+Craftworld Deikar-Belah+

+Western rim of Segmentum Pacificus+

999. M.41

A fog, a thick, stagnant mist the hung in the air. The vapour clung to Farseer Celariel's robes and condensed on the surface of her Wraithbone plate. The immaculate armour bore the bone-white trim and dark blue colours of her Craftworld. Deikar-Belah, a lesser known Eldar Craftworld that skirted on the edges of Imperial space, had always clung onto its existence on an uneven plant. Yet, through perseverance and manipulation, it had been successful since the Fall.

She stood in a darkened expanse, tinged in a mist so thick that one may be forgiven thinking it was smoke. It was only an illusion, of course. A realm of psychic energy projected in which she was spectator to the events to come. The Seer Path had led her here, performing the endless rites of divination that for so long had been the linchpin to her race's continued survival.

"The tides shift once more," The Eldar whispered, her voice reverberating in the psychic domain.

The condensation dripped from her armour and drenched her robes. She couldn't feel it, it was only a vision after all. Her calm was momentarily interrupted by a shrill scream that pierced the blinding mist.

A wave of pink, black, purple and silver broke through the mist. The figures bore the features of the followers of She Who Thirsts. The hated Daemonettes, their maniacal screams, howling bouts laughter and cacophony of girlish giggles. Clad in leather binds as black as their clawed hands, revealing their perverse mockery of the Mon'keigh's female form.

Even the barely passable appearance of the primitive Mon'keigh was preferable to their corrupted counterparts. Many of the warp-spawn may not have even been female to begin with. Withholding her disgust for the moment, the Farseer turned to see what the foul beings were charging towards.

The thick mist began to clear. It was as she feared, on the darkened earth lay the corpses of her Craftworld's defenders, Dire Avengers, Guardians, Dark Reapers… all laid low by the great enemy. Clawed digits now picking and digging out the crimson Spirit Stones that now undoubtedly housed the helpless souls of her compatriots.

Her blood boiled. The sight was terrifying to behold. Still, she fought the rising outrage and terror simmering inside her. Thankfully, the rumble of rolling thunder drew the attention away from the macabre scene. The mist darkened like an ominous, creeping night, there looked to be a rainstorm coming. Arcs of pale light flashed overhead. Through the slowly clearing fog, Celariel could see dark outlines of figures moving toward her.

The hedonistic followers of the Dark Prince were too busy picking at the Spirit Stones to notice, ever seeking to please their god. The thunder kept rumbling, getting ever closer until the the shadow of the dark grey clouds shrouded them in that shadow.

The thunder and lightning suddenly ceased, the Daemonettes paid no heed. For a long minute the only sound was their chattering and giggling amongst each other and the clattering of the Spirit Stones.

Farseer Celariel's psychically attuned mind fought to ignore the psychic screams of terror and anguish emanating from the stones. Her keen senses homing in on the shrouded figures moving in the fog. They were not her brethren, for their movement was lacked the fluidity of Eldar motion. Yet, they were not the Mon'keigh Guard or Astartes for their footsteps were lacked the clumsiness of the common humans and the ground shaking footfalls of Space Marine power armour.

No, these were different. The footsteps were barely audible even to her senses. If the Astartes were the scalpel of the Imperium and the Imperial Guard were the mighty hammer, these were the chisel.

Her thoughts were confirmed when a series high-pitched whines whirred around them herself and the Daemonette party. This time they did snap up to look around them, all too late.

Their giggles were replaced in a chorus of screams when bright yellow lances of heat broke the fog. The volleys of beams tore asunder and completely through the flesh of the warp-spawn like popping water-filled balloons. Not boiling the blood as normal powered lasguns of the Guard, this type of weapon-fire was made to simply penetrate all with hyper-intense heat. In discipline bursts, the yellow lances did their work and robbed the Daemonettes of the Spirit Stone prizes and even the pleasure of pain at the blood-boiling heat of the normal Imperial Lasguns.

It was all over in an instant. All of the Daemons now corpses with smouldering holes burned cleanly through them. The shuffle of careful footsteps finally broke the silence. Stepping through the clearing mist, water dripping from their weapon's cooling shrouds. The Tempestus Scions, elite amongst the regular human forces and arguably the most subtle flexible force they can employ.

These bore armour of dark grey and silver trim. The ever-present skulls adorned their carapace. Right shoulder of their armour painted a dull metallic blue with a skull crossed by lightning bolts painted on them.

"Tempestus, sons of the storm…" Celariel whispered to herself.

They walked past the spectating Farseer. Stepping between or over the littered corpses of their handiwork and that of Chaos. Suddenly they raised their weapons in the same direction and opened fire.

