The Reaper's Hammer Crusade: New Fluff!

[SWORD BROTHER RYAN]

Brother Christopher, and any others who read and take inspiration, I am always humbled by the fact that there are those out there that find these silly little scratching's of mine enjoyable. The feedback keeps me going, and I'm still trying to catch up to where the narrative game between my son and I sits currently. More action is headed for these characters in the future as the narrative will now go back to Icarus Prime and the BT fleet racing back to close orbit. I will also be introducing some new characters that I have already created models for, such as diving a bit further into the operator and gunner of the Marshals new Land Raider Crusader, the background of a penitent squad of Centurion Devastators, and perhaps a few others as they catch my interest. ATM, even though I have been building up Primarus units, They will not feature for some time, as the current timeline is prior to the Fall of Cadia. (still 999.M41)

 

I can promise that it's going to get interesting as a new force of enemy will be coming to bolster the failing PDF (hinted at in the inquisitor's Report). I have decided that the Keelto System will be right on the fringe of the southern section of the coming Great Rift, just on the Sol side of it. How these events will shape the engagement remains to be seen, even by me/us (my son and I), but I'll take all of you interested along for the ride as it proceeds.

 

Look to the future, Brothers! More is coming!

[Marshal Laeroth]

I eagerly await the next round!

[SWORD BROTHER RYAN]

+++FLUFF ALERT+++

BATTLE BARGE REAPER'S HAMMER

EN ROUTE TO ICARUS PRIME

 

The order to return to Icarus Prime had taken weeks to receive, and Operator Adept Jessen spent nearly every waking hour of the time ensuring that his Marshal's command vehicle was in the best fighting condition it could possibly be in. His initial walk around had noted several deficiencies. Nothing major, but annoyances that could possibly compound into major faults if left unattended. At times, he lamented the state of affairs to himself. This vehicle had just been completely refurbished by knowledgeable Tech Priests, and still it seemed as if the repair work would see it continue to stay out of action. Every time he thought the repair work was finished, he'd note another set of issues and be forced to submit another work order to the resident tech staff.

 

Finally, as the last of the maintenance servitors pulled away from the Land Raider muttering their cantos of completed repair, Jessen once again began his in person inspection. He had not yet even interfaced with the vehicle's machine spirit.

 

His exterior scan showed every pipe, fitting, and fixture in nearly perfect order, and he once again entered the vehicle through the side hatch behind the hurricane bolter array on the left side. He again scanned and felt through the engine compartment, ensuring cable connections and pipes were well tightened and nothing was apparently leaking. This time, his inspection revealed no new faults.

 

The vehicle was ready.

 

Jessen sent a coded pulse to Macharion, the weapons adept and long time operations partner. He was slightly shorter for an Astartes, with a quick temper and slimmer overall build, but there was no better vehicle gunner within the Crusade. Somehow, the two worked well together. Marshall Eidrich had kept both together on vehicles when the situation allowed, and promptly assigned them to his vehicle upon it's eventual completion.

 

It was finally time. The first plug up, the first communion with the vehicle's reworked Machine Sprit, and it's first live operational testing.

 

Excitement washed through Jessen as he climbed into the drive control seat. He depressed a series of icons on the panel in front of him, and an armature slid between his torso and his back mounted power pack. A series of clicks and a hiss signaled the decoupling of his pack, the armature taking it aside for stowage. Left with only rudimentary back up power left in his armor, he settled back into the operator cradle, adjusting minutely until the automatic connectors were aligned. One by one, he felt the connections being made, and more of the inner workings of the vehicle came to life. At last, he settled completely back and opened the system for engine ignition. A surge of power, not unlike the feeling of power pack activating, blasted through his armor and nervous system as the throaty roar of the engine sounded around him. He smiled, taking a small amount of pleasure in the act of activation.

 

His mind reached for the Machine Spirit. Communion with the machine, especially upon an operator's initial assignment, was critical. If the warlike power of the machine refused to allow his dominance, the vehicle could fail at a critical combat moment. So far in his 167 year long career, he had 3 machines refuse him. Each one rankled at his pride, and he quickly whispered a prayer to the Omnissiah for acceptance.

 

He found the Spirit easily enough, but halted his mind as it drew nearer. He closed his eyes as he let himself slide his perception almost entirely into the communion.

 

Jessen's imagination conjured the landscape in which they met. He knew this. The place where machine and man met was all a conjuration of the operator. He had been through this many times before.

 

Sometimes, the landscape was crowded with the machine memory of the battles it had fought in. A few times, it had been images of it's greatest pain. Always, though, the belligerent nature of the war machine came to him as a hot desire for war. Some would gladly accept any operator who would bring them into conflict with the enemies of Man. Others would have to be wrestled to submission in this mind plane. Rarely, the machine would refuse the operator, and another would have to attempt the communion.

 

His experience with communion was always with angry spirits ready for war. The world would be red tinged, hot, and warlike.

 

This was different.

 

The communion space was dark, fading into shades of grey where he discovered the machine spirit at rest. The image came to him of a massive wolf, thick with fur, with it's back to him. A cold wind rose from nowhere, making Jessen's perception form shiver and the matted clumps of the great beasts fur sway.

 

It suddenly seemed to notice him, and it's huge head turned to regard him. Sea green eyes stared at and through his mind, but made no move either away from his communion or toward it. Two icons appeared to be seared into it's flesh beneath it's right eye. One was the ubiquitous sigil of the Cog Mechanicum. The other he didn't recognize. A wolf head with a half crescent moon behind it.

 

As Jessen wondered at this symbol, he felt a wave of emotion from the spirit before him. It felt like grief, a deep and dark sadness that nearly drown Jessen with it's intensity. 

 

In his perception, Jessen conjured another image and placed a small icon in his hand. The black Maltese Cross rested between his fingertips, and he held it up for the wolf to inspect. It did so briefly, then stared back at Jessen. In his mind, he conjured the image of the Imperial Eagle, and let it rise behind him, washing his perceptive form in it's golden light. The light edged closer to the wolf, and a brief feeling of fear was sent to him as the first rays touched it's form. A slight whine escaped it as it washed up the fur, seeming to comb the matts out as it progressed and dumping the grit from it. As it finally came to wash over it's face, it threw back it's head and howled as if in pain and rapture at the same time. Jessen felt a pang of anxiety rise briefly, then pass as the howl came to an end. It turned towards him fully now.

 

The light faded, and the Imperial Eagle seemed blown away in the cold breeze of the mindscape. The massive wolf sat back on it's haunches, staring at him. The once dark and clumped fur had been cleansed to an ivory white, startlingly bright in the grey light it sat in. Very slowly, Jessen let his perception approach the beast, still holding the cross up in his fingertips. At last, he pressed the icon beneath the two other sigils under it's sea green right eye. He felt a deep growl as the icon was pressed to it's flesh, but it made no move to stop him. When he pulled his hand away, the cross remained.

 

The wolf exhaled deeply, almost like a sigh, then turned away from him and sank back down to the grey ground. The cold rose again, bringing with it a feeling of lonely desolation, similar to the feel of the moon on which the hull of this mighty vehicle had been discovered.

 

The communion was over. A sound was penetrating within the mindscape... the rumble of a machine... a shaking... a...

 

Voice!

 

'Jessen?' A concerned voice just behind his left shoulder called, 'Throne, you went deep again, didn't you?'

 

'Had to,' Jessen spoke as he dragged his mind back from the communion, 'But I think we're good now.' He glanced quickly at his helm chronometer. He was surprised to discover he'd been in the machine for nearly 27 minutes.

 

'You think.' Sebast Macharion deadpanned as he backed away to the weapons control station, 'I don't believe I've ever heard you so... unsure.'

 

'The machine sprit has has not fought me, but...' Jessen struggled for the right way to communicate what he felt inside the machine, 'It's... cold.'

 

'What?' Macharion sounded incredulous as his power pack was lifted away from him and he manually plugged into the machine.

 

'it's like nothing I've ever felt before.' Jessen stated as he turned his attention back to the motive controls.

 

'We'll see,' Macharion replied as he made his own limited contact with the spirit as well. From the weapons control system, he would only get the most basic of communion, not the full immersion as Jessen has just experienced. 'By the God-Emperor, that is cold ! What is that?'

 

'Are you ready?' Jessen asked, ignoring the question as he continued to try to shake off the chill of communion, 'We need too...'

 

'Yes, brother, I'm fine. Take us to the weapons range so I can zero these guns.'

 

Jessen heard Machaion cycle the twin assault cannons and test movement of both it and the hurricane bolters as he whispered the quick canto for motive function. He finally activated the drive and gunned the engine, propelling the vehicle out of the inspection bay and down the long track to the weapons testing hangar. He thought that by working the drive hard, he might stir the belligerent nature of the machine sprit. He briefly felt it stir for a moment, but settle back into it's cold place.

 

Macharion was saying something to himself behind him as he clambered up to the pintle mount to inspect the multi-melta, but Jessen ignored him for now. He had a way of talking to himself, and was quickly angered if he were to be responded to. Jessen knew him well enough to know when he desired a response.

 

As the vehicle lumbered along the track, his mind went back to the second sigil he had seen in the communion. He didn't recognize it, he was sure of that, but it felt as if he should. It wasn't the snarling wolf's head of Fenris, he was positive. It also wasn't any variation of it or any other Astartes iconography he knew of. In a way, it had felt both noble and wrong at the same time. A deep concern crept into his hearts.

 

Once the weapons adjustments were over and the vehicle reparked, he determined to investigate it.

 

​A wolf's head on a crescent moon.

[SWORD BROTHER RYAN]

+++FLUFF ALERT+++

BATTLE BARGE REAPER'S HAMMER

EN ROUTE TO ICARUS PRIME

 

Sword Brother Trenton Orision practically stalked the long corridor of the armory deck, his stride eating the distance to his meager command's arming chamber. His exposed face, almost Salamander dark lined with dark grey scars and the weathering of a man whom had seen centuries of hard conflict throughout the galaxy always bore a thunderously furious expression. The tight frown that never slipped away anymore into any other expression left deep creases on either side of his mouth, and his glaring eyes had wrinkled the outer edges of the skin near them as deeply as canyons on a planet viewed from close orbit. It was not that he could not shift his expression. There was no injury to his features that had left him with a permanent scowl, as was common amongst some of his brothers throughout the years. It was a choice. He simply would not express any other emotion.

