I am back once more. I've been waiting to write this chapter since May. That's how you know it's going to be good. Sorry this is out so late. Life really caught up to me again. As for this chapter, the Consecrators have arrived, and, as many of you have wondered, we shall now see the war on Thessia (which I have a feeling a lot of you are going to like).
I should say that it will be a few chapters until Ordo Sinister arrives. It takes time to get from reality to reality. I realize now that I am probably sacrificing hype for realism, but that's the way I had it planned out. In addition, I would like some reader input. Next chapter will cover some cool things on Earth (as well as get more dark, for those wanting to see that). After that, Ordo Sinister will arrive. I was also planning to write a chapter covering the war on Rannoch, with the Quarians and Mechanicus. I would like to know: when would people like to see that? It was originally planned to be war on Earth, war on Rannoch, then Ordo Sinister, but I can change the order around. Let me know.
I must also point out that there are elements of both Warhammer and Mass Effect in this story, as that is what a crossover should be. Yes, we get it, xenophilia bad, you don't like, xenos are animals, etc., etc., etc. Yes, we understand, Imperium bad, you don't like them, they're fascists, etc., etc., etc. Listen, what many people don't seem to understand is this: the story is a crossover. Now, when most people seem to write crossovers, they have a side that they clearly like more than the other and write them to be the favorites, and write their favorite side to be completely correct. It seems as if some readers have grown far too accustomed to such stories. I am incorporating elements of BOTH stories in this, as a crossover should be.
As for most reviews, it was a pleasure. If you have actual criticisms, please share them. If you merely wish to complain, please, keep your words to yourself. You are always free to share what you think, but unfortunately a lot of late things have been more complaints, which are unhelpful.
One other thing, for all the Dark Angels fans out there, I would appreciate a bit of lore help. Nakir, Chapter Master of the Consecrators, is alternatively listed as both "Supreme Grand Master of the Consecrators" and "Grand Master of the Consecrators". What is the title of a Dark Angels successor chapter master? I said "Grand Master" in the chapter. My reasoning is that the Dark Angels prefer to have totally not a Legion, wink, wink, and thus there would only be one head of the definitely not Unforgiven. Therefore, Azrael would be the only Supreme Grand Master, whereas the successor Chapter Masters would be Grand Masters. I think this makes sense, based on how the Dark Angels operate, though I could be wrong. Let me know. On to reviews!
MEleeSmasher: I suppose we'll see. Ordo Sinister is truly nasty, though, so that makes up for their inferior numbers.
Guest author: Good advice. I'll try to do so in the future, and I lessened the lore in this chapter from what I had planned. If there's still too much, let me know. I'm trying to set up exactly who the Consecrators are, and it's a fine line between too much and not enough, so I'd love your input on the matter.
RememberReach312: Indeed, RIP to Pallidus Mor.
blyatman123: Neither can I! I just hope I have enough free time to get the chapter out soon.
Guest: Thank you. I think the war in Octarios will continue to go on until something outside interferes or the Tyranids evolve some planet-destroying monstrosity.
Big E: Not sure who he is. Could you tell me?
Guest: Ha. I'm very excited for Sinister to show up.
Guest: The Emperor Protects. Can't wait for the direct shadow of the Golden Throne to arrive.
Hunter19941: They are most definitely not.
Brother Bov: Thank you. Sorry for this one being out later than I wanted. I hope you enjoy it.
valhalan guardsman: I've got to figure out something special for them. Hopefully it'll be good.
Doc43Souls: Thank you!
Chronus1326: Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed the Titans.
Qinlongfei: I understand completely. I try to be as balanced as possible, but sometimes it seems I go too far either way. Your point is actually being further cemented every time I read the hardcore Imperium fans opinions on Angela and Nictus in the comments...
jetjedi: Indeed.
Saint Lazarus: I understand your point. There is definitely a reason why the Imperium became xenophobic in the first place. Warhammer is a universe where everyone is out to kill everyone else.
Israelgjr: Thank you. I hope you like it!
BonesofSmite: Consecrators time. I hope you like them.
Fernix13: You are correct on the Land Raider. My bad. I'm glad you like Trazyn. Also, thank you for pointing out that there is too much explanation. I guess I get carried away at points. I'll try to steamline it. I would love your input on how well I did in this chapter, as there is a fine line between over-explanation and not providing enough background so the readers don't understand who the people are. Please, tell me. There is more grimdark coming. The exploration of what would happen if an Imperial fell for a xeno is very interesting, I think, and isn't explored anywhere else, so that is why that part is in. The point of the concentration camps were to set up the chapter as if the Dark Mechanicum was in complete control, and have the general feel that things were terrible. The point was to make people think that was the way the story and chapter were going to go, then have it flipped by the Marines showing up. Thank you for your review; it was very helpful.
oOo
Destroyer of Worlds
"I'll admit, I actually smiled when I heard Thessia was under attack. The Asari, so safe, so secure, so smug and sure of their superiority, were under assault. Their beauty could no longer save them. Where were they, the leaders of the Citadel, the masters of the galaxy, when Earth or Palaven was under assault? Hiding in their golden towers, trying to make sure their world was safe. For all their talk of unity, they only ever cared for themselves.
And so that is why I smiled when Thessia burned." -Genrus Fyric, Turian Lieutenant
"The Wolf King boasted to all that he was his father's executioner. He was a deterrent, a hound to snarl from behind a sealed gate, never to be unleashed. What the Lion was to his father did not speak its name so brazenly. For where Russ was a warning, the Lion was a solution. The final solution. He was the Emperor's exterminator. What the honor of Russ would not abide he would sanction without hesitation. The enemy who might yet be integrated, the adversary whose misguided but noble resistance might be canonized in posterity, these were wars for his brothers to wage. When the First Legion turned their guns upon a foe it was to annihilate without trace, to obliterate beyond all hope of record.
That was the purpose for which the Dark Angels were created and it was the reason that He made them first.
Even the Mechanicum did not know what terrible secrets had been locked away by the Dreadwing in chambers such as these. If the machine-priests of Mars should ever seek to turn against the Emperor's goals of galactic unity, then it would be the weapons of the Dark Angels that would bring them low." -excerpt from Lion El'Jonson: Lord of the First
"Salt the earth, burn the sky." -motto of the Dreadwing
oOo
It was dark and silent in the windowed chamber of the Reliquaria, floating fortress monastery of the Consecrators and flagship of the chapter fleet. In the high vaulted ceilings, made of smooth carved stone, statues of knights stared down grimly at the sleek black stone floor beneath. A few flaming braziers guarded the massive ornate wooden doors to the chamber, orange tongues of fire flickering sternly in place. The floor was polished to a mirror-like sheen; this was not the dusty stone of a long-lost bygone chamber, but rather the grim and somber power of an ancient Legion brought to life once more. Or, rather, preserved proudly since its inception.
For this was the architecture of the Dark Angels, the First Legion, the greatest conquerors the galaxy had ever known. It might be strange to refer to this place as such, to remind all that this was a creation of the First Legion rather than the Consecrators, but such was the way of the Dark Angels and all their successors.
