Knives in the Dark (FT, Attn. TFU)

[Chronosia]

The Terran is a degenerate race, a diseased race. We have witnessed their slow fall from grace and glory with horror and amusement, their decline into old and terrible vices. They violate their being with the tools of the Abominable Intelligence and go on their knees before a myriad array of Xenos filth. The Terran has thus debased his human heritage till none of it remains; being idolaters and heretics beyond the bounds of simple religion.

The Terran is a race-traitor. He has betrayed and thus left his true people behind, instead engaging in virulent xenophilia. The Terran is known to defile it's own children, offering them up as cruel playthings of alien and machine.

The Terran has forsworn humanity, and so is instilled with none of the rights or privileges inherent in belonging to the chosen strain of humanity.

The Terran, thusly, can be expunged without fear of reprisal or guilt. The peoples of the Terran Degeneracy are now declared as a sub-human entity; beyond even spiritual conversion or redemption.

Any warrior-emmisary of the Imperium who soils his gods-given genitalia by engaging in even the forced violation of a Terran subject, shall have them acid-scoured and subsequently removed to prevent sexual, physical and moral disintegration.

Ave Imperator.

-Excerpted from Case Delta; Guidelines for the Extermination of the Formerly Human Peoples of the Terran Degeneracy.

Fateseeker

The figure pulled the cloak tighter about him as he trudged through the winter snows of the mountain. It was a misshapen thing, an abortive thing that had been malformed when the world was young; a crippled and terrible place that spoke of the primal enmity inherent in the planetoid. The entire world seemed a forsaken place; squatting at the edge of a brutal clutch of Warpstorms known as the Fist of the Gods, it bathed eternally in the hell-light of the aethyr. Twisted, stunted, things grew in the dark and loamy soil, striving unnaturally into the fell air with questing tendril-fingers. The life of the cursed world was repugnant and deformed; the nightmares of conception given form. He paid them no heed.

His prey lay ahead.

He had travelled many worlds in search of this place; struggled through countless hostile climes and defeated many foes. Beneath his cloaks, his armour was riven with old tears and soldered violations, beyond that his flesh was riddled with scars; testaments to a life dedicated to battle and war, the eternal war that lay at the heart of all other conflicts. Truth against lies, chaos against order, life over simple survival. This was his creed, his abiding passion; the forces that drove him to causes and actions that others might label insane; the dominion of zealous madmen. He embraced such titles gladly.

He could see the cave that awaited him, situated high in the face of the mountain, drawing ever nearer at his implacable advance; nothing on this world could harm him, nothing would dare. The people in the meagre settlements that surrounded the peak had called him Pilgrim, Fateseeker; how apt such primitive titles seemed. He had stripped everything from himself; denied all luxury that he might be reborn as thus; a pilgrim on the path to glory, a walker on the road to awe. The rocks ahead were marked with primitive sigils; marks of aversion and protection. Each cracked at his advance, splintering into dust beneath the power of his very presence. Slowly, cautiously, he bent and enterd the cave.

The walls were hung with bone-talismans and worn banners, torches flickering through the silk- casting shifting shadows throughout the interior. Beneath a flurry of curtains she sat, wizened and ancient, cross-legged and seemingly oblivious to the man's approach. He paused, a hand slipping beneath his cloak to seek for the pommel of a blade, to-

“You have come far, too far for it simply to be for the spilling of blood.” She coughed, a harsh bark from ravaged lungs, before turning her blind eyes up, as though gazing through the man. “You seek truth amidst a sea of lies; validation of your own insights, do you not.”

His voice was like oiled leather, smooth and beautiful and rich; “I do. I seek the truth of the coming wars, the reality of my destiny. I seek vindication that the Gods show me the true Path.”

“A true path?” She scoffed. “As though there were any such thing; there is only the will of Fate's Architect. There is only the wealth of potentials that he considers every day. You seek the path which favours you; you seek the best road for your people as blood gathers and night descends.”

“Yes.”

“Then listen well; the legions of blood march and make war in the name of dread Kharnath; The Blood God who shall drink the heart's life of a great empire. Already, beneath a veil of shadow, his forces gather to do battle against the inhuman and the less-than-men.”

“I know this.” He licked his lips, sighing gently. If she knew these truths, what else might she know?

“You know nothing. They will take the foe by surprise; millions will falter. A people will cry out; though none shall aid them. An old foe shall see it's chance; march against the forces of the God-touched. They will see a paradise awaiting them, but taste only death; the Changer has shaped it so.”

“And me?”

“You? You are the God-Touched; the fulcrum of their plans. I have seen you bestriding a burning galaxy, your very existence a knot at the core of it. You shall seek the worlds of trial and triumph; you shall ascend into the Crucible of Gods.”

“And?”

“And your name shall live forever.”

The man reached up, pulling back his hood, and for a moment it seemed as though the cave interior brightened; torches flaring for a moment in response to such absolute perfection. Remiel De Drakan, once and eternal Emperor of Chronosia, gazed at her with powerlust in his eyes and a song in his heart. For a moment she was simply a wizened old woman, and in another she was a huddled crone-thing of the Eldar; it mattered not. He tasted destiny on the air, he tasted his victory in the making.

He drank in the promise of a foes death, and the end of the Terran Degeneracy.

[The Ctan]

The Praetorians' staff-like rods of covenant crossed before the doorway with a clack of metal upon metal. Ranks of ceramic-clad pariahs stood beyond, inside the chamber, moving about now and then as they patrolled the nodal grid within, and the library of strange artifacts that constituted the Gaol of Eternity.

“Hail Chronomancer Orikan, Diviner to Senate. It is strange that you come without a new prisoner. You must know that this place is forbidden to all by the order of the Triarch.”

“I know it well, Lady Judicator Nekaria,” he said, holding out a hand, “I bring a request authorized by the Triarch.”

The closer praetorian tilted her head to the side, opening her noosphere projectors, inloading the complicated and thrice-authenticated instructions. She paused to confirm the order directly, too. “Very well. Remain here. Fetch Article Seven Seven Six Three.”

Ereshkigal, Leader of the Pariahs actually inside the Gaol of Eternity, the small library room beyond the portal, turned aside from her patrol, and walked to one wall, looking upon row after row of tesseract labyrinths, which took many forms, from squat green pyramids to elaborate jewellery, and more besides. Article 7763 was one of the more basic designs, an orb, with a ring of necrontyr text upon it. She held her blaster-warscythe beside her, and reached out to grasp the orb. Far from all tesseract labyrinths were here, though, and none of those that contained the majority of the C'tan. Nothing here was ever slated for freedom.

In each of these items, some enemy, primarily chaos worshippers, or demons, but sometimes more exotic, here an orc chieftain's prison lay beside that of a tyranid carnifex, each imprisoned in their own labyrinth dimension, in which neither death nor decay could exist. Realms of perfect, terrible law.

In her hand she held the prison of Keslain the Unmistaken, Sorcerer of the Black Legion.

