The infinite sea of ink-black nothingness stretched as far as the eye (and even the mind's eye) could see – here, in the outer reaches of the Segmentum Tempestus, the sleek shimmering silver cruiser waited unmoving, and always the sickly purple scar of the Cicatrix Maledictum pulsed and oozed in the void. Like some patient bird of prey it was etched with psychic wards and a Gellar field far more advanced than any other in the Imperium, everything from its armour to its reinforced structure speaking of a supremely fast and hyper-technological vessel of war.

Those sentient lifeforms aboard, though there were few enough of them, were no less impressive in most regards; the majority of these were regularly mind-wiped Chapter Serfs, efficient and highly trained but only fractionally less vulnerable to corruption than those of other Astartes formations, the true power aboard the Lamiae Mortis contained within only five individuals, five superhuman warriors of the God-Emperor who had been brought to this place for a purpose and one purpose alone…

---

Kallikles, Justicar of the Grey Knights Chapter, leader of one of only three Strike Squads contained within the chapters Eighth Brotherhood under Brother-Captain Mithrac Tor – known colloquially as the 'recruit' brotherhood, being populated chiefly by the chapters newest neophytes – allowed a sour expression to creep across the three-quarters of his face that remained flesh and were not taken up by finely crafted bionics, his left eye glowing in the dim light of the cruisers innermost sanctum, a place which also served as a shrine and a briefing room.

Out of his armour Justicar Kallikles was an imposing figure but now, clad as he was in all his panoply of war, he would have been the dread and terror of any mortal unlucky enough to challenge him. It was not for this that he or his brethren had been crafted though, everything from his armour to his demeanour showing that he and they had been forged to fight something more and less... much, much, less.

“Brothers,” came his rumbling voice, a rolling thunder that cut through the incense and candle lit shade of the chamber, “I will not mince my words and I will not extol platitudes to you, you are Grey Knights and know what must be done – this is your first true test as my Battle-Brothers, to be victorious here will ensure your ascension to full brotherhood and gifting of the holy Tactical Dreadnought Armour, to fail will ensure a swift residence in the Dead Fields.”

With a simple wave of his hand a central holo-projector leapt into life, the sallow light causing Bieito to narrow his eyes momentarily – not actually something he had to do due to his implants, and probably a hangover that even his transformation from man to demi-god couldn't change – as the rotating orb of Anairu spun around and around.

“It looks safe enough, a far-out planet of dirt and dust with a minimal population of nomadic tribes” commented the Justicar, “but it is far from it.”

A flicked finger and the projection narrowed to pinpoint a location on the southern continent of the planet, enhancing further to show what was on the face of it your average pre-civilised gathering of mud huts and trading bazaars, but there was something not right... to anyone who knew what to look for, even the shape of the village seemed... off. Indeed, if one continued to look harder they would soon realise it was constructed along a specific shape. Very specific.

“The Prince of Pleasure,” hissed Bieito from between his teeth, the symbol of Slaanesh traced out by the village and its parameters as clear as day.

“Just so,” confirmed his superior, an armoured digit penetrating the projection like a blade, “brothers, the Cult of Anash'Ra – a chaotic assemblage we have thought gone a hundred times over – is once more abroad on Anairu. We do not believe they have been able to summon their daemonic master yet, though minor entities may be present, as well as multiple human targets.”

Simple, straightforward, and to the point; they would descend like the Emperor's own wrath and snuff out this movement before it could gain traction and summon to them their patron deity.

Alas, Brother Olympio feared there was more to the matter. In the many hours of meditation he had on the travel through the Empyrean to the system he touched many of the flows of fate. There were so many things he saw! Alas, the vast majority were unimportant. From seeing the dinners families would have for a month to the figures of Administratum clerks regarding water filtration systems to be delivered for local system monitors.

But among all the nonsense he was able to sift out things that were very much useful.

“I fear that is not all, my Brothers.” he stated, realizing he may earn the ire of the Justicar using the term that may arguably have not yet been earned. “I know not yet how, but this… situation relates far more to the galaxy at large than simply threatening the security of this system. The Thousand Sons, Abaddon, they are pertinent.”

Taking a deep breath, he knew this was all a load of information that was just there, unusable with how it was given. “I simply wish to say that whatever we face may be greater than anticipated. I do not wish to suggest that it is beyond our competence until such is proven but I would simply give this as a warning to exercise caution.”

“All the more reason for us to end this threat swiftly.” This was the first thing Brother Elazar had said in quite a while, though he had been far from inactive in the meantime. For most of the trip, he had been practicing with his weapons of choice, twinned falchions, in a training room aboard the ship; it was only as they approached the target world that he brought himself to this room, and even now he was visibly flexing his extremities as if to keep from rising and pacing outright. “If the Traitor Legions are involved, foiling them may be a matter of minutes and seconds.”
“Prepare yourselves, we engage in an hour. Emperor be with us.”

