So, here we go again, a different attempt. Slightly different story, with what I believe is a more grounded character. It is still a Warhammer-Mass Effect crossover. More so than before, opinions and constructive criticism are welcomed, if you genuinely dislike what I write, you are free to leave my profile and go read something else. Naturally, you are also free to insult and hate, it's not like I will find out where you live and hunt you down, Sly Marbo style...or is it...
As a final warning, there IS gore in this story, although not a lot in this chapter. I certainly don't know if there will be "lemon" in the future, as I don't have the entire story plotted out yet... and I seriously doubt I can actually convey such a scene convincingly. There WILL be mature topics thrown in there, I'll make sure to leave proper warnings whenever one pops up.
Anyhow, I hope you enjoy this prologue/pilot.
SBAR: Squished Beyond All Recognition
999.M41
Segmentum Tempestus
System: Classified
Planet: Classified
Inquisitorial Avenger-Class Grand Cruiser Ardent Favor
The inquisitorial-ebony-schemed Valkyrie skids to a halt inside one of the starboard's hangars, the urgency of its arrival forcing the pilot to forego a gentler, more controlled vertical landing. The inertia of the near-neck-breaking speed it was carrying is suddenly combined with a perpendicular force even before movement stops, signifying the grandiose vessel was finally given the order to lurch forward. Breaking orbit from the Agri-World it was "visiting", the Ardent Favor warms up its Void Engines, preparing a Warp jump towards the recently-received order's location.
The assault craft's bay doors open, and a group of four burly, armored, dirty Storm Troopers break into a sprint, each holding the corner of a stretcher loaded by an agonizing, yet thankfully unconscious soldier, and the squad's Combat Medic straddling him, keeping him alive in any way he can think of. To the disgruntled Commissar approaching the landed craft, the sight of five men, one with half his arm inside a thorax, putting so much effort into saving the life of someone who in her eyes is already too weak to be allowed to breathe, only serves to bring even more disgust to her mind. Not only these men dared to disobey a direct order of retreat, delaying the ship's departure and timely arrival at their new destination, but they also brought a pathetic excuse of a human back into the ship, to waste medical supplies and time to make him better, rather than giving him the Emperor's Mercy, or better yet, leave him to slowly die as punishment for failure.
"What is the meaning of this?" She addresses the newly-arrived squad's commander, who was the first out of the Valkyrie after the wounded bound to the Infirmary. "It wasn't enough with your insubordination on-site, you also had to bring back some filth that didn't have what it takes to die for the Emperor fast enough? Why, I should have you flayed for this, all of-"
"Save your spit, Commissar, you know as well as we do that you hold no real authority over us, barring certain, very specific, circumstances." Tempestor Prime Belisarius cuts her off, tired of her despondent behavior. "The so-called delay was five minutes, negligible time considering we might as well arrive a century late to the party, wherever that is. Also, it wasn't a fruitless waste of time, since we did accomplish our mission. Now step aside, Lady Inquisitor Sanktra is awaiting us." Brushing past her, he leads his troops out of the hangar bay into the bowels of the ship, for mission debriefing and some well earned rest. "And one last thing. You ever again call one of my men filth, and you will wish you never even formed in your daddy's balls, understood?". With such gallant and educated words, Inquisitorial Storm Trooper Squadron 537 took its leave.
As they march in perfect formation towards their assigned barracks, Belisarius lets his mind wander, the calmness of routine muscle memory letting him focus on his inner thoughts. Two solar weeks ago the Battleship they call home saw itself invaded by newcomers, relief troops sent to replace the veteran, under-manned Regiment that was living and serving under his Inquisitor's leadership. The common practice of merging the few yet hardened survivors with the fresh batch of Guardsmen attached to the ship was ignored, in favor of granting the former a calmer life as reward for the near-decade long service record. The respect and bonding formed between the Storm Troopers and the departing troops, forged in fire and blood, was replaced with the apathy and disdain from the newbies, some young enough to be his children, had he ever fathered any.
With the new Regiment came new Commissars, barely older than the average guard they were assigned to keep an eye on, and some of them had been a true pain in the ass to even tolerate, given their holier-than-thou attitudes. He knew it was only a matter of time, for the herd to be culled; as it had happened with the previous Regiment, this one would see a great deal of action in very short time, as much or even more than what they would have had luck been on their side when the Adeptus Munitorum chose their assignment.
For despite being attached to his Inquisitor as a support unit, in theory something to have and never need rather than need and not have, Sanktra had the dubious charm of attracting more foes and hardships than what its expected when a mission is assigned. It was not uncommon for their supporting Regiment to be deployed en masse after Intelligence found out what was once thought to be a small cove of witches, was in fact a full blown heretic rebellion about to be unleashed. Naturally, those deployments were mere distractions, so that a covert Tempestor insertion would go unnoticed, and didn't have to face thousands of chaos worshipers to get to their leaders and cut them down. So yes, eventually that pesky Commissar and her lot would learn their place, or die in the process.
Arrival at the barracks is instantly followed by a blur of movement from the entire squad, no order needed, everyone taking their assigned place to begin the physical and spiritual cleansing of all their gear, and leave them in pristine condition once more; well, as pristine as possible given most of the armor was worn down by continuous damage and use. In any case, strict procedures drilled into their heads at an early age motivated them to leave their gear clean, shiny, ready for surprise inspections that rarely came anymore, yet carried terrifying consequences should anything be found amiss. Taking a shower was the last thing on anyone's mind at the moment, something to be taken care of later on. That was the norm for all, except one.
The Commander striped his armor, leaving it on the corresponding stand as muddied and bloodied as it was when he returned to the cruiser; his routine had to be the inverse of that of his men in this case, as he was expected by his Commander-in-chief for a full debrief. His equipment would remain untouched until he returned, for he had to clean himself up in a matter of minutes, and don a spotless set of fatigues. Presentation was of the utmost importance when meeting his higher-ups, he had learned that the hard way. In record time he was ready, and leaving his second in command to supervise the routinely tasks, he took off to a different level of the massive combat vessel he was in.
Far more luxurious than the run-of-the-mill ship barracks he and his troops picked up, the officer's "wing" of the ship held way too many commodities, even clean walkways; despite his unit was entitled to such an environment, everyone felt uncomfortable with so much at hand. Used to get by with less than nothing, accustomed to the same conditions as their admittedly less prepared counterparts, the Storm Troopers felt at home down at the bowels of any ship, surrounded by fellow guardsmen. Only condition was, of course, to take residence close to any vital room or object to the ship. As such, there were Tempestor squadrons scattered all around the lower levels, yet directly beneath or beside locations like the Infirmary, Armory, Command Bridge and Engine Room; if some unlucky evil-doer, like a pirate crew, tried to board the ship and disable or raid any vital point, they would meet with a wall of the next best thing after a Space Marine or Sister of Battle.