[Chronosia]

The Bloody Lord

The skies above the dead world were bleeding and raw, ablaze with the profane fire of the warp. Arcteron III was the largest of the worlds within the system that bore its name; a system swallowed by the insanity of the Immaterium, cut off these long years from the very sense of the real. Beneath a sanguine sky, beneath the ever-changing currents of the warp storm which enveloped it, the world turned; a blasted orb of broken bones and seas of boiling life-stuff. Nothing natural lived here; nothing native grew or thrived on a world given over to the howling madness of the aethyr. While an Emperor gloated upon a world at the edge of distant warpstorms, this place nestled in the heart of them; an anchor in the midst of dire uncertainty.

The boy ran through the blood-rain towards the great pavillion, occasionally casting his eyes up to the fires that twinkled above. They were not stars, for they did not shine in this foul place, instead they were the engines of countless vessels. Hundreds, thousands; it was impossible to truly count, shifting and moving as they were. Regardless, the boy tried sometimes when he was not needed to run messages or attend upon his masters. He was one of many camp followers and slave-attendants to the great host which had gathered beneath damned skies to make war in the name of their Emperor. Millions had answered the call to arms; from the lowliest cult warrior or trooper to the mighty legions of the Astartes. At last count three whole legions had marshalled in the name of carnage and mayhem; tens of thousands of warrior-devotees to the cults of bloody Khorne. Each a facet of war given form.

Panting, chest hammering with the effort, the boy fell to his knees as he entered the vast palanquin which held the living God, the Bloody Lord of Battle who guided the course of the entire crusade. He stood, his armour gleaming with spilled blood and lit by the flickering crimson light of a hololithic map, gesturing from one attack plan to the other. Worlds burned at the very movement of his fingers, entire planetary civilisations died in the shadow of his hand. It was beautiful to behold, even if the man himself was assuredly not.

Cabot growled, a low and feral purr building in his throat as he scrutinized the war-plans for the invasion of the Terran Degeneracy. In the end the entire war was nothing; of as much import as a doctor cleaning a wound or a trooper cleaning his arse. It was hygiene and it was pest control; it was an inevitable end to an enmity which had grown from humble beginnings, from pretension of alliance, the delusion of equality. It was easy to forget the long history of the Terran's, as pawns and instruments of greater powers. The Chronosian's had made merry sport of them before their corruption, before the rampant decent into xenophilia and machine-violation. Now a reckoning was at hand, a reckoning born of the spilled blood upon Pandora, and of the ever-present hatred of the Chronosian people.

The Terran Degeneracy was an easy target for hatred.

Cabot chuckled to himself, his laughter bubbling forth to become full-throated and booming, echoing about the command chamber. Adepts and aides looked at him warily, while Astartes legionnaires echoed his black mirth. The boy cowered lower, his forehead pressed to the earth, the message lain on the ground before him.

“Up.” The boy heard the growl of the Primarch and stirred himself, looking into the hungry face of an angry god. The voice boomed again, this time enhanced by vox; this time speaking to an entire world. “Rise.”

The millions who had been prostrating themselves rose. Each was slick with the lifeblood of sacrifices, each was a warrior of the Blood God. There were barely human cannibal-horrors, squatting amidst the bones and entrails, gnawing with sharpened teeth. There were the warrior cults and compacts; allegiance shown in the intricate patterns of brands and ritual scarring. Then there were the Astartes. Three Legions stood ready to slay the manifold unworthy who awaited them beyond the veil of the world.

“We stand upon the knife-edge of revelation; the very cusp of victory.” Claw tipped gauntlets flexed, opening and closing with an almost apprehensive motion. Kill-lust and murder-need flooded him, amplified by the abnormal chemicals within his superhuman physiology and the self-inflicted cerebral surgeries condoned in the name of Khorne. He paces like a caged animal, muscle spasms racking him with every movement, while the feral growl builds in his speech, a creeping burr beneath the substance of his words.

“Know that each of you stand as the children of eternal glory. The Gods watch; they know each of you by name! This day we stride forth to bring a foe to its knees, to break them utterly; not in the name of compliance or dominion- but in the name of cleansing, of purgation! We shed the piss-water and machine-oil blood of the Terran in a war of annihilation, a campaign of extermination and madness that will see the stars themselves stained red!

Ready yourselves for war! Speak the oaths of purity and hate! We go forth as the vanguard of holy war; the tip of the spear, the edge of the blade. I ask you; my brothers, my children, my kin; ARE YOU READY!? WILL YOU STAND WITH ME? WILL YOU SLAY THE WRETCHED PERVERSION?”

Millions of voices scream as one, a roar of agreement. They howl like champions, warrior-kings ready to be unleashed against an unsuspecting foe and an uncaring galaxy. They howl like Chronosians.

[Chronosia]

Fell Beginnings

The first signs of something wrong on the edges of the Terran Degeneracy are those associated with the break-up of Warp Storm Arcteron and the subsequent storms that bloom along the borders. Later analysis will see that these actions are guided by dark sorcery; the pre-cursor of the brewing invasion. A blunt race such as the Terrans could never understand the glorious preparations required for such an act; they lack the understanding of the sea of souls. They remain blind, blinkered...Weak.

Along the Terran-Chronosian border, the insidious tendrils of the warp slide forth like questing fingers, and with them came shapes- alone at first, displaced and confused merchantmen raging about the pernicious effects of the storm and cursing their navigators; their warp-wakes lost in the hellfire of the raging storms, or so it would appear.

It is many minutes before the true betrayal will unfold. Minutes where the Unionists might wait or ask for validation or, in their infinite folly, attempt to help.

The distress calls flood the local data-systems with traffic, crawling with infective and background scrapcode; each syllable an affront to the AI systems liberally seeded throughout Terran space- though apparently harmless. Each blurt frustrates the Terrans, makes them anxious and eager to be free of the Chronosians, it also begins to saturate inferior portions of their systems. The scaffolding is already laid; the seeds bearing their corrupt fruit only later, when it will benefit the invaders to have it so. Sensors began to register erroneous contacts, to fuzz with static and to crackle with ghost-light signals. They would not even notice that the vessels had appeared with barely the whisper of warp portal activity. Some would put that down to the presence of the storm. They would not see the true horror until it dawned in fire and blood...

*

Cabot growled as he watched the abhorrence unfolding upon the bridge of his flagship, knowing that it was being repeated across every other ship in his war-fleets, each one sanctified by the cruel whiff of sorcery. A true son of the Blood God, Cabot loathed sorcery in all its forms and to watch it practised with such uncouth abandon sent a thrill of murderous fury through his superhuman body.
The sons of Sevarino; blasphemous sorcerers each and every one, crouched and whispered around a prone figure. It stared skywards with blind eyes, only the third one in its forehead struggling and flailing beneath the bandana which hid it.

“Will this take long?” Cabot's low growl eclipses the lesser whispers of both the sorcerers and the Navigator. For each vessel of the war flotilla, there are two navigators; one who guides the ship in glorious unity with the Divine Powers and one who will be offered up. The ethereal whispers send a shiver of discontent down even a Primarch's spine, as the air thickens and cloys with warp-taint. He hears the crackling laughter of things older that worlds, sees them reach for the Navigators with immaterial fingers. He hears a voice join with the unearthly chorus, and watches as the Sorcerer kneels, whispering to the Navigator. He knows that they are whispering coordinates. Every vessel, a single set of coordinates. Whispering that this is where the Navigator needs to go, that they have to force their way through the sea of souls...

Do they understand?

They do; each and every one.

