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Firstly, my apologies for any errors in my Danish. I am far better at Polish! I hope these three passages help to bring to life the different waves of settlers who arrived on Prawa V over the centuries. I also hope it deepens the mystery of Mona a little. As always, comments, criticism, etc. most welcome. Thank you. If you're interested in pronunciation, it's Jagiełło (yah - gee - eh - woh - soft G), Stenrik (steen - rik), Kasnyk (cash - nik - yes, I am aware I've missed out the accent on the S but I am not going back to change them all now!), Sobczak (sob - chack), Czajka (chy - kah). We stopped ten paces short. No one spoke. The wind stirred between us — not strong, not loud, but constant. It carried the dry scent of old canvas, scrub brush, and sun-scoured stone. One of the nomads raised a hand, palm down. Not to stop us. Just to hold the stillness in place. Jagiełło didn’t flinch. He stood level, eyes forward. The weight of his presence didn’t shift. But when Mona stepped slightly ahead of him, no one missed it — least of all the nomads. She lowered her hood. The change wasn’t in her posture, but in the air around her. She moved as if this plain were familiar. Not recently — but in the way a road becomes part of you after enough miles. Then she spoke. Not loudly. Not with ceremony. Just a few words in a tongue none of us knew. A murmur rose among the nomads. One of them, younger, grunted something back — fast, uncertain. But another, an older woman wrapped in a dust-bleached shawl, stepped forward and narrowed her eyes. She made a sign I didn’t know — three fingers to the chest, then to the wind. Then she said it. Quiet. Like tasting it to be sure. “Kova.” Mona didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Another voice, further back. A man this time. Hoarse. “Kirana?” Mona tilted her head slightly, not in confirmation. Not in denial. Just the silence of someone who’s been called many things, and knows which ones to answer to. The old woman nodded. Once. Then turned to the others and spoke in a low stream — the words flowed like sand over metal, rough and worn smooth by time. One by one, the nomads lowered their shoulders. One stepped aside, creating space. Another poured water into a small iron bowl and set it on a flat stone between us. Not a welcome. Not yet. An invitation. I glanced at Jagiełło. His jaw had tightened just a fraction. He was still. But I could feel the calculation shifting behind his eyes. Mona looked straight ahead. Calm. Steady. The wind pulled gently at the hem of her coat. ----- Kasnyk stood at the window for a moment longer than necessary. The desert outside was dipped in twilight, wind dragging sand across the concrete lip of the compound’s inner wall. Below, a generator stuttered and caught, coughing back to life with a wheeze of tired pistons. Behind him, the cogitator array continued its quiet work, charting terrain overlays and patrol logs onto a wide, pulsing grid. The screen showed sector loops that didn’t loop, supply routes that edged too close to sealed archives, and updated manifests that included items no longer in inventory. He tapped the side of his monocle. “Filter for supply redundancy. Cross-check energy draw against cooling systems allocated to decommissioned bunkers. Highlight anything rerouted.” The lens flickered. One by one, old bunkers lit up — most cold. One glowed faint amber. Vault Theta-6. Again. Kasnyk frowned. He reached for a dataslate on the side table and loaded the recent archive pull — old requisitions, handwritten manifests, post-war facility diagrams. That was when there was a knock on the door. “Enter,” he said, not looking up. The functionary stepped in, a junior aide barely out of academy stripes, arms burdened with scrolls wrapped in old twine and dataslates bound in copper crimps. He crossed the room quietly and deposited them on the bench beneath the auxiliary map display. Then waited. Kasnyk continued for a moment, narrowing the patrol sector overlay, eyes flicking across the junctions like a man reading an old scar. Only when he reached for a stylus that wasn’t there did he realise someone was still in the room. His eyes lifted. A brief frown creased his brow — no more than a second. “Dismissed,” he said, voice low but firm. The functionary left without a word. The door closed. Kasnyk returned to the display. He isolated the patrol paths of the 280th Sunward Watch across the last six weeks. They weren’t guarding terrain. They weren’t clearing routes.They were moving around something. Searching. “They’re not holding ground,” he murmured. “They’re searching for something.” The cogitator chimed. New transmission received – delayed sync. A small green icon blinked into life. Partial. Fragmented. Sergeant Marek Sobczak. Timestamped two nights prior. Low priority flag. Civilian channel. He opened it. There were no visuals — just Marek’s voice, crackling and warped: “...confirm visual on something… unmarked… not listed on any— vault appears active… power draw doesn’t match records… forwarding… can’t confirm full schematic, but the shape— it’s massive. Not local. They’ve… they’ve moved something, sir. They—” The file ended mid-transmission. Kasnyk sat still. Then called up the old topographical logs from the years immediately after the last compliance sweep — the last time anyone had mapped beneath Sector Twelve in detail. He fed in the newer, redacted layouts. The overlays pulsed. One showed an access tunnel decommissioned. The newer version showed… nothing. A flatness. But the patrols curved around it. “Compare,” he said softly. “List facility differences, changes to supply nodes, reassigned storage depots.” The system fed it in: cooling lines rerouted. Fuel allocations tagged as ‘emergency buffer stock’ never accounted for. Power cells drawn off-grid. Kasnyk leaned forward slowly. Hands flat on the desk. “There’s something there, isn’t there?” A pause. Then, more quietly: “They’re waking it up.” ----- The fire pit crackled low, sending up thin curls of smoke that vanished into the pale sky. The light was shifting now — no longer the flat white of day, but the burnished orange that came before true dusk. Shadows stretched long and slow across the dust. We were seated in a rough circle near the centre of the camp, a shallow depression lined with stones. The nomads didn’t crowd us. They kept distance, even now. Not out of fear. Just a different rhythm. Their clothing was layered, practical. Cloaks stitched from sun-bleached canvas and old industrial fabric, some dyed in earthen tones, others faded into pale greys. Boots and footwraps varied — a few wore repurposed treadplates strapped with cord, others had sand-hardened hides laced tight. Brass charms and wire-bound tools hung from belts, clinking softly as they moved. Nothing matched. Everything served a purpose. Their leader stood just off-centre, framed against a lean-to strung with scavenged cloth. He was tall, narrow-shouldered, and moved like someone used to measuring every step. When he finally stepped forward, he reached up slowly and removed his mask. It was old, military-issue from some forgotten war — rubber faded, filters patched with wire. He didn’t unclip it for comfort. He did it to look Jagiełło in the eye. “Jeg er Stenrik,” he said. His voice was dry but steady. Jagiełło gave a small nod. “You know why we’re here.” Stenrik studied him. “We heard the ground speak. Not with voice. With weight.” Mona remained silent, seated just behind Jagiełło. The old woman from before sat beside her, saying nothing, fingers loosely clasped over a bowl of ash and stone. Stenrik continued, switching to the shared tongue. “Something moves below the sands. Old. Not yours. Not ours.” Jagiełło's eyes narrowed. “You know where?” Stenrik shook his head once. “We know signs. Dust that falls without wind. Vibration in stone. Dry places turning damp overnight. It sleeps deep. But it turns in its sleep.” There was a pause. Jagiełło reached behind him and took something from Czajka’s pack — a bundled cloth sack. He opened it carefully, revealing a compact rig of pipes and mesh folded tight into a carrier frame. “Atmos capture. Ten litres at dusk, more if the wind is right,” he said. Stenrik didn’t reach for it. He looked at it, then at Jagiełło. “A gift?” Jagiełło nodded. “Not charity. Trade. Respect.” Stenrik considered this, then turned to one of the others and murmured something in their soft dialect. A few of the younger nomads whispered behind their scarves. “Det er gjort,” the elder woman finally said. It is done. A quiet fell. One of the nomads stood and stepped forward, pressing his thumb to his chest, then toward the horizon. Not a pledge. Just understanding. I watched them move, speak, shift. There was no theatre here. No performance. Just the slow machinery of trust turning, one click at a time. As we made ready to leave, the old woman leaned toward Mona. Her voice barely carried. "Du går stadig med en lang skygge, Kova.“ - You still walk with a long shadow, Kova. Mona offered a small, gracious smile and dipped her head in a tiny nod. The wind picked up again as we turned for the ridge. And behind us, the camp folded back into silence.

The vault walls were old steel, streaked with oxidation and reinforced with thick slabs of desert-cut stone. Lamplight traced long shadows across maps, dataslates, and supply manifests scattered over a folding table at the centre of the room. “They found him slumped in the runner,” she said, voice soft. “Or, at least, what remained. No one heard the shot.” “They weren’t meant to.” Jagiełło didn’t look up from the slate he was reviewing. He paused. "The round was designed for targets heavier than him.” “You authorised it.” “I did.” “And the slate?” He finally looked up. His face gave nothing. “He sent it. Too late to stop. Not enough to convict.” Mona didn’t blink. “You gambled.” “I assessed risk.” “You’re better than that,” she added, voice quieter now. “Or you were.” She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. The disappointment in her tone landed with more force than any volume. “The 280th sit in silence,” she continued. “Krystan won’t speak. Laska pretends to smile. Even Czajka is watching doorways like a prisoner.” Jagiełło’s eyes flicked away, just for a breath. “They’ll hold,” he said finally. Mona folded her arms. “For now.” “They’re still functional.” “They’re wounded.” Jagiełło returned the slate to the table with a click. “Good. Wounds are reminders. Pain sharpens loyalty better than ideology.” Mona tilted her head. “If you believe that, you’ve learned nothing from me.” A long pause. Then Jagiełło exhaled — not a sigh, but a release of calculation. “We need the nomads.” She straightened. “So soon?” “They’ve seen the convoys. They’ve heard the engines from below the sand. Better to offer our terms now than answer theirs later.” He stepped toward a long-range vox unit mounted on the wall. As he reached for it, a soft chime rang through the room — his personal channel. He tapped the receiver twice. The line opened. He didn’t speak immediately. Just listened. “Confirmed,” he said at last. “No survivors. Vehicle abandoned?” A pause. His jaw tightened. “Rifle retrieved?” Another pause. His eyes narrowed faintly. “Good. No spent casings, no tracks. Wind will cover the rest.” Mona watched him from the shadows, arms folded now. “Yes. I’ll prepare the contact team. Maintain distance. If they investigate further, let the desert answer them.” Silence. He cut the channel. Mona’s voice returned, dry as paper. “Our ghost?” “She’s dust again.” Jagiełło stepped back from the unit and folded his arms. “I want you with me for the nomad approach,” he said. “I assumed.” “We don’t offer them unity. We offer them necessity. Their strength, their routes, their silence.” “And if they ask for blood instead?” His voice was calm. “Then we show them we’ve already spilled our own.” ----- The Chimeras rumbled across the salt flats like beasts too tired to roar. Dust coiled around their tracks in slow, looping tendrils. The sun sagged low behind us, staining the desert red and bruised gold. I rode up top again, helmet off, wind clawing at my sweat-matted hair. Laska leaned beside the turret ring, arms folded, watching the horizon. Czajka stayed inside. He never liked the openness. We crested a low ridge — more suggestion than feature — and there they were. Jagiełło stepped down first. His coat shifted in the wind like a banner with no nation. Mona followed, her hood raised, hands bare. She moved like she’d been here before — not recently, maybe, but in a way the desert remembered. The nomads didn’t move to meet us. So we went to them. ----- The office was silent, save for the steady hum of the ventilation unit and the rhythmic tapping of a stylus against dataslate casing. Lieutenant Kasnyk sat rigid in his chair, monocle flickering softly in the artificial light. Behind him, the ancient globe of Verdanos spun lazily on its stand — forgotten for now. The cogitator projected a split-screen: faded vault schematics on the left, regional patrol logs on the right. Numbers flickered. Routes overlaid. Too clean in some places, too murky in others. He tapped a button on his monocle then spoke. “Compare current patrol logs of the 280th Sunward Watch to historical assignments across sectors eleven through fifteen. Filter by irregular route deviation exceeding twenty percent.” The lens blinked green, then populated data. “Terrain doesn’t collapse in that sector,” he muttered. He leaned forward. “Cross-reference Theta-6 with decommissioned asset manifests. List all power draws above thirty kilowatts per day in the last cycle. Exclude official requisitioned materials.” The lens pulsed. The cogitator on his desk to which it synchronised lagged, like it didn’t want to answer. Kasnyk’s brow furrowed. He stood and began pacing — short steps, hands clasped behind his back. “Compare Theta-6 schematics to post-war archival plans. Note differences in facility placement, supply lines, and reported inventories. Begin delta log.” The monocle obeyed and began to stream data in front of his left eye. Results crawled across the screen: storage realignments. Additional unlogged sublevels. An underground tramway noted in the original designs — now removed from all modern schematics. No mention of where it led. He stopped. Stared at the floor. Then, quietly: “Request speculative classification of site. Based on power draw, architectural capacity, and crew proximity.” Three probabilities returned: - Munitions cache. - Vehicle hangar. - Light manufactory. Kasnyk returned to his cogitator and tapped the screen once. Then again. The cursor didn’t move. “Not sealed,” he whispered. “Not idle.” He sat at his desk, summoned a new overlay — a rough triangle forming from the irregular patrols. Within it: nothing. Or so the maps claimed. The cogitator pinged softly. A message icon pulsed orange in the corner of the screen. Encrypted. Internal channel. Kasnyk didn’t even open it. He tapped the dismiss rune without breaking stride. But power was being drawn. Air filtered. Coolant spent. Something was there. Something they didn’t want him to see.

Lieutenant Kasnyk leaned forward, monocle interface flickering green as he parsed the packet’s structure. A transmission, incomplete. Encrypted but within protocol. Origin: Marek Sobczak, Sergeant. Timestamp: early hours, local time. Location: near the southern ridge. That alone should have been routine. But Marek was dead. The initial report had come through the PDF relay chain an hour earlier — Sergeant Sobczak found in his runner, chest perforated by unknown fire. No witnesses. No sign of the weapon. A freak accident, they said. Bandits. Mutineers. The usual desert ghosts. Kasnyk didn’t believe in ghosts. The packet loaded, fragment by fragment. Static-blurred voice logs. One partial image file. Marek’s voice — distorted, dry — emerged mid-sentence: “…possibly Crusade-era… no Imperial markings… entry point recently disturbed—” Skip. “…serial tags stripped… unknown vehicle type… blast shielding—” Skip. “…locals? Maybe the 280th. I can’t confirm. Will escalate—” And then silence. No data header. No routing confirmation. Just the raw, fractured remnants of something bigger. Something deliberate. He tapped his monocle. “Begin trace on Sobczak data trail. Full audit. Limit visibility — private channel only.” The cogitator chirped again in acknowledgment. He stood slowly, moved to the side cabinet, and opened a shallow drawer. Inside: a sealed data crystal — unmarked. He placed it beside the slate without comment, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the desk as he stared at the half-lit screen. “Who did you see, Marek?” No answer came. Only the faint hum of the outpost’s ventilation. Still sterile. Still silent. But the weight had shifted. Something had cracked. ----- The mess hall smelled of overcooked grain, steam, and industrial soap. Not unpleasant — just lifeless. A kind of scentless familiarity that belonged to all PDF installations, no matter the sector. The 280th sat hunched around a metal table streaked with scratches and dried broth. Tin trays scraped softly under spoons. No voices rose to fill the space. Laska stirred her meal with the tip of her fork, not eating. She wore the same grin she always did, but it sat crooked this morning — not quite tethered to anything. Czajka sat beside her, quiet as ever, but his attention never left the door. Krystan slumped with his elbows on the table, nursing a lukewarm mug of recaf. He hadn't spoken since they'd filed in. I sat across from them, tray untouched. The ration stew steamed faintly in the stale air, but I couldn't summon the appetite. None of us could. Marek’s name hadn’t been mentioned. We didn’t need to say it. The air carried it. "Guess nobody's checked the heater coils again," Laska muttered, forcing levity into the space. "Tastes like someone's boot boiled in sump water." Czajka made a sound — might've been a laugh. Might've just been a breath. Krystan didn’t react. Silence returned like tidewater. Just the scrape of cutlery. The dull clatter of a tray dropped in the return chute. One by one, other squads filtered in. Most gave us a glance, then looked away. Maybe they’d heard. Maybe not. The desert wind tapped softly at the high windows. Outside, the sun was already high. Another day waiting to be filled with the wrong questions and the wrong orders. I looked down at my tray. The meal had cooled. I hadn’t touched it. Beside me, Laska suddenly stood. “I’m getting more recaf,” she said, though her cup was still half full. She walked off without waiting for anyone’s reply. Czajka finally spoke, voice low. “Do you think he saw it?” I didn’t ask who he meant. “I don’t know,” I said. He nodded, once, slow. “If he did, he’s not seeing anything now.” We sat in silence again, shoulder to shoulder. The 280th — whole, but not intact.

