Of Man and Fate
The ancient woods are silent as pure white flakes of the softest snow gently settle across every branch, twig, and shrub. The small creatures of the forest remain in their deep winter slumber within their burrows. The priests watch the world become cloaked in winter's cold embrace from the windows of their fortress monastery. The warrior sisters of the Faithful Blade convent hone their skill. Sacred bolters chatter on the firing ranges and in the kill-houses, chainswords screech on full power as they hack into the training servitors. The monastery's central chapel rings with the voices of the faithful and a bronze bell tolls in the tallest tower
Unseen from all, undetected from even the most advanced sensors, a pair of crimson lenses observes form the shadows of a mighty evergreen. Jade armor clings to a lithe form, trimmed in gold and crimson jewels. The figure doesn't make a single move to indicate the presence of life, snow settles on the narrow shoulders and the sweeping helmet. A narrow bladed, but no less deadly, chainsword is clutched in one gauntleted hand and a strange alien pistol is held easily in the other. A cold wind rises slowly building its strength.
Snow whips around obscuring everything but still the figure doesn't move. Shadowy figures appear behind it slowly manifesting to reveal more clad in the same armor and armed in the same manner. Then different soldiers appear from the swirling ice: warriors in gold and blue, red and white, orange and crimson, and midnight blue. Without a sound an army marshals before the monastery walls. An unearthly screech rends the air cutting through the howling wind and stone walls of the fortress monastery alike with ease.
"Holy Emperor, ye' guardian of man and bearer of the Holy Light. Your servants march to war once more bearing your light and fury before the xenos and the heretic. Our souls and hearts are yours, may our blood buy us this day so that the Imperium you forged will stand forever more. Ave Imperator," a middle-aged woman intones as she leads her sisters through the cold halls beneath their home. Suits of power armor stand ready for their wearers. One by one each sister breaks off from the group and begins the process of dauning their armor. Ceramite sabatons ring against the stone floor as they march for the armory.
Rack upon rack of bolters, blessed flamers, and meltaguns decorate the Vault alongside piles of ammunition for each weapon. Sickle magazines and fuel tanks are parceled out in a well drilled pattern. Prayers are sung by the younger girls and the unarmed men of the monastery as their guardians march to war. In the garages, the mighty Rhinos, Immolators, and the mighty Exorcists roar to life as their chanting crewmembers rouse their machine spirits. Gunfire rings out across the battlements as the sisters and gun-servitors manning the walls engage their quickmoving foes. Bolters spit death into the snow storm guided by the thermal imaging sensor's of their bearer's helmets. Screaming disks rend the air and barrages of accurate missile fire slam into the walls driving many of the sisters into cover only to emerge and bring vengeance to their foes.
Yet still they press closer, ever closer, to the walls. Blood soon flows over the ancient stone, and the orchestra of war builds towards its crescendo.
In the depths of space a light flashes into being. A corona of energy painted in every possible color and many of those that are thought to be impossible, swirling in a maddening pattern that would drive a normal man mad. And from the depths of this portal into insanity the gleaming form of Iron Heart springs into being, massive engines already propelling the ship into an approach angle towards the sole life-sustaining world. In the armory the Inquisitor's forces arm themselves.
Priests, of both the soul and the machine, mutter prayers over the men and women as they pull their weapons from storage. Hellguns whine as power flows into the deadly weapons, lights along their blocky flanks flickering. Grenades are raised carefully from the padded cases and secured about their armored persons. Knives, honed to a monomolecular edge, are wiped clean and sheathed with a sinister hissing of steel. The door hisses open revealing the void black armored form of the Spartan. All activity stops as all pairs of eyes swing around to regard the tall warrior in their presence.
Without a word he strides across the armory to a small locker pushed up against the farthest wall. The Stormtroopers take notice of the pistol and knife holstered on opposite sides of his hips as he enters a short code into the locker's keypad. The door pops open revealing his BR55 and the needle rifle, gleaming and deadly, sitting in small racks. The annoyance is blatant as he takes in the sight of purity seals affixed to his beloved battle rifle without his approval, and promptly rips them off. Some of them wince at the perceived slight against the Machine God but most just chuckle having long gotten annoyed at the Tech-priests and their seals themselves.
