[center][h1][u][b]The Doom of Arkangelus[/b][/u][/h1] -After the Fall of Sanctii- [hr] [img]https://i.imgur.com/u9Zhj6G.jpeg[/img][/center] [hr] He [b]hated[/b] them. He [b]despised[/b] them. He [b]loathed[/b] them. He had lost [i]thousands[/i] of his brothers because of what they did. If they had remained with them until the end, then they would’ve still been alive to pursue Unity. Because of their actions, he was forced to push his legion beyond their limits to achieve total victory here. They were at fault. Everything that had came to pass was all their fault. He would never forget how they ran from the battlefield, wordlessly departing like automata called to their master. Their armor still remained in the snow where they had left it, precious battle plates with advancements from the Terrawatt Clan. The name of their special sect of genewarrior rang through his mind. [b]Astartes.[/b] He remembered their emotionless eyes as they threw down their lasrifles before his command tent. All of the campaign’s leaders had been present at the time, including himself. The Nineteenth Excertus Imperials, the Sixteenth Legio Cataegis, and the local clan governments that had rebelled against the Khaganate. If the Astartes had simply remained, then maybe they’d still have the support of the clansmen of Kiev. He should’ve followed them, cut down their Legion Mistress, and fed her skin to the mutants in the snow wastes. If only the Sigilite hadn’t ordered them away himself, then it’d be a different story. The current story was playing out in front of him in gruesome detail. Nearly a full year of attrition warfare, thousands of dead Cataegis, and millions of mercenaries lay dead before the walls of Arkangelus. All of the maglevs, macrohauler lanes, and autopaths had been sabotaged by the Kievans during their initial siege. Dark weapons from the Old Night had hampered their progress massively and macrocannons from the taller spires had murdered their heavy artillery. He had reinforced heavily from the populace of Khaganate, enough to completely wipe out their sparse villages. It still wasn’t enough. A war brewed above his head even as he grit his teeth in disdain. The skyward battles had been just as gnarly as the trench warfare below. The attrition rate was largely thanks to the flak inside of the city, arcing out lengths of lightning to detonate their bombers. This hive cared not for the death of their allies. They cared only for the complete annihilation of those that attacked them. He had complimented their commander several times over their tactics. Whoever they were, he was certain they’d be a worthy adversary. [i]A good god to slay[/i], he thought, thinking of the words that Aeternus would’ve told him if he were here now. The God-Slayers weren’t here, nor were the First Legio Astartes to support his final advance on Arkangelus. Despite his heated words towards him in the Himalazians, he found himself regretting his insults at the First Primarch. “[b]Primarch![/b]” His title returned him to the battlefield. Himself and several bulky Cataegis in checkered yellow-lilac were journeying on a maglev. The path ahead was rebuilt over and over, reinforced again and again, until the defender’s assaults could no longer recreate their initial sabotage. It was the only way to get into the city with some success, yet it posed an infinite amount of risks. Several maglevs were racing behind and beside them in cabins similar to theirs, each holding thunder warriors and a mixture of Imperials. Who knows how many were born outside of the Kievan Russ Khaganate. “I’m aware, [b]Arthanis[/b], my chronometer is tracking the time until arrival. Brace that accelerator cannon of yours and start suppressing the walls!” Gilgamenses replied with a snarl on his lips, pushing the warrior hard on his pauldron. There was no bite back from the Trident, who lumbered forward to the prow of the cabin and set up his massive, multi-barreled cannon. Another assisted him, connecting a long line of ammunition from his bulky powerpack to the weapon in question. Arkangelus was quickly arriving before them. The entire city was encased in a great shield of decomposing, inactive machines that had been crunched together by some unknown machine. Electricity arced off the surface, each ‘block’ of destroyed automata was a conduit to channel lightning through. Skyward towers, billowing with smoke, told of the endless fabrication of weaponry to themselves and their Urshic allies. Turrets the size of several men moved on railed tracks far above them, slinging massive post-reactive shells at the swarm of Imperial Auxilia far afield. His helmet tracked the trajectory of a specific shell that pierced into the ground nearest to the Imperial host. No rational man could count the number of mortal men and women dying as they fought in hastily dug trenches against Arkangelus. Waves of red garbed soldiers unleashed lances of crimson that harmless crossed the distance to the Kievan walls. Gilgamenses last report from General