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In From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born → 15 days ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Ouran


In the immediate aftermath of the fall of Ouran, much needed to be done to set the Emperor’s newest possession to rights. A hive was like a living thing, and even the slightest delay to any of its organs would result in a catastrophe beyond the ruin that war had already brought to the city. Fed and fueled from the broader Pan-Pacific Empire that it had been wrested from, it was the duty of the Sigilites to ensure that the population was fed and returned to their toil - and that the ever-growing ranks who marched beneath the Raptor were supplied with all the necessities to continue the war upon these shores.

The Governor of Ouran had fallen in defense of his city, and his chambers had been appropriated by the conquerors for their needs. Malcador stood among a coven of Scribes-Intendent around a scale model of the hive, dutifully updated by lower ranking members of their Order to denote battle damage and supply needs. But it was not the city itself that drew his attention, but two far cruder markers on its outskirts, on nearly opposite ends.

“Summon a representative from the Felinid Auxilia, one capable of speaking for Magh Meall before me. And find this… emissary I’ve heard of, from the crimson ships circling the docks. I believe we may be able to solve our problems together,” Malcador said, stepping back from the model table to take in the view of the city from the floor to ceiling window which took up an entire wall of what had once been the Governor’s audience chamber.

His throne, a beautiful piece of carved lacquered wood inlaid with jade, had been sent to the Himalazias upon one of the first Stormbirds returning so that it may rest in the Emperor’s treasure vaults. There it would stand along with the thrones and scepters and crowns of those who had once stood as kings of the earth, and had in turn been cast down by the Master of Mankind. In its place sat a simple camp chair of the sort that was surely as ancient as war itself, well made and well worn, utterly indistinguishable from all others like it.

Such was how Malcador would greet those he had summoned, as a conquering general in the days of old.

The first to respond to his summons was a raven-haired woman, with sharp eyes and sharper smile, wearing a red dress- actually, on second glance, not a dress, but a red silk bedsheet, wrapped and pinned about her form to appear as one. She walked into the room with all the confidence of a peacock let into a barn full of hens. She tilted her head in a sardonic imitation of a bow. “I assume you are the one in charge, handsome?”

Malcador barked out a short laugh, a raspy sound as if his throat was unused to producing it. “It is good of you to announce your boldness, but you have erred on two accounts. I am but a servant of my master, and the last woman who called me handsome tried to kill me.”

The woman laughed, a sound like bells. “I’ve never killed a soul, darling, so you can trust I’m not about to do the same. Magpies don’t fight. And…” Her smile became more genuine, and she stepped closer to Malcador, into his personal space. “That makes both of us mouthpieces for higher authorities. I’m the Crimson Emissary. You are?”

“That is far more concerning, emissary. You may wish to consider your behavior, lest there be misinterpretations. The last woman who wished to share my bed tried to do far worse than kill me,” he warned, but the ghost of a smile upon his ragged face removed much of the bite. “I am Malcador, of the Order of Sigilites, servant and friend of our lord and master, the most beneficent Emperor of Humanity.”

Her eyes sharpened. “The only thing I can think of worse than death is trying to destroy your loyalty to that which you hold most dear- and I’d certainly never do that. I’m better than that. I guess you don’t know much about the Crimson Magpies, then. None of the locals told you anything? None of the kittycats?” She pulled back, just slightly. “They call us Vultures for a reason. We’re here to offer your poor, tired soldiers anything- and I mean anything- they need to… recover from such a tremendously exhausting task, and take those trinkets and household items the dead no longer need for ourselves. We don't belong to your ‘Master’... Although I’m sure we could, for the right price.” She winked.

“You are as keen as I have been told, when you wish to be,” Malcador said wryly. “Close enough to the mark at least. She tried to marry me,” he explained, in a voice of dire solemnity, before waving his free hand, the one not clutching his chained staff, as if banishing the thoughts. “It is your price that you have been summoned to discuss, but I shall be blunt. Unity is coming, and you… Magpies must choose. Whether to join, or be forgotten along with the fallen empires and nameless gods that once ruled this world.”

Her smile returned to its previous uncaring and seductive state. “Well, she can't have been as pretty as me, if marrying her would have been such a curse.” She plopped herself down directly in his lap, wrapping arms around his shoulders to steady herself and making herself comfortable. “Discussing prices is of course my favorite hobby, and the Crimson Magpies are inclined to join you. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, after all. Be warned that I can’t speak for all the Magpies on the Great Ocean, only for my Family and my Captain. You will need to meet with all ten Emissaries to win the loyalty of all of us.”

“I must hope that they are not all as forward as yourself,” Malcador muttered, before locking eyes with her. “Unfortunately, you are not the only one with whom I must bargain. It would not do to create a sense of undue favoritism.”

“And who might that be?” she asks, settling herself further with a grin. “And no, most of them are not this ‘forward.’ It's a Crimson tradition.”

“How did you refer to them again? The ‘kitty cats’,” the Sigilite replied, his expression as unyielding as stone.

“Oooo, I wouldn't let them hear you say that.” She laughed, slinging her legs across his lap and leaning back as if lounging on a decadent couch. “They can be rather sensitive. But they won’t mind. They’re used to me.”

The second emissary to arrive wore a simple but elegant blue-and-black suit, her jet-black hair pulled back into a tight bun, matching ears attentive as brown eyes took in the room. She had a single, gently-curving blade sheathed at her hip, peace-tied into its scabbard, and she bowed deeply at the waist. “Lord Malcador. I apologise for my tardiness. A pair of Pacifican attack fighters attempted to ambush my transport en route. They paid with their lives, of course, but it caused…undue delay.”

“The offense then is mine for having failed to secure these skies,” Malcador said gravely, the effect of his words somewhat undermined by the fact that the Crimson Emissary was still lounging in his lap, entwined about him like some sort of invasive vine.

The Emissary, for her part, made a fretful cooing noise. “Glad you made it here safe, kitty cat, your people would be worse off without you.” Despite the mocking tone of the moniker, the second half of her words had a ritual sort of weight to them.

The Sigilite simply ignored the woman, both her presence and her words, continuing on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Captain Alim of the Thirteenth Legio Astartes and I have spoken, in his dreams. Had his reports of the deeds of your Captain mac Cormac come from any lesser source, I would have considered that they may have, perhaps, been comradely exaggerations. So you see I have in fact dealt three offenses, the second for not recognizing your Captain before he left the city, and the third for obliging him to quit the field before he and his could enjoy the fruits of their victory. I have arranged for a small token as way of apology. Would you see it delivered to him?”

On cue, a junior Sigilite approached the Meallan liaison, bowing as they presented upon a cushion an ornate power sword, of the sort wielded by Pacifican elites. The very same that had nearly taken Captain mac Cormac’s head.

Her eyebrows shot into her hair and she nodded, accepting the gift, “Most gratefully, Lord Malcador. I trust, then, that our first cooperation met with your approval?”