Inquisitor Sanktra's chambers were as luxurious as was to be expected for the leader of the entire battleship, above even the esteemed Captain Gloritus. Belisarius was given free passage by the four armor-clad Tempestors guarding the beautifully engraved doors, who also granted him some professional courtesy and warned that the ship´s entire Command Enclave was present inside, waiting, and some even seething in rage. A red flag popped instantly in his head as he crossed the antechamber: this would be no normal debrief, if there was any debriefing at all.
Alas, the warning rang true when he reached the threshold of the meeting room: everyone was already seated at the table, five people as different from each other as their reactions to his arrival. Magos Ruthis, head of engineering and the Tech-Priests on board, indecipherable as normal behind his mask (if he still had a human face, naturally); General Sargas Ruhk, ruthless and vain, looked down on him as most other Regimental officers did; Pontiff Grakdul, Ecclesiarchy's representative in the ship, looked up in boredom; Captain Gloritus herself, the only other person in the room who didn't show any apprehension or apathy towards him, yet she seemed too worried for exchanging pleasantries. Last but not least, at the head of the table stood Lady Inquisitor Sanktra, skin as dark as the Inquisition's banner, piercing eyes that needed no influence from the Empyrean to tell lie from truth, and a skin-shaved head reflecting the room lightning as if the Astronomican was present with them.
"Ah, Captain Belisarius, how nice of you to finally join us. I assume your tardiness is justified..." The Inquisitor dropped an implicit inquire with her open-ended greeting, that despite the soft and calm deliverance, might as well be a threat... She took both timing and failure extremely seriously.
"Indeed, my Lady. Our retreat was delayed just long enough for Sergeant Krutha to eliminate the cultist's leader. He already was within her sights when the order came through, therefore I found logical to give the mission a proper end, despite it not being the most desired one. I take full responsibility for the failure of our primary objective, the death of one of my men, and our delayed extraction." His answer was short, on point, delivered as stoically as possible, given the penetrating gaze of his interlocutor.
"Whose life was lost in this mission, Captain? How come your miraculous Chirurgeon couldn't save a fellow soldier? I was made to believe he was infallible..." General Ruhk's word seeped poison, putting as much disdain as possible when mentioning his unit's medic. Belisarius did not know if it came out of envy of the latter's skills or sheer dislike towards any elite troops.
"Despite his best efforts, Lieutenant Al-Morad has never been infallible, as you so put it, General. It is true, he is gifted in the arts of medicine, yet he has always been far from a perfect record when it comes to patient survivability; such is the nature of his office, unfortunately. Then again, I believe anyone short of the God-Emperor Himself or one of his blessed Sons could not successfully treat an upper torso blown off entirely by a heavy bolter round..." The Captain put huge amounts of effort into leaving any sarcasm or mordacity out of his words towards the General. Yes, he was insufferable at times, and yes, he owed him no actual subservience, but he was still a higher-ranking officer, so a modicum of respect was due. He could not help to point out the absurdity of his claims, though, even if he had no idea of the circumstances of his brother-in-arms' death until then.
"The one we lost was Corporal Placatus, an engineer." Belisarius answered the question anyway, because anyone but him and his men really cared for the fallen one, but giving a name to those who died, in spite of doing so in the name of the Imperium, would give sightly more levity to his words in the ears of those who often ordered the deaths of thousands without a second thought. His squadron would remember and honor him, as they did every other loss, because no-one is truly dead until they are forgotten.
"May the God-Emperor hold him in His Holy Light, forever watching over our beloved Imperium." Unexpected yet welcomed words came from the normally silent Pontiff, perhaps as a nod to those who gave their lives for such a high motive.
"A regrettable loss, indeed. But it was not in vain, after all. A successful mission is a successful mission." Magos Ruthis, always the pragmatic.
"Lady, and gentlemen, I hate to interrupt this exchange of pleasantries, but I did not summon this meeting to discuss the latest mission; though, I agree with your course of action, Tempestor Prime, so credit and congratulations were they are due. And do not take the blame for your fallen companion, as you cannot control the tides of fate or His will." Sanktra felt the need to intervene, lest the conversation drew out to long; they had far more pressing matters to attend. "Now, Captain, take a seat. I will make this short, so as to give you plenty of time to prepare accordingly. Up until now, just Captain Gloritus knows where we are heading, only because she commands this vessel; you were not kept in the dark out of secrecy or a need-to-know basis, but because it has been merely an hour since we received our orders, and had to be thoroughly checked before any action took place. We are being deployed, en masse, to aid in the defense against The Despoiler's 13th Crusade. Entire fleets are being drawn from their normal destinations to stop its advance. It is estimated we will be arriving in a solar week, so your orders are to stir every single one of your subordinates out of their complacent rears, and get them ready for a war for the history books." As was customary for her, the Inquisitor relayed her orders in a simple and straightforward manner, leaving room to little or no speculation and doubt. Nevertheless, despite how different was the train of thought of each commanding officer in the room, one single question stood out simultaneously from every set of brain matter, other than those of the women present. It was General Ruhk who spoke first.
"Where are we going, exactly, my Lady?"
"Cadia, my dearest General. We are being deployed straight to the Fortress World of Cadia." Her somber demeanor brought shivers down to even Ruthis' spine, even if it was no longer possible for such a thing to happen. For reasons unknown to them, that name sounded as foreboding as a promise of slow, painful death; that, however, did not make their minds waver from the task at hand, each visualizing how it was best to prepare their troops for the upcoming scuffle, using the most of the resources at hand. Lady Inquisitor Sanktra was pleased to find that in every mind around her when she prodded them psychically, without their knowledge. "You are dismissed, lady and gentlemen."
And just like that, their fates were sealed.
Lieutenant Badr Al-Morad jogged his way towards the assigned barracks, his armor still on his form even after going through the surgery room; despite the extent of the gruesome injuries sustained by his brother-in-arms, he was able to not only keep him alive until they reached the Infirmary, but also aid actively in the surgical procedures to repair him. He was glad, for he did not have to add another tally to his death-count, at least for now. Only time would tell whether the man would recover fully or not.
