For the last five thousand years, the Primarchs had striven to expand the greatest bastion that humanity had remaining. Bereft of the Throneworld, of the light of the Astronomicon, of their father’s guidance, there was only so much they could do.

Roboute felt it, and so did the rest of his brothers. He felt it from across the galaxy, when the Emperor died and Holy Terra collapsed into a sphere of unnatural light and chaos. While he was no psyker like his traitorous brother Magnus, or the late Sanguinius, he was still a Primarch, and was forged with warpcraft and genomancy. He saw how the Emperor rose up within the Warp as he was freed at last from his corpse, becoming something else entirely.

But what was he now?

The Primarch, clad in blue armor adorned with golden symbols of the old Imperium, turned as the Rogue Traders departed from the meeting room. He had called upon them to investigate the oddity that the Mechanicus found on the planet Xandrocus Prime. Many wished for the honor to be sanctioned by a Primarch, one of the late Emperor’s sons, though few of the daring explorers were still enthusiastic when he made it clear that they were going towards totally uncharted territory filled with unknown threats.

The Mechanicus Explorators were driven off by foes whose nature they had yet to know; though Guiliman wished they could send an expedition fleet instead, the Rogue Traders would have to do for now. Ultrmar needed all of its fleets and armies defending against the encroaching Necrons, Tau, the raiding parties of the Chaos Empires, the empowered Q’orl Swarmhood, and so on. Even now his brother, the Lion, is fighting the skittering Q’orl. Vulkan, in the meantime, was busy forging weapons…

“What if this artifact proves to be far more important?”

The disembodied voice spoke from behind Guiliman, a tone that had long departed from the realm of the living. A Wraithseer.

“What do your prophecies say about it, Ulthran?” Guiliman answered, tightly grasping the railing. “Actually, do you even have a prophecy for this artifact?”

The Wraith construct strode forward, emerging from the shadows. Eldrad Ulthran, the greatest of Eldar seers, refused to stop fighting for the survival of his race even as his skeleton turned into crystal and his heart ceased to beat. Craftworld Iyanden crafted for him the finest and mightiest of shells, and the half-born Ynnead’s blessing granted him the same vitality of a living Eldar.

“None, regretfully,” Eldrad shook his head. It was adorned with runes and symbols, some of which Guiliman recognized somewhat, as he had a crude grasp of the Eldar lexicon. “Our divinations have been… muddled, as of late. However, your Rogue Traders, as you call them, will be guided through the Webway, as was promised. After all, perhaps this is a strand of fate that will have to unravel when they find it, whatever it is.”

Five thousand years ago, this would have been unthinkable. Human vessels, guided by xenos through the Webway? Any radical from the past would have raged at the thought, but now, it was but a routine. Neither the Asuryani nor the humans could afford to go against each other, not when the New Devourer still stirs along with a thousand other threats.

After all, their fates were intertwined, as Eldrad said so long ago. If one falls, so would the other. And so, they make deals and pacts… for now.

---

The Iaculum Tyrannis. This is the name of the gloriously sculpted vessel of the Rogue Trader Silas Celeton, one of the few that had taken up the mission to take the artifact from Xandrocus Major. Formerly an aging Dauntless Class Light Cruiser, it has been retrofitted according to the wishes of its Rogue Trader.

Ion weapons and railguns, bought from the Farsight Enclaves, lined its primary gun deck. Furthermore, it held an array of lances and torpedoes, purchased from the Ymyr Conglomerate. All of its systems had been painstakingly updated for the ravages of the 51st millennium by the techpriests as well. They didn’t seem to have much problem with the xenos derived weaponry, not when their greatest member, Fabricator General Belisarius Cawl, tinkered with alien technology so much.

In front of the Iaculum Tyrannis and the rest of the Rogue Traders was an Eldar escort, the Seventh Sun. It led the way through the Webway, guiding the human vessels lest they get lost in the mind shattering tunnels. Their destination was the star fortress Immaculate Gem, which lay in the system where the Webway gate led. After that, they will have to travel the long way, through the Warp...

In theory, they could shoot now and destroy the xenos ship. However, that would mean that the Eldar would no longer guide the humans of Ultramar through the Webway, cutting them off from their furthest outpost in the Eastern Fringes, which kept watch for threats coming from Huron Blackheart’s Chaos Empire. The frontier planets in the Primarchs’ realm were barely reachable by Warp travel as it were, and if they lost this vital connection…

Silas Celeton sat in the officer’s suite, located within the bridge of the Iaculum Tyrannis. There, he waited as the servants prepared the lavish courses for today for him and his inner circle. It’s only a matter of time before they come in here…

"Right, the week's drills have been disseminated to each of your data slates, make sure the lockers and squads are up to standards before beginning the drills. Just because we have the luxury of a relatively safe leg of the journey doesn't mean we get to slack off. I expect drill reports within a standard day after completion of the drill, as usual. Now get going, another day of work to be done." The subordinates departed after saluting, leaving Gerard Stukov alone in his office/quarters/whatever purpose it was serving today. While relatively spartan by Rogue Trader standards, it was leaps and bounds more luxurious than anything that the voidmaster had known before. That didn't excuse anyone else that answered to him from being able to slack off, however, as the voidmaster was determined to keep this ship as safe as he could possibly ensure, which meant plenty of drills, maintenance, and a whole battery of readiness checks to ensure the safety of ship and crew.

