Memory and Fate
Chapter 3: Planetfall
"He murdered our future, all that we had done fell as ashes into our hands. The poison eating into our brethren proved more horrific than any could have imagined." – The Nameless One
-x-
Journal of Solomon Arrikain
485 M41, Battle Barge Sinai
A phantasm like a thousand black needles has wormed its way into my heart. What foul ritual, what dark rites were performed with that charred vessel that such an imprint could be left behind? A derelict ship has brought us to a world consumed by the ravening hunger of some malefic force. These Warp-touched machines only further confirm my suspicions, though I wish that they did not, that the hand of the Arch-Foe is in play.
A deviant psyker lured by false promises? A daemon summoned by foul cultists? Why would some automata seemed to be on both sides of the battlefield? No answers, only questions for us it seems.
Judah is off to take out his rage in the practice cages again. I can understand his aversion to the daemonic, yet he takes it too far. I know he still blames himself for what happened with the Sorcerer. But there is a point where a grudge may yet fester in the noblest of hearts. Perhaps I doubt his resolve too much…
Batsaikhan is in my thoughts recently, I wonder how the old Stormseer would have handled this situation. Does he yet fight on with the White Scars? If not, then I suppose I will have to continue the fury of the tempest in his stead. His advice always seemed to reveal its meaning to me when I needed it most. That saying of his, 'a grand mountain may yet bow to the winds of'-
Solomon drops the pen as a shining pulse of energy washes over his witch-sight. Bundles of scrolls tumble to the floor. The wide-eyed Epistolary glances over at his Codicier, jaw agape at what only they could see. Slowly turning to face his superior, the shaken visage of Malachi works his jaw after a few unsure tries.
"I think this bears inquiry."
-x-
The woods are tranquil, no birds singing. No insects buzzing, nor any whooping yawps from myriad animals. During the day.
A grave omen.
A person bursts from the tree line into ground turned barren from controlled underbrush burns. Hopping from rock to rock over a wide sweeping river, he drops into a dead sprint on the other side. The river was deep yet slow, it would take time, but anything could cross if it was large and determined enough. He scarcely notices the fenced in crop fields protected by wooden watchtowers and palisades. Or the fact that those towers are now empty.
He overlooks the multitude of claw marks as well.
In the shadow of a small dark-colored bluff lays a large village on a hill, Black Crag. The community itself is nestled into a raised, slightly crescent shaped recession into the bluff. Protected from behind and partially from the sides by the eponymous rising peak. The river below provides a secondary layer of defense while also irrigating farmer's fields. The rest of the settlement is safeguarded by a thick perimeter wall. Fortifications hewn from mountain stone and hardwood centuries older than every inhabitant in the village provides a barrier both physical, and mental from the darkness outside.
Yet the timber and granite are blemished and beaten, splattered in some places with ominous dark stains baking in the midday sun. It will soon be put to the test once again. Twin warning bells had blared the moment he broke through the undergrowth, the sounds of pounding footsteps and murmuring voices trickled over the battlements. The large reinforced gates creak and groan open to receive the lone figure.
"Lucas, fucking hell, how many of them this time!?"
The gentleman himself is barely out of his twenties, yet the frontier lifestyle hardens many beyond their years. A short mop of black hair and light brown skin, both caked in dirt and sweat that clings to him like a second skin. Twisting white lines of paint run down one side of his face in great interwoven knots. He wears a mix of clothes both cobbled together from animal skins and a few factory-made articles. Across his back rests a rarer sight for the frontier, a mode-shifting weapon, in this case an articulated bow with an accompanying quiver.
"Watch Master Zaff, move everyone into the shelters and get the whole militia armed and ready to fight! I caught sight of their vanguard out there and we need everyone we can."
The gray-haired militia commander nods in grim concord, barking orders at men and women rushing towards the wall even as the two men follow close behind. Most are loading assault rifles and other firearms. Others carry crates of stacked ammunition. Some pray. In the end they all take their position on the heavyset walls of the frontier village. Several meters thick and reinforced dozens of times over the years, two flights of stairs are necessary to reach the ramparts.
Heavy Dust machine guns are set in circular parapets along spread out intervals. Armored turrets and firing ports enclosed these emplacements in circular shells of wood and steel. On the uncovered ramparts where many of the militia gather, a thick wooden roof is bolted down with heavy supports, set at a slight angle forward. On the face of the walls themselves are many dozens of vicious recurve barbs socketed in place. Any Grimm attempting to scale the walls were in for a nasty surprise.
However, the fortifications are not at all what they could, or should be. The machine gun's barrels are discolored from constant use, patches and welds prominent in most. The roof is pitted with holes of varying sizes indicating the attention of a particularly tenacious species of raven Grimm. Some of the anti-scaling spikes are either missing or cracked. To say nothing of the fatigued state of the defenders. There is only one advantage that many are tentatively hopeful for.
The wonder weapons.
The precious few they still had were wielded by some of the more experienced, and brave, militiamen. Even those hardened veterans are still unsure of their implements. Some appear almost like archaic long rifles that their forefathers had utilized, made from wood and done up in eccentric brass filigree.