He didn't fail to notice the flourish of coordinated movement suddenly making the battleship seem more alive than it had the past weeks, with entire companies marching into the training rooms or simply in light fatigues running laps around the wide hallways. Some tech-priests even came into view, frantically disassembling and reassembling gargantuan pieces of artillery and armored vehicles while chanting prayers of protection and efficiency. Judging by the fragment of a speech from a regimental officer he heard in passing, this was no mere drill, these were preparations for the following deployment, and for the looks of it, it was going to be massive in scale.
Arriving at the barracks, though, he was met with his brethren lounging somewhat comfortably in the confined space; clearly, their latest mission gave them some leeway as to when to start preparing for the upcoming battle. He wasted no time in falling into the after-mission routines, mirroring those performed by the ones surrounding him, with the added task of checking every medical supply left so as to refill any spent, broken or spoiled resources before their next deployment. Yet, not long after he was out of his armor, ready for cleansing, he was approached by his Commanding Officer.
"Al-Morad, full report on the state of Private Gankin."
"Aye, Captain. Diagnostic: pulverized sternum, ribs second to seventh fractured on both sides, punctured left lung, hemo and neumothorax causing increased pressure in mediastinum, compromised vertebrae from last cervical to middle thorax. First aid on-site required piercing the pleura to decrease building pressure, immobilization of the entire spine, and cardiac massage up until the surgery room to aid blood circulation. Treatment included replacement of sternum by segmented titanium prosthetic, fractured ribs reset and fixed for accelerated mending, lung and pleura wounds properly drained and sealed. No damage to main arteries or veins was observed, so possible internal exsanguinanting bleeding was discarded. Entire spine was reinforced through titanium discs and servo-motors to solidify it from further trauma. Status: stable, yet delicate. Prognosis: full recovery within a solar month." Reciting his actions was second nature to Al-Morad, since it was the most direct way of conveying any developments to his superiors; the introspection and revision that came with it was welcomed, too.
"Good. I'm looking forward to seeing the next Eldar who tries to punch him in the chest and break their hand against that sternum, ha!" Terrible joke, but the image brought smiles and even laughter from most of the people listening. Al-Morad, though, was more concerned by the lingering and irrational feeling of guilt over being utterly useless to save Corporal Placatus, and by the change of pace in the ship.
"Sir, if I may ask, why is everyone looking so alive all of a sudden? Are we being deployed somewhere else, or is a highly esteemed visitor coming to check out our home?" Calling the Ardent Favor their home was a mistake, since they knew it was a temporary placement; temporary, in this time and age, meant decades, but was still considered something of passing. The medic carried on with the cleansing, half way through already, as his Captain answered his query.
"Deployment it is, Lieutenant. Straight to Cadia, believe it or not. The Despoiler decided to show his ugly muck once more out of the Eye of Terror, and clearly has his sight set on our strongest bastion, as always."
"Understood, but we are crossing half the Imperium to get there. I believe it is not practical to draw forces from so far away." Once, in the past, he was whipped for that kind of comments. After that affair, he tended to refrain from putting into words everything that crossed his mind if he was not asked to do so, but he also knew that Belisarius would take no offence from his wording, since he valued critical thought as much as martial skill.
"I agree, but these orders come from Terra itself, from the Inquisition HQ. Reports from Segmentum Obscurus are few and far between, but it is apparent that this Black Crusade is the most massive one yet. Entire fleets and planets have been lost already, and even one of the captured Blackstone Fortresses has been sighted, although damaged and thrown back into the Immaterium. The Administratum is calling all available fleets and independent forces as reinforcements for the Segmentum, and mainly Cadia, to fight back what might as well be Abaddon's finally successful assault on the Fortress World, Emperor protect us."
The relative wealth of information they had access to as an Inquisitor's direct servants was refreshing, as it gave an astounding amount of context to the happenings in the Imperium, and their foreseeable future assignments. Regimental Command would be absolutely thrilled with that level of intelligence, however thin it was, yet they had no clearance; sometimes, despite the probability of avoidable loss of life should they know everything there is to be known before making plans, ignorance is indeed bliss. For a Black Crusade only promised horrors beyond the imagination of even the most creative and perturbed humans, with Chaos sending their mutated underlings to do their biding in the most horrendous ways. Emperor be praised, Al-Morad and his squadron knew they were being looked after by Him, as they normally walked only a little worse for wear whenever they faced such enemies; the fact that they were exempt from the mind-wiping following encounters like those was both a bliss and a curse on its own.
"So," continued Belisarius. "finish your tasks, take a shower and a well-earned nap. In two hours we begin preparations, starting with the study of engagement reports and the denizens we are probable to face. Later on we will take on simulated battles alongside the Regiment, to properly design strategies. You know, normal procedure." With that, the Captain left him to his own devices, going straight to his cot for that promised sleep.
As he was ordered, Al-Morad finally completed the gear cleansing, and went straight to the showers, hygiene articles at hand. Before getting under the running water, he took advantage of the mostly empty bathroom to groom himself back into shape; the last mission took two full weeks to complete, and it showed in his growing hair and unkempt beard. The latter he proceeded to trim into the look he favored, with clean-shaved cheeks and neck, and lines tracing his jaw up to around half his ears, and the complementary mustache and chin-hair. As for the rest of his head, he simply shaved it entirely, always opting for the easiest way to keep himself presentable: no hair meant no combing. On instinct he checked the line where organic metal and flesh met, looking for any signs of infection or rejection, fully knowing such a thing would not take place.
He proceeded then to take a frugal shower, quieting any and all thoughts about past, lost opportunities, and the like; he was there, inside an Inquisitorial Grand Cruiser, where his last line of thought would most certainly get him mind-wiped, or turned into a useless servitor. Focusing on the present, and perhaps what awaited them in a solar week's time, were his main concerns at the moment. And he would not falter, as he had seldom faltered before.
With those thoughts calming his raging mind, the Chirurgeon dropped heavily on his cot, ready for a short but deep rest, before the cycle of violence started anew.