Turning from the closed hatch, Gerard started going through his own data slate, reviewing upcoming meetings he was required to be at. Silas Celeton, the Rogue Trader he was in the direct employ and the ship's Captain, was having a meeting for the various senior officers on board the ship. He had been both pleasantly, and unpleasantly, surprised to be serving aboard another Dauntless class so soon, as heavily retrofitted and modernized as this one was, the new weight suited her well. That being said, he tightened the straps on his carapace breastplate, something he wore at all times when not actively in his rack, and gave himself a once over. Dressed about as well as usual, fatigues and armor, any exposed bionics were clean and polished, clean shaven as usual, both head and chin. Good, he was as presentable as he ever got, and he patted himself down briefly. His pistol was securely holstered, the shotgun secured in the rack beside his desk, it wouldn't be needed for this meeting, doubly so since they were undergoing webway transit currently.

"Right, let's see what the skipper has rattling around in that head of his today..." Exiting his quarters, Gerard moved at brisk pace. He'd be just a few minutes early, which was the bare minimum to be acceptable frankly, but the meeting with the subordinates had ran longer than anticipated. Typical, frankly, hence the built in wiggle room between meetings and such. Fortunately he had not eaten yet, given the meal that was waiting. Swapping nods and quick words with crew as he walked, he did as he always did, kept as up to date on the ship's condition, as well as her crew, at all times. He was no Tech Priest, but it was often easier to talk to another human than it was the the gear heads, and he had more experience talking to them given his own encounters with them. Though thanks to his wandering thoughts, he arrived at the officer's suite in rather short order and, after a moment, entered.

"Sir, Gerard Stukov reporting. Seems like I've made it early as usual." Gerard would give a crisp, brief salute to the Rogue Trader before taking a seat, patiently waiting for the others who would be attending to arrive. A rather mixed bag, by all accounts, but what Rogue Trader could boast something as impressive as having an utterly mundane inner circle of officers and advisors? That being said, he did review his data slate again before the others arrived, seeing if anything worth mentioning would be present currently. Everything had been going as smoothly as one could reasonably expect, which was unusual in and of itself. Perhaps this meeting would be the thing that unstuck everything, such was life sailing the stars after all.

Paolo shuffled down the ship's corridor slowly. He had brought his cane today and was leaning heavily on it. The cluster headaches were particularly tumultuous today.
He was followed slowly by a single guard from his company who was slowly inching along with him. A fellow of the Harakoni Warhawks one of the ones he'd saved. "Are you well today sir?" He stated through his rebreather.



"Im managing" He stated matter of factly.
"Is there any thing i can do?" Said the veteran trooper.
"Well, my boy, your orders here is to be my minder... to blow my top off if i start to go" He said while raising two fingers to his temple with a rye smile
"Is that a possibility now?" Said the trooper in a matter-of-fact tone.
"I think not" said Paolo
"I'll be better when i get some recaff, how far is the officers' mess?"
The trooper looked about at the signage painted on the walls
"About 50 meters" he held up a knifehand pointing in the right direction
"Let us go then"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

A little while later Paolo arrived at the designated location. He had allowed enough time for his foibles. He was ushered in and sat down at a long wooden table. So far he was the only one there. He ordered the batman to bring a thermos of recaff post-haste, even before the meal had begun. He wasnt going to hobnob with his superiors with a crippling headache.

The recaff was brought and a large mug was poured. He weakly brought it to his lips and took a sip.
He plucked a strawberry from a waiting display and sat down. He looked down at the strawberry and his eyes began to narrow. The small strawberry cupped in his hand began to change color, his eyes focused and little sparks chased up and down it as though it was fizzing. The strawberry began to swell and redden, it began to enhance, and began to grow in size. When it was finally the size of an apple his eyes ceased narrowing. He rested it on his silver plate and closed his eyes, silently he began a quick meditation and recitation of the proper warding incantations, so as not to get rusty.

Brilliant lights swam and swirled by like a river of thickened water, with a strong golden mist obscuring everything around the ship. From the observation deck, Grummore could see outlines in the distance that he could only guess at, some suggested entire cities, even planetoid objects in areas where the Webway was particularly massive. For the most part their tunnel in the webway seemed to be rather small in comparison, a little larger than their own cruiser. Grummore had heard of the Webway, even traveled it once, but the majesty of the ancient pocket dimension was never lost on him. He’d heard the vox hailer on the wall crackle as ship wide announcements periodically chimed in that would occasionally break his focus but the wonder and the brightness of it was fantastic, the lumoglobes were completely unnecessary here.

Grummore tinkered with the pan spectral scanner, wondering what it might detect in this place opposed to real-space but it was pointless. If, by chance, he was to find a resource worthy of mining, would any of the Guild really bother to come in here? The Kin allowed himself a chuckle at the thought. After a not insignificant amount of time, Grummore left the observation deck and returned to his quarters where he left the scanner and monitored the bizarre apparatus that allowed him to produce his own Bru. It was a mass of swirling pipes and heating plates that most would identify as a still for producing alcohol, but this mixture was a highly nutritious and potent cocktail that Kin were particularly adept at tolerating. He took a large glass of the mixture and downed it as he found the Imperial rations to be insignificant and headed out towards the meeting. He didn’t bother with his armor and wore the base carapace for the void suit which was essentially a heavy canvas like off-white coverall minus the typically orange armored components. He didn’t dare leave his las beam-cutter or plasma knife behind.

After a period of walking though the maze-like intestines of the ship he found his way to the place the Rogue Trader wanted to meet. He was the last unfortunately, likely because he spent too much time enjoying the view of the ship, it was quaint, hideous, and reeked of oil and incense as there must have been some of the bizarre Imperials that worshipped machines somewhere nearby. There was already what looked to be a hungover priest with a personal guard… no that was the psyker he’d glanced earlier when they were boarding. And what looked to be a well-worn soldier, had to be the Voidmaster. Grummore spied Paolo’s creation and gawked aloud while taking a cup of recaff from the pot that Paolo seemed to be praying to.

