Hidi-ho, my friends. Sorry about the huge delay between updates (raises riot shield). Suffice to say that I've just gone through most of my midterms… and Lord… I never before have known an exam quite like those.

But enough of my problems. Just want to once again extend my thanks to all who have read the story, and to everyone who has reviewed as well. I cannot thank you enough for the time and effort you put into this.

TL, since I cannot respond to you directly, I'll say that most of the technical details will show up later in the story for why things are the way they are (mostly, I'm attempting to get a bit of a balance here, not sure how well it'll work out though). As for Bruenor, much to my shame, I can't do a decent accent to save my life.

Now, the disclaimer: I hereby affirm that I neither intend to profit from the promotion or use of the characters here nor claim ownership of them, save those that are the product of my demented imagination (so sue away. I'm already in the hole for my student loans, so the joke'll be you).

Chapter Nine—Unexpected Arrivals

The Master Chief double-checked the storage bin above his head, making certain that the weapons were secured and locked away. Then he turned and sat down, his massive form causing the Pelican seat to groan beneath him. Orna and Johnson sat across from him, with Neeshka nearer to the front of the craft. Keyes was in the cockpit, overseeing the final takeoff procedures.

The past thirty-six hours had been hectic, to say the least. Overseeing the migration of more than three thousand people was not an easy thing to do. No one had gotten more than a few hours of sleep. However, while there might have been the urge to pat themselves on the back for a job well done, the UNSC soldiers knew that there was still work to be done before rest could be enjoyed.

For starters, Neeshka had to be taken back to the city of Neverwinter, and this Lord Nasher fellow needed to know that Luskan was gunning for his city. And so they had all popped combat stims, and piled in.

The docking bay doors opened, and the Pelican shot out. It quickly reached hypersonic speeds, leaving a double shockwave behind itself. Moving at a velocity exceeding six thousand meters a second, the journey to Neverwinter, if Neeshka's directions were correct, wouldn't take more than a few minutes.

"So what can you tell us about this Lord Nasher guy?" Cortana asked.

"Well," Neeshka said, bringing her hands up to her chin, "in his younger days, he used to be an adventurer—a catch-all term we used to describe someone who goes around looking for trouble by looting tombs and taking on odd jobs for people—but that was years ago." She paused. "He's pretty fair in his judgment. I mean, look at me. He could have thrown me in irons and tossed me into a cell till Asmodius died of old age. Instead, he takes me and makes me one of his agents. Especially rare, if you consider what I am."

The Master Chief nodded. So they weren't dealing with a tyrant. Good. That would make negotiations easier. The Spartan wondered what the people of Neverwinter would think though. Thus far, they had been met with fear at almost every turn. Casius had been eager for an alliance, but that was out of necessity. The Plainsmen were now the closest thing one could call to a staunch friend, but that was because they had helped save their people from enslavement and annihilation, and that the other Pelican was currently making supply runs between them and Ten Towns.

Neeshka spoke more of the city, and something surprised the Chief. She was telling them about the walls, the defenses, the skill of the soldiers, and the town's history. Its many wars against the Orcs and Luskan to hold onto their little spot on the map, the arcane forces brought against it time and again, and the heroes that had risen up to try and quell the threat.

Those were vital statistics and information, things to be carefully hidden… unless the listening party was trusted explicitly not to betray the information. The Chief smiled to himself. Maybe they were making friends here after all.

There was something that puzzled the Spartan about the girl, though. Her face, there was something about it that seemed hauntingly familiar to him. It lapped at the edges of his memory, just out of reach, and he wondered what it could be. Her carefree, vivacious attitude reminded him a lot of Kelly, but aside from that, she had nothing in common with the Spartan scout.

He frowned, but put it aside. There would be time for that later.

"Approaching population center," Cortana announced. "Recommend we start slowing down. I don't think shattering every window in the town would be a good way to make a first impression."