The Reliquaria was much like its cousin flagships from the other chapters participating in the crusade: unbelievably ancient and incredibly powerful. However, unlike its cousins, the style was completely different. This was not fashioned in the typical Imperial architectural sense. The starships of the Blood Angels and Imperial Navy all bore beautiful and ornate filigree and statues, deeply ornamented walls and ceilings, and a general Baroque sense of place. The normal style of the Imperium was dark yet beautiful, foreboding yet light, with huge vaulted ceilings, stained glass windows bearing portrayals of ancient heroes, and a general atmosphere of veneration.
The starships of the Raven Guard were molded to their own style: dark and practical. Everything was black, white, or various shades of gray. Such were the colors of choice (and the easiest to get ahold of) of the Raven Guard. Their halls simply were: there was no sense of architectural style to them.
The sons of Manus and Guilliman, the other Astartes partakers in this holy crusade, preferred, once again, their own ways. The halls and rooms of the Iron Fist starships were all metallic and gray, with metal carvings and rivitings popping through at regular intervals. It was more similar to the style of the Mechanicus than Imperium; something many normal humans found slightly disconcerting.
The Hawk Lords bore the Greco-Roman architecture of Macragge proudly. Their halls were more open, more arching instead of vaulted. There were pillars instead of stained glass windows, open forums instead of closed cathedrals. Such was the style of Lord Guilliman, and thus such was the style of all of his gene sons spread throughout the universe.
However, it could not be said the main chamber of the Reliquaria was anything like their cousins, or even the typical way of the Imperial Cult. Chamber was for certain the only word that could be used to describe the room: nothing else could come close to the correct verbiage. For here was not a red-gold cathedral of the Blood Angels, nor a silent hall of the Raven Guard, nor the machine workshops of Manus's scions, nor an open forum of the sons of Guilliman. Nay. Here was a chamber of the First Legion in all its preserved glory.
In the solemn air, the only sound that could be heard was the faint crackle of licking flames burning in their braziers. The huge windows, unornamented besides a few markings of the Dark Angels and Consecrators, only showed the dark void of space. Apart from the flickering flames and the expanse of distant stars, there was no light. The atmosphere in the chamber was solemn, reverential, and stern. Silent, there was no peace, only the distant stirring of ancient power.
Within the room were two individuals. The darkness of the chamber mattered little to either. They stood on the polished black floor, anointed with the winged sword of the Dark Angels and the winged and haloed flame of the Consecrators, staring softly at each other.
The first was a Space Marine, clad in deep black power armor. It had the typical large pauldrons and greaves of Marine armor, but if one were to look closely, something they would notice it was slightly… different. Much like Dante and the Sanguinary Guards' armor was different from the standard Marine armor, and Chapter Master Verchen's armor was different, so too was this Marine's armor slightly different. It was perhaps slightly bulkier, slightly less round in appearance than normal. Some of the pieces looked slightly different, as well: the gauntlets didn't seem to match up exactly with the chest piece, and the boots were of an odd make.
If one of the Citadel, or most of the Imperials on the Crusade were to look at the armor, they would assume it was a custom job, much like Verchen's, or a style unique to the Consecrators, much like the Sanguinary Guard. However, if one was familiar with Imperial history, they would immediately place it. For while the armor was not the standard of today's Space Marines, it was made up of pieces standard to Marines during the Great Crusade and Horus Heresy. It was a mix of archaic marks from the time of the Imperium's founding and most terrible hour: pieces of Mark III and IV combined, studded with bonding rivets across the chest.
At the Marine's side, a knightly black helm of ancient Mark II armor, complete with a sweeping front-to-back red brush crest, sat silently on an ornate banister. On his hip hung a heavy greatsword made of shining black-gray metal. Its hilt was shaped in the same winged insignia that adorned the floor; mark of the Dark Angels.
His helmet laid to his side, the Marine's face was thus visible in the flickering firelight. It was pale in nature, thought not close to the near-albino of the Raven Guard. It was surprisingly very young for a Marine, especially a Chapter Master, and gaunt to the point of being skeletal. Skin was tight on cheekbones, chin, and forehead; though it was an odd, near-ghastly appearance, the Marine still looked perfectly healthy. His eyes were a blazing blue, at odds with the mop of black hair on his scalp.
Perhaps more importantly, his brow was tattooed with a black Imperial Aquila, and his cheeks marked with a broken blade in red. At his waist was a wooden rod in the shape of a Crozius Arcanum, badge of office of the Chaplains… studded with six perfectly spherical, shining black pearls.
Across from the Marine was the unmistakable figure of Archmagos Belisarius Cawl. The Tech-Priest's red-robed form towered high above even the Marine's gene-enhanced height as a blue optic peered down at the man's face. Mechadendrites twirled silently, shadows being cast by the braziered flames off their dull metallic shine. Cawl held his huge Omnissian power axe, a Tech-Priest's badge of office, calmly in one hand. The Marine stared resolutely up at him, blinking freely, thinking.
"You are the first not of the Lion's blood to step foot upon this ship, Archmagos Cawl. I still am not certain I should have let you aboard." His voice was gravelly and growling, tinged with the faintest, most miniscule hint of metal. As the Marine tilted his head, it was easy to see why: there was a scar across the front and right side of his throat, along with the surgical marks of an implant insertion.
"I suppose so, Grand Master, but I believe it best to meet here… Safe from prying eyes," replied Cawl smoothly. Grand Master Nakir, Chapter Master of the Consecrators, pursed his lips carefully.
"Perhaps so, Archmagos Cawl, perhaps so," he rasped. A black gauntlet reached down to finger one of the black pearls hanging upon his belt. He looked at Cawl carefully. "But then again… I am curious as to why we, of all people, were chosen to partake in this crusade." A carefully chosen, blank look adorned his face. "And I am also quite curious as to why we have been waiting in orbit above this… xenos station," the words were spat out with scorn, "Instead of being deployed to aid in the defense of Terra."
"Why indeed?" replied Archmagos Cawl. The typical grin was in his voice as he shifted his power axe and stepped closer to Nakir, claw-like legs clicking on the cold stone floor.
"Yes. I am no fool, Archmagos. We of the Consecrators enjoy our privacy. While we are loyal servants of the Emperor bar none, we prefer to keep to ourselves. There is not much written of us. Why us, of all chapters, when the crusade could have had the glory hounds of the Black Templars or the famed humanity of the Salamanders? Why… indeed," finished Nakir.
Archmagos Cawl simply chuckled in reply and moved even closer to Nakir. The Grand Master of the Consecrators did not flinch, though Cawl noticed his hand move subtly to the sword hanging at his side. The Tech-Priest towered over the Marine. It must have been unnerving for one so used to being more physically powerful and intimidating to be outclassed. Cawl knew it; he cared not.
"You ask why you are on this crusade, Grand Master," said Cawl. His voice dipped to ice instead of his usual cheer. "Many people wonder the same thing. The Guard and much of the rest of the Imperium even wonders who you are." Cawl stepped back, and began to pace near one of the massive windows, moodily staring out into the infinite black. Nakir watched him unmoving, armored fingers drumming carefully on the hilt of his sword.
When Cawl spoke again, he did not turn or try to intimidate the Chapter Master. Instead, he shifted slightly, facing both the huge window and the Marine in turn, an aspect of invitation in his posture.