“Indeed. In turn, I hope that Captain mac Cormac finds this gift to his liking. I may have need to call upon his particular services in the future, should he find it agreeable,” the Sigilite said with a nod. “There is a reason, however, I have called the both of you here,” he added, finally deigning to acknowledge the Emissary’s existence.

The Emissary grinned. “What, it's not just because we’re great friends?”

The Felinid Emissary raised a brow at her counterpart, then to Malcador. “Are the Vultures to join the Imperium as well, then?”

“All are to join in Unity,” Malcador said lightly. “Else it would not be worthy of the name,” he added dryly, his eyes flashing towards the Crimson Emissary for but a moment along with the faintest ghost of a smile. “Some, however, are given the choice of how, if they are capable of service. Magh Meall knows this all too well. Now has come the… Magpies’ turn to serve.”

“Once,” the Crimson Emissary amended smoothly, “we decide what price you are buying us for.” She winked at the felinid and grinned at no one in particular. “Perhaps telling us what… service… you want from us will help us decide on something we both like.”

“I assure you, Emissary, any price you name can be met,” Malcador replied in a flat tone, before turning back to the Meallan. “It is simple. Magh Meall produces both food and water in abundance. The Magpies possess a fleet of ships capable of transporting great quantities of goods. And Ouran hungers, now that we have cut it off from the empire that had supported it. My Master could, if needed, transport such necessities from Merica and Yndonesia, but you are both close at hand.”

The Emissary snorted. “Ah, you just want us to keep doing what we’ve been doing then? And this time without being hunted for it? Darling, you’re making this too easy.”

“Is that so? Excellent, then the Imperium shall continue paying the same price.”

“You seem the type to like formalizing deals in writing, ‘Lord’ Malcador.” She said the title the emissary of Magh Meall had used with only mockery in mind. “The Crimson Magpies will continue our usual lives, with no threat of arrest hanging over our heads, and in exchange this Imperium of yours will get rid of our mutual enemy, the Pacificans. Any further requests will of course require more… discussion.” She wiggled her hips to emphasize her last word, reminding him that she was, in fact, sitting in his lap.

The Meallan Emissary–Countess nic Aiblinn–was studiously pretending she couldn’t see what was happening between the Magpie Emissary and Malcador. “We would ask that the goods be paid for, of course, but otherwise this agreement is satisfactory to us, Lord Malcador.”

“I shall arrange an acceptable price with your government, Countess,” Malcador said with a gracious nod, the very picture of serenity - a serenity that was being sorely tested. “I believe, however, that I have a truculent bird to handle.”

The Countess raised her brow, opening her mouth to reply, closing it, then bowing at the waist, “Then…if there is nothing else, Lord Malcador…?”

“Quite, Countess,” the Sigilite said, once more ignoring the Emissary sprawled atop him as the Felinid bowed and left the room. “Now then. I suppose you think that was terribly fun,” he muttered as soon as the woman was out of sight.

She nodded affably, showing no signs of leaving. “And we came to a fair decision, I do believe!”

“And yet you attempt to continue negotiations,” he replied dryly.

“That-” she gestured to the door the Countess had exited through, “-was diplomacy. This-” she wiggled her hips once more, “is business! Different things, my dear.”

“Then your diplomatic role as Emissary has been completed?” he asked, raising a brow at the woman.

“Leaving me just a Crimson- and therefore always for sale.” She grinned. “Business.”

“And I had been so foolish as to think that success would have been satisfaction enough,” he mused. “But I suppose one must do business where one can.” He paused for a moment, a glint appearing in his eye. “Such is not without its uses however,” he eventually conceded, staring out at the door where the Felinid Countess had departed in a rush.

“I am not opposed to these games, when appropriate to my needs. Return tomorrow and we shall discuss payment for the services you have already rendered, and how you might be of further use to me.”

She stood abruptly, victory dripping off her every movement. “In that case, you will see me tomorrow, my lord.” She giggled, pressed a swift kiss to his cheek, and sashayed her way out the door.
In From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born → 29 days ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
A Monument to All Our Sins

Before the Siege of Ouran



Officially, Malcador was leaving the Imperial Palace on a tour of recently annexed territories, to ensure their proper integration into the burgeoning administrative apparatus of which he was the head. This was of course a ruse, one designed to appear to hide the precise location of the high command post from which he would coordinate the invasion of the Pan-Pacific Empire. Several Stormbirds conveying Sigilites served as cover as part of the subterfuge, scattering in nearly every direction of the compass.

It would come as a great surprise to the enemies of the Imperium that the one Malcador was on really was headed west.

The Stormbird landed as it was scheduled in Nordafrik, its passengers and crew departing as expected, none remembering the hooded and cloaked man who had joined them. The great vessel was scheduled for maintenance within the hive's hangers, a normal event that none remarked upon. When ten Astartes marked with the I upon one pauldron and a broken gate upon the other embarked, none thought it strange. When a Stormbird took off, none found it remarkable. When there was no record of its passing, none noticed.

Such was the errand of the Sigilite, that none could be trusted with this errand, save for those he knew would obey any order without question, even unto death.

Few were the mountains of unsullied stone that remained upon the world of mankind's birth, and fewer still rose above the waves that now stood so tall and high only in the memories of ancient and withered men. A mountain where, it was said, silence had lease. A mountain that had witnessed the breaking of the world and the death of hope. A mountain that would witness its flowering anew, if but the great work could come to fruition.

When the Stormbird approached the mountain, Malcador did not bid it to land. This was a sacred place, in the oldest of senses, one forbidden to all but the supplicant, a place removed from the world of men. The assault ramp of the mighty vessel lowered as it flew past the silent stones, and with a soft sigh, the Sigilite stepped out into the sky.

He fell, and in that moment even he felt the almost forgotten fear of death that had been imprinted upon men in days so ancient not even his master knew them. For here, within the halls of the silent mountain, lay a work as venerable as his own.

None came to greet him as he slowed his plummet to a gentle fall, his feet landing lightly upon a rough and rarely trod stone path, up the slopes of the silent mountain. Staff in hand, the Sigilite began to walk as a supplicant, up the slopes of the silent mountain. He went alone, which was to be welcomed, up the slopes of the silent mountain.

The pilgrim made no sound.


Long did he walk, alone and serene, until at last he came upon a great gate, carved into the living stone, upon which were the great runes of warding mankind had stood by for nigh on thirty thousand years. The Sigilite had approached that door, but it was only Malcador the man who entered it. He seemed his age in truth, then, hunched and withdrawn upon himself, seeking shelter within his cloak and strength from his staff.

The pilgrim made no sound.


Before galleries of ancient woe he walked, man's sins against man recorded there in all their cruelty before him. Silent were the stones which stood in witness, and silent was the man who had intruded upon the tomb of innocence. Deeper and deeper still into the vault of the condemned he strode, until at last he came upon an amphitheater seated rank upon rank by those who had elected long ago to stand apart from the ruin of the world.

And then, he spoke.


