A bolt travels a long way to the chamber of a boltgun. The finest materials traveled into the forges to be shaped by the machinery overseen by tech adepts. The acceptable quality of such an item was immense, and waste of resources or skill not tolerated. Once stamped with the seal, it was packed with other such items for voyage into the void, out to the ever-gapening maw of the Emperor's Legiones Astartes.

Thence it would find its way into the holds of a rogue trader transporting emergency resupply items into the warzone. The bolter rounds would sit in that case, in the hold of a ship, until the intended user, an Astartes, loaded the rounds into magazines and the magazines into their respective bandoliers and webbing.

It would be carried into a transport vessel, a civilian one obeying the orders of the Argyos planetary governor that a tithe be paid in material in these most unusual and harrowing of times. That the vessel carried the truth tithe, death from the Emperor, did not cross the minds of the men directing the traffic from space down to planetside, into the garrison that was the man's fortress, his center of authority. It was also the cancer in the center of this world, a place where the seeds of Chaos were being planted.

The enemy were not entirely without caution; the local forces were in on this governor's little rebellion, this balking of the Great Crusade and the Imperial Compliance. The expected little rebellions in response to the various edicts. They expected informed citizens, loyal to the Emperor of Mankind, to create mayhem, to resist. But they did not expect there would be Astartes involved. The hatch of the transport opened and prepared for inspection. The men piloting the transport found something solid to take cover behind. They knew what would come next.

And so when the bolt was fired, the casing ejected, and the bolt itself found a home in the head of a trooper that was not expecting that, fired by a man that was a Son of Horus no more. It wasn't the first shot Argyos ever heard fired in anger, but it was the first shot of a new war.

@TemplarKnight07@Jbcool@MonkeyBusiness@agentmanatee@POOHEAD189

A sound plan. That was how Kraeger had described the idea to infiltrate the govenours palace via the large supply crates that seemed to rarely be thoroughly checked by his men until they were already inside. He had scoffed at this glaring hole in their defenses, any man with so many enemies should have been screening his cargo multiple times long before they were ever anywhere near his home. But, it made a perfect opportunity for the Legionnaires to get in whilst causing minimal collateral damage... of course Kraeger was completely ok with causing maximum collateral damage if that method was easier. Intercepting and aquiring the crates and convincing the drivers to help their cause had not been hard in the slightest.

Of course, all this was a moot point as no one had told Kraeger the crates were just barely large to fit a Legionnaire in full power armour and their previous cargo. So, for the past hours he had been crouched amongst a massive pile of what had once been neatly stacked gourmet food. By now said gourmet food had devolved into mush all across the proud warriors armour... he had to keep himself from growling the entire way. At least by the end of this they would be in the palace, and then it would all be over very quickly. The guards checking the cargo were completely unprepared for when Prodigal Son burst from his own crate and opened fire. He was followed shortly by the former Iron Warrior Kraeger Antal, his dark gray armour and proud veteran stripes obscured by the slurry of what was once food. The Legionnaire growled his annoyance, his bolter matching his low growl with a burst of shells. The rounds smashed into a group of guards still stunned by surprise at the suddenly appearing demigods.

Two of the three poor bastards were dead before they knew what had happened, chest busting out as the bolter shells created massive sucking holes amongst their now shredded internal organs. The third and fourth were marginally luckier, one screamed as his arm was blow off at the elbow and sent him tumbling into his comrade. Kraeger chose now to speak up on the Legionnaires shared vox channel, "Damnit Prodigal, next time we stick ourselves in crates filled with unkown supplies I get first pick. I don't mind blood and gore but whatever the hell the governour likes putting in his mouth I'd rather not have my armour smelling like it.", he complained in his subdued and half hearted manner, not unlike a man who couldn't give a rats ass if his own foot was shot off.

