Hello, another late chapter as per usual. However, if you've been here long enough, you're probably used to it by now (or so I hope). Anyway, I've decided to finally change the title of the story as I'd always considered the original one a placeholder, anything to cause confusion for the poor readers. For future updates, I am hopeful that things may speed up now as both characters are properly established, but as with most of my predictions that will probably be wrong too. Always too many things to do and never enough time to do them in, but I digress. Enjoy the chapter!

Song of the day: God's Gonna Cut You Down [Remix] – Battlefield 1 OST – Johnny Cash

(Bonus Song: Battle Without Honour or Humanity - Tomoyasu Hotei)


Chapter 21 – Showdown

The sound of ruffling parchment interrupted the stillness of the candle lit dining room. The guardsman unfurled the map of the settlement's layout across the table now that they'd finished their meal. The blaze in the fireplace was still raging albeit subdued from when the banshee had first lit it.

Locke ran his cold hands across the paper, smoothing out the crinkles and folds as he scanned its contents. Certain features such as the bridge and the eastern tower immediately sprang out to the guardsman; however, there were other symbols denoted on the parchment that he didn't recognise.

Unfortunately, such a thing was to be expected. Judging by the yellowing edges of the map, it had to be old indeed; the village had undoubtedly changed since it had first been drawn up. Still though, it was better than drawing it from scratch himself - a lucky find within the manor's modest library. The map makers had even been kind enough to write the name of the settlement in the top left of the chart: they were in 'The village of Tesling'.

"Right then Xeno!" Locke declared, leaning over the table as he stared down at the map whilst the alien sat opposite him with her legs crossed one over the other. At present she was more interested in the steaming mug in her hand than anything he was up to. For anyone unaccustomed to the behaviour of the eldar, it would have been the source of understandable frustration. By this point though, Locke was very much used to it.

The same could not be said for the beverage in her hands though. The golden-brown drink, labelled 'briskane', was another discovery that they'd found in their reconnoitre of the village. Since the guardsman's Narvosii tea reserves had long since been exhausted, they'd begun to use it as a substitute; although, unlike the alien, Locke found the drink to be too sweet for his taste.

She quietly sipped at her hot beverage, casting half-interested glances from time to time at the wide scroll that he'd unfurled across the tabletop. Wishing to make the map more representative of the present, the guardsman put his amateurish cartography skills on show; he sketched in the town's missing details as best as he could.

"The orks can't be far off," Locke said grimly, squinting at the alien who returned his gaze. "But I'm bloody sick of runnin', and I bet you are too… so we'll fight them here." The calm bluntness in his words caught the banshee's attention, her green eyes glowing with resolve. She would stick with him to whatever end, of that he was certain.

The guardsman knew it was largely pointless trying to communicate his strategy to her, but he'd always found that it helped his concentration to air one's thoughts aloud. Besides, hearing someone talk, even if it was himself, definitely took the edge off the growing tension.

"It's not gonna be easy though. We're outnumbered and outgunned… but we do have some cards up our sleeve." He said gesturing at the parchment.

"I'm no expert on the xeno bastards, but from what I've seen, the orks are pretty direct. They'll always follow the path of least resistance; whatever gets them into the fight the fastest."

"If I'm right, this means that they'll most likely be coming down the eastern road that leads to the bridge." He said, tracing his finger across the map until it landed on the symbol of the crossing – a rectangle with outward facing chamfers.

"Luckily for us though, that approach is a perfect choke point. Their numbers won't mean a thing if they all funnel in at the same time; it'll be like shooting fish in a barrel."

Locke remained silent for a few minutes, mulling over the plan of action in his mind. "We'll plant the dynamite here!" He said, crosshatching the slim area beyond the crossing with his pencil. "That should be enough to blow the lot of them to kingdom come!"

Looking across to his companion, he found her expression hard to read in the ebbing firelight. She seemed to have gathered the gist of what he wanted to do, but her drawn expression indicated her dissatisfaction with the plan thus far. Her entire demeanour practically said, 'do not rest all of your hopes on a single gambit'.

The guardsman acquiesced to her point of view. "Then again those bastards shrugged off an avalanche. I'd bet a year's wages on some of 'em survivin' the blast." He grumbled dejectedly.

Content to see that he'd listened to her council, the alien warrior set her cup down gently onto the table and proffered her hand towards the pencil which Locke duly handed over.

Wasting no time at all, she sketched in rectangular blocks across three thoroughfares in and around the town. After reviewing her annotations, he was fairly certain he understood what she had in mind; the eldar appeared to be suggesting a defence-in-depth strategy.

Outlining several key areas that were to be fortified, the both of them would conduct a fighting withdrawal, starting from the bridge and then onwards toward the town centre. By blocking off several passages, the only route left was one down a tight street that would further forbid the orks their advantage of numbers. Overall, it was optimistic to say the least given there was only the two of them, but it wasn't as though they had a better option.

Admittedly, Locke didn't think it initially feasible due to the amount of work required and the time they had available. That was until his eyes fell upon the pommel of her sword. He'd seen her use the thing to cut through solid steel albeit with some difficulty.

"I'm sorry to say this, but that sword of yours is going to be put to some demolition work." Locke cautioned the alien, nodding towards the handle of her blade. The banshee could not understand his speech, but just by the tone of his words, she got the message that she was being asked to do something she regarded as unpleasant.

"If we target a buildings' weak spots, we could collapse several of them all across the town with time to spare. If need be, we could always use some of our explosives to help us out, Emperor knows we've got plenty."

"Either way, we'll pen the greenskins into a path of our choosing, the more cluttered and confined the better." He said, drawing a long arrow from the bridge, through the winding streets towards the marketplace which represented their line of retreat. "Might be an idea to save aside a few more tubes of dynamite to make some booby traps in town." Locke added.

"Overall, not a bad suggestion Xeno. Good stuff." The guardsman quietly praised the smug-looking banshee who merely picked at her fingernails in her usual aloof manner.

Shifting his view back to the bridge, his thoughts turned to the matter of concealing the explosives. The plan relied heavily on the orks throwing all caution to the wind and attacking along a very narrow front. If they detected some sort of trap, might they hold off? It was a tricky question to answer. Whilst greenskins could be very predictable, they were also capable of a base cunning that could surprise even experienced Imperial Guard commanders.

"I think we're going to have to play this by ear. When those bastards get here, we need to stay out of sight." For the banshee's benefit, he mimed the need to hide by lowering his head beneath his interlocked hands.

"But, if they hang back for whatever reason, we'll have to lure them in."

There was only one way to do that; someone was going to need to throw down the gauntlet and challenge them. He couldn't ask the eldar to be the bait: this whole thing had been his idea, thus with quiet foreboding, he put himself forward.

"I'll take up position on the bridge," The guardsman indicated with subtle resignation, drawing a smiley face on the crossing to represent himself. The alien coolly regarded his levity from over the rim of her mug; there was little doubt that she'd seen through his poor attempt at humour - his unease was plain to see.

"The second they see me; they won't think twice about coming down the road." He said, brushing off her concerned look with more false bravado.

"With any luck, a thick layer of snow will be enough to conceal the TNT… otherwise, we're royally buggered." The alien frowned at what she sensed was another of his self-depreciating quips; she then gestured to herself with a raised eyebrow, 'what about me?'

The guardsman scratched his chin, caught up in multiple decisions. "For you Xeno, I think you should take up position in the tower and give me some supporting fire." He drew on a scowling face with pointed ears on top of the symbol that represented the ancient fortification.

A look of annoyance crossed the banshee's face as she pointed to the newly drawn depiction and then to herself – 'is that me?'. The guardsman nodded innocently. The alien sat up calmly, put down her cup with a slight clatter before swiping the pencil from his hand. She spun the drawing implement around and began making some alterations to his own portrayal on the map.

Within a few seconds, Locke's smiley faced character had been reduced to a drooling imbecile. Once she was finished, the banshee flicked the pencil back towards the bemused guardsman with a mock smile whereupon she settled back down with her drink.

"There's no need to be petty." He responded facetiously which earned him another sly expression from his companion, all of which seemed to say, 'don't push your luck.'

After their silly game had ended, they spent nearly an hour going over the plan of action until they both decided to grab some shut eye for the long day they had ahead of them.


It was bitterly cold on that infamous day where they finally met their foe. A good while before the sun had even dawned over the eastern horizon, both guardsman and banshee had roused themselves to find a light mist shrouding much of the town in a thin haze.

Utilising what little time was available to them to the fullest, their painstaking preparations were carried out swiftly. All throughout the early morning, the raucous clatter of tumbling masonry and rubble filled the frigid air as the pair of them went about constructing their walls and barricades.

The eldar's power sword was an invaluable asset in this regard. All it took was a few well-placed swipes to bring any hardy structure to its knees. In no time at all, ridges of rubble lay strewn across tightly knit paths. Often upon striking a weak point, it wasn't uncommon for the entire building to list and fall into the street beside it.

Despite the ease with which the blade cut through most materials, it was a weapon of war first and foremost which was being used beyond its intended purpose. Surprisingly, it turned out to be far more fragile than Locke would have thought. This only came to the fore after the aspect warrior brought down a wall that enclosed a house's private garden, to find that a chip had been taken out of her beloved sword's leading edge.

Never had the guardsman been so thankful that the eldar couldn't speak Low-Gothic, if her expression of discontent was anything to go by. He had tried to assuage her frustration, placing a reassuring hand upon her shoulder but she had shrugged it off. At the end of the day, they had work to do and the xeno wasn't going to let the grief of her sword's desecration get in the way of her duty.

Locke didn't press the issue and so they carried on with renewed vigour. Not wishing to compromise the integrity of her weapon any further, Locke decided to dip into their precious supply of TNT to finish the remainder of their demolition work.

Still, there was plenty to do besides the restrained destruction of the town. At the end of a lane leading towards a courtyard that comprised of a variety of stores and guild houses, Locke had spied the perfect place for another trap. The beautifully crafted shop fronts with their sizeable glass windows, displaying their heaving shelves, were ideal for what the soldier had in mind.