Keyes said nothing, but the Master Chief could feel the dropship coming to a stop. Once the shockwaves behind them had dissipated, they started forward again, moving at a comparatively slow three hundred kilometers an hour.

It had been decided that this time, since Neeshka was on the city's employ, and the guards were more likely to trust her, that the Pelican would bring them all the way to the front gates. This might also help put on a display of power, and convince Nasher of the benefits of an alliance.

As they drew close, the Pelican swung around and its back door opened. A faint bit of morning light poured through, but for the most part, the interior remained dark. The sun had not yet risen above the city walls.

Neeshka moved out first, slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder and heading out. She paused for a moment to remove her helmet and tuck it under her shoulder, and then she hopped off the short landing ramp, before marching up the thirty meter distance that separated the Pelican from the walls of the city of Neverwinter.

The Master Chief could feel the eyes of dozens, possibly hundreds of guards upon him and the craft he was on. He and the other paused long enough to gather up a selection of weapons they wished to display to Lord Nasher, and then the Spartan edged out, making certain that his supplies were secure in his webbing, belts, and bandoliers before taking a step off the end of the ship.

No crossbow bolts, arrows, or vials of flaming oil came towards him, or any more of those grenade type devices. He was aware of the other three gathering at the rear of the Pelican a few meters behind him, hiding in the shadows of the craft. It had been decided that Chief would move out after Neeshka, followed by Johnson and Keyes. Orna would come last, as it would be best not to alarm them too quickly with a creature that was apparently thought a demon on this world.

Much to his surprise, the guards at the gate were saluting the Tiefling and didn't seem to be too terribly alarmed by the Spartan's presence. Slowly, he started to walk towards them. As he drew closer, some of them did start to look surprised at his massive bulk, but the cyborg was equally mystified about them. Neither his gait nor his pose would have given anything away, but the Spartan was amazed by the quality of equipment that these soldiers were equipped with.

Finely made chain mesh clinked together as the guards moved and conversed, while the sergeant was clad in spectacularly made plate armor. If these were just the soldiers assigned to guard the gates, then what did the elite soldiers wear? The knights? Lord Nasher's bodyguards? This city must have had access to an enormous amount of quality metal ore in order to outfit their soldiers like this.

Some of them gasped suddenly, and the Spartan knew that Orna had stepped out of the Pelican and was now walking towards them. The Sangehili moved forward slowly so as not to further alarm the guards, occasionally double checking the straps on the back-pack styled power cell he was carrying.

"Don't worry about it, he's with me," Neeshka said with a dismissive wave.

The guards did not seem entirely convinced, but they sighed and stood away. One of them remained next to the Tiefling, though, and motioned for them to follow.

"This way," he said, moving past the gates and deeper into the town.

The Master Chief gazed around the city as they moved inside of it. For a Medieval Era, it seemed surprisingly advanced. Late Gothic, if his history lessons were correct. High arches characterized the larger buildings, along with a myriad of buttresses. The houses that the civilians lived in appeared to have shingled roofs and be made of either wood or stone. They were also laid out in a very orderly fashion. Great care and planning had gone into this city, rather than the haphazard and seemingly random construction that he'd found in Bryn Shander.

They reached a square and were assaulted by the noise of city life. Merchants were hawking wares; each one crying out that theirs was the best, and available for the cheapest amount of gold. Even here, great organization seemed to be in place. Stands that were selling dried fruit and smoked vegetables and meat were organized close to one another. Next to them was what appeared to be a series of bakeries, judging by the people that were walking out with loaves of bread tucked under their arms.

Further down the road (which he noted was finely paved and cobbled) were other merchants. Some of these were selling standard items that one might expect to find in a city like this: salt, leather goods, baskets, even a metal smith offering various trinkets made of gold, silver, and copper. He noticed little in them that could tell him the culture of the place, though.

He tried to ignore the stares and the sudden quietness that enveloped the area as more and more of the local citizenry became aware of what was going on, of the group of strangers that were moving through their city. Whispers soon sprang up, some of them loud enough and careless enough hat he couldn't help but overhear them.