As the orders are given to depart into the Warp, as each and every ship feels the inevitable tug of the other-world, the unreal, the Immaterium, the Sorcerer’s raise their black obsidian knives, the runes glittering upon the blades, and thrust home...The doors between worlds open, the way is known by the ships remaining navigators, but the whisper of their fell journey, the echo of their transit, dissipates and flows. The souls unleashed upon the Warp will guide the tainted energy, to where it is most needed.

*

The Terran is ignorant of the full glory of the Warp. Often did they try to teach and illuminate the lesser beings, but it was futile work even for the chosen people. The Chronosian's turned their backs on any hope of coercing or converting such a blunt people; a race drowning in their own apathetic devotion to artificial minds and alien company. There could be no forgiveness, no reconciliation, only the perpetuation of a legacy of hatred. This fractuous past allowed that there would be some technologies within the Union capable of detecting warp travel, primitive efforts at understanding the flows and eddies, the waxing and waning of impossible tides; children's efforts, undeserving on contemplation.

Fit only to be fooled.

If there were any sensors capable of detecting the presence of vessels in the Warp, they would detect the sudden flaring of warp-storms along the border. They would also detect the immense bow-wave of some grand armada, hundreds of thousands of ships, headed straight for their capital worlds, with no message of origin or intent...

*

It is only when the flagship tears into reality around one of the worlds, when the war-fleets begin to arrive in perfect formation and with all systems hot, when the merchantmen and the traders shrug off their plates to reveal the readied weapons...It is only then that the scale of betrayal becomes evident. The Ramilles class Star Forts materialise with gathered escorts and war-companies, the very machinery of subjugation and murder unfolding before them. Each is primed for war, ready to fight and die for the will of their Dark Gods.

It is only when the combined warp-energy of a massed advance (entirely robbed from the force it should be transporting) bursts forth into the heart of the New Sol system, and soils the skies of New Terra with blood-red. When the walls between worlds shudders and buckles in the heart of a civilised empire, and even the many stations orbing the world shake with the errant gravimetric fluctuations, it is then that they see.

It is then that they know.

It is when the manifold guns of the war-fleets open fire, and smite the defences from a handful of worlds all along the borders of the Terran Alliance, that they finally understand. A reckoning comes for them, a reckoning that will be spoken of for generations to come, a war that will set the galaxy to burning and the coals of conflict smouldering for an age. It will be a sacrifice and a betrayal that will make the heavens weep and turn the eyes of the Gods towards petty mortals.

All done in the name of blood and madness and glory. All done by the will of Remiel. The fell begninnings of his war, begin with betrayal and blood. As all the great Chronosian campaigns have begun.

It begins now.

A message accompanies the dark act.

Allies of the Terran Alliance, people of the galaxy; hear me! These are the recorded words of Cabot; Primarch of the Imperium, Blood-Sworn Brother of Remiel De Drakan; rightfully proclaimed as Emperor of Mankind. I am his Warmaster, his instrument and his ally. Those of you who consider the degenerate peoples of the Terran Federation to be your allies, are hereby granted pardon for your folly.

War comes to those people, and those who stand against us shall be smote from the heavens- as befits traitors to human culture. Those of you who would gain from this conflict can rest assured that all debts and trade-pacts enforced by the Union shall be met in full and bettered by the Imperium. We have no wish of the Alliance's territory, nor their resources; they are yours, should you have the strength to seize them. Our requirements are simple.

The annihilation of every breathing or thinking being within Terran space, their utter destruction beyond even the point of enslavement or serfdom. War for the sake of purgation, war for the purposes of galactic pest-control and hygiene.

This is the sworn declaration of Cabot; the will of the Gods and the Emperor. Those who wish to be welcomed into the campaign should render a diplomatic envoy to any point in Chronosian Space. Those who would stand against us; take heart. You will be taken as chattel. You will be re-educated as to the mindset which befits the chosen people of the galaxy, the breed of man who shall serve the Gods with pride.

To those of the Terran Degeneracy, and whichever fecundant agency they maintain for communication; death is coming for you- for your blood and skulls. For your very souls. Tremble worms, the end stalks near.

[The Ctan]

The universe is not like a puzzle-box that you can take apart and put back together again and so solve its secrets. It is a shifting uncertain thing which changes as you consider it, which is changed by the very act of observation. A powerful man is not a man who dissects the universe like a puzzle-box, examining it piece by piece and measuring each piece with scientific precision. A powerful man has only to look upon the universe to change it.

- Technomagos Gaelos

Keslain the Unmistaken aggrandised himself by claiming to never have made a mistake. It was a claim that was, he was painfully aware, no longer true. Time had long become meaningless in the Tesseract Labryinth, as had matter and direction. Even the soul evaporated to nullity in the gaol dimension that it held its prisoner in, given long enough. The fact that he was able to reflect on his mistake, then, was a surprise, dimly, he was aware that he had been here for years upon years, but he did not know how long. The evaporation of physical matter into the soul calibrated to prevent him dying of thirst within the Labyrinth's embrace. After that, who could tell a year from a decade or a day from a week? Did time even flow in the same manner here?

He had a body again, or at least the possibility of one, he could feel it, strong with the gifts of the Warmaster, armoured and armed, just as he had been captured. He felt as though he had been imprisoned here longer than he had lived outside, though he hoped that were not so, in the eye and in the maelstrom he had lingered past the thousands of years since the Heresy and fought with a hundred warbands on a thousand worlds. The prospect of spending seven thousand years in this nothingness was horrifying. He imagined perhaps that the Gods had triumphed and torn down the Imperium, and only he did not enjoy their beneficence, lost wherever it was the xenos kept him.

The mistake he had made ground into him, the hubris he had in sporting with the thing had lead him to this. He had encountered it, a shard of what some deluded alien race had called a god, bound into the altar-stone of a temple. He had thought to use it, to take control of it, in exchange for greater freedom. It had not reacted in the least to the butchery of its followers.

It had only been a fraction of the Deceiver, it had said, and with only a fraction of the intellect and power. It had never explained itself to him, or asked anything from him, but told him what he . He had no intention of doing so, of course, and it had known it, what he had not known was the lie inherent in those instructions; that lie had been simple. That the necron device could be unlocked by a man; or that its control circuits could be altered without the most intensive research. Instead, it had drawn him into the abyssal pocket dimension it held when he had tried to operate it to banish the C'tan shard. He was, he realised, not the first to try and deal with that particular 'shard' not the first to tamper with the control mechanisms that held it bound to the temple, but certainly the last. It was free, and he, languished in its place.

Orikan had been one of the foremost Crypteks of the Necrontyr Empire of Old, and so he remained in this one, but he had other titles too. He was known as the Founder of Necrontyr Society, and amongst the most respected of Phaerons. He stood surrounded by other necrons as one by one he disengaged the safety interlocks of Keslain's prison. These devices were designed to be very secure, and even with all his knowledge it was taking time to revert the prisoner. At length, it flashed, a dizzying whirl of transdimensional energies invisible to lesser eyes, depositing the re-embodied prisoner on the floor before him. The Lychguard seized the chaos sorcerer, staggered and unable to react. Orikan nodded to one of his lords. The silver necron stepped over, holding out an orb.