"You see, many of our soldiers in this crusade are not actually fighting at the present moment. A far higher percentage than either I or anyone else would like, unfortunately. The three main battlegrounds of this war are Earth, Palaven, and Rannoch, and while all four other Marine chapters have been deployed to these battle zones, large amounts of Imperial Guard and Mechanicus forces have not. Instead, much like yourself, they have simply waited in orbit above the Citadel. Why is that, Grand Master?" asked Cawl rhetorically. Nakir frowned.
"Because the xenos scum that we are allied with," if more scorn was invested in the words, they probably would have caught fire, "Have decided their fortress in the stars must be secure. In addition, they want more forces to be available should their homeworlds fall under attack, despite not helping others with theirs. And for some reason, you're going along with them," scoffed Nakir. Cawl heard the unspoken words, "If Azrael were here, we'd already be done with this." He smiled.
"That changes today," he said softly, a smile underneath his metallic faceplate. He turned back and stepped unhurriedly towards Nakir once more, axe tapping on the stone floor. "Indeed, that's why I'm here," he explained. Nakir cocked his head. Go on, said the man's icy blue gaze. "You see, today the Asari homeworld, Thessia, has fallen under Reaper assault."
"Which ones are those?" grumbled the Grand Master.
"The blue female ones," replied Cawl.
"Disgusting xenos gene-stealing witches," spat Nakir.
"Indeed," said Cawl with another grin. "To continue, the Asari homeworld has fallen under attack. The Asari, stupid as all of the races of this galaxy are save one without our guidance, have not made plans for the attack, despite the war raging around them." Cawl shrugged with a smile. "Therefore, the Asari ambassador, named… Tevos, I think, came to the Imperial embassy on the Citadel in a tizzy and begged for our help in the safeguarding of Thessia."
"And we're just going to help them?" replied Nakir, crossing his arms, unimpressed.
"Quite," said Cawl with another grin. "However, this is a very fortuitous occasion. Because of this, we can move around our forces as we wish while still complying with the Treaty of the Citadel." He leaned casually against his axe. "Therefore, all Imperial and Mechanicus forces not currently engaged are being rerouted to Earth and Palaven, which, as I'm sure you know, are in a bit of a pickle right now. We're also trying to get another Titan Legion from our galaxy, because Mortis and Tempestor running around freely is not a good idea." Nakir didn't hear the last sentence. A sudden horrible sinking feeling formed in his gut, which swiftly turned to rage.
"Are you saying that we're deploying to Thessia while everyone else fights for Holy Terra?" he demanded wrathfully, advancing on Cawl. Cawl closed the gap between them with blinding speed. He lowered his head down to Nakir's height.
"Yes," he whispered. "Because I am the reason you're here. Like you said before, why were you, perhaps the least known of all chapters throughout the Imperium, picked above countless others far more willing and famous? Why indeed?" Nakir could feel Cawl's savage grin even though he could not see it. He shivered, startled by the sudden intensity and change in the Tech-Priest's mood. "You see, choosing Marine chapters for this crusade was all a game of politics by the High Lords and Chapter Masters. Dante was a good choice for Lord Commander, and Shrike and excellent backup. They ruffled no feathers, and were well-regarded almost unanimously. The Iron Fists were chosen through pressure by the Fabricator General of Mars, who wanted the sons of Manus, close allies of the Mechanicus, to be there. And, of course, who could leave out the sons of Guilliman, the most numerous of all successors and lords of Ultramar? It would not do to anger the Five Hundred Worlds."
Cawl paused. Nakir looked up at him, interested in where this was going.
"But… there was another gene line too powerful to anger. While the Salamanders, Scars and Wolves were too few in number to be of worry, and the sons of Dorn able to be soothed by the High Lords due to presence on Terra, the tight-knit, numerous, and powerful scions of Lion El'Jonson would certainly take offense at their unincludence in the crusade. And so, the High Lords had to pick the Dark Angels or one of their successors." Cawl smiled. "That's where you come in. You see, I knew this crusade would take incredible fire power to defeat both the Reapers and Dark Mechanicum. And, unlike many, I know exactly what you are."
Nakir went as stiff as the statues surrounding the chamber. Cawl rolled his eyes.
"Oh, come now, do not act as if you are so surprised." He leaned in close once more. "I was there, remember? I was there ten thousand years ago, during the Emperor's Great Crusade and the terror of the Heresy. My mistress turned to Hal's side. I was there, and I remember precisely what your father's role in the grand scheme of things was." Another smile. "And I have read what few reports of your chapter there are, and so I know exactly what you are, and what you have. So I slipped your name into the running, and the High Lords picked it because you were the least offensive and controversial of the Dark Angels's successors, because you never had the chance to be. Precisely. As. Planned." Another grin, this one more maniacal than cheery. "And so you are going to Thessia."
"Wha- What- What is… Why? Why us, of all chapters? Why have us go to Thessia?" sputtered Nakir, shaken and dumbfounded, trying to find something to say. "We would be more help on Earth, more help-"
"Salt the earth, burn the sky," interrupted Cawl, tone solemn and chilling. Nakir stopped mid-rant and stared at him, trying to keep his mouth from falling open. How? How could he possibly know- Wait. Nevermind. He was there.
"What, exactly, do you want?" said Nakir, own tone serious and gravelly. Cawl smiled savagely once more. Finally, the man got to the point.
"You are going to Thessia for one reason, and one reason only," said Cawl. "I knew the role of your father, and I know how you can act, with what your chapter has access to. You are going to destroy the Reapers and Dark Mechanicum forces on Thessia… no matter what it takes. And if there's collateral damage…" Cawl shrugged. "Oh, well. It is not only acceptable, it is your order." He stared down at Nakir, peering with such intensity it felt as if he was looking into the Marine's soul. "You have the power. You have the capability. You will deploy in full chapter force to Thessia, and you will annihilate it. The Asari are to be humbled. Such an act is acceptable with the stage we are now at in this war. Any weapons are permissible, and any casualties acceptable. Such are the parameters. The Asari can do nothing, physically or diplomatically, to stop us." Cawl's gaze became even more intense, scouring holes into Nakir's gene-augmented skin. "So you will go to Thessia, and you will salt the earth… and burn the sky."
oOo
The names of Nakir's brothers were Creatian, Azdinun, Neidel, Vexriah, and, of course, Maalik. In truth, they were not really his brothers; or, to be more precise, Nakir probably should not have thought of his subordinates as brothers, but think of them as such he did. True, they were his gene brothers, the resolute sons of Lion El'Jonson, but they were still his Lifeguard, and nothing more. Sworn to fight and die to defend their lord and master, they were bodyguards… But so much more than that.
They were his brothers, his trustworthy friends, his gene-blood, his Death-sworn Companions, his loyal knights upon the battlefield. Few groups of blood brothers were closer, and none nearly as deadly. Nakir knew they were utterly loyal to both him and the chapter. They would have his back no matter what happened. Such was the power of brothers.
The interior of the drop pod was silent except for the faint rattling and crackling of the pod slicing through Thessia's now-smoky air. The Marines inside jolted silently as they broke the sound barrier. Each was helmeted and clad in the full black armor of the Consecrators. Each wore utterly ancient suits of specially-made and extraordinary ornate artificer armor. Winged helms, intricate shoulder pauldrons, and filigreed gauntlets were the norm amongst the Chapter Master's lifeguard. Just as the golden armor of the Sanguinary Guard was special-made and sought to invoke the image of golden angels from on high, so was the black armor of the First Legion created to invoke ornate and terrifying knights of old. Few could stand against them.