"What in the name of the gods?" a man selling fish remarked.

"Who are those… what are those?" a woman operating a shoemaker store whispered to a companion.

"They're with that demon girl," he heard someone say just a might bit too loud, he gave the person a stare, noting the slim build and the pointed ears. They looked like a lighter skinned version of Drizzt. A surface Elf, he supposed.

Evidence of racial prejudice, he thought to himself. If that was the norm, and the kingdoms of this world splintered up into regions that only had control over a region within a few dozen to a few hundred miles of the capital, he could see why the Drow would be interested in taking them over. Fractured and disunited, a powerful outside force could take these places over piecemeal, without ever having to worry about facing a large, united assault force.

It was a lesson that Earth humanity had learned very well. It had been driven home by the gladii, philums, and ballistae of the Roman Legionaries under the Caesars in the first two centuries A.D when they had conquered nearly half of the known world, and held it for almost a thousand years. Genghis Khan's cavalry archers had devastated the petty kingdoms of Asia, Russia, and nearly all of Europe in similar fashion, creating the largest empire the world had seen up till then. The British, with their rifles and enormous war fleets, had done it until their consecrated and conquered lands literally stretched over the entire planet.

And then the UNSC's predecessor, the Allied Nations' Defense Initiative, forged together from an alliance of the United States, Germany, and Australia (the only countries with anything that resembled an intact military and infrastructure in the wake of the third world war) had used these tactics to slowly bind the entire world together, at long last achieving the dream of putting all of humanity under a single flag.

This disunity would also mean that securing allies against the Drow's aggression would be all the harder. These kings, regents, and oligarchies wouldn't budge unless they thought it in their best interests to fight back, and it was entirely possible that some would actively attempt to undermine others, thinking to use the invasion to their best advantage.

Such shortsightedness would doom any effort to resist literally before it could get off the ground.

Laughter reached his audio sensors, and he turned to see a group of children running through the streets, their chores at home apparently finished. They were hitting a small ball that appeared to be made of wood and was painted a bright yellow. It bore a slight resemblance to the Earth game of hockey, but the sticks didn't have a paddled end, and he couldn't see any goals, or for that matter, any teams. They seemed to just be hitting it for the fun of it.

One of them, one of the larger children, gave the ball a hard hit, and sending it sailing through the air. The Chief's reflexes kicked in, calculating velocity, acceleration, direction of the ball, wind speed and direction. His arm blurred forward and the ball was captured by it.

Everyone stopped, and the laughter died in an instant. The Master Chief was bemused for a moment, and stared down at the object in his hand. It was well worn, sporting dents and a few faint cracks in a number of places. Some of the paint was also flecking off. Then he stared back at the children, who were pale-faced and shifting nervously.

He gently lobbed the ball towards them. The wooden sphere bounced a few times along the cobblestones, and rolled back into the group. Fear filled faces disappeared, and they went back to their game.

"Awww, such a way with children," Cortana said through his internal speakers.

The Spartan said nothing, but continued to follow behind Neeshka and the other guard. They soon passed through a large, fortified gate. The Spartan noted the incline that they were moving up, and nodded approvingly as he stared around at the walls and portcullises around him. This place had been designed with defense in mind. He could see a castle in the distance, and looked over its architecture.

It was, again, mid to late Gothic in appearances. The battlements were smooth and rounded to eliminate weak points, while the towers sported steep coverings to ward off damage from arrows and siege weaponry. Zooming in with his visor, he noted that the shingles on the room appeared to have been secured and reinforced by a number of steel bands. Clever engineering trick, and it again reinforced his theory that there were a large number of metal veins around this town, especially in light of the number of soldiers that had been seen wandering the streets.

The cyborg had also been pleased by those patrols. They were well disciplined, marching in perfect step, and their eyes were shifting about for trouble, especially staying focused on the alleys.

