"The flames of hatred rage across the galaxy. Like a forest, humanity stands before it all but ready to be consumed. Despite the darkness that has cut our galaxy in twain, we must find unity in faith, and stand against those that would destroy us, our weapons roaring our defiance. We will cross the scar of Chaos and reunite humanity step by bloody step."
The Light of the Astronomican shines in defiance throughout half of a Galaxy engulfed in flames. Burning and charring on itself as races and empires old and new fight a terminal dancing spiral toward oblivion or victory. The Warmaster of Chaos, Abaddon the Despoiler, Champion of all Four Chaos Gods, has won a great victory with the destruction of Cadia and the breaking of the Pylons. Allowing the rupture known as the Cicatrix Maledictum, The Great Rift, to slice the cosmos in twain. Bleeding its eldritch energies across countless star systems. Entire worlds spanning dozens of sectors devoured by its hungry tides. Threats within and without assail a besieged Imperium of Man.
Heretics and Genestealers poison worlds from within like a perfidious cancer. The Cult of the Pauper Princes even managing to infiltrate Holy Terra itself. Forcing the Custodes and Inquisition to fight a brutal shadow war in the treacherous cavernous underbelly of the Imperial Palace. From without Mankind is beset by the Daemon, the Traitor, and the Xeno. In the East the Tau Empire rallies against the Tyranid and forces of Chaos that have swallowed its outer colonies. From the dusty scorched fields of Armageddon to the heart of the Octarius Sector the Waaagh! of Ghazghull Uruk Thraka rampages. The largest gathering of Greenskins since The War of the Beast eight thousand years prior. Across far flung malevolent stars the Necrons stir in their tombs, readying the terrible day when they will reap the Galaxy anew. From the Eye of Terror and the bleaching tides of the Rift the Forces of the Archenemy pillage, raid, slaughter, and despoil all in their path. The mysterious Eldar aiding and abetting the perils arrayed against Humanity in equal measure. While from beyond the Galactic Rim the Great Devourer arrives in ever greater strength.
The defenders of Mankind are Legion, led by the resurrected Primarch Titus, the Emperor's Avenging Son; yet they are barely enough, and it is only through the sacrifice of uncountable billions can Humanity buy for itself just one more day. From the stalwart vigilance of the Emperor's Talons, cold devotion of His Holy Inquisition, unyielding Faith of the Sororitas, fearless valour of his Astartes, too the grim determination in the face of impossible odds by the common soldiers and voidsmen of the Imperial Guard and Navy. Their deaths and heroisms playing all out in the Emperor's eyes every waking minute of every day for ten thousand years.
For just as they fight, so too does the Emperor fight with them. The Master of Mankind lurches, convulses, and lashes with incalculable psychic power. His body dissected, ravaged, both by time and the ceaseless agony of the Golden Throne. A twitch of the eye as he sheds incessant tears for the horrors of every sacrifice in his name that he must bear witness. A spasm of spindly digits grasping the source of his torment, a sign of his continued devotion in combating all Four Gods of Chaos in a never-ending battle of Wills. Pockmarked and stretched skin furrow on what was once a noble brow. The Emperor focusing the Astronomican where it is needed to the aid of His servants. And yet despite all of this He combats terrors unseen and protects wherever possible. To repel a Daemon a demon from disemboweling a child feebly clutching the Imperial Aquila about their throat. To guide with visions and whispered inspiration. To grapple with the Warp as He parts portions of the Rift in great metaphorical blows to the very bodies of the Chaos Gods. Khorne reels as if struck by a feral left hook. Slaanesh recoils from rejection to giving in. Tzeentch screams at a plan laid thousand of years is undone. Nurgle hides in his Garden from the purifying flame of the Anathema's defiance. For the Emperor spoke the very words which steeled Neron's heart on the plains of Istvaan, the words which compelled Titus to stand defiant on the Walls of the Imperial Palace. Words which He expected every man, woman, and child in the Imperium to live by. Only fitting that the Master of Mankind utter such a phrase in an everlasting silent scream in defense of the species He failed. Only in Death, Does Duty End.
Warzone Nachmund
The Imperium is besieged. Pelagos is beleaguered. Mordian assailed. Valtmar devastated. Even Holy Terra itself faced assault at the Archenemy's hands. Across a thousand wars trillions fight in the Emperor's inexhaustible armies to hold the divided Imperium together. To strike back and counterattack from grievous blows. The largest of which is the battle for the Nachmund Gauntlet. A corridor of stable realspace which fleets may plot courses through from Imperium Sanctus to Imperium Nihilus and back.
