005.M31

The Ullanor Sector. Once held by humanity, now overrun with the savage Greenskins. The brutish hordes of the aliens swarmed to the battlefields of Ullanor sector and the promise of battle, overwhelming the human defence force with force of numbers and bestial glee. The Warboss leading the charge, known as Urlakk Urg, was almost concerned his forces would not get the fight he’d promised them as the sector fell before the green tide. He and his Nobz had been planning to strip Ullanor bare and move on to another sector when they arrived: the forces of the Imperium of Man, headed by the Emperor himself.

If the Orks were a force of nature, irresistible and inexorable, the Imperial Army and Legiones Astartes were the killing strikes of a deadly beast. Each attack spread the innumerable forces of the Orks thinner and thinner, focussing them into traps and killing grounds, drawing Urg’s forces further and further from Ullanor Prime. But even with the efforts of fully half of the Imperium’s Space Marine Legions and vast numbers of the Imperial Army, it has taken several months of conflict to set the fledgling empire of Urg up for decapitation. The system burns, its star-ways full of shrapnel, its seas full of blood and its lands carpeted in the bodies of the slain. And even with such slaughter on both sides, the forces that surround Overlord Urg outnumber the force travelling to claim his head five to one.

Which, Cancer reflects, is why he and four other Zodiac Guards are personally making their way through the fortress-palace of Urlakk himself, the construct called the Tower of Ullanor. Having teleported in discreetly at its base, they have since slain too many greenskins to bother counting, ascending through floor after floor and wiping out wave after wave of the roaring creatures. Once the horde of Orks ceased to approach them from the front, the upper floors were left mostly empty, all of their inhabitants having charged down to greet them. Collapsing a few flights of stairs behind them, the squadron has since been left almost entirely alone for the final few floors before the Overlord's throne room.

The first of the Armatus to speak during their final ascent is the teal-armoured Libra, confirming the suspicions of every other person in earshot: "I sense a trap. Be on your guard." What little relaxation has been achieved in the few moments since the fighting stopped are undone, for Libra's gift of foresight has forewarned her kin of ambushes many times since her ascension to the Zodiac Guard. Another, Gemini plated in mustard yellow, glances upward briefly; in his mind’s eye, he sees the twisting energy of the beings above, that of a few hundred Orks, including, somewhere in the mix, the soul of the being who they've come for.

"There'th a lot of psychic activity above uth," he states, a moderate accent forcing a slur across his "s"es even after so much time spent outside his native homeland on Terra. "At a gueth, at least fifty Weirdboyth, and many more besides. Nothing we can't handle, obviouthly." His fellows nod in acknowledgement: quite apart from the incredible combat abilities of the Zodiac Guard, the speaker in particular wields psyker abilities rivalled by few in the known galaxy beyond their shared father.

Nothing more is said until the oversized doors to the throne room is reached, clad in thick metal that would be impenetrable to a normal man. In response to this challenge, the warrior in dark green armour called Virgo steps forward, hoisting the massively oversized chainsword called Daemonbane aloft with one hand, then bringing its blade down upon the doorway, triple rows of adamantine teeth tearing through as easily as they would human flesh and shattering whatever barricades lie on the other side of the doorway. The weapon is turned off and withdrawn, only for her foot to kick out at the doorway, destroying whatever resistance remains and sending the doors sprawling open for several feet.

The only visible being on the other side is their target, Urlakk Urg himself, seated upon his throne in full Mega Armour. As the Imperio Armatus file through the gap they have created, into an oversized room that is admittedly grandiose in its own Orkish fashion, the Ork slowly claps his hands, one clad in a Power Klaw as it is, laughing mockingly at the spectacle before him.

"Ha ha haaa! Took ya long enuff, ya gitz!" the Overlord exclaims, rising from his throne and leaping down to its base with a crash of metal on stone, a full ten meters tall in his armour. "Oi wuz jus' wonderin' if you lot were too weak 'n' cowardly ta come fight me!"

"Hardly," Virgo interjects smoothly, her oversized weapon casually slung over one shoulder as though it isn't one of the heaviest in the room. "In case you haven't noticed, we've not only slaughtered a tower full of your soldiers, but we outnumber you five to one."

"Pah! Wot you zogged were Grotz compared ta me!" Urg exclaims. "If ya didn' notice, oi'm TWOICE YER BLEEDIN' SOIZE! An' on top a' THAT, you lot 'ave made a gigantik taktikal error! OI, LADS! GET OUT 'ERE!"

On cue, the two side walls of the room fall downward into the floor, releasing a horde of Nobz both armoured and unarmoured into the room, most as large or larger than the Zodiac Guards themselves, and all wielding some combination of oversized Choppas and many-barrelled Shootas. Oddly enough, instead of charging their human foes immediately, they gather round in a loose circle, chanting jibes and taunts at them, interspersed with loud "WAAAAGH!"s on a frequent basis. All of them note the strange alteration in the usual Orkish behaviour of "charge the foe immediately"; even more interesting, however, is the sudden increase in psychic pressure felt by the platoon, triggered by the entrance of the predicted Weirdboyz on to wide balconies just over their heads.

Questions linger for a moment; the one to address them is Pisces, stepping forward in Tyrian purple armour to cheerily say "Looks like you have a pretty good handle on your minions, Urlakk. The Nobz are restrained, and the Weirdboyz aren't exploding."

"Well, that's 'coz I told 'em not to, so'z they'd all be more useful an' grooped up an' that, and so'z you coold apree-shee-ate yer upcomin' dem-ayes," Urlakk gloats, strolling forward through the crowd to tower more menacingly over his opponents. "A' first, oi thort oi might jus' bring in forty a' the meanest, 'ardest Nobz as a persunnal gaard, but then oi thort 'Why stop there? Why not 'ave TWO 'UNDRED AN' FIFTY OV THA GITS?! An' fifty Weirdz, a' that!' Looks like oi made a good choise there, roight?! NOW 'OOS OUTNUMBERED FIVE-TA-ONE, EH?!"

Urlakk Urg's yells send his self-professed bodyguards into a frenzy, and though they have yet to attack, they are very much on the verge of it. The next phrase uttered by the Zodiac Guard could be the tipping point.

"You didn't bring enough of them, xeno scum."

The speaker is Cancer: clad in unpainted armour, steel grey as a result save for cherry red visors, with a power scythe in one hand and a chainglaive in the other. His words have quite the opposite effect to what might have been, all but silencing the Orks for its audacity. It is not long, however, before Urlakk begins to chuckle, and then to laugh uproariously at the comment, only to fall dead silent the moment just one of his other Orks begins to emulate him.

"Yer a cocky li'le bastard, ain't yaz?" Urg asks in a dark tone. "Oi think oi'll enjoy poppin' yer 'ead open loik a squig. ROIGHT, LADZ," he hollers at his soldiers, "the grey one iz moine! All the uvvers, ya get twenny five thousan' teef fer each 'ead ya bring me! NOW GO GET 'EM!"

With an almighty "WAAAAGH!", the Orks charge toward the Imperio Armatus, Choppas swinging and Shootas firing wildly in all directions. At last, the battle begins.

On the bridge of the Wild Blades Flagship, Orrian’s Fury all ten Company Thanes are gathered in the giant war-room, as well as another individual clad in violet armor that is a stranger to most. The room is a huge vaulted ceiling cavern, with paintings from Varnis adorning the walls, and a huge holo-table that dominates the center. The Thanes and the stranger are gathered round this table, making small talk. Two Thanes, Lovar Kine of the 6th, and Roek Ixmatl of the 2nd stand with the newcomer, both trying to outboast the other.

“No brother Rapter, it was I that slew the greatest Ork that day!” Lovar shouts, shaking a necklace of Ork tusks in his fellows face.

“Brother Lovar you are a shameless braggart, and clearly still drunk, for do you not remember the sheer size of the creature that was split upon my claws? He was at least…two…no THREE times the size of that puny Nob you were busy carving up. And after I had kicked his still twitching body, I managed to kill at least two more before you had even moved!” Roek shouts back, pushing Lovar on the shoulder.

“Easy easy!” The stranger says, pushing the two Thanes apart. “Both of you fought with great valor that day…but do you forget that it was I who actually slew the greatest of the Nobz on Forridien Prime?” The man was dark haired like the others, but while their skin was bronzed his was pale, and he smiled with a friendly but darkly sinister gleam. The two boasting Thanes turned on the purple armored Legionnaire, about to begin a new round of shouting when suddenly the bass roar of Ballor Vyle called out “The Great Chief!”

The entire room fell silent, all present snapping to attention and turning to face the doors, seeing their Primarch clad in his brilliant emerald and gold battle plate, pauldrons shining scarlet and gold with the images of all their totems. He worn a small smile on his face, as he had been outside listening to the argument. “My Thanes! There is no need to boast about past glories, for a new host of Orks even greater than those we faced before stands before us,” he says the word Orks as if it disgusts him, spitting it out with contempt, and the four veteran Captains grumble and stroke trophies of Ork tusks and ears. “I take it you all have met Void Master Gabriel, Commander of the 6th Chapter of the Void Stalkers?’ Erron gestures to the violet warrior, who gives a small bow to the Primarch in respect. “My brother Gorseval has granted Void Master Gabriel leave to join us on our invasion of Ullanor Prime, as he will be busy keeping the stars secure, but Gabriel, like all of you, hungers for the taste of Ork blood!” He shouts, smiling, punching his fist into the air. The Thanes hoot and holler, even Gabriel giving a yell, fitting in a bit more with the somewhat barbaric Xth Legion than some of his peers among the Void Stalkers. Ballor and Ragath sneer towards the warrior however, still distrusting the XXth Legion.

“The 6th Chapter will be split among several Companies, as their combat style favors independent action. Their Stalker-Masters will obey your orders, however you will not waste their lives frivolously. I would hate to return one of my brothers favored Chapters that he entrusted to my care filled with dead Astartes,” Erron said the last bit with a hard look at all of his Captains, lingering his gaze on his 1st and 10th commanders, knowing their distaste. He did not plan on giving any of Gabriel’s Legionnaires to either of them, not for lack of trust but since their assault would be the most direct.

“Now,” he stepped forward, placing his palm on the holo-table, and a massive map of Ullanor appears, and he zooms in to a location dominated by a huge tower. “This is the Tower of Ullanor, where the Imperio Armatus will be assaulting directly.” He paused, and the area lit with millions upon millions of green lights. “As you can see the entire fortress is surrounded by vile creatures, and despite the Emporers chosen being fully capable, even the entire might of this infestation will be too much for them to take on alone,” the lights disappeared, and he moved the map to another location, a large, war torn forested area with plenty of open terrain. “Our mission is to apply force on the flanks, to pull the Orks away from the tower and let the Armatus seize the Warboss inside without dealing with all of his lackeys.” He began to move his hands in complicated patterns, and the totem symbols of the ten Companies began appearing on the projection.

“Ballor and Ragath will take the center, with Ragath making the first charge and Ballors 1st deploying via Drop once the Orks make contact with his lines. Ragath, you must hold your line until the 1st arrives, if you fold then the entire feint is moot.” Ragath, The Monster, growls. “Your word is my action Great Chief. You say hold, my men will hold,” he grumbles, his mechanical eye buzzing as he looks at the terrain.

“Splendid!” Erron exclaims enthusiastically, “Ballor will crush their charge, making them check their aggression. The 3rd, 4th, and 5th will deploy by Stormbird on bikes to the northern flank,” He highlights the totems, signaling their approach. “Your job between the three of you is to cut deep into the Ork flanks, and utilize your speed to outmaneuver them and avoid getting your men bogged down in too many dead Greenskins,” He then highlights the southern three totems, “6th, 7th, and 8th will do the same in the south, mobilizing at exactly the same time. All 6 of your Companies will deploy just short of Ragath. I want them to think that they are only facing one Company and make their charge reckless and wild. Then they will be too deep and too far from the Tower to retreat once they realize an entire Legion is at their front. Roek,” he turns to his Thane of the 2nd, “Your Avaroks will fly in to their rear, cutting off their retreat. Use your Fire Raptors to strafe their back lines and keep pushing them forward into Ragath and Ballor. You are the hammer, they the anvil.” Roek smiles and nods, his fingers twirling his hooked knife.

“Sir,” Torga Tredt speaks up, “and what of the 9th?” Erron smiles, “Well you get to sit this one out old friend, keep the beer cold for us one the way back yes?” He pauses, seeing the crestfallen look on his Thanes face before bursting out laughing, a big booming sound that echoes in the hall, and claps the warrior on his armored shoulder. “I only jest Torga, your men will share in the glory today. No Wild Blade stands back while Orks are in need of killing.” He wipes a small tear from his eye, still chuckling at the look of Torgas face, "Torga, how many Legionnaires can a Scimitar and Javelin carry in addition to the crew?” Torga screws up his face, thinking, but being the armored expert of the group it takes him but a moment. “Well Chief we’ve carried a at least three on a Scimitar, the driver and two on each side, and a Javelin can carry more, though it won’t be a comfortable ride.” Erron waves his hand, “They won’t have to hold for long, just enough to get us to the fight.”

“Us Chief?” Torga looks at his Primarch questioningly. “Yes Torga, I will be accompanying the 9th this time.” Erron smiles, and Torga beams proudly as his Company is gifted the honor of the Primarch. “Mount your whole Company on as many Scimitars and Javelins as you need, we will assemble behind this hill,” highlighting a piece of high ground on the map, “and when the Orks are surrounded by the 2nd we will fly in, dropping your Marines directly into the center after you make a gap for us with the heavy weapons.” The Thanes grumble and nod, looking over the plan, picking out their individual strategies for their Companies. “We will tear them apart from the inside out, everywhere one of the Greenskin bastards look there will be a Wild Blade bellowing for his blood.” Erron says with deadly seriousness, then turning to Gabriel.

"Void Master Gabriel I want you to divide your men as you see fit among the two flanking elements. I’ve seen your boys fight; I know your style. I won’t command you into an open engagement. You will be tasked with striking from the wooded positions here, here, and here,” he points at the hologram, the war blasted forested areas blinking. “Use your surprise to turn the Orks in a new direction every time a Bike squadron passes, as when their backs are turned the Bikers are vulnerable. You will save a lot of Wild Blade lives if you can distract their fire and make them turn on your Legionnaires and allow my men to come about and make another pass. Use your snipers to target their leaders, sow chaos, and generally do all the nasty things you Void Stalkers like to do.” He grins at the pale Astartes, seeing the man nod and smile, knowing that he has placed a lot of responsibility and a great deal of individual authority over him. Ragath and Ballor have a sour look on their faces, not wanting the lives of their comrades to be entrusted to one of the XXth. “Questions?” Erron looks around at the assembled Thanes, all shaking their heads, “good, see to your Companies.”

The assorted leaders snap to attention, shouting, “Glory the Tenth!” and Erron smiles and replies, “Glory the Emperor,” as is customary, and then adds a bit quieter, “Fight well my sons, do not let vengeance cloud your judgement.”

---

On the killing fields of Ullanor Prime

“Now Torga! The Orks are surrounded,” Erron called into the vox in his winged helmet. Shortly after the order was given, the steady *whhhooooommmmm* of hundreds of Scimitar Jetbikes and Javelin Attack Speeders powering their engines and anti-gravitation plates filled the air, and the entirety of the Urmatoks took off in several V shaped formations. Each Jetbike was laden with a driver and two Astartes on either side of him, clinging to the frame of the vehicle, and each Javelin had Astartes hugging as many hand holds as they could find. The sight was probably comical, as Erron looked back over his shoulder, hanging onto the Scimitar Jetbike he was riding, his head next to the of the driver. Near invisible trails of heat made the air around the Company ripple and wave as the formation gained altitude, not as high as they could with their increased carrying load. Erron knew he was stretching the capacity of the engines.

Just long enough to get us to the fight, he told himself, gritting his teeth as the wind tugged on his armor, and they crested the rise of the hill and he saw his Legion surrounding the green tide. Ragath, true to his word, had held. His Kravators had charged on foot, bellowing like beasts at the massive Ork horde sprinting to meet their assault. Their blades flashed, and the sickening crunch of their formations colliding had been heard for miles. But he had held. As soon as contact was made Erron gave the order, and Ballor’s Gorgoths filled with sky with fire and exploded into the fight, Terminators cleaving with massive warblades and automatic fire from devastating Stormbolters. The Dreadnoughts of the Wild Blades honored their name, fearing nothing as they carved bloody swathes through the ranks of teeming Orks with great sweeps of claws and blades. The Orks, too lost in their rage to pay attention to the rest of the fight, were unaware of the Avaroks cutting off their retreat as they dropped from Stormbirds, their wings gliding them to the rear and beginning to hack at the backsides of Orks. His 6 other Companies overpowered the din of close combat as thousands of Outrider Bike engines roared, his Thanes leading their formations in massive passes of strafing bolter fire and blood soaked swords. He looked on with satisfaction as he watched shadowy figures disappearing and reappearing from concealed positions, their bolters barking and dropping Orks like flies as the Greenskin brutes turned their weapons on the passing bikes, only to have their flanks ripped apart from the 6th Chapter of the Void Stalkers.

The formation of Jetbikes and Attack Speeders grew closer, and Erron heard Torga bark an order over vox, and a massive volley of plasma cannons, heavy bolters, and missiles shot out from the descending 9th, blasting huge craters in the center of the Ork formation. Still, there were so many of them, and the tide seemed to never stop. Despite the heavy enemy casualties, Wild Blades were dying, crushed by massive axes and blown apart by rockets and heavy weapons. Erron drew his sword, the forked tip glittering, and he wore a sneer under his helm as the formation flew over the Orks.

Like a rain of green death, the Marines of the 9th jumped from their vehicles and free-fell the remaining distance, crashing into the ground or on top of Orks with armored boots, entering the melee with a fresh frenzy. The Apexa Preadatoris fell with Erron, landing close by, their two handed swords leaving bloody trails and they clove through several Orks at a time.

“Tear them apart!” Erron roared with a feral snarl, his men barking and howling. He drew his knife, the Sisters beginning their dance as he moved like a mist through the horde, cutting throats and eyes and hacking limbs from any Ork that dared stray too close to the fury of a Primarch. He fought with the fury of thousands, the memories of dead Astartes behind his eyes as he drove his blades into xenos flesh, ripping, gouging, no mercy for the vile infection that stood before him.

Blood splattered his plates, turning his green armor red, his massive form on the battlefield like an avatar of war brought upon his enemies. Seeing their Primarch with them, the Marines of the Gorgoths and Kravators bellowed and pushed back with renewed vigor in order to reach their leader. Discarding empty bolters and drawing their swords, the Marines of the Wild Blades charged into the fray, stepping over the bodies of fallen brothers and butchered Orks. Torga quickly organized his men into a circle, their backs to each other, pushing outwards in order to reach the lines of their fellows. Their mission was truly the most dangerous, for they had no room for error, no line of retreat. Surrounded on all sides, they were to be the sawblade that eviscerated the Ork formation from within, but that came with a grave cost of being trampled should their formation falter.

So far, they were holding, but when one Ork fell, there were always three more to take its place.

_{Collaboration with the talented @Yennefer. Flashback written together with @Savage.}

Late M30
The edge of the Forridien system

The bridge of the Eclipse, as befitted any Apocalypse-class battleship, was an enormous and ostentatious affair. The captain's chair, elevated on a raised platform, much like the iron throne in Gorseval's old throne room, dominated the space. It was surrounded by rows upon rows of cogitator banks, crewed by dozens of helmsmen, ensigns and servitors. Large, void-shielded windows, almost forty feet high, allowed anyone on the bridge to pensively stare into space. This was exactly what Gorseval, Primarch of the Void Stalkers, was currently doing. They had been waiting at the edge of the Forridien system for the arrival of the Wild Blades and its Primarch Erron Khaal, known as the Great Chief. It had been a little over five years since Gorseval had last seen Erron -- a meeting that had not exactly gone smoothly. It was when the Emperor, accompanied by Erron and Mon-Kal of the Bloody Host, had finally retrieved Gorseval, the last of his lost children. There had been a short, but brutal war between the Imperial forces and Gorseval's armies, and Gorseval wasn't sure if the Great Chief would have forgiven him by now.

By now, the Wild Blades' fleet had arrived, and Gorseval had extended an invitation to Erron to join him on the bridge of the Eclipse. One of the many screens on the cogitator bank of the captain's great chair started blinking, and Gorseval glanced at it -- Erron had arrived. With a wave of his hand, Gorseval ordered the chair to descend to the floor, and the Dark Star got to his feet. By now, he was dressed in the finest power armor the Imperial forces could forge; colored a deep shade of purple and coated in pearlescent paint, the armor bespoke of a regal elegance. Gorseval's enormous force greatsword, Darkness, was slung across his back and an iron halo was attached to the armor's torso. Gorseval straightened his black cape and looked up as the great, adamantium blast-doors opened and Erron Khaal stepped onto the bridge.

When the invitation had reached Erron upon his flagship, he had to admit that there was a bit of surprise that accompanied it. His brother Gorseval, while now fully and completely loyal to their Father's charge, was still not the most outgoing of his siblings. Thus, when he received the request, he took it on a sign of very good faith that his brother Gorseval meant to try and reach out after what had happened five years ago.

Of those days, Erron never speaks. He has made it a standing order among his Seers to never retell the stories of brothers fallen within the rocks of Reach. While unpopular, he sees it as a necessary transgression against the culture of his people. If Erron could ever hope to try and bridge the rift between Wild Blades and Void Stalkers, some legends were better left forgotten.

He entered the ship with only his four Apexa Predatoris, even though it was a compromise to even bring them. His Thanes, especially Ballor of the 1st, had wanted a fully armed and armored honor guard to accompany their Primarch. As much a show of strength as protection. Erron staunchly refused, wanting to go alone, but accepted to take along his body guards to appease his Thanes. All five were dressed in resplendent Artificer armor, deep emerald in color and riddled with gold designs and details. They all went helmetless, again a demand from Erron. He wanted nothing about this meeting to appear martial or abrasive. This was a meeting of brothers, not a time to reopen old war wounds. As such, he left his own sword behind, carrying only the smaller of the two Sisters, each of his guards replacing their typical two-handed blades for smaller knives as well. As much as he could see it bristling the most elite of his sons to be without their weapons, he spoke reassuring words as the giant doors to the Eclipse's bridge opened. He saw his brother, regal in deep violet armor, and stepped forward with his arms outstretched wide, a smile on his bronzed face, green eyes bright.

"Brother, good to see you again!" he said, trying to break any possible awkwardness outright by being as open and accepting as possible.

Gorseval had assumed that Erron would have brought a larger retinue with him, and was pleasantly surprised that the Great Chief apparently placed enough faith in him now to only bring four bodyguards. An even bigger surprise, and great relief, was Erron's magnanimous smile and open arms. Gorseval hesitated for a few seconds, eyebrows raised, unable to fully conceal his emotions, before stepping forward with great strides and clasping his brother by the arm. "Erron," he said, and returned the Great Chief's smile with a faint curling of his lips -- something any one of the Black Guard could have attested was a very rare sight. "Thank you for coming."

Much like their during their first meeting, Gorseval had dismissed all of his bodyguards and close advisers, and the bridge was only filled with the low-ranking crewmembers (all of them ordinary humans) essential to keeping the Eclipse running. They all stared with wide eyes -- it was not every day that they got to witness the meeting of two Primarchs, even though they were accustomed to Gorseval's presence by now.

"I have to admit I was not sure what to expect," Gorseval continued in a soft voice. The melancholic look had returned to his face by now, and he met his brother's emerald gaze with a slight hint of shame. "I have learned a lot, these past five years. Our Father's cause is righteous and I was blinded to it by my own ambition." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Either way, it is good that you are here. How was your journey?"

Erron continued to smile, and at the sight of an empty bridge, and no apparent hostilities, even his guards relaxed. Erron turned to them and waved them off, "Go off and find your cousins, I have business to attend to here," he said dismissively. "Chief?" One of them said and Erron gave the man a hard look, and he merely nodded and turned, taking the other three with him. No doubt they would simply stay close by, but at least they would not be hovering over his shoulder like an overly protective hen. He turned back to his brother, again smiling broadly and clasping his other hand on the mans shoulder, still grasping his wrist.

"Well, space travel pales in comparison to feeling the wind in your hair and the sun on your face, but I cannot complain too much," he said chuckling. "As for the past," Erron shook his head from side to side, "think none of it, my friend. Time heals all things, and though we are perfectly made in our Father's image of man, does that not make us all inherently as imperfect as all mankind is?" His smile grew again, and he slapped Gorseval's shoulder, the ceramite plates clacking loudly. "Come now, you must have something aboard this giant boat to drink!"

---

Early M31
405,400km above the surface of Ullanor Secundus

Another slight tremor swept through the Eclipse, quietly rattling steel doors in their frames and eliciting a metallic groan from somewhere deep in the vessel's bowels. This was normal, Gorseval knew. Spaceships had a tendency to make ghostly noises when they were in transit and the Eclipse was currently positioning itself in geosynchronous orbit above the surface of Ullanor Secundus like a heavily-armed moon. The fleet of the Void Stalkers was still regrouping after their latest void battle, creating a precious moment of spare time. The Primarch had been at the helm of the Eclipse for the past twenty-two hours, guiding his Legion's movements and attacks, predicting the maneuvers of the Ork ships (not an easy task, as they were exceedingly erratic) and personally captaining his gigantic flagship. While Gorseval could go for more than a week without sleep it was nice to allow himself a moment of quiet reflection and meditation after such intensity.

The Dark Star had retreated deep inside the ship to his study and trophy room, a dimly-lit, round chamber nestled inside the core of the Eclipse. The walls were lined with mementos from the Primarch's and the Legion's past -- the plumed helmet of the Eldar Farseer that Gorseval had bested in single combat during the War of the Reach, the Primarch's old sword, a huge Ork skull, the warhammer of the Great Smith of Byzanthrian and many more. Gorseval himself was in the middle of the room, surrounded by four huge slabs of stone hewn from the asteroids of the Reach. The history of the Void Stalkers was carved into the rock in the style of an ancient Terran culture, creating a chain of pictures that wrapped around the stones themselves that depicted the Astartes in combat against various foes.

The Primarch was levitating. He sat in a cross-legged position six feet above the ground, the back of his hands resting on his knees, his fingers slack and relaxed. Gorseval's long, black hair, while still hanging down, moved slowly as if the Primarch was underwater. The temperature of the room had dropped and Gorseval's slow, rhythmic breathing condensed in the air, which was quietly humming with the reverberations of Gorseval's psychic power.

Gorseval took a deep breath and opened his mind to the Warp. The humming in the air became louder and turned into a throbbing bass sound as the Dark Star, the strain visible on his face, lifted the four stone slabs a few feet into the air. They trembled slightly as if they might fall, but Gorseval solidified his telekinetic grip on them until they hung perfectly still. He exhaled slowly and took another deep breath, willing the stones to slowly start circling him. Each of the stone slabs weighed several tonnes and Gorseval had to fight to keep them up. After a minute he dropped the rock slabs back in their original positions with a loud thud and sighed with relief. It was clear to him that there was still much room for improvement, but he was pleased that he managed to keep the stones moving for a full minute -- a new personal record. Gorseval was still becoming more powerful with every passing day.

The sensation of standing on his own two feet again after levitating always made him feel surprisingly weak for a few seconds, Gorseval observed as he uncrossed and lowered his legs. He rolled his shoulders and looked down at the naked shape of his own body, tracing a blue vein in his arm with his gaze, visible through his pale skin. Gorseval had stepped out of his power armor for the psychic exercise and it waited for him by the door to the room. He sent out a short-range telepathic pulse and a whole host of servants immediately entered. It took three or four ordinary humans to lift just one piece of the enormous armor and they slowly (but surely) applied it to their Silent King. When all of the pieces were in place, the suit sealed itself hermetically with a hiss and the servants stepped back, their heads bowed in respect. Gorseval dismissed them with a wave of his plated hand and they hurried out of the room without another word. The purple armor, trimmed with cyan like the rest of the Void Stalkers, was still as perfect as the day it was crafted. Satisfied, Gorseval stepped out of the study and locked the door behind him.

Even at the impressive speed a Primarch is capable of when walking, it took Gorseval more than an hour to return to the bridge. The Eclipse was so large that walking from one end of the ship to another would take an ordinary human a whole afternoon. Gorseval had summoned a few of the Void Masters to the Eclipse to debrief after their latest scuffle and they were waiting for him when the Primarch entered, talking quietly among themselves. As soon as they saw Gorseval, they bowed their heads and spoke as one: "Master."

"At ease," Gorseval replied. He looked at Balthasith the Destroyer, Void Master of the First Chapter and captain of the Event Horizon. He was older than the rest and had a broad, flat face with a heavy brow. The First Chapter had proven their worth once more when they boarded a large Ork cruiser and disabled the engine core and the weapons from the inside. "Report," Gorseval commanded.

Balthasith cleared his throat and spoke. "No significant losses. We destroyed nine Ork ships. Based on what we saw inside the cruiser, that's approximately 40,000 casualties for the Orks. The Horizon could use some maintenance and repairs, but it's nothing urgent. Additionally, I would like to commend Asmodal for his valor during the boarding operation. He challenged the Ork commander to a duel and killed him in single combat." Having said that, Balthasith looked at Asmodal -- who was present himself -- and nodded.

Asmodal was one of the Gorseval's oldest allies. He wasn't a Void Master or a ship captain, but a Stalker-Master of the First Chapter and generally considered to be the Void Stalkers' most dangerous combatant. He laughed and ran his gauntlet through his white hair. "It was a runt, Balthasith," he said. His voice sounded like crushed gravel. "I've fought and killed bigger Orks."

Regardless, Gorseval placed his hand on the pauldron of Asmodal's Terminator armor. “Well fought,” he said, and the Stalker-Master acknowledged the gesture with a nod.

“Our next targets are the shipyards on the other side of Ullanor Secundus,” Gorseval continued. "The Blazing Sisters are already on the ground fighting their way in. The plan is for them to surround the shipyards on the ground while we gather above, and then to execute a simultaneous strike. Our ships will provide fire support from orbit while the First, Second, Third, Fifth and Seventh Chapters descend to the ground."

Asmodal was the first to speak up. "Where's Gabriel when you need him?" he quipped, but Gorseval replied as if he was serious. "On Ullanor Prime. He and the Sixth are attached to the Wild Blades for now," the Primarch said. "Now, if there are no further questions... very good. Dismissed. We move in one hour."

