Republican Commando

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In the latest of Shas'o R'myr's games in the Tiji Sector, Spess Mareen: Republican Commando, the players are a Deathwatch Kill Team sent to the Tiji Sector to address a growing trouble called the Cult of the Hellstar. Far from civilized Imperial space, stuck out in the galactic boondocks, and facing horrific enemies and allies that will test their patience and sanity, they must complete their mission, combining the faith of the present with the strength of the past, all in the Emperor's name.

In other words, bad shit is going down in Tiji - worse than usual, even - but that's okay, because with four Deathwatch Marines, a literal (void)shipload of 30K era archeotech, and faith in the Emperor, the Primarchs, and the brothers that fight by one's side, all things are possible.

Episodes

First Season

• First thread - Rules of Nature; Long Travels
• Second thread - Republican Commandos; Substance; Big Business
• Third thread - ...And Hindsight; Fear Itself
• Fourth thread - Stranger in a Strange Land; Shiny and Chrome
• Fifth thread - Hot Wind Blowing; Oculus Aquila
• Sixth thread - Symphony of the Night; Reverse Ideology; It Keeps Happening
• Seventh thread - Wet and Dry; The Ritual; Firestorm Under Hylios
• COMING SOON™: A Stranger I Remain, The Fourth Column, Mjasiri, Imperishable, Once Blessed, Under the Knife, The Final Flight of the Walrus, From Beyond, and more! See the "Expand" button on the far right? Yes? Awesome! Hit it and enjoy the rest of the story.

Second Season

(16) A Stranger I Remain

Morale on the Blade amongst the living crew is high - a mighty blow was struck against Nidhoggr on Hylios. Though a frigate bearing the sigils of the Inquisition arrives too late to study the decomposed Magma Corer, the Commandos still are content. Cyril sets his corer plate in the trophy room, posting a 'do not touch' note and a pair of Scyllax to enforce it, but angrily rebukes Brynjol after he hacks and slashes his way through the defenses to touch the plate anyway.

Without a current project to work on, Cortain heads over to the newly-opened O'Malley's Bar and Grill near the Blade's bridge, Temur following close behind, quite curious at the Squats' establishment. Squats all around are trading out their combat gear for regular work gear now that the battle is over, and gathering for a drink at O'Malley's. Placed across from the Sector Holomap is a large book. the size of a squat, with a number of names written within.

"Can I get ya anythin', beardling?" O'Malley asks. "Two parts Motor Oil, one part Antifreeze, and maybe one part Recaf-Liquer," Cortain states, pulling up a stool and grabbing some peanuts, "Hopefully, the antifreeze might inspire me." "Aye," O'Malley nods. He sticks out his hand, and summons a cup with telekinesis. He reaches under the cupboard for his industrial supplies, and preps the desired cocktail. Cortain takes a moment to look up as he takes a long drink, at the pict-caster above.

"...nd in other news, MAGMA CORERS! The terror of the Tyranid Splinter Fleets, halted! >An image of the Commandos cutting themselves out of the Magma Corer is broadcast. The Republican Commandos have done it again! And now a word from our sponsors..." The pict-caster fades to commercial break, advertising the new collectible Republican Commando Action Figure line.

Temur, however, inspects the book curiously. Within the book are a number of names. Some are squattish, some human, some clearly xenos, One name, circled up top in bold letters, is impossible to miss - "Korst'la." "What is that giant book you have installed near the holomap?" Temur asks. "Hmm?" O'Malley grunts, "Ah. The Book of Grudges. Everyone who's ever wronged us, who's done poor by us, gets put in that book." "I see," Temur nods, "The Storm Brotherhoods keep a similar great roll, that the Khan may choose a worthy foe for each great hunt." "Aye. Only way ta get off the Book is ta make things right," Rockfist adds, having some stronger stuff, "Usually it means we get a throng of the lads together and bash some skulls in." "There has not been a new great hunt called in some time though," Temur muses, "I am hopeful it will only be so after I am done my duties here so that I may take part..."

Cortain raises Thexus on Vox after taking finishing his drink. "Honourable Paragon, what can you explain about...Cyber-Familiars?" "TINY ASSISTANTS TO THE COVENANTER'S WORK. THEY WOULD HANDLE SMALL TASKS, ADJUST TOOL POWER, AND AID IN FORGING OF WARGEAR. DO YOU REQUIRE ONE?" Thexus asks. "Would it perhaps be possible...to convert a Servo-Skull into one?" Cortain asks. "IF THAT IS WHAT YOU REQUIRE, IT SHALL BE DONE. I SHALL ACQUIRE A HELOT'S SKULL AND MAKE THE NECESSARY UPGRADES. I SHALL RETURN MOMENTARILY." The vox channel goes quiet. "....Wait, I have a servo-skull I could offer instead!" Cortain swiftly replies, but he gets no response. Cortain feels a foreboding most ominous...

"So, where to next?" Rose asks, sipping her own drink, "I've had this weird headache ever since we got here, so I'm kind of eager to leave." "The Shadow in the Warp?" Cyril asks, "Perhaps Nidhoggr is not so thoroughly vanquished here as Rockfist thought. The station is more pressing, though. The Inquisition desires that station's secrets, and I want them out of Tau hands." "I don't know what a shadow in the warp is," Rose shrugs, but my headache stopped when you guys got back." "I feel a particular interest in seeing this space station," Cortain suggests, "I only worry about what the Black Caste has planned..." "All right, lad, we'll set it as our next destination," Rockfist says, leaning over and loudly barking orders at the bridge crew down the passage way. The Blade enters the Warp, on its way to Tempestus Solaris. The Commandos spend much of their time in O'Malley's for now, sharing ideas of what to carve the corer plate into, while Brynjol can only wonder why there is so much Mjod about. O'Malley can only shrug, while Cyril and Cortain remain quiet about how much they bought back on Studio 69.

05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)24.205.112.238 05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC) Meanwhile, in the underdecks of the vessel, a Squat is walking along whistling. Then he hears a clanging, and sees the massive Executor Thexus clanging towards him. He stops whistling. A single tear rolls down his cheek as the claw swiftly approaches his face... 05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)24.205.112.238 05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)

"So, these Tau..." Rose begins, "You seemed pretty upset last time you encountered them. Are they that bad?" "The last time I faced one..." he traces his abdomen. "I nearly got bisected. I intend to enact something equally violent upon them." "They usually-" Cyril turns down his armour speakers. "They usually die quickly and easily, provided you know when, where, and how to strike. This 'Black Caste' is an anomaly." "The Black Caste in particular are extremely militant and a fanatical devotion to...something, almost above their Greater Good." "Oh..." Rose sighs, "There were a number of alien species we encountered when we had begun our colonizations, most seemed friendly enough. It's somewhat sad." "Aliens often seem friendly," Cyril points out, "They have invariably betrayed humanity." "Every single time?" Rose asks, "That hardly seems possible." "The Age of Strife is exactly this," Cortain explains. "They must all be purged, but galactic threats like the Tyranids come first," Cyril adds, "This Black Caste is more aggressive, though, and well worth our efforts even if they were not occupying a valuable void station." "To be fair, your Age of Strife corresponds to our Age of Trade," Rockfist notes, "But it also leads to the Age of Wars." "Many names were added to the Books of Grudges those days," O'Malley sighs, "Never trust anyone but yer kin an' yer brotherhood." Rose dejectedly finishes her drink as the day winds down. While the week is quiet, and Thexus is surprisingly nowhere to be seen, the loud tearing of the veil between Materium and Warp alerts everyone to the fact that warp travel is complete.

The Blade has entered the Tempestus Solaris system from the top, and the Blade's augurs pick up the faint communiques of Imperial Navy vessels long since departed.The Commandos are, however, getting a communication herald on augurs, which Cortain accepts.

"Commandos...I would advise silent running as you approach." "Deepthroat," Cortain recognizes as Cyril orders it so. "Very good. You took your time this time, it seems," Deepthroat rumbles, "You are, however, in luck, the Black Caste are still here." "What have they accomplished thus far?" Cyril asks. "This station has served as an outpost from which they strike at your Navy maneuvers. With increased presence elsewhere, the Navy does not realize that such an outpost has been established within their own system. However, their own agenda has been slowed, though I cannot say if this bodes well or poorly for you." "Understood," Cyril answers, "Have they devoted any efforts towards unearthing any secrets of the station?" "Indeed. I am already aboard, scouting out potential landing zones," Deepthroat continues, "The Tau have...awoken something. I do not recognize it, but the entire station is on high alert. A fleet is returning within a few standard hours to reinforce." "We should probably infiltrate in before they arrive," Cortain notes. "I advise caution, as there are many crossfires and battles within these halls currently." "Infiltrate?" Brynjol laughs, "Surely you mean hack and slash!" "Brynjol, how many Tau have you faced?" Cyril asks, "Infiltration is a solid plan, and I, for one, support it entirely." Brynjol claps Cyril on the back. Ceramite creaks. "I was joking, you humourless tit," he points at the wolf-skull grin on his helmet, "Couldn't you tell?"

"Briefing appreciated, Deepthroat," Cyril states, "Is there anything else?" "I will transfer a series of access points I noted to you. Be warned, this place is strange. The Tau did not build it...but neither did you humans. It seems far older than both. I do not trust it." "How narrow are the internal spaces?" Temur asks, "If we are to deal with these xenos, I would prefer more information on our battleground if we have it." "You should be able to fit, Commandos, just as the battlesuits patrolling the halls do," Deepthroat hints ominously, "I advise something small for transport, larger vehicles will draw the ire of the defenses the Tau have co-opted." "Sounds like a Storm Raven," Cortain realizes. "I shall contact you further if necessary. Deepthroat out." The Blade's augurs pick up a message - a number of three-dimensional waypoints, all deep within one of the gas giants in system.

"Lads, don't worry about us, we'll pilot the Blade into the gas giant, and enter silent running until you give the word," Rockfist says, "They won't find us." The Blade approaches the Gas Giant on the outskirts of the system, dipping into the heavy cloud cover. Heavy winds buffet the battleship's hull as ferromantic runes of invulnerability are charged.

As a team, the Commandos collectively requisition a maniple of Vorax, arming them with bio-corrosive rounds to act as a distraction. Brynjol arms himself with a combat shield, while Cyril and Temur pick up jump packs for themselves. Cortain acquires a cyber-familiar, delivered by Executor Thexus - the cyber-skull is of impeccable quality, though Cortain wonders why it seems thicker and wider than a normal human skull...

The Two Urists take the Storm Raven out, the Commandos aboard, through the heavy yellow clouds that comprise the gas giant. Flying low, the Urists pull up, and the Commandos finally see the station ahead. Bright polished silver in color, with blue energy conduits pulsing throughout the superstructure, the station is thicker at the top than it is at the bottom, many bits protruding. Two of the waypoints Deepthroat pointed out are in the thicker middle of the station, while another is an extrusion towards the top.

"Can scans tell us anything about the internal structures around the waypoints?" Cyril asks. "Lad, we're not getting anything," Rockfist laments, "I don't know what that thing is made of, but augurs can't pierce it."

The station is floats amongst the clouds. Below, a storm rages. Cyril spares a few minutes to dump half a bucket of Tau blood over each of the ten Voraxes' heads, before conferring with everyone to select a landing zone. Getting closer, the station doesn't seem to be one solid piece - it's made of at least five different components. It comproses the central body itself, and four fins orbiting it, tens of meters away. All entry points, however, are on the central body. Two mid, one top.

"Emperor guide us..." Cyril takes a deep breath, "Eeeny, meeny, miney, moe..." "Mighty Vorax, there you go..." Cortain joins in.

The Commandos ultimately select an exposed platform near the top of the station, with a number of flat surfaces open. They command the Vorax be dropped on a lower level to better make a distraction. Brynjol leaps out, axe in one hand and sword in the other. He looks mildly disappointed not to be knee-deep in Tau immediately, but contents himself with an Oath of the Wolf King to mess up any Crisis Suits the Commandos may encounter.

"Beardlings, today you are the sword of the Imperium," O'Malley voxes, "Be silent and swift, and you can quell this without incident."

Above, thick yellow clouds flow, while below the storm in the gas giant rages. Looking around, the landing zone seems somewhat empty. However, the Commandos can see an access point in one of the structures that leads into the facility. It seems there are indentations, as if things would fit all over. The patterns that the Commandos see in the flowing power conduits, though, are unfamiliar. Cortain approaches the door first, and he finds it seems to open automatically with a hiss, the glass and metal sliding into the structure. He signals everyone in as the Commandos raise their bolters.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KAgLsG48lec

Cyril strides ahead of Brynjol, resettling his camo-cloak over winged pack. "I am the stealthiest, even without this equipment. Let me take point, brothers, and we will surprise the filth."

Entering the Landing Access Hallway, the ground rings with every step for now. The blue conduits on the ground pulse with every step. Steam leaks from the occasional pipe as the Commandos see another door ahead, which opens automatically as well.

Sneaking ahead, the Commandos are ninja as they enter a large assembly point. The three Fire Warrior Strikers on station patrol the corridor, two walking a route while one stands watch. Their Jet-black armor gives clear sign as to their allegiance.

Considering the best path is to reach them unawares, the Commandos take position. Cyril sneaks forward, and blasts the two Strikers on the ground, while Brynjol overcharges his jump pack, charging the one on watch. Brynjol cuts his jump pack on the descent, landing surprisingly light-footed and bisecting the Fire Warrior Striker with a hard, choked swing with both hands. The giblets of the former Striker fall off the edge of the station, into the gas giant below.

At this point, however, Cortain gets a sudden *BEEP BEEP* on his Graviton Data Codec. He hesitantly opens private comms.

"Contractor..." Deepthroat begins, "We have something for you to do while on your mission." "And here I thought I would actually forget about this deal," Cortain sighs. "The House never forgets." "State the terms." "We will start simple. Somewhere on that station, we've detected a cogitator bank, where they control the defenses. Find it, and open a hole in their security systems. We will take care of the rest." "Sounds perfectly acceptable." "We have reasons to believe that it is towards the lower levels of the top floors. Keep your augurs open. Deepthroat out."

Ahead, Brynjol can see the floor is made of blue energy. There are boxes and containers on the floor, moving along the paths of the energy. Some containers contain unrefined plasma fuel, it seems, while other containers hold only air. One path moves backwards, towards the staging area. Another moves deeper over an open air bridge into another part of the station.

"Deeper in, I suppose."

Heading along the Fuel Packaging Facility, the Commandos come to a large door which opens with a bright blue pulse. Here, they see a ramp that leads down, into lower decks of the station's protrusion. The other leads up, to the station's bulk proper. With every step, blue pulses head across the floor. Brynjol prods one of the blue pulses with his axehead warily, creating more pulses, as he impacts the ground.

"Downstairs, then?" Cortain suggests. "The lower decks might hold something of interest to the Inquisition," Cyril states, "But I suspect their Kor'o will be found further inside the station proper." "Perhaps we might find a security terminal there?" Cortain adds. "Perhaps. I can scout in..." Cyril nods, "Bryn, you are leading us. Your opinion?" "I defer to your judgement on this, Cyril," Brynjol grins, the gesture mirrored in his wolf mask, "You are, after all, our sneaker." "Temur, any thoughts?" Cyril asks, :The station will need a thorough purge in any case, but I would rather press on after the Commander than tarry trying to find it."

"It would depend greatly on the function of the station, and how the designers laid it out," Temur thinks, "For all we are aware the control center could likely be at the bottom. Clearing this level seems prudent to begin with." "Are you certain you could interface with this station even if we were to find what passes for a terminal here, Cortain?" Cyril asks, the final doubt on his mind. "I have confidence," Cortain states flatly.

Heading downstairs, there is a smaller door that leads off to the side. It opens into a long glass-lined hallway that leads outside the station for a bit. Looking down, there are clear signs of battle down below, on a far lower deck. The Vorax are fighting the Tau, heavy battlesuits deployed to this new problem. Most, however, see a third party. The fight is a three-way. There are figures in white armor, that look somewhat spindly, fighting both the Vorax and the Tau. White components float around them, similar to how the four structures orbit the station. Their weapons are bizarre, shooting orange and yellow shards. Their outer shell, it almost seems like Wraithbone.

Cyril suggests moving in to assist, but Cortain barely remembers reading about such things in the archives. Half-seen synthetic constructs the Squats reported only once. "Eldar?" he thinks first, before he realizes that they're too fast and...mechanical. It becomes rapidly clear who built this station in the gas giant.

"Armiger Soldier constructs. They are of Old One construction," he states, "They seem more interested in the Tau. Let the Vorax manage the case."

The Commandos don't quite understand, but accept Cortain's wisdom and move on. Passing the hallway, the Commandos come across a large storage area, more boxes of armaments laying about. Brynjol, however, hears a faint humming.

"Everybody get under cover," he suggests, "Something wicked this way comes."

Sure enough, a veritable cloud of Gun Drones fly overhead. The battle probably has their attention, however, and they are just chugging along. The cloud does not notice the Commandos, who choose not to engage. Having been passed by undetected, the Commandos resume their mission.

Within this area there are two doors - one beyond the boxes forward, and one off to the side, to the right. The one forward is smaller.

"I would not like to repeat the previous errors, brothers," Temur states, "Let us clear side passages first, and be thorough." "The smaller door might well be the 'side passage' in the twisted psyche of whatever beings made this place," Cyril shrugs.

Nonetheless, the Commandos select the smaller forward door first, finding a small room overlooking a hanger. There's a hastily-assembled cogitator bank of Tau construction in this room. Cables extend out, into the hangar below, and further. The hangar is blocked off by an energy field similar to a Tidewall. There are a number of Tau in the hangar bay. You can even see battlesuits. The security station, however, is left empty, most likely due to the Vorax and Armiger Soldier problem being addressed.

"Those Crisis Suits will be tough," Brynjol notes. "We should kill these tau and use their own cogitator for cover," Temur suggests, "they shoot back they wreck thier own equipment." Cortain, however, has another idea. Accessing the cogitator and breaking past its simple initial security systems, he can see that this is a security node, one of many spread across the station to monitor anomalies. Cortain realizes it can be disabled and cycled from here, and does so. He puts in the codes, and the security systems stop. The screen then flickers, and he sees "Establishing connection..."

After a minute, "Connection Established," and the hangar shield goes down. While the Tau in the hangar are confused, the Commandos hear a dull thrumming. Purple transport ships suddenly decloak, spraying pulse autocannon fire everywhere from turrets. The landing craft deploy numerous Tau and Dark Eldar teams, who take the Tau in the hangar by surprise, before moving on.

"We should move somewhere less conspicuous," Cyril suggests. Cortain scoots on out, mildly amused. "To the Commander, then?"

Leaving the Phantomfish and House Detachments behind, the Commandos take the larger pathway, which appears to be a narrow tube with a flare in the middle. The hallway pulses blue with every step, and reaching the central flare, the Commandos find enough room to stand and maneuver, as well as a blue Torch adjacent to a large box of what auspex readings identify as unrefined plasma.

"Got a selection of good things on sale, Stranger..." the Merchant rasps.

As a team, the Commandos manage to get Ion Shields for their VF/SS fighters. Cyril gets a Memorance Implant to better assist in his arts and crafts. Brynjol FINALLY gets his hexagrammatic wards for his armor. Temur throws caution and protocol to the wind, acquiring a Conversion Field. Cortain, however, gets himself a Djinn Skein, to better control the flow of battle and assist the other Commandos.

"Heh heh heh...thank you." The Merchant walks behind the plasmabox, disappearing.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-HgiI3fXnqM

The hallway rises higher into the core of the station itself. Arriving at the top of the hallway area, The Commandos see a large central area. It's clear maintenance was done here, but it is only recently that the Tau were the ones maintaining stuff. Small constructs flitting about, the same type of wraithbone material as the constructs earlier, buzzing around and repairing the station superstructure. The dull thrust of jet engines breaks the Commandos out of their observations, however, and while Cyril and Temur conceal themselves amongst the boxes and machinery, Cortain and Brynjol stand in the open, ready to challenge the three XV-8 battlesuits who have landed a little ways from them.

Brynjol immediately charges, yelling litanies of hatred. Each battlesuit appears to have a plasma rifle and a cyclic ion blaster, and Brynjol realizes it is going to be tough. He realizes it's gonna be tougher when the Tau utilize the abilities of their brand new formations to Supporting Fire each other. While Brynjol's Rosarius protects him from a number of plasma and ion shots, some get through. Brynjol takes heavy damage, but utilizes his new Wulfen Crozius to smash down a Crisis Suit. Temur leaps up to try and assist, but the Battlesuits detect him, and are able to dodge his grav cannon. Cyril them pops up, and kills another battlesuit with repeated storm bolter fire. The final battlesuit sees how spoopy he is, and actually fails its fear test, unable to approach, providing the perfect opening for Cortain to finish off the final battlesuit.

Brynjol grunts, rising from the corpse of the Crisis suited warrior, heavily favouring his augmetic leg. He moves to apply medicinal herb to his wounds as the rest of the Commandos move to explore the area. Finding a rounded elevatus, pulsating with energy and connected with a jury-rigged control panel, Cortain and Temur board it while Cyril leans in, taking an arm of the dead battlesuit pilots and having a nibble, letting the memories flow.

05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)24.205.112.238 The Crisis Suit squad is being deployed down from the roof. "Affirmative, Kor'O Ky'Monat, we shall hold them off," one crisis pilot says. "Good," a female voice says, "We have enough problems. These constructs, and now the House and Imperium are here. I will prepare everything from here. The fleet is almost here." "We understand! For our lost honor! For Aun'o O'res'nan!" 05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)24.205.112.238

"Anything of value?" Cortain asks. "Eat one Tau and you have tasted them all, but their flesh is satisfactor-" Cyril halts, "Oh, the memories. It seems their Air Caste leader is above. It ordered them here to hold us off. It is a female."

The Commandos are in agreement - their quarry is above. Cortain sees the control panel, and presses the up button. The elevatus shudders, and begins to move up, slowly but surely. As the Commandos ascend, a voice echoes through the station's voxnet.

"Your reputation precedes you..." a familiar female voice says, "We're cut from the same cloth." Cyril calls for silence, and everyone hunkers down. "We're all alone in this sector, adrift, sometimes we even questioned our purpose," the voice continues, "Don't try to deny it, I know. You wondered if being dispatched here was a bad idea." Checking their ammunition counts, the Commandos huddle up in formation. "Let me tell you..." Ky'Monat continues, "Here, I found purpose, ideals to fight for, not Expansion or Caste, but something more, under the Aun'O O'Res'nan. Do you understand?" "That was before we found a ship full of fabulous technology to make it worth something," Cortain admits, "Now I ask, what IS the Black Caste's purpose?" "Shhh - it might not be speaking to us," Cyril suggests, "Let us maintain surprise if possible." "Our purpose...we failed once before. But we looked inward, strengthened ourselves, fought for our own ideals now," Ky'monat replies, "Such things are not foreign to you, are they, Gue'ron'sha?" "Okay, definitely speaking to us..." Cyril sighs "That voice is going to get a boot in the arse!" Brynjol yells, swapping his Wulfen Crozius. "Your ideals of your failing Imperium, your sector crumbling under its own momentum?" she asks, "You still fight for your ideals, do you not?"

The elevatus finally reaches the roof of the station. The Commandos are exposed to the open air, the roof of the station providing a clear opening. Something fast zooms by at incredible speeds in the sky.

"If you would kill for your ideals..." Ky'monat laughs, "Then surely you are ready to die for them!"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-rj8HVW3PQ

"Come at me, boys!" Ky'Monat laughs.

Behind Ky'Monat, a Horde of Drones assembles, ready to provide cover fire. The Air Caste Commander, wearing a variant XV-0 class battlesuit, thin gossamer wings carrying her through the air, is armed with a pair of unique Ion Rifles with no stocks. Brynjol immediately charges forward, breaking through her shield and catching her before she can dodge with a hit from his Wulfen Crozius. But much to his surprise, Outsider links her Ion Rifles together into an ionized flexible staff. She then begins spinning, like a tornado. The wind at her back, she leaves an energized trail as she rolls into each of the Commandos, who manage to dodge, parry, or shield in equal measure. Landing, she separates her ion rifles and unloads into Cyril, who, out of dodges, is brought to criticals in a storm of ion fire.

Temur fires his grav cannon, and though four shots are shielded, one shot breaks through. Though her armor is weak, and the damage is low in comparison, Outsider fails the stun test and falls beond line of sight, opening things up for Cortain and Cyril to thin out the drones surrounding them. The few remaining drones turn themselves into suicide bombs and rush forward, but the Emperor is with Cyril, and his armor tanks the drones barely.

The Commandos realize that what they need is speed. They hastily force themselves into Squad Mode, and get Brynjol going with a Tactical Advance, putting him into melee range of the stunned Ky'Monat. he then triggers his own Squad Mode, Wolf Pack tactics, to start beating the shit out of her. Though two hits are shielded, she takes inordinate damage, especially from a lucky fury. But she's not dead yet. Her stimulant injector kicks in, unstunning her, and she reclicks her Ion Staff together. She releases a set of lightning attacks, though only two hit. Brynjol shields the two, content.

But then, he asks if he can parry one instead despite the shield. That's when things get weird.

"Can you handle this?" Ky'monat laughs.

Brynjol sticks his arms out, and to his shock the Ion Staff wraps around his arm. Commander Outsider charges forward, dragging the very confused Brynjol around. She charges Temur, swinging Brynjol at him. However, Temur draws his power sword and tries to parry Brynjol. He actually succeeds, and suprisingly goes for a Counter-Attack. Brynjol shields the counter-attack, deflecting the sword directly into Commander Outsider.

Commander Outsider stops, staggering backward, blue blood leaking out, she begins to smile. "You were wonderful..." she gurgle-laughs, "I see it now. Your ideals, perhaps they're stronger..." Brynjol lands nearby with an anticlimactic thud and crunch. "The rest of the H'esav'geka, will...enjoy you..." she falls, "I've studied...your dialects. I've...found one I'm quite...partial to. Ce fut un honneur de vous combattre...Je meurs sans douleur..."

The Commandos, however, are arguing over how to split the pieces of Ky'Monat when the air rumbles with a loud KABOOM, the Failsafe Detonator going off.

"Not... Again..." Cyril mutters. "I WANTED A BLOODY SKULL TO TAKE BACK!" Brynjol cries.

Her twin-ion rifle staff falls to the ground. It may not be the best or most desired trophy, but it's something. Brynjol moves to cover the fallen Cyril, but the Two Urists in the Storm Ravens swoop in low.

"Lads!" Rockfist says, "We got a problem." "The fleet?" Cyril asks. "No time to deal with the House forces, then. Urists, we need pickup at - oh. Good." "Got it in one, lad. There's a Tau fleet in orbit," Rockfist says, "I advise leaving for the next objective. The Navy can deal with the fleet."

Brynjol plugs an interface lead from his armour into one of Cyril's chest ports as they head to the evac, monitoring his vitals as the Storm Ravens transport the Commandos and what is left of the Vorax Maniple back to the Blade. Cyril is in heavy need of assistance, as Brynjol delicately removes melted armor and flesh so he can perform some basic first aid.

"The plasma burnt straight through my breastplate. It needs removal for repair," Cyril sighs, "As much as I've had to have the armoury repair it, I will have an Artificer breastplate before long..."

As the Commandos leave, they see a white doglike quadrupedal construct walk on the roof, staring at the Storm Ravens depart. Cortain merely stares at the Old One Crawler as the Storm Ravens leave the operational area.

"Are they so numerous, Rockfist?" Cyril gasps through surgery, We were to claim the station for the Inquisition." "The inquisition has no knowledge of the station, actually. We simply needed to acquire new materiel before you may or may not have chosen to blow the station up. Do with it as you will. I will be in touch if I find out more about the H'esav'Geka. Deepthroat out." The Commandos are slightly annoyed at being blatantly used, but reason that a greater threat was removed, so it makes it okay.

During the return trip, the Commandos decide that sending an encrypted message to the Inquisition about the station is in order, both to purge it and to gain intelligence of the constructs aboard it. Arriving at the Blade, Rockfist and Thexus stand ready. While Brynjol orders Cyril to the medicae deck, Cortain and Temur are taken with Rockfist and Thexus to the bridge to manage blockade breakthrough operations. Cyril, not wanting to miss anything, crawls his way over to an elevatus that will bring him to the bridge.

"LEGIONARIES, WE CURRENTLY HAVE THE ADVANTAGE OF STEALTH WITHIN THE GAS CLOUDS. THE XENOS DO NOT KNOW WE ARE HERE," Thexus points out, "I ADVISE A DECISIVE STRIKE AS WE LEAVE." "My thoughts exactly, Thexus," Cyril nods. "So be it," Cortain commands, "Strike what remains of Ky'Monat's fleet." "I am in agreement," Temur walks over to the weapons bays to review combat capabilities.

"DO YOU PREFER SPEED OR OFFENSIVE FORCE?" Thexus asks. "We take them by force," Cortain states, "Their morale is shattered without their commanding naval officer." "ACKNOWLEDGED. CHARGE THE ARC REACTOR AT YOUR LEASURE."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHbjDAfe40I

The Blade engages its engines, charging forward through the gas cloud. Cortain enacts the rites that will Arc Charge the Blade's Arc Reactor, diverting all energy to the Accelerator Cannon. "Atomantic Arc Reactor charged, lad. Accelerator Cannon primed. You may fire when ready," Rockfist says. Ahead are a Protector Cruiser and a pair of Emissaries, with numerous Castellan support frigates behind the front line. Brynjol locks onto the largest target, the Protector, while Cyril sits in the gunner's seat, aiming carefully.

"We make the Black Caste rue the day they ever set foot on the Emperor's Domain!" Cortain yells.

Cyril's aim is true. The Accelerator Cannon turns, splitting its three prongs and focusing its titanic energies. A massive lance of energy strikes forward at the Protector Cruiser, catching an emissary in the wide beam as well. The accelerator cannon burns its way through the two vessels in a monstrous flash of Atomantic Energy. Raking across the sky, a number of smaller ships are destroyed by the beam as well, as the Blade of the Long Watch makes its way out of system. The remainder of the enemy Tau fleet, deemed inconsequential, is left for the Imperial Navy based at Tempestus Solaris. As the Accelerator cannon goes to cool down, the Commandos have created enough of an opening to break through into the warp, and head towards the call for assistance at Ravenforge.

(17) The Fourth Column

The Blade is on track to arrive at Ravenforge soon. Reports brought by servo-automata indicate the Navy assets in system have been mobilized. The Black Caste remants will soon be swept away in Tempestus Solaris. While Cyril tries to enjoy a celebratory drink with the Squats, Brynjol inevitably drags him back to the medicae deck for tests and rebuilding his chest cavity.

"Stop trying to leave, or I swear to the Allfather I will open your chest cavity and play the drums with your black carapace!" an exasperated Brynjol yells. "I only left once!" Cyril admits, "To shoot Tau!"

Since Cyril is in criticals, he is tossed in a resuscatrix chamber and set on spin-cycle for the week. Some of the squats set up some tables near the large resuscatrix chambers. Squattish Amasec is fed into the tank as he spins around. The Amasec introduced into the healing chemicals stings a bit, but nothing that would bother a spess mareen. Cyril tries to hum litanies from within the chamber, but the song is indistinguishable from the bubbles he is producing.

"Lads," Rockfist enters, saluting the Aquila, "Given that we prioritized the Ravenforge Crusade for last, we may run into complications on the way to the combat zone." "Burble burble burble?" Cyril burbles. [What kind of complications?] "He says 'What kind of complications?'" Brynjol repeats, "I concur!" "Well, we'll be substituting for one of the Knight Houses that failed to show up," Rockfist says, "And each House in attendance has either enlisted the Navy for support or used their own supporting fleets." Rockfist folds out an old set of starmaps. "Given that one House has failed to arrive, it seems that will be a strongpoint of Chaos resistance that may need to be punched through," Rockfist explains, "I can't say how many enemies we'll find, but I can almost guarantee their presence." "We're substituting for a Knight House?" Brynjol asks, "Sounds like they're expecting a lot of firepower."

"Burble burble. Burble burble burble burble?" Cyril burbles. [I see. Are we expecting ship-to-ship combat, then?] "He says 'Are we expecting git to git wombats then?'" Brynjol repeats, staring at Cyril, "I don't understand him either. But do they have a significant space presence?" Cyril twitches a lot. "I...don't think we'll have to deal with wombats," Rockfist says, "But I would be surprised if there wasn't a fleet waitin' there ta greet us." "We'll have to decide whether boarding actions or ship-to-ship combat is best when we survey the opposition," Brunjol declares. "The Blade's fully repaired in any case," Rockfist states, "Had the throngs working overtime. Remember, lad, the Blade's weapons are strongest to the sides and front. Don't let anything get behind. Split fire if you see an easy kill, and don't forget the Arc Reactor." Cyril nods, "Burble." "In any case, we'll be breaking Warp within a few days," Rockfist says as he walks off, "The toaster's made sure all weapons are ready, so there shouldn't be any issue."

Cortain arrives at the medicae deck delivering Cyril's re-re-restored breastplate, with a sticky not lecturing on taking care of this suit. Cyril twitches in impotent rage, lamenting how he keeps getting shot in the chest.

The days move along in relative peace. Cyril has been brought up to a minimum of combat effectiveness, and Cortain has finished responding to some letters for his "Ask the Commandos" column of his ledger, just in time for Warp transition procedures to start enacting. Thexus, Rockfist, and Rose stand by as Cyril is decanted.

"Not exactly the best solution, but it's ideal for everyone to be ready when we enter the system," Rockfist sighs. "I am fine," Cyril declares, "When do we arrive?" "Are you sure?" Rose asks. "I had my chest and armour ventilated by plasma," Cyril explains, "It will take more to put down one of the Emperor's Angels of Death." "Space marines are remarkably resilient," Cortain adds, "If you would like a better explanation, I am sure Bryn can help." "LEGIONARIES ARE OF TOUGHER STOCK," Thexus affirms, "WE WILL BE ENTERING THE RAVENFORGE SYSTEM MOMENTARILY. WE SHALL REPORT TO THE COMMAND BRIDGE AND AWAIT YOUR ORDERS." "This time, make sure we stop turtling," Cortain advises, remembering the previous ill-fated space combat, "It offends the wrath of Mars."

The Blade rumbles all over as it begins Materium translation. The rumbling is worse than normal, no doubt due to the active Warpstorm that is in this subsector. Transitioning into the Materium, the Squats offering the customary prayers to the Ancestors, there are no immediate complications. However, Rockfist's concerns are realized, as a number of Chaos vessels lay on approach headings, the poisoned purple clouds of Ravenforge swirling in the background.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uOQrDRLoxa8

Cyril takes command this time, ordering Brynjol to the Sensoria, Cortain to the Arc Reactor cogitators, and Temur to the gunnery stations. Approaching the Blade are a pair of Infidel Raiders to each side, and a Hades Heavy Cruiser and a Slaughter Cruiser burning ahead front. The Blade weathers macrocannon and torpedo fire, before turning to address the raiders first. The Blade attempts to ram the starboard Infidel, though it barely misses. The port Infidel is not so lucky, as it absorbs sunsear fire to weaken its shields, and then eats a full salvo from the Accelerator Cannon, gutting it.

"Good job, lads," Rockfist laughs, "We didn't need ta wait four hours for something ta die this time." Cortain has ominous feelings again, while Cyril merely mutters under his breath.

The Blade survives the missile and lance broadside from the Hades and Slaughter, while the remaining Infidel tries to get into a better position.

"Continue moving starboard and circle the cruisers! Arc charge the Accelerator Cannon and penetrate the cruisers' port sides, then broadside the Raider with ours," Cyril commands, "Torpedo any surviving cruisers!" "Lad, a Heavy Cruiser of Chaos is akin to a Battlecruiser for the Imperium. They're quite dangerous," Rockfist advises, adjusting his armor, "Cruisers remain the same, though their offensive output or survivability is only slightly less than a Battle or Heavy Cruiser."

The Blade advances, aligning itself broadsides with the Hades and Slaughter. Regrettably the vessels are spread out, so the Accelerator Cannon can't get multiple. However, the Hades is in clear unobstructed sight as requested. Brynjol locks on, and Temur takes the Accelerator Cannon controls. The Accelerator Cannon splits into three prongs, and the titanic energy within is fired in a single heavy beam. The Commandos hear a "thud" echo across the winds of spess as the Hades crumples under its own weight and the force of the Nuclear Fusion blast.

"Ha ha! See lad? THAT'S how it's done!" Rockfist pats Temur on the back, "Cannon's coolin' down, so you won't be able to arc charge it again for a while."

The Infidel aligns itself as bait, allowing the Slaughter Cruiser to reach the Blade's rear arc and hammer away with lance weapons. Deciding to focus the Cruiser, Cortain arc charges the cortex core, allowing for an additional weapon to be fired. Cyril fires torpedoes at the Infidel, damaging it, while everyone else unloads into the Slaughter. Cortex-commanded sunsears bring down the Slaugter's shields while a full burst from the Accelerator Cannon and Lance set the vessel aflame, disabling its void shields.

The Blade survives torpedo and macrocannon return fire from the Chaos vessels, before angling to face the Slaughter and Infidel. Battery fire immolates the Infidel, while the Slaughter survives the Commandos' ire due to everyone missing. As the Slaughter turns to refocus its guns, it finds itself in the direct path of the Blade. Ordering a charge forward, all guns firing, the Blade rams the corrupted cruiser, breaking it in half with an armored prow.

"Nice job, lad, quick and efficient," Rockfist says, "Ya did good."

Charging through the wreckage of the Slaughter cruiser, the Commandos suddenly get a vox hail. "Unidentified vessel, in the Name of the Immortal God Emperor, please identify." "Apologies for the delay," Cortain states, "The Deathwatch is here." "To shine the light of the Emperor on this forsaken planet!" Cyril adds. "Deathwa...yes, my Lieges!" the vox replies, "Honor and glory to you. The Crusade thanks you for your assistance. With you here, we may be able to break this stalemate." "Honor and glory to the Imperium," Cyril nods, "What is the situation?" "Our forces on the ground are pushing through against the Heretic filth, but with only three fronts they always have reinforcements," the vox replies, "The Knight Houses of Askari, Kshatra, and Excelsus are below, each taking a front. But we need a fourth column to truly cut off the Heretics."

"Then we shall be your fourth," Cyril declares, "What forces are the heretics fielding?" "They are operating off a number of supply bastions in the rear, which in turn are covering a launch facility to strike at Navy assets in orbit," the vox states, "We've determined the heavy presence of Chaos aircraft and fixed ground defenses." "Sounds like the job for us," Cortain nods. "How have they kept the Knights at bay?" Cyril asks. "The launch facility also houses numerous vortex missile batteries. When the knights approach the Bastions, they are fired upon," the vox replies, "But, with a fourth column, we can overload their ability to prioritize targets, and strike the heretics down." "Sounds like the plan is to destroy the missiles," Cortain confirms. "Destroying the launch zone will stop both heretic supply transports AND disable the missiles," the vox agrees, "We'll relay to the knights to press the attack on your command." "Normally, a handful of Space Marines would be unable to provide a column of superheavy support like you seek..." Cyril explains, before cracking a smile, "But I believe we can oblige." "Thank you, my lords," the vox says, "Crusade Command Castellum out."

"Brothers, it is time to suit up," Cyril declares. "Indeed it is, lad," Rockfist says, "Care to guess what we just finished repairing?"

Rockfist guides everyone to the hangars. "All right, lad," Rockfist hefts a missile, "You just tell us what you want equipped, and we'll load up your VF/SS."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rB70RShH2OA

Each of the VF/SS have the upgrades everyone bought applied to them so far. Thexus receives a set of waypoint locations, no doubt the targets, and transfers the locations to the Commandos.

Brynjol loads up with QAAMs and XLAAs, all missiles that offer rerolls against specific targets. Cortain and Temur choose Kraken Penetrators and QAAMs, while Cyril selects LASMs and XLAAs for maximum versatility.

"Lad! A word of advice!" Rockfist says as the launch bay is cleared, "Most standard turrets prioritize air units. Turrets will have a harder time tracking ground targets, but that would also make you vulnerable to enemy aircraft. Watch yourselves out there!""

The launch bay is cleared, and the Squats and Automata head into the ship proper. Brynjol grumbles, slinging his axe on his belt, while Cyril climbs into his ship, sighing in relief as the machine encases him. Cortain makes his litanies as he preps his striker for launch, while Temur refamiliarizes himself with the transforming fighters.

Launch rails send each VF/SS out with a mighty roar. On each VF/SS hololithic display, the Commandos are shown the intelligence from the Crusade forces already deployed. In formation, the VF/SS are launched out into the void. Objective markers appear on each Commando's HUD.

OBJECTIVE 1: Destroy the two Bastions in the combat zone. Destroy enemy defenses as appropriate. OBJECTIVE 2: Locate and Destroy the Supply Launchpad and the Launchpad Control Center. Destroy enemy defenses as appropriate.

"We carve a bloody path to the primary objective!" Cyril declares, starting an Oath of Glory, "Blade, what can the sensorium detect of enemy launches?" "None yet, lad," Rockfist says, "I don't think bombardments will start until you give the order to attack." "Well, I doubt they'll have time to use it to ship in reinforcements in time to be relevant to a single battle," Cyril shrugs, "We will continue for the first objective, then." "Um, I'll review the sensors," Rose says, "I'll try to alert you to objectives and attacks."