Across the Sanctus side of the Gauntlet the Imperium has painstakingly fortified entire sub-sectors in a grand defensive line to shield the Segmentum Solar. World sized bastions of faith and steel. Manned by billions of soldiers resolute against the oncoming darkness. Instilled by words from the Emperor's own lips in ages past: "Even in a sunless realm, the Sun will rise at last."
On the side of the Nihilus half of the Galaxy the Imperium engages in a whirling war of attrition to hold key worlds. From Dharrovar to Mordian the battle for control of the Nihilus half of the Nachmund Gauntlet rages every solar day and night. The centre of which lies the planet of Vigilus.
Vigilus
Assailed by Orks and infested by Genestealers the defenders of Vigilus fight a constant battle of attrition against enemies within and without. Across the cratered moonscape that was once dusty plateaus and great watery reservoirs lines of trenches and bunkers are fought over in constant raids, waves of attackers, and bombarded into rubble by unending artillery barrages. In great scrap-cities that was once foundries and tenement blocks for millions of factorum laborers there wages a struggle for every bombed-out structure. Fierce hand to hand combat in mustry decrepit rooms, up and down stairwells, and half collapsed sewers. Vigilus, a world where billions have perished to keep it from falling from the Imperium's grip, and lives are spent every day to keep it so.
Mortwald Front
The detonation of a hundred thousand shells an hour was a cacophony unable for human ears to comprehend. Crunching through muddy trenchwork interspersed with devious puddles that at a first glance looked shallow but upon stepping into them you'd find yourself nearly waist deep in murky yellow water. Scrap metal girders hand made by troops manning the forward trenches were laid across them wherever possible to prevent mishaps. Squelching through with booted feet a man just shy of thirty standard Terran years of age moved. His peaked cap and embroidered uniform like the ancient Hussars of Terra tarnished with mud and grit.
"Commissar." Came curt greetings and snapped salutes. For those that could anyways. Moving through a side trench the Commissar saw men blinded by head wounds, chemical weapons, or simply clinging to life from grievous physical injury. A trooper holding a regimental standard for the 47th Vigilant Guard snapped his muddy heels together. He did not salute. He could not, with only one arm, having lost it at the shoulder. A shortage of Biotecs prevented a mechanical replacement being implanted. The Commissar stopped and pat the man at hte collar, "Colour-Sergeant."
"Sir."
"How is the shoulder?"
"It hurts, Sir."
"Have you been reading the passages I marked for you. The Epistles of Saint Drusus."
"Yes, sir. It helps with the pain at night."
"Good. Fear not, the God-Emperor is with us and--"
The men around them finished the phrase, "through faith shall He bear pain alongside thee."
The Commissar nodded and retracted his hand. "At ease Colour-Sergeant." The Commissar could only remark that the standard bearer was barely a man. Nineteen years of age and already a veteran of four years in the Regiment.
Moving through the trenches once more troopers stood up from crates or leaning up on half collapsed walls while Engineers worked tireless to reinforce and re-buttress the defenses. Ducking below an improvised shelter topped with razor-wire the Commissar pulled a small parcel of paper out of one of his pockets. Handing it to a man sitting with a few other soldiers huddling in a small side dug out. Sharing a steaming cup of cheap cafe. "Letter from your wife. Came in this morning. Her and the children seem well according to contacts in the Administratum."
"Thank you, sir," said the trooper with sincerity as he took the parcel while delivering a sign of the aquila. Another barrage from the Imperial artillery positions. Even some heavies unloading thermobaric shells causing brilliant flashes and plumes of white smoke on the horizon.
"Incoming!"
The Commissar had just turned into a communication trench when the shout went up. Troopers huddled down or hunkered in subterranean bunkers as a brief barrage of incoming ordinance detonated around them. Rising once more to a half slouch the Commissar moved forth, lowering himself more as the trenches grew shallow for a moment, then coming to stand as it delved into a greater depth. Here on the forward trench there were rows of troopers, the front ranks grasping ladders. Sergeants and Lieutenants paced the ranks. Off to the right a private puked with anxiety. Others looked with a mixture of fear of new enlistees and the dour determination of hardened veterans with the dead eyes of having gone through the baptism of shell shock.