The first test firing carried out on a curious Ursa proved the similarities stopped there when it detonated in a flash of electrical energy. Another kind was compact yet shredded an entire Beowolf pack in seconds, although it nearly broke the arm of its wielder. Some fired blasts of energy that set a King Taijitu on fire. Strange blades activated with a sickening buzz after much fumbling and close calls. Yet even with the discomfort they still cut through anything like a hot knife through butter. Though many were unsure of what they found, many saw it as nothing less than a blessing from above.
Then the Grimm came. Came in numbers.
And then the wonder weapons ran out of ammunition or stopped working.
Some killed their handlers.
"Lucas…the stores are holding but if this bullshit keeps up, we might have a serious problem on our hands." The weathered, mature face of the Watch Master looks out at the rustling of the trees in the distance.
He has a shaggy head of salt and pepper hair like the unkempt mane of a lion. Combat armor consisting of simple alloy plates alongside boiled leather adorns him. While the gun he carries is no modern Huntsman weapon, the wooden-stocked battle rifle was as worn yet just as sturdy as its wielder.
"And I doubt those Crown's Point dicks give a rat's ass, probably eager to loot the ruins, fucking sharks."
"One of our messages might have made it through." Zaff's expression is grimly hesitant.
"Maybe…" The not-so-distant howls of Beowolves sung out across the forest.
"Best case scenario, we deal with this until the Kingdom sends an actual hunter."
"To us, you already are one." Lucas's brow droops ever so lightly. "Fancy licenses don't help fend off a pack of Grimm."
Any further conversation is put on hold as the sound of pounding feet and braying beasts finally fills the air. He pulls up an arrow, ending in a sharp point glowing with the telltale shine of Dust. Ignoring the shouts and external sounds around him, the archer closes his eyes and steadies his breath. The Grimm tear through the tree line and into the gunsights of the defenders. Lucas knows from both training and experience what to expect. His eyes open.
It always begins with Beowolves
Fleet of foot and vastly outnumbering their brethren, these wolf-like Grimm are almost always the youngest and most aggressive. There is no method to their rage. They attack in massed waves in a disorganized onslaught across the waters, only kept in line by subtle jolts and snarls from bonier Alphas. Boarbatusks wade just behind them, snorting and squealing through the river muck. Ursai lumber behind the faster of their brethren, wobbling gait masking a physique of hardened muscle and plated bone. The odd Death Stalker chitters in with cackling mandibles and pincers. A flock of smaller Nevermore screeches and caws overhead, gradually beginning to dive earthward. He readies his arrow.
Lucas tunes all of this out as he concentrates on the larger Grimm. Already the thudding reports of machine guns and assault rifles fade to dull echoes. He sees the lines of Dust rounds scythe down numerous Beowolves still wading through the river, gouts of spray thrown up by the bullets. Flashes of esoteric energy immolate a group of particularly tenacious Grimm. Yet his gaze is drawn to the now trotting figure of a large Ursa Major. The archer draws back the string, torsion mechanisms whirring as the bow cocks back.
Calling upon the light of his soul into the arrow, a corona of hazy volatile energy permeates through the projectile. Moments later, Lucas releases the arrow. Arms made from finely wrought Dust alloy and surrounding advanced compression springs snap forward to impart their energy into the bow. Combined with Aura enhanced strength, the luminous projectile speeds from its rest almost as fast as a bullet. A flare of blazing light slices through the air to land squarely between the eyes of a very confused Ursa Major.
Its head explodes in a blinding flash of smoke and seared matter.
Lucas nocks another arrow.
Still, the Grimm come.
-x-
The Astartes had been striking at each other for well over a half-hour.
Training blades were clashing against each other as the two superhumans danced in circles of steel and muscle, a storm of sparking blows arcing out from their meetings. There were no pauses or hesitation, it was a dizzying tempo which only rose as both men adjusted to each other and reacted faster and faster to feints and gambits. They disengaged, blades scraping against one another.
Judah's training shield mirrored his own in shape and bulk, if not in its accompanying armament and power field. Its face was marred by dozens of slashes and rents torn by the slimmer blade of his adversary. Across from him and circling like a bird of prey, the armored yet helmet-less visage of the 3rd Company Champion Tobias dared him to come within reach of his implements. Pale-skinned and dark haired, a line of gothic tattoos running under his eyes.
Two falchions shorter than Judah's yet no less threatening was held in both hands, twirling between the armored digits. To his forearms were affixed smaller twin parrying bucklers, equally rent by gouges. His armor was similar enough in appearance to the Champion, only slight personal variations and divergent Company marks differentiating the two.
At an unseen signal, both Marines leapt at one another again. Tobias had speed and agility on his side to counter Judah's solid defensive style. Whirling his dueling blades in a series of crisscrossing slashes against and around the shield, he pushed the 4th Champion back. The larger shield absorbed the blows where it could but could not protect the rest of his body. Tobias favored the thousand cuts style of swordplay, equally effective in a duel as it was tearing a Traitor Marine apart.
