Apocrypha: Warlord's farewell
The void above Tuchanka is torn apart with light as the Aeldari fleet and the gullible fools who sided with them fight to descend on the surface of the planet. The bleeding, battered remnants of the once-powerful Fifth Fleet, along with some asari and turian vessels that joined them during the long months of fighting withdrawal after the devastating surprise attack, is trading ships for minutes, seconds - fighting with complete abandon. They all know that the interdiction field the enemy set up cannot be breached, not in time - and they do not have the means to extract the krogan civilians anyway. Thus, they hold on with grim determination, resolved to extract a grievous toll in blood from the bastards intent on eradicating the krogan once and for all.
Despite the preternatural reaction speed and almost prescient deployment patterns of the Aeldari, the successors to the legacy of Hackett manage to make them bleed as disciplined, overwhelming fire is brought to bear on the sleek, graceful, yet comparatively fragile enemy ships. Damaged, hurting vessels are forced through a last FTL jump or a desperate evasive run to ram into the attackers or shield the remaining combat-capable vessels of the allied fleet. Admiral Pavlichenko leads with cold, calculating efficiency, that becomes her own downfall shortly into the battle - the Aeldari Farseers pinpoint her location, and the Erebus is soon swarmed by fighters, while the larger cruisers bombard it from the distance. Under the onslaught, no human-made ship can endure for long, and the Tuchankan nightside is lit when the flagship turns into a rapidly-expanding ball of plasma and debris.
Yet the Aeldari miscalculated - tearing out the heart and mind of the allied fleet does not break the defenders. Granted, there is a very short, barely-perceivable hesitation, confusion, but then the chain of command, careful planning and dogged determination reassert themselves, and the battle continues with renewed fury, to the momentary shock of the aliens who expected a rout easily turned into a massacre.
Despite the fleet's efforts, there was never any doubt that the invaders would be able to land in force - and even in their twilight hours, the krogan relish the conflict as they are facing off against the might of the ancient race intent on subjugating them all.
Clans Jurdon and Jorgal fiercely defend the Shrine of Kalros, dying to the last when the vast giant of metal and fire leading the attackers takes a personal hand, unleashing his might and the thirst of the wailing blade he wields. Even then, the last of the krogans to die perishes with a fierce grin, as he senses the closing tremors not experienced since that day during the Reaper War. The victorious Aeldari are in for a rough surprise as the planet itself turns against them, the dunes swallowing infantry as the immense thresher maw approaches the ancient amphitheatre. The avatar of destruction stands its ground, eyes alight with unholy relish at the prospect of battle, uncaring about the blood shed by his underlings as Kalros approaches. The clash of the two titanic powers shrouds the surrounding vast area in a storm of dust, thunder, lava and blood.
Elsewhere, Chief Khel Burrum is leading his own clan along with the forces of Ganar and Talyth in battle against the giant mechs of bone and alloy the invaders deployed. Fire, lightning, and aetheric energy rip into the krogan lines, killing hundreds in moments. The answering storm of mass accelerator fire is weaker, but no less precise and much, much more concentrated - the warchief knows that he cannot win in the long run, but every mech he brings down is one less that will make it to the Kelphic Valley.
Deep within his throne room, the ancient krogan warlord curses the Fate that requires him to watch as his people are dying - yet they all know that this is where he can be the most useful as long as there is communication. His expertise is needed to coordinate the global campaign, and he cannot allow himself the simple luxury of going into personal combat. He snorts at the thought, knowing full well that it is only a matter of time before he has to fight once more, probably for the last time in his long life. He turns towards his aide when the blue-eyed young krogan chuckles.
"Company, warlord."
The old krogan steps closer, takes in the view from the security cameras - a single aeldari is cutting through the elites of Aralakh Company while her forces are setting up a perimeter to cut down anyone attempting to flee. The two krogans share a look, before laughter rings out from their throats, the sound echoing far into the tunnels of the compound, full of fierce determination and joy at the prospect of battle. The warlord's omnitool flashes, and there is a short, answering note as the safety locks of the reactor are disengaged, starting the inevitable process that will lead to meltdown.