Stryk reported eight-hundred thousand in total. Their numbers were as impressive as the thousands of tanks, hundreds of artillery vehicles, and dozens of superheavy tanks supporting them. Their assault was pointless, he thought cruelly, the scrap wall was too thick to be penetrated. “Contact! [b]Autoknights![/b]” The acceleration cannon swiveled on its rudimentary bipod. Bullets escaped the barrels as they started to rotate to maximum speed. It would’ve served them well at a distance, but Gilgamenses knew that the Kievan knights were sallying out for them. There was no such thing as a true knight in this dark millennium, only road warriors in churning vehicles remained. These were no such road warriors. Fully armored in powered exoskeletons with thick plates of welded metal, they sallied out to meet the Thunder Warriors. Gravbikes lifted them on wings of engines built from a glorious age, while power lances unfolded from gauntlets steadied by external servos. Heraldries, campaign shields, and banners whipped wildly in the Khaganate winds as they thrust through the air. Prow mounted lasers burst open to soften their targets, splashing the various maglevs in waves of crimson beams. They were impressive. After Arkangelus fell, he was certainly going to make good use of their gravbikes; however, they would first need to perish. That was something that he prided himself on. The complete annihilation of his enemies was what the Emperor deserved, preservation of their relics was His wish, and the liberation of their people was the Master’s dream. The Cataegis perpetuated this. He didn’t need a voxlink to tell his warriors to begin. They formed up in ranks of two across the maglev, forcing their bulky firearms through the windows and waiting for the perfect moment to fire. He further didn’t need to tell them when. They were veterans of a hundred fights. Reckoners of Franc. Subjugators of Jermani. Slaughterers of Gyptus. They were the Amethyst Tridents. They needed no order to pierce their prongs into the enemy. Their bolters barked like vicious dogs, shells ejecting out wildly into the cabin as they sought their targets. Gravbikes detonated into fiery explosions. Knights disappeared into thick mists of exploded meat. The walls of Arkangelus shook with the force of a thousand flakcannons as post-reactive bolts erupted against their myriad decomposing automata. This was echoed across dozens of maglevs, followed only by the howling of mercenary weapons beside their own. He refused to be overshadowed by their glory, lowering his trident down at the front of the cabin. It was a brilliant weapon, truly, like those that the Custodes had used. A brutal, plasmic armament made up the center prong while it was flanked by two powerblades forged from diamantine. The other two prongs were vicious halberd blades of the same composite, reinforced by an unstable powerfield that dripped plasma. A series of activation runes were forged into the shaft, each he had committed to memory dozens of years ago. Gilgamenses tapped the paddle of the trident, ejecting bolts of thin plasma in the direction of the knights. Each glob of searing white magma was a kill. Their persistence, however, was a plague to their operation. They were not simply a small platoon of warriors on gravbikes. They were a horde of knights charging at the beast known as the Imperium. Gilgamenses’ display had kept track of the count, but he started disregarding it as it reached into the thousands. He knew that they were aware that this was their last chance to sally out before the slaughter. Credit where credit was due, he marvelled at their defiant spirit. [i]Warriors like that could’ve fought for Unity[/i], he thought grimly as another knight was flipped from their saddle. The Knights of Kiev had reached their targets at least, each maglev within piercing distance of their power lances. Victory would’ve been assured for them it had fought another Legion. Gilgamenses watched with pleasure as his warriors meticulously swapped their bolters for power tridents and power spears, each of equivalent length and power to the Kievan lances. Furthermore, they had the added reach of a genewarrior. Their folly was discovered too late. Knights were pulled from their saddles as they zoomed by on their mounts, tridents easily piercing plate and dispersing powerfields of their reactive armor. Gravbikes fled into the distance, flipping behind the maglevs and exploding some seconds later as they spun out of control. Men and women screamed in agony as they were hoisted into the air, then tossed into the tracks to be ground into fine past by the maglevs. His Amethyst Tridents weren’t without loss though. A Thunder Warrior beside him caught a power lance to the face, shearing their helmet away and carving in their skull. A maglev exploded to his right as their lances pierced true. Veteran knights leapt from their mounts onto another’s cabin, descending within to fight in brutal close combat against the Thunder Warriors. These scenes