Beams screamed through the mist and struck targets only they could see with their intricate Auspice goggles, They kept firing. Those amongst them that had plasma guns charged and fired their weapons, the ill-understood rifles glowing a fierce neon-blue and discharging their blue tinged projectiles of death.

So intense was their fire that water from the mist gradually seeped from their surroundings by the intense barrage of sheer heat. Only then it has sufficiently cleared for her to see what they were shooting at. Waves of enemies, Tyranid Gaunts, spawns of the Great Devourer. The corrupted of the Ruinous powers, green skinned Orks with their crude weapons and armour. Upon black earth these enemies of both her race the the humans fought one another.

Between them a field of the dead and dying. The forces of order ripped asunder with Astartes and Guardsmen alive scattered throughout the battleground. Heavy artillery from all sides streaking overhead and striking the earth in tremendous explosions.

Something broke through the wicked skies, aircraft from each warring faction breaking away to avoid a massive object that was falling through the clouds. There was no mistaking it, the towering spires, the Wraithbone construction and once shimmering hull.

It was her Craftworld. Deikar-Belah was hurtling to the ground, holes and debris trailing balls of flaming wreckage. Her beloved home smashed right in the middle of the war zone in a thunderous screaming crash. A wave of fire ripping towards her, incinerating all in it's path, humans, Ork and Daemon alike before it ember, dust and smoke consumed her vision.

Soon, the rumble died down, and her vision cleared. The dust was settling over the debris and corpses strewn throughout the battlefield. Crimson blood now mixed with the blackened earth. Turning whatever ground still visible into a dark red stew. A cough broke above the sounds of the still groaning hulk of the shattered Craftworld's hull and skeleton in the distance.

Rising from the rubble, stones rattled to the ground as they slid off his Armaplas carapace armour. A single Scion got up, having escaped the unfortunate fate of his fellows. He looked around of a moment, discarding his heavily damaged Omnishield helmet and shattered rebreather mask as they had been smashed apart by flying rubble.

The Farseer got a good look at his features. He looked young, even for a Mon'keigh. Youthful features strong and masculine. A long scar ran diagonally across his face and over the bridge of his nose, another few streaking over his well squared jawline. Eyes of deep ocean blue scanned his surroundings, the bags that hung under his eyes showed that even one of his few years was not exempt from the rigours and strain of warfare.

The Stormtrooper seemed calm, bending over to pick up the Plasma pistol and chainsword from the dead hands of what was once his squad's Tempestor and ensuring that the coils worked and glowed a healthy blue. A screech broke his calm, soon joined by another then another. He raised the plasma weapon, his chainsword's engine growling softly like a hunched hound.

"Come heretic, show me what passes for fury amongst you," he said, deep voice even and calm. "You are fatallly wrong if you think for even a moment, that I am afraid of you."

The last sight Celariel saw in her divination was the flash of bright blue plasma discharge erupting from the weapon toward a blue bolt bouncing off ceramite plate of cursed power armour that moved and warped with the screaming features of those he has slain. A grinning maw filled of razor teeth parting to reveal a long, flicking tongue. Small black eyes full of mirth of the cruellest fashion and his sight locked on the lone Imperial. His tentacle wrapped right arm whipping the air in anticipation and ecstasy of what was to come.

The roar of engine, the clash of a Daemonic blade against blessed adamantine teeth, a shower of sparks and a spray of blood… then darkness.

"Agh!" The Farseer jerked awake, sitting up upon the bed of crystal.

Her hand shaking as it reached up to her forehead, wiping away a the beads of sweat that had seeped from her skin. She stood up, shaking slightly at first. The revelations of the divination unnerving her to the point of making her stumble for a moment.

All around her, the raw and uncut forests of crystal trees and pillars, light passing through them to form the dome of crystal Seers. Her first time being granted the privilege of performing a divination here. Her talents in the art having been noticed by the council of Seers.

She walked out of the crystal dome, climbing the winding stairway up to one of Deikar-Belah's many tall gleaming spires. Pushing stray locks of obsidian black hair behind her ear. Her eyes, orbs of amber yellow tinged with electric blue. Her smooth skin and even features were attractive, even for Eldar standards. Her calm demeanour betraying her troubled mind.

To think this would be her first divination in a place of such radiance, a prophecy in which Deikar-Belah and possibly every Eldar on it consumed by She-Who-Thirsts. A fate far worse than simple death. For the Eldar, death was simply another beginning as part of the Craftworld's Infinity Circuit. To be consumed by the foul Dark Gods was a torture beyond the imagining of even an Eldar's mind.

Farseer Celariel had reached the top of the spire, onto a balcony overlooking the heart of the Eldar wandering continent. Her beloved home and people, once again at risk of total annihilation. No, she could not let this event come to pass. No longer could they stand aside and manipulate from the sidelines. The key lay with the him, that lone Stormtrooper that stood his ground against the Eternal One.