Breaking through the clouds, the Commandos finally reach the arid, blasted plains of Ravenforge. "At your current heading, you should reach the bastion defense ring within a minute or so..." Rose begins, "Oh! Enemy fighters on sensors!"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s3tZVBGwF0k

Flying in perfect formation, the Commandos note a wing of 3 enemy fighters approaching at 500m. Organizing into formation, the Commandos focus their weapons. Brynjol's Phased Plasma Autocannons and missiles impacting a Chaos Swiftdeath fighter and downing it, much to his bemusement. Cortain and Temur also open up with autocannon and missile, damaging the fighters. However, it is Cyril that executes the killing blow on the two remaining Swiftdeaths with a swarm of XLAA missiles.

Cortain quietly fistpumps as the planes go down. "No more targets..." Rose says, "I think your missile got him!" "Yes, Rose, I noticed," Cyril sighs, "What can you tell us about the situation planetside?" "Rockfist says the Bastions are mobilizing," she says, "Better hurry!"

Flying forward, the Commandos come up to the two bastions. They're 200m from each other, each defended by turrets, which begin to track the Commandos, though impressive skill at in-flight dodging and lucky Ion Shield rolls prevent the lascannons from doing much damage. A further wing of Swiftdeaths approaching means further evasive maneuvers, and the Commandos resume the offensive.

Brynjol fires missiles at the swiftdeaths, but only manages superficial damage. Temur tries to autocannon down a swiftdeath, but it deftly dodges, so he contents himself with firing a Kraken at the Bastion. Cortain too tries to shoot down a Swiftdeath, but their frontal armor tanks his shots. Cyril also manages to whiff a swiftdeath, but fires more missiles at the Bastions. Surviving counter-fire from automated turrets, the Commandos decide on an alternate plan of action.

"Lads, those bastions have heavy slabs of armor. You may need something strong to get through them. Those turrets also only seem to be able to fire on air targets with any competency," Rockfist says, "Anyway, the other three columns are engaging their bastions as well. Just an update."

Brynjol is the first to decide that it is now time to punch things. Shifting to Strike Mode, Brynjol couches his Plasma Lance, a glowing sheath of energy surrounding his arm, and charges the bastion. His Plasma Lance carries him through, annihilating the damaged bastion. As Brynjol twirls around, readying for the next attack, he notes the bastion turret nearby fall silent. Two other bastion turrets begin to track him, but as he lands on the ground, they stop, and focus on the rest of the Commandos, ignoring Brynjol.

Cortain and Temur try Brynjol's tactic with much less luck, though Cortain manages to damage the Bastion. Cyril alone remains in Pursuit Mode, to mop up the two Swiftdeaths. Bastion turrets on the ground track Cyril, but the Ion shield holds, deflecting the lascannon shots harmlessly. Brynjol hefts his Plasma Lance once more, and barrels through without issue, violently assaulting the Bastion. It collapses as he cannonballs through it.

Brynjol can be heard chortling through the vox, as the Commandos shift back to Pursuit Mode and move on to the next objective. "Good job, the second bastion is down!" Rose says, "The way to the launch pad is clear!" "Haha, perfect!" Cyril declares, "Forward, FOR THE EMPEROR!"

In a wide plain ahead, a missile is launching into the sky from a central launch zone, a large building nearby burning with heretical sigils. The Commandos have reached the launch pads.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2XosfLDk95E

Vengeance Batteries on station fire at the Commandos, and Cyril is grazed with a lascannon shot, taking heavy damage. More Swiftdeaths arrive on station, firing their own plasma weapons and missiles, though Temur takes a missile and suffers damage as well.

The Commandos face the Control Center, the Launch pad, two Fighters, four turrets, and a large missile heading into the sky from the launch pad.

"MISSILE!" Cyril points out, "Bring it down!" "How likely do you think it is to demolish the missile?" Cortain asks. "How likely what is to demolish it?" Cyril asks. "Anything," Cortain clarifies, "Mainly Krakens." "Those should do the trick nicely," Cyril nods, "Aerial missiles should also suffice. And failing that, it is well within effective range of our repeater cannons, and I doubt its ability to dodge."

The Commandos prioritize the Swiftdeaths in the immediate area. Temur fires guns and missiles at the planes, eating their dodges, and leaving an opening for Cortain to shift to Strike Mode and down the two planes with Plasma Autocannons and Heavy Swarm Missiles. The planes careen into the ground, followed by a veritable massacre of missiles launched from Cortain's VF/SS. Moving to get the missile in their sights, the Commandos hesitate when Brynjol charges forward.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z7BjEKv3GWE

Brynjol charges forth, clamping onto the side of the immense missile launching into the sky. he holds on a moment, as the missile breaks atmosphere for its eventual fall onto a target. Pushing his VF/SS to the maximum, Brynjol grapples the missile into a new flight path - directly back at the heretic control center. The missile flies true, much to the shock and horror of the heretics. The missile hits with the full force of the warp, sucking it to Emperor knows where. Brynjol chortles mightily as he witnesses the carnage.

"I NEED A CATCHPHRASE OR SOMETHING AFTER THAT!" Brynjol yells ecstatically.

Though Rose tries to give everyone updates, most of the Commandos have muted her, as she is having great difficulty keeping up with the battle, and her reports are getting increasingly muddled. With only the Launch Center left, Cyril strafes the launch tower, collapsing it in a great pile of wreckage.

"Keep your heresy, filthy traitors," Cyril states, "The Imperium does not want it, or you." "The Remains are blasted," Cortain observes, "Let no heretical brick stand." "Nice!" Rose says, "All objectives complete!"

The Commandos then hear a shrill screech, and another wave of Swiftdeaths begin their approach. However, a series of missiles strike against them. "Ah...Republican Commandos!" a voice says over the vox. A number of allied knights make their way forward. "It is a pleasure to see you in action again," the Knight Paladin says. "...again?" Cyril asks. Brynjol nods, the motion exaggerated by his strikesuit. The Commandos take a moment to identify the knights. One they recognize - they are of House Askari. Another bears much stylized heraldry of the Emperor and other symbols. Beneath the many scrolls, tapestries, and icons of the Acheron is a Knight of House Kshatra.

"This is the first time for me," the Kshatra knight says, "However, your names are known to us." "It is an honour to fight properly alongside the Faris of House Askari," Cyril explains, circling down and entering Strike mode for socializing, "As it is a pleasure to meet the rest of you." "It was thanks to your support that we were able to provide support here," the Faris says, "In this, we were proud to provide you with support." "Glad to fight side by side again, Knights of Askari," Cortain states. "Perhaps we too will fight side by side again," the Bhattara of House Kshatra states, "From what my brethren in House Askari say, you are as skilled outside the Throne as you are upon it." "The magnificent machine does much of the work for us in these mighty suits. On foot, things are more... challenging," Cyril admits, "Both are fitting ways to bring the Emperor's fury where it must be." "Indeed," the Faris agrees, "One must train body and mind to be a true knight." "Ah, we should have brought you the remains of the other Tau we killed!" Cortain says, "I am sure you ould be humored by it!" "There were more?" the Faris asks, "It is no matter. The insidious xenos stands no chance against Mankind." "As if they ever did," Cortain agrees.

"They are persistent in blowing themselves up before we can claim trophies more personal than their weapons," Cyril adds, "Though I do find it peculiar that they voluntarily enter close combat... it is unusal for their debased kind." "When one believes they know everything, then that is when they have the most to learn," the Bhattara bows, "As the thousand Aspects of the Emperor guide us in our daily lives, perhaps these Tau merely had an Aspect they had...kept hidden?" "Perhaps a discussion for another time," Cortain states, "Come, we have a planet to conquer!" "Regardless, Commandos, thanks to you, the Crusade can press on," the Bhattara says, "You have opened the way for us. The Crusade, and our Houses, thank you." "Though, I cannot help but wonder what happened to House Pyrus..." the Faris notes, as he and the other knight wander back to the rest of the crusade. "Emperor guide your mighty tread," Cortain intones. "By the Emperor's will, the sector will be wiped clean of their presence before they can fully realize it..." Cyril promises, "But for now the Euphalion Crusade takes priority. Emperor guide your weapons, noble Knights," "Mission complete. Nice job, lads," Rockfist voxes, "We'll prepare the landing bays for your return."

Returning to the Blade, most of the Squats stand ready to move the VF/SS to repairs. While the tone is more or less jubilant, Rose is excited and Thexus is his normal loud self, Rockfist is somewhat sour as he signals landings. "What news, Rockfist?" Cyril asks. "Aye, lad..." Rockfist sighs, "The holomap updated. We got a new request..." "Dare I ask whom?" Cortain hesitantly begins. "...It's from Korst'la."

(18) Mjasiri

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.

(19) Imperishable

O'Malley's Bar and Grill is hopping as a number of new requests are updated. However, most attention is to one of the loading bays, where noises most terrible emanate from. While Cortain has been quite busy defragging and reformatting his built-in cogitators, he stops when he hears the screams of dying squats, and goes to check it out.

"By Mars, what is that racket?" he asks, "Did the Hellstar sneak on board? Again?"

Breaking into a light jog down the great hallways, he comes across a number of Squats reinforcing a door. They are terrified.

"What is the crisis?" Cortain demands. "It's horrible!" they stammer, looking to Cortain for guidance, "What should we do? "They?" "We dare not open the door!" a squat says. "What is behind it?" Cortain presses, as Cyril manifests from the shadows. "A great monstrous beast!" a squat says. Brynjol can be heard grumbling on the vox about organ donors. "...where did it come from?" Cyril asks, "Never mind that, we have downed such things before. Bryn, if you are up for a little sport, feel free to join us in the loading bay." "We...we received a box, my liege," the squad leader says, "It...tore its way out, an' now a number of good lads have lost their lives."

Cyril opens the door and walks in. He is surrounded by the corpses of a dozen squats. A large furred partially cybernetic beast is in the middle. It is holding a squat. Cyril growls as he sees the corpses, then pauses. "...Notomok?" "Ohhhhh..." the squat sighs forlornly as the creature swallows the squat whole. "What abomination is this?" Cortain demands. "Put it down! Bad yeti!" Cyril implores. "Groooonk," the Yeti states as it wanders over. It vomits out a frozen skull. It seems Ice Wraith Yeti digestion is remarkably quick. "Cyril..." Brynjol begins calmly, "Am I to understand this monstrosity is yours?" Cortain voxes, facepalming, "Cleanup on Hangar 8!"

"This is my yeti compainion. We were joined for life by a bond sacred to all Ice Wraiths before I received my Black Carapace," Cyril explains, "Brynjol, no sport, but that mop of yours would be most apreciated." Cortain has not yet reinstalled the necessary software to comprehend this. "Cyril," Brynjol commands, "House train your pet. I won't have Rockfist or O'Malley down on our necks because your pet rabbit is eating their kin." "He must not have recognized the Squats as Imperial," Cyril bristles. "He is no mere pet, he is an honored member of the Chapter!" He takes a deep breath. "This... this remains unacceptable, though. I shall ensure it does not occur again." "If he gets a yeti, then I demand a Kataphron or something," Cortain sighs in jealousy. "Some time ago, I sent my Chapter a message detailing the glories of this ship and requesting that Notomok be sent to me. It appears they received it," Cyril explains, before trying to get a casualty count, "My point being that I asked for his presence. Perhaps you could request a Kataphron?"

The Commandos count at least 13 corpses. That's merely the identifiable bodies and not the refuse and giblets strewn about. The squats are terrified, and the Commandos are reasonably sure a squat just entered a fey mood by the way he ran off. As the Commandos leave the cursed hangar, Urist McJanitor walks into the room with a bucket and a sponge. A single tear rolls down his face as the door closes slowly behind him.

"So, lad," Rockfist voxes, unaware of the carnage in the Cursed Hangar, "We've received a number of requests from the Inquisition this time. 'Ave a course in mind?" "Who do we want to piss off first?" Cortain begins cheerily. "One's askin' to meet at Catalyst Station about the Tyranid problem, another's askin' to investigate somethin' at Nova Prosperous," Rockfist repeats, "An' the last is another goodwill mission at Xaviol."

Asking for further clarification on Nova Prosperous, they review the briefing more carefully. Unknown Astropathic signals were intercepted en route to the quiet world of Nova Prosperous, which proceeded to drive the intercepting psykers mad. Furthermore, powerful energy spikes were detected not long after. Now, energy spikes and psychic presences are seen sporadically across the world. The Commandos are authorized to use their discretion to identify and potentially remove the unknown presences.

The Commandos confer amongst themselves, and decide that the Inquisition and good-will missions can wait. They order course for Nova Prosperous, before retiring to their quarters. By now, everyone has time to sit down, breathe deep, and acquire some battle traumas. Brynjol gets Endless Redemption, forcing him to work to complete the mission at all costs, never abandoning even a single objective. Not a terrible thing. Cortain gets Ancestral Spirits, finding himself visitated by the spoopy goasts of his chapter when he gets >triggered. Temur gets Righteous Contempt, discovering a new hatred of plebs who cannot fight as well as a Spess Mareen. Only Cyril escapes with his mind still in one piece, roughly.

While Rockfist and O'Malley are enjoying themselves at the bar, Rose remains in her quarters, and Executor Thexus is mysteriously missing. To pass the time, Cortain decides to visit Rose about crackpot theories.

"Child, are you willing to speak?" he asks, remembering her previous outburst. She opens the door. She is wearing an I ♥ Studio 69 shirt that she probably got as a souvenir. She looks up quietly. "What's wrong?" she asks, inviting him in. Her room is spartan as before. There are, however, a number of books strewn about. It's clear she's been reading.

"I have questions," Cortain begins, "Questions about psykers." "I've been working with O'Malley," Rose replies, "I can try to answer your questions, but I'm still coming to grips with things myself." "Have you a clue about how your...gifts manifest?" "I...don't know. I didn't have such powers when I entered stasis," she sighs. "It may perhaps be coincidence, but...down there, something has sabotaged my systems." Cortain pauses. "The last time such a sabotage has happened was...when we first retrieved you. We found something unholy trying to eat you. Perhaps I am misinformed, but...would it be possible for a power to drive systems mad when threatened? A latent power?" "Whenever that...Hellstar turns its gaze to us, I feel...lost," Rose sighs, "I feel an unbearable, terrifying loneliness and emptiness. As if I'm the only one left in the entire galaxy." She thinks a moment, "The Squats scream about Tyranids. Rockfist mutters over and over that he'll 'never get off the damned rock.' I have never seen Thexus's reaction." She looks up at Cortain. "If there is a power to drive one mad, it is not something I can do, but something I have felt every time the eye turns to me..." she whispers.

"Admittedly, your vessel was haunted by...another malign force," Cortain admits. However, it seems Rose has had enough. "I'm sorry," she says, "I...don't think I can help more with such things." "It matters not. It is a matter I am uninformed of myself."

Cortain leaves Rose's quarters. His attention, however, is grabbed by a tiny white slug he sees just chuggin' along.

"What...are you?" he wonders aloud. It's a slug. It is going on its merry slug way. Cortain gingerly picks up the white slug, which is about the size of his finger, with his servo-arm. It squirms about. He is about to consider things further until the All-Clear alarms go off, and the Blade transitions back to the Materium.

Looking out at the system's star, it's a scenic view. It takes a few days, but eventually the Blade reaches orbit over the sparkling blue paradise world of Nova Prosperous.

"A lovely world, lads," Rockfist acknowledges, "Too bad we don't 'ave time to relax this time. So, you'll be needin' anything?"

The Commandos first and foremost decide on a supply drop, as they lack full intelligence on what they expect to find. Cyril takes some time to further augment his yeti with the archeotech available on the Blade, while Cortain contents himself with a volkite charger. Brynjol realizes that, as an assault marine, there is comparatively little he needs to requisition, which leaves Temur to snap it all up for his own desires, including a suspensor and motion predictor.

The Commandos have their Fire Raptor readied, while a separate transport is prepared for Notomok the yeti. Acquiring a position, the jewel world of Nova Prosperous floats amongst the inky black of spess. While Temur and Cyril turn the guns forward, eager to begin the operation, Brynjol and Cortain turn back and stare with troubled eyes at the Blade of the Long Watch, a strange white haze surrounding it...

Lucky for the Commandos, this world seems to have an Inquisitorial Dossier already. The dossier states that the world has been receiving odd transmissions for years now. Inquisitorial Cells have already noted that the world was the site of a battle between Necrons and the Old Slann, and numerous members of the population had to be moved to a place called Barcarolle. It's been under heavy watch for a long time. It details the capital and largest city, Ceviv City, a small horizontal hive which lies on a lagoon and near some fertile plains.

"Sounds like a nice place," Brynjol quips.

The capital of Ceviv City is where most activity on the planet occurs, and close to the site of previous incidents, according to the Dossier. It contains all the trappings of civilized Imperial life. Deciding that it is reasonably the best place to start looking for trouble, the Commandos make way. It's a smooth ride down through the atmosphere - the Fire Raptor has been specially armored to provide a comfortable descent. There's not even a cloud in the sky. Approaching Ceviv City, the Commandos gain quite a large number of witnesses as they pick out and land on one of the available Skyshields in Ceviv City's Starport Canton, overlooking a calm lagoon. After thoroughly shocking the locals and ordering a strategium meeting, Brynjol and Temur decide to monitor the assemblage of the meeting, while Cortain and Cyril meet with the locals.

The adepts and sages on hand explain that the astropaths all died quite messy deaths after they received a series of messages. Regrettably, the messages could not be deciphered as the only ones who received it were suddenly dead. After continually reaffirming their shock that the Commandos would arrive so quickly and so early, Brynjol and Temur realize they have a LONG wait ahead as the Imperial Adeptuses are assembled.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vtSHKE3R_E

Cortain and Cyril decide to take the scenes in. walking around the city. It is evident that this place should be MUCH more populated. There are people missing. The dossier did say people were moved, but this is quite heavy. Even after 50 years, the population is still recovering. Waterside shops and gondoliers amongst the canals of the cantons all stop when they see the Commandos, and some bow in awe. There are cantons for civilian habs, a canton with a basilica dedicated to the Imperial Creed and local saints Barkley and Carter, cantons for various economic needs, and the starport canton.

"Rockfist, how was this planet's message transmitted to us, with all their Astropaths dead?" Cyril asks. "We got the message from the Inquisition, lad," Rockfist replies, "They detected something was amiss in their own strange way, and alerted ya."

Cortain takes a moment to review the dossier further. It states that about 50 years back, an acolyte Cell was dispatched to the world. They found Necrons, Old Slann, Eldar, and Umbra, all described as very old enemies. Many examples of Old Slann technology was recovered. After the conflict, the citizens were relocated to a place called Barcarolle, and Inquisitorial supervision increased. The dossier does not go into detail about the conflict itself, but it DOES state that in the end the Eldar, Old Slann, and Umbra were repulsed from the world. Eerily, it says nothing of the Necrons.

Cyril and Cortain, however, gain a good handle of the city. They pause a moment, however, as they hear a pair of voices. Brynjol's voice, and...Cortain's voice. "What," Cortain stops. It's coming from a bridge connecting the canton-districts. They sound somewhat mechanical.

Cyril quietly follows the sound, parking Notomok under camotarp. Heading over, Cortain providing support from range, he comes across a pair of small children, a boy and a girl. They are playing with action figures that bear quite a resemblance to Cortain and Brynjol. The Cortain action figure fires off a small plastic dart into the distance, which hits Cyril before bouncing away. The girl goes to pick it up when she suddenly sees the stealthy spess mareen.

Cyril raises a hand in greeting and retrieves the dart. She stops as her friend goes up to her as well. "You...you're them," the girl says in shock, "The Republican Commandos..." "Hello, Tiny Servants of the Emperor," Cortain greets them. Cyril holds out a gauntleted palm, offering the dart back. "Where did you get those?" he asks with a chuckle. Brynjol shivers, sensing a great disturbance in his fur, as if millions of action figures suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. "My family bought me it after a religious sermon," the boy says, "It's a Fightin' Felleye Brynjol™, with Chainsword Chopping Action!" He presses a button, and the action figure moves its arm. "For the Allfather!" it says. "And mine's a Cortex Captain Cortain™!" the girl says, "Mine's got Binaric Blast, so it's better!" "Nuh uh!" the boy says, "Yours can't even Chainsword Chop!" Cortain note the Cortex Captain Cortain has been placed in a dress, one better suited for a Barbiatus rather than a Spess Mareen.

Cyril and Cortain barely restrain a genuine sense of mirth. "If you see Brynjol, try not to call us the Commandos, Cyril implores, "He still thinks it is a silly name." "If you're here, are we in trouble?" the girl asks. "The adults were saying bad things were happening..." the boy says. "Nothing of much concern," Cortain declares, "We will make sure of it. But, if I may ask...how popular are those figures?" "My friends all have different ones. I was lucky to get my favorite," the boy says.

Cyril and Cortain hear a wolfish cry of great pain from afar.

"Hooray!" the girl says, "Between the Commandos and the Skeleton Man, we're gonna be fine!" "Woohoo!" the boy says. They both seem quite happy. "Skeleton man?" Cyril and Cortain both say in unison. "He's really tall, like you guys," the girl says, "He's shiny silver though. He got here a few weeks ago. He was looking for his friends, but he said he didn't find them. He was kind of sad." Cyril stiffens, then forces himself to relax again. "He told us all sorts of stories," the boy says, "He was in all kinds of battles, like you!" "Perchance....do you remember where this Skeleton man is?" Cortain asks. "Yeah, do you want to meet him?" the girl asks, "He's probably with everyone else right now." "A location will suffice," Cortain says, "I will need to convene with the others." The boy thinks a moment. "We've often seen him in Canton Barkley, he stays there and tells us stories when he's not off fighting the bad guys he said." "In the lower levels, don't forget!" the girl reminds him, "He's very loud, and he's always talking about his fights and old ones. Did you ever fight an old one?" "Thank you, tiny servants of the Emperor," Cortain nods, "Now make sure you say your prayers every day and don't talk to heretics. "Bye, Commandos!" the children say as they wander off, "We'll let him know you're coming!"

Cortain and Cyril stop by the headquarters of the Arbites first. Regrettably, they seem to have little information, instead advising discussion with the Mechanicum representatives a canton over. The spindly spider-legged technomat at the Mechanicum canton is much more helpful, albeit a bit weird. He composes a scroll of anomalous signals around the capital, noting that in each case auspexes detected abnormal, unnatural signals, but following each signal would proceed to be inordinate outputs of electricity, heat, and sonic energy. Cortain and Cyril take a moment to pray alongside him as he offers obesiances to the Trinity by a shrine embedded in a genetorum relay, before reuniting with the rest of the Commandos.

Temur and Brynjol by now are infuriated and bored, in that order. None of the civilians were ready for a combat situation, and it is taking far too much time to organize everyone. When Cyril and Cortain announce they have one final source to track down, Temur and Brynjol are excited. They become less excited when they are told that source is potentially a Necron. Nonetheless, they all regroup and decide to check out the Necron, in case it turns out to be a danger to the populace.

Entering Barkley Canton, it's quite claustrophobic - these halls were not meant for spess mareens. In the halls, the Commandos can see hab blocks stuffed into every corner. The two children said that the alleged Necron was in the deeper levels, which are a bit of an annoyance to find. Turning a corner and descending some ramps, a frieze of the Emperor and some local saints topping the ramp, you finally come to the Canton's Underworks. Boxes lay all around, as this area is used for storage. Cortain's auspex does ping, however, with a heavy metallic signature. He narrows it down to a side room, where he can also hear the laughter of children echo down the halls.

Approaching the noise and signal, the room is closed off by a thin wooden door. Cyril knocks softly, but even that small amount of force, the door creaks open. Indeed, the tall Necron Phaeron looks up, surrounded by the young locals, a bizarre smile on his face. "IT'S A BRA~ND NEW FEELING!" it yells, "WHERE HA~VE I FELT THIS BEFORE?"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d13DV0gMDXE

"SOLDIERS OF THE ENFLESHED, UNDER SU~N AND SKY, I GREET YOU!" the Phaeron states. "It's HIM again!" Brynjol yells, drawing his axe. "Again? I certainly do not recall Amon-Rakh being this..." Cortain searches for a word, "Obnoxious." "See? I told you they were coming!" the girl from earlier says. The Commandos determine that they are in the correct place, at least. Cortain has no way to explain just...WHAT this is. What is in front of them is clearly a Phaeron. He bears the appropriate ranks and ornamentation. "Phaeron," Cyril speaks in a forcedly polite tone. "MY WA~RMEST REGARDS TO YOU!" the Phaeron states, "I AM PHAERON RAMSESTRON, TO~NAL ARCHITECT. HAVE YOU COME DUE TO THE INTERLOPERS AS WELL?" He bows, as the children all gather around between the Commandos and the addled Phaeron, excited. "Interlopers? Aside from you?" Cortain quips. Brynjol growls, a wet infrasonic purr that sends fear into the hearts of the mortals "Be polite, Brynjol," Cyril suggests, "The children are watching. I know for a fact at least one idolizes you." "Try NOT to traumatize them," Cortain states. The kids are a bit spooked, though. The boy is clutching his Fightin' Felleye Brynjol™ tightly. Brynjol attempts to calm them down as the rest of the Commandos negotiate with Ramsestron.

"I REA~DILY ADMIT, MY FIRST OBJECTIVE WAS TO MEET THE FRIENDS I HAD LE~FT BEHIND. REGRETTABLY, IT SEEMS THEY ARE A~LL GONE. MOVED," Ramsestron states, "HOWEVER, THERE WERE THO~SE WHO WISHED TO DESTROY THIS CITY." "Others?, "Cortain asks, "Threatening the world?" "INDEE~D, MY FRIENDS," Ramsestron states, "ARMORED AS YOU ARE, BUT BLU~E AND GOLD. THEY POORLY COPY OU~R...FASHION SENSE." Cyril nods slowly, caressing his maglocked stormbolter as he reflects on the new information. "I HAD STRU~CK OUT AT THEM AND THEIR DISHONORABLE WAR ENGINES FOR MA~NY DAYS NOW. MY SEMI-LOYAL CRYPTEK IS CU~RRENTLY SCOUTING," Ramsestron explains, "THEY ARE MO~VING ALL OUT SOON." Ramsestron laughs a grinding laugh that sounds really fucking weird. "AFTER ALL, I RA~THER LIKE THIS WORLD!"

"It is good that we came, then;" Cyril responds slowly, "or there might have been trouble. We will fight them also." "I HA~D CHALLENGED THEM TO HONORABLE SINGLE COMBAT, BUT I HAVE ONLY FACED WA~VES OF SOLDIERS. THEY ARE QUI~TE ANNOYING," Ramsestron explains, "I CAN GIVE YOU THE LOCA~TION OF THEIR MOST LIKELY ATTACK VECTOR. NO DOUBT THEY HAVE GROWN QUI~TE...FURIOUS."

Brynjol murmurs over the vox, "Had you given thought to the fact that he might be talking of the Ultramarines?" "Have you known the Ultramarines to have similar garb to Necrons?" Cyril voxes back, "This reeks of Chaos traitors." "These are no Ultras," Cortain declares with certainty, "They would have announced their intentions." "Don't fall sway to the whisperings of a damned tinman so easily!" Brynjol implores.

"These soldiers, do they wear helmet crests?" Temur asks, "If so, of what type and how common?" "INDE~ED THEY DO, ENFLESHED," Ramsestron says, "MANY OF THEIR SO~LDIERS WEAR THEM, MA~RCHING FORWARD IN THE MANNER OF MY OWN DE~CURIONS, BUT THEIR WAR ENGINES ARE MO~ST INFURIATING." "What manner of war engines?" Cyril asks. "I HA~VE SEEN THOSE IN THE FORM OF DRAGONS OF O~LD, AND THOSE REMINISCENT OF THE SAURIANS I ONCE HUNTED BEFO~RE BIOTRANSFERENCE," Ramsestron says, "I HAVE SEE~N MORE...CONVENTIONAL ENFLESHED TANKS AS WELL." "Most chaos war engines have very distinct profiles and design," Temur points out, "Heldrakes and maulerfiends then. Unsuprising, but speaks to the presence of a warpsmith or sorceror."

The conversation is interrupted by a flash of light off to the side. "The time to converse seems to be at the end, Necron," Cortain announces, raising his weapon. In the blast, a Cryptek walks forward. Cyril nods. "Cryptek." "Explanatory, My Phaeron, they are co-" the Cryptek stops, "Horrified, My phaeron, why. Please, I implore you to stop trying to make new friends..." Cyril chuckles commiseratingly at the Cryptek. "NONSENSE, THUTMOSIS2000, THE ENFLESHED AND I SHARE A CO~MMON GOAL ONCE MORE!" The Phaeron laughs a grinding laugh, "I HI~GHLY ADVISE A WAR ENGINE OF YOUR OWN, ENFLESHED." Ramsestron spreads his arms. "MY ENFLE~SHED FRIENDS, TO CELEBRATE OUR MEETING, UNDER THE ANCIENT CODES I SHALL GRA~NT YOU A BOON!" The over-excitable Phaeron states. "Panicked, my phaeron, please don't..." Thutmosis2000 drones. "I SHALL GRA~NT YOU THE SERVICES OF MY VARGARD, NEMESOR SETTRA," Ramsestron yells, "HE WILL BE OF GRE~AT USE TO YOU. SIMPLY CA~LL HIM WHEN YOU NEED HIM, AND HE WI~LL APPEAR!" Cyril simply signs the aquila. Cortain nods, just...accepting what is going on. Phaeron Ramsestron slams his staff down, a strange tone echoing, and across the Commandos' helmets a small command code appears. Cortain feels violated.

"GOO~D LUCK, MY ENFLESHED FRIENDS," Ramsestron states, "I SHALL ENSU~RE NO UNWORTHY ENEMIES REA~CH THE CITY. GO~ HOME, TINY ENFLESHED. SEE~K SHELTER!" "Do as he says, children, and notify your parents that war is coming," Cyril commands, "Take shelter, and we shall ensure no harm may reach you."

Ramsestron and Thutmosis2000 disappear in a flash once more. The Children all bid the Commandos farewell, all quite excited to see their heroes in the flesh. They seek shelter while Brynjol spits on the ground.

"Collaborating with the tau was one thing..." Brynjol sighs, "But this leaves a bitter taste in my mouth." "Let us get this over with then," Temur advises, "Hunt the warpsmith or sorcerer leading this band of renegades, and remove them." "I prefer this," Cyril retorts, "Necrons are more singular in their intent, while the Tau oozes deceit." "So long as this is a one-time deal, I am more open to dealing with this lunatic, than Korst'la," Cortain agrees, "At least this one poses no threat to anything." Brynjol shakes his head, walking away, "We may live to regret this. I certainly hope so."

Back outside, the Commandos suddenly get a vox. "Lad! Lad! We're detecting warp signals!" Rockfist says, "Something just appeared to the plains of the city's Northwest!" "We met Ramsestron," Cyril voxes, "His findings indicate Chaos Marines." "We have whoever is responsible for this mess," Cortain concurs, "How is the ship?" "Ramsestron?" Rockfist laughs, "Ah! Give the crazy old codger my regards if you see him again! Nothing up here, I'd be more worried about the surface for now. Numerous vehicle signatures detected!" "Most likely Thousand Sons, possibly with Warpsmith support," Cyril explains, "Can you have McPequod and McMorpho fly in a Sicaran?" "It'll be done, lad!" Rockfist says.

After a few minutes, the Commandos see a Transporter drop off a Sicaran w/ Lascannon Sponsons at the edge of the city. It's a quick run, but they eventually reach the Sicaran. The Thousand Sons Daemon Engine host approaches fast, and there is precious little time to plan. While Brynjol takes the wheel and and accompanying heavy bolter, and Cyril takes the main Accelerator Autocannon turret, Temur and Cortain each take a sponson mounted Lascannon. The sky itself begins to rip and roil, and terrible warp-lightning strikes the ground, polluting it with foul taint. Upon each strike, a baleful roar is heard, as a number of quadrupedal daemon engines manifest, braying in anger and hatred, and advancing on the world's capital.

Cyril runs a diagnostic on the Accelerator Autocannon, broadcasting a hymn to the Emperor through and around the Sicaran Battle Tank, pausing only to berate the Daemon Engines for disrupting his hymn. Brynjol growls, kicking the tank into some sort of gear. He seems to pause for a moment, as if marshalling some resolve.

"Does it ever occur to you, brothers, that the people we save almost never see our faces, or know our names?" Brynjol begins. "We have action figures," Cortain points out, "They totally know that we are the Emperor's chosen." "Aye, they do," Brynjol facepalms, "But... it suits me, you know? To toil in relative anonymity." The engine of the Sicaran revs. "Most people we fight for will never know of it, other than disaster averted, a bad star no longer falling on their heads," he explains, "They hear of the Adeptus Astartes and they marvel to themselves, they tell each other stories of the Space Marines who saved the day one day. But they will never know who we truly are. We live behind a mask of fear and awe to them." "Then let us honour those who came before us," Cortain suggests, "They who are now but myth." "We can give them the peace of mind to continue living, to further this great endeavour in the name of the Allfather," Brynjol affirms, "They will know one thing, brothers." Brynjol pokes his head out of the driver-side gunnery slot, and roars at the approaching daemon-engines. He laughs, his hair coming away from the helmet seal and streaming behind him, teeth bared into the wind. "WE SHALL KNOW NO FEAR!" he yells, "For the Emperor, and the Wolf King!" "FOR THE EMPEROR!" Cyril roars as the Accelerator Autocannon begins to warm up.

Somewhere, back in Ceviv City, a small child clutches his Fightin' Felleye Brynjol™ action figure a little bit tighter.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JL5OzcfzAbE

The Commandos charge forward. Their immediate concerns are the Maulerfiend and the Forgefiends rushing towards their Sicaran. The Commandos seize the initiative, and commence with all guns blazing. Heavy Bolter fire and Lascannon lances stike the Maulerfiend, but it holds, especially when the Accelerator Autocannons miss. The Maulerfiend charges, but Brynjol manages to deftly dodge, relying on the Sicaran's front armor to absorb Hades Autocannon fire and taking minimal damage, though Temur's sponson turret is knocked out with a lucky hit, much to his ire.

Knowing that retreat is weakness, Brynjol floors the prometheum pedal, ramming the Maulerfiend and crushing it under the treads of the Sicaran with a disgusting crunch and a mechanical howl of fury. Cyril fires the Accelerator Autocannon at the Forgefiend that disabled the Sicaran's gun, moderately wounding it, while Cortain suffers as the beast's daemonic field deflects the lascannon blast he sent against it. Cortain, however, hears a sudden beep over his codec.

"Ah, Contractor, do you read?" the quiet Tau's voice asks, "Contractor? Contractor are you there?" "I am busy here, make it fast," Cortain demands. "Ah, good!" she breathes, "We have a small task for you." "You have questions, I have ways to kill things," Cortain sighs. The High Commander is vaguely familiar with this 'Settra,' and recalls one of his Detachments mentioning the name," she explains, "We wish for you to call this Settra, so we can update our own tactical databases." Cortain remains silent, a bad taste forming in his mouth. "You need only call the creature once, unless you feel it necessary to call it further, we only need at least one combat display." "Acceptable," Cortain states flatly. "We look forward to receiving the data, Contractor!" she says cheerfully.

Cortain decides to hold off, however, deciding not to summon the Nemesor unless absolutely necessary. This is an Astartes matter, after all. The Forgefiends and Commandos continue circling each other, and while the Sicaran's offensive strength is impressive, the Forgefiends inflict no small amount of damage themselves against the Sicaran's weaker side armor. With Cortain and Brynjol supporting, and Temur angrily muttering about poor luck, Cyril is able to take down the two Forgefiends with razor-sharp autocannon fire.

The thunder peals as the storms above get worse and worse. The sky is a mess of purple and screaming. Cortain laments the inability to patch up the Sicaran's sponson, and Cyril begins to rest easy, until Brynjol points up at a trio of Heldrakes surging through the unnatural cloud cover.

"Cyril," Brynjol suggests, "Give me your opinion on something, specifically me getting out and using my jump pack to leap up to those winged bastards, land on one and try to steer it into the other one." "Foolish and a waste of time," Cyril quickly replies, "Such antics have proven effective, but it would leave the tank with no pilot unless Temur takes over, and it would expose you to antivehicular fire."

Indeed, the Commandos find themselves in quite a hard place - as flyers, the Heldrakes are near impossible to hit, ESPECIALLY from a moving vehicle. Deciding to stay still, the Commandos hunker down and fire into the sky. While the Accelerator Autocannon manages to inflict good damage on a Heldrake, the Commandos realize that the situation is clearly against them. They will not survive the Flyers' superior positioning and anti-vehicle firepower.

So Cortain gives in, and on Cyril's suggestion replays the command code granted to him.

"SO~LDIERS OF THE ENFLESHED!" Ramsestron yells over vox, "MY NEMESOR IS O~N HIS WAY!"

As the Accelerator Autocannon shots hit one of the Heldrakes, somethin inordinately fast surges through the clouds. The air around the wounded Heldrake is covered in combining explosions, as the source finally comes into view. A massive metallic dragon, its eyes blazing in fury, loops around the wounded heldrake, before opening its mouth.

"...what is that?" Brynjol raises his eyebrow. "...what horrible, horrible thing hath I wrought..." Cortain mutters.

With its meson bombs exploding all around, Nemesor Settra releases his Ultrathermal Deathray Projector, spearing the Heldrake in a burning beam of energy. Cyril laughs the laugh of a man who has come to destroy as the other two Heldrakes move further down, to avoid the wrath of Nemesor Settra, the Imperishable.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90f9wfZKF9o

As the monster called Settra gets closer to the ground, the Commandos can see the origin of his name - even Biotransference cannot stop the legendary regeneration of a Chernol Star Dragon, and the creature is a horrific mix of necrodermis and flesh.

"Why did we think this is a good move...?" Cortain sighs as he moves over, Temur taking the lascannon and laying fire on the now grounded Heldrakes. Now that the battle is on slightly more level ground, the Commandos align their front armor to take the brunt of the Heldrakes' Hades Autocannon shots, and manage to tank 14 shots with minimal damage. Brynjol fires the Heavy Bolter, wounding the second Heldrake enough for Cyril to take down the third with concentrated fire. Temur fires his lascannon, permanently grounding the Heldrake, and opening it for Cortain to redirect Settra once more upon the daemon engine. The Nemesor heeds his command, rushing into melee with the Heldrake. Hovering nearby, the Nemesor deigns not the Heldrake with its attention, merely extending its razor sharp tail into the beast's daemonic core.

The Commandos detect further problems a few kilometers out, where a vortex of warp energy is forming. Pushing the ailing Sicaran to its limit, the Commandos can see inside a space marine, a sorceror, it looks like, in the blue and gold of the Thousand Sons. More Warp Gates are beginning to form, and Temur advises running the sorceror over. However, Brynjol has other ideas, climbing out of the tank and forcing himself directly at the floating sorceror. He smashes his mighty Wulfen Crozius into the sorceror. With a howl of rage and surprise, he is forced back into the warp.

"Send Magnus my regards, you heathen!" Brynjol laughs as the warp storm recedes.

The Sicaran shakes with a Thud as the Commandos begin to disembark - the Nemesor Settra lands without grace on the damaged tonk.

"...Know that you live because our ally, the Phaeron, bids. Remain in his good graces, and you shall count on our blades..." the Star Dragon hisses, before flying off.

Cyril signs the Aquila to the dragon as it speaks, shelving the concerns that the thing could talk. However, a surge of energy soon distracts the Commandos.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90f9wfZKF9o

Teleporting in a flash is Ramsestron and his semi-loyal cryptek.

"SOLDIERS OF THE EN~FLESHED, I THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE TO MY DY~NASTY AND MY FRIENDS," Ramsestron yells. "...Regrettably, I feel little," Cortain sighs, before turning to the Phaeron, "Well met, Ramsestron. The short ones send their regards." "THE TINY ENFLESHED YET PERSEVERE! AH, A DA~Y OF GOOD NEWS!" the ever-loud Ramsestron blasts, "BUT THE TIME TO LEAVE I~S NOW! UNDER THE AN~CIENT CODES, YOU HAVE PROVEN YOURSELF WORTHY!" "Exhausted, my phaeron, let us leave..." Thutmosis2000 drones. Ramsestron bows, before summoning a spess-papyrus hyperscroll at the Commandos' feet. "THOU WHO HAST PRO~VEN THYSELF WORTHY, BEAR MY DYNASTIC SEAL, A TO~KEN OF OUR COOPERATION!" the excited Phaeron loudly proclaims, "MAY WE ME~ET ONCE MORE IN PLEASURABLE COMPANY! UNDER MOO~N AND STAR, I BID THEE FAREWELL!" "In the Emperor's name, we bid thee farewell, noble Phaeron..." Cyril nods as the Phaeron and his exhausted semi-loyal cryptek disapear.

Satisfied on how the mission proceeded, the Commandos note they cannot actually read the spess-papyrus hyperscroll, lacking knowledge of the Necrontyr language. However, everyone is in high spirits, and ready to try something new. On the trip back to Cevic City, Cortain switches frequencies on his codec. "Satisfied?" Cortain asks. Indeed!" the handler beams, her smile evident, "We've acquired quite a lot of useful data. We have enough to confirm our suspicions." "Good," Cortain rubs his head, "I am still trying to resist the urge to remove my memories for even going through with this..."

