Ozpin's cane-sword flashes forward, impaling an Ursa Major's head. His movements blur as he speeds forward, dealing death with every precise lunge and slash. A black mist of evaporating Grimm surrounds him, and the remaining beasts hesitate for a second, and he flashes a knowing smirk at them.
The immense figure crashes into the mass of Grimm, sending Alphas flying with each swing of his maul, the strikes precise, metronomic - as if a machine was doing it, and not a post-human being. Still, Ozpin wonders for a second. He has known Perturabo for a long time now, they fought and bled together, allied to a common, noble goal, and throughout it all, he has never seen the man like this, not even when they faced that dragon.
Perturabo's usually cold blue eyes burn with actinic glow, his vast bulk radiating deadly focus and a vast, void-dark, all-consuming wrath. He does not waste breath on roaring, cursing, bantering - his whole being is centered on destroying their enemies, and Ozpin focuses again, his own considerable talents and skills barely enough to keep up with the cold fury of Perturabo's advance. Against either one of them, even the hundreds of Grimm would stand an even chance at best. Against both of them, in this state? The mere thought is laughable, and Ozpin does indeed laugh, a bitter, hollow sound, as the last of the Grimm falls to their fury.
"She played us. I had thought she might oppose our plans, but I never saw this coming." Ozpin's voice is like his laugh, empty, flat. "Forgive me, my friend. All the wonders you built, all the results we gave them, and they spit upon it, to preserve their power. I thought she would..."
Perturabo's vast hand alights on Ozpin's shoulder, the giant's voice full of pain.
"I know, my friend. It was the three of us who decided she' be the best for that position. Do not even dare to consider this as your own mistake." The Primarch squares his immense shoulders, and heads towards the burning wreck of their plane. "I know you do not like it, but I strongly suggest we gather the Maidens."
Ozpin's eyes narrow in thought, as his mind races along the plans he discussed in the years of close partnership. His voice is low, hesitant.
"You mean to make a statement, cross that line you never wanted to cross."
Perturabo's gaze simultaneously burns and freezes him.
"I see no other choice, Ozpin. If you do, tell me!" The human slowly shakes his head, and Perturabo smiles, a bitter, hate-filled showing of teeth. "She accused us, me, of being power-hungry, meddling tyrants. With your help, I intend to prove her correct."
Ozpin sighs, considers once more, finds no viable alternative. He nods, and leaves to his preparations, while Perturabo fiddles with a device he hoped never to use on Remnant.
Weeks pass, as Ozpin and Perturabo head back towards Beacon, rumors swirling around them. Ozpin is worried for his friend - the Primarch takes it seemingly in stride, but he knows him too well. The giant post-human's iron will is on the brink of snapping, and Ozpin fears it will snap much harder than back in that godforsaken outpost. He fears for his friend's mind - and prepares for the possibility of having to stand up to him.
Salem watches from her command podium as Perturabo strides forward towards her lines. For a moment, she thinks he came alone - then four figures emerge from the shadows of the trees. She suppresses an urge to laugh. Their minds must have snapped finally - five of them, against her thousands? And that's not even counting her trump card, her beasts. Not that she would let them kill him, no. Never that, never him. Ozpin would die, today, and with his influence removed, she could likely mould that wonderful, exquisitely sharp mind of Perturabo to what it was meant to be. It was foreseen.
The Primarch stops, shoulders his maul, his voice echoes over the whole vast field.
"You are standing on ground we bought with our sweat and blood from the Grimm. Your forefathers toiled and died to help us build the wonders you carelessly discarded in your madness. You are beset by madness, led by a madwoman following false promises. I never wanted to rule, only to build, but you are leaving me with no choice. Still, Ozpin convinced me to be sensible. So. I will forget every face who departs now."
Commotion in the ranks, whispers, mutters, movement. Salem jumps to her feet, hissing orders, her shadows hastening to obey, to somehow stem the trickle of cowards before it becomes more. Perturabo speaks again, his voice ringing over the field, cold fury dripping from his voice.
"While we stand here, Ozpin and his hunters fight for you against the Grimm - the only enemy we should be fighting. Last chance - if you do not leave now, you will face Remnant unleashed in a way like never before!"
The trickle does swell, and even Salem's best and hardest men are not enough to completely stop it. She centers herself, closes her eyes, focuses. When she opens them again, a blood-red glow shines from within, twin mirrors to the terrible, swirling maelstrom visible only to a chosen few on the planet.
She throws her head back and howls. The Grimm and her people answer in kind, throwing themselves forward to drag down the Primarch.
"So be it then, Salem." Even with the power filling her, even across the distance, over thousands of humans and coalescing Grimm, she flinches from that void-cold blue glare boring into her very soul, analyzing, dissecting, weighing her, finding her wanting. Perturabo nods back towards his four companions, and Salem's world shatters as the five rush her army.
The very elements turn on her forces, battering man and Grimm alike with their unstoppable force. At a motion from one woman, the ground crushes and swallows those who walk on it. Another gestures as plants and animals burst forth from seemingly everywhere, hamstringing, entwining, consuming everything in their path. The third immolates everything in her path. Stormclouds gather over the fourth, darkening the sky, and thunder rumbles in the heights before it starts raining lightning.
These things do not faze Salem much. She herself can wield similar powers now, thanks to her new patrons, who were kind enough to underestimate her, allowing her to consume them. No, what rattles her and shakes her to the core is the Primarch coming towards her. His movement is deceptively slow-seeming, the inexorable march of a glacier, and the measured swings of his maul convey that power, that weight to anything that seeks to bar his way. All the while, his gaze never leaves Salem, holding her captive, rendering her unable to act until it's almost too late.
Dust-alloyed maul meets warp-forged blade with a thunderous, concussive impact. For an eternal second, Perturabo looks deep into Salem's eyes, searching for the old companion, not finding her beyond the swirling images of the terrible eye in the void.
"As I feared." His left hand grabs something on his vambrace, a silent wave of nothing expanding from him, and Salem shrieks with a chorus of fading voices as she falls back, the Primarch following with measured steps. She thrashes for the transcendent, ethereal power, similar yet different from what she always felt from Perturabo, but finds nothing, and feels him closing. Salem reaches then for the other power, her skin bleaching bone-white, red markings creeping up her face, as the Grimm howl in triumph.
She wills them to carry her - away from the fury of the elements, those warp-damned Maidens, and more, away from him. She needs time to heal, to plan, but she will not give up. Not before he sits at her side.
