rather give you the chance to tell me yourself, however. I would rather we make an accord, you and I. I sense when you say of Master Valduros’ household, you mean to say that you serve it because you must, not that you wished to. This is my proposal to you; tell me where we might find your people, and we will break their chains and set them free. I will personally vouchsafe your life as well.”

The sound was maddening to her. She could hear and see the words spoken from the larger of the two, crouched to her eye level, its ever changing eyes a kaleidoscope to her, but the words repeated themselves in her head, quieter, louder. She was stunned that this thing spoke her tongue, the sound adding waves upon waves.

She breathed shakily, her eyes darting between the one before her who seemed to look at her with empathy, and the other one, tattooed and staring at her with disinterest. She looked to the floor, his words could not be discounted, but could she bring herself to betray the Confederation off of words alone? She could not deny the allure was there, but surely she was above betrayal. Master Vaduros had been kind to her and her clan, he had given them bed and board and careers, though she saw none of the reward.

“How can you assure such things?” she asked, her voice showing signs of strain, she looked back up at him, her eyes bloodshot from the bright lights “You who stands on sea-steeds so far away from the womb-world?”

“I can promise such things because I am the World-Walker.” Domhnall said with a faint smile. “It is my wyrd to seek out men amongst the stars and put an end to beasts and tyrants. I can promise such things because I am a child of the cradle-world. Terra, or Earth as it was once called in the old books. I can promise not only you such things, but others who suffer the lash and chain.”

“There are worlds and wonders out there meant for you and your kin, Mistress Solene. Please, show us the way so that we may together show them to your people.”

Indira maintained her gaze upon the barbaric one, whose words sang in her skull and in her ears. It was hard to trust these Imperials, as they called themselves, firing upon a diplomatic vessel made any assurances of loyalty difficult to believe, but her gut screamed this one was different, though he seemed to understand an inkling of Alanian culture.

Her jaw set “Swear” she said, her tone still shaky but had formed a bit of resolve to it “Swear upon your cradle-world and your neck”

Domhnall nodded. “I swear on the rocks and trees of Vola. I swear upon mine head and heart. I swear it about good hearth fire and bounteous salt. It shall be as I have said it.”

Her eyes remained fixed, looking at the eyes that ever-changed in his face. She was still reluctant to admit, but a man who swore upon their home and their head and broke the oath would spend an eternity between the Seven Hells, the thought of that brought some warmth to her body that had otherwise been rocked by the chill. “Erdata-Sixteen-Foldana” she stated plainly, the star chart location in her tongue.

Domhnall nodded, patting the woman gently on the shoulder, “Thank you.”

Standing back up to his full height, Domhnall repeated the coordinates; “Erdata-Sixteen-Foldana. She’s a slave, brother. I promised her we’d break her people’s chains, and that I would vouchsafe her life. With your permission, I’d like to take her aboard my ship so the two of us might keep our promises to one another. I’d also like to get out in front of your legion, get on planet and start doing what I do best while you make preparations to do what you and yours do best.”

Sceafa’s soul eye became enflamed at the mention of slavery, shame hid itself at the treatment of one so alike to him, covered with a righteous anger. The edges of his scarred mouth twitched as he fought to compose himself “Extend my apologies, brother” he said, his tone was strained with every word “Take her if you wish, I shall see to having her things returned to her if she so wishes” he placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder “I thank you, of course sow your seeds of discord. Would you not partake in the attack on the manufactorum? Or does the void not suit you?”

“With three ships to my name presently it would be best if I used my forces in the most effective way possible.” Domhnall said absentmindedly as he opened the woman’s shackles with her mind and extended his brother’s apology for his ignorance in her tongue. Swapping back to Gothic he explained, “If I can make enough noise for you in their planetary systems, I can pull away defenders from the manufacturom and otherwise blind them to your coming; perhaps even spare some civilian casualties if I can.”