Taking inspiration from the tactics used by some insurgents he'd fought in previous campaigns; he lined the shelves and window frames with several explosive tubes that had been leftover. He sincerely hoped that it wouldn't have to come to this, but it was always prudent to have a backup plan.

Part of the guardsman hated the idea of despoiling such an idyllic little village, but he understood their survival and the safekeeping of the Omnicron trumped all other concerns. He could only hope that if and when the villagers returned, they'd be able to rebuild their war torn home.

Due to the narrowness of so many of the avenues in the village, little additional work was needed to prepare the barriers as the fallen rubble tended to land in tall heaps. However, the defensive fortification across the bridge was a different matter entirely.

That endeavour required the both of them to wheel large chunks of rubble, furniture and whatever else they could find to the crossing. Thankfully though, it wasn't particularly wide thus most of the earth-moving had been completed a few hours ahead of the sun reaching its zenith.

By the late morning, the mist had long since evaporated, revealing the battered settlement and the shallow cloud of dust that caked its more abused neighbourhoods. Alarmingly though, a new sound had begun to make itself known. Locke had noticed the eldar's ears stand to attention as she fixed her eyes on the eastern approach. His hearing was nowhere near as good as hers, but it didn't take a genius to work out what had caught her attention. Soon enough, he too was able to hear the chorus of droning machinery that echoed around for miles, silencing what few creatures lived in the wintry landscape.

It was a sound that the guardsman had come to know well; for how could he forget the bellow of roaring ork engines. He wasn't sure if it was by design or some strange quirk of the landscape, but he could never get an accurate assessment of how far away the greenskins truly were. By his best estimate, he imagined that they'd reach the town of Tesling sometime around midday.

The initial fear brought on by the disturbance quickly turned to irritation. The bombastic groaning pulsed and reverberated, making the very air wax and wane as it steadily grew in volume. There was no escape from the insufferable rumble: a constant reminder of what was to come looming over them both. At least beforehand they could put the thought of battle out of their minds as they worked, that was far harder now as the mood soured and became stretched thin.

At noon their preparations were finally completed, and none too soon. The most time consuming of which had been laying the explosives. All throughout that hazardous activity, the banshee and the guardsman had been under the constant fear that the orks might appear before they were ready to receive them.

Nevertheless, either through good fortune or divine intervention from the Emperor, or whatever deity's the alien worshipped, had granted them the time they'd needed to set their ambush. The explosives had been planted in long lines down either side of the road, covered in a thick blanket of snow.

Unreeling the spool of wire that would connect the explosives to the detonator, the guardsman carefully made his way back to the rampart on the bridge. He'd gone slowly, not wishing to strain the leads in case he damaged them. Every few metres or so, the guardsman had paused to kick a healthy amount of snow over the wires to keep them concealed from view.

Climbing back over the wall, he had attached the two wires to their colour coded terminals without any sort of ceremony. Then with that task completed, the guardsman had settled into his inglorious post behind the makeshift wall, his mind turning to more worldly and abstract matters in deep rumination. The presence of death can make wary even the most steadfast of men. For the stage was now set, and with such thin margins of error, there could be no mistakes.

Locke sat his back against the improvised defence that now bisected the crossing. The double-barrelled shotgun he'd taken from the inn was cradled in his arm while a crate of liquor sat off to his side. The drink, labelled as 'nirym', was utterly foul, although Locke had found another good use for the stuff.

In almost every bottle was a rag - damp with lighter fluid, that protruded from each vessel's mouth. The discoloured contents sloshing around inside each bottle were a mixture of the awful liquor plus any flammable liquid – primarily lamp oil - that Locke had managed to scrounge up.

His view swept down the bridge towards the town before trailing up the tower where the eldar was stationed. Sure enough, the banshee sat atop the battlements in full view, seemingly with no concern for the encroaching warband as she cleaned her bolt-action rifle.

Once again he marvelled at her strange attire; whenever the light came in at just the right angle, Locke could have sworn her armour gave off a subtle glow. The eldar paid no heed of the soldier's gawking as she continued to go about her business, her red hair waving lazily in the breeze. Unusually, of all of the aspect warrior's equipment and battle dress, it was her helm that was missing from her person.

The reason for which was to do with their recently acquired firearms. In their fleeting downtime; Locke had insisted that they both practice their weapon drills. However, they'd barely even started when their progress had hit a brick wall. It quickly became clear that the eldar's helmet prevented her from correctly seating the rifle's stock in her shoulder as well as impairing her ability to use the iron sights.

Amazingly the eldar had handwaved away much of the guardsman's concerns; nonetheless, he hadn't backed down. It was only after an intense argument, comprising mainly of impromptu sign language, that he'd managed to make her see some sense. After all, they only had twenty rounds of rifle ammunition, they had to make every shot count. In light of this, she had forgone her traditional helm, although her protestations had continued regardless.

The xeno struck a very casual pose along the battlements, her focus entirely on the rifle whilst her left leg hung lazily over the merlon, swinging to and fro. Locke couldn't help but imagine her posing in one of those stylised pinups that often made the rounds in every barracks. Unable to help himself, he brought his thumb and index finger to his mouth and blew out a loud, sultry whistle like a young rake out on the town signalling his desire to some poor maiden.

It certainly caught the banshee's attention at any rate, so much so, that he absently wondered if the eldar's culture had some equivalent of the lecherous behaviour. Judging by how she tensed at his call, it seemed she understood enough to pick up on the lewd connotation in his little message. The alien switched her gaze to the guardsman down below, looking decidedly unimpressed.

Though the redness in her cheeks let slip her true feelings on the matter. Amused by her discomfort, Locke waved innocently at her which she returned sarcastically along with an eyeroll for good measure. He snorted at the daft game they played, but it was always worthwhile to enjoy as much levity as one could before the fighting started. In any case, there was always the possibility that one may never get the chance to laugh again.

As the minutes ticked by, he spent most of his time practicing with his shotgun. Never before had he wished so much for a bandolier that he'd seen a few other guardsman use, both from his own regiment and others as well.

In lieu of this item, he carried the loose shells inside his ammo pouch on his webbing. Again and again, he went through the motions, preparing himself for when there would be no time to think in the heat of battle. He went through each step-in turn, always pushing himself to be faster than the previous time: open breech block, load shells, pretend to fire and unload the 'spent' casings.

He was still unused to the weapon system, but through constant repetition he managed to shorten the entire process down to something semi-reasonable. Nevertheless, the guardsman's own private drill began to wear upon him; his thoughts soon turned to the black stone in his pouch.

Turning his back to the tower, his hand crept over to the compartment along his belt where the Omnicron was held. The warmth of the alien cube pulsed the instant his hand closed around it. Pulling it out, Locke inspected the glowing runes of an ancient language that he would never know. There had been so much that had happened since it'd been thrust into his possession that he couldn't tell if it was a blessing or a curse. Tracing his index finger along the cube's indentations, his expression was utterly unreadable.

Locke closed his eyes, basking in the warmth that the stone gave out. Part of him knew that he'd made a mistake with the Omnicron; he'd allowed his own curiosity to get the better of him, that much was obvious. It was impossible not to feel as though he'd accidently stumbled into someone else's game, one that spanned the entire galaxy. The guardsman certainly didn't relish the idea of being caught up in someone else's schemes like a fly trapped in a spider's web, least of all entities beyond his comprehension.

Yet, though he dared not speak of it aloud, another side of the guardsman – cold and ambitious - wanted to know more despite the risks. For buried in the depths of his soul, there lay a yearning for the power that the Omnicron could offer. While indeed it may have been foolish to get mixed up with beings of the warp, there was also the possibility of great benefit. If that meant he had to continually suffer the physical nightmares forced upon him then so be it.

In a fit of panic, Locke broke away from the heretical path that his thoughts were leading him down. His gaze at the artefact turned to revulsion; everything had become so unclear ever since it had been 'bestowed' unto him. How he wished he could be rid of it all together.

Why did this thing have to come to me? He thought, and yet even as the utterance materialised in his mind, he could not get wholly behind the idea.

After all, had it not been for the Omnicron's warnings, the guardsman would have surely been killed, either at the hands of the eldar raiders or of the greenskin barbarians.

Rotating the artefact around in his hand, he used the time afforded to him to piece together the events that had transpired so far. Though the more he puzzled it over, the more it seemed as though the cosmos itself had conspired against him, boxing him in and forcing him down a route not entirely of his choosing. The very idea chilled him to his core. Once again, he asked himself if he was just some pawn being directed and misdirected by the various powers that be?

The concept of free will had never been something he'd seriously considered before, and for good reason. Such ideas were for wise men and priests, not common soldiers. Whether true or not, the guardsman had never felt as small and insignificant as he did at that very moment. Needless to say, it was not the best head space for a man to be in when battle was afoot.

However, there was one bright spot to be gleaned from the murky quagmire he found himself in. Rightly or wrongly, the beings that inhabited the Omnicron had given him a means to take his destiny into his own hands. Regardless of whether they were telling the truth or not, the unlocked potential within the black stone was within his possession. Obviously, it was not a perfect solution to his predicament, but it was far better than nothing at all.

With time and constant practice, he could ensure his own survival until such a time that he could relinquish the black stone to someone with the knowledge and insight to keep it safe. Although, to give up such a beautiful artefact to anyone else was becoming a harder prospect for the guardsman to fathom.

He tried not to dwell on the growing possessiveness he felt for his charge, instead turning his attention back to the encroaching enemy force. A tell-tale sign that the orks were upon them was when he could hear the slavering barbarians themselves over the furore of their machines. He whispered a silent prayer and braced himself for the battle to come.

Leaning over to his side, he picked up a bottle of nirym which he'd unwisely reserved for drinking. Given the odds stacked against them, the guardsman wanted a bit of liquid courage to keep the nerves at bay and to put a fire in his belly.

"Here's to you, old boy." Locke toasted the Emperor with the bottle of liquor that he'd saved aside. Taking a long swig of the container, he winced as the alcohol seared his throat.

Shaking his head to clear the taste, the guardsman took another gulp, "and to Narvos." Groaning once more at the foul substance while a pleasant warmth was kindled in his stomach.