The Mindshackle Scarab was aptly named, for it resembled in all respects its battlefield cousin, save only size, it was 'merely' three inches in length, set in a small transparent orb prior to its use. The necron lord held it out, and it shot instantly into its victim's head, passing through the armoured helm he wore without impedance. It was phase shifted and intangible. Its inner core flickered with the light of its own plasma generator, a hole in its middle, while its long spindly legs contained dozens of probes.

Keslain's head shot back, more in a reaction to the pain than from any impact, as the scarab began to bond with his mind, slicing its sliverprobes into the meat of the brain and hijacking it, not quite erasing or controlling the mind, but rather, creating a second consciousness, one that could usurp the body and imitate the original, imprisoning the original host – when it wanted – within their own mind.

++Greetings++ The voice in Keslain's head was his own, its manner horribly personal and mocking, the sneer he had used for others. ++This will constitute your mission briefing, librarian, so listen well..+++

__ __ __

Praetia was a rare thing for a Navigator. She was beautiful. Tall and willowy, the mutation of her breed had only exemplified the looks that fortune had granted her. She could not pass easily for a normal human, though, gifted with four arms, functional, thankfully, one pair below the normal pair, There were other mutations too, a kind of ethereal gossamer quality to her skin, that made her look bizarrely, unnaturally fair. Her eyes, the two that were visible, were solid orbs of silver, glittering almost as though they were compound eyes, though nothing could be seen of them enough to tell.

The Eldar was what one might call a zombie. A dark eldar, sucked of its soul completely by the denizens of the warp. The scourge's flesh-sculpted wings batted futility in the suspension chamber, turning it over in the gravitational balance point that held it trapped in the air like a fly in amber. Praetia looked at it dispassionately. The matter of which it was composed suffered disorientation, but there was a merely animal sapience in the thing. Around the midpoint anchor, tables were arranged. The Sorcerer Menaera was a dark clad figure, the very image of a mad scientist.

"So you see, although any fool can bond a soul to a new host, and anyone of even moderate talent kindle a soul in a suitable host," he said twitchily, "the art of creating a second soul in the image of the first is beyond us yet. But the Old Ones could do it."

"So scattered reports say. Is there anything in their remaining texts to indicate they could?" Praetia questioned.

"I will admit to a measure of conjecture in that hypothesis, but I am convinced that it is possible. With the eldar, the brain is still there... there's just something missing. If we could replace that we could create a viable healing mechanism.” Sorcery was, oddly, esteemed in the C'tan as a profession. This was unsurprising as it tended to mean leaving one's home and coming here, to the fifth moon of Prindar, and places like it, where sorcerers toiled and experimented for centuries of long solitude, a kind of scientific hermitage.

Minx, Praetia's witch-elf aide, from the Naggorothi convents, leaned close to the zombie, bemused by it as it lashed out at her. She stood back, watching. “Thank you Menaera, I shall pass your funding request on to the Elders,” Praetia said, folding her arms into her robe.

Her aquila was landed not far from the tower, surrounded by the dozens of prefabricated STC plasma plants that Menaera had requested for another project that had essentially gone nowhere, walking up its ramp she frowned. It was typical of sorcerers to eventually want to request someone to cut up. And candidates worthy were in short supply.

__ __ __

The Imperial Necrontyr Ship Verathar was by the standards of the Ancestral Universe, and the Chronosians, tiny, a flat arrow-head two hundred and fifty meters in length it was designated a frigate, but was more akin to a gunship. But the technology behind it was far superior to that of many other races; its armament approached that of an idolator-class raider, and its speed was far greater. Nonetheless, it was not truly built for battle. What it lacked in size and armament though, it made up for in flexibility.

It possessed a C'tan Inertialess Drive, a creation of the Void Dragon. Even the Necrons had for a long time lost the ability to replicate such devices, only a few of the most esoteric crypteks comprehending how to create one in full. This allowed it to travel almost anywhere in the galaxy in almost no time. It sat resting on the large spaceport that existed on the Seventh Moon of Prindar, the home of House Astraeus, the navigator house of the Necrontyr Empire. When the Deceiver had implemented a change to this universe, some human worlds and the starships in orbit of them had been drawn with. These formed the Ancestral Protectorate. The Navigators had been one of the few widespread power groups able to adopt to the change, never having put much stock in the permanency of the Imperium or its God-Emperor, they had done well even in a society where Navigating the warp was an occasional afterthought. Prindar's Moon, also known as Astraea,

The spaceport was a STC pattern, a demihexagon of raised ferrocrete with runways and landing pads along it suitable to land a frigate, built next to a large void shield generator. The pad that the Verathar sat upon a pad intended for a bulk lander, the interstellar craft looking incongruous, not quite out of place in her world, but like a skyscraper in a forest. Sure enough, a message pinged her from the spaceport control. Requesting she land on a different pad to the usual.

The sight of a chaos space marine as she disembarked was, though, out of place, and she snapped a fusion pistol of eldar origin from her side to point it at him before the necron's apparent peace with this entity stayed her hand.

“What's going on here?” she asked.

“We should like you to go to a planet called Nova Terra. We shall explain on the way,” the Necron Lord said. Her eyes narrowed.

“I'd rather like that explanation now, I think,” she said, not dropping the gun.

“Certainly. I am an emissary from the High Astromancer...”

__ __ __

The shock of reversion to normal reality was sharp and disorienting. The ship took less than a second to travel from Prindar, clear across the galaxy to New Earth. But to Praetia, it was almost like jumping into boiling water. Praetia could feel the deaths of her comrades, see their shades upon the warp. She wondered if they had believed they were willing, or if they had known of their slavery; there was no question that they were slaves, for all who followed the chaos gods were slaves, merely to greater or lesser masters. She could feel the countless ship-impressions forming a pressure about her mind, like that of diving at depth, and for a moment she wondered at the size of it. She could only guess some malign intent, and to her mind the intention was camouflage. Long experienced in the sundry arts secondary to the navigator's calling, she was a diviner herself, of a different sort, and she could feel her senses blinded by the overwhelming possibilities unleashed by so many signatures in the warp.

That many ships could not be real. But which of them were?

She knew full well that they did not exist, even despite appearances to the contrary, for she was wise to the many arts of chaos, from personal experience or from training and reading, the art by which chaos could create false matter was known full well to her, and that by which demon forges in warp intrusions could invest false matter with enough reality to linger in the real universe for a time before the lies that spun them unraveled like morning dew.

The shock of arriving in a war-zone of such empereal malevolence sent her reeling for a long moment.

And across the observation deck, Keslain, permitted that liberty, smiled.

__ __ __

Transmission Source: Imperial Necrontyr Ship Verathar
Destination: New Earth Planetary Authorities
Subject: Assistance
Encryption: Standard Public Key.

Greetings. We represent the assistance team dispatched by the Necrontyr Empire to this planet to deal with the chaos incursion. Please prepare a docking bay for our arrival. Additionally, I request to be allowed to make contact with your AI systems in-system. There are some upgrades you will probably need if my readings of this environment are correct.

