Editing Republican Commando (section)

===(18) Mjasiri===

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">The Blade's crew stand ready to move the VF/SS back to their hangars for maintenance. A number of Brynjol's serfs stand ready to escort Cyril back to the medicae deck to resume intensive care. However, the missive hanging over everyone's heads from the Tau Commander Korst'la has set a sour note over the atmosphere. Cortain has not been very cheery as of late.  Most of his cogitators have been focused more on what Korst'la might be needing the Commandos for.

"So, uh," Rose asks, "What's a Korst'la?"
"Korst'la is the crime lord who owns much of this sector," Cortain explains, "Nominally, he is controlled by the Inquisition, but in practice it is not the case."
"From what I read, The Inquisition watches over every human in the sector. What makes him different?"
"He is a Xenos, only tolerated because of his defection from the Tau Empire and his piles of dubiously-gained funds."
 "He's a-oh. So you DO keep some aliens around."
"The Inquisitors of Tiji are...not stellar examples of a proper Inquisition."
"Well, lad," Rockfist sighs, "His message is waiting at the holomap, for when you're ready. I think I need a drink..."
"Give me one too," Cortain requests, "I feel as though I might need something strong too."
 "Aye, lad," Rockfist wanders off, "I'll tell O'Malley to prepare the strong stuff..."

Cortain, in the meantime, hesitantly starts the message. The holomap slowly thrums to arcane life, its hololithic projectors beginning to move.

"Commandos! I do hope I find you well!" Korst'la beams as the message continues, "You've helped me out quite a bit, and made me quite a lot of profit. To celebrate, I would like to invite you to Volcania, in the Sheltered Reef subsector. The local tribes here are having a problem with some sort of beast killing them, and I'd like to turn it into a pleasant hunt with you. A friendly contest, if you will."
The message begins to fade.
"Meet me at Volcania, and we can begin our good-natured competition. I look forward to seeing you soon..."

Cortain glances at O'Malley.  Though one cannot see it, his eyes portray an image of pain.
"A hunt, this should prove interesting," Temur states, perking up, "Though judging by your reactions you have had unpleasant dealing with this 'Korst'la' before."
"He is not dead," Cortain states flatly, "Make your own conclusions."

O'Malley merely seethes silently, a number of the drinks lining the wall shaking as he barely controls his temper and psychic ability. Brynjol clomps into O'Malley's, his bloodstained surgical smock depending from his shoulders, fresh from forcing Cyril back into the Resuscatrix Chambers, noting the rumbling of the drinks on the walls.

"Keep your maleficarum under control, barman," Brynjol glares, catching the tail end of O'Malley's psychic episode.
"Forgive me, beardling," O'Malley admits, "But that Tau, we go back a ways, and I can't say that I can tolerate his presence."
Brynjol merely stares intensely, unconsiously rubbing his bionic leg.
"It takes great resolve and patience to resist the psychic veil, or maleficarum as ya call it," O'Malley states, "To fully resist it takes a fair bit of fortitude, amongst other things."
"I have the fortitude," Brynjol affirms, "The training is something hard to come by."
O'Malley leans in, real close, "We squats are an insular sort, and don't trust the machinations of the psyker. If you're willing to learn, I can teach you ways to resist their taint..."
Brynjol frowns, leaning on the head of his axe, "But aren't you a psyker, yourself?"
"I am a Living Ancestor, beardling," O'Malley retorts, "We squats don't develop psychic powers until we grow as old as I am. As a result, we temper its use with hundreds of years of experience."
"Sounds like a double standard..." Rose huffs.

The rest of the Commandos evacuate from O'Malley's Bar and Grill, not willing to suffer the incoming clusterfuck of a Wolf Priest and a pair of psykers.

"Rose, I have no issues with sanctionites and those who are blessed in the eyes of the Emperor," Brynjol explains, "But psychic power is dangerous and untrustworthy... magic turns on its wielder as often as those it is wielded against."
"Think of it what you will, lass," O'Malley explains, "Regardless, the offer stands. If you wish to learn our ways, then I will be ready to instruct."
"Being able to resist psykery would be useful..." Brynjol admits, "I may take you up on that."

The Commandos grudgingly set course for Volcania. The trip is quiet - there is no celebration. Rockfist and O'Malley keep to their counsel, while Rose spends a fair amount of time with Executor Thexus.

Regardless of that filthy stain upon the sector," Cyril burbles through the Resuscatrix chamber, "If the people there are suffering another xeno's predations and with Korst'la is waiting for us before lifting a finger to help, we are needed."
The attendant serfs, unable to understand his liquid burbling, merely nod politely.