999.M41
Segmentum Obscurus
System: Cadian System
Planet: Cadia
Inquisitorial Avenger-Class Grand Cruiser Ardent Favor
Blaring alarms roused from sleep the hundred-thousand souls that were to be deployed to the already besieged planet. Within the first five minutes, every single soul to be sent to the grinder was marching towards their assigned bays, personal gear in tow, to board the myriad of dropships, small and large, that would take them to the surface. Despite the sinking feeling in their stomachs that perhaps their time was up, and their landing craft would be blasted to oblivion in transit to the atmosphere, no guardsman was foolish enough to avoid the energy breakfast that was given to them the night before. From that time everyone was virtually ready, everything tightly packed, and there would be no time for a traditional meal when they arrived in orbit. Commissars and Officers alike were delivering final orders and commendations of discipline to their nervous subordinates, many of whom had unknowingly risen from their cots to their final day on this plane of existence.
Away from all that ordered madness, every Storm Trooper squadron readied themselves for their given missions. Some would remain in the ship, joining the "skeleton" crew of forty thousand souls, to man the hallways and protect it from any potential boarders, as the Cruiser was meant to engage the naval branch of the enemy as soon as the last transport left its bays. As a matter of fact, no course correction would be made, nor any stopping would take place; every ship and drop pod would be launched as the ship glided through the planet's upper atmosphere, heading both massive vessel and lesser miniatures each to face their intended foes.
Squadron 537, however, was one of the select few to drop feet first to the ground, bypassing some of the dangers inherent of conventional flight; there were other potential inconveniences involving dropping vertically in pods only aided by gravity and a small booster rocket, but it also meant a five- minute flight/fall. A lot could happen in five minutes, everyone in both pods knew very well, so the final minutes of approach to launch position were used to pray to the God-Emperor in every language and form known to them, invoking His Holy protection. It was not a matter of a Tempestus fearing death, for that was an unspoken truth that none ever addressed, but it was the form of death what concerned them the most: all but one of them were raised with tales of heroism and glory, of warriors of untold skill and prowess; dying inside an uncontrollable cage of metal hurling at terminal velocity towards the surface of a planet, by the hands of a lucky or very talented AA artillery operator who happened to land a hit on said cage, was no true way to go for any of these men; preferable to them was to die in battle, in true service to the Imperium, somewhere where they were kings if no Space Marine was present. Even the option of being administered the deadly stim-cocktail of Lt. Al-Morad when heavily wounded was chosen over outright death by Emperor's Mercy; the frenzy state they went into, the added stamina and pain nullification, all would be invaluable for them to take out as many foul creatures the enemy fielded before their bodies could go no more.
Said officer was currently experiencing mixed feelings. This was not, by far, his first orbital drop into a raging battlefield, nor was it the first time he would face chaos worshipers and the denizens they could potentially summon. No, his feelings were those of joy, for they would be deployed into a taiga just like the ones back home, where he grew up, meaning he would be in his element; on the other hand, he was nervous for the obvious chance of being shot down in transit, or as soon as he left the confinement of the pod, and the uncertainty of exactly what they would be facing. Intelligence was not very efficient this time, less so than in the past, due to a mixture of bad weather conditions, intentional communication blocking, and the frenetic state of many of the defenders on the surface, who may not be so trustworthy in their depictions of the enemy force given the potential psychological trauma typical of war. He reminded himself not to fret about what was not under his control, so he switched his mind to a final revision of his gear, checking everything was in place; if anything was amiss, well, he would do without that, because they were mere sixty seconds from dropping feet first into hell.
They say no plan survives contact with the enemy, and that day seemed the old saying rang true. The sixty-second announcement was immediately followed by the ship rocking as it was pelted by hostile fire. As it turned out, there was an unaccounted-for hostile cruiser close to the route plotted by the Ardent, and its occupants saw little reason not to engage the passing voidship; they are chaos worshipers after all, so chaotic and spontaneous action was in their job description. And so it was, that the landing party's final minute on the ship was characterized by explosions, uncontrollable shuddering, and the last troopers outside of the crafts dying by lucky strikes or breaking into a frenetic sprint to reach any vehicle that would shelter them.
An alarm rang, and those in the drop-pods faced the familiar thrill of having the floor removed from under them, entering a state of free-fall as their transport, effectively, free-fell straight to the intended destination. No intercoms blared out between any pods, both to not give a traceable signal to the enemy artillery and to avoid listening the death throes of the unlucky ones hit by their fire. In Al-Morad's pod, silence was the rule, permeated by the racketing of any loose gear they carried, and occasionally by shrapnel bouncing off of the hull; brittle and delicate as they may seem, those pods were designed to take on anything that wasn't a direct hit, so the close explosions of proximity shells that concerned heavily the pilots of, say, a Valkyrie, were not in the forefront of any passenger's mind.
Some found the falling exhilarating, the Chirurgeon included, adrenaline flooding their system in those short minutes until landfall. It was a dangerous thing, to either become addicted to the rush of excitement or get overclocked by it and remain in a state of near-arousal even when they were far from combat; to that, the only response other than recurrent use of mild sedatives, the Tempestus relied on several methods of meditation, to keep the mind clear of the haze of the natural drugs that their sympathetic system produced and delivered. No blood rage would take place that day, as it hadn't happened before, and 537 would carry on their duty to the God-Emperor with the clarity of thought demanded of their office.
And seemingly just as fast as they were dropped from the ship, the drop-pod's kinetic dampeners and the underbelly counter-booster came to life, drastically slowing down the vessel that carried them, if it could be called that. Ten seconds of deceleration and the sound of something breaking under and around them later, and they finally hit the ground hard, really hard. It was disorienting and somewhat painful for all the occupants of the pod, even when they knew to go lax the moment the last booster activated; after all, the pods they used were re-purposed Space Marine's drop-pods, designed to accommodate six two-meter tall, powered-armor clad, genetically augmented warriors, rather than the in-comparison meager 12 average-sized commandos, with the only thing powered in their armors being targeting and diagnostic systems. The aforementioned kinetic dampeners are meant to complement those found within a Power Armor, so it was natural to wreak some form of havoc on normal men, as far as "normal" a Tempestus Scion could be. Yes, Al-Morad thought, we will all suffer from back pains thanks to this, if we get to an elderly age.
The pods' ramps opened to a light, chilly breeze, and a strong scent of pinewood mixed with smoke and tinges of death. An eerie silence surrounded the drop site as everyone filed out of their respective transports, noticing how far apart some where from others; it was not possible to know whether everyone made it to the ground or they lost someone on their way, as some of the pods where beyond the sight of others. There were only two certainties evident: of those that were present and accounted-for, none were injured by the landing; the second fact was that they landed in the middle of a pine forest, missing their mark by a couple of kilometers. A light jog would remedy that, no doubt an easy task for the perfect-fit Storm Troopers. If only said forest was no-man's land, between friendly and hostile lines...