[The Fedral Union]

President Sagen sank back in to his chair despite the gravity of the situation he looked rather refreshed, on the outside. However this entire and dangerous situation was inside weighing heavily upon him. A sense of almost dread came over him realizing within a few moments of being informed about this , invasion. But he needed to look as if he was balanced during this time more than ever, putting on such a facade made it even harder. He couldn't display any of his true emotions pass by. On another hand confidence began to build as plans for action came together, so far it was cautious but it was there. He looked around the room at his various advisers, the report of the oncoming thread looming over the sleek holographic table as a projection. After another moment of silence, he spoke his voice collective and cool, he gazed to the lapaine chief of staff who had folded his hands on the glass table. 'Secretary Kayborn, whats the status on our defensive preparations at this moment?” The secretary plainly responded shifting in his chair slightly.


"Sir most of our core fleets are within distance of our primary systems ,We'll have to dedicate a number of them to defense until we can get an opening to launch a counteroffensive. How ever sir we do have options. President Sagen drummed his fingers looking up at the secretary waiting for him to complete his thought. ”Mister president , we have a significant amount of ships and personnel stationed at the Danus fleet base.” The President folded his hands on the table he leaned forward and said. ”Get them ready ,I want everything prepared, if they want a war they're going to get one.”

Secretary Kayborn nodded, the president swiveled in his chair to stare out of a holographic monitor down to a wide chasm of a control room his mind was clouded with various thoughts, the situation had come on so suddenly, one day things were peaceful everyone was happy, but now, none of that could be seen especially not within the executive mansion's situation room. Sectary Kayborn spoke again, he looked at the well dressed executive who was longingly gazing out at the floor bellow them.

”Sir Fleet command and I have already been drawing up a plan to make do with what we have for now, I'm confident we can repel this invasion.”

Richard looked back away from the window down the elongated table with all sorts of sapient beings sitting in the chairs lining each side. He kept a calm face on even though underneath he was under gut wrenching stress. ”Well. Lets hear it..” The secretary coughed and adjusted himself in his chair. He waved his hand and a large three dimensional map came in to view zooming in. ”Fleet command and are in continual communication. So far we've come up with an outline for a plan that might just help us. Danus has 593 combat ships and one point five million troops stationed , at least half of those troops are defense forces. The Galileo sector several parsecs away has another 593 ships and about a million or so troops. We can rally both those fleets in a timely fashion but they wont be able to carry that many ground pounders until the troop transports are deployed.”

The president listened closely his eyes wandering from person to person, it felt as if a mountain of burden had been placed on back, but like hell he would look frail and incompetent now. But he also had to worry about the colonies the fleets would be called away from. He looked to the secretary and asked with a clam collective voice. ”If we send those ships out wont we leave those colonies that depend on our protection out to dry?”

The secretary anticipated this question and had given it much thought, the Alliance had many contingencies for situations such as this or any other national emergency casting doubt on those who thought them inept. ”If we call in all patrolling ships from that quadrant and the adjacent, we could gather at least one hundred ships to cover us there. But I doubt the chronosians would hit so far out of the way.” Richard stood up as did the rest of the staff, the meeting was just about to end until a small blip could be heard on table, it was blinking urgent. President Sagen tapped it and listened to the transmission and following quarter masters report. He was quite curios why the C'tan would want to help the Alliance, but at this point he wouldn't question it. ”Patch me through to that ship and let them dock.” – Another blip sounded ”This is President Richard Sagen of the Terran Alliance to the Imperial Necrontyr Ship Verathar , I'm granting you permission to dock and to interface with our systems, you'll have interplanetary access if you do so . Just as a warning.” There was a certain level of trust between the TA and the C'tan, they had been allies in situations many times before. Richard stepped toward the two double doors leading out of the room they swooshed open in front of him he was followed and flanked by various staffers down a railed catwalk with blue carpet, the ramp went down both sides of the white circular room with holographic consoles paneling the walls. The middle of the room was abuzz with activity, officers, drones, and staffers moved around the massive map showing the galaxy. The main map flickered to a live feed of various systems , the president his staff and several idle secretaries gazed as well.

It had been a century since the last hostile contact between a chronosian and Terran ships, and the design of Terran technology and ships had changed so much it would be unrecognizable from the hardware In use many years ago. The advancement in AI and evolution of technology along with redundant systems helped combat the electronic warfare being undertaken by the chaos spawn. The malicious scrap code that seemed to have been spewed their foe did make things harder, static and some form of noise clouded the sensor screen this of course was somewhat of an inconvenience. To help alleviate that problem AI's began to initialize various separate highly integrated communications and command and control networks with links to the SAWS network . An alert had gone out to all merchant ships that could be reached where sensors had detected incursions. One advantage of having an integrated communications network was that word spread fast . Surely most would heed the alert there were a few of course who be lost to the misadventure of being flayed by the demonic worshipers invading their homes.

New Sol Orbit

By the time the chronisans had entered the insular automated system a fleet was rallying at New Sol this was repeated throughout the core worlds of the Alliance. In New Sol There was a massive six point five kilometer behemoth that was the flag ship of the rallied armada it was the Dreadnought Peace Keeper it loomed over her escorts, her intimidating form casting shadows upon the smaller ships around her, her size only dwarfed by one of the large battle stations in polar orbit and the majestic and wondrous ring world that seemed to contain no “defenses” to the naked eye. also flanked by smaller ships. Everything from Destroyers, to larger Command Cruisers To smaller Frigates. Many large defense pods armed with massive anti capital ship beam guns and bristling with many smaller weapon systems and missile tubes were being readied quickly and surely supplemented by many Thousands of smaller weapon pods that seeded the asteroid belts and the orbits of moons and planets, larger heavier battle stations stations augmented the automated defense pods. This type of heavy defense was standard across the central core systems of the Terran domain, token defenses were spread across some systems others that were classified as "Moderate level colonies" didn't have as many defenses as the core systems but had enough to hold their own for some time.


Admiral Samantha black was in command of the Peace Keeper. She sunk back in to her chair ruing this day greatly , This macabre dance was morbid and left a bad taste in her mouth, she could never get over the thirst for blood and destruction these things had. She had read up on the last two wars in the academy and was well verse on how chronosians could act. Even though the information was quite out of date besides the recent encounter on Pandora. She swiveled her chair to gaze at the large dreadnoughts central map links thousands upon thousands of ships ,stations and planetary defenses were handled smartly and without issue by the AI. Information traveled from point to point instantly real time updates of sensor feeds from many high powered “SAWS” (Stellar Array Warning Systems). She placed a hand on her chin, as the map changed from core system to core system showing ships moving in to position as quickly as possible.

”Damn it, cant they get here any faster..” She mumbled under her breath, she was quite frustrated about this whole situation, why did they have to defend their homeland , they should be the ones taking the fight to them, at least that's what she thought. But she knew better than to trust her emotional tirades . The ships AI flickered to life and said.

”Admiral, we just lost contact with some of our outer systems, automated and lightly populated but I still think its significant.”

"Shit. Black sighed, she adjusted her uniform and looked at the feline officer, she waved a hand and said. ”Poor souls, I swear they'll pay for setting foot on our worlds... Chaos scum. Are all ships in position?” The officer shook his head responding. ”Several more moments ma’am , a few ships are still in hyper space.” Black scratched her chin. She cursed under her breath about this situation, she hated it and so did many of the other crew. From the “north” to the “east and west” ships were rushing towards the theater of action some farther than others.