He paused for a minute, letting himself recover from the grim aftertaste. Finally, he took another mouthful of the liquor, baring his teeth. "And that one… that one was for me." He coughed in a hoarse voice, before throwing the bottle aside.

Peering through a crack in an old armchair - half-buried in the rubble that made up their crude fortification, Locke watched as the first ork war truck came into view. Remembering his companion, he glanced back at the tower, to find that she had already made herself scarce.

Worryingly, the greenskin vehicle halted on the shallow rise some five hundred yards from the bridge. The guardsman held his breath, his hands trailing to the flare pistol wedged into the loop of his trousers. If they wouldn't come of their own accord, Locke intended to ram a flare right into their ugly faces. That'd get their blood boiling for a fight, make no mistake.

Yet the lead vehicle of what was probably a long convoy, continued to sit and wait; the war truck visibly vibrating as its idling engine ticked over. Locke's heartbeat was hammering inside his chest, his breath catching in his throat.

Standing up against the greenskin horde alone was not something he wished to do, not unless he couldn't possibly help it. Suddenly, the vehicle began to advance once more before another vehicle came into view, and then another. The entire procession trundled down the lane in a steady advance.

Locke pressed his back against the barricade, the rubble shifting slightly as it dug into his spine. He clutched his weapon to his chest, his knuckles turning white as he began to whisper one of the prayers he'd recited so often during his youth.

"Blessed be the God-Emperor, my rock, who trains my hands for battle, my fingers for war;

My safeguard and my fortress, my stronghold, my deliverer, my shield, in whom I trust, who subdues my enemies."

The ground started to quake as the alien machines traversed the incline towards the bridge. The man-made barricade had obviously been enough to entice them. Now all Locke had to do was to hold his nerve and wait for the right moment. Far easier said than done.

"Master of Mankind, what are mortals that you notice them; human beings, that you take thought of them?

They are but a breath; their days are like a passing shadow.

God-Emperor, incline your heavens and come; touch the mountains and make them smoke.

Flash forth lightning and scatter my foes; shoot your arrows and rout them."

The lead ork vehicle pulled up just short of the bridge itself. The greenskins weren't entirely stupid then. The first of the barbarians dismounted, the slap of their rough boots on the old stonework loud enough for the guardsman to hear. Continuing to chant his prayer, he lowered his voice to little more than a whisper.

"Reach out your hand from on high; deliver me from the many waters; rescue me from the hands of foreign foes.

You give victory to kings; you delivered the Primarchs, your servants.

Their mouths speak untruth; their right hands are raised in lying oaths.

From the menacing sword deliver me; rescue me from the hands of foreign foes."

Risking detection, he glanced back towards the ork convoy through a small gap in the makeshift wall; his eyebrows raised at the number of vehicles piling down the confined rural lane. They were right where he wanted them, and yet, seeing how far the enemy force tailed back, he knew that a significant portion of the greenskins weren't in the kill zone.

"Their mouths speak untruth; their right hands are raised in lying oaths.

May our sons be like plants well nurtured from their youth, our daughters, like carved columns, shapely as those of the cathedral.

May our barns be full with every kind of store.

May our grox increase by thousands, by tens of thousands in our fields; may our kreerys be well fattened."

Observing the growing ork host from his secluded position, Locke could easily see that the greenskins were too spread out. To trigger the trap now would be a complete waste. If he wanted to maximise the enemy's casualties, he was going to need to draw them in like flies to a honey jar. With a sinking feeling, Locke understood that there was only one way to do that.

"May there be no breach in the walls, no exile, no outcry in our streets.

Happy the people so blessed; happy the people whose God is the Emperor, Master of all Mankind."

Upon finishing his prayer, he opened his mouth to lessen the sound of his increasingly rapid breathing. The war-like aliens were busy milling about just beyond the barricade; most of them were jostling with one another or inspecting their side of the bridge. Strangely though, most of the greenskins looked rather bored and irritable: they obviously weren't expecting a fight.

Good. Locke thought, the element of surprise would be sorely needed if they were going to win.

Though when he thought about it, it did make sense in a way. The barbarians were probably used to coming across abandoned settlements and homesteads with no one to fight. Why should this one be any different? Still, he would have expected some suspicion from the barricade thrown up across their line of advance, but then again, maybe other villages had put up similar defences in the past. Either way, Locke wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He was sincerely hoping that the orks from the rear of their column would start heading towards the area they'd earmarked for detonation of their own volition. If things had gone slightly differently, that may well have been the case. Unfortunately though, this was ruined by two orks who in their ungainly gait, lumbered towards the guardsman's hiding spot behind the roadblock as they followed his footprints in the snow. As they drew closer, he was finally able to make out their guttural language.

"WOT IZ IT? WOT DO YA SMELL?" The slack-jawed brute growled to the other.

"HUMMIE MEATZ!" He snapped back, a devilish grin across his inhuman face.

"Too right!" Locke sprang up from his position behind the hastily constructed wall, pulling the stock of the shotgun tight into his shoulder. He promptly levelled it towards the surprised greenskin who stood no more than twelve feet away. With a quick pull of the trigger, the rightmost hammer flicked down, the firearm kicking back into his upper chest. In an instant, the shocked alien's face disappeared in a cloud of gore as the shot rang out for all to hear.

The barbarian's compatriot was too slow to bring his own pistol to bear before the guardsmen shifted his aim and fired his remaining shell. Once again though, his infamously poor aim reared its ugly head. Instead of killing the alien fiend out right, the buckshot instead drifted downward and perforated the ork's stomach. A painful wound, but not enough to put an ork down for good.

Locke immediately snapped open the breech, discharging the spent casings as he hurriedly fished out two new shells from his pouch. Meanwhile, all carnivorous eyes had turned to the bridge where a human boldly stood atop the barricade that blocked their path.

The sound of gunfire: a response of violent defiance against the greenskin incursion might as well have been the starting gun to a foot race. Every ork captain along with their subordinates within that procession, as if with one mind, ceased their idling and turned their attention to the lone enemy in their midst.

Then with a jubilant chorus of incoherent war chants, the greenskins all across the column bellowed their blood lust and rushed towards the bridge in a headlong charge. In a great green tide, they flowed around their gridlocked war trucks, bikes, and lorries.

Once an ork is committed to combat, baring death, few things can dissuade them of the notion, allies least of all. Squigs and gretchin either joined the winding assault or were trampled underfoot by their larger orkoid cousins.

Those xenos that were further back in the procession of vehicles were already jumping off their war trucks and bikes as they joined the flood of ork warriors heading for the lone guardsman. So great were their numbers that the lane quickly became congested with the heaving and hulking alien savages.

The wounded alien nearest the guardsman, in complete disregard to its bleeding gut, hastily loped its way up the rubble rampart in the direction of the guardsman. Staring at his coming destruction, like a mouse sat before an approaching tsunami, Locke felt all the pent-up tension leave his body as adrenaline coursed through his veins.

Time slowed to a crawl - all feelings of fear and doubt ebbed away, leaving only clarity and the euphoria of combat. With the world playing out in slow motion, indecision gripped the guardsman for but a moment. His gaze shifted between the injured barbarian closest to himself, then to the ork squad charging across the bridge some a hundred yards away and then to the stampede of greenskins further beyond them.

Within a single heartbeat, cold efficiency reasserted itself as his battle instincts took hold. He released his shotgun, letting his sling take the slack as his hand flashed down to the sheath at his hip. Cold, glinting steel caught the sun as his sword leapt free.

It was none too soon; the wounded greenskin had nearly scaled the ad-hoc rampart when Locke brought his seax to bear. The green brute never had a chance to fire his pistol when the guardsman stepped in close and plunged the point of his blade into the beast's eye.

Retracting his short sword, he let the dead ork slump to the ground; first blood was his. There was no time to relax however, the greenskin vanguard was closing, making their way up the humpback bridge's incline straight towards him.

There were half a dozen of the brutes, soon to be joined by even more. He felt an almost overwhelming desire to detonate the explosives and wipe the board clean of the greenskin filth. Yet, upon seeing the slow progress of the ork force's main body toward the kill zone, Locke knew he had to hold on for a while longer. This needed to count.

Flicking his attention away from the TNT plunger, he snatched a molotov bottle from the ground, lit the rag using the pre-burning wick and hurled it towards the nearing enemy squad. This time, his aim was true. The burning projectile sailed through the air, striking the xeno squad leader in the chest. The glass shattered on impact, showering the ork and his comrades in burning liquids.

Bright orange flames blossomed in a wide arc, catching at least three of the barbarians in the growing inferno whilst the remainder reeled away from the blaze. The fate of the orks caught in the conflagration were sealed when their overalls were set alight; steam rose from their charring bodies whilst their green leathery skin turned black as charcoal.

The orks quickly recovered their momentum but were met with another of the homemade bombs tossed from the rampart. This was not as effective as the first: it went long, only catching the rearward greenskin in its fiery embrace. Unperturbed, Locke threw as many as he could. In almost no time at all, most of the far end of the bridge was covered in a wall of fire.

The greenskins that had just reached the crossing now found themselves unable to advance any further to assist, lest they join their unluckier brethren who were now writhing on the floor aflame. Instead, they opened up with their firearms against the guardsman's position, barely missing their own warriors in the process. Meanwhile the remaining two orks from the vanguard swiftly reached the barricade before he could hurl another molotov to stop them.

Switching back to his firearm, he fired haphazardly at the onrushing aliens that were scrambling up the barricade, managing to catch one of the brutes in the throat. The mortally wounded greenskin was shoved aside as Locke's next opponent stepped up to the plate.

Trying to turn to meet this new enemy, Locke sought to bring his shotgun to bear, but it was not to be. Using his hand axe, the ork smacked the guardsman's firearm aside as it discharged harmlessly into the air.

The powerful blow knocked Locke sideways off of the rampart and onto the bridge's parapet; his back took the brunt of the impact, leaving him stunned and helpless. Leaping down after him, the beast grabbed the dazed guardsman by the scruff off his neck and raised his axe for the final blow with a triumphant guffaw.

The hell is that banshee!? Locke screamed wordlessly; his wild eyes fixed on the wicked steel that was to be his end.