 

Crew serfs scurried out of his path, some practically fleeing out of his way. He bore them no particular ill will. Truth be told, he almost loved every one of them for their tireless service to the Crusade. Without them, it would be nearly impossible for the day to day functions of the fleet, and the Reaper's Hammer to function. The wargear would be unserviced, the bridge would not function, and battle brothers would have to be almost permanently removed from front line duties to perform tasks that they simply were not forged for. The Black Templars were made for war. The mortals who served them, many of whom were aspirants once and been found unfit for gene implantation, too weak to train, or injured beyond acceptable levels during selection, often willingly served the God-Emperor and the Black Templars in any way they could with glad hearts. Orision had never, and would never, take their dutiful service for granted. He knew it was his expression they feared, for no mortal would ever wish to find themselves in the path of an upset Space Marine. 

 

The Crusade Chaplains, Rusius in particular, had lectured him at length about finding balance in his humors. He knew their concerns, and paid it no more mind than the last time he could remember the fierce pride he used to take in his service.

 

Orision was not always this way.

 

96 years ago, he had been a capable Sword Brother, in charge of a full Crusader Squad of what he viewed as the finest knights in the recently redubbed Reaper's Hammer Crusade. He had smiled easily then, had enjoyed the camaraderie with his squad's subordinates, even taking the time to assist training the Neophytes his Initiates took under their tutelage. One could almost have gotten away with saying that Orision had been happy.

 

That was before Honurian IV. Before his deepest shame, and the day he almost lost everything he cared for.

 

It was in the ruins of a mining outpost, destroyed by a massive greenskin attack. Orision knew he had extended too far from his support elements, pushed too far into the heart of what was turning out to be weak resistance. His vox had been damaged by a clumsy blow from an Ork cleaver, the unit only spitting harsh static and the occasional garbled word here and there. He thought his squad could handle what they were facing. His subordinates relayed the commands from their operational units, and he had ignored the order to hold position and await support. His blood was on fire, and he thought his Astartes could rip the heart out of this menace if he just pushed a little further. He ordered the charge on the main mining operations building.

 

The light resistance had not been as he thought, the greenskin had not chosen to abandon the site and leave a token force to hold it. As they ran the final 100 meters to the entryway, a green tide finally rushed out to meet them, obviously unable to contain their lust for bloodshed. In that moment, it became all too clear that he had led his marines into an ambush, the feral Orkish cunning surprising him.

 

He tried to order his squad to fall back, but it was already too late. The Orks were on them, firing their crude and loud black powder guns and hacking at them with massive rusted blades. His Astartes were falling, one by one, as the tide continued to pour out of the complex all around them. Their brutish and prodigious strength, fueled by hatred and their burning desire for war overwhelmed Orision's squad.

 

They fought for every inch of ground they could hold, all hope of falling back dashed as easily as a porcelain cup thrown to the ground. Even his prodigious morale was crushed under the weight of his own folly. His brothers died horribly, overwhelmed one by one, Initiate and Neophyte alike. By the time two Land Raiders had come to their aid with salvo after salvo of hurricane bolter and assault cannon fire, only himself and two other initiates, Dauntes and Enil remained alive. All three of them were beaten and broken, but still drew breath.

 

He had led his squad to slaughter, and even as he and the other two survivors were rescued, he knew that punishment would be swift and harsh.

 

They all lay in the apothecarion for weeks, largely ignored by the Marshal and the rest of the command. Apothecaries would sometimes speak of the ongoing war effort, and days before they were all cleared for duty again, it came to a climactic end with Marshal Eidrich slaying the greenskin warlord in single combat. The Ork had been purged from Honurian IV, and great honors were being given to those that fought valiantly in it's ending.

 

There would be no honors given to Orision, Dauntes, or Enil. As soon as they were cleared from the Apothecarion, all three were summoned to the Marshal's sanctum. Eidrich had been furious, and raged at the three survivors. Orision was singled out especially, and the resulting sentance was almost more than he could bear. He was stripped of his white helm and standing within the Crusade as a Sword Brother, and all three were sentanced to 50 years of penance. Marshal Eidrich, in consultation with Chaplain Rusius and Techmarine Betan, decreed that due to the fact that all three refused the order to wait for support and had charged into what even Orision in hindsight knew was a trap, they would all be ordered to serve the Crusade in the slow and lumbering Centurion Devastator suits. Orision would remain in nominal command, as he remained the most senior Initiate in the new squad, but overall had no authority outside of that formation any longer. All three accepted their sentence without a word.

 

Over the ensuing 50 year penitent service within the lumbering forms of the massively armored and heavily armed suits, although Dauntes and Enil never disobeyed Orision on the battlefield or off of it, he could see the resentment building between them and himself. Camaraderie fell away, frozen over like a hard winter. Conversation became brusque and communication between them dwindled so far that by the end, they only ever spoke when orders were given and received. They all aquitted themselves well during their sentence, even going as far as winning back some of the respect they had lost during their shame.

 

At the end of the 50 years, Marshal Eidrich finally released them from their imprisonment in the heavy armor. Dauntes and Enil practically leapt away from the Centurion armor as if worried that they would be swept up by their inanimate forms and forces within again. For Orision, Eidrich awarded him his white helm once again, offering to rebuild his squad once again when they reached the next Chapter Keep and took on fresh Neophytes and Initiates ready to return to front line duty.

 

By this time, the furious countenance he was now known for had set. As he took the helm once again, he refused command of another squad. He officially released Dauntes and Enil from his charge, allowing Eidrich to place them wherever they were most needed. He then knelt and swore to his Marshal that he would remain, here in the armor he had worn in shame, and lead any other that would be found wanting in the eyes of the Crusade. He swore his penance would last until his dying day, and his spirit called to the God-Emperor's side.

 

For the last 46 years, Orision had done just that. He had taken those who had disobeyed commands, made faulty decisions, were found wanting in their devotion, it didn't matter what the crime was. If it did not warrant immediate death for the accused, or sentencing to a backwater Chapter Keep, he took them. He became a harsh master. There was no easy days for the penitent. He worked them more than most Initiates worked their Neophytes, keeping them constantly engaged with their Centurion armor, ensuring that when the time came, they would not falter again. There had not been as long a sentence for anyone else as there had been for him since.

 

He stamped through the open hatch of the arming chamber, finding his penitent brothers idling beside the Centurion suits. Both were in full combat plate, but had yet to mount the heavy armor.

 

'You DOGS!' Orision bellowed as he advanced to his own armor, 'You have less than one minute to mount your armor before I gun you disgraces to this Crusade down with my own guns! MOVE!'

 

It took him 37 seconds to mount his own armor and activate it. He watched his charges attempt to match his pace, and fail once again. Orision hadn't bothered to learn either of their names. He didn't want to. He specifically asked not to be told. Until their sentence was over, they were Alpha and Bravo. It was only required they obey his commands without question.

 

Orision swore daily that he would never be found wanting again, and he would ensure that anyone assigned to him would never want to be in his command a second time.

[Marshal Laeroth]

Awesome. I could sit here and read your fluff all day.

[SWORD BROTHER RYAN]

+++FLUFF ALERT+++

Icarus Prime, Hive Madrigal

PT. 1

 

Marshal Eidrich boarded the Storm Raven with an honor guard consisting of Sword Brother Baledian and his sworn Honor Brothers Wadesun, Sakur, Azahim, and Tolor. Venerable Cread was being reattached to the rear grapnel, and he could almost feel the grudging acceptance of the dreadnaught as it was once again harnessed in it's least favorite mode of transport.

 

The knights would not be alone on this trip. With the communication array now firmly back in Imperial control, they had decided to allow the loyal garrison of Governor Haldread to man the station as Captain Victorian left a squad of his marines to bolster the defenses after the attack. They would jointly improve the position in an attempt to make the array unassailable.

 

Victorian strolled up the front boarding ramp with Sergeant Angorian and four other Ultramarines he did not know in tow. Governor Haldread rounded out the passengers, obviously wary of travel in an Astartes vessel again. He bypassed his now dry pool of vomit and selected another seat.

 

Angorian sat directly in front of Baledian, removing his helm. He glared at his counterpart, some lingering grievance from the battle no doubt. Baledian stared back, countenance seemingly impassive, but not backing down from the implied challenge in the Ultramarine's eyes. It was as any Templar would have done.

 

The stand off between the two was an echo of his own thoughts and feelings towards Eidrich's own counterpart, and he purposely selected the seat that was directly across from Victorian as well.

 

Contact had been reestablished with the combined fleet, and to his frustration, no further information was gleaned as to the background of his ally. It seemed as though up until three years past, not a single Ultramarine he had learned the name of existed. Yet, these brothers in arms fought as though they had a wealth of experience on their side. Stranger still was their failure to recognize the warp beast for what it was. Perhaps they had never encountered one before, or of this type, but for the vaunted sons of Macragge, it still unsettled him. The questions were rolling once again in his mind as the ramps were sealed and the Storm Raven lifted off for the command spire.

 

Victorian unsealed his helm, lifting it away and placing it in his lap. His war weathered face showed consternation as he looked into the implacable visage of Eidrich's own helm. The Marshal couldn't help but stare, as if by glaring into his counterpart's eyes with enough intensity, he would glean the answers to his questions wordlessly.

 

'I feel the weight of your scrutiny, Marshal,' Victorian tried and failed to speak with joviality, 'Let us speak as comrades, face to face, shall we?'

 

Eidrich wanted to rip his helm free and fling it across the troop bay, but resisted. He instead mimicked Victorian by releasing the catch and pulling if from his head. He placed it between his feet on the deck, moving his boots to either side to trap it in place.

 

'Your face says enough, Eidrich,' Victorian began, dropping the forced levity and leaning closer, 'I know you've been asking about us to the fleet. What questions have you conceived that you hesitate to ask me directly?'

 

Eidrich thought for a moment, taken aback by the bluntness of the query. 'You, Captain, and your warriors. I hold no doubt of your commitment to the cause or the Imperium, but as for the records on your honor roll, they only go back a small handful of years. Your equipment is unblemished by the passing of the millennia, yet the knowledge to produce them from scratch has been long lost. It is as if you just appeared from nowhere.' Eidrich unintentionally began to growl, 'I would know more about my allies than you have stated thus far.' He let the implied question hang between them.

 

'Could it be that you data is simply incomplete?' Victorian asked. A slight change in his eyes showed how much he hoped the Marshal would accept this explanation without further pressing.

 

Eidrich saw through it immediately.

 

'You're hiding something.' He could feel his face twist in a snarl.