However, Judah still had raw power and endurance on his side. He made the leaner Marine pay for his impatience. Trapping a blade between his armpit after feigning an opening, he shattered it. In the same motion he jerked to the side bringing Tobias skidding forward. The seemingly stationary training shield rocketed forward in an instant to smash into his face. Tobias toppled over backwards and fell to the floor.
"Trying to breach my defenses has never found you much purchase before, and if I have any say about it, never shall."
Tobias groaned as he picked himself up off the training mat. "Damn it all, I think you broke my nose again." Sickening cracks a moment later confirmed the fallen Champion's assertion. "If you removed that helmet of yours for once, you know this would have gone very differently, my friend."
"Those meal-plates you call combat shields could not even tickle a Snotling."
Tobias gave the helmeted Champion a deadpan look before bursting into a hearty laugh. "Hopefully I can be privileged enough to see your face again."
"Indeed… that oath fulfilled would make Priam's rest a bit more peaceful, for the both of us." Judah brushed his gauntlet against the inscribed surface of his helm. There was a tone of nostalgic bitterness laced into his voice. The Champions exited the practice cage and deposited their training instruments, now thoroughly battered lumps of metal. Tobias checked on the progress of his nose, Larraman cells already working to repair the damage.
"By the way Judah, I heard what transpired upon that dead planet." Tobias's jovial expression turns to one of pensive concern. "Warp-spirits of some sort possessing ancient machines or the like, are those that returned…well?" They passed into a large corridor filled with Serfs and servitors attending to their duties. Carved murals made the gargantuan walls come alive in a rainbow of paints and etchings. Incense burners filled the halls with a light mist of sweet-scented smoke.
"We all reported to the Chaplains and the Librarium afterwards and were cleared, the phenomena were more for appearances than actual power in retrospect. Although feeling even a hint of fear…" Judah remembers the conversation with a shaken Solomon. "Whatever happened in that ruin was unclean." Judah paused in his steps, voice cold. "I was glad to watch it burn."
"Aye, but do you think it has anything to do with those monsters on the derelict?"
"You'd have to ask Solomon yourself, but if there is anything I've learned over the decades." Judah looked deep into his counterpart's eyes. "There are no coincidences."
-x-
In the void lay a great shining jewel, as brilliant as the crown stone upon a great monarch's head. A thousand impossible colors dance over the edge of a barrier against pure senselessness. It seethes and shimmers as a fragile bubble crystallized by frost and flame. Yet against a vicious current that crashes and screams and lashes out against the firmament, it is impenetrable. A flickering candle amongst a sea of insanity.
The Lorekeeper's eyes spring open, he takes in a breath.
"Malachi…you perceive it too do you not?"
"…Yes. I've conferred with the Astropaths and even Navigator Laniyah…they tell me the same."
Solomon turned back from the viewing port to face his brethren of the Librarium. Malachi stood stiff and focused, gazing out at the blue marble slowly creeping towards the Battle Barge. Some paces behind him were the two juniors of their own personal brotherhood. Nathaniel Quintus and Moab Sahel were the twin Lexicanums aboard the Sinai. Nathaniel took after Malachi in his complexion but with youth still left to sap, as Solomon enjoyed to rib. Moab on the other hand had a far duskier complexion along with a short black beard. Like the Codicier, they gazed as or even more fervently ahead.
"I will see that the Captains are apprised of the situation."
"Solomon…I think fate has something in store for us after all."
Both men's gazes fell back upon the encroaching world.
And at its shattered moon.
-x-
The world below them could not be more dissimilar, or more beautiful than the ruined husk they had left behind. An immense bow-shaped continent takes its position as the largest landmass visible. Expansive forests and grassy plains punctuated by craggy snow-capped mountains on one side. While on the other a massive desert sweeps across the earth, gradually fading into sparse savannas and dry scrubland. The continent to the East is by far the most diverse. It is perforated with windswept and jagged landforms, alpine tundra, a roiling torrent of lava fields, and other wide-ranging biomes.
To the far south is a landmass consisting of mainly desert, with a touch of green. On the opposite side to the far north is a cold, frozen chunk of ice. Bizarrely, green foliage appears in areas where climate or latitude should dictate only tundra or barren wasteland should be. To the northwest is perhaps the strangest of all the continents present. A tide of emerald green quickly fades into a bleak, coal-black landscape. Rather than volcanic, it simply appears that whatever conditions there are hostile to life on a fundamental level. Other small islands and landmasses dot the surface, all divided by a sea of the deepest sapphire.
"I'm quite confident that violates the laws of physics."
Immanuel turns to regard the cyberized Marine upon his command throne, enigmatic clicks and buzzes issuing forth from his stationary form. Rather than the verdant planet below, the whole of the bridge was absorbed by the sight of its shattered companion. A massive gouge resembling an impact of immense proportion sheared away nearly half of the moon's mass. Fragments floated around the gouge in what looked like a suspended state of stasis.
"I've run all of the energy and gravimetric scans I could, but every time it comes back inconclusive. All that I can divine is that whatever happened here was well before our arrival, and massive."