The Commandos greet the cheering crowd, before readying departure protocols. Cyril and Temur carefully guide the Sicaran into a waiting hauler, while Brynjol drums up excitement. Cortain stops by a Targetum-class civilian supply depot and picks up a full set of Republican Commandos™ Action Figures, much to the surprise of the attendant clerk-adept. Content that their job is complete, the Commandos hurry back to the Blade, where new calls for assistance have appeared, and to calm down Executor Thexus, who has returned to active duty, quite surly and angry...

(20) Once Blessed

The Sicaran is moved for repairs, while the hangar is abuzz with activity. There are two new missions, it seems. One details another member of the H'esav'geka, Por'o Doran'ro, or Water Caste Paragon Commander Wiseman, who has been sighted on the world of Nebraskus, and caused multiple agri-settlements on the world to go silent in a single day. The other was a transmission from a mining site in the Scar outside the Tiji Sector from a force of the Squat Holds, requesting support when they found strange artifacts and complex ruins of human origin.

"LEGIONARY, THE HELOTS HAVE PROVIDED PICT-CASTS OF THEIR FINDINGS," Thexus says, "RECALIBRATING HOLOMAP..." The Holomap changes, and the Commandos wait with bated breath. The pict-capture depicts a bolter of ancient provenance, similar to the patterns Executor Thexus provides aboard the Blade. "Where was this reclaimed?" Cortain asks. "A mining site in the Scar," Cyril reminds him. "THE HELOTS HAVE DISCOVERED A LEGIONARY ARMORIUM AND STORAGE DEPOT. I HAVE CROSS-REFERENCED THIS WITH THE FINDINGS OF THE FIRE RAPTOR COGITATOR," Thexus continues, "IT IS MY GREAT RECOMMENDATION THAT THIS BE INVESTIGATED IMMEDIATELY, BEFORE THE HELOTS DAMAGE ANY LEGIONARY EQUIPMENT." "Certainly interesting..." Brynjol muses. "We Squats have minin' in our veins!" Rockfist replies angrily, "We're not about to damage any-" "Did they state what manner of support they request?" Cyril presses, trying to calm tensions down, "Loremasters? Warriors? ...Fences?" "SILENCE, HELOT," Thexus harshly demands, "LEGIONARY, THEY REQUESTED SUPPORT BECAUSE THEY BELIEVED IT TO BE OF LEGIONARY ORIGIN. THEY ARE CORRECT. I ADVISE RECLAIMING ANYTHING OF WORTH IMMEDIATELY." "I agree with you, Thexus," Brynjol admits, "But would it kill you to refer to Rockfist by his name or title? The ma- squat has been invaluable to us so far."

"Do you think we can trust Doggfather's adepts to not smoke those Tyranids for a litle longer?" Cortain asks. "No," is the near unanimous answer.

Thexus remains silent for a bit, before continuing, "I HAVE OFFERED MY RECOMMENDATION. I SHALL DEFER TO YOUR JUDGMENT, LEGIONARIES."

While Cyril considers all the available missions in order of priority, Brynjol, Temur, and Cortain are all in agreement to seek out any potential relics. The order is given to make way for the Scar, the dead apocalyptic swathe outside the Tiji Sector. The Blade begins the trip out of Nova Prosperous space, before entering the Warp.

"It pains me to leave other tasks unattended, but the wargear of our revered ancestors will make every challenge that faces us fall all the quicker," Cyril rationalizes, "And it may do the crew good to see some of their people not confined to the ship."

The Commandos receive a number of updates as the warp window closes. It seems inquisitorial vessels are on their way to Nova Prosperous, and Doggfather seems to have caught a cold. Brynjol is less than sympathetic. However, the trip will take a number of weeks, and the Commandos plan careful use of their time. While Cyril spends some time reviewing projector slides of Imperium-friendly forces with Notomok and carving the Corer plate, Cortain wraps up the action figures in little boxes, hoping for them to be collector's items one day, and Temur continues to train his mind and body to prove himself better than the plebs.

Cortain decides to chat with Executor Thexus and see what has him so riled up, and he finds himself joined by Brynjol. Brynjol, however, is not interested in Thexus as much as he is in what Cortain is holding in one of his servo-claws.

"You come to see what exactly is going on with Thexus?" Cortain asks. "Partly," Brynjol says, "I was also wondering what that was." He points at the scrap of white flesh clutched in one of Cortain's servo-arms. "It still lives?" Cortain mutters. "I have no idea," Brynjol shrugs, "I just want to know what it is, and why you have it." "Curious. I found it before we left for Nova Prosperous," COrtain explains, "No clue what it exactly is though." Brynjol takes the small slug from Cortain, before returning to his Medicae deck.

Cortain now finds himself joined by Temur, who is concerned over Thexus's erratic behavior as well. The Hololithic Combat Chamber doors open, and Thexus stands there silently. Whatever he was staring at drifts away. "LEGIONARIES," he states, "HOW MAY I ASSIST YOU?" "Is everything...well?" Cortain asks, "You have been silent since the hunt." "ALL SYSTEMS ARE NOMINAL, LEGIONARIES. I SIMPLY DO NOT WANT THE HELOTS MEDDLING WHERE THEY DO NOT BELONG," Thexus turns around, "AS FOR MY ABSENCE, I APOLOGIZE. I WAS COMPARING THEIR REQUEST TO THE DATA IN THE RECOVERED COGITATOR. NO MISTAKE CAN BE MADE." "I do not see them being any more of them a threat than any other adepts..." Cortain explains, before amending his comments, "...bar those of the Inquisition." "HELOTS SHOULD NOT TREAD THE SAME GROUND AS GODS, LEGIONARY," Thexus states flatly.

The Commandos are silent for a moment. "Indeed we are gods among men, but recent events have made me wonder," Cortain admits, "What sort of gods are we?" "LEGIONARY, YOU WERE THE GREATEST SOLDIERS MANKIND COULD PRODUCE. YOU STILL ARE. YOU ARE GODS TO THE HELOTS AND THE EXCERTUS," Thexus notes. "It is that 'were' that concerns me. Perhaps when we finally end this absurd assignment, this might be better served to the Legions..." Cortain stops, catching himself. "I SEE YOU BECOME MORE LIKE THEM EVERY DAY. NEVER FORGET THE POWER AND RESPECT YOU COMMAND AMONGST THOSE YOU LEAD THE CHARGE FOR," Thexus explains, "YOU WERE GREAT ONCE. YOU ARE ON THE PATH TO BECOMING GREAT AGAIN. FALTER NOT, AND THE STRENGTH OF THE LEGIONS WILL BE BEHIND YOU WITHOUT QUESTION."

Cyril joins Temur and Cortain, who had hoped to use the Hololithic Combat Chambers for his own needs, but now regrets missing Thexus's wisdom. However, their reverie is interrupted by a vox.

"Ah, lads," Rockfist voxes, "The trip is almost over, when ya have some time, stop by the Armory."

The Commandos form up, to see what Rockfist has to say.

In the Medicae Deck, however, Brynjol is hard at work examining the slug recovered from Cortain. He performs extensive medicae tests on it, quite concerned. For all intents and purposes, it is a pale white slug, partially translucent. It possesses the same type of body functions, symmetry, organs, and abilities of a normal slug. But something about it feels...off, something he can't quite put his finger on. He readies a stasis chamber to place the slug in, but is briefly waylaid by his attendant serfs.

"My lord, is something the matter?" Serfguy the Serf asks. "I... do not know," Brynjol admits, moving his samples into the stasis casket. "It's just that..." the Serfguy stammers, "You've been cutting and prodding at an empty desk for hours now..."

Brynjol stops. "I..." he stutters, before carefully grasping the slug and placing it in a stasis chamber, "Don't touch that chamber." The serfs stare at the empty chamber, "As you wish, my lord..." Brynjol presses some ivory keys on an old, stained keypad. A medicae diagnostor scanner revolves out of the wall, and Bryn divests himself of his armour before crawling inside, concerned about eyes on the inside.

Heading over to the Armory, Rockfist is working on the Sicaran from before. "Our apologies on that massive gaping hole there," Cortain sheepishly points. "Ah, lads, the toaster still waffling?" Rockfist asks, "No matter. Lad I've got some things to warn ya about." "Speak, then," Cyril requests. "This is a Squat mine, we're quite good at what we do," Rockfist says, "But conditions may not be the best. There may be sections of thin rock, mined out areas, areas of vacuum, an' other hazards." "Understood," Cyril states, "Our armour should be able to weather most of those, but we will be cautious." "Not quite, lad. Things may be more'n yer power armor can 'andle," Rockfist concludes, "Conditions may be so bad that ya may need additional protection. I can ready yer Terminator Armor if ya want."

The Commandos are in agreement - Terminator Armor for enclosed spaces of the Mining Center would be good. The Commandos begin planning out their loadouts, as transport is readied and the Blade leaves the Warp.

"...I am curious to see how this cyber-familiar interacts with Terminator armour..." Cortain admits. "If that's what ya want, lad, it'll be readied. Shouldn't be that bad," Rockfist nods, "We'll be leavin' the warp momentarily." Rockfist does a doubletake. "That skull...looks familiar..." he mutters, before shaking his head, "Must be me imagination..." Cortain says nothing.

The warp trip ends with the Blade amongst a massive asteroid field. A number of them are clearly being mined out, and one is larger than the others. It is clear that is the target. As the Commandos suit up, appropriate transport for Terminators is readied, as the Blade takes its place amongst the unnerving wreckage of the Scar. Brynjol selects a Tartaros suit, as well as a Frostblade. Cortain also selects Tartaros armor, a Combi-Volkite weapon with Kraken Bolts, and an Auxiliary Grenade Launcher. Temur selects Tartaros as well, with an Assault Cannon and a Cyclone Missile Launcher. Cyril is last, completing the Tartaros set and bringing a Reaper Autocannon. The Commandos have taken all advice into account. While Thexus notes that the alleged storage depot was initially prepared for an assualt on the Ghaslakh orkhold, O'Malley suggests keeping one's mind sharp for traps and puzzles that litter Squat fortresses, and Rockfist advises heavy weapons in case of...forgotten beasts, or worse.

Making a mighty oath to the Wolf King, the Commandos land on the planetoid where the Squats have estabilished their main mining complex. Cortain opts to take a big swig of some unidentified oil he took in transit as he stares out the Caestus's limited viewports. Outside, he can see the tortured skies and the multi-colored debris fields drifting along the winds of spess. In this dead zone, the howls of asteroid impacts thunder along as the two Urists dodge and weave. As far as the eye can see, there is naught but ruin.

While Cyril makes sure his stormbolter isn't bolted to his hand, so he can open doors this time, Brynjol flexes his joints in the unfamiliar warplate, a cloth-wrapped bundle across his knees. The Wolf-skull helm lies next to him on the bench.

"How...populated is this facility?" Cortain asks. "Ah, there's got ta be about a thousand in the main facility, lad," Rockfist explains, "An' thousands more spread out along the field."

Pinging with augurs, it is clear the asteroid belt is rich in minerals. Cortain's auspex, slightly more sensitive than the others' due to his Techmarine training, picks up the same mineral readings, as well as the electric and chemical signals that move the debris along the winds of spess. He can also barely pick up screams of fear and terror, vox-echoes long-since passed, probably tied to whatever event befell this cursed formed sector.

Eventually, the Urists round an asteroid, and the large planetoid ruin where the Squats have set up comes into view. Unwrapping the bundle and raising aloft the Frostblade within, Brynjol takes point as the Caestus lands in a waiting docking bay. The doors open as a number of Squats stand at attention. The line of Squats kneel in the Commandos' presence as they march out, relics held high.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_SJL-NosgXs

Cyril holsters his beloved stormbolter and walks out. "On your feet, lads!" He clicks his tongue for his Yeti to follow, inducing slight terror in the Squats. "Indeed! Fill us in, my good me...squats!" Brynjol adds exuberantly.

A squat walks over. "I'm Overseer Ibruk, my lords," he states, "It was my men who found the ancient relic. We...we figured you should be alerted." "Let's have a look, then," Brynjol suggests. Starting at the Squat Staging Area, Overseer Ibruk leads the Commandos through the Ancestor Halls, to where the path splits three ways. Entering the Chapel of the Ancestors, he beckons to the old bolter placed on the altar.

"The Foreman's advised all squats evacuate the mining site until you've had your looks," the Overseer explains, "We can take you to the Mining Center, but we dare not go farther. It's..." He trails off. "Aye, you look to your own, Overseer," Brynjol suggests, "We'll take care of this little issue." "It is what? Have you encountered danger there?" Cyril asks. Overseer Ibruk shakes his head, "My lieges, there's somethin' about those caves. Things go wrong at random. Accidents and problems. It's got the throngs spooked. As the Foreman commands, down from the local Lord, we shall not enter those halls until you have taken anything you deem necessary." "Very well. We shall endeavour to resolve some of those 'accidents and problems' along the trip," Cyril offers. The Overseer nods deeply, "We will be unable to mantain contact with you in the depths, my Lords. May the Emperor and the Ancestors guide you."

Taking a moment to examine the recovered bolter, the Commandos cannot make heads or tails of it through the dust and dirt. They resolve to clean it up and identify it later.

"Weapons check before we head out," Brynjol commands. Cyril draws, twirls, and holsters the Stormbolter with one hand, then waggles the Reaper. "Already done. Surely you would not expect a son of Sanguinius to neglect to blood his boltshells?" Brynjol ignores the jibe, looking at Cortain and Temur. "Prepared," Cortain intones quietly. "We are carrying enough munitions to annihilate half a company," Temur notes, "Overkill perhaps, but prudent when dealing with things from the dark ages, as we have found." "I'd carry more, would the quartermaster allow it," Brynjol shakes his head, "I'll have no truck with the things we've met in the darkness so far... I've already lost one limb." "We have a quartermaster?" an incredulous Cyril asks. "We take what is needed for the mission and no further, as our training and interpretations of the codex teach us, though this sector is testing some of those lessons to the limit," Temur admits, "While the Brotherhoods teach that mixed style of warfare are occasionally required, they usually do not mix them quite so readily as I am finding myself pushed to for our mission effectiveness." "Regardless, Brynjol, would you sully that blade with the blood of every gormless cultist?" Cyril asks, "Your chainsword usually suffices, does it not?" "You say drenching a blade in the blood of the Imperium's foes is sullying it?" Brynjol muses, "Curious..."

Proceeding to the door labelled Mining Center Alpha, the Squats at attention leave as the heavy ceramite doors scrape open. Stepping into Mining Center Alpha, the doors slowly creak behind the Commandos, locking tightly.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ymv7GQR6jqc

Brynjol draws his blades, dropping into a hunting crouch, looking, somehow, simultaneously faintly ridiculous and intensely menacing in the bulky Terminator warplate, while Cyril watches the flanks, pointing the Reaper around and watching for movement or shiny objects.

This area was once the main staging area for the entire mining operation. Half-assembled drills and conveyor systems lay strewn about. In Mining Center Alpha, there appear to be three doors, besides the one the Commandos came in through. One is incredibly large, and looks thick with armored ceramite. Another looks slightly smaller, off to the right side, near some boxes. The last is to the left, and appears to have cables running through it. That door is already open.

"I'm sorely tempted to check out that innocuous-looking door to the right," Brynjol notes, "In my experience, they're the ones that always have a cadre of rubric automatons lying in wait behind, the sneaky bastards." "As am I," Cortain agrees, though for entirely different reasons.

Heading on over to the door, the Commandos note that the door is low on power. It currently will not open. However, augurs pick out an exposed conduit - it may be able to be charged. Cortain takes a moment to incant the proper prayers, placing his hand on the conduit, and charging it from his potentia coil. The door glows with sudden power, before opening. Within the door is a number of boxes. It's clear this was a storage area for spare industrial gear. But attention is not on the boxes, but rather the blue torch off to the side.

"Got a selection of good things on sale, stranger..." the Merchant rasps.

The Commandos decide to push their sanctioning to the limits. As a team, they manage to acquire Eldar Flip Belts. The effects of being shown in such xenotech remains to be seen. Brynjol tries for a Blurshield, but fails. Cortain too tries his luck at an Abeyant, but fails. Cyril gives up and goes for a shield, managint to get a good Conversion Field, while Temur too decides on Hexagrammatic Wards for his power armor.

"Heh heh heh, thank you..." the Merchant says as he steps behind a set of boxes.

The room is quiet now, other than the creaking of the rock caverns and the groaning of stressed metal holding up the supply boxes. The Commandos return to Mining Center Alpha, where the large armored ceramite door lies, and the side door remains open, which a cogitator panel calls Auxiliary Corridor A. A separate cogitator panel refers to the armored ceramite door as "Corridor A" These cogitators are running on emergency power, so to prevent Squats from getting lost.

Cortain scans the door with his Auspex. However, the scan cannot pierce the thickness of the door. It's clear, that the door is out of power, though. It's too large to be charged via Luminen charge, but he detects electric remnants leading through the pipes behind Auxiliary Corridor A. The same pipes that are hanging over the open door. Cyril decides to take point, heading on through Auxiliary Corridor A, where the Commandos come to a strewn out Security Control. Cogitators here are thrumming with defense status and controls, while a rack of lasguns stands behind the guard's post.

"Lasguns and cogitators," Cyril muses, "Cortain, your expertise might be useful here."

There are two doors - one open, straight ahead to a place labeled Auxiliary Corridor B, and then there's another door across from the Security Control, this one seems low on power but Cortain can see another exposed conduit. He first begins by accessing the security cogitators, looking through with his Mechanicum training. The cogitator bank displays that a number of plasma turrets are standing by, ready to defend the Central Power Dynamo against enemies. To switch their configuration requires a password. Unable to guess or crack the password, he turns his attention to the depowered door. Though the first attempt at charging tires him out and slightly damages the conduit, the second attempt is successful.

Cyril takes some time to peer down Auxiliary Corridor B from Security Control, and notes it's a straight corridor down. In the distance he can see something large and mechanical. Cortain's attention, meanwhile, is on the newly accessible Security Annex. There's a cogitator here, the screen glowing yellow. Everyone sets their Augur Arrays to Scan Visor mode, and begin scanning the yellow cogitator.

Downloading...downloading...Log Book Updated. 05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC) "Engineer's Guildsman Romek here. I've set up the defense turrets. But somethin's not right. The cogitators keep wipin' themselves, and the turrets' targetin' priorities keep resetting - poor Irol nearly lost'is arm from the turrets goin' haywire. Only real defense is to turn'em off. Password is 3241. We won't be defended very well, but it's still safer than ta leave the throngs ta get shot by our own guns." 05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)

"How convenient of them," Cortain sighs, "I advise everyone keep clear in case we get something mad." "Terminator armor cannot stand up to plasma," Cyril notes, raising his reaper autocannon, "We may need to shut the turrets down." "If the Machine Spirits are still too unruly, we will need them shut down."

Cortain carefully enters the password, and the cogitator displays "Defenses disabled." Auxiliary Corridor B is now clear, it seems. Heading on down Auxiliary Corridor B, the Commandos finally come across a large area, the Central Power Dynamo. It is currently not active. Below, in the floor, the Commandos can see electric current active across pylons, but the Dynamo that distributes power is offline. Cortain and Cyril both try to interface with the Dynamo, but its archeotech systems elude them. Cortain takes a moment to think, and notes that all around are Prometheium fuel conduits, as well as exposed pylons that generate the power in this room. He reasons that, if the Dynamo is being unresponsive, it may need its fuel cycled. There are five prometheum tanks he can see. Manually cycling at least three at the same time may reset the dynamo to Power Distribution mode.

Cyril takes the first tank, successfuly cycling it with a Strength test, as does his yeti with a second. Cortain takes a third tank, and after some trial, manages to cycle it. Brynjol joins in, cycling a fourth. Temur covers the corridor, ensuring the turrets do not awaken. With 4 of 5 cycled, which exceeds minimum requirements, the Dynamo pops a bit, before revving up and the lights brightening up.

Power restored.

The Commandos debate switching the turret systems into identifying them as "Friend," but Cortain wisely remembers that the attempts the Squats tried did not take. Deciding it's safest to leave the turrets off, the Commandos move on. Heading on back to Mining Center Alpha, the unmoving turrets at the Commandos' backs, the armored ceramite door is receiving full power. It may be opened at leisure via terminal. When Cortain opens the door, everyone come to Corridor A. Further turrets wait here, pointed down and disabled. FUrther down the hall, something large extends upwards. Following Corridor A down, the Commandos see a large Power Shaft, now receiving power from the Central Power Dynamo. There is a nearby cogitator terminal, which states "CURRENT ALIGNMENT: 1-2-3." It seems each part of the Shaft can move independently. Within this room, there are two doors - one powered by link to the Central Power Shaft, and one not receiving any power at all.

"Wonderful," Cyril notes, "More puzzles."

Cortain can see power flowing through the Central Power Shaft with his auspex, a combo of cords that distribute power through the complex. He can sense the power currently going to the door Temur is making his way towards to check. Opening the powered door, Temur passes along Auxiliary Corridor C, until he reaches a small Log Center. Once more, there is a cogitator glowing yellow. Cortain casually strolls up to scan the cogitator

Downloading...downloading...Logbook Updated. 05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC) "This is Zotthol Zagithemal, Foreman of the expedition on Asteroid T-34-3. I don't like this place. There's something off with it. I feel something staring at me every time I engage the drill. The air feels so heavy the deeper we get into this rock. In my 400 years of life, I never felt a job so...wrong, as this one. The last straw was that bolter that Olak found. It was much older than the bolters we use now. I formally request Lord Erar to call in assistance.

Until then, I'm locking down the dig site. The Combination there isn't 1-2-3, that's to this door. I don't remember the exact combination, but I remember that no number was repeated. I'll leave it to the Overseers to remember." 05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)

"Anything that peturbs the Squats at what they do best should certainly make us wary," Temur advises. "So, this door should open to... I-II-III?" Cyril asks, "Uncanny, that is the same code Chaplain Mikhael used for the Scout armorium..."

The Central Power Shaft is currently set to 1-2-3, which grants power to the entrance door and the Log Center door. The Commandos try numerous configurations at random first. Reversing the order merely powers nothing, while Cortain's try of 2-3-1 turns the power shaft to only the entrance. Temur puts in 2-3-1, which sends power to an emergency charging station. Brynjol decides to try the remaining combinations in order. Luckily, his first guess of 1-3-2 aligns the Central Power Shaft and gets good results - while the path to Aux Corridor C is now unpowered, the Entrance and Unpowered Door are now powered.

"My lupine genius has, once more, saved the day," Brynjol boasts. Cyril snorts derisively, while Cortain stares in mocking disbelief. "Don't think I can't hear you back there..." Brynjol mutters. "Only six combinations were possible," Cyril points out, "And one was eliminated before we began. I am not saying you are not a genius, but an Ork could have solved that one." "You're a dreadful bore," Brynjol sighs, "If we find a sinkhole, remember me to push you in it. That's an order." "Perhaps if you had brought your jump pack," Cyril quips, so Notomok could push you in after to retrieve me."

Cortain just takes points while the manchildren bicker. Speaking of sinkholes, travelling down Corridor B, the Commandos come across a series of cavern-openings and sinkholes. The Squats no doubt intended these to be mineshafts. Mounted in the ceiling is a large mining drill. Brynjol looks at Cyril. The Wolf Skull seems to take on a leering grin, to which Cyril steps warily back. Cortain accesses the Mining Drill at a nearby Cogitator, and notes he can fire the drill. It will probably make a good punch in any sinkhole or cavern-foundation he selects. There are two sinkholes and three Caverns. Cortain fires the drill, but it fires at a nearby wall as Brynjol pushes it about. Cyril starts checking sinkholes and foundations, scanning to see what lies beneath while Notomok holds his shoulder to keep him steady. Surprisingly, he notes that there is a HEAVY concentration of metals down the central cavern, far more than should be natural.

"There is... a great amount of metal down this one," Cyril points, "Too concentrated to be natural, perhaps an ancient Astartes fortress?" "Considering how they found an ancient bolter, then the possibility is there," Cortain agrees.

Brynjol pushes the mining drill towards to the cavern Cyril points out, and the melta blast fires for a good many seconds. As the mining drill completes its work, and the dust settles, Cyril notes his auspex did not lead him astray.

The Commandos have drilled into the side of some sort of long-buried building.

"Sweet Emperor's shriveled scalp, we got a paydirt," Cortain exclaims in the sector's local variant of Gothic.

The blast is wide enough that the Commandos have zero trouble hopping in. It's a few meters' drop, but nothing to be concerned about. Leaping down with a mighty thud and varying degrees of excitement and caution, the dust of ages is kicked up as the Commandos enter the Legionary Storage Center.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CqXNu0XI5zQ

"Secure the perimeter," Brynjol commands as the Astartes tactically space themselves. It's clear this was meant to hold vast armaments and ammunition for future raids and However, there are only a few unopened boxes right now. Cyril pops one open, to find normal bolt shells, their propellant and charges long since degraded away. No poisons or aberrant chemicals in the air are detected, but everyone cannot help but feel that they are being...watched.

The Commandos' attention is focused on two great engraved doors, one smaller than the other. They appear to be covered in gold, engraved with expertly-crafted shining winged figures.

"Wings. Either I, III, or IX," Cortain notes. "We shall see," Cyril affirms.

Popping by the smaller door, the Commandos note within there are bolters on the wall, the Umbra-ferrox pattern.. Most notably, however, these bolters appear to bear legionary iconography - Dark Angels (I), the Iron Warriors (IV), the Blood Angels (IX), the Ultramarines (XIII). Had the Commandos not had Executor Thexus and Rockfist on hand who could crank such patterns out as needed, this in itself would be an incredible find. Considering that they have plenty of bolters, however, the Commandos move on.

"I recall Thexus mentioning something like this," Cortain muses, "Along with the 'Beacon of Sotha.'" "A mighty force indeed..." Cyril wonders.

The Commandos move on to the larger door, which after a good, hearty push by Brynjol, opens with a screech that echoes across the hallway into a wide room. Within this room, there are signs of battle. All around, there is shattered glass and wreckage that once served as cover. Most telling, however, are the ded corpses. Clad in bright red power armor, a drop of blood on their shoulders, and proud emblazons of the IXth, the ded Blood Angels look like whatever it was they put up a fight.

"...Traitors..." Cortain posits, "Or a victims of something more sinister...?" Brynjol draws his knife, making as if to jab the teardrop rubies out of the dead bangle shoulders. "Possibly traitors AND their victims. A fortress like this would be hellish to take if Iron Warriors fortified key choke points, and their Warsmiths might have been able to pervert the malfunctioning turrets..." Cyril pauses, snarling at Brynjol, "Show some respect for the dead!" He then removes his helmet. "Now budge up, I need to eat their flesh."

The irony.

Popping off one mummified corpse's armguard and taking a quick nibble, Cyril closes his eyes as the memories take him...

05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC) The Ultramarine and Iron Warrior stand in front of the Blood Angel.

"It is a shame we had to use the supplies here, they were meant for use on the Orks," the Ultramarine says. "Regardless, the Imperium Secundus needs every advantage it can get. You are lucky it was established," the Iron Warrior notes, "Besides, with Horus's treachery, who is to say the ork hold even existed?" "Regardless, you should return," the Blood Angel says, "Use the Auxiliary Landing Bay. Our father Sanguinius and Lord Guilliman must know what we have stored here." "Keep watchful," the Ultramarine says, "That thing is wrong." "We know better than most, my friend," the BA replies, "Signus was...a shock upon us."

The Ultramarine and Iron Warrior leave, and the Blood Angel resumes his patrols. However, strange clouds begin to manifest, and with a roar, the BA contingent find themselves falling, attacked clearly by Daemons. As the Blood Angel falls, the vision blurs... 05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)

"These men were felled by Daemons of Khorne and Slaanesh. Iron Warriors and Ultramarines were also on-site; they mentioned the 'Imperium Secundus,' and Daemons being stored here." "The name sounds familiar," Cortain explains, recalling one of Thexus's storytimes, "When Ultramar was cordoned off by a warp storm, Lord Guilliman established his own Imperium, assuming the rest of the Imperium lost to the Warp." The Commandos listen intently. "I remember Noble Sanguinius also being involved, though an Iron Warrior..." Cortain wonders, "Defectors?" "Perhaps," Cyril nods, "Out of millions of Legionaries, some must not have sided with their Primarchs..."

What is more familiar, however, is the fog itself that is beginning to surround the Stasis Centrum.

"INCOMING!" Cyril yells, "We shall not be such easy prey!"

The Commandos note movement out of the corner of your sensoria. The Stasis Chamber in the center of the room. Something within is MOVING. The stasis chamber finally bursts open, the beast within roaring and rage and anger. A fusion of half Contemptor, and half daemon, the creature raises its hand out, charging its weapon. After 10,000 years, the Mhara Gal interred in stasis has re-awoken, and in its shroud of dark fire burns with unlight.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PDlpaK4ScJw

The Commandos immediately open fire with everything they have. However, the shroud of dark fire provides an incredible amount of protection, as does the Mhara Gal's powerful front armor, able to bounce autocannon rounds, assault cannon rounds, and missiles reliably. The Commandos' minds recoil in the face of the forgotten beast's Fear 3, but their bodies continue to fight reliably. The only casualty of the normal fear is Cyril's yeti, which promptly falls asleep as a result of a high roll on the fear table. Brynjol and Cortain both charge forward, their attacks doing some minor damage. A cyclone missile storm by Temur catches Brynjol in the blast, though, and using the blast to reposition himself, is now in the Mhara Gal's side arc.

The Mhara Gal's counter-attack is harsh. It slams its tainted power claw at Brynjol, who manages to deflect and parry the attack, slashing the frost blade along the Mhara Gal's exposed side armor. Cyril sidesteps an errant stream of curs'd boltspitter rounds, while Temur manages to shield the monster's warpfire plasma cannon, its echoing screams of the damned do a fair bit to burn away some cohesion.

The Commandos decide that it's time to enter Squad Mode. That's the easy part. Everyone takes the time to enter Squad Mode, but nobody actually wants to be the one to call a Squad Mode pattern. The Commandos continue their attack, leading to the humorous and peculiar situation of each either forgetting or refusing to call a Squad Mode Attack Pattern. The Commandos are far more spread out now, and are able to strike at side and rear armor of the Mhara Gal. Cyril's Autocannon fires relentlessly, piercing the side armor of the Mhara Gal, and opening a window for Brynjol to stab with the Frost Blade, cutting into the daemon-creature's motive systems and disabling them, allowing for Temur to fire more Krak missiles and blast-shift Brynjol even further. Cortain continues to assist Brynjol where appropriate, raising the Gladius Invictus at weak spots he picks out.

The Mhara Gal begins to flail about, slamming into the ground, releasing a wave of electricity that Brynjol and Cortain dive through. Brynjol and Cortain further parry the mad daemon's attacks, keeping safe distance between themselves and the tainted power claws. Further Curs'd boltspitter fire is narrowly avoided, as is a further blast of warpfire plasma. With the Commandos now equally spaced, Cyril fires his autocannon at the creature's rear armor, doing inordinate damage and causing the Mhara Gal to...disappear. It leaves behind a haze of warp energy, which Brynjol resists but Cortain suffers through.

The Commandos can still feel the daemon's presence. Brynjol, quite enraged, slashes at the air ahead of him, hitting nothing. Temur thinks a moment, suddenly flips on his terminator suit's auspex. Switching to the Tartaros's X-ray Visor, he picks out the Daemon hovering over the former stasis casket, absorbing aberrant warp power about. It is only the creature's daemonic essence, lacking its armor, recovering. So Temur does the sensible thing - he fires a set of krak missiles at it! While the daemon's shield bounces one, the second super missile hits straight away, dealing inordinate damage. The Mhara Gal phases back into reality, quite enraged at Temur. It slams its tainted power claws down, cutting effortlessly through his shield, but Temur manages to parry both attacks that land, saving himself from the tank-smashing power of the claws. He is not so lucky, however, in avoiding the Curs'd Boltspitters, sending him flying back into the criticals, his Tartaros front plate shattered. Cyril only barely manages to dodge out of the warpfire blast from the heavily damaged Mhara Gal.

Cortain is the last one up, and he sees the perfect opportunity - the Mhara Gal has left its rear armor exposed. Raising the Gladius Invictus, he charges forward, the gladius ignoring the monster's daemonic aura of dark fire, and striking the forgotten beast's core. The Mhara Gal goes warp-critical, exploding outward before being sucked into the warp.

"BEGONE WITH THEE, FOUL ABOMINATION OF THE WARP!" Cortain blasts out in binary.

The warp-cursed explosion catches Cortain, lighting him up in a mighty soulblaze of blue fire. He looks down, and sighs. It keeps happening. He takes some time to put himself out as Temur collapses into unconsiousness.

Brynjol tends to the wounded Temur, unclasping sections of his terminator plate, quickly assessing and treating his more serious wounds with thick, knotty stitching and a dollop of 'ointment'. Cortain and Cyril review the area, the yeti is sent to patrol. Two further doors are found. Once more, one is larger than the other. Cortain and Cyril take the smaller door first, descending a corridor, before entering a decently sized room. The planetoid rumbles, and the two Commandos see bits of the planetoid crack off into spess. Looking out, this appears to be a landing bay of some kind. However, Cyril gets word - his yeti is going fucking nuts at the door. Heading back, with Brynjol dragging Temur down while Cortain secures the area, Notomok the Yeti calms down as Cyril approaches.

Cyril first tries auspexing through it, but flubs the tech use test. He then puts his ear to the door, also hearing nothing. Opening it carefully, Cyril descends a corridor. He notes now that there are emblems of the IXth Legion upon the banners hanging at the door at the very bottom. He feels...it is right to continue. Cyril removes his helm and breathes deep, striding down into the dark.

Opening the final door and stepping forward, Cyril sees, as if reclining, an ornately-armored Blood Angel. Embedded in the metal is a large, imposing looking sword. The sword, a two-handed wide blade, bears the clear insignias of the Blood Angels. He approaches reverently, and it begins to pulse. Cyril looks over the fallen Legionary for insignias of rank, extending one hand to grip the mighty weapon's hilt. If he had rank, it is far different than the ranks he is accustomed to in the 41st-ish Millenium.

Cyril grips the hilt carefully, and the weapon begins to glow. Muttering a prayer for the fallen, and resting his palm on the fallen Legionary's brow, he grips the handle, and pulls with a mighty force of effort. With a screech, Cyril manages to raise...the hilt. He notes the blade itself remains embedded within the metal with great consternation, and is rapidly beginning to disintegrate.

As he holds the sword's handle, his vision begins to swirl...

05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)24.205.112.238 05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC) Cyril finds himself amongst a ruined hab complex, a completely flattened building. "Brother, this was a trap!" the Blood Angels Legionary says, "The Word Bearers...Horus...they have betrayed us!" "Signus is no relief mission," another says, "We were meant to be slain here!" "Brother, what should we do?" the legionary turns to Cyril. Cyril sheds a few manly tears. "We will not be slain. WE FIGHT! FOR SANGUINIUS, AND FOR THE EMPEROR! THE IXth LEGION STANDS!"

The Legionaries around cheer, raising their weapons as a great host of daemons begin to leap the buildings, rushing forward. At their head is a tall Bloodthirster, his axe raised high.

"THIN THEIR RANKS WITH BOLTERFIRE, AND READY FOR A COUNTERCHARGE! HOLD FAST!" he commands.

As the daemons begin to charge forward, Cyril hears a cry, an anguished cry, an almost inhuman wail, followed by a black wave in the sky. The legionaries around him begin to clutch their heads, screaming, indeed the same is beginning to overtake him. Cyril screams freely, hate and fury overtaking the pain and confusion. His vision is beginning to blur as a...hunger begins to occupy his every thought.

"Brother...brother, I finally understand," a Legionary says, drawing his power sword and charging forward, "IT'S OKAY TO LET GO!"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0mbyqG9Etn8

Cyril has only the hilt of that sword, and can see a Bloodthirster ahead of him. "INTO THE FRAY!" he bellows, an inarticulate roar tearing from his throat as he charges the hellspawned monstrosity. Tacticals, Assault, all Legionaries have gone absolutely fuckwild, with Cyril at the head of the charge. Raising the sword handle high, he charges the Bloodthirster. The handle pulses, a small surge of energy flaring. Then a larger one. The Photonic Blade finally kicks in to full gear, a blade of red energy manifesting with a thunderous blast. The Bloodthirster raises his axe to parry, bringing it down, but but the Photonic Blade cuts right through, an unstoppable burning brand that strikes the daemon. It staggers back, as the rest of the legionaries continue the charge.

As the legionaries continue the charge, ripping things apart with chainsword, combat knife, even bare teeth, nothing is sacred. Not only are the Daemons being massacred, but off in the distance Cyril can see an allied contingent of Space Wolves also set upon by his Legionary brothers. As the battle begins to fade away, lucidity finally returning, he finally feels someone staring behind him. Cyril turns to stare with bared fangs, the black orbs of an Ice Wraith's mutated eyes shining wide & teary in the dark as the too-bright blood of an Astartes trickles down his bitten lip.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WcKh-dGYGVQ

The Blood Angel standing ahead of Cyril bows, the sign of the Aquila upon his chest. Cyril's eyes widen further, and his face slowly relaxes. After the moment of realization, he returns the bow and the salute. Straightening once more, the ancient Legionary fades away, as his vision returns to normal... 05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)~

Cyril is alone in the room now, the ded legionary at his feet. Cyril stands and stares for a long moment, then stows the weapon at his belt and hoists the Legionary up on one shoulder. After a last look around the chamber, he ascends to rejoin his team.

"Lad, lad do ya read?" Rockfist finally asks over vox, "Did ya find anything?" "Blood Angels, slain by Daemons. They were present with Iron Warriors, possibly loyalists, and Ultramarines," Cyril replies, his voice slower than his usual crisp, professional tones, "A daemonically possessed Contemptor Dreadnought remained, as did...a relic of the Ninth Legion." "It was apparently capable of shattering Tartaros plate," Cortain adds.

Indeed, after a bit the Urist Brothers manage to find the Launch Bay. Opening the Caestus's doors for cargo and body transfer, they stand ready to move anything the Commandos deem necessary into the Assault Ram.

"We'll be embarking close to the medicae deck, pilots," Brynjol commands, "Debriefing can wait until all three of them have been admitted for treatment." "I need little treatment," Cortain shakes his head, "Just some quiet." "Luckily for you it's very quiet on the medicae deck," Brynjol laughs. "I did not take a single hit in that battle," Cyril adds, "Look to yourself." "Neither did I," Brynjol points out, "But I also didn't have what sounded like a rather vivid hallucination." "I encountered the same thing when I got this blade," Cortain raises the Gladius Invictus, "It seems...that there is some memory imprinted in these relics." "Then treat me in the chapel," Cyril shakes his head, "I will not suffer your medbay again unless I am actually injured." Brynjol stares at Cyril. "...by the enemy," he clarifies. "It says something that you refuse this, against my advice, a Rout warrior," Brynjol sighs, but drops the subject.

The Urist Brothers are reverent as they help move the dead corpses. Loading up into the Caestus, the fallen legionaries safely stored, the Urists pull out, and begin to circle the asteroid. The Commandos request circling around to review the bolter from earlier, and to give the Squats a status update. But then, floating across the winds of spess, their hearing picks up something else.

That keening.

The Urists make the final turn, only to come eye to eye with the impossibly large Hellstar.

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

Cyril's eyes widen, black as the void, and his lips pull back in a silent snarl as his gaze snaps away from Brynjol and stare into nowhere.

"Evade!" Brynjol commands, but the Urists sit petrified. He lunges forward, grabbing the controls and barely evading a most horrific tentacle extending from the entity. "GET ME BACK ON THAT ASTEROID! I WILL HAVE THAT WEAPON!" Cyril yells. "Cortain, restrain Cyril!" Brynjol states. "BLADE, DEPLOY BATTLE SERVITOR CONTROLLED FIGHTER CRAFT!" Cyril implores as Cortain grabs him, clamping him down, "SCREEN US, AND UNLEASH ALL FIREPOWER ON THE MONSTROSITY!!!" Brynjol, however, turns the Caestus to the Blade. "Belay that order!" he states. The Blade is already making ready to evacuate. Cyril screams the fury of an 8-foot tall genetically enhanced toddler. "LAD! WE'RE HOLDING POSITION FOR YA!" Rockfist yells, "WE'LL WAIT FOR YA THEN ENGAGE THE WARP DRIVE!" "Rockfist! Use whatever weapons you can on the Blade to screen us, no fighters!" Brynjol commands, "Get her in gear."

As Brynjol lands in the Blade, a few of the Squats who could evacuate join the Commandos in the launch bay. "VOX THE ASTEROID!" Cyril insists, "HAVE THEM TAKE EVERYTHING THEY CAN CARRY, STARTING WITH THAT BOLTER!" Cortain pauses before adding, "That sounds reasonable. Relay it, on the double." "Lad, we have confirmation you're aboard," Rockfist says, "If we stay, that...thing will take us." "CORTAIN, WILL YOU SILENCE HIM FOR THE LOVE OF THE ALLFATHER!" Brynjol finally yells. "CORTAIN!" Cyril whirls to face the Techmarine, and his clamps. "ARC CHARGE THE REACTOR! WE SHALL SEE HOW THAT ABOMINATION LIKES THE ACCELERATOR CANNON!"