His silent plea was soon answered. Before the xeno could deliver the killing blow, something smashed into his rusty pauldron in a flash of sparks, throwing him off-balance. The crack of a rifle swiftly followed.

Released from his opponent's clutches, Locke drew his seax and pushed off the parapet with his foot, tackling the greenskin. His blade easily penetrated the shoddy fatigues the greenskin wore, through his leathery hide and deep into his guts.

Warm sticky blood ran down the guardsman's short sword and onto his arm as he stabbed his opponent repeatedly. The ork, paralysed by the assault, lost his footing, and fell back onto the mound of rubble and furniture, his head smacking off a hard piece of stone with an audible thud.

The guardsman did not hesitate, moving in close, he drove his weapon into the beast's fungoid heart, finally making the savage go still. Locke glanced at his right arm, now stained dark crimson as he stumbled backwards away from the corpse, almost delirious from the rhythm of battle.

His blurry vision hurriedly settled on the TNT plunger; one uncertain step followed the next as he hobbled his way towards it. Less than ten yards away from his objective, he had his second brush with death as a brawny ork warrior, ensconced in a coat of fire, crested the rampart to his right.

The burning greenskin took aim at the dishevelled guardsman but never got the chance to take the shot. Immediately, a bloody hole sprouted between the ork's eyes, his head wrenched back by the momentum of the projectile.

"Much obliged Xeno." He mumbled to himself.

Another report from a far-off rifle sounded, the marksman chambering another round in readiness to defend her charge. The torched barbarian fell backwards out of sight in the same moment that Locke slid down next to the detonator. From what he glimpsed through the gaps in the makeshift mound, the enemy host was now right where they wanted them.

Close enough for the Imperial Guard.

Locke dragged the plunger hastily over to himself, his hands shaking from an odd mixture of adrenaline, relief, and terror in equal measure. Priming the explosives, he wound the wires into their allotted studs.

Please let this work. He appealed, opening his mouth, and covering his ears as best as he could. Swallowing his fear, he exhaled long and deep, before finally pushing the T-handle down with both elbows.

For a split second, all the world fell utterly silent, holding its breath in anticipation for what was to come. Then with a thunderous clap, all became fire and flame as the very ground shook itself to ruin.


Sitting atop her position amongst the aged battlements, Aristriel aimed down the iron sights of her rifle at the growing force of orks pushing towards the bridge. The mon'keigh, whether through good sense or pure luck, had created a wall of fire across the bridge using his homemade bombs. The greenskins, unable to help their forwardmost warriors, were bunching up on the far side of the bridge.

The orks themselves were hardier than most and it was known that fire was not always enough to bring them down. However, they were not immune to pain and even those green brutes, dumb as they were, held a certain degree of fear for it.

Thank Asuryan for that!

Nevertheless, the sheet of flames that blocked the far side of the bridge were beginning to die down. Soon there would be nothing to hold back the barbarian horde from sweeping over them all…

She switched her view back to the guardsman far below, watching with amazement as he slammed the T-handle down on the spark plunger. Aristriel only just managed to get her head under cover behind the tower's parapet as an entire cache of trinitrotoluene detonated in a blinding flash.

The ground either side of the lane, running for several hundred yards towards the east, erupted in a great torrent of earth and shrapnel. The nearby snow vapourised in an instant, flash boiling into steam whilst huge clods of earth and rocks were sent careening in all directions.

Caught in the trap and unable to escape, the orks and their vehicles disappeared as they were instantly engulfed in two rolling clouds that moved several times the speed of sound. The shockwaves were so powerful that the banshee felt the stonework of the tower shudder as it expanded outwards before finally dissipating.

Soil, stone as well as ice crystals fell to the ground like rain. Ever so cautiously, the banshee peered round the battlements with her rifle drawn at the ready, observing the now murky landscape.

It was as if the morning fog had returned with a vengeance; the far end of the bridge and beyond was entirely obscured by the thick grey veil that shrouded the blast zone. Soot and other debris drifted down to the ground in a broad expanse whilst smaller secondary explosions could be seen through the murk as the ork ammunition stores cooked off.

Silence reigned once more now that all other noise had been temporarily beaten into submission. She noticed her companion get up unwarily; he wandered up to the barricade so that he could inspect the results for himself.

Aristriel couldn't help but feel jubilant. Had they done it, had the two of them managed to wipe out an entire ork mechanised company in the space of a few minutes? It seemed too good to be true. Yet as the artificial mist began to settle, it revealed the extent of the damage.

Blazing wrecks of war trucks and bikes had been deposited haphazardly at random in all sorts of orientations like a jumble of toys tossed aside by an infant. A smouldering wagon along with some of its crew now hung in the branches of a huge tree that stood just off to the side of the road.

Even from her sniper position, Aristriel was taken aback by the scale of the carnage; it looked like the gateway to Kaela Mensha Khaine's domain. Greenskin bodies and dismembered body parts, blackened and bloody, were everywhere within the narrow confines of the rural lane.

She imagined that it would have been impossible to avoid stepping on the gore if one were brave enough to travel eastwards anytime soon. The scavengers of this planet would feast well in the coming days and months, that much was certain.


Locke's ears were still ringing when he climbed to the top of the rampart that bisected the bridge. From his vantage point, he studied the destruction laid bare at his feet. Thick walls of oily black smoke drifted across the battlefield, belched out by a multitude of fires raging within the many hulks of twisted metal.

The guardsman's throat soon felt as dry as sandpaper from inhaling the acrid fumes. The stench of burnt promethium, sweat and charred meat was impossible to ignore whilst Locke's eyes swept over the dead that littered the ground. The orks, tough though they were, had not been able to weather the concussive force that had slammed into them. Their broken bodies lay in droves, silent and still… or so Locke believed.

At first he thought he'd imagined it, but when a large, dented panel from a destroyed war truck was casually tossed aside, he realised with a start that the battle was not yet done. Through a gap in the haze, the hulking figure of the greenskin chieftain could be seen picking himself off of the ground to stand amidst the ruins of his shattered tribe. Locke's blood ran cold when the enraged red eyes of the alien shifted onto him, spying the guardsman through the swirling miasma.

"WAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHH!" The tall ork yelled, hefting his two-handed axe skywards.

From out of the smoke, the survivors of the blast rose into view in obeyance to the call of their chief. Not one amongst them was unscathed. Filthy and bleeding, they stumbled towards their leader as they regrouped. One such individual was missing the entirety of his left arm, the bloody stump leaving a trail of red ichor as he loped about.

Watching as the motley force regrouped just at the foot of the bridge, Locke mindlessly reloaded his weapon without taking his eyes off of the enemy. Just over a dozen orks had managed to survive along with half a score of gretchin. Mercifully, not a single squig remained amongst them otherwise he would've had no hope of evading the aliens.

The ork chieftain halted on his end of the bridge, flanked by his subordinates on either side. What Locke assumed was his lieutenant, stood at his right. This greenskin was vaguely familiar to the guardsman, though he struggled to recollect why.

While the other orks were dressed in a variety of red and black coloured combat fatigues with armoured pauldrons and spiked helmets, this particular greenskin was different. For one, he was rather spindly for one of their kind. His equipment and attire were distinct too: he carried an odd-looking staff whilst wearing a cloak of animal hides, roughly sewn together, complete with a dirty leather hood.

Locke blinked as he remembered the duel between the ork beast master and the howling banshee back at the rope bridge. Although his thoughts on the matter were cut short when the ork chieftain, Drazgad, stepped forward onto the bridge and pointed the end of his double-bladed axe directly at him.

"KRUMP THE 'UMMIE! BRING ME DA GIT'S HEAD!" He roared. The other orks and gretchin cheered as they charged forwards.

The fires from the previously thrown molotovs had long since burned down to embers; there was nothing to stop their advance this time. Nonetheless, he could still do some damage: for there was one bottle left. Snatching it off the ground, Locke kissed the glass, lit the fuel-dampened rag and threw it as hard as he could. He'd aimed for the lead ork, but unlike before, the brute simply batted the bottle aside with the flat of his blade.

The deflected molotov struck the bridge's parapet in a ball of fire which posed little threat to the onrushing aliens. Seeing this, Locke quickly decided that discretion was the better part of valour and retreated. Jumping off the barricade, he dashed back towards the village as fast as he could.

He heard the crack of the rifle again, and then again as his companion covered his retreat. Glancing back, he saw one of the xenos tumble into a heap at the base of the rampart whilst the other barbarians swarmed past their fallen comrade.

Locke skidded to a halt by the stone wall at the T-junction and levelled his shotgun towards the braying mob, using the top of the barrier to steady his aim. The greenskins were not far behind, one of the bigger brutes at the head of the pack soon filled his sights. The range was still a bit far for the shotgun, but in the heat of the moment, the guardsman didn't have the nerve to wait.

In quick succession, he unloaded both barrels into the screaming berserker. Not bothering to check if he'd hit the greenskin, Locke set off once again, following the pre-chosen route further into town as he wove his way through the winding streets.


Aristriel fired again, clipping the helmet of a savage who wielded a crude type of blunderbuss with an attached bayonet. The force of the blow was enough to knock him onto his hands and knees, but little else. All the while the banshee opened and closed the bolt of her rifle, ejecting the spent casing without taking her eyes off of her target.

She fired again, hitting the concussed greenskin square in the chest whilst he tried to pick himself up, yet that still was not enough to kill the savage. Cursing her infernal rifle, she held her breath, lined up the shot and pulled the trigger. The round blew out the ork's throat, coating the snowy pavement in a sheen of crimson as he slumped to the ground.

The banshee adjusted her position, attempting to keep the pack of orks within her crosshair. Unfortunately, with the speed of their advance they had managed to make it to the base of the tower in their pursuit of the mon'keigh.

Her companion rounded a corner in his flight down the thoroughfare, heading for the high street that was several avenues over. With single minded determination, the greenskins gave chase thus granting Aristriel a perfect vantage point to shoot into their backs.

Not that her interference had gone unnoticed, however. Before she could take advantage of her enemy's disposition, a hail of shot raked all across the battlements as several orks hosed her position with gunfire.

The storm of lead that swept her position proved too much for Aristriel to risk exposing herself. She waited for the eventual lull to make her move, but the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs ruined any aspirations of vengeance.

