Hello! So, for those who know me from my current Gears of War work 'Gears Keep Turning' welcome to this new side hustle of mine!
For those reading my work for the first time, nice to meet you!
I've been wanting to do a 40k fic for a while now, and this idea has been cooking away in my head for a good few years.
I'd like to take this moment to pass an honourable mention to EngineerAndWriter; a fellow 40k fic merchant with commendable writing and storytelling skills. His recent work 'The Bearer & The Blade' on this website is a huge inspiration for me, and if anything, has helped me figure out how to plan and structure this story.
Give this man a read and a follow!
Whilst the content is a 'T' rating at the moment, and will continue to be so for swearing and mild violence, we WILL be dealing with drukhari, soon...and they don't exactly scream PG-13; the gore factor will definitely be scaling-up as we delve deeper. We'll also be dealing with adult themes and concepts that could upset or unnerve some so I will play it safe and keep it at an 'M' from the get-go.
Otherwise, please read and enjoy! Constructive comments and critiques are always welcome, of course.
Chapter I - 'Brave New World'
Year: 3.128.991.M41 Imperial Calendar
World: Inkaala III
System: Pelesia
Segmentum: Obscurus
He stared into the poor excuse of a mirror- a slab of glass that was pockmarked with mouldy smears, black smudges and the occasional crack propped up on the chest at the wall of his bunk- one hand tilted his head upwards at the opportune angle, each sweep of the razor making the softest of gristling grinds against his chiselled jawline; severing the infant stubble down to the skin and carving a path through the foam fjords that caked his lower face.
Each few passes would be met by the furious sloshing of the blade being plunged into the foam-infested water bowl, before being brought back to his jaw. Rinse and repeat. Sergeant Viktor Garruth got into the routine of clean shaving ever since he was conscripted. It gave him some structure to the start of his day. Not like he had ever grown decent facial hair to begin with. It also helped that he was amongst the few early risers of the garrison. Given his rank, it was half-expected of him to be on his feet and fresh as a spitfire lily by the time the grunts were still rousing from their pits.
The garrison had awakened about an hour ago, so the barracks was filled with the comings and goings of guardsmen and auxiliary staff. Despite being an NCO, he declined the option to have his own quarter to sleep in. He preferred staying on the same level with his fellow legionnaires. Funnily enough, this sentiment was common amongst the many other hundreds of sergeants in the 39th.
He rarely needed the whole hour for a simple shave, but it gave him time to get his act together and ready himself for another day in-
'Paradise.' He inwardly thought with a half-smirk. Pursing his lips with a nod, he washes his razor for the final time for today; wiping it clean on the towel around his neck before folding it into the handle with a click. He cleanses the surviving remnants of foam and stubble debris from his face before giving his cheeks a couple light slaps and nodding in affirmation. Now the day's ready for him.
He then dressed himself in record time; his waxed trench coat and battered flak plate strapped to himself in a dozen seconds. In true Steel Legion industrial efficiency, he was in full uniform within the minute. Strapping on his respirator, he fixes the pipe to the filter pack on his webbing, giving the pack's switch a light flick. He takes in a lungful of filtered, stale air as it flushes through the pipe into his mask. Inkaala III was a virgin environment- the air barely tinged by the pollution of civilisation and industry. But whilst the respirator wasn't even remotely needed, it was Armageddon's heritage- a symbol of the people's will to survive and thrive in the impossible.
It's a similar concept to how one would never ask a Kriegsman why they never take their mask off. Traditions and all that.
Opening his locker, he ponders his rucksack for a moment- staring in contemplation at the chainsword strapped to the back. What little light that creeped into the locker reflected off the recently-sharpened teeth which served to add well-deserved menace to the weapon. With a light shrug, he reaches down to unhook the rucksack from its hangar. The extra weight of the chainsword draws a grunt of exertion from him whilst he loops his arms through the straps and fastens the buckles to his webbing. Giving himself a shakedown, he grasps the sword's handle with his left hand, and gives it a faint half-draw to ensure it slipped from the sheathe smoothly. Satisfied, he turns back to the locker, taking his helmet to hook to his belt before unslinging his drum-fed autogun from the weapon racking within. He'd earned his right to choose a weapon once he earned his rank. Whilst the lascarbines of the 39th were tried-and-true, he always favoured the pure stopping power and blistering rate of fire that this solid shot shooter boasted; the requisitioning for ammo was worth the wait. He checked the chamber by sliding back the bolt to ensure there were rounds beyond the breach in the chamber. The ammo check drew an embittered grin from Garruth; a full drum of sixty thick-calibre bullets were nestled within the casing.