As another group passed them by, he also noted a solid distribution of weapons among them. The squad leaders typically carried large warhammers—a tactical anti-armor weapon. Two men behind them were carrying axes, weapons that he knew were hard to stop once the user got his momentum up. The remainder carried halberds, great for being able to harm an adversary before he could harm you.

They also wore a cloak, he noticed; a pattern of silver stars on a sky blue background. He had seen others in heavier gear every once and a while as well, and theirs held a single star surrounded by gold. Were the cloaks used to denote what branch of the military that these soldiers belonged to?

"The cloaks that the soldiers are wearing, what do they mean?" he asked Neeshka. The Tiefling looked at him for a second and then shook her head slightly.

"Sorry," she said, "that's pretty common knowledge around here, I forgot that you wouldn't know it." She smiled faintly, and pointed at the guard in front of them. "The light blue means they're part of the city watch. Three stars means the rank and file, four stands for a sergeant, and four with a silver border means that the individual's a captain."

"And the gold?" Orna spoke up. "What does that signify?"

"It means that the person's a knight." The Tiefling went silent for a moment, and the Spartan saw something, he wasn't certain exactly what, flicker across her face. Sorrow? Regret? It passed as quickly as it came. "Beyond that, you've got the Nine. You'll recognize them when you see them."

The girl was hiding something, the Master Chief was certain of that. Still, it wasn't his business to pry, not unless he suspected that it was something that would be detrimental to the safety of his fellow UNSC personnel.

The rest of the journey to Castle Never passed in relative silence.

Back at the sight of the battle, strange things were afoot. There was a slight swirling in the air, moving in a circular manner. It was nothing as violent as a tornado, more like a hay-devil, a small cyclone with winds that rarely exceeded twenty kilometers per hour. Suddenly, there was a flash, and a silvery-blue disk opened up out of nowhere. The object was standing on its thin side, and looked to be relatively two-dimensional. Out of it stepped a few, all of them shrouded in cloaks that hid their features. The lead one nervously gripped his twin blades and stared around. He squinted, and then motioned behind him.

Two more people stepped out. The first was a figure clad in black robes, with a series of blue runes sewn into the material. Behind him was someone who confirmed the identity of the party. One could immediately tell that this Drow was different from his fellows. Where they hid from the sun beneath their cloaks, he did not. He almost seemed to revel in the bright light.

A large, wide brimmed had adorned a head that was shaved bald. Its dark color was offset by an enormous white feather that curled backwards out of it. Numerous gemstones adored the vest he wore, and a number of rings and amulets hung around his neck. An eye patch covered his left eye, set with a large ruby in the center

His name was well whispered in the heart of Menzoberranzan: Jarlaxle. Aside from the archwizards of Scorcere, he was the only male Drow in the entire city who was seen as anything more than fodder for the Matrons' schemes. That was because he commanded Bregan De'Aerthe. The militant arm of his mercenary band rivaled the power of many of the leading houses, while his spy and information network was so well entrenched and integrated into their society that no one in the city so much as came down with a chest cold without him knowing about it.

But despite his power, there were some that even he could not ignore. Matron Baerne herself had requested… no, ordered him to come out here and find out what was going on. She had tried communing with Lolth, but had been unable to effectively contact her deity. It had made the old matron worried, and so he had been called in.

The Drow mercenary whistled as he looked around at the remnants of the Orc and Luskan camps. Bodies blown to pieces, ripped in half, missing limbs, and the whole place laid to ruin. He hadn't seen this much devastation since House Arlias had failed in its attempts to eliminate a higher ranking family, and the Abyss had been unleashed on it in retribution for its violation of Menzoberranzan's "laws."

"My, my," he said, rubbing his chin, "someone made quite a mess." He turned to face the first Drow that had come out of the portal. "Something tells me that if your sister was here, that she's no longer among the living."

"No information would please me more," the Dark Elf, Dinin Do'Urden, replied, spitting into the snow. "Briza always was an insufferable bitch."