Speak of the Devil and he will show up, said hostiles had already reached firing distance on them, with the already unnatural silence of the woods broken by the combination of both las-fire and auto-weapons. Many troopers fell victim to the surprise attack, but the nearly five hundred remaining standing turned their weapons on the perpetrators; hotshot lasguns by the hundreds opened fire in unison, cutting a wide arc into the wood and flesh in front of them, with little care put into fine aiming: they knew the general direction of the enemy, and that they also had nothing to be doing in those woods. Some wounded were picked up and dragged to cover behind the pods, some others were left to die were they fell, each squadron applying their usual treatment of the injured, or the lack of one. Al-Morad naturally scoffed at the attitude some of his colleagues held towards those that took some fire, but he had his hands full already with his own squadmates, having eight of them hit fully. Three died immediately, the other five could still be saved.
Squadron leaders across the small landing force coordinated tactics in no time, and chose the logical course of action of a tactical retreat; after all, they were supposed to land behind or much closer to the planet's defenders line, not so close to the enemy. Such a decision left the medics that were hard at work with little to do but quickly mend all of their patients, and perform a fast triage, deciding which held the best chance of making it alive without being a hindrance to their comrades. Those that required carrying by more than one person, unfortunately, had to be given the Emperor's Mercy, or the stim-cocktail Al-Morad liked to call Emperor's Fury, due to the state it induced in those that took it. The ones given the latter were simply told where their quarry was coming from, and they took off to face them, some disregarding cover entirely; their last actions before death would serve to slow down a bit the enemy, giving the besieged Tempestus a much needed, albeit short, pause from their barrage.
The small army of elite commandos took off in a sprint, keeping each other in sight but spanning across the woods surface, in case Abaddon's forces chose to make use of artillery. And artillery they did use, if the incoming whizz of the long-range rounds was any indication. The barrage started behind them, where the pods remained, but soon it started creeping towards the retreating troopers; to their horror, the enemy had Basilisks, that made their existence known with an earth-shattering round hitting the far end of the loyalist left wing. The survivors of 537 were thrown a few meters to their right by the blastwave, feeling the small earthquake the massive round had caused despite being a few hundred meters from were it hit, as the fifty closest to the explosion simply died by either shrapnel, debris, fire or the crushing blast. No point in dwelling on their deaths, everyone picked themselves up and carried on, now being peppered once more by sporadic enemy fire.
In no time they reached the end of the forest, and going by the maps they carried and had memorized, the loyalist old first line of defense was just 500 meters from where they were; no matter how much each and every Storm Trooper despised a static, unmoving trench, that labyrinthian construction was a sight for sore eyes to the on-the-run soldiers. As the last of them jumped into the partially destroyed lines, and the first of the enemy made themselves seen from the treeline, the actual line of defense sprang into action, mowing the incoming attackers down with heavy fire. Still, some made it into the trenches in hot pursuit of their pray, only to be obliterated by the renewed Tempestus Scions, who left those unharmed to trump such an attempt at being followed. The assault didn't last much longer, the cultists retreating back to their lines with what felt as a small victory. In contrast, the Imperials suffered a heavy blow on their morale, having lost nearly a hundred commandos to what was effectively a large band of armed brigands.
Navigating the abandoned trench-lines, the remaining 500 meters between their wrong landing zone and their intended destination, the weared-down special forces "army" finally reached the defensive line in that sector. Their weariness was hidden to the best of their ability, being themselves met with the local defense emotional state bared in plain sight; too many looks of despair, of restlessness, of psychological trauma. And as true soldiers of the Imperium, they all carried on with their duties, in defense of their home-planet. Cadians were as tough as they were credited, if they had merely lost half a kilometer of terrain in months of fighting in such conditions. Still, there were plenty of those that did not show any signs of decay, some even showing a complacent visage, clearly the warmongers between their lot. And there were, of course, the Kasrkin...
Said Kasrkin approached their "cousins" to greet them, welcoming them to the hell-hole they called home. In the distance, behind friendly lines, the Tempestus could see the bulk of their attached regiment landing; whether their managed to keep a large number of aircraft intact or not, they could not tell.
"Alright, can any one of you dandelions explain to me how you came to miss your landing zone by two clicks? That was a monumental fuck-up, if I've ever seen one..." The one who talked was Colonel Kratieos, Commander of the Kasrkin deployed over this region's lines of defense. By the looks of it, he was not happy about the whole ordeal with the drop pods, but he was not enraged either; probably has actually seen more severe fuck-ups. Belisarius took up the cue to speak.
"Unknown, sir. We suspect it is related with the fact that our Cruiser was engaged by the enemy before we were launched. Also, our pods lack the Machine Spirits they originally held, so no course correction was possible once wrongly deployed." The answer did not seem to please the Colonel, yet it also didn't make him look any more displeased. Al-Morad started to believe he kept his facial expressions schooled at all times, to betray nothing to anyone. Smart.
"I'm actually surprised so many of you walked out of there alive, despite the injured. Our opponents aren't particularly lax when it comes to assaulting unsuspecting prey." He let a short, sarcastic laugh. "When we saw you make landfall in the woods, I expected casualties rounding half of your entire force, not just...what? A fourth of the total?" Surprised or not, his face was still sculpted in stone.
"Almost a fifth of our party was wiped out, sir, but with all due respect, even one casualty would have been unacceptable. The entire event of missing our LZ is unacceptable, to begin with." The Captain was, as a polar opposite from the Colonel, fuming, and he didn't bother hiding it. "Considering you knew what would happen as soon as you saw where we landed, why did you not send reinforcements or mechanized support, if I may ask?"
"Captain, I believe you are putting too much value on the lives of your men; they are expendable, a little more than you and me, given our ranks. True, I could have sent a party to aid you in your retreat, but that would have cost resources we are in dire need of right now, and no Cadian worth their blood would assign limited, or unlimited, resources to try and help someone who failed at something simple, in such a spectacular manner." It was evident now, that the Colonel was blaming every surviving member of the drop party, or their COs at least, for the accidental landing; he cared little about what Belisarius had said, finding it a feeble excuse. "Now, Storm Troopers of the Militarum Tempestus, welcome to Cadia. Congratulations, you are now mine to command: I expect discipline, proactive action, self-sacrifice and absolute, unwavering diligence when carrying out orders; failing at any of those aspects, or questioning anything, will result in your unceremonious execution by las-bolt to the cranium. I hope I've made myself clear."
