Every time someone makes a Khorne-Flakes pun Tzeentch's DoNG ExpANds-

...

They did not sleep. Votar searched the train, climbing along the sides of the cargo containers lashed to the various cars until he found the forwards compartments and what appeared to be the passenger cars. He found no windows but several vehicular sized doors. He returned to Yenald and Aranak with his findings.

"The train appears to be automated, or under remote cogitor control, but there are no Cog Mechanicum or Imperial insignia."

"Worrying." Yenald answered.

"Their cargo makes no sense." Aranak bluntly stated, speaking for the first time in a long while. He stood, and he opened his clenched fist. The wind picked up what he held, a strange sandy powder that was slightly reddish. It had come loose when he grappled with a cargo container, its contents spilling out from the hole he punched in its side.

"Sand?" Votar mused; Aranak shook his head and tapped his helmet. "Nay. It's a chemical compound of some sort, its molecular structure matches no known substance in Imperial records and it mimics a highly reactive energy storage capability."

"Anything more?" Yenald asked.

"Yes." Aranak let the rest blow away, shaking his gauntlet free of any residue. "Highly unstable." He thumped his fist against the white cargo container, "In concentrated forms it could – and will, become volatile."

"I assume that shooting it would be unwise?" Votar asked, already knowing the answer but goading the assault marine regardless.

Aranak snorted derisively. "Extremely."

"Break in the woods." Yenald announced, standing up and stepping over to the car rail. He looked out at the thinning red of the trees. The train emerges from the forest of red, Yenald looks out across a growing village.

"Civilization at last- praise be unto him." Votar says. Staring out across green fields dotted with trees- green trees –marching up towards a town enclosed with walls of brick and mortar. The outskirts of the town gave rise to small, humble abodes that could be discerned as wooden constructs of varying quality. The further away from town center, the more ramshackle they appeared. There were several roads leading in and out of the town, but all lead to the center of the settlement, where constructs of iron and stone could be seen even from a distance.

"The train slows." Yenald says, grasping a rail. He leaned over and looked ahead, past the lead engine. There was a hooded station just past the walls of the town, he could see figures patrolling the walls and standing in watchtowers. He had yet to see any weapons.

"A backwater if I've ever seen one," Aranak grunted, "though they must have some ties with the mechanicum if they are in possession of trains and electricity."

"Not necessarily." Votar objected, "Our homeworld of blessed Caltoria developed locomotives during Long Night, and has maintained the use of such things even after the introduction of the Machine cult. It may be the same here."

"Caltoria is an astartes recruiting world. Of course the cog-priests would stay their hands from meddling in our affairs any more then they already do."

"You see it differently, Griffon?" Votar asked pointedly.

Aranak laughed, "To the priests of Mars, humans are but ignorant children, and like children they are given only the simplest of toys to play with. In this, they are the most terrible of guides, they do not teach the children how to play, what to play with and what they must avoid; they simply take and hoard for themselves."

"He is correct." Yenald agreed.

"Regardless, let us see the truth for ourselves. What the nature of this world is."

Nelis had been working the Valden-wood station for well over twenty years of his life. He had started as a crew-hand, scraping pitch from the side of trains and slicking the runners on cargo lifts when he was just a boy. It was good work and the pay helped his family get by during harsher times.

Now he was the stationmaster for the city, and he couldn't hate it more.

When he was a crew-hand he didn't have to stand around all day, watching trains roll past every odd hour. He didn't have to sit behind a desk and run through scroll after scroll of endless text concerning the shipping manifests of the next haul, making sure everything was in order and up to specifications.

He wiped sweat from his brow, drying his hand on his shirt. It wasn't hot out today- it was just him. He was out of shape, not fat yet, but definitely putting on the pounds, the trek to the station used to be a relaxing uphill stroll, now it was a grind and a half, yet another reason why he hated this new gig. He shouldn't have taken the promotion, but the money was good and he finally was making enough to move his parents out of the slums and into a proper house. He complained, undoubtedly so, but seeing his mother and father smiling again made it worth the monotony.

The train was just cresting out of the forest, and already his 'boys' were lined up, gloves on and helmets loose on their heads, ready to unload the various shipping containers. The shipment was a big one, a 'Schnee' shipment, and Nelis had express orders to get the cargo off as fast and safely as possible. Nelis snorted and spat. There was always something shady in whatever the Schnee Company did, and it always ended poorly for whoever decided to get involved without permission.

Nelis shaded his eyes and peered out at the approaching train, black and monolithic with a double-rail suspension. As it grew nearer, something caused him to look again. It was not supposed to be a passenger train. That was clear from the get-go, it was made to get from point A, to points B, C, D, and E, and then back to A in a diligent, orderly manner. Human crew took up space, and required living compartments along with provisions. They needed to be paid, they needed to sleep and eat and use the restroom. They were also a liability that could potentially endanger the contents of the shipping containers.

Thus, they were removed, and automated systems were put in place instead.

It did not make sense then, why the stationmaster could see three distinct figures upon that same train. He at first thought bandits and thought to go for the alarm, but there were only three, and if needs-be, the shooters in the watch towers could easily pick them off when the train came to a halt.

It was only when they came into full view, Nelis realized that it might be a bit harder than that. Two men and what could only be some primitive form of an Atlesian mech, maybe even a custom design. Eight feet tall and covered in more armor plating than what should be possible. He could only guess that the power requirements for moving something that looked so heavy must be immense.

The men were nothing to snort at, although less intimidating in comparison to the war machine standing behind them. They had guns; well-used pieces of equipment, bulky in design and both were adorned in dark, shimmering capes that seemed to absorb the light around them. They wore dull colored armor that was rife with pouches and what seemed to be bullish round explosives on their waist. As the train came to a halt and ramps dropped down from the side of the train, there was a terse moment of unmoving silence. The workers stared up at the strangers, and they in turn looked back down at them.

They did not strike Nelis as brigands; they seemed too composed for that. There was an odd air about them, they came off as the victim of a cruel prank that involved spiriting away a sleeping man and letting him wake up in a strangers house in a different city in a different kingdom on a separate continent.

The stranger with the bulky scoped weapon and length of polished metal across his back shifted his weight, eyebrows furrowed, he seemed to be mulling over what exactly to say. He stepped forwards- the station crew instinctively stepped back. Nelis didn't blame them, the man was enormous, a slab of corded muscle, the scars running over his face and a crew-cut that screamed 'military' also did not foster charity.