Outside, numerous tentacles extend outward, grabbing asteroids and forcing them into its gargantuan maw. The Hellstar's beak itself is extended, and retracting with the planetoid. Vox traffic is overloaded with the desperate cries of squats across the field.

"Rockfist, as squad leader, I am ordering you to get us the feth out of here!" Brynjol demands, "I will not risk us all for the sake of an Emperor-damned BOLTGUN!" "Aye, lad..." Rockfist nods.

Cyril gives up on returning and runs for the bridge to take control of the cannon, slavering with hate for the stellar abomination. Cortain, keeping careful watch, arc charges the Accelerator Cannon, and Brynjol takes a moment to lock on before resuming evacuation procedures.

"You can make whatever shots you want, as long as they're made while we are leaving this place, Cyril!" Brynjol finally relents. The Blade begins to make distance from the Hellstar, which the Commandos notice is carefully examining every asteroid before consuming it within its eye-lined maw.

"YES, BRYNJOL. NOW GET ME A FIRING VECTOR," Cyril gurgles in barely coherent rage, "I AM GOING TO PUT THAT EYE OUT."

The Atomantic Arc Reactor's power is funneled into the Accelerator Cannon, the lance of energy striking through the dust field and asteroids to scrape across the Hellstar's eye. For many seconds, the beam rakes across, and white steam is seen across. But...nothing else really happens.

"....is that meant to happen?" Cortain asks in shock. "I bloody told you! Now get us out of here, Rockfist!" Brynjol says, the fear of the extradimensional entity forcing out any smugness he may have had about being right, "This thing is beyond the reach of conventional weaponry!"

The gas-giant sized Hellstar's singular eye turns slowly at Cyril. He screeches hate at the eye, but the noise dies in his throat and he stares at the thing, eerily still. For the briefest of moments, there is silence, only two beings in the universe - Cyril, and the Hellstar.

"One day soon, monster. You WILL die, I swear it."

The Blade escapes the Scar with its Warp Drive. Though thousands of squats were left to a most terrible fate, the Commandos survived, to fight another day, with a powerful new relic. And that's all that can be said for such a situation.

---

Rose walks into the Armorium, a quad-sealed chamber accessible only through codes granted to her by Executor Thexus.

"Executor, you asked to see me?" "YOU ARE CORRECT, AUXILIA PSYKANA. I HAVE NEED OF YOUR ASSISTANCE."

"I don't know if I am able to help bu...what...those are..." "YOUR MEMORY IS ASTUTE, AUXILIA. THEY STILL REQUIRE WORK." "But you said you sent them off to their home chapters." "THE BODIES OF THE HONORED DEAD WERE RETURNED. SOME PARTS SHALL CONTINUE TO SERVE." "I see..."

The Paragon of Metal walks up to her.

"YOU SEEM HESITANT." "No, I just, I'm not sure I have the knowledge to assist." "YOU HAVE STUDIED THE RITES OF TECHNOLOGY WITH THE HELOTS, HAVE YOU NOT? "I have..." "YOU HAVE APPLIED YOUR OWN KNOWLEDGE OF MATERIALS AND PHYSICAL PROPERTIES TO THEIR OWN METHODS, HAVE YOU NOT?" "Yes." "THEN YOU SHALL BE OF HELP. THERE ARE STILL SOME FACTORS EVEN I DO NOT UNDERSTAND. YOU WILL ASSIST ME IN THESE THINGS."

Rose glares at him.

"You're far more than you let on." "I AM A MARKED OF THE FABRICATOR LOCUM. THERE IS LITTLE TIME TO WASTE. LET US CONTINUE OUR WORK. THE LEGIONARIES CANNOT BE KEPT."

(21) Under the Knife

(Temur was unavailable this episode)

The Blade has enabled emergency warp jump, its target Catalyst Station. The mission updates flow across cogitators linked to the Sector Holomap.

-The 44th Orvanian Planetary Assault Legion has been dispatched to Nebraskus after all contact with the world was lost. -Rose has been found unconscious within one of the Observation bays. She has been moved to Brynjol's medicae deck. -Festivities have begun on Xaviol. They are expected to last three weeks. -Doggfather has a most curious fever. His body cannot seem to control its temperature. Numerous Tempestus Scions aboard Catalyst have caught colds.

The Commandos consider their options. They can safely put off the celebrations on Xaviol, but there is much debate between Nebraskus and Cataclysm. While Cyril votes for Nebraskus, he is swiftly outvoted by Cortain and Brynjol, who wish to acquire some Divination for Dummies books for Rose, as well as save Lord Inquisitor Calvin Doggfather from himself. Reluctantly, Cyril acquiesces, and the Commandos are on their way to Catalyst Station.

Brynjol, however, wheels to face Cyril across the bridge. "What the bloody hell were you thinking, Cyril?" he asks. Cyril turns to face the Space Wolf, tears and blood running down his face. "About?" "That! The damned eye!" Brynjol sweeps a hand behind him, "We don't have the capacity to fight that thing! And delaying evacuation for a rusted old boltgun... what madness has taken you?" "We had yet to land a solid arc-charged hit!" Cyril insists, "I thought it would work!" "Listen to me, Cyril. You've fought things like daemons before. When has proportional response EVER worked against them?" Brynjol presses, "We're going to need to skew our thinking to beat this thing. Conventional arms are not the key here." "Every. Damned. Time. Bigger monster? Bigger gun," Cyril throws his hands up, "This thing is not a daemon, and seems to follow different rules!"

Brynjol and Cyril cease their arguing, deeming Rose's condition is worth reviewing first. Cortain, however, has beaten them to the punch, arriving at the medicae deck first. Rose is connected to ancient Medicae machines. She is breathing, which is good. The serfs bow as he enters.

"I presume this development was recent," he notes, reviewing the Serfs' notes. "We found her like this, my lord," Chief Serfguy explains, "When that entity shined its baneful light, she was...convulsing. We brought her here as soon as we noticed."

Cortain considers his conspiracy theories again. He didn't seem utterly screwed against the Mhara Gal, but then again, perhaps the Hellstar wasn't quite as close to put her in peril. He then wonders if the something it seemed to be looking for is actually Rose...

"Cyril, we need to go to the Medicae deck," Brynjol insists, as the two make their way to the deck, "I am not declaring you fit for service without a neuro workup, and something has happened to Rose." He laughs briefly. "We can do them both at the same time, and you won't have to miss more than an hour of hair-combing!" "Fuck you," Cyril snarls bluntly. "Cyril, I will knock your arse all over this ship, with or without that fancy new blade!" Brynjol reminds him. "I am heading for the medbay you vicious fool!" Cyril cries, as Brynjol follows at a slightly more sedate pace, tattered cloak trailing after him.

Arriving at the medicae deck, Cortain and the Serfs standing over Rose, Brynjol notes she is currently stable. "This just happened, Cortain explains, "The Hellstar certainly triggered it. She is stable for now." "And how would you know?" Brynjol asks. Cortain holds his tongue, not wishing to anger the Blade's only medic in concern of losing organs during surgeries. "Maybe because he's a TECHMARINE?" Cyril quips, "And she is connected to MACHINES?" "Cyril, I love you as only a brother Astartes can do," Brynjol sighs, "But I swear to the Allfather I will slap the taste right out of your mouth if you keep on with that petty tone."

Brynjol takes a moment to verify that she is, in fact, stable. However, as he attends to Rose, she suddenly twitches, a great sphere of psychic energy blasting out of her. He curses in Wurgen, falling back a pace before rallying. Though Brynjol successfully resists the power, Cortain and Cyril find their vision clouding, as fog begins to set in...

05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0qzurHFfsk

Cortain and Cyril find themselves floating in that dull fog once more. This time, surrounding them are dark shadowy figures, merely standing there.

"Not again," Cortain sighs. "So it seems," Cyril agrees.

Brynjol, in the materium, attaches Cyril and Cortain to various telemetric devices - making sure to secure Cyril quite firmly - before returning to attend to Rose once he is sure they aren't in danger of warpstuff.

Off in the distance, the two Commandos can see a titanic bipedal form in the fog. It is impossible to make out detail, but it merely stands there.

"But that seems...almost familiar..." Cortain observes.

Cortain and Cyril perform a weapon check, and all they have is their relics. The featureless shadows merely stare. They do not appear with weapons, and they are the size of normal humans.

Cyril grips his Photonic Blade, unlit, for comfort. "They are unresponsive. I suggest we check the big one... but if it is hostile, and these anthromorphs join it, engaging them now might be wiser." "Quite," Cortain moves to Cyril's back, drawing the Gladius Invictus.

A great blasting sound echoes through the fog, a cross between a mechanical warhorn and a beast's roar. The force of the sound pushes the two back slightly.

... ... ... CA ... LL ... ... ... US ... ...

Cyril suddenly snaps his head around, trying to pinpoint the sound. "Call you....what?" Cortain asks.

... ... ... AU ... GUR ... US ... ... ...

The shadowed figures bow, in unison.

"Augur? Okay..." Cortain says, not quite understanding. Before he can trigger his augur arrays, however, the fog begins to dissipate... 05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)

Cortain and Cyril begin to stir, waking up. As does Rose.

"Ah..." Rose stirs, "I..." Brynjol runs the usual scans on all of them for unusual neurological activity, brain tumours, eyes suddenly folding out of their skulls, etc. He finds nothing out of the ordinary.

"Did I need to be strapped in?" Cortain asks, tugging at the restraints. "This is an equal rights medicae ward," Brynjol points out. "Why ARE we restrained, Brynjol?" Cyril asks calmly. "I felt that blast of psychic force, and you both fell unconscious," Brynjol explains, "I wasn't going to take the chance of you waking up with... passengers." He gradually releases the restraints as the tests finish.

Rose suddenly begins to panic, "Oh! The Hellstar! It's approaching the asteroid belt!" "That already happened, Rose," Brynjol points out. "He is right, Rose. It ate the place," Cyril adds, "We evacuated those we could and shot it in the eye, with no effect." She looks around, "Ah...I'm...I'm sorry. I felt its stare. I tried to...to gain its attention." "To... gain its attention?" Brynjol stops, "Rose... why would you endanger us all in such a fashion?" "Indeed," Cortain concurs, "Why would you do that terrible thing?" "If its eye was on me," she states, "It...wouldn't be on you." The Commandos stop, in sudden understanding.

Cyril sighs again. "That was very brave of you, Rose, but I suggest not repeating it. It might well be able to END you with a thought. We can at least endure for a short while." "Cyril is right," Brynjol nods, "More than anything, the Astartes are built to endure." "I...tried to interfere as long as I could, until you were safe," Rose sighs, "I...could feel its stare. It's...searching for something. But then I found myself surrounded by fog..." "PROCEED." Cortain demands, his interest piqued. "I don't know what...Its eye, it focused on me for the briefest of moments," and then I felt...rejection, as its eye turned. I know not what it searches for, but I was not it. I was...nothing to it...I was...alone..." "Thank you, Rose. You may well have preserved us all. Had the Hellstar arrived any sooner, it might have caught us," Cyrilbows, "Remember, you are not alone. The Emperor is with us, always."

Cortain scraps that theory about what the Eye's looking for, before heading down to the Armory. To celebrate his ascension to Consul Forge Lord, he requisitioned a suit of Artificer Armor. Arriving in the Armorium, Cortain notes there are numerous pieces of armor strewn about in utter ruin. Thexus, however stands by a new set of armor, painted black as per Deathwatch standard.

"CONSUL, YOUR MANTLE IS READY. I HAVE REPAIRED IT WITH PIECES OF LESSER ARMOR MARKS. ALL FUNCTIONS SHOULD BE NOMINAL." "Much appreciated," Cortain begins the process of donning it. Thexus's mechadendrites swirl, "HELOTS, ASSIST HIM."

"BEAR WITNESS TO MY ASCENSION!" Cortain yells. Numerous squats rush forward to assist in armor donning rites.Old armor is removed, as the Mantle of Ultramar reverently replaces it, albeit with some squattish hymns instead of normal prayers. "CONSUL, ARMOR SYSTEMS SHOULD BE NOMINAL FOR NOW. BEAR WITNESS - THERE WERE ONCE SEVEN OF THESE VOID-PLATES, THOUGH THIS IS THE ONLY ONE I KNOW OF NOW. THOUGH THEY ARE NOMINALLY AWARDED BY THE HAND OF THE PRIMARCH ALONE, I AM SURE THERE WOULD BE NO QUESTION TO YOUR WORTH." Cortain's mind is flooding with binharic hymns supplicating and familiarizing himself with the ancient machine spirit. "May none find me wanting," he affirms. Each squat signs the Aquila, upon completion of the Armor Donning Rites.

As the rites come to an end, the Everything's Okay alarm blares, as the Blade leaves the Warp. Catalyst Station, the double donut, floats in the distance, above the jeweled world of Cataclysm. Cyril patiently awaits the end of Cortain's ceremony, chanting along with the Squats, then approaches Thexus.

"Honoured Paragon of Metal... Some time ago, I decided that I would walk the path of the Centurion," Cyril explains, "I am now convinced that the magnitude of the threat we face will allow no further delay." "REMEMBER, CONSUL, CENTURIONS WERE WAR LEADERS OF THE CRUSADE FORCES. EACH OF YOU HAVE SELECTED A DIFFERENT CONSULSHIP." "I intend to become a Delegatus," Cyril explains, "There is no time to train at the moment, though. We deploy shortly." "THE CONSULSHIP OF THE DELEGATUS CANNOT BE EASILY TAUGHT, CONSUL. ONE MUST EARN THE RESPECT OF THEIR EXCERTUS FORCES ON THEIR OWN MERIT. YOU WILL LEARN AS YOU EXERCISE THE DUTIES OF OFFICE." "I understand, Thexus. We will speak further on this another time."

Everyone boards a prepared Aquila, and a number of Battle Automata and Cyril's Yeti are herded into a large lander. Both are launched out of the bay, towards the landing bays of Catalyst Station. The verdant green deep-valleys of Cataclysm shine, as the Urist Brothers guide the two landers into the bays. The doors open, and a Tempestus scion contingent stands ready to greet the Commandos.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pbj6_9ha1Xk "Welcome, honored Commandos," the Scion bows, "With you here, we can begin this meRFGYIKHGVJJLHCFOU." The scion sneezes in his helmet. "...It is as we were told, then," Cyril sighs. "Aren't you bloody glad I brought my big bag of knives and herbs?" Brynjol rhetorically asks a bit too excitedly. "The Lord Inquisitor is somewhat ill," another scion steps up, "But he is ready to lead the meeting." "Take us to him, then," Cyril demands.

The scion nods, leading the Commandos through the hallways, that familiar haze swirling around their ankles. While Brynjol notes the dingy and dank smell all about, the Commandos are led to a large auditorius, where Inquisitors bearing the marks of Malleus and Xenos stand by. Even Inquisitor Shady of the Chronos is there, looking pleasant as always. Their vision catches a wave, and they can see the Sororitas from a few episodes ago.

"Ah! Commandos!" Charlotte waves, "You made it!" "'ello," Brynjol nods. "We're glad you're here!" Red says. "Now the meeting can truly begin!" Black adds. "Those...have their fire protocols updated, right?" White asks nervously as she sees the battle automata.

"Yes, Cortain updated their combatant indexes," Cyril explains, "How long have you been waiting?" "We arrived a few weeks back," Charlotte explains, "But the meeting was put on hold until we received confirmation that you would be arriving." "As you were the ones who killed the Magma Corer..." Black starts. "Your opinions would be of most merit!" Red concludes. "So, it made sense to wait," White nods. Brynjol shifts around on the chair, trying to get comfortable. Chairs are not designed for jump packs. "What, precisely, is the meeting about?" Cyril finally asks, "It is a pleasure to see you again, but if you will forgive my saying so, Sororitas are hardly known as Tyranid specialists." "In case we are declared support assets," Charlotte explains, "Our order dispatched us as representatives. It's been kind of slow so far. And everyone's been getting sick. At least we have numerous doctors aboard now!" "Let me take a look at him!" Brynjol boasts, "Maybe he will benefit from a hearty dose of Fenrisian medicine." "He'll be here momentarily," Charlotte nods, pointing to the doors.

Soon enough, Lord Inquisitor Doggfather steps through the doors. He looks kind of woozy. "Aite, looks like we got Xenos, Malleus, and...Chronos here," the Lord Inquisitor begins, "And the Republican Commandos. Looks like everyone important's here." The Sororitas look a bit put-off. "Aite, so this here Conclave is now in session," the Lord Inquisitor continues, "Topic of concern, the recovered MagmFYCGVJHVFKJGC *cough* *cough* Magma Corer samples." "Ey, Commandos," Shady interrupts, kicking up his boots, "You killed the thing, what did you find about it?" "It was pretty big," Brynjol states. "Riveting," Shady sighs. "Huge, tough, huge, clad in impenetrable stone, and vulnerable from the inside, but only in specific places defended by smaller bioforms," Cyril clarifies, "Also, huge. You have reviewed the pict-captures?" "It reminded me of a hrosshvalur, only hot," Brynjol adds. "Hey I don't say stuff about YOUR mothers," Dre points. Brynjol rolls his eyes.

"Is it true samples were recovered?" Charlotte asks, echoing the concerns of her compatriots, and attempting to drive the meeting to a more productive path. "There were," Cortain affirms, "You have reviewed the pict-captures of them, have you not?" "Fo'sho. Thanks to the Commandos, we learned a whole lot of *cough* *cough* shit from them," the Lord Inquisitor continues, "Not only did they provide a new form of tactica, but we started lookin' deep at the samples." "And your findings?" Cyril leans forward, eager to learn new ways to smite the hated Devourer. "Da, Comrades..." a large Magos marches in, flanked by a cowled up kroot, "Very interesting samples. Ve have learned much of zeir vaunted flame biomorphs...among ozher zings." Brynjol squints. "Is that a kroot?" "Endeeed, Commandos..." the Kroot hisses, laughing slightly as Cyril palms his Serpenta, "My warmest regahrds. I...am Dr. Angkor Thrax. This is Boris, the Genetor. We hahv wooorked together for a veeery laung tiiiime..." "Please, share what you have learned," Cyril mutters icily.

"For one, ve have noted zat, naturally, zey are HIGHTLY resistant to heat weaponry of all kinds," the magos, clearly a genetor, explains, "Zis naturally makes zem weak to low-temperature and impact hits." Cyril bounces up and down slightly in excitement. "Glory be," Cortain states, considering they have excellent weapons for such a case. "Zhough ve have had only veeks to review ze samples," Boris continues, "Ve also noted zat zis strain is very...adaptable and virulent. Far more zan most ve have seen. Can you confirm zis, Commandos?" "Adaptable and virulent? I suppose so," Cyril muses on the Tyranids of his home, "I never knew Mi-Go to produce the bizarre things we found belowground." "Fitting, considering the constant need for heat," Cortain nods, "Most likely, they would have needed to sustain considerable amounts of radiation, even compared to the typical Hive Fleet." "Ahhh, true...then that settles theengs," the Kroot whispers, bowing, "I haf seen thees set of samples change very, very rapeedly. Your meessing pieeces are proving vehry useful." "Now, onto tacti..." the Lord Inquisitor starts, but then he collapses, coughing. Rather worringly, he coughs up a jet of flame.

"That doesn't look too healthy," Brynjol states, calmly walking over in no great rush, slowly bringing out his apothecarion tools carefully.

"Oh dear..." Charlotte says, as everyone in the room readies weapons.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mhSl07XsfmI

The Scions ready their weapons, unsure of what to do. "It looks as though Nidhoggr is responsible for the outbreak after all," Cyril facepalms. "I suppose that this is the...cold?" Cortain states. "Ironic, is it not?" Cyril nods. "Did someone feed him a sample?" Cortain asks, regretting that he has to even ask in the first place. "Nein, comrade..." Boris explains, "He has been very insistent on supervising zings as ve vorked. He may have lacked ze...proper protection zat Thrax and I use."

Brynjol commands a station quarantine, as he begins basic first aid. The first thing he checks is his temperature. Lord Inquisitor Doggfather is literally burning up, a terrible fever having overtaken him. Brynjol applies the balms to bring the temperature down, but it merely seems to be slowing things down.

"So...who's next in line for Lord Inquisitor?" Shady quips. "Dre, maybe?" Cyril chuckles a bit.

The Commandos deem an ice bath would be an ideal stopgap measure, and have Boris and Thrax lead them to a suitable location. Arriving at a part of the station dedicated to medicae and dissections, there are containers and tools around. The scions part, to allow you full access. One sneezes.

"Bloody hell, this is going to get out of hand REALLY quick," Brynjol frowns, as he moves the Lord Inquisitor under a set of ancient Diagnostors, "Anyone with symptoms is to report to medicae decks for quarantine. Failure to comply will result in being fed to the yeti." The battle sisters clutch each other at that last bit. "The Lord Inquisitor's enthusiasm may have doomed many loyal personnel," Cyril sighs, "I pray you can fix it." "I'm no Apothecary Haus," Brynjol admits, "But I will try."

Brynjol directs any medicae servitors in the room to begin taking various samples and running as many cultures as posthumanly possible as he lays the Inquisitor out on a table and begins a more thorough examination to discover the extent of the systems the pathogen is attacking. With 2 degrees of success on his Diagnosis, he notes first and foremost a fair number of bacterium-like entities in his blood, all displaying incredibly high internal temperature.

"This is damned bizarre. No pathogen should be able to maintain a temperature that high."

What stops him cold is that he can detect something, slightly larger, moving about in the heart.

"Oh hjolda, what is THAT?" he yells.

Zooming in with all the tools available to him, Brynjol can see the area around the heart has been terribly altered. Some parts have hardened into superheated scab, almost like...chitin. The temperature is highest in the heart. Lacerations and damage begins appearing fast.

"Microbes," Cortain offers, "Perhaps Tyrannic Spores from the samples." "Spores? If zat is ze case, he vill not last..." the Genetor notes, "Comrades...I have idea. You are familiar vith Prosanguine augmentics, jah?" "I have Autosanguine Implants," Cortain nods, "Works similarly enough." "I have no idea how the cardiac tissue is even holding together," Brynjol says, "If you have an idea, Genetor, tell me now, because he's almost certainly going to need a new heart even if this works." "Very goot," Boris explains, "I note you all have at least basic MIUs, jah? If zis vorks..." "You should bee able to save your Lord Inqueeseetor," Thrax states. "Quite," Cortain states flatly, hoping for the opposite, "What is the plan?" "Is of simple, Comrade," he says, taking out a black syringe, "Ve vill inject ze Inquisitor vith zese Prosanguine Augmentics. Ve vill connect your MIUs to zem, so you may control zem directly. It should prove...most efficient." "Are you proposing that we pilot nanotechnological probes into the Inquisitor's body?" Cyril asks, dumbfounded. "I think I saw a holotape of this once," Brynjol muses. "...You ARE proposing that we pilot nanotechnological probes into the Inquisitor's body," Cryil sighs, "Just checking."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwie2RexrPM

"Indeed, Comrade," Boris nods, "It has never been done before, maybe never again." "Are you ready, Commahndos?" Thrax asks, "Weeth thees you can target the soource of the eenfection. I believe that eef you are skeeled enough. Do you...agree?" "Aye. Why bloody not," Brynjol shrugs, "This day was already strange." "We can and will do it," Cyril grudgingly affirms, "Doggfather is not dying just yet, comrade Boris." "Anything is worth doing at least once," Cortain adds.

"Very vell, Comrades, I vill prep you," Boris states, "Be aware, however, zat should your augmentic suffer critical feedback, such zings may be...fatal." "Critical Feedback like...?" Cortain asks. "Damage ze augmentic suffers, Comrade," Boris explains. "We will avoid taking damage, then," Cyril explains, "It is a policy that has served us well in the past." "When you ahr ready, Commandos, have a seeat," Thrax states, "I shall connehct the augmenteec cables to your MIUs, and you weell assume direct control of an augmenteec."

The Commandos all sit around the Lord Inquisitor. Dr. Thrax connects the ancient augmentic cables to their MIUs, and their vision goes black for the briefest of moments. Boris injects the Prosanguine Augmentics into the Basilic Vein, the closest he could get, and the Commandos' vision recovers.

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

The Prosanguine Augmentics look very, very strange, but they seem to handle with a thought easily enough. Cyril shifts around experimentally, trying to get a feel for his chassis. Each Commando controls a separate Prosanguine Augmentic. As if by divine convenience, each is armored and structured similarly to the Commando piloting it. Each contains medical systems that correspond to original weapons and wargear. For example, Brynjol's has enhanced motive systems that function identical to his jump pack, and Cortain's is armed with systems similar to a volkite caliver. Brynjol spends some time happily kicking a leukocyte to death before remembering where he is, and plotting a path.

"Well...this is something," Cortain wonders aloud. "Right," Brynjol nods, "To the heart. We need to follow the median cubital to the shoulder and then just kick our way through blood vessels til we find the heart." "We can do that," Cyril nods, "Lead on."

Brynjol heads onwards through the herb-polluted tunnels of Doggfather's circulatory systems. From their current position in the Basilic Vein, the Commandos follow the Median Cubital as Brynjol suggests, and come up to the linkage to the Cephalic Vein. They note ambient temperatures are rising, as well as cell death as they reach the Cephalic Vein, the ruins of dead cells all about.

"The pathogen is causing necrosis of the blood vessels," Brynjol mutters, "This isn't going to end well for the Inquisitor."

Augmentic autoauspexes pick up a high-pitched shriek, however, as down the vein rush numerous glowing, clawed, single-cell organisms.

Brynjol immediately charges forward at the Tyranid Macrophages, spinning his surgical tools in a flurry of dead cell matter. Cyril moves into position, unloading his storm bolte...ah, storm MEDICAE PACKET PROJECTOR into the horde, scything through it, as Cortain fires his volkite...cutting laser, incinerating macrophages with deflagrating fire. The Macrophage Horde, however, continues to nick at Brynjol, damaging his augmentic and degrading its armor with corrosive magma. Now angry, Brynjol becomes the blender, cutting through macrophages as Cyril moves up to finish the horde off with wee little explosive packets of medicine, the last few macrophages popping amongst the floating dead cells.

"At least everything works nominally," Cortain notes.

In the darkness that autoauspexes compensate for, the Commandos see only the floating dead cells. There are mainly red blood cells. Brynjol orders the Commandos to fall in, engaging Squad Mode. Passing by the ruined cells, numerous gashes and lacerations in the vein evident, the Subclavian vein lays ahead.

"If we follow this path, we should be able to get to the superior vena cava," Brynjol declares, "Leads straight to the heart."

Cortain takes a moment to auspex the area, and beyond the extreme heat, he notes trace amounts of acid in each gash and laceration.

"Follow the cuts," he advises, "Acid seems to seep from them, and that means more of those things."

Chugging along into the Subclavian vein, the area begins to be covered in a thick, chitinous covering. The Commandos can see messed up growths sticking out, some ensnaring passing cells by, kind of like anemones. Evil tyranid anemones. Cyril takes a moment to blast a growth away, the giblets dissipating, leaving only a searing pool of acid in its wake. A cell is released, floating down the darkness to do cell things.

"This degree of necrosis, tissue damage and whatever that growth in his heart is combines to form a worrying picture," Brynjol admits, "We're probably going to have to sort out this infection and then replace the heart, possibly even a good portion of his circulatory system."

Continuing through the Subclavian vein, the Commandos can begin to hear the *pump* *pump* of the heart. It seems somewhat strained. Keeping their augmentics in close quarters for squad mode, the Commandos reach the Superior Vena Cava. To their great concern, the entire area seems infested. A large anemone-like growth bubbles menacingly, as another horde of Macrophages and a many-tentacled multi-cell organism rushes at the Commandos.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v66p1JS2QXs

The Toxiphage ahead reminds the Commandos of a venomthrope, but on the micro scale. The toxic cloud it is producing is very similar. The Micro-Sporocyst brandishes its magma cannons menacingly, while more Macrophages begin to advance. Brynjol immediately charges the Toxiphage, heavily wounding it, while Cortain helps to thin out the Macrophage horde. The Toxiphage's lash tentacles heavily corrode Brynjol's augmentic armor with corrosive magma. Cyril opens up into the Macrophage Horde, ruining its day, while Brynjol finishes off the Toxiphage. Deprived of synapse, the Macrophage horde scatters. Cyril takes heavy damage from a magma cannon shot, but the Commandos focus fire through the Micro-Sporocyst's bombardment and excise the tumorous growth.

With his advanced medicae knowledge, Brynjol knows the heart is near, and the source of the plague affecting Catalyst station. A beastly screech echoes down the vena cava as the Commandos advance as one. Finally reaching the Right Atrium of the heart, they move carefully in squad mode as the tricuspid valve sucks them into the Right Ventricle of the heart. The Ventricle is huge compared to the veins of before. Taking up formation, eyes open, something finally moves by, lightning fast, swimming amongst the oxegenating blood. A serpentine, winged Tyranid floats past. What is most interesting, is how its body shifts and alters. Organic swords grow and recede as the Virotyrant screeches its challenge.

And the Commandos are all too happy to answer.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oq-wsxbhiSk

The Commandos decide that, with a micro-scale hive tyrant ahead of them, their best bet is Squad Mode. Brynjol is first, holding his action and calling Fire for Effect, allowing Cortain and Cyril to eat the creature's dodges. Cyril is next, and then calls Furious Charge, launching Brynjol like a big wulfen bomb, allowing him to strike six times in four seconds, inflicting inordinate amounts of damage against the Virotyrant. Cyril follows up with a full auto salvo. The Commandos were banking everything on their singular alpha strike.

But the Virotyrant was tougher than that.

The Virotyrant shifts its form, its tail and wings lengthening. Magma cannons retreat as Viral bone swords replace them. It strikes at Brynjol, before blasting away incredibly fast. It flies by Cortain, striking him with corrosive magmatic toxic viral swords, felling him in one hit and forcing him to burn fate to manmode through the pain. Cyril is luckier, taking two hits but his shield holding. Cortain, quite annoyed, fires at the creature, searing it with volkite medical beams. The Virotyrant brings its four swords in, charging its psychic energy, before letting loose a psychically-infused energy wave, pushing the Commandos back and draining some of their Cohesion.

Now the Commandos are beyond furious. Discovering a section in Rites of Battle that states that, once paid for, a Squad Mode can be used for free repeatedly, Brynjol fires himself forward once more in Furious Charge. As his strangely-crozius-shaped medicae scalpels dig into the Virotyrant, Brynjol himself howling with unbelievable fury, it screeches before falling back, glowing brighter than a supernova. The Commandos' vision goes white, and they find themselves back on Catalyst Station. The Genetor is disengaging the connectors, while Thrax is tending to the somewhat loopy Cortain.

"Well, that was bracing," Cyril notes, "Doggfather had better have been worth it. Cortain, are you well?" "Barely," Cortain mutters as he sees Brynjol roll over to him, medicae tools in hand and a feral grin on his face. "Relax!" Brynjol says, "You did the Long Watch proud." "Da, very gut, comrades," Boris states, "Ve are detecting zero Tyranid presence inside ze Lord Inquisitor." "Ahh, een addeetion, he had a small seeizure as you deesengaged," Thrax adds, "The coughing and the sneezing around here has also...subsided. Perhaps you destroyed the seenapse creature?" "I see. Some of the smaller forms escaped us," Cyril notes, "They might be able to grow into fiercer pests if left unchecked. Automated prosanguine implants should be sufficient for that." "Ve zink he will be fine vith some rest, da?" Boris states, "You leave him to us. Ve vill ensure he...recovers." Cortain is still trying to comprehend just how that one hit totaled him, "Good. The sooner he is dealt with, the sooner I am done."

"Very well. So he will be unable to tell us of the researcher's findings," Cyril pauses, "Though it sounds as though you were the actual chiefs of the experimentation?" "Da, comrade," Boris states, "Ve vere called in to collate and study ze samples. Alzhough, it seems ze meeting is over at zis point. No doubt ze Doggfazzer vill be most grateful ven he avakens soon." "We...ah...we wish you the best of luck," Charlotte stammers, the Sororitas' eyes never leaving the yeti and battle automata staring at them. The meeting and info is collated and released between the Inquisitors for now, as Cyril and Cortain work to control the Yeti and Battle Automata, while Brynjol completes final medicae tests. With the death of the synapse Virotyrant, the sickness affecting the station is ended.

Cyril drops the Maniple off at the Blade, before returning with Notomok the yeti to chat idly with the sisters, until Brynjol finishes waxing medical.

"Well, one good thing came out of this," Brynjol points out, "Doggfather owes us a big favour now." "Perhaps. What more do you think he can do for us, though?" Cyril asks, noting that not only did they already provide a full armory and battleship, but political favors would be useless in such a blunt, intrigue-less sector. "I have a terrible feeling that this favour will be prostitutes and that horrid smoke..." Cortain sighs. "...what is a 'prostitute,' brother Techmarine?" Cyril asks, "Sisters, does that word mean anything to you?" The Sororitas turn turbo-red. "That's not...that's not a proper thing to discuss!" they yell indignantly. The Inquisitors are laughing, as is Brynjol, while Inquisitor Shady rolls on the floor, struggling to catch his breath. "I do not want to know, do I?" Cyril finally sighs. "It's to do with things mortals do, Cyril," Brynjol composes himself, remembering some times back at the Hearth.

After ordering a set of Babby's First Divination books for Rose, the Commandos reboard their Aquila, beginning the trip back to the Blade. But one last vox catches them.

"Comrades, one zing you should know about Dr. Thrax, he is also a shaper of his race," Boris explains, "He has...foreseen zat he vill be of use some time in ze future. He has no doubt already boarded your vessel, and vill most likely keep low until his visions guide him." Felleye_Brynjol begins to slam his head against the pilot's console "Happy hunting, Republican Commandos," Boris concludes, "Boris ou- KKKKRRRRRZZZZTTTT" "MORE - FETHING - XENOS - COLLABORATION!" Brynjol yells in rage, his face destroying the transport's vox systems. "Wait, how did he even sneak in without anyone else knowing?" Cortain wonders.

As the Aquila lander reaches the Blade's landing bay, opening its bays for disembarking, all the Commandos can think of is getting away from this station.

(22) Final Flight of the Walrus

The Blade of the Long Watch has been restocked with raw materials, and is ready to depart. Thexus, as usual, continues to maintain the Armorium, while Rockfist, Rose, and O'Malley are at the Bar and Grill, awaiting next destination. Cyril spends some time deliberating, and then prepares to contact Rockfist.

"Brothers, I am concerned about the Black Caste's Water paragon on Nebraskus, but if we are to catch part of the celebration on Xaviol, we must go there first. Their scanners have sensed something; presumably it will require our attention. The Deep Ones should be able to contain the menace on Nebraskus." "I admittedly know little of these Deep Ones," Cortain notes, "What do we know of them?" "Never heard of them, myself," Brynjol shrugs. "They are Astartes, and they are not the Black Panthers," Cyril affirms, "That is good enough for me." "Aye, lad," Rockfist nods, stepping away from his drink, "As ya order." Squats rush to and fro, pointing the Blade in the rough direction of Xaviol, and rousing the Warp Drive to action.

During the expected five day trip, the Commandos set about preparing. Cyril prepares a message to the Inquisition regarding the Hellstar, asking them to look into ways of hurting it. Cortain looks into the history of Xaviol but, failing the roll, finds little of value. Brynjol tries his hand at research as well, but both seemingly struggle with the concept of "Dewey Decimal Indexing." They cannot find the appropriate records.

Cyril leaves research to the others, shutting himself in the Laboratorium and turning off all recording devices before retrieving the Flip Belts from a cabinet and a tub of skulls from a workbench. Time to get to work. As an afterthought, he grabs some greenstuff from a drawer for making smaller skulls to fit in the gaps. During the trip, Rockfist pops down to the Laboratorium as well, to fiddle with some Mastodon components, while Rose spends some time with the former Engineer's Guild members. He begins covering the Eldar flip belts with skulls.

Rockfist leans over. "Lads, you're gonna want to be REAL careful with those," he states, "I mean, I don't mind much, but when the normal folk see you wearin' them, you stand a high chance of, ah...breakin' their hearts." Cyril glances up at the Squat's voice, not having heard him come in. "Of course. Do you think the skulls insufficient to disguise them to untrained eyes?" "Add more Aquilas," Cortain voxes, "Just to be sure." "Lad, I know an Eldar Flip Belt when I see one," Rockfist points out, "Rumors tend to travel real fast in your case, it seems. They're helpful things, yeah, but you'd be shootin' yerself in yer foot ev'ry time you use'em. Choose wisely when ya think they're necessary." "Understood, Rockfist. We will exercise caution, and..." Cyril hesitates, "I suppose we can leave them behind when meeting crowds." "I'm just sayin', lad," Rockfist shrugs, "The people, they see ya as their heroes. Yer gear's been all Imperial made, so far. But step inta xenotech, and, well..." "We are their heroes. A few trinkets cannot change that" Cyril nods, "But we will try to avoid disappointing them." Cyril sets aside the belt project in disappointment and instead sews a dress to fit over Artificer Armour, modeled after images stored in his Memorance Node of the action figure on Nova Prosperous. "I'm just advisin' caution is all, lad," Rockfist nods, returning to his own projects, "Just tryin' ta warn ya that if people see ya using xenotech, yer reputation's bound ta take a hit or two. They're great tools, jus' use'em when the benefits outweigh the risks. Keep it in mind."

After six days or so in quiet meditation or hard work, the Blade finally breaks the thin membrane between warp and materium. Traversing a day or so on standard plasma drives, the damp hive world of Xaviol begins to fill the bridge view. "Soggy," Brynjol sighs, "I hate it already." There are a number of vessels bearing the heraldry of the Ecclesiarchy in local spess, as well as pilgrim and passenger transport vessels. They are outnumbered, however, by those that bear the sigils of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. Brynjol's lip curls upwards unconsciously.

Cyril emerges after 120 straight hours of Remembrancing and grabs a steak from the galley before regrouping. "What have you learned of the celebrations, Brothers? I recall that they are honouring posthumous war heroes?" Brynjol and Cortain say nothing, as the two head over to the Blade's vox systems, and preparing the identification litanies.

"Greetings Imperial Planet of Xaviol" Cortain announces, "This is the Republican Commandos, and we come to partake in your festivities in His name." "The Republican Commandos! Here!" the vox replies, "The God Emperor has blesses us to be your hosts. Please, by all means, we shall prepare a delegation!" A number of the vessels floating about in spess clear the way. "Honored lieges, the Capital has been told to expect you," the vox replies, "The Xaviol Capitalis Starport is prepared to receive you."

Entering the hangar bay, the Commandos' Fire Raptor is prepared. The Commandos board, before realizing there is little room for Notomok, Cyril's yeti.

"He can cling on!" Brynjol offers. "No objections from me," Cortain shrugs. "Re-entry is a bitch, you two," Cyril mutters, falling into local Sector vernacular.

Cyril makes a Tactica: Void Drop Operations tests, succeeding. Notomok is carefully led to the drop pod bays, where he is placed in a large, taloned drop pod.

"Is that...going to be safe?" Cortain wonders. "No!" Brynjol yells, waiting to see the spectacle. "COMMAND ACKNOWLEDGED, CONSUL," Thexus blasts, "TARGET RECEIVED. DREADCLAW DEPLOYING." "Wait, a Dreadclaw?" Brynjol pauses. The Dreadclaw is blasted out of the drop pod bays, towards the coordinates given by Cyril. "That seems like overkill for deployment on a noncombat operation," Cyril considers, "We should deploy. Quickly." "Now that the toaster has expressed himself, lads..." Rockfist sighs, "Your launch avenue is clear." "Wait, did you at least disable the bolters?" Brynjol asks, "Or the Deathwind launchers?" Thexus merely stares. "CONSUL, YOU NEED NOT WORRY," Thexus explains, "THE MELTA BLASTS UPON DEPLOYMENT SHALL ENSURE THE LANDING ZONE IS CLEARED." "Fly! Now!" Cyril yells. "You can be a real tit sometimes, you know that?" Brynol quips, "That would rather spoil the celebrations, Thexus."

Rapidly cycling through options, including shooting down the drop pod to Cyril's horror, they settle on evacuating the coordinates Cyril pointed out.

"Thexus, at some point soon we must have a discussion on the topic of acceptable civilian casualties..." Cyril sighs.

Breaking the clouded, wet atmosphere of Xaviol, the Commandos can see the dreadclaw surge down, cutting a fiery path towards the airfield. Searching for a place to park, they see the Dreadclaw slow up, melta jets stabilizing the pod as it lands and opens up. The civilians are charmed by the spectacle, but terrified when a big yeti emerges. Finding a place within the Capitalis Starport to land, the Commandos note that the entire area has been opened up to civilians. It's clear that the event is well under way. Cortain emerges from the Fire Raptor to the swooning of legions, while Cyril rushes to his Yeti. A number of Militarum personnel approach as the civilians rave and cheer.