Cortain decides to get his mind off the xenos with a history lesson from Thexus. He notes he and Rose are discussing things. Rose looks quite upset, while Thexus is his usual inscrutable self.
"So, Thexus.  How about we talk about the might of Mars so I can forget that we are listening to that alie-..." He pauses, "What is the issue here?"
"I HAVE DEBRIEFED THE AUXILIA REGARDING THE PREVIOUS MISSION," Thexus blasts.
"I'm...sorry," she sighs, quite devastated, "I'm sorry that you had to mute me, I'm just...I'm just trying to be helpful. It's just hard."
Brynjol glares at Cyril as the two listen over team vox. Cyril can only wince silently.
"I tried to keep you updated, but things were going by so fast," she says, "I couldn't keep up."
"BRIEFING IS CONCLUDED, NONETHELESS. WHAT DID YOU REQUIRE, LEGIONARY?"
"Distraction," Cortain sighs, "I just need something to stop reminding me that we are going to meet the Xenos crime lord again."
"I'll...I'll go back to the Squats..." Rose sighs, heading out of the small observation chamber.
"I SEE." Thexus states as Rose makes her way away. Brynjol attempts to console her, but she beelines straight for her room. Cortain listens intently as Thexus begins a lesson on the many ordinatus engines available to the Ordinatus Locum Macrotechnia, desperate to forget. Temur, seeking distraction of his own, offers to meet Cortain in the dueling rings, to vent their frustration.

Brynjol, in the meantime, seeks out O'Malley for that training. Entering O'Malley's Bar and Grill, O'Malley stares up.
"Figured ya'd be coming, beardling," he states, "Ready to begin?"
"Aye," Brynjol nods.
O'Malley gestures, and the bar clears out, except for his hearthguard.
"First things first, beardling, ya gotta find yer center, a quiet point that you fall back upon. Have a seat in the center, and close your eyes."
Brynjol crosses his legs in meditative position. Breathing deep, he wills himself to a quiet, introspective place.
"Good, beardling, good," O'Malley nods, "Now, focus in your quiet place. There's one thing that separates us from the xenos and witch filth."
O'Malley pauses.
"Hatred. Just as we keep a Book of Grudges to ever remind us," O'Malley explains, "You will always keep that hatred close to you."

Brynjol suddenly feel something hit the side of his head, as well as the crack of glass. O'Malley has begun to toss glasses psychically at him.
"Now, beardling, focus yer hatred."
Brynjol focuses deep. After the first clink, O'malley tosses another drink. However, Brynjol can almost swear its course changed a little midflight in his focus, hitting a pauldron instead of the helmet.
"Good. Again."
Brynjol, regrettably, struggles the second time, a glass clinking on his helmet.
"Yer not focusin' hard enough, beardling. Hate the glass. Hate the force that propels it. Hate ME."
Brynjol hisses, a wet animal sound fizzing between his teeth as he focuses. This time, it is clear and evident that the glass actively avoided him.
"Good, beardling. Remember, your hate is what fuels and sustains you. Your hatred is your shield against the maleficarum you despise."
O'Malley readies a swarm of glasses this time. He raises his hands, sending a furious salvo of drinks. But Brynjol is ready. With a howl of rage, they all shatter and deflect magnificently.
"Good, good..." O'Malley says, "Continue to practice. Let your hatred flow through you, for it is your best defense. That is enough for now."
O'Malley begins to polish a drink, "In the meantime, can I get you anything?"
"No, thanks," Brynjol nods, "The training is enough."

Cyril, concerned about Rose, knocks politely on Rose's door. She opens the door of her rather spartan room. She looks up, rather quietly, "Is there a problem?" she asks.
"There is no problem, Miss LaKhora," Cyril says, passing Rose a lasgun, "But it is time for more practice."
"Is that all I am? Another gun?" she cries, "In this awful mess of a millennium, is that all I can aspire to be?" It's evident she's quite devastated.
"Of course not," Cyril explains, "The gun stands between you and 'this awful mess of a millennium,' and practice provides structure to our lives."
Cyril kneels, peering at her through helmet-enhanced vision. "What has upset you so?" However, his charm test flubs.
"You are surrounded by guns. Thexus is an intelligent gun. The Squats use guns.  We are guns," Cortain interjects, "My hand IS a gun."
"I just..." she begins to break down, "I just feel so out of place. It will take me years to catch up to the squats' technical ability. There's no way I can meaningfully assist you all in combat. My psychic abilities are...new to me. Please...just leave me for now."

"If...that is what you desire, then so be it," Cyril stands, "I pray you find peace in solitude."
Cyril steps away in confusion and stops, staring down at the lasgun, then heads to the ranges. It would be disrespectful to requisition a gun and then not fire it. He cannot fathom why someone would refuse training, or have such an emotional outburst.