"I come before you alone, and in your presence I am but a man." Malcador's words were as a spell, his chained staff sounding now as the bell before a grave with each weary step he took. "My Master has need of you, for only you can see the truth of him. With mighty arms shall he gird you, and with terrible purpose shall he burden you. No less than humanity would I entrust to your care - so answer me now, and answer me well. Shall you be the jailers of mankind's future?"

Silence was the only answer.
In From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born → 10 mos ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
They ran.

Little under one thousand pairs of ceramite boots thundered across the ground when the signal was at last given for them to advance, a bureaucrat in a distant command tent nudging the stylized 1 forward on a hololith table, orders transmitted through their helmet’s autosenses. As one, they blink clicked the notification away, and as one, they ran. This new breed moved in utter silence, giving no cheer or cry as they made for the battle that they had been made for.

Fresh fallen snow was already burying the bodies of the auxilia and Thunder Warriors who had made this breach possible, the superheated condensation from the destruction of the great gate cooling in the frigid air and falling back to earth, a violation of the natural order that stood as one of the lesser sins that man’s wars had done to the weather systems of their birthworld. Wrecked vehicles and buildings were given only slightly more heed than the corpses that they trampled through, those onrushing boots soon enough coated in gore and debris. Soon enough the white-coated outskirts of Sanctii were replaced by paved and well-kept streets turned to ruin by a war that the average citizen of the city would never be given the dignity of understanding, and still they ran.

Through barricades and redoubts, abandoned or futilely held, they ran, brushing aside the fractured and panicking militias and regrouping defenders with a contemptuous ease. Relics of the Dark Age flashed their crimson beams of death, leaving only death in grim testament of what had come to Sanctii, while chainswords left their victims in far more grisly trophies. They were a people of contradictions, and this displeased Vairya. She absentmindedly thought of this as she wrenched her weapon free of the shattered sack of meat and bone that had once been a man, continuing onward without a word or concern for his carapace-clad comrades - the others would deal with them in turn. Now, the most important thing was to continue on, not waste her focus upon the fates of shopkeepers and housewives pressed into service. True, they bore mighty weapons and had felled many of those under her command - 82 according to her helmet - but that did not make them worthy of concern or recognition.

She continued to run as she thought over her own displeasure. It was a novel thing for one such as her. One of the first to pass through the perfected process that turned men into demigods, the Mistress of the First had practically grown up inside of the Emperor’s gene-labs, taught via hypnoindoctrination and obedient to the dictates of the Imperial Truth. Yet, as the motor of her chainsword finally quieted after she had released her finger from the trigger, she could not help herself. She despised this.

Not the weapon itself, no, it was a fine thing - a tool fit for its purpose, much as she was. But they were of different purposes, that was what was important. It was a weapon of her predecessors, a weapon that was built not to merely kill the enemy, but to be so brutally demoralizing in effect that all who saw one fall prey to its chain would quail in terror. A weapon to break ones enemy, to make rebellion and resistance as impossible to consider as healthy souls avoided the yawning void of oblivion. Is this what she was? Yet she was taught no jeers, no cries, no taunts, nothing like the warriors of the other First. She and her siblings killed in silence.

Perhaps they were flawed. A certain amount of cold logic supported that thought, even if a deeper part of her railed against the very notion. Was she, and the other firstborn scions of the gene-forge, missing some critical element of their design? Was she merely the last proof of concept before the true Astartes? Was this lacking essence going to condemn her to break apart in the crucible of the wars to come? All around those not quite good enough fell to pieces, the prototypes of the immortal judging a blow off by a centimeter, reacting a half second too slowly, and they died for it. She thought nothing of them, falling as they did in service of their duty. Would those who came after think the same?

A bevy of red-runes in her helmet display informed her she was nearing the factory complex, and she threw herself into cover as her attention turned to formulating a plan to breach the structure. She had lost nearly two-tenths of her total fighting force in between the initial bombardment and rushing through the blasted cityscape, having encountered negligible, threadbare resistance. Optimistic predictions from the Sigilites suggested a 50% casualty rate for the whole operation. Silently, Vairya blink clicked the report away.

In front of the scattered souls of the First Legion lay the beating heart of Sanctii’s industrial might, a sprawling manufactorum district nestled in the shadow of the city’s sprawling spire. Dimly, she remembered that in order to get here she and her Astartes had had to pass through one of the city’s primary hab blocks, but the battles there had never waged fierce enough for her full consciousness to have been activated, the wonder of the catalepsean node allowing her to sleep through the majority of the slaughter. It was here that they would face true resistance.

Volkite weapons spewed death at the power armored guardians ringing the building she had been tasked with claiming, the weight of fire increasing as all around her the surviving Astartes slammed themselves into cover, defaulting to suppression tactics while awaiting her orders. None of them had ever trained to do that, but each reflexively knew it was the appropriate response to the situation. They huddled tightly to their makeshift defenses as the foe returned fire, arcs of lightning and more esoteric projectiles flensing the very air as they traded shot for shot.

With only a moment’s hesitation, Vairya Kurus came to the decision that this was not the time for fine tactics or clever maneuver. The broad street she and her Legion had holed themselves up in had once played host to far vaster hosts of workmen going to and from work and their homes, to say nothing of the gargantuan vehicles that shipped both raw and finished materiel. There was no protected avenue, and no capability for surprise. Perhaps if they had enough airlift they could’ve taken the roof, but she dismissed that thought out of hand. She had to work with the resources actually at hand.

Maps sprang to life in the vision of the assembled Marines, the Legion Mistress silently drawing her lines of advance as armor’s cogitator traced the movement of her pupils. A broad sweeping half-crescent, rushing forward into the grand factory hall that had, mere days ago, accommodated swarms of milling workers coming on and off shift. She had no doubt it would be well fortified by now, but it was the least bad option, presenting her with the greatest opportunity to make good her weight of numbers - assuming that the combination of speed and division of forces had given her the advantage in that regard, at least. If that was wrong, she would simply die faster. At least they would know quickly.

The Astartes continued pouring ruby-red fire into the manufactorum, none breaking cover as the plan was finalized. Fine lines delineating movements down to the squad level dominated their field of vision, orders and expectations absorbed before being acknowledged and hidden, the host silent and impassive behind their armor. Confirming, to herself if no one else, that this was the least bad plan she could devise with her current resources and information, Vairya blink clicked the rune to execute.

Some eight hundred bodies moved in response, either bolting out of cover in a sudden charge or moving themselves into a superior firing position. They were met by a fusillade in turn, the professional defenders of Sanctii better armed and better trained than the hapless militias who the Astartes had slaughtered in the hab blocks. In that exchange the last embers of the calamitous conflicts of the Dark Age flared once more into life, a war of man against machine with the deadliest arms crafted by either. Pure heat boiled men alive inside of their suits, while others simply died without a mark upon their armor as their nervous systems suffered fatal cascades. Millennia of research and enhancement in materials science and biomimicry safeguarded some from localized conduits of radiation as they moved in the moment between the trigger being pressed and the weapon responding, while pools of sludge and ash marked the passing of those who had been less lucky.