---

Meanwhile on the ground of Ullanor Secondus, the Blazing Sisters were mopping up the Ork forces that had stood in the way of their advance towards the Shipyard. A lone figure stood atop a craggy hill, the form that of a set of terminator armor, though the helmet had been removed revealing the face of a handsome woman, who had a regal aura about her, as if she was destined to stand above those to labor below. Farrah sighed, placing a hand on the grip of her power maul lifting it away from the ground and setting it on the metallic table that had been set up for her to overview a map of the battlefield from. A very stout chair awaited her as she lowered herself to the seat giving a sigh as she did. “This is going well, my daughters are finishing off the last of the greenskins, and the Imperial Army is setting up defensive structures, and artillery positions. Meanwhile I believe my brothers are finishing off the last of the Greenskins in orbit. All is well.” Still she sighed and looked over a data slate which read off several casualties. “Only a few daughters lost. I suppose I should find this acceptable, but for every name I read on the list my heart sinks.”

Everything about the Primarch was watched closely by Remembrancer Lykinnia, every expression, every nuance in her voice, remember and written down on ink and paper. Lykinnia had always preferred ink to a dataslate, it made it all feel more personal to her, and for her the personal touch was always the most important. Others would transcribe it to data slates later. Lykinnia wrote furiously her mind balancing on every word that passed from Farrah’s lips. ’Watching the powerful Woman before me, her head hung low as she felt grief over her, it was obvious that though this woman before me was the closest thing the Imperium had to gods, she felt sorrow for the loss of her daughters.’ Both Lykinnia, and Farrah looked up at the sound of someone approaching, their eyes falling on Captain Isis still wearing her helmet, and followed by a group of five blazing sisters.

“My Primarch, all Ork forces in the area have been destroyed. All companies are moving to surround the shipyard in it’s entirety, and Predator tanks have taken up positions to give support fire, while the Imperial Army has set up defensive structures, and begun taking care of any stragglers we missed.” Captain Isis remained solemn after she gave her report, her armor which would have normally been clean, and in it’s best condition possible was now dirty, marred from battle, and covered in dirt. Still Captain Isis looked professional enough to be attending a ceremony with the demeanor she displayed.

With a sigh Farrah slid the data slate away, a small smile appearing on her face. “Then Captain, the tactical plans you have made here truly have worked most favorably for the Blazing Sisters, minimal losses, this is a great victory for the Imperium. Now we send word to my brother that we are in position, await his signal, and then attack. The greenskins will be completely taken by surprise from within while we grind them to dust from without. The Emperor will truly smile upon us for this.” The Primarch picked up her Power Maul and placed her free hand on Isis’ shoulder plate. “Inform the other Captains to hold position for now. If the Orks attack beat them back, but other than that hold position. Be ready at any time, for at any time we may need to charge.”

There was a look of humble appreciation on Isis’ face at the praise placed upon her. [ b]“Yes my Primarch, I will do as you command!”[ /b] Her gauntlet slammed against her breast plate and Captain isis moved away. Farrah gave a small laugh and turned to Lykinnia picking up her helmet and placing it upon her head as she did.

“I truly do love my daughters Lykinnia, as much as I appreciate your friendship. During the push into the shipyard, you will stay here accompanied by five of my astartes until the battle is over.” She turned and began walking towards lines of Blazing Sisters that were digging in, prepaing for the battle. Lykinnia looked to her escort that now stood around her, their faces obscured by the helmets, but she knew they likely bore grim frowns at the thought of not being able to partake in the assault on the shipping yard.

Messages were sent out immediately, soaring through space to Gorseval’s vessel in orbit, telling him that his Sister, and her daughters were in position, waiting for his word to begin the assault.

---

The Void Stalker fleet silently slipped around the curved surface of Ullanor Secundus and positioned itself above the shipyards. Using the long-range scanners aboard the Eclipse, Gorseval could see that Farrah had done exactly as they had agreed and surrounded the Ork stronghold with the entirety of her Legion, the Blazing Sisters. The Orks were trapped like fish in a barrel. Gorseval had never been in the same theater of war as the Blazing Sisters before and he was eager to see their handiwork. From what he had heard, their style and that of the Void Stalkers was radically different and might compliment each other nicely.

Without further ado, Gorseval sat back in the captain's chair of the Eclipse's bridge and reached out with his mind to the surface below. He swiftly found his sister, her soul a blazing point of light among a sea of lesser women. We are ready, Gorseval whispered into her mind. Strike.

Simultaneously, the hangar doors of the fleet's massive battleships opened and a swarm of Fire Raptors, drop pods and Stormbirds descended through Ullanor Secundus' atmosphere at breakneck speeds. After the initial bombing runs of the Fire Raptors, teleportation deep strike technology housed in the Event Horizon's core sent the entirety of the First Chapter inside the Ork shipyards, led by the towering, Terminator-armored shape of Asmodal.

Without the Blazing Sisters this would be a suicide attack, but Gorseval was counting on his sister's Legion to hammer the Orks from the outside, crippling their ability to fight back. The greenskins would be forced to fight a war on two fronts while under constant bombardment from the Fire Raptor gunships. The Stormbirds swiftly deposited their cargo -- namely the Second, Third, Fifth and Seventh Chapters -- on top of the shipyards, trying to find high ground among the bizarre Ork structures and half-finished ship hulls. The Void Stalkers fought their way down from there while the Unseen of the Third Chapter disappeared into the shadows, picking off Ork Nobs from the dark.

Gorseval followed the action with his real eyes closed while his mind's eye hovered above the battlefield, giving him unparalleled oversight. Don't let me down, Farrah.

---

Everything was at a standstill, the Blazing Sisters waited patiently for the battle to begin. The only slightest bit of action taking place was the occasional potshot the Orks took at their formations. Farrah herself stood aboard her personal Land Raider staring out across the burnt broken land between the lines of astartes, and the Greenskins that leered out at them from behind makeshift walls they had built up around the shipyard. This was not going to be the hardest battle Farrah had ever been through, but it was definitely going to come close. Scouts had estimated the ork forces to be around two hundred and fifty thousand strong give or take a few. With calm eyes Farrah turned to look at her daughters in the Land Raider with them, each of them had donned their helmets as they waited for the signal.

The signal was like a burning brand in her mind for a moment, she looked up and nodded to the nearest of her daughters. Quickly the marine sent out a message across the vox signaling for the assault of the shipyard to begin. It would be more than just a ground battle, it was reported there were tunnels beneath the shipyard, and Farrah knew they would have to go down those tunnels to slaughter those that would go underground. Predator tanks fired off powerful rounds at the weak points of the Ork structures sending them up in burning shrapnel. The few Orks that were caught up in the blasts went down as burnt husks of flesh laying on the ground with smoke rising off their carcasses.

Then the charge started, land raiders, rhinos, and Lioness Lancers charged towards the shipyard. From above it would look as if flaming metal vehicles would be roaring towards the shipyard accompanied by enormous lions with astartes mounted atop them. It was a glorious thing that amounted to something nearing an unstoppable force. As the Blazing Sisters plowed through the remnants of the makeshift walls Orks fired their shootas down upon them, the firepower ineffective against armored behemoth vehicles. Though a single rokkit launcha found it's mark on a Rhino tearing a flaming hole through the side, several blazing Sisters tumbling out and beginning to fire back, though some ceased to move. Farrah's land raider came to a stop it's lascannons blasting through multiple groups of Ork boyz sending body parts soaring through the air.

The ramp on the back of hte vehicles opened, blazing sisters poured out into the battle, the shipyard became a land of carnage body parts flying haphazardy through the air, the sounds of chainswords revving over the pounding roar of battle. Farrah's land raider opened to release the Primarch who was now fully shod in her terminator armor helmet and all. She strode through the batlle as easily as someone would stroll down a street. Any ork that crossed her path wound up a brushed wad of flesh, blood, and bone on the ground. Farrah moved towards the middle of the shipyard, her armored form stopping as a group of eight nobs were suddenly standing before her. A grin crossed her face under her helmet as she moved forwards and in a single move brought her power maul crashing through the heads of two of the nobs who stood at least three feet taller than she did. The other were so surprised they barely had time to bring their weapons up before another one took a plasma blast through the chest. Farrah's shield came up as multiple blows came from those remaining causing her to slide backwards through the war torn dirt. The attacks didn't even phaze Farrah though as she swung her shield outwards smashing another's face in, her power maul crashing into the remaining nobs, and ripped their bodies asunder with it's power. All around her was gore, and the heaving bodies of dead orks, and in her wake lay the dead bodies of orks who had stood in her way.

While the Orks put up an admirable defense at first, the situation turned absolutely sour for them when the Shield of the Imperium and the Blazing Sisters joined the fray. Asmodal, Stalker-Master of the First Chapter, found Farrah standing amidst the ruined corpses of eight Ork Nobz easily her size, if not bigger. All around them were the large metal shapes of the ship parts the Ork Mekboyz had been building, and various rickety structures that supported them. The din of the battle still being fought in the rest of the shipyards was overwhelming and Asmodal raised his voice to make himself heard. "Hail, Primarch!" he yelled and raised his power sword in greeting. "Fine day for a scrap, isn't it? It looks like most of the Orks are fleeing underground but they're guarding the entrances heavily. My scouts report several Killa Kans. I could signal for the fleet to blast the entrances open, but... that seems a little inelegant. Would you care to join us?"

Hearing the voice of the male astartes Farrah turned, her cold eyes staring at Asmodal who seemed jovial at the battle. Farrah on the other hand looked at the command as more of a job, it was a rush of course, but she did not take nearly as much joy in watching her daughters grapple with death in the manner they did. "I see you Son of Gorseval. I believe I will take you up on the offer." Though just as she said this another Blazing Sister approached her armor still as burnt and marred as it had been when she had briefed the Primarch earlier.

"My Primarch! I would request you allow me the honor of taking the first charge against the tunnel Entrances. My squad and I stand ready to destroy the Orks so that the legions may go underground and destroy the last of the greenskin forces." Captain Isis stood there a look of appreciation for her Primarch written across her unhelmted face.

"Son of Gorseval, if you do not mine, my daughter Captain Isis would like to take my place and lead the charge into the tunnels. Do you object?"

Asmodal shrugged, the movement barely perceptible in his deep purple Terminator armor. "It's all the same to me, Primarch. Captain Isis, follow me," he said and strode away, his fireteam following him. Four other Terminator-clad Void Stalkers accompanied Asmodal, all veterans of the First Chapter. As they made their way through the winding paths between the heaps of scrap, giant sheet-plates and piles of Ork corpses, more Void Stalkers joined the procession, mostly from the Fifth and Seventh Chapters. They were the flexible backbone of the Void Stalkers but, while adaptable, they were eager to dive underground. Tunnels always reminded them of their home, the asteroid collective of the Reach. Some of the Unseen seemed to appear out of thin air, their camo-cloaks hiding them until they decided to reveal themselves.

The entrances to the mines were all in the center of the shipyard and heavy fighting was still taking place surrounding the huge, cavernous mine shafts. The Orks were fighting tooth and nail to keep the Space Marines out and the battered Legionnaires, Void Stalker and Blazing Sister alike, were relieved to see reinforcements.

Just inside the mines Asmodal spotted the Killa Kans, lurking in the shadows and waiting for their enemies to approach. "The first charge is yours, Captain," Asmodal said to Isis. "After you."

A huge smile erupted behind Captain Isis' helmet as she brough up her pair of lightning claws, charging forward in her terminator armor the rest of her squad followed closely their own terminator armor charging in rythm with their captain. All of them carried a power weapon of some kind, and as they reached the Killa Kans the battle truly began for the Captain. She had never fought a Killa kan on her own before, but she was truly thankful for the experience as she jerked out of it's massive weapons way, and brought a lightning claw across the front tearing through a bit of the massive armor. One of her squad members went down as her helmet was crushed by a decisive blow from a Killa Kan, blood and skull oozing from the smashed Helmet.

Captain Isis roared in anger, and a lightning claw came around and ripped through the front of her foe in rage, the Grot inside being torn to shreds, causing the enormous suit of armor to shudder and fall backwards. Her sisters were making quick work of the others as thunder hammers, and power swords did their deeds the other Killa Kans crashing to the ground. The other astartes fighting Orks around them were soon rewarded with more Reinforcements as Farrah Charged in leading, a group of Lion Lancers into the fray, the massive felines tearing apart orks wherever they happened to come upon them.

The Void Masters directed the movements of the Void Stalker Chapters from aboard their ships and it didn't take long for the rest of the Legion to start making their way towards the entrances to the mines. Gorseval had sensed that the most significant threat was there.

Down on the ground, Asmodal was the most senior officer present, and he led the charge of the Void Stalkers as they joined their Sisters in vicious combat. He dispatched the last of the Killa Kans with a point-blank blast of his multi-melta and briefly paused to admire the Lion Lancers. "Impressive," he said to Captain Isis. "That said, it's time to go underground. I respectfully advise that you let the Void Stalkers take point here. We know the darkness like the back of our hands."

And so it was; the Void Stalkers led the way, with the Unseen at the very front. They stowed their sniper rifles on their backs, drew their silver daggers and disappeared into the shadows. If they had been fighting Eldar, Asmodal would have been worried about traps, but that didn't seem to be the Ork way of doing things. The sunlight began to dim as they advanced and slowly became a faint memory behind them. For the first mile or so the Astartes didn't encounter a single Ork. It was quiet. "Too quiet," Asmodal whispered to himself.

The silence was broken by the alarmed yells of one of the Unseen. He came running back to the Astartes line, his camo-cape flapping behind him. "Witchcraft!" he hissed as he slid to a stop in front of Asmodal, Captain Isis and Farrah. "There's a Weirdboy here, sir," he reported, speaking quickly and quietly. "I spotted it approximately four hundred yards further into the tunnel, just behind that bend over there. Don't rightly know what it's doing, but it can't be any good," he finished explaining. "Where's Gabriel when you need him?" Asmodal said for the second time that day; Gabriel was an Epsilon-level psyker and would have known what to do.

A few powerful steps and Captain Isis stood next to the Void Stalkers, her head nodding."I will take care of him!" She shouted and charged off in the direction of the weirdboy her charging form disappearing into the darkness. Farrah gave a growl as she watched her Captain run off.

"You stay here! All of you!" Farrah said, a large dose of anger in her voice as she chased after her very impetuous Captain. As Isis neared the location she saw the weird boy and gave a cry of rage at the sight of the Ork both of her lightning claws raising up as she prepared to strike down the creature.

Unfortunately for Captain Isis she was not prepared to fight the powerful psyker, he released a powerful blast of energy that washed over the Captain sending her tumbling across the ground, her body coming to a rest at Farrah's feet. The Primarch looked down at her Captain and gave a deep sigh seeing her defeated by the psyker ork, and gently stepped over her.

The Weirdboy just began to laugh hysterically as Farrah did the same as her Captain and began to charge forward. The weirdboy looked distraut for a moment though before suddenly belching and a enormous torrent of flames issued from his mouth to wash over the Primarch. Her Storm shield came around though and the flames washed over it spreading out over the Primarch burning away her decorative feathers, and singing her pelt. The belch ceased though, and the weirdboy seemed appeased until he realized the Primarch was nearly standing on top of them. "Hah.. Ah ha." The Ork managed to squeek out before the Primarch's Power Maul came crashing down smashing the Weird Boy into a pulp on the ground that immediately burst into blue flames, and ash that fluttered away in cool underground air.

---

The Blazing Sisters and the Void Stalkers spent a few more hours mopping up the stragglers, but the fight had left the Orks. Gorseval theorised that Urg had kept most of his powerful Nobz by his side on Ullanor Prime. With the death of the Weirdboy their leadership was too weak to keep the Orks together and they attempted to flee into the wilderness that surrounded the shipyards. The Imperial Army was ready for them, and some of the Blazing Sisters occupied themselves by hunting the Orks down. Satisfied, Gorseval descended from his captain's chair and summoned the Void Stalkers back to the fleet. Their job here was done, with acceptable losses. He would not mourn them.

He stood by the towering void-windows on the Eclipse's bridge and thought about his next move. They would have to blast the ship assembly stations out of orbit, of course, but that wouldn't be any trouble at all. The Ork kroozers that were supposed to defend the primitive space stations had already been destroyed. He had a codified message sent to Farrah's personal vox-comm, expressing his gratitude for her assistance and commending her for her valor. On one hand, he thought of her as reckless (what would become of her Legion if she died in battle?), but he had to admire her combat skills. "So," Gorseval said as he turned to his tacticians and advisers, waiting for him by the large holo-table that depicted the Ullanor system. "Where are we needed now?"

---

Several hours after the assault, Farrah stood atop her Land Raider, the terminator armor she had worn into battle long removed as she traded it for a nice cloth wrap which was slide around her body, and tied into a knot holding it onto her body nice and secure. Lykinnia stood nearby on the ground staring up at the Primach gently writing down what Farrah recounted of the assault. 'The Primarch was fierce in her display of power against the Orkish warriors. Her Blazing Sisters fighting with a fervor that only Farrah could inspire in them. There was much disappointment during the assault those as Primarch Farrah lost several of her Daughters, and the fact that her favored daughter Captain Isis had been so foolish, and almost lost her own life. I cannot put into words the expressions the Primarch I call friend makes as I write this. i see a deep pain, but also a serenity holding it at bay '

Farrah stood and turned to look over the shipyard, occasionally hearing the sound of bolter fire when a Blazing Sister came across a Ork, or Grot that had hidden themself away. "Lykinnia... Write of the sacrifice of my daughters. Tell of their ferocity, and bravery. Write that when the Fifth Legion was needed... They came to the call, and answered valiantly."

M31 – Planet – Ullanor Prime
Maximus with his Cohort Generals and Imperial Army General stand within a loose circle of Rhinos discussing over a war map. The map depicts a massive Ork base that is some miles from them, it is headquarters of Mek-Boss Gear’Ead Da Lootah, several miles away from the primary stronghold. Not only is it a massive manufacturing base it is also a slave camp where Orks work prisoners to death. The Orks had been looting tanks and vehicles since their invasion, the Imperial Army supplied them with a plethora of mighty machines.

Marcus Furius looking down at the map shouts “Caesar! Why are we not assaulting the fortress with the others?” he points at the primary Ork stronghold “This is where we should be! Are we not the siege engine of the Imperium?” His anger is understandable, the Bloody Tenth is always eager to cleave into the thickest of fighting and Marcus’ hatred of Orks run deep. Maximus replies calmly “Marcus, we will be at the stronghold soon enough, this is more important than slaughtering a few Orks. There are subjects of the Imperium inside this fortress. It is our duty to save them if we can.” The group collectively agree, it is their duty to protect the Imperium and its citizens. Maximus looks back to the map, “General Loch, what do your scouts report?” the older general exhales a cloud of smoke from an Iho-stick and picks up a marker, “It’s not good, the Orks have no sense in organization. The slaves are not being held in one location, they are being held in pens along the north wall here-“ indicating on the map with an X “- and here and on the east wall here.”
“So we attack from the south west” says Domitius, General of the 1st Cohort commonly known as the Valiant and Victorious “Keeps the prisoners out of the line of fire” Loch nods, “But it’s the most heavily fortified, my lads counted at least 30 large guns on those walls, size of tank battle cannons and they gave up counting the small gun turrets.”
“That isn’t ideal, but it should be a small matter for us to hammer through. Some artillery before a knight charge we would be inside in under an hour.” Injects Magnus, General of the 2nd Cohort. Loch laughs, “Don’t worry, it gets worse. Auspex scans say there are at least a million Orks inside probably more”

“The Orks are not the issue, this is a manufactorum. What about tanks or heavy weapons?” says Octavianius of the 8th Cohort. Maximus nods “Indeed, orbital scans revealed several hundred looted battle tanks compliments of the Imperial Army, in addition to whatever scrap heaps the Orks have been putting together. Not to mention an Ork Titan, a looted Warhound.”
Several of the Generals began muttering amongst each other, even the smallest of the Titan Legions is a formidable foe for the much smaller Knights. While the Orks have little technical knowledge they seem more than capable of making devastating weapons of war, or making ones they find work. “Orks be damned, where did they find a Warhound?” shouts Marcus.
Maximus ignores Marcus’ outburst and calls for an aide to check if there were any reports that their assault would be aided by another Legion, “No sir! Not that we are aware.” Says the aide, “Bloody glory hounds. They are probably preparing to attack the fortress now, but this needs done we can join them later."

Maximus and his Generals discuss the actual assault plan for some time later, artillery and a barrage from his Knights would breach the wall where the Bloody Tenth would lead the charge and put the fortress to the sword. A simple plan but one that is exceedingly effective, utilizing the overwhelming firepower of his knights and Imperial Army to crush all resistance. Devastator and tactical marines are to follow the knights in rhinos to up positions and scythe the Orks down from their own walls. General Loch and his Remnants are staying clear of the primary assault but are to attack from the rear and rescue the citizens in the slave pens.

6 Hours later
“Remnants in position” calls out General Loch over the Vox “The Orks can see you, they are massing on the walls”
That was the last of the preparations, Maximus climbs into his Knight and feels the plugs enter his cranium and body. For a moment there is nothing but silence as the machine powers up, when the machine wakes up he feels the machine spirit fill his body. The strength of his titan, the unshackled fury coursing through it ready to crush his enemies and show them what a true god of war is. Whole worlds could burn beneath his immortal form, Maximus pushes the thoughts from his mind.

Maximus walks to the front line, and inspects his legion. 5000 knights ready to level any fortress he points them at. He smiles and raises his plasma cannon to the sky shouting “Emperor Aeternam!” into the Vox, he fires into the air signaling the legion to unleash hell. The bolt of plasma detonates and at the same moment thousands of artillery tanks fire, which makes a satisfying rumble that maximus could feel even through his titan. Several moments later the shells land in an iron curtain blasting the ramparts, that was the signal to charge, while the orks where reeling from the first blast.

Maximus pumps his legs pushing the titan to run, while slower than most titans he could encourage the machine to push its limits. As the line of titans and rhinos came into range of the walls dozens of guns on the wall opened fire, massive tank shells detonating on the ion shields protecting his legion. Moments later his legion answered with their own barrage of battle cannons and plasma blasts firing on the run. The wall crumbled before the assault, even before the first titan reached the wall there was a gaping hole a dozen knights wide. The Bloody Tenth reached the gap and was greeted with a volley from looted tanks, several knights where knocked down and possibly slain. The Tenth pressed on carving tanks in half with their massive chain swords and pouring flames on any Ork out in the open. Marcus laughing while crushing a crude Ork vehicle under foot and dousing a munitions depot with fire.

Orks died by the thousands as the rest of the legion pressed deeper. Infantry marines assault the interior of the walls trying to lay claim to the top of the ramparts, several of the guard towers already spraying volleys of heavy bolter fire into the horde of Orks. The southern corner of the fortress burned and was cleansed of Orks within minutes.
Maximus blasts a tank into a smoking crater with a bolt of plasma when he feels a rumble much like the barrage of artillery but rhythmic, like walking, he looks up to see the warhound titan coming out of a huge machine bay. The Ork Mek-boss Gear’ead standing on its head with a bundle of cables running from the back of his head and down into the titan. Dozens of smaller Orks climb over its body ensuring their jury rigged machine continues to work.

Magnus, a mild precognitive psyker and general of the 2nd Cohort says over the Vox “its void shields are up, it will take a great deal to bring it down.” Maximus replies, “For the Imperium!” and trains his weapons on the titan, every other knight follows suit.

_{Collabed with the inestimable @Jbcool}

---

As Ullanor smoldered and the Emperor's campaign of liberation raged, the thirteenth and fifteenth legions, the Kindly Ones and the Sons of the Storm, had methodically encircled the rim of the system. Their fleets had struck hard at the outlying worlds of the Ullanor sector, burning out the Ork presence without stealth or subtlety, blazing like a challenging beacon to the widespread hordes and slowly but inevitably drawing them in, goading them toward one final, fatal theater of battle: the monolithic forge world Harkonnen IV; a vast and invaluable manufactorum crowning a sea of obsidian stone, creased with streaming rivers of magma.

Harkonnen had been one of the first major worlds to fall to the Ork Waaagh, and its value and distance had finally made it the site of a raging and ceaseless war of avarice between twelve of Urlakk's more ambitious Nob lieutenants. One by one, each would-be warlord had been crushed by another, their armies subsumed by the victors, until now only three remained, stronger and crueller than even before, each vying for control of the world's facilities and mastery of their rivals forces. With the Primarch's efforts, hundreds of ork vessels intended to reinforce Urlakk's shipyards or join his forces on Ullanor Prime had launched or altered course, and now converged on Harkonnen IV, drawn to the lure of the power struggle rippling across its surface and the electrifying promise of battle with the Imperial Host.

If the augurs were correct, the Primarchs' ploy had been wildly successful.

Weaker hearts might say too successful.

---

Lydia Magaera, war goddess of Asphodel, sixth Primarch of the Emperor's space marines and mistress of his thirteenth legion stood in her chambers, wrapped in a white chiton and golden girdle, regarding the dark sphere blotting out the stars before her as one might stare down an opponent. A young attendant sat at the far end of the chamber, facing away from her and coaxing a slow, placid melody from an exquisite white harp.

The viewing platform, like much of the Lady's chambers, had been remade, sculpted into an imitation of her temple balcony, where she had once gazed out over the sea. Now a more forbidding vision filled the window's arch -- The dark side of Harkonnen IV , its benighted surface ringed with pinpoints of artificial light and streaked with hot veins of glowing crimson. The black disc flared and flickered in the darkness, the manufactorum strobing with so much Orkish gunfire it could be seen from orbit.

It was as though the planet itself were malfunctioning; shorting out and throwing off sparks.

She showed it idly to Gorseval, superimposed with its strategic lines drawn, along with the ship's tactical auguries of the approaching Orkish flotsam and the deployment positions of her own fleet. He was occupied, of course, and in a most noble work. But the images would be there, cast in the temple of her mind's eye that she had always left open for him, when he cared to call them back.

There was a subtle change in the air. At some silent prompt, the Primarch lifted her head and beckoned idly, braids swinging against her hips, her eyes still locked on the tiny fireworks piercing the planet's surface. The doors to her chambers parted, and a decorated marine in the white and black armor of her legion entered, knelt and bowed her head to the floor. The Lady turned, unhurried, and her visitor rose, pressing one powerful armored hand to her chest.

"Mistress," she announced, "your brother's monastery-vessel has arrived. He awaits your pleasure on board."

The Lady cast one last, lingering glance over the surface of the planet, and paced slowly from the room as the soft music of the harp came to an end.

---

A question as to whether it would be possible to turn a Gloriana-class Battleship, a space-faring weapon of mass destruction, into a void-travelling monastery had never really come up before the Grim Crusade; yet if one looked to the flagship of the Fifteenth Legion, their never-asked question would surely have been answered quite certainly - this was The Fist of Zen, a multi-shielded behemoth of a space vessel, approximately twenty-four kilometres from prow to stern and with enough of an armament attached to it to cripple most opposing fleets, as well as decimate an entire planet on a whim.

From without it looked similar to most others of its class, albeit coloured in the light shades and hues of the Sons of the Storm, and with the clear silhouette of a multi-tiered tower jutting from the central top of it, but it was within those corridors, chambers and training halls that things began to take a most different turn; almost every individual aboard - Astartes and human alike - moved through the vessel in almost complete silence, some conversing quietly with one another, while only from the multiple halls of combat or dōjō did the sound of violent but controlled combat reverberate. Of course, the further you travelled from the centre of the ship and the tower positioned there, the more armoured guardians you would find patrolling the gigantic construct, not even as peaceful a Primarch as Fū Xiá being idiotic enough to leave his greatest vessel completely undefended.

It was from the highest level of this solitary tower that Fū Xiá would observe his fleets formation and manoeuvres, the Fist making up the solid core of his Lotus-pattern formation, each circle of ships becoming less and less dangerous the further out you went, with those of the accompanying Armada Imperialis making up the majority of those spacecraft ranging ahead and around the circular formation, ships of such variety and configuration that even he had a hard time keeping track of their specific armaments, strengths and weaknesses.

Bong!

The tenth gong had been struck, and Fū Xiá, resting his body on his heels and sitting upright, descended into the hundredth level of meditation; directly before him was his own suit of snarling artificer armour, looming out of the dimly lit gloom like some sort of starved adversary hanging from a rack, each part being carefully maintained and blessed by his coterie of mortal assistants, these natives of his homeworld known as a Nōdo or 'Serf' of the legion, men and women who willingly submitted to training from their superhuman superiors as well as accompanying them into battle.

Bong!

Further and further he withdrew into himself, feeling the weightlessness of nothing at all, his mind entirely focused toward his own centre and the rhythmic breathing used to induce such a state long ago forgotten. For several hours he had been sitting within his tower, everything from his servants, to the inky black void beyond the four walls surrounding him, forgotten as if they never were and never would be.

"Xiá-tono," came a soft voice from seemingly very far away, the slight woman addressing the kneeling giant actually standing right next to him, "My lord, the fleet is approaching our allies own. It appears that the Thirteenth Legion is awaiting our arrival."

The so-called 'Kindly Ones', of course.

Opening his eyes, he turned to look at the woman and gave a curt nod of his head, "thank you, Ayano," he replied with a voice almost as melodic and soft as her own, yet much deeper, "please, fetch my robes and we shall meet with my beloved sister, neh?"

---

The first scattering of Ork vessels had already begun to arrive as the thirteenth legion's contingent boarded the Sons' vessel, and the vaulted halls of the battleship resounded with the distant ring of lance fire and the muted crump of imploding roks battering their remnants uselessly against the hull. Though the Lady's bearing was as impassive as marble, it sang in her blood like music.

Perhaps it was a sign of things to come that the bearing of her sibling could not have been more different, or even the way in which the crew of the Fist conducted themselves, moving about with swift and precise motions that wasted no time nor energy, shifting from one station to another as if the Orks were not even there. For all intents and purposes, they may as well have been been on Terra itself! Such was the disdain and quiet indifference with which they treated the unorganised assaults of the enemy ships; it was true, some of the weaker Imperial vessels on the fringes of the formation had been been destroyed - or, more than likely, simply scattered into the void before being engaged - but any Greenskins that had managed to penetrate any further would have soon found far more formidable opposition and death.

Fū Xiá strode quickly to meet them, clad only in a flowing kimono-like robe of green over a more tightly fitting under-robe of pristine white, his steps carrying him as fast as they could toward the bridge of the battleship - the area where it was known all great meetings such as this took place. He went unaccompanied and unarmed, fully confident in his own abilities and the good will of his sister, and as a being capable of breaking rockrete and punching through power armour why should he not be?