“Well that’s gotta be th’biggest strawber’I’ve ever seen!”

He didn’t notice Silas at first but then gave an awkward tomahawk wave towards the others while gulping down the recaff and grabbing a seat which happened to be besides the Voidmaster, making a casual comment to him as he did.

“Y’ever get a chance t’see the pointy eared Webway? Pure Majesty tis.”

"Sir, Gerard Stukov reporting. Seems like I've made it early as usual." Gerard would give a crisp, brief salute to the Rogue Trader before taking a seat, patiently waiting for the others who would be attending to arrive.

Silas nodded to the veteran Guardsman, a small smile finding its way onto his face. "That's good, Stukov, very good," the Rogue Trader answered, stabbing a piece of well grilled meat with his fork before eating it. "I’ve had the best meal prepared for us, to prepare us for the hard journey ahead."

Surely enough, the rest of his inner circle of advisors and important officers entered. The Chief Navigator came in with a covered third eye, as to gaze upon it is to invite absolute insanity. The Mechanicus Magos in charge of the engines appeared only as a hologram, as he would not care to go up to the bridge to partake in the act of consumption. Others of particular note were the primaris Psyker, Paolo, and the Hernkyn Pioneer, Grummore.

Silas eyed the psyker as he entered, remembering having hired him for his prodigious talents, as well as those Harakoni Warhawks that came along with him. Paolo having a personal guard all the time took some time for Silas to get used to, too. When he was informed that those guards were a failsafe in case demons overwhelm the psyker, it was... quite depressing to think about.

As for the Hernkyn Pioneer, Silas thought of him well, at least. The Kyn were a secretive bunch, but that was offset by their general industriousness. He used to have a Kyn brokhyr for the engines too, but he and the Magos argued far too often and he left on his own accord some time ago.

Anyway...

"Let us have a great banquet, shall we?" Silas raised a toast, bearing the wine upon a sculpted, golden chalice taken from an Ecclesiarchy office in a Shrine World that had been scoured by the New Devourer. It bore images of old Imperial saints, their visages glorious and beautiful. "Our journey ahead will be difficult. We may face foes beyond the deepest nightmares, but we have done so before upon many worlds that were. And so, may we find great treasure and glory in our path! We shall return to Macragge, bearing the artifact, and be exalted by the Lord Primarchs."



The Eldar escort ship and the human ships it led turned around a corner of the Webway, evading a branch that would have led straight into a dead end. However, their scanners came to life, and this time with definite results.

One of the Eldar bridge crew, adherents of the Path of the Mariner, had found an anomaly in the Webway tunnel. “Captain! We are detecting wreckage. Mon’keigh vessels, bearing symbols of the Changer of Ways.”

“Human,” the captain, a former corsair from Craftworld Iyanden, corrected, “Do not allow them to hear you call them that. As for these wrecks… they must have been destroyed by the Harlequins. That fool Ahzek Ahriman is still looking for the Black Library.”

“Energy spike detected from the wreckage! They’re powering up!

Too late did the warning come as a pair of Chaos warships emerged from the shattered wreckage. They were badly damaged, but they still had great compliments of Chaos cultists and Tzaangor beastmen that were sent forth in a great swarm of assault boats. To make matters worse, they still had some weapons online, and punctured the void shields of the Iaculum Tyrannis in some places, though these were quickly regenerated.

Of course, this had rudely interrupted the banquet of Silas Celeton and his inner circle, who were just about to finish their third course when the auspex scanners detected the incoming assault boats. Some of them, despite the Seventh Sun and Iaculum Tyrannis’s efforts, had successfully landed on the latter thanks to the attacks of the Chaos vessels.

Conveniently, or inconveniently, depending on one’s perspective, two of the assault boats had latched themselves just outside the Observation Gallery. That happened to just be a hundred or so meters from where the Rogue Trader’s inner circle had been dining, and so were the closest to stop the crazed Cultists and beastmen. Some of the Voidsmen had already gone there to defend it, but they were outnumbered...

Gerard had settled on a modest course, modest by the standards of those present at least, of meals as the others began filing in. The Harakoni Primaris, with his handler in tow as well. Bodyguard was...a nice term for it, as he understood the man was there to ensure the Psyker would not lose all control and become a threat to his allies. A grim necessity, but one of many that their lives required. Still, the man, despite his recaf addiction, had not proven to be an unpleasant fellow, though frankly he'd had very little dealings with the psyker. Still, the display on the strawberry was noteworthy, ballooning...no that wasn't the right word for it, it didn't look unnatural despite the obvious change in size, it was improved upon rather than forcibly altered. Quite the precise work, something that would be appreciated in the coming hard times no doubt. The voidmaster offered a polite nod to the psyker and his handler when they settled in, though not interrupting whatever meditations the man had begun to undertake.

“Well that’s gotta be th’biggest strawber’I’ve ever seen!”

The Kin certainly seemed to agree with Gerard's unspoken considerations, and was a man that the voidmaster, frankly, he did not have a good read on at all. Pleasant enough as well, brewed his own drink as far as he understood it, and he'd caught glimpses of the Kin in the observation deck, watching the passing Webway with various tools that were quite beyond Gerard. The gear heads were probably intensely interested in the Kin's kit, but they probably didn't have the resources to barter with to get the clothes off the fellow's back, so that really was that. Still, the technological prowess and sheer fighting capabilities would be most welcome indeed when trouble finally came knocking. A question being directed at him got his thoughts back on track, whether he'd seen the webway before, and he shook his head briefly.

