Over the hills and far way the Grey Hunter marched, following the sets of tire tracks like a bloodhound on a trail. Now that he was set on a task, he pursued it tirelessly, bothered neither by heat, thirst or hunger – he moved with purpose. His prey however, was still far away from his grasp, and utterly unaware of his coming and intentions. And they remained so for a good while longer, even at space marine pace, travelling on foot was slow business, especially when much of the terrain was dangerous. Eventually he reached rocky ground again, unsuitable for the wyrms and upon it his goal. It was not a settlement alas, but what appeared to be a camp made of prefabricated buildings surrounded by a solid wall of metal sheets, it was not dissimilar in nature to structures used sometimes by the Imperial guard even if it looked different. From a safe distance away, Gilbrand watched.
In the hastily appropriated WTH camp, guard duty on the gate quickly became synonymous to R&R with less toilet breaks. Only creatures big enough to be trouble were the Maws and unless they suddenly grew legs or learned to fly, they were a non-issue. The detail stationed at the gate was bored to death and were exchanging a small inhaler probably filled with some light drug and exchanging small talk.
Why do we keep driving so far in the wild to just dump bodies anyway.- the first one complained. – Shame we got no incinerator here, the WTH could have given us at least that.
His colleague passed him the inhaler before answering - Hey, don't look the gifted Varren in the mouth; they left us tons of shiny toys without being asked you know…Did you check the armoury? We are stacked with so much firepower we could start a war by ourselves! Course it has no incinerator, they never stayed here long enough to need one in the first place. So unless you prefer to try digging graves in solid rock, because I sure as hell don't want any rotting smell around here to lure in the Maws, shut up and do your job. Boohoo, it's a 2 hour drive in both directions, big deal. Wonder what made the WTH leave without packing up though. This place is a gem; we could go big from here. No one comes here because of the Tresher Maws and that's common knowledge – they won't even try looking for us on this dump.
The answer to this question spent two weeks observing their compound. Gilbrand was used to the old maxim hurry up and wait, so he waited and learned. There was much a single man, especially a space marine cut off behind enemy lines could do – most of it was various ways to die and by all means he was sure he still had at least a good 300-400 years in him that he wanted to spend as well, thank you very much. So far Gilbrand counted twenty guards, various gear, again lacking any notable insignia. He listened as well – their short range vox was not encrypted, be it sloppiness or carelessness, he did not know and it did not matter. On the vox he counted a total of 15 voices, male and female, speaking more than one language. The old marine recognized something that sounded like Low Gothic…well at least the way Low Gothic would sound in some backwater that hadn't seen contact with the wider Imperium for the last 2000 years or so. Some of it he understood…The rest…unknown, at least to him- the owners of the voices had no problems understanding each other. They were either quite the linguists or had some means of fast translation. The most important thing however, were the shuttle craft arriving and departing every few days. The cargo was unknown, though the convoy with the trucks made another tour the previous day which gave some insights. Nevertheless it was shuttles that he was hoping for and he got them. Someone else might have just kicked in the front door without thinking. Gilbrand waited, confirmed his target and now…well there was nothing left but to kick in the front door. It had to be done in a single fell swoop too, to avoid unpleasant things like reinforcements. Regrettably, there was simply no way to get closer undetected – there was too much open ground and no cover. Still, perhaps it was possible to get a little head start. The marine covered himself fully with his leather mantle and hunched forward like a praying monk. Yes…that was crazy enough to work…
Back at the gates the guards had passed through a series of topics ranging from local politics to the size and many mysteries of Asari breasts. One of them looked out and saw a great ragged figure, which was slowly approaching in praying posture. The sight was so unusual that at first he attributed it to the inhaler:
-Dude…that was some strong stuff, I think I'm seeing things already.
The more sober of the two was more pragmatic. He blinked several times to confirm his sight was not making any tricks:
-You are not tripping you idiot, its real!