The man spoke after a moment, "In dei nomine, princeps, salvete me adducere." He sounded like the devils own- a low gritty voice that was at the same time calm but strict in equal parts. The man did not come off as intentionally hostile, however, it was this facet alone that gave Neils enough backbone to act. He arched an eyebrow, looking to his crew for confirmation, and then back at the man again. 'Foriegners. Great...' Nelis thought to himself, 'This throws a wrench in things.' Nelis wasn't an especially educated man, and when he glanced back at his 'Boys' he saw that they too weren't exactly sure who it was that was standing before them, or where they came from. "Uh," Nelis began coughing slightly, hitching his pants up and stepping forwards. "Sorry, I didn't quite catch that." The man who spoke blinked and regarded Nelis for what felt like an hour, ridiged grey-blue eyes studying him before he turned to his compatriot who in turn shook his head, frowning. Nelis' shoulders slumped. He could only guess that Schnee hired out some foriegn Mercs to guard this shipment, must be highly illicit or valuable, most likely both given their track record. It took time, but enough gesticulating managed to get the point across that they needed to step off of the train. It was a tense endeavor that saw to sweat trickling down Nelis' face more than several times, but the two armed men and their mech trudged down the ramp eventually. His boys stepped on, guiding crane cables to latch onto the shipping containers so they could be hoisted off and onto waiting flatbeds below.

They stood away from the train, near the edge of the platform overlooking the bustling town below. It spread for a mile or so around, fortified walls along the outskirts, while further in were cottages and markets, heretic chapels and buildings of commerce. Wheeled ground-cars and cargo trucks rumbled over smooth-paved streets, humans walked down sidewalks, Yenald watched a family walk just below the train station. He leaned over the edge slightly, the boy looked skywards and saw him; he pulled on his mothers sleeve and pointed, Yenald smiled.

"Did you make sense of that language?" Votar asked, watching the humans move with a practiced efficiency. Clipping heavy hooks on the containers and swinging them out over the town where they were deftly lowered.

"Nay," Aranak rumbled.

"It sounded like Lunar Runic." Yenald opines as he pulls out his Auspex once more, he presses the rune of activation. "The accent is wrong. Too fast."

"This presents a problem," Votar sighs, "How do we expect to navigate this world when we can hardly understand its people?"

"We will learn."

"Do we really have the time to afford doing so?"

"We will make time."

"I will not partake in the learning of a Heretic Language." Aranak snorted. He let his helmets snarling face glare at the train workers.

"We may have little choice but to do so." Votar said. "Going around and asking common folk about The Emperor, and the Imperium of Man would otherwise be the only practical. In this situation it would seem that the theoretical has become the practical." Yenald smiled, his Initiate had learned much. "It should not take long, regardless, I have already broken down the basic sentence structure of the language. If I am correct, the pattern of speech does indeed connotation well with Lunar Runic."

"That is good-"

Thunder tore open the air. It ripped away the tranquility of the town, and turned it into a cage of chaos. The Astartes trio saw one of the multi-story buildings at the village center go up in flames. Its glass windows shattered from the ground up as the telltale crack-boom of high explosives detonated on every floor, the building crumbled inwards, collapsing to the street and crushing several store fronts in the process, they could hear the screaming with ease.

"That was…" Votar began; Yenald silenced him with a wave. "Wait." He snapped.

Another crack-boom, more flames, more smoke, several more buildings trembled and shook, bulging outwards and exploding violently as charges tore the supporting beams in half. The sounds of combat could be heard amongst the crescendo. The men behind them jump at the explosion and rush to the edge of the platform, leaning out over the railing, they babble in their alien tongue. Yenald can see the fear about them.

Figures move through the chaos, bright flashes erupt from the weapons they carry, they wear masks, slit eyes and red markings, they are shouting, screaming, raging. A round bounces off the street, ricocheting up towards the train platform. Yenald snaps his hand out- inhumanly quick, impossibly precise; he plucks the malformed round out of the air.

"Hard rounds. Stub weapons." Yenald observes, turning the bullet over in his hand. In the distance several more buildings erupt, flames tearing them apart from the inside, casting them to the ground in a shadow of debris. Fire begins to catch on other structures, it begins to spread, Votar looks down below. He can see the masked figures, he can see the rifles and machine guns slung over their shoulders, he can see them pouring into the station lobby. He can hear gunfire, he can hear screams, his lips part in an open grimace. "They are slaughtering them."

Yenald drops the spent bullet, and he pulls his Bolt-gun free. "More trouble"

"Correction." Aranak growls, he thumbs the activation rune to his chainsword, It's teeth begin to spin. "More corpses."

Seras Kyuli. Age, thirty-three, female, two kids, one deceased, the other missing and presumed dead after enrolling in a hunter academy and going on her first 'hunt'.

Seras Kyuli. Rising star of the White Fang.

She wouldn't call herself a hardliner like the rest of them. She never found it in herself to buy into all the rhetoric and fiery speeches. It just wasn't her style, and heck- in all honesty she even flat-out disagreed with the way that White Fang operates. She would have turned a blind eye to their actions if they had just stuck to egging storefronts and institutions that turned away Faunus', she may have even overlooked the odd fire-bombing or two- just to show that they were serious, no one had to get hurt.

It has gone too far now, its gone way too far. The raids, the killings, the assassinations, its gotten out of hand, and it wasn't going to stop. She recognized all of this; that this was a perversion of what the White Fang represented- what it was supposed to be. The White Fang she grew up with and joined was a peaceful institution, it was an open-armed place for Faunus and humans to band together in a symbol of equality, a place to show that the people of Remnant could do it- that they could make it work out all right and live side-by-side.

That was all long gone. It was dead. It was rotting in the ground. It was being eaten by maggots that grew fat off the dead flesh of once noble ideas. It could never return, and she recognized this as well. There could never be peace between Human and Faunus, not after all they've done. Too much blood has ben spilt, and after today it would only get worse. It could only ever get worse. It could only ever turn into an endless cycle of violence that kept perpetuating this brutality in increasing doses. Opium for the masses so that they might sleep.

She led her team into the train station and she pulled the trigger- one single long squeeze as she swept her machine gun back and forth across the lobby. Shell casings rattled to the ground and were joined by the bodies shredded before her. Smoke rose from her barrel as she emptied the last of the box mag into a ticket booth, she saw splatters of red against the back panel inside, spraying up from out of line of sight where the ticket teller had thought to hide.

She unclipped the spent box; she loaded another one in, feeding the belt into the chamber without needing to look. This wasn't the first times she's done this sort of thing.

She was glad for the mask, it kept the blood and grease and soot off her face.

"Check the restrooms, might be a few more in there." Two of her squad peeled off, guns slung low and ready, fingers itching to pull the trigger.

"We going up?" The Fang' behind her asked, racking the bolt on his rifle unnecessarily. She gestured for them to suit themselves; she needed to be down here to stop the train from leaving and rendering the whole point of this operation moot. The whole goal of this mission was to snatch and grab as much dust and leave the rest of the town in tatters as a show of force.

When was the last time she participated in a sit-down protest? Four years? Six? Seven?

She shouldered her gun and stepped over the bodies as her men made for the stairs, she tried not to look down to often, even when she blasted the lock off the door to the security room. She found it empty, a door leading out to the back swinging open; a fresh cup of coffee was still sitting at a desk.

She hoped he managed to get away.

She found the emergency lockdown lever easily enough, bright red and shielded by a flip case switch. She pulled it, and could hear the power drain from the tracks above and rambolts engage to lock any already docked trains in place.