 

Both commanders became aware that the entire hold had fallen completely quiet aside from the rumbling of the craft around them. Angorian and Baledian had ceased their glaring to pay attention. Expectant faces watched the exchange with a mixture of timidity and expectancy. Even Haldread had seemed to forget his motion sickness in exchange for absolute attention. Eidrich now wished they had left their helmets on and had this exchange over private vox.

 

Victorian, seeming to feel the scrutiny of the entire bay as well, settled back and chose to stare at a point on the deck between them.

 

'If I admit that there are things that I do not openly share, would that be enough?' he asked without conviction, 'Will answers see you satisfied? Or rather, would they breed further discontent between us? Have you considered this, my friend? This campaign has taxed us. We stand to achieve victory in the near future, regardless of the warp beast that assails us. The foul xenos have been run off this planet and from the system. The PDF cannot stand against the might of our two forces, but a crack in the blade will see it fail when the moment is crucial. Together, we are the blade, you and I. The answers you ask for, demand actually, may see it shatter. Your Chapter is not known for it's... lateral thinking, shall we say.' Victorian raised weary eyes to meet Eidrich's gaze again, 'Will you break the blade, Marshal?'

 

'The blade, as you say it, is worn to breaking already.' Eidrich answered, softening his tone slightly, 'We cannot reforge it without trust in one another. In order for that, I need to know that you are as open to us as we have been to your forces. Is it shame you conceal...' Eidrich thought back a moment, then added, 'Praetor?'

 

Victorian lurched forward in his seat as if he wanted to fly across the compartment at Eidrich, anger writ plainly across his face, 'You dare to insinuate we carry shame? Who are you to impugn our honor, son of Dorn?'

 

'I am the God-Emperor's blade in the darkness!' Eidrich spat back with vehemence, 'I conceal nothing! Lies and subterfuge are the gateway to heresy! You tread that very path! One of your own has already succumbed! Confess and shed the cloak of opacity you have swaddled your soul in, and stand in the God-Emperor's light once again!'

 

He felt more like a Chaplain at that moment, but the words seemed to fit. They also had the desired effect, as Victorian reeled back as if struck. A look of shock passed over Victorian's face quickly.

 

'I may never get used to that,' Victorian mumbled just loud enough to hear over the whine of the aircraft. 'Are you to be my confessor, then? Are you to stand in judgement over me? By what right do you claim to have that authority, Marshal?'

 

'I carry the torch that lights the darkness of the galaxy for humanity.' Eidrich intoned, staring directly into Victorian's incredulous eyes, 'I am it's sword and it's shield. Through my actions does the God-Emperor protect. His will is my will. Through my righteous fury is His dominion kept, and I will suffer nothing unclean to mar it's design. The lies you spin stain you, Victorian. Be cleansed, or be damned!'

 

He realized that his hand was clenched around the grip of his sword. He had to fight his own arm to stop the draw for the moment, but his fury was overtaking his ability to remain the questioner only. He glanced back down the hold quickly, seeing that the Sword Brethren and Ultramarines were slowly going for their own blades. The tension was thick, and all knew that it could erupt in violence with a misplaced word. The blade that Captain Victorian had spoken of was creaking under duress.

 

Victorian, on the other hand, sat motionless. He made no move for a weapon, his expression heavy with thought. His eyes scanned the Marshal's own, and Eidrich poured all of his conviction into them. Several moments of silence stretched infinitely, it seemed.

 

Slowly, Victorian raised his arm and signaled to his marines to stay their hands. His head turned to ensure that they released weapons and sat in silence. When he was satisfied, he looked back to Eidrich, resignation emanating from the dark brown orbs. It took every ounce of Eidrich's will to release his own grip on his sword. He was certain that the Sword Brethren would follow his lead without orders.

 

'As you wish, Marshal,' Victorian finally relented, 'I will speak, though I fear you will not accept what I must say to be truth.'

 

Eidrich sat silent, but nodded once for him to proceed.

 

'We...'

 

Over the din of the engines, the voice of Victorian, and the rushing air sweeping past the hull of the Storm Raven, a mighty bellowing drown out all sound. The pilot had barely a moment to bring the intercom system online to voice a warning before the entire aircraft violently rang and shook. Warning klaxons warred with the sound of clashing from outside the hull, and the sound of the turbines began to sputter madly. A rent in the armor appeared just behind the Ultramarines lined along the port side of the hull, every one of them springing forward to avoid the massive blade that parted the ceramite and adamantine hull. A feeling of weightlessness sent loose objects and torn armor debris floating in the hold as altitude was rapidly lost in freefall.

 

'We're going down! All hands, BRACE, BRACE, BRACE!' the pilot practically screamed ove the comms.

 

*     *     *

 

Fetnal had piloted crashing aircraft before, either shot down or suffering malfunction, but this seemed as if they had been thrown out of the sky rather than being damaged. He barely saw the Bloodthirster before it was upon them. He'd had no time to evade. Now his craft plummeted toward the surface of the upper hive as fast as if he were under full burn with working thrusters. Stabilizers were offline. Hover jets would not respond. Even if they would, they did not have the power to stop the Storm Raven from catastrophic impact. Fetnal knew this was his last flight as the craft nose dived for the streets below.

 

He had just enough time to broadcast an automated distress call before impact. As the Storm Raven hit the ground nose first, he had enough time to see the fuselage crumple toward him, the armorglass shatter, and briefly feel the pain of crushing force before everything went into total blackness.

Edited November 13, 2020 by SWORD BROTHER RYAN

[Marshal Laeroth]

 

 

+++FLUFF ALERT+++

Icarus Prime, Hive Madrigal

PT. 1

Marshal Eidrich boarded the Storm Raven with an honor guard consisting of Sword Brother Baledian and his sworn Honor Brothers Wadesun, Sakur, Azahim, and Tolor. Venerable Cread was being reattached to the rear grapnel, and he could almost feel the grudging acceptance of the dreadnaught as it was once again harnessed in it's least favorite mode of transport.

 

The knights would not be alone on this trip. With the communication array now firmly back in Imperial control, they had decided to allow the loyal garrison of Governor Haldread to man the station as Captain Victorian left a squad of his marines to bolster the defenses after the attack. They would jointly improve the position in an attempt to make the array unassailable.

 

Victorian strolled up the front boarding ramp with Sergeant Angorian and four other Ultramarines he did not know in tow. Governor Haldread rounded out the passengers, obviously wary of travel in an Astartes vessel again. He bypassed his now dry pool of vomit and selected another seat.

 

Angorian sat directly in front of Baledian, removing his helm. He glared at his counterpart, some lingering grievance from the battle no doubt. Baledian stared back, countenance seemingly impassive, but not backing down from the implied challenge in the Ultramarine's eyes. It was as any Templar would have done.

 

The stand off between the two was an echo of his own thoughts and feelings towards Eidrich's own counterpart, and he purposely selected the seat that was directly across from Victorian as well.

 

Contact had been reestablished with the combined fleet, and to his frustration, no further information was gleaned as to the background of his ally. It seemed as though up until three years past, not a single Ultramarine he had learned the name of existed. Yet, these brothers in arms fought as though they had a wealth of experience on their side. Stranger still was their failure to recognize the warp beast for what it was. Perhaps they had never encountered one before, or of this type, but for the vaunted sons of Macragge, it still unsettled him. The questions were rolling once again in his mind as the ramps were sealed and the Storm Raven lifted off for the command spire.

 

Victorian unsealed his helm, lifting it away and placing it in his lap. His war weathered face showed consternation as he looked into the implacable visage of Eidrich's own helm. The Marshal couldn't help but stare, as if by glaring into his counterpart's eyes with enough intensity, he would glean the answers to his questions wordlessly.

 

'I feel the weight of your scrutiny, Marshal,' Victorian tried and failed to speak with joviality, 'Let us speak as comrades, face to face, shall we?'

 

Eidrich wanted to rip his helm free and fling it across the troop bay, but resisted. He instead mimicked Victorian by releasing the catch and pulling if from his head. He placed it between his feet on the deck, moving his boots to either side to trap it in place.

 

'Your face says enough, Eidrich,' Victorian began, dropping the forced levity and leaning closer, 'I know you've been asking about us to the fleet. What questions have you conceived that you hesitate to ask me directly?'

 

Eidrich thought for a moment, taken aback by the bluntness of the query. 'You, Captain, and your warriors. I hold no doubt of your commitment to the cause or the Imperium, but as for the records on your honor roll, they only go back a small handful of years. Your equipment is unblemished by the passing of the millennia, yet the knowledge to produce them from scratch has been long lost. It is as if you just appeared from nowhere.' Eidrich unintentionally began to growl, 'I would know more about my allies than you have stated thus far.' He let the implied question hang between them.

 

'Could it be that you data is simply incomplete?' Victorian asked. A slight change in his eyes showed how much he hoped the Marshal would accept this explanation without further pressing.

 

Eidrich saw through it immediately.

 

'You're hiding something.' He could feel his face twist in a snarl.

 

Both commanders became aware that the entire hold had fallen completely quiet aside from the rumbling of the craft around them. Angorian and Baledian had ceased their glaring to pay attention. Expectant faces watched the exchange with a mixture of timidity and expectancy. Even Haldread had seemed to forget his motion sickness in exchange for absolute attention. Eidrich now wished they had left their helmets on and had this exchange over private vox.

 

Victorian, seeming to feel the scrutiny of the entire bay as well, settled back and chose to stare at a point on the deck between them.

 

'If I admit that there are things that I do not openly share, would that be enough?' he asked without conviction, 'Will answers see you satisfied? Or rather, would they breed further discontent between us? Have you considered this, my friend? This campaign has taxed us. We stand to achieve victory in the near future, regardless of the warp beast that assails us. The foul xenos have been run off this planet and from the system. The PDF cannot stand against the might of our two forces, but a crack in the blade will see it fail when the moment is crucial. Together, we are the blade, you and I. The answers you ask for, demand actually, may see it shatter. Your Chapter is not known for it's... lateral thinking, shall we say.' Victorian raised weary eyes to meet Eidrich's gaze again, 'Will you break the blade, Marshal?'

 

'The blade, as you say it, is worn to breaking already.' Eidrich answered, softening his tone slightly, 'We cannot reforge it without trust in one another. In order for that, I need to know that you are as open to us as we have been to your forces. Is it shame you conceal...' Eidrich thought back a moment, then added, 'Praetor?'

 

Victorian lurched forward in his seat as if he wanted to fly across the compartment at Eidrich, anger writ plainly across his face, 'You dare to insinuate we carry shame? Who are you to impugn our honor, son of Dorn?'