A hiss of the doorway, a gust of chill air, and the four Battle-Brothers were left alone to armour themselves and ready themselves for battle.

---

Bieito was unable to be ‘shaken’ in the mortal sense, it just wasn’t part of his genetic makeup, but he was nevertheless concerned by the words of Brother Olympio - arguably the most gifted psyker among them after the Justicar - the entirety of Squad Kallikles sitting silently in contemplation even as their drop-pod sped away from the Strike Cruiser and into the atmosphere of Anairu. It was impossible that Kallikles himself had not heard the words of his charge, but he seemed completely unphased, no doubt focused completely on the task at hand… just as he should be.

A quick glance over his helmets HUD was all Bieito needed to tell him that all was in order (at least according to the blinking diagnostics), though this didn’t stop him from running armour-covered fingers over his wrist-mounted bolter and the smooth adamantium haft of his force halberd, the shaking turbulence of atmospheric entry giving way to a much smoother course.

On the outside the pod was a blazing red streak, puncturing through the overcast sky to slam down on the north-western outskirts of the accursed village, every member of the squad already on their feet by the time metal touched unstable soil.

“Stay alert and kill anything that moves, we are not here on a mercy mission; remember, we are the hammer!”

Justicar Kallikles did not need his helmet to amplify his voice, but the iron-edged words that tumbled from his lips nevertheless came as cold as a crystal clear mountain stream, causing the blood to alight and the soul to steel itself.

The ramp of the pod descended with a hiss, seemingly taking eons in the mind of the battle-fuelled neophyte, Bieito counting down the very seconds until it too impacted with the earth to reveal a brown-looking world and multiple buildings before them; they were a ramshackle lot of structures, some appearing to have had some attempt made to fortify them with sandbags, razorwire and gun emplacements, while their did not seem to be a single adversary to be seen.

Indeed there was not, although this did not last long, the squad barely having left the cover of the pod before an ear-piercing alarm began to wail mournfully and the village began to erupt into movement.

There… a figure in robes and carrying a simple lasgun… targeting…

The first kill dropped to the floor in a mist and spray of gore, Kallikles using his in-helmet systems to sketch a path toward the largest and most central structure, shifting his storm bolter about to track the increasing number of hostiles.

“Onward,” he bellowed through his helmet's grille ,“and fear no evil.”

Necessity brought Basilious to the forefront. All around him the battle-brother could hear his comrades unleash a withering barrage upon the unfortunate first arrivals, suppressing the gathering horde. Bolter retorts echoed across the battleground, their concussive blasts painting gruesome abstract depictions on the rustic buildings. A meaningless crimson graffiti splattered by every meeting of bolt and flesh. Their covering fire would be sufficient for now Basilious calculated, its precise and lethal rounds eliminated any man foolish enough to attempt a counter response. The occasional desperate laser would hiss past the armored warrior’s bulk, but none of his opposition received the luxury time required to properly aim, even at such an obvious target. However, the cultists were gathering. Dark shapes flitted between the out-ringing buildings, forming hastily establish units. Some, Basilious noted, lugging slightly more concerning weaponry towards the outer defensive structures. One such squadron crawled beneath the cover of a haggard makeshift bunker, six to seven in total count. Working frantically, they brought together the pieces of a heavier weapon, one far more concerning for the assaulting force. Basilious felt his dark eyebrows rise beneath his helmet visor. A lascanon? Hefting his incinerator in both hands the grey clad marine changed course, lowering his head, and sprinting across the open ground intent on eliminating the threat to his brothers before they finished establishing the base mount.

He reached them at full pelt just before they finished screwing on the cast iron barrel. One man screamed a warning and Basilious knew some half a score of autoguns were rising to meet his challenge. Their weaponry could prove a danger, through sheer volume if nothing else but his eyes were locked on the dark-skinned man swiveling the lascanon towards the encroaching marine. The cultist blanched, he appeared half dressed and disheveled, as if he only just woken and thrown on a pair of pants before rushing out to join the fight. In hindsight, he might have been better served sleeping in. His fear got the better of him and he fired hastily, predictably. Basilious lurched to the left, the lascanon swiveled to the right, and a blaze of red energy sailed off towards space no doubt doing tremendous damage to whatever it eventually hit.