were played across the entire Legio as they crossed into the confines of Arkangelus. He saw a power lance attempt to make contact with his glorious war plate, yet Gilgamenses was a Primarch of superb alchemy. His hand reached back to grab a mortal and tossed him onto the lance, confusing both before he unleashed a plasmic bolt into the knight. The pair tumbled into darkness as they entered into a maglev hangar, detonating some seconds later as plasma ate through the bike’s fuselage. Their cabin came to a grinding halt. The swarm of gravknights behind them began to circle back after the initial charge. “Out! Move! [b]Arkangelus is ours![/b]” Gilgamenses roared through his helmet, lovingly decorated to resemble a stern face molded in gold. The Amethyst Tridents scrambled out of the cabin however they could. Some pushed through the doors, others exited through the windows, and some kicked open a new egress for them to begin fighting again. Their adrenaline was beginning to cook their senses. Gilgamenses watched as one of his warriors tore out a mercenary’s throat with his hands, then used the body to smash through the interior. Another had perished at the back of the maglev, his body short circuiting from the battle’s stimulae. [i]More bodies to tally against the Astartes[/i], he thought with anger. Regardless of their disposition, each of them began dealing with the returning autoknights. Gilgamenses had other matters to attend to, namely whatever hierarchy controlled Arkangelus. The Imperial mortals scurred out ahead of him, lancing through autosquires and machine-servants that tended to the knights. Some of the knights had remained on land, drawing their archaic warswords and diving after the Auxilia with vengeance on their breath. They should’ve died in the saddle, he thought, as his trident blasted the one nearest to him. The knight disappeared into a puddle of sizzling plasma, while another was caught by the backswing of his glorious armament. They were no match for a Primarch, especially one such as he. Until a new opponent appeared that roused the spirit in his chest. Their wargear was as refined as one could own in these dark years, resplendent with arcing energy field and a paragon blade to match. The knight wore no helmet, allowing his white hair to waft in the Kievan draft. His armor was history made manifest, meticulously decorated to venerate an elder of some sort. A great helmet was maglocked to the man’s side. Gilgamenses acknowledged him. His own wargear was meticulously cared for as a veteran of over a hundred years of war. His chestplate bore the Raptor Imperials above a metallic replica of bare abdomen. A cloak of purple-dyed leather wafted beneath his powerpack, while pauldrons of mismatched colors harbored the Raptor in lilac laurels. They were both champions of their people, but the Primarch knew he was beyond what this old warrior could be. He was alchemy perfected. “Lo, invader, dost-” The man had started to say, his voice as dry as bark and as deep as hollowed Terra. His tone had been pleasant, as if meeting another warrior on the battlefield. Perhaps, he would’ve said more if Gilgamenses hadn’t interrupted him with a probing stab of his trident. The elder knight deflected with desperation in his movements. “Speech is for the weak. [i]Fight[/i]. [i]Die[/i]. [b]Raptor Imperialis![/b]” Gilgamenses responded as he leapt into the next strike with a thin swing of his leftmost prong, cutting into the paragon blade of the elder knight. The Primarch was much taller than the other warrior, enhanced by the genemancy of the Emperor and the alchemy of the Himalazians. Every slash from the Sixteenth Primarch was pinpoint accurate, successfully probing where he requested with decades and more of combat experience. His expertise was such that he could accurately track the battle beyond while engaged with their supposed champion. The Amethyst Tridents were murdering in droves, free of their maglev constraints to hunt afield. Autoknights were torn from their mounts and piledrived into the ground. Lances were pushed aside by dozens of power spears, their wielders then skewered by the genewarriors below. The Kievans were losing the battle now that the Thunder Warriors had entered Arkangelus. Fear crept into their mortals above, turrets either fully abandoned or aim spreading wide from despair. Imperials afield began to advance, moving the trench forward more and more as Arkangelus began to buckle. The Kievan champion bitterly fought back, knowing that the war was lost. His paragon blade flashed with the rightful expertise of a Khaganate knight. Gilgamenses parried them without issue, slowly piercing the limbs of the veteran with every riposte. The Primarch grinned wickedly beneath his macabre mask, cutting more and more into the elder. By now, the other warrior has realized that he was being played with by a being far greater than him. It was pointless. After a minute of weakening his opponent, Gilgamenses kicked the champion away from him. The