[center][h1][u][b]The Slaughter of Sanctii[/b][/u][/h1]
[i]Aftermath[/i]
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[img]https://i.imgur.com/2d3BuST.jpeg[/img][/center]
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Surrender had been swift and unexpected. It created a host of issues that the central command center for the Imperial army group was now being forced to deal with, problems that they had not accounted for.

Vox operators relayed endless torrents of information from frontline troops, resistance across the city had collapsed seemingly simultaneously. There were reports of Sanctii’s elite simply ambling without purpose around the battlefield, and the surrender of entire units started to be reported by forward command posts and low-grade officers that were wholly unequipped for the massive undertaking of prisoner processing that was now starting to take shape across the hivecity.

In an attached command tent, purposefully set aside from the main bustle of the central strategium, a second command post stood mostly empty. Vox operators stood idly by, and cogitator technicians tapped slowly at their stations as if trying to appear to work. A Sigillite-Intendant stood quietly over the strategium. The dour man had been silently eyeing a pair of hooded figures in the corner of the room as he awaited the arrival of the senior commanders of the siege for debrief. He found the pair so very odd, their hoods obscuring their faces in the dim light, their cloaks seemed obtuse in places against their bodies, and their hands and chests moved beneath the cloaks as if speaking yet the Sigillite heard no words from the pair.

The command tent door swung open with a squeak and the Intendant turned his gaze from the strangers in the corner to the arrival of his first battlefield commander. He frowned at the man, not recognizing the face as he raked his  internal memory banks for the face.

“Major Sandovall,” the officer said to the Intendant, his face caked in blood and soot from the fighting, “43rd Imperial Army Battalion, the General will not be attending on account of being atomized Intendant, you can stop that data scrolling now,” he sneered as he took up a spot around the central strategium table intended for his late superior.

The Intendant nodded, “Of course,” he stated flatly as he turned his view back to shifting runes on the table before him.

A gaggle of five soldiers followed after Major Sandovall, each as worn with weariness as the last. At the forefront of the gaggle was a dark man with an archaic helmet snug under his left arm and a dataslate under a metallic right arm. A battle scarred husk remained where once a gilded trench coat fit for a general adorned his form. A plethora of recently tended to wounds dotted the warrior’s skin as he walked under the swinging glowglobes. He stopped short of the Forty-Third Battalion’s attendant, offering a somber nod before addressing the servant of the Sigillite.

“[b]General Astaroth. Commander of the Forty-First Excertus Imperialis[/b]. An attendant would normally take my place, but most of my men were vaporized in the last assault.” The man spoke with wounded pride, one of his hands offering a rough salute despite the agony of his wounds. One of the men behind him shifted to offer assistance, yet Astaroth raised a hand to halt their movement. “Furthermore, I will be attending in the absence of Commander Joral of the Eighty-Eighth and General Ishad of the Seventy-First with their regimental replacements. Both perished in the final assault of Sanctii’s spire.”

A pair of crimson-clad warriors stepped forward to either side of General Astaroth. The first was a tall, Himalazian man with a cacophony of tattoos traveling up his neck to his left ear. A short crop of hair with shaved sides complimented a grossly scarred face, enhanced only by the grim presence of skin-fused facial plates from fresh wounds. The second was an average sized woman with a gaunt face and a pair of dead, pale-blue eyes. Her crimson uniform was decorated with several decorations of Achaemenidian flavor, including the power scimitar that hung from her belt. Thin hair tangled into a rudimentary bun did little to hide the veritable damage done to her dusken-skinned face. 

“Captain Maggroth of the Eighty-Eighth, Forty-Fifth Battalion.” The Himalazian man said, offering a slow and strong salute to the Scribe-Intendant. His voice was similarly slow, strong, and brutal to the eardrums of those in the tent. A Himalazian twang was obvious on his tongue, hailing from one of the many tribes that had been originally conquered in the name of Unification.

“Vice-Commander Bushra of the Seventy-First, Third Battalion.” The woman spoke next, her voice deep and dour. The battle had afflicted her in more ways than one, such that it was apparent in her few arriving words. Her Achaemenidian rasp would’ve been a delight to listen to were it not for the perpetual dread clinging to her tongue. 

The two remaining men behind the trio held dataslates close to their garbs, closely following their respective commanders with a mixture of new found respect and existential dread. They offered no introduction, allowing the limelight to fall upon their superior officers. 

The Sigillite-Intendant returned the salute to General Astaroth as his haptics drew up the incoming data streams of casualty reports, he’d need to edit his attendance report before he could send it on to his master.

“General, Vice Commander, Captain,” he nodded solemnly, “I am glad you are all in attendance.”

Three more figures filed in, scrabbly and battlefield-dirty even by the standards of those in attendance. The first man was unmistakably Colonel John Stavin, in his third-line issue, filthy quilted flak jacket and Urshic flap-ear cap. The second was a weatherbeaten, skinny man with a wild look in his eyes and a penal det-collar on his neck; the newly promoted Lieutenant Whitaker. The third, with her distinctive cap missing, was Discipline Mistress Severina. All look like they had been through two or three hells.