The two immediately picked up their rifles and came forth to meet him, sights at the ready. Gilbrand halted when he was motioned to do so. Oh but they were not that foolish after all. Both stopped and prepared their weapons way beyond what was the distance sufficient for human reaction time. Too bad he was not human. And that was the odd part - at best Gilbrand expected his pitiful ruse to work until the gate guards came close enough to recognize he was a space marine. The sheer size and bulk of his power armour was a sure give away to anyone yet as it seemed they had never seen or heard about astartes, as strange as that sounded, and eyed him with far more curiosity than fear. It was strange for him to say the least. Ordinary humans always looked up to Gilbrand and his kin with a mixture of jaw dropping awe and absolute terror in various quantities. No one simply examined him like a museum piece. It mattered not in the end; it simply allowed him to finish his act.
-Greetings!- Gilbrand said in as jovial voice as he could manage - Do you have a minute to talk about the word of our Lord and Savior, the God Emperor of Man?
In the time for the trooper to raise his weapon, Gilbrand made two steps forward and backhanded him with enough force to snap his neck and send him flying. The other one fared marginally better and actually squeezed the trigger sending two wild shots that hit only rocks. The space marine caved in his skull in the same fashion. Now the way in was wide open and defenceless. Gilbrand unsheathed his axe and the Templar's sword and powered them up. Someone surely must have heard the shots, not that it was going to do them much good.
- For thee, My Emperor, for Russ... – said Gilbrand quietly and rushed forward with a terrible howl, rivalling that of a Tyranid . First thing ahead -motor pool. All the vehicles that he saw before were there, with a couple of more. Initial resistance was only a startled mechanic fumbling with his holster. Gilbrand barely slowed down for him and proceeded further in. At the other end of the motor pool were half a dozen of the guards, out of uniform and busy with physical exercises – push-ups and the like. To their credit their action was adequate – they dispersed immediately in all directions to deny him a solid target. He only managed to cut down one and trample another while the rest scattered in different directions. Gilbrand gritted his teeth under the helmet. He was stalled now, and surprise was no longer on his side. Already there was commotion from inside the main building, stiffer resistance was surely on its way, and if he turned his back those in the courtyard would arm themselves and catch him in crossfire – the worst enemy of assault specialists. He had to eliminate those four first, and then push. One he caught up with and struck in the back with his sword. It was a xeno(and thus unknown if male or female) with reverse jointed legs, Gilbrand saw a few like that during his first encounter. The facial structure and the mandibles reminded him of nothing familiar. Perhaps it belonged to some minor race, only known to a handful of xenobiologists or none at all. The other was a human, a traitor surely, that met the only end suitable for traitors when the old marine send his axe flying after him. Throwing a power axe was an art as they said, due to the wrong balance for throwing and the fine science of whether the target deserved to leave the power field on or off. That left two more that ran in the opposite direction. He reached them just as they were drawing weapons and finished the job of clearing the yard. For once Gilbrand appreciated his foe - apart from necrons, tyranids and traitor marines, very few managed to maintain discipline and act accordingly once it dawned upon them that they were facing Astartes. Perhaps it was courage borne of ignorance, but it was courage nonetheless. With nine down he estimated that roughly half the opposing force was eliminated. Not a bad start but true resistance was yet to come he reminded himself as he recovered his axe. It did not arrive a moment too late either. Shots rang around his helm and started piercing his cloak and bouncing off his armour. A large group of attackers had emerged