Sceafa nodded “As is your prerogative, brother, though your absence will be regretted at the manufactorum. And it is not the civilians I intend to make casualties” he said, his voice darkening. Oh, how the oppressed on the Alanians would be unshackled from subservience. “Do what you can to discover how the world operates, would you? Send me whatever information you gather”

“That’s what I do.” Domhnall said, clapping his brother on the shoulder with a faint smile, though his eyes were beginning to show the bloody minded orange now.

“Come, Mistress Solene.” He said to the now unshackled woman. “Let us get you comfortable. My brother will see your things delivered to my shuttle before we leave.”

[Audunia]

Dread Wake
Decimus Odyssian

The gathering chamber of the Wild Hunts’ quarters, hidden deep within the bowels of the ship, was largely unremarkable in decoration. This was obviously intended, as the Wild Hunt did not exist in the eyes of anyone that was not inducted into its secretive ranks, not even the Primarchs or leaders of the Legion had been clued into its existence. And so they carried nothing that might betray that fact. Only a deeply carved rune atop the main entrance way denoted it as belonging to the Wild Hunt, its crudeness might have it be mistaken as mere graffiti. An array of consoles and holo-plints were stationed in orangised circles in the room, aesthically built to suggest that it had not been used in a great while, surrounding a central console, would have betrayed that it was a far more permanent location than the temporary storage.

A series of defensive arrangements kept many from exploring too deep into the ship, the area that hosted the Hunters was officially labelled as either temporary storage or wastage from various decks, the unpleasant possibility kept many away whilst roaming servitors program to eliminate unwelcome visitors kept those that sought a place to hide to conduct their business away. Of course, whispers persisted about the area from those that had known people lost to it, cultivated by the Hunt when it was viewed favourably. Some whispered it was infact storage for waste from the Warp Drive, others believed servitors were constructed there. Some insisted that they recognised the brain-dead faces of servitors as their friends, but this was certainly a lie. Regardless, it kept all but the most diehard away from interfering.

Still, chances could not be taken, and so inductees into the Hunt often prowled the halls of region, their skills of stealth and assassination finding the live training far more effective than servitors that could not accurately portray the panic and unpredictability of an actual human.

Three helms were placed in on the rim of the holo-liths, all sharing a vertical black line with rune in the centre, whilst their owners stood behind them, the Cull Masters, the leaders of the various Cull units of the Wild Hunt that accompanied the 42nd Expeditionary Fleet. The Cull Masters chatted amongst themselves in subdued conversation, The sound of heavy boots silenced all talk as they looked to face their lord.

Decimus Odyssian, a giant even amongst Astartes, strode in with purpose. His helm clung to his hip, his lips were pressed tight in his tightly curled beard and his hawkish eyes scanned the room, as if begging that something were out of the ordinary. The assembled Astartes offered a salute as Decimus reached them, he nodded it aside with disinterest.

“I hear the Green Walker’s aboard” Malithos, leader of Third Cull, spoke first as he folded his armoured arms across his chest. The language he spoke was neither Hefenfelthish nor Gothic, but instead Karaketh, a language from the north Decimus’ homeworld, now extinct at his own hand.

Decimus nodded “He is, his unexpected appearance both hinders and assists operations”

“How so?”

“His aptitude with the warp allowed us to find the location of both the maufactorum and the Alanian’s homeworld” he replied, keying a number of runes into the central hololith. The star-map appeared in sea-green, bathing the grey room in its soft light. Two bright indicators appeared on the map. “Our Lord will be overseeing the attack on the manufactorum”

“I assume we will be conducting operations on the home world then?” asked Tapio, leader of Fourth Cull, scratching his slightly bearded chin.

“Partially” Decimus replied, he keyed in a code, the image of the manufactorum flickered into reality. It was rectangular and hollow, like a metal box open at both ends whilst the interior seemed to be constructing several ships in separate stages on completion “Second Cull will be deployed on reconnaissance against the manufactorum and conducting sabotage against the station. Primary targets designated as security infrastructure and morale”

“Second Cull is not a terror squad” Venedotion, leader of Second Cull, stated through an annoyed frown, his pale face ghost-like in the flickering green light.