"Is something amiss Farseer?" one of her warhost's Dire Avengers asked, approaching from behind her.

"Yes, very much so. The tides of fate beckon to us once more. This call…we must answer ourselves," she said.

+Fallen Imperial Hive- Hive City Primula+

+Hive World- Agantha IV+

+Segmentum Pacificus+

999. M.41

Three days since arriving on this Emperor forsaken world. Posted in an Forward Astra Militarum command base along with a full company from the 58th Deltan Dusk's. The thunderous cracks from Earthshaker Cannons firing in the distance was almost constant save for when they needed to cool the barrels of the massive artillery guns from the constant firing.

While he was on night watch the previous night, he could see their dull red glow in the dead of night at times, appearing like a spreading forest fire until they had cooled down. Then the bombardment began anew with bright flashes of light erupting from the gun barrels and illuminating the night sky.

The siege of Hive city Primula had begun a good Holy Terran year ago. While the intervention was quick enough so that the foul corruption of Chaos had only taken Primula Hive, the Heretics had dug their roots deep, Primula Hive was the largest Manufactorum of various weapons once supplied to the Imperium's faithful.

Agantha IV's environment was largely to thank for the quarantine of Chaos. Massive electromagnetic storms enveloped almost the entire planet in dark grey clouds, arcs of pale blue lightning danced along the clouds, something a stray bolt striking the blackened earth.

The almost entirely sunless world had little in the way of vegetation and the soil was a deep a charcoal black. In addition, the numerous Hive Cities operating throughout the Imperium had poisoned the very clouds that surrounded many of these mega cities, making whatever rain that fell a light acidic green. While not too dangerous to exposed skin, the polluted water was most certainly too deadly to drink.

The Storm trooper sighed, grasping one of the railings along the side of the concrete bunker. Looking up at the skies above. He felt nostalgic, perhaps what some would call 'homesick' the skies of his regiment's homeworld was much the same, though there were forests of alien flora and fauna of various types that glowed brightly from bioluminescence that almost everything on his dark home planet produced. The storms were seasonal, between periods of light were would be constant storms and rain that accompanied them sporadically.

There was another matter troubling his mind. Dreams, dreams he could not explain. Dark dreams of battles that saw his comrades dead around him, trampled by a tide of the Imperium's enemies. Someone at his side, he couldn't remember what she looked like and every time he tried he came up with nothing but a vague female silhouette. That, along the blur of blue and the flash of a white spear.

A gloved hand on his shoulder directed his attention back down. "Something troubles you Comrade Regium?"

Speaking of women, the firm and familiar voice of his commissar brought him back down the present. Commissar Yana, the woman was tall, almost as tall as himself. One might not think a Commissar to be the best company to keep but the woman seemed to be a pleasant. She hailed from Valhalla, where she was attached as a cadet Commissar until her regiment was decimated beyond combat capability.

Her actions earned her a promotion into a full Commissar and she was promptly posted to the 58th Deltans. Her bizarre accent of Low Gothic and the fact that she was a woman in an all-male Company was largely ignored by the Deltans. Largely due to the threat of the power fist that she always wore on her right arm. No Scion wanted to end up dead outside of a battlefield and fighting in service to the Imperium, much less as a pulverized pile of bloody meat. The plasma pistol holstered at her side was of no small threat either.

The tall red cap of the Commissariat covered much of the front and sides of her head. Hidden under it was a skull-helm of Armaplas, it was treated well in protecting her against the acidic rain of this planet. Her face was youthful and pale, a hint of a rose pink on her cheeks. Her eyes were icy blue, easy to see despite the shadow her hat cast over her brow and eyes. Wearing the standard black commissar's long-coat. A form fitting layer of Armaplas plate could clearly be seen on her torso.

"Tell me," She ordered, her strict expression was fixed on her face, almost never changing.

He couldn't blame her, nor was he in a place to judge. He was often called an automaton by the more outspoken of the Imperial Guard. Even with his helmet off his expression remained deadpan and muted, those Guard officers found the inner workings of his mind and even his mood all but impossible to read. Commissar Yana could read them, such was the duty to uphold discipline and morale. Though she had not learned to read him completely, not yet at least.

"Nothing troubles my mind Commissar, merely apprehension for the battle ahead, we have much to do," Regium said.

It was no lie, for to lie to a Commissar was a grave act of insubordination. Merely a half-truth, what was of immediate concern anyway.

The woman nodded, her power fist-clad hand gesturing to the towering silhouette of Primula Hive with a hiss of servos. "Da, we have given the Heretics for too much time to prepare. The Krieg have encountered much difficulty over the past year, the artillery has only just managed to blast a path through the massive minefield they have placed."