So, spoiler for this - this is not the end I plan for my band of Resistance fighters. I was just tinkering with ideas for them, but I thought you might like to see. It's a short passage, but you can see how they are all bonded, even 329 spins up for the fight. Thoughts most welcome. The sun didn’t rise that morning. Not properly. Just a bruised smear above the horizon, like the sky was ashamed to look us in the eye. We stood in the courtyard — the last open ground before the fallback position — where sand had drifted into the cracks between the stone like it meant to bury us ahead of schedule. Brutus rumbled behind me, her engine coughing low. One of her sponsons was gone — slagged in the last barrage — but the other still turned when I called for it. She’d die today, and she knew it. But not without giving back everything she had. The Iron Duke loomed just off to the side, its hull still scorched from the last charge. It had carried the wounded, shielded our retreat, held the line when the rest broke. A relic once — but now? A symbol. And behind it, half-lost in the bunker shadows, was 329. I could hear the fuel pumps hiss. The engines didn’t purr — they growled, low and resentful. Not like a tool, but like a thing that understood what was coming. Krystan hadn’t said a word since the night before. He sat inside 329’s belly like a monk in a temple. Still. Focused. If that monster had a soul, it had latched onto his. If Krystan was going to Hell, it would be there, busting down the gates. Laska stood at my right, eyes on the ridgeline. Her sleeves were rolled, dust crusted into her forearms. Blood too — not hers. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She’d made her peace. And I… I was proud of her in that moment, more than I could ever say. My love. Czajka had already gone prone near the southern wall. He didn’t look up as I passed — just adjusted the windage on his scope. He always knew the wind better than I did. Zofia leaned against the Duke, cigarette clamped between her teeth, arms folded tight. She looked like she was waiting for a punch — and daring the bastard to throw it. And Róźa... Róźa stood alone at the edge, near the ruined gate. No orders. Just instinct. That was all she ever needed. I turned to face them, boots grinding against the stone. My squad. My family, though I’d never said the word. They were filthy. Scarred. Exhausted. They were perfect. “We don’t hold this ground,” I said, low, calm. “We become it.” No speeches. No shouting. Just the truth. Laska nodded, her shoulder brushing mine. “We’re already ghosts,” she said. I smiled. Real, for once. “Then let’s :cuss:ing haunt them.” And when the first shells came down — distant at first, then closer, hungry — I didn’t flinch. I watched the horizon crack open. I heard the howl of 329 winding up like some ancient god dragging itself into the fight one last time. And I felt no fear. Only pride. Pride in the machines behind me. Pride in the people beside me. Pride that this — this bloodied, broken corner of the desert — was ours. If the Imperium wanted it back, they’d have to dig us out with their bare hands..

The wind tore at them as the Valkyrie dropped into the canyon, its engines shrieking against the tight walls. Dust and gravel whipped into the air, reducing the world to a swirling maelstrom outside the armoured glass of the troop compartment. Kasnyk stood, swaying with the turbulence, one gloved hand gripping a restraint overhead as he stared through the side viewport. The canyon was exactly as it had been described in the geological surveys — a deep scar in the desert, sheer cliffs of wind-scoured stone, peppered with outcroppings and the occasional stubborn succulent clinging to life. At its base, mostly swallowed by the rock, sat the bunker, hunched against the cliff face like some ancient fossil. The hatch clanged open the moment the skids touched down. Kasnyk descended first, boots crunching on the gravel-strewn floor. The air was dry, still, and carried the faint smell of scorched metal and explosive residue. The valley’s towering walls threw long shadows despite the midday sun. Behind him, Aleksy Klimek and four other members of the investigation team followed. The two Valkyrie crewmen remained aboard, engines hot and ready. Kasnyk liked the pilots well enough — competent, quiet — but he had no intention of taking their opinions on what he was about to find. Kasnyk advanced towards the battered bunker entrance. The blast had left a wide, irregular gap, jagged metal edges curling outward. As he crossed the threshold, his monocle flickered to life without prompting, overlaying faint data across his vision. STATUS: Breach Confirmed Explosive Residue: Detected Material Composition: Standard Siege Charge Timestamp Estimate: <48 hours> Kasnyk nodded to himself. His boots kicked up a layer of dust as he entered. Within, the bunker felt cavernous and oppressive, its empty corridors swallowing sound. The only noises were those of his team spreading out, the creak of gear, and the rasp of their breathing. Rows of vehicles flanked their path — tarpaulin-covered shapes, lined like silent sentinels in the gloom. The faint beams of the team’s shoulder-mounted lamps revealed what the dust and silence had hidden. Chimera-pattern hulls, Leman Russ frames, skeletal artillery pieces, and stubby transporters sat dormant beneath layers of grime and canvas. Each machine was perfectly aligned, unmoved for decades, perhaps even centuries. “There's so many,” muttered one of the investigators. The sheer number of them was staggering. Kasnyk didn’t respond. He was busy drinking it all in — not with wonder, but with analysis. His monocle scanned and catalogued automatically, lines of data crawling along the edges of his vision. As they continued, the air felt thick, almost expectant. Their lights flickered against the oppressive stillness. The deeper they ventured, the more obvious it became — no vermin, no signs of recent life. Just untouched silence. Klimek edged too close to a barely visible pressure plate near a service hatch. Kasnyk’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the collar. “Hold.” Everyone froze. Kasnyk knelt and brushed away the dust. A recessed mechanism lay exposed — rudimentary, but deadly. A fragmentation charge. “Traps,” Kasnyk said, standing. “Old. But still willing to work.” Klimek nodded, slightly pale, but grateful. “Thank you, sir.” Kasnyk gave a small grunt of acknowledgment. His heart beat faster, but not from the near-miss. He could feel it. He wasn’t wading through another dull supply theft. Something meaningful was waiting at the end of this trail. A light sensation built in his stomach — a familiar, welcome thrill. The same he’d felt long ago, when cases still mattered, when he was still certain he could make a difference. His eyes slid sideways to Klimek as they resumed their march. The young officer recovered quickly, carefully marking the trap for later removal. Kasnyk allowed himself a flicker of quiet satisfaction. Klimek was shaping up well — sharp, cautious, and just naïve enough to still care about the work. They pressed onward, weaving through the graveyard of machines until the hall finally widened into a more open chamber. Kasnyk’s monocle flickered. ERR[042] : Object classification failed. Possible: LV / Chimera Variant / Unknown – processing… He stepped forward, boots crunching into the fresh scuff marks left behind by heavy treads. Dust patterns and disturbance told the story plain enough: something massive had been here — and recently. And unlike the other machines, this one was no longer resting. They swept their lights across the chamber, and there it was — the Iron Duke's vault. The great sealed door stood ajar, its mechanisms scarred by the breach. Inside, the floor bore the unmistakable pattern of heavy tread marks leading out, and a large, dustless imprint where something colossal had once sat beneath a discarded tarpaulin. The blast shield's silhouette was faintly outlined in dust residue on the floor. Kasnyk entered the vault slowly. His team followed, fanning out, quietly cataloguing the scene — markings, disturbed dust, maintenance terminals, and the damage to the door. Every detail mattered now. Kasnyk’s attention turned to the side of the vault. Scorch marks spidered out from an old control terminal. He crouched, monocle feeding him flickering data. “Explosion?” suggested one of the investigators. “Possible,” Kasnyk mused, running a finger along the floor. “Or power feedback.” Klimek moved closer, examining the pattern. “Sir. Not radial — linear. As if they caught a discharge, not a detonation.” Kasnyk raised a brow. The young officer wasn’t wrong. “Well observed.” He stood, dusting off his gloves. “Someone knew the risks and still went through with it.” In the silence, broken only by the occasional clatter of boots and equipment, Kasnyk felt the old thrill rising again — the sense of standing on the precipice of something deeper than a petty theft. There was a thread here. And he fully intended to pull it. ----- The wind outside the outpost’s main hall blew softly against the old hab-blocks and ferrocrete structures, but Marek hardly noticed. Leaning against a weathered pillar, he took a slow drag from his lho-stick, watching the station’s central yard through narrowed eyes. The sun was fading behind the ridgeline, painting the canyon’s jagged edges with long, creeping shadows. Below, the returning 280th were unloading. Their movements weren’t hurried, but they were… tight. Controlled. Soldiers always carried tension after a patrol, but Marek knew the patterns well enough. This was different. They weren't just tired — they were guarded. Even from each other. Krystan, the Chimera driver, cursed as he tried to coax the vehicle into one of the motor pool bays, its tracks screeching in protest. Laska laughed, making some quip Marek couldn’t catch from this distance, and the others gave her a weary chuckle. The usual theatre. But something was off. He took another pull on the lho-stick and exhaled slowly. No orders. No patrol logs posted. Just their quiet return. He flicked the spent stick into the dust and turned, heading toward the mess hall. The mess was crowded but muted. Soldiers ate mechanically, trading only the occasional word. The usual clatter of cutlery and quiet murmurs filled the room. Marek slipped into the corner, grabbed a tin cup of recaf, and settled against the wall, watching. The 280th were gathered at their usual table. No boasting, no exaggerated tales of minor glories — not like after a normal patrol. Instead, low voices and darting glances. He spotted the sergeant — their newly appointed leader, after Rakoczy’s demise — holding it together well enough. But it was in the little things. How the squad avoided meeting each other's eyes. The way Czajka picked at his food instead of eating. How Laska's usual brashness seemed slightly forced. The table froze for half a breath. Just long enough. Marek saw it. A glance from the sergeant. A suppressed smirk from Krystan. A tight flicker of tension across Czajka’s brow. Then they moved on, laughing it off, Laska throwing in an exaggerated wink to defuse it. But Marek wasn’t laughing. His mind already worked through the implications. He quietly sipped the bitter recaf, lowering his gaze just enough to seem disinterested. Across the room, unnoticed by Marek, The Fennec sat alone at a battered table, idly stirring the slop on her tray. She watched with the detachment of a ghost, catching every glance, every nervous shuffle. To anyone else, she was just another tired soldier nursing a bland meal. To her, this was the job. ----- In the armoury, Laska moved alone. The low hum of the power systems and the occasional groan of settling metal were the only company left to her. She removed her flak jacket with a soft grunt, the weight sliding from her shoulders and leaving behind the familiar ache of another long day. Shoulder plates followed, then webbing, gloves, and gear. Each piece was placed carefully into her assigned locker, not from fear of punishment, but habit. Order calmed her. Loose straps were tightened, buckles checked, latches secured. Her eyes lingered on her grenade launcher resting across the workbench. It wasn’t a brutal thing to her. It was solid, dependable. She had called it a few names in frustration before, sure, but it never failed when it mattered. She traced a finger along the barrel, noting where the paint had scuffed and worn. If she needed it to sing again, it would. She’d make sure of it. Satisfied, she exhaled softly and headed for the barracks. Inside, a handful of soldiers were already asleep, sprawled or curled beneath rough-issue blankets. Gentle, uneven snores filled the dimly lit space. The room smelled of worn leather, faint sweat, and the faint metallic tang of the station’s recycled air. Laska moved between the bunks quietly, stepping over scattered boots and stray bits of kit. At her bunk, she shrugged out of her fatigues, down to just a tank top and shorts. The metal-framed bed creaked softly as she sat and pulled the thin blanket over herself. Above, the cracked window admitted a shaft of silver moonlight that stretched across the room and caught her face. She lay still, eyes open, watching the dust motes drift lazily in the pale glow. Her thoughts wandered, unbidden. Home. Not the one spoken of in stories, but the real one — cramped, bureaucratic, stale. Yet, even so, the faces there mattered. Parents, a younger sibling or two, each trapped just as surely as the miners and the outcasts. Different cages, same bars. She was here for them. For all of them. The tension in her limbs eased, bit by bit, as the day’s weight gave way to quiet. The muffled sounds of the outpost settling into night — the groan of a shifting bulkhead, the faint ticking of a cooling vent, the soft snores of comrades — became a kind of lullaby. And then, barely audible, the desert wind outside sighed against the walls. The old scirocco. Laska smiled faintly, eyes half-lidded. Its voice carried a strange comfort. Distant, patient, eternal. As sleep crept in, she caught herself thinking — not of battle, nor of duty — but simply that it might have been nice to have someone beside her. Just for warmth. Just for company. The thought softened her expression, and soon, sleep took her. ----- The mess hall had long since emptied. The overhead lumens buzzed quietly, casting a dull, institutional glow over half-eaten trays and upturned ration tins. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic tap of Marek’s boot heel against the bench leg, his dataslate balanced on one knee. He sat alone now, the last of the 280th having turned in. Somewhere, the low whine of a generator pulsed in the distance. He tapped a few last notes into the slate. Supply discrepancies, personnel manifests, unassigned engineering units. His thumb hesitated over the transmit rune. A report, yes. But it lacked certainty. Something was missing. That was when he noticed it. A narrow door in the corner of the hall — flush with the wall and featureless. He had eaten in this room a dozen times and never seen it before. A storeroom, maybe. But something about it tugged at him. He stood, slinging the dataslate under one arm, and tried the handle. Unlocked. The hinges groaned faintly as he pulled it open, revealing a narrow passage descending into gloom. He hesitated — then stepped inside. The corridor descended deeper than expected, walls pressed close, lit intermittently by flickering strips of lumen tape. It smelled of dust, dry rust, and something older. Faint ventilation hummed overhead. A forgotten tunnel. Marek pressed on, bootfalls muffled by layers of grime. “Entry Point Theta... unmarked. Passage appears pre-Compliance era,” he murmured into the slate, recording everything. “Possibly related to recent recovery operations.” At last, the corridor widened into a chamber. His breath caught. Vehicles. Dozens. Rows of ancient machines slumbered beneath tarpaulins. Chimera transports. A few half-track variants. An old Malcador, matte desert yellow paint peeled and blistered from decades of disuse. And at the centre — a shape that dominated the room. No markings. No designation. No turret. Just bulk. A blast shield hunched over the prow like a crouched animal, the whole thing draped in tarp and shadow. The scale of it made Marek falter. “I don’t know what I’m looking at,” he whispered into the slate. “Command might. Serial tags missing. No visible identifier. This...this wasn’t logged.” He moved around it slowly, panning his slate’s lens across the frame. “Design unknown. Not Imperial standard issue. Mechanicus, perhaps? Power lines routed oddly. Could be a relic from the Crusade era? Will request cross-check. Bunker appears to have been accessed recently. Tracks in the dust. At least one body removed... no signs of blood.” His voice grew quieter. “Locals — the 280th? Did they do this?” He turned, biting his lip. The battery icon flashed red. Less than five percent. “Damn.” He broke into a jog, heading back through the tunnel, slate clutched tight. Outside, the desert night had cooled the air. A warm desert breeze washed over him, gentle now, but gathering. Marek dashed across the sand to a waiting runner — a squat, four-wheeled desert vehicle painted light grey, with thick, knobbled tyres and a number stencil in black along its side. The roof was little more than a sheet of polymer fixed over a flimsy frame. A cart meant for supplies, not escapes. He slid behind the wheel, tossed the dataslate onto the passenger bench, and fumbled with the ignition. The engine coughed, sputtered, then caught. He plugged the slate into the vehicle’s charging port and watched as the charge icon blinked orange. He wiped a sleeve across his brow. “Come on, come on...” A low curse escaped his lips. He checked the signal strength. Weak. But maybe enough. The slate came to life. He loaded the report, jammed his thumb against the transmit rune— From half a kilometre away, The Fennec watched him through the scope. She lay prone on the ridgeline, rifle cradled in her hands, her body perfectly still. The long-barrelled weapon rested on its bi-pod, its optic hooded against the moonlight. The wind was cool against her cheek. Her breath slow. Even. Measured. The runner’s headlights cast long shadows across the sand as Marek wrestled with the slate. Through her scope, she could see the sweat on his temple, the way his lips moved as he muttered curses. Her thumb adjusted the zoom. The crosshairs hovered over his chest. She exhaled. A moment’s pause. Then she tapped her vox-bead. “Visual confirmed,” she whispered. “He’s sending it.” A beat. “...Understood.” She realigned the shot. Marek’s finger was just lifting from the rune. The slate’s light glowed green — transmission active. She squeezed. The report was sent. So was the round. His body spasmed sideways, head lolling. The slate dropped to the floor of the runner. Blood and viscera dripped through the hole blown through his torso and the back of his seat by the high-calibre round. The Fennec watched for five full seconds. Then she moved. Quick. Precise. The rifle disassembled in practised motions, piece by piece into her carry harness. She slid back into the darkness, feet finding each step in silence. The desert swallowed her. The sound of the scirocco rose. And the night was whole again