She had a moment to herself now. She looked at the coffee- untouched. She tried it. It was good, sweet, not too bitter, she could remember having stuff like this in White Fang meetings in the early days, in local libraries and sympathetic café's where the last person to come would have to pay the tab.

Those memories were why she still fought; they were why she fought so damn hard.

Hope.

Her tail scraped the ground behind her, and her ears twitched. Hope.

She could envision herself at the head of White Fang. An infamous warrior to Humans, a dark force that cannot be stopped, only held at bay and appeased.

A war-hero to the Faunus, a person they would follow unquestionably- hang on her every word and would die if she deemed it necessary.

Then she could stop the violence. She could make it all end with a snap of her fingers, there could be treaties and legislation, the appointment of Faunus officials into positions of power in order to make sure things didn't regress, there could be peace.

She would probably have to die for that to happen, hunted down and assassinated by those angry over her crimes, she knew that there would be- and already are- many.

That would be okay.

She would deserve it, she already does deserve it, and hell, she might even save them the effort and plug herself. She couldn't be forgiven for what she has done; she wouldn't allow herself to forgive herself, much less anyone else.

She was standing on too many bodies for that to happen.

Those bodies… she couldn't stop now, she had many more to go if she were to reach her goal. She would stack them until she could grasp hold of it. A stairway of corpses. All of them of her own making. All for the sake of 'peace.'

She glanced at the security monitors.

She looked in time to see Tykus get his head cut off by a massive snarling chainsaw.

Yenald walks down the train station stairs, behind him is Votar, and to his front is Aranak. He is already coated in a fresh layer of blood. Aranak regards the body that falls to the floor, an ugly ravaged stump of neck leaks arterial gore down the steps; its limbs twitch from the violent separation of its central nervous system. The head itself is crushed underneath the assault marines boot.

The screaming is certainly annoying, but Aranak moves to take care of its source. The panicking masked man backpedals down the stairway, one hand gripping the handrail for support, the other locked tight around the grip of his gun and finger squeezing the trigger. The bullets hose Aranak, sparking and pinging off his armor without so much as scratching the paint.

The Assault Marine appears almost sympathetic towards the mortal before him, but it doesn't stop him from lazily sweeping his blade through the air and separating his head from his shoulders. Another body falls to the ground amongst shells and flattened bullets. "This irritates me." Aranak snarls. His boots crack the final step with an abrupt stomp. He glances both left and right, looking at the carnage with obvious disinterest. A rioting maelstrom of flames and screams is consuming the town outside, in mere minutes it is likely that there would be nothing left to it aside from ash and corpses. The marines had seen it happen so many times before, more often than not, they were the perpetrators of such apoplectic genocide.

Yenald stoops down to examine the head of the masked attacker that Aranak had killed. He grabs it by the hair, blood leaks from the severed stump of its neck, along with a protrusion of the spinal column.

"We have no time to play with corpses, Scout." Aranak turns over one of the slaughtered civilians with his boot, the look of panic is fresh on her face, and it makes him want to retch. He cannot stand mortal humans and their countless failings. "This place is worthless and offers no method of contact with the Imperium. Let the chaff quarrel amongst themselves." He kicks the body away; it impacts limply against the wall.

Votar makes no move to stop the Assault marine but his twin hearts beat that much faster and his grip on his shotgun tightens. He continues to nurture an intense loathing towards this callus red and silver giant.

"Not all of this 'chaff' is human." Yenald pries the mask off; observant of how it mimics the creatures they fought in the red forest. Underneath is abomination. Aranak turns and snarls in disgust, Votar closes his eyes. Yenald holds a head in his hands; it is human save for the snake's fangs that hang from its open mouth, and the scales that fleck its skin.

White Fang. A name spoken in hushed whispers among the people of Remnant, it is also spoken in anger and hate. Extremists, terrorists, revolutionaries, they are all these things. They have blood on their hands. They have buckets of it at their feet. They are far from finished spilling it in the name of their cause. They are illusive, and methodical, they cover their tracks, they hold tight to their methods.

They are well funded, and well supplied, they have access to all manner of weaponry and their resources seem almost unlimited. Their ranks grow every day, their numbers bolstered by a shifting tide and uncaring governments. They are the victims, they are the oppressed. They will bring about a new era, one that seats the Faunus at the head of the table. That day is still yet far away. It is a pathway paved in bodies. This rural town will provide a portion of those bodies this day.

Chaos rules the streets, explosions wrack the city. Bombs send bits and pieces of roofing and metal and remains of innocents into the sky, showering back down like an anarchists rainstorm. Amidst it all, there is the Fang, the White Fang, they storm the streets, blades and rifles held in white knuckled grips, copper casings sprinkle the street with every pull of the trigger, and with every swing of the blade bodies hit the ground- pure flesh and blood humans struck down with wild fire. It is a slaughter.

"SUFFER NOT THE MUTANT TO LIVE!" Blood slickens a street already running red with the stuff, the carnage is interrupted by the howl of a whirling blade cutting through flesh and sundering muscle and bone. A white fang soldier falls to the ground, mangled beyond all recognition, standing before the still bleeding corpse is a titan in red and silver armor trimmed with yellow, gore stains its front, its helmet is twisted into a vicious snarl. Bullets spang off its warplate, it regards the aggressors with unbidden scorn. With one hand it hefts a bulky pistol, it pulls the trigger twice, two masked men come apart in an explosion of organs, intestines trailing across the street.

The giant advances away from the train station.

"More coming up the street, just around the corner." Votar announces; he racks the slide of his Shotgun, expelling a spent shell. Yenald nods, sighting down his Stalker Bolter, he pulls the trigger, a single bolt round screams out of the barrel and ignites, the mass reactive shell catches the first masked mutant just as he rounds the turn, the bolt punches through his face, into his brain- and detonates, metal fragments and bits of bone and blood add to the spread, the concussive force of a forty-millimeter explosive going off in such close proximity is enough to floor the rest of the squad even before they were around the bend. This is all that Aranak needs in order to close.

He is upon them like a beast among rabbits. He crushes the skulls of two before they can stand, pulverizes a third with a point blank bolt round that punches through and detonates inside the fourth. He decapitates the fifth and sixth with a single swipe form his chainsword. He snarls fiercely through his grill helm, unsatisfied with this offering of blood and thunder. "There is still yet more, Griffon." Votar snaps "Do not lose yourself to your hunger just yet."

"Separate." Yenald orders. "Cover more ground. Clear this quicker. Votar: the east. I shall clear west. Aranak, do as you wilt."

Votar came across the first group of masked rebels a minute after separating. There are eight of them, and they are stringing a corpse up to a lamppost. A rope had been tied about the neck of the body; it dangled limp and bloody from stab wounds as they hoisted it into the air. The masks cackled at the sight, some step forward and jabbed at the body with the barrels of their weapons, swinging it back and forth, batting it away as they stood in a circle around it.

It is enough to make a man sick.

Votar is not a normal man.