chestplate of the warrior was caved in where the Primarch had kicked, blood soaking through a metal tunnel in the wargear. His opponent’s helmet twirled away into the unknown as he spat vitae out from his facial orifices. Determined eyes of defiance stared down the genewarrior despite their defeat. He felt no pity. The elder warrior had fought well, but it wasn’t enough. Primarch Gilgamenses took several quick steps forward and planted the trident downwards into the champion’s chest, piercing the man in place. He cried out in agony as the powerfields cooked his insides. The Primarch found himself impressed that the man had remained alive and conscious. It mattered little to him as he began to speak, “you fought well for your age, [i]old one[/i], but it’s time for your culture to end. The Emperor has come to claim Arkangelus. All of your efforts were for naught.” He glared up at the greatest hive in the city from their spot at the edge of the hangar. Smoke billowed out from stacks that rose with it into the poisonous sky. The champion made a noise. He originally dismissed it, but his superhuman hearing confirmed something dreadful to him. The man was [b]laughing[/b]. His lungs were soaked in blood, his throat clogged with vitae, and his organs burning from an active powerfield. [b]He laughed[/b], gurgling ichor that pushed out onto his cracked lips. His head looked up, both of his eyes falling on the central tower that made up the bulk of Arkangelus. “What in the name of the Emperor are you-” Gilgamenses had begun to say, venom abundant on his tongue. His gaze followed the defeated champion’s eyes to the spire and realized with gnaw annoyance that the smoke stacks weren’t just billowing smoke. They were purging sparks, black clouds, and flickering flames that shot up through the tower. His eyes widened. The fools had used their own hive-city as a trap. Months of pointless war and they would leave empty-handed. Gilgamenses refused. Fate was a fickle mistress, just as the gods and the spirits that aided them were as well. The Primarch had turned, pulling the trident from the champion and began to sprint away with his voice screaming through the voxnet. There was no time left for the Amethyst Tridents. They had been pulled into the trap with devious cunning, ignoring the caution that crept on their skin for the adrenaline that pumped through their blood. Something detonated far within the Arkangelus. Silence followed. Noise was sucked in from every source around the hive-city, then the wind began to pull inwards with a speed that dared to rip skeleton from skin. The rumbling beneath grew tumultuous once the gales ceased their inward drift. Trenches were uplifted, walls dislodged, and men scattered across the frigid plains of the Khaganate. Chaos followed after that as the greatest spire for several thousand miles exploded into a thousand pieces. Debris was sent flying for hundreds of miles as the explosive energy beneath used the tower as an egress. A white light enveloped all for a thousand kilometers as Arkangelus disappeared into an inferno of rage, defiance, and absolution. The skies parted above to welcome thermonuclear death into the atmosphere. Cinders of flesh, fire, and steel fell from the heavens down onto the region. Ghosts replaced soldiers that had stood out in the open, shadows taking the place of vehicles, and melted carcasses where the trenches did not protect. The doom of Arkangelus was completed. Only a ruin of a hive city remained, torched by the fires of gods and the hubris of mortals. [hr] Gilgamenses shuddered awake several hours later. Darkness greeted him as a welcome friend in death. His body ached in every single spot down to the molecular level. No supreme alchemy had defended his reinforced skeleton against the likes of an atomic explosion; however, he did survive. Any other Cataegis would’ve gone mad, believing that they had passed on to fight for Unity at the gates of the afterlife. He, however, was a Thunder Primarch. He would never lose his mental faculties. This fact was more certain than ever as he realized that several of his bones were broken, notably both of his arms at the bicep and all of his ribs. Luckily, he further realized that it was only his helmet that blinded him. The Primarch willed his broken body to lift the helmet from his skull, dried vitae still sticking to the inside of his gear. An ashen sky greeted him. He was no longer in the maglev hangar that was fought over hours ago. His gaze trailed downwards to his body and he winced at the sight. His wargear was mostly gone, beating red skin beneath bare to the shrill wind outside. His left leg held his most prized trident buried in his flesh, it’s shaft broken and it’s generators shattered. He hissed in disdain as he pulled the weapon from his body, then pushed the shaft to pull himself upward. What awaited him next was another matter. Arkangelus was gone. The only hive-city in the Kievan Russ Khaganate was a smoldering wreck of ruins. Imperial trenches