This series of three four passages is a lot longer than I have posted in the past and I hope you have the patience to read it. I feel it is quite revealing about our three main character, our Narrator, Mona, and Jagiełło. Constructive criticism always welcome, of course. ----- The engineers worked with steady purpose. The charges were placed meticulously, each bundle of explosives hugging the seams and structural weak points where ancient metal met equally ancient stone. The bunker was as much a part of the canyon wall as it was a man-made structure, the centuries having eroded and fused its exterior into a hardened shell. Even so, age had done little to blunt its Imperial craftsmanship. We crouched behind 312, shielding ourselves from the impending blast. At the lead engineer’s nod, the charges detonated. The canyon swallowed the dull roar, sending dust and pebbles cascading from the high ridges above. When the grit cleared, a jagged breach had replaced the sealed entrance. Heat rose from the rocks as we stepped forward. I caught the first breath of air from within. Dry, stale, and heavy with dust—it smelled of time itself. No blood, no rot, no sign of recent death. Just stagnant air, the kind you’d find when unsealing an old storage locker, except magnified a thousandfold. Inside, the air was thick with settled dust. A pale film coated the floor, unbroken even by vermin. No footprints. No scuff marks. Whatever this place was, it had been undisturbed for generations. Czajka stood at my side, rifle up, eyes sharp. “No movement.” “That’s worse,” Laska muttered, swinging her grenade launcher casually as she scanned the gloom. Her voice carried enough false bravado to mask her nerves, but not enough to fool anyone. One of the engineers, a lean woman with streaks of grey in her dark hair, Ella, knelt and examined the floor. “Sarge, these old bunkers? They’re usually rigged. Motion sensors. Traps. The standard for places they didn’t want rediscovered.” She stood and dusted off her palms. “We’ll sweep. Slow and proper.” I nodded, trying to project the steadiness I didn’t fully feel. “Do it.” The squad pushed deeper. As we moved down the main corridor, I found myself breathing shallower. The silence pressed in like a physical thing. The passage was lined with immense doors, each marked with corroded plaques and faded sigils. I couldn’t read most of them beneath the dust and rust. The engineer squad set to work, marking detected traps and bypassing them with practised efficiency. A few muttered prayers to the Emperor went unheard by anyone who still cared. “Partial power bleed,” Ella reported. “Most of the grid’s dead, but there’s still juice in some lines. We’ve looped the worst of it, but…” “But there could be more,” I finished for her. She nodded grimly. Further in, we found it — a small, dust-caked dataslate wedged behind a rusted terminal. Its cracked display flickered faintly to life as Czajka gingerly passed it to me. The words were simple. A bay number. Nothing more. Following its direction, we wound through an adjoining passage until we came to a sealed vault door. Unlike the others, this one was marked by the faint outline of a faded symbol, barely visible beneath grime. No name. Just a half-obscured emblem of a stylized iron crown. The engineers crowded around the access terminal. Sparks sputtered as they interfaced with it, bypassing dead code and corrupted subroutines. Then it happened. One of them—Martja, I think—jerked backward with a startled gasp. She collapsed, twitching as a sharp electrical feedback arced from the terminal. “Martja’s down!” someone yelled. I swore and rushed forward, but it was too late. She was gone. The door, however, had accepted the sacrifice. With a groan, ancient hydraulics strained and hissed. Dust cascaded from the seams as it cracked open, revealing the chamber beyond. And there it was. Even draped in layers of tarp and shadow, the Iron Duke dominated the vault. The chamber was cavernous, yet it barely contained the bulk of the vehicle inside. Its massive frame loomed, partially shrouded by dust-cloaked tarpaulins. The shape was unmistakable—armoured flanks, wide track guards, and the towering blast shield at its prow. No turret. No number. No name. Just sheer, brute presence. Laska whispered under her breath, “Big bastard.” We stood there in silence for a long moment. I realised I was holding my breath. The thing radiated a sense of history — not reverence, exactly, but weight. Purpose. I forced myself to exhale. “Back to work.” I pointed to two of my squad. “You and you. Prepare her for transport back to the station.” They hesitated for a heartbeat before nodding and moving to follow orders. Engineers and soldiers alike set to work, still glancing nervously at the Iron Duke between tasks. Martja was dead. But the Duke was awake. And there was no turning back. ----- Bright white lumens beat down from the ceiling, casting hard shadows across Kasnyk’s austere office. The room was a cube of sterile grey walls and sharp angles, furnished with only the essentials: a bolted metal desk, two straight-backed chairs, a cogitator recessed into the desktop, and not much else. A potted plant sagged on the corner of the desk, brown at the edges, and beside it a small brass globe of Kasnyk’s homeworld spun lazily from a recent absent-minded flick. The air was filtered and scentless, like the air of all Imperial offices, leaving nothing behind but emptiness. Kasnyk sat behind the desk with the practised stillness of a man well-versed in the routine. His stylus tapped against the parchment pad before him in a slow, deliberate rhythm — no impatience, just a means to keep time as the drone across from him talked. The stylus was always there. Even with the cogitator active and capable of doing all of this automatically, he preferred the scratch of pen on parchment. It gave the appearance of attentiveness, and more importantly, it grounded him. Across from him sat a minor logistics clerk, Sub-Officer L-8427, pale as parchment and clearly unused to the desert sun outside. His charcoal grey uniform, faded and wrinkled, had seen better days, and the badge pinned to his chest was slightly tarnished. A rank insignia and serial code were affixed beneath it, worn smooth from anxious fingers. The clerk perched nervously on the edge of the chair, clutching a dataslate that trembled ever so slightly in his grip. “… and that’s the third time, sir, this cycle. Missing components from Container 41.” The clerk's voice quavered slightly. “If it were just once, I’d let it go, but three times? That’s no clerical error.” His eyes darted across Kasnyk’s impassive face, searching for some sign of sympathy. Kasnyk gave none. The stylus continued to tap softly. “You suspect theft?” Kasnyk asked without looking up, voice a monotone. “I— yes, sir. Or diversion, maybe. Components don’t walk away on their own.” The clerk shifted in his seat, adjusting his fraying collar. “My supervisor told me to drop it, but I know something’s not right.” Kasnyk almost smiled — almost. The truth was, petty theft, squabbles, and bureaucratic grudge matches made up half his caseload. The other half was divided between fuel shortages and low-ranking scribes who drank too much amasec and reported ghost cults behind every malfunctioning lumen. But duty was duty. “You did the right thing,” he said flatly, making a show of jotting something down. “These things have a way of surfacing.” The clerk’s shoulders sagged with relief. At that exact moment, the cogitator gave a soft chime and a faint amber glow lit the edge of Kasnyk’s vision. His monocle flickered to life of its own accord, quietly feeding information to him as the clerk babbled on. Kasnyk did not flinch. His stylus, however, stopped tapping. Amber Alert — Security Breach: Storage Bunker 9C — Prawa V, Sector 12. Kasnyk blinked once to scroll the monocle's display. Flagged Item: 77-IC/DU. The stylus resumed tapping. The clerk, oblivious, was still venting about warehouse irregularities. Kasnyk returned his full attention to him, masking the sudden jolt of interest rising behind his cool exterior. “Thank you, Sub-Officer. I’ll see this logged appropriately.” He stood, motioning toward the door. “I trust you will remain vigilant.” The clerk stumbled to his feet, almost saluting before thinking better of it. “Yes, sir! Of course, sir.” He scurried out, leaving Kasnyk alone with the amber glow. The moment the door sealed, Kasnyk’s mask cracked. His lips twitched into the faintest smirk. He leaned forward, hands folding together as the cogitator projected a map and data readout. There it was. The old storage site. The bunker hadn’t triggered an alert in decades. Amber flag — mid-tier, important but not urgent. Inventory marked for Special Oversight, designation “IC/DU”. IC — Internal Compliance. DU… He’d seen that suffix before. His monocle obligingly supplied the associated entry from old files, redacted but familiar. DU = “Iron Duke.” Not a person. Not a smuggler. Not some legendary insurgent whispered about in frontier bars. A vehicle. A tank. Specifically, an ageing but formidable siege engine — codename only. Its existence, long buried beneath layers of bureaucratic dust, explained why the locals spoke of it like a ghost. Kasnyk’s expression hardened, eyes narrowing behind the data scrolling across his monocle. Who had breached a sealed bunker to get at it? Why now? He tapped the screen, pulling up active units in the area. A few registered. Routine patrols. One newly reassigned squad, the 280th Sunward Watch. He’d seen them during his last visit to the sector — odd, but nothing concrete. Yet. Kasnyk exhaled sharply through his nose and glanced to the side. The plant drooped pitifully. Without hesitation, he crossed the room, retrieved the long-neglected watering can, and gave the dry soil a careful pour. “You and me both,” he muttered. The leaves barely moved. Neither did Kasnyk as he stood motionless, eyes distant. There was something here. Not proof. Not yet. But there was something. ----- The heavy air in the hidden vault beneath Nowa Avestia, the place we called home, pressed around us as we stepped deeper into the chamber. Dust lay thick over the floor, deadening every step. The flicker of our shoulder-mounted lamps painted uneven, narrow bands of light across towering shapes swathed in tarps and shrouded in shadow. Jagiełło stood in front of it, a great looming mass mostly hidden beneath faded tarpaulin, but unmistakable in scale and presence. His hand with the claw-like glove rested against its flanks, fingers gently brushing against the dust-caked surface as if reacquainting himself with an old acquaintance. His other arm hung loose at his side, the long boneblade he wielded idle, unthreatening. The orange folds of his cloak caught the uneven lamplight, glowing like smouldering embers amidst the gloom. The worn edges of his armour were dulled by dust, yet still retained the distinct patterns of Resistance craftsmanship – subdued purples, greys, and the occasional streak of rust where the desert’s breath had left its mark. I stood a few paces away, trying to make sense of the shape beneath the tarps. The hull loomed, riveted and scarred by age. What could only be a vast blast shield – not a turret, I noted – jutted from its forward section. Two muzzles, dark as abyssal wells, protruded slightly beneath the folds. Whatever this machine had been built for, it was clear it was no ordinary vehicle. “You did well,” Jagiełło said without turning. His voice was low, calm, but there was weight to the words that made me catch my breath for but a second. “Many would have failed to bring it here intact.” I tried not to swell with pride. The praise was measured, but coming from him, it was more than I’d ever expected. “It wasn’t easy,” I replied carefully. “We lost one of the engineers, Martja. The vault… resisted.” Jagiełło’s fingers traced the blast shield’s edge. “It often does. Those vaults were meant to keep things out—or in.” He finally turned to look at me. His eyes, a jaundiced yellow and sharp beneath the hood, fixed me in place. “Yet you overcame it.” I nodded, unsure what else to say. In truth, I wasn’t sure if we had overcome it or merely gotten lucky. His gaze lingered for a moment before he stepped back from the machine. The faint metallic scrape of his boots against the floor broke the silence. “This will change much,” Jagiełło murmured, mostly to himself. “For all of us.” He didn’t elaborate. He never did. We stood there a while longer, me staring at the machine, him lost in quiet calculation. Then, without further ceremony, he turned and began walking toward the vault’s exit. I followed a step behind, my heart pounding with a mixture of quiet exhilaration and rising apprehension. I couldn’t help but wonder—not just about the machine, but about what this discovery meant for us, for the Resistance, and for my family back in the mines. My fingers absently brushed against the lasrifle slung over my shoulder as if reassuring myself that I was still just a soldier, still grounded, even as the scale of what we’d uncovered threatened to sweep me away. Jagiełło said nothing more, his footfalls steady, echoing against the vault’s walls. Only when we left the chamber did I risk a glance back. The Iron Duke—whatever it truly was—waited silently in the dark, its purpose and power still cloaked in shadow. ----- The echoes of bootsteps lingered faintly, diminishing with each step down the winding corridor until only silence remained. Mona stood alone at the threshold, eyes cast over the slumbering colossus cloaked in tarpaulin and shadows. Lamplight pooled in uneven circles across the chamber, casting long, soft-edged silhouettes that barely touched the corners of the vault. Dust hung suspended in the air like old memories. The Iron Duke loomed still, its towering blast shield and flanks swaddled in thick layers of age-stained canvas. Yet, even beneath the coverings, its outline radiated a dormant menace, softened only by time. Mona advanced with slow, deliberate steps, her boots making no sound against the dust-smothered floor. She exhaled slowly, as if speaking a wordless greeting. Her fingers reached out, trailing across the tarpaulin as if it were the hide of some great beast. She did not know the finer purpose of its structures — the guns, the tracks, the layers of steel — but she felt its weight, its presence. And that was enough. She approached the blast shield, placing her palm flat against it. The cold of the metal seeped into her skin, the dust clinging faintly to her touch. With deliberate patience, she traced a three-quarter circle upon its surface, leaving a crescent-shaped mark in the dust — incomplete, waiting. A subtle breeze stirred within the vault, pulling at the motes of dust in languid spirals. No source could be seen, but Mona’s lips shifted into a soft, knowing smile. To others it would be nothing. To her, it was the Duke whispering back. She closed her eyes for a moment, savouring the moment. The tension she so often masked behind poised words and gentle touches gave way to quiet satisfaction. She could feel the Iron Duke’s potential — not in mechanics, but in meaning. This was no simple relic; it was a totem. A promise. A manifestation of what she and her kin would one day unleash. Mona opened her eyes again, stepping back slowly, leaving the mark untouched. “You’ll wake when you’re ready,” she whispered, voice low and reverent. And with that, she turned, vanishing into the half-light, leaving the Iron Duke to slumber a little longer.