He is an Astartes, a Scout Marine freshly inducted into the Tenth Company from the ranks of Initiates. This display of cruel savagery does not give him pause; it only serves to stoke his rage. This is sacrilege, and he must tend to it. He advanced from the ruins of the building warped by fire. A sharp whistle drew the attention of the masked mutants. They shouted something at him in their perplexing language, he replied with a succinct pull of the trigger. The spread of buckshot tore away two of the mutant's masked faces. Six remained.

They attacked. Votar put a spread into the front, heavy plasteel pellets cut through knees and shins, tearing through muscle and bone alike. They fell screaming, and Votar chambered and fired again, he was moving swiftly now, finger holding down the trigger, slamming shell after shell against a primed firing pin. He twitched- a bullet whizzed past his head, he dodged two more, and then he was amongst them. He wielded his shotgun like a staff- like how Yenald used his. Slamming its butt into skulls, jabbing with its brutish muzzle. Bringing its stock down on necks and backs. Bones broke, skulls fractured, pulped lungs and bursts stomachs were vomited up in great heaving coughs.

He twisted; ducking low and lazily swinging under a sword stroke, he caught one of the masked aggressors in the gut with a swift swipe of his scatterguns stock. The mutant doubled over from the blow, his mask came off to reveal a confused, and afraid, Abhuman face. Blood leaked from their mouth as they fell. The mutant stared up at Votar; he stood over them, impassive. He puts the barrel of his gun flush against their skull. They try to scream. Votar pulls the trigger.

For Aranak, his partnering with the two Descendants' has been taxing. They are of a different lot: quiet and taciturn, slow to anger, slow to action. It was no surprise; they took after their home world of Caltoria and the ancient unmoving forests that shrouded almost every corner of the world. They were tribal and ritualistic. As a Griffon, Aranak knew a great deal of the importance of Ritualism; his chapter in particular was steeped in it.

That was where the similarities between Griffon and Descendant ended. His was a dead chapter, their home world of Beranta eradicated by the ancient corpse-light of living metal machines that clawed their way to the sandy surface of his world. Since that day the creed and calling of the survivors of Beranta had been swift and brutal- stoked by the fires of indignation, a survivors guilt that could never fully heal. The Partnership with the Sun Descendants had sat ill with those who remained, but they were sworn to the Fury-Captain of the Third Talon. Tassadin; once Captain turned Chapter Master and Griffon Lord by ignoble circumstance. Some questioned his viability; some thought him weak- they questioned his power, his strength.

The pact with the Descendants had put that thought in their hearts, to grovel before another chapter and beg their assistance. It mattered not that they now had a world to call home, to rebuild upon; it was the spirit of the matter. The Griffons Rage are a chapter of warriors- not refugees. Aranak swore vehemently to this creed- he could still remember the sands of Beranta, he wore the trappings of the Second Company- the Second Talon, the Claws of Vindication. The trappings of Chapter Master should be the ranking Furies right, not some sniveling stripling of the Thirds.

Aranak grabbed the face of one of the masked assailants, bullets smacked off his armor, dusting to the ground like lead leaves. He wrenched the mans head around a full one-hundred and eighty degrees, the sickening pop of bones and cartilage being torn out of place settled his mind that much more.

The past day had stoked his ire. Having to be reliant on a half-marine, a whelp that could not even wear the armor of an astartes. He let the limp body fall from his hands, he turned and with one motion he brought his bolt pistol to bear. He thundered off a sequence of rounds, the recoil almost non-existent in his power armored grip. The head of a masked fiend came apart in an explosion of gore, along with his ribcage and waist, the body was blown apart, bits and pieces of sub-human flesh covered the street.

Overkill, but satisfying. He rolled his wrist, letting the chainsword settle in his grip. Again the rain of bullets, he ignored them, ignored how the constant hail of lead slowly chipped at his armors paint. He ignored how the reverberations of their impacts fed through his black carapace and into his brain as a tactile sensation much like the drumming of fingers along a plank of wood. In total, he had already slain twenty-five of the Abhuman filth. His auspex and bio-scanners fed such information through his cogitators and machine spirits logic engines, his helmet estimating that he had eliminated a full quarter of their forces through his efforts alone. Blood slicked his hands and dripped from his chainsword, the teeth revolving slowly, still eager for carnage. He could ascertain its hungry emotion. He too desired more.

Alone, he could ply his craft in full. He stalked down a street in the midst of bedlam, he towered over the panic, all around him human chaff screamed and ran, they saw him and fell to their knees, scrabbling at the ground to stand and run. Like habit, his tactica display laced targeting runes over their fleeing backs and he dismissed them with a blink, sorting out his targeting paradigms so as to exclude them for the moment, his objective being only the ones who hid their face behind the masks of beasts. He rounded a bend in the street, the walls drawing close, already his Auspex painted life signatures in this direction. As his plated boots thudded against concrete his pistol was up, sounding off Bolt rounds, the squad of inhuman beasts are taken by surprise. The first three came apart at the seams, their ruined entrails littering the ground, the last three lived for that much longer as his magazine settled on empty, he holstered his bolt pistol.

The largest among them showed bravery and foolishness. Drawing a steel sword and charging down the marine, a warcry in their inane language splitting from his lips, he had the tusks of a bull Ork, his frame was rippling with muscle and bulging veins. He was also fast, far faster than any of the others he had encountered so far.

He was not astartes fast.

Aranak bisected him with a flick of the wrist- it was almost conducted as an after thought as he stared down the two others, their forms frozen in fright. This was good, they were right to be afraid, right to feel the chill, the urge to cut through their wrists and beg for release, for escape. Then survival instinct kicked in, and they had two choices: run and die later, or fight and die now.

They went for their pistols.

Aranak was there before they could so much as draw the muzzle of their weapon clear from its holster. He crushed the first one with the pommel of his chainsword, and slapped the head of the other ones' shoulders with an almost casual backhand.

Thirty-One dead. Still more to go.

Yenald let fly with a volley of shots, each one punching into an exposed neck. His bolts punched home and burst in the throats of the fools. He shifted right, a flight of bullets slipped into place in the space he had just occupied. They bit into the pavement, their trajectory pulled Yenalds aim higher, into one of the buildings. He volleyed another set of explosive bolts through a window; the snipers blood coated the room. Fire from the first floor of a two-story building, a small smoke shop, autoguns ripped up the pavement around his feet. Yenald ducked and rolled behind a bench. The bullets smacked home as he kicked the metal seat over, crouching low on his side he let them whittle away their ammunition. Two tried to flank around him, he spun on his side and sent a pair of bolts home into the flanker's throat, the body toppled over headless. He could not let himself be pinned. He flicked his firing setting to fully automatic, felt the weight of his magazine, counted twelve rounds left. He rolled out from behind the bench; he gripped his stalker pattern bolter tightly. He held down the trigger.

Bolts thudded into the roof of the smoke shop, a shower of wooden roofing and splinters hailed down to the cowering masked mutants, sections of the roof collapsed as the remainder of the bolter mag emptied, a couch and appliances slid through the hole in the roof, crushing the foes beneath. Yenald slapped the empty magazine out of his bolter and replaced it in less than a second. In the distance he could hear the whine of a chainsword shredding yielding flesh. He glowered. Aranak.