 

'I am the God-Emperor's blade in the darkness!' Eidrich spat back with vehemence, 'I conceal nothing! Lies and subterfuge are the gateway to heresy! You tread that very path! One of your own has already succumbed! Confess and shed the cloak of opacity you have swaddled your soul in, and stand in the God-Emperor's light once again!'

 

He felt more like a Chaplain at that moment, but the words seemed to fit. They also had the desired effect, as Victorian reeled back as if struck. A look of shock passed over Victorian's face quickly.

 

'I may never get used to that,' Victorian mumbled just loud enough to hear over the whine of the aircraft. 'Are you to be my confessor, then? Are you to stand in judgement over me? By what right do you claim to have that authority, Marshal?'

 

'I carry the torch that lights the darkness of the galaxy for humanity.' Eidrich intoned, staring directly into Victorian's incredulous eyes, 'I am it's sword and it's shield. Through my actions does the God-Emperor protect. His will is my will. Through my righteous fury is His dominion kept, and I will suffer nothing unclean to mar it's design. The lies you spin stain you, Victorian. Be cleansed, or be damned!'

 

He realized that his hand was clenched around the grip of his sword. He had to fight his own arm to stop the draw for the moment, but his fury was overtaking his ability to remain the questioner only. He glanced back down the hold quickly, seeing that the Sword Brethren and Ultramarines were slowly going for their own blades. The tension was thick, and all knew that it could erupt in violence with a misplaced word. The blade that Captain Victorian had spoken of was creaking under duress.

 

Victorian, on the other hand, sat motionless. He made no move for a weapon, his expression heavy with thought. His eyes scanned the Marshal's own, and Eidrich poured all of his conviction into them. Several moments of silence stretched infinitely, it seemed.

 

Slowly, Victorian raised his arm and signaled to his marines to stay their hands. His head turned to ensure that they released weapons and sat in silence. When he was satisfied, he looked back to Eidrich, resignation emanating from the dark brown orbs. It took every ounce of Eidrich's will to release his own grip on his sword. He was certain that the Sword Brethren would follow his lead without orders.

 

'As you wish, Marshal,' Victorian finally relented, 'I will speak, though I fear you will not accept what I must say to be truth.'

 

Eidrich sat silent, but nodded once for him to proceed.

 

'We...'

 

Over the din of the engines, the voice of Victorian, and the rushing air sweeping past the hull of the Storm Raven, a mighty bellowing drown out all sound. The pilot had barely a moment to bring the intercom system online to voice a warning before the entire aircraft violently rang and shook. Warning klaxons warred with the sound of clashing from outside the hull, and the sound of the turbines began to sputter madly. A rent in the armor appeared just behind the Ultramarines lined along the port side of the hull, every one of them springing forward to avoid the massive blade that parted the ceramite and adamantine hull. A feeling of weightlessness sent loose objects and torn armor debris floating in the hold as altitude was rapidly lost in freefall.

 

'We're going down! All hands, BRACE, BRACE, BRACE!' the pilot practically screamed ove the comms.

 

* * *

Fetnal had piloted crashing aircraft before, either shot down or suffering malfunction, but this seemed as if they had been thrown out of the sky rather than being damaged. He barely saw the Bloodthirster before it was upon them. He'd had no time to evade. Now his craft plummeted toward the surface of the upper hive as fast as if he were under full burn with working thrusters. Stabilizers were offline. Hover jets would not respond. Even if they would, they did not have the power to stop the Storm Raven from catastrophic impact. Fetnal knew this was his last flight as the craft nose dived for the streets below.

 

He had just enough time to broadcast an automated distress call before impact. As the Storm Raven hit the ground nose first, he had enough time to see the fuselage crumple toward him, the armorglass shatter, and briefly feel the pain of crushing force before everything went into total blackness.

I assure you, you cannot write it fast enough to satisfy my need for moar.

[SWORD BROTHER RYAN]

Marshal Laeroth, to have one of the creators of the Implausible Nature channel so interested in my silly little scratching's is an honor I cannot describe fully. You keep reading and I'll keep writing!

 

[Angel of Death]

I viewed crusader SQD 1 and Crusader SQD 2 and they look very nice. What I like about it is that you don't overdo anything. You keep it simple and use just the colors that get the job done; and only that. I myself tend to paint in this way and it makes very satisfactory.

[SWORD BROTHER RYAN]

I viewed crusader SQD 1 and Crusader SQD 2 and they look very nice. What I like about it is that you don't overdo anything. You keep it simple and use just the colors that get the job done; and only that. I myself tend to paint in this way and it makes very satisfactory.

 

Those were some examples of my early work. Lately I've been getting into more complex painting methods and playing around with greys and light sources, but it's still a decent table top standard. I'm glad you appreciate them!

[Angel of Death]

 

I viewed crusader SQD 1 and Crusader SQD 2 and they look very nice. What I like about it is that you don't overdo anything. You keep it simple and use just the colors that get the job done; and only that. I myself tend to paint in this way and it makes very satisfactory.

 

Those were some examples of my early work. Lately I've been getting into more complex painting methods and playing around with greys and light sources, but it's still a decent table top standard. I'm glad you appreciate them!

 

Yeah. Long ago, I used to spend several hours painting every model. But as I started playing larger armies, I learned to stick to a tighter set of paints and it made it both more fun and more effective. I think this resembles your type of painting aswell, atlest on these models :)

[SWORD BROTHER RYAN]

+++ FLUFF ALERT +++

An Alternate Perspective

Hive Madrigal

 

Tiboran Gutiere had joined the PDF a little more than five years prior to the outset of what his superiors had called "revolution". He had enlisted was to get away from the indentured farm his family labored under, and to get to see the big city of Madrigal. He had been born on the opposite side of the planet, but always knew he never wanted to farm another day in his life. The back breaking work for little pay never suited him. So it was that when the PDF recruiters passed through his master's lands, he immediately jumped at the chance to enlist, not even staying long enough to grab personal possessions or say goodbye to extended family or the few friends he had.

 

Initially, his training had gone well. Gutiere was no stellar soldier, but he got along alright. He passed training in the middle of his class, and served as port watch ever since...

 

Until the insurrection began. The PDF Commander, General Del Norte, had taken complete control of the military forces on planet, claiming they had been betrayed by the Imperium and it's Astartes. Vid recordings of the Ultramarines and Black Templars Chapters attacking the PDF circulated everywhere, and every troop was called into the fighting. Gutiere had felt right, righteous even, as he hefted his lasgun and swore to his superiors in Del Notre's name against the Astartes, the governor, and any who sided with them against Icarus Prime's independance.

 

At first, the duties he was given were the security and movement of detainees rounded up within Hive Madrigal. It felt great to ensure that the naysayers and Imperials were removed from the overall society. For about a month, he heard reports of his compatriots attacking the Gubernatorial bunker to take Governor Haldread out for good. It had been a foregone conclusion that the former Imperialist leader had to die, but the old man held out.

 

Then the fighting against the Astartes came to the hive itself. The Governmental Spires fell to the invaders within hours with black clad Space Marines butchering every defender with roaring swords and explosive ammunition, so the few survivors had stated before they were executed for cowardice for turning away from the defenses. After that, their blue brethren joined them in an ever expanding campaign pushing the PDF further into the reaches of the lower hive. Gutiere had been in two fights with the monsters encased in armor, and thought he had helped bring down at least one before they yet again retreated further.

 

It was then that serious changes began to take form and shape within the ranks of the PDF. Newcomers began pouring into the ranks. Labeled a veteran at this point, Gutiere was tasked with leading these "new troops" into battle. But, in his opinion, there was something off, even wrong, with the new blood.

 

First, men and women that had never seen combat were elevated as high and even higher than many who had already fought and bled for this revolution. As if that wasn't enough for them to have a senior position, small changes began to take shape within the ranks. Men who screamed in obscene languages he couldn't identify were given perks many of the "originals" (as many of the veterans had begun to refer to themselves) could never achieve.

 

Next, unit identifiers were discarded in favor of some symbolism style of unit marking that, if he were being honest, sometimes gave him a mild headache to openly stare at for long. Eight pointed stars predominated, some well painted or sewn, others with a few arms noticeably longer in relation to others, but still identifiable. Others included what some called a skull, but the proportions were unlike any skull he had seen, and thanks to the war, there were many of those around these days to compare. Some icons displayed an almost scepter appearance with what looked like moons on the ends and in the middle. Those guys were always avoided due to rumors about the things they did in their hovels or to anyone in their path. The sickly or those with infections due to combat wounds began to take iconography denoting three circles or dots stacked in a pyramid. He had even heard of a few that formed under what looked like a circle with smoke coming off of it that could perform magic on the battlefield, but he had yet to see that.

 

Another change to come were the preachers. Men in heavy robes declaring in loud voices that to follow the Pantheon was the only way to survive the war and come out the victor. Very quickly, religious meetings became mandatory for all soldiers in every rearward element. At first, these preachers droned on and on about how the Imperium was flawed in it's belief structure. The God Emperor was no God at all, that He had usurped the rightful Gods of the Immaterium of their place in the cosmos, but also that he was being beaten, and the hour of salvation was at hand. Only those who followed the teachings of the new faith would arise in the presence of The Four, and be forever blessed to serve even for a moment in their light. After a while, the Sermons began to involve the torture of captured civilians. The unlucky fellow would be chained to a star and bled for hours under the stare of the mass. It would usually end before the victim lost consciousness. Then it began to become ritualistic murder and sacrifice, each method more bloody and horrible to witness than the last. Amazingly, a few of the new recruits actually volunteered for this type of treatment. Their screams almost sounded reverential as their blood and flesh were carefully flensed away or burned. Body parts were used to anoint a specific soldier or leader at the direction of the preachers. Gutiere hated these enforced meetings, and ever since did his best to remain on or close enough to the front lines to avoid them completely. Even that, however, didn't save him from the dogma, as almost every new soldier preached it to themselves or the originals with every breath they had. A few captured people of their own and attempted to recreate some of the sacrificial offerings themselves. Some were never seen again afterward.

 

The worst of it all, however, was what the Originals began to call "The Red Monster". The devout of the new belief called it an "Angel of War and Wrath", but how it was referred to was irrelevant. The beast was a terror to behold, even for a moment, and conflicting feelings of fear and hatred warred within him every time there was even a small glimpse of it in the sky. He had fought one of his engagements with the Space Marines under it's eyes, and never wanted a repeat of the occasion. 

 

Then, in a bold move, the Astartes split forces and took control of the off world communications array as well as rescued Governor Haldread, pushing deeper into their lines than they ever had before. The anti-air cannons had been silenced, giving the Astartes air superiority over the PDF and had most of the forces Gutiere belonged to running for their lives.