Nowa Avestia loomed ahead, washed in the pale glow of the setting sun. Marek sat atop the Chimera’s hull, arms folded, eyes scanning the familiar silhouette of the outer walls. The station was as he’d left it — quiet, unassuming. Yet, as the squad dismounted and rolled through the gates, something gnawed at the back of his thoughts. The yard should have been busy. The 280th, ever a fixture at the outpost, were nowhere to be seen. No idle banter, no groups lingering near the vehicle bays. Marek’s brow furrowed. “Where’s Rakoczy’s lot?” one of his troopers muttered. Marek waved him off. “Probably dug into some menial sweep. Nothing to worry about.” But the unease lingered. He hopped down from the Chimera, boots clanging against the cracked concrete. The garrison’s bustle was there — PDF guards on duty, traders arguing over cargo — but the absence of the 280th pressed at him. He made his way to the barracks, eyes subtly scanning the faces of passing soldiers. No familiar insignias from Rakoczy’s squad. Only the station’s regulars. Later, seated at his bunk, Marek flipped open his battered dataslate. His thumb hovered over the encoded message he’d prepared before setting out. It was ready to send — coordinates, maps, supply routes, the lot. He stared at it for a long time. His instincts, dulled by years of routine, were now fully awake. Something wasn’t right. Still, orders were orders. He clenched his jaw, weighing it in his mind. Nearby, laughter and the scrape of boots on metal floorboards echoed from the adjoining hall. Normal sounds, nothing more. But Marek knew better. He tapped the dataslate off and set it aside. “Maybe in the morning,” he muttered to himself, trying — and failing — to shake the sense that the desert had shifted while he’d been away. ----- Kasnyk’s office hummed faintly with the mechanical churn of the outpost’s life-support systems. Bright, artificial lighting left no shadows to hide in — a deliberate choice. The walls were bare save for a single shelf stacked with dataslates, parchment rolls, and battered binders. His desk was equally sparse, occupied only by a flickering cogitator terminal, a potted plant sagging from neglect, and a small globe — worn and faded — of his homeworld, Verdanos. It spun lazily under the ventilation draft. He sat stiffly in his chair, stylus tapping rhythmically against a half-finished report. A stack of investigations awaited, each more tedious than the last. “Case 39-14,” he muttered. “Water ration disputes again.” The file detailed a theft from the eastern cistern — a group of off-duty PDF accused by a local informant. No violence, just a missing shipment and too many conflicting testimonies. He sighed. “Nothing but thirsty opportunists.” The report, as always, was thorough — and suspect. “Smugglers disguised as wandering preachers,” Kasnyk read aloud, lips thinning. “Found near the southern ridge. Again.” He leaned back and rubbed the bridge of his nose, letting his eyes wander briefly to the potted plant. He should have watered it yesterday. Next came routine shipping manifests. Supplies inbound from Prawa V Prime. He cross-checked them with requisition logs, frowning slightly. Minor discrepancies, nothing to lose sleep over. Yet. Finally, the next slate slid beneath his hand. Kasnyk’s monocle flickered to life without prompting, scrolling data across its lens. Material composition: standard dataslate alloy. Typeface: Imperial Gothic, Sub-Type 7-B. Handwriting: Sergeant Sobczak. Cross-referenced and confirmed. He skimmed the contents — coordinates, route reports, asset listings. On the surface, routine. But a knot settled in his stomach. He tapped the monocle. “Correlate.” The system displayed movements matching Sobczak’s unit. The 280th Sunward Watch had passed through the same region shortly before. His memory flashed back — Rakoczy and his squad standing stiffly during their debrief. He rose from his chair, pacing slowly. Why had the 280th shifted their patrol pattern? Why hadn’t he pressed harder at the time? He circled the desk once, fingers tracing the globe absentmindedly. “No,” he muttered. “Not enough yet.” Still, the discrepancy was filed, noted carefully in the margins of his investigation ledger. Kasnyk returned to his chair, but the silence of the office felt heavier than before. ----- The canyon appeared suddenly, like a scar split open across the earth. From the rise where we first saw it, it stretched beyond the horizon, a jagged wound deep enough that the morning haze concealed its depth. The desert sands broke off in sheer cliffs, and nestled against the cliff's edge was the narrow, winding trace of the old service road. We paused, engines idling, watching the worn track snake down into the depths. I could feel the unease ripple through the men, unspoken but clear. I gave the order to advance, and the column crept forward, single-file, our lead Chimera — 312 — taking point, with 376 following close behind. The first stretch was manageable. The canyon walls sheltered us from the worst of the desert wind, but as we descended, the temperature began to climb. The deeper we went, the less air moved. It became a trapped heat, like the blast of a furnace, dry and oppressive. Then came the grinding sound. "Stop," Krystan called from the driver's seat, voice edged with frustration. "Something's off." A brief check revealed the truth — 376's transmission had seized. The backup vehicle was crippled halfway down the descent. I climbed out, squinting up at the canyon rim as fine dust sifted down lazily from above. "What are we looking at, Laska?" I asked, wiping sweat from my brow. Laska, who had hopped over to peer into 376’s exposed engine compartment, wiped her hands on her fatigues. "Transmission's :cuss:ed, Sarge," she said, deadpan. "Properly. She's not getting home under her own power." Her tone was so casual it might’ve been a joke, but there was no grin this time. Krystan cursed under his breath. I could feel the squad shift, eyes darting nervously to the cliffs above. Exposed like this, strung along a brittle road, every ridge and rock seemed to be watching. "Abandon it. Everyone on 312," I said. The order tasted bitter. It wasn’t just the heat making us sweat. We packed ourselves tight, soldiers and engineers perched awkwardly atop the hull, gripping onto straps and welded handholds. With the extra weight, 312 groaned in protest, her suspension creaking with every shift of momentum. We threw open the hatches, letting the oven-hot air sweep through. A poor trade — cooler, but now exposed. Every eye scanned the jagged canyon walls, watching for the flash of a scope or the glint of movement. There was nothing, only the rovfugl wheeling high on thermals, circling lazily. A scavenger by nature, it rode the rising heat without urgency, as if patiently waiting for something to die below. Krystan worked the controls like a man nursing an injured beast. The brakes squealed occasionally, a high, sharp note that echoed too well. Czajka sat beside me, silent as always, but his gaze never left the ridges. His marksman’s eye picked out every likely firing position, but he gave no voice to what we all knew — if someone waited up there, we’d never make it to the bottom. The descent grew harsher. Sparse desert scrub gave way to cracked stone, the last defiant plants replaced by small clusters of squat, purple succulents clinging to life. The heat was unbearable, the air unmoving and thick. Sweat pooled inside armour, and tempers flared. A sharp comment from one of the engineers drew a snap from Laska. Another soldier barked back, and I could see the tension boiling just beneath the surface. “Enough,” I said firmly, voice steady. “Keep it together. We're almost there.” They quieted, but the mood remained tight. As we wound lower, I found myself staring at the track ahead, then to the walls hemming us in, and back again. My stomach tightened in ways the heat couldn’t explain. This was the first time I was truly leading them — my squad, my responsibility. No sergeant to defer to. No Rakoczy to give the word. Just me. I tried to push the thought down, but it clawed its way back up like the dust coating our boots. Was I leading them into some forgotten treasure trove... or a grave? Finally, the trail widened as we emerged onto the canyon floor. The world pressed in around us — towering walls hemming us in on every side. Before us, half-hidden by a natural overhang, was the entrance: a vast cavernous maw where rock and machinery fused together. The outline of the bunker was unmistakable, its doors sealed and ancient. We dismounted. The heat down here felt heavier still, dead and oppressive. The squad gathered, looking to me for direction. Inside, the bunker waited. And none of us liked the feel of it.

The resistance outpost bustled with quiet activity. Low voices traded logistical updates, ration tallies, vehicle status reports. Jagiełło stood at the centre of it, near a long table littered with half-folded maps and dataslates. But when the coded chime of his personal vox-bead crackled in his ear, he stepped away without a word, moving toward a corner where the shadows gathered near the storage crates. He pressed a finger to the side of his jaw. "Fennec. Report." Silence for a heartbeat. Then the faintest murmur buzzed in his ear. Jagiełło listened, unmoving, his face unreadable. "Continue tracking," he said quietly. "No interference unless the conditions we discussed are met." More soft static. His eyes narrowed, though his tone remained level. "I understand. Do not lose him." He tapped the channel closed, then remained still for a few seconds longer, considering. Behind him, the soft hum of the outpost resumed — muted conversations, the clatter of ration tins, the grinding whine of an engine being coaxed back to life. Jagiełło returned to the table, eyes flicking once to the maps, then further — westward, where the desert stretched toward the coordinates that still glimmered in his thoughts. He said nothing to the others, but the wheels had begun to turn. ----- The mess hall was its usual haze of low voices and worn familiarity — the scent of the last meal still lingering, mingling with the faint aroma of old leather and the sharp tang of cheap detergent. My squad clustered around a battered metal table, sharing plates of ration stew and whatever passed for bread in this corner of the desert. I poked at mine, appetite hollow. The vox operator’s headset crackled, pulling me from my thoughts. He leaned toward me. “Sir—it's Jagiełło.” The words stiffened my spine. I took the handset without hesitation. “This is the 280th.” The line buzzed faintly, but Jagiełło’s voice came through, low and controlled. I kept my replies clipped. “Understood. This evening. Two Chimeras, 312 and 376.” I flicked a glance at the squad, catching Laska’s smirk as she toyed with her meal. “Yes, sir,” I continued. “Engineers and demo specialists attached. Proceeding to the coordinates.” More static. I nodded out of habit. “We’ll be ready.” The line went dead. I set the handset down, standing to address the squad. “Change of plans. We’re moving out tonight.” A few groans, but no surprise. They’d seen worse. “Armoury. Now. We’re kitting up for a long haul.” Laska leaned back, grinning. “Guess I won’t get to spend the evening with my first love after all.” A few chuckles circled the table, and a groan from Krystan. “Laska, no one wants to hear about you and that spanner.” I allowed a tight smile. I wasn’t about to ruin what little levity we could muster. In the armoury, the squad moved with purpose. They might have joked, but every one of them checked weapons, recharged power packs, and inspected their armour. Flamethrowers, grenade launchers, and extra charge packs were distributed. The engineers huddled near the far wall, fussing over tool kits and breaching charges. I double-checked the requisition sheets, making sure everything matched up. It wasn’t perfect — but it was done right. As we stepped out into the chill of the evening, the desert sky beginning to turn the colour of bruised steel, the Chimeras idled at the loading ramp. Their hulls were dulled and pitted, but ready. “Mount up!” I barked, louder than I needed to. The squad shuffled toward the vehicles. I muttered under my breath, “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

So, I've started posting more full scenes on the story. I originally starting to create small vignettes from my originally-written passages but felt they were not conveying everything I was trying to get across. Currently, I'm about six months ahead, in terms of writing progress, of what you see here and I hope you are enjoying it. I never really intended to share my writing, but it is heartening that people enjoy it. I've made quite a few breaks from the GW Genestealer Cult lore: - The Genestealer's Kiss is kept to a minimum. As I mentioned in a previous post, I feel like it's too much of a McGuffin, so keep it reserved for a few, select characters. I prefer the Cult (or Resistance, as it is termed in the writing) to evolve naturally with the force of will of the Primus and Mona's seductive, whispered words drawing people in. - I don't use the term Primus or Magus, except once. This makes it feel more like an everyman story. - The Fennec is, for anyone familiar with the army, a Jackal Alphus. I've changed her a little, also. She's very much a lone wolf. I've changed her weapon, too, so she functions more like a cross between an Alphus and a Sanctus. For the gun nerds out there, her weapon is based on the Denel NTW-20 with the .50 cal barrel. I do want to make a conversion of her model with her prone beside her bike with the tripod and muzzle brake, as there's no way she's firing that from the saddle. In terms of language, the names of things may seem a little unusual to some, but there is method in the madness. Most people are given Polish or pseudo-Slavic names. These represent the newer wave of settlers who have overtaken the original settlers of the planet. Names like Jagiełło, Marek, and the sergeant Róźa Makówska, who you will get to meet soon. Older names, such as those for flora and fauna and certain places, reflect the previous wave of settlers, hundreds of years ago, who were of Scandinavian descent, Danish in particular. The rovfugl, a desert bird, for example. We'll meet some of the desert nomads in a coming scene who speak in Danish amongst themselves. I do this, not to be fancy or anything, but because I have family in both countries and have lived in both for some years. I think it adds to the 'otherness' of the place in the sense that we all what the GSC and Imperial Guard is, but, I hope on reading, it yanks you just out of the comfort zone just long enough. Thoughts are most welcome and thank you for following my story.

The Fennec lay low beneath the dune’s crest, body pressed into the soft slope, the sand shifting slightly beneath her weight. Through the scope, the desert station played out its quiet, predictable routine. Marek’s Chimera lumbered toward the toll booth, weathered but functional, waved through without question. There it was — the familiar pattern. The complacency. A flicker of satisfaction stirred within her. The hunt had always held its quiet thrill, but her breathing remained steady, her finger never twitched on the trigger. Discipline. Below, the Chimera parked itself among the scattering of low, sun-bleached buildings. Marek’s squad spilled out, stretching their limbs, shaking dust from their collars. Marek moved like a man who had done this countless times. A stationed PDF soldier approached him, and Marek greeted him with the easy familiarity of an old acquaintance — a handshake, a pat on the shoulder. They exchanged a few relaxed words, body language loose and confident, as if they were sharing news rather than orders. Marek then gestured towards his squad, dispatching them casually into the surrounding streets. They moved without urgency, like men and women convinced of their security. The Fennec’s lips curled into a sneer. Almost. They trusted routine, trusted the Imperial colours, the supposed safety of their numbers. But here, in the sands, trust was always a mistake. Without hurry, she reached into a pouch and produced a small metal dragonfly. Its gossamer wings, folded tight, shimmered faintly in the desert sun. She whispered a simple command, and the device whirred softly to life. The wings unfurled, delicate yet purposeful, and it flitted downward like a living thing, alighting gently on the cracked stucco of a nearby building. Her scope followed it until it vanished against the stucco wall. A perfect perch. With practised ease, she fitted the earbud into her ear. Static hissed briefly, then cleared. Marek's voice rose through the wind, carried cleanly by the tiny machine. The Fennec adjusted slightly, settling deeper into the warm sand. She belonged to this place — not the cities with their walls and spires — but the open desert. The silence, the dust, the scent of sun-baked stone. She watched. She listened. ----- The Fennec listened in silence, eyes fixed through the scope as Marek leaned casually against the wall beside the stationed PDF soldier. The conversation had been mundane at first — routine, harmless. Then came the words. “It’s time to remind these desert rats who holds the leash. I’ve got enough to make someone listen.” The effect was immediate. Her heartbeat slowed, not quickened. A cold calm settled over her like a desert night. No excitement, no panic. Just focus. With deliberate precision, she shifted slightly, adjusting her rifle without a sound. Her bare fingers worked smoothly, feeling the cool, worn metal of every part. The tripod dug into the sand. The bolt cycled with practised familiarity. The faint, mechanical clack of the rifle cocking marked the moment she was ready. Her breathing slowed — in, hold, out — steady as the desert itself. Through the scope, Marek stood unaware, gesturing faintly as he continued speaking. The crosshairs found his head naturally. He was perfectly framed against the weathered stucco of the station wall. The Fennec did not smile. There was no thrill, only the familiar weight of responsibility. She could end it now. Yet, she hesitated. Marek shifted his stance, adjusting the strap of his webbing, and the wind tugged at something beneath it — a faded scrap of cloth. Orange. Subtle. Easily missed. Her breath caught. The colour was old, sun-bleached, fraying at the edges, tied with no great ceremony. But it was there. Her finger, poised on the trigger, relaxed. She exhaled slowly and, after a measured pause, gently engaged the safety. The crosshair remained on Marek, but now not as the immediate target — but as a puzzle. The wind whispered softly across the dunes. She would watch. And when the time came, she would know.

