It took Gilbrand ages to get out. Surely they had a much shorter voyage on the way in. Then again when geography met orbital bombardment, it was geography that gave way and changed - burying them deeper than they were was not a great feat. After ages of digging, just as he was starting to feel like a character in an ancient tale faced with an eternal task, he started hitting earth and muck instead of rocks and dirt. Like a newly born ork boy, Gilbrand emerged from the mud with a triumphant cry and tossed away his improvised shovel. At first he couldn't see a thing since most of that mud was also on his helmet and respirator, so he tore it off and took a deep breath of fresh air – first he had in quite while. That was his second clue something was wrong. First one was the mud and soil. He was expecting to hit molten rock and glass instead - the usual leftovers from bombardment. Second was the air – when they landed here atmospheric scans had shown a high amount of nitrogen and sulfuric fumes – not enough to damage Astartes lungs, but enough to make everyone seal their armor. Now the air lacked the smell of rotten eggs and was in fact quite pleasant, still a bit thin but not to the point of causing suffocation. Finally Gilbrand opened his eyes – this was not the world they landed on. Like most places preferred by the Necrons, Tormon III was dry and arid. Now, while not lush and green, it was covered with substantially more vegetation. Caution replaced his excitement on being finally free. This was surely some sort of trickery or illusion. Was the planet engulfed in a warp storm or even swallowed whole in the Immaterium? Ships had often gone missing in the Warp and reappeared thousands of years after or in some cases before their departure. Perhaps it was…but unlikely. Such subtle appearance was not typical of the Great Enemy. Chaotic influence on this scale, even at its best always left a slight after-taste…like the uncanny valley of emotions – when something was trying really hard – even harder than reality would. Besides on Demon worlds the forces of Chaos had no reason to hide behind masks.

So that was not the case…Then what? Was it something to do with the Necron construct down below? Food for thought indeed, but few in the Imperium ever had the chance to study Necron technology outside of its immediate effects on the battlefield – even if it was, there was nothing he could do about it. Gilbrand reclaimed his helmet and tried the vox. There was only static on the combat channels as well as the open ones. Of course…"Where there is one Ork, there is a hundred", he thought to himself. Murphy's Law never fell out of favour, even if the expressions for it changed. By the looks of it he was going to spend some extra mission time on Tormon III.

Well, perhaps if he was a Salamander or Iron Hand, he'd just bang two rocks together and forge a masterfully crafted sub-space communications array that would send his call beyond the stars. Alas he was neither and his expertise with spanner and welder didn't spread much further than what was needed to maintain his weapons and armour. Besides he lacked any tools apart from said weapons. Sure, you could cut down trees with a power axe – it was great at the task actually – half the time you'd get firewood that was already singed or on fire. That said Gilbrand did craft something during those first days in the wilderness. Well hidden and gently tucked in the half burned fenrisian wolf pelt that adorned his shoulders not so long ago, was a freshly baked clay urn full of white ash. Upon it he inscribed the saga of Khold Gunnrar, son of Rani, son of Thengar, warrior of the Eidelini tribe, Astartes of the 5th Great Company of the Space Wolves. It told of his birth, his life and many deeds in the name of the Allfather, and finally – of his death by the hand of the Necron scourge. Upon his life and honour Gilbrand swore to see his ashes returned to Fenris, as well as the sword of the Black Templar no matter how long it took. Time was of little consequence for Astartes. He strode along the surface of this world for days that turned into months that turned into years, occasionally chasing down one of the local critters for food. The task of satisfying his hunger was not worth the waste of a precious bolter round. While not the best, raw meat was sufficient and his preomnor could handle much worse. It was not starvation that he feared most, here in his cage the size of a planet. As the decades rolled on a question was appearing more and more often in his mind, as he looked up to the skies:

"Have you forsaken me, my Lord?"

Meanwhile above his head the Galaxy moved on, uncaring of his plight.

2170 CE

"This is Carl Smith live for ANN, I'm standing just outside dock 3, here on Arcturus Station. – The picture was a bit shaky as the tall man kept walking- As you know from my colleagues in ANN, the colony world of Mindoir in the Attican Traverse had been attacked by slavers 18 hours ago which prompted the current emergency meeting of Navy officials that has been taking place since 5 PM Earth time. Reports on the actions taken by the Alliance Navy in response to this brutal…Wait they are coming out!- The sudden rush strained the camera drone. Grim men in Navy personnel uniforms were making their way through the throng of reporters, aided by their bodyguards.- Admiral! Admiral! Sir, what can you tell us of the Navy's progress with liberating Mindoir? – No comment.- Another reporter was trying to squeeze herself through – Sir, do you agree that the batarians have finally gone too far and that the Alliance will tolerate them no longer? – No comment."

2181 CE

"In its previous episode "Man of the hour" described the events leading to the pirate attack on Elysium as well as the first few moments after the pirates had made landfall. The token Self-defense force of the Colony was indeed supplemented by Alliance marines, but they were still terribly outnumbered. Fortunately for them, currently on the planet was one lieutenant John Shepard, claimed to be an N7 operative by some, who took over after the garrison commander was killed…" – the voice of the documentary trailed on and on. Behind a puff of cigarette smoke, a pair of blue eyes was consuming every detail like a hawk trailing a rodent: -Interesting…