It ended with the cruelty and barbarism that only Old Night could bring. Crude motors roared to life as chains began to whirl upon their track, monomolecular edged teeth whirring into constant motion that was slowed only by the grinding of metal against metal when they began to bite into the power armor of Sanctii’s defenders. They had no such issue when they at last began to dig into flesh and bone. The bodies of men who had fought to preserve a beacon of peace and stability within the wastes were left where they had fallen in so many butchered pieces, and what remained of their murderers rushed forward.

They had arrived within the manufactorum complex itself, and now the true difficulties began.

A top-level subroutine of Deep Winter was in charge of the manufactorum network, and it dutifully sent a priority alert to its parent program as it began a threat analysis. Reviewing the combat data from the prior engagements, it immediately discarded any notion of its human auxiliary production capacity defending the installation, and instead began sitewide evacuation protocols. They had been unnecessary from the very start, but they served the important role of making the humans feel useful.

Right now the meat would just get in the way.

The Astartes breached the facility to a dulcet voice instructing them to make their way to the nearest exit point, soft-light holograms directing them to safety. Dimly, Kurus recognized that the arrows were pointing away from her and her legionnaires. A blick-click later and the gene-warriors fanned out into a vast loading hall in finely tuned rows, providing each other with overlapping fields of fire and minimizing blindspots.

It was a pointless exercise here, in this space where millions of workers had trudged in and out. The danger wasn’t going to be here. She knew this, but the very thought of laxity, of not treating every space as the pinnacle of danger, galled her on a level so fundamental it might as well have been etched onto her bones.

Deep within the bowels of the massive factory complex, automated fabricators feverishly went to work. All safeguards had been disabled, all authorizations given, and there were no pesky foremen or overseers who thought themselves in charge of the glory of the machine to be shocked at what was being forged. In the darkest days of human history, in those times when stars were reduced to cinders and planets so much dust, when Mankind fought against its most deadly child, weapons were designed with the coldest of cruelty - to kill with the utmost efficiency, to eliminate any threat in accordance to the rigid laws of logic.

Squad after squad departed into the depths, and one by one vanished from the rune-map in the Legion Mistress’ auto-senses display. Reports were scattered and varied as she followed towards the facility’s central cogitation stack. Occasionally there was nothing at all, save for a spike of hard radiation on the auspex and a vox feed unceremoniously cutting out. What did come through was bad enough as it was - nanoswarms that swam through the air so thinly they passed in between the very sinews of flesh and bone before suddenly erupting as a solid spike in the bodies of her Astartes, neutron emitters operating at such an intensity that they reduced the frail flesh within the ceramite power armor to slurry while leaving the armor intact, and yet more esoteric weapons and traps of humanity’s scourge.

Her chainsword was magnetized back onto her back, the Legion Mistress realizing with a start that she didn’t even remember putting it away. It was a toy in these warrens of death, the vast halls reducing swiftly into cramped chambers and accessways, comfortable enough for the human components of Deep Winter’s industrial might to walk between their various duty stations, but hideously small for gene-augmented warriors in power armor. Movement out of the corner of her eye registered in a hypnoindoctrinated reflex before her conscious mind could process it, but that was no concern. Muscle inducers activated, accelerating the swing of her arm as she pulled the trigger on her volkite emitter, a beam of heat instantly melting the crystal-stack processor in a battle-automaton that had been approaching.

Fire and death surrounded her in a fraction of a second as the exchange played out around her command squad, serpentine mounds of metal covered in impossibly thin plates of armor with bizarrely slender weapons collapsing from the ceiling. Two of her own had fallen in the impossibly fast combat, their torsos simply nonexistent, as if they were nothing more than paper dolls with circles cut out of them by a particularly precise child.

An alarm went off in her helmet, noting that total casualties had passed fifty percent, before shutting off a moment later and then resuming again. Cross-referencing of the hive exterior map versus how far they had traveled so far indicated that they were entering the facility’s core, and a thought that had been nestled in her subconsciousness as she had half-slept while running through the wastes informed her that this was likely due to electromagnetic shrouding cutting her off from consistent contact with the bulk of her legion. She raised a fist, and her command squad at once came to a halt. A further hand motion saw an Astarte with a bulky backpack turn away from her and slump upon his knees, the Legion Mistress plugging her helmet into his vox-set. Overcharged, it should have enough power to punch through the interference, even if only once.

“Silence all vox. Initiate aetheric warfare protocols. The Raptor strikes.”

Her voice rasped when she began to speak, the flesh unused to such demands, but hardened at her final words. Brief vox squeals of affirmation followed in response, before they went dead as well, and the man knelt in front of her took off his backpack. It was already beginning to smoke from the demands it was placed under.

Another flurry of hand signs saw them move onward once more.

Death, and the signs of death, stalked their steps. Astartes had fallen in every way imaginable to a mind that thought nothing of morality or pride, the bodies of some forced to submit to novel biophages while others simply ended, phasing into walls and ceilings, a rare few marked by nothing but a sharp spike of local ozone and a chainsword etched death tally. Hundreds died to monstrosities of the past age, dimly seen and dimly remembered. The manufactorum itself became their enemy as they advanced, gantryways swinging away to deliver hapless invaders to death in vast vats of molten metal, walls rearranging corridors into killzones.

Yet again and again the volkite beams shot out, curtains of death unmaking machinations ranging from finely tuned molecular kill drones to vast battle automata. The noose was tightening, and the factory could only make so much, so fast.

Vairya blinked in surprise when she at last stumbled into a wide chamber again, the woman scanning the monumental sphere she found herself in. Other Astartes filed in above and below, and from all sides, the cogitation center having been built for the comfort and awe of the humans who supposedly ran it. This concession to the meat in the machine proved the only advantage that the First needed, the wide and free sight lines affording them the clean shots needed to destroy the flights of buzzing drones that had been the final guardians of the Standard Templates.

One thousand Astartes had made the march to Sanctii. Fewer than eighty walked out of it.
In From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born → 1 yr ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay


Somewhere in cis-lunar space

Captain Volkov stormed onto the bridge, sleep still clinging to the corners of his eye, his fury at being awoken so early in his rest cycle directed at the Officer of the Deck.

“Why have I been awoken, Baran? The ship is not at combat alert, so why have I been summoned?”

Baran, ever the professional, handed his captain a dataslate without so much as a flinch at the anger directed his way.

“Sensorium report Captain, there has been an explosion of massive yield at world engine site #12. Yield estimated at or about 150 megatons, sir.”

Volkov skimmed the report, gave the pict recording of the explosion a watch, and handed the dataslate back to Baran. “A failure then? The world engines are wondrous machines, but they are not perfect Baran. Or is there more?”

Baran nodded and led his Captain to the sensorium officer’s station, “Here, Junior Grade Andreeva tracked a single craft leaving the world engine minutes before the explosion at high speed. We suspect sabotage, an outside attack.”