Eventually, the council dispersed. One by one, the squad leaders filed out—quiet nods, exchanged glances, brief murmurs as they returned to the surface. Jagiełło left without ceremony, as he had entered. I remained behind for a few moments, alone in the cellar, the dataslate still warm in my hands. "You spoke with conviction," came a voice behind me—soft, familiar, and unsettling in how near it was without warning. I turned. Mona stood at the foot of the stairs, her posture casual, her arms now resting loosely at her sides. "Do you believe every word you said?" she asked. There was no malice in it. No accusation. But her eyes searched mine with a precision that made lying feel impossible. I hesitated. Not because I didn’t know the answer—but because I knew she’d measure how I gave it. ----- The cellar was still, emptied of its earlier tension, save for the soft sound of a single kerosene lamp guttering against the draft. Jagiełło remained at the head of the table, arms folded behind his back as he stared at the dataslate resting where the miner had left it. Mona stood where she had lingered throughout the meeting, watching him. The silence was companionable, but Jagiełło broke it without turning. "Your thoughts?" he asked, his voice carrying just enough weight to be heard. Mona pushed off from the wall with measured grace, stepping slowly around the table. "There is value in uncertainty," she said softly. "Marek wavered. I saw it. I could press. A quiet conversation, a whisper in the dark, and we may know his heart without raising a single lasgun." Jagiełło shifted only slightly, eyes still fixed on the slate. "You would draw it out of him with words alone?" Mona offered a faint, knowing smile. "Words have carried us this far." He did not disagree immediately. He gave the notion its due consideration, staring into the lamplight, weighing it. "Tempting," he admitted. "But not this time." He turned to her then, fully. "I would not risk him suspecting we have seen his falter. Not yet. Better he believe himself unnoticed. Quiet surveillance. Nothing more." Mona did not argue. She tilted her head, accepting the decision, though the flicker of her eyes hinted at a thousand unspoken thoughts. "As you wish," she said, her voice neither wounded nor displeased. Jagiełło’s gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer. "Your counsel is always valued, Mona. But for now, we watch. It is time to involve the Fennec." The lamplight flickered again as if in approval. ----- Salvager's Row hummed faintly under the desert sun, the air heavy with the scent of hot metal, dust, and old oils. In one of its quieter corners, tucked between workshops and scavenged habs, was The Fennec’s domain — a place of function, not comfort. Jagiełło ducked beneath the low doorway and stepped inside. The thick workshop air mingled motor oil, grease, and solvent fumes with the omnipresent desert dust, forming a smell so familiar it barely registered. The Fennec sat at her workbench, stripped of ceremony. Perched on a low stool beside her desert-adapted motorcycle, one boot rested on a scattered pile of parts. She ran a wire brush through the barrel of a long rifle — a precision instrument, sand-coloured, designed for patience and lethality. A large, worn scope with flip-up caps sat atop its receiver, and a collapsible tripod was mounted beneath the barrel. Every detail spoke of careful calibration and craftsmanship, not brute force. Scattered across the table were tools, cleaning rods, and brushes blackened from years of service. Her appearance matched her workspace — practical and hardened. A flak jacket with visible plates, cargo trousers scarred by oil stains, and heavy boots caked with grit gave her a rugged silhouette. Webbing and pouches hung loosely yet purposefully across her frame. Beneath the grime and dust, she was lean and sharp, every motion deliberate and assured. Jagiełło remained silent until she glanced up, dark eyes locking with his. Faint ridges along her brow marked her, though they were barely visible in the muted glow of the workshop. She stood without hesitation, setting the rifle aside with deliberate care. “Primus,” she said simply. No bow, no salute — only recognition. “Fennec,” Jagiełło replied, his tone level. “You have someone to follow. Sergeant Marek. Observe. Nothing more.” She nodded. “Understood.” Jagiełło’s eyes narrowed slightly. “There are conditions. If they are met, you will act. Otherwise, you remain unseen.” The Fennec accepted this without question, as she did every task. “Understood,” she repeated. Without another word, she resumed her work, calmly cleaning the rifle with practiced, steady movements as though the conversation had never happened. Jagiełło lingered for a heartbeat longer, watching the slow, precise strokes of the wire brush before turning away and stepping back into the harsh desert light, leaving the workshop to its silence and the quiet hum of preparation. ----- The Fennec worked late into the evening, long after Jagiełło’s footsteps had faded from Salvager’s Row. The familiar hum of the workshop remained her only company, broken only by the soft clicking of tools and the metallic rasp of fabric brushing against gear. She moved with quiet purpose. From a battered locker, she retrieved a canvas-wrapped bundle. Inside lay spare parts, ammunition, and lengths of camouflage netting, sun-bleached and patched. Each piece was checked and packed without hurry, yet with absolute certainty. Nothing extra. Nothing missing. Her rifle received a final inspection. With delicate reverence, she laid each component out on the workbench — the long, desert-camouflaged barrel, the padded stock, the heavy scope with its flip-up caps, and the collapsible tripod. Fixed to the end of the barrel was a prominent, multi-baffled muzzle brake, designed to tame the weapon's immense recoil. One by one, she reassembled them with the practised precision of someone who had done so a hundred times. When the rifle was whole once more, she brought it to her shoulder and sighted down the length of it, the cool metal pressing gently against her cheek. She cocked it smoothly and pulled the trigger. The dry click echoed faintly, sharp against the quiet hum of the workshop. Only then did she nod to herself, satisfied, and secured the weapon inside a padded sleeve. At the corner of the workshop, her desert bike leaned against the wall, chain oiled and tyres thick with the dust of past patrols. She ran a bare hand over its frame, feeling for hairline cracks or faults. Satisfied, she attached small saddlebags, filling them with ration packs, water, and field tools. Pausing for a moment, she glanced around the workshop. The bare lightbulb overhead buzzed faintly. Shadows clung to the walls, broken only by streaks of lamplight from the narrow window. The Fennec rolled her shoulders, adjusted her flak jacket, and slung the padded rifle bag across her back. The last thing she grabbed was a small, well-worn scrap of cloth from a shelf — desert orange — and tied it around her wrist. Without ceremony, she pushed open the workshop door, stepping into the cool air, the soft crunch of sand under her boots. She wheeled her bike out alongside her, the machine’s weight familiar beneath her hands. The hunt had begun.

A bit of a longer post today, but I couldn't decide where would be an appropriate place to break it up. Sorry if it's a slog, but hopefully you enjoy. Constructive criticism is welcome, as always. The cellar was dry, dark, and cold in the way only stone could be. It had once been used for storage—wine, perhaps, or sealed grain back when the trade station was younger. Now it was quiet, its walls lit by low-burning lamps and the soft hum of activity above. The building that sat atop it looked unremarkable, just another administrative structure tucked away behind the merchant rows. But down here, beneath the weight of dust and secrecy, it belonged to the Resistance.. Jagiełło stood beside a battered metal table, one hand resting on its edge, the other tucked behind his back. His eyes were fixed on the far wall, where shadow danced across old shelving. Mona stood across from him, cloak drawn loosely around her shoulders, her posture relaxed but attentive. "They’re ready," he said finally, voice quiet but clear. "Or close enough to it. The squads have seen action. They’ve held positions. They’ve kept silent. It’s time they heard the same words from the same mouths." Mona tilted her head slightly, considering. "You wish to gather them?" He nodded once. "Leaders only. No more than one or two per cell. Quiet invitations. A council, of sorts. If we are to grow, we must speak with one voice." She smiled, faint and enigmatic. "And who will give that voice shape?" "We will," he said, meeting her gaze. "You and I. The Father speaks through us." Her smile widened, just slightly. "A sermon and a sword." Jagiełło looked away again, back toward the shelves, his thoughts already moving ahead. "There have been murmurs. Quiet ones. Old loyalties that haven’t quite burned out. Some feel our reach grows too fast. Others fear exposure." Mona’s voice dropped into something silkier, softer. "And you want me to find them." "I want you to listen," he said. "Draw them in. Reassure them. But if they persist in doubt..." She stepped closer, her movements unhurried. "Then they are already lost." He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. "You’ll include him," Mona said after a moment. "The new sergeant." Jagiełło's brow twitched, just slightly. "Yes. He doesn’t see it yet, but the others look to him. It’s time he understands the scale of what we are." She nodded once. "A test." "A glimpse," he corrected. "If he proves true, the tests will come later." Above them, a floorboard creaked. Neither flinched. Jagiełło’s voice dropped into a low, deliberate rhythm. "See to the invitations. Speak to those who carry weight. We do this quietly. No banners, no slogans. Just presence." Mona inclined her head, then turned toward the stairs, her cloak trailing behind her like smoke. He remained by the table, his hand resting on the cold metal, eyes half-closed. The time for silence was ending. But it was not yet time for noise. ----- They came in ones and twos, staggered and silent. No fanfare, no marked insignia, no outward sign of who they truly were. Just tired men and women in faded coats and dust-stained boots, making their way through a side alley or past a nondescript door tucked between a tannery and a closed chemist’s. Most gave a brief nod to the pair of armed guards flanking the entrance—no questions asked, no names exchanged. The building was quiet from the outside. On the inside, the cellar whispered with slow gathering purpose. Lamps had been lit low, casting a golden hue on the worn brick walls. A long wooden table stretched the length of the room, with crates and salvaged chairs pulled in close. Some leaned against the walls, arms folded, their eyes scanning each new arrival with practiced caution. They came from across the desert—outposts, trade hubs, water stations, mining sites. Veterans of too many small skirmishes to count. People who remembered the price of defiance but bore it anyway. They spoke in low tones, just enough to identify, never enough to expose. I came in last. Or near enough it made no difference. The guards at the door looked me over and let me pass without a word, but I felt their eyes on my back the whole way down the stairs. The steps creaked, the kind of creak that makes you feel like the whole room hears it. And maybe they did. I stepped into the cellar and stopped just inside the doorway. I’d never seen so many faces like this gathered in one place—not all at once. Hardened. Scarred. People with experience etched into every movement, every glance. Not one of them wore the Resistance's mark. They didn’t need to. I adjusted the strap on my lasrifle out of habit, not nerves. Or maybe both. I told myself to keep my eyes up, to look calm, like I belonged here. But I didn’t. Not really. Not yet. I could feel it in the way the conversations dipped as I walked past, in the way a few of them sized me up. Not with hostility—just the kind of scrutiny that says, "Who’s this one, then?" I found a spot near the edge of the gathering and stayed there. Silent. Watchful. Trying to breathe like my chest wasn’t tight. I didn’t know what Jagiełło had planned. Or Mona. But I knew this: I’d been called. I’d been seen. And now there was no stepping back. ----- The cellar buzzed softly with restrained conversation. Clustered around the long wooden table, the squad leaders murmured to one another in low tones, the sort of talk that never carried across a room. There was no laughter, only quiet familiarity, like the shifting of stone beneath sand. They wore no insignia, no rank markings, but the lines on their faces and the weight in their eyes told you who had seen battle, who had bled for the cause. The air was dry, tinged faintly with oil, old stone, and the distant trace of spice from a pipe someone had lit discreetly. At the far side of the room, half-shadowed by the flickering lamplight, Mona leaned against the wall, arms folded loosely. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes moved constantly—reading the faces, the silences, the hesitations. She wasn’t looking for agreement. She was watching for weakness. For doubt. For fire. Then Jagiełło entered. He moved without ceremony, no flourish or call for silence. He didn’t need to. One by one, the voices faltered. Chairs creaked as postures straightened. By the time he reached the head of the table, the only sound was the soft settling of dust. He looked over them, his gaze neither harsh nor welcoming. Just present. Grounded. From beneath his cloak, he drew a small metal flask and placed it plainly on the table. His voice, when it came, was quiet but carried all the same. "I don’t drink," he said. "But I was told a toast would be... appropriate." A few exchanged glances, unsure. Mona’s mouth twitched into the suggestion of a smile. Jagiełło uncapped the flask and raised it slightly. "To our first gathering. And to the storm yet to come." He took a measured sip and passed the flask to his left. It moved from hand to hand, each drinking in turn. When it came to me, I hesitated only a second before tipping it back. The liquid burned, but I swallowed and passed it on without a word. Jagiełło waited until it returned to the centre of the table, then swept it aside with the back of his hand. "Now. To the business we came for." He stood straight, hands resting on the table’s edge. "You’ve all seen what we recovered. The Malcador was the first. It won’t be the last. The sands hide more than relics. They hide power. Power we will need." There were nods around the table. Real ones. "We are not ready to rise," he continued, "but we will be. When the time comes, we must not be scrambling for rifles or hiding behind dune walls. We will strike with what was once theirs. And we will break them." Someone murmured an affirmation, barely audible. "Many of you have families. Sons and daughters. You know what the cost is. You live it every day. What we build here is for them. For what comes after." His voice remained low, even. "We are not a rabble. We are not isolated cells. We are a Resistance. And we must begin acting like one." He took a moment, scanning the room. "Every outpost under our shadow must be secured. Informants placed. Supply lines disguised. Weapons salvaged, repaired, hidden. We will not win by numbers. We will win by knowing more, moving faster, and never being where they expect us to be." There was stillness at the table now, the kind that comes when a room begins to believe in something. Even if only quietly. "That is why we are here. Not to celebrate, but to unify. To prepare." He paused. From within his cloak, Jagiełło produced a small dataslate—sealed, scuffed from handling, but unmistakably the same one that had passed hands at the toll booth. He placed it on the table with deliberate care, the metal clacking softly on the wood. His eyes turned toward me. I could feel the weight behind them. "Since you brought this to us," he said, voice quiet but firm, "it is only right you have the honour of answering its mysteries." There were murmurings then, soft but unmistakable. Not loud, not disruptive, but enough to betray doubt. I caught the words in the undercurrent—"miner," "Rakoczy," "green." Jagiełło’s gaze swept across the table. No words. Just the cold steel of his stare. The murmuring died like flame under sand. I rose slowly, heart drumming a little too hard in my chest. I didn't look around. Just stepped forward and reached for the slate. Mona’s eyes didn’t follow me. Not at first. She was watching someone else—one of the sergeants seated at the table, who had barely spoken, who shifted slightly when the slate was revealed. Her head tilted slightly. A breath passed. Then she gave a single, subtle nod. Jagiełło caught it without looking. The figure remained unaware. Nothing would happen yet. But they would be watched. The slate was cold in my hands. For a moment, I didn’t move. Around me, the room was silent, but I could feel the weight of every gaze pressing against my shoulders. I wasn’t like them. I hadn’t led raids in the sands or bled for outpost victories. I’d swung a pickaxe in the dark, counted rations by the week, buried comrades beneath collapsed tunnels. And now I stood here, a miner with a rifle, asked to speak in the presence of veterans. I told myself it didn’t matter. Rakoczy had trusted me. Mona had stood beside me. Jagiełło had called me forward. I drew in a breath, steadying myself, and tapped the slate awake. The flicker of code sprang to life across the display. Now, it was mine to answer. The code resolved into something surprisingly simple: a set of coordinates, followed by a fragmented schematic, flickering slightly as the slate worked to stabilise its old data. There were annotations in a hand I didn’t recognise, half-corrupted but just readable enough. A bunker. Remote. Long forgotten. I squinted at the identifier buried in the metadata, speaking aloud without thinking. "Iron Duke?" It came out uncertain, questioning. Around the table, a few of the veterans scoffed. Quietly. One shook his head, another rolled their eyes. Doubt, disbelief, even a touch of mockery—none of it loud, but I felt it all the same. Mona’s gaze didn’t shift from the sergeant she’d been watching. But something changed in her expression. Subtle. The figure’s mouth had twitched—just slightly. A flicker of concern. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But Mona noticed. And though she remained poised, relaxed, her attention narrowed like a blade being drawn.