Immanuel looked uncomforted at Elhanan's proclamation. "And the planet?"
"There is indeed civilization present upon this world…human civilization. Auguries register the Ӕtheric signs of human life as well as power signatures." The aged Marine clicks and whirrs once more. "I have identified and briefly scanned their global communications network, it is peculiar."
"Peculiar?"
"It is as if they use nothing but high frequency vox signals for communication and data transfer. Broadcast pulses cover nearly the entire world alongside smaller relay points. I likewise detect no objects in satellite orbit… a very inefficient arrangement in my opinion."
"Show me a habitational layout."
"It seems to be concentrated around several distinct clusters on the planet." A holo-pict visualizer slid down from the ceiling and a map of the world below sprung to life. Spots indicating large gatherings of humanity were illuminated in yellow circles. Immanuel's brow furrowed in confusion.
"They have such prime room for expansion, and yet outside of those clusters there are very few."
"Techno-Barbarians of some sort?" Malchus breaks his silence. "Like on Korman Secundus, the humans there clustered around derelict Hive Cities and based their existence on salvaging what archeotech they could. It would help explain the seemingly awkward communications technology. Or perhaps some cultural or historical factors are at work that make leaving those centers taboo?"
"Whatever their reasons, we won't figure it out from up here." Immanuel grumbled as he read over the displayed map. "Have the scans told you anything else?"
"One thing. There is an unusual and subtle atmospheric anomaly present in my emission scans, it remains intractably unclassifiable as of this moment. The energy appears to blend into the background spectrum to the point where any less advanced sensors would not have picked it up. Whatever it is, it eludes any attempts of direct detection."
"That is because none of your scanners can divine the presence of the Empyrean, Shipmaster."
Solomon paces out from behind the massive throne of the Shipmaster, an indiscernible mien adorning his face. Both Captains eye him with an unsure expression. "This planet…this planet resonates with psychic energy."
"Are you saying this is a Daemon World?" Immanuel balks incredulously.
"No, and therein lies the conundrum…the Warp is unusually tranquil upon that planet's surface. The energies of Warp-space are seemingly swept straight into it, for lack of a better word and dispersed into the atmosphere. It is saturated with such potency that the legends of old scoured Prospero appear at the forefront of my mind, yet-." Solomon pauses as he strides towards the holo-pict map.
"It is calm nonetheless, almost as if one had covered it with a great sieve. Such raw power and yet there are no discernible defects present from orbit. I shudder to imagine what grotesque influence could have twisted the very fabric of both worlds to this end." Solomon regards the slowly rotating moon nearby with an ominous grimace.
Both Captains are stone-faced at the news brought by the Lorekeeper. In near unison they turn to gaze out at the viewing panes toward the planet. Malchus makes to speak when a harsh series of beeps erupts from Elhanan's throne.
"Alert, I have identified an Imperial beacon! Distress signature profile indicates Mechanicus coding. Signal is faint."
Malchus is taken aback. "The Techpriests?!"
"Attempting relay trace, standby."
The holo-pict map changes to display a tactical readout of the landmasses. Grids and lines of sweeping sensor data ply across for tense moments before data squares focus on a geographical area. Zooming in at the ground level brings a wide tract of the preeminent continent's land into focus. Deep river valleys, mountainous foothills and an abundance of old-growth forest blanket most of the targeted area.
"Source is fading, increasing power."
The tract becomes smaller and smaller with every passing minute. A vast area eventually becomes centered on a region several dozen square kilometers in scope. Then warning bursts of data accompanying flashing holo-pict sigils indicate a loss of an already poor signal. Many on the bridge watch with bated breath as Elhanan works furiously to trace the source. Suddenly, a long whine blares from the throne. The aged Shipmaster's lenses refocus furiously as his teeth grit in frustration.
ERROR: CONTACT LOST
"Unable to fully trace signal…apologies my brothers."
"No need Shipmaster, this is already more than we have had to go on before." Immanuel turns towards his fellow Captain. "It seems we have a ground team to put together."
-x-
Most mortals upon seeing an Astartes for the first time would assume that they are quite weighed down by their armor. The hundreds of kilos of bulk the ceramite and plasteel add onto an already enormous frame simply must slow them down. It doesn't. An element of the transhuman dread which surrounds the Space Marines is the sheer fluidity of their movements. So large and yet no mortal will ever be able to match their finesse. They move with such grace and skill yet with such brute force and unrelenting speed. Many an overconfident foe has fallen prey to delusions of superior agility, and every one of them has subsequently paid the price.
Scout Marines are even more dexterous.
While not arrayed in the signature armor as their more experienced brethren, Space Marine Scouts are masters of stealth and infiltration. The dagger to offset the sabre and bludgeon. They are the pathfinders and saboteurs, assassins and spies. Before the enemy has even realized they are under assault by a Chapter, the Scouts will have prepared the way with a thousand tiny, vicious cuts. When the enemy finally realizes their crippled state, it is often too late as the Drop Pods come thundering down to a foe already blind and beheaded. The Scouts withdraw wordlessly back into the landscape, as if they had never even been there.