from the central building and were now deploying in a semi circle, endlessly firing on him. There were actual projectiles – those were neither lasguns nor plasma based weapons yet they did not behave like autoguns either. The sound was all wrong as well as the lack of magazines or casings. The MK3 Iron armour though, was designed to survive frontal hits from Squat energy weapons and held even against necron gauss(up to a point though). For now the barrage was mostly harmless, but the grey wolf was not keen to wait until they try funny stuff, like aiming for the joints and head or bring out heavier weapons. He went at them before they could deploy fully, wading through the storm of bullets. His chainsword descended on the first honest to god, properly armed, armoured and fighting back enemy it had faced today and then yet another extraordinary thing happened. For a moment, there was a bright light and what he could determine was a failing forcefield before the teeth of the Templar's sword bit flesh. Forcefields were not rare as a whole in the Imperium, you could find plenty of them from simple refractor shields to the mighty Rosarius, however they were certainly rare per capita, and finding them on common troopers was unthinkable. The strange phenomenon was repeated when the power axe took off another man's leg at the thigh, leaving him to bleed out. Gilbrand's apparent invincibility was finally becoming obvious – the survivors started scrambling to get back inside and above all to put some distance between themselves and the rampaging space marine. Eagerly the Grey hunter followed them when a great invisible force caught him in a death grip. It was only his sheer bulk and brute strength that kept him on his feet and pushing. In the center of the foe he could see a lithe female surrounded by swirling blue energies. She was straining no less than he was and sending all of, well whatever it was, his way. Encouraged, the rest of the foe redoubled their effort and concentrated their fire again. Witchcraft…The domain of the Eldar and the Great Enemy. Of all things the one Gilbrand had not accounted for was a sorcerer. "Thrice damned cheaters!" he thought, at least the witch was nothing like the Thousand sons sorcerer he fought two hundred years ago. Still he was effectively locked in place, struggling for a single step forward while everyone was taking potshots at him, and even worse - looking for weak points. There was no telling how long he had before they found some. The other bad sign was that the witch was clearly exhausting herself to keep him in place. The old marine had seen what happens to psykers and witches when they overextended themselves and a warp rift was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now. He focused solely on the witch.
- Sticks and stones may break my bones…but the storms of Fenris can grind them! - He lowered himself, like a predatory animal -I find yours…wanting.
With one final surge forward, Gilbrand broke through the biotic's resistance. All the momentum from straining his servos and muscles to their limits was unleashed in a split second, and he used it to make a leap forward and cut the witch in twain with the Templar's sword. She died with a gurgle, trying to keep her guts from falling out of her stomach. Gilbrand duly noted that the blood and flesh of the witch were purple, not red, but now was not the time to examine how and why. With her dead, the spirit of his enemies was broken – they were routing. Clearly they hoped he'd fall to her tricks after their armament proved ineffective. A few chose to stay and fight and he helped them on their way to asking the Emperor for redemption. As for the rest…Cowardice was punishable by death in the Imperial Guard, and he saw no reason not to make it so here, irrelevant of who was dispensing the actual punishment and to whom. The Fenrisian chased them down mercilessly one by one, thoroughly making sure he missed none. The last survivors he found cornered in a dead end. Two had accepted their fate and fought back, the third kept banging at the locked door in front of him, screaming at whoever was inside to let him in. Perhaps the captain of this band was inside? There was only one way to find out.