Double-checking the safety and slinging his rifle across his right shoulder, he closes the locker, and makes his exit from the barracks- the open door allowing the softest hues of the sunrise to bleed into the quarters.
The garrison was alive with life- the barracks one amongst many lined in perfect unison; each leading out to the wide industrialised concourse that connects all the facilities that formed the impossibly-expansive garrison of the 39th Anthrandian Pioneers.
Guardsmen meandered alone, in pairs, or in practiced march from point a to point b; departmento munitorum clerks ran about their daily business, bustling with paperwork and bumbling assistant and interns tailing behind them; there was even the occasional sentinel passing by, the large armoured walkers clearing a path with each carefully-planned step on a predetermined patrol route throughout the plateau that was the garrison's courtyard.
Part of Garruth was always amazed that such a small regiment like themselves still packed a good few thousand soldiers with plenty of vehicles and open war-grade kit to boot.
He walked for a good while, keeping his head held high as he drank in the sounds of the garrison's life force; the depot's hundred metre-high doors were wide open, and overpowered the air with the roar of the engines of squadrons of chimeras, Leman Russ and Rogal Dorn battle tanks being given their usual rites to keep the machine spirits happy. It was a damn beautiful sound.
The parade square was obscured by the superstructure that was the assembly hub, but the air was thrumming with the crackling clap of hundreds of boots marching in perfect unison as a platoon was running through its drills; enough to give any Mordian-born a hard-on.
It took Garruth a good fifteen minutes of walking before he finally crossed the threshold to the guard station. A network of outwards-facing watchtowers, spire-high walls filled with autocannon and missile turrets, and quadruple-reinforced ferrocrete/ceramite gates that stood as a nigh-impenetrable barrier between the untamed wilds of Inkaala III, the core of the garrison and the precious beating heart of the civilisation the 39th swore to guard behind the vast super settlement. The guard station acted as the foyer of sorts- outbound and returning patrols, supply shipments and reinforcements all come and go through those gates.
It didn't take him long to find his subordinates- a good nine other bodies of varying sizes were saddled by one of the watchtowers that overlooked the armoury; a sense of pride had struck Garruth. He informed the squad the other day that they were scheduled for patrol in the Scourgeplains today. The fact they gathered before he even had to use corporal Kraul's vox caster was what he expected, yet was still surprised all the same.
Approaching Zeta-two-one, the biggest presence there spots him first. With piggy eyes and a hardened stare, it sits up from his haunches; a large meaty finger pointing Garruth's way with a voice that had enough bite in it to chew through a baneblade's track.
"Boss is 'ere! Stand ta' attenshun, you lot." A collection of heads turned to welcome Garruth at the booming snarl of the ogryn; all a variety of wearing and not wearing their helmets and respirators. They seemed to be observing a card game between four of their squadmates taking place over a large promethium drum. Hilariously enough, one of the players was the ogryn in question. Regardless, all playing was ceased, the legionnaires rising from their purloined chairs and leaning spots to welcome the sergeant with a crisp standing to attention. The abhuman throws an admirably-sharp salute; tattooed fingers clanging against the metal frame of his rebreather.
"At ease, soldiers. You too, Brutogg. Sergeants don't need a salutation, remember?" Garruth lifts a gloved hand to ward off the niceties. The guardsmen slackened out of the attention, and the ogryn- Brutogg- slowly lowered his salute like he was concerned a commissar was about to walk past. With an affirming nod, Garruth struts closer to zeta-two-one, canting his head to the side as the four players pick up their cards to resume playing. Brutogg's less-than-graceful seating was enough to cause the drum to shake, which caused the bets- an assortment of loose thrones, boiled sweets, ration packs, cigarettes, drink mixes and the occasional laspack- to tremble precariously. A small commotion is caused as Kraul- one of the three other players-, is quick to steady his own winnings from tumbling off the side of the drum.
"Watch it, lard-arse! You're gonna topple the walls at this rate." He hissed with a shake of the head. The ogryn grumbled through the filtering of his respirator.
"Shut it, mouse. This lard-arse's 'bouta take all yer shit fer meself."
"Alright, stow it, gentlemen." Garruth interjected. The indignant glares between the voxman and ogryn are settled in an instant, begrudgingly returning to the game at hand. "Big pot, or?" The sergeant quips in a peacemaking effort.