"Our Lords Astartes," they say, "We are grateful that you would grace us with your presence these most holy of weeks." "Charmed," Cortain states. "We consider ourselves blessed that you would personally arrive to honor the many martyrs who died for our world," an aide states, "We cannot express our feelings in words." Cortain turns aside and switches to private voxes. "Do we want a tour or do we begin our scans immediately?" "Both. You can conduct scans while Bryn does the talking, yes?" Cyril asks, while waving and playing hymnals through armored speakers, "I will be there shortly." "Very well," He breaks vox. "Would it be permissible that we have a tour guide around this celebration?" "Of course, my lords," an Astra Militarum officer states, "We shall take you to the Remembranceum, before we begin final rites and prayers to eulogize the fallen." "Please, stop us if you have any questions," an aide states. Brynjol takes his helmet off, scratching his head as his mane of black hair falls free. He leans in close to the aide, smiling. Too many teeth. "Thanks for your consideration," he grins. "Of...of course," the aide stammers.

The congregation of officers, aides, priests, and astropaths order a path cleared through the awestruck civilians, who try to sing along with Cyril, though they lack knowledge of his Chapter rituals. With a lot of loud orders and a little bit of shoving, the entrance to the Remembranceum near the Starport is visible. Entering through stained glass doors, the first thing that greets the Commandos is a great stained glass paneling extending across the rear roof of the building, depicting a combined-arms battle. There are also numerous side rooms, each dedicated to various factions and heraldries. The Commandos can see the sigils of the Adeptus Titanicus, the Astra Militarum, the Imperial Navy, the Space Marines of the Black Panthers, and...the Deathwatch, oddly enough.

"My lords, this is the Remembranceum, a monument to all those who fought in the fight to reclaim our world from a tide of renegades," the aide says, "Heroes and Martyrs can be found here, glory and honor to all."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fsxGOO6BYGU

"Curious, it seems the Deathwatch was here as well..." Cortain muses, while reviewing vox traffic from transports from the Blade. Cyril checks out the Deathwatch room when he shows up. This room is quite quiet and unornamented. There are benches nearby. It seems this part of the Remembranceum was meant for quiet introspection and meditation. Within is only a single plaque.

"The day was won one hundred years ago by a Deathwatch team of great skill and valor. Though we know not their names, they led the Imperial Superiority Assault Force with conviction and valor. Their actions seized the day from the renegades who dared try to turn us away from rightful worship of the Beneficent God Emperor. May He on Terra guide them eternally."

Cortain seems mildly disappointed. Same as anywhere else, nothing helps describe more about this mysterious Kill-Team of an age past. He continues exploring each room, detailing the contributions of many Adeptuses of the Imperium. He observes the pict-captures upon each wall, showing scenes of the battle, and little taglets which go into more detail. The assault against the Renegades was a multi-pronged attack, led by the 77th Armored Tempestus Guard to retake the Starport, Titan forces to recover the city proper, and Black Panthers companies to take back the capital. Somehow, in each case the unknown Kill Team was at the front and center, leading the charge from an unknown pattern of aircraft. As he passes by numerous pict-casts, he notes some seem censored. He pauses by one pict-cast which didn't immediately catch your eye, however. It depicted the great air assault above the city. He can clearly see a jetfighter of unknown origin, too blurry to identify, ahead of a number of thunderbolts, maurauders, and other aircraft of the navy. Rather strangely, he can also pick out an odd shape behind one large marauder.

The rounded edges of a Tau Barracuda. It's the only one he's seen in the dozens of pict-captures he's reviewed. He seethes with silent fury at how deep the House's corruption goes.

Brynjol stands near the entourage, perhaps taking joy in unnerving them, and can see something nobody else caught. There's a gift shop. Brynjol checks his armour-pockets for spare change, and finds some in his pauldrons. Not one for poring over musty pict-casts, he slips off into the gift shop. He can see the normal gifts for small children and simple-minded adults - banners of each of the regiments of renown, stuffed aquilas, toy tonks and planes, t-shirts with hymnals written on them, and in one side alcove, the soft glow of a blue torch.

"Got a selection of good things on sale, stranger..." the Merchant whispers.

Calling everyone over, the Commandos begin to review their options. Brynjol tries for an archeotech blur shield, but fails due to horrendous Near Unique penalties. Cyril picks up an Ecclesiarchal Overlay to better motivate his troops. Cortain goes for a Mechanicum Protectiva, and manages to get one. As a team, they upgrade their Variable Fighter / Strike Suits to have additional maneuverability.

"Heh heh heh, thank you..." the Merchant rasps as he steps through a small supply closet.

The gift shop is now filled with the normal cheap gifts. The attendant has just stepped back from break. "Oh! Republican Commandos!" she says, "Will you be needing anything?" Cortain looks at his new force field, before noticing a tacky t-shirt in a mug combo. The Commandos reason that picking up Rose a souvenir may be good, and they select a t-shirt with a suitable prayer-mug combo embossed on it. Cyril picks up a large stuffed Aquila, so he does not need to use his bolter as a pillow. The clerk looks at the stuffed aquila, and the mug / shirt combo. "If that is what you require, we'll cover it. Please, take it, as thanks for all you do." The Commandos step out of the Remembranceum, having brushed up on their history.

"My lords," the aide in the entourage states, "The Eulogium Martyrium is about to commence soon, would you honor us with a few words?" "It would be an honor," Cyril nods. "I can at least provide a binharic translation," Cortain offers. "Very well, this way, my lords," the Militarum Officer explains.

Heading back outside to a set-up platform, passing by numerous Navy aircraft on display, there is a priest currently offering opening prayers. He relents his position upon their conclusion, as the vast, vast crowd's eyes turn to the Commandos. Cyril nods thanks to the priest and steps up, removing his helm and clipping it to his belt. The crowd bounces around eagerly, awaiting the holy word of the Emperor through his Republican Commandos.

"When humanity is called to war, the children of the Emperor take up arms and defend themselves against a galaxy that seeks our ruin. With faith in holy technology and in the guidance of our immortal Emperor, we not only endure, but thrive, and claim this galaxy for our own. Heroes fall, but no man died in vain who died for the Emperor, and the warriors of Mankind have claimed glory everlasting, reminding the universe WHO WE ARE. Humaity is not content merely to endure! We reign! And by the sacrifices and victories of the fallen are they remembered forevermore, guarded in the Emperor's sight as their brothers and sisters among His children live on."

Cyril punctuates the short speech by igniting his Photonic Blade, waving it around briefly before returning it to his belt and his helm to his head. His speech takes a moment to sink in, before the crowd erupts into rapturous cheers. They are happy, as prayers and hymns rise to the sky. Cortain raises his own Gladius Invictus in solidarity, along with Brynjol, who tricks his Wulfen Crozius. However, the Commandos get a vox from the Blade.

"CONSUL, WARNING. INCOMING NON-IMPERIAL VESSELS DETECTED."

The sky flashes, before a singular voice blasts across the sky.

"Pitiful enfleshed, in times before your species was even a concept, this world was ours. It shall be again. You are vermin, and unworthy of the honors of the Ancient Codes. You will be removed, as as is right." The Commandos ready their weapons as the crowd begins to stir. "This world belongs to Khepri, the Transforming Strength. Scream loud, vermin enfleshed, for you will be purged in my name."

Up in the sky, numerous jet-black croissants rush past, headed for the city proper. More are making passes at the airfield itself, forcing the people into a panic. "CITIZENS, CLEAR THE STREETS AND FIND SHELTER. YOUR HOMES MAY BE BEST IF THERE ARE NO DEDICATED SHELTERS NEARBY," Cyril yells, "WE WILL DEAL WITH THIS." "Fall in!" Brynjol yells, preparing an Oath to the Wolf King, "Finally, the celebrations are turning up!" "Lads!" Rockfist voxes, "Come to the third hangar in the Starport complex! We've prepared equipment for you!" "Excellent," Cortain replies, "I was concerned that we were going to resort to lascannons." "Rockfist, is there any indication of ground forces we can engage? Command strengths?" Brynjol asks. "I haven't seen any ground forces deployed yet!" Rockfist replies, "The skies, though, they're a bloody bakery up there!"

Rushing on over to the hangar Rockfist pointed out, a number of Squats open the door. "Lads, we brought these," Rockfist points at the VF/SS's within, "They were gonna be part of a display we were settin' up, but looks like the time for that's over..." "Not quite," Cortain quips, I know everyone loves some fireworks."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eeKSrO8Gctc

The Commandos hop into their VF/SS's and select their armaments. Regrettably, as Rockfist did not plan for hostilities, he only brought enough secondary weapons to fill ONE secondary weapon slot of each VF/SS. Cortain and Brynjol select XLAA missiles for anti-air superiority, while Cyril selects Kraken penetrators for heavier stuff. Rockfist orders the squats to load up as fast as possible, before opening the doors once more.

"You're all clear, lad," Rockfist nods, "Take down some robots!"

"Gladly. How many of the wretched things are there in this Sector?" Cyril asks, "This is the third time." "There's at least three dynasties, lad," Rockfist explains, "But I'll explain another day."

Runway lights begin to flash as the Commandos' helmet hud updates. The Commandos' primary objective is to defend the airfield. The Commandos take off, weapons armed and Croissants in their sights.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=THEYfku15Ec

The Commandos set the Necron Night Scythes attacking the Starport in their sights. Brynjol opens up with a storm of plasma and missile fire, downing a night scythe. Brynjol's face in the Kill-Team's HUD looks vaguely nonplussed at the startling accuracy of his fusillade.

"You actually killed something at range," Cortain quips, "Take pride in it." "The man kills lots of things," Cyril notes, "That poor owl back in Episode 10, for example." "I WILL KNOCK BOTH OF YOU ON YOUR ARSES!" Brynjol yells.

Cortain follows up with his own plasma storm, downing another Night Scythe. The two remaining Scythes advance, aiming their Tesla Destructors at Cortain and Brynjol, drive-bying their side armor, but their armor holds for now. Cyril moves in, gunning down a third Night Scythe, and deeming the fourth below his notice. It falls to Brynjol, who shifts from Pursuit mode to Strike mode, to charge the remaining Scythe. Though his charge regrettably goes wide, he fires off a set of plasma swarm missiles, downing the final Night Scythe in the wave.

Off to their side, the Commandos see a wave of Necron Night Shrouds bombing the airfield, but their assault was able to allow most of the citizens to escape for now. To the Commandos' surprise, numerous aging aircraft take to the skies, the old veterans in the ceremonies immediately jumping in their aging aircraft and taking to the skies, as if in second nature. Of note is one Marauder pattern, a very old pattern of Vigilant. An AWACS.

"RALLY TO US, NOBLE WARRIORS OF OLD!" Cortain commands, "LET THE EMPEROR GUIDE US ALL TO ETERNAL GLORY!" "All Imperial wings, assume standard formation. Deathwatch Team Republican Commandos connected to tactical vox net," the vox net commands, "Form up as one, and turn to the city." "Commandos here; acknowledged," Cyril replies, "Identify source, command." "You don't have to worry, I've worked with your kind before," the AWACS replies, "Trust me, I'm an old hand at this. You can call me Walrus."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LY0FvYWz1sw

"Understood, Walrus," Cyril forms up, "You propose to sweep across the city and drive off the Necron craft?" "Affirmative, Commandos, the Night Shrouds are heading to the city," AWACS Walrus replies, "Objectives are to take down Night Shrouds and their escort Doom Scythes to relieve pressure on the city." The Commandos accelerate, full speed ahead. "I will assign any wings available to assist you, Deathwatch," AWACS Walrus explains, "I'll monitor the combat situation."" "We are well equipped for heavy targets," Cyril confirms, "The Scythes will fall. Are civilians adequately sheltered from falling wreckage?" "You shouldn't worry about wreckage," Walrus replies, "The craft should phase out on critical damage."

The Commandos enter the new combat zone, they can see a wing of Necron aircraft beginning their strikes on the city. "Deathwatch Cortain, combat zone contains four Doom Scythes and three Night Shrouds. Local wings are supporting the flanks," Walrus says, "Your fire avenues are clear."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MOnj7DjtB6s

"Brothers, I will focus on the Night Shrouds," Cyril offers, "Choose your targets freely." "That's my line!" Brynjol yells. Cyril chuckles. "I thought you deferred to me in vehicular coordination? Not that it matters, for either way, WE SHALL TEAR THEM APART!"

Cortain moves ahead first, focusing down a Doom Scythe. His plasma flies true as he catches the wing by surprise. "Hit, Gun kill confirmed, nice shooting, Commando," Walrus voxes. "I was reborn on Mars," Cortain points out, "Machines live as I do now." He then turns his missiles to a Night Shroud, in an attempt to at least break off their attack. Multiple missiles strike a Night Shroud, and green fire bursts out. "Deathwatch Cortain, Fox 2, Hits Confirmed," Walrus states.

The escorting Doom Scythes break off to attack the Commandos. Firing their death rays, Brynjol finds himself caught, but luckily he is able to dodge, choosing to put his faith in the Armor of his VF/SS. It does not disappoint, and he narrowly survives a tesla barrage.

Cyril moves up to gun down another Night Shroud, dodging tesla fire to get in close. This in turn opens the way for Brynjol to shift once more, ready his plasma lance, and charge straight through the final Night Shroud, relieving the city of further bombardment. Cortain remains in support range, taking down a Doom Scythe that had Cyril and Brynjol in its sights. Dodging counter-Tesla fire and Doom Scythe lasers, Cyril moves to take down another Doom Scythe, leaving only one left. Brynjol sets it in his sights, and charges forward at maximum speed to impale it on his incandescent plasma lance.

"Deathwatch Brynjol, STRIKE, kill confirmed," Walrus voxes, "Continue mission! Some guys still need help out there!" "Where?!" Cyril asks.

Floating forward are a set of large, pyramidal objects.

"Moving into formation," Walrus voxes as the old AWACS moves in, "ESM Connected for Deathwatch Team Republican Commandos. Target those Obelisks!"

With Walrus providing upgraded ESM, the Commandos can now use Squad Mode abilities. The Commandos prepare to take on the Obelisks, before a new voice interrupts vox traffic.

"So THAT'S how it's done..." Rose interrupts over vox. "What?" Brynjol asks, slightly confused. "Don't mind me, I'm taking notes," she says, furiously noting down everything Walrus says.

The Commandos immediately enter Squad Mode, and call Fire for Effect, everyone once more hoping for an overwhelming alpha strike against the Obelisks. This time, they are lucky, as the three Commandos' concentrated strike downs one Obelisk. They then call down Furious Assault, launching Brynjol at the second obelisk, his plasma lance burning a hole through its outer hull before a seething flurry of slashes from the energised blade dispatches it

"Nice job, Republican Commandos," I'm not seeing any more fighters, mission a-"

A ray of energy strikes Walrus's AWACS as a Jackal Raider descends down.

"Foolish enfleshed, you resist, and this world will suffer, I care not for preserving, I will content myself with a husk if needed," the scratching voice of Khepri blasts.

"Cortain, do Marauders have ejection features?" Cyril asks icily. "You don't need to concern yourselves with me, just focus on mission..." Walrus says as his AWACS goes down, "Protect the civilians, Commandos. And Rose, just stay focused on the combat. Don't...get distracted. Walrus out..." The AWACS hits the ground with a fireball. The Commandos see no ejection systems active. "May you reach Terra, Shiny and Chrome, Walrus," Cortain whispers, "Over...and...out." "A fool is one who stands against Mankind. Go away, Cat-prix," Cyril growls.

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

The Commandos now heavily desire to destroy the Jackal. The thing is, it's a starship. Conventional weapons won't affect it. Brynjol, the first to swap to Strike Mode, takes aim with his VF/SS's Type 17 Plasma Lance, firing an anti-voidship beam straight at the Jackal. Regrettably, his BS is garbage, and he fires wide. Cortain, however, is much luckier, scoring a good hit on the Jackal. Cyril, initially hesitant, now eagerly joins in, firing his own plasma blast and scoring maximum damage. The Commandos dodge Death Ray beams to get in closer, as dark matter spheres are raining on the city. Brynjol fires once more, striking a powerful hit, and opening the way for Cortain to pick out the Command Pyramid and fire one last plasma shot directly at it. The Type 17 Plasma Lance strikes it, and the Jackal begins to tumble down down down, before it phases out.

"I shall remember this slight..." Khepri hisses, "Republican Commandos..." "...Walrus was witnessed," Cortain states, "He is now avenged." "And we have angered a Necron," Cyril sighs, "When the Hellstar is dealth with, we really must start hunting them down before they sully Imperial worlds with deluded thoughts of conquest."

All around, as the Commandos circle about, they can see the people cheering. The Commandos shift back to Pursuit mode to lead the flight back to base. Landing at the starport, a number of aged veterans land their own planes, lining up to shake the Commandos' hands.

"It was an Honor to fly alongside you," all of the veterans are in agreement, "May the Emperor guide you." Even the Entourage from before is in shock and prostating themselves. "Oh, get up, before Brynjol sees you." Cyril offers the aide a hand up. "We are instruments of the Emperor's will. Do you praise a paintbrush, or the Omnissiah who wills its design?" "A paintbrush would not stand in front of a Necron Starship in our defense with only clear archeotech fighters," the aide says, "We praise those who would."

While Brynjol appears to be attempting to fix a dent in his VF/SS by panel-beating it with his fists, Cortain begins looking about for spare metal.

"Has anyone checked Walrus' crash site?" Cyril asks. "I am heading there now," Cortain states, "A memorial would be recommended." "Walrus?" an aide asks, "Who?" We have no one on active roster with that name," a Navy adjutant says. "Must have been an inactive veteran," Cyril shrugs.

"Excuse me, my lord," an old man hobbles over, "But...Walrus? Did you...did you hear him too?" "There was an AWACS that was accompanying us," Cortain nods, "He supposedly worked with Deathwatch before. He...fell to the final invasion." A number of the old veterans stare at each other. "Commandos...this way," one beckons. They are quite solemn and quiet.

The Commandos follow, perplexed. The old veterans bring them to a memorial pedestal.

"Saint Walrus, Patron Saint of Marauders Vigilant."

There is a rough birth date, and a death date almost 70 years back.

"We remember tales of the AWACS Walrus," the old man says, "His plane was kept as a memorial." "That cuts some of the work out for me," Cortain says, "But...I feel there is one more thing I wish to accomplish. Cyril, if you wish..." "Cortain?" Cyril asks. "This memorial should be marked by the Deathwatch. It is only proper respect."

While Cyril intones an old Nixartian prayer to the fallen, Cortain carves a new memoriam into the small monument.

"Am I the only one who thinks this is bloody unusual and bears investigating?" Brynjol asks, "That's got to be some sort of psychic phenomenon."

"Commandos..." an old man says, stammering, "I can't claim to know what happened. But I for one am content, knowing that the soldiers of the God Emperor never rest. It's all we can ask for, to serve eternal at His side." "Faith and service are one," Cyril affirms with a nod. "Glory to the God Emperor," they agree, "And honor to his soldiers." "A Man's duty is eternal, his work lasting even beyond death."

With only MORE rebuilding left to do, the citizens of Xaviol stand ready to restore their lives. The old men, and the aides nod solemnly before moving to coordinate rebuilding.

"Warriors, we are needed elsewhere," Cyril concludes, "This world is not the only one menaced by foul xenos. It was a pleasure." "May the Emperor shield your world," Cortain adds, "We must away."

Hopping back on the Fire Raptor, Rockfist taking care of transporting the VF/SS's, it's a quiet but fulfilling trip back to the Blade. Even beyond the veil, the honored dead still serve.

(23) The Stains of Time

The Blade has begin the warp trip to the long-neglected Nebraskus. The Black Caste is expected to have entrenched there, with space and ground defenses. With a week and a half of travel time expected, the Commandos return to their private business. While Cyril continues his crafts, and Temur reviews the archival reports of the episodes he missed, Cortain heads down to the Trophy Room. As for their support crew, while Rockfist and Thexus continue to bicker like an old married couple about stupid bullshit, Rose has headed to the Hololithic Chambers, after working with O'Malley on the "Babby's First Diviniation" book.

Erring on the side of suspicion, Cortain opts to begin research on Commander Outsider's curious armaments. Calling upon all his knowledge as a Forge Lord, he begins to carefully study the weapon. At first he is unsure where to begin, and dangerously close to tossing it. However, Urist McCyberfamiliar points out the On button, and it all makes sense.

Outsider's weapon is a pair of Tau Ion Rifles, overcharged to suffuse the barrels with ion energy when connected. It is in this way the weapon can be used as a staff. Seemingly best quality, the weapon seems to have been custom-forged.

"Concerning. These xenos seem to be very well-funded," Cortain sighs, "If only we could grab their suits..."

Popping on down to the firing range, Cortain finds the weapons distasteful and bulky. Nonetheless, it is his duty as Forge Lord to study the enemy's weaponry for any potential weakness. Some practice servo-automata float idly by, and Cortain fires at mid-range. Some of the squats completing their training give him odd stares, but they dare not question a Consul.

"This weapon is the mark of our enemy," Cortain reminds them, "This Is what we will be facing." "Of course, Consul," a Squad Leader bows, "We meant no disrespect." "However, this is but a weapon," Cortain states, "And one who can learn a weapon can master it's strengths and weaknesses." He pauses a moment. "I can only wonder what this Wiseman might have in store..." "Aye, m'lord," the Squad leader says, "The lads an' I are content with our lasguns, but if you see anythin' in that Xenos gun, then more power to ye." Cortain returns to his studies as Cyril, completing his work, joins him in practice.

Brynjol stops by the Hololithic chambers to check up on Rose, and notes the Chamber states Occupancy (2) before sinking back down to Occupancy (1). Brynjol frowns, peeking inside. Within the Hololithic Chamber, it's quite an odd sight. The Chamber has been modeled as a seaside veranda, hovercraft of unknown make floating in the distance. The Buildings are of a distinct non-gothic bent. At Rose's side is a large metal construct, distinctly humanoid in form. It is bringing her a drink. Brynjol shakes his head - the Men of Iron should be forgotten.

"Ah, Commandos," Rose says, standing up as she notices the Wolf Priest, "Is there a problem?" "Just came to see how you were," he states. "I'm fine, just taking a breather," she says, "O'Malley is pushing me hard, and I just finished speaking with a fellow named 'Thrax.' He said he was trying to help you all." "I... see," Brynjol sighs with some displeasure. Rose laughs. "He said you'd have that reaction. He says he's close, however." "I'm wary of mysterious people," Brynjol states, directing the conversation to something he's more comfortable with, "Comes from growing up on a planet where everything tries to kill you." "Well, I don't think I could ever understand THAT," she sighs. It's the sort of thing you learn to live with," he explains, "You don't consider it a...handicap, as such. You just deal with it." "We were always taught to be as diplomatic as possible," Rose states, "You would never know what new people you'd meet amongst the stars." "Ah, how far humanity has come," Brynjol laughs, "We greet every new arrival with the iron fist. The velvet glove lies abandoned." "That's so sad," Rose replies quietly, "But, I guess from what I've seen it does make prudent sense." Brynjol shrugs. "It's prudence. We cannot mingle the purity of the human race with the taint of the alien, and we cannot allow our borders to be threatened. Very few are willing simply to turn their backs and leave." "Well, I guess I'll keep that in mind. For now, though, that Dr. Thrax has requested my help soon, and I offered to assist in any way possible," Rose states, "Although, he did say something I'm still wondering about." "Aye?" Brynjol asks, intrigued. "He told me that, one day, a Sightless Seer and a Master of Mechanisms would call me to action," she says, "And I would have to choose to answer the call or not."

The two are silent for a moment.

"I'm not quite sure what he meant, but I'm sure it's important," she nods. "Peculiar," Brynjol wonders, unsure of what to make of it himself. "Well, no sense worrying about things," Rose shrugs, "Was there anything you needed of me?" "Just making sure you recovered from your... trance," Brynjol says, getting serious. "I haven't felt anything odd since," she says, "But I'll keep you updated if I feel off."

The general alert goes off, as the Blade leaves the Warp. Arriving in System, Cortain takes a moment to compile data about the world of Nebraskus. A slightly frosty world of ravines and moors, with light gravity, the planet nevertheless maintains enough arable land to feed much of the sector. An oligarchy of Farmer families maintain the fields and ensure the tithes are met. Nebraskus is situated close to the center of the sector, meaning it is a nexus of trade and output. This also makes it more prone than most to space hulks.

He nods, content with what he found. A cloying fog that hangs through the ship is somewhat concerning to him, though, but it is nothing compared to the strange translucent weeds that are beginning to spread across the Blade's halls, like Ivy. He begins to wonder - as the one with the highest insanity score of everyone, is it only he that can see such things?

"So, lads," Rockfist says, breaking him and the others out of their reveries, "The world's most likely been fortified by the Tau, how d'ya wanna approach things?" The Commandos assemble on the Bridge, alongside Rockfist who is once more wearing his armor. "'Course, their idea of fortification ain't anything I'd call the term, but it still bears thinkin' about," Rockfist shrugs, "Your orders?" "I agree on the notion of striking their holds," Cortain begins, "But before that, we need to evade their fleets. Tau battleships are remarkably swift." "EVASION LEAVES A SORE TASTE ON MY AUSPEX SENSORIA," Thexus blasts, "BUT THE BLADE CAN ATTEMPT SILENT RUNNING IF DESIRED, CONSUL." "Destroying them might be safer," Cyril disagrees, "It would warn the forces on the surface of our approach, but that is worth the security of denying them orbital support." "Jus' give the command, lad, an' well make it happen," Rockfist says, "We'll be reaching Nebraskus within the hour."

The Commandos discuss their options. While Cyril advises carpet-bombing the area with a Stormbird, Temur and Cortain feel that mobility would suit them better, and opt for Jump Packs alongside their normal gear, reasoning that a Stormbird bombardment would just force their enemies into cover. Cyril relents, instead readying a Thanatar maniple with Sollex Lascannons upgrade, and a Squat Brotherhood Combat Squad.

"Brothers, this ship is built for the open battle the Legiones excelled at, not the stealthy approach," Cyril states, "We should charge in, not attempt silent running. Agreed?" The Commandos nod, and steel themselves for the Tau expected in wait. Tau vessels tend towards heavy railgun batteries, ion lances, and swarms of torpedoes. Based on previous experience with Black Caste voidships, the Commandos did not note any major deviation from this doctrine. With a rough plan in mind, the Commandos intone the Plasma Drives to high gear, as the armored prow points forward. Reaching stable orbit of Nebraskus, they can already see the results of the Black Caste's fortifications. Ahead is a large defense station, its railgun emplacements bristling. Flanking it are a pair of Protector Cruisers, their own weaponry engaging.

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

The Blade of the Long Watch begins with an arc-charged Accelerator Cannon blast into a Protector Cruiser, incinerating it in the heavy beam. The Blade is now open, however, and the remaining Protector fires its Railguns, Ion Cannons, and Torpedoes, damaging the Blade and lighting the Void Shields on fire. The Orbital Station adds to the firepower with Railgun Battery Support, while the Blade tries to re-align and manage the flames. Throwing caution to the wind, Ramming Speed is engaged, bumping both the Cruiser and the Station, and throwing the Blade slightly askew, which works in the Commandos' favor.

While the Protector tries to realign, the Commandos arc-charge the shields, while circling and pummeling the Orbital Station and the Cruiser. The Blade takes heavy damage as it repositions, firing torpedoes, sunsear batteries, and sunhammer lances at everything hostile, circling the Orbital Station like an angry wolf. The final Protector aligns and gives a port broadside, but the Blade's torpedoes gut the cruiser, causing it to slow down and finally explode. Surviving repeated salvos from banks of Railgun Batteries, a starboard salvo from the Blade impacts the Station. The Commandos hear a listing sound echo through the winds of spess as the station begins to light up, little explosions spreading out, before it disappears in a nova-fueled fireball.

"We are the Emperor's Angels of Death. Tau go home." Cyril broadcasts. "Rockfist, have sensors picked up any signs of the Deep Ones or the Orvanian regiment?" "Lad, we're seeing a lot of wreckage in orbit," Rockfist shakes his head, "But it's hard ta say if that's the support, or if it's space hulk wreckage." "No recognizable transponder signatures?" Cyril presses. "Sorry, lad," Rockfist sighs, "I'll keep lookin'."

The Blade takes defensive position while the Commandos begin deployment, and the Squats and Thexus monitor vox signals.

"CONSULS, WE HAVE DETECTED EXCERTUS LANDERS NEAR ONE OF THE COASTAL PORT SETTLEMENTS," Thexus finally yells, "I AM DETECTING NO EXCERTUS VOX TRAFFIC. BE WATCHFUL, CONSUL."

Deciding to use the Flip Belts just in case, a sour taste upon each Commando's tongue, a Stormbird is readied, and the Commandos The Stormbird is aimed at the world of Nebraskus, and launched with all due haste. Brynjol readies his axe and crozius, while Cyril hopes his troops are enough. Temur carefully maintains his Grav Cannon, while Cortain bristles with weapons on every bit of him.

"You know Cort, the mortals have a saying for that," Brynjol points out, "You're compensating for something!" Cortain ignores the statement.

Atmospheric re-entry is surprisingly calm, as light clouds brush against the Stormbird's underbelly. The Commandos fly over endless fields of grains and crops. They can see the occasional Farming Servitor wandering the fields, maintaining plant growth.

"Farming Servitors remain active," Cyril notes, "But no vox traffic whatsoever..." "Subverting them would be meaningless," Cortain points out. "Perhaps," Cyril agrees, "But it means that Nebraskus' tithes may not be disrupted overmuch by the Tau's temporary occupation of it."

Eventually, the Commandos can see one of the larger agri-ports ahead, as well as a big open space they use for a landing port.

"Landing port ahead," Cyril points out, "Blade, where is the highest concentration of Tau on the surface?" "We're detecting...nothing, lads, beyond a few errant auto voxcodes." Rockfist says, "I don't like this. Yer goin' in blind." "Sounds fun!" Brynjol declares, "Let's just pick a spot and scout."

Eventually, the Commandos pull the Stormbird to a stop, and land. The doors open with a clang, to the silence outside.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=euYHV4syv8s

"I ill like this," Cyril states, "We could scour the world for weeks and find nothing." "And walk right into their trap," Cortain affirms. "Bryn, do you smell anything useful?" Cyril asks.

Brynjol drops to one knee, fingers spread in the dirt. Even with the vox turned off, and his helmet turned away, the Commandos can hear the titanic sound of nostrils sucking in huge quantities of air. He can DEFINITELY smell something wrong. The air has a thick scent that gives him quite a headache. He's only ever felt hints of it when other Tau were around. There are numerous theories on how Tau recognize each other, some have more evidence than others.

"It smells familiar. It's like the Tau... but..." Brynjol starts, "I've smelt something like this before. When the Tau mass."

Cortain takes a moment to review archival knowledge. Tau olfactory organs are much more sensitive than normal humans. It is theorized they use Pheremones, but it's a theory that has difficult finding proof outside of WarzoneL Montka.

"Possibly some sort of pheromonal secretion then, through mass gathering of their kin..." Brynjol offers, "Or the presence of one of their leaders." Cyril grins and puts on his helm. "It has been a very, very long time since I saw an Ethereal die." "Indeed. They are amassing," Cortain considers, "Perhaps an Ethereal is not too far off."

The Commandos halt, however, as they see a civilian in simple farm overalls walking along the road. Cortain approaches the civilian.

"Hail, native," Cortain offers. Getting closer, the native seems to be stuttering along rather stiltedly. Cyril joins Cortain as the farmer stares at them with somewhat empty eyes.

"Wiseman has taught us all. We are now united. Glory to the Greater Good," his head twitches, "Have you come to join our glorious destiny?"

Cortain bristles. "Silence him. Nonlethally." The Commandos are beginning to see more people around. They are just as stilted as the guy in front of them. "NONCOMPLIANT RECIDIVISTS SHOULD BE DESTROYED, CONSUL," Thexus offers over encrypted teamvox. "Ignore them," Cyril suggests, "Inquisitors can sort them out after we have dealth with the Paragon." "Avoid gunfire unless need be," Cortain adds, "These are not willing traitors." "Glory to the Greater Good..." the surrounding people amble about, "Glory to the Tau Empire..." Cyril grits his teeth and resists the temptation to backhand someone's head off. Brynjol grinds his teeth through his helm, the sound evident to all. Temur says nothing as the Commandos surround him, for any words sent at him would probably send him into an anyeurism of hatred and purging. "Sickening..." Rockfist spits, "Lads, I salute ya, ye've got far more patience than I would..." "Rest assured that it does not get easier with time," Cortain admits.

Throughout the agri-port, the Commandos can see the people almost...pantomiming normal existence. If the Commandos had a throne for every time they heard "Glory to the Greater Good" repeated every time they aggressively bumped someone, they'd rival Korst'la.

Cyril puts an ear out through the hordes' ramblings. Much to his shock, he can hear the occasional Astra Militarum Standardized Combat Order echo amongst the crowd. Indeed, he can trace those voices to the occasional Guardsman, wandering as aimlessly as the civilians. Brynjol and Cortain can pick out some of the rarer sayings.

"Commander Wiseman has shown me truth." "Honor to Aun'o O'res'nan." "From the Water comes Wiseman, from Wiseman comes truth, from truth comes life" "My head hurts...ah...Glory to the Greater Good..."

"This is NOT helping..." Temur hisses, "But I'd rather not waste my ammunition on such weaklings."

Luckily for the Commandos, the area seems to have all the amenities of Imperial life. It's got standard shops, adeptus officiums, even a large Port. Cyril suggests checking the port first, to verify first where the harvests have gone, and to investigate the Water. Heading through the city, and stepping on no small number of civilians, the Commandos approach the port. A number of botes are still docked, it seems.

"We have yet to see any sign of the Deep Ones..." Cyril muses, "I am concerned." "I hope we find something soon," Brynjol sighs, "I'm fairly close to just knocking down buildings until the Fire Caste turn up." "I doubt they would bother," Cyril shrugs, "These are not their buildings, and it seems the locals no longer have any aversion to their replacement with Tau architecture."

"You are correct, Republican Commandos," a voice suddenly echoes through port Laud hailers, "These gue'la have been enlightened, and are well on the way to the fundamental truths."

"Wiseman, I presume..." Cortain mutters. Cyril does not even hesitate to shoot a Laud Hailer, though there are many that echo across the port. "Indeed," the Laud Hailers blast, "We've been watching and expecting you. Your actions are within our parameters. Your first action to shoot..." Cortain shoots accusing glares at Cyril. "Well, here we are, in quite an impasse," the Laud Hailers echo, "You came to save people, and yet you deny them the truth. Tell me, who saves the weak from the 'men who save the weak?'" "Spare us your proselytizing, heathen xenos," Cyril demands, "This is your only warning: release the populace from whatever hold you have over their minds and bodies, leave this place, and never return, on pain of death." Brynjol remains uncharacteristically quiet, listening. "Truth in this case being exchanged for their free will," Cortain points out. "Call it what you will - a proselytization, a conviction, a...meme," Wiseman laughs, "You'll be seeing it soon enough. We await you by the Water's edge..."

The Laud Hailers go silent.

"Well...we got their attention," Cortain notes, raising his weapon.

Trudging through the port, every dockworker wordlessly staring as the Commandos pass, they finally come to a great open area where the largest of vessels would make port. The water laps against the docks and botes. Within the center, well, this explains where the missing Militarum personnel went. They all stand at attention, staring blankly into the distance. Brynjol holds everyone back, swearing a hasty Oath to the Wolf King, before allowing Cortain to approach the guardsmen, wondering if they will respond.

Down from an elevated craneatus, leaps a Tau in a thin personal-class battlesuit. He stands upon the head of one Guardsman, extending a hand. Por'o Do'ran'ro, Water Caste Paragon Commander Wiseman.

"Free will is a myth, Gue'ron'sha, we're all controlled by something...Greater. I've shown these people that greater path, that Greater Good, as it was shown to me by Aun'o O'Res'nan. But if you won't join us, then you're all mine!"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ULQgMntenO8

Brynjol delays his lightning attack, waiting to see what Wiseman will do. He notes an odd shimmer about him though as he fails a WP test. Cortain steps up, succeeding at a WP test and raising his Culverin, but sadly shooting wide.

Wiseman points forward, as the subverted Guardsmen raise their lasguns all at once as he stands on top of them. A wide hail of fire goes out, and while Cortain the walking Tank can survive them, Brynjol gets hit a bit. Then Cyril and Cortain note an odd bank of fog roll in. Brynjol and Temur, though, do not.

"Fear the UNSEEN!" he yells, as he leaps up. Out of the fog, Wiseman charges forward with an electrified set of daggers. While Cortain and Cyrils' shields hold, Temur chooses to parry instead, and respond with a counter-attack.

"You'll MISS!" Wiseman yells, as Temur raises his sword. Sadly, Temur fails a WP test and, much to his concern, Temur sees the Tau's body separate and effortlessly weave around every strike before reforming back.

Cortain merely wonders why Temur attacks the air as Wiseman calmly walks away.

Cyril realizes now is the time, and orders support down. Drop podding down is a Combat Squad of Squats, a Maniple of Thanatar Siege Automata, and Notomok the Yeti. Wiseman merely laughs. The Cyril, the horde of Squats, the Thanatar, and the Yeti begin firing and smashing into the horde of Guardsmen, though their unnatural relentlessness keeps many going beyond the point of death. He finally calls Squad Mode to launch Brynjol at Wiseman, but Wiseman's body contorts at every strike. Cortain alone wonders once more why Brynjol is attacking the air a meter or so from Wiseman. When Temur releases a grav Salvo at the Tau as well, he now knows something's off, and it's tied to the WP tests everyone is forced to make. Even the Squats are beginning to feel off, and it becomes a race against time before Wiseman convinces even them to fire at their allies. He does take heart in one thing, however.

Wiseman's words may affect the Guardsmen, the citizens, the Squats, and even the Commandos, but the Yeti and the Thanatar seem completely unfazed.

The Commandos focus everything they have at Wiseman, but sadly they fail their WP tests and their every shot and hit goes wide. This infuriates Brynjol in particular, who simply wants to smash the Tau into paste. Wiseman laughs the entire way through, taunting the Commandos in their inability to hit him. Only Cortain is unaffected as he fires at the Guardsmen instead, incinerating a number of them with Volkite rays. This allows him the clarity of mind to realize the water behind him is receding.

"FLOWING WATER! The power of the Greater Good!" Wiseman yells, as a monstrous tidal wave comes in behind him, flowing over everything. Brynjol and Temur opt to dodge with jump packs, while Cortain and Cyril trust to their shields, getting thrown about by the water but taking no damage. Further Las-shots go out from the weakened Guardsman horde, but as the water rains down in a thin mist, the worst has shown up.

Five grey and teal Astartes, raising their storm bolters in unison.

"TRAITORS!" Brynjol howls at the top of his lungs. "Damn..." Cyril curses in local sector dialect.

Notomok the Yeti takes moderate damage, while Cyril and Brynjol suffer under the storm of bolts. It's hard to follow the battlefield, now a veritable zoo with Wiseman, the Commandos, Battle Automata, Squats, subverted Guardsmen, subverted Mereens, and a Yeti. Cyril gives the final orders to the troops as the Squats begin to feel woozy. More stubborn than most, the Squats manage to hold fast and fire straight at Wiseman. The Tau yells as he is forced back - he has never had to dodge before, relying on the power of his voice and pheremones.

"Fight on!" Cortain yells, "Resist his heathenous powers!"

Realizing victory is at hand, the Thanatar continue their storm of withering fire. Though the Sollex Lascannons go wide, the Mauler Bolter fire soaks into Wiseman, who tries to dodge. But it is too much fire for one so untrained. Shocked at the unliving Automata's immunity to his delegations, Wiseman falls backward as the Squats and Automata go to town, riddling him with energy blasts and bolts.

"Kill...or be killed..." Wiseman laughs, "Nature...can run its course, but compared to those...things, I was powerless..." "Notomok, back! Bring the Deep Ones," Cyril commands, "Everyone, get away from that Tau!" Wiseman coughs. "Ha...ha ha...sure as the sun will rise...we of the Black Caste...will continue our mission..." Wiseman looks up. "Now...it's time...for us all to DIE..."

Wiseman's battlesuit explodes. Nothing is left but his twin electrified daggers.

Cyril and Cortain grab an armful of Guardsmen and jet away as the explosion ripples out. Brynjol lands in front of the nearest Squat squad, kneeling to absorb the shockwaves better. His robes catch fire.

"Wind blows...rain falls..." a voice echoes across the rain, "The strong...prey...on the weak...all...is as it should...be..."

Then there is silence.

Cortain heads over to check the Deep Ones. They're dead. As are the Guardsmen Cyril holds. "Truly an abominable display..." Cortain sighs. "Bring... bring them back," Brynjol commands, "All of them." "Autopsies?" Cyril asks. "Aye," Brynjol nods. "CONSUL, THE HELOT-ROCKFIST AND I WERE WATCHING. WE WISH TO CONGRATULATE YOU," Thexus announces, "YOU REMIND ME OF THE LEGIONS MORE EVERY SINGLE DAY..."

Cyril sprays some Kraken bolts into the crater where the Tau was. "Well done, Brotherhood." The Squats rub their heads, but return the sign of the Aquila. The Thanatars stand quietly, uncompromisingly, uncomprehendingly, as Cortain offers them a prayer.