The men panicked, some tried to run throwing down their weapons. Others fired, the rounds glancing pathetically off his heavy armor. Basilious took heed of Kallikles’ order and showed them no mercy. Bringing his weapon to bear he unleashed a flood of pure white flames across the crowd, so intense flesh melted off bone, hardwood crumbled into ash and even stone singed cherry red. A putrid scent rose into Basilious nostrils, the powerful filtration system unable to cleanse it completely from the air. Stepping over the ruined bunker he turned his vengeful attention on the houses, purging the humble residences in a deluge of holy fire. He did not spare the trigger; fuel would not be an issue as he carried more than enough spare cannisters on his person. Once he felt confident the four houses could not possibly hold any survivors he pressed deeper, reporting his movements and actions to Justiciar Kallikles through his communication systems. Being separated from the squad, even if he left a rather obvious incendiary trail of his progress could be potentially dangerous.

“Justiciar, the enemy heavy weapons installation has been neutralized. I am moving to reconvene.” He cut off, eyes narrowing as a second enemy unit appeared, engaging him from further down the dirt street. Fully equipped cultists dodged in and out of ramshackle structures, loosing off small bursts before taking cover again. Small arms fire ricocheted off his armor, leaving irritating marks across the burnished surface, one impacted his head leaving the young warrior’s ears ringing. He attempted to charge, but his foe proving clever in their machinations fell back, drawing him further in until it seemed their exasperating fire descended on him from every possible angle. When a rocket flew past, detonating off a wooden wall sending splinters scattering across the no man’s land Basilious decided a tactical withdraw would be in order.

Falling back behind the burned-out wreck of his earlier attentions, Basilious slid the incinerator into its sizeable holster, drawing forth a more practical weapon for this slightly longer-range engagement. He needed to rejoin his squad, their unit organization being a decisive part in emerging victorious against this seemingly endless horde. His armor integrity surely was not holding up to regulatory standards after his unsuccessful foray. An involuntary grin spread across his face, hidden by the heavy bevor and face plate, but there none the less. Clever rats, he almost admired their tenacity in proving a challenge to him, and their cleverness in keeping him separated from the others. Killing one marine would be victory enough for them this day, even if they were wiped out to a man for their efforts. Considering the surprisingly lethal arsenal they were bringing to bear such a thing was possible, if he stayed separated from the rest of his squad that is. Basilious had no intention of shaming his Chapter however, he would not fall to cultists this day. Nor any other! “Brothers, I require assistance near the burning structures. I am suppressed and outranged, by more than a dozen heavily armed hostiles.” He reported, turning his bolt pistol on a particularly bold individual who peeked around the corner. The cultist lost his head, but more would soon arrive.

Stay alert and kill anything that moves, we are not here on a mercy mission; remember, we are the hammer!

The words of the Justicar echoed in young Olympio’s mind. Naturally with all the psycho conditioning he received and with the fact this was his first blooding he did not feel anything even close to remorse, regret, or hesitation in this act of genocide. He was however rather saddened by the fact there was not a redeemable soul left in this locale. Even before the drop pod landed Olympio scanned the minds of the world’s denizens. Many were thinking of simple mundane things, the pictures of innocence. Families lived and loved, tragedies and triumphs were had, and the things that the Grey Knights were ultimately fighting for thrived on in the world. But these people they were descending to meet would have none so much as deserving the Emperor’s mercy, only death in a most spectacular way possible with the hope of insuring that from the corpses present the seeds of heresy would not at a later date sprout again as they had to create this little scenario for the Strike Squad.

As they entered the drop pod Olympio started a prayer, looking at his brothers while speaking to himself. He felt now that he had not articulated the full extent of what he had felt aboard the vessel, but alas now it was too late to worry their minds with the esoteric. Only bloodshed awaited them, and that they would more than do their duty in. Olympio knew he had not the fiery pyrotechnics of one, nor the bladework of the other, nor the veterancy of the Justica. But they would be blind insofar as he saw, relying on the fact they were to only deal with rabble at most having a mark or two of Slaanesh to empower them.

As the pod hit the earth Olympio was the last to exit, making sure he finished his prayer before joining the fray. The scene initially seemed empty, a ghost town being their field of battle. But soon scanners, superhuman sense and a psychic reading of the town revealed that this was not in fact true. A horde of enemies soon descended upon the Knights who clearly had been expected. Olympio pressed his blade to his face, before flourishing and charging into the thick of the foe with the simple words “Emperor!” on this mouth. He did not fire his stormbolter, believing that the strength of the enemy did not merit the waste of precious psybolts when a nemesis force weapon would more than suffice. Sure, he took a lot of las and auto fire that he could have avoided but other than the occasional scratch upon his armour it would be nothing of note. Indeed as the distance closed the Marine already felt that he could track the movements of the heretics before him and evade their fire with janky movements, while being able to outright dodge some of the ballistic projectiles they spat at the holy warriors.