The days of warp travel continue peacefully and quietly, as everyone falls into a routine as time goes on. Days of training or quiet contemplation, followed by nights of rest. One day ends as normal, and everyone retires for rest. The night, however, is not ordinary.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WC1v-Q05n3c

Everyone suddenly wakes up,  floating in a greenish haze. None can feel the ground. All the Commandos are present, however.
"Brothers. I ill like this..." Cyril mutters. 
"What fresh hell is this?" Brynjol demands.

Surprisingly, the Commandos can also see Rose a little ways away. She is breathing heavily, unconscious. Forming up around her, the Commandos check on her status. Cyril gently places a gauntleted hand on Rose's shoulder. "Can you hear me, Rose?"
She's just breathing, sweating. It's clear she's under some sort of strain. Then the Commandos hear a keening, a familiar screech.
"I thought so..." Cyril sighs.
Out of the impossibly huge clouds of haze and mist, the all-too familiar form of the gargantuan Hellstar floats around, its pseudopods flailing about, its singular eye focused directly on the Commandos. It extends its bony beaked mouth forward.
As one, the Commandos group up between the mouth the size of a mountain and the unconscious psyker.

And then, another sound echoes through the mists with an impossible sonic boom. A sound akin to a beastly roar, mixed with a foghorn. Something ELSE is behind the Commandos, approaching in the mists. Something titanic and clearly bipedal. 

"Oh, this is fethed up!" Brynjol yells.

All that can be seen are two glowing red spots, as something, reminiscent of a claw extends its way forward.  The Hellstar's eye suddenly breaks off the Commandos and focuses intently, keening sharply at the new form before all goes white...

Cyril throws his helmet on as he awakens in his bed. "Brothers, did you just have a strange dream?"
Brynjol's voice comes through on the vox next, "Medicae bay - now."
"Coming," Cyril replies, "Someone with a room in the hab deck, bring Rose."
Cortain immediately complies, as everyone gathers in Brynjol's medicae deck. Rose is unconscious in her room, the same state as in the dream.
"So...how much you wish to bet that we find the Hellstar here?" Cortain asks, I wager the armourium."
"I doubt you will find anyone willing to bet against it," Cyril retorts, "Or I might wager my stashes of mjod."
"I'm assuming we're all in agreement that that was a psychic phenomenon?" Brynjol concludes, 
"Congratulations - everyone's getting a full brain scan. My question, which could be better answered by O'Malley or Rose, is this - how did this happen with an active Gellar Field?"

Hooking everyone up to medicae cogitators, everyone is within normal. There are some anomalous signals from Rose, but those disappear as she begins to stir. The Commandos are in agreement - the last time Rose had such an episode, the Hellstar was near. Confirming with the crew that it was only the five of them that suffered such an attack, the Commandos affirm to make the appropriate preparations.

The rest of the trip goes by in worried preparation. Eventually, the Blade makes it back to realspace, and with a few days begins orbit procedure. Volcania is a temperate feudal world of savannahs and light forests, broken by the occasional volcano. Its population consists of 61 primitive tribesmen constantly struggling to survive, the strongest taken for candidacy of the Deep Ones Space Marine chapter. While the Commandos express disbelief at a mere 61 people inhabiting a planet, they turn their attention to Volcania's most famous landmark, the wreck of Craftworld Kionash, which rounds the command bridge viewport. As the story goes, a legendary deathwatch kill team with a single grand cruiser brought down an entire craftworld in a single day of fighting, though reports are sketchy on exactly HOW such a feat was performed.

"Evacuation should not take long; the planet is inhabited by less than one hundred humans," Cyril notes, "The Deep Ones recruit from them, and might take exception should Exterminatus prove necessary, but they have other recruiting worlds."
Cortain is not amused.  "He could have just warned us about this. Do these Inquisitorial dunces have ANY sense of urgency?"
"I doubt IT knew," Cyril corrects, "Tau are not particularly sensitive to psychic events."

Floating amongst the wreckage of the destroyed Craftworld, the ship vox beeps. A communication is received.

"Warned you about what?" the vox states, "Regardless, I'm quite glad you could make it."
"Save it, Korst'la. We have higher priorities than your silly little hunt, or even this world's inhabitants," Cyril grunts, "The Hellstar comes."
"Truly? Well then. It looks like the stage is set for a special hunt," Korst'la replies as the screen focuses on him, "I've established a base camp on one of the savannahs. I have some of the natives here to explain what they saw."
"They can explain over vox as our Stormbirds take them aboard the Blade of the Long Watch and we prepare to engage the Hellstar and its harbingers," Cyril retorts.
"Regrettably, they don't speak...Gothic," Korst'la admits, "Jamal, however, has been able to translate somehow. I can tell you more when you get here. I'll send the location to you. I'll be waiting..."
The vox cuts out.
"I'm getting rather tired of this blue bastard," Brynjol sighs.
"Getting?" Cyril asks.
"Jamal?" Cortain wonders.