There were four when he arrived: Magaera herself, towering over the others, helm tilted to show her face, braids swinging heavily at her back. She was attended on one side by a Librarian draped in a deep-hooded cloak, and the twins Tisiphone and Alecto strode one step behind, unhelmed but encased in their armor, each bearing one of the Primarch's weapons and flanking her in a ceremonial honor guard.

The smaller Primarch went forward to meet them with a smile upon his usually enigmatic face, the neutrality turning to a look of joyous greeting as he spread his arms wide in there deep sleeves, "welcome aboard, sister," he announced in an airy tone, almost as if he were talking from without himself, his eyes looking up to those of his sibling, "it is a pleasure to have the Lady, the War Goddess of Asphodel, aboard my flagship."

The Primarch's chin lifted, her carven expression of cool pride giving way to a subtle look of acknowledgement and approval as her eyes met those of her brother.

It was only now that Fū really paid any attention to those that had accompanied their Lady onto the bridge, taking in their every obvious strength and weakness with a swift glance from his stormy eyes, his smile widening even further.

"These can only be the twins that I have heard so much about," by now his Chi-level attributes were probably beginning to exert themselves, though thankfully - perhaps by some design of his father, or maybe even a twist of fate - those around him had never yet gotten the urge to murder him, "although the tales I have heard do not tell of this one."

The cloaked Fury drew back her hood, revealing a round-faced girl, her hair bound tightly with golden rings and dyed a red so deep it seemed almost black in the light of the Stormsons' vessel. Her neck was sheathed in a smooth net of cables which wrapped around to cradle her brainstem, and a deep scar traced her cheek, crossing at an angle over her otherwise full lips. She touched a hand to her breastplate and bowed.

"Grace and glory, noble Primarch," she intoned in a voice rich and sweet, smoky, like burning honey, "I am Polyhymna, and by the Lady's grace have the honor of serving her as second Chief Librarian. I shall stand as her aide for the duration of this august meeting, if this pleases you."

"Please, there is no need to bow to me," he chuckled with a dismissive wave, "you are as welcome as the rest, blessed Polyhymna, and any assisstance you offer to your Ladyship is well accepted by myself and mine."

"As you will," the girl said easily, "It has been pleasant, to make war alongside you and your Sons." She looked to her Primarch a moment, the Lady regarding her brother cordially. "...The Lady extends her respect for both the fullness of your legion's devotion to the Emperor's work, and their formidable skill in carrying it out."

"Lady Magaera has known those who sought to claim their last objective first." spoke Tisiphone.

"It ended as you might expect." echoed her sister.

Polyhymna continued: "She further wishes to impress the pride she feels at the prospect of commencing the deciding battle together, upon the surface of the forge world."

Once mirthful features turned far more serious as thoughts entered Fū's mind, his eyes sweeping once more over the formidable foursome present before him, and he gestured toward a luminous table placed near to the centre of the bridge. All manner of icons and flickering insignia moved rapidly across the surface, the planet of Harkonnen IV itself a large orb on the eastward fringe of the map, and Fū moved to slowly to stand beside it.

"Perhaps you may enlighten me as to what your Mistress intends? We face three threats here, each a potent adversary in their own right, and having the wisdom of the Lady of Victory is a boon to us all."

Of course this may have sounded like hollow flattery, but it was well known that although Fū Xiá was a player of tricks and an oft time joker, he very rarely ever joked. Especially when it came to war. No, he was most grateful for the guidance of his sister, and hoped that beneath that striking but cold exterior she might return that feeling in kind.

Polyhymna hesitated, glancing up at her Primarch. The Lady's gaze lingered upon her brother a moment more before she inclined her head and leaned over the pict-map, a braid falling over her shoulder, gesturing and zooming the display down onto the forge world as the Librarian spoke.

"As you are aware, the ork infestation is considerable, but concentrated heavily around this central facility."

The map was a intimidating industrial labyrinth choked with an overwhelming mass of green, multiple hotspots circled in warning red. The Primarch's hand moved, circling the densest concentration.

"We face a useful irony," Polyhymna continued, "The Ork numbers have swollen considerably, but this has also caused the destabilization of their conflict. As they strengthen, we yet have them at their most vulnerable." She looked up, gravely. "The third Chief Librarian has been urgently clear. We will never have a stronger window of opportunity than this. This is our kairos, our one supreme moment. It must be now."

Behind the Primarch, the twins exchanged uneasy, simultaneous glances, apparently less than comfortable being reminded of the third Chief Librarian, whomever she may be. Unruffled, Lydia moved her hand along the tactical display, marking units, routes and locations in black-white icons along an open area at the bottom of the facility.

"The third clan--" Lydia tapped the display as the girl spoke, highlighting a lethal red wall of gun emplacements, "--is buttressed by a considerable defensive line, but that line is forcibly committed against its two rivals and the Lady believes it will provide the optimal point of insertion for a shock attack. Once the animals have been scoured from our landing zone, our legions may separate and continue to push upward into the primary facility on two fronts, gaining what ground we may before the enemy forces cease fighting one another and rally."

Alecto chimed in: "The area was formerly a sizable vehicle pool; now the territory of a warlord Habdab Swiftfingerz of the "Death skulls." A plunderer and panoplist of some infamy."

"A looter and a thief, sister, call it what it is." rejoined her twin, flatly.

"Trivialities. The creature hoards a colossal arsenal, but insists on keeping nearly all of it for itself. Fell that one and the rest will be cut like grain."

Fū watched in complete silence as the situation on the planet was expertly laid out before his eyes, one hand massaging his chin as thoughts raced in and out ofd his mind, even the back-and-forth between the two twins - which usually would have elicited at least a chuckle from him - could not break his concentration and the plans already swimming about in his head.

"I feel I need not contribute too much to this strategy, not in words at least," spoke the Primarch in a clipped tone, "all we need do now is decide on our order of battle; this Habdab has done what we would not, he has isolated himself from his fellows, and, as you rightly surmise, shall be the linchpin to our entire conquest of Harkonnen."

Both of their legions were equally matched for the task ahead, both adaptable and well-organised, both sensitive to the commands and whims of their Primarchs, the only thing being that this enemy was an immobile force that had dug itself well into the soil of the former Forge World - the lightning-fast hit-and-run would not work well here, lest they sought to draw the Greenskins out into the open first, and so a hard, heavy and speedy strike would be what was required.

Looking up from the war table, his feline-like features taking on a sickly green glow from beneath his chin, he locked his own eyes onto those remarkable orbs of malachite embedded in bronzed flesh, taking slight note also of the barbs hanging from her thick braids, but spoke to the Chief Librarian all the same.

"What would your Lady suggest? My legion is prepared to follow where the Kindly Ones lead, if that is what she wishes."

"Actually, the Lady wishes you to have the honor of commanding the first assault," Polyhymna said, "And of taking the head of this putative Warboss. A gift; for her brother so long lost amongst the stars." The Librarian's head inclined toward her mistress, who nodded, her face still impassive, but some warmth, some distant and enigmatic emotion softening her eyes. "..She intends to remain aboard Threnos and oversee the theater of war both above and below, until need calls her to the surface."

"We are prepared to follow your instructions," declared Tisiphone.

"Until the zone is cleared and our legions separate for the secondary invasions." added Alecto.

"Which brings us to our last tactical decision." Tisiphone gestured to the map's left flank with a white-armored finger. "The army of warlord Rokk KillKrazy; a half-mechanical lunatic known for stripping systems bare in its wake."

Alecto mirrored the gesture in black, pointing to the right flank.

"The army of warlord Oogh WorldMelta; a charismatic and conniving creature more than capable of launching its own barbaric crusade if not stopped here."

Magaera lifted her palms evenly as she watched her brother, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at one corner of her lips. Polyhymna spoke:

"...The Lady wishes to know which of these scum it would most please you to slay."

For the very first time during that meeting, Fū took on an expression of some sadness, "it does not please me to kill anything," he replied in a half-whisper. "but I would like the honour of taking the head of this 'WorldMelta'; he sounds like a worthy adversary." This was accompanied by a sharp nod of the head before the seventh Primarch lapsed once more into a studious silence, waiting to see if Polyhymna had more to say on behalf of her Mistress.

"So let it be done," intoned the Librarian. "The Lady trusts she has not--"

Lydia lifted her hand, gently, and Polyhymna flinched as though slapped, falling abruptly silent. She drew her hood back up over her eyes, inclining her head gracefully.

"Forgive us, noble Primarch." she said, "We are to depart, and prepare the legion for battle. We shall converge again soon. And you will find us radiant and eager to fight by your side."

The twins saluted in silent unison, moving alongside the young Librarian in escort positions. The three marched from the bridge, disappearing into the halls of the monastery-vessel and the serene comings and going of its inscrutable crew, leaving Lydia and Fū Xiá alone across the colored glow of the map.

There was a long, silent pause.

At last, the Lady dropped her gaze and leant down, producing a thin wooden box inscribed with Asphodelic letters and decorated with regular, meandering patterns, setting it upon the surface. She slid it open and removed the contents: an earthenware bottle and a pair of red-fired cups that would have been large in the hands of any normal man or woman. She laid them out atop the display -- one before herself, one before Fū Xiá -- and unstoppered the vessel, pouring a chaste trickle of some dark, sweet-scented wine into each.

Although he had no idea just what he were about to drink, for he correctly assumed this to be the beginning of some form of toast or pact, much disliking anything but the rice-wine or tea from his own world, he nevertheless plucked up one of the cups and studied it carefully; fine craftsmanship to be sure, the clay shaped for a Primarch would have to be! The box as well was a truly beautiful piece, the intricate and curved lettering not so different from the calligraphy used by his own people and yet utterly alien all the same.

He could not comprehend what she must be thinking at that moment, what she must be feeling in his prescense, but he allowed himself to raise the cup up in a two-handed salute and take a long draught from the deep vessel. Not usually one for drink, he drained the contents until the bitter dregs were all that were left at the bottom...much as it was in life.

"My thanks, my Lady."

At a clap of his hands a black-armoured Astartes removed himself from the shadows, for it was there that he had been standing all along - motionless and as silent as the grave - a sheathed blade the size of an Astartes combat knife placed into the Primarch's outstretched hand.

"I regret I have no drink of my own readily available, but I hope that you might accept this instead." Withdrawing the tanto from the scabbard just a bit, he allowed her to see the blade and the wave-like pattern running along the always sharp blade, before thrusting it back home, "the grip is made from Ork hide and the blade able to cut through most materials without the help of a generator; I hope it will suffice."

Reaching out his hand, he gently placed the blade in the crimson sheath down before her, next to her own box, a smile turning the corners of his mouth up as he gave a short sigh.

"I believe it is now time to prepare ourselves and our legions for the coming conflict," he sounded almost sad about it...but also hungry, "honour to us all, and victory for the Imperium."

---

"An odd one, to be sure," said Alecto as the three marched through the halls of the Fist, not seeming to care who heard.

"More than he appears, sister," cautioned her counterpart.

"He could hardly be less," snorted the first twin.

"We are both aware that you say this only to goad me. His is a well-hidden strength. Did you not sense that aura?"

"We all did." Polyhymna's voice came softly from beneath her hood, "I have never felt anything quite like it. Serene. Tranquil... Inviolate." She turned her hidden face toward the window-arch as they passed, watching the distant conflict amidst the stars. "Like the eye of a storm."

"Apt, then." observed Tisiphone, wryly, "I confess it. I felt... almost at peace."

There was a momentary quiet as the three entered the elevator to the shuttle bay.

"Yes," said Alecto at last as the doors began to hiss shut, "I didn't like it either."

---

The massed ranks of the thirteenth legion knelt before the towering figure of the Emperor's daughter in a regimented sea of gleaming black and white, crested by a thicket of flowing banners. A deep, choral hymn swelled throughout the vessel's halls as the Lady paced slowly before them, hand resting on the braids of her whip, her expression passive and untouchable.

Tisiphone stood rigid before her phalanx as a host of white-robed attendants brought the crowning piece of her armor. She whispered one last, eager prayer as the Terminator's mask was raised and secured, a flat, threatening slab of golden metal engraved with Imperial heraldry and Asphodelic motif. There was a familiar, tiny hiss of pressurization and the whirr and thud of automatic locks, a rising sub-aural whine as its eyes slowly glowed into painful, blinding aquamarine lamps.

Magaera lifted her chin, clapping her hands once. As one the legion rose, presented arms, pivoted and marched.

Tisiphone spoke in a voice so aggressively amplified, pitch-shifted and modulated that it was no longer female, was not even human, and at last it were as though some veil had been lifted and her true nature shown: Not a woman, but a war machine; the monstrous, sexless angel of a wrathful and avenging god.

"+ Form ranks and prepare to decant! +" it thundered as the shining legion of the Lady's space marines filed quickly into their drop pods, "+ We go to glory! +"

---

Meanwhile, the mood aboard the Fist could not have been any different, any more solemn or far from the thought of battle; throughout the mighty vessel the drums of war had been sounded, each warrior gathering his mortal assistants to his side and making ready, the various Temples of the Fifteenth Legion gathering in the hugely vast space of the battleships main hall - it was a most sacred space, reserved for only such moments as this, and as Fū Xiá surmounted the elegantly constructed podium to look out over the veritable ocean of assembled Astartes and human standing side-by-side, he could not have been more proud.

On his left stood one of the largest of his sons, prepared to strike the gong that would send them all to the surface of the planet, a stick the size of a normal man's arm held in one clenched fist. To his right-hand side, a priest chanted holy verse as he blessed the Primarch with sticks of incense.

Soon enough he was joined by a dozen mortal attendants, each piece of his armour blessed with smoke before being placed upon his giant frame, beginning from his feet and continuing all the way to his head.

At the last moment he raised a hand, his helmet tucked neatly into the crook of his arm, and caught the eye of more than a few of his more experienced Astartes, "we go now into battle, so steel yourselves and hold fast my sons, and remember the words of the ancestors - 'a warrior is worthless unless he rises above others and stands strong in the midst of a storm.'"

Enough words wasted, he placed his helmet over his head and took a deep breath as the world was both dulled and heightened by the various sensors contained in the space now walled-in all around him.

Honour to us all, for Mankind and for the Emperor, wareware wa tatakau tame ni ikimasu.

---

The dark side of Harkonnen was shrouded in a deep, permanent twilight, the sky roiling with thick red clouds and looming with dark spires that twinkled with a scattering of distant, artificial lights. Everywhere the vast industrial facility had fallen into disrepair, its streets and mechanical cathedrals, once maintained by a well-oiled and efficient administration, now laying grimy and dark under a pall of obsidian dust and cthonic ash.

The compound of Habdab Swiftfingerz was no exception: A filthy, sprawling wasteland of plated roadways and garages bathed in the stark white glare of industrial floodlamps, hemmed in on its north side by a thick, twisted patchwork wall of scrap metal some thirty feet high that stood lined with rusted battlements, alien skulls and huge outfacing spikes. Crude, jagged gun emplacements nailed with orkish symbols and totems rattled deafeningly and blazed with meter-long muzzle fire as they raked the opposing bridges, and all along its mile and a half length, three tiers of firing slits bristled with flaring shootas, some crammed with two or three guns apiece, making aiming impossible.

Inside, a mass of swollen, muscular green bodies swarmed between the hydraulic platforms, assembling, disassembling, shoving their way through to the frontline or lugging ammunition to the great wall. The air was a cacophony of barking gunfire, the banging of hammers and the whine of sawblades shearing through metal as the warlord's underlings continued to add to his panoply, bolting cannons together out of sluice pipes and ruined engines, welding bombed-out transports onto higher walls or the creatures' monstrous walkers, the vehicle pool slowly skeletonized as more and more of the forge world's structures were eaten away to fuel the Ork war machine.

Without, from the north bank of the tertiary magma canal, the bridges were choked with a river of Orks loyal to Habdab's rivals, trying to swarm their way over the wall or taking noisy, inaccurate potshots from behind pipes and fixtures. By the hundreds they were cut into mince by the warlord's excessive defences, and by the hundreds they kept coming. One hapless gunner after another toppled from the wall with a gurgling howl, pierced by a hail of shots, and for each one that fell, twenty more Orks would heave their way up the ramps, punching and kicking at each other in an effort to be the next to have a go on the turrets.

Swiftfingerz himself stood atop the largest pillbox on the wall, firing an incalculable quantity of munitions from an almost comically oversized weapon.

"Boss!"

Weird ol' Vrotz, Habdab's biggest and least dead weirdboy, stumbled out of the inside of his tower garret, ringing his bell-stikk and hollering abrasively. Swiftfingerz blocked it out, his lower lip curled into a drooling snarl as he got one of KillKrazy's trukks in his sights, its occupants firing wildly into the air. Sparks flew as stray shots peppered the wall.

"Boss? Boss!"

The Nob-turned-warboss squeezed all four triggers, carpeting everything in his view with a blizzard of shrapnel. The trukk went up in a blossoming cloud of flame, lighting up the gantries and spires and showering KillKrazy's boyz in every direction. One hunchbacked mekanik stood nearby, pouring slugs, nuts and bolts into the ammo funnel, while one of Habdab's koola boyz dumped buckets of filthy water over the weapon's glowing red barrel, filling the open-air pillbox with a dense cloud of foul-smelling steam.

"BOOOOOOOOSS!"

"Orm busy!" roared Swiftfingerz over the hail of gunfire and the relentless ping of ricocheting slugs, "Whadderya want ya weirdy grot?!"

The ork psyker swayed against the makeshift railing of his equally makeshift tower, clutching at his stitched-up skull.

"Boss --" he hollered, his squwaking, warbling voice echoing across the converted vehicle pool, "I just got da weirdest feeling!"

"Flamin' Mork!" the warboss released the handlebars of his super-pressurized Mega-Multi-Deffgun and whirled furiously, the swarm-rokkit launchers mounted on his shoulders thumping against the roof of his turret and knocking his ammo handler headlong into the spikes thirty feet below. He picked up the koola boy in two huge, scarred green claws, breaking its back over his knee before tossing it after the first and leaned over the inside wall of the turret, bellowing in rage: "I tole you already, you stupid git! If yer gunna koff up dat glowy green stuff, do it over the zoggin' wall so it hits dem shootas on the uvva side! Uvvawise, shut yer trap an keep--"

The tower exploded.

In one single reverberating peal of thunder, the twisting metal garret had been pounded into a wide crater of hot scrap by a gleaming white box, the earth-shaking impact sending the dark mass of Orks cascading into each each other like a circle of hideous dominoes.

"What the zog--"

Another six impacts followed the first, another half-score Orks crushed or thrown into the air with each one. The walls of the drop pods thumped open, and huge armored bodies marched out, advancing relentlessly in six directions and pouring explosive fire into the green horde, the bodies of Habdab's creatures withering like grass under the scythe. The moment a clearing was cut, the first Terminator phalanx warped onto the field with a clap of exploding air.

"+ TACTICAL FORMATION +" the shiniest of them thundered, "+ STERILIZE THE LANDING ZONE +"

The warlord looked up. The dark sky of Harkonnen was alight with tongues of fire, the burning glow of the space marines' pods criss-crossed with the streaking fragments of ork rok-ships, screaming down as hot, meteoric rain.

"Humies..." a feral light kindled in the beast's eyes. He drew himself up to his full height, tearing the Deffgun from its mooring bolts with a gutteral roar. "HUMIES FROM DA FLAMIN' SKY! FOINALLY! BOYZ!" One meaty fist wrenched a heavy lever, and the compound filled with the blare of manufactorum alarm klaxons. "YOU AIN'T GETTIN' MY GUBBINS YA SHINY GITS!"

---

Tekuan, Master of the Wind Drakes and the closest confidant of his Primarch, listened intently to the various reports from the battlefield below being filtered into his helmet.

"Xiá-sama, the Kindly Ones have initiated the assault," he spoke softly into his comm, the keen edge of anticipated violence clearly present in his tone, "it appears that the Greenskins are swarming the area but the Furies are doing their duty."

Fū Xiá listened to the news with eyes half-closed, more focused on the reverberating sound of the Stormbirds engines and his own breathing, a half-smile coming to his concealed face nonetheless as he imagined the shock and surprise of the hardy xenos below; even now, as his legions transports drew ever closer to the warzone like an expansive flock of birds-of-prey, he could hear the ping and rattle of projectiles being thrown their way. By which 'side' he could not specify, and nor did it matter, his Winds Fury would taste the blood and flesh of Habdab Swiftfingerz if he had to wade through the entirety of the sorry mob to get to him.

"Excellent, High Abbot," he replied at last, "then let us make sure they do not fight alone."

Opening his eyes, he was once more pleased by what he saw; had they gone into battle via drop-pods then the armed and armoured men and women that now accompanied them to the field would have been reduced to nothing but pulp by the time they hit earth. As it was, through the use of Stormbirds covered by wings of Storm Eagle Gunships, they would reach the landing zone together and intact.

By the time his thought process was over they were there, the Stormbird firing off its arsenal as it came in to land and clearing a perimeter around it, nearly eighty of its fellows following suit; most did not land, for finding somewhere within the confines of the Death Skullz compound would have been hard enough, let alone not hitting their own allies in the process, and so it was that as with many of his First Temple Fū Xiá leapt the last few feet and landed with a ground-shattering thud and a squelch atop a crushed green carcass.

His own attendants and those of his fellow Astartes - nearly sisxteen-thousand men and women in all - made use of short-thrust grav-shutes to remain by their masters side, some already plummeting to the ground as their lives were cut short by slugga or shoota fire.

The sight, as always, made Fū Xiá feel sick in his stomach.

"Wind Drakes, form up, hoshi formation - we shall push these beasts from the field, and glory to the one who takes the largest head."

Based on the battlefield tactics of his homeworld, Fū Xiá formed his eight-thousand Astartes into an arrowhead with their attendants used to defend the more vulnerable flanks, much like the arrow he would 'loose it' straight into the core of the Orkoid formation and fell Habdab himself. As to exactly where he would point the arrow, well, there could only be one humongous Greenskin wielding what looked like a mingling of several heavy bolters and a melta-gun and that Ork was currently heading straight toward the combined Astartes forces with the look of a frenzied mad-man in his eyes.

There was a distant crump and a crackling whoosh. The horizon blazed with light and the manufactorum was forested with dark shadows as a twisting wall of yellow flares launched into the sky from somewhere far over the wall, sailing in a high arc, spitting fire against the night sky and trailing coils of greasy smoke. They scattered wildly, some spinning off at odd angles and exploding against towers or gantries, but a hundred more were streaking down toward the wall in a flaming mass.

"+ ROCKET BARRAGE +" reverberated Tisiphone, "+ BRACE FOR IMPACT! +"

There was a noise like thunder and the battleground erupted in hot, ochre flame. A score of the missiles erupted against Polyhymna's telekinetic ward, spewing fire between the Furies' ranks and scattering shrapnel like rain. The bulk of the Orkish wall exploded into jagged sheets of rusting steel, its shoota towers toppling into friend and foe alike. One of the Kindly Ones fell with an electronic shriek, left pauldon crushed, her breastplate rent open.

"Apothecary!" bellowed Captain Euryale, wrenching a hot spear of metal from the fallen marine's breast.

The medic hurried through the oily smoke and flaming debris, kneeling to cut away the remains of the impaling armor and drive a mutlti-syringe into the torn mass of augmented flesh.

"Be still, sister," she advised.

"I can still fight!" gasped the woman's vox, "This is but flesh and blood -- forsake me not to the Asclepius exalted sister, I can still fight!"

"Panacea?"

The apothecary regarded her instruments. "She will hold."

"Permissible. Rise and reinforce devastator position theta. Do not betray my confidence, sister. Noli obliviscate."

"Ut ne ignoscimus," choked the marine, hauling herself to her feet and hastening to her designation.

"*Advance company, return fire!*" the Captain barked into her comms with a metallic echo, "*Neutralize that position or choke the enemy with your dead!*"

"By--" the vox crackled, "-ady's grace--"

There was a distant roar of bolter fire and another deep eruption of air as a series of covertly-planted plasma charges detonated on the far bank. A depowered converter tower creaked, groaned and finally screamed as it toppled from its foundations, tumbling catastrophically onto the Ork artillery position. A geyser of roaring flame bloomed through the black skeleton of the tower struts, burning Orkoid bodies rolling across the roadways or flailing wildly as they dropped into the processing shafts.

Onward the Sons went, ignorant to much else except was was before them, trusting in the strength and vigour of the Furies and their Lady to keep them from the worst of harm, Fū Xiá moving like a flowing breeze at the very tip of the arrowhead with Tekuan at his side and his hundred-and-eight monk-warriors forming the piercing tip of the man-made projectile.

All around him was a blur of blades and the crushing press of close-quarter fighting, the bark of a bolt pistol sounding nearby as an Astartes was riddled with return fire and crumpled to the ground, the formation moving ever forward; Here and there he noticed an attendant carved apart by a choppa, their autoguns spitting solid death at the Ork menace, his own weapon flicking back and forth like a serpents tongue and each time another of his enemies falling dead at his feet, his armoured feet grinding them into so much pulp and flesh with his tread.

There you are.

"Habdab Swiftfingerz! I, Fū Xiá, challenge you. Face me, you wretch."

Bellowed from within the faceplate of his helmet, amplified by the autosensors embedded into it, the slightly digitalised voice of the angered Primarch could be heard over the din of battle as clearly as if he were yelling it into an empty chamber.

Habdab Swiftfingerz, Death Skullz Warboss and loota extraordinaire, turned to face the giant shiny boy who must have come to take his gubbinz for himself - good, he was tired of krumpin' all these weak 'umies that had gone ahead of the shiny onez, wiping the remains of one from the power claw sheathing one huge fist.

"Come an get it 'umie, I ain't scared of ya; I'm da biggest an I'm da boss, not youse nor nobody else!"

His Deffgun unleashed multiple barrels of death into the oncoming formation, attendants torn apart in bloody puffs of gore, Astartes hampered back or forced to halt as mek-improved bullets found their marks, but Fū would not be halted and came on with all the force of a lightning bolt.

All around him the bullets which had shredded lesser beings were stopped abruplty by the conversion field about him, jolts of light marking there trajectories as they impacted on the invisible barrier, Habdab blazing away even as the Primarch ordered his warriors to form a perimeter about the two combatants; soon enough they were enclosed within a circle of the Imperiums finest, the hundred-and-eight forming a second, smaller, circle even as battle raged and rokkits exploded all around.

"Oi, wot are you waitin' for, ye Grot!" Snarled the Warboss, throwing his empty Deffgun to the floor and drawing a choppa half the size of a full-grown man, "come on 'en."

Fū was in no hurry, removing his necklace of beads - and thereby his conversion field generator - as well as the faceplate of his helmet, handing them both to Tekuan, the High Abbot covered from head to toe in the blood of others. Calmly and without any urgency he moved away from his retinue, leisurely resting his polearm over one shoulder, his grey eyes never moving from his intended target, before stopping mere feet away from the gigantic Ork.

There he stood, motionless, like a statue of solid rock even as a rokkit exploded nearby, throwing a shower of black dirt and gore over him, only moving to bring his weapon into the 'ready' posture - blade pointed toward Habdab and both hands evenly spaced apart along the pole.

For long moments he stood there, saying nothing, before smirking beneath the rim of his helmet and opening his mouth, "come...Warboss, I shall meditate on your ashes."

This was more than enough for the behemoth, his boyz broken or fleeing to some safer place, surrounded on all sides and with nowhere to go...and now this 'umie was threatening him! HIM!

"WAAAGH!"

With a roar and a loping stride that shook the very ground, Habdab Swifingerz hurled himself at the Primarch, an adversary almost a head-and-a-half shorter than him but clearly with nerves of adamantium, his choppa coming down even as his claw took a swipe at his enemy from the other direction. It, however, futile - where he struck his enemy was not, and where his enemy was he did not strike, only rarely did Fū use his own weapons blade to parry a blow which came almost too close in a shower of sparks.

"Stop dancin' about like some pointy-ear git," growled the lumbering, but surprisingly fast, brute, taking another swipe that knocked aside Fū's weapon for but a second and allowed an opening to appear, Habdab spotting it with some primal instinct and lashing out with his claw to tear the polearm from his grip and send it skittering away into the crowd of Astartes about them.

Giving what might well have counted as a smile among his own kind, his drooling lips peeling back to reveal the tusks as long as Fū's forearms, Habdab spun his choppa overhead and bought it down in a blow that should have split the smaller of the Primarchs from head to groin.

When it didn't find its mark he twisted it, bringing it back about to swipe sideways at the more nimble of the two, this was a mistake.

Using speed almost unimaginable even for one of his ilk, the Primarch stepped into the blow, catching the wrist of the hulking animal in a vice-like grip as his other arm was thrust in with an open palm and the splintering sound of fractured bone and torn muscle that - when done correctly - was the entire purpose of the technique.

"Wha- what you done to me arm!" Howled the Ork, more because his limb was somewhat immobile than because of any actual pain, "I'm still gonna krump ya, ye Snotling shit."

Fū was by this point beyond words, beyond much really, altogether withdrawn into himself and focusing solely on the space and time between he and his crippled foe.

One step...two step...three step...step aside...twist...move in...

The power claw barely missed the head of the Primarch, mere inches of air saving Fū from an ignoble and very possible death on Harkonnen IV, the force of the momentum opening up the entire back of the enemy to what would be the thing that Habdab Swiftfingerz would ever feel in his miserable life.

Breath deep, plant foot, twist and strike.

Power-armoured and unstoppable as a missile, the formerly flesh-coloured fist tore through metal and toughened hide, a shower of gore coating the length of his arm as Fū clutched what he correctly surmised was the 'heart' of Habdab - if he even ever had one! - and wrenched it straight out the back of the groaning Ork.

It took a moment, as it does for all Greenskins, for Habdab to realise that his power claw was getting heavier and his body slowly weaker. With one arm hanging useless at his side, though not for want of trying to use it, and a bloody hole now draining him of life, he began to crumple to his knees and, eventually, discovered that he could not rise.

"Ye...ye zoggin' runt," he managed to gargle, blood rising in his throat even as he spoke, "my matez 'ull kill ye, and I'll see you when...when..."

In the moments it had taken him to make some form of speech, Fū had drawn the smaller of his two blades from his waist and proceeded to saw through the tought nerve-bundles and muscle of the Orks neck, a process that would take some minutes with anything less than a power weapon of some form, but still went much quicker with Xīn Fēng-forged steel.