As he neared the lines of the amassed foe he jumped over their overwatch fire crushing two hapless foes under his ceramite boots. He had to act fast then to not get overwhelmed by the enemy surrounding him but this was not particularly hard with a nemesis force blade in his hands. A single pirouette with the blade split in twain the first wave of oncoming attackers and from then on he rushed forward to make use of the space he had just made by cleaving a further line in the enemy formation. Some of the enemy tried to parry with their improvised blades and bludgeons but this didn’t work. Olympio didn’t even try to go around their blocks, knowing his weapon would simply cut through their unrefined plasteel arms. He cut through more and more of the foe, but as the combat went on he noticed the enemy parted from him rather than trying to envelop the warrior, and it was clear why moments later. The terrain around him started to exploded the few heretics that did not get away being nearly instantly vapourized by the autocannon mounted on a roof. It was a rather surprisingly powerful one with twin barrels allowing it to cycle at twice the speed of a typical autocannon, a perfect weapon to rip apart space marines carrying both the rate of fire of automatic small arms and the potency to actually penetrate armour of a lascannon. More shots from the weapon rang out, one shell detonating dangerously close and leaving one leg of the Grey Knight broken. Olympio cursed his arrogance, knowing that if he failed to pay attention to his surroundings but a few moments longer he would now be a red mist rather than simply possessing a leg broken by the shockwaves.

Once more he zigged and zagged with superhuman speed of Astartes to insure the shells narrowly missed him. He knew he could not persist like this forever and he could not rely on his Brothers just yet for they all had their own little battles to deal with. He breathed in, closing his eyes momentarily in spite of the grave danger he was in. This was not the moment to try and make predictions faster and more accurate than he had before, but it was the only way out he knew — but he only needed a few truthful milliseconds! He slowed down, and eventually he turned side ways just narrowly avoiding a strafe of foretold exploding munitions before raising his sword and letting witch-lightning leap from it’s tip all the way to the roof, connecting with the feed-system of the guns and overcooking their ammo with a bright and gory display. Letting more lightning leap from his finger-tips to the heretics running at his back thinking they had an opportunity, he once more took a two-handed grip upon his blade and charged into a clump of gunmen. The Grey Knight could only hope that the Justicar would forgive him for using his powers unbidden when the squad may well have been expected to ration them for the all but inevitable case that a greater foe appeared.

Even before the drop pod landed, Sirius had his hands on the hilts of his weapons. Time unarmed was time potentially undefended, and the moment the pod's impact was felt and the restraints released, the falchions were drawn. And yet, as the pod's door lowered, it seemed there were no foes in sight. Perhaps they had fled? Or more likely, they were preparing an ambush. Or they simply hadn't been ready for their arrival.

Nonetheless, an alarm sounded eventually, indicating that yes, they had been noticed after all. The townsfolk came soon after- cultists, one and all, armed with autoguns, stubbers, and the like. Brother Elazar's focus would contract, from the wider battle to his specific target, his gaze erring with eagle-like intensity toward a specific group of cultists even as his senses remained entirely open to the fight. Such was the superhuman mind of a Grey Knight, and such was its speed that this took no more than a few milliseconds.

And then he moved. A full sprint in the direction of his foe, his incredible speed only enhanced further by his armour. Naturally, the group took poorly to being charged, as did many less immediately relevant parties - a hail of gunfire came in his direction, but to this he simply channeled a portion of his psychic ability, exaggerating his reflexes to incredible levels. It would not be a stretch to say that a true master of this power could dodge between raindrops in a thunderstorm; but for Sirius, he merely needed to dodge some of the projectiles with his movement, angle his armour to deflect those that could not be evaded outright, and for one of the more persistent subsidiaries breaking his focus for but a moment to turn it upon them, but a wave of his arm and a thought to do so purging them in a hail of psy-bolts, before he turned back upon those who he'd initially targeted, now almost upon them.

Were he so inclined, he could simply bullrush them down. But this was artless, and to make a habit of it would prove fatal in more serious fights. Instead, to the first cultist he reached, a single Nemesis Force blade swung sideways and ripped his throat open, arteries and all. The other lanced out toward an enemy to Sirius' left, piercing his heart and purging his lifeforce. Pulling both free, he span toward the next, this time a woman, who lost first the hand trying to pull the trigger on her weapon, and then her head. Two more cultists dropped their weapons, and were gutted before they hit the ground, the falchions flashing in bloody, glowing arcs even as Sirius rounded on the final man, who had had the sense to actually draw a sword and try to swing with it. It made contact, but as the man swinging had already been bisected diagonally, the result was a mere "clink" as his limbs lost their strength and his body fell.