When he finished his poultry complaint a few of the human guards appeared to still have back bones and opened fire on the armoured behemoth. The scattered las fire did little but vaporize the caked on food which covered his armour and scorched the paint a bit as well. Kraeger turned to face the new threat, kicking his way out of the large crate in order to get more mobility. Splinters flew through the air as he burst the box, the food slurry spraying through the air with them. He did not send another volley, rather with disciplined single pulls of the trigger shells flew to meet their mark. Another guard was flung from his feet by the force of the shell exploding in his chest. It had been a little while since Kraeger haad been in combat again... it felt damn good to be back in his natural space. Gunning down enemies in the name of the Pert- the Emperor... he was still getting used to that.

Hephaistos burst out of his own crate, bottles of Amasec clinking and rolling heavily off as he stepped out, his steps careful to not even break them. He was pleased with the idea of sneaking into the Governer's palace like this, though not the idea of blowing their cover like this before they were even off the transport. He would have preferred them all actually being moved directly into the palace before they burst out and met the palace forces with even more shock and even less resistance between them and their target.

Then again, unless these pathetic forces had other Astartes with them (which all their information never indicated), there's little they could do to harm Hephaistos or his new brothers, save maybe heavy artillery.

The Thousand Son Sorcerer had his bolt pistol at the ready in his right hand, his ornately carved staff in his left hand, and his energy sword at his right side, hilted. His red with goldish brass trimmed armour and its old arcane litanies and wards scrawled upon vellum and wax seals adorning it gleamed as he walked into the light. He walked by Kraeger and Prodigal Son as they had opened up with their bolters and were doing a fine job carving up these men, surveying the carnage as he took cover by the edge of the ship ramp, his side exposed to shots, though those that could find their mark glanced off his armour. He made his minor annoyance known to his brothers as he surveyed the troops and their terrified reactions to all of the Astartes bursting from their various hiding places.

"I had hoped we'd have made it further inside before blowing our cover. Who knows what wonders I could have done by manipulating the minds of some of these weaklings? We may have taken the whole damn fortress in under half an hour and not even fired a shot ourselves."

Five minutes to landing.

Four minutes to landing.

Three...

Two...

One!

Splinters of wood flew everywhere, phallic shaped objects launched equally far by the force of an Astartes exploding from a huge crate, 'supplies' apparently on there way to the Sisters of Silence - or so he had been told - bouncing from the metal walls of the hold and rolling ahead of the near ten-foot behemoth that followed in there wake. Causing the lowered ramp to shift beneath the weight of armour and superhuman alike, the black armoured warrior bought his weapon about to sweep from one side of the landing area to the other. It appeared that the Iron Warrior and the other more enigmatic Marine had already freed the space of most of its security, the treacherous Governor either so full of his own ego that he had relaxed his guard a little too much...or there was more, possibly even a trap further along the line.

Ignoring any stray fire that came his way, and blocking out the half-hearted attempt at humour from Perturabo's scion with his usual contempt, the Astartes known only as Ferreus watched as the witch took cover to better observe the death throes of what little resistance they had encountered. Some of the las-armed fools had began to drop their weapons, bolter shells taking them apart even as they made a hasty retreat, others standing their ground with gritted teeth and determination...but death came for them all the same.

Ferreus listened to the vox-chatter from the staff-wielding witch and inside his helmet narrowed his eyes, his mouth tightening and his teeth gritting, even as he opened his own vox and replied.

"You never cease to disgust me, scion of the Cyclops." He said with no attempt to restrain the venom that laced his words, "no doubt you would find anything better than a fair fight..." as if to emphasise his point he turned away lifted his bolter for a split second, not even bothering to take aim down the sights, and fired a singular bolt through the neck of one of the braver soldiers serving the Governor, jugular and throat-matter spraying everywhere as his neck seemed to simply disappear in a cloud of gore, "now cease your useless complaints and help, or remain where you are like a mewling infant."

With long steps he strode ahead of Prodigal Son and Kraeger, uncaring of incoming fire and dispatching any rebels with brutal efficiency in his quest for a greater challenge, though remaining at least within the perimeter of the landing area.

If there was a trap to be sprung, then he was going to find it.

Ragnvald was seething from being jammed into a container in full power armor. There was not enough room in the container and he had been forced to remain still for the better part of ten minutes while the transport touched down in the Governor's fortress. The Son of Russ burst from his prison without a second thought as the ramp lowered and fired up his jump pack to see that he had enough fuel for only three more jumps.