There was a slight sucking sound and a wet pop as he gripped the massive head by one ear and raised it high into the air, the mouth still moving and muttering even as he did so, one booted foot coming up to kick the headless carcass into the dirt.

---

Polyhymna drew back her hood one-handed, the other holding a tight grip on her lumninous, angel-tipped staff, scattered pools of burning promethium bathing her in a flickering orange light.

"Sister-Captain, Report."

Captain Euryale saluted, inclining her helm. "The zone is pure, exalted sister. Acceptable casualties. We stand at point nine nine eight efficiency."

The Librarian's gaze drifed away, her turquoise eyes glowing eerily in the forge-world's gloom.

"The Lady forsees tactical advantage at negative fifteen degrees hubward," she intoned in her low, beautiful voice, "Ork vehicles will slow reinforcement at the damaged transport bridge."

They knew the unfolding of the strategic landscape in the Lady's eye and felt her will, felt the torch-flame of their sister-captains and the flickering candlelight of squad sargeants positioning across the battlefield along the Sons' flank.

They were one, as worlds orbiting the sun in their perfect, celestial dance. One will, one bright and purifying fire, as none other could be.

"I see it." Euryale proclaimed, pressing her comms. "*Deploy transports. Scouts on gantries. Our word is fulfilled and we must walk our own path.*"

In moments the 13th legion thunderhawks streaked down, their payload of armored carriers dropping heavily and bouncing once against the floor of the manufactorum with a dense crash. Everywhere, Magaera's Furies were mobilizing, spreading ranks.

The thing that was Tisiphone rammed the standard of the Kindly Ones into the debris atop their fork of the ruined wall, saluting with the flickering end of her heavy flamer.

"+ Grace and glory, brothers! +" she broadcast triumphantly to the jade legion over the thunder of the guns, "+ When next we regard each other it will be over the smoldering bones of a trillion Orkoid dead! +"

Those words were recieved joyfully by the Primarch of the Fifteenth, his large form sitting idly atop a stool made specifically for his weight and bulk, as he reviewed the many heads taken that day as they were presented to him. Above him the airborne transports of both legions came and went as blossom on the wind, and truly the pacification of the planet had began in ernest.

"Tekuan," he said to the closest of his guard, gesturing the monk-warrior over to his side, "send a message to the Threnos and the Lady herself, tell her that we thank her for her assistance and that this initial victory is ours together." Thinking for a moment, a wry smile playing across his face, he spoke up once more, "and also tell Lydia Magaera, my sister, that once we are done here she has my friendship and my trust...but that we shall be seeing them next, before they shall see us."

Early M31 - Segmentum Tempestus, Xarcus III

The Imperial flagship Consul of The Emperor drifted through warp space, travelling towards the currently-independant hive world of Xarcus III, watched over by a man named Gallus Kaeso, who had up until this point, managed to avoid war with the Imperium, while still maintaining the independence of his world. Aboard the ship were over four thousand of the Emperor's chosen, Adeptus Astartes of the Ninth Legion, the Iron Templars. In the command chair of the vessel sat a man of great fortitude, might and will. The Primarch of the Iron Templars, Ser Berenger the Giant, son of the Emperor, and conqueror of nearly 100 worlds in the name of the Imperium. To the uninformed, it would have appeared that Ser Berenger intended to invade the planet, decimating its defenses and conquering it for the Emperor. In all actuality, the Giant had no such intentions, and was on an arrival course to the planet as a diplomatic envoy.

As the ship dropped out of warp and into orbit around the planet, the communications terminal began receiving a hailing signal from those on the surface. A legion serf presented this information to Ser Berenger, who had the signal broadcast on the main viewing screen aboard the bridge. The face of Gallus Kaeso filled the screen, who looked over Ser Berenger, armed and armored, and sneered.

"So you have come for war, then?" Gallus shouted. "This 'Emperor' of yours finally decided to come and conquer us, has he?" the man bellowed, spitting the words from his tongue with pure malice.

"No, he has not." Berenger replied, standing at full height sternly in front of the screen. "He has sent me as a diplomatic envoy, Your Lordship. I am Ser Berenger the Giant, son of the Emperor, Primarch of the Iron Templars, and knight of the Imperium."

"Ser Berenger the Giant." mocked Gallus, scoffing and rolling his eyes. "If you have not come to make war, which I very much doubt, then you must prove so. We will meet at my palace here on the planet. We will send a shuttle up to your ship to retrieve you, and you alone will board and come to the planet. Unarmed, and unguarded. If you do not accept these terms, then it shall be seen as an act of war, and our planetary defenses will have no choice but to open fire upon your ship. Do you accept?"

Berenger nodded curtly, looking directly into the eyes of the figure upon the screen. "I accept your terms. I told you that I was not here for war, and I meant it. Now, when can I expect this shuttle to arrive?"

Gallus was caught off-guard, he had anticipated for his terms to be rejected, and to have to open fire upon the large Imperial vessel drifting above his planet. He stammered slightly before coming to his senses. "It shall arrive within the hour. Expect an armed escort party. Gallus Kaeso out."

The screen flickered dark, and Berenger sighed. He knew persuading this man to join the Imperium would be difficult, and require both careful tact, and a blunt show of force. He hastily stepped from the bridge to his personal quarters, bringing along several legion serfs to have is armor and weapons removed, and his clothing prepared.

---

Xarcus III - One hour after the arrival of Imperial Flagship 'Consul of The Emperor'

Gallus Kaeso nervously paced back and forth in the entrance chamber to his palace, awaiting the arrival of Ser Berenger. He had donned his most regal outfit, with gilded silk and cloth, and mastercrafted jewelry imported from the finest jewelers around the galaxy. Gallus was certain that he generated a magnificent aura of lordship, and that this would be enough for Berenger to see his faults, and stand down.

A servant came rushing into the main chamber, panting and gasping for air. Gallus grew impatient rather quickly, and struck the servant across the face, bellowing "Well, boy, what is it?" The servant whimpered and quickly bowed before his lord, before stuttering out "T-The guest ha-has a-arrived, Y-Y-Your Lordship..." and cowering away as soon as Gallus dismissed him.

Just as Gallus turned to face the massive golden doors that led into the entrance hall, they swung open, presenting the largest man Gallus had ever seen, flanked on every side by four of Gallus' guards, whose height was a rather sharp contrast to the massive figure between them. Gallus grew pale as the figure stepped in front of him, its shadow completely encasing Gallus.

"G-Greetings, Ser Berenger..." Gallus stammered out, before regaining his composure. "I trust your arrival wasn't TOO troubling?"

Berenger stood and regarded the rather small man in front of him. Here he was, a massive figure dressed in simple, modest clothing, while this lord had donned his most valuable outfit for this occasion. Lesser men would have seen this as arrogance, and used Berenger's height and mass to assert authority over Gallus. But Ser Berenger knew that this man was simply seeking to impress his adversary, an understandable desire, given the formidability of Berenger.

"Not at all, my friend." Berenger spoke, extending his hand and very gently shaking Gallus' as a gesture of good faith. "I am much appreciative of the service you have provided thus far. You make for a very hospitable host." He smiled warmly, walking with the lord to where the meeting would take place.

---

The meeting took place in Gallus Kaeso's office, a special chair was brought in the accommodate Ser Berenger's size, and the meeting began. It took several hours of discussion, but the two eventually reached an agreement.

"So..uhm..your father, the Emperor..he has..HOW MANY children, again..?" stuttered Gallus, his fingers nervously tapping together.

"As I said before, twenty, including myself." said Berenger, completely at ease, with a small smirk barely lining the edge of his lips.

"A-And each of you command a full army..c-correct? Now, howmany..how many soldiers are in these armies?"

"Yes, each of us command a full legion of Imperial Adeptus Astartes. As for numbers, I cannot speak for the others, but I myself command around 150,000 Astartes. Many of my siblings, and myself, also have access to the nearly unlimited supply of Imperialis Auxilia regiments that make up the Imperial Army."

Gallus grew pale with fright, and cowered in his seat before the massive man. "O-One h-h-hundred and fifty thousand...?" He whispered, before looking at Berenger and saying "W-Well, Ser Berenger, I do believe it is very safe to say that I have massively misjudged you and your Imperium. We of Xarcus III would be happy to have your father the Emperor of Mankind as our liege-lord. I see no reason why you shouldn't send the message of peace out immediately!" Gallus hastily spoke, giving a nervous chuckle.

"I...see." Said Berenger, scratching his head slightly. "Then I shall return to my vessel, and make haste to the Imperium to share the news." He stood, once again shaking Gallus Kaeso's hand, and leaving the room, following a servant guide to the shuttle, and leaving to board the Consul of The Emperor and return to Imperium space.

_{Collab between myself and the beautiful @Culluket.}

Early M31
Adrift in the Ullanor system

Caught in one of his sorrowful moods, Gorseval stared at the large holo-map suspended in front of his wrought-iron captain's chair with disinterest. The bridge of the Eclipse was quiet. Most of the personnel was asleep and only a skeleton crew remained, and all of the Void Masters were aboard their own ships. Gorseval had dimmed the lights and idly flicked through various pict-screens, holo-maps and vox-channels.The entire fleet of the Void Stalkers drifted lazily through space, like a hibernating bear, waiting for their Primarch's command. Gorseval's advisors, the Black Guard, had learned long ago not to bother their master while he was thinking... and yet, the hours ticked by slowly. They could be fighting somewhere right now. A massive war was being waged on Ullanor Prime, several skirmishes were taking place in the rest of the system, and even more battles were being fought in other, nearby systems.

All of it meant more surface fighting. Gorseval hated fighting Orks. The green runts seemed incapable of producing a large, meaningful fleet of space ships. Gorseval despised the Eldar too, but at least they proved interesting opponents, out here in the eternal darkness. He'd vaguely caught wind of a few of his brothers tackling an Eldar Craftworld, but that was in another segmentus of the galaxy.

Before the assault on the shipyards, Gorseval had received a telepathic communication from Lydia Magaera, the Lady of Victory, and Primarch of the Thirteenth Legion, the Kindly Ones. This wasn't unusual -- Gorseval and Lydia frequently communicated that way, being two of the few psychic Primarchs. It had been an image of a planet, Harkonnen IV, with some strategic information attached to it. Large planetary assault, three different Ork forces, collaboration with the Fifteenth -- it had looked like a good scrap. Brooding, Gorseval sent Lydia a few mental images of the shipyard battle and Farrah, the Shield of the Imperium, smashing an Ork Weirdboy with her enormous war-mace, along with a general mood of dissatisfaction.

It was a moment before there was any response.

But then, slowly, gradually, it was as though Gorseval could see the old balcony in the back of his mind's eye, a great edifice of white, pillared marble jutting out over a vast, grey ocean which lapped against its cliffs beneath a canopy of stars. A thousand miles distant and yet as clear as if it had been within his arm's reach. Warm firelight flickered from within, a beacon he could always find when he chose to. Frequently Magaera would come to meet him there, on that phantom ledge, but now he felt her presence beckoning from within.

As he had done so often before, Gorseval stepped out of the dark, technology-ridden bridge of the Eclipse and into the beautiful, marble scene of the mind-temple. Back on the ship, Gorseval's eyes closed and he seemed to fall asleep in his chair. Lights winked softly in the bridge and servos whirred, but nothing would disturb him there.

The temple was wide, open and radiant, set with flickering braziers and opulent decoration. The impression lingered of warm summer air, fresh with the scent of salt and the cry of sea-birds echoing distantly through the colonnades from without. Against one wall hung the lifeless head of Habdab Swiftfingerz, with two further hooks to either side awaiting their trophies. The stone nearby was adorned with a red-figure painting depicting Fu Xia's conquest of the beast. There was yet plenty of room to spare.

Lydia herself in her white chiton and golden clasps stood pacing slowly around the circular mosaic that had dominated the center of her temple. But where once had been an elaborate map of her homeworld now showed the surface of forge world Harkonnen, bristling with miniature tokens and figurines, attack vectors drawn out with strings of red twine. The southern end of the battlefield had apparently been claimed as a successful beachhead, and the game-pieces of the Kindly Ones and the Sons of the Storm now flowed upstream in a two-pronged invasion.

With the butt of her fabled spear, Lydia pushed two of the tokens to an altered course and at last turned to her brother, lifting her chin high in her old aspect of pride, but smiling in silent welcome. She tilted her head in a mild expression of sympathy, raised a questioning eyebrow and gestured back the way he had come.

In here, Gorseval was dressed in long, featureless robes of black. They were what he had worn as the Silent King of the Reach, before the Emperor found him, and even after thirty years his mind would dress him as such. He took a few seconds to take in the appearance of his sister before him, resplendent in white, her eyes like blue fire. Gorseval had always fostered a quiet appreciation for her hard beauty, and an even more quiet envy of her expressive eyes.

Gorseval's bare feet moved soundlessly over the marble floor and he walked closer to the mosaic, hands clasped behind his back, and he looked down at the map. Harkonnen IV. He met her gaze when she raised an eyebrow, and Gorseval shrugged. "Too easy. The shipyards were... ah, I wouldn't say poorly defended, but Farrah is very good at what she does. Ullanor Secundus had a few Ork kroozers defending it, but nothing spectacular," Gorseval explained. His long black hair fell like curtains around his face as he looked down again, his eyes studying the pieces and the mosaic. "Looks like your tactic worked."

The Lady's head tilted back again, her expression thoughtful. There was a feeling of acknowledgement, of understanding, but then the image of a half-finished tapestry, of a bowl slowly filled to overflowing, of a pair of scales, one side weighed heavily with golden coins, the other lightly with crude stones. Slowly, more stones began to fall, then more, and gradually, inexorably, the scales began to tip until they were almost even.

She lifted her spear and thumped the floor of the temple with its shaft, once. Abruptly the tiles around the mosaic were cluttered with a second host of figures and statuettes -- the beautifully-carved shapes of Imperial battleships, twisted barbarian vessels in crude copper, and an unusually great number of large stones, all connected to points on the map by hundreds of long red threads.

No. Not stones.

Rocks.

She shared the tactical data, opening herself, the detections and predictions of her augurs and her own prognostications spanning out in his mind's eye. The assault would succeed. She would not accept anything less. But the incoming rok-ships alone were too great in number to be stopped entirely by the 13th and 15th fleets, and their landings, and the reinforcements they would bring with them, had a narrow predictablility. There would be prices to pay for victory.

Lydia's gift for visualization made it easy for Gorseval to understand what he was looking at. The Orks hadn't actually finished gathering on Harkonnen IV and a great stream of reinforcements was still pouring in. Gorseval fell silent for a minute while he compared his own precognitions and estimations with Lydia's and found them to mostly overlap -- should nobody intervene, the switft and decisive strike of the Thirteenth and Fifteenth would turn into a long, drawn-out war of attrition.

Like the movements of a dream, the map and the figures were gone, and the Lady of Victory now sat sidesaddle at one end of a great wooden banquet table, set with a lavish feast. She radiated invitation, welcome, a tantalizing glimpse of challenge, the filling of an empty belly accustomed to better meals than the ones so recently taken. Lydia smiled, warmly, and held a wide carving-knife by its tip over the top of a huge shank of cooked meat, offering the handle to Gorseval.

Amused, Gorseval accepted the blade. The wooden banquet table vanished and Gorseval and Lydia found themselves standing on opposite sides of a large, three-dimensional representation of the space around Harkonnen IV. Lydia was a master of terrestrial war, and it showed in her two-dimensional mosaic. Now it was Gorseval's turn to show her something, and that required a Z-axis.

Harkonnen IV hung between them like the projection from a holo-map, translucent and softly flickering. Gorseval's mind placed the red dots of the incoming Ork fleet with swift strokes -- no beautiful carvings or marble figurines, but abstract markings. He was a starfleet commander, not an artisan. Lydia's own fleet was represented by white dots and Fu Xia's in navy blue. While his mind worked to finish the projection, Gorseval changed the angle of the view a few times, rotating Harkonnen IV this way and that, and moving the dots until it satisfied him. The Roks and kroozers were coming in like a stream from above, towards the Astartes fleets that covered Harkonnen IV like a shroud. With a wave of his left hand, Gorseval changed the positioning of Lydia's and Fu Xia's fleets to form a bowl instead, its edges curving away from Harkonnen IV and towards the incoming Ork fleet. With another wave from his right hand, Gorseval painted a purple streak through the air that ended just behind the influx of red dots. Little pixelated portals opened and purple dots streamed out, trapping the Ork fleet inside a tri-color trap.

Lydia watched the display with cool attentiveness, and nodded once, firmly. There was a distant sound, like the chiming of a bronze bell, soon followed by the low thrum of distant engines. Ghost-images appeared between the luminous icons of the Imperial ships, charting the vectors and progress of the new positions. There was a sense of rightness, correctness, and a flood of images: Some base substance being ground in a mortar and pestle; distant ships drawing nearer over an endless blue sea; the two of them drinking from the same wide goblet; a sword through the neck of a great, dead serpent. Anticipation, respect and satisfaction.

The war goddess smiled, gently, and was gone.

When Lydia left, Gorseval found himself alone with his thoughts. The balcony overlooking the sea faded away and the Dark Star was surrounded by the void that suffused his very being. Gorseval steeled himself and looked into the darkness, staring down the two bright points of eternal screamlight that always seemed to be there waiting for him. "Soon," he whispered, and forced his eyes open.

---

One week later
Early M31
640,500km above the surface of Harkonnen IV

The calculations and predictions of Gorseval and his Void Masters had been perfect. The fleet of the Void Stalkers exited the Warp right behind the advancing Ork procession -- and just in time, too. The relatively slow-moving Roks were mere hours from hurling themselves into the blockade of Imperial spaceships that now hung in front of Harkonnen IV like a large net. Hundreds upon hundreds of black battleships, cruisers and frigates flung themselves out of the monstrous Warp portals. Chief among them was the Eclipse, unparalleled in size, its Lance batteries already powering up for the first salvo.

Gorseval sent a short telepathic ping to Lydia to let her know that they'd arrived. At once he felt her response, like a blinding white radiance from the Furies' capital ship.

From the vantage point of his captain's chair, looking through the enormous void-windows, Gorseval could see the entire Ork fleet spread out before him. It stretched out seemingly forever, growing ever smaller into the distance. Forming the backdrop was the planet, still so far away that it was barely any bigger than a volleyball, and a whole host of small lights blinking in the darkness -- the Astartes ships he had come to support.

"No time to waste," Gorseval spoke into his vox-mic. "Cataclysm-pattern formation. Proceed to target-marking." Immediately, his display lit up with Void Masters and other captains designating which enemy ship (or Rok) they were going to open fire at. The biggest priority during a void ambush was to ensure that not a single shot was wasted. Efficiency was key.

Once every ship had marked their target, a process that didn't take more than thirty seconds, Gorseval spoke again. His voice was flat and emotionless, little more than a whisper, completely indifferent to the fact that he was consigning hundreds of thousands -- if not millions -- of Orks to their deaths. "Death." As one, the Void Masters repeated the hushed word over the vox-link. It was the closest thing to a battlecry that the Void Stalkers had.

The barrage was tremendous. Every single ship in the Legion's fleet lit up, unleashing a veritable hailstorm of tornadoes, blinding flashes of light and heat, pulsing salvos of plasma and a myriad other weaponries. The whole affair was certainly bright enough to be seen from the surface of Harkonnen IV with the naked eye. The Eclipse had its targeting-vectors trained on a particularly massive Ork Battlekroozer that was hastily trying to turn around. Too late, Gorseval thought. "Redirect all energy to the Lance batteries," he commanded. Until the Ork ships had turned around there was no return fire to protect themselves from, so why bother?

The forward-facing Lance batteries lining the broadsides of the Eclipse all opened fire simultaneously. The unbearably bright deathray blotted out Gorseval's view of the battle and he had to rely on his instruments and his powers to tell him how his other ships were faring. After ten seconds, the Lance batteries stopped abruptly. The Ork Battlekroozer had been rend open along the spine of the vessel and its mechanical guts were spilling out into the hard vacuum. By now, more of the Ork vessels had managed to face their sudden attackers and Gorseval had power redirected to the Eclipse's shields.

He watched in satisfaction as the Event Horizon spearheaded the charge a few hundred miles in front of him, ramming an Ork kroozer while simultaneously angling its broadsides towards a Rok -- a single salvo was enough to reduce the asteroid to a thousand thousand pieces of space rubble. Void Master Balthasith was once again proving his unparallelled bravado. The Phantom, utilizing its experimental cloaking field, suddenly appeared inside a formation of Ork ships and fired out in all directions, and the Void Maw took advantage of the situation by firing its devastating Nova cannon. Two of the Ork ships were disemboweled by the high-speed projectile and almost turned inside-out.

In order to stop the Orks from fleeing, Gorseval had the faster cruisers and escorts of the fleet advance down the length of the battle to link up with the edges of the 'bowl' that the fleet of the Kindly Ones and the Sons of the Storm formed, like an enormous double-sided Lotus-pattern formation that Fu Xia was so fond of. Caught between two centralized pits of firepower and kept in place by the agile cruisers, the Orks had nowhere left to run.

Gorseval sent another short telepathic message to Lydia, conveying a sense of satisfaction and pride. This was beautiful.

The battle for the Ullanor sector raged as strong now as it had for so many months. Astartes and mortals laid down their lives to further the cause of the Imperium, dying with a oaths of allegiance or cries of defiance on their lips. Fortresses were constructed, besieged and destroyed in the span of weeks. The greenskin numbers were uncountable, each xenos falling only to be replaced by a dozen others. In contrast, the massed ranks of mankind's forces seemed almost insignificant, so horribly outnumbered were they. They would be drowned in numbers, one might be lead to think, suffocated in a mass of orkish bodies. But at the forefront of the Imperial forces were warriors beyond compare, gods of battle and avatars of war; the Primarchs. Each one had a thousand undoable deeds to their name, innumerable foes dead at their hands and a legion of post-human warriors at their disposal.

Even so, the conflict raged with the ferocity of a forest fire and showed little sign of abating. The grand strategy employed by the Imperial forces was working, gradually splitting and separating the orks, but it was painfully slow going. The orks took time to move and there were always more to fill the gaps they left. Different legions funnelled the greenskins into killgrounds, ambushes and traps. Some took on their shipyards, others their ground forces. The IVth legion and its attendant Expeditionary Fleet had accepted the task of drawing the ork armada far from Ullanor Prime. The armada was a sea of orkish vessels, too many to count and far too many to fight. The armada's commander, under Urlakk Urg, was Big Boss Balgruck, a cunning ork of the Blood Axe clan who had heard of Sevrah's 'sneakiness' and wished to put it to the test.

For some weeks, the armada had chased the IVth legion across the sector, engaging them in small battles here and there but had been ultimately unable to pin them down to a conclusive conflict. Balgruck hoped that woudl change soon, believing his armada to be closing range as the IVth legion approached the volcanic world of Thereogis.

---

The Battleship First Fang slid through the void with a serenity that defied the unimaginable strain of the engines and suffering of the crew. On the command deck were a crowd of figures, some human, some Astartes and one who towered over every other. The gazes of almost every being on the deck were fixed on a visi-screen showing a wave of irregularly sized object pursuing them through the void. But the eyes of the being in the command-throne were fixed on the giant, glaring resentfully at the back of his bald head.

"You are upset, Fleet Commander Dowl."

The man in the command-throne stiffened and did his best to conceal his surprise. For a moment he wondered why he was trying not to show surprise when the Primarch wasn't even looking at him. But then he remembered that Sevrah had known that he was glaring without looking as well.

"No my lord, I simply feel that this course of action may not be the wisest."

There was a chuckle from one of the armoured giants in the room. First Captain Ipsa, currently helmless, flashed Dowl a pearly grin. "Has he ever lead you wrong before, Fleet Commander? Can you think of a single instance when his decisions have not been weighed to give us victory with as few casualties as possible?"

Dowl couldn't bring himself to answer because, in a way, the First Captain was right. The head of the IVth legion always made carefully considered decisions that would bring his legion victory with as little risk to his sons as possible, spending time and resources to make sure every battle was as favourable to his forces as possible. The problem was that the resources he often spent to protect his sons were the men, women and ships of the 42^nd Expeditionary Fleet. Sevrah would use them to slow down, manoeuvre or cut off opposition forces and while he didn't spend lives carelessly, his obsession with the preservation of life stopped short when it came to all those outside his own legion.

"I just want to make sure that this course of action will not endanger the fleet."

Another laugh, this time from Fourth Captain Castus. His intricate facial tattoos shifted distractingly as he talked, something he doubtless knew and relished. "As opposed to what? Running away? Or engaging our foes head on? I do not think either will end well for us."

Dowl fought to not grind his teeth. Again, the Astartes was right but only partially. At this point, the only sensible course of action was the follow the Primarch's plan through, for it was now too late to do anything else. But Dowl wished he had been given the chance to object before now, perhaps even be told the plan before it was time to execute it. Instead of pursuing such a fruitless line of conversation further, he snapped a question at one of the Deck-Servitors. Its monotone response came quickly.

"ALL VESSELS MOVING A 40% SPEED STOP. APPROACHING DESIGNATION ZONE THETA COMMA T-MINUS 2 MINUTES STOP"

Two minutes until they came within firing distance of the dead world of Thereogis. Yes, far too late to pull back from the plan now, he would simply have to bare it for now and hope his men forgave him in whatever life came after this one. With a flick of a finger, he opened a Vox channel to the Cruiser Spear Tip.

"This is Fleet Commander Dowl, report in."

For a brief heartbeat, there was only static and Dowl dared to hope that the ship's captain would not be able to receive the order he desperately did not want to give. Then a voice cut through the hissing feedback and Dowl's hopes in one. "This is Captain Morbius receiving you sir."

With a heavy heart, Dowl gave the order. "Execute order Spear Thrust as soon as the fleet exits zone Theta."

There was a very slight tremor in the other man's voice but Dowl could hear the steel too. "Yessir. It's been an honour to serve with you, sir."

"You too, Johanus" murmured Dowl, once again glaring at Sevrah. "You too..."

---

Far behind the ships of the 42^nd Expeditionary Fleet, a tide of Ork vessels hurtled through space with the reckless abandon characteristic of their race. Each ship was a different shape and bore a different cargo, some being asteroids with massive engines attached packed with missiles, others looted Imperial vessels stuffed with horribly beweaponed ork boyz. All were burning their fuel in a frenzy, trying to out do their companions to be the first to get into firing range of the distant enemy. Not that the orkish gun batteries weren't already vomiting ammunition into the void. If you give an ork a cannon, you can't expect him not to fire it just because there isn't anything to fire it at.

At the head of the unruly mass was a truly gargantuan ship made up of seemlingly a dozen different vessels crudely welded together with enlarged boosters bolted onto one end. In what passed for the command deck, a huge ork drummed his claws on a pulsing red button in front of him. He itched to press it but had heeded the warning of his mek, who said he should only press it when they came into range. It was common practise for ork ships to have all the overdrive and boosting capabilities linked to a single red button on the command deck so that when the boss decided they needed a burst of speed or simply got bored, he could hammer a fist down on it. But this boss, Big Boss Balgruck, was a singularly sneaky type and had resolved not press it until he was sure the resulting momentum would bring him into ramming range.

On the crackling feed of his visi-screen, Balgruck could see one ship peeling of from the group he and his armada were pursuing. The ship seemed to be turning to face them while the rest continued to flee. Was it making its stand by the burning planet? It mattered little because if his mek's kalkulashuns were right, he would be in big red button range in only a handful of moments! He snatched the skwak box from its cradle next to his chair and stabbed one finger onto the receiver.

"OI! Ladz! Get ready ta blast off! We're gunna give dat lone ship a good zoggin' kickin'!"

He was answered by a chorus of raucous yells and cheers, each ork promising that it would be his ship that would claim the kill. Balgruck tuned most of them out, staring intently at the distant shape of the Cruiser.

"Comin' ta get ya, 'umie, ready or not." he said, thumping the red button.

---

On the visi-screens, the shapes of the orkish armada all suddenly jerked forward at a terrifying speed. Many of the vessels started to fall apart from the force of it and some crashed into others but there were so many that such casualties barely mattered. The entire 42^nd Expeditionary Fleet apart from the Cruiser Spear Tip had put a considerable distance between themselves and the planet Thereogis, a desolate, unstable world of lava and fire. The Cruiser, meanwhile, had completed a full 180 degree turn to face the ork armada and the planet itself.

On the Spear Tip's command deck, Captain Morbius scowled at the oncoming tide of xenos. "Filthy greenskins" he muttered "Just come a little closer, you disgusting animals. A little closer..."

He need not worry for the orks had no intention of stopping their mad dash rush to be the first into the fray. The distance between his vessel and their's was rapidly closing. At that very moment, a servitor spoke up.

"VECTORS AND SPEEDS REACHED STOP. OPERATION DESIGNATION SPEAR THURST READY STOP."

"Execute that order." Morbius kept his voice calm and unshaken, knowing the Servitors wouldn't be able to understand his order if he screamed it defiantly.

"AFFIRMATIVE STOP."

As the ship beneath him began to move, Morbius stepped down from the command-throne and looked out of the observation bays. The orks were now close enough he could see the flares of their ridiculously oversized engines against the sable backdrop of space. With nothing else to do, he shook a fist at their oncoming forms.

"To hell with you xenos! For Terra!"

His words fell only of the unfeeling ears of the servitors.

---

Fleet Commander Dowl watched the his friend's Cruiser move ponderously towards Thereogis. It picked up speed quickly, not altering its course at all but simply aiming straight for the planet's surface and accelerating. Were he a weaker man, Dowl would've looked away to spare himself watch Morbius die but he watched on, determined to honour his sacrifice.

The orks ships were now only second away from Thereogis, some of them slowing down as their ships turbo-boosted fuel supplies ran out or their extra engines stalled. The lead ship seemed to be trying to come about and turn but the ships on all sides stopped it from escaping. At that, Dowl felt a flicker of grim satisfaction. If Morbius was to die, at least he would likely take the enemy commander with him.

It started gradually, the Spear Tip's void shields catching fire as the Cruiser burst through the planet's scant atmosphere, but gained power and energy rapidly as the vast ship thundered down towards the surface. Its impact might've seemed trivial from the viewpoint of an orbiting ship but all auspex equipment focussed on the area would've detected a sudden surge in the thermo-nuclear activity of an already unstable planet. An informed observer would likely attribute this to the huge quantity of fuel, explosives, crude Promethium and other flammable materials stowed away aboard the Cruiser, all of which were down being deposited below Thereogis's crust by the earth shattering collision of the Spear Tip.

