MarshalSolgriev

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

The Siege of Ouran

-After the Fall of Indoi-

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Orm pulled his legs in tight to his chest, distorted voices screamed through his headset. Even over the gunfire and distortion he could feel the panic in those voices. The cries for the second wave were among the most prominent of messages coming over the vox, followed in short order by casualty calls and desperate pleas for orders from leaderless units scattered along the beach.

He flinched as some sort of indirect shell landed nearby, showering him in sand and stone as he squinted out at the horizon. The second wave was ablaze. He thought his wave had had it rough on their landing, but it seemed that the defenders of Ouran had zeroed in their weapons on the approaches and the Imperials were paying dearly for it.

“Second wave---” the vox crackled, “Ineffective---”.

Orm cursed, leaning out slightly to let off a few wild shots from his stub rifle before he pulled himself back into the scant protection of the landing craft obstacle. Heavy rounds slammed into the beach where his head had just been, and a whine of superheated las melted an arm off his cover just to his left. Orm cursed, his eyes darting left and right for a better position, a ditch, another obstacle, a burnt out landing craft. Anything would be better than where he was. But all he found around him was death.

“Hold---” the vox crackled again, “Asta--- ing imminent.”

He hadn’t quite caught the message, the din of gunfire and the blasts of explosives making the vox nearly unreadable on top of the static. Even without the vox, he could tell something was coming.

---

A hundred meters offshore, the surface of the toxic water began to roil. The once obsidian surface boiled and popped, a thick miasma of iridescent toxic steam began to roll off the water's surface and onto the beach. The Imperials, so long as their environ suits had held during the ordeal of their landings, were unbothered by the steam flowing in around them, their attentions focused on survival in the face of crippling streams of fires from the defenders. But the defenders were not so lucky.

In the bunkers and the elevated trench lines, the defenders of Ouran lunged for rebreathers. They clawed at the masks in their pouches at their hips, furiously pulling at the vac-sealed masks within. The smart among the defenders had long ago unsealed the masks from their factorum packaging, and only the quick joined them in donning the masks.

Imperials took note of the slackening of las bursts and autocannon rounds. The brave among the attackers took furtive steps through the toxic steam, followed by small groups as units began to regain their cohesion and bound up the beach from cover to cover. But the reprieve was short lived. The defenders of Ouran opened up on the beach once more, wild weapons fire stitching through the steam at targets unseen, and the Imperials were forced back into cover once more.

In the water, the roiling ocean surface had moved forward to just before the beach. The defenders called out, and weapons fire was redirected to the ocean through the steam as three massive shadows rumbled out of the toxic waters.

Heavy stubber rounds that had previously torn landing craft to shreds and minced men as an afterthought panged harmlessly off the tracked beasts as they emerged from the toxic depths. Lascannon bolts left glowing marks in otherwise untarnished armor, and rockets exploded without effect across the tracked behemoths. Then the warmachines answered.

Lascannons on the side of the tracked machines let loose volleys across bunker emplacements and trenches. The turreted cannons atop the rear of the vehicles swung its sights across the defenders, raking them with heavy bolter shells and showering those out of the direct line of fire with shrapnel meant to down armored flyers.

The machines rolled forward with surprising speed for their massive size. As they neared the seawall, sponson mounted flamers swung high and gouts of promethium flame filled bunkers and set ablaze the battlements above them.

The defenders threw everything they had at the assaulting machines, but nothing slowed them down. A high pitched whine emanated from the three vehicles in unison, hull mounted barrels at the very prow of each machine began to glow red hot before superheated beams spat into the seawall. Rockrete and steel melted instantly, runnels of molten slag sloughed off the wall and down the beach as the machines pressed through the defender’s wall and out the otherside.

---

The interior of the Mastodon heavy assault transport was pitch black, the Astartes within rocking slightly as it punched through the seawall and out the otherside. A single alarm blast signalled that the next phase of the landing was beginning. The armored prow split open as the Mastodons came to a halt in the field beyond the wall. From the lead transport Astartes with “XVII” emblazoned on the pauldrons of their slate grey armor poured out of the open maw of their machine with volkite rifles firing.

“Second Company of the Seventeenth to all forces on the beach, we will secure the seawall momentarily. Prepare to advance.” a vox hail went out across all landing force nets as the Astartes of the seventeenth legion fanned out from the first Mastodon.

As if echoing the command over the vox, the second Mastodon broke through the seawall in a flurry of eye-watering molten beams. The forward assault doors slid open with a sickening crunch as rock was pulverized to either side of the transport. Forty red lenses pierced through the eerie darkness within the vehicle, emphasized only by the glint of bronze-on-black through the emergency klaxons. The mortals of Ouran on the lower seawall barely had a chance to react before they were preyed upon by the transport’s inhabitants.

“Gloria Scorpii!” The first of the Thirteenth screamed out through the vox-grills as they exploded forth from the Mastodon’s assault bay. They lashed out at the closest mortal with energized claws as long as a human’s arm coupled to a fist as large as a human skull. They disappeared into a vivisected mist as the superhumans rolled out in a tide of power armor and fury. Twenty of them sprinted into the fray, automatically splitting into squads of four to slaughter through the acidic mist of Ouran’s poisonous shores. Twenty and one remained behind, intentionally lagging with their volkite carbines momentarily illuminating the interior. The final of them orchestrated the mass with an elongated blade in one hand and lightning arcing in the other hand.

+’Third Clade- Company of the Thirteenth! Begin Blade and Slaughter! Leave no route of escape for our enemies.’+ The hail from the Thirteenth boomed through the vox-net, ensuring their presence was noted and their duties were slated. The voice gave an Achaemenid impression, yet their tone was sweet as cinnamon across a raspy tongue.

The command was acknowledged. Those twenty that remained behind split into groups of five, systematically fanning out in a forty-five degree cordon forward of the assault transport. The commander, the only amongst them who dared to wear a tattered tabard and hood of black on their bronze armor, walked without support. He noted the relative position of the other Legiones, adjusting his angle of attack throughout his personal vox as the situation adapted.

A flicker of life struggled for succour nearby, bisected yet living despite their flaws. A single snap of his taloned gauntlets saw lightning reach out across the distance, conflagrating their skin into wretched charcoal. The commander, satisfied with his commands and executions, sprinted out into the field of battle with a toothy grin growing on their dusken lips.

The Astartes of the Seventeenth made quick work of the defenders at the seawall. Bunkers fell to volkite and chainblades, their defensive weapons pointed in the wrong direction for the onslaught of transhuman might that silenced their guns. Encrypted vox chatter darted back and forth between the legionaries of the Seventeenth, curt calls for direction and acknowledgement of orders flowing as quickly as the astartes did over the battlements.

Through the chatter of war, whispers were passed amongst the legionaries of the Seventeenth, for some had seen their cousin's entry, and witnessed the witchcraft of their commander as he struck out at the defenders of Ouran.

The Captain of the Second company let loose another tight volley of volkite, each beam finding its mark among defenders scurrying over rubble to escape their doom. She noted the arrival of her second on auspex before the lumbering form of the warrior entered her peripheral vision.

“Captain, the Thirteenth deploys warlocks, we were not informed of this.” Lieutenant Giovana voxed on a private net.

Captain Carvalho allowed a brief moment of thought in between her combat protocols to ponder the statement, “We bring an entire sisterhood from on high, and yet we fret over one of our cousins to our side?” she sneered, her volkite barking once more as a pair of Ouran defenders, or perhaps civilians, bolted from cover down the roadway.

She could see Giovana swaying where she stood, no doubt weighing her next words.

“And yet, we informed them of such. They did not warn us of our, proximity with a witch-mind on this axis of the assault.”

“You will drop this Lieutenant. You and the rest of the company. The Thirteenth are here to assist. They have decided to deploy a warlock among us, no doubt they could have used him elsewhere. Now fall in to line, your platoon is falling behind schedule.”

Her lieutenant nodded and took off at a loping bound in the direction of her squads.

“Lo, Cousin,” Carvalho began as she keyed the inter-legion command net with a flick of her chin, “My squads make all haste to match yours, but I must apologize. This is our first deployment, and our movements and protocols are not as honed as yours, we--” her words cut out as the whine of servomotors noted a movement beyond the rated use of her power armor.

Carvalho dropped the vox line and swung her fist around herself, the face of an Ouran sapper caving in as she did so, the magnetic mine in his hands dropping to the dust and debris at her feet in slow motion as she turned to run.

An explosion rocked the earth from under her feet as the mine detonated, and Carvalho felt the force of the blast lift her end over end through the air before she was deposited into a crumbling habblock.

“Apologies cousin,” she spat as she wrenched her body from rockcrete and rebar, “if you notice my sisters are out of position or lagging behind, inform me and I shall correct it with haste. I will take what guidance I can from those more experienced, despite what my sisters may think of such.”

The response from the Thirteenth commander was immediate. Perhaps he had anticipated a cursory introduction from their gene-kin, or maybe he willed the wyrd the same as the witch-minds of Nordyc to foretell of her woes. Regardless of how, the cinnamon-sweet tone of the Achaemenidian-born Astartes roused the inter-legion command vox from its momentary lull.

“Apologize for nothing, Captain, lest your focus on platitudes results in your demise.” The commander of the Thirteenth replied, his own connection filled with vague noises of slaughter and mayhem. The warrior’s voice was a heavy mixture of solemnly dutiful, vagrant sarcasm, and chastly pious - a hedonistic combination that bordered on legionary infraction. His position on the local augur signalled that he and several others of the Thirteenth were actively moving towards her at a blistering speed.

The vox was momentarily silenced as the seawall outskirts exploded into a tidal wave of action. Those Ouran defenders that had successfully mobilized from their defenses attempted a routing retreat with their fortifications as explosive traps. Plate-lined reactive armor on the outer walls of Ouran’s curtain erupted outwards, spraying shrapnel as a final farewell to the oncoming Imperials from the toxic sea. Heavy stubber emplacements, howling hand-carried mortars, and roaring stationary flamers detonated in a contagious chain of horrifying ignition. The unexpected tactic would’ve stunned many, yet such tactics did little to delay their extermination.

While the licking flames of annihilation washed over the grey tide of the Seventeenth, peppering their armor harmlessly with aftershock and shrapnel, the swiftest defenders attempted to make their escape. Few managed to get through the iron grip of the Seventeenth’s terminal assault, many cut down by their volkite carbines or sputtering chainswords. Those few, running with high hopes, fell into the maw of the Thirteenth. Like vipers in the wavering sands of a high dune, they lashed out in a synchronized dance across the few escape routes. Flashes of black-bronze emerged from seemingly nowhere, diving into the escaping squads with lightning-infused talons and snub-nosed volkite carbines.

Although the Seventeenth were not dulled by the sabotage, the remarkable speed of the Thirteenth revealed itself in the explosive ashfall of the seawall. Where the open route out into Ouran proper had been chocked full of fleeing defenders, they were now replaced by the bronze-black Astartes drenched in mortal gore. Vehicles, tracked and bipedal alike, were skewered through with volkite beams or torn asunder by powers unknown. The one that led them, the warlock amongst their number, emerged through the ash with his right gauntlet tainted by bio-electricity and vitae. A pair of crimson lenses beneath a hood of black peered out to the Seveteenth’s Captain.

“Worry not for haste,” The warrior stated as he walked closer through the explosive gloom. His armored form was as stark a contrast to their own as it could be. Relics, chains, and other trinkets decorated the Astartes in a strange defiance to legionary standardization. His gauntlets were tipped in sharp points, armor embellished with umbral linen, and armaments taken from far outside the Imperial armory. The Astartes continued with a short, solemn bow of his armored form, “for the Thirteenth shall pave the way with stinger and claw. You may refer to me as Praetor- Captain Raamiz of the Third Company. Use me as you see fit, Captain.”

“A pleasure, Captain.” Carvalho began, offering the raptor for only a moment as she trudged toward the Seventeenth’s next objective deeper inside the city, “I have no need to command your company, and I have no mind for it either,” she motioned with a nod to Raamiz’s talons and vaguely toward the carnage left in their wake, “you seem more than capable.” she laughed.

She blinked clicked commands through her display, clicking her tongue to herself as her squads began to withdraw from the wreckage of the seawall and make for their next target.

“We make haste for the hive’s central vehicle depot,” she stated “I was not graced with your tactical objectives Captain Raamiz, if we can assist each other enroute it would be most beneficial. Though I see little fight left in this city.” Carvalho spat in disgust as she and her sisters began to move through the carnage left by the Thirteenth.

As if to punctuate her statement, an immense report of autogunfire reported from ahead, deeper within the confines of the city; though it sounded as if a small army was unloading their magazines into some number of targets, not a round more than they had already faced came towards the advancing Astartes; the target of the sudden deluge was elsewhere.

Shouts of alarum and the bassier humming report of lasweapons mingled with the sounds, only belatedly joined by light handheld stubbers and the likes of those weapons they had already faced–something very odd was taking place inside the city of Ouran.

“The pleasure is mine, Captain, but our objectives are intertwined for this operation.” Raamiz said with a warm, toothy smile beneath his hooded helmet. He offered the sign of the Raptor in swift response before beginning to trudge alongside her. The split squads of the Thirteenth began to coalesce around Raamiz as the last of the seawall’s defenses were annihilated. The reports from within Ouran began to hum louder in his helmet, followed softly by a separate set from the inter-legionary vox.

“That,” Captain Raamiz began to speak, receiving word from the vox-net of the sudden assault further into the city, “would be part of our tactical objective at this location, Captain. The invasion of Ouran has been graced by not one, but two companies of the Thirteenth. Our primary objective is to assist your spearhead into the Pan-Pacific Empire’s territory. Our secondary objective was to educate you, propelling you into the same territory as the Thirteenth, Fifteenth, Nineteenth, and Ninth. The last was a coordinated strike with insurgents from within - headed by one of my fellow Captains.”

The last of the Thirteenth in the wall breach reconvened with their captain, each of their talons dripping or searing with blood torn from Ouran’s defenders. None blocked their path into the city proper beyond this point, the seawall’s sentinels slaughtered to the last man. The sounds of fat-bellied transports and heavier assault vehicles rumbled beyond the city’s crumbling, oceanic defenses. The mortal men and women of the Imperium were filling in the gaping holes that the Astartes had left.

Carvalho turned her head toward the distant staccato of gunfire, her furthest squad voxing a request to investigate and assist as needed as she did. She blink-clicked a denial to her squad, allowing herself a small grin as the confirmation ruin flashed back in her vision and she smiled as her squads began to make their way to regroup around the Mastodons on her auspex to begin their movement toward the vehicle depot.

“The Seventeenth appreciates the guidance, Captain Ramiz, Emperor knows we need it,” she stated flatly as the two captains took a few bounding steps in the direction of the last Mastodon, its hatch still closed. “I take it these insurgents know not to engage our own, and will ensure my sisters know the same.” she paused, inspecting the vehicle before her with confusion, “Our cousins are slow to the gate then, Captain?” With her question to Raamiz, she relayed a command not to engage irregular forces in the direction of the habblocks, instead allowing the Thirteenth and Imperial Army forces to sort the madness of friend and foe deeper in the city.

“Your appreciation is appreciated, Captain,” The Scorpion offered a short chortle, turning his hooded gaze towards the last destination of the Third’s Mastodon. A pair of his bronze-black Astartes started to move in the direction, but Captain Ramiz raised a hand to halt their movement. A pair of blink-acknowledgements saw them walking back into step with the Captain. He carefully listened to the voxnet, awaiting the request for assistance or declaration of escape. He continued, “but I don’t believe the Third will require assistance. Though they may be as fresh as your warriors, they have braved the jungles of Indoi. Let us join our cousins so that you may witness their strengths.”

---

Far beyond Ouran’s blood soaked shore, in the command tents and mobile structures that formed the nucleus of the campaign’s high command, the second most powerful man in the Imperium took in the sight of the unfolding carnage placidly. To most, the datafeeds and hololith displays of the landings would be sterile things, shorn of the horror and rage and pity and pain that each line represented. Malcador was not most men.

Snippets of lives passed through his mind with every update of the grand tables, lives that had been, lives that may have been, lives that now would be, each and every one catalogued and set aside by a mind that had withstood seven thousand years of death and sorrow and still endured. This was but another day, and one less dreadful by far than the battles his master yet fought against the cornered bull of Ursh. He had a job to do after all.

The ghosts of those his will damned vanished as he snapped his eyes open, the soft chittering that was the constant background drone of any campaign carrying on without regard for his brief indulgence.

“Loop our newest forces into the command circuit, let us see if they can fight as well as they bargain,” Malcador said softly, trusting in the swirling array of aides and attendants surrounding him to see it done. Ouran would fall, with or without these curious… auxiliaries, but it was as sound a place as any to test their mettle. “There,” the Sigilite said, pointing at an active voxcaster glowing with the runes ORM as its designation. “That is our closest forward deployed relay, patch it through to them.”

The crackle of the vox on the other side initially overwhelmed the voice on the other side, but after a moment a young man’s voice came through, “--in mac Cormac, we’re in–” a brief bout of static, then it cleared up, and seemed to stabilise that way “--town. Taking heavy fire, but we’re dug in well here. Relatively light casualties, but that won’t hold true if they manage to get us into close quarters. My men signed up as a diversion, Imperial, not as a suicide squad. Any help is appreciated, over.”

“Auxilia, maintain position. The Legions have begun their assault upon the city,” Malcador replied, his voice crackling over Orm’s vox as the message was bounced into the warrens of Ouran. “Continue with your objectives after being relieved.” The Sigilite made a motion with his hand to end transmission, before closing his eyes and seeking out the mind of one of his master’s children.

Captain Alim, continue with the evaluation. Do not unduly interfere with the gene-trial without a request from the abhumans. It is more than prowess that we must consider for Unity; if their pride prevents them from requesting your aid, so be it.

---

Another burst of stubber fire raked across the ferrocrete wall Captain mac Cormac was covering behind, sending shards of chipped stone into the air and causing him to grit his teeth, ears pinning back from the clangor, audible even through his aural dampers. He leaned his head up over the edge, spotting the gun emplacement right before another burst nearly lopped an ear off, and clicked his throat vox, “Radial-One this is Radial-Lead. Get nic Aiblinn on that stubber emplacement before it takes someone else’s head off!”

He clicked off and turned back, crouch-walking past the mauled corpse of one of the rebels they’d outfitted. Fox, or something, she’d been called. He checked the charge in his longlas and growled as the report of another rifle cracked through the air–and then when the stubber fire turned away, he stood and fired at the gunner, vaporising half the man’s head and leaving him slumped over the gun a moment, before the servos turned the emplacement around and he slid off, a messy, viscous pool of gore spreading around where his mangled skull had hit the roof.

Lowering the rifle, he bared his teeth in triumph, tail flicking slightly as he looked for another target. He was extremely aware of the enormous gene-warrior nearby, but didn’t have anything gentle or reasonable to say to the man. The Meallan Legion had been formed on the promise that only the Astartes’ Legion-Masters, their superiors, and the Emperor himself could override the Legate, and here was some Captain presuming to command them.

Still… he looked over at the man, one ear flicking. They’d all heard stories. Maybe he’d be useful. “Alim, was it? I don’t suppose you can take some of these rebels and deal with that AM battery?” The cannons hadn’t turned to face them–possibly because they couldn’t, or possibly because they had a better target in mind, but their responsibility was to divert attention–and firepower–from the two Legions’ offensives, and that big fuckoff cannon was going to tear a hole right through the gene-warriors’ lines if they didn’t take it out before it decided to join the fray.

Originally, the plan had been to deal with the garrison on the walls, then push toward it as the final strike, but the Pacificans here were much nastier than the ones the Legion had fought further east, and a lot more determined. They’d deal with them, but maybe not before the 13th and 17th were in range. A mistake borne more of underestimating their new allies than their enemies, but one with consequences nonetheless.

“Captain is sufficient. My name is unnecessary. The batteries have already been designated a priority target.” Alim had replied in a monotone fashion. Interacting with mortals had made him more aware that he would never be like his brethren. Especially interacting with those that chafed at coordination with genewarriors. A thousand and one different projections and strategies crossed his mind in the seconds leading up to their assault; however, only the Sigilite’s words occupied his mind. Shifting sands do not change the course of a serpent. Fresh words from the void that continued to plague his Legio.

He stepped back from the edge of the ferrocrete wall to a lower position, using the pommel of his thunder hammer as a walking instrument. The heavy volkite stubber swayed against his bronze-black warplate on a flexible strap. His view, to the eyes of non-Legio members, was perpetually facing forward with a bulky magno-lense over one side of his slanted helmet and a great antenna beside the other half. A black, half-tabard savagely snapped around him in the Ouran breeze. His shoulders proudly displayed the twin scorpions around an ‘XIII’.

“My brethren have already seen fit to neutralize the most harmful resistance enroute to the objective. Further perimeter skirmishing is ill-advised.” He said, his voice breaking through the overwhelming sound barrier of violence nearby. His inter-legion auspex alerted him to his nearby brethren, beginning to rendezvous at his position at an accelerated rate. Their blink-communications were enough to alert him of converging Pacificans. The Astartes turned towards mac Cormac with no sense of urgency, “This position has been compromised. We will now advance inward. Follow after our ingress.”

The words were not given as a command as Alim ibn Sharif began descending down into the large, ferrocrete stairwell leading into the Ouran fortifications. Mac Cormac could hear the snap and sting of volkite carbines, accompanied only by the terrorized flaying of power-claw through carapace.

The man gawped at him. Their objective was diversion as much as sabotage. Abandoning this position would…he frowned. Abandoning this position would make the enemy question where they’d gone. Which meant they’d try to trace their approach–which meant the engagement would move with them.

He shook his head, ears pinning back in annoyance at the fact the gene-warrior was correct. The Meallans weren’t used to set-piece engagements, and sometimes he was reminded of that violently. He clicked his vox, “All forces, begin breaking contact. We push on the primary objective. Maintain flank security, we’re taking the diversion with us, over.” He leapt down from his position at the wall and hurried after the gene-warrior, annoyed at his shorter legs and feeling rather foolish as he practically scurried after the enormous man, “I’ve got our troops breaking to regroup. There’s still going to be fighting elsewhere in the city, but…” He shrugged, “We’re leading barely-trained rebels. Discipline was never going to be in the cards. But my men are with you, Captain.”

“You are incorrect, Captain, it is not that you are with me but that we are with you.” Alim corrected flatly as the felinid caught up to him. The monotone of his voice was prevalent, yet the message was easy to discern. The Imperium - and the Emperor - was here for them. He forced himself to endeavor a better manner of speech one day. He decided to continue, “our efforts will prove satisfactory and with minimal casualties. By His will.”

The gangway leading out of the fortifications stairwell was a mess of ruptured ferrocrete, slagged stone, and gore. A group of genewarriors awaited the two of them as they ventured out into the wider sections of the wall. Each was a bronze-black giant of the Thirteenth; however, that was where their likeness ended. Unlike the gray warriors of the Seventeenth or Third, every one of them was a caricature of their own. One bore skeletal remnants from the Achaemenid Steppes, another with fresh trinkets from Indoi, and another with dangling chains forged from Nabatae. They bore a mixture of different cloth on their warplate from burnt tabards to torn robes to shredded hoods all of dark fabric. Volkite weapons were locked in their gauntlets for some, while others bore great fists with long, powered talons. Lastly, each was a macabre remembrance that the Thirteenth were reapers and slaughterers, slick with the ichor of their slain.

“Passage to the batteries is clear of the Ouran vermin, but they’re heavily entrenched around their weapon. We’ll draw the bulk away from your party, Captains. Raptor Imperialis!” The knight at the front, Hussan, stated. His helmet was decorated with a curious, serpentine ornament at the top and a thin laurel stretched around the base of it. He offered a salute in the form of his fist slamming against the Raptor on his breastplate. Alim echoed the motion before they disappeared from their sight further into the labyrinthine depths of Ouran’s defenses.

Cormac blinked at the macabre display, slightly disturbed by the nature of the allies they’d made, but adjusting his beret and trying not to let it show, “In that case, my men appreciate your support, Captain. We were worried this was going to turn into a suicide mission. It seems your peoples’ reputation was not overstated.”

A pair of blue-and-black-clad Felinids jogged out of a side passage, holding their rifles up in one hand to stave off a knee jerk gibbing. The leader–a lean, tawny-faced woman with a more catlike demeanor than even most Felinids spoke first, “Able company has pulled in our perimetre, sir. My recruits want to know what the plan is.”

“Aye,” said the second, an older man with a darker face and a dark beard mixed with the grey of age, “Baker as well.”

“The Imperium’s gene-warriors have the vanguard. We follow behind them, secure their flanks, and deal with targets of opportunity.” He checked his rifle, “Have your snipers watch the rooftops. That’s where the greatest threats will come from.” Not because of any particular danger–but because he had a feeling anyone on ground level wouldn’t last long against the gene-warriors. “To your stations. Move quickly.”

The two saluted and darted back to their companies, and Cormac’s command unit fell in behind the 13th’s vanguard, trusting the gene-warriors to eliminate ground targets while they concentrated on counter sniping and clearing any buildings the Emperor’s bloodsoaked envoys bypassed on their route.

Initially, contact was light, but the further they pushed, the more targets made themselves apparent–a light smattering of fire from the rooftops turning into a torrent that delayed them every other block as they had to dive for cover and flank or use smoke, losing more of their undertrained recruits with every ambush, until, as they neared the base of the gun tower itself–

“TANK!! SCATTER!”

The soldiers dove out of the way quicker, their wiry bodies already moving before the command even came down–the rabble had a mixed reaction, some freezing, some bolting the wrong direction, some pointlessly trying to fire their autoguns. An explosion rocked the centre of the causeway as the tank turned those who hadn’t gotten out of the way into a fine red mist.

It wasn’t a heavy unit – one of the medium variants, he thought, though he’d only gotten a glimpse of it. But that didn’t matter, because this was an infantry force, and most of his ‘infantry’ were barely-organised freed slaves fighting for a shot at freedom and citizenship.

He cursed their rotten luck and clicked his vox, “Captain Alim, if your gene-warriors have some kind of trick up your sleeves to dealing with enemy armour, I’d be very keen to see it right about now!”

The command was given. Alim felt relieved that mac Cormac had freely requested their support. The Sigilite’s orders were absolute as he was an extension of his Master, but the very being of his geneseed bristled at not slaking an unbeknownst bloodthirst. Automatically, the Bronze Scorpion could feel the potent cocktail of combat drugs filtering through his system in anticipation of combat. If he had been anything like his brethren, then surely he would’ve worn the cocksure, toothy smile quickly becoming a normality for their legion.

+‘Second Company. Begin execution of Battleplan Omega.’+ Captain Alim stated through the inter-legionary vox. The shaft of his thunder hammer rose and fell, pinging off the ferrocrete tile with a satisfactory noise. Over a dozen blink-confirmations were acknowledged through his helmet from squad leads. His auspex confirmed the location of his legionnaires spread throughout the Ouran parapets, causeways, and arterial passages.

In a manner of seconds, synchronized at an inhuman level, Ouran’s innermost defenses morphed into fields of chaos. Isolated locations of Imperial-Meallan resistance suddenly burst into levels of heightened activity far bypassing the original projections as genewarriors seemingly activated from a trance. Pacifican sentinels, elite cadre, and other potent warriors were forced to endure a reinvigorated assault by otherwise passive rebels. The battlefield shifted once more as the defenses around mac Cormac and Alim’s conglomerate squad were eased.

Alim’s vanguard warriors, consisting of Hussan and his squad along with himself, burst into action like lightning bolts shot from the heavens. Whatever had kept them locked into a defensive stance had been broken with mac Cormac’s request. Inhuman levels of flexibility saw a pair of Astartes systematically annihilate flanking Ourans, while the rest of the vanguard surged forward towards the armored vehicle. The Scorpion Captain unholstered the heavy volkite stubber from its sling, hefting the weapon in one hand while shifting the weight of his thunder hammer in the other. Heroically, they charged directly into the line of fire with their weapons powered.

Their adversary - a Pacifican Dume-pattern Quadraturret - quickly adjusted their aim for the onrushing genewarriors, aware of the destruction such forces could wrought on their infrastructure. Squads of support infantry manifested from behind the vehicle, hunkering down behind it adorn in padded carapace of dark blues and stark whites. Their sergeants hollered for their firelines to begin attacking, unleashing a devastating combination of stubberfire, lasbeams, and autobolts to fill the causeway with fresh death. Not to be outdone, the heavy stubber sponsons of the Quadraturret added to the storm of projectiles while the main cannons prepared another round of volleys.

Such projectiles would do little to phase the Astartes as they blunted the storm with their warplate and unshaking resolve. The long-ranged duo of the squad, intentionally lagging behind the vanguard, began utter subjugation of the enemy’s support squads. Men and women shouted in horror as their allies were reduced to ash piles or charred skeletons. The remaining Astartes advanced, faster and faster, unlike legionnaires of other legions. Hussan, along with three others, dove wildly into the mortal soldiers of Ouran with their claws. None were spared, each slaughtered at the atomic level through the advanced powerfields of their claws. Screams of terror, screeches of agony, and shrieks of pain filled the causeway.

As Hussan delved into the mortal defenders, Alim faced down the tank by himself. His volkite stubber shot twice, malfunctioning the sponsons with accurate snaps of his modified weapon. The center-mounted gunner, hidden beneath a wall of reinforced steel, attempted a response with the hull-stubber; however, Alim had accounted for this in his spread of shots. The gunner’s skull exploded into flesh-slag mix from a nigh-impossible shot through the oculus-slit. The genewarrior discarded his ranged armament, satisfied with his slaughter, and switched the thunder hammer to a two-handed grip. With the force of a newborn deity, the captain leapt into the air and activated the power-rune of his maul. The weapon came down with the might of the Emperor, shattering the main turret of the tank with a resounding crunch accompanied by the reverberating crash of thunder. Members of the tank’s crew screamed as the hull caved inward, crushing their bodies under the strain of both the hammer and Alim’s warplate. Flames ejected outward from either side of the vehicle as munitions detonated within.

“The enemy has been subjugated. Begin your assault, Captain.” Alim spoke through his vox-grills, heightened enough for the unprotected felinid ears to hear him over the far-off staccato of gunfire. He leapt from the top of the tank, assisting Hussan clean up the last of the squirming defenders with brutal efficiency.

Cormac didn’t waste too much time gawping before clicking his own vox into action, “All forces converge on the tower. Able, point, Baker, follow them up. Charlie, secure the rear. Place sentries at each landing as we ascend. I want demo charges up that thing’s ass and I want them planted yesterday, people!”

The Felinids sprang into action, the professionals setting the example for the surviving recruits as they stacked on the entrance, a shotgun blowing the hinges off the reinforced steel door before a cordite charge blasted what was left of it inward, cutting off a surprised scream in a spray of gore as the defenders’ barricade was smashed to ribbons by the breach. Stubber and las-fire sprayed outward, dropping one recruit before grenades were thrown into the breach and the bloody work of close quarters fighting commenced, bayonets, shovels, axes, and knives meeting flesh and armour as long-ranged rifles were traded for pistols and shotguns. Blood and viscera mingled with the acrid tang of weapons discharge as the Felinids pushed relentlessly up, their numbers, superior training, and pure violence of action enhanced by their superhuman agility and dexterity to carve a bloody swathe up the stairwell, not trusting the elevators for obvious reasons. Each landing was a bloody engagement of ugly and inglorious violence, and each landing left a few more bodies behind as they forced their way upward, inch by bloodsoaked inch.

The Pacificans had made a tactical error; they’d assumed the main thrust of the assault would be from the beachhead, and that no threat could come from within. Likewise, once it became clear that that first mistake risked being fatal, they’d pulled forces from key outposts like this one to impede the uprising’s progress, rather than risk significant depletion of the curtain walls. And as a result, the bloodbath in the streets had paved the way for an inexorable push up the spiral stairwell as the Pacificans were cut down, until finally the Felinids of Able company—what was left of them—arrived at the summit, and prepared to breach onto the roof and thus the gun’s platform.

Cormac followed with Baker, dissatisfied with their losses but aware that this was do-or-die and they simply didn’t have the luxury of more nuanced tactics. Calling over vox again, he spoke to Alim again, “Captain, your men are the best close combat operators I’ve ever seen. Would you like the honour of being the first onto the gunnery platform? We’ll be right behind you with the charges.”

“You honor us, Captain.” Alim responded. A part of him had wanted to say more, to note how efficient their forces were despite how untrained they appeared. He felt it was necessary to state how unnecessary it was to compare genewarriors to unmodified soldiers; however, the Bronze Scorpion decided to say none of these things. Each landing of the tower they took, his Astartes hadn’t interfered in the Meallan’s duties. Instead, they had watched and defended where they needed to. This had led to some grumbling over the legionary vox.

The time had passed for further discussion. Each of the Astartes from the vanguard shuffled up through the quickly diminishing crowd of felinids to the summit’s ingress. Alim took the role of breacher, hefting the thunder hammer into a two-handed grip and thumbing the activation runes in preparation. As blink-acknowledgements confirmed the status of each genewarrior, the Scorpion Captain slammed the weapon into the reinforced portal. Nothing short of an armored vehicle’s shield generator could withstand the force of an Astartes’ hammerstrike. The gate crumpled like a wet tissue, crunching in on itself and exploding off of its hinges across the top of the tower’s surface. Each of the Bronze Scorpions moved out onto the gunnery platform at lightning speed.

What awaited them was a piece of machinery withholding great power. A single barrel coiled hundreds of times over with several long antennas scanned the horizon. It easily dwarfed a Stormbird and bordered on the size of the Excertus Imperialis’ super-heavy command tanks. Myriad grav-belts and micro-thrusters assisted in keeping the weapon aloft, pushing it as it needed and stabilizing as it required. Dozens of loud, thrumming batteries were connected to the device through cables as thick as the Astartes. Several non-combatants scurried back and forth with coolant packs, desperately assisting the machine’s lack of cooling options.

The impressiveness of the cannon was echoed only by the defenses surrounding the machine. Where the landings of the tower had been adequately guarded, it was here that the majority of the Pacifican elites had gathered in stoic defiance against the Imperials. A single, skull-faced warrior in slick, powered armor with a single-edged sword led a group of half-skull masked infantry with exosuit-assisted carapace. Plasma weaponry were fit into their hands, cabled into their bulky powerpacks, and already charged for maximum efficiency. They had been prepared. The leader of the opposition sliced downwards as a line of searing, white-hot plasma raced across the tower top.

“Evade!” Alim roared, deftly dodging a shot that would’ve obliterated his chestplate into a ball of slag. Two of his brethren were not so fortunate as he was, hit dead-on in the face or punctured through the chest from the Pacifican’s elites. The last three managed to evade, adjust, and pursue the enemy as they could. One of still standing Astartes collected the volkite carbine from his fallen brother, dual-wielding the gunnery and spraying into the elites with vengeance-fueled fury. The last two activated their powered talons and leapt into combat.

The Scorpion Captain knew who his target was before he had even registered all of the enemies on the rooftop. He had recognized the picts of Narthan Dume’s elite swordsmen from the briefings of Indoi’s unification. This was unmistakably one of those that had slain Astartes and Thunder Warrior with ease in those accursed jungles. His opponent ignited the blade, wreathing the sword in dripping, blue plasma. Alim rushed forward with the might bestowed upon him by the Emperor. The two collided. The powerfield of his thunder hammer sent shockwaves of lightning and plasma around them.

+’Perform your duties, mac Cormac, the Thirteenth will handle this.’+ Alim blink-opened the voxnet, echoing his wishes to the felinid captain. His voice, ever monotone, was tinged with concern. He did not fear the death of either himself or his warriors. He feared failing the Emperor. The elites of Narthan Dume’s Pacific Empire were not to be taken lightly. He knew what must be done. He continued, +’Raptor Imperialis, Captain.’+

The Felinids left their recruits behind in the stairwell for this. The fighting at the summit was no place for militia, and those who had survived this far had more than earned their freedom. Instead, blue-and-black-clad troops poured onto the roof, avoiding the worst of the fighting around the 13th’s troops and moving straight to the gun and its support frame, lasguns barking as they killed or scattered the gun’s crew, and engaged the non-augmented elites in the most brutal firefight of their battle so far. It took three technicians to plant the first charge–the first was killed by a shotgun blast at close range, the second by a well-thrown grenade, and the third nearly lost an arm to a chainsword’s blade before a second soldier blew her assailant’s head off with a lasrifle shot to the chin.

The work was done, and done with professionalism and morbid efficiency. They knew the risks and they knew the stakes, and every one of them had volunteered for this mission, to prove the worth of Magh Meall to the Imperium.

Captain Cormac snapped up his own rifle, sending one of the Pacifican Elites over the tower’s lip with a shot to the forehead, screaming as he fell, then ran to the second bomb site and shoved a dead man aside to prime the charge. The problem was that fire came from every bloody direction, and these charges had no cover. Smoke grenades could only do so much when most of the enemy had imaging.

Two charges set, he saw the green light indicating success in his visor, grinning as three more flashed on. That just left one charge.

“Able, this is Radial. What’s the status on that last charge, over?’

The vox crackled with static and gunfire from the other side of the rooftop, “--inned under heavy—asualties—nting, request—” The line dissolved into static, and he grimaced, switching to Baker’s channel, “Able’s getting overrun. Get me two squads. Radial will take the lead and engage whatever’s got them pinned, over. Support the Imperials!”

He moved around the front of the cannon’s housing, ducking as a power sword nearly took his head off, then tackling the man to the ground, drawing a dagger from his chest harness and ramming it into the Pacifican’s neck before he could react, then scooping up his rifle on the move and sprinting to one of the enormous cannon’s support braces for cover. The command squad fell in behind him, and a few moments later he saw the two Baker squads he’d requested fall in nearby. He poked his head around the corner with a frown, seeing the signs of Able’s mass cas event, but no sign of what had caused it.

He silently directed his three squads to create a cordon, then directed his technicians to finish planting the bomb.

After a moment, the technicians called out, “Sir! The remote detonator’s fried!”

Fucking perfect. Able was fucking gone—he didn’t see anyone so much as left wounded, and these wounds…

Cormac’s mind flashed to the enormous soldier Alim was fighting and he clicked his vox, “It’s one of the fucking—”

The ground shook with an enormous thud, a scream cut off as the enemy gene-warrior landed on the technician team from where he’d been perched on the gun’s housing, blade lit with plasma as he swung it with wild abandon into a nearby Meallan, neatly bisecting the woman.

Snapping his rifle up, Cormac barked an order, “All units, concentrate fire!”

Las-rounds slammed into the man’s armour as he gleefully charged into them, throwing soldiers from the rooftop or obliterating them with single sweeps of his blade. This wasn’t going to end in a victory by force of arms.

But…

“All Radial commands, break contact and disengage! Alim, you and your men fall back!”

He didn’t expect to make this sort of play, but the alternative was that the swordsmen wiped out his companies, killed the Imperials, and the cannon ripped the incoming Legions to shreds. Fuck it.

“Sir, but—”

Another soldier went over the edge, and Cormac grit his teeth, “No time! Get off the roof, I’m finishing this job!”

The skull-faced swordsman flicked his blade clean of sizzling blood. The last of the distractions had been eliminated and only one remained. It slowly walked towards the defiant mac Cormac with the dreadful grace of a miniature tank. It was dreadfully confident in its ability to slaughter and it knew that it was unstoppable. Few could deal with the Swordsmasters of the Jade Palace and few survived the ordeal whenever they faced them. Its presence was required elsewhere. It lunged at mac Cormac with the ferocity of a lunging tiger.

“Blood of the Sands!” Hussan roared, emerging from the shadow of the cannon like a viper striking from buried sands. His left talon swiped out at the swordsmaster, clipping the powered armor of the Pacifican before the brute retaliated. The Astartes’ pauldron was sliced cleanly into by the plasma-blade, then flicked downward into the genewarrior’s chest. It did little to fully discourage the Scorpion from an all-out assault. His right talon swept inwards, digging into the other warrior’s side. With a mixture of fury and pain, the Scorpion rushed forward with the enemy in his claws. It desperately stabbed into the Astartes, yet he sprinted onward until the two fell from the top of the tower.

The interlocked pair descended into the depths of Ouran’s defenses, stabbing and tearing into each other as the ground met them. A haze of gunfire, smog, and toxic fumes from the coastline obscured the pair as they met their fate.

+‘Denied. It is our duty.’+ Alim replied as Hussan’s life signs disappeared from his tactical tracker. He deftly deflected another strike from the swordmaster, who spun and twisted their body in strange orientations to attack. Had he not fought against them in Indoi, then Alim wagered that he would’ve suffered the same fate as the fallen Cataegis. Despite his best efforts, though, he was not a master of arms. He was a master tactician, a logisticar, and a craftsman. The Captain knew he could never be the equal of Zameel, or as ferocious as Zaid, or as devilish as Raamiz. He thrust out the head of his hammer, forcing back the Pacifican out of reach. He continued, +‘Find Captain Raamiz of the Bronze Scorpions. Tell him that I have found the Meallan as worthy warriors.’+

The evidence of his lacking martial prowess revealed itself as the swordsmaster found a gap in his stance. Their plasmablade cut into the left knee of the Astartes, splitting warplate and flesh in a single slice. A normal man would cry out in agonizing pain, yet Alim was a genewarrior of the Thirteenth Legion. He used the overset balance of his sudden amputation to swing the thunder hammer into the Pacifican’s midriff. The powerfield of the weapon ignited against their power armor, crumpling their insides into a wet mess of flesh and exploding innards. Blood ejected out of their skull-mask as they listed sideways away from the fallen form of Alim.

Around him, the same story was being told and reflected by his brethren. Khair, firing a pair of volkite stubbers from the hip, burst apart several of the Pacifican elite before suffering several plasma shots to his extremities. Tharesh, his helmet shattered and his left arm bathed in plasma, skewered one of the assailants before recklessly lunging back into the fray. No other Astartes remained of their squad, yet they continued to fight as if they weren’t outgunned and outnumbered. Alim picked himself up with the assistance of his thunder hammer, pulling up his heavy volkite stubber with the meaty wreckage of his left hand. His oculus spun as it honed in on mac Cormac’s position. The will of the Malik would be made manifest.

"Gloria Scorpii!"

Alim roared out, boosted by words from the unknown, amplifying his vox-grille output to the maximum volume. The other Astartes echoed his cry in synchronized battleform. Nearby mortals were momentarily afflicted by the sudden screech of noise, yet it drew in the attention that he required. He presented a worthy target for consideration. Those elite infantry that survived adjusted their attention to the three Astartes, who seemed to increase their brutality with their leader’s warcall. Their attack vectors changed as they rushed towards the genewarriors with renewed vigor, crying out in their mother-language.

“But–” mac Cormac was about to object, but the Astartes were already in action, and he didn’t like his odds of winning an argument with them, anyway. He hesitated, then handed over the manual detonator and transferred the remote detonation codes, saluting him respectfully, “Gloria Scorpii, Captain. I’ll tell your Legion you died well.”

He turned and booked it for the stairs, the recruits already being evacuated by the leading elements as he caught up, to the bewilderment of his Radial squad, “Sir? What happened–”

“The Imperials insisted on claiming the honour. Let’s make their sacrifice count. Get me the Sigilite.”

The last of the Meallans had evacuated from the tower. None remained besides their scattered dead, broken behind fragmented cover or sizzling from white-hot plasma burns. The Astartes had given them a route out as they savaged the Pacifican menace with every fiber of their genewrought being. Khair was being butchered alive by a squad of the Ouran elites, their powered blades carving into his warplate. He still managed to drag mortals down to him with plasma-sizzling fists and bone-crunching headbutts. Tharesh had fallen, surrounded by a horde of brutally decimated bodies. Only Alim remained, eyed by the wounded and angry that aimed for his throat. He would allow none to survive.