Reaching them took only ten seconds. Killing all six took two more. Focusing on another nearby cluster of the damned would be another seven or eight milliseconds; charging into their mass and slaying them would make up another four seconds. And so it went as Sirius passed further into the town proper - these were not dangerous foes, for their weaponry would be potentially threatening only en masse or in larger sizes, and his style of combat was one of agility and constant movement precisely to avoid being bogged down and swallowed by hordes such as this. It seemed, though, that at least one heavy weapons installation had been taken by Brother Basilious, and he imagined more would settle around the area. For Sirius himself, he had yet to meet one from the outset, but anticipated it even as he continued to take out the least forces of Chaos - even with his speed, challenging a lascannon from more than a few meters away was likely to be a ridiculous risk.

He did not wholly anticipate Brother Basilious' message - one of distress, rather than pure victory, and citing heavily armed foes. Perhaps more threatening than these whom Brother Elazar fought?

'I shall be with you shortly, Brother,' Sirius declared, his attention and bulk already moving toward the devastation wrought by Basilious' flames of divine wrath. 'Hold fast. The Emperor Protects.' Backtracking through his own path of death to find and follow his battle-brother's, eliminating as he passed any straggling cultists who would dare to enter his range of action, he quickly discovered the issue: Basilious had been bogged down, by enough enemy troops that even one of their own might struggle. But two? Certainly not.

Sirius did not announce his presence with words. Instead, he did so with his storm bolter, gunning down a triad of cultists firing upon the two from the window of a more intact building before joining Basilious in cover - with intent of brevity, of course. 'Who do we need to kill first?' he asked, already plainly on edge when they could be in combat proper. The sooner he knew, the sooner the Emperor's will could be done.

@Dusty@BCTheEntity@Andreyich

In the subterranean warrens below the battlefield...

Sweat, along with other more bodily functions, dripped from the quivering flesh of the huddled multitudes roped together and gathered like cattle in the underground 'Cathedral of Anash'Ra' – a name given to the vast cavern by those cultists initially sent to Anairu to sow the seeds of its destruction in the name of Slaanesh.

On a plateau of granite there was a focal point upon which only the most determined or iron-willed of the planets kidnapped inhabitants would look, adorned as it was by the cults sacrificial altar of supernaturally 'steaming' metal – if it was metal, looking more like a pulsing purple cocoon, wisps of multicoloured gas drifting toward the caverns highest points before evaporating as if by magic – three figures surrounding it... four, if you included the sacrificial individuals.

The foremost among them was a masked figure in robes that never seemed to stop changing colour, sometimes agonised faces seemingly pressing against the flesh-like material, crying to be set free, his hook-nosed mask equally shifting in texture and colour if not in form; due to this, beside his height and any pallid skin that could be seen, the man below was visually an enigma, the two towering ones at either end of the altar less so.

Both were half-men, their lower bodies furred and hoofed, their features warped to that of horned Beastmen, Satyrs even if one should know those most ancient of Terran myths!

One stood in silence and clutched a two-handed axe in huge hands, both the weapon and the beast drenched in the blood of a hundred or more innocents, while the other... the other was in an obviously perpetual state of priapic arousal, those being sent to the Prince of Pleasure doing so after hideous violation – at least their deaths following that were swift and sure.

“Magister!” A purple-cloaked messenger sprinted past the bloody-handed executioner without a glance, kneeling before his earthly lord, “Magister, above ground, the-”

“The Astartes have arrived.”

It was a statement rather than a question, but the courier seemed unmoved by the pronouncement and simply gave a nod of acknowledgement, “I have never seen their like before, but they are here your holiness, as you have no doubt foreseen. They shine in silver and fight with the fury of many.”

There was an intake of breath and a slight twitch of one hand from the Magister, “we shall need to quicken our pace! Move these cattle faster, we shall call for reinforcements and summon our god a little earlier than I had intended.”

---

The gore and offal of several dozen attackers coated Bieito quite nicely as he threw himself through the wattle-and-daub wall of the nearest building, a fine layer of dried clay adding itself to the blood and multiple small scorch marks where high-powered las had impacted on his armour, dust moving all around him as he stomped toward the opposite wall only to cease his movement for a moment.

Curled in the corner of the building, which had obviously been a habitation before he somewhat barrelled into it, were two people – one a small child and the other a women who glared at him with unrestrained fury... but also the correct amount of fear – Bieito feeling absolutely nothing as he looked at them, not a twinge of some primal familiarity nor a sense of needing to keep them safe, it was odd to him that at this moment he pondered on how odd it was to him that it even was so odd to him to feel like a hollow shell!

For a further several second he wondered if he should kill them both, they were worthless and corrupted and would surely burn in the flames of retribution anyway, so why not?

As it happened the choice was taken from him rather unexpectedly, the distinct sound of a multi-laser being shifted into position not far off causing him to turn his gaze away for a split second, snapping fleetly back as a child's cry was cut off by a crack and a snap and a hysterical twitter.

Framed instantly by his targetting reticle was the now non-existent mother holding up the head of her offspring, an elongated tongue moving to lap up warm blood even as her face started to melt and reform in a visage that was created to make any mortal drop to their knees in adoration... but he was far from mortal.