Five minutes ago Toni Somgak had reviewed his ledgers and charts again and the sheer amount of work left made him slump back in his brand new and very comfortable executive chair. A lot of people dream of a life like his, exactly to avoid paperwork…yet here it was again, there was no escaping it. Salaries, bills, supplies, payoffs….ugh it made his head spin but like many things, getting the paperwork in order was a necessary evil. He considered himself and his crew as…opportunists, and disliked when people used stronger words like scavengers, vultures and so on. People tended to leave so much…valuable things around. Toni's band steered clear of the large pirate and slaver gangs, but were not shy to poke in their heads after the big boys were done. After all the crew of a stricken merchantman should be grateful for rescue instead of suffocation and if they could not express their gratitude properly, their families and relatives surely could. And then of course there were those people for whom the folks who wanted them dead paid more than the ones who wanted them back alive and others that had to be sold to real slavers because no one cared about them…alas it was all fair in this market niche. And now he struck gold. The WTH compound was going to serve him greatly as a base of operations. Until now there was only his armed freighter for that job and it was already insufficient. To his credit it was worthy to mention that he was by no means racist or anything(being human himself after all), it was pure chance that all the local colonies and traffic lanes were predominantly human and thus so were most of his "guests" and acquired goods. Unfortunately his latest visitor was ignorant about that(and many other things as well) and had made very different conclusions that led to his current predicament. It was practically over before it even began. First he heard the gunfire, then the screaming and the trashing and that terrible, terrible roar. Now someone…no, something was tearing open the doors of his office. The universe had a sick sense of humour. Just when everything was starting to look up for him and he was hoping to finally strike big, it all comes crashing down. He slumped into the chair again; this was simply unfair! This could not be happening, surely it had to be a nightmare. Then he looked up and right into the eyes of Death itself. It was something born out from the dreams of a fantasy writer – an ancient God of war and slaughter made flesh. The face was hidden behind a grim visage – a helm with two burning red eyes, upon it encrusted the top half from the fanged skull of some unknown creature (of course he never knew what Tyranid gaunts looked like, let alone their insides). On its neck hanged a necklace of great tusks, taken from some mighty beast, in the far away event horizon of mortal terror, he recognized them as Tresher maw teeth. The giant was wearing a great leather cloak, which was spattered with blood of many colors from the waist down and beneath the cloak could be seen a shining silver armour that made him look like a knight of the old days. In his right arm – a great shimmering axe – blood was still dripping from the shaft and vaporized when it touched the blade, and in his left arm –a sword like a giant chainsaw, that was covered in gore. The teeth of the sword whirred in reverse, spraying out bits of meat, gear and blood that hat gotten stuck in the chain. The giant then sheathed the sword and approached him with thundering footsteps. Somgak was aware in a way, that he had his sidearm at his disposal and at any point he could just raise it and shoot…yet those outside had many more assault grade weapons, and it did them little good. His fingers refused to move - completely frozen. The monster grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out, carrying him like a puppet towards the entrance. Now he saw clearly the massacre that had occurred along the way. His men gutted like fish and cut to pieces, still clutching red hot weapons in rigor mortis. What manner of creature could just waltz in and so casually dispose of them? He guessed he'd never have a chance to find out. At the gates, the giant stopped and raised him to his knees, turning him to face the wilderness. Then it spoke. The thing could speak! But what was it saying he could not fully understand, like some very strange dialect further distorted by the helm's voice modulator.
-Your crimes against mankind are million, the verdict is death, and today…I shall be your executioner. Make peace with yourself and may the All Father have mercy on you, for I shall have none.
That was the last thing Toni heard as his head was separated from his shoulders. The old wolf took it and went back inside as the body fell to the ground. All in all, Gilbrand was satisfied with his handiwork, he hadn't gone sloppy for several years without proper combat. The witch was a surprise of course, but such things were inevitable. Well then, so far so good, but now the old marine finally reached the part of his plan that said "We'll see when we get to it." One of the things he needed now was information, and Mr. Somgak was going to provide it posthumously. Gilbrand disliked such practices, but their usefulness could not be denied. And so, he removed his helmet, cracked open Somgak's skull like an egg and took a big bite out of the brain. It was going to take a while unfortunately, but learning through his omophagea was going to be far more useful in the long term than common interrogation – especially with a language barrier and limited time on hand. Now he had to think fast and act quickly, it was unknown to him if that was an independent party or a military unit (though it did look like the former not the latter) thus he had no idea what the response would be. If he was lucky, there would be no response at all and he'd have to wait for the weekly shuttle. Until then though, he had plenty of things to keep himself busy with. Hide the bodies, clear the damage, scour the place for anyone in hiding, and examine their weapons closer. Yes the last one would probably make a puritanical tech priest leak some oil in frustration, but fortunately there wasn't one around, and it was a good idea to know what your enemy could do to you. Well truth to be told there weren't many puritanical tech priests left in the first place. The Imperium was struggling to stay afloat. Normally that had the opposite effect – ultra orthodox factions of the Inquisition, Ecclesiarchy and Mechanicus gained strength and screamed that it was deviations from the old ways that had brought these downfalls. Except this time things kept going badly. The Guard was hopelessly outstretched, fighting too many fronts, too many foes with no hope in sight and Bad news as the only news. When push came to the shove, the result was so many terrible blows that even Terra was shaken from them. Generals led armies blindly following outdated doctrines, priests made the maddened masses pray day and night and branded people for heretics left and right when they should have been toiling in munitions plants and tank factories instead. Scapegoats were easier to find than solutions. Problem was that sometimes you needed solutions, not scapegoats, and only those that could provide them survived. It was equally likely to find a Magus eager to inspect a personal force field technology that was apparently cheap enough to be supplied to the lower ranks then slap a story about it being an STC fragment. Heretical for some, life saving for others. Time to satisfy his curiosity then.