“For the Emperor.” The Captain said, his monotone voice breaking into a tone of righteous pride. He blink-clicked the activation codes for the paired charges, igniting their fusion-sequences into great plumes of explosive energy. In the same instant, he whipped his volkite stubber in a wide firing arc, spraying disintegrating beams in a seemingly desperate last-stand. It had never been desperation. One of the beams cut through a Pacifican, into the cannon’s supports, and onto the final charge. The energies of the weapon and the thermonuclear core erupted. Searing white death filled his visor as the weapon, the charges, and the plasma batteries exploded in dreadful synchronization.

A great howl of destruction rained over Ouran as their greatest and most vile weapon detonated into a great mushroom cloud of thermonuclear vapors. The tower it had been constructed upon quickly crumbled under the might of such an explosion, claiming the lives of those within and nearby in a storm of eruptive debris. Those on the outskirt of the explosion, foe or ally, were knocked from their feet from the sheer force of the eruption. The toxic fallout began immediately as green-white cinders of nuclear-plasmic ash fell throughout the Pacifican hive.

It was the signal to begin the invasion proper of Ouran.

---

Now, it was a job for Astartes. A lone Mastodon crawled through the rubble, hastily applied yellow paint peeling off as penetrative radiation and debris bounced from its armored hull. Inside it, forty two souls, all genehanced, all armed to the teeth. The resistance the huge transport had encountered had been utterly dismantled by sponsons, but the scattered, disoriented Ouranite defenders still of a mind to hold their positions after a nuke detonated behind their backs proved easy meat to the sponson weapons of the adamantite goliath that trundled over man, weapon, and obstacle alike.

The Mastodon was a loan from the 13th Legio Astartes, the Bronze Scorpions. It had been lent to their little brothers in the 3rd, the Lightnings, for this operation, a chance to prove their valor in their first operation in the Unification. It had been hastily re-marked in the fledgling third’s livery, bright yellow with the Thunderbolt symbol of the Emperor’s armies, a unique honor granted to the sons of the Merican rad-plains that made up the bulk of the small legion’s demographics.

“Approaching drop off.” The driver voxed through the intercom. “Thirty five seconds.”

“Thirty five seconds!” Captain Grieg Keller bellowed through his speaker grill, “Load weapons! Safeties off! There’s killing to be done!”

A chorus of bellows and howls accompanied his words, fists banging on chestplates. Weapon bolts slid into battery. Chainswords revved. Power weapons were flicked on and off to test their field generators.

Slowly, the vehicle halted. Thirty five seconds quickly passed, and-

-nothing. Then forty seconds. Fifty.

Sixty.

Grieg put his hand to his ear.

“Any reason why we’re -not- opening the embarkation hatch?” He growled into the vox.

“Apologies lord.” The driver said. Grieg could hear clacks and shunts of controls being repeatedly pressed. “It appears the servomotors to the hatch are fried. Some of the rad shielding on this machine must have-”

Grieg cursed. Then he cursed again. Neither made him feel better, so he tried a third time. Still nothing.

“So? What can we do?” He asked.

“If we can’t deliver the payload, lord, then we have to circle back. Abandon the assault. There’s no point driving around if-”

“Unacceptable. Thank you for your input, but we’ll take it from here.” He said, then cut his vox.

He held his hand out. A sergeant, Johann Weiss, slapped a melta charge into the outstretched palm.

Grieg then stuck the explosive to the hatch. A few quick inputs, and the activation rune on the weapon lit. Then, it began to burn.

“Back.” Grieg said to his men. “Cram together if you have to, but get b-”

The front half of the Mastodon erupted into a great explosion. Ouranite defenders, on the outskirts of the hab city, blinked in disbelief as the great Imperial vehicle that approached them suddenly exploded, the front half of it just coming -off-.

A sergeant winced, having seen the spectacle through binoculars.

“What fuckin’ killed that monster?” He wondered aloud. He looked over to the trooper next to him, who opened his mouth to respond.

A bolt whizzed from the wreckage, entering the trooper’s open mouth and vacating the contents of his skull onto the dirt behind. The sergeant gawped in disbelief. He was still gawping as his torso sailed through the air, landing in the dirt with a wet thump. A bolt had severed him neatly from the waist, also fired from the wreckage of the giant Imperial transport.

Forty two Astartes in ash-grey, formerly yellow plate, stalked from the burning transport, as casually as if they had emerged from a luxury bus to a formal dinner. Just as casually, they eliminated the stunned defenders with single shots from bolt weapons, slowly scaling the escarpment of rubble that marked their entry point to the Ouran hive.

Their objective would be simple. Raise hell, and lift pressure off the main advance. There would be targets aplenty in Ouran, and the amount of trouble forty two armed Astartes warriors could cause would be considerable.

To Captain Keller’s great shame, however, their distractive assault was now fifteen minutes behind schedule.

“Task Force Sharp is beginning their assault.” He voxed to the other Imperial elements within the AO. “My apologies. Our Mastodon had a mechanical failure.”

Captain Carvalho had only just crested a mound of rubble when the Mastodon was consumed in flame and smoke. For a moment, she feared her cousins in the Third lost to some macroweapon of the defenders. Then the assault ramp, free of its hinges, soared through the air in front of her and found a new home in a ferrocrete bunker emplacement some two hundreds meters away.

“Captain…!” the urgent vox from Lieutenant Giovana came quickly only for her voice to stop as the Third made their entrance.

Carvalho stood atop the mound of rubble, a habblock she judged by the trinkets and personal belongings strewn about the rubble, and watched as her cousins in the Third brought Imperial justice upon the defenders of Ouran. She admired their stoic advance as they climbed a similar escarpment of rubble and began to unleash bolters on the defenders beyond the mounds crest.

“Captain Carvalho to Sharp, my sisters of the Seventeenth regroup on your rear. We shall wheel off your right flank and make haste for the vehicle depot.” she paused a moment before continuing, “Quite the entrance Cousins.” her grin audible through the vox as she spoke.

“Vehicle depot, copy.” Keller said, his voice hoarse through the helmet vox, “What were we supposed to do? The driver wanted to turn us around because the hatch wouldn’t open. I’m not missing this day.”

“Did I not speak true of their tenacity?” Captain Raamiz said with a toothy smile beneath his helmet, staring down at the Third’s raucous arrival beside Captain Carvalho. The Astartes had been ethereal in his arrival, nigh undetected despite his auspex pings. His thin, taloned gauntlets flexed over the shaft of his curved power sword as he looked at their number. He grew thankful that as many had survived the Mastodon’s mechanical failure as they did. Their survival reminded him of the last words that the Legion Master had said before their departure. Ensure their survival, do not allow their experience in Indoi to amount to nothing. The Astartes’ would be remiss if he failed his mission before it had even began.

+‘I wagered your survival with Captain Carvalho. A wager that I won, thus must I thank you for your continued survival, cousin! Now, with all the actors on the stage, shall we prove our loyalty for the Emperor?’+ The Bronze Scorpion chortled into the interlegionary vox, now firmly reconnected with the Third. His words were as playful as they were serious as he turned away from their gene-cousins to the hive-city of Ouran. He couldn’t help but feel envious at the handiwork that Alim and the infiltrators had done in their short amount of time.

Ouran had been breached from multiple angles and from within. The hive-city was defenseless, its teeth torn from its aching maw in a brutal strike to the proverbial snout. Macroweapons, which had targeted the Imperial transports from far ashore, were extinguished in a series of thermonuclear explosions. A beautiful chain of penultimate destruction had shaken the defenders from their relatively relaxed stupor, forced to accept the savage reality that they had been invaded. Devoid of their teeth, the Pacificans were fighting in a losing war against several groups of genewarriors and their mortal legions of conscripts, professional auxilia, and mercenary cohorts. The afterglow of the infiltrator’s performance fell over the assaulting legions with cinders, ash, and plentiful toxins.

The Excertus Imperialis were passing them now on fast-track armored personnel carriers, heaving tanks, and bulky artillery pieces. Piecemeal groups of infantry, second and third wave survivors from the shore assault, were sprinting to catch up to the frontlines of the invasion. Medicae personnel, with their tents and pseudo-suture centers, patched what survivors they could from the first wave. The first of many screaming sky-giants were beginning to pass overhead, flanked by shrieking phantoms on metal wings. All of their arrivals were received well by the Pacificans, responded to with myriad gunfire and vicious melees.

Far behind the lines, Malcador paid no heed to the hololith keeping a live update of the assault, of the time tables slipping behind schedule, nor the junior Sigilites - a very relative term when it came to him - attempting to inform him of a priority vox transmission. Instead, his gaze was fixed upon some distant, unseen vista, the man straining forward in his humble chair as he clutched his staff tight enough to turn his knuckles white. When he spoke, it was with the chime of bells and a cold that sunk into the bones of the administrators and scribes who dutifully recorded the words of their master upon reams of parchment and within cogitator banks.

“He heralds the thunder. Defiance is his evensong. He is as lost as one thousand and one grains of black sand in a desert.”

Hoarfrost covered the screens in the command bunker as ink froze upon the tips of pens, the psyker hunching over himself as his vision passed.

“Hear me, by my word and will, Captain Alim of the Legiones Astartes has earnt the right to wear a lightning bolt upon his breast should he yet live,” Malcador announced, now in his rather ordinary voice. “His name shall be recorded among heroes if not.”

The bowing functionaries receded as they recorded the Sigilite’s will, save for an elderly Scribe-Intendant who did not seem particularly impressed by her master’s antics. “The Auxilia, my lord. They are quite insistent.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the man said in a soft voice, nodding to himself as he grasped for his vox, cutting off the Felinid operator as he finally replied to their attempts to reach him.

“Auxilia, you have performed well, but I would advise you disperse. The Astartes now move freely within the city, and not all are as gallant as Captain Alim. You shall be provided with their positions to remain clear of them.”

Was the Sigillite implying that their Imperial allies would attack them? Caoimhin shook his head, clicking his vox, “Guessing our job here's finished, then. We'll withdraw with our recruits to a minimum safe distance and wait for your work to be done.”

He relayed the order to rally as many Felinids, including noncombatants, as they could, and withdraw outside the city. This place was about to get much too hot for their small force.

---

Hot was the right word. As the 3rd entered the city, they formed a rough chevron shape, allowing gaps in their phase line so that they could easily move around buildings and rubble while maintaining a tight front.

Everything in front of the chevron died.

Bolter fire spat from each individual brother, forming white hot lines as the tracers burned through the air. They struck whatever didn’t have an Imperial identifier that was unlucky enough to be in front of them. The Sigilite had given the city notice to evacuate. Everyone left was a potential combatant.

“Bolters only on the infantry, morons!!” Keller roared, ripping a short burst into the back of a fleeing gunman. “Save the heavy shit for the big stuff!”

“Copy captain!” Sergeant Weiss shouted next to him. He unpinned a grenade and rolled it into a half-collapsed, hastily built defense shelter. With a crump, several men flew into the air, their weapons falling from their hands.

Little scenes of violence coalesced into a wide vision of Gehenna that stretched across the ashen-grey advance of the young legion. They worked in silence, only speaking to deliver terse target callouts to their fellows, interladen with cursing and admonitions of incompetence that served to drive each genehanced warrior’s competitive urge to kill more, and kill quickly.

They spoke raggedly, but worked efficiently, their flavor of warbringing gestating into a rough, coarse thing, a whetstone grinding against new steel. The soldiers they faced died. Rarely, a vehicle that trundled into view was called out, targeted, and neutralized with coordinated missile strikes from the brothers trusted to carry heavy weapons.

Steadily, they closed on the Ouranite vehicle depot, eaters of armies, chewing up the defenders and spitting them out as gore and smoking wreckage. Several minutes of sustained killing had propelled this spearpoint deep within Ouran, a trail of carnage in its wake.

“So far, so good, men! But these are the washouts and fuck ups. Don’t think there aren’t heavies out there waiting for a chance to shoot your idiot head off, so keep sharp. They’ll figure out which end their head’s on soon enough.” Keller growled, then switched his helmet vox into the command channel, “We’re movin’ smooth here. Should hit the vehicle depot in a few minutes. Ramiz, Carvalho, whoever bet on our survival is about to have a good fuckin’ day.”

Carvalho’s torso wheeled around in one smooth movement, her armored fist landing squarely in the center of an Ouranite defender's chest as she pressed through a flaming habblock entrance. The defender, previously charging with fear in his eyes, simply reversed directions at the touch of her fist, and rocketed into the flames with a sickening crunch.

“There is no prize to win, beyond that of the Emperor’s praise, Captain.” she answered tursely, the humorous implication of Keller’s statement lost on her as she moved toward the vehicle depot.

She moved around a flaming pile of interior furniture and skewered an unwitting Ouranite on her combat blade, her eyes wandering to the locations of her company on her auspex as she flicked the corpse from the knife’s edge. A series of blink clicked commands showed the icons on her display converging on the vehicle depot's easternmost service entrance.

Carvalho emerged from the flaming habblock, embers and burning debris raining off her soot-black armored form as she did. “Making entry on the eastern side of the depot.” she voxed to Keller and Raamiz.

Five of her Astartes stood at the base of a massive set of bay doors working the controls of melta bombs as Carvalho approached.

“We’ll be in in less than thirty seconds,” Lieutenant Giovana confirmed as she walked up to meet her Captain, “Auspex shows no lifesigns interior. The vehicle depot has been abandoned, it will be ours momentarily.”

Carvalho checked her armor's own auspex, nodding at the confirmation of her Lieutenants words, “Very good Sister, we can begin to move on our secondar--” her words were cut short as her gaze shot up to the massive depot doors once more. Sixteen melta charges were arrayed in close formation along the doors width in three rows reaching some four meters in height. Her genehanced mind did the math in a fraction of a second, the dots connecting in her mind as her carapace reacted to her mind impulse. Her helmet display highlighted a single recessed camera pointed at the depot doors, the telltale infrared blink of operation confirming all that had just shot through her improved mind.

“Withdraw!” The command went over the company vox, and the five Astartes at the door immediately responded, hypno-indoctrinated obedience and rote battle drill instantly complying with their commander's order.

Too late.

The depot doors buckled and burst from inside as the first of the five Astartes began to rise from their melta charges. Molten metal cut through the Astartes closest to the depot entrance, an entire tactical squad was flattened under the bulk of the door as it was blown off its hinges a bit further up the ramp.

Carvalho and Giovana sought cover instantly, their dual hearts propelling them into the safety of a lee in the entry ramp as lascannon fire began to rip into her sisters too slow or too far from cover.

“Superheavy deeper in the depot, several heavier tanks arrayed at its side, count at lea--” the vox from Sister Isla cut as a small sun burst into being down the ramp, presumably, Carvalho guessed, where Sister Isla had been seeking cover.

Carvalho cooly tallied her lost Sisters, “Seventeen left,” she laughed without mirth.

“Fitting.” Giovana echoed at her side.

Blink clicked acknowledgements flashed in her helmet as she primed a photon flash grenade in sync with her lieutenant and let it fly.

A moment later, seventeen flash grenades detonated at once on the ramp. The fire from the tanks subsided for only a moment, the mortal crews within stunned at the sudden overloading of their optical feeds and blinding light through their viewports. The fire picked up once more though, the defenders raking their fires across the breach once more even as their viewfeeds cycled and reset.

The response had been too slow on the part of the Ouran defenders this time. Seventeen Astartes, genehanced weapons of war created by Him the most perfect, launched themselves through the smoldering remains of the depot doors and bounded their way to the nearest of the arrayed tank line without hesitation.

Carvalho leapt into the air, easily clearing the front of the Vanquisher tank destroyer ahead of her and landing atop its turret with a raucous bang. She thumbed the trigger on her chainsword and took the commander's hatch clean off its hinges. Without even looking she dropped a krak grenade into the vehicle and leapt to the next closest tank in the line. She mused at the carelessness of the crews for packing in so tight with their vehicles, but allowed herself a moment of pity for them, for how could they have known they would face Astartes this day? Any other assaulting force would surely have perished at the entrance. Another detonation tore her mind from its reverie as a Destroyer cooked off down the line.

“Seventeenth to all, we have made entry into the depot. Advise, we have met a heavy armor ambush at the doors. Recommend alternative entries. Carvalho out.” she cut the line as she dropped another krak grenade into the lap of a screaming Ouranite crewman and leapt away.

+‘The Thirteenth responds. Seventeenth, the superheavy is yours. Third, remain behind and prepare for their rout. They always run when broken.’+ The Bronze Scorpion responded to Carvalho over the interlegionary voxnet, his voice macabre and serious. Now that the Third had arrived to be the secondary vanguard, the Thirteenth could operate as they were meant to be. Assassins, saboteurs, and killers. Half of his genewarriors followed behind him, crouch-sprinting along the length of a ruined habblock towards the westernmost sides of the depot. The other half was sprinting to the northernmost side, partially engaged with those that fled Keller’s brutal assault. Each of them dragged a peculiar thing with them, garbed in a thick wrapping of scrap cloth. Only Raamiz was devoid of their haul, his left hand raised slightly above the ground and his right gripping the power sword.

The reports from within the city were troubling to him. Contact with Alim was non-existent. Contact with any of his company was sporadic at best and null at worst. It soured his mood deeply. He refused the impossible, blaming the source of his minute worries on the Pacifican menace. The westernmost side of the depot appeared before them as they started to surge from the shattered habblock. Their position received immediate suppressive fire as the service doors were open, a fat-bellied goliath on tracks spraying a pair of rotary cannons from its turret; however, Raamiz was quicker. The wyrd pulsed through his veins as his eyes alighted with power unrestrained, one of the things that they had dragged was pulled forward and into the gap between them. Ballistics tore apart the object in record time, shredding cloth in a brutal hail of steel. A mist of red plumed out of the thing, followed by a wide-area explosion that obscured the vehicle’s vision. Gore detonated across the ramp leading up to the bay as entrails ejected in all directions.

The tank commander stopped, his guts churning as he realized what had occurred. The Imperials had rigged a bomb to a corpse and for a brief second, he was certain that it wore the armor of the Pacifican defenders. His falter would be a mistake. The Astartes crossed the distance, quicker than the Seventeenth had. A genewarrior lunged through the smoke, their power talons sparking with unstable energy. The hull-mounted stubber tried to react, but the Astartes was faster. The claws of the Thirteenth cut through hardened steel like a knife through butter, the turret-gunner pierced in the opening act. Another pair followed quickly after, stabbing their claws through the tread into the cabin proper, vivisecting those within as the commander tried to escape. Bio-electricity wracked his body in an instant, frying his skin into molten paste and bursting his eyeballs. Captain Raamiz flicked the lightning away as the Pacifican perished. They never had a chance.

It was only the beginning of the Thirteenth’s assault as the rigged cadavers that the Bronze Scorpions had dragged were tossed across the depot from the westernmost service entrance. Fragmentation explosives detonated, corpses exploded, and blood rained within as Pacifican entrails poured down on the myriad vehicles ready to ambush the Astartes. A wide cloud of debris obscured their vision, forcing them to rely on telemetry and auspex readings alone. Some were lucky, able to adjust their turrets to the arriving Astartes and rattle a volley off. Their shots had been true, melting warplate and flesh in the same burst. Others were less fortunate, heaving their guts in dismay as their comrades fell on them in pieces. A few hard started to run, those at the backmost service tunnel were starting to escape out of fear.

They were stopped by none other than the superheavy battle tank holding definitive command of the ambush. Their secondary turret turned, barking a heavy caliber shell at the closest vehicle that attempted to escape. It pierced the smaller tank, exploding it into a great inferno that lit the dull depot far more than the flickering glowglobes. Whatever the Thirteenth had done, their primary commander was unafraid. It would be their reckoning as the second group of Bronze Scorpions began their infiltration, slaughtering servants and workers alike in unrelenting brutality. The Ouran Vehicle Depot was quickly becoming a charnel house for flesh and metal.

Keller took his hand from his helmet, then waved the Third’s small force into a loose L shape outside their depot entrance.

“They’ve got the depot. Form a phase line. Take anything that comes from the tank yard.” Keller said, then for punctuation, “Move, idiots! Do I gotta say it twice?”

They were already mostly in place, however. Keller jogged over to take his place, ejecting the magazine from his bolt pistol as he went. He dropped into position, his deft hands slamming home a new mag. Weiss was next to him, bolter trained on the depot yard.

“Pulling security?” He asked.

“Yea, pullin’ security.” Keller said, “We’re the juniors, so we get the junior jobs. Rule of the fuckin’ universe.”

“As you say, sir.” Weiss said.

They didn’t have long to wait. Ramiz and Carvalho’s tricks had lit the night up, explosions casting hellish orange light onto various scenes of carnage. Some tanks were trying to mount a defense, but it was far too late. Astartes were among them. Without infantry to hold those power armored troops at bay, tanks were essentially just moving coffins.

“They’re coming out.” Weiss said.

A mass of people, some armed, some not, were filing out of the depot yard, yelling, screaming. Soldiers were firing into the air, trying to evacuate wounded and noncoms in a semi-orderly fashion, but it was bedlam. In the wake of a maximum effort Astartes assault, these people were reeling, terrified of the sudden violence that was inflicted upon them so mercilessly.

Bolters ripped into the night.

Forty two lines of tracers emitted from the 3rd’s phase line. Forty two simultaneous mag dumps all hit the fleeing river of people. Before any of them realized what was happening, explosive death had punched into them, the .75 cal bolts shattering bones and popping torsos with murderous efficiency. No member of the 3rd stopped to question their orders, nor the righteousness of their murder. Ramiz had ordered the rout dealt with, and they were dealing with it. If anything they had done had proven their status as the Emperor’s eater of armies, it was this.

A minute and a half sustained firing had reduced a mass of hundreds of people into a field of gore.

“Cease fire.” Keller said, though there was little need.

There was no one left, after all.

“Ramiz, your runners have been shown the door.” Keller said, “Status on the depot?”

Carvalho tore a heavy bolter from its mount with a grunt of effort and the high-pitched whine of her power armors servomotors giving every ounce of power they possessed. She watched, curiously, as its operator's arm too was pulled free of the operator with the weapon’s grip still clenched tightly between its fingers.

She shoved the muzzle of her volkite rifle through the new entry point into the squat tank destroyer and laid on the trigger as men died within.

A massive explosion rocked the vehicle depot behind her as the Baneblade fired. Seemingly to remain in control of the situation, it tore the turret off one of the retreating tanks from the Thirteenth’s assault as simply as one may open a can of recaf with a single shot from a secondary turret.

Carvalho left the tank destroyer she had been dealing with as the smoke and ash of burning crewmen began to escape from her newly created hole and took off at a sprint at the superheavy tank.

The light of the burning tanks cast long shadows across the vehicle depot. The lightning fast outlines of Astartes dashing from armored vehicle to armored vehicle among the most obvious of them. And she smiled as she bounded over the burnt out hulk of a tank to find the superheavy already swarming with her remaining sisters.

The Seventeenth hacked at sponson mounted weapons rendering them useless as they attempted fruitlessly to fend off the pack of wolves clinging to its armored hide. One of her sisters armed a krak grenade and swung low to toss it down the throat of a secondary turret’s cannon. There was a flash as the gun fired and her sister's arm and the grenade with it disappeared from the elbow down.

A moment later, that same Astartes primed another grenade with her opposite arm and threw it down the barrel all the same. The low thud of a detonation resounded from the barrel, soot and flame bellowing from the mouth of the gun as deeper inside the barrel swelled and buckled along its length.

Carvalho, with a final effort, leapt onto the main deck of the Superheavy and joined her sisters in their savage activity as they declawed the venerable war machine. With a scream of metal the commander's hatch was finally torn off its hinges by one of Carvalho’s sisters. In the same breath another of the Seventeenth tore the commander screaming from his chair and dashed the mortal across his own turret like a child swinging a stuffed toy against the floor.

“Do not destroy the beast!” Carvalho commanded as she sunk her combat blade through the armored view slit of a turret gunner and removed it satisfyingly red, “Claim this monstrosity for the Emperor! For our lost sisters!”

“The depot is secured, the Superheavy is declawed and immobile. We work to capture it now.” Lieutenant Giovana voxed to Captain Raamiz even as melta charges threw tracks and road wheels at speed across the vehicle depot with immense explosions.

Just as planned, Raamiz thought, as he plunged a claw tipped gauntlet through the chest of a tank commander. Bioelectricity danced across his warplate into the man, fulminating him into a scorched cadaver. He watched his brothers bound through the depot on his auspex, pairs of two hunting those that sought to flee or retaliate against Unity. The mortals within the vehicles had lost their will to continue fighting, cowering in fear or choosing to chance a retreat. Either would suffer the same fate.

+‘The depot is in the arms of the Imperium. You’ve each worked marvelously for the Emperor! I couldn’t be more proud as your genecousin, alas there is more to do and an invasion to win. Third, begin routing the Auxilia to our position. Seventeenth, prepare the superheavy for Auxilia control. The Thirteenth will begin cleaning the vehicles of their occupants for Imperial handling.’+ Captain Raamiz replied to both Giovana and Keller, beginning the task that he had given himself. His voice was filled with ecstatic joy, underlined by the seriousness of their operation. The blink-confirmations radiated off of his display, each an affirmation from the Thirteenth on their new orders.

Someone from within the tank he stood on reached up and feebly grabbed his left boot. Raamiz looked downward to a Pacifican with a knife no larger than the Astartes’ hand. The soldier attempted repeatedly to stab into the ceramite, serving only to scratch the black-bronze paint of the Captain’s greaves. The Scorpion looked down at the mortal and offered a toothy smile beneath his dark hood. The man continued to scratch at his armor, faster this time, until the tool broke.

“O’ the futility of mortal men,” Raamiz said, delicately reaching down to pull the struggling man up by his neck. The soldier kicked out at the chestplate of the Astartes, desperately trying to break free of the grasp. Foam gurgled up from the Pacifican as he closed his grip. The Scorpion lightly chuckled as he continued, “you never do tend to learn your place. Screaming, kicking, and fighting for a worthless life spent slaving to unforgiving lords. Better luck in another life.”

The claw-tipped gauntlet tensed, crunching the spinal cord of the mortal before tossing him from the top of the tank. His brethren were performing the same, albeit less condescending actions throughout the depot. Men and women were dragged screaming from the boarding ramps and ladders, slaughtered as animals pulled from their pens. None were spared the massacre, bar the other Astartes Legios that worked nearby. Soon, the rest of his Legio would join him and they would assist Alim with the siege. Just as planned, he thought, as he slipped into the heavy tank below him. The sounds of death echoed from within.

As the Thirteenth set to their work, Keller released his helmet with a small clunk, and a release of positively pressurized air. His face was craggy, lined, and marked with fencing scars, a mark of pride amongst the young, pugnacious legion. He looked over his shoulder and bucked his head at Weiss, who nodded.

“Copy, sir. I’ll go round up the Auxilia and give them their new presents.” Weiss said, then began to walk off.

He made it three steps before he heard Keller’s voice.

“Stop a sec, Weiss.” Keller growled, his eyes falling on a particular piece of equipment.

A huge tank. One of the old, fabled steel beasts. It had many names. The Merkabah. Bane of Men. Sword of God. The modern name, however, was the Baneblade.

It was an instantly recognizable vehicle, the hull of it painted in many tapestries of all the wars of old Earth. Eleven barrels - granted, most had been hacked off by his sisters, contained within a panoply of turrets and sponsons that spoke of both industrial practicality, and regal nobility.

Keller’s eyes ignored the brass armor of his brothers as they rounded up and murdered, his eyes only seeing that squat, damaged, but still proud hull.

“I’m making a field expedient modification of our orders.” He said, “Go, round up the auxilia, and give them their new presents…”

“Except one, sir?” Weiss said, finishing his thought.

“Smartass.” Keller said, with a smile. “Yes. Except one. I’m gonna talk with the other captains, of course…”

He looked back to his sergeant.

“...But I want that tank.”

---

As the last of the Pacifican resistance was pulled from their tanks in the great vehicle depot of Ouran, the hive-city began to fall silent. The staccato of gunfire, the roar of engines, and the screaming of aircraft began to fade into the gales of the poisonous Great Ocean. A fifth and final wave of Auxilia from the Tenth Excertus Imperialis emptied out onto the shores of the city. Their arrival spelled the death of the city as the Raptor Imperialis began to fly atop banners over the battlements.

A million souls in red-black uniforms scoured Ouran. A million more began the long process of rebuilding the hive-city from the catastrophic damage it suffered. Untold thousands of Pacificans that survived the siege were rounded up, herded into cells, and given the penultimate choice. Join or die. The former was more widely accepted than the latter. Hundreds of shovels were forced into their hands, then made to deal with the horrific aftermath of their defiance.

Refitted haulers, lumbering skybarges, and fat-bellied Stormbirds landed themselves into the city. Vital resources were spread from their hulls and then replaced with the valuable technology that Ouran had hidden within. They departed with hulls empty of flesh and cargo, refilled to the brim with trinkets meant for the Himalazian labs. The unseen eyes of their absent commander tracked each of these, assuring their destinations with an astute mind.

The Astartes of the Seventeenth, Third, and Thirteenth departed shortly after the last hauler departed. Their Stormbirds pulled them from the cataclysmic aftermath of their siege, while a plethora of Astartes piloted vehicles rumbled across the Pacific peninsula to their next objectives. A pittance of genewarriors remained behind to recruit, rebuild, and assure the compliance of Ouran. It was they that discovered a survivor in the wrecks of a macrocannon tower.

The survivor was alone. His warplate was sundered into burning nothingness. The limbs on the left side of his body were missing, baked into thermonuclear aftermath. His face was unrecognizable, half-crushed into the warrior’s skull. And he was an Astartes. His markings were clear through the wreckage. Black-bronze with a pauldron of twin scorpions flanking an ‘XIII’.

Alim had survived.

It was far from the only hope that the siege of Ouran had brought. As the battle raged, two ships had come to wait for them, anchored just out of the range of any accidental fire, but close enough for those on the ships to watch. Each ship was painted blood red, draped in crimson silk stained by the poison spray, and crewed, too, by people dressed entirely in shades of deep red. And as the city fell quiet, they let themselves drift in closer- as vultures, waiting for wolves to finish, circle closer to the scraps they hope to steal.

Outside the city, thousands of campfires blazed. The Felinids of the city—the underclass so long spat upon by their Pacifican overlords—were now counted among the conquerors, not the conquered. As those who had fought were given the option to join or die, many of the abhumans who’d survived the battle through hiding now flocked outside the city limits to join their kin. Nothing more was said of their decision. Not all slaves could become soldiers.

The names of those who didn’t make it to their own liberation were spoken solemnly around those fires, accompanied by spilled drinks and oaths of justice and deeds done. The Imperium had earned quite a lot of new recruits—eager and willing, rather than reluctant and frightened—simply through Malcador’s prudent decision to wait and see.

Magh Meall intended to prove itself to the Imperium.

---

Peace and order returned to Ouran as soldier and slave made their march from the wounded hive. She and her people were humbled and bent, but they survived, and now would benefit the dream of Unity. Such had been the design of the Sigilite.

The man himself, architect and overseer of that great victory, stood chest deep in the surf off of the city’s coast, his eyes closed. So many had died in these waters, their corpses and the wreckage of their craft floating past him with such a berth that they seemed to be politely avoiding him, that it was hard at first to find what he sought among their death-cries. He did not know how long he stood there, sifting through the swirl of souls, before he at last turned and walked through the water.

“Here you are,” he whispered as he finally came to a halt, the spires of Ouran a distant dream upon the far horizon. “Agethius Lorn. The first to give his life for Unity. Come, my friend, and walk with an old man.”

A pulse of power emanated from the man, and the waves ceased their roll, and the sea gave up its dead. The Sigilite walked with more strain than before, gripping his staff in both hands as he trudged through the surf, the fallen trailing in his wake. Upon at last reaching the shore, he rested as they were laid to rest, placed gently upon the blood-stained sand row by row and rank by rank, in such number that the beach was of their corpses. The time would come for them to be given proper honor, the conquered burying their conquerors, but that was not now - and not his errand.

He continued on, guided unerringly to a secluded section of the shore, where a burnt corpse laid feet from the wreckage of an assault transport. “Yonat Hier. The first to touch this shore. You did well.”

Onward he trudged, building his list of names, recording the glories of the dead. The first to reach the walls. The first to claim an enemy standard. The first to fell an enemy gene-warrior. On and on the names accrued as he walked through the wreckage of war, and where he walked he prepared his silent companions as best he could for their final journey.

None dared to question or stop him as he wandered the maze of the hive, garrison trooper and conquered laborer only staring in mute witness to his long pilgrimage. He wandered through hab blocks drenched in blood, arterial roadways choked with burnt out wrecks, and climbed the ruin of fallen spires, until at long last he awarded the final honor.

“Jal Kraterios. The last to die.”

Malcador let out a long sigh as he finally set himself down, sitting on a piece of masonry from a fallen macro-statue next to the woman’s body. “I trust you won’t mind if I sit with you a while,” he whispered.

The pair rested upon the floor of a great dome atop a tower adorning one of the main spires, exposed to the air by a massive hole in the wall directly in front of them. From here he gazed both east and west, to the Great Sea from which he had come and the far plains to which he must go. To the east fleets of vessels were bringing yet more to Ouran as vultures circled the docks of the wounded city, matters that he and his order would tend to in good time.

It was to the west though where his gaze fell longest and hardest, to the great plume of dust that the columns of the advancing army created with their passage. It was in their wake that he must soon follow, after matters in Ouran had been settled. There, in the west, lay the promise that the great work might at last come to an end.

The road to the Jade Citadel lay open.

---

Credits: XIII Legio Astartes @MarshalSolgriev, XVII Legio Astartes @FrostedCaramel, III Legio Astartes @BornOnBoard, Malcador @grimely, Magpies @mothnoodle, Magh Meall Insurgents @Golden Record

A Song Of Ice And Fire : A War And Nine Crowns

House Varranis of Duskspire

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“Drown in Dusk!”

Overview

House Varranis is a Dornish House located in the central southern region of Dorne along the sulphurous river known as the Brimstone. Proud, wealthy, and powerful, the Varranians have managed to rise from obscurity to an unprecedented level of power due to their location and ties. The men and women of House Varranis are known in appearance for their silky black hair, charming features, and hazel-orange eyes that rival on mysticism. While their features may be charming, they should never be underestimated for beneath their careful guises are martial geniuses and knowledgeable alchemists of fearsome prowess. Their symbol is the downward sword and dusken sun on a split field of orange and black. Their house’s motto is ‘Drown in Dusk’ for their presence beneath the shadows of the Brimstone’s coastline, forever basking them in a dull dusk.

History

The histores of House Varranis are stooped in legend, forever shrouded by thick tomes with heavy locks on them. Some claim they were Valyrian impoverished nobles that snuck into the Andals, escaping along with them across the Narrow Sea; however, their midnight hued hair deny this. Others claim that they were Summer Islanders having made peace with the First Men, establishing themselves on the mouth of the Brimstone; however, no record of these Summer Islanders exist. What is true is that they existed in the time of the Andals and remained unnoticed for hundreds of years as tenders of the Brimstone.

(3 AC) In the time of Aegon the Conqueror, they were forced into the light as dragon fire reigned down upon the deserts of Dorne. No sooner had they come to witness destruction did they come under the thumb of House Uller. Discounted as desert nymphs and Rhonyish faeries, the Dornishmen hadn’t realized the folly of their superstitions. It was there upon the Brimstone that Uthor Uller, in a desperate attempt to save himself, named them House Varranis and gave them the ruined estate of Duskspire. He grimly pleaded with them to use their magic, but they were simply men and had none. Uthor Uller later perished in the dragonflame that consumed the desert sands, leaving shattered glass in their wake.

Yet House Varranis had earned their keep. They did not have magic, but they were accustomed to the harsh sands of Dorne and the sulfurous rivers of the Brimstone. They had lived, breathed, and adapted the land to their sake. House Uller survived with the assistance of House Varranis, teaching them of the harsher desert lifestyles and the barebone alchemicals necessary to survive living by the river. When the dragonfire passed, the two rose each other up as kin.

(103 AC) For a hundred years, they maintained an amicable relationship based on goodwill and knowledge. The Varranian serfs mined the bristle brimstone, honed the sulphurous rivers, and aided their lives when their Maesters could not. In those hundred years, they were acclaimed and reviled for their secrecy and apparently arcane arts by other houses. Fortunately, House Uller was the shield that defended. In times of joy they made marry and interwed to one-another, promising the future and beyond.

(153 AC) Yet, House Uller was mad. Fifty years later, they grew jealous of the Duskspire and House Varranis’ fortunes at the mouth of the Brimstone. The ruined estate had become a mighty bastion of trade, knowledge, and power that grew with the accumulating wealth of House Uller. They had grown from a small, insignificant tribe to a rival worthy of their attention. House Varranis benefited greatly as they expanded out onto the coast with castles and townships befitting their granted territory. They had grown too much, Joslena Uller had thought with envy on her tongue, remembering the days of which they were nothing.

(178 AC) For the next twenty-five years, House Uller of Hellgate became an oppressive tyrant to House Varranis of Duskspire. Tithes of soldiers, weapons, gold, alchemy, and more were raised beyond their productive capabilities. Once more House Varranis plunged into poverty, their eastward expansion crumbled into obscurity and decline. It was this moment that the foundation for vengeance was established. The Varranians were not to be trifled with power and connection attached to their fingers. A dark chapter began as they learned to become harbingers of the dusken sky.

(187 AC) In the one-hundreth-and-eighty-seventh year since Aegon’s Conquest, Dorne bent the knee to the Targaryen throne and became one with the Iron Throne. Prince Maron knelt in King’s Landing along with all of the respective heads of the most powerful Houses in Dorne. It was this most benevolent day that House Uller suffered a devastating blow as House Varranis seceded from their territory. A series of assassinations and poisonings plagued House Uller, claiming the lives of Boran Uller and Ormond Uller along with their children among countless others unnamed. No direct link drew ire to House Varranis, yet Lord Daemon Uller knew well that it could only be Lord Matheil ‘the Scorpion’ Varranis that could’ve orchestrated such a thing. Upon returning with the Prince of Dorne, the two Houses engaged in open arms; however, Prince Maron intervened for the sake of the peace most recently gained. In the open fields of the Sulphur Flats, hosted by Lord Quinlan Cook of Sulphur Hall, House Varranis became a direct vassal under House Martell. For thirteen days and nights, the four houses celebrated under the gaze of their liege-lord; however, conflict brewed under the surface. It would only be the first of many conflicts.

(196 AC) In the one-hundredth-and-ninety-sixth year since Aegon’s Conquest, House Varranis participated in the First Blackfyre Rebellion alongside their Prince, Maron. On the Redgrass Field, House Varranis hosted two-hundred Duskblades and two-hundred spears with Matheil Varranis and his two brothers, Mortred and Zahariel. Fifty men died in the charge along with Sire Mortred ‘the Black Serpent’ Varranis, but House Varranis received accommodation and honors for their service to the Iron Throne and Sunspear.

All good tales for House Varranis end in tragedy, however, as several women and children were abducted from the Midnight Villa. Enraged, Zahariel ‘Dusk’s Edge’ Varranis led a daring assault on the kidnappers only to be ambushed by spearmen bearing House Uller’s sigil. Zahariel was murdered along with twenty Duskblades of Duskspire. Their remains were later found in the mouth of the Brimstone by fishermen off the coast of Dorne.

Vengeance was demanded, but Matheil refused to involve his liege lord. In the midst of the night with ten men and women of acquired talent, Hellgate Hall was emptied of life through the use of alchemical mixtures and daggers. Their hostages were saved and returned to Duskspire, yet House Uller used the events to leverage the crimes on House Varranis. A challenge was issued and accepted, laying low the cousin of Lord Daemon Uller, Sire Preiss Uller. The crimes of House Varranis were forgiven, but the price was much too high.

(200 AC) After the death of two sons, Matheil Varranis’ father, Zalach Varranis, perished from a broken heart and illness. Matheil Varranis ascended the Dusk Throne and ruled over House Varranis for thirty years. His hold over the aptly renamed Midnight Coast saw a flourish of expansion to the east over the barren hills. Under his guidance, Matheil saw the warhost of the House increase to two-thousand spears, two-hundred Duskblades, and forty knights of low- and highborn birth. Several castles were bolstered, towns grew large, and the amnesty between the Martells and the Varranians grew from plentiful trade. That year, Matheil remarried to Amalia Dayne after the loss of his previous wife in the siege of Hellgate Hall. They were blessed with two sons, Vallor and Zaphon, and three daughters, Miska, Anelia, and Elysa.

(230 AC) In the two-hundredth-and-thirtieth year since Aegon’s Conquest, the realm was in a state of grave recovery as Westeros recovered from the Third Blackfyre Rebellion. House Varranis, however, was in shambles as Matheil Varranis finally passed from his wounds having never fully healed after the Rebellion. He was joined by his son, Zaphon, who passed a year earlier from a broken leg. Vallor, his firstborn son, rose to the Dusk Throne and lorded over his father’s domain during an age of crisis.

A noble man with a strong bearing and an ambitious heart, Vallor Varranis was a warrior and veteran of the last rebellion and had planned for more. Martially focused, he continued Matheil’s efforts of raising an army worthy of attention from their liege-lord. While he was certainly successful, it only drew further rivalry from their Uller neighbors. His success, however, did draw the interest of a Velaryon woman by the name of Raeya during a routine stop along the Midnight Coast. The two quickly fell in love, earning some wrath from House Velaryon; however, the growing power of House Varranis cooled their anger. Their union was greatly blessed as they bore five sons: Zaharion, Zorian, Aldrich, Arthur, and Raegal. For the next twenty years, House Varranis grew greater and stronger with their Velaryon and Martell allies.

(255 AC) In the two-hundredth-and-fifty-fifth year since Aegon’s Conquest, House Varranis suffered a terrible blow as Vallor Varranis and Raeya Velaryon perished in an ambush along the most recently expanded territories of the Midnight Coast. Only recently left reeling by the Red Spring, the last sixteen years saw misfortune for the Varranians in the form of several cousins perishing from tragedies most foul. While their power as a Great House of Dorne had risen sharply, it could not stop the Stranger from looming over the household. Many within the House believed they were abandoned, while others believed that House Uller played a dreadful part in their demise. No matter the opinion, one thing could be certain this year. It was the beginning of a long reign of greatness beneath Vallor’s first son, Zaharion, known throughout Dorne as the Magnificent.

Ascending at the age of twenty-and-five, Zaphariel reigned in House Varranis with a firm and soft grip. His policies were lavish, his spending ludicrous, and his wealth generation tremendous. For the next ten years, Zaharion saw House Varranis grow beyond it’s size as he explored the world on Dornish ships. Trade beyond the shores of Westeros into new trading lanes with Qarth and Astapor saw an influx of exotic goods spread throughout Dorne. Towns began to burst from their original walls along the Midnight Coast, threatening to blossom into a great coastal city not unlike Pentos. The Era of Zaharion was bereft of trouble, save for the extravagances that the Varranian son dined upon; women, weapons, wine, and silk abound. He blessed the dynasty with two children after marrying a Lyseni by the name of Asalia; however, rumors abound ascertained that the House Head had harbored many bastards during his exploits. Curiously, the fear of the past eleven years passed as no further deaths were recorded. A true testament to House Varranis’ new, golden era.

(260AC)The last five years have been a golden era in the eyes of House Varranis while Lord Zaphariel has taken the reins. Their largest haul of exotic goods has brought their military might into unprecedented levels, while their ties have grown far beyond Westeros into Essos’ fertile lands. Because of his efforts, wanderers and nobles from the Three Daughters have become commonplace amongst the Dornish populace in their demesne. Although their complaints have been heard, their liege has ascertained the necessity of this to retain their level of luxury; however, some have seen Lord Varranis walk with the darker elements of Essos. A vapid rumor amongst the dockworkers and lickspittles of House Varranis tells about the House of Dusk interacting with hooded figures from across the sea. These rumors have been silenced at the source, yet these tales continue to persist. None can say if it is House Uller that spreads these lies or if it is simply the work of the peasantry.