Jarlaxle said nothing, but motioned for his soldiers to spread out. He himself went for the far side of the camp, to see what he could scrounge up. The carnage was almost surreal to him, and considering his society and upbringing, he considered that to be impressive. He trod over the frozen bits of meat that had once been humans and Orcs, noting for a moment that there was a man hanging from a cross at the far end of the camp.

He saw something else on the ground that puzzled him. He knelt down next to the stone, and frowned slightly. There were smooth, glassy pools about six inches deep in the center of it, as if flakes of dragon's fire had struck the stone and melted through it. Whatever had done this had been hot enough to burn through the rock effortlessly, and looking around, he could see where armor had fused, and people had been burned to the point that had he not know what race they were beforehand, he would have never guessed their identities.

He saw many corpses that bore marks of combat that he was familiar with, the slash marks of a sword or axe, or the crushed body parts of a hammer. There were, however, even more pieces to the puzzle here. Bodies had been blown completely apart, and blown apart with such ferocity that there didn't seem to be anything left of them larger than a fist.

Jarlaxle tapped a booted foot against the ground, wondering what could have caused it. Magic Missile? No, that spell didn't do this to people. An Isaac's Missile Storm, or perhaps a blast of raw eldritch power? Were they dealing with a warlock here? If so, then he was one of unusual potency.

Then the mercenary's eyes fell upon something else. One of the northern passes that lead from this clearing was filled with Orc bodies. Dozens… hundreds, in fact. He arched an eyebrow at this, and made his way over to the field of slaughter. The devastation here was inconsistent with any type of spell that he knew of, and with a small army of wizards at his employ, that list was long and thorough.

The ones in the center had been reduced to smears of flesh and giblets, and those on the outer edges were ether burnt to a crisp or had been shredded in a similar manner to the ones in the center of the massacre. It was the ones in-between those two that puzzled Jarlaxle. Their bodies were missing limbs and some had been torn in half. Others… others had been, jellified, for lack of a better term.

The mercenary leader prodded one such corpse with his toe, marveling at how easily it sank into the depth of the Orc's body. He nudged it over, and watched as muscle seemed to flow and every part of its body deformed, almost like a slime monsters had bored inside and started to digest the poor fool from the inside out.

"Zetarin," he called out.

The wizard detached himself from the others and made his way over to his leader. He had his hood pulled down so low that it was a wonder he could even see where he was going.

"Sir?" the man asked, bowing slightly as he drew close.

"What do you make of it," Jarlaxle gestured around the whole camp. "What kind of magic are we dealing with here?"

"I'm honestly not sure, sir," Zetarin shook his head and held up his hands helplessly. "I've sensed and pried into the arcane, but I can only detect the faintest traces of it." He sighed. "My attunement could be off, there is something strange in the ley lines and currents these days, but I cannot sense anything trace of power on the level necessary to cause this kind of devastation."

There was something in his voice that puzzled his commander. "Something bothering you?" the mercenary asked.

"No sir… well, slightly." He shifted slightly, and Jarlaxle caught a glimpse of his compatriot's crimson eyes, the only thing visible in the depths of his cowl. "This just brings back bad memories."

Jarlaxle nodded sympathetically. With a few exceptions, his mercenary band was composed entirely of survivors from fallen houses. Males that were not given the right of accusation against the attacking house in the rare event that they were able to survive, elite soldiers who had managed to evade capture, and even a handful that had survived the retribution of failure.

Zeratin himself was from House Kerlias, though it was no longer acknowledged as such, or for that matter, neither had its history been. Failure meant more than death, it meant that you and all your family and past were effectively erased from the history of Menzoberranzan. You never existed in the first place.

"Well, I think that we've learned just about all that we can from here," Jarlaxle muttered. "Come, let's be on our way before we fry our brains in this light."

What Jarlaxle didn't know was that a mile above his head, a Frisbee sized object had recorded everything that had just happened with amazing detail and clarity.