The Scion sighed, already well aware of the layers upon layers of defences that awaited them. "We are to attack soon I hope... I tire of this, my Plasma gun is best used to wreath the enemies of the Imperium in blue fury, Not idle here as a weight. I need not be a follower of the Cult Mechanicus to feel the lamentation of it's machine spirit," he said, slinging the weapon onto his shoulder with its strap.

The woman huffed in amusement. "It is good that you are eager comrade but do not forget, this respite is a blessing from our Emperor and we must use it wisely."

"Yes, Commissar," Regium nodded, feeling a gentle shove from the Valhallan.

She smiled, a wide smile that few save him have seen. She had been serving with the Tempestus for nearly five years. Regium had come two years ago fresh from the Scholar Progenium as a replacement for combat losses. She found him a man of few words yet bearing thoughts of a thousand. Never questioning orders yet going about them in ways that would baffle even her.

Of course the fact that he was brave and daring to the point of near reckless insanity was another factor. As for his knack for surviving the impossible.

Attea had lost track of how many times Tempestus Regium had cheated death. An Ork Zzap gun striking him in the chest with little more than a scorch, though the electricity left his delirious, mumbling something about "Failing a roll to wound."

Or the time he climbed onto the back of a moving Tau battlesuit and simply pressed his Plasma rifle into the flailing warmachine until he practically burned through both his weapon and the alien armour. The Enginseer was less than pleased with him afterwards.

A chuckle escaped her as she stood beside him, staring out at was was soon to be their battlefield. "Tell me Regium, you remember the time of our first meeting? Nyet?"

Regium regarded the Lady Commissar with a puzzled expression before given her an answer. "Yes, as if it were this morning."

+Imperial world NociIlium+

+Scholar Progenium Tempestus Scion training and mustering base+

+M.41 997+

The whole of the 58th Deltan Dusk's stood at attention. Gathered into rectangular formations of ten men lined into ranks of five and three shoulder to shoulder. Each squad represented by a Tempestor standing at the front of the formation. The camp served as one of the many barracks for Deltans, each company having one with tunnels leading up to the main regimental Scholar Progenium Stronghold.

Just outside the reinforced walls, fortified bunkers and the watchful eye of automated defence turrets perched upon overlooking watch towers was the jungle that spanned most of the planet. Nocillium was one of those planets that was just as dangerous of the infamous Death World of Catachan, if not more so. There were only two seasons on this planet, the seasons of Storm and Light.

The season of the Storm encompassed most of year, a time in which the skies over almost the entire planet was shrouded in wrathful electromagnetic storms dark grey clouds whilst lightning streaked through the skies and constant hammering of thunder like the forging tool of the long-dismissed god of smith of Terran antiquity striking his anvil.

It is only on table mountains that a few Imperial cities exist, above the hostile flora and fauna that surrounds these sanctuaries. Lacking both in the sheer scale and manufacturing capabilities of Hive cities. The planet's population pays it's tithe in the specialized fruit that grows only on Nocillium and hard fighting sons and daughters to Imperial service, none of which return or survive. Though even in death, these loyal servants of the Emperor still contribute. Though their own children will be without their guiding hand, they have the Scholar Progenium to show them the Emperor's light.

Fatigues were clean and pressed, Carapace armour polished, cleaned and repaired and weapons maintained at peak condition. While that was the norm for the Scions. Today was a special occasion. No patrols were being carried out, no routine runs around and over the nearby mountains and no weapons and combat training.

Today the 58th Deltan 7th Company were to receive a new officer of sorts: a Commissar. Their return to their homeworld was following an action against the hated heretics had seen fifty of their original two hundred in the company killed, including their assigned Commissar.

This replacement came late, they expected her some days ago along with their new recruits. Of which almost a fourth of the company was now composed.

At the head of the company was the command squad, a Company Standard Bearer, a Medicae, a Vox-caster and the Tempestor Prime, the leader of the company and most senior surviving member.

All stood motionless, disciplined and loyal to a fault. They remained so as the distant roar of a Valkyrie's engine was heard, the dark grey hull of the aircraft racing into view over the dense jungle of NociIlium, disturbing the bioluminescent leaves of the local flora.

"STAND AT ATTENTION MEN!" The Tempestor Prime the order was met with immediate compliance as a drone of boots hitting the pavement of the camp echoed across the camp.

The rumble of the Valkyrie's engine was a comforting sound to lone woman that occupied the aircraft's troop compartment, if one discounted the loader servitor that was assigned to assist her. The being was thankfully silent, unlike the constant Techna Lingua chatter of the ones that surrounded the Techpriest that had first assigned it to her.

The thing bore a human torso, other than that little remained of the glorious form of humanity. Its arms were replaced with two steel bar-like protrusions that formed a pincer for each arm. In those pincers was a sealed rectangular crate stamped with a large Aquila containing some of her implements of warfare and what few personal belongings she had.