The door to the top of the turret was smashed off its hinges by a big boot as several gretchin rushed from the entrance with their knives and machetes drawn. The ork beast master followed behind them but kept his distance as he let his underlings charge on ahead. There was little space on the tower's turret, the gretchin closed the distance in scant few seconds.

Reacting swiftly, Aristriel took a hasty shot at the nearest greenskin. The underling was practically killed outright as his body was flung back into his onrushing kin. Their assault was temporarily checked by the sudden tangle of struggling limbs in the same instant that the banshee drew her sword.

Her blade hummed as she opened with a wide swing, her sword bisecting one of the little orks beneath both armpits before decapitating his nearest comrade. The other gretchin lunged at her, but she used his own momentum against him. Grabbing his outstretched arm, she pulled with all her might as she sent him careening over the adjacent crenel to the street below. His high-pitched screech filled the air until it abruptly ended with a chilling crunch.

The last gretchin, having witnessed the death of all of his other allies, was now caught between the banshee and his runtherd captain. One look at the lanky beast master was all the encouragement he needed to maintain the offensive against the eldar. Apparently death was a preferable alternative to whatever punishment would be given for fleeing.

The gretchin raised his machete and screamed his challenge, slashing again and again at the aspect warrior. Easily avoiding his wild attacks, Aristriel retaliated with a powerful kick that crushed the short alien's windpipe in the blink of an eye.

Her crippled opponent dropped his blade, clutching at his neck with increasing desperation, but to little avail. Aristriel knew that it was a killing blow and so turned her attention to the observant beast master. He still stood in the entranceway, having yet to take part in the fighting. The dying greenskin flailed and stumbled in the background, but neither runtherd nor banshee paid him any heed.

"YOUZ KILLED MY SQUIGGIES KNOIFE EARZ! I'Z GONNA MAKE YAH PAY!" The greenskin declared in his piggish tongue.

Then without warning he attacked, jabbing forwards with the end of his staff. Aristriel ducked backwards before springing up onto the battlement to avoid a rash swing from her opponent. The path of the warrior called on her to fight and kill the savage, but she overruled the bloodthirsty instinct. Evidently, the absence of her war mask was becoming ever more apparent. Besides, the mon'keigh needed her: she couldn't afford to get tied down while he battled on alone.

Spying a rooftop not too far below her position, the aspect warrior turned about and leapt off of the crenelations and into the open air. Managing to catch a glimpse of the shock plastered across the greenskin's face, Aristriel graced him with a smug look before he was lost from view.

The frustrated roar that followed after her was almost worth every bit of hardship that she'd suffered up to that point. Buffeted by the incumbent winds, Aristriel kept her eyes firmly fixed on her landing spot like an avian of prey diving after its next meal.

The tall guardhouse buttressed up against the tower rapidly rose to meet her as she fell. Ignoring the flailing of her hair in the onrushing wind, she braced her limbs for impact as she closed the distance. The falling banshee struck the icy rooftop in a plume of disturbed snow, skidding down the roof's incline.

Instead of trying to slow herself down, she leant into the speed her fall had given as she headed inexorably towards the building's eaves. A mere instant before she was about to tumble over the edge and to the street below, she launched herself skyward once more and crossed the gap to a group of terraced cottages.

The instant her feet touched the second set of roof tiles, the banshee instinctively rolled forwards thus expending most of her momentum. Lacking any hesitation, Aristriel rolled seamlessly back onto her feet, hurtling along the rooftop's ridge as she steered herself towards the next line of houses ahead. Using the downward slope for an added boost of speed, the aspect warrior soared across the gap between the two rows of houses as she chased after the commotion of pursuing orks.

"COME BACK 'ERE KNOIFE EARZ! I AIN'T DONE WIV' YA YET!" The runtherd ineffectually shouted … or so Aristriel thought until she heard the splintering of broken masonry.

A quick backward glance revealed a large shape now topside on the buildings behind her. The beast master wasn't giving up that easy it seemed.

Sheathing her sword, she cycled the bolt of her rifle and chambered another round. Leaping over another gap between the lines of housing, she finally managed to catch up to the strung out greenskins as they chased the guardsman. Skidding to an abrupt halt, Aristriel took a knee, brought the rifle to her shoulder, and took aim at one of the greenskins in the street below.

Giving her target some lead, she squeezed off a round that took the surprised ork in the side of his head. She wasn't able to get off another shot before her hair was violently yanked backwards by a meaty green hand.

Aristriel's spine arched painfully as the beast master tugged her head lower, exposing her neck for the killing blow. Baring her teeth in a venomous hiss, the eldar swung her leg up, striking the ork's nose with a loud crack.

The ork stumbled away from her, clutching his face in his hand as blood ran freely between his digits. Quick as a flash, Aristriel unsheathed her power sword once more, igniting the blade as she did so.

In a swift lunge, she aimed the tip of her weapon at the centre of the ork's chest, but her opponent recovered quickly with a shake of his head. Dashing aside her attack faster than she would have thought possible, he countered with his staff. Lightning danced around the end of his weapon as it smashed into her sternum, knocking her back as well as driving the wind out of her lungs. Aristriel spasmed, her hair standing on end as the electrical energy ran through her body.

Not letting her recover, the ork stepped in close and headbutted the dazed banshee, sending her reeling backwards.

Laughing at the desperation on her face, the vengeful beast master kept up the pressure as he struck again in a series of blows that the eldar only just managed to evade. Aristriel parried a low sweeping attack, but the ork feinted into a shoulder barge that crushed her against the side of a chimney stack. Such was the force of the impact that several bricks came loose and tumbled to the ground below.

Aristriel's head was spinning, disorientated by the pain that clouded her mind. She attacked with a disorderly swing at the greenskin's legs, but he caught her sword arm and pushed it flat against the side of the chimney. The desire to live flashed forth in her mind, her free hand ran across the rough surface of the wall behind her, eventually settling on a loose brick.

Without a second thought, she pulled the piece of masonry free and swung it at her assailant's face as hard as she could. The jagged brick collided with the side of the ork's temple, flicking his head around. He pitched over to the side, losing his balance in the same instant that his foot met nothing but air. A panicked cry escaped from him as he plummeted over the side. Although, a quick inspection by the eldar revealed that he'd succeeded in arresting his fall by clinging onto a handy window lintel.

Now free from the greenskin's clutches, Aristriel could finally end this infuriating menace once and for all. Luckily for the dangling ork, fate had other ideas as a flurry of other sounds caught the aspect warrior's ear. An explosion from further along the street rippled along the rooftops, shaking the nearby houses as the crescendo of shattering glass filled the vicinity. Aristriel suspected it to be one of their traps that they'd set up prior. Turning her mind back to her companion, she set off across the rooftops towards the sound of desperate fighting.


The rattle of gunfire echoed around the street as the alien savages behind him opened up with their firearms. The range was too far for the orkish shotguns, but the greenskins cared not as they sent volley upon volley of shot after the retreating guardsman.

Due to the sheer amount of lead in the air, Locke did not escape unscathed. A searing pain in his left side made the guardsman cry out mid-run. Biting back another pained groan, his gait transitioned into a shambling jog whilst he clamped his hand around the wound. There was no time to gauge the severity of the injury, but given he was still on his feet meant it was probably trivial. Not that that positive diagnosis helped with the pain; it felt as though he'd just been branded with a hot poker. A few more inches to the right and he'd have been dead meat.

In quick succession, Locke felt something else impact both his boot heel and his webbing, the momentum of the latter was nearly enough to throw him to the ground. Only by the Emperor's good grace did he stay upright.

Heedless of the evil that lay behind him, he raced on until a collapsed house blocked his path ahead. Turning right, he sprinted along a narrow thoroughfare that was strewn with rubble from the barricade laid across it.

Devoid of any hesitation whatsoever, the guardsman hastily picked his way along the debris as he scrambled to the top of the rampart. Once at the summit, he took up position to meet his ork pursuers the instant they turned the corner. He did not have to wait long; a stocky brute in black armour was the first to come rushing blindly around the bend.

Locke placed the nub of the weapon's sights roughly over the enemy, his shotgun barking its defiance when he emptied both barrels in the space of a single heartbeat. Frustration mingled with desperation boiled within him when he saw that the greenskin appeared no worse for wear. Cursing his hasty aim, he went about reloading his weapon, but thought better of it as the greenskin returned fire.

The ork's allies soon turned up, forming a loose firing line across the street. Anticipating the defilading fire that was soon to come his way, Locke dropped low behind the rampart. Kinetic rounds and buckshot flashed just above his head, much of it striking the top of the barricade. In no time at all, his fatigues were turned a powdery grey from the stone chippings and dust that showered over him.

He couldn't stay there for long, they meaned to pin him in place. Locke knew his only chance of survival was to take on each greenskin separately and preferably at a distance, otherwise they'd simply overwhelm him using their superior numbers and strength. Sliding down the barricade's reverse slope, Locke slipped away from the firefight unseen whereupon he navigated a bend in the street, and headed for a line of shops in a compact courtyard.

The guardsman understood he was in the right place when he spied a trail of multicoloured promethium and liquor that led into one of the nearby shops. Following it along to its start point, Locke took cover behind one of the wooden beams that held up the upper floor of a guild house.

Plucking the lighter from his webbing, Locke's face fell the moment he saw the serrated puncture from an ork round. Unbeknownst to the guardsman, the small tool had saved his life mere moments beforehand, although it was rendered little better than scrap now. Panic began to seize him just as the sound of tramping feet drew ever closer. There had to be another way of lighting the impromptu fuse, he needed to think of something and fast.

The Omnicron! The idea struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Rummaging around in his webbing pouch, he grasped hold of the artefact that pulsed warmly in his hand.

"Okay," He mumbled to himself. "Remember what Volu said."

He pushed aside the tumult of heavy footfalls nearing his position, concentrating solely on the stone in his palm.

The beating of his heart slowed whilst the outside world fell away. The more he focused on the stone, the more he was able to perceive of the Immaterium. Then with a shudder that passed from his head to his toes, his consciousness finally broke through the veil of reality. A swirling rift opened in his mind's eye from which the warp energy could be pulled into real space.