Back on the Forward Unto Dawn Cortana mused over their sudden arrival. Billions of outcomes, scenarios, and hypotheses zipped through her artificial mind and crystal matrices in the time that it would take a human to blink.

She decided against scrambling the Longsword to try and wipe them out. There wasn't a guarantee that she'd be able to get it there and take them out before they went back through their little portal, and she'd just overplay her hand. Instead, she downloaded the data, transferred it to another UAV, and launched it. The small object flew out, heading away from the frigate and towards the mountain caves where Bruenor lived.

Drizzt might know something about these individuals.

There, were, however, events occurring that even Cortana was not aware of. The Dawn's long range sensors had been shut down to conserve power, and to eliminate the possibility that anyone with an active sensor equivalent finding the ground ship. Had they been on, they might have spotted the object that was burning its way down through the atmosphere, almost a thousand kilometers away.

No one on Faerun would have recognized the thing, merely believed that it was another Spell Jammer. To someone from the UNSC, though, its sleek lines, predatory appearance, and purple-blue hull would have clearly marked it as a Covenant vessel.

It was a small craft, not much more than a hundred meters long. It was a scouting craft, designed with aggressive reconnaissance in mind, sporting a few pulse lasers and a plasma torpedo launcher, in addition to an impressive array of jamming and sensor systems.

At the moment, though, it was in trouble. It had departed through the portal less than twelve hours ago. Its mission: ascertain the fate of the Human vessel, Forward Unto Dawn and if possible, rescue any survivors of the four soldiers that had stayed behind. Fleet Shipmaster, Rtas Vadumee, had made finding the Arbiter a top priority of the mission, as well as the Demon, Spartan-117.

Ship pilot Vlades Dursamee struggled with the unresponsive controls of the craft. Ever since they had entered that other portal floating above the Ark, things had gone south. A massive spacial anomaly had ensnared the craft, and shredded its shielding systems, while also knocking the weapons offline. What had followed had been a slow, eleven and a half hour limp towards a planet that seemed the most hospitable, while spamming distress signals and ship identification in every known frequency and trying to repair what they could.

Nothing had come of it though, and now the bare hull of his craft was being exposed to the raw heat of reentry. The few scanners that were still working had enabled him to find an ideal "soft spot" in the planets terrain to set the ship down in, though the busted engines were not making it an easy job for him.

And of course, when your ship was coming in at fifty times the speed of sound, the term "soft spot" was relative.

"Impact in ten seconds!" he shouted over the ship's communication system. "Everyone brace!"

He faintly heard affirmative feedback over his channels, ranging from the high pitched squeaks and yelps of Unggoy, the barking commands of his fellows, and the faint rumbling of the pair of Lek'golo on board.

The atmosphere rushed by their craft and ignited from the friction. Those ten seconds passed quickly, and through his holographic instruments, the Sangheili was able to see the ground approach and fill his field of view.

The scouting craft hit the ground and shook the earth with enough force that it would have leveled a small city. It bounced, sailing a kilometer or two through the air before it impacted again, this time staying down and skidding through the swamping terrain.

Copses of trees and small rises were obliterated as it slashed its way across the ground. Water boiled away behind it, leaving an immense steam trail almost a kilometer wide in its wake and burning swamp grass to ash. As his ship smashed through yet another rocky rise, reducing it to so much molten lava, Vlades was suddenly grateful for the fact that this ship, like all Covenant craft, had been built with the bridge in the exact center of it. He could hear stuff breaking loose in the troop hold, and hoped that too many wouldn't be injured by it.

After what felt like an eternity, the ship finally came to a stop. The Elite let out a sigh of relief, tapping his mandibles against the sides of his helmet.

"Status report!" his commander, Mias Tarkimee barked out.

"Ship at full stop. Significant damage to the hull plating along the bottom edge of the craft," Vlades said. He tapped a few more holographic buttons. "The weapons in the cargo hold broke loose, damage unknown. Reactor stable, but shield capacitors are damaged."