Deceptively thin fingers gloved in black leather brushed a stray lock of straight silver-white hair behind her ear, fair, almost porcelain-like skin with matching eyes of icy blue. Wrapped around her right arm was a bower fist, attached to a servo-assisted frame with power cables running to a power pack under the back of her coat.

She raised the weaponised gauntlet, the bulky construct deactivated save for the motion-assist systems. Not long ago this had been stained with blood, of both Imperial and Xenos. It was necessary, she always told herself that. Throughout that bloody campaign, it was necessary to kill those under her command should they be found wanting. Leading by example was what Commissars were Maddox to do. She was Valhallan through and through, retreat and surrender never an option to her. To those few that had that pride and will broken were to serve as examples for the others.

"Commissar Yana, we are arriving soon," The pilot of the Valkyrie announced.

The wash of wind from the dropship's descent whipped the Tempestor Prime's Commissariat coat around, only the chain worn around his gorget affixing the two collars together holding the garment in place. Still, not one inch was shifted, no sign of discomfort or disapproval, not even a shifted head to angle away from the rotorwash of the vertical landing engines.

The heavy clank of the landing ramp's locks disengaging was just barely audible over the rapidly dying scream of the aircraft's engine. Only when silence finally settled one again did anyone hear the slowly clanking footsteps of steel studded boots upon steel plating.

If any were shocked to see the feminine frame, none showed it. They stayed fixed forwards, being well built and upstanding examples of the human physique the Scions were of average to above average in height and all muscular in built under their armour. Most women of the Imperium would be dwarfed by them. This was not one of them.

Commissar Yana strode down the paved path, powerfist closed in a fist sparking with crackling energy. The sun was still in the late stages of dawning and the Respmask array affixed to Omnishield helms betrayed no emotions. She had heard the Ordo Tempestus were monotonous and were often considered as "Toy soldiers" or automations by the Guardsmen under her guidance. This appearance did give some credence to that stereotype.

She paused before a man bearing a plasma rifle, obviously he must have some affinity for the weapon if the Techpriests entrust him with a weapon with such a tempermental machine spirit.

"You Scion, your name?" she addressed him.

The man in question answered, his voice was deep and somehow barely above a whisper in tone but still clearly heard.

"Regium, Lady Commissar."

Yana nodded, Regium, one of the many names given to young recruits no doubt, though she had never heard this one before. In High-Gothic it had no literal meaning it was a broad to description of an action "to protect".

"I wish to see your features," Yana said.

For a moment the Scion seemed perplexed at the order, but he complied nonetheless. Removing the airtight seals with a soft hiss and squeak. The Commissar was somewhat shocked at his youth, he was younger than his deep voice suggested. Still the expression on his visage was that of calm, not the fear she inspired in others. She fixed her eyes on his dark blue orbs searching for any hint of fear or a façade that disguised it. She found none.

The Valhallan had expected at least a modicum of fear, she had learned to read humans, as this was her duty as an upholder of discipline. Commissar's were a symbol of fear and discipline. Was this fearlessness a trait common to all Tempestus Scions? Or was Regium the exception?

Slowly she raised a power fist, bulky fingers parting to cup the back of the young man's head. The force field was off, she didn't want to pulp him for no reason, this was merely a test. Again, no reaction to the thread of having his brain matter clattered over her weapon. His dark blue eyes stayed fixed on her, not a single doubt in his eyes.

"Are you not afraid?" she questioned.

The Storm Trooper seemed to chew over the question. "I have nothing to fear from a Commissar, we are both of the Scholar Progenium and our duties are to the Imperium. I understand clearly our roles to play. I trust in your judgement. Should I prove lacking, it is to my shame and fault that my death comes from you instead of facing a foe of the Imperium."

Commissar blinked, eyes widened in shock for a moment. Then, she smiled and released a huff of laughter, lowering her powerfist. This one was special, though she did not even ask for any form of admiration, she did not expect outright trust from him. He was special, this one.

She paced the the formation, holding each squad for a moment in her scrutiny. She found no flaws, not a single stance incorrect nor a weapon in ill repair. Satisfied, she returned to the middle of the row and regarded her new charges.

"Men of the 58th Deltan Dusk's, I am Commissar Yana. Some of you will come to resent me, some may not, hopefully.… I do not ask for your compassion or admiration for that belongs only to our Emperor. I only demand your fight and die in his service without question nor hesitation, as per our tradition. Let my presence reminds you what fate awaits those who fail. Ave Emperor!"

The troopers voxed their reply through the vox-speakers on their Respmask's no more emotion in their reply save only what was expected of them, "Ave Emperor!"

"Da, good times indeed," Yana sighed, recalling fond memories.