He did not hate the Space Marine of the Griffons Rage. He could not bring himself to do so. The Griffons Rage Chapter was a brutal and individualistic band of Marines. Fiercely loyal, and very divergent from the tenants of the Codex Astartes, they were proud, and utterly ruthless. They were dying out. Yenald rose to his feet and acknowledged the carnage around him with a weary eye. He could hear the screams of civilians further on down the road he was on. He broke into a paced jog, Bolter to his shoulder, scope to his eye.

He could not hate the Griffons, as it was the Griffons who had delivered the Descendants from the darkest night in the history of their chapter. The dread fiends of Commoragh had been no strangers to their home of Caltoria and the twin planet of Caltona. They had haunted the forests like wraiths and fed on their people before, but never was it from a grand Wych cult. The queen of Commoragh, Lilith Hesperex, led a raid on the solitary system. For three days did the system burn under the dark light of the wood-wraiths. Caltona was erased of all life, and the nightmare raiders besieged the chapter homeworld of Caltoria. It was brutal. It was ghastly.

The forests burned, the people suffered, the defense auxilia was fully unprepared- still tribal and not even with lasrifles. The chapter was gouged of four full companies. Over four hundred marines died in the attack. It would have been the entire chapter. Their Lord and Master- Antos, The Denier of Cruel Fates, battled the dread wyches. He was brought low by the foul poisons of the dark elder in an act of cowardice. He nearly died.

Fire from the sky. Drop pods of red and silver, and their own ochre and green, among them a winged angel of vengeance on a pillar of fire. The third company of the Sun Descendants had brought with it back from its conquest a chapter of nomads lost.

The Griffons had delivered the Sun Descendants from a long night. They broke the back of the raider force, made them flee into their dark portals. The newly appointed Griffon Lord of the Rage- Tassadin- delivered Antos from death. Yenald had even seen the young Chapter Master for himself. Regaled in a panoply of artificer armor, a monopoint jump pack of ancient mark, stabilizer wings curved up in an angel's flight. A burning sword fitted with promethium feed lines.

He was young, barely past his first century and in the command seat of an entire, destitute chapter.

Yenald did not envy the boy. He could see the weight crushing the marine master. He wore a suit of armor made not for him but for another- given to him only out of desperation. The venerable Chaplin standing beside him was perhaps the only reason that he had not broken yet under the strain of command. Yenald knew that strain well.

A full squad of masked menaces. Ten in total. They were throwing pipe bombs into the windows of shops. He saw one break through a colorful stained glass affair. Yenald froze. He heard screams from within. A blast shook the street. Yenald watched the mangled small corpse that flew out- streaming fire, his eyes blinked. His bolter was thudding off angry rounds before the child's corpse hit the dirt. Four bodies joined it on its descent.

Votar ran the slide of his shotgun back, ejecting a spent shell, thumbing a new shell in through the ejection port and casually shouldering his weapon. He could feel the desperate fear roll off the thing in front of him, backed into a literal corner. The back of the storeroom wall was disgustingly solid.

Votar heard the babbled words from behind the mask. He could imagine what they were. He ignored them, his eyes tracing down the lizards tail sprouting from behind the man. Votar grunted and lowered his weapon slightly. Before the man thing could react, Votar pulled the trigger. The man-things knees erupted into a cloud of bone and blood. The grenade he had been holding slipped from stunned fingers.

Votar was already tumbling out through the front door by the time it hit the ground. The scout marines shoulders popped as he rolled them, the tension easing out even as fragmentation cut through the air behind him, some of it nicking the back of his neck and arms, pinging off his carapace armor.

The Scout marine began thumbing red shells into the magazine of his shotgun once again. The fight had torn through his ammo reserves. He should have prioritized closed quarters engagement over ranged, but he could not deny that he enjoyed the sight of mutants being torn to shreds by plasteel pellets traveling at sufficient speed. There was something just so rewarding of the purge by gunfire.

The silence of after combat is not silent at all. There is still a town burning around him. Buildings break under crackling flames, gunfire still echoes every odd second, dying down as time passes. Shouts, yelling, screams of pain, the death of hope, the shrill calls for loved ones.

Votar clicks his vox-bead; he is soon answered.

+Status.+

"No further hostiles encountered," He says, ruminating on the wreckage around him. "Proceeding to rendezvous."

+Acknowledged.+

Yenald released the Vox bead, staring down at the corpse at his feet with an unreadable expression. It was a child's body. Charred black and mangled, but he could still make out the proportions that marked it as infantile.

It had been thrown clear of the store it and its family had sought shelter in by the blast made by the chemical explosive the masked-mutants had used. Yenald had even seen the creatures light the explosive that had ended this child's life, as well as the one who had thrown the tubular bomb. It is a sight he had seen played out countless times on innumerable battlefields.

The Marine stepped over the corpse, continuing on down the street, he slipped a full magazine into his bolter. He didn't bother looking back; there were only regrets behind him. He had no use for such things.

He found Votar standing sentinel in what was once a central plaza, the dark train they rode into town on lay silent within the station upon the wall behind them. Yenald wondered how things would have gone differently had it not stopped. "It appears the Adeptus Arbites or whatever facsimile this backwater possesses have been lax in their purges." Votar nods to one of the near corpses possessing less-than human attributes, the mask was shattered, part of the head sheared off, the telltale sign of a chainswords cut.

"Agreed." Yenald has heard of the worlds forgotten to Old Night, before the days of the Great Crusade. Worlds in which Mutants and Abhumans were left un-oppressed, and Inhuman became the master of Human. It was chilling to think of what would happen had they not been present for this attack. The thought struck him then, it occurred how these mutant aggressors wore uniform, how they seemed organized- how they had a plan of attack.

"There may be more."

"That is a distinct possibility," Votar frowned at this; it was a bitter thought indeed. "This might not have been the only village to be struck at, there could be more, further down that railway line." He was quiet for a moment, letting the possibility hang in the air. "Other villages may not have been as lucky as this one, and even then…" He eyed the ruined buildings, the smoke, the fire, and the corpses.

Aranak made his entrance then. A wall blocking off an alley collapsed, bursting outwards as a silver and red shoulder burst through, followed by the hulking form of an armored space marine, chainblade held in one hand, limp corpse in the other. He trudged over to the two Scouts.

"I have reaped a great many foes." He snarled; his belligerent tone amplified by the growl of his Vox speakers. "Mutants are seldom worthy, however." He dropped the ragged corpse of some bastard hybrid between canine and man, triangular ears protruding from the head, a shaggy tail from the back. A grievous wound across the throat marked Aranaks' work.

"You certainly were not lax in your duties," Votar eyed the grisly rent across the corpse, a habit he was beginning to form. "There is a road to the north." He announces. "Perhaps, it can lead us to a more knowledgeable city or Hive. Mayhap, even an astropathic choir?"

Yenald nods his consent to the plan; Aranak waves his hand in neutrality. Before they can move more then thirty paces, Yenald whirls around. "Movement." He announces.