"This is the first time, my last vessel never had the luxury. I did take a look on the observation deck, quite the display, much calmer than normal methods." Gerard wondered to himself whether the webway might have saved his last vessel, not having to make perilous jumps through the warp and very possibly being tracked by the chaos pirates, would have saved most of the souls on board that vessel. Something to ruminate over when he had a stiff drink, this was to be a grand feast ahead of a daunting, many called impossible, task. Impossible didn't mean much to Gerard anymore, the state of affairs the galaxy found itself in was impossible, and they lived it every day. The Captain offered a toast, the voidmaster joining the display alongside the others who were present, and the feast began in earnest.

Which, of course, would not last as the moment Gerard heard the weapons impacts on void shields, he was already on his feet and halfway out the door. He had to grab his shotgun, determine where the most severe breach was, and from there respond accordingly. The ship was already coming to general quarters, disciplined chatter across the vox as lockers armed and prepared to repel boarders, and the voidmaster moved at a full sprint, crew making way without a word as he stopped at his office, grabbing the shotgun and as much ammo as he could stuff into his fatigues, and was on his way back to the officer's suite to report to the Captain when the all too familiar tremors, tearing, and noise of assault boats breaching the hull rang out. He had just reached the doorway of the suite to make initial reports when the sounds of pitched battle echoed down from the observation deck.

"Voidsmen are responding to all boarding actions, most pitched appears to be the Observation deck. Heading there now, Sir." With that, Stukov took off yet again, armed and ready to respond, and as he turned the final steps towards the intense sounds of battle, it was a grim scene. Many Voidsmen were pressed by the tide, no heavy weapons had made it up here yet, and the outnumbered crew would not hold long on their own. The shouting, las fire, and other weapons on hand were joined by the slam firing barks of the artificer shotgun, announcing to all hands the arrival of their Voidmaster, his voice roaring above the din as he advanced and took command of the situation.

"FORM. RANKS! ASSUME TOTAL KILL PATTERNS, THERE IS NO DRIVING THEM BACK TO THEIR VESSELS! SECONDARY LOCKERS, GET DECK SWEEPERS TO THE OBSERVATION DECK NOW!" Gerard moved himself to the thick of the fighting, every time his shotgun ringing empty he would rack the slide only half way, ejecting the empty shell and reloading through the same port, before racking and loading normally when possible. Anyone who engaged him in melee would find bayonet and reinforced stock waiting, and his plan was to create as much space as possible for the beset voidsmen to form ranks. One would normally hope the rest of the combat capable in the officer's suite would join him, but frankly, Gerard had settled into combat mode, it was another pitched boarding action, and he would sooner die than have another vessel get overrun.

The Rogue Trader spoke.

"Let us have a great banquet, shall we?"
"Our journey ahead will be difficult. We may face foes beyond the deepest nightmares, but we have done so before upon many worlds that were. And so, may we find great treasure and glory in our path! We shall return to Macragge, bearing the artifact, and be exalted by the Lord Primarchs."

"TO THE PRIMARCHS" came a chorus from those at the table. Including Paolo.

The dinner progressed cheerfully. When the Rogue Trader had arrived he and others had stood up and awaited him to be seated before doing so themselves. He had politely introduced himself to either man opposite him, one was a hologram of a tech priest and the other an abhuman from the Leagues of Votann. These men were not fools, they had immediately spotted the Scholastica psykana symbols on his robes and belt. He would not treat these men as novices, he would not teach them to suck eggs.

“Well that’s gotta be th’biggest strawber’I’ve ever seen!”

"Well, i would trust-not any psyker who could not reliably do this. If you would inspect it, it is perfectly healthy."

He stated after pouring himself another mug of recaf. He took no milk with it. Its steaming pool of brown-black liquid reflected his face back at him as he raised it and sipped silently. It was easly three times as strong a flavor as the standard hive or guard issue rations.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When the first impact shocks hit the ship Paolo stood up so fast his chair slipped back and toppled over. The veteran trooper stepped out of the shadows next to him. As everyone around started to run about to their positions at the doors or to the vox intercoms, Paulo calmly had a conversation with the trooper.

"What do we do sir?" Said the trooper
"Patch me through on your comm bead to relay a message." Paolo Said
"I cannot sir, the metal walls interfere with it"
"Did you bring your grenades?"
"The door guard took them off me sir" he said in a calm businesslike manner
"Quite right, Find his body and take them back, then return to me"
"Do you think they know how to use a fury-grenade?" countered the trooper
in the distance there started the popping of shotgun sounds and krack of lasgun fire
"You'll know by the sound, DISMISSED"

Paolo then placed the two fingers of his left hand on his temple.
Out of his ornate cumbersome belt four military standard combat knives unbuttoned their leather latches and spontaneously drew up into the air and floated in front of him at eye height.

"One, Two, Three, Four"

Then various carving knives and small forks from the room flew out toward him and took up an orderly orbit as a second layer slightly below the first one as though he was already aware of where they were in the room.

"Five, Six, Seven, Eight"

Stukov had run out the door by this point bellowing something.

The party made a general move towards the door along with the Captain. Those outside the door were already kraking off rounds. When Paolo walked beyond the door he caught sight of the cultists.

A few others entered the room before the Trader made a toast to the room and Grummore lifted a glass as well. He didn’t care for Macragge or the human primarchs but he was expecting a good meal and at least a palatable drink so it was a good enough reason to follow along. He couldn’t help but wonder about the contents of their quarry and if it was, indeed, of value to him. He looked at the red liquid slosh about in his own glass as thoughts swirled in his mind, but he pushed it back and as the chorus of “To the Primarchs!” echoed around the room, his voice cracked out “And the honored fallen!” and he downed his drink before looking back at the Voidmaster. He began assembling his own first wave of the mighty feast as he responded.