There was silence for a moment, Volkov raising a hand to his temple as he felt a headache coming on before he spoke again, “The direction of travel, that leads to the new Imperial borders, no? Do you think that this was their doing?”

Baran nodded solemnly, “Deep Winter reports suspected sabotage by unknown aggressors, other than the craft leaving the world engine, Deep Winter and our own sensorium and augers detected no incoming missiles or other craft. It could only be them.”

“Damn them, why now?” Volkov left Baran where he stood and moved to his command throne, “I have the bridge.”

“Captain has the bridge,” Baran echoed.

“Loading Bay, is the retrieval of cargo complete?” Volkov asked through the command thrones internal vox. He felt the headache worsen as he waited for the answer from the loading bays.

The radio crackled to life as a tinny voice answered through the distortion, “Complete Shipmaster, the last Selenar shuttle left not minutes ago, and the equipment and gene stocks are secure in the vaults.”

“Excellent,” Volkov said as he cut the connection, “Helmsman, make course for Sanctii at best speed.”

“Setting course for Sanctii at best speed, aye sir.” the helmsman echoed as the crew about the bridge began to move to their stations and set about the many tasks that came with moving a near-kilometer-long voidship.

Far away, ensconced within an arcane apparatus almost as old as he was, Malcador extended his consciousness across the void. He was a headache at first, a throbbing pain at the back of Volkov’s skull, as he extended his control over the man’s mind. “What have you received from the gene-cults?” the Sigilite whispered, exerting his will over the captain, peeling back memories with a gentle touch.

Volkov strained momentarily in his throne, his head pulsing in pain as he pulled up the cargo manifests without thinking. He read over the details, stopping on each item long enough to absorb the contents before swiping to the next item on the list.

He scoffed at the names of archeotech contraptions. Machines of which he knew disturbingly little about that had been hastily loaded into his ship's berths.

“Genetor Banks… Genetor Materiel… Vitae Wombs…” his head felt worse as he read, skimming over sections about temperature-controlled vials of genetic material and cryo-sleep equipment.


Somewhere in the Himalazians

The bulk of the Sigilite’s attention receded from Volkov with that act complete, the psyker remaining only as a dull pain behind the eyes. “They say imitation is the surest form of flattery,” Malcador muttered to himself as he brought forth the deployment lists of the Emperor’s vast armies, searching for a weapon that was both ready and as yet uncommitted. He did not have to search for long.

A single command ushered forth from his fastness deep beneath the Himalayzans, the Legion Master of the Second commanded to present herself before the right-hand of the Master of Mankind. It was time for the Astartes to go to war.

When Seren Crown received the summons, she thought it was fake. Her dataslate was passed around the camp, for everyone to see and snicker about behind her back.

“Are you going to go?” Her second-in-command asked her.

“I don’t exactly have a choice,” Seren grunted.

Seren’s first reaction to seeing the vault was to marvel at its size. Her second was to think about the possible ways one could break into it. There was only one entrance, and being underground would require drilling through a mountain to reach it. Her thoughts were interrupted by a set of double doors opening to reveal Malcador, the Emperor’s right hand. She gave him a lazy salute. “Malcador.” She cleared her throat and straightened her salute, “Sir. You asked to see me?”

The entrance to Malcador’s fastness was a pair of wrought adamantium doors over ten meters tall, and broad enough to comfortably fit five power armored warriors abreast. It dwarfed Seren, and made the wizened form of the Sigilite almost vanish within its immensity. He arched a brow at her as clutched upon his staff, right hand shackled to it by a length of manacle.

“Brash,” he muttered with a soft snort, turning on his heel as he began to hobble within the cyclopean vault built into the very bones of the ancient mountains. Here were stored some of the most deadly weapons ever crafted by human hands, and the most treasured artifacts of its illustrious past. Malcador cared nothing for them, locked away as they were, hinted at only by the doors locking them away from reckless use and vain ambition. “Such is well,” he added in the same, quiet, voice, simply presuming Seren would follow him.

“I have need of you, and your warriors. Is the Second prepared to take the field?”

For the last two weeks, the Second had been engaged in an intense tournament of Liar’s Dice. The finals were scheduled to be held tomorrow evening, and they were very much not ready to take the field, “Of course. Where do you need us?”

The millennia-old man froze for a moment, looking back at the Astartes with a crooked smile. “That is… a more complicated question than you might. I am afraid that your first engagement will have you roll the dice. Come.”

Malcador advanced further into the subterranean vault, until arriving at a hololith displaying representations of Terra and her moon. A red rune glowed at a point in space halfway in between the two celestial bodies. “There is a voidship I need boarded.”

Seren squinted at the shapes, the bright lights of the display making it difficult for her to see. “Something tells me that we’re not going to be allowed to take another ship out to meet it.” There was a glint of excitement in her eyes. She had not expected their first engagement to be in space. “Did you already have an idea in mind?”

“There is precious little time, and this vessel outguns all craft that the Emperor has at hand,” Malcador confirmed. “The only alternative is a teleporter deep strike, but at such a range it will be extremely perilous. I will do what I can to prepare and guide you to your destination, but I will not lie to you. This is a desperate gamble, not a cunning plan.”

As the Sigillite spoke, a smile grew on Seren’s face. When he finished, she laughed, “Malcador, you’ve come to the right person. There isn’t a legion in the army that likes to gamble more than the Second. When do we leave?”

“As soon as you are prepared,” Malcador said gravely as he stared at the glaring red rune of Sanctii’s voidship. “But first, heed my words. Your mission is twofold. While the threat of this vessel to the siege warrants it be disabled, be aware that its cargo is of great interest to myself and your lord. Take command of this vessel, with whatever it carries still intact, and the Second will have accrued great glory in their first foray. Now go, prepare your warriors and bring them hence.”

The teleportarium chamber was built atop a high peak of the proud Himalayza mountain range, the ancient stone still standing tall despite millennia of mankind throwing their most destructive weapons at each other. The snows buried vast craters caused by nuclear, and worse, explosions, steep valleys forever entombing the armies who have attempted to cross or conquer them. Here, gazing out from the roof of the world, Malcador awaited the warriors of the Second.

It was a vast chamber of bronze and glass, the entire dome that made its roof transparent so that one might see the stars whirling overhead. Those with a keen eye could see, even now, one moving with the too-fast-yet-too-slow gait of a voidship plying its way through the far orbits of the wounded Earth. Within a vast circular room the Sigilite stood, staring at that staid transit, surrounded by robed and chained psykers of his order, and as they chanted a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature outside filled the air.

“Remain calm as you prepare the way,” Malcador said softly, his staff clinking against the intricately wrought metal of the floor. Almost as much a piece of art as of technology, the entire edifice was filled with esoteric instruments and arcane displays that only the most learned of these fallen days could understand - and even then, only just. It was this nigh forgotten wonder that he would entrust the hopes of the Astartes upon, temperamental and rarely used as it was.