Civilians.

The town is finally reacting to the blow it has been dealt and then relived of. Trickling from their homes, from shattered corner stores, they are bleary eyed and afraid. They are also talking. They gather around, dozens of them now, they approach what could only be their saviors, men and women, children and the old. Some are wounded, some are carrying the others on their backs, but they all make their way around the Astartes.

As Astartes, Yenald, Votar, and Aranak are not unused to the concept of being heralded as heroes- one of their many tittles are the Angels of Death. They are the deliverers of swift retribution to the foes of mankind and their justice is dealt in violence. It is uncommon to be directly praised, however. More often then not, a Space Marine is more concerned with the next battle than any compensation. Duty is reward enough.

Yenald counted thirty of them, it was easy enough to see; he towered over them all, even the men only came up to around his shoulders. They were talking- all of them at once- it was disorienting, so many voices all directed at them. He looked at Votar, the young scout was not faring any better, his jaw clenched pensively, Aranak was inscrutable in his armor. "Votar, can you make out what they are saying?"

"Barley." He answered quickly, "I believe that they are praising us."

"Then let us depart." Yenald grunted. As a Sun Descendant, Yenald and Votar had more interaction with Humans than most Space Marine Chapters; but it was the chapters Druid Sages who often enacted such interaction, dictating the harvests of the fields and weaving enchantments around forest villages to keep out malign spirits. As scout marines, a force usually deployed away from the front and any habitation, they were wholly unprepared for this situation, the memories of their time before the chapter came to them then, a distant thing, clouded and hazy.

In the background, away from the crowd, the survivors pick through the rubble. They carry buckets of water, they pull carts laden with the wounded and dying, they shout commands and sift through the debris. They move like they have done such things before, as if they are used to such hardship. It is almost commendable.

Aranak is watching a group of the Humans dig through a collapsed building. Several are throwing buckets of water over a fire that is threatening to spread along the shattered wooden supports, while the others try to lever a section of the collapsed wall upwards. They heave together as one and it begins to shift, it begins to move. A person drags themselves out from under the ruins.

It is not human, Aranak stiffens perceptibly. Yenald senses this; he glances back at the Assault Marine.

She has a clutch of horns growing from her head, and long ears. She holds a child close to her chest who lacks such horns but whose ears are like a fawns. Two men reach down and help the inhuman woman to her feet, tears are streaming down her face, they are speaking to her, Votar need not translate.

They pull up another section of the wall, and a man rises from the ruins, strong and fair, he steps out from the wreckage, and immediately concerns himself with the inhuman woman.

They smile when they see each other.

They embrace.

Aranak draws.

"Don't-!" Yenald is far too late.

The man falls to the ground without a head. Skull fragments and brain matter splatter and scratch those nearest to him, some are even wounded and fall to the ground. A second Bolt round craters the face of the horned woman. Aranak shifts his fire to those furthest away before they can run; their heads are blown apart.

Another three die in a similar fashion before the panic erupts in earnest. They are simply too shocked; too slow to process how quickly the red giant moved and drew his weapon and fired in one single swift motion.

Yenald and Votar are similarly astonished, but theirs is of a different nature.

Aranak sweeps forwards, mowing down five civilians with a single swipe of his chainblade, he picks off two that try to run before they can clear the end of the block, their backs erupt into explosions of bone and blood.

The assault marine twists around, taking a fraction of a second to aim up at the Train Station before pulling the trigger. The bolt-round flies free, streaking across the town, and punches into one of the cargo containers.

The explosion levels everything.

The shockwave blows Yenald and Votar backwards, off of their feet, heat and ash wash over them; they cover their heads and block out the sound as best they can. When they open their eyes, there is a crimson haze to the air. It is difficult to breathe; they trigger their multilungs so as to filter through the dust.

Yenald takes immediate stock of the wreckage. The town is in shambles. The train station is ground zero- a massive crater yawns menacingly where the wall once was. Moving away from that in every direction, what once stood is now brought to the ground, blown to pieces, vaporized. Even further from the epicenter, debris became hyper-lethal shrapnel, tearing through solid structures, reducing them to shreds, beyond that point, the shockwave blows down what remains.

Yenald has seen the work of the Deathstrike Missiles of the Imperial Guard; he can compare this to a low yield version of those Hive destroying ordinance weapons.

Throughout it all, Aranak stood unmoved. Around him there is wanton carnage and he revels in it. He strides over to his first victim. The woman is headless, her brain spattered across the ground. He levels his bolt Pistol at the corpse and before the Descendants can register what he is doing he has fired, and the concussed mutant child the corpse still held close to her breast bursts apart from a single mass reactive round.

The dust now begins to settle.

Votar is the first to speak, Yenald can see the anger in his eyes and before Yenald can voice his caution, the young Scout snaps. "Do you have any reason for your actions? Would you care to explain yourself- Griffon!"

The assault marine doesn't bother looking back. "These Humans were consorting with Mutants."

"And that was reason enough for you to commit wholesale slaughter?"

This is reason for Aranak to raise his head and regard Votar with the snarling visage of his helm. "Is not within the tenants of the Emperor to remove the unclean? These humans were weak- pathetic little things that had let the mutant run rampant, they have wrought what they have left unchecked. I was merely undertaking a task left incomplete." Aranak crushes the skull of a 'Heretic' under his boot. "Weakness. A characteristic that all Mortals seem to have in excess, I wonder why we bother protecting such flawed wretches."

Votar snorts, a cynical, uncommon grin tickling his lips, it is at odds with the fury in his eyes. Yenald regards his former initiate; the mantras of patience briefly pause in his head.

"Something amuses you, stripling?"

"Yes, actually, something does." He points at Aranak. "You do,"

Yenald quietly moves his finger to rest on his bolters' trigger; he weighs a full stack of bolts left in his current magazine.

"Choose your next words with exceptional care. They may be your last."

"Oh, I disagree. Have you forgotten so easily? Our origins, our purpose?" Votar sneered, stepping forwards, tension coiling in his frame. "Have you forgotten the home you were born on? The face of your mother?"

The lenses, the neck, and the grill of the helmet- these were the only viable options he had at the moment. Yenald did not have Kraken Penetrators loaded, he wouldn't bother with the torso cables, Aranak had Mk.7 Aquilla armor, and the Griffons routinely reinforced the cabling with adamantium and plasteel. The standard mass-reactive fragmentation bolt rounds he had loaded would be less than effective; he would have to go for kill shots towards the head.

"I was born in the craggy mountains of the mighty Rocs where I was trained, there is nothing before that. There is only my gene-father."

"That does not surprise me." Votar says, "Because you are flawed. You are broken. Your chapters apothecaries took not a boy willing to become a warrior, but a stick of iron fit only to ever be a sword." Votar stands before Aranak, his knuckles white, the frame of his shotguns creaks.

"You are pathetic. You chastise humans because you were never human in the first place, you know nothing of what it means to be human." Votar hawks and spits, the phlegm splatters on the pavement before Aranak. "You are not worthy of the title of Astartes."