"It was. This fat bastard keeps getting all the good hands." One of the guardsmen grumbles in dejection as he assesses his own hand. His helmet was off, and the respirator hung slack around his neck. Garruth snorted softly at this; all three of the guardsmen took turns reading their own hands and glancing wearily at the ogryn at the foot of the drum, who read his own hand with barely a tenth of the concentration of his opponents.
"And here's me thinking Braskov, here, would be the absolute master of the poker face." The same guardsmen leaned in favour of his fellow soldier on the right, who was wearing full gear, complete with helmet, mask and goggles, making their identity a mystery. A baritone, feminine voice grinds out through the mask's raspy vox grill.
"A poker face does frag all when the ogryn's pulling four of a kind or a straight flush every round, Rahn." Her tone was very matter-of-fact. She wasn't demonstrating the bemused annoyance Kraul and the other guardsman, Rahn, was experiencing.
"Reckon Skullbreaker's bribed the dealer, here. Four aces in a karking row. Bollocks to that…" Rahn mumbled bitterly.
Garruth snorted, and rounded the corner to Brutogg's flank. He took it upon himself to browse the cards in Rahn and Braskov's hands; Rahn had a fairly decent chance provided the dealer revealed some matching suits. Braskov, on the other hand, would be better off folding.
"Call." She drones as she pushes a trio of cigarettes into the blooming pile of soldier's gubbins. Clearly she was gambling on better cards being dealt. Suppose she'll learn the hard way.
As the sergeant comes on the ogryn's side, he peaks over his shoulder. Garruth hadn't exactly practiced his poker face, but seeing the set of high-number aligning cards in Brutogg's meaty fists, paired with what was already dealt on the table, would've caused a lesser man to laugh at how the ogryn already stolen the round, despite it being in its infancy.
"Don' know wo' any of this means." Brutogg rumbled quietly to Garruth with complete casual acceptance. And by quietly, it meant all the other players looked his way. The other non-playing squad members were floating about the players, but kept all their findings amongst themselves. Rahn's gloved fingers click thrice with haste.
"Oi! No tip-giving, sarge! Respectfully step away from the big man!" Kraul eyed the sergeant with no small volume of suspicion, in which Garruth humbly lifts his hands in conceding, and steps away from the ogryn, but not before whispering to him:
"If a card with the letter 'J' is dealt. Check. And keep checking until the showdown." The ogryn stared at the sergeant with wide eyes and a furrowed brow. Suddenly, the toy truck gears inside the abhuman's head began to visibly grind into motion, and Garruth stood back, waiting for the fireworks to go off.
A few more passes around the drum. Brutogg had, much to nobody's suspicion, been putting everything into the pot. The other players pegged this down to the ogryn still not getting the rules, and left him to it. Garruth, on the other hand, was beginning to see a rare case of the bone'ead implant working dividends. It only became more apparent when Rahn cockily called his every raise. Kraul wasn't paying attention aside from what was his own deck. Braskov, however, remained wise, and checked the moment stakes began to pick up.
Many bets, calls, raises and checks passed by. And when the final card was flipped, revealing the jack of hearts, Brutogg let out a very low growl.
Rahn snorted. "Even with your gasser on, your poker face needs a -shit-tonne- of work, mate." He chuckles with a haughty shake of the head; victory in sight. Rahn did end up getting a fortunate combo to pull a full house.
It wasn't going to be enough.
Guardsman Wilter- the youngest and newest recruit; a starry-eyed ginger haired woman that was home-grown on Inkaala III- was the dealer. She tilts her hands either side in a motioning gesture with a grin on her freckled face that portrayed such sweet innocence.
"Gentlemen and Braskov. Showdown, please.~"
Braskov silently threw her cards into the pile, folding her arms across her chest with a shake of the head. A three of a kind of the number 4. Kraul winces at this with a low tut, earning him the finger from Braskov.
"Baaaad luck, girl. Shoulda folded earlier."
"Piss off." He snickers at Braskov's chilled rebuttal, and slips down his cards, shooting dual finger guns at them as the onlookers give a mix of nods and murmurs of approval. A respectable flush. The voxman shoots Rahn a cocksure grin, who swears, sighs in contempt, and slaps down his full house in response. Kraul wasn't smiling anymore, and he firmly slammed his fist on the drum, which resounded with a dull ring, much to the amusement of the others- Rahn in particular, who made a hollow fist, and tilted it back and forth a few times.