1300 hours Fleet base omega, Danus sector Classified location.

The TAS Ares shimmered in to existence as if it came out of the fabric of space and time itself , while not the biggest ship in the area it was certainly one of the most advanced using its state of the art cloaking technology, phase armor and new shielding. it was however dwarfed by the command cruisers around it but it loomed over destroyers and frigates. This was the first ship of its class, launched from Tyrian only three months prior to the incident, now it would face a trial by searing fire. Vice Admiral William S Church sat on the chair within the moderately sized sleek compute lined bridge, holographic visual representations switched one from another , Church squinted a bit, he leaned forward and crossed one leg over the other. He was a rather young man for a person of his rank, but he had earned it being daring but wise at the same time. He spoke, his voice carried an aurora of respect.

”How many ships do we have so far?” The AI of the ship who didn't want to appear merely responded from a console. ” two hundred and ten, still quite a ways to go.” Church cursed this, it was taking a while the only reason they managed to get these ships on station so quickly was because they were already part of the stationed fleet. Hundreds of other ships were rushing toward the fleet rally point. ”We're still missing several command cruiser groups like the six task force, the fourth task force ,and tenth task force.. Tell them to hurry up..” Church crossed his arms over his chest his blue eyes gazed at the AI who responded. ”They're coming as fast as they can they should be here in two hours, some ships ships wont be here for three though.. Church shook his head just as another group of ships dropped out of hyper space , a command cruiser and ten other ships, portals flared to life with flashes of bright white and blue before dying out as if they never existed. The space around the base situated near a large planetoids was becoming crowded as more and more ships made their way toward the rally point.


Other than the Idle blips of various consoles on in the Ares CiC things were silent, tensions were mounting as time wore on, everyone had worries about loved ones homes, and their own lives, they all knew they had a job to do. Churches eyes longingly gazed at the master systems display that showed a map of the fleet the position of ships and flowing lines dictating the destination of vessels . He folded his hands on his lap and exhaled sharply his mind wandering from thought to thought. The vicissitudes and chaos of the situation was sinking in to everyone's consciousness. Much to dismay of Church and many other leaders nothing could get done instantly , but the Alliance did have a mobility advantage as it had a highly developed gate network linking developed systems, major colonies and fleet bases. In total the armada would eventually reach and apex of 1118 combat vessels and an assorted number of transport ships, all would be focused on striking like a blunt instrument at the tender regions of their foe. But gathering of this magnitude took time In the mean while national defense units would have to hold the line against waves of enemy combatants. Tens of Billions of lives were at stake, this thought permeated throughout the country from the leadership to the lowly shop keeper. The message had reverberated around the country, and it slowly but surely began to sink in.



Smoke Filled state room

"Your telling me they're starting to cloud some of our networks?" The president asked, he was somewhat taken aback by what he had heard but it began to slowly merge in to reality for him. The Secretary of Defense merely gave a nod and plain response. " Right now its an annoyance but I don't know how long it will stay that way. Some of our experts are trying to think of ways to clean it up, but for now we' can switch to ECOM networks. President Sagen sat forward crossing his hands on the desktop. The room was filled with smoke from various cigars a-lit, holographic computer panels lined each side of the room, and track lights adorned parts of the ceiling glowing incandescently. After a moment of silence he responded. "The best we can do is get as many civilians out of harms way as possible. The defense secretary nodded in agreement he added to the plan though

"Mister president several base commanders in the way of this on coming advanced have taken the liberty of deploying scout drones. It will take time but at least we might get a clearer pictures of what we're actually dealing with. President Sagen exhaled sharply, this was going to be an extraordinarily long day. Other strategies were coming to fruition . ECOM was short for The Emergency Communications System, a separate highly secure communications infrastructure with randomly modulating encryption keys connecting vital government ministries and defense infrastructure to retain the effectiveness of central commands.

Patrol group three

Commerce raiding was always a part of war, ships that were caught behind the enemy advanced either by evasion or luck had the opportunity to nick at enemy supply lines , one such group was a trio of frigates, two older Warrington class ships and one Charleston class frigate. Initially the group of ships were on anti piracy duty, they had jumped to a system on a way point patrol from an outpost some light years away. the TAS Roosevelt and its brethren had been cut off in the middle of contested hostile territory communications hard to unscramble and sensors clouded as they were close to the apex of the advance. it had been nearly a half an hour before ECOM began to knife dully through the static induced by the invading cancer. The commander of the Roosevelt was Echen walker. A purple skinned green eyed alien with short red hair, she was slightly taller than a human and more lithe than one. She leaned forward pressing one of her geko like suction cup fingers on a blinking indicator . the system was designed to receive three forms of data in case one failed, text, audio and visual. In this case only text came through and flickered to life before Echen's eyes.

The ships avatar leaned against a bulkhead crossing his arms over his chest, he appeared as an unusually pale skinned man. "Looks like we're in deep, somethings out there I sensed it but I couldn't confirm anything until that garbled data stream stumbled in."

Echen furrowed a brow, she exhaled sharply her mind running with various thoughts. She formulated a response smartly. "They're ordering the evacuation of colonies with in range of the fleets advance, we might not be the only group of ships trapped behind this advance , but there also might be another wave inbound. We shouldn't stay put." The AI avatar pushed himself off from the bulkhead and looked over across the room, waving an idle hand he said. "Well you got that right, I'm not about to get my ass blasted by sittin around. But I also don't want to be bone idle while our guys and gals get wasted." Echen placed a hand on her alien chin, even her races natural pacifistic tendencies could be overcome by the rising desire to strike at those who dared to trample upon the liberty of their comrades. It took her a second to come to come to a coldly calculated subtle conclusion about how to carry out the orders sent. " Our first priority is to send encrypted IFF prefix signals to locate other fleet ships once, once we do that I think we can carry out supply line raids."

The AI flipped through the plans in a mere nanosecond, he nodded in understanding, he looked to Echen and plainly said. "I'm reconfiguring our hyperspace communications beacons , it might take a bit to get a bit but we should begin the process of evacuating this system. The commander concurred, she stood up right her eyes averting their gaze from the side panel across the various utilitarian axillary controls to the sleek master display map in the center of the CiC. The map displayed the last known positions of outposts and ships, updated information was trickling in so the map was taking time refreshing section by section.

Holly system, Holly prime
Core systems and inner colonies had engaged their planetary shields. theater shields and defense girds, other colonies had local generators to protect selected areas as the infrastructure to maintain larger girds had yet to be constructed. The holly system was one of the claimed systems in the very latter category. A small colony with thirty thousand people spread over a country side with several small cities sprouting like the start of buzzing hives, the world had a garrison of three thousand five hundred troops, mostly reservist and a thousand five hundred planetary guard personnel most of those support . The planet wasn't exactly important strategically it was an on the grow minor colony near the dubious blurred sphere of Terran influence, its government hopped it would become a staging point for new economic and expansion efforts . Of course weather or not these dreams were in peril crisis permitted as unknown. The local legislature and Governor feared a symbolic attack, they had evacuated to a civil defense instillation far south of the capital in a large forest.