“Sorry sirs, madams.” The Colonel said, “Aeternus - ahm, [i]Primarch Aeternus[/i], I mean - he got us back as quick as he could. It is a fuc-”

Severina elbowed him, while Whitaker simply stared off into space, trying not to laugh.

“I mean- the strategic situation is very loose out there.” He said, “As I’m sure we’re all aware.”

A carbon-scoured giant strode into the tent, whatever markings that had once graced the ceramite burnt away under the fury of elementary particles. Two Volkite Serpentas were maglocked to the armor, the barrel of one twisted and deformed by overuse. “[b]Vairya Kurus, Mistress of the First Legion of Astartes[/b].” Her voice came through the vox-grill built into her helmet, and sounded more like the rumbling of a giant than that of any woman.

Of course, she was nothing to the Thunder Warriors, who had fought and charged and died upon the field. She was less - and in more subtle ways than size. There was a rigidity to her bearing, as if the armor was moving on its own, and no true flesh dwelt within.

The footsteps of Mistress Vairya were echoed, louder and bulkier than when her presence had graced the command tent. Another series of heavy greaves, enhanced by muscle and servo-assisted pistons, resounded outside. The distinct sound of armored boots halting, turning, and shifting to a different stance unveiled the arrival of the next siege-commanders. A pair of Thunder Warriors stepped through with their armor scorched in tar-black with spontaneous white pockets of quickly applied ceramite sealant. Scraps clung to the back of their armor where alabaster cloaks would normally sway. None bore their weapons save for combat knives attached to their chestplates. The warrior at the forefront wore no helmet, instead carrying the knightly wargear under one arm while the other carried a dataslate. The other was similarly bare, semi-limping with several freshly installed augmentations where limbs should be.

“[b]Primarch Aeternus Rex of the God-Slayers[/b], First Legion of the Thunder Warriors. With me is [b]Captain Caestus Caligula of the God-Slayers[/b].” The man stated, his raven hair tied into a warrior’s knot behind him to reveal an unimaginable amount of scars, augmentations, and fresh wounds. His features were that of the Emperor’s without any of the perfection, uglied by unknowable decades of grueling combat. Both of his dark eyes observed the occupants of the room, consuming every detail of those in attendance. They finally rested on the scorched form of the Astartes commander, Vairya, and he offered a solemn nod to his fellow genewarrior. Caligula remained still as a statue, fully engrossed in a dataslate with a mixture of worry and annoyance. 

As the Primarch turned away from the Astartes, he stepped next to the smaller forms of Severina and Stavin. A warm smile, at least one that could be conveyed as such, grew on the lips of Aeternus. A gauntleted hand fell upon one of the Colonel’s shoulders. “I’m glad to see you survived, Stavin. You as well, Sevarina. As I sliced through hordes of those biocreatures, I grew worried that your ill-fated luck would’ve caught up to you both.” He said with a strange tone, one that could be conveyed as sarcasm and genuine worry all the same.

Despite the warmth offered by Aeternus, a gripping chill seemed to fall over those present as darkness entered the tent. The Stygian armor towered over most present, two orbs filled with the most horrid hatred any could conjure in that room. Amalasuntha looked between all present before finally resting her gaze upon the Intendant, venom being cast without a single utterance. The custodian’s words finally sounded, simple and direct,  “This operation is a [b]failure[/b]. [i]The Abomination escaped the city[/i].”

As though unphased by the demigods' outburst, the Sigillite-Intendant gave a curt nod, “That wasn’t beyond our Master’s predictions,” he confirmed to the Black Hawk as he seemed to ignore the others that had entered just prior for the far more pressing matter that had been dropped on the strategium by Amalasuntha.

“Rest assured, the Sigillite was planning for this eventuality, and the eyes and ears of the raptor are already at work following any dissidents and deserters of this masterful siege, the [i]abomination[/i] will be run to ground, Lady Amalasuntha, and your retinue will be required one last time in this matter, if it suits your preference.”

The Intendent turned away from the Black Hawk and addressed the Primarch and his curious comrades next.

“Primarch Rex, your warriors have done well for themselves, and this siege has much to thank their sacrifice for,” he turned a curious eye to the penal battalion commander and his discipline mistress as he called up their preliminary after action reports on his retinal haptics, “Colonel Stavin, Mistress Severina, the remains of the 51st Sanctiian Guards are to be seconded to you, sans armor and weaponry, of course. Your heroism, despite your standing, was admirable, and your service has been noted by our Master for review.”