"Wanker.~ Cheers for the ten, Wilter." He winks at the ginger dealer, who reciprocates it a bit more coyly in turn. Rahn preemptively spider-crawls his hand across the drum to the haul of winnings. It's almost as if he'd forgotten the hulking mass that was Brutogg, who placed down his cards with an eerie gentleness that stilled the corporal in his tracks. And the crowd fell silent.
10 of clubs.
Jack of hearts.
Queen of hearts.
King of diamonds.
The ace of spades. A royal flush.
Rahn's jaw dropped as the ogryn leaned over amidst all the bombastic laughs, whoops and groans of disbelief of the audience; he was invisibly grinning underneath that oversized respirator as his hairy fist grappled the mound of loose change, food and two laspacks, and begins to scrape it towards himself.
"Checkma'e, dick'ead."
Kraul kicked the drum. Braskov let out a dry chuckle. Rahn slapped his palms onto the table as Wilter smugly began to pack the cards away.
"No fragging way in hell!" The disgruntled corporal Rahn cried. His head sinks into his gloved fingertips at the loss of his smokes and ammo, before he throws his arms at the ogryn. "You don't even own a bloody lasgun, why'd you take my batteries?!"
Brutogg looked up from his spoils; brutish demeanour with a soft gaze. His slab-like shoulders shrug.
"Cos i's funny, innit?"
Garruth allows himself a grin of senior pride. Mainly because Rahn always needed knocking-down a peg or three. Lad was a solid guardsman and earned his corporal status, but -throne- did he love thinking he was the apex soldier out of the squad.
There was chatter back and forth between the squad as Wilter busied herself with packing away the cards; the rest of the guardsmen gathered their belongings, checked themselves over and readied themselves for duty. During this time, Garruth did a quick headcount amongst the assembling squadron and frowned when he turned up one short. Rolling his jaw, he looks amongst the varying gear and unmasked faces; the realisation dawns on him, and an already-weary sigh leaves his chapped lips.
"Where's Tarros?" The flat tone was directed at Rahn, who looked about amongst the squad, then back to Garruth, lifting his hands in questioning.
"He isn't here?" The sergeant deadpans him, head tilting in the other direction.
"You should bloody know, corporal. You're practically joined at the hip."
Rahn scratches the mess of dirty blonde that was his hair for a moment, face scrunched in concentration as he looks about. His eyes settle on some random point behind Garruth at a slight elevation. The sergeant ruefully sneered.
"You better be about to tell me he's levitating behind me and not where I think you're about to say." The corporal chews his lip and nods. A few other members of the squad catch on, and share a moment of irritation.
"'Fraid so, sergeant. You know him, if his head's not in the game, it's in the clouds." Rahn lightheartedly mimes the motion of drawing. This didn't ease the sergeant's increasingly-growing agitated sneer whatsoever.
"Then would you kindly go drag his arse out of the clouds and off that cliff? We're leaving in twenty." Rahn exhales dryly at the sullied mood of sergeant Garruth, in which he nods his head, and turns in the direction that follows the eastern path of the garrison's walls, into the outskirts of the compound towards the lonesome Settler's Ridge.
Garruth watches him leave at a brisk pace, before shaking his head to himself.
"Forget the commissar. At this rate, I'll shoot the man, myself." He looks to the rest of the squad who were moseying about on the spot. His brows knit into one entity, and from the pit of his lungs, he bellows.
"The fucking hell are you lot sleeping for?! Make yourselves ready!" The remaining guardsmen and ogryn are kickstarted by that hidden inertia that lurked within all warriors of the astra militarum.
The auburn sun of the Pelesia system began its inevitable rise upwards over the horizon, banishing the cold brought by the night with each creep of its warmth that began to smother Inkaala III's lush forests, plains and steppe lands; its valleys yawning cavernous shadows down into themselves.
Standing defiant against the rising star was an impossible conglomeration of winding spires, hab blocks and mega structures amalgamated into a smog-belching stalagmite. It plunged into the barren steppes like an iron thorn in the planet's flesh. The juvenile hive city dominated the view- casting a looming shadow across the lands as it visibly bustled with the drums of life and industry from within its mountain home, constructed and bolted within the slopes of an extinct volcano. The skyline was alive with supply freighters and valkyries on patrol, almost-silently hissing from the distance.
