Rak'ael watched the Mon'Keigh scuttle about their allotted tasks with growing distaste. Her naturally sharp eyesight, enhanced through the scope of her long-rifle, drank in the details below her. She had kept her vigil for half a century on Ipsus now; the Imperium had arrived some thirty years ago. As ever the short-sighted fools were oblivious to the true secrets the jungle guarded so jealously. Their eyes were blinded by greed with the abundance of raw materials the ancient world offered. Crude promethium, the lifeblood of the Imperium's endless war machine. The fools had barely contained their excitement at the vast discovery on such an isolated world. Rak'ael's lip curled in a sneer, had the Mon'Keigh ever stopped to wonder why the world was devoid of sentient life? She doubted they possessed the intelligence to ponder such thoughts.
She watched with minimal interest as a detachment of the Imperium's soldiers arrived in their armoured convoy. The ramps of their transports lowered and the soldiers of the Imperium, her sneer grew more pronounced at this sight, swaggered into view. Such arrogance she thought. These Monk'Keigh carried themselves like true masters of their trade, an utterly laughable notion to Rak'ael. She would not deny that these particular troopers seemed far more capable than those she had encountered on her long journey on the path of the outcast. Their weapon stocks and handles were well-worn with service, yet in pristine condition despite the environment. They were, for Mon'Keigh, in excellent physical condition and towered over their civilian counterparts; showing no discomfort at the tropical temperature. By comparison the civilian workforce sweated and panted in the heat as they oversaw operations at this particular well site. As the Guardsmen broke into their assigned squads and began to filter into the jungle on their routine patrol routes they continued to call out loudly to one another, their harsh guttural language interrupted by bouts of bawdy laughter.
Rak'ael packed up her rifle and displaced into the jungle to tail one of the groups. Flitting through the high branches of the trees soundlessly, she easily kept pace with the Troopers creeping through the jungle below. The Guardsmen had now fanned out and, she supposed, exercised a noise discipline that was laughably ineffective against her sharp hearing. Rak'ael marvelled at their strange attempts to blend into the jungle. Whilst their uniforms were of a green that matched the background colours, their insistence on exposing their arms, and in some cases legs, as well as wearing bright strips of material around their heads, defeated any notion of camouflage. And they reeked. Rac'ael's heightened senses could smell their disgusting unwashed bodies, along with lingering traces of the harsh spirits they had imbued the night before. The sharp tang of the concoction they either lit and inhaled or chewed and spat everywhere, also hung heavy about the troopers. The Guardsmen did, she allowed, seem at home in the jungle. They moved in a relaxed manner but were clearly alert and maintained tight movement patterns. They had, however, no hope of detecting the highly experienced Ranger hanging above them. They are, after all, only human Rak'ael mused to herself with a thin smile,
Rak'ael tailed them for half their patrol route. She had memorised their patrol patterns, which altered very rarely, so knew how long it would take them to complete their sweep. In truth she had no need to tail these particular Mon'Keigh, they were thousands of miles from the Valley she and her fellow Rangers guarded so vigilantly. For all of Rak'ael's sharp criticism and scorn she could not help but be curious of the Mon'Keigh. They strutted about with a confidence and vision of purpose that was as fascinating as it was amusing to behold. Rak'ael had seen great feats of heroism displayed by them, acts of selfishness and kindness that could almost raise her hopes for their species. Invariably their utter lack of sense and complete stupidity would soon quash any such notion. Along with their rampant xenophobia, slavish devotion to a corpse machine construct and ruthless exploitation of everything in their path.
Rak'ael had stopped to muse on these thoughts and observe the beauty of the jungle around her, when a very soft chime in her ear alerted her to an incoming communication. Quickly reassessing her surroundings to make sure she was quite alone, she opened the channel. She instantly recognised the voice of Makdran, the Ranger's leader on Ipsus.
"Sister, you are to return to the King of Mountains immediately. There has been a grave development."