The Commandos suit up, finding they have little requisition for the outing. Pooling it together, they consider a tank, but renege upon Rockfist's recommendation that such a move may hurt them on the propaganda front, a terribly unfamiliar front where a space marine cannot simply shoot or cut through. Nonetheless, they heed his recommendation, selecting an attack bike instead to shuttle Temur and Brynjol around, while Cortain and Cyril take jump packs and a supply drop in case of emergency.

Everyone boards a Stormbird as the requisite gear is loaded, and the Urists are briefed. The Stormbird is launched out of the bay, towards the dry world of Volcania.  The Urists deftly dodge craftworld wreckage as they break atmosphere, the calm clouds drifting lazily across the sky. Eventually, a number of temporary structures are seen, made of native wood and other materials. Finally landing amongst a tidewall shieldline staffed by House troops, the Stormbird opens its doors to the hot savannah air.

"Ah, very good, very good," Korst'la steps forward, clapping, "I'm so glad you could make it."
Drones begin to surround the Commandos, snapping picts for casting.
Cortain restrains what he has.  "Where is this thing?"
"Ah...strictly business as normal," Korst'la sighs, "You need to lighten up a little. We're here to have fun, after all! Nonetheless, please, this way. The natives would like to meet you."
Cyril ignores Korst'la, and turns to face the team. "The Emperor protects," he states simply, "There is only the Emperor, our shield and protector, and as we serve Him, so too is He our greatest servant."
"So where are these natives then?" Cortain insists.
"Perhaps he will also look to your success today?" Korst'la laughs, much to Cyril's ranklement "Poor old me, I can only rely on Khodexus and Jamal. This way, my friend."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k9Xu5DxU8xw&t=13m30s

Korst'la begins to walk alongside the simple brick and wood structures. It's clear these natives are artificially stabilized in the Iron Age. Each has their spear and simple at the ready, staring at the Commandos. 
"We've made some headways in communication," Korst'la explains, "It's a very ancient form of Gothic. Nonetheless, for an equal and fun hunt, I'll share what they have told us."
Rounding the bend, where the familiar armed form of Khodexus stands next to a purple-armored Techmarine, Korst'la turns.
"We're here for an actually important matter, Korst'la," Brynjol demands, "Let's get this foolishness done with and then we can attend to some real work."
"Oh, there's plenty of time for real work," Korst'la says dismissively, before stepping back, "If you have to ask a question, Jamal can translate."
The purple-armored techmarine waves.

"What have you learned thus far of the creature you hunt?" Cyril begins, privately confirming additional evacuation transports are on the way.
Jamal, the Black Panthers Techmarine, speaks strange words to the native, who responds in kind.
"He says it's a BIG beast, very terrifying. It's killed many of his tribe," Jamal explains.
"How enlightening..." Khodexus mutters under his breath.
"Specifics?" Brynjol presses.
Jamal chatters once again with the native. "He says that it is made of many bones," Jamal continues, "Its eyes are empty, it wields the Emperor's fury that touches our spears during storms, and...sorry, couldn't make out that last part."
"'Emperor's fury that touches spears?'" Cortain wonders.
"Dealing with primitive riddles, the highlight of my day," Khodexus hisses, "Infuriating."
"Lightning..." Brynjol sighs.

"How many legs does it have?" Cyril asks.
Consulting with the native warrior, Jamal receives an answer. "It has four legs," he says, "And what little fur it has hides sharp bones."
"Any eyes in unnatural places?" Cortain confirms.
More consultation. "Its head bone was scorched by the Emperor's fury, and it is slightly larger than animals around here. He said he didn't see any eyes, just empty sockets. Spooky."

"Somehow I doubt it is a creature of our chief enemy, brothers," Cyril muses, "Insanity usually strikes before they do, if you will recall - the larger forms do not manifest until the Star itself is upon a world."
"Most importantly, HOW big?" Brynjol asks, "Is it an overgrown ambull, or a tyranid hierophant?"
"The local animals here are various mammals," Korst'la states, "The largest observed so far have been equivalent to your Land Raiders and Spartans."
"Large indeed," Cyril privately voxes, continuing to avoid addressing the Tau. It would only encourage it.
"If this thing is as large or larger than that," Khodexus sighs, "Then this may actually be worth our time."
"It's definitely a worthy hunt," Korst'la says, "I think it will be interesting to see which of us gets to it first."

"We shall see when the hunt concludes," Temur concludes, "Until then, do we have a last known area?"
"Ah, good question. Jamal, ask," Korst'la commands.
More conference. "These savannahs have areas where the trees are somewhat thicker. It has always been seen amongst the trees. 'Course, the trees even in the thickets are kind of sparse..."
Korst'la raises a pair of revolvers. "Shouldn't be a problem. Cover isn't really a problem for us."
"It hides in the thickets?" Cortain asks, "Might make for some passsable cover to the locals."
"How big are these trees?" Cyril asks, "Would they impede an attack bike?" 
"They should not," Korst'la explains, "Bikes and hovercraft should be able to traverse the shrubland and thickets without issue. The trees are spread out enough."

