Sequence I

"Centurion Gunther, this is hunter pack 6, we are at the lower levels near the loading bays, we have yet to identify any illicit material or any indication of Thousand Sons presence, it seems the witch-filth of Prospero didn't take part in any plans of escape."

Brother Oswain spat as he reported the findings of his pack to the elder wolves. Normally he'd be bursting with glee for a chance to kill the mutant spawn of Magnus, but instead of participating the glorious war to tear down the kingdom of the witch king, he is stuck on some lousy civilian vessel lead a bunch of pups with no self-control. Whatever this ship is hauling, it is a tragedy for any with a finely tuned sense of smell.

In his peripherals, a figure appeared, hunched over, limping and wrapped in grey rags.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

Oswain swooped around, aiming his bolter while the blood claws drew their chain-swords, ready to tear apart their prey when commanded. The figure paused, seems shaken by the presence of Astartes and turned slowly toward them.

"I I, m-milord, I am a thrall labourer, I j-just… I was moving some organics from the 3rd loading bay to the main storage, I don't know nothing, I swear."

Under the rags came a rasp and dry voice, its clarity further hampered by the panic of its master. It gestured the massive cart it was pushing, canisters of homogenised bio-material and diet supplement. Oswain was visibly annoyed at this turn of event, no traitors, just another bloody civvie that was distracting him from the line of duty.

"Go back to crew compartment. This is a military sweep and you must leave, unless you want your gut spread across the deck."

Oswain brushed off his rising temper, and bitterly addressed the indentured slave. In return the rag-draped thing quickly bowled and moved out of his way. Still grumbling, Oswain herded his charge onwards. Complete his duty, for the wolves will have no slackers in their midst.

Before he made his third pace, Oswain froze; a wave of relief flowed through him, and his breathe had eased, as if a weight was lifted off his chest. His mind scramble in order to comprehend his unnatural response. All the crew and labourers were rounded up ages ago, part of the initial boarding procedure; and the loading bays, they were empty. Now he knew why he was so startled by a mere mortal slave, there was a voice in the back of his voice, no, a thousand screams echoing in his subconscious; this was no slave, but an apex predator that the mightiest of Fenrisian wolves would flee from.

His muscle tensed, and he could hear his own twin hearts beating like pneumatic jacks, then he gathered any and all strength he could muster to face whatever may lay hidden in those damned rags. He turned slowly, as to not startle the cloaked thing and as he turned, so did the young'uns; inexperienced they may be, the gift of the great wolf had bestowed them greater extra-sensory gifts and every son of Lord Russ could draw upon them. The pack snapped around with ferocious strength and behind them the cloaked figure remained, limping no long and facing them.

Without any command, chainswords roared in their gauntlets, fangs bared, the loud clunk as explosive bolts were cycled into the chamber; and in return the stranger stood still, stayed silent.

"Show yourself, wrench! Or be blown to pieces!"

In an instance the cloak was shed, and under it was a power-armoured figure. Its mark was unlike any that Oswain had gazed upon. Its helm was smooth and featureless, its interleaved joint and angular case was a dark steel; a feint hexagonal patchwork etched on its surface, shimmering in the dim lights of the corridor. The armour was unadorned by any icon; unit markings or military designation save for its segmented pauldrons.

It was a gaping maw crushing a verdant world. Imprinted onto the plates in blood crimson.

It was a world eater, a maddened berserker of the XII-th legion, driven insane by their mutilated mind. In his grip a double bladed halberd, its blue power field hummed ominously in the cold air of the walkway. This man before them was undoubtedly an Astartes… albeit a rather short one.

As the wolves opened fire the Astarte also moved; it shifted with unnatural precision, so much so that the bolts impacted harmlessly on the surfaces. Within a moment he was among them, the halberd cleaving effortlessly into the ceramite; he attacked with surgical strikes and precognitive insight, parrying and deflecting so that the chainswords of the wolves were more or less hitting themselves. Furious sparks bounced from gauntlets and greaves, the peerless training of space marines seems but mere children's fooling as he systematically murdered them; first removed them of their weapons, then their limbs and finally a shadowy blow that sliced through the cranium. There was no war cry, the stereotypical fury of the XII-th legion all but absent from this scene of slaughter, he leapt and swirled amidst the wolves, and with every stroke falling more of them. In all but a moment there was silence, a lone black space marine stood in a pool of splattered gore and butchered carcasses, the image burnt into Oswain' s retina as he laid against the wall, his conscious mind fading as life bled from him.

"This is Val Sulaharr, I have infiltrated the Cypria Selene in stealth; ready to retrieve the relevant subjects."