“Oh y’must! By th’Ancestors it’s a sight. None o’that hell fuel Warp shit. Oh right!”

He’d gotten caught up in the speech but his curiosity returned as he instinctively reached out for the plate that held Paolo’s overgrown strawberry and put his eye down to the table level and inspected the fruit with a jeweler’s scrutiny before a satisfied huff with an impressed face before sliding it back over. “That’s quite the trick! I’d love t’see it in real time.”

The food had been quite acceptable as well, far nicer than trail rations and hastily brewed nutrition beverages. “Y’know, this is’a damn good meal, almost feels like a prisoner’s last!” The kin burst with laughter at his own remark, bits of foot getting tangled in his, formerly neatly groomed, beard. G

rummore savored some form of bird that was finely roasted with a citrus flavor permeating it. He was just reaching for another leg when the entire vessel shook. Grummore turned to ask about it to the Voidsman and noted an empty chair as the man tore ass out of the room with all the reflexive urgency of a seasoned vet. Another shuddering sound snapped Grummore’s attention away from the bootheels of the Voidsman as the psyker slammed their chair into the ground with the force of their standing and watched him assemble an array of floating cutlery about him. The Kin admittedly found appreciation that his private curiosity had been answered so quickly but he was distraught for the bulk of his own armaments had been left behind in his quarters. Without much in the way of protection he would have to be conservative and so he left in tow of Paolo with a las beam-cutter in hand. He’d try to find more equipment along the way. It was easy to find where the confrontation was, he could hear the shooting and, more easily, the voice of Voidmaster Stukov bellowing at the din’s edge.

Brandishing lasguns, stubbers, and assorted blades of all kinds, the mad followers of Chaos thundered against the Voidsmen. They held back the Cultists, but the attackers were tenacious and disciplined if anything. Still, many cultists died as they charged, dying before they could even approach the line.

Some of the Cultists didn't join the charge, though, instead remaining at range to fire their stubbers and lasguns at the Voidsmen. They were rebuffed by returning volleys of lasfire from the naval infantry, whose cohesion increased as Stukov began issuing his orders. These cultists didn't try to charge the Voidsmen, though, instead firing their weapons whenever the opportunity presented itself.

This was to be expected. After all, out of all the followers of the Chaos Gods, those who serve Tzeentch were the most orderly as Chaos could ever be. It wouldn't be too apparent at first, but some of the cultists would appear to be, in fact, Prosperine Spireguard. They were those mortal soldiers that hail from the Planet of Sorcerers, well trained and disciplined troops that serve directly under the Thousand Sons Traitor Legion. It's a relief that none of their Astartes masters were present, or else this situation might have been a desperate one.

Silas soon arrived in the battle, wielding the Eldar powerblade on one hand and an Ion pistol on another, dispatching one heretic at a time with the pistol. While the naval infantry managed to keep most of the Cultists pinned down, the beastmen, the Tzaangor, were not easily cowed. They emerged from the rear of the cultist's ranks, either pushing aside or simply trampling on the human Chaos worshippers when they were too slow to get out of the way.

The blasphemous chanting of massed Tzaangors rose to a crescendo as they charged forward, wielding jagged blades hued from metal and bone. Iridescent eyes glow with inhuman savagery, and the cruelly twisted horns that sprout from each Tzaangor's skull clattered together as they vie to be first into the fray.

Though some Tzaangors were cut down by lasfire, they were powerful and durable creatures. No less than twelve of them had broken into the first line of defending infantry, and promptly engaged them in close quarters. Behind them, a Chaos Sorcerer, a human acolyte, began chanting vile spells to throw at the Imperial remnants. It seemed only a fellow psyker could take him down in the middle of the battle…

A screeching Tzaangor brought its hateful blade down upon Silas, only to find a shimmering forcefield blocking the blow. Seeing its confusion, if only for a moment, the Rogue Trader cut off its blade arm with his own power blade, before shooting its brains out with the Ion Pistol.

"Foul creature, spawn of Chaos," the man hissed as he flicked the blood off from the sword. The forcefield was still working optimally, thank the Emperor-

Another Tzaangor slammed Silas, this time knocking him back. He landed just a few feet away from Grummore, dizzied. There, right before them, the Tzaangor began striding forward in a slow, deliberate manner as it ignored the wound on its side. It wielded a blade, like its compatriots, its bolt pistol apparently lost when the Harlequins attacked their fleet.

Outside, the Chaos vessels, damaged as they were, were still somehow functioning. The Eldar escort ship evaded the first chaos frigate as it slammed against the wall of the Webway tunnel after getting its engines completely destroyed by a volley of laser fire, exploding in a corona of purple flame. The other chaos vessel lumbered closer and closer, aiming to ram the Gladius frigate that belonged to one of the other Rogue Traders.

When Paolo rounded the corner. There were torrents of lasfire hitting all round the hallway darting and splashing off surfaces. So he moved to one of the few sallyports on either side of a blast door along with the bulk of the naval armsmen, dinner guests and chefs from the nearby kitchen. All of whome were armed with lasrifles and weapons of some kind or another.

Before he could muster his thoughts into an action plan he heard a commotion and the small force of voidsmen that were the front line a ways down the hall, had collapsed to an attack of demonic entities. He felt a pang of guilt as he heard their terrified screams as they were cut apart by daemon blades. He knew that their souls would be damaged by such blades.