 

Gutiere wanted to be running too. At this point, he had come to the conclusion that he should have stayed on the farm and lived out a small life with little to no adventure.

 

However, in a matching bold move, his leadership claimed to have knowledge of an event that could decapitate the enemy in one action. His unit, supported by tanks and heavy weapons, were ordered to move parallel to the Astartes line of advance from the hive spires and wait. Positions were taken in ruined buildings and tanks camouflaged with tarps and fallen bits of masonry. His squad hunkered down in a bombed out market front and settled in as ordered.

 

Hours passed with nothing to see and the only sound the sporadic firefights of ongoing war behind them. Then, with a world shaking roar, everything began to happen at once. Gutiere heard The Red Monster bellow and the flap of it's leathery wings over the constant whine of an Astartes aircraft. Metal sounded like it was being torn apart in the sky, and the telltale shriek of a plane falling announced the crash and thunder of a boxy ruin slamming into the rockcrete. Debris was thrown from a two hundred meter long gouge before the aircraft finally came to a rest a mere twenty meters from his ambush position.

 

The nose was completely compacted, and he could see blood dripping out of the cracks in the fuselage as well as oils and fuels. Sparks flew madly, strobing the area even in the bright light of simulated noon. Something caught the combustible material leaking aflame, the tendrils of fire licking at the black and white paint of the hull. For a moment, Gutiere dared to hope that the Space Marines would be trapped inside and simply cook to death inside their own armor. That brought a smile to his lean face, until the rear hatch was battered down by those inside. Eleven Space Marines clambered out of the smoking hull, one dragging the limp form of a Black Templar behind him. The mixed force of blue and black quickly took positions around the opening and began scanning with weapons ready.

 

'GO, GO, GO!' came the order from a man hooded in what looked like a burlap bag and carrying an auto pistol that looked like it would fall apart as soon as the trigger stud was depressed. Gutiere came up firing at the Space Marines and almost launched himself out of the blown out storefront. He knew he was once again under the influence of the monster, but couldn't find it in him to care this time. His hammering pulse roared in his ears, and only one thought kept coursing through his mind as he charged at the closest black clad Astartes he could see.

 

The thought became a roar of his own, and his throat seemed to vomit the words into the world despite not really giving thought to voice them of his own volition. 'BLOOD, BLOOD, BLOOD!' he screamed as he fired, trying to close the distance behind a horizontal red rain of his making.

 

Then the Black Templar turned, and all thoughts of winning independence for his planet flew from Gutiere. The mantra filling his head silenced instantly, and he knew with every fiber of his being that there was no life for him beyond these next few moments as the cave-like muzzle of a bolt pistol swung up at him with impossible speed.

 

He never even heard the shot that tore him in half at the waist. There was searing pain as most of his torso was thrown back and well away from his legs. The ground came up hard and shattered his left shoulder. His scream sounded weak in his own ears as his lungs refused to inflate. On his back, he lifted his head and was horrified at the ruined flesh he now possessed. His strength fled from him, and shock numbed the pain long enough for Gutiere to cast his eyes around for his missing legs. His one good hand idly attempted to gather the organs stringing out of him back toward his body, as if in a last ditch effort to reassemble himself. The world around him grew fuzzy and dim, the battle he was at the center of falling into the distance. His last thought was for peace, away from war, back on the farms of his youth.

 

His soul was devoured the moment it entered the warp.

[Brother Christopher]

Thanks for posting, brother. It's really cool that you continue to write this.

[Marshal Laeroth]

 

 

+++ FLUFF ALERT +++

An Alternate Perspective

Hive Madrigal

Tiboran Gutiere had joined the PDF a little more than five years prior to the outset of what his superiors had called "revolution". He had enlisted was to get away from the indentured farm his family labored under, and to get to see the big city of Madrigal. He had been born on the opposite side of the planet, but always knew he never wanted to farm another day in his life. The back breaking work for little pay never suited him. So it was that when the PDF recruiters passed through his master's lands, he immediately jumped at the chance to enlist, not even staying long enough to grab personal possessions or say goodbye to extended family or the few friends he had.

 

Initially, his training had gone well. Gutiere was no stellar soldier, but he got along alright. He passed training in the middle of his class, and served as port watch ever since...

 

Until the insurrection began. The PDF Commander, General Del Norte, had taken complete control of the military forces on planet, claiming they had been betrayed by the Imperium and it's Astartes. Vid recordings of the Ultramarines and Black Templars Chapters attacking the PDF circulated everywhere, and every troop was called into the fighting. Gutiere had felt right, righteous even, as he hefted his lasgun and swore to his superiors in Del Notre's name against the Astartes, the governor, and any who sided with them against Icarus Prime's independance.

 

At first, the duties he was given were the security and movement of detainees rounded up within Hive Madrigal. It felt great to ensure that the naysayers and Imperials were removed from the overall society. For about a month, he heard reports of his compatriots attacking the Gubernatorial bunker to take Governor Haldread out for good. It had been a foregone conclusion that the former Imperialist leader had to die, but the old man held out.

 

Then the fighting against the Astartes came to the hive itself. The Governmental Spires fell to the invaders within hours with black clad Space Marines butchering every defender with roaring swords and explosive ammunition, so the few survivors had stated before they were executed for cowardice for turning away from the defenses. After that, their blue brethren joined them in an ever expanding campaign pushing the PDF further into the reaches of the lower hive. Gutiere had been in two fights with the monsters encased in armor, and thought he had helped bring down at least one before they yet again retreated further.

 

It was then that serious changes began to take form and shape within the ranks of the PDF. Newcomers began pouring into the ranks. Labeled a veteran at this point, Gutiere was tasked with leading these "new troops" into battle. But, in his opinion, there was something off, even wrong, with the new blood.

 

First, men and women that had never seen combat were elevated as high and even higher than many who had already fought and bled for this revolution. As if that wasn't enough for them to have a senior position, small changes began to take shape within the ranks. Men who screamed in obscene languages he couldn't identify were given perks many of the "originals" (as many of the veterans had begun to refer to themselves) could never achieve.

 

Next, unit identifiers were discarded in favor of some symbolism style of unit marking that, if he were being honest, sometimes gave him a mild headache to openly stare at for long. Eight pointed stars predominated, some well painted or sewn, others with a few arms noticeably longer in relation to others, but still identifiable. Others included what some called a skull, but the proportions were unlike any skull he had seen, and thanks to the war, there were many of those around these days to compare. Some icons displayed an almost scepter appearance with what looked like moons on the ends and in the middle. Those guys were always avoided due to rumors about the things they did in their hovels or to anyone in their path. The sickly or those with infections due to combat wounds began to take iconography denoting three circles or dots stacked in a pyramid. He had even heard of a few that formed under what looked like a circle with smoke coming off of it that could perform magic on the battlefield, but he had yet to see that.

 

Another change to come were the preachers. Men in heavy robes declaring in loud voices that to follow the Pantheon was the only way to survive the war and come out the victor. Very quickly, religious meetings became mandatory for all soldiers in every rearward element. At first, these preachers droned on and on about how the Imperium was flawed in it's belief structure. The God Emperor was no God at all, that He had usurped the rightful Gods of the Immaterium of their place in the cosmos, but also that he was being beaten, and the hour of salvation was at hand. Only those who followed the teachings of the new faith would arise in the presence of The Four, and be forever blessed to serve even for a moment in their light. After a while, the Sermons began to involve the torture of captured civilians. The unlucky fellow would be chained to a star and bled for hours under the stare of the mass. It would usually end before the victim lost consciousness. Then it began to become ritualistic murder and sacrifice, each method more bloody and horrible to witness than the last. Amazingly, a few of the new recruits actually volunteered for this type of treatment. Their screams almost sounded reverential as their blood and flesh were carefully flensed away or burned. Body parts were used to anoint a specific soldier or leader at the direction of the preachers. Gutiere hated these enforced meetings, and ever since did his best to remain on or close enough to the front lines to avoid them completely. Even that, however, didn't save him from the dogma, as almost every new soldier preached it to themselves or the originals with every breath they had. A few captured people of their own and attempted to recreate some of the sacrificial offerings themselves. Some were never seen again afterward.

 

The worst of it all, however, was what the Originals began to call "The Red Monster". The devout of the new belief called it an "Angel of War and Wrath", but how it was referred to was irrelevant. The beast was a terror to behold, even for a moment, and conflicting feelings of fear and hatred warred within him every time there was even a small glimpse of it in the sky. He had fought one of his engagements with the Space Marines under it's eyes, and never wanted a repeat of the occasion.

 

Then, in a bold move, the Astartes split forces and took control of the off world communications array as well as rescued Governor Haldread, pushing deeper into their lines than they ever had before. The anti-air cannons had been silenced, giving the Astartes air superiority over the PDF and had most of the forces Gutiere belonged to running for their lives.

 

Gutiere wanted to be running too. At this point, he had come to the conclusion that he should have stayed on the farm and lived out a small life with little to no adventure.

 

However, in a matching bold move, his leadership claimed to have knowledge of an event that could decapitate the enemy in one action. His unit, supported by tanks and heavy weapons, were ordered to move parallel to the Astartes line of advance from the hive spires and wait. Positions were taken in ruined buildings and tanks camouflaged with tarps and fallen bits of masonry. His squad hunkered down in a bombed out market front and settled in as ordered.

 

Hours passed with nothing to see and the only sound the sporadic firefights of ongoing war behind them. Then, with a world shaking roar, everything began to happen at once. Gutiere heard The Red Monster bellow and the flap of it's leathery wings over the constant whine of an Astartes aircraft. Metal sounded like it was being torn apart in the sky, and the telltale shriek of a plane falling announced the crash and thunder of a boxy ruin slamming into the rockcrete. Debris was thrown from a two hundred meter long gouge before the aircraft finally came to a rest a mere twenty meters from his ambush position.

 

The nose was completely compacted, and he could see blood dripping out of the cracks in the fuselage as well as oils and fuels. Sparks flew madly, strobing the area even in the bright light of simulated noon. Something caught the combustible material leaking aflame, the tendrils of fire licking at the black and white paint of the hull. For a moment, Gutiere dared to hope that the Space Marines would be trapped inside and simply cook to death inside their own armor. That brought a smile to his lean face, until the rear hatch was battered down by those inside. Eleven Space Marines clambered out of the smoking hull, one dragging the limp form of a Black Templar behind him. The mixed force of blue and black quickly took positions around the opening and began scanning with weapons ready.