His new battle brothers had already started to open fire on the meager amount of guards which to the Space Wolf seemed like a waste of ammunition. He let out a bestial howl as he charged past the other Astarte shoving Ferreus out of the way as he activated his pack and leap high into the air. He landed with a crunch on top of a fleeing guard who was crushed under the weight of the eight foot tall monster who went to attack another near by guard. Ragnvald tore through the guards with ease with his pair of lightning claws as las fire bouncing off his armor scorching the wolf pelt that adorned his armor.

"That is enough talking now. If you don't hurry than there will be no glory left for the rest of you." Ragnvald told his brothers as he continued to cut down the remaining guards left near the transport.

"FOR THE EMPEROR!"

Despite being confined within his crate, Uriah's voice rang out and echoed across the hold they were in as if he had been upon a dias in the center of the room. As soon as the proclamation left his lips, his crate was shattered into so much kindling, and a shining example of what it meant to be Astartes materialized from the wreckage. His bolter out, he fired three rounds into the nearest guards. One chest was popped like a melon and two heads were turned into blood and bone paste.

The crate would have been cramped for him even without him being clad within his shining power armor, but he took it without complaint or threat. He was truly honored to do his Emperor's work. He strode forward, having seen that in the scant seconds of his release, his brother marines had already taken care of almost everyone else in the room. It was to be expected. "Good job, brothers." he said, hefting his bolter and reloading while he had the chance too, simultaneously striding forward, his presence powerful and bright.

Normally he and his fellow Ultramarines were not used to working with their other brethren, but the fact that they were all here and not apart of the traitor legions indicated that they would give their lives for the cause that he himself held so highly. For that, they were his brothers without doubt or fear. He took it upon himself to catch up with Ferreus at the fore, stoic and vigilantly gazing around at new threats that would dare present themselves.

The first kill was with a bolter, but after that, he moved to his chainsword, cutting with a controlled fury and economy of motion. Nothing was wasted. It was the lesson he learned in the Heresy's opening days, to conserve everything he had. The bolter fell into place on its harness and the chainsword started up with a roar. It shredded flesh and made a mess, but it did the job. Even with the promethium that fueled the chainsword, he was absolutely careful to use the minimum to get the job done.

If the first few soldiers that died were easy kills due to the element of surprise, things got tougher when someone set up a firing position in the chamber and started firing grenades from a launcher, the automatic kind used by the Solar Auxilia, at the Astartes. His own armor was inefficiently cooled and the output was turned down, which was galling in the sense that he was used to moving faster. His armor bore him through the fighting he did on Polybius, so he valued it. But he had to repair it already and the efficiency was down from the peaks he knew when there were sufficient specialists in his legion to maintain equipment. Still, it was fast enough to let him take cover when the grenades started hitting nearby. It was strong enough to protect him from the shrapnel that flew about. The ceramite withstood that test, even if it was degraded from prior service and insufficient maintenance.

With the grenades coming down around him, there was limited time. Someone had to get that grenadier. Working his way through the cargo containers in the area, using the cover, he closed in on the firing position. Power armor was a technological marvel, but he knew that it was a finite thing and hard to repair. It made no sense to risk it. He'd take the calculated risk of a sprint from position to position, always understanding that the grenadier was up above on a raised defilade that protected him from direct fire. Explosions continued to crash around him, pummeling him the waves of the concussion up until he managed to get into what he considered a good firing position.

Ammunition was also precious to him, but that grenade launcher was playing havoc and was a real threat. He played an instinct and readied a frag grenade. Then, rolling around to the side of his cover, he hurled it further and faster than a normal human could have, arcing it so that it would drop on his foes. The troopers, having no personal experience of what an Astartes could do, had not estimated the lethal range for such with a hand grenade. The grenade went off with a thumping explosion in the firing position, and Prodigal Son didn't lose time. With a loping movement, he got into their firing position, which was a good one. The grenade launcher's previous wielder wouldn't object to the weapon being put to its original use; to fight the enemies of the Emperor. It might not be ideal in tight corridors, but it could be vital when used against entrenched opponents...