The "rousing" speech over, the Colonel took off to Emperor knows where, to carry out his own duties. The surviving landing force was left to its own devices, each squadron already informed about where they would be stationed. Injured to the Infirmary, the rest to their assigned areas of influence. Due to the nature of the war they were thrown into, and the fact that Cadian Kasrkin reigned supreme in their home turf, meant the usual covert and stealthy approach they were so fond of using was discarded for what they internally loathed: old fashioned trench warfare. As was expected of them, they excelled at it, just as they excelled at everything else when not compared to more specialized units such as the Catachan Jungle Fighters; nonetheless, defending a stationary position against waves of unrelenting beasts who also happened to have artillery on their hands was very low in their wish-list.
The following two days were rather uneventful, considering the situation they were in. There were some artillery barrages over their lines, to keep everyone on their toes but with little harm to the troops, ferrocrete bunkers doing their job; coming hand in hand with surprise artillery came the casual prodding assaults, half-assed attacks intent not in breaking the lines but to test different areas in search of weaknesses. Only one such attempt was made in the trench zone held by 537, merged with another squadron that lost more men than them; naturally, that particular attack didn't hold for long, the perpetrators turning tail the moment their heavy units and only tank were cut down as if they were made of wet paper. That area would not break easily, they concluded.
Al-Morad split his time between the routinely guard shifts and working in the front's medical bunker. All experienced hands were needed there to take care of the patients, most of them suffering illnesses inherent of trenches. Might be the 40th Millennium, but sickness is sickness and humans are humans, and the actual value of a guardsman life was so low that there where no real attempts at preventing "minor" problems. He did get to treat some amputations, those unlucky wounded by the eventful attacks, or those foolish enough to let infections fester on their feet. To all of those, a basic prosthetic, a few hours of scolding and rehabilitation, and off they went, back to the hell-holes they were currently calling home.
News from around the planet were at odds, some particularly encouraging, others tremendously desolate. Hearing of an outbreak of Plague Zombies in one of the Kasr, the fortress-cities where the local populace lived was heartbreaking, knowing how hopeless such a situation would be: outbreaks were usually dealt with through orbital bombardment, even Exterminatus, rather than sending a military force to deal with it. The latter would be avoided, given this was Cadia after all, but obliterating a single city and its occupants, infected or not, was child's play to the experienced gunners of the Imperial Navy.
The story up in orbit was a different matter altogether. Gruesome, massive space battles raged in thousands of kilometers around the planet, with no clear victor in sight. Last they heard, the Ardent Favor had already gone up in flames, Captain Gloritus and a small skeleton crew skillfully ramming the Cruiser into a far larger, Daemonic Battlecruiser, using the heavily damaged vessel as a spear to sufficiently damage the enemy ship's reactor. The maneuver succeeded, but not as intended: the Ardent Favor didn't manage to reach the reactors of such a mighty Cruiser, yet the sheer force of the impact was sufficient to rupture its own reactors, obliterating it and half of the intended target. A Pyrrhic victory, to say the least.
It became a routine, waiting for news from other fronts, fending off occasional attacks, keeping themselves active and fit. Until one night all odds went off, when an entire sector's power went out following the distant roar of an explosion. 537 was within the out-powered sector, so the ones at guarding duty wasted no time in waking up their resting comrades, and some even forcing other units to do the same, causing a chain reaction of troops waking from their slumber to the darkness of the trenches. Radio operators switched to batteries, and confirmed with HQ that the explosion heard was either a lucky artillery strike, an infiltration team, or sabotage, that severed the regions connection to the power plants far behind the lines. No power plant meant no constant influx of energy for the automated heavy weapons, so they would run for a limited time; everyone knew what that spelled: an incoming enemy attack.
As if on cue, the automatic defenses whirred to life, targeting shadows by the treeline that the troopers could barely make out even when the las-bolts and explosions lighted up the surrounding areas. The uncertainty didn't last much longer, with the mortar squads getting in action and blasting flare rounds into the sky, showering the old trenches and the treeline with enough brightness to show the defenders they were up to a challenge that night, with the swarms of enemies being engaged by the turrets. Orders were issued for the heavy gunners to support the autoguns using the newly regained sight, lest the latter running out of battery faster than necessary. The companies captains then referred to Belisarius as to what to do next, given his seniority over all of them.
"Alright ladies and gentlemen, it's time for action! Each unit will take two of their troopers back to where the energy pack's chargers are located, and build some pyres. Leave them unlit, for now; if the power doesn't come back in time before the chargers run our of juice, the pyres will be lit up to throw the packs in them. Have them also bring forth boxes of ammunition from the armories, to have them more at hand; leave them in the bunkers, we don't want artillery to light them up before we can use them. Finally, send engineers down to the old trench lines, place mines and traps in every nook and cranny; anyone crossing that portion over the trenches will be cut down by us or forced to risk a labyrinth of traps. Those are your orders, now MOVE!" Belisarius took no time in conveying the orders already practiced the week prior, in case of such an event. The cover of darkness and the focus on the incoming fire would keep the enemy watchmen from noticing the engineers in the trenches; yet, if they did notice them, there was little they could do to stop them with the guns blazing above them. "Captain Rodrig, stay." The addressed officer stood his ground.
"Your Company is renowned for the skill of your engineers, so I have a special task for you and your men. Have your most brilliant minds gather at one of the back bunkers, we need them to brainstorm and develop a way to keep our automatic defenses up and running."
"But sir, we need every-" Belisarius cut him of, for the sake of time-saving.
"I know that, but believe me, we could remove a hundred of our own troops from their posts right now and it would not make any difference in the outcome, due to the scale of the attack. Right now, our only saving grace are the turrets, which will run out of energy sooner or later. The task of your men right now is to find a way to keep them up, or in detriment of that, be able to power them back up once they go down. Understood?" Rhetorical question, both knew, so Rodrig simply nodded and took off in a sprint, blaring both set of orders into his company's comms.
Belisarius then entered his squadron's bunker, where they were in the final preparations for the defense. Everyone was stoic as ever, deeply focused in their tasks: the heavy gunners were sporadically spraying the treeline, whenever they caught sight of a clear target, while the team's sniper was taking pot-shots at the treeline as well, probably using heat-vision on the scope in lieu of the expected night-vision, lest she be blinded by the permanent muzzle flash and the flares from both sides; adding to that, the former allowed her to see through the comparatively colder tree trunks to a limited degree, so she could pick off hostiles even behind cover. The rest of the unit was in the center of the edification, fine-tuning their hellguns, and distributing grenades and supplies; outside, not that anyone noticed, a light rain had broken out.