 

'GO, GO, GO!' came the order from a man hooded in what looked like a burlap bag and carrying an auto pistol that looked like it would fall apart as soon as the trigger stud was depressed. Gutiere came up firing at the Space Marines and almost launched himself out of the blown out storefront. He knew he was once again under the influence of the monster, but couldn't find it in him to care this time. His hammering pulse roared in his ears, and only one thought kept coursing through his mind as he charged at the closest black clad Astartes he could see.

 

The thought became a roar of his own, and his throat seemed to vomit the words into the world despite not really giving thought to voice them of his own volition. 'BLOOD, BLOOD, BLOOD!' he screamed as he fired, trying to close the distance behind a horizontal red rain of his making.

 

Then the Black Templar turned, and all thoughts of winning independence for his planet flew from Gutiere. The mantra filling his head silenced instantly, and he knew with every fiber of his being that there was no life for him beyond these next few moments as the cave-like muzzle of a bolt pistol swung up at him with impossible speed.

 

He never even heard the shot that tore him in half at the waist. There was searing pain as most of his torso was thrown back and well away from his legs. The ground came up hard and shattered his left shoulder. His scream sounded weak in his own ears as his lungs refused to inflate. On his back, he lifted his head and was horrified at the ruined flesh he now possessed. His strength fled from him, and shock numbed the pain long enough for Gutiere to cast his eyes around for his missing legs. His one good hand idly attempted to gather the organs stringing out of him back toward his body, as if in a last ditch effort to reassemble himself. The world around him grew fuzzy and dim, the battle he was at the center of falling into the distance. His last thought was for peace, away from war, back on the farms of his youth.

 

His soul was devoured the moment it entered the warp.

Yes! Finally. I have checking daily for the next entry. Lol

[SWORD BROTHER RYAN]

+++ FLUFF ALERT +++

REAPER'S HAMMER

In Route to Icarus Prime

 

Castellan Larsen Vanstint Had burned the reactors hard, willing the strike cruiser more speed. Two weeks, the thought burned in his mind ever since the arrival of the sub vox signal. It had been badly distorted by solar radiation and interstellar background noise, near unintelligible. Painstaking re-rendering had been done by the vox serfs, taking nearly two hours to coax a clearer message from the white noise and background popping of the local sun. Finally, they cleaned it up enough to barely make out the order to return to Icarus Prime, and Vanstint nearly threw the vessel into overload to race back to his Marshal. The entire time, as he stood at the command lectern, he chided himself for the amount of time they had spent guarding the outskirts of the system against the possibility of another Tyrranid attack. It was obvious they had left the system, although completely uncharacteristic of their behavior. Now, it seemed, he had heeded his orders too closely.

 

His brother knights were under attack by the very same forces they were to assist. Fury at the PDF-turned-traitors burned in his chest like the white heat of the reactor pushing hard to return to orbit of Icarus Prime. He swore to pay penance for his own lack of foresight in the matter and not return earlier, but another thought nagged at the back of his mind; Why had the Marshal not transmitted using the system vox?

 

The Spear of Macragge burned just as hot and fast 15,000 kilometers to port, racing alongside in receipt of the same orders. Both flagships had left the few attendant escorts and Adeptus Mechanicus tenders in their wake to make all haste back to their Chapter brethren. The larger battle barge had little to no problem keeping pace, but was more ponderous in the maneuvers through the thin asteroid belt between the eighth and seventh planets. Currently, both vessels were abeam of one another.

 

Two Weeks! Vanstint cursed again.

 

'Icarus Prime, twenty minutes to high orbit at current speed.' Navigation reported, as they had every five minutes since being able to bring the long range viewer into focus of the fourth planet. 

 

It was highly dangerous to attempt orbit at this speed. The attendant commander of the Spear of Macragge, had proposed a highly dangerous route, but one that would utilize the planet's own gravity as well as braking thrusters to bleed off speed as they achieved orbit. An added benefit was that both vessels could remain largely at their position as they slingshot around the world as well as pass directly over the engagement area to disgorge reinforcements. The problem was that the Hammer had to hit a very small patch of the polar magnetic field in order to pull off the maneuver, akin to hitting the narrow edge of parchment with a heavy bolt round.

 

'In range for surface vox, Castellan!' the vox serf shouted from her station.

 

'Raise the Marshal! Full signal!' Vanstint practically yelled, snapping out of his own chiding thoughts.

 

The vox speaker at the lectern popped for a heartbeat, then the sound of heavy fighting washed into the background as the hail was accepted. 'Hammer, this is Eidrich! How long until you're in position?'

 

Vanstint glared over to navigation, 'Fifteen minutes or less, Marshal. All available Marines are on standby, ready to drop.' His voice sounded calmer than he felt.

 

'Drop as much as you can on my current position!' Eidrich's voice strained with effort, 'We're pinned down here!'

 

'Helm!' Vanstint called out, 'How much more can we push?'

 

'Reactor is at near redline, Castellan,' a techpriest responded, standing over the piloting servitors, 'Much more could cause a catastrophic overload and force a shut-down.' If his tinny machine voice could have inflected his worry, Vanstint thought it would be quaking right now.

 

'Do it!' he roared in response, 'Navigation, correct approach for increased velocity!'

 

'Correcting!' Navigation called back, 'New speed and course set! Seven minutes to high orbit!'

 

'Castellan, the Spear is hailing. They warn that our increased ark will place our ship within 5,000 kilometers of their flight path.'

 

Vanstint didn't care to respond. He snatched up his ship vox bead and activated the address system.

 

'All hands, brace for braking.' he calmly ordered, 'Marines to station for deployment.'

 

He wanted to drop with the few brothers that remained on the ship, and it rankled at him that he would be forced to remain. He could see the planet now without the aid of magnification. His eyes glared out the oculus at the sedately turning world quickly growing larger, trying to will either the ship to more speed or the passage of time to pick up the pace. Seven minutes would be an eternity for his embattled brethren.

 

*     *     *

 

Centurion Orision, Alpha, and Bravo stomped ponderously across the embarkation deck toward their ride to the surface. It was determined that Marshal Eidrich's refurbished Land Raider Crusader would have it's first combat duty in God-Emperor only knew how long now. Too large for a drop pod, and thunderhawk gunships prioritized for other missions, they would cram into the innards of the LRC and be taken directly in to support the embattled Marshal. Alpha and Bravo remained silent as the grave as they pounded across the deck to the waiting vehicle.

 

The crew of the LRC was securing the vehicle into the manacles of a Thunderhawk Transporter. Orision had a small reservation about utilizing the as yet untested vehicle to get to the surface, but he swallowed his unease and obeyed the Castellan's orders. Wordlessly, all three clambered up the troop ramp, squatted down as much as possible for the massive bulk of the armor to fit inside the cramped space of the interior, ponderously turned about, then settled in, powering down the armor reactors to minimal output for the trip.

 

Hidden by his white helm, even though the scowl never left Orision's face, if one could have seen his eyes, they would have noted the glint in them giving away the eagerness to bring the fight to the enemies of the Crusade once again. His hands twitched, cycling rounds into his underslung bolters. 

 

'One minute to drop, stand by.' The driver, Jessen called over the suit vox. Orision heard the vehicle gunner clamber over the hull and slot into his cupolla, slamming the hatch overhead.

 

'Acknowledged,' Orision rumbled in response, 'In position.'

 

*     *     *

 

Three sets of clangs alerted Jessen that the Centurions were mag-locked to the deck beneath and behind him. Machion signaled his readiness with a chirp over the vox net. Everything was in readiness...

 

Jessen had not yet plugged into the machine. He hesitated, finding it difficult to prepare for merging once again with the cold machine spirit. He knew he could put it off no longer as the launch countdown passed thirty seconds, and slotted home the data spikes in his spine and neck. He didn't go all the way into full immersion as he had done the first time. He didn't have to. The machine was compliant enough, responding swiftly to his commands. The spirit, however, seemed disinterested in anything the crew ordered it to, never fighting back against them, but never warming either.

 

Jessen felt the chill of it caress his thoughts as a servitor voice counted down the lift-off sequence from ten. He heard the growing whine of the transport jets firing to take-off power, felt the thrum of the magnetic catapult cycling to throw the Thunderhawk into the void.

 

'God-Emperor, guide us,' Jessen intoned over the vox, 'Let us bring light to the darkness, strength to your servants, and death to your enemies.'

 

'In His Name!' Machion and the three Centurions bellowed as the countdown ended and the transport was slung shrieking into the void.

 

Exterior sound immediately disappeared, replaced by the thrum from the transport above for almost a full minute. Then, a slight rumble from outside the hull began as the temperature began to rise. The roar increased, and Jessen felt the nauseating sweep of the void field activating within the confines of the dropship. The temperature did not get worse, but the roar of the tortured air passing by the hull only continued to increase.

 

'Raider, Raider, Transport Three,' the pilot vox crackled in his ear, 'Touchdown in fifty-seven seconds.'

 

'Acknowledged, Transport Three,' Jessen switched back to vehicle vox, 'Fifty-four seconds to touchdown!'

 

Silence greeted his voice as he continued the count. Machion knew his duty, the Centurions were likely passing their own orders over squad channels.

 

The fires of reentry dissipated, allowing Jessen his first view of the hive they were rushing towards. Thirty seconds. The transport angled for the mid levels where columns of dirty smoke and the occasional flash of ordnance were likely exploding. Twenty-five seconds. The sky beyond was swallowed by the mass of rockcrete and plassteel. Twenty seconds. The chill of the machine spirit seeped into his whole body, refusing to be roused to aggression. Seventeen seconds. 

 

The sight of multiple teleportation flares erupted briefly all around a downed Stormraven, and Jessen felt his gut clench in response.

 

What, in the name of the Throne, is this?

[SWORD BROTHER RYAN]

+++ FLUFF ALERT +++

Hive Madrigal

Sword Brother Tolor

57 Seconds before teleporter flares

 

I stand with my three other brothers and my Marshal. We face the screaming hoards of mortal men and women, snarling and firing their puny weapons at us, trying to use weight of fire to kill us. We are hunkered down behind much of the remains of the Stormraven and the crater it has created on it's impact. Sakur is down, injured in the crash. It is by the God-Emperor's grace more of us weren't put out of the fight or killed in the collision with the hive.

 

Ultramarines fight alongside us. My hatred is a mirror of my Marshal's own, fury for the traitor's, distrust of our allies. Perhaps my own is of a dissimilar note though. Their Captain had been on the verge of revelation, questions answered, truth shattering the shadows. I can't bring myself to trust them, these Ultramarines. It's not their secrets, we have our own. It's not their color, for we must seem so very different to them as they appear to us. It's not their fighting style, as we differ from many other Chapters in our own doctrine.