She pushed off the railing, flashing Regium a small smile. She had attached herself to his squad since then, finding him more perplexing the more she learned of the odd Storm Trooper.

"Though you did not wish it, rest well Regium. For this respite is a gift from the Emperor, we do not squander his blessing."

He nodded, looking back to her.

"To you as well, rest well. Goodnight, Ilyana." Regium said, he seldom addressed her by her full first name. It was something they did only in private company.

"Dobroy nochi, Regium," she called back, descending the stairway and back to her tent.

He turned back the the distant flashes of light. Heart still eager for combat yet fearful of what the battlefield held for him. Fear to be conquered in short order.

+Outskirts of Hive-Primula+

+M.41 999+

Subtlety was barely a footnote on the Imperial Guard's list of doctrines, for usually they did not need it. While some regiments were different from the others, the overall modus operandi of the hammer of the Emperor was not accommodating to anything less than bringing the full fight to the enemy or vice versa, meeting the enemy attack with everything they had got. Such as in this case, a five-vehicle formation of Macharius heavy tanks rumbled ahead of their tiny Taurox Prime. The dawn was just breaking and already there was a massive push from all four points of the compass. Trenches that ringed the corrupted Hive city were abuzz with movement as some of the Kriegers rose up and staked the blasted and uneven ground on foot or travelled in whatever transport they were assigned to,

Blessed machines of war lead the charge, blocks of mobile cover for the advancing Astra Militarum and mobile fortresses of death and fire for the Heretics. The 58th Deltans were spread out amongst twelve of their preferred armoured personnel carriers-three per-front, the Taurox Prime. Tall machines made to cross even to most difficult terrain that nothing but a walker or hover vehicle could hope to traverse.

The firing began almost immediately, the twin-linked battle cannons of the Macharius's blasted away at range as the traitor defences spat out their own response. From within the troop compartment Regium and the rest of the Tempestus waited. He could not see fighting strapped down to his seat as he was, however, the jarring blast of artillery that rocked the very earth and the light from explosions that lit the view-slits made it obvious. He did hear some screams of pain, when muffled by the Krieg rebreather he could hear little else.

He admired the Krieg, though their fatalism was worrisome at times. It was one thing to seek forgiveness, it was another to die in vain by the millions when another approach could be used to obtain victory. Though he had no right to judge, only the Emperor knew what was best. If he so choose to grant Kriegers forgiveness in death, so be it.

"Make ready Deltans!" Commissar Yana yelled, her voice clear even through the din of combat thanks to his Omnishield helm's vox-system.

All of the Scions took that as their cue, checking on their Hotshot weapon's cables and optics, ensuring their grenades were fastened well to their bandoleers and belts. Regium checked his Plasma rifle, ensuring that the weapon's machine spirit was appeased with a brief litany of Firing and Cooling under his breath before bringing the weapon up to his lowered head, tapping it against his helm's cowl.

Some found it strange, though for the Deltans, affection for one's weapon was commonplace and encouraged. It didn't hurt that the Engineers of the Adeptus Mechanicus appreciated the reverence for the Machine Spirit within that they showed.

"Let us reintroduce the vile traitors the light of the Emperor! One way or another!" another Scion called. It was Sigum, twisting the valve of his flamer.

Regium only nodded, at times Sigum could get a little…over enthusiastic when it came to burning the enemies of the Imperium.

The Commissar ignored him, instead issuing her orders, "Stand ready at the rear hatch!"

The men stood, a sudden artillery shell that exploded next to the Tauros Prime almost knocking some of the off their feet as the vehicle lurched to one side and slammed back down. They quickly regained their composure, luckily all had fallen into their seats.

The Taurox's engine roared as the driver sped between two of the Macharius's that had been their mobile cover, that could only mean they were getting close to their deployment point. The Scions kept their hands firmly gripped on the handholds above them. The Mortar fire was now rocking the Taurox and sharp shrapnel could be heard bouncing off the hull. These were small, anti-personnel fragmentation and air-burst mortars. The distinct sound of their explosions reminding him much of the recordings and live-fire training exercises he had studied in the Scholar Progenium.

Stormbolter fired from atop the Taurox's hatch, as did the hull mounted autocannons and even the missile launcher. If their vehicle was firing all those weapons at once, that could only mean the enemy was all around them or their were suppressing the enemy ahead.

"Now! For the Emperor!" Yana screamed over the now overwhelming din of combat. The rear hatch split open, Regium's squad of Stormtroopers piling out of their mount.

His boots hit the ground, not really earth after being pounded mercilessly for months on end by both sides. Acidic rain had turned the ground to a thick sludge that almost resembled engine oil, except that it bore the stench of blood, decay and explosive residue. His boots sank up almost up to ankle in mud that threatened to bog him down and suck him into the cursed battlefield.