Eruptions burst across the planet's surface, subterranean gas pockets and fossilised plant matter igniting one after the other in chain reaction of momentous scale. From the First Fang's command deck, the planet's hue went from roiling grey to being shot through with lines of orange before it stopped being a planet at all with one glorious, cataclysmic detonation. Thereogis ruptured and split into a thousand shards of burning rock and cooking earth, chunks of the erstwhile planet hurtling in every direction like the offshoot of a frag grenade. Albeit, this grenade was the size of a small planet but its positioning was near perfect; the orks had no chance to do anything but scream before the vanguard of the armada was torn into pieces by the newly formed asteroids.

The armada was too vast to be truly destroyed but the first dozen ranks were pulverised by either the explosion of the debris, including almost every ship with one of Balgruck's inner circle upon it. The rest of the ships were all desperately trying to escape being crushed by the vast wall of ship parts, planet wreckage and general fragments that was coming their way.

"There, Fleet Commander Dowl. The ork armada has been beheaded, their leaders killed, many of their ships crippled, we have an asteroid field to launch raids from and it only cost us a single Cruiser." Sevrah's voice was calm and collected but tinged with satisfaction.

"And one man."

"Yes. Captain Morbius. He sold his life more dearly than most of will ever have the chance to. Is that not the perfect end to a warrior? Bringing death to the foe? Slaying enemies so that one's friends might live?"

"I... As you say, Primarch Sevrah."

"I have no doubt you resent me in this moment Dowl but is this not simply an ordinary, if exceptionally successful, act of war? We exchange deaths for deaths, trying to make sure we kill more than we lose."

Dowl had no words to respond. How could he presume to lecture a Primarch, as son of the Emperor, on honour, on a warriors's code, on the difference between a tactical suicide and going out with a fight? Sevrah's eyes were boring into his and the Fleet Commander was sure that the Primarch already knew everything he might say. He wanted to respond, to say that every planey in the system would pay for this destruction, that the slowly expanding asteroid field would cause many problems in the future and that Sevrah's cold satisfaction made everything so much worse. But he couldn't, the words would not come.

"While you think on it, make the fleet ready to sally through our new asteroid field to engage the ork armada. We will draw them into the field at zone Omega and set up an ambush when they penetrate through to layer Omikron."

It was easier to stand in a hurricane than disobey that voice. "Yes my lord."

Ullanor Prime - Mek Boss Fortress

Maximus raises his weapons and shouts into the Vox “For the Imperium” while standing his ground against the massive looted Titan. The War Hound repaired with junk and scrap metal, armor plates crudely welded into place. In place of its right arm the Orks had managed to affix a monstrous axe with the husk of a tank hanging by chains from the rear. Its left arm holds a plasma cannon that seems largely undamaged but still has the hallmarks of Orky “Improvement.” A faint haze around the titan belied that the void shield generators where still functioning at some level, what the Orks had done to make them work is anyone’s guess.

Maximus fired his own plasma cannon at the titan which was greeted by the void shield rippling like water at the detonation and sending off a cascade of colorful sparks and arcs of electricity. Other knights and Astartes on the walls began to fire at the titan with largely the same effect, but its shields held. The titan took a step toward the advancing legion but it was shaky, one of its legs had been seriously damaged and the Orks had barely gotten it to work. Gear’ead Da Lootah began shouting, but Maximus was too far away to hear anything over the sound of warfare. In reply to the fire from the Paladins Eternal, the Ork titan raised its plasma cannon and pointed it at Maximus and his bodyguard. Lucius Otho and Junis Brutus of his honor guard see this and move to stand between Maximus and the plasma cannon, this would have been futile against such a devastating weapon but the Orky “Improvements” backfire. Several explosions detonate across the weapon with plasma fire bursting out from the barrel and holes created.

Magnus opens a vox channel, “My Caesar, tank squadrons are coming from all over the fortress to halt our advance, others have left through the outer gates and are coming to entrap us.” Maximus brings up a battle map on his HUD, confirming Magnus’ report. The knights becoming thin as the charge spread out into the interior of the fortress. Maximus opens a vox channel to his Cohort Generals, “Fall Ba-“

Marcus Furius screams “Charge!” into the vox, drowning out Maximus’ orders. He looks over and sees Marcus and ten knights of the Bloody Tenth charging into range of the Ork Titan. Their battle cannons beating uselessly against the void shield. The titan turns to meet their advance swinging its axe low and cleaving a knight in two in one motion, the knight’s ion shields doing nothing to slow the axe. Domitius Marsus, with knights from the 1st Cohort follow Marcus but keep plenty of distance. Maximus Shouts again into the vox "Fall Back! We can bring it down from afar!" but the knights fighting the titan do not disengage. Their weapons hammering against the void shield with blasts of plasma, streams from Meltas, and torrents of bolter fire. The assault breaks the first shield in a shower of random warp energy but the protection remains. Marcus and his knights try to hack through the shield with their mighty chainswords while weathering devastating fire from tanks and Ork Infantry.

A few knights are felled by the wicked axe of the titan and still more are brought down by the vehicular onslaught. The last void shield drops under the combined might of Maximus, his honor guard and Domitius. Their attention is diverted from the titan to the ever growing horde of tanks and assault vehicles leaving Marcus to duel the titan alone. He dodges the massive but slow swinging axe cutting at the titan damaging its legs or body but having little effect. Gear’Ead screams at the defiant knight while swinging the axe, poised to take off the knight’s head. Marcus ducks under the swing just low enough not to be beheaded but the axe still claiming his war banner. He steps in and behind, jamming his chain sword into the titans back, right into to void shield generators causing them to overload with a satisfying blast. The titan stumbles, Marcus cheers as though he had won but the titan lashes out with a kick knocking Marcus to the ground. On his back Marcus helplessly fires his battle cannon while it rears its axe to finish him off. One of the shots from the battle cannon strikes the Mek Boss standing on the titans head, leaving little more than a greasy scorch mark on the titan’s armor.

With the Mek boss dead the machine grinds to a halt once again becoming a useless hulk on the battlefield. The sight of the titan ceasing to move terrifies many of the orks, some of whom flee the battle in any way they can, some even through the imperial lines. Most of the orks however stand their ground and fight, drawing the battle into a long and slow extermination but after several hours the Paladins Eternal claim the fortress and raise imperial banners displaying their victory.

Ullanor Prime – 2 hours after victory – Command station
Inside the ring of Rhino transports the Cohort leaders and Imperial army general celebrate their victory with wine and chanting of Marcus, the Titan Slayer. The group seems not to notice the absence of Maximus in their revelries. He stands with a small group of apothecaries and an imperial army captain away from the others. “2nd Cohort, how did yours fair?” asks Maximus. “Two knights slain, and 153 marines lay slain my Caesar.” Maximus nods noting the figures in a small book and continuing, “The Tenth?” at the question the apothecary becomes visibly uncomfortable “18 Knights slain and 420 marines lay slain my Caesar” Maximus stops writing, heavy marine casualties where expected but the knights rarely receive so many casualties. “How many from the titan?” asks Maximus his voice quiet but hard as stone. The apothecary stares down at his boots, while he answers “10, my Lord”
Maximus straightens himself from writing and stands over the table furious at the numbers, he looks up at the Imperial Army captain. A small woman that couldn’t have been younger than 20 but a hardened veteran none the less, and asks her what news she had. “800 soldiers killed, 5500 rescued from the slave pens. Some of them are crippled and will probably never hold a weapon again” Maximus nods and waves the group away, he had to have a word with his captain.

Maximus marches expressionless into the cheering generals straight towards Marcus Furius. He reaches out and grasps the general by the throat lifting him to eye level. “Marcus Furius, I gave the order to fall back!” Maximus shouts, immediately silencing the other generals who look nervously at what is happening.
Marcus struggles for air as Maximus says to him, “you threw your men away needlessly, you disobeyed my orders, and what do you have to say for yourself!”
Marcus chokes out a few words, “I killed the Ti-“ but Maximus tightens his grip silencing him.
“At what cost! 10 Knights are dead because of your recklessness!”[/b] he throws Marcus to the ground and turns on Domitius who had followed Marcus into the fight with the titan but does not address him specifically. “We do not fight as solitary heroes, we fight as one. For alone we fail.” Maximus turns back to Marcus as he pulls himself from the ground. “Do not disappoint me again Marcus.”

Maximus turns and leaves the group again to find the command Vox, perhaps he should find out what is going on in the rest of the system.

“Hold boys! Don’t let the green bastards take another inch!” Erron roared over the cacophony of combat. Sometime during the melee he had lost his winged helm, his black hair unbound and streaming around his grimacing face as he fought. The circle of the 9th had bent and bowed under the weight of the Greenskin tide pressing at them on all sides, forcing the circle to turn into a disfigured shape. Out of the corners of his green eyes Erron could see the forces of Ragath, Ballor, and Roek trying desperately to reach the beleaguered Marines, Ragath’s twin axes hacking down Orks as he bellowed with primal rage, while Roek’s claws sizzled and popped with fresh blood.

In the sky, formations of Jetbikes and Speeders arched and turned, bringing their formidable firepower to bear again and again on the seemingly endless brutish hordes. Heavy bolters rattled, spitting explosive shells into the bodies of the Orks, and the heat of Volkite beams lancing through the formation made the air ripple and crack. Ork shapes burst into flame and ash, seared by the arcane technology, their primitive armor doing little to stop the onslaught of heavy weaponry. Off to one side, alone, stood the “Ancient” himself, his Dreadnought body riddled with indentations from bullets and Ork blood. One arm bearing a powerfully large blade, the length nearly half as long as the entire Dreadnoughts body, carved vicious slices through dozens of Orks at a time. The other hand shaped like an immense claw gutted the Orks that dashed around his massive feet, struggling to escape the wrath of the Wild Blades Dreadnought.

Even with all the might of his entire Legion brought to bear, Erron could see that his lines were starting to break. Despite the efforts of his Thanes, the Greenskins were too concentrated, too dense to simply breach by sheer ferocity and strength of arms.

Erron heard a roar, turning, his eyes flicking to an Ork Nob holding a massive Choppa over his head in a two handed grip. The Nob leapt into the air, slicing downward with its massive blade, looking to split the Primarch from head to toe. Erron gave the airborne beast a snarl, and ran forward, dropping to his knees in a slide spewing dirt and rocks in front of him. He leaned back, his black hair tracing the ground and he brought both Sisters up in an arcing slash above his torso, slicing deep through the Orks midsection. The two halves of the Nob crashed behind him, carried forward by its momentum. Erron jumped to his feet, spinning his knife around to drive into spine of another, his sword coming across and slicing its throat with such force that the body spiraled away from him in a haphazard corkscrew. He turned again, only to be jarred sideways by a round striking his shoulder plate. Off balance, he staggered to one side, then another as an Ork took advantage of his confused state to slam a Choppa into his side.

Erron let loose a feral cry, grabbing the foolish Ork by the head, slamming his forehead into the Orks pig shaped nose and felt the flesh pulp against his skull. The Ork went limp, its face caved in under the strength of the Primarch. Before it could drop Erron grabbed the body, holding it up against his chest and turning the Orks crude pistol backward, squeezing the Greenskins fist so that it fired a deadly burst into the chest of one of its fellows.

“Death Rides on Swift Wings!” He screamed, the barking cries of his Legion answering the call. He felt a swell of pride for his sons. Here, on the corpse stricken fields of Ullanor Prime and surrounded on all sides, they still roared their defiance in the face of death.

The churning of an engine made Erron turn, his battle lust making him ever more hungry for fresh prey. The sound grew louder, and Erron crouched, anticipating some Orkish machine to come crashing through the ranks towards him. A stuttering staccato of bolter fire raked out, splattering Orks as a single Outrider bike came into view, its thick tires smeared with blood as the figure on top lashed out sideways with twin swords. The bike struck a huge Nob, pulverizing the beast’s chest but halting the bikes suicidal charge, causing the vehicle to tip upwards on its fore-end. The Marine on the back jumped, using the bikes momentum to catapult himself forward, swords held high as he landed on the back of an Ork just to the Primarchs flank, crushing its skull beneath his armored knee.

Erron grinned, recognizing the lupine-esque helmet of his 6th Thane, Captain Lovar Kine. “Damn foolish of you to find your way in here!” He shouted, pulling his knife out from under and Orks jaw and kicking the body aside. “You looked like you could use the assistance Chief,” came the vox-muffled reply, but even beneath the helmet Erron could hear the mirth in his Thanes voice. “Any more of your boys find a way through?” Erron asked, a slight reprieve gained from the battle as his bodyguards formed around them, holding back the snarling Ork forces with powerful two handed cleaves of their swords. Lovar shook his head. “It was a miracle I made it through, the dirty bastards are everywhere. You certainly picked a good spot for a stand.” Erron nodded, surveying the battle again. “Aye, but imagine the stories the Seers will have once we finish removing this stain from the land?” He said as he gave his Thane a wide grin, and then they both turned and charged back into the fray together, blades held high.

---

Within the artillery blasted trees on the outskirts of the battle, Void Master Gabriel watched. His men were doing their best to drop Orks from their positions, taking shots at unsuspecting Greenskins and targeting any Nob that looked like he was barking orders. Even still, he could tell that his efforts were not going to be enough. Erron Khaal had tasked him with protecting the formations of bikes that strafed the flanks, and he had done so. Still, some of the last words the Primarch had said to him rang in his thoughts. Your actions will save a lot of Wild Blade lives… From his position Gabriel could clearly see that the battle was not going in the Xth Legions favor. Their lines were breaking, and soon the 9th Company that held the center would be overrun and trampled under Ork boots. Erron himself held that center, and through the lenses in his helmet Gabriel could see the Primarch hacking wildly at the hunched shapes of Orkish brutes. Gabriel chewed his cheek inside the helmet. He had to do something. He couldn’t just stand here and watch fellow Astartes get slaughtered. Especially not when Erron himself had placed such trust in him and his Chapter. What would Asmodal do? he asked himself, and the answer was obvious. He knew what he had to do, though he did not relish the thought.

“Sixth Chapter,” he called calmly over vox, the calls from his Stalker-Masters affirming his hail. “All Legionnaires, prepare for close combat. We charge to relieve the Wild Blades on my order.” There was a pause. His Stalker-Masters had undoubtedly heard the command, and Gabriel knew they disagreed. This was not the Void Stalker way. They did not charge headfirst into carnage. They met the shadows of death with shadows of their own that were even more terrifying. “Sixth Chapter. I gave an order,” Gabriel said, annoyed by the silence that followed his order, inflecting his words with his Will. He would be obeyed without question. “Roger sir, all squads are ready on your order.”

Gabriel hefted his Singing Spear, taking a deep breath through his helmet. He did not feel fear; no Void Stalker would ever let themselves succumb to that vile emotion. No, it was simply the weight of what he was about to do. He would not, could not, fail.

“Death,” he whispered.

---

From his position in the center, Erron did not immediately see the sally of the Void Stalkers. The violet clad Marines gave no war cry, no signal to their attack. But they came on, like silent ghosts out of the trees, chainswords whirring to life and bolters flashing, dodging the passing bike formations as they ran to meet the flanks of the Greenskin horde. Void Master Gabriel himself led one of the formations, his spear held above his head in a reverse grip, throwing the weapon and lancing an Ork through the chest. Gabriel simply held out his hand, and the spear twisted, gutting the Ork open and flying back along its trajectory to his open palm. With his other hand he let out a powerful psykic blast, an invisible wave of force rolling in front of his men, bowling over Orks and knocking them prone. His forces fell upon the fallen Greenskins with quiet efficiency, blasting their heads apart with bolt rounds or ending their lives with quick thrusts from close combat weapons. The Orks, surprised by this new threat, gave a brief pause in their aggression as they assessed the new battlefield conditions with their primitive brains. Erron did not give them the chance they needed.

Punching one Ork in the throat with an armored fist, the Primarch left the choking and gurgling xenos die slowly as he raised his arms above his head. “Now Wild Blades! Let these Greenskins taste your steel! Kill them all!” He roared, his eyes alight in savage fury, Lovar barking an order over vox as well. All around them the Wild Blades on their bikes slid to a stop, scattering clods of dirt and dismounting. The 6 mounted Companies all converged on the Orks, following Gabriels example and mounting one last counter charge. The blades of tens of thousands of Astartes warriors answered their Primarchs call, letting the Greenskin brutes taste steel tempered with the memories of the fallen. As Erron Khaal crashed the pommel of his sword onto the skull of an Ork, he felt another jump onto his back and his knees bend at the weight of the creature. Reaching back, he heaved the beast off him, raising his foot and crushing the Orks face under his heel.

This was their stand. Here the Wild Blades and 6th Chapter of Void Stalkers had devoted everything they had to give the Armatus the time they needed to kill the Warboss. Erron had to hope that their victory would be soon.

The Eldar Craftworld of Ibrayesil was adrift in the void, but today it did not drift peacefully. The fleet of none other than the Bloody Host had assaulted the craftworld a mere fourty eight hours ago. The ferocity of the space marine fleet was unparalelled, and it was now that the powerful field protecting the craftworld fell. Tens of thousands of ships descended on the craftworld them, from strike cruisers to stormbirds they converged on their crippled prey, and disgorged their deadly payloads.

The Bloody Host descended as part of their own part of the assault. Dreadclaws fell in their fury, the shield spires damaged or destroyed by the attack of the fleet allowing the heavy pods to descend. In one Dreadclaw, the massive transports able to hold several squads, sat a lone marine no brothers by his side and a single weapon in his hands. A large, smoothe and elegantly curving the blade did not glow or ripple as power or force swords did. Instead it almost seemd as if it occupied an area of nothingness, the purple blade seeming to displace all around it. The Astartes himself was just as strange, his helmet was off and his face was covered in strange tattoos of vines covered in deep crimson thorns. His armor was covered in similar vines all silver with black thorns. As the Dreadclaw shook and descended he silently placed on his helmet, and offered a whispered prayer.

It was then the massive Dreadclaws smatched into the midst of the Guardians, Dire avengers and Banshees massing in defense of their home, those not crushed to death stunned as the massive carriers collided with the ground. The first Dreadclaw to open was next to a Banshee exarch, one of her sisters had been smashed by the dropping boarding ramp. She screeched as the Banshees were want to do, turning to the figure now exiting the craft... and recoiled. This... beast that walked down the ramp, hefting a truly terrible blade, it hurt her mind just looking at it. Before she could try to fight it, and break herself from her fear, the blade cleaved her head from her shoulders. Her mind and soul screamed as the blade seemed to slice her very essence. Temelius wieilded the blade the way a boxer would his fists, it was him, attached and as much a part of him as his arm and hand. Exquesor Terminators were expunged from the other dreadclaws, pouring fire into their enemies as Temelius spoke through his vox, "We are Death! The Destroyer of Worlds!", as he lay about the stunned Eldar with Baleful Null blade.

An Eldar farseer stood nearbye, her anger growing as she watched these brutal mon-keigh cut their way through her kin. With her stood the Wraithguard, and she ordered them forth in her spectral voice, "Go oh ancestors of this world! Go and defend your home from these brutish invaders!", she and her guard surged forth, their Wraithcannons firing into the ranks of terminators, tearing many apart in gory fashion. An Exquesor sergeant smashed his way through two of the guards, attempting to rush the farseer leading them. With a word lightning flew from the Psykers fingers, smashing into the Terminator, his armor scorching and buckling from the onslaught before he fell back, lifeless. BEfore the Farseer could gloat another Mon-Keigh vaulted over the corpse of his fallen brother, this one strangely in ordinary power armour and wielding a massive curved blade.

He felt... wrong. No matter, again she summoned up her lightning and flung it at the rushing Astartes.. and it did nothing. The bolts seemed to fizzle around him as he sprinted to the witch, his armored servos whining under the thunderous weight of his steps. The Farseer attempted to marshal herself but did not have the time, as Temelius bisected her with his null blade, the psyker's death scream rattling through the ship.

Temelius observed the field before him. The landing zone had been secured, and hundreds of stormbirds began to land alongside the Dreadclaws which were beginning to stand and join their Astartes owners in the combat. Stormbirds in the Hosts regalia began disgorging there Astartes occupants. At their head strode a twelve foot monolithic man, his armor ostentatious with a black crown of thorns atop his helmet. Mon-Kal strode forth from his Stormbird, looking first to the many bodies of the Eldar mixed with his sons, and nodded proudly. "My sons, today we give the Eldar their due!", he declared, the Bloody Host taking up his warcry as they began to surge forth from or fortify their positions. Mon-Kal made his way towards the force commander on the ground, Temelius first. He stood before hus estranged son and addressed him as Temelius kneeled before the Thorn King, "Temelius, you have done well this day. But, yet another challenge awaits you.", Temelius looked up to his father, his voice filled with enthusiasm as he responded, "Say it and it will be done father! No matter the odds!", Mon-Kal nodded proudly to the blank before continuing, "There, lies the seers tower.", he pointed a massive finger to the tallest tower on the craftworld, it shimmered with a strange light and was untouched by the fleets barrage.

"That is the seers tower. We seek knowledge the Eldar hide from us their, and their most powerful withces reside within that tower. Take the Exquesor who accompanied you, and storm the tower. Bring me any knowledge you are able to recover my son.", Temelius nodded curtly, "It will be done father.", before marching off to the Exquesor Terminators. Mon-Kal smiled, today was a good day, and he could not wait to bloody his sceptre and claw.

The Lady's anger burned low and hot, like coals under clay, heating the hearts of those aboard her flagship, enflaming them with vigor even as they shrank back from her ire. She had thrust herself from her command couch, pacing furiously through the vaulted corridors of her flagship, demanding that her arms be brought forth, and the decanting chamber now hummed with song as its mistress was girded for war.

A white skirt of chamois leather was bound around her waist, pure and pristine. Her breastplate was fitted, glittering with fables of old conquests and mythical beasts, gleaming white gloves and serpent-bound bracers encasing her arms. Sacred attendants stood atop marbled platforms to anoint her braided hair with noonseed oil, and at last her high-crested helm was lowered, covering her face; her hard eyes masked by aquamarine lamps, her anger by a gentle, golden smile.

She flexed her gauntleted hands, gripping her banner-wrapped spear and hefting the enormous Aegis, expressing readiness. A bronze bell was sounded, and the vessel's doors heaved shut with a machined sigh and a metallic thump. A score of robed technicians knelt, bowing their heads to the deck, and the Lady's ark descended.

---

++ Harkonnen IV, Heavy Foundry Alpha Primus, occupied territory of Ork warlord Rokk KillKrazy, five days earlier ++

*klnk*

*ZPHWARGLEPFFFFFF--*

The streets abruptly rang with a grating burst of static and an ear-splitting scream of electronic feedback, the volume of it drowning out even the fusillade of gunfire.

*sqkwreeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!*

*tump tump TUMP*

*IZ DIS FING ON?*

The Kindly Ones were advancing into an unceasing hail of Orkish bullets, the noise like an avalanche of hail against an iron rooftop. Slugs and shells sparked from the black/white armor of Rhino transports and the heavy shields of the Terminator phalanxes as the ranks of bolters returned fire, and for the fifteenth time in ten hours, the would-be Warboss of Harkonnen IV had something to say.

*'ELLO 'ARKONNIIIIIING!! BOSS ROKK 'ERE ONCE AGAIN WIV A SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!*

The streets and squares and spires of the grand refinery had all been perverted by the heathen mob, terminals and conveyors smeared with tribal paintings of leering red suns, smashed statuary converted into clan banners and heathen altars. The refinery's hundreds of vox towers, too, stood defaced by the warlord's creatures, bristling with spikes and braziers of burning dung, their loudspeakers now protruding from between the hinged metal teeth of the Orks' foul, skull-like totems, so that the jaws shook and yammered with the volume as every pipe, passage and roadway for miles echoed with the warlord's voice.

*FER ONE, IT LOOKS LIKE ME OLD MATE HABDAB NICKED 'IS LAST GUBBIN...*

The second column of rhinos crested the crossramp at speed and rammed the barricade, taking the shoota position focused on the primary force completely by surprise, pancaking ten of them against the opposite battlement. The heavy bolters roared like beasts as the advance turned and continued, spitting their explosive blessings, chewing flesh and metal into pieces.

*AN FER DA UVVA ONE, IF YOU LOT UP BY DA CROSSWAY WUZ JUST FINKING HOW BORING KRUMPIN' WORLDMELTA'S BOYZ OVA AN' OVA WAS...*

Half of the Ork mob was obliterated before they ever turned around. The second column pressed forward through the pall of black ash, merging with the first, cutting down scores of Orks still focused on their rivals.

*...DEN DIS IS DA LUCKIEST DAY OF YOUR LIFE!!*

---

++ Harkonnen IV, Heavy Foundry Alpha Primus, occupied territory of Ork warlord Rokk KillKrazy, four days earlier ++

Another stream of KillKrazy's psyko-bikers rounded the hard corners of the extrusion complex at full speed, many of them skidding sideways and tumbling to the floor or impacting catastrophically with the wall in blossoms of flame. Two were poleaxed off their mounts by the shafts of power spears, the unmanned vehicles throwing sparks as they flipped and bounced down the remainder of the roadway, marines crouching to minimize impact. Gunfire blazed amidst a shadowed jungle of hammering pistons. The advance had became a joust. It was ceaseless.

*BREAKIN' NEWS, YA GROTS! LOOKS LIKE WORLDMELTA'S HAVIN' HIS OWN SCRAP WIV SUMMA DESE KAN-WEARIN' HUMIES WE ALL BEEN WAITIN' FOR! SO FER ALLA YOUSE NOT DOWN DERE YET, DIS IS DA PERFECT TIME FER A SURPRIZE ATTACK!*

A trio of bikes landed on the rhinos and flew into the space marine column, balanced on their rear wheels, raking the ranks of the Furies with slug-fire and iron blades before crashing and exploding. Scrap-metal bridges and crude stunt ramps jutted from the roadways and tiered pipes above, explosive flashpots going up in noisy showers of sparks as swarms of crazed, cackling Orks on smoke-belching, red-painted cycles tore along them at uncontrollable speeds, launching themselves high over walls and between glowing streams of molten metal, unloading their weapons at full auto.

*...ALRIGHT, SO IT LOOKS LIKE WORLDMELTA THOUGHT DA SAME FING, AN' NOW WE'S SURPRIZE-ATTACKING HIS SURPRIZE ATTACK.*

Some were caught by bolter rounds from the scouts above or punctured by plasma fire from below. Others missed their mark entirely and plummeted wailing into the canals, or simply landed front-first, shattering their vehicles before skidding and tumbling to a fatal stop. Passengers hung from rear seats, handlebars or sidecars, axe-wielding maniacs who leapt from the speeding vehicles, hacking viciously at the marines' ranks before being broken.

*JUST ANUVVA BEAUTIFUL EVERLASTIN' NIGHTTIME 'ERE ON 'ARDKONNING FOUR, WHERE DA FIGHTIN' NEVVA STOPS! GAHAHAHA!*

---

++ Harkonnen IV, Heavy Foundry Alpha Primus, occupied territory of Ork warlord Rokk KillKrazy, three days earlier ++

*LOOKS LIKE DEM KAN HUMIES IS UP TA DA HALFWAY FLAG! AND DA HUMIE BOSS STILL HASN'T SHOWN UP FOR DA FIGHT! TALK ABOUT LAZY! AH WELL -- GIVE EM DERE PRIZE, BOYS!*

Five looted cargo haulers screeched in reverse through the narrow alleyways, chassis throwing sparks as they scraped against the facility walls. On signal, the hoppers began to tip, dumping their contents into the manufactorum floor. Squigs. Hundreds and hundreds of mindless, hopping fanged maws boiled across the facility toward the Imperial forces as Orks leapt heedlessly from supply elevators. The central ranks fell back as Flamers gouted from firing ports and scouts launched a barrage of grenades into the swarming sea of gaping teeth from above.

*DATS IT BOYS! STOMP EM FLAT AN' BRING ME DA BITZ FER ME TRUKK! A SHINY NEW BIONIK KLAW TA THE LAD WOT BRINGS ME DA MOST 'EADS!*

---

++ Harkonnen IV, Heavy Foundry Alpha Primus, occupied territory of Ork warlord Rokk KillKrazy, two days earlier ++

The foundry was now underlit by the hellish red glow of the magma canals, the heat streaming upward in a vaporous wall even from the fifty-foot deep man-made shafts. The voxcasters howled with a cacophony of breakneck drumbeats and metallic, electrically amplified string instruments.

*I'M DA BADDEST AN' DA MEANEST!*

The trenches and roadways of the foundry were filled beyond capacity with a seething ocean of massive green bodies, surging forward from every side in violent hunger. Scores were smashed aside in numbers or lifted into the air by the lethal blades of glowing spears, forced into the burning depths of the canals or ground noisily under the treads of the Rhinos. The dark steel of the foundry road was drenched in blood and ichor, the marines' advance made over the piled bodies of their enemies and the broken armor of their own noble dead.

*I'M DA HEAVIEST AN' DA METALLEST!*

Hugely armored Ork nobs leapt from the backs of spiked, defaced cargo trucks, shaking the ground where they landed, bellowing in challenge.

"COME ONN!!"

A hammer the length of a Terminator swung like a pendulum and pounded a squad sargeant ten meters through the air into the canals, her armor crumpled like tin. She was dead before she reached the bottom. Captain Euryale spat blinding rounds from her plasma pistol, the creature's armor melting on impact, running like mercury. She ducked the backswing of the hammer, which clanged into the side of one of the transports, forcing it momentarily off course.

*I'M GUNNA RIP YER SHINY HUMIE BOSS INTA SQUIG CHOPS AN' STIKK 'IS SKULL ON ME TRUKK!*

She lunged for the opening and her chainsword bit deep into the monster's side, spraying dark blood and sparks as the Ork howled.

"COME ONNNN!"

Euryale was taken by the throat and smashed into the steel plating of the manufactorum roadway like a rag doll, the surface denting deeper and deeper with each blow before the armored monster was forced to release her by a barrage of autocannon fire. Roaring, it closed in as gunfire whipped past on all sides, knocking aside Tisiphone's spearhand and locking her arm in its gigantic klaw, the weapon screeching as it struggled to tear through the dreadnought armor.

"ORLL TAKE ALL OF YER--"

The Terminator leveled the flamer directly into its eyes and pulled the trigger, incandescent fire spouting against the creature's jagged visor. It released her, bellowing in pain and anger and clawing at its face, the iron armor glowing red hot. Another two heavy flamers trained on the thing as it raged and flailed, still trying to swing its weapon through the prometheum torrent as it was riddled with more and more cannon fire. Another marine was broken before Tisiphone impaled it, shielding herself as one final glob of plasma vaporized the front of its skull. The giant fell, crashing thunderously to the metal walkway. Euryale whispered something inaudible and then lay silent and unmoving.