“Come,” it crooned even as it – oh it was an it alright – nonchalantly threw the head to one side, squatting on haunches that had began to break and reknit together, “join us Space Marine, join the orgasmic embrace of Sla-.”

It never would finish uttering blasphemies, the Grey Knights halberd flicking out faster than the eye could see and cutting the earthly shell of the half-formed Neverborn in two, ceasing the process.

“Brothers, we must be on our guard” warned Bieito over his helmet vox, even now scanning about for emerging threats, “the enemy know we are here and I believe are moving to fortify choke-points in the town, that and they are finally summoning help from the beyond. Daemons.”

He could not keep a little hint of relish from his tone, what Knight in their right mind did not wish to test their mettle against direct servants of the Dark Gods?

“Recognised, Brother Bieito,” came a crackling reply from their Justicar, “we must all move with extreme caution and extreme prejudice, we are but five – even if we are Knights of Titan – do not hesitate to slay those you find, for each is a potential portal. We must head toward entrance sigma-epsilon-epsilon with all haste.”

Crashing into the next group of gunners it was only a few spins before they were a pile of dismembered bits. With that the remaining resistance in this part of the open street was rather thin, the few fighters remaining having mere flimsy iron weapons and an occasional stub weapon that wouldn’t even penetrate a Space Marine’s black carapace, let alone their power armour. However, though the enemy here was sparse Olympio knew he was alone and isolated here, and to try fight on solo was an exercise in baseless arrogance; easily a trait let swell by the prince of pleasure’s magics.

Closing the distance to once more return to the comfortable embrace of his Brother’s psychic aura was easy, only a few leaps crossing a great many metres until they were in his sight. As he moved in the message of Bieito came through the vox. Truth be told he was somewhat underwhelmed by the usage of vox instead of telepathic communication. The majority of Grey Knights had at least enough of the aptitude to communicate at the very least with their own squad using their Justicar as a means to help relay the information if needed.

“Noted.” he replied using his mind. The presence of daemons was certainly ominous. It seemed to redeem his foretellings, but that was nothing to be happy about given what it implied. “I am coming to reinforce.” he continued, stomping over. Though grouped up they would be far more vulnerable to heavy weapons of all sorts, it seemed for now the greater part of the eternal enemy’s rabble was culled and their firepower would now be all but negligible. Daemons would now be the main quarry if the report of Bieito was correct and in such a case a tight formation of blades would be optimal rather than the loose slaughter they had previously enacted.

Flourishing his sword, he for now kept between the Justicar and Bieito ready to support - or if needed fall back to - either of his comrades should the enemy try to strike them down one by one.

Checking his heads-up-display to correct his path, he started his march towards the destination of the squad. He had no interest in killing that which later the PDF could clean up when there was a foe more urgent to deal with, thus seeing no purpose in increasing his current kill-tally. For Brother Olympio there was only the objective, and he hoped that his Brothers would join him with haste.

Sirius’ efficient and timely arrival proved the necessary turning point to shift the tides in their joint favor against the dark god’s servants. Gaunt, pale faces once jubilant in their small victory fell in despair, their cries of anguish and human suffering falling on deaf, uncaring ears as the two battle brothers parted them like wheat before the scythe. Bolter rounds and holy flame washing them away like the foul taint they were. Alone, a single space marine remained a terrifying force. Together, they were a living nightmare. They devastated those remained, putting to flight the few that survived. Standing utterly victorious amongst the smoldering ruins nary a single living cultist in sight Basilious took the moment to recuperate and reload. His expended tank lying forgotten in the ashes at his feet as he fastened fresh fuel to his arm mounted incinerator. Perhaps he had been too generous in his usage, already having expended two full canisters and locking his third into place. The town around him had been rather swiftly transformed from its humble origins into a hellscape, fragile homes collapsing into smoldering ruin. Hungry fire leapt from house to house in an uncontrollable maddening dance of destruction. Overhead dark chemically blue smoke clogged the sky, climbing ever higher in as a grim beacon to the Astarte’s wrath. A mark that could no doubt be seen for miles around.

Flames licked at his armored boots as he parted from the inferno, stepping into a less volatile portion of the town, where his respirator need not work so hard cleansing the pungent smog from the air. The fire would not doubt spread to these currently untouched buildings, but that would be in the next three minute or so. His gaze traveled across the abandoned portions. Either the residents were dead, concealed, or in total rout. Either way there were no threats currently. The fire would see to the hidden ones soon enough. Off to his left Sirius attended his own business, the two marines maintained standard combat dispersion, close enough to aid one another, but far enough apart that no lucky explosive would end them both. Their separate purges, though disparate in their methods were similarly effective. Basilious took a moment to attract Sirius’ attention, not to give warning but only to convey his thoughts. He did not require words to express his appreciation for the assistance his brother provided. Instead he gave Sirius a singular nod before turning and continuing in his hunt.