Looking around, he could see the other two Taurox had manage to disembark their occupants of ten men squads. All around the battle raged, like a great tide it devoured all. Men fell around him, some advancing so slowly that traitor autoguns and laser fire made short work of them. Lighter Chimera transports and even mighty Leman Russ tanks stood as smouldering husks and others still and burning towers of flame where their ammunitions were igniting.

Heavy bolter and laser fire impacted the ground around them, kicking up dirt and mud as they ricocheted off.

Always ready to push forwards, Commissar Attea called out once more. "Let them taste our hate and fury! FORWARD!"

The order brought about immediate action from the nine Scions. Four, led by Sigum, shouldered over the left side of the Taurox two stayed back one crouching and the other leaning upon the Taurox Prime as a brace to lay down fire, their hotshot lasrifles ringing out in sharp pings as they opened fire. Sigum along with two other Scions advanced, his flamer spitting out a short burst of flaming Promethium.

Next was Regium's side, Commissar Yana strode forwards, using her armoured powerfist as an ad-hoc shield. Regium took up a position right beside her, bringing his plasma rifle up to his shoulder. Finally, he got a good look at what was to be his target.

Just a few metres ahead was their target. A network of trenches connected to a line of pillboxes, all connecting a few that led up to the Heretic command centre. The structures, branded will all manner of iconography in reverence to their dark gods. From skulls to the helms of the faithful that stood up to them. Even the impaled bodies of entire families of those that refused to submit mounted along the eight pointed star of Chaos.

"This is just sickening," Regium mumbled, levelling his weapon toward a line of maddened Cultists that ran along the trench. "They will pay dearly for this."

Kickback from the "sun-gun"'s magnetic coil was more severe that of almost any laser-based weapon. Still, at that range combined with his training and mastery of the rifle, Regium need not worry about missing, seeing as the scum had formed a line for him.

They bore the arms and armour of the PDF, perhaps they were once the PDF. Now their flak armour and lasrifle bore the wicked disfigurement of all that was Chaos, painted red, black, blue or green depending on their favoured god.

Coil's of Regium's weapon glowed a roaring blue as it charged with a high pitched squeal. A burst of fast moving plasma trailed with blue mist smashed into the traitor ranks. The first heretic fell backwards, his chest a now a molten mass of flesh and what was one armour. The second stumbled back when his comrade's body fell onto him, another plasma bolt striking his temple and searing his unprotected head, melting it inwards. The third was struck in the gut, his organs liquefied by the intense heat. His melted innards oozed out of the entrance hole of the plasma bolt like a thick soup, his horrified and agony-stricken expression lost of the Scion, he had an advance to back.

The Commissar glanced at Regium's handiwork before walking forwards once more. A flash from the pillbox at her flank caught her attention. She angled the armoured back of the powerfist and felt a solid tap as a las-bolt impacted upon the armoured surface.

"Sigum!" She yelled.

The Scion needed no further instruction, turning his flamer toward the pillbox and unleashing a tongue of burning Promethium fuel. It poured into the pillbox's compartment, screams of pain emanating within as the Cultists were burned alive.

Regium slung the heavy plasma weapon under his arm again, sprinting forwards and jumping into the trench. Thankfully the mud had remained somewhat dry in and around the traitor trench, giving him a firm footing as he landed.

He hit the wooden frame of the trench wall with a heavy thud, using his Carapace armour's pauldron to take most of the blow as he shouldered his plasma weapon once again.

Behind him, Commissar's Yana's boots hit the ground. How she managed to keep her balance despite the massive powerfist on her arm, he would never understand. She was followed soon after by the rest of his squad. Sigum cradling his flamer and their Tempestor some distance behind, his chainsword growling in satisfaction and dripping with gore.

The trench was wide enough to fit two men shoulder to shoulder, hardly enough room to manoeuvre but enough to swing a melee weapon. Thus, the Tempestor walked forwards to take his place ahead of Regium. Why Tempestor's chose to wear their parade beret's in place of their Omnishield helms, Regium had no , it was not in his place to question his squad leader.

"Advance to target!" Commissar Yana took her place beside Regium while the others formed ranks of similarly formed ranks of two behind them with Sigum at the rear, ready to douse any flanking heretics with burning Promethium and cover their path should it prove necessary.

Glancing at his gauntlet, the embedded Slate Monitron showing his location as a dot upon a map. Of which marked the trench network was supposed to lead toward the heretical command station that held the master vox-network for all the western defenders of Hive Primula, along with much of their command staff. Their orders were to deliver judgement upon the Heretics and destroy their command and communications

.

"Forward ten paces, then left, the Heretical command station should be two kilometres from there. Expect the enemy to be upon us," Regium said, lowering his hand back to grip the plasma rifle's hand-guard.