"To reiterate, then: we are dealing with a four-limbed biped surpassing superheavy transports in size, which has empty eye sockets, sparse fur, a bony frame, and wields lightning while lurking about trees," Cyril states.
"Congratulations," Khodexus sighs, "You have shown basic comprehension. You are already superior to Jamal then."
"Oh joy," Cortain sighs. Cyril only gnashes his teeth.

After a little bit, all hear the thrum of engines. Another pair of Stormbirds have arrived, landing off to the side in an area guarded by tidewall emplacements. Rockfist, Thexus, and Rose disembark in orderly formation, with a few squats following in case a landing zone needed securing. While Thexus and Rockfist are in full combat regalia, Rose is in a safari jacket and thick brimmed hat, lasgun slinged on her back.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MZiAXUGE1cU

Cyril immediately commands for evacuations, but it seems the support crew have other ideas.
"So, you're Korst'la?" Rose asks, "Thanks for inviting us on your safari."
Before the Commandos can save Rose from Korst'la, Thexus and Rockfist step forward.

"THE AUXILIA HAS BROUGHT ADDITIONAL SUPPLIES AFTER BEING INVITED BY THE XENOS," Thexus states.
Thexus hands the Commandos a box. They stare blankly at it.
"Don't look at us, lad," Rockfist shrugs, "The lass felt it would make the experience better."
Cortain opens the box to find a set of four pith helmets. They conveniently fit over current helmets at no loss or impedance of functionality. The Commandos don their hats, each displaying a varying level of annoyance or confusion. While Cyril dons a helmet only to avoid shattering Rose's already fragile emotions, Cortain can only comment on how inefficient it feels. He briefly considers foisting it on Thexus, but considers the Paragon of Metal doesn't really have much of a head to foist it on anyway.

"You do realize the Hellstar will most likely interrupt at the least convenient time possible?" Cyril says to everyone and no one.
"Maybe it will bring some excitement to this little adventure," Khodexus mutters.
"Then we should ensure there is no inconvenient time," Temur declares, gunning the bike's engines to the last known position indicated.
"Be careful what you wish for," Brynjol glares from the sidecar. Cyril joins everyone with his jump pack.
"Well then, my friends," Korst'la says, not noticing most of the Commandos have left, "We'll rest the night and then set off in the morning. Let's celebrate tonight to a successful hunt on the morrow!".
"Heresy grows from idleness," Temur retorts, "And I have a trail to hunt!"
"And the early bird does not always get the worm," Korst'la suggests over vox, "I do not believe you will find anything yet. In fact, I feel it. It's the safari spirit. You probably won't find anything until the morning, try as you might."
"And I would rather give proof to that claim with action," Temur declares, "No White Scar has ever delayed a hunt on a simple feeling!"
"So be it," Korst'la states, a smile rising on his face, "A night hunt will certainly be interesting then. The moon is bright enough. Good luck on the field then! We shall ride as well! Come along, Miss Rose, we have much to discuss..."

Cyril pauses at Korst'la's words, reacting to them for the first time. Korst'la always did know how to get people to pay attention. As the Commandos all reform and leave for the hunt, and Korst'la, Khodexus, and Jamal leave with the rest of the support crew into the savannahs, the hunt is on.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SbIWLbmPjR4

Kicking up a storm under the bright moonlit sky, the plains and savannahs of Volcania call out to the Commandos. The savannahs stretch out, the occasional tree lining the grasslands. In the distance, a few mountains rise. Somewhere out there, the prey awaits, a "bony skeletal beast that can summon the Emperor's Fury."

Brynjol	pulls his helm off, letting his black hair stream in the slipstream, taking a deep breath of the air. All around, he can smell the savannah, the wildlife, the plants. He can smell water up ahead, towards the east, a clean crisp smell. He can also smell foliage off in the distance to the south.  Finally, he can smell animals, probs the wildlife, to the east heading north.

"Brynjol, when we return to the Blade..." Cyril suggests, "I feel you should speak with Rose. Something is bothering her, but I am no Chaplain, and she did not wish to confide in me."
"Aye? What about, do you think?" Brynjol asks, but Cyril remains quiet. '

The rest of the Commandos survey the area. They can see and hear the wildlife, a bunch of spess-wildebeest charging across the plains, a spess-elephant calmly resting under a spess-acacia, and the spess-jackals watching intently. Cyril briefly opens his helmet, before rapidly putting it back on as the ice crystal sparkles attract every tribeswoman at the base camp.