 

It's their blood, their bloodline. Not ours. Not Dorn's. Not our Primarch. I can't help but feel weighed down by their presence, their closeness. Our cousins, surely, but not us. I can't help but feel stained by them.

 

The traitors that rush us, shouting their heretic curses and babbling their blasphemous oaths, they are not worthy of the bolts I spit through my pistol. They are not worthy of the chainsword gripped tightly in my hand. They are not worthy of the fist I would use to pummel them into the next life beside their heretic gods. They are not worthy of the curses I have leveled at the enemies of the Imperium in the past.

 

But on they come. They have no chance, they must know that, surely? They pour around the wreckage of the Stormraven, over the lip of the crater, along the trail of our aircraft's demise. So many. More than I have bolts for. Enough to choke the motor of my chainsword with the meat and blood of their very bodies. Enough that I will have to pummel them with fist and foot. Maybe even enough to drag me down alongside Sakur.

 

My Marshal is bellowing his orders. I can barely hear him over the din of the combat as the tanks the traitor has hidden away show themselves and hurl their hate at us. I don't need him to tell me to stand my ground. I don't need the order to fight with every ounce of strength I have. So, I hammer my bolts at the foe, I swing my chainsword, whether they are worthy of my ire or not. I know no other way. I can remember no time in my long life that I ever did, and would not care to recall it if it ever existed. I am a knight of the Crusade, and I will never falter in my devotion to my oaths as a Black Templar, as an Astartes in Imperial Service.

 

Shot, hack, swing, shot, sweep, keep fighting. My world is reduced to this. This is life. I will it to never end. Let them come. Let them die on my sword. Let their worthless bodies be destroyed by my pistol. Let them think they are worthy of either, though they never were. I bellow my triumph in their faces as they close around me, scream wordlessly their unworthiness and my revulsion of them as I bring down one after another. 

 

My pistol clicks empty. No time to reload, if I had another magazine to reload with, I realize. It becomes a club, another way for the traitor to die at my hands, still unworthy even of this. I feel the damage done to my armor from close range las shots and stabbing bayonets. I ignore them as much as possible. It feels like hours I have fought them. My helm counter says it's only been twenty-three seconds. I laugh at this, continuing to swing pistol-club and chainsword. The pile of broken, bloody and dismembered bodies is growing around me as the tanks close on our position. I barely register the vox, and realize that the Ultramarines Captain is broadcasting on the open channel. Some hind part of my brain hears the conversation between him and my Marshal as I focus on the fight in front of me with a feeling of righteous release.

 

'We're pinned in place!' Victorian is yelling to be heard, even over the vox. 'Those tanks are going to tear us apart! Where is your dreadnaught?'

 

Cread! My brother! I had not thought of him! As I smash and swing, I cast my eyes about, looking for my venerable brother. The rear grapnel is empty, the cable payed out along the line of our crash. Worry grips me for my brother. So much would be lost if we have lost him.

 

'Thirty-five seconds before my reinforcement is here!' My Marshal lord shouts back.

 

A tank round detonates against the remains of the tail of the Stormraven. The traitor's are thrown from their feet. I am staggered, but maintain my footing. The respite is brief, but welcome as I gun the motor of my blade to clear the fouling building up in the mechanisms. I ready myself for the next wave as the tanks finally level their guns at us directly.

 

Is this how it will end for me? I hope not. I wish for my end to be against a worthy adversary. Blade to blade. My skill against a champion. Not at the end of a cannon.

 

But none of us can choose our end. None. I can only serve where ordered, fight those in front of me, and meet my end in the service of the God-Emperor. That is enough for any knight. If today is the day, if this is the moment I am called at last to His side, so be it. I will not leave without a fight. He on the Holy Throne of Terra will know a worthy servant gave his life in His name.

 

As cannon rounds are loaded into breeches, I can hear clearly the lament of the Ultramarine Captain. 

 

'I did not wish for it to be like this,' he mutters across the vox, 'I am sorry it must be this way, Eidrich. I would have told you the truth if you would have but listened.'

 

My Marshal's retort is lost to me as bright light and sharp bangs resound all around me. It's not the tanks, for there is no fire or shrapnel. The traitors have not thrown grenades at us. In my mind, it takes only a single heartbeat to recognize the sight as my vision is darkened by the auto-senses in my helm. I know that bang, having heard it as well as used it many times before.

 

Teleportation. A short trip through the warp from ship to surface. A nauseating experience, but the sudden appearance of Marines amongst the mortals is always a tactical advantage. It causes disorientation and fear in the lesser of men. I've heard it called 'Transhuman Dread '. I've seen it happen in my presence, my sudden appearance on the battlefield against traitors, heretics, and xenos alike.

 

When my sight is fully restored, my breath is taken. I had expected some terminators, but the sight before me staggers me into inaction. I am luckily not being attacked. My own shock might have killed me. My brothers beside me fall still as well. Even Eidrich, my Marshal, has been dumbstruck.

 

Blue warriors are everywhere. This is not the reason for my awe. Their armor... I find myself struggle to comprehend it. Ancient beyond belief. Mark III and IV predominate, Cataphrattii and Tartaros Terminator plate in evidence. Contemptor pattern Dreadnaught. Bolter patterns from ages long ago. 

 

Belief escapes me. These would be Chapter relics to anyone, stowed away in a hall of honor, only a handful on display due to their rarity. Even if used in battle, only the best of the best of the Chapter would ever have the honor of donning this relic plate. This should not even be in the care of a line Captain with a battle barge and a small attendant fleet.

 

But here it is, before my very eyes, in such abundance that my mind cannot comprehend it, used as readily as my own MK VII plate. These Astartes use it like they were born to it, as if they had never used anything else. Although showing small signs of wear, the armor is pristine, as if forged recently. Some is artificer wrought. 

 

It is breathtaking to behold, and even my blood seems to wish to pay homage to these relics of a bygone age.

 

Even through my awe, the question returns, and chills me to the core. Who are these Ultramarines?

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Sword Brother Tolor's testimony is well-written.

[Urkh]

I haven't read any of your fluff yet, but one day, I swear I'm going to just spend an hour or two, start from page 1 of this thread, and get through all of it. Especially since everyone keeps saying how good it is.

[SWORD BROTHER RYAN]

I haven't read any of your fluff yet, but one day, I swear I'm going to just spend an hour or two, start from page 1 of this thread, and get through all of it. Especially since everyone keeps saying how good it is.

 

I thank you for that, truly. I keep going through a lot of styles in writing, and as I've said before, these silly little scratchings of mine are based on a narrative game my son and I play. He had a VERY ADAMANT narrative for his UM force, and I'm doing what I can to integrate it as I write. It doesn't affect the gameplay, but it's proven tricky to write as I have to bounce the game off of what I would think would be the actions and reactions of the BT as it progresses. It takes a LOT of thought, as well as a desire to try a different POV from time to time, such as SB Tolor's 1st person perspective of the action unfolding. I find it amazing that a lot of people seem to enjoy it as much as they do, and it gives me the drive to keep at it. Thank you for the support, look through the last 10 pages for the nuggets of narrative I've written, and I hope you enjoy the ride as it progresses!

[Marshal Laeroth]

And one of these days, I will archive it as it properly deserves! Excellent job, as always! I got spoiled with two bits this time. Lol

[SWORD BROTHER RYAN]

+++ FLUFF ALERT +++

Hive Madrigal

 

 

Marshal Eidrich was the first to recover his senses. The moment the Thunderhawk transporter touched down, that is what grabbed his attention. Years he had waited for this moment. The chassis of the Land Raider he had recovered and had the forge refurbish for the Crusade now touched down, ready for it's first engagement in only the God-Emperor knew how long. Beneath his helm, he grinned.

 

Scorched blue drop pods began to slam down into the enemy as the frontal ramp of the LRC lowered. The heretic armor began to reposition as they identified this new threat, but the screaming hoards supporting them were beginning to scatter in the face of the overwhelming force brought to bear on what they thought would be a decapitating strike. 

 

Orision and his squad of Devastator Centurions stepped slowly out of the innards of the LRC, and raised their weapons at the wheeling armor before them.

 

Sensing that the time was now, Marshal Eidrich voxed to his Sword Brethren. 'Full Charge,' he spoke calmly, 'Make them pay in retreat!'

 

*     *     *

 

Orision was not taken aback by the sight before him. Yes, it was impressive, but it could be dwelled upon later. Deep in the duty bound core of his being, he had sworn to never be found wanting in his actions again, and focused the omniscope of his armor onto the nearest Leman Russ in sight. It was within the space of an accelerated heartbeat that the acknowledgement runes popped up on his squad display and the fire of four lascannons converged on the armor he had selected. Over their heads, Macharion added the weight of the multimelta to their fire, and the tank was cored through almost instantly. Orision added the fire of his underslung heavy bolters to the fire aimed at the now panicking and running traitors on foot, mowing down several. The entire squad loosed their chest mounted hurricane bolters at them as well, and almost an entire squad fell to the combined assault. 

 

As he selected the next tank in the line, it rocked forward as if pushed from behind. Bringing up a link to the LRC's command node, he saw the telltale signature of Venerable Brother Cread rushing at the armored rear of the same tank, spitting a weakened blast of multimelta beams from a heavily damaged weapon pod. He was about to add the weight of fire of Alpha and Bravo to the tank when Cread stomped into a run and swung his claw into the partially melted rear armor and easily penetrated, ripping into the engines and fuel lines of the last remaining Leman Russ. With the blessings of the God-Emperor, the tank did not explode and further damage the already critically wounded Dreadnaught. He simply withdrew his claw as soon as the vehicle was dead and turned away, looking for more enemy.

 

Orision turned the omniscope on the rest of the fleeing traitors and ordered the squad to fire at will on all remaining targets.

 

*     *     *

 

Jessen gunned the Land Raider Crusader forward as soon as Machion had assisted in the destruction of the first traitor tank and swung the massive vehicle towards his Marshal's position. He briefly felt a pique of intrest from the machine spirit as it aimed the hurricane bolters at the fleeing backs of the enemy and punched an entire squad out of the fight forever. The interest was fleeting though, done as if a canine swatted it's tail to be rid of a bothersome insect. The spirit retreated back into it's cold and disinterested state after that, apparently not wishing to take any further part on it's own, but not interfering with the operators. Machion slammed further traitors from their feet with a well aimed burst from the twin assault cannons as Jessen slewed the vehicle to a halt near the Marshal.