The Second entered the chamber in one amorphous, chaotic mass as too many people tried to walk through a too-small door at the same time. Seren was at the head, walking backward watching the amoeba that was the Second doing its best to form straight orderly lines, “Barkley, you’re supposed to be in Spade’s squad on the left! Your other left! Nope never mind you were right the first time. Gwen wake up, I can see you back there! Are you going to make Jara carry you through the teleporter?” She was nursing a terrible hangover from the previous night’s activities, as was most of the rest of the legion. Despite their looming assignment, they had pushed ahead with their gambling finale and it had been glorious. Though she had not participated in the actual tournament, Seren had still been able to take home a sizable egg nest for correctly betting on the winner.

“Crown. Coffee for you.”

She took the offered thermos from her second-in-command gratefully, “Thanks Spade. Don’t know what I’d do without you.” She took a sip and leaned in close. “What time is it?” she hissed.

“We’re only five minutes late. All things considered, I’d say we’re doing great.”

“Beautiful.” Seren turned around to faceforward, only to find herself face to face with the Sigillite himself. She stopped, made a messy salute, and shot a glare back at Spade who had obviously seen him approaching and stayed quiet, “Sir. The Second Legion is here, reporting for duty. We’re ready to enter the teleportarium chamber.”

Behind her, the Legion shifted, yawned, and whispered amongst themselves. None of them appeared to be particularly worried about being sent on a possible suicide mission. In fact, just after waking up this morning, the Legion had already started taking bets on who would and wouldn’t make it after the jump. Even now, money discreetly changed hands and numbers were being written down.

Malcador stood silently for a moment, his face inscrutable and blank, hand tightening for a moment on his staff. And then… the Sigilite laughed, a thready noise, like wind through the desert. “I can think of none better for this,” he said to Seren, before his voice grew in volume until it enveloped the whole of the chamber. “Strength of arms shall not make the difference here, for my lord has already made you mightier than the curs you shall face. Valor and bravery you have in abundance, neither will it determine who lives and who dies upon this day. You entrust yourselves, Astartes, to the cruelest test of all.”

A hum that thrummed inside of the very bones of those present began as the teleportarium began to charge, an unseen vortex pulling the air into the epicenter of the chamber where the circled psykers chanted with increased fervor. Bolts of energy arced from ancient and corroded diodes, filling the air with the stench of ozone as the work of elder days was pressed once more into service for he who would name himself the Master of Mankind.

“Are you feeling lucky, young warriors of the Emperor?”



(Thanks to @itarichan and @FrostedCaramel)
In From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born → 2 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay


The soft scratches of quills upon vellum filled the campaign tent, a constant drone of activity. In this age of barbarity and strife such was a wonder in its own right, for learned men were rarer than conversion beamers. But the Sigilites were collectors of many rare things, their stores of knowledge the most carefully guarded trove of those riches. By the will of the Emperor and the assent of their Grandmaster, they had poured their efforts and into energy not into the preservation of antiquity, but the prosecution of war.

Reports from the five offensives flooded into a command post well behind the lines, in the deserts of the ancient Sinai. The combined forces of the Emperor and his newest vassals, the Achaemenids, had swept over those sands like the night wind. Only the fortifications of Gyptus's temple-cities withstood the fire and fury that the Emperor's chosen now unleashed, but a war is waged by more than warriors.

Within the back lines, a web of logistics and information spread, trailing behind the Thunder Warriors. They cared little and noticed less for the military administration left in their wake, but all knew its absence would be keenly missed. It was the job then of these scribes to ensure that they were never thought of, to wage war with a pen and scroll. Shipments of ammunition and fresh armor was constantly sent forward by truck, beast of burden, and porter, returning with the wounded, the dead, and whatever gear they could carry. Figures were tallied, need assessed, triage and repair performed, and the Army fought on without sparing a thought for how they always had new rounds to fire.

At the center of this web of information, this churning edifice of blood and treasure that reduced men to mere numbers, sat one man. Malcador, Master of the Administratum, had come to Gyptus to oversee its fall - and to ensure the integration of the Achaemenids into his master's realm. He had yet to take to the field, but as the sieges ground on and the slaughter continued with no end in sight, many whispered that the time would come that he would set aside his pen and pick up his staff.

But not yet. Not with forms left to sign and orders to approve.

War did not wage itself.
In From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born → 2 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay


In From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born → 2 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay


In From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born → 2 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay






In From Ashes We Rise: An Alternate Warhammer 40,000 Unification and Great Crusade RP → 2 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go
In The Grim Crusade - A Warhammer 30000 RP → 3 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
After the Council

Aboard the Redemption the newly christened Warmaster worked and brooded and watched as her flagship was transformed to take part in a glorious new era of the Crusade that may never come to pass. The War Council was now hers, the great administrative cohorts that had followed in the wake of her Father’s court now decamping for her own. Thousands of souls and tonnes of documents were transferred, dark holds cleared and state rooms readied so that the already creaking edifice of Imperial bureaucracy could be installed aboard her Gloriana.

Her attention was consumed almost utterly by this effort. But only almost. Among the countless demands of her position, some attention remained for her most beloved of siblings. To see that the Primarchs had already begun to meet and whisper behind her back was of no great surprise, but to see it of Nelchitl stung greater than she had imagined. Her sister was great in her heart, though if pressed she would admit that the Emerald Priestess was only second, and the realization filled it with grief. She was invited aboard the following day, a summons that Daena hoped would be accepted due to her love for her sister rather than her obedience to her Warmaster. At this point she would take either.

No great party welcomed Nelchitl aboard when she arrived, no grand display of banners or massed arrays of martial glories. The Primarch herself did not greet her. Instead, awaiting the demigod were a mere sixteen Astartes. Two ranks of Terminators, seven each, their helms newly ornamented with silver blindfolds. The symbol their gene-mother had augmented her daughters’ panopoly with upon her elevation was meant to symbolize the blind dispensation of Imperial Justice she sought to provide within her office - that each Doomsayer was Justice - but it had immediately taken a darker meaning to her detractors.

Though she expected no great display upon her arrival, Nelchitl was surprised at what awaited her. She studied the blindfolded forms of the terminators but offered no words as she stepped off of her Stormbird, leaving all but two Terminator clad Serpents of her retinue aboard the craft to much protest from the rest which was quietly silenced with a single wave of her hand.

Beyond the fourteen stood the familiar form of the Praetor Primus, Asha io Qaphsiel, shining spear in hand, and the less familiar form of the Equerry, Yeketerina Ascania, for once not wearing her gene-mother’s death mask. Together, the pair represented the last Terran Marines inducted before Daena was discovered, and the first taken from Irkalla. Both pounded a martial salute to the Primarch, and though the Equerry technically spoke with the Warmaster’s voice it was Asha who greeted the Emerald Priestess.

“It is good to see you once more, my lady,” the young Astartes said, maintaining eye contact with the Primarch. The pair of them had been forged in the fires of Praxia, and she knew well that the divinity cared nothing for meekness before her. “Our mother awaits you in the camera arcanum,” she said, and as one all sixteen Doomsayers turned upon their heels.