"Sound off, casualties!" his superior said, as Vlades busied himself with shutdown procedures.

The end results were better than could normally be expected. No fatalities, only a few serious injuries like broken bones among the Unggoy, and thanks to their shields, the Sangheili had survived with nothing more than a few bruises. It went without saying that the Lek'golo hadn't even had their armor scratched by the impacts and rough landing.

Within minutes of crashing down, Mias had his troops in line and organizing what they could onto their vehicles: two Specters and a pair of Shadow heavy ground transports. Things had been better than the commander had hoped for. All three hundred of his soldiers were alive, and most of their infantry and logistical equipment was salvageable. The portable fusion generators, plasma cell rechargers, combat rations, weapons, and also, methane synthesizer and portable habitats for the Unggoy were all intact.

He activated a holomap on his gauntlet, and looked at it. According to the scans they'd managed to snag before everything had gone to hell, there was a large city, around tier two technological level, about two hundred clicks to the southeast. With luck, even having to move on foot, they could make the distance in a week. Once there, he could have his Sangehili make supply runs back and forth until they had everything unloaded.

Time to get this show on the road. He looked around at his command staff. They were all in place, and there were only a few more orders to give.

"N'tho, Usze, take point," he said.

Both Sangheili saluted. They stood out from their comrades by virtue of their black armor and the two blocky protrusions that came off their backs. Both of them were Rangers, elite commando units trained to fight in every conceivable environment, up to and including the vacuum of space. With their heads completely covered by ferocious helmets that were patterned to resemble a Sangehili skull, they had lived up to their incarnation as angels of death in the face of the Brutes' treachery, and more importantly, on the Ark, where they had battled alongside the Spartan and the Arbiter.

Both of the soldiers unslung their newly issued weaponry—long-armed plasma rifles that bore more resemblance to human weapons, with protruding sensor scopes and iron sights—than the elegant, but somewhat poorly designed weapons that they'd been forced to use under the rule of the Prophets. Mias supposed that was one advantage to breaking away from the Covenant, in the event that his cybernetic targeting networks failed, he'd still be able to aim his gun. Both of them also carried a pistol at their sides, and a particle beam rifle over their backs.

"Lotar, Denos, cover our flanks." He signaled to the two Lek'golo.

"We obey…" they rumbled. A Hunter communicated by vibrating the many eel-like organisms that made up its collective body and mind. The result was a deep, baritone voice that was more felt through the bones than heard through the ears.

Like the Sangheili, the separatist Hunters had altered their armor to signify breaking away. It was now an iridescent black, with tinges of blue white scattered around it, and it was also more jagged than those of the loyalists. They did, however, still sport the enormous assault cannons that made them so dangerous. Stationed on the flanks of the formation, their incredibly attuned senses would make it almost impossible for an enemy to take them off guard, while the assault cannon's enormous firepower and range would ensure that anything that did try to attack them met with a quick, if painful, demise.

"Gazap, are your troops ready to move?"

"Yes, Excellency," the Unggoy replied with a salute.

Gazap was a hardened combat veteran that Mias had served with for some time, something evident in the Uggoy commander's pearly white armor and large build, though both were somewhat hidden by the massive fuel rod cannon that he carried. Some might think it comical that the four foot tall soldier was carrying a weapon bigger than he was, but any who knew the power that the device could bring to bear knew better than to laugh.

"Good, then move it out!"

It would serve the group well that they were alert. They had no way of knowing where they were, but they had crash landed in the dreaded Evermoores. The swamps and bogs were calm enough by day, but at night, this place would bring forth its own horrors.

&

Well, hope that wasn't too bad.

As a quick statement with regards to the scans: I've got the elites using a different type of tech tier than the one used by the Forerunner array, just to avoid confusion.

As always, many thanks for those who took the time to read this, and any form of feedback is appreciated. I do hope to one day do this sort of thing for a living, so I'll need all the help I can get to improve.

Until next time, though, folks, stay safe and have a great day.