A swarm of emotions bristled under the thunder warrior’s skin as the intendant spoke. It felt like his and Amalasuntha’s words echoed throughout his cranium. He felt a pang of anger that threatened to bubble up from a vast pit of underlying responses. Half of his legion had died, men and women sworn to the Master of the Lines that had achieved greatness. To him, the escape of the entity known as ‘Deep Winter’ felt like his warriors had died in vain. All of these feelings occurred in a brief spark of a second behind his dark eyes. The glamour wore off in a fraction of that as Aeternus brought his fist to his chest in reverence.

“We are His God-Slayers, Scribe-Intendant, it is the least we can do in pursuit of Unity,” He finally responded, his lion’s roar of a voice dimmed to acceptable levels. His head dipped forward in a short bow of appreciation before rising once more to settle on Amalasuntha. “Worry not, we will find the abomination and tear the beating cyberheart from its entrails. You will have the support of the God-Slayers, if our Master is willing. Perhaps even Mistress Vairya could assist, or even our newly polished hero of the Thirty-One-Third.”

As the Scribe-Intendant began to take another breath, the Primarch raised a hand as to continue speaking. “Your praise - and by extension the Sigilite’s - is worthy enough for me, yet I request one more thing from our Master. The crimes of the Thirty-First-Third are to be forgiven for their exemplary duty. Without their assistance, Sanctii might not have fallen. Their courage, honor, and bravery are merit enough. A promise should be kept and a duty must be honored.” He finished, lowering his hand and looked down at Colonel Stavin with a pained smile. 

The Legion Mistress was inscrutable with her face hidden behind her helm, myomer false muscle holding her frame impossibly still. After a moment she spoke again, but even her voice was rendered anonymous by the vox grill.  “If this is the Emperor’s will. The remainder of the Legion continues apace, Astartes combat effectiveness only marginally impaired by combat losses. If we are to be sent after target-designate Deep Winter, I would request a day to flesh-share gene-memory of recent encounters with its manufactorum subroutine with those of us who did not partake in the engagement.”

“You will have the time you need Mistress, refit your Legion. Replacements, though fresh, are expected to you in good time.”

The Scribe-Intendant flagged a reinforcement report and geneseed acceptance rate report as vermillion for the Mistress’ incoming replacements and expected reserves. No doubt she would have seen such data within the week, but this would speed up the bureaucracy behind the scenes considerably.

“No doubt that the Sanctiian province will require a garrison to ensure full compliance of the region and the eventual supporting invasion into mainland Ursh,” General Astaroth began to speak, reviewing the dataslate in his hand as new information fed into it. “There are a hundred different regiments, mercenaries, and penal forces that can remain stationed in the province; however, I’d like to nominate the Forty-First to remain as the acting force in the region. There is a fire still lit in our breast to see this campaign to its complete and total end. Let the Seventy-First and Eighty-Eighth lead the charge against Kalagann in our place.”

The pair of recently promoted soldiers behind him shared a look as the tired, withered man offered himself and his legion to remain in the site of their greatest campaign. His tone was blissfully certain and as still as unperturbed water. It was as if he accepted that Sanctii was the place in which he would die. The thunder warriors offered a nod of their head, acknowledging a fellow warrior of dire straits.

The Scribe-Intendant nodded respectfully as the General resigned himself to seeing Sanctii through to the end. 

“Just so, General, just so.”

He turned his attention back to the group at large, his haptics categorizing information, resolving unit order reports, and final debrief notes for review by the Sigillite himself.

“Colonel Stavin, Mistress Severina,” the Intendant began, “I do not have the authority to grant the request of the Primarch Aeternus, but I have already forwarded it to the Sigilite for review. Expect a decision within the week, you are to remain here, seconded to General Astaroth for prisoner processing until that decision arrives.”

“As for the rest of you, order confirmations have been forwarded to your headquarters’. You are dismissed. In the Emperor’s name.”

“His will be done. Join me whenever you are ready, Colonel Stavin.” General Astaroth stated, saluting the Scribe-Intendant with a small smile beginning to break his sullen features. Clicking his boots together, the battered man turned on his heel and marched out of the tent with the regimental replacements. He wasted no time as all five of the auxilia commanders exited the debrief into the wastes of Sanctii. A thought crossed his mind as he walked by Primarch Aeternus, about whether they’d see each other in Ursh. He dismissed the thought, knowing that the God-Slayers would see the end one way or another.

“[b]Raptor Imperialis[/b], Scribe-Intendant, for glory and unity. We will begin reinforcing outside of Sanctii and march on His orders.” Primarch Aeternus replied, offering a salute in the form of a fist to his chest. Captain Caligula echoed his action as the two stepped backwards towards the aft portion of the command tent. There was much he still wished to discuss with the Astartes and the Black Hawk, yet Rex knew that there was little to discuss when Unity was well within their grasp. Regardless, the commander of the First Legion awaited his allies out in the heavy snow of Sanctii.

“For glory and unity,” the Scribe-Intendant echoed as the Primarch left the command tent. His haptics flickered as he logged each of the respective commanders leaving to go about their tasks, their diligence to be recorded and forwarded to his liege lord as requested once his immediate tasks were complete.