Arlen Tarros sat atop his usual perch- a small conglomeration of rocks painstakingly rolled together to form a makeshift bench, draped with a bedroll- at the summit of Settler's Ridge with an unadulterated view of the horizons Inkaala III boasted. From where he sat he could see Hive Sanctus in all its glory; it didn't match the grandiose skybreaking heights of Death Mire or any of the other sprawls that Armageddon hosted- if anything, Sanctus was barely a hab block in comparison- but it was still a formidable beacon of the 39th's pioneering efforts.
The hive housed most of the population of Inkaala; the first port of call when citizens made planetfall in the neighbouring starport to begin their life, here. Whilst some had volunteered to head out into the barely-mapped wilds of varying biomes to establish smaller settlements and create trade networks, Sanctus was the beating heart of Inkaala III, housing a good thirty-thousand souls minus the regimental garrison that stood vigil a mere few miles away.
Licking his slightly-chapped lips, he breaks his gaze from the view before him, and returns to the parchment nestled on his lap. He savoured the soft breeze of Inkaala's fresh, untainted air caressing his bare face, the respirator sitting limp on the rocks beside him with his helmet atop the mask. The breeze navigated so smoothly through the coarse stubble that had begun to blossom on his jawline. It helped him focus.
With the lightest and most precise of grasps, he delicately traced the charcoal stick across the paper with the utmost attention to detail as he sculpted out the lay of the land before him. Landmarks were miniscule, yet sketched to a rudimentarily-exceptional standard; contours of the land were drawn with painstaking slowness and accuracy to truly define the rise and fall of each slope and change in gradient of the land before him. Some would swear that the borders of this new map he was drawing which illustrated where the plains around Hive Sanctus ended and the bordering steppe lands connected were a hundred percent to scale and accurate.
Arlen was lost in his own world. Peace and equilibrium were rare occasions when serving in the imperial guard, but when they presented themselves, minutes felt like hours; Arlen had been on his perch for just over three hours.
Occasionally, his heavy brown eyes would flicker from his map back to the landscape dwarfed below the Ridge to double-check his observations, before committing them to paper to faithful replication. The faintest crunching of approaching standard-issue boots on the beaten soil and grass went completely unnoticed to him until the soldier wearing them sat themselves down beside Arlen with a soft sigh of exertion, who gently moved his mask and helmet to the offside.
The guardsman sniffled quietly and peeled off his gloves, setting them atop one another beside Arlen's own. Staring across the vast view before him, Rahn whistles lowly.
"Wow. This view."
"You've seen this before, like, 'undreds of times." Arlen softly quips, not looking up from his map. Rahn snorts and shrugs nonchalantly.
"Doesn't stop me being blown away every time I come looking for you. The gondolas are all enclosed, so you barely notice how high up you are 'til you step out. Kinda whacks you like a grox to the gut." The corporal grins at Tarros, who quietly huffs. A thin smile crosses his lips.
Settler's Ridge was only just barely in the jurisdiction of the garrison; a lonely hilltop that stood a good few hundred metres proud above the dwelling settlement below, connected via a pair of ceramite-plated gondolas that ferry up the spotters, snipers and mortar crews that stand vigil within the trio of watchtowers atop the Ridge for outriding invaders before they even have a chance to strike the garrison.
Arlen was amongst the scant few of a thousand who sought the Ridge for peace and quiet. He relished this fact. He could feel Rahn's eyes still on him. A gesturing finger invades his peripheral, pointing down at the work-in-progress map.
"How's it coming along? You've been at this one for…how long?" Whilst there wasn't awed interest at the artsy cartography, it was more a question of normality. He'd seen plenty of Arlen's handiwork. He chewed the question for a moment, before lightly blowing some stratas of dust from the parchment. It cast a small shadow on the paper as it was scattered to the wind.
"A few weeks, give or take. Got most of Frontier sketched out, but there's so little you can do when you've not properly toured the other continents. Though, I can't really whinge about that when I'm voluntarily not enlisting for the pioneering programme." He hums plainly. He knew the corporal was being nice. He wasn't here to chat maps, the death of boredom and the philosophy of living on this brave new world; the pitch was coming. But for now, Rahn humoured the semblance of normality between friends.
"Still reluctant to join the expeditions outwards? Not the least bit curious what lies beyond Frontier?" Arlen lightly shrugs at that, wiggling the charcoal stick in between his forefinger and thumb like it was a wagging tail, before setting it down onto the paper and slowly rolling the map up. He sniffles wetly- feeling fragments of phlegm clawing in the base of his throat. Even when tens of thousands of lightyears away from home, hay fever seemed to follow him everywhere.