When the gunfire erupted, the first hushed words that came out were "rescue". But then came the screaming and everyone turned very very quiet. Then they heard the footsteps. Those were heavy footsteps, like those of a heavy loader mech but without the machine's calculated pace. Fire intensified outside, there were no more disciplined bursts – everyone was pouring rounds as fast as their heat sinks could manage. Something or someone was smashed against the wall with the nasty sound of crunching bones and a squeal that was cut in half. Then the firefight moved away and suddenly ceased. The distinct footsteps returned and passed outside the doors a few more times. Then they stopped outside and the smell of ozone, blood, and fire and burned flesh entered. A monster stood in the door frame, so big it could barely fit in.
Gilbrand looked upon the half a dozen faces, blinking from the sudden rush of light. Their hands were tied behind their backs and they had grouped together in a corner. Well that was…not entirely unexpected truth to be told, he was actually hoping for it. For a split second he hoped he'd be greeted by Gothic speech but alas, these people were not Imperial subjects. His hand twitched- one of the prisoners was a xeno, killing it was the least he could do. No...not yet, Gilbrand curtailed his bloodlust, it was never his best advisor. These people were in chains and not an immediate danger. Perhaps he could use them. Certainly the enemy of your enemy was rarely your friend, but you could always turn him into a disposable asset. His objective – that of returning to the wide Imperium one way or another was worthy of a few transgressions, whatever some inquisitor or another may have to say about, not that they dared come close to Fenris anyway – the legacy of Logan Grimnar lived on. Gilbrand was also in no rush – if everything went according to schedule, the next supply run was not due for a couple of days. As unpleasant as it sounded for one like him to require assistance, he'd probably need a pilot at least; preferably one that would feel obliged to help him, not one forced at gunpoint. Learning how to fly something that was not trusty (well, sometimes a bit rusty too) Imperium tech was not beyond the Fenrisian, but it was a bit risky – after all he had only one shuttle for test flights and even the humble Thunderhawk had way more buttons and gauges in the pilot's cabin than he felt comfortable with. Of course he would have to kill them anyway once they were of no more use to him. It was the only way to be safe.
Gilbrand then studied the captive alien better. Let's see…blue skin, looks almost like a quite attractive young woman, if we don't count the head crest, the lack of eyebrows and the skin colour. His eyes darted below her neck…
Calene huddled further into the corner when the monstrous giant released a mighty below. In the past 168 hours she witnessed a pirate raid, evacuation, a space battle, one false rescue that turned out to be scavengers looking for leftovers and now another false rescue, except that this time she was surely going to die. One thing was certain – this was not in the job description when she signed as an accountant on a cargo freighter. Then she realized it was not a cry of rage, but deep roaring laughter. With a rumbling voice, the thing spoke in a strange language:
-I can see why the Bloodclaws snickered all the time! Those are indeed mighty fine Greater Goods!