Domain

House Varranis rules over the southern central area of Dorne where the Brimstone meets the Summer Sea. Ruling from the great towering bastion known as the Duskspire, the Dornish house extends their will across several minor towns and castles that’ve blossomed from their personal expansion or proximity. One of the few ports outside of Sunspear, Duskspire is a monument of preservation and wealth that has brought innumerable benefits not only to the House, but to the Martells. Two-tiered circular walls surround the great fortress with the first wall protecting the port and city, while the second defends the spiraling castle of the Dusk Throne. The ambitious home of House Varranis is often likened to Starfall in its design, yet it pales in comparison due to its dark stones and proximity to the sulphurous river.

Second only to the Duskspire is the Midnight Villa, an estate several miles away from House Varranis’ primary castle bordering on the edge of Uller’s territory along the Brimstone. Built as a home away from home, the Villa was a prideful creation at the height of House Uller’s aggression. To establish their political power and wealth, the Villa rose up as a direct sign of insurrection with high walls around a beautiful manor.

Plentiful mines from nearby villages along the mountainous terrain surrounding the Brimstone feed minerals and precious metals across the Varranian domain. Towns, threatening on becoming a single city not unlike Pentos, dot the Midnight Coast of southern Dorne, stretching out into the Summer Sea with wooden docks and piers. Castles of midnight hue with the banners of House Varranis dot the wasteland spreading from the Brimstone, each garrisoned completely and ready to strike should House Uller press their supposed advantage.

Military

At the dawn of their inception, House Varranis was a weak and timid family built on the protection of House Uller from would-be aggressors. Since that time over two-hundred years ago, House Varranis has grown a strong military that easily dwarfs their neighbors in terms of prowess and numbers. Either due to the circumstances of their upbringing or based on the focus of their leaders, the Varranians continue to grow the numbers of their military to this day.

The composition of their warriors appears simple at first until firmly observed by a cunning eye. Traditionally, Dornish spearmen and archers make up the vast majority of their ranks from levies raised by towns, villages, and castles; however, House Varranis has cultivated special men-at-arms ready to deliver their justice. The infamous Duskblades, warriors in half-plate and hooded helmets, fight valiantly with wicked hand and a half swords forged from dark metals. Their serpentine blades are their modus operati, flasks full of brewed poisons ever ready to be splashed against blade to further reinforce their alchemical prowess. Each is a master of murder, specialized in the brewing and application of toxin-infused dancing. Their prowess, at times, can equal that of knights from mainland Westeros, yet they are extraordinarily difficult to train and require specific teachings from Varranian knights, alchemists, and craftsmen to operate their gear.

Where the men-at-arms of House Varranis have earned their infamy across Dorne, it is their knights that truly shine as beacons of prowess and intelligence. Practised alchemists, rightful scholars, and excellent duelists make up the warriors that lead their levies into battle. Landed warriors, risen by the hands of Varranians past, eagerly fill the ranks of the many knights in service to House Varranis. While many have their own particular way of fighting, they are taught and trained in Duskspire to be Duskblades of their own. A great number of them carry the infamous swords of the Duskblades into combat, but feel the necessity to wear Dornish full-plate when sallying out.

Unfortunately, perhaps due to the Brimstone, House Varranis lacks cavalry and the raw shock-and-awe of their thunderous assaults. The ingenious minds of the House, however, make up for it a thousandfold using alchemists and their arcane arts to fill the gaps. Toxic elixirs, combined from gases of the Brimstone, are often used as combustive throwable weapons by their deft hands. Their aggressive use of these tactics has garnished bitter opinions from the Citadel and Old Town.

Not to be forgotten, the relatively small armada of House Varranis merely adds to the Dornish fleet mustered by the Martells. Unable to acquire a local source of wood, House Varranis imports precious timber at extraordinary prices from the Reach and the Stormlands. It is only due to their remarkable wealth that they’ve managed to hold onto a fleet of twenty galleys and a pair of carracks. A sizable portion for the Duskspire docks, but pales in comparison to any other Westerosi or Essosi fleet.

As of the two-hundredth-and-sixtieth year of Aegon’s Conquest, the military numbers of House Varranis average around four-thousand spearmen-archers, a thousand duskblades, and a hundred knights. Although the numbers have previously been counted by the Maesters attending Duskspire, it is currently unknown how many alchemists exist amongst their number that are and aren’t registered with the Alchemist’s Guild. It is fair to assume that these numbers are specifically hidden by Lord Varranis for some unknown reason. Perhaps a censure is in order from the Citadel?

Family Members

Zaphariel Varranis

Zaphariel ‘the Magnificent’ Varranis

Age: 30

Appearance:
Enigmatic, beautiful, and powerful are the words that best describe Zaphariel Varranis of Duskpire. A trimmed beard, shoulder-length black hair, and the hazel-orange eyes of House Varranis decorate any already meticulously sculpted face. Jewelry from across Essos decorates the knuckles, fingers, and ears of the opulent Dornishman. In particular, he keeps a total of eight silver claw rings attached to his fingers at most given times. His height only further boosts his ego as a tall man of nimbly muscular proportions. Black satin with decorations of orange make up the vast majority of his attire, yet he is never afraid to dawn the half-plate armor of the duskblades. Always in his possession is the Valyrian curved sword known as Pandjoras, ever sheathed in a decorated scabbard to further enhance his image.

Biography:
(230 AC) Born to Vallor Varranis and Raeya Velaryon in the two-hundredth-and-thirtieth year since Aegon’s Conquest, Zaphariel was the first of five that would forever change the lives of House Varranis. A strong, healthy, and curious child was what awaited his parents. From the moment he was born, the very sands of Dorne whispered the name Zaphariel. Raised in a time of prosperity for the House of Dusk, Zaphariel was gifted the luxuries of a privileged upbringing. Nothing was barred from his hands; alchemy, schooling, fighting, sneaking, and gallivanting were his to play with. As a boy, he grew into a model son with limitless charisma and an affectionate smile on his lips. He never faltered in his learnings, never lost interest in schooling, and never wanted to be scolded. Vallor found himself a proud father in the early years of the dusken heir’s life. The birth of his brothers changed his personality forever.

As a growing adolescent, Zaphariel took upon himself the duties of defending and raising his siblings where his father or the maesters could not. While remaining a charismatic boy of limitless potential, Zaphariel became more stoic and serious in his past-times. He turned away from playing in the sands or making believe the fantasies of dragons aflight to the world beyond Westeros and the dealings of the Iron Throne. His father cherished the sight of a dutiful heir, who gorged on literature and experiences like a starving wolf. It was only a prelude to the possibilities of the dusken heir.

As a young adult, Zaphariel had squired under his father and rode out to battle with corsairs and pirates along their trading lanes or intercept House Uller incursions upon their land. He was officially knighted after defeating a pair of Uller knights in battle, their lungs still breathing but their pride shattered by the dusken heir. From there it was a plethora of fresh responsibilities that saw his connections grow like wildfire spread across dry shrubbery. Where his father’s stewards couldn’t attend trading consultations, Zaphariel stood in place and executed the will of House Varranis excellently. Where a head alchemist’s formulae was trumped by stunted logic, Zaphariel could concoct a solution that their intelligence could not see. To some among House Varranis, he was everything that they could wish for in a firstborn heir. To Zaphariel, he only wished to see his brothers grow strong and healthy in a prosperous era for the House of Dusk.

At twenty-and-one, Zaphariel waved his brethren goodbye as he set sail to Essos. A contingency of several knights and duskblades accompanied him on a two-year sail of the Essossi coast to Lys. From there, few accounts can afford the luxury of his extravagant adventures through Essos; however, he was noted to have travelled as far north as Braavos and as far south as Qarth. Tales of an orange-eyed man stated that a lone ship sailed through the Jade Gates, yet more said that a large expedition of Dornishmen vanished into the Dothraki Sea and were never seen again. Accounts differ wildly about the adventures of the dusken heir, but all agree that he did return with an entourage of strange persons and a Lyseni wife by the name of Asalia. The reaction from Lord Vallor was a strong one as Zaphariel was meant for a match with a cousin of Lord Martell. His father was prepared to force the marriage apart, yet the sight of his grandsons eased him enough to forgive the matter. Little Aethor and Aelio were the two greatest treasures the Heir of Dusk brought home, alongside a wealth of many other things. As a gift for his survival, his marriage, and his children, Vallor allowed him the Midnight Villa as his personal home.

For the next four years of the dusk heir's life, Zaphariel changed in ways more subtle than shifting sands. Lord Vallor either never noticed or preferred not to as his firstborn son grew more ambitious and powerful. The strangers that accompanied him were always nearby, teaching him in strange arts and strange languages. The Midnight Villa became a crossbreed of Dornish and Lyseni livery with myriad artifacts from their journeys. His sons were raised just as he was, each a burning image of their father. Zaphariel was always seen with the two, pushing their education and allowing them the experience of his governing capabilities. His aptitude was certainly needed over the years since his return as he watched many members of House Varranis suffer unfortunate demises. He spent these years looking into the incidents himself along with his wealth of connections, while his father continued to govern the domains of the House of Dusk. It was in this year that Zaphariel gained the moniker of ‘the Magnificent’ after a particularly large, opulent feast with all the major lords of Dorne.

On the two-hundredth-and-fifty-fifth year since Aegon’s Conquest, his father Vallor and mother Raeya passed from their mortal coil in an ambush along the Midnight Coast. Enraged from his failure, Zaphariel begrudgingly accepted the role of Lord and rose up to take the Dusk Throne. His brothers grew infinitely closer in the year of their father’s death as his responsibilities increased a thousandfold. It was a cold year for Zaphariel even as he crossed the deserts to ascertain his allegiance to House Martell in Sunspear. He felt the Stranger lurked over his House and knew that only he could fix this issue. For the next five years, Zaphariel invited those from across the Narrow Sea and consulted them on matters unknown. Only the grave tragedy of Summerhall and the rise of the Ninepenny Kings drew away his attention as House Martell called his bannermen to war. Himself and his brothers marched to war at the fore of House Varranis’ might.

Zorian Varranis

Zorian ‘the Dusk Knight’ Varranis

Age: 26

Appearance:
Zorian Varranis is a strong, tall man with broad shoulders and impeccable musculature. Where his elder brother, Zaphariel, was the very model of House Varranis and a charming individual, Zorian was a brutal warrior and the very model of a knight. If circumstances had been different, there’d be no doubt that he could be a kingsguard. A flock of short black hair decorates his scalp, while a stony edifice of tanned skin is complimented only by the hazel-orange eyes of House Varranis. Forever a stern look upon his face, Zorian wears a plethora of scars that dance across his features and mix with a full-beard of black. He is rarely seen outside of his family’s special plate, ever a knight in half-plate and orange tabard with a hooded helmet. Outside of his warrior’s garb, Zorian shows himself as an austere individual in Varranian satin simple clothes. Zorian Varranis wields the Valyrian greatsword of House Varranis, Duskbringer, instead of his elder brother; a magnificent long, wavering blade of midnight hue with a serpentine pommel and decorative crossguard. His personal coat-of-arms is a black longsword through a red serpent on a field of checkered black and orange.

Biography:
(234 AC) House Varranis delighted at the birth of a second son from Vallor Varranis and Raeya Velaryon on the two-hundredth-and-thirty-fourth year since Aegon’s Conquest. A larger, heavier child that already showed his strength when gripping his father’s thumb. Vallor was pleased to see that he had borne another son that was a warrior in the making. His elder brother was beyond pleased to have a sibling, one that he could protect and play with. The boy was immediately raised up to be a knight, gifted toys to inspire his courage like tiny wooden swords or clay horses with miniature warriors. In the same way that Zaphariel was raised, so too was Zorian as the education of both crossed into one-another. When Zorian was not learning under the maesters, his father, or his brother, he was out in the sands with a wooden sword slashing at invisible things and claiming victory over the sands.

As a young adolescent, Zorian grew strong and bulky as he continued his martial journey into knighthood. Lord Vallor personally saw that Zorian was trained under the greatest of their knights, Sire Michol the Dusk Blade. The two were as inseparable as he was with his elder brother, training from dawn to dusk and stopping only when Michol was summoned by Lord Vallor for a patrol or a skirmish. Never one to be beaten, Zorian would continue to play and learn with Zaphariel. He never missed an opportunity to test his elder brother’s tactical prowess against his own.

As a young man, Zorian witnessed the death of Sire Michol and inherited the moniker of the Dusk Blade, thereby inheriting Duskbringer from his father as a gift of service and knighthood. The second born son would go on to attend tourneys and melees whenever travelling with Vallor; however, he preferred to remain home with his brothers and train in the courtyards of the Duskspire. His upbringing and honor had allowed him the right of becoming House Varranis’ Master at Arms, upholding tradition as the holder of Duskbringer. One of the last things that Vallor and Raeya were able to witness was the wedding between Zorian Varranis and Cerenna Hightower, daughter of Lord Lymond Hightower.

The next year, Vallor and Raeya perished in an ambush set along the Midnight Coast. Zorian was never able to defend them as he celebrated a new life together with Cerenna, their first child being born to them in the confines of the Duskspire. Despite the joy of his firstborn daughter, Zorian was crushed by the overwhelming fact that he couldn’t save his parents. He carried on his duties, however, and travelled with his elder brother, Zaphariel, to Sunspear to swear loyalty alongside the new Lord of Duskspire. When the two returned to their ancestral home, they grieved for thirteen days and thirteen nights with the rest of their brothers.

Over the next five years, Sire Zorian remained a steadfast companion to his elder brother and a tyrant to those that sought the demise of his family. He was their strongest knight, their strongest tactician, and their strongest fanatic. From his military oversight, he has only focused on strengthening the warriors House Varranis owns and doubling the amount of patrols across their territory. As the War of the Ninepenny Kings rose up on the Stepstones, Sire Zorian was one of the hundreds of warriors sent with Maron Martell to fight against a would-be usurper. He left behind his daughter of five, Lemmera, and his son of three, Vallor, named so for his grandsire.

Aldrich Varranis

Aldrich ‘the Brimstone Scribe’ Varranis

Age: 21

Appearance:
Aldrich Varranis is a gaunt, tall man with a lighter complexion than his brothers. Long, silky black hair trails down either side of his temples, while dark hazel-orange eyes poke out beneath thick eyebrows. He is neither bulky as his elder brother Zorian, nor is he charismatically nimble as his eldest brother Zaphariel. A lanky man, Aldrich prefers to shroud himself in scribes robes of fine satin and hold onto a large tome wherever he travels. A notable feature of his appearance is the lack of a maester’s chain, despite being everything that a maester could be in his appearance. Alas, his brethren had forbid him from journeying to the Citadel; however, this is something he doesn’t mind.

Biography:
(239 AC) Born on the two-hundredth-and-thirty-nineth year since Aegon’s Conquest, Aldrich was born as a twin to Arthur in a frail state. While the first two, Zorian and Zaphariel, had been strong and healthy children, Aldrich was a weak and somber child. Vallor and Raeya assumed this would simply pass, using his brothers as a point of reference; however, the frailness of the child never left even as he grew into a young boy. He would skip martial lessons in favor of reading, delving hungrily into literature to escape the harsh reality of the Dornish sands. His two elder brothers never mocked him, instead encouraging him to pursue a different calling than theirs. This, for better or worse, he took to heart and allowed himself the joy of freedom.

As a young adolescent, Aldrich spent much of his time in a plethora of tomes across Duskspire’s grand archive. The maesters were his friends as much as his brothers were. He drank deep of their knowledge and internally raised them up on a pillar of brilliance. From an early age, Aldrich knew that the Citadel would be his one and true desire. When he told his father about his wants, Vallor politely put him down and turned his attention away from the maesters to the alchemists of the House of Dusk. A young boy being rejected would certainly dishearten them, but it never bothered the hungry Aldrich. Where maesters had consumed his early years, alchemists became his next obsession that he delved further into. His time with the alchemists was exactly what the boy required, trumping even his eldest brother in some practices and combining potions of such virulence that it defied traditional logic. The hunger never passed, however, and Aldrich searched for more.

As a young adult, and a thirdborn son nonetheless, Aldrich experienced a level of freedom that he hadn’t yet achieved as a youth. He knew that he would never be a knight and never sought to be such, yet Aldrich craved more and more of the delicious meal known as knowledge. His calling as a maester was denied, yet he was never prohibited from travelling as his eldest brother had done. Unwilling to travel outside of Westeros, Aldrich spent several months across the rest of his adult life with the scholars of the Citadel and the septons of the Starry Sept. He further travelled across Westeros, returning home every so many weeks to feast with his brothers before setting off again. It was only when a match was made for him by Vallor Varranis that he returned to his home at last to serve as the House of Dusk’s chief alchemist. That year, Aldrich Varranis was blessedly married to Viola Redwyne in the grand halls of the Duskspire. Although the bride was happy, Aldrich never had a desire for love but understood his duties well enough. They bore a single child before Vallor and Raeya perished the next year named Zaharius after his eldest brother.

In the year that their parents perished in an ambush, Aldrich returned from his gifted home of Brimtower with his wife and newly born child. Never known as an emotional man, Aldrich wept with his brothers over the loss of their parents for thirteen days and thirteen nights. He dedicated his time over the next five years to the House of Dusk, aiding Zaphariel whenever necessary and conducting new, elaborate potions pushed by his eldest brother’s cabal. With the rise of the Ninepenny Kings, Aldrich remained behind to watch over the demesne in Zaphariel’s absence.

Arthur Varranis

Arthur ‘Midnight’ Varranis

Age: 21

Appearance:
A jovial and young knight, Arthur combines the charisma of his eldest brother and the might of his elder brother. Soft facial features rise up to shoulder-length black hair and trail down to a finely trimmed beard of midnight hue. Warm, hazel-orange eyes peer out from thin eyebrows. Unused to proper skirmishes and raids, Arthur is devoid of scars like his elder brothers and retains his youthful appearance in a state of near perpetuity. As a tourney knight, Arthur prefers full-plate with a surcoat of black-ornage and a plumed great helm uncharacteristic for a Dornishman. On the field, he wields a straight sword and a kite shield embellished with his family crest and his personal coat of arms. When removed of his warrior’s garb, he lives comfortably in black-orange nobles attire with decorated boots and fitted gloves with a traveller’s cape.

Biography:
(239 AC) Born in the two-hundredth-and-thirty-nineth year since Aegon’s Conquest, Arthur was born as a twin to Aldrich. Unlike his brother, he was a healthy and bright baby that was blessed with hearty laughter. Some considered it ominous that Arthur was healthy, while Aldrich was frail; however, the two would never go on to argue these facts. The young Arthur, as Zorian had once been, was fascinated with knights and chivalry more so than his elder brothers. He would follow his elder brother, Zorian, everywhere around Duskspire and watch him train in the sparring yards. Vallor was more than happy to receive another son worthy of being a warrior.

As a young adolescent, Arthur squired to a knight from outside of the House of Dusk. He served as page to Sire Alester Dayne from Starfall, who trained frequently and longingly with the duskblades of House Varranis. Where Sire Michol taught Zorian of strength and skill, Sire Alester taught the young Arthur of chivalry and sport. The two were fond of each other as teacher and mentor, but it never passed beyond that as a true friendship. After all, Arthur preferred to spend time with his brothers when possible. Nonetheless, he learned much of Alester’s swordsmanship and combined it together with the skills he learned from Zorian, for the two sparred often when available.

As a young adult, Arthur was knighted after winning a local tournament in the Reach and offering the flower wreath of the queen of love and beauty to Rylene Florent. It shouldn’t hold any surprise that the two were quickly wed no sooner had Lord Vallor Varranis and Lord Imry Florent had heard of his victory. Upon returning to Duskspire, the two wed upon the great docks of the House of Dusk.

Not long after their first child was born, a son by name of Matheil, Vallor and Raeya passed in the ambush that claimed their lives. Although not one of the many guards of House Varranis, Arthur felt responsible for their loss just as Zorian had. He joined his brothers in Duskspire to pray for their souls, feasting for thirteen days and thirteen nights in mourning. The next five years passed by in a blur as he worked together with his brothers to raise House Varranis in a way that Vallor would be proud. Arthur would march out with elder brothers to the Stepstones as the Band of Nine dared to attack the Iron Throne.

Raegal Varranis

Raegal ‘the Forsaken’ Varranis

Age: 20

Appearance:
A gaunt, yet attractive Dornishman that hides his more comely features beneath a thin hood of midnight. Much like his kinsmen of House Varranis, Raegal prefers satin robes of black embroidered with orange decorations that remind him of Duskspire. Tall and lanky, he never had the natural born proficiency to be a warrior like his brothers. Short, black hair brushes against thick eyebrows nestled above hazel-orange eyes. Never one to embellish his features with ornaments, Raegal wears no jewelry unlike his family but keeps an amulet of the Seven Who Are One close to his chest.

Biography:
(240 AC) Born in the two-hundredth-and-fortieth year since Aegon’s Conquest, Raegal was an omen to the family and their final child. He was sickly pale, did not cry, and did not have a strong grip. The maesters comforted the two worried parents, assuring them that it was normal for their fifth child. Raeya had then named him after one of the Targaryen’s past, claiming him as more Velaryon than Dornish. Vallor believed this was a sign of things to come. His suspicions would be proven correct as he steadily grew as an outcast of his brothers. He saw no desire in combat, no desire in study, and no desire in speech. His brothers were not to fault as they tried everything possible to connect with their youngest. Nothing would form between them, no connection that the other four had developed from birth nor the things that they had fancied among them. The only thing that Vallor had noticed would shift the young boy’s mood was the sight of the Brimstone and the things that perished from it.

As an adolescent, his macabre fascination grew beyond what Vallor understood as a vague interest. He became curious of everything from the Seven Who Are One to the plants beneath their feet to the metal that they forged. It wasn’t a scholar’s obsession. It was the beginning of a lunatic’s querying. Lord Varranis tried desperately to turn the boy’s attention away from the morose and to things more beneficial to his upbringing. It only further distanced him away from his last child, pushing what little closeness that they had between them. Vallor began to plan for the eventuality that he saw as his duty.

As a young adult, Vallor would demand that his fifth born son take the chains of an arch maester and journey to the Citadel. Endorsed by the maesters of Duskspire, they had decided on his fourteenth birthday to send him away. His reaction was understandable, sobbing and profusely pushing back at the wishes of his house. When the decision was made, his brothers weren’t accounted for and not there to witness his sorrow. On his knees, Raegal pleaded for one more year to spend with his brothers before becoming a maester. It was the first time that Vallor had witnessed such a strong emotion from the boy, soon to become a man, and he hesitated in his decision. Lord Varranis relented, allowing Raegal one more to bond with his brothers before departing for the Citadel. It was a mistake for both parties.

Before the end of the year, when Vallor and Raeya perished from an ambush, Raegal fled into the night on a charter set for an unknown voyage. Gems had been stolen from Zaphariel’s personal chest and Zorian’s training sword was stolen. None could guess where Raegal had escaped to, but his presence was felt when their parents passed away. The brothers mourned together over the loss of their outcast brother and the loss of their parents. Raegal would never find out until it was too late, far beyond Westeros’ shores.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : A War And Nine Crowns

Doombringers of Volantis

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“Doom and Glory!”

Overview

A Volantese sellsword company of over two thousand warriors of mixed origins known as the Doombringers in Valyrian dialect. The sellswords of this company have been active for approximately fifteen years, expanding their operations from as far as Braavos to the Qarth’s Jade Gates. A vast majority of their time has been spent operating in the Disputed Lands, warring for control under one contractor or another. Their reputation is fearsome, rivaling that of the Second Sons and the Golden Company in terms of martial prowess and contract satisfaction. While most of their strength comes from a hearty doctrine of combined martial traditions, it is rumored that their company employs the use of sorcerers, witches, and alchemists to boost their numbers. This includes their sizable fleet of seven carracks ready to transport at a moment’s notice.

Their leader, the Sword of Shadows, is their figurehead and the reason for their overwhelming infamy, each individual electing to join for a chance to fight with him for one reason or another. A plethora of legends have come to being because of his influence across Essos, but most link back to his company and their overwhelming success. It is primarily due to their captain that the Doombringers hold Volantis as their home, having been invited beyond the Black Walls to places unknown. Similarly, it is also due to their leader that the Doombringers refuse to operate in any part of Westeros.

Waving far above the battlefield on war banners, the symbol of the Doombringers thrashes in the wind. A winged serpent of orange, yellow, and red on a field of black. The sight is enough to strike fear in some, confidence in other, and caution in most. The clank of their armor, the beat of his greaves, and the thump of their shields drives in the bravest mercenary into fits. No matter where they hail from, the Doombringers raises men from animals to knights of their own.

History

The history of the Doombringers is a small footnote of history in comparison to other greater mercenaries like the Golden Company, Men of Valor or the Second Sons. Being active for approximately fifteen years, the Doombringers have managed to carve out a name for themselves that outlast their meager reputation. Ultimately, however, their history is neither written or told by their members. Everything that is said about them is myth, legends told by sellswords and sellsails. Bards and tavern-gossip are their heralds. Only the Sword of Shadows knows the truth - a truth that he refuses to yield.

In the first two years of their active operation, the Doombringers began their legacy in the Disputed Lands fighting for the Magisters of Lys. Young, prideful, and led by the Sword of Shadows showed their would-be employers exactly who they’d spent good coin on. An unprecedented level of professionalism and discipline curbed ramshackle tribes, unprofessional mercenaries, and veteran levies of the Three Daughters. All eyes were on them in those years as an up-and-coming group that could fight just as well as the most expensive companies. From there on, their connections and contracts were as plentiful as the stars. It was the beginning of their myriad relationships from the tip of Braavos to Jade Gates.

For the next two years, the Doombringers operated out of Volantism, rumored to have crossed the Smoking Sea and coordinated under Astapor and Meereen. Burgeoning with five-hundred warriors, the Doombringers brought their namesake upon the slave-soldiers of the slave masters. The deserts were ravaged by the sellswords and their enigmatic leader, engaging in rampant salvaging and expanding their operations twofold. Their reinforced numbers only further brought them work in the form of intercepting Dothraki Khals; however, the Doombringers would complete their tasks with tactics most foul. Sand traps, alchemy, arbalists, and more were used to comply with their contracts. Their enemies, eager to ruin their reputation, told stories of black magic being used against them. None had thought it possible to push so far into the Dothraki Sea, yet the Doombringers fought impossible odds with impossible tactics.

With a great haul of gold, armor, and warriors fit for a mighty warband, the Doombringers departed Slaver’s Bay greater than they had arrived. Over the next six years, the sellsword company would haunt Volantis as an ethereal phantom that appeared and disappeared at the drop of a hat. Only rumors persisted from this point compared to more extensively detailed events. At one time, they’d appear at Qarth and disappear after claiming a cabal. At another time, they’d emerge from the Smoking Sea with their vessels scarred and near wrecked by the horrors from within. Few can vouch for these stories, their insane ramblings quelled by more rational minds. No matter their presence, their activity dropped significantly from their first four years of operation. Only on the sixth year did the Doombringers return to Essos in full force with over two thousand warriors, their leader departing from behind the Black Walls of Volantis.

For the remainder of their activity, the Doombringers were a plague upon the Disputed Lands. Their contract holder by that point was none other than Maelys the Monstrous, who aimed to carve out a kingdom to claim his birthright through subjugation and war. The Sword of Shadows reportedly refused to become one of the Band of Nine, preferring to simply fight for a righteous cause. So, the Doombringers plundered, selling their wares to Lys and Volantis between weeks of warfare or reinforcing from their own recruitment camps. Although unusual, the Doombringers and Golden Company fought nearly as one, separating only in their widely different tactics and war gear.

Military

The military prowess of a sellsword company varies between the vast number of individuals who choose to sign up for their warband. The Doombringers, however, change this and properly outfit even the lowest member or newest members of their ranks. Black half-plate with surcoats of the winged serpent on black decorate their forms, while each carries a personally forged weapon of choice at their side. By default, the untrained are given a straight sword, a spear, and a reinforced shield of hide and steel to defend themselves. Great helms with wide visors protect their skulls, eschewed of all decoration save for only the barest engravings. Sellsword members are forced to abandon their war gear, the company preferring their own tempered armory to whatever land the recruit comes from.

Their obsession with discipline is a direct tie to the Sword of Shadows, who drills his warriors for several hours every day. His rigid training plan has led to the fighting force that can be seen in the Doombringers of today; however, while many of his main fighting warriors are useful, the Sword of Shadows understands the need for specialists. The most elaborate of his chosen warriors are known as Slayers, those veteran knights that have proved their worth in prowess and tactics. Each wears a full suit of armor with a hefty great sword more akin to a polearm, swapping between a long and short stance as required.

Unlike other warbands who utilize the likes of elephants or Westerosi destriers, the Doombringers have neither the space nor the ability to move such animals in large amounts. Instead, the Sword of Shadows defeats cavalry and defenses with alchemy. A hundred alchemists, stolen from across Essos, serve within the Doombringers with warlocks, witches, and priests attached to their sides. The addition of these impractical sciences has proven themselves time and again in engagements with shock cavalry, their explosives and acids performing what they could in place of pikes or horsed knights. Their addition, however, leaves a sour taste in the mouths of some contractors for they see the forbidden practitioners by their side and frown. Whether or not the addition of the arcane practitioners is a fear tactic, or an actual application of magic is unknown, only that the Sword of Shadows knows. Only their enemies can speak of the truth, yet they lie dead and buried beneath sand and stone.

Not to be forgotten, the many men and women that support the warriors of the Doombringers. Either as liberated slaves, indentured servants, or folk without prowess in combat, the Sword of Shadows always has a place for them in his ever growing warband. From the lowest of statuses to the highborn nobles from across the realm, the sellsword company will use them as either connections afar or as assistance in menial labor when the battles have passed. They are rewarded for their service as all of them are for their help is a boon, but they are not counted in the total number of warriors present for their warband. With their numbers added, their numbers far beyond the likes of a simple sellsword company.

Sellswords

Sword of Shadows

‘Sword of Shadows’

Age: Unknown
Appearance:
A broad, average sized man with pale skin and silver-black hair pushed back into a lion’s mane. A firm beard graces his strong chin, while mismatched eyes of green and violet peer out from thick eyebrows. His bearing is always stern as if trying to decipher the intentions of another. He often wears half-plate armor of black steel with a surcoat of black-red bearing the sigil of the Doombringers. If removed from his battle attire, the Sword wears fine linen dyed in the colors of his company with well maintained boots and gloves. Always strapped to his back is a Valyrian greatsword of an unknown name and unknown acquisition. A silver dagger further adds to his weaponry, strapped to his right leg for dire emergencies. Volantenes tattoos mark his body as a warrior beyond parallel, each as vibrant as the last and written out in Valyrian.

Biography:
Little and less is publicly known about the Sword of Shadows, his enigmatic nature and relative anonymity marking him as a difficult man to discern. His story is written in bard tales, rumor-mongers, and lickspittles with too much time on their hands. What is known is that the Sword of Shadows created the Doombringers fifteen years ago, originally based in Lys. He led a company of Lyseni mercenaries in extravagant attacks across the Disputed Lands, claiming his infamy early and gaining a reputation amongst contract handlers. A strong, young knight of a sellsword company, his contractors relished in the mysterious attitude of the warrior. Such was their taste that his name quickly spread from Lys to Myr to Pentos and finally Volantis. Curiously, the sellsword never took contracts into Westeros.

For two years after the Sword of Shadows was discovered, he accepted any and every contract available to him regardless of the details. He quickly accumulated power, wealth, and remarkable ties with the various powers playing across the Three Daughters and beyond. The size of his band grew rapidly under his leadership, earning him moniker abound as a phantom and reaper of the battlefield. He was said to have defeated a Dothraki Khal in single combat, a group of tiger soldiers in a one-versus-ten fight, and successfully raided a Sothoys corsair’s barge as they sailed. Whatever tells were told, the Sword never attested or denied the fame that came to him. He only ever used it to further his gains for lucrative contracts.

The Doombringers disappeared for a year and a half after a nonstop period of activity as the Sword of Shadows brought his company to Slaver’s Bay. Rumors persist of a time he passed through the Smoking Seal however, only rumors regard the truth of these tales. His reputation preceded him this far out in Essos, the slavemasters willing to pay handsomely for his prowess against their former allies. The Sword of Shadows complied readily, fighting tooth and nail against the slave-soldiers of Yunkai or the Dothraki raiders from the Sea of Grass. His time was plentiful, yet he moved on as quickly as he arrived to seas beyond the reach of normal men.

To Qarth he sailed and spent several months before emerging from the Jade Gates and unto Asshai By The Shadows, where no record of his events transpired. What is known is that he returned from his travels to Qarth, where several warlocks and sorcerers joined his warband before departing. His widespread adventurers finally saw him return to Volantis with a vastly larger mercenary group than he had departed with. Then, astonishingly, he disappeared behind the Black Walls for seventeen days before reappearing with a new contract in hand. The Doombringers leaked from memory as they vanished.

Many thought the Sword of Shadows perished with his sellsword company. Others said he left for Westeros and settled into slow life as a reformed noble. More illusive rumors stated that he stayed in the smoking ruins of Valyria, hunting for monsters and mania. The rumors persisted for a year before they returned to Volantis and left with several ships, a hundred more men, and artifacts abound. When the Doombringers emerged from next, they did not return to Volantis but to Lys to meet with the Magisters. None can say what passed between the Magisters and the Sword; however, what can be said is that the Doombringers soon set sail and remained in the Disputed Lands for the rest of their present history.

Spoilers!

The Sword of Shadows is actually Maegar Targaryen, son of Aerion ‘Brightflame’ Targaryen who perished in 232AC. After her husband perished and her rejection at the Grand Council, Daenora Targaryen returned to one of her former husband's holdings in Lys. She raised her son with assistance from First Magister Kasso Bazanne, who expedited the road from which Maegar would eventually carve. Not soon after the boy became three-and-ten, Daenora passed away from a shiver in the night. Only the conclave of magisters was left to raise the son of Aerion, which resulted in a small financial war over possession of the boy. Ultimately, the boy became a man and chose the path of a sellsword, leaving Lys with a wealth of knowledge and a patreon to back him. To this day, the Doombringers send back luxurious gems and trinkets to assure their continued patronage. They have yet to forget the true identity of the Sword of Shadows.

Erich Harlaw

Erich ‘the Black Scythe’ Harlaw

Age: 25

Appearance: A stout warrior with the Iron Islands thick in his veins, bearing a black beard and a half-shaven skull with a flock of black hair. Hazel eyes stare out from thin eyebrows, while scars abound decorated the warrior’s face in crisscross patterns. Black half-plate sits overtop the leather jerkin of the warrior, while a raider’s helmet typical of an Iron Islander protects his thick skull. When unarmored, Erich prefers his jerkin with sailor’s boots and a decorative pin to denote his devotion to the Doombringers. Regardless of his nickname, Erich Harlaw eschews the clumsy use of a two-handed scythe and instead uses a bearded axe with a reinforced shield.

Biography:
The third trueborn son of Sigrin Harlaw by his rock wife, Erich Harlow was never meant for much more than an extra to his brothers, Sigfried and Bagrond. He was born a strong lad with a hearty laugh and a booming voice, yet his brothers had been born stronger and heartier. This repeated for the rest of his life on the Iron Islands, always trumped by his elder brothers by large stretches. Never could he boast of his raids on the mainland and never could he remain proud of his battles. His brethren rose above him in even these. His father never faulted him for he was a model raider, a brilliant sailor and a wolf born in human skin. He simply had a different destiny that awaited him.

As the years passed beneath his brothers’ triumphs, Erich learned from his raids and captured slaves he deemed knowledgeable enough to fill the gap between his brothers. A hospitable master, he would learn what he wanted from them and then release them like they were fish caught from the coast. It was from the lips of a woman from Old Town that he learned of the Disputed Lands, the myriad sellsword companies, and the riches found across Essos. This Iron Islander had a dream. He set out with an axe in his hand, his salt-wives in tow, and his salt-brothers in armor out to the Disputed Lands on a longship that he built. Yet, the Disputed Lands would never be for him.

His goals had been to gain riches, fame, and glory to triumph over his brothers once and for all; however, his first fights in the arid wasteland of Essos sold him on the savagery committed there. His first contract fell through, claiming his longship and his salt-wives without a way home. His second contract saw the death of his salt-brothers, leaving him alone in a foreign country without connections or attachments. His final contract, however, was the one that reeled him in. At the last possible moment, before a tiger-soldier stole his skull, he was saved by the Sword of Shadows and his Doombringers. Alone and afraid, he decided to join the Doombringers soon after their contract was complete.

Now, ten years since he was saved by the Sword, Erich serves his captain as the pinnacle of what a Second could be. He learned beneath the Sword, adding already to his impressive knowledge as an Iron Islander, and tore into the battlefield with unorthodox tactics. His experience from travelling the known world with the Doombringers brought insight greater than the power of his brothers combined. Even now, Erich believed that he could triumph over them in all things with what he’s experienced. His destiny was to serve, and he did so willingly to a warrior that surpassed imagination beside him.

Luco Tendyris

Luco ‘the Seventh Sail’ Tendyris

Age: 28

Appearance:
A man of smiles with emerald eyes that twinkle in the moonlight, Luco stands as model Braavosi in stunning features and theatrics abound. Brown, shoulder length hair parts away to reveal his fine, shaven face. A thin stubble always decorates his warm smiles, while thin eyebrows always suggest more than a simple transaction. Typical for his culture, Luco wears a sailor-worthy doublet of grey-purple satin with thin trousers and finely decorated boots. Never a man to be caught unawares, Sire Tendyris carries a saber at his side; however, he eschews this when walking amongst his kin in Braavos. He prefers not to fight if he has to, it’d ruin his picturesque smile.

Biography:
The young son of a Braavosi Magister, Luco Tendyris was a boy of charm, smiles, and clever wits. Even amongst the spirited folk of Braavos, Luco was considered a charmful person with the curiosity and nimbleness of a cat. He was, however, filled with hubris having known the fact that people viewed him as such. As a lad, he often found himself able to enthrall the clever Braavosi with a quick rasp of his tongue and perfect smile. If Luco had learned the depths of his hubris early, then perhaps his fate would be different.

When Luco came of age and departed his home, he knew with pride that he would become a grand merchant known throughout Essos. With silver abound as a Magister’s son, Luco fled into the seas with a small fleet of men and women willing to earn a fortune. A cunning man, he’d purchase at low, haggled prices and sell within the bay at extreme profit to start his ventures out into the Narrow Sea. With his ventures assured, he used the same tactics and sailed out with crews charmed by his smiles; however, Luco was slippery and greedy, never intending to pay or haggle down below their originally agreed crew fees. Even the ones that guarded his ship weren’t protected from his ploys, intentionally cutting their pay or stranding them deep out into the Narrow Sea. His reputation certain grew, Luco’s name now recognized for the infamous scandals and horrible practices he used.

Fortunately, his fate wasn’t to be skewered and dumped overboard. On a routine offload of cargo at an undesignated port along Essos, Luco had planned to collect his pay and return to Braavosi to increase his fleet; however, those he double-crossed had stalked his shipping lanes and finally caught him in a widesnare. Corsairs from the Stepstones intercepted him while docked with the intent to murder, steal, and use his vessels elsewhere. Who knew what god looked over Luco that day, but the Doombringers had been stalking those very corsairs and launched a counterattack to save Captain Tendyris’ ships. At the end of the conflict, Luco decided to give up his double-crossing standards and make a living elsewhere. The Sword of Shadows gave him that opportunity as a sellsail linked with the sellsword company. Luco, either indebt to his savior or smelling a fortune, happily accepted.

Now, after years spent sailing for the Doombringers, Luco has used the expenses offered to him to purchase a seventh carrack for the sellsword company. His reputation had been salvaged and reformed from a merchant captain to a glorious sellsail admiral. He prided himself on the fleet that he had earned, scrapped together from hasty deals, and haggled contracts. The Sword of Shadows had brought him near limitless funds, a loyal crew, and a strong fleet. At this point, he’d follow the Sword to the ends of the world as he has before.

Raegal Varranis

Raegal ‘the Forsaken’ Varranis

Age: 20

Appearance:
A gaunt, yet attractive Dornishman that hides his more comely features beneath a thin hood of midnight. Much like his kinsmen of House Varranis, Raegal prefers satin robes of black embroidered with orange decorations that remind him of Duskspire. Tall and lanky, he never had the natural born proficiency to be a warrior like his brothers. Short, black hair brushes against thick eyebrows nestled above hazel-orange eyes. Never one to embellish his features with ornaments, Raegal wears no jewelry unlike his family but keeps an amulet of the Seven Who Are One close to his chest.

Biography:
The stories of the fifth brother of the House of Dusk have already been told before in the tomes of Duskspire; however, his story had not ended with his disappearance from Dorne. As a young adult, scrutinized by his desires and interests, he fled the Duskspire to chart his own journey away from his brothers and his father. He refused to become a maester, his destiny decided by a heavy chain spent in the depths of a tower in service to a foreign lord. Raegal charted a vessel with stolen jewels from his eldest brother to take him to Qarth and eventually beyond where Westeros could not find him. So, he sailed with longing in his heart, spurned even by his beloved brothers who would see him bound to the Citadel’s links. His fate was forever altered as the charter stopped at Volantis to resupply for the journey forward.

Disembarking, Raegal spent their resupply time in a dockside tavern indulging in the wealth of culture, drink, and tomes he had purchased for prices wildly exaggerated. The tavern at that time had been full of mercenaries, each as surprisingly professional as the next, cheering their most recent victory. A man sat across Raegal, a silver-haired man with a lifetime of experience visible on his scarred face. The two engaged in conversation, slow at first to test the boundaries of the other until the two had spent countless hours conversing over everything from theories to facts. This man was the Sword of Shadows, leader of the Doombringers, and soon to be Raegal’s employer as his ship had long left port to finish the journey without him.

Raegal was brought from one end of the known world to next, experiencing everything that he had read in the books Zaphariel had provided. He learned from the various alchemists, warlocks, and sorcerers of practices unknown and sciences unseen. Their knowledge became his and his knowledge became theirs in an equivalent exchange, forever changing the way that the Doombringers operated in their arcane warfare. Most importantly, Raegal felt at peace here in a place and company that he could call home with people he could call brothers and sisters.

For six years, Raegal Varranis serviced the Doombringers as their chief alchemist and lore master of the arcane. He only furthered his intelligence by adding fleeing maesters, roaming alchemists, and hidden practitioners that suffered the same fate as him. To a small group of people, he became known as a savior, as much as the Sword of Shadows had been to him. His soul was bound to the company he loved, forming friendships and bonds that he never would’ve attained as the fifth son of a Dornish House. His soul, however, is stained by the things that he has done and the things that he has seen. The Light of the Seven can never truly forgive him, and he knows this well.

Orrosa'a

Orrosa’a

Age: Unknown

Appearance:
A tall and lithe woman with pale skin, blue lips, long silver hair, and eerie violet eyes that seem to pierce the soul. She wears heavy robes of black fabric with a hood embroidered with strange, swirling designs. Every step that she takes is ethereal in movement as if she was not accustomed to the plane of man. Undiscernable tattoos of dark inks decorated her skin from head to toe, sparsely dying her body in a tinge of light blue.