had been eradicated, evaporating as far back as the third wave reinforcements several kilometers away. Nothing moved out in the fields of destruction, save for charred corpses propelled by shivering wind. He was astonished that the hive-city and their people were so dedicated to destruction that they sacrificed their own home. Gilgamenses lost track of the thought, turning away and limping in the direction of his former command camp. The Primarch needed not for an auspex or hololith to find his fallback route. The silence that accompanied his limp was haunting. Cannons had blasted for several months, guns barking for hundreds of days, and turrets had droned for endless hours. Nothing, save for the wind, walked with him. He had never been this beaten before, ruined by a suicidal enemy that refused to surrender. They had not resorted to sorcery like many others, nor had they bartered with their allies for succour. They simply endured. Gilgamenses grinded his teeth together in frustration. [i]All because the Astartes had left them[/i]. A thought that plagued his mind until he reached the Imperial fallback camp. Their forward operational camp had once been built to house a million. It now was a phantom of its former self as the groans of thousands cried out for mercy. Vehicles that had been left in reserve were all that remained, though beleaguered superheavy tanks had managed to limp away with massive wounds. The medicae, those that had survived, were saturated with a million tasks that required their attention. He was one of the lucky few that garnished immediate attention, several rushing to the Primarch’s side and prodding him with a dozen instruments and a hundred questions. All of these were ignored as Gilgamenses scanned the camp for the home of his Thunder Legion. He found them. Bulky trailers that were built to be hauled by larger aerial transports or towed by massive crawlers. An entire section of the base was dedicated to their homage, splitting the camp nearly in half to accommodate the bulk of an entire Cataegis Legio. Usually, it was alive with the boisterous sounds of his warriors drilling together or engaging in numerous fights or ruminating loudly about battles earlier in the Unification. Now, however, it was empty of his genewarriors cheering for Unity. He felt fear where he shouldn’t. Massive, genebulked hands pushed the mortals out of the way as Gilgamenses quickly moved to the Cataegis camp with any speed that he could muster. Wounded mortals, charred or burned, watched him stomp nearby as he pushed through the camp. Men and women separated to allow him a wide berth to hobble by. The ramshackle gates awaited him and he pushed them open to a grim sight. There were no longer thousands of genewarriors that awaited him, each as trained in the arts of war as he had been. His first, initial count from the sight before him, Gilgamenses guessed there were five hundred at most. He meticulously counted afterwards, stopping by each lilac-yellow warrior and ascertained their state of mind. It would take months to recuperate their losses, mend the broken, and rearm the willing. A thought probed into his brain as he watched his shattered warriors. [b]Astartes.[/b] [b]He cursed them all[/b]. His rage made him forget the aching pain from his broken anatomy. A medicae had stubbornly remained at his side, heaving from the rapid pace he walked. The anger vented from his bloodied nostrils in a harrumph, finally taking a seat to be tended before setting out once more. She did as much as could without access to greater medicines or the alchemies of the Sigilites. It would be enough for now as she covered his arms in bandage wrap underlyed by medical gel and flanked by ramshackle splints. The Primarch felt ridiculous as he marched through camp again at less of a hobble. The command tent awaited him as grimly as the Cataegis camp had. Inside fared no better than the barren plains just outside of their gathering. Three officers of the Auxilia remained, two from the reserves and one from the frontlines. A junior scribe of the Sigilites sat nearby, silently whispering to themselves. Another Thunder Warrior awaited from within, as broken as he was. They all turned their attention to him as he passed through the canopy. He grumbled. “Arkangelus has been defeated. The Kievan Russ Khaganate is now ours.” Gilgamenses said with as much pride as he could muster. His voice was booming as was expected of a Primarch, yet it was plain to see that his spirit was defeated. He couldn’t speak for the look in his eyes, but their adjusted body language told him everything he needed to know. He crept forward, moving a hand over the gurgling cogitator in the center. A flicker of blue light engaged a hololith that displayed the battlefield spreading from every edge of the Khaganate. Several units that had been deployed outside of Arkangelus’ explosive radius were quickly returning to the camp. Dozens of markers bore a deathly sigil on them. Each was a unit, platoon, or battalion