Al-Morad, when the power went out, was performing his rounds in the medical bunker, but sensed the impending hostilities just as any other seasoned warrior. He took off after informing the Head Surgeon of the probability of the attack, knowing full well his duties as a soldier out-weighted his duty as a sworn Medic. In the distance, a half a kilometer away, he could hear the turrets and heavy bolters blasting at the enemy, and could even see in the sky the flares in their downward arcs, lightning up the battlefield. He caught the general orders in the comms, and came across the assigned troopers piling flammable materials next to the pack chargers, undoubtedly to provide a means of charging if power was out long enough. He slid his unarmored form into 537's barracks, gearing up in a matter of minutes, before taking off in a full-speed sprint, despite his encumbered body.
Finding the correct bunker proved to be difficult, given the monotony of the line of defense; Al-Morad used a series of landmarks to find it faster, yet the lack of proper lightning and the now heavier downpour made it difficult. He thanked the Emperor every surface around the trenches was paved, otherwise he would have already been bogged down by the inevitable forming of mud. At last, he reached his teammates, who were filing out of the bunker ready for combat. But something was amiss, Lt. Badr sensed impending doom as he approached his brethren, a feeling he had never experienced before but that he could recognize as growing sense of dread. That sixth sense proved correct, disturbingly so, when a high-explosive shell slid past the open view ports of the bunker 537 was in, and promptly detonated in the middle of it.
In a split second, Al-Morad went from staring at the face-masks of his comrades to careening through the air, the wing knocked out of his lungs, until falling in what probably was the only mud puddle in miles across the defense line. He took a moment to gather his bearings, for his brain to stop the rave in his cranial cavity, before he tried to stand back again; disoriented as he was, he found himself toppling over on his side, before deciding to take a few more moments to recover. The unpleasant ear-ringing was receding, Badr forever thankful for the auto-dampening feature on the Carapace helmets' auditory sensors, despite knowing he would likely never again hear that sound frequency. Unfortunately, with his hearing back to (relatively) normal, he was met with the far more unpleasant and definitely harrowing sound of agonizing screams and pained grunts proper of heavily wounded people.
That cacophony riled him out of his stupor, struggling to his feet as he took in his surroundings. The bunker was no more, the entire structure obliterated almost completely. Did a Basilisk fired at us directly? The Medic let that thought linger for a second, before continuing his assessment of the situation. With the bunker busted like that, anyone who remained inside when the shell hit was gone forever, only remains to be recovered would be small bits and pieces, if any; that being the case, everyone that was close by already outside were his main priorities right now. If he recalled correctly barely half of the squadron was out when it happened, barring him, so that left twelve presumably dead and another eleven potentially alive victims. A quick check-up of his form showed no injuries, so other than the obvious concussion and dead hearing cells, he was fine. His as-of-now patients, not so much.
A quick glance told him that at least four were already dead. He found a set of legs and hip with no torso, and a full torso with head and damaged arms, but no legs, yet it still had a hip, so those accounted for two different people, may the Emperor have their souls in high regard. A luckless brother took the full rage of the blast to the back of him, melting his armor and flesh instantly and leaving his corpse laying in a prone position, his internal organs in sight from his back. The fourth, a female trooper, was partially squashed by a boulder formerly part of their refuge, but since her head and part of her torso were free of it, the Carapace armor might have held; he took a moment to check her state: no pulse, so gone.
He bypassed checking those that remained still and quiet, as he had to prioritize the ones conscious and dying. In two minutes he had already placed tourniquets on all six amputations, and stopped the abdominal bleeding of another trooper through the use of archaic but very-much-in-use tweezers. Crude? Perhaps. Effective? Undoubtedly. Since all of them were making coherent sounds, like howling from pain, he concluded they had no risk of suffocation, so he left them where they lay, to check on the unmoving.
As he moved towards them, he called for corpsmen to carry the living back to the medical bunker for treatment, and to remove the dead so as to not disturb the troopers still battling. The first man he checked was also dead, no pulse to be found, and a fast revision confirmed that the armor, as good as it was, couldn't protect his internal organs from being liquefied by the extreme pressure of the blast. Moving to the last of the victims of the "lucky" shell, he came to the realization that he was the first to consciously recognize, being Captain Belisarius. His body laid there, unmoving, unresponsive, unlike he had ever seen the man; even in his sleep he looked far more lively. However, he immediately noticed a brief movement on his chest, which kicked him out of his renewed stupor. Belisarius was breathing, and despite finding some broken bones, he was very much intact... if only he didn't have a rod of rebar impaled in his left temporal lobe. He quickly moved to disinfect the area and form a tight packaging around the obstructing object; Al-Morad was qualified for neurological procedures like the one needed in this case, being the correct removal of a foreign object, but only in the most extreme of emergencies. With a medical bunker close by, and the added issues of downpour and darkness, it was probable he would make mistakes. Therefore, no brain surgery today, he presumed.
At last, the group of corpsmen made an appearance, only after the Chirurgeon had applied pressure bandages to all wounds of the survivors; frantically they were loaded in stretchers and swiftly taken to safety, hopefully for a full recovery. Lt. Badr remained where he stood, taking a moment to take in what had taken place less than half a solar hour ago. Finally, after so many years, their luck seemed to run out, taking three quarters of them all in a matter of seconds. He supposed he should be feeling something, anything, but he was drawing blanks; immediately he self-diagnosed PTSD, although he was still experiencing the trauma, ironically. Any other musings on his current psychological state were quieted the moment he spotted a shadow charging at him after climbing from the old trenches.
Either lightning flashed, or a flare popped in the sky, he managed to recognize a chaos cultist was the shadow, now less than five meters from him. Instinct kicked in, in a flash drawing his hellpistol from its holster and with but a simple twist of his wrist and pull of the trigger, both him and the attacker were showered by a red haze for less than a second. It was joined by the tell-tale crack of a las-bolt and the immediate meaty pop the cultist's knee made when it exploded in a small shower of gore. The Storm Trooper sidestepped his now falling adversary, as his inertia carried his form sliding over the concrete of the floor; he had no time to actually scream in pain or shock, as he was terminated with another shot before he even came to a stop.