Hephaistos sighed inside his helmet at Ferrus's ridiculous remark. This was totally a fair and honourable fight they were having when they were fighting opponents who had barely any ordinance to even severely damage their armour or adequate armour to defend themselves against his brothers' own exploding shells. Though the Astartes in black wasn't entirely wrong, Hephaistos relished being in situations that were stacked in his favour, as he was sure most fellow Astartes do anyway, he was likely just a lot more pragmatic about creating such situations than most.

Though who wouldn't when they had the power to change and shift reality and accomplish feats that mortals could only gaze in awe-struck wonder at?

Hephaistos' gaze shifted to his staff. His powers though useful, still seemed a bit superfluous at this point, and he had two factors that still made him nervous to use them: the fact that his father was no longer there to protect him from the potential backlash from using them too much, and the uncertainty of how his fellows would react even though none of them were part of their former legions and not likely in a position to enforce the Council of Nikaea's accords.

His thoughts were interrupted by the grenade launcher which had Prodigal Son busy for a moment, though once the fellow Astartes had the weapon in his own hands and its user turned into red paste, Hephaistos stepped out of the transport, following his more zealous brethren with his eyes peeled for enemies.

An idea struck him mid-stride. He should check for any other psykers in the vicinity. Whether they were capable sorcerers or just low-level communicators, any could pose potential problems to the squad whom were otherwise incapable of sensing such things.

He stopped and drew a circle around him with the end of his staff in the dirt near the transport. He carved a handful of basic runes around it at certain points in a practiced motion as he explained himself.

"Give me a moment, I'm going to see if we're truly only up against foes with guns and machines, or if this Governor took any extra precautions of the kind I'm more familiar with."

He would then kneel within the small circle, he staff planted straight in front of him, his head bowed, and his bolt pistol lying flat as his put his right arm on the ground for balance as he concentrated, gathering his energy about him so that he might peer through the very fabric of reality and glimpse at whatever may be hiding within their general vicinity.

"Let it go," thought the now silent Marine, still feeling the grating of ceramite against ceramite as the Pup had glanced him in his eagerness for blood, "the Wolf is just a whelp."

With an audible sigh within the confines of his own helmet, Ferreus stood vigilant but unmoved by the explosive bombardment; scanning the area around him, reaching out with both his own senses and those of his armour - which were not many, what with it being a rather old design even now - even as a grenade detonated mere inches away from him; whether it was the fact that his Mark III armour was reinforced to withstand massive damage, which it had in multiple engagements throughout the decades, or whether he had in some way bought into the ideas of his Primarch concerning the natural biological constitution of his children, he feared very little in the way or ordnance as long as he was going forward.

He watched with professional judgement as Prodigal Son cleared away the nest, turning the weapon there upon those that would harm them, watched every movement of the enigmatic Astartes until completion. Only then did he give a small nod of his head, ignoring the prickling sensation running up his spine as their resident psyker got to work somewhere behind them, glancing for a brief second at the son of Macragge stood beside him before advancing toward what looked like the entranceway into the belly of the beast.

It was a simple doorway, wide enough for an armoured personnel carrier - or perhaps more importantly for a supply vehicle, coming from this landing area and taking whatever munitions and supplies to those further within. In their need to remain alive, something Ferreus had always found odd about humans, the members of the Governor's personal defense force had left the thick metal doors as wide open as a good invitation...or a trap.

The creaking and clunking of armour designed for fighting in the subterranean homes of the Squat race, and then for the cramped corridors of an enemy space vessel, could be heard loud and clear as the red-fisted Astartes moved forward and straight into the mouth of the beast.

Inside the air was dry, the walls and ceiling made of solid rockrete, Ferreus having to half-crouch his way through a corridor that he only now realised was only high enough for a normal person to walk through without having to squeeze their considerable bulk into. Thankfully it continued to be wide enough for a supply vehicle, and he had no problem maneuvering left to right and vice-versa.

No signs of life were to be found, although various closed and locked doorways did appear to be built into the walls at apparently random points, but the tracks of tracked vehicles directed him toward what he was sure would be a hub of activity within the unfinished building complex.