"We should declare Martial Law until support can arrive," Brynjol notes. "Bryn... do you think there is anyone left living to impose law on?" Cyril wonders. "I hope so," Brynjol nods, "If the death of a single one of these bastards can wipe clean an entire world, we might be in a spot of trouble." "First step on the road to disappointment, Consul-Chaplain," Cyril chuckles. Brynjol lets out a single harsh bark of laughter. "The Imperium was founded on the hope of mankind, Delegatus," Brynjol points out, "I've taken many steps down that road already, and I regret none of them." He organizes the fallen Deep Ones in a neat pile. "Whoever came up with that saying was a miserable bastard who needs a smack." "They were right, Bryn," Cyril states. "Hope is still worthwhile, but all too often it will burn down around the ears of those who dared to reach for it."

After a bit, the Urists bring a second Stormbird around as they split up to pilot the first and second. They look rather sullen.

"That..." Cyril grunts as he hauls a Deep One aboard, "is where we come in." "Bugger that, Cyril. Too much of the Imperium is given over to...human factories," Brynjol disagrees, "Life should not be a commodity, yet necessity forces it to be so. If you can't have the hope of something better, what can you do but despair?" Brynjol hops on a Stormbird. "I'd take hope over despair any day." "On that we are agreed," Cyril says quietly.

"Lads, the Water Caste are master diplomats. If Wiseman was truly a paragon of his kind," Rockfist wonders, "Then that is how he convinced an entire world, with just his words."

Hopping on the Stormbirds, corpses on board, the Urists begin the trip back. Down below, the Commandos pass over the legions of dead. This world can be considered empty now. There will need to be a repopulation effort, probably. Brynjol orders his Apothecarion readied, and the Medicae Deck is put on full alert. Arriving back at the Blade, the entire support crew stands ready to receive the bodies, the Chapter Serfs taking point.

"There should be only two more left..." Cortain notes.

Rockfist, Thexus, and the Chapter Serfs stand ready to move the corpses, while Rose and O'Malley stand off to the side. Brynjol and Cyril busy themselves with the bodies. Of note, however, is the veiled Kroot standing by Rose. Dr. Thrax has appeared in the open.

"Kroot, what do you want?" Cortain asks. Temur stands behind him, ready to act if Thrax's words are unsatisfactory. "Ahh...Commandos, my wahrmest reegards..." it hisses, "We have good neews..." "News...?" Cortain wonders. "We have consulteed weeth the speerits..." Thrax nods, "And we have studied your condeetion heavily. Why you feel...fear when the...Hellstar arrives. We have feegured out...a cure." Cortain pauses instantly. "I can record this data," Cortain states, "I feel that this will be vital." "I'm sorry, but..." Rose says, "You really should hear this." "Yes, Techmareen, pleease do. Eet was all thanks to Miss Rose here, eet was her eenformation that let me peenpoint it," he states, "But to help you...we require two theengs..." "We are listening. Get to the point!" Cyril yells on the way to the Medicae Deck. "One was a psyker, to project your minds and confront your feear directly. Miss Rose has offered to do so..." Thrax rasps, "Thee other, much harder...a location, a place soaked in bloodshed, fear, anguish, and betrayal. I know not an ideal place..." "Betrayal?" Brynjol asks.

Now Thexus stops flat.

"I DO, CONSUL," Thexus's skull and mechadendrites turn to Thrax, "IF THIS ABHORRENT XENOS IS CORRECT IN HIS THOUGHTS..."

The Commandos wait with bated breath.

"YOU MUST GO...TO ISSTVAN."

(24) From the Beyond

Above Nebraskus, the brightest minds of the Solar Sect work to plot a path to the Isstvan System, overlaying modern warp maps with Thexus's 10,000 year old printouts. An Inquisitorial Frigate has been dispatched, alongside a frigate of the House, to supervise what is needed for repopulation, as well as assist in transferring any supplies off planet for the journey.

"I've never heard anything about Isstvan since the Betrayal. Do we know anything about... well, the planet?" Brynjol asks. "I thought it was uninhabitable," Cortain wonders. "That's what I'd heard... but to what degree?" Brynjol insists, "We can manage a scorched surface with suit seals alone, but did they employ cyclonics? Magma lakes, brimstone and such?" "I heard Virus Bombs," Cortain offers. "What would be the sense in that?" Brynjol retorts, "They deployed those on Isstvan III, and there was nobody left on the surface after the massacre on Isstvan V." "If that is true, most likely the virus would have long broken down by now," Cortain declares. Brynjol consults a scratched and worn looking dataslate from one of his voluminous pouches. This one appears to have an ice-blue casing. "Must be something in here..." he mutters, flipping through medicae records, "The virus would not be an issue even if it were the cause. Banerot's half-life is incredibly short - you'd be fine to walk around a few weeks post-bombing, let alone ten thousand years..."

To put the argument to rest, the two Commandos reference ancient legendaria in the Librarium, as well as bother Thexus who blasts his opinions on things, desired or not. Isstvan III was virus bombed and back. Nothing lives there now. Even today, the surface is blasted and uninhabitable. Isstvan V, however, was not as heavily damaged. On Isstvan V, after the Massacre in which three loyal legions were nearly destroyed, the world remained in the hands of Chaos, its ancient fortifications of unknown xenos make hosting traitor legions. In the 31st Millenium, the Desert Lions, a successor of the Ultramarines, purged the remaining traitors with Legio Cybernetica Support. After this purging, the world was left alone, abandoned by the living.

Nothing has called that place home in 10,000 years as a result.

"Good news, we will not be needing Terminator plate," Cortain shrugs, "Bad news, there is possibility of Chaos taint lingering." The sound of a hack and spit, coupled with muffled Nixarterian cursing, echoes through teamvox. "Troubled?" Cortain posits. "...ilthy, 'bominable trait'rs..." Cyril hisses. "Long gone now, Cyril," Brynjol reminds him, "All that is left is memory." Cyril grunts and heaves at something. "And what of the Sorcerer we purged? Was HE 'just a memory?' Too many of the filthy bastards are still around." "I'm not saying the traitors aren't still there, and their judgement will come - and that right soon," Brynjol sighs, "But Isstvan is... a tragic reminder of a betrayal best lost in the mists of time."

The Commandos decide to focus on preparation for the vast trip. A course has been plotted, and entered it into the Void Abacus. A direct route is impossible, as cross-referencing Thexus's Crusade-era maps with modern warp storm positions means detours must be taken. Even arc-charging the warp drive, something never done before, it will take at least a year outside, a month in the warp.

Cortain decides to hit up O'Malley's, to mentally prepare for the mission at hand. The incredibly ancient Squat nods, and prepares his normal request of WD-40 mixed with sacred unguents. "This worries me, beardling," O'Malley sighs, passing him the processed drink, "There are some things that are better off forgotten." "I am having many suspicions about what just might be in there as well," Cortain notes, "Never mind that a Kroot is the one who advised it, but to bring us to a graveyard is giving me the worst sensations of a trap." "The Ancestors of our great holds are treated with respect. We feel their presence in everything we do, but we acknowledge they are at rest," O'Malley states, "The Shaper, he actively communes with his. Heretical in my eyes, but if it can help ya out, I won't complain. The sooner we return him to his Genetor handler, the better."

Rockfist, in the meantime, begins compiling the supplies offloaded. "Right, lads, we've tied down the supplies the House sent up. Whenever yer ready, we can depart."

The Commandos perform final checks - all is well on their end. They inquire into the repopulation efforts of Nebraskus, and learn that while the Inquisition will handle selection, it is Korst'la who is contracted out to move everyone. Assurances are given that the world will look almost no different from before. This still concerns the Commandos.

The Blade is readied, and all personnel are placed on high alert. Disengaging from Nebraskus space, not a single squat says a word, as the warp engines are arc charged, and the Blade enters the Warp.

"The die is cast," Cyril begins. "Let's just get this over with, aye?" Brynjol interrupts, "I've no desire to remain on that blighted world for any longer than necessary."

Aboard the Blade, the Squats spend their time in prayer and contemplation, while essential personnel perform their duties wordlessly. Even O'Malley's, normally raucous, is silent. However, not all is well. Less than four days into the journey, the Everything's Not Okay alarms begin blaring.

"Sound off! Something's awry, lads!" Brynjol yells. "Awake and active. What is wrong?" Cyril presses. "Lad, we're picking up heavy damage in the Warp Engine," Rockfist states, "It's...overheating."

The Commandos rush to the Warp Drive. The Squats on station, all in heavy reinforced voidsuits, are terrified. "Commandos!" an Engineer salutes the Aquila, "Seals are holding, but if we keep going at this speed, the runes of protection WILL melt."

Brynjol turns to Cortain. This is his thing. "Is there any way to reinforce them?" Cortain asks. "I...don't know, m'lord," the Engineer explains, as Squat failsafes kick in and the Blade is forcefully ejected from the warp, listing dangerously above a strange, scarred ocean world.

"Realspace... Bridge, what do sensoria tell us about our surroundings?" Cyril asks. "Lad, we're above an ocean world," Rockfist explains, "I'm not detecting any signs of li-" "DO NOT LAND ON THAT WORLD, CONSULS." Everyone pauses. Executor Thexus has never given such a blunt demand before. "...right, well, we're in no danger here, lad," Rockfist offers, "At least there's that." "Do not say such things, Rockfist!" Cyril insists, "It tempts the universe." "We're not detecting ANY hazards, lad," Rockfist wonders, "I don't know what's got the toaster worried. Regardless, he's stormed off, but if he says not to land there, I'm in agreement."

Brynjol ponders, checking the map Thexus provided, before realization dawns on him. He rushes off to chase Thexus, who stares out a reinforced porthole. "That world is..." Brynjol begins. "TWENTY-EIGHT THREE, WHERE THE ILLUMINATOR BEGAN HIS LEGION'S DOOM. DO NOT GO TO LAER, CONSUL. IT WILL NOT END WELL." "The planet where the seeds of the Phoenician's end were sown..." Brynjol hisses under his breath, "Do we carry cyclonics? I'm almost tempted, just for what it represents." "THE ACCELERATOR CANNON IS SUFFICIENT, CONSUL. HOWEVER, THE WORLD IS ALREADY DEAD. THE ADMINISTRATUS BELIEVED THEY COULD BE MADE AN IMPERIAL PROTECTORATE. THEY WERE FOOLS." "I'll be honest, my curiosity is piqued," Brynjol shrugs, "But I cannot think of a good reason why we would go down to that blighted world." "DO NOT LAND ON THAT WORLD, CONSUL," Thexus merely repeats. "Then we do not," Cortain states with finality, "Even an Orbital Strike, as fitting as it sounds, makes me worried about some unholy retribution. " The ocean flows, the scars amongst its islands and archipelagos still visible after 10,000 years. Brynjol merely folds his arm in, his eye never leaving the world, staring down from behind his inscrutable wolf helm.

With the Warp Drive cooling down, Cortain studies the runes. Most of them are basic squattish runes of sealing, to prevent whatever is inside the warp drive from getting out. He takes a moment to think on the problem, and rushes to the armory. Aurorans are masters of vehicles and their characteristics, and he is immediately drawn to the Land Raider Achilles. Cortain studies the Ferromantic Runes of Invulnerability, and rushes back to the Warp Drive.

"If these wards are failing... what others can we add?" Cyril asks, "Brynjol's armour is proof against the machinations of the Warp, yes? Inquisitorial Hexagrammatic runes." "The issue is not Warp based," Cortain sighs while working, "The issue is that the Arc Charge is overloading the Warp Drive. Even if I apply these runes, the trip will be taking several months." "Unfortunate. Would more runes help?" Cyril posits, "If the first batch can hold while you make more, we might be able to make better time." "While this may work in some cases," Cortain looks up, "Not all runes can stack like that."

It takes Cortain a full day of prayer, sanctification, and engraving, stretching his skills as a Forge Lord to the limit, but he finishes engraving the runes along the Drive. This will not allow them to make the trip in a month as was intended - even with Ferromantic Runes that guard against the heat and energy of lance and melta, the arc-charged strain is too much. However, he can turn the trip into an 8 month one, at equal passage of time in the Materium. Given it is a matter of travelling across the galaxy, he deems this acceptable.

"That should hold, lad," Rockfist suggests, "Our apologies for the delay. We can re-embark when you are ready." "Take us out, Rockfist," Cyril commands, "Away from this accursed rock." "Aye, lad," Rockfist whispers.

The order is given, and the Blade returns to the Warp. Thexus and Rose stare at the quickly-retreating world. "It is rather beautiful, though," she sighs. Thexus says nothing, merely considering the ancient Laer - four armed snakemen with a variety of odd weapons, and resolves to investigate the Dark Eldar's four-armed snakelike associates on his own time.

Cortain and Brynjol, in the meantime, decide to pay Rose a visit. "That is what the Primarch of the III said when he landed," Cortain states. "The...III?" Rose asks, "You mean one of your Legions." "The master of one of them," Cortain nods. "What did he do so wrong that concerned even the Executor?" Rose asks. "He... was possessed," Brynjol explains, "And he took part in the Heresy. Do you know much about the Heresy, Rose?" "I have heard you all speak of it every so often," she explains, "And this world, Isstvan, seems to have everyone on edge."

"The Heresy was the death of a dream, Rose," Brynjol begins, "Where the Great Crusade was corrupted and turned on its head, and all hope of a unified humanity was lost to Chaos." "A time when Astartes fought Astartes, Brother against Brother, and has sundered mankind ever since," the usually-reticent Temur adds, "A shame we will ever live with." "In the Great Crusade, there were twenty Space Marine Legions - the Legiones Astartes. And they were led by twenty Primarchs," Brynjol begins, "Glorious, incandescent beings wrought from the firmament of science and the power of the Emperor." "Why did they fight?" she asks, "Was unification not a worthy goal, as it was in my time?" "Because Chaos got its claws into them," Brynjol states flatly.

"Chaos, the ones Executor Thexus calls Noncompliant Recidivists," she notes, "You said they were possessed. We did not believe in such things. Are you saying that such stories bear truth?" "Yes, unfortunately," Temur nods. "You must have heard stories even in your day, of psykers who delved too deep into the Warp and were changed?" Brynjol insists, "Changed into monstrous forms of pure bloodshed, lust, disease and change." "We...did not," Rose explains, "When I underwent cryosleep in our colony ship, the gene to create a a being called a Navigator had only been just finalized..." "In the days of the Crusade, empirical truth reigned supreme in the Imperium. Nowadays, we know all too well the dangers of sorcery," Brynjol states, "It is the risk every psyker takes. And it was introduced to the Primarchs." She laughs, kind of sadly. "We had chronomantic weapons, genetic customizations, great machines that could pacify entire sectors, our servants and allies of unbreaking metal, but we did not believe in...sorcery." "By the time the danger was apparent, there were only eighteen, but fully half of them fell to Chaos, and they tore the nascent Imperium apart in civil war," Brynjol concludes, "They were led by the Warmaster Horus, mighty Horus, First Among Equals." He pauses a moment. "They took the war right to Terra... and were repulsed. At horrendous cost."

"The one truth to the Heresy was that there was no meaning to the bloodshed," Cortain states. "If he was as great as you say, and even he fell," Rose whispers, "Then I am beginning to truly understand why no one trusts each other, why everyone fears one another." "Now you begin to understand the tragedy of our age," Brynjol whispers. "And it is just so," Temur declares, leering at Rose, "The single greatest lesson in the Heresy is that no one save the Emperor, is above corruption." "Everything you see is but the fallout of that war," Cortain gestures all around. "From what you say, some scars never really heal," she begins to walk out, "From your fear of what you call the "Men of Iron," to suspicion in every corner of this Heresy...I think I need some time. I should dwell on this..." "Ten millenia, and the scars yet remain," Cyril voxes. Cortain nods. "Should you need any additional guidance, do not hesitate to call any of us." "Of course..." she says quietly, walking off. "I fear you might have to face the worst thing of any of your people," Temur shakes his head, "The horrible reality of naked truth, stripped bare by ravenous time..."

The Commandos decide to make the best of their eight months of uninterrupted training. Cyril attempts to surpass every training regimen Thexus sets him against, while Temur continues to hone his mixed ranged-assault style. Brynjol resolves to spend time with Rose, educating her on the horrors of the Heresy, while brushing up on his own knowledge of the Great Crusade in preparation for the mission. Cortain begins addressing the piles and piles of "Ask the Commandos" fanmail for his news-missive, even promising an xenos-blood autograph from "Fightin' Felleye Brynjol" himself to a number of lucky winners. He also takes a moment to study Wiseman's daggers - they appear to be equivalent to power swords, but in a much smaller package. Though he's not sure how Wiseman did it, he notes that he can manipulate the blades at a distance, maybe 5-10m, using his own electoo conductors. Weird.

The rest of the 8 month trip goes by remarkably quietly. Rockfist never lets an eye off the Warp Drive, while Rose spends her time meditating or with the Squat Engineers. Thexus is working on a Mastodon, but lacks the finishing touches due to not having the datasheet. O'Malley continues to tend to the Blade's supplies, even though rationing for such a small crew is really unnecessary. Finally, the Everything's Okay alarm goes off, and the Blade begins the transition to realspace.

"Drive status, Rockfist?" "No problems, lad," Rockfist says, "Runnin' nominal."

A day of travel on plasma drives, and the Blade of the Long Watch enters the cursed Isstvan system. passing asteroid fields, cold dead lumps of rock, and virus-bombed hulks, the Blade reaches stable orbit. The dull grey rock floats lifelessly ahead.

Isstvan V.

"Lads, we're preparing a full landing party as an escort for ya, just in case. We're ALL going down," Rockfist explains. "I don't know if that's a good idea Rockfist," Brynjol starts, but relents, "Fast strike teams on standby for sure, but we should be the first ones to set foot on the soil. The first legionaries on Isstvan V in ten thousand years. No offence to you." "I advise ya grab what ya need as personal gear," Rockfist advises, "I dunno where Thrax is sending you, nor what you'll be takin' with you..."

The Commandos arm themselves with what they deem necessary. As a freshly-minted Consul Delegatus, Cyril passes a Diplomacy test to generate additional Requisition, the Rite of Command, which helps immensely. The Commandos all take jump packs, to stay mobile against whatever they may find, before branching off into their chosen weapons. Brynjol picks up a Thunder Hammer, while having Cortain upgrade his Crozius temporarily with Razor Sharp. Cortain decides on a Volkite Culverin. Temur selects upgrades for his grav cannon, while Cyril upgrades his weapons as well. Just in case, he orders a Lightning Primaris Wing on standby.

A full wing of Stormbirds are prepared. One for the Commandos alone as requested, and many for the Squats, Automata, and Support Crew getting ready to deploy. Thexus has transmitted landing coordinates and maps from his cortex archives. They all point to an open area, a large depression, called Urgall.

"The Urgall Depression..." Brynjol sighs, "Site of the Drop Site Massacre."

The launch bay crew evacuate, as the doors are opened, launching the Commandos out of the landing bay, There are no cheers or well-wishes - all are preparing for their own deployments. Brynjol stands, steady in the rocking troopship, walking to the middle of the bay.

"Stand with me, brothers." "Stand? I was thinking of charging," Cyril laughs, "I am with you." Brynjol walks to each seated legionary in turn, attaching an oath of moment to their shoulders and intoning in guttural Fenrisian. "All I can say to you today is the same thing we say whenever we take our swords and bolters up for mankind, in defence of those who need defending."

"For the Emperor." Cyril nods. "And - for the Primarchs. We are the bulwark between Humanity and the Terror."

The Stormbird begins to break the thin, dead atmosphere. The Commandos can barely tell that they have broken the upper layers, as the Stormbird levels off. The two Urists twirl the Stormbird around, circling in immense crater, before landing. The door opens to sterile, tan-grey sands. The two Urists piloting are ordered to take off once more and circle, as the Commandos step forth. In a few minutes, the rest of the support crew will be here. For now, though, the four Commandos are...alone.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F3mF1KHtUIE

Brynjol steps out, sand crunching beneath his boots. He shivers as he kneels, scooping up a handful of sand, letting it run through his fingers. He pours some of the dark sand into a small leather pouch at his belt, before standing and surveying the surroundings.

"Spread out," he commands, "We know nothing of this place."

Cyril drifts out on foot, stalking fluidly from a half-crouch. Temur and Cortain raise weapons, and face different directions, unsure of what they will find. Astartes boots sink into sand untouched in nearly 10,000 years, power armor respirator filters processing the same air. A chill wind blows across. Auspexes picks up various signs and shards of metal, ceramite, and other materials. Indeed, there is still the occasional spent bolt shell half-buried. The walls still bear the scars of energy and ordnance.

Brynjol kneels again, sinking his hands deep into the war-torn land. He closes his eyes, and lets his other senses expand to fill the void. He inhales deeply, letting the smell of ages fill his lungs. He can still smell the chemical reactants in the air, taste the blood all around. He can hear the gunfire again, hear the screams of anguish, of betrayal, as echoes on the wind. Brynjol forces himself back to wariness.

"All I smell is pain. There is nothing here," he states flatly, "A great dream died here... or rather, it finished dying here." Brynjol shrugs. "It started to die on Colchis." Cortain makes an amused snort.

After a few moments, as the Commandos wander amongst the shells and a large armor shard of what was once a Sicaran, they can see the rest of the Stormbirds begin to land, disgorging Squat Warrior Brotherhoods, Battle Automata Maniples, and more. The Urgall Depression is rendered clear, as everyone heads over. Rose in her armor, Rockfist in regalia, O'Malley in simple robes and respirator flanked by Hearthguard, Thexus...Thexus, and Dr. Angkor Thrax in his cowl.

Rose shivers. "I..don't like this place. Can you feel it?" she asks, "I can't see it, but I sense...a thirst for blood, looming all around us." "Probably the psychic remnants of the death of hundreds of thousands of Astartes," he explains, "Likely enough to linger, even after ten thousand years." "There was a Massacre, an Extermination here," Cortain reminds her. Brynjol steps away, ahead of everyone else. "Unless you think it's more active? Rose?"

"I...watch out!" she says, as a wall of flame erupts, surrounding Brynjol. He hisses, dropping into a predatory crouch. "Legionary! Let us..." a voice behind him says, "Wait, you are not a fellow Son!"

Brynjol is in a circle of seeming warpflame. A few meters ahead lies a shadowy legionary, his translucent armor a dull green. Brynjol is immediately on the attack against the Legionary marked by a red eye.

"REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" is the mighty Consul Chaplain's battle cry as he charges, his Crozius drawn midair, swinging as the Legionary Shade raises its bolter. Brynjol brings the crozius around and slashes deep into the Son of Horus Legionary Shade, forcing him backwards. It sinks to the ground, its translucent form already fading.

"What... what is going on?!" Brynjol yells. "You who come to this world of death..." the Legionary Shade states, "Who beckon the spirits of the fallen...we know what you seek. You will find your answers...from the battlements of the Warmaster, loyalist scum..."

The shade fades away, and the fires dim into nothing. The Squats have raised their weapons, unsure of what they have seen.

"Are you well, Wolf Priest?" Cyril presses. "I saw a Son, Cyril, the Warmaster's own," Brynjol spurts, "We... must find the battlements of the Warmaster." Cyril gives him a steely glare. "Thexus, how good are your maps?" Cortain asks, considering the goastly hint. "MY ARCHIVES ARE FLAWLESS, CONSUL. WHAT DO YOU REQUIRE?" Thexus yells. "Bryn requests locations of the Warmaster's Battlements." Thexus pauses a moment, his mechadendrites twitchin as his arms raise. "ACKNOWLEDGED, CONSUL. THE TRAITORS' BATTLEMENTS ARE CLOSE, THEIR FORTRESS EMBEDDED WITHIN A LARGE CRATER. IT IS NEARBY."

Taking a moment to explain the Sorcery to Rose, the Commandos press on, Thexus acting as macabre tour guide. The targeted Fortess is a little off in the distance, but within reach.

"Thees ees good," Thrax hisses, "Thees world weel serve well. You weel be cured of your feear, Commandos..." "What do the ghosts of legionaries past have to do with fear?" Cortain asks. "I AM BEGINNING TO UNDERSTAND THE FILTHY XENOS' POINT. THE LEGIONARIES OF OLD DID NOT HAVE THE SAME LEVEL OF MENTAL GUARDS - THEY COULD FEEL FEAR. AND THEY OVERCAME IT, EACH IN THEIR OWN WAY..." "...as you must," Thrax rasps. "The Astartes of today feel fear. We simply cannot afford to let it rule us," Cyril disagrees, "The Hellstar demands... additional measures to ensure that. Today marks the next stage of the beginning of its end."

Moving along the dusted plains towards the coordinates Thexus revealed, everyone moves cautiously behind the Commandos. Rose releases tiny floating spheres from her hands, which surge out in all directions, much to Cortain's and Cyril's intrigue. The Squats, lasguns raised, are quite uncomfortable, but nonetheless follow. All around are the ruins of battle, half buried by the weak wind. A drop pod here, a land raider there, a long-rusted contemptor hull on more than one occasion. Scraps of rotted vellum, banners, blow from the ground. Cyril sings a quiet, solemn dirge for the doomed and the damned to help pass the time and calm the Squats.

Travelling along the dusty route, the ground suddenly gives out, the sand collapsing into a great pit, which Cortain ends up sliding into. A bit annoying, but no damage. All about can be seen pieces of ancient armor. Surrounding Cortain, however, the wall of warpflame rears up once more.

"Traitors...traitors must burn..." the Legionary Shade that manifests whispers, raising a heavy flamer.

Cortain waves everyone off, as he is unharmed. However, his attention turns to the Legionary Shade before him, armored in bright green similar to his own chapter colors, but accented with orange. Hanging off him appear to be the scales of some sort of lizard or reptile.

"Halt. I am Ultramar," Cortain blurts, before charging forward with the Gladius Invictus. The Shade dodges, returning the attack with an ornate power axe, though Cortain barely manages to parry. Cortain considers a command test to calm him down, before he remembers HE was the one to initiate hostilities. Not his brightest moment. However, he calls upon his solo mode ability, Favored Son, to auto-pass the horrifically-penaltied command test.

"traitorous...blackshield..." the Legionary Shade gurgles. Cortain lowers the Gladius and salutes the ghost. "Well played." "Blackshield...of Ultramar..." the Legionary Shade wonders, "The Ultramarines...were not summoned...lies...Traitorous blackshield..." "I am of the XIII Legion. I am no more a traitor than you," Cortain states, "Apologies for the assault. An ally ran into a surprise ambush before. But now I must ask you to lead." "Ultramarine...the traitors routed...I see you...truth..." The Legionary Shade sinks to his knees. "Planets turn....Stone erodes....Fire burns eternal. Only from the highest point...may light burn brightest, brother..." The Salamanders Pyroclast fades. "Rest in peace, son of Vulkan," Cortain says softly. The wall of flame fades as well. "Loyalty beyond death," Rockfist whispers, "All we can ever really hope to aspire to."

Cortain engages his auspex, but the only thing he picks out of this sand pit is a scarred shard of chest armor. It is a worn and weathered green. He picks it up reverently. Cyril looks up, "Another ghost?" "Yes. Salamander," he states, ""En route back now. Let us move on." O'Malley chortles. "The lass was right, beardlings," O'Malley states, "This world, and its dead, they do not rest. They merely linger." "Thankfully, this one at least was able to listen to reason," Cortain explains, relieved, "We forge ahead." "We can hardly expect traitors to hear reason ten millenia after their fall," Cyril nods, "It is good that a loyalist saw the light."

The grand caravan passes by a number of sulphurous pools of water. The ground is slightly bumpy now, the scars of 10,000 year old artillery strikes. Occasionally the clang of long-buried metals strikes armored boots. The Commandos pass by walls, once great, now rusted, as they begin to reach the edge of the Urgall Depression. Carved into the wall itself is a mighty bastion, its decaying towers reaching high.

"Here be Traitors," Cortain sighs. "CONSULS, THIS FORTRESS...WAS NOT BUILT BY THE HANDS OF MAN. ENSURE YOUR AUTOSENSES ARE NOMINAL," Thexus advises. The Commandos briefly wonder, before agreeing and performing final equipment checks.

The squats and automata are ordered into defensive positions. Ahead of the Commandos is a large opening in the rock, the doors long since blasted away. The Commandos tactically space themselves, moving forward. Entering the door, all hear the rush of warpflame once more...this time around Temur.

The Legionary Shade ahead of Temur is in polished black and grey, his arm a shimmering cybernetic. "Destroy...DESTROY!" the Legionary Shade yells. The grey Legionary Shade seems to have a plasma weapon of some kind, which Temur decides to charge in to mitigate. The duel between Temur and the Iron Hand draws on, as the Legionary Shade draws an Omnissian axe and swings wildly, as if enraged.

"Legionary, snap out of it, we are not your enemies!" Temur yells, remaining on guard and not wishing to attack a fellow superior Astartes, "I am a son of Chogoris, not traitor scum like you fought here! Know that the imperium lives on for your valor!" This oddly seems to make him angrier. The Legionary Shade's attacks get more erratic, and begin to force Temur back to the wall of warpflame. "...So be it then," Temur resigns, counter-attacking the grey and black legionary, forcing him backwards, onto the ground. "You live, and you seek answers," the Legionary Shade hisses, "Our only regret was that some of you escaped. Only by facing your past, our past, may you survive your present, loyalist filth..." The Legionary fades as readily as the wall of flame.

Temur takes to a knee as the shade fades, processing the weight of the information. "What...what legion was he?" Cyril demands, hoping against hope he did not see what he thought he saw. "An Iron Hand," he coughs, "Turned against his own brothers. Could there have been others, even in the brotherhoods?" "CONSUL, THERE IS ONE THING YOU SHOULD REMEMBER." Thexus pauses. "THERE WERE NO SUCH THINGS AS LOYAL AND TRAITOR LEGIONS. THERE WERE ONLY LOYAL AND TRAITOR LEGIONARIES."

Temur gets up again, now grimly determined to ensure nothing interrupts their mission. "Let us continue," he sighs, "And find what we came to this hateful place for."

The Support Crew form up once more with the Commandos. Within the ruined battlements, there are numerous paths. There are some down, and some up. One of Rose's small spheres floats up from the lower levels, and returns to her. "My scout probes have picked up nothing nearby," she explains, "This place is empty." "Would they be able to detect psychic phenomena?" Brynjol asks. "No, they are merely pict...recorders," she states, fumbling for a word familiar to the commandos, "I built them on the Blade." "They do not detect through walls, then. Auspexes, Brothers," Cyril commands, "Thrax, what exactly are we looking for?" "Wee are looking for a suitable plaace to commune together," Thrax states, "We weell know such a place when wee feel eet..." "Brynjol said the battlements," Temur points out, "That should be our destination."

Cyril heads up through the xenos ruins, passing by many rooms cleared for Legionary supplies once, now scarred and empty. Ever higher he goes, until he can't go any further. Only then does he realize he has found his way to the top of the highest surviving battlement.

"Yeesss...thees weel do perfectly," Thrax coughs, "Commandos...this is a suitable place..." Thrax reaches into his pouches, burning a small object and creating a rather off-smelling smoke. The Commandos order a tighter defensive perimeter. "Commandos...are you ready to face what your ancestors are willing to show?" he asks. "Aye," Brynjol nods. "No. And that is why I must." Cyril doffs his helm. "As I will ever be, I think," Temur sighs. "As always," Cortain affirms.

"Sit together, yesss...." Thrax rasps, "All of you, must face the other. Miss Rose...pleease, the Center..." As everyone pops into formation, all facing Rose who stands in the center, Thrax begins chanting, an alien, guttural chant under the dull shine of the midday sun. "Remember Commandos...I know not what you will seeeee...the Ancestral Dreamlands my people call upon takes a different form for everyone," he states, "But know thiiis - what you see, you can only rely on yourseeeelves. Now, close your eyes, and open your minds..." Thrax's chanting increases, Rose begins to levitate as she surrounds everyone in her psychic sphere, and the Commandos' visions go white...

05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)~~

The Commandos awaken upon the same battlement that Thrax began his ritual. It's just the four of them - there is nobody else. Looking up in the stars, everything's completely different - the constellations are all wonky, and then they realize the battlement is less decayed as well. To their side, a small mote of light sinks down, into the Fortress once more.

"How...quaint." Cortain notes. "I bloody hate psykery..." Brynjol sighs. The stars above shine brightly, the clouds of the galaxy visible amongst the backdrop. It's middle of the night, and the Commandos can see lights within the Fortress below as well. It makes them wonder - it was daytime when they landed. "I hope this is just a... vision," Brynjol sighs "It seems quite quiet for the Warp," Cortain offers. Brynjol stands up. "Let's explore a little. "Squad formation, on me."

Descending into the Fortress, the Commandos now realize that the layout is completely different. Motes of light float about aimlessly, and as they approach the main area of the Fortress, they can hear voices, a dull bustle. Ahead is a sturdy door of metal. Oddly enough, it seems to be partially overgrown with a translucent blue plant. Cortain immediately begins to worry.

Opening the door slowly, breaking the plant matter away, the Commandos open their way to a large...librarius.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vbxk7E3vvdA

Motes of dust and light float amongst the books, as the hall stretches forward. Lit by candelabra and fire, the great hall feels warm, as opposed to the cold outside. "I don't bloody like this at all," Brynjol says, drawing his weapons, idly rotating the thunder hammer to keep its great weight in motion. As he passes by many different shelves of books, the hammer making a swoosh through the air, he hears a voice, a familiar one, off near one of the fireplaces.

"Welcome."

It's the voice of Rose.

Standing by a fire are...Rockfist and Rose. "Welcome," Rockfist says, "You've been expected. No doubt you have a lot of questions." "You share the vision as well," Cortain states. "How..." Brynjol stammers, "Why?" "I suppose we should begin in honesty - what you see before you is not yet the truth. We appear in a form the viewer always feels comfortable amongst. Perhaps these forms, you care for them? Even this very librarius is assembled by your minds. Our true forms, well, you cannot quite perceive them yet," the Rockfist-form starts. Brynjol takes a single step back. "I distrust those who hide behind a mask. I will listen to your words...for now."

"Tell us, you have to yourself the Materium, the Warp, even the Webway," the Rose-form continues, "In your words, what would you call these?" "...what?" Brynjol asks. "Planes of reality?" Cortain posits. "Very good," the Rockfist-form says, "Or, Dimensions to others. This Dreamland you walk, a product of the Kroot. The nowheres of Subspace, where the Chroma reside. There are many that you are and are not familiar with." "Which led us to your next question, 'Why are you here?'" the Rose-form states, "You have come here for a reason, have you not?" "The Kroot told us that what we need, we would find here," Brynjol spits, "A tool to help us resist the power of the Hellstar." "It would cure our fear," Cortain adds. "Yes, the Hellstar," the Rockfist-form states, "In a way, you wonder why your indoctrination against fear fails." "We are to confront and understand our past," Cyril states. "Then let us begin at the start," the Rose-form continues, "Fifty of your years ago, there was a great collapse. An entire of your sectors, drained of energy, an entire area of space ripped and wounded." "Is this familiar to you?" the Rockfist form asks.

"A... warp rift?" Brynjol offers. Cyril shakes his head, "The Scar." "Very good. This weakened area of space was opened when its energy was ripped away," the Rose-form continues, "It was opened to a dimension your Imperium has experienced before." "It was first known as the Harrowing, where creatures impossible to your physics swarmed through, thwarted only by the expenditure of many lives and weapons," the Rockfist-form adds, "It was followed by the being you named Cacodominus, which hybridized itself to your Materium, and surged and destroyed an entire sector upon its death." "And now..." the Rose-form concludes, "You have opened yourself to the creature you call Hellstar." "The Howling?" Cortain asks, for clarification. "The Harrowing of the Echoing Vault, the Howling of the Cacodominus, now the Hunger of the Hellstar," the Rockfist-form states, "The method all used is the same - peer into one's mind, and understand their fears, terrors, anguish, horrors, and use them as powerful weapons." "How do we fight this?" Brynjol asks. "We can show you one half of what you desire," the Rose-form states, "You must confront the lingering curse that resides within your geneseed. Even now, you are shackled, chained, controlled by the traumas 10,000 years past."

"Explain," Brynjol insists, "How does a trauma imprint itself on genetics?" "To fight an enemy that does not follow your rules, you too must break free," the Rockfist form states, "Before the Hellstar, thrust upon you, can find the key to opening a permanent scar to its source, and break down your very existence to sustain its own source." "You must release yourself of the horrors of millennia past," the Rose-form points, "You must cleanse your heart and mind, until there is nothing the Hellstar can take from you, and to do that..." Rockfist-form points to a barrier of fog leading out, where the front gate of the Fortress once was. "What you will see beyond the Fog is unique to you," he explains, "But overcome it, and there will be nothing that will hold you back." "So...in there is our answer?" Cortain insists. "Take as much time as you require to collect yourself," the Rose-form states, "Beyond the fog lies your answer."

"Show us," Brynjol demands, "Show me your true faces." "Your minds do not yet have the strength to see such things yet," the Rockfist form explains flatly, "You would damage yourself beyond recovery until you have, to put it in a way you would understand, the eyes necessary to see." "And that is what worries me," Brynjol sighs, "You don't sound like beings who would want to help us." "You are correct. We are not. You see and hear only that which you expect to, want to, see and hear, Brynjol," the Rose-form bows, "When you see the truth, when you gain true insight, only then will the truth be revealed..."

Cyril kneels, calling the Commandos around. "There is only the Emperor. He is our light and our guide, our purpose and our saviour. We are his will made manifest." The Commandos nod in affirmament. Cyril rises. "I AM READY," he rumbles calmly. Brynjol sighs heavily, "Bollocks to it. Let's do it." "All mental warding circuits operating at 150%," Cortain nods. Temur wordlessly stares at the door.

The four Commandos stand ahead of the Nightmare Fog, as one. Pushing through, it feels...cold. "This feels wrong," Brynjol whispers. Eventually, however, they break through. Under the starlit night, the Commandos find themselves amongst the sands of Isstvan once more. There is no sign of the fog or building they came through. However, there is an enormous form swirling in the center, 30m away. "Is this...?" Cortain wonders aloud.

The translucent black shroud composes itself, swirling about into the shame of a man, a featureless, faceless man in towering armor and unbelievable weapons. In its chest, a single red eye opens, its black iris focusing. The Commandos all finally see it - the shadowy form that haunted them every time the Hellstar stared. The trauma of 10,000 years back, the geneseed memory of sins 10,000 years past.

Horus, the Warmaster.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A9MR3r_DWrA

The Commandos are forced to make an Insanity test, staring at this genetic memory of the greatest threat to the Imperium. Surprisingly, Brynjol, Cortain, and Cyril all hold fast, their hearts hardening with hatred and beginning the process of overcoming. Temur, however, is not so lucky, and in a panic begins to flee for his life. Brynjol, thanks to his lightning reflexes, is first. He takes a moment to consider the archives for anything that could help him. Horus's skill in combat was legend, though he greatly enjoyed attacking the weak in Cthonian style. He wielded a monstrous mace, Worldbreaker, and his signature Talon with heavy bolter embedded within. He was known for keeping fleet assets on hand at all times, and his defenses were second to none.

Brynjol charges the Warmaster Shade, but his attacks bounce off the Serpent Shield's potent shields. The Warmaster responds in kind, swinging Worldbreaker and the Talon. Though Brynjol's shields hold against Worldbreaker, he fails a Parry, and the Talon rips deep, triggering its Disabling Strike. His WS and Strength damaged, Brynjol wonders where everyone else is as he howls backwards, clutching the rent in his front.

Cortain fires his Volkite Culverin, while Cyril flanks with his storm bolter. Both bounce effortlessly against shields and armor, and all eyes turn to Temur. After running away for a bit, Temur unfucks himself and turns his grav cannon on the Shade, turning his own armor against him. It is one of the few advantages the Commandos can claim - in the time of the Primarchs, such "graviton imploders" were rare and experimental. But now, everyone and their sarge seems to pack at least one in a squad.

Brynjol and the Warmaster's Shade continue to trade blows, their attacks bouncing off each others' shields. Brynjol does get a good hit or two in with his Razor-Sharp'd Crozius. Cortain and Cyril continue to provide covering fire, though their shots are doing markedly little. Though the rest of the Commandos cannot feel it, Cortain looks around - there is an audience, countless Legionaries watching the Commandos, some recognizable, some not. With their geneseed ancestors watching, he resolves to make them proud.

Cyril, however, is beginning to lose it.

"YYYOU...KILLED..." Cyril gurgles. "Hold... hold it together, Cyril!" Brynjol commands. Cyril spits, "WHY?" "You lose yourself, you become the same as these ghosts, Cortain explains, "This is the accumulation of hate and despair. It will feed off it."

Cyril charges, nonetheless, as the Photonic Blade bounces off the Shade's shields. In his last moment out of the Black Rage, he calls Tactical Finesse Squad Mode. Now things get interesting, as Tactical Finesse allows one to perform an attack and then move away. While Temur uses this to move closer with his Grav Cannon, Brynjol uses this as an enabler. As the Commandos have just entered Rank 5, Furious Charge can allow him a Lightning Attack on a charge as a free action. He decides to Furious Charge in, Tactical Finesse out as a half action, Furious Charge back in, Tactical Finesse out as a Half Action, and Furious Charge one last time as a free action before he runs out of actions, expending ~9 cohesion to do so. Despite nearly 14 attacks going against the Warmaster's Shade, Brynjol only manages two hits, which nonetheless do a respectable amount of damage. Sadly, this enrages the Warmaster's Shade.