“Indeed it is not” Decimus agreed, his eyes firm in response “Simple disappearances will suffice, the crew must be scared that they will be next. If I wanted the bodies to be flayed and displayed, I would ask Third Cull” Malithos’ pitch black Nostraman eyes lit up with glee at his unit’s mention, his lips curling into a smile that showed his sharpened incisors.

“Third Cull would be happy to oblige if you lack the constitution too.” Malithos said, his words coming slowly through his malificient smile..

Venedotion bristled with anger as his hand came to rest upon the power knife that was scabbarded on his belt, his eyes issuing a declaration “Perhaps you would like to come out of your precious shadows and say that, or shall I should root you out with a lamp pack”

Malithos laughed, his head shaking as his power armour growled with his raising shoulders “We both live in shadows, the entire Wild Hunt does”

“Some of us have allowed the shadows to corrupt us”

Malithos shrugged, a menacing smile still on his lips “You are a hypocrite, Venedotion, how much innocent blood is upon your hands. The Wild Hunt runs on murder and terror, you just refuse to accepted it.”

Venedotion seemed on the cusp of responding when Decimus raised his hand, the two astartes ceasing their posturing and disagreement almost instantly “Bicker on your own time, not on mine”. Decimus could see the moment in their eyes where they hesitated, both wanting the final word before they grunted out an apology to their lord.

“The Astral Walkers are arriving on the world first” he continued, his controlled tone clipping at the end of his words “However, their primarch appears to be more humane in personality and we can only assume this has passed to his sons. Therefore, we will have to be more thorough in destabilisation than they are”

“What do we know of the planet’s social structure?” Tapio asked, Decimus could see the annoyance at his two brothers that he also felt. At least someone else in the Hunt seemed to possess some sense.

“Reports suggest that it’s a strictly hierarchical society. Luckily for the Legion, it is a slave world” he said sardonically. The three gathered Astartes grinned, the Legion’s habit of allowing wholesale slaughter of the slave owning class by their former slaves and the forcible induction of their surviving children into the ranks of the Legion often resulted in a surge of aspirants and applicants for the Legion. And, more importantly, it meant the Hunt would be incredibly busy targeting those same owners and those they used to maintain that power.

“Any key people as of yet?” Malithos asked, Decimus would not be surprised if he started drooling thick tendrilvs of saliva and licking his lips like a dog waiting upon a meal.

“The name Valduros was mentioned by a prisoner under interrogation, but that is it.” he responded, looking at Venedition “Second Cull will maintain astropaths to inform us if they receive information regarding this.” Venedition nodded sharply, astropaths were delicate things and it was no doubt to be a burden upon the Cull, but a necessary one. Decimus knew Venedition was not the sort to complain either way.

“One thing is certain, the masters of this world seem to sponsor or have slaves in officer positions. The prisoner belonging to Valduros was a navigator-equivalent and a high one at that, so disrupting the flow of command should be easy if you target the correct individuals”

“It would be disrupted quicker if you flayed the commander and his entourage” Melithos said, Venedition groaning not so subtly in response whilst Tapio rolled his eyes. Decimus felt sting of annoyance rise in him but chose not to exhibit it.

“That is Cull Master Venedition’s prerogative” he said, narrowing his eyes. He studied the deathly pale features of Malithos, almost delicate compared to the brutish and overgrown features of regular Astartes, his dark eyes seeming like they had trapped the night sky. The Nostramans in the Wild Hunt were a prickly bunch, Sceafa had discovered the world twenty years before Decimus’ ascended the ranks of the Wild Hunt and had made a habit of routinely taking a tithe of genetically suitable children from the world. Some ended up as regular World Serpents, but the majority found their way into the Wild Hunt before it had established its own recruitment and ascension system.