Remembering that their quarry was last seen amongst the trees, the Commandos make their way towards what passes for wooded areas on this world. After briefly wondering who's in charge of the Blade of the Long Watch, reaffirming evacuation procedures, and lighting small brushfires that will no doubt grow into larger conflagrations in the future, the Commandos note the trees begin to become more common, and some semblance of a thin forest begins to manifest in the distance. A strange rock in the ground catches most of their attention, pale, white and jagged. 
There are cracks in the earth at its base, and round domes, akin to bubbles are spread sporadically over the oddly-shaped lump. Cyril reviews the cracks, reminding him of a drop pod's impact, noting that this rock was not natural to this place. He and Temur dismiss the bubbles that dot the rock - Brynjol and Cortain, however, remain remain silent regarding the symbols carved upon them, reminiscent of eyes.

"O'Malley, there is a strange lithoform at our location," Cyril voxes, "Please advise."
"Hmm. Is it attackin' ya, beardling?" O'Malley voxes.
"Hardly, though it is suspicious," Cortain notes.
"Is it blockin' yer way?" O'Malley continues.
"Negative, O'Malley," Cyril voxes.
"Then it's not much to worry about," O'Malley voxes.
"Very well. Time spent investigating this is time Korst'la will be using to find the beast," Cyril commands, "Unless those lumps have eyes in them, it should not be a problem."
Cortain shakes off an ominous feeling.

The Commandos regroup by a small pool of water, a verdant oasis of sorts. Moonlight reflects off it. While the main pool of the oasis reflects the stars above, the Commandos note the collection of trees to one side, a small wooden shack below them. The animals pay them no mind, though a native crotalid variant merely stares as it floats along the water. Deciding there is nothing of value around, the Commandos push on into the trees. 

In the forested part of the savannah, the Commandos begin searching out tracks or anything that can assist them in the hunt. While Cortain follows some avian tracks into the water, getting bogged down in mud, Temur picks up a large pair of prints in the soft, bloody ground. A normal sized human can stand in them without issue. There are two distinct sets - one pair wide and thin, and another reminiscent of a human hand. He considers that, given they are paired, it was the same creature with a peculiar gait. The Commandos are excited - their prey is near. 

Following the pathways, Temur's trained huntsman's eye leading the way, the branches of the trees begin to hide the light. Autosenses kick in to compensate as the sounds of animals echo around. The forest is thick here, and the Commandos breathe deep in anticipation. Regrettably, their reverie is broken by a pair of incoming vox messages. One appears to be pinging as Rockfist. The other pings as Korst'la.

Cortain hesitantly opens vox to Korst'la first.
"Hello, hello!" Korst'la begins, "How is your end of the hunt going?"
"No complaints," he mutters, "Let us leave it as it is."
"Very well," Korst'la shrugs over vox, "Your friend suggested I alert you to something we found here. I was against it, after all it would go against fair competition, but she suggested it anyway."
"What?" Cortain stomps the ground in an attempt to get everyone's attention.
"So, here we are. We found some natives here," Korst'la states, "They don't seem to be...fully there if you catch my meaning. Caught them cutting into their own eyes and blathering nonsense."
"It's quite terrible," Rose adds.
"We told you the Hellstar was coming, you fool!" Cyril angrily yells, "I assume they have been purged?"
"Khodexus is giving a survivor a once-over in his usual way," Korst'la says, "And yes. I know it's coming. It should spice up the night. I do believe that it should be here soon based on the prior evidence. I'll leave you to your hunt, as requested."
"Good luck, Comman-" Rose says as the feed cuts from them.

Cortain considers a regroup with Korst'la, until Rockfist's message is cleared. He sounds a bit more concerned.
"Blast that blue wretch..." Rockfist sighs, "Too damn fast. Sorry, lads, but we lost'em."
The Commandos all halt.
"ROSE IS UNSUPERVISED IN THE COMPANY OF XENOS?" Cyril yells.
Cortain begins a litany of binaric swears.
"AFFIRMATIVE, LEGIONARY. WE WILL RETURN TO THE STORMBIRDS."
"That naive child needs a chaperone, lest the wretched abominations corrupt her thoughts!" Cyril cries, "FIND THEM!"
"Relax, Cyril..." Brynjol suggests, "Korst'la won't try anything."
"Tau are not innocent," Cortain reminds him, "Tau corrupt. They corrupted Guardsmen to their greater good, and when you consider that Khodexus is also an associate, there are few thing that CAN lead to Rose being safe!"
Brynjol shakes his head.
"WON'T HE?" Cyril can barely control his fury, "Brynjol, you are a Chaplain, are you not? We rely on you to guard our souls. Rose is one of us now, for better or worse. She is your responsibility as much as anyone's. I have already requested that you investigate her recent emotional weakness, but if you trust that xenos not to take advantage, then you are a FOOL."
"I mean that we're profitable to him, for now," Brynjol stares Cyril in the face, "He won't risk that over some petty morals."
"I have suspicions to the opposite," Cortain sighs.
Cyril nods agreement with Cortain, then engages his jump pack. "This conversation can wait until sometime after we resolve this absurd hunt."