It is no secret that the Ashen Heralds favor overwhelming force and shock tactics to quickly and mercilessly eradicate an enemy. If orbital bombardment isn't enough, the air wing will saturate the target with precise missile and cannon fire. On open terrain the enemy faces the mighty arsenal of ancient vehicles fielded in surprising number, battle tanks and Dreadnoughts that once led the way in the Great Crusade trample all underfoot. Brothers follow quickly behind on Rhinos and Razorbacks, deploying ahead to support their armor. The Heralds move as a great wave to sweep away all resistance.
Should an enemy dig into say, a Hive City or other imposing citadel, one could forgive them for thinking they are well defended. What awaits them is nothing short than a vision of avenging hellfire. Parchment clad Angels of Death flush them out of their holes. Flamers and even vicious chemical weapons pour into every orifice. Walls are blown apart by siege tanks and planted explosives, often to corral fleeing prey. They are herded like Grox and slaughtered to the last. Defenses are calculatedly deconstructed brick by brick until all that remains is smoldering ashes and blackened bones. Sarelon's Doom Cults learned this lesson very well. A pity there are never any left to teach it.
To be a Scout for such a heavy-handed Chapter is a challenging task indeed. But their role is no less important. They must be as the drifting smoke upon the wind in the face of the advancing firestorm. They move swiftly, often under strict timetables set by the encroaching bombardment or Drop Pod assaults. To fade into the chaos of battle and deliver vital information while remaining undetected. Foes who have the misfortune to discover them are silenced immediately and relentlessly. Even as the last of the enemy falls to the ordnance of the Chapter, the Scouts are the one thing they never saw. Yet even with their specialties, traditional wilderness recon is not forgotten.
It is nighttime. The forest floor is carpeted in blankets of spongy soil and moss. Low lying shrubs and ferns mix with tangled roots to form a mat of twisting undergrowth. What little light the moon provides is muted by the dense old growth canopy. Then a disturbance makes itself known. Growls and chuffing snorts overtake the chirping of insects and hooting of nocturnal birds. From the deep forest trudges a group of pitch-black forms. Stalking through the shrouded woods, the Beowolves follow the lead of their Alpha. Yet the Grimm move not in the confident, bestial gate that befits the virtual rulers of the wilds.
The elder Alpha swivels its head around again and again, eyes darting at every minuscule noise. Its nose takes in deep breaths of air to scent out any potential anomaly. Yet even as its senses reassure the beast that its pack is well and truly alone, a deeper part of its mind cannot reconcile that fact. Beowolves are the most aggressive and numerous type of Grimm, throwing themselves at enemies with reckless abandon. Trained hunters cut through them with almost no second thoughts. They are chaff, and they do not last long.
To become an Alpha is a true testament to the learning capabilities of the Grimm. Surviving not only their own tendencies but the humans it wars against is not an easy task to accomplish. And with this experience comes a sort of feral intelligence that simply knows when something is very wrong. A passing scent here, a subtle crack there, things on their own that should not concern the beast instead send its mind into a frenzy of activity. For there is one sense that overrides all others in the creatures of Grimm.
The presence of humanity.
A loud blow slices through the night air. The Alpha's ears dart skyward as it lets out a snarling growl, fangs bared. With unknowable gestures the pack forms up behind it. Coming to a small break in the trees the pack immediately notices the source of the disturbance. A large rock has been chucked against the side of a tree, scraping away layers of lichen and bark to leave a small gash. Striding over to the stone, the Alpha clutches it in its paws. Suddenly, the moonlight rolls between the leaves and catches something odd. Something shimmers ever so slightly in the light.
It almost blended into the background of the forest, almost. The Alpha drops the stone and slowly stomps toward the befuddling mirage. In its comparatively long life it had never seen something like this before. The Alpha marvels at how the anomaly nearly fades into the surroundings. Then a scent meanders its way into its nose. Chuffing in confusion, the Grimm brings its head up to sniff around. It comes face to face with twin pools of green.
And the barrel of a gun.
The Alpha's mind barely has time to process this development before the bolt round blows its head apart.
In a quarter second after the detonation of the round and the chunks of black matter spraying over the pack, a multitude of bright flashes and thunderous reports sound forth from the woods. The Beowolf closest to the Alpha has its torso excavated by heavy pellets. Two more Grimm are torn apart in a spray of bolts that nearly split them both in half. Three more are felled by a thundering line of heavier shells that rip through their bodies as easily as they rip through the ancient bark of the trees. The thoroughly confused runt in the back dies last, a silent bolt straight into the neck.
The headless Alpha slumps to the forest floor.
The Scout is stone-still, suppressed bolter still trailing tendrils of gun smoke. Green-tinted magna goggles cover his eyes, taking in every minute detail of the dissipating corpses in front of him. Across the mouth and nose is a grilled face mask taken as a replacement for the helmets they lack as Scouts. A thick cloak and hood of now blood-spattered cameleoline blends most of his body into the background of the forest like a shimmering mirage. The silence of the forest returns. Then the motionless Scout asks a question.
"Practical reason for engagement?"