Biography:
It has been known that the Doombringers employ strange arts in their battle formations. Alchemists, warlocks, witches, sorcerers, seers, priests and wyrds are commonplace amongst their number. These people of the uncommon practices, however, were later additions to the vast bulk of the sellsword company. Only one witch has been present from the start, forever at the side of the Sword of Shadows. The witch is known as Orrosa’a. She was there when the Sword of Shadows set sail from Lys, there when he fought in the Disputed Lands, there when he crossed the Smoking Sea, and there when he claimed a cabal of warlocks for his own in Qarth. Her past is mysterious, shrouded under a perpetual coat of darkness to be forgotten and unremembered. Her present, however, can be told as it tells much of her character.

Tutor, guide, companion, priest. The warriors of the Doombringers have known Orrosa’a as all of these beside the Sword of Shadows. When the company is lost in the Essossi wilderness, Orrosa’a already knows the way to their destination. When the company is low on morale and their faith is faltering, the Sword and Orrosa’a bring them to the Light of their respective gods. When the company struggles to comprehend their situation, Orrosa’a is readily available to enlighten their stance where the Sword cannot. She has proven herself as a helpful creature, a warm presence in a cold body, and a calm hand in a company of brash warriors. She has seen to the death rites of their fellow sellswords, weeping for their loss and lamenting their passing. To some, she is likened to the Mother instead of the Crone. To others, she is considered the motherly presence needed in a family as large as the Doombringers.

Her role has not been forgotten. She is a witch, a practitioner of the forgotten magics of the world. From her den, it is said that she leads a cabal of myriad forsaken professions in arcane rituals hidden away from the Doombringers. Only the Sword of Shadows and his closest aides are permitted to watch. Enemy formations months before their arrival, good fortunes from a contract, and other boons granted to them prove her arts are at work. It is unknown if these events are due to her supposed forbidden feats. If there is an answer, then only the Sword of Shadows would know. Due to their secrecy, the sellsword company spreads rumors abound. Perhaps she uses the Sword’s seed for her rituals, or perhaps his blood to dribble into a demon’s jaw. Perhaps they used stolen flesh from Valyria as sacrifice, or perhaps they used an artifact of immense power found in the Smoking Sea. They will never know the answer.

What answers are certainly known amongst their rumors is the closeness in which the Sword of Shadows and Orrosa’a share. More than often if she isn’t spotted with the sellswords or her cabal, she is found by the sellsword captain’s side or hidden within his chambers. The Sword has only ever shown a certain fondness for the sorceress, relenting to the rare moments that they share. Some have said that they shared a wedding in the Smoking Sea, among the Valyrian ruins and produced a dragon-child of his own. Others have said that his retreat into the Black Wall of Volantis was for his eternal servitude bent to Orrosa’a. None of these are correct, but they are fond of one another in a way incomprehensible.

Dagger of Shadows

Dagger of Shadows

Age: Unknown

Appearance:
A young boy of ten as tall and lean as a broom. His face is soft, untouched by the roughness of a hard life. Long, silver hair nurtured with brush and blade dangle over violet eyes and sad, thin eyebrows. A curious lad, he wears a permanent frown under his inquisitive eyes, watching and observing as if he experienced the world for the first time. He is commonly seen in clothing fit for a noble’s squire with black-red satin or frolicking around in the Sword of Shadows long, black cloak.

Biography:
The presence of the illusive Dagger of Shadows, a moniker given by the sellswords, wasn’t originally noticed at the start of their journey. When the sellswords crossed the Smoking Sea to Slaver’s bay, they began to notice the shadow of a male boy no greater than five or six slinking through the warriors. Often, he feared their presence and hid away behind the comforting presence of Orrosa’a. Gradually, the sellswords managed to coax the lad from hiding and join them in feasts and storytelling. Creeping from the darkness, they found a boy curious of the world around him and everything. He listened keenly to stories, swapping from different variations of frowns no matter his supposed mood. When too much time had passed, the Sword would claim him and return him to chambers unknown. The rumors spread like wildfire throughout the Doombringers.

From that point on, the Dagger was seen more and more until he became a common occurrence amongst the sellswords. They’d train him, teach him, and let him listen into the events of their most recent battles. They’d pay him coin to fetch them something. He’d comply as a studious and obedient son to the Doombringers. Some saw profit in a silver-haired child, thinking to steal him away but those few were dealt with swiftly by the bulk of the sellswords. His appearance grew more vivid yet never lost their overall wonder at the world. It came to a point that he even ventured out with them in limited scope, from camp to town outskirt or from ship to dock.

Only after their second return to Volantis, where upon the Sword was allowed entry into the Black Wall, that the Dagger fully emerged from his shell. He was the sole squire and page of the Sword, venturing into smaller skirmishes armed with fitted armor for his size and a surcoat with the Doom bringer’s sigil. The Doombringers couldn’t be happier, watching one of their own grow into an unknown role that was thrusted upon him. From that point onward, the Dagger was always sheathed beside the Sword wherever they went. No matter the danger.

Spoilers!

The Dagger of Shadows is the firstborn son of Maegar Targaryen, and the witch known as Orrosa’a. His unobscured name is Aerion Targaryen after his grandsire. While the boy is silent and inquisitive, Maegar has already told the boy about their heritage and their right to the Iron Throne. Maegar has spoken at length about his father, their denial at the Grand Council, and the length at which people would see them dead for merely existing. As life is never promised, and the Stranger hangs over him, he felt it necessary for Aerion to know should something come to pass. When the two are alone, though, they bond as father and son where in public they cannot. Their identities ever hidden by the sellsword company.

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

The Doom of Arkangelus

-After the Fall of Sanctii-

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He hated them. He despised them. He loathed them. He had lost thousands 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.

Astartes.

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.

A good god to slay, 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.

“Primarch!” 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, Arthanis, 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! Autoknights!”

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. Warriors like that could’ve fought for Unity, 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! Arkangelus is ours!” 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. More bodies to tally against the Astartes, 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. Fight. Die. Raptor Imperialis!” 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, old one, 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 laughing. His lungs were soaked in blood, his throat clogged with vitae, and his organs burning from an active powerfield. He laughed, 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.

---

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.

All because the Astartes had left them. 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.

Astartes.

He cursed them all. 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, Enkidon?” 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 we are no longer Legion, 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 Astartes. 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.

“Gilgmaneses!” 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, Emissary, Raptor Imperialis.” 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. They were nothing.

He vowed this upon the death of ten thousand dead Thunder Warriors.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : A War And Nine Crowns

Doombringers of Volantis

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“Doom and Glory!”

Overview

A Volantese sellsword company of over two thousand warriors of mixed origins known as the Doombringers in Valyrian dialect. The sellswords of this company have been active for approximately fifteen years, expanding their operations from as far as Braavos to the Qarth’s Jade Gates. A vast majority of their time has been spent operating in the Disputed Lands, warring for control under one contractor or another. Their reputation is fearsome, rivaling that of the Second Sons and the Golden Company in terms of martial prowess and contract satisfaction. While most of their strength comes from a hearty doctrine of combined martial traditions, it is widely known that their company employs the use of sorcerers, witches, and alchemists to boost their numbers. This includes their sizable fleet of seven carracks ready to transport at a moment’s notice.

Their leader, the Sword of Shadows, is their figurehead and the reason for their overwhelming infamy, each individual electing to join for a chance to fight with him for one reason or another. A plethora of legends have come to being because of his influence across Essos, but most link back to his company and their overwhelming success. It is primarily due to their captain that the Doombringers hold Volantis as their home, having been invited beyond the Black Walls to places unknown. Similarly, it is also due to their leader that the Doombringers refuse to operate in any part of Westeros.

Waving far above the battlefield on war banners, the symbol of the Doombringers thrashes in the wind. A winged serpent of orange, yellow, and red on a field of black. The sight is enough to strike fear in some, confidence in other, and caution in most. The clank of their armor, the beat of his greaves, and the thump of their shields drives in the bravest mercenary into fits. No matter where they hail from, the Doombringers raises men from animals to knights of their own.

History

The history of the Doombringers is a small footnote of history in comparison to other greater mercenaries like the Golden Company, Men of Valor or the Second Sons. Being active for approximately fifteen years, the Doombringers have managed to carve out a name for themselves that outlast their meager reputation.

In the first two years of their active operation, the Doombringers began their legacy in the Disputed Lands fighting for the Magisters of Lys. Young, prideful, and led by the Sword of Shadows showed their would-be employers exactly who they’d spent good coin on. An unprecedented level of professionalism and discipline curbed ramshackle tribes, unprofessional mercenaries, and veteran levies of the Three Daughters. All eyes were on them in those years as an up-and-coming group that could fight just as well as the most expensive companies. From there on, their connections and contracts were as plentiful as the stars. It was the beginning of their myriad relationships from the tip of Braavos to Jade Gates.

For the next two years, the Doombringers operated out of Volantis to cross the Smoking Sea and coordinate under Astapor and Meereen. Burgeoning with five-hundred warriors, the Doombringers brought their namesake upon the slave-soldiers of the slave masters. The deserts were ravaged by the sellswords and their enigmatic leader, engaging in rampant salvaging and expanding their operations twofold. Their reinforced numbers only further brought them work in the form of intercepting Dothraki Khals; however, the Doombringers would complete their tasks with tactics most foul. Sand traps, alchemy, black magics, arbalists, and more were used to comply with their contracts. None had thought it possible to push so far into the Dothraki Sea, yet the Doombringers fought impossible odds with impossible tactics.

With a great haul of gold, armor, and warriors fit for a mighty warband, the Doombringers departed Slaver’s Bay greater than they had arrived. Over the next six years, the sellsword company would haunt Volantis as an ethereal phantom that appeared and disappeared at the drop of a hat. At one time, they’d appear at Qarth and disappear after claiming a cabal. At another time, they’d emerge from the Smoking Sea with their vessels scarred and near wrecked by the horrors from within. No matter their presence, their activity dropped significantly from their first four years of operation. Only on the sixth year did the Doombringers return to Essos in full force with over two thousand warriors, their leader departing from behind the Black Walls of Volantis.

For the remainder of their activity, the Doombringers were a plague upon the Disputed Lands. Their contract holder by that point was none other than Maelys the Monstrous, who aimed to carve out a kingdom to claim his birthright through subjugation and war. The Sword of Shadows reportedly refused to become one of the Band of Nine, preferring to simply fight for a righteous cause. So, the Doombringers plundered, selling their wares to Lys and Volantis between weeks of warfare or reinforcing from their own recruitment camps. Although unusual, the Doombringers and Golden Company fought nearly as one, separating only in their widely different tactics and war gear.

Military

The military prowess of a sellsword company varies between the vast number of individuals who choose to sign up for their warband. The Doombringers, however, change this and properly outfit even the lowest member or newest members of their ranks. Black half-plate with surcoats of the winged serpent on black decorate their forms, while each carries a personally forged weapon of choice at their side. By default, the untrained are given a straight sword, a spear, and a reinforced shield of hide and steel to defend themselves. Great helms with wide visors protect their skulls, eschewed of all decoration save for only the barest engravings. Sellsword members are forced to abandon their war gear, the company preferring their own tempered armory to whatever land the recruit comes from.

Their obsession with discipline is a direct tie to the Sword of Shadows, who drills his warriors for several hours every day. His rigid training plan has led to the fighting force that can be seen in the Doombringers of today; however, while many of his main fighting warriors are useful, the Sword of Shadows understands the need for specialists. The most elaborate of his chosen warriors are known as Slayers, those veteran knights that have proved their worth in prowess and tactics. Each wears a full suit of armor with a hefty great sword more akin to a polearm, swapping between a long and short stance as required.

Unlike other warbands who utilize the likes of elephants or Westerosi destriers, the Doombringers have neither the space nor the ability to move such animals in large amounts. Instead, the Sword of Shadows defeats cavalry and defenses with alchemy. A hundred alchemists, stolen from across Essos, serve within the Doombringers with warlocks, witches, and priests attached to their sides. The addition of these impractical sciences has proven themselves time and again in engagements with shock cavalry, their explosives and acids performing what they could in place of pikes or horsed knights. Their addition, however, leaves a sour taste in the mouths of some contractors for they see the malignant powers by their side and frown. Whether or not the addition of the arcane practitioners is a fear tactic, or an actual application of magic is unknown, only that the Sword of Shadows insists.

Not to be forgotten, the many men and women that support the warriors of the Doombringers. Either as liberated slaves, indentured servants, or folk without prowess in combat, the Sword of Shadows always has a place for them in his ever growing warband. From the lowest of statuses to the highborn nobles from across the realm, the sellsword company will use them as either connections afar or as assistance in menial labor when the battles have passed. They are rewarded for their service as all of them are for their help is a boon, but they are not counted in the total number of warriors present for their warband. With their numbers added, their numbers far beyond the likes of a simple sellsword company.

Sellswords

Sword of Shadows

‘Sword of Shadows’

Age: Unknown
Appearance:
A broad, average sized man with pale skin and silver-black hair pushed back into a lion’s mane. A firm beard graces his strong chin, while mismatched eyes of green and violet peer out from thick eyebrows. His bearing is always stern as if trying to decipher the intentions of another. He often wears half-plate armor of black steel with a surcoat of black-red bearing the sigil of the Doombringers. If removed from his battle attire, the Sword wears fine linen dyed in the colors of his company with well maintained boots and gloves. Always strapped to his back is a Valyrian greatsword of an unknown name and unknown acquisition. A silver dagger further adds to his weaponry, strapped to his right leg for dire emergencies. Volantenes tattoos mark his body as a warrior beyond parallel, each as vibrant as the last and written out in Valyrian.

Biography:
Little and less is publicly known about the Sword of Shadows, his enigmatic nature and relative anonymity marking him as a difficult man to discern. What is known is that the Sword of Shadows created the Doombringers fifteen years ago, originally based in Lys. He led a company of Lyseni mercenaries in extravagant attacks across the Disputed Lands, claiming his infamy early and gaining a reputation amongst contract handlers. A strong, young knight of a sellsword company, his contractors relished in the mysterious attitude of the warrior. Such was their taste that his name quickly spread from Lys to Myr to Pentos and finally Volantis. Curiously, the sellsword never took contracts into Westeros.

For two years after the Sword of Shadows was discovered, he accepted any and every contract available to him regardless of the details. He quickly accumulated power, wealth, and remarkable ties with the various powers playing across the Three Daughters and beyond. The size of his band grew rapidly under his leadership, earning him moniker abound as a phantom and reaper of the battlefield. He was said to have defeated a Dothraki Khal in single combat, a group of tiger soldiers in a one-versus-ten fight, and successfully raided a Sothoys corsair’s barge as they sailed. Whatever tells were told, the Sword never attested or denied the fame that came to him. He only ever used it to further his gains for lucrative contracts.

The Doombringers disappeared for a year and a half after a nonstop period of activity as the Sword of Shadows brought his company to the Smoking Sea and Slaver’s Bay. Nothing is known about what happened in the doomed regions around Valyria, but much can be said about his achievements in service to the slavemasters. His reputation preceded him this far out in Essos, the slavemasters willing to pay handsomely for his prowess against their former allies. The Sword of Shadows complied readily, fighting tooth and nail against the slave-soldiers of Yunkai or the Dothraki raiders from the Sea of Grass. His time was plentiful, yet he moved on as quickly as he arrived to seas beyond the reach of normal men.

To Qarth he sailed and spent several months before emerging from the Jade Gates and unto Asshai By The Shadows, where no record of his events transpired. What is known is that he returned from his travels to Qarth, where several warlocks and sorcerers joined his warband before departing. His widespread adventurers finally saw him return to Volantis with a vastly larger mercenary group than he had departed with. Then, astonishingly, he disappeared behind the Black Walls for seventeen days before reappearing with a new contract in hand. The Doombringers leaked from memory as they vanished into the Smoking Sea.

Many thought the Sword of Shadows perished in Valyria, eaten by creatures unseen or defeated by warriors unknown. The rumors persisted for a year before they returned to Volantis and left with several ships, a hundred more men, and artifacts abound. When the Doombringers emerged from the Smoking Sea, they did not return to Volantis but to Lys to meet with the Magisters. None can say what passed between the Magisters and the Sword; however, what can be said is that the Doombringers soon set sail and remained in the Disputed Lands for the rest of their present history.

Spoilers!

The Sword of Shadows is actually Maegar Targaryen, son of Aerion ‘Brightflame’ Targaryen who perished in 232AC. After her husband perished and her rejection at the Grand Council, Daenora Targaryen returned to one of her former husband's holdings in Lys. She raised her son with assistance from First Magister Kasso Bazanne, who expedited the road from which Maegar would eventually carve. Not soon after the boy became three-and-ten, Daenora passed away from a shiver in the night. Only the conclave of magisters was left to raise the son of Aerion, which resulted in a small financial war over possession of the boy. Ultimately, the boy became a man and chose the path of a sellsword, leaving Lys with a wealth of knowledge and a patreon to back him. To this day, the Doombringers send back luxurious gems and trinkets to assure their continued patronage. They have yet to forget the true identity of the Sword of Shadows.

Erich Harlaw

Erich ‘the Black Scythe’ Harlaw

Age: 25

Appearance: A stout warrior with the Iron Islands thick in his veins, bearing a black beard and a half-shaven skull with a flock of black hair. Hazel eyes stare out from thin eyebrows, while scars abound decorated the warrior’s face in crisscross patterns. Black half-plate sits overtop the leather jerkin of the warrior, while a raider’s helmet typical of an Iron Islander protects his thick skull. When unarmored, Erich prefers his jerkin with sailor’s boots and a decorative pin to denote his devotion to the Doombringers. Regardless of his nickname, Erich Harlaw eschews the clumsy use of a two-handed scythe and instead uses a bearded axe with a reinforced shield.

Biography:
The third trueborn son of Sigrin Harlaw by his rock wife, Erich Harlow was never meant for much more than an extra to his brothers, Sigfried and Bagrond. He was born a strong lad with a hearty laugh and a booming voice, yet his brothers had been born stronger and heartier. This repeated for the rest of his life on the Iron Islands, always trumped by his elder brothers by large stretches. Never could he boast of his raids on the mainland and never could he remain proud of his battles. His brethren rose above him in even these. His father never faulted him for he was a model raider, a brilliant sailor and a wolf born in human skin. He simply had a different destiny that awaited him.

As the years passed beneath his brothers’ triumphs, Erich learned from his raids and captured slaves he deemed knowledgeable enough to fill the gap between his brothers. A hospitable master, he would learn what he wanted from them and then release them like they were fish caught from the coast. It was from the lips of a woman from Old Town that he learned of the Disputed Lands, the myriad sellsword companies, and the riches found across Essos. This Iron Islander had a dream. He set out with an axe in his hand, his salt-wives in tow, and his salt-brothers in armor out to the Disputed Lands on a longship that he built. Yet, the Disputed Lands would never be for him.

His goals had been to gain riches, fame, and glory to triumph over his brothers once and for all; however, his first fights in the arid wasteland of Essos sold him on the savagery committed there. His first contract fell through, claiming his longship and his salt-wives without a way home. His second contract saw the death of his salt-brothers, leaving him alone in a foreign country without connections or attachments. His final contract, however, was the one that reeled him in. At the last possible moment, before a tiger-soldier stole his skull, he was saved by the Sword of Shadows and his Doombringers. Alone and afraid, he decided to join the Doombringers soon after their contract was complete.

Now, ten years since he was saved by the Sword, Erich serves his captain as the pinnacle of what a Second could be. He learned beneath the Sword, adding already to his impressive knowledge as an Iron Islander, and tore into the battlefield with unorthodox tactics. His experience from travelling the known world with the Doombringers brought insight greater than the power of his brothers combined. Even now, Erich believed that he could triumph over them in all things with what he’s experienced. His destiny was to serve, and he did so willingly to a warrior that surpassed imagination beside him.

Luco Tendyris

Luco ‘the Seventh Sail’ Tendyris

Age: 28

Appearance:
A man of smiles with emerald eyes that twinkle in the moonlight, Luco stands as model Braavosi in stunning features and theatrics abound. Brown, shoulder length hair parts away to reveal his fine, shaven face. A thin stubble always decorates his warm smiles, while thin eyebrows always suggest more than a simple transaction. Typical for his culture, Luco wears a sailor-worthy doublet of grey-purple satin with thin trousers and finely decorated boots. Never a man to be caught unawares, Sire Tendyris carries a saber at his side; however, he eschews this when walking amongst his kin in Braavos. He prefers not to fight if he has to, it’d ruin his picturesque smile.

Biography:
The young son of a Braavosi Magister, Luco Tendyris was a boy of charm, smiles, and clever wits. Even amongst the spirited folk of Braavos, Luco was considered a charmful person with the curiosity and nimbleness of a cat. He was, however, filled with hubris having known the fact that people viewed him as such. As a lad, he often found himself able to enthrall the clever Braavosi with a quick rasp of his tongue and perfect smile. If Luco had learned the depths of his hubris early, then perhaps his fate would be different.

When Luco came of age and departed his home, he knew with pride that he would become a grand merchant known throughout Essos. With silver abound as a Magister’s son, Luco fled into the seas with a small fleet of men and women willing to earn a fortune. A cunning man, he’d purchase at low, haggled prices and sell within the bay at extreme profit to start his ventures out into the Narrow Sea. With his ventures assured, he used the same tactics and sailed out with crews charmed by his smiles; however, Luco was slippery and greedy, never intending to pay or haggle down below their originally agreed crew fees. Even the ones that guarded his ship weren’t protected from his ploys, intentionally cutting their pay or stranding them deep out into the Narrow Sea. His reputation certain grew, Luco’s name now recognized for the infamous scandals and horrible practices he used.

Fortunately, his fate wasn’t to be skewered and dumped overboard. On a routine offload of cargo at an undesignated port along Essos, Luco had planned to collect his pay and return to Braavosi to increase his fleet; however, those he double-crossed had stalked his shipping lanes and finally caught him in a widesnare. Corsairs from the Stepstones intercepted him while docked with the intent to murder, steal, and use his vessels elsewhere. Who knew what god looked over Luco that day, but the Doombringers had been stalking those very corsairs and launched a counterattack to save Captain Tendyris’ ships. At the end of the conflict, Luco decided to give up his double-crossing standards and make a living elsewhere. The Sword of Shadows gave him that opportunity as a sellsail linked with the sellsword company. Luco, either indebt to his savior or smelling a fortune, happily accepted.

Now, after years spent sailing for the Doombringers, Luco has used the expenses offered to him to purchase a seventh carrack for the sellsword company. His reputation had been salvaged and reformed from a merchant captain to a glorious sellsail admiral. He prided himself on the fleet that he had earned, scrapped together from hasty deals, and haggled contracts. The Sword of Shadows had brought him near limitless funds, a loyal crew, and a strong fleet. At this point, he’d follow the Sword to the ends of the world as he has before.

Raegal Varranis

Raegal ‘the Forsaken’ Varranis

Age: 20

Appearance:
A gaunt, yet attractive Dornishman that hides his more comely features beneath a thin hood of midnight. Much like his kinsmen of House Varranis, Raegal prefers satin robes of black embroidered with orange decorations that remind him of Duskspire. Tall and lanky, he never had the natural born proficiency to be a warrior like his brothers. Short, black hair brushes against thick eyebrows nestled above hazel-orange eyes. Never one to embellish his features with ornaments, Raegal wears no jewelry unlike his family but keeps an amulet of the Seven Who Are One close to his chest.

Biography:
The stories of the fifth brother of the House of Dusk have already been told before in the tomes of Duskspire; however, his story had not ended with his disappearance from Dorne. As a young adult, scrutinized by his desires and interests, he fled the Duskspire to chart his own journey away from his brothers and his father. He refused to become a maester, his destiny decided by a heavy chain spent in the depths of a tower in service to a foreign lord. Raegal charted a vessel with stolen jewels from his eldest brother to take him to Qarth and eventually beyond where Westeros could not find him. So, he sailed with longing in his heart, spurned even by his beloved brothers who would see him bound to the Citadel’s links. His fate was forever altered as the charter stopped at Volantis to resupply for the journey forward.

Disembarking, Raegal spent their resupply time in a dockside tavern indulging in the wealth of culture, drink, and tomes he had purchased for prices wildly exaggerated. The tavern at that time had been full of mercenaries, each as surprisingly professional as the next, cheering their most recent victory. A man sat across Raegal, a silver-haired man with a lifetime of experience visible on his scarred face. The two engaged in conversation, slow at first to test the boundaries of the other until the two had spent countless hours conversing over everything from theories to facts. This man was the Sword of Shadows, leader of the Doombringers, and soon to be Raegal’s employer as his ship had long left port to finish the journey without him.

Raegal was brought from one end of the known world to next, experiencing everything that he had read in the books Zaphariel had provided. He learned from the various alchemists, warlocks, and sorcerers of practices unknown and sciences unseen. Their knowledge became his and his knowledge became theirs in an equivalent exchange, forever changing the way that the Doombringers operated in their arcane warfare. Most importantly, Raegal felt at peace here in a place and company that he could call home with people he could call brothers and sisters.

For six years, Raegal Varranis serviced the Doombringers as their chief alchemist and lore master of the arcane. He only furthered his intelligence by adding fleeing maesters, roaming alchemists, and hidden practitioners that suffered the same fate as him. To a small group of people, he became known as a savior, as much as the Sword of Shadows had been to him. His soul was bound to the company he loved, forming friendships and bonds that he never would’ve attained as the fifth son of a Dornish House. His soul, however, is stained by the things that he has done and the things that he has seen. The Light of the Seven can never truly forgive him, and he knows this well.

Orrosa'a

Orrosa’a

Age: Unknown

Appearance:
A tall and lithe woman with pale skin, blue lips, long silver hair, and eerie violet eyes that seem to pierce the soul. She wears heavy robes of black fabric with a hood embroidered with strange, swirling designs. Every step that she takes is ethereal in movement as if she was not accustomed to the plane of man. Undiscernable tattoos of dark inks decorated her skin from head to toe, sparsely dying her body in a tinge of light blue.

Biography:
It has been known that the Doombringers employ strange arts in their battle formations. Alchemists, warlocks, witches, sorcerers, seers, priests and wyrds are commonplace amongst their number. These people of the uncommon practices, however, were later additions to the vast bulk of the sellsword company. Only one witch has been present from the start, forever at the side of the Sword of Shadows. The witch is known as Orrosa’a. She was there when the Sword of Shadows set sail from Lys, there when he fought in the Disputed Lands, there when he crossed the Smoking Sea, and there when he claimed a cabal of warlocks for his own in Qarth. Her past is mysterious, shrouded under a perpetual coat of darkness to be forgotten and unremembered. Her present, however, can be told as it tells much of her character.

Tutor, guide, companion, priest. The warriors of the Doombringers have known Orrosa’a as all of these beside the Sword of Shadows. When the company is lost in the Essossi wilderness, Orrosa’a already knows the way to their destination. When the company is low on morale and their faith is faltering, the Sword and Orrosa’a bring them to the Light of their respective gods. When the company struggles to comprehend their situation, Orrosa’a is readily available to enlighten their stance where the Sword cannot. She has proven herself as a helpful creature, a warm presence in a cold body, and a calm hand in a company of brash warriors. She has seen to the death rites of their fellow sellswords, weeping for their loss and lamenting their passing. To some, she is likened to the Mother instead of the Crone. To others, she is considered the motherly presence needed in a family as large as the Doombringers.

Her role has not been forgotten. She is a witch, a practitioner of the forgotten magics of the world. From her den, she leads a cabal of myriad forsaken professions in arcane rituals hidden away from the Doombringers. Only the Sword of Shadows and his closest aides are permitted to watch. For better or worse, her dabbling into the depths of the Seven Hells has provided results. Enemy formations months before their arrival, good fortunes from a contract, and other boons granted to them prove her arts are at work. It is unknown how she is able to commune with forces unseen nor how she is capable of doing so. If there is an answer, then only the Sword of Shadows would know. Due to their secrecy, the sellsword company spreads rumors abound. Perhaps she uses the Sword’s seed for her rituals, or perhaps his blood to dribble into a demon’s jaw. Perhaps they used stolen flesh from Valyria as sacrifice, or perhaps they use an artifact of immense power found in the Smoking Sea. They will never know the answer.

What answers are certainly known amongst their rumors is the closeness in which the Sword of Shadows and Orrosa’a share. More than often if she isn’t spotted with the sellswords or her cabal, she is found by the sellsword captain’s side or hidden within his chambers. The Sword has only ever shown a certain fondness for the sorceress, relenting to the rare moments that they share. Some have said that they shared a wedding in the Smoking Sea, among the Valyrian ruins and produced a dragon-child of his own. Others have said that his retreat into the Black Wall of Volantis was for his eternal servitude bent to Orrosa’a. None of these are correct, but they are fond of one another in a way incomprehensible.

Dagger of Shadows

Dagger of Shadows

Age: Unknown

Appearance:
A young boy of ten as tall and lean as a broom. His face is soft, untouched by the roughness of a hard life. Long, silver hair nurtured with brush and blade dangle over violet eyes and sad, thin eyebrows. A curious lad, he wears a permanent frown under his inquisitive eyes, watching and observing as if he experienced the world for the first time. He is commonly seen in clothing fit for a noble’s squire with black-red satin or frolicking around in the Sword of Shadows long, black cloak.

Biography:
The presence of the illusive Dagger of Shadows, a moniker given by the sellswords, wasn’t originally noticed at the start of their journey. When the sellswords crossed the Smoking Sea to Slaver’s bay, they began to notice the shadow of a male boy no greater than five or six slinking through the warriors. Often, he feared their presence and hid away behind the comforting presence of Orrosa’a. Gradually, the sellswords managed to coax the lad from hiding and join them in feasts and storytelling. Creeping from the darkness, they found a boy curious of the world around him and everything. He listened keenly to stories, swapping from different variations of frowns no matter his supposed mood. When too much time had passed, the Sword would claim him and return him to chambers unknown. The rumors spread like wildfire throughout the Doombringers.

From that point on, the Dagger was seen more and more until he became a common occurrence amongst the sellswords. They’d train him, teach him, and let him listen into the events of their most recent battles. They’d pay him coin to fetch them something. He’d comply as a studious and obedient son to the Doombringers. Some saw profit in a silver-haired child, thinking to steal him away but those few were dealt with swiftly by the bulk of the sellswords. His appearance grew more vivid yet never lost their overall wonder at the world. It came to a point that he even ventured out with them in limited scope, from camp to town outskirt or from ship to dock.

Only after their second return to Volantis, where upon the Sword was allowed entry into the Black Wall, that the Dagger fully emerged from his shell. He was the sole squire and page of the Sword, venturing into smaller skirmishes armed with fitted armor for his size and a surcoat with the Doom bringer’s sigil. The Doombringers couldn’t be happier, watching one of their own grow into an unknown role that was thrusted upon him. From that point onward, the Dagger was always sheathed beside the Sword wherever they went. No matter the danger.

Spoilers!

The Dagger of Shadows is the firstborn son of Maegar Targaryen, and the witch known as Orrosa’a. His unobscured name is Aerion Targaryen after his grandsire. While the boy is silent and inquisitive, Maegar has already told the boy about their heritage and their right to the Iron Throne. Maegar has spoken at length about his father, their denial at the Grand Council, and the length at which people would see them dead for merely existing. As life is never promised, and the Stranger hangs over him, he felt it necessary for Aerion to know should something come to pass. When the two are alone, though, they bond as father and son where in public they cannot. Their identities ever hidden by the sellsword company.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : A War And Nine Crowns

House Varranis of Duskspire

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“Drown in Dusk!”

Overview

House Varranis is a Dornish House located in the central southern region of Dorne along the sulphurous river known as the Brimstone. Proud, wealthy, and powerful, the Varranians have managed to rise from obscurity to an unprecedented level of power due to their location and ties. The men and women of House Varranis are known in appearance for their silky black hair, charming features, and hazel-orange eyes that rival on mysticism. While their features may be charming, they should never be underestimated for beneath their careful guises are martial geniuses and knowledgeable alchemists of fearsome prowess. Their symbol is the downward sword and dusken sun on a split field of orange and black. Their house’s motto is ‘Drown in Dusk’ for their presence beneath the shadows of the Brimstone’s coastline, forever basking them in a dull dusk.

History

The histores of House Varranis are stooped in legend, forever shrouded by thick tomes with heavy locks on them. Some claim they were Valyrian impoverished nobles that snuck into the Andals, escaping along with them across the Narrow Sea; however, their midnight hued hair deny this. Others claim that they were Summer Islanders having made peace with the First Men, establishing themselves on the mouth of the Brimstone; however, no record of these Summer Islanders exist. What is true is that they existed in the time of the Andals and remained unnoticed for hundreds of years as tenders of the Brimstone.

(3 AC) In the time of Aegon the Conqueror, they were forced into the light as dragon fire reigned down upon the deserts of Dorne. No sooner had they come to witness destruction did they come under the thumb of House Uller. Discounted as desert nymphs and Rhonyish faeries, the Dornishmen hadn’t realized the folly of their superstitions. It was there upon the Brimstone that Uthor Uller, in a desperate attempt to save himself, named them House Varranis and gave them the ruined estate of Duskspire. He grimly pleaded with them to use their magic, but they were simply men and had none. Uthor Uller later perished in the dragonflame that consumed the desert sands, leaving shattered glass in their wake.

Yet House Varranis had earned their keep. They did not have magic, but they were accustomed to the harsh sands of Dorne and the sulfurous rivers of the Brimstone. They had lived, breathed, and adapted the land to their sake. House Uller survived with the assistance of House Varranis, teaching them of the harsher desert lifestyles and the barebone alchemicals necessary to survive living by the river. When the dragonfire passed, the two rose each other up as kin.

(103 AC) For a hundred years, they maintained an amicable relationship based on goodwill and knowledge. The Varranian serfs mined the bristle brimstone, honed the sulphurous rivers, and aided their lives when their Maesters could not. In those hundred years, they were acclaimed and reviled for their secrecy and apparently arcane arts by other houses. Fortunately, House Uller was the shield that defended. In times of joy they made marry and interwed to one-another, promising the future and beyond.

(153 AC) Yet, House Uller was mad. Fifty years later, they grew jealous of the Duskspire and House Varranis’ fortunes at the mouth of the Brimstone. The ruined estate had become a mighty bastion of trade, knowledge, and power that grew with the accumulating wealth of House Uller. They had grown from a small, insignificant tribe to a rival worthy of their attention. House Varranis benefited greatly as they expanded out onto the coast with castles and townships befitting their granted territory. They had grown too much, Joslena Uller had thought with envy on her tongue, remembering the days of which they were nothing.

(178 AC) For the next twenty-five years, House Uller of Hellgate became an oppressive tyrant to House Varranis of Duskspire. Tithes of soldiers, weapons, gold, alchemy, and more were raised beyond their productive capabilities. Once more House Varranis plunged into poverty, their eastward expansion crumbled into obscurity and decline. It was this moment that the foundation for vengeance was established. The Varranians were not to be trifled with power and connection attached to their fingers. A dark chapter began as they learned to become harbingers of the dusken sky.

(187 AC) In the one-hundreth-and-eighty-seventh year since Aegon’s Conquest, Dorne bent the knee to the Targaryen throne and became one with the Iron Throne. Prince Maron knelt in King’s Landing along with all of the respective heads of the most powerful Houses in Dorne. It was this most benevolent day that House Uller suffered a devastating blow as House Varranis seceded from their territory. A series of assassinations and poisonings plagued House Uller, claiming the lives of Boran Uller and Ormond Uller along with their children among countless others unnamed. No direct link drew ire to House Varranis, yet Lord Daemon Uller knew well that it could only be Lord Matheil ‘the Scorpion’ Varranis that could’ve orchestrated such a thing. Upon returning with the Prince of Dorne, the two Houses engaged in open arms; however, Prince Maron intervened for the sake of the peace most recently gained. In the open fields of the Sulphur Flats, hosted by Lord Quinlan Cook of Sulphur Hall, House Varranis became a direct vassal under House Martell. For thirteen days and nights, the four houses celebrated under the gaze of their liege-lord; however, conflict brewed under the surface. It would only be the first of many conflicts.

(196 AC) In the one-hundredth-and-ninety-sixth year since Aegon’s Conquest, House Varranis participated in the First Blackfyre Rebellion alongside their Prince, Maron. On the Redgrass Field, House Varranis hosted two-hundred Duskblades and two-hundred spears with Matheil Varranis and his two brothers, Mortred and Zahariel. Fifty men died in the charge along with Sire Mortred ‘the Black Serpent’ Varranis, but House Varranis received accommodation and honors for their service to the Iron Throne and Sunspear.

All good tales for House Varranis end in tragedy, however, as several women and children were abducted from the Midnight Villa. Enraged, Zahariel ‘Dusk’s Edge’ Varranis led a daring assault on the kidnappers only to be ambushed by spearmen bearing House Uller’s sigil. Zahariel was murdered along with twenty Duskblades of Duskspire. Their remains were later found in the mouth of the Brimstone by fishermen off the coast of Dorne.

Vengeance was demanded, but Matheil refused to involve his liege lord. In the midst of the night with ten men and women of acquired talent, Hellgate Hall was emptied of life through the use of alchemical mixtures and daggers. Their hostages were saved and returned to Duskspire, yet House Uller used the events to leverage the crimes on House Varranis. A challenge was issued and accepted, laying low the cousin of Lord Daemon Uller, Sire Preiss Uller. The crimes of House Varranis were forgiven, but the price was much too high.

(200 AC) After the death of two sons, Matheil Varranis’ father, Zalach Varranis, perished from a broken heart and illness. Matheil Varranis ascended the Dusk Throne and ruled over House Varranis for thirty years. His hold over the aptly renamed Midnight Coast saw a flourish of expansion to the east over the barren hills. Under his guidance, Matheil saw the warhost of the House increase to two-thousand spears, two-hundred Duskblades, and forty knights of low- and highborn birth. Several castles were bolstered, towns grew large, and the amnesty between the Martells and the Varranians grew from plentiful trade. That year, Matheil remarried to Amalia Dayne after the loss of his previous wife in the siege of Hellgate Hall. They were blessed with two sons, Vallor and Zaphon, and three daughters, Miska, Anelia, and Elysa.

(230 AC) In the two-hundredth-and-thirtieth year since Aegon’s Conquest, the realm was in a state of grave recovery as Westeros recovered from the Third Blackfyre Rebellion. House Varranis, however, was in shambles as Matheil Varranis finally passed from his wounds having never fully healed after the Rebellion. He was joined by his son, Zaphon, who passed a year earlier from a broken leg. Vallor, his firstborn son, rose to the Dusk Throne and lorded over his father’s domain during an age of crisis.

A noble man with a strong bearing and an ambitious heart, Vallor Varranis was a warrior and veteran of the last rebellion and had planned for more. Martially focused, he continued Matheil’s efforts of raising an army worthy of attention from their liege-lord. While he was certainly successful, it only drew further rivalry from their Uller neighbors. His success, however, did draw the interest of a Velaryon woman by the name of Raeya during a routine stop along the Midnight Coast. The two quickly fell in love, earning some wrath from House Velaryon; however, the growing power of House Varranis cooled their anger. Their union was greatly blessed as they bore five sons: Zaharion, Zorian, Aldrich, Arthur, and Raegal. For the next twenty years, House Varranis grew greater and stronger with their Velaryon and Martell allies.

(255 AC) In the two-hundredth-and-fifty-fifth year since Aegon’s Conquest, House Varranis suffered a terrible blow as Vallor Varranis and Raeya Velaryon perished in an ambush along the most recently expanded territories of the Midnight Coast. Only recently left reeling by the Red Spring, the last sixteen years saw misfortune for the Varranians in the form of several cousins perishing from tragedies most foul. While their power as a Great House of Dorne had risen sharply, it could not stop the Stranger from looming over the household. Many within the House believed they were abandoned, while others believed that House Uller played a dreadful part in their demise. No matter the opinion, one thing could be certain this year. It was the beginning of a long reign of greatness beneath Vallor’s first son, Zaharion, known throughout Dorne as the Magnificent.

Ascending at the age of twenty-and-five, Zaphariel reigned in House Varranis with a firm and soft grip. His policies were lavish, his spending ludicrous, and his wealth generation tremendous. For the next ten years, Zaharion saw House Varranis grow beyond it’s size as he explored the world on Dornish ships. Trade beyond the shores of Westeros into new trading lanes with Qarth and Astapor saw an influx of exotic goods spread throughout Dorne. Towns began to burst from their original walls along the Midnight Coast, threatening to blossom into a great coastal city not unlike Pentos. The Era of Zaharion was bereft of trouble, save for the extravagances that the Varranian son dined upon; women, weapons, wine, and silk abound. He blessed the dynasty with two children after marrying a Lyseni by the name of Asalia; however, rumors abound ascertained that the House Head had harbored many bastards during his exploits. Curiously, the fear of the past eleven years passed as no further deaths were recorded. A true testament to House Varranis’ new, golden era.

(260AC) The last five years have been a golden era in the eyes of House Varranis while Lord Zaphariel has taken the reins. Their largest haul of exotic goods has brought their military might into unprecedented levels, while their ties have grown far beyond Westeros into Essos’ fertile lands. Because of his efforts, wanderers and nobles from the Three Daughters have become commonplace amongst the Dornish populace in their demesne. Although their complaints have been heard, their liege has ascertained the necessity of this to retain their level of luxury; however, some have seen Lord Varranis walk with the darker elements of Essos. Red priests, warlocks of Qarth, black robed sorcerers of Asshai, and Sothoryi corsairs have been seen alongside the Dornish lord. Those concerned with their liege have taken to skulking after their lord only to lose his trail in a matter of moments.

Domain

House Varranis rules over the southern central area of Dorne where the Brimstone meets the Summer Sea. Ruling from the great towering bastion known as the Duskspire, the Dornish house extends their will across several minor towns and castles that’ve blossomed from their personal expansion or proximity. One of the few ports outside of Sunspear, Duskspire is a monument of preservation and wealth that has brought innumerable benefits not only to the House, but to the Martells. Two-tiered circular walls surround the great fortress with the first wall protecting the port and city, while the second defends the spiraling castle of the Dusk Throne. The ambitious home of House Varranis is often likened to Starfall in its design, yet it pales in comparison due to its dark stones and proximity to the sulphurous river.

Second only to the Duskspire is the Midnight Villa, an estate several miles away from House Varranis’ primary castle bordering on the edge of Uller’s territory along the Brimstone. Built as a home away from home, the Villa was a prideful creation at the height of House Uller’s aggression. To establish their political power and wealth, the Villa rose up as a direct sign of insurrection with high walls around a beautiful manor.

Plentiful mines from nearby villages along the mountainous terrain surrounding the Brimstone feed minerals and precious metals across the Varranian domain. Towns, threatening on becoming a single city not unlike Pentos, dot the Midnight Coast of southern Dorne, stretching out into the Summer Sea with wooden docks and piers. Castles of midnight hue with the banners of House Varranis dot the wasteland spreading from the Brimstone, each garrisoned completely and ready to strike should House Uller press their supposed advantage.

Military

At the dawn of their inception, House Varranis was a weak and timid family built on the protection of House Uller from would-be aggressors. Since that time over two-hundred years ago, House Varranis has grown a strong military that easily dwarfs their neighbors in terms of prowess and numbers. Either due to the circumstances of their upbringing or based on the focus of their leaders, the Varranians continue to grow the numbers of their military to this day.

The composition of their warriors appears simple at first until firmly observed by a cunning eye. Traditionally, Dornish spearmen and archers make up the vast majority of their ranks from levies raised by towns, villages, and castles; however, House Varranis has cultivated special men-at-arms ready to deliver their justice. The infamous Duskblades, warriors in half-plate and hooded helmets, fight valiantly with wicked hand and a half swords forged from dark metals. Their serpentine blades are their modus operati, thin fullers capable of holding snake venom for several seconds in the midst of a fight. Their prowess, at times, can equal that of knights from mainland Westeros, yet they are extraordinarily difficult to train and require specific teachings from Varranian knights, alchemists, and craftsmen to operate their gear.