With the instincts of a commander he looked at the men around him. One of them, a waiter on the opposite side to him, looked ready to run. When he shook his head and began to turn and sprint off down the hallway trying to skip and jump over las bolts, Paolo extended one hand at him and the lascarbine with strap flew backwards like a kite into the air. The mans legs flew out from underneath him and he was stopped in his tracks and landed with a thump on his rear.

Then he heard a voice by his head:

"Sir i can see them"
The young Harakoni said before loosing a few shots down the opposite end of the hallway from his cut-down lasgun.
He turned to see the trooper
"There"
He was pointing at the waiter who was busy being shot in the back by cultists.
His eyes darted around the waiter and spotted the grenade clipped into his belt.
"I see them" he said quietly
Extending one arm with a flick of almost a super human speed the grenade flew out of the pocket and toward him.

"I DONT WANT TO DIE!" screamed the trooper
He looked back and the gangly daemons were already on top of them.
One flung his sword down at the young Harakoni with speed and intent,
The Harakoni went to block with his only weapon, his lasgun, and the blade swung straight threw it sundering it in two with a 'pop'.
"WITNESS YOUR DOOM-" screeched the Tzaangor
Which was cut short as about 4 harakoni issue combat knives, forks, carving knives and even a few other things unintended stuck into its ribcage and stayed there as though it was a pincushion.

You see,

Paolo was a student of the psychic arts,
Particularly with regard to warding incantations and most importantly; warding runes,
Some of which he had painstakingly collected and inscribed onto his combat knives...

The Daemon Tzaangor erupted in a volcanic like aurora of purple blue smoke,
There erupted shouts and curses from others around as they engaged their own daemons in melee,
Amongst the chanting, Paolo could hear one voice unlike the others,

It was a deep and guttural chant and, worst of all, most frighteningly, Paolo recognized some of the words,
It was a psychic chant,
Paolo dropped what he was doing and flung both his hands to his temples as he could feel the warp drawing and swelling near and around the reckless enemy psyker,
He shouted the words

"EX NIHILO NIL FIT"!!

And, much like how an implosion nullifies an explosion,
the expanding psychic energy disappeared with a "Phop" that made everyones ears de-compress,

The Tzaangors behavior changed to this,

"SECOND RANKS, SUPPRESS THE GUNNERS! FRONT RANKS, FIRE AT WILL, REPULSE THE SCUM! DRIVE THEM BACK INTO THE VOID AND LET THEM CHOKE ON THE VILE HERESY THEY SPIT!"

Stukov kept firing his shotgun into the ranks of the oncoming tide, sweeping back and forth and indiscriminately peppering the oncoming cultists with buckshot. He wouldn't resort to more esoteric ammunition, not yet, not until the need was truly dire. They were holding the line, thankfully, the constant drills and readiness exercises were paying dividends currently. Of course, not all things could go the way of the crew, and the blasted Tzaangor rushed forward to engage the frontline. Which meant they rushed right into the waiting stance of Stukov and his shotgun. He focused his attention on the closest, slam firing as the thing roared and carried forward, slowing its charge but not arresting it fully, forced to engage in melee with the abomination. But if they expected the Voidmaster to be found wanting, they would be sorely disappointed. A downward blade swing was deflected with a sideways bayonet strike, the reinforced weapon proving its worth as the blade narrowly glanced away, and left an opening for the Voidmaster to slam his bayonet upwards into the beast's throat, before firing the last shell in the weapon right into the things jaw, decapitating it in a spray of gore and blood. Stukov had a chance to shove the corpse back in time to catch, out of the corner of his eye, the Rogue Trader get launched back. As much as instinct screamed he move to assist, he had no such luxury.

Another of the Tzaangor were upon him, inclined to try and take advantage of the Voidmaster's emptied shotgun. Snarling, Stukov found himself engaged in a hard fought brawl with the creature, pitting his agility and experience versus the beast's strength and inhuman durability. He couldn't withdraw either, not without putting more of the line at risk of being overrun. Given the abomination gave him no room to reload, he had to strike with bayonet and reinforced stock, landing cuts and blows, though he would only be chipping away at the creature at this rate. This was no time for thoughts though, as another blade swing nearly took his head off, feeling the blade give him a near close shave over his head, though it created an opening to land a good thrust into its side, burying the bayonet deep and leaving a nasty open wound in its side, though he was back on the defensive again, though he was forcing openings when he could. He'd put this one down in due time, though not in time to assist the others with their trouble. He'd have to put his faith in their capabilities to not buckle so soon in the face of trouble that found them this soon.

Dazzling beams of yellowish red surged from the las-beam cutter held by Grummore. Singed flesh and wounded howls sounded in turn as he ducked about, using protruding walls and even corpses as cover. His sidearm didn’t have fantastic range, being more of a shipbreaking tool rather than a weapon of war but it was plenty for this corridor and the high rate of fire proved invaluable to keeping the advancing wave at bay. That is, until the chanting started. At once Grummore took note of the oncoming push. He could do nothing as the suppressing fire coming from stubbers, autopistols, shotguns, and lasguns behind them were plenty to make him think twice about popping up. He squatted low behind a fallen corpse and unleashed a sustained volley into the group and watched as flesh singed and hair burned but only by sheer luck did one of them fall as it was struck by other voidsmen’s rounds. With its dying gasp, the Tzaangor grasped its two-handed great axe and flung it down the hall just barely clipping Grummore as it buried itself into the corridor’s wall.

