Weapon-VII: Thanks! As far as I know, the night elves are thicker in build than an Eldar, who are quite slim and lithe. That and a night elf's skin will range from a miasma of blue to purple, which differentiates them from space elves quite radically. To the our space marine, a night elf is just another xeno, and though there are similarities between them and the Eldar, there are also enough differences to mark them apart as well. As for the blood elves, well, that's another matter entirely! The Scarlet Crusade will undoubtedly make an appearance in this fanfic, but that'll be much later in the book.
Skipper_1337: Thanks! The interaction between the Chaos gods and the Burning Legion is indeed interesting, but their relation will be revealed in later chapters!
Chapter 3
I see now why these xenos have stopped. Their settlement is in the throes of death, defiled by the tainted daemons of Chaos. The xeno leader, the one who parleyed with me, drops to her knees in shock and despair. I feel my disgust towards these aliens grow. They should be surging forward to their Astranaar, eager to avenge their dead. Instead, they shed worthless tears while they await their inevitable doom at the hands of the Warp. I feel the need to spit, my ire raised by such worthless beings.
A triumphant roar snaps my attention from the stunned aliens. I magnify the view my visor presents me. What I see turns my revulsion to hot, seething hatred. Stalking with malignant confidence, a daemon, taller and bulkier than the rest, directs its minions into the fray. I note its twisted visage, half hidden by a helm of archaic origins. Its muscular body is clad in purple plate, decorated with the bones of its enemies. A reptilian tail flicks back and forth lazily, rippling with mutated muscle.
The loathing in my twin hearts mounts to its crescendo. I remember the Purging of Caetrati Hive, where the streets ran slick with blood of good Imperial citizens. I remember the righteous rage that overtook us as we discovered the mountains of piled dead slaughtered with no apparent reason. I remember Brother Captain Sventius cutting a swathe through hordes of cultists to get to the daemons responsible this blasphemy. My odium bubbles and boils, threatening to overflow. Any lesser man would allow his hatred to consume him… to dictate his actions. But I am no mere man. I am a space marine, and my greatest weapon is the control I can exert on myself.
I reach back and clasp the handle of my combat knife. It slides away from its leather scabbard without a sound, three feet of edged admantium ending with a tapered point. I pause as I trace the grooves along its surface, envisioning the blood that would soon stain my blade. Behind the cold ceramite of my helm, my lips twist into a grim smile.
I spring past my xeno guides, jolting them from their reverie. The servos in my power armor whir into life, giving power to my motion, length to my stride. I encounter the first group of warp spawn barely seconds after my rush forward, their hideous faces filled with elation as they chase a panicked group of civilians. My blade descends tip first, plunging into an elongated skull with sickening ease. I rip the blade outwards, the serrated edges tearing apart flesh and bone in great spurts of polluted ichor. Before the others can react, I slay another of the daemons, thrusting my oversized dirk into its chest.
The rest hiss and sputter in their foul tongue, angered by my sudden appearance and the escape of their helpless prey. I make them pay for their hesitation.
"Keina! We have more wounded!" The sentinel commander turned to see a party of battered kaldorei stumbling towards their position.
"Quickly! Aid them!" her sisters needed no urging. They sprang from the makeshift barrier and herded the civilians towards safety. Keina was nonplussed. Her past experience with the Burning Legion taught her the demonic minions of Sargeras spared no one. The Legion's road to domination was littered with the charred remains of cities and the slaughtered bodies of the innocent. Yet, this was the fifth group of survivors that staggered their way through the still burning buildings of Astranaar. As much as Keina hated to admit it, there was no possible means these elves could have withstood such a formidable assault. Unless they had help.
"It's true! I swear! It came from the darkness! Clad in black metal! A god of death!" A panicked voice rose from the crowd of agitated refugees.
"The demons have traumatized you sir; it's only in your mind." The calm tone of a Druid of the Talon answered.
"No! I saw it! Red eyes burning with fire! It tore the satyrs apart like they were nothing! Oh Elune save me from what I witnessed!"
Keina cursed under her breath. The giant had surged past her and her sentinels, surprisingly swift for such its immense form. Keina had wanted to follow, but the giant had quickly disappeared into the flames, intent on who knows what.
The sentinel commander strode forward, and grasped the terrified elf by his shirt.