Where the men-at-arms of House Varranis have earned their infamy across Dorne, it is their knights that truly shine as beacons of prowess and intelligence. Practised alchemists, rightful scholars, and excellent duelists make up the warriors that lead their levies into battle. Landed warriors, risen by the hands of Varranians past, eagerly fill the ranks of the many knights in service to House Varranis. While many have their own particular way of fighting, they are taught and trained in Duskspire to be Duskblades of their own. A great number of them carry the infamous swords of the Duskblades into combat, but feel the necessity to wear Dornish full-plate when sallying out.

Unfortunately, perhaps due to the Brimstone, House Varranis lacks cavalry and the raw shock-and-awe of their thunderous assaults. The ingenious minds of the House, however, make up for it a thousandfold using alchemists and their arcane arts to fill the gaps. Toxic elixirs, combined from gases of the Brimstone, are often used as combustive throwable weapons by their deft hands. Their aggressive use of these tactics has garnished bitter opinions from the Citadel and Old Town.

Not to be forgotten, the relatively small armada of House Varranis merely adds to the Dornish fleet mustered by the Martells. Unable to acquire a local source of wood, House Varranis imports precious timber at extraordinary prices from the Reach and the Stormlands. It is only due to their remarkable wealth that they’ve managed to hold onto a fleet of twenty galleys and a pair of carracks. A sizable portion for the Duskspire docks, but pales in comparison to any other Westerosi or Essosi fleet.

As of the two-hundredth-and-sixtieth year of Aegon’s Conquest, the military numbers of House Varranis average around four-thousand spearmen-archers, a thousand duskblades, and a hundred knights. Although the numbers have previously been counted by the Maesters attending Duskspire, it is currently unknown how many alchemists exist amongst their number that are and aren’t registered with the Alchemist’s Guild. It is fair to assume that these numbers are specifically hidden by Lord Varranis for some unknown reason. Perhaps a censure is in order from the Citadel?

Family Members

Zaphariel Varranis

Zaphariel ‘the Magnificent’ Varranis

Age: 30

Appearance:
Enigmatic, beautiful, and powerful are the words that best describe Zaphariel Varranis of Duskpire. A trimmed beard, shoulder-length black hair, and the hazel-orange eyes of House Varranis decorate any already meticulously sculpted face. Jewelry from across Essos decorates the knuckles, fingers, and ears of the opulent Dornishman. In particular, he keeps a total of eight silver claw rings attached to his fingers at most given times. His height only further boosts his ego as a tall man of nimbly muscular proportions. Black satin with decorations of orange make up the vast majority of his attire, yet he is never afraid to dawn the half-plate armor of the duskblades. Always in his possession is the Valyrian curved sword known as Pandjoras, ever sheathed in a decorated scabbard to further enhance his image.

Biography:
(230 AC) Born to Vallor Varranis and Raeya Velaryon in the two-hundredth-and-thirtieth year since Aegon’s Conquest, Zaphariel was the first of five that would forever change the lives of House Varranis. A strong, healthy, and curious child was what awaited his parents. From the moment he was born, the very sands of Dorne whispered the name Zaphariel. Raised in a time of prosperity for the House of Dusk, Zaphariel was gifted the luxuries of a privileged upbringing. Nothing was barred from his hands; alchemy, schooling, fighting, sneaking, and gallivanting were his to play with. As a boy, he grew into a model son with limitless charisma and an affectionate smile on his lips. He never faltered in his learnings, never lost interest in schooling, and never wanted to be scolded. Vallor found himself a proud father in the early years of the dusken heir’s life. The birth of his brothers changed his personality forever.

As a growing adolescent, Zaphariel took upon himself the duties of defending and raising his siblings where his father or the maesters could not. While remaining a charismatic boy of limitless potential, Zaphariel became more stoic and serious in his past-times. He turned away from playing in the sands or making believe the fantasies of dragons aflight to the world beyond Westeros and the dealings of the Iron Throne. His father cherished the sight of a dutiful heir, who gorged on literature and experiences like a starving wolf. It was only a prelude to the possibilities of the dusken heir.

As a young adult, Zaphariel had squired under his father and rode out to battle with corsairs and pirates along their trading lanes or intercept House Uller incursions upon their land. He was officially knighted after defeating a pair of Uller knights in battle, their lungs still breathing but their pride shattered by the dusken heir. From there it was a plethora of fresh responsibilities that saw his connections grow like wildfire spread across dry shrubbery. Where his father’s stewards couldn’t attend trading consultations, Zaphariel stood in place and executed the will of House Varranis excellently. Where a head alchemist’s formulae was trumped by stunted logic, Zaphariel could concoct a solution that their intelligence could not see. To some among House Varranis, he was everything that they could wish for in a firstborn heir. To Zaphariel, he only wished to see his brothers grow strong and healthy in a prosperous era for the House of Dusk.

At twenty-and-one, Zaphariel waved his brethren goodbye as he set sail to Essos. A contingency of several knights and duskblades accompanied him on a two-year sail of the Essossi coast to Lys. From there, few accounts can afford the luxury of his extravagant adventures through Essos; however, he was noted to have travelled as far north as Braavos and as far south as Qarth. Tales of an orange-eyed man stated that a lone ship sailed through the Smoking Sea and out the Jade Gates, yet more said that a large expedition of Dornishmen vanished into the Dothraki Sea and were never seen again. Accounts differ wildly about the adventures of the dusken heir, but all agree that he did return with an entourage of strange persons and a Lyseni wife by the name of Asalia. The reaction from Lord Vallor was a strong one as Zaphariel was meant for a match with a cousin of Lord Martell. His father was prepared to force the marriage apart, yet the sight of his grandsons eased him enough to forgive the matter. Little Aethor and Aelio were the two greatest treasures the Heir of Dusk brought home, alongside a wealth of many other things. As a gift for his survival, his marriage, and his children, Vallor allowed him the Midnight Villa as his personal home.

For the next four years of the dusk heir's life, Zaphariel changed in ways more subtle than shifting sands. Lord Vallor either never noticed or preferred not to as his firstborn son grew more ambitious and powerful. The strangers that accompanied him were always nearby, teaching him in strange arts and strange languages. The Midnight Villa became a crossbreed of Dornish and Lyseni livery with myriad artifacts from their journeys. His sons were raised just as he was, each a burning image of their father. Zaphariel was always seen with the two, pushing their education and allowing them the experience of his governing capabilities. His aptitude was certainly needed over the years since his return as he watched many members of House Varranis suffer unfortunate demises. He spent these years looking into the incidents himself along with his wealth of connections, while his father continued to govern the domains of the House of Dusk. It was in this year that Zaphariel gained the moniker of ‘the Magnificent’ after a particularly large, opulent feast with all the major lords of Dorne.

On the two-hundredth-and-fifty-fifth year since Aegon’s Conquest, his father Vallor and mother Raeya passed from their mortal coil in an ambush along the Midnight Coast. Enraged from his failure, Zaphariel begrudgingly accepted the role of Lord and rose up to take the Dusk Throne. His brothers grew infinitely closer in the year of their father’s death as his responsibilities increased a thousandfold. It was a cold year for Zaphariel even as he crossed the deserts to ascertain his allegiance to House Martell in Sunspear. He felt the Stranger lurked over his House and knew that only he could fix this issue. For the next five years, Zaphariel invited those from across the Narrow Sea and consulted them on matters unknown. Only the grave tragedy of Summerhall and the rise of the Ninepenny Kings drew away his attention as House Martell called his bannermen to war. Himself and his brothers marched to war at the fore of House Varranis’ might.

Zorian Varranis

Zorian ‘the Dusk Knight’ Varranis

Age: 26

Appearance:
Zorian Varranis is a strong, tall man with broad shoulders and impeccable musculature. Where his elder brother, Zaphariel, was the very model of House Varranis and a charming individual, Zorian was a brutal warrior and the very model of a knight. If circumstances had been different, there’d be no doubt that he could be a kingsguard. A flock of short black hair decorates his scalp, while a stony edifice of tanned skin is complimented only by the hazel-orange eyes of House Varranis. Forever a stern look upon his face, Zorian wears a plethora of scars that dance across his features and mix with a full-beard of black. He is rarely seen outside of his family’s special plate, ever a knight in half-plate and orange tabard with a hooded helmet. Outside of his warrior’s garb, Zorian shows himself as an austere individual in Varranian satin simple clothes. Zorian Varranis wields the Valyrian greatsword of House Varranis, Duskbringer, instead of his elder brother; a magnificent long, wavering blade of midnight hue with a serpentine pommel and decorative crossguard. His personal coat-of-arms is a black longsword through a red serpent on a field of checkered black and orange.

Biography:
(234 AC) House Varranis delighted at the birth of a second son from Vallor Varranis and Raeya Velaryon on the two-hundredth-and-thirty-fourth year since Aegon’s Conquest. A larger, heavier child that already showed his strength when gripping his father’s thumb. Vallor was pleased to see that he had borne another son that was a warrior in the making. His elder brother was beyond pleased to have a sibling, one that he could protect and play with. The boy was immediately raised up to be a knight, gifted toys to inspire his courage like tiny wooden swords or clay horses with miniature warriors. In the same way that Zaphariel was raised, so too was Zorian as the education of both crossed into one-another. When Zorian was not learning under the maesters, his father, or his brother, he was out in the sands with a wooden sword slashing at invisible things and claiming victory over the sands.

As a young adolescent, Zorian grew strong and bulky as he continued his martial journey into knighthood. Lord Vallor personally saw that Zorian was trained under the greatest of their knights, Sire Michol the Dusk Blade. The two were as inseparable as he was with his elder brother, training from dawn to dusk and stopping only when Michol was summoned by Lord Vallor for a patrol or a skirmish. Never one to be beaten, Zorian would continue to play and learn with Zaphariel. He never missed an opportunity to test his elder brother’s tactical prowess against his own.

As a young man, Zorian witnessed the death of Sire Michol and inherited the moniker of the Dusk Blade, thereby inheriting Duskbringer from his father as a gift of service and knighthood. The second born son would go on to attend tourneys and melees whenever travelling with Vallor; however, he preferred to remain home with his brothers and train in the courtyards of the Duskspire. His upbringing and honor had allowed him the right of becoming House Varranis’ Master at Arms, upholding tradition as the holder of Duskbringer. One of the last things that Vallor and Raeya were able to witness was the wedding between Zorian Varranis and Cerenna Hightower, daughter of Lord Lymond Hightower.

The next year, Vallor and Raeya perished in an ambush set along the Midnight Coast. Zorian was never able to defend them as he celebrated a new life together with Cerenna, their first child being born to them in the confines of the Duskspire. Despite the joy of his firstborn daughter, Zorian was crushed by the overwhelming fact that he couldn’t save his parents. He carried on his duties, however, and travelled with his elder brother, Zaphariel, to Sunspear to swear loyalty alongside the new Lord of Duskspire. When the two returned to their ancestral home, they grieved for thirteen days and thirteen nights with the rest of their brothers.

Over the next five years, Sire Zorian remained a steadfast companion to his elder brother and a tyrant to those that sought the demise of his family. He was their strongest knight, their strongest tactician, and their strongest fanatic. From his military oversight, he has only focused on strengthening the warriors House Varranis owns and doubling the amount of patrols across their territory. As the War of the Ninepenny Kings rose up on the Stepstones, Sire Zorian was one of the hundreds of warriors sent with Maron Martell to fight against a would-be usurper. He left behind his daughter of five, Lemmera, and his son of three, Vallor, named so for his grandsire.

Aldrich Varranis

Aldrich ‘the Brimstone Scribe’ Varranis

Age: 21

Appearance:
Aldrich Varranis is a gaunt, tall man with a lighter complexion than his brothers. Long, silky black hair trails down either side of his temples, while dark hazel-orange eyes poke out beneath thick eyebrows. He is neither bulky as his elder brother Zorian, nor is he charismatically nimble as his eldest brother Zaphariel. A lanky man, Aldrich prefers to shroud himself in scribes robes of fine satin and hold onto a large tome wherever he travels. A notable feature of his appearance is the lack of a maester’s chain, despite being everything that a maester could be in his appearance. Alas, his brethren had forbid him from journeying to the Citadel; however, this is something he doesn’t mind.

Biography:
(239 AC) Born on the two-hundredth-and-thirty-nineth year since Aegon’s Conquest, Aldrich was born as a twin to Arthur in a frail state. While the first two, Zorian and Zaphariel, had been strong and healthy children, Aldrich was a weak and somber child. Vallor and Raeya assumed this would simply pass, using his brothers as a point of reference; however, the frailness of the child never left even as he grew into a young boy. He would skip martial lessons in favor of reading, delving hungrily into literature to escape the harsh reality of the Dornish sands. His two elder brothers never mocked him, instead encouraging him to pursue a different calling than theirs. This, for better or worse, he took to heart and allowed himself the joy of freedom.

As a young adolescent, Aldrich spent much of his time in a plethora of tomes across Duskspire’s grand archive. The maesters were his friends as much as his brothers were. He drank deep of their knowledge and internally raised them up on a pillar of brilliance. From an early age, Aldrich knew that the Citadel would be his one and true desire. When he told his father about his wants, Vallor politely put him down and turned his attention away from the maesters to the alchemists of the House of Dusk. A young boy being rejected would certainly dishearten them, but it never bothered the hungry Aldrich. Where maesters had consumed his early years, alchemists became his next obsession that he delved further into. His time with the alchemists was exactly what the boy required, trumping even his eldest brother in some practices and combining potions of such virulence that it defied traditional logic. The hunger never passed, however, and Aldrich searched for more.

As a young adult, and a thirdborn son nonetheless, Aldrich experienced a level of freedom that he hadn’t yet achieved as a youth. He knew that he would never be a knight and never sought to be such, yet Aldrich craved more and more of the delicious meal known as knowledge. His calling as a maester was denied, yet he was never prohibited from travelling as his eldest brother had done. Unwilling to travel outside of Westeros, Aldrich spent several months across the rest of his adult life with the scholars of the Citadel and the septons of the Starry Sept. He further travelled across Westeros, returning home every so many weeks to feast with his brothers before setting off again. It was only when a match was made for him by Vallor Varranis that he returned to his home at last to serve as the House of Dusk’s chief alchemist. That year, Aldrich Varranis was blessedly married to Viola Redwyne in the grand halls of the Duskspire. Although the bride was happy, Aldrich never had a desire for love but understood his duties well enough. They bore a single child before Vallor and Raeya perished the next year named Zaharius after his eldest brother.

In the year that their parents perished in an ambush, Aldrich returned from his gifted home of Brimtower with his wife and newly born child. Never known as an emotional man, Aldrich wept with his brothers over the loss of their parents for thirteen days and thirteen nights. He dedicated his time over the next five years to the House of Dusk, aiding Zaphariel whenever necessary and conducting new, elaborate potions pushed by his eldest brother’s cabal. With the rise of the Ninepenny Kings, Aldrich remained behind to watch over the demesne in Zaphariel’s absence.

Arthur Varranis

Arthur ‘Midnight’ Varranis

Age: 21

Appearance:
A jovial and young knight, Arthur combines the charisma of his eldest brother and the might of his elder brother. Soft facial features rise up to shoulder-length black hair and trail down to a finely trimmed beard of midnight hue. Warm, hazel-orange eyes peer out from thin eyebrows. Unused to proper skirmishes and raids, Arthur is devoid of scars like his elder brothers and retains his youthful appearance in a state of near perpetuity. As a tourney knight, Arthur prefers full-plate with a surcoat of black-ornage and a plumed great helm uncharacteristic for a Dornishman. On the field, he wields a straight sword and a kite shield embellished with his family crest and his personal coat of arms. When removed of his warrior’s garb, he lives comfortably in black-orange nobles attire with decorated boots and fitted gloves with a traveller’s cape.

Biography:
(239 AC) Born in the two-hundredth-and-thirty-nineth year since Aegon’s Conquest, Arthur was born as a twin to Aldrich. Unlike his brother, he was a healthy and bright baby that was blessed with hearty laughter. Some considered it ominous that Arthur was healthy, while Aldrich was frail; however, the two would never go on to argue these facts. The young Arthur, as Zorian had once been, was fascinated with knights and chivalry more so than his elder brothers. He would follow his elder brother, Zorian, everywhere around Duskspire and watch him train in the sparring yards. Vallor was more than happy to receive another son worthy of being a warrior.

As a young adolescent, Arthur squired to a knight from outside of the House of Dusk. He served as page to Sire Alester Dayne from Starfall, who trained frequently and longingly with the duskblades of House Varranis. Where Sire Michol taught Zorian of strength and skill, Sire Alester taught the young Arthur of chivalry and sport. The two were fond of each other as teacher and mentor, but it never passed beyond that as a true friendship. After all, Arthur preferred to spend time with his brothers when possible. Nonetheless, he learned much of Alester’s swordsmanship and combined it together with the skills he learned from Zorian, for the two sparred often when available.

As a young adult, Arthur was knighted after winning a local tournament in the Reach and offering the flower wreath of the queen of love and beauty to Rylene Florent. It shouldn’t hold any surprise that the two were quickly wed no sooner had Lord Vallor Varranis and Lord Imry Florent had heard of his victory. Upon returning to Duskspire, the two wed upon the great docks of the House of Dusk.

Not long after their first child was born, a son by name of Matheil, Vallor and Raeya passed in the ambush that claimed their lives. Although not one of the many guards of House Varranis, Arthur felt responsible for their loss just as Zorian had. He joined his brothers in Duskspire to pray for their souls, feasting for thirteen days and thirteen nights in mourning. The next five years passed by in a blur as he worked together with his brothers to raise House Varranis in a way that Vallor would be proud. Arthur would march out with elder brothers to the Stepstones as the Band of Nine dared to attack the Iron Throne.

Raegal Varranis

Raegal ‘the Forsaken’ Varranis

Age: 20

Appearance:
A gaunt, yet attractive Dornishman that hides his more comely features beneath a thin hood of midnight. Much like his kinsmen of House Varranis, Raegal prefers satin robes of black embroidered with orange decorations that remind him of Duskspire. Tall and lanky, he never had the natural born proficiency to be a warrior like his brothers. Short, black hair brushes against thick eyebrows nestled above hazel-orange eyes. Never one to embellish his features with ornaments, Raegal wears no jewelry unlike his family but keeps an amulet of the Seven Who Are One close to his chest.

Biography:
(240 AC) Born in the two-hundredth-and-fortieth year since Aegon’s Conquest, Raegal was an omen to the family and their final child. He was sickly pale, did not cry, and did not have a strong grip. The maesters comforted the two worried parents, assuring them that it was normal for their fifth child. Raeya had then named him after one of the Targaryen’s past, claiming him as more Velaryon than Dornish. Vallor believed this was a sign of things to come. His suspicions would be proven correct as he steadily grew as an outcast of his brothers. He saw no desire in combat, no desire in study, and no desire in speech. His brothers were not to fault as they tried everything possible to connect with their youngest. Nothing would form between them, no connection that the other four had developed from birth nor the things that they had fancied among them. The only thing that Vallor had noticed would shift the young boy’s mood was the sight of the Brimstone and the things that perished from it.

As an adolescent, his macabre fascination grew beyond what Vallor understood as a vague interest. He became curious of everything from the Seven Who Are One to the plants beneath their feet to the metal that they forged. It wasn’t a scholar’s obsession. It was the beginning of a lunatic’s querying. Lord Varranis tried desperately to turn the boy’s attention away from the morose and to things more beneficial to his upbringing. It only further distanced him away from his last child, pushing what little closeness that they had between them. Vallor began to plan for the eventuality that he saw as his duty.

As a young adult, Vallor would demand that his fifth born son take the chains of an arch maester and journey to the Citadel. Endorsed by the maesters of Duskspire, they had decided on his fourteenth birthday to send him away. His reaction was understandable, sobbing and profusely pushing back at the wishes of his house. When the decision was made, his brothers weren’t accounted for and not there to witness his sorrow. On his knees, Raegal pleaded for one more year to spend with his brothers before becoming a maester. It was the first time that Vallor had witnessed such a strong emotion from the boy, soon to become a man, and he hesitated in his decision. Lord Varranis relented, allowing Raegal one more to bond with his brothers before departing for the Citadel. It was a mistake for both parties.

Before the end of the year, when Vallor and Raeya perished from an ambush, Raegal fled into the night on a charter set for an unknown voyage. Gems had been stolen from Zaphariel’s personal chest and Zorian’s training sword was stolen. None could guess where Raegal had escaped to, but his presence was felt when their parents passed away. The brothers mourned together over the loss of their outcast brother and the loss of their parents. Raegal would never find out until it was too late, far beyond Westeros’ shores.

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

Last of the Zmaj

-After the Kursken Assault-

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The Urshic Homeland was aflame. In her southeastern regions, the Raptor ignited the Asiatic Dustfields from the captured regions of the Xeric Tribes. To her southwestern regions, the Master of the Lines tore fresh wounds in her citadels from frequent sieges. In her southern regions, the Imperium built endless waves of trenches from the bottom of the Himalazians to the eight-pointed fortress-hives of the Evenkian Plains. The warriors of the Emperor drove further and further into her great lands with ruthless efficiency. She could wait no longer for her people to suffer. Kalagann’s horrors, locked behind sorcery and citadel, were unleashed enmasse to deal with the encroaching Empire.

Across the Urshic Front, the stalwart warriors of the Imperium saw them as they came. Dreaded volkhv, empowering the brave Urshite knights with powers from the wyrd through the Primordial Tongue, tore skin from bone. Burgeoning war migou, painted in the tainted blood of their patron deities, clobbered vehicle and genewarrior alike. Terrifying vukodlak, beast-warriors that bore the potent powered armor of Ursh, slaughtered auxilia in hundreds. Horrifying todorats, warriors fused to their warplate and deformed into four-legged abominations, cleaved into myriad trenches. Each was as devastating as the last; however, only one breed of monstrosity existed amongst Kalagann’s menagerie that triumphed over their terrors.

The zmaj. A red-scaled reptilian mount with huge, widespread wings that breathed wyrd-infused flames from its maw. As large as a heavy tank and as long as a sub-orbital naval vessel, the zmaj dominates wartorn Terra. They were few, far, and utterly furious. Wherever they appeared on the battlefield, they bore hundreds of dead from their breath alone. Regular munitions could not punch through their hide, nor could the sanctified magicks of the Sigilites break their manifestation. They were blood and fire. Only the generals beneath Kalagann and those trusted vityaz with the favor of the gods could ride upon them.

Though they were manifest in reality, conjured from bone, blood, and vitae, they hailed from within Kalagann’s domain. If there were a place that bore them from the wyrd, tore them from the womb of reality, then they could be silenced forever. Such a place would be forsaken, locked in dark magicks, and ruined by the pollution of the wyrd. Such a location would be hidden through the volkhv, away from the prying eyes of the Urshic populace and for the express viewage of Kalagann and his ensemble.

And yet it did exist.

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The Sibir Ice Plains were desolate of life. Rolling hills of snow were accompanied by great towers of frigid ice. Snowfall with flakes as sharp as daggers cut through the snapping wind, dicing smaller chunks of frost into thinner variants of cube. Where the weather didn’t blanket the plains, dangerous sleet expanded out in every direction for countless, uninterrupted miles. Just as the sky above was tinged with the sickly Terran atmosphere, so too were the iced plains a sickening hue of grey-green. Vague symbols of the wyrd, either from the ancient peoples of Terra or the recent inhabitants of the last millenia, were inscribed sporadically across the fields. Ruins were the only waymakers through the perilous, cold wasteland. Great communes of corroded metal, crumbling towers of frozen brick, and dilapidated skeletal monuments made up those few structures dotted throughout the plain.

None would dare to cross such a wasteland on foot or by vehicle. The temperature, the uneven split of sleet-ice, and the raging winds were enough to discourage most from attempting ventures through this region. Not even the Nordyc barbarians of Maulland Sen would dare to venture through Sibir. The only feasible way through the ice plains was through air, if one dared to risk catastrophic engine failure. And today, of all days, was not the day to fly through Northern Ursh. A maelstrom had formed off the former coast of plains, twisting the already frigid wind into a lightning hellscape of grey-green tint.

And yet something did dare to cross the Sibir through the air. A fat-bellied Stormbird painted in the hues of the Himalazian Imperium blew through the dagger-sharp hail. Roaring engines burned what little ice attempted to form on the edge of the aircraft’s hull, while reinforced metal blunted the maelstrom’s vicious weaponry. Within the depths of the assault bay, fifty-odd individuals in hulking, powered armor awaited. Each was strapped to their crash seats, segregated down the middle of the bay by their affiliation. One side was the yellow-black Thunder Warriors of the God-Slayers. The other side consisted of the gray Astartes of the Steel Sentinels. Only a pair of warriors remained out of their seats, save for the pilots at the front of the gunship.

The first was a gigantic swordsman in all black, bearing a winged helmet and hefting a dark greatsword against his left pauldron. One of his gauntlets gripped the vehicle rails in the bay for balance, while the other carefully balanced his weapon of war. His powerpack was decorated with a silver-skulled object at the top, while a billowing cape of white fur settled behind him. A strange, wrist-mounted armament was bound to the warrior’s right hand, covered in sigilic runes of the Sigilite’s secretive order.

The other was Arturas, praetorate of the nineteenth legion with armor mired in scratches and dents that he had earned while fighting the Imperium’s enemies. His armor wore these marks like a badge of pride, a reminder to the horrors that he and his brothers have faced in Nordyc, and now Ursh. A sword remained sheathed by his side, but in his left he held a shield with the Raptor Imperialis, painted golden but stained in unwashed blood from the continuous battle against the Urshites. The Praetorate looked over his brothers, noting their rigidly focused disposition.

+‘We are approaching the DZ, Primarch, at least as far out as we can go given the Sigilite’s orders. You and the rest of the Legio, as previously discussed, will have to leg it from there. All of the other Stormbirds are reporting success in the theater. No engagements from the targets yet.’+ The pilot, a woman with a raspy voice, said over the Stormbird’s internal voxhailer. Instinctively, the inhabitants began to routinely check their weapons on an automatic cycle. Thunder Warriors bristled in their restraints, feverishly thumbing their melee weapon’s activation runes or clearing the chamber of their bolters. Astartes merely watched their counterparts in cold silence, checking their plasma or volkite-based weaponry before stowing them.

“Understood,” Primarch Aeternus replied dryly. His voice, even filtered through a greathelm, was a lion’s roar of a noise. Devoid of the typical restraints of post-humanity, his tone was as loud as it was heroic. He cocked his head to the Astartes next to him and continued to speak, “are you prepared?”

“Indeed, honoured Aeternus. The nineteenth is more than honoured to serve alongside you, we had long chafed under the command of Ushotan when we were first deployed to Nordyc,” Arturas spoke, lightly tuning his head to acknowledge the Primarch. His voice was calmed, yet firm, as he looked to the fabled God-Slayer with a look of admiration. The Praetorate refocused away from the admiration and pride that swelled within, speaking again, “I am unfamiliar with the beasts that we are hunting, do they bear resemblance to some of the abominations of Nordyc?”

“Primarch Ushotan is a difficult warrior,” Aeternus replied with a small smile breaking on his lips, he was fond of speaking about the other Primarchs. He’d never forget the many, many arguments they’d had over the years since the start of the Unification. There were times that he missed the simplicity of Ushotan’s strategies or his more direct method of communication. He wondered if Valdor and him still sparred between conflicts. The God-Slayer continued, “but he is fiercely loyal and a stalwart soldier. My siblings would call him brash and arrogant, but he achieved much in the early years of the Unification.”

“You have my thanks for being more lively than the First Legio Astartes. They are a difficult sort, but they will grow from our guidance soon enough.” He added onto his previous comment. His time spent with the First Legio had been filled with plentiful growing pains, yet he endeavored to see them become the very Legio that would replace the God-Slayers.

“Disregard my sentimentality. The creatures that we face are called zmaj, large flying creatures used as aerial mounts for the Urshic generals and their more favored warriors. They appear as such,” the Primarch replied to his question, calmly fishing out a dataslate from one of his many leather pouches and offering it to Arturas. He was hit with the sudden realization of how stark the difference in their size was. Ignoring the thought, he continued, “and have been slain several times by our forces. Primarch Bodiciia of the Second Legio Cataegis made several notes on their biology after many encounters.”

The Stormbird rocked slightly as it drew closer to the maelstrom, each of its vectored engines firing at full throttle to account for the turbulence. The armed prow dipped through the atmosphere, splitting ice and hail in a downward plow through it all. Converging towards the deployment zone, the Stormbird already felt the damage of Sibir’s storms upon her hull as several dents and deep gashes cut through her paint.

The master of the nineteenth looked around the interior for a moment, listening to creaks and scratches the ice made against the hull. Far was it that he would feel fear for their safety, but concern was a certainty for the astartes, untrusting of the northern blizzards. From his previous campaign, he had known some to be a cover from those who would wish to hide their movements or deny assets. Arturas would make his concerns known, with a suspicious voice, “This blizzard is strong, it makes me wonder if it was conjured by sorcerers and wyrds.”

“The storms of Sibir, according to the Sigilite, are a byproduct of the Urshic witch-minds and Terra’s ailing deathsong.” The First Primarch responded. Concern from an Astartes was a welcome sign. It meant that they had experienced the taste of the wyrd, the brilliance of war, and the depths of slaughter. They were grown knights, matured by battle. He nodded approvingly. Already, he liked these warriors more than previous Astartes he had encountered.

The lights in the cabin switched from soft yellow to alarming red. A long acknowledging tone warned Aeternus of exactly what he needed to know. They were beginning combat descent, rapidly plummeting into dangerous altitudes as all Stormbirds did in their dives. The bay rattled loudly, threatening to shake the genewarriors from their restraints and toss them from the ramp egress. Pict-screens awoke from their slumber, replicating a hazy view of the outside from within the gunship.

+’Entering final descent, prepare for- What on Terra are those!?’+ The pilot had begun to pleasantly announce their landing before several objects entered their view. At first, they appeared as tiny dots of black inside of the raging maelstrom. Easy to mistake for rubble sucked up by the rampaging storm. They quickly grew larger until they formed a proper image for the pilots and their genewarrior occupants. They were a swarm of leathery, red-skinned beasts on thin wings of scales. More than anything ever previously discussed, they were legion. The swarm came upon them like a storm of sinew and muscle.

+‘Prepare for an emergency landing!’+ The woman said with no small amount of desperation in her voice over the voxhailers. The swarm split into several smaller groups, each spiralling towards the relative location of their brethren gunships. As they spun down towards the sleet-covered fields of Sibir, explosions rocked the air from far-off detonations. The myriad weapons of the Stormbird activated. Lascannons struck out with vicious, red beams, autocannons spun on axial mounts, and rockets unfurled from their wing-locked racks. Every shot from the ship saw the beasts scatter as their numbers thinned, yet they prevailed over any kind of material logic. Already, scant numbers of the swarm were attaching themselves to the aircraft to rip into the hull.

“God-Slayers!” Primarch Aeternus roared, releasing his grip on the vehicle rail and moving towards the ramp with his greatsword ready. The Thunder Warriors echoed his movements, unlocking themselves from their crash seats and preparing their weapons for immediate use. Myriad helmets were slipped onto heads, covering their rough features in the glories of Old Terra. Knightly helmets with single- or dual-lenses activated, further lighting the bay in a crimson glower.

“In glory, we slay!” They cried back as klaxons began to ring throughout the Stormbird. Each one of the Himalazian knights started to twitch as their bodies were flooded with the mind-altering cocktails from their augmentations.

“This is no longer an excursion. Prepare to jump, Knights of the Nineteenth!” The Primarch commanded, his lungs full of vigor and his body adjusting to the combat drugs filtering through unseen bionics.

“In Death, We Protect,” came the call of the Sentinels, disciplined and stoic unlike the Thunder Warriors so eager to spill blood on the battlefield. Each of them holding either a Volkite or plasma rifle, sparking with an unseen hatred that was ready to kill in His name. They looked around as they stood, ready for nightmarish creatures to break into the bay. Each of them were ready to fight and die, but it remained unseen as the savage God-Slayers who hyped themselves as berserkers of old.

Arturas for his part, looked amongst his brothers before speaking to them in a soft order, “Harric, if the Stormbird remains downed, stay with the pilot until rescue arrives. Monitor our movements, get to us once you can.”

“As you command, Arturas” came the swift answer of the last Sentinel in the vessel, putting a fist over his chest in acknowledgment. The Stormbird rocked as the monstrosities continued to eat at it, a horrible sound of a roar and a cacophony of sirens blared through the innards. Engine failure, the plummeting of their ship was evident before the screeching of the hull as a red maw crashed through the walls of the bay only for it to be met by a blast of volkite. Their roars and howls were more than just the blizzard now.

+‘Brace!’+

The screech of metal against blanketed snow and ice filled the interior, the force causing the Astartes to adjust themselves briefly to maintain balance with the mag-locked boots. There was a moment before the ramp to the Stormbird dropped, revealing the frigid cold and violent winds of the blizzard that would have chilled men in an instant. Howls from surviving horrors crept along the winds as warriors raised their weapons ready to doggedly fight against the chaos that surrounded them.

There was no waiting for the Thunder Warriors. There was only Unity. Before the Stormbird had even come to a complete stop, the Cataegis had led the way. Aeternus’ pushed forward with a mighty heave out the back of the gunship. The First Legio followed after him, each quelling their bloodthirst and madness to prepare for an inadequate landing. Greaves skid across broken sleet and ice, while white fur cloaks snapped in the freezing winds filled with the burning breath of foul abominations. The momentum of the skidding warriors granted them a miraculous boost of speed, their warforms sprinting out further than they projected.

Wordlessly, Aeternus and a pair of heavily armed Thunder Warriors turned around while the rest began the long trek into the sleet-bound hellscape. Their greaves came to a skidding halt as their weapons opened up on the back of the Stormbird. The Primarch’s wrist-mounted archeotech weapon, a destroyer’s volkite culverin, and a genewarrior’s bolter splattered the myriad reptilians across the gunship. Each shot from the Cataegis’ warlord saw one of the flying abominations burst into cobalt flame, rendering their mortal material into ethereal shreds.

+‘Send out an alert to Imperial Command. Be airborne by the time we finish with the target location. Raptor Imperialis.’+ Aeternus’ spoke into his helmet to the pilot, their cabin ringing with the piercing roar of the Primarch’s voice. The last of the smaller reptilians had been annihilated between himself and his more sane warriors, offering some respite for the crew. He turned around, leading the last two of the Cataegis away from the Stormbird as the Nineteenth caught up with him. His helmet-mounted auspex detected their intended target in the direction of the maelstrom.

“The edge of the maelstrom,” the Primarch pointed out with his plasma-wreathed greatsword. The storm of Sibir roared ahead of them, fronted only by the rushing form of twenty-odd Cataegis in yellow-black warplate. The skies above them was a mess of fury, blood, and explosives as other gunships aided one-another in a deadly firefight. Perhaps it was their luck that they were preoccupied with other, fiercer assailants in the sky around their hunting ground. He continued mid-sprint, “the target location is within a breath of it. We will brave the storm.”

His words weren’t a command. They were a fact. The maelstrom loomed over them just as the great swarm of red-skinned reptiles did. Massive chunks of debris, dagger-sharp hail, and piercing wind made up the edge of the storm. Whatever awaited them on their auspex, it was hidden beneath the uplifted sleet and snow flying into the sky.

A gust of wind blew ice into the air, the crystals seeming to hang in place for an instant before being lost in the swirl, so far above the heads of the marching genewarriors as to be invisible. There, nestled high within the clouds of the swirling maelstrom, another Stormbird circled. Its complement and crew were to the last Astartes of the First Legion, each one a veteran of Sanctii. Few indeed were the number of that band, granted the right to bear a shattered wall upon their pauldron and bearing relics wrenched from the deepest foundries of the city they had murdered.

No record of this flight existed, no transponder reported their location, and the crew ignored the calls for aid from its downed sister craft. Their vessel flew through that profane and terrible air seeming to flicker in and out of existence, skipping along the skein of reality, for it too was equipped with artifacts which were rarely seen since the fall of Old Night. All remained silent, their composure unbreakable as the Stormbird and pieces of themselves temporarily ceased to be.

All knew the seriousness of their errand, and all wished it would never be asked of them to commit to the deed, for they were tasked to hunt something far more deadly than a zmaj.

The Sentinels, save one, wordlessly stalked behind the larger Thunder Warriors, keeping their weapons held high for any of those beasts that hawkishly flew around the gunships. Occasionally, they fired bouts of volkite at a monster that dared begin to come after the strike force. There was only the briefest amount of lag as the Cataegis and his gene-spawn moved faster than the Astartes that reinforced them. Sat sheathed, were their power swords, wanting to spill the blood of horrors and being restrained from their purpose.

Arturas for his part led them, ready to slay any of the fabled zmaj that got too close to his brothers, or the Primarch. The master of the nineteenth was eager to prove himself to Aeternus, speaking into the vox as they bounded through frost and blizzard, “Honoured Aeternus, if these beasts are able to down a gunship such as ours, they may yet prove to be a fine hunt.”

“Your honorifics are appreciated, Arturas,” the Primarch responded, flexing his right wrist and injecting fresh munitions into the armament. The whirring sensation of his warplate feeding the device crawled down his right arm through his powerpack. His hud displayed a pleasant, green rune that confirmed that it was ready to dispense. He satisfied the system by precisely unloading into a nearby flock, drenching their bodies in cobalt flames. He continued unflinchingly, “but we are warriors of equal peerage. You owe me no such respect. We shall murder these beasts, claim our dues, and raise the Raptor over Sibir. Glory in the name of the Emperor!”

The task force bounded faster than any normal man could comprehend, covering the path toward the maelstrom in what seemed mere moments. Thunder Warrior and Astartes working in tandem, God-Slayer and Sentinel willing to die side by side to further His plan. As they approached the maelstrom, a force appeared as shadows within the snow - sent to halt this invading force of Imperial might. Techno-barbarians surged forwards firing their myriad weapons into Imperial ranks, met with a return volley of plasma and Volkite that cut them down in droves.

Those that reached the task force were met with a savagery matched as the God-Slayers were finally let loose to do their duty. Melee weapons clashed , guns barked, men howled in frenzy as those willing to lay down their lives did so to further their own causes. Then, the wyrmlings came, swarming the task force from all round, appearing as shades from the maelstrom. They proved little more than annoyances, maddened beasts who were predictable, yet when they came in grounds so thick that one was indistinguishable from another was when horror came. A Sentinel was mobbed, beasts clinging and ripping into his armor and dragged down as he desperately clutched a grenade to sell his life dearly.

The God-Slayers drove apart the techno-barbarians with might worthy of their name. None faltered under the assault from within the storm. Each one was met by the mind shattering strength that the Cataegis summoned. They were echoed by the Sentinels, swift in their strikes and precise in their slashes. A power sword cut through skin, a bolter tore apart a torso, a fist broke open a skull, and many such cases echoed across the sleek fields of Sibir. It was an appetiser before the main meal for the Thunder Warriors and their Astartes genekin. The wyrmlings screeched, gathering around them as vultures to dine upon a feast. As the techno-barbarians died, it dawned upon them that they were sent for a singular purpose.

“Ignore the barbarians. They are a feast for the spawnlings.” Aeternus’ remarked, realizing with surprising quickness of the trap that they had sprang. He should’ve dawned upon it at first contact. None of the warriors from Sibir bore armor. Their flesh was bare, save for hideous runes that were carved into their skin. Few of them were armed with any amount of lethality. An autogun in one’s hand, a power weapon in another, or a wyrd-weapon in the hands of a modestly sized barbarian. Each did little to prove equal combatants, yet they slowed their progress all the same.

“There,” the Primarch’s auspex pinged as he slew another techno-barbarian. His greatsword was drenched in the blood of Sibir, equal parts mortal and wyrd. He pointed the lengthy blade into the distance as his legs brought him forward. Aeternus’ had not faltered once in his sprint, similar to the rest of the genewarriors around him. One or two of his Cataegis, in the throes of their bloodthirst, stopped to brutalize a wyrmling before catching up with the tailing Sentinels. His voice growled as he continued, “the lair finally reveals itself.”

The truth of their destination had begun to form through the winds of the maelstrom. A large structure, built brick by brick from unknown materials in an age that has since passed. Towers, as tall as hive spires, rose up from lengthy parapets and curtain walls. Banners of black, bitten to shreds by frost, whipped in the storm’s mighty winds. A keep of black stone stood at the center of the assembly, cornered by the leviathan towers. Great statues of grotesque figures adorn in ritualistic armor stood vigilant along the length of the bastion. A moat of sleet, ice, and frozen blood pooled up around the exterior of it. Headache-inducing wards, written in the preposterous magics of the Urshic wyrd, were present on every face visible to the Imperial task force. All bore the passage of time, each separate extension of the structure in a state of disrepair. Swarms of the crimson wyrmling flooded out of the towers, while braying barbarians devoid of protective garment guided them with wyrd-flame and witch-horns.

“Kill the wyrm-handlers, ensure that they cannot command the horrors!” Arturas ordered, surging forth with all that he could muster to keep pace with the honored Primarch. A volley of fire began to pepper the fortress, knocking errant stone loose or destroying cover of the barbarian witches. The Sentinels moved towards the center of the formation, sticking close so that no wyrmling swarm would isolate them, focusing best they could to rush down the handlers before they could direct the horrid cretins to destroy them.

The First Son of the Nineteenth looked to Aeternus as they ran, crunching snow and bone beneath them, his voice was carried by the frigid cold, “Honoured Aeternus, if you could, have your gene-children cover our advance, we may be able to kill the will the wyrds before they can truly direct the monsters.”

“It shall be done.” The Lord of the First responded, adjusting his weight to compensate for a sudden stop of his dead-sprint. The weight of his warplate and the force of his physiology nearly saw a nearby selection of rubble disappear into nothingness. Aeternus utilized this momentum for a horizontal slash of his obsidian greatsword, unleashing a wave of searing, crimson energy into a collection of techno-barbarians. With the closest opponents decimated, the Primarch began shouting out his orders without restrain.

+‘God-Slayers! The Steel Sentinels have given us the honor of slaking your thirst! Cover their advance, slay, and eviscerate these miserable curs!’+ Aeternus’ shouted across the interlegionary voxnet, co-linked together with the Steel Sentinels for ease of access. The Thunder Warriors responded as anticipated with howls, roars, and cries of violence. Where they had been surging headstrong towards the keep, the Cataegis now stood stalwart and steady against the whelps of Sibir. Steel Sentinels, engaging in sustained suppression actions, were replaced with the violent carnage of the First Legio’s brutal annihilation. Their efforts were rewarded with reinvigorated attention from the endless swarm of crimson wyrmling and their witch-bound defenders.

As the Categis and his progeny did their bloody work, the nineteenth formed a line whilst continuing to pepper the fortress to keep the handlers from casting their dark magics. However, it was only plasma bolts striking the structure - their blasts chewing away at the ancient stone that made the haunted structure. The others knelt, alongside each other and began to retrieve what explosives they had. A silent conversation was held before they agreed, three taking up melta-charges as the battle raged. A wyrmling was bisected in front of them, slowly the God-Slayers advanced.

One of the Sentinels looked to his brothers, speaking as sternly as he was nonchalant, “Have you accounted for wind speed?”

“I have,” a quick reply came, annoyed at his brother’s question.

“Will you miss?” the same brother asked, arming his melta-charge and reeling back his arm as he awaited the command from Arturas.

“If I recall at the Battle of Red Frost, Gregor, you threw an unarmed grenade at some fool’s head,” came the sharp rebuttal as he did the same.

