A Time of Reaving IC

[Lysimachus]

Elvrit:

 

At the report of the Phastus PDF flyover, Elvrit nodded to Nuzry.

 

“Transmit a message to Planetary Governor Groskov. Tell him, if he is a loyal servant of the Emperor, to pull back from the Iron Warriors garrison. Further intrusion into Astartes matters will be at the risk of the lives of his men… and his own.”

 

When another Astartes entered the bridge a few minutes later, it took a moment for Elvrit to recognise his Legion colours beneath the grime and dirt. A Salamander, and a devotee of Mars by his appearance. Immediately worthy of respect. Odd that Tyrthon had not mentioned that there was another Space Marine working on repairs to the Tribute, but perhaps it was simply an example of how the thinking of the Mechanicus was not that of other men. He nodded respectfully to the Techmarine and did his best to summarise their situation.

 

“We were forced to retreat from Istvaan however we could, hence the motley band you see. We came to Phastus with the intent of finding a functioning Astropath to send a warning to Terra, along with raiding the Iron Warriors garrison here for supplies. We took the fortress, but were forced to pause our investigation of the arsenal in order to hunt down a Death Guard bulk transport that was leaving the system when we arrived. That is where we are going now.”

 

He paused.

 

“We did have one of your Legion brethren with us, Ekene Sul of Battle Cadre Sindrix, but he was injured during the attack on the garrison and rests in Sus-An sleep. You would appear to be in command of this vessel.”

 

 

[Necronaut]

The Basilisk

 

His servo arm twitched as Captain Nuzry responded, seemingly surprised he was still aboard, and again when the ebon warrior offered a half-answer to his queries. 

 

"No, shipmistress, I did not make planetfall with the others. Your powers of observation are to be commended. I have been in the heart of this beast, fighting to hold this rust-bucket of a ship together after your predecessor nearly got us all shot to pieces, or have you not seen the reports from Magos Tyrthon?! Now, as I see none of my brothers amongst your number, which makes me master and commander of this wretched vessel, you will tell me what in the blazes is going on, why we left Istvaan and what has become of the Primarch and the rest of the XVIIIth legion! Where are the rest of my battle company? To what end have we assaulted a IVth Legion garrison?! To think this rabble have commandeered my vessel, and to what ends?!”

 

Turning to the Iron Hand, he continued his tirade, “Still your tongue, Xth! I will come to you in time, and if I am not pleased by your answers then don't think I won't vent the plasma core into what remains of this ship and commend all aboard to the void!" 

Edited Saturday at 06:25 PM by Necronaut

[Trokair]

Hadad

 

It took Hadad a moment to discern the Techsworn marine’s heraldry, but when he did his mood lightened, there was another Salamander on the ship, and one of honours and rank. It had been bothering him a little that they were on a Legion vessel whose only representative they had let get injured on what should have been a simple excursion. That there was another was fortuitous.

 

Rising he went over to greet the newcomer and introduce himself. Before he got as far as that though the Techsworn berated both Nuzry and the Iron Hand, this was going to be a difficult conversation.

 

Holding up his empty hands as a peace offering Haddad spoke.  

 

“As Brother Elvrit said, the rooting out of the oath breaker and rebellious legion on Istvann went very awry. Large portions of the XVII, VIII, XX and my form kin sided with the Warmaster and entrapped the deployed elements of your own, the Raven Guard and the Iron Hand. It was devastatingly close to a total rout. Reports are sketchy and incomplete, but it appears that the Iron hands liege was slain, of yours or the Raven we do not know. The fact that any of us got out at all was ... well ... happenstance.”

 

 

“As for the Garrison, while I personally am not certain they had followed that which had once been Father into rebellion, they certainly did not offer aid when we sought resupplies and drew weapons on us when we tried to inform them of the events at Istvann.”

[Necronaut]

The Basilisk

 

The techmarine paused in his tirade, scowled at the IVth Legionary, and then stalked over to look into the eyes of one who would turn his back on his own brothers rather than, supposedly, follow them into treachery, his servo-arm opening and closing menacingly overhead. 

 

Better to die with one's honour intact, perhaps? Perhaps not…

 

"He is your gene-sire no matter your actions in life, Iron Warrior. But if what you say is true, you may yet expunge the guilt from your conscience. Better to die untainted by treachery in your hearts.”