He removes the sniper rifle first and removes one of the magazine-power cells from the cabinet and slots it into the mag-well with a solid click. He doesn't chamber the first round for safety reasons and then locks it the magnetic clamp on his back. His hands quickly and efficiently store three extra magazines on his belt pouches before reaching for his battle rifle. His hands run over the gleaming instrument of death like it's the most precious thing in the world to him. He carefully slots the first thirty-six round magazine into its place and activates the electronics suite. The display flickers to life displaying a blue "36" in just the right spot for him to be able to see it without taking his eye from the scope. He sets the rifle off to the side and place the six accompanying magazines into the pouches across his chest. The stormtroopers feel a shiver run down their spines as that golden visor sweeps the room, black rifle clutched in those deadly hands, all of them feeling as if the eyes of the Demons themselves are glaring at them through that featureless mask.
Inquisitor Reymose stands at rigid attention before the dropships that will carry his forces to the world below. The bulky transports, square and ugly things, will each carry a platoon of the company and their Chimera transports through the airless void and down to their destination. His hand rests on the pommel of his sword and his eyes take in the frantic preparations with a practiced eye. He doesn't react when the Spartan takes his place behind and to the left of the Inquisitor's acolyte. Her scowl makes her opinion of their newest addition blatantly obvious as she tries to studiously ignore him. The constant glances swiftly break that illusion.
The Spartan cocks his head as he spots Gud waving like a child seeing their favorite uncle walk in the door. The hulking creature is now clad in slab like plates of black armor and carries a massive, drum-fed shotgun with an equally large bayonet on the end held in those massive paws that he calls hands. The Ogryn eventually stomps up the ramp into his own ship with the rest of second platoon as the engines begin spinning up. Massive turbines whine slowly building power until they scream like vengeful eagles. The Spartan merely activates the sound filters in his helmet, and promptly ques Stricken by Disturbed to tune the rest of the world out.
As one, the Inquisitor and his revenue step towards the pitch black Aquila-lander squatting next to the bulkier dropships. The ramps on every ship the cavernous bay hiss shut and their flight crews complete their final checks before the massive blast-doors begin to grind open releasing thin wisps of residual atmosphere into the vacuum. Like pepper ground from a mill, the dropships power into the void and plummet towards the winter locked continent home to the Monastery of the Faithful Blade.
The aliens press closer and closer to the walls in brief sprints through the vulnerable openings in the trees. Missiles, screaming bolter rounds, lascannon shots, and streams of superheated gas cross each other in mid-air over the now crater marked treeline. Bodies are strewn across both sides along with the flaming hulks of vehicles. The gunfire slackens as a wing of escorting Vulture gunships sweeps overhead spitting missiles in a wave of death. The sisters do not cheer as their foes are drive back from the barrage, they don't make a single sound as they consolidate their lines and pull their remaining vehicles back.
None of them look up as the four dropships descend from above bringing the badly needed aid. Instead they keep their eyes locked down range, fingers caressing the triggers of their weapons. There isn't a single shred of doubt of their enemy's return once they have regrouped; the Eldar aren't known for suddenly giving up without some hidden reason. The dropships flare their noses upwards to decelerate more quickly and lower their ramps before their skids can touch the ground. Chimeras and stormtroopers roar from the dark holds with their weapons already energized and baying for blood. The more elegant Aquila releases the Inquisitor and his escorting group descend the ramp in a more sedate manner.
Hunter casts a critical eye around the battered monastery and it's battlements, easily picking out the concealed weapons emplacements and numerous firing slits in the buildings.
"This place is as much of a fortress as a church," he notes approvingly. His hands absentmindedly chamber a round with a sharp snap of well oiled parts catching his companions off guard for a moment.
"Spartan you have permission to join in the defence on the walls," the Inquisitor announces as he strides for the central keep.
"Acknowledged," The Spartan replies and jogs towards the battered gates. The Inquisitor watches him run for a moment, before he turns towards the keep with the power armored females and his acolyte accompanying him. Hunter arrives at the gates just as one of the last Rhino transports, its ceramite armor dented and scorched from the rigors of combat, rumbles back through the opening. A Cannoness orders her sisters to pile sandbags before the gate once more. A glance at the melted hinges holding the gate open tells Hunter all he needs about why the gate hasn't been secured.