“Yet, I did not miss,” Gregor commented, as Arturas called for silence amongst the normally stoic Sentinels. While having the moment to chat, each of them had calculated and prepared for their throw - an impressive distance for throwing a hefty melta-charge. As the Praetorate raised his sword, each of the marines stepped and spun, throwing their charges as frisbees across the battlefield overhead the God-Slayers and their foes. There was a moment where the Astartes watched in bated breath before they saw it, the melta-charges landed amongst the Urshite sorcerers - one being impacted in the head by one of them.

A concussive shockwave surged upwards as the charges went off in unity, obliterating the wyrds and causing substantial damage to the entrance of the fortress. Wordlessly, the Sentinels stomped forwards through ice and snow and turned their weapons back onto the enemies in front of them to join the God-Slayers as the ravenous horde began to scatter, mindless and unchecked by their Urshite masters and in fear of the massive shockwave that had sounded over the battlefield.

“I did not miss,” Gregor’s brother commented as he shot a beast with his volkite rifle, deflagrating it.

+'Honoured Aeternus, the handlers are dead. We may continue.'+ came Arturas’ voice over the vox as the Sentinels began their bounding leaps forwards once more.

The Thunder Warriors had nearly completed their work by the time the Astartes had finished theirs. The techno-barbarians of Sibir, while hardy and plentiful, couldn’t handle the sheer brutality of the combined forces. It was a match made of steel, blood and violence. A pathway of corpses in various conditions was paved for the Sentinels to follow. Their ferocity was less than Ushotan’s carnage, yet their handiwork was Cataegis through and through. Most of the carcasses' skulls had been crushed, either during the attack or posthumously as a macabre reminder of their savagery. Regardless of their enemies' fallen bodies, the courtyard leading into the castle proper had been cleared of the most devious opponents. The servants of the Urshic rune-men hid in dark corners, under destroyed parapets, or near wyrmling corpses out of sight from the post-humans.

“Your warriors are legendary, Arturas,” Aeternus noted as the two met at the forefront of the keep, drawing Apocrypha from a berserker with twisted mutations across their back. A single activation of the greatsword saw the tainted blood immediately sear off. Similar scenes were played out across the courtyard, the Cataegis efficiently killing with their melee weapons to conserve their ammunition. Their steady demeanor was a queer reminder of the God-Slayers reputation. The Primarch continued, “we will now assault the keep-”

Before the Primarch could speak, a screeching roar as loud as howling titans from the mountains of unreality filled their ears. Some of the gene soldiers fell to their knees from the sheer pitch of the scream, Astartes and Cataegis alike. Those unhelmeted were afflicted the worst as blood started to dribble out of their visible orifices. It was a maddening sound, blending reality and the wyrd together in an instrumental song of uncontained rage. The screaming halted after several seconds of madness.

“... We must hurry. Split your squads to assault the towers, rig the structure for demolition with thermonuclear charges, and relink afterwards for the keep assault.” Aeternus finally spoke after several seconds had passed, ensuring the pseudo-wyrd phenomena had passed. He felt a trickle of blood pool around his ear, yet his body felt wholly unaffected by the ordeal. Through the interlegionary voxnet, he assigned structures to assault to the majority of the Cataegis. Four remained with him, each a veteran of Sanctii with wargear and personalizations to prove. If he was correct, then the keep proper would hold the thing that the Sigilite had been worried about.

It took the Astartes a touch longer to recuperate from the unnatural screech than their older counterparts. Despite their experience at Nordyc, such power from the immaterium was a harsh thing to resist in full. After all, beasts were easy to kill, the otherworldly magics were harder to survive even with their gene-forged might. Gradually, however, they had gotten their bearings and heard the Cataegis’ order. The Sentinels steeled themselves, checking their ammo and equipment as they began to hold position so that none would be able to enter the keep.

The leader of the Steel Sentinels lagged behind his brethren, sheathing his power sword for a brief moment. The God-Slayers had proven themselves much more honourable than Ushotan’s savage dogs, not that Aeternus’ honour was ever in question. Arturas looked upon the great Primarch that had led them here, speaking softly with a fist over his chest out of respect, “Honoured Aeternus, good hunting.”

“You honor me with this hunt, brother,” Aeternus responded, echoing the salute with his own against the Raptor on his chestplate. He had planted the greatsword into the ground to do so, giving his full respect to one of his many gene-descendants. If it had been any other genewarrior, then he would’ve expected a fight to dive deep into the realms of madness for the final kill. To give up such a slay spoke much about Arturas’ nature and that of his Legio. He cracked a smile beneath his helmet, knowing the future was in good hands. He continued, “but you will be joining me with four brothers stalwart against witches. ”

He was not the only one who felt that way. The Cataegis around him holstered their weapons and slammed their fists against their chest in salute. Warriors that had survived since the dawn of the Unification Wars, each a soldier worth hundreds of men with the martial knowledge of a hundred more. They turned away from Arturas as their Primarch pulled the blade from the Sibir snow, leaving a wide cleft in the frozen ground. Their forms stopped short of the keep, awaiting for the Sentinels to join them in the final part of their hunt.

While unseen, a smile crept across each Sentinel’s face though their demeanors all showed as they gladly stomped towards the Thunder Warriors. Arturas, for his part, could do little to contain the joy that he felt from being respected by such an honored legion such as the God-Slayers. He redrew his sword and followed into the breach knowing that he could die happily should the time come. The same could be said for any of his brothers, each drawing their swords and shields as they entered the confined space of the ancient fortress.

---

The keep was everything expected of a den built to house witch-minds, techo-barbarians, and their filthy servants within. Bodies, stripped of flesh, hung from the walls in morbid decoration of the entrance hall. Entrails wavered down from the cadavers like banners to unknown, vengeful gods. Streams of frozen blood filled the lines between the tiled floors. Braziers of witch-fire cast an eerie, lilac light throughout the fortress’ length. Chandeliers of bone with scraps of sinew slowly dripped fresh ichor down onto the Imperials. Just as Sibir had been devoid of life, so too was their main sacrilegious monastery of gore. At first glance, it appeared as if all the inhabitants had participated in the defense of the fortress. As they stepped further in, under arches of shattered brick and pulsing runes, they realized that that was an incorrect statement.

At the center of the keep, a circular room opened up with the maelstrom peering down into the fortress. At the center of that was a spiral staircase built for something larger than any of the previous inhabitants. Not even the genewarriors were large enough to fill the width of the steps. It was in this room that a thrumming had begun, pillars in each corner vibrating with the telltale sign of the wyrd. The Cataegis grit their teeth together, fervently fighting off the mind-tricks of the witch-cults with their superior genealogy. Their Primarch led on, discomforted but largely unaffected by the breadth of the wyrd. The Imperials pushed onward down, down, and further into the warm depths of the Urshic citadel.

Each step down into the abyss was a step into a new, hotter climate. Each step further was another spike to the brain from the magicks at work further in. The Urshic runes were growing more frequent, larger, and more desperate as they pressed on. Whispers had since begun to leak into their ears, speaking of their greatest fears and their greatest achievements. Even at these depths, the Primarch had begun to feel a firmer touch from the void. He felt his mind reject with every ounce of his being, yet the wyrd was stronger here than it had ever been before. It was as if the realm of souls and the realm of the living conjoined in unholy matrimony at this direct point.

‘False, fake, replacement, old tool, dying pawn, betrayed, naive, cancerous…’ their words went on as malevolent whispers. Images were forced into his brain of mighty beings, taller and stronger than he was. They were myriad in appearance. One was a bloodthirsty woman, just shy of his own height. Another was a man with scales, fire exuding from his jaw. Another was a woman with golden, burning eyes. Another was a pair of women forced into one, axes in both hands. Thousands of genewarriors followed them into stars unknown, across lands unseen, and against forces he couldn’t possibly comprehend. The voices laughed, ridiculing him with specters from an uncertain future. Aeternus denied them with every further step into the darkness of Sibir.

The sound of a breathing, living thing broke the dreadful silence forced on him by the wyrd. His warriors awoke from their stupor in tandem with the Primarch, their myriad weapons ready for the greatest confrontation of their lives. Aeternus’ witnessed the creature first before the rest of his genewarriors. It sat at the center of an impossibly wide chamber, stretching out miles and miles beyond the lengths of the keep above. The beast itself was enormous with tens of heads, each a crimson-scaled twin with a forest of horns swirling alongside their toothy maws. A great, serpentine body with a plethora of fat extremities made up the base body of the being. Hundreds of chains hooked the thing down onto a platform of black bricks, each engraved with an Urshic rune of humming power. It groaned as wyrmling were pushed from an unseen orifice, crying into reality and beginning an immediate skyward ascent.

As if sensing new life for the first time in eons, it rose its myriad heads from the platform and began to screech once more into the chamber. It was something that he had never experienced before as the creature’s shriek nearly flipped reality around them. Aeternus’ felt his soul try to crawl out of his skin as the beast’s roar willed the realm of souls as it did the realm of life. The Cataegis behind him were great warriors, yet this was beyond what they had faced before. One perished immediately under the psionic force, his body crumpling into itself like a crushed vehicle. Blood squirted out of the warplate, streaming down the stairs in a waterfall of vitae. Two Sentinels clutched their helms, and screamed horribly as they felt their minds liquify, only to be mercifully put to death by their brothers. Their deaths awoke the creature as it entered a snapping frenzy, violently pulling the chains that held it. A plethora of volkhv, the damned priests of Ursh, attempted to calm the creature with wyrd-influenced prayers. It only served to anger the creature as the servants of the Emperor descended into the chamber.

Mother of Zmaj

+‘The Mother of Zmaj has been found. The God-Slayers are engaging now. Raptor Imperialis!’+ The Primarch quickly stated into the voxnet, hoping in vain that their communications still worked in this quasi-realm. He waited no longer for any tricks of the wyrd. Aeternus took a step back on the steps and flung himself into the pit from a higher step. He descended towards the creature with Apocrypha activated, his brethren already beginning a ranged offense with their hard won weaponry from Sanctii. A vortex rifle unloaded a ear-splitting miniature blackhole, a disintegration carbine unleashed a eye-watering beam of black-red death, and a plasmic chaingun vomited searing doom into the chaos below.

“Sentinels!” Arturas called, raising his sword high as he readied his shield for a forward assault upon the ten-headed monstrosity. They readied themselves, bearing pistols and swords, ready for a glorious death fighting the wyrd-spawn. Their master pointed his blade not to the savage beast ahead of them, but once more to the sorcerers. Hatred coursed through their veins at the sight of them, and their call came when Arturas bellowed his orders, “Destroy the witch-priests! Crush them, make them suffer!”

A warcry of “Destroy the horrors of Old Night,” sounded as the Astartes rushed forwards after Aeternus, spreading themselves to deal with wyrds and witches that influenced the murderous beast-spawn. Initially, the Steel Sentinels achieved impressive progress, slamming into the sorcerers with a savagery matched only by the Categis. One was cut in two, another had his upper half blown apart by a plasma shot. The gene-warriors of the Nineteenth held nothing back, but the wyrds, few they may be, held otherworldly power at their fingertips. With a flick of the wrist, reality warped around one of the battle-brothers and soon merely fell over with dust spilling from an empty husk. The witch that did so was brutalized before it could wield these powers again, but others cast their magics - some mundane and survivable such as lighting or throwing objects, yet they would not chance these.

The Steel Sentinels had known well the powers of these psykers, Nordyc had taught them well that swift action was the only solution that would lead to their survival. Moving at the fastest their gene-wrought might could allow them, they endured what they could and slaughtered all they could reach. Arturas drove his blade into a witch and threw the corpse into another before leaping to confirm the death. “For Emperor and Imperium!” he roared as the battle raged.

As the Sentinels fought with blade and bolter, the God-Slayers did as their name implied. God slaying. Their stalwart Astartes allies had chosen to exterminate the witch-minds of Ursh, allowing them to focus on the very thing that they were made for. The Cataegis, the few that remained, threw down their heavy armaments and leapt from the stairwell with their blades drawn. Each bore a paragon blade, humming with unstable powerfields and screaming from their technological degradation. Their bodies hurled through the air like a boulder tossed from a far flung giant. They soon joined their Primarch, stabbing into the scale-flesh of the mighty zmaj queen.

The Primarch of the God-Slayers had been ahead of them by mere seconds, activating Apocrypha and descending into the zmaj with a two-handed grip. The chains that bound it to the platform stopped the creature from outright annihilating him, their heads snapping wildly in every direction regardless of foe or ally. The crimson-edged blade cut deep into the back of the creature, tearing through scale and sinew with disgusting ease. Plasma plunged into the beast, forcing it into a deadly frenzy. The addition of the other God-Slayers only heightened this state of being.

Whatever lethargy or restraint it had before, the Mother of Zmaj tore from its restraints in a fury. Enormous chunks of meat laden with warped scale were ripped from the creature’s body, waterfalls of black blood ejecting from the wounds. The stink of the wyrd rose up as the being was free of whatever arcane means that had bound it. A violent spray of black energy poured from its many mouths against anything and everything moved. Urshic sorcerers and their myriad slaves disappeared in the beams of wyrd, reduced to skeleton remains and sloughs of molten sinew. Fortunately, the structure held as the Urshic runes absorbed the energy wherever it impacted on the stone, redirecting it to an unknown destination. Its unstoppable rampage wouldn’t remain as Aeternus sprinted across the length of its body with Apocrypha dragging against its spine.

“Glory to Unity! Glory to the Emperor! Glory to Mankind!” Aeternus roared, the lion returning to his throat with booming pride. He leapt from his sprint, colliding with one of its many serpentine necks. His teeth grit as he dragged Apocrypha against the hardest of its scales, lopping one of the ten from its unearthly body. The decapitated head fell from its root, floundering onto the platform in a spray of midnight ichor. Each of the Cataegis were following his example, beginning their grizzly business of decapitating. Their armor was drenched in a hue of night, resembling their Primarch in all but his winged helmet and apocalyptic greatsword.

The last of the wyrds cried out in pain as one of the Astartes grabbed him and crushed his head like a grape between teeth. Yet, they could not relish this small victory as they had been forced to scatter as the beast’s breath threatened to smite them. Whilst the God-Slayers had been living up to their namesake, the Steel Sentinels switched their tactics, now that the monster had broken free of its bindings. Each of them grabbed their plasma or volkite and began to whittle in the creature’s legs. Arturas and five others ran forth, hacking at the legs of the warp-beast before diving out of the way as it thrashed and stomped.

The Mother of Zmaj reeled as it was stabbed, shot, and butchered all across its abnormal body. It twisted in the grasp of the genwarriors, defending with tooth and claw. Nothing was spared in its efforts to survive the assault of the Imperium. Urshic servants died beneath its claws, the cadavers of the sorcerers were mulched, and the knights of the Himalazians were struck by tooth. Its tail flailed, slamming one of the Steel Sentinels into the wall, flatlining their life before another Cataegis was swallowed whole by an unseen head. It refused to die here.

It would be denied this wish for survival. Aeternus regarded his fallen warrior briefly before tearing another one of its pulsating heads from its billowing necks. The creature screamed in agony as it thrashed beneath his grip. One of the two remaining veterans sliced through another neck before falling from the beast’s body. The other stabbed over and over in the same spot, beginning to lose control of their motor functions to the geneflaw and throbbing bloodlust. They had survived for decades, he wasn’t surprised that they had joined him for one more suicidal fight. It was their duty. It was what made them God-Slayers. The warrior on the ground, Valatarn, landed beside the Steel Sentinels, joining them in their hit-and-run strikes.

He, alone, must end this fight. Its wings beat against the ground uselessly as Aeternus hefted Apocrypha once more. Another head was cut from the leviathan greatsword, torn cleanly as bile sprayed out of its pulsing wounds. Two more of the creature’s vile heads remained, each desperately fighting against fate in a twisting, writhing motion. Aeternus steadied himself with his right hand firmly planted in one of its many neckholes, readying another strike from Apocrypha; however, his attack would never come. The final Thunder Warrior on the zmaj snapped from his stupor, throwing himself onto the second head in a fit of suicidal bravery. His geneson wrapped his arms around the neck, tightening his embrace to crush the being’s sinew. Warplate buckled, bile spewed, and myriad claws cut into the Cataegis as he pulled off the zmaj’s neck in a sickening twist of inhuman might. The genewarrior was slingshot by one of the creature’s claws, tearing the final of two heads from a string of sinew.

The action shook Aeternus from the Mother of Zmaj, dropping him down onto the platform below. His instincts kicked in, flattening out and catching himself in a rolling vault. The Primarch returned to proper warform and raised his gaze up to the quickly stabilizing red-scaled creature. Its wings beat like a wicked heart of malevolence, pushing the Astartes and Cataegis away in a torrent of superheated wind. A screech of psionic energy filtered through the air as it cried out in anguish.

And then it spoke in a voice that defied all logic. It was a herald of change, discord, stagnation, and rage. It had no natural vocal cords to speak the tongue of man, yet it spoke their words all the same. It spoke in the mortal plane and whispered in the immaterial plane. The things it said differed to each of them, yet it held the same tone as if it repeated the same utterance. It was sanity denied, crushing through the mental barrier of the genewarriors with unexplainable ease. It lowered its gaze to Aeternus and spoke, calmly as if they had not fought for their lives.

“Savior, sacrifice, and sword stand before me, o mighty wind of war. I pity you, o murderer mine. The darkness of the future shall not be mine. I thank you, o redeemer mine. My suffering shall cease, and I go now to my rest. I exalt you, o champion mine. Dragon-slayer, wish-fulfiller, age-ender. You fight for a far green country you shall never see. Gaze instead upon the holy mountain, where man’s salvation was laid to rest.”

The Astartes, each of them, whatever words they were hearing were evident to maddening from what Aeternus could see. Not even the knightly Arturas was spared as they all began clutching the sides of their helmets and began to scream, unable to comprehend the words the beast spoke. Some fell to their knees crying denial to whatever riddles the Mother of Zmaj spoke to them. Others cried as if they were no longer gene-warriors but mere children snapped back to reality, years of mental indoctrination shattered within a few stark words. The Steel Sentinels, these children, were brought to near psychological destruction despite the horrors endured in Nordyc.

Arturas thrashed his head, decrying the words that he heard, “Monster! Warp-taint! Silence yourself! Silence! Silence! We shall endure! Humanity will be united in His name!”

“Silence,” the mother of monsters whispered, and all noise in its nest - its death chamber - ceased, even as genewarriors and cult-priests continued to scream and writhe all without the slightest hint of noise.

“Silence is reward for those who lie beneath you rotting. Silence is mine to enjoy and give, our final parting. Yet now you shall listen, so my death may come unburdened. Listen well death-dealer, o God-Slayer, and doom-bringer. Unloved son, you end your time by ending mine so cruelly. Son of wrath - son of woe, your duty now forgotten.”

He was thunderstruck. The Primarch couldn’t feel himself breathe as the Mother of Zmaj formed words from nothingness. He listened with ears he didn’t think could comprehend. He watched with eyes that threatened to burst into streams of blood. His soul danced on a thin line. Aeternus was split. He wanted to scream in defiance at a fate that wasn’t his. He wanted to accept the fate that he was given. Rex knew well that both of these things lived deep within him, but to be told so bluntly was a cruelty. One that he would answer. Only one thing existed above everything that formed himself.

“I am His warrior, His soldier, His weapon, His tool, and His God-Slayer. I accept my fate!” The curse that had kept him locked was broken. He would never be able to tell if it were the will of the monster at that moment, or his own willpower shattering the power of the wyrd. No matter how it manifested, his body moved forward with a burst of astonishing speed. His blackened gauntlet thumbed the activation rune, igniting Apocrypha and sweeping upward with the blade. The monster didn’t hesitate. She didn’t move a fraction of a centimeter. She accepted death with a smiling maw of razor sharp teeth. She haunted him.

The spell below Sibir was broken as her head fell cleanly from her neck. A single slice from Apocrypha was all that was required to fell the Mother of Zmaj. A seemingly endless waterfall of bile ichor splashed out over the ruined platform, covering the Primarch in a wash of draconic vitae. Aeternus could’ve moved away in a fraction of a second; however, he chose to remain. His foe confused him much as the wyrd typically did, yet there was a difference in this creature. He detested the emotion that she had invoked, but Rex acknowledged the dragon on some level. The Thunder Warrior languished no longer, sprinting away to the side of Arturas.

“Awaken, brother, the dragon is felled!” His voice boomed through the winged helmet, the lion’s roar returning to the fields of reality. He planted a hand on the pauldron of the Astartes, jostling him enough to ascertain the status of the warrior. It surprised him that he felt some level of concern. Perhaps it was the loss of Caligula that left him sentimental, or perhaps it was a true bond. He conjured his will into his voice and continued, “the Emperor demands you to awaken from madness!”

It took a few moments for reality to come back to Arturas, to come back to any of the gene-warriors that had been maddened by the zmaj. Arturas ripped his helm from his head and wretched, clearly shaken from the experience that they had shared. He breathed for a long few moments, trying to comprehend it all but wholly unable to. His head turned slightly towards Aeternus, unable to meet the Primarch’s eyes, his voice was hoarse and no more than a whisper, “Honoured Primarch, I am unfit to fight by your side. The power of the wyrd overtook me.”

The Primarch of the God-Slayers growled in response. These warriors, of such prowess that they were equals of the Cataegis, thought so low of themselves. He refused to allow this. Their fight with the mother of zmaj had been legendary, their stalwart resolve had been beyond satisfactory, and their stoic hearts had beat against the monsters of the Old Night. Aeternus’ grip fell from Arturas’ pauldron, instead hoisting the Astartes back up onto his feet proper. The crimson-lenses of his winged helmet glared down into the other warrior’s bare face.

“You are worthy, Astartes. You and yours fought as we had at the dawn of the Unification Wars. The power of the wyrd is strong, but you were stronger. Never doubt your courage and honor, Arturas, for you have both in abundance. Now,” Aeternus finished, his voice as stern as it was bold. He released the grip on the Astartes, leaning down to grab the discarded helmet of Arturas and placing it in his gauntlets. The Primarch turned towards the corpse of the mother of monsters and gestured, “gather your warriors and let’s haul our kill.”

“As you wish, honoured Aeternus,” Arturas spoke, glaring at the helmet with a deep stare, the black blood from the Primarch’s hands had smeared along half the visor. Putting his helm back on, he looked to his brothers, moving to help them back to their feet and recollect themselves now that the conflict was over. There would need to be the task of collecting the gene-seed from the fallen and cataloguing their memory so that the annals of history did not forget them or what they had done, or at least what the Sigilite would allow to be remembered. He stepped over to a fallen Sentinel, his armor was smoking from the psychic energies of the men he killed, their bodies only a mere meter away.

“Only his second campaign, poor Gregor. I’ll miss his jokes,” came the sorrow filled voice of a marine, stepping next to Arturas. He sheathed his sword as he looked the Praetorate up and down, noting the black mark over the visor before speaking, “They’ll call you the ‘Bloody Black Eye’ for that.”

Arturas did not laugh, only staring at the corpse before regarding the marines first comment, “At least his jokes never missed, Gallad.”

A brief grumble came from Gallad before the Steel Sentinels marked the location for apothecary retrieval and stalked off to carry their querry as the Primarch had requested.

The two God-Slayers that remained followed their Primarch, beginning the long task of butchering the mother of monsters and reclaiming the broken forms of their fellow genewarriors. The remaining forces of the Imperial operation began to funnel in from above, unmolested by the runes that had plagued their initial descent. Wounded were tended by medicae and apothecary alike, while unharmed warriors claimed the remains of their fallen. The Cataegis, in particular, started butchering with chainswords and chainfists. Only their Primarch started to emerge back up with the mother of zmaj’s head dripping in his right gauntlet.

---

The Stormbird awaited them as they finished their macabre task. The maelstrom that had haunted their dive through the clouds had long cleared away to a lousy overcast, the silent observers to the slaughter having fled with the storm. Freezing wind still beat against the myriad gunships lying inactive before the ruined citadel. Genewarriors hurried to and from the transports, carefully stealing away forbidden artifacts or chunks of zmaj flesh for the Sigilites to discern. The dull thud of bolter bark saw the last of the techno-barbarian inhabitants perish, followed shortly after by their dark servants and more pitifully malign beasts. Additional explosives were set out in the open, ready to be detonated for when they departed from the cabal-fortress.

Primarch Aeternus observed none of this as he awaited final departure from Sibir. The mother of zmaj’s primary head – the trophy that he had taken – waited nearby with a heavy shroud over its preserved form. For some reason, it felt like it was watching him. Behind him in the cargo hold were the shrouded bodies of his Thunder Warriors, those that had descended into the maddening depths with him. Their paragon blades held the dark cloth over their enormous forms, guarding their remains as much as preserving their peace. The rest of his retinue had joined him, each as weathered and beaten from the assault. Thankfully, they rejoiced in victory and talked loudly amongst themselves. It lightened his mood some, but his mind was affixed to different matters. They would soon leave this place for another battlefield as soon as the Sentinels rejoined them.

“We have finished collecting the progenoid glands from the fallen, honoured primarch,” came the voice of Arturas, walking up into the stormbird alongside what remained of his retinue. His voice carried a light twinge of sorrow, never was this line of duty without it for brothers always fell. Yet now, each of these Sentinels who had lived and preserved each bore a tooth from the Zmaj, each now carrying teeth from the monster. Arturas looked to Aeternus as he spoke to him, “It will certainly make a good trophy for you, should you have time to hang it for decoration.”

“I plan to graft it to my pauldron once it has been sanctified by the Sigilites. It was a foe worthy of such, but not the most difficult I’ve tackled.” Aeternus replied with a small smile breaking his cracked and scarred lips. Apocrypha, his one and only other trophy, rested against his left pauldron. He hefted the weapon slightly to emphasize what his most difficult kill had been. The Primarch then gestured to the other Astartes and continued, “your new trophies suit you and yours, almost like God-Slayers in your own right.”

The comment had become a sentiment felt across his Legio as the two intermingled, sharing the fights that they had experienced in the battle. Where once the two factions squared off in mutual silence, now they gathered as comrades of a campaign. If only this was a common scenario between the Astartes and Cataegis, Aeternus thought to himself.

“Once we return to the front for resupply, the First Legio will engage in a witch hunt. Where does the Emperor’s will bring you next, Arturas?” Aeternus asked, having only moments ago been informed of the God-Slayer’s next assignment. He was grateful to be given such a task, yet Rex would miss the company of the Sentinels and their Legion Master. The Primarch missed many things, his fellow warrior-leaders included. Arturas reminded him of Caligula in some ways. His gaze fell from the gathering warriors to rest on Arturas as he spoke.

“We are likely to be deployed to hunt whatever creatures of Old Night the Urshites plan to deploy. Alas, at this point, we are little more than reserves as our numbers dwindle to quick,” Arturas answered in a swift, yet saddened tone as he stepped past the Categis to the interior of the Stormbird. There was a sense of frustration in the Praetorate’s voice that only another gene warrior could gather, the source of which would become apparent soon enough. The Legion Master did a half-turn, speaking to Aeternus but not daring to look at him as he explained, “Our geneseed does not allow us to replenish as quickly as the other legions, honoured Aeternus. I fear that our usefulness will only go so far, and we can only deploy small strike forces where we can.”

Anger seemed to grow in his voice, not understanding the flaw, “I curse the fact only one of thirty aspirants would survive the implantation, less so the training to become one of us.”

He listened closely to the words of the younger genewarrior. His frustrations were visible enough to border on defiance of their Master, but Aeternus couldn’t help but feel the same irritation for his own Legion. The winged helmet of the Primarch fell on each of his warriors, reminding him of the long discussions he’d had with the Sigilite over their inherent geneflaw. To see that not even their descendants were free of it left a sour taste in his mouth.

“We were legion once. The God-Slayers numbered in the hundreds of thousands, the first to be deployed at the start of the Unification Wars. Every passing year I watched as the Thunder Warriors of my Legion split to become other members of different Cataegis. The Primarchs separated and so too did their reformed warriors. Then I watched the geneflaw covet their lives for a century, our numbers dwindling down to the point that you see now. These three-hundred odd knights are the last of their kind, unable to be replenished.” Primarch Aeternus spoke softly, his voice a low rumble over the humming engines of the Stormbird. He turned away from his warriors to the Legion Master next to him, planting a gauntlet on his pauldron.

“I do not speak this to garnish pity. I say this because our Master has a plan that far exceeds our limited vision as warriors of Unity. We use the gifts that He gives us to become the weapons of war that He wanted. If you are low in number, then you must exceed your quantity in quality. If you lack a legion, then become the head of the spear with knights unequalled. I’ve seen you Astartes in action. I know you can do this. For us,” Aeternus said, releasing the warrior’s pauldron and gesturing to the rest of the genewarriors inhabiting the Stormbird. Some caught their gaze and offered a salute before returning to speak with their equals. He continued with a dry smile, “it is the God-Slayer way. It is our only way. When the last of us perishes, I have no doubts that you will take up that mantle.”

“And so we shall, honoured Aeternus, if that is what you request of us. The Steel Sentinels shall be the foremost legion, no matter what we should face,” Arturas said, clearly inspired by encouragement of the venerable warrior. The sentinels all took their seats within the Stormbird, ready to deploy to wherever it was that their Emperor desired them to be. They would follow after the Categis’ footsteps and they would become a force beyond equal.

They would become God-Slayers.

---

Credits: I Legio Cataegis/Primarch Aeternus @MarshalSolgriev , XIX Legio Astartes/Arturas @Lauder , Mother of Zmaj @grimely

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

A Fate Beheld

After the Fall of Sanctii

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---

He swung the long, black blade in his hand to his left, eviscerating a warrior in heavy armor. The exosuit attached to the man crumpled within, depressurizing and crushing them into pink mist. His other arm swept right, ejecting lethal shells that burst another target into a great inferno of azure flame. The blocky armament attached to his wrist clunked, affirming his suspicions that no ammunition remained. He had expected as much, this was a grueling conflict with the end nearly in sight. An end that he’d deliberate over once the bastion-commander was slain.

More enemies rapidly approached him from further down the dark halls of Ghorak’bhal, the shield-citadel of Ursh’s western approach. They were clad in black power armor, buttressed with spikes and engraved with sorcerous runes. Whatever remained of their helmets were fused together with the flesh beneath, recreating a monstrosity spoken of in old Terran nightmares. Horns jutted out across their scalp, maws dripping with ichor dominated their jaws, and fiendish red scales decorated what skin would’ve remained. Their visage would have given normal men pause, perhaps even cause to retreat. He felt no such fear from these creatures. He had already annihilated hundreds of them.

And he was not alone in that task. His successors, adorn in the black-yellow of the First Legio Cataegis, followed in tight squads of four. Their instruments of carnage disintegrated what few scraps of Urshite warrior escaped his ruthless carnage. Mixed amongst their number, taller and bulkier, the true knights of the Cataegis reaved wildly into the Urshite assistants with palpable fury. He shared their enthusiasm, beyond what they could understand, but a deity must be slain today. He could not linger on the pitiful beings that sold their souls for pittance.

A being awaited him at the far end of the throne-chamber. Sat upon a jagged seat of blackened metal and fleshy scraps, the citadel-lord of Ghorak’bhal barked orders with his ragged voice. Unnaturally elongated limbs flung out to press new commands upon the frothing warriors at his quickly diminishing disposal. Alabaster skin, tight enough to reveal malformed bone beneath, peaked out beneath a helmet-crown made of witch-metal and ramshackle technology. His desecrated robe-armor swung with every shift of his body, partially threatening to slip off if he moved too much. That was the ‘god’ that he had come to slay. It brought him little joy to eviscerate such a pitiful warrior. If he could be called one.

He refused to tarry any longer than he needed to. His left gauntlet hefted the enormous, black blade into a two-handed grip. His form lowered into a precise strike, turning the point of his monstrous weapon dead-on to the citadel-lord. All the muscles in his legs bunched together in anticipation as explosive adrenal cocktails spilled through his body. As a bullet fired from the Emperor himself, he sprinted forward across the throne-chamber. The being that called itself a ‘god’ screamed out in protest, attempting to will the powers of the Empyrean against his inevitable doom. The wyrd would not protect him this day as the sprinting warrior lunged into the air, twisting the blade into a downward diagonal pierce.

The air itself was cut clean as the power field of the blade ignited the oxygen around it. A film of crimson erupted into realspace around the edges of the greatsword, drawing the attention of the warriors within the throne-chamber. The citadel-lord raised his hands in defiance only to be engulfed by the full length of the weapon. Flesh rapidly disintegrated as the powerfield ate through armor and skin. No howls of pain rose up from the quickly dissipating warlord. In seconds, the husk of the Urshite commander was tossed by the Primarch of the God-Slayers. He turned to the remainder of their forces, only for the rest of the Legio Cataegis and Legio Astartes to murder what remained.

As the last of their numbers fell dead to the scrap metal tiles of the throne-chamber, Aeternus turned to witness the ongoing carnage outside. The remainder of the Excertus Imperialis that survived the siege of Sanctii encircled the wide walls of Ghorak’bhal. Cobbled streets of shattered metal were clogged with the dead, Urshite and Imperial alike. Hulking genewarriors in unflinching black-yellow ceramite hunted in synchronized squads, systematically annihilating whatever non-Imperial forces they came across. Flames as high as the spires of Franc licked the sky above as pyres burnt the unwanted dead and ate away the livelihoods of the Urshite survivors. Already the banner of the Raptor was beginning to fly from makeshift poles at the edges of the outer walls. Cheers, screams, shouts, and cries were mixed into the cacophony of war spreading throughout western Ursh.

Where the Urshite menace had once filled this hall of defiance, now his brethren and his successors were filling in from across the bastion-network. Mortals were beginning to rendezvous to their position, their faces marked with wounds and scars from the conflict. He would await their request any longer. Aeternus Rex raised Apocrpyha, the black blade of Akkad’s last warrior-king, towards the ceiling of the bastion.

“Ghorak’bhal has fallen! Raptor Imperialis!”

The reception was as expected. The mortals raised their weapons high into the air, screaming for joy and gritting their teeth in relief. His brethren of the Legio Cataegis slammed their bloodied gauntlets against their chests in salute, cackling madly beneath their knightly helmets. Only the Astartes seemed statuesque in their response, perhaps already probing their internal communications for the next fight. His time fighting alongside them had informed him much of their inhumanity. He wondered if this was what the Emperor’s next genewarriors were meant to be: emotionless and tactical. The thought wandered away from him as he descended the steps of the Urshic scrap-throne.

A trio of warriors, one from the Cataegis,one from the Astartes, and an officer of the Excertus Imperialis approached him. It had become a necessary part of their operations as he often fought away from Mistress Vairya and the Auxilia. Their communications were broken and separated between their legions, no doubt encrypted to a degree that he would find incomprehensible.

“Forward our victory to Mistress Vairya. The post-battle brief will be in the throne-chamber.” Aeternus stated briefly to the Astartes, then continued with the Thunder Warrior and the Auxilia officer. “All squads on hunter-killer operations until we leave in twenty-four hours for the western trenches.” The officer offered a swift salute before disappearing into the quickly dispersing crowd of genewarriors and mortals. Only the Thunder Warrior remained with his gauntlet firmly locked against his chest.

Aeternus narrowed his eyes at the lack of response and sudden stillness of the warrior. One of his blacked gauntlets rested on the pommel of the diamantine dagger; however, the warrior finally responded in a low voice. “Captain Caligula hasn’t responded in an hour, Lord Primarch. Captain Nero and Captain Tiberius, though, have reported success in the western and eastern quadrants of the citadel.” The response made his heart suddenly drop.

“Where was his last reported position and at what time?” His voice came out in a mix of a growl and a groan like a wounded lion. He couldn’t hold back the thin veil of anxiety that plagued his mind. Caligula had been having repeated episodes since the Fall of Sanctii. Perhaps it was a loss of communications in that specific quadrant that caused his tardiness.

“The communications bunkers, Lord Primarch.”

And his heart sank further.

---

The bunker was a charnel house.

Agama Zur was the last person alive in the room, a rather grim distinction considering the number of dead genewarriors and scribes. His double hearts pumped a potent cocktail of painkillers and coagulants through his ruined body, clotting what ought to be fatal severing of blood vessels while removing the haze of agony from his mind. There was a dull recognition that he would not survive these wounds, but he put that out of mind as he positioned what remained of his body against the sealed door, his one remaining arm gripping a blood slickened chainsword. He did not know whose blood it was, not that it mattered.

Because though he may be the last person which still drew breath, that said nothing of the monster he was staring down.

With a smile on his lips the Astarte, plucked from the deep valleys of the Himalazias as a boy, stared down his death.

It towered above Agama Zur as a deity of destruction and death. Violence screamed across the yellow warplate of the monster as it had rampaged through the bunker. Streaks of blood trickled warmly off of the plating, while fresh entrails and bits of battered flesh dangled from blackened gauntlets. A bloodstained cape of fur bellowed behind the beast, swelling its shadow on the rockrete walls. A mangled claw of rage gripped the long handle of an archaic axe, serrated for maximum desecration. Its head was a slanted helmet with a blood-slicked plume, battered beyond former recognition. No lenses filled the gap in the eyeslits, yet a pair of crazed eyes watched from beneath.

Behind it was unabashed chaos. Consoles, cogitators, terminals, and more were shattered into nothingness by the horrific thing. Projection screens and auto-scribes were torn from their mounts to the stained tiles of the bunker. Vaguely humanoid shapes scattered across the floor in a morbid display of aggression, some more brutalized than others. Towering warriors in black-yellow armor were shattered, cleaved open, and construed into entrail nests beyond their slumbering forms. Glowglobes above the monster rabidly flickered in their chaotic state of activation.

It growled at him. It snarled. It snapped. It screamed out in defiance as it swung the long handled axe across the space above the Astartes’ head. Rockrete melted beneath the sheer strength of the creature. The attack was the same one that had laid low the inhabitants of the chamber. It could not see what was truly in front of it. The monster slashed at whatever it could manage to strike, but each stroke was as eviscerating as the last. A bulky vox-emitter exploded as it was lacerated, exploding out into a crescendo of sparks and debris.

It coughed out words as if a toddler was trying to speak for the first time. Each word was as guttural as the snarls of the creature. The language that it spoke was a disgusting mixture of older tongues merged into one. Every utterance was filled with unmistaken venom.

“UNITY.” It howled out to the nothingness away from Agama.

“Master! These WRETCHED Urshites! I offer them! Raptor Imperialis!” It snapped out, punching into the corpse of another yellow-plated warrior. The force of the blow tore out another chunk of reinforced metal. The monster tossed it to another side of the room, tearing off more rockrete from the quickly deteriorating bunker.

“Master! You BETRAY us! URSHITES, smaller and weaker, in our armor of the RAPTOR!” It cried out, descending into morbid sobbing before roaring again into fresh madness. The being turned away from Agama, coming to blows with whatever furniture still stood in the creature’s way. It swung the axe in one hand, effortlessly decimating the metal desks and slaving-stations of the bunker.

“Bring me UNITY!” It managed to croak out in a final sob. As if awoken from a trance, the monster snapped towards him like a creature alerted to its prey. The heavy footfall of its greaves were reinforced by the dropping of its axe. The serrated edge of the weapon dragged across the metallic floor, bisecting flesh, armor, and debris with sickening ease. It understood with surprising grace that it had one last thing to eviscerate in the bunker. One more ‘Urshite’.

“Come, bold thunderbolt,” Zur managed to cry, revving his chainsword as he held it in front of the ruin of his torso, the grip of his remaining hand firmer than any dying man’s ought to be. “Come, show me Unity!” he taunted, his gaze clear and his voice strong, bringing his blade into an upward guard. “Come, death!”

His legs were a mangled mess of flesh and bone and shattered armor plates, never would he walk again. His left arm ended in ragged strands of meat at the elbow, never would he stand in the battle line again. The Raptor upon his breast was shattered, never would he see his master again.

Yet in his hand was his sword, and upon his head was his helm, and within his hearts beat the battle-fury. Songs ought to be sung of his defiance, of how he was the last to die. The village ought to burn his flesh to the heavens and write his tale upon his bones. Children ought to grow up wishing to be as bold and true as Agama Zur, who died at his post.

So many oughts. But the Legion did not practice these ways. Perhaps if he died gloriously enough they would. It was a cheering thought for him to have, for himself and the nine others in his squad who had already fallen to Caligula.

He sang of them as he made ready to sell his death dearly, back still to the door. Of how Morde had been the first to fall, throwing herself in front of a scribe. Julibu and Xerkon, distracting him as the mortals fled to sound the alarm. Lathimate and Chilon, who had intervened when his arm was struck. Galagon and Ylvrel, who had sealed the bunker and their dooms. Vercin and Kaisa, whose bodies even now cooled before him.

Agama Zur knew that he could not put this dog down, but by the Master of the Lines he would delay him with every breath left in his lungs.

The monster that Caligula had become hefted the axe into a two-handed grip at last. His breathing had become ragged with effort and pain. Each step the warrior took was echoed by a convoluted mixture of sobs, growls, and snarls that dehumanized him more. He raised the axe far above his head for a downward cleave of Agama’s skull.

“Die well, URSHITE.” Caligula uttered with a mouth full of snarl and slobber. Instinctually, the Thunder Warrior thumbed the activation rune on the axe and ignited the powerfield on the weapon’s edge. The full breadth of the charnel house was revealed in the blue afterglow of the armament. He screamed out wildly as the powered tool came down towards the dismembered Astartes. Both of them screamed out for death as it came, sword raised to meet axe in a clash that was fated to end in oblivion.

But Agama Zur’s death never came. On an instinct honed to perfection, Caligula suddenly jerked backwards mid-swing of his axe. A crimson, plasmic powerfield cut through the bunker just nearest to the Cataegis. The dark blade that the field wrapped around nearly cut into the warplate of the transformed monster. He snarled in response, howling in rage at the sudden resistance against him. The weapon suddenly turned downwards and tore out the last of the rockrete preventing its entry.

Chaos engulfed the communications bunker once more as a flurry of activity ignited around the shattered Astartes. An enormous warrior in black warplate burst through the wreckage where the blade had struck through. They wasted no time in intercepting Caligula with their enormous greatsword. The powerfield around the weapon exploded as it collided with the monster’s axe. A crescendo of sparks and destruction sent debris scattering across the ground in their deathlocked duel.

“Assist the Astartes! I will handle Caligula!” Primarch Aeternus roared out to several figures that materialized behind him. A single Thunder Warrior, a trio of Astartes, and several mortal medicae personnel had followed him through Ghorak’bhal. The reception of his order was immediate as the Thunder Warrior leaned down to Agama and pulled him by his warplate’s collar out of the bunker. The sight of the two embattled Cataegis was still visible to him as he was removed.

He could see that it was a clash of titans. The best of the Thunder Warriors fought tooth and nail in the smallest confined spaces possible for their relative size. A fist was thrown, connected, and then replied with a pommel strike to the skull. A kick was registered, received, and responded to with a headbutt. Axe continually connected with the full breadth of the Primarch’s greatsword, then was used as leverage to push the Thunder Warrior further back into the bunker. The blade was kept close to his body in a chaotic sword dance, regularly used to defend as it was to attack. Caligula kept pace with the warlord of his Legio, switching between over-aggressive attacks to calculated strikes with his free appendages.

In the midst of their dance, Agama saw a flash of silver emerge from a sheathe on the Primarch’s belt. A diamanite dagger was drawn, curved in specific ways for a specific function. A ceremonial tool and a dangerous weapon. The fighting continued as Aeternus’ adjusted his fighting stance to incorporate the addition of the dagger. His greatsword was used for distancing and defending, while the dagger was used for striking in short bursts. Caligula was already beginning to falter from the relentless attack. An opening was beginning to form, but the Primarch needed more time.