A robotically transmitted voice interrupted Basilious’ actions however, and the steel-clad warrior paused his progress. Their words of warnings and orders were followed by Olympio, demonstrating his talent in telepathic communication. Basilious’ lips twitched upward, unable to keep the competitive grin off his face. “Received Bieito, Justicar. Sirius and I shall change course and rendezvous with you at the gate. And we shall be on guard for the daemonic.” The young knight felt a tinge of what could only be good natured jealousy, though his conditioning prevented him from recognizing the truth of the feeling. Bieito would be the first of them to slay the hated foe. It was possible Basilious considered, that his fire had purged a few daemons, eradicating them under its holy power where eyes could not witness their demise, but he doubted it. Such fortune was not his to count upon, and could one really tally the death of daemons if one did not witness their slaying firsthand? A question for later he decided swiveling forty degrees to the right, moving through the remaining town post haste. A guarded, but rapid advance that met no adversary yet…

The enemies of the Grey Knights had posed little threat thus far. In tandem with Brother Basilious' purging flame, Sirius' blades and weapon had torn them asunder, sending their souls to weep at their dark masters' feet. All that remained in their wake was ash and ruin.

It came as little surprise when Brother Bieito announced the inevitable: their arrival was anticipated, and with it came daemons of Chaos. But why else would they, scions of the Emperor's divinity, be called but to fend off the maleficient spectres of the dark gods of the Warp? Basilious answered for him, and so he merely offered 'Received, Justicar' to the command to head toward the gate. Their movement, then, was swift: no quarter could be brooked, not for such a time-sensitive matter.

Which was why, when two more small bands of foes entered their line of sight and aimed their weapons, Sirius offered no bladesmanship to the one he set his sights upon. Unwilling to lose focus on the current goal for too long, he instead raised his hand, and launched a salvo of psy bolts even as he continued to move forward, the gesture as smooth as it was deadly. In seconds, the humans were no more than meat, the threat of their possession done.

No matter. Onward to the gate.

@Dusty@BCTheEntity@Andreyich

The objective toward which the Grey Knights now propelled themselves was none other than the entrance into the subterranean labyrinth of tunnels, dug over thousands of years in anticipation of this very moment, that all lead to the sacred chamber of the Cult of Anash'Ra – a vile and demented subordinate of the Prince of Pleasure, said to have enticed and corrupted more religious figures, aristocrats and foolish Aeldari than any other of her servants save the Masque – a chamber in which the summoning ritual was close to reaching a zenith.

Covering the entryway (which itself was no more than an opening in the basement) was a solid bunker-like structure of rockcrete, barbed wire wrapped about it, and various slits beginning to brighten as heavy weapons fire sought out the servants of the God-Emperor; within was a garrison of purple-clad cultists, of a higher quality than the peasant rabble fought thus far, armed with Imperial constructed las-guns and armoured in carapace, expertly trained humans... but still humans nonetheless.

Sand was swept into the air around the rapidly moving formation, bullets whipping about them as they moved, armour of unadorned ceramite causing gleams and glints in the hot noon sun of Anairu, Justicar Kallikles forming his squad into a living arrowhead of gene-enhanced fury with himself as the tip of the projectile.

“I am the hammer...” began the Justicar, reciting the sacred words of the six-hundred-and-sixty-sixth Chapter of Astartes – widely unknown outside of the most clandestine of organisations, unheralded as heroes and lorded as such by none, their own dead forgotten by all save their own brethren - “I am the right hand of the Emperor,” his voice lifted as those of his brother joined him, Kallikles lifting his left arm and sending blessed bolter rounds into the unholy mass of human and half-formed neverborn that opposed them over the sand, “the instrument of His will...” those of mere flesh were blown apart with ease, their remains ground underfoot by the Knights or by their comrades, those of more unnatural flesh screeched as their bodies burned, “... the gauntlet about His fist …” a fanged face without a nose reared up before the Justicar, only to be cut in twain in an instant, “the tip of His spear, the edge of His sword!”

A mass of devoted followers and summoned minor daemons crowded round the Grey Knights as they came, unable to stop the arrow now that it has been loosed, perhaps slowing them somewhat – buying more time for their master to be risen, no doubt – but not fully able to halt their momentum.

“Basilious,” voxed the Justicar as his legs continued to grind forward, “you will find an exit for us once inside, put your incinerator to good use, while Bieito will hold the entrance tunnel. Brothers Olympio and Salazar will come with me, together we shall cease the summoning itself.”