*I'M GUNNA FRAG DAT STUCK-UP GIT WORLDMELTA AN' KRUMP ALL HIS BOYZ,*

A looted trukk skidded sideways, the carriage bursting open to release another horde of Ork 'ard boyz, strapped with transport doors and defaced manufactorum signage, before a krak rocket spiralled into them, knocking one of them back into the vehicle and punching through its rusting gut. It careened out of control, dragging one of the Ork heavies with it, skidded over sideways and exploded into a geyser of flame, flattening the bulk of the horde and incinerating a dozen more. The tide was not even slowed, Orks swarming around or clambering over the top of the blackened, flaming husk, a row of the beasts even standing atop it, roaring and emptying their weapons at the advancing phalanx, too crazed with battle-lust to care.

*AN' DEN I'M GUNNA STIKK DA BIGGEST ROKKIT YOU EVER SEEN ON DA BACK OF DIS PLANET AN' BLAST IT RIGHT UP URLAKK'S FAT skreeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE--*

---

++ Harkonnen IV, Heavy Foundry Alpha Primus, occupied territory of Ork warlord Rokk KillKrazy, today ++

The Void Stalkers had come, and death had flown with them.

Fragments of broken Rok ships rained down like apocalyptic fire, shattering into blazing chunks against the towering machine-spires or exploding in the atmosphere above the battlefield in a flaming shower of embers. The night sky flickered and flashed with luminous streaks of lance fire and shooting-star waves of ork flak. The steel roads and walkways were choked with mangled bodies and burning wrecks, the constant stream of bikers bogged down by pile-ups as one after another had streaked into a flaming chassis at speeds too extreme to stop. The assault was at its climax, the Ork's battlelust cresting like a tidal wave, the Furies' hatred hotter than the red blood of Harkonnen itself.

Morale on both sides was at a fever pitch, but the advance had now slowed to a crawl in the face of the thickest opposition. Gunfire raked every inch of the primary loading bridge, and the compound stood behind a significant blast gate, bathed in industrial floodlights and the hot underglow of molten metal. The Warlord himself stood atop a patchwork metal dais, drumbeats pounding from below him, flashpots going off left and right.

*COME ON DEN! 'AVE A GO, IF YA FINK YER 'ARD!*

He was huge, huger than any Ork should be. There was no flesh visible anywhere on his body. Everything had been replaced by cybork machinery or covered by armor plating. His eyes were burning red points glowing in a jagged mess of wires and painted steel, the huge iron maw so popular amongst ranking Orks no mere decoration but bolted as a vicious prosthetic to the creature's metal skull, wired up with a number of oversized microphones. A mass of black cables jutted and swung from the back of the warlord's head, serving as a replacement topknot. A singed, spiked leather jacket hung over his enormous shoulders, a full-sized Deff Dread killsaw arm bulging from one torn shoulder. His unnatural voice continued to shriek from every voxcaster in the foundry.

*I DON'T NEED DEM EXTRA BOYZ! I'M BIG ROKK KILLKRAZY! DIS IS MY PLACE! MY TRAKK! MY FAKTERY! I BEEN WAITIN' YEARS FER DIS!*

Far behind him, murky in the distance and set atop some great industrial pit, gaped a huge Orkish totem, built so that it was gaping up at the sky, wisps of vapor streaming from between its opened jaws. Sweltering orange light glowed from beneath, setting its shadow against the overhangs and pipelines. The hideous Orkish music continued to blare as the Warlord jeered.

*I WANNA SEE YER BOSS DOWN 'ERE! I'M GUNNA SHOW YER WHO'S THE TUFFEST AND DA LOUDEST! I'M GUNNA PAINT ME BEST GITTER WIV DA BLOOD AN PATCH ME JACKET WIV DA SKIN! DIS IS GUNNA BE A NITE TA REMEMBA!*

Captain Stheno braced against the rear of a shattered transport, sheltering from a storm of flashfire while venting an overheated plasma cannon.

"Lady spare us from the incessant ravings of this savage." She spat, hoarsely.

*AND JUST TA SPICE FINGS UP: ME BOYZ ARE GUNNA START FEEDIN' ONE SLAVE INTO THE MOUF OF GORK FER EVERY TICK OF DIS TIMEY FING THAT YOU AINT DEAD!*

"What is that?" The Captain turned, addressing the technician fervently stabilizing the rhino's engine, "A weapon?"

The technician consulted her instruments, quickly. "Logged vox chatter suggests some sort of heathen idol. Crossreferencing location data."

The marines were lit in glowing blue and green by the pict-display, brightening into yellow-white as a stream of rockets broke and erupted with a crash across the loading bridge beside them.

"Sir..." the technician's helm twisted between the gigantic idol and the Captain. "...It's talking about the barium furnace."

Something small fell from a yellow-lit ledge between the vast, jagged jaws. A muted scream sounded throughout the refinery, choked off as by a thick, bubbling hiss.

*NEXT!*

"It's still operating. Final communications suggest the warlord has its minions and prisoners battle on its walkway for sport--"

Another tiny figure plummeted between the blackened jaws of the idol. Another scream abruptly ended. Polyhymna's vox interrupted forcefully, carried with the voice of her mind.

"All companies, accelerated timetable. Consolidate to Marathon formation and obey the Lady's will. Do not give this creature one ounce of satisfaction."

Gunfire and cannon rounds smashed into the battlefield on all sides and the dark tide spilled onward as one life after another was lost amidst the hissing of the crucible and the mad screech of the warlord's laughter.

---

++ Harkonnen IV, Heavy Foundry Alpha Primus, headquarters of Ork warlord Rokk KillKrazy: Now ++

The ark of victory slammed into the floor of the roadway, a meter-high shockwave of black ash rippling out from the impact in a perfect circle, thunder rolling across the manufactorum. White-and-black as the others of its kind, but greater, decorated with golden scrollwork and black-figure battle-scenes, the motto of the legion inscribed on carved gilded parchment framing its peak. The painted walls thumped down with a hydraulic sigh, and the pod's sole occupant stepped forth from its shadow, her crested helm towering over even her own ranks.

An unseen radiance seemed to flood out from her like an astropathic beacon, like solar fire. It was as though the sun had crested some dark hill and now blazed white across the sky, bathing the battleground in pitiless, radiant light. For a moment, all of the shadows of the world were conquered, and for the barest second even the Orks flinched and shrank back, hesitating in the face of something they could feel but never understand. The second Chief Librarian rallied, lifting her staff.

"The Lady!" she cried, "THE LADY IS WITH US!"

A thousand voices roared metallically from a thousand helm-mounted vox speakers, a sea of weapons raised to the roiling sky.

"RESUME THE ADVANCE! RAIN FIRE UPON THE FOE!" she sang, exulted, "THIS DAY IS ALREADY OURS!"

Arete pointed the way forward, its tip bursting into writhing blue flame as the marines charged, firing and flowing into new formations with geometric grace. It was as though crowns of fire danced above their heads. There were no missed shots, no glancing strikes. For every one of them that fell wounded, a hundred barbarians were slain in recompense. The compound drew nearer, the charge never faltering, columns parting and spreading wide, only the Lady and her honor guard, the twins and two of their chosen holding the center.

*FINALLY!* The distant shape of the warlord spread its mechanical arms wide, *ISS ABOUT TIME YOU SHOWED UP, YA FANCY TART! ...WHASSAT? NUFFING TA SAY? SQUIG GOTCHA TONGUE??*

A score of Ork psyko-bikers ramped down from the labyrinthine pipelines above, rattling automatic gunfire, only to break against an invisible wall, rebounding ten meters back the way they had come save their leader, who with an olympian reflex was impaled on the end of the force spear, held triumphantly aloft like a gruesome pennant before being flicked contemptuously away.

*WAIT -- YER BOSS IS A WEIRDY?* the voxcasters screeched with laughter, *DATS DA MOST EMBARRASSING FING I EVVA--*

Lydia cast up her hand, and Arete remained suspended in the air, her skirts fluttering as a shockwave of force built and then burst, slamming outward with a storm's fury, parting the ork tide in waves and sweeping scores of them into the burning canals, their screams echoing from the shafts like an inhuman choir.

*...SCREAMIN' MORK! DROP DA WALL, BOYS! ISS SHOWTIME!*

Emergency lights began flaring, alarms wailing as the titanic blastwall shuddered, lowering inch by inch, struts and girders shaking as it receded into the roadway. Grot-manned spotlights clacked on, beams flooding down and angling wildly across the spectacle.

In the distance ahead, the warlord's platform was revealed -- not a podium but an enormous, patchwork vehicle; a towering red monstrosity, part crane, part fortress, welded with mismatching armored plates a foot thick, patterned with rattling chains and bristling with cannons. A huge metal roller crusted with vicious, rust-stained spikes jutted from the frontal grille, itself almost the height of a man. A cannon turret whirred and rotated, angling slowly down toward its targets. Uncountable tonnes of looted construction equipment converted into an enormous, overbearing war machine.

The engines gunned, angrily, shaking the manufactorum as rows of enormous exhaust pipes sputtered with greasy flame. The ground quivered as the behemoth catapulted forward, faster than anything of that size should possibly move, hurtling across the battlefield toward the firing space marines with heavy, lethal momentum.

In unison, Lydia broke into a sprint, feet pounding against the metal roadway past ricocheting bullets, kicking up a stream of ash as she flew out to meet it. The machine bore down on her in seconds, guns ablaze, looming over her like a falling cliff. The electronic screech of the Warboss rang out over the roar of the titanic engines, the pounding clamor of the roller.

*HOW D'YA LIKE ME NOW, HUMIE?*

Magaera fell to a crouch, bracing her legendary shield and drawing on all of her will, trailing ash as she skidded.

*HOW D'YA LIKE M--*

There was an ear-splitting thunderclap of collision. The battlewagon crumpled, went vertical and launched into the air, sailing slowly and heavily over the ranks of the Furies, blotting out the floodlight and blanketing the foundry road in its impossible, vertiginous shadow. It flipped ponderously, end over end, once... twice...

The hulk landed on its roof with a deafening, bone-shattering burst, a noise so dense, so unbearably loud that it seemed not a sound but a physical wall of force. It bounced once, shaking the very air, the impact and aftershock sending even the armored Terminators staggering to their knees. The metal roadway buckled, the underside of the ork machine crumpling like paper, huge machined parts and jagged pieces of welded metal flying upward like a fountain of shrapnel and coming down like jingling rain. The giant crane slowly bent with a hellish creak and groan of tortured metal, and fell with a thunderous crash into the canals. The jagged cylinder, torn loose by the impact, clanging down somewhere behind them like the tolling of an apocalyptic bell. Torn bolts, Ork weapons and ragged shards of hot metal continued to fall heavily to the ground.

There was a moment of stillness. Every assault had ceased. Every gun had fallen silent. The Lady stood, looking back, a hot breeze blowing at her chamois battledress, uncoiling the colored pennants of her spear.

*HrrrrrnnnnNN--*

There was a screeching of tortured metal; an impacted hatch on the side of the battlewagon bulged outward, groaning, before bursting off its hinges with a clattering clang, the Ork warlord falling backward, sparking and smoking as he tumbled heavily onto the dented road, throwing the broken carcass of one of his underlings aside like spent refuse.

*I... AIN'T... *whrreeze* ...DONE.*

The colossal Ork forced himself up on mechanical limbs, lamplight eyes blazing in its iron skull. He heaved a huge chainaxe from the wreck with his good hand, noisily spinning up the killsaw of the other. He started forward, glaring at Lydia murderously.

*I AIN'T DONE--*

Tisiphone's spear punctured the enormous limb of the killsaw from the side as the Warboss lumbered forward, wrenching him heavily back down to the floor, her armored boot pinning the machined forearm. Lydia watched, silent, impassive. Her white-armored hand lifted the crested helm, and the carved, golden smile gave way to a cool olive mask of contempt. The Lady of Victory turned, skirt swirling beneath a canopy of burning rain, and walked away without so much as a gesture; her legions falling into step and marching by without a sideward glance. Their heavy greaves pounded in unison as they filed past the wreckage, streaming unstoppably into the red twilight.

*WHERE DO YOU FINK YOU'RE GOIN? WE'RE SUPPOSED TA FIGHT! SAY SUMFING! SAY SUMFING!!*

Another spear punched through the mechanism of his other arm as he struggled to rise. Several more Terminators drew closer as the legion marched by, slowly surrounding the stricken warlord, the weight of their armored greaves against the metal platform tolling like a sepulchral gong.

*YOU FINK YER 'ARD? I'LL CRUSH YAS ALL! FIGHT ME! FIGHT MEAAAAAAGGGGH!!*

KillKrazy screeched into his microphones as a third spear lifted and slammed through his armored chest, penetrating metal and wires and slicing through living green flesh, holding him like a beetle on a pin. Servos and gears whined and muscles bulged as he strained with all his swollen, unnatural strength to stand up. Alecto's superheavy boot thumped down onto his gigantic, rebar-armored leg, slowly twisting the metal under its weight.

*WHAT'RE YOU DOIN'?* The Ork's electric voice was tinged with panic, howling after Lydia. *WHADDIS DIS? GET BACK HERE! WHADDABOUT MY FIGHT? DATS THE WHOLE POINT!* He roared, thrashing, *I WANT MY FIGHT!!*

The lumbering shapes of the Terminators loomed over him, aquamarine eyes blazing amidst the huge, dark silhouettes.

"+ The beast overestimates its importance, sister. +" boomed one.

"+ This was never a war, monster. +" declaimed another.

"+ This is an extermination. +"

The spears came down.

The blades flashed, stabbing again and again and again, tearing through wires and painted steel to the last vestiges of living flesh within, gashing and flaying and dismembering in a horrific orgy of violence. Sparks flew, green-black ichor gouted, the joyous shrieks of the Furies warped into an unearthly drone by their heavy Terminator's voxcasters. Everywhere the manufactorum's address system shook as the warlord's bellowing rage was replaced by a maddened, animal screaming so tortured, so unbearable, that even the creature's human slaves cowered and wept, covering their ears and shielding their eyes from the work of their saviors.

It took a long time for him to die.

It took a very, very long time.

---

*Praise and glory to the Emperor of Mankind!*

Polyhymna's clarion voice rang in triumph across every voxspeaker and every channel of the planet's communications, reverberating out across the system. The Librarian had earned another deep, long scar across her face, her skin dark with a dripping coating of blood, and in the exultation of victory she paid it not the smallest heed.

*The barbarian horde is broken, its machines toppled, its leaders cast down and slain! Even now on Ullanor Prime their brazen master suffers death at the hands of the Emperor's most favored -- The conquerer's prize has become his tomb--*

Silhouetted scouts paced attentively over heaped mountains of ork weaponry destined for the crucibles, the chaotic mounds looming taller than the legion's transports. Piled xenos bodies were thrown into hoppers and shovelled into the magma canals as streams of human prisoners were released from underground holding pens. KillKrazy's horde had been broken, fleeing or falling to infighting, easily mopped up by the 13th's reinforcements.

Lydia Magaera herself stood apart, looking out over her children from a raised viewing platform like a marble statue, her face impassive, her mind closed.

"My Lady," Stheno approached and knelt, bowing her head, her helm clutched under one arm. Half her face was a mass of burns, a cybernetic eye gleaming in place of her ruined one, and her voice rasped abrasively in her throat, "We have brought the head of the Ork creature that dared challenge you. It is unlike any of the beasts I have yet seen -- Entirely metal, save for the workings of the tongue and throat, and a hollow for the wretch's brain... such as it was."

The gigantic metal head of Rokk Killkrazy was dumped heavily to one side behind the Captain, its bionik eyes dark, its huge iron jaw wedged open with its last horrifying screams.

"Would you take it as a trophy, mistress?" asked Stheno, "Or shall we smelt the foul thing and be done with it?"

Lydia stared down at the cybork monstrosity, her expression cool and disdainful. And then she looked to one of the attending technicians and beckoned, the marine kneeling and handing her a data-slate. Magaera's fingertips danced purposefully across the surface of the device, the glowing images reflecting in her eyes; until at last she handed the slate to Stheno, wordlessly tapping a single location marked in amber. The Orrian’s Fury -- flagship of Erron Khaal, Primarch of the Wild Blades.

Stheno smiled for the first time that day, showing her teeth.

"It shall be conveyed to him with all speed, my Lady." she said, rising. "I am confident your brother will appreciate such a unique and carefully-chosen gift."

And for a moment, through her weariness and distance, the Lady smiled too.

---

The assault on the Shipyard had gone well, and the subsequent elimination of the straggling orks had been such a success that Farah had gathered her daughters to move to Ullanor Prime, leaving a detachment of the Imperial Army to watch over the planet, and make sure that the threat was completely eliminated. Farah stood aboard the Mellanippe her hands on her hips as she stared out a view port. Behind her stood all the officials waiting to see what her orders were going to be for Ullanor Prime. The Primarch turned her eyes scanning over those gathered. "Give me a tactical update."

A single Sister moved to the front of the group holding a dataslate. "We have reports of a large group of Orks moving in on Primarch Maximus' position. It's around twenty thousand strong." The startes held out the dataslate to her Primarch which was quickly taken and scanned over by the dataslate before setting it aside with a nod. "I want fifth company prepped, and ready to drop into combat immediately. We will cutt of the Greenskin movement, and crush them beneath our boots." Farah walked easily across the bridge towards the communications officer, and placed a great hand on her shoulder. "Patch me through to Maximus." Farah leaned down her mouth close to the Vox. "Brother Maximus, I hope this evening finds you well." The Primarch said as the communications officer gave her the nod they were connected.

In the command rhino several officers coordinate with the fleet, imperial army, and the legion. One officer notices Maximus enter and waves him over, "My lord, Primarch Farah has opened a vox channel" Maximus nods to his communications officer and pokes the vox link, "Ah, Dear sister. We have just finished a battle with the Mek Boss, Gear'Ead. How goes the war on your front?" Says Maximus his voice carrying a hint of wearyness.

Tilting her head back for a moment she looks over to the slate once more, and turned back to the Vox. "The Shipyard was taken care of, all Greenskins were destroyed, we made such good time I thought I would come and see what was taking everyone so long over here." She laughed a little, before taking on a more serious tone. "But it seems you are about to get company. Twenty thousand some odd greenskins are marching your way. I am sending Fifth Company down in a assault to stop them, though if you want to get in on it I don't see why you couldn't dear brother."

Maximus sighs, more Orks, always more Orks. "I am always amazed at the Ork's tenacity. Twenty thousand would hardly slow my legion down, but the Blazing Sisters are always welcome at our side. We where about to move to reinforce our Brother Erron. He has gotten himself quite the battle at the primary stronghold." an officer coordinating with the Imperial Army turns his head, "My Caesar, Remnant scouts have sighted an Ork warband moving towards our position." Maximus laughs quietly, "Thank you" he says before switching back to Farah "Will you be accompanying the assault?"

There was a moment of silence, but finally Farah replied to Maximus. "Unfortunately I will not be going in with the Fifth Company, I believe they are more than capable of squashing the Ork threat." With a sigh she let the button go, before speaking up once more. "If you need to accompany Erron, then do so. The Blazing Sisters will crush all those that would seek to crawl up your back." A chuckle escaped her lips as she turned to a Lykinnia. "One moment dear friend. I am communicating with my Brother Maximus." Lykinnia frowned a bit, but nodded shuffling in place as if something was bothering her.

"I understand sister, we will greet the 5th with open arms and they will have their share in glory i am sure of it." says Maximus, "If you excuse me i have preperations to attend to, and thank you again sister" just before the communication ends Farah hears Maximus ordering his legion to prepare to move out. With a slow movement Farah turned away from the Vox and wrapped her arm around Lykinna's shoulders walking with her. "What is bothering you so?"

Having to take a much longer stride to keep up with Farah, Lykinnia stared up at the Primarch for a long moment. "Something strange is happening. Librarian Ophelia is acting strange. She was talking of voices in her head, and something about the book calling to her. She said-" Though Lykinnia was cut off a low rumble echoed through the ship, everyone aboard could hear it, feel it, though it was not a physical feeling it was as if something had just vibrated their very souls. A shockwave followed through a blast of psionic energy that felt like a wrecking ball as it washed over the Primarch, even with the minor amount of Psyker manifestation she had.

The psionic blast was powerful and rolled through the entirety of the sector, it would not be as muchh of a hit to the others as it was to Farah due to the distance, but they would definitely feel it. Farah shook off the feeling and rushed off her bare feet slapping across the steel floor as she turned down halls, then way and that through the winding passages. Farah came to a stop as she approached the door to her quarters, they were standing wide open with scorch marks around the edges of the frame. The Primarch stepped through slowly and found Librarian Ophelia standing in them iddle of the room holding the tome black and blues lines scrawled across her body where her veins would normally be hidden. "Ophelia.. What are you doing... This is not your chambers.. These are mine. You will put that book down. You will leave." Farah had a distraught look on her face as Ophelia turned towards her, the way she looked at her made her seem as if she had completely lost her mind.

"Dear Primarch... You are nothing. Your orders mean nothing!" She brough her hand around and it began to crackle with energy. Farah wasted no time though as she grabbed up her Power Maul from it's place on her equipment rack. The weapon moved through the air in a blur, and tore through the front half of Ophelia's face splattering chunks of it across the wall as her body crumpled to the floor. Farah picked up the book and shook her head sliding it back into it's case.

"Damn... What is this thing?" She asked herself, and once more locked the case. "I cannot let you out of my sight."

---

The war was already raging across Ullanor Prime as the Fifth company of the Blazing Sisters descended towards the planet. Assault pods lead the attack as their trails of fire cut through the sky, the pods crashing down into Ork horde killed or knocked senseless all the Orks within the immediate touch down areas. The Shell of the pods opened up crashing into the ground, combi bolters began to fire rapidly tearing through lines of Orks Sisters poured from the assault pods, bolters firing, chain swords revving. Orks fell like wheat before their onslaught. Storm Birds tore through the sky planing themselves in front of the Ork advanced, releasing their payload of Astartes that began to rip, and blast into the front line of the enemy. Fire Raptors dove from the sky releasing fullisades of blasts into the rear of the Ork line's sending gouts of the planet up inot the sky with each explosion, body parts beginning to litter the ground.

It was then that the Fifth Company was taken by surprise as the ground around them broken open, Orks spilling out of tunnels along with squigs, and grots. They were almost surrounded as they fought almost against Orks at their backs, and from the front. Captain Antiope sent a distress beacon, knowing the Paladins Eternal are near. Only a moment passes before it is answered, General Domitius of the 1st speaks in a calm but tactical tone "Captain, we are one mile south of your position, we will have firing solutions when we crest the next hill. fight your way towards us." Even as he spoke vulcan mega bolters and plasma cannons where being primes to rain fury down upon the Ork horde.

The Blazing Sisters fought valiantly holding the Ork's back as the Sisters who had assaulted into the middle fought their way through the lines to join their sisters in a fighting line. Bolter rounds flew from their weapons as they held off the Orks, with a strong defensive position. "General Dornitius! We have committed to hold this position! Bring your fire down upon the enemy horde!" He hears the vox just as his head comes over the rise, quickly scanning the layout of the battle he rattles off rapid fire commands to his knights and marines. even before he is done speaking plasma bolts detonate just outside the sister's lines, vicious torrents of mega bolter rounds eat through the Ork lines. seeing that they are outclassed the Orks try and escape into their tunnels, only to be followed by more blasts of plasma.

"We have them on the run Sisters! Cut them down!" Captain Antiope charged out from the line her weapons firing into retreating Ork backs, as the Blazing Sisters moved after them they stopped as they got to the tunnels the Orks were retreating into Antiope stopped. "Hold!" She shouted out the command being passed through the Astartes rather quickly. "Melta bombs! I want these tunnels collapsed now!" Sisters ran forward throwing explosives into the tunnels and hurrying back away from the opening. Explosions followed, which were followed by miles of the ground collapsing where the tunnels had been built burying the Orks inside. "Well General Domitius. Thank you for your help. Where are we going next? It seems my Primarch has insisted that we attach ourselves to your legion, and help wherever we are needed."

"We are going to relieve Primarch Erron at the primary fortress. Your Sisters would be a welcome addition." says Domitius over the vox, even as his knight stomps over to them. "I expect that you will be attatched to the Bloody Tenth, but Maximus may have other plans." he comes to a halt, the knights towering over the sisters, "We are expecting extreme resistance from the Orks, even with two full legions and elements of two others. Follow me" he says finally turning and marching towards a pillar of smoke in the distance. So the Blazing Sisters followed him, their boots stomping deep into the ground of Ullanor, as they prepared to join their fellow Astartes in honorable, and glorious battle.

Early M31
540,025km above the surface of Harkonnen IV

The void battle was progressing exactly as planned. Gorseval actually felt a slight twang of disappointment as the satisfaction at successfully executing his strategy ebbed away, like it always inevitably did. Was this going to be another easy victory?

As if the man had been reading his mind, one of the mortal crewmen of the Eclipse spoke up. “Sir... our sensors are detecting an enemy vessel making its way towards us. It's... the size...” He fell quiet and looked up at the Primarch on his iron captain's chair, concern etched on his young face. Gorseval closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, sailing unobstructed through dozens of miles of the void, until he sensed what the ensign was talking about.

It had been hidden behind a field of Roks before and probably spent the enterity of the battle turning around, but it was definitely visible now. Gorseval's chair descended to the floor and he got to his feet, making his way towards the towering void-windows that formed the fourth wall of the bridge. The enemy vessel seemed not to have a care in the world as it smashed through debris fields and entire ships alike, absorbing an unfathomable amount of punishment. With every passing second, more Void Stalker-ships trained their guns on the approaching behemoth and opened fire – it was so large that it was impossible to miss.

More than three hundred miles long from tip to toe, the Ork flagship revealed itself: a Space Hulk. Gorseval's face was unreadable as his precognitive powers confirmed the ensign's fears. “It's on a crash course,” Gorseval said gravely. “There's no time to escape its path. Direct all power to the Lance batteries. Disable the engines. Kill the lights, if you must,” the Primarch commanded. Bleached white with fear, the Eclipse's crew nonetheless did as they were told. The Eclipse fell oddly silent and went dark, leaving only the essential cogitator displays and holo-screens on. Gorseval briefly turned his head to look at his crew and saw their terrified faces in the gloom, lit from beneath by faint green and yellow light. There was something distinctly unearthly about the sight.

The vox-channel jumped to life with the voices of several different Void Masters. “My lord, why aren't you turning? It'll crush you--”
“There's no time, you fool, the Eclipse is far too slow. We have to destroy it.”
“Void Maw opening fire.”
“Can we even destroy it? I've never seen such a vessel in my life.”
“Nasgalur, now is not the time for pessimism. We have no choice. It must be destroyed.”

Their bickering continued while Gorseval calmly spoke a single word: “Fire.”

–

Aboard the Space Hulk, the insane Mek-Kaptain Murlok Moonsmasha bellowed and screamed in rage. He stomped around the kommand centa inside his armored Deff Dread and smashed everything in his reach. “DAMN DEEZ 'UMIES! SHOOTIN' ME FLEET TA BITZ BEFORE I EVEN GOTS TO DA GOOD FIGHT! I'M GONNA SMASH 'EM ALL!” Pausing to take a breath, he turned to face his subordinate Mekboys, a gleam of madness-fueled inspiration in his beady eyes. “Fetch da Kommandos... an' fire up me tellyporta. Da big 'un.” He dismissed them with a wave of his Power-Klaw and starting laughing quietly. “Da Hulk will get 'em... unless I gets dere first.”

–

The overwhelming barrage of firepower from the Void Stalker fleet had slowed the Space Hulk down a little bit, but they were far from stopping it. More of the Ork ships had turned around and followed the Space Hulk, hurling themselves heedlessly into the line of fire – but every fired shot that was wasted on them was one that didn't hit the Hulk.

Aboard the Event Horizon, Void Master Balthasith the Destroyer watched with a heavy gaze. His ship's powerful broadside armaments were doing what they could as they kept pace with the Hulk, but he feared it wouldn't be enough. By his side stood Asmodal, the largest Astartes in the Legion and one of Gorseval's oldest allies. “Balthasith,” Asmodal said, his voice low. “This is not going to work. Gorseval is going to die if we don't--”

Frustrated, Balthasith snapped. “And what do you suggest, Asmodal? That we ram the damn thing?”

After a short pause, Asmodal replied. “Yes, Void Master. And then we board it. The entire First Chapter. The outer layer of the Hulk is too thick to pierce to reach the core before it crushes the Eclipse, but if we board it, I swear to the Silent King we can tear through the xenos filth like a hot knife through butter. I will gladly lay down my life to save him.”

Balthasith opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. He frowned, cleared his throat, scratched his head and finally said: “I can't think of a better idea, Stalker-Master. Prepare the Chapter.” Asmodal nodded and ran off, his Terminator-armored footsteps thundering heavily. Balthasith turned to face his crew. “Direct 67% power to the prow-shields, all remaining power to the engines. Turn to starboard, sharp as can be.”

“S-sir?”

Beyond patience, Balthasith bellowed: “Do it! That's an order! By the hallowed void, we're going to ram this thing like your Primarch's life depends on it, because it does!”

–

Gorseval had been staring down the approaching Space Hulk as if he hoped the intensity of his gaze would cause it to move aside. Something stirred in the back of his mind and he turned around a split second before the ship's alarm sirens started wailing. They interrupted the eerie silence that stifled the Eclipse – it had just finished another salvo and the Lance batteries were recharging. At the sound of the loud alarms one of the crew yelled “Intruders!”, jabbing his finger at his holo-screen. “We've been boarded!”

“I know,” Gorseval said as he shut off the alarms with a wave of his hand. As fortune would have it, the entire Seventh Chapter, along with Void Master Ectheliar, were currently aboard the Eclipse after their own ship had been destroyed in the Void Stalkers' last campaign. Gorseval alerted Ectheliar with a short telepathic ping, commanding him to make his Chapter battle-ready. The enemy is upon us.

While the Eclipse's crew was frantically discussing how it was possible that they had already been boarded without a single enemy ship pressed against their flank, Gorseval had already figured it out. Deep-strike teleportation. He knew the Ork Mekboyz were capable of making incredibly advanced technology work through (what seemed to be) sheer force of will, but this was an extraordinary example. The armsmen that guarded the bridge, ordinary warriors recruited from the Reach's Aegis militia, flocked to the Primarch to form a defensive cordon around him, but Gorseval shook his head. “Protect the crew,” he commanded instead. “Keep firing the Lance batteries, and don't restore the lights. We fight better in the dark.”