"You have seen the giant? White helm, black armor?" her voice is sharp and to the point.
"Y-Yes!"
"Where did you last see it?"
"The inn! The satyrs cornered our group in the inn! I-It appeared behind the demons! Oh Elune! The slaughter it inflicted!"
"You know of this strange being?" The druid looked at Keina with interest.
"Unfortunately, yes. My sentinels and I chanced upon it in Raynewood Retreat."
"What was it doing there?"
"I do not know for sure. When we spotted it, it seemed to have no other objective than combating the Legion." Keina replied, gesturing towards her squad as she did so.
"I take it you are going to look for this 'god of death'?"
"I am."
"Hmmm… Perhaps you won't mind me coming along?"
Keina regarded the druid quizzically. He was in his later years, a white beard billowing out from a thin chin.
"I would be honored lord druid." The old elf nodded with satisfaction before offering a wizened hand.
"Tanavar Oakshield."
The trio of daemons is afraid. I see it in their movements, the twitching of clawed hands, the occasional backwards glance. They have seen the bodies of their dark brethren, mutilated beyond recognition. They endeavor to avoid a similar fate. But their attempt is void, for I am stalking them from the shadows.
The Death Spectres have always taken a different view of the Codex Astartes. We realize that as guardians of humanity, we cannot allow ourselves to fall in fruitless and unproductive conflicts. We are not glory hounds such as the Imperial Fists, nor are we mindless zealots, like the Black Templars. You will never see us dying to the last man in defense of a useless fortress, or launching ourselves suicidally at enemy strong points. No, our way of combat is fluid, dynamic, changing as the situation changes. You will see us materializing behind enemy lines, launching devastating volleys of close range bolter fire into the surprised enemy. You will see us strike from angles thought impossible. You will see us attack silently and surgically, eliminating the resistance like cutting a tumor with a scalpel. This is as our primarch Corax dictates.
My arm wraps around the trailing daemon's neck. It has a second to look surprised, before I crush the warp filth to my chest, and drag it back into the darkness. I thrust my combat blade into its neck, the point puncturing a dozen arteries and the thing's jugular. The daemon grows limp. I allow it to drop.
A yell of alarm goes up as the other two realizes their companion is gone. They stand back to back, eyes scanning the burning buildings of the town. How ironic that they are wary of this place when minutes ago they were eagerly destroying it.
I burst from the alley. My blade sings its death song as it cleaves through the air. The daemon's head flops to the earth, spraying blood. The still standing body spasms, its nerve endings shot from the sudden removal of the brain. It collapses as I move towards the last warp spawn. My gauntlet smashes down on the daemon's skull, fingers digging deep into corrupted flesh just as it turns towards me. I lift the struggling thing from the ground, its hideous cries harsh and frightened.
"Know that this is the judgment of the Righteous," I hiss into its face.
I ram my knife up to its hilt into the thing's belly, basking in the shriek of pain that follows. I work my blade up, directing the weapon towards the ribcage and the vulnerable organs that lay within. I ignore the spray of viscous fluid that follows. The screech of the warp filth dies to a faint gurgle as its lungs and heart are torn apart by serrated admantium.
"Where was this god of death during the Third War?" Tanavar commented dryly as their little group passed another gaggle of satyr corpses.
"Hopefully suffering in hell where it belongs," one of the sentinels replied, flinching away from a disemboweled demon.
"Silence you two; your bickering will attract the Legion!" Mellia shushed in reprimand.
"Lady, judging by the amount of demon bodies I've seen through our little stroll, there won't be a Legion left." The druid quipped, almost cheerfully.
"The Burning Legion is countless, druid. We learned that the hard way." Keina responded dourly.
"Well, one can always hope."
A high pitched wail of sheer suffering echoed around the bend, causing even Tanavar to wince. The band of night elves paused, unsure and unwilling to proceed. It was the druid who acted first, elbowing his way through the milling sentinels.
"Come now young ones, don't be shy! I know it's polite to allow your elders to go first, but even that has limits you know!" the old shapeshifter waved.
Shrugging, the sentinels jogged after the druid. They skidded to a halt next to the old elf when they saw the black clad giant toss away the corpse of a freshly slain satyr like a ragdoll.
"And I thought I've seen everything…" whispered Tanavar.