"Commissar Morwain."
"Major Derinius."
Before the Commissar there was a slender man in the uniform of the Vigilant Guard. Bearing the rank insignia of Major and clutching a las pistol and chainsword. "Orders remain the same?"
"Yes, assault and take the enemy positions to a depth of five hundred meters. Reconnect with the Mordian 483rd that is advancing East to West from the Templar Bastion. They've cut the enemy lines to an eight-hundred-meter depth and took the causeway between the old steel forges ahead. Give us a vantage point for kilometers around."
"And the 22nd Valhallan?"
The 22nd having been cut off and surrounded when the Genestealers broke through the lines two days ago and apparently have penetrated the Archenemy's own defenses along the Mortwald perimeter."
"Good, let the bastards slaughter each other. Major," the Commissar consulted his pocket augur, "its time."
The Major stepped back and faced the ranks, "Once over the top, advance as quickly as you can, be aware of friendlies from the 22nd Valhallan and 483rd Mordian to our right flank. The Emperor is with us all!" At that last word the Major pulled out a small dull gray whistle and blew it with a shrill cry. At once the ladders were firmly placed and the men filed up over the top. Racing to advance as fast they could through the prepared channels of razor wire they had made.
They did not get far.
Mortars airburst above them. Enemy shells fell among them. The ripping thudd of a heavy bolter followed by the detonations of wet flesh as Guardsmen turned to red mist. Still, the Imperial soldiery persisted. Major Derinius urging his men forward while the Commissar waved them through the razorwire. Uncaring for the shrapnel and oncoming enemy fire around him. Thousands of Guardsmen surged from their trenches into the moonscape before them. Bodies flew from impacts. Detonations flung a man into a puddle where he disappeared in the quagmire of chest deep water and mud. There was no telling how many drowned in the muddy waters of the battlefields of Vigilus when the rare torrential rainstorms swept up from the Vhulian Swirl. The world's never-ending hurricane to the East of the settled continents.
"Come on, forward to victory!" The Commissar pulled his chainsword free and ran rapidly forth. Urging the men forward as they came upon the first trench. Horrible four limbed monstrosities leapt forth. Tearing men to bloody ribbons. Lasfire tore across the scene. Dismembering the creatures. Puncturing pinkish flesh and chitin alike. The men of the 47th Vigilant Guard, many of whom born into the terrible conflict, met the Genestealers head on. It became a bloody brawl of bayonet and claw. Chainsword and maw. Close quarters shootouts. Sergeant Calmerus tossed a satchel grenade through a bunker slut. Silencing a heavy bolter. A trio of cultists emerged bloody and screaming. Meeting their end by Calmerus shotgun and a fireteam of lasguns. Lieutenant Vortinus hacked a six limbed abomination to bloody chunks with his trench axe. Shouting litanies of the Imperial Creed as the creature was dogpiled by the Lieutenant's comrades. Sinking combat knives and bayonets between its chitin armor into the squishy flesh and organs beneath.
The leading platoons were pressing onwards. Bypassing identified strongpoints. Their vox-caster communications fed back to the oncoming follow-on companies which systematically liquidated the Genestealers bunkers and more fortified entrenchments with mortar, grenade, bolter, and more than one occasion through the liberal use of flamers.
In the distance to the West squadrons of Imperial thunderbolts and Marauders carpet bombed the Genestealers rear positions at the perimeter of their salient separating the Chaos and Imperial lines. A second Sun brightened the sky as the 47th surged like a tidal wave into the follow-on communication and support trenches. The Commissar knew a ship in orbit, in the equally never-ending fleet action battling over the space lanes throughout the Vigilus system, died in a plasma reactor breach.
Ahead the flashes and tracer fire were spewing from one of the manufactorums. The Commissar smiled. Some of the 22nd Valhallan were still alive and fighting. While off to the right the sound of Leman Russ tanks could be heard as the 483rd Mordian, an armored fist regiment, was systematically moving forth perpendicular to the 47th Vigilant.
Crash. The Commissar was flung to the side of a crater. Coughing up dirt and the taste of iron in his mouth. He peeked over the lip. Shadowy figures, bulky yet incredibly fast, had entered the fray. A glimpse of hazard stripes and gray armor with spiked protrusions mounting sick trophies of skulls and flayed chunks of human and genestealer remains. Traitor Marines had entered the fray.
The battle for Vigilus continued without pause...