Picking out multiple targets within his helmets HUD, the Justicar shared them with his squad, targeting reticles closing over the weak points of the enemy fortification.

“We must break through and descend into the tunnels, from there we can force our way to their 'temple', and bring this to an end.”

---

In the Temple-cavern of Anash'Ra...

Magister Mordegan Arakane could sense that time was running out, his body shivering and shuddering as he spoke the ten-thousand material names of his Lord, sweat making his hook-beaked mask slick with perspiration and his lips moist with his own lather, eyes of shifting colours half closed as he attempted to blot out all distractions and concentrate on the matter at hand... but how could he?!

The Corpse-Emperor had sent his servants, and now a millennia of work was going to be wasted because of it... because of them... he would not, could not die here. He must survive to bring his master back into real space, something he could not accomplish if he were stripped of life.

Yes... yes... he knew now what he had to do.

He waited until he could hear the approaching enemy, until he could hear the roar of their bolters and the radiance of their armour, until he could visibly see them from the other side of the cavern acting as his stronghold, then he leapt from the far side of the granite plateau!

Before his body could his the floor it burst into spectral flame, his form disappearing even as the two Beastmen stood dumbfounded and turned to the Magisters assistant – this man was equally flabbergasted as they, attempting to take up his masters ritual chanting even as the Grey Knights bore down on them.

As Olympio walked through the scene, he did so with some consternation. His mind looped back to his flourishes, the skill with which he fought in battle. It was necessary for him to be a master of the sword and his storm-bolter of course, for he could not leverage his mind to the same destructive potency that many of his Brothers could. But this was the realm of She-Who-Thirsts as the damnable xenos called the God of Chaos. Here, it as excess that reigned, and he knew that it was a mistake of many an initiate to assume this only applied to more base things from lust to gluttony. Many a man fell into the lures of Slaanesh with promises of being the greatest of swordmasters, and though he was confident in his unyielding purity Olympio was nevertheless concerned that by his very actions he had been strengthening the beast.

So deep was he in his musings that he lagged the incantation of the Justicar by a few milliseconds when he echoed it.

As daemonettes and mortal abominations alike descended upon the Space Marines, Olympio made sure to take the conclusions he came to in his musings into account. No longer were there the skillful, artistic sweeps, slices, and parries.e Now he made use of all the brutality that the strength of his power armour and genetic enhancements allowed him. He turned his sword over, grabbing it by the blade in the grip of a murder-stroke, the gilded crossguard of the weapon now the ends of a piercing bludgeon that was soon coated in gore. As ever more enemies pressed in, he felt his weapon ever more a burden given there was less and less space to truly swing it. He transitioned to using his fists, feet and even his very head as blunt weapons, the appendages flailing with the speed and force to crush just as a hammer or hatchet would. But even that was enough. Though individually he was stronger than many dozens of these abominations, the fact was that there were so many he could hardly move. Although likewise it meant that they too had little room to maneuver, it was still more than he and eventually they would get a lucky dagger or claw into the soft spot of a joint in his armour.

It is said Space Marines know no fear. While true in the abstract, the self-preservation instincts of the Grey Knight nevertheless kicked in and overpowered his previous vows to conserve his psychic fortitude for greater foes. With a roar, witch-lightning coarse through the entire surface of the warrior. It arced between the aberrations covering him, turning the mortals into crisps and the daemons into puffs of smoke. Not ceasing his battle-cry, he used his shoulder still crackling with psychic electricity as a ram with which he tried to charge through the mass of evil and clear a path for his comrades.

In the Temple-cavern of Anash'Ra...

@Dusty@BCTheEntity@Andreyich

"You have your orders, you know what to do," voxed Kallikles as the squad emerged into the blasphemous cavern of Slaaneshi debauchery, his targetting reticules flashing near-constantly inside his helmet, "Bieito, hold them here!"

The most well-rounded of the Grey Knights turned away from his battle-brothers, force-halberd held in one hand and his left gauntlet aimed back into the bunker from whence they had just came, moving parts of himself from time-to-time to assess the damage done to his power armour duuring their advance.

"Olympio... Salazar... with me brothers!"

Kallikles opened his vox width wider and wider, eventually intermingling with a previously uncontacted source (@ODAberration), "this is Justicar Kallikles, tread the path, I repeat tread the path!"

Gesturing toward an exit through which the more weak-willed of the enemy forces now surged in their need to escape, Kallikles nodded to Basilious, "take yourself forward and help our reinforcements to stem the rats as they flee, we cannot allow their heresy to spread or survive."

Even as he gave the orders the cavern was coming more alive, and becoming more violent, than it had been even during the religious ecstasies of Slaaneshi worship, the two beastial guardians of the altar directing their demented hordes toward the gleaming beacons of the God-emperors justice.

They had their orders, now they simply needed to carry out the execution.