"Well, Sanctus might not look like much, at the moment, but…it's home, right? It's not Armageddon, but, I dunno. Got a feeling about this."
Rahn nods in agreement, and snorts softly. "Mmh. Minus the pollution, of course."
"Bah, give it another hundred years; sky'll be choked black and we'll be be back to making these mandatory civvie clothes in no time." Arlen motioned to his respirator, provoking a chuckle from the both of them. The laughter dies down, then Arlen speaks again.
"I dunno. Maybe one day I'll grow a pair and venture outwards. I just know 'Plan A' is still a go. Help settle the world, make it a better place for us all…then hang-up the lasgun and retire here." Rahn regards him with a soft, admirable gaze.
"You really wanna commit yourself here, yeah?"
"Well, I'm twenty-six, Jel. I've done things that'd make a normal man go mad and drink himself to death; survived shit that's killed good men who were both older and more experienced than both of us. After all that, I think I deserve to 'ave a retirement plan." Rahn chuckles at this.
"Well, for starters, we just gotta scour this world clean first." The corporal almost regretted letting those words out of his mouth- all he received in response was a suddenly-morbid grunt coming from Arlen. The normalcy had died, and an awkward silence reigned.
Rahn sniffles slightly, and takes a moment to bask in the sun, before he breaks the silence.
"You're late for patrol." Arlen's eyes rolled shut in irritation, teeth clenching. And there's the pitch. 'Throne lash my arse for this…' he inwardly grumbles.
"Don't worry. Sarge's giving us another ten before we set-off. Means we'll have to hoof it a bit."
"Dunno how I've forgotten that. Fuck sake." Arlen's irritation provokes a dry huff from the corporal.
"Arlen, relax. We've got time. Not like we're patrolling anything meaningful. Standard regs; think we're being sent on a loop about the old ruins in the Scourgeplains." Rahn looks back across the gorgeous view, still visually digesting it in. His mate had a -really- good idea of living here in its current state.
Arlen's lips pursed pensively at the prospect of today's tasks, his packing-away of the map momentarily pausing. "The old aeldari ones?"
"The what?"
"...the eldar ones." Arlen deadpans his friend. How the man didn't make the connection with two more added letters was beyond him. After which Rahn eyes him momentarily, and nods firmly. Arlen felt the gaze, but didn't acknowledge it. He felt another Talk (with a capitalised 'T') on the way.
"Ah. Then yes, we are."
"Why? Any more indigenous sightings?" He tried to hide the trepidation in his voice. It failed. The corporal's gaze thickened substantially.
"Don't call them that. They're aliens. Xenos." Arlen tuts at that, shaking his head as he resumes rolling up his map.
"Not this, again. Pack it in, will ya…"
"Arlen."
"Jelsen." The two meet each other, stare for stare, firmness in both voices. The malice is nonexistent, but the concern in the corporal's eyes was legitimate. Arlen once shrunk under Jelsen Rahn's gaze whenever they got into a rut with one another, but those days were long past; the guardsman substantially jaded despite his rather ripe age of 26. When Rahn saw Arlen wasn't backing down, he sighed, rubbing his chin.
"Look, mate. You just…gotta stop with this weird 'sympathising for the enemy' shit. I know what happened on that ship did a number on yo–"
"Don't." Arlen's voice is sharp and decisive, complete with a raised palm to halt the words in Rahn's throat. "Just don't, okay? I don't need a trip down memory lane, Jel." The tone was enough to warn his friend as politely as possible, in which Rahn folded his lips on themselves, and nodded. Kissing his teeth, he speaks up again as Arlen looks back across the landscape with an expression akin to guarded upset. As guilty as Rahn felt for raking up the past so unprovoked, he was still not done.
"My point still stands, Arlen. I'm your mate; your brother. I know you've got this…weird fascination with the eldar, and when it's just us? That's–...you do what you do, yeah? But for the sake of yourself, you gotta let it go. The squad's getting restless; the sarge is getting tired. And if commissar Brauer hears you–"
"He won't."
"Arlen, the first time we investigated the ruins, you -verbally spoke out- about how 'beautiful' they looked when he was only a couple dozen meters away. If his hearing wasn't so shit, you'd have caught a bolt to the face." Jel's easy going temperament had long vanished. There was irritation and concern for him. "We've got a job to do. You've gotta let the past go, and see them for what they are."
"They're not always the enemy." Arlen begrudgingly muttered.