The supersoldier doesn't hesitate and lends a hand to the work piling the bags chest high and two deep to provide for the best amount of cover. The sisters don't speak a word to him as they take their places in the line under the baleful gaze of the Razorback Rhino variant's twin-linked heavy bolters. Hunter doesn't give this any thought preferring instead to simply focus on any targets that might appear down range. The small scope on the rail of his rifle has a 2x magnification scope and brings the now shattered and burning treeline into sharp focus. He arches a brow behind his helmet at the sight of the aliens facing him across the divide, taking in their sweeping helms and bright armor schemes.
"And I thought the Covenant had a shitty color scheme…" he mutters just loud enough for his companions to catch it.
"I have no idea what this "Covenant" is...but their uniforms sound bright," one sister remarks from behind her bolter's sights.
"That...is one way of putting it. At least these things don't squeal."
"They do when they are on fire," one sister remarks helpfully as she adjusts the nozzle on her flamer. Hunter can't help but notice when she...caresses the weapon's frame like a beloved pet. The Spartan subtly shuffles away from the flamethrower wielding battle sister and resolves to never bringing up the words purification, alien, or fire while near them if he can help it. Soft flakes of snow begin to fall as they wait for anything to happen, a thin blanket of white forming on their shoulders and weapons. Not a single member of the garrison shifts keeping their vigilance even as their gear is repainted by nature herself.
Without warning or even a shifting shadow a flurry of hissing disks hammers into the Imperial lines. Hunter curses and ducks under a stream of the disks before popping up and finding the blue-gold armored alien that fired at him. His BR55 barks a three round burst that slams into the alien's chestplate where the human heart would be located and is rewarded with a splash of crimson. Missiles scream over head and slam into the battlements raining chunks of stone down on those manning the gate.
The Razorback's weapons spew a stream of mass-reactive high-explosive shells into the woods pulverizing all they come in contact with. Hunter's rifle barks in short bursts as he acquires target after target, putting each one down with the ease and precision that Spartans are known for. His eyes widen behind his visor as he sees something that he never expected to bear witness to: a hundred women armored in white with crimson manes waving from their helmets armed with swords and pistols charging headlong into a prepared defensive line. And surviving.
"Howling Banshees!" one of the sisters yells and suddenly the rate of fire picks up. Hunter still picks his targets but is rapidly frustrated when they seemingly dodge out of the way just as he's about to fire without breaking stride. They fire their pistols in short but not inaccurate bursts that either spark off of armor plates, sink into them, or find weak points and shred the vulnerable parts beneath them. Battle Sisters fall with their throats ripped open and their lifeblood staining their armor. Hunter curses as the aliens get closer and closer screaming all the while.
His ears start to hurt more and more the closer they get, a headache beginning to pound in the center of his skull. He shakes it off with a grunt as they are suddenly in his face with inhuman speed. He spins around an overhead slash and repays his attacker with a burst to her flank, 9.5mm slugs shattering the thin white plating and rattle around her insides. A burst of shuriken fire shreds his cover and he duck beneath the line of fire. A figure hurdles the sandbags and his rifle barks again catching the alien in the leg with a startled cry. One of the Battle Sisters finishes the wounded alien with a burst of bolter fire before whipping around and gunning another one down. Hunter leaps to his feet and fires a burst into a charging alien's face.
Instinct warns him to duck a split second before a blade whistles over his head. His foot lashes out catching the alien in the gut and driving her back from him long enough to bring his rifle to bare and fire a burst into her gut. Crimson splashes back against his armor as the round punch through the light plates of armor. A flicker at the corner of his vision alerts him to his next attacker...a moment before a flash of flame consumes her. He lets the Battle Sister, who is now cackling maniacally, finish off the first alien and instead empties the last of his magazine into a charging squad sized contingent. When the bolt clicks open as the last round finds its home in the third Banshee's chest he simply drops the rifle and draws his pistol.
Before the first Banshee can acrobatically hurdle the, now leaking, sandbag barrier he has the safety off and the his finger squeezing the trigger. A 12.7mm round is no small caliber handgun, in the twenty-first century it would have been identified as a .50 caliber even if it is just a pistol. The monstrous handgun round at such short range finds a place in the leading Banshee's eye. His free hand draws the long knife from his hip and holds it in a ready reverse grip as they close. Time seems to slow as leaps forward to meet them with the astounding speed that Spartans are known for.