From the dark, a younger voice pipes up.
"They were crossing over into our path too often, Sergeant."
"Good, we flow around conflict when we can. Engagement brings suspicion, prepare to move out."
Moving up from his crouch, Sergeant Bezalel scans the clearing. Five shapes fade into being as their camo-cloaks are thrown back. The Astartes Scout armor they wear is painted in a muted variation of Chapter colors. Grenade webbing and tactical gear fill out the extent of their armor. Yet the ubiquitous silver script and parchment are still very much present on their plate. Their heads which are usually concealed by thick wrappings of cameleoline hoods are exposed. Faces unblemished by combat stare from behind green lenses at their Sergeant.
Two are armed with more modern Godwyn Bolters, lacking the need for the Tigrus pattern's machine spirit-armor integration as well as denoting their subordinate station. One has a powerful Astartes Shotgun alongside a belt of shells strapped over his plate. A particularly thickset Scout carries a Heavy Bolter modified for fieldwork, equipped with a large drum magazine and bipod. Bezalel by contrast, carries a far more revered piece of wargear. A Tigrus-Exitus pattern Stalker Bolter complete with enhanced targeting scope and extended barrel, with built in sound and flash dampener. His long range comm-bead buzzes to life. Bezalel puts a finger to his ear.
"Dagger Squad reporting, contact with unknown hostiles ad tempus-designate: Beasts."
"Wisp squad acknowledges contact, seven Beasts dispatched."
"Press on to nearest settlement?"
"Affirmative, mission parameters unchanged."
The opposition had been a surprise.
From the moment the Storm Eagle gunships had dropped them off in a forest clearing, the presence of the creatures made themselves known. He had heard the tales of the Boarding Squads and had seen the combat footage. But their first taste of combat had proven beyond any doubts that these were the same kind, or at least closely related to the abominations that had infested the derelict. They vaguely reminded Bezalel of the wolves used by their Fenrisian brethren, if much less bulky.
Keying up an order on the tight-beam squadlink, Bezalel leads his Scouts on towards the edge of the tree line. From the orbital scans conducted of the region, several large settlements resided in the general area where the signal had broadcasted from. The first one that their squads had been assigned to recon was close now. Highlighted by the shattered moon, the black peak dominated the landscape for kilometers around. Bezalel had a sneaking suspicion that the odd energy pervading the planet had something to do with the covert insertion. If something was that strange to concern Solomon that much, then any caution was well warranted.
"It seems a cruel twist of fate that such a beautiful world could harbor such abominations." The shotgun toting Scout at his side whispers into his comm-bead.
"Catachan appeared from orbit to its first colonists as a paradise, Zophiel, thankfully the trees here aren't trying to strangle us." Subdued chuckles rang out across the squadlink. "Although we will certainly find bigger examples of those Beasts, as is the apparent law of this wretched galaxy."
Then the clattering drumming of gunfire clefts across the night sky.
To an outside observer, it would have appeared that the Astartes had simply vanished into thin air. The light-bending camouflage girding their armor flutters around them but still blends into the now rapidly passing forest. Hissing various orders to his own squadlink and long-range communicator, Bezalel and his Marines advance upon the battle. Their adversary becomes apparent within minutes.
"Tellus, mission parameters may require slight deviation."
-x-
The Beowolf clambers up to the battlements in long groping strides, claws biting deep into any exposed wood. Others of his kind either fall or hook themselves on vicious spikes, braying before their bodies are slashed apart or peppered with rounds. Reaching the top its head is met by the keening flash of a sharpened blade. The Grimm's head is cleaved from its body in a spray of dark lifeblood before it falls to the ground below. A shout alerts him as more Beowolves scale up the battlements to his left. They bite and claw at the ragged defenders, Lucas winces as a spray of blood sails through the air on the heels of a scream. Weaving through the chaos he twirls the black blade into a whirling storm. He decapitates a second Grimm before delivering a vicious slash that catches the other two in their throats. The howls begin to wane.
Panting, Lucas shifts his blade-staff back into its bow form and looks out at the battlefield. He draws another arrow from his concerningly lighter quiver before pulling back on the string. A shining bolt catches the chest of a charging Alpha before excising its inscrutable guts. Excising certain thoughts from his mind was becoming increasingly more difficult, however, the longer he looked at the monsters below, illuminated by dim searchlights. What the Grimm could not destroy with force would be eroded with sheer numbers.
His talents and the thoroughly prepared defenses had made the larger Grimm easier targets for the massed volleys of the defenders. The creatures of darkness crashed against the gate and the walls, but none could breach either. Though the roof was equal parts holes and wood now, it had served its purpose of warding off the razor feathers of the larger Nevermores. But it was the Beowolves that proved to be their greatest bane. A large pack had followed the tail end of their last assault and had not let up. Though many looked young enough to be born only scant hours ago they still clawed at their bastion with soulless fury. Gradually, the Grimm slacken their assault. But no one lowers their weapons in relief.
They are simply regrouping.
The bowman is panting, he steadies himself against the marred wood of the wall. "Okay…best case scenario now…we live through the night, heh." His laugh is dry and soberly bitter. Lucas looks down to his right.