Sparks shower Votars' face as the chainblade is knocked upwards, passing cleanly over the young scouts head. Yenald steps before his former initiate, staff drawn and spinning lazily in one hand. "Stand aside." He orders his younger. Votar steps away, shotgun still trembling in his hands, anger in his face. He knew that Aranak would try to strike him- but not with the intent to kill. He knew the Assault marine of the Griffons Rage was a brute and quick to anger- but not a killer of brothers.

Yenald was tired of patience. Anger was inside him, and it was foreign. He had only felt it once before, when the Apothecaries told him that the Black Carapace had refused to take, and he would never march with the Brothers of the first, second, or third company. He had been angry that day, but it was different now. That old anger was at himself and the flawed geneseed that rejected that which would make him a true Adeptus Astartes.

This anger was at someone else.

Something else.

The Marine before him. 'Brother' Aranak, Assault marine of a chapter of space marines' only one hundred and forty Brothers strong, was the object of his odium. "Striking at him is akin to striking Brother Master Antos." Yenald calmly explains. "I have been far too lenient." Yenald drops back into a loose fighting stance. "I must discipline you."

On the field of battle, there are few opponents more dangerous than a fully armored Astartes Warrior. Their reflexes are measured in the micro-seconds, their strength is enough to lift main battle tanks, and their endurance and ability to take monstrous amounts of damage makes the process of eliminating even one a truly herculean task.

The races of the galaxy have devised varying methods for dealing with Space Marines, each process unique unto themselves. For Orks, Tyranids, Necrons and the unholy dregs of Chaos, these plans usually surmount to 'More Guns' and 'More bodies.'

The Traitor Legions are rarely cooperative with one another, and even more rare is a sane traitor marine. Tactics and grand battle stratagems are not in the nature of those corrupted by the Warp. There is an exception to every rule of course. The Legions of Horus and his cronies who still exist today have adapted the art of eliminating Loyal Space Marines. The days of the great heresy saw the first accounts of Marine on Marine combat. Some would say that Chaos Space Marines of the Heresy are some of the greatest individual threats an Astartes of the Emperor will face. One-on-One, a Traitor legionary is a brutal opponent that was forged in the crucible of the Heresy, killing space marines is what they were made for. Their weapons and armor may have eroded over the years, but they are by no means broken. Warp taint has seen to that.

The Tau Empire has survived against all the odds stacked against it, but only barely, and their time is soon coming to a brutal end that will leave them as nothing more than a footnote on the pages of history. But during their time they have shown a great propensity for mobile warfare. When faced with armored warriors of Astartes grade, they employ sorcerous technology to keep them at range, and their giant battle suits to gun them down. Chaos Marine and Tau Warrior, training and technology, there is only but one race that has perfected both in the use of combating Astartes.

The Eldar both of craftworld and dark design are arrogant in the supreme, their malice and callus disregard for the other younger races is legendary. They are entitled to their arrogance, as they once ruled the galaxy, and they are also the ones who shattered it. Their weaponry is a pinnacle of design, incorporating organic constructs and psycoreactive plastics. They have mastered the mind and the body in equal measure and on the battlefield they are able to push away innocence in turn for clarity of focus.

Fighting them is like fighting wind and water, untouchable, and incomprehensible. They float around the field, maddeningly just outside reach and once you are able to grasp them you find yourself in an ambush. There are very few warriors that can stand on the same level as them and win. Mankind has one such warrior that not only stood level with them but also surpassed them. It is not through the mastery of the mind or through the perfection of weaponry, it is through the brute physical application of genetic and biological superiority.

An Eldar aspect warrior cannot easily match a space marine in close combat, and at ranged, the Marine is almost impervious to small arms fire. This leaves only heavy weaponry as a viable ranged answer. More often then not an Astartes is not willing to let the enemy decimate them from afar when there is a chance for close quarters engagement where the Marine can utilize his speed, strength, and armor to its fullest effect. Eldar are capable of forging blades that can pierce Astartes armor with a single direct thrust, but being able to kill the marine with a single blow is another matter entirely. The neck, the spine, the brain, and the hearts are the only viable targets for just such an act, but these are some of the most closely guarded parts of a space marine, the marine knows this as well.

The Eldar have devised ways of eliminating Space Marines in close combat that do not involve a direct, single deathblow. Banshees and Striking Scorpions are the most adept at it, and for the most part the most successful. The first step is to isolate a Marine from his Brothers, spread them out; make it so it is impossible for them to utilize squad-based tactics effectively. Outnumbering them is also a priority; at the very least there must be two to one marine, and then the final step. The death of a thousand cuts: strike quick and fast- do not go for vital points, they are too well guarded and armored- to strike at them is just inviting death. The back of the knees, the elbows, the armpits, the wrists, the breaks where the armor is less dense, blind them with bursts from pistols towards their helmets, make them lose their footing, force them to make mistakes, do not let them dictate the terms of the engagement under any circumstances.

This is how the Aspect Warriors of the Eldar race are taught to fight with Adeptus Astartes in close combat.

This is how the Scout Marines of the Sun Descendants are taught to fight Chaos Space Marines in single combat.

Yenald ducks in close, dodging the swing from Aranak that would have taken the head off any other foe. Yenald wrenches his knife from its sheath and slams it into the back of Aranaks left leg. It punches through the rubberized material with some difficulty; only a heavy twist rams it in the rest of the way. The Assault Marine kicks with his uninjured leg, and it clips Yenald, spinning him back, he rolls into a standing position. He is already moving again.

Aranak turns, lurches slightly, he looks down and snarls of the sight of the knife in the back of his knee, cursing he grabs it- the silver staff slaps his hand away and mid strike it changes directions, slamming up into his helmet, he barks a curse, stumbling back. He swings, his chainsword meets nothing, but Yenald is forced back, and the Scout is already moving, Aranak pivots, he deflects a blow and the follow up, but the third finds its way past his guard and catches him in the throat, the fourth sweeps him off balance and the fifth pushes him over.

Aranak sucks air into his lungs, the pain in his throat fades and he sees his chainsword. He reaches for it.

The stark adamantium staff nocks it away.

The click of a bolters' safety being flicked off and a boot planting itself on his chest draws his attention forwards.

Yenald stands with one foot on him, the dark barrel of his bolter pointed directly at his throat.

The engagement lasted for less than four seconds.

"So. You are going to kill me? You would side with mutants over a Brother Astartes? Over the Emperor?"

"We are not Brothers. You said so yourself." Yenald presses the muzzle of his boltgun forwards into the vulnerable neck joint of Aranaks' armor. A shot from this range would kill him outright.

"If so then that makes us foes."

Yenald nods in agreement, his finger rests on the trigger. He speaks. "Are you ready to listen."

"You have spoken to me already."

"But you have never listened."

"What makes you think I will sully my ears with your words now?"

"I have bested you in single combat. Such is a rite among your Chapter."

Aranak grins under his helm, "You planned for this, didn't you?"