Not long had he been walking for when the sound of voices, voices and bustling activity, reached his enhanced ears and caused him to pause briefly to take it all in. There were certainly soldiers, the heavy tread of Auxilia-issue boots loud in his ears, the rattle of autoguns being bough to salute or simply rested on the ground...winches and the whirring of machinery also filled his senses...and the smell of lubricating liquids used on heavy guns making his nostrils twinge.

When he cautiously peered around the corner, his view directed straight into the cacophony of noise he had been listening to, he could make out much - the distinctive white and black uniform of the Argyosian First Phalanx, with their golden symbol of a mythical hydra on their shoulders and engraved on the gleaming breastplates that many wore, hardened men from an Army regiment that had become the Governor's personal immortals and death squad. Loyal to a man, disciplined and well trained, there seemed to be few of them here but enough to know that this facility was important.

Milling about them in the circular chamber were civilian workers and military engineers in dull fatigues emptying ammunition and equipment from a dozen of so tracked transports, Argyosian gunners in their regal-looking uniforms of blue and gold, and perhaps the largest thing within the room...a huge orbital cannon, no doubt one of many being set up around these barracks, offline for the moment but capable of bringing death to something even as large as a Frigate.

How many more were there? He did not know. How would they stop them all and dispatch the Governor? He did not know. All he knew was that they must be st-.

Whiiiiiiir! Whiiiiiiiiir! Whiiiiir!

Lights that Ferreus had not noticed before, positioned all along the corridor and within the hub itself, began to flash a glaring and dangerous red. The sound of the siren showing that someone, somewhere, had managed to alert the relevant authorities to the danger now pounding toward them and their glorious leader.

"Well," thought the veteran of a hundred battles, "better late than never."

Without thinking about what he was getting himself in to, Ferreus turned the corner and bought himself directly into view of his adversaries, taking note of the piled crates and nearby transports (without armour but tracked, like trucks with tank wheels), determined not to waste his ammunition even as the first auto-shells began to send sparks flashing from his 'Iron' suit.

"Lift...aim...squeeze...lift...aim...squeeze..."

Bodies began to drop, and his ammunition counter began to lower accordingly, whirring servos propelling the huge warrior toward the cover of a nearby vehicle even as he roared his hatred of the weak things closing in toward him.

At some point, the auto-turrets came on; twin-linked heavy bolters, laying down a high volume of fire in support of the security troops; there were columns, lifts and open-landing floors, and turrets hanging from the ceiling, on tracks, positioning themselves and cutting loose as it detected Astartes.

The Argyosians were putting up a stiffer fight now, too. Autoguns in the hands of some, but more and more had lasguns and were laying down an extreme sort of fire. Prodigal Son took stock of what he had to counter the weaponry. There were grenades in the launcher, but nothing of use to foil the sensors of the turrets. There was the boltgun, but the shot would have to be perfect or the heavy bolter fire would probably shred him. He returned fire with his boltgun, conserving ammo, using single shots to make every one count. Now was the time for cool calculation, rather than being cut down. Now was the time to figure out a way to make it work, however one could.

There was, also, of course, the cannon and its ammunition.

For the first time, deeming it alright to do so in dire circumstances, Prodigal Son spoke. His vocal cords were rusty from a long period of enforced silence. But, he deemed, it was better to speak up in battle than die silently and the duty to the Emperor, the penance, be undone.

"Iron Warrior. The ammunition. Do you have anything to set it off with?"

Straight for the throat. He kept up a steady pattern of accurate fire, of lives measured and cut precisely according to the fine hand of a Space Marine. But the ammunition was finite, and there were more traitor lives than bolter rounds. They needed to kill as many troops as possible with the minimal amount of resources wasted. By the same token, he aimed for the enemy officers; when he saw one that looked like they were giving orders rather than merely carrying them out, he loosed a bolter round at them. It was a way to sow confusion and a favored tactic of his Legion. They liked to kill the leaders and herd the sheep.

But this little play could not go on forever. They had a mission. The governor had to die.