"But they were then, and they are now." Jelsen's concern was fading. He was becoming more restlessly annoyed at Arlen's subtle hints of sympathetic curiosity. He knew it wasn't ever a risk to Arlen's devotion to the imperial creed or his ties of duty to the 39th; that'll still be of zero consequence to any overzealous guardsman, high echelon arselicker, or- Emperor forbid- a commissar. All of them would see Arlen's curiosities as bonafide heresy, and he'd be dead in a heartbeat. Fortunately, he was smarter than that: that's what these chats were for.
"But why? This planet was barely chartered until over a century ago. The exodites have been keeping to themselves; there's no records of hostility, no trace of them leaving the confines of this world–"
"That doesn't matter. It's not our place to question why we do these things. It's our place to shut up, bear our teeth, and get these things done with lasgun and bayonet."
Rahn was staring at Arlen with iron conviction. One could swear his eyes were seconds away from burning a hole in Arlen's head. The other guardsman sighs in dejection.
"...they've got just as much a right to live here as we do."
Rahn nods for a moment. Arlen was right, after all. These eldar had no problem being unknown to the whole universe. There were no recorded attacks on passing cartographer ships, no intercepted communications to any drukhari or craftworld forces. These tribal xenos would've simply continued to exist in peace. The coming of the 39th was just…bad luck for them.
"Maybe. But if you want to make -this place- your home? You gotta fight for it. If you want peace, always prepare for war." Arlen had gone silent. With a clenched jaw, he finishes stowing away the map entirely, and begins to gather his gear. Not another word or response was given to the corporal, who stared at him expectantly for an acknowledgement that never came. Rahn lets his jaw hang slanted, and shakes his head with a scoff at the sudden dosage of the silent treatment from his friend.
"Y'know, for one of the sharpest guys I know, you're so fucking naive and childish when you want to be." Arlen stops packing, and directs an incredulous stare at Rahn.
"Am I not allowed to be a little bit disillusioned about what we're doing, here?"
"Grow up, mate. 'What we're doing here' is building a better world for us, and all those souls in that hive over there. That's our duty; -your- duty. And don't act like you've suddenly lost your nerve or like you're better than this…every time the chips come down, you always get the job done. Just like exactly what happened on Mæ-Thûl." Jelsen paused when he realised he had begun to raise his voice slightly-. And he mentioned the two words he promised he'd never utter again in Arlen's presence.
The other guardsman flinched, and his face set into something unreadable. The guilt began to gnaw at Rahn. Taking a calming breath, he rises to a stand- moving Arlen's helmet and respirator next to him. "...I'm sorry, mate. But if you want things to change, scrap the retirement, and become an officer and make those changes, yourself. But until that happens…keep your head on, and remember why we're here. Now...get your things, guardsman. Time to move."
Nodding to himself in silent defeat, Arlen grabs his respirator, and pulls the elasticated binding around his head. The sweet, cool, fresh air of the land was cut off; his face now blossoming in the entrapped heat and stale, artificial oxygen the mask flushed into his face with every inhale.
It was almost a poetic reminder of who and what he is.
He kept his helmet at his side, strapping his rucksack onto his back before finally slinging his lascarbine loosely onto his shoulder. He gives himself a brief shakedown to make sure nothing was loose or prone to slipping off his person with no such error. He takes his first step when-
"Arlen." He doesn't respond to Rahn.
Rahn regarded him with heavy eyes, and the gaze set like stone. "We're not gonna talk about this anymore. This...thing you've got going on. I don't wanna hear it; next time I do, I'm reporting it to the sergeant. I'm sorry. You gotta remember your place." Arlen bristled at such a concept. To confide in his friend now brought the threat of death. Nervously, his head rapidly half-nods a few times, as he sets off. He slinks past Rahn without a word, and heads for the gondola back down to the garrison.
The corporal watched his back. He regretted his choice of words, but he had indeed reached his limit.
He knew Arlen meant well, and he will credit that the eldar are nothing akin to the thousands of orks they've slain together since their youth on Armageddon. Orks were mindless brutes; overgrown fungal vermin that have blighted their home planet for generations with their insatiable craving to fight, despoil and destroy. There was no resolution with orks aside from rightfully putting them to the sword. The eldar, however, were immortal. Wise. Impossibly complicated and of conscious thought- creatures that were magnanimous of such an extent it seemed only fitting their pride was the cause of their downfall. They'd existed for untold millions of years in a galaxy-spanning empire that undoubtedly rivalled the might of the Imperium (from what Arlen always used to tell him...), and even after the catastrophe that sundered them, they still continue to fight, and live to their fullest.