Agama Zur’s war-song ended for but a moment as he was jerked away from the battlefield, his still whirring chainsword skittering upon the bunker floor as he was evacuated to the medicae. Stubborn, irrational pride took root in his mind at his death being so rudely refused, but at the sight of duel between Aeternus and Caligula he found a new purpose for himself, one grander than pointless defiance. He sang anew as the greatest of the God-Slayers turned their blades against another, of mighty deeds and fell foes, and the heroes who had overcome them all.

The last thought that crossed his mind as the chems began to flood his body was that this was a worthy death.

As Agama Zur’s consciousness faded into the black, the two Thunder Warriors continued to fight desperately in brutal close combat. A parry was met with a feint. A slam from a hilt was replied to with a skillful dodge. The two danced on a stage of war, compiled of history and gore. The more monstrous of the pair, however, was beginning to falter. The chemicals that forced his system to plunge into madness were beginning to drain out through the slobbering howls he made; however, it was madness that continued to ensure his survival.

Perhaps it was the Astartes’ swift egress out of the bunker, or perhaps it was simply a matter of martial prowess that ultimately concluded the duel. Aeternus managed to slip the greatsword betwixt Caligula’s arm and the handle of his axe. Using the moment of a previous feint, the primarch forced his renowned blade downward in a shattering blow to the other Cataegis’ weapon. The poweraxe exploded into pieces of metal, rendering the powerfield kinetics and effectively disarming the warrior. It did little to halt the ceaseless madness within the warriors’ mind, but it forced the warrior to hesitate for a fraction of a second.

A fraction of a second was all that a Primarch needed. As the axe was rendered useless, Aeternus dropped his greatsword and forced the maddened warrior into a fierce embrace with his newly-freed arm. The more veteran of the two swung the other onto the floor, slamming the Himalazian knight flat on his powerback and opening up the warrior’s gorget for a proper attack. There was no indication of hesitation as the silver dagger was snaked up and forced down into the neck of the rampaging Thunder Warrior.

Caligula gasped out in pain. The madness seeped from his mind as fresh agony began to coarse through his neck. He gurgled out as foamy blood began to bubble up around the warrior’s lips. Enraged eyes broke free of their curse as death lingered on the horizon. Only the wounded whimpers of a dying man reached up to Aeternus, who stared down at his old friend through his black helmet.

“Worry not, brother, Unity awaits us. You did the Emperor’s will and served him as his most trusted.” The Primarch of the First Legio softly said to the warrior beneath him. The words calmed Caligula, enough to force his whimpers down to dying moans. His eyes looked up to the Primarch pleadingly. Aeternus simply nodded in response, “I will meet you there, old friend.”

The Thunder Warrior closed his eyes, either having accepted the Primarch’s words or having finally perished from his wounds. Their nightmare was at an end, passing wordlessly in a bunker filled with the dead of those afflicted by Caligula’s rampage. Aeternus forced himself upright, withdrawing the dagger from his friend’s neck and resheathing it at his side. He reached down, reclaiming Apocrypha and rested it against his pauldron. With one of his hands free of a dagger, the Primarch pulled Caligula’s corpse up and brought it with him out of the bunker proper.

A myriad of organized chaos was exploding out of the hallway that he had entered from. The medicae were desperately patching up the fallen Astartes, while further reinforcements from within the citadel were beginning to congest the arterial passages. Some of the Astartes awaited, patiently, as Aeternus’ passed through the egress, yet other Thunder Warriors had already gathered frantically braying for their leader. To the warriors of his legion, the Primarch gifted the fallen form of Caligula. To the warriors of the future, he gifted his presence.

“Alert Mistress Vairya that the situation has been handled. Tell her to meet me in the throne room for a full debrief.” The Primarch said to the Astartes, his voice lacking the vim it typically contained. He didn’t wait for their response, marching off with the rest of the Thunder Warriors. They had a body to bury, alongside countless others.

The legionnaires of the Ist did not reply, standing as ceramite statues as Aeternus and his brothers passed them by, making the lesser gene-warriors seem like mere men when compared to their predecessors. The Primarch’s message was conveyed nonetheless, the Astartes blink clicking it to the Legion Mistress as they remained in a tight cordon around the medicae. They moved only after the Thunder Warriors had gone, a squad fanning out to remove their dead from the ruin of the bunker.

---

The Legion Mistress of the Ist still wore the same unadorned ceramite armor that she had been in the first time Aeternus had met her, she and those few surviving Astartes who been part of the initial creation in the bowels of the Himalazias retaining a severe austerity. She walked, almost mechanically, before the Primarch, and then stopped, armor locking her joints into place as she reported. Her face, as ever, was obscured by her helm as she spoke.

“I was summoned.”

The throne room of Ghorak’bhal had already started to see a change in atmosphere since the Imperial victory over the citadel. Banners of the Raptor were unfurled between pillars, cursed effigies had been utterly wiped, and witch-metal was either entirely removed or replaced with rune-marked effigies from the Sigilite’s arsenal. No darkness remained of the Urshite citadel-lord, save for the reinforced ferrocrete structure itself stained with residue of the wyrd. The throne of the chamber had been removed, deconstructed, and smelted into slag in exchange for a hololithic table. Several cogitators hooked to unseen power units chugged nearby the new implement, filling an otherwise quiet room with droning noise. Mostly empty of inhabitants, only a bare few scribes and a tall, black armored figure remained.

Outside, through the view ports in the citadel, the Urshite wastes accumulated fresh snow from green-tinged clouds overhead. The crack of lightning occupied the boom of thunder further into mainland Ursh, while a thick smog rose up from dozens of Excertus Imperialis vehicles idling for their next campaign. The citadel stretched for untold miles, either as a complete structure or as sporadic improvements. Even from here, Aeternus could see the imperial yellow of new banners rising over the ruins of the defeated compound. He turned away from the port towards the Legion Mistress.

“You were,” He stated frankly. Softly, the Primarch reached his gauntlets up and pulled the black helmet from his head. His dark features peaked out from beneath, accompanied by fresh wounds and crisscrossed scars from Sanctii. A crop of raven hair woven into a warrior’s knot hid behind him, flanked by recently shaved sides. Dark eyes stared down at the Astartes. For conversations such as these, Aeternus preferred to speak on a personal level with little impediment from outside forces or to suffer mixed reception from his vox-grilles. The Thunder Warrior cradled the helmet under his left arm, while he gestured to the hololithic table to his right. He continued, “there are two matters we must discuss. Remove your helmet and we will begin.”

His words were spoken without the usual lion-esque growl to them, either due his fatigue or an intentional change for the conversation-to-be-had. His tone was neither commanding, nor pleading. It was neither inviting, nor repulsing. It shared no kindness, nor held loathing. It bore no enmity, nor did it boast amity. His voice was bare, nearly as emotionless as the Legion Mistress before him.

Vairya Kurus was well used to things which she did not understand. Born and raised within the hidden laboratories of the Biotechnical Division, her entire life had consisted of things beyond her ken both before and after her ascension. In all that time, she had simply accepted such things. Her creators did not require her understanding, only her obedience.

But this man was not one of them. He was at best her peer, and at worst… Such thoughts she did not grant herself the liberty of reflecting on. Instead, she considered a far more innocent indulgence.

“Why? Verbal communication is neither enhanced nor hindered by the presence of my helm; my armor reports that my vox-grille is operating normally. You may consume food if you require it but my own nutritional needs are of no concern at the moment.”

“Then Malcador never taught you some of the early cultures that existed in the Himalazians during your inception.” Aeternus responded, a disappointed look crossing his wartorn facial features and filtering into his voice. He turned away, walking the small distance from the viewport of the citadel to the hololithic table that awaited them. What few scribes remained in the throne room slipped away as the two began to speak. The glowglobe chandeliers flickered above their heads as they spoke.

“It was customary to remove one’s helmet when speaking one-on-one. The mortal men of the Eagle Tribe used to think it was to lower one’s defense and allow the spirits to connect in order to understand one another on a cosmic level.” The Primarch reached the hololithic table first, resting the palm of his gauntlets along the edge of the freshly fabricated metal. A flat, spinning image of Terra’s landscape painted in blue light made up the center of the hololith. The Raptor was present in almost every province and continued to grow into the Eurasian continent. He continued, “in truth, though they did not know, it was so that both parties could read each other’s intent by watching each other’s facial features. Eye twitches, perspiration, lip trembles, breathing patterns, and more. It allowed them to be more honest, more personal, and more confident in their negotiations with other tribes. I’ve since adopted it and spread it throughout my Legion to remind them of their humanity.”

“It is this kind of conversation that I wish to have. Consider it a lesson from First Legion to First Legion.” Aeternus said, turning his head away from the hololith to the stoic form of the Legion Mistress.

The Legion Mistress did not say the obvious, that she did not wish for Aeternus to read her intent. Honesty and personableness were not just irrelevant but antithetical to her task with them. These things were true, and she had no reason to indulge his request, and yet… The Primarch’s words held wisdom.

Wisdom more vital to her and hers than she would wish to be known.

She said nothing, the hiss of air as her helmet unsealed was the only reply. A pale face stared back at Aeternus, eyes sunk so deep into her cheeks that her features seemed to be coiling in upon themselves to escape the light of the world. When she spoke, it was with a far softer voice than he had heard before, free now of the augmentation of vox grill.

“Your Legion is more successful than the others at remembering who they are,” she stated, simply. It was neither condemnation nor praise, merely fact.

“It was a lesson the Emperor taught me long ago. That we,” He gestured with one of his blackened gauntlets, motioning between himself and her. His tone turned gentle as he reminisced on his times with their Master, offering a small smile over his broken face. When she removed her helmet, the Primarch locked eyes with her as he switched his view from the Astartes’ helmet to her face proper. It was not a challenge from the Primarch, but a proverbial opening of the soul. He continued, “are still human, regardless of what we’ve experienced or what we’ve become.”

The Primarch of the First lost his small smile as he shifted away from the sweet reminisce of the early days of the Unification Wars. Aeternus kept his eyes level with Mistress Vairya. The holomap flickered near them as battles across Ursh were tracked, each displaying a steady push across the heartland. Each Raptor that flew into existence would’ve drawn his attention were it not for what he must speak.

“One of my warriors, Caligula, Captain of the First Clade, perished today after killing many people. Seven Astartes died, three surviving the encounter with one in dire straits. Fifteen adepts were caught in the crossfire. I’ve already sent the mortal remains back to the Himalazians to be honored as heroes.” He finally started to speak after a second of silence, his tone losing its lion’s roar. The Primarch was hurt behind his visage in a way few could harm him. The loss of Caligula fell on him hard, yet the loss of so many innocents hit him harder. Aeternus never turned away from the Legion Mistress as he spoke, yet he was aware that she already knew of this event.

“I cannot bring them back, Vairya, but you are owed. An apology for now and a request for later.” Aeternus approached an uncomfortable distance given their difference in sizes, then stopped short to bring his fist to his chestplate in salute. He bowed his head in remorse. He felt no sting for this action. It was one he had done many times before. She was not the first wronged by the volatile actions of his Thunder Warriors. They were legion once. In those first days, he couldn’t remember how many he’d put down or apologies he offered. This was unlike any of those others. Caestus had murdered warriors of their future, the ones that would surpass them.

“I am sorry, Vairya,” His voice was low, yet his words refrained from attracting pity. His tone was soft, yet his timbre was stalwart. His soul was bare, yet his spirit was resolute. He was many things in that moment, but the emotion that rang true the most was honesty. Aeternus continued, “you have the rights to what you desire with us. Simply ask it and we will deliver. I will deliver.”

The Legion Mistress’ face was mostly still, but only mostly. Microexpressions skittered across her features, the warrior having never been trained to keep herself truly expressionless. What she felt was simply muted, and what she felt at that moment was confusion. Her soul was bared too in that instant, at least as much it may be for one so isolated and guarded from her own humanity.

Her soul practically shouted why are you doing this while the iron edge of her conditioning and the immense weight of her office forced her lips to say something else. “Ten Astartes were defeated by only one of your warriors. An entire squad, powerless to stop him, forced to buy time with their lives. This is unacceptable.”

“You will train us, spar with us, so that we might learn how to fight against Thunder Warriors, and such a loss does not occur again.”

“It will be done.” Aeternus’ response was swift. There was no hesitancy in the decision as if it were something he had already considered long before their conversation. He knew exactly what she asked for, his eyes unafraid of the potential truth. The Primarch of the First Legion was no fool, but he was the most stout and loyal of his siblings. Before moving away from Vairya, Rex banged his fist against the Raptor on his chest as an affirmation as much as it was a salute. Shortly, he returned to his side of the hololithic table and gestured for her to join him.

Vairya stood for a moment, as if unsure how to answer, before returning the martial salute in turn. “I can think of none better to teach me how to slay a god.”

“Now,” Aeternus continued unabated, speaking furthermore without his helmet in a more natural tone dancing on the edge of his lion’s roar. One of his armored fingers pressed a rune, spinning the hologram of Ursh to a vertical overlay. Several new entries dotted the vast trenchlines of the battlefield, each represented by the Raptor and crossed-thunderbolt of the Cataegis. Every Legion from the God-Slayers to the Radiant Spears were converging from across Terra to end Kalagann’s empire. Their assault lines were displayed as aggressive arrows of yellow, mixed with Auxilia blue and Astartes grey. He continued, “let’s return to executing the Emperor’s will.”

---

Credits: I Legio Cataegis/Primarch Aeternus @MarshalSolgriev , I Legio Astartes/Legion Mistress Vairya @grimely

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

Yndonesic Respite

After the Fall of Sanctii

---

---

Lord-Commander Wolfgang Crucias had expected the assault on the Yndonesic Bloc to slow their campaign for several months. All of the analytics, scribe-attendants, and data-savants had made predictions for a high casualty, high attrition scenario. It was half the reason he commanded a host of thousands into the millions of the growing Imperium’s Auxilia. The logistics of such a host alone had solved a manning saturation aboard the Fangs of the Wolf - the super-heavy command tank of the Tenth Excertus Imperialis. It surprised him then when the first envoy met their host half-way through the concrete jungle of Eurasia. Before the first thermonuclear barrages could be launched from their super-artillery, the Bloc had surrendered.

His hand reached down to the power cutlass hanging from his waist, remembering the feeling of cleaving the envoy’s head from their shoulders. He refused to believe that they would surrender so easily after their full commitment in the cursed jungles of Indoi. The Yndonesic reports counted several thousands dead from their reinforcements. Crucias rejected the belief that they utilized their entire armed forces for the conflict. The second envoy proved his rejection wrong just as he had prepared to unleash an endless volley of artillery into their concrete domiciles. A part of him feared that old age was beginning to take it’s toll. The respite following a bloodless victory felt unearned.

The holographic map of the surrounding areas rotated before him on the bridge of the Wolf, highlighting the vast land-armada that he commanded. Their numbers continued to grow, each battalion growing in size as they absorbed the willing from the Yndosenic populace. His eye was drawn to separate parts of his army, those drafted up from the separate Legiones: the Astartes, the Cataegis, and the Custodes. One would swell in size from their victory, one would continue to bleed out in excess, and the other would soon likely depart from their services.

“Lord-Commander,” A soldier approached behind him, a vox-pack attached to their back and their black-red garments as fresh as newly laid Himalayzian snow. She was fresh from the recruitment camps. Despite her uneasiness and rodent-quiet voice, she held a firm posture and strict stance. He nodded in approval, their newest training regimes churning out would-be veterans for their Imperium. A wave of his hand allowed her to true. “Report from Scribe-Intendant Yarrish. Recruitment in the Bloc has been completed and we’ve received reports for reinforcements against the hive-fortress of Ouran. A portion of the Astartes are to assist the invasion. Furthermore, the Legio Cataegis have been called back to the frontline at Ursh. Lastly, Lord Ghallajar’s warriors have been rerouted to a redacted assignment.”

The loss of the Cataegis and the Custodes was certainly a blow to their overall shock assault efficiency; however, the Astartes made up for it in their sheer numbers. The Thunder Warriors gave him pause as they had fought alongside him unflinching since his first years as a mercenary. Their removal from the Eurasian frontline would cause some morale loss. The last of the Custodes, though, was something that he had anticipated on the march to the Jade Palace. War with Ursh, which had loomed for the last fifty years, finally ignited by decree of the Emperor. No doubt they were planning to surgically strike in vital zones across the Urshite border. His rumination ended with a wave of his hand and a tired grunt from his parched lips.

Parched lips. How many hours had passed already as he poured over battle plans for the remainder of the Eurasian Unification? An empty recaff mug lingered to his right on a nearby terminal. Mildew had already threatened to form at the bottom of the container. No doubt it was from how hot the command vehicle ran at all times from the sheer amount of overworked cogitators. He slammed his gloved hands on the hololithic table, forcing the hologram to momentarily flicker. Wolfgang demanded fresh air, discipline and a lho-stick.

“Lord-Commander leaving the bridge!” One of the surrounding operators said with urgency. All nine of the other soldiers popped to attention, offering their right arm in a crisp salute to their temple. Wordlessly, he dismissed them with a swift salute and stepped off the bridge down into the bays below.

His steps brought him out into the concrete jungle that was the Yndonesic Bloc. Instead of the hive-cities with great spires stretching into the sky, the Bloc was full of squat and fat compounds reinforced with rock composites to handle intense bombings. Huge manufactorums with several-hundred-meter-wide smokestacks billowed black smog into the air, pumping new armaments for their repurposed Unification efforts. The air was even denser now that an entire third of the Imperialis Auxilia patiently waited for the next campaign. The Bloc had more than enough space to accommodate their ludicrous host.

A hundred different vehicles idled around him in a storm of rumbling engines. Command vehicles meant for company and battalions remained closest to the hulking giant that was the Wolf. The stomping of a thousand boots signalled him to the endless routine of countless patrols closest to the central structure of the Tenth Excertus Imperialis. It never ceased to bother him. Far from it, he relished in the sound of a functioning warmachine working at peak capacity. It was one of his greatest prides in this lifetime - raising an army worthy of His approval.

Every soldier he passed, a crisp salute or a fist to the Raptor was met in regards to him. He catalogued their units in his brain, whether they were mercenaries or formal Auxilia. An ace from the Finned Dragons of Franc, a heavy weapons expert from the Howling Cannons of Jermani, and another from the 315th Golden Fox Company of his own Auxilia passed him by. It reminded him of their humble beginnings, fighting alongside the early Cataegis with nothing more than leather carapace and stubber. How large they had grown.

His footfall brought him through celebrating soldiers drunk on amasec, mourning warriors near heaving incinerators, and cackling knights puffing from luxury lho-sticks by their company commanders. Each one of these would catch his personal attention were it not for the sheer raucous attention at the furthest end of their war camp. A herd of human flesh surrounded a circular pit where two half-naked giants fought in brutal close quarters. Both were Cataegis of different Legio, one from the Ninth and the other from the Eleventh. Both were as scarred and augmented as the very techno-barbarians superhumans that they actively fought. Wolfgang noted that most of the Thunder Warriors were present, bare of their lethal carapace and devoid of their devastating armaments.

Even more peculiar was the presence of the Astartes. Intentional or not, they were segregated away from the Cataegis in similar numbers. Half of them were from the Third and the other half were from the Thirteenth. It was the first time he had seen so many of the Third without their helmets, noting their squat and strong facial features as if they were printed over and over again from the same printer. The Thirteenth, though, varied much more in their different tones of tan skin, scars, and trophies graciously worn on their black-bronze armor. He picked out several of them that had interacted with him personally, catching their attention from his own and offering toothy grins before resuming their observations.

“They fight like animals.” A voice said from behind him. Crucias acknowledged the voice with a tilt of his head, already aware of the owner’s identity. Zaid ibn N’dar, Master of the Bronze Scorpions, stepped out next to him bedecked in the black-bronze that his legion was well-known for. His knightly helmet remained fixated on the fight pit before them, while both of his arms were crossed against his breastplate.

“And continue to survive despite their wounds.” Wolfgang responded, earning him a scoff from the bronze giant next to him. A cheer erupted from the crowd as the Cataegis from the Ninth uppercutted the giant from the Eleventh. For a mortal man, perhaps that would’ve been the end of the fight; however, they immediately lunged back into each other with vicious snarling.

“Too stubborn to die. Too strong to falter. Too reckless to survive. Thunder Warriors.” The Astartes said with no love in his raspy voice.

A collective groan from the crowd before them drew their momentary attention as the goliath from the Eleventh managed to strike a decisive blow on the warrior from the Ninth. Like a puppet cut from its strings, the Cataegis fell to the ground in an unconscious fit. The victorious Thunder Warrior raised their fists into the air in celebration, their actions echoed by the other nearby soldiers. The Astartes, notably, remained deathly silent as they watched the fighting continue.

“The Yndonesic Bloc kneeled too quickly.” Wolfgang finally stated after the match’s conclusion. The Astartes offered no response as he ruminated over Crucias’ concerns. The Lord-Commander continued, “no doubt, they’ll mob out of their habs and attempt to halt Unity in its tracks.”

“Your doubts aren’t unfounded,” Zaid said knowingly, pulling an object from one of his many leather pockets on his belt and tossing it to Wolfgang. Crucias nimbly caught it and turned the object over in his gloved hands. A crumpled metal medallion with the Yndonesic Bloc’s sigil covered in blood. “We executed approximately seventy-three different individuals attempting to sabotage everything from industry to vehicles to barracks in the past twenty hours. Whatever cell was planning resistance has been eliminated. ”

“The hunting has been good here, then.” Wolfgang replied with a satisfied grunt. He pocketed the medallion for later. The Astartes responded to him with a muffled sound that reminded him of a strange snarl of recognition. The Lord-Commander knew well that it was his default motive to purge those that dwelt in the shadows. He continued, “your beginning to outshine the Cataegis with your suppression actions.”

“We’ve quelled enough insurrections to put our predecessors and their false progenitors to shame.” Zaid said with venom. He didn’t doubt that the Astartes’ mouth morphed into a toothy snarl as he spoke the words. Crucias hadn’t expected such aggression from the Master of the Thirteenth, a man that had once fought alongside said Thunder Warriors. He narrowed his eye in response to the words.

“False progenitors?” Wolfgang found himself asking, finally earning Zaid’s full attention for the first time since he arrived at the fight pit. He had known the man long enough to recognize hesitancy. There was a pause in the Astartes’ response. The warrior nodded their helmet as if agreeing on something internal, or perhaps requesting permission to speak on a subject.

“I speak of their Primarchs. They are not correct. I witnessed the death of the Eleventh Cataegis Primarch in Indoi. It was a worthy death that has been seared into my brain, but he perished all the same.” Zaid spoke as if in a strange trance. His voice lowered to a dangerous level of seriousness, one that he hadn’t thought possible given the Astartes’ stoic nature. He spoke as if he had seen the ‘correct’ version. As if the ‘correct’ ones couldn’t die.

“Primarch Vladorios. I read the reports after the Siege of Protosia Agras. They still haven’t filled the vacancy left by his death.” The Lord-Commander responded. He was keenly aware of the tactical loss of the Eleventh Primarch. A warrior-general that could not be replaced, raised up from their gene-stock by the Emperor to lead. Wolfgang felt that they would never find someone worthy of that title again.

“They won’t be able to. They never will. Their flawed creation led to the circumstances they’re currently experiencing. Only one of their flawed progenitors has earned their title.” Wolfgang listened closely. His age may have muddled his perception, but war had kept his senses sharp. Zaid had spoken dangerously. The reports now confirmed his suspicions with the Cataegis growing ever smaller, more elite, and more desperate.

“Aeternus. The closest you’ll find to something true of their title.” Zaid finished, turning his attention away from Wolfgang to the fight pit. A pair of Astartes from the Thirteenth and the Third were facing off. The Cataegis were cheering them on, hooting and hollering to rouse their bloodthirst. Crucias couldn’t help but agree with Zaid’s statement. The First Primarch of the First Legio Cataegis was a legend. Many of his men told stories about ‘the Emperor’s Blade’ and ‘the Champion of Unity’.

“The Lord of the God-Slayers.” The Lord-Commander replied. A constant topic that never ceased to falter. Some had even gone to such lengths as to call him the ‘Lightning Bearer’ or ‘Throneslayer’. The warrior that never escaped attention, no matter which side of Terra he fought on. A legend. A myth. He would relish in the destruction that the First Primarch would bring as part of his command.

“May He live to see Unity.” Zaid said with as much fondness as he could. Wolfgang shared the opinion of the Legion Master. A warrior of that stature falling in the most crucial moments of Unity would cause inexplicable waves of morale loss. He wagered that was how the Eleventh Legio felt with the loss of their own Primarch.

The cackling of a Bronze Scorpion earned their attention. The two that wrestled in the fighting pit were already separated. The warrior from the Third was on the ground with a bleeding nose and several bruises across their face. His opponent offered a hand, hefting their genekin onto their feet and pulling them into a brotherly embrace. The two parted as a fresh round started. Wolfgang, finally, pulled a lho-stick from his coat’s pocket and ignited it with his free hand.

“Orders have come down from the Sigillite. Two companies are to depart from your Legio to assist in the invasion of Ouran with the Seventeenth Legio. Scribe-Intendent Yarrish will have the details for your captains.” Wolfgang stated, then inhaled a long drag from the stick in his fingers. He knew the details had already been relayed to the Astartes. A swift expel saw a plume of white smoke gather in the air before him. He breathed out in relief after an eternity of huffing recycled tank air.

“Raamiz and Alim have already been dispatched with two hundred of our Indoi veterans. The Seventeeth will learn well under those two.” Zaid responded swiftly to no surprise. The two watched as the boastful warrior from the Thirteenth continuously laid the warrior from the Third flat over and over. Each time, the gray sentinel would last longer and longer until the two were on equal footing. The Thunder Warriors were screaming advice, cheering, roaring, and groaning over the claiming of their fight pit. Some had already started to depart after watching the Astartes with distaste. Zaid continued to speak, “and the others?”

“The Cataegis will rendezvous at the Urshic Front with the rest of the Thunder Legions. You, alone, will be fighting without them for the rest of the Eurasian Front. A sight I thought I’d never see. The Third, as well, will remain behind to recruit, train, and suppress whenever necessary.” The smaller man said without enthusiasm. The quip had been noted by the acute ears of the Astartes. If it had drawn ire from the Astartes, then it was hidden beneath Zaid’s helmet or muttered under clenched teeth.

“You don’t wish to see the Thunder Warriors leave.” The Space Marine stated in a neutral tone. Crucias rubbed his stubble in contemplation. He had known Zaid for longer than most and knew when he was trying to pry for information. Wolfgang was a tough man to crack, but he would allow it once.

“I’ve watched them ever since I was a young mercenary. Another hive-dredge with an autogun, leather carapace, and a dream of Unity. Forty years later, married with several troops of my own, and I still watch them push Unity with all of their heart. There will never be warriors like the best of them.” Crucias responded, heaving in another drag from his swiftly burning lho-stick. The embers fell quickly onto the tiled rockrete beneath their feet. He flicked the stick in the same spot, squishing it with his foot and extinguishing what remained.

“I’ll continue to watch them so long as I live and breathe Unity. Even after I’ve perished, I know my children will look up to you in the same way I looked up to the Thunder Warriors in pursuit of Unity.” The Lord-Commander continued to speak, earning himself another sideward glance from the helmeted genewarrior. He fully understood what he spoke of. The logistics told him everything that he needed to know.

The fight pit by this point had started to disperse as the warrior from the Third managed to flatten out the cocksure Scorpion. Their fight earned plentiful praise from the Cataegis and a small applaud from the Astartes. Men and women of mortal status had watched on from different vantage points, drawn in by the clamor of the geneknights. Night had already threatened to turn the smoggy day into endless dusk, ushering commanders and sergeants to push their troops into gear.

“Your sentimentality will be the end of you. Consider retiring, old man, and serve the Emperor in a better capacity.” Zaid declared, turning away from Wolfgang to meet with the remainder of his Astartes. The joking amongst their number began sooner than the Legion Master’s bickering, pointing out flaws in their combat stance and lackadaisical demeanor. A roar of laughter boomed from their genewrought lungs, disappearing into the quickly descending night.

Crucias watched the Astartes leave and pulled out the shattered medal, stained in the blood of insurrectionists. He felt no sympathy for them, relishing in the death of those that would stomp on his dream. He wondered if they felt they had achieved anything with their demise, much the way that he thought his own death would. Wolfgang wasn’t a man to worry about such a thing. Without a doubt, his children would simply take the reins of command just as he once did through vim and vigor. The older warrior chuckled to himself as he slowly walked back to his command tank.

“Even in death, I’ll still serve.” He finally said, chucking aside the medal into the closest storm drain. The night continued on as it had for several days with rumbling tanks, the stomping of a thousand patrolling feet, and the heavy thumping of overworked manufactorums.

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

The War for Indoi

-Before the Battle of Ouran-

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The vast lands of the Indoi spread out in great, leviathan chunks of sickly green and rotten brown. Valleys, flanked by black-topped mountains, rose as stalwart giants over the urban sprawl of humanity’s overpopulated hives. Rivers of poisonous green slithered through the ravines, disgustingly poured from the top of the tallest hive as a venomous waterfall. Clumps of flora still lingered in the former jungles of Eurasia as horrible fragments of their former beauty. Putrid vines hung from megaflora trees with deadly spikes and oozing pustules of mutated flesh. Abominable monstrosities stalked the wastelands, hunting on six legs and tearing sinew with three maws. Far and few entered the urban sprawl of the Indoi, loomed over by great towers of their oldest faith. The ruins of gargantuan maglevs fell apart in the acrid drip of the hazardous runoff, formerly used to travel the many cities of the continent. In the absence of such architecture, large hordes patrol the Indoi cityscapes with bestial-genewarriors and chained mutants. Psyker-monks of the disparate overlords watch, cleanse, and purify where they can with little success to restore their once beautiful lands. Clouds gathered endlessly and ominously over the Indoi, raining acid and mutating byproduct into the land once more. The cycle repeated itself every day in the burgeoning lands, mutating over and over while the inhabitants tame what can be tamed. A dull stalemate with nature that persisted for eons.

The monotony was broken only in the northern plains of the Indoi, where great banners bearing the raptor and thunderbolt unfurled from bastions of brutal rockrete. Agents of the Imperium, an empire of the Himalazians, worked tirelessly to cleanse the areas with handheld flamethrowers and roiling juggernauts that belched horrendously black smoke. Warriors as tall as the monsters they slaughtered walked in conjunction with these machines, butchering everything in their path. It was thankless work that contributed little and worse, yet it was a portion of the bargain between Indoi and the Imperium. A fire that consumed the untamed lands, ravaged by dogmatic fanatics and mutants alike, was key to easy movement from the Himalazia. So it was that His soldiers worked in blissful ignorance to the chaos that ignited in the southern jungles.

In the southeastern lands of the Indoi, the drums of war beat against instruments forged from the flesh and bone of men. The slaves of the Indoi ran for their lives, choicedly fleeing into the mutated jungles of their land to evade a worse fate. People that they had once callied allies chased them with grim determination, tearing apart those that they caught. Their bodies were dragged back from the plains, jungles, and ravines of their homes into the poisonous basins close to the Yndonesic Bloc’s territory. Where the old, frail, and ailing were slaughtered for fresh meat in their warmachine, the young were left to a crueller fate in mind. Each of the adolescents were pumped with the mutagenic runoff of the spires, filled with the invasive augmentation of the psyker-monks, and fused together with the endless hordes of mutants in their jungles. Fierce, berzerking beast-genewarriors were secretly forged in the wicked labs of the southern lands. No sooner had they been born anew into the world were they sent out into the wastelands for new components. Either succeeding where the last failed, or dying to the malevolent horrors of their continent.

An endless tide of refugees fled from the southern lands of Indoi, fleeing away from the things that hunted within the jungles. Those that pledged protection had turned away from their vows and slaughtered wholesale with new purpose. Ravines were filled with the unwanted dead of the hunters, jungle-flesh was chopped for infernal warmachines, and surrounding hive-villages were dismantled for new wargear. Enormous waves of spire runoff flooded the lands, choking the life from outskirting civilization with religious fury. Mutants were emboldened, ruinous jungle mutation thrived, and the zealots that poured across the lands did so with reinvigorated enthusiasm. Few were able to comprehend the destruction that surged through Indoi, many firmly believing that it was a prophetic occurrence that humanity’s time was finished. Those that understood, however, noticed a particular detail on the raging zealots. They wore nothing save for ragged attire seen in the Pan-Pacific Empire. These tales were spun, woven, and threaded to the ears of the northern plains. A defense was mustered to halt the unstoppable tide. Only their defiance would survive to sing the events to their warlord…

Akash Tigerheart leaned on all four of his claws from the ruins of a toppled spire. He could smell the myriad stink of the southern zealots. A growl bubbled up from within his throat, emerging from his toothy maw as a muted groan. He ushered his body forward, rustling the powered plating that pressed against his furred body. As his burgeoning form stalked down the spine of the toppled tower, those that accompanied him fearfully parted away. Rightfully so, they were part of the lower caste, never meant to rise above their station beyond wayward service to the Padshah. His claws met the end of the spire as the lower caste began to regroup, every scent painting a new scene about the village-hive’s destruction.

Ethereal phantoms painted themselves around him, coalescing around the squalid forms of his lower caste grunts. Although they were invisible to those beneath him, Akash could keenly watch their erratic movements and twisted actions. His body perked upright as he witnessed the events playing out on a phantom stage. Ghastly zealots in scrap armor akin to the lesser caste fought against similar warriors. His brotherly genewarriors, righteous half-beasts as tall as armored personnel transports, fought in violent duels against other of their kin. Revered monks, donned in flowing robes and heavy beads, shot out strings of lightning at those they had called brethren. To his dismay, the zealots were winning beyond a doubt. Other vestiges moved through the shadows, something foreign and disgusting was woven into the scents. It paled in comparison to the stink of the Imperials.

The Imperials. A long growl vented out of his mouth, stirring the ethereal shadows and rippling fear throughout the lower caste. He twisted his maw in wounded defeat, spitting out the bones that he sucked upon. The fight with the Himalazians had left the Padshah in a bad position, perhaps leading to the current situation. Akash smelled the grimes, oils, and fabrications of their equipment on the non-zealots. Despite the fact that the Imperial wargear was present, those that defended the hive-village were dying as swiftly as they were appearing. It was a grim phantasm, one that he had finished experiencing. With one swipe of his armored claw, the shadows of the past disappeared from his refined senses. The lower caste watched on in a mixture of fear as his rending talons tore through the air. A small amount of joy bubbled up as he watched their formation topple from the shockwave.

The formation stumbled back, tripping over the corpses of their fellow servants. Lower caste warriors that had fought to defend the village-hive with everything that had. Their corpses were maimed, dismembered, and butchered beyond recognition, yet they still remained in the wreckage. Regardless of their standing, Akash’s entourage didn’t scream for their lives or vomit their lungs out in disgust. His maw split in a wicked smile as he pounced off the last stretch of spire. His men pulled away from him as they regained their composure. He had gained enough information from this battlefield to properly address the Padshah. As he began to turn away, one of the Padshah’s royal caste marched over to him. They stank of hypocrisy, delicateness, and a life spent in perfumed quarters. It revolted him, yet he was expected to serve regardless.

“By the Padshah’s grace.” Akash growled out in a tone thinly veiling his disgust. His enormous form bowed down to the member of the royal caste, who sauntered forward on strange shoes that lifted him above the ground. He despised their presence with every fiber of his being, donned in robes longer than their person and with gear that made them impervious to his claws. An aura of superiority radiated from the royal, pushing his disgust further in.

“Tigerheart. The most holy Padshah has allowed your investigation into this… little insurrection. Be thankful that a meager, artificial being like yourself was granted the grace of His blessing. Now, without wasting more of my time, tell me what has happened.” The man was pompous and regal, yet thin and tall regardless of his position. His tone, by all the Gods, was the most infuriating out of everything. The royal spoke as if he was a personal gift from the Cycle, born from the fruits of the Eternal Vine. It angered him to such a point that he actively suppressed a snarl. He reminded himself that not all royals were like that, especially not the Padshah.

“It’s grim. The scents are vague but distinct. The southerners seem to have risen up against the Padshah. They’ve got bestials, monks, and something foreign mixed with them. Scents that stink of the Pacific. Imperial equipment was used against the insurrectionists,” Akash began to reply, raising his head enough to speak but not enough to stare directly at the royal. Despite his prowess in combat, he wasn’t allowed to gaze at the upper class. A right that was reserved for the most exalted of His court. He continued with a snarl growing on his tongue. “But our warriors lost badly. If it happened here, then it’s already happened across the Holy Land. This isn’t a typical rebellion.”

The royal ruminated over what Akash said with a disapproving sneer. His body shook with disgust, ruffling like an avian in uncomfortable conditions. Both of his prismatic orbs closed to the world, allowing two additional sets of eyes to open up further on his head. They observed in several directions, consuming the sights of the destroyed village in seconds. It appeared as if the royal was looking beyond what the Tigerheart could see even with his own unique senses. A minute passed before the spheres disappeared into the folds of his skin.

“I’ve deemed your words as truthful and holy, bestial. Your senses, despite repulsive and fake, were correct in their appraisal of the situation. The southerners are in rebellion. Worse of all, they’ve accepted the most unholy and foul of foreigners into their forces. This is an unprecedented situation,” He responded in a defeated tone, defiant enough to be haughty but yielding enough to be humble. The royal gestured with one hand for Akash to look upon him and follow. Tigerheart rose wordlessly to his full height that towered even over the aristocrat. A grunt of disgust spurted out of their lips before continuing to speak. “His Holy Benevolence, High Padshah Siddharth must be informed.”

No sooner had the royal made the statement did the sounds of battle ring out in the background. A reinvigorated assault by the zealots had erupted in the nearby area. The horrific sound of butchery mixed effortlessly with the screaming of a mutant horde. The royal rolled his eyes once more and turned to the gargantuan form of Akash Tigerheart. A simple wave from his elegant hand was enough to unleash the bestial and his cohort. A wicked smile split the tiger maw of the genewarrior. The warlord raised his head to the sky and released a tiger roar into the fetid jungles. Their hunt was on once more.

---

Nolus Dolhai. The pinnacle of Indoi, holy summit of the High Padshah and grand temple dedicated to the Millennium Gods. It sprawled across all of the northern lands as the grandest hive of Eurasia. Spires rose as towering epitomes of Indoi culture, each topped with shrine-like mandapa. Brilliant gardens of cultivated mutant flora blossomed in beautiful squares in the hive, while fountains of diluted poison waterfalled from the tallest towers into ancient aquaducts. The hive was alive with activity from the bioluminiscent underhives to the tips of the holiest shrines. Transports of archaic design glided between the many towers to deliver unknowable materials. Functioning maglevs ferried an unquantifiable amount of men and women to different portions of Dolhai. Parades of well-groomed warriors marched the streets in reinforced carapace and carrying magnificent weapons, courtesy of the Imperial Himalazians. Beast-like genewarriors stood sentinel over the sacred sites, each designed with a different type of Terran animal in mind. The psyker-monks of the Cycle vigorously trained in specially designed plazas in attempts to achieve equilibrium.

And above it all, High Padshah Siddharth Enue watched with a troubled expression on his gold-tinged face. Typically, his twelve eyes would be alight with the joys of life and better spent divining the way forward for their culture; however, the words of his followers troubled him with each passing moment. One of the member from the royal caste, Raja Nayak, had further elaborated on the quickly progressing insurrection in his kingdom. He steepled his six hands in a fervent prayer to the Cycle, hoping that Indoi would return to blessed righteousness. Enue knew, though, that it wouldn’t come to be. Even Akash Tigerheart, one of his Divine Companions, had confirmed the events playing out across the land. Siddharth shook his head in defiance of fate, the myriad of ochre earrings shaking against his gargantuan golden body.

As he began to build himself up into a long prayer, one of his companions barged into his sanctum of worship. He turned to address the bestial as they prostrated themselves before his golden might. A crocodilian woman bowed to him, lowering her head in a majestic gesticulation. Unlike Akash’s defiant desire for armor, she wore an elegant robe over her lumbering form. It paled in comparison to his own, a mantle as long as the stars were bright and flowed with the smoothness of a snake’s scales. Regardless of her approval to gaze upon him, she remained impassive before his twelve-eyed observation. He spread his six arms wide in an accepting gesture of the crocodilian woman.

“Sadhika Scaleheart! O’ companion of mine! I pray that you bring me news that will radiate my day! Please, speak with my blessing!” The golden form of the High Padshah gestured with all six of his open palms turned towards Sadhika. Nervously, she raised her eyes to behold the holy monarch of Indoi. A look of sadness passed her reptilian orbs.

“Most blessed Padshah, I deliver news that will despoil your divine ears,” She began to speak in a tongue that defied logic, one crossed between a soothing song and a crocodilian growl. To him, it was beyond pleasant to listen to, yet her news brought a frown to his illustrious facial features. “Akash Tigerheart, your divine companion, has eliminated the next wave of insurgents; however, several other hordes of zealots have torched the farm-hives around the defended area. Despite the losses, we’ve managed to divine the name of their leader and backers. They are-”

“Thakur Vimal Sura, Diviner of the Cycle and Tender of the Fruit. They are backed by the Yndonesic Bloc and the Pan-Pacific Empire.” The High Padshah replied in a disheartened voice, his radiant aura dying down to a low dim as he delivered the truth. His companion looked confused, yet surrendered to his divine commandment. He had skeined the fates and learned what had befallen his kingdom moments before her arrival, yet he rejected the destiny laid out across reality. Siddharth simply wished to hear it directly from one of his most trusted servants first.

“Akash was certain of betrayal in the south, yet I refused to listen. I had hoped that the Tigerheart had been wrong in this one instance, but I was a fool not to adhere to the whims of the Gods. They had sent a songbird and I set it free without listening.” Siddharth turned away to step out onto the shrine’s balcony. Nolus Dolhai sprawled out before him in all of it’s beauty, complimented only by the cascading poisonfalls. He dipped his head in distress, golden tears beginning to build at the edge of his twelve eyes. “I know the answer to the issue, but speak the words that I need to hear, o’ companion of mine. Let me hear your song of revelation, dear Scaleheart!”

The crocidilian genwarrior was bothered but unsurprised about what had just occurred. She expected that a certain amount of information had already been passed to the High Padshah, but Sadhika hadn’t expected the precise details to be revealed. The words he demanded, though, were ones she was prepared to speak. Once more, her head was lowered to a humiliating bow as she spoke.

“We cannot hope to win without external support. We once failed to beat back the Himalazian Emperor with our combined strength and relented to their demands. Their support has born plenty of fruit. Now, more than ever, we must bow our heads and request the Imperium to intervene. Kalagann would butcher us and Narthan Dume would execute your most holiness.” Her words were wrought with a mixture of reason and desperation. Each syllable was spoken with the most humility she could muster in her geneforged being. She was heard, however, as the High Padshah placed a golden hand on her scaled skull.

“Thank you, o’ companion. Go now and reach out to the Imperials. Let the Himalazian Emperor know that we have reconsidered Unity and wish for their full support.” He said with a pitiful smile, pulling his golden hand back to steeple it with the rest of his digits. His head was bowed in a reverent prayer as he uttered the next words. “Let us pray that it is the correct path and that the Cycle may be allowed to continue.”

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Aethys clicked the talons of his gauntlet together impatiently as the stormbird rattled around him. Unlike the typical glove that covered his digits, an oversized fist with long claws occupied both of his hands. He had grown accustomed to them after the Unification of Nabatae, shed blood with them in Abyssna, and planned to master them in Indoi. The warriors of the thirtieth clade, the Sanguine Claws, prepared in a similar manner to their clademaster. Their role to play in the skirmishes of southern Indoi were as they always had been - instigating chaos and sowing fear. New armaments, their powered claws in specific, had proven their tactics worthwhile during the rebellions following Abbaba’s defeat. Such was their glory that Legion Master Zaid had given him command over an entire clade.