He smiled inwardly, it had been an awkward day when the Dread Wake arrived at Nostramo to find it had been claimed by Hesta and her flagship was present. He’d witnessed Sceafa’s first meeting with Hesta and it was as awkward as one could imagine, so they had departed swittly afterwards under the claim they had only come to greet their newfound sister. The ability to artificially refresh their Nostraman stocks was thus cut off, so they were for to do so more naturally utilising the Nostraman serfs. Melthios had been part of Decimus’ group and was used to his command, it did not make dealing with him any easier.

The console shifted again to depict a live pict-feed of one of the sterile bright brig cells, a man was sat down with his arms resting on his knees in the corner of his cell, his head facing down. “Is he trying to sleep?” Tapio asked, he amongst them struggled to understand basic human activities the most.

“Yes, but he has only managed twenty minutes cumulative in the past twelve hours” Decimus replied, pressing a few more keys which activated an information display. His name was Marek Gendym, an indentured cargo hauler also attached to this eminmactic Valduros they had picked up four days ago. Like Indira, he had been hesitant in giving up information, but sleep deprivation had made him more pliable “He is your entrance into the manufactorum, his cargo hauler is sizeeable enough to fit at least seventy marines in there without the cargo. You will only need twenty”

Venedition leaned in close to inspect the mug-pict of Marek, his features were far more sullen. Dark bags hung under tired brown eyes, whilst his grey head was already retreating from his hairline to an unfortunate degree. His nose was thick and seemed to have been flattened, though turns in the nose suggested it had been broken at least twice.

“He looks like shit”

“So did you when you were first brought in as an aspirant” Tapio replied quickly, a smirk appearing on his lips “All bones no meat, it is a wonder you survived at all.” The assembled astartes, even Decimus, were taken aback by this outburst. Except for Malithos, who was laughing quietly.

“Unnecessary” Decimus managed after he had recovered himself “But how he looks is inconsequential, he is a pilot who leads a vessel large enough for marines and for human agents to gain access to the manufactorum”

“Of course, I spoke out of turn”

“It is forgiven, but your youth is showing. Rein it in, a commander of a Cull cannot be displaying such things”

“Of course,” he said, bowing. He begged his pardon and departed the room to meet Marek. Decimus looked at Malithos.

“Third Cull will accompany First Cull to the homeworld, where you will get to display your talents” he said, Malithos’ eyes widening with excitement. It was not that his disagreed with Malithos’ methods nor the Nostramans, Throne knows that Decimus had utilised them numerous times to enforce the sensation he wanted his targets to feel, but it was the rush and excitement that he displayed whenever they were brought up. It was like telling a child he had a day off of schola, an eagerness to concentrate on things that he truly enjoyed.

It was concerning to him, especially as he ensured the Wild Hunt used these methods only when necessary and to a degree that was deemed acceptable. If he left Malithos and Third Cull to its own devices, he would not be surprised if the planet wound up without skin and the Cull had a new wardrobe of contraband decorations. It would not be the first time.

“There will not be a repeat of Galixos” Decimus warned, bringing pushing himself off the console to his full height. He stood a full head and shoulders above most astartes, resembling the Primarch in size and stature, and it exude a threatening aure he found compelling and useful.

Malithos offered a weak smile and bow “Of course not, brother”. Decimus frowned, the use of the word felt targetted, especially as Malithos had forced a thousand brothers to fight the other over the course of two months of terror. Brothers unaffected still tore each other apart in fear of having to be forced to fight, right up until it forced the royal family to tear itself apart with infighting. Decimus narrowed his eyes, he was getting sick of Malithos’ attitude.

“Tapio,'' he said, his eyes still trained on Malithos “Fourth Claw’s Periditious Weight will escort us in. Have them follow the warp waves of the Astral Walkers and keep us at a distance, we cannot be exposed before the operation even begins.”