With slow, deliberate movements, Gorseval reached over his shoulder with his right hand and wrapped his armored fingers around the hilt of the sword strapped to his back. He unsheathed the blade, revealing an enormous Force greatsword, eleven feet long from pommel to tip. Everyone on the bridge fell silent and stared in awe – this was the first time any of them had seen the Primarch draw his weapon. The sword's blade was matte black, two feet wide and five inches thick, forged from mysterious metals found in the core of the asteroids of the Reach. Its surface was marked with faint, criss-crossing lines that stretched the full length of the blade in a flawless geometric pattern, forming the largest psi-convector ever built into a handheld weapon by the Imperium of Mankind, attuned specifically to the psychic frequency of Gorseval's more-than formidable mind.

The sword's name was Darkness, and it had no equal.

Without another word, Gorseval strode out of the bridge, his black cape fluttering behind him in the still air. The adamantium blast doors closed behind him and Gorseval paused for a second to let his eyes adjust. The corridor that stretched away into the artificial night in front of him was almost entirely without illumination – just the way he liked it. He blinked, satisfied, and resumed his brisk pace. Gorseval could hear very faint gunfire in the distance, along with the muffled crump of detonations.

The Ork Kommandos spread like wildfire through the length of the ship. Unlike most Orks, these ladz were specialized in fighting from the shadows. They set traps, laid in wait and performed ambushes – much like the Void Stalkers. The battle-brothers of the Seventh weren't as good in shadow warfare as the Unseen of the Third, but they were good enough. As such, a very strange war was being fought in the Eclipse. It was waged in silence, broken only by the discharge of bolters and sluggas and the sharp cracks of stikkbombs and frag grenades. The Kommandos talked amongst in each other in low, guttural whispers, and the Void Stalkers communicated in short, clipped tones muffled by their helmets.

Gorseval had faith in his Astartes. He was not hunting the Kommandos. His mind was fixed on a far bigger, brighter soul, flaring this way and that, caught in the throes of insanity; Murlok Moonsmasha.

–

The Event Horizon had lodged itself squarely into the hide of the Space Hulk and discharged its lethal cargo inside. The First Chapter of the Void Stalkers, led by Asmodal, had swept into the conglomerate ship like a tidal wave. They took the Orks that infested the Hulk by surprise and took brutal advantage of that. They had no time to waste on playing hide and seek in the darkness and abandoned their Legion's combat doctrine all-but entirely. They carved a straight line towards the kommand centa, relying on their auspex sensors to guide their way. Every wave of Orks that appeared to stop them was mercilessly cut down; Asmodal, terrifying in his Terminator armor, didn't even break his stride. He fought with unnatural ferocity, wiping out entire Ork squads with blasts of his infamous multi-melta before diving into the fray, killing multiple Orks with every swing of his power sword. Nobz were dismembered in seconds. Asmodal struck so hard and so fast it was almost impossible to follow his movements in the werelight of the Space Hulk, and the servos in his armor whirred and whined under the stress. He was pushing the suit to the limit.

His Primarch was in danger. He would not – could not – be stopped. Even the battle-brothers that died were left behind. The undying loyalty of the Void Stalkers to their Primarch was now expressing itself in the most violent, unfiltered way possible, and Asmodal's demonic slaughter inspired the rest of the First. All of them fought like monsters and it wasn't long before the Orks stopped trying to kill them and started fleeing before them instead.

“How much further?” Asmodal asked over the vox, retrieving his power sword from the corpse of an Ork. He was breathing heavily and his voice sounded strangled, but resting was not an option. Kirthaus, three corridors further down the Hulk, doubled over and resting his hands on his knees, straightened up and checked his auspex. “Few miles,” he gasped. “Hard to read, though. Signal keeps bouncing around.”

Asmodal shrugged. “Fuck it. Let's go. Death.”

“Death,” echoed the rest of the First.

–

On the Eclipse, Murlok Moonsmasha and his bodyguard of Nobz were busying themselves by destroying everything they came across – command consoles, lights, doors, power generators, the works. They were looking for Void Stalkers, of course, but the Astartes and the ship's crew had eluded them so far. The mad Mek-Kaptain was talking to himself while he did it, sometimes screaming at the top of his lungs, and other times whispering inside his metal shell. The Nobz cast each other uneasy looks, but none of them dared to turn on Murlok. He was incredibly dangerous in his madness, moving with unpredictable speed and strength. He cackled maniacally as he tore several power cables out of a wall with his Power-Klaw, and howled in unbridled rage when he blasted a Space Marine's empty, private chambers full of bullet holes.

“Where's da 'umies, boss?” one of the Nobz asked eventually as they entered a large, rectangular chamber – one of the Eclipse's many messdecks. Murlok replied with a tortured scream and kicked over one of the tables.

“I am here,” a cold voice answered from the other side of the hall. The Orks looked up to see a towering figure clad in shimmering armor, colored a deep hue of regal purple, the edges trimmed with cyan; Gorseval. His pale face almost seemed to glow in the gloom. He held Darkness upright in front of him, hilt grasped with both hands, like the statue of an ancient knight of Terra. The Orks fell silent for a few seconds, as none of them had ever seen a 'umie this big before.

However, Murlok was too far gone to be cowed. He roared his challenge and charged, heavy footfalls denting the floor of the messdeck, opening fire with his big shootas while he ran. The psi-convector in Gorseval's blade activated and the criss-crossing lines lit up with psychic energy. The air in front of the Dark Star seemed to bend and warp and the Ork's bullets were halted uselessly, unable to penetrate the psychic force shield. Murlok lowered his Deff Dread's guns and raised its huge, pincered arms instead. Echoing Murlok's warcry, the other Nobz bellowed and dashed towards Gorseval. The Primarch was outnumbered eight-to-one.

It was only when the Orks were almost upon him that Gorseval moved. His body flowed like water, steady, even and inexorable. He parried Murlok's initial, savage attack with the flat side of his blade and forced the Deff Dread back with a heavy psychic shove. Raising his arms, Gorseval swung Darkness in a powerful sideways swipe that Murlok deftly blocked with one of his pincer-arms, but – to the Mek-Kaptain's surprise – the crude weapon was destroyed instantly. Tendrils of lightning leapt from the psi-convector lines to the pincer when the two weapons collided and the Deff Dread's arm shattered into a thousand pieces. Determined not to have the same happen to them, four of the Ork Nobz immediately fell upon Gorseval simultaneously, swinging their Choppas at his head.

A heavy, throbbing sound pulsed through the air and the Nobz suddenly found themselves caught in the vice-like grip of an invisible force, unable to move, their arms stopped mid-strike. The temperature dropped sharply and ice crystals formed on every nearby surface. Alarmed, Murlok hissed and stepped back, his Power-Klaw clacking frantically. With all the inevitibility of the Grim Reaper, the Dark Star lifted Darkness and swung the heavy greatsword in a 240-degree arc. It passed through the four Nobz effortlessly, sliding through armor, flesh and bone as if it wasn't even there, splitting them in half at the waist.

The eight halves of the Nobz instantly combusted. Gorseval let go of the telekinetic grip and the dead Orks dropped heavily to the floor, their bodies rapidly being consumed by ghastly, blue fire. Gorseval stepped over them with slow, measured strides, his face as unreadable as a death mask. He raised his left hand, Darkness hanging by his side, and grabbed the four other Nobz with the crushing power of his mind. Gorseval's fingers twitched and the ululating bass returned, like the beating wings of some enormous wyvern. The Nobz tried to resist, howling in rage, but there was no escape. Bones cracked and blood vessels burst under the immense pressure, and the howling turned to screaming. Gorseval's breath steamed in the air.

Having had enough of this Weirdness, Murlok Moonsmasha charged again. The Deff Dread's steel feet thundered heavily as the war-machine picked up speed. It was taller than the Primarch and much heavier than the purple power armor Gorseval was clad in, but he seemed unphased. Gorseval raised Darkness in a two-handed stance and stood his ground. Inside the Deff Dread, Murlok flipped a variety of switches and pressed a large, red button, laughing maniacally. Two plates on the back of the machine opened up and revealed two large exhaust vents, which immediately blazed to life with huge bursts of flame. Like an enormous, bipedal rocket, the Deff Dread shot forward with alarming speed.

The psi-convector wired into Darkness sprang to life again as Gorseval channeled his psychic powers through the weapon, amplifying his potency, and Murlok's Deff Dread was instantly halted in mid-air. The force necessary to stop the hurling machine was immense and Gorseval's face twisted with effort. With slow, methodical steps, he approached the suspended Deff Dread and swung Darkness upwards and sliced straight through the Deff Dread's torso, almost splitting the machine in half. Murlok let out an earsplitting, harrowing cry as the blade cut through his abdomen. Relentless, Gorseval struck again, and the Mek-Kaptain's prized war-machine started falling apart. The kinetic momentum from its rocket-enhanced charge had dissipated by now and Gorseval dropped the wreckage to the floor. A fierce telekinetic assault tore the Deff Dread open entirely, scattering parts throughout the entire messdeck, and Gorseval's mind wrapped Murlok's own body in an iron grip. He ripped the Mek-Kaptain out of ruined machine accompanied by the sound of tearing metal and a shower of sparks, and held him in the air, legs dangling uselessly above the floor.

Gorseval rose to his full height and looked at the struggling Ork with disdain. t would be the easiest thing in the world to kill the severely wounded and profusely bleeding Mek-Kaptain then and there... but that wasn't enough for Gorseval. He wanted to break him. Murlok was pulled in closer until he saw eye-to-eye with Gorseval. The Dark Star's black eyes stared, unblinking, into Murlok's, and the Primarch's merciless mind drove a psychic lance into the Ork's disjointed, insane soul. The air was thrumming with psychic vibrations as Gorseval brought the full weight of his mind to bear, like a black storm in the night, promising death to all ships caught in its grasp.

Somewhere inside Murlok's mind, some unbreakable Orkish nugget refused to surrender. His eyes retained their focus, meeting Gorseval's ink-black stare, baring his tusks. Gorseval's brows furrowed and he pressed on, digging the thorns of his mind deep into Murlok, like crowbars breaking into a house. Gorseval's fingers twitched endlessly now and Murlok groaned, beads of sweat dripping down from his green brow. It was an impressive contest of willpower, pitting the fearless Ork spirit against the depthless cruelty and might of a Primarch. Gorseval stabbed deep, painful spikes of psychic energy into Murlok's mind – and took control of his sight.

To the Ork, it seemed like Gorseval's form was slowly becoming shrouded in an insidious shadow that seeped out of every corner of the room. The lights dimmed and the walls moved away, leaving Murlok trapped in a primordial darkness, alone... except for two fierce points of screamlight, eternal and blinding, so radiant and yet darker and more vile than the blackness. The deep confusion this sowed in the mind of the insane Ork allowed Gorseval to assume control over all of his other senses as well, trapping Murlok in a prison of his own mind.

Monstrous creatures lurked in the shadows, just out of sight, snarling, screaming and growling. Murlok could hear the mocking laughter of other Orks and snatches of their voices, ridiculing him, calling him weak. He wanted to yell but no sound would come, and his eyes could not look away from the two points of light drilling into his very soul. Murlok trembled. A voice spoke, dark and infinite in its gravitas, a gravedigging peal that filled every fiber of his being.

”If light itself cannot escape me... what hope have you?”

There is a fear inside every living creature. It's older than mankind, older than even the Necrons, and buried deep down inside the Ork psyche, it exists even in them. The fear of the dark. Gorseval had become the darkness, succumbing to the void inside of him, and drowned Murlok in it. Only the most wholesome and staunch beings in the galaxy could maintain their will in the face of such terror.

Murlok was not one of them. His will broke completely and the Ork stopped resisting, his mind open to Gorseval like a fortress with its gates unbarred. The Dark Star lanced through it, his terrible power sundering the Ork's soul with ruthless psychic blasts, excising parts of his mind with all the tenderness of a pickaxe. Gorseval tore the Ork open and briefly rifled through Murlok's memories, seeing how the Mek-Kaptain came upon the Space Hulk and how he had spent years trying to tame the unstable mass. Its malfunctioning Warp drives would fire randomly and Gorseval saw, through the Ork's eyes, how the Space Hulk had hurled heedlessly through the Warp. The Orks under Murlok's command had to fight off invaders, shadowy shapes that seemingly materialized out of thin air, wielding large swords that burned brightly with fire...

Gorseval dropped the Ork to the floor. Murlok remained there, slack-jawed, senseless and bleeding. The Dark Star, frowning, looked down at the Ork's broken body and took a deep breath. What exactly had he just seen in Murlok's memories? The Mek-Kaptain had clearly been insane, so it could have all been figments of his imagination, but if not... what lurked out there, in the Immaterium? Some kind of bizarre xenos species?

Either way, the fight was won. If Gorseval had felt any satisfaction in his victory, it had already left him by now – he only felt hollow. Murlok would die from his wounds soon and Gorseval saw no need to hasten his exit from this world. He sidestepped around the Murlok and walked to the remaining Nobz, crippled and bleeding – but still alive. One by one, Gorseval ended their lives with a quick thrust from Darkness' edge.

Several Void Stalkers stepped into the messdeck, their weapons dripping with gore. Their eyes fell upon the butchered Orks and their Primarch, tall and unblemished, amidst them. “It is done,” Gorseval said, his voice grave and solemn.

–

Asmodal and the First Chapter had managed to reach the kommand centa in time. Balthasith steered the Space Hulk aside and the enormous Ork vessel passed by the Eclipse narrowly. Unfamiliar with the Orky controls, however, Balthasith had also inadvertently activated the Space Hulk's warp drives, and a mad sprint for the Event Horizon meant they escaped with their lives narrowly. There was no time to retrieve the corpses of the Void Stalkers that had died fighting their way in and they were, sadly, lost. The Space Hulk jumped into the Warp less than a minute after the battered Event Horizon had detached itself from the massive conglomerate-ship's hide, continuing its endless, meandering journey through the galaxy.

The rest of the Ork fleet was mopped up in short order. A message from the surface, undeniably Imperial in its tone, meant that the Kindly Ones and Gorseval's sister had achieved similar successes on the ground.

*Praise and glory to the Emperor of Mankind! The barbarian horde is broken, its machines toppled, its leaders cast down and slain! Even now on Ullanor Prime their brazen master suffers death at the hands of the Emperor's most favored -- The conquerer's prize has become his tomb--*

Gorseval shut the broadcast off as he sat down in his captain's chair. The Kindly Ones definitely had a knack for the theatrical. The chair was in its lowered position and Gorseval's advisers and closest lieutenants were gathered around him, including Balthasith and Asmodal, lauded saviors of the Eclipse and of their Primarch. Gorseval thanked them personally, with heartfelt, genuine gratitude. It had been a sobering lesson – without his Legion, he was not invincible.

And that bothered him.

"Wardens!" Talvyrn cried, his voice booming and echoing through the hull of his flagship, Skyward Bound, the faces of his Legionaries looked straight at their Primarch, all lined up in perfect formation, row by row and column by column, "Today is the day which we shall descend from the heavens unto the grounds of Ullanor Prime and assist our brothers and sisters in arms! Do not fear the green brutes who have decided to venture forth here and sack a planet of our Imperium, for you hath been given the best arms and weapons, your training is unquestionably great and your resolve tenfold of that!"

The Primarch made dramatic hand movements as he spoke, character of his speeches that were given back on Bravadis all that time ago. A few of the Wardens cheered from amongst the crowd as Talvyrn reset his limbs and servo-arms, running his hand through his hair and clearing his throat before resuming his passionate speech, "Tis might be just another fight to some of you, but each and every victory we earn is grand and important! Do not waver in your abilities since you "do not see the worth", nonsense! Let us preform with exception and distinction so that none shall ever forget us! May no human never forget the title we bear and may all of these Ork greenskins remember our name with fear! Upon blessed iron wings we shall decent from the heavens into their lines and wreak chaos and destruction to their lines and numbers! The greenskins will learn to fear the sight of our drop pods as they crash into the earth and bring the Emperor's will upon them! Now, to your drop pods men! Unto Victory!"

"Unto Victory!" the ground shook under the weight of a thousand astartes, eager to prove their worth in service to their Primarch and their Liege. Anyone who hadn't taken a weapon found one quickly from either a rack or a servitor, putting their helmets on as they dashed to fill the drop pods that would guide them into battle. Tech priest made their rounds, making sure that the latches where sufficiently tight to allow the Wardens a secure if not snuggly ride down to Ullanor. A few Chapter Serfs gave their last blessings to their respective Astartes before rushing away as the doors closed.

Talvyrn made his way down his platform and to his own drop pod, his Honor Guard already waiting for him. While his Wardens could change between pods as they wished, Talvyrn always needed a specially modified one which could fit his servo-harness in it. The Primarch took a deep breath as he approached the pod, a servitor passing his polished helmet to him that he kept at his side as he sat down. Father watch me now, Talvyrn thought to himself as he started into the crimson eyes of the helmet, its hot color reminding him of his own fiery eyes. Turning the helmet over, he slipped it over his dark steel hair and watched it flicker to life, "Donovan, calculate trajectory for all pods. Inform the fleet to make preparations for drop."

"Brother, art thou sure thou shan't need a bombardment from orbit?" the voice of Talvyrn's brother, Baron Donovan of the Fourth House, crackled over the vox in his helmet.

"Yes, I am sure of it." Talvyrn got comfy in his seat as a tech priestess came over to check its security, giving the Primarch a thumbs up before closing the pod door, "Should I need orbital fire support, I shall request it from you directly."

"Very well. Cogitators are processing... annndddd... finished. Commencing drop on your command."

A moment of silence hung in not only the pod, but also the ship, only the low humming of lights and whirring of machinery breaking the silence along with the breaths of Talvyrn's guard as they sat in wait. They may have been the best of the XIX Legion, but dropping was still harrowing to some degree, especially seeing as they hadn't done it into direct combat all that many times before hand. Talvyrn would be lying if there wasn't some shred of nervousness somewhere inside of him but he had committed himself and his forces to this mission ordained by his father, he would not fail him. It would be carried out and finished, not matter the cost.

"Drop!" the Primarch barked once all of his nerves were hardened. In the space less than that of even a second, he could hear the locks let go and the pod being shot out into space, hurtling towards their target on Ullanor. The pod rattled as it left screeching rocket trails in its wake, despite its solid construction, not that it exactly bothered Talvyrn to a great degree. If anything, he was more worried about some of the newer Wardens with less training and experience with the crafts.

"He was just a rookie trooper and he surely shook with fright," Talvyrn's ears pricked up as the vox channel opened up to the sound of Lotrhic's voice, half chant half song. The Primarch immediately recognized the lyrics, part of some old anthem sung by ancient Terran drop-soldiers as an act of comic camaraderie in the face of danger. Talvyrn remembered how one of his soldiers had found a holotape of it on one of the ships that the XIX Legion was given and how it became an instant hit with the rest of the Legion. It was almost their "war song" in a way, a chant which allowed the Wardens as a whole to hide their fear in unison, reminding them that they were in this fight together.

"He checked all his equipment and made sure his pack was tight;" the song got increasingly louder as more and more marines joined in on it with Talvyrn himself contributing a few lines.

"He had to sit and listen to those awful engines roar,
you ain't gonna jump no more!'

"Gory, gory, what a hell of way to die!
Gory, gory, what a hell of way to die!
Gory, gory, what a hell of way to die!
He ain't gonna jump no more!"

The pods broke atmosphere, shedding their outter armor plates, raining smaller plates of metal down to the ground along side with the drop pods and their Warden Aegis cargo. The singing stopped as everyone braced themselves for impact, "Make ready men! For the enemy will be right in front of us upon landing! Brace for impact!" the Primarch yelled into his vox. Bright tails of flame followed the metal craft as they soared through the endless skies of Ullanor, screeching their way through the air right before they plowed into the ground.

With the strength of a falling star, the iron rain of drop pods slammed into the Ork lines, unprepared for such a sudden orbital attack, killing any in the immediate vicinity, knocking out those a bit further and confusing the rest. Heavy metal doors dropped down as the Wardens Aegis had finished their descent and jumped from their cradles on to the earthen ground, weapons drawn as sergeants commanded their squads to move and get to cover or charge straight a head.

"COM'ON GENTS! TEAR 'EM TO PIECES! FORWAAAARRRDDD!" Baron Greyet roared into the vox channels as he lead his House right into the thick of the fighting as the vanguard, Talvyrn himself was already all weapons drawn, carrying Soul Hook and Sentinel Brave in one hand and a bolter of his own design in another. The mechadendrite on his back whirred as they too open fired with the weapons that their controller had given to them, firing off bolt pistols and cutting down charging orks with Talvyrn's sword, Ironpride.

Flanked by his guards, the Primarch cut his way through the green beasts of rage and war, spraying bolt after bolt into any ork he deemed fit to receive one. Bolter fire replaced all other sounds in the ork line, sending hot trails of metal into the air, sometimes followed by lascannon shots or explosions. Battlewagons crashed through the war-torn ground as they unleashed their obscene amounts of dakka into the Wardens Aegis, only to be met with a rain of fire as astartes threw their grenades high into the air.

"Donovan," Talvyrn slide behind the cover of a burning husk of a battlewagon as he tried to raise his brother on the comms, "Inform Sister Farrah that I indent to link my forces with her's in order to relieve Brother Erron. I'm brinin-"

"WWWWAAAAAGGGGHHHHHH!!!!", the ground and hills shook as the Ork's infamous battle cry rung out over even the loud and chaotic bolters and bullets, crashing over the hills and terrain like the greentide they were known as. Talvyrn cursed as as was forced to cut off his transmission to focus on the ensuing battle. The Wardens Aegis were forced to bear the sudden charge of green flesh and muscle against them. Guns were dropped and shields and blades were drawn and brothers fought like knights of old in their battle lines. For a split second Talvyrn was transported back in time, to an era where he wasn't known as Primarch Talvyrn, but Lord Talvyrn, leading his sword-armed armies against those of his foes in his grand unification wars of Bravadis.

"'OOKIE 'ERE BOYZ, FOUND ME SELF SUM 'UMIES TO KILL!!", a Nob bellowed from atop the carcass of the battlewagon, his squad of Boyz not far behind. Talvyrn screwed up his face and growled a little in the face of the armored Nob, one of his servo-arms delivering Ironpride to his hand as his dagger made its way back to his shield hand, backing up as he slipped into a familiar sword stance, "Doth thou dare challenge me? Very well; I pray you've made your peace with those mushrooms you call gods, ork."

"OOOO... 'EZ A ROIGHT COKEY GIT NAO AIN'T 'E?", the Nob burst out in laughter as he dropped down to face the Primarch, "AGGROX GUNNA SHOW YEW 'UMIE WOT A FIOGHT IS REALLE LOIKE!"

The ork rushed at Talvyrn, slamming his massive choppa into the ground as the Primarch rolled away. Loud, rancorous curses were thrown at Talvyrn as he spun the sword in his hand. Another bullrush from the Nob, choppa flailing wildly, forced the Primarch to side step to the beast's right as he managed to land a slash across the face of the ork as he moved. Behind him, Talvryn could sense the furious melee that his guards where in with a mob of Boyz, hacking and slashing and even biting at their ceramite armor but the Primarch had to focus on his own fight.

Aggrox howled in pain as the power sword cut right through his leather jaw, shattering his teeth. Exploiting his opportunities, Talvyrn sunk the tip of Ironpride into the Nob's flesh, a geyser of blood spewing out as the blade left his body. Another storm of enraged curses was soon followed by another wild flailing of metal, but this time the High Lord was ready. Raising his shield, Talvyrn waited until Aggrox's swing was at its apex, bashing his shield into the Nob's choppa. Turning on the magnets, Aggrox found his choppa stuck to the shield as he tried to recover from the bash, letting Talvryn to chop off his bulging green arm with a single slice of his power sword.

As the nob howled in pain, the choppa and accompanying arm stuck to Talvyrn's shield as he spun around and beat the Nob with the end of his own arm. In pain and bewildered by his own rebellious limb, Aggrox was more vulnerable than ever as Talvyrn rushed forward himself, slicing the ork's throat just deep enough so that he could grab the green head and force it back. Stabbing his sword into the now open neck of the Nob, Talvyrn pulled it straight out as blood and guts pour forth from the massive chest cavity he caused; Aggrox's evisceration celebrated with a dispaly of red mist and sparks as Ironpride was pulled through his flesh and armor. The ork Nob made no more sound as he fell to the ground, head force back almost one hundred-eigthy degrees, snapping his spine like a twig as his organs poured forth onto the ground, soaking the earth red as they pilled out of his body.

Talvyrn let out a heavy breath as he established contact with Donvovan, miles above him right now.

"Brother! Thank goodness, I thought something horrible occurred to thou after thou suddenly dropped contact." Donovan exclaimed, his voice clearly sounding like he had just spent the last few minutes yelling into a vox-caster that remained silent.

"I just had a small parley with a wonderful Ork who called himself 'Aggrox' or something." Talvyrn reassured his brother, "Afraid he's no longer in any shape to continue our discussion though."

"Shame, I take it he was a fine conversation partner?" Donovan's chuckle crackled into Talvyrn's helmet.

"There be worser ones. Certainly not the most adept by any means either however." the Primarch joked back before returning to a more serious tone, "I shall be attempting to rendezvous with other forces currently on the planet."

"Understood, I shall continue to be at thou's disposal if thou requires services of mine."

Talvyrn swung his blade to clean it in the air using physics, watching the blood droplets fly off the blade and on to the ground as he changed channels, "Brother Erron, tis thine own brother Talvyrn. I have arrived to support and relieve your forces with my own legion, we landed as close as we could to your location but the cogitators dropped us further than expected. Do you know of the quickest way into thy location?"

The Paladins Eternal march is a tightly ordered ranks, perfect squares of knights and marines. Maximus walks at its head surrounded by his honor guard and several Valkyries orbiting above the legion, the 5th company of Blazing sisters walking ahead of the 2nd Cohort’s column. Behind the Paladins the Imperial Army follows in a reasonably disordered mess, men riding on tanks and chimera transports as much as they are inside of them. Now that the Paladins are together with the sisters and Erron’s battle Maximus begins to formulate his plan and make his orders over the Vox. ”Valkyrie one and two, do a flyby of Erron’s position. I need tactical data.” with a short word two of them veer off and begin scanning the unfolding battle. Maximus studies in real time as the armies clash. He pauses reading and re-reading the positions of the Void Stalkers fighting. ”Valkyrie one, re-scan and confirm position of Void Stalkers”
”The scans are correct my Caesar, visual confirmation of Void Stalker position.”

Maximus nods silently, this situation is far more dire than he had thought if the Void Stalkers are bloodying their hands directly. He considers the data carefully again, running through the battle scenario in his mind before relaying his orders. “First, Second, and Tenth, you will relieve Erron in the center, you will cut through any Orks in your path.” Says Maximus in an emotionless tone, “Seventh, you shall be rear guard. Protect the Apothecary stations and our retreat. All other Cohorts, we shall drive the Orks back, hook around and join up with the main force of the Wild Blades.” Simultaneously each other general replies “Yes my Caesar” but Domitius, continues “What of the Blazing sisters and Imperial Army?” Maximus thinks a brief moment, “The Blazing sisters will follow the spear head to reinforce Erron while the Paladins drive the Orks back, and the Imperial Army will set up their artillery and support the Seventh.”

General Loch opens a vox channel, “All due respect my Lord, we are veterans. I request a position in the tip of the spear.” Maximus ponders this for a moment before answering, “Pick your hundred best, they will join the Blazing sisters.” As Maximus finished his orders Captain Antiope, and General Loch both reply with “Yes my Lord"

---

Maximus began detecting the battle on his short range auspex scanner, only a few more moments before hell would rain down on the Orks. He began picking up frantic orders coming from the wild blades as they fought for their lives beneath a ceaseless tide of Orks. He broadcast on every vox frequency “Imperator Aeternum!” as a battle cry for his troops to rally behind and a greeting to his brother’s legions. His targeting HUD began to light up with thousands of possible targets, he picked a spot near the crumbling center hoping that his fire would give his brother some breathing room. Seconds later each other Knight began to hammer away with their weapons scouring a path between the Paladins and Erron. The Blazing Sisters and their attatched Imperial Army followed the spear made by the first, second, tenth, and Maximus. Dozens of other rhinos followed the Sisters carrying hundreds of Paladin devastator marines and Terminators. The rest of the knights kept firing and began to veer off coming in behind the Wild blades.

Maximus flanked by his Honor Guard and Generals finally smashed into the ork ranks, still hundreds of meters from Erron. Maximus yelled into his vox "Ignore them, we go to the center, crush them beneath your mighty treads!" The knights formed a tight group, nearly touching as Maximus lead the very tip of the spear, flame and bolter poured from the knights at the edge trying to keep the Orks back and make room for the rhinos. the rhinos had little trouble traversing the blasted gap left by the knights only driving though corpses crushed flat and a few orks trying to rejoin the battle.

Domitius speaks calmly into his vox even while his titan class flamer purges a thousand Orks from the field "My Caesar, they will envelop us soon. Retreat will be impossible." Maximus laughs into the vox cheerfully "What gave you the impression that retreat was an option?" he asked rhetorically. Moments later the Knights where nearing the collapsing center and made a thin path for the Rhinos into the heart of Erron's bubble. The Rhinos entered swiftly and unloaded their cargo of Terminators, Imperial Storm Troopers and Blazing Sisters who rushed towards all sides and started to relieve the harrased Blades. The knights began to fan out as well and blasting the orks away from the center. Maximus says into the vox "Brother Erron, You where expecting us?"

Even as he said the words dozens of Paladin Eternal terminators found Errons position and rushed the Orks around him, using their massive bulk and strength to push the horde back several paces. A squad of Imperial strom troopers followed them and started firing around the newly formed shield wall into the orks, with General Loch and their head shouting orders into his vox and firing his plasma pistol.

---

The rest of the Paladins came in behind the Wild Blades fighting desparately to join their Primarch and started to carve furrows into the ork lines and thinning the horde. The arrival of the Paladins and the destruction being rained down uppon the orks gave the Wild Blades a second wave of corage, they rallied and began driving the orks back with redoubled fervor.

To understand how the Imperio Armatus fight, one must first consider the conditions they were brought up in.

