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Again, mid-story Comes the Sandstorm, we see three of our main characters interacting with the mechanical beasts they have unearthed. This also features one of only two appearances of the Patriarch. Why so few? I prefer to focus on the human interactions between characters rather than the full, cosmic horror. But, it's important to have him there, always watching, always waiting. Anyhow, constructive criticism welcome, as always. ===== The Macharius Vulcan squatted low, its twin cannons draped in canvas shrouds that no one dared remove. Someone had tried hanging a tarp over the sponson flamers. It hadn’t stayed up. The air around it felt different. Heavy and watching. Krystan moved along the left track guard with slow, deliberate steps. One hand held a grease cloth. The other rested lightly against the hull. Sometimes the main power relay was warm when it shouldn’t be. Once, the hull had shifted an several metres overnight. No one admitted it. No one spoke of it. He’d stopped trying to explain. He was tightening a bolt near the forward access port when he heard boots behind him. Jagiełło. The Primus approached. His coat hung open, desert dust still clinging to the hem. He didn’t speak immediately. He just looked. "Is it secure?" he asked. Krystan kept his eyes on the bolt. "Operational, if that’s what you mean. I cleaned the filters. Primed the coolant. She’s fuelled and ready." "That’s not what I asked." Krystan hesitated, then looked up. "No. It’s not secure. It’s not anything. It’s just... watching." Jagiełło stepped closer. Krystan’s breath caught. "I wouldn’t go near it. Not without me." The Primus paused, just within the shadow of the Vulcan. The hull loomed like a waiting animal. Then, with a mechanical whisper, the main turret turned. The was no warning. No servo whine until it was already moving. The cannons angled downward with purpose. A red dot appeared on Jagiełło’s chest. Laser targetter, dead centre. Krystan didn’t move. "I didn’t tell it to do that." Jagiełło didn’t flinch. But his eyes narrowed. "Then who did?" The moment held. The red dot stayed there, unmoving. The turret didn’t twitch. It just waited. Then the light blinked off. The turret rotated back to neutral. The bay was silent again, save for the soft settling creaks of 329's cooling frame. Jagiełło stepped back, eyes still on the hull. "It responds to you," he said. "It tolerates me," Krystan replied. A long pause. "Do you fear it?" "Every time I climb in." Jagiełło gave a short nod, then turned without another word and walked away. Krystan remained, alone in the silence, one hand resting near the hull but never quite touching. Behind him, 329 waited. Mona stood alone on the upper gantry of the repair bay, half-shrouded in shadow, her coat drawn close against the lingering cold of early morning. The lamps cast long, low arcs of yellow light across the floor below, catching on riveted hulls and coiled fuel lines, throwing everything else into gloom. Three silhouettes waited in that gloom. Brutus, the Malcador, rested broad and battered, her weight sunk into the cracked ferrocrete as though she had been there forever. The Iron Duke lay tarped still, his shape concealed, but unmistakable to those who knew. A relic swaddled in dust cloth and reverence. And then there was 329. The Vulcan crouched in the middle of the bay, a slumbering beast. Its plating still bore the soot of battle, scorched streaks trailing from vents and barrel shrouds. Someone had tried to clean it. No one had finished. Mona said nothing for a long time. Her gaze shifted from one war machine to the next, slow and measured. There was no warmth in her face, but no fear either, only thought. Beneath her coat, her fingers moved gently against one another, like feeling the edges of something invisible. A memory, perhaps, of something she held once. "We called them symbols," she said softly, to no one. "We needed strength. Something to anchor belief. And they answered." She let the words hang. From her vantage point, she could just make out Krystan, a lone figure by the Vulcan’s track. He hadn’t moved for some time. She didn’t need to see his face to know what it held. She had seen it in others. After the laying-on of hands, after the whispers, that quiet dread that follows faith too quickly given. Her eyes drifted again, past the tarp of the Iron Duke. It stirred faintly in the motionless air. "Perhaps too soon," she murmured. A tremor passed across her shoulders, a chill. The hairs along her scalp prickled before she heard him. She heard no footsteps, just the sense of presence behind her, as though the shadows themselves had grown heavier. She did not turn. Her hands stilled. The air around her felt too still, too sharp. Even the Vulcan below seemed to hold its breath. "We can wait," rumbled the voice, both aloud and speaking directly to her mind. It was a voice Mona knew. A voice she had heard long before the desert, before the Resistance, before she had words for what moved beneath Prawa V. She closed her eyes. Her body remained still, but inside her chest, something shifted. "We have waited this long," the voice said. "We can wait longer." Silence followed. The air felt charged. Mona did not reply. When she finally moved, it was only to raise one hand to her collarbone, fingers brushing the skin there like she might steady herself. Below, 329 remained where it was. Waiting.

So, following @W.A.Rorie's advice, I am going to start tagging these little vignettes and scenes with the appropriate story they are from. I will be going back and ensuring others are tagged appropriately, so there's some consistency and readers do not mix up one with the other. So, this is from about midway through Comes the Sandstorm, and occurs after the assault on Complex 73. I think this is the first bit I've posted from that particular portion of the story. I've had a little bit of an injury to my hand of late which is why I've not been posting much, neither here nor painted models. But, getting past it! Anyhow, I do hope you enjoy. As always, constructive criticism is most welcome. ===== The armoury was quiet. Paused with the kind of stillness that came after all the shouting and the blood. Laska sat on a low counter near the lockers, one boot on a ration crate, the other swinging lazily. Her flak jacket was unzipped, her undershirt clinging to her ribs, her gear spread around her like the aftermath of a long breath. She was cleaning her rotary launcher with mechanical rhythm, eyes half-lidded. I stepped inside, peeling the dust-caked gloves from my fingers. The door clicked shut behind me. She glanced up but didn’t stop working. “Tough fight today, sarge.” I nodded, unfastening the plates from my chest. “I know.” She pulled a rag through the barrel. The metal sang softly under her hands. “We need to get word to Branka’s family.” “I know.” I let the words hang there. “I’ll do it. She was under my orders.” Silence stretched. Laska set the launcher down gently. Her fingers lingered on the receiver before she looked up again. “We could both be dead tomorrow.” I didn’t answer. I was still staring at the inside of my armour, at the dark scratches and the dried sweat. Eventually, I looked up. She didn’t blink. “Sir…” I crossed the space between us. She didn’t move until I was there, then her knees wrapped around my thighs, arms over my shoulders. True and honest. I pressed my forehead to hers. We held each other like something brittle as though we were already mourning the day we might not get this again. I lifted her. She tightened around me, and we turned, silently, toward my quarters, just breathing in each other's scent.