The Kin turned his attention down the hall after realizing he was still alive to witness some poor beast be riddled with all manner of flung knives before exploding in a fantastic purple smoke, his vision blocked of the hapless voidsmen the beast was intent on cutting apart. At once he a thud as the Rogue Trader himself fell besides the Kin. The berserk beastman intent on securing the kill. The monster drew back it’s pale blue blade and was preparing an overhead strike. With a muscular burst belying his shorter stature and hints of grey, Grummore launched himself forward just before the wounded Tzaangor and pressed the cutter into the torso of the beast before holding the trigger. A brilliant yellow glow emanated from the creatures chest as the tool literally melted a hole through its chest and fired out the backside down the corridor. After a moment the blade clattered to the floor and the beast slumped forward, still carrying some momentum.

Grummore seemed lost for a moment, he took note of the voidsmen, while yes they were dying, they were not buckling and they were returning the death count equally if not more and the Voidmaster Stukhov’s shotgun was a thunderous drum which made his ears ring apart from the more subdued noise of lazfire. The mixture of his orders barked in patterned arrangement to the rhythmic thumping of the artificer weapon brought a sense of strength against the chanting beasts.

Until it wasn’t.

The silence snapped the Kin away from his assessment and to the Voidmaster locked in a harrowing melee ahead of Grummore. He turned back to the Rogue trader and barked out pointing his cutter in Stukhov’s direction while holding out a hand to Silas, “No time t’be lazin’bout! Yer Voidmaster is go-” His remark was cut short as a grenade went off, thankfully the full force of it was absorbed by the small pile of corpses that the Frontiersman was using as cover but the blast of it was still enough to send him tumbling past, concussed by the explosion.

The Chaos Sorcerer howled as Paolo nullified his vile incantations, the feedback loop of Warp energy cascading within his mind. The Tzeentchian psyker knelt down, screeching in pain, blood flowing like tears from beneath his eyes. Perhaps he was thinking what his Astartes masters would think of him should they learn that he was bested by one of the servants of the Dead Emperor.

Still, the sorcerer would not give up. If he was going down, then, he declared in the name of the Changer of Ways, he shall take as many worshippers of the Emperor with him.

Whatever promises or pacts he made with Tzeentch, the fickleness of the Chaos God of Deceit took hold as the Sorcerer delved deeper and deeper into the Warp, further risking eternal damnation. With one final heave, he attempted to cast another spell… only for it to backfire and leave behind a charred corpse. That, and several Pink Horrors jumbled out, with the spell apparently succeeding at the price of his life.

He'd have to put his faith in their capabilities to not buckle so soon in the face of trouble that found them this soon.

It was soon apparent that the Chaos cultists were beginning to lose momentum. The casualties they suffered were double of what they inflicted on the naval infantry, and the screeching Tzaangors were being picked off one by one. Still, they still fought on, elated by the promises of the ruinous powers.

The Tzaangor that Stukov fought brayed and screeched, angry that its prey wasn't folding as fast as the others. Its fury was only compounded when another of the naval infantry stabbed it in the back with a bayonet, prompting the beastmen to turn around and grab him by the throat...

“No time t’be lazin’bout! Yer Voidmaster is go-” His remark was cut short as a grenade went off, thankfully the full force of it was absorbed by the small pile of corpses that the Frontiersman was using as cover but the blast of it was still enough to send him tumbling past, concussed by the explosion.

Silas, in a similar vein, was affected by the explosion, though not as much. Along with the pile of corpses, the Tau shield generator that he used absorbed the impact. Though his ears rang and his vision was dazed, if only for a moment, he quickly came to the Kin's side, using the power blade to slice apart a pair of Cultists that were rude enough to approach with chainswords drawn.

"Grummore? Grumm? By the Throne… are you alright?"

Silas, worried, considered calling a medicae if the Kin didn't wake up within the next moment…

Outside, the situation had evolved rather quickly. The remaining Chaos vessel was successful, ramming and disabling the Gladius frigate owned by one of the other Rogue Traders. The spectacle was visible from the observation deck, with the two ships slowly crashing down towards the bottom of the Webway tunnel.

In the bridge, meanwhile, the augur arrays flashed with new, unidentified signs, yet again. What else was coming…?

Stukov saw, out of the corner of his eye, one of his men, a good and stout lad, too headstrong for his own good, move in and bayonet the abomination in the back. Granted, all that did was piss it off at this rate, but as it impulsively turned to throttle and kill the offending voidsman, that bought the Voidmaster precious moments to act. Quickly loading an inferno shell and racking it home, Stukov would slam the bayonet upwards, lodging it into the neck of the Tzaangor before jerking the trigger, incinerating the beast's head in a gout of fire and shot, dropping free the grappled Voidsman as Stukov shouldered the collapsing corpse aside, rapidly reloading standard buckshot before opening fire once more, covering the voidsman who had come to his aid.

"TO YOUR FEET, WE HAVE THE ADVANTAGE! NO DAEMONS WILL BREAK US NOW, SHOW THEM THE WRATH OF THE IMPERIUM!"

The Voidmaster reached to his belt, grabbing a concussion grenade, priming it, and hurling it towards the emerging Daemons. They still practiced Gellar Field failure drills, and often times it was simply more effective to seal off lost decks that had daemons on them until a return to realspace, Emperor willing, could be made. Failing that, explosives and heavy weapons were preferred. Frags were rare, as the fragments would do almost as much damage to ship's components as they would the enemy. But concussion grenades would maul flesh and even armored foes, as the shockwave cared not for light armor, without doing much to the ship itself. A perfect blend of completion of duties, and something to be mused on another day. Other explosions had staggered and left ears ringing, but the Voidmaster could not afford the luxury of being seen as faltering, keeping himself upright through sheer stubbornness and bracing. His men were doing exactly what was to be expected of them, and that left it to him to perform his duties. To carry on fighting, and screening his men as best he could, injuries, abominations, or daemons be damned.