As the vox messages end, the Commandos feel a chill wind blow across the trees. 

Jetting and riding deeper into the forest, the Commandos come across a reflective, shallow pool. Unlike before, no animals surround this one. A rotting stench is evident. What catches the their eye most, however, are a pair of Volcanian natives, kind of just shuffling about aimlessly in the pool's center. Brynjol dismounts the sidecar, walking towards them.

"Cover me," he murmurs into his vox. The Commandos aim in response.

As Brynjol approaches, Cortain moving up as well to cover, he sees they're just kind of shuffling, staring into the sky. Their backs are to him.
"Turn and face me, fellows!" Brynjol demands.
Both stop, turning slowly. Their language is incomprehensible, but the self-inflicted damage to one of their eyes each leaves no doubt as to what happened. Their volume increases loudly. Brynjol slowly draws his axe as they do nothing but chant in their strange language.

Cyril sighs, "If I were not concerned that it would catalyze some unholy ritual, I would just shoot them."

And then the keening starts.

"Catalysis started," Cortain facepalms.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aiBRGwzc4lc

Brynjol and Cortain immediately cleave the two addled tribesmen in two, adding their blood to the pool they stand in. But it is too late as the spheroid Hellstar floats idly above, its eye rapidly shifting from place to place, as its pseudopods and beak extend.

"To business then."  Cortain readies his Serpenta.

Out of the blood rise those jet-black reflective winged humanoids, the Descendants, a number of Hounds at their feet. While Cyril and Temur sigh at the featureless beings, Cortain and Brynjol note something off. There are patches of eyeballs seemingly growing on different places on the jet-black Descendants. The Hounds seem somewhat flayed, eyes protruding from boils in the skin. Their wings are trailing some sort of white haze, while they wield new silver swords.

"They're even more debased than last time!" Brynjol yells, much to Cyril's and Temur's confusion.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kFhsZNNfmdE

While the Hellstar's eye is focused elsewhere, the Commandos take the initiative to begin their work. Brynjol immediately smashes down a Hound, leaving three more. Cortain and Brynjol are immediately set upon by the Descendants' meteoric blades, while the Hounds circle around, aiming for Temur and Cyril. Crawling up Cortain's servo-harness, and entering the acute angles the harness forms, the Hounds flank Cyril and Temur, catching them in combat once more. 

Combat slows down horrifically as Zuvassin the Chaos God of Failure and Dice Roller shows his favor. The Commandos struggle as Cortain is heavily wounded and stunned from a Hound's stare, with all weapons jammed and his cyber-familiar burnt out, Temur is struck in the back, and Cyril weathers a most terrible storm. The Hounds continue to claw at Temur and Cyril, as Cortain brushes against the Descendant's tail, feeling his mind open as the Descendant actually steals a point of Insanity from him. The tables finally turn when Temur stabs the hound attacking him with a power sword, and Cyril manages to take down his hound with a pistol. The Descendant rises in the sky, raising its arms as Cortain manages a strike, and a jagged white meteor descends down from the Hellstar in a show of kosmic power. Temur and Cyril barely dodge the impact zone as Cyril returns fire on the final Descendant, leaving the last Hound on Cortain for Temur to clear.

"Commandos to House Korst'la, we are engaged with Hellstar creatures," Cyril voxes as the dust clears, "What is your situation?"
Korst'la's live feed hooks into his helmet augurs. Jamal is screaming, while Rose is taking defensive position, trying to assist where she can. Korst'la and Khodexus are having the time of their lives duelling a very familiar face.
"Commandos! My friends! We're doing absolutely fine here!" Korst'la replies, "No need to worry about us!"
"KILL THE CYKA!" Cyril yells, "AND ABOUT THE GIRL?"
"I'm...I'm fine," Rose voxes back, "They haven't focused me yet."
"Rose, can you hear me? Let them handle the brunt of the fighting. You are doing well. THE REST OF YOU, KILL THE PRESENCE! QUIT BLUBBERING JAMAL, AND MAKE THE EMPEROR PROUD!"

The Commandos regroup and reload as Cortain hears a strange screeching off in the distance. He can also detect electric surges. Recognizing the voltaic signals, he advises hurrying towards the target, finally sighted. 
"Stay frosty, brothers," Cyril commands, "FORWAARRRD!"