 

The traitor armor were all burning wreaks, the enemy either scattered to all points of the compass or dead at the feet of the now formidable combined force of Astartes. Ultramarines in their relics and the raw aggression of his brothers had destroyed this assault.

 

'My Marshal,' Jessen voxed on a private channel, 'Your command vehicle awaits.'

[SWORD BROTHER RYAN]

+++ YET FURTHER FLUFF +++

Hive Madrigal Command Spire

One Hour Later...

 

'Explain,' Eidrich spoke slowly and carefully, his voice low.

 

Both he and Captain Victorian were in his private office behind the command center. It had taken a long time to return after the attack over the hives roads and lifts, and Victorian had marched with his own now massive contingent through the interior and lifts more suited to foot traffic.

 

Victorian and he went unhelmed. Victorian sqeezed his eyes closed for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose and turning away as if trying to find a place to begin. He finally turned back to face the Marshal and dropped his hand to his side. 

 

"You refer to yourselves as a Crusade,' He began as he took a seat on a crate before the human proportioned desk, 'Yet I wonder if you have any notion of what that means.'

 

'Means?' Eidrich spoke lowly, trying to keep the growl from his voice, 'You speak to a Templar. We have continued the Crusade for millennia, since the founding of Chapters. Since Sigismund was awarded the Chapter of the Holy God-Emperor's most devoted knights, we have continued to fight the enemies of the Imperium wherever they are. I hope you do not intend to give me a lecture on...' he could not keep the growl out of his voice any longer, '... Crusading.'

 

'I undrestand your history, as much as we could glean from the spotty Imperial record,' Victorian held up a placating hand, 'I do not question your loyalty or definition of the Crusade. I am trying to say that I, we, have a different definition.' 

 

The growl would not leave his voice now, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it, 'Explain.'

 

'Please understand,' Victorian whispered, more to himself than to Eidrich, 'By Guilliman's name, please...'

 

Victorian stood and began to pace the small confines of the office.

 

'We are out of our time.' He stopped his pacing and bored his gaze directly into the marshal's own, 'A part of the Crusade... the Greatest Crusade the galaxy has ever seen.'

 

'Say that again?' the growl in his voice was gone. He wished it was still there.

 

'It was the Great Crusade. And we, all of us, were Legion.' With a heavy sigh, he sat back on the crate and stared at the floor, 'My expedition fleet was in route through the warp to the muster at Calth. The entire legion was gathering alongside the Word bearers...'

 

Eidrich audibly snarled at the mention of the mention traitor legion, briefly derailing Victorian's story, but he continued to speak in a hushed voice, never raising his head.

 

'...We were caught in a warp squall the likes of which our navigators had never seen. They guided us to what was the calmest point within the storm, and we became becalmed within the tempest. Slowly, we began to lose ships. We could not translate back into realspace, and geller fields were failing. We took as many on as we could in the remaining ships we had. I'm sure you understand how difficult it is to merge geller fields within the warp, Marshal.'

 

He looked up then. Eidrich returned the gaze, but remained silent.

 

'We had four former Librarians within our ranks. We had no other choice.' The look of shame on his face seemed genuine, and with dawning interest and horror, the picture began to form...

 

'You want me to believe you have been stuck within the warp for 10,000 years?' Eidrich breathed through clenched teeth.

 

'You wanted the truth.' He looked hard at Eidrich once again. 'Our most senior Librarian broke the Edict...' he paused, 'The Edict of Nikea, and found us a way from the warp at last. We finally made it to Calth, but it wasn't what we remembered. We've been lost. Every piece of information we gleaned presented a different picture of the Imperium we left. You can't understand.'

 

'I understand completely.' Eidrich rose, glowering, 'I understand that you spin this outlandish tale, talking of the time before the Great Heresy as if you actually lived it! His voice rose with every word to the point where he was roaring at the top of his lungs, 'I would label you the basest liar, were it not for the evidence before my very eyes!'

 

Eidrich rounded the desk as Victorian stood, and got face to face with his counterpart. 'I believe you, Praetor... as well as I believe that you can continue this war without my knights.'

 

Victorian cast his gaze downward. 'As you will, son of Dorn.'

 

A knock at the office door snapped both commander's heads toward it.

 

'Speak!' Eidrich barked, advancing on the door. He slammed it open to face his chief serf, Milas Hebet, who stood with a meek expression and slumped shoulders. Eidrich had no illusions that his tirade at Victorian had gone unheard outside of the cramped office space, but Hebet would normally know not to interrupt any closed door session with a peer. The wrath of the Marshal was not the reason for the interruption.

 

Hebet's voice practically quaked both from his master's ire as well as his message.

 

'My lord, I beg your pardon, there is a...' he stumbled for the right words, 'I'm afraid you have a visitor.' He glanced at Victorian, and a bit of steel entered him again, 'You both do.'

 

'Where?' Victorian asked, eyes casting about.

 

It took a moment for the Marshal to find the anomaly amongst the haphazard layout of the command equipment. In a day full of surprises, this one he was almost sure was the one that would break his shoulders.

 

Five mortals, all of them bearing wounds that might have killed most men, sat in a loose circle with one another. An apothecary of the Ultramarines was tending to them to the best of his ability. Victorian looked as if he did not recognize the significance of them, but Eidrich knew them by sight immediately.

 

One of them wore a skull helmet, and seemed to have a lot of trouble staying still even with the extent of his injuries. Eversor. Another, carrying only minor wounds, but whos shape seemed to be changing into a more feminine form. Callidus. The least injured of them wore a mask almost skull-like, with a wide visor. He knew this one. He had met Rictule already, and knew him to be Vindicare. The next was hard to look at, as if he kept sliding out of his sight. A silver and elongated skull helm grossly proportioned and bulging on the right side with esoteric technology he didn't want to know the purpose of. He knew of them, but had never seen one before. Culexus.

 

But aside from the Execution Force, the last man in the group, heavily injured and being tended to as they advanced on the group, was the potential grenade to the entire endeavor. He did not know the man, but his armor and heraldry were known. The Imperial "I" on the chain attached to his waist spoke of his identity, and if what Victorian said was true, then of course there was no way he would recognize the shift this war had just taken.

 

'Marshal, Praetor,' The man wheezed, 'I am Morivich Silibas, Ordo Hereticus, of the Holy Inquisition. I'm afraid we all have a problem.' 

[SWORD BROTHER RYAN]

+++ WAIT, MORE FLUFF? NO WAY!+++

 

Hive Madrigal,

Marshall's office

 

It took forty minutes for the apothecary to completely stabilize the Inquisitor before he would expand on his proclamation. Techmarine Aiden assisted with the inquisitor's nearly ruined power armor. Of course, the components between Astartes armor and the smaller and more limited armor made for a mortal, but he did manage to coax it back into a grinding working order.

 

With some assistance from Rectule, Silibas was guided into the increasingly cramped confines of the Marshal's office. Rectule guided the Inquisitor to a mortal sized seat. The chair groaned under his armored weight, but held. 

 

'What problem?' Victorian, patience worn thin, snapped.

 

'I'll excuse the tone but once, due to your... inexperience, Captain,' Silibas sneered the word, 'But only this once. I'm sure you don't wish an investigation into you and the entire Chapter, now, would you?'

 

Victorian looked to Eidrich a moment. The Marshal shook his head slightly.

 

'Inquisitor,' Eidrich stepped forward, 'What has happened?'

 

'As painful...' he groaned as he shifted his weight, '...as it is to admit, I must admit failure. The heretics have succeeded in something I have been trying to prevent here since before this war began for either of you.'

 

'How long have you been here, Morivich Silibas of the Ordo Hereticus?' Victorian asked with curiosity.

 

'Two years, I have investigated General DelNorte. I only called for Rectule here and an Eversor when I was certain that he was performing heretical experimentations on xenos, but even I did not know the full extent of his crimes until your intervention. I called for a full Execution Force through my own means to stop him. He and the Warp Beast are in league now, and have performed a profane ritual that has opened a portal to the warp. Daemons are spilling through, gentlemen. My team and I only barely escaped with our lives.'

 

'Daemons?' Victorian asked incredulously, 'You expect me to believe in daemons now?'

 

'They exist, Victorian.' Eidrich interrupted before Silibas could object again, 'Inquisitor, there sounds like an ask in this story. I must inform you that the Crusade will be departing this zone soon.'

 

'I'm entirely sure that will not be happening, Lord Marshal,' Silibas looked sidelong at him, 'You haven't looked at the night sky tonight, have you?'

 

*     *     *

 

Across the galaxy from the Keeltonian System, in the galactic north-east, The Eye of Terror is in turmoil. Twelve times in the past, the Black Crusades have attacked the Cadian Gate. Cadia has stood firmly in the face of them all. This time, however, all the pieces were in place. Not only is Cadia cracking apart, but rituals all along the line between the Eye, the Malestrom, and smaller storms in the galactic south have all succeeded. As the planet that has thwarted the Warmaster Abbadon the Despoiler breaks, so too does the Eye break it's bonds and spread. Tendrils coalesce and shoot between systems, linking almost every site in the line in a wide warp storm that spills over into realspace, twisting all laws and bending reality. Mortals caught in the wave that has spread across the stars either immediately die or go completely mad the first time they stare up at the sky. In many places, entire systems are randomly thrown into and spat out of the unprotected warp.

 

The Keeltonian System is spared this fate, but as the group took in the view of the night sky, unaware of the events in the wider galaxy, Silibas was the one to speak the words that they all knew to be true without being spoken.

 

'None of us are leaving any longer, Marshal.'

[SWORD BROTHER RYAN]

Okay, as I've said many times, THIS is the direction that my son has wanted his Ultramarines to take. This is a fluff on our narrative campaign, but there are other things happening with the other parties involved that aren't being recorded, as these pieces of fluff are all taken exclusively from the BT POV. But, now we can see the turning of the wheel, tie in with the Fall of Cadia, and prepare for an escalation in the war in the Keeltonian System. A small part of the big picture, and I hope those that have stuck so far keep on, as there is more to come.

 

On a side note, as this thread has become more and more exclusively fluff related, here sometime soon I will be creating another thread to showcase my models and more devote this to the direction that it has taken. I don't have that much progress to speak of on that front, but when I do, I'll open it.

[Marshal Laeroth]

Very interesting twist to have the Ultramarine forces be from pre-Heresy. Explains the ornate wargear. I like it. Once again, very nicely written!