The Emperor has had many children in his time, but few of which he has personally deigned to help raise. These Ronin are seemingly cursed with bad luck, in such a way that they are oftentimes unavoidably stillborn or miscarried. Some small proportion of their number survive to actually be born, and it then becomes obvious that they are functional blanks in terms of their effect of the Warp, and more importantly on the minds of those about them, who often fear and wish to execute them even as newborns and infants. Even if they avoid this fate, they in turn tend to be executed by accidents, natural disasters, and sometimes absurd occurrences that one would need to see to believe, as though reality itself strives to end their lives. Few of those born healthy and living survive to the point that they can start actively avoiding these threats, and even these are uncommonly incapable of achieving adulthood in a way that lets them follow the spiritual link that forms at this age, drawing them in to their father, and to a modicum of momentary safety, for even he cannot protect them forever.

This lifestyle works to give any Ronin of significant age an almost preternatural sense of awareness of their surroundings. In combination with their natural physique, benefited as they are in at least this manner by their lineage, a sufficiently-honed Ronin might even sense and duck underneath a bolter round after it has been fired, though it is more common to see one instead weave between multiple potential accidents in a row, or else die trying. Once this curse of bad luck is lifted by the various Custodes surgeries, and training in combat provided to them prior to their initiation into the Zodiac Guard, they become nigh-untouchable, seeming to move fluidly around attacks from all angles even in power armour, to the point that even a Primarch has trouble damaging them significantly despite their similar maneuverability otherwise.

Of course, in the case of a psyker such as Gemini, this near-prescience manifests in a slightly different manner. The very start of the battle is swiftly heralded by a fireworks display of disgorged Warp energy - the immense blast of built-up WAAAGH! energy by fifty Weirdboyz on one hand, clashing against the transparent barrier of Gemini on the other. As his siblings leap into battle against the mass of Nobs, he instead remains comparatively still, only ducking and weaving round those Nobs that try to attack him as he focuses; every so often, a blast of red and blue energy is launched from out of his helmet's visors, cutting through the attacks of the Weirdboyz and vaporising one or two of them. To any of significant psychic sensitivity, it is instantly clear that these are not mere blasts of energy, but beams that seem almost divinely empowered, for they in fact draw upon the Emperor's own soul, via the Soul Binding that the Zodiac Guard has taken upon himself for that purpose and others.

By contrast, to the other four Armatus in the room, combat is mostly based on physical power. Indeed, both Virgo and Libra would make for a fine display of combat skill on their own. The former wields Daemonbane in a single hand, its blades shearing through Orkish armour like paper, deflecting power klaws and rubbishing choppas and shootas of all sizes, whilst using her free hand to perform something like acrobatics over and around her foes and their weapons. The latter, gifted after her surgery with actual precognition, remains more conservative, wielding merely a storm bolter and the power sword Draco, seeming to move such that, rather than dodging blows, it just happens that wherever she is is precisely where an attack is not; her weapons, though not as extravagant as those of some of her fellows, are nevertheless enough to get the job done, her bolt rounds and blade finding weakpoints throughout the morass to cripple and kill each Nob in succession.

Yet both almost seem pale in comparison to Aquarius. If the other Zodiac Guards are fluid in battle, she is water, almost appearing to weave through the melee in ways that should be impossible in power armour. Her power lance, Thricevoid, only emphasises this; though overcomplex, with three blades on both ends that automatically rotate to slice in whatever direction the stave is moved, she remains unhindered by its bulk, leaving triple-slices in whatever the weapon passes through, propelled by strength even beyond most of her siblings to leave Karapaces in shreds, and Mega Armour somewhat wanting.

As unofficial second-in-command of the Imperio Armatus below only the Emperor himself, the centerpiece of the fight is Cancer, bearing an odd combination of a power scythe and a chain glaive, Homestead and Brachyura, against the Overlord himself with a finesse that speaks of many years of experience. Urlakk, by comparison, seems clunky whilst hindered by his mega armour and power klaw, though each blow has enough force behind it to crush plasteel like paper, and the oversized shoota in his other hand is able to put out more than enough firepower to eventually penetrate any form of personal shielding, a fact that the grey-clad Guard is well aware of. His dodges are near-flawless, and though the attacks made with his weapons are not necessarily harmful on their own, they stack up to start carving gashes into the ramshackle defenses.

"'Old still, ya git!" the Warlord screams, frustration starting to show in his voice as he swipes. "Oi can't killz ya if ya keep dodgin'!"

"That's the idea, you oversized freak!" Cancer yells back, landing yet another blow against Urlakk's armour, this time managing to break through entirely and score a wound upon the titanic Ork with Brachyura, sending him stumbling back a couple of feet, and giving the creature a chance to catch his breath.

"Grrruh! Damn you 'umies, yer not ment ta be dis fast! Wotz da game 'ere?" Urlakk asks, clearly exasperated at how incapable he is at striking the Ronin.

"Poor fool," Cancer says with a shake of his helmet and a brandishing of his weapons. "If you really think we're normal humans, then you never stood a chance to begin with." Homestead is swung round to try and finish the Overlord off, but he is unpleasantly surprised when the alien's power klaw is brought up to grab the weapon's blade, locking it in position.

"PAH! Zog dat! Yer bigga an' fasta," the Ork spits with a swing of his free arm, "but'cher 'umies all da same! An' loik any 'umie, yooze gotten ova-con-fiddent, an' fergotten dat oi 'old da taktikal advantage 'ere!"

"Your "surprise attack" has FAILED, you monster!" Cancer yells, swinging his free weapon round in time with his exposition at Urg's shoulder, but failing to cause more than scratches, for poor attack angle and for not having focused its protection down sooner. "And your BODYGUARD is being DISMANTLED as we SPEAK!"

"Yer fink dat's wot oi woz torkin' 'bout?! Mork's gob, YOOZE da one not finkin' straight! Ya see, oi 'old da advantage ov 'avin' control ova da most important fing ov all: da ellyment ov SERPROIZE!"

On cue, a cubic nozzle pops up from just below the Overlord's klaw, from which spews a massive gout of burning promethium - surely not as pure as that produced by the Imperium, but hot enough to boil a man alive inside his armour nonetheless. Cancer is forced to release Homestead and leap away to avoid the worst of the fuel, but its intensity of both heat and light is enough to leave him effectively blind.

Blind enough, in fact, that he fails to predict the power klaw coming at him until it has wrapped itself round his torso and hoisted him in the air, arms pinned to his side and unable to break free. A rare failure of the Ronin's spatial awareness, but a surely fatal one in this position. Nigh-instantly, three of the remaining Zodiac Guard begin to fight their way over to Urlakk and Cancer, Virgo and Aquarius calling to him as if it will help; yet the fray remains thick, and even a Ronin could not hope to reach them in time.

Gemini, silent despite the heavy reduction of psychic power levelled against him, simply holds two fingers to his temple and sends out a psychic signal.

"TOIME TA POP YA, MAGGOT!" the Warlord screams, steadily increasing the pressure the klaw is exerting, compressing Cancer's power armour until it begins to creak with the extertion. Cancer himself groans in sympathy, struggling to break free to no avail, the pressure on his torso becoming greater and greater.

With no warning, the pressure is released, and Cancer drops to the floor, landing in a crouch before Urlakk Urg's severed arm. It takes the Ork a second to realise what has happened, even as the battle around him goes silent.

"...wot?"

That is all he manages to say before a shining golden power claw tears through his chest, heedless of protection, and hoists him far off the ground, screaming and struggling: "AAH! WOT?! WOT DA ZOG?!" Urlakk tries to look behind himself, but his own armour hinders his range of movement, and all he perceives is an impossibly bright golden glow in the corner of his vision.

+YOUR REIGN OF TERROR COMES TO A CLOSE, URLAKK URG. BEHOLD, ORKS OF ULLANOR: THE DEATH OF YOUR MASTER.+

With a psychic shockwave that ripples through the entire Ullanor System, touching the mind of every fighting man, woman, and Ork within, the Emperor of Mankind tears upward, shredding most of Urlakk Urg's body and instantly ending his life. The proximity of the shockwave itself, combined with the sudden death of their leader, is too much for the remaining Weirdboyz in the tower to take, and their heads simultaneously detonate, creating lesser-yet-sympathetic psychic blasts that cause the head of every remaining Nob in the room to perish in the same manner but a moment later.

Like that, the battle in the tower, and so the battle across the Ullanor Sector, ends. On Ullanor Prime proper, and within the Ullanor System itself, the Orkish menace almost instantly begins to rout, the forces of humanity inspired to take on a mantle of absolute boldness, allowing them to sweep through the green tide like a scythe through wheat; this pattern repeats with every planet in the sector as the shockwave expands, until every living being in the area has been made aware of the Overlord's demise. It will take no more than a few weeks to finalise the extermination of Urlakk Urg's empire.

But before then, there are other matters to attend to. Though it is not required of the Imperio Armatus, Cancer remains kneeling in silent supplication to his lord father, well aware that his failure would have cost him his life if not for the Emperor's arrival.

"Peace, my child. You did as well as you could have. Sheathe your weapons, and rest, all of you."

For the next few minutes, all is rather quiet. The Armatus' helmets are removed, revealing features not too far separated from their immortal parent's own in most cases - dark hair and darker eyes abound, though their skin tone is somewhere between a deep tan and a pale grey pallor for their lineage, with only Virgo's softly glowing epidermis, Cancer's inexplicably bone-white hair, and Gemini's empty, burned-out eye sockets proving different from the standard. All but Cancer discuss the battle with one another amongst the corpses, talking tactics and strategies to further improve their prowess for future battles; Cancer remains silent and dour, mulling over his defeat despite his status, but paying close attention to his fellows as they speak nonetheless.

The discussion is broken when Gemini feels the Emperor's mind touch his own, gently, the way one might tap a hammer against a nail before the blow that sends the nail into the wood is struck. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he turns to face his father, ready to perform whatever duty is required of him.

"Call to your brethren, Primarch and Armatus alike. We shall hold a Triumph for the glories achieved this day; but before that, we must hold a Council."

Gemini nods, closes his eyelids serenely, and falls to his knees in agony as blood dribbles from his facial orifices. The Emperor's will is done: A council is being held. Gather on Ullanor Prime, at the tower once held by Overlord Urlakk Urg. You have two solar weeks before we start.

---

It hung in darkness, a hidebound tome of some dry, unnatural blue, its cover branded with a twisting sigil and embossed with the image of a single closed eye. It was impossible to look away.

Do not ask which creature screams in the night.

Gradually, the eye embedded in the book's cover opened, revealing a glimmering blue iris, a warped, goatish pupil. The symbol began to burn. The book's latches unhooked of their own accord, falling loose with a faint metallic jingle.

Do not question who waits for you in the shadow.

Slowly, inevitably, the tome began to creak open.

It is my cry that wakes you in the night

The cover turned with a sepulchral groan. The first page was almost visible. Something slithered within it. Something she did not want to look upon but could not turn away from. She struggled to speak, but there was no sound.

It is my body that-

A great golden hand struck down upon the flickering tome, slamming it shut. The thunderclap that resounded from it boomed through the black void, joined by an enraged, animal scream that tore her mind from sleep.

---

Lydia Magaera sat upright upon her couch, gasping soundlessly, her heart thudding in her great chest. She was in the foundry's observation tower, its lights dimmed, its consoles darkened and arrayed with white and black candles in their place. The wax had burned low, the slender radiance guttering. She had claimed the iron bower for a time of contemplation before the rites and libations of departing. Had she fallen so easily into sleep?

The conquest of the Ork machine must have wearied her more than she believed.

She rose, composing herself, looking upward and taking a long, quiet breath. A short jump, and her hands gripped an embossed crossbeam that would have been a body's length out of reach for any normal woman. Muscle tensed beneath olive skin as she lifted herself from the floor, straightening her legs out in front of her at a perfect 90-degree angle, holding the position without as much as a quiver.

It was not the first unsought vision she had endured. But it had been different from the others. More alive. More aware. Changing shape and darting into shadow when she groped for it in memory. She had sensed hunger, and death. Some great disturbance had reached through the stars, stretching out its hand. Perhaps seeking her. Perhaps not. Still the certainty lingered that there had been some great secret upon that page. Something that had been kept from her, beckoning. Insisting.

Hard, quiet anger burned in the Lady's eyes. Meat in a trap. She was not a fool. Such gifts had too high a price.

She lowered herself from the beam and pressed her hand to the floor, inverting herself and balancing one-armed, bending one leg acutely behind her with her other arm. She was her father's child. She did not waver in the belly of Asphodel, and she would not waver now.

She lifted her head at a familiar mental shadow, wordlessly announcing itself as it drew near. She responded tolerantly, beckoning it in, straightening her leg and bending the other.

The wheels built into the great doors rotated and slid away, the barriers parting to admit the first chief librarian, Mnemosyne, the telepath, robed and shrouded in her dark armor. She was pale as death, her face creased and aged, and her eyes, always hidden beneath the shadow of her priestess's hood, were a sere, unnerving yellow. Thick cables ran from the sides of the cowl, linking her brain to Threnos's memory banks when aboard, physically tethering her to the ship's library. Forgetting was a luxury she had long ago denied herself, and some said that it was this, and not a quirk of her genetic treatment, that had drained her vitality so.

"Lady Magaera... is all well?" Her cracked voice, so disturbing to those not accustomed to it, was uncertain. "We felt..."

Lydia nodded, not turning to look at the withered librarian. She hesitated a moment.

(Tall, pillared cavern in a great, green field. Dark entrance cold with dread.)

"Ah." The shadowed hood stopped mid-turn, the dry voice guarded, yet strangely mollified. "Yes. I understand."

(Wryly evocative memory. Great shield embossed with monstrous female visage. Blood trickling from its surface.)

"Sweet Whispers..." Mnemosyne's lip curled. "It is fortunate you compel the gifted to confront the truth of them so early. Alecto's whelp should be next, and sooner rather than later. I can feel her hatred..." she whispered it, almost hungrily. "...Her body will welcome your blood, but Sibyline has foretold that she will inherit more. She must be watched until her training is complete."

(Faint question: Red-figure painting of a heavily-armored woman bending over a round pool. Sudden, deep crack running through the clay, bisecting her.)

The librarian's hood paused, her pale lips twisting uneasily "...As well as can be expected, my Lady. She... takes her food, if that pleases you."

(Pity/Disgust)

"...I know, my mistress." Mnemosyne's breath hissed through her teeth, "It is a thing for which justice can never truly be done -- though I feel the Eldar cowards will bear that wound for the remainder of their pitiful existence. Ahh, and I sense the first legion carving some meat of their own. Ancient blood ripples through the aether even now."

Lydia gave no response, completing her exercise and drawing herself back to her full height before moving to the vaulted observation window. The librarian paused, long armored fingers closing around her raven-tipped staff.

"...Divine Lydia, what troubles you?"

The Primarch folded her hands behind her back, gazing out over Harkonnen. The lights were being shut down, one after the other, in preparation for the funerary ritual. Her mind was closed, but Mnemosyne could feel the weight upon it, the tension within her like the lashing of a cat's tail.

"The rites...?" she hazarded, "Nay, surely not. This is a day of glory, whatever price was paid. Your guidance was flawless, our sacrifices were few. Those who surrendered their lives did so gladly, and perished with your name upon their lips. This is a victory that will echo through the millennia."

(...Arrangement of golden pitchers overflowing with rich wine. Simple wooden cup, dry and empty.)

"Ahhhh..." Mnemosyne's head tilted back in consideration, the dim candlelight dancing in her pale eyes from below. "...The meeting with your brother did not unfold as you had hoped."

The giantess exhaled, silently. Frustration and reluctance twisted in her mental aspect. Her mind pushed the librarian away, gently.

"Well, what did you expect? Too different." she shook her head, "Too different. Best leave that one to his own counsel. Wounded your pride, did it?"

Magaera's silhouette continued to stare out over the darkening manufactorum, her mind walled off. Mnemosyne felt the air turning dry, like a gathering storm. She pressed on, knowing the dangerously thin line she walked but determined to see it to its end.

"...You have brought the greatest world in this system under your father's heel. You have drawn the worst the Ork scum had to offer to its battlegrounds and in seven days wiped them from its surface like filth from a boot, and still you brood over a stilled tongue -- as if more wasted breath would change anything at all."

The tension built unbearably.

"...I see what you hide in your heart. You are not alone. Thousands flock beneath your banner. You have all your legion. You have--"

Her feet left the ground and the far wall slammed into her back, knocking the words from her body as the candles simultaneously snuffed out. The Lady turned on her, blue eyes hot and pitiless, and she was lifted higher, pressed harder, the unseen weight bearing down on her remorselessly, the dark metal of the wall creaking as it slowly warped with the horrible pressure. The librarian grasped uselessly at her throat, forced what air she could from her empty lungs, fighting to speak aloud through the breathtaking punishment.

"You..." she gasped, drawing on all of her bitter determination in the face of the Goddess's anger. "...are not..."

Her armor creaked under the torturous compression. She forced one last, heroic breath as the pressure threatened to break her in two.

"...Gorseval!"

The pressure relased her immediately, and she slid from the wall, collapsing to the floor with a metallic clatter, clutching her throat and coughing bitterly. The titaness turned away sharply, braids swinging, fixing her eyes again on the twilight view from the observatory window. Her face was drawn with tightly concealed emotion. Remorse and pain washed out from her.

The first chief librarian dragged herself to her hands and knees with trembling arms, a thin patter of blood dripping from her nose and lips. She heaved shaking breaths through her wracked lungs, slowly gathering enough strength to speak.

"Forgive my temerity... beloved mistress..." she coughed weakly, pulling up her hood, "But I would sooner die at your hand offering you the truth... hssst... than live an eternity with the knowledge... that I had failed you... haah... in the smallest conscience."

(Bleak aspect. Downcast eyes. Dark disc slowly moving to cover a vast white sun. Thin crescent of white fire flickering at its edge.)

"I know, my Lady. I know the strength of the bond you share, but you are not like him. You have compelled nothing, forced no one. You inspire and enflame. These girls turn to you as flowers seek the sun, and you offer them something the hollow universe would see them denied at every turn. They struggle and suffer for the right to transcend their weak flesh and mete justice at your heel."

Lydia took a deep breath, mirrored by her ghostly reflection in the observation window. The eclipse lingered between them, paused at its midpoint.

"Tchh. If even Victory doubts herself, what hope for the rest of us?" The dark librarian drew herself up, painfully, shuffling to the doors. "The rite is near, daughter of the Emperor. We must both prepare, and now it seems I must have this armor mended. I beg you, my Lady: put this sorrow aside." Her mind opened to the Primarch, revealing genuine care. "Do not allow this dark dream to unbalance you."

The doors opened and closed with a mechanical groan, the wheels turning and locking behind her. The Lady's honor guard stood flanking the corridor, staring at her in hushed silence. Mnemosyne wiped blood from her nose with the hem of her cloak, regarding them scornfully.

"See to your duties, children." she scowled, making her way to the elevator. "...Leave me to see to mine."

---

Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiæ,

Lydia stared down at the slim bronze coin in her armored hand, her own carven face glittering on its surface in artistic profile, ringed by an old Asphodelic invocation of triumph. She turned it over, revealing the aquila, symbol of her father's house and mark of his empire. A newer minting, one made after her ascension to the stars. In the still twilight, a glowing ember settled into her open palm from above, burning from hot orange to dull red. She watched it die, dwindling into black against burnished metal and white ceramite. So bright and hot. So fragile and brief.

Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve.

the Lady placed the coin beneath the dead woman's tongue, gently closed her mouth and pressed a white-armored finger to her pale lips.

Ad te clamamus exsules filii

She raised her head, regarding the ringed ranks of the thirteenth legion, now the veterans of Harkonnen, and the envy of those who would come after them. They bowed their heads solemnly, save Polyhymna and her apprentices, who intoned the ceremonial dirge of departure. At a respectful distance, they were watched by hundreds of the victims of Killkrazy's rule, beholding them with silent awe.

Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes

The manufactorum lay beneath a pall of grey ash, its lights dimmed in reverence, its fans and machines stilled in this moment of silence. Glowing embers drifted gently from above, their gentle fires flickering, fading and slowly going going out. And all around the Primarch, the dead were laid in ranks atop makeshift biers. Bodies swathed in white. Bloodless faces turned to the black sky. She walked amongst them like a pensive giant wading through a pale sea, bending to pay each their final respects and slip her obol beneath their silent tongues. She was trailed by the cloaked figure of the Keeper of Memory, who marked their name and deeds upon a scroll held by a floating homonculus.

It was an old tradition, one her father had permitted her to retain. He understood the importance of commemorating the dead, even if belief in the Underworld, and the faceless oarsman who plied its shores, had long been done away with in his name.

In hac lacrimarum valle.

As she held the final coin, the fire came upon her, the message ringing through the stars. Lydia lifted her head, expectantly.

A council is being held. Gather on Ullanor Prime, at the tower once held by Overlord Urlakk Urg. You have two solar weeks before we start.

The words were broadcast, declamatory, from her mind to the minds of her legion, solemn but radiant, a slow, bright dawn over a grim and silenced battlefield. From Lydia's mind, the waters of Asphodel parted, and the dead marched proudly into the sea, unafraid, with faces raised in peace and satisfaction. The 13th legion saluted and closed in, bearing away their fallen, reverently, into the waiting transport ships which would carry them to the isle of Erebus, and their final rest.

Polyhymna's voice echoed throughout the manufactorum's address system as the first of the Thunderhawks lifted from the surface, kicking up whirlwinds of ash in the white shafts of light.

"Victory is ours. The last and foulest head has been cut from the Orkish serpent, and the Emperor summons the Lady to his side. The Empire has triumphed, and all are now free, by her grace, to choose their path. Choose well, people of Harkonnen. For we will always be watching."

---

They withdrew, and only Lydia herself remained, standing at the edge of the primary magma canal holding a golden ewer, lit from below by the distant fire. Alone, she upturned the vessel, pouring a red trickle of rich wine into the burning chasm. The heated air rose around her, rustling her skirts and playing at the loose strands of her hair.

When the last drop had fallen to the depths of the planet, she stepped back, and turned to look at the gathered citizens, their eyes all upon her. Slowly, one of the young men in the front row lowered himself to his knees, followed by another. Gradually, like a quiet wave over a calm sea, the others followed suit, until every last one knelt before her distant figure. Their faces were solemn. Worshipful. Terrified.

Lydia smiled, faintly, and turned toward the floodlit shadows of the departing airships.

---

After war, there were casualties.

The Void Stalkers didn't inter their dead or honor their passing with rite or solemn speech. They didn't even write down their names. No, the Void Stalkers simply returned their dead warriors from whence their spirit came: out of the airlock and into the void.

Stripped of their armor and their weapons, the dead Stalkers were wrapped in a black death shroud and loaded into the airlock in batches of five. There they lay, side by side, until the vacuum of outer space snatched them away when the outer doors of the airlock opened. These proceedings were usually supervised by the respective Void-Master of the Chapter that the Marines belonged to, which meant that they were disposed of from various different ships. Gorseval couldn't possibly be in several places at once. The vast majority of the dead Void Stalkers were sent off into eternity without the presence of the Primarch they lived and died for.

Today, Gorseval attended the disposal of the dead of the First Chapter. They'd saved his life when they steered the Space Hulk away from its collision course with the Eclipse – it only made sense. There were precious few of them to send off, though, as most of their dead had been left behind in the Hulk. Unfortunate, but Balthasith had managed to put a positive spin on it.

“That ship will take them to places none of us will ever visit,” he'd said. “They'll see more of the galaxy than you or I.”

Gorseval stood in the hangar of the Event Horizon, watching the void burial from a distance, arms crossed. Asmodal flanked him, his Terminator armor covered in fresh dents and nicks but decidedly clean. The lighting in the hangar was dim and cast many opposing, soft shadows.

The somber mood of the Primarch seemed to cling to him like a cloak of darkness. He wasn't upset at the deaths of his Astartes, however. Gorseval was still wrestling with the fact that he would have likely died if it wasn't for the actions of the man standing next to him, and those that followed him into the Space Hulk. Asmodal was invaluable. That was insufferable.

“There would not have been anything left of me to send off, if it wasn't for you,” Gorseval eventually said quietly. He kept his black gaze fixed on the proceedings in front of him – Void Stalkers carried their dead brethren into the airlock in total silence – but Asmodal knew that he'd been spoken to. The white-haired Astartes exhaled deeply through his nose and smiled faintly, casting a sidelong glance at his King and Primarch.

Asmodal weighed his options in his mind and decided to reply with honesty. “You don't like that, do you?” he whispered. Gorseval's head turned sharply and he looked at Asmodal, his face unreadable.

“Don't presume to --” Gorseval began, but Asmodal chuckled and waved the reprimand away with his huge, armored hand. “It wasn't criticism,” Asmodal said. “You've always been like that. If it were possible to do everything by yourself, you would.” He paused and gauged Gorseval's reaction, but the Primarch said nothing, nor did he look away. Asmodal continued: “I'm not one of them. Your genetic sons, or those that you bent to your will in the Reach. I volunteered. Did you forget?”

Gorseval's frown deepened. “Of course not.”

It was a few seconds before Asmodal spoke again. “Good. I would follow you until the end of the light, where the stars thin out and the endless nothing begins. I would die for you, my Lord. The Reach was nothing before you came to us. But I do know who you are and what you're like,” he said and waited for Gorseval to respond.

The Primarch merely looked away. He felt a disturbance in the back of his mind, like a ripple from something that was happening far away. A faint image flashed in his mind's eye before the walls came back up and the connection was severed. There, it reverberated.

Dark disc slowly moving to cover a vast white sun. Thin crescent of white fire flickering at its edge.

“No, you don't,” Gorseval said bitterly. He uncrossed his arms and stalked away, leaving Asmodal behind, who was smart enough not to follow his Primarch.

A shadow of uncertainty flickered over his old face.

---

The Void Stalkers responded to the call to return to Ullanor Prime immediately. Gorseval was glad to leave Harkonnen IV behind him – the specter of his near-defeat had haunted him long enough. The great fleet of the XXth Legion left orbital grav-anchor and made their way to the system's jump-point. Gorseval sent a short telepathic ping to Lydia Magaera to let her know that he was departing the system and that he hoped to see her on Ullanor Prime.

One by one, the spaceships flitted into the Warp and out of the void.

Like twin omens of victory, two Valkyries streaked above the onslaught, leaving twin tails of mist in the air as they circled the field and headed back in their direction of travel. Erron watched with a smile growing on his face as the aircraft dipped and turned, leaving almost as soon as they had arrived. His men had paid little notice or heed to the fighters, their attentions completely focused on keeping back the Orkish brutes that still pressed them from all sides. The assault from Void Master Gabriel and his Chapter had given the Wild Blades the surge they needed, giving strength to their arms. The entire Legion fought with the ferocity of wounded beasts backed into a corner, lashing back at the Orks and taking down three or four times as many xenos scum before an individual Astartes fell.

They would not have to hold much longer, Erron knew, his smile growing.

Over the ridge, barreling like a stampede of Taurochs bellowing with rage, the combined forces of the XVII and V Legion rose like an oncoming tidal wave. The Great Chief saw the colors of his brother and sisters forces in the distance, the massive frames of Knights and the roar of Rhinos filling the air. Dragging his bloodied sword from the gut of an Ork, he lifts the crimson soaked blade into the air and tilts his head back. A primal howl rips from his throat, mingling with the sounds of combat and the roar of their reinforcements as the first lines of the Paladins Eternal crash into the green tide. Bones crunch and bodies are churned underneath the treads and feet of the Paladins and their war machines. Like a wedge the allied forces drive into Ork lines, pushing aside the beasts as they reinforce the center where the Wild Blades have made a gap. The armored personnel carriers of the Astartes disgorge their payload of armored warriors, spilling out the azure and dark crimson armor of the Paladins to mix with the deep green of the Blades. As their cousins join them in conflict, the Wild Blades pull back their lines to allow the new arrivals a share of the glory, checking equipment and dragging the wounded away from the fight under the cover of their reinforcements. Erron watches as a squad of Marines in Terminator armor surge past his position, joining his Apexa Predatoris around him and giving the Primarch a bubble of calm.

Surveying the battle, the Great Chief can see that this new turn of events has dramatically affected the minds of the Orks. Fear shows plain on their savage faces, and more and more turn and try to flee. Some are successful, other are met with steel and bolter on the fringes as the outer Companies slaughter the broken xenos. Where there had once been a threat of defeat and death, now hung the bright light of victory.

+”Brother Erron, you were expecting us?”+

Erron turned, his smiling face regarding a Knight of greater size and embellishment than any of the others. He nodded his head, lifting his sword in salute to his brother warmachine.

“Aye, though you seemed to have arrived just in time for the party to end my friend. Still, looks like there is plenty of fun to be had,” Erron replies into the vox-mic on the collar of his armor. His mic crackles another time, the sound distorted through distance.

+"Brother Erron, tis thine own brother Talvyrn. I have arrived to support and relieve your forces with my own legion, we landed as close as we could to your location but the cogitators dropped us further than expected. Do you know of the quickest way into thy location?"+

Erron shakes his head slightly, a grin still on his face as he listens to the hail from another of his sibling Primarchs. “Always showing up right as things start to get going don’t you Tally? Maximus has just arrived, we are mopping things up here quickly. I’d suggest finding out if the Imperial Army is in need of support,” he replies, turning back to the Knight bearing Maximus.

“Now lets show these bastards what it means to face the Elite of Mankind,” he finishes with a wicked grin as we turns and dashes back into the fray, blades held high.

---

The remaining Orks had been disposed of quickly. Those that had managed to escape were left alone, to be hunted down later. Erron had received word from his Astropath that the Emporer himself had sent out a call for all Primarchs and their Legions to join him on Ullanor Prime. The Warboss had been slain, the invasion of Ullanor a success. No doubt such a day would bring glory and honor upon the participants for the remainder of time.

Erron himself, his armor still dented, slashed, and dulled from grim and blood, marched at the head of his Legion. Representatives from each of the ten Companies had been assembled, as well as the Chapter of Void Stalkers that joined them. The remainder of his Legion was left to refit and repair their equipment and prepare the fleet for exodus as soon as a new mission was given.

The ten ragged formations marched without ceremony or strict discipline towards the tower, their ranks uneven and the Astartes of the Wild Blades singing ballads of war, honor, and triumph as they walked towards the tower. Erron did not know why the Emperor was calling all of his siblings together, in truth he had not seen some of his brothers and sisters in decades. Such a calling no doubt had implications that could change the course of the Crusade.