This is a little montage of scenes featuring our narrator over the months since the takeover of Outpost Nowa Avestia showing his growth as the squadron's new, and until then, inexperienced sergeant. It shows, also, the slow and subtle growth of the Resistance's s influence on the every day people. The toll booth stood hunched against the desert wind, a squat collection of hab-blocks and a corrugated checkpoint arch draped with faded banners. The squad passed through without issue, helmets off, weapons slung in casual peace-time readiness. To the locals, we were just another patrol. Nothing worth noting. It was the toll-keeper who marked me as something else. He was gaunt, eyes sunken deep beneath the brim of his sun-bleached cap. His uniform hung loose, the fabric worn and patched too many times. As we passed, he beckoned me subtly with two fingers, shielding the motion from his comrades. I hesitated but stepped closer. “Desert wind’s shifting early this season,” he murmured, voice dry as old parchment. In his hand, almost concealed, was a dataslate, sealed and scuffed. I took it, hesitating for just a heartbeat, then slipped it into my jacket. The act was smooth, practiced — like so many exchanges in the underhive markets of Prawa Ten Drugi. Yet, as I rejoined the squad, I found myself touching the outline of the slate beneath my flak. It wasn’t the weight that stuck with me, but the look in the toll-keeper's eyes. Hollow, desperate, yet resolute. I recognised it — the same look I’d seen too often in the mines. The slate’s surface felt rough beneath my fingers, etched with faint scratches, like it had passed through more hands than it should have. I told myself I’d examine it later, when there was time and fewer eyes. ----- Salvager’s Row was always noisy. Even in the early hours, the clatter of tools and metal against metal rang through the alleyways. Stalls lined the cramped lane, cluttered with scrap, old parts, broken cogitators, and the ever-present scent of oil and rust. Sunlight filtered down in pale shafts through the hanging tarps, casting everything in a strange, fractured light. We’d come into town quiet, uniforms dusty but clean, weapons slung easy, faces unreadable. Just another PDF patrol passing through. The locals didn’t ask questions. Not out loud. I was waiting by one of the vendor tables, pretending to examine a cracked auspex casing, when she appeared. I didn’t see her at first—just felt someone hovering at my shoulder. I turned, and there she was. Thin. Pale. Her hair was bound up under a grease-streaked scarf, and her overalls were stained from engine work or worse. She didn’t speak at first. Just stared. Eyes wide, not with fear but with the weight of too many sleepless nights. The hard lines on her face, the roughness of her hands—these were things I recognised. I’d seen them in the mirror. I’d grown up among them, deep beneath Prawa Ten Drugi, where life was short and the dust settled in your lungs. "You’re one of them," she said, barely above a whisper. My fingers stilled on the casing. She glanced around quickly. No one was watching. Or if they were, they knew to pretend they weren’t. "I don’t want trouble," she said quickly. "I just... I need to know. If there’s a way." Her voice cracked on that last word. I looked at her properly then. She wasn’t looking for salvation. She was looking for meaning. For a chance at something better. Or maybe just something different. "You’ve lost something," I said quietly. She nodded. "Everything." I reached into my coat and pulled out a small, worn token—plain to most, but marked with the faint curve of a crescent and three stars. I placed it on the table between the scrap. "There’s a place outside town," I said, keeping my voice level. "North side. Just past the pipe junction. After dark." She stared at the token like it was fire. "And then what?" she asked. "Then you listen. And decide. No one forces anything. Not at first." Her hand closed over the token. She didn’t thank me. She didn’t need to. She disappeared into the crowd a moment later, and I turned back to the cracked casing, my heart a little heavier than before. We weren’t just fighting a war. We were building something. One soul at a time. ----- The fire was low, its orange glow flickering against the canvas of our makeshift shelter. We’d set up camp behind a low dune, far enough off the road to avoid attention, but close enough to move at dawn. The stars above were sharp tonight, scattered across the desert sky like shards of broken glass. Someone had brewed recaf that tasted like burnt mud, but no one complained. We sat in a loose circle, armour off, lasrifles within reach, fatigue etched into every line of our faces. "Remember the old mess hall in Shaft VII?" Laska said, stirring the recaf with the tip of her knife. "Back when a hot meal meant boiled ration bricks and sulphur-salt gravy?" There were groans and a few hollow chuckles. I smirked, shaking my head. "Only thing worse than the food was the shift foreman’s singing." "Ugh, have mercy," someone muttered. "He thought he was a choir-servo." "Sounded more like a dying generator," Varan added. "I’d have taken the generator. At least it didn’t try to chat up the pit boss with that voice." "Didn’t stop him trying, though," said Branka, one of our newest troopers, grinning as she leaned back on her elbows. "She said she’d rather kiss a sump rat." "A sump rat wouldn’t have smelled half as bad," Laska piped up, and the group broke into laughter. It was the kind of laughter that came when nerves had been frayed too long, when sleep was thin and the days too hot. But it helped. For a few minutes, we weren’t soldiers. We were just people again—miners in uniform, thrown into something far larger than themselves. I watched them in the firelight. These were my people now. Not just comrades, not just survivors. They looked to me now, not because they had to, but because they chose to. That realisation sat strangely in my chest. Heavy, but not unwelcome. No one spoke of the things we’d done. Not directly. But when the silence fell again, it was thick with shared understanding. Mona had once said that families were forged in hardship, not blood. Out here, in the dark, I understood what she meant. "Get some sleep," I said eventually, rising to my feet and brushing the dust from my coat. "We move before the sun’s up." They didn’t argue. Just nodded and settled in, one by one. I stayed up a little longer, watching the fire shrink to embers, the desert whispering in the dark beyond. The wind carried grit, but also something else. Something like purpose. And for once, I didn’t feel alone. Writer's note: I think the campfire scene is probably one of the cheesiest I've ever written. I was trying to convey, along with the other two scenes, their humanity. Instead, I got a B-movie sci-fi, haha!

In the months that followed the firefight, the desert outpost changed—and so did I. At first, it was small things. The way the squad looked to me before moving. The quiet nods from older troopers who had once only taken orders from Rakoczy. They called me 'sergeant' now. I still wasn’t used to it, but I stopped flinching every time I heard it. The Cult dug in, not with banners and bullets, but with quiet persistence. New faces appeared at Salvager’s Row—traders with whispered affiliations. Civilians with hollow eyes who found purpose in Mona’s words. Mechanics who asked no questions as they overhauled old vehicles beneath the cover of darkness. Mona came and went like the desert wind—never still, never idle. Jagiełło remained elusive, but his influence was everywhere. Orders came down with clarity and purpose. Always one step ahead. My squad patrolled outward now—along dusty roads that led to other stations, waypoints, watering holes. And to our surprise, some greeted us with familiarity. A knowing glance. A gesture. An echo of the cause. We weren’t the only ones. There were others. In one station, a tollkeeper slipped me a sealed dataslate when no one was looking. In another, a chapel bore a strange sigil etched subtly into its foundation stone. And always, always, the whispers of readiness. Of waiting. Of patience. I learned to speak with command in my voice, even when I was unsure. I learned which words carried weight. I learned to lie—to keep up the façade of a loyal PDF patrol. To wear the colours of the oppressor while serving the truth beneath. My squad grew closer. They looked to me not just for orders, but for belief. We trained together. We laughed sometimes. We mourned Rakoczy in private, and then we moved on, because there was too much still to do. There were moments of doubt, still. Quiet ones. I would find myself alone, lasrifle across my knees, staring out at the endless dunes. Wondering if I was becoming what I had feared. If I had a choice anymore. Then Mona would appear beside me, silent and soft, placing a hand on my shoulder. And for a moment, the guilt would lift. We were not ready to rise. Not yet. But we were preparing. And I was becoming someone new.

Airsupport is crucial for any raging war. Whether it is supplies or protection that must be provided, maintenance of the aircrafts used is allways of utmost importance. This Landing Platforms provide maintenance and refuelling and therfore are crucial for any raging conflict. Combine this set with the Fortification Wall and or Defense Tower to create even more narrative on your tabletop. This PDF will give you a Landing Platform Design and four different Barrels. The Landing Platform and Barrels are fitting for 28mm tabletop games with a Modern or Future-Fantasy setting. Make sure to check out the fitting models of the fortification series available and coming soon. Get the set here: https://www.wargamevault.com/product/457149/Tabletop-Battlefield-Scenics-Landing-Platform Create a mission where airsupport has to land or take of in time to win the battle. Or win / keep control over the Landing Platform to gain advantage in your campaign. There are lots of narrative possubilities! We wish lots of fun with building and playing with this terrain piece. C&C is welcome. Just print, build and play!