The only difference between himself and Arlen was he was able to detach himself from the admiration and ultimately realise that the eldar were still lethal enemies of Man. That the pompous xenos had the blood of countless human populations on their hands simply to try and stave off their own extinction, whilst their savage darker cousins from the webway are feared for relishing in their acts of wanton slaughter. The aeldari were still fundamentally reproachable beings.
There could never be peace with them. Not permanently. When the 39th first landed on Inkaala III, the first civilian settler convoy was lost to the exodites and their host of tamed reptilian mounts and tribal warriors in an unprovoked ambush. Hundreds of men, women and children simply wanting a new home away from the madness of Armageddon's wars callously slaughtered by a presence they didn't even know existed.
It was established from that day, that the only way folks like Arlen and Rahn could both get what they wanted, was through the eradication of them from this world, wherever they still hid.
'If you want peace, always prepare for war.' Rahn heard himself echo in his own head. One day, Arlen will see sense. He just hopes that day isn't courtesy of a shuriken salvo blindsiding and gutting him from the treeline.
Sighing tiredly, Rahn unslings his lascarbine, and follows Arlen to the gondola at a staggered pace.
Today was going to be repetitive and not yield anything of potential threat or stress.
But he was learning to savour the monotony.
+++++ Welcome_to_the_Imperial_Archives +++++
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+++++ Archive_Access: GRANTED +++++
+++++ Datasheet_0314: Inkaala_III +++++
+++++ Details: 'Inkaala III was discovered by imperial cartographers circa year 3.128.878.M41 Imperial Calendar in the Pelesia sector- a small backwater system of 6 planets roughly 23,000 lightyears northwards from the Armageddon system, on the outer rim of the Segmentum Obscurus.
Out of all the worlds in Pelesia, Inkaala III provided the most suitable for hospitality; sporting all the correct biomes for all walks of life from temperate steppe lands, lush forests, arctic regions and 2 dominating oceans. It sports an oxygen-rich environment and is the 4th planet in the star's orbit, which creates a 548-day year (relative to Terra days) alongside an evenly-fluctuating orbit cycle that supports the various biomes that exist on Inkaala III.
Scouting probes yielded high concentrations of valuable ores and minerals, alongside derelict ruins of aeldari design that, when mined and salvaged respectively, would provide whoever claimed the world a substantial advantage in industrial terraforming, and when fully-developed with a suitably-large population and industry turnover, could prove an effective resource and supply asset to the Imperium. Cartographers from the Armageddon Sector claimed ownership of Inkaala III, and pioneers and colonists were dispatched from the Hive World to begin settling the world with a small contingent of the 39th Armageddon Steel Legion to escort and permanently watch over the colonisation efforts, with regular reinforcement shipments to both account for the inevitably-blossoming population, those who die in service, and those who are blessed enough to age and retire with His grace.
Inkaala III was, at the time, inhabited by a few tribes of eldar 'exodites'. These vainglorious xenos had reverted to rustic, savage walks of life, who stalked the jungles and tamed some of Inkaala's voracious predators into their own warbeasts to devastating effect in spiteful territorial displays that have so cruelly ended many thousands of human lives.
To this day, the brave soldiers of the astra militarum contend with paltry skirmishes and resistances from the exodites. Despite the casualties the aliens continue to inflict, regular reinforcements from Armageddon forever to tip the balance in the guard's favour, which is slowly leading to an inevitable eradication of the alien threat.
So far, only one hive city exists; Sanctus was the first established settlement of Inkaala III- built into the flank of an extinct volcano. It is the centre of the juvenile civilisation from which trade and people come and go in and offworld.
To this day, Inkaala III continues to grow and spread as an imperial world. It is only a matter of time until there are faithful servants of Him in every corner of this world.'
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+++++ Emperor_be_praised +++++
So, I understand there may be some inaccuracies, inconsistencies or irregularities. I am a passionate Warhammer fan, but I know that given how complicated and intricate the lore is, I may have missed some boxes.
Feel free to point out these discrepancies, and not only will I personally respond to you in afterthoughts of following chapters, but I will do my best to correct the discrepancies for future audiences!
But I do hope this was enjoyable for you, all the same!
Next couple of chapters will be introducing you to our other main protagonist.~
- Skaventide