The Zangors attention seemed to be less coordinated. They seemed to be searching for the psyker who had drained their witch cousin. Each strike they made seemed a little distracted and more watchful.

Still the men around him died. The deamon tzangoor easily batted aside the mono sword of an armsman and went to run him through with practiced ease. One man, a chef, then cleaved down on the tzangoors bicep with a chain cleaver from the kitchen as though he was waiting for this moment. It managed to completely separate the tzangoors sword arm from the body. The deamon screeched in anger turned, and the arm reconnected itself back onto where it had been separated. The deamon cursed at him.

Meanwhile Paolo was in melee with yet another. The Harakoni guardsman was trying to dodge attacks and find a weapon. He had drawn his stub pistol and was trying to unload it into the nearest threat. Pop-pop.

Paolo looked up from his crouch and saw his combat knives laying on the ground then his stomach lurched as if it had been picked up and thrown several meters and the surrounding ether seemed to crackle like a tesla coil.

"Oh no" he said
as he started to hear the pink horrors keening scream.

Gathering his senses he grabbed the Warhawk guardsman and pulled him back out of the frey.
"Grenades! Now at their back!"

The guardsman knew his orders and stepped back with the fury grenade taken from his belt.
For a single moment he tried to place himself outside of the fighting, into a state of calm.
And all went quet.
He flicked the pin out with his thumb one handedly.
The fury grenade, which was a large sized oddly shaped pineapple painted brown flew over the heads of the melee and even the beasts and expertly clattered off the roof to land behind the enemy line.
In a moment it exploded.
Unlike normal grenades, there was no shockwave or fragments. Instead a white sheet of flames shot up at the back of the tzaangors in between the advancing horrors. Instead of dying down the flames only increased and shot white hot tendrils lancing at the backs of the tzaangors. The air in the hallway became as hot as steam. The grenade just sat there spitting out a wall of flames for what felt like minutes but was only seconds.

The tzaangors screeched in surprise and pain.
"Good" the guardsman thought.
"they dont like flame, just as they say..."

Almost everything within range was completely conflagrated, the advancing cultists, the tzaangors and the pink horrors were forced to wind and alter their course mid air to halt their advance keening and crying.

There was, of course, friendly fire. Some of the Naval Armsman had to jump back as the crazed burning enemies tried to writhe and twist outside of the sheet of white-hot flame. However the flames bounced off of their flak armour and singed their hair only. The completely surprised chaos fell onto the waiting bayonets and chainswords and the Armsmen used this moment to enact generations of revenge upon them, with frightening force.

Paolo stood at the back ready to cast his next power.

Whispering a prayer to himself.
"In the name of the triumvirate, just as it was on Terra past..."

He raised his arms about him in a V to focus his energy.

"To armour those who are blessed..."

"They called it..."

"D R A K E S K I N"

Energy in the shape of a blue bubble burst forth from his body.

Every man of the imperium within range skin started to darken and char to that as black as a salamander's marine. The distractions of pain dulled to a mere background. The burning stopped.

Cultists blades that would have bit, now only grazed in shallow cuts.
The Anger and the fury of the Armsmen was not dissuaded by the distraction of both them and their allies turning charcoal black. In some ways it was as though a picture of art hanging in some gallery.

The world hummed and the shouts of voidsmen calling out targets and maneuvers as well as the miserable chorus from the invaders all melted away save for a constant drone in the ears of the Kin who laid on the floor helpless for just a second. He was vaguely aware of the world but, like a limb with renewed blood flow, it felt sluggish and out of sync. He could hear the Trader Silas somewhere in the distance before he was aware that the blob hovering over him was the very same, “… are you alright!?”

A groan followed simply with “Aye…” was all Grummore could muster at the moment as he sluggishly turned to a seated position and fumbled about for his laz beam-cutter that lay in his lap. Once he was situated, he erected himself, saved only by the concentrated fire and stalwart defense of the voidsmen and the enraged bellowing of their commander. As the drone subsided and he became more focused on reality, the purplish shapes revealed creatures the entire opposite of the reality he was trying to perceive. The shifting horrible impossibilities seemed to be where nothing was before. He watched as their shapes morphed and shifted with eyes, mouths, and even limbs molding and remolding over each other, all the while a cacophony of dreaded laughter and chittering poured out from them. He didn’t know where the sorcerer had gone, but these seemed to replace him.

All that he could think about was how much he wished he’d taken the time to bring equipment with him. All at once a shower of molten daemon seemed to rain about him as the Voidmaster created a fantastically macabre display with what used to be the head of a Tzaangor.

“Ack that’ll take ages t’git off”

He shouted to no one in particular. With a hand growing more steady he steadied his aim onto the cluster of pink and unleashed a volley of cutting laz that seemed to only piss the creatures off earning a return volley of warp fire that struck the same pile he’d been using or the wall about him, momentarily coloring it bizarre immaterial shades and textures. The blazing fire behind them, didn’t, someone had sent a grenade over the top that spat flame like a Salamander of old, coating flesh and armor in gouts fire, the room immediately felt like the heart of a Votann’s crucible as the temperature skyrocketed. And, just as quickly, Grummore heard someone bellow out, “Drakeskin!”

He continued firing, oblivious to his own skin condition now but suddenly felt the discomfort he’d experienced from the concussion ease like a calming draught had just passed his throat, he didn’t know where it came from but he felt grateful.