Initially, his efforts to entice the Immaterium into his grasp proved clumsy; at least until he was reminded of Volu's lesson. Emotions were the key to this puzzle. Cognisant of the threat looming only a few hundred yards away, Locke flitted through his memory to find something of emotional value.

The first thing his mind brought to the fore was the scene the previous evening. He imagined his companion leaning heavily into his side as they'd sat in front of the roaring fire. The colours were far more vivid than what was probably true at the time whilst the details themselves were lost in the haze of his imagination.

That certainly held true of most of the minor elements of the memory, everything except the eldar herself. Locke's dream-self glanced at the maiden from the corner of his eye, bearing witness to her gorgeous features that were pristine in their clarity. The sight of her luscious lips slipping into a small smile as she stared covetously into the blaze moved him in a way that he could scarcely define.

Then all at once, Locke felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as warp energy collected into the Omnicron. With the imagery of the previous night's fire still raw in his mind, the warp energy practically leapt from his outstretched hand in a gout of flame that set the discoloured fluid alight.

This ingenuity came at a cost though. Just like his training session with the lascivious spirit, a great fatigue settled into his limbs and mind. The weariness was so overawing that Locke couldn't help but slump back against the wooden beam. He barely managed to stop himself from being pulled down on to his haunches by his leaden body. From the corner of his eye, he watched with blurry vision as the dancing flames followed after the trail of promethium.

Blood poured in streams from his nose and eyes; he could only wipe it away impotently with his sleeve. Something inside him demanded that he snap out of his stupor: the orks were close now, he needed to focus. Yet all he felt was mild apathy as if there was a blanket of thick fog that'd descended into his mind. Disregarding his current state, Locke tried several times more to shake off the sudden lethargy but to little avail.

Finally making their appearance, a squad of orks rushed into the courtyard just as the flames crept into the shop's entrance. It didn't take the aliens long to spot Locke's outline as he hid behind the farthest wooden upright. Wary of the line of flames that licked up from the ground, they advanced slowly down the street, firing their shotguns intermittently as they neared his position.

Helpless as he was, the drowsy guardsman was saved when the greenskin's approach was immediately checked by a sudden explosion that ripped through their ranks. The glass windows lining the various shops erupted outwards in a blizzard of fire and wicked crystal. Glass splinters flew in all directions at fantastic speed, cutting down anything in their path with all the efficiency of a Leman Russ's canister shell. The greenskins nearest to the detonation's epicentre hadn't stood a chance.

The luckier aliens came away with grievous injuries - speared by the razor-sharp fragments, whilst another savage was pinned to the far wall in one instance. This time though, Locke's trap proved to be as dangerous to himself as it was for the enemy. A shard of glass the size of his index finger whistled through the air and caught his upper arm that inadvertently protruded out of cover.

Reflexively, he clutched his arm to stymie the stinging pain of his lacerated flesh whilst warm blood seeped through his fingers. His listless inebriation came to a swift end, the anguish sobering him up as sure as a freezing cold shower. Only now with his fatigue held at bay, did the severity of his situation finally dawn upon the guardsman. Hefting his shotgun, Locke loaded a shell in either barrel, snapping the breach closed.

His timing was fortuitous. A greenskin warrior with several glass splinters sticking from his left shoulder and torso, charged down the aisle of pillars underneath the building's jetty. Locke spun around to meet this threat. His first shot, whilst poorly aimed - merely wounding the greenskin, was enough to cause the barbarian to stumble as he swung his axe.

The guardsman easily avoided his opponent's attack, the axe imbedding itself in the wooden beam. Before the greenskin could recover his weapon, Locke rammed the barrel of the shotgun up into the alien's chin and pulled the trigger.

The blast reverberated loudly under the confines of the building's jetty, the greenskin's blood and brain matter splattering across the wall and the underside of the overhang. The brute collapsed to the floor whilst a horrible gurgling noise emanated from his ruined jaw and cranium. Grimacing at the gory display, Locke dispatched his dying foe with a sharp stamp of his boot heel.

Witnessing yet another of their champions dead at the hands of the guardsman, the other orks were briefly cowed. In response to Locke's continued resistance, they switched up their tactics to deal with him: choosing to gun him down like a dog.

Without a moment to spare, the guardsman darted back just as the enemy's frontage began blazing away with abandon. Pressing himself as flat as he could against the beam, Locke repeatedly flinched as gunfire whizzed about his ears like a swarm of angry insects. The thick wooden beam he hid behind was slowly eaten away, chunks the size of his clenched fist were taken out of the pillar's edges by the orkish rounds and buckshot.

Trembling with fear, he realised that he was now caught in a trap of his own making. His hiding spot was isolated, if he dared to relocate, he'd be caught out in the open in the midst of the enemy's barrage. Even the dumbest meathead that the Imperial Guard had to offer, would've been able to see that it was nothing short of a death sentence.

Desperately in retaliation, Locke fired blind around either corner in the hopes of hitting one of the aliens, but he might as well have been shouting into a hurricane for all the good that it did. The defilade would not let up. Meanwhile, the orks had regained their courage and were slowly closing in on their suppressed target, confident that victory was theirs for the taking.

And so it would have been, had it not been for the aspect warrior. One of the orks suddenly toppled over dead, blood jettisoning from the side of his neck as the report of a rifle sounded from the rooftops above. All at once, the dead alien's brethren turned their attention to the new threat thus relieving the pressure on the guardsman.

Emperor be praised!

Locke used the momentary respite to peer round the side of his shredded cover. The closest greenskin: a hunched ork with a pistol and a one-handed axe, had managed to get within a dozen feet of his position. Thankfully, the barbarian was too busy firing at the rooftops to pay attention to him. With menacing intent, Locke stepped out of cover and pointed his firearm right at the distracted alien. The latter of which only realised his predicament far too late.

The buckshot tore the greenskin's left arm off at the shoulder in a shower of crimson, followed by the second shell that burst his head open like a ripe fruit. Locke reloaded in record time and pushed up to the next support beam. From there, he focused his attention on the nearest greenskin whilst the banshee gave him supporting fire.


Aristriel did not let up, she adjusted her aim to her next target, squeezing off another shot that hit a tall ork warrior square in his fungal heart. Annoyingly, the brute was too stupid to realise he was already dead, and returned fire at the banshee along with his compatriots.

Using the reverse slope of the roof, Aristriel took cover and relocated as gunfire raked along the rooftop. Upon hearing the lighter percussion of the mon'keigh's firearm above the din, the aspect warrior knew that the remaining orks would turn their attention back to him.

Just as she was about to assist her companion further, she felt the rooftop shake as footsteps padded straight towards her. Instinctively, she let go of her rifle as it clattered down the roof tiles before dropping into the courtyard below. Letting fly with her power sword, she turned just in time to meet this new threat.

In a metallic thrum, her blade flared the instant it came into contact with the beast master's lightning spear. From over the top of their locked weapons, the ork leered frighteningly at the grimacing banshee; the fetid stench of his breath was enough to bowl her over as she was pressed backwards. Turning his spear aside, Aristriel let his own momentum carry him forward, side stepping around the savage.

Aristriel made to catch the back of the ork's head with a swipe of her blade, but he pre-empted her attack with one of his own. The after images of twisting lightning left trails on her retinas as the ork whipped around, aiming to sweep the legs out from under her with his staff. The banshee reacted faster than the beast master would have thought possible as she soared over the beast master's ploy. Somersaulting through the air, she landed on the building's ridge in full view of the greenskins on the ground.

Rounding on her opponent, her power sword became a blur as she slashed in quick measured attacks. Much to her chagrin, the beast master retreated from the onslaught in good order whilst maintaining his guard. It was only after a light parry that the eldar spotted an opening in the runtherd's defences. Dropping low, Aristriel lunged for the ork's head; once again though, the ork demonstrated both his cunning and swiftness. Quick as a flash, his staff changed hands as he parried her blow, deflecting her power sword to the side which allowed him to get in a crushing upper cut.

The punch to her stomach practically lifted her off her feet, followed instantly by a sharp stab from the brute's elbow that threw her rearwards. Aristriel landed on her back, sliding along the icy rooftop until she skidded to a halt. Paralysed with a searing pain in her mid-section, the banshee felt as though her stomach had been shoved into her rib cage.

The dim image of the beast master stalking closer towards her supine form drove her to stand back up, but the anguish was like a physical weight bearing down on her. The latent healing of her wraithbone armour was doing its best to repair the damage and assuage her pain, but it could only do so much in such a short amount of time. When she finally gathered the strength to roll back onto her front, her belly heaved. All the while, the ork strode confidently towards her, grinning from ear to ear whilst dragging the end of his staff along the roof's tiles.

"NO MORE PRANCIN' ABOUT FOR YOU, KNOIFE EARS!" He sneered at her prone form, kicking her arm out from under her as she tried to rise.

Without further ceremony, the ork looped his staff under her neck and forcefully pulled her upright. Aristriel cried aloud as her blade fell from her weak grasp, choosing instead to clasp at the ork's staff to prevent the savage from breaking her neck as she was lifted bodily off of the roof. A horrid chill ran down her spine: the cold metal of the weapon's shaft, pressed tightly against her throat, felt like the kiss of death.

With every passing heartbeat, her frantic breaths became ever raspier as she fought for air. Thrashing and kicking with ever greater desperation, the uncaring ork held her fast in his vice-like grip. His cruel laughter was all that she could hear as he choked the life out of her.


Down below, Locke was fighting his own battle as an ork warrior had managed to catch him mid-reload. Switching to his seax, the guardsman evaded the greenskin's axe, quickly ducking beneath the return swing. Seeing his chance, he thrust his blade into the brute's stomach, driving the honed steel as deep as it would go before a fierce kick to his face sent him crashing back into some stacked barrels.

The guardsman's jaw exploded in agony, his teeth rattling in his mouth while an awful headache blossomed in his temple. Locke groaned as his head lolled back, but the adrenaline had already numbed most of the pain. Sitting upright, he fumbled with shaky hands in an attempt to reload his firearm all the while his adversary roared in a pain-induced anger. Fixing his ire squarely on the guardsman, the ork stalked towards his opponent, retracting the short sword from his belly in one sharp motion.