lost to the suicidal attack. “Where is General Stryx?” He asked of the three Auxilia that remained. The wounded one, still garbed in the red uniform of the Excertus Imperialis, popped into a crisp salute before responding to him. “Perished in the thermonuclear glow, Lord Primarch. I am his fifteenth replacement, Marshal Jormon of the Tenth Tank Division. The two behind me are my staff, Lieutenant Neadra and Captain Sovan. Both are recruits from the local area.” The man said, dropping his salute after Gilgamenses responded with a fist to his bandaged chest. Another issue that he was suddenly aware of. “What are our numbers looking like, [b]Enkidon[/b]?” The Primarch asked of the Thunder Warrior, his second-in-command somehow managing to remain alive despite everything. Similarly, Enkidon had no breastplate to salute on yet performed the action anyway. Gilgamenses had counted those alive in the camp. Perhaps there were more that were still alive. “Hunters are still out in the field. Legion recruiters remain on the prowl. Our casualties are great, counting everything from the start to the end of the campaign. I can firmly state that [i]we are no longer Legion[/i], but we are still counting from the survivors.” Enkidon responded after consulting a nearby dataslate. The numbers were reflected on the hololith. Gilgamenses deeply frowned as the numbers continued to dip under a thousand. They would be removed from the battlefield for some time. The Primarch turned his attention to the junior Sigilite, who seemed to be peering into the back of his skull as they spoke. He theorized they were either waiting to relay a message, new marching orders, or awaiting to hear the collective fate of the Kievan Russ Khaganate. Gilgamenses tarried no longer, gesturing for the scribe to attend them. He now realized that the being was a smaller woman, no greater than a grown adolescent by her looks. She wordlessly stared at the Auxilia after the furthest end of the tent. “See to your soldiers, Marshal, I will relay everything necessary. Raptor Imperialis.” Gilgamenses ordered the man, who offered a small smile and saluted him once more. The three quickly left the safety of the tent into the frigid wind outside. Only the three of them were left in the blue glow of the cartolith. “The Russ Khaganate is prepared for compliance. We will begin post-campaign actions, though I regret to inform that the hive-city of Arkangelus was destroyed.” Gilgamenses spoke down to the intendant with as much softness as he could muster, but something dangerous lurked on his lips. We lost the city because we lost the Astartes, he thought to himself as he spoke. It unfortunately developed a snarl on his face, yet the girl showed no fear towards him. Then she spoke and he felt his head begin to tingle with the touch of the wyrd. “My Master conveys a message. The Sixteenth Legio Cataegis are to recuperate at the Terrawatt Clans in anticipation of enemy movement. They are to bring all potential recruits with, but they are not to recruit from them. They have been slated for the [b]Astartes[/b]. All other assets are to remain in the theater to search for the wreckage of the Arkangelus’ technologies.” The small witch said, finishing her speech and returning to her seat. She would never make it to her seat fully as Gilgamenses reached down and throttled the girl. His bandaged fists wrapped tightly around her neck in blatant rage. The touch of the wyrd stretched out aggressively around her, but the Thunder Warriors were untouched. “[b]Gilgmaneses![/b]” Enkidon roared, pulling down the arm of the Primarch from the emissary of the Sigilite. A moment of fear passed over him as he couldn’t pull his warlord from the witch. Precious seconds passed as he soon released the girl. She coughed out in raspy breaths on the floor, saliva pooling out of her lips beneath. Madness lingered on the lip of the Sixteenth Primarch’s eyes. All he could hear was a single word that continued to perpetuate his insanity. Astartes. It played over and over in his mind as a symbol of defiance and anger against him. His hands curled into fists that clenched the air with such force that his bones began to creak. The moment passed as soon as it had begun. A jet of air breathed through the nostrils of the Primarch. He bore a great, painful smile on his face as he turned to the emissary. “The Sixteenth will comply, [i]Emissary[/i], [b]Raptor Imperialis[/b].” The words were spoken through gritted teeth, each as malicious as the next. He brought his fist up to his bare chest in salute, then left the tent behind him with a flurry of emotions dancing across his face. One thing was for certain though. He would never forgive Malcador. He would never forgive the Astartes. If given the chance, he knew with full faith that he would kill all of those horrible, emotionless monsters. Only the Cataegis and the Custodes were the Emperor’s truest creations. [i]They were nothing[/i]. [i]He vowed this upon the death of ten thousand dead Thunder Warriors[/i].