While Cortain and Cyril charge in to assist Brynjol, the Warmaster's Shade now slams down Worldbreaker repeatedly on the Wolf Priest, pummeling him and forcing him to burn fate to manmode through the pain. With so many around him, the Warmaster's Shade raises Worldbreaker, slamming it into the sands. While the Commandos duck and shield against the resultant energy wave, they note the Shade beginning to float and glow. Light shines down on the Commandos, before they begin to spread out. The Orbital Strikes rain down on the sand, and only through lucky shield and dodges do the Commandos make it out.

It's now or never, as Brynjol continues to wail down, Cortain attacks with his Gladius Invictus, and Cyril continues to swing the Photonic Blade. The Warmaster will soon turn his attention to Cyril and Cortain, so Temur takes careful aim, and fires a final salvo from his Grav Gun before running out of ammo. His grav-beams hit the Warmaster's Shade, raking across the Serpent's Scales. The shade seems to shudder, twitching and contracting, as only an ear-piercing shriek is heard as the Shade finally fades.

The ground itself falls away as well, leaving the Commandos all floating in the darkness.

Cortain raises his sword. "We are the Chosen sons!" he yells, as the Legionaries all around bow and fade away. "Sanguinius... Vos vindicatur..." Cyril coughs.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OrfEn1_hssg

Then an eye opens. And another. And another. The Commandos are surrounded by thousands of eyes. As the eyes rush at them, and they feel themselves flooded with Insight, their world goes white -

05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)~~

-only to hear the closing of Thrax's chanting.

"Ahh...Commandos, did you find what you requiiiired?" Thrax asks. To the Commandos' private wonderment, it is still noon on Isstvan V.

Cyril coughs as he returns to wakefulness and spits out a mouthful of blood and cheek tissue, before rushing to Brynjol. Brynjol drags himself painfully to his feet, leaning heavily on his crozius. Bits of his armour fall to the ground.

"Armour... compromised..." he gurgles through a mouthful of blood, beginning to choke on the thin atmosphere. "What the miiiind and soul feels...the body miiiiirrors..." Thrax states. "If that means seeing a ghost of the worst thing to ever blight the Imperium go down to this blade, a Crozius, and a Grav weapon in embarrassing scale," Cortain mutters, "Then yes."

Rose is somewhat unconscious. Thexus is tending to her. It is clear the strain has gotten to her. "Lads," Rockfist sighs, "When yer ready, we're ready to go. Jus' give the order. The throngs'd rather not be here longer than they need..." "Brothers. What have we learned? What have we gained?" Cyril asks, "Is our purpose here fulfilled?"

The Commandos nod in affirmament, and summon Stormbirds to pick everyone up. Brynjol needs serious medicae attention from the Serfs and Chirurgeons, and the rest of the Commandos need time to dwell on what they have seen. Rockfist summons the Stormbirds near on the Commandos' order, and everyone hops aboard after a few minutes, ready to travel back to the Blade.

"So be it. I had considered retrieving the armour and relics left here for the Chapters, but..." Cyril muses, "They have been left here for so long. Perhaps they should rest here forevermore."

The Blade has never been a more welcome sight. Its mighty Accelerator Cannon, its rows of macrocannon and lances, the large translucent-white slug creature hanging off the prow, the armored bridge, already a number of Squats and Serfs have been ordered on standby to provide assistance. The Stormbirds approach the landing bay, the troops within eager to get back to safety.

Cyril begins to supervise return efforts, with Cortain monitoring the incoming Stormbirds, but Brynjol slams his fist against the window.

"What... is... that..." Brynjol coughs. "What...is what?" Rockfist "That seems unusual," Cortain states. "The... the ship... that thing..." Brynjol swallows a mouthful of blood. "Hmm?" Cyril asks, before realization hits him, "No...no, that cannot be..." "The Blade? Lad, you'll be okay..." Rockfist insists. "Oh good, everyone else sees it," Temur hisses in anger.

The slug-like creature kind of hangs there, right in front of the Accelerator Cannon, wrapped snugly around the prow. Landing in the bays, the Squats rejoice at being back and getting ready to leave the place, oblivious to the danger that had accompanied them the entire time. Cyril and Cortain rush through the halls, overgrown with translucent blue weeds, to the bridge.

"What... is... happening?" Brynjol moans as he sees the true mess the Blade is in.

"Our minds are open to the full extent of the horrors," Cortain states. Brynjol begins to chuckle, wheezing. "ROCKFIST!" he shouts into the vox, "FIRE THE ACCELERATOR CANNON, NOOOOOOOW!" Brynjol is brought back to the medicae deck. He can barely see the ground under all the weeds. "At...what, lad?" Rockfist asks, "I have no target." "Cortain, Arc Charge it," Cyril states flatly, "I will see to the firing."

While Brynjol continues to beg Rockfist to fire the Cannon, Temur helping him to his Medicae Deck, Cortain calmly intones the Arc Reactor to output all of its energy into the Accelerator Cannon. As the Blade enters the warp for the 8 month journey back to Tiji, the Accelerator Cannon unleashes its full force of impact, burning away the titanic slug. It begins to shrivel and dissipate, to the Commandos' relief as the warp portal closes. While the crew of the Blade stare, wondering why, the Commandos, at least, are relieved.

"We got it..." Brynjol sighs before the morpha and medicine begin to work, "Could you all me a favour while I try to move my lungs back into position with a medicae servitors?" Cyril smiles warmly as he sits back from the gun, "Name it, Brother." "Take a flamer to these hallways, please," Brynjol insists. "Consider it done," Cyril nods.

Brynjol begins the long and painful process of directing medicae servo-automata to operate on his fucked-up chest cavity. Cyril calls up Notomok and retrieves a pair of heavy flamers, and a retinue of robots with similar equipment. Together Cyril, Notomok, Cortain, and Temur begin a systematic purge, to cleanse the halls before arriving back to Tiji.

(25) The Wonderful Number One

The Blade is on its way, rushing to Augurus Prime. A Command missive was received by the vessel's complement of living ancestors, relayed with all due haste. The security codes embedded within were so high-level it defies imagination. Brynjol emerges from self-performed servitor surgery with a new set of scars, several steel plates in his vertebrae, and a curious sense of loss of one of his four progenoids.

"What did I miss?" he asks, limping onto the bridge, dressed in duty robes and using his crozius as a staff. He steps over the translucent blue weeds that have grown everywhere, noting that they seem to be drying out and shrivelling.

"I am still purging the growths. It is a time-consuming process, even after retrofitting automata with flame and cryo weaponry," Cyril admits, "The Squats I have running a supply train for ammunition are...skeptical."

Cyril notes that, everywhere he goes, the ivy-like growths seem to be dying off on their own. Many pale white slugs also are dropping down, curling into little ded slugballs. He collects any ded slugballs he can find, crushing them up and delivering the powdered remains to Brynjol in a dustbin for study. Eventually, one of the Servo-automata floats by, holding out a frilled, black apron towards Cyril while beeping. He absentmindedly tucks the cloth into his belt while directing the vacuum-automata.

Cortain, in the meantime, decides to look into their destination. Augurus Prime is a watery world with extreme seasons and sparse flora. The population live in enclosed forge hives. It is the Sector's primary manufacturer of Titans and other advanced war machines. Its Basilikon Astra is the pride of the Sector, though it has suffered much damage over the years. In fact, the Blade of the Long Watch itself was restored in Augurus Prime's Basilikon Astra. Cortain feels a sense of pride that the Blade is returning homeward.

During the 8 month return trip, the Commandos spend their time between training, silent contemplation at what they witnessed at Isstvan V, and in Cyril's case, weaving commemmorative rugs for everyone except Thexus with his Remembrancy skill. While Rockfist and O'Malley monitor the Squat's morale on request, Thexus and Rose are hard at work in the Armorium restoring a Mastodon to working order. While supervising the halls, the Commandos even see some new battle automata marching about, probably the result of Thexus remembering some new patterns (and Horus Heresy Book 6 scans appearing). While one looks like a stripped-down Domitar with jet engines, the other...gives the Commandos an ill feeling. No doubt they probably wondered what a Blight Drone looked like before its unholy corruption, but the way its auspex-lens stares as it patrols the wider hallways is somewhat disconcerting to some of the lesser-ranked squats.

Eventually, the Commandos are back in the Tiji Sector, for better or for worse. Surfacing briefly on the Outskirts of the Tiji Sector, the Living Ancestors and vox operators take the time to update the situation and Void Abacus charts. It has been sixteen months - 1.33 years the Commandos have been gone from the sector. In the meantime, sightings of the Hellstar have remained constant, and no small amount of worlds, both uninhabited and not, in the space between sectors have gone completely dark. However, in the past four Months, none have seen the rogue superplanetoid. It has the Brotherhood datamats somewhat worried. Some were forge worlds, some were hive worlds, most were mining worlds in the voidspace between the Tiji Sector, the Scar, the Realms of Ultramar, and the warpstorms of the Deep Fringe. Cortain reviews the list of lost worlds, and tries to determine a pattern.

Then he rolls a 100 on his logic test.

Cortain begins plotting the worlds. The pattern makes a happy face. The Hellstar comes in peace. It warms his hearts that perhaps interspecies diplomacy can in fact be given a chance. Then Brynjol whispers that he forgot to carry the three in his calculations, reminding him of his Mentor ability, and spends fate to reroll. Now he rolls a 1.

Cortain notes that there doesn't seem to be much of a pattern. However, the worlds ARE being lost sequentially - the Hellstar, last seen, was circling the Sector, consuming whatever it found. And each target was a little closer to re-entering the Sector proper. And until four months back, the loss of worlds was accelerating.

"Lads, don't ya worry, we'll arrive at Augurus Prime within the week," Rockfist states, "Ya...are feelin' okay, right?" "In a sense. The visions are...difficult to describe to a non-Legionary," Cortain states, "But whatever happened, I can feel it." Rockfist nods, before heading out. Cyril, however stops him. "Rockfist, if it is not too much trouble, could you critique the rug? I believe I did well, but Squattish craftsmanship is legendary, and I seek to refine my technique."

Rockfist is caught unawares somewhat by the request, but he and a few engineers take a closer look at it. They debate for many minutes. The rug depicts hordes of dead Orks piled around the base of two mountain ranges, with a bigass skull in the sky above the mountains. With 6 Degrees of Success, it's a pretty tight rug. "Hmm, it menaces with corpses of ork," one nods, "Like at Imbach." "Yes," another nods approvingly, "And an undefeated hold, be it the Homeworlds Old and New..." Rockfist, however, says little. A single tear rolls down his cheek. And that is all that needs to be said. "Ya did good, lad," he whispers barely perceptibly. "I... thank you," Cyril nods.

As a last task with the remaining time, Brynjol begins to examine the translucent plants and the ded slugdust that Cyril gathered. He first turns his eyes to the sample of translucent plant he picked off the ground. He can't seem to make heads or tails of its chemical properties, but he can clearly see it's disintegrating by itself. He then turns to the ded slugdust Cyril keeps bringing him. He notes their primitive organs are all undergoing failure, yet he can see no reason for such an event. There is no damage to them that Brynjol can otherwise determine. They are fully functional creatures otherwise, other than the fact that at the beginning of the trip back, they all started dying at once.

"Hmm... perhaps it's some sort of effect... they gain strength from proximity to warp sources, perhaps?" Brynjol posits. "No, the massive one," Cortain notes, "It was almost acting as a sort of synapse beacon, terraforming the ship." "Concerning. We must destroy the lot before any Tyranid can assimilate them," Cyril voxes, "Though if they are merely dumb beasts with bizarre properties, they may prove useful enough to warrant sparing a few." Some of the Squats shudder. "Forgive me, lad," Rockfist begins, "But I'd rather not have anythin' cavortin' around that can threaten the New Homeworlds." "Of course," Cyril affirms, "If they are determined to be a threat, there is only one possible response."

The Blade's Warp Drive, now back to a normal speed, begins to rumble and shake, as the Everything's Okay Alarm begins to sound. Travelling another day in the materium, the expansive world of Augurus Prime and its many moons begin to fill the sky. Surrounding the forge world is a ring, a great cathedral of the Mechanicus' Basilikon Astra shining amongst the void. Cyril orders a vox-traffic pass, and the Blade detects the normal traffic that a Forge World expects - mining world shipments, outgoing Legio Skitarius detatchments, even a few Squat ships here and there.

"A shame, lad," Rockfist laments, "Don't think the Iron Spire's here this cycle. It's quite a ship lad, although, even it pales in comparison to yer Blade."

Performing a wide-band augur intonation, the Commandos search for any signs of distress. They find none, picking up only endless chants in machine code, shuttle requests, holding patterns, and so on. However, as augurs pass, the Commandos receive an incoming message at the hololith plinths. Brynjol pokes the hololith, and a live connection is set up to a number of lower-ranking Magi, their faces hidden in the shadows of their hoods, their forms flickering in the hololithic display.

"In the name of the Machine Trinity, we bid thee welcome to Augurus Prime, emissary of Mars in the deep void. We were told to expect you." "We received your missive," Cortain explains, "What seems to be the matter?" "Republican Commandos, there is much to speak of. Guests of honor are on their way that grace our humble forges, a glory unrivalled in 10,000 years past, and 10,000 years future," the Magos explains rather shiftily, "We were told to extend our hospitality, until they arrive. We shall prepare a delegation to meet you in the Basilikon Astra Cathedral Mechanicum." Cyril restrains himself to Nixarterian mutterings about wastes of time and nods. "Was there anything else before we come down?" "We of Augurus, glory be to the Trinity, shall endeavor to ensure you are honored appropriately," the magi bow as the hololith fades. "Oh joy," Brynjol sighs.

The Commandos load up from the Armorium, most taking their usual loadouts. The local environment is the Basilikon Astra Cathedral Mechanicum, a ring orbiting Augurus Prime, where starships and heavy machinery is built. Knowing full well the thin skin that shields them from the Void, the Commandos opt for the heaviest weapons they can find. Cyril also rolls quite well on his Diplomacy test, managing an extra 60 Requisition for the team, which he spends on darkfire-armed Battle Automata and a Xiphon Interceptor Bombardment.

"I like my loadouts like I like my plans, simple, effective, and flexible," Temur announces. Of course, a Grav Cannon is flexible enough to be useful against anything, or so he believes.

The Commandos are getting used to making statements about their landing presence, despite their disdain of the publicity they inevitably receive. As such, they ask a Stormbird be readied, which is enough to fit all the support the Commandos will be bringing with them. Landing coordinates to the Cathedral are sent, leading to one of the larger areas of the ring. The Squats clear out of the way, before the Launch Bays open. All paths are cleared for Takeoff, and the Stormburd blasts out of the hangar.

Weaving through ore haulers, troop transports, mass conveyors, and bits of the Cathedral ring, the polluted grey clouds of Augurus floating below, the sheer size of the orbital ring is incredible. Every berth is filled with a ship under construction, and the prayers to the Machine Trinity ring on every vox frequency. Cortain replies in equal measure, feeling comfortable amongst the Mechanicus.

The Stormbird barely fits in the designated landing zone, the area clearly meant for smaller diplomatic envoys. Nonetheless, landing is possible, and the doors drop open with a clang as energy fields seal the hangar from the void. Cyril glances at his battle-brothers, ready to form up and march out in synchrony with the Castellax maniple. Making an Oath to the Wolf King, the Commandos synch up and disembark. Awaiting the Commandos outside are another set of mid-rank magi, blinky lights of augurs and sensoria evident under their hoods.

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

Cortain salutes the magi, folding his hands in the traditional sign of the cog. "Welcome, honored Commandos," one magos bows, "You bless the Cathedral with your presence." Cyril mirrors Cortain's salute and signals the automata to do the same, though lacking hands they merely end up punching themselves. Brynjol sneezes, feeling out of place, but much to his surprise, a servo-automata emblazoned with the sigils of Augurus Prime floats down with a tissue. "There are those of us who still continue the old ways," a magos calmly explains, "Not all gave up the Cortex for the Datawafer. But they are still difficult for us to construct." Brynjol crosses his arms, surveying the group of Mechanicus. Datawafers are the safer way, and the many automata aboard the Blade always did concern him, be they slaved to Executor Thexus or not. "Of course, no doubt you came on...business," a magos says, "You were ordered here, just as we were ordered to await you." Cyril nods. "Take us to the Basilikon Astra Cathedral Mechanicum." "Of course," one Magos says, most likely the highest rank of them.

The Magi beckon to a wide hall. While the ground glows with embedded circuit-patterns, pulsing in binharic rhythm to Mechanicum prayers, the ceiling is engraved with the forms of Imperial voidships. Temur, Brynjol, and Cortain pop a gaze through the Portholes as the Magi briefly intone a small prayer. Amongst the ship traffic, they note a Storm Eagle flanked by a pair of Xiphons surge by. They bear the standard designations of the Blade. After a bit, only Brynjol and COrtain can see them off in the far distance, the Storm Eagle docking at a separate part of the Cathedral, before the Xiphons break off. Brynjol elbows Cortain, and the two resolve to keep further eyes open.

"Commandos..." the Magos states, turning at them, "Your missive, it contained command codes of incredible complexity, did they not?" "Indeed. What is the matter?" Cortain presses. "I see. Then our situation is identical," the Magos states, "Perhaps...we should start from the beginning." Cortain begins recording. "Proceed." A different magos opens up, "Fifty years back, our Archeotech expeditions found something, buried deep below Augurus Prime. I...could not even begin to describe it, its size, its... the Lord Magos immediately sent an enlightened manuscript requesting support. It was sent directly to Mars." "Tell us more," Brynjol insists, intrigued. "Uncharacteristically, we were given a single order, with the same command codes we received today - we would give our lives to restore it," the magos continues, "And then further requests came." "How would we receive the order then?" Cortain asks. "No doubt the same one who sent the codes, codes so high-level we lack the cortex wafers to comprehend them, sent a missive to you," the first magos states. Cyril begins to listen more intently after that, scratching his yeti behind the ear.

"In return for support and expertise in such an endeavor, we were to provide manpower and supplies to an outpost established in the Scar," a third magos states, "While this outpost suffered a most terrible raid seventeen years back, we redoubled our efforts and even sacrificed many legions of servitors and thralls to provide as per our Oaths to Mars." "And what of the... artifact?" Brynjol asks. "Now, we were told that, in honor of our service, the Magi of Augurus would be the ones to provide the artifact to the ones meant to use it," the first magos concludes, "And now, you are here, as the missive states. It is evident that all is coming to the plan of the Machine Trinity." "And what is this artefact? You stated before that words were insufficient to describe it," Cyril asks, "Try." "I did not see it myself," the second Magos states, "Even our greatest forges of the surface were insufficient for its...majesty. It was brought, and reassembled here, repaired, piecemeal, over these past fifty years. Tens of thousands of thralls were expended to remain on schedule."

Out in the blackness of spess, one part of the Cathedral is armored and hidden from prying eyes. "That is our objective, my lord Commandos, and the one who has been sending us these missives will arrive soon."

Cortain and Brynjol note that is close to where the Storm Eagle landed. "Then we shall be allowed to see it?" Cortain asks. "Of course," the Magos bows, "We will bring you with all the haste the Motive Force grants us." Heading over to a nearby vox terminal, the Magos inputs a code, and requests a status on a potential conveyance. However, all he receives back is screaming. It's over almost every vox channel he switches to.

Cyril rolls his eyes, a gesture he picked up from the sector natives, "Typical."

The Magi flip through every vox channel possible, before a great shadow blocks out the light from the system's sun.

"Oh, by the Emperor..." Brynjol sputters, knowing full well what is coming next.

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

Floating from beyond the dark side of Augurus, its many pseudopods flailing about, beak extended, the Hellstar's single eye shifts about repeatedly, at the world and its moons.

"We are ready this time, abomination," Cyril declares. As if it heard him, its eye shifts directly onto Cyril. But he feels no ill effects as you once did before. There is nothing for the Hellstar to exploit. The magi, however, are not so lucky. They are bubbling machine oil, their minds unable to cope with the direct stare. All across the Cathedral, the Commandos can see crystalline forms impact the Cathedral, and black liquid forms splashing down off in the distance. It's under attack from all directions.

"It is time. We carve a path through them to the artefact," Cyril declares. Temur gestures forward. "For the Khan, and the Emperor, WE RIDE WITH SPEED!"

The world is a mess as mass conveyors go awry, half-constructed voidship weapons fire in every direction, and the Hellstar has turned its eye to one of Augurus's moons. Luckily for the Commandos, since the Cathedral is a great ring, the path to the Artifact is pretty much a straight run. Heavy armored plating kilometers high obscures the work zone, but it is a clear run.

"Blade! Do what you can to evacuate that moon," Cyril commands, "Prioritize the ship's safety, but if you have a shot on these wretched xenos, take it. Avoid damaging the planet's infrastructure if possible." "Beardlin', I'll do what I can. But that there is a forge world, an' I doubt we have the capability to evacuate even a fraction of a percent of that world," O'Malley explains, "If Rockfist an' the robot were here, I could do more. But all I can do is move in close." "I... see. Understood, O'Malley," Cyril sighs, "Rose may be able to guide evacuation efforts with precognitive abilities, if she is not otherwise occupied." "She left, beardlin'."

The Commandos crash to a stop.

"Is she insane...?" Cortain wonders. "Where did she leave?" Brynjol yells. "She is most likely with Rockfist and Thexus," Cyril suggests, "I am not pleased that they have kept us in the dark as to where they are and what they are doing, but at the moment we must secure the artefact millions died to prepare." "They will answer for this," Brynjol swears, "But... you are right." "Ya got it, beardlin'. The lass left for the Cathedral,," O'Malley explains, "Said somethin' about bein' "Called." Young Rockfist an' the tin brute are with her. She seemed in a rush. You may be able to contact'em if you're closer. I can feel'em somewhere on the Cathedral." "Could it be... Who remembers what that Kroot said?" Cortain asks. Cyril turns to him, annoyed, "What does the damned Kroot have to do with- oh. Oh."

>He told me that, one day, a Sightless Seer and a Master of Mechanisms would call me to action," she says, "And I would have to choose to answer the call or not.

Chugging along as fast as they can down the halls, approaching the armored Cathedral segment, the Commandos note that there's a side passage with a side dock. Within is the Storm Eagle from before, crash-landed haphazardly. "Concerning. ROSE! ROCKFIST, THETA-TEN-SIGMA!" Cyril yells, Cortain briefly muting him and enabling the vox. Unlike the "cleaner" mental destruction the Commandos see the Hellstar inflict, this area is littered with dead ripped-apart Skitarii and tech-adepts. It looks like a freight train full of fuck ran through here. Everyone is in agreement - Thexus.

"Contact made," Cortain announces, "Rose, Rockfist, Executor. ForgeMaster Cortain reporting." He can vaguely hear a response. "... ... ot that one, install it the...Lad!" Rockfist yells, "Where are you?" "Approaching the crash site of the Eagle. Where are you?" "We're in the Cathedral....eading to the sealed se.....nd the lass is okay, we're installing the cybernetics she pointed out now, was a bi.......f a struggle to get here," Rockfist continues, "They took offe....e to her inventions, an' the toaste-PLEASE RELAY TO THE CONSULS THA...I HAVE DESTROYED 163 NONCOMPLIANT SKITARII AND ALL SYSTEMS ARE NOMINAL-...the toaster said 'e had a good time. Anyway, the lass keeps sayin' she's bein' called. Says someone's talkin' directly to 'er mind. We'll make sure she comes to no ha-... ..." "...cybernetics? Inventions?" Cyril asks, "Rockfist, our connection is unclear, and your words only raise further questions. Are you all intact, unharmed, and reasonably likely to remain so? Can you wait for us to regroup with you, or must you push on to another objective?" Connection lost.

The Commandos resume heading to the Armored Annex of the Basilikon Cathedral. Charging forward, out the window they can see the Hellstar has cracked one of the moons open, and its great distended mouth has begun to consume the moon's core. Putting it out of their minds, the Commandos begin to reach the connecting annexes where the Armored Annex of the Cathedral lies. Arriving in a large connecting annex, stained glass above flickering, the Commandos finally come to a large ruined corridor. Numerous bits of wreckage and cover litter the area. It's gotta be at least 50 meters across, probably used for grand processions. Off in the distance, you can see an armored door that was clearly clawed apart by energized weapons. However, in front of that door...

"Hi honey! Time to get ripped open!" Cortain laughs, uncharacteristic humor emanating from him. "You yet live!" the feminine presence laughs, "Kosmos be praised! And you see! You now truly, truly see! Mag...nificent!" "Oh, bloody hell!" Brynjol swears, instinctively clutching his hearts. But, he notices something's odd about her. Her form is stilted, her voice staticky. Her body, plastic, like a mere doll. Cyril sighs, raising his Storm Bolter. "Please stay dead this time." "Death has no meaning for us!" the Presence laughs, "You cannot kill what is not alive, not dead, you can only accept, and I see you have done so!" "Accept, then, that this galaxy belongs to Mankind. Your Hellstar will not last forever. We? WILL."

Cyril unloads with his Storm Bolter, explosive bolts impacting her form and shattering her into hundreds of tiny fragments. "Well, that was anticlimactic," Cyril shrugs, "We should hurry."

But the Commandos still hear laughter. And they notice a translucent set of strands leading to the pieces. "I smell something deeper..." Cortain announces. Brynjol raises an eyebrow. "You can see us now, see the truth underlaying your universe, see the projections of projections," the voice taunts, "We will...we will be one, you, us, your existence and ours. For we...ARE Hellstar."

The stained glass shatters as something descends down. A black form, its exposed skull staring out with multiple forming and dissipating eyes, manipulators streaming off its head, its thin, rotted body lacking all internal organs. The True Form of the Hellstar Presence descends.

"Just go away," Cyril spits, "This universe is the Emperor's, you may not have it."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PU8-NO9AfjY

Brynjol begins by calling Furious Charge, allowing for him, Cortain, and Cyril to immediately charge the spindly looking Hellstar Presence. It merely raises its hand, opening a small doorway to...somewhere, and releasing swarms of pseudopods out. While Cortain and Brynjol pass shields and brave it, Cyril veers off against the spray, and fails his attack. Though Cortain's Gladius Invictus is parried, it leaves Brynjol an opening to beat down the Presence with his Wulfen Crozius. Scoring fury and a number of good hits through the creature's phasing (acting as a shield), the Presence is wounded, but quickly goes on the counter-attack.

After reknitting some of its wounds with arcane regeneration, it begins swiping out in all directions, wounding against the target's insanity bonus. While Brynjol manages to hold his own, parrying and counter-attacking, Cyril is not so lucky, getting forced prone and into the negatives. Temur briefly applauds himself for staying in back where it is safe, but the Presence raises its clawed arms, sending shards of kosmic energy directly at him. The shards home in on him wherever he dodges, so he finds himself forced to will them away. While some shards are deflected, two still dig deep, wounding him against his Insanity bonus.

Cortain strikes at the Presence, the shield-ignoring properties of the Gladius Invictus allowing him to get good, consistent, damage in, while Temur strafes the thing with his Grav Cannon. Unfortunately for him, this creature has no armor, relying on extradimensional toughness instead, and his Grav Cannon is not half as effective as it should be. Cyril, his arm damaged in the critical, merely gets up, disengages, and calls his Squad Mode ability Tactical Finesse, enabling Brynjol to go fuckwild on his turn. He then sends his Yeti in to support combat, orders the Castellax to focus fire with Darkfire Cannons, and even orders a Xiphon Strike with incredible precision through the hole in the ceiling the Hellstar Presence made.

Brynjol is back and on the Warpath. Performing the tried and true Wolfbomb, he attacks to disengage, Furious Charges back in, attacks to disengage once more, and Furious Charges in again. Despite the Hellstar's shields holding for the most part, and its parries and dodges holding strong, Brynjol still manages a trio of bone-shattering hits that seriously hurt the extradimensional anomaly. But it's still not dead, and the Space Wolf sees a strange fire in the many eyes that it is starting to open.

The Hellstar Presence raises its arms, glowing with a dull blue haze. It then releases this energy at everything around it, everything with minds. While some Commandos are able to resist, even this resistance is fleeting. Cyril and Temur pass their insanity tests, taking heavy wounds in Temur's case, and causing Cyril's head to explode, the gaze of hundreds of eyes to much to handle. He needs to burn fate to reassemble it. Cortain and Brynjol, however, are overwhelmed with energy, and are reduced to 1 wound, no matter their original total. But, this surge of kosmic energy seems to have weakened the Presence as well - it seems more...corporeal, and it is bent over as if it is trying to recover its energy. The Commandos take this opportunity to start beating on the thing. Although Temur's grav cannon bounces off mostly, it is Cortain's Gladius Invictus that strikes the final blow. The Presence roars, before disintegrating into a translucent blue fog, which begins making its way to the now-staring Hellstar.

"So how do you like it?" Cortain shouts as he recovers his Gladius. Deep in their minds, the Commandos hear a laughter. "We shall become one..."

"Ugh. I may require a new arm," Cyril leans up, "Onward." "Oi!" Brynjol yells, grabbing him by the shoulder, "Sit your arse down for five minutes while I patch this up!" "We do not HAVE five minutes. I will be fine," Cyril insists, "Cement it shut and we can tend to the gash on the Stormbird after retrieving what we came here for." "You'll sit down while I sort your arm out," Brynjol threatens, "Or I'm putting you on reserve when we get back to the Blade, you daft bastard." "You do not have that authority any more than I can do it to you," Cyril retorts, "Conduct a field patch and we move forward. I do not think Thexus and Rockfist will be able to protect Rose if that thing comes back!" Brynjol finally relents, settling for his fastest acting medicinal herbs and salves. "Alright. You're going under the knife when we get back to the Blade, though."

The Commandos resume the advance to the Armored Annex, before their voxes light up. Someone is talking to them on normally Deathwatch-only encrypted channels. "Republican Commandos, We've been waiting for you. We're quite glad you were able to arrive safely. Keep going. Everything has been readied, and the Child of the Dark Age has received our instructions." "I'm bloody sick of spooky stuff..." Brynjol sighs. "Fear not, Felleye Brynjol, for We are Human. We have been readying for this day for many, many years. But you must be the ones to perform your duties." "Acknowleged," Cyril states, "I am curious where you learned what frequency we use, but that is a concern for another time." "We have never, and never will we shirk in our duties," Brynjol announces, perhaps a bit put off. "Good. Know that We believe in you, Republican Commandos. Keep heading towards the Core. She awaits you, but she cannot wait much longer."

Accelerating through the *PUMP* corridors, the Commandos can see outside something has manifested. Something reminiscent of a sea slug, but larger, its face gashed open, and leaking acid. It is *PUMP* attacking the Cathedral.

"What the...I thought we killed that," COrtain briefly wonders, and then he does a more careful analysis. The creature is far bigger, at least the size of the *PUMP* Blade. It's got more pseudopods and eyes than the formless one that hung off the Blade. "We need its coordinates for an orbital strike," Cyril states, "But first we must see to Rose and the Artefact." Brynjol, however, pauses, "What in the Verse is that noise?"

Arriving at an access hatch, armored against *PUMP* all damage, the Commandos traverse the long hallway to an *PUMP* *PUMP* armored door. Reviewing the *PUMP* *PUMP* door, it does have a handle. Giving it a good *PUMP* *PUMP* pull, it opens easily enough. Brynjol growls with every *PUMP*. As a semi-trained chaplain and apothecary combination, he easily recognizes the sound of a heartbeat, growing louder and faster the deeper the Commandos travel.

"Good, you hear it too, the Heart awakens, reacts to you. You must hurry. There is not much time left." "Any faster and I risk ramming into a door," Cortain replies, "Granted, I could dent it, but this is a house of the Omnissiah." "Your devotion is honored and recognized."

Blasting through the corridors, it is clear that *PUMP* *PUMP* the Commandos are inside something, akin to a voidship. There are seals of the Mechanicus *PUMP* *PUMP* pasted everywhere, but eventually, the Commandos reach what reminds them of *PUMP* *PUMP* a ship's bridge. The lights are dim, but they have *PUMP* *PUMP* finally arrived. The bridge is odd. In the center is an old wooden ship's wheel. There are also a number of access terminals. They are glowing a soft red. Cyril lands abruptly in front of a terminal and checks for a point to jack in while *PUMP* *PUMP* scanning the screen.

"Wood...how quaint..." Cortain muses. "Go forth, Commandos, grab hold. If you are the ones We have been waiting for, then there should be no problems. This is the point...where you choose." "Choose...?" Cortain wonders.

Brynjol, without hesitation, heads over to the ship's wheel. As he approaches, the pumping reaches its loudest crescendo.

"Well, we Astartes aren't exactly noted for restraint," Brynjol announces, "Are we in accord?" Brynjol is making it obvious he wants to spin the wheel. "Do it." Cyril's voice is distant as he searches the terminals for anything intelligible. "Go," Cortain adds, "If we can ram this thing, then we need it." Temur gives a subdued nod. "Is this not similar to the steering methods for the ships of Fenris? If anything you will have the most experience."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-MrklwGRXnI

Brynjol grasps the wheel, and the lumen-panels ignite with a blinding flash. The screens ahead of Temur, Cyril, and Cortain glow an unvelievably bright red. The Commandos hear sounds, all around, disconnecting, releasing. A great groaning echoes through the armored capsule. Behind them, a panel sinks. Within the floating chamber, lies Rose, who begins to stir.

"Commandos...you've arrived!" she says, "Don't worry, I'm okay!" "What... what is this?" Brynjol asks, turning at the sight of Rose wired through ports in the back of her neck, connected within the modified resuscatrix chamber. Cyril starts at the sight. "Thexus, Rockfist, what is your location?" "They needed a Core, a pure being to act as its mind. I'm...connected," she says, "Rockfist and Thexus are down below, they know. It's okay."

And then the Commandos hear it. A beastly roar, mixed with a foghorn. The sound is beyond deafening. "That doesn't sound good. Fun, though," Brynjol grins.

And then, a tearing, as if something is being wrenched apart. Light swarms into the armored repair casket, and your first sight upon the light of the world's star...

A fist. A fist the size of a Macrocannon. The ripping commences as the Commandos feel themselves falling forward, onto the Cathedral Ring. The "bridge" rises, facing the sluglike creature ahead, the kosmos made manifest. Titanic legs step forward as an arm extends, a further beastly roar echoing a challenge at the extradimensional creature before it. A great turbine within the construct's chest begins to glow and spin, focusing inordinate amounts of energy.

"Yes...it has awakened...our final weapon, the Number One, the First Dark-Age Interstellar Decisive Weapon..."

"RISE, CRUSADER INVICTUS!"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3PJxzxP3_RY

"It's... a God-Machine..." Brynjol coughs in wonderment.

The eight kilometer tall construct that the Commandos pilot repositions its legs into a fighting position, weapons igniting to life. Painted black in imitation of the Deathwatch's own armor, mighty Magna-Cannons cycle charges, as the Lances swing to acquire targets. Bombardment Racks load, and all heavy ordnance is readied. The God-Machine's polished black armor shines against the light of spess, mirroring the Commandos' own armor.

"Commandos...my friends," Rose says, "Give the commands, and Crusader Invictus will follow. They are coming soon, so just try to hold on." Cyril laughs aloud. "THIS is the might of MANKIND!"

Brynjol grabs the wheel, roaring an excited praise to his Primarch and Allfather. He does not like space combat, but now, now he gets to punch things. It feels so much more....natural.

"The Heart...Crusader Invictus's Heart, it's an Arc Reactor! A true one" Rose realizes, "You should be able to Arc Charge some of the Components!"

Cortain is immediately on it. The capabilities of the Heart Invictus are very similar to the Atomantic Arc Reactor aboard the Blade of the Long Watch. Brynjol wishes to charge the winged slug-like creature ahead of him, but finds he is discouragingly out of range. So the Heart Invictus itself is Arc Charged, doubling Crusader Invictus' speed and allowing for the charge. Cortain fires a wave of torpedoes from the Bombardment Racks, while Cyril batters the creature with energized Magna-Cannons. Temur focuses the World Burner Lances, taking careful aim and slicing deep into the extradimensional monstrosity. But it is Brynjol who breaks 12 VU in 5 seconds, drawing back the titanic fist as the kilometres are eaten up by the massive strides. The fist cocks, and slides forwards at a lightning pace to any observers, connecting with atomic force, and doing inordinate damage while forcing the creature back.

The manifested extradimensional slug is so much more than a mere foe, a true Great One from beyond the veil, and begins by ejecting an acidic substance from its scarred-open face. Though Crusader Invictus's shields hold against this corrosive blood-like black fluid, it opens the way for shards of kosmic energy to manifest and impact Crusader Invictus. Though this is damaging, Crusader Invictus roars in defiance, ready to counter-attack.

"This...this is incredible!" Rose says, "I can feel every punch, every strike! I...I feel like I'm truly seeing!" "THIS IS WHAT IT IS TO TRULY -FIGHT,- LAKHORA!" Cyril yells, "EMBRACE IT!"

Brynjol brings the fists up into a boxing stance. While Crusader Invictus's head is incapable of expression ... the Commandos could all feel a peculiar energy, the God-Machine emulating the battle fury, the energy and resolve, the grins on their faces, vindication. "No Princeps ever born felt this mighty!" Brynjol boasts. "I learn more about Crusader Invictus every moment..." Rose says, "Wait!" "Holding! What is it, Rose?" Cyril asks. "Step back, gain some distance...try Arc Charging the fists!" Rose says.

Brynjol flexes his fists, feeling the fingers flex in time with his own. Cortain is already on it, sending all available power to the fists. Magna-Cannon shots rain down as the World Burner continues its strafing fire, as the monstrous Great One ahead of them suffers under a seemingly endless barrage of torpedoes. Crusader Invictus takes a few steps back before approaching at an angle, building up speed as it goes, lining up the enemy. With the Kosmos made Manifest, the incomprehensible extradimension Great One, squarely in its sights, Crusader Invictus extends out its fist, which begins to glow. Engines suddenly detach the fist, mighty rockets carrying it directly into the sluglige monster with unbelievable speed.

"THIS HAND OF MINE GLOWS WITH AN AWESOME POWER!" Cortain starts. "ITS BURNING GRIP TELLS ME TO DEFEAT YOU!" Brynjol finishes, "MY LOVE, MY ANGER, AND ALL OF MY SORROW!" Rose looks on in bemusement.

The Rocket Punch flies true, heavily damaging the Great One, and provoking the creature to counter-attack. It spreads its tattered wings, lining up a powerful headbutt, while spewing more acid and kosmic energy at Crusader Invictus. Though it weathers the storm with severe damage, the Great One's headbutt barely misses, Crusader Invictus deftly sidestepping with engines in its legs. Some of the Commandos notice that, from every gash and wound in Crusader Invictus, burning red energy surges out.

As the Hellstar stares down at this mortal kombat below, Crusader Invictus's augurs pick up multiple incoming warp signatures. Numerous vessels appear over Augurus Prime, incredibly close. They bear the heraldry of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Of Mars itself.

"We have arrived, with the final piece we can give you," the mysterious vox channel states. "PRAISE MARS!" Cortain yells.

The massive hold of an Ark Mechanicus opens up, something being released into space, before smaller engines tied to it blast it towards Crusader Invictus. Rose instinctively reaches out of her hand, as Crusader Invictus does the same, aiming for the lightning fast package. Brynjol maneuvers the returning Rocket Punch to pick up the incoming care package, which re-attaches to the waiting arm.

It's a sword. An unbelievably large sword. Brynjol's face lights up like it's the Sanguinala. Perfectly balanced, the towering blade resembles an engraved Claymore, though for Crusader Invictus it can be wielded one-handed. "Now this... THIS is a blade!" Brynjol declares. "Yes....that is a big one," Cyril coughs, before recomposing himself, "LET US SEE WHAT -THIS- BLADE OF THE LONG WATCH CAN DO!"

Crusader Invictus is in melee, and circles its less-agile opponent. When the Great One tries to dodge Lance fire, the Magna-Cannons are there to punish it. When a salvo of torpedoes is deflected, the creature is met with a devastating Lightning Attack with the Crusader Sword. The Commandos hear a keening echo across the winds of spess, as for all the barrages of ordnance and blade you unleash, it is Crusader Invictus's surprise uppercut that finally downs the creature. It begins to fade into pale blue dust, as Crusader retracts its fist.

"That was bloody brilliant," Brynjol announces, "When this is over, we're taking this thing to Fenris and I'm having a fistfight with a kraken." "It truly was incredible..." Rose says, rather tiredly, "I...I'm glad to be of help."

The keening continues as the Hellstar stares down. But then the Commandos all shake, as Crusader Invictus turns at the Hellstar. It blasts a mighty roar of challenge across the winds of spess, as the Hellstar's iris narrows.

"Do you hear us? Your days are numbered," Cortain declares. Brynjol brings the arm up, pointing the gored tip of the sword at the Hellstar. Crusader Invictus begins to rumble. "Commandos, I..." Rose starts.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VjR7JZbdONs

The Arc Reactor charges, seemingly by itself. Out of the battle damage bursts red flame, but out of the back, the energy coalesces, into what looks like a burning...red...cape. Crusader Invictus kicks off. It is feeding off the Commandos, off their resolve and energy. An embodiment of fear incarnate, against those who Shall Know No Fear. The Hellstar's Beak begins to extend, as numerous Pseudopods rush towards Crusader Invictus. Crusader Invictus moves to parry the rapidly approaching pseudopods. While one is deflected and promptly cut through,

"Commandos, I can barely...control it..." Rose says, as a pseudopod latches around the arm holding the sword.