Olavara feels her eyes widen as the Mon'keigh leaps his primitive barrier after killing one of her sisters. A solid gold visor glares at her and her sisters as they charge fearlessly through the storm of fire. It takes her a heartbeat to notice how much faster this one is than the other Mon'keigh on the battlements and those that stomped forward to face them in the fields with those ugly box-tanks. His feet hardly seem to touch the ground as he lands before his pistol, a sleek black thing, spits a large slug into another sister's throat sending her corpse to tumble to the ground.
Shock is quickly burnt away by rage as she approaches the Mon'keigh, forgetting the pistol in her left hand in favor of closing and spilling his blood personally as reparation for so many dead sisters. To her shock, once again, he dodges her strike with the ease that only one of the Eldar should be capable of. His knife comes up and carves a deep trench in another sister's leg before he spins and fires a round into another's chestplate only to see the fat slug flatten and shatter against the tough plating. He doesn't stop, never hesitating, moving with a fluid grace that matches the Banshees blow for blow.
He doesn't meet them blade-to-blade knowing that their power swords would cut through his, admittedly well made, knife like hot steel through butter. Instead he weaves around them flowing like a river around each strike as if he had been training to fight beings that were his superior in every way all of his life. Then he turns to her for a moment and she sees her reflection in that golden mask, that terrible mask that sees everything yet gives up nothing, then his armored boot lashes out and slams into her side hard enough to have cracked her armor. She doesn't scream, and her war-mask shelters her from the fear that would no doubt have ravaged her, but she does feel the impact and the sickening crunch of her ribs cracking beneath her battle plate.
And as she tumbles away leaving her remaining sisters to battle this creature, for it could not be Mon'keigh, she can't help but feel a little bit of...fear leak through her mask.
Hunter doesn't think, doesn't feel, as he lays into the alien swordswomen. His knife plunges in between the plates of armor, single shots from his pistol throw them off just enough to save him from their savagely quick blows and allow him to retaliate. The slide locking open gives him no pause as he simply releases the slide and holsters it in the same motion before trapping a wrist in an iron grip with the now freed hand. His foot slams heel first into the now exposed midsection cracking the armored plates and sending the alien tumbling away from him.
The knife carves through the air and then the thin undersuit protecting the alien woman's neck. Crimson splashes across his armor before he slides to his left avoiding a lunge from behind on instinct. He spins, in a move that would no doubt have been seen through by another Spartan, and delivers a crushing back-knuckle strike to the alien's helmeted head sending her sprawling. He doesn't view these warrior women as mothers, sisters, or daughters: they are warriors as well, and deadly ones. A woman who has the potential to fight as well as a man should be allowed to if she can attain and maintain the same standards without demanding that they change to suit her. And as far as he can tell these women exceed even the highest standards of the ODSTs, nearly as good as Spartans. Nearly.
The Battle Sisters, momentarily struck with awe at his performance against the Eldar, redouble their fire. The remaining aliens retreat leaving the bodies of their fallen behind, the vengeful guns of the Faithful Blade. Hunter merely watches them go, replaying every battle he has ever been a part of and the end result: dozens of fallen brothers and sisters and a retreat from alien guns. This is one of his only victories, and yet he does not know how to feel about it, knowing that they will come again and again until they get what they want. He glances down at the alien that he merely knocked unconscious having picked up on the slight increase in breathing when she came to.
"Don't move, wait until nightfall to make your escape. I won't tell anyone you're. I hope you all leave before I'm forced to re-earn my name." With his piece said he begins to turn back to the fortress only for a croaking voice to stop him.
"What...was your name?" the alien's voice has a strange accent to it no doubt due to this being a second tongue to her but it retains that musical quality that speaks of an elegance and refinement that no human woman could ever be bothered to try for. The question, therefore, must be the result of a pain addled mind but not one unworthy of being answered.
"They called me Demon."
A/N: I know some of you are going to question why I didn't go over the reason why the Eldar are even attacking the fortress but rest assured: next chapter will be focused on the Inquisitor and his acolyte and quite possibly...a chapter focused on Gud? On an another note I made it through the last of the, generally agreed, hardest weeks of ATT: week 7 with a 92% on the test. In another four weeks I will begin nightschool and thus have less time to spend on writing but rest assured that I will try to update on Sundays.