"No. I wished to avoid this. You forced my hand." Yenald withdraws his bolter and steps back. Aranak sits up; he yanks the blade from his knee and throws it at Yenald. The Scout marine turns slightly, and the blade slips back into its sheath across his chest.

"Fine then." Aranak pulls his Chainsword over to him. He stares witheringly up at Yenald. "You have hold of the Rocs' Feather. Make your words and I shall hear them. Make your questions and I shall answer them."

"You hate the Mutant. Why?"

"Because they are unclean. Have you forgotten the Creed?"

"Then what of the Ogryn and Rattling and Felinid and Squat?"

"They are but another form of Man."

"And the Psyker and Navigator?"

"Mutant."

"Then why do they see service?"

"They are of use to us."

"What dictates their use?"

"Their ability."

"And those who have no ability?"

"They die."

"How do we judge ability?"

"Through the Emperor."

"You are not the Emperor."

"I am not."

"Then why do you judge these mutants?"

Aranak curls his hands into fists. "Why do you judge these mutants?" Yenald asks again, more firmly.

"Have you committed Heresy, Marine?" Yenald raises his bolter, the safety flicks off, his finger caresses the trigger, and he steadies its scope on Aranaks head. "Have you?"

Aranak stared at the sky for a long while, sitting there, swallowing his pride as if it were composed of daggers and glass. "I have not sinned." He said.

"These mutants are to be considered Abhuman until we are told otherwise." Yenald safeties his bolter, and lowers it. He nods to Votar, "I will speak with you later."

The three Astartes left the village to burn.

The people of Remnant are no strangers to calamity.

Remnant was born out of calamity, and continues to exist through calamity.

Death is par for the course.

People die, the Grimm most often the cause.

Life moves on without them.

A Village has died.

It is not a normal death.

People have taken notice.

"Well one things for certain, there's no way the Grimm did this."

It was a scene from a post-apocalypse themed movie. A city in ruins, buildings hammered flat, streets torn up and walls shattered. Twisted metal beams coiling around themselves, half melted from the heat, debris strewn about and smoke rising from dying embers.

That was all without the bodies.

The corpses were everywhere. They littered the ground in pieces, actual pieces. Where a head was, there was not always a body, and vice versa. A group of four picked their way around them. They held weapons; none of them were the same.

"If it wasn't them, then what or who?" A girl just out of her teenage years, acne scars still fresh on her cheeks, exasperated by her pale complexion and short hair dyed blue. She is dressed for mobility; yet, she drags a sword almost longer than she is tall along the ground behind her.

"The White Fang, Obviously." A boy just barely a man kicks the decapitated head of a White Fang soldier- the cracked mask is covered with blood and soot. It tumbles awkwardly along the ruined street before coming to a stop. He stops short of the village center. He is the leader; the role comes naturally to him. He fits the part.

"Isn't this going a bit too far- I mean even for them this is a tad excessive." The blue haired girl with the excessive sword asks.

"They're a bunch of animals. Animals fight when cornered, Nicole, you know that." The Leader brushes a lock of white hair out of his eyes, he swings out a crossbow of sorts, he flips a latch and it unfolds further, the arms turning into wicked picks. He rolls a body over with it, he observes as the desiccated organs seem to spill out from a massive charred hole in the back.

"Could you not phrase it like that?" This one has a smattering of yellow feathers just below her eyes and a ducks tail. The girl with the sword whirls on her, and she shrinks back.

"What is it now, Chiki?"

"Nevermind…" 'Chiki' falls silent.

The fourth among them, a boy not yet a man, is also silent, knowing his place with a despondent frown. His ears are those of a mouse, and so is the pink tail that drags behind him, he carries what looks like a club of iron with a decahedron head. He falls into step next to Chiki. He tries to smile for her.

"I'm going to go ahead and guess what happened." Leonard speaks up, pointing at the empty space in the far wall that would have been occupied by a train station at one time. "The 'red express stopped here to make a drop off, White Fang wanted what they had and…" He gestures to the destruction around them. "This happened." He said, stepping over the body and walking further down the streets of ruin. The rest follow unquestioningly. Leonard points at the corpses of a group of fallen White Fang soldiers, "Whoever killed the 'Fang here were using explosive weapons."

Chiki held her stomach down, gazing down at the massive gory holes that perforated the White Fang soldiers. Guts and bits of bone spilled out from festering chest wounds- exposed organs bloating in the mid-morning heat.

"How do you know that?" Nicole spoke up. "Maybe a Grimm came through after all of this shit went down." For a student, she was remarkably at peace with the carnage around her.

Leonard knelt down and picked something up from the street, he rolled it in his hands and tossed it to Nicole, who caught it handedly.

It was a shell casing, but unlike any she's ever seen. Bigger than a shotgun cartridge and fully metal, it was heavy in her hands. She turned it over and brought it to her nose, a quick sniff caused her to furrow her brow- she couldn't smell the tang of dust. There was something else that bothered her. It was a fragrant scent, pungent like oil; a slick residue coated the shell. There were also engravings on the cartridge, she ran her thumb along the indent of a two-headed bird, one head was blind, and one three pronged claw was coated in thorns. "They look like twenty or thirty millimeter shells," She turned the cartridge over, looking at the underside, there was script, but she couldn't read it. "You understand any of this?" She looked to Leonard.

Leonard ignored Nicole's' question, pocketing a few more of the spent casings. The only partially intact area of the village was the town center; the high buildings around it sheltered the cobblestone plaza from the majority of the destruction. Leonard took a glance at a pile of corpses, "Someone had a damn bad day," He noted several of the bodies lacked their heads, or were missing arms and other appendages, he gave Nicole's theory credence here, as it looked like some wild beast had torn the limbs from the body upon looking closer at the wounds.

It just didn't add up, however.

"Chiki." Leonard spoke up, the yellow-headed Faunus stiffened, as if expecting reprisal.

"Y-yes?"

"Remember how you protected the folks of that one town? They were all clustered together behind you like a herd of sheep, expecting you to save them." Leonard looked at the spread of corpses, all of them slumped over each other in death- whatever killed them had been quick enough to catch them where they stood, killed them before they could run. "This looks a lot like that- except the Hicks are all dead here, yours were more-or-less alive by the end." Chiki shifted where she stood, she didn't know how to take that remark- a compliment or an insult? That was always Leonard's way.

"What exactly are you getting at?" Nicole asked. Stepping in on Chiki's behalf before Leonard ended his question-come-statement with the usual incendiary barb.

"Nothing, maybe the villagers were all herded here, maybe they didn't come willingly seeking protection or trying to thank their saviors." Leonard shrugged, stepping over several corpses to reach down and pluck a familiar shell casing from under a body. His thumb smeared the blood off of the bird engraving.

"All I'm trying to say is, that we might be dealing with a rogue Hunter, maybe even more than one- a team, even." The white haired boy scowled, "This is going to be a mess and a half…" Leonard took out his scroll. "Take pictures of whatever you think matters and send them back to the Academy, I have a call to make."

...

WHITEY IS KILL