The greenskin lifted the seax high, holding it between his grimy thumb and index finger as if he made to hurl it at the scrabbling guardsman. Luckily for Locke, it was at the same instant that he levelled the newly-reloaded shotgun. With two rapid pulls of the trigger, his firearm rocked back into his bruised shoulder, sending two waves of deadly buckshot into his opponent's chest.

The savage froze as a tremor passed through him, shock registering on his hideous visage as his strength failed him entirely. The range had been so close that the two shells had torn a ragged hole in the greenskin's torso. Falling to his knees, the dying ork stared incredulously at the daylight peeking through the bleeding cavity in his abdomen.

In his final moments prior to slumping over, the xeno released the guardsman's short sword from his lifeless hand. It bounced off of the snowy cobbles with a clang and landed next to its rightful master. Wiping a sleeve across his filth-encrusted face, Locke wearily picked himself up and reclaimed the blade that his father had gifted to him.

"… Mine." He mumbled to the alien corpse, unfussed now that the last barbarian warrior had been defeated… or so he believed.

Alas, his respite was short lived when he sighted his next opponent. Like the starting bell of a boxing match, the chime of an axe's pommel striking the ground resonated around the courtyard.

The chieftain stood in the entrance to the thoroughfare, his red beady eyes playing over his slain underlings that lay strewn around. His gaze soon fixed on to Locke and a furious grimace morphed his ugly alien features. The guardsman's hand dived into his ammo pouch and came up short, leaving him pale with dread.

The hulking greenskin charged towards him in great lumbering steps whilst hefting his axe in a double-handed grip. There was no time to think, only to act. The guardsman knew he was outmatched in both weapon reach, skill, and strength. He had no other tricks up his sleeve… except for one. Faster than he realised, the ork chief managed to close the distance and swept the head of his axe around at head height.

Feeling the wind of the blade pass over his head, Locke just barely managed to avoid decapitation. Darting after the ork, he slashed repeatedly at his giant adversary, aiming for the greenskin's hands and arms. In spite of his size though, the chieftain was deceptively quick at blocking these attacks with the haft of his axe.

Expending his momentum, the soldier was then swiftly driven backwards as the ork spun his weapon in wide cutting circles that Locke didn't dare block or parry. When his back finally hit the wall of the nearest building, the ork's axe blade struck the stonework and became stuck. Taking the initiative, the guardsman lunged forwards, but a swift punch to the top of his shoulder drove him to the ground, his head smacking off of the cobbles.

At which point, Drazgad freed his axe and turned it on the human who had slinked away from his foe and now stood on his feet once more. The two circled one another, until with surprising speed the greenskin chief lashed out with an assault that caught Locke off guard. If not for his quick reflexes, Locke would surely have been cut in twain. He brought his seax up in time to deflect the ork's axe, but the strength levied against him proved too much. His short sword was ripped from his grasp, leaving the soldier defenceless.

He wasn't given a chance to contemplate his next move: the blunt pommel of Drazgad's axe whipped around, striking him hard on the temple. The guardsman's vision exploded in white light as he collided with a nearby wall. Now seeing triple with thoughts clouded by the pain from his numerous injuries, Locke drew his flare gun from his belt and aimed it at his opponent. If nothing else, it did make the chieftain take pause for a moment as he stared down the barrel of Locke's pistol. Time slowed to a standstill, Locke's index finger massaging the trigger until something heinous drew his eye. High above, the eldar was caught in a fierce choke hold by the lanky beast master.

Indecision paralysed him; either he saved himself or his companion. By the swiftness of his action, there was no rumination to be had: his companion trumped all other concerns. He settled the nub of his pistol's sights on the runtherd, and fired. The courtyard lit up like a second sun as a phosphorus round streaked across the expanse before smacking into the base of the ork's spine.


Her vision darkened at the edges, her struggles growing weaker until a bright light pushed back the encroaching blackness. All manner of thought was beyond her as the brute crushed her windpipe, but she could have sworn that it was Asuryan, harbinger of light, that came to her hence.

For soon thereafter, the pressure on her throat disappeared and she was free once more. Exhausted and wracked with pain, she fell to the rooftop whilst the screams of the ork savage came unbidden to her pointed ears.

Shuddering from her brush with death, Aristriel lay on her front, her face half-buried in the layer of snow that adorned the guild house's roof. It proved difficult for her to respire in the wake of her duel; her breaths came in shallow and raspy whilst she weakly massaged her neck.

With her breathing slowly returning to normal, the aspect warrior soon noticed the stench of burning leather and charred flesh among other things. Ungainly, as if drunk, she peered back over her shoulder in search of her opponent. The beast master in question, in what could only be described as a bestial madness, was thrashing around several paces behind her as he battled the flames that wreathed his crude attire.

Disorientated as she was, Aristriel's hatred for the barbarian overawed her anguish, and so, on unsteady feet, she grasped the hilt of her sword and rose up to face her enemy for the final time. In the same moment that she began to recover her strength, the runtherd was busy dousing his flaming back with handfuls of snow. It did little to quell the growing inferno. Yet despite his blistering agony, he still held enough wits to recognise his foe rising to her feet.

In a fit of rage born from his infernal torment, he barrelled towards her like a maddened berserker. All of his uncharacteristic composure disappeared as he charged headlong towards the banshee.

Far from being a hindrance, the flames that forked out from his being only seemed to grant him a relentless vigour that she could not hope to match in her enfeebled state. In her time of greatest need, another maxim of her sword master came to the fore in her memory.

'Deception is a swordsman's ally, lead your opponent astray with false intentions. Weave an illusion of weakness where only strength lies.'

Mindful of this advice, the banshee embraced it wholly. She exaggerated her disorientation, dropping to one knee to sell the ruse to the savage. Taking this as an assured sign of defeat, the flaming beast master leapt at the banshee like a gyrinx after a mouse.

Wild eyed and screaming, he flew toward her at breakneck speed, his staff held over arm as he meant to skewer the banshee where she knelt. Holding her nerve until the last possible moment, Aristriel rolled to the side a mere instant before her opponent's weapon could strike her.

The electrified staff crashed into the snow-covered roof tiles, melting the slush in an instant whilst the slate was torn asunder. With not a second's hesitation, Aristriel was back on her feet and slashing at the ork's exposed flank.

Aristriel's nemesis shuddered as her blade bit deep into his hide; a thin red line running diagonally across his chest denoted her successful strike. The ork rounded on her in an instant albeit in a much-diminished fashion: his sword arm now hung limp whilst his right leg stiffened with imprecision. In one final gambit, the beast master swung his spear with all his strength, intending to crush the banshee's skull.

Hissing her distaste at the barbarian, she received the ork's weapon in an overhanded block. Her feet slipped back only slightly until she righted her stance and began to overpower the weakening greenskin. Witnessing the cold fury in her eyes, the possibility of death started to worm its way into the ork's fungal heart. He redoubled his efforts, spitting foul insults into her scowling face. Nonetheless, all of the ork's effort proved to be in vain as Aristriel reversed her sword, flicking his weapon away.

Then with a straight lunge, the banshee utilised every ounce of her skill as she went for the killing blow. As fast as a maelithii, the banshee pierced the ork through his chest, before ripping her blade upward through his torso and out of his neck. Viscous blood was sprayed into the air whilst crimson phlegm bubbled out from his toothy maw.

Like a parasite feasting on a dying beast, the flames saw their chance and so spread to the rest of his body without any resistance. Absent of any shred of pity, Aristriel delivered a powerful kick to the greenskin's sternum that sent him tumbling over the roof and to the cobbled street below. His flaming body struck the ground in a bloody heap, and he moved no more.


Locke never got the chance to see the effects of his handiwork as a green fist lifted him off of his feet whilst throttling his neck. The pressure building on his throat had the guardsman seeing black spots in his vision; he clawed wildly at the ork's brawny arm in response, though there was no hope of release. Watching Locke's petty struggles with mirth, the chieftain tried to drag out as much suffering from the guardsman that he could.

Unexpectedly, Locke was slammed bodily against the side of the building while his tormentor grinned sadistically at the agony wrought on his face. The seemingly beaten soldier didn't even have the luxury of screaming: the wind had long since been driven from his lungs as he was pummelled relentlessly against the hard stonework.

Tears ran down his face, leaving lines in the dirt caked on his cheeks; the torment was simply too much. Begging for any sort of salvation, a snippet of the Omnicron's effects sprouted from his memory. With nothing left to lose, his hand shot down to his webbing. Thankfully, the ork was having too much fun to pay his actions any heed. It was only when Locke fished out the artefact and pressed it hard into the ork's arresting arm did Drazgad realise something was wrong.

The guardsman fixed the chieftain with a baleful stare, snarling his defiance into the brute's heinous visage. The instant the Omnicron came into contact with the alien's limb, the skin blackened and turned to ash whilst muscle fibres caught alight and his fat bubbled and melted. The chieftain bellowed as an intense pain, unlike anything he'd ever suffered before, rippled along his limb. In a complete reverse of the previous situation, Locke was now the one holding fast onto the ork's wrist, determined to cause as much pain and damage to his tormentor as he could.

The alien chief did not give him the chance however, ceasing his persecution of the guardsman in an instant, Drazgad whipped around and flung him across the courtyard. The world spiralled in a blur as Locke skipped over the cobblestones. He was finally brought to an abrupt halt when his chest struck one of the wooden pillars. For but a moment, he seemed to hang there before falling to the floor.

Groaning at the bitter pain across his stricken body, Locke could have sworn that he'd felt his ribs crack. He gasped feebly for air, his chest palpitating erratically whilst he spasmed like an imbecile. Mercifully, his opponent was too preoccupied with the burning hole in his once-muscular forearm. In typical ork fashion, Drazgad contented himself with pressing some snow into the wound to put out the flames. Rejoicing in the pain and the glory of combat, the ork chieftain set his cruel eyes back on the broken form of the soldier.

"GOOD TRICK HUMMIE, BUT YA'LL 'AVE TO DO BETTER DAN DAT!" He scoffed, rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles; he strode towards the guardsman.