Their transport violently staggered as chaff was jettisoned beneath their greaves, no doubt to deter anti-air solutions from the ground forces. The hull suddenly darkened as klaxons began to whir and whine with their approaching vector. As one, Aethys and his clade automatically unbuckled from their restraints to stand at the ready. Jump packs, those utilized in the assault of Abbaba, were mounted to their backs. Each of their fists were covered by man-sized gauntlets with elongated claws wreathed in arcing electricity. The clademaster stood at the forefront with his slopped helmet, topped with bronze laurel, looking outward. As the alarms began to dim, the assault ramp quickly dropped to reveal the dense, mutated jungles of southern Indoi.

Poison banks filled with saline snaked between fast canopies of sickly green jungle. Black-topped mountains smaller than the Himalazians rose up in the background beyond their sight. The chaos of war was raging below them in the form of erratic gunfire, swarming projectiles, and manifold explosions that threatened to wipe the flora from existence. Teeming around the flying form of the stormbird were other transports, each emblazoned with the Raptor and hued in black-bronze colors. Satisfied with their position, Aethys ignited the jump pack and leapt out into the toxic winds of Indoi. His clade followed swiftly after him with their armaments roaring to life on wings of promethium.

The clademaster of the Sanguine Claws and his clade were not alone in this ordeal. Other Astartes leapt from their stormbirds with jump packs screaming into the toxic winds. Their numbers were innumerable, all of them released from a flock of roaring transports that drew the attention of the insurrectionists. Their attention quickly swiveled over to the rapidly descending forms of the genewarriors. Small arms fire rattled against their reinforced plating to no avail, yet heavier munitions on long-legged machines plucked them from the sky in dense storms of shells. Many of them died on the descent into the jungles below, but many more survived the fall to begin the slaughter anew.

Aethys and his clade were amongst the lucky to survive the southern Indoi response. Their jump packs threatened to shudder into nothingness as they reverse-fired their variable thrusters to achieve landfall. One of his number suffered such a fate that their jetpack clogged on final descent, crashing from the sky in a plume of fire. Their sacrifice would be remembered for a time, but their death would be overshadowed by the slaughter to come.

And so it did as Aethys dived into the four-barreled, long-legged machine manned by a crew of fifteen individuals. His claws flashed left, decimating four in a brutal cut of electricity, while his clade members purposefully crashed into other automata such as he did. Their taloned instruments raked through flesh and machine alike in a catastrophic dance of nightmares. Men screamed as they were torn apart by arcing powerfields, hunted by being larger than their own genetic monstrosities. No sooner had the chaos began did it end in an explosion of gore and metal.

+’Instrument Site Epsilon-One-Five-Seven-Beta has been incapacitated. Beginning advance to Instrument Site Fennec-One-One-Three-Alpha.’+ Aethys spoke in a stiff, somber tone through the vox. His helmet, like many of their number, had been modified this campaign for wide-range transmission as part of an experiment. Though only available to the clademasters, he was certain that all of their consuls and the Master of the Legion were the first to receive this new equipment. Static followed his transmission until a voice pierced through the technological fog.

+’No. Reinforce Battle Site Concord-Five-Three-Five-Zulu. Our predecessors require assistance dispatching an ambush.’+ A voice as familiar as his warplate, Master Zaid N’dar had commanded him away from the precious duty of decapitating strikes. More importantly, he referenced those stunning, barbaric warriors that came before them. Thunder Warriors, the Legio Cataegis, their gene-ancestors and havoc dispensers of Terra. He alighted at the thought of working alongside them once more.

+'Orders received.'+ He responded in a curt voice, though Aethys could do little to hide his excitement. His talons clicked together in anticipation, a motion that he had attempted to rid himself of many times before. Although many clade members would relay their orders to their cohort, Aethys felt no need to do so. Wordlessly, the Astartes leapt into the air on burning turbines. They followed him in a great blast of pyroclastic energy.

The battlefield, closer than it had been previously, laid out before them as they leapt to their next destination. An entire swathe of the mutated dark green flora had been burned away towards Nolus Dolhai. A swarm of human flesh bearing the red-black of the Imperium trudged in violent protest to the southern Indoi insurgents. Behemoth vehicles akin to castles on treads flattened hills, trees, and trenches beneath their wake. Others swam between the human waves as augmented mercenaries with their own plethora of disastrous weaponry. Where the wall walked, tidal waves of trenches were left behind and used by thunderous cannons pointed into the sky. Be it anti-air or roaring artillery machines, the Imperium reinforced and reaved like an Nordyc axman with a shield.

All of this paled in comparison to the brutal genewarriors mixed amongst them. Clad in fully encased suits of gray power armor, the Third Legion marched as a bulwark of violent repression. Aethys had always admired their stalwart, cynical attitudes as they systematically neutralized their targets. Upon his next descent, he had watched a squad of the gray giants precisely tear apart one of the Indoi warwalkers and suffer no casualties.

His boots planted across the soft jungle floor, threatening to sink his armor in the mutated mire of Indoi. The Astartes refused this, pushing forward with the might of a demigod through the dense flora. His warriors chased after him with their claws at the ready. Their destination began to unfold in a wide opening of the tall, fungal vegetation. Giants, akin to themselves, brutally fought in close combat with bestial monstrosities. Bedecked in yellow-orange powered armor, a warrior with a standard raised an insignia of a Raptor Imperialis backed by a radiant sun and paired sabers. Aethys knew them immediately, hypno-trained and forced to memorize, as the IX Legio Cataegis - the Dawnhunters.

He awaited no alliance hail from the Dawnhunters, descending into the fray with his clade and claws. Genewarriors - if they could be called that - with myriad faces of Terran fauna fought back. Larger than the Astartes and armed with a variety of powerfielded weapons, Aethys could understand why the Cataegis were finding issues with the enemy. His claws tore through the ramshackle powered armor of the first bestial, pulling the warrior apart in a display of brutal viscera. Those behind him managed the same, decapitating and tearing their prey with relative ease. Despite their losses, the Dawnhunters held their own with roaring chainsabers and powerswords akin to equine-choppers.

The source of their call for reinforcement appeared before they could hunt it out. A smaller, lither bestial emerged from the woods with a plethora of arms weaving in apparent chant. Words, such that he had not heard before, began to spill forth from their maw as unnatural lightning arced off their apparel.

"Witch!" Aethys roared out as he pulverized the next bestial attempting to intercept him. Though he had not screamed it into the vox, his warriors had heard the call all the same. They moved in sync, weaving around the battlefield against the crushing wave of animal genewarriors and mutated hounds. Before the mutant could finish their chant, the Astartes were already upon them with claws descending.

"No!" One of the Dawnhunters screamed out as he kicked one of Indoi genewarriors in the chest, crushing their entire torso into a deep cavity. "It is not their witches we falter against!"

The trap had already been sprung. It was too late to respond before the first of the Astartes had fallen to the blades that crashed upon them. Robed figures in lithe power armor flitted into existence around them. Each wore a helmet with a howling skull, their gauntlets carrying a single-edged sword in one hand and a strange bundle of beads in the other. Edged with plasma, their swords pierced easily through the Astartes armor. Aethys had been lucky enough to avoid a decapitating strike, but he paid for that periless dodge with his helmet and one side of his face. Two of his clade perished to their ambush, decapitated and sundered. The last two managed to flit away on their jump packs with minor wounds.

Now, Aethys understood, why the Cataegis had been forced into this position. He reached up and tore the remainder of his helmet from his skull. The Scorpion had been lucky that the plasma had seared his wounds closed, elsewise he'd have to worry about the bleeding. The entire right side of his face was a mixture of devastatingly scorched and horrifically maimed. If the blade had striked an inch close, then his brain would certainly leak from his head. His tanned skin kissed the sun for the first time in Indoi, drinking deeply of the poisonous air. Brown hair descended the back of his head to his neck, cut abruptly on the right side by the wound. He lunged into the fray once more, their tricks unveiled and thwarted. It would prove to be his first of many mistakes against the eastern menace.

One of the Dawnhunters rushed into him, shouldering him away from a blast of pyrokinetic, unearthly energy. The Thunder Warrior disintegrated under the wave of wyrd, leaving nothing behind besides the charred air. It had been a warning. One that Aethys wouldn't forget or forgive. Every ounce of his training as an Astartes kicked in, words whispering into his ears from an unknown language in an unknown time. Sunder the black sands with obsidian talons. It had told him and he answered with violence.

Beams of wyrd were called forth from the unknown warriors. His preternatural senses allowed him the ability to dodge, even as they came as close as a carcharadon's tooth. Aethys focus heightened to a razor's edge, his body and claws lowered into a hunting jaunt. The black-bronze phantom, aided by the swiftness of his jets, pounced upon the warriors. They had been swift in the initial strike. They were not Astartes. His claws mauled the first, carving through ancient power armor and shredding mystic robe in single slashes. The second came upon him, cleaving through his right pauldron before being eviscerated by his talons. The next sliced through the powerfield of his left claw, rendering the weapon useless.

Anything is a weapon. The words came upon him as his unpowered, hulking fist caved the assassin's torso in. A flicker of movement saw his foot kick up one of his fallen ally's helmets, then punched down onto the aforementioned victim's skull. The last of the enemies sliced through the last of his talons, their plasma-edged sword easily carving through the humming powerfield. Aethys acknowledged his opponent, retreating backwards before charging forward with his jumppack. He was swiftly met with lightning quick stab from the sword. The Astartes caught the blade in his right fist, quickly melting through his oversized gauntlet. Their surprise was enough for the Scorpion to smash his left fist into the warrior, ending their life in a satisfying crunch. It came at the cost of his right gauntlet and part of his now-exposed hand. To him, it had been worth the price.

With their superior allies defeated, the insurgents quickly faltered. The Dawnhunters rallied after Aethys, murdering and butchering the last of the bestial warriors. Those that attempted to escape were intercepted by the last two Astartes aside from the clademaster. No sooner had the slaughter been finished did a rush of black-red mortals begin to filter through the opening. Reinforcements, smaller and expendable, filled the gaps with the rumble of heavy armaments following closely behind.

Aethys breathed heavily, his battle focus wearing off and his dual hearts rapidly thumping in rhythm. He wanted to curse his frailty, a burden of his geneseed, but remained standing solemnly. The Dawnhunters, those few that remained, approached him with similarly harrowed conditions. Both of his surviving Astartes came to his side.

"You fought like a demigod, fresh out of the anvil!" One of them said, the one that had initially warned him of the impending assassins, "I am Centurion Aralles of the Ninth Legio Cataegis, though we could hardly be called a Legion anymore." The warrior guffawed as loudly as the artillery in the background. Many of his kind would find this attitude annoying, but Aethys found it surprisingly charming.

"You have my thanks and more, Centurion," Aethys responded, pressing his wounded fist against the Raptor Imperialis across his breastplate, "I am Sergeant Aethys of the Thirteenth Legio Astartes." The title felt alien on his tongue. He had fought against Terra's earliest threats as a clademaster or cohort centurion. Now, however, the Legion's structure was rapidly changing and so too were the Cataegis.

"We had expected some of the Grey Third from the frontline, but not quite the heroism from the Thirteenth." Aralles spoke, removing his helmet to display the giantism that plagued his imperfect features. Deep bronze skin, darker than Aethys' own, and black hair with a single stripe of smoldering orange. No doubt, amongst the number of the Cataegis, this one was better looking than others.

"The Lightnings of the Third Legio Astartes," Aethys corrected him without missing a beat, "They're dour and melancholy, but they are inexperienced and raw. Their duties are the frontline to veteran themselves within a campaign. Ours is the blood of our enemy's backs upon our daggers and claws."

The response appeared to have caused some amount of approval in the eyes of the Cataegis. He beamed with delight, a great smile breaking up the scars and marks that plastered his face. An unnatural feeling filled his chest. Had they bonded in such a short time?

"A warrior after my own heart. Proper descendants. If you are an example of what comes after us, then Unity will come sooner than we expected. Raptor Imperialis, Astartes!" Aralles said, smashing his fist against the Raptor on his chestplate. The Thunder Warriors departed for the next objective, all five of them leaving three behind to fester in the Indoi jungles. Their corpses reminded him of his next duty.

"Bring the fallen to the apothecarium. Their geneseed must be recovered." Aethys stated, watching as his subordinates began to move away to the dead Astartes. With a grunt of effort, the black-bronze giant shuffled off the talon-severed fists from his arms. His right gauntlet was a maimed mess, severed and singed just as his face now was. His left was remarkably fine.

As the fallen Astartes were removed from the battlefield, lifted aloft on the jetpacks of his squad, Aethys moved towards the eviscerated corpses of the assassins. Kneeling down, he plunged the claws of his left fist into the skulls of the warriors. Tearing out clumps of grey matter, the Astartes shoveled them into his mouth. Already the augmentation began to filter images, names, words, and places into his mind. A part of him wanted to snarl at the things that he witnessed.

"The Pan-Pacific Empire." Aethys spoke aloud to none but himself. His voice bordered on a deep growl. Their involvement had been reported yet unfounded by Nolus Dolhai. His commander, Legion Master Zaid, had assumed much and more. He would need to report this to Consul Zameel. Something stirred within his person as he stood up once more. His eyes lingered on the single-sided plasma-blades of his foes. Anything is a weapon. The words, foreign and unusual, came to him once more.

He reached down and lifted the weapon into his left gauntlet. It was a sword that would normally have to be used two-handed effectively by mortals. To him, it was a weapon fit for his palm. Aethys justified that he would need a new weapon to fight with. Similarly, he thought, he would need a new helmet. Strapping the blade to his waist, the Astartes picked up one of the skull-faced helmets of the assassins. Some fitting would be required, no doubt.

With one hand he pressed the helmet over his skull. He strangely felt at peace behind the skull-faced mask. He felt as if he could walk over a thousand and one grains of black sand untouched.

---

Zameel flicked the new blade in his hand clean of enemy blood - or whatever remained that hadn't evaporated on the plasma field. His sergeant had brought him one of the enemy's weapons as proof of his kills. Though, he thought, it was odd that Aethys had decided to keep one of their skull-faced helmets to himself. Despite the grimness of the apparel, the Astartes found himself enjoying the contrast of bone-white on bronze-black. No doubt his Legion Master would agree, were it not for their current predicament.

Like a titan born of blood and fury, Zameel witnessed Zaid cleave through the rank-and-file Indoi like a reaper to their harvest. In one hand, his chainaxe was a crimson phantom of gore and viscera. In his other taloned gauntlet was the Lance of Abbaba, easily slicing through armor with an archeotech powerfield. It was impressive that any black or bronze remained to be seen with the sheer amount of shed life splashed against his warplate. Nothing remained of the Legion Master's tabard, tore or burnt asunder by his own weapons or those of his opponents. With a grunt of effort, the Astartes pierced a bestial genewarrior in the chest to lift him up into the air. The barrel on the lance vibrated to superspeed before expunging volatile energy into the sternum of the warrior. Nothing remained behind save for a pink mist.

The battlefield around him was filled with similar feats of abominable strength. The loyalist bestial genewarriors carved through their lesser cousins with religious ferocity. Astartes of the Third walked in straight lines, annihilating in waves of volkite rays and heavy bolt drills. Cataegis of the Ninth and the Eleventh marauded as they had centuries ago with crackling claw and reaving chainweapons. Zameel had even noted that the 10th Excertus Imperialis - the Black Wolves - hadn't fallen behind with their cannons ablaze and their infantry roaming in raiding squads. In truth, he loved this war more than anything at the moment. A true testament of mankinds dedication to brutal violence.

He flicked his gauntlet out, decapitating one of the multi-limbed witches with a lightning fast strike from his blade. It's carcass slumped to ground, regurgitating vile black blood out onto the jungle floor. His helmeted gaze scanned the horizon for fresh opponents as the battle continued. Delightfully, Zameel observed them as they marched from the depths of the jungle. Gargantuan suits of bolted metal and billowing engines emerged from into their trenchline with greatblades and towering shields. Both of their armaments were stacked with a plethora of ranged devices, their sword with fat-barreled rifles and their bulwarks with heavy cannons. Monstrous machines on oversized treads crunched through the foliage in support of their advance, a great mouth with a belly of plasma atop the lumbering vehicle.

"It seems the true enemy has revealed themselves. Just as you had said, Zaid." Zameel called out to the Lord of the Thirteenth, who bisected another mortal with a casual slash of his chainaxe. His helmet turned towards the new arrivals. The praetor was certain that the elder Astartes had begun to form a snarl on his lips.

“It matters little. It is the Emperor’s will to see their greatest warriors defeated.” Zaid finally responded. Zameel never believed in coincidences, yet he couldn’t deny the timing on the part of their Legion Master. Perhaps he had anticipated when, how, and why their true enemy would deploy from the depths of the jungles. Nevertheless, the praetor watched as warriors clad in the golden warplate of the Custodes strode the battlefield at lightning speed. The Astartes had always considered himself fast but never as fast as the personal vanguard of their Master. They shredded through the freshly arrived bulwarks with disgusting ease, dancing around their mighty shields as if they weren’t wearing the heaviest armor known to man. Their spears punctured thick, multilayered plating where powerswords and chainweapons would struggle to pierce. Where their legionnaires operated as a cohesive team built on genetics, they were in sync on a metaphysical level with twinned feints and assisted reloading. He admired them as much as he admired the Cataegis for their violent brutality.

+’Continue the purge, Thirteenth, our Master demands Indoi.’+ The voice of one of their warriors, Gjallahar, spoke while slaying the intruders in vast swathes. His voice was as calm as untouched water and deep as the oceans of Old Terra. No doubt he was respected amongst their golden number, but not nearly as much as their famed commander.

+’And Lord Aristagoras?’ Legion Master Zaid asked, pulling the Lance of Abbaba free from the disintegrating corpse of a bestial genewarrior. Free of enemies, he strode the battlefield with reinvigorated purpose. Zameel had wondered how his mind worked in time such as this. Similar to his own, he wagered, yet instinctually built for an entirely different purpose.

+’Worry not for the Axe of the Emperor, Astartes, he fights his own battles. When he is required, Captain Aristagoras will arrive with axe and laugh.’+ Gjallahar frankly responded, cutting the vox communication with the abrupt rudeness expected of their lineage. If it had offended the Legion Master, then Zaid hid it well beneath the knightly visage that was his helmet. Locking the chainaxe to his belt, the elder genewarrior rose up onto one of the vehicle wrecks with the Lance of Abbaba raised high. To some, mortals mainly, it was a sign to charge and advance onto the enemy. To his legion, it was a call to splinter and begin sowing operations. Such was the way of their number.

A flurry of their number, either on jetpack or on foot, spread out in all different directions to handle different tasks. His own number were amongst those soaring through the skies on burning wings; however, he was assigned a different task compared to those of his rank like Raamiz or Alim. His duty was to the Legion Master, trusted as a vaunted second-in-command should the old man ever perish on the battlefield as was his want. He thought of his duties as the Legion Master stepped from the wreckage of an Indoi warwalker.

“You’ve grown, Zaid, I didn’t hear a single snarl over the command vox.” Zameel said with a tinge of sarcasm seeping from his lips. It nearly earned him some form of backlash from the vaunted commander of the Thirteenth were it not for their current situation.

“Lord Aristagoras’ Host will handle the Yndonesic interlopers,” Zaid responded, ignoring his praetor’s sardonic attempts, “the Thirteenth has been charged with intercepting the infiltrators from the Pan-Pacific Empire. As was the plan from the beginning.” He knew what the Legion Master spoke of. Both their commander and the Emperor’s Axe had rightfully assumed that the southern Indoi separatists were backed by greater powers. They spent thirty minutes bitterly fighting over the honors of which force to fight.

“Excellent! More of Narthan Dume’s legendary blades to add to our collection.” Zameel responded, having known from the start that his comment would be disregarded and his thoughts refocused by the Legion Master. Several of their number had gathered around them in preparation for the next phase. Hunters that he and Zaid had personally selected for the mission. Seven in total, all with their preferred weapons in a mix-match of veterancy. Those that had survived the first tests of the Thirteenth. He had jokingly called them immortals. Their commander had grown accustomed to referring to them as such: the Immortals – command squad of the Bronze Scorpions.

Legion Master Zaid thrust himself into a dead sprint, his fabled lance lowered and his body propelling him forward in a wild hunt. He was never one for words as it was. Zameel chased after him with the plasma blade drawn low and activated in preparation for combat. The Immortals followed behind him in a v-shaped formation, their wide array of weapons ready for the kill. Each of them passed the conflict between the Yndonesic Bloc and the Custodes, the former quickly losing to the sheer might of the latter. Behind them, the great tide of red-black and slate gray marched in an unending wave of war. All around them, their fellow genewarriors fought for their objectives with the decisive callousness that made them Astartes. He never doubted that they would find their Pan-Pacific infiltrators.

And so it was that the first of many appeared before them, their shrouds uncovered and their objectives laid bare to the Imperium. A group of five, skulking through the underbrush, raised their weapons and minds to fight off the Astartes. It was foolish to think they could deal with them as they had the Cataegis. Zaid N’Dar, the greatest of their number, lanced through the first with a speed that surprised many but never ceased to amaze Zameel. The infiltrator was hoisted into the air and vaporized by the archeotech’s internal cannon. The praetor fell upon the next, stunned by the sudden arrival of the Lord of the Thirteenth. He had expected to fight warriors on the same level as him. He was sorely mistaken as his opponent fumbled to deal with transhuman dread. The one-sided plasmic sword cut through the robed carapace of the interloper with definite ease. His Immortals echoed the slaughter, vaporizing and churning the Pacific menace with arms of incalculable violence.

The slaughter ended as soon as it had begun. Until the jungles began to shift, sigh, sway, whisper, and moan in a ritualistic dance. The air grew dank with a sour scent, reinforced only by an acrid tinge of sulphur and ozone. Zameel understood what was happening, yet he couldn’t pinpoint the direction. Their Legion Master was the same, staring down in one direction to observe maps hidden from the praetors view. Perhaps that was their folly. The jungles of Indoi were never their hunting grounds. The sands of the blistering deserts were their home. It was foolish to think they could rapidly adapt to geological changes on a whim. Scattered across the repugnant, mutated trees of Indoi, the Empyrean spilled into the acid rivers like a torrent of toxic waste from a manufactorum. Cries and screams rose up from a thousand voices as those in attendance were slaughtered by unspeakable things. Only the voices of the Custodes broke through the chaos.

+’Retreat.’+

A damnable word. An understandable word. This situation was beyond what they were capable of, especially for the Astartes of the Third. The Excertus Imperials, aided by the Third, could fend for themselves; however, the Northern Indoi battalions were another story. They broke. Entire sections of the advancing tide buckled, their psyches shattered and bodies sundered by daemonic threat. Multilimbed priests of the Golden Padshah burst into multichromatic fragments, bestial genewarriors mutated into great horrors of apocalyptic proportion, and trained beast-mutants transformed into throbbing masses of meat and teeth. Those that survived were forced back by the brutalization of their ranks. The Imperials remained, their slaughter continued, and their protectors pressed forward with renewed vigor.

---

Lord-Commander Crucias of the Tenth Excertus Imperialis – the Black Wolves – observed the end of the psychic cataclysm with his one remaining eye. Red-black soldiers in trench coats and reinforced carapace stabbed pulsating flesh masses in squads of five with bayonet and blade. The stoic giants of the Third – the Lightnings – walked with them, conflagrating those mutants that still thrived with their volkite cannons. None of the Northern Indoi militants remained to cull their deteriorated brethren. He didn’t blame them for their cowardice. A smattering of the Emperor’s greatest tanks, one of his included, idled nearby while the tides of war were stalled. His ear buzzed with tens of different reports as he watched them continue their gruesome work. The last of the abominations were being swept aside by the vaunted knights of the Emperor’s personal retinue. The Bronze Scorpions – Astartes of the Thirteenth – assisted them in their culling. The Legio Cataegis, in staunch disregard for orders, continued their mayhem in the jungles. They would be successful, no matter their casualty margins.

“Commander,” one of the robed initiates of the Sigilite’s order approached. Three of their number had always travelled with him from Europa to Jermani to Abyssna to here. This one in particular, a relatively young man by the name of Sharaid, presented him with a dataslate. He ranked the lowest amongst the gaggle of intendents, perhaps as a show of faith by the Sigilite or as a test to see if Crucias would remain loyal. Malcador never failed to draw amusement from Wolfgang Crucias’ endless calculations and deliberations. The lad continued to speak as he mused. “I bring tidings from our Master and word from Lord Aristagoras.”

“Speak it then.” His voice was as sharp as a shot from a lasgun. There was no softness left in his voice from his youth. It had been tempered in the fire of Terra’s greatest battles. The same could be said about his scars. To Sharaid, he probably appeared as the most ancient commander outside of Malcador. He would assume correctly, rounding the corner of his fifty-fifth year. The Sigilite’s dataslate was as expected, no surprise there. Stay away from the psykers and pull back from quadrants Alpha through Victor. The manifestations in those zones had grown incomprehensibly. No doubt they would lose their Cataegis and Custodes support; however, the Astartes remained with them for the siege. Crucias raised his eye back up to the intendent.

“Zones Warlord through Zulu have been cleared for the assault on Protosia Agras. The Thirteenth have established a clearance corridor for a funneled siege. However,” Junior Scribe-Intendent Sharaid relayed with the carefulness of an adolescent, yet remained reluctant to part with the last piece of information. Wolfgang had already surmised what he would say, yet allowed him the time to spill it out. “Lord Aristagoras and his host will be reassigned to dealing with the incursion. The Ninth and Eleventh Cataegis are being dispatched as reinforcements as well. Squad Gjallahar will remain for the final push to settle the insurrection.”

He blinked. An entire squad of the golden plated knights were remaining with their siege. They lost nearly five-hundred Thunder Warriors to the incursion, yet gained five of the Emperor’s greatest warriors. Despite how he felt about the Cataegis, Crucias felt it was a good trade. Either Aristagoras had felt pity for the Black Wolves or the Emperor’s Axe had anticipated a greater menace in Protosia Agras. It mattered little to him.

“Relay to Lord Aristogras that we’re humbled by his willingness to allow five of his knights to remain. Dispatch a hundred of our non-mercenary Wolves to act as intermediaries and bolt-loaders. Use your guile to ascertain their inherent resistance to the wyrd. Dismissed.” He hadn’t planned to levy some of his personal troops to the Custodes, as they operated better as a cohesive unit without external support, but Crucias knew that his more veteran infantry would suffice for suppressive fire and reloading operations. Sharaid bowed his head in respect, claiming the dataslate offered by the Lord-Commander before disappearing into the hulking hull of his command tank. He had grown thirsty in the dry period of the incursion. His thirst would be quenched by the fall of Protosia Agras’ walls. His hand touched the vox-bead attached to his left ear.

+’All gathered forces. Proceed to coordinates as instructed. Ignore obstacles in the specified zones. Begin phase one of the staging operations at points Warlord-One-Seven-Nine and Yankee-Nine-One-Three. Protosia Agras will fall by night fall. Raptor Imperialis.’+ His commands were sent out across a thousand vox-beads and vox-speakers. His words were taken on immediately as the red-black mass, joined by the Gray Third, shifted towards the incursion exclusion corridors for the final assault. His voice left no question about their chances of success. To Lord-Commander Crucias, Protosia Agras had already fallen as soon as the Emperor had commanded it felled. It was simply a matter of adhering to His will.

---

Protosia Agras. Where Nolus Dolhai was a spectacle of the Old Night, a golden city of ingenuity, the seat of the Diviner was the core of the Cycle’s divinity. Great trees that towered as large as spires twisted in a dance around soaring temples. Incense permanently blanketed the air in a thin miasmic fog, while basins of purified acid floated amidst pools of cultivated sap. At the center of the city was the pyramidic temple of the Diviner, rising as the greatest structure even amongst the leviathan flora. Surrounding the spiritual hive was the Millenium Wall, formed by statues of their deities and reinforced by undefinable energies.

Where some had seen it as the culmination of their spiritual journey, it would forever now be the tomb of the Cycle’s infinite divinity. If anything, Zaid would be sure to torch every single one of their decrepit temples with his own talons. He regrets having to establish the incursion corridor. Protosia Agras was burning, shattered by the wail of a thousand cannons by the time the last of the Tenth Excertus Imperialis had been escorted through. The Legion Master knew he would have to share words with Wolfgang, stealing the glory of the siege for himself and intentionally separating the Astartes away from the action. Or perhaps his praetor was affecting his thoughts more than he had expected. Those thoughts vanished from his mind as his warriors approached the hive. Those walls that he had observed from a distance were demolished, a hundred breaches formed for them to enter.

+’Good of you to come to the battlefield, old friend,’+ The Lord-Commander spoke with what could be considered a smug tone over private vox. It confirmed some of his theories, yet he swallowed his pride and fought back a snarl. Patience is the weapon of the serpent. He heard them as they came, words from the ether that he had quickly accepted for his own. Before he could respond, Crucias continued. +’The Black Wolves will handle the separatists. Lord Gjallahar and four of his knights have begun a lightning assault on Diviner Thakur’s temple. Take your bravest and convene with the Custodes.’+

Few had the capacity or authority to command the recently risen Astartes besides the Emperor, Malcador, and the vaunted members of the Custodes. Neither were they puppets to be strung up by unseen hands to be meekly controlled. Lord-Commander Crucias, veteran general of the Excertus Imperialis, was one who he offered no bite back. He had refused orders from those that threatened to usurp the Emperor’s authority, those that challenged the legitimacy of the Sigilite’s operations, and those of whom shared the same office as him. His legion, once slate grey as the Third, attained an identity because of the Black Wolves. He would, and will, never dismiss the orders of Wolfgang Crucias. Zaid N’dar embraced them.

+’Then it shall be so. Raptor Imperialis, old friend.’+ The Legion Master responded as his lips parted in a toothy sneer-grin. The old man had always known how to strike at the warsong in his beating hearts. He beat the shaft of the Lance of Abbaba against the stone beneath his feet. Zaid ibn N’dar raised his other taloned hand to Protosia Agras and pointed out for the genewarriors of the Thirteenth.

“We’ve been given a grand honor, Bronze Scorpions! We strike at the core of the enemy to rip out their entrails and scatter their bones in His name! Pour into their wounds and poison their veins! Blood of the sand! Gloria Scorpii!” Zaid N’dar roared out through his knightly helmet. The Astartes of the Thirteenth cheered in ways that they knew best – by completing their objective. As a tide of insects into the open cuts of a fallen prey, the bronze-black giants descended upon the great city of Protosia Agras. It was here that the Legion Master truly felt as his title implied – the Lord of a Legion. Their numbers were infinite as they rushed through the canopy of the jungle. On burning wings, they rose and sank into the roaring flames of the hive city. They fell from soaring transports that screamed munitions into the ranks of the separatists. They were thousands. They were legion.

His blood boiled with the anticipation he had come to enjoy as being an Astartes. Both of his hearts beat to the hammers of war. He could no longer hold back the excitement that he felt warring for the Emperor of Mankind. Legion Master Zaid flung himself forward at the head of his hunting pack. Zameel followed in close pursuit, a pair of Pacific mono-edge plasma swords unsheathed to the wind. No doubt if his vox-grills were active, then he was certain to be laughing aloud. The Immortals were close behind him, their weapons powered and their barrels smoking. Each hunted forth with black tabards and chains rattling. Each was a veteran of a hundred skirmishes with talon-tipped gauntlets and laurel-crested helmets. Each of these Astartes was the very pinnacle of genemancy and heralds of their farflung progenitor. Each heard the songs of the umbral world, bowed to them, and used them in their lessons of war. They were a single drop in an ocean of thousands of bronze-black knights that scaled over the separatist walls.

And they were unstoppable. As Zaid sprinted over the crumbling ruins of shattered buildings, he observed the situations as they passed by. Where the inexperienced Third and the Black Wolves fought to a stalemate, the Bronze Scorpions descended with a renewed fury that broke the tide with numbers and violence. When the lumbering titan-mutants of the Diviner’s menagerie shuddered out of their pits, the Thirteenth were already carving into their fat flesh with talon and blade. They were innumerable. The actions of his legion proved worthy enough to draw attention away from the great pyramid of the Diviner. In real-time, the Legion Master witnessed the shambling warrior-slaves march enmasse to disruptions across the city. Vehicles were rerouted to handle an outbreak of bronze-black giants desecrating their shrines. Mutant-masters were forced to change their prey-targetting modules to focus on the Thirteenth. He could smell the astonishment, fear, and adulation from the mortals of the Black Wolves. Transhuman dread, the likes of which they had never seen before, was apparent in their body language. They rejoiced at sudden, unprovoked reinforcements and rose the Thirteenth up on internal pillars of glory.

Their glory, their sacrifices, would not be in vain. The golden aura of the Custodes grew closer as they crossed the fractured courtyard towards the Diviner’s grand temple. Their hulking forms were the very essence of lightning, cleaving their way through the thickest plate and densest crowd. To the surprise of Zaid, more than the Custodes awaited their strikeforce. A squad of Cataegis mulched through the temple sentinels, each as ornate as their Custodes counterparts. One bore claws with plasma-wreathed talons, while another pierced a defender with a shimmering spear of licking flames. He knew them before they could introduce themselves.

Primarch Napoleos and Primarch Vladorios. Both were unhelmed, their brazen and bruised faces open to the toxicity of Thakur’s despoiled temple. They were different in strange ways, but they were equally brutish and malformed. The Primarch of the Dawnhunters, Napoleos, bore the spear with his long hair flowing from a tight knot. His armor was orange-yellow with golden accents, decorated with a myriad of trophies from across Terra. The Primarch of the Raptor’s Claws, Vladorios, was a sullen warrior with a shaved head armed with a pair of deathly talons. His white-yellow armor stood stark amongst their assemblage. Two Dawnhunters and two Raptor’s Claws escorted their respective commanders with similarly brazen weapons of humming power.

Further, still, was the peculiar attendance of the Padshah’s Companions - bestial genewarriors of particularly old Terran animals that had long gone extinct. Unlike the Cataegis, Astartes, or Custodes, the Companions wore pseudo-power armor as their hide was enough to withstand several direct hits from explosives. One in particular, a man with intense feline features, led from the front with rending claws and a blood-covered maw.

“Perform your duties, Astartes.” The Custodes at the head of their group, Gjallahar. A crimson plume scurried out of his pointed helmet, slick with Indoi blood. A unique axe was held in his golden gauntlets, double-headed with a conflagrator at the shaft’s end. Despite the gore that decorated his armor, the genewarrior’s voice gave no inkling of fatigue or tiredness.

Zaid ibn’ Ndar and his Immortals acquiesced without verbal or physical confirmation. They bypassed the melee at the bottom of the temple’s long stairway, beginning their long winded ascent to the top. The temple itself was a steep pyramid of rustic metal and reinforced stone, centered directly at the apex of the hive-city to loom over all that reside within. Perhaps, once, it would’ve had automated guardians to defend it. Now, however, it was crewed by mutants and beast-creatures made from the toxic jungles and dank laboratories of the Indoi. Those said sentinels dared to bar their path were alike the Padshah’s Companions - bestial warriors heavily corrupted by the whimsical insurrection of the Diviner.

If they had thought they would be enough to stop the Thirteenth, then they had been sorely mistaken. The Immortals tore into them with all manners of fury. Zameel, with both of his single-edged blades, leapt into a decapitating strike on one of the defenders. Rhaehal, an Immortal, bisected another with a power glaive claimed from Abyssna. Another pair, Aghoris and Martarias, assisted each other in a deadly dance with volkite disintegrators and Jermani-pattern heavy blades. The last two, Hakam and Ghaalib, scythed through the weaker of the bestial warriors with venerable chainswords and thumping bolters. Zaid, himself, pierced through their lead opponent and tossed him from the side of the temple; yet, it was never these juggernauts that truly blocked their path.

Slinking down from the top of the pyramid, exiting from the dark depths of the Diviner’s temple, five figures began to approach them. Zaid could taste their association even before they fully materialized before them. Pan-Pacific knights, bedecked with swords of writhing plasma and power armor with skull-faced masks, squared off against them. Before the Bronze Scorpions could initiate their attack, a flash of three golden figures burst through their scattered rank. Gjallahar’s brethren leapt into combat with the straight-edged menace expected of their pristine genealogy. All at once, the Pacific knights were locked in mortal combat with the veteran genewarriors of the Emperor’s retinue.

“Zaid. Napoleos. Vladorios. With me.” The command hadn’t needed to be said over vox. Gjallahar was clear enough to be heard even through the filtered grills on his helmet. Four of them, in his mind, would be plenty. Zameel, understanding the situation as it passed, turned around and prepared his blades to fight against a gathering throng of insurrections below. The Immortals, and eventually the veteran Cataegis, followed suit with their ranged weapons ready. As the squad of four rushed past the Pacific knights, the harsh scream of volley fire echoed behind them.

While the war waged behind and below them, the four threw themselves into the upper echelons of the temple. Great braziers of strange, everburning fire were held aloft by metallic statues with unusual properties. Large murals, carved into the hallways of the pyramid, spoke of the long, religious history of Indoi and all of their predecessors. None dared pay any mind to the dreams of bygone tyrants - only one ruler mattered to them. Despite the resistance on the way up, the warriors found none to bar their journey to the Diviner; however, they began to smell the familiar scent of depleted ozone and stinking sulphur. Zaid could audibly hear the two Primarchs behind him begin to growl in response. Of their number, he agreed that the Cataegis were the ones most adequately built for handling the wyrd.

The disgusting scent finally presented before them at the top of the open-roofed pyramid. Standing at the center of a great Indoi cohort, a single figure was hovering in the midst of the air. Like the Padshah, this figure had many arms sprouting from their back in an enlightening gesture. A myriad of eyes were closed on the bald head of the stranger, yet many more were open on the plethora of limbs they held. They easily dwarfed the largest of their number, Gjallahar, and wore nothing save for a flowing robe of yellow silk. All of the attendants had perished, their skin melted and their throats slit to spill into an eight-pointed circle beneath the floating being. Reality threatened to rip apart where they stood as they closed the distance.

Gjallahar failed to hesitate. He sprinted with all of his gene-might, hipfiring the conflagrator from his axe. Similarly, the Primarchs waited for no word to begin their assault. Both split to the left and right, aiming to sync their attacks with the Custodes at the forefront. Zaid, utilizing those perks of his geneseed, flitted across the open-air chamber to the rear of the figure. Each of the veteran warriors dived in for an overhead attack, only to be interrupted by the plethora of arms sprouting from the figure.

“Vile mongrels of the Himalazian Mountains! I’ve heard the Truth! From the depths of Ursh’s nightmare citadel to the jade palace of the Pacific Empire have I seen where our beloved world is heading!” As he spoke, Zaid felt as if his skin would rip straight from the meat. If he hadn’t been certain that the creature was the Diviner, then the Astartes was well aware now that Thakur Vimal Sura was some form of abomination. The Lance of Abbaba was held in place by at least ten of his extremities, even while the disintegrator in the shaft was venting death into the air. The Diviner continued without interruption, “The Padshah - our great eminence of the Cycle - was wrong! We have followed the path set before us wrong! He - and your tyrant liege - will know what the Primordial Truth is!”

Perhaps it was due to their latent ability to resist properties of the wyrd, or perhaps it was the sheer brutality that they displayed. Both of the Primarchs wrenched their weapons free of the abomination’s grip, carving into the soft flesh with fist and tooth as if they were animals. The creature that was the Diviner screamed in agony, releasing their weapons as he was assailed. Gjallahar emptied the volatile reserves of his conflagrator into the right leg of the being, while Zaid pierced through the upper right shoulder. With a wail enhanced by sorcerous energies, Thakur unleashed a shockwave of witchcraft that sent all four flying back. Luckily, the Vladorios and Napoleos recovered quicker than the others.

“You are unable to kill me! I am the Cycle made manifest! I am the Tender, bearer of the Fruits! I am the Render, spiller of the Waters! I am the Diviner, willer of the manifold paths! I am the Enlightener, bringer of Nirvana!” The thing screamed out. It’s voice had never had a human tinge to it, yet in this moment it lost all of it’s humanity. The Diviner lashed out with chromatic rays of fire, beams of stinking acid, torrents of boiling fruit-flesh, and razor-sharp feathers of long-extinct fauna. Gjallahar and Zaid were nimble, crafted from the brightest minds, and able to dodge or parry what the Diviner gifted them. The Primarchs, however, were bulk from a different stock. They trudged forward into every assault, losing skin and armor in droves as they pressed further towards Thakur.

“Submit to the Cycle!” The being said as it focused all of it’s energy into one of the Primarchs, threatened by their insane level-headedness. Zaid watched in awe as Vladorios’ withstood all of the Diviner’s attacks without flinching. His armor had long been ruptured, scattered, and disintegrated in their fight. His flesh threatened to peel, blister, bleed, scab, and more as the wyrd attempted to turn him inside out; however, he marched on with one of his shattered talons in one of his hands. The awe faded as quickly as it had set as both himself and Gjallahar descended upon the shocked abomination.

All at once, the battle ended as Vladorios pierced it’s heart with a destroyed talon. Zaid pierced the throat of the being with the Lance of Abbaba. Gjallahar bisected the creature at the waist with his double-edged axe. Napoleos cleaved the skull from the Diviner with his flaming glaive. The floating priest dismantled like a child’s toy as it spun from the air. Blood erupted from the pierced, cleaved, and cut portions of it’s body. The sigil on the ground faded into the stone. The scent of ozone and sulphur disappeared into nothingness. The sound of fighting outside of the pyramid was dying down in a strange change of tune. Their siege was coming to a close.

Vladorios dropped to his knees, gurgling from the sheer amount of injuries he sustained. Despite his best attempt to remain upright, Zaid knew the Cataegis was not long for this world. All of his front-facing armor was destroyed, nothing remained of the skin on his skull, and his tendons were bare on many of his extremities. To his surprise, it was not Napoleos that made the first move, but Gjallahar that rushed to his side. Before the shattered form of the Primarch could collapse, the Custodes held aloft the warrior in his golden arms. The one remaining eye on the warrior stared up blankly at the ornate knight.

“Unity…” Came the hoarse words of the broken Primarch. It was as silent as the still air that remained after the Diviner’s demise. It brought both of his hearts to a beat. He was witnessing the end of one of their longest-lived Terran conquerors. There would be no Unity without their efforts. He doubt there would be Astartes without the Cataegis.

“Raptor Imperialis.” Gjallahar responded, unsheathing his misericordia - a short blade of diamantine - and plunging the weapon into the exposed breast of the Primarch. An audible gasp exhaled from Vladorios before the warrior fell limp into the arms of the Custodes. Until the day that his duty ended, Zaid internally vowed to commit this scene to memory for all eternity. The body was carefully given to Napoleos, who blanketed his body with what remained of his cloak. The golden warrior then turned to the Astartes with a swift change of demeanor. He did not understand why he did it, but Zaid dropped to his knee before the Himalazian knight.

“What is your will?” Zaid asked. Whatever pride he had before was banished after the loss of the Primarch. He couldn’t help but feel respect for the Custodes before him. Perhaps all of Aristagoras’ warriors were like this - honorable, fierce, and proud.

“There can be only one Emperor of Terra and He sits the Himalazian Throne.” Gjallahar said, reaching down and pulling the Astartes up from his kneeling position. The Lance of Abbaba was gifted back to him by the oversized gauntlets of the Custodes. He bore it with pride, despite his ever increasing lack of emotions. The golden knight began to march from the temple, turning back once more to affirm his command. “We will depose the False Emperor of Indoi - Siddharth Enue.”

And so they marched down the temple on a new warpath for Nolus Dolhai, to burn the great city and tear the High Padshah from his treasonous throne. By His will.