A flip lighter sparks up in shaky hands. "Lucas, I think of you as a son, but please just shut the fuck up for a moment." Lighting the hand-rolled cigarette, Zaff takes a long drag. "Oh…damn it."
"You really shouldn't smoke those things; that's how you get cancer." A not-so-subtle hand gesture serves as the ragged man's reply.
Zaff had thick bandages encircling his torso. Dried blood soaked through to the outer layer in muted lines of red. The armor and leather are torn up in various places. The other militia members are little better. Field dressings and half-lidded eyes as far as he could see. Several of the emplaced machine guns were down, some for good with blown out mechanisms. The wonder weapons were either out of ammo or had malfunctioned. Zaff blows out a puff of smoke.
"My old man really shouldn't have built a village here." He looks back at the peak. "Nowhere to run besides the mine, we win, or we die. Stubborn really, just like the Coopers."
"As long as I'm alive, that's not happening."
"Yeah?" The scattered growls grow in pitch. Zaff slides a magazine into his battle rifle. He pulls back the slide. "Same here." He rises to face the moonlit, battle-scarred ground. Red eyes dot the tree line behind the river. At a silent signal, they charge forward and wade into the waterway. What guns that still have ammunition open fire on the pack. Founts of water and black matter spew upwards from the noticeably slackened barrage. Lucas pulls back his bowstring and lines up a target.
Only to witness the dozen lead Grimm blown apart.
Sounds that seem nothing less than miniature explosions roar over the tumult of battle. Flashes of muted light illuminate a section of thicket off to the side. Lucas can barely make out hazy outlines between the innumerable detonations spewing forth from their weaponry. Black forms are turned into flailing pulp. Limbs are blown clean off. Heads explode in pinpoint shots in rapid succession. The Grimm are absolutely blindsided. But they aren't helpless.
The whole pack surges forth from the woods towards the newer and more dangerous threat. Those few survivors in the river scramble up its banks in a mad dash. Behind several snarling Alphas the dozens strong horde presses on. Even as they advance, many are felled mid-stride by the formidable weapons of the unknown men. They focus fire on the edges of the horde, forcing many of its members into a narrower and tighter path of attack. The Grimm are slowly crowding together. Herded into a tight mob.
A perfect target.
A fusillade of new munitions rakes across the tightly packed formation like a scythe at harvest time. The forest that the Beowolves once occupied now seems to turn on them. From seemingly everywhere and nowhere death rains down upon them. Explosions sound out from the formation which decimate entire groups at a single time. Caught in a vicious crossfire, and with their Alphas either dead or so grievously wounded they might as well be, the Grimm scatter. Many are picked off by precision fire while others charge whimpering back into the forest. The guns fall silent. It takes Lucas a full minute to realize his jaw is still open.
The wind is now the only sound that can be heard.
"…Ok then." Is the only thing that the archer can think of to say. Looking at the militia, the surprised confusion he feels is mirrored. Zaff's still lit cigarette smolders at his feet. Then the chatter begins.
"W-what the hell just happened?"
"Hunters!?"
"Nah man, they wouldn't send this many for us."
"Is it the army, does the army do stuff like this?"
"Whatever kind of guns those were, I want some."
"What's that?"
The whole of the garrison turns at the man's exclamation.
Nearly twenty silhouettes framed by the moonlight are slowly advancing up the slight incline and toward the walls. What they could see silenced any further conversation. Their height was the first thing many noticed. Averaging out at around seven and a half feet tall. They looked strong enough to rip an Ursa in half. From their covered faces to their large boots they were dressed in impressive armor that looked sturdier than the Atlesian's latest designs. Cloaks that appeared to blend into the background were thrown back, revealing the numerous weapons they carried.
Their weapons were massive compared to the small arms carried by the militia, some two-handed examples looked like they weighed more than five men put together. Zaff stood unblinking, rifle dangling from its carrying strap. Lucas's snapping fingers broke him out of his trance. Working up some courage in his old bones, the Watch Master cups his hands together.
"Hello over there!"
The warriors slow their advance but do not stop.
"We appreciate what you people just did, but we're kind of on edge right now. Do you mind telling us who you all are?" They didn't strike him as bandits, maybe special ops soldiers?
Two figures suddenly broke off from the main group and approached the walls. Coming into clearer view, the shimmering fabric was almost mesmerizing in the way it shielded them from sight. Now fully illuminated by the lights on the walls, the strange men came to a halt. The stranger with the large scoped gun and blocky sword-thing across his back waist shifted his weight, he seemed to be mulling over what to say. The scars and gear seemed to scream military, yet Zaff grew more unsure the longer he studied their armor. The symbology didn't look like anything he was familiar with.
"Potestis intelligere me? Si potes, et nulla te vult nocere."
Zaff blinks. "Are you…speaking in the Old Tongue?"
The man seems to take his response into consideration.
"Salve…tu have none… reasons to fear we."