Uriah holstered his bolter, conserving the large gun's ammunition for bigger opponents. As of now, he waded into the entryway passed Ferreus, having followed him through the arch. Civilian workers were mixed with enemy soldiers and unarmed vehicles in a ubiquitous mix. He was not about to be known as one who killed civilians, but there was a job here to perform, and he would do so to the best of his abilities.

His plasma Pistol in his right hand, he wielded his Gladius in his left. The Ultramarine moved tactically, somehow remaining behind crates and vehicles more often than not, eviscerating and gunning troopers down with nearly every movement. Lasgun rounds singed his armor every few moments. They were mere glancing shots, and the Astartes kept moving. That is, until the Turrets suddenly came online. He gutted another soldier with a back handed thrust, before glancing up and noticed the danger that approached. "Brothers! Get down! Turrets at the center!"

With long strides and speed that seemed all too fast for someone of his bulk, he bolted 20 feet to the nearest exit, ramming into a large wooden door and reducing it to splinters with one collision, making it past the Rockrete wall and finding himself facing two patrolling troopers. He towered over them. They couldn't even get a shot off before they fell dead and bleeding. His back now to the wall, the exit was to his left, and a long corridor to his right. Uriah was not about to leave his fellow Astartes however. He couldn't quite get a good vantage point to aid them tactically at the moment, unfortunately.

Well, it seemed as if things were finally kicking off. As the garrison became aware of the presence of Legionaire's in their bunker they geared up. The scattered return fire from un-prepared abd terrified human soldiers was steadily replaced by a withering hail of growing fire from the intervening corridors. Troopes began to poor in, up on gantries and through the main halls guns blazing and formations ready. Officers attempted to bark orders as lasfire, autogun rounds and before Prodigal Son had silenced it a dangerous grenade launcher. The shrapnel had scythed thrrough the air in dealy arcs and if not for his armour and enhanced senses Kraeger would have been cut to ribbons.

He drifted in and out of the myriad cover in the cargo bay firing disciplined and conservative rounds into the growing number of humans. Their armour may have been fine against autoguns and maybe even las rounds but was no match for the thunderous cacophany of a bolter. Officers and special weapons teams fell gargling or their heads turned to sucking wounds or mist by the well aimed shots of the calm Iron Warrior. Honestly it was not until the heavy bolter auto turrets activated that Kraeger became worried. With these new threats he was forced to take more strong and static cover as the heavy bolters leveled their hail of death on the Astartes. Kraeger finally however had the respite to reload, a hidden blessing given by the heavy bolters. Placing his empty clip back in the webbing of his armour he jammed a fresh clip home just as Prodigal Son came up alongside him. One Warrior with armour of black shared cover with the steely gray armoured warrior and his veteran stripes.

Before Kraeger could make some morbid comment on their current situation Prodigal son... actually spoke. The Iron warrior at this point had long since assumed his 'Vow of Silence' was both self imposed and that his vocal chords were somehow damaged. Regardless, now was not the time for such musings as Prodigal son asked if he could do anything about the ammunition of the turrets. He cautiously peaked around the thick metal barrier he and Prodigal were squatted behind, risking a look at the ammunition feeders of the heavy weapons. They appeared to have a standard feeder system common in many fortresses. Rather than having individual ammunition clips or feeds all had a similar belt leading up into the ceiling they preotruded from.

If Kraeger had to guess they all shared an ammo pool to allow them to fire virtually indefinitely. The Iron warrior smirked beneath his helm as he spoke.

"Indeed I do Prodigal, They seem to have- well, just watch."

He clicked open the insulated holster of his plasma pistol. The rare variant was substantially larger than regular plasma pistols, made to increase damage at the cost of ammo and safety. For this situation it was perfect. He carefully aimed the heavy pistol at one of the belts, firing off a single max charged shot. The thick green bolt sizzled and whined through the air until smashing home into the middle of the belt feeder. Normally, bolter ammunition was well shielded from heat to avoid the explosive warheads going off prematurely. But, the extraordinary heat of the plasma over came such shielding, as the belt-feeders ignited in a cacophony of fire and sound that seemed to drown out much else. Once it was ended the turrets quickly fell silent.