 

He turned to face the rest of the survivors of what would come to be called the Drop Site Massacre. If they were all true sons of the Emperor, oath- and honour-bound to prosecute His Will, then there were formalities to be observed. He doffed his scarred Mk III helm to reveal a face horribly disfigured by the ravages of war and time and exposure to horrific chem-munitions. He was a twisted mess of scar tissue and grafted augmetics – an obvious web of embedded circuitry had been fused to his flesh, its lines shining a pristine gold against his obsidian scalp, which traced their way down the back of his neck along his spinal column below the inner lining of his power armour. The silver frame and baleful green lenses of an embedded auspex blister occupied his right eye socket, allowing him to see things that none of the rest might realize about themselves, while his remaining left eye, still of his own flesh and blood, fairly pulsed with crimson malevolence. When he opened his mouth to speak, it was clear that much of his facial anatomy had been reconstructed with cybernetic grafts, portions of his tongue included, and most of his teeth were now chrome plated steel prosthetics, presumably replacing the ones which had been lost due to radiation sickness.

 

His voice grated with poisonous spite and flecks of spittle escaped his mouth when he spoke. He straightened and held his helm under the crook of one arm, and addressed the rag-tag band of warriors, “I am Hadrian Numidax Basiliscus, Pyroclast-Machinator of the XVIIIth Legion, and loyal servant of the Emperor. I have kept this ship alive while all of you have gone galavanting about the galaxy on your merry quest for revenge. I sense that some or most of you may grieve for your fallen brethren, your slain Primarch, your stained honour. They all died upon the black sands in service of the Emperor, and that is enough. There is nothing to grieve. There is no revenge; this is war. The traitors will be put to the sword, their leaders executed for their crimes and erased from memory, their perfidy put to the torch. Now, tell me your names and more of what has happened, that I might better know those who I would take up arms alongside…”

 

He waited for each of the others to introduce themselves and explain their plight in turn, committing their faces and names to memory. The Iron Hands had truly had a wretched time of it with the loss of their Primarch. The spectral sight afforded by his embedded auspex revealed how ill-at-ease they were, but he made no further comment on the matter. They were a sterner sort than that, possessed of a stronger mettle than most, and but needed a target upon which they could focus their ire. He felt venomous bile rising in his throat at the thought of three legions, including his own, being virtually wiped out and taken off of the board in one fell swoop.

 

No word of his own Primarch, Lord Vulkan, but he knew that old drake was nigh-unkillable even in the worst of times.

 

“Very good. As for this garrison you just plundered… let any who stand against us be marked as traitors and accorded as such. The Omnissiah will recognize His own in the final reckoning.” Turning back to the slight woman occupying the command throne, "Captain Nuzry, what is our target, and our objective? And how long until we make contact?" 

Edited Saturday at 08:06 PM by Necronaut

[Machine God]

Ashmon

 

An aged Smith honour-bound to stay with his ship, 

 

No talk of not being on the sands, no talk of retreat before the fact. 

 

Ashmon turned to weather the storm. 

 

"Mars-sworn. I am Ashmon Stormwalker, Codicier of the Iron Tenth!" 

 

 

 

[Trokair]

Hadad

 

Guilt? No, there was no guilt, it was not him that had broken the oaths, it was not him that had abandoned duty, that had transgressed. The Techsworn had misread him in that. Nor vengeance, though he was not wrong as far as some of the other saviours, there was a desire for it amongst them. Grieve and its companions, now that was closer to the mark. Though it too rang hollow to him, perhaps this spoke too just how long it had been since the Legion’s heart had been hale.

 

 

“None of us can choose our father, and while we might strive to be worthy of them, you to yours, I ounce to what had been mine, when they break with you, and ask of you to likewise turn your back on all you stand for, then by what right can they still claim to be a father. There is more to being a father and a son then some genetic tie. I cannot speak to yours, but the evidence of the last few days speak that he is better to his son then I had had.”

 

 

“I hear you Hadrian Numidax Basiliscus, better to live or die with duty true, then either with oaths discarded. I am Utu Mot Hadad, Legionless as witnessed by the black sands.”  

[Black Cohort]

The plan that was already set in motion before the Tech-marine emerged from the bowels of the ship would not wait while you fully figured out the new dynamics.

 

"I hate to interrupt." Capt Nuzry said.  "But we are 20 minutes from maximum weapons range to the target.  What is the plan?"

[Necronaut]

The Basilisk

 

Hadrian barked a rueful and raspy laugh, “Hah! Carry on then, ye blaggards! I will defer to whomever was leading this caper, but this is my ship. Run out our guns and put the fear in them, Captain Nuzry!”

 

Turning to the others, the grizzled techmarine paused and growled, "What is our plan for this bulk hauler, exactly?" 

Edited 1 hour ago by Necronaut