“Then let her wait no longer.” Nelchitl answered Asha as she allowed herself to be led away by the retinue.

Despite the flurry of activity within and without the ship, the entourage saw no one cross their path as they traversed the massive vessel’s corridors towards the Strategium nestled deep within its heart. The Doomsayers seemed tense, the Equerry most of all. Closest and most attuned to their gene-mother’s moods, she did not once speak upon the long march, her lips tersely pressed into a thin line. Even the armored forms of the Terminators seemed on edge, as if expecting a firefight to erupt within the halls of the Gloriana. Each bore the Raptor Imperialis upon their knee, but controlled the massive suits with little of the grace expected of such veterans.

Asha attempted to defuse the mood with what she could, but as they finally approached their destination even she eventually fell silent. A massive adamantium door stood before them, decorated with a life-sized mural of Daena pledging her fealty to the Emperor. It opened to reveal the Strategium’s antechamber, the room filled with the mighty of the Legion and its auxiliaries, the assembled women and handful of men looking at Nelchitl with mixtures of relief and awe, those who had not already fought at her side immediately kneeling in the presence of the Primarch.

The Terminators remained outside, lining the wall, as the door closed behind Nelchitl and her entourage. Asha again spoke for the Legion, bowing her head to the Primarch as she did. “Only you are to enter. She wishes to see her sister, and her sister alone.”

A smaller, though still transhuman sized, door opened as Nelchitl approached, bringing her at last into the camera itself. Daena sat enthroned, but unarmored, choosing instead to wear the void black gown studded with diamonds that shone like stars. With the lumens in the chamber disabled and the only light provided by a stuttering hololith of Praxia below, she seemed to be nothing more than a head and a pair of wings, suspended above a column of starlight. The door closed, and silence hung between them for a time, until at last she spoke.

"You doubt me. You see it now, as plain as I have all these years, and you worry that I am not ready for this task. Perhaps you are correct to doubt. Perhaps if Sekhmetara had been chosen instead. Perhaps," she muttered, her voice and face flat not from control but exhaustion. ”Have I failed him so soon?” she wondered aloud, eyes closed.

Nelchitl had studied her sister once she had finally been ushered into the private confines of the arcanum. But only upon hearing her sister's voice did she realize what she had wrought in meeting with her brother. A piece of her felt vindication as she saw her doubts echoed in her sister’s perfect features, and yet the rest of her ached. Ached at the sight of Daena so dejected, and though her face betrayed little of her mood, Nelchitl could feel the same doubt she held in her own sister echoed by the Angel.

“I doubt much Daena,” she began as she moved to stand perpendicular to the hololith of the slowly spinning Praxia, “You know this. I am but a child on Hi-- your grand stage. I play at war and chase glory and honors while the rest of you have honor rolls beyond tally to fill the shelves of the most exalted libraries in His domain.” she admitted plainly as leaned her armored form on the hololith display.

“I doubt much.” she repeated, “But this… This duel, this infighting, it sits greater than my simple doubt.” she turned to regard her sister, taking her gaze away from Praxia for the first time since she began talking, “But you already know this.” she stated plainly.

“I have seen it,” Daena replied just as plainly. Though she expected to be overwhelmed at the sensation of finally sharing over a century of grief shared with someone who believed, she found herself numb. “I have seen so many ends for all of us, my sister. You know I have. You doubted them just as you now doubt me. This hate, this jealousy, it eats at the very fabric of our Father’s will. But it is too deep, Nelchitl, too deep to be smoothed over by soft words and coddling diplomats!” she continued, a fire finally coming into her body and voice as she remembered all that she had foreseen.

“It must be bled, lest it fester. Our siblings must know that my judgement is fair, but final. That as they bicker and squabble, they shall always have a final recourse before Legion need fall upon Legion in the name of their sire’s honor. That is what must never occur. I would have lanced Eiosha in the gut myself if I thought it would prevent such a fate.” Her fire kindled, her blank eyes opened to stare into Nelchitl’s own, the Warmaster filled with conviction anew. “Hatred grows when it remains hidden in the hearts of men. It must be wrenched out early, so that it may die stillborn. But perhaps I was too late. Perhaps he was too late. Perhaps all that I have seen shall be, and our days will be those of fire and blood.”

Nelchitl nodded her head in slow agreement as her sister spoke, sorrow filling her dark eyes as she listened to her Warmaster.

“Of this I agree that to excise such hatred is necessary… But Daena… In what world was what happened okay? In what universe could such have been allowed by Father? And recorded for all? The pictfeeds and holovids run rampant across the fleets, maybe even the entire Crusade soon.” she paused as she allowed herself a laugh devoid of humor.

“I admit I am the first to reach for a weapon when it comes to disputes but… This was too far, and at your hand, at your order some may even whisper.” she shook her head and brought a hand to her hair as she fiddled before the Warmaster, before her sister.

“I am afraid Daena, I hate to admit such,” she smiled meekly, “‘The Emerald Priestess fears nothing’” she pantomimed, “But I fear what has been set here, what may come of this.” she straightened from the hololith and her eyes seemed to fill fully with sorrow, “Tell me I’m wrong Daena.” she pleaded with her sister, glad that for once she was truly alone with a sibling.

“It was a question of when and where and who,” Daena said in a tired voice, slumping upon her throne. “Not if. Eiosha acted more rashly than any of us should ever do, and were she any other Augor would have been within his rights to cut her down where she stood. But she is not any other, and her death would’ve provoked the greatest of bloodletting. And you know our brother. He would’ve plotted and schemed and his designs would grow more hideous with each day.”

Her eyes closed again as she considered her sister’s plea, but she could not bring herself to give the answer Nelchitl desired. “I cannot, sister. I cannot tell you that you are wrong to fear when I myself am afraid. If Augor accepts my judgement, and Eiosha her punishment, and part with that understanding, then we will have avoided this doom. But I cannot tell you to lay so much trust upon a mere if.”

“I simply saw no better option left to me,” she admitted, voice finally turning bitter.

Nelchitl’s pleading features turned sour as Daena finished, her gaze casting away from her sister as she scoffed.

“No better way than to allow Augor with weapons meant to fell armies? To allow Eiohsa her magicks? Could you not have forced the weapons? The rules? The means?”

Her accusing gaze came back to her sister as her armored hand gripped the hololith table hard enough to crumple the metal, “You are Warmaster Daena! You are the voice of Father!” she yelled as her anger grew, a hint of jealousy evident as she did, “Yet here you fell to the whims of two of his more errant of children…” she trailed off, a flash of guilt marring her features as she released the table.

“I’m sorry.” she stated softly, though the fire in her chest demanded far more from her.

“Nelchitl,” Daena whispered, finally rising from her throne to rest a hand upon her sister’s shoulder. “You need never apologize to me for speaking the truth of your heart. Such honesty is why you are beloved of Sekhmetara and myself,” she assured her, free hand placing the Emerald Priestess’ armored own back upon the crushed table with a soft smile.