The other scions checked their weapons and nodded, ensuring their blessed wargear was ready and able to meet the enemy once more.

Something was wrong, very wrong. It was as if the battle that raged all around them mere moments ago had simply forgotten their presence. The Scions were bereft of the combat they expected, walking along the trench toward their target over a field strewn with bodies. The stench of which forced Commissar Yana to put on her own Respmask array to keep the foul smell of decay and rot at bay.

Reminders in the form of desecrated bodies or blasphemous vandalizations of what once were the consecrations on Imperial crates to the God-Emperor reminded them of their mission and steeled their resolve. Their target was looming into view now, a command bunker of reinforced rockcrete, typical of Imperial Guard design now poles and marks of the Eight pointed star of Chaos.

Artillery still blasted away and faints sounds of gunfire rattled off in the distance, other than that there was complete silence. None of the Scions uttered a word despite all no doubt having reservations about the situation. It was not in their place to question orders, only to follow them, if a trap was a waiting them they would have to adapt.

Regium once more glanced at his Slate Monitron, trusting in his fellow Scions to cover him in the meantime. The device was clear of any movement on it's Auger for a long five seconds as he stared at it. Then, a single red dot appeared on the glass surface for only a moment before disappearing.

The signal brought him to a pause, the rest of the Tempestus following suit and raising their weapons at the ready.

"Regium, report," Yana ordered, her plasma pistol now raised toward the command bunker ahead.

"A signal, it appeared only for a moment-" the Scion paused, the signal, it was back and now joined by another.

He raised an eyebrow, if they were the enemy, they didn't seem to interested in coming closer. The Monitorn's machine spirit indicated that they were milling about outside the trench network.

Regium gestured to the left, two of his squadmates nodding and shouldering their Hotshot Lasguns, peering over the lip of the trench. They scanned the direction for a moment both climbing down and staring at him.

"There is nothing there," a static tinged voice told him.

Regium blinked, quickly glancing again at his device. The red dots were even more numerous now the dots forming a cluster at the point near the first one that appeared and spreading throughout the screen.

"Impossible," Regium said, stepping onto the soaked, half rotten wood that framed the trench to peer out the side.

At first he saw nothing, such like his squadmates had told him. He took a hesitant look at his Auger again, same display, the enemy supposedly surrounded them from all angles. Had Enginseer at the depot not service his equipment properly?

He began to doubt his tool when he saw movement, a twitch from the black earth. Immediately his weapon went to his shoulder and the dull copper coloured coils of Regium's Plasma rifle glowed to a soft blue.

Another brief pause and a figure rose from the ground. It appeared to be guardsman in standard issue carapace armour, albeit slightly damaged. He was wounded, a gaping wound on his lower abdomen.

Regium considered calling out to him before he another figure rose, this one a Culstis of Chaos with a crude gas mask in the form of a rag with tubes and goggles attached. This once was also wounded, his arm blown off at the shoulder. He expected the Guardsman to charge the Cultist or run. Instead, the two simply stood there, swaying like trees in an absent wind.

Puzzled by this at first, the Stormtrooper charged his weapon once more and prepared to lob a blob of white-hot plasma and reduce the traitors into chunks of charred flesh. That was before Commissar Yana gasped.

"Throne of the God-Emperor…"

Regium tore his eyes away from the his two targets to see what she had the Commissar shocked. It was not pleasant. All around them, the 'corpses' that once lay in the mud and blood twitched, writhed and scrambled up, some missing the limbs necessary to do so and simply dragged themselves halfway upright.

There was not groups, nor tens, they were hundreds of the living dead, those now infected with the plague of unbelief. They had been tricked into believing these corpses to be combatants killed, going so far as to replicate the wounds on the corpses to fool the scrutinizing gaze of the Tempestus Scions. All to draw them into a trap.

The walking corpses turned slowly, having gained directions and purpose from some unseen sorcerer. They shambled towards the Commissar and nine Scions. The perfection that was once the human form now perverted by the machinations of the warp ridden virus into little more than automatons of decaying flesh.

They shambled and dragged themselves forwards, swaying forms of the undead, some gaunt and emancipated, others burgeoning masses of corpse gas, ballooning so full that a stream of green smoke constantly spewed from their gaping mouths and absent eyes.

Liquefied organs slathered out from orifices of open sores and wounds as the undead advanced, the thrice cursed mark of Nurgle, the Lord of Decay, glowing bright green on their bodies.

Regium's eyes widened behind his Respmask array before he brought his weapon to bear once more. Charging the magnetic coils to full and awaiting orders from Yana that were sure to come.

"OPEN FIRE!"

"Finally…" Regium whispered, a superheated glob of semi-liquid accelerated by the weapon's magnetic coils and into the mass of undead surging towards them.