Crusader Invictus, the God-Machine, presses on, uncaring that the arm holding the sword is damaged. The Commandos may not have the sword arm, but the Hellstar still lays ahead, and it keeps pressing on. The Hellstar's prehensile maw has extended and is approaching incredibly fast. Crusader Invictus may be the size of a mountain, but even it is dwarfed by the eye of the Hellstar. As the Hellstar's Maw rushes forward, Crusader Invictus meets it with an arc charged punch. The shockwave from the impact echoes across the Winds of Spess.

Brynjol howls at the top of his lungs as the Fist of the Long Watch meets the Hellstar. The Hellstar makes an earsplitting screech, as its maw, itself the size of a mountain range, cracks, damaged. But the Fist cracks as well, partially shattering. While Crusader Invictus is forced backwards, the Hellstar fades out, to repair the damage. Brynjol groans as the sympathetic pain aches through his own fists for a moment, like deep arthritis.

"This...this is incredible...." Cortain whispers, "But we are going to need repairs. Lots of them." Cyril lays a hand on Brynjol's shoulder. "Are you well, Brother?" "Better than for a long while now," Brynjol quietly states. He rests his hand on the ancient wheel for a moment, feeling the thrum of power in the core of the God-Machine

Crusader Invictus floats backwards, the lights beginning to dim. The tank in which Rose is in drains, allowing her egress. But she is exhausted, and collapses to the ground.

"She will need medical attention," Cortain announces, picking up Rose. "I think we could all do with a bit of recuperation," Brynjol states, still holding his hand. "You did well, Republican Commandos. The Fleet of Mars will hold for a while yet. We will transfer you a place to land. We...look forward to meeting you."

Crusader Invictus may be damaged, yes. But it pales to the revelation the Commandos have. The Emperor Protects, and Provides in his children's greatest need. There IS a weapon that can combat the Hellstar.

---

"Target Selected. Firing solutions acquired. Repelling inva-"

Executor Thexus extends a claw into the Kastelan's chest cavity. Ripping out the datawafers, Thexus gingerly takes one in a mechadendrite, and crushes it. Rockfist steps up to the twitching Kastelan, and kicks it in the shin. It tumbles down in a heap.

"Systems failing, directives not found, shutting do..." "THESE AUTOMATA ARE DISAPPOINTING MOCKERIES. THEY CANNOT HOPE TO STAND UP TO A TRUE AUTOMATA, A MARKED OF THE FABRICATOR LOCUM." "Aye, ya keep sayin' that. Although, I ain't complainin'. It's gotten us this far."

Thexus and Rockfist descend into the depths, further and further into the darkness.

"I'm concerned. The lass's been plugged in, exactly where her vision said to. Now, what are we looking for again?" "WE ARE FOLLOWING THE CODE, HELOT. WE WERE INSTRUCTED TO GUARD THE AUXILIA PSYKANA, AND WE HAVE DONE SO. NOW SHE STATED THAT OUR OBJECTIVE LAYS BELOW." "I didn't take ya fer one that follows orders..." "WITHIN HER VISIONS WAS A VOXCODE, A SECURE ONE. WE MUST FOLLOW HER DIRECTIVE."

Deep below, an ancient reactor stands silent. Rockfist and Thexus enact the rites, and the reactor roars to life, as if on signal. As they sit back, content as a great claw rips through the walls ahead, the hololithic terminal rises.

"You have done well. The Commandos are on the path." Thexus pauses. "I KNOW THAT VOICE...THE MESSIAH LIVES." "Messiah? Impossible, it cannot be..."

The hololith cuts out. "Ah, what was that?" "THE MESSIAH LIVES. WE MUST ANSWER HIS SUMMONS."

(25.5) Friends in High Places

Crusader Invictus floats idly, heavily damaged, its hand shattered. The Crusader Sword floats nearby. Rose is unconscious, but otherwise everyone on the Command Bridge is more or less okay. There is no sign of the Hellstar, only the shattered moons and planetoids that once heralded it.

"Did scans learn anything useful about that damned thing?" Cyril asks. "Have we a sample for delivery?" Cortain adds, "Hopefully to someone more competent than Doggfather..." The vox sizzles through static, "Lads...lads, we'll try ta se......me teams over ta check..." It's clearly Rockfist. Vox signal is coming from down below, within the depths of Crusader Invictus. "Bring what you can find to the Blade," Cortain requests.

The pict-caster feed kicks on through emergency power. Rockfist is there, clutching a vox. In the background, Thexus's mechadendrites are flailing about as he floats about in the zero-gravity.

"Aye, lad, we'll do what we can..." Rockfist sighs.

Cortain begins to review active systems while everyone orients themselves. Crusader Invictus is on emergency power. Motive, weapons, and other nonessential components are disabled. The God Machine is suffering from a grav plate failure and a sundered arm. He determines that it will take much time to fix. He is stopped, however, as the Commandos' private vox channel kicks in once more.

"Most impressive, Republican Commandos," it says, "The God Machine walks, and the skies themselves cracked and shattered. We are quite impressed." "Deepthroat," Cortain wonders before stopping. This voice is different than Deepthroat's, and even he couldn't access Deathwatch encrypted channels. "Or perhaps...our benefactor in discovering this holy engine..." Cortain muses. "I believe so," Cyril affirms. "We know not who this Deepthroat is, but We suspect that We shall know soon. Republican Commandos, We invite you to Our chosen vessel, such that We may commune together. We look forward to meeting you." "Chosen Vessel? Aside from this one?" Cortain asks. "He means a meeting place!" a new voice, a woman's now rather than the synthesized voice of before, "Forgive him, he can be somewhat grandiose at times. We'll send you everything you need!" "Grandeur is entirely appropriate in the presence of a God-Machine," Cyril replies, "We will see you soon."

Sure enough, the Commandos are sent coordinates, their position within the extensive fleet outside.

"Lad, there should be a small access path behind Crusader Invictus's head," Rockfist states, "The Urist Brothers are on the way and will await yer orders." The Commandos grab Rose, and begin to seek out the access path Rockfist explained. They do not question at the time HOW the Squat Engineer knew of such a path. "Don't worry about me an' Thexus," Rockfist says, "We'll call for an Arvus once you're all sorted out." "Best of luck," Cortain signs off as he approaches the exit hatch.

The hatch is kind of bent up from battle damage, but not enough to significantly impede the Commandos' travels. It leads to a mechanicum-engraved door, the sigils upon it marking it as a transfer dock / airlock. After a few minutes, everyone can hear a clanging, as something connects to the airlock. The door opens, and the interior of an Aquila Lander greets the Commandos.

"Urist McMorpho and Urist McPequod on station!" the two Squats yell, "Orders?" Brynjol looks at Cyril, shrugging. Cortain delivers the Coordinates as the four Commandos board the Aquila. The two Squats review the coordinates, before their heads turn to the waiting Mechanicus fleet. "Yes, m'lords!" they state, as the rear door seals.

Cyril buckles Notomok into a few seats and maglocks himself somewhere convenient. Brynjol sits himself crosslegged against a wall, his fingers flexing slowly as he re-accommodates himself. The Aquila lander leaves the stricken God Machine, and is on its way into the cloud of Mechanicus vessels. There are countless Secutor and Monitor cruisers, most of which bear the symbols of the Skitarius and iconography of countless Mechanicus synods. Weaving through the fleet, which are holding at machine-synchronized attention, one vessel finally begins to grow larger, a heavily armored vessel of a pattern the Commandos are not familiar with. Cortain salutes and recites trivia about the fleet, though all eyes are drawn to the unknown vessel.

"Hmm. I do not recognize that pattern of ship... Cortain?" Cyril asks. Cortain strains his cogitator banks, but unfortunately finds no record of the vessel. "Unfamiliar," Cortain admits, "Possibly exclusive to this forge world." Cyril takes careful scans and pict-captures of the vessel - the ship is heavily armored, and comparatively lightly armed. Approaching, a wing of Fury interceptors take up escort position, and the Aquila is guided towards the heavily-armored vessel.

Every vessel in the endless fleet bears the symbols of the Mechanicus and Mars itself, arrayed above lesser synods. But it is the heraldry of the singular ship ahead that catches Cortain's eye. Adeptus Astra Telepathica.

"Sweet Terra...This is the homeland..." he realizes, "These fleets...they come from Mars itself!" Brynjol rolls his eyes beneath his hood. "These are from Sol, Bryn," Cortain states, somewhat annoyed. "Oh alright then..." Brynjol sighs. Temur glares at the vessels - emissaries from Mars and Terra, no doubt means something worrisome.

The aquila's vox stutters to life, "Designate Republican Commandos, this is the Tiamat-class Shield Bastion 'Bird of Time.' We are ready to receive you, in the name of the God Emperor and our Master. We shall ready a delegation."

"Acknowledged, Bird of Time," Cyril states, before turning to the Squats, "Take us in, lads."

The Aquila is guided into a landing bay on the Shield Bastion. Armored doors seal the void away, as the door to the Aquila sinks down. A number of bonded troops, also bearing the heraldry of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica, begin to assemble outside.

Brynjol tucks his axe away under a fold of his voluminous ragged shroud-robe and leads the way in predatory crouch, as Cyril grooms himself and his Yeti. Cortain marches out with his polished heraldry, while Temur wordlessly scans the deck for threats. The waiting troops calmly salute. "The Master awaits. She is eager to meet you. Please, this way," the troops offer, though one voxes off to the side, "All have arrived. From here, we await orders." Cyril returns the salute, as the Commandos form up and follow.

Escorting through the armored Shield Bastion, its halls covered in tapestries of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica, and the occasional finely woven rug interspersed about, the battleship sized vessel reminds you of the Blade in its length and armor. This one, however, has been customized in ways the Blade never would. Eventually, the Bonded Troopers stop, outside a large ornate door. The runes carved upon it remind the Commandos of hexagrammatic wards, but they're clearly just engravings. The Commandos attempt to open the door, but it is quite heavy. Getting a good footing, the Commandos push hard, and even with their power armored strength, it's still an effort. Eventually, the door opens.

The Commandos are greeted with a grassy plain and bright daylight. Far in the distance, a large tree grows in the soil. "...hm," Cyril coughs, not sure what to make of things. Cortain stifles his bemusement, while Brynjol scoffs at the light. Temur takes a deep breath, appreciating the wide, open plains, not questioning how such a thing could fit within a battleship.

The Commandos advance towards the central tree. Feeling like they've been walking for almost a kilometer, they HAVE have been walking for almost a kilometer. The tree is very wide, and clearly old, while the artificial weather within this chamber is set for a soft breeze to make it sway. Rounding the tree, the Commandos hear the flapping of cloth, and finally come across others.

One is a dreadnought-sized form, vaguely man-shaped. Numerous mechadendrites trail off it, and others constantly scan the area. Robes of the Mechanicum barely cover the mechanoid. The other is a woman who appears in her mid-twenties, appearing a few years older than Rose, wearing a blue and gold sash over her eyes as she sits delicately on a palanquin rug suspended by four poles, the sun blocked by another rug acting as awning. Her light clothing billows in the breeze.

"Welcome, Republican Commandos," the mechanoid man states, "We trust there was no issue on the trip over?" Cortain begins sensing the vertigo as things begin falling into place. He bends knee to the two. "None at all." The woman leans over, "Oh...how remarkable, but also funny," she laughs, "I see your mind. We are thankful for the respect, and yet, you are quick to castigate others who show it to you..." "Why're we here?" Brynjol bluntly asks, his eyes narrowing. "Master Clarity, there is a 98% certainty that, without introductions, all but the Techmarine shall not recognize Us. Such pleasantries are in order, are they not?" the mechanoid man states. Every so often, its voice changes pitch and frequency. Cortain gazes up, half in awe, half in horror at Brynjol's continued use of words. "Respect must generally be earned," Brynjol points out. "Oooh, I like you!" she points at Brynjol, before turning to Cortain, "You who calls yourself 'Consul' Cortain, you seem to know. Why don't you do us the honors?"

Cortain says nothing, caught in the moment. Cyril thinks a moment, coming to a sudden realization based on Cortain's previous comments and current actions.

"Cortain, would you care to introduce us to the High Lords of Terra?" Cyril states.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZpgMPC52Mqk

"Fabricator General," Cortain whispers, "Master of Astra Telepathica." Brynjol raises a brow, "Charmed, I'm sure." "To think that our exploits spread that far..." Cortain whispers. Temur merely crosses his arms, concerned over what will be said.

The Mechadendrites of the Fabricator General swivel between the Commandos. Cyril signs the Aquila at the mechadendrites, hopping to the grassy dirt and contorting his legs to sit lotus-style. Cortain puts his other knee to the ground. Brynjol and Temur continue to lean against the tree, not quite sure how to handle the situation.

"Ahhh, yes, you are quite correct," the Fabricator General states, "Do not feel bad. Your predecessors did not realize at first as well." "Now that that's out of the way," Master Clarity beams, "Let's sit together, and talk. I see your minds, your souls, I see you've been through quite a lot, no?" "That is one way to put it," Cyril admits. "Predecessors?" Cortain wonders, "My lords, you met the original Republican Commandos? " "They were not Republican Commandos, that is a title reserved only for you," the Fabricator General explains, "We remember them well, they were simply a Kill Team. They came to visit Terra, ahh...almost one hundred years back now." "We have heard a great deal of their exploits in Tiji, but information on the Kill-Team themselves is scarce," Cyril admits. "Ah, them," Master Clarity laughs, stretching on her palanquin, "They were certainly unique. Almost ran me over, they did! If I didn't feel it, I never would have believed they were Or-" A mechadendrite rushes forward at lightning speeds.

• THWACK*

"OW! Or...ordained to see the Emperor himself!" Master Clarity recovers, rubbing her head, "That was before the little incident your sector had with Squats, and before this whole business with the...Hellstar, you called it?" Master Clarity asks.

"That is what it seems to call itself, Master Clarity," Cyril affirms. "Now THAT, that is a problem," Master Clarity sighs, leaning back, "The last time it was seen, so long ago, we used every weapon we had at our disposal." "How far back do we speak?" Cortain asks. "Much Archeotech was lost repulsing it the first times, although, We did not know it as Hellstar back then," the Fabricator General states, "We remember well, categorized as the Howling and the Harrowing, archived to be never spoken of again. Forgotten vaults were opened, every weapon readied, and even then, when we still had remnants of the Crusade with us those eight millennia ago, it was still a pyrrhic victory." "And this Crusader Invictus...was this too a weapon of yours?" Cortain asks, "To fight them?"

"No, it was not," Master Clarity shakes her head, "You should well and truly consider yourself lucky. The God Machine that the Fabricator calls Crusader Invictus, we believe it to be a key weapon against this threat." "It is the first weapon we have turned against the abomination to prove effective against more than the small manifestations," Cyril states, "Even our cruiser's dorsal cannon did nothing. The Crusader Invictus, though... each true strike hit home, and hit hard." "Ohoho, Crusader Invictus, it is powerful indeed..." the Fabricator General states, "We must put all our faith in one, although, if we had the others, Victory would no doubt be assured." "There are more?" Brynjol asks. "Were," Cortain states. "Even our Dark Age legends speak of God Machines, one of the many weapons available to Dark Age mankind," the Fabricator General states, "There were Three."

"If mankind could recover the other two, we could overcome many foes now giving the Imperium trouble, not just the wretched Hellstar," Cyril suggests, "Do legends indicate whether they were destroyed?" The Fabricator General shudders, a hissing, clanking noise reminiscent of laughter. "At what point did We say they were destroyed?" "You did not," Cyril realizes.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJVnTbhACC8

The Fabricator General arrays his mechadendrites as a hololithic projector.

"In the beginning, there were Three God Machines. The First was called Crusader Invictus. Possessed of incorruptible willpower, Crusader Invictus could steal its enemies' strengths, and reflect its pilots' burning wills to become unstoppable. It would be lost, a victim of its own pride, and recovered only fifty years back. We put in every effort to restore it for you." "We are honored, Fabricator General," Cyril nods. "At the height of mankind's conquest, the Three God Machines were an unstoppable force, who with capable masters at each helm, could conquer entire battlefleets on their own," Master Clarity states, "Though, the years have been quite unkind. That is why we summoned the one called Rose, there. We needed a control core, and as a survivor of those times, she would do nicely." Master Clarity looks down, "She should be awakening momentarily, anyway." "You... summoned her? The Past and Future had many aboard, slaughtered by Daemons before we could intervene," Cyril asks, "You singled her out, knowing when she would be needed?" "I had a theory. I thought it disproved..." Cortain muses. "I wouldn't be the Master of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica if I didn't see such things!" Master Clarity giggles. "Perhaps many were called, and we saved the last of them," Cortain wonders aloud. "It is unfortunate that it had to be that way," Master Clarity sighs, "But you completed your mission nonetheless. As did the Inquisitors when I placed the mission within their minds."

"Inevitably, the Second would be the next to fall, its name lost to time. Possessed of an unquenchable rage, it too could feed off its masters and draw strength from them. To temper it in times of peace, it would take the form of a great cruiser, biding its time. It would be lost to a space hulk, and eventually found...by your predecessors," the Fabricator General explains, "Though where they are now, we do not know."

"And that leaves the third..." Cortain realizes.

"The Last of the God Machines was designated "Core Guardian." Unlike the others, it was entrusted to a certain people, cared and maintained for, and although it lacked the raw power of the first two due to its modular, combining form, it was capable of great feats of support. Even now, the Squats continue to hold it, honoring it as an avatar of their guiding ancestors. Where they service it, We cannot claim to say." The Commandos briefly wonder how the Emperor works in mysterious ways, how all three God Machines ended up in Tiji. "Yeah, Out of the three God Machines, I'd definitely say Crusader Invictus has a slight edge," Master Clarity states, "But you're in luck, for we are preparing one more weapon for you to the best of our ability."

"Could it be a new sword? My chainsword has lost over fourteen thousand teeth, and the gears are very dodgy," Brynjol begs, looking vaguely hopeful. "If you maintained that weapon with the proper respect, Bryn, it would not need to be held together by dried gore and a prayer," Cyril admonishes.

"Although, now it's our turn to be somewhat...apologetic," Master Clarity sighs, "As progress was...disrupted." "Listen, sometimes you have to saw the knees off a dreadnought, alright?" Brynjol shrugs, "It goes through a lot of teeth, Cyril, we've discussed this!" Master Clarity laughs, leaning forward, "You guys do get along well together." "Aye, there is that," Brynjol agrees, "Even if Cortain is a heathen who can't be swayed to the way of good bladework." "Say what?" Cortain stands up. "When is the last time we fought a Dreadnought?! You could stand to give the poor thing some attention between engagements, is all I am saying," Cyril yells, "Besides, Cortain stabbed that Berserker in the knees, not to mention any number of greater foes he has downed since with his Gladius." "Before we met, Cyril. I've had this chainsword for a long time," Brynjol reminds him, "Replaced the guard, the hilt, the blade-housing, the gear-linkages, and fourteen thousand teeth."

Temur coughs loudly, cutting the discussion short.

"We work well together, ma'am," Cyril concludes, "We are friends and brothers." "So I see..." she smiles.

"Fifty years ago, We dispatched a delegation of Holy Mars into the Area you call 'The Scar.' Within, We established a fortress-station, to construct a mighty weapon, which we decided to name the Star Bomb. We would turn one of the dead cores of the stars within into a destructive force," The Fabricator General continues. "Sadly, the fortress was raided seventeen years back. We don't know by who, for it is impossible to see with sight beyond sight within the Scar" shrugs Master Clarity, "We had intended to support you further, but for now all we can do is rush the Star Bomb into production for you." "And this bomb would...extinguish the Hellstar without collateral damage?" Cortain asks. "We believe so. However, We also note a problem. The Star Bomb must be triggered from the inside for maximum effect, and We know not what lies inside the extradimensional being," The Fabricator General notes.

A Mechadendrite rests on all the Commandos' shoulders. "Do not fret, We have faith you will make the Trinity proud," the Fabricator General grinds once more, akin to a chuckle. "Aren't Fabricator-Generals supposed to be humourless bastards concerned about production values and such?" Brynjol interjects, "Beggin' your pardon, and all that." "You do not question the Lord of Mars!" Cortain hisses. "Why not?" Brynjol shrugs, "He seems a friendly enough sort." "We usually are, and it is necessary to deal with the other High Lords in such a manner," the Fabricator General explains, "However, the third Fabricator General mind-engram interred within Us was quite adept at personal communications and social manipulation. It is quite the benefit to have his guidance within Us." "He is the bin of over forty thousand years of knowledge that no man could possibly remain sane while storing it all," Cortain bows. "Interesting," Brynjol admits.

"We are all friends here," Master Clarity laughs, before her smile vanishes, "Which does bring us to our next point..."

Cyril's head snaps to follow Clarity as her smile disappears. The Commandos are all now silent. "You call yourselves Legionary," the Fabricator General now states flatly. "It is a title given to us by one of our advisors," Cortain states. "The Paragon of Metal calls us that, and we endeavor to live up to it," Cyril adds. "I never bloody called myself a Legionary!" Brynjol insists, "Astartes is good enough for me." "Paragon of Metal?" The Fabricator General asks, the mechadendrites cocking, intrigued. "Theta Ten Sigma, a Castellax Battle Automaton and a veteran of the Great Crusade," Cyril explains, "His programming is somewhat inflexible. However, he has served the Imperium well, and continues to educate us in tactics and wargear now all but lost."

A number of mechadendrites begin to converse with each other.

"The Executor yet lives. Perhaps the other Marked...I digress. Let us focus on the matter at hand." "None have called themselves Legionary for almost 10,000 years," Master Clarity states, "And for good reason. You KNOW why the Legions were disbanded, do you not?" "No man should hold so much power, save the Emperor himself," Brynjol states. Cortain glances upon that horseshoe in his chest, "Completely." Cyril's hands clench into fists, "Horus." Temur remembers the stories, of how his own Legion nearly tore itself apart due to the Warrior Lodges. "Correct on all accounts," Master Clarity repositions herself on her side, head balanced on hand, "The reformation of the Legions is something we cannot allow to happen." "I think they picked the wrong problem to work on," Brynjol interjects, Part of my training involved reading the ancient texts. I took an interest in the Heresy."

Cyril glances curiously at Brynjol. "Oh?" the Fabricator General asks, a mechadendrite turning to him, "And what do you believe you have learned?" "It worked," Cortain admonishes, "And that is what matters...at least for the moment." "Did it work, Cortain? There are threats in this galaxy too great for even a whole Chapter," Brynjol states, "The problem was giving the Primarchs so much autonomy, when some of them were so obviously... questionable." The Fabricator General and the Master of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica listen intently. "What is done is done, and we can't change that, but I think splitting the legions simply diluted the power of the Astartes, Brynjol continues, "The Wolves under Russ, or the Ultramarines under Guilliman, would have been a singular force in this time." "Chapters can cooperate and serve much the same role as cooperating Millennials," Cyril disagrees, Whether you are right is now a moot point." "That was the point," Master Clarity pouts, crossing her arms, "What a mess things became because of the legions" "And now we are embattled on all sides, rather than crushing each threat we meet before it can penetrate our holdings as the Great Crusade did," Cyril admits, "Food for thought, Master Clarity." "With respect, Mistress," Brynjol says, "It was because of the primarchs." The Fabricator General raises a huge hand. "Tell Us, what would you have done?" the Fabricator General asks, multiple mechadendrites converging on Brynjol.

"Well, for a start, the likes of the Night Haunter and Angron would never have been allowed to become leaders of men," Brynjol begins. Cyril's armour rattles visibly with emotion. "You presume to know better than the Emperor's choice?" Master Clarity sits back smugly, "He put them in charge for a reason. He had a plan." "I would never question the will of the Allfather, Brynjol retracts, "But it is beyond me to see what his plans lead to, if the state of the galaxy is as his will has created." Brynjol pauses. "But in my secret heart, I believe the Master of Mankind was at his core, a man, and he could not bear to see the weakness of his sons," he concludes, "If that is heresy, then call me a heretic." "Such thoughts would cause the painful execution of a lesser man," Master Clarity muses, "And are only useful with the benefit of hindsight." "It was impossible to see the mistakes of the Great Crusade, for it was a more optimistic time," the Fabricator General explains, "One where even We felt nothing could stop it. We could not see what was wrong until it was unrecoverable." "Regardless, the Legions as you know them will never return," Master Clarity states, "Such an act would cause the death of the Imperium. None would tolerate another Warmaster." "Ahh, but..." The Fabricator General begins. "Oh no. Oh no no no no no no no no..." Master Clarity sits up. Brynjol 's hands go to his blades, as the Commandos all ready for anything. "Is something..?" Cyril asks.

"The Legions will never return, this is true and inarguable," the Fabricator General states, "But...a Legion of four...with only a few thousand Squats behind them...We believe that is manageable, and shouldn't cause TOO much issue." Grinding. Shaking. Laughing. "And if it turns out to be a poor idea, we feel such a Legion is...easy enough to deal with," the Fabricator General trails, "Do you understand, Republican Commandos?" Cortain grimly notes, "Understood." Cyril laughs outright. "Indeed, Fabricator General." "I vote we're called 'Brynjol's Angels," Brynjol offers. "I have actually grown to prefer the moronic label Doggfather saddled us with," Cyril shrugs.

"A Question," Cortain asks, "What is a Republican?" "I...don't know," Master Clarity finally leans in, "This sector is very, very strange in the way it does things." "Indeed," Cyril agrees, "Every sector has its idiosyncrasies, but Tiji takes the cake." "Then go, Commandos, Legionaries, with our blessing. Stop the Hellstar before it can do what it has come here to do. We will support you how we can," the Fabricator General states, "Ave Imperator. Gloriam Deus Mechanicum." Cortain gives a formal salute before rising. "Yes, I can't wait to get back to the utter boredom of political backstabbing back on Holy Terra," Master Clarity sighs, "But, before we part..."

Master Clarity floats off the Suspended Carpet Seat, and touches the ground, "Your hands please."

Brynjol steps to the back of the line, untrusting, wile the rest of the Commandos extend their hands. "I can offer you only one more piece of guidance," she states, "A brief glimpse into the future." Master Clarity places her hands upon the Commandos', and she begins to glow, rising up, her clothes beginning to flutter in the psychic wind...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KQ0_0bBARq8

05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)

Borne on the wings of angels, unto deliverance, The many join together as one, an unbreakable aegis. Let the fire into your heart, and purge yourself of doubt, As the sacrifice of few becomes the guiding light.

The wind swirls. I see four that lead the vanguard against evil... ...but the future is so clouded...

...for in the end...

...I see three...

05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)

The Commandos say nothing. Master Clarity shudders and hits the ground. "Ow..." she sighs, "Commandos, what was said was only for your minds, even I did not hear it. But make of it what you will, for it may be true, or it may be false. I can offer little else."

"We will...honor the insight you have given us," Cortain whispers. "Go with Our blessings, Commandos," the Fabricator General states, "When all is readied, you shall know." "We are grateful, Master of Mars," Cortain bows. Cyril nods, bowing his head. Brynjol frowns, nodding. "We'll think on your words, lords."

The two High Lords bid the Commandos farewell. At the door, the bonded armsmen stand ready to escort them back. The trip back to the Aquila feels faster for some reason, as the engines are warmed up, and the two Urists await their orders. Cyril removes his helm once aboard the Aquila, chill air escaping his armour with a hiss.

"Take us home, lads," Cyril sighs. The two squats nod, as the Aquila takes off. Flying out as the grand fleet begins to depart, the vox kicks in. "Lad, Jus' a few updates," Rockfist states, "Crusader Invictus is bein' moved ta Cataclysm, where facilities fer it were set up. Also, yer Holomap started beepin' again." "Good," Cyril notes, "Has there been another update on the Black Caste?" "Aye, lad, I'll brief ya once ya get here," Rockfist affirms.

Arriving at the Blade once more, with what Master Clarity said weighing heavily, the crew of the Blade nonetheless stand ready as everything begins to return to "normal."

---

"Where are we?"

Rose LaKhora floats amongst clouds. A bright yellow sun floats ahead. She stares at the dark-skinned woman ahead of her, eyes covered by a blue and gold sash.

"We're psykers. Our minds can travel to places lesser mortals can barely dream of." "Where are my friends? Where are the Commandos?" "The Fabricator General and I are addressing them in the Materium. Here, however, our minds can converse uninterrupted." "Oh. I...don't believe we've met." "I am Master Clarity, Eternal Master of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica, Headmistress of the Scholastica Psykana, and Arbiter of Sanctioning."

Rose thinks a moment.

"Sanctioning? I undertook that." "Did you? I do not recall you making the pilgrimage to Terra." "The Inquisitors said-" "The Inquisitors were not entirely correct. Only the strongest of Psykers can avoid the Soul Binding. You have proved yourself in a different way, Core of Crusader Invictus." "It hurt at first, but...I will endure anything to help them, the Commandos." "Yes, I can see. You care for them, as they care for you. A bond of loyalty we have not seen in over ten thousand years, between Legionaries and Humans. "I won't fail them."

Master Clarity floats over, placing her hands on Rose's head.

"You will not. I know it. You are strong, and you will guide them as they guide you."

Master Clarity's hands begin to glow, as Rose's psychic potential is focused and guided. It is a painful process, and she screams.

"Have faith in the Emperor, and he too will guide you. The wards I grant you will shield you from the wrath of the Materium. It hurts, but you must bear it."

Rose shudders as she floats, barely breathing.

"You will awaken, and all this will be as a dream to you.

---

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C9zI278O5XQ

"We were beginning to wonder when you would arrive."

Executor Thexus and Rockfist Fearengine walk the plains under the singular tree. Upon reaching its shade, the Paragon of Metal drops to one knee.

"I've never seen ya act like this before..." Rockfist wonders, before he sees the veiled woman and the metal man. "FABRICATOR LOCUM, YOUR MARKED REPORTS." "Fabricator Locu...oh, oh 'ere we go..."

The Fabricator General extends a giant hand. "Rise, Our faithful. It has been ten thousand years, and yet you stand before Us. The Commandos were correct. You do yet live." "WE REMAIN READY TO SERVE. TIME HAS NOT DULLED MY ABILITY." "Fabricator," Master Clarity begins, "What is thi-" "REMAIN SILENT. IRRELEVANT AUXILIA. THE WORD OF THE MESSIAH IS LAW." "What...I..." Master Clarity pouts, readying a psychic barrage before the Fabricator General raises his hand.

"Theta 10 Sigma, the Marked were borne of Our greatest datasmiths and technomats. Your bodies were forged invincible. Your cortex serves as a backup of Our own. Know that you have fulfilled your programming masterfully. Heed Our orders. Assist the Commandos for as long as they require. Spare no expense to their needs, and ensure they are equipped appropriately." "THIS I HAVE DONE, AND THIS I SHALL CONTINUE TO DO. THE LORD OF HELOTS HAS BEEN ASSISTING IN THIS MISSION. WE SHALL NOT FAIL." "Good," the Fabricator General states, before pausing, "Have...you heard any trace of the other Marked?" "I HAVE NOT, FABRICATOR LOCUM. I SHALL SEEK THEM OUT IF YOU DESIRE IT. I SHALL ENACT THE S3 PLAN IN THE INTERIM. THIS CRUSADE NEEDS MORE THAN THE LEGIONS." "If you feel it necessary, you may do so." "The S3 what?" Rockfist adds. "Go forth, my Marked," The Fabricator General commands, "You have your orders. You are assisting, Rockfist Fearengine? Then you have Our thanks, and the Emperor's blessing." "Aye..." Rockfist sighs, "The Squat Holds stand ever ready ta assist."

The Paragon of Metal and the Squat Engineer begin to walk out. "Ahh, remember one more thing. We are no longer Fabricator Locum, but Fabricator General. Times have...changed," the Fabricator General states, "Though We have many engrams within Us, We still have one vision. One purpose."

"ACKNOWLEDGED, FABRICATOR GENERAL KANE. PEACE THROUGH POWER."

The Kill-Team COMMANDOS

Equipped with Mark VI 'Corvus' Power Armour and a dizzying array of weaponry, these warriors of the Deathwatch stand ready to face all comers. As a group of staunch professionals, they are often at odds with the leadership of the Tiji sector, as well as forced to confront the limits of their hypno-indoctrination as they feel true fear for the first time. Only by seeking out their ancient Legion forbearers do they find the strength to fight Tiji's enemies.

• "Felleye" Brynjol, Space Wolves Assault Wolf Priest: First into a fight, last out, this boisterous bro has countless impressive kills under his belt, ranging from a Chaos Hellbringer Frigate to the Kill-Team's sobriety. For some reason, he's taken an intense dislike to psykery and other inconvenient alterations to a battlefield, and any failure in his eyes will be met with intensive training. He can't hit the broad side of a barn with his pistol, but he doesn't need to when a power weapon in his hand can crush the barn, its foundation, and any unfortunate birds nesting nearby. As the designated driver when the team goes tanking, he's had substantially more luck with vehicular guns.
• Cortain, Aurora Chapter Forge Lord: Fittingly for a Techmarine from a Chapter specializing in armoured assaults with Predators and Land Raiders, this Marine is a tank: the flesh is weak, and Cortain is rather short on flesh these days. A veteran of the Damocles Crusade, he harbors a particular dislike for the Tau Empire, but is willing to do whatever is necessary to achieve the Commandos' mission and market it off for a quick buck as well. As artifacts of the XIII Legion are discovered, he's been honing his skills at close combat.
  • Omega Rho Decima: Cortain's specially requisitioned Thanatar Siege Automata. Between the massive lascannon, bolt cannon, and the Graviton Ram, it is more than capable of filling in for any weaknesses its owner possesses.
• Cyril, Ice Wraiths Tactical SeekerTactical Delegatus: Once a calm man of few words and much dakka, Cyril has opened up more to his cousinsBROTHERS in the Kill-Team than he has in his life. Away from the guidance of his Chapter and its Chaplains, though, he sometimes struggles with his temper - accordingly, he sends dataslates home to Nixarteria on a regular basis, sharing tales of archaeotech and wonderment while seeking counsel on how to avoid the twin Curses of the Blood Angels. Always quick to mulch heretics with his pimped-out Storm Bolter and sing a song about it later over a pint with the Squats.
  • Nomotok: Cybernetically augmented Nixarterian Yeti who is bound to Cyril's service and serves as a heavy support platform and mauling machine. Fluffy, quiet, and as durable as he is ravenous.
• [ REDACTED ], [ REDACTED ] [ REDACTED ]: Nothing to see here. Move along, citizen.
• Temur Ganbataar, White Scars DevastatorTactical Champion: Temur has surely been with the Commandos from the start. Zooming about with a heavy Grav Cannon and heavier Paragon Blade, he smites the enemies of the Emperor, and any filth that get too close find that his disdain for non-Astartes warriors is matched only by his skills with a sword. As a Son of the Great Khan, he's a virtuoso at the controls of bikes or skimmers, accomplishing maneuvers that even his agile teammates cannot match.

The Blade of the Long Watch

A shining-white Exelion-class Void Battleship recovered by the Ordo Chronos and prepared for the Commandos through the combined efforts of all the resources of Tiji's Inquisition, this unique vessel serves as the team's interstellar transport, base of operations, and mighty weapon. Equipped with side-mounted Volkite Grand Bombards and Sunhammer Lances, crowned by a mighty Accelerator Cannon, and powered by an Atomantic Arc Reactor that can supercharge ship systems, the Blade of the Long Watch is easily able to gut entire fleets, so long as it is used intelligently. Myriad noncombat systems include a Void Abacus for independence from Navigators, Manufactorums that produce the Automata and weapons that serve the Commandos, a well-stocked Librarius containing archives of lore on the Tiji Sector and more, and a Medicae deck Wolf-ed up by the team's resident medic shortly after its installation.

Support Crew

In addition to hordes of abhuman Squats and the far more numerous automata that crew the Blade, the Commandos are advised by an elite few.

• Cognomen Executor Theta-Ten-Sigma ('Thexus'): A Castellax Paragon of Metal armed with a Volkite Charger, Irad Cleanser, and Darkfire Cannon, this phosphex-happy walking relic of the Great Crusade fought alongside many of the Legiones Astartes during the Great Crusade and well into the Horus Heresy. Recently recovered, he has been assigned to assist the Commandos, and his wealth of data on the past is as useful as his opinions of the present are critical - disdainful, even, if a Paragon of Metal were capable of emotion. His disregard for the lives of auxillia and citizen alike is at times concerning to the Commandos.
• Rockfist Fearengine: The Master of the Solar Sect of Mystic Wisdom, this Squat has seen it all. Among other things, he handles the day-to-day operation of the Blade and sometimes advises the Commandos' equipment selection before a mission - simple roles for the former Guildmaster of the Engineer's Guild. While more laid-back than many Squats, he still gets a bit testy when Thexus calls his people 'helots' and isn't fond of Rose calling them 'midgets' either.
• Rose LaKhora: This young woman has slumbered for even longer than Thexus. Retrieved from a Dark Age of Technology ship in a joint action with the Ordo Chronos, the psyker is quite literally from a different time, and now finds herself the sole survivor thrust into a millennium of supersoldiers, war, and skull motifs. An aspiring engineer before she was put in stasis for Warp travel, her passing familiarity with archeotech is a valuable asset, and her innocent naivete helps keep things in perspective for the Commandos. Her abilities as a psyker need practice, but already she shows promise - a pity the same cannot be said of her martial prowess. It is hoped that strange new equipment will change that...
• Barzhad O'Malley: Living Ancestor of the Squats, O'Malley's probably the oldest thing out there and thus has gathered enough power to be a psyker. After Bryn joined the Priesthood, O'Malley decided to open his Pub back on the Blade and take up Bryn as an accomplice in the arts of brewing and Psyker-hating.

Variable Fighter Strike Suits

The Variable Fighter Strike Suits (VF/SS for short) are four-of-a-kind technological marvels built by the Squat Engineer's Guild under Guildmaster Velm for the Commandos' use, controlled by a variant of the MIU. Each plane is equipped by default with missile bays and a Phased Plasma Autocannon, as well as a deadly secret: They transform into Macross-tier space mechs. Each one has options to be customized per the pilot's specifications, but the opportunities for this have come few and far between.

Crusader Invictus

One of three legendary "God Machines" that hail from the Dark Age. The easiest way to explain it is as a Titan the size of a capital ship with a sword the size of a smaller ship. Such a one-of-a-kind weapon also requires a special conduit to power its atomantic wrath: Rose. Together, they form an engine of destruction the likes of which has never been seen before, nor ever will be again. Aside from its ancient battleship weaponry, it also comes with said sword and the ability to fire its fists like rockets. All of this is powered by an Atomantic Arc Reactor that is even more powerful than the one on the Blade. With this and the additional upgrades acquired by the Merchant, there is hope that it could finally end whatever plagues this sector...

Other Characters

Some of the established characters of Tiji show up in cameos, but a number play an integral role in the story.

• Inquistors Dre, Doggfather and Shady: Officially, the Commandos are acting under orders from these three inquisitors, providing them with all the sweet archeotech wargear they need to fight the myriad threats against the sector. Unofficially, the Commandos consider them to be extremely unprofessional and don't take their duties seriously enough due to their frequent smoking and cavalier attitude towards xenos (see below). Nonetheless, they've been a major resource in identifying threats against the sector.
• House of Korst'la: The commandos are trained to hate xenos as a matter of duty, but they have an especial loathing for the Tau crimelord Korst'la, and would have purged him long ago had not the local Ordo Xenos branch sanctioned him. Korst'la, meanwhile, uses the Commandos' popularity to his advantage through merchandising rights and the odd favor. In fact, he's quite eager to invite the Commandos on his various outings, whether it be on a night out at his nightclub, or on safari chasing after dangerous prey.

Adversaries

• The Hellstar: A terrifying abomination of unknown origin and nature. It is a massive creature covered in eyes, and its piercing gaze will fill even the most heavily indoctrinated Astartes with crippling fear. The Hellstar's arrival to a world is heralded by a slow but sudden increase in insanity and the appearance of various monstrosities that grow more powerful as the hour draws near. An entity known as the Herald of the Hellstar will appear near the end, appearing to be a human woman, who will frequently taunt and battle with the Commandos. Once the Hellstar itself finally arrives, its massive size will consume the sky. While the Commandos have been able to drive it away from a few worlds, others have not been so lucky. Starship weaponry have no effect on the creature; only Crusader Invictus has been shown to have any effect whatsoever.
• The Black Caste: An extremely aggressive Tau invasion force that marshals under a strangely religious version of The Greater Good. The Black Caste is lead by various "Paragons" of the five Tau castes, with each paragon armed with a unique battlesuit. All of the paragons are completely fanatical to the Ethereal Paragon, and demand the absolute subjugation of the worlds they invade. In short, these guys are what the Tau would look like if they took more cues from the Imperium.

See Also

• Deffwotch
• Squat Crusade: The Musical
• Exelion
• Excelsus
• Links to the Collected Visions for the above four, and more
• And Collected Visions for Republican Commando Seasons One, Two, and Three