I'd like to say thank you to those who have been following the story of Prawa V. I appreciate your support. I've been writing about Prawa V and the 280th since the latter half of last year and I am way ahead of the passages I have posted here. I've found my writing has significantly improved over the past few months and I've also drifted away from writing the little vignettes as I feel I cannot convey everything I want in them. Thus, I am writing longer, fuller texts now and would welcome your thoughts and opinions. I'm posting a scene from later on in the story about the recovery of the final vehicle in the triumvirate of tanks the Resistance is collecting for when the final day comes. I've already revealed the Malcador (Brutus) and will reveal the second in a later blog post. You'll see some familiar names, including our narrator who has been leading his squad after the death of Rakoczy for some times, and some new ones. Laska has rapidly become my favourite character and she has some nice moments in other passages. As always, I welcome all constructive feedback. Let me know what I did well and what I can do better! Now, let me tell you of the recovery of the beast known as 329. The air inside the vault felt thick enough to choke on. Every step stirred the dust, curling it around our boots like smoke in the lamplight. The deeper we pushed, the less the glow of our torches seemed to matter. Darkness swallowed the beams after only a few metres, leaving the edges of the corridor murky and half-seen. I kept my lamp high, sweeping left and right. Riveted panels, rust-streaked bulkheads, and nests of corroded piping loomed from the gloom. The old Imperial eagles — cracked, pitted, and eaten by time — leered down at us with hollow eyes. They didn’t offer comfort, just a reminder of who built this place, and how long ago they had abandoned it. We worked like we always did — quiet, deliberate, no chatter beyond what mattered. This wasn’t a battlefield, not yet, but it carried the weight of one. The dust wasn’t just dirt. It was history. It settled on us like a second uniform. Every doorframe got a chalk mark. Every passage junction got a numbered entry on my slate. I logged every exposed pipe, every strange corrosion bloom, every half-missing panel without argument. We weren’t just looking for the Vulcan. We were building a map, one step at a time. Because down here? Getting lost would be as final as getting shot. Czajka worked in silence on my left. His stylus scratched across the surface of his dataslate as he sketched crude but effective floorplans. He didn’t need orders. He already knew what we were doing. There was comfort in that. I trusted Czajka to notice the things I missed. Laska, behind me, had less patience. She kept glancing at every side passage, fingers tapping idly on the grenade launcher slung tight against her chest. “I don’t like it,” she muttered, voice low enough not to echo. “You’re not supposed to,” I said without turning. And it was true. The vault didn’t feel hostile — not quite. But it felt still, heavy, like the air itself was watching us. I’d known that feeling in the mines before. It always meant something overhead was about to shift. Krystan trailed behind, one glove tracing the edge of the bulkhead as he walked. He wasn’t slacking — he was thinking. He always did this when the edges got tight. His eyes flicked over faded warning sigils and strips of flaking hazard paint, as if they might tell him something the rest of us couldn’t see. Zofia moved quietly on the left flank, a little behind the others, eyes constantly scanning the ceiling and corners. She never said much. She never needed to. What mattered was the way she checked every overhead pipe, every stress fracture in the walls, noting them in that worn medicae slate of hers. Always assessing. Not for treasure — for risk. The further in we went, the colder it got. The desert heat hadn’t made it this deep. Every breath came with a hint of metal and old oil. The echo of our boots returned sharper, like the walls themselves were awake. I kept marking. Every alcove. Every sealed hatch. Every pile of collapsed ductwork. Laska shot me a look when I noted a broken servitor arm half-buried in the rubble. “Really?” she whispered. “Record everything,” I replied without humour. It wasn’t superstition. It was survival. Too many had been buried under rock and rust because they skipped the little things. The corridor widened. The vault proper opened before us. A chamber, broad and tall, stretched into the gloom. Gantries crossed above like skeletal bridges, their railings sagging with age. Kerosene lamps, long-dead but recently rekindled, cast a dull orange glow along the lower platforms. I knew the shape at the centre before the others even spoke. Half-shrouded beneath a filthy tarpaulin stood a tank. Wide-set tracks. An angular turret. A squat, brutal hull. Bigger than a Leman Russ, heavier than a Chimera. Even under the cover, I knew what it was. The Vulcan. But we didn’t rush it. We spread out, slow and deliberate. Laska circled right, checking sightlines and covering the far doors. Czajka moved up into the gantries, the worn steps groaning under his weight. I paced forward, keeping my slate active, mapping every inch. Tool racks. Cargo crates. Supply lines overhead. Every detail. Krystan didn’t join us. He stood still, staring at the tank. One hand rested against its flank, brushing the dust aside to reveal a faded stencil: 329 The way he did it made me uneasy. He wasn’t examining it like a soldier. He was listening. We weren’t alone. I felt it, sure as the ground beneath my boots. Someone, somewhere, behind the maze of passages or the heavy bulkheads, was breathing the same dust. And sure enough, I wasn’t wrong. We were too focused on the Vulcan. That was the truth of it. The sheer weight of the thing had pulled us in, had us pacing it like shipwreck divers circling some ancient wreck on the seabed. We’d logged the doors, the gantries, the old winches bolted to the overhead girders — but we hadn’t logged who else was breathing our dust. The first lasbolt cracked from the left gantry, smacking into the floor by Laska’s boots. She ducked behind a stack of rusted fuel drums, but not fast enough. The second found her. I saw it hit — a sharp impact just below her collar, spinning her off-balance. She went down hard, pulling herself behind cover, gritting her teeth to stop a cry. Blood seeped between her fingers as she clutched at her shoulder. “Contact!” I shouted, bringing my lasgun up. They moved well — too well for a simple patrol. Three squads, minimum. PDF by the look of them, but tighter, sharper. Controlled bursts. Flanking. Pinning. They weren’t improvising — they had orders. Kasnyk’s voice rang out sharp from above. “Hold your fire! Stand down!” Liar. I squeezed off a return shot at the gantry, driving one of his troopers back into cover. Czajka had already dropped prone behind a rusted girder, working with terrifying calm. His rifle coughed once, and a PDF trooper tumbled off the gantry like a broken puppet. Laska, bleeding and pale, dragged herself into a better position with Zofia snapping to her side. Zofia moved fast, no words, just routine — cinching a tourniquet tight even as the air cracked with fresh shots. Kasnyk stepped into the open on the upper walkway, long coat trailing. His monocle pulsed faintly, flickering data none of us could see. He didn’t even flinch when another lasbolt sizzled past his head. “Your best option,” he called calmly, “is to—” I fired again, forcing him to duck behind the railing. “Ambush!” I shouted. “Flanks and gantries! Stay low!” The vault exploded into chaos. PDF squads swept in from three directions, forcing us back toward the centre of the chamber. Lasfire streaked through the dust-heavy air, hammering against rusted crates and collapsing old support beams. I shifted position and squeezed off another shot — but the lasgun jolted violently. I glanced down. The housing had split wide where a lucky shot had scored it. The charge pack indicator still glowed green, but it was dead weight now. A sharp breath escaped me as I stared at it. Useless. But had it struck me? A finger’s width higher and it would’ve cored through my chest. I dropped it without thinking. Laska’s grenade launcher lay half-buried near her, abandoned when she’d gone down. I grabbed it. Clumsy in my hands — too heavy, unfamiliar. Not like the rifles I knew. I fumbled with the mechanism, struggling to remember the sequence. Chamber open? Feed drum? I’d watched her work it a dozen times, but not like this. Not under fire. Not slick with dust and blood. Laska coughed, voice tight with pain. “Just rack the bolt and shoot the :cuss:ing thing! …sir.” I didn’t hesitate after that. Czajka, still working the gantry angles, risked a glance toward me — eyes narrowing as he clocked the grenade launcher in my fumbling grip. Rakoczy wouldn’t have frozen up, Czajka thought. He’d have made this look easy. He adjusted his sight, tracking a second PDF trooper. But Rakoczy’s dead. And you’re what we’ve got. He fired again, and the trooper crumpled. The battle swirled. Krystan was missing. My stomach sank. “Where’s Krystan?” I shouted, trying to mask the rising edge in my voice. Czajka didn’t answer. He was already moving, shifting his firing angle without breaking rhythm. Zofia finished cinching the dressing on Laska’s wound, yanking tight and earning herself a hissed curse from the corporal. “Hold still,” she said flatly. More PDF were flooding through the left passage. We were being driven into the open. The Vulcan loomed behind us — cold, motionless, indifferent. While the others fought for every breath behind cover, Krystan was already moving. I caught a glimpse of him slipping away as the PDF pressed harder — crouched low, weaving through the wreckage and rusted gantries. Not running. Moving with purpose. That was Krystan. Steady. Quiet. Always with a hand on the hull. He reached the base of the Vulcan without anyone noticing. His boots scraped against the dust-slick deck plates as he stepped closer. For a moment, he paused, one gloved hand resting against the tank’s flank. It wasn’t reverence. It was something else. Like he was listening. Then he climbed. The cupola’s hatch creaked open, metal grinding in protest. The chaos outside masked the sound — lasfire, shouted orders, and the hiss of ricochets filling the vault. Without a glance back, Krystan slipped inside. The interior swallowed him whole. Dim, dust-choked glow strips traced the edges of the control banks. The Vulcan was no Chimera. The controls were broader, cruder, older. Heavy levers. Coiled cables. Exposed gearing and half-familiar dials. He recognised some — drive levers, instrument gauges, even a throttle quadrant that looked like it had been lifted from a mining hauler — but most were foreign. His breath fogged faintly in the cold. Krystan’s fingers hovered above the mess of controls. Somewhere beneath the adrenaline, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself. Terrified? Absolutely. But this was it. This was what he lived for. Machines. Steel. Control. He whispered, barely audible, “Come on… you’re just a Chimera with a bad attitude.” He flicked a master switch. Nothing. He tried again, pulling at a lever, flipping a few toggles — only the dull clunk of inert machinery answered. No. He forced the panic down. Training. Focus. Chimera or not, everything had logic. He traced a row of cables until his eyes settled on a recessed primer coil, partially hidden beneath a mass of bundled wiring. “Old trick,” he muttered. He set his jaw and twisted. The Vulcan exhaled. A hiss of old fuel vaporised into the compartment. The whole machine vibrated faintly, like a slumbering beast shifting in its sleep. Krystan’s hand found the ignition lever. His heart hammered. The thought crept unbidden — What manner of monster do I awake? Before he could lose his nerve, he shoved it forward. The Vulcan roared. The engine coughed to life, clearing decades of dust from its lungs in a single violent growl. Every control around him shook. Gauges flickered. Amber warning lights blinked uncertainly. The floor itself trembled beneath his boots. A thrill surged through him. It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t safe. But it was alive. He adjusted the starter coil, working it gently, feeling the tank respond like a stubborn animal testing its reins. Slowly, he could feel the systems coming online — old hydraulics groaning, mechanical linkages freeing themselves. And Krystan — wide-eyed, knuckles white on the controls — couldn’t help but grin. He hadn’t tamed it. Not yet. But it hadn’t thrown him out either. The engine’s growl swelled. At first, it was just the deep rumble of combustion, rising steadily, but then the floor itself trembled beneath us. Dust sifted from the vaulted ceiling. The heavy beat of the Vulcan’s heart rolled through the chamber, oppressive and inescapable. I felt it through my boots, through the crate I leaned against, even through the air itself. The firefight faltered. Every eye — ours and the PDF alike — turned toward the tank. It shifted. Steel moaned. The Vulcan’s massive hull shuddered as old hydraulics flexed. Running lights blinked into life, pale and half-choked with dust. They didn’t illuminate the whole chamber, but enough to throw eerie arcs across the gantries and walls. A thin red beam lanced out from beneath the turret — the laser targeter. It swept slowly, searching, hunting, until it steadied on one of the PDF squads pressed tight against the far gantry’s guardrail. Then came the sound. It wasn’t the engine this time. It was the unmistakable whine of the Vulcan cannons spooling up, starting low like the spin of a turbine, accelerating with mechanical determination. The sound climbed, smooth yet unsettling, until the rotation reached full speed. Even without seeing the barrels, you could feel them — impatient, poised. The PDF froze. No shouted orders from Kasnyk. No clever flanking. Just a collective, dawning horror. The first burst came. A sharp, staccato roar, not like the shrill chatter of lasfire, but a deep, violent rhythm — each shell tearing from the barrels with purpose. Short, measured, two seconds at most, but enough. The gantry above us ruptured. Beams twisted. Men, metal, and dust cascaded to the floor in a tangled ruin. And then the casings came. Dozens of them, big as a man’s forearm, tinkling and bouncing down the flanks of the tank, scattering across the stone floor like spent coins. That gentle sound, so delicate against the backdrop of devastation, chilled me more than the thunder of the guns. The turret rotated deliberately. The red beam flicked to another squad. Again, the cannons gave that terrifying, staccato burst. Explosive shells ripped through cover, reducing men and steel to fragments. The shockwaves slammed against the vault walls, making the whole chamber feel smaller, tighter. The engine revved in sync, a beast exulting in its release, shaking dust and rust free from the ancient structure itself. Krystan’s silhouette sat hunched in the cupola, his knuckles white on the controls. From where I crouched, I could just make out the tight line of his jaw — exhilaration and sheer terror warred on his face. Czajka swore under his breath, eyes wide. “It’s... hunting them.” He wasn’t wrong. The Vulcan wasn’t simply firing. The twin cannons moved with unsettling intent, their aim sharp, precise, shifting as if seeking, thinking. Another burst. Another squad obliterated. The staccato rhythm ceased. The laser targeter dimmed. The only sound was the soft, continuous tinkle of shell casings still rolling across the floor, accompanied by the growling idle of the engine echoing ominously around the chamber — until, with a final sputter, even that faded into silence. None of us moved. I wasn’t sure if we had taken control of the Vulcan. Or if we had simply set it loose. The last shell casing had barely stopped its slow roll across the ferrocrete when silence returned to the vault. Not peace — just silence. The heavy kind, the kind that presses against the skull and leaves you waiting. We crept out from cover like miners from a collapsed tunnel, every movement cautious, half-expecting the Vulcan to open up again without warning. It didn’t. Its guns sagged slightly, steam curling from the barrels, the turret idle. The squad stood in a rough circle around the thing, weapons half-raised. No one was brave enough to lower them fully. Krystan stood by the tank’s hull, eyes flicking nervously between the squad and the controls still faintly glowing inside the cupola, as if waiting for the thing to reprimand him. He wasn’t grinning. No one was. Czajka broke the quiet first, voice low. “Some say the old ones think for themselves,” he murmured. No one laughed. Not even Laska, though pain had pinned any levity to the floor. Krystan shifted, not looking at us directly. “...It felt like it wanted to fight.” He thumbed toward the still-smoking barrels. “I just... pointed it.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t me doing all of it.” The words sat heavy. We’d all heard the stories. Machine spirits. Ritual rites. The old gear with habits. Soldiers drunk enough would spin those tales for hours. I’d never cared for them. But standing there, staring at the Vulcan with its idling engine and faint heat haze rolling off it, I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe this wasn’t just wear and tear. Zofia Malmgren knelt by Laska, methodically working through her field kit. She’d stayed quiet through the fight, and now she worked with steady hands, cutting away the flak's melted edge and dousing the wound with something that made Laska flinch and swear under her breath. Zofia didn’t so much as blink. “You’ll keep your arm,” she said softly. “But you’ll curse me for it.” Czajka helped ease Laska upright, steadying her as blood loss made her legs weak. Between them, they got her standing, if not walking straight. That’s when the Vulcan twitched. A soft creak from above. I snapped my head around just in time to see one of the upper hatches unlatch and swing open on its own, groaning as if stirred by a passing breeze. But there was no breeze down here. Krystan flinched. “I didn’t touch anything.” We froze. No one dared speak. Then, slow as a hunting animal, the front heavy bolters shifted. Their twin barrels settled squarely on Czajka. He went rigid. I swear even Laska held her breath. The bolters paused, locked, then sagged down harmlessly. A second later, a flicker of orange danced across the far wall — the lazy flame of a sponson flamethrower’s pilot light, like the Vulcan had merely cleared its throat. Krystan stumbled back from the cupola. “That’s not me.” His voice cracked slightly. I could see it — the unease creeping behind every pair of eyes. This thing had teeth. Too many teeth. “Alright,” I said, trying to mask the tremor in my voice. “We prep it for transport. Now.” Czajka and Zofia got Laska seated on a nearby crate. Krystan climbed back up reluctantly. I could see the tension in his shoulders. He handled it like it was liable to bite him. While the others moved to secure tow cables and mark the vault’s exits, I noticed it — just beneath the grime on the Vulcan’s flank, half-obscured and worn by time, I found it. A faded stencil. 329th Armoured — Katedra Pancerna. The designation meant nothing to me. Nothing official at least. And it made me uneasy. Kasnyk trudged through the dust-choked wind, boots dragging. The squad — no, the survivors — followed, heads down, rifles slung limp. He wasn’t thinking about the wounded. Not about the missing. He was thinking about the tank. The Vulcan. A relic, yes, but not dead. Active. Moving. And worse — used. This wasn’t scavenging. This wasn’t the panic of starving deserters. It was planned. The precise coordination, the fallback positions, the crew discipline, the vehicle recovery. It all clicked into place now like a slow-turning cog. He had underestimated them. Not rabble. Not desperate fools. A resistance. His fingers tightened around the strap of his dataslate case. He had to reach Prawa Ten Drugi. He had to report this before the desert or the shadows took him first. And for the first time in years, Kasnyk tasted something bitter in the back of his throat — fear. The kind that settles when you realise you’ve stepped into something vast and moving, long before you noticed it.

The outpost changed hands with almost no one the wiser. Traders still bustled through Salvager’s Row, lugging crates of scrap and half-broken machinery. The ancient water pump hissed and groaned in its battered station, supplying the lifeblood of a thousand residents. Even the toll booth, perched by the outpost’s main thoroughfare, continued to collect the Emperor’s tithe—or so the clerks believed. In truth, the coin now lined the coffers of a new master. Far from the prying eyes of Imperial command, small changes took root. A ragged banner disappeared here, replaced by a fresh cloth whose stitching carried a subtle, alien motif. A storeroom was cleared out and repurposed as a hidden armoury, masked by rows of empty barrels. Over the span of a few short days, a network of quiet alliances formed. Whispers replaced open declarations, and men and women who had once known only fear found hope in the Resistance's promise. From a corner overlooking Salvager’s Row, a newly opened mechanic’s workshop stood as one more unassuming shack in a row of rusted outbuildings. Its proprietor, a soft-spoken older man, greeted passersby with a friendly wave and talked shop with visiting crews. In private, he jotted down the details of each visitor—names, affiliations, rumours. Slowly, knowledge flowed into the Resistance's web. Two streets away, on the far side of the water well, the old wayside chapel continued to hold its daily devotions. Its caretaker, a dour priest loyal to the Imperium, took little notice of the new faces in the crowd. Men and women now congregated by night, hearing words that resembled the Emperor’s truth but carried an undercurrent of something else—something far older, far more insidious. Flyers appeared discreetly, pinned to the bulletin board or slipped under chapel doors at twilight. At first, the caretaker dismissed them, believing them to be harmless devotions from another sect. Over time, subtle changes in sermon and scripture took shape, weaving the Resistance's message into the outpost’s faith. Meanwhile, the toll booth remained under nominal Imperial oversight. The uniformed attendants still saluted any passing PDF patrol and dutifully recorded each traveller’s tithe. Yet every coin, every promissory note, eventually found its way to Resistance-led accounts, bypassing official channels. The clerks manning the booth, none the wiser, chalked up any irregularities to the usual bureaucratic chaos. Tension lingered in the air long after the final shots that first secured the outpost. Rumours spread in hushed tones: one of the Prawa PDF might have triggered a distress call during the brief firefight before he fell. No one could say for certain. For days, conversations dropped to whispers whenever an unexpected speeder rolled through, and families double-checked their door locks at night, bracing for an Imperial crackdown. Yet nothing happened. No squads of grim-faced troopers locked down the streets. No Valkyries thundered overhead. The toll booth continued its unremarkable routine. Gradually, the outpost’s restlessness gave way to weary acceptance. Life resumed its ordinary patterns beneath the desert sun, while the Resistance's tendrils slid deeper into the settlement’s workings. Mona moved among the people with calm assurance, a soft word here, a knowing smile there. Each day without Imperial intervention validated her assurances that all was well. The proprietor of the outpost, who had once gazed upon the aftermath with fear, felt himself relax. If an alarm had been raised, it had fallen on deaf ears—or was lost in the endless tangle of Imperial bureaucracy. And so, the outpost carried on. The Resistance operatives laboured quietly, subverting critical functions, entrenching themselves further. Travellers who passed through noticed little amiss beyond a subtle shift in the local atmosphere—more hushed conversations, an odd camaraderie among the working folk. Now and then, someone mentioned the missing PDF, but there was no proof of foul play. Eventually, talk of a distress signal faded into campfire tales traded by nomads late at night. If help had ever been summoned, no one answered. Unseen and largely unopposed, the Resistance turned this forgotten watering hole into a hidden stronghold, sinking unseen roots into every corridor and corner that mattered.

The desert wind scraped against the battered walls of the prefab inspection room. Dust swirled lazily through the open doorway where the 280th stood lined up. I was in the middle of them, standing at attention with my pulse ticking at my temple. Lieutenant Kaśnyk paced slowly before us, the heels of his polished black boots clicking softly against the steel flooring. His long grey coat swept behind him with each step. He wasn’t tall, not towering like some officers, but he didn’t need to be. There was something about his presence — like the quiet pause before a cutting remark. The green monocle affixed over his left eye flickered softly as it fed him data I couldn’t read. I found myself avoiding its gaze. His voice was measured, neither warm nor cold, but steady. “A patrol assigned to this sector is overdue.” He paused, turning slightly, letting his eye scan down the line. “Your patrol route placed you west of the station’s outer perimeter. You weren’t there.” Our interim sergeant answered without hesitation. “We were patrolling closer to the interior. Avoiding bad terrain. Likely a paperwork snarl somewhere, sir.” Kaśnyk's monocle pulsed as if noting the excuse. His expression didn’t change. “Bureaucratic error, is it?” The sergeant gave a small nod. “I believe so, sir.” The lieutenant moved on, stepping past him and pausing briefly as he stopped opposite me. His eyes lingered just long enough for me to feel the sweat prickling at my brow. The monocle’s faint glow caught the curve of my cheek. He said nothing, but in that stillness, it felt like he was peeling layers from me without lifting a finger. Then he moved on. “You’re Imperial Guardsmen,” Kaśnyk continued, stepping back to address us all. “So I expect mistakes. I expect cut corners. But I also expect answers.” There was no immediate accusation in his voice — just an expectation. His words hung in the air like dust refusing to settle. Finally, after one more long glance across the line, Kaśnyk nodded. “Dismissed.” As we broke ranks and turned to leave, I risked one last look over my shoulder. Kaśnyk remained still, adjusting the dataslate in his gloved hands. His eyes weren’t on us anymore. They were on whatever note he’d made for himself.