Heading on through the thinning forest, the Commandos come to a great graveyard. It's clear that many animals would come here to die. Of worrying note are the ded human corpses, each missing an eye. What is most worrying is the Hellstar's eye suddenly turning to the Commandos, instead of a battle far away. Entering the wildlife graveyard, a number of the bones begin to shudder, a spark flicking off some. Then the bones get up. The four-legged creature, once alive, now skeletal and held together by kosmic electricity, blasts forth its challenge.

Cortain locks and loads, "If this continues, I am seriously planning to erase my mind."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XoyevcAnbb4

As the being advances forward, the Commandos once again see reflected in it that staring eye, that impossibly tall shadowy figure wielding a hammer and claw, a primal fear deep within their geneseed that locks them in place. Cortain is frozen in terror, while Cyril begins to flee. Temur all-out loses consciousness, falling where he stands.

The creature leaps up, hitting the ground. The remnants of its fur conduct an electric arc directly at Cyril, but he narrowly dodges. While Cortain struggles to unfuck himself, and Temur remains unconscious, Cyril finally regains control and turns his storm bolter to the beast. Unloading into it, Cyril does an incredible amount of damage to the unnatural skeletal being. Enraged, the creature charges, barely missing Cyril, but releasing a bright nova of electricity from its sparking body. While Cortain remains frozen, Temur finally recovers, and guns his bike directly at the creature, its eyeless skull seemingly staring at Temur. Scoring a direct impact with his lance from bike-point, Temur succeeds in critically wounding the beast, but also triggers an electric nova, destroying his bike. The creature counter-attacks with a blast of electric lightning from its skull, akin to electric breath, but the Commandos hop out of the way and exploit the new opening as Cyril once more aims his storm bolter, the bolts flying true and ripping the beast apart in a shower of bone and hazy mist.

Much to the Commandos' relief, the Hellstar above begins to phase out, its singular eye once more flitting from place to place. Cortain examines the shards and remnants, finding a number of small glowing blue stones. They're still electric to the touch.

"Beardlings, the Blade's secure," O'Malley voxes.
"Good," Cortain sighs, pocketing the stones, "At last, some GOOD news."
"Good news is the word of the day!" Korst'la voxes, "Meet me back at the base camp, and we can compare our spoils."
"I'm afraid we will need extraction from this location," Temur says, "Our bike is damaged and inoperative."
"I'll dispatch a Phantomfish, I have some on station," Korst'la voxes.

Sure enough, a purple Phantomfish is dispatched, and the Commandos grudgingly board for the trip back to base camp. Reuniting with everyone, Rockfist looks utterly exhausted while Thexus is inscrutable as always. However, Korst'la and Khodexus have the biggest shit-eating grins on their faces.

"I must say, that was quite exhilarating," Khodexus states, a smile inhumanly wide on his face, that's spooking the ever living shit out of the villagers.
"So then, what did you get?" Korst'la asks.
Cortain shows no expression on his face and in his movements as he displays the electric rocks.
This is your prey," Cortain declares, "It struck with the Emperor's fury, but that meant little to the Emperor's Sons."
"Wait, if the Primarchs were his sons, doesn't that make us Grandsons?" Cyril asks privately.
Korst'la leans in, closely. "YOUR prey, actually. I suppose I was incorrect about the whole safari spirit thing. Nonetheless, we merely got caught up with this rather strange looking woman. Her movements and physique quite reminded me of a...puppet, or perhaps a doll."
"Did she suffer?" Cortain insists.
"I can't say - she looked rather plastic. But I digress. I acknowledge you as the victor of our little game," Korst'la signs the Aquila awkwardly, missing a finger to do it properly, "May your Emperor keep you in his eyes. Or something."
The House troops begin to depart, Korst'la waving.
"Good luck, my friends, I'll have need of you in the future..."

The Commandos crowd around Rose.
"Rose. Are you okay?" Cortain asks.
Rose steps forward, slightly shaken, but unharmed. "Yes, I'm fine."
The Commandos give the order, and the Stormbirds are prepped for departure.
"You know, that Korst'la isn't that bad of a guy," Rose says as she boards a Stormbird, "He seems friendly enough, and he does seem to have your best interests at heart."
Thexus and Rockfist soon follow her aboard, eager to leave.

"Do not trust the alien, for his guises are many," Cortain admonishes her, "The Tau in particular are skilled in deceiving the faithful."
"Hmm," she thinks, "I didn't sense any deceit, but I guess I'll be careful."
Cyril nods simply, and awkwardly tries to hug Rose without crushing her with his armor. She tries to squirm out, however. Though she says nothing, it's clear something is wrong.
"Just give us the order, Commandos!" The Urist brothers state as they ready the engines.
"Take us home, lads," Cyril states wearily.
"Aye, Commandos!" The Urist Brothers state.

The Stormbirds take off, the Commandos within returning to the Blade for recovery, re-armament, and psychological evaluation.
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