Keeping her gaze away from Daena as she approached, she allowed her sister to do as she wanted as she silently waited for her to retreat back to her throne.

“You are right,” she said sadly, her gaze fixed on the now flickering display of Praxia. “I could have done all of these things and more, but it would not have sufficed. Augor would not consider his damned oath satisfied if I had. He would have tried again, and again, and again, working always within the letter of his vows in order to undermine its spirit. His convictions, the certainty that he follows aspects of Father’s will that have been left unstated? Excuses to do as he truly wishes.”

“Yet I see those same convictions as what keeps him predictable… It was clear he would take this too far, for the Martian Priesthood’s ways called for it, demanded it even.” she shook her head and turned her eyes back to the flickering hololith.

“Do you think I'm the same as him? Do you think my convictions give me the excuses I need?” she asked quietly as she watched Praxia turn, “I don’t.” she added with a weak smile, “But I don’t think Augor does either. Only the insane fail to see the insanity in their actions.” she felt horror at the idea that she might be equated to Augor, to his twisted Priesthood and his strange rights. But the fear stuck, the idea that perhaps she too may be perceived as misled in her belief cutting deep as she awaited judgement.

Daena looked at Nelchitl with honest confusion upon her face, turning to look her in the eyes. “Of course I don’t. You serve our Father. The Crusade. Mankind. Augor serves the Mechanicum at best, and his own interests at worst. What could possibly make you think that the two of you are the same?”

Nelchitl hesitated at Daena’s confusion. For a moment, she felt guilt, that she had assumed her sister knew. That she was aware of her own beliefs, like her dear sister Sekhmetara, or her newfound kinship in her brother Wode. But she was wrong. Daena didn’t know, she was not aware of the faith that burned inside of the Emerald Priestess. Of her devotion to their Father on a level far more intense than simple adoration or respect.

Nelchitl stepped away, her face turning to stare at anything else in the small confines of the arcanum but the Angel before her as she realized her misstep. Daena was one of her Father’s most trusted. She held the Truth above all. Abhorred the faithful, burned the holy works of more worlds than Nelchitl cared to count, and would see the death of many more. The Angel was godless.

“Doubt is all.” she answered briskly, unable to even look toward her sister. “But that is unimportant,” she lied.

“Doubt plagues both of us it seems,” Daena whispered, accepting her sister’s words for fact. Perhaps she believed them in truth. Perhaps she simply did not wish to confront the truth. Perhaps. “I had hoped Sekhmetara might alleviate such, but she has been busier than I had hoped,” she half admitted. In truth, she had wanted her sister to invite her aboard, and the lack of notice was beginning to gnaw at her own mind just as much as the spat between Augor and Eiosha. “She has a way of calming things.”

Nelchitl couldn’t help but laugh at Daena’s words, more at the irony of the situation the Angel found herself in rather than in the woman herself. Here the Angel sought solace and peace in the guidance of Sekhmetara, the very same Sekhmetara that had just recently been destroying one of Nelchitl’s staterooms aboard the Solstice’s End in an attempt to find her own solace in Angels’ ascension.

“You and her both, sister.” she answered quietly, “Sekhmetara is… torn at your rise. She cares for you dearly of course, but she fears for you all the same.” Nelchitl offered a smile while a flash of violence ran across her eyes as she recalled the recent bout she had shared with the Huntress.

“We wrecked a room aboard the End together. Her for you. Me for… well that damned Tartarean brother of ours.” she offered as she diligently studied the riveting in the deck.

Daena winced at the news, her wings closing about her form to create a protective cloak, as if her sister’s fears were a knife. In a sense, they were, the newly christened Warmaster faltering as she joined her sister in examining the construction of the deckplate. “She would have thought of a better solution,” the Angel whispered, voice tinged with self-loathing and doubt. “Sekhmetara would’ve hidden her disdain and stopped herself from treating our brother like a rabid dog. He is so much worse, only now do I see this,” she continued, her own hands now resting on the damaged holo table.

“Nelchitl,” she said after a long pause, now in a louder voice, tinged with the sharp edge of command. “Is there any order from me you would refuse?”

Nelchitl shifted uncomfortably where she stood, her unease at the entire situation unfolding at her feet evident as she squirmed without end. “Our dearest sister would have thought of a different solution, I can not say it would have been better. I do not have your gifts of prescience afterall.” Nelchitl spoke, her words sounding far more confident than her demeanor betrayed.

With a shift Nelchitl brought her gaze up, her attitude instantly changed as a far simpler question than anything asked so far was posed for her.

“None.” she replied with a surety of mind so clear that the air about the room seemed to shift from its gloom just as quickly as the Emerald Priestess’s mood. “You are Warmaster. You are his hand in these dark stars. His will is in action with your every step.” She rushed forward to Daena, her hands slipping past the slumped forms of the Angel’s wings and coming to firmly grasp her sister's arms in her hands, “Your every order his creed.” she was speaking with the burning fire in her chest now as she tore one of her hands away from her sister's arm to cup her chin gently. Lifting the Angel’s gaze tenderly up from the deckplate, the Emerald Priestess brought the Angel’s cold eyes to her own burning orbs of faith.

“To deny you would be to deny Him, and that is something I could never live with.” she smiled at her sister, now so close, love that only a true sibling could provide bleeding from her every motion as she spoke, “I could never deny you Daena. My darling sister, my Warmaster.”

A satisfied smile blossomed on Daena’s face in return, but it did not reach her eyes. She brought her own hand up to gently stroke the one Nelchitl was cupping her chin with, her other coming to rest on the Emerald Priestess’s shoulder. “Oh my sister, the truest instrument of his will. You alone were meant for this charge. I see His wisdom now, clearer than even before.”

The Warmaster’s demeanor had changed in turn, the Angel standing taller and prouder than before, her wings raised over the both of them as they held one another. But there was as much threat as tenderness in that embrace, Daena’s mind upon the morbid necessities of their Father’s will. “There may come a time, Nelchitl, when I will require this hand. You will not hesitate, I know,” she said, drawing her sister’s hand off of her chin as she did before pressing a single kiss against it.

“His red right hand,” Daena whispered, voice potent with prophecy.

Nelchitl allowed herself to be moved by her Warmaster, the divinations of the Angel before her ringing like scripture in her mind as she listened. Even without her sister’s gift of prescience she could see the fate awaiting them now as clearly as she imagined her sister saw the strands of the future stretching out before her. She could practically taste victory on her lips as she hung on the Angel’s every word, she could see the triumph of humanity stretch before her as she stood at her Angel’s side before the most flawless being to grace all of time and space. She smiled, an animalistic thing, the promise of violence and savagery stretching across her features as she did.

“By your command Daena, always.” she whispered back to her sister.

“Stay with me for a time, oh sister mine,” Daena murmured while pressing her face against Nelchitl’s neck. “Oh murderer mine,” she added, in a voice so faint even a Primarch had to strain to hear it.
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