Fort Hartford was the major military instillation on world, ECOM had kicked in within twenty minuets the base. The base commander brigadier general Addams and his diverse staff sat in the bases conference bunker located in a secure location within the bases wilderness areas. The well lit computer lined room was connected to the planets small defense grid and remote units on patrol. General Addams Sunk back in her chair, she looked over the updating maps glancing between monitors and the ECOM feed. "I want everything in position, weather or not we're on the target list I don't know, but we need to be prepared. What do we have to work with and what we should do with it these are the questions I need answers. The general was speaking to various colonels, L.t colonel and majors. One of the lupine anthropomorphic officers in the room spoke up. "Sir, we need a flexible strategy to deal with the wide margin of this problem. For all we know they're blood thirsty enough to land in force, that would put our forces at a disadvantage in a head on engagement. We're going to need to use tricks, traps and quick strikes if they do decide to come for us." Addams could see the logic in this plan, so now she had to put some aspects of that with her own thoughts.


Another ten minutes passed , by the time every thing was set and done orders had been dispensed to mobilizing forces, what ever mechanized force there was would be hidden in a strategic location, The force of this world was equipped with light tanks , medium weight combat tanks and infantry fighting vehicles, they also had some transport craft and drone gunships but not in bulk. how ever most of the planets defenses were infantry in armored hover transports. The waiting game was afoot, weather or not this world will be spared, saved or destroyed was up to the powers at be. In the meanwhile many probes had been deployed to canvas known chronosian sectors a variable plethora of advanced automated scouts in tandem raced towards their intended targets. Their main mission was to identify major production facilities and if possible monitor fleet movements in a stealthy fashion but nothing was fool proof and the Terrans didn't know weather their enemy was expecting a counter attack or not.

[Ruthless Slaughter]

The communications equipment of Chronosia was strong indeed, as the message carried far and wide across the galaxy. In the depths of the Gamma Quadrant, a race that had not been seen on the galactic stage for almost five hundred years was stirring. Seven star systems that were previously silent now flashed a faint pulse, almost negligible at first but growing stronger with each passing day. Closer conflicts had flared up, causing the nation to enter a waking state. Ornate starships that had not seen combat in centuries left the safety of their borders and sailed through the open void once more. What were the equivalent of droplets of water being slowly dripped onto a sleeping giant became a harsh and cold torrent of water, bringing it to full alertness. Though they had never met, the Dominion had a solid if outdated knowledge of Chronosia and its devotion to the xenoforms inhabiting the pocket dimension they called "The Warp". Now, as then, The Dominion's top strategists did not like what they saw. A Chaos fleet was poised to overwhelm The Fedral Union, an old ally that, like all others, had fallen out of contact.

While its perception of the galaxy may be woefully out of date, The Dominion clung to it nonetheless. The Milky Way may have forgotten them, but the archive banks, AI's and computers of the Dominion never forget. The archaic yet immensely powerful subspace relays were activated for the first time in almost a thousand years, as the nation's fall from the galactic stage was a gradual one, and the other quadrants had been the first to lose contact. The relays were among the first devices to be powered by a microsingularity core, the harnessed power of a black hole in all its fury channeled and slaved to one of the Dominion's technological marvels. They were now thrumming with power, wreathed in fire as the dust and cobwebs surrounding them caught alight and cast glimmering shadows over the massive antennae. They were powered, but waiting; massive potential was being held in check as the operators of the array were waiting for orders: what would they send out? And to whom? The answer was being fiercely debated in the home system, as an emergency meeting of the Senate was convened in the capital city on Epsilon Prime.

Senate Chambers, City of Asgard, Epsilon Prime

"Absolutely not!" roared Senator Diana O'Dowd, majority leader of the Isolationist Party, "We never should have responded to the other conflicts in the first place! This does nothing but put our people needlessly in danger! Our fleets are outdated, our soldiers unseasoned, and our-"

"And whose fault is that?" Senator Feodor Sernovsky shot back, "With the Dominion looking ever inward and away from the galaxy at large, we had no reason to! All of our money went into self-sufficiency, employment, and keeping that inane pipe dream your party spawned alive! We have been inactive for far too long, if we do not act-"

"We save Dominion citizens," spoke up another Senator from the Ro System, a strong isolationist camp to murmurs of assent from his compatriots.

"And when Chronosia is done with the Union, what then?" replied an outspoken Senator from the Antares System, "We would be sitting ducks! If nothing else we lend our fleets to them in the hopes that it delays Chaos long enough to fire up our military industrial complex."

"You forget," retorted Senator O'Dowd, "that they need to know we EXIST before ever thinking of turning on us. Why would they come to the Gamma Quadrant, I ask you? They have no reason. We've been quiet, restive and off the sensor grid."

"Who among you," cut in a voice, laden with authority and, at this moment, contempt, "has stopped to even consider our obligation to help a friend? An ally? A substantial power has marked a long standing ally for extinction, and just because we have not had contact with them in centuries does not make those ties any less binding. To not respond is to undermine the moral fiber that our society was founded on. We are the shining example of freedom in the galaxy. We are the soldiers on the front lines. We are the first and last word against tyranny. We. Never. Abandon. A. Friend. Do those oaths ring a bell? They should, they're in our Constitution and they clearly delineate what our stance is on this matter. I motion to send word that we will aid The Fedral Union in their darkest hour. Do I have a second?"

As President R.L. looked around the Senate floor from his raised podium, he saw at least five of the seven hands raise in approval.

"Motion carries to vote. All in favor?" The fives hands remained raised.

"Opposed?" they dropped, to be replaced by the other two Senators.

"Being a motion to send military aid to an ally, and not a declaration of war, at this time unanimous approval is not necessary and the motion passes," the President turned to an aide, "Send word to the Titan Array: Signal I is a go. Get the message sent before the damned thing fries itself. And then send word to Admiral Piett to rally a fleet. They are to depart within the hour."

As the aide rushed off to carry out his duties, he was opening a new chapter in Dominion history. Precisely ten minutes after the landmark vote, the Titan Array unleashed a torrent of energy into deep space. Carried on this wave over an ancient diplomatic channel and not bothering to hide behind encryption was a simple message, containing only a few words and a symbol. Few would remember the channel's significance, let alone who the sender was, but the message itself rang out clear as day for anyone between Dominion and Union space to hear:

"We are coming."


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
At the Antares Fleet Yards, a large task force being assembled. A Raven Class Capital Ship was to command the formation, flanked by two Phoenix Class Ships of the Line. The remainder consisted of 25 War Cruisers, 35 Strike Cruisers, 40 Omega Class Frigates, 40 Prowler Class Corvettes, and 60 Attack Ships. The Raven's artificial wormhole generator was being warmed up and calculations were being run to open the vortex in a safe area of Union space large enough to contain the fleet. They were to hold on standby for a response, hopefully containing deployment coordinates.

[The Ottish Empire]

Ottoman IN-STELL Communications

-Capt. Thomas Gastov

Its been two weeks, two weeks since he'd left his loving wife and kids back on the homeworld because some suits offered him an illustrious position in one of the Ottoman Empire's most prestigious intelligence sectors. Already he missed his old life, the presence of his wife, and the energy his children gave him, but he understood that this would benefit them more than he ever could.