That unsurprisingly unsuccessful attack on his person was a call to attention, as Al-Morad only now realized the autoturrets were silenced at last, meaning the enemy could at last reach the trenches. Given the facts that him and his squad were meant to hold this portion of the line by themselves due to their level of skill, and that said squad was now essentially obliterated, it didn't take long for him to realize that it was his area of the line which was at its weakest. As if sensing his line of thought, more shadows climbed from the trenches a distance from him, now also blasting whatever ranged weapons they carried.
Scurrying to cover while he hastily informed the other Captains about this development, he activated his helmet's heat vision as he drew out his hotshot lasgun. Opting for a fast sweep of automatic fire over his preferred semi-auto setting, he quickly mowed down a good number of attackers, thankfully clad in light armor, as he heard promises of reinforcements by some of the closest officers on both his sides. Knowing he had to survive at least a few minutes for them to arrive, he stuck to full-auto in order to be more efficient in cutting down the charging bandits. He found himself in a predicament, however, when the enemy kept coming and the charge counter in his visor began to run dangerously low. Having ditched the cumbersome back-carried energy packs for more conventional, magazine-like power packs and their added mobility, he made a compromise between being able to carry comfortably someone on his shoulders and actually having to reload his weapons every once in a while. Such being the case, his semi-auto preference came from not only more elegant and precise firing, but also a need to avoid frequent reloading.
He applied a common solution for him in those situations, drawing his sidearm with his right hand as he was still firing the remaining of the pack with his left arm. Agreed, it was an unusual solution that would fail spectacularly should many others try it, but it was a skill honed by years of practice and aided by two facts: his left arm was entirely bionic, being more than able to hold the weight of the weapon, and his right eye was also a piece of machinery, projecting an image in his sight that was linked to his sidearm's under-barrel attachment. With complementary add-ons like those he was able to dual wield weapons with ease, albeit it did leave him unable to take cover properly on most cases.
This was such a case, feeling the impacts of solid rounds of the enemy's slugthrowers on his chestplate. He didn't fret, because any rounds under .50 caliber would not penetrate his armor, so unless they had a bolter at hand, he was safe. And just as it came, it went. The dual-wielding was over the moment his hellgun run out of power, so he took cover once more, firing his hellpistol seemingly without even looking, as he reloaded with his left hand. That done, he swiftly switched back to his main weapon while holstering his secondary, and carried on with the slaughter, throwing a frag grenade in their midst for good measure.
He was forced to reconsider his options when he spotted something out of the ordinary, that in his mind should have totally not been in those freaks' hands. The cheeky bastards were deploying an Emperor-be-damned Heavy Bolter, complete with a long belt of .998 caliber bolts. A massive barrage of fire from every surrounding cultist prevented Badr from exterminating the heavy gunners before they finished setting up the beast of a weapon, so he took the only remaining option of making a run for it, sprinting diagonally until he reached a sturdy piece of ferrocrete wall that he hoped could withstand the onslaught it was about to receive. He managed to reach his new piece of cover as the Bolter started roaring, feeling the displacement of air caused by the rounds that whizzed by his head.
The wall stood strong, for the moment, as he racked his mind for inventive solutions yet found none; he wasted no time, though, and warned any incoming forces about the heavy weapon placed at the edge of the line, hopefully saving any unsuspecting guardsmen from falling prey to it. He knew that peeking out to try and take a shot would leave him like poor old Corporal Placatus, but he also knew that no ferrocrete wall, no matter how thick, could hold indefinitely against a Heavy Bolter. And my little wall here is not that thick, come to think of it. He could hear it, under the roar of the veritable automatic cannon firing at his cover, and the impact of the small rockets it fired, how the wall started to crumble. Nowhere to run on either side, both directions spelled disintegration by bolts, and exposing an arm to try and land a grenade at their feet would mean losing said arm. He would rather avoid a repeat of such an event, but he would also avoid death, if he could. The fact of the matter was, though, that he was doomed.
He forced his mind to placate any thoughts of regret or despair, typical when someone faced certain death. He didn't want to go thinking of missed opportunities or wrongly made decisions. He chose to think of his family back home, hoping they were safe and sound, as he had last seen them. He tried to force his mind to bring back enjoyable memories from his infancy, to go with a lightened spirit. He was in the middle of that, and a final prayer to the Emperor, when the roaring of the bolter was swallowed by the distinct sound of a plasma bolt explosion. Taking it as his cue, he sprang to action and jumped from cover, joining the laser crossfire coming from both sides of the amassed chaos cultists.
As they began to flee back into the old trenches and the loyalists took a marching fire approach to the edge, Al-Morad took notice of the beautiful smoldering crater where the enemy's bolter was placed. Luck, or the Emperor, seemed to be on his side once again, having saved him from certain death in the brink of time. Despite being a self-declared pacifist, and generally not enjoying the hostilities, he found himself cackling under his helmet, as he joined his fellow Guardsmen in an improvised firing line, taking down as many retreating cultists as possible. PTSD or not, he was feeling particularly vengeful at the moment.
With reports of the retreat of the hostiles across the entire line, them being unable to successfully break it, came a wave of joy among the entire defensive force. Short celebrations and shouts of happiness could be heard around him, over the rainfall, as the small victory infused a much-needed morale boost in the hearts of his comrades. He was torn, though, because despite feeling overjoyed with surviving the whole affair, the feeling of damnation was back in full force; worse than before, even. And as he mused over that feeling, he noticed everyone was falling quiet, added to a growing rumble, coming from above. And above he looked.
The incredibly dark sky, clouded and still rainy, occasionally lightened by a spout of lightning, was starting to take a brighter tone, leaning on the red and orange hues. He remember having seen something like that in two very different situations, the first in the middle of a storm, in those areas where the clouds turned thinner enough to let the sun shine through; the other, more foreboding, was of a storm around a starship in flames falling from the sky. The red hue was partially above them, and given it was 3 AM locally, that was certainly not the local star coming through.
As the immeasurably massive on-fire object came hurling through the clouded sky, Badr Al-Morad forced himself to accept that, perhaps, destiny was a real deal, and that he was destined to die that same night. He had dodged death minutes before, barely, by the intervention of fellow men, but he suspected that only a true god would be able to save them, me, from what he could only assume was a Blackstone Fortress thrown over Cadia like a meteor. As the ambient started warming up to the point of evaporating the few remaining raindrops falling, he could only shut his eyes and give himself in, to the hands of Death who had finally tired of dancing with him. She was clearly angry with him, for taking so many from her grasp, if she would send such a destructive force to get him.