His words in the Common Parlance are stilted and unsure, tinged with an accent that Zaff cannot place. The voice is slightly filtered through the breathing mask, but it cannot disguise its deep tone. Thankfully, Zaff alleviates the stranger's woes.
"Nolite ergo solliciti esse, me possit loqui."
-x-
Bezalel nearly lets out a sigh when the man replies in coarse, yet audibly recognizable High Gothic. Millenia of linguistic drift would be hard to overcome, and the preliminary language packet gleaned from their network was…threadbare, to say the least. Their tongue seemed to have less drift than expected, though.
"And they called me too traditional, guess all those lessons finally paid off. Strange that you seem to speak it as a first language though. My name's Zaff Cooper and this is Lucas Orion. Anyway, who are you people?"
"I am Scout Sergeant Bezalel, and this- "He points to his silent companion. "-Is Scout Sergeant Tellus."
"You people from the Vale Army?"
"No"
"Mercenaries?"
Tellus nearly took offense at that. "We are certainly no sellswords."
"Well I've never heard of Hunters in groups this large before, so we're kind of running out of occupations."
"…I assume you don't think we catch game for a living?"
The younger human next to the elder one looked at Bezalel like he had grown a second head. "Uh, of course not, Hunters typically hunt…Grimm, right?" The blank look from the Sergeant only seemed to confuse the man more.
"Do you mean those creatures in the woods?" Tellus asked openly. Zaff's eyes went half-lidded.
"…Okay now I know you're just fucking with us." Bezalel could see this was getting them nowhere.
"We are Scouts of the Emperor's own Adeptus Astartes, the third squad of the Tenth Company of the Ashen Heralds Chapter of Space Marines. We have been dispatched to this system to investigate the fate of an Adeptus Mechanicus Explorator Vessel. And I am certainly not 'fucking with you' good sir."
The pause after Bezalel's proclamation was decidedly awkward. "You're from space?" Lucas inquired.
"Yes"
Bezalel couldn't quite place the expressions on their faces. "Normally, I would call you crazy…but that weird airship finally makes a bit of sense."
"What?"
Zaff motions to a nearby militiamen who hoists a long rifle above the ramparts.
"Where did you acquire a Galvanic Rifle?" Lucas double takes in surprise.
"Holy shit they really are from space!"
-x-
From the tree line past the river, a lone Grimm stares ahead at the Astartes before the walls. Its eyes are the same burning red that unites all the Grimm on Remnant. Yet this Grimm has a much more sinister presence surrounding it. Lines of red energy course across its skin like burning veins of fire. It stands stone-still in the undergrowth. Its head follows the Marines as they enter the battered gate with unnerving intensity. As the gate closes, so does the presence abandon the Grimm. Its shaded form stalks back into the woods.
The deep forests of Sanus are some of the largest known on the planet. Trees centuries old cover much of the landmass in a solid green wall. It is a textbook example of how the Grimm infest the world. On the border between forest and open grasslands or more often, Man's domain, younger Grimm constantly probe forth. Disorganized assaults and feral raids are all that the inner towns usually face. But the deeper one goes, the rule states, the older and more dangerous Grimm appear. The lure of undiscovered resources and a life far from the constraints of Kingdom law are some of the only appeals to frontier life.
Then there are the places no sane man would ever set foot in. Common knowledge holds that no one ever has. Places where even the Beowolves could tear apart an average hunter. Places where Grimm unseen by man for centuries reside. Places where the most ancient of the creatures of darkness simply bide their time. Until they awaken. Then the killing can begin again.
The abomination smiles.
-x-
Codex
Chaplains: The Chaplains of the Heralds mainly serve the same role as with other Chapters. They drive their brothers to feats of heroism and frenzy in the face of the enemy and serve as great warriors in the field. Their armor is designed to terrify those who turn to the darkness and inspire righteous fury in the true loyal sons of the Emperor. It is also the duty of the Chaplains to keep the names of the dead and lead the cremation ceremonies of fallen brothers.
Armory: The Ashen Heralds make extensive use of many pieces of wargear that represented the pinnacle of Imperial engineering. Such examples include their Chapter-wide near standard use of Maximus armor and Tigrus Bolters. A spattering of the ultra-rare Volkite blasters see limited use in the upper battle companies. Deimos pattern vehicles and Contemptor Dreadnoughts march under strike wings of Storm Eagles. It is said that during the Macharian Purge, the Minotaurs and Heralds fighting together evoked the image of the Great Crusade reborn. In the deeper vaults of the Chapter Armorium, there are said to rest even more terrible war machines used in only the direst of circumstances.
Decorations: Ornamentation among brothers can vary but typically involves parchments marked with oaths and prayers to safeguard their body and soul in battle. Decorations of mighty Chapter deeds is also very pronounced, especially among the Lorekeepers. Silver writing written in the traditional Abjadic script of Levantus typically follows the same model. Although those scripts written in a tongue only the Heralds can read could theoretically harbor messages relating to more sensitive aspects of Chapter Lore.
A/N: Made minor edits to previous chapters to get rid of Tyranids. Lore-freak in me forgot they came only later in M41. Sorry it took so long, college has been crushing me lately.