The effects of long-term exposure to a Zero-Grav environment were becoming known, his bowels began to hurt, and a slight muscle deterioration became apparent. While IN-STELL was the most advanced intelligence project in the Ottoman Empire, it was expensive, and the budget couldn't include an artificial gravity generator. Of course it still held A Class quarters, latrines, and kitchens, they'd just have to cope with no gravity.

Today, just like any other day, he sat strapped carefully into his seat, monitoring any messages and communications between foreign nations that they could pick up. This day though, one message broke through predominantly. A message from a people who referred to themselves as Chronosians, who declared the Terrans, a long time ally of the Ottomans, filth. This was a declaration of war, not a threat, or shot at intimidation, they intended to engage the Terrans.

A flurry of activity followed the arrival of this message. The message itself was further passed to the Ottoman Parliament, while the historical archives were scanned for any mention of these Chronosians. Scouts, military vessels, and commercial ships were rerouted around Terran space, and the supposed borders of these Chronosians.

These Chronosians, whoever they were, were enemies of the Terrans, this message was clear enough. And those who threatened their allies, were enemies of the state, pure and simple.

-Ottoman Parliament

"This is a declaration of war, out right! We cannot allow our closest allies to be threatened in such a way!"

"We don't even know these people, nor do we know who else has become involved, intervention could end in our entire annihilation!"

The Parliament was entirely divided over the issue, while one side screamed for intervention and offered military assistance for their trade partners, the other cried for isolationism. There was no ground to be gained, neither side gave an inch. The decision came down to the Sultan himself.

Sultan Axum sat poised in front of the gathered politicians. A certain wear and tear could be detected on him, he struggled to keep ahead of the ensuing argument, and even worse, he'd developed a case of the jitters. His old hand shook as he raised it to calm the room, he arose and cleared his throat, "Brothers, sisters, this is precious time we waste. While we bicker over this, our allies are out there, waging a war," he glanced about to make sure that everyone was paying attention, "I'm sure you all understand the resources we have vested in the Terrans, and how economically tied we are. I've made my choice, I refuse to allow our allies to be hung out to dry in such a manner."

The politicians now erupted into an even more intense argument, one that was once again hushed by the Sultan, "The decision is made, now silence, begin rallying the troops, we have a war to wage," with that, he returned to his seat and sighed heavily. This decision would cost thousands, maybe even millions their lives, and all because of some petty economic alliance.

[Chronosia]

He is but a boy and he is watching a world die.

His father has brought him to the observation platform of the flagship; the planet turning in such perfect peace that he fancies he can almost hear the music of the spheres. A gauntleted hand clenches around one shoulder, the pressure uncomfortable even when gene-forged perfection is taken into account. He does not wince, his eyes do not leave the field before them; a single flawless orb before the black and white of star-touched space.

The cannons begin to fire. He watches placid green and blue become suddenly stained black. Fire and conflagration run rampant; the music is gone- all that remains is the unceasing psychic scream of the dead. Hundreds, thousands, millions. It never ends. He grits his teeth; he is young and unforged- he lacks the psychic fortitude and strength of his kin-brothers. His father's face never alters. He has seen too much of war. He has done this a hundred times before, all for the sake of humanity.

“Do you see what awaits all who would oppose us, my son?” There is a resignation in his voice that stuns the boy- he has never seen his father as anything but the doubtless, peerless, warrior. The Emperor.

“I see, father.”

“And you understand why it must be done?”

“There is only the way of the Imperium, or there is nothing. You taught us that father. You showed us the edge of the blade; brutality must be tempered by necessity. So must mercy.”

“Very good.” He smiles, utterly without warmth. Sometimes the boy wonders...He tries to dismiss the thought, but it lodges like a splinter, a thorn in his mind.

Sometimes he wonders if the man even sees them as children; as sons. Are they, perhaps, mere weapons to him? Even a demi-god like himself cannot claim to understand his father's mind.

“There will come a day, my son, where you will command armies- be they the Legionnaires who bear your colours or the lesser men of the Imperial Guard. You will speak words which will rain death upon the xenos and upon the humans who spurn our banner. The God-Machines of the Mechanicus will march at your command, and worlds will be sundered by the naval fleets that you bring to bear.” The Emperor paused, almost hesitant. “In those times, you must swear to me that you will not flinch from what must be done. You will know no fear.”

The boy is yet a boy, even though he is a Primarch. He has not seen war; not in flesh, he has not commanded armies outside of simulation. He wonders if he will be an able commander. He wonders if he will make his father proud, in the end.

“I swear, father.” The Primarch Cabot speaks with a child's certainty. “I will do your will. I will know no fear.”

*

“Break the whoresons.” Cabot's order is a low and feral growl- laced with menace. Clawed gauntlets dig into the stone arms of his command-throne, as he leans forward- surveying the starfield before them as an apex-predator might survey the savannah. They have been steadily advancing in-system since the sudden flare of warp-storm activity hit the Union. Sensors ought to be blinded, machine-minds struggling to cope with the influx of the unreal. The original gambit worked- wary Unionist forces regarding the Chronosian detritus as an unwelcome addition to their local group- unaware of the viral malady coursing into their datasphere. It couldn't last, of course, but it did enough to sow madness and confusion amongst the sub-human peoples of the Holes system. Even the name was pathetic- lacking all grandeur and gravitas. He smiled at the thought. This was the Union in microcosm; this was their failings made manifest.

As the Bloodspiller lurched forward, guns blazing against the mass of enemy defences, several heavy-prowed vessels began the preperations for maximum acceleration. Aboard the Crimson Vigilence, the cult brothers of the Bloodied Knife took out their hateful rage against one another- a ritual offering of life as the ship hurtled towards its target. The crew of the Vengeance in Blood commit ritual suicide- gashing their wrists or throats, impaling themselves on rune-etched spikes, screaming their foul cants over and over, till death claims them. When it strikes the Terran defences, void-shields high and engines hot, the screams will still be echoing- borne on new and terrible voices.

They slammed like spears through the void, unstoppable. They were aimed at the main defence units that hang in orbit, and the meagre defence ships that the mongrels can muster. They are all going to die. Cabot let his laughter be broadcast over the open vox, mocking the Terran forces with every advance of his own warriors. He watches the destruction wrought by the assault, a low growl building in his throat.

“Degenerates of the Terran sphere; I am Cabot, Lord of the Third Legion. This world is now the property of the Chronosian Imperium. Your lives are forfeit; your existence is an offence to the Gods. Beg for absolution now, in the ashes of your empire.

Serve your penance in spilled blood.”

The link went dead, as he roared his discontent. Each hand moved to grip at the hilt of a waiting chainaxe, the purr of activation echoing through the bridge as he caressed the ignition runes. Soon. Soon the treacherous weakling bastards would bleed and break.

Even as the heavier Astartes vessels were engaging the orbital defences, other vessels were disgorging wave after wave of dropship and landing pod. A steel rain descended upon the wretched Terran world, wreathed in flame and brimming with infinite hatred. What communication channels hadn't already been swamped by scrapcode were now drowned in chanting, in singing, in a thousand different stripes of hateful prayer.

Armies were falling from the heavens, legions of troops descending with fire in their hearts and war at their finger tips.

The worlds of the Terran Dominion would never be the same.

[Vorticonia]

OOC: Is this open?

[Chronosia]

OOC: Is this open?

OOC: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=149479&start=25 thread there; please use