Locke pulled himself into a rough sitting position, using the wooden beam as a support as he watched his killer approach. He couldn't think, he couldn't move; fear and indecision froze him to the spot… until a familiar shape caught his eye. Glancing to his side, his vision fell upon the eldar's discarded rifle that lay just a few feet away. Slumping over with not a care for his other injuries, Locke dug his nails into the icy cobbles as he feverishly crawled towards the weapon.

All previous thoughts of despair were banished as his focus tunnel-visioned on that which could slay his foe. The crunch of the chieftain's heavy footfalls grew ever nearer, lancing the fear of death into his heart. Willing himself to live at any cost, he pushed his tired and pained body to its very limit. The sling of the rifle came into his reach, and he snatched it towards himself in a frenzied display. Terrified by what lay behind him, Locke flipped over onto his back to find the savage within arm's reach.

Locke instinctively raised the rifle as he spun around to face his looming opponent. Firing from the hip he unloaded every remaining round into the hulking greenskin. His first three shots merely pinged off of the savage's armour in a cloud of sparks. The fourth hit the alien in the collar bone, the fifth - his stomach, and the last one shattered his knee cap. Locke chambered the bolt once more, but a dull click was all he received for his trouble.

Still, the damage had been done, Drazgad fell to one knee, but he wouldn't be down for long. Tossing the firearm away, Locke narrowly dodged a dreadful overhead swing that would have easily split him in two. The axe head hit the cobbles with a metallic screech, a mere heartbeat after his quick departure.

Panting from his ordeal, the guardsman circled his wounded foe, determined to end the nightmare once and for all. Another slash from the ork's weapon forced the guardsman back, causing him to accidentally trip over the body of a dead greenskin. The reek of the corpse's innards and shit wafted up to Locke's nose, making him blanch. Nonetheless, such unpleasantries were forgotten when Locke caught sight of the dead ork's axe gripped tightly in his motionless hand.

Grunting at the weight of the crudely fashioned ork steel, he slid the weapon out of the corpse's clenched fist just in the nick of time. Locke sprang away from his position just as the chieftain's weapon slammed into the corpse's chest, splattering blood in all directions. Wiping the fresh coat of blood from his face, the guardsman turned to face the ork once more. Engaged in their staring contest, the brute's red beady eyes trailed down to the orkish axe sitting uncomfortably in Locke's right hand.

Entirely aware of the tide turning in the guardsman's favour, Drazgad intensified his efforts as he used the superior reach of his weapon to keep Locke at bay whilst wearing him down.

"DANCE HUMMIE, DANCE!" He mocked as the guardsman did his best to evade the strokes from the swift great axe.

The chieftain finally saw his opportunity when the guardsman pretended to stumble on a patch of ice. Rising to his full height in spite of his shattered knee, the ork chieftain swung his axe at Locke's mid-section before his leg gave way. Ready for the impending attack, Locke dashed forwards and slid underneath the sweeping blade; he could have sworn afterwards that the sharpened steel had brushed his hair. Skidding to a stop, he pushed off with his legs and rolled forwards as the ork attacked again.

Forcing himself back to his feet, he was within striking distance of the overstretched greenskin. Lifting the primitive weapon high, Locke watched with satisfaction as Drazgad's eyes went wide with fearful understanding. As if he were carving up a felled tree, Locke swung with all his might and brought the short axe down heavily onto Drazgad's head.

Bone and brain matter parted with a sickening wet thunk. The blade sank deep, embedding itself solidly in the greenskin's tough skull

"T…THAT ALL YA GOT… UMMIE! DIS… DIS… AIN'T OVAH!" The ork murmured before his red eyes rolled back in their sockets.

"You're done, ork." Locke muttered, collapsing onto his backside in a miserable heap.

Relief washed over him even as the pain from his many wounds – subdued by his adrenaline – made themselves known. Another dead ork, practically a living torch, landed not too far away from where he sat. Looking upwards, he saw the sight of the eldar standing unsteadily atop the guild house's roof. She picked her way carefully down the side of the building, dropping down next to him in a crouch when it was safe to do so.

He beheld her dishevelled features whilst she stared deeply at him with her bloodshot eyes. Her face was cut and bruised, covered in soot whilst the expression beneath displayed her anguish. She attempted to grace him with a subtle smile, but her swollen and split lip began bleeding anew. Likewise, what did he look like to her?

Even in her battered state, the xeno's beauty still peered out from beneath the grime of battle. Lifting himself off of the ground on aching limbs, he pulled her into a tight embrace. She shook like a leaf in his arms, whimpering into his shoulder whilst Locke fought to contain his own emotions and the pain that wracked every part of his body. Regardless, there in that war torn street where their foes lay dead and fire gluttoned itself on the surrounding neighbourhood, they shared a moment of peace: for they had triumphed.

Silently, Locke collected his fallen items whereupon he looped the banshee's arm over his shoulder. Without a single look back, they hobbled the way to their abode, back through the ruins of civilisation.


Update Record:

05/06/2022 - Chapter outline created.

18/06/2022 - 1000+ words added.

10/07/2022 - 1000+ words added.

17/07/2022 - 500+ words added.

18/07/2022 - 500+ words added.

26/07/2022 - 1500+ words added. Re-written previous sections as well.

07/08/2022 - 1500+ words added.

11/09/2022 - 500+ words added.

15/09/2022 - 500+ words added.

19/09/2022 - 1000+ words added.

25/09/2022 - 1000+ words added.

02/10/2022 - 2000+ words added.

08/10/2022 - 1500+ words added.

16/10/2022 - 2000+ words added.

31/10/2022 - 1000+ words added.

19/11/2022 - First Draft Completed. Second Draft 25% complete.

25/11/2022 - Second Draft 50% complete.

27/11/2022 - Second Draft 75% complete.

04/12/2022 - 2nd Draft Complete.


Review Responses:

JCtherebel – What is dead may never die.

Dino2000 – Thank you, hope you like this one.

Samin01 – Glad you like it. I am not at liberty to answer that.

Anton Slawik – Indeed. This update was only 3 months late.

Steadfast3 – Thank you, I really enjoy their unique dynamic as well. Hope the wait wasn't too punishing.

Naruto Loves Kyubbi – Thank you for your continued support.

Look2021 – Thank you.

Apple424 – Happy to see you're enjoy it. I think I sometimes take that last bit of advice too literally.

AyeJimmy123 – Nice

Golden Sheath – Indeed it's very sweet, thank you!

Your-Typical-WhiskeyTango – That's very kind of you to say that. Thank you for the praise. Don't worry there'll be no Shakespearian tragedy here… or will there?

LongSelfIndulgentReviews – Probably true, but I wanted some good old-fashioned blood and gore again in this instalment. Thank you!

Starcofan09 – That's sweet of you to say. I'm happy to hear you're enjoying the story as much as you are.

– So many questions and yet I have no answers to give. Happy to know that you're enjoy it though.

Guest – Thank you!

Guest – Explosions!

Guest – It'd have to have been a lot of dust to wipe out an entire ork mechanised company.

Chronos353 – Yeah, British exports have a weird tendency to do that sort of thing. Must be the tea. No, I haven't heard of the 'Grunts' series but I am very much intrigued by what you've said so I'll look into it.

Guest – Gotta look out for the little things and thank you!

Opaque Cavalier – Very interesting ideas, some of which are dangerously close to what I had in mind *hides notes* although I don't really intend on Locke getting some overpowered abilities. I want to keep him grounded for most of the story.

Enbir – I'm touched by your praise, that is very kind of you. I'm glad you like it. Not sure why, but my story seems to be attracting more and more WH40k lore experts, all of whom are putting forth ideas that linger dangerously close to what I have in mind xD.

Guest – Volu, a slaaneshi skank? Whatever do you mean? She's just a classy lady, I'll have you know. Being serious though, there will be no NTR in this story.

USACommissar – Thank you!

Memeisbest – "This one right here, Commissar!"

Bridd – Ah a member of the Toxic Brood. Tonald is busy doing his cooking stuff!

Guest – Thank you, I hope this was up to standard.

Guest – Cheers mate, very happy to hear that! That bit of lore is something I could certainly take on.

CallMeCayde – NO! *Hits user with stick*

Noneofit 1 – Damn you found my source!

Noneofit 2 – Nope

Noneofit 3 – Chees, glad you like it. I agree completely with your eldarxhuman trope analysis as for Aristriel, I think she was stretched thin by their ordeal. That's why she was a bit more affectionate than normal.

GrandForeigner90 – No tragedy here… nope. Thank you for the lore info though. *Takes notes furiously*

Grog the Big - … Well yeah, she's an eldar. Their trained warriors basically have the agility and speed of jedi whilst having the intelligence of the elves from LotR. Aristriel would be a bit underpowered if I didn't give her those traits. As for Locke, I'm sure he'll earn her affection in good time.

Scoolio – Indeed they do.

Thelowercaseguy – Your wish is my command.

SatanWasAMistake – Love the name btw. Glad to see you're enjoying it; I hope you like this chapter too.

Guest – Thank you, praise and constructive criticism is always welcome. I've always liked engaging with people whether they like my story or not. It helps to make me a better writer overall.

SeriousPizza – Hello, thank you for your kind words. I think I prefer my interpretation: the war mask that an aspect warrior wears is a physical thing as it gives me more opportunities for drama in future.

Jamarian117 – Well, I think I was bit late with this one if I'm being honest. Far too busy lately.

JK – My goodness, don't do that. You've got to pace yourself man. Thank you for the feedback though. It took a bit of experimenting, but I think I've gotten used to writing their dynamic.

*sshole Commentator – Yes *Insert Gigachad face here*

Aranraibor771100 – I never really felt like taking someone else's art – it just didn't sit right with me. Maybe I'll brush off my pencil and draw something in future. Anyway, you have to remember the WH40k universe is a lot more nuanced than the picture you've painted here. I won't lore dump on Locke's backstory here, but suffice to say, he isn't a perfect adherent of the Imperial Creed (but then again few are). It takes more than some extra-marital sex to get Slaanesh's attention btw, so I wouldn't get too hung up on it.