"Go." The younger krogan looks poleaxed for a moment, before rage suffuses his face, the ground trembling as he takes a step towards his stepfather, warlord, krantt-member. Before he could do anything stupid, the old warlord headbutts him, the impact sending the younger male staggering back, as the old chief grins at him. "Take care of Bakara and the kids for me. Try to get them off this rock - and if you can't, then take as many of the bastards with you as you can."
A split-second hesitation in those blue eyes, a deep, warning growl from Wrex, then Grunt snaps off a salute, and marches off into a tunnel.
For another few minutes, the old warlord directs the battle on the surface, using every skill and trick he learned over a thousand years of fighting against overwhelming enemies. He knows that ultimately, it is futile - yet the mere thought of giving in, of following the idiots that believed the promises of the aeldari, of submitting to the aliens makes his blood boil. He faced and endured worse before getting to the end of his long life - and he is determined to do anything in his power to ensure that his doomed people write their names into the collective soul of the accursed aeldari.
Something grabs his attention. A sound that has absolutely no place in there, a sound that's rare on Tuchanka even after repairing the Shroud. The sound of rain beating on the ground. The air feels full of tension, static electricity. The storm is coming to finally end him, to drench the complex with his blood, to break his people and his allies by killing him in full view. He cannot hold back his deep, full-throated laughter. As if the alliance who survived the Reapers, who tore apart Tsara'Noga and its pawns, would be dismantled by the demise of a single warlord.
A flicker of movement, a blurry shape in the darkness, the rainfall of running steps reaching a crescendo - and with centuries of practice, Urdnot Wrex barely dodges the strange, three-bladed weapon flying towards him, the sharp blade biting deep into the wall before the thing returns to the hand of his attacker. He takes a moment to study her as they circle one another. The aeldari is lithe, her movements more graceful than even an asari, yet there is power behind them, an unrestrained capacity for violence almost on par with his own. The female's curved blade inscribes intricate patterns, before Wrex rolls his eyes, and simply vanishes into a blue-white tunnel of light as he charges, the aeldari barely managing to avoid being crushed between the wall and the immense weight of the krogan warlord - and then she is thrown back as the massive shotgun hits her center mass.
With a gesture, Wrex sends a warp field at the woman as he rushes in to overwhelm her - then barely manages to avoid the slender blade severing his leg as she seemingly flows under him, springing into a fighting stance behind him, and he can practically feel the disgust, hatred, and fury behind the mask. A split-second warning is all he gets as the air and aether alike distort from her furious scream that tears into his soul, burning along his nerves and organs, seeking to hold him fast as a helpless sacrifice.
Wrex roars his fury, and with a boom of displaced air, charges again, a biotic-wreathed fist slamming aside a slender, ancient blade, ignoring the three-bladed weapon cutting deep into his body as his opponent barely dances aside, evading the shotgun blast - then the female staggers back as the warlord headbutts her, the bone-white helmet cracking under the hit. His follow-up strike is dodged, and the sword hits him, parting barrier, armor, and bone alike with ease. Blood spatters the floor.
The chamber lights up with blue-white light as biotics clash with aetheric energy, shadows chasing each other on the walls and floor as the two clash again and again with lightning speed, uncaring of the pain of hits, the crunches of buckling bone and armor, the spurts of blood, the deafening roars of the krogan shotgun and the hateful screams of the aeldari.
He smirks at her, before laughing outright, not even the enraged, empowered howl of the banshee able to suppress the triumphant laughter of the warlord, as his omnitool pings with a confirmation. The woman's stance shows a split-second of shock, her outlines almost blurring as she prepares to storm from the blast radius, before she shrieks in pain as a gesture from the blue-lit Wrex pins her in place with gravity, his voice a gurgling, drowning, but satisfied growl.
"Stay, bitch."
A/N: Just a short peek into the original concept of the post-ME3 future of the fic.