To their sides were their weapons. Ancient Calbanite warblades, cast on orders from the Lion himself and forged by the artificers and forges of Lost Caliban, gleamed ominously in the dull light of the drop pod. Each was a masterwork, equal to the swords of such famed groups as the Marshals of the Black Templars or the Victrix Guard of the proud Ultramarines. A variety of highly ornamented bolters, bolter pistols, and plasma pistols laid at their sides, each perfectly polished and in order. Such had been the quality of the weapons for ten thousand years. Any Marine would expect nothing less.
The drop pod buckled again. In his seat, tightly strapped in place, Seneschal Maalik looked over to Chapter Master Nakir.
"How far out, my lord?" asked the sergeant of Nakir's honor guard. For his part, Nakir consulted a positioning screen not far above his head, red-crested helmet turning slightly.
"A few moments at most," he replied. When they got closer, he would inform them.
"Very good, sir," said Maalik. As opposed to the rest of the Marines in the drop pod, his armor was bone white instead of pitch black. All of Nakir's lifeguard were members of the Deathwing, after all. Though they did not wear the typical Terminator armor associated with their order due to the nature and style of their charge, they were still Deathwing Knights nevertheless, and stringently followed the rules of their order.
Most honored among the Deathwing Companions, those who served as bodyguards, were those who had taken a death blow meant for their charge and survived. Such warriors were granted the right to wear bone-white armor in recognition of their selfless devotion to the chapter and Unforgiven as a whole. Maalik himself had taken a terrible hit from an Ork warboss across his shoulder and chest to save Nakir. For some, that might have been an act of unimaginable heroism. For the Deathwing, it was nothing short of their duty.
The drop pod jolted with another massive boom. The Marines took it stoically. Nakir looked back up to the screen.
"Prepare for insertion," he ordered, gravelly voice made all the more intimidating by the vox speakers of his helmet. The Marines checked their weapons one last time. Vexriah readied Nakir's personal banner. He was the banner wielder, fighting with a bolt pistol in one hand and carrying the massive standard in the other. Like all Chapter Masters, Nakir had a personal banner with his mark, image, and other heraldry dotting it. Such was the way of Marines.
With a series of rattles and bumps that jolted the Marines to their cores, the drop pod finally landed upon Thessia's earth with a mighty kaboom. Dirt would be spraying everywhere outside, Nakir knew. The doors to the pod opened a second later. The Marines immediately exited and got their first glance at Thessia.
It was beautiful, as much as an alien planet could be beautiful. The sky was a calming orange, reminding Nakir of the exquisite sunsets of the hundreds of worlds he had been on. Buildings, some seemingly as large as mountains, took up the skyline. Each was a work of art. If a word could describe Asari culture and the species as a whole, it would easily be beauty. Everything here was flowing yet powerful, graceful and sublime, presented perfectly and rising up to scrape the planet's rich colored sky.
Though perhaps the air was more orange and dusty because of the smoke rising up from a thousand shattered points. Gunfire lit up the sky, mass accelerated traces spinning up and down as the Asari desperately fought the Reapers and their even darker allies.
But now the Angels of Death were here.
Nakir and his lifeguard had landed upon a ridge overlooking something of a large sprawling valley beneath. Already there were more drop pods landing below them, disgorging their deadly contents into the heart of the fray. Marines wearing the ancient Mk. II, III, and IV armor of the Legion dueled Reaper and Dark Mechanicum abominations, bolters blasting, swords humming and slicing, and plasma whining as it burnt through armor and flesh alike. Thunderhawk gunships screamed overhead, dropping over troopers or strafing enemy forces. Somewhere, a Reaper siren roared. But this was just the beginning.
Atop the cliff-like area, directly in front of Nakir and his guard, were a group of Asari. They paid no heed to the Astartes that had come from the sky; their focus was on survival. Nakir wanted to laugh, shake his head, and gnash his teeth at the same time when he saw what they were doing.
Reaper creatures were coming over the cliff, some climbing up and others who had already made it atop coming from the Asari left flank. Biotics and mass accelerated fire flew from their positions, holding back the Reaper onslaught, but only for the time being. Nakir shook his head. Pathetic. This was easily the best defensive position within sight, and they already had problems holding it? Just how witless were these xenos?
A bolt of plasma, hot as a dying sun, flew from Creatian's pistol, annihilating a charging Brute with a single shot. The rest of the Consecrators opened up with their weapons. Bolts smashed through the incoming Reaper forces, dropping them like so many sacks of machinery and meat. A few managed to get past the Asari barricades and fell upon the blue-skinned aliens. A full six soldiers were torn apart before the few remaining Asari were able to put the Reapers down.
As a few more drop pods containing more Consecrators fell upon the top of the cliff, Nakir and his guard turned their attention towards the remaining Asari. At their head, what Nakir presumed to be an officer strode forward to greet them. The Chapter Master sneered at her tight, form-fitting armor. Licentious scum. It was prevalent throughout the societies of this galaxy too. Imperial armor was always powerful. Bulky. Perhaps the armor of the Sisters of Battle or the Marines themselves was form-fitting, but the point was that it was power armor, first and foremost. Nakir's opinion of the Asari was getting worse and worse.
"Thank the goddess you've come," breathed the Asari lieutenant. "I don't know how much longer we would have lasted there if not for your help-"
The Sword of Sanctity's black blade took her head from her shoulders in one fluid motion, violet blood jetting from her neck as her corpse fell to the ground, lifeless. Nakir's guard opened up with their weapons, slaughtering the Asari squad where they stood. There wasn't even a chance to retaliate or put up biotic barriers, so sudden and swift was the Marine attack.
With the bodies of the Asari littering the ground where they belonged, Nakir turned to the battle at hand. There was a brief urge to spit upon their corpses, but Nakir turned away. That would be unbecoming, and, besides, they weren't even worthy of such a gesture. They were nothing.
Collateral damage, nothing more.
Nearby, a Thunderhawk touched down to bring more Marines who had landed on the cliff down to the main fight. Another armored Marine hustled over to where Nakir stood and set up a holographic map in front of him. The Deathwing lifeguard waited patently, eyes scanning the horizon for threats.
The ground shook as two more drop pods impacted nearby, their impacts throwing up chunks of earth and bits of concrete. Nakir stepped forward. Around them, more Consecrators hustled into position; having just reached Thessia's surface, they were already preparing for war.
From the first drop pod came another squad of Consecrators; an officer led by a guard. They all wore ancient Mk. II armor, and on each of their left pauldrons was the same symbol: an hourglass with skulls in each part of the bulge of the glass. The guard fanned out as the officer stepped forward.
The second drop pod was slightly larger, sturdier, and more reinforced than the typical chapter pods. As the ramps blew out from the sides, any observer would notice they were two instead of five, and they were much bulkier and heavier.
From the pod itself exited a dreadnought. It was huge; much larger than even its typical counterparts. Its chassis was rounded, not boxy, and much more upright and powerful in stature than the norm. Huge pauldrons and a rounded chest flared out, covering weapon systems powerful enough to obliterate buildings. Its head, styled to a heavy rounded helm, was protected by a large armored gorget. This was an ancient Contemptor-pattern dreadnought, rarely seen on the modern battlefields of the 41st millennium.
What was more, the dreadnought bore heavily artificed and ornate details upon its chassis. Markings from battles long forgotten and honors previously won adorned its surface. It was painted black, much like all of the armor of the Consecrators. However, upon its chest was not the haloed and winged flame of the Consecrators… but rather the red winged sword of the First Legion.
As the dreadnought stepped towards the command center, Nakir, his guard, and the newly arrived Marines all bowed low.
"Venerable Ancient Deridioc," said Nakir reverently. He straightened, looking up at the dreadnought's helm lenses from behind his own helmet. "I am honored that you joined us in this fight." The dreadnought tilted slightly as if regarding the Chapter Master while the other arrived officer began to peer over the tactical layout present at the table.
"The pleasure is mine to serve once more," rumbled Venerable Ancient Deridioc, flexing his arm-mounted plasma blastgun experimentally. It usually took some warming up to get used to his metallic body after such a long sleep. He turned, looking over to the horizon. Smoke and gunfire rose from a thousand points. Deridioc seemed to frown, incapable of such an action as he was, at the sight of the Asari buildings. He turned back to Nakir. "Am I to understand that we are coming to the aid of xenos?" he demanded. The Grand Master smirked.
"More or less. Do you know the situation with this reality?" he asked in reply. The dreadnought nodded stiffly. He had been brought up to speed by the Techmarines as soon as he was awakened. It was all so very strange. If their Lord was among them, this would never be happening. It had been a long time since his service in the Dark Angels, though. He had been transferred to the Consecrators long ago, and couldn't complain with their methods. "Well," continued Nakir, "We were brought here for our firepower. Fortunately, the crusade high command isn't full of heretics, and so they have ordered us to destroy the enemy upon this planet… with as much collateral damage as possible." The Grand Master turned. "Which brings us to the present. Dreadbringer?" he asked.
The other officer who had arrived by drop pod looked up from where he was studying a map of Thessia. Around him, his guard stood silently, bolters clasped casually in hand.
"Yes, Grand Master?" he replied, voice low and whispery.
"Voted lieutenant Xenrias, I am requesting your brotherhood's intervention and relinquish tactical command to you. I shall still remain in control of the chapter, but you may do as you see fit, as are the ancient laws," said Nakir solemnly.
"Are you sure, my lord? I shall not be gentle. 'Tis my duty to ask, as well," replied the officer.
"By the ancient laws, I exercise my right to invoke a Dreadwing assault," said Nakir. His helmet lenses glowed blood red as he stared at the man who was voted as commander of the Consecrator's Dreadwing. "Salt the earth, and burn the sky." Xenrias bowed.
"Very well, my lord. It shall be done. I just wanted to be sure." Throughout this, Venerable Ancient Deridioc stood silently, watching the smaller Marines beneath him. Voted lieutenant Xenrias, the Dreadbringer, stepped forward and motioned away the Marine manning the makeshift command post's vox. He inputted his own codes to the vox and attuned the transmitter to a different channel.
"The glass turns. The grains fall," he broadcasted, signaling for the other members of the Dreadwing to assemble. He stood silently, and motioned for his guard to bring him more tactical materials. The assault was about to begin.
From his lofty vantage point, Deridioc turned down to Grand Master Nakir.
"How are the rest of the wings?" he rumbled. Nakir looked up to him. Of course the ancient would be concerned over the current state of affairs. Anyone of the Lion's blood would be.
"They are alive and well, Venerable Ancient," replied Nakir. He paused for a moment, considering. "At least, as well as they can be, all things considered. Our chapter does not have the numbers of the Legion."
"It is too bad, what happened to our proud Legions," said Deridioc sadly. "I did not think stalwart Guilliman, creator and ruler of empires, would be the one to bring the Astartes low. It's a sad state of affairs. But I am encouraged to see our chapter still holding strong to the ancient traditions." Nakir smiled at that. It was always encouraging when Deridioc referred to himself as a member of the Consecrators.
But, yes, it was a sad state of affairs. The ancient Dark Angels had been organized as a typical Legion was, but with its own sub-orders called the Six Wings of the Hexagrammaton. These were secret orders to which brothers of the Dark Angels could be members. Each was responsible for a specific and terrifying strategy of war. Each operated slightly differently, but when needed, the members of the order, serving throughout the Legion's ranks, could be called upon to bring their full power to bear and organize the entire campaign around their strategy.
Even though things might have changed with the Codex Astartes, even though they were now a chapter instead of a legion, the Hexagrammaton lived on in full within the Consecrators. Today, instead of the companies of the Codex, the Consecrators would be arraying by the Wings of the Hexagramaton.
"Venerable Ancient…" Grand Master Nakir's voice broke the silence. "Is there anything more we should do?" That was one of the perks of having extremely old dreadnoughts on your side. They had enough battle experience to outclass some chapter masters.
For his part, Venerable Ancient Deridioc shifted in place. He turned to scan the horizon.
"I think not," he replied eventually. With a sigh and a great creaking of metallic limbs, he looked back at Nakir. "From my experience, you and the voted lieutenant are doing everything that should be done." He turned again to the valley, metallic body grinding. "I am bored," he announced suddenly. Nakir couldn't help cracking a grin from behind his helmet. Honestly, the dreadnoughts were like children sometimes. "I am going to go kill something. Reaper, traitor, xeno… I care not." So saying, Venerable Ancient Deridioc turned and made his way for a waiting Thunderhawk gunship, growling at the crew to attach him and bring him to the fight.
"To be honest, Grand Master," came the sudden voice of Senchenal Maalik, "I think Venerable Ancient Deridioc has a good idea." Nakir looked over to his lifeguard.
"So he does," acquiesced the Grand Master. He looked to the Dreadbringer, busy planning the campaign of his brethren. "Voted lieutenant, do you have this in hand?" he asked. The Dreadbringer glanced up.
"I believe I do, Grand Master," he replied. Nakir nodded.
"Good." He flung his white cloak, emblazoned with the insignia of the Consecrators, dramatically over his shoulder. "Lifeguard, to me! We have enemies of the chapter to kill."
oOo
The Deathwing Terminators teleported into the area surrounding the Temple of Athame with an almighty boom of displaced air.
Around them, the dusty and broken rubble of Asari structures that had lasted centuries, if not millenia, coated the ground in twisted heaps. Gunfire and screams echoed through the smokey air. More bestial howls and horrible cackles sounded; the noises of Reaper and Dark Mechanicum creatures unleashed to the slaughter. But now, such creatures would meet the Deathwing Knights released for a slaughter of their own.
Master Vargus Oriel, lord of the Consecrators' Deathwing, took in the sight before him with eyes the color and hardness of steel from behind his heavy black helm. In front of him, an ever-dwindling group of Asari desperately fought off unending waves of enemy monstrosities that threatened to get into the Temple of Athame itself.
This was one of the most important structures on the planet. Center to the Asari's heathen religion, and centrally located on the planet itself, it was a site of great strategic importance. The Asari ambassador had acted very strangely about the Temple when she begged for Thessia's aid, alternating between wanting the Temple to be protected and wishing for no one to go near it.
The Consecrators would do as they pleased, however. Grand Master Nakir had ordered the Deathwing Knights to secure the location, and Master Oriel was only too happy to oblige. So, here they were, and the Asari guardians were in front of them.
Oriel's discerning eye noted they seemed to be better-equipped and trained than the average xenos. Their weapons were more powerful, more heavily modified. Their armor (or, at least those that wore what could be described as armor; many simply wore form-fitting bodysuits) was of a much higher quality. However, most interesting, and most telling, was the fact that these Asari were incredibly powerful biotics. Extraordinary powers were thrown out with incredible ease, blasting away incoming hostiles.
However, it was not enough. The Asari had been here for too long; they had been fighting for too long to continue effectively. As Oriel watched, those in the front, despite their biotics, were pounced on and ripped apart by screaming creatures of darkness. There were only four left.
Oriel and his brothers advanced. There were forty of them in total, and each was clad in pitch-black Cataphractii armor. They moved forward with heavy thundering steps, shaking the ground as they slowly plodded forward.
In front of them, the ever-dwindling Asari fought on. As Oriel stepped forward, a rush of cackling mutant skitarii, Cannibals, and Husks overpowered the barricades and launched themselves at the few defenders remaining. The three in front thrashed and screamed and tried to get off what biotics they could, but they were swiftly overwhelmed and devoured alive.
The last remaining Asari stood firm and unleashed a supernova of biotic power, smashing the incoming creatures back. She wore an extremely tight red bodysuit, with armored shoulders and an opening down the center, exposing parts of her upper chest and cleavage. Oriel sneered. Xenos scum.
There was a gold collar-like necklace covering her neck in its entirety. Strange red markings, looking almost like embedded plastic, arched on her forehead and around her eyes. With a sudden move, perhaps hearing the Terminators behind her, the Asari turned. She met Oriel's eyes, and the Master of the Consecrators' Deathwing got the distinct impression she was staring at his eyes themselves, not his helmet lenses. The Asari's eyes themselves were ancient, unbelievably so. Oriel found it strange and disconcerting. It was almost like looking into the eyes of one of the older Space Marines he'd known.
Whatever meaning the Asari might have been trying to convey was lost on Oriel. It mattered little, though. With wild howls and chittering screams, the abominable creatures of the Reapers and Dark Mechanicum pushed once more. The Asari was swiftly overwhelmed and torn to pieces, leaving only the Deathwing Knights in defense of the Temple.
The Terminators stepped forward, readying their weapons. The monstrous creatures in front of them screamed a horrid challenge to the skies and charged. Oriel unsheathed The Death of Worlds.
A relic of the First Legion, The Death of Worlds was the massive personal sword of Marduk Sedras, Eskaton of the Dreadwing under Lion El'Jonson. It was pattern-welded from fragments of adamantium collected from the hive cities of worlds to fall under Sedras, the edict of utter destruction. It had grown to such a length under the Eskaton that only the strongest even among Marines could wield it.
The sword carried a strange, terrible power that its wielders called only "the Curse of Dead Worlds". It could slice through armor it had no right to, and cull the saving powers of psykers and refractor fields alike.
As the monsters came on, the Deathwing opened up. Bolter shells smashed through corrupted flesh and punched through armor. Molecular acid shells, relics of ancient glory, dissolved even the hardened and corrupted flesh of the twisted monstrosities. Volkite rays sliced through twisted cybernetics like a sickle through grain. Plasma bolts left nothing more than messy heaps of slag. Blood, black and foul, coated the ground in front of the Terminators.
As the enemy masses got even closer, the Terminators opened up with closer-ranged weapons. Plasma burners, weapons so rare most did not know they existed, opened up. Pale blue flames, hotter than suns, melted away flesh and steel alike with their cleansing power. Power weapons crackled to life.
The two sides met with a great clash of weapons. The impact of the enemy charge did not even stagger the Terminators; Cataphractii armor was made of sterner stuff than that. Claws, mutilated bone-blades poking from jagged orifices, and malformed teeth bounced harmlessly from black adamantium plate or rebounded off refractor fields.
The Death of Worlds sliced through a massive crab-like skitarii, the shards pattern-welded to the sword tearing apart its victims with vicious spite. Huge Terranic greatswords and swift Calbanite warblades, made in forges that no longer existed, reaped bodies like a farmer reaped crops.
Behind the Consecrator line, the Temple of Athame stood, still proud even as its people and planet fell around it. Master Oriel longed to burn it to the ground, to smash its false idols to the ground, but such things would have to wait.
The press of enemies that overwhelmed even the greatest of Asari defenders broke like a wave against a rock when faced with the Deathwing elite. Oriel swung his massive sword in a great downward arc, smashing a Brute apart with enough force to shatter stone. The din of battle rang through what was once a peaceful holy ground. Beasts powerful enough to give mortal armies pause roared and charged the Terminators.
It mattered not. They were the Deathwing, and the Deathwing would hold.
oOo
Talunen Moa grimiced as she paced through the cramped interior of the bunker. Around her, other Asari soldiers slumped, exhausted, on the floors of the defensive complex. Some ate what little rations they had; others bandaged and applied medi-gel to their wounds, while some simply sat, backs against walls, staring into the distance, eyes wide and unblinking. Talunen spared a small sympathetic glance towards those in the latter category. Poor creatures. Anyone's home and life being ripped to shreds by unstoppable monsters would be enough to traumatize.
But those who were healthy enough (even many who weren't) still had to fight on. They could do nothing else besides wait to be slaughtered.
Still, it would have been impossible if not for the defense treaty signed with the Imperium. While many had their reservations about it earlier on, Talunen now thought it was a godsend. The Republics and the Matriarchs, curse their stupidity, had not prepared nearly enough for the invasion that all realistically knew was coming.
They were all dead now, slaughtered and some turned into horrific monsters at the hands of the enemy, so that was something of a consolation.
Talunen turned as a distant series of thuds echoed through the valley they were located in. She strode forward and peered out of the bunker's vision slit. Billowing clouds of smoke poured forth, moving towards their position. Several seconds later, the scream of descending projectiles sent Talunen spriting for the safety of the deeper bunkers of the complex.
Those outside had no time to react. Those inside lurched and stumbled as the entirety of the bunker complex shook at the rocket's impact. Talunen fell, several other Republics soldiers landing on top of her. Dust cascaded down on them as she tried to struggle her way up.
The roof disappeared in a sheet of white flame. Winded, gasping, panting, Talunen desperately stumbled and crawled away. It would do no good.
The flames did not dissipate. Pale blue and white fire licked at entrances to the bunker. Burning liquid dripped down from the roof and top entrances. Talunen watched, mesmerized by sheer horror. The drips landed in front of her, at the exit.
Against all of her expectations, rivulets started to form as the liquid fire pooled. They moved with terrible deliberation over the metal and concrete, noxious vapors burning in white flame. Whatever was touched by the terrible chemicals caught fire, burning away to add to the all-consuming inferno springing up around the Asari.
Talunen was knocked to her feet again as another rocket slammed into the front of the bunker, near the vision slit she had watched out of just seconds ago. It punched through the concrete as if it were made of plywood. A wave of white fire washed through the bunker. In front of Talunen, the fire grew as the fire behind advanced. The exit in front of her were steps leading downward, but the fire ascended, step after step. It was an impossibility, and it almost seemed as if the fire were alive, guided by pure malevolence.
There was no smoke. It didn't matter. The horrible chemical fire ate the very air as it ate everything else. Talunen fell to her knees, choking, now-blackened hands clawing desperately at her throat.
In front of her, one of the Asari soldiers stumbled and fell into the flames. In a moment she was engulfed. Her screams were more terrible, more painful, more utterly visceral than anything Talunen had ever heard, Reapers included. In a moment the soldier was consumed, armor, undersuit, and clothes burnt away in seconds, skin and fleshes stripped off of blackening bones in an instant. Talunen watched in horror as her skeleton fell to the ground, bones shattering on impact. They too were burnt away a moment later.
It was impossible to breathe. As Talunen tried to take one huge, desperate breath, the fire lept into her open mouth.
She couldn't even scream as her organs were incinerated from the inside-out by the all-consuming chemical fire.
oOo
Brother Lieutenant Fathros turned to Voted Lieutenant Xenrias, voted commander of the Dreadwing. They were still atop the high hill, watching the battle commence in the planet around them. Dreadwing commanders barked out orders, spoke rapidly on voxes, or manipulated controls on various panels.
"My lord, we have commenced pacification," intoned Fathros gravely.
"Very good. I shall signal the Chapter Master," replied Xenrias. He gave a terrible, terrible smile behind his helm as he watched the surface of Thessia around him burn in the white fire of phosphex and phosphor. Nearby, a Reaper was blown apart by an orbital lance strike. The combined impact of the huge laser and the falling Reaper annihilated a city center beneath it. "We have come. We are death."
oOo
Grand Master Nakir spun low, the Sword of Sanctity flashing out in a sweeping backhand, bisecting a squealing skitarii neatly through its midsection. Black blood dripped off the blade as he brought it up with a flourish. Another corrupted skitarii charged towards him, screaming, corrosive spittle dripping from its maw. Nakir stepped forward with a sneer. Lunging, he swung upward, the cut smashing through the skitarii's armor, staggering it with another scream. Oil and blood leaked onto Thessia's soil. Nakir cut again, beheading the monstrous creature with a single swift blow.
Around the Grand Master, the full might of the Consecrators' infantry dueled the Reapers and their Dark Mechanicum allies. Ravenwing bikers swooped back and forth across the battlefield, their riders blasting away at corrupted creatures. Swords rose and fell; the Ravenwing riders only had to reach out with their weapons to hit the tightly-packed hoards of enemy monstrosities.
All around Nakir, and making up the main fighting force on the ground, were the main companies of the chapter organized in full Stormwing formation. Here and there, the black riders of the Ravenwing, or jet-packed soldiers of the Firewing, or the vehicles and dreadnoughts of the Ironwing smashed or sliced through enemy forces, but by far the bulk of the main troops were organized in a sweeping mass of infantry.
The Stormwing were the infantry experts; the largest wing of the Hexagrammaton, they were the core of the chapter's infantry ranks, and could execute even the most complex of maneuvers and formations even under heavy enemy fire. As of now, they were arrayed in a huge slightly curved circle, presenting an unbreakable defensive formation against the huge onrush of monstrous mobs. Grand Master Nakir, his lifeguard, Venerable Ancient Deridioc, and two squads of Deathwing Terminators stood at the center, the unbreakable rock of the battlefield.
Bolters thundered, an ear-blasting, neverending cacophony of violence. They impacted corrupted soldiers, blasting away limbs, shredding through torsos, and smashing through heads.
Plasma bolts flew, the ancient relics of the First Legion still working in perfect order, having been kept secure by the Consecrators for countless centuries. Their chapter probably had the most powerful and best-working plasma weapons outside the Mechanicus and Dark Angels chapter themselves.
Nearby, Nakir smiled coldly as a wave of ethereal lightning washed over the incoming hordes, burning them to so much blackened metal. The Master of Souls, the Consecrators's Chief Librarian, was hard at work today.
Land Raiders and Rhinos came forward, blasting away at the endless tide of twisted flesh and metal with whatever weapons they had. Ancient Deridioc stepped forward, smashing through a Brute's chest with a single swing of his heavy dreadnought combat weapon. His plasma blastgun lit up with white-blue energy, and a shot with the power to eviscerate Baneblades turned a Banshee to so much sludge. Nakir shuddered at the creatures. While each race had their own Reaper-corrupted forms, the Asari's were the worst. It only cemented the idea of their depravity in his mind.
Nakir's lifeguard fought fabulously, spinning, firing, whirling, and slashing to keep the enemy from reaching their lord. In front of the Consecrators's lines, a veritable sea of corrupted metal and cackling flesh tried to break the resolute sons of the Lion. It was so large that one would have been able to see it from miles above; an entire moving landmass of filthy black and silver. But still, the Consecrators would endure.
To oppose the endless tide were the black-armored forms of the Marines. They wore the ancient armor of the First Legion; clad in great plates and grim helms, they set about their work with the grim determination the sons of the Lion were known for. Their weapons were beautiful- works of art rarely seen in the galaxy since the heady glory days of the Imperium. The most ancient of vehicles, the most powerful and rare of dreadnoughts, and the most sacred of relics and banners accompanied the Consecrators to war.
As Nakir and hundreds of his brothers fought upon the wrecked plains of Thessia, the planet burned around them. The Dreadwing did their job well; no Reapers harassed the massive formations of the Marines, and as every second passed, there were less and less Asari in the galaxy. Two for the price of one.
An orbital lance slammed down in front of the formation, blasting through a city. Nakir beheaded a thrashing skitarii. Ancient Deridioc was a whirlwind, eviscerating, smashing, and blasting apart anything that came his way. Storms of bolter fire, thick enough to see their neverending streaks through the air, slashed forward. Carpets of corrupted bodies lay in front of the Consecrators. The Master of Souls went one-on-four with a group of Banshees, his almighty psychic powers contenting with Reaper-corrupted biotics. Black blood filmed black plate. Bodies were crushed to pulp beneath Land Raider tracks. Flamers and plasma burners fired, incinerating monsters in their multitudes. Swords sliced. Warriors heaved with exertion. The apothecaries collected the gene seed of the dead.
A piercing whine, nearly supersonic, broke the rhythm of the battle. With a shriek, a missile landed directly in front of the Consecrators, hitting the enemy horde. A deep, low, odd whine sounded, and the enemy army froze as if rooted in place. The Consecrators did not cheer; they only advanced to do their grim work as the enemy was stopped by a status missile launched from the chapter fleet.
As Nakir waded forward, cleanly killing what enemies he could before they could revive, his helmet sounded with an incoming vox call.
"Chapter Master!" came the voice of the commander of the fleet. "We just received word that the Arch-Heretek is coming in the Olympus Mons. We must pull the fleet out of orbit before it is destroyed!" Nakir stepped back from the line, allowing his lifeguard to fill the gap as he attuned his helmet's vox.
"How soon until it gets here?" he asked.
"We can evacuate the chapter in time, but only if we start now," replied the Master of the Fleet urgently. Nakir turned. He stood stock still, considering. A screaming and chittering skitarii was put down by Maalik.
"Do it," replied Nakir. He cut the line, and immediately switched channels to the chapter-wide frequency. "To all members of the chapter- the Arch-Heretek and his flagship have been sighted on approach to Thessia. Our fleet cannot fight it. All brothers are ordered to immediately pull out and return to the fleet. This planet means nothing. We must safeguard our chapter's history, as we have been decried to do. We shall return to Earth, where our power shall be much more useful." So saying, the Grand Master cut out his comms.
The chapter's Thunderhawks streaked down, picking up Marines by the dozens. Larger craft that could go through both space and atmosphere were already on their way down to the planet. The vehicles would be the hardest things to get of the planet; they left the battle first, and were given first priority.
As the evacuation continued with the speed only Marines could muster, the rest of the chapter on the ground fell back to better defensive positions. Slowly, seemingly ever-so slowly, but what was in reality an incredibly short time, the majority of the Consecrators were back aboard the chapter fleet. Only Nakir, the librarians, the Ravenwing, the Firewing, and the Deathwing remained upon the field of battle, slowly giving ground.
Carpets of bodies lay in front of them. Blasts of psychic power contended with corrupted biotics, and threw countless masses of enemies back from the Consecrators' lines. Nakir fought grimly. They would hold. Black, red, blue, green, and violet blood, mixed with mucus-like pus and filthy oil coated his armor. The Sword of Sanctity flashed and spun as he dropped foe after foe. His lifeguard fought on, swords slicing and bolters booming. Ravenwing bikers continued to swoop and dive with as much grace as their avian namesake. The Terminators were covered head-to-toe in gore.
A Firewing officer landed next to Nakir, jump pack cutting off with a humm. He blasted away a charging Marauder with an aerotech pistol and turned to the Chapter Master.
"My lord, you and the librarians must go now!" called the Firewing officer. "The rest of us can speed to the gunships or transport, or teleport back to the fleet! You must go!" he pleaded. Nakir spun once more, beheading a skitarii, then turned back to the officer.
"Send a gunship here! The rest of you fall back when they arrive, and make your way to your own evacuation shuttles. The Terminators can teleport," he ordered. The Firewing officer nodded.
"Yes, my lord," he replied.
As screaming Thunderhawk gunships, supported by the other aerial forces of the chapter, came in low, the Ravenwing bikers and Firewing soldiers pulled back with a speed only they could muster. Missiles from orbit hit the enemy lines, covering Nakir and the librarians' retreat. As the gunships pulled away from the ground, the Terminators teleported up with cracks of displacing air. The chapter had withdrawn successfully… but the Olympus was still in route.
oOo
Fabricator General Kelbor-Hal paced moodily aboard the bridge of the Olympus Mons. He spun with a sharp grating sound and peered out the grimy windows. In the distance, the last ships of the Consecrators' fleet pulled away from Thessia and swiftly Warp-jumped away. Hal snarled. Around the Olympus, Reapers and other Dark Mechanicum vessels hovered like flies.
What Asari ships remained over the ruined planet were swiftly annihilated. It was no contest. The only reason they had survived in the first place was due to the intercession of the Consecrators, who had sliced through the Reapers besieging them to reach the planet. Now, there was nothing left to save them.
"My lord, it seems as if the withdrawing fleet was a Space Marine chapter fleet," droned one of the Adepts unhelpfully. Hal whirled around.
"I know that you blithering idiot," he hissed. "It could be nothing else but a Space Marine fleet, and I care not!" He stopped mid-rant and went back to angrily pacing.
"My lord…" another Adept spoke up, clearly wary of his master's temper, but still wishing to speak. "What of this planet? What shall we do with it?" he asked. Kelbor-Hal turned to face the questioner.
"I care nothing of this planet," he replied. "Take the Olympus and the fleet to Earth. It is from there we shall have the seat of our eternal reign," he replied. Once more, he turned to look out the deep windows at the surface of Thessia beneath him. "As for this planet… Exterminatus," he hissed. There might have been resources within it, but he cared not. He was in a terrible mood already, and it would only get worse the more he delayed getting to Earth.
As the Olympus Mons transitioned into the Warp, a Dark Mechanicum battleship moved into orbit above Thessia. The rest of the fleet, Reaper and Mechanicum ship alike, began to move into position for the journey to Earth. The dread shadow of the massive black warship hung above the planet like the spectre of death. This was to be perhaps the most casually brutal Exterminatus in history.
From its hold, it released a spread of virus bombs. They impacted the surface of Thessia moments later. Within the span of thirty seconds, all life on Thessia was devoured by unstoppable germs. Gasses released from the death of all biological life on the planet floated up into the atmosphere.
As if but a simple parting gesture, the battleship fired a single special-designed incendiary missile into the planet's atmosphere. As the warship turned away to make its jump, the golden homeworld of the Asari burned.
oOo
Codex:
The Thessia Beacon:
The Thessia Beacon, also known as the Athame Beacon, was a Prothean Beacon that was concealed within the Temple of Athame on Thessia. The Beacon's existence was only known to a select group of Asari Matriarchs and their acolytes, who kept its existence a secret in direct violation of Citadel law and used the insights gained to accelerate Asari technology and civilization for their entire history until the Reaper War.
During the Reaper War, a group of Asari Justicars were sent to guard the Beacon during the Invasion of Thessia. The Matriarchs correctly suspecting that the Imperium of Man would see the Beacon as a monument to Asari treachery and would subsequently revoke the species' Xenos Sanctum classification.
The Beacon was ultimately destroyed by Kelbor-Hal's Exterminatus of Thessia, the Consecrators and wider galaxy unaware of the Asari race's largest and most terrible secret.
The Consecrators:
Warcry/Motto: "For the Lion!"
The Consecrators are an Unforgiven successor chapter of the Dark Angels. The chapter's history is largely a mystery. No record of their existence is to be found in the wider Imperium before the third century of the 40th Millennium. Their Founding is also unknown, though unlike most Marine Chapters, this is on purpose rather than due to lost records. For those that truly know the history of the Dark Angels and have seen or heard of the Consecrators in action, there could be only one Founding they were created in.
The Consecrators themselves prefer to arrive without warning, and upon complete obliteration of their foe, leave without a trace. They wield all manner of ancient power armor, relics, banners, weapons, and vehicles, some not seen in the wider Imperium since the days of the Great Crusade.
In truth, the Consecrators have one purpose. When Guilliman divided the Legions into Chapters, the Dark Angels's leadership created a secret Chapter to hold all of the most sacred relics and gear of the Dark Angels until the day arose when their Primarch would be restored. The Consecrators wield the ancient power and full might of the First Legion, and wait for the day when they might rejoin their brothers not as a successor chapter, but part of a whole Legion once more.
oOo
There we have it! I hope you enjoyed it. The Consecrators are here, Thessia is gone, Hal is making his way to Earth, and things are getting interesting and going terrible for the allies. If you are wondering or haven't figured it out, yes, that was Samara who died in front of the Temple of Athame. Next chapter, we have the war on Earth, where things get even worse, and the chapter after that, we have either the war on Rannoch or Ordo Sinister. Stay tuned! As always, I appreciate any comments, criticisms, questions, concerns, and reviews!