Writer's note: I wasn't happy with Rakoczy's departure, so did a little rewriting of things to make it have more impact and give him the dignity he deserved as a good squad sergeant. While we didn't know him as a character, I wanted his lasting memory to be that of a good leader, leaving some big shoes to fill. Thoughts welcome. The fires had burned low by the time Jagiełło arrived. The smoke still clung to the rafters, curling like lazy ghosts above the wreckage. I stood near the entrance, rifle slung and fingers twitching, watching him move through the aftermath without pause or hesitation. He didn’t speak right away. Just looked. At the bodies. At the scorch marks. At the spilled drinks that had mixed with blood in dark pools on the floorboards. Then, quietly, to no one in particular: "Strip the bodies. Remove armour, weapons, insignia. Anything that can tie them to this place." I turned to the nearest fallen PDF. He was young. He hadn’t even made it to his feet when the first volley landed. I knelt beside him, fingers trembling as I unclasped the straps of his chestplate. His skin was still warm. Jagiełło continued, voice steady. "Seize all recorders. Data-slates, cogitator logs, vox units. Everything. If it has memory, it is erased. If it cannot be, it is destroyed." A few of our tech-savvy comrades moved quickly, heading to the back room where the station's hub was kept. I heard the crack of a boot against a locked cabinet. The buzz of a cutter. I kept my eyes on my work. Mona was speaking quietly with the proprietor, who sat behind the counter, pale but still. He had not run. He had not screamed. But fear sat heavy on him now, the reality of what he had witnessed settling into his bones. "And the network?" someone asked. Jagiełło looked toward the comms array, a squat metal box blinking idly by the far wall. "Disconnect it. Temporarily. The less it stays silent, the less suspicion it draws. We stage a withdrawal. Make it look like they left in a hurry." The man nodded and moved to obey. I kept stripping gear, folding it into a canvas sack that was quickly growing heavy. The faces of the dead were starting to blur together. Havel’s was the only one I couldn’t stop seeing. That flicker of confusion when it all began. That last flicker of recognition. Mona moved past me, her hand brushing my shoulder. I didn’t look up. "He needs to be handled carefully," she said softly, to Jagiełło. She was speaking of the proprietor. "He is frightened, yes. But he sees the tides changing." Jagiełło didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. We would either carry him with us—or bury him with the rest. I went and knelt by Rakoczy, his hand clutching weakly at my sleeve. His uniform was dark with blood, the wound in his side gaping, beyond any aid we could offer. He coughed, a wet, gurgling sound. "Good fight," he muttered. "You kept your head." His fingers twitched against my sleeve, then went slack. The breath left him in a quiet exhale, his eyes staring past me, past everything. I swallowed against the dryness in my throat. Around me, the others moved with purpose, securing the station, finishing the wounded. I felt Mona before I saw her, her presence like a warm draught against my frayed nerves. She crouched beside me, her exotic scent cutting through the stench of battle. "He was a strong man," she murmured, placing a hand lightly on Rakoczy’s chest. "A necessary loss." I wanted to argue, to say that it wasn’t necessary at all, but the words died before I could voice them. Mona's fingers pressed lightly against my wrist, a comforting weight. "Jagiełło will need someone to step into his place." I turned to her, mouth dry. "Not me." Mona smiled, that knowing, patient smile of hers. "We shall see." A shadow loomed over us. Jagiełło, his sharp eyes flickering between Rakoczy's lifeless form and me. He nodded once. "Unfortunate." His gaze settled on me, unreadable. "Mona says you have potential. Do you agree?" I shook my head. "I'm a miner. Not a leader." "And yet," Mona said, voice gentle, "you are still here." Jagiełło studied me for a moment longer, then turned away. "We will speak later." I stared down at Rakoczy’s still face, my stomach churning. I had survived. But at what cost?

The air was thick with the acrid scent of discharged lasrifle power packs, mingling with the sharp tang of blood. The last echoes of gunfire had faded into the desert, leaving only the crackling of small fires and the laboured breathing of the wounded. I knelt by Rakoczy, his hand clutching weakly at my sleeve. His uniform was dark with blood, the wound in his side gaping, beyond any aid we could offer. He coughed, a wet, gurgling sound. "Good fight," he muttered. "You kept your head." His fingers twitched against my sleeve, then went slack. The breath left him in a quiet exhale, his eyes staring past me, past everything. I swallowed against the dryness in my throat. Around me, the others moved with purpose, securing the station, finishing the wounded. I felt Mona before I saw her, her presence like a warm draught against my frayed nerves. She crouched beside me, her exotic scent cutting through the stench of battle. "He was a strong man," she murmured, placing a hand lightly on Rakoczy’s chest. "A necessary loss." I wanted to argue, to say that it wasn’t necessary at all, but the words died before I could voice them. Mona's fingers pressed lightly against my wrist, a comforting weight. "Jagiełło will need someone to step into his place." I turned to her, mouth dry. "Not me." Mona smiled, that knowing, patient smile of hers. "We shall see." A shadow loomed over us. Jagiełło had arrived, his sharp eyes flickering between Rakoczy's lifeless form and me. He nodded once. "Unfortunate." His gaze settled on me, unreadable. "Mona says you have potential. Do you agree?" I shook my head. "I'm a miner. Not a leader." "And yet," Mona said, voice gentle, "you are still here." Jagiełło studied me for a moment longer, then turned away. "We will speak later." I stared down at Rakoczy’s still face, my stomach churning. I had survived. But at what cost?

Just a little context for this. The Resistance are looking to expand their influence and, working within the Imperial PDF structure, they are putting out their feelers for those who may be persuaded to come over to their side. Our narrator and his squad are visiting a desert waystation on a 'routine' patrol. The trading post was pungent, as these places always were — the stale odour of too many bodies packed into a confined space, sweat soaked deep into the wood and threadbare rugs. We entered without drawing attention, passing for just another patrol looking to eat before braving the desert again. Mona stayed outside, letting us set the tone. The stationed Imperial troops barely registered us. Nods, grunts, the detached civility of men dulled by routine. They clustered around battered tables, pushing half-finished meals about their plates without urgency. Trouble was the furthest thing from their minds — especially for Sergeant Havel, the officer in charge. Broad-shouldered and thick-set, Havel was a man shaped by long years on the frontier. His uniform was regulation enough — no sharper nor shabbier than necessary. His discipline came from habit, not fervour. Our sergeant, Rakoczy, took the lead. He approached the counter and ordered food with the casual confidence of a man who had done this a dozen times before. I lingered near the edges of the room, sweat prickling at the back of my neck. Technically, we weren’t doing anything wrong — not yet — but the lie pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating. Havel approached slowly, working a kink from his neck. His glance swept lazily over us until it caught. His brow creased, left eyebrow ticking upward as his gaze fixed on Rakoczy’s insignia. “That’s odd,” he remarked, voice mild but carrying. His nod towards Rakoczy’s shoulder was subtle, but I knew what he saw. The insignia was nearly perfect — nearly. A faint token, a deviation so minor most wouldn’t notice. But Havel wasn’t most. Rakoczy didn’t flinch. “New designation,” he said flatly. “Recent reassignment.” Havel grunted. Noncommittal. Suspicious, but unsure. His fingers toyed absently with the strap of his rifle, eyes narrowing. “Which command signed off on that?” The shift was slight, but unmistakable. The room didn’t fall silent — men still ate and drank — but there was a subtle weight to the air. Havel’s pragmatism battled with his instinct. He wanted this to be nothing, but years of service wouldn’t let him dismiss it outright. And then Mona entered. The change was instant. Conversations faltered. Utensils hovered. Even the dust motes seemed to hang motionless. She moved like a breeze just before the storm — smooth, unhurried, unsettling. The faint aroma of cloves and cinnamon followed her. Havel’s mouth twitched open, more reflex than expression. Rakoczy spoke. “Sergeant, allow me to introduce—” “Not often patrols bring company,” Havel interrupted. His tone strained for levity, but a thread of wariness had wormed its way into it. The silence before the storm was a living thing, pressing in around us, thick with uncertainty. Then Rakoczy spoke, the word falling from his lips like a stone into a still pond. The world ignited. Lasrifle fire lanced through the smoky air, the acrid scent of ozone and burning flesh filling my nostrils. I ducked behind a crate, heart hammering. The trading post erupted into chaos—shouts, screams, the unmistakable thud of bodies hitting the ground. I gripped my lasrifle with sweaty hands, fingers clenching and unclenching around the grip. A figure moved in my periphery—a PDF soldier, fumbling for cover. Training and instinct warred within me, but training won. I raised my weapon, squeezed the trigger. The lasbolt struck home. He crumpled with a cry, clutching his side. I froze. The battle raged around me, but I was locked in place, staring at what I had done. My stomach turned to ice. My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to look away, to pretend it hadn’t happened. But the sight of him writhing, his pain so raw, so real, held me captive. A hand grabbed my shoulder, jolting me back to the moment. "Keep moving," someone barked. I swallowed hard, pushed forward. The fight wasn’t over. Not yet. The proprietor and Mona had taken cover, watching with wide eyes as the outpost became a warzone. Somewhere, a console crackled, half-destroyed, as if a distress call had been made. Whether it had been sent, none of us knew. We pressed the advantage, methodically eliminating the remaining PDF forces. The echoes of the fight lingered long after the final shot was fired. As the last body slumped to the ground, the only sound was the ragged breath of the victors—and my own hammering heartbeat.

I'm going break character a moment and preface this entry with a little context for you. I've never liked the Genestealer's Kiss mechanic; it's always felt like a bit of a McGuffin to me in terms of story, a quick and easy way to move the story along. So, as this blog continues and follows our narrator, it's going to become obvious he's not been taken by it. He has met the Patriarch, though he does not know the true horror of its monstrosity, being shrouded and cloaked but the encounter has left him nervous. However, he is in a desperate position, so he has tried to set aside these thoughts, but they are still there, gnawing away at the back of his mind. I'm yet to write this encounter; I'm not sure I have to, to be honest. I may just leave what happened hanging in the air, as I don't want the Patriarch to feature heavily. I prefer the idea the Cult is bonded by pure action and the sheer force of will of its leaders, such as Mona in the previous entry, and Jagiełło, who we're about to meet. The Patriarch only uses the Kiss on a very specific few individuals, such as these two. Thoughts, constructive criticism, commentary most welcome. The first time I saw Jagiełło, he was standing in the half-light of the bunker entrance, his silhouette framed against the cold glow of the excavation lamps. He did not move like the others, those we had brought into the fold with whispered promises and slow, careful persuasion. He was not one of Mona’s converts. He had always known his place, always understood his duty. He stepped forward, boots grinding against the sand-covered floor, and the men around him straightened instinctively. They did not salute but there was something in the way they moved that betrayed their reverence. They knew, as I did, that Jagiełło was not like us. He was something honed, something sharpened. A weapon in the making, waiting to be unsheathed. His voice, when he spoke, was measured and clipped. “Show me.” One of the PDF officers, a man who had once worn his uniform with pride, led him down into the depths. The air grew thick with dust as we descended, past rusted bulkheads and shattered lighting fixtures. The bunker had been sealed for centuries, its purpose long forgotten by the Imperium. But we had not forgotten. Our Father had not forgotten. When we reached the vault, Jagiełło paused. His gloved fingers traced the worn aquila carved into the ancient plascrete doors, lingering just long enough to make the officer shift uneasily. Then, without a word, he stepped back and gestured for the charges to be set. I watched him as the detonators were placed. He did not flinch at the thunderous roar of the explosion, nor did he shield his eyes from the dust and debris. He simply waited, watching as the past was torn open before him, revealing the weapons that would shape our future. Mona spoke of destiny. She wove dreams and promises. But Jagiełło? He did not deal in futures. He dealt in the now, in the cold steel and fire that would bring the Imperium to its knees. And, in that moment, I understood. He was not our leader. He was our saviour and executioner. I did not realise he had noticed me until he called on me. "You. Step forward." I stiffened, my fingers clenching at my rifle’s sling before I forced them to relax. The others moved away as if the command had not been given to them, leaving me exposed beneath the dim bunker lights. Jagiełło regarded me with a cold, appraising stare. Not cruel, not angry—just weighing something, as though he were judging the strength of a blade before deciding if it should be kept or discarded. "You are 280th Sunward Watch," he stated rather than asked. I swallowed. "Yes, sir." His head tilted slightly. "A soldier. But before that?" "A miner," I admitted, the word tasting like dust on my tongue. It had not been long since they pulled me from the shafts and thrust a rifle into my hands. My back still remembered the weight of the pick, and in my lungs the ever-present grit of the tunnels. "And now you dig for something greater," Jagiełło mused, his voice quiet but edged with certainty. "You understand toil. You understand obedience. But do you understand purpose?" The air in the bunker felt heavier, though I knew it was only in my mind. The truth clawed at my throat, tangled in fear and something else—something that had begun growing ever since Mona first whispered to us in the dark. "I..." I started, then faltered. The hesitation made my stomach twist. I expected dismissal, maybe even contempt. Instead, Jagiełło’s lips curled into something almost resembling a smile. A ghost of one. A fraction of a second, then it was gone. "You will learn," he said, turning away. "Keep up. The time for doubt is ending."

There are three great Hive Cities on Prawa V: Prawa Prime, Prawa Secundus, and Prawa Ten Drugi. Ten Drugi is my home, the home of my brothers and sisters in the Miners' Guild of Shaft VII. The Imperial overseers rule with iron fists, their myriad bureaucrats ensconced within towering spires, tallying each unit of ore we rip from the rock. They ensure that every shortfall is met with punishment—banishment to the sands rather than execution. After all, our labour is vital for the sector, despite no conflicts in the Prawa system for over a century. Long ago, war raged across this world. Beneath the shifting dunes, the carcasses of great war machines lie entombed, waiting for a call that may never come. Every three or four Terran years, the rains come. Torrential downpours turn dust to flood, swallowing our mines, drowning my friends and family by the hundreds. The overseers do nothing. They call these losses acceptable. No protections are given, no warnings sounded. How many times can we watch our kin be swept away before hatred takes root? A deep, festering resentment—a slumbering ember, waiting for a desert wind, a scirocco, to fan it into flame. Until that time, we toiled, cowed beneath the yoke of our oppressors. Then she came. She walked out of the desert with grace, grit, and the storm at her back—our desert wind. Mona. She was a vision—her beauty sharp and untouchable, her voice soft enough to soothe yet strong enough to set hearts ablaze. She whispered truths we had only dared mutter in darkness. Small acts of defiance followed—barely noticeable at first. A misplaced tally. A ‘forgotten’ shift. Meaningless in isolation, yet exhilarating in our veins. For the first time, we felt control. Months passed, and then came the stranger. Cloaked and silent, always in the shadows. Mona told us he, too, was a victim of our oppressors. That he hid his scars from us. Still, she called him Father. Spoke of his wisdom, his kindness. At first, we only glimpsed him—a shifting figure at the edge of firelight. Watching. Waiting. Then, one day, Mona took me aside. She asked about my family. About my dreams. What would I do to make their lives better? To free them? To ensure they never feared the floods or the overseers again? I had no answer. What could I possibly do? Small acts could only take us so far before the overseers uncovered our defiance and sent us to die in the sands. As much as rebellion stirred my heart, it would never be enough. Mona leaned in, her lips close to my ear, her voice like silk over steel. “Family is everything,” she whispered. Her cheek brushed mine. I felt the warmth of her breath, scented with cinnamon and cloves. My pulse quickened. “He is ready to see you now.” A shiver coiled down my spine. Who? Mona’s smile was radiant, knowing. The shadows behind her stirred. “Father.”

Through the years in the hobby i always had a love-hate relationship with terrain. It is a absolute must to have a fun and balanced game experience and it tells the story. Building your own with scrap, foam or whatever and then painting it up is very time consuming. Most terrain you can buy is very expensive and then takes a lot of time building and painting to a decent level. As a fan of papercraft modeling i decided to combine my skills and hobbylove to create some papercraft terrain that is neither costly nor tremendously time consuming. A friend of mine, a very skilled digital artist, joined the journey and creates all the fantastic looking surfaces for our models. In this BLOG we present our new and growing modular table-top-terrain-system that enables you to expand your battlefield without limits and customize it according to your wishes, to experience the greatest possible gaming fun. Buy once and print the sheets as often as you like. Under the following link you will find an overview of our entire and expanding product range with buildings, terrain elements including additional parts and usefull gimmicks. https://www.wargamevault.com/browse/pub/11303/mpconstructions Paper Terrain, is the smart alternative! Create stunning looking gaming scenery pieces without any painting necessary. Combine our different kits and create worlds full of excitement and adventure. Save time, money and the environment. Just print, build and play!

Communication of Information is crucial for the outcome of any battle! Defend or destroy the tower to gain a vital advantage in the raging war your troops are fighting. Combine this set with the Fortification Wall to create even more narrative on the tabletop. This PDF will give you a Tower Design with Communication and / or Defense Tops. The Communication / Defense Tower fits all 28mm tabletop games with a Modern or Future-Fantasy setting. Make sure to check out the fitting models of the fortification series available and coming soon. Get the set here: https://www.wargamevault.com/product/480630/Tabletop-Battlefield-Scenics-Communication---Defense-Tower?src=newest_since We had a blast in our mission where on player had to place detonators at the Communicaton Tower and the other player